Professor Waverly Gets Upset

I was going to visit the professor in his corner of the old soup factory I had rented out for him. His quarters included one former 'test kitchen' where the chefs in lab coats concocted new formulas in tall glass beakers and then recreated the recipes in actual pots on a stovetop. Attached top this quasi-kitchen were two large offices, one with an actual window to the outside world and the sunlight beyond.

Gettin' married!

 (excerpts)


 

I do not have any problem going to San Francisco. You know I only want to spend pretty much 100% of my time in contact with you. We can read more books together. Perhaps we can peruse rings at various pawn shops across the states.

Speaking of, some very Southern things are swirling around in my head about the rings, and I can't do much to stop them. It didn't help that I asked for Mother's opinion on your ring (thinking she would tell me it's not as big a deal what it's made of) but she was just under emphatic that it must be gold (platinum was ok too) and that is just all there is to it. Sorry, Darling...I thought about just keeping my mouth shut about this or even asking her opinion, but I didn't and now I CAN'T. She did remind me that I'm just supposed to pick yours out on my own. But I would want to get you yellow gold, because you wear all the silver rings, and I don't want any confusion- like maybe you're just a guy that wears a lot of rings, so that OTHER silver-y colored ring on your finger could be one of many....I want it to be so FUCKING OBVIOUS  that it is a WEDDING RING that ladies start looking around immediately for your wife because that is how big and shiny and obviously GOLD it is. Make no MISTAKE, ladies. This one is taken. And while you're thinking about it, looking at my HUSBAND'S ring, yes, it is big and golden, and well, basically (yes, I know this wanders into materialism...blame it on my Southern-ness) very EXPENSIVE. And LARGE.

Essentially there is this unspoken attitude (Southern, and really all East Coast-y places...we seem to be more into these types of things) that you would have to beat this RING to even think about moving in on MY HUSBAND. And I will say, I don't know if it's the chicken or the egg, but if I see a guy with a big ring, I actually consider him to be VERY MARRIED. As if there are increments. Someone with a thin gold ring: not very married. And someone with a not-even-gold $200 ring, for instance, EVEN LESS MARRIED. I know I shouldn't be so concerned with appearances. I am not exactly sorry if I sound a little insane, but I am cringing a little at "having" to write this. I guess I don't have to, but I DO have to. I did at least manage to sleep on it (two whole nights), and my attitude hasn't changed. Hopefully this doesn't make me a shitty, materialistic person. I mean, I simply want you to look as married as you possibly can- short of getting a "I am Married" tattoo on your forehead.

                                       ........

                                       (AND)

                                      ..........

 

My Dreamy Future Husband,

Darling, sorry I missed your call. I went to see a movie with Mother, Mike, Erin and Tyler.  Hugo...was extremely boring. Not like I had any expectations... I didn't even know what it was. Guess it was fun for Tyler, and Lord Knows he needs to have a little something to take his mind off the time spent... well, do I really have to say it?

(being molested)

Annnnnyway. I have been unable to stop thinking about you or US or OUR FUTURE FOREVER or even our incredi-beau present. We are not in Crazytown, WE are in Luckytown most assuredly. We now have a permanent residence there.

I actually do not care about being in Salem on Saturday nor do I really want to. So we can do something like, go to my favorite restaurant, Elmer's, and share one salad.

I can barely wait until we are near each other again. As soon as possible, too, we need to make our Christmas cards and send those bitches out. I need to get some color ink...very fast.

I love you, I love you, YOU are my fucking Dreamboat Husband-to-be. I am so beyond crazy for you. You and Me, Darling.

2 Niggas 

2 Gether

4 Evah

                                                          ..................

         So, you can see why I am feeling SUPER HAPPY right now.    I'm just sayin' - Z

Dutch Brothers, "The Gay Rave" (PT1)

  I woke up and had to pee.  I sat up on the side of the bed and faced west and saw nothing but gray through the blinded windows sighting over the roof of the building just outside.

   I slithered out of the blankets, taking care not to wake her as I rose.  I gazed adoringly upon her sleeping corpus and placed a delicate kiss upon her forehead before making my way downstairs to do my thing.  

  When I returned she was awake, upright in bed, rubbing the spot on her cheek where a bit of drool had glued it to her pillow, and she was watching me as I approached.    I laid down beside her, grabbed her thigh under the covers and asked ; "How are you, Darling?"

  "My stomach doesn't feel so good" she replied, the words twisted and thick with both her accent and proximity to recent sleep, and they fell from her mouth like overripe figs from a low branch.  I stared at her for a moment trying to decipher what she had just said, and then understood.

  "Jesus!"  I said  "You need a waffle!"

  Momentary reluctance,  a bit of fidgeting under the sheets with her nightgown, and then she was over the tipping point and at last upright and standing, weaving back and forth slightly, risen like Lazarus from his terrible cave, and she made her way down the stairs calling back to me something about gathering her clothes and putting her hair on so we could go out.

   Fifteen minutes later, we were driving down the street, headed south, looking for pancakes house.

   It was early and grey and cold and a Sunday and every door and window was closed and denying us.  But Fate must have been looking out for us this morning , for in no time at all an overweight pair of people dressed all in black left the dense fog to our left  suddenly began to lumber across the street directly in front of our car like a Sasquatch sighting,  BUT -  CARRYING STYROFOAM TO-GO CONTAINERS!

   "Fuck."  I announced, my voice flat in disbelief  "Look at that."

   The  pair took their time crossing the street in front of us, and we waited, watching silently, licking our chops like some wild cats watching gazelle.

  After they passed Eve asked sadly "What do you think they had in those boxes?", her lower lip quivering with want.

  "I'm not sure" I replied, grinding gears as I frantically searched for reverse with bad shift bushings,  "It looked like breakfast though."

   I finally found my gear and peeled out a short distance as those people jiggled, ever smaller, shrinking in parallax across an empty parking lot.   I then stabbed the gear lever into first and dropped the clutch and chased after them, frantically lowering my window at the same time.    The two people hopped backwards away from our approach, their to-go containers swinging heavy and pendulously from a white plastic bag wrapped around the thick wrist of the man.  As my window dropped out of the frame entirely, where once was glass was now these surprised  and curious faces, their bodies bent slightly forward so as to look inside our car, at us, to judge if we were friend or foe.

   After I waited for just a beat of silence - to maintain a certain degree of drama - I gave them my biggest smile  followed with "HIYA!.  Whatchoo got in those boxes, if you don't mind me asking?"

   Eve, now unable to control herself, leaned across my lap so as to be able to look up through the portal at the round faces presented there, and in doing so her wig slid off to the left several degrees.  Shoving her hairpiece back with one hand impatiently, she began to demand   " Ya'll got some WAFFLES in them bags?   Speak up now! Where'd you get them waffles at?"  before I cut her off.

  "Get back woman!"  I ordered "Mind your hair! You'll frighten these good people." I tried to shove her away with my free hand, but Eve was too strong, her will too strong, and she remained there sideways in my lap, flapping her eyelashes suggestively in some lewd act of silent pleading.

   I looked back up at the two fidgeting people standing before me and made an apologetic face,  and said "I'm sorry.   My friend here does not feel well.   Would you happen to know where a person -   correction -  a couple of CIVILIZED people - could purchase a waffle in this fine town?"

   "Yeah!"  Eve added her two cents, and then actually winked at them.

     Well., I've got to hand it to her, the wink must have done the trick, for the man visibly relaxed and began to talk, scratching his goatee with the giant wrist from which the food bags were suspended.

   "OH."  He began  "You want waffles?  These aren't waffles here,"  he chuckled, shaking his huge head "we got some Thai food.  We're on a diet.   We don't eat waffles no more.  Not supposed to anyway.." he said, and gave the woman standing next to him a look.    "Well... they got some good waffles up at the Biscuit Palace.   It's just a few blocks away.   You go up two streets there and turn right..."

    The directions were interrupted by a sudden monstrous outburst of laughter from Eve, who had adjusted the rearview at her own face and had found something amusing there. The man stopped talking and stared, not understanding, mouthbreathing.

  "Carry on..."  I reminded him

Liberation

  For as long as he could remember all these thoughts were going through his head, faster than he could possibly recognize them.   The glimpses he managed to see in focus for brief spells were radiant, some shooting sparks, others black and heavy.  He thought of these ideas and thoughts as colors, shapes, and the older he became the more there were, pushing each other around, bumping into each other, some joining into one, others splitting into two or more.

   Gradually, he began to notice that all these ideas in his head were spinning more or less in the same direction like a color wheel, some faster than others, some larger or more colorful, but all going in the same circuit! He thought he may have begun to hear a faint buzzing at this time from inside his ears, which he could tune out easily enough when he had to go out in the world and mingle, but he could tap into it at any time.    He would sit on his bed with his eyes closed and watch the images swirl and listen to the hum they made.    These were truths.   These were the secrets that everyone knew about, but no one would mention out loud.  He had a firm grasp on these ideas.  He felt that he was closer to a becoming by staying in tune with these particular vibrations.   He was, in fact, right.

