52 Stories

Two Boats

2009-08-19T17:49:00.000-07:00

Let's go to the beach, so the other boys can see what they are missing.

Let's take a drive.

Ok.

We sit on the hood in the early morning light and talk about where to go.

Let's just go North until the F turns into an E...

Ok.

We kiss until the highway beckons us to join it.

I brought a boombox so we can listen to some music, I know your stereo is busted.

What do you want to listen to?

Yo La Tengo sounds good right now.

You are obsessed with them.

Is that bad?

No, it's endearing.

You know what's endearing about you?

What?

Everything?

The road winds and the conversation ebbs and flows like the water in the ocean we are circling.

Let's buy a boat.

Ok.

What will be name it?

Let's name it after my Grandma.

What about my Grandma?

Ok. Let's buy two boats.

A motorboat?

And a sailboat too.

Muscle Memory

2009-03-15T16:36:00.001-07:00

He lay flat on his back. He felt a wetness over his lip and knew it wasn't over. He pressed the tissue against his nose and stared at the blood. He looked up at the ceiling again. He created constellations out of the Spackle marks. He heard her step out of the shower in the next room and he thought about what she looked like naked. He loved her but wasn't in love with her.

He had a flash of his ex-lover standing in a dingy blue towel in the doorway of his old apartment. She rested her hand on the off-white dry wall and said "let's go down to the lake today". She put on her earrings and dropped the towel as she walked back into the bathroom.

He sighed and felt his upper lip. He looked down at his finger, it was a dirty red.

"Let's maybe go to the lake today", he called out to her.

"What? You know we're having lunch with Mark and Marlena. I mean...I can ask if they want to-"

"Forget it", he said, "I'm just being stupid".

He sat up slightly and turned his head to look out the window. It was overcast and wet, but not raining.

Maybe

2009-02-18T14:10:00.000-08:00

We said goodbye next to an open car door in the rain. The small Mexican woman taking a smoke break on the sidewalk next to us smiled. That old 4 Non-Blondes song came on the radio as you leaned in to kiss me and you laughed. I said, "it's like we are saying goodbye in 1995 or something".

As I'm writing all of this down, a girl who looks like you walks past the window of the restaurant I'm sitting in. She reminds me that that goodbye was the last time we spoke.

I instantly wonder how you are, where you are...if you're even alive. Maybe you cut your hair and changed your name and I see you everyday but I just don't realize it. Maybe that's what happens after we die. Perhaps my Grandfather is now that kid down at the corner store who always tried to short change us or maybe your Mom is the waitress who just brought me a refill. Maybe she'll lean over and say to me, "don't worry, Mary is fine. She's now an 8 year old with an above average reading comprehension who loves horses living in Montana". Maybe the switch is made when we've lost all hope, those moments when we die on the inside, just a little, that's when someone new takes over. Maybe that's just what happened to you. You aren't really dead, just that part of you that I said goodbye to on that rainy day in front of your beat-up Skylark.

A History of Birthdays

2008-12-03T16:29:00.000-08:00

I have a memory of a radio playing Simon and Garfunkel in the early morning, as a heavy fog rolled in. It is vague and faded, like your smile is now. That big round Irish face looking down on me in a lover's haze.

I remember you sitting on the bed next to me and drawing shapes on my chest with your index finger. You said, in a sing-song voice deepened by exhaustion and influenza, "it's somebody's birthday soon". I smiled and looked up at the ceiling and played dumb.

"I wonder who that could be".

"Are we doing anything special?"

"You'll see".

Mango ice cream and chocolate cake on your porch in the sun, the smell of candle wax and whiskey lingering in the air. You turn to me and say "thank you".

Chapped Lips Quoting Shakespeare

2008-12-02T15:58:00.000-08:00

The corpse of yesterday's newspaper rots
in the wet gutter below me.

Your bike is still parked in front of his house,
the one with police tape around the porch.

A pretty girl walks by and smiles at me
but I ignore her, she's not you.

My favorite sweatshirt has paint on it now,
from trying to make you a housewarming present.

A group of men sit in a van parked in front of a halfway house
and it's obvious they are going on a trip together.

I just hope you are happy now, with him or alone,
wherever you are.

The City Without You

2008-11-11T17:23:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wish I could live in that city again but without you. Without sharing that apartment, without breathing the same air. I'd do it all over again without your head on my chest on that couch and that lingering face in the air.

Maybe someday again I will let go of it but I can't for now. Both the city and you and tied together in my mind.

Henrietta and Georgie

2008-11-04T13:20:00.001-08:00

On the Johnson Family Farm there lived a pig. The pig was named Georgie. He was a friendly pig who loved everyone. Who Georgie loved the most was a horse named Henrietta. Everybody on the little country farm was in love with Henrietta, she was the most beautiful animal in the whole village. For Georgie it was different, he loved her inside and out. He even loved her faults which none of the others could see.

One day Henrietta asked Georgie if he wanted to take a walk with her down to a pond on the other side of the farm. Georgie knew it was dangerous because no animals on the farm had ever ventured that far before but he was so wanted to impress Henrietta with his bravery that he said yes.

So together they pushed open the wooden gate and snuck on down the hill in search of the infamous pond they had heard so much about.

"I heard Jimmy the chicken saw it once but then he disappeared", said Georgie, fearfully.

"That's just an old wive's tale", said Henrietta.

Georgie was slow and Henrietta had to frequently slow down and wait for him to catch up. He had little legs and couldn't walk as fast as her. She didn't mind though, she loved Georgie and would do anything for him. She wished he knew how special he was, that's why she asked him out to the pond in the first place, to tell him how she felt away from the others. On the way to the pond Georige told her jokes and made her laugh and laugh. He was a funny little pig with a charming way of telling stories.

"Hey, Henrietta", Georgie said, "Why does a rooster watch TV?"
"I don't know, little Georgie. Why?"
"For hentertainment!"
Henrietta laughed, "oh that's a good one, Georgie".

After what felt like all afternoon Henrietta and Georgie arrived at the pond they had heard so much about.

"Oh, wow! It's beautiful", said Henrietta.
"Ooh. Yes. It is. Quite beautiful", replied Georgie.

They walked closer and closer to it until they were right up on the shore, above the surface of the water. Georgie looked down in the muddy water and noticed a little pink creature looking back up at him.

"Henrietta!", he cried, "Come look! Look at that strange little animal in the water!"

Henrietta walked over and stood above Georgie.

"Oh, silly Georgie. That's not a strange little animal in the water! That's you! It's your reflection"

"What's a reflection?", he asked.

"It's like a mirror, Georgie. It shows you what you look like"

"That....that's me?", he asked.

"Yes, Georgie. And that's me. Above you. Don't you see?"

Georgie looked intently at the water and sighed then he said "yes, I see" before he began to cry.

"Oh, dear. Georgie! Why are you crying? It's such a beautiful day. And this pond is lovely. Aren't you having fun?", asked Henrietta.

"I didn't know I looked like that", he cried.

"So...what's the matter?"

"I'm so ugly"

Henrietta laughed and said, "You are not ugly, Georgie. You are a pig. That's how pigs look".

Georgie yelled out, "Then I don't want to be a pig!".

Henrietta could tell that Georige was upset.

"Georgie. I think you are a beautiful little pig and I love you".
"Ha. Ha", cried Georgie, "very funny, Henrietta. Haven't you done enough? You don't have to humiliate me!"
"Georgie! I'm being serious. I think you are a wonderful, charming creature and I love you".

Georgie began to walked into the water, slowly, staring at his reflection the whole time.

"Georgie?", Henrietta cried.
"What?"
"Is everything ok?"
"I'm thinking"
"Ok, Georgie. You think".

Just then in the distance a loud gunshot went off, a rifle. Henrietta screamed.

"Georgie! That must be Farmer Johnson! We must go, Georgie! We will be in such trouble!"
"You go on back, Henrietta. I have some thinking to do."

Henrietta saw the elderly man approaching through the trees. The man ran at Henrietta yelling "what in the hell you doing down here, horse? Get the hell back up to the stable!" and he chased her up the hill. Henrietta looked back at Georgie and yelled "Come Georgie! Come back!".

Georgie was lost in thought, staring into the shiny water.

"She can never love me", he thought to himself. Then he thought that maybe if he could walk into the water far enough his..."reflection", as Henrietta called it, would disappear. So Georgie took a deep breath and kept walking deeper and deeper into the water until he could no longer see his reflection.

Treat Me Wild

2008-10-29T17:54:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a dream. In the dream we were together again, you and me. We were on a bus, heading to the house you used to live in on the hill. You pulled the bell early and said "I feel like walking". You took my hand as we stepped off the bus.

You then turned and said "it's such a lovely night" and it was, it was a lovely night. There was a mild wind that periodically sent a chill down the spine, I'd always liked that feeling and you did too...or so you told me anyway.

We began our long trek up Liberty Hill and we didn't say anything to each other but it didn't feel awkward or strange. It was safe and comfortable, like always. Occasionally you would turn back to me and smile.

When we got to the very top of the hill, before it began to slope back down into the valley, you said "let's rest our feet here for a minute" and exhaled loudly. Then I remembered something you once told me ages ago. You said, "this spot right here, at the top of this hill, this is my favorite spot in the whole wide world". At the time you said this I agreed with you but that was back when we were both kids, basically. That was before I'd been to Paris or Prague or Africa or even New York City. "Yeah, it's a great spot", I said in the dream.

We sat on the curb underneath that old blue house with the peeling paint and looked at the bright city below. Houses and factories and restaurants all lit up, cars speeding from place to place, the bridge rising to let a big old barge pass underneath it. I felt the chill of the wind on my face and the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. You leaned against my shoulder and took a deep breath. The water in Lake Union rippled with the breeze.

You then said "look at the billboard down there. By the water. I've never noticed it before. It must be new" and you pointed right to it. It had a picture of a cartoon dog on it and a man holding a dog treat out for him to eat. Then it said "Wild Brand Biscuits. Real salmon, Real Wild." and underneath all that in the corner it said "Treat Me Wild!" in bright red letters. You laughed at the slogan and said "that's kind of silly". And I laughed too. Then you kissed me on the cheek and said "treat me wild, Jack. Will you?" and I kissed you back.

Then I woke up.

Girl Machine

2008-10-21T19:24:00.000-07:00

He thought this:
Is she a girl or machine?
How can she resist me?
Spurn my advances, deny my charms.
Where did it veer off course?
My sights were set on the moon but they ended up in limbo?

She laid awake in bed thinking this:
Give up, give up, give up.
Be done with it and this and love.

The Mask

2008-10-21T18:53:00.000-07:00

Donald Johnson was 35 years old. Not an old man by any means but no longer a young man either. Certainly too old to be doing this, he thought.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter as he took a sharp left turn on to Beverly Street. He slowed to a crawl as he scanned the numbers on the houses for "4728". He finally spotted them on a tiny little stucco job at the end of the block.

He waited for a second, composing himself and honked 3 times, 2 shorts and one long. Just like the woman on the phone instructed him to do. He waited for what felt like an eternity before she finally emerged from the tiny house. As she approached the car he thought to himself that she was prettier than he expected. Which isn't to say she was "pretty" exactly, she was definitely worn and tired looking, a little vacant. But she was born with a natural beauty, that was obvious. Her eyes held a hint of a spark. Maybe, he thought, that's why she got into this business in the first place. He got out and ran around to the other side of the car to open the door for her. She kissed him on the cheek as she wordlessly entered the car, carefully adjusting her short skirt as she sat down on the aging upholstery. The kiss surprised and aroused him. He told himself to not get too worked up yet. He had her for 3 hours and he didn't want to rush into anything.

He pulled out slowly and looked down the rest of Beverly Street, letting his eyes wander aimlessly into the darkness, as if something interesting to do would present itself magically. After it became apparent that no activities would make themselves known easily, he turned to her and said "so...what do you want to do?"

"I don't know", she replied. "It's your money".

Donald sighed and looked up at the upcoming stop sign. He bent his head down. He thought about what he would do on a normal date, maybe in his youth. He paused before asking, "are you hungry?"

"Sure. I could eat"

"Ok. Well, let's eat then...Miss...what's your name?"

"Diane. Just call me Diane"

He took her to a place called "Tony's Diner" across town, by the shopping mall. They shared mozzarella sticks and each had a steak with all the trimmings. He paid, naturally. The conversation came slow and awkwardly. She only spoke when spoken to. She frequently left to use the restroom or smoke a cigarette. Donald just sat there and thought about what it used to be like with Cheryl. She was the first. She was different. She had the biggest green eyes and the thickest dark hair. The way she touched him gave him goosebumps. Just thinking about her made him light up.

The door to the restuarant swung up as "Diane" walked back in. When she sat back down across from him Donald could smell the cigarette smoke on her breath.

"Are we almost done here?", she asked.

"Yeah. Ok. Let's go"

"Where next, sugar?"

"Uh, my house. I guess. If that's ok with you?"

"Like I said, sugar. It's your money. You do whatever you want"

He winced slightly when she said this. He hated being reminded of what exactly he was doing. He did not like "Diane", that was obvious. She was crude and ill-mannered, even for a prostitute, he thought.

They pulled out of the parking lot at exactly midnight. He decided to take the scenic route back to his house and he made this known to her. As with most things he said to her thoughtout the evening she seemed indifferent and perhaps a bit bothered by the interaction. He tried his best to not let it bother him but it did. He imagined what sex with her would be like, how it would be cold and emotionless. He wondered how it work logistically. How would she be able to take him? Who would she be thinking of in order to open her body to him? Would he even be able to stay hard for her? The whole idea began to make him feel sick to his stomach. Maybe he would spice it up the way he usually did but he was really trying to avoid that now. He didn't want to scare her like he scared the others. He wanted it to be painless, maybe even fun. But now with "Diane" he didn't see that as a possibility.

They pulled into his driveway at exactly 12:18AM. He opened the car door for her, even though she didn't deserve it, he thought.

"Where's the bathroom?", she asked as they entered the darkened house.

"Last door on the left at the end of the hall"

He thought that she was probably going to do drugs in there, turn his nice Christian home into an opium den. As he pulled off his jacket and hung it over the arm of an frayed lounge chair he grit his teeth. He wanted nothing to do with this woman. As he looked down at his watch to see exactly how much time with her he had left she emerged from the hall completely nude. Every imperfection she tried to cover with silk or linen or animal print or fishnet or support hose was in full view. She looked innocent, unguarded, younger. He became aroused.

"So...where's your bedroom, sugar?"

"No. No bedroom", he said somewhat sternly. "Just lay down on the couch".

She smiled uncharacteristically and said "whatever floats your boat".

He then excused himself and disappeared into the total blackness of his bedroom. She looked up at his cheap, stackled ceiling. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She felt a headache coming on. She told herself she was going too old for this business. Maybe she could retire next year? Hang it up for good. Go live with her Sister in Missouri.

When she opened her eyes she saw him standing over her with a mask on. An African mask carved from wood. It looked heavy and expensive. She laughed.

"What's so funny?", he asked.

"That mask. It's just...different"

"You want me to take it off? It...helps...me"

"Again, sugar. Whatever floats your boat"

Donald burst into a fit of anger. "DON'T CALL ME SUGAR!", he snapped. "I HAVE A FUCKING NAME AND IT'S DONALD. I TOLD YOU THAT ON THE PHONE".

Diane sat up and stared at him. She didn't know what to say. She watched as he slunk into the kitchen.

"Where are you going? What are you doing in the kitchen?"

When he returned with a knife it became clear.

She screamed as he approached her.

He thought to himself that he hoped the next girl would be more his type. Maybe be warm, loving...so he didn't have to resort to this. He was 35 years old now. Not an old man by any means but no longer a young man either. Certaintly too old to be doing this, he thought.

Aromatics

2008-10-07T11:36:00.000-07:00

"What time will they be here?", Bev asked.

"20 minutes!"

She nodded and bent her head down, continuing to cut the green onions into perfect little pieces. She wiped off a bead of sweat forming on her brow.

From the living room her husband shouted, "I don't know why you always knock yourself out for them, Bev. She's an ingrate and he's just a idiot. Pure and simple"

She ignored this and continued to concentrate on cutting the vegetables.

"No", she thought to herself. "Not vegetables. Aromatics. Like the man on TV said".

What she wanted to say to him but couldn't was that it wasn't for them. Or for him. It was for her. It was her chance to feel important. A sprig of mint on top of a bowl of homemade coconut sorbet was her version of a Helen Frankenthaler watercolor. A drizzling of a balsamic reduction over a chicken breast was Jackson Pollack on a plate.

