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.’
Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
Sunday Scribblings (Progress): Not That Guy
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.
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.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Sunday Scribblings (Intense): Outta Time 2
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.’
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.’
Monday, October 11, 2010
Sunday Scribblings (Essential): Discomfort
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.
'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.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Sunday Scribblings (Dangerous): Remembering and Forgetting
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Sunday Scribblings: View from Inside
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.
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.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Sunday Scribblings: Running to the Ocean
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.'
'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.'
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Sunday Scribblings (Me) - Hot Days
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.
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.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Sunday Scribblings (Superhero): The Greatest Power
'Is he with you?' his wife asked. 'Did you pick him up from school?'
'I did,' he replied, his unibrow furrowed.
'Oh thank heavens. How bad was it?'
'It could have been much worse. You were right, of course. We should have kept him home. I think we need to consider pulling the other kids from their classes.'
'Wouldn't that look suspicious?'
'More suspicious than what he did?'
'Yeah, true. What about the press? And word of mouth?'
'No one heard him say anything; no one saw him do anything. We'll just deny it like we've done in the past. And like so many of our ancestors did. We still have a secret to keep.'
'Are you going to talk to him?'
'Yes. It's time. Please keep the other kids away. I just can't believe it happened to him at such a young age. It usually doesn't hit until puberty. He might be rather powerful.'
'Good luck, honey.'
He climbed the stairs to his son's room and peered inside. His son, Daniel, sat on the edge of his bed staring out the window.
'Mind if I come in?' he asked.
The boy didn't answer.
The father sat beside him. 'I have something I need to tell you.'
Still no reaction from Daniel.
'But first, can I ask you exactly what you said to your friend on the playground?'
'He isn't my friend. I hate him.'
'Hate's a strong word, Daniel. And he is your best friend. Do you remember what you said?'
'I said I wished he could run faster than anyone in the world.'
'Why did you say that?'
'Because the bullies always chase him.'
'Why didn't you wish that you could beat up the bullies?'
'I didn't think about it that way.'
'Daniel, I need to tell you something. Do you know all the superheroes and super villians there are in the world?'
'Yeah'
'Well, our family is responsible for creating them.'
Daniel looked as perplexed as his father had felt when his father had told him.
'The people in our family were the first ones on earth with super powers. Your great, great grandfather and his brother both had the super power. They could grant super powers to anyone an everyone. They discovered it by accident, just like you did with Raymond in the school yard. See? You've given him a super power.'
Daniel was obviously skeptical. He knew that superheroes existed, but how could it be that his family was the most powerful of them all?
'The only catch to the power we have is that we must use it selflessly. If we do not, we end up like The Ancient One.'
'Isn't that just a myth?'
'No. Because the Ancient One is your great, great uncle Edward. After he saw the power he could give others, he wished it for himself. Except when he did, he lost his ability to grant powers and he went crazy. He became the first super villain. The Ancient One tried to kill his own brother, but your great, great grandfather had already bestowed enough people with powers that they could defeat him. The problem is that power corrupts. And so, some of the super heroes became super villians. And vice versa, but not as often.'
'Is great grandpa still alive?'
'No. Like I said, he didn't have any super powers. He died of a heart attack in his mid-60s. But he passed along the gene. And now, it seems you have it.'
'Wow.'
'I know. So, you have to promise me that you will always use this power for good. That you will never be hasty or thoughtless about it. It is a lot to learn in such a short time, but you must. And you must speak of this to no one. No one can know we're the ones who create super heroes. If people ever found out, they'd try to see what makes us tick. But all they'd see if blood and organs and slimy skin.'
'Dad, can I change him back?'
'No. Your friend will be like that for life. But you have not done badly. You acted out of good intention. And you bestowed a gift on someone who is deserving. Still, I do not suggest offering it to one so young.'
The father stood to leave and walked towards the door. 'I know this is a huge responsibility. None of us asked for it. But we must live with it. If you want to talk, please come find me in my room.'
With that, the father left the room. Daniel returned to staring out the window thoughtlessly.