  By choice, and then habit, he spent less and less time out there, and more time inside his private space.   His thoughts became more powerful.   He could bend spoons, and levitation became easy for him.  He began to be noticed when he left his building.  Police cars followed him.   He drew too much attention out there, and he knew they knew he knew.    He would be detained while going for a walk.  He began to recognize officers and know them by name, and once he learned that they could not tell the truth, he stopped speaking to them or trying to provide answers.    People were stupid, he thought, and those that could recognize the truth would speak that language and make themselves recognized for it.

   The hum was recognized as many many voices, whispering the ideas to him.   The spinning became faster, and the colors and sparks and shapes all began to blend into one big mass, he could watch it as clearly as if it was in a big glass jar in front of him.  It was like a nuclear reaction, or what he imagined the universe looked like before the Big Bang, the pitch of the voices rising higher and higher, slowly over months, he could not turn them off anymore, trips to the store impossible, eye contact too frightening to attempt, he could only stay inside and press the heels of his hands to his closed eyes and try to understand what he was supposed to do with all these secrets.

   Finally, there was a flash as the matter crossed some sort of event horizon and blinded him momentarily.   Then, he was blinded by the silence that followed.  He removed his hands from his eyes.   He listened intently.     There was only one voice now, clear and high.   There was only one thought.  He was a machine with a single purpose.  He was set free.   He was going to go do what he was meant to do.  He was going to go scratch his mark.   He was going to go make a difference.

Mister Nice

Isaac Marcus Nice was born 45 years ago into a well-to-do family which lived on top of the hill in the big avocado green house. He was the youngest of three children and was the happiest and most trouble of the bunch.

I.M. Nice was always drawn to the darker, more sinister aspects of life. His own childhood provided very little in the way of dark experience, his was a privileged upbringing, without any of the usual complaints of absent or drunk parents, being ignored, or drug abuse - either participating in or being audience to.

He had the attitude of a small, vicious dog. He was loyal and protective, but could turn suddenly and bite the mailman. And like a small dog he also could not be trusted to be left alone in a car, or other enclosed area containing delicate or expensive items as he had a tendency to destroy these things out of curiosity or boredom. I.M. Nice required constant monitoring.

I do not want your son to be found dead in a bathtub.

 You will be volunteering at the doggie-rescue place when you receive the phone call.   You will feel your face go numb as you ask "WHAT?" into the phone for the second time.

   You will drop the leash you were holding, and the dog you were walking, the crazy big one, will not run away, because animals can sense things.

You will say to yourself:   'I thought everything was better now.'     Your mind will go back to the last time you saw him, what you talked and laughed about.  You will remember that day and recall that he seemed happy.

   You begin to drive home, and your hands shake.   You turn the radio on, and then off, and then back on, but you can not find a station you want to listen to.  You feel like you are forgetting something.   You reach across to the passenger seat and feel around.  You left your purse back behind the counter of the doggie-place.    You pull the car over and adjust the rearview mirror to look at yourself.

  

  

2011: How it played out

Highlight reel:

 December 2010:  Recovering from extreme melodramatic downward spiral/ birthday/ perceived loss culminating in bridge-incident and subsequent scars.  Eminem album.  Die Antwoord.  The Land Rover 109s.   Confusion.   Faulkner/ Portis.


 December 22nd, 2010 : HAPPY NEW YEAR!   Celebrated, alone, early.    The following week spent with a cat, otherwise alone, in my front office under blankets, watching movies.  This marked the beginning of a stretch of clean living/sobriety.  

  December 30th(?)  - Airport collection.   Surprised at positive attitude of collectee.   Some catching up ensued.  Mutual mentionings of new era beginning.

  January 4th(?) -  Saw 'True Grit' at the local movie theater.  Was terrific.   The conversation that followed this viewing was even better.   Feelings revealed, explanations provided,  reciprocity admitted, I felt free to move on, finally.   I was told I did not need to move on.   This night marked the ushering in of a new way of thinking around here, notable features being I was not being unrealistic or deluded.  I become convinced 2011 is, INDEED, going to be amazing.


   The following weeks:   Characterized by a marked increase in writing,  regular gym visits, no drinking, an extreme feeling of optimism (married to a new anxiety that this may all sour easily - it feels almost too good to be true), lots of time spent  walking, talking, eating, making plans.

    Valentine's Day:    It mattered.    Sort of.   Earrings.  Removal of existing earrings.

  More weeks pass.  944 job.   Citroen wagon job(s).  Reappearance of friend from distant past, who becomes central player in this world/story.   Feeling good, feeling lucky.  Feeling exposed, feeling a little crazy.

  

  

Recovery?

    26 steps from here to there.

   With my arm wrapped in a plaster cast I make the sign;  "FOR RENT".   It is awkward trying to hold up the sign and nail it to a post outside by the street.     The wind is blowing,  and the branches above me creak and groan as they sway,  a few drops of trapped water escape the needles and fall on me.    It is getting cold.  Summer is over.

  A second, equally possible life I saw reflected back at me from the long-gone panes of her eyes.  Flat empty space now, as if the glass had been knocked out of the frames, like they were from the house I drag myself up the stairs and back into.


  33 breaths from now until forever.   Measured distance,    You know what you gotta' do, Cowboy.

 

 

Something bad on the way?

  I woke up not long ago from a collection of bad dreams, and now am feeling flat and wasted, a little hopeless.

  The dreams were not the scary-bad type; no monsters or intruders or doors slamming shut in my face or buildings shaking or collapsing.   They were the worst kind of bad dreams for me, the realistic kind, the losing-someone kind, the someone-is-leaving-me kind, but finding out by feelings, suspicions, clues and hints.

    In my dream I was going to pick her up, take her to the airport, I was thinking about going with her to see her parents, she knew I was coming to pick her up, yet when I got to her house and knocked on the door and she answered in her towel, fresh out of the shower, she looked surprised and was not nice to me.  Someone else was there.    It just gets worse, and even now typing this, I am getting upset and sad.   I feel like I could cry.   FUCK.  Speaking of crying,  I just remembered a moment in this very same dream in which I had to 'decommission' my father for some reason - he was broken? - and I had to unscrew this bolt that went through the base of his neck, holding his head on.   The bolt was rusty and I couldn't get it to turn, and he was laying there telling me it was okay, and he reached up and helped and got the nut to turn off the bolt, and they were getting bloody as I pulled the bolt out, but then you see, I had to jerk his head up and twist it to turn him off, and he is big and well built so it was not easy.   I think it was hurting him as I tried to pull his head, but I was trying to be gentle, finally he said 'You got it.  Now just twist' and I did, and he was gone and I sort of collapsed crying for a while and she was in this room too, collecting her shit for her flight,  and she felt bad for me, but was busy packing her bag and not paying much attention to it all.      It was not a good dream.

   Now I am awake and drinking coffee and feeling drained still although just woken up,  and it is grey outside which is fine - sort of exciting really,  it feels like Fall all of a sudden and I love Fall,   but the Summer is gone?   I have not done anything yet this summer  - Did we have a Summer yet?   One more year gone by, one more year in which I Was the youngest I would ever be, and it was wasted.   Tinkering with cars and getting by, but no real progress in any of the things that matter.  

   For some reason I have become obsessed with 9/11, I am surprised it has been ten years already, ten years and the world is a different place.    With that perspective of time, looking back on that day seems so much more tragic and sad and unbelievable than it did on the day it happened.    The news and magazines are full of stories now about it, the ten-year-anniversary a big deal, the opening of the memorial on Ground Zero,  enough time has passed that the stories can give all the tragic details of victim's lives and surviving families' loss and not feel opportunistic or predatory, enough time has passed and it is not uncouth for magazines to publish these stories now, and when I read them, I start crying.   I find myself crying because of all the people who died, and the fireman and policeman who went into the buildings as people were trying to come out, and I cry because this event brought people together, and it illustrates a beauty in humanity that all these people in New York (and elsewhere) needed to go stand outside with each other and be with each other, and maybe talk, maybe cry, maybe be pissed, but they needed to see each other and be near each other to get through this thing, and to me that is evidence of something good.   I also cry because I realize now, only much later,  how much was lost, and how much else is gone since the towers went down, and I am not just talking lives here,  I am talking a Way of Life,  which was suddenly changed.  Life didn't seem so innocent at the time, but looking back,  pre 9/11 was a different, more innocent time.     I think it is gone, forever.

   Or is this just my own personal nostalgia for younger years?  A time pre-cell phone/ pre-internet?

 


  

  

It has started/You may have already won!

One month and you will not be able to recognize all of this.

    Wallpaper curling down from the ceiling, moist and rotten, the pattern mush.   Once, hopeful voices filled this room, tools swinging from hand and belt.

   The lemonade waiting nearby in a tall glass pitcher, sweat beading up along it's flanks on this summer day, making it hard to hold, making the handle more useful than usual.

   Happy voices mingling with laughs and playful chiding.   Up goes the wallpaper.   Mother's choice.

   See the bathtub.   See the chain leading down to the rubber stopper.  See the big brown stain along the porcelain under the faucet.  Roll up your sleeves.   Hold your breath.  Set your jaw in it's place of determination.   Go to work.

   Smells surround you, mildew and mold.   Burning chemical sour.   But underneath this, something else.   A ghost of her smell, something hidden in the porous surfaces that is reluctant to give up and go away.    Repetition leads to comfort.  Comfort leads to inertia, momentum.    Resistance.    One-two, one-two.

