Frank sat dejectedly in his room, grounded by all the times he mischievously claimed innocence. But those past discretions had gone unnoticed neither by his hysterically laughing parents nor by indifferently passing time. He changed the channel on the 35” LCD Samsung television he received as a gift on his last birthday to a game show he used to watch. The host wooed contestants with his melodic voice; he grinned with mocking omnipotence at their nearly unbelievable ignorance. Frank’s finger found the menu button, and he scanned the other billion channels that were playing nothing of note. He considered a war movie but decided he wasn’t in the mood. The television thus landed on the NFL Network; he watched as the overconfident Joe Namath relived his greatest moment and changed the game of football forever.
The television neglected to hold Frank’s interest for long. Instead, he daydreamed, as was his custom, about his childhood. He had played basketball in the schoolyard every chance he had and until his mother rang the bell she had installed for the purpose of calling him back home. He rarely listened to that bell. But when he heard ‘Francis Morgan Flanagan’ he knew it was time to go. In the winters, he ventured to the pond on the other side of town with his skates and stick ready to lay people out on the ice. He played and joked and traded barbs for hours, occasionally even going toe to toe with a newcomer. He didn’t win those fights often, but his tenacity earned him respect.
A knock came at his door, startling him. ‘Come in,’ he said feebly.
‘We’re taking off for a little while. Stay in here until we get back.’
‘Where else am I going to go?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘We’ll be right back,’ she said, ignoring his commentary. She shut the door behind her.
He heard the car start and then zoom away. He felt the fire of his teenage angst, stoked as it was by the interchange he had just had. The television crooned about the Steel Curtain, but he wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he planned his escape. He knew where the keys were hidden, and he remembered the neighborhood well enough. They weren’t going to keep him locked up.
Frank went into the master bedroom and fished out the spare key from the top drawer of the bureau. He slipped on a sweatshirt and some sweats. He slowly navigated the stairs into the basement and opened the garage door. He peaked outside to survey the area. Sometimes, they enlisted the neighbors to spy. But there were no cars around that he could see. He slinked into the driver’s side, inserted the key in the ignition, and started the car. His lead foot revved the engine.
He pulled out faster than he intended and stopped hard; he shifted and slammed his foot on the gas again, barely missing the mailbox as he turned. He stopped again and fastened his seatbelt. His foot found the gas pedal a third time but was more gentle. He took a right on Ramble Drive and made his way to Farm Run Road. It once had farms on it, not the he remembered, but the land had since been converted into suburban sprawl.
With fits and starts, Frank made his way to the town where he grew up. Once there, he sought out the house where he had lived and the court on which he had played. When he found them, he reflected on how different they looked. He didn’t linger long. Instead, he traveled to the other side of town to the pond on which he had played hockey. He was surprised to find the pond smaller than he remembered, not to mention polluted. He got out of the car and rounded the lake. He sat on a decrepit green bench. The cool breeze floating through the trees soon put him to sleep.
‘Sir. Excuse me, sir,’ came a young man’s voice. ‘Sir, can you hear me?’
‘Huh, what, yeah?’ Frank stammered.
‘Sir, can you hear me?’
‘What? Who are you? Where am I?’
‘Sir, I’m going to call an ambulance.’ The young gentleman placed the navy blue jacket over him. ‘Sir, do you understand?’
Frank nodded and shivered uncontrollably. The sweatshirt and sweats were little comfort in 20 degree weather.
Soon, the flashing red and white lights approached. In an out of consciousness, Frank struggled to understand what had happened. In what seemed to be his next conscious moment, he opened his eyes to a familiar face, although much older than he remembered it.
‘Dad, I told you to stay at home. You can’t drive anymore. You just can’t.’ She seemed on the verge of tears.
‘Don’t worry, pumpkin, daddy’s here,’ he tried his best to comfort her. ‘I just wanted to go play hockey with the boys.’ He smiled his gregarious smile and then slipped again into unconsciousness.
He heard, then, a bell. ‘Just a few minutes more,’ he told his friends, ‘until I hear my name.’
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Princess for a Day
She listened to Vanessa describe the black guy she met the night before at a bar in Orlando. They danced, drank, and disappeared leaving Cynthia alone in the bar to fend for herself. Cynthia just wanted to make sure the cab ride she had to take was worth it.
'What was his name? Did you go back to his place?' she inquired.
'His name's LaTerryan and he said he has roommates?'
'LaTerryan? Honestly?' She paused to chuckle. 'I'll bet he has a girlfriend.'
'No.'
'You sure?'
'Yeah,' she replied hesitantly.
'No?'
'How should I know? I just met him.'
'Didn't you ask?'
'Well, no.'
Tony Sala, their boss, walked into the room. The girls ceased their conversation.
'Yous girls ready?' he asked with his thick Italian accent. The Mickey Mouse on his shirt jiggled in conjunction with Tony's massive stomach.
'Yeah,' they answered in disinterested unison.
'They're out there. Go make 'em feel happy to be here. Who's readin the names?' Tony handed Vanessa the sheet of paper with fifteen names.
They traded uncertain glances.
Vanessa spoke first, 'I did it last Friday.'
'There were like two kids. Let me see, are there any retarded names?'
Vanessa gave a quick glance, 'Kevin, Brittany, Phil, Jacob, Sarah. They all look legit to me.'
Tony chimed in, 'I don't care who does it. You can take turns for all I care. But right now, you're wastin Mickey's time.' He pointed to Mickey's left ear with his sausage fingers. 'It's Disney time, girls.' His attempt at excitement always came off as sarcasm at best.
'Fine, I'll do it,' Cynthia yanked the page from Vanessa's hand less gently than she wanted and tore the paper slightly. They walked by Tony, who smelled of garlic and Old Spice.
They entered a small auditorium where a dozen families - each with at least one child between the ages of 4-10 - sat in small segregated clusters. The male children sported plastic golden crowns; the females children wore bejeweled silver tiaras.
Vanessa began, 'Welcome one and all to your kingdom, where you will be princes and princesses for a day. My assistant Vanessa will introduce you to your subjects,' she motioned to Cynthia.
'I request that each prince and princess step forward when I call your name to be rightly honored,' Cynthia announced disinterestedly.
'Welcome, Prince Philip.' She waited for the young boy to walk up to the stage to receive his plaque from Vanessa. 'Welcome, Princess Sarah. Welcome, Princess Brittany. Welcome, Prince Kevin.' She looked close at the next name, 'Welcome Princess LaTonya.' She looked up to watch the girl make her way up to the stage.
Vanessa lost her spot on the page, which just so happened to be the small portion of the paper that was ripped. She studied the page, feeling the awkward pause growing in the auditorium.
'Welcome, Princess...' She looked at the word and had no idea. She didn't care enough to try too hard. 'Welcome, Princess Shady Nasty!' she exclaimed with more energy than usual. No one immediately moved.
After the pause, an obviously indignant black woman stood and called out to Cynthia - and to the other 'royalty' and their family - 'Her name's ShaDynasty!'
'What was his name? Did you go back to his place?' she inquired.
'His name's LaTerryan and he said he has roommates?'
'LaTerryan? Honestly?' She paused to chuckle. 'I'll bet he has a girlfriend.'
'No.'
'You sure?'
'Yeah,' she replied hesitantly.
'No?'
'How should I know? I just met him.'
'Didn't you ask?'
'Well, no.'
Tony Sala, their boss, walked into the room. The girls ceased their conversation.
'Yous girls ready?' he asked with his thick Italian accent. The Mickey Mouse on his shirt jiggled in conjunction with Tony's massive stomach.
'Yeah,' they answered in disinterested unison.
'They're out there. Go make 'em feel happy to be here. Who's readin the names?' Tony handed Vanessa the sheet of paper with fifteen names.
They traded uncertain glances.
Vanessa spoke first, 'I did it last Friday.'
'There were like two kids. Let me see, are there any retarded names?'
Vanessa gave a quick glance, 'Kevin, Brittany, Phil, Jacob, Sarah. They all look legit to me.'
Tony chimed in, 'I don't care who does it. You can take turns for all I care. But right now, you're wastin Mickey's time.' He pointed to Mickey's left ear with his sausage fingers. 'It's Disney time, girls.' His attempt at excitement always came off as sarcasm at best.
'Fine, I'll do it,' Cynthia yanked the page from Vanessa's hand less gently than she wanted and tore the paper slightly. They walked by Tony, who smelled of garlic and Old Spice.
They entered a small auditorium where a dozen families - each with at least one child between the ages of 4-10 - sat in small segregated clusters. The male children sported plastic golden crowns; the females children wore bejeweled silver tiaras.
Vanessa began, 'Welcome one and all to your kingdom, where you will be princes and princesses for a day. My assistant Vanessa will introduce you to your subjects,' she motioned to Cynthia.
'I request that each prince and princess step forward when I call your name to be rightly honored,' Cynthia announced disinterestedly.
'Welcome, Prince Philip.' She waited for the young boy to walk up to the stage to receive his plaque from Vanessa. 'Welcome, Princess Sarah. Welcome, Princess Brittany. Welcome, Prince Kevin.' She looked close at the next name, 'Welcome Princess LaTonya.' She looked up to watch the girl make her way up to the stage.
Vanessa lost her spot on the page, which just so happened to be the small portion of the paper that was ripped. She studied the page, feeling the awkward pause growing in the auditorium.
'Welcome, Princess...' She looked at the word and had no idea. She didn't care enough to try too hard. 'Welcome, Princess Shady Nasty!' she exclaimed with more energy than usual. No one immediately moved.
After the pause, an obviously indignant black woman stood and called out to Cynthia - and to the other 'royalty' and their family - 'Her name's ShaDynasty!'
Sunday, December 19, 2010
A Kosher Christmas
‘I’m not feeling much in a Christmas mood,’ Alex explained to his Jewish co-worker. ‘I’ve never not had a tree until this year. I don’t even have decorations. I tried to watch White Christmas and some of those clay-mation classics, but nothing seems to work. I’m not sure what to do.’ Alex was new to the neighborhood after moving from a city half way across the continent.
The young Jewish man, David, chuckled a bit. ‘Having never celebrated Christmas, I suppose I can’t really know how that feels. Well, I’m taking off for a nice long weekend. Have a happy holiday.’ David moved down the hallway and passed through the double doors that lead back to his desk.
Alex walked back to his office and sat at his chair. He stared blankly at his monitor, which showed him all the emails to which he needed to respond. People had ceased walking by his door; the office had become a ghost town. He contemplated working more so as not to have so much work on his plate when he returned, but he decided against it. Instead, his fingers guided the mouse to shut down the machine. He packed his things and walked back to the apartment.
The train he intended to catch had long since departed; the next few were after 7 p.m. His cell phone buzzed again, revealing an unhappy sister who had waited at the station for a half hour before calling it quits and heading back home. He picked up the phone and finally typed a reply. ‘Not coming home. Something came up. Merry Christmas!’ That was it; there was no further explanation.
A short time later, he received a text in return. It simply read, ‘Whatever…’ He turned off the phone.
Alex sat wallowing in his apartment watching Cops and Mythbusters. He sipped on a Coors Light and popped bagged popcorn into his mouth. Sleep gradually crept into his eyes.
Alex vaguely heard the knock; the doorbell, however, was unmistakable. The clock read 11 p.m. He grumbled angrily to himself, ‘Christmas Eve, really?’ and looked into the peephole. On the other side of the door stood David, his Jewish co-worker. Alex opened the door, and David immediately stepped into the apartment.
‘What are you doing here?’ Alex inquired.
‘I needed a place to go.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘I’d rather not discuss. Can I stay for a bit, maybe overnight?’
‘Well, come in and we’ll figure something out.’
David moved to the couch and sat.
‘Can I offer you something to drink?’ Alex asked. ‘I’ve got beer, juice, water…’
‘Water sounds good. Thanks.’
Alex poured the water and got himself another beer. He sat in the opposite end of the couch.
‘So, what are you watching?’ David asked.
Alex replied, ‘I don’t really know; I’ve been asleep for a little.’
‘Sorry that I woke you. I didn’t expect you to be here, but I had to try.’
‘Where did you think I’d be? And how do you know where I live anyway?’
‘Well, it’s easy to find out where people live. And I thought you’d be at your sister’s.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I overheard a conversation you were having at work.’
Alex considered when he had discussed his Christmas plans at work. Since he was new, he had spoken to very few people about anything including the holidays. But he could have said something in passing to someone. He decided to let it go.
They sat in silence for a time.
‘Why didn’t you go to your sister’s?’
‘I didn’t want to deal with my family,’ he answered.
‘Family can certainly be challenging. But they do love you.’
‘Blah, bah, blah. They’re all about guilt and competition. Why would I want to volunteer for that? My sister’s constantly on my case about not being in contact. My brother always makes comments about the gifts I buy. Mom has just about given up on me; she’d decided that what I’m trying to do is a stupid pipe dream. So, why? Answer me that.’
‘They’re family.’
‘Cop out response. Why aren’t you with yours instead of with me?’
‘My family’s dead.’
‘Oh. Sorry. You don’t have a wife?’
‘Had a wife. And a kid. A while ago.’
‘It couldn’t have been that long ago; you’re pretty young.’
David didn’t respond.
‘Anyway, I just get frustrated. It’s like I’m not at all good enough for them, not who they want me to be.’
‘You’re not who they want you to be. And that’s okay. That’s a lesson for them to learn.’
‘Well, I’d rather they learn that lesson before I learn my own.’
‘Why not be the bigger man?’
‘Why do I have to start? Why is it that I’m the one who has the responsibility of keeping in contact? Why is it that it’s on me and not on them?’
‘I never said it wasn’t on them. But it’s on you too.’
‘Yeah, cop out. So why are you here again? A Jew giving advice to a former Christian on Christmas Eve? Seems kinda strange. What happened to your nice long weekend?’
‘This is as good a way as any to spend a nice long weekend.’
‘So, what were you originally planning?’
‘This.’
‘This, what?’
‘I get to chat with you. And to travel.’
‘Travel?’
‘There’s still another train that you can catch.’
‘What?’
‘Another train. At the station. You can still catch it.’
‘Okay, great. But there’s no way for me to get back to my sister’s from there. And I already said I’m not going back.’ He stood and walked to the closet. ‘Here’s a blanket and a pillow you can use. I’m going to bed.’ Alex turned and walked into his room, closed his door, and readied for bed. He heard the bathroom door close and the toilet flush. There was a bit more rustling, and then silence. He considered what David has said and decided he just wasn’t ready to deal with his family. With that, he made one final wish, a tradition he and his siblings had shared for as long as he could remember, and he fell asleep.
The next morning, Alex walked out into his living area to find a small decorated tree and a strand of lines streaming about the apartment. The floors were spotless, his detritus neatly organized in the corner. In the small kitchen, David was handling a few large plates.
‘What are you doing?’ Alex asked.
‘I figured we could have a nice Christmas meal.’
‘But you don’t celebrate Christmas. And where did you get all this stuff between last night and today? Everything’s closed.’
‘You live in a huge city during a time when capitalism is king. Not to mention there are more Jews here than anywhere except Israel. There are plenty of places open. As long as you don’t mind kosher food.’ He smiled. ‘Merry Christmas, Alex.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Because I understand the importance of a special day. And you shouldn’t be spending it alone.’
‘Fine,’ he said with resignation. Alex entered the kitchen and looked around. ‘There’s enough food to feed an army.’
‘I thought we could eat and then bring the rest to a shelter. Not to mention leftovers that both of us can have.’
Alex asked what he could do to help, and David put him to work on cooking some vegetables and making a salad. David put on National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, Alex’s favorite Christmas movie, and they shared some holiday laughter.
At about noon, David slapped a hand to his forehead and said, ‘I can’t believe I forgot the wine.’
‘A little late now,’ commented Alex.
‘Nah, but I’ll have to travel a bit. I’ll be back in a bit. I know a place where I can get it. A nice Cabernet will go beautifully with the ham.’
He exited, leaving Alex to watch the finale of A Christmas Story.
About an hour later, Alex heard the buzzer sound, and he rang David up. There soon came a knock at the door.
‘Enter,’ Alex replied.
The door opened, and Alex’s family spilled into the apartment. In his mother’s right hand, a bottle of cabernet.
‘A bottle of wine for the new homeowner. I guess it’s about time we made the effort. So, what is that wonderful smell?’
Alex smiled. ‘Merry Christmas everyone. Make yourselves at home.’
The young Jewish man, David, chuckled a bit. ‘Having never celebrated Christmas, I suppose I can’t really know how that feels. Well, I’m taking off for a nice long weekend. Have a happy holiday.’ David moved down the hallway and passed through the double doors that lead back to his desk.
Alex walked back to his office and sat at his chair. He stared blankly at his monitor, which showed him all the emails to which he needed to respond. People had ceased walking by his door; the office had become a ghost town. He contemplated working more so as not to have so much work on his plate when he returned, but he decided against it. Instead, his fingers guided the mouse to shut down the machine. He packed his things and walked back to the apartment.
The train he intended to catch had long since departed; the next few were after 7 p.m. His cell phone buzzed again, revealing an unhappy sister who had waited at the station for a half hour before calling it quits and heading back home. He picked up the phone and finally typed a reply. ‘Not coming home. Something came up. Merry Christmas!’ That was it; there was no further explanation.