'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.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Sunday Scribblings (Dragon): I Am Concerned
I am concerned, to say the least.
I have raised five children in this household. All of them have attended Catholic school. All of them have served at the altar of the Lord (and hopefully one of them will partake in transubstantiation). All of them say their prayers before bedtime. Through these fifteen years – Christian, the oldest, is a sophomore at Notre Dame – the children have been tops in their respective classes and overall outstanding citizens. I am truly proud of them.
The sixth child, George, is another matter. Not to say I’m not proud of him. At the age of four, it is unreasonable to judge him. He says his prayers with the other children. He plays well with them. He is as smart as – if not smarter than – they were at the same age. In fact, I have some concerns that he is more advanced, and I’m not sure what to do about it.
You see, neither my husband nor I nor any of the kids have read The Lord of the Rings. We know nothing of elves. Nothing of dwarves. Nothing of witches and wizards. None of us have read a Harry Potter book, and to my knowledge, no one of the children has seen a Harry Potter movie. Being rather orthodox Catholics, we don’t subscribe to magic and other ridiculous fantasies. If you want to see magic, listen to the Lord pierce your heart. Watch as Jesus answers your every need.
Right, the youngest. Well, I have home schooled all of my children. I do so up through the fifth grade, at which point I think it is important that they are exposed to other children. But that’s a moot point when it comes to the youngest. He hasn’t even formally started school yet. I do have him beginning to read, of course. Not to mention he can do more than basic math. As I said, he is remarkably advanced for his age.
All of the children have had imaginary friends. Except Molly. She was simply too pragmatic for such things. Rachel had a friend named Susan, whom she just adored. Mark took some direction from his talking dog, Harry. And Daniel, well, he had the best imaginary friend, a pet lion that he named Aslan.
George’s imaginary friend is a dragon.
The irony is not lost on me. My husband thinks it harmless and somewhat funny. I do not. The depiction of the dragon in Revelation is of a monster, of the evil one himself. And St. George – according to the altogether fanciful legend, which I’m ashamed to say the Catholic Church has not entirely denounced – slew a dragon. In other words, dragons are not meant to be friends but foes. I therefore fear for my child’s existence.
What’s worse is that George describes the dragon to me in detail. It is a pale blue with two horns atop its head (God help us). It is not a full grown dragon (or else, he says, it wouldn’t fit in the house); it’s a smaller dragon of perhaps seven feet in height. He can ‘spit’ fire if he chooses but finds it to be a bad habit that most dragons (meaning there are more of them) have mostly avoided. To go with his blue scales, he has ice-blue eyes that pierce the souls of those who are evil. That’s when George springs the fact that this is a good dragon.
I can’t remember reading to him about St. George and the Dragon. Nor can my husband. In fact, there are no books about that legend in this house. I’ve asked the other children, and only Christian could tell me that St. George slew a dragon, but he could give me no other reference to that silly legend.
How does George know of dragons, then? And how do I convince him to find another imaginary friend? In the meantime, I must listen to him talk about how noble and chivalrous the dragon is. How he helps George to know who to trust. Out of a four year old’s mouth? This dragon supposedly tells George to beware other dragons who are interested only in riches; their minds are tormented (he actually used the word tormented) by the desire to horde treasure. It is, the dragon says, one of their few weaknesses. Since we aren’t rich, George tells me, we don’t have to worry about this particular dragon. Even though he is a good dragon, George says, he can still be tempted.
My husband and the children say this will pass. I hope so. God forbid he shares his stories accidentally with our friends and family. What will we say? That it’s a phase? I know how they think. It will be a scandal. I don’t know how I’ll ever live it down. Not to mention he’ll be scarred for life.
And so, you can see why I’m concerned.
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.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Sunday Scribblings (Dinner) - Birthday Treat
'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?'
'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?'
Monday, April 5, 2010
It's Personal: Mentors
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.
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.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: The Now Dead Flowers
Howdy all...
I know I said I'd be writing stories more often. But Sunday Scribblings challenged me to write poetry this week. It's been a long time since I wrote anything resembling poetry - with the exception of American Sentences and a few haiku. I have therefore attempted to write some. I cheated only a little... For whatever reason, Williams' The Red Wheelbarrow was on my mind today. I therefore tried my own hand at a similar styled poem...
