Ray listened intently to one side of the conversation through the paper-thin walls. His brother spoke plainly, remorselessly. ‘She should die,’ he heard the animated voice declare into his cell phone. ‘She’s a traitor to all mankind. Everything she says is a lie. I wish someone would just kill her. Damn liberals.’
Paul had changed significantly since going to college. No longer was he the gregarious star athlete of a small Kansas town. Instead, he had become an angry, almost belligerent young man. A small fish in a giant pond at the University of Texas, he had channeled his fierce competitiveness into politics. He attended rallies and stood on corners in Austin distributing pamphlets to passerby.
‘It’s about damn time that someone sends a warning shot across her bow. She doesn’t listen. She does whatever she damn well pleases. She won’t be held accountable for her actions, and others protect her blindly because they are deluded enough to think that she’s the future of this country.’ Ray heard his brother pause. A tennis ball began to thump on the wall arrhythmically. ‘They make it look like it’s a walk in the park. You have an opinion, then spin it into it being un-American. You try to do what’s good for the country, and you are a enemy of patriotism. Well, sometimes there’s a place for an eye for an eye,’ he retorted. ‘The tree of liberty must be fertilized by the blood of terrorists.’ The thumping became louder. ‘Terrorists, tyrants, same difference.’
Ray had not just looked up to his older brother; he wanted to be his older brother. The star quarterback, the star pitcher, the prom king, the town hero. But Ray didn’t have the talent. Too skinny and socially awkward, he found his place in running and playing the trumpet. Teachers in the high school almost seemed disappointed when they called ‘Raymond Green’ and saw him sitting quietly in the back of the room trying desperately not to be noticed. Mr. Horner, the gym teacher, commented, ‘You sure you’re Paul’s brother?’ when Ray tried to throw a football. Suffice it to say, Ray avoided throwing anything in front of anyone.
‘Bullshit. She is the stupidest person I’ve ever heard. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. And yet people listen and follow her direction as if she’s reciting the Bible in the voice of Moses.’ The thumping ceased; the floorboards began to creak. Paul had a habit of pacing the room as he became more intense, which caused a strange Doppler effect in the conversation. ‘We’re too damn cowardly to play by their rules. It’s time for us to unite, to stand against them, to shed a little blood.’
Ray felt impassioned by his brother’s speech. He imagined himself marching alongside his brother down a dirt road to meet an evil posse with red bandanas – he had just recently seen Tombstone with his father. He heard himself mimic his brother. ‘You worthless know-nothings; you stupid angry anti-Americans. We’re gonna put you were you shoulda gone a long time ago.’ And he’d pull his six-shooter from the holster and gun them down for the good of the country. Ray glanced out the window and noticed his father had arrived home from work. The front door opened and closed quietly. His father’s boots clicked on each stair as he ascended.
‘I’d do it if I could, but who am I kidding? It’s a pipe dream. They’ll never have balls enough to try character assassination, never mind actual assassination. Nope, she’ll grow more and more powerful. And she’ll do it for American, not knowing that she’s destroying the country. Maybe she’s the antichrist.’
Ray heard his brother’s door open. ‘Paul, I’m home. You wanna talk about that shit, go outside; you know my rules.’ The door closed abruptly.
Ray’s door opened suddenly. His father was annoyed. He commented cryptically, ‘Ray, let me just give you one piece of advice. College ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Just remember your family, will you?’
‘Yeah, dad. Okay,’ Ray answered, wanting to please his father. The door closed, and his father’s footsteps descended the stairs.
Ray strained to hear his brother’s final words. ‘Yeah, I gotta go. My father…’ His voice faded. ‘… defends her… wish he’d wake up to… almost vice president.’
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
Sunday Scribblings (Progress): Not That Guy
Brian grabbed the green ink. Across the front of the black bottle in flowing gold script was the word ‘Emerald’. His older brothers always confiscated the black – ‘Raven’ – and blue – ‘Cobalt’ – leaving him to opt for some other more adventurous hue. He dipped the Waterman pen into the ink bottle and sloppily sucked some of the dark green ink into the miniature tube. The rest he carelessly sprayed on the old wooden table.