   Bring your can.    Everything you remove will leave something behind, as everything else that was left behind before you got here.     You are better off leaving something here on purpose.   You think you understand this distinction, but you do not.  This is the riddle you are not even aware of yet.    Bring your can.   Fill it.  When do you know you are finished?   Will you have to be told, or do you know instinctively?

   One month after another, but this one a little different than the others.     Hands become claws.

 

July 4th

  I knew I was asking for trouble walking barefoot across the yard like that.   If the broken glass and sharp little beer car pull-tabs didn't get me, I knew there were parasitical larvae in some suspended state of development just waiting to find a way into a good healthy digestive tract like mine, even if it meant exploiting a weak spot in the soles of my feet in order to get in.   I am ashamed to admit it, but there were many such chinks in my armor.   The summer had just begun, and I was not in the practice of walking about with no shoes or socks on, like some ocher primitive.    I am a proud member of MENSA.  I am better than that.

  So, where were my shoes?   If I was so smart I should know the answer to this fairly simple question.

Get out of my dreams... Get into my van.

"And so he tells me if it gets any bigger, he's going to have to lance it.  Stick it with a pin so it can drain.  I know, I TOTALLY would feel bad about that too, so I'm just going to wait one more day I guess, but now it is starting to smell bad..."

   This is the lady behind me in line.  She is talking on her cell phone, and she is not trying to be quiet.   I try to tune her conversation out, I read the headline of one of those magazines in the rack there.  A Kardashian doing something-or-other.    A Kardashian in a bikini.  Someone cheated on this Kardashian.  This Kardashian is not going to waste any time getting even with her man.  I wonder what this Kardashian is doing on Friday?    The woman behind me in line is impossible to ignore, and is ruining my Kardashian fantasy.

  "So I just says to him, 'This sort of thing wouldn't happen to you if you didn't eat all that Taco Bell all the time!'  Right?  I mean, it don't matter how cheap they make those things, they ain't healthy!"

   I turn slowly to my left and examine her out of the corner of my eye.   Short.  Bad skin.  Not a thin woman, not a thin woman at all, if you know what I mean.   Sweat pants and a tank-top, and she was not going to the gym, I can assure you.   She is carrying a two-pound block of this grocery chain's proprietary recipe of mild cheddar, one large tomato, a half-gallon of ketchup and a bag of hot dog buns.  Not exactly the person I would trust to advocate a healthy diet.  I'm just saying.

   She catches me checking her out.  Eye contact.   I try to smile.   She senses it is not genuine, or does not admire my appearance either, because she makes a face and then turns away from me.

  "Yeah?   So, ANYWAY!  Like I said before, I'm at the store.    Uh huh.    The one on Lombard.  Right, THAT one.   Remind me later to tell you about the creep I saw today.."

  I turn on her again, less covertly this time, to see if she is talking about me.   She glances up at me,  smiles, and then looks away.  It was not a nice smile, I could recognize that.   I feel awkward and begin to fidget.  The line has not moved in the last four minutes because some other woman in her fifties has been arguing with the cashier about how the eggs were advertised as five cents less than they rang up as.  After a long explanation about her Club Card number (which she did not have), there was further discussion about her six lottery scratch-its.   I did not follow, but was annoyed anyway.  I had become the meat in a checkout-line-abomination-sandwich.    I had to pause for a moment and ask myself though - Am I the bad guy here?

   Somehow, mercifully, the woman in front of me was finally soothed and dispatched from the store.  I was up.    Efficiently entering my Club Card # while being rung up and politely chit-chatting with the cashier without engaging in outright conversation,  I was finished in seconds flat.    This isn't difficult, people!   I collected my bag and made my way out, but I was still troubled by the conversation of the young lady behind me, the one with all that ketchup.   I walked slow.   I thought some more.   I could not allow this aggression to stand.    I made my way outside, and installed myself just to the left of the automatic doors.   I leaned casually up against the brick wall there, one knee cocked up, striking a pose.   I waited.   I did not have to wait long.

  



 

Coming Soon - FORENSIC DOUGHNUT!

  Yes, Forensic Doughnut, a new line of offerings from the Unclezak's Industries palette.   Consider this a new division of Unclezak's, this one catering more to the humanistic needs and desires, and less to the machines.   Specialties include:  worldly reflections, investment opportunities, sports apparel, live-and-stop-action episodes,  anger management,  stories,  advice, life-imitating-art, hip-hop, baked goods, cabin rentals and industrial pet collars.

    It's been a long time comin'.  Stay tuned here for instructions to the big kickoff event later this Summer.

Starting Fresh

  The sky has rained itself all out by the time you open your eyes and wake up to this day, not exactly sunny, but not as bleak as you had expected it to be either.

   You open your eyes on this morning, and you can almost hear the  >click<  as six zeros roll up, all in a row there again, and you feel that stir of excitement, again.  You made it back to the start. Again.

  The last two months the result of some 'letting go',  which was the result of several months of 'trying hard', and you did in fact try hard.   You had made progress, and eventually found yourself clinging desperately to some dry and rocky unknown height, much higher in fact than you had thought you would be able to claw your way up.   You made it so high, and so near the top even, that you were reluctant to let go.   You had even managed a peek over the top, to flat ground, and what you saw was not the promised land you had expected or hoped to see, not at all.   Again.   But you still hoped a little bit that you were wrong.  With even just this tiny decrease in enthusiasm however,  you felt your fingers slipping, toes scrabbling against the sandy wall ineffectively, and with a deep breath of resignation, you let go.

   Confused as the world spun, top to bottom, air rushing by, not knowing what would happen next.  The equivalent of an explosion, or a birth, or a battle with something ferocious with your bare hands, it all happened fast for a while, and then you felt your wind knocked out of you, again, laying on your back someplace in the dark and dank.   Then things began to happen slowly to you.

   Wanting to remain alone, wanting to think about something else,  time crawled, in bed most of the day for a month or more,  trying to think of some new way out, but crawling back the old familiar way, following the old script, seemingly unable to learn any new tricks.   And then one day, the rain.  Again.

   It had been weeks and weeks and weeks, and you DID learn a few new things, finally, you found new distractions, and new manners of creativity to occupy your mind, and you began to notice that you were feeling better, without asking yourself constantly, it was a surprise, and even this small detail made you happy, and you began to realize you knew just what would have to be done, and what pieces would have to be left behind, and which ones were good for you, and you would make a new little matrix of your assorted aggregates, and you could imagine how they were falling into place, where they would go or not go, and you realized you were ready as it rained hard for two days straight,  and you listened to those sounds on the roof above your head as you painted and wrote, and lay there in bed before going to sleep, the roof closer than ever to your face at that time, and the sound of the rain was so soothing to you,  reminding you of some time from long ago, when you thought everything was going to be okay, and you were safe in your bed listening to that sound whisper you to sleep.    The rain that voice in your ear telling you it is alright, telling you to go to sleep,  and when you wake up this will be a new clean place, and you will be fine.

Poison

"I simply can not do this any longer!" Victor Bibbins declared out loud, addressing the giant poster of Mr. Bean pinned to the wall behind the tarantula cage. "Enough is enough!" And with that sentiment made physical, committed to spoken word, he found the determination to lower his quivering bulk down into the ergonomic chair in front of his computer, and then he began to type her an email.

"Dear Tricia," he typed into the body portion of this new composition, "As I am sure you know, I am no longer satisfied with the parameters of our current relationship as it stands now, and"...

He paused there a moment and re-read what he just typed. Victor was not entirely happy with the proximity of the 'know' and the 'no', he felt it created a disturbance in the flow of his words. The cadence was all off. He stared at the computer screen, his tiny lips pursed as if he tasted something unpleasant. After a brief deliberation he skillfully used his backspace and delete keys, and replaced the word 'know' with the words 'are aware'. He read this back to himself once, twice, three times, enjoying it a little bit more with each recital. He was feeling very pleased with himself and thought that he may reward himself with a treat. So, with some effort and several creaks, he rose from his chair and made his way into the kitchen.

Ignoring the many inspirational post-its fixed to the outside of the refrigerator, post-its reminding himself that food should be used in moderation only, post-its telling him to be strong, post-its designed to nurture success and positive thinking, he pulled the refrigerator door wide open, all the little yellow sticky notes ruffling momentarily from this action like the feathers on a waking bird.

Victor's expectant face was all aglow from the jaundiced bulb within the cooler. He stood there with the door open, quickly but silently making an inventory using only his shifty beady eyes. There were many reused clear plastic produce bags laying about on top of each other in no discernible order, as are bodies hastily thrown to a mass grave in a war zone, the contents of all a mystery as each and every one was obscured with a thick fog from inside, and not cinched tight enough to assume the shape of the contents within. This meant that each bag would have to be picked up, fondled, and presented to the nose to determine what bounty (or pitfall!) may be encountered there. He could think of no food that he had consumed in the recent past that was worth that sort of an effort at this time. In fact, he was vaguely aware that he almost never ate his leftovers, that if he truly delighted in any given meal, he would eat it down in its entirety, in one sitting, regardless of portion size. He was also vaguely aware that by the time a person has to wonder about leftovers, it is too late to salvage them. Even if a sense of potential guilt from being wasteful were to prevent you from throwing the item away at that exact moment, wondering to yourself 'Is this fresh any longer?' is tantamount to an indictment of inedibility, and that particular foodstuff has crossed a particular line in your mind, and once this line has been crossed, the concept of savoriness will never return to that particular morsel ever again, and it may as well be scuttled immediately as it rests unaware, before it is forgotten and allowed to linger on, befouling everything it comes in close proximity to with its own ugly and unkind revenge, like some spiteful and disgruntled ex-employee or lover.