He shuffled in his chair and loosened his tie. He checked his watch for the 10th time in the last five minutes. The sound of a knife on a cutting board reverberated from the kitchen. He sighed. He thought about her for a second, the girl from the office. Everything about her was perfect. The way her purple blouse made her breasts look, how her hair caught the sunlight through the window. He told himself to forget about her and focus on Bev. She was his, not some fantasy. He reminded himself that the chopping he heard was being executed by her. It was tangible and comforting when he thought about it.

"How long until they are here?", she shouted again.

He checked his watch again.

"Any minute now".

The chopping stopped.

Los Angeles

2008-09-30T15:23:00.000-07:00

The sun baked the back of his neck through the window. He shifted in his seat slightly.

"Turn up the AC, man", he yelled to Jarred.

"It's up as high as it goes, Ted. Besides, we're almost there", he replied.

As he said this, as if on cue, the ocean met the horizon. Miles and miles of blue expanse hung barely in view above the road.

The music blasting from the back speakers changed yet again. This time to a Beach Boy's song.

"Stop changing the fucking songs, Jake".

"Shut the fuck up"

Jarred sighed and said towards the backseat, "this is what we get for bringing a DJ with us".

Ted sat and enjoyed the oohs and ahhs assaulting his ears at an obscene volume.

He opened a box of donuts and shook it around a little bit. The gnawed remains of an apple fritter danced on the cardboard and he debated eating it or not.

"Hey, is there any truth to that whole don't eat less than an hour before swimming thing?"

"What?"

"IS THERE ANY TRUTH TO THAT WHOLE NOT EATING AN HOUR BEFORE YOU GO SWIMMING THING?!", he said louder, to be heard over Brian Wilson.

"No, dude. That's just an old wise tale"

Ted and Jake laughed in unison.

"What?"

"It's old wive's tale. Not old wise tale, man"

Jarred looked flustered.

"Well, whatever it fuck it is...that's what it is"

Sensing his frustration, Ted just dropped the subject before devouring the battered carcass of the last donut. As he swallowed the last bit he began to mentally count the days until they went back home in his head. It still seemed too soon. He could live out here, he thought. He could live perpetually minutes away from the ocean, with the sun on his neck.

When the car came to a stop at the edge of the parking lot Ted didn't even wait for the others. He simply started running to the water like a child might. Jarred laughed at him, quickly grabbed his towel and shorts from the trunk and chased after him.

"Last one in is a rotten piece of shit!", he yelled as he passed Ted.

They both smiled as Ted broke out into a sprint. They both paused at the edge of the beach and threw off their clothes. Ted simply went in wearing his boxers and Jarred put on his swim trunks not so discreetly. Jake came barreling over the hill a few seconds later.

Ted ran in first and dove under the surface of the sea. The first wave hit and turned him all around. He opened his eyes as he found his footing and stood up, much closer to shore than he remembered being. He let out a huge yell and pounded his chest like an ape.

"Nice work, Tarzan", Jake said from the shore.

The sun pounded down on the men as they all eventually found their way into the water. For a split second Ted thought that if this was what the afterlife was, feeling the waters crash into you for all eternity, he could be ok with dying.

He noticed a girl in a black bikini on the shore. He smiled at her before taking a deep breath and diving under before the next big wave hit.

Where

2008-09-23T11:55:00.000-07:00

Randy closed his eyes for just a second and she was gone.

That's how it felt anyway.

When he thought about her now he thought about her as an abstraction. A big mess of hair on top of a pale, round face. He thought about her lips on his.

He rode his bike around the outskirts of their shared small town to forget about her but it wasn't enough distance from her memory.

Then one night he found it. He thought he would never even think about it again much less find it. But there it was, staring back at him from the bottom of a tattered box in his garage. It was a video tape. It was simply labeled with a red x but he knew what it really held.

It was a tape of him and her together. They must have only been 18 or 19 in it. He was a virile strapping young man in those days, not the bloated sack he had become. He watched the tape in his living room on mute. He needed to adjust to the nostalgia slowly. He watched the shaky, grainy footage of her dancing on top of a copper colored boulder. She wore an over-sized sweatshirt with the California raisins on it. Her hair was in a ponytail. She looked right into the camera, right at Randy and said something that seemed like "I love you". Randy shut off the tape and made yet another dinner for himself. He broke a heel of bread in half and buttered it before he caught himself thinking about the past again. He thought about Thailand or Vietnam in the Summer and if it would be far enough away to feel like himself again if he went there. He remembered that she always loved Thai food and decided on Russia maybe. Russia seemed like a place he could get lost in.

That night as he tried to sleep and dream of Russia he remembered that on that videotape was a part where they made love and debated if he wanted to watch it or not. He looked over at his alarm clock. 4 AM. He wondered what time it was in Russia and sighed.

The Return of 52 Stories...

2008-09-19T15:54:00.000-07:00

I will be updating the 52 Stories blog beginning next week for another year full of new stories, glorified poems, etc. Stay tuned for the first of another batch of 52 stories beginning on Tuesday, September 23rd.

Thanks,
Jason

Mary And The T-shirt

2008-05-13T09:20:00.000-07:00

Mary was left thinking "how did we get here"? And she analyzed the past to figure that out.

She figured it all started with that t-shirt. The one on the man jogging in the park. It read "I'm so miserable without you, it's like having you here". At first she just laughed at it but then she wrote it down to not forget it. She wanted to tell Craig about it later. He would think it was funny and maybe even slightly poetic.

She went on with her afternoon. She shopped for books with Susanna and they ate ice cream together, she called her Mother who lived in Pensacola, she made a turkey pot pie from scratch for her and Craig to eat for dinner.

She was dusted with flour when Craig walked in. He laughed at her.

"Babe, you look so silly"
"Hey, making a pot pie is harder than I thought"

And they smiled at each other and then embraced. Craig was an illustrator. He worked on children's books mostly but had aspirations of one day writing and illustrating his own book instead of being a hired gun. Mary didn't know any of this and thought he was content. There were a lot of things about Craig that Mary didn't know. After she set the oven timer for 40 minutes and cleaned herself off they ate.

"I'm sorry if the crust is too dry"
"It isn't dry, hon. It's wonderful"
"Oh!", Mary then said, as if shocked.
"I forgot to tell you about the weirdest t-shirt I saw today"
"What was it?"
"It was...something like if you think I'm miserable with...wait, that's not it. I don't want to butcher it. I wrote it down. Let me get the paper"

He waited as she got up and pulled the scrap of paper from the bottom of her PBS tote bag. She then stated, in a proud voice, "I'm so miserable without you, it's like having you here".

"Huh?", said Craig and she repeated it.

Then she said, "isn't that weird? For a t-shirt?"

"Yeah. It is weird alright", he said before laughing slightly.

"How's about some dessert?", Mary asked.
"Sure. What were you thinking?"
"Cookies"
"Do we have any ice cream?"
"I don't think so. I had ice cream earlier though"
"Well, I didn't"
Mary then feigned aggravation and said, "God, Craig. I'm so miserable without you, it's like having you here" jokingly.

Craig suddenly burst into tears and said "we need to talk".

Two F's and Two E's

2008-05-06T14:00:00.000-07:00

"How do you spell coffee?"
"Two F's and two E's"
"Ok. Thanks"
"Why are you asking?"
"Crossword puzzle"
"You and your puzzles!"

She smiled when she said this. He loved his puzzles.
She rubbed his shoulders as he took a deep breath.

"Excited for your trip, babe?"
"Of course. Of course"

The next morning he left on a hunting trip. He woke up far earlier than any human being ever should and forced himself to drive to Bill Monroe's house. They'd talked about going hunting forever. Ever since they both became obsessed with "Big Buck Hunter" at a pub by Bill's place they fancied themselves amateur hunters. Diamonds in the rough.

"What if we see a sasquatch?"
"You mean bigfoot?"
"Haha. Get real, Bill"
"I watched this special on the history channel though. Them shits is real"

He just rolled his eyes at this as the men piled in his pick-up truck and pulled out onto the foggy highway. Bill lit a cigarette as they rolled over a hill as the sun crept up over the horizon.

"Did you eat breakfast?"
"No. Did you?"
"Nah. Let's stop off somewhere"
"Ok"

The men pulled into a drive-thru and ate sausage and egg sandwiches as the sun fully rose. Bill grew warm and took off his large plaid coat.

"This coffee tastes like shit"
"You know how to spell coffee, Bill?"
"C-O-F-F-E-E"
"Yeah. Two F's and two e's. I always thought it was only one e"
"Spelling ain't your strong suit"

The men laughed. Bill lit another cigarette.

The Second Letter

2008-04-29T08:37:00.000-07:00

I wrote you a letter. Another one. It was about many things. It started out with the basics: I miss you, how are you, I am doing well, etc.

But then I got sentimental and started talking fond memories of us making cheese and salami sandwiches and eating them by the side of Lake Whatcom. And watching the 4th of July fireworks from the roof of your office. And things of that sort. My favorite part was something along the lines of:

Remember how every night before bed I would kiss you three times? Once on the left cheek, once on the right cheek and then once on the lips? You used to say you couldn't sleep without your three kisses. It really did wonders for my ego, you know.

But then the unthinkable happened...your letter fell out of my jacket pocket as I ran across the street to deliver it to the mailbox. Hours of carefully chosen words and at least half the ink supply of a dime store fountain pen wasted. The unseasonable storm went and blew it to heck! To think that out there sits an illiterate sparrow with my perfectly worded re-counting of our first date lining his nest! It's a shame. So much for the lost art of letter writing. I'm going to cut my loses now and mail you this simple explanation before I risk tempting fate with another sappy flowery prosed spectacle.

So, dear:
Enjoy.
I miss you.
Think of what you could be reading.

Love,
Theodore.

Boys

2008-04-22T11:27:00.000-07:00

The 4 boys took their places. The oldest one, Tim, stood on the highest part of the hill and yelled "damn it, Tommy, just stay the fuck still". Tommy's reply was "don't curse at me". He stood below Tim as the grass met the pavement. Tim looked over to Joe, the largest of the boys and said, "hold his hands behind his back".

Joe complied with the request and held Tommy's hands back. While he did this Tommy asked, "why are we doing this again?".

"To be on tv, butthole".
"Stop swearing"
"Butthole isn't a swear. You can say it on tv"
"I guess so"
"Now if you just hurry up and stay still then Ben can get a clear shot of when I kick you in the nuts"
"Why do I have to be the one to get kicked? Why don't you do it?"
"It's not funny if I get kicked. You are little and fat. It's funnier. Besides, you already agreed to do it already. Don't puss out now"
"Oh, alright. Let's just do it already. Dang!", Tommy huffed.

Tim added, "we don't want to hurt you, dude. Don't you want to be famous though? On tv?"

Tommy thought for a second and nodded, "yeah, ok. Let's just do it. Ok?"

Tommy then braced himself and grimaced. Ben hit the record button on the video camera borrowed from his older Brother in film school. "Wait!", said Ben, the defacto director, as he pressed the record button again. "Uh, cut, I mean".

"What?"
"You guys should move down the hill a bit. The angle here is funny"
"Oh, Jesus," said Tommy, "Ok, Spielberg"

Then they did it. Tommy took a breath and then Tim swung his foot into his groin. He fell to the ground as his friends laughed.

"Fuck you guys!"
"Oh, look who's swearing now"
"I'm going to tell my Mom"
"What the hell is she going to do?"
Tommy couldn't form any more words as the pain grew throughout his whole body. Ben helped him up after a few minutes and dusted the dirt off his back.

"So you said your Brother can help us put this on the internet?"
"Yeah, I think so"
"I hope people think it's funny"
"They should. Cause it is"

The Worst One

2008-04-15T12:29:00.000-07:00

Underneath a graying sky on the first official day of Spring 18 boys gathered on a grassy hill to play baseball in the park. An assortment of friends and parents sat watching them and cheering them on. The Chase sisters also watched the game but from a much greater distance. They sat on a bench well behind the center fielder but they could make out the action well enough. They had only sat there to rest after a long walk through the park on the overcast Sunday afternoon. They had wandered into the park after a lovely brunch together and each girl was gearing up for the week ahead in their own way. Beverly, the oldest, was trying to squeeze out every last ounce of stress left from the previous week. This included drinking 2 mimosas with breakfast much to Judy's chagrin. Judy was the youngest sister and therefore the most naive. She was only 13 years old and didn't understand why anybody in the world would need chemicals or alcohol or nicotine or pills or any such sorted things. She herself was able to deal with her life without the aide of such business and so others should as well. Anne, the middle sister and the one with the most level head, politely understood both sides of the debate and dealt with both sisters admirably.

After a long bout of silence Judy broke it with "I feel like a lemonade. Pink lemonade. Doesn't that sound delightful, Anne?"

Beverly chimed in saying "You know, sugar is no different than alcohol".

"Yes, it is! Sugar doesn't make you slur your words and act all funny and people don't go to meetings to give it up!"

"It makes you bounce off the walls. It still affects your brain, dingus. Just in a different way"

"Oh! Shut up, Beverly. You're drunk!"

Beverly laughed at this and replied with "I am NOT!"

Anne had to giggle too.

"Your sister is fine, Judy. Don't be ridiculous"

Judy huffed and folded her arms dramatically. After a few seconds she sighed and said in a radically disinterested tone, "Well, I still feel like a lemonade".

All the girls shared a laugh after this and returned their attention back to the game.

Anne said, "Oh, now I've lost track of the score. Who is winning now?"

Beverly plainly replied with a simple "the ones in the uniforms".

It was true that only one team had real, true uniforms. The other team simply wore red t-shirts and blue jeans. One poor child couldn't even muster the resources to comply with this simple request and wore a white t-shirt. It made him stick out like a sore thumb. He wasn't the worst player though, at least not in the sisters' eyes. In fact, Judy was quite taken with the young man. This simultaneously delighted Anne and annoyed Beverly. Beverly thought the boy looked simple and stupid and that her charming little sister, however misguided, was way out of his league. She envisioned them going on dates together. She pictured him arriving to pick her up, sweating and stammering, for a night at the movies or dinner wearing a mismatched suit (assuming he could even acquire a suit of any sort) and bringing her the shabbiest daffodils in the history of daffodils. She kept all this to herself, of course. She smiled and patted her sister on the head as she sat and swooned over the boy. She thought "he's cute enough, I suppose and he's no worse than that poor boy at second base". "That poor boy" was the one Anne dubbed "the worst one". The player which thoroughly frustrated not only his teammates but even the most empathetic of spectators. His wild throws, missed catches, improper knowledge of the rules and general laziness aggravated everyone within a 1/2 mile radius of the field. Anne's heart went out to the poor child even as part of her was annoyed by the lag in game play his behavior caused. Her attitude was decidedly more positive than her sisters' though. They hated the boy. They didn't go so far as to say it outloud but it was clear as day through their body language and facial expressions.

"Come on. Let's go home", said Beverly without a hint of it being a question.
"Why?"
"It's getting late and it looks like it might rain soon. And I want to take a nap before this god awful weekend is over".
"Oh, alright"

They rose slowly but surely and wandered down a path. Anne turned her head around one last time to take in one last look at the game. She took a deep breath and thought about the "worst one" and how his parents must have felt. She wondered if she would support a child like that someday and looked down at her younger sister. She smiled and grabbed her hand as they left the park and started for home.

The Charm of a First Date at a Chain Restaurant in Midtown

2008-04-09T00:03:00.000-07:00

Jack sat across from Karen. A candle sat between their faces. Karen suddenly laughed and said "no fair". Then she said, "I don't have a group picture with me in it from High School to show you".

Jack said, "just guess which one I am".

"Well, it's hard because you've lost so much hair".

"Ouch," Jack said, "that hurts a little".

They both laughed at this. After a minute she finally pointed to a lanky pale boy in the back row of the photograph.

"You? This is you?"

"Nope"

"It's got to be! You look exactly the same!"

"But it's not. Trust me"

"Um....ok. This one?", she pointed at another pasty and tall child.

"Guess again"

"Oh, jesus. I give up. Which one are you?"

Jack laughed and pointed at a small boy with freckles in the bottom left hand corner.

"This is you?!"

Karen laughed and said "but you're so tiny".

"It was before I hit my growth spurt"

"You jerk. You tricked me"

They both smiled and then sat in silence for a time. Karen's mind began to wander to the romantic and a thought hit her.

"What about girlfriends? Did you have yourself a High School sweetheart?"

"I did. But things didn't work out"

"Why? What went wrong?"

"We just didn't fit well. It was like oil and water. What about you? Any boyfriends? Captain of the football team? Homecoming king?"