A short time later, he received a text in return. It simply read, ‘Whatever…’ He turned off the phone.
Alex sat wallowing in his apartment watching Cops and Mythbusters. He sipped on a Coors Light and popped bagged popcorn into his mouth. Sleep gradually crept into his eyes.
Alex vaguely heard the knock; the doorbell, however, was unmistakable. The clock read 11 p.m. He grumbled angrily to himself, ‘Christmas Eve, really?’ and looked into the peephole. On the other side of the door stood David, his Jewish co-worker. Alex opened the door, and David immediately stepped into the apartment.
‘What are you doing here?’ Alex inquired.
‘I needed a place to go.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘I’d rather not discuss. Can I stay for a bit, maybe overnight?’
‘Well, come in and we’ll figure something out.’
David moved to the couch and sat.
‘Can I offer you something to drink?’ Alex asked. ‘I’ve got beer, juice, water…’
‘Water sounds good. Thanks.’
Alex poured the water and got himself another beer. He sat in the opposite end of the couch.
‘So, what are you watching?’ David asked.
Alex replied, ‘I don’t really know; I’ve been asleep for a little.’
‘Sorry that I woke you. I didn’t expect you to be here, but I had to try.’
‘Where did you think I’d be? And how do you know where I live anyway?’
‘Well, it’s easy to find out where people live. And I thought you’d be at your sister’s.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I overheard a conversation you were having at work.’
Alex considered when he had discussed his Christmas plans at work. Since he was new, he had spoken to very few people about anything including the holidays. But he could have said something in passing to someone. He decided to let it go.
They sat in silence for a time.
‘Why didn’t you go to your sister’s?’
‘I didn’t want to deal with my family,’ he answered.
‘Family can certainly be challenging. But they do love you.’
‘Blah, bah, blah. They’re all about guilt and competition. Why would I want to volunteer for that? My sister’s constantly on my case about not being in contact. My brother always makes comments about the gifts I buy. Mom has just about given up on me; she’d decided that what I’m trying to do is a stupid pipe dream. So, why? Answer me that.’
‘They’re family.’
‘Cop out response. Why aren’t you with yours instead of with me?’
‘My family’s dead.’
‘Oh. Sorry. You don’t have a wife?’
‘Had a wife. And a kid. A while ago.’
‘It couldn’t have been that long ago; you’re pretty young.’
David didn’t respond.
‘Anyway, I just get frustrated. It’s like I’m not at all good enough for them, not who they want me to be.’
‘You’re not who they want you to be. And that’s okay. That’s a lesson for them to learn.’
‘Well, I’d rather they learn that lesson before I learn my own.’
‘Why not be the bigger man?’
‘Why do I have to start? Why is it that I’m the one who has the responsibility of keeping in contact? Why is it that it’s on me and not on them?’
‘I never said it wasn’t on them. But it’s on you too.’
‘Yeah, cop out. So why are you here again? A Jew giving advice to a former Christian on Christmas Eve? Seems kinda strange. What happened to your nice long weekend?’
‘This is as good a way as any to spend a nice long weekend.’
‘So, what were you originally planning?’
‘This.’
‘This, what?’
‘I get to chat with you. And to travel.’
‘Travel?’
‘There’s still another train that you can catch.’
‘What?’
‘Another train. At the station. You can still catch it.’
‘Okay, great. But there’s no way for me to get back to my sister’s from there. And I already said I’m not going back.’ He stood and walked to the closet. ‘Here’s a blanket and a pillow you can use. I’m going to bed.’ Alex turned and walked into his room, closed his door, and readied for bed. He heard the bathroom door close and the toilet flush. There was a bit more rustling, and then silence. He considered what David has said and decided he just wasn’t ready to deal with his family. With that, he made one final wish, a tradition he and his siblings had shared for as long as he could remember, and he fell asleep.
The next morning, Alex walked out into his living area to find a small decorated tree and a strand of lines streaming about the apartment. The floors were spotless, his detritus neatly organized in the corner. In the small kitchen, David was handling a few large plates.
‘What are you doing?’ Alex asked.
‘I figured we could have a nice Christmas meal.’
‘But you don’t celebrate Christmas. And where did you get all this stuff between last night and today? Everything’s closed.’
‘You live in a huge city during a time when capitalism is king. Not to mention there are more Jews here than anywhere except Israel. There are plenty of places open. As long as you don’t mind kosher food.’ He smiled. ‘Merry Christmas, Alex.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Because I understand the importance of a special day. And you shouldn’t be spending it alone.’
‘Fine,’ he said with resignation. Alex entered the kitchen and looked around. ‘There’s enough food to feed an army.’
‘I thought we could eat and then bring the rest to a shelter. Not to mention leftovers that both of us can have.’
Alex asked what he could do to help, and David put him to work on cooking some vegetables and making a salad. David put on National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, Alex’s favorite Christmas movie, and they shared some holiday laughter.
At about noon, David slapped a hand to his forehead and said, ‘I can’t believe I forgot the wine.’
‘A little late now,’ commented Alex.
‘Nah, but I’ll have to travel a bit. I’ll be back in a bit. I know a place where I can get it. A nice Cabernet will go beautifully with the ham.’
He exited, leaving Alex to watch the finale of A Christmas Story.
About an hour later, Alex heard the buzzer sound, and he rang David up. There soon came a knock at the door.
‘Enter,’ Alex replied.
The door opened, and Alex’s family spilled into the apartment. In his mother’s right hand, a bottle of cabernet.
‘A bottle of wine for the new homeowner. I guess it’s about time we made the effort. So, what is that wonderful smell?’
Alex smiled. ‘Merry Christmas everyone. Make yourselves at home.’
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Haiku Hai: A Satur Day
I started the day
Wielding a black controller,
Beating the bad guys.
I slept a few hours.
Fleeting dreams of the future
Rarely remembered.
I woke with big plans,
But wielded the controller,
Beating the bad guys.
Then I made a call.
A foreign cell phone woke him.
The card didn’t last.
We struggled with Skype,
The sound and picture, suspect.
Hours passed like minutes.
I strode down Thompson.
An ancient barber cut me.
I paid him for it.
So many Santas,
They stumbled down the sidewalks.
Such jolly drunkards.
Ate at the Grey Dog.
In the door, a pending grade.
Not sick as a dog.
Came back home to work.
Watching Madmen episodes.
Can’t help but wonder.
I’m considering
Wielding the black controller,
Beating the bad guys.
Wielding a black controller,
Beating the bad guys.
I slept a few hours.
Fleeting dreams of the future
Rarely remembered.
I woke with big plans,
But wielded the controller,
Beating the bad guys.
Then I made a call.
A foreign cell phone woke him.
The card didn’t last.
We struggled with Skype,
The sound and picture, suspect.
Hours passed like minutes.
I strode down Thompson.
An ancient barber cut me.
I paid him for it.
So many Santas,
They stumbled down the sidewalks.
Such jolly drunkards.
Ate at the Grey Dog.
In the door, a pending grade.
Not sick as a dog.
Came back home to work.
Watching Madmen episodes.
Can’t help but wonder.
I’m considering
Wielding the black controller,
Beating the bad guys.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Historicality: Peace Lost Its Chance
The year was 1980. The Empire Strikes Back hit movie theaters. Solidarity was established in Poland. And Ronald Reagan defeated Jimmy Carter to become the 40th president. Civil Rights and Woodstock were but fleeting memories in the minds of the aging hippies and nascent yuppies. It was a turning point, a time when the free flowing, sometimes drug induced ideas of the 60s and 70s gave way to a more pragmatic and realistic conservatism. An era of romanticism had come to an end.
The year 1980 also marked my first memory, one of those snippets from youth that I recall vividly. I was a little more than three years old. I was at my grandparents' house, though for what reason I couldn't say. Someone was on the phone. I don't remember who, though I'd guess it was my grandfather. It was a rotary phone in those days. And the only one in the house. One of those phones that was attached to the wall, a little too high for a three year old to reach. My grandmother called me from the hallway; she was moving a kitchen chair beneath the phone, obviously intending that I was to speak with whomever was on the other end. I stepped onto the chair and prepared the line that my grandparents had relayed. I heard an unusually melancholy voice say hello on the other end. And then, I said my piece, 'I'm sorry about John Lemmon.'
It has been 30 years since the world changed. Since another era of romanticism waned into nothingness. And today marks 30 years since the actualization of that romantic era's symbolic death. Though it might not have been the day the music died, it was the day that peace lost its chance.
The year 1980 also marked my first memory, one of those snippets from youth that I recall vividly. I was a little more than three years old. I was at my grandparents' house, though for what reason I couldn't say. Someone was on the phone. I don't remember who, though I'd guess it was my grandfather. It was a rotary phone in those days. And the only one in the house. One of those phones that was attached to the wall, a little too high for a three year old to reach. My grandmother called me from the hallway; she was moving a kitchen chair beneath the phone, obviously intending that I was to speak with whomever was on the other end. I stepped onto the chair and prepared the line that my grandparents had relayed. I heard an unusually melancholy voice say hello on the other end. And then, I said my piece, 'I'm sorry about John Lemmon.'
It has been 30 years since the world changed. Since another era of romanticism waned into nothingness. And today marks 30 years since the actualization of that romantic era's symbolic death. Though it might not have been the day the music died, it was the day that peace lost its chance.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
It's Personal: Returned East, An Epilogue
Written a couple hours ago while on a plane from Seattle to NYC
I sit on a plane.
I will sit on this plane for a little while longer. I will watch some of the second half of the Giants v. Eagles game before this plane lands at JFK. I will pull a backpack from beneath the seat in front of me and a garment bag from the overhead bin soon after landing. I will take a cab back to the apartment in SoHo and sleep in my bed tonight. I will wake up early tomorrow and dress in business casual clothing - a much different animal in New York than in Seattle - and I will become an employee of another company for the first time in eight years. God willing, that is. All of this is God willing.
I will return to Seattle as a visitor, hopefully in the near future. And perhaps I'll even live there again someday. But not tomorrow. And I'd imagine not for a good number of subsequent tomorrows.
It's time for something new.
To all of you who wish to stay in touch, please don't hesitate to comment here, send a Facebook message, email, text, and / or call.
With that I'll leave you with the sentiment I offered to my co-workers in my final email as a full time employee. For those who have read these words already, I beg your pardon for the repetition.
I could say goodbye, but I don’t believe in them. I could say parting is such sweet sorrow, but it seems overused. I could advise you – and myself – not to be sad because it’s over but rather to be happy because it happened, but that seems somewhat self-serving. Or I could offer that I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve, but it could be interpreted incorrectly.
Instead, I will simply say thank you; I am a better person for having lived in Seattle and for knowing each of you...
I sit on a plane.
I will sit on this plane for a little while longer. I will watch some of the second half of the Giants v. Eagles game before this plane lands at JFK. I will pull a backpack from beneath the seat in front of me and a garment bag from the overhead bin soon after landing. I will take a cab back to the apartment in SoHo and sleep in my bed tonight. I will wake up early tomorrow and dress in business casual clothing - a much different animal in New York than in Seattle - and I will become an employee of another company for the first time in eight years. God willing, that is. All of this is God willing.
I will return to Seattle as a visitor, hopefully in the near future. And perhaps I'll even live there again someday. But not tomorrow. And I'd imagine not for a good number of subsequent tomorrows.
It's time for something new.
To all of you who wish to stay in touch, please don't hesitate to comment here, send a Facebook message, email, text, and / or call.
With that I'll leave you with the sentiment I offered to my co-workers in my final email as a full time employee. For those who have read these words already, I beg your pardon for the repetition.
I could say goodbye, but I don’t believe in them. I could say parting is such sweet sorrow, but it seems overused. I could advise you – and myself – not to be sad because it’s over but rather to be happy because it happened, but that seems somewhat self-serving. Or I could offer that I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve, but it could be interpreted incorrectly.
Instead, I will simply say thank you; I am a better person for having lived in Seattle and for knowing each of you...
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Foodalicious: Bar 89
Finding a place to eat in New York is never a challenge. Deciding between the places, however, is another thing entirely. It’s always good to have a few filters. On Thursday evening, I received a text suggesting someplace relatively cheap – it is New York after all – and having bar-type food. Another text suggested either the Ear Inn or Bar 89.
A quick search indicated that the Ear Inn is older and somewhat loud. Best described as a dive bar, it has cheap food and drinks. Bar 89, it said, is newer with an upper scale atmosphere. Though not as cheap as the Ear Inn, the food and drink by SoHo’s standards are still on the less expensive side.
Wanting a quieter, more upper class vibe, we chose Bar 89.
The four of us entered the heavy glass doors at approximately 9 p.m. A large sign informed us to wait to be seated. As we waited, I took in our surroundings. It seemed a big white box, tall and long. To the left was a non-descript bar. To the right, there were horseshoe-shaped booths. And in front of us were small round tables. To the back of the restaurant, a tall staircase leads to a few more round tables and a one-sided booth with four separate tables. All in all, it was a large space, but it almost felt as though they hadn’t made adequate use of it.
As for the atmosphere, it was loud, but not loud like something small and enclosed. Instead, voices ricocheted off the boxy walls competing with each other from different corners of the restaurant. It felt more like we were in a concert hall than a restaurant.
After taking in the surroundings, we were still waiting.
I recently watched a reality television show that featured a competition between two competing teams who each had to set up a functional restaurant in 24 hours. Restaurant goers choose one of the restaurants based on the décor and menu. Sometime during the period when each restaurant is serving, the panel of four judges enters to judge all aspects of each restaurant from the greeting to the dessert. In that specific episode, the judges walked into one of the restaurants and were not immediately greeted by a host, which was a big no-no.
Well, that’s how I felt when I entered Bar 89. After approximately two minutes – an exorbitant amount of time in restaurant-speak – a server approached us and asked if we wanted to sit up top. We didn’t much care, so we meandered upstairs.
The round tables were too small for four, so we chose one of the back-boothed end tables. Upon sitting at the table, we immediately noticed that the table resembled a trapezoid – almost a triangle – more than a rectangle. And it wasn’t a big trapezoid. In fact, the table probably shouldn’t sit more than three though it is set for four. We wanted to move to one of the three adjacent tables but noticed two guys standing beside them. When we asked, they indicated that they had a large party that was to occupy the remaining three tables. We decided to live with the trapezoid.
Our waitress distributed menus and asked us what we wanted to drink. One of our company asked what was on tap. She answered that they served beer only in bottles, a bad sign for a place with ‘bar’ in the name. Two of the company ordered mixed drinks. I and another of our company both ordered Samuel Smith Nut Brown Ale, a beer I had never tried.
We then surveyed the menu of typical American fare. I spied three different types of wings on the front among other common appetizers. Inside, we found hamburgers and other typical sandwiches as well as a few main entrees. It was not an extensive menu, but there are times when a spartan menu is preferable since it indicates that the restaurant concentrates on a few core items.
We ordered. I had a taste for the Buffalo wings with some blue cheese and some spiciness. The others ordered, though what exactly, I do not now recall. I think, perhaps, they ordered sandwiches.
Soon after, our drinks came. And, there was only one Nut Brown Ale on the tray. It seems they had only one left, another questionable sign for a ‘bar’. The other person who ordered the ale insisted that I take it and then ordered himself a Magic Hat. We toasted and awaited our meals. I did, by the way, enjoy the hoppy nuttiness of the ale.
Meanwhile, we discussed the birthplace of our server. A prim and proper woman with an accent, she reminded me of a figurine that emerges from a cuckoo clock on the hour. We tried to place the accent but were unsuccessful; we therefore settled on it being Welsh since Welsh accents can be mistaken for just about any other European-based accent in the universe. I suppose we could have inquired, but she seemed rather focused and unapproachable.
The food came. I’ll rate it as satisfactory. If I needed to give it a grade, I’d say a ‘C+’. I’ve had much better wings – I’d suggest Archie Moore’s in downtown Wallingford, CT. I’ve also had much better waffle fries – see Chick Fil-A. Still, I ate everything on my plate, consuming each wing methodically.
As I ate, I noticed that I was missing most of the conversation between my friends. The noise level seemed to increase as we remained longer, probably due to the adjacent party’s consistent imbibing. In fact, their voices felt like bludgeoning blows to my already sensitive eardrums.
We completed our meal sans dessert and paid our check. As we readied to leave, two of our company decided to visit the restroom. They returned moments later and beckoned us remaining two to witness the strange thing they had seen. We all walked back to a well-lit area and noticed approximately 10 individual unisex stalls, each with heavy doors. And those heavy doors were made of clear glass; in other words, we could see everything in the stalls, including the toilet and sink. One of our company entered a stall and closed the door. The glass became opaque, and a white-lit ‘Occupied’ sign appeared. It was, we agreed, a fascinating concept, a novelty. The only problem was that the glass door did not become opaque enough to hide the occupant entirely. It was in practice, for lack of a better word, creepy.
