A Life in Days

... The Last Post...

2011-07-23T18:56:00.000-07:00

A funny thing happened during the course of writing in this blog; its original purpose evolved in a way I didn't expect.

In the blog's early days, when I commented on the fact that I kept a blog, people asked what kind. 'For writing about myself,' I admitted. 'Oh,' they replied, 'Why?' 'To let my family and friends know how I'm doing,' I told them. 'Oh,' they replied again in a way that made me think I had six heads. There always followed a pause and a change of topic.

I changed the blog to cover different topics on different days. That went well for a while with my 'Sporting Rants and Raves' as well as the 'It's Personal' posts. I seemingly gave to all of you - my ten consistent readers - something that might pique your respective interests. But I realized that I wasn't writing what I wanted to write. I was writing what I perceived you wanted me to write. And I perceived you wanted to know about me and about what I thought.

And you did. But I didn't need to tell you about myself and my thoughts as explicitly as I did. The stories are, in a sense, too true. They have little of that spirit that makes stories good. Instead, I can tell you just as much about myself in a story about an old demented man who escapes confinement to meet his friends for hockey or in a story about a young man running for his life from someone seemingly intent on catching him.

In my first post, I declared that I would use the blog as a conduit for others to keep up with me. I proceeded to post about my political views, my partner, my current job, my dogs, and my past. Well, my political views have evolved. I am no longer with that partner. I am no longer at that job. I no longer have the dogs. And with a bad memory, even my past drifts further into obscurity every day.

In this, my last post in this blog, I promise nothing in the future except, perhaps, a few stories that might steal you away to places you do - and sometimes don't - want to go. That said, be on the lookout for some of my fiction - old and new - on a new site.

Until next I write...

TD

Two Runs

2011-06-27T20:38:00.000-07:00

It was the bottom of the fifth at the new Yankee Stadium. The boy of no more than six returned from the bathroom ahead of his lagging father. The boy scurried to his seat and picked up the magazine. He looked up at me and asked, ‘What happened?’

I replied, ‘A-Rod flied out to right. And Cano is on first.’

A bit confused, he looked back at me and inquired, ‘How did they get two runs? Did Swisher hit a homerun?’

I looked at him equally confused. ‘No, it’s still three to nothing.’

It was a friend’s birthday, and she had suggested a Yankees game to celebrate. The brunch she was having with friends proved a bit early, so we chose to meet at the stadium before the game. After a quick stroll around the new sports complex immediately adjacent to the stadium – and the location of the old Yankee Stadium – we met up with the crew and entered.

We climbed the stairs and proceeded to our seats among the Bleacher Creatures in section 201. Although we could not see left field from our seats, there were three large screen televisions to our right to aid us should any ball travel beyond our line of sight. In addition, we did not have the benefit of being able to see the giant scoreboard since we were directly beneath it. But there is an abbreviated horizontal scoreboard that extends across the front of the stadium, which gave us enough information about the current state of affairs.

In the bleachers sat an eclectic mix of young and old. Bud Light flowed like water into the cups of most fans. I decided to stick to water as I was saving the extensive alcohol intake for later in the day. In front of us sat an older gentleman and his five year old kid, who was fully garbed in Colorado Rockies attire. As a Yankees fan, I cannot help but feel disdain for anyone not wearing white, navy blue, or the barely acceptable ‘Away’ gray. But, I decided to make an exception as I immediately recognized a father-son outing replete with the father teaching the son how to score the game.

In the middle of the second inning, the father turned and asked if we would watch their stuff while they went to the bathroom. The kid, at that point, was not making eye contact. When they returned with a beer – presumably for the father – and a hot dog with ketchup (such a travesty), play had already resumed. The kid asked his father what had happened fully expecting him to know. I volunteered, ‘A-Rod got out on a five three.’ The father lit up, and aided his son in the correct scoring.

Over the next couple innings, we chatted briefly. They had traveled from Colorado to watch a few games at Yankees Stadium, and they just happened to come for Old Timer’s Day. In fact, the father told me about how they had run into Goose Gossage in the elevator of their hotel. When the kid very earnestly told Goose that he wanted the Rockies to win, Goose answered, ‘Well, I hope not.’

In the fourth, the father asked me to take a picture of him and his boy. I took his iPhone and snapped what I considered to be a pretty good shot of them with the field extending behind them. After I handed the phone back to the father, the kid looked up at me for the first time and said, ‘What happened?’ I answered honestly, ‘I don’t know; I was taking your picture. But I know he got out.’ The boy harrumphed and went back to concentrating on the next batter.

In the middle of the fifth – just before play was to resume – the kid needed to use the bathroom again. Again, the father asked us to watch his stuff. And off they went. A-Rod flied out to right. Cano got a hit. That’s when the kid descended the stairs – with his father lagging behind – and snuck back to his book. He opened it hastily and looked up at me. ‘What happened?’ I told him. ‘How did they get two runs? Did Swisher hit a homerun?’

I made a concerted effort to understand where he had seen the two. The score at that point was three to nothing. The Rockies had five hits and the Yanks had one. The Rockies had no errors and the Yanks had one. I looked at every other number on the board, and there was no two. I looked at him and responded, ‘No, it’s still three to nothing. Swisher’s at the plate.’

As soon as I finished speaking, the crowd roared. Nick Swisher sent a ball hurtling into the right field seats; he and Cano both scored. Amazed, I glanced down at the kid, who was busy filling in the appropriate boxes on the score sheet. I tried to understand if the kid understood what he had just said. But Posada sent a ball to deep center that made the stadium erupt. By the time the roar had ceased, the time to analyze had passed. Instead, the occurrence passed into the realm of that abyss between the sublime and the mundane. I leave you to draw your own conclusions…

The Taste of Metal

2011-06-21T19:29:00.000-07:00

He placed his hand on the grip and wrapped his index finger around the trigger. He wondered what this moment might feel like, this moment of both ultimate power and weakness. He lifted the dead weight and placed it square on his undeveloped chest. There was a moment of chilled discomfort which prompted him to adjust the piece slightly. Both arms hung lifelessly by his side.

He stared down the barrel wanting to feel happy or angry or at least impressed by the ingenuity that created such a weapon. His mind wandered to stories of wrist slitting and self-hanging. He admired those who could take their lives in such a noble way. But he couldn’t do it. He needed this gun.

A southpaw, he brought his left up to the gun and moved the now warm metal up to just below his chin. He formed an ‘o’ with his lips and stuck the gun in like a popsicle. The barrel struck his teeth causing him to flinch; the gun fell from his mouth onto his left arm and then onto the floor with a thud. A shiver ran down his spine. He spit onto the throw rug, trying to extract the metallic taste. For an instant, he had the urge to flee, if only because the metal on his teeth made him remember the multiple fillings he had endured.

He rolled over on the couch and reached for the gun; it was just out of his reach. ‘Shit,’ he said aloud as he rolled onto his back. His eyes closed; the smell of something rotten filled his nostrils.

He found himself in a dirt pit with sides as high as cliffs. Above him men and animals leapt across the chasm. He grasped a root that stuck out of the wall of dirt and yanked it, only to find that the tree to which it had been connected had died long ago. A yelp came from above; one of the animals hadn’t made the leap. Down it came tumbling against rock and dirt. ‘Nothing can survive that fall,’ he thought to himself. He pressed himself against the side hoping to avoid both the falling debris and the animal itself. He expected a thud, but heard instead an eloquent thump. He opened his eyes, and there before him stood a King Cobra, both beautiful and terrible. Fear washed over him. Not this way, he thought. Not by a snake in a pit. The snake smiled at him, his teeth a bright white with fangs longer than the mouth should be able to contain. Except it was a human smile. He looked into its eyes and saw not the eyes of a serpent but of a man, a pensive man who was considering his options for escape.

‘If we work together, we can essscape,’ the cobra lisped between his giant teeth.

He stared at the teeth and considered whether he should respond.

‘I will not bite you; I am not hungry,’ the snake admitted in an even tone. ‘If you wait, however, you will be consssumed.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, almost willing not to be scared.

‘I ate a man before I fell into this pit. I am no longer hungry.’

‘Oh.’

‘Shall we essscape?’ The snake moved its head toward him.

Suddenly, he felt no fear for the cobra but for what existed outside the pit. ‘I don’t know if I want to.’

‘You would rather remain here with me then? We can wait. They will sssave me; I am rare. You are not.’

He felt indignation at the snake’s claim. ‘I’m a man. They would save me.’

‘You are worthlessssss,’ the cobra spat.

‘And you are a killer. They will kill you.’

‘Yesss. If I kill too many men. But I will not. I will kill enough to sssate my thirssst. And no one will know the differenssse.’

‘They will know if you eat me.’

‘They will think it ssself defenssse,’ the snake slurred.

He considered the snake’s stance for a moment and realized he had no defense. ‘And if I do want to escape?’ he inquired. ‘What makes me think I can believe that you would be true to your word?’

‘I have not given my word, my friend. You have little choissse in the matter.’

‘There’s always a choice.’

‘Yesss, between the frying pan and the fire. Which will it be?’

He considered his position. ‘I’d rather neither if I have the choice.’

Something akin to a laugh escaped from behind the snake’s forked tongue. ‘But you don’t.’

‘If I were to agree, what must I do?’

‘Trussst me.’ The snake smiled.

‘Fine. What do I need to do?’

‘You mussst kill a man.’

‘I am a pacifist.’

The snake laughed again. ‘You are a liar.’

‘I am not. I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve never so much as got into a fight.’

‘You’ve never had the desssire to hurt anyone? Ever?’ the snake asked mockingly. ‘I think you have.’ The words lingered in the pit; they caused a recurring echo that grew louder in his ears.

‘Stop! Stop, please! I’ll do whatever you want.’

‘Even kill sssomeone?’

‘Yes, if I must,’ he whimpered.

‘You mussst.’

A stone hurtled down and struck the dirt beside him. Another came soon after. ‘What’s going on?’ he questioned the snake.

‘It’sss your opportunity. Take it while you can.’ The snake spoke while trying to avoid the falling rocks.

‘What do you mean?’

The snake looked up. And suddenly a rope descended with a single man attached to its end. The man immediately saw the snake but did not see the other inhabitant of the pit. He struck at the snake with some kind of tool meant to paralyze it.

He knew it was his chance. In an instant the tool struck the snake leaving it unconscious. The snake tamer extracted a burlap bag and stuffed the snake inside. Still, he did not see the other man in the pit. He was about to give a tug when the other man revealed himself.

‘Please help me. I need to get out of this pit,’ were the first words from his mouth.

Startled, the man wielded the snake paralyzer and struck at the other man, who barely avoided the strike. He then grabbed the rope and attempted to tug. Meanwhile, the trapped man leapt from the ground and tackled the snake charmer.

‘Look,’ he said,’ I just want to get out of here.’

The snake charmer elbowed the trapped man squarely in the jaw dislodging him for a moment. He yanked the rope with his next moment and waited impatiently for the rope to ascend. But the trapped man was on him again, pulling at his clothing and hair.

‘You have to help me,’ he screamed. ‘You can’t leave me down here.’

The snake charmer pulled a small knife from his belt and swiped cutting open the trapped man’s leg. Blood gushed from the wound. But the adrenaline rush kept the trapped man focused on his goal. He grabbed for the snake charmer’s hand with his left hand and punched him in the mouth with his right. The snake charmer dropped the knife. The trapped man snatched the knife and in one moment stabbed at the snake charmer’s abdomen. It was a fatal strike. The snake charmer struggled with what little strength he had but it was not enough. The trapped man extracted the knife and cut the rope. He then grabbed the bag with the snake and pulled hard on the rope. In an instant, he was ascending from the pit.

While ascending, the snake somehow slithered from the bag onto his arm and wrapped itself securely around his midsection. ‘Are you ready?’ asked the snake.

At the moment he looked down, the snake buried its fangs into his stomach. The venom spread almost instantly throughout his body. He felt the life drain from the body he had inhabited. Except, he didn’t feel as though he was dying. Of course, he had never actually died – or at least he had never recalled dying in the past – so he couldn’t be certain that this wasn’t dying. But something in his consciousness told him that he wasn’t.

‘How do you like thisss essscape?’ he heard the snake’s voice say.

He opened his eyes and immediately noticed a change. ‘I’m a snake,’ he thought to himself.

‘But you aren’t, my friend. I am the ssssnake. You are my unfortunate guesssst.’ The slurring wracked his mind. ‘I look forward to your sssstay…’

His eyes opened. The sweat glistened on his brow. He listened to his breath. In and out. In and out. In and out. As he breathed, the memory of his dream faded. There was dirt. And falling stones. No way out. Nothing he could do. And there was someone. Or something. There was fear. He breathed. In and out. He tried to remember. The memory teetered on the edge of an abyss. He closed his eyes again and focused. He felt himself losing consciousness; he had never been able to revisit a dream. But this one was important. He knew it. He had to go back. He felt the weightlessness of sleep. ‘Ssssam…’

‘Sam!’ The exclamation yanked him from the gray matter of sleep. ‘What are you doing?’ His sister’s frantic voice lingered in his ears.

He shook his head. ‘Hi, sis. What’s up?’

‘What’s with the gun?’ She kept her distance from both him and the gun.

‘Jeff left it here,’ he lied.

‘Jeff? Why did he leave a gun here? What were you doing?’

‘Sleeping. I just woke up.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Sam. Don’t lie. Don’t be like dad. Let me help. Let me help you. Why is this gun here?’ she yelled.

‘You want to know?’ he yelled back. ‘Do you?’ He grabbed the gun with his right hand and put his left index finger on the trigger. He leaned the gun back until the barrel was under his chin. ‘I don’t care anymore. What’s the point? I’m tired. I’m young. I’m stupid. Things aren’t fair. What’s the point? Really.’

His sudden movement paralyzed her. She simply watched; there were no words.

The moment passed. He loosened his grip with his right hand and let the barrel fall forward. His left index finger flinched. There was a shot.

He heard a voice, ‘Even kill sssomeone…’ The hissing laughter lingered for what seemed an eternity.

Outta Time 6

2011-05-23T17:52:00.000-07:00

Please see Outta Time for the first part of the story.

Please see Outta Time 2 for the second part of the story.

Please see Outta Time 3 for the third part of the story.

Please see Outta Time 4 for the fourth part of the story.

Please see Outta Time 5 for the fifth part of the story.

The sirens were getting closer. But he couldn’t leave without understanding what had happened.

His eyes went immediately to the perfectly made bed. And it wasn’t the perfection of a good housewife, but rather it was that of a hotel maid. Or of a new cadet recently graduated from boot camp. He surveyed the bureau and spotted Ella’s untouched purse. A stack of neatly folded clothes sat on a nearby end table.

‘Ella?’ It was a whisper. He cleared his throat. ‘Ella?’ This time it came out as something of a scream except an octave higher than his normal voice.

Something was very wrong with the picture. He walked to the window beside the bed and looked out at a few of the local buildings as he had when he lived there. Then he glanced down at the street below and noticed a commotion. He also noticed at that moment that the sirens had ceased. He opened the window and stuck his head out the screenless window. Below, he saw what looked to be a large quilt covering something on the sidewalk.

He backed away from the window catching his left foot on the edge of the throw rug. He fell with a thud. The precious seconds quickly ticked away, limiting his potential options. Still, he felt the paralysis of indecision. He could try to make a run for apartment H and ‘sit on the couch’ as he was told. He could try to get out of the building, which was less and less promising every moment he waited. Of course, he could just wait to be caught and try to explain the strange events that had been happening. He had the DVD after all. But the DVD wasn’t much; in fact, it was nothing more than a cut-rate production that made no reference to any person specifically.

‘Okay, gotta go,’ he said out loud. ‘The apartment seems as good a choice as any.’

He stepped back into the hallway and grabbed the fungo. He moved past the kitchen and glanced down at the floor. On the floor laid Bruce face down in a pool of blood; there were two gunshot exit wounds in his back. Darren froze. For whatever reason, he couldn’t move. He just stared at the expired body.

A loud knock came at the front door, startling Darren. His time to contemplate had ended.

‘Darren Brahm, we know you’re in there,’ came the voice of a young man. ‘Surrender yourself.’

Darren considered his remaining options. He wasn’t going to bring a fungo to a knife fight; that much was certain. He turned and ran back into the bedroom. He looked out the open window at the crowd below. Then he looked from side to side. The wall was sheer.

‘This is your last warning,’ spoke the muffled voice.

Darren threw the bat onto the bed and seized the wooden trunk in front of it. With all his might, he lifted the trunk by its two handles and carried it into the hallway. He placed the trunk gently in front of the front door.

Then, he called out as non-chalantly as he could muster, ‘I’ll let you in in just a moment officer.’

‘I’d advise that you open the door now, Mr. Brahm!’

It was just the time he needed. Darren backed away from the door, extracted the DVD from his jacket, and put it into the DVD player. He hit the red power button to turn the television on.

The first thud upon the front door followed, but the door itself held. ‘This is for your own good, Darren!’

He wasn’t listening. The screen came to life showing the destruction of the U.S.S. Enterprise.

He heard gunshots. The officers were shooting out the locks. Somehow, the deadbolt and the trunk held the door shut.

The screen went black. The voice exclaimed, ‘There are no escapes this time.’ Playing softly in the background was End of the Line by the Traveling Wilburys.

Darren sighed. There came another volley of shots to take out the deadlock.

He had two options. He could wait for them to enter. Or he could decide to allow gravity seal his fate. The latter seemed more enticing at that moment.

The television cut suddenly to one of the closing scenes from Star Wars III. A droid presented each of the twins to Padme to be named. The voice spoke, ‘I wouldn’t choose gravity if I were you because Ella wasn’t completely honest with you about the abortion.’ The DVD ended.

An explosion came from the front door, and two men – rather boys – entered.

Darren dashed into the bedroom and grabbed the bat. The two boys stood in the doorway. The short, stocky white one had a pistol. The taller black kid – whom he recognized as the one from the street – had his hands in his jacket pockets.

The white one spoke, ‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way.’

Darren grabbed the bat and decided that he’d try to bring the bat to a gun fight after all. He stood and, with all his might, flung the bat at the gun-toting kid. The white kid stepped back. The black kid rolled forward and bounced to his feet. In the next moment, the black kid extracted a small device and aimed it square at Darren’s chest. ‘The easy way,’ he said through a smirk. He pressed the button and tased Darren until he rendered him a limp body on the apartment floor.

Do Over

2011-05-21T21:36:00.001-07:00

She sat on a coffee-colored leather sofa in the split ranch waiting for her husband to come home. She felt no real desire to see him. She couldn’t yet admit to herself that her lack of desire was, in fact, disdain bordering on disgust. But she justified the relationship because this one had to work. After three failed marriages, there wasn’t much of a choice. She reached for the wine glass but miscalculated sending the Cabernet tumbling to the floor. The stain blossomed on the carpet. She leaned back into the couch and stared at the empty images spewing from the television. Her eyes closed; she wished – not for the first time – that she could do the whole thing over.

The glass had fallen out of her sight. She reached her slender fingers down over the couch and felt the foot of the glass. Her hand slid up the stem until she felt the round bottom of the bowl. She slid the stem between her ring and middle fingers and squeezed. She perceived the jagged edge of the glass on her index finger not as pain but as discomfort, a textural abomination. The libation dulled her reaction. Instead of flinching and dropping the broken chalice to the ground, she pulled it up to her face and watched as blood dripped rhythmically onto her indigo bathrobe. With the bleeding hand, she placed the glass delicately on the coffee table and then pulled back her bloodied finger to her mouth. The thick liquid had a familiar metallic taste, like milky unfiltered tap water. She leaned her head against the couch, waiting for the white blood cells to do their work.

The heavy car door slammed shut outside. The key twisted in the lock. He kicked off his shoes and threw his backpack onto the ground. ‘Honey, I’m home,’ he called with mock sincerity. ‘As if that really mattered anyway.’ He didn’t climb the eight short steps but instead descended into his man cave to drink his limeless Corona and catch the back-to-back reruns of Seinfeld. The door closed with a thud.

She opened her eyes and focused on the television. A news anchor with bad hair described the beating of an elderly man in broad daylight. She grabbed the remote control and pressed the power button. The screen went blank.

She slowly took her finger out of her mouth and felt the tears come one after the other until her cheeks were wet. Her drunkenness diminished, she set her foot down into the spot where she spilled her wine. Red liquid bubbled onto her toes and stained her nails. She looked at her feet and smiled. The smile gave way to a giggle. As she did when she was a little girl, she retrieved the nail polish and set to work on painting her toenails.

She sat squarely in the middle of the queen-sized bed and set the bottle of nail polish on a book of art by Kandinsky that one of her more artistic friends purchased for her. The book had never been opened. She dipped the small brush into the viscous liquid and transferred the color to her pale, yellow nails. Back and forth she stroked the brush on each nail until they were neon pink. She smiled at the sight.

The door flew open; the knob thwacked the already indented drywall. Startled, she jumped knocking the polish onto the book causing Kandinsky’s Yellow-Red-Blue to sport more pink than the artist originally intended although Vassily might have been well pleased with the conical shape that extended from the mouth of the bottle to the corner of the book cover.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he slurred.

She ignored him. She stared at her toes.

‘Are you gonna make some food? Or are we doing pizza again?’

She wrapped her arms around her knees and began to rock slightly.

‘You’d think by now that you could handle your liquor. But you’re just a lightweight.’

The last word struck a nerve. Since high school, that was the one word no one could rightfully use to describe her. ‘Shut up and get out of my room.’

‘Ah, so she speaks,’ he mocked. ‘You gonna make me?’

Her guile receded. She continued rocking.

‘I thought not. I’m gonna order some pizza.’ He walked back into the living room.

She listened to him as he ordered. ‘Pepperoni and olives. Yeah, extra cheese. And I’m gonna pay by credit card.’ He read the number. After a pause, she heard, ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Can you try this one?’ He read the 16 digits from another card. After a moment, he replied, ‘Sorry, the economy’s not been good to us. Can you wait just a moment?’ He yelled out sweetly, ‘Honey, where’s the Visa?’ She didn’t reply. ‘I’m sorry, she must be downstairs. I’ll call back in a bit.’ The phone beeped, indicating the end of the call. He stomped back into the room.

‘Didn’t you hear me calling, honey?’ he emphasized the final word not so sweetly. ‘Why are you being such a bitch?’

Her rocking became more pronounced.

He crossed the room and grabbed the purse on her dresser. He rummaged through until he found the wallet. ‘I’m guessing you won’t mind that I use your card to order some pizza.’ He looked back at her. ‘It doesn’t look like you mind.’ He noticed the blood on her bathrobe. ‘That time of the month, huh? Oh wait, I think you’re done having kids. When was the last time they called you, by the way? Never? Thought so.’

She could smell the gin each time he exhaled. She stared at her toes and tried to take comfort in the neon pink color. Meanwhile, the polish continued to drip on the bed.

He walked out and called the pizza place back. ‘Yeah, we’re trying to consolidate some debt,’ he lied. ‘This one should work.’ He read the number. ‘Yeah, I’d like a large pepperoni and olive. Extra cheese.’

She didn’t eat meat, hated olives, and was lactose intolerant.

‘Nope, that’s it,’ he crooned. ‘Thank you so very much.’ She heard the beep to indicate the end of the call.

He walked back down the hallway and stopped at the door. He flicked the card at her and hit her in the back. ‘Thanks for the pie, dear.’ He slammed the door shut.

She hadn’t noticed the tears streaming down her face until the door slammed. She began to sob.

It isn’t true that death is the only moment that a person’s life flashes before her eyes. It happens also during those potential life changing moments when all seems lost. She saw her dead father grinning at her with his cleanly teeth. She saw her first boyfriend lean in for a kiss. She saw each of her past husbands as she spoke her vows to them, in the Catholic church, on the beach, and in the court clerk’s office. She saw herself trip over her elder son and fall down the steps in her first home. She saw herself search desperately for her younger son. She remembered the Christmas when neither son called her.

The sadness welled inside her, flooding her heart with despair. She stopped crying only because there were no more tears. For the second time that night, she wished she could do the whole thing over. But there were no do-overs. There were too many memories to forgive and forget those around her, not to mention herself.

She grabbed her red Samsung and searched the names. She called Bryan first, but there was no answer. Then she tried her younger son, Nicholas. He picked up on the third ring.

‘Hi mom.’

‘Hi Nick. How are you?’ She tried not to sound drunk.

‘Okay. Long day. What’s up?’ he asked. He wasn’t accustomed to answering calls from his mother.

‘I miss you.’ She felt her throat close.

‘Yeah. Well, we miss you too, mom. How are things?’ he asked casually.

‘Nick, I’m going to be honest. You and your brother are the best choices I ever made.’

There was a pause.

‘Thanks, mom. Are you okay?’ Nick had always been the more blunt of the two boys.

‘Not really. I’m so sorry.’ She slurred each ‘s’.

‘Well, I have to go change Bella. Are you coming up any time soon?’

‘I hope so. I think I have to.’

‘Okay, great. Let us know. We’d love to see you.’

‘Okay. I love you, Nick.’

‘Love you too, mom. Talk to you later.’

The line went dead.

The doorbell rang. It was the pizza, and it was her chance to act. She grabbed the credit card on the bed and tossed it into her purse. She paused for a moment to consider what else to bring with her. She grabbed the small bag that rested by the bureau and packed a few shirts, a few pairs of jeans, and underwear. The Kandinsky book followed. She heard the front door close, followed by footsteps down the stairs. She opened the bedroom door quietly, her purse on her shoulder and the small bag in her hand. She crept down the hallway and used the stairs to the back door. She heard nothing. Once out the door, she walked through the wet grass around the house and found her Rav 4. She clicked the button on her keychain. The doors unlocked quietly. She threw her belongings into the backseat and shut the door as quietly as she was able. She then moved into the driver’s seat.

She put the key into the ignition. And then she sat. She looked at the house she had purchased. It had been the first house she had purchased alone. She didn’t turn the key. Instead, she considered the situation. In her head, a voice spoke. ‘Four failed marriages.’ Then she heard her father’s voice, ‘Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.’

And then another voice spoke. ‘Where will you go? What will you do? You have no plan. You have no course of action. You have only a bag and a credit card. You are leaving your house. You will have four failed marriages. You will have been defeated in every aspect of your life.’

She considered her situation. She felt the migraine begin to creep into her skull. And then she saw the garage door open. She knew it was now or never. She turned the key and heard the SUV roar to life. Her husband ran out to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.

She wanted to put the car in reverse and be rid of him. She wanted to find a hotel and plan the next steps of her life. Instead, she lowered the window.

‘Yeah?’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Away from here, from you,’ she replied.

‘What about me,’ he asked in as desperate a voice as he could muster.

He heard that cry from each of her former husbands. And she still didn’t know the answer.

‘I’m sorry. I had a bad day at work. I’ll do better.’

‘How many times have you said that?’ she asked. How many times had all her husbands said that?

‘I know what I did. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.’

And how often can people say they’re sorry without being contrite?

‘Come back inside. I’ll get a pizza you want with my own money. I just got paid today.’

‘Four failed marriages,’ spoke a faraway voice.

‘C’mon, Lizzy,’ he showed his sad, brown eyes.

‘You can’t treat me like this,’ she cried. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He opened the door and put his right arm around her back. ‘Come inside.’

She climbed out of the SUV and followed him into the house.

The key dangled in the ignition.

The Basement

2011-05-13T18:53:00.000-07:00

They told me they had guests in the basement. It was immediately before they left for the wedding. He had been a good friend from high school; I didn’t really know his wife.

I had arrived only that morning after a short train ride. It had been shorter that I had expected, though I’m not sure why I expected it to be longer. The ride had always been that brief, at least as far back as I could remember. Ian and his wife had picked me up at the station. I had commented to Ian about how long it had been. ‘Since graduation, I think. We certainly made a scene.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘Or maybe… There was that one time in Seattle when we tried to climb Mt. Rainier.’ He smiled and nodded again.

I had free roam of the house, except for the basement. It wasn’t that they told me I couldn’t go into the basement; it was the mere fact that I knew I shouldn’t.

I was only staying the night, and I could amuse myself without access to a television. I perused the books. I saw Death of a Salesman and The Yankee Years. I thought them oddly juxtaposed. I wondered if Ian’s wife was the Yankees fan.

My phone rang. I answered without looking at the number.

‘What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?’ came the familiar voice.

‘I have to be back in the afternoon,’ I said to him.

‘I’m your father; I want to see you.’

‘Okay, I can go back in the evening.’

‘I’ll be there around 11,’ he growled.

‘See you then,’ I chirped.

I clicked off. The phone began vibrating in my hand. I answered again without looking.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, how’s my favorite son?’

‘That’s no way to speak, mom. You have four other kids.’

‘And I tell them all the same.’

‘That seems to defeat the purpose.’

‘Don’t judge. I heard you’re in town. Will I get to see you?’

‘Umm…’

‘I never get to see you.’

‘I can do breakfast.’

‘What are you doing for lunch?’

‘I’m not available for lunch. Can we make it early?’

‘How’s nine?’

‘That’s fine, mom.’

‘Okay, looking forward to it.’

I hang up again. I wait for another call. None comes. I hear rustling in the basement, but I ignore it. Instead I sit at the kitchen table, and stare out the window into the darkness. I sit for three hours. I sit completely still, waiting for something tragic.

The rustling becomes something more than rustling. I suppose it could have been called pounding. I heard things breaking too. I thought about going to bed, but something told me to go downstairs. The voices were not the better angels of my nature.

I opened the cellar door and peered down. I saw red lighting amidst which there came a flicker, like a television. I stepped down into the darkness and saw movement. There was a lot of movement. People were moving around one another. It was almost an orgy. Almost. I took one more step and looked over the railing down into the room. It was a television flickering. Further squinting indicated a horror film. I think it was Texas Chainsaw Massacre, though I can’t be sure because I’ve never seen it. My eyes wandered further into the room where I saw something resembling an orgy. Except it wasn’t an orgy. There were people with weapons impaling each other. I saw a body that looked like it had been hit by a bus. The blood oozed everywhere. I felt sick and flew up the stairs.

They hadn’t noticed me. They hadn’t even turned. They simply stabbed each other with delight. I felt the shock engulf me. I considered calling someone; I could think of no one. I didn’t have Ian’s number. I didn’t think I should share the information with my parents. I decided to go to bed. There was nothing I could do.