Karen laughed and said, "more like assistant director of the audio visual club".

Jack responded with a short, blunt chuckle and said "well, what happened with him?"

"Same deal...only it was more like electricity and water".

The waiter interrupted their laughter to bring them their check. Jack excused himself and used the restroom. Karen waited and stared out the window overlooking a busy corner. Her mind wandered and she imagined playing on the beach as a kid with her Sister. She thought about what it would be like to go swimming with Jack and what his body would look like in swim trunks. She closed her eyes and thought about this for a spell.

The Part of the Brain That Makes Something Out of Nothing

2008-04-01T19:50:00.000-07:00

"What is this?"
She pointed at a little lump on her hip.

"This right here?"
He felt the spot for a second or two.

"Yes"
She guided his hand to the exact spot of the lump.

"That's probably nothing"
He let his hands drop to his side.

"Probably?"
She tensed up a little and her shoulders tightened.

"It's hard to say for sure. We can take a blood test"
He gently put his hand on her back.

"A blood test?"
She let out a deep breath.

The Birthday

2008-03-25T07:16:00.000-07:00

They sat together in the darkness. They watched the boy bathed in candle light, eyes wide, as his loved ones sang him the birthday song.

Somebody behind them coughed loudly and it took John out of the movie. Nancy was still transfixed, staring intently at the birthday party being projected on the dark screen in front of them.

Eventually the film was over and they began their long walk home.

"I know it's kind of silly but that whole birthday thing in the movie kind of put me in the mood to have a birthday. Isn't that weird?"

John laughed and said, "No, it makes sense. They made it look so fun".

They held hands and they started over the bridge. As they stood still for a moment and looked at the moon's reflection in the bay John had an idea.

"Let's have a birthday tonight"

"What?"

"Let's stop at the store and buy some cake mix and frosting and candles and balloons and have a birthday party for you in our apartment. We can invite Mr. Henderson from upstairs, he doesn't know what year it is let alone that it isn't your real birthday"

Nancy smiled and said "that's silly".

But as the walk home continued it began to sound better and better to them.

"Oh, fuck it. Let's do it. I really want to eat some cake".

Ellen

2008-03-18T15:41:00.000-07:00

She lives alone. A strong woman with broad shoulders. She doesn't work anymore. She lives off her deceased husband's life insurance policy. A widow, her name is Ellen.

Tonight Ellen is celebrating. She's sitting on her stoop drinking champagne from a coffee mug. In her hands she's holding a book. She turns it over in her rough hands. The cover is a muted pink with a drawing of birds across it. The title reads "The Monroe College Literary Journal". She turns to the the table of contents where she reads her name for the 12th time today.

What Goes Around Comes Around by Ellen Spencer.............pg. 31

She smiles and sighes. She holds the book to her stomach. A well dressed man walks past her.

"Hey, Mister! See this?" she says and she holds the book up to him.

"Excuse me?"

"See this right here? Ellen Spencer! That's me! I wrote that!"

The man scratched his head in confusion.

"Ok. Um...good. Good for you". He continues to walk on.

Ellen stands up and takes a deep breath before walking back inside. She pours herself some more champagne and turns on the television.

She puts down her book and focuses her attention on the tv. There's a show on about a group of young people. Teenagers. What catches her attention is a part where a young man throws his cell phone into a river. The boy screams "I hate you! I hate you!".

She imagines this playing out in the real world. The instant regret, the explanations to relatives or employers, the worry. In a flash she writes down the words "a story about a boy who throws his phone into the ocean" and puts the paper on her bulletin board. The sun is beginning to set outside and the street lights come on suddenly. The light shines into her kitchen window. She shuts the blinds and pours herself some more champagne.

What Phil Sang Into Angie's Answering Machine on December 7th 1999

2008-03-11T10:12:00.000-07:00

Come back to me.
Come back to me.
I can change.
I can do more push-ups, get a new name.
I can change.
I can get tattoos, start smoking cigarettes, learn to drive a motorcycle.
Whatever helps you love me.
Come back to me.
I could break all my bones and grow them right back but they'll long for you the same. That won't change.
You could cut out my heart and buy me a new one but it would still love you the same.
That wouldn't change.
You could take my tongue and rip it out and I would grow another one in its place but it would still speak your name.
That wouldn't change.

The Pale Blue Robe

2008-03-04T08:16:00.000-08:00

She wore a faded blue robe. She stroked his hair as she walked past him.

"I'm going to take a shower, love"

"OK"

He read the newspaper intently.

To tease him she opened her robe and pressed her naked torso against his back.

He smirked and said "I know what you're doing".

She laughed and said "Is that so?"

"Save it for later, peach. I want to finish reading this. Take your shower"

She laughed at this.

"Ouch. I can take a hint"

She went on with her shower. She thought about him and how he had changed. She asked herself if she still really loved him.

In the kitchen he finished reading an article on a paralyzed man who was still a mathematical genius and could solve difficult equations mentally but couldn't physically express it. The only way the doctors knew he could do it was by monitoring his brain activity while they showed him math problems.

He wished he could read her brain waves like that, without having to talk. He had grown tired of listening to his own voice. She mistook this for him being tired of her but it wasn't the case. He still loved her just not himself. He took a deep breath when he heard the shower stop.

The Eating Habits of Strangers

2008-02-26T15:09:00.000-08:00

She sat in the corner and picked at her cheeseburger like an old man might pick at a loaf of bread while feeding the birds. Across from her sat a small man with a pompadour haircut making out with his teenaged girlfriend. Josie sat and took all this in. She contrasted it with how her day started.

She started the day on her way to a casting agent's office where she was to read lines for a soap commercial.

"With new Oleavio soap for sensitive skin...washing my face is a dream!"

She practiced the lines in her head on the subway all morning. She took turns accenting different words in the sentence.

"Washing MY face is a dream!"

"Washing my FACE is a dream!"

"Washing my face is a DREAM!"

She felt confident she could deliver lines with confidence for once. She skipped breakfast to feel lighter and to not upset her stomach. She made sure she got at least 9 hours of sleep, she didn't want bags under her eyes. She approached audtions with the same cautiousness some might reserve for surgery.

As the day progressed she got more and more nervous. She had wished she made the appointment for 9 or 10 or even 11 instead of 12. Noon. So much time to wait. And worry.

She got to the offices early and waited in the tiny and dirty waiting room. She filled out her paperwork and stared at the tv in the corner playing a Destiny's Child music video. She smiled without realizing it. She felt silly. She wasn't an actress. There were pictures on the walls of models and child stars. Black and white head shots blown up to enormous proportions. She waited some more before excusing herself for the restroom. The receptionist didn't even hear her and she left. She left the waiting room, the office, the floor, the building.

"I can't do this", she said to herself.

To soften the blow she went out to eat with money she didn't have and observed the eating habits of strangers.

The List

2008-02-18T20:42:00.000-08:00

James had a problem. James was alone. Not a temporary kind of loneliness but a chronic longing to belong with another human being. A woman, specifically.

He'd had girlfriends but that was all long ago. There was Candace or "Candy" as she liked to be called. She was the first. She left him for another man. A taller and skinnier man. Then there was Amy. She was what he still referred to as "the love of his life". They broke up and got back together a total of 4 times. She had commitment issues. Next came Elizabeth. She was sweet but it just didn't work. They were too different. They had nothing in common.

Those were the girlfriends. He'd had a couple of one night stands. Sharon was the first. She was a girl from L.A. that he met at a concert and asked him if she could crash on his couch. They ended up having sex in his bed and she was gone before he woke up. There was also Lisa. She went home with him after a New Year's Eve party.

But that was all ages ago. Now James was what most people would refer to as a hermit. Which isn't to say he was a recluse. He still saw people when the occasion called for it. He could still communicate when necessary. Birthdays, promotions, a friend from out of town visiting...he could still relate. His hermitdom was more of an internal condition. He gave up on the idea of having a wife and kids, an idea he once held dear. He'd even given up on having a girlfriend ever again. The list of women James had loved in secret outnumbered the ones he loved publicly 10 to 1. Somewhere along the way women began to frighten him. This had never been the case in the past. He was raised by women. He was the son of a single Mother with 2 Sisters. He knew how to talk to women so that wasn't the problem. He didn't know what had happened to his once potent charms. But they were gone, he knew that much.

One Sunday morning, following a particularly humiliating night of being rejected by yet another girl with a boyfriend, James decided to make a list of his ideal partner. He read in some women's magazine at his Dentist's office that that's what you should do when you're unlucky in love. No bother that their sample list included "tall, dark and handsome" and "large penis". It could apply to men too, he gathered. It was all the same. Besides, he had nothing better to do and he liked making lists anyway. He'd already spent the better part of his morning on his grocery list, his 6 month plan and a list of movies he needed to watch so why not craft the perfect girlfriend in list form?

The list went on for 2 pages. When he was done he laughed at himself and said "I've gone fucking nuts" outloud. But he kept the list. He would add to it secretly when he saw a woman on the street with a trait he admired.

"Confident walk" got added Tuesday morning. "Wears nice dresses" was added later the same day. He had to write smaller and smaller so all the words could fit on the pages. That eventually stopped working so he added a third page and then a 4th. All of them filled up on both sides. The qualifications got more and more specific, sometimes turning into whole paragraphs. The day he finally finished the list he was in the park. He sat on a park bench underneath a big pine tree and took a deep breath as he put the pen in his pocket. 5 pages, front and back. There was nothing else to add. It was everything he could think of. It took 2 months but he was finally done.

As the days passed James found himself growing more and more desperate for affection. The days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months. He would read the list some nights when he had trouble sleeping. It made him smile to imagine this perfect woman walking and talking. He would imagine her kissing him and rubbing his head after a long day of work. But the temporary wonderment of such a notion soon gave way the heartbreaking realization that it was only pure fantasy that couldn't be real. He'd had enough. At 1AM he got up, got a pair of shoes on and list in hand walked out to his backyard.

"I'm going to bury this goddamn list! She's never going to exist! FUCK!", he yelled as he began to dig the shovel into the soft ground.

He threw the pages into the hole, spit on it in frustration and began to fill it back in with soil. He went to bed feeling accomplished. The next morning James woke up and laughed to himself. He looked back on the night before like a delirious dream.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" he asked himself and later, publicly, his friends.

He freely admitted his strange behavior to his loved ones. It made for a good story to tell at the bar when the conversation had dried up. It broke the tension. James didn't mind looking the fool, he even preferred it. He fancied being the jokester.

The days after that morning all blended together in the long run. Work, eat, sleep. Take out the trash on Tuesday, laundry on Sunday. It was all the same.

Winter months turned into Spring months and things began to bloom. As Summer loomed on the horizon, James decided to mow his backyard. He hoisted his heavy lawnmower from his basement and set out to work.

On his first pass around the yard he hardly noticed it but it was there. Hair. Human hair. Growing from the ground. He stopped dead in his tracks when he finally saw it. He even left the lawnmower on in his excitement. He leaned down to look at it. He carefully touched it with his gloved hand. He gave it a gentle tug. There was resistance. There was something attached to the hair, he knew that much. He finally turned off the lawnmower and put it away in his basement where it belonged. He took one last look at the hair before going in for the evening.

The next day James awoke and checked on the hair. It was still there, it hadn't been an illusion. It even looked slightly longer than the night before but he couldn't be sure. He decided to measure it so he could be sure that it was growing from now on. It was currently 5-1/3 inches but that would soon change.

A week later it was 7 full inches. 7 inches of human hair. Blonde, straight hair. It was definitely growing at an alarming rate. Could it be? Was it true? Was his list turning into a woman? Growing? From the ground? Did he accidentally "plant" her? James began to feel like a kid in the days approaching Christmas. What else could it be? It must be her.

He went off to the public library on the weekend and researched gardening. He brought back stacks of books on horticulture, cultivating crops, nurturing your green thumb, cultivating and so on. He went to the garden supply store and bought special tools and special gloves. Should he buy plant food? She wasn't really a plant, she was a person. Or at least she would be. Would plant food just make her sick? Or worse yet, kill her? He decided to get one bag just in case planting human food in the ground didn't work. A plan B.

He began cooking for her. He assumed liquids were the easiest thing for her to get nutrients out of. It could soak up into her "roots" or whatever she had. He made her soups. Chicken and wild rice, crab bisque, homemade pho. All of it poured on the ground around the growing hair, carefully so as to not get any on the hair itself. He realized he should maybe even build some protection for the hair. It would be autumn soon and he didn't want leaves to fall on to her head.

He took a tarp and formed a primitive tent around her. A pup tent, nothing fancy. But if there was a rainstorm or it got windy she wouldn't get hurt.

He obviously couldn't find tips on growing a human so instead he followed instructions on gardening cabbage. He figured her head was about the same size. He also got advice on cutting hair and trimmed her split ends and would brush the hair every chance he had.

After a couple of weeks the earth began to break and the very top of her head emerged. Just the very edge of her hair line at first and then the tiniest bit of her forehead several weeks later. Before too long she stuck out of the ground up to her shoulders. She was beautiful. Everything he could imagine. He cried at the sight of her. She was his list. Soon she would be out of the ground fully and he'd cut her down and clean her off. They would read in bed together and she would laugh at his jokes. They would laugh about her origins. She would say she was from the Midwest when people asked. They would even joke that they met in a gardening class when people asked how they met. He would name her Susan.

Leaving the City

2008-02-12T09:28:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow I leave this city. I leave its trees and houses. I leave behind its people. It's probably just sentimentality talking but I feel like I love everybody who has ever lived here. I mourn the loss of everyone who has died here. Every woman I've ever loved has been from here. Every kiss has been under its sky.

From where I am laying on the couch I can see the water and the sky. And the harbor ships coming in. I see an airplane in the overcast sky and I imagine myself on it. Flying high, over the land and sea, nervous and alone. I contrast it with how I feel now. On her sofa, the object of her affection. Loved and missed. If home is where the heart is then my heart will always be here. With her, in this apartment. On this couch. No city could ever match her beauty and she doesn't even know it.

This is what I will miss the most.

The Bag Full of Hair

2008-02-05T13:19:00.000-08:00

There's a bag full of hair on the street corner. Bright blonde hair. Golden hair. In little chunks in a small brown paper bag. On the corner of 15th and Harrison. They look like the clippings of a haircut, swept up into a lunch sack. There's no blood. Not that I can tell. I laugh because I'm uncomfortable. With a furrowed brow she looks away from me.

"It's not funny. It's creepy. What is wrong with you?"

"I know it's not funny. It's just...bizarre"

"Yeah. It's weird alright. It's like one of those things you tell yourself you will tell your kids about someday"

"I doubt it"

"Why?"

"I doubt I'll live that long"

She laughs and says, "Well, I'll live that long. I don't smoke"

Then she tells me about a tv show she saw that was about the world ending in 2012 and how it made her feel both terrified and at peace. The story is capped with "should we call the police?"

"The police? What are they gonna do about the Mayan calendar ending in 2012?"

She laughs and says "I mean about that bag with the hair in it, dipshit. What if it's evidence or something?"

"I doubt it's that sinister, Charlotte. It's probably just the remains of a prank or a barber shop's trash"

With an unmotivated urgency she says "Do you want to go out to eat tonight? I want to try that sushi place that Dad likes. With the conveyor belt"

"I suppose. Can we invite Chris?"

She sighes. "Why do we have to invite him?"

"He's my friend. He's going through a rough time right now"

"I suppose you can call him. But after you call the police about that bag of hair. I couldn't sleep if I knew it belonged to a little girl or a rape victim or something"

I can't believe that this woman is related to me. She sounds nothing like me. She sounds nothing like Mom, she uncertainly sounds nothing like Dad.

"Why do you always have to be so dramatic?"

A sigh, a pause.

"Alright, alright. I'll call the fucking police. Jesus"

She smiles as she holds her hand up to her eyes to block out the sun. Her lips are chapped and it reminds me that she is imperfect and that makes me relate to her more. I grew up in her shadow, my taller and older and more attractive sister. Now we're equals of sorts, with blemishes and spare tires and matching bags under our eyes. And chapped lips.

"It sure is bright today".

I say this to make her feel less alone. A verbal squint of solidarity, a wordy echo of her uncomfortable stance.

"Damn straight it is. Will you come with me to buy some sunglasses? Mine broke"

I nod as I notice a group of teenagers congregating across the street. 4 girls and 4 boys. They look awkward and frustrating and obnoxious and endearing all at the same time. One boy with shaggy hair wears a t-shirt that says "2 YOUNG 2 DIE" in big block letters and smokes a cigarette like a beginner.

The image of the bag on the corner hits me again.