As we completed our accidental voyeurism, our waitress approached holding three receipts in her hand. She asked politely where she could find the fourth receipt. We checked the receipts she had in her hand and noticed that it was mine – of course – that was missing. I checked my wallet and found the customer copy, but I didn’t have the merchant copy. Remembering where I placed it on the table, I returned to the trapezoid and noticed a wet towel atop the place where I had laid the receipt. I pulled the loose paper from beneath the wet rag and handed it to the waitress. She accepted it with her apologies.
We descended the stairs and exited the ‘bar’, each of us in turn stating that we collectively and respectively did not need to relive the Bar 89 experience.
A quick search indicated that the Ear Inn is older and somewhat loud. Best described as a dive bar, it has cheap food and drinks. Bar 89, it said, is newer with an upper scale atmosphere. Though not as cheap as the Ear Inn, the food and drink by SoHo’s standards are still on the less expensive side.
Wanting a quieter, more upper class vibe, we chose Bar 89.
The four of us entered the heavy glass doors at approximately 9 p.m. A large sign informed us to wait to be seated. As we waited, I took in our surroundings. It seemed a big white box, tall and long. To the left was a non-descript bar. To the right, there were horseshoe-shaped booths. And in front of us were small round tables. To the back of the restaurant, a tall staircase leads to a few more round tables and a one-sided booth with four separate tables. All in all, it was a large space, but it almost felt as though they hadn’t made adequate use of it.
As for the atmosphere, it was loud, but not loud like something small and enclosed. Instead, voices ricocheted off the boxy walls competing with each other from different corners of the restaurant. It felt more like we were in a concert hall than a restaurant.
After taking in the surroundings, we were still waiting.
I recently watched a reality television show that featured a competition between two competing teams who each had to set up a functional restaurant in 24 hours. Restaurant goers choose one of the restaurants based on the décor and menu. Sometime during the period when each restaurant is serving, the panel of four judges enters to judge all aspects of each restaurant from the greeting to the dessert. In that specific episode, the judges walked into one of the restaurants and were not immediately greeted by a host, which was a big no-no.
Well, that’s how I felt when I entered Bar 89. After approximately two minutes – an exorbitant amount of time in restaurant-speak – a server approached us and asked if we wanted to sit up top. We didn’t much care, so we meandered upstairs.
The round tables were too small for four, so we chose one of the back-boothed end tables. Upon sitting at the table, we immediately noticed that the table resembled a trapezoid – almost a triangle – more than a rectangle. And it wasn’t a big trapezoid. In fact, the table probably shouldn’t sit more than three though it is set for four. We wanted to move to one of the three adjacent tables but noticed two guys standing beside them. When we asked, they indicated that they had a large party that was to occupy the remaining three tables. We decided to live with the trapezoid.
Our waitress distributed menus and asked us what we wanted to drink. One of our company asked what was on tap. She answered that they served beer only in bottles, a bad sign for a place with ‘bar’ in the name. Two of the company ordered mixed drinks. I and another of our company both ordered Samuel Smith Nut Brown Ale, a beer I had never tried.
We then surveyed the menu of typical American fare. I spied three different types of wings on the front among other common appetizers. Inside, we found hamburgers and other typical sandwiches as well as a few main entrees. It was not an extensive menu, but there are times when a spartan menu is preferable since it indicates that the restaurant concentrates on a few core items.
We ordered. I had a taste for the Buffalo wings with some blue cheese and some spiciness. The others ordered, though what exactly, I do not now recall. I think, perhaps, they ordered sandwiches.
Soon after, our drinks came. And, there was only one Nut Brown Ale on the tray. It seems they had only one left, another questionable sign for a ‘bar’. The other person who ordered the ale insisted that I take it and then ordered himself a Magic Hat. We toasted and awaited our meals. I did, by the way, enjoy the hoppy nuttiness of the ale.
Meanwhile, we discussed the birthplace of our server. A prim and proper woman with an accent, she reminded me of a figurine that emerges from a cuckoo clock on the hour. We tried to place the accent but were unsuccessful; we therefore settled on it being Welsh since Welsh accents can be mistaken for just about any other European-based accent in the universe. I suppose we could have inquired, but she seemed rather focused and unapproachable.
The food came. I’ll rate it as satisfactory. If I needed to give it a grade, I’d say a ‘C+’. I’ve had much better wings – I’d suggest Archie Moore’s in downtown Wallingford, CT. I’ve also had much better waffle fries – see Chick Fil-A. Still, I ate everything on my plate, consuming each wing methodically.
As I ate, I noticed that I was missing most of the conversation between my friends. The noise level seemed to increase as we remained longer, probably due to the adjacent party’s consistent imbibing. In fact, their voices felt like bludgeoning blows to my already sensitive eardrums.
We completed our meal sans dessert and paid our check. As we readied to leave, two of our company decided to visit the restroom. They returned moments later and beckoned us remaining two to witness the strange thing they had seen. We all walked back to a well-lit area and noticed approximately 10 individual unisex stalls, each with heavy doors. And those heavy doors were made of clear glass; in other words, we could see everything in the stalls, including the toilet and sink. One of our company entered a stall and closed the door. The glass became opaque, and a white-lit ‘Occupied’ sign appeared. It was, we agreed, a fascinating concept, a novelty. The only problem was that the glass door did not become opaque enough to hide the occupant entirely. It was in practice, for lack of a better word, creepy.
As we completed our accidental voyeurism, our waitress approached holding three receipts in her hand. She asked politely where she could find the fourth receipt. We checked the receipts she had in her hand and noticed that it was mine – of course – that was missing. I checked my wallet and found the customer copy, but I didn’t have the merchant copy. Remembering where I placed it on the table, I returned to the trapezoid and noticed a wet towel atop the place where I had laid the receipt. I pulled the loose paper from beneath the wet rag and handed it to the waitress. She accepted it with her apologies.
We descended the stairs and exited the ‘bar’, each of us in turn stating that we collectively and respectively did not need to relive the Bar 89 experience.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
3WW (Gesture, Immediate, Treasure): Outta Time 3
Please see Outta Time for the first part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the seconf part of the story.
Ella opened the door wider allowing Darren to step into the hallway. He scuffed his shoes on the mat and started to walk inside but heard Ella clear her throat.
‘Really, Darren? Really?’ She gestured towards his feet.
‘Oh, sorry.’ He put down the fungo and quickly removed his sneakers.
‘So, what’s with the bat?’ she asked.
‘I got freaked out and grabbed it just in case they were still in the apartment. I haven’t let go of it since I got home.’ He was making it up as he went along.
‘Alright, well you don’t need it here.’
‘You sure?’ He pointed his thumb toward the bedroom where he imagined Bruce was either teeming with anger or passed out.
‘He takes care of me,’ she shot back. ‘As long as I’m here, you won’t have any problems.’
‘I hope you don’t plan to leave.’
‘Funny that you’d say that,’ she answered sarcastically.
The relationship hadn’t ended well. On the day he returned from London six months prior, she had been expecting a gift, if not the ring itself. What she received was the shock of her life. After five years of what she thought to be a perfect relationship, Darren explained that he needed something else, something more. He couldn’t explain what that something was. Instead, he awkwardly said goodbye and moved into a cheap hostel where he lived for a month while searching for a new apartment. During that time, he ignored all of her calls whether to his cell or to work. In fact, he ignored all incoming calls in his attempts to find himself. What he discovered instead was his dislike for the hippies that stayed in hostels, his need for Advil after drinking mostly cheap vodka every night, and the gonorrhea infection that made him piss with pain every 15 minutes.
Darren sat in what used to be his old spot on the sectional. He reached for the handle to activate the recliner but thought better of it. Ella sat on a stool; she didn’t offer him anything to eat or drink.
They sat in awkward silence for a moment, listening to Bruce snoring in the other room. Darren thought about making a sarcastic comment but remembered his situation.
Ella broke the silence. ‘So, what are you really doing here?’
‘I’m just a little freaked out. They got away with a bunch of stuff.’
‘Like?’
Nothing immediately came to mind. He hesitated.
‘Don’t bullshit me, Darren. I’ve been to your place. They only thing I’d want to take is the bat you brought here. Who the hell would try to rob you?’
‘Damn, Ella, why don’t you believe me? I’m totally freaked out right now.’
‘So, what did they steal? Clothes? Books? Your cupboard full of nothing?’
He stared at her, attempting to glower but it didn’t come off.
‘Why the hell do I care? You weren’t honest with me during our relationship, so why should I expect anything different now?’ She stood up from the stool and walked to the linen closet. She pulled a fleece blanket and threw it at Darren. ‘Here. You know how to work the TV. I’m going in the bedroom. I’d rather not deal with you right now.’ She walked into the bedroom and closed the door.
Darren remained on the couch, absent-mindedly petting the fleece with his right hand. He thought about putting the DVD into the player but decided it was too early; he didn’t want to run the risk of Ella hearing it. The happenings of the past few hours ran through his head. A flayed rat under his bed. The super in the hospital. The Netflix DVD in his mailbox. The pounding at his door. The black kid with the gun. They had to be connected but he couldn’t discern what that connection might be. The DVD was his only hope.
He decided he couldn’t wait and pulled the envelope from his jacket. He extracted the DVD and put it into the player. Then he adjusted the volume so that he could barely hear the television. His index finger found the play button on the player.
The television came to life, and the clock chimes rang for an instant before everything went dark. After about 30 seconds, the screen changed to that which used to be displayed for the emergency broadcast system. Across the bottom, text scrolled.
‘This is not a test. Please mute the television. The apartment is bugged. You must not make any noise. They want to know what your next move will be.’ The scrolling ceased and the emergency broadcast screen faded into black once again.
Darren sat very still and stared at the television intently waiting for the scrolling to begin anew. The minute he waited seemed an eternity.
‘Press stop on the remote control now,’ scrolled across. He obeyed. In the next moment, Ella emerged from the bedroom and went into the bathroom. After a short time, she came out and reentered the living room wearing her flannel pajamas.
She sat on the stool. ‘Darren, I never thought I’d get a chance to confront you. Now that I have the chance, I don’t really want it. I think what you did was selfish and hurtful and just mean. I don’t give a damn about what you needed. You didn’t talk to me. But that’s water under the bridge. What I really want to say is, I forgive you. I think you’re afraid of commitment and generally full of shit, but for whatever reason I love you. Still, I don’t ever want to see you again. It’s too difficult. So, I’d appreciate it if you’re out of here before 7 a.m. I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t call, write, text, or whatever. Maybe someday we can talk again, but for now, I just can’t. Good night, Darren. I wish you the best.’
With that she got up from the stool, walked to Darren, kissed him once on the left cheek, and proceeded – without looking back – into the bedroom. The door closed ever so gently.
Darren chuckled to himself; it was more a nervous habit than actual humor. He pressed play.
The black screen transformed into some tropical location. The scrolling began again. ‘She needed to get that off her chest. You don’t understand why yet because you’re a selfish asshole, but you’ll learn. Unfortunately, you’ll never see her again.’ The scrolling ceased. A couple walked in front of the screen arm in arm. He was watching stock footage used for tropical getaway commercials. ‘Luckily, they were a bit careless this time around. They installed only one camera in the living room that is filming you at this very moment. But they didn’t put a camera on the television. They won’t make that mistake again. But one mistake is enough to get them off your trail for a short while at least.’ The screen flashed ‘Come to Cancun, the Treasure of Mexico’ with a group of dark people smiling and dressed in white flowing shirts and shorts.
The screen went black again. ‘Here are your instructions. When you hear the phone ring in the apartment, you will again extract this DVD and put it in the envelope in your pocket. You will take the fungo and proceed down the stairs to the 11th floor. You will proceed to apartment ‘H’. Under the welcome mat you will find a key. Unlock the door, enter, and lock the door. Sit on the couch. You will receive further instructions. I must warn you that you will hear two loud bangs immediately following the ringing phone. Those will be gunshots. Bruce will shoot Ella and then himself. He isn’t as drunk as he seems. If you harm Bruce prior to the incident, you and Ella will be captured and tortured. They will kill her, and they will use you as bait. Any deviation from the plan will most likely result in you being captured. Remember that you made your choice. Turn off the DVD now. Good night, Darren.’
The last word scrolled to the left leaving the black screen yet again. Darren pressed stop. An old episode of Friends appeared. He leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling wondering what he was going to do next.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the seconf part of the story.
Ella opened the door wider allowing Darren to step into the hallway. He scuffed his shoes on the mat and started to walk inside but heard Ella clear her throat.
‘Really, Darren? Really?’ She gestured towards his feet.
‘Oh, sorry.’ He put down the fungo and quickly removed his sneakers.
‘So, what’s with the bat?’ she asked.
‘I got freaked out and grabbed it just in case they were still in the apartment. I haven’t let go of it since I got home.’ He was making it up as he went along.
‘Alright, well you don’t need it here.’
‘You sure?’ He pointed his thumb toward the bedroom where he imagined Bruce was either teeming with anger or passed out.
‘He takes care of me,’ she shot back. ‘As long as I’m here, you won’t have any problems.’
‘I hope you don’t plan to leave.’
‘Funny that you’d say that,’ she answered sarcastically.
The relationship hadn’t ended well. On the day he returned from London six months prior, she had been expecting a gift, if not the ring itself. What she received was the shock of her life. After five years of what she thought to be a perfect relationship, Darren explained that he needed something else, something more. He couldn’t explain what that something was. Instead, he awkwardly said goodbye and moved into a cheap hostel where he lived for a month while searching for a new apartment. During that time, he ignored all of her calls whether to his cell or to work. In fact, he ignored all incoming calls in his attempts to find himself. What he discovered instead was his dislike for the hippies that stayed in hostels, his need for Advil after drinking mostly cheap vodka every night, and the gonorrhea infection that made him piss with pain every 15 minutes.
Darren sat in what used to be his old spot on the sectional. He reached for the handle to activate the recliner but thought better of it. Ella sat on a stool; she didn’t offer him anything to eat or drink.
They sat in awkward silence for a moment, listening to Bruce snoring in the other room. Darren thought about making a sarcastic comment but remembered his situation.
Ella broke the silence. ‘So, what are you really doing here?’
‘I’m just a little freaked out. They got away with a bunch of stuff.’
‘Like?’
Nothing immediately came to mind. He hesitated.
‘Don’t bullshit me, Darren. I’ve been to your place. They only thing I’d want to take is the bat you brought here. Who the hell would try to rob you?’
‘Damn, Ella, why don’t you believe me? I’m totally freaked out right now.’
‘So, what did they steal? Clothes? Books? Your cupboard full of nothing?’
He stared at her, attempting to glower but it didn’t come off.
‘Why the hell do I care? You weren’t honest with me during our relationship, so why should I expect anything different now?’ She stood up from the stool and walked to the linen closet. She pulled a fleece blanket and threw it at Darren. ‘Here. You know how to work the TV. I’m going in the bedroom. I’d rather not deal with you right now.’ She walked into the bedroom and closed the door.
Darren remained on the couch, absent-mindedly petting the fleece with his right hand. He thought about putting the DVD into the player but decided it was too early; he didn’t want to run the risk of Ella hearing it. The happenings of the past few hours ran through his head. A flayed rat under his bed. The super in the hospital. The Netflix DVD in his mailbox. The pounding at his door. The black kid with the gun. They had to be connected but he couldn’t discern what that connection might be. The DVD was his only hope.
He decided he couldn’t wait and pulled the envelope from his jacket. He extracted the DVD and put it into the player. Then he adjusted the volume so that he could barely hear the television. His index finger found the play button on the player.
The television came to life, and the clock chimes rang for an instant before everything went dark. After about 30 seconds, the screen changed to that which used to be displayed for the emergency broadcast system. Across the bottom, text scrolled.
‘This is not a test. Please mute the television. The apartment is bugged. You must not make any noise. They want to know what your next move will be.’ The scrolling ceased and the emergency broadcast screen faded into black once again.
Darren sat very still and stared at the television intently waiting for the scrolling to begin anew. The minute he waited seemed an eternity.
‘Press stop on the remote control now,’ scrolled across. He obeyed. In the next moment, Ella emerged from the bedroom and went into the bathroom. After a short time, she came out and reentered the living room wearing her flannel pajamas.
She sat on the stool. ‘Darren, I never thought I’d get a chance to confront you. Now that I have the chance, I don’t really want it. I think what you did was selfish and hurtful and just mean. I don’t give a damn about what you needed. You didn’t talk to me. But that’s water under the bridge. What I really want to say is, I forgive you. I think you’re afraid of commitment and generally full of shit, but for whatever reason I love you. Still, I don’t ever want to see you again. It’s too difficult. So, I’d appreciate it if you’re out of here before 7 a.m. I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t call, write, text, or whatever. Maybe someday we can talk again, but for now, I just can’t. Good night, Darren. I wish you the best.’
With that she got up from the stool, walked to Darren, kissed him once on the left cheek, and proceeded – without looking back – into the bedroom. The door closed ever so gently.
Darren chuckled to himself; it was more a nervous habit than actual humor. He pressed play.
The black screen transformed into some tropical location. The scrolling began again. ‘She needed to get that off her chest. You don’t understand why yet because you’re a selfish asshole, but you’ll learn. Unfortunately, you’ll never see her again.’ The scrolling ceased. A couple walked in front of the screen arm in arm. He was watching stock footage used for tropical getaway commercials. ‘Luckily, they were a bit careless this time around. They installed only one camera in the living room that is filming you at this very moment. But they didn’t put a camera on the television. They won’t make that mistake again. But one mistake is enough to get them off your trail for a short while at least.’ The screen flashed ‘Come to Cancun, the Treasure of Mexico’ with a group of dark people smiling and dressed in white flowing shirts and shorts.