I woke up in the morning. There were bloody footsteps on the kitchen floor. My mother called to say she would be late. My father called to say he would be early. They arrived simultaneously, my father walking up the driveway from the front and my mother traversing the backyard from behind. They had keys and entered. I sat at the kitchen table with my head down. I didn’t want to tell them what had happened. I wanted to be with both of them away from the house as quickly as possible.

The doors opened. Ian and his wife entered. They greeted me, and noticed I was white as a ghost.

‘Something wrong?’ Ian asked.

I pointed to a red sneaker mark on the ground. ‘They reenacted Texas Chainsaw Massacre downstairs,’ I said louder than I had intended. ‘Except it wasn’t really with a chainsaw.’

Ian rolled his eyes and sighed as if to say, not again. He and his wife began cleaning the kitchen as I sat at the table.

When they were finished, Ian turned to me and motioned me downstairs, ‘Can you help me clean up? The wife’s exhausted from the wedding.’

I stared at Ian as if trying to remember something. I shook my head. Nothing happened. I shook it more vigorously and realized what was happening. I shook my head again and lifted it groggily from the pillow.

My wife sat on the bed; there were tears in her eyes. I sat up too quickly and saw stars.

‘What is it?’

‘I just got a call from the Barkleys. Aaron died in an accident just an hour or so ago. He was riding his bike along a busy road, lost control, and was bit by a bus.’

I blinked. ‘He’s only 10.’

‘I know. They’re going to cancel the Little League games tomorrow.’

‘Oh my God.’ I reached for her and pulled her into me.

A knock came at the door followed by a 9 year old bursting with excitement. ‘Ready for the batting cages, dad,’ he exclaimed. But Alex stopped short when he saw his parents holding each other.

‘Alex,’ I started. ‘I have something I have to tell you.’

The Suitcase

2011-04-19T19:07:00.000-07:00

Barney waddled up to George and licked him on the cheek with his semi-wet tongue. Without a word from George, Barney gingerly dropped to his stomach and rolled half-heartedly. George rubbed the old beagle’s belly and showered him with loving remarks.

‘You’ll only be gone a few days,’ remarked Molly, George’s dearest friend.

‘He’s my boy,’ he retorted earnestly. ‘The only guy who’s stuck with me through everything.’ He turned his head back to the resting dog. ‘Aren’t you, Barney?’

‘What about me?’ Molly asked.

‘You’re not a guy. Technically, though, I’ve known Barney longer.’

‘We’re not going through that again.’

‘Well, I knew him when he was in the womb. Queenie’s second or third litter, I always forget.’

‘Yeah, I know, I was the unfortunate neighbor who got dragged into helping.’

‘Don’t sound so upset. That’s when we met. And here we are now,’ he exclaimed with an innocent joy.

‘Yeah, yeah. So when are you leaving?’ she asked with a hint of sarcasm.

‘Oh, yeah, what time is it?’

‘Almost eight.’

‘It’s about that time. I need to catch a cab. I should make it in time for an eleven o’clock flight.’

‘Yeah, you should be fine.’

Before he stood, he buried his nose into the nape of the Barney’s neck. The dog glanced backward nonchalantly and licked the air a few times; the last tongue swipe landed on George’s cheek.

‘Bye, bye Barney. Good boy.’

Barney remained on his stomach but tracked George with his sad, brown eyes. Barney knew what was happening, but he just didn’t have the energy to leap and lick with as much enthusiasm as he did even a few years prior. At almost seventeen years of age, everything was a chore.

George donned his jacket and grabbed his suitcase. ‘Thanks again, Molly.’ And then to the dog, ‘Good boy, Barney. Good boy.’

The dog wagged his tail in response. When the door closed, Barney stood and waddled over to it. He then plopped down in front of the door and closed his eyes.

Molly grabbed the remote and turned on the television. She decided on a marathon of the seventh cycle of America’s Next Top Model. She became absorbed in her disdain for Melrose, her least favorite contestant, and jeered aloud when Melrose won multiple challenges.

Sometime in the middle of the ninth episode, Molly noticed that Barney hadn’t scratched at the door as was his habit when he needed to potty. She hoped she hadn’t ignored him accidentally. She got up from the couch and walked toward the front door, where Barney had seemingly remained since George left. She reached down and patted his head as a passing gesture. Not only did the dog not move but his head felt unusually cool. She let her hand skim Barney’s nose; it was sandpaper dry.

‘Barney?’ She tried his name a few times with increasing volume. The dog didn’t stir. She felt her hands getting sweaty; her heart was starting to race. She reached down and jiggled him a bit. Nothing. ‘Oh my God. Don’t be dead.’ She felt hot tears forming in her eyes. ‘Barney!’ She put her ear down by the dog’s mouth and nose. There was no breath.

The dog was dead.

‘Oh my God, oh my God. What am I gonna do?’ she asked herself as she sat back down on the couch.

Molly started thinking of anything that could get her out of this situation. She thought about leaving the dog in front of the door until George came back. But she couldn’t lie to George if he asked how Barney was doing. She thought about getting another dog, another Beagle she could call Barney so she could soften the blow. But that was ridiculous.

Of course, there was only one thing she could do. She had to call George. But she didn’t know if she could do it; she didn’t know if she could speak the words without breaking down. She picked up her cell phone and found his name. She pushed the call button and readied herself to blurt out what she needed to say.

After the third ring, she knew he wasn’t picking up. And then she remembered that George was on a flight to Seattle and wouldn’t be landing for another four hours. Molly hung up the phone and put it down on the table.

At that moment, it became apparent to her that she was sharing the apartment with a corpse, a dead body. Her brain took it from there. Her hands became clammy. She heard strange noises. She was convinced she smelled rotting meat. She turned off the television to try to focus on what to do next, but the silence proved louder than noise; she turned the television back on. She noticed she had to pee, but ‘it’ was blocking the path.

After a few paralyzing moments, she shook her head vigorously. ‘Snap out of it,’ she said to herself. ‘What’s next?’ She found that talking to herself often helped when she felt nervous or upset. ‘I could leave him here. But then he’d start to stink. I can’t do that.’ She paused and looked up the ceiling. ‘I have to do something with him, but what do I do with a dead dog in the city? I can’t throw him away. And George would be pissed if I did anyway.’ She curled her legs underneath her until she was sitting Indian style. ‘I should call someone.’ Her father’s calm face appeared in her mind, and she felt the lump in her throat. Then she thought of her mother; not a chance. ‘Who would I call in this situation?’ She paused. ‘George, that’s who. Well, what would he do?’ And then it hit her. ‘The vet.’

She bounded off the couch and into the kitchen. The vet’s number was on the refrigerator. She grabbed her phone and dialed. A woman answered.

‘Yeah, hi, I need some help,’ Molly replied.

‘How can I help you?’

‘Well, I… umm… well… uh… there’s a dead dog here, and I don’t know what to do with him.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Was he a patient of ours?’

‘Yes. But I’m not his owner. I was dog sitting. His owner’s gone, and I can’t reach him.’

‘Okay. Can you give me his name?’

‘The dog or the owner?’

‘The owner.’

‘George Bell.’

‘Barney?’ the woman asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, are you in the city?’

‘I’m at George’s apartment.’

‘Do you have a car?’

‘No, I take subways.’

‘Here’s what you do. Now this may sound strange, but there’s not much choice. Put Barney in a suitcase and bring him to the office. We can take care of his body from there.’

‘Can’t you come get him? I don’t know if I can…’ her voice drifted.

‘Sorry, hon, we’re just not staffed for it. And it’s better if you bring him in sooner than later.’

‘Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you soon.’

‘Okay,’ the woman said hesitantly. ‘See you soon,’ was the extent of her wisdom.

Molly put the phone down. After staring out the window at the cloudy sky for a moment, she decided that she would heed the woman’s advice; she had to find a suitcase. After she thought a moment, she decided that the only place he could keep a suitcase was under his bed. She hopped the corpse and entered the bedroom. She ducked down and felt for the suitcase; when she felt the handle, she pulled out a gigantic, tan monstrosity made sometime in the 1960s. She unpacked George’s summer clothes onto the bed.

She carried the open suitcase into the hallway and placed it next to the body. Without thinking, she scooped the corpse up and flipped it into the bag. With another motion, she slammed the top down and zipped it up. She took a deep breath and paused. She gathered her keys, cell phone, and money clip; grabbed the suitcase; and exited the apartment.

At once, she realized the suitcase had no wheels; they had broken off at some point in the distant past. She became immediately aware of what dead weight really meant. She struggled down the stairs and through the streets. A few passersby even offered to lend a helping hand, but she politely refused.

She descended the stairs to the subway and somehow maneuvered through the turnstile. It was only a short time before an uptown train squealed to a halt in front of her. She dragged the bag onto the half-filled train and sat in the corner.

All the while, she was convinced that the suitcase was giving off an odor. Or that some kind of bodily fluid would seep out. Or that the suitcase would rip revealing the ear or the tail of a dead dog. She guiltily surveyed the train and caught only fleeting glances from disinterested strangers.

One stop before the closest stop to the vet, the train conductor announced that the next stop was closed because of construction. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough notice for her to escape the train with the suitcase. Instead, she decided that she would get off at the next stop.

She dragged the suitcase off the train and made it to the bottom of the escalator. The broken escalator that ascended the equivalent of 3 flights of stairs. She had the option of getting on another train north and going to the next stop in order to catch another train south. Or she could suck it up and do the stairs. She chose the latter.

And thus she began her trek up the escalator stairs. Luckily, there weren’t many others trying to get by.

About half way up, she heard someone jogging up the stairs at a good pace. She inched to the side and pulled the suitcase close. She looked back and saw that it was a guy with a red Yankees cap, a navy blue t-shirt, and jeans. She looked ahead again and waited. Suddenly, she felt the bag jerk away from her; she grasped the rubber handrail for balance. She looked up and saw the guy with the bag in his right hand galloping up the stairs. She raced behind him up the stairs trying to yell between her breaths. But he was too fast for her. When she got to the exit, he was nowhere to be found.

She asked the nearest couple if they had seen a guy with a suitcase. But when she looked around, she realized how stupid that question was. Half the people around her had suitcases. The couple shook their heads solemnly.

Molly began running south. Down the sidewalk she galloped, knocking into trash, trees, and tourists. She didn’t realize she was crying. She kept yelling, ‘Barney.’

When she arrived at the vet, she was a tear-stained mess. She leaned onto the counter and stammered between sobs, ‘I don’t have Barney.’

The nurse – the same woman who had answered the phone earlier – came from behind the counter and put her arm around Molly. ‘It’s okay,’ she said softly. ‘Where’s Barney?’

‘I don’t know,’ Molly admitted. ‘He’s gone.’

‘I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s okay. He’s in a better place.’

‘No, he isn’t. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Is he still at the apartment?’

‘No,’ she said a bit too loudly. ‘He’s gone.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He took him.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know! I couldn’t find him.’

‘Wait,’ the nurse squared Molly’s shoulders. ‘What happened?’

‘Someone stole the suitcase.’

At that moment, Molly’s phone began ringing. She dug it out of her jeans. She saw the picture of Barney appear. And the name George. She sniffled, dragged her finger across the screen, and raised it to her ear.

‘Hi George. I have some bad news.’

Outta Time 5

2011-03-29T17:17:00.000-07:00

Complete silence followed. Darren made no sound. He couldn’t exactly look into her eyes, but he couldn’t look away from her face. He settled on her eyebrows.

Ella waited for a reaction, any reaction. After five seconds she expected his face would break into the uncommon smile of which he was capable on special occasions. After fifteen seconds, she would have settled for his normal scowl. After thirty seconds, she just wanted a reaction.

‘Darren?’

Before he could stop himself, he heard the question, ‘Didn’t you just have your period?’ come from his lips.

‘What?’ She transformed from vulnerable to stony as his question registered in her brain.

Unfortunately for him, Darren decided to answer the question. ‘I just thought you couldn’t get pregnant after your period.’

Her eyes narrowed slightly; her face blossomed into a red Darren had never before witnessed. She opened her mouth. ‘I…’ was all she managed before she closed her mouth again. Darren realized that she was no longer looking at him but somewhere beyond him on the wall. After a long moment, she asked, ‘Is that all you have to say?’

Darren’s head turned slightly, like a confused dog’s. ‘I just don’t know if I’m ready for a kid.’ It was the straw.

‘Get out,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘I can’t see you right now.’

‘But Ella, can’t we talk about this? I’m just confused. I don’t know what to think.’

‘Darren, you’re a selfish bastard. And I want you out of here now.’

‘I love you, Ella,’ he pleaded.

A laugh, bordering on a guffaw, escaped her lips. The sound surprised Darren; it surprised Ella more. She glanced around as if trying to find the thing that made her laugh. Then, she looked back at Darren and approached him with a wild look in her eyes. He backed up a step, uncertain what to do next. In the next moment, she nearly grabbed him, obviously trying to slap, scratch, or strangle him. Instead, she tripped over a wire and feel to her knees. ‘You don’t love anyone. I wish I’d never met you.’ She burst into tears.

The phone began to ring.

She popped to her feet and rushed to the bathroom. The door slammed but didn’t close. She slammed it again.

His eyes popped open, and he tried to focus on the digital clock. He squinted and made out 2:17. When he moved his right arm to stretch, he noticed for the first time something in his hand. A gun. He had no idea what kind. His eyes went wide. He turned back to the television and saw a movie playing. Being a Trekker, he knew it was Star Trek 3. A Klingon held out a communicator to a display counting down seconds. The screen flashed to a Klingon Christopher Lloyd who stands and yells, ‘Get out, Darren! Get out of there!’ The scene replays. After the second replay, Darren heard a distant siren. His adrenaline kicked in once again.

He stood with the gun in his hand, picked up the middle couch cushion, set the gun down, and replaced the couch cushion. He ejected the DVD, put it in the envelope, and secured it in his jacket. Then, he grabbed the fungo and stepped into the hallway. Although he heard the siren growing louder, he knew he couldn’t leave until he looked into Ella’s room. He didn’t understand why.

He turned, and grabbed the doorknob. He quietly twisted it and peered inside. There was no one there.

Rocky Road

2011-03-26T12:27:00.000-07:00

Paul had grown accustomed to his new schedule. It was quieter, slower. He even admitted to his wife Lucy – and only to his wife – that it was unexpectedly soothing.

He hadn’t been one of those people who excitedly anticipated retirement. In fact, he had always believed he’d die within months of his last hurrah. As Coach K, he had coached baseball for 25 years. He had even brought the team to a few championship games. As Mr. K he taught AP English, the most difficult – and most worthwhile – class in the entire school, and he had supervised the student paper. As Paul, he directed multiple plays and served as treasurer of the local Elk’s Club. His students and friends believed he hadn’t slept since college. And many of them silently wondered if retirement would kill him.

It didn’t. Instead of dying off – as he believed he would – he volunteered his time mentoring young basketball and baseball coaches. In addition, he redirected his patience and discipline from the classroom to his own home as he and his wife served as an inexpensive daycare for their identical twin grandchildren Alex and Caleb. He and his wife traveled incessantly. And he even wrote articles for the local paper.

The small corner market wasn’t far from the couple’s house. And the late spring night was beautiful. Paul donned his jacket and announced to his wife, ‘Honey, I’m going to the store. I’m in the mood for ice cream.’

‘Paul, you know what the doctor said.’

‘Oh, Lucy. I’m 73 years old. If ice cream’s gonna kill me, then let it.’

She shook her head but couldn’t help reveal a little smile.

‘You want anything special?’ He asked.

‘I’ll just have some of your Rocky Road.’

‘I think I may try something different tonight. Maybe vanilla. Or that Tom and Jerry type of ice cream.’ He hadn’t come home with anything but Rocky Road in over 20 years.

‘You mean Ben and Jerry’s?’

‘Yeah, maybe I’ll try something new.’

‘Okay,’ she replied.

‘Just make sure…’

He bolted out the door before he could hear her say, ‘To get the frozen yogurt.’

The neighbor’s newly cut grass evoked memories of all kinds. The smell of leather on his left hand from the battered baseball glove. Planting a bunch of flowers with his tall, slender mother. He smiled at the thought of his mother. Her face seemed to come to him more of late, as if she were calling him to come home.

He entered the market with a dreamy expression on his face.

‘Hey Coach K,’ came a voice to his right.

Paul turned as if woken from a dream and saw Gary with a box of chicken noodle soup in his arms.

‘Hey Gary, how are you?’ He motioned as if to shake Gary’s hand but thought better of it. ‘How’ve you been?

‘Same as usual. Wife and kids are good. And the store’s okay.’

Gary hadn’t been the smartest kid in the school. And he hadn’t been the best ballplayer either. But he had been a good kid and had worked damn hard. When Paul discovered that Gary had ‘stepped in it’ and had married the oldest daughter of a local wealthy store owner, he announced to his wife that ‘what comes around, goes around,’ one of his favorite sayings. (And when his wife corrected him – as she always had – by saying that it’s ‘what goes around, comes around,’ he smirked and said, ‘does it really matter?’)

Paul preferred the hard workers to those with natural talent. At the first sign that a kid wasn’t fully invested in Mr. K’s class or on Coach K’s team, that kid’s life became a living hell either until the kid shaped up or shipped out. Most did the latter.

‘Well, good to see you, Paul. I’ve got to pick up some ice cream for Mrs. K.’

‘Oh yeah, what kind?’ Gary knew very well what kind but always asked.

‘I think she wants Rocky Road tonight,’ Paul answered. ‘The ice cream,’ he emphasized.

‘I think all we have is the frozen yogurt,’ Gary answered with a smirk. He had actually stopped carrying Rocky Road ice cream at Mrs. K’s request.

Paul playfully frowned as he followed Gary to the frozen food section. He liked to play the game. He retrieved the half gallon and walked with Gary up front.

Standing at the checkout counter was a tall, bespectacled man in a blue pinstripe suit. The man was typing rapidly on some electronic device. When he heard Paul and Gary approaching, he turned and identified Gary as someone who worked at the store.

‘Hey, I’m in a hurry, get me a pack of Newport Lights,’ he casually commanded.

‘Sorry, we ran out. Delivery tomorrow. You want Newports?’

‘Shit. I always hated this lousy store. Never had what I needed.’

Gary was behind the counter looking perplexed at the reaction.

‘Richie? Richie Taylor?’ Paul asked.

Richie turned his head to look more closely at the old man. Recognition flickered in his eyes. ‘Mr. K,’ he replied. ‘Been a long time.’

‘Sure has,’ Paul said. ‘And you remember Gary Sullinger, yes?’

Again, there’s recognition, but they don’t exchange pleasantries.

Paul felt the tension and continued, ‘How’s my best reporter and his family? I heard you and your beautiful wife are expecting. Congratulations.’

Richie looked out the window absently and responded, ‘Fine. Fine. Like I said, I’m really in a hurry. Just give me whatever you got back there.’

‘Can you be a little more specific?’ Gary answered with some sarcasm that Richie didn’t appreciate.

Richie shot back a look. ‘Give me the Newports.’ He wanted to insult him but decided against it.

The market’s front door opened. An attractive olive-skinned woman was speaking into her cell phone. She paused long enough to say, ‘Rick, can you please get me some mints? I like Altoids. Something minty.’ She smiled and waved with her free hand.

The encounter left Richie shaken. His face turned brick red.

His reaction wasn’t lost on Gary or Paul. They stood in the market, Gary behind the counter, Richie facing Gary, and Paul to Richie’s left. No one said a word.

Paul moved his arm to Richie’s shoulder saying ‘It’s all…’

But Richie reacted to the touch by swinging his body. Paul lost his balance and fell backwards onto the tile floor before he could brace himself. The Rocky Road yogurt and Paul’s head simultaneously fell onto the floor with respective thuds. The ice cream rolled away.

Richie and Gary both stared at Paul’s motionless figure on the white tile.

Richie reacted first. ‘Oh my God. I gotta go.’ He turned, exited, and sped off in his car.

Gary moved to Paul’s side. ‘Coach K?’ No response. He grabbed Paul’s hand. ‘Coach?’ Still nothing. Gary dropped Paul’s hand and moved to the phone. He dialed 9-1-1.

‘Yes, hi. I need an ambulance at 413 North Center St. It’s a market.’

‘What’s the nature of the emergency?’ asked the operator.

‘A 73-year-old man was attacked by a guy named Rick Taylor. He sped off in a 2009 Toyota Camry.’

‘Thank you, sir. An ambulance is on its way.’

Gary hung up the phone. ‘Payback’s a bitch, Rich.’ He moved to Paul’s side and held the old man's hand until the ambulance arrived.

3WW Fiction in 58 (Breeze, Mellow, Tickle): Blue Kite

2011-03-16T17:37:00.000-07:00

He grabbed the kite, blue as a widowed newlywed. The mellow night spilled onto him as he exited, engulfing him in its wetness. Once upon the sand he raced to and fro, beads of sweat tickling his brow. The kite trailed him like a stubborn dog, diving into sandy clumps. Like his wife the breeze had abandoned him.

Outta Time 4

2011-03-13T18:42:00.001-07:00

Please see Outta Time for the first part of the story.

Please see Outta Time 2 for the second part of the story.

Please see Outta Time 3 for the third part of the story.

His finger pressed the red power button on the remote control. The screen flickered to black. From the bedroom came some rustling followed by silence. Even Bruce’s snoring had subsided. He was alone with his thoughts.

His first instinct was to grab the bat and run into Ella’s bedroom swinging; only those last few words that floated across the television screen deterred him. Paralysis ensued. He felt both helpless and angry. The rush of adrenaline instantaneously warmed his body, turning his face a bright red.

‘Who the hell is this guy?’ he thought to himself. ‘Why the hell should I listen to him?’ But the answer was all too apparent. Because the guy on the DVD had been right about the apartment. And not only right about the apartment, but had saved Darren’s life. Though Darren wanted desperately to disregard the message, he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea.

He relaxed a bit, trying to stop his mind from racing, but he soon discovered relaxation was an equally bad idea. If he had ever boxed, he could have equated the feeling to a punch directly in the solar plexus. Vomit – or more likely bile – edged into his throat. He tried to counter with short, deliberate breaths. It didn’t work. He made it to the kitchen sink and spewed yellow liquid into the tub. His stomach felt as though it was turning inside out. Dry heaves followed. He put his right cheek down onto the cold tile; spittle inched from his half-open mouth.

Expending considerable effort, he lifted his head from the counter and tried to focus on the pink Hello Kitty clock with its tail wagging to and fro. The consistency of the movement calmed him. He grabbed a glass from the dish rack and put it right side up next to the sink. He then opened the refrigerator and pulled the milk carton – skim milk, unfortunately – from the top shelf. It didn’t pour as creamily as he would have liked. For whatever reason, water and soda had never helped him feel better; it was always a cold glass of whole milk, even though his mother constantly told him it would only make things worse. He took three large gulps, hoping to rid himself of the lingering bile. It felt good going down until he allowed his taste buds to process the liquid. The soured nectar didn’t taste much different than the bile; his stomach contracted, and he leaned into the sink again to allow his body to rid himself of the offending substance.

Darren decided not to try his luck with anything else in the refrigerator. Instead, he limped back into the living room and fell onto the couch. The cable box clock’s red digits displayed 11:11; he made a wish. His eyes closed. The words from the DVD floated in front of his eyelids. He struggled to open them again. He felt himself losing consciousness. Ella’s voice repeated in his mind, ‘For whatever reason, I love you. I forgive you. I’d appreciate it if you’re out of here by 7 a.m.’

Ella cuddled, her right cheek nuzzling into his bare chest. Her left hand played with the tuft of chestnut brown hair around his right nipple. She looked up and saw his scraggly chin; she kissed him on the neck. Darren didn’t move. She wrapped her left arm around the right side of his body; her hand squeezed just above his love handle. He turned suddenly; his left side upended her, causing her to roll back and away from him.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

‘Huh? What?’ He didn’t feign sleep altogether well. She knew as soon as he ceased breathing deeply that he was awake.

‘I know you’re awake Darren.’

He made a few more grunting noises and shook his head a few times. He wasn’t a good actor.

‘Good morning,’ she spoke hesitantly.

He rolled off the bed and onto the floor; his feet landed flat on the wooden floor.

‘Where are you going?’ she wondered aloud.

‘Bathroom,’ he muttered.

She felt herself begin to cry. ‘Just calm down,’ she said to herself. ‘It will be okay.’ A few tears streamed down her face before she could get the cream-colored sheet to her eyes.

He re-entered and fell into the bed. He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hi,’ he grunted. There were no tears to notice on Ella’s cheeks.

‘Hi Darren,’ she answered. ‘How are you?’

‘Sleepy,’ he responded. His eyelids flapped from closed to open and closed again.

She kissed him on the lips. Softly. Just enough to open his eyes again.

‘Hi,’ she said, allowing the sound to linger in the room.

He wasn’t accustomed to such affection, at least not recently. He stared into her blue eyes and became immediately frightened by what he saw. ‘What’s up?’

‘Did you sleep well?’ She kissed him again on the lips.

‘Yeah,’ he answered. His voice cracked.

‘I have some news.’ She smiled again.

He already knew what she was going to say. He looked away and wished that he could postpone the moment indefinitely. He took a deep breath.

‘Please look at me,’ she half ordered and half pleaded.

He turned his head towards her and instantly regretted it.

‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

Shrimp Fork

2011-03-04T17:25:00.001-08:00

He grabbed the shrimp fork and drove it into the table with a force even he didn’t expect. It stuck, vibrating briefly before it became motionless. He looked up into her startled countenance and glared with fire in his eyes.

‘You’re what?’ he cried.

‘Not here, Stan. Not in front of all these people,’ she said almost disinterestedly, her face stony with indignation.

She said it more for him based on others’ shocked glances. There was still a part of her that wanted to save him the embarrassment of making an ass of himself in a public place.

Stan didn’t hear her. He simply stared, though not at her. He traveled instead to the moment when his sister explained to him that their mother had died suddenly of a heart attack. It was the same sensation. He had no air to fill his lungs, no moisture in his mouth; he wondered only if there was a next moment.

‘I wondered if I should even try to explain. I thought I’d be honest as I always said I would.’ Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.

His head snapped back to attention, and he thrust his face forward. He eyed her as if she were an alien. ‘And you brought me out to a public place? After 25 years?’ He paused and leaned back in his chair. His salt and pepper hair moved like a wave, kept together with generous amounts of mousse. ‘This is what you do when you fire people, isn’t it?’ His neck rolled to the right and down so he could see her face. ‘It is what you do.’ A chuckle escaped from his lips. ‘You’re not even laying me off; you’re firing me.’

She chuckled too. It wasn’t from nerves, and it wasn’t because she thought it was particularly funny. (He never had been particularly funny.) It was because he was right. Her demeanor changed; she seemed to grow more comfortable, almost jovial. She still kept her voice just above a whisper. ‘Yes, Stan. That’s exactly what I’m doing. You’ve hit the nail on the head. You’re both inefficient and ineffective. There’s no synergy, no chemistry, no electricity. You bore me. You have no ambition. And, what’s more, you’re bored with me. You have your porn. You even have that bimbo on the side you see from time to time.’

His head jerked, and his eyes went wide.

‘C’mon, Stan, I’m the smarter of the two of us. If I didn’t know for a fact – because Ms. Tanya is in the same yoga class I am and confessed it to me after you’d pissed her off a while back – I’d know because of women’s intuition. You suck at lying.’ She was on a roll, as if she were managing a meeting with a bunch of opinionated loudmouths.

Before she could get out another word, the waitress returned to the table and gleefully asked, ‘Dessert?’ She glanced at each in turn, oblivious to the fact that anything of import could be happening. ‘We have strawberry shortcake, chocolate cake, key lime pie…’

Stan turned his weary eyes to her, ‘I don’t think we’re interested.’

The waitress grimaced, mostly because she didn’t get a chance to show them that she had memorized the desserts. She walked away before she could think to ask them if they wanted coffee or tea.

‘Stan, look, it’s better for you, and it’s better for me. It’s a win-win. You can continue with your World of Warcraft and Michelob Ultra – by the way, I think it’s ridiculous that you think Michelob Ultra is going to help you lose weight. And I’ll learn to live without you. I did it for a while before I met you. I think I can manage again.’

The waitress returned, still grimacing, and dropped the check holder on the table. She began to clean the table and accidentally knocked a half glass of water into Stan’s lap.

‘Looks like your glass just went from half full to empty,’ his wife remarked. ‘Since I know you’re not having the best day, I’ll get the check.’

She opened the holder to find a note that read, ‘To the woman I love on the 25th anniversary of the first day we met.’

She closed the holder and looked him in the eyes. ‘Today, huh?’

‘Yep,’ he replied.

She stood and skirted the table gracefully. She leaned in and kissed him on his lips. ‘Thanks for remembering,’ she purred, her voice dripping with sarcasm, ‘but it was 25 years too long.’

Snub-Nose

2011-03-02T20:47:00.000-08:00

I lifted the discolored fork to my chapped lips. A few corn kernels leapt from the tines, attempting to avoid ingestion. Of course, they with their limited sense perception could not have known that a brindle Boxer had stationed himself directly below the faux wooden folding stool. The kernels lingered on the laminate checkered floor for just a bit longer than it takes for light to pass from a rising sun to the eyes of an old woman with a young lover. I released the fork and let it clatter upon the cheap, chipped ceramic plate. The rattle succumbed to the overwhelming silence; it hadn’t the strength to echo off the off-white walls. My blue eyes met the brown orbs of the dog. I witnessed his snub-nosed ignorance and woeful inability to express regret. Before the tears began to well, I gripped the platter with its residual fat stewing in a shallow pool of meat juice and whipped it across the infinitesimal space. The dog leapt and let fly but one frightened bark before it raced to taste the succulent gravy strewn about the floor. I leaned back in the chair, burping under my breath and half-heartedly thanking a God I doubt exists.

Lines

2011-02-20T23:17:00.001-08:00

He stared at the screen and saw nothing, Not because there was nothing on the screen but because he had been staring at the screen for the past 16 hours. He wasn’t finished, though. And he probably wouldn’t be finished for another 16 hours. Except it was due in 8. ‘Work smarter, not harder,’ flashed through his brain, a recommendation from a former boss who spoke in clichés. ‘Because when the going gets tough…’ He banged his head on the desk; it reverberated throughout the empty office. Well, not completely empty.