Each of the boys had received a Waterman pen from their maternal grandfather at the age of ten. In each case, the pen and accompanying ink had been delivered with a note explaining the family New Years Eve tradition. Dating back to the mid-19th century all members of the Grossman family had recorded their New Year’s resolutions in special journals with ink from a fountain pen. According to his grandfather, the tradition dated back longer – he claims back to the 17th century – but a fire had destroyed the library containing those journals in the small German town from whence the Grossman’s had emigrated.
At the age of 16, Brian suddenly decided that he couldn’t care less about resolutions. They were, as he so eloquently stated to his mother, retarded and a waste of his life. In addition, he claimed he wasn’t going to abide by the resolutions anyway, making them irrelevant and not worth the ink he was using to write them. Brian’s mother was patient as she listened to her indignant son. Each time he complained, she patiently told the same story about her father and her father’s father. They weren’t rich men, she explained, because they understood that resolutions were about being true to one’s self. But they were successful men who lived life fully and had no regrets.
He rolled his eyes as far as they could roll and tried to argue his point anew. When his mother started in again on the reasons for the resolutions, he stormed upstairs with pen, ink, and journal in tow. The door slammed loudly; he fell into his bed and pouted. A short time later, his mother ascended the stairs and knocked at the door to tell him that the family was on their way to celebrate the New Year at her parents’ house. He told her to go away, that he didn’t feel like celebrating. She told him to suit himself but suggested strongly that he write the resolutions. When, after a minute, she heard no response, she walked back down the stairs smiling to herself. She told her husband not to worry about anything. They packed up the lasagna and salad she had made and locked the front door. Within a couple minutes, their Datsun took them off to the other side of town.
Meanwhile Brian decided he wasn’t going spend another minute in the house. He dialed Jim’s number and let it ring twice before hanging up. Then he grabbed his jacket and snuck out the back door in an attempt to avoid the Wassermans, who liked to keep an eye on their neighbors. When he was confident that he had was clear, he took off at a slow jog through his backyard and jumped a small fence into the Brinkley’s yard. He slunk along the side of the house until he came to the front sidewalk. He turned left and started walking slowly. Soon, he noticed a pair of headlights coming up behind him. The car pulled to the side of the road, and the door swung open. He heard a raspy voice – Jim’s voice – tell him to get in. Brian obliged and shut the door.
‘What’s up, man? Long time, no see,’ Jim crooned.
‘You alright, man? You sound terrible. Don’t get that shit on me,’ Brian replied. There were no street lights; he could see only the road in front of them
‘So you ready for tonight? Ready to have some fun?’
‘Yeah, where we goin anways?’
‘To Bill’s. Where else would we go?’
‘Bill’s? Who the hell is Bill?’
‘He’s the owner of the bar on Main. You know, the place we go every friggin night,’ he replied sarcastically.
‘How are we gonna get into a bar? I ain’t gotta fake ID on me.’
‘Since when did you need a fake ID?’ Jim laughed a wheezing laugh that turned into a hacking cough.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Brian asked, disgusted at his friend’s obvious sickness.
‘The doctor says it’s the smoking; screw him.’ He laugh-coughed again.
Brian wasn’t always the most observant person, but he started to survey his surroundings. The digital greenish blue hue of the clock was the first thing to catch his attention. ‘What kinda clock is that?’
‘What the hell are you talking about? It’s a friggin clock? What’s wrong with you? You’re acting a fool.’
Brian turned toward Jim for the first time and felt something akin to electricity run through him. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Alright, Bri, I don’t know what the deal is, but something ain’t right.’
‘You’re tellin me,’ he yelled back. ‘Let me outta this car, asshole.’
‘Whoa, now I know you didn’t just call me a asshole.’
Brian found the handle and pulled but nothing happened. He tried again, to no avail.
‘Power doors, asshole.‘ Jim swerved off the road onto the shoulder. He switched on the overhead light. ‘Alright, Brian, what’s the deal? You doin heroin again?’
Brian looked into the older man’s face and at the white hair that used to be a dark red. He stared at him, saying nothing. Instead, his eyes searched. And somewhere beneath the façade, he recognized someone who used to be his friend.