The screen went black again. ‘Here are your instructions. When you hear the phone ring in the apartment, you will again extract this DVD and put it in the envelope in your pocket. You will take the fungo and proceed down the stairs to the 11th floor. You will proceed to apartment ‘H’. Under the welcome mat you will find a key. Unlock the door, enter, and lock the door. Sit on the couch. You will receive further instructions. I must warn you that you will hear two loud bangs immediately following the ringing phone. Those will be gunshots. Bruce will shoot Ella and then himself. He isn’t as drunk as he seems. If you harm Bruce prior to the incident, you and Ella will be captured and tortured. They will kill her, and they will use you as bait. Any deviation from the plan will most likely result in you being captured. Remember that you made your choice. Turn off the DVD now. Good night, Darren.’
The last word scrolled to the left leaving the black screen yet again. Darren pressed stop. An old episode of Friends appeared. He leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling wondering what he was going to do next.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Poetricity: Beginnings
Beginnings. Must come from somewhere. Do come from somewhere. A coffin cradle housing the sacred dead and undead respectively. All else is straw. Reindeer games or wooden stages or giant clanging marble worlds. Visceral violet sobs with loss. Hopeful copper sobs with gain. A choice to amputate a dying arm wedged in a mountain or to engage in armchair quarterbacking on sunny Sundays. The latter, stupidly safer. And brilliantly less perilous.
I see a beginning. A bright, hot white glow on the not too distant horizon beckoning me to join in this stacked hand of five-card stud. In whose favor I can’t say. In my past remain emerald, mint memories drizzling on a few patches of dying grass. A road I discovered belonged to me only for a time. A road now lost somewhere behind white-capped mountains. Another era transformed. I see the tombstone. It is time. For endings.
I see a beginning. A bright, hot white glow on the not too distant horizon beckoning me to join in this stacked hand of five-card stud. In whose favor I can’t say. In my past remain emerald, mint memories drizzling on a few patches of dying grass. A road I discovered belonged to me only for a time. A road now lost somewhere behind white-capped mountains. Another era transformed. I see the tombstone. It is time. For endings.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Foodalicious: Famous Joe's
There's a debate that rages wildly in all corners of the United States. Where might you find the best pizza?
Magazines rate. People yelp. Bloggers list. Critics critique. But this post isn't about rating or yelping or listing or even critiquing in any kind of serious way. It's about finding that perfect slice in NYC, the land of slices.
It came up one day in Seattle. I was in Steve's office not too long ago discussing some work-related item when he asked if I had found any good pizza in the city. I admitted to him that I hadn't even had pizza since being back to east, a travesty unto itself. When I asked his advice, he excitedly said that Joe's was the best he had had in the city, as if Joe was some guy who had a place in Brooklyn in the 60s when Steve was growing up. Undeterred by my wise-assedness, Steve started clicking wildly and told me to 'c'mere'. I rounded the desk and saw that he was attempting to pinpoint the Manhattan location. After some strategic clicking and zooming, Steve had found the place at 7 Carmine in the West Village. 'Best pizza in the city,' he commented.
So I had to see for myself.
I've been three times. And, I'd have to agree that it's the best - albeit some of the only - pizza I've had in the city. That may seem a backhanded compliment. But I must compare to the pizza I've had elsewhere. I'll have to admit its superiority to Seattle and Boston pizza. I must, however, reserve judgment when comparing to the New Haven pizzas because I've still not visited Sally's for a pie, and I visited Pepe's only once and don't really remember it.
What makes Joe's so good?
First, it's the atmosphere. This ain't a restaurant where you're going to have a sit down meal. When you walk in, there's a small counter to the left, a small counter facing toward the street in front, and a few small, round stand-alone tables strewn throughout the joint. On the counters and tables, you'll find parmesan cheese and crushed red pepper. It's a short walk to the counter where you'll be greeted by a grunting Italian who acts as if he has no time to deal with you. You have to notice the quick head movement and brief eye contact to get service. After speaking your choices, the guy warms the pizza in the oven and takes your cash (cash only) to the tune of $3.50 per slice (seems expensive but the slices are generous). Meanwhile, you notice that the place is a good cross section of white and blue collar, and they have usually been - well at least since I've only been there between the hours of 11 pm and 3 am - rather intoxicated, making for some interesting interactions with Joe's staff. A great place to be a fly on a wall, as long as you as the fly are nowhere near my pizza.
Second, it's the celebrity. Although the place is pretty much a hole, it's well liked by many a celebrity. No, I haven't seen a celebrity there yet, but based on the pictures in the restaurant, they have everyone from Harrison Ford to Adam Sandler in pictures along the wall. Even more than the celebrities that have visited, the place itself can be considered a minor tourist location for comic lovers and movie nuts alike as it was the pizzeria where Peter Parker, i.e. Tobey Maguire, worked in Spiderman.
Third, it's their hours. I didn't get the exact hours, but I'm pretty sure they're open from late morning to early morning, i.e. from about 11 a.m. until about 5 a.m. Ah, the city that never sleeps... kinda. But that's another post.
Fourth, and most importantly, it's the pizza. I've had only the cheese and the pepperoni. But I must say that I think the pepperoni is the best I've had anywhere up to this point in my life. It's not that greasy, which I find to be amazing. It's thin and foldable. The crust is just a little dark; there's an almost but not quite burnt-around-the-edges taste that translates more as crispiness than it does burntness. The sauce is faintly sweet but can be cut well with the addition of crushed red pepper. And the cheese is just the right texture. All in all, delectable.
I have no doubt that I'll be returning. And if you're ever in the neighborhood, please go. And take me with you...
Magazines rate. People yelp. Bloggers list. Critics critique. But this post isn't about rating or yelping or listing or even critiquing in any kind of serious way. It's about finding that perfect slice in NYC, the land of slices.
It came up one day in Seattle. I was in Steve's office not too long ago discussing some work-related item when he asked if I had found any good pizza in the city. I admitted to him that I hadn't even had pizza since being back to east, a travesty unto itself. When I asked his advice, he excitedly said that Joe's was the best he had had in the city, as if Joe was some guy who had a place in Brooklyn in the 60s when Steve was growing up. Undeterred by my wise-assedness, Steve started clicking wildly and told me to 'c'mere'. I rounded the desk and saw that he was attempting to pinpoint the Manhattan location. After some strategic clicking and zooming, Steve had found the place at 7 Carmine in the West Village. 'Best pizza in the city,' he commented.
So I had to see for myself.
I've been three times. And, I'd have to agree that it's the best - albeit some of the only - pizza I've had in the city. That may seem a backhanded compliment. But I must compare to the pizza I've had elsewhere. I'll have to admit its superiority to Seattle and Boston pizza. I must, however, reserve judgment when comparing to the New Haven pizzas because I've still not visited Sally's for a pie, and I visited Pepe's only once and don't really remember it.
What makes Joe's so good?
First, it's the atmosphere. This ain't a restaurant where you're going to have a sit down meal. When you walk in, there's a small counter to the left, a small counter facing toward the street in front, and a few small, round stand-alone tables strewn throughout the joint. On the counters and tables, you'll find parmesan cheese and crushed red pepper. It's a short walk to the counter where you'll be greeted by a grunting Italian who acts as if he has no time to deal with you. You have to notice the quick head movement and brief eye contact to get service. After speaking your choices, the guy warms the pizza in the oven and takes your cash (cash only) to the tune of $3.50 per slice (seems expensive but the slices are generous). Meanwhile, you notice that the place is a good cross section of white and blue collar, and they have usually been - well at least since I've only been there between the hours of 11 pm and 3 am - rather intoxicated, making for some interesting interactions with Joe's staff. A great place to be a fly on a wall, as long as you as the fly are nowhere near my pizza.
Second, it's the celebrity. Although the place is pretty much a hole, it's well liked by many a celebrity. No, I haven't seen a celebrity there yet, but based on the pictures in the restaurant, they have everyone from Harrison Ford to Adam Sandler in pictures along the wall. Even more than the celebrities that have visited, the place itself can be considered a minor tourist location for comic lovers and movie nuts alike as it was the pizzeria where Peter Parker, i.e. Tobey Maguire, worked in Spiderman.
Third, it's their hours. I didn't get the exact hours, but I'm pretty sure they're open from late morning to early morning, i.e. from about 11 a.m. until about 5 a.m. Ah, the city that never sleeps... kinda. But that's another post.
Fourth, and most importantly, it's the pizza. I've had only the cheese and the pepperoni. But I must say that I think the pepperoni is the best I've had anywhere up to this point in my life. It's not that greasy, which I find to be amazing. It's thin and foldable. The crust is just a little dark; there's an almost but not quite burnt-around-the-edges taste that translates more as crispiness than it does burntness. The sauce is faintly sweet but can be cut well with the addition of crushed red pepper. And the cheese is just the right texture. All in all, delectable.
I have no doubt that I'll be returning. And if you're ever in the neighborhood, please go. And take me with you...
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Pop Culturitis (Monday Makeup): Classic vs Motion-Controlled
A friend and I recently had a discussion about video games. He claimed that the new motion-controlled gaming systems are simply not his style, that they make the game playing experience awkward. Since I haven’t attempted to play on a motion-controlled system, I didn’t think it my place to comment at the time. But his commentary started me thinking on the differences between classic gaming and the new motion-controlled gaming. It made me realize that the development of motion-controlled gaming was nothing short of brilliant innovation.
I grew up with video games. Of course, I went to arcades as a kid and played the likes of Pac-Man and Space Invaders. But I also had some of the first gaming systems.
It was at my grandparents’ house that I first played Pong with those long thin controllers and turny knobs.
My first computer game was on some machine the name of which I don’t even remember. I do, however, recall attempting to destroy purple space ships. And I obsessed about those things at the time.
Atari stole a good deal of my youth during elementary school. I swung back and forth on ropes, trying to avoid snakes in Pitfall. I piloted a plane in River Raid. And I fought with tanks in some kind of war game.
Nintendo kept me busy during middle school. Of course, there was Super Mario Brothers. And no, I never beat it. I loved Tecmo Bowl, especially with the Giants being so good. There was Contra. Ninja Gaiden. Dragon Warrior. Punch Out. The Legend of Zelda. So many memories.
My high school years saw video games wane, at least in my consciousness. I played, at times, on others’ Super Nintendo and Sega gaming consoles but never owned one myself. I always enjoyed playing – though I must admit that I hated losing to others in those fighting games. Still do.
In college, I played more computer based games. My fingers flew over the keyboard like a pianist’s over a piano making a car take turns at 80 mph or an X-wing fighter dive to take out a shield generator.
And most recently, I engaged in the Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game experience by creating at least a dozen characters for World of Warcraft.
What do all of these have in common? It’s all about hand-eye coordination. Either with controllers or with computer keyboards, I have navigated through all of the elements, defeating everyone from the Dallas Cowboys to Diablo himself. And I enjoy gaming like that. It’s what I know and understand. So, I have to admit that these new motion-controlled gaming systems really aren’t of interest to me as a classic quasi-gamer.
My friend, having played the games, agrees. Video games, he suggests, are not for jumping up and down or for flailing one’s arms wildly. Not to mention, the motion-controlled gaming consoles just can’t imitate life well enough. Throwing a football is more like throwing a shot put. While swinging at make believe balls puts anyone and anything in the immediate vicinity of the swinger in potentially mortal danger. All in all, he claims, motion-controlled gaming just isn’t up his – or any other gamer’s – alley.
Which is why motion-controlled gaming is so brilliant. I’ll draw a parallel to a commercial I saw recently. In it, women throw NFL jerseys at their husbands / boyfriends. On their face, looks of disgust. I chuckled to myself, thinking that the commercial had something to do with men neglecting their women because of football. But no. The commercial was an NFL ad aimed at women, trying to get their business. How? By tailoring clothing for women specifically. They were giving back the jerseys because these women now had appropriate clothing to enjoy the NFL.
The parallel? The motion-controlled gaming systems aren’t for classic gamers. Oh sure, there will be those who cross over from the old world into the new. But for the most part, motion-controlled gaming is for those who have never before been interested in gaming. Just watch the commercials, and you’ll see women beating their more masculine counterparts at sports like golf and football. Or you’ll see grandpa beating up on his grandson in a boxing match. A brilliant move. And one that has opened gaming to an entirely different audience.
What’s next? Oh, they’ll make gaming systems better for each audience. For classic gaming, it means better graphics and sound. For motion-controlled gaming, it means better tracking of movement as well as more games for each of the consoles. But I think there’s still an opportunity for crossover. Personally, I think they’ll capture some of the classic gamers in one of two ways. A MCMMORPG (Motion Controlled Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game) or the adaptation of fighting games like Tekken and Soul Caliber. Although I’d have some concern about the latter given how my reaction when I lose with merely an Xbox controller in my sweating hands...
I grew up with video games. Of course, I went to arcades as a kid and played the likes of Pac-Man and Space Invaders. But I also had some of the first gaming systems.
It was at my grandparents’ house that I first played Pong with those long thin controllers and turny knobs.
My first computer game was on some machine the name of which I don’t even remember. I do, however, recall attempting to destroy purple space ships. And I obsessed about those things at the time.
Atari stole a good deal of my youth during elementary school. I swung back and forth on ropes, trying to avoid snakes in Pitfall. I piloted a plane in River Raid. And I fought with tanks in some kind of war game.
Nintendo kept me busy during middle school. Of course, there was Super Mario Brothers. And no, I never beat it. I loved Tecmo Bowl, especially with the Giants being so good. There was Contra. Ninja Gaiden. Dragon Warrior. Punch Out. The Legend of Zelda. So many memories.
My high school years saw video games wane, at least in my consciousness. I played, at times, on others’ Super Nintendo and Sega gaming consoles but never owned one myself. I always enjoyed playing – though I must admit that I hated losing to others in those fighting games. Still do.
In college, I played more computer based games. My fingers flew over the keyboard like a pianist’s over a piano making a car take turns at 80 mph or an X-wing fighter dive to take out a shield generator.
And most recently, I engaged in the Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game experience by creating at least a dozen characters for World of Warcraft.
What do all of these have in common? It’s all about hand-eye coordination. Either with controllers or with computer keyboards, I have navigated through all of the elements, defeating everyone from the Dallas Cowboys to Diablo himself. And I enjoy gaming like that. It’s what I know and understand. So, I have to admit that these new motion-controlled gaming systems really aren’t of interest to me as a classic quasi-gamer.
My friend, having played the games, agrees. Video games, he suggests, are not for jumping up and down or for flailing one’s arms wildly. Not to mention, the motion-controlled gaming consoles just can’t imitate life well enough. Throwing a football is more like throwing a shot put. While swinging at make believe balls puts anyone and anything in the immediate vicinity of the swinger in potentially mortal danger. All in all, he claims, motion-controlled gaming just isn’t up his – or any other gamer’s – alley.
Which is why motion-controlled gaming is so brilliant. I’ll draw a parallel to a commercial I saw recently. In it, women throw NFL jerseys at their husbands / boyfriends. On their face, looks of disgust. I chuckled to myself, thinking that the commercial had something to do with men neglecting their women because of football. But no. The commercial was an NFL ad aimed at women, trying to get their business. How? By tailoring clothing for women specifically. They were giving back the jerseys because these women now had appropriate clothing to enjoy the NFL.
The parallel? The motion-controlled gaming systems aren’t for classic gamers. Oh sure, there will be those who cross over from the old world into the new. But for the most part, motion-controlled gaming is for those who have never before been interested in gaming. Just watch the commercials, and you’ll see women beating their more masculine counterparts at sports like golf and football. Or you’ll see grandpa beating up on his grandson in a boxing match. A brilliant move. And one that has opened gaming to an entirely different audience.
What’s next? Oh, they’ll make gaming systems better for each audience. For classic gaming, it means better graphics and sound. For motion-controlled gaming, it means better tracking of movement as well as more games for each of the consoles. But I think there’s still an opportunity for crossover. Personally, I think they’ll capture some of the classic gamers in one of two ways. A MCMMORPG (Motion Controlled Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game) or the adaptation of fighting games like Tekken and Soul Caliber. Although I’d have some concern about the latter given how my reaction when I lose with merely an Xbox controller in my sweating hands...
Sunday, 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.’