NO. What Victor wanted was NEW FOOD, something easy yet calorie-packed in order to keep his energy up at the computer during this current, emotionally draining, task at hand. His overactive eyeballs scanned again and again, back and forth like a pair of windshield wipers during a snowstorm, looking for brightly colored cardboard or plastic containers, something not-necessarily-organic, something that had not been opened already.

I walk outside

and as I swing the door open and wide, I have to shield my eyes from the unexpected luminance issuing forth from our nearest star. I am temporarily blinded, and broadcast a moderate cry as I take another step out onto the sidewalk, and wait just a moment before I fully commit myself, releasing the doorknob to my front door, and I let it shut behind me with a 'click' as the lock snaps home.

I am all-in this game now, like an astronaut upon feeling the shakings of the vehicle below him as ignition takes place, who must submit entirely to fate and blind beliefs. I was this astronaut now, there was no turning back at this point, and I was going to the liquor store.

I stepped cautiously, allowing my eyes to adjust the the sudden brightness of a late May day in Oregon. You see, in Oregon in May, you just don't know. You can never know. Sunny, rainy, maybe snowing, probably raining, but maybe sunny? Maybe for only a few minutes? Maybe all day? Who knows? Do not bother checking with the weather people, they don't know either, although they like to pretend like they know. They are paid to pretend to be able to predict the weather. How crazy is that?

So, my eyes began to adjust, and I stepped again and again, no longer having to watch my feet, or my shoes to see where they may land next. There was traffic in the street nearby. I saw a fellow pedestrian coming my direction on the sidewalk, and I was afraid I may have recognized him as a neighbor, although I did not know or remember his name. This could be trouble. I was in no condition to mingle or perform smalltalk. I stopped moving. I spun around, and then I looked straight up into the sky. 'WHY ME?' I asked a god I did not think could hear me. 'Why do I have to try to talk to this guy when I only want to be left alone on this Saturday? KILL ME NOW!' I demanded from my god.

My god is a tricky god though, he would not allow me the convenience of killing me here and now, he wanted me to mingle apparently. As my neighbor approached I realized I was looking up into the sky and muttering to myself, cursing. My neighbor avoided eye contact. My neighbor walked right past me without saying anything to me. ... Maybe there was a god after all? Was I saved?

A moment later I continue along my original path, past a few shop windows to the liquor store just down the street. I made a mistake, I looked at myself in reflection in a shop window as I was passing, and I was disgusted with myself. I was incredibly fat. I had a beard. I had something inappropriate on top of my head, a baseball hat, a do-rag, a knit cap, something to obscure the shame beneath. I was an abomination, an abortion, tottering around on two legs. From the inside, I felt like a caveman. I felt very hairy and large and strong, but maybe slow. I felt like I could not express my feelings, but could only grunt and point at what I wanted, and make primal expressions with my face. I had a wallet and I had money - but would I be able to use it? Could I count? I felt incapable of managing my finances. I suddenly felt like a fossil, I was evidence that man DID exist here and now, and definitely had a skeleton, but I was no longer relevant. Did I matter? I made it to the corner, and waited for traffic to thin before jaywalking across the street against the light. Me. Want. Go there.

With my every step, I was aware of my 300 chins jiggling, my bloated personage far overweight, my knees struggling to maintain. This could not possibly be good, I thought. My face was itching crazily with the beard I had just recently decided to cultivate for some other silly purpose. I felt a little like King-Kong, but a tiny one. I could not swat an airplane out of the sky, and I was not about to scale a tall building, and there was not even any tiny blond woman I wanted to hold tightly in my mighty grip or embrace. I thought about this. King Kong had way more going on for him than I do. I had to admit this, and it did not make me feel good.

Future caste 2069

109. One hundred and nine years old. You made it.

Now you are crowned and get a booth in the library, the children get in a big circle and fidget until you start to speak and then they have to shush, they pull their feet and shoes up close to their bodies and their eyes get big or glaze over as you tell them about Richard Nixon and how he lied, or how there was a time during which people did not carry tiny wOrkpads with them everywhere they went, distributing their, and your, global position and body temperature.

You are old. This means you are privileged. You get your name etched on the sidewalk on a famous boulevard in California. A blimp flies around, for just one day, flashing your name and birthdate along it's swollen side. You are in line for a governership now. You are guaranteed a place. Your time was worth it. You were not lost in impulsive reaction. You have stories to tell. You will tell them. Again and again. The children must stay and listen, until you are finished. Until you fall asleep, your face in your own lap, finger atwitch, mouth breathing.

Eye on the ball (b)

I've known Monica for over half my life. I've lived with her more than I have lived with anyone else, including my own family. She IS my family too, I meant to say my own 'Blood Family', my parents and brother.

Twenty-two years. Twenty-two years we have lived together, not counting the eleven months she was married that one time. During those eleven months she spent a good deal of time in our house anyway, at least for the last half of it. Her room had remained pretty much as she left it. I had a feeling about that thing, not to gloat. He wasn't right for her. Obviously.

I had almost been married twice myself, and both times Monica seemed to know something I didn't, she had warned me that she didn't have a good feeling about either one, and as usual, she was right. I can't tell if she is actually looking out for me or sabotaging my potential marital bliss, but either way here she is still, and those other women are gone. We'll circle back to this later.

We've been living in our current home for 6 years now, longer than in any other place. We're getting old, I think. We just don't have the energy any more to want to live on the other side of town where more things are happening, don't have the energy to put everything in boxes again and load up a couple of U-Haul trucks and drive back and forth, painting and sweeping and arranging and putting screws in a wall, and taking screws out of other walls and all of that type of thing. It's hard to believe, but we just want to come home and eat something that won't upset our stomachs, complain about our romantic endeavors or lack of them, and then read while our cats slink around the room staring at the aquariums, licking their lips and watching the fish swim around behind the glass. We have a fireplace. We enjoy a lot of fires together. Summer, Winter, doesn't matter. We like to watch the fire the way those cats watch the fish. I think we see something in the fire that we want, and we silently try to figure out how we can make it ours, but we are too lazy or tired to actually do anything about it.

She works as a mental health therapist for a college in town. This means she gets to sit around and encourage people to spill their gossip and dark secrets and this also means she gets to come home and tell me these other people's gossip and dark secrets. Sometimes it feels wrong, but that is usually only when I find her stories boring. Otherwise, I don't mind her breaking her confidentiality agreement and risking her position. Some of the stories are pretty good, and SOMETIMES they are even newsworthy, or involve local celebrities, athletes, people of that nature.

I fix old cars and restaurant equipment, and sell things online. I operate under the radar, more or less. I make my own schedule. Some people envy me my freedom, but Monica does not. Monica knows that I am the sort of rare person who does not know what to do with his freedom, or how to enjoy it. Monica knows that I squander my freedom worrying about how I should be doing something else, no matter what it is I am doing at the time.

I heard her keys in the door rattling around for a moment and then the door opened up and she was standing there, a force of nature in a leather coat and a stylish dark red beret and she was pushing the door open with her knee and balancing two large grocery bags in one arm and still trying to remove her keys with the semi-free hand, hopping on one leg after the arc of the door as it swung inside. I hadn't heard her car pull up outside, the music was up too loud and she was home early.

I froze, caught in the act of rebuilding a Maserati brake caliper on the kitchen table, shirtlessy sweating and drinking wine straight from the bottle. Guilty, I stared at her for a moment, planning my escape strategy.

She froze too, staring back at me for a couple of seconds before speaking, "Are you going to help me or what?"

"SUUURE!" I answered, relieved. If she were really angry like I thought she was, she would not have spoken to me at all. I stood and sauntered over to her, grabbed one bag out of her arms, and removed her keys for her. She walked past me with the other bag, glancing at my mess on the table as she passed it.

"You like nice," I offered hopefully. "Are those pants new?"

She put the bag down on the counter and returned to where I was standing still, and reclaimed her keys, knowing I would lose them in another few seconds. She reached behind me for the door, and when I stepped away she closed it.

"What happened to your shirt?" She asked rhetorically. She looked at the brake caliper resting in a large glass baking dish, surrounded by brake fluid. "Is that for the guy in Florida? Ferrari brakes? Why are you doing that on the kitchen table again?"

"Maserati." I corrected her "Florida though, yes. I put cardboard down this time. AND some plastic bags. I wanted to be inside, it's too hot out in the garage."

"Is that mine?" she asked, nodding her head at the table. I thought she was indicating the Pyrex baking dish full of dirty brake fluid.

"No," I lied "That's one of the ones I got at that flea market a few months ago, remember?"