‘Aww, shit, dude. Tell me you ain’t doin heroin again. You know I can’t be around you if you’re gonna steal my shit.’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve never done heroin,’ Brian retorted. He changed the subject haphazardly, ‘Why are you so old?’
Jim responded indignantly, ‘I’m only six months older than you, asshole. And I don’t look that bad.’ He turned the light off and eased back onto the road.
They sat in silence as Jim turned the car around.
‘Where are we going now?’ Brian asked.
‘I’m taking you home, and then I’m going to the bar to get good and hammered. I think you need to go back into rehab.’
Jim soon passed through Brian’s neighborhood.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m bringing you back to your apartment. Maybe it’s better this way anyway. You’ll actually spend some time with your girlfriend and kids.’
‘What girlfriend and kids?’
‘You know, the girlfriend you’ve put in the hospital a couple times, accidentally,’ he exaggerated the final word in a cynical tone, ‘but who stays with you for God knows what reason. And your kid. He’s gotta be like in his mid teens.’
‘No, I want to go home.’
‘That is your home.’
‘No, to my parent’s house. You just passed it.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. Or you can let me out right here and I’ll walk.’
‘Alright, Brian,’ he gradually spoke to Brian as if he were a child, ‘okay, I’ll take you home.’
The car pulled up to his parent’s house. Jim disengaged the doors and Brian exited. Without a word he walked up the driveway. Jim drove off into the night to avoid his own wife and kids.
Brian walked behind back and extracted the house key from his pocket. He tried the door, but the key didn’t work. He heard people inside, so he knocked. The door opened; a small child in pajamas sporting a large sponge with eyes and a mouth said hello and waved. Brian awkwardly said hi and climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, of the familiar stairs, he saw a completely unfamiliar sight. In the family room was a huge flat television with all kinds of black boxes sporting digital displays. The furniture and carpeting were all completely different. A few more startled kids looked up at him. Soon, a husky gentleman with salt and pepper hair peeked in from the kitchen.
‘Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch. You have a lot of nerve coming back here, Brian.’
Brian had no problem recognizing the voice of his oldest brother, John.
A plump woman in blue stepped in behind John. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed.
‘Kids, go downstairs.’
‘But dad,’ they replied in unison.
‘Now!’ he bellowed.
They descended the stairs quickly as they had never heard that tone from their father.
‘What are you doing here? You know that no one wants to see you after what you did.’
Brian stood motionless, unable to form words.
‘I see the drugs are still working. I want you to get out of my house now.’
‘Your house?’
‘Yeah, the house I got after you killed mom and dad.’
‘Killed?’
‘Well, they tried to support you through your heroin habit, but they just happened to go bankrupt. Not that you know or care. I wish I could just deck you right here and now.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Brian whispered half to his aged brother, half to himself.
‘You’ve fried every brain cell in that brain, haven’t you? You’re a complete deadbeat. I don’t want you here around my wife and kids. I don’t want you around me. I want you gone now. Get out!’
‘But, John…’
‘Get out. Before I throw you out.’
Brian heard the finality in John’s voice and walked back down the stairs. John followed closely. When Brian was out the door, he heard John virtually slam and lock the door behind him.
Brian walked through the back yard and hopped the fence into what was once the Brinkley’s yard. He took a left and started walking down the sidewalk unsure where he was going. He said to himself aloud, ‘I’m not this guy. I don’t want to be this guy.’
He saw two headlights approaching. The car slowed and the door swung open. ‘Get in. We’re already late.’
Brian stared into the car at the bright red hair of his friend, Jim. He paused a moment and then replied, ‘I don’t think I’m gonna go tonight. I’m gonna go back home.’
Jim tried to coax him for a little while but gave up and drove away.
Brian walked around the block and up to his front door. He entered and walked up to his room. In his journal written in dark green ink was the line, ‘I’m not going to be that guy.’
Brian fell into a deep sleep; he didn’t hear his parents come home. He also didn’t hear his mother peek inside to check on him. She closed the door gently and smiled knowingly as she readied herself for bed.
Each of the boys had received a Waterman pen from their maternal grandfather at the age of ten. In each case, the pen and accompanying ink had been delivered with a note explaining the family New Years Eve tradition. Dating back to the mid-19th century all members of the Grossman family had recorded their New Year’s resolutions in special journals with ink from a fountain pen. According to his grandfather, the tradition dated back longer – he claims back to the 17th century – but a fire had destroyed the library containing those journals in the small German town from whence the Grossman’s had emigrated.