I know I said I'd be writing stories more often. But Sunday Scribblings challenged me to write poetry this week. It's been a long time since I wrote anything resembling poetry - with the exception of American Sentences and a few haiku. I have therefore attempted to write some. I cheated only a little... For whatever reason, Williams' The Red Wheelbarrow was on my mind today. I therefore tried my own hand at a similar styled poem...
so little care
is shown
to now dead
flowers
once with pink
petals
beside the gray
tombstone
is shown
to now dead
flowers
once with pink
petals
beside the gray
tombstone
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: Reality (Fiction in 58 Words)
He melted into the silky sheets, a cool breeze washing over his bare chest. He woke in a dank cell smelling of mold and animal waste. Shackled to a makeshift cot jutting from the wall, the only furniture in the room. No windows. And no door, that he could identify. The question came again. Which one was real?
Monday, May 11, 2009
It's Sunday Scribblings Personal (On Monday): Healing
A Brief Note: I woke yesterday at 7 a.m. We were off to softball by 8. A game at 9:40 (win). Another at noon (win). And a final game at 2:30 (win). A good day at the fields. Called mom to no avail. Called the older white folks and chatted. Headed for a post-game beer. Arrived home at 8 exhausted. And didn't blog. So, I've decided to combine my Sunday blog topic with my Monday blog topic.
It was an autumn Monday in 1991. I know it was 1991 because I was a freshman in high school. Autumn, because that's when the bulk of football games are played. And a Monday because that's when the Junior Varsity team generally played their football games at Lyman Hall.
We the freshmen were practicing behind Lyman Hall's Fitzgerald Field while the Junior Varsity played someone in the Housatonic League, which at that time consisted of teams like Derby, Shelton, and Seymour as well as North Haven, Sheehan, and Lyman Hall. There I was on the defensive line running full speed drills. Pounding each other incessantly. That's how our coach liked it. Some of us liked it too. I had my days of liking it. And then there were others that I didn't enjoy so much.
This was one of the latter.
There I was - I remember it rather clearly, which is saying a lot since I'm not one of those who remembers plays of which I was a part on some cold Friday on God knows what field during the early 90s. The running back - Scott, number 48 - plowed forward, almost out of my reach. Almost. I stuck out my hands and grabbed for anything I could. I succeeded in grabbing. But not in securing a handle on the pads. He drifted by like a bad dream. I fell to the ground.
It was then that I felt something weird. No pain. Just a weird sensation on my left hand. Two pieces of skin that normally don't touch. A finger that doesn't usually point in that direction. My ring finger had been dislocated. It pointed over towards my index finger. Almost horizontal (if you consider that fingers normally point vertically).
I stood. I think some of my teammates ogled the sight of a displaced finger. But I can't be certain as I was concerned only with putting it back the way it had been. The coach took one look and immediately decided it needed to be evaluated. Duh! He therefore took me to the ambulance that had to be present at any football game played in the state. The EMT sat me down and took a look. 'It looks like we'll need to take you to the hospital.' I looked at him with utter fear. He read my face. 'It's because we can't risk making it worse. And we're not doctors.'
I did not want to go to the hospital. The last time I had been for a serious injury, I had had multiple stitches in my head. Not to mention that if the ambulance carted me off to the hospital, I would have been responsible for the disruption of the JV game. I wasn't particularly thrilled about either possibility. So, the EMT searched the stands for a doctor. And found one.
I can't remember that doctor well. A seemingly nice middle-aged gentleman with a good bedside manner. He asked me if I wanted him to fix my finger. I told him I did. Then he started talking to me. Calmly. Too calmly, I realized only later. After he jerked my finger and put it back the way it was supposed to be. He subsequently gave me the disclaimer. 'You should go see a specialist to ensure that you didn't break anything in there.'
No ambulance ride. I sat out the rest of the practice - though I think the coach expected that with five semi-functioning fingers on my left hand, I should have been able to rejoin the practice.