‘You okay in there?’ the IA asked disinterestedly.

‘Yep,’ he responded a little too gleefully. The IA decided it might be best to check on Bernard visually. Although brilliant, Bernard was a bit unstable.

He stuck his head into the office and noticed Bernard’s head on the desk; his left cheek lay flat against the faux cherry, and his eyes were wide open. He had heard the story of the first IA in charge of Bernard; the IA initially thought Bernard had died and moved in closer to see if he was breathing. When the IA noticed very shallow breaths, he tapped lightly on Bernard’s shoulder. At that slightest touch, Bernard grabbed the man’s arm, broke it, and then slammed the man into the ground, breaking his nose in the process.

‘Bernard, have you finished?’ The IA kept his distance.

‘Nope. I’ve got 16 hours of work to do in eight. How’s that for ridiculous?’

‘I’m certain you will do your best.’

‘I’m certain I will too.’ Bernard lifted his head and looked back at the screen.

To many, the imaginary lines he drew seemed arbitrary, cutting through countries and towns with neither rhyme nor reason. But the algorithm would save humanity, so he said. He had convinced countless scientists and world leaders of the plan’s efficacy. Though there was significant opposition, when it came time to make the decision the vote to proceed was nearly unanimous. The three dissenters threatened to take the plan public, but the world’s leaders had little stomach for trying to explain the plan – never mind defend it – to the world. They therefore completely discredited those dissenters and sent them hurtling to their deaths in an unfortunate accident blamed on terrorists.

Bernard had already requested one extension, but these world leaders were not people that should be kept waiting. Not to mention the world situation wasn’t getting any better. Class wars – the likes of which had not been seen in over a hundred years – erupted in rich and poor countries alike. The lower and lower middle classes declared war first on the rich and then on the upper middle class not because of the latter’s belongings but because of their food. Former maids ransacked their employers’ pantries. Illegal immigrants fought with wolves and coyotes for stray cattle.

Bernard dragged a line south from Minneapolis, down through St. Louis, and then around New Orleans. Half of most cities would survive, according to his plan. Others like New Orleans would disappear entirely. To be clear, the city itself would not disappear but the inhabitants would. They’d disintegrate at the push of a button.

The microchip hadn’t been Bernard’s idea. They had preceded his idea by more than a year. For safety’s sake, everyone in the world – as agreed in the Tehran Accord – would have a microchip inserted in order to ensure the knowledge of their whereabouts at all times. Of course, no one knew that the microchip carried a lethal toxin that could kill more quickly than a King Cobra. There were a few mishaps, i.e. the toxin was accidentally released, but the microchip certainly achieved close to a six sigma rating in terms of effectiveness. And the released toxin simulated a heart attack so well that very few doctors ever suspected anything. Those doctors that did either voluntarily or involuntarily did not speak.

Bernard dragged a line that surgically dissected Japan. Tokyo and Osaka were on the wrong side of the line. He included London but excluded Paris. Manhattan survived; the other four boroughs weren’t as lucky. Most of East Africa fell by the wayside. As did Cape Town. But Johannesburg stayed in tact. Little by little, Bernard carved the world into the haves and have-nots. What was more remarkable was that he did so objectively without any consideration for humanity. He simply wanted to test his hypothesis that he could efficiently and effectively reduce the surplus population in order to protect the dwindling food supply.

Approximately eight hours later, he completed his first draft. He washed his face and hands in the office restroom; he did not change his clothes. At approximately 9 a.m. he and the IA were in the Town Car on their way to the United Nations to change the course of world history.

With Hobos

2011-02-08T22:49:00.000-08:00

The subway squealed to a halt; the doors slid open. With my luggage in tow, I entered the last car of the train and immediately detected the stench of the hobos. I glanced to the far end of the car and noticed 2 bums flanking the car. By the time I had made the decision to exit and sprint to another car, a familiar voice warned, ‘Stand clear of the closing doors.’ The doors slid shut unceremoniously.

I had the choice to try my luck at passing through the via de los vagabondos or to hold my breath and wait patiently. I adjusted my sports coat and sat on the blue plastic bench. To take my mind from the stench I extracted my Blackberry from my left jacket pocket and unlocked it with some quick thumb work. Although I had no service in the subway car, I noticed two emails that had arrived just minutes before I descended the stairs to the subway. The first was spam, some message detailing the benefits of Viagra. The second was an epistle from my boss explaining that an issue for which I was responsible had been escalated to none other than the president of the company. The last two words of the email were ‘Call immediately!’

One of the bums stirred and made a noise akin to coughing that seemed a mix of yodeling and choking. The other bum slipped off his ragged shoe and flung it at his counterpart, hitting him in the shoulder. Bum one emerged from his gray parka revealing a sanguine complexion beneath a scraggly silver beard. Our eyes met briefly; in his I saw no sign of recognition. But I vaguely remembered him. Or perhaps remembered is not the right word. He was familiar to me, a person I had encountered long ago. I couldn’t place him. Bum Two settled back under his Steelers jacket and pulled the hood over his head. His shoe remained in the middle of the car.

I brought my attention back to the Blackberry and reread the message more carefully. In the ramblings of my boss’s writing, I determined that the latest catalogue we had sent for our spring line excluded all clothing from our most lucrative designers. I cursed my uselessly antiquated boss under my breath. I had fought tooth and nail with her to ditch the catalogue and increase our presence on the web. And I had wanted to wait until I returned from this business trip to send out the catalogues. But no, she had to have her way and get the spring catalogues out the second week of February because that’s the way it had always been done. I felt my blood pressure rising.

We reached the first stop. I considered exiting the train and calling my boss, but I knew better than to attempt an intelligent conversation while fuming. I didn’t even consider trying to escape the hobo car until I heard ‘Stand clear of the closing doors’ at which point it was too late.

I locked the Blackberry keypad and put it into my pocket. I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of ten year old moldy cheese. My eyes actually began to water. I reverted to mouth breathing and glanced down at the bums with disdain. To my surprise, Bum One was staring at me. It was a wooden stare from a defeated man. It would have been creepy had there not been melancholy in his eyes. I averted my eyes to one of the many posters contrasting the Knickerbockers of yesterday to the Knicks of today and regretted that my reading material was tucked in my suitcase.

Bum One began to cough again; he gasped and gurgled as if afflicted by the final stages of consumption. Bum Two awoke suddenly, stood, and yelled, ‘Find your own fuckin way home, shithead’ and stalked into the next car leaving me and Bum One – now just Bum – occupying the car.

The subway stopped again. My anger was subsiding, but I wasn’t quite ready for my boss. And I could always use the excuse that I was on the subway, primarily because I was. Meanwhile, a young Asian woman and an older white gentleman entered the car. They both sat down near me after spying Bum wrapped in his gray parka. When Bum commenced with his death rattle soon after departing the station, both Asian Lady and Old Guy decided to try their luck in the next car, leaving me and Bum together again.

I began to feel calmer, more willing and able to volley with my boss. I already had a plan brewing. I would call each of the designers who hadn’t been included in the catalogue and explain that we had planned for two catalogues. The first, I’d explain, was our more traditional catalogue meant for the old guard. The second, however, would be bold. Released closer to spring, these designers would break molds and set trends and fulfill whatever other clichés he could imagine. I began planning the party at an exclusive club with a private unmarked entrance. There will be hundreds of martinis and living statues displaying the clothing.

A few more stops passed as I contemplated the fabulous success I would extract from my boss’s incompetence.

In the midst of my daydream, Bum began anew. I tried to ignore the incessant cough, but something about the sound struck me at my core. I noticed that he had extracted the parka to reveal a black thermal shirt and disgustingly muddy jeans. Unlike his previous fits, Bum wasn’t letting up. I considered going to see if he was okay, but decided against it in case he was a nutjob with a knife. The train slowed to a stop, and the automated voice announced that because of train traffic ahead, we were being delayed.

I tried to return to my thoughts of designer victory, but Bum’s cacophony was not to be overcome. I glanced back over and saw him fall the short distance from the plastic blue bench to the sticky black floor of the car. I obeyed the instinct to stand but froze as soon as I had. I watched as Bum curled into a fetal position, trying desperately to regain his breath. He wasn’t succeeding. I wanted to help, but couldn’t find the courage to help.

Bum ceased for a moment. He craned his neck and stared into my eyes. In a low, gravelly voice he said, ‘I’m sorry Brian.’

I cocked my head like a confused dog. His death rattle commenced for the last time. It was not as loud this time, but it was final. The train moved ahead into the next station. I grabbed my luggage and stood in front of the doors. As soon as they opened, I exited and ran through the turn style and up the stairs. I took a deep breath and grabbed for my Blackberry.

Sunday Scribblings: Political Rhetoric

2011-01-09T18:06:00.000-08:00

Ray listened intently to one side of the conversation through the paper-thin walls. His brother spoke plainly, remorselessly. ‘She should die,’ he heard the animated voice declare into his cell phone. ‘She’s a traitor to all mankind. Everything she says is a lie. I wish someone would just kill her. Damn liberals.’

Paul had changed significantly since going to college. No longer was he the gregarious star athlete of a small Kansas town. Instead, he had become an angry, almost belligerent young man. A small fish in a giant pond at the University of Texas, he had channeled his fierce competitiveness into politics. He attended rallies and stood on corners in Austin distributing pamphlets to passerby.

‘It’s about damn time that someone sends a warning shot across her bow. She doesn’t listen. She does whatever she damn well pleases. She won’t be held accountable for her actions, and others protect her blindly because they are deluded enough to think that she’s the future of this country.’ Ray heard his brother pause. A tennis ball began to thump on the wall arrhythmically. ‘They make it look like it’s a walk in the park. You have an opinion, then spin it into it being un-American. You try to do what’s good for the country, and you are a enemy of patriotism. Well, sometimes there’s a place for an eye for an eye,’ he retorted. ‘The tree of liberty must be fertilized by the blood of terrorists.’ The thumping became louder. ‘Terrorists, tyrants, same difference.’

Ray had not just looked up to his older brother; he wanted to be his older brother. The star quarterback, the star pitcher, the prom king, the town hero. But Ray didn’t have the talent. Too skinny and socially awkward, he found his place in running and playing the trumpet. Teachers in the high school almost seemed disappointed when they called ‘Raymond Green’ and saw him sitting quietly in the back of the room trying desperately not to be noticed. Mr. Horner, the gym teacher, commented, ‘You sure you’re Paul’s brother?’ when Ray tried to throw a football. Suffice it to say, Ray avoided throwing anything in front of anyone.

‘Bullshit. She is the stupidest person I’ve ever heard. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. And yet people listen and follow her direction as if she’s reciting the Bible in the voice of Moses.’ The thumping ceased; the floorboards began to creak. Paul had a habit of pacing the room as he became more intense, which caused a strange Doppler effect in the conversation. ‘We’re too damn cowardly to play by their rules. It’s time for us to unite, to stand against them, to shed a little blood.’

Ray felt impassioned by his brother’s speech. He imagined himself marching alongside his brother down a dirt road to meet an evil posse with red bandanas – he had just recently seen Tombstone with his father. He heard himself mimic his brother. ‘You worthless know-nothings; you stupid angry anti-Americans. We’re gonna put you were you shoulda gone a long time ago.’ And he’d pull his six-shooter from the holster and gun them down for the good of the country. Ray glanced out the window and noticed his father had arrived home from work. The front door opened and closed quietly. His father’s boots clicked on each stair as he ascended.

‘I’d do it if I could, but who am I kidding? It’s a pipe dream. They’ll never have balls enough to try character assassination, never mind actual assassination. Nope, she’ll grow more and more powerful. And she’ll do it for American, not knowing that she’s destroying the country. Maybe she’s the antichrist.’

Ray heard his brother’s door open. ‘Paul, I’m home. You wanna talk about that shit, go outside; you know my rules.’ The door closed abruptly.

Ray’s door opened suddenly. His father was annoyed. He commented cryptically, ‘Ray, let me just give you one piece of advice. College ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Just remember your family, will you?’

‘Yeah, dad. Okay,’ Ray answered, wanting to please his father. The door closed, and his father’s footsteps descended the stairs.

Ray strained to hear his brother’s final words. ‘Yeah, I gotta go. My father…’ His voice faded. ‘… defends her… wish he’d wake up to… almost vice president.’

Sunday Scribblings (Progress): Not That Guy

2011-01-03T21:08:00.000-08:00

Brian grabbed the green ink. Across the front of the black bottle in flowing gold script was the word ‘Emerald’. His older brothers always confiscated the black – ‘Raven’ – and blue – ‘Cobalt’ – leaving him to opt for some other more adventurous hue. He dipped the Waterman pen into the ink bottle and sloppily sucked some of the dark green ink into the miniature tube. The rest he carelessly sprayed on the old wooden table.

Each of the boys had received a Waterman pen from their maternal grandfather at the age of ten. In each case, the pen and accompanying ink had been delivered with a note explaining the family New Years Eve tradition. Dating back to the mid-19th century all members of the Grossman family had recorded their New Year’s resolutions in special journals with ink from a fountain pen. According to his grandfather, the tradition dated back longer – he claims back to the 17th century – but a fire had destroyed the library containing those journals in the small German town from whence the Grossman’s had emigrated.

At the age of 16, Brian suddenly decided that he couldn’t care less about resolutions. They were, as he so eloquently stated to his mother, retarded and a waste of his life. In addition, he claimed he wasn’t going to abide by the resolutions anyway, making them irrelevant and not worth the ink he was using to write them. Brian’s mother was patient as she listened to her indignant son. Each time he complained, she patiently told the same story about her father and her father’s father. They weren’t rich men, she explained, because they understood that resolutions were about being true to one’s self. But they were successful men who lived life fully and had no regrets.

He rolled his eyes as far as they could roll and tried to argue his point anew. When his mother started in again on the reasons for the resolutions, he stormed upstairs with pen, ink, and journal in tow. The door slammed loudly; he fell into his bed and pouted. A short time later, his mother ascended the stairs and knocked at the door to tell him that the family was on their way to celebrate the New Year at her parents’ house. He told her to go away, that he didn’t feel like celebrating. She told him to suit himself but suggested strongly that he write the resolutions. When, after a minute, she heard no response, she walked back down the stairs smiling to herself. She told her husband not to worry about anything. They packed up the lasagna and salad she had made and locked the front door. Within a couple minutes, their Datsun took them off to the other side of town.

Meanwhile Brian decided he wasn’t going spend another minute in the house. He dialed Jim’s number and let it ring twice before hanging up. Then he grabbed his jacket and snuck out the back door in an attempt to avoid the Wassermans, who liked to keep an eye on their neighbors. When he was confident that he had was clear, he took off at a slow jog through his backyard and jumped a small fence into the Brinkley’s yard. He slunk along the side of the house until he came to the front sidewalk. He turned left and started walking slowly. Soon, he noticed a pair of headlights coming up behind him. The car pulled to the side of the road, and the door swung open. He heard a raspy voice – Jim’s voice – tell him to get in. Brian obliged and shut the door.

‘What’s up, man? Long time, no see,’ Jim crooned.

‘You alright, man? You sound terrible. Don’t get that shit on me,’ Brian replied. There were no street lights; he could see only the road in front of them

‘So you ready for tonight? Ready to have some fun?’

‘Yeah, where we goin anways?’

‘To Bill’s. Where else would we go?’

‘Bill’s? Who the hell is Bill?’

‘He’s the owner of the bar on Main. You know, the place we go every friggin night,’ he replied sarcastically.

‘How are we gonna get into a bar? I ain’t gotta fake ID on me.’

‘Since when did you need a fake ID?’ Jim laughed a wheezing laugh that turned into a hacking cough.

‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Brian asked, disgusted at his friend’s obvious sickness.

‘The doctor says it’s the smoking; screw him.’ He laugh-coughed again.

Brian wasn’t always the most observant person, but he started to survey his surroundings. The digital greenish blue hue of the clock was the first thing to catch his attention. ‘What kinda clock is that?’

‘What the hell are you talking about? It’s a friggin clock? What’s wrong with you? You’re acting a fool.’

Brian turned toward Jim for the first time and felt something akin to electricity run through him. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Alright, Bri, I don’t know what the deal is, but something ain’t right.’

‘You’re tellin me,’ he yelled back. ‘Let me outta this car, asshole.’

‘Whoa, now I know you didn’t just call me a asshole.’

Brian found the handle and pulled but nothing happened. He tried again, to no avail.

‘Power doors, asshole.‘ Jim swerved off the road onto the shoulder. He switched on the overhead light. ‘Alright, Brian, what’s the deal? You doin heroin again?’

Brian looked into the older man’s face and at the white hair that used to be a dark red. He stared at him, saying nothing. Instead, his eyes searched. And somewhere beneath the façade, he recognized someone who used to be his friend.

‘Aww, shit, dude. Tell me you ain’t doin heroin again. You know I can’t be around you if you’re gonna steal my shit.’

‘What are you talking about? I’ve never done heroin,’ Brian retorted. He changed the subject haphazardly, ‘Why are you so old?’

Jim responded indignantly, ‘I’m only six months older than you, asshole. And I don’t look that bad.’ He turned the light off and eased back onto the road.

They sat in silence as Jim turned the car around.

‘Where are we going now?’ Brian asked.

‘I’m taking you home, and then I’m going to the bar to get good and hammered. I think you need to go back into rehab.’

Jim soon passed through Brian’s neighborhood.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m bringing you back to your apartment. Maybe it’s better this way anyway. You’ll actually spend some time with your girlfriend and kids.’

‘What girlfriend and kids?’

‘You know, the girlfriend you’ve put in the hospital a couple times, accidentally,’ he exaggerated the final word in a cynical tone, ‘but who stays with you for God knows what reason. And your kid. He’s gotta be like in his mid teens.’

‘No, I want to go home.’

‘That is your home.’

‘No, to my parent’s house. You just passed it.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure. Or you can let me out right here and I’ll walk.’

‘Alright, Brian,’ he gradually spoke to Brian as if he were a child, ‘okay, I’ll take you home.’

The car pulled up to his parent’s house. Jim disengaged the doors and Brian exited. Without a word he walked up the driveway. Jim drove off into the night to avoid his own wife and kids.

Brian walked behind back and extracted the house key from his pocket. He tried the door, but the key didn’t work. He heard people inside, so he knocked. The door opened; a small child in pajamas sporting a large sponge with eyes and a mouth said hello and waved. Brian awkwardly said hi and climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, of the familiar stairs, he saw a completely unfamiliar sight. In the family room was a huge flat television with all kinds of black boxes sporting digital displays. The furniture and carpeting were all completely different. A few more startled kids looked up at him. Soon, a husky gentleman with salt and pepper hair peeked in from the kitchen.

‘Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch. You have a lot of nerve coming back here, Brian.’

Brian had no problem recognizing the voice of his oldest brother, John.

A plump woman in blue stepped in behind John. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed.

‘Kids, go downstairs.’

‘But dad,’ they replied in unison.

‘Now!’ he bellowed.

They descended the stairs quickly as they had never heard that tone from their father.

‘What are you doing here? You know that no one wants to see you after what you did.’

Brian stood motionless, unable to form words.

‘I see the drugs are still working. I want you to get out of my house now.’

‘Your house?’

‘Yeah, the house I got after you killed mom and dad.’

‘Killed?’

‘Well, they tried to support you through your heroin habit, but they just happened to go bankrupt. Not that you know or care. I wish I could just deck you right here and now.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Brian whispered half to his aged brother, half to himself.

‘You’ve fried every brain cell in that brain, haven’t you? You’re a complete deadbeat. I don’t want you here around my wife and kids. I don’t want you around me. I want you gone now. Get out!’

‘But, John…’

‘Get out. Before I throw you out.’

Brian heard the finality in John’s voice and walked back down the stairs. John followed closely. When Brian was out the door, he heard John virtually slam and lock the door behind him.

Brian walked through the back yard and hopped the fence into what was once the Brinkley’s yard. He took a left and started walking down the sidewalk unsure where he was going. He said to himself aloud, ‘I’m not this guy. I don’t want to be this guy.’

He saw two headlights approaching. The car slowed and the door swung open. ‘Get in. We’re already late.’

Brian stared into the car at the bright red hair of his friend, Jim. He paused a moment and then replied, ‘I don’t think I’m gonna go tonight. I’m gonna go back home.’

Jim tried to coax him for a little while but gave up and drove away.

Brian walked around the block and up to his front door. He entered and walked up to his room. In his journal written in dark green ink was the line, ‘I’m not going to be that guy.’

Brian fell into a deep sleep; he didn’t hear his parents come home. He also didn’t hear his mother peek inside to check on him. She closed the door gently and smiled knowingly as she readied herself for bed.

Poetricity: New Years Haiku

2011-01-01T19:40:00.000-08:00

Light blue eyes drooping,
Another New Year passes.
She barely made it.

My resolution:
Focus on priorities.
Let’s have some ice cream.

It was just Orange
Before sponsors took over.
Now, it’s Discover.

The Last Bell

2010-12-28T20:57:00.000-08:00

Frank sat dejectedly in his room, grounded by all the times he mischievously claimed innocence. But those past discretions had gone unnoticed neither by his hysterically laughing parents nor by indifferently passing time. He changed the channel on the 35” LCD Samsung television he received as a gift on his last birthday to a game show he used to watch. The host wooed contestants with his melodic voice; he grinned with mocking omnipotence at their nearly unbelievable ignorance. Frank’s finger found the menu button, and he scanned the other billion channels that were playing nothing of note. He considered a war movie but decided he wasn’t in the mood. The television thus landed on the NFL Network; he watched as the overconfident Joe Namath relived his greatest moment and changed the game of football forever.

The television neglected to hold Frank’s interest for long. Instead, he daydreamed, as was his custom, about his childhood. He had played basketball in the schoolyard every chance he had and until his mother rang the bell she had installed for the purpose of calling him back home. He rarely listened to that bell. But when he heard ‘Francis Morgan Flanagan’ he knew it was time to go. In the winters, he ventured to the pond on the other side of town with his skates and stick ready to lay people out on the ice. He played and joked and traded barbs for hours, occasionally even going toe to toe with a newcomer. He didn’t win those fights often, but his tenacity earned him respect.

A knock came at his door, startling him. ‘Come in,’ he said feebly.

‘We’re taking off for a little while. Stay in here until we get back.’

‘Where else am I going to go?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘We’ll be right back,’ she said, ignoring his commentary. She shut the door behind her.

He heard the car start and then zoom away. He felt the fire of his teenage angst, stoked as it was by the interchange he had just had. The television crooned about the Steel Curtain, but he wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he planned his escape. He knew where the keys were hidden, and he remembered the neighborhood well enough. They weren’t going to keep him locked up.

Frank went into the master bedroom and fished out the spare key from the top drawer of the bureau. He slipped on a sweatshirt and some sweats. He slowly navigated the stairs into the basement and opened the garage door. He peaked outside to survey the area. Sometimes, they enlisted the neighbors to spy. But there were no cars around that he could see. He slinked into the driver’s side, inserted the key in the ignition, and started the car. His lead foot revved the engine.

He pulled out faster than he intended and stopped hard; he shifted and slammed his foot on the gas again, barely missing the mailbox as he turned. He stopped again and fastened his seatbelt. His foot found the gas pedal a third time but was more gentle. He took a right on Ramble Drive and made his way to Farm Run Road. It once had farms on it, not the he remembered, but the land had since been converted into suburban sprawl.

With fits and starts, Frank made his way to the town where he grew up. Once there, he sought out the house where he had lived and the court on which he had played. When he found them, he reflected on how different they looked. He didn’t linger long. Instead, he traveled to the other side of town to the pond on which he had played hockey. He was surprised to find the pond smaller than he remembered, not to mention polluted. He got out of the car and rounded the lake. He sat on a decrepit green bench. The cool breeze floating through the trees soon put him to sleep.

‘Sir. Excuse me, sir,’ came a young man’s voice. ‘Sir, can you hear me?’

‘Huh, what, yeah?’ Frank stammered.

‘Sir, can you hear me?’

‘What? Who are you? Where am I?’

‘Sir, I’m going to call an ambulance.’ The young gentleman placed the navy blue jacket over him. ‘Sir, do you understand?’

Frank nodded and shivered uncontrollably. The sweatshirt and sweats were little comfort in 20 degree weather.

Soon, the flashing red and white lights approached. In an out of consciousness, Frank struggled to understand what had happened. In what seemed to be his next conscious moment, he opened his eyes to a familiar face, although much older than he remembered it.

‘Dad, I told you to stay at home. You can’t drive anymore. You just can’t.’ She seemed on the verge of tears.

‘Don’t worry, pumpkin, daddy’s here,’ he tried his best to comfort her. ‘I just wanted to go play hockey with the boys.’ He smiled his gregarious smile and then slipped again into unconsciousness.

He heard, then, a bell. ‘Just a few minutes more,’ he told his friends, ‘until I hear my name.’

Princess for a Day

2010-12-26T16:41:00.000-08:00

She listened to Vanessa describe the black guy she met the night before at a bar in Orlando. They danced, drank, and disappeared leaving Cynthia alone in the bar to fend for herself. Cynthia just wanted to make sure the cab ride she had to take was worth it.

'What was his name? Did you go back to his place?' she inquired.

'His name's LaTerryan and he said he has roommates?'

'LaTerryan? Honestly?' She paused to chuckle. 'I'll bet he has a girlfriend.'

'No.'

'You sure?'

'Yeah,' she replied hesitantly.

'No?'

'How should I know? I just met him.'

'Didn't you ask?'

'Well, no.'

Tony Sala, their boss, walked into the room. The girls ceased their conversation.

'Yous girls ready?' he asked with his thick Italian accent. The Mickey Mouse on his shirt jiggled in conjunction with Tony's massive stomach.

'Yeah,' they answered in disinterested unison.

'They're out there. Go make 'em feel happy to be here. Who's readin the names?' Tony handed Vanessa the sheet of paper with fifteen names.

They traded uncertain glances.

Vanessa spoke first, 'I did it last Friday.'

'There were like two kids. Let me see, are there any retarded names?'

Vanessa gave a quick glance, 'Kevin, Brittany, Phil, Jacob, Sarah. They all look legit to me.'

Tony chimed in, 'I don't care who does it. You can take turns for all I care. But right now, you're wastin Mickey's time.' He pointed to Mickey's left ear with his sausage fingers. 'It's Disney time, girls.' His attempt at excitement always came off as sarcasm at best.

'Fine, I'll do it,' Cynthia yanked the page from Vanessa's hand less gently than she wanted and tore the paper slightly. They walked by Tony, who smelled of garlic and Old Spice.

They entered a small auditorium where a dozen families - each with at least one child between the ages of 4-10 - sat in small segregated clusters. The male children sported plastic golden crowns; the females children wore bejeweled silver tiaras.

Vanessa began, 'Welcome one and all to your kingdom, where you will be princes and princesses for a day. My assistant Vanessa will introduce you to your subjects,' she motioned to Cynthia.

'I request that each prince and princess step forward when I call your name to be rightly honored,' Cynthia announced disinterestedly.

'Welcome, Prince Philip.' She waited for the young boy to walk up to the stage to receive his plaque from Vanessa. 'Welcome, Princess Sarah. Welcome, Princess Brittany. Welcome, Prince Kevin.' She looked close at the next name, 'Welcome Princess LaTonya.' She looked up to watch the girl make her way up to the stage.

Vanessa lost her spot on the page, which just so happened to be the small portion of the paper that was ripped. She studied the page, feeling the awkward pause growing in the auditorium.

'Welcome, Princess...' She looked at the word and had no idea. She didn't care enough to try too hard. 'Welcome, Princess Shady Nasty!' she exclaimed with more energy than usual. No one immediately moved.

After the pause, an obviously indignant black woman stood and called out to Cynthia - and to the other 'royalty' and their family - 'Her name's ShaDynasty!'

A Kosher Christmas

2010-12-19T16:23:00.000-08:00

‘I’m not feeling much in a Christmas mood,’ Alex explained to his Jewish co-worker. ‘I’ve never not had a tree until this year. I don’t even have decorations. I tried to watch White Christmas and some of those clay-mation classics, but nothing seems to work. I’m not sure what to do.’ Alex was new to the neighborhood after moving from a city half way across the continent.

The young Jewish man, David, chuckled a bit. ‘Having never celebrated Christmas, I suppose I can’t really know how that feels. Well, I’m taking off for a nice long weekend. Have a happy holiday.’ David moved down the hallway and passed through the double doors that lead back to his desk.

Alex walked back to his office and sat at his chair. He stared blankly at his monitor, which showed him all the emails to which he needed to respond. People had ceased walking by his door; the office had become a ghost town. He contemplated working more so as not to have so much work on his plate when he returned, but he decided against it. Instead, his fingers guided the mouse to shut down the machine. He packed his things and walked back to the apartment.

The train he intended to catch had long since departed; the next few were after 7 p.m. His cell phone buzzed again, revealing an unhappy sister who had waited at the station for a half hour before calling it quits and heading back home. He picked up the phone and finally typed a reply. ‘Not coming home. Something came up. Merry Christmas!’ That was it; there was no further explanation.

A short time later, he received a text in return. It simply read, ‘Whatever…’ He turned off the phone.

Alex sat wallowing in his apartment watching Cops and Mythbusters. He sipped on a Coors Light and popped bagged popcorn into his mouth. Sleep gradually crept into his eyes.

Alex vaguely heard the knock; the doorbell, however, was unmistakable. The clock read 11 p.m. He grumbled angrily to himself, ‘Christmas Eve, really?’ and looked into the peephole. On the other side of the door stood David, his Jewish co-worker. Alex opened the door, and David immediately stepped into the apartment.

‘What are you doing here?’ Alex inquired.

‘I needed a place to go.’

‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘I’d rather not discuss. Can I stay for a bit, maybe overnight?’

‘Well, come in and we’ll figure something out.’

David moved to the couch and sat.

‘Can I offer you something to drink?’ Alex asked. ‘I’ve got beer, juice, water…’

‘Water sounds good. Thanks.’

Alex poured the water and got himself another beer. He sat in the opposite end of the couch.