At the age of 16, Brian suddenly decided that he couldn’t care less about resolutions. They were, as he so eloquently stated to his mother, retarded and a waste of his life. In addition, he claimed he wasn’t going to abide by the resolutions anyway, making them irrelevant and not worth the ink he was using to write them. Brian’s mother was patient as she listened to her indignant son. Each time he complained, she patiently told the same story about her father and her father’s father. They weren’t rich men, she explained, because they understood that resolutions were about being true to one’s self. But they were successful men who lived life fully and had no regrets.
He rolled his eyes as far as they could roll and tried to argue his point anew. When his mother started in again on the reasons for the resolutions, he stormed upstairs with pen, ink, and journal in tow. The door slammed loudly; he fell into his bed and pouted. A short time later, his mother ascended the stairs and knocked at the door to tell him that the family was on their way to celebrate the New Year at her parents’ house. He told her to go away, that he didn’t feel like celebrating. She told him to suit himself but suggested strongly that he write the resolutions. When, after a minute, she heard no response, she walked back down the stairs smiling to herself. She told her husband not to worry about anything. They packed up the lasagna and salad she had made and locked the front door. Within a couple minutes, their Datsun took them off to the other side of town.
Meanwhile Brian decided he wasn’t going spend another minute in the house. He dialed Jim’s number and let it ring twice before hanging up. Then he grabbed his jacket and snuck out the back door in an attempt to avoid the Wassermans, who liked to keep an eye on their neighbors. When he was confident that he had was clear, he took off at a slow jog through his backyard and jumped a small fence into the Brinkley’s yard. He slunk along the side of the house until he came to the front sidewalk. He turned left and started walking slowly. Soon, he noticed a pair of headlights coming up behind him. The car pulled to the side of the road, and the door swung open. He heard a raspy voice – Jim’s voice – tell him to get in. Brian obliged and shut the door.
‘What’s up, man? Long time, no see,’ Jim crooned.
‘You alright, man? You sound terrible. Don’t get that shit on me,’ Brian replied. There were no street lights; he could see only the road in front of them
‘So you ready for tonight? Ready to have some fun?’
‘Yeah, where we goin anways?’
‘To Bill’s. Where else would we go?’
‘Bill’s? Who the hell is Bill?’
‘He’s the owner of the bar on Main. You know, the place we go every friggin night,’ he replied sarcastically.
‘How are we gonna get into a bar? I ain’t gotta fake ID on me.’
‘Since when did you need a fake ID?’ Jim laughed a wheezing laugh that turned into a hacking cough.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Brian asked, disgusted at his friend’s obvious sickness.
‘The doctor says it’s the smoking; screw him.’ He laugh-coughed again.
Brian wasn’t always the most observant person, but he started to survey his surroundings. The digital greenish blue hue of the clock was the first thing to catch his attention. ‘What kinda clock is that?’
‘What the hell are you talking about? It’s a friggin clock? What’s wrong with you? You’re acting a fool.’
Brian turned toward Jim for the first time and felt something akin to electricity run through him. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Alright, Bri, I don’t know what the deal is, but something ain’t right.’
‘You’re tellin me,’ he yelled back. ‘Let me outta this car, asshole.’
‘Whoa, now I know you didn’t just call me a asshole.’
Brian found the handle and pulled but nothing happened. He tried again, to no avail.
‘Power doors, asshole.‘ Jim swerved off the road onto the shoulder. He switched on the overhead light. ‘Alright, Brian, what’s the deal? You doin heroin again?’
Brian looked into the older man’s face and at the white hair that used to be a dark red. He stared at him, saying nothing. Instead, his eyes searched. And somewhere beneath the façade, he recognized someone who used to be his friend.
‘Aww, shit, dude. Tell me you ain’t doin heroin again. You know I can’t be around you if you’re gonna steal my shit.’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve never done heroin,’ Brian retorted. He changed the subject haphazardly, ‘Why are you so old?’
Jim responded indignantly, ‘I’m only six months older than you, asshole. And I don’t look that bad.’ He turned the light off and eased back onto the road.