That week, I visited a specialist. He commented that the doctor had done well. Put a splint on it and told me to take a week off from football. A reprieve. I kept the splint in place, waiting patiently for it to heal. I took off the permanent splint to find a crooked finger. 'It will be fine' he explained to me. I just had to do some exercises so that it would heal normally. So, I wore a splint that could be removed a few times a day for the exercises.
I exercised that finger. Had to make sure the tendon was stretched well enough to allow the finger to straighten out. I exercised. And exercised. And concentrated on making it go back to the way it was. I pushed that knuckle to the point of rather extreme pain. Day after day. Night after night. Expecting some day that it would miraculously appear as it did prior to that day.
After a year trying to exercise, I came to grips with the fact that my finger would be crooked forever. And so it healed crookedly. Scar tissue and tendon. A gross marvel for friends and family alike. A tribute to a doctor who couldn't read an x-ray. A prime candidate for future arthritis. And a handy keepsake from my days as a Lyman Hall Trojan.
I wouldn't trade this little unique piece of me for anything.
It was an autumn Monday in 1991. I know it was 1991 because I was a freshman in high school. Autumn, because that's when the bulk of football games are played. And a Monday because that's when the Junior Varsity team generally played their football games at Lyman Hall.
We the freshmen were practicing behind Lyman Hall's Fitzgerald Field while the Junior Varsity played someone in the Housatonic League, which at that time consisted of teams like Derby, Shelton, and Seymour as well as North Haven, Sheehan, and Lyman Hall. There I was on the defensive line running full speed drills. Pounding each other incessantly. That's how our coach liked it. Some of us liked it too. I had my days of liking it. And then there were others that I didn't enjoy so much.
This was one of the latter.
There I was - I remember it rather clearly, which is saying a lot since I'm not one of those who remembers plays of which I was a part on some cold Friday on God knows what field during the early 90s. The running back - Scott, number 48 - plowed forward, almost out of my reach. Almost. I stuck out my hands and grabbed for anything I could. I succeeded in grabbing. But not in securing a handle on the pads. He drifted by like a bad dream. I fell to the ground.
It was then that I felt something weird. No pain. Just a weird sensation on my left hand. Two pieces of skin that normally don't touch. A finger that doesn't usually point in that direction. My ring finger had been dislocated. It pointed over towards my index finger. Almost horizontal (if you consider that fingers normally point vertically).
I stood. I think some of my teammates ogled the sight of a displaced finger. But I can't be certain as I was concerned only with putting it back the way it had been. The coach took one look and immediately decided it needed to be evaluated. Duh! He therefore took me to the ambulance that had to be present at any football game played in the state. The EMT sat me down and took a look. 'It looks like we'll need to take you to the hospital.' I looked at him with utter fear. He read my face. 'It's because we can't risk making it worse. And we're not doctors.'
I did not want to go to the hospital. The last time I had been for a serious injury, I had had multiple stitches in my head. Not to mention that if the ambulance carted me off to the hospital, I would have been responsible for the disruption of the JV game. I wasn't particularly thrilled about either possibility. So, the EMT searched the stands for a doctor. And found one.
I can't remember that doctor well. A seemingly nice middle-aged gentleman with a good bedside manner. He asked me if I wanted him to fix my finger. I told him I did. Then he started talking to me. Calmly. Too calmly, I realized only later. After he jerked my finger and put it back the way it was supposed to be. He subsequently gave me the disclaimer. 'You should go see a specialist to ensure that you didn't break anything in there.'
No ambulance ride. I sat out the rest of the practice - though I think the coach expected that with five semi-functioning fingers on my left hand, I should have been able to rejoin the practice.
That week, I visited a specialist. He commented that the doctor had done well. Put a splint on it and told me to take a week off from football. A reprieve. I kept the splint in place, waiting patiently for it to heal. I took off the permanent splint to find a crooked finger. 'It will be fine' he explained to me. I just had to do some exercises so that it would heal normally. So, I wore a splint that could be removed a few times a day for the exercises.