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Poetricity: Silence
I came seeking a respite from honking, blood curdling hot orange cacophony. The perpendicular pillars and pews greeted me graciously smiling in their wooden way. There was a momentary silence caught between the cityscape, an almost hesitation in the urban drawl. Then the pack of five teens arrived, besot at once by the necessity of ritual. With the fat clothman supplement, a holy buzz banished the momentary silence into a catacomb. Black thoughts of whys in what should be. I laughed at the should in a house of God. And the anger abated like a vapid vampire from his bloody prey. The pre-pubescent voices echoed sparking glimmers of reticent hope for a limping institution. The fat man and five concluded with a customery whimper all in a fragile agreement that the status quo, like virtue, is good for its own sake. I spied another moment trapped between oblivions just then, and silence pierced my side. It remained inifinitely or until the jackhammers wafted through the stained glass.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Figuring Out Food: Pearl Bistro
I have recently discovered food. Don't get me wrong; I've been involved in the consumption of food my entire life. I can admit to having had wonderful steak, turkey, mashed sweet potatoes, ice cream, green bean casserole; well, you get the idea. But it hasn't really dawned on me - until recently - to savor that food or to try to taste the ingredients of a dish. Instead, I've been scarfing food down for well over 15 years. In fact, that scarfing led to a complete disregard for portion control, which in turn led to weight gain. Not because I wanted all that food, but because all that food was in front of me.
But not anymore. Instead of scarfing - unless I have no choice - I masticate and contemplate.
Segue...
Last night, I caught a nightmare of a bus late in the evening. Packed to the gills, there was little room to move. It was an adventure every time someone needed to get off the bus. Eventually, I made it back to my room; I made a call, did some work, and generally attempted to relax after a hellish day.
A little after 10 p.m. I noticed my stomach gurgling. I could - as I had the prior night - pull out the rice cooker, steam some vegetables, and have rice and vegetables with a hint of soy. Instead, I decided that I wanted something more. I pulled on my coat and walked swiftly towards the main thoroughfare, mostly to warm myself on the cold night. I walked down restaurant row, trying to decide what I wanted. Of course, the decision was made easier by the fact that a majority of the restaurants had closed at 10.
I had my choice of a Middle Eastern spot with halal meat, a Vietnamese restaurant, or a pizza joint. I chose Vietnamese.
I opened the door to the Pearl Bistro and found myself in the midst of a very ordinary and very yellow Asian restaurant. Although I didn't count, I'd estimate the rather sizeable space had 25-30 tables, which didn't come close to filling the floor. In front of me, I couldn't help but see the gigantic yellow Koi in a tank much too small for it. At the back was a young woman counting money at the cash register, and behind that was the kitchen where I saw an Asian head pop up to see who had entered.
A middle-aged Vietnamese man approached me and asked me if I wanted to sit. I declined and said, 'To go'. He handed me a menu. I sat at one of the tables and contemplated my choices. Not in a particularly adventurous mood, I ordered the egg rolls and vegetable stir fry with chicken with number 4 spice out of 4. I closed the menu and stared at the large television. The Portland Trailblazers were finishing their game against the LA Clippers. I wasn't really watching; I couldn't care less about the NBA. The gentleman brought the bill to me, which I paid in turn. I then waited.
After approximately 15 minutes, the gentleman tied the plastic bag around the 'To Go' containers and sent me on my way. I walked back to the room and readied for my meal.
From the bag I pulled 2 smaller containers and 1 large container as well as a napkin wrapped around both chopsticks and a fork. I've noticed that in Asian restaurants, the servers are normally hesitant to offer chopsticks to a Caucasian. I'm glad they did to me as I prefer them for Asian food.
In one of the smaller containers were 2 egg rolls as well as the sweet fish sauce. I decided against the sauce but bit into the egg roll. Still hot, the cabbage filled roll had good texture. I tried to discern the contents of the egg roll, but failed miserably; Asian cuisine is still rather foreign to me, go figure.
I opened the other containers. The smaller housed white rice; the larger, stir fry. The spicy heat wafted into my nose and eyes. I mixed the two and proceeded to eat. I secured a piece of chicken and a carrot between my chopsticks. The spice subtly struck a few moments later. Not as hot as it could have been, but sufficient. The vegetables proved to be a bit weepy; I like my carrots and broccoli a bit firmer. The chicken was moist enough, the norm for an Asian restaurant. And with the spice, I thought it a good and different meal.
I finished both egg rolls and half the meal feeling satisfied. What was more satisfying was that I had the remainder of the food this evening. You can't beat two sizeable meals for $17.
I can't say it's the best Asian food I've ever had, but I'd certainly venture back if only to try a few more dishes. And to see that ginormous Koi again.
But not anymore. Instead of scarfing - unless I have no choice - I masticate and contemplate.
Segue...
Last night, I caught a nightmare of a bus late in the evening. Packed to the gills, there was little room to move. It was an adventure every time someone needed to get off the bus. Eventually, I made it back to my room; I made a call, did some work, and generally attempted to relax after a hellish day.
A little after 10 p.m. I noticed my stomach gurgling. I could - as I had the prior night - pull out the rice cooker, steam some vegetables, and have rice and vegetables with a hint of soy. Instead, I decided that I wanted something more. I pulled on my coat and walked swiftly towards the main thoroughfare, mostly to warm myself on the cold night. I walked down restaurant row, trying to decide what I wanted. Of course, the decision was made easier by the fact that a majority of the restaurants had closed at 10.
I had my choice of a Middle Eastern spot with halal meat, a Vietnamese restaurant, or a pizza joint. I chose Vietnamese.
I opened the door to the Pearl Bistro and found myself in the midst of a very ordinary and very yellow Asian restaurant. Although I didn't count, I'd estimate the rather sizeable space had 25-30 tables, which didn't come close to filling the floor. In front of me, I couldn't help but see the gigantic yellow Koi in a tank much too small for it. At the back was a young woman counting money at the cash register, and behind that was the kitchen where I saw an Asian head pop up to see who had entered.
A middle-aged Vietnamese man approached me and asked me if I wanted to sit. I declined and said, 'To go'. He handed me a menu. I sat at one of the tables and contemplated my choices. Not in a particularly adventurous mood, I ordered the egg rolls and vegetable stir fry with chicken with number 4 spice out of 4. I closed the menu and stared at the large television. The Portland Trailblazers were finishing their game against the LA Clippers. I wasn't really watching; I couldn't care less about the NBA. The gentleman brought the bill to me, which I paid in turn. I then waited.
After approximately 15 minutes, the gentleman tied the plastic bag around the 'To Go' containers and sent me on my way. I walked back to the room and readied for my meal.
From the bag I pulled 2 smaller containers and 1 large container as well as a napkin wrapped around both chopsticks and a fork. I've noticed that in Asian restaurants, the servers are normally hesitant to offer chopsticks to a Caucasian. I'm glad they did to me as I prefer them for Asian food.
In one of the smaller containers were 2 egg rolls as well as the sweet fish sauce. I decided against the sauce but bit into the egg roll. Still hot, the cabbage filled roll had good texture. I tried to discern the contents of the egg roll, but failed miserably; Asian cuisine is still rather foreign to me, go figure.
I opened the other containers. The smaller housed white rice; the larger, stir fry. The spicy heat wafted into my nose and eyes. I mixed the two and proceeded to eat. I secured a piece of chicken and a carrot between my chopsticks. The spice subtly struck a few moments later. Not as hot as it could have been, but sufficient. The vegetables proved to be a bit weepy; I like my carrots and broccoli a bit firmer. The chicken was moist enough, the norm for an Asian restaurant. And with the spice, I thought it a good and different meal.
I finished both egg rolls and half the meal feeling satisfied. What was more satisfying was that I had the remainder of the food this evening. You can't beat two sizeable meals for $17.
I can't say it's the best Asian food I've ever had, but I'd certainly venture back if only to try a few more dishes. And to see that ginormous Koi again.
3WW (Fragile, Rampant, Tremor): Outta Time
Darren walked into his apartment building and checked the mail, which consisted of supermarket flyers, a credit card bill he didn’t want to think about, and a Netflix movie. After such a long day, the fact that he wasn’t a Netflix subscriber didn’t immediately strike a chord. In fact, it wasn’t until he reached the second floor the six story walk-up that the fact dawned on him. That’s when he paused and glanced at the front of the envelope. It was the right address, his address, but there was no name; in place of the name were the words ‘Free Time’ in big black block letters, which he didn't understand.
He trudged up the remaining five flights and extracted the keys from his pocket. They jangled for a moment before he found the right one. It slipped into the lock and turned the deadbolt. The apartment smelled of something rotten. He dropped his bag and threw the mail on the table in the front hall. It took some time, but he found the decomposing rat beneath his bed.
With his broom Darren inched the rat to where he could reach it with the dust pan. With slow, deliberate movements he inched the rat onto the metal. He made the mistake of bringing the rat closer to his face to look at it; what he saw were the headless scalped and flayed remains of what might have been a rat, mouse, gerbil, or guinea pig. An involuntary tremor struck his body, and he almost dropped the dust pan. After that moment of pure emotional panic, he regained composure and tried to think about the situation logically. First, he knew that the ‘thing’ hadn’t been under his bed when he had left that morning; there was no chance he wouldn’t have smelled it then, especially in its present state. Second, he knew for a fact that only he and the super had access to the keys since he had personally seen the super install a new lock.
The second step was all he needed to take his first in the investigation. He dumped the ‘thing’ into a plastic Safeway bag, which he put into a second plastic Safeway bag. He tied the handles and plummeted down the stairs and out the back door to the dumpster where he rid himself of the putrid carcass. He then bounded up the stairs to the third floor and knocked on apartment C2, the super’s home. A young woman of no more than 20 opened the door. Her eyes and cheeks were similarly red. In broken English, she explained that her father had fallen from a ladder and was in a coma in the hospital. Darren apologized and slowly climbed the stairs back to his apartment.
The rampant carcass stench hit him as he entered; he felt the vomit reach the back of his throat before he swallowed hard. He proceeded to open every window in the apartment; he preferred the damp, cold air to the smell of death.
Darren sat on the microfiber couch and contemplated his next steps. Off the bat, he had two options, i.e. he could stay or leave. Staying was the optimal choice as leaving meant that he had to explain the situation to either a friend or a family member, which he wasn’t quite ready to do. There were too many skeletons in his past that could haunt him.
Once he made the decision to stay, he blocked the front door with two boxes of books and pulled the silver fungo from his bat bag. After a short time, he closed and locked the windows. The apartment had been secured. He sat again. It was then that Darren noticed the red envelope peeking out from the beneath the flyers. He ripped the perforated edge and slid the disc out of the envelope. On the disk was the word ‘fragile’ obviously written by hand. There was no indication of what the disc contained.
He put the disc in his DVD player and pressed play. He saw the ‘Universal’ introduction followed by the opening credits for Back to the Future. And the ticking. Except the ticking was accompanied by a dubbed voice. ‘If you don’t listen to me,’ the voice explained, ‘then we’ll both be outta time. I need you to take the disc out of the DVD player and put it back into the Netflix sleeve. You will then put it into your jacket pocket. You will take the silver fungo, open the window to the fire escape, climb down the fire escape, and head to your friend Ella’s house. After she has gone to sleep, you will put this disc into her DVD player, and I will explain what you must do next.’ Darren stood paralyzed, uncertain what to do, believe, or think.
In the next moment, there came a chaotic cacophony from what seemed to be every direction. The television erupted with the sound of chimes, bells, and cuckoos. The voice screamed, ‘Go, now!’ And there came from the front door a bellowing thud.
Darren quickly took the disc from the player, slipped it into the sleeve, and put the sleeve in his jacket. He then grabbed the fungo, unlocked the window leading to the fire escape, and fled down the ladder. When he reached the bottom, he heard an explosion come from above and saw a small burst of flame come from the open window in his apartment.
He didn’t stop running until he reached Ella’s apartment.
He trudged up the remaining five flights and extracted the keys from his pocket. They jangled for a moment before he found the right one. It slipped into the lock and turned the deadbolt. The apartment smelled of something rotten. He dropped his bag and threw the mail on the table in the front hall. It took some time, but he found the decomposing rat beneath his bed.
With his broom Darren inched the rat to where he could reach it with the dust pan. With slow, deliberate movements he inched the rat onto the metal. He made the mistake of bringing the rat closer to his face to look at it; what he saw were the headless scalped and flayed remains of what might have been a rat, mouse, gerbil, or guinea pig. An involuntary tremor struck his body, and he almost dropped the dust pan. After that moment of pure emotional panic, he regained composure and tried to think about the situation logically. First, he knew that the ‘thing’ hadn’t been under his bed when he had left that morning; there was no chance he wouldn’t have smelled it then, especially in its present state. Second, he knew for a fact that only he and the super had access to the keys since he had personally seen the super install a new lock.
The second step was all he needed to take his first in the investigation. He dumped the ‘thing’ into a plastic Safeway bag, which he put into a second plastic Safeway bag. He tied the handles and plummeted down the stairs and out the back door to the dumpster where he rid himself of the putrid carcass. He then bounded up the stairs to the third floor and knocked on apartment C2, the super’s home. A young woman of no more than 20 opened the door. Her eyes and cheeks were similarly red. In broken English, she explained that her father had fallen from a ladder and was in a coma in the hospital. Darren apologized and slowly climbed the stairs back to his apartment.
The rampant carcass stench hit him as he entered; he felt the vomit reach the back of his throat before he swallowed hard. He proceeded to open every window in the apartment; he preferred the damp, cold air to the smell of death.
Darren sat on the microfiber couch and contemplated his next steps. Off the bat, he had two options, i.e. he could stay or leave. Staying was the optimal choice as leaving meant that he had to explain the situation to either a friend or a family member, which he wasn’t quite ready to do. There were too many skeletons in his past that could haunt him.
Once he made the decision to stay, he blocked the front door with two boxes of books and pulled the silver fungo from his bat bag. After a short time, he closed and locked the windows. The apartment had been secured. He sat again. It was then that Darren noticed the red envelope peeking out from the beneath the flyers. He ripped the perforated edge and slid the disc out of the envelope. On the disk was the word ‘fragile’ obviously written by hand. There was no indication of what the disc contained.
He put the disc in his DVD player and pressed play. He saw the ‘Universal’ introduction followed by the opening credits for Back to the Future. And the ticking. Except the ticking was accompanied by a dubbed voice. ‘If you don’t listen to me,’ the voice explained, ‘then we’ll both be outta time. I need you to take the disc out of the DVD player and put it back into the Netflix sleeve. You will then put it into your jacket pocket. You will take the silver fungo, open the window to the fire escape, climb down the fire escape, and head to your friend Ella’s house. After she has gone to sleep, you will put this disc into her DVD player, and I will explain what you must do next.’ Darren stood paralyzed, uncertain what to do, believe, or think.
In the next moment, there came a chaotic cacophony from what seemed to be every direction. The television erupted with the sound of chimes, bells, and cuckoos. The voice screamed, ‘Go, now!’ And there came from the front door a bellowing thud.
Darren quickly took the disc from the player, slipped it into the sleeve, and put the sleeve in his jacket. He then grabbed the fungo, unlocked the window leading to the fire escape, and fled down the ladder. When he reached the bottom, he heard an explosion come from above and saw a small burst of flame come from the open window in his apartment.
He didn’t stop running until he reached Ella’s apartment.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
History Revisited: Pony Up
Was the Pony Express integral to the continued existence of the United States or was it merely one of the most elaborate - and costly - stopgaps in history?
In 1861, the American Civil War began, the Kingdom of Italy came into being with Victor Emmanuel II as its king, and the Pony Express ceased operation.
In fact, the Pony Express ceased operation on October 26, 1861, just 18 months after it commenced in April of 1860. That's just about two present-day baseball seasons. A mere blip on the radar in American history.
Not to mention the Pony Express was a huge undertaking. It was a more involved process than anything short of war, in those days. So, why did it last only two years? And why would someone set it up in the first place?
Let's journey back from 1861 to the Feast of the Epiphany, 1838. (That's January 6th for all y'all who don't know the Epiphany.) On that day, a Mr. Samuel Morse sent the sentence 'A patient waiter is no loser' across two miles of wire in New Jersey. Six years later, the same man sent the rather famous quotation, 'What hath God wrought' from Washington D.C. to Baltimore. It was the birth of a new and faster way to communicate, i.e. the electrical telegraph. It was that era's internet.
Fast forward again to 1860. By that time, there were telegraph lines all over the east coast. And there were telegraph lines up and down the California coast. But no telegraph line connected east and west. In essence, California - although a state - was all by its lonesome on the Pacific. In 1860, the Pacific Telegraph Company in Nebraska - created by the then president of Western Union (like at the end of Back to the Future 2) - and the Overland Telegraph Company of California agreed to build telegraph lines from Omaha and Carson City respectively to Salt Lake City, Utah where they all proceeded to jump in the lake.
Yeah, I know, this story's about the Pony Express; I'm getting there. But just after I get to the date when the two companies met in Salt Lake City. That was October 24, 1861. Two days before the Pony Express went the way of the dodo. In present day IT terms, those two days were part of the post production implementation of the transcontinental telegraph. Good luck saying that any times fast.
So, you want to know about the Pony Express? There were 157 stations over a 2000 mile route. There were about 80 riders employed at any one time. And there were about 400 other people working the stations along the way. In addition, there were about 400 horses used.
Then there was the process. Riders would ride each horse a maximum of 20 miles - the approximate maximum distance between two stations along the route - and would then switch the horse out with another at each station. Most riders traveled up to 75 miles a day. At approximately 9 miles per hour. That's first gear on an auto, folks. For 2000 miles.
Why? To get messages from east to west in 10 days. That's it. It was all about information. It wasn't like the riders could lug anything larger than a small box of books in that time. Any message that I can now send in under a second via internet / phone would have required 10 days of at least one rider riding more than 100 horses from Missouri to California.