"You still want me to call the police?"

She looks down at the ground and mumbles "No. I guess you're right. It's probably nothing".

"We can go back and look at it again if you want. See if we see any clues or anything. Signs of a struggle."

"Like detectives?"

"Like detectives"

"Just like when we were kids"

"Like when we were kids"

You are 5AM

2008-01-29T15:20:00.000-08:00

You will always be 5AM to me. Weary, tired and anxious. Rising with the sun. A half-smile across your face as you rise from our shared bed and put on your bra and underwear.

In a haze you ask me if I can drop off your key on your lunch break.

"Okay"

You kiss my forehead like a worried Mother and whisper "go back to bed".

I will miss this the most when I miss you.

The Truth

2008-01-22T11:56:00.000-08:00

Scrawled on a piece of notebook paper and taped on her mirror:

Rachel,

There's not really an easy way to say this so I suppose I should just say it. I love you. I mean "I'm in love with you". I know that's hard to hear and I know you're happy with Jeff and I'm happy for you. I just had to say it finally and get it off my chest. I think I've always had feelings for you but I never wanted to hurt our friendship. I hope you are ok with this and things don't have to get weird between us. I can't imagine my life without you so please don't be uncomfortable with me. That's why I never really said anything...to protect that. I've just gotten to the age where secrets seem more and more meaningless to keep. If you are truly a friend then I owe you the truth.

Merle Haggard's House

2008-01-15T11:51:00.000-08:00

"Over here on the right. This used to be Merle Haggard's house. And it used to be the only thing for miles and miles"

Cows dot the hills in the distance. I run my tounge along the bottom row of my teeth and fret over the crooked ones. He notices and says "too much sugar".

"You know who Merle Haggard is, right?"

"Of course I do", with mild irritation.

"Well, I don't know. Maybe you don't"

More silence passes by as do random palm trees and orange groves. A sign greets us with "Welcome to Bakersfield".

Eric

2008-01-08T11:43:00.000-08:00

"What?"

"What do you mean what?"

"I mean...what? What are you doing?"

"You heard what I said, Greg"

"O.k. I suppose I mean why? Why are you doing this?"

"Cause. It felt good. Ok. It feels good. I...need a change"

"But I can forgive you. We can fix this. You don't have to leave on top of everything else you've done"

"I want to leave"

Silence passes.

"I'm sorry"

"What is his name?"

"Oh, come on, Greg. Don't do this"

"It's just a simple question. What's his name?"

"Eric. Ok. His name is Eric"

"Where did you meet him?"

"I'm not doing this with you. I'm leaving. I'm sorry. Goodbye"

And with that she was gone.

I sat on the couch and slowly started going through the various stages of grief. I cried til I threw up. I rolled the name "Eric" around in my head until it lost all meaning. I repeated the name outloud. Slowly at first and then over and over like a mantra. I got up and said it louder into the living room. I shouted it to the ceiling. It quickly grew from a name to a primitive grunt. I hurled it into the air as I started pounding the wall with my fist. As the days went on it eventually became the only word I could say. People would say "hello" and I would reply "Eric".

"How are you?"

"Eric"

"Where are you from?"

"Eric"

"Eric...what state is that in?"

It grew until people thought that was my name and began calling me Eric. I embodied the spirit of Eric. I became the type of man that would break-up a marriage. I became Eric.

Cloud Cover

2008-01-01T18:08:00.000-08:00

The sky was dark grey. Like ash. It was night.

James was standing over Heather's body.

He was thinking about something else. Once on the bus he watched 2 strangers kiss each other. The woman didn't have enough money to pay the fare and promised a kiss to somebody who would help her. An overweight man paid her fare and she kissed him on the lips. He smiled at this thought and Heather thought he was smiling because of her. He wished Heather was a stranger again. He wanted to feel that thrilling discomfort.

She was laid out underneath him, her arms were akimbo and her eyes were closed. She held a pucker with her lips. He leaned down over her until her bare breasts touched his chest. He kissed her once softly and pulled away.

"Goodnight, Heather"

"Where are you going?"

"Home"

Heather laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Wham. Bam. Thank you, ma'am. Is that how it is?", she said teasingly.

"Heather. Come on. You know it's not like that. I'm tired. I want to get some stuff done tomorrow"

Heather laughed again, covering her mouth this time.

"What's funny now?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking of that time you flipped off that guy in the truck and how he followed us home and how silly you looked trying to get him to not kick your ass"

James smiled.

"That scared the shit outta me"

"What's so great about home anyway? Why do you always leave me for it? You gotta secret girl up there?"

James laughed.

"Of course not. I just like my alone time"

Heather playfully grabbed his crotch.

"You mean jack off time"

James batted her hand away, smiling.

"Knock it off! I'm gonna go home, ok? I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Ok"

James thought about tomorrow and the next day and the day after that...all filled with Heather and her same body and same stories. There was a time that gave him comfort but it started to scare him.

James started to drive to his apartment but decided he needed to clear his head. He drove east, he drove west. He flipped the cassette in his tape deck 4 times, listening to each side twice. He drove until the sky was no longer dark grey but light grey. He looked up at the sky and wished it would clear.

Snow Angels

2007-12-25T10:07:00.000-08:00

Outside, it snowed. Inside, the family ate supper.

“The potatoes are too salty, Marjorie. Did you add a lot of salt to them?”

Marjorie shook her head and then leaned down to tie her shoe.

“Where’s Greg?”

“Who?”

“Cousin Greg”

“Oh. Gregory. He’s away. In New York City, if you can believe it. With his girlfriend”

“Fiancé, Barbara. It’s his Fiancé.”

“Well…I’ll believe it when I see it, Marjorie”

“Pop, can we go out after dinner and make a snowman?”

“Maybe, son. For now let’s finish eating. Eat your vegetables and your potatoes. They’ll get cold”

“You don’t have to eat them if their too salty, Tim”

“Barbara, please”

They sat in silence again. Finally, Peter, the Father, said, “I think the potatoes are great, Marjorie". Barbara furrowed her brow slightly and looked over at Peter. “I suppose”, she said.

“Can we call him at least?”

“Who?”

“Whom”

“What?”

“Call whom, Mom”

“Oh, jeez. OK, Professor. Call whom?”

“GREG!”

“Again with Greg!”

Greg was Marjorie’s son, Barbara’s Nephew.

“Honey, there’s a time difference. It’s late where your Cousin Greg is”, said Marjorie.

“What time is it there?”

“Oh, let’s see…” Marjorie checked her watch. “Well, it’s almost 8 here so…almost 11. 11pm”

“Oh, boy. I can’t even stay up til 11!”

“That’s right! It’s past your bedtime there! So let’s let Greg be for tonight. OK, Tim?”

“OK, Aunt Marjorie”

Barbara stood up and scratched her thigh. She announced, “I’m going into the kitchen to fix a drink and take dessert out of the oven. Does anyone need anything?”

“Some milk, Mom”

“I’ll have a scotch, Barb. On the rocks”

“Marjorie?”

“No, thank you. I’m…I’m going to go outside and get some air”

Marjorie stood up and looked at Barbara for a moment before turning and walking to the door.

“Is Aunt Marjorie OK, Pop?”

“She’ll be fine, Tim. She…she….just misses your Cousin Greg a lot”

“I miss him too”

“Not like she does, son. It’s…different when…you’ll understand when you have kids”

“Eww. I do NOT want to have kids. You have to put your pee-pee in a girl’s butthole to have a baby”

Peter laughed in spite of himself.

“Tim! Watch your mouth!”, Barbara yelled from the kitchen.

“Tim. You don’t…son, who told you that?”

“Bobby Jenkins. He said that’s how you make a baby”

“That’s not how it works”

“He lied? But he never lies. His parents go to church and everything”

“I’m sure he thinks he’s right, Tim. That’s not how it works though”

“How do you make a baby then?”

Peter sat speechless for a moment. He grabbed the back of his neck and let out a sigh.

“Um…I don’t…how old are you now, son?”

“Eight. Pop! My birthday was just last month!”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m not…well…” Peter leaned closer to Tim. “I’ll tell you later, OK? When your Mother isn’t around”, he whispered.

“Is it a secret?” Tim whispered back.

“No…but I don’t know if your Mother wants you to know quite yet. Alright?”

“Alright”

Outside, Marjorie sat on the cold ground smoking a cigarette. She looked up at the stars in the dark, cloudless sky.

“Pop, I’m done with my supper. Can I go outside and play with Aunt Marjorie?”

Peter let out another sigh. “I suppose. I need to talk with your Mother anyway. But, Tim…if your Aunt says she wants to be alone…leave her alone, OK?”

“OK, Pop”

Tim put on his hat and gloves and went outside to sit next to Marjorie who was now lying on the cold ground.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Nothing, Tim. Just…thinking”

“About what?”

“Oh…nothing. Your Cousin Greg. Your Mother. Lots of things”. She flicked her cigarette over the hill, into the darkness.

Marjorie turned to Tim and smiled.

“Why you sitting on the cold, wet ground like that? You’re gonna get cold, Aunt Marjorie”

“No reason, Tim.”

“You want to make a snow angel?”

Marjorie laughed.

“Ha. I haven't made a snow angel in...sure. You and me, kiddo. Let's make us a whole army of snow angels”

“OK!”

Marjorie and Tim lay in the snow for some time, making snow angels and laughing.

Inside, Barbara and Peter got drunk in the kitchen and ate blackberry pie.

“Let’s go see what the kids are up to, Peter”

“Your Sister isn’t a kid, Barb. She’s a grown woman”

“Oh, hush. You know what I mean”

Peter and Barbara laughed when they found Tim and Marjorie in the snow like that.

“You wanna help make snow angels, Ma?”

“Oh, what the hell. Peter?”

“Shit. Why the hell not?”

“Pop! You said the s word!”

“It’s OK, Tim. You can say that word when you’re an adult”

“I can’t wait to be an adult!”

The family spent the long winter night outside like that. The smoke from their breath hovered in the air above them; it drifted up above their heads and then over the house until it became invisible.

You're Not the Boss of Me

2007-12-18T22:56:00.001-08:00

“You’re not the boss of me, Sarah”

My baby takes the morning train…

“Party? What party?”

The restaurant held many conversations and words. They all floated into her.

“Cheese”

“Mom!”

“It just can’t handle that kind of job, Bill. That’s what your problem is”

“It just doesn’t pay enough”

It all swirled in her head. She had a lot on her mind as it was.

Her Father’s impending visit, her mid-term, how many calories the cheeseburger she was eating contained, why her Mother couldn’t just quit smoking.

“These fries are pretty good”

“Go sit with Grandma, honey”

“Number 46, your order is ready”

She felt like crying. The stress of living was catching up with her. She could feel herself gaining weight in that little restaurant. She could feel her skin getting worse, pores clogging. She was starting to lose it. She started daydreaming about ambulances. She imagined that on slow nights when there were no accidents that all the ambulances and their drivers gathered in large parking lots and listened to music and told each other stories and laughed and embraced not having to deal with death or injury.

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you call him back?”

“Where’s El Paso?”

“The whole thing felt like a dream”

The Dream

2007-12-11T11:13:00.000-08:00

I had a dream last night, Bill. A weird one.

Bill nodded as if to say, “go on”.

It was Thanksgiving and we were at your Mother’s house for supper.

Bill took a drink from his glass of whiskey and she continued.

And your Mother was in color but everybody else, including you and me…we were in black and white. And we were eating turkey at the dining room table.

Bill kept listening while he lit a cigarette.

At one point you bit down on some bone from the turkey and your tooth fell out.

Bill turned his head up slightly and blew smoke up towards the light overhead.

“My tooth? Fell out?”

She laughed.

Yes! And it was the strangest thing but as I kept eating I noticed that my mouth was bleeding.

“Your mouth?”

Yes. Isn’t that strange? The blood just kept coming and coming until my whole plate was covered in blood.

Bill finished his drink and smirked.

“How strange, Martha”

Martha poured herself a drink and laughed.

Yes, I thought so.

She sat down next to him and put his hand in hers.

I wonder if it means anything?

They sat like that for a time.

A letter

2007-12-04T13:19:00.000-08:00

Dear _______,

Well, I made it! In one piece, no less! I hope this finds you well. I miss you.
On the bus yesterday I saw these 2 homeless people, a man and a woman. They both reeked of cheap booze and dirt but they clearly both loved each other very much. The man helped the woman on the bus and they held hands, the woman even rested her head on his shoulder and fell asleep. I thought of you when I saw that, thought that it was something you would find charming in a weird way.

I also had an idea for your movie. You know how you want to have an interesting credit sequence without wasting time or taking away from the story? You could start the movie in James' apartment and he could be sitting there and watching tv and he could get the phone call from June still but while he is on the phone the credits are on the tv screen. Or something like that. I don't know, you're the genius. Not me. I hope you are doing well with your writing and your movies.

I hope you find the time and money to visit soon. This town needs more ______'s in it.

Well, I suppose I should get going. Just wanted to say hello. Write me back! I never get mail anymore.

Love, _________

Lubbock

2007-11-27T13:56:00.000-08:00

At first he could turn thoughts of her on and off like a faucet. On, the way she titled her head back when she laughed. Off, did he remember to send his Aunt a birthday card? On, how when she wore the color green it made her eyes stand out. Off, did he take out the trash?

Though lately, the memories of her seeped into him like a perfume. He tried to forget about her. She lived in another state, another time zone. 2148 miles. On paper it wasn’t much but it might as well as been another country in his mind. His feet were planted firmly in Lubbock, Texas. He still lived at home, the son of a bitter, angry Mother and a passive Father. He passed the time by thinking, it didn’t matter what about. He wrote poems and invented things. He created his own language called “Pig French” that was like Pig Latin but except with French words. He wrote plays and made up songs in the shower. Anything but think of her. Lately, the memories of her flew into his pores. He breathed her in like air. He tried to invent a way around it. A pair of pants that you could put on and put in coordinates and it would walk you to your destination. A hat that would beep when it was close to people who loved you, like a metal detector so that if you were lost you could find your way home.

Once

2007-11-20T00:08:00.000-08:00

On the surface of the bridge they kissed for the first time, the water below them. Their cold noses pressed up against each other and it made her laugh.

On the airplane he drew animals dancing. One of them looked like this:

Once: He nervously held her hand while walking down 5th Avenue.

Now he sat between two men on a full Boeing 747 en-route to O’Hare. She had moved to Chicago last year to go to art school. He wasn’t the same since she left. He was reserved, quieter.

Once: To impress her he drunkenly danced on a picnic table at the park and fell down and broke his arm. On the way to the emergency room she told him she loved him for the first time.

He ordered a whiskey and coke to calm his nerves as the turbulence hit. Everyone told him it was a bad idea to go see her. She’s probably changed a lot, they said.

“She’s not the same person you dated”

“I heard she’s dating somebody new”

“She cut her hair, she’s lost weight. You won’t even recognize her”

He didn’t care. He needed a change of pace, a change of climate. He was tired of his life in a small college town. He needed the cold air to wake him up from the stupor he was in. He needed to see for himself how she had changed.

Good evening, Ladies and Gentleman. We are approaching our destination. Please return your seats to their upright position and secure the table tray in front of you.

He let out a long breath and awaited the touch down on the runway. He took his address book from his pocket and looked for her phone number. He wondered if she would answer the phone when he called and what he would say to her.

Once: They lay on her bed until 4 in the morning telling stories and making each other laugh. She touched his hair and said “I think I’m really falling for you here”. He smiled and said “me too”.

Strange Medicine

2007-11-13T15:28:00.000-08:00

Every day it was the same. At around ten minutes to 6pm he began closing up. He put away the various bottles of pills and medications, counted the money in the cash registers, swept up behind the counter. He usually locked the door a bit early, sometimes as early as 5 minutes to 6. He put on his coat and hat and flipped the sign to “CLOSED” and left promptly to catch his bus home. That was the routine. At least before the day, before things changed.

His name was Jonathon Snow. He was a handsome man in his youth. He went to medical school for a couple of years before dropping out and becoming a pharmacist, much to his Father’s disappointment. Jonathon justified the decision with, “giant hospital bills don’t help people get better, medicine does”.

Now he lived alone, a widower. His wife died in a car accident. He made a habit of not thinking about her or them together. These days he filled his time with puzzles and books or the television. He occupied himself with trivial things that didn’t affect anybody too much. His Grandson bought him a Gameboy for Christmas one year and he played Tetris on the bus ride home. He looked ridiculous, a 64 year old man playing a child’s game among the suit wearing commuters and high school students. But he didn’t care about his image and it showed. He made no efforts to dress well or dye his hair, gussy up his appearance like other men his age. He knew his glory days were over. It used to pain him to see photos of himself as a young man but he got used to it as the years went on. At heart he knew he led a rather sad life but he didn’t let it bother him too much. He was content with the knowledge that his charms had faded. He relished his role as the bitter old man of the neighborhood.