"Not the dish, the wine. Is that mine? That better not be the bottle that What'shisface gave me."

"No, no... I'm pretty sure it's mine," I assured her as she walked past me again and and into the bathroom. I heard the sound of the toilet seat slamming down through the open door, immediately followed by the sound of her urine splashing into the bowl.

"This is just some cheap stuff here. Came from Trader Joe's. Nothing to celebrate. Not yet, anyway. You want some?" I yelled at the open bathroom door.

There was the sound of toilet paper being pulled off the spindle, then a flush, then she emerged pulling her shirt down and wiping her hands on the front of her pants.

"I didn't hear you wash your hands in there. GROSS!"

She walked past me again, glaring silently first at my bare torso, then my poor brake caliper resting in it's puddle and then warned me; "Don't even talk to me right now about gross."

She returned to the kitchen and began to unload the grocery bag onto the counter. I followed with the bag I was still carrying and put it down beside hers and started to rummage through it, but only after pouring her a glass of wine and handing it to her. Her hand hesitated for just a moment before accepting it, this would mean we were at peace, but she could not resist even if we did like to bicker.

"Blah!" she spat after sipping the wine "That tastes awful. Why are you drinking that?"

"Because it was only four dollars." I answered, right in her way now, examining her purchases. "Did you buy any cheese? You ate the last of it last night."

Ignoring my question, she began to relay another installment in a never-ending story about the hiring politics in her office, the various egos and personalities involved, names I recognized but could not put faces to although I had met these people many times, these people she worked with, these people who spent 8 or 9 or 10 hours a day in little cubicles, filing reports, using copy machines.

"I understand. Jesus yes, I understand. That is AWFUL." I had learned to give her what she wanted. I learned to listen and agree with her. I learned to do it, and I was happy to do it. But, I had my limit, and I had not taken food all day. "I agree," I cut her off as she was saying something, standing beside the refrigerator, the door of which was wide open, a bunch of celery hanging in one hand and her empty wine glass in the other, and YES, I interrupted her, "And those people should all be wiped from the face of the Earth, but God woman! IS THERE CHEESE?"

**************************************************

A couple of hours after I made dinner and we ate, I cleaned up the kitchen and we found ourselves installed on the couch in front of the fire, despite the heat in the house. There we were, like an old loving couple, her feet up on the coffee table in front of us where our cold highball glasses were sweating, making rings of water there on the table top. We were sufficiently relaxed now, and I had my head in Monica's lap while she absently played with my hair while we continued to gently insult each other.

"You know something," She began in a typical fashion I recognized as pre-insult, "You have more hair on your back than on your head."

"So do you."

"No I don't." She stated, watching the flames dance around in the fireplace.

"Well, YOU'VE got a mustache. Or you would, if you didn't shave it off. Bleach it, whatever." I said, tracing my finger around on her thigh. She had really great legs. Strong. Meaty. Long. "Don't take this the wrong way," I continued "But sometimes I sure wish you weren't YOU. You know?"

"I know." She said and leaned over my head, smashing my face into her shirt as she reached for her drink on the table. "But then I wouldn't be ME. Right? I'd be different."

I understood her logic. This was the pattern of thought and conversation we would fall into about once a week. I reached for my beverage and carefully took a sip sideways, my head still resting on her legs.

We watched the fire for a few more minutes and then I removed myself from her bubble and stood up, digging my finger around in my bellybutton and then sniffed at it. "Smells like a vagina," I said proudly.

"You're a pig." She told me without much conviction "It's no big mystery why no one will marry you."

"I'm going to be nice now and ignore that commentary," I replied "I don't want to stay up all night discussing who has more failed relationships and the hows and the whys. Can you wake me up when you leave tomorrow? I have to get going early."

"Okay," She said "Don't forget to water the stuff in the greenhouse before you go out though, alright?"

"Never do." I said, turning away and wandering towards my end of the house, then stopped and reminded her: "Put the screen up if the fire is still going when you go to bed. Goodnight Gorgeous."

"I will. Goodnight." She said, picking up her iPhone from the arm of the couch and began to return text messages or browse Facebook, something hideous like that. Women and their phones. Jesus. What a nightmare.

I set a course for my room and made my way down the long hall, bouncing only two or three times off of the walls on my way there, careful to knock nothing off or down, I entered my room and flopped down on the bed, on top of all the blankets and pulled nothing over me, and thought about her out there sitting on the couch by herself. I fell asleep clutching a pillow next to my bare chest, confiding some admission of fondness into it's imagined ear for the thousandth time. I fell asleep and dreamed of being late to class, late for a test and finding I was naked, I dreamed of getting in fights and losing, I dreamed of finding dying animals and not being able to help them, I dreamed of my teeth falling out, my mouth full of blood.

Electrons, photons, bon-bons, hard-ons...

Even though we were fighting, or play-fighting, of which there was quickly no line of demarcation between the two, and I felt aggravated, watching her there, watching her mouth move and her lips blow out her spirited syllables, I felt something in my chest melt and grow warm, and I felt such a strong feeling of love for her I could almost not bear it any longer.

She mistook my silence for anger and looked away from me, she turned up the volume on the radio then looked out the window at the passing scenery, and while the back of her head was directed at me I whispered to her I loved her. I told the back of her head I wanted to be with her forever if it meant I could wake up and see her and spend all the rest of my mornings and subsequent days with her, or even just one more day, I told the back of her head she made me happy.

She must have heard my whispering because she suddenly spun her face back around on me like a surprised owl and demanded to know what I just said to her.

I smiled, hoping my warm feelings would float happily across the car and lodge themselves into her brain or her heart, and words would be unnecessary in this instance. This would prove something to me, it would prove my feelings had transcended this physical world and our understanding and mutual respect was of a different dimension altogether. I continued to smile, sending my benevolent wordless transmission to her through my every opening, glancing away only once or twice, briefly, just to make sure we were staying in our lane of traffic and I was not going to ram into anything or anyone. I watched her and waited, I was looking for the slightest sign of her detecting my message of love.

The expression on her face began to change, it softened a bit and then she said to me, "Take me home."

We were already 30 miles into our journey, and so I was confused as to why she wanted me to turn around now. Perhaps she wanted to be ravished suddenly? I felt that could be done just as easily parked on the side of the road in a somewhat obscured location as at her house though. Maybe she forgot something there? Some electrical heating device left on perhaps?

"What? Why?" I asked her "Are you hungry? We can stop up the road at the pie place - "

"I don't want to go anymore. This weekend is fucked. Just take me home."

I became silent for a few minutes and considered my options. Nothing smells quite so revolting as desperation, so I did not want to beg her to continue on with our plans, but I also was aware that sometimes a person just wants to be reassured that they are wanted, they long to hear kind words. Into this equation was also figured my desire for dignity maintenance, MY desire to be told kind words and reassured, and it all became very confusing for me. I was silent. I continued to drive. I was not angry, but I was contemplative. I wanted to make the right decision here. I remembered hearing that love conquers all, and knew from watching many after-school specials as a child that one's true feelings of fondness should not be stifled, and so I resolved myself to say the kind things I felt for her. As I began to draw in the breath which with I would begin this vocal expression, she beat me to this next step.

"I'm seeing someone else."

HI, I'm a Bonobo

and I've got a secret which I am not going to share with you. You'll have to scratch around for it in the bottom of the litter basket, smashing pulpy paper between your dingy digits, searching and sniffing every bit of suspect substance. I had to make it MY WAY, and so should you!

I'm not running a charity here.

It took me the LAST TEN YEARS to figure this all out, and it was not easy or pleasant going. Most of the answers were not obvious but required a good deal of trial and ERROR, and I place a great emphasis on the word 'error' there on purpose, that was not a MISTAKE, like the many which I made over these years doing the things I have done, the things you still do not know about but have been asking me to explain to you. TEN YEARS I burned to arrive at a truth that I would now like to seal away from the world, it must remain obscured from the collective mind. Errors, yes, but to say they were all unpleasant would be to tell you an untruth, for these errors were often the result of feeding the Id, and in doing so were satisfying and rewarding endeavors. Impulse satisfaction may not always be the correct path, but it is a path. At the very least. And, unlike what some people may try to tell you, you actually CAN get there from here.

Come on over here. Closer. Clo-SERRRRR! There. Smell that? I did that. That's what all the talk here is about. Take a good hard look at THAT. They should put that on the cover of a magazine. THAT is what stick-to-it-tiveness can do. Don't give up.

Answers in the Ashes

She wanted me to do this thing, but she did not tell me this. She did not have to, we had had a talk earlier, during which she told me the EXACT OPPOSITE thing, but I detected a twitch in the corner of her mouth when this was said, I knew what this meant, and I knew she wanted me to see it; she was lying. We were going to play 'The Opposite Game' now, in case anyone were listening, in case one of us was recording this conversation, she was being safe. She was very clever like this.