What in the name of all that's holy possessed anyone to create such a costly stopgap just to deliver information, especially when the transcontinental telegraph was being built?
I turn your attention to the first part of the first sentence I wrote in this post. In 1861, the Civil War began. The Civil War and the time immediately preceding it, that great big zit on the nose of American history, dominated all decisions in all parts of the United States in the late 1850s leading into 1861.
I won't go into all the details because I'd bore the majority of you to death, but the time between the Mexican American War and the start of the Civil War was like a young brother and sister nagging each other in the back of a car on a 12 hour trip, except there were no parents in the front seat to pull over and threaten them with bodily harm. The South wanted more slave states. The North wanted fewer. They straddled the middle for about 15 years so that they didn't have to fight. But they reached an impasse. Then, Abraham Lincoln was elected. And all hell broke loose.
Always off on these tangents. So, what the hell does this have to do with the Pony Express? Well, each side wanted to extend their respective influence. And the way to extend influence is to control both information and communication. Just ask China.
In that critical time between April 1860 and October 1861, it just so happened that the Union controlled the Pony Express, which subsequently kept the lines of communication open with California and all points in between, an effective stopgap until the telegraph lines met in Salt Lake City. And when that happened, the South lost all hope of exerting influence out west, which meant they had nowhere to expand with their states rights and pro-slavery dogma, not to mention they had few places to seek reprieve when they started losing the war.
A look back shows that the Pony Express was a rather big and costly finger in the dike, but that finer just may have kept the dike from tumbling down entirely.
In 1861, the American Civil War began, the Kingdom of Italy came into being with Victor Emmanuel II as its king, and the Pony Express ceased operation.
In fact, the Pony Express ceased operation on October 26, 1861, just 18 months after it commenced in April of 1860. That's just about two present-day baseball seasons. A mere blip on the radar in American history.
Not to mention the Pony Express was a huge undertaking. It was a more involved process than anything short of war, in those days. So, why did it last only two years? And why would someone set it up in the first place?
Let's journey back from 1861 to the Feast of the Epiphany, 1838. (That's January 6th for all y'all who don't know the Epiphany.) On that day, a Mr. Samuel Morse sent the sentence 'A patient waiter is no loser' across two miles of wire in New Jersey. Six years later, the same man sent the rather famous quotation, 'What hath God wrought' from Washington D.C. to Baltimore. It was the birth of a new and faster way to communicate, i.e. the electrical telegraph. It was that era's internet.
Fast forward again to 1860. By that time, there were telegraph lines all over the east coast. And there were telegraph lines up and down the California coast. But no telegraph line connected east and west. In essence, California - although a state - was all by its lonesome on the Pacific. In 1860, the Pacific Telegraph Company in Nebraska - created by the then president of Western Union (like at the end of Back to the Future 2) - and the Overland Telegraph Company of California agreed to build telegraph lines from Omaha and Carson City respectively to Salt Lake City, Utah where they all proceeded to jump in the lake.
Yeah, I know, this story's about the Pony Express; I'm getting there. But just after I get to the date when the two companies met in Salt Lake City. That was October 24, 1861. Two days before the Pony Express went the way of the dodo. In present day IT terms, those two days were part of the post production implementation of the transcontinental telegraph. Good luck saying that any times fast.
So, you want to know about the Pony Express? There were 157 stations over a 2000 mile route. There were about 80 riders employed at any one time. And there were about 400 other people working the stations along the way. In addition, there were about 400 horses used.
Then there was the process. Riders would ride each horse a maximum of 20 miles - the approximate maximum distance between two stations along the route - and would then switch the horse out with another at each station. Most riders traveled up to 75 miles a day. At approximately 9 miles per hour. That's first gear on an auto, folks. For 2000 miles.
Why? To get messages from east to west in 10 days. That's it. It was all about information. It wasn't like the riders could lug anything larger than a small box of books in that time. Any message that I can now send in under a second via internet / phone would have required 10 days of at least one rider riding more than 100 horses from Missouri to California.
What in the name of all that's holy possessed anyone to create such a costly stopgap just to deliver information, especially when the transcontinental telegraph was being built?
I turn your attention to the first part of the first sentence I wrote in this post. In 1861, the Civil War began. The Civil War and the time immediately preceding it, that great big zit on the nose of American history, dominated all decisions in all parts of the United States in the late 1850s leading into 1861.
I won't go into all the details because I'd bore the majority of you to death, but the time between the Mexican American War and the start of the Civil War was like a young brother and sister nagging each other in the back of a car on a 12 hour trip, except there were no parents in the front seat to pull over and threaten them with bodily harm. The South wanted more slave states. The North wanted fewer. They straddled the middle for about 15 years so that they didn't have to fight. But they reached an impasse. Then, Abraham Lincoln was elected. And all hell broke loose.
Always off on these tangents. So, what the hell does this have to do with the Pony Express? Well, each side wanted to extend their respective influence. And the way to extend influence is to control both information and communication. Just ask China.
In that critical time between April 1860 and October 1861, it just so happened that the Union controlled the Pony Express, which subsequently kept the lines of communication open with California and all points in between, an effective stopgap until the telegraph lines met in Salt Lake City. And when that happened, the South lost all hope of exerting influence out west, which meant they had nowhere to expand with their states rights and pro-slavery dogma, not to mention they had few places to seek reprieve when they started losing the war.
A look back shows that the Pony Express was a rather big and costly finger in the dike, but that finer just may have kept the dike from tumbling down entirely.
Doors and Windows
It was a cold and stormy night. Well, windy. Kinda rainy too. Let’s say it was a rainy night. I guess it wasn’t that stormy. I mean, there was no lightning. Or thunder for that matter. I don’t even know why I said it was stormy. So, it was a cold and windy and rainy night. Hell, the night just sucked.
I was stuck in a sorry excuse for a studio. A dorm room, really. A reddish brown rug covered everything but the bathroom, which had reddish brown tile. The cream colored walls were barren. That was mostly my fault since I didn’t hang anything to make them less barren. Idiot college students wailed like retarded banshees somewhere in the vicinity. Continuously. Even when I was in college, I never really understood why college students wailed like retarded banshees. Even when I had had too much to drink, I didn’t wail or grunt or make loud noises. Instead, I lain in girls’ beds – without the girls – hugging whatever stuffed animals they happened to have in their beds. I’m pretty sure there’s a picture of me hugging a rather worn pink monkey. But that was before Facebook. It was mostly before the internet, actually. And thankfully.
I sat at the white desk typing on my laptop – much like I’m doing now – when I heard a knock at the cheap faux wood door. Mind you, I had never received a knock at said door. Ever. In fact, I had never told anyone where I lived. I thought about being scared but it didn’t resonate. Instead, I walked up to the door and looked through a peephole I hadn’t know existed the other seven thousand times I’d used the door to enter and exit the room. It was pitch black.
‘I knew you’d try to use the peephole,’ I heard from the other side of the door. The voice was a baritone, or so Mr. DiBartolo – my sixth grade music teacher – would have noticed. Bart, as we liked to call him, had a thing for the Beach Boys’ Kokomo. It seemed strange to me.
‘No shit Sherlock,’ I replied.
‘Let me in,’ he said, ‘or you’ll be sorry.’
‘Matt, is that you?’
‘How’d you know?’
‘You’re such an idiot. Go away.’
‘Aw, c’mon man. I just need to borrow a buck.’
‘Night, Matt.’
‘I’ll break this God damn door down,’ he screamed.
‘Go ahead, Matt,’ I spoke nonchalantly.
Matt pounded on the door a few times before some of my neighbors came out and, by the sounds of it, started throwing things at him.
‘Aw, c’mon guys, just a buck.’
The Doppler effect of his voice made me sigh in relief. He’d pounded at others’ doors but never mine. I wasn’t certain whether I should be annoyed or oddly honored. In the end, I was just happy he’d gone away.
A few minutes later, there came another knock on my door.
‘Matt, go away. People will just start throwing things again.’
‘Ain’t Matt,’ I heard a deeper voice say.
I walked up to the door and peered through the peephole. I didn’t see anyone.
‘You think I’m gonna stand in front o’ that peephole? Lemme in.’
‘All you crazies are out tonight. Go the hell away.’
‘Son, you ain’t want my kinda crazy.’
‘You’re right. Go the hell away.’ I walked back to my desk. I assumed he had left. Until there came from behind me a mind-numbing explosion. Something flew past my right ear and smashed through the lone window. I turned to see the faux door laying in splinters on the reddish brown carpet. In the doorway stood a non-descript middle aged black man in garb that seemed to indicate he was homeless.
‘I tol’ ya. You comin with me, son.’
‘The hell I am.’
‘You ain’t got no powers. Yo brother tol’ me so. You jes a sad ol’ normal human like I used to be. Ain’t nothing you can do if I got ya cornered.’
‘You shouldn’t underestimate the people in my family. They’ve had plenty of practice dealing with freaks like you.’ He stood and put his hands in his pockets. His right hand hit three consecutive buttons on his cell phone. He had learned to type the code without looking.
‘I ain’t had no problems with yo older sis. She melted in my hands like butter. Les jes say yo bro was happy to have her back at home.’
The family had split after their house was destroyed and his father was killed. It hadn’t been easy to shake his brother’s goons, but they had each managed. Or so he had thought.
‘You gonna make this difficult, Daniel, or you gonna come quietly?’
‘I’ll most likely make it difficult.’
The goon made his move, but not before Daniel had vanished, seemingly into thin air. A moment later, the cops arrived in response to the 911 call. The black man jumped through the window and landed perfectly after a three-story fall. He dashed into the night, unsure what he was going to tell his boss.
I was stuck in a sorry excuse for a studio. A dorm room, really. A reddish brown rug covered everything but the bathroom, which had reddish brown tile. The cream colored walls were barren. That was mostly my fault since I didn’t hang anything to make them less barren. Idiot college students wailed like retarded banshees somewhere in the vicinity. Continuously. Even when I was in college, I never really understood why college students wailed like retarded banshees. Even when I had had too much to drink, I didn’t wail or grunt or make loud noises. Instead, I lain in girls’ beds – without the girls – hugging whatever stuffed animals they happened to have in their beds. I’m pretty sure there’s a picture of me hugging a rather worn pink monkey. But that was before Facebook. It was mostly before the internet, actually. And thankfully.
I sat at the white desk typing on my laptop – much like I’m doing now – when I heard a knock at the cheap faux wood door. Mind you, I had never received a knock at said door. Ever. In fact, I had never told anyone where I lived. I thought about being scared but it didn’t resonate. Instead, I walked up to the door and looked through a peephole I hadn’t know existed the other seven thousand times I’d used the door to enter and exit the room. It was pitch black.
‘I knew you’d try to use the peephole,’ I heard from the other side of the door. The voice was a baritone, or so Mr. DiBartolo – my sixth grade music teacher – would have noticed. Bart, as we liked to call him, had a thing for the Beach Boys’ Kokomo. It seemed strange to me.
‘No shit Sherlock,’ I replied.
‘Let me in,’ he said, ‘or you’ll be sorry.’
‘Matt, is that you?’
‘How’d you know?’
‘You’re such an idiot. Go away.’
‘Aw, c’mon man. I just need to borrow a buck.’
‘Night, Matt.’
‘I’ll break this God damn door down,’ he screamed.
‘Go ahead, Matt,’ I spoke nonchalantly.
Matt pounded on the door a few times before some of my neighbors came out and, by the sounds of it, started throwing things at him.
‘Aw, c’mon guys, just a buck.’
The Doppler effect of his voice made me sigh in relief. He’d pounded at others’ doors but never mine. I wasn’t certain whether I should be annoyed or oddly honored. In the end, I was just happy he’d gone away.
A few minutes later, there came another knock on my door.
‘Matt, go away. People will just start throwing things again.’
‘Ain’t Matt,’ I heard a deeper voice say.
I walked up to the door and peered through the peephole. I didn’t see anyone.
‘You think I’m gonna stand in front o’ that peephole? Lemme in.’
‘All you crazies are out tonight. Go the hell away.’
‘Son, you ain’t want my kinda crazy.’
‘You’re right. Go the hell away.’ I walked back to my desk. I assumed he had left. Until there came from behind me a mind-numbing explosion. Something flew past my right ear and smashed through the lone window. I turned to see the faux door laying in splinters on the reddish brown carpet. In the doorway stood a non-descript middle aged black man in garb that seemed to indicate he was homeless.
‘I tol’ ya. You comin with me, son.’
‘The hell I am.’
‘You ain’t got no powers. Yo brother tol’ me so. You jes a sad ol’ normal human like I used to be. Ain’t nothing you can do if I got ya cornered.’
‘You shouldn’t underestimate the people in my family. They’ve had plenty of practice dealing with freaks like you.’ He stood and put his hands in his pockets. His right hand hit three consecutive buttons on his cell phone. He had learned to type the code without looking.
‘I ain’t had no problems with yo older sis. She melted in my hands like butter. Les jes say yo bro was happy to have her back at home.’
The family had split after their house was destroyed and his father was killed. It hadn’t been easy to shake his brother’s goons, but they had each managed. Or so he had thought.
‘You gonna make this difficult, Daniel, or you gonna come quietly?’
‘I’ll most likely make it difficult.’
The goon made his move, but not before Daniel had vanished, seemingly into thin air. A moment later, the cops arrived in response to the 911 call. The black man jumped through the window and landed perfectly after a three-story fall. He dashed into the night, unsure what he was going to tell his boss.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Text Me Out 2 teh Ballgame
G1
JT: Startin early. Their goin down.
Me: 7 games, my friend.
JT: JHam's gonna beet ur ass.
Me: We'll see.
[Pause]
Brother1: I was afraid of that.
Me: Me too. Jham's gonna beat our ass.
Brother1: Prolly
[Pause]
Old Man: Ardo sux.
Me: Guessing u mean ARod?
Old Man: he sxu
[Pause]
GK: cant decide if i want fils or jints w tx. ill say jints.
Me: I'll agree w jints. Leave football to tx.
GK: not this yr homey.
[Pause]
Brother2: How much does arod make? Really?
Me: I know. Ridiculous.
Brother2: This isnt even Lee.
Me: I know. Scary
[Pause]
JT: Yankees suck.
Me: Seen the Red Sox playin lately?
JT: Yankees scuk!
Me: Thought so...
[Pause]
TS: Yay Ranger bullpen.
Me: Yay!
[Pause]
Old Man: Go Yank! ARod stil sux
Me: Go Yanks!
[Pause]
JT: got lucky
Me: Ill take luck
[Pause]
Brother2: Whens Lee pitchin?
Me: Dunno, but we won tonite
Brother2: 3 games to go
G2
JT: They aint comin back tonite.
Me: I never count em out.
JT: Start countin
[Pause]
Brother1: Where the hell r the bats?
Me: Think they left em in NY.
[Pause]
DD: Hope ur not standin near a cliff.
Me: I'd punch him if he were a Lee.
DD: HA!
[Pause]
Uncle: Not looking good.
Me: If only Robbie could always be up.
Uncle: If only.
[Pause]
Me: What do you think?
Old Man: dont want2 talk abot it
[Pause]
GK: tx is beatin the !@#$ outta you
Me: You mean the Yanks?
GK: yep
Me: Not me.
GK: same diff
[Pause]
Mom: Sorry they lost.
Me: No ur not.
Mom: Ur right Im not :)
G3
JT: Your goin down
Me: I know
JT: Lee's gonna piledrive them
Me: Prolly
[Pause]
Brother2: The night the scares me
Me: Me 2
[Pause]
GK: lol. i think he'll go all 9.
Me: Im guessing 8. Theyll use the closer.
GK: Good idea, get him some rest.
[Pause]
Me: Ugh
Old Man: Bunh of pansies
[Pause]
DD: Do you need therapy?
Me: Umm... No... Thx
DD: Just checkin
Me: Thanks for the concern
[Pause]
JT: Even better than I thoght
[Pause]
Brother2: I was afraid of that.
Me: Not like it's a surprise.
Brother2: Whose pitchin tomorrow?
Me: Burnett
Brother2: Uh oh
Me: Yep
G4
Me: Why would they start AJ?
Old Man: Girard doesnt no what hes doing
[Pause]
GK: wanna c a bloodbath
Me: U prolly will
GK: tough to come back from 3-1
Me: Yep
[Pause]
JT: FOUL!!
Me: No idea
JT: Not a hr
Me: Not wathing the game
JT: Good thing there's replay
Me: Ok
[Pause]
Brother2: Thought Berkman had it.
Me: Heard it was foul.
Brother2: Yeah, sux. We need a break.
Me: Yep
[Pause]
DD: yay molina
Me: I don't think he's on the Yanks.
DD: nope
Me: Woohoo [sarcasm]
DD: yay [not sarcasm] ;p
[Pause]
Brother1: We're in deep doodoo
Me: You can say that again
Brother1: We're in deep doodoo
[Pause]
JT: 1 away
Me: But the sox arent in it
JT: But the yankess are
[Pause]
Uncle: I can't watch em anymore
Me: Not lookin good
Uncle: Football season
Me: Go Giants!