‘So, what are you watching?’ David asked.

Alex replied, ‘I don’t really know; I’ve been asleep for a little.’

‘Sorry that I woke you. I didn’t expect you to be here, but I had to try.’

‘Where did you think I’d be? And how do you know where I live anyway?’

‘Well, it’s easy to find out where people live. And I thought you’d be at your sister’s.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I overheard a conversation you were having at work.’

Alex considered when he had discussed his Christmas plans at work. Since he was new, he had spoken to very few people about anything including the holidays. But he could have said something in passing to someone. He decided to let it go.

They sat in silence for a time.

‘Why didn’t you go to your sister’s?’

‘I didn’t want to deal with my family,’ he answered.

‘Family can certainly be challenging. But they do love you.’

‘Blah, bah, blah. They’re all about guilt and competition. Why would I want to volunteer for that? My sister’s constantly on my case about not being in contact. My brother always makes comments about the gifts I buy. Mom has just about given up on me; she’d decided that what I’m trying to do is a stupid pipe dream. So, why? Answer me that.’

‘They’re family.’

‘Cop out response. Why aren’t you with yours instead of with me?’

‘My family’s dead.’

‘Oh. Sorry. You don’t have a wife?’

‘Had a wife. And a kid. A while ago.’

‘It couldn’t have been that long ago; you’re pretty young.’

David didn’t respond.

‘Anyway, I just get frustrated. It’s like I’m not at all good enough for them, not who they want me to be.’

‘You’re not who they want you to be. And that’s okay. That’s a lesson for them to learn.’

‘Well, I’d rather they learn that lesson before I learn my own.’

‘Why not be the bigger man?’

‘Why do I have to start? Why is it that I’m the one who has the responsibility of keeping in contact? Why is it that it’s on me and not on them?’

‘I never said it wasn’t on them. But it’s on you too.’

‘Yeah, cop out. So why are you here again? A Jew giving advice to a former Christian on Christmas Eve? Seems kinda strange. What happened to your nice long weekend?’

‘This is as good a way as any to spend a nice long weekend.’

‘So, what were you originally planning?’

‘This.’

‘This, what?’

‘I get to chat with you. And to travel.’

‘Travel?’

‘There’s still another train that you can catch.’

‘What?’

‘Another train. At the station. You can still catch it.’

‘Okay, great. But there’s no way for me to get back to my sister’s from there. And I already said I’m not going back.’ He stood and walked to the closet. ‘Here’s a blanket and a pillow you can use. I’m going to bed.’ Alex turned and walked into his room, closed his door, and readied for bed. He heard the bathroom door close and the toilet flush. There was a bit more rustling, and then silence. He considered what David has said and decided he just wasn’t ready to deal with his family. With that, he made one final wish, a tradition he and his siblings had shared for as long as he could remember, and he fell asleep.

The next morning, Alex walked out into his living area to find a small decorated tree and a strand of lines streaming about the apartment. The floors were spotless, his detritus neatly organized in the corner. In the small kitchen, David was handling a few large plates.

‘What are you doing?’ Alex asked.

‘I figured we could have a nice Christmas meal.’

‘But you don’t celebrate Christmas. And where did you get all this stuff between last night and today? Everything’s closed.’

‘You live in a huge city during a time when capitalism is king. Not to mention there are more Jews here than anywhere except Israel. There are plenty of places open. As long as you don’t mind kosher food.’ He smiled. ‘Merry Christmas, Alex.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Because I understand the importance of a special day. And you shouldn’t be spending it alone.’

‘Fine,’ he said with resignation. Alex entered the kitchen and looked around. ‘There’s enough food to feed an army.’

‘I thought we could eat and then bring the rest to a shelter. Not to mention leftovers that both of us can have.’

Alex asked what he could do to help, and David put him to work on cooking some vegetables and making a salad. David put on National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, Alex’s favorite Christmas movie, and they shared some holiday laughter.

At about noon, David slapped a hand to his forehead and said, ‘I can’t believe I forgot the wine.’

‘A little late now,’ commented Alex.

‘Nah, but I’ll have to travel a bit. I’ll be back in a bit. I know a place where I can get it. A nice Cabernet will go beautifully with the ham.’

He exited, leaving Alex to watch the finale of A Christmas Story.

About an hour later, Alex heard the buzzer sound, and he rang David up. There soon came a knock at the door.

‘Enter,’ Alex replied.

The door opened, and Alex’s family spilled into the apartment. In his mother’s right hand, a bottle of cabernet.

‘A bottle of wine for the new homeowner. I guess it’s about time we made the effort. So, what is that wonderful smell?’

Alex smiled. ‘Merry Christmas everyone. Make yourselves at home.’

Haiku Hai: A Satur Day

2010-12-11T21:47:00.000-08:00

I started the day
Wielding a black controller,
Beating the bad guys.

I slept a few hours.
Fleeting dreams of the future
Rarely remembered.

I woke with big plans,
But wielded the controller,
Beating the bad guys.

Then I made a call.
A foreign cell phone woke him.
The card didn’t last.

We struggled with Skype,
The sound and picture, suspect.
Hours passed like minutes.

I strode down Thompson.
An ancient barber cut me.
I paid him for it.

So many Santas,
They stumbled down the sidewalks.
Such jolly drunkards.

Ate at the Grey Dog.
In the door, a pending grade.
Not sick as a dog.

Came back home to work.
Watching Madmen episodes.
Can’t help but wonder.

I’m considering
Wielding the black controller,
Beating the bad guys.

Historicality: Peace Lost Its Chance

2010-12-07T21:56:00.000-08:00

The year was 1980. The Empire Strikes Back hit movie theaters. Solidarity was established in Poland. And Ronald Reagan defeated Jimmy Carter to become the 40th president. Civil Rights and Woodstock were but fleeting memories in the minds of the aging hippies and nascent yuppies. It was a turning point, a time when the free flowing, sometimes drug induced ideas of the 60s and 70s gave way to a more pragmatic and realistic conservatism. An era of romanticism had come to an end.

The year 1980 also marked my first memory, one of those snippets from youth that I recall vividly. I was a little more than three years old. I was at my grandparents' house, though for what reason I couldn't say. Someone was on the phone. I don't remember who, though I'd guess it was my grandfather. It was a rotary phone in those days. And the only one in the house. One of those phones that was attached to the wall, a little too high for a three year old to reach. My grandmother called me from the hallway; she was moving a kitchen chair beneath the phone, obviously intending that I was to speak with whomever was on the other end. I stepped onto the chair and prepared the line that my grandparents had relayed. I heard an unusually melancholy voice say hello on the other end. And then, I said my piece, 'I'm sorry about John Lemmon.'

It has been 30 years since the world changed. Since another era of romanticism waned into nothingness. And today marks 30 years since the actualization of that romantic era's symbolic death. Though it might not have been the day the music died, it was the day that peace lost its chance.

It's Personal: Returned East, An Epilogue

2010-11-21T18:36:00.000-08:00

Written a couple hours ago while on a plane from Seattle to NYC

I sit on a plane.

I will sit on this plane for a little while longer. I will watch some of the second half of the Giants v. Eagles game before this plane lands at JFK. I will pull a backpack from beneath the seat in front of me and a garment bag from the overhead bin soon after landing. I will take a cab back to the apartment in SoHo and sleep in my bed tonight. I will wake up early tomorrow and dress in business casual clothing - a much different animal in New York than in Seattle - and I will become an employee of another company for the first time in eight years. God willing, that is. All of this is God willing.

I will return to Seattle as a visitor, hopefully in the near future. And perhaps I'll even live there again someday. But not tomorrow. And I'd imagine not for a good number of subsequent tomorrows.

It's time for something new.

To all of you who wish to stay in touch, please don't hesitate to comment here, send a Facebook message, email, text, and / or call.

With that I'll leave you with the sentiment I offered to my co-workers in my final email as a full time employee. For those who have read these words already, I beg your pardon for the repetition.

I could say goodbye, but I don’t believe in them. I could say parting is such sweet sorrow, but it seems overused. I could advise you – and myself – not to be sad because it’s over but rather to be happy because it happened, but that seems somewhat self-serving. Or I could offer that I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve, but it could be interpreted incorrectly.

Instead, I will simply say thank you; I am a better person for having lived in Seattle and for knowing each of you...

Foodalicious: Bar 89

2010-11-13T21:42:00.000-08:00

Finding a place to eat in New York is never a challenge. Deciding between the places, however, is another thing entirely. It’s always good to have a few filters. On Thursday evening, I received a text suggesting someplace relatively cheap – it is New York after all – and having bar-type food. Another text suggested either the Ear Inn or Bar 89.
A quick search indicated that the Ear Inn is older and somewhat loud. Best described as a dive bar, it has cheap food and drinks. Bar 89, it said, is newer with an upper scale atmosphere. Though not as cheap as the Ear Inn, the food and drink by SoHo’s standards are still on the less expensive side.

Wanting a quieter, more upper class vibe, we chose Bar 89.

The four of us entered the heavy glass doors at approximately 9 p.m. A large sign informed us to wait to be seated. As we waited, I took in our surroundings. It seemed a big white box, tall and long. To the left was a non-descript bar. To the right, there were horseshoe-shaped booths. And in front of us were small round tables. To the back of the restaurant, a tall staircase leads to a few more round tables and a one-sided booth with four separate tables. All in all, it was a large space, but it almost felt as though they hadn’t made adequate use of it.

As for the atmosphere, it was loud, but not loud like something small and enclosed. Instead, voices ricocheted off the boxy walls competing with each other from different corners of the restaurant. It felt more like we were in a concert hall than a restaurant.

After taking in the surroundings, we were still waiting.

I recently watched a reality television show that featured a competition between two competing teams who each had to set up a functional restaurant in 24 hours. Restaurant goers choose one of the restaurants based on the décor and menu. Sometime during the period when each restaurant is serving, the panel of four judges enters to judge all aspects of each restaurant from the greeting to the dessert. In that specific episode, the judges walked into one of the restaurants and were not immediately greeted by a host, which was a big no-no.

Well, that’s how I felt when I entered Bar 89. After approximately two minutes – an exorbitant amount of time in restaurant-speak – a server approached us and asked if we wanted to sit up top. We didn’t much care, so we meandered upstairs.

The round tables were too small for four, so we chose one of the back-boothed end tables. Upon sitting at the table, we immediately noticed that the table resembled a trapezoid – almost a triangle – more than a rectangle. And it wasn’t a big trapezoid. In fact, the table probably shouldn’t sit more than three though it is set for four. We wanted to move to one of the three adjacent tables but noticed two guys standing beside them. When we asked, they indicated that they had a large party that was to occupy the remaining three tables. We decided to live with the trapezoid.

Our waitress distributed menus and asked us what we wanted to drink. One of our company asked what was on tap. She answered that they served beer only in bottles, a bad sign for a place with ‘bar’ in the name. Two of the company ordered mixed drinks. I and another of our company both ordered Samuel Smith Nut Brown Ale, a beer I had never tried.

We then surveyed the menu of typical American fare. I spied three different types of wings on the front among other common appetizers. Inside, we found hamburgers and other typical sandwiches as well as a few main entrees. It was not an extensive menu, but there are times when a spartan menu is preferable since it indicates that the restaurant concentrates on a few core items.

We ordered. I had a taste for the Buffalo wings with some blue cheese and some spiciness. The others ordered, though what exactly, I do not now recall. I think, perhaps, they ordered sandwiches.

Soon after, our drinks came. And, there was only one Nut Brown Ale on the tray. It seems they had only one left, another questionable sign for a ‘bar’. The other person who ordered the ale insisted that I take it and then ordered himself a Magic Hat. We toasted and awaited our meals. I did, by the way, enjoy the hoppy nuttiness of the ale.

Meanwhile, we discussed the birthplace of our server. A prim and proper woman with an accent, she reminded me of a figurine that emerges from a cuckoo clock on the hour. We tried to place the accent but were unsuccessful; we therefore settled on it being Welsh since Welsh accents can be mistaken for just about any other European-based accent in the universe. I suppose we could have inquired, but she seemed rather focused and unapproachable.

The food came. I’ll rate it as satisfactory. If I needed to give it a grade, I’d say a ‘C+’. I’ve had much better wings – I’d suggest Archie Moore’s in downtown Wallingford, CT. I’ve also had much better waffle fries – see Chick Fil-A. Still, I ate everything on my plate, consuming each wing methodically.

As I ate, I noticed that I was missing most of the conversation between my friends. The noise level seemed to increase as we remained longer, probably due to the adjacent party’s consistent imbibing. In fact, their voices felt like bludgeoning blows to my already sensitive eardrums.

We completed our meal sans dessert and paid our check. As we readied to leave, two of our company decided to visit the restroom. They returned moments later and beckoned us remaining two to witness the strange thing they had seen. We all walked back to a well-lit area and noticed approximately 10 individual unisex stalls, each with heavy doors. And those heavy doors were made of clear glass; in other words, we could see everything in the stalls, including the toilet and sink. One of our company entered a stall and closed the door. The glass became opaque, and a white-lit ‘Occupied’ sign appeared. It was, we agreed, a fascinating concept, a novelty. The only problem was that the glass door did not become opaque enough to hide the occupant entirely. It was in practice, for lack of a better word, creepy.

As we completed our accidental voyeurism, our waitress approached holding three receipts in her hand. She asked politely where she could find the fourth receipt. We checked the receipts she had in her hand and noticed that it was mine – of course – that was missing. I checked my wallet and found the customer copy, but I didn’t have the merchant copy. Remembering where I placed it on the table, I returned to the trapezoid and noticed a wet towel atop the place where I had laid the receipt. I pulled the loose paper from beneath the wet rag and handed it to the waitress. She accepted it with her apologies.

We descended the stairs and exited the ‘bar’, each of us in turn stating that we collectively and respectively did not need to relive the Bar 89 experience.

3WW (Gesture, Immediate, Treasure): Outta Time 3

2010-11-10T22:18:00.000-08:00

Please see Outta Time for the first part of the story.

Please see Outta Time 2 for the seconf part of the story.

Ella opened the door wider allowing Darren to step into the hallway. He scuffed his shoes on the mat and started to walk inside but heard Ella clear her throat.

‘Really, Darren? Really?’ She gestured towards his feet.

‘Oh, sorry.’ He put down the fungo and quickly removed his sneakers.

‘So, what’s with the bat?’ she asked.

‘I got freaked out and grabbed it just in case they were still in the apartment. I haven’t let go of it since I got home.’ He was making it up as he went along.

‘Alright, well you don’t need it here.’

‘You sure?’ He pointed his thumb toward the bedroom where he imagined Bruce was either teeming with anger or passed out.

‘He takes care of me,’ she shot back. ‘As long as I’m here, you won’t have any problems.’

‘I hope you don’t plan to leave.’

‘Funny that you’d say that,’ she answered sarcastically.

The relationship hadn’t ended well. On the day he returned from London six months prior, she had been expecting a gift, if not the ring itself. What she received was the shock of her life. After five years of what she thought to be a perfect relationship, Darren explained that he needed something else, something more. He couldn’t explain what that something was. Instead, he awkwardly said goodbye and moved into a cheap hostel where he lived for a month while searching for a new apartment. During that time, he ignored all of her calls whether to his cell or to work. In fact, he ignored all incoming calls in his attempts to find himself. What he discovered instead was his dislike for the hippies that stayed in hostels, his need for Advil after drinking mostly cheap vodka every night, and the gonorrhea infection that made him piss with pain every 15 minutes.
Darren sat in what used to be his old spot on the sectional. He reached for the handle to activate the recliner but thought better of it. Ella sat on a stool; she didn’t offer him anything to eat or drink.

They sat in awkward silence for a moment, listening to Bruce snoring in the other room. Darren thought about making a sarcastic comment but remembered his situation.

Ella broke the silence. ‘So, what are you really doing here?’

‘I’m just a little freaked out. They got away with a bunch of stuff.’

‘Like?’

Nothing immediately came to mind. He hesitated.

‘Don’t bullshit me, Darren. I’ve been to your place. They only thing I’d want to take is the bat you brought here. Who the hell would try to rob you?’

‘Damn, Ella, why don’t you believe me? I’m totally freaked out right now.’

‘So, what did they steal? Clothes? Books? Your cupboard full of nothing?’

He stared at her, attempting to glower but it didn’t come off.

‘Why the hell do I care? You weren’t honest with me during our relationship, so why should I expect anything different now?’ She stood up from the stool and walked to the linen closet. She pulled a fleece blanket and threw it at Darren. ‘Here. You know how to work the TV. I’m going in the bedroom. I’d rather not deal with you right now.’ She walked into the bedroom and closed the door.

Darren remained on the couch, absent-mindedly petting the fleece with his right hand. He thought about putting the DVD into the player but decided it was too early; he didn’t want to run the risk of Ella hearing it. The happenings of the past few hours ran through his head. A flayed rat under his bed. The super in the hospital. The Netflix DVD in his mailbox. The pounding at his door. The black kid with the gun. They had to be connected but he couldn’t discern what that connection might be. The DVD was his only hope.

He decided he couldn’t wait and pulled the envelope from his jacket. He extracted the DVD and put it into the player. Then he adjusted the volume so that he could barely hear the television. His index finger found the play button on the player.
The television came to life, and the clock chimes rang for an instant before everything went dark. After about 30 seconds, the screen changed to that which used to be displayed for the emergency broadcast system. Across the bottom, text scrolled.

‘This is not a test. Please mute the television. The apartment is bugged. You must not make any noise. They want to know what your next move will be.’ The scrolling ceased and the emergency broadcast screen faded into black once again.

Darren sat very still and stared at the television intently waiting for the scrolling to begin anew. The minute he waited seemed an eternity.

‘Press stop on the remote control now,’ scrolled across. He obeyed. In the next moment, Ella emerged from the bedroom and went into the bathroom. After a short time, she came out and reentered the living room wearing her flannel pajamas.

She sat on the stool. ‘Darren, I never thought I’d get a chance to confront you. Now that I have the chance, I don’t really want it. I think what you did was selfish and hurtful and just mean. I don’t give a damn about what you needed. You didn’t talk to me. But that’s water under the bridge. What I really want to say is, I forgive you. I think you’re afraid of commitment and generally full of shit, but for whatever reason I love you. Still, I don’t ever want to see you again. It’s too difficult. So, I’d appreciate it if you’re out of here before 7 a.m. I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t call, write, text, or whatever. Maybe someday we can talk again, but for now, I just can’t. Good night, Darren. I wish you the best.’

With that she got up from the stool, walked to Darren, kissed him once on the left cheek, and proceeded – without looking back – into the bedroom. The door closed ever so gently.

Darren chuckled to himself; it was more a nervous habit than actual humor. He pressed play.

The black screen transformed into some tropical location. The scrolling began again. ‘She needed to get that off her chest. You don’t understand why yet because you’re a selfish asshole, but you’ll learn. Unfortunately, you’ll never see her again.’ The scrolling ceased. A couple walked in front of the screen arm in arm. He was watching stock footage used for tropical getaway commercials. ‘Luckily, they were a bit careless this time around. They installed only one camera in the living room that is filming you at this very moment. But they didn’t put a camera on the television. They won’t make that mistake again. But one mistake is enough to get them off your trail for a short while at least.’ The screen flashed ‘Come to Cancun, the Treasure of Mexico’ with a group of dark people smiling and dressed in white flowing shirts and shorts.

The screen went black again. ‘Here are your instructions. When you hear the phone ring in the apartment, you will again extract this DVD and put it in the envelope in your pocket. You will take the fungo and proceed down the stairs to the 11th floor. You will proceed to apartment ‘H’. Under the welcome mat you will find a key. Unlock the door, enter, and lock the door. Sit on the couch. You will receive further instructions. I must warn you that you will hear two loud bangs immediately following the ringing phone. Those will be gunshots. Bruce will shoot Ella and then himself. He isn’t as drunk as he seems. If you harm Bruce prior to the incident, you and Ella will be captured and tortured. They will kill her, and they will use you as bait. Any deviation from the plan will most likely result in you being captured. Remember that you made your choice. Turn off the DVD now. Good night, Darren.’

The last word scrolled to the left leaving the black screen yet again. Darren pressed stop. An old episode of Friends appeared. He leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling wondering what he was going to do next.

Poetricity: Beginnings

2010-11-07T07:09:00.000-08:00

Beginnings. Must come from somewhere. Do come from somewhere. A coffin cradle housing the sacred dead and undead respectively. All else is straw. Reindeer games or wooden stages or giant clanging marble worlds. Visceral violet sobs with loss. Hopeful copper sobs with gain. A choice to amputate a dying arm wedged in a mountain or to engage in armchair quarterbacking on sunny Sundays. The latter, stupidly safer. And brilliantly less perilous.

I see a beginning. A bright, hot white glow on the not too distant horizon beckoning me to join in this stacked hand of five-card stud. In whose favor I can’t say. In my past remain emerald, mint memories drizzling on a few patches of dying grass. A road I discovered belonged to me only for a time. A road now lost somewhere behind white-capped mountains. Another era transformed. I see the tombstone. It is time. For endings.

Foodalicious: Famous Joe's

2010-11-05T06:04:00.000-07:00

There's a debate that rages wildly in all corners of the United States. Where might you find the best pizza?

Magazines rate. People yelp. Bloggers list. Critics critique. But this post isn't about rating or yelping or listing or even critiquing in any kind of serious way. It's about finding that perfect slice in NYC, the land of slices.

It came up one day in Seattle. I was in Steve's office not too long ago discussing some work-related item when he asked if I had found any good pizza in the city. I admitted to him that I hadn't even had pizza since being back to east, a travesty unto itself. When I asked his advice, he excitedly said that Joe's was the best he had had in the city, as if Joe was some guy who had a place in Brooklyn in the 60s when Steve was growing up. Undeterred by my wise-assedness, Steve started clicking wildly and told me to 'c'mere'. I rounded the desk and saw that he was attempting to pinpoint the Manhattan location. After some strategic clicking and zooming, Steve had found the place at 7 Carmine in the West Village. 'Best pizza in the city,' he commented.

So I had to see for myself.

I've been three times. And, I'd have to agree that it's the best - albeit some of the only - pizza I've had in the city. That may seem a backhanded compliment. But I must compare to the pizza I've had elsewhere. I'll have to admit its superiority to Seattle and Boston pizza. I must, however, reserve judgment when comparing to the New Haven pizzas because I've still not visited Sally's for a pie, and I visited Pepe's only once and don't really remember it.

What makes Joe's so good?

First, it's the atmosphere. This ain't a restaurant where you're going to have a sit down meal. When you walk in, there's a small counter to the left, a small counter facing toward the street in front, and a few small, round stand-alone tables strewn throughout the joint. On the counters and tables, you'll find parmesan cheese and crushed red pepper. It's a short walk to the counter where you'll be greeted by a grunting Italian who acts as if he has no time to deal with you. You have to notice the quick head movement and brief eye contact to get service. After speaking your choices, the guy warms the pizza in the oven and takes your cash (cash only) to the tune of $3.50 per slice (seems expensive but the slices are generous). Meanwhile, you notice that the place is a good cross section of white and blue collar, and they have usually been - well at least since I've only been there between the hours of 11 pm and 3 am - rather intoxicated, making for some interesting interactions with Joe's staff. A great place to be a fly on a wall, as long as you as the fly are nowhere near my pizza.

Second, it's the celebrity. Although the place is pretty much a hole, it's well liked by many a celebrity. No, I haven't seen a celebrity there yet, but based on the pictures in the restaurant, they have everyone from Harrison Ford to Adam Sandler in pictures along the wall. Even more than the celebrities that have visited, the place itself can be considered a minor tourist location for comic lovers and movie nuts alike as it was the pizzeria where Peter Parker, i.e. Tobey Maguire, worked in Spiderman.

Third, it's their hours. I didn't get the exact hours, but I'm pretty sure they're open from late morning to early morning, i.e. from about 11 a.m. until about 5 a.m. Ah, the city that never sleeps... kinda. But that's another post.

Fourth, and most importantly, it's the pizza. I've had only the cheese and the pepperoni. But I must say that I think the pepperoni is the best I've had anywhere up to this point in my life. It's not that greasy, which I find to be amazing. It's thin and foldable. The crust is just a little dark; there's an almost but not quite burnt-around-the-edges taste that translates more as crispiness than it does burntness. The sauce is faintly sweet but can be cut well with the addition of crushed red pepper. And the cheese is just the right texture. All in all, delectable.

I have no doubt that I'll be returning. And if you're ever in the neighborhood, please go. And take me with you...

Pop Culturitis (Monday Makeup): Classic vs Motion-Controlled

2010-11-04T06:47:00.000-07:00

A friend and I recently had a discussion about video games. He claimed that the new motion-controlled gaming systems are simply not his style, that they make the game playing experience awkward. Since I haven’t attempted to play on a motion-controlled system, I didn’t think it my place to comment at the time. But his commentary started me thinking on the differences between classic gaming and the new motion-controlled gaming. It made me realize that the development of motion-controlled gaming was nothing short of brilliant innovation.

I grew up with video games. Of course, I went to arcades as a kid and played the likes of Pac-Man and Space Invaders. But I also had some of the first gaming systems.
It was at my grandparents’ house that I first played Pong with those long thin controllers and turny knobs.

My first computer game was on some machine the name of which I don’t even remember. I do, however, recall attempting to destroy purple space ships. And I obsessed about those things at the time.

Atari stole a good deal of my youth during elementary school. I swung back and forth on ropes, trying to avoid snakes in Pitfall. I piloted a plane in River Raid. And I fought with tanks in some kind of war game.

Nintendo kept me busy during middle school. Of course, there was Super Mario Brothers. And no, I never beat it. I loved Tecmo Bowl, especially with the Giants being so good. There was Contra. Ninja Gaiden. Dragon Warrior. Punch Out. The Legend of Zelda. So many memories.

My high school years saw video games wane, at least in my consciousness. I played, at times, on others’ Super Nintendo and Sega gaming consoles but never owned one myself. I always enjoyed playing – though I must admit that I hated losing to others in those fighting games. Still do.

In college, I played more computer based games. My fingers flew over the keyboard like a pianist’s over a piano making a car take turns at 80 mph or an X-wing fighter dive to take out a shield generator.

And most recently, I engaged in the Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game experience by creating at least a dozen characters for World of Warcraft.

What do all of these have in common? It’s all about hand-eye coordination. Either with controllers or with computer keyboards, I have navigated through all of the elements, defeating everyone from the Dallas Cowboys to Diablo himself. And I enjoy gaming like that. It’s what I know and understand. So, I have to admit that these new motion-controlled gaming systems really aren’t of interest to me as a classic quasi-gamer.

My friend, having played the games, agrees. Video games, he suggests, are not for jumping up and down or for flailing one’s arms wildly. Not to mention, the motion-controlled gaming consoles just can’t imitate life well enough. Throwing a football is more like throwing a shot put. While swinging at make believe balls puts anyone and anything in the immediate vicinity of the swinger in potentially mortal danger. All in all, he claims, motion-controlled gaming just isn’t up his – or any other gamer’s – alley.

Which is why motion-controlled gaming is so brilliant. I’ll draw a parallel to a commercial I saw recently. In it, women throw NFL jerseys at their husbands / boyfriends. On their face, looks of disgust. I chuckled to myself, thinking that the commercial had something to do with men neglecting their women because of football. But no. The commercial was an NFL ad aimed at women, trying to get their business. How? By tailoring clothing for women specifically. They were giving back the jerseys because these women now had appropriate clothing to enjoy the NFL.

The parallel? The motion-controlled gaming systems aren’t for classic gamers. Oh sure, there will be those who cross over from the old world into the new. But for the most part, motion-controlled gaming is for those who have never before been interested in gaming. Just watch the commercials, and you’ll see women beating their more masculine counterparts at sports like golf and football. Or you’ll see grandpa beating up on his grandson in a boxing match. A brilliant move. And one that has opened gaming to an entirely different audience.

What’s next? Oh, they’ll make gaming systems better for each audience. For classic gaming, it means better graphics and sound. For motion-controlled gaming, it means better tracking of movement as well as more games for each of the consoles. But I think there’s still an opportunity for crossover. Personally, I think they’ll capture some of the classic gamers in one of two ways. A MCMMORPG (Motion Controlled Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game) or the adaptation of fighting games like Tekken and Soul Caliber. Although I’d have some concern about the latter given how my reaction when I lose with merely an Xbox controller in my sweating hands...

Sunday Scribblings (Intense): Outta Time 2

2010-10-31T21:19:00.000-07:00

Please see Outta Time for the first part of the story.

He hadn’t run so far, so fast in such a short time since he had been on the cross country team in high school. His lungs ached from the crisp, autumn air. A couple blocks away from Ella’s apartment, he slowed to a fast walk; his right hand held the fungo so tight his knuckles turned from white to pale blue. He couldn’t help but glance behind him at times to see if he’d been followed, not that he had any idea who he’d be looking for. He figured a van with no windows or guys in black suits, which just proved that he had seen too many formulaic movies.

Ella’s apartment was a newer high rise with multiple amenities including laundry on every third floor, a gym on the twelfth floor, and an elevator. She lived on the 19th floor, apartment ‘L’. He searched the list outside the locked front door and found E. Montgomery written in the familiarly flowing script. He took a deep breath and pressed the button, unsure how he’d get back up to her apartment for the first time in over a year.

‘Hello?’ came the edgy voice.

He wondered what to say, how to answer. He had been so involved with escaping that he hadn’t considered how to approach her.

‘Hi, Ella,’ he responded.

There was no mistaking his voice.

‘Darren? Is that you?’

‘Yeah,’ he answered almost apologetically, ‘can I come up? It’s kind of an emergency.’

There was no answer, but he knew she was still on the line. He waited.

‘Darren, no. I can’t. It’s too soon. It hurts too much.’

He tried to think quickly; he hoped the adrenaline could have some benefit. ‘Ella, I know what I did. And I’m sorry. I’m being totally honest when I say that this is an emergency, and I need your help.’

She paused again. ‘What’s the emergency?’

‘Ella, please let me in and I can explain everything I know, which isn’t much. Please, please, please let me in.’

Another pause. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just too soon.’ Then came the click.