So, She wanted me to come back, she wanted me to save her. She wanted me to take her away from all of this, her suffocating life she had constructed accidentally around her, she wanted me to come in and fix it all, she knew I was strong and she knew not only COULD I do it, be she knew I WOULD. I was that rare person who would follow through with such a mission, even when only hinted at in Opposites. Even though we had engaged in sexual congress only once or twice, and during those times it had felt awkward or forced, I knew this to be more of her crafty tricks, it had been just a show, if even only for herself, so as to feel like she was doing something she did not really want to do, to make it seem like I had MADE HER do it, even though we had only fucked those two or three times, I knew she had enjoyed it really, I knew she wanted more, and she wanted this more for forever. I was prepared to provide this future for her. She did not have to tell me, this was because we already had that connection, that sort of a connection you have with another person where they are not limited by words and language in their expressions to you, they have VIBRATIONS as well, they send FEELINGS. She even went so far as to send images and her voice into my head, she was able to sneak her messages into my dreams, while I was asleep as well as while I was awake. Our resonance was that type, it was that strong.

And so it was her voice in my ears I heard, telling me to buy Chloroform on the local college campus and extra large zip-ties from the appliance repair supplier online with a fabricated name, and to collect a few pollen masks as well from wherever I could find them, there was a puzzle here which even I did not know the solution to yet, but I was sure she did, she was a planner, she planned ahead, this was another reason I knew we were good for each other, for what I lacked in planning I made up for in DOING, and she was just the opposite. Just like an electrical circuit or other perfect system, you need a positive matched to a negative, a low to a high, a Yin to a Yang, you know what I mean. Opposites. Not only Attract, but Belong Together.

She sure was sending me a lot of commands/images and messages! For someone who told me to my face to 'Just leave her alone' three weeks ago, she was behaving in quite the opposite manner in which to make that happen. She could be confusing, it is true, but I chalked it all up to her high degree of intelligence/ cleverness.

"Bring to me your naked throat

it shall be pressed by lips or palm, steel or cord, and by squeeze or slice you'll spill your secrets bare."

I read that somewhere. I did. I forget where. But I believe in the throat. The throat is a special area.

The throat is vulnerable. The throat carries all your special fluids up, and all your special thoughts out. Ferried up, ferried out. A doorway. We like doorways.

So fragile, it is. Cartilage, a bone or two, a pendulous weight above and an anchor below, and with a shake or two it can all be over for some. The noose has circled and closed here in order to say 'Goodbye',and it still does in some places in the world.

In other news, it is a beautiful place, the skin often soft and white, which if smelled brings shivers to both, the ears nearby, the face containing most other senses inches away, eyes closing as lips part and a tiny breath escapes from that cartilaginous tube and out through those lips and creates a tiny moist cloud which may or may not be visible, it depends on where you live and what time of year it is, but that hot tiny cloud floats out and away without any help from your hands, which most certainly want to clutch at the source of it all, it begs for clutching, the perfect size and shape. Warm. Smooth. Precious.

Il Ombre

I had heard about the man for several years by this time, if you were in this business in this part of the world, you had heard of him. He had a certain reputation, and the stories that circulated were just disturbing enough to not be forgotten quickly.

Some say he was a chef, or at least wanted to be a chef.

Others say he grew up in a place devoid of food, he grew up hungry, and he grew up with fantasies of food.

Still others say he tries to minimize his guilt by providing a last meal before he dispatches his commissions.

I do not know the reasons why, they all seem reasonable, but I do know this: He always cooks a fine meal for his victims just before he kills them.

He was the first thing I thought of as I opened my front door, and key still in socket, door swinging inward, I was greeted with the sweet smell of grilled peppers and onions.

Easter Excerpt: Making Friends

"Well son, we don't usually accept children into our ranks here in the Marine Corps," said Sergeant Crabtree while taking a knee so he could look the weeping boy in the eye "But your daddy there died like a real Marine today, and they say the apple don't fall far from the tree, so if he was any indication at all of what sort of soldier you'll be, we'd be lucky to have you."

The boy continued to cry as white and black smoke curled up out of the bomb crater which just a few minutes before was a Hummvee containing several troops, one of them this boy's step-father. Sergeant Crabtree looked over both his shoulders, scanning for enemy threat, and then back down at the boy who was giving no indication of pulling his shit together anytime soon.

"I know it's hard, I lost men here too, your daddy among them. I'm going to miss them all and I am going to honor them. I am going to honor them by living. I am going to honor them by going on living, so I can go and kill me some more of these Haji scum." There he paused for a moment for this idea to sink in. "And I am going to need you to help me do it." By now several soldiers were lingering nearby with their weapons at the ready, awkwardly watching Crabtree try to withdraw with the child in a respectful manner. It seemed to be working, the boy began to wipe his cheeks with his dirty hands and now looked into the face of the Marine kneeling in front of him. "Will you help me, Packer? Will you help me to honor your father and the rest of the men who fell here today?"

Miles Packer sniffled a few times, and looking one last time over to the twisted wreckage of the blast, and then back at Crabtree, he asked "Do I get a gun?"

There were a few chuckles from the loose circle of soldiers as Crabtree stood up and ruffled Packer's hair. "Now THERE'S A MARINE FOR YOU!" he shouted back to his men, and then looking down at the boy he got this show rolling again. "OF COURSE you'll get a gun! But we got to get back to base first, and we're pretty exposed out here right now holding a roadside service like this. We usually do this sort of thing back in camp, or better yet, we wait until we rotate back into the world before we say our goodbyes. I'm just saying, you'll get your carbine as sure as a fish shits in the water, but I'm not going to lie to you Packer; you've got some training to do before you're going to get your own M4."

The boy began to look upset again and Crabtree quickly added, "You ever hold an M67 Frag before? Here. Why don't you keep an eye on this for me?" And he removed a grenade which was hanging with several others from his combat vest and handed it to the boy "Hold on to it real good now, and just be sure not to pull that pin there. Okay?"

Miles took the grenade cautiously, wide-eyed, and held onto it with two hands. "Okay." He said, and a moment later began to fiddle with the pin with a free finger.

Frying the Fuck Out Of the Roast

What would have been great excitement was tempered with the many frustrations of the day, or the frustrations of the day were diminished by the great excitement he felt with the upcoming adventure today, he was confused as to which perspective was correct now, but, a trip to the Beachhouse, a journey with Her which he had been looking forward to for some time, some time away from work, friends, food, DRINKS lay directly ahead, but this day was not going easily, things did not seem to happen as he planned them anymore, he knew he was somehow to blame for these miscalculations and oversights, but he did not feel capable of making the proper adjustments that would bring reality and fantasy into sharp focus upon each other.

Things were chaotic in the shop for the preceding 48 hours or more. There was a big job which had to be finished in order to be able to leave, both by obligation, and by financial necessity. The 10-hour job had taken much longer, there were hitches, and as always things were being done at the last minute (for everyone, by way of his choices) and so things were becoming tight. Tense.

He drove to her apartment and picked Her up, got Her and Her bag into the car. He was impressed by Her thoughtfulness, She had brought a gift, which may be obvious for some people, but the majority of the population are not so thoughtful. They kissed. They drove back to the shop so he could now, at the last minute, pack his bag and pick up his check and try to remember whatever it was he was supposed to bring or leave or whom to call, or return some emails. They were beginning to run late. They had a five-hour drive ahead of them and they wanted to get there as soon as possible, he wanted to make a claim on his favorite room in the house, they were going to drink and spend the night together, this was the first time. Possibilities lay fresh and undiscovered in front of them, wrapped in laughs and the sound of the ocean breaking not-far-away through the open sliding glass door of the room in which they were going to sleep. This was going to be fun. This was what adults did together and he was excited to spend this time with Her.

Once at the shop, his Helper was there, dropping off the customer whose car had just been completed at the last minute. The Helper and She exchanged a tense 'Hello' while he dealt with the customer, got paid, apologized again for the work taking as long as it did. He was paid. As soon as the customer was out of sight, he sent the Helper to cash this check he just received, this money earmarked for this weekend now in his grip at the last possible moment. Why do I live like this? He wondered. The Helper gone, She asked for the fourth time that day when he would fire his Helper. It was a funny joke and he got it and even appreciated it, but he wondered still: Was she serious? He knew he would fire his Helper if She really wanted him to, but he was confused if She was serious or not about this. He was actually confused a good deal of the time about things she told him, if She were being serious or not. This was a big reason he was drawn to Her, he realized, he could not tell if she was sincere or not, and in this manner She became unpredictable to him. Most people were boring and followed a script, or so it seemed to him, and She did not. She had caused him some agony already earlier in the year, but he seemed to be drawn to it even though, if asked, he would deny that he wanted more agony in his life, but he pursued Her and eventually they were 'together' or entangled in some charade of it.

He entertained the joke and the idea, then the Helper returned with the money and he took her into the front office and paid her, discussed the coming week with her, thought about how he would miss her, gave her the number where he would be should she need him for anything. The Helper provided another element of painful confusion in his life, but for completely different reasons than She did. At any rate, she was dismissed for the weekend and he got his stuff together, after a few quick errands She and he were headed down the freeway and toward whatever promise lay ahead in the following days.

The drive was was just as fun as he had imagined, the hours passed by as quickly as possible, there were no uncomfortable silences or arguments and often his hand rested on her leg beside him and he felt calm, which was unusual most of the time. Soon, they were turning off of the freeway and heading due West. In another hour they could smell the salt in the air, see the rust eating away at the cars sunken in the front yards of the houses here along the river, the bay, the coast. Giant green trees provided shade usually, and every now and then the road would open up and the sunlight would warm them as sand dunes could be seen off to the left. A few more turns and they were pulling through a gate and up a driveway and shutting the car off in front of the big gray house.