Uncle: That could still be a baseball thing
Me: True
G5
JT: Ready to lose?
Me: Not with cc
JT: They only need 1
Me: Not tonite
[Pause]
Brother1: That's the way they need to hit
Me: Yep, finally
[Pause]
GK: cc cant save you
Me: No, but Mo can
GK: ur goin down
Me: Not tonite
[Pause]
Me: They found the bats
Old Man: to littel too lat
[Pause]
Me: Wish they could play like this all the time
Uncle: Me too
[Pause]
Mom: I'm happy for you
Me: Really?
Mom: For you, yes. For me, no.
Me: Lol
G6
JT: Redy to lose?
Me: Ready as ill ever be
[Pause]
Brother2: Ugh
Me: It's just 1
Brother2: Just wish the yanks could hit
Me: Me too
[Pause]
GK: ur gonna lose ur gonna lose
Me: Won't even qualify that w a response. Oh wait, just did...
GK: get the ref?
Me: No crying in baseball, got it
[Pause]
Brother1: 1-1 still a chance
Me: Always hope
[Pause]
JT: DONE!
Me: Ain't heard no fat lady...
[Pause]
GK: say gnite gracie
[Pause]
Old Man: They scuk ardo sux cant hit nothnt
[Pause]
DD: Thank God
[Pause]
Mom: Sorry, honey
Me: Really?
Mom: Nah :)
JT: Startin early. Their goin down.
Me: 7 games, my friend.
JT: JHam's gonna beet ur ass.
Me: We'll see.
[Pause]
Brother1: I was afraid of that.
Me: Me too. Jham's gonna beat our ass.
Brother1: Prolly
[Pause]
Old Man: Ardo sux.
Me: Guessing u mean ARod?
Old Man: he sxu
[Pause]
GK: cant decide if i want fils or jints w tx. ill say jints.
Me: I'll agree w jints. Leave football to tx.
GK: not this yr homey.
[Pause]
Brother2: How much does arod make? Really?
Me: I know. Ridiculous.
Brother2: This isnt even Lee.
Me: I know. Scary
[Pause]
JT: Yankees suck.
Me: Seen the Red Sox playin lately?
JT: Yankees scuk!
Me: Thought so...
[Pause]
TS: Yay Ranger bullpen.
Me: Yay!
[Pause]
Old Man: Go Yank! ARod stil sux
Me: Go Yanks!
[Pause]
JT: got lucky
Me: Ill take luck
[Pause]
Brother2: Whens Lee pitchin?
Me: Dunno, but we won tonite
Brother2: 3 games to go
G2
JT: They aint comin back tonite.
Me: I never count em out.
JT: Start countin
[Pause]
Brother1: Where the hell r the bats?
Me: Think they left em in NY.
[Pause]
DD: Hope ur not standin near a cliff.
Me: I'd punch him if he were a Lee.
DD: HA!
[Pause]
Uncle: Not looking good.
Me: If only Robbie could always be up.
Uncle: If only.
[Pause]
Me: What do you think?
Old Man: dont want2 talk abot it
[Pause]
GK: tx is beatin the !@#$ outta you
Me: You mean the Yanks?
GK: yep
Me: Not me.
GK: same diff
[Pause]
Mom: Sorry they lost.
Me: No ur not.
Mom: Ur right Im not :)
G3
JT: Your goin down
Me: I know
JT: Lee's gonna piledrive them
Me: Prolly
[Pause]
Brother2: The night the scares me
Me: Me 2
[Pause]
GK: lol. i think he'll go all 9.
Me: Im guessing 8. Theyll use the closer.
GK: Good idea, get him some rest.
[Pause]
Me: Ugh
Old Man: Bunh of pansies
[Pause]
DD: Do you need therapy?
Me: Umm... No... Thx
DD: Just checkin
Me: Thanks for the concern
[Pause]
JT: Even better than I thoght
[Pause]
Brother2: I was afraid of that.
Me: Not like it's a surprise.
Brother2: Whose pitchin tomorrow?
Me: Burnett
Brother2: Uh oh
Me: Yep
G4
Me: Why would they start AJ?
Old Man: Girard doesnt no what hes doing
[Pause]
GK: wanna c a bloodbath
Me: U prolly will
GK: tough to come back from 3-1
Me: Yep
[Pause]
JT: FOUL!!
Me: No idea
JT: Not a hr
Me: Not wathing the game
JT: Good thing there's replay
Me: Ok
[Pause]
Brother2: Thought Berkman had it.
Me: Heard it was foul.
Brother2: Yeah, sux. We need a break.
Me: Yep
[Pause]
DD: yay molina
Me: I don't think he's on the Yanks.
DD: nope
Me: Woohoo [sarcasm]
DD: yay [not sarcasm] ;p
[Pause]
Brother1: We're in deep doodoo
Me: You can say that again
Brother1: We're in deep doodoo
[Pause]
JT: 1 away
Me: But the sox arent in it
JT: But the yankess are
[Pause]
Uncle: I can't watch em anymore
Me: Not lookin good
Uncle: Football season
Me: Go Giants!
Uncle: That could still be a baseball thing
Me: True
G5
JT: Ready to lose?
Me: Not with cc
JT: They only need 1
Me: Not tonite
[Pause]
Brother1: That's the way they need to hit
Me: Yep, finally
[Pause]
GK: cc cant save you
Me: No, but Mo can
GK: ur goin down
Me: Not tonite
[Pause]
Me: They found the bats
Old Man: to littel too lat
[Pause]
Me: Wish they could play like this all the time
Uncle: Me too
[Pause]
Mom: I'm happy for you
Me: Really?
Mom: For you, yes. For me, no.
Me: Lol
G6
JT: Redy to lose?
Me: Ready as ill ever be
[Pause]
Brother2: Ugh
Me: It's just 1
Brother2: Just wish the yanks could hit
Me: Me too
[Pause]
GK: ur gonna lose ur gonna lose
Me: Won't even qualify that w a response. Oh wait, just did...
GK: get the ref?
Me: No crying in baseball, got it
[Pause]
Brother1: 1-1 still a chance
Me: Always hope
[Pause]
JT: DONE!
Me: Ain't heard no fat lady...
[Pause]
GK: say gnite gracie
[Pause]
Old Man: They scuk ardo sux cant hit nothnt
[Pause]
DD: Thank God
[Pause]
Mom: Sorry, honey
Me: Really?
Mom: Nah :)
It Ain't About the Cards
Throw’m a bone, Gus. He don’t know how to play.
I don’t give a shit. If he gonna play at this here table, he better know how to.
Gus moved the dip from his left to right lower lip.
You hear me, kid? I ain’t give no two shits bout you. I jes want yo money.
Joe betrayed no emotion. He looked first at Tip and then at Gus. He shrugged and laid his cards face down.
Why you gotta be such an asshole, Gus? I know you don’t give two shits. But I ain’t askin nothin from you or anyone else. If I’m gonna win, I’m gonna win without charity. I fold.
Gus’s laugh transformed into a rattling cough; a lump of the dip plopped onto the table.
You learnin, kid. You learnin. And I’m takin yo money. Happy t’oblige.
They all threw in a ten. Tip dealt the next hand. A jack of spades and two of diamonds to Gus. A king of clubs and queen of hearts to Joe. A seven and four of diamonds to himself.
Looks like this ain’t yo lucky day, jo jo. I gonna beat yo ass again. Here’s forty bucks I know you don’t got. What you say?
Joe dropped two twenties. Tip folded.
We got ourselves a game, Gus said excitedly. Tip, flow dat river, quick.
Tip laid down a jack of hearts, three of clubs, and two of spades.
Ooh, looks like I gotta raise. How bout a C-note, kid? You ever seen a big Ben that wasn’t molestin women? Gus thought himself eminently amusing.
Joe still betrayed nothing. I’ll take you up on that, old man. How bout two C-notes for good measure. Can you afford that, you piece of shit?
Now, now, kid. Ain’t no need in callin names. Gus stared at his cards and couldn’t imagine Joe would have anything that could beat what he had. Still, he felt a small knot form in his stomach. He was close to his limit, and his wife would not be happy if he lost money that was supposed to go toward groceries. He tossed in five twenties. K, kid, two cards left before you lose yo money. You ready?
Joe motioned to Tip to throw down the next card. He did. An ace of spades.
Gus wanted to check but knew Joe would take advantage. He threw in a hundred he couldn’t afford to lose. I gotcha, Joe. I gotcha. You ain’t gonna beat what I got. He glanced again at the his cards, then at the cards on the table.
Joe knew Gus had something in his hand. Probably something that was beating him. At least a pair, which was more than he had. He also knew Gus had a bitch of a wife and two kids, not to mention a job that didn’t pay too much. Card games are never just about the cards. Especially poker.
Gus, you’re gonna fuckin love this. Honestly. I got a hand that’s gonna make you shit those fancy pants you got. You’re gonna stink from it all the way home to your wife and kids. He paused. Your C, he dropped two fifties. And another, he dropped four twenties and two tens.
The second group of bills made Gus obviously uncomfortable, a fact that should have immediately resulted in him folding. But Gus had too much pride. And what he thought to be a good hand, to boot.
Kid, you a major league asshole. I’m gonna have fun takin yo monthly paycheck. Or is that two months? You gonna wish you hadn’t come tonight, jo jo. He put down a fifty, two twenties, and a ten.
Tip took the cue to throw down the final card. With an anticlimactic slap, he dropped a nine of diamonds. Joe felt a smirk forming and quashed it immediately. Gus stared at the cards on the table, uncertain how to proceed. The winner had already won, except there are no winners until the final bell sounds. Or the fat lady sings. Or Norwood misses the kick.
Gus still hadn’t motioned.
All you gotta do is check, Gus. No one’ll think less of you for it. I’m guessing you don’t wanna fold yet, but you can if you want, Joe quipped.
You an asshole, Joe. A real asshole. I got a hand that’ll kick yo ass. And you gonna pay up real soon. He tossed a fifty. A sign of slipping confidence.
Gus, ain’t nothin personal at this table. Nothin at all. I just want the money. Show me the money, and then I’ll take it all the way to the bank. I got another two hundred for ya. Right here, he let float to the table the two hundred dollar bills.
Shit, was all Gus could muster.
Joe knew better than to push, especially since he had nothing in his hand. But he also knew Gus was paying no attention to him.
Gus heard his wife’s voice in his ear. Another hundred and fifty would be cutting into the rent. Already lost grocery money. Would have to borrow from her mother again. It wouldn’t be good.
The game had reached its apex, and neither Joe nor Gus noticed that Tip had slipped out of the room.
Gus stared; Joe waited. For what seemed an eternity.
They didn’t notice Tip enter, which meant they also didn’t notice the pistol in Tip’s shaking hand. Um, sorry guys, but I think I’m gonna win this hand.
Gus and Joe awoke as if from some strange entrancing slumber.
Gus spoke first, what the… what are you doin, Tip?
Look, I’m sorry, I need the money. They’re gonna break my legs if I don’t give it to em.
And I’m gonna break your legs if I ever see you again, Joe said. Seems like you’re robbin Peter to pay Paul.
Yeah, but they got ways of finding people. I can’t hide from them. I could probably hide from you better.
That’s fuckin stupid, Joe exclaimed. He calmed himself for the next question. How much do you owe?
More than what’s on the table, but it comes close.
That wasn’t the question, Tip. How much?
Two grand. And this’ll get me more than half way there.
Yeah? Then what. You gonna rob another couple friends? You’re an idiot.
Gus was still caught between what he should do with his hand and what he should do about Tip.
Look, I’m sorry. There’s not much I can do.
No, I mean you’re an idiot. Joe stood, wheeled back, and clocked Tip in the side of his head. Tip dropped the gun and sprawled on the floor. In that same instant, the card table ‘spontaneously’ collapsed, sending cards and bills to the floor in a magnificent crash.
Tip fled the scene with what Joe and Gus later determined to be about forty bucks.
Joe only chased Tip a short distance before realizing the Gus wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy person in the world. He therefore doubled back to the house.
Gus, who had fallen from his chair after kicking the flimsy table leg, dusted himself off and began organizing the cash and cards. He pocketed half the money and left the other half – with the cards – on the table. He was about to exit when Joe reentered.
Where you goin, Gus? Where’s my money?
It’s on the table, Joe. Time for me to go. My wife’s gonna be pissed. With that, he hurriedly walked from the front door.
Joe closed the door behind him and flipped the dead bolt. He counted the money, then the cards. All there. He sat and sighed. He had to find new poker buddies.
I don’t give a shit. If he gonna play at this here table, he better know how to.
Gus moved the dip from his left to right lower lip.
You hear me, kid? I ain’t give no two shits bout you. I jes want yo money.
Joe betrayed no emotion. He looked first at Tip and then at Gus. He shrugged and laid his cards face down.
Why you gotta be such an asshole, Gus? I know you don’t give two shits. But I ain’t askin nothin from you or anyone else. If I’m gonna win, I’m gonna win without charity. I fold.
Gus’s laugh transformed into a rattling cough; a lump of the dip plopped onto the table.
You learnin, kid. You learnin. And I’m takin yo money. Happy t’oblige.
They all threw in a ten. Tip dealt the next hand. A jack of spades and two of diamonds to Gus. A king of clubs and queen of hearts to Joe. A seven and four of diamonds to himself.
Looks like this ain’t yo lucky day, jo jo. I gonna beat yo ass again. Here’s forty bucks I know you don’t got. What you say?
Joe dropped two twenties. Tip folded.
We got ourselves a game, Gus said excitedly. Tip, flow dat river, quick.
Tip laid down a jack of hearts, three of clubs, and two of spades.
Ooh, looks like I gotta raise. How bout a C-note, kid? You ever seen a big Ben that wasn’t molestin women? Gus thought himself eminently amusing.
Joe still betrayed nothing. I’ll take you up on that, old man. How bout two C-notes for good measure. Can you afford that, you piece of shit?
Now, now, kid. Ain’t no need in callin names. Gus stared at his cards and couldn’t imagine Joe would have anything that could beat what he had. Still, he felt a small knot form in his stomach. He was close to his limit, and his wife would not be happy if he lost money that was supposed to go toward groceries. He tossed in five twenties. K, kid, two cards left before you lose yo money. You ready?
Joe motioned to Tip to throw down the next card. He did. An ace of spades.
Gus wanted to check but knew Joe would take advantage. He threw in a hundred he couldn’t afford to lose. I gotcha, Joe. I gotcha. You ain’t gonna beat what I got. He glanced again at the his cards, then at the cards on the table.
Joe knew Gus had something in his hand. Probably something that was beating him. At least a pair, which was more than he had. He also knew Gus had a bitch of a wife and two kids, not to mention a job that didn’t pay too much. Card games are never just about the cards. Especially poker.
Gus, you’re gonna fuckin love this. Honestly. I got a hand that’s gonna make you shit those fancy pants you got. You’re gonna stink from it all the way home to your wife and kids. He paused. Your C, he dropped two fifties. And another, he dropped four twenties and two tens.
The second group of bills made Gus obviously uncomfortable, a fact that should have immediately resulted in him folding. But Gus had too much pride. And what he thought to be a good hand, to boot.
Kid, you a major league asshole. I’m gonna have fun takin yo monthly paycheck. Or is that two months? You gonna wish you hadn’t come tonight, jo jo. He put down a fifty, two twenties, and a ten.
Tip took the cue to throw down the final card. With an anticlimactic slap, he dropped a nine of diamonds. Joe felt a smirk forming and quashed it immediately. Gus stared at the cards on the table, uncertain how to proceed. The winner had already won, except there are no winners until the final bell sounds. Or the fat lady sings. Or Norwood misses the kick.
Gus still hadn’t motioned.
All you gotta do is check, Gus. No one’ll think less of you for it. I’m guessing you don’t wanna fold yet, but you can if you want, Joe quipped.
You an asshole, Joe. A real asshole. I got a hand that’ll kick yo ass. And you gonna pay up real soon. He tossed a fifty. A sign of slipping confidence.
Gus, ain’t nothin personal at this table. Nothin at all. I just want the money. Show me the money, and then I’ll take it all the way to the bank. I got another two hundred for ya. Right here, he let float to the table the two hundred dollar bills.
Shit, was all Gus could muster.
Joe knew better than to push, especially since he had nothing in his hand. But he also knew Gus was paying no attention to him.
Gus heard his wife’s voice in his ear. Another hundred and fifty would be cutting into the rent. Already lost grocery money. Would have to borrow from her mother again. It wouldn’t be good.
The game had reached its apex, and neither Joe nor Gus noticed that Tip had slipped out of the room.
Gus stared; Joe waited. For what seemed an eternity.
They didn’t notice Tip enter, which meant they also didn’t notice the pistol in Tip’s shaking hand. Um, sorry guys, but I think I’m gonna win this hand.
Gus and Joe awoke as if from some strange entrancing slumber.
Gus spoke first, what the… what are you doin, Tip?
Look, I’m sorry, I need the money. They’re gonna break my legs if I don’t give it to em.
And I’m gonna break your legs if I ever see you again, Joe said. Seems like you’re robbin Peter to pay Paul.
Yeah, but they got ways of finding people. I can’t hide from them. I could probably hide from you better.