I exercised that finger. Had to make sure the tendon was stretched well enough to allow the finger to straighten out. I exercised. And exercised. And concentrated on making it go back to the way it was. I pushed that knuckle to the point of rather extreme pain. Day after day. Night after night. Expecting some day that it would miraculously appear as it did prior to that day.
After a year trying to exercise, I came to grips with the fact that my finger would be crooked forever. And so it healed crookedly. Scar tissue and tendon. A gross marvel for friends and family alike. A tribute to a doctor who couldn't read an x-ray. A prime candidate for future arthritis. And a handy keepsake from my days as a Lyman Hall Trojan.
I wouldn't trade this little unique piece of me for anything.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: Linguistically Challenged American Sentences
American Sentences: They are haiku-length poems that Allen Ginsburg suggested be limited to 17 syllables, like haiku in Japanese and like the Heart Sutra in Buddhism. The following two sentences are such American Sentences of 17 syllables.
A salesman who spoke many tongues, he said nothing of note when he spoke.
Couples speak both a lexicon of love and a petty palaver.
The puppies listen for familiar words and stare blankly at the rest.
A salesman who spoke many tongues, he said nothing of note when he spoke.
Couples speak both a lexicon of love and a petty palaver.
The puppies listen for familiar words and stare blankly at the rest.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: Scary Haiku
From Sunday Scribblings: I can't recall if we've done this prompt before, but I'm curious: what scares you?
The white outer shell
Glistens with the morning’s dew.
Another dropped ball.
Prepped for the meeting.
I excitedly enter
Thirty minutes late.
‘I have the money,’
I say uncomfortably
‘In my other coat.’
I swore it was here.
But I searched the entire house.
Now my wallet’s gone.
‘Feign is not a word.’
‘Yes it is,’ he said to me,
Student to teacher.
At the pearly gates,
He says I made a mistake.
The wrong discernment.
We learn from mistakes.
Unless we are utterly
Paralyzed by them.
Glistens with the morning’s dew.
Another dropped ball.
Prepped for the meeting.
I excitedly enter
Thirty minutes late.
‘I have the money,’
I say uncomfortably
‘In my other coat.’
I swore it was here.
But I searched the entire house.
Now my wallet’s gone.
‘Feign is not a word.’
‘Yes it is,’ he said to me,
Student to teacher.
At the pearly gates,
He says I made a mistake.
The wrong discernment.
We learn from mistakes.
Unless we are utterly
Paralyzed by them.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: Celebrate Good Times
The past week had been particularly challenging for me. Between work, home, and softball I was struggling to keep up. A friend of mine reminded me that it happens sometimes. And though I understand that, I - as a perfectionist - don't take any kind of failure well, I must admit that today's topic has given me a chance to pause and count the grains of sand on the beach. I step back and recognize all that I have to celebrate. I thus combine the Thursday 13 and Sunday Scribblings to give you 13 things I celebrate.
I celebrate Joseph for his humor, his desire, and his kind heart.
I celebrate all of my family. The old man. My mother. Uncle Mark, Ruth, Julia. The older white folks. My brother, sister-in-law, and little Madison. My other mother. My sister and niece. My brother and other two nieces. And all the rest. (I know that's cheating, but they would have taken up 13 all by themselves.)
I celebrate my friends. The ones on the least coast, the left coast, and everywhere between. (If any of you happen to be traveling to the outer reaches of the globe, I celebrate you too.)
I celebrate my health. Sure, I have a few bumps and bruises. A few things out of place and such. But for the most part, I have no complaints.
I celebrate the menagerie. Cleo and Buddy on one side. Hemingway and Macavity on the other.
I celebrate my job. Just the fact that I have one is a blessing. The fact that it is a challenge, all the better.
I celebrate living in Seattle. Mountains. Oceans. Lakes. Hills. Trees aplenty. You really should come and see Mt. Rainier on a clear day.
I celebrate good reads. A story that keeps me on edge. The twist. The sad moment. The happy ending.
I celebrate football. I love the sport. It taught me how to be a man.