They sat in silence as Jim turned the car around.
‘Where are we going now?’ Brian asked.
‘I’m taking you home, and then I’m going to the bar to get good and hammered. I think you need to go back into rehab.’
Jim soon passed through Brian’s neighborhood.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m bringing you back to your apartment. Maybe it’s better this way anyway. You’ll actually spend some time with your girlfriend and kids.’
‘What girlfriend and kids?’
‘You know, the girlfriend you’ve put in the hospital a couple times, accidentally,’ he exaggerated the final word in a cynical tone, ‘but who stays with you for God knows what reason. And your kid. He’s gotta be like in his mid teens.’
‘No, I want to go home.’
‘That is your home.’
‘No, to my parent’s house. You just passed it.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. Or you can let me out right here and I’ll walk.’
‘Alright, Brian,’ he gradually spoke to Brian as if he were a child, ‘okay, I’ll take you home.’
The car pulled up to his parent’s house. Jim disengaged the doors and Brian exited. Without a word he walked up the driveway. Jim drove off into the night to avoid his own wife and kids.
Brian walked behind back and extracted the house key from his pocket. He tried the door, but the key didn’t work. He heard people inside, so he knocked. The door opened; a small child in pajamas sporting a large sponge with eyes and a mouth said hello and waved. Brian awkwardly said hi and climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, of the familiar stairs, he saw a completely unfamiliar sight. In the family room was a huge flat television with all kinds of black boxes sporting digital displays. The furniture and carpeting were all completely different. A few more startled kids looked up at him. Soon, a husky gentleman with salt and pepper hair peeked in from the kitchen.
‘Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch. You have a lot of nerve coming back here, Brian.’
Brian had no problem recognizing the voice of his oldest brother, John.
A plump woman in blue stepped in behind John. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed.
‘Kids, go downstairs.’
‘But dad,’ they replied in unison.
‘Now!’ he bellowed.
They descended the stairs quickly as they had never heard that tone from their father.
‘What are you doing here? You know that no one wants to see you after what you did.’
Brian stood motionless, unable to form words.
‘I see the drugs are still working. I want you to get out of my house now.’
‘Your house?’
‘Yeah, the house I got after you killed mom and dad.’
‘Killed?’
‘Well, they tried to support you through your heroin habit, but they just happened to go bankrupt. Not that you know or care. I wish I could just deck you right here and now.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Brian whispered half to his aged brother, half to himself.
‘You’ve fried every brain cell in that brain, haven’t you? You’re a complete deadbeat. I don’t want you here around my wife and kids. I don’t want you around me. I want you gone now. Get out!’
‘But, John…’
‘Get out. Before I throw you out.’
Brian heard the finality in John’s voice and walked back down the stairs. John followed closely. When Brian was out the door, he heard John virtually slam and lock the door behind him.
Brian walked through the back yard and hopped the fence into what was once the Brinkley’s yard. He took a left and started walking down the sidewalk unsure where he was going. He said to himself aloud, ‘I’m not this guy. I don’t want to be this guy.’
He saw two headlights approaching. The car slowed and the door swung open. ‘Get in. We’re already late.’
Brian stared into the car at the bright red hair of his friend, Jim. He paused a moment and then replied, ‘I don’t think I’m gonna go tonight. I’m gonna go back home.’
Jim tried to coax him for a little while but gave up and drove away.
Brian walked around the block and up to his front door. He entered and walked up to his room. In his journal written in dark green ink was the line, ‘I’m not going to be that guy.’
Brian fell into a deep sleep; he didn’t hear his parents come home. He also didn’t hear his mother peek inside to check on him. She closed the door gently and smiled knowingly as she readied herself for bed.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Poetricity: New Years Haiku
Light blue eyes drooping,
Another New Year passes.
She barely made it.
My resolution:
Focus on priorities.
Let’s have some ice cream.
It was just Orange
Before sponsors took over.
Now, it’s Discover.
Another New Year passes.
She barely made it.
My resolution:
Focus on priorities.
Let’s have some ice cream.
It was just Orange
Before sponsors took over.
Now, it’s Discover.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
The Last Bell
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.’
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.’
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!'
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