That’s fuckin stupid, Joe exclaimed. He calmed himself for the next question. How much do you owe?
More than what’s on the table, but it comes close.
That wasn’t the question, Tip. How much?
Two grand. And this’ll get me more than half way there.
Yeah? Then what. You gonna rob another couple friends? You’re an idiot.
Gus was still caught between what he should do with his hand and what he should do about Tip.
Look, I’m sorry. There’s not much I can do.
No, I mean you’re an idiot. Joe stood, wheeled back, and clocked Tip in the side of his head. Tip dropped the gun and sprawled on the floor. In that same instant, the card table ‘spontaneously’ collapsed, sending cards and bills to the floor in a magnificent crash.
Tip fled the scene with what Joe and Gus later determined to be about forty bucks.
Joe only chased Tip a short distance before realizing the Gus wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy person in the world. He therefore doubled back to the house.
Gus, who had fallen from his chair after kicking the flimsy table leg, dusted himself off and began organizing the cash and cards. He pocketed half the money and left the other half – with the cards – on the table. He was about to exit when Joe reentered.
Where you goin, Gus? Where’s my money?
It’s on the table, Joe. Time for me to go. My wife’s gonna be pissed. With that, he hurriedly walked from the front door.
Joe closed the door behind him and flipped the dead bolt. He counted the money, then the cards. All there. He sat and sighed. He had to find new poker buddies.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
3WW (Absolve, Hiss, Ridicule): Stealing Home
She hissed at her buffoon of a boyfriend, ‘Shut up! Do you want to screw it up?’
‘No,’ he answered tersely, like a scolded little boy.
‘The key’s over there under the awning. It’s too tall for me; go get it.’
He obeyed while she waited silently outside the back door, lest she wake the dog. She wasn’t too concerned about the dog, but it was all about taking one thing at a time.
She heard him fumbling with the keys; it was all she could do to stop from strangling the guy. If she didn’t need him for this task, she’d have let him work his useless shift stocking milk in the local Safeway.
The fumbling ceased, and she saw him start back. She straightened from a crouching position and peered into the window. Everything was neat and tidy as usual. The dog was nowhere to be found. Then she heard to her right a small thud followed by ‘shit!’ and a much louder thud combined with jangling keys. She ducked as if expecting a volley of artillery. And then she really got pissed. Veins started popping from her neck; her face turned sunburn red. She would have pummeled that idiot boyfriend of hers if she hadn’t heard a pitter patter within the house. The clicking was followed by sniffing, a pause, and more sniffing.
The boyfriend lay motionless on the ground, sprawled awkwardly. He knew that if he moved, she’d beat the hell out of him. So, he did nothing, attempting to fake unconsciousness. She noticed his attempt and noted that he really didn’t do anything well.
She heard more clicking, sloshing water, and yet more clicking. Then there was silence. She stood again and peered through the window. The dog was lying at the foot of the stairs.
Her own planning also left a little to be desired for at that moment she realized she wasn’t certain how to handle the dog once they entered. It wasn’t that the Chow mix would become violent, at least not towards her. But she wasn’t certain how to prevent the dog from making enough noise to wake everyone up.
The idiot boyfriend whispered to the darkness, ‘Can I move?’
He heard, ‘Shh! No!’ in reply and remained sprawled.
She considered her options, none of them particularly appealing. The dog, she knew, liked toys more than food, but she couldn’t exactly play with the dog and do what she needed to do. There was always the idiot boyfriend, but she needed him to help. If she somehow got the dog outside and locked her out, the dog would just yap until someone let her back in.
The idea struck. She scratched at the door as she’d imagine an animal might and then peered through the window. It had the effect she desired. The dog stared expectantly at the door but made no sound. A little more scratching and the dog was at the door sniffing again. She had to move quickly.
‘Anything I can do, honey?’ the muffled baritone asked.
The hair stood up on the back of her neck. She considered how bad his timing was. The sniffing ceased suddenly and was replaced by what she thought to be the beginnings of a growl. As quickly and as silently as she could, she opened the screen door and inserted the key into the door. By that time the dog’s muffled growl had become a hushed barking. And it would have become more than hushed had she not turned the knob and thrust her hand in front of the dog’s face. The dog stopped and sniffed. After a tense moment, the dog’s tail began to wag. Success. She grabbed the leash, hooked it to the dog’s collar, and walked the dog to their pickup down the street. The dog jumped into the car and positioned herself behind the steering wheel as if ready for a first driving lesson. She cracked the window and closed the door before moving back to the house.
She found the idiot boyfriend still sprawled on the patio.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Get your ass up; we got work to do.’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t sure what was going on.’
‘That much is certain.’ She decided that now was not the time to ridicule him further.
Once inside, she felt, for the first time, a mild sense of guilt for what she planned to do. But the feeling waned as she glanced at the pictures on the antique hutch. The idiot boyfriend stood beside her, obviously clueless as to what he should be doing.
‘Let’s go down to the garage.’
They descended the stairs and made their way to the back of the enormous space. In the southeast corner, she saw a pile of boxes. ‘It had to be in one of them,’ she said to herself. They proceeded to extract tape and tear cardboard until, somewhere in the middle of the pile, she pulled what looked to be a book of CDs. She opened the book and saw the familiar sights of Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio on the fronts of respective baseball cards. She flipped through the book and recognized Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Mickey Mantle, and Yogi Berra. As she came to the back of the book, she saw Barry Bonds, Ozzie Smith, and Mark McGuire, cards she had added to the collection. The nostalgia washed over her; she suddenly felt the utter despair of losing her father who had recently committed suicide in the basement.
‘Found it. Let’s get out of this hell hole.’
‘This hell hole happens to be my home, sis.’
She turned to see her brother bedecked in flannel pajamas. Although surprised, she didn’t allow herself to show it to this bastard.
‘It suits the asshole who lives in it.’
‘What are you doing here at stupid o’clock? It looks like you might be considering theft.’
‘I’m taking back what’s rightfully mine.’
‘Show me that in the will. Oh, right, daddy didn’t consider daddy’s little girl hanging himself.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Exactly, sis. Look, you’ve got no recourse. The cops are on their way because I believe I heard burglars and because my dog has suddenly gone missing. Not to mention there’s an old dilapidated piece of shit down the street with a dog in it. How are you going to talk your way out of this one? Seems you should escort yourselves out and hope that I don’t come after you to press charges since you’re dumb enough to have your fingerprints on everything from the back door to this box.’
‘You took everything without even asking.’
‘You were in Europe backpacking across some freaking mountain range. I had to take care of everything alone. You deserve nothing. And that’s what you’re gonna get. You still have a chance to leave before the cops arrive.’
‘How the hell did I know he was gonna kill himself? I got back as soon as I could, but I didn’t have the money to pay what they were asking.’
‘You’ve always been irresponsible. And you’ll always be irresponsible. No one can absolve you from your abject poverty and your complete stupidity.’
A knock came at the front door.
‘Why don’t you and your idiot boyfriend make yourselves comfortable down here while I retrieve our guests; this is how it should feel in jail.’ His footsteps faded as he walked up the stairs.
The idiot boyfriend, who had been silent the entire time, suddenly spoke up, ‘I can’t go to jail. I gotta work tomorrow.’
She glared at him. ‘Are you really as retarded as you act? Just shut the hell up.’
A moment later, two cops accompanied her brother down the stairs and into the garage. Officer Sala stood about six foot tall. He had a beer belly and graying hair. His partner, Officer Mandel, was about a head shorter than her partner with darker skin and long black hair.
‘There they are. Take them away,’ the brother ordered.
‘In a moment, son,’ the older man wheezed. ‘We’d like to ask a few questions first, if you don’t mind.’
‘It’s kinda late, officer,’ the brother replied.
‘Well, I just want to make sure everything’s in order. Mandel, can you please talk to the young lady and her friend while I take this young gentleman upstairs and listen to his story?’
The older officer and her brother walked upstairs, much to her brother’s chagrin.
‘Okay, miss, please explain what happened.’ Mandel had no interest in dragging it out.
‘I wanted to retrieve some of my stuff, like these baseball cards,’ she pointed to the binder. ‘You see, my father died and didn’t leave a will, so all this stuff is ours. But my brother won’t let me anywhere near it.’
‘You’ll have to work through the court system, miss. You can’t just break into the house and take things.’
‘I didn’t break in. I used a key. It’s just as much my house as it is his.’
‘Is the house in his name?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so, though. My father just died a month or so ago. And this was his house.’
‘Interesting, go on.’
‘Well, that’s really it. I just want some of the stuff, especially these baseball cards.’
The officer picked up the cards and said, ‘Please wait here.’ She proceeded upstairs.
A short time later, the two officers descended the stairs.
‘Miss, we’d like to ask you to stay on the premises this evening, at least to care for your dog.’
‘Huh?’ she replied monosyllabically.
‘We must escort your brother to the station this evening because of his outstanding warrants,’ Mandel answered.
‘Warrants? Plural? For what?’
‘I’m sorry, miss, but we aren’t at liberty to say. In any case, we have verified that this is as much your house as it is his. You can work out the legal logistics after he’s worked out some of his own. In the meantime, I believe there’s a dog in your car that most likely needs to relieve himself. Good night, miss.’
The older officer handed the binder back to her and said, ‘You’ve got some beauts in there.’ With that, the officers walked up the stairs and out of the house.
Meanwhile, she stood with her idiot boyfriend in the garage where her father had died.
And she swore she heard laughing.
‘No,’ he answered tersely, like a scolded little boy.
‘The key’s over there under the awning. It’s too tall for me; go get it.’
He obeyed while she waited silently outside the back door, lest she wake the dog. She wasn’t too concerned about the dog, but it was all about taking one thing at a time.
She heard him fumbling with the keys; it was all she could do to stop from strangling the guy. If she didn’t need him for this task, she’d have let him work his useless shift stocking milk in the local Safeway.
The fumbling ceased, and she saw him start back. She straightened from a crouching position and peered into the window. Everything was neat and tidy as usual. The dog was nowhere to be found. Then she heard to her right a small thud followed by ‘shit!’ and a much louder thud combined with jangling keys. She ducked as if expecting a volley of artillery. And then she really got pissed. Veins started popping from her neck; her face turned sunburn red. She would have pummeled that idiot boyfriend of hers if she hadn’t heard a pitter patter within the house. The clicking was followed by sniffing, a pause, and more sniffing.
The boyfriend lay motionless on the ground, sprawled awkwardly. He knew that if he moved, she’d beat the hell out of him. So, he did nothing, attempting to fake unconsciousness. She noticed his attempt and noted that he really didn’t do anything well.
She heard more clicking, sloshing water, and yet more clicking. Then there was silence. She stood again and peered through the window. The dog was lying at the foot of the stairs.
Her own planning also left a little to be desired for at that moment she realized she wasn’t certain how to handle the dog once they entered. It wasn’t that the Chow mix would become violent, at least not towards her. But she wasn’t certain how to prevent the dog from making enough noise to wake everyone up.
The idiot boyfriend whispered to the darkness, ‘Can I move?’
He heard, ‘Shh! No!’ in reply and remained sprawled.
She considered her options, none of them particularly appealing. The dog, she knew, liked toys more than food, but she couldn’t exactly play with the dog and do what she needed to do. There was always the idiot boyfriend, but she needed him to help. If she somehow got the dog outside and locked her out, the dog would just yap until someone let her back in.
The idea struck. She scratched at the door as she’d imagine an animal might and then peered through the window. It had the effect she desired. The dog stared expectantly at the door but made no sound. A little more scratching and the dog was at the door sniffing again. She had to move quickly.
‘Anything I can do, honey?’ the muffled baritone asked.
The hair stood up on the back of her neck. She considered how bad his timing was. The sniffing ceased suddenly and was replaced by what she thought to be the beginnings of a growl. As quickly and as silently as she could, she opened the screen door and inserted the key into the door. By that time the dog’s muffled growl had become a hushed barking. And it would have become more than hushed had she not turned the knob and thrust her hand in front of the dog’s face. The dog stopped and sniffed. After a tense moment, the dog’s tail began to wag. Success. She grabbed the leash, hooked it to the dog’s collar, and walked the dog to their pickup down the street. The dog jumped into the car and positioned herself behind the steering wheel as if ready for a first driving lesson. She cracked the window and closed the door before moving back to the house.
She found the idiot boyfriend still sprawled on the patio.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Get your ass up; we got work to do.’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t sure what was going on.’
‘That much is certain.’ She decided that now was not the time to ridicule him further.
Once inside, she felt, for the first time, a mild sense of guilt for what she planned to do. But the feeling waned as she glanced at the pictures on the antique hutch. The idiot boyfriend stood beside her, obviously clueless as to what he should be doing.
‘Let’s go down to the garage.’
They descended the stairs and made their way to the back of the enormous space. In the southeast corner, she saw a pile of boxes. ‘It had to be in one of them,’ she said to herself. They proceeded to extract tape and tear cardboard until, somewhere in the middle of the pile, she pulled what looked to be a book of CDs. She opened the book and saw the familiar sights of Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio on the fronts of respective baseball cards. She flipped through the book and recognized Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Mickey Mantle, and Yogi Berra. As she came to the back of the book, she saw Barry Bonds, Ozzie Smith, and Mark McGuire, cards she had added to the collection. The nostalgia washed over her; she suddenly felt the utter despair of losing her father who had recently committed suicide in the basement.
‘Found it. Let’s get out of this hell hole.’
‘This hell hole happens to be my home, sis.’
She turned to see her brother bedecked in flannel pajamas. Although surprised, she didn’t allow herself to show it to this bastard.
‘It suits the asshole who lives in it.’
‘What are you doing here at stupid o’clock? It looks like you might be considering theft.’
‘I’m taking back what’s rightfully mine.’
‘Show me that in the will. Oh, right, daddy didn’t consider daddy’s little girl hanging himself.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Exactly, sis. Look, you’ve got no recourse. The cops are on their way because I believe I heard burglars and because my dog has suddenly gone missing. Not to mention there’s an old dilapidated piece of shit down the street with a dog in it. How are you going to talk your way out of this one? Seems you should escort yourselves out and hope that I don’t come after you to press charges since you’re dumb enough to have your fingerprints on everything from the back door to this box.’
‘You took everything without even asking.’
‘You were in Europe backpacking across some freaking mountain range. I had to take care of everything alone. You deserve nothing. And that’s what you’re gonna get. You still have a chance to leave before the cops arrive.’
‘How the hell did I know he was gonna kill himself? I got back as soon as I could, but I didn’t have the money to pay what they were asking.’
‘You’ve always been irresponsible. And you’ll always be irresponsible. No one can absolve you from your abject poverty and your complete stupidity.’
A knock came at the front door.
‘Why don’t you and your idiot boyfriend make yourselves comfortable down here while I retrieve our guests; this is how it should feel in jail.’ His footsteps faded as he walked up the stairs.
The idiot boyfriend, who had been silent the entire time, suddenly spoke up, ‘I can’t go to jail. I gotta work tomorrow.’
She glared at him. ‘Are you really as retarded as you act? Just shut the hell up.’
A moment later, two cops accompanied her brother down the stairs and into the garage. Officer Sala stood about six foot tall. He had a beer belly and graying hair. His partner, Officer Mandel, was about a head shorter than her partner with darker skin and long black hair.
‘There they are. Take them away,’ the brother ordered.
‘In a moment, son,’ the older man wheezed. ‘We’d like to ask a few questions first, if you don’t mind.’
‘It’s kinda late, officer,’ the brother replied.
‘Well, I just want to make sure everything’s in order. Mandel, can you please talk to the young lady and her friend while I take this young gentleman upstairs and listen to his story?’
The older officer and her brother walked upstairs, much to her brother’s chagrin.
‘Okay, miss, please explain what happened.’ Mandel had no interest in dragging it out.
‘I wanted to retrieve some of my stuff, like these baseball cards,’ she pointed to the binder. ‘You see, my father died and didn’t leave a will, so all this stuff is ours. But my brother won’t let me anywhere near it.’
‘You’ll have to work through the court system, miss. You can’t just break into the house and take things.’
‘I didn’t break in. I used a key. It’s just as much my house as it is his.’
‘Is the house in his name?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so, though. My father just died a month or so ago. And this was his house.’
‘Interesting, go on.’
‘Well, that’s really it. I just want some of the stuff, especially these baseball cards.’
The officer picked up the cards and said, ‘Please wait here.’ She proceeded upstairs.
A short time later, the two officers descended the stairs.
‘Miss, we’d like to ask you to stay on the premises this evening, at least to care for your dog.’
‘Huh?’ she replied monosyllabically.
‘We must escort your brother to the station this evening because of his outstanding warrants,’ Mandel answered.
‘Warrants? Plural? For what?’
‘I’m sorry, miss, but we aren’t at liberty to say. In any case, we have verified that this is as much your house as it is his. You can work out the legal logistics after he’s worked out some of his own. In the meantime, I believe there’s a dog in your car that most likely needs to relieve himself. Good night, miss.’
The older officer handed the binder back to her and said, ‘You’ve got some beauts in there.’ With that, the officers walked up the stairs and out of the house.
Meanwhile, she stood with her idiot boyfriend in the garage where her father had died.
And she swore she heard laughing.
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.
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