‘Son of a bitch,’ he yelled at the intercom just as a middle-aged woman entered. She eyed Darren suspiciously and moved to the door with her key. He motioned as if he were going to follow, but the woman made certain to close the door behind her. Not good. He waited for someone – anyone – to enter or exit. And he thought that during the middle of the day in a major city, he wouldn’t have to wait long.

After 30 minutes, he walked outside with fungo in tow. He had made the decision to try his friend Keith. He started walking down the fairly quiet block, when he saw a black teenager coming toward him. Darren tried to avoid him but noticed the kid was staring at him intently. Darren made eye contact. There was no going back.

‘What do you want?’ Darren asked as they halted a few feet from each other.

‘We gotta talk. You comin wit me.’

‘Look, kid, I don’t want any trouble.’ He showed the bat menacingly.

The kid pulled a small pistol. ‘I said we gotta talk, sir. I been told I can shoot you so you don’t die, which I’ll do. So, c’mon.’

The black kid walked Darren back into the same apartment building and pushed a button. No answer. He pushed another. And another. And another. After pressing six different buttons – none of them Ella’s – he had reached one old man who said, ‘Go the hell away.’ Undeterred by the rejection, the young kid kept pressing buttons. Finally, after about fifteen tries, there came a buzz. He grabbed the door with his left hand and pointed the gun at Darren with his right.

‘Get in the building.’

Darren did as he was told. The black kid let the door close behind him. He bowed, replaced the gun in what Darren saw was a holster, and took off running.

Darren wiped the sweat from his forehead. He had no idea what to think. What he did know was that he was in the building and needed to see Ella. The elevator took him to the 19th floor, and he knocked on apartment ‘L’. When he heard no response, he rang the doorbell.

‘Who the hell is it?’ came a male voice from behind the door.

Darren didn’t answer. He stepped away from the peephole.

The door opened. A man with a linebacker build and dark complexion stood in the doorway. He wore pajama pants, slippers, and no top.

‘Hi, I’m looking for Ella,’ Darren said politely.

‘She’s not here,’ he answered not at all helpfully.

‘I think she is,’ Darren replied. ‘I just called up and spoke to her.’

‘Oh, so you’re the asshole that dumped her,’ his voice increased a few decibels. By the look of his red cheeks, it looked as though he was drinking.

Darren backed away instinctively.

‘And what were you thinking of doing with that bat, huh? Looks like you’re looking for some trouble.’

‘Uh, no, I’m just… I need… can I talk to Ella?’

‘Sorry, dude. Time for you to go.’ The linebacker stepped toward Darren and threw a sloppy punch.

Darren stepped aside and swung the bat wildly; it connected with the linebacker’s backside. The linebacker howled. And Ella came out of the apartment to see her ex and current boyfriends awkwardly confronting each other.

‘Stop,’ she yelled. ‘Get in here.’

The two stopped and looked to the diminutive figure. They obeyed immediately and entered the front hallway. Ella banished the linebacker, whose name was Bruce, to the bedroom; she kept Darren in the front hall.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked exasperatedly.

‘I just need to stay the night. My apartment was…’ He hadn’t considered what to say; he didn’t think the truth a good idea until he knew more. ‘My apartment was robbed. And I needed a place to go. Yours came to mind first. I just need to stay the night.’

She hesitated, wanting to ask about his other friends. But she still had hope, however small, that it could still work between them.

‘Please?’ he begged.

‘Okay, just for the night.’

Poetricity: Silence

2010-10-30T13:51:00.000-07:00

I came seeking a respite from honking, blood curdling hot orange cacophony. The perpendicular pillars and pews greeted me graciously smiling in their wooden way. There was a momentary silence caught between the cityscape, an almost hesitation in the urban drawl. Then the pack of five teens arrived, besot at once by the necessity of ritual. With the fat clothman supplement, a holy buzz banished the momentary silence into a catacomb. Black thoughts of whys in what should be. I laughed at the should in a house of God. And the anger abated like a vapid vampire from his bloody prey. The pre-pubescent voices echoed sparking glimmers of reticent hope for a limping institution. The fat man and five concluded with a customery whimper all in a fragile agreement that the status quo, like virtue, is good for its own sake. I spied another moment trapped between oblivions just then, and silence pierced my side. It remained inifinitely or until the jackhammers wafted through the stained glass.

Figuring Out Food: Pearl Bistro

2010-10-28T19:51:00.000-07:00

I have recently discovered food. Don't get me wrong; I've been involved in the consumption of food my entire life. I can admit to having had wonderful steak, turkey, mashed sweet potatoes, ice cream, green bean casserole; well, you get the idea. But it hasn't really dawned on me - until recently - to savor that food or to try to taste the ingredients of a dish. Instead, I've been scarfing food down for well over 15 years. In fact, that scarfing led to a complete disregard for portion control, which in turn led to weight gain. Not because I wanted all that food, but because all that food was in front of me.

But not anymore. Instead of scarfing - unless I have no choice - I masticate and contemplate.

Segue...

Last night, I caught a nightmare of a bus late in the evening. Packed to the gills, there was little room to move. It was an adventure every time someone needed to get off the bus. Eventually, I made it back to my room; I made a call, did some work, and generally attempted to relax after a hellish day.

A little after 10 p.m. I noticed my stomach gurgling. I could - as I had the prior night - pull out the rice cooker, steam some vegetables, and have rice and vegetables with a hint of soy. Instead, I decided that I wanted something more. I pulled on my coat and walked swiftly towards the main thoroughfare, mostly to warm myself on the cold night. I walked down restaurant row, trying to decide what I wanted. Of course, the decision was made easier by the fact that a majority of the restaurants had closed at 10.

I had my choice of a Middle Eastern spot with halal meat, a Vietnamese restaurant, or a pizza joint. I chose Vietnamese.

I opened the door to the Pearl Bistro and found myself in the midst of a very ordinary and very yellow Asian restaurant. Although I didn't count, I'd estimate the rather sizeable space had 25-30 tables, which didn't come close to filling the floor. In front of me, I couldn't help but see the gigantic yellow Koi in a tank much too small for it. At the back was a young woman counting money at the cash register, and behind that was the kitchen where I saw an Asian head pop up to see who had entered.

A middle-aged Vietnamese man approached me and asked me if I wanted to sit. I declined and said, 'To go'. He handed me a menu. I sat at one of the tables and contemplated my choices. Not in a particularly adventurous mood, I ordered the egg rolls and vegetable stir fry with chicken with number 4 spice out of 4. I closed the menu and stared at the large television. The Portland Trailblazers were finishing their game against the LA Clippers. I wasn't really watching; I couldn't care less about the NBA. The gentleman brought the bill to me, which I paid in turn. I then waited.

After approximately 15 minutes, the gentleman tied the plastic bag around the 'To Go' containers and sent me on my way. I walked back to the room and readied for my meal.

From the bag I pulled 2 smaller containers and 1 large container as well as a napkin wrapped around both chopsticks and a fork. I've noticed that in Asian restaurants, the servers are normally hesitant to offer chopsticks to a Caucasian. I'm glad they did to me as I prefer them for Asian food.

In one of the smaller containers were 2 egg rolls as well as the sweet fish sauce. I decided against the sauce but bit into the egg roll. Still hot, the cabbage filled roll had good texture. I tried to discern the contents of the egg roll, but failed miserably; Asian cuisine is still rather foreign to me, go figure.

I opened the other containers. The smaller housed white rice; the larger, stir fry. The spicy heat wafted into my nose and eyes. I mixed the two and proceeded to eat. I secured a piece of chicken and a carrot between my chopsticks. The spice subtly struck a few moments later. Not as hot as it could have been, but sufficient. The vegetables proved to be a bit weepy; I like my carrots and broccoli a bit firmer. The chicken was moist enough, the norm for an Asian restaurant. And with the spice, I thought it a good and different meal.

I finished both egg rolls and half the meal feeling satisfied. What was more satisfying was that I had the remainder of the food this evening. You can't beat two sizeable meals for $17.

I can't say it's the best Asian food I've ever had, but I'd certainly venture back if only to try a few more dishes. And to see that ginormous Koi again.

3WW (Fragile, Rampant, Tremor): Outta Time

2010-10-28T00:26:00.000-07:00

Darren walked into his apartment building and checked the mail, which consisted of supermarket flyers, a credit card bill he didn’t want to think about, and a Netflix movie. After such a long day, the fact that he wasn’t a Netflix subscriber didn’t immediately strike a chord. In fact, it wasn’t until he reached the second floor the six story walk-up that the fact dawned on him. That’s when he paused and glanced at the front of the envelope. It was the right address, his address, but there was no name; in place of the name were the words ‘Free Time’ in big black block letters, which he didn't understand.

He trudged up the remaining five flights and extracted the keys from his pocket. They jangled for a moment before he found the right one. It slipped into the lock and turned the deadbolt. The apartment smelled of something rotten. He dropped his bag and threw the mail on the table in the front hall. It took some time, but he found the decomposing rat beneath his bed.

With his broom Darren inched the rat to where he could reach it with the dust pan. With slow, deliberate movements he inched the rat onto the metal. He made the mistake of bringing the rat closer to his face to look at it; what he saw were the headless scalped and flayed remains of what might have been a rat, mouse, gerbil, or guinea pig. An involuntary tremor struck his body, and he almost dropped the dust pan. After that moment of pure emotional panic, he regained composure and tried to think about the situation logically. First, he knew that the ‘thing’ hadn’t been under his bed when he had left that morning; there was no chance he wouldn’t have smelled it then, especially in its present state. Second, he knew for a fact that only he and the super had access to the keys since he had personally seen the super install a new lock.

The second step was all he needed to take his first in the investigation. He dumped the ‘thing’ into a plastic Safeway bag, which he put into a second plastic Safeway bag. He tied the handles and plummeted down the stairs and out the back door to the dumpster where he rid himself of the putrid carcass. He then bounded up the stairs to the third floor and knocked on apartment C2, the super’s home. A young woman of no more than 20 opened the door. Her eyes and cheeks were similarly red. In broken English, she explained that her father had fallen from a ladder and was in a coma in the hospital. Darren apologized and slowly climbed the stairs back to his apartment.

The rampant carcass stench hit him as he entered; he felt the vomit reach the back of his throat before he swallowed hard. He proceeded to open every window in the apartment; he preferred the damp, cold air to the smell of death.

Darren sat on the microfiber couch and contemplated his next steps. Off the bat, he had two options, i.e. he could stay or leave. Staying was the optimal choice as leaving meant that he had to explain the situation to either a friend or a family member, which he wasn’t quite ready to do. There were too many skeletons in his past that could haunt him.

Once he made the decision to stay, he blocked the front door with two boxes of books and pulled the silver fungo from his bat bag. After a short time, he closed and locked the windows. The apartment had been secured. He sat again. It was then that Darren noticed the red envelope peeking out from the beneath the flyers. He ripped the perforated edge and slid the disc out of the envelope. On the disk was the word ‘fragile’ obviously written by hand. There was no indication of what the disc contained.

He put the disc in his DVD player and pressed play. He saw the ‘Universal’ introduction followed by the opening credits for Back to the Future. And the ticking. Except the ticking was accompanied by a dubbed voice. ‘If you don’t listen to me,’ the voice explained, ‘then we’ll both be outta time. I need you to take the disc out of the DVD player and put it back into the Netflix sleeve. You will then put it into your jacket pocket. You will take the silver fungo, open the window to the fire escape, climb down the fire escape, and head to your friend Ella’s house. After she has gone to sleep, you will put this disc into her DVD player, and I will explain what you must do next.’ Darren stood paralyzed, uncertain what to do, believe, or think.

In the next moment, there came a chaotic cacophony from what seemed to be every direction. The television erupted with the sound of chimes, bells, and cuckoos. The voice screamed, ‘Go, now!’ And there came from the front door a bellowing thud.
Darren quickly took the disc from the player, slipped it into the sleeve, and put the sleeve in his jacket. He then grabbed the fungo, unlocked the window leading to the fire escape, and fled down the ladder. When he reached the bottom, he heard an explosion come from above and saw a small burst of flame come from the open window in his apartment.

He didn’t stop running until he reached Ella’s apartment.

History Revisited: Pony Up

2010-10-26T22:24:00.000-07:00

Was the Pony Express integral to the continued existence of the United States or was it merely one of the most elaborate - and costly - stopgaps in history?

In 1861, the American Civil War began, the Kingdom of Italy came into being with Victor Emmanuel II as its king, and the Pony Express ceased operation.

In fact, the Pony Express ceased operation on October 26, 1861, just 18 months after it commenced in April of 1860. That's just about two present-day baseball seasons. A mere blip on the radar in American history.

Not to mention the Pony Express was a huge undertaking. It was a more involved process than anything short of war, in those days. So, why did it last only two years? And why would someone set it up in the first place?

Let's journey back from 1861 to the Feast of the Epiphany, 1838. (That's January 6th for all y'all who don't know the Epiphany.) On that day, a Mr. Samuel Morse sent the sentence 'A patient waiter is no loser' across two miles of wire in New Jersey. Six years later, the same man sent the rather famous quotation, 'What hath God wrought' from Washington D.C. to Baltimore. It was the birth of a new and faster way to communicate, i.e. the electrical telegraph. It was that era's internet.

Fast forward again to 1860. By that time, there were telegraph lines all over the east coast. And there were telegraph lines up and down the California coast. But no telegraph line connected east and west. In essence, California - although a state - was all by its lonesome on the Pacific. In 1860, the Pacific Telegraph Company in Nebraska - created by the then president of Western Union (like at the end of Back to the Future 2) - and the Overland Telegraph Company of California agreed to build telegraph lines from Omaha and Carson City respectively to Salt Lake City, Utah where they all proceeded to jump in the lake.

Yeah, I know, this story's about the Pony Express; I'm getting there. But just after I get to the date when the two companies met in Salt Lake City. That was October 24, 1861. Two days before the Pony Express went the way of the dodo. In present day IT terms, those two days were part of the post production implementation of the transcontinental telegraph. Good luck saying that any times fast.

So, you want to know about the Pony Express? There were 157 stations over a 2000 mile route. There were about 80 riders employed at any one time. And there were about 400 other people working the stations along the way. In addition, there were about 400 horses used.

Then there was the process. Riders would ride each horse a maximum of 20 miles - the approximate maximum distance between two stations along the route - and would then switch the horse out with another at each station. Most riders traveled up to 75 miles a day. At approximately 9 miles per hour. That's first gear on an auto, folks. For 2000 miles.

Why? To get messages from east to west in 10 days. That's it. It was all about information. It wasn't like the riders could lug anything larger than a small box of books in that time. Any message that I can now send in under a second via internet / phone would have required 10 days of at least one rider riding more than 100 horses from Missouri to California.

What in the name of all that's holy possessed anyone to create such a costly stopgap just to deliver information, especially when the transcontinental telegraph was being built?

I turn your attention to the first part of the first sentence I wrote in this post. In 1861, the Civil War began. The Civil War and the time immediately preceding it, that great big zit on the nose of American history, dominated all decisions in all parts of the United States in the late 1850s leading into 1861.

I won't go into all the details because I'd bore the majority of you to death, but the time between the Mexican American War and the start of the Civil War was like a young brother and sister nagging each other in the back of a car on a 12 hour trip, except there were no parents in the front seat to pull over and threaten them with bodily harm. The South wanted more slave states. The North wanted fewer. They straddled the middle for about 15 years so that they didn't have to fight. But they reached an impasse. Then, Abraham Lincoln was elected. And all hell broke loose.

Always off on these tangents. So, what the hell does this have to do with the Pony Express? Well, each side wanted to extend their respective influence. And the way to extend influence is to control both information and communication. Just ask China.

In that critical time between April 1860 and October 1861, it just so happened that the Union controlled the Pony Express, which subsequently kept the lines of communication open with California and all points in between, an effective stopgap until the telegraph lines met in Salt Lake City. And when that happened, the South lost all hope of exerting influence out west, which meant they had nowhere to expand with their states rights and pro-slavery dogma, not to mention they had few places to seek reprieve when they started losing the war.

A look back shows that the Pony Express was a rather big and costly finger in the dike, but that finer just may have kept the dike from tumbling down entirely.

Doors and Windows

2010-10-26T00:25:00.000-07:00

It was a cold and stormy night. Well, windy. Kinda rainy too. Let’s say it was a rainy night. I guess it wasn’t that stormy. I mean, there was no lightning. Or thunder for that matter. I don’t even know why I said it was stormy. So, it was a cold and windy and rainy night. Hell, the night just sucked.

I was stuck in a sorry excuse for a studio. A dorm room, really. A reddish brown rug covered everything but the bathroom, which had reddish brown tile. The cream colored walls were barren. That was mostly my fault since I didn’t hang anything to make them less barren. Idiot college students wailed like retarded banshees somewhere in the vicinity. Continuously. Even when I was in college, I never really understood why college students wailed like retarded banshees. Even when I had had too much to drink, I didn’t wail or grunt or make loud noises. Instead, I lain in girls’ beds – without the girls – hugging whatever stuffed animals they happened to have in their beds. I’m pretty sure there’s a picture of me hugging a rather worn pink monkey. But that was before Facebook. It was mostly before the internet, actually. And thankfully.

I sat at the white desk typing on my laptop – much like I’m doing now – when I heard a knock at the cheap faux wood door. Mind you, I had never received a knock at said door. Ever. In fact, I had never told anyone where I lived. I thought about being scared but it didn’t resonate. Instead, I walked up to the door and looked through a peephole I hadn’t know existed the other seven thousand times I’d used the door to enter and exit the room. It was pitch black.

‘I knew you’d try to use the peephole,’ I heard from the other side of the door. The voice was a baritone, or so Mr. DiBartolo – my sixth grade music teacher – would have noticed. Bart, as we liked to call him, had a thing for the Beach Boys’ Kokomo. It seemed strange to me.

‘No shit Sherlock,’ I replied.

‘Let me in,’ he said, ‘or you’ll be sorry.’

‘Matt, is that you?’

‘How’d you know?’

‘You’re such an idiot. Go away.’

‘Aw, c’mon man. I just need to borrow a buck.’

‘Night, Matt.’

‘I’ll break this God damn door down,’ he screamed.

‘Go ahead, Matt,’ I spoke nonchalantly.

Matt pounded on the door a few times before some of my neighbors came out and, by the sounds of it, started throwing things at him.

‘Aw, c’mon guys, just a buck.’

The Doppler effect of his voice made me sigh in relief. He’d pounded at others’ doors but never mine. I wasn’t certain whether I should be annoyed or oddly honored. In the end, I was just happy he’d gone away.

A few minutes later, there came another knock on my door.

‘Matt, go away. People will just start throwing things again.’

‘Ain’t Matt,’ I heard a deeper voice say.

I walked up to the door and peered through the peephole. I didn’t see anyone.

‘You think I’m gonna stand in front o’ that peephole? Lemme in.’

‘All you crazies are out tonight. Go the hell away.’

‘Son, you ain’t want my kinda crazy.’

‘You’re right. Go the hell away.’ I walked back to my desk. I assumed he had left. Until there came from behind me a mind-numbing explosion. Something flew past my right ear and smashed through the lone window. I turned to see the faux door laying in splinters on the reddish brown carpet. In the doorway stood a non-descript middle aged black man in garb that seemed to indicate he was homeless.

‘I tol’ ya. You comin with me, son.’

‘The hell I am.’

‘You ain’t got no powers. Yo brother tol’ me so. You jes a sad ol’ normal human like I used to be. Ain’t nothing you can do if I got ya cornered.’

‘You shouldn’t underestimate the people in my family. They’ve had plenty of practice dealing with freaks like you.’ He stood and put his hands in his pockets. His right hand hit three consecutive buttons on his cell phone. He had learned to type the code without looking.

‘I ain’t had no problems with yo older sis. She melted in my hands like butter. Les jes say yo bro was happy to have her back at home.’

The family had split after their house was destroyed and his father was killed. It hadn’t been easy to shake his brother’s goons, but they had each managed. Or so he had thought.

‘You gonna make this difficult, Daniel, or you gonna come quietly?’

‘I’ll most likely make it difficult.’

The goon made his move, but not before Daniel had vanished, seemingly into thin air. A moment later, the cops arrived in response to the 911 call. The black man jumped through the window and landed perfectly after a three-story fall. He dashed into the night, unsure what he was going to tell his boss.

Text Me Out 2 teh Ballgame

2010-10-24T22:47:00.000-07:00

G1

JT: Startin early. Their goin down.
Me: 7 games, my friend.
JT: JHam's gonna beet ur ass.
Me: We'll see.
[Pause]
Brother1: I was afraid of that.
Me: Me too. Jham's gonna beat our ass.
Brother1: Prolly
[Pause]
Old Man: Ardo sux.
Me: Guessing u mean ARod?
Old Man: he sxu
[Pause]
GK: cant decide if i want fils or jints w tx. ill say jints.
Me: I'll agree w jints. Leave football to tx.
GK: not this yr homey.
[Pause]
Brother2: How much does arod make? Really?
Me: I know. Ridiculous.
Brother2: This isnt even Lee.
Me: I know. Scary
[Pause]
JT: Yankees suck.
Me: Seen the Red Sox playin lately?
JT: Yankees scuk!
Me: Thought so...
[Pause]
TS: Yay Ranger bullpen.
Me: Yay!
[Pause]
Old Man: Go Yank! ARod stil sux
Me: Go Yanks!
[Pause]
JT: got lucky
Me: Ill take luck
[Pause]
Brother2: Whens Lee pitchin?
Me: Dunno, but we won tonite
Brother2: 3 games to go

G2
JT: They aint comin back tonite.
Me: I never count em out.
JT: Start countin
[Pause]
Brother1: Where the hell r the bats?
Me: Think they left em in NY.
[Pause]
DD: Hope ur not standin near a cliff.
Me: I'd punch him if he were a Lee.
DD: HA!
[Pause]
Uncle: Not looking good.
Me: If only Robbie could always be up.
Uncle: If only.
[Pause]
Me: What do you think?
Old Man: dont want2 talk abot it
[Pause]
GK: tx is beatin the !@#$ outta you
Me: You mean the Yanks?
GK: yep
Me: Not me.
GK: same diff
[Pause]
Mom: Sorry they lost.
Me: No ur not.
Mom: Ur right Im not :)

G3
JT: Your goin down
Me: I know
JT: Lee's gonna piledrive them
Me: Prolly
[Pause]
Brother2: The night the scares me
Me: Me 2
[Pause]
GK: lol. i think he'll go all 9.
Me: Im guessing 8. Theyll use the closer.
GK: Good idea, get him some rest.
[Pause]
Me: Ugh
Old Man: Bunh of pansies
[Pause]
DD: Do you need therapy?
Me: Umm... No... Thx
DD: Just checkin
Me: Thanks for the concern
[Pause]
JT: Even better than I thoght
[Pause]
Brother2: I was afraid of that.
Me: Not like it's a surprise.
Brother2: Whose pitchin tomorrow?
Me: Burnett
Brother2: Uh oh
Me: Yep

G4
Me: Why would they start AJ?
Old Man: Girard doesnt no what hes doing
[Pause]
GK: wanna c a bloodbath
Me: U prolly will
GK: tough to come back from 3-1
Me: Yep
[Pause]
JT: FOUL!!
Me: No idea
JT: Not a hr
Me: Not wathing the game
JT: Good thing there's replay
Me: Ok
[Pause]
Brother2: Thought Berkman had it.
Me: Heard it was foul.
Brother2: Yeah, sux. We need a break.
Me: Yep
[Pause]
DD: yay molina
Me: I don't think he's on the Yanks.
DD: nope
Me: Woohoo [sarcasm]
DD: yay [not sarcasm] ;p
[Pause]
Brother1: We're in deep doodoo
Me: You can say that again
Brother1: We're in deep doodoo
[Pause]
JT: 1 away
Me: But the sox arent in it
JT: But the yankess are
[Pause]
Uncle: I can't watch em anymore
Me: Not lookin good
Uncle: Football season
Me: Go Giants!
Uncle: That could still be a baseball thing
Me: True

G5
JT: Ready to lose?
Me: Not with cc
JT: They only need 1
Me: Not tonite
[Pause]
Brother1: That's the way they need to hit
Me: Yep, finally
[Pause]
GK: cc cant save you
Me: No, but Mo can
GK: ur goin down
Me: Not tonite
[Pause]
Me: They found the bats
Old Man: to littel too lat
[Pause]
Me: Wish they could play like this all the time
Uncle: Me too
[Pause]
Mom: I'm happy for you
Me: Really?
Mom: For you, yes. For me, no.
Me: Lol

G6
JT: Redy to lose?
Me: Ready as ill ever be
[Pause]
Brother2: Ugh
Me: It's just 1
Brother2: Just wish the yanks could hit
Me: Me too
[Pause]
GK: ur gonna lose ur gonna lose
Me: Won't even qualify that w a response. Oh wait, just did...
GK: get the ref?
Me: No crying in baseball, got it
[Pause]
Brother1: 1-1 still a chance
Me: Always hope
[Pause]
JT: DONE!
Me: Ain't heard no fat lady...
[Pause]
GK: say gnite gracie
[Pause]
Old Man: They scuk ardo sux cant hit nothnt
[Pause]
DD: Thank God
[Pause]
Mom: Sorry, honey
Me: Really?
Mom: Nah :)

It Ain't About the Cards

2010-10-24T00:31:00.000-07:00

Throw’m a bone, Gus. He don’t know how to play.

I don’t give a shit. If he gonna play at this here table, he better know how to.

Gus moved the dip from his left to right lower lip.

You hear me, kid? I ain’t give no two shits bout you. I jes want yo money.

Joe betrayed no emotion. He looked first at Tip and then at Gus. He shrugged and laid his cards face down.

Why you gotta be such an asshole, Gus? I know you don’t give two shits. But I ain’t askin nothin from you or anyone else. If I’m gonna win, I’m gonna win without charity. I fold.

Gus’s laugh transformed into a rattling cough; a lump of the dip plopped onto the table.

You learnin, kid. You learnin. And I’m takin yo money. Happy t’oblige.

They all threw in a ten. Tip dealt the next hand. A jack of spades and two of diamonds to Gus. A king of clubs and queen of hearts to Joe. A seven and four of diamonds to himself.

Looks like this ain’t yo lucky day, jo jo. I gonna beat yo ass again. Here’s forty bucks I know you don’t got. What you say?

Joe dropped two twenties. Tip folded.

We got ourselves a game, Gus said excitedly. Tip, flow dat river, quick.

Tip laid down a jack of hearts, three of clubs, and two of spades.

Ooh, looks like I gotta raise. How bout a C-note, kid? You ever seen a big Ben that wasn’t molestin women? Gus thought himself eminently amusing.

Joe still betrayed nothing. I’ll take you up on that, old man. How bout two C-notes for good measure. Can you afford that, you piece of shit?

Now, now, kid. Ain’t no need in callin names. Gus stared at his cards and couldn’t imagine Joe would have anything that could beat what he had. Still, he felt a small knot form in his stomach. He was close to his limit, and his wife would not be happy if he lost money that was supposed to go toward groceries. He tossed in five twenties. K, kid, two cards left before you lose yo money. You ready?

Joe motioned to Tip to throw down the next card. He did. An ace of spades.

Gus wanted to check but knew Joe would take advantage. He threw in a hundred he couldn’t afford to lose. I gotcha, Joe. I gotcha. You ain’t gonna beat what I got. He glanced again at the his cards, then at the cards on the table.

Joe knew Gus had something in his hand. Probably something that was beating him. At least a pair, which was more than he had. He also knew Gus had a bitch of a wife and two kids, not to mention a job that didn’t pay too much. Card games are never just about the cards. Especially poker.

Gus, you’re gonna fuckin love this. Honestly. I got a hand that’s gonna make you shit those fancy pants you got. You’re gonna stink from it all the way home to your wife and kids. He paused. Your C, he dropped two fifties. And another, he dropped four twenties and two tens.

The second group of bills made Gus obviously uncomfortable, a fact that should have immediately resulted in him folding. But Gus had too much pride. And what he thought to be a good hand, to boot.

Kid, you a major league asshole. I’m gonna have fun takin yo monthly paycheck. Or is that two months? You gonna wish you hadn’t come tonight, jo jo. He put down a fifty, two twenties, and a ten.

Tip took the cue to throw down the final card. With an anticlimactic slap, he dropped a nine of diamonds. Joe felt a smirk forming and quashed it immediately. Gus stared at the cards on the table, uncertain how to proceed. The winner had already won, except there are no winners until the final bell sounds. Or the fat lady sings. Or Norwood misses the kick.

Gus still hadn’t motioned.

All you gotta do is check, Gus. No one’ll think less of you for it. I’m guessing you don’t wanna fold yet, but you can if you want, Joe quipped.

You an asshole, Joe. A real asshole. I got a hand that’ll kick yo ass. And you gonna pay up real soon. He tossed a fifty. A sign of slipping confidence.

Gus, ain’t nothin personal at this table. Nothin at all. I just want the money. Show me the money, and then I’ll take it all the way to the bank. I got another two hundred for ya. Right here, he let float to the table the two hundred dollar bills.

Shit, was all Gus could muster.

Joe knew better than to push, especially since he had nothing in his hand. But he also knew Gus was paying no attention to him.

Gus heard his wife’s voice in his ear. Another hundred and fifty would be cutting into the rent. Already lost grocery money. Would have to borrow from her mother again. It wouldn’t be good.

The game had reached its apex, and neither Joe nor Gus noticed that Tip had slipped out of the room.

Gus stared; Joe waited. For what seemed an eternity.

They didn’t notice Tip enter, which meant they also didn’t notice the pistol in Tip’s shaking hand. Um, sorry guys, but I think I’m gonna win this hand.

Gus and Joe awoke as if from some strange entrancing slumber.

Gus spoke first, what the… what are you doin, Tip?

Look, I’m sorry, I need the money. They’re gonna break my legs if I don’t give it to em.
And I’m gonna break your legs if I ever see you again, Joe said. Seems like you’re robbin Peter to pay Paul.

Yeah, but they got ways of finding people. I can’t hide from them. I could probably hide from you better.

That’s fuckin stupid, Joe exclaimed. He calmed himself for the next question. How much do you owe?

More than what’s on the table, but it comes close.

That wasn’t the question, Tip. How much?