The day things changed was a Tuesday. Jonathon stood at the door of the pharmacy, locking it at exactly 5:56pm when he suddenly felt like somebody was watching him. In the distance he heard a voice call out “Hey, Mister”. He looked to his right, into the parking lot and saw a tall man with thinning hair and bad skin approach him.

“Mister, you work at this pharmacy here?”

“Yes”, Jonathon responded nervously. “Can I help you with something?”

The man leaned toward him and put his hand on his shoulder. Jonathon pulled away, repulsed and scared. “What are you? Some sort of junkie?”

“No. I’m…I’m sorry. Listen. I just need some help. Can I talk to you for a second?”

“If you’re having car trouble I won’t be of any help. We don’t carry any sort of automotive products”

“No, no. It’s…it’s my daughter. You see, she’s sick. I don’t know what she’s got. She needs pills. Something. Can you help us?”

“That’s preposterous! I’m no Doctor! You need medical attention you go to a hospital, they write you a prescription and then you come back and I will give you your medicine”

“But we don’t have insurance. We’ve tried. Don’t you think I know this seems crazy? I’m desperate. I’m not crazy. I’m just a normal guy. Like you”

“You are nothing like me”

“Well, I don’t know what kind of man you are but normal people help out each other and take risks for their fellow man”

“On what planet?”

“She’s 5 years old, sir. Have some compassion”

“O.k. Let’s say I somehow decide to risk my career, my home, my life to help you…”

The man interrupts him, “Her. To help her”

“To help her. You are forgetting the fact that I am not a Doctor. I can’t diagnose diseases. What if I give her the wrong pills? She could get worse. She could die”

“Well, can you at least look at her? See what you think it might be? I mean, don’t you guys have to go to school for medicine? Just…one look. Please?”

The man again put his hand on Jonathon’s shoulder. Jonathon let it remain there this time. He sighed.

“O.k. One look. But I’m not promising anything. And I won’t give you medication without a proper prescription”

The man smiled. “Sure, Doc! Oh, thank you. Thank you. I’m at the end of my rope with this thing.”

“Bring her by to the store tomorrow. For now you must excuse me. I’ve got to catch my bus”

“I can give you a ride. Where do you live?”

“Oh, that’s quite alright. I must be going”

“Alright. Suit yourself. See you tomorrow, Doc!”

“It’s Jonathon. Please. I told you I’m no Doctor”

“O.k. Bye, John” he said as he walked off towards his truck in the parking lot.

Jonathon walked to the bus stop. He instantly regretted the conversation. He wished he’d told the man to get lost, threatened to call the police, screamed bloody murder.

“How ridiculous”, he thought. What if the man has no daughter and instead comes to murder him and steal his drugs? A drug addict out of control, looking for anything he can get his hands on.

He played 3.5 games of Tetris on the ride home to distract him from these kinds of thoughts.

The next day Jonathon lay awake in bed and contemplated not going into work. He could have the girl who worked next door at the bakery put up a sign that says “Closed Today Due to Family Emergency”. He’d done it before when his Sister passed away. His customers would understand. But his conscious plagued him. He envisioned the strange man bundling up his daughter in a ratty winter coat, stolen probably, and driving her to the quiet little street in the upscale neighborhood…all in the hopes that she could feel better.

He left eventually, worried and nervous. He arrived at work late. The man and his daughter were already waiting for him at the door.

“You’re late”

“I thought you would come later. Isn’t she supposed to be in school?”

“Not today. Right, honey?”

“No school for me today”, said the girl.

“She doesn’t look sick”

“She is, Doc. She is”

“Call me Jonathon. Please”

“O.k. Sorry, Johnny”

He fumbled around for the keys to the store and let them in.

“You two must wait here for a moment. I must get things ready”

The man and the daughter waited in silence as Jonathon turned on the lights, flipped signs, turned on cash registers, got money out of the safe and generally made things ready for the public.

“You almost ready to go back there, John?”

“Yes. O.k, come on back”

The man and the girl made their way to the back of the store, up the little set of stairs and into the actual pharmacy.

“Have a seat, little girl”

“Susie. Her name is Susie”

Jonathon smiled at this.

“That was my wife’s name. Well, Susan. But we all called her Susie”.

Susie sat down on an overturned milk crate among the shelves of bottles and boxes.

“She’s named after her Mother’s Grandmother”

“I suppose it’s a common name”

Jonathon bent down to be face to face with the girl.

“O.k, Susie. So what’s wrong? Why don’t you feel good?”

“My ear hurts”

“Your ear?”

“Yeah. My ear is sick”

He looked up at her Father as if to say, “explain”.

“About a week ago she came into my room in the middle of the night crying. She said her ear hurt. We tried Tylenol but it didn’t help. Nothing helps”

“Does your ear hurt all the time, Susie?”

She nodded.

“Does it hurt now?”

She nodded again.

“What kind of pain is it?”

The girl looked up at her Father, confused.

“Tell the man how it feels, babe”

“It hurts”

“I know it hurts, sweetie but…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Does it feel like a sudden, sharp pain? Like if you fell down and got an owie on her knee? Or is it like a dull ache? Like if you had a tummy ache?”

“It hurts for a long time”

The girl began getting bored and playing with her shoes.

Jonathon turned his attention to the Father.

“I think it’s probably an ear infection. If that’s the case you can’t cure it without antibiotics. Nothing over the counter will work”

“Can you give us something for it?”

Jonathon sighed, paused.

“Yes. But please, don’t tell anyone about this or I could lose my license.”

“Of course, of course”

He left them and walked down a long row of shelves and returned with a bottle.

“Does she have any allergies to medication?”

“I don’t think so”

“Well try this. It’s usually a safe bet. It’s a liquid. Give her a tablespoon twice a day, with food”

He looked down at the girl.

“Susie, do you like the taste of grape?”

She nodded.

“We'll give it a shot, Doc. Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me. The sleepless nights, hearing her cry. You have kids?”

“Yes but they’re grown now. I know what it was like though. I understand. If this doesn’t work or you need something else give me call”

Jonathon wrote down his phone number for the man and he hugged Susie goodbye. The men shook hands.

He went on with his day. He had an egg salad sandwich from the deli across the street, he did the New York Times crossword puzzle. He has his usual visit from Mr. Silvestri to refill his anti-depressants. He closed up at ten til 6 and took the long bus ride home in silence. In his rush in the morning he’d forgotten his gameboy.

In the morning he rose early and went to work as usual. He closed the shop at 10 til 6 and went home. No word from the man or his daughter. This routine went on for about a week until the man once again greeted him from the parking lot as he closed the shop up. He jumped when he heard the man approach.

“Oh, jeez. You startled me. Don’t you believe in telephones?”

Both men chuckled.

“Well, how is she?”

“Better. I think. She said it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. I think it’s slowly going away. You’re a genius, Doc. Thank you”

“Well, you’re welcome. I’m glad I could help”

“Can we get another bottle? You know, one for the road?”

“Of course. Come in”

He reopened the door and led the man to the back once again. He gave him another bottle and said that she should be completely fine after another couple days.

“What do you I owe you for your help?”

“You keep it. No charge”

The man hugged Jonathon and thanked him. He offered him a ride home again. This time he accepted the man’s gracious offer and they rode together in the man’s pick-up truck.

The man noticed Jonathon had a newspaper tucked under his arm.

“You read the sports section today?”

“No. I’m afraid I’m not big on sports. I enjoy the crossword puzzle”

“Oh. I like the jumble. I don’t have the brain for the crossword”

The men continued on like this for some time.

He let Jonathon off in front of his house and as he opened the truck door asked if he would accept a dinner as a thank you for his help. Jonathon said it was a deal.

When he came over he brought his Gameboy for Susie to play with while the men talked in the kitchen. Susie was back to normal and wild as all get out.

“Where’s your wife?” Jonathon asked the man.

“Oh. She’s passed”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t know”

“It’s o.k. I know its cause I look young. She died of cancer. We didn’t have the money to fight it”

“My wife is gone too. She died in a car accident”

“I’m sorry to hear that”

“It’s o.k. I’m too old for a wife anyway”

The men laughed and Susie did too even though she didn’t understand what was funny.

Jonathon let her keep the Gameboy. “I’m too old for that too”

Things were different after that.

The Spirit of Her Spirit

2007-11-06T23:31:00.000-08:00

Her ghosts are everywhere.
On the bus there’s the ghost of her hair.
At the library I smell the ghost of her perfume.

It isn’t just that she left me. Or left us. It’s that she left herself.

She changed. She cut her hair. She changed the way she dressed, started wearing simpler clothes. Blacks, grays. She got a tattoo of a boat on her forearm. I missed her unmarked flesh. I missed her bright blue dresses.

I remember the last conversation we had.

I just don’t feel like talking anymore.

With me or in general?

In general, George. In general.

She used to call my answering machine when she knew I was away and sing silly songs into the tape. She would tell stories for hours when I couldn’t. She was my voice. Now I feel like a mute, haunted and alone.

Chief Red Feather and Cowboy Bill

2007-10-30T11:53:00.000-07:00

He lay dead on the hill. The sun beat down upon him. He was stiff as a board. His name was Chief Red Feather. He was Tommy.

I stood over him. I held my cowboy hat in my hands because it was too hot to wear it. With my mouth I made the sound of gun shots and pointed my index finger at him.

“Bang! Bang! You’re dead, Red Feather!”

His Mother could be seen in the distance out of the corner of my eye. She was calling for him. The sound of her voice caught up to us and Tommy bolted up.

“What, Mom?! I’m playing!”

“Supper is almost ready. Your friend can stay for supper but you gotta wash up. Alright?”

He sat still there and closed his eyes for one second, trying to pretend he wasn’t hot wearing the cheap headdress made from found feathers.

“What are we having?”

“Chicken and potatoes and peas”

Tommy groaned. He looked up at me and squinted.

“You want to stay for supper?”

My first instinct was to say yes but I knew I had better get home to my own Mother.

“I can’t. My Ma is expecting me”

“O.k. Suit yourself, bucko”

He said bucko in a strange way. Like he heard it on television or from his Dad. He looked proud for sounding so grown-up and condescending.

He stood up and marched toward the farmhouse. I walked over to the fence and got my bike.

“Hey!”

“What?”

“I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”

“It’s a school day, ain’t it?”

“Yeah. I guess so. Bye, Tommy”

He just turned around and went inside. He never said goodbye. If it were anybody but Tommy it would annoy you but with him it made sense. It fit him.

I rode my bike home in the fading light of the summer sun.

Something To Make The Time Pass Quicker

2007-10-23T15:35:00.000-07:00

She sat on the edge of the bed. The light from the bathroom hit her face. She looked beautiful. Different but beautiful.

“I can’t tell if I love you or I just love not being alone” she said. She began to cry.

Her suitcase sat at her feet. She was putting on lipstick while she talked. A distraction to keep her mind off the awful truth.

“I’m sorry. I have to go”

“But why? Can’t we talk about this?”

“I just need a change, Charlie. I can’t do this anymore.” She rose to her feet and grabbed her belongings and walked to the door.

I followed her, grabbed her by the elbow.

“I can’t let you do this”

“Please”

And with that she was gone. She waved goodbye and blew me a kiss from the parking lot.

Now I live alone in a house large enough for two. Eight hour work days and TV dinners. Sepia toned photos of a bygone era.

I caught a movie on TV the other day.

A love story.

It made me sad for too many reasons.

Maybe I should get a dog. Or a cat.

Something to make the time pass quicker.

Waiting

2007-10-16T23:43:00.000-07:00

“Mommy” was the call.

“She’s not here” was the response.

They sat to my left.

In the corner an old woman reads Golf Digest. Her wrinkles and liver spots remind me of my own mortality and why I am here in the first place.

I’m suddenly nervous.

A nurse walks by with a clip board and calls a name.

“George Erickson”

A man I hadn’t noticed before stands up. He is probably in his late 40s. He looks fit, in shape. He probably doesn’t really need to be here. Maybe he is getting a physical because a new job requires it. Maybe his wife just felt something abnormal in his testicles while they were making love. Maybe she talked him into getting it checked out even though he takes good care of himself.

The nurse leads him away into the examining room where Doctor and patient will laugh together about how wives don’t understand the male anatomy and never will. They will exchange golf tips.

“Mommy!”

“Your Mother isn’t here, Caitlin!”

The man tries to keep his patience.

The girl huffs and scowls.

I notice that somebody has carved the word “FUCK” into the arm rest of my chair. “How odd”, I think but I suppose even vandals go to the Doctor.

Or maybe it was simply a man who just found out he had cancer or AIDs or some other fatal disease. Maybe “FUCK” was his way of letting off some steam, getting something off his chest.

I sigh and bury my face into my hands and wonder if I will be feel the urge to vandalize something after I’m done with the Doctor.

Before I left Angie asked if "it was fear or worry".

I told her "I think it's both".

In a while I will be home and everything could be different.

This is waiting.

A Song to Make One Feel Like Singing

2007-10-09T00:26:00.000-07:00

She stood on the hill with her hands in her pockets.
This is the story how Paul met Amber.
He smiles from a distance and walks toward her.
It is a love story.
She pulled her hands out of her pockets when she saw him approaching.
It is a true story.

Paul was a sad man. He had been single for nearly 11 months. Dumped. Alone. Eating poorly. Sleeping poorly. It wasn’t for lack of trying. He had gone on a few dates here and there. Made eyes at women. He wasn’t unattractive. He simply had very high standards. He had very specific tastes that were hard to live up to. For example, his partial list of things he looks for in a mate:

-Hair at least shoulder length (preferably light brown or strawberry blonde)
-A keen sense of fashion but nothing too bourgeois. (“Thrift store chic” he calls it)
-No vegans/vegetarians.
-No smokers
-Must own at least one album by the Velvet Underground.
-Must like children.
-Large breasts but nothing too large (“just shy of Dolly Parton country”)
-Tattoos a plus.

To pull him out of his self imposed misery his Sister decided to set him up on a blind date. A woman from her office. Named Claire. Claire was nice enough. Average. Slender fingers and long brown hair that ended in ringlets. She wore glasses made of wood. She called them "designer frames". Paul liked her but wasn't smitten. She was a driven woman. Paul wasn't driven. He had no ambition. He was content to drift. To wander. They didn't get along for this reason.

They ate sushi and drank sake and smoked cigarettes. He studied her face and she talked about herself and her 5 year plan. When she asked him about his 5 year plan he excused himself to the restroom and changed the subject upon his return. In order to make him seem more daring, more spontaneous he suggests they go do karaoke after dinner. They arrived at a place called "Songs" at midnight.

Amber was already on stage. She was singing "Superstar" by the Carpenters. She wore a silvery dress and it shined bright in the stage lights.

Long ago, and, oh so far away
I fell in love with you

Paul was instantly transfixed. He couldn't remember his date's name (Claire). He could barely remember his name. It wasn't that Amber was especially attractive or well put together. She just had a spark. She looked exciting. She wanted to do more than just watch the evening news before bed or the daily crossword puzzle. He could tell. She was wild. Maybe even a little dangerous? She had a big mess of black hair. She was pale but not in an unattractive way. She looked European. Perhaps even Parisian. The way she moved on stage was silly. She collapsed to her knees. She theatrically clutched her chest.

Don't you remember you told me
You loved me baby?!
You said you'd be coming back this way again baby!

She rolled on to her back and did scissor kicks into the air.

Paul is mesmerized. Claire teases him to "take a picture, it'll last longer" but he ignores her. The song ends and she returns to her seat in the back with her Sister. They laugh to each other. They hug.

Paul and Claire take a seat at the bar. He offers her a drink but she declines. She says it’s late and she’d better get home and walk her golden retriever. This strikes Paul as funny for some reason and he cracks a smile.

He watches her leave and orders a whiskey and coke. He studies Amber and her sister in their booth. They eat gyoza and calamari and drink cheap beer. They take turns singing on stage. The sister is cute but not quite as appealing. She doesn’t have the charm, the charisma.

Paul’s curiosity gets the better of him and he approaches Amber while her sister sings David Bowie’s “Changes”.

They exchange a simple greeting. He tells a joke about David Bowie. She laughs. He asks if she comes there often. He kicks himself for the cliché sounding question. She says every week because she loves performing. She asks if he likes karaoke. He says “I do now”. She laughs again. She asks him to join them and proceeds to entertain him all night. She tells him her ideas for plays. She confesses she grew up wanting to be Cher. He tries to hold his own. He exaggerates his participation in his High School's drama club.

