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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

3WW (Demure, Offend, Volatile): Stupid Is...

‘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.

3WW (Drink, Feeble, Predict): Duck Confit

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.

3WW (Gentle, Praise, Vulgar): Golden Age

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

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.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No,’ I replied succinctly.

‘Do you know why I do it?’

‘No,’ I stated, hoping he’d go away.

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

I was surprised that he knew what a vlookup was.

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

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

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

‘Don’t worry about that. Come on.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3WW (Abandon, Gradual, Precise): Exits

I exit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I won’t be running for a while.

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

‘It’s a rat.’

‘Yeah, I know it’s a rat.’

‘But it’s a dead rat.’

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

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

‘Have you ever been to New York before?’

‘Yes, but to clean places.’

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

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

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

‘Oh my God.’

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

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

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

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

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

I paid him no attention and started uncrumpling the bags.

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

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

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

I turned. ‘Huh?’

‘Do not touch that rat.’

‘I’m getting rid of the rat, Jake.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘That’s stupid, Sheila. Why?’

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

‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

That someone decided not to buy the drink after all.

3WW (Ebb, Negotiate, Random): Feeling Better

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.

3WW (Deviate, Identify, Saturate): No One

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.

3WW (Caustic, Hunch, Sacrifice): In Vain

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.

3WW (Brazen, Hunger, Nuzzle): Good Fences

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.

3WW (Pulse, Shard, Weary): Decided Outcomes

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.