Two grand. And this’ll get me more than half way there.

Yeah? Then what. You gonna rob another couple friends? You’re an idiot.

Gus was still caught between what he should do with his hand and what he should do about Tip.

Look, I’m sorry. There’s not much I can do.

No, I mean you’re an idiot. Joe stood, wheeled back, and clocked Tip in the side of his head. Tip dropped the gun and sprawled on the floor. In that same instant, the card table ‘spontaneously’ collapsed, sending cards and bills to the floor in a magnificent crash.

Tip fled the scene with what Joe and Gus later determined to be about forty bucks.

Joe only chased Tip a short distance before realizing the Gus wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy person in the world. He therefore doubled back to the house.

Gus, who had fallen from his chair after kicking the flimsy table leg, dusted himself off and began organizing the cash and cards. He pocketed half the money and left the other half – with the cards – on the table. He was about to exit when Joe reentered.

Where you goin, Gus? Where’s my money?

It’s on the table, Joe. Time for me to go. My wife’s gonna be pissed. With that, he hurriedly walked from the front door.

Joe closed the door behind him and flipped the dead bolt. He counted the money, then the cards. All there. He sat and sighed. He had to find new poker buddies.

3WW (Absolve, Hiss, Ridicule): Stealing Home

2010-10-17T22:11:00.000-07:00

She hissed at her buffoon of a boyfriend, ‘Shut up! Do you want to screw it up?’

‘No,’ he answered tersely, like a scolded little boy.

‘The key’s over there under the awning. It’s too tall for me; go get it.’

He obeyed while she waited silently outside the back door, lest she wake the dog. She wasn’t too concerned about the dog, but it was all about taking one thing at a time.
She heard him fumbling with the keys; it was all she could do to stop from strangling the guy. If she didn’t need him for this task, she’d have let him work his useless shift stocking milk in the local Safeway.

The fumbling ceased, and she saw him start back. She straightened from a crouching position and peered into the window. Everything was neat and tidy as usual. The dog was nowhere to be found. Then she heard to her right a small thud followed by ‘shit!’ and a much louder thud combined with jangling keys. She ducked as if expecting a volley of artillery. And then she really got pissed. Veins started popping from her neck; her face turned sunburn red. She would have pummeled that idiot boyfriend of hers if she hadn’t heard a pitter patter within the house. The clicking was followed by sniffing, a pause, and more sniffing.

The boyfriend lay motionless on the ground, sprawled awkwardly. He knew that if he moved, she’d beat the hell out of him. So, he did nothing, attempting to fake unconsciousness. She noticed his attempt and noted that he really didn’t do anything well.

She heard more clicking, sloshing water, and yet more clicking. Then there was silence. She stood again and peered through the window. The dog was lying at the foot of the stairs.

Her own planning also left a little to be desired for at that moment she realized she wasn’t certain how to handle the dog once they entered. It wasn’t that the Chow mix would become violent, at least not towards her. But she wasn’t certain how to prevent the dog from making enough noise to wake everyone up.

The idiot boyfriend whispered to the darkness, ‘Can I move?’

He heard, ‘Shh! No!’ in reply and remained sprawled.

She considered her options, none of them particularly appealing. The dog, she knew, liked toys more than food, but she couldn’t exactly play with the dog and do what she needed to do. There was always the idiot boyfriend, but she needed him to help. If she somehow got the dog outside and locked her out, the dog would just yap until someone let her back in.

The idea struck. She scratched at the door as she’d imagine an animal might and then peered through the window. It had the effect she desired. The dog stared expectantly at the door but made no sound. A little more scratching and the dog was at the door sniffing again. She had to move quickly.

‘Anything I can do, honey?’ the muffled baritone asked.

The hair stood up on the back of her neck. She considered how bad his timing was. The sniffing ceased suddenly and was replaced by what she thought to be the beginnings of a growl. As quickly and as silently as she could, she opened the screen door and inserted the key into the door. By that time the dog’s muffled growl had become a hushed barking. And it would have become more than hushed had she not turned the knob and thrust her hand in front of the dog’s face. The dog stopped and sniffed. After a tense moment, the dog’s tail began to wag. Success. She grabbed the leash, hooked it to the dog’s collar, and walked the dog to their pickup down the street. The dog jumped into the car and positioned herself behind the steering wheel as if ready for a first driving lesson. She cracked the window and closed the door before moving back to the house.

She found the idiot boyfriend still sprawled on the patio.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Get your ass up; we got work to do.’

‘Sorry, I wasn’t sure what was going on.’

‘That much is certain.’ She decided that now was not the time to ridicule him further.

Once inside, she felt, for the first time, a mild sense of guilt for what she planned to do. But the feeling waned as she glanced at the pictures on the antique hutch. The idiot boyfriend stood beside her, obviously clueless as to what he should be doing.

‘Let’s go down to the garage.’

They descended the stairs and made their way to the back of the enormous space. In the southeast corner, she saw a pile of boxes. ‘It had to be in one of them,’ she said to herself. They proceeded to extract tape and tear cardboard until, somewhere in the middle of the pile, she pulled what looked to be a book of CDs. She opened the book and saw the familiar sights of Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio on the fronts of respective baseball cards. She flipped through the book and recognized Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Mickey Mantle, and Yogi Berra. As she came to the back of the book, she saw Barry Bonds, Ozzie Smith, and Mark McGuire, cards she had added to the collection. The nostalgia washed over her; she suddenly felt the utter despair of losing her father who had recently committed suicide in the basement.

‘Found it. Let’s get out of this hell hole.’

‘This hell hole happens to be my home, sis.’

She turned to see her brother bedecked in flannel pajamas. Although surprised, she didn’t allow herself to show it to this bastard.

‘It suits the asshole who lives in it.’

‘What are you doing here at stupid o’clock? It looks like you might be considering theft.’

‘I’m taking back what’s rightfully mine.’

‘Show me that in the will. Oh, right, daddy didn’t consider daddy’s little girl hanging himself.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Exactly, sis. Look, you’ve got no recourse. The cops are on their way because I believe I heard burglars and because my dog has suddenly gone missing. Not to mention there’s an old dilapidated piece of shit down the street with a dog in it. How are you going to talk your way out of this one? Seems you should escort yourselves out and hope that I don’t come after you to press charges since you’re dumb enough to have your fingerprints on everything from the back door to this box.’

‘You took everything without even asking.’

‘You were in Europe backpacking across some freaking mountain range. I had to take care of everything alone. You deserve nothing. And that’s what you’re gonna get. You still have a chance to leave before the cops arrive.’

‘How the hell did I know he was gonna kill himself? I got back as soon as I could, but I didn’t have the money to pay what they were asking.’

‘You’ve always been irresponsible. And you’ll always be irresponsible. No one can absolve you from your abject poverty and your complete stupidity.’

A knock came at the front door.

‘Why don’t you and your idiot boyfriend make yourselves comfortable down here while I retrieve our guests; this is how it should feel in jail.’ His footsteps faded as he walked up the stairs.

The idiot boyfriend, who had been silent the entire time, suddenly spoke up, ‘I can’t go to jail. I gotta work tomorrow.’

She glared at him. ‘Are you really as retarded as you act? Just shut the hell up.’
A moment later, two cops accompanied her brother down the stairs and into the garage. Officer Sala stood about six foot tall. He had a beer belly and graying hair. His partner, Officer Mandel, was about a head shorter than her partner with darker skin and long black hair.

‘There they are. Take them away,’ the brother ordered.

‘In a moment, son,’ the older man wheezed. ‘We’d like to ask a few questions first, if you don’t mind.’

‘It’s kinda late, officer,’ the brother replied.

‘Well, I just want to make sure everything’s in order. Mandel, can you please talk to the young lady and her friend while I take this young gentleman upstairs and listen to his story?’

The older officer and her brother walked upstairs, much to her brother’s chagrin.

‘Okay, miss, please explain what happened.’ Mandel had no interest in dragging it out.

‘I wanted to retrieve some of my stuff, like these baseball cards,’ she pointed to the binder. ‘You see, my father died and didn’t leave a will, so all this stuff is ours. But my brother won’t let me anywhere near it.’

‘You’ll have to work through the court system, miss. You can’t just break into the house and take things.’

‘I didn’t break in. I used a key. It’s just as much my house as it is his.’

‘Is the house in his name?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so, though. My father just died a month or so ago. And this was his house.’

‘Interesting, go on.’

‘Well, that’s really it. I just want some of the stuff, especially these baseball cards.’
The officer picked up the cards and said, ‘Please wait here.’ She proceeded upstairs.

A short time later, the two officers descended the stairs.

‘Miss, we’d like to ask you to stay on the premises this evening, at least to care for your dog.’

‘Huh?’ she replied monosyllabically.

‘We must escort your brother to the station this evening because of his outstanding warrants,’ Mandel answered.

‘Warrants? Plural? For what?’

‘I’m sorry, miss, but we aren’t at liberty to say. In any case, we have verified that this is as much your house as it is his. You can work out the legal logistics after he’s worked out some of his own. In the meantime, I believe there’s a dog in your car that most likely needs to relieve himself. Good night, miss.’

The older officer handed the binder back to her and said, ‘You’ve got some beauts in there.’ With that, the officers walked up the stairs and out of the house.

Meanwhile, she stood with her idiot boyfriend in the garage where her father had died.

And she swore she heard laughing.

Sunday Scribblings (Essential): Discomfort

2010-10-11T23:13:00.000-07:00

He walked into the general administrative office, his black duffle bag secured by the thick gray strap that dug into his aching shoulder. He reached for the bag's handles with his cold, white fingers and lifted the bag to relieve some of the weight.

'Yes, m'dear? How can I help you?' The antique voice came from an ancient diminutive woman sitting atop a stool most likely carved around the time Jesus was born.

The young man clutched the handles and strap together, which caused a chain reaction in his overly full bag that jolted him forward as if pushed from behind. The old woman half wheezed, half chuckled; she had witnessed such displays many times before.

'I think... I mean... well... I have a meeting with the rector?'

'Is that a question or a statement, young man?' She stared into his scared blue eyes until he turned away. She always enjoyed watching the young men grow from cowering little wretches to confident young men.

'Statement,' he blurted, unwilling to make eye contact again.

'Have a seat, m'dear, I'll let the rector know you're here.'

She hopped deftly from the stool and scurried into the inner sanctum. She preferred announcing the rector's guests directly as opposed to using the intercom - that 'confounded contraption' - that would allow her to perch atop the stool indefinitely.

She hurried back and climbed atop the stool with some effort. As soon as she caught her breath, she announced that the young man could enter. With that, he stood and trudged to the entrance of the inner sanctum, convinced that he had done something wrong. The young man stood in the doorway, his overly large black shoes daring not to invade any of the rector's office space.

'Raymond,' the rector announced, 'please come in. Have a seat. Can I get you anything?'

The young man obeyed and took the seat in front of the rector's desk. He hugged the book-filled bag to his chest, as if it was his last remaining treasure on a desolate earth.

'Raymond. How are you? We haven't chatted since you first visited with your parents.'

'Fine,' the young man answered more tersely than he intended.

'Do you know why I've asked you to visit with me today, Raymond?'

Raymond glanced into the rector's face and saw compassion. Still, he had concerns. 'No.'

'You've now been at the seminary for six months. And though it isn't a long time - though believe me, I can sympathize if you think it is - I've had some feedback about you from both your peers and instructors.'

The word 'feedback' made Raymond shift awkwardly in the wooden seat. He readied himself for a barrage.

'They say you're quiet. I can't see how they might think that.' The old man chuckled at his own joke but noticed that his audience didn't have the same response. 'Your peers also say that you work hard even to the point of aiding them when they don't understand a concept. Is this true?'

'I just try to help them,' the young man replied.

'And help them, you do. But the most interesting feedback comes from Father Donaldson.' The priest paused for effect, the way he did when giving a rousing homily. 'He says that you are an intelligent young man, a leader by example, a future leader. And, he added, a rare find. What do you think he means by that last statement?'

Raymond, feeling altogether uncomfortable, shrugged. 'Not sure,' he murmured.

'I'll go out on a limb and say that he sees a lot of potential in you. And he's not the only one. There's only one small issue. You're too perfect.'

The last sentence caught Raymond by surprise. And the priest knew he had hit his mark.

The rector continued, 'You have talent, Raymond. I think you know that. But talent can be limiting. It makes a person comfortable. Gives him false hope that things will remain comfortable and scheduled. But that's not the way of things. Change is an inevitability.'

Raymond stared at a small scar on the rector's desk; he refused to make eye contact.

'Long story, short. If you are to become the leader that your instructors and peers think you can become, you must learn discomfort. You must flex those muscles that you don't normally use to strengthen them. Whether you become a priest or not, I don't personally care; that is a conversation you must have with God. But I do care about you making the right decisions for yourself because I think those decisions will positively affect all of the souls around you. Remember what is essential for you to save your soul. And rRemember that the sin of omission is infinitely worse than the sin of commission.'

Raymond sat, stunned by the rector's words. And the rector couldn't tell when he had 'lost' the young man. But that wasn't important. At the very least, the old priest hoped he had planted seeds that might someday grow.

'Raymond,' the priest said in a more gentle tone. 'You are a good man. Stay that way.'

The young man, understanding that was his queue to leave, stood and quickly turned towards the door. He secured the black bag at his side and tried - but failed - not to hasten out the rector's door, out the administrative office, and back into the main hall where he awkwardly greeted an acquaintance.

Surprise Contact

2010-10-03T05:53:00.000-07:00

I stood on the tiny platform last evening waiting for the train to take me to New York. My Goddaughter texted with reckless abandon on her lime green cell phone while my uncle spoke about a frustrating job search. On the tip of my left index finger, I held a drying contact lens.

The story begins the previous Wednesday evening in my bathroom of many vanities. I was already late for my meeting with Justin, a young man I hadn't seen since I had been in the seminary some eight years prior. I stood like a statue in that bathroom because the right contact I had attempted to put in my eye caromed first off my eyelash and then off the side of my reflexive left hand. It fell into oblivion, completely transparent against whichever surface on which it had landed. After combing the bath mat and running my hand across both the sink and tile, I decided on a course of action. I leapt onto the hardwood floor in the hallway and grabbed the flashlight with the hope that reflection might offer some clue as to its whereabouts. The search continued for at least 10 minutes during which time I sullied my recently showered self by crawling across the bathroom floor. After those ten minutes, I admitted defeat and grabbed my glasses.

I dressed and reentered the bathroom to brush my teeth. There on one of the many vanities the listless contact rested, weary from its battle with my lashes. I cleaned it, despectacled myself, and quickly set the contacts in my eyes.

At the conclusion of that enjoyable evening, I returned to the apartment and - at least I thought - removed both contacts, cleaned them, and placed them delicately and deliberately in their respective carriers. Soon after, as a result of both my sleepiness and a couple excellent tequila drinks I had imbibed earlier, I fell fast asleep.

Fast forward to yesterday, Saturday, October 2nd. I had the opportunity to spend my actual birthday with my family for the first time in 8 years. They bought for me tickets to attend the UCONN - Vanderbilt game, which UCONN proceeded to win in convincing fashion. Sometime just before the second quarter, I rubbed my eye lightly and noticed it went blurry. A result of the beer I had drunk while tailgating coupled with being tired, I decided. And I thought nothing more of it for the remainder of that day - though I thought the persistance of the blurriness, as well as the resultant migraine, odd...

Until I removed the not-so-moist contact and stood on the tiny platform with it clinging to my index finger.

As the train arrived at the tiny station, I wondered how to store the contact. I considered placing it in the three quarters full water bottle my aunt had sent with me on my return trip. But that seemed inadequate and risky. I considered holding it the entire ride back to the city, but I figured it would, given time, simply drop into the disgusting void that is the floor of a MetroNorth train. I took my seat aboard the train with no good solution. Being tired and out of ideas, I inserted the contact into one of the pockets of my wallet, understanding full well that I was destroying the only left contact I had.

The doctor had given me two left contacts to try, along with a right one. He had explained that the contact in the left eye had a weight that adjusted to my eye to address that eye's astigmatism. And it wasn't an exact science to design a contact for an eye with astigmatism. The problem was I had already lost that other contact, which meant that the one in my wallet was the last left contact I had until I could return to the optometrist.

I slept most of the way back and arrived at the apartment late that night. I unpacked and started recharging the myriad technical devices in my care. Only when I extracted my wallet from my jeans did I remember that a sad contact sat within its confines. I pulled the hard and creased disc from the wallet, and I somberly carried it in my outstretched left hand to the bathroom of many vanities where I would attempt - though most assuredly fail - to resurrect it with the Opti-Free Contact Cleanser. I opened the right side of the contact case to see a contact floating therein. I then unscrewed the left side expecting to see the ripple of clear liquid. And I did. Except that I saw a contact listing in the ripples. So, that meant I had removed the contacts I had worn that previous Wednesday night.

That's when I realized the story had actually begun on September 15th. I sat in a small room in Seattle, the night before I was to travel east. I had just spoken to my grandfather, who had reluctantly informed me that Buddy, my dog, had run away nearly 36 hours earlier. I sat at the small desk, shell-shocked by the news. I hadn't noticed the tears until they had moistened my goatee. Being the pragmatist I am, I had suddenly realized that such emotional catharsis could put my contacts at risk. Normally, I wouldn't have been wearing my contacts, but I had just had a follow-up appointment with my optometrist to check on the efficacy of the contact lenses. So, I retrieved the lens case and extracted the right lens. I then pulled at my left eye. The tears continued to flow as I tried, in vain, to pluck the lens from my eye. At a certain point, I realized that the left eye had lost focus. But the lens was not on my finger. After an unsuccessful search, I had concluded that the lens was lost...

Until that moment when I stared with bewilderment at the contact in the left side of the contact lens holder.

It's Personal: The More Things Change...

2010-09-30T21:12:00.000-07:00

I've been quiet. Too quiet...

I've posted but one entry in the month of September. And only 50 all year on this, the 273rd day. I wish I could say that my journal had seen more fanciful swooshes with a pen, but alas it is as sparsely populated as this blog.

Where have I been? There and back and there and back and there and back again. Flying across the United States on Delta or Continental or Midwest earning magical miles that might serve me well on some future vacation to God knows where. In Connecticut. In New York. In Seattle. With stops in San Francisco, Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Denver, Cincinnati, Atlanta, Minneapolis, and a host of other American cities.

I've learned to become a renter again. The myriad keys jingle jangle on their respective rings. A key for the top lock. One for the bottom. A key for the mailbox. One for the front door. Another for the laundry. I've not yet received the one that will unlock my frazzled mind.

And I've learned how to rent a property. Ants that might be of the carpenter variety. The final water bill listing more than a grand in owed debt, which made me think either the house had hit an iceberg or there was some kind of mistake. It happened to be the latter, though I wonder if I'd be covered if it were the former.

I've relegated myself to dog loving status rather than dog owning. Alas, Buddy is no longer mine. After an 'incident' with a slow moving car, Buddy went primal and high-tailed it at what neighbors described as 'mach 1' to some remote part of Milford, a good two miles away from the grandparents' house. By the grace of God, a woman saw the missing dog poster and called to let us know she had contacted the local shelter. Buddy returned home shaken and a bit scratched around the edges but otherwise fine. Still, I knew I needed to find him a good home. It just so happened that my grandparents' neighbors had lost their dog of 13 years this past year, and they also just so happened to adore Buddy. Well, the decision was easy enough. They, with their fenced yard and two daughters, now have a puppy with whom they can play.

I also find myself, for the first time since I was in the seminary, without a car. Who needs a car in New York anyway with subways, planes, trains, buses, and taxis aplenty. The 2006 Subaru Forester will now carry my parents through thick and thin, especially on their hilly roads in the midst of ice and snow.

I can count a new job and new boss, though I wisely choose to say no more about work within this blog.

And I've begun to move along in those more personal aspects, which will also remain deep within the recesses of the journals I keep.

I have reconnected with family. A niece who, when last I saw her, decided to bring to me penguins and monkeys and phones and bears from her pile of toys. A mother who has returned from the swamps of Florida to battle the soon-to-be-frigid northeast. The old man, who battles with some mysterious and some not so mysterious ailments, all the while cheering that the Red Sox will not be in the playoffs this year. An uncle who has, through remarkable will power, lost so much weight that some don't even recognize him. A brother who works and coaches and sleeps and eats... and who is one of the most devoted fathers I've met. And the list goes on...

And the beat goes on...

A lot of change. And with that change, I give to you yet another look for 'A Life in Days'. I'm somewhere in the top right of that picture... I think. New York is a big town, after all. Everything close is either on your doorstep or a 20 minute walk. Otherwise, it's a $2.25 subway ride away. Unless you're going to Newark International, in which case you want to catch the NJ Transit train from Penn Station for a mere $15.

The night grows long. The bed awaits my precious slumber that I might rise early to get to Grand Central for to journey to the outer reaches of Connecticut. There awaits a game in which the real Huskies have the chance to overcome 'Mr. C' and his brother (and sister) Commodores.

Until next I write...

3WW (Demure, Offend, Volatile): Stupid Is...

2010-09-16T01:00:00.000-07:00

‘I don’t mean to offend…’ John didn’t finish the sentence.

‘Well, you have. Good night, sir,’ the butler said curtly and shut the door with assertive finality.

John stared at the lion knocker attached to the ornate white door and considered his options for reentry. He would not allow an arrogant butler and an overly sensitive young woman ruin his shot at redemption.

He knocked, loudly. The butler answered discourteously, ‘Have you no concept of the negative?’

‘What?’

In vernacular common to those raped by your kind, no means no. Good night, sir.
John anticipated the next move and wedged his right foot into the center of the door. The adrenaline dulled the pain he felt from his old football injury.

‘Good God, sir. What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m coming in,’ he growled. ‘Move!’

The butler attempted to push the door, but his strength paled in comparison. John leaned back to his left and catapulted his upper body at the middle section of the door. The butler reeled backwards and hit a mahogany table sending the kaleidoscopic glass piece crashing to the bamboo floor. John stood over the middle aged man as if the victor of some ancient battle.

John did not make eye contact with the butler. ‘Just tell me where he is. You know I know this house. And I’ll tear it apart to find him.’

Obviously distressed and suddenly demure, the butler spoke in whispering tones, ‘the master of the house is in the bedroom.’

‘Thanks,’ he said under his breath, remembering the manners his mother had hammered into him.

He climbed the stairs, unsure of his next move. He never really thought about next moves; he simply made them.

At the top of the stairs stood the young woman.

‘He doesn’t want to see you,’ she attempted to say with attitude. She couldn’t hide her fear.

‘Listen, tramp, if I want your opinion, you’ll give it to me.’ He wasn’t particularly adept at delivering the one-liner.

She stepped back as he approached the top stair.

‘Look, bitch, are you gonna try to do somethin? If not, get the hell outta the way.’

The only motion she made was backing up against the wall.

He didn’t knock. When he entered he saw the giant of a man in his specially crafted wing-backed auburn chair. His hair was grayer than he remembered. His jowls had begun to sag like misshapen breasts. His eyes were closed.

‘Hello, John’ he bellowed.

It was the only voice that could give John pause.

‘You are a volatile prick now aren’t you? I’ve asked not to be bothered, but you obviously have something pressing to share.’ He kept his eyes shut.

John said nothing; he couldn’t think of anything to say. He had never practiced the lines in his head. In fact, he had never imagined this day would come. He had assumed death would come first.

‘ Look, son, you have about five minutes before my security detail comes up here and breaks your legs. I’ve personally asked them to wait at the front door for that long to give you the chance to talk, shoot, or do whatever else you came to do. But if I know you at all, I’d imagine you’re wondering what the hell to do next.’ The old man paused. His voice became suddenly soft, but no less commanding. ‘You’re not that bright of a guy, John. So, let me save you some of your precious brain power. The woman I killed wasn’t your mother. She treated you like a son, but she wasn’t your mother. And I’m not your father. It’s embarrassing enough that you’re related to me in some sense, but at least it’s not by me inseminating another woman. Let me put it straight, John. You’re a mistake, a science experiment gone wrong. I cloned myself; you’re the result. And you’ve been a pain in my ass ever since. A thoughtless, useless bastard. Well, I think it’s time I declare the experiment concluded.’ His eyelids parted to reveal fierce pale blue eyes. ‘Times up…’

The old man stared into the eyes of the head of his security detail. John had disappeared.

‘Find him,’ the old man ordered.

Sunday Scribblings (Dangerous): Remembering and Forgetting

2010-08-24T23:36:00.000-07:00

He smiled at the waitress as he departed. A cute girl. No more than twenty, he guessed, with her blonde ponytail reaching the center of her back. She was studying biology, wanted to become an endocrinologist. Whatever that happens to be. He remembered a time when he could woo a girl like her with his irresistible charm. Alas, that charm had dwindled with age. Now, young girls simply felt sorry for who they considered to be a man well past his prime. They smiled at him, certainly, for he was kind. But the smiles were as limpid as he. They were but the shadows of erotic glimpses that women once stole.

He stepped from the diner, noticed the street lamps flicker and thought of Memory. The tune played in his head; he could remember only the first line. He passed in front of a Rite Aid. In the doorway laid a black man in his sleeping bag. There were newspapers strewn about; he recognized the Sunday Funnies from a few weeks back. The latest Cathy. He read somewhere that Cathy would end soon.

He found himself on a street alone in the city. Not where anyone wants to be. Towards him walked a band of strange young men, their hats turned sideways and their pants falling from their respective waists. They shouted obscenities at no one in particular, mock fought along the sidewalk as he passed. He felt their glares but made certain to avoid eye contact.

He retrieved the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. The smell of something rotten wafted from the apartment. He checked the refrigerator but found nothing. Upon further inspection, he knew the trash to be the culprit. He carried the trash to the proper receptacle and returned to his apartment for the evening. The television kept him company as he dozed. Memories of his ex blossomed in his mind; he half dreamt of lost children and broken promises. He awoke to find himself drooling on an ochre couch pillow. The bed called him, and he complied. A too large king bed with seven pillows of differing shades.

He listened for the sound of his ex snoring but heard only the central air. The bed proved too large. He moved to the leather couch with a sheet and a single pillow. Television didn’t help his cause. He clicked the power button after a time and the room went dark, apart from the lone street lamp that shone through his window. He stared at the barren room and wondered how he’d recover this time. He then had another thought he’d never contemplated. What if it all ended? What if he didn’t have to worry about lost children and empty beds any more? But the thought automatically gave way to another. ‘Danger, Will Robinson,’ he repeated to himself. It saved him for another night as he finally dozed into thoughtless oblivion.

Sunday Scribblings: View from Inside

2010-08-17T23:39:00.000-07:00

I see a row of cars, their license plates opalescent from the tawny street lights. A tree that could be maple covers the dully illuminated sign indicating my temporary residence. Cars criss-cross the newly repaved junction; they become fewer and fewer as the night progresses. The towering building across the street sits idly; there are no signs of life in the pale marbled lobby.

I feel better now with the three alit lamps sporting their energy saving bulbs. The air conditioner rumbles and squawks noisily. The clock reads 12:09 a.m. The hallway has long since quieted; I no longer hear flip-flopping footsteps pounding along the corridor. The door knocking enjoyed by what I can only imagine are middle school aged brats seems to have dwindled to Doppler Effect giggling that may belong either to a budding young female or a yet budded young man.

I must admit a sense of loneliness in this singular room. The regularly sized bed acts as the centerpiece around which all the other furniture fits. It is flanked by faux wood end tables upon which sit what I can only call ribbed cylindrical lamps that have most likely never actually been in style during any decade. Opposite the bed is a long unattractive bureau that resembles the end tables. Upon it sits a rectangularly ribbed lamp and a television that I cannot watch. Adjacent to the bureau is what passes for a kitchen: a miniature black refrigerator and a microwave that I never use. I stare at the lemon yellow rectangle on the wall, a reminder of the mirror that I shattered for fear of seeing more than I could bear.

The staff does not ask questions. Pay enough money, and you never have to worry about questions. They simply place the trays of food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at my door. And then they retrieve said trays like clockwork. Each week, I place the laundry bag outside the door; I find freshly laundered clothing awaiting me when I open the door later in the evening. If I need any toiletries or clothing, I simply make a list. They dutifully obtain and bestow.

It has been two years to the day since I stepped foot from this hotel room. Within the first three months, I contemplated multiple methods of suicide. I could jump, but a fall from the third story wouldn't kill me unless I dove head first. And I can't willingly dive head first. Drowning in the bathtub seemed overly difficult. They serve only butter knives even when they bring steak. Electrocution could work, but it freaks me out too much. So, after the third month, I decided to blind myself. Except I can't even get contacts because I'm afraid of touching my eyes. Suffice it to say, that didn't work either. I had to find another obsession.

I started peaking out the window at passersby, playing 'chicken' in a way. I'd stare long enough to see if people actually noticed. There are those who seem to have that sixth sense. And if they attempted to steal a glance, they'd see only a lightly swaying curtain where my eyes had been. Yes, it has come close a number of times, but I've been careful never to let it happen again. Not after what I did.

I was visiting for work from the east coast. I had just had dinner with a friend and walked to the bus stop to wait for the bus that would take me back to the hotel. At the bus stop was a young couple who didn't seem to speak much English. We exchanged smiles and waited. We three heard a man approach; he had the look of a vagrant. He started to yell, which seemed to scare the couple a bit. I glanced back at him disgustedly, but that encouraged him to yell all the more loudly. He got closer to the couple. When he turned towards me, he looked into my eyes. At that moment, I silently wished him dead. Except it was somehow conveyed to him as an order he could not disobey. I watched as he lost control of his body and fell to the ground writhing in momentary agony. Within two minutes, his body ceased all movement. All at once, the bus arrived, the woman screamed, and the vagrant breathed his last.

I have looked not one person in the eye since.

3WW (Drink, Feeble, Predict): Duck Confit

2010-08-04T20:47:00.000-07:00

The duck floats gracefully on the water. It flaps its silver-brown wings a few times and dips its dark green head into the murky lake.

I wait for her to arrive, the ring stashed in my back pocket. The sun lingers like the taste of bad wine. Maybe I shouldn’t do this tonight. It doesn’t feel right. We’ve been dating for eight years, and we’ve discussed marriage often. I thought tonight would be the best night. At dusk on the bench where we met. I was taking a break from a run, she was attempting to walk that damn dog she had. Fluffy? Fluffers? I can’t remember now. Has it just been too long? Or not long enough? I take a drink of the nauseating coffee that will keep me awake another couple hours.