They make loose plans to flying kites in the park on the next Sunday. Paul feels good. Excited. He wakes up Sunday feeling energized, refreshed. For the first time in a while he doesn’t need coffee. He walks to the park instead of driving. He sees her in the distance.

She stood on the hill with her hands in her pockets.
This is the story how Paul met Amber.
He smiles from a distance and walks toward her.
It is a love story.
She pulled her hands out of her pockets when she saw him approaching.
It is a true story.

Pride of the Shore

2007-10-02T17:48:00.000-07:00

There isn’t a patch of wet cement in a 30 mile radius without your name scrawled in it.
There ain’t an old oak tree in the park without our initials carved across its trunk.

We have a fine view of the park. It isn’t of anything especially pretty or interesting but it is pleasant. If you stand on your tip-toes and lift your head in a certain way you can see the tops of the trees turn to brown and red and orange in the Fall.

It is Fall now. The air is turning crisp. We both have tickles in our throats. It’s going to be a cold winter.

Soon we’ll make snow angels every chance we get. Soon there won’t be a night of rest for the fireplace. We’ll duplicate cave drawings on the dust of the windowsill when we get bored from being stuck inside with nowhere to go. You’ll begin building a better body in secret. You'll do push-ups and sit-ups while I am at work. All winter long, in long winter clothes.

You’ll stun boys at the beach come June.

We’ll sit on the sand and I’ll tell you that the sting of loneliness can really hurt a man like me and you will touch my arm and tell me that I’ll never have to worry about that. We’ll build sand castles every chance we get and your bathing suit will be the pride of the shore.

This Doesn't Feel Like Home

2007-09-25T16:28:00.000-07:00

“If it ain’t broke don’t fix it”, she says, while beating eggs in the kitchen. She’s referring to my idea to paint the coffee table blue.
“So you like the coffee table as it is?”
“Well, I think it’s fine. No reason to paint it”

To break eye contact with her I look at her nose. It is a small nose with a little bump in the middle. I move my attention around her face and look at her ears. She’s wearing earrings that look like tusks.

I love this woman but she doesn’t understand me. She doesn’t understand why I need to do things like this. Painting the coffee table. Cause living in this city is killing me. Not having a job. Wasting away my afternoons on the porch with stolen cigarettes and tap water and stray cats for company. We’ve been here for 3 months and I have yet to even get an interview. Restaurants, movie theatres, coffee shops. All have turned me down. This is why I like making things, painting things. To feel productive. To feel useful.

She repeats “no reason to paint it” like a mantra. We said a city would never break us but I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
All we ever do is fight. All we ever seem to do is say “I’m sorry”. This doesn’t feel like home.

The Last Words You Said to Me

2007-09-18T00:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes to make time pass quicker I imagine what you’ll look like pregnant. I picture you with a round belly and holding your back and shuffling around and breathing funny. This thought makes me smile.

Sometimes, too, I think about my lips pressed against the top of your head and your head pressed against my chest. And in this moment I am scared of this intimacy and you say, “Sometimes you just have to let go, Henry”. You say this with a Southern accent even though you’ve never been to the South.

Every once in a while if I shut my eyes I see you running at me, angry and beating your fists against my chest. And in this imaginary moment you say, “Sometimes you just have to let go, Henry”. But it’s hard to hear the accent because you’re yelling.

Once I had this dream where we ate ice cream cones in the winter on a snow covered hill. You turned to me and told me about a hypothetical bank robbery we could commit if we had tear gas and Doctor’s scrubs.

When I’m waiting for a bus or in a long line I picture us at my Mother’s funeral. And you’re standing next to me in a very elegant black dress. The mood is very somber and a fog creeps in. I start crying and you put your arm around me and pull me towards you and whisper, “Sometimes you just have to let go, Henry”.

The last words you said to me echo through my head like “Hello!” into a canyon.

Judy

2007-09-11T11:24:00.001-07:00

Her name was Judy. She was once a cold woman. A widow. Then she saw this Indian guru on public television and started doing yoga and became a vegetarian. She also started doing things like making her family come on retreats with her to the woods.

They all piled in to her 2004 Jetta and left the city on Friday night at 7:30pm. Among them was her son, Kenneth. He was a small man in his early thirties. He had been divorced once and was on his second marriage to a woman named Susan who was also accompanying them on the trip. Her young daughter, Amy, was also there, in the backseat.

"O.k. Does anybody need to use the bathroom? There's a rest stop coming up?"

"No, Mom. Let's just try and get there tonight"

"I do! I need to go potty!" yelled Amy.

"Ken, Amy needs to go. I could stand to stretch my legs. 5 minutes won't kill us" Susan said this while putting her hands on his shoulder from the backseat.

"Alright, alright"

Kenneth was frustrated. Not just with the situation but with life in general. He hated his job, his house, his family. He knew all this made him an asshole but he couldn't help it. He missed his glory days of sleeping until noon and catching a double feature at the run down movie house down the street from his tiny studio apartment. The key word being "his". It was his apartment, his neighborhood. His bottles of beer on the kitchen counter. His one night stands. His cigarettes on the porch that he didn't have to hide from anybody or pretend he was giving up.

He met Susan when they were both young. He had just gotten divorced from his high school sweetheart. Susan was a waitress at a restaurant he frequented. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with long red hair and perfect skin. He barely spoke to her when she waited on him because he was so nervous around her. One night she was getting off her shift when he was leaving. He was tipsy and decided to walk her home even though she only lived 4 blocks away. She thought it was sweet and they started seeing each other. They broke up 3 times within the first year of their relationship. She had an affair with another man, which is where Amy came from. Their relationship hasn't really ever been stable and they both knew it. Kenneth only proposed marriage after he had gotten her pregnant. She had a miscarriage but he couldn't call off the wedding after that. What would his family say? What kind of man would he be?

"Poppa! Poppa! Look, a cow!"

"Oh! I see that, Amy. Good spotting" Kenneth was tired.

"And what sound does a cow make, honey?", Judy added.

"Mooooooooo!"

They family continued their drive to the woods. Kenneth only agreed to go to keep his Mother company. He worried about her after his Father died. He didn't want her to get into accident or get lost in the woods or bamboozled by some fly-by-night self-help author. But in the back of his mind he hoped that the stress relief seminars and the peace and quiet and the meditation classes would help him. He needed to relax, get used to the idea of being a man and not a boy anymore. He was turning 32 in a month. Susan was only 28. Amy continued to yell about the cows as the family pulled into the rest stop.

The Couple, The Restaurant

2007-09-04T18:54:00.000-07:00

The young couple eat alone in a nearly empty restaurant. Their candle is the lone lit one in the old Italian place. Their breath smells of red wine and garlic.

She ordered the fettuccini alfredo, he ordered the veal parmesan. She normally wouldn’t let him eat something as barbaric as veal but it was a special occasion. It was the 2nd anniversary of their first date. Suddenly, there's a buzzing sound.

“Oh, great! Uh, would you excuse me? I have to take this phone call” he says to her, clearly annoyed.

“Oh, sure”

He runs out into the cold night air, pressing his cell phone against his ear, shouting to be heard over the traffic noise. She waits patiently inside, making a game of how long she can leave her napkin over the candle on the table before the flame dies out. After a couple of minutes, he returns.

“I’m sorry. It was my Mom”

“Oh. Is everything o.k?”

“Yeah. My Uncle just got a hernia and he’s in the hospital. It’s not that exciting”

“Is he o.k?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s fine. It’s just a hernia”

“That sounds serious to me. A hernia”

He laughs. “Are you kidding? Do you know what a hernia is? I’ve had a hernia and I lived”

She laughs in response. “You? When did you have a hernia?”

“When I was a kid. I’ve never told you the story?”

“I don’t think so”

“Oh, man. Well, when I was a kid…probably like 9 or 10 years old…I did something to piss off my Mom. Talked back to her or refused to eat my vegetables or something, right? And so my punishment was to go to turn off the TV and go to bed. Now, when I was a kid I was obsessed with television, I watched like 6 hours of it a day. So I threw a fit because I was watching a show I liked. So in defiance I decided to take the family TV into my bedroom and watch it. Well, the only problem is that our TV set was huge. One of those big wood paneled deals. It weighed a ton. So there I am, this scrawny little 9 year old trying to lift this like 100 pound TV. And it gave me a hernia. I had to go to the hospital and have surgery and everything. My Mom still teases me about it to this day”

She laughs. “I had no idea”

“And my Aunt Betty, she was worried sick. She sent me comic books and cookies like everyday. It was really sweet.”

“Did I meet her?”

“I don’t think so. Did you go with me to that family reunion last summer?”

“I think I was in Boston”

“Oh, yeah”

“I’m going to go to the restroom. Excuse me”

She gets up and goes into the bathroom, pulling her cell phone out of her purse. Once inside she makes a phone call.

“Hey. Greg? How’s it going?” she laughs at his response and continues, “I see. Well, yeah. We’re still on our big date. But what are you doing tomorrow?” Another pause. “Well, he works all day. I can do whatever. You want to come over at like 2?” Some more laughter “O.k. See you then”

She exits the restroom and returns to the table where a large piece of cheesecake waits for her. She sits down and begins to cry.

Annie on the Roof

2007-08-28T14:49:00.000-07:00

It was warm. It was dark. Annie sat on the roof. She looked over the town and its houses and its people.

She was wearing only her bra and underwear and she was holding a can of beer.

She noticed a patch of trees moving slightly in the breeze. She felt the breeze against her pale flesh. She was short and slightly overweight but still attractive. She had bright blonde hair in a ponytail and big blue eyes.

Even though it was warm it felt like rain was coming. A summer rain.

She was standing up now. And laughing. She could hear her Brother inside the house. He was arguing with his girlfriend.They were both only 13 years old and Annie found this funny. Annie herself was only 17 and she hadn't yet had any sort of boyfriend. Her parents were divorced. Her Brother and her lived with their Father. He was a decent man. He did things like let his teenage daughter drink beer on his roof.

"Hey, Bobby!" Annie yelled inside. "They're starting! Tell Dad! And bring your girlfriend!" She said the world girlfriend funny, emphasizing the "girl", teasing him.

"Shut up! Shut up, Annie! I'll be out in one damn minute!"

The fireworks began, despite Bobby's yelling. The light from them reflected on Annie's face and body in bursts. Her eyes shined brightly and she smiled.

Her Brother and his girlfriend emerged from the house through the window. Their Father followed.

"Pa? Can I have a beer too?" Bobby asked.

"Hell no. You're 13 years old. You ain't old enough"

Bobby shot Annie a scowl as she sipped her beer mockingly.

The small family sat on the roof and watched the fireworks. Bobby's little girlfriend covered her ears and Annie thought this was the silliest thing. While they were up there,Annie's Father smoked 4 cigarettes. Annie smoked half a cigarette before feeling ill.

When it was all over the Father made them all come in and eat some supper.

"I'll come in a while, Papa", said Annie.

"Well, alright. But don't stay up too long. It's lookin' to rain"

"I won't"

"I'll leave some spaghetti out for ya"

Annie stayed up there all night, first gazing at the moon then turning her attention to the stars. The rain started to fall and it fell on her skin and freckles. Her teeth chattered as the hot summer night gave way to wind and rain.

Annie sat on that roof for some time.

Under the Light of the Gas Station

2007-08-21T11:07:00.001-07:00

Under the light of the gas station Gary smoked cigarettes and told jokes. I was his audience.

So this guy goes into a Doctor’s office. He’s got a dot about the size of a quarter on his forehead.

The man says “Doc. I got this dot on my head. What is it?”

The Doctor takes one look at it and goes “Oh, boy. Now I’ve only read about this medical journals. I ain’t never actually seen it but you’ve got a penis growing out of your forehead.”

“A penis? Coming out of my forehead? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. It will grow to full size in about 6 weeks”

“Well, can’t you cut if off?"

“I can’t cut it off or you’ll die. It’s attached to your brain”

“So, doc. You’re telling me that in 6 weeks I will get up every morning and see a full grown penis coming out of my forehead?”

And the doctor goes “Oh. No, no. You won’t see anything. The balls will cover your eyes.

Gary laughs hard and I follow suit.

“That’s a good joke”

It was dusk.

“You want something to eat?” he asks me.

“Aw, no. I’m good”

“You sure? It’s a long drive to Redding and I ain’t stopping once we get on the road”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll probably just sleep mostly”

A young woman exits from her car and passes by me on her way inside. She is very attractive and Gary notices me staring at her.

“Pretty girl”. He smiles.

“Red hair in a ponytail”, I say, “it always turns my head”

“But how many times you see them girls looking back at you?” Gary laughs.

I laugh with him.

Under the light of the gas station Gary continues to smoke cigarettes.

Clam Chowder

2007-08-21T10:53:00.000-07:00

Olsen Donahue pulled into Richard’s driveway a little past 3am on a Friday. He was on the road from Portland, OR to San Diego, CA. Richard was Olsen’s cousin. Olsen was coming into town for his Aunt Anne’s wedding. Her third marriage. Olsen was still a bachelor. Richard had a wife. Only one. Her name was Beverly. She was asleep in their bedroom.

“Well, howdy!” Richard yells as Olsen’s 89 Honda Accord pulls up the gravel path.

“Hey, cousin!”

Olsen gets out of the car and they exchange hugs and smiles.

“Come on in. I left some soup out for you if you’re hungry. Clam chowder”

“Thank you”

“I’ll get your bag”

They walk into Richard’s kitchen.

“You like clam chowder, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I love it”

“Bev was afraid you didn’t eat meat anymore”

“Well, I eat fish still. No red meat though”

“No red meat? No steaks? Boy, you must be a cheap date!”

The men laugh together under the dim light of Richard’s kitchen.

“I made a bed for you out on the porch if you want. It’s a nice night. I’m sure you don’t get stars like this out in the city”

“We sure don’t”

Richard lights a cigarette and the smoke drifts up to the ceiling.

“The soup’s up there on the stove if you want some”

“Thanks, cousin”

The t.v. in the living room is playing an old movie from the 40s. A film noir. The sound of gun fire blares from the t.v.

“Damn. That shit is loud” yells Richard.

The two men continue to sit there and talk and eat soup and smoke cigarettes until the sun comes up.

A Scene

2007-08-21T10:50:00.000-07:00

“Lord, gimmie the strength to raise these kids right and not cause a scene in this place. Oh, Lord. Please”

The woman in front of me in line at Ray’s Tacos mutters this while her 2 kids make a mess of the self-serve soda machine.

“Bradley! Kyle! Knock it off!” she yells.

The boys deliver a well rehearsed “sorry, Mama!” in unison. An older man, probably in his 70s, exits from the restroom and joins the woman in line.

“O.k. Tell the man what you want, Dad” she instructs.

“Chicken burrito. Diet coke”

“What size diet coke, sir?” the boy behind the counter asks. The older man is already shuffling away though, towards the boys in the corner.

“Small”, the woman answers for her Father. “Please”

The man picks up one of the boys and smiles at him. The boy laughs while his Brother is busy making the ultimate graveyard at the soda fountain. Just as he is about to add some Lipton Diet Raspberry Ice-T to the sugary mix, his Grandfather steps in gently.

“Now, now. I don’t think you’re going to like that one in there, Kyle”. Kyle takes a gulp from his current concoction and decides it’s good enough as is.

“Boys. Dad. You guys want to pick out a table for us?” the woman asks while putting away her change and collecting her Father’s small soda cup. “You want ice, Dad?”

“Yes”

The boy behind the counter is young. He is a small Japanese teenager with thick glasses and a crew cut. He looks nervous about everything.

The woman prepares her Father’s diet coke while the boys and him laugh together in a nearby booth.

An explanation of the hiatus

2007-08-20T23:14:00.002-07:00

I was away for 2 weeks on tour with a friend's band. Don't worry though because I have still been writing. Tomorrow I will put up 3 new stories, 2 for the weeks I missed and a new one.

Pomona

2007-07-31T09:14:00.000-07:00

There's an elderly couple embracing in the parking lot. We are parked outside of a drug store in California. We are driving to Pomona to visit my girlfriend's Aunt and Uncle. It's only an hour trip but it feels like an eternity.

Rachel and I in that little car of hers. Late July. Her dog running back and forth between us, alternating which window he sticks his head out of. To make conversation I ask her if she wants to stop and get a bite to eat.