In the relative silence of the sudden vanished carnoise, he looked over at Her, the soundtrack of crashing surf thrumming powerfully in the background, and leaned over and kissed Her. As natural as could be. They disembarked. They collected their shit. They entered the house.

Nice Little Tuesday

Karl pulled up behind his brother’s car and for a moment considered mashing the accelerator, ramming the other car and then making a getaway, disappearing off into the night. Kyle was never on time to these things and so it upset Karl that he was the latecomer this evening. He figured Kyle must have got here early to ask for money and didn’t want him to know about it, didn’t want him to say anything. Well, Kyle was in for a big surprise if he thought he wouldn’t find out or say anything. He had not even stepped out of his car yet, and Karl was already in a bad mood and ready to get in an argument. That’s what working all day will do to you. He opened his door, got out and stretched, spat on the ground, closed his door and stepped up the path double-time toward the front door of the house. He then remembered the bottle of champagne and flowers in his car and had to turn back around for them. He wondered if his brother brought her anything at all? He hoped he didn’t, as this would underscore his thoughtful gesture all the more. He was starting to get a headache. He stopped walking for a moment and bent over, hands on his knees, taking slow, deep breaths.



Inside the house Kyle heard a car engine and then the sound of a door slamming outside. He assumed it would be his brother Karl arriving and he felt a twinge of excitement to see him, they had not hung out in a few months, not since Christmas, actually. He hoped Karl wouldn’t be in a bad mood tonight. When Karl was in a bad mood, he could really be mean and make Kyle uneasy. It was weird. It had always been this way, at least ever since they started going to school. He didn’t know why Karl was so serious all the time, but he wished the guy would just take a Xanax or a rip off the bong with him and look at the bright side sometimes.



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“It’s so nice to have my boys with me here! Thank you both for coming. I couldn’t ask for more. I know you’re both very busy and have better things to do than drive – “ she said, brightly lit on her side of the table.


“It’s no trouble, mom!” said Kyle


Karl was silent for a moment, glaring at Kyle before he said “No problem. What else would I rather be doing with my free time than seeing my family?”


Kyle shot a glance at Karl, wondering if he was being sarcastic. Karl got up and walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Is there a beer or something in here?” he shouted back. Kyle shot a glance at his mother to see how she would react. Was there beer?



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“That looks great, Mom! I’ve been thinking about your meatloaf all week!” said Kyle while eyeballing the sad and blackened log. Karl stared at him silently for a moment before adding “Yeah. It looks great.” After another moment he asked his mother “Have you had your hearing checked lately? I heard they give free tests at Costco.”


“Hearing? No. Why?” She answered while sawing a fat portion of the loaf with a dull knife before placing it on the plate in front of Kyle.


“ I just figured the oven buzzer must have been making a lot of noise for a while, maybe the fire alarm too. Have you checked the batteries lately? Would you like me to do it?”


“The buzzer? What buzzer?” said his mother while carving off another piece with some effort. He could see the thing was raw and pink in the middle. His mother knew only one setting on the stove or oven, and this was HIGH, five hundred degrees or more, and everything seemed to emerge burned in appearance, but uncooked within. He had tried to think of some analogy to their life with this culinary constant, but could not. “Would you like one piece or two, Hon?” she continued, dropping a double-slice on the plate in front of him.

Is the future rushing towards me, or I toward it?

I push the gear lever up into third and as I let the clutch pedal slap back up, I stab at the accelerator with my other foot. The car obeys, squats down, and I am pushed back into my seat.

I sight down between the front fenders of the Porsche, which stick out and forward like horns from a steer, I draw a bead down between them at the yellow dotted line and watch the car eat them all up. I look up slightly at the quickly-approaching corner and remind myself to shift down in time before I firmly steer the car to the left and then back to the right, the ass of the thing sliding in a comforting and controlled manner, I look back up between the protruding fenders and am reminded

of A Time long ago when we used to have horses, I remember riding a horse and when it would run I would hunker down and sight the trail between her ears, and this is the same thing now. How long ago was that? Thirty years? How could that time go by so fast? The next thirty will go by even faster and it frightens me. If I even have thirty years left. One of us will not, one of the three of us has to go young, or relatively young. These are the odds. One in three? If there were any fairness in the world, it would be me to go early, to make that sacrifice so the other two can stay with their children and homes. I think this, and I realize as I type it that there is little in the way of fairness in the world, so I will probably outlive you all. But what if I do not?

This is something else I have considered quite often in the last few years, what if I were to go soon? Crushed, diseased, accidented, tired? I could easily fumble about here in the cold with my machines and scribblings right up to the very end, every day thinking that in a month or two everything will be different somehow, and waiting and scraping by and months become years and nothing is different except your children are older and so I know I must be as well. I Think about the times I actually took a deep breath and did something about it, those two times, two?
Three? Two? I had garage sales and finished what I absolutely had to, and tried to pay off the other obligations I may have had, and I sold everything and fit what was left into the one car I kept and I drove away and started new, and it WAS good. Great. Maybe the best times in my adult life. I can do that again. I can still hike and walk and sleep outside or sleep in my car, and if I write while I do it all and think of stories, it would all be worth it still. I know what does NOT make me happy, and this is looming obligation and debt and big bills to pay every month and being cold and wet.

If I were to just tell certain people: "Sorry. I am sorry. I can not do it. Life must go on." and gave their things back to them? They would maybe be angry for a short time, they have been now probably for a long time, what else is new, what else is different? I give those things back, I sell the rest, this is Spiritual Bankruptcy, I keep what fits in my car, or a truck, and I head out finally, finally finally finally on the adventure I have been craving for the last ten years. I can make money anytime I want in a matter of days. I just need to RESIST buying broken cars, getting paid for work before it is done, or living for some tomorrow I have constructed in my mind and instead live in the right now that makes that tomorrow possible.

In short, I sell everything, finish what I can or must, or what is LIFE THREATENING, give the rest back, save as much money as possible as quickly as possible, and then go out and do what will make me happy, what will actually make those few people close to me happy, do something that they can admire, do something extraordinary and positive and have happy reports to send home. Warm. Tan. As unburdened as I can ever be. It would all start right now, right this very instant, I would go out there and pick up tools and parts and get busy.

And you know what? I will.

I can still do it, and it will not matter that I have to do it alone. I am used to it, and am strong enough, and I am the one that makes it happen. Those who had a seat saved for them will find out that they do not any longer, and those who were afraid or confused would not have been able to dabble in this type of affair anyway. Their chit is lifted and placed in a different column. It is just as easy as lifting the needle on a record player and placing it in a different place. Something new is experienced, but it is still in the same format.

Paradaigm shift

You see the chariot pulled by sharp-relieved black equine forms, two of them, their necks held high and arched, one half out of phase from the other so as one head is pushed forward the others' is pulling back, great hinged levers like machines of flesh instead of steel. They have descended from the horizon beyond described in parallax style and are nearing the end of their journey, but they shall never arrive there, they will be stuck here forever in mid-stride pulling their cart in which you have imagined yourself laid out in back, being taken someplace you have seen only in your sleep.

A faceless sun beats down from the sky, the rays of which fall straight and without mercy onto the scene below, the sun is round and suggests motion, although it is also fixed in position near the top of this world, and just below the lid which has been sealed and is no longer meant to be a doorway, the one person who passed through it it's only fare, and meant to carry no one else ever again, just like the horses and chariot painted on it's porcelain hip.

Scratching

I stood there, staring at the tiny pink piece of paper in my hand. I had to remember to breathe. I looked up at the computer screen again, and then back down at the piece of paper I held in between my thumb and forefinger, hanging limp and sad like a parking ticket, like a summons to court, but it was the opposite of those things, this was a GOOD THING apparently, this thing was telling me I had just won $11,000,000.

I checked one more time: 3, 11, 18, 22, 26, 47. Three. Eleven. Eighteen. Twenty-two. Twenty-six. Forty-seven. Fuck.

I looked over my shoulder both ways to make sure I was not being watched, even though I knew I was alone. I flattened the ticket out, trying to smooth the creases out of it, it had been folded up in my wallet for a few weeks now, and I tried to make it look as clean and new as possible. I found a Zip-Loc bag and sealed it up inside. I hid it under my pillow. I thought a moment and then I rose, put on my slippers and hid it under a cushion in the couch downstairs. I started to walk away and then turned around and retrieved the thing again, brought it back upstairs with me, I put it inside the middle of a car repair manual I had been studying, and then I slid this book under my bed.

I tried to sleep. I had to make it until the morning, I could not be robbed of my book, my ticket! I thought about what would change. I would have to tell her. What would I tell her? Would I want to share? Would I? Where was she NOW if I was supposed to be the Sharing Type? Where was she? Where? Was she here for me when I needed her, last month? What had she been doing? Did she tell me the truth? Ehn, Noe. I knew this could fix everything between us, money was the issue, this was a silver bullet, but I got tense. I tensed up. I had a problem about feeling like I was being used, I had imagined I had been used by women since I had been five years old in Kindergarten. I HAD been used. Those little tramps KNEW I would bring bubble gum in for them if they pretended like they liked me. How did they learn that? Who could be trusted?