The duck quacks a few times. I notice he’s alone. Don’t ducks usually travel together? He’s swimming in circles; I wonder if ducks get dizzy.

I can’t stand it when she’s late, which is often. She doesn’t call or text. But I know she has a tough job; she’s always on the phone and doesn’t want to be bothered by it after work. Speaking of which, she should be off work by now. I don’t think today’s a deployment day. She would have told me. At least I think she would have told me. It’s tough to predict her schedule; she’s always so busy. So damn busy.

The duck has stopped swimming in circles. Now he’s staring at me. He’s literally swimming in one place and staring. It reminds me of the guy who played one note continuously on the trombone while his right arm pumped the main slide vigorously. Except creepier.

The sun is about to set. I’d like to believe she’ll make a grand entrance at exactly the right moment, but I think that’s a pipe dream. Artificial light replace the feeble sunlight. Mosquitoes and wandering single men abound. The neighborhood isn’t as nice as it used to be. She’s not coming.

‘She’s not coming.’

I wonder if I’ve spoken aloud. But I can’t remember doing so. I look around but see nothing.

‘Yeah, I said it.’

‘Who the hell’s talking to me?’

‘It’s me, the duck.’

I turn to look at the duck, who’s still staring at me.

‘She’s with another guy. The missus has ‘em staked out. I wouldn’t waste that ring on someone like her. Just my two cents.’

The duck dips its head in the water again, flaps its wings, and takes off into the air.

I stare at the spot where the duck was, unable to grasp what happened. I hear steps along the sidewalk.

‘Hi honey, sorry I’m late. You ready for dinner?’

I stand, kiss her on the cheek, and walk with her arm in arm to the small French restaurant. We love their duck confit.

Sunday Scribblings: Running to the Ocean

2010-07-25T16:43:00.000-07:00

His grandfather kicks back the recliner and walks into the living room. On the sofa, he - the grandson - is alternately reading a few work documents and a Coelho novel. The grandfather, unsure about whether he should interrupt, shuffles along quietly, but the grandson seems to want to chat.

'How's it going in there? Any good games on television?'

The grandfather turns, elated that he can chat with someone. 'Nah,' he says gruffly. 'Just baseball. They pay those guys too much. I just do the puzzles and fall asleep. A good life, if you ask me.'

'Sounds it,' the grandson replies. He doesn't necessarily want to ask what's new in the case that he gets into a long conversation, but he also doesn't want him to leave. He continues making eye contact.

'Oh, so, you're grandmother was wondering why you came running into the house last night? Was there anything wrong?'

The grandson chuckles. 'No, nothing wrong. I just had to go.'

'Huh?'

The grandson raises his voice a few decibels. 'I had to go!' He pauses to ensure that his grandfather got it. He keeps his voice loud. 'I decided to run from the house down to the ocean. It's about five miles, no big deal.'

The grandfather looks surprised, makes a sound that falls somewhere in between a laugh, a cough, and a gurgle.

'Well, it's two and a half miles down and the same back. So, at the beginning of the run, I felt the slightest urge.'

The grandson has decided to use parlance to which the grandfather can relate; the word 'urge' is one of his favorites.

'I had a lot of water at dinner. Almost three glasses. And I didn't go before I left.'

'Oh boy,' the grandfather was hanging on every mundane word.

'So, I got down to the ocean, but I don't like to stop running once I've started.'

Again, the lachurgle.

'By the time I was half way back, I was thinking of stopping at some random house. But that's embarrassing. So, I kept going. It made me faster, anyway.'

The grandfather was laughing outright by this time, intermingling his 'oh boys'.

'But I made it. From now on, I think before I go running...'

At that moment, the grandmother who's watching television in her room - at least twenty feet down the hall - yells, 'You shoulda took a pee.'

The grandfather, of course, couldn't hear what she had said. So, the grandson tells him. And they both start laughing hysterically. It was just like the grandmother to be able to hear everything and anything happening in the house. She has the ears of a rabbit.

'Exactly,' I agree.

The grandfather walks back into the den. And the grandson decides his day is over. So, he closes up shop and meanders back to talk to his grandmother.

He sits down next to her and asks how things are going. They chat a bit. Then, the grandmother asks, 'Why did you come running in the house last night? Is everything okay?'

The grandson looks at her; he's a little perplexed. 'Didn't you hear me tell the story to grandpa earlier?'

'No,' she admits.

'Why did you say, "You shoulda took a pee?"'

'What?'

'You said that earlier. What were you watching?'

A big smile brightens her warm, white face. 'Oh, that. I was watching Wheel of Fortune.'

3WW (Gentle, Praise, Vulgar): Golden Age

2010-07-14T23:57:00.000-07:00

I decided on a night at the ballpark. I’ll do that every so often; take a train to Flushing or the Bronx and buy a bleacher seat. It’s cheap if you don’t buy the beer, or food for that matter. Funny thing is I’m not a New York baseball fan. In fact, I’m not a fan of any pro team. There’s nothing and no one to praise in this day and age when people can buy ball teams. It’s just a product. People tell me I have to have a team, and I tell ‘em no ball team’s worth my allegiance. That seems to screw with their heads enough to leave me alone.

What I really love is old time baseball. Not the dead ball era. I’d say between 1920 and 1960. Ruth’s dominance to Williams’ exit. Yeah, I know there were other greats I’m leaving out. But I’m not talking about the people; I’m talking about time. A time before California baseball. Before there were teams in Milwaukee, Kansas City, and even Baltimore. When Brooklyn had its Bums and the Giants played in the most ridiculous field you’d ever seen. And no, I’m no racist. Hell, I wish Gibson and Bell had been in the majors; it would have made for some great games. But I ain’t got the power to turn back time. I only wish I had the chance to see an old time ballgame in an old time park.

The Yanks are playing Toronto, I think. Whatever. I just hope it’s a good game. I board the ‘D’ and take a seat. I see a few Jeter and A-Rod shirts. Some Posada and Pettitte jerseys. A Mattingly, Jackson, and Gehrig here and there. It’s essentially an express train, but after a long day of studying and working I fall asleep.

I feel a poke. The old timer’s got his wooden cane in my chest, and he ain’t bein’ gentle. I shake my head, blink my eyes.

‘You’re here,’ the old man crowed.

There was no one on the train. And I didn’t hear anyone outside on the platform either. Not normal.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

The old man pointed out the door. ‘Time for the game, boy. You’ve almost slept through it. A good game, I reckon, too. Best be getting yourself to the field.’ He pushed the young man in the back with his cane.

‘Cut the shit, old man,’ I yelled.

‘No need to get vulgar. Stay here for all I care. I’d like to see a ballgame.’ The old man hopped up the stairs like a kid and was out of sight.

I probably would’ve stayed on the train if it weren’t so creepy. Plus, I wanted to see the game. So, I walked out through the turn-styles and up the stairs. The old man was nowhere to be found. The whole scene looked funny, like I’d never seen this part of town before. But I’d been to Yankee Stadium hundreds of times. No one was around, another weird thing on the day of a game. I looked at the street and cross street. 155th and 8th. I was still in Manhattan. Barely, but still. I could see the Stadium across the river. But that’s not what I was looking at. I was looking at a huge oval-looking thing in front of me. And I knew it could only be one place: the Polo Grounds.

3WW (Acrid, Bane, Tepid): A Delicate Instrument

2010-07-07T15:03:00.000-07:00

Today is my 92nd birthday. The shrink at this God-awful place tells me I should start composing a journal to help me recollect my final days; they think my mind is going. It isn’t, not the most important parts. But I’ve decided to obey in order not to raise unnecessary suspicion. Apart from the shrink – whom I’m guessing has quite a bit of pull here – I simply ignore the wretches in this establishment. I eat when I choose. I walk when I choose. I defecate when I choose. I watch golf when I choose. I remember a time when I held the fate of peons like these in my hands. I could hire and fire on the spot. I had power. Now, I have an acrid taste in my mouth from the pureed crap they served me this morning. The food is my bane here. It is bland and inedible. If I am losing any part of my mind, it is because these mere servants can’t so much as boil water. Speaking of water, my tea was tepid this morning. I begin to wonder if there isn’t some kind of conspiracy against me here. I wonder if Rogers and Niederhaus are working together to make my life as miserable as I once made theirs. I can’t help that they were lazy, do-nothings who added absolutely no incremental value to the company. They are most likely working with my bastard children. Those pariahs haven’t come to see me since God knows when. They’ve looted my coffers; they essentially killed dear Doris, God rest her soul, with their conniving. Damn it. I hear one of the senseless rabble coming down the hallway. I best sign off before they capture this sacred book and use my own words…

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘It’s okay, Ms. Ramsey. It is, in fact, something I’ve not previously encountered.’

‘Can you help him?’

‘The brain is a delicate instrument. There is a significant amount of trauma.’

‘You say this is just one. Are there any others?’

‘I’ve witnessed someone whom I think is closer to his age, though the exact age is still indeterminate as of now. But it’s too soon to tell.’

‘Have you seen… umm… him?’

‘It’s hard to say since I hadn’t met him before the accident.’

‘I just want my son back.’

‘Yes, I know Ms. Ramsey, and we’ll try to find him.’

Sunday Scribblings (Me) - Hot Days

2010-07-04T20:55:00.000-07:00

I sit half naked, cold and melancholy
In a cardboard box
Half shredded by Hemingway cats.
I make decisions
As well as impotent rabbits breed,
And live a life
Greeting death with a water hose.
I spray at it,
Watch it dissipate and fail into nothing.

It’s not all bad;
I’m at least somewhat cool on hot days.

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

2010-06-30T21:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-17T23:57:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-13T22:54:00.000-07:00

'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

2010-06-09T19:37:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-03T00:27:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-01T23:03:00.000-07:00

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.

3WW (Abandon, Gradual, Precise): Exits

2010-05-27T02:50:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-24T23:54:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-19T21:39:00.000-07:00

‘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

2010-05-15T19:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-13T01:14:00.000-07:00

‘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

2010-05-10T23:47:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-09T17:50:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-04T23:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Sunday Scribblings (Dinner) - Birthday Treat

2010-04-25T17:41:00.000-07:00

'two of you?'

'yes, we have a reservation under springs.'

'springs, yes, we have you here. i see it's a special occasion.'

'yes,' he smiled widely, 'my wife's birthday.'

'wonderful. right this way, please.'

the young couple followed the tall host to a table in the far corner of the restaurant.

'oh dear,' exclaimed the young wife, 'this is where you proposed.'

the table was covered in glittering 'happy birthdays'; a bottle of chilled champagne awaited them. the host poured two glasses of the champagne. and left. the young couple toasted each other and sipped the bubbly.

as they replaced their glasses, the young man glanced the same host escorting another two people to an adjacent table. a woman about his age and a teenager. by the time he knew what was happening, he didn't have time to warn his wife.

'well, i'll be damned,' came the voice from the next table. 'how are you gerald?'

he hated that name. his given name because of that prick of an uncle. he always used peter.

he could choose to ignore the woman. but his wife was looking at him inquisitively. 'hello helen,' he replied.

he glanced back at his puzzled wife who mouthed, 'who is that?'

he smiled and said, 'just someone i knew earlier in life.'

'well that's an understatement if i do say so myself, gerald. still be completely true without being truly complete. i'm guessing this little woman has neither seen a picture nor heard of me. a shame, really. because now it will ruin what i can only guess is her birthday night. because i know it isn't yours.'

the diatribe made him lose all color. he smiled weakly at his wife. apologetically. because he knew what was about to happen.

'it has been a while, gerald. almost twenty years. when my father pulled me out of that private school for fear that i'd be ridiculed. you must remember, yes? junior prom when we got all dressed up and met at your parents' house. a beautiful house. how many cars in the garage? a boat too, i remember. we went to the dance, but you wanted to go with your friends to some after party. i wanted you to like me so i went. when is it, exactly, that you slipped the mickey? was it the first drink? or another one after that? i had enough alcohol in my system that it could have killed an elephant, the doctors told my father. and enough semen in me that i could have filled a large glass.'

'helen, please, can we talk outside?' he asked.

'no, i think your wife should know who she married. and by the look on her face, i don't think she knows. so, did you have sex with me? and how many others? i'd like to know. i couldn't find out then because all of you were excused. a bunch of guys you didn't know showed up, is what you said. and i disappeared with them in some room upstairs. everyone testified to that. everyone. and i became the joke.'

'helen, i'm really sorry about that night. but i had nothing to do with it. my friends and i didn't do that to you.'

'yes, i know, that's what you say. well, i have one question for you then, gerald. can you explain why my son, gerald, looks so much like you?'

3WW (Ebb, Negotiate, Random): Feeling Better

2010-04-21T19:05:00.001-07:00

the state pays me to make tax payers feel better. the divorced couple who can't keep their 4-year old mutt. the self-aggrandizing grad student who can't deal with the calico that scratches furniture. the recently unemployed family who can't afford the pit bull they had rescued. the middle-aged son who awkwardly carried his deceased mother's tabby.

and i make them feel better. i give them the smile i gave to the brat i babysat when i was in high school. it's a smile found somewhere between mocking and sympathy. a smirk of partial superiority.

each person wants to hear a different story.

that their beloved pet will roam freely on some open range. i envision them thinking about their rosy the rottweiler loping along beside cattle in wyoming.

that even though we're a 'kill' shelter, we only actually kill the ones who really need to die. no one asks what that means.

that nearly all animals left at the shelter get adopted. i asked my supervisor why she was lying about it. she replied that we're never supposed to give a number. and that sometimes lies aren't all that bad, especially told to people who are trying to negotiate their feelings.

i love to exaggerate with these stories. i have one gem i use all the time. a random farm out in eastern connecticut owned by animal lovers. in fact, it's a family of animal lovers that have housed unwanted pets for over a century. that the farm receives donations from around the world to keep such a wide variety of pets housed and fed. in fact, the family is now entirely sustained by those monies. no one ever asks where that farm is.

recently a young couple came in with their cat. they told me that the cat had a problem with hairballs and that said hairballs were messing up the new carpet they had just installed. they wanted to trade him in. the woman went off to search for another pound pet that suited her needs. meanwhile, the guy stayed back and started asking questions about what would happen to the cat. since i was having a shitty day, i decided to tell him the truth. how old's the cat, i asked. what, eight, ten? well, we'll keep him locked up in a cage in the back. and then, if no one shows an interest, we'll kill him. inject him until his eyes close. until his life ebbs. then we get rid of the carcass. he looked up at me angrily. i hadn't given him the experience that he wanted from this visit. as if i were some kind of entertainer paid to provide his illusion.

it just so happened that it was the same day when i watched my dog, bobbie, stare at me while gasping his final breath on the vet's table. because the cancer was just too invasive.

that day, i didn't think they had the right to feel better.

It's Personal: A Lion

2010-04-19T21:36:00.000-07:00

A new chapter begins...

In Seattle, we were not very good about taking the dogs for regular walks. It was difficult for one person to handle both, and we always had other things happening. We therefore set them upon the backyard to play and run to their hearts content. And if not in the backyard, then they went to a dog park.

Well, I haven't found the dog parks in Connecticut yet. And the back yard here is not as conducive to playing. Not to mention the fact that Buddy no longer has his playmate.

I therefore decided that it would be a good idea to walk the dog. And thus, after work, I proceeded to trot the dog from the house, across the semi-main thoroughfare, and into a nice neighborhood - with sidewalks.

Buddy trotted by my side. Well, more ahead of me, upon which I know the Dog Whisperer would frown since it means the dog is leading me. Nonetheless, we meandered along the sidewalks in that neighborhood at our leisure. Buddy stopped to smell trees and fence posts and random patches of grass. He barked under his breath a few times at passersby. And a few other times at nothing in particular.

We then came to a royal blue house. It was obvious that Italians lived there by the three landmarks that graced their yard. The first was a statue of the Blessed Virgin near the house. The second two were small lion statues placed at either end of their property.

We approached the first lion, and Buddy slowed. He looked at it curiously for a moment before trotting up to it and sniffing it. He was waiting for it to move, which it didn't. Well, I hope it didn't.

We traversed the length of sidewalk between the two lions and approached the second. Across from the lion statue - on the other side of the sidewalk - was a light pole. This meant that we had to walk between the light pole and the lion. Well, Buddy was having no parts of that. He looked at the second lion and immediately backed off. I coaxed him forward, but he pulled backward with all his might. I patted his head and rubbed his stomach, telling him it was okay. We took a couple steps again, and he darted backwards, almost pulling the leash from my hand. At this point, I could do nothing but laugh. Something about the second lion - and not the first - completely freaked him out. But I also wasn't going to cross the street just because he was afraid of the lion. I therefore pulled him a bit more forcefully. He began to understand that he needed to move forward. And when that dawned on him, he took off - with me attached to the other end of the leash - past the lion and light pole until he had at least a ten foot distance from them. He then looked back and let forth a muffled growl to let the lion know his displeasure.

And we were on our way again.

I think we'll take that walk again tomorrow...

It's Personal: Returning East Day 4

2010-04-17T21:32:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in my brother's basement under a blanket. The dog lays sprawled beside me, utterly exhausted and conked out. I should probably feel the same. But there's an adrenaline rush associated with finishing a journey of such magnitude. Not to mention the fact that it feels like the time that my work laptop still reads: 9:42 p.m.

I first awoke at 5:32 a.m. Eastern. I looked at the alarm clock and chuckled. Then went back to sleep. I awoke again at approximately 7:30 when the brother got out of bed. I didn't feel like moving but knew that the final leg of the journey was calling me. I sat up and told the brother to start getting himself ready while I took the dog to potty. The brother showered. And then went down to get food. He reported back that the breakfast was questionable at best. And thus we departed the Jameson.

The Old Man had, the day before, suggested strongly that we explore the campus of Notre Dame if only for a brief while. In addition, the brother waxed poetic about his missed opportunity to see UCONN play at Notre Dame with his friends. So, we went to the campus of Notre Dame.

Before I speak about Notre Dame, I shall reminisce a tad. When I left for Seattle in 2002, I had planned to race across the country and arrive in the city within three days. That meant no stops, apart from bathroom breaks and the occasional snack. I made one exception. You guessed it, Notre Dame. I must admit that I had always had an interest in ND. Thanks to the Old Man, I've seen Knute Rockne All American about 10 million times. And I enjoyed Rudy. So, there was that. But, more importantly, I had just left the seminary. And I thought I could use a little help from Our Lady. Thus, I saw Touchdown Jesus, the outside of the stadium, and the Grotto when I had been there that once before. And I knelt in front of the Grotto asking God to help me understand myself and my direction.

Today, we parked at Notre Dame at 8:30 a.m. We walked toward the stadium, where there was a private event. We asked if we could see the field. We were turned away. At least we asked. We proceeded to Touchdown Jesus, the brother snapping pictures wildly with his cell. Then we went to the Basilica - a funeral prevented us from peaking in - and subsequently, the Grotto. At the Old Man's request, I lit a candle for our family. Then, I lit another for whatever it is that God wants to be my future. The brother and I knelt for a moment in prayer. I asked God for more help in my discernment. And thanked him for prayers answered since last I'd knelt there. We then walked swiftly back to the car where the dog had fogged up all the windows.

We entered the Indiana Toll Road at 9:30 a.m. Eastern.

Right, tolls. A pain. The idea is to make people pay for roadwork and infrastructure by purchasing the right to be on those same roads. Not a bad idea, theoretically, but in practice, it's questionable. I shan't rant this evening, but I had to go through my share of tolls today. The first was in Indiana. $6.00. The second was in Ohio. From the state border with Indiana to where I-90 splits from I-80. $14.75. Then another $1.50 for crossing the Hudson. We were lucky that those were the only tolls we did pay.

Perfect segue.

Sometime during that drive in northern Ohio, the Old Man texted the brother about another potential route. A bit longer in terms of miles but potentially shorter in terms of time. And an easier drive. Well, it wasn't shorter in time. Close enough at just under an hour difference. (And what's an hour difference in a cross country trip?) But it was an easier trip for the most part.

An easier trip except, perhaps, for Cleveland. I can now say I've driven through the heart of Cleveland, and I feel no cleaner than I did before. Apart from its general disheveled-lookingness, I have one major issue with Cleveland. At some point in I-90, there is a sharp turn in the middle of the highway. Again, I say a sharp turn in the middle of a major interstate in the middle of a major city. Yes, they warn you ahead of time. With those divets in the ground often used to alert cars to slow before tolls. Well, going over those divets scared the bejesus out of the dog, who burrowed his head under the brother's arm and shook uncontrollably. Just Dumb.

We drove up I-90 until we hit I-86 / Rte 17. We then took that road through Pennsylvania and New York. Where it was snowing. Not sticking. But snowing nonetheless. We got to Binghamton at about 7 p.m. And then we traversed the multiple hills in the area to get to I-84. And on into Connecticut we drove. Past the city where the brother teaches. Through Waterbury and Cheshire and into Meriden.

We ate and drank along the way. Subway subs. A few danishes with large iced coffee drinks. Water, always water.

The dog ate and drank too. Finding plastic utensils sturdy enough to unwedge the dog food from the can was a challenge. I'd give Wendy's the highest marks in that arena. Though not in the food arena.

We saw some interesting people. The very fat young man who worked at the Valero gas station. When I went into the small market to use the facilities, I heard him talking at the top of his lungs to his boss or his mother - maybe both - about all kinds of injustices and drama. Reminded me of the main character from Confederacy of Dunces. There was the woman walking her dog at Notre Dame who, when we tried to ask her for directions to the Grotto, avoided us as if we had some kind of communicable disease until she heard Grotto; she then hesitantly pointed to where it was. There were the two ladies in the tollbooth on the other side of the Hudson who saw the dog and wanted the dog to do something that would make their night. And they waited until he did. When he finally barked, they reluctantly lifted the gate for us to proceed.

We entered the brother's abode at approximately 11 p.m. Eastern. 8 p.m. Pacific. The dog introduced himself to the brother's dog and the brother's wife. Everyone seemed to get along.

I texted a few friends to tell them I was safe.

And then I made the call that sealed the deal.

On July 8, 2002 at approximately 5 a.m. Eastern, I departed West Haven, CT to learn some things about myself. I drove for three straight days in a 1996 Mitsubishi Galant. The first night I spent in Rockford, IL; the second night in Glendive, MT. I arrived on July 10, 2002 at 6:30 p.m. Pacific to the open arms of Joseph Fields.

On April 14, 2010 at approximately 8 a.m. Pacific, I departed Seattle, WA to return to the place from whence I came. I drove with the brother, the dog, and the trailer all either in or attached to a 2006 Subaru Forester. The first night we spent in Twin Falls, ID; the second night in North Platte, NE; and the third night in South Bend, IN. I arrived in Meriden, CT on April 17, 2010 at 11:00 p.m. Eastern and called Joseph to say goodbye.

143

It's Personal: Returning East Day 3

2010-04-16T21:25:00.000-07:00

Hello from South Bend, IN. Yes, the home of St. Mary's, Holy Cross, and Notre Dame...

We started the day in North Platte, NE. The dog, the brother, the trailer, the Forester, and I got under way at 8 a.m. Central. We couldn't escape that hell hole of a hotel quickly enough. We didn't even stop immediately for breakfast. We just got onto I-80 and started driving.

We drove due east until we came to Kearney, NE. There, we partook of Starbucks. Yes, I know. A little taste of home in the midst of a foreign land. A veinti white chocoloate mocha and a sausage with egg breakfast sandwich. The brother longed for Dunkin Donuts simplicity and requested an iced coffee with milk and sugar.

We were soon on our way across the very flat state of Nebraska. Thank you God and Subaru for cruise control. And Ralph Teetor, the blind inventor and mechanical engineer who suggested the idea of cruise control in modern vehicles.

The dog slept most of the way with his head on the center arm rest. The brother slept some of the way. And played PSP some of the way. Meanwhile, I drove. And texted a few people from time to time. I was told to beware, for instance, the children of the corn.

We passed Lincoln. Not the man but the capitol city. We didn't get to see the dome.

Then we got to Omaha. Bigger city than I expected. Significant signs of extensive civilization. But we didn't stay long enough to see if they were highly evolved.

We found ourselves in Iowa. And the brother and I, because of our love of baseball, immediately found ourselves talking about the field. You know, the field. Where James Earl Jones disappeared into the corn. And where Moonlight Graham had his first hit.

The next few hours went - what I thought to be - quickly. Iowa's certainly more hilly than I expected. But it has just as much corn as I thought it would. Well, it will. The other thing that surprised me was the amount of wind across the plains. I suppose it makes sense since there's nothing to stop the wind from blowing across those states. But still, there were gusts that almost carried my Yankee cap far away.

Random comment. Saw the name Dubuque. The brother - who enjoys reading every sign and billboard on both sides of the road said, 'DUH buck'. I turned and smiled at him, thinking he was making fun. He looked at me in all seriousness and said, that isn't how you say it? No, it's 'duh BYOOK'. He looked at the name again and said, that's dumb.

We made our way through Des Moines. And then passed near Winterset, IA. I texted a few people and told them I was passing by Marion Morrison's birthplace. Most had no idea about whom I was speaking. But Ashley came back with her favorite quotation from him, 'Life is tough, but it's tougher when you're stupid.' And the Old Man - of course he knew who it was - asked if the brother and I were 'DUKEING' it out.

We passed by Brooklyn and Montezuma. Not to mention Iowa City and Davenport.

We crossed the Mississippi - which the brother loves to spell (I dunno). It was a tad anticlimactic. The brother thought it should have been wider. That's the word he used.

That meant we were in Illinois. Land of Lincoln. Well, not Lincoln, NE. We had just passed. Lincoln, NE. But Lincoln the man. Well, he's not a man anymore. Hasn't been for 145 years and 1 day. Is it strange that we passed both Lincoln, NE and through Illinois the day after the 145th anniversary of his death? Yeah, I suppose not.

On another note, the Old Man was excited to tell us that Utah experienced a 4.9 earthquake yesterday after we had driven through approximately the same part. Hmm... strange coincidences.

Yes, in Illinois. And in Illinois, I came across the strangest road signs I had ever seen. 'Caution Rough Road Ahead'. There were two yellow diamond-shaped signs that told me this. And the road was rough. I said aloud, why don't they just fix the damn road? The brother laughed and agreed. I then followed up by saying it was probably more cost effective to put the two signs on the side of the road.

We passed Peru, Ottawa, Princeton, and Marseilles. The brother quipped that people in the midwest weren't particularly original with their naming. I agreed.

We passed Joliet. He started talking about Juliet Capulet. And Romeo. But we couldn't remember his last name. I came up with Mercutio out of nowhere. And knew there was a guy that had the name 'Ty'. I just looked it up. Romeo Montague. And Tybalt. My Shakespeare is rusty.

Some time after Joliet, IL the brother suggested a game he had learned from his wife. Take a well known real person's name, for instance Meryl Streep. Then take the last letter of the last name and think of another person's name who begins with that letter, for instance Pedro Martinez. Then Ziggy Marley. And Yolanda Adams. Sam Snead. Dwight David Eisenhower. Raquel Welch. And so on. It lasted us through Illinois.

By Indiana, night had come. And there was construction. And the brother was bored and decided to sing and whistle and make random unintelligible noises. The dog continued to sleep. The GPS lady kept telling me to veer left. She was insistent, like an unbearable nanny crossed with a scratched record. We stopped for gas soon after. And I walked into the visitor center to regain some semblance of sanity.

We drove the last hour to South Bend. When we arrived at the exit, the GPS lady - she's buried deep in the recesses of the machine - told us to go and look for the Comfort Suites somewhere opposite the direction of all the hotels. Not a good sign, we thought. She then took us around and about until we discovered that we had gone in a circle. Not at all helpful. The brother started cursing. At her. At long lights. At lights that weren't bright enough. I headed back towards the hotels while the brother had a tiny fist fight with the woman in the GPS. I think he eventually won because we found the Comfort Suites. Except it was full. Just what we wanted to hear. I backed up the trailer all by my lonesome. The brother was surprised at the agility with which I maneuvered the small rig. I told him it was because I was pissed. Yeah, I can see that, he said.

Luckily, the guy at the Comfort Suites had recommended the Jameson Inn. Well, I was damn well not going to spend another night in a Motel 6 type place. So, I approached the Jameson with caution. But I'm pleasantly surprised. Thank God.

Now, it's 1:45. Primarily because we crossed into yet another time zone, the last one. And we'll be up early tomorrow to reach our final destination. And my final destination for now...

Good night all...

It's Personal: Returning East Days 1 & 2

2010-04-15T21:54:00.000-07:00

Here I sit in a Motel 6 in North Platte, NE. I've never been to Nebraska. And I hope never to stay in a Motel 6 again. It's true that you get that for which you pay.

Many of you already know that I'm on my way back east. Others of you didn't prior to the preceding sentence. Well, now you know. And here I am.

Because it is late, because I am tired, but mostly because I'm not prepared to discuss the topic, I will not be disclosing the associated whys and wherefores. Instead, I give you a few hows along the way. My trip remembered, as it were.

Before I begin, I will warn you that I have no pictures. It's partially because I don't have a camera. Partially because the camera on my phone isn't up to par. And mostly because pictures of random signs and mountains will not help me to remember this trip. Instead, I give to you a few recollections, most of them true...

With all the stuff - translated books, clothes, and crap - that I've accumulated, I can no longer fit everything into a Mitsubishi Galant. Not to mention I have my brother and the black / brown dog, Buddy, with me. So, a trailer was a must. Which meant I needed a hitch. Well, I did it by the book. A hitch first, professionally installed. Then an appointment for a 4' x 8' trailer. Then got the trailer on Tuesday. Drove it to the house. And acted like I was going to back the trailer into the driveway. Then I realized it was rush hour and pulled forward. And then I realized that I didn't know how to back it up.

So, that's how the whole thing started. After goodbyes had been said (again, not getting into that) I got into the car. With the booklet I had received from UHaul and the advice I had received from the old man through the brother, I slowly but surely backed the trailer and the forester out of the driveway. Yes, I held up morning traffic for 5-10 minutes. But I think Joseph enjoyed telling them to wait.