"We'd better not. My Aunt is making us dinner"

Her Aunt was a woman named Sue. Her Mother's Sister. She was a mildly cold woman. Judgemental. Angry. Rachel knew this. She didn't pretend to like her. But family is family. You love them even if you don't like them.

"We do need gas though", she declares.

We head out of the drug store parking lot and leave the elderly couple to their firm embrace. Perhaps they haven't seen each other in a while. The woman is stroking the man's arm with her wrinkled fingers. Her mouth is open with a smile.

We pull into a Shell station and she orders me to stay in the car while she pumps the gas. The smell of gasoline enters my nose and it takes me back to childhood. Summer road trips with my Mom, smoking stolen cigarettes on the curb in front of the filling station on Cornwall Street, day drives up to the mountains with lost loves to sneak kisses. I loved that gasoline smell. It reminded me of home.

Cake In Virginia

2007-07-24T12:06:00.000-07:00

I'll never understand this but for some reason Mom booked me a first class ticket to and from the funeral. Burial costs, food for the wake, morticians...they all cost money. Why make it worse? But that was Mom for you. She always knew how to spend money.

"Do you want some almonds?" she asks. We are in American Airlines Terminal 13B.

"Mom, you know I'm allergic to almonds. They make my throat itch. Christ!" I say this with more anger than it deserves. I realize how silly it sounds as the words leave my mouth.

"Bruce, watch your mouth!" she pauses and comes back in more tenderly with an "I'm sorry" and "I didn't mean to snap".

We sit there in silence. I think about how this time last year I was vacationing at my old girlfriend's house in the country. How we would take a couple of bikes down to the river with some sandwiches and swim in the sun.

Ladies and Gentlemen. We are now boarding for Flight 1322. Non-Stop from Richmond to Washington D.C.

Mom rises instantly to hug me goodbye. "I guess this is you, Bruce"

"Yeah"

I rise and hug her. She feels different than she did before it happened. She's lost weight. Since William collapsed. She's a little more bitter, a bit angier maybe. She runs her hands through the back of my hair as she pulls away from me. She smiles slightly. She wants to cry right now, I can see it on her face.

"Bye, Mom"

"Call me when you get in. You know I don't trust these planes"

"I know"

"And it wouldn't kill you to call to just say hello every once in a while. It gets lonely in that house"

"I know"

She gathers her things and begins to walk away. She drops an almond from one of her little plastic bags full of snacks, she picks it off the floor and puts it in her mouth.

"3 second rule!" she shouts and laughs. William hated almonds too. I remember this as I board Flight 1322 for home.

Cake

2007-07-17T10:48:00.000-07:00

He was 27 years old. He was a mountain climber. Saturday he was alive, today he wasn't. It was as simple as that.

He died on a mountain but not in the way you would expect. He had a brain aneurysm and collapsed. He had barely gotten out of his car, before the trail up had even started. That was on Sunday. Today is Monday. The funeral is on Thursday. My birthday is on Saturday.

His name was William Wilson. His Brother, Bruce Wilson, was my best friend. Still is, I suppose. We have never qualified it like that but I was the first person he told about losing his virginity, he was the guy I called when my 8 year relationship came tumbling down. And I was the one he called after he heard about William. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard him cry but it was a rare occurrence. Before he even said the words “William is dead”, I knew it was coming. You could just sense it. This wasn’t being stood up for a date or getting your wallet stolen. This was something big. This was a different kind of heartbreak.

I cried to be empathetic but I had barely known William. He had stayed out in Virginia when the rest of us moved to D.C. He didn’t make the leap to the big city. He said he had panic attacks in the city. He said that he liked living in the country. He married young and had chickens and a station wagon. He was the youngest out of all of us. It made me jealous. I wanted comfort and security. I wanted cage free eggs and a farmer tan. I wanted to wear a cowboy hat earnestly, not as part of some sort of ironic costume. I had bags of pasta piled in a dirty cabinet and a photo book of all my old girlfriends. I had cable TV and video game systems and old movies to pass the time. My eggs weren’t cage free, damn it. And I was the oldest out of everybody. It wasn’t fair. It is pointless to complain about all of this now, obviously. He’s dead for Christ’s sake. He has a widow. I imagine her having to drive down to the morgue, in the car he probably died less than 5 feet away from, to identify the body. I instantly never want any of that. I want to spare an innocent woman the pain of seeing her lover lifeless and naked on a cold, metal table. Suddenly, my bachelor lifestyle doesn’t seem so bad. I’m willing to trade companionship and comfort for a tearless funeral.

“Of course I’ll be there for the funeral!” I say to Bruce, almost angrily. Why would he even have to ask? Bruce had a problem with not trusting people to do what was expected of them. He was almost shocked to find that you’d remembered to keep a lunch date or to come to his birthday party.

Now it was my party I was worried about him coming to. You only turn 30 once, people stay dead forever. I realize how much of an asshole I am for saying this. There will be other birthdays, I suppose. I should just cancel the whole thing. Spare myself the agony of nobody showing up. Or worse, a bunch of glum mourners in party hats putting on happy faces just because some asshole is having a birthday. I’ll just turn 30 next year. It will be easier that way.

* * * * *

After the funeral came and went, time sort of stood still. Days seemed to last forever. I got a few days off work and spent them lying in bed and listening to records, watching TV. I didn’t think about William except for when I felt guilty for not thinking about him. I worried about Bruce, back at home in Virginia. Having to deal with life insurance and wills and headstones. I thought some about how the next day I would have to go back to work and how it would be my birthday after that. I thought about the irony of celebrating life so soon after honoring death. I wondered who I knew well enough to bring a present or if anybody would take the responsibility to bring cake and candles. At around 3pm I gave up on thinking and fell asleep for a while. Before I nodded off I thought “death is this but only forever”.

Sitting Cross Legged on Ryan Burlingame's Floor

2007-07-10T01:08:00.000-07:00

Anna and I are standing outside of the house with a Tupperware container full of casserole and a bottle of some sort of red wine. Something cheap, I'm sure. Then, out of nowhere, Anna declares "this house reminds me of California".

Normally I would say something like "Yeah, I know what you mean". Cause it reminded me of California too. A house meant to be seen in the sunshine. With little lights dotting the path from the sidewalk to the porch so that your guests can see their way to their cars after summer get-togethers, the cars with their sweaters left in them because there's no need for anything but short sleeves in weather like that. Or maybe it was the stucco exterior? Stucco reminds me of my Mom's house and she lives in California. So that might be it. Or the color? It was this awful dingy brown. Like what you would get if brown and yellow had an ugly baby that didn't quite resemble either of its parents. The point is…yes, it did remind me of California too but I was in a foul mood and certainly not game for the 5 minute conversation that my comments would lead to. So I simply just responded with "Huh? How can a house remind you of a whole state?" And I looked at her in such a way to indicate that I didn't want to talk about this anymore. We have this routine down pat by now so she knows the drill. Roll her eyes and go "Well, sorry!" She knows I don't want to be here. At this house with these people. I mean, it's her ex-boyfriend's house for Christ's sake! She's probably had sex in there. Maybe even on the kitchen table. The one we are about to eat on.

"Can we just try and have a good night tonight?"

When did my life turn into a hackneyed sitcom? How did I become the big dope who needs to be scolded into acceptable behavior? When did my girlfriend start speaking in lines right out of an after-school special about divorce? If there's one thing I can't stand more than eating tuna noodle casserole and drinking cheap red wine on a table my girlfriend probably once had hot, sweaty sex on…it is speaking in clichés. So instead of resorting to name calling or something equally typically male of me, I simply said "Alright" and smiled at her. She took my hand and we finally made our way down the tiki light lined path to 2423 Dearborn Street, the home of Ryan Burlingame, Dave Clusky and Travis Lembecke. Ryan is the first one to greet us.

"Hey, guys!" He kisses Anna on the cheek. "Come on in!"

"Where's my kiss, Ryan?" I joke.

He laughs and half ass attempts a homophobic peck on a spot on my cheek so far away from anywhere resembling my lips that he might as well have kissed the back of my head. He laughs again, harder this time as if to say "I can't believe I went that far for a joke. Aren't I great?"

I give him a pity chuckle and we continue inside. Others are already gathered around the living room, some of them I recognize and some I don't. Most of them look out of place off of their fixed gear bicycles or uncomfortable sitting crossed legged on a cheap Egyptian rug instead of sweating buckets on stage with a microphone in front of them. I glance at all of them, never really making eye contact with anyone for more than a second.

"So…", Ryan grabs our coats and drapes them over an old futon in the corner, "….pull up some real estate in the living room there and dig in. Food's in the kitchen"

We head into the kitchen and put our paltry dish down on a table full of appetizers and pasta dishes, bread and chips, salads and cookies. And wine. A shit load of wine. A very short girl with a pixie haircut creeps up behind us and grabs a roll from a space between Anna and I.

"Is that vegan?" she asks and points to our casserole.

"Um…no. It isn't", Anna has a worried look on her face.

"Oh!" she replies, "Thank god!" I laugh and she blushes slightly. "I'm sorry. I just wasn't sure if you guys…." She trails off.

"It's ok". Anna smiles.

"I'm Heather"

"Anna"

She looks towards me and sticks out her hand.

"James"

"Nice to meet you both", she pauses, "Well, I'll see you two out there". She nods towards the massive living room.

I silently admire her use of language. It was nice to meet us "both" not "you guys". "I'll see you two out there" not "see you guys out there". Greetings had gotten too gender specific with this generation. It irked me.

"Christ, I read too many of Anna's Bust magazines", I think.

Anna is already eating, plate in hand and she hasn't even finished serving herself yet. I always liked that about her, she knows how to eat. I follow suit and dig in. My options were about a 50/50 split between something that looked like it was pulled out of the back of Jerry Garcia's fridge and actual, real food.

One thing that's good about Ryan is that he doesn't discriminate when it comes to his social circle. Carnivore, herbivore, vegan, slave to corporate fast food juggernaut…as long as you could stand being in his presence for more than 10 consecutive minutes then you were his friend. I was not one of these people. He was an unpleasant guy to be around. The kind of man who seemed to have a hidden agenda at all times. Like he was acting for you. Maybe I was just better at spotting this or maybe other people knew it too but preferred that to being alone so they just put up with it. I'm not scared to be alone. I never have been. I suppose that's one upside of being an only child. Movies, dinners, concerts…I've conquered all of them solo. The idea of this scares the shit out of Anna. She can barely brush her teeth without trying to talk to me at the same time. Pushing complaints and observations through a mouthful of toothpaste and nylon and plastic. As if her thoughts weren't real until they were shared with someone else.

Instantly, as I turn to pour myself some wine I find myself thinking "I wonder if that girl is single? The one who asked about the vegan thing? Heather". This could be trouble. I don't know why I do this to myself. I sigh and move on, pouring a relatively small amount of 2006 Cabernet Sauvignon. I've never been much of a drinker, at least not of wine anyway. I think it was my Catholic upbringing. I don't want to wash down my meal with the blood of Christ. It just seems unsettling.

"You want to sit over there? By the window?" asks Anna.

"Sure", I answer without even looking. At least there will be no eating off of the sex table tonight.

We sit down in a spot of sunlight radiating through the window on to a patch of hardwood floor. The way we are concentrated into one pocket of light like that reminds me of a cat stretching into the daylight to take a nap.

"These deviled eggs are really good", I hear from somewhere in the corner.

"Can you believe he did that? I was stunned", comes from somewhere behind me.

Some one, in some area of space to my right asks "What time is that show? Is it all ages?"

Anna and I are content to remain silent in our patch of light.

I feel a shifting of weight behind me and sense a body hovering above my shoulder. Travis Lembecke, house resident and casual acquaintance sits down next to me.

"Hey, man"

"Hey, Travis"

"How you guys doing?" he vaguely directs to Anna instead of me.

"Oh. Hi there, Travis", she replies, "We are good. How are you doing?"

"Good. Good. Hey, you try those salmon puff pastry things yet? I made those"

I skewer one from my plate and hold it up with my fork. "One of these guys?"

"Yeah. Those are mine. Let me know what you think. I saw some guy make it on the Food Network"

"Oh! They are really good, Travis", Anna chimes in.

I take a bite and it is pretty good. I let Travis know this and after a few seconds of silence he adjusts from crouching above us to sitting cross legged on the floor next to me.

"Hey, have you ever heard anybody call sitting like this sitting 'Indian style'?" He points to his criss crossed legs.

"Yeah. They said shit like that at Sunday school when I was a kid"

"I didn't know you were religious?"

"I'm not. My family was though"

"Were you brought up religious?" he asks Anna…sensing her boredom.

"Oh, me? No. My parents were hippies. We never had to go to church or anything".

Anna's "hippie parents" consisted of her Dad named Mike whose only claim to hippiedom was a ponytail and her Mom, Karen, who I think saw wear a tie-dye shirt to a family picnic once and maybe told us that once in college she smoked pot out of an apple. Anna has a very loose interpretation of what makes a hippy. It was one of the things that endeared her to me. It was oddly cute in a way, her innocence. She also classified anybody who wore any sort of black leather jacket a "metal head" and wrote off half of the male population that wore any sort of pastel colored shirt as "fruity". It was strange for someone so liberal to be so closed-minded about stuff like that but she didn't hold any of that against anybody, she just used it as a labeling system.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice that girl Heather. She's not normally my type but she's got an allure. She seemed genuinely interesting to talk to. With Anna it was like we were both battling over one steering wheel, trying to drive the conversation towards ourselves. Even something as simple as "how are you doing?" was loaded with a longing for the other person to hurry up with their answer so that we could talk about how we were doing. What was bothering us, why we felt so good, how we thought our new jeans made our ass look, how what we ate for lunch was effecting our stomach. Travis was still rambling on about something to Anna. Something about how they bought Trivial Pursuit as a house and they all play it almost every night.

I was busy imagining a date with this Heather girl. Where would we go? What would we do? She seems like an Italian restaurant and live theatre type of girl. I liked that. No burgers and bowling for that one. She seemed too classy. I could use some class for once. I imagine her emerging from her bedroom in a simple but elegant little black dress. For once I don't look over dressed wearing a suit to dinner. She probably shares my admiration for Cary Grant or old film noirs. This girl could be my soulmate. We could watch "Arsenic and Old Lace" and eat pumpkin and ginger soup on Halloween instead of going to some mediocre party with burnouts and wannabe rock stars. Heather would do things like bring an expensive present for my parents the first time she meets them, like a crystal vase and some flowers to put in it or a set of wine glasses from Williams-Sonoma. My parents didn't drink wine but they would appreciate it and play along because it came from the heart and indicated a genuine desire to be accepted. She would subscribe to the New Yorker and make Anthony Bourdain recipes. She would make martinis just for the hell of it, no special occasion. She wouldn't make fun of me for eating quiche. She would be fascinated by it, by my contrasts. She would label me as a complicated man. She would encourage me to nurture my masculine side. She would insist I go fishing with the boys on the weekend or the strip club for my best friend's bachelor party. But she wouldn't laugh at the fact that I use moisturizer.

"James? James? JAMES?!"

"Huh. What?"

"Travis asked you a question!" Anna yells at me.

"Oh, sorry. What's up, Travis?"

"Oh. I just asked if you've heard that new James Chance re-issue yet?"

"Oh, no. Not yet"

"It's really good. You want me to burn it for you? How long you guys sticking around?"

"A little longer probably" replies Anna.

"O.k. Well, come get me before you leave. I'll hook you up"

"Alright. Thanks, Travis"

Travis rises and vanishes off to somewhere in that big old house. He leaves Anna and I to our awkward, usual silence. The sun we are sitting in is fading quickly. It is overcast now.

"James, can you get me my jacket from the hall? I'm getting chilly"

Without even answering her, I stand up and walk over towards the coats. As I reach down to grab her blue windbreaker, I hear the words "Hey, I liked your casserole". I turn around and there is Heather. She smiles as we make eye contact.

"Oh. Yeah. Thank you", I smile back.

I like how she compliments me personally. She can sense that I am the cook between Anna and I. She sees me as more than the dopey boyfriend who simply put a dish on the table.

"So…you like to cook?" she asks.

"Yeah. You too?"

"Oh, me? Not really", she laughs, "I mean, I do. I can. But it stresses me out. All that stirring and chopping and watching for things to boil. It's a lot of work"

"Yeah," I laugh nervously, "I know what you mean, I guess"

"And I'm afraid I'm going to accidentally poison everybody somehow"

I laugh. "Just make sure and use the poison sparingly. You only need a dash".

She doesn't think this is funny at all.

After a batch of silence, I ask, "So…how do you know Ryan?"

"Oh. Well, um…we used to date"

Jesus Christ, that dude gets around.