I celebrate baseball and softball. Genetically introduced at birth, the game is as mind-provoking as chess for those who know how to play. I celebrate the Thrusters and Buzz especially - the team on which I play and the team I coach respectively. I think we'll have a couple good seasons.
I belatedly celebrate my 31.5 birthday. It was 4/2.
I celebrate my 203rd blog entry.
And I celebrate my faith in God.
I leave you with these 13 and suggest you take a moment and think about what you celebrate. It's an eye opener.
I celebrate Joseph for his humor, his desire, and his kind heart.
I celebrate all of my family. The old man. My mother. Uncle Mark, Ruth, Julia. The older white folks. My brother, sister-in-law, and little Madison. My other mother. My sister and niece. My brother and other two nieces. And all the rest. (I know that's cheating, but they would have taken up 13 all by themselves.)
I celebrate my friends. The ones on the least coast, the left coast, and everywhere between. (If any of you happen to be traveling to the outer reaches of the globe, I celebrate you too.)
I celebrate my health. Sure, I have a few bumps and bruises. A few things out of place and such. But for the most part, I have no complaints.
I celebrate the menagerie. Cleo and Buddy on one side. Hemingway and Macavity on the other.
I celebrate my job. Just the fact that I have one is a blessing. The fact that it is a challenge, all the better.
I celebrate living in Seattle. Mountains. Oceans. Lakes. Hills. Trees aplenty. You really should come and see Mt. Rainier on a clear day.
I celebrate good reads. A story that keeps me on edge. The twist. The sad moment. The happy ending.
I celebrate football. I love the sport. It taught me how to be a man.
I celebrate baseball and softball. Genetically introduced at birth, the game is as mind-provoking as chess for those who know how to play. I celebrate the Thrusters and Buzz especially - the team on which I play and the team I coach respectively. I think we'll have a couple good seasons.
I belatedly celebrate my 31.5 birthday. It was 4/2.
I celebrate my 203rd blog entry.
And I celebrate my faith in God.
I leave you with these 13 and suggest you take a moment and think about what you celebrate. It's an eye opener.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: An Odd Case of Aging
I will celebrate my 67th birthday tomorrow. My mother will attend. And my grandparents. No friends, though. I haven’t kept any during the short time I’ve been alive.
I don’t have any wants, per se. With my body the way it is, wants are too expensive. I gave up trying to be current years ago.
I worked my last job at age 60. A lead in the stockroom at Walmart. My boss told me I would have made a good manager if I could have worked longer than 10 years.
It’s funny that there were no other side effects from my birth. The doctors said they couldn’t predict the outcome but offered my mother gobs of money for trying the experiment. I still have no idea why she agreed. But I have my opinions.
I never made it through school; I just couldn’t learn all they wanted me to learn in the time I had. Not to mention the fact that the kids insulted me incessantly. I studied at home instead. My grandmother helped me. Taught me to read and write. I can’t much help that the majority of my reading comes from books about saints. I once thought that God put me here for a reason, like he did those people with the halos. Then, I realized that I was just a science experiment. Gone wrong.
The experiment that begot me was not even the most remarkable happening on the day I was born. No, half way across the world, Dolly the Sheep was cloned. An experiment that meant something to the greater world of science. I did no such good in the scientific community.
The best day of my life had to be the turn of the millennium. I was to turn 30 just a day later. And so, I spent the remainder of my 20s living it up in New York City. Danced. Drank. Ended up in some woman’s bed.
I only have one night stands. For their sake and mine. It doesn’t make sense to get close to anyone. I have no idea if this is genetic. And if it is, then I sure as hell am not going to pass it on. And even if it wasn’t, I just don’t have the time to learn someone. It just isn’t worth it.
I believe in love at first sight. It’s the only way it can work for me. But it doesn’t believe in me.
I only expect to live a few more years. Doctors tell me about three. I find it funny that I might outlive my grandparents. I’ve heard my grandmother call it unnatural when talking to my mother. I am unnatural, after all.
As short as they seem, however, these 13 years have constituted a long life. I’m amazed at what I’ve accomplished; so much more than the average person. Out of necessity. I have no regrets as it were. None for which I’m responsible, that is. If I could change anything, I’d ask my mother not to involve herself in the experiment that mixed her egg and a dog’s sperm.