We were on our way. North on I-5. East on I-90. The brother, the dog, and I. Late, by the way. 8 a.m. You have to understand that when I started towards Seattle, I awoke at 5 a.m. Big difference.

Anyway. We traversed the Cascades. Beautiful this time of year. Don't have to worry about snow too much. And yet you can still see the traces of it here and there. Mountains and lakes and beautiful conifers. Amazing that I hadn't actually visited that road since July 2002. In fact, it's quite amazing that I visited so few places in the immediate vicinity. Once to Portland. Twice to Vancouver. Once to the San Juans. Once to Mt. Rainier. Never to Leavenworth. And still never to California, not that it's in the immediate vicinity.

We followed I-90 to Ellensburg and then veered south on I-82. Through Yakima and Kennewick, our first stop. Nothing really of note during that period. Buddy wasn't sure what was happening. And I felt badly for him. The brother fiddled in the front seat - not literally - and tried to enjoy the scenery. His favorite saying of the trip thus far - except for Seattle and Ogden, UT of all places - there is nothing here; I mean nothing.

We entered Oregon, which the brother insists on calling oar-uh-GONE as opposed to OAR uh gun. We got gas. I forgot it was full service. I hadn't had full service gas since a trip through New Jersey. And then we left Oregon. Not much in that northeast corner.

We entered Idaho and almost immediately passed through Boise. Well, that was after Nampa which the brother quipped was Tampa's cousin. Relatively uneventful. Except for the smell. Not sure what it was, but every so often we caught a scent entirely too similar to raw sewage. Yuck.

Lost an hour sometime in there. Went from Pacific to Mountain. Ugh.

636 miles. 12 hours. Good enough.

Spent the night in Twin Falls at a Best Western. Nice place. Had amenities I wish I had had time to use.

Went to bed. Slept well.

Awoke at 6 a.m. Better. We ate the complimentary breakfast and were on our way by 7.

Made it the rest of the way through Idaho. Then into Utah. Didn't quite get down to the Great Salt Lake. But close. Did go to a rest area just before the Rockies where Buddy left some treats.

The trip through Utah was short. Wyoming came next. Stopped in Evanston for gas. And answered some work email. Yes, there's still work.

Crossed Wyoming to Rawlins. Got gas again. In between, there were buttes and mountains and cows and sheep and lots of trucks.

Tangent. We passed by a small, frail looking creature. It was whitish and had horns. I thought it was a deer and said as much. The brother said, no, it's a cantelope. I turned to look at him. And he started laughing the addictive laugh he's had since childhood.

After Rawlins, we made our way to Cheyenne, Wyoming's capital. We saw the golden top of the capitol building. And we kept going.

Into Nebraska. Sidney was our first stop in the state. Needed gas, after all. So, I insert the credit card and am told to go into the cashier. I pump the gas and then see the cashier. The card has a hold on it. I use the debit card. Why does the credit card have a hold?

I call customer service. In the middle of the call, I get dropped. I am out in the middle of nowhere after all. During the second call, I discover that the card has been flagged as having fraudulent activity on it. Why? Because I'm taking a cross country trip, and that is abnormal. So, the guy removes the hold.

What annoyed me the most about it? Well, I had a hard time understanding the people on the other end of the line. They were all foreign. I'm not against foreigners working in the U.S. But methinks they weren't working in the U.S. Yet more business process outsourcing.

Drove through the black night in western Nebraska. Trucks passed at ridiculous speeds. And then I saw the sign saying we had passed into the Central time zone. Which meant we didn't get into the room at 9:30 as we had intended. But at 10:30.

And I was adamant about writing this entry. So, now it's almost 1:30 Central. That's 11:30 Pacific. Or even 12:30 Mountain, if you'd like. Right now, with everything I've endured of late, it might as well be high noon.

I suppose I should try to sleep. We've another long day ahead tomorrow. South Bend is a reach. More than likely, we'll be somewhere south of Chicago.

Until next I write...

3WW (Deviate, Identify, Saturate): No One

2010-04-07T21:56:00.000-07:00

Deviate from good.
Identify with evil.
Saturate young minds.

Deviate from sin.
Identify with virtue.
Saturate young minds.

Deviate from choice.
Identify with balance.
Saturate no one.

It's Personal: Mentors

2010-04-05T21:48:00.000-07:00

born, whatever that means.
there are people around
speaking in foreign languages,
telling me what to do
and how to act and where to be.
they say it lovingly,
all of those mentors.
whether in english
or financial speak
or catholic speak.
i listen, more than listen.
i am enthralled, amazed.
i believe all they say.
they speak with such confidence.
they teach the basics
but not all their tricks
of subtle nuance.
i follow where they lead.
i trumpet their arrival.
i proclaim their great deeds from memory.
and then there comes a sad day
when i have learned the nuance,
when i see the subtle tricks
as clearly as through a clean window.
the mentor transforms
from demigod to demagogue.
and i break a little.
a piece of me falls into the ocean,
corrodes from the creeping salt.
all is not as i once believed.
i grope for meaning, understanding.
i find none, only imperfection.
i think i have failed in my contemplation.
it is when we are weakest that we are strong.
failure breeds humility;
humanity wields its noble sword.
mentors are human.
there is a birth around me;
my word suddenly becomes law.
i am telling people what to do.
i am telling people how to act.
i am telling people where to be.
lovingly, of course.
doomed to fail on my path as a mentor,
which means i will succeed.

3WW (Caustic, Hunch, Sacrifice): In Vain

2010-04-01T07:33:00.000-07:00

Roses as red
As the crimson blood
Pouring from the knife wound
To your stomach.

Violets as blue
As your cherub face
Choked from the withered hands
Around your neck.

Sugar as sweet
As the honeyed words
Poured from your caustic lips
When I depart.

As for you
As for your hunches
And your sacrifices
They were in vain.

It's Personal: Dancing

2010-03-29T20:13:00.000-07:00

I don't dance.

I'm sitting here in the living room. Buddy's sitting on the ottoman staring at me. Cleo's scrunched between pillows, sleeping. My hands are cold. It's normal. My hands are always cold.

I've just returned from the other room with my New York Football Giants fleece blanket. No, it's not a snuggie.

I sip my Pitch Black IPA.

And there's something on the television. Most of you know that I'm not a huge fan of television. The last show I followed with any regularity by choice was West Wing. Oh, and what's on the television is a reality show. Gag me with a spoon...

I'm trying not to pay attention. I'm succeeding for the most part. But still I can't avoid the ridiculous drama, the terrible singing, the crotchety British judge, and Tom Bergeron.

You got it; it's Dancing with the Stars.

What's worse is that it brings back memories. And I'm not talking about an appearance on a ridiculous reality television show.

I was in college. Somewhere in the midst of my math education major phase. I had a steady girlfriend. Steph, of Paraguayan descent. And Steph, of Paraguayan descent, wanted to dance. No, not at a club. Nor at a wedding.

Buzz Aldrin dances. If it were anyone else, it would be a trainwreck. But this guy walked on the moon. So, he gets a pass.

She wanted to dance. Like ballroom dance. Me. And ballroom dance.

I've tried to forget that part of my life. With a memory like mine, I've almost succeeded. But every so often, I hear the female instructor rhythmically chant 'Tee' (pause) 'Ay' (pause) 'En Gee Oh'. And then it all comes rushing back. The waltz. The cha cha. The foxtrot. The tango. I enjoyed watching Steph. She had a natural talent for movement on the dance floor. I, on the other hand, dreaded every moment spent on the hardwood. Trainwreck is being nice.

I tried. I really did. But I had no rhythm. And the very fact that I dreaded it meant that I was doomed to fail before I had begun.

I think I'd be better at it now if I were to try it again. Because I understand that it's about having the confidence.

But don't get me wrong, it'll be a cold day in hell before I try it again.

Because I don't dance.

3WW (Brazen, Hunger, Nuzzle): Good Fences

2010-03-24T22:04:00.000-07:00

The Listons had lived in the fourteen hundred square foot house with one and three quarters bath for twenty-six years to the day as of the date the Thayers became their neighbors; they watched from their kitchen window as the young couple, with their beautiful golden retriever, unpacked the half-filled Ryder truck. It brought back so many memories. A time before Robert’s unforgettable tenth birthday. Before the washer flooded the basement. Before the ugliest wallpaper in the world was removed.

The following day, George and Emily Liston made the short trip across the yard and knocked on the large white door. They readied their smiles. Glenn Thayer answered and invited the Listons into the house to meet his new wife, Lily. George and Emily offered the bread and wine they brought. That they may never know hunger or thirst. A tradition they had learned from It’s a Wonderful Life. They shared small talk. The Thayer’s golden, Grady, nuzzled Emily’s leg. And when they left, the Listons wished the Thayers good luck with their new home. A good start.

About six months later, deep into the humidity of August, George glanced out his window to see an odd sight. Glenn was digging large holes along the property line. It didn’t immediately dawn on George that Glenn was building a fence. Well, not until Glenn started erecting the posts. George walked out casually and started with some small talk about the weather. He soon turned the conversation to Glenn’s project. Glenn joked that good fences make good neighbors, a Robert Frost original. George wasn’t amused, especially since the fence, he claimed, was on his property. The conversation took a turn for the worse. George stormed away. And Glenn kept building.

Soon, the fence stood between the Listons and Thayers. And that wasn’t the only boundary. Emily heard George complain about that brazen eyesore. And Lily listened as Glenn barked about their completely unreasonable neighbor.

In early September, a category four hurricane named Lucy hit the neighborhood. It ripped roofs from houses. It damaged cars. And it completely destroyed the fence between the feuding neighbors. The following weekend, Glenn gathered the splintered wood and made a trip to the local dump.

He didn’t build another fence.

Nor did he and George ever speak again.

It's Personal: Free Pastry

2010-03-23T22:57:00.000-07:00

Names have been changed to protect the incoherent. No, not really. I'll use the real names; I don't think they'll mind.

Karina gave us coupons. Well, gave us each the same coupon. I think she gave it to others too. It wasn't one of those unique coupons for a free trip to the moon or anything. It was a coupon printed from her email, I think. A coupon for a free pastry at Starbucks. Of course, there was a caveat; you had to buy a drink too. Easy.

When I arrived this morning, the copied coupon stared at me. I placed it on my desk where I couldn't miss it. I didn't miss it. I walked into Olympus and waved the coupon. 'You wanna go?' she asked. 'Yep,' I said. So, we hightailed it downstairs. Well, I can't say it was exactly hightailing given the speed of the elevators in the building. So, I suppose it's more accurate to say we hightailed it to the elevators and then meandered downward into the abyss of the lobby.

We exited the elevator and looked toward the Starbucks located conveniently in the lobby of the building. A line. Were we surprised? Nah. I mean, we couldn't have been the only ones who knew about the free pastry. It was a nationwide thing, after all. So, we traded glances and she said, 'Later?' I nodded, 'Yep.' So, we walked back to the elevator, meanderingly ascended and loped back to our desks.

The team engaged in meetings for one hour and forty-five minutes.

Right, forgot to tell you an important catch. The free pastry coupon was only good on March 23rd until 10:30 a.m. Pacific. So, we stopped the meeting at 10:15 a.m. Pacific. Tara and I retrieved our coupons. And we hightailed it to the elevators again. We hit the lobby somewhere in the 10:20 a.m. Pacific timeframe. We looked towards Starbucks. No line. We half jogged to the front doors.

We looked across the store and spied the case that held the pastries. It wasn't empty. Success. With ten minutes to spare. The manager and a peon watched as Tara and I traversed the tiny store. The peon, usually bordering on mute, became suddenly animated. 'Oh, are you here for the free pastry?' she asked as she watched us wave the coupons like a banner. Her tone next bordered on aggresive, 'Those pastries aren't free; we can't give them away.'

I had made it to the case before Tara. I saw doughnuts, muffins, cookies, and pastries plenty. No, it wasn't stocked. But there they were in all their calorific glory. And we still had eight minutes.

She continued to explain, more in a pleading way, 'We have to sell some pastries today. The supply was limited like it says on the coupon.' Yes, in fact there in bold was the statement that supply was limited. The peon settled. 'Can I get anything started for you?'

Tara looked like she was somewhere between perplexed and vexed. Closer to vexed if I had to choose. She didn't look directly at the peon. I was a little concerned that she would. The peon repeated the question about whether we wanted anything. Tara turned briefly and said succinctly, 'No.' I followed suit but with an attempted smile. I'm not sure it came off. Not that I care altogether much.

We walked back to the elevators. I said, 'It just doesn't make business sense.' Tara said something to the effect of 'It's firetrucking stupid.' Except it wasn't firetrucking. And we ascended in the slow elevators back to the conference room.

Empty handed again.

3WW (Pulse, Shard, Weary): Decided Outcomes

2010-03-17T23:24:00.000-07:00

They had already decided the outcome. Twenty years couldn’t save them. Neither could their three children. Not the joint accounts. Not the house, worth less than the mortgage. Not the marriage certificate placed neatly in the top drawer of the file cabinet. They had tried a counselor, a long weekend together in the Poconos, and a week apart. They told the kids that dad had a business trip. They felt weary, drained from the ordeal. Where love had once flourished, only frustration and doubt remained.

Andy woke to find himself on the futon. Sheets kicked off. The pillow wet from his drool. He looked at the alarm clock. Late again. His wife didn’t wake him anymore. Not since the day he told her to stop harping on him. He showered and shaved, grabbed a chocolate filled pop tart and took a bite. He tossed the rest into the garbage, remembering too late how much he hated pop tarts.

He started the car, let it warm. Checked his almost dead crackberry. Of course, he forgot to charge it the night before. A few new messages. One from his boss reminding him of the job for which he couldn’t be late. For which he was already late. The next message was also from his boss; he didn’t read it. The Civic sped down the highway. The sticker in the upper left of the windshield mocked him; he was three months late and about 5000 miles over. No time to think about an oil change.

His pulse quickened as the traffic thickened. But he stayed at a steady 60 mph and reached the exit to the hospital in short order. He paid no attention to the incoming messages of his irate boss. Instead, he pulled into an illegal parking space and raced to the elevators that would take him to the fourth floor. He stepped into the room 12 minutes late. And the doctor proceeded to take another 7 minutes to explain how valuable her time was. By the time she finished, the truck with the new equipment had arrived, meaning that everything – at 20 minutes late – was right on time.

Still, Andy felt the pressure of making this move perfect. He hadn’t been living up to the reputation that preceded him from his prior job. Not since his relationship had plummeted into the abyss of uncertainty. He knew he needed only to focus and he’d make it work. He could show how he had come to be known as ‘Handy Andy’.
The move was a relatively simple one. A swap. A new piece of machinery for an old one. The keys to moving two-ton pieces of machinery are levers and wheels. If either one fails, then, unless you have at least four men from a strong man competition, it’s going to be a while. Andy instructed his assistant to position himself on the opposite side of the machine. Andy needed to nudge the machine from its resting place with a lever – the wheels had made an indentation in the floor from the weight of the machine – and then they could begin to wheel it towards the door. Slowly.
The lever worked. So did the rolling. For about three feet. Then one of the wheels began to wobble. Andy’s instinct was to grab for the bottom to lift it. But no man could lift two tons. The wheel failed and the machine’s full weight came down on Andy’s hand. In a split second, it was over.

The nurse ran to Andy to see the damage. But there was no damage. Instead, Andy’s left hand was unscathed. She looked to the ground and saw shards of tile where the wheel had failed. But no blood. No sign of an injury. Andy just sat on the ground. The doctor entered and asked what the hell he was doing on the floor. But Andy said nothing. Nor did the nurse. Instead, Andy stood and grabbed the lever. He gave instructions to his assistant to steady the machine. And he lifted the machine to put the wheel back into place. The nurse noticed that he slipped a piece of the tile into his pocket.

The move went smoothly after that. Handy Andy had worked his magic.
That night, Andy arrived home well after his wife. Instead of avoiding her, as he had each of the previous nights that week, he went into ‘their’ room and closed the door.

‘Andy, we can’t keep talking about this. We’ve tried everything.’ She waited for him to start in on his usual rant.

‘Not everything,’ was all he said.
She waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. Instead, he raised his left hand to her face. She eyed his hand for a moment. Then her eyes widened.

‘You took off the ring.’

‘Nope,’ he countered quickly.

She grimaced. ‘Well, it’s not on your finger.’

He pulled the dented titanium ring from his pocket and showed her.

‘How the hell did you do that?’

He told her.

She waited for him to finish. Then, she waited longer. He didn’t interrupt the silence. In fact, the silence lingered until morning when they awoke in each others’ arms. It seems the outcome had not yet been decided.

It's Personal: The Video Game I Beat

2010-03-15T21:43:00.000-07:00

It was 1988. My brother and I visited the old man at his newly rented apartment in the wilds of Meriden. I can't remember if it was a Wednesday or a Friday. And there beneath the old man's television was the dark and light grey Nintendo console. Beside the box were a new-fangled laser gun and two controllers. My brother and I raced to them and obligatorily tried Duck Hunt for about 30 seconds. And then we moved to Super Mario Brothers. I can't even begin to say how many hours I spent playing that game. But I didn't beat it...

Soon after, I tried my hand at Mike Tyson's Punch Out. I beat Bald Bull, Soda Popinski, Don Flamenco, Glass Joe, and King Hippo. But did I ever beat Mike Tyson himself? Nope...

I played the Legend of Zelda. And then stopped after I got bored.

Tecmo Bowl. I couldn't beat the Bears.

Tetris? Yeah right...

Super Mario Brothers 2 was just weird with all the digging.

And Super Mario Brothers 3, forget the high level dungeons.

Ninja Gaiden was fun. But it wasn't much fun without someone else with whom to play.

And Contra was awesome with all those different types of weapons, but I lost interest.

No, there was only one game that kept me coming back. Day upon day and night after night, I hoarded the NES playing this RPG. And most to whom I speak do not remember it. It's name? Dragon Warrior. (It's name later changed to Dragon Quest.) I can't tell you how many different colored slimes I fought to get to the end of that game. And on the night I got to the end, I saw the dawn of the next day without going to sleep. I think it might have been the first time I had ever stayed up an entire night.

But it was during summer vacation, so it was all good...

Sporting Rants and Raves: March 13, 2010

2010-03-13T14:09:00.000-08:00

Hello sports fans. And non-sports fans. Which I think covers all people in the world. Unless you consider some kind of scale along which a person can like sports in which case there may be quasi-sports fans and die-hard sports fans and somewhat-sports fans.

It has been a while since I've posted a Sporting Rants & Raves. And I'm sure you're looking for the Happy Birthday. It's coming. I want to warn you, first, that I haven't been watching sports recently. Because of a few things happening in my life and more importantly because football and baseball aren't being actively played, I've not been much in tune. I cannot, therefore, promise to say anything particularly intelligent or earth-shattering in this post, not that I do as much in any other post I post. So, without further adieu, I give you a more absurd rants and raves.

Happy 46th birthday to Mr. Will Clark. No, not that Will Clark of Lewis and Clark fame. Or Will Clark the porn actor (yes, really). Or Will Clark the Canadian skier. I'm talking about Will Clark the guy who good but not great on the San Francisco Giants and Texas Rangers. (For which other two teams did he play?) Hey, at least he's in the Mississippi Sports Hall of Fame.

We're in March, so that means madness. Above and beyond the normal madness that seems to afflict everyone during every other month of the year. But to be fair, we haven't started the actual madness, as it were. In other words, random people aren't approaching me to enter their 'pools' to win money that I don't think anyone ever actually wins. Unless you're a person who doesn't actually follow basketball at all and who therefore chooses the teams based on their school colors and/or mascot. Well, maybe I have a shot. Then again, I know that UCONN has sucked, so probably not.

Upstart Minnesota mauling number 6 Purdue: If I were a Boilermaker, I'd be embarrassed about a mauling at the hands of not just gophers but golden gophers.

Singler, Scheyer rally number 4 Duke into ACC Final: There was a time when I sincerely disliked Duke. And in this sense, times haven't changed much. And yet, they're still always good. Blast them.

Tomlinson heads home unsigned after Jets visit: Many people are having a hard time finding work. But I think the person I'd least like to be is an NFL running back over 30 years of age. So, not really. He'll still get paid more than I somewhere. But I don't envy his position...

The Boss plans to attend opening day: Good for him. He's starting to remind me of the potentially deceased dictator of North Korea.

Kentucky rolls, will play for first SEC title since 04: This is one of those headlines - along with my past knowledge of Kentucky basketball - that will influence me to choose KY to go deep in the bracket. It's also one of those headlines that screws me out of whatever winnings there might be when the bracket has been decided.

Houston stuns UTEP, wins first NCAA bid since 92: I've always thought UTEP sounded like some kind of pharoah's son. Utep, the son of Amenhotep, lifted the scarab from the ground.

Vermont captures NCAA berth: I once had a conversation with someone in the Pacific Northwest about the state from which I came. I told him I was originally from Connecticut. He asked if that was a city up near Vermont. Now, first, really? Second, how is it that he could describe Connecticut as a city 'up near' Vermont? As if it were somewhere in Canada or something.

Roethlisberger's lawyer hires private investigator: I read an editorial recently that claimed that Big Ben is already guilty. Not necessarily of sexual assault. But of bad judgment. I couldn't agree more. I wish the commish could just tell some of these players to grow the hell up.

WVU, Georgetown play for Big East title: Notice no UCONN. Terrible. Notice also no Syracuse. Woo hoo. There is balance in the world.

Redskins sign Larry Johnson for 3 years: Speaking of growing the hell up, we get this story. But there's one catch that makes me pause. Mike Shanahan ain't gonna put up with crap. Not to mention that Denver - when Mike was there - was a running back heaven. There may be something here. Which isn't great for the Jints.

And with that, I end this week's edition. Until next I write, happy sporting...

Indifference

2010-03-09T19:10:00.000-08:00

It’s the wheezing of a fat man,
The lion gutting the young wildebeest,
A leg not broken but shattered under the weight of a Harley.

It’s the merlot and angel hair vomit,
The thud of the dropping body,
A chilled pint of Tabasco with warm lemonade and whole milk.

It’s the pang in the pit of your stomach
The feeling of utter and bitter disgust,
A need to ogle mixed with a need to run until your feet bleed.

I am staring at the face of indifference.

It's Personal: Alice

2010-03-08T19:27:00.000-08:00

It was a beautiful day in Seattle. Saturday, that is. This past Saturday. When it was sunny. And warm. A beautiful day. But I see I've already said as much.

The day ended uneventfully. At the end of the day. It was dark out, I remember. But there wasn't much else. A bit of work on the plan for softball practice. Apart from that, however, there was the digestion of the dinner I didn't have that evening.

Sometime during the day we went to a place called Roxy's up north. Not so far north that you start going south, mind you, but far enough north that it wasn't south of where we started. There's a deli-like atmosphere at Roxy's. Small tables and small chairs for big people who don't fit at and in them. A bar of mirror and multivariate bottles with the devil's drink. I had eggs with sausage and pancakes at noon. With iced tea, always unsweetened.

We departed the theater sometime later after the moving picture ceased to show us pictures of interest. Just flashing names of grips and tographers of cinema. The sticky ground with clumps of popped corn. Who thought to pop the first corn, I wonder. Or put fizz in water with sugar and syrup of the might fructose corn stalk. It was dark then. With people walking to and fro. In out doors. Out in doors. It was a chaos of sorts, tempered by screaming children.

We tried the theater at the mall in all its sunny gloom. The giant Eastwood aiming his dirty harry gun at Elizabeth Taylor and her violet eyes. There were broken lines of old people interspersed with new people hopping up and down in impatient glee. With people neither old nor new attempting to smile at both the old and new people but not much succeeding. We looked at one another without three dimensional glasses and determined we would make a four dimensional escape across time.

There was a lull during the warm day when we sat at home and stared at what might have been a fire in the fireplace if we had firewood. Or fire. Or kindling. Or if it wasn't so warm out. There was no tension to break. No movement. Almost no silence except that there was. Between the clicks of the dogs' nails.

We decided on a non-three dimensional showing at another theater at a place called the landing in Renton near Boeing. Which I don't think was named because it was a place that was once a landing. For planes or boats. Or trains or automobiles, for that matter. Just a landing. Or the landing to be more correct from an articled perspective.

The movie began and ended with moving pictures in between fraught with computer-generated imagery and talented actors. Row, row, row your boat. A hatter, mad as can be on stage and off, danced impossibly and fought the same. Gently down the stream. A big-headed queen with her knave provided some what might be considered humor in an anti-non-Vaudevillian sort of way. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. And from the moving pictures, there came to me a lesson I have not yet unlearned. Life is but a dream.

3WW (Amaze,Frail,Sacred): Callings

2010-03-03T20:07:00.000-08:00

I entered the room where he lay. The priest trailed me by a step. It smelled of Pinesol and garlic. An odd combination that sent my already grumbling stomach into minor fits of nausea. On the bed lay a frail man whose healthy form I had seen only in pictures. A man with my eyes. Or I suppose I have his. His large hands rested atop his undulating chest.

The young priest circled the bed and immediately pulled up a chair, ready to perform the anointing. I motioned for him to wait. I wasn’t sure why.

This was the man who had left when I was less than a year old. Who decided he no longer wanted the commitment of a marriage or a child. Who decided to chase some ridiculous dream fighting windmills in far off places. I never could understand why my mother defended a man who had abandoned and betrayed her. But she did. She had forgiven him the moment she knew he said he had to go. I was so tired of hearing that story of the day he left. A kiss on the cheek. A promise of some greater purpose than his family.

A small Hispanic nurse entered. She smiled her dentured smile and spoke with a thick accent, ‘I am sorry to see him go. He is such good man. Are you his son?’

I nodded. I was his son. Well, at least I had been his son for all of nine months, if that. She took my speechlessness for sadness. And I wasn’t going to indicate differently. I just wanted her to leave. And she did soon after.

During one of my angsty teenage moments, I listened to my mother tell the story about how my father was traveling the world and teaching, to care for those less fortunate. The kiss on the cheek. The talk of the greater purpose. I turned on her for the first time in my life. Yelled at her. Told her she was delusional. Told her he probably had another woman, another life. And that we weren’t good enough to keep him around. I remember her reaction to my outburst only because it amazed me; she smiled. ‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ she told me. ‘But he is a good man.’

The priest sat impatiently, fidgeting. He told me he had another few patients to see. I was about to tell him to proceed when I noticed the old man’s eyes were open. I saw my hazel eyes staring back at me.

The old man turned his head slightly and looked up at the priest. ‘Can you please leave?’

The priest looked startled. ‘Your son asked me to anoint you.’

'Yes, and I appreciate his sentiment. But I don’t need preparation to die. At least not from you. I’d like you to leave. Go and give comfort to others.’

The young priest stood up, obviously annoyed. He walked out without a word. I turned to watch him go and just stared into the anaesthetized hallway, a bit stunned.

‘He didn’t want to be here anyway. I did him a favor.’

I turned back to him. ‘Yeah, it seems you grant them all the time. Like the favor you did me and my mother.’

‘I suppose I deserved that. How are you, son?’

‘Well, I’m standing in front of a dying father I’ve never known wondering if I should just walk out or watch you die. At least the latter would bring closure.’

‘I’ll be dead soon enough. You can have your closure then. Until I’m dead, which is not far off, what questions would you like to ask?’

I stood dumbfounded. Questions? Really? Now? And yet I had so many. Why I had to race in the Pinewood Derby alone. Why I didn’t have anyone to teach me how to hit. Why I had to teach myself to change the oil. ‘Why the hell did you abandon us?’ It was the question I’d always wanted to ask.

‘I had to answer a calling.’

‘A calling.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘A calling? What the hell does that mean? Did you go save some town in Zimbabwe? What the hell does a calling mean?’

The old man’s chuckle turned into a cough. ‘I get that a lot. A calling is a gift from God.’

‘So you were called to abandon your family? Yeah, I’m sure God told you that.’

‘”Then the Lord said, ‘Go outside and stand on the mountain before the Lord; the Lord will be passing by.’ A strong heavy wind was rending the mountains and crushing rocks before the Lord – but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake – but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake there was fire – but the Lord was not in the fire. After the fire there was a tiny whispering sound.” I listen for the whispering sound.’

‘You’re a religious nutjob.’

‘Is that why I kicked the priest out?’

‘But that’s no reason to leave your family.’

‘Yes, it is. And the Lord has given me the sacred opportunity for closure.’ The old man’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘Son, I love you. Thank you for being here to make my life complete.’

With that, the old man closed his eyes. Within a minute, his heart had slowed considerably. Within five minutes he was gone.

It's Personal: How I Discovered Personal Email

2010-03-01T18:26:00.000-08:00

It was 1996. And I didn't have a personal email address. I don't think it was particularly strange to be in that predicament in 1996. The techies all had one by that time, but I was by no means a techie. I just didn't see the need. I had a school email address, after all. I had used that for both my academic and personal needs. Not to mention that I still wrote the occasional letter to friends and family. Yes, actual snail mail. Again, not uncommon in 1996. Less common 14 years later.

It was around that time that I started asking questions about myself. Without going into detail, I was determining the type of person to whom I was attracted. I've always been a late bloomer. Whereas most people figure that stuff out in high school, it took me until my sophomore year in college to consider such things. So, I went to certain message boards to find discussions about hetero and homosexuality. Innocent enough stuff. And I participated, asking questions and involving myself in conversations. Informative stuff.

Where is the intersection point, you ask?

One day while visiting a message board discussing homosexuality, a person suggested that I get a personal email address. It sounded interesting, but I didn't understand the need since I had an academic address. He suggested that the personal email address would allow me to separate personal from academic. So, I asked him how to go about getting an address. He suggested I get a hotmail address. I wasn't certain what to respond. I was interested in that kind of address (and by that kind of address, I meant one with the word, hot, in it. It sounded to me like the email equivalent of a late night telephone commercial with a buxom blonde speaking in ridiculously whispered tones. He, of course, told me it was completely legitimate. But I would hear nothing more about it.

A short time later, I saw in my academic email inbox a message from a good friend. And that friend had a hotmail address. I decided to do some research at that point and discovered that hotmail was, in fact, legitimate.

Boy, did I feel dumb.