"Man, I think I'm probably the only person here who hasn't slept with that dude"

She doesn't find this very funny either. Maybe things didn't end well? Maybe he gave her a sexually transmitted disease or she is raising his child in secret? Whatever the reason, there is no polite laughter. Just a simple "Yeah" and an awkward silence.

After what feels like an eternity she asks "So…where's that girl you came with?"

"Oh. She's around here somewhere. Anna"

"How do you know her?"

"We…also used to date". I have no idea why I said this. I am a jackass, a complete and utter jackass.

"Oh", she smiles.

She asks if I want to get some wine with her in the kitchen. I can't believe she still wants to be in my presence after 2 unfunny jokes, one of which seemed to actually offend her. She must be desperate. This is strangely appealing. What is wrong with me? I accompany her to the kitchen, Anna's windbreaker in hand.

She pours herself a large glass of wine and then informs me that she is going out on to the porch to smoke. I decide to accompany her even though I don't smoke and am actually severely allergic to it. Anna has to be wondering where the hell I am by now. I will use Travis as an excuse. Some album he wanted to show me.

We sit on the steps of the house, her smoking and me trying to breathe in pockets of fresh air between her drags. She asks me about the usual icebreaker subjects like what kinds of music I listen to, what do I for a living, where am I from. There is nothing extraordinary about this girl in the least but she is still appealing. Because she isn't Anna. Because I haven't dated her for the last 3 and a half years. Because we don't live together. Because she is different. She's more talkative, more open, more wild. As we are sitting there, making conversation I blurt out "this house reminds me of California". She smiles and blows smoke up into the air.

The Stars Collect

2007-07-03T21:49:00.000-07:00

You left the comfort of a broken but familiar home for a life with me. Standing by the railroad tracks, looking back to the past you left behind in Detroit, you smile at me. You grab the super 8 camera and roll some more Kodachrome on the passing trains.

"Are you excited for our first collaboration?", you ask. "It will be the defining document of hobo culture". You smile.

You spit into on to a spike in the track, supposedly driven there by a pioneering mechanical man back in the days even old folks can’t remember.

“Do you think humans will eventually evolve into robots?” you ask me. Your voice is obscured by the whir of the camera motor.

“I don’t know.” I never know how to respond to you.

“Here. Take this”. You hand me the camera while you light a cigarette for yourself. I turn the camera on and roll film on you and the smoke trailing out of your mouth. You smile shyly and turn your head down towards your chin. Your smile makes me remember what my life was like before it was a regular sight. Pathetic microwave dinners after an 8-hour day working at a boring temp job, television and books the only things to keep me company in the late evenings. Your lips and tongue and teeth were the parole out of my self-made prison, your hair and eyes and soft fingers were the keys out of a holding cell of my own design.

“Put the camera away,” you laugh, “it’s getting dark out anyway”

The darkness creeps in like a film around us. The stars collect in the reflection of your eyes and that collection of light forms a projector. It radiates from you to me. It projects the most abstract and beautiful film imaginable. It burns so bright that it burns a hole through the film and everything collapses.

You take my hand into yours and we walk home.

Fat

2007-06-26T13:46:00.000-07:00

Every day there is more of me. Each and every day I am a walking and talking mess of salt and sugar digesting. I lay awake in bed, I feel heavier than everything in the room.

I feel hungry but I look down my torso and spy my man tits staring back up at me and I decide that I can probably handle skipping breakfast. I instantly want to put a shirt on. I instantly want to mask my 20% body fat with 100% cotton. I am so damn depressing. The really sad thing is that I saw this coming. I didn’t just wake up fat today. I didn’t wake up fat yesterday or the day before. This was a slow progression. I noticed my pant size going up, year after year. My cholesterol going up month after month. I noticed my self-esteem diminishing day after agonizing day. I felt my charm with the opposite sex slipping slowly. The really tragic thing is that even as I look down at my hideous body and all I can stand to think is “You are an ugly fat fuck”, I still crave food. I crave fatty food. Bacon and eggs. Steak and eggs. Sausage and eggs. Chicken fried steak and eggs. Eggs and eggs. God, I am sickening. Isn’t depression supposed to lessen your appetite?

I look over at the clock radio on my night stand and it’s a quarter past noon. I am contemplating going back to sleep. I figure the more I sleep the less I can eat. I don’t know but something has got to give. I can’t keep up this routine:

WAKE UP
BRUSH TEETH
EAT (BECAUSE I AM HUNGRY)
WATCH TV
SEE COMMERICAL FOR MCDONALDS
CRAVE MCDONALDS
GET DRESSED
DRIVE TO MCDONALDS
EAT MCDONALDS
MOVE ONE STEP CLOSER TO DEATH
DRIVE HOME
WATCH TV
WANDER AROUND THE HOUSE
DECIDE TO WRITE THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL
FIX A SNACK
TRY STARTING THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL
ABANDON NOTION TO WRITE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL
GET BORED
EAT DINNER
TURN INTO A FAT SLOB
UNDRESS
WATCH TV
EAT A MIDNIGHT SNACK
GET DEPRESSED
SLEEP
REPEAT

Of course, it always varies a little. Some days I say to myself, “I’ll go catch a movie” and yes, sir, I would like butter on my popcorn. Always. Some days I elect to read. Some times it is the great American screenplay or it’s learning how to paint instead of the novel. Some days I propose to start exercising. Some days I manage 10 push-ups, others I’ll do 20 jumping jacks. It isn’t always McDonalds. Sometimes it is Wendy’s or it’s Kentucky Fried Chicken. Or Jack in the Box. Sometimes I want to run for the border, sometimes I want it my way. Occasionally I will get a hankering for a meatball sub. Or it will dawn on me that I would kill for a large sausage pizza with breadsticks, handy ranch dipping sauce and a side of buffalo wings (mild). And washed down with a soda. Always washed down with a soda. But never diet. That shit causes cancer, you know. I swear that my piss is probably caffeinated by now. God, I am depressing. Book me a hospital room right now. Call the piano movers to move my coffin. Call me an ambulance, I am counting the days 'til my heart gives out. It is already broken so it’s only a matter of time now.

December

2007-06-19T21:09:00.000-07:00

It was the middle of December. I was in a car parked outside of a Burger King on the outskirts of a small college town. I was waiting for my Rachel. I was passing the time reading a novel with a silver cover. I didn’t know much else about it other than it was the basis for a horror film from the 70s. Most of the time I judged books by their covers. I liked the way the silver cover felt in my hands, cold and glossy.

The car door was wide open and the cold air was blowing into me. It might have been raining lightly but I couldn’t quite tell. The radio was playing a song my Mom used to always sing when I was a kid, “The Night Chicago Died”. Right then I felt good, as if the world could end right then and there and it would be o.k. If I could see the buildings fall and the sky light up with fire, it would be spectacular enough to be the end for me. Life flashing before my eyes as the world collapses. These are the thoughts that I am occupied with on a winter’s night in a one horse town. I can barely concentrate on my book, reading the same sentence 4 times in a row to comprehend it. Each second feels like a minute when Rachel isn’t around.

Drums for Days

2007-06-11T00:07:00.000-07:00

“This T. Rex song, man. This one has drums for days”, you say as you turn the radio up.

It’s another one of those things you say that I’m not really sure how to respond to.

“Yeah”, I pause, “sure does”. But before I even finish the “ah” on “yeah” you’ve already turned the radio up to such an obscene volume that you couldn’t have possibly heard the rest of it. Even so, you give me an obligatory “yeah” and finish playing the drum part on the steering wheel.

We are 10 minutes outside of Olympia, Washington and we aren’t stopping until we hit Portland.

You’re listening to 97.8 HITS FM. Good hits, great oldies.

You turn the radio down suddenly.

“Oldies my ass! I was 14 when that album came out”

“Yeah”, I search for words. “What’s next? Nirvana?”

“Huh?”, you ask before answering your own question. “Oh, yeah. Ha. Tell me about it”

Chuck Dobson here with a quick weather update for you. Looks like high winds expected tonight with showers off and on. So, in other words…don’t go out if you don’t have to.

“How’s the stuff looking back there?”

“Huh?”

“In the bed of the truck”

I roll down the window and look behind me. That blue tarp you insisted on is flapping around like crazy. My IKEA coffee table is getting wet.

“Uh”, I say while ducking back in, “It’s fine”.

“Staying dry?”

“Looks like it”

“I bet you’re happy we took that tarp of mine now, huh?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Dad” We sit in silence for a few more seconds before I start wondering if this should be a touching moment or not. A man's only son moving out of the house to go to college in the big city. Is this a bonding experience?

Without realizing it at first, we have pulled off into a rest stop. When I finally figure out we aren’t moving anymore, you are already gone. In the bathroom no doubt. I take this opportunity to get out and stretch my legs. After some stretches I sprawl out on the hood of the old pick-up. Before too long I feel a presence next to me and look over to see you lighting a cigarette, sitting beside me. You silently try to pass me the cigarette, to take a drag off of it.

“You know I don’t smoke”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I forgot”, you respond with each word coming about 10 seconds apart from one another. You seem different, distant.

“Is everything o.k?”

“Huh?”, you pause, “yeah. I’m fine. Why?”

“You just seem…down, I guess”

“Well,” you take what feels like an impossibly long drag off your cigarette before you continue, “I mean, I guess I ain’t exactly thrilled that my wife got sick of me, packed up and moved to Arizona and now my son is packing up and moving off to Or-ee-gone”

The honesty of this hits me like a brick.

“Oh,” I struggle for words, “I mean, it’s not cause of you, Dad. I love you. I just…I need to try something different”

You take another long drag while staring up at the darkening sky.

“I know. I was your age once…”, you trail off. I sense a story coming on but instead I get a face full of smoke. I cough in response and it seems to snap you back into reality.

“That’s how I met your Mother, you know? Moving to the big city”

“What?”

“When I was 23 I was sick of living in the sticks. 23 years of Moline, Illinois is about 22 years more than anybody ever needs to get their fill of it”

I laugh at this and it makes you break into a half smile.

“So…I packed up and moved to Chicago. Your Mother had an ad in the paper for a used bed she was selling. Now in those days I didn’t have a pot to piss in let alone a bed so I called her up and charmed her from $50 down to $20. When I come to pick the damn thing up, I step out of the car and she is the most beautiful gal I’d ever seen. And there’s some pretty girls in the Midwest. But back then I didn’t have the nerve that I do now so I just sweated and stammered my way through the transaction and went on home. Few nights later my Brother comes up to visit, help me settle in. You know, Uncle Danny?”

“Yeah”

“Well, you wouldn’t know it to look at him now but in those days Danny could drink with the best of them. So, his last night in the big city we go on down to damn near every bar we find and get 3 sheets to the wind and Danny says ‘Hey, Brother. You best call that girl of yours. The one with the bed. Unless you are yella?’. And I’m so full of gin that I go ahead and do it. And before you know it, we’re sharing that bed she sold me”

“You should have asked for half your money back”

You laugh hard at this with the lungs of a veteran smoker. It eventually dissolves into a series of coughs and grunts. You compose yourself and add, “and not much longer after that we had you”.

“So, I was born in Chicago?”

“Yeah. But we moved out of there pretty quick. Up to Washington before you were old enough to even spit”

“Why?”

“Well, we’d both gotten sick of Chicago by then and my buddy Dave Nechack, he told me that I could probably get a job real easy at Boeing with him. So we loaded up the car and gave it a shot”

Without referencing time or lateness or the road, you stand up and toss your cigarette into the gutter and remove the keys from your pocket. I follow you into the truck and shortly after that the radio finds its way back on.

97.3 HITS FM. Good hits, great oldies. It’s closing in on 8pm here in rainy Washington. It is nasty out there. Right here is some “Jackie Blue”to brighten your night. By the Ozark Mountain Daredevils.

We pull out onto the highway as you turn the radio up again. I admire the way the trees look illuminated by headlights.

“Man, where the hell they playing Buddy Holly and Richie Valens? The classical station?”, you yell.

“Yeah,’ I say it without really thinking. Then the joke catches up with me and I laugh.

“Hey, how much longer 'til Portland you think?”

“Oh,” you check your watch, “About an hour. An hour til you start your new life”. I feel your hand on my shoulder and it startles me.

“O.k.”

97.3 HITS FM. A quick traffic update for you: I-5 South is looking like a real mess past exit 308. So if you’re traveling down South give yourself plenty of time. Especially going on down into Oregon, it’s a real parking lot at the border. A two car accident is shutting down two lanes. It’s a zoo out there.

“Shit. Make that 2 hours 'til you start your new life”

“I’m in no rush”. I look out towards the bed of the truck again. I stare at the tarp as it billows around the edges of my dresser. I look up at the sky as the night takes over. I image Mom in sunny Arizona and the windy air over Chicago and I wonder whatever happened to that bed of yours. I think about asking you right then and there but we have a long drive ahead of us and only so many words to pass the time with. Another 2 hours til I start my new life.

Carole King's Longing

2007-06-05T22:42:00.000-07:00

MARIE:
Marie sits lonely on her bean bag chair circa 1979 with a cigarette in her left hand and a coca-cola in the other. Her head is surrounded by the black plastic warmth of headphones. She is singing along to some old Carole King song she had heard a band cover earlier in the week down at the Western Club. She had never much paid attention to “that old rock and roll stuff” but she figured if it was good enough for them to cover then it was good enough for her to waste time on. Time was one thing Marie had plenty of to waste these days. She had just quit her job at the video store. She was your standard “I know more about movies than you because I work in a video store” character. She was always right about movies.

Right now, Marie was miserable. She sat low and tired with the stench of cigarette smoke lingering above her body, her slightly acne covered face light with sweat and oil doing damage to her pores. Soon the cigarette smoke would find its way up to decay and putrefy the pages of her books on the shelf above her. An old copy of “The Old Man and the Sea” that will smell even worse in a couple of years, a high school yearbook’s pages vandalized with punk rock inscriptions from forgotten friends might age prematurely, its hand drawn skulls could possibly get wrinkles or the fingers on the cartoon devil hands could jaundice and fill with cancer. Just like people, some things can’t last forever.

Right now, Marie was in the losing corner in a bout with depression. Her heart was too weak to be broken fully, too damaged by all the smoke left there to rot. It was put there by James, her ex-boyfriend who really never gave her much besides a couple of guilt trips and a nicotine addiction that she couldn’t fight. Her phone started to ring in the next room but “You’re So Far Away” was bleeding into her ears at such an obscene volume that she didn’t notice. The song was making her start to cry. The tears on her cheek continued on down towards the corners of her mouth, reflecting her cutting edge book collection along the way. Thought after thought transcribed on page after page, glued in between cover after cover. Half the books she hadn’t even read yet, the covers just looked interesting. Most of the time she judged books by their covers. She judged most things by their appearance. That was her first mistake with James.

Her phone continues to ring but she is too lost in Carole King’s longing to notice. Nostalgia was her drug of choice and right now she was overdosing.

JAMES:
I hold the receiver a few inches from my ear and wait for an answer. The phone just rings and rings. A call comes in on the other line but I don’t dare pick it up because it will undoubtedly be some dumbass customer who wants to know what time the 7:00 show starts.

Just then a woman enters the door to the lobby and I am instantly stunned by how much she reminds me of my Grandmother. Coming to a love story alone, her hair recently done and her face lightly touched with discount make-up of which her supply is surely dwindling. She doesn’t buy it for herself anymore and the husband who used buy it for her is long gone. I can smell the make-up from here and it is making me homesick. I can see her walking out of the movie, smiling, getting her bus fare ready from her pocketbook to return to an empty apartment on the edge of town that’s embarrassingly clean in the hopes that she will have company again one of these days. The woman asks for a senior ticket and I feel like a kid again. I am a sucker for nostalgia. Even to the point of being nostalgic for things that hurt. This is why I am calling Marie. Maybe she wants to meet for coffee? I suddenly realize that I am still on the line and it is ringing hopelessly. I hang up. It is probably for the better. The old days with her weren’t as golden as I’d like to think, I suppose. Hindsight is 20/20.

It is 6:59 and the movie is about to start. The other line is still ringing.

52 Stories

2007-06-05T22:38:00.000-07:00

This will be the home of a brand new short story every week for a full year.

I decided to do this to have a place to put the writing I have been working on and to force myself to keep writing as the year progresses. I am notoriously guilty of saving ideas for "something bigger and better" or creating ideas and doing nothing with them in the hopes that they will fit in to a screenplay. This accomplishes nothing so I figured I would at least put them up somewhere, if only even in a blog.

So...here you go. 52 stories.

-Jason Ryan