I don’t have any wants, per se. With my body the way it is, wants are too expensive. I gave up trying to be current years ago.
I worked my last job at age 60. A lead in the stockroom at Walmart. My boss told me I would have made a good manager if I could have worked longer than 10 years.
It’s funny that there were no other side effects from my birth. The doctors said they couldn’t predict the outcome but offered my mother gobs of money for trying the experiment. I still have no idea why she agreed. But I have my opinions.
I never made it through school; I just couldn’t learn all they wanted me to learn in the time I had. Not to mention the fact that the kids insulted me incessantly. I studied at home instead. My grandmother helped me. Taught me to read and write. I can’t much help that the majority of my reading comes from books about saints. I once thought that God put me here for a reason, like he did those people with the halos. Then, I realized that I was just a science experiment. Gone wrong.
The experiment that begot me was not even the most remarkable happening on the day I was born. No, half way across the world, Dolly the Sheep was cloned. An experiment that meant something to the greater world of science. I did no such good in the scientific community.
The best day of my life had to be the turn of the millennium. I was to turn 30 just a day later. And so, I spent the remainder of my 20s living it up in New York City. Danced. Drank. Ended up in some woman’s bed.
I only have one night stands. For their sake and mine. It doesn’t make sense to get close to anyone. I have no idea if this is genetic. And if it is, then I sure as hell am not going to pass it on. And even if it wasn’t, I just don’t have the time to learn someone. It just isn’t worth it.
I believe in love at first sight. It’s the only way it can work for me. But it doesn’t believe in me.
I only expect to live a few more years. Doctors tell me about three. I find it funny that I might outlive my grandparents. I’ve heard my grandmother call it unnatural when talking to my mother. I am unnatural, after all.
As short as they seem, however, these 13 years have constituted a long life. I’m amazed at what I’ve accomplished; so much more than the average person. Out of necessity. I have no regrets as it were. None for which I’m responsible, that is. If I could change anything, I’d ask my mother not to involve herself in the experiment that mixed her egg and a dog’s sperm.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: Six Point Five Years
The prompt this week is, "I come from..." or if you like you could try, "I came from..." This is all about your perspective. Where did you start? Where do you start? How did it all begin? Where do you stand right now? Where exactly do you come from?
Foot in the door, my partner gets me my first opportunity in corporate America.
Contracted for a project that corrected statements so we could determine balances.
A big break, the result of a crazy fired lady screaming at the top of her lungs.
Ten keyed to my heart’s content and returned lots of money to lawyers. Sorry.
A rare accounting supervisor, unanimously elected by those who had trained me.
Supervised a tad inside the Lion’s Den, a short stay.
An interesting request from a controller, go find out what he’s doing.
Managed portfolios of accounts and stood inside the doorway of an ornery man.
Some interest from another department, let’s see what you’ve got.
Gathered requirements, made nice with Operations, and tested an application or two.
Off to another job, she left me wondering if I could fill her shoes.
Managed a project or seven and learned a great deal more about politics.
A shot in the dark, tried my luck at applying for a reach position.
Leading. And working with a client to help them determine their own balances.
Foot in the door, my partner gets me my first opportunity in corporate America.
Contracted for a project that corrected statements so we could determine balances.
A big break, the result of a crazy fired lady screaming at the top of her lungs.
Ten keyed to my heart’s content and returned lots of money to lawyers. Sorry.
A rare accounting supervisor, unanimously elected by those who had trained me.
Supervised a tad inside the Lion’s Den, a short stay.
An interesting request from a controller, go find out what he’s doing.
Managed portfolios of accounts and stood inside the doorway of an ornery man.
Some interest from another department, let’s see what you’ve got.
Gathered requirements, made nice with Operations, and tested an application or two.
Off to another job, she left me wondering if I could fill her shoes.
Managed a project or seven and learned a great deal more about politics.
A shot in the dark, tried my luck at applying for a reach position.
Leading. And working with a client to help them determine their own balances.
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