My best friend forever, Jason, could be trusted, IRONICALLY, since he was the biggest liar I knew. Seriously. This guy lied about everything, to me , to his ex wife, to his boss, didn't matter. Wasn't mean though, just a knee-jerk reaction. A Natural Liar. It was sport to him, and I understood it. He could not lie his way into my money though, I knew that much, I would give him his fair share regardless of what he said to me. Not a penny more or less. I doubted he would care much about my money anyway, really, so long as he got a couple grand, enough to buy an old broken car, pay a few bills, buy a couple dozen cartons of smokes and a new electric smokeless cigarette with all the bells and whistles. Four grand. Seven, tops. I would give him half a million though, FUCK HIM. I may try to make him jump through a hoop or two however, I am a dick like that sometimes. He probably wouldn't do it though. He has a certain degree of pride. It is surprising when it surfaces.

High Tide at Powell's

I don’t get out often. I’m always behind with work and stuff, and think that I’ll go out and do things ‘soon’, but I rarely do though. And so, it was a special occasion when she and I were clean and dressed nice, not in work clothes, and I was parking the car downtown amongst the trunks of the buildings, a lot of people still passing on the sidewalk even though it was dark and cold, after 8PM on a Thursday.

The car we were driving was not my car, it belonged to a customer, and I had just finished some major work on it and needed to take it out for a test spin, that was the occasion, or excuse for occasion, it was enough excuse for us though, and we took this opportunity to go to the big bookstore, to get out and browse, to go someplace together.

As is my custom, I got out first and quickly sauntered over to her door to let her out. I’m a gentleman like that, just ask anyone. My mother raised me right. My mother was big on Thoughtfulness. She was also big on Operant Conditioning, but that’s another story for another time. Point is, I hold doors open for people and make my bed every day.

I helped her up out of the tiny red car and locked the door behind her. My heart sped up briefly when her arm touched mine as I looked both ways and then crossed the street. I always felt great going out with her. I felt taller and stronger than I usually would. Mutual eye contact would tickle my stomach and there was often a strong flirty energy around us that was rarely acknowledged. As we got to the other side of the street, I put my hand on her back as she stepped up onto the curb. These sorts of things had been occurring more often lately, and began to feel natural. I felt really good. She squealed.

“Look at THAT!” she shouted, pointing to a large flat object leaning against the side of a dark warehouse. “It’s HUUUGE!”

It sure was. It was a cardboard box, and it WAS huge. We had been looking for one like this for a few days now, we had some bench seats to box up and ship, and a box able to accommodate them had proven to be elusive. As fortune would have it, we found it Here and Now, together. I thought this was a good sign. I think she did too.

“I can’t fucking believe this.” I said. “Look at that fucker! How are we going to get it back to the shop?”

“Can’t we fold it up?”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty big. AND, it’s the good cardboard, not that soft yellow Chinese shit. It may not fold up easily. Car’s pretty small. It DOES have a hatchback though…” I was willing to try. It seemed to make her so happy, too. Jesus. A cardboard box.

We spent the next fifteen minutes in a sort of urban-outside game of twister there on the sidewalk in front of the Auto Body shop, one of us folding the thing over, the other stepping over their arms, pinning corners down with black leather boots while the other one of us took new purchase on the cardboard and tried to fold again. Some folds were so stubborn as to require the effort of us both leaning in unison, pulling along an edge while knees were bent against the large flat surface. It took a while. There were several humorous comments offered from passer-bys. It was not easy. But the truth is, we made that box fit in the back of that Porsche. We were happy.

As I locked the car again and we made our way across the street for the third time, we bumped into each other again and leaned against each other while walking. I could not have been happier.

We discussed the box some more, what great luck it had been to find it. What we could do with it, how much it may have cost at the box store, IF we could even find one that big, we laughed, we walked, we made it to the bookstore.

We entered on the lower level and made our way through the aisles, cooking, food, vegetables and then farming. We were going to go upstairs to the geography/travel section, we were going to buy a map, but she made a noise when she saw a book on display with a bright yellow baby chick on the cover. “Peeps!” she almost yelled.

We examined the book together and she asked me again if we could have chickens. She used that word – WE – and again my heart did something unusual, something exciting. Of course, I assured her. I would, too. I wanted nothing more than to make her happy. I wanted to be involved in the process of making her smile. If it meant building a chicken coop at the shop, or raising goats, FINE. I like animals too. I do, this was not a stretch for me. We kept looking at books in this section, it seemed to be catering to the Urban Farmer, books about flower beds and rooftop gardens, and somehow at the conclusion of the next half hour we were sitting on the floor together, and discussing the possibility of living together. We had sort of joked about it before, but now it sounded real, like something that was definitely going to happen, and soon. I was in a daze. WE sat on the floor beside each other and she leaned into me again as I flipped though pages in the book she picked out, we talked about which projects we could feasibly do, and in what order we would do them. We talked about the future, a future together, a future in which we lived together and maybe more. This was real, and it was happening. Eventually we got up and went upstairs to the map section. We did not just buy the one map we came for, I spent about $60 on four maps, all places we said we wanted to go together. This was the life I would have created for myself, and these were the very first actions pushing it along and into becoming.

I would walk away from her just to turn around and walk back towards her, in order to try to imagine I was seeing her for the first time again, and it was always the same; my stomach fluttered. I felt lucky and happy. She was indeed the most beautiful person – She was. I was happy. I stood near her again to test, and she leaned in. If I touched her she did not pull away. This was becoming.

We paid for our maps as well as a couple of books about raising chickens and building greenhouses and got out of the store, headed back to the car. I knew she was happy too because she suggested we go eat something, she was hungry. WE laughed about this and then discussed options, driving around with our cardboard box blocking out any possibility of seeing out the rear window. That was fine, I was really not paying attention behind me at this time anyway. WE decided on a place to go eat, a cozy place, a nice place, and we stayed there longer than we usually go places together, I know we looked good together, and I could see people admiring us from other tables in the room.

We were both excited about this looming future and our maps and our new box. We were going to get paid the next day for the repair job (which was successful, by the way) and things were looking better than they usually did, even. I did not want to go, but it was getting late, nearing midnight, and we had to work the next day.

I brought her back to her car and walked her to the door of it, held it open for her as she got in, gave her a hug, closed the door and she actually sat there in her seat and looked at me through the closed window for a few seconds before starting the engine. That was unusual. Her gaze does not often linger. She had not proven to be a sentimental person. Before she pulled away, she put her window down and said to me

“That was pretty great, finding that box like that. Don’t you think?” and before I could say anything she put it in gear and drove away, me standing there watching her red taillights disappear as she drove down the hill.

We All Feel The Same

  The racists, the Jihadists, the Hipsters,  your parents, your children, your brothers and sisters even though you may argue with them or disagree, we all feel like we are right, EVERYONE of us feel we are reasonable people.   EVERYONE of us feel like we are right.     Opposing, conflicting ideas? Borne from the same perspective, that they are righteous and reasonable.  You do.   I do.   I think we would argue though, put in a space for even a short time, being ourselves,  the abortionists, the antis,  Republicans and Democrats,  Jews and Arabs - They all feel right.   DO YOU HEAR ME AT ALL??  There is no 'Right'.   Not even within perspective, not even when adjusted for environment,  all there is is Powers That Be and Law and Popular Opinion, and Popular Opinion is no real barometer,  think NAZIs,  or they were right, they are still, who are you to say they are not?    Your mind and beliefs grew out of your own certain circumstances, and you can not blame anyone else for developing within different ones. 

         This is important.    You should be paying attention. 

Love the Way You Lie (1:52 AM)

  iReturn.    iAmBack.  

   I pull in and shut the engine off.   The stereo still plays and I let the song finish before turning the key all the way to the left, killing all circuits.  I sit there for a minute and listen to the tick-tick-ticking of the exhaust cooling off.   I brace myself.   I pull the door release, open the door, and pull myself up and out.

   I stand upright beside the car and stretch out as tall as I can be and make my back pop.   I look around inside here, I consider myself lucky for the fiftieth time in the last year and the first time in the last five months.   I have to remember, I am in control of all of this, and despite whatever elements are missing in my life, there are quite a few that I would want, quite a few that are unique and desirable, and they are not here by accident, I made them happen, I made them real.   There are things you do not know about now, or never knew about, or never had the time to know about.    Do you even know which 'you' You are?   Do you know, does the Real You know?   Is there a connection through all of this?  There is.  Whether or not You believe it or ever recognized it.   There is something, until one of us is gone.

   I see you for the first time again:  It was me who walked in and not you.   You slid over to my side of the table early on.    You touched my arm often, and it felt right, I mean, it felt RIGHT for the last time that I can remember, I often try to make these things feel right even when they do not, I want it so badly, I need an audience like She said I do, I want a close captive audience, I want to feel important and needed and I felt like we belonged together, and I was not nervous to tell you so, and I believed you when you told me the same.   You were beautiful and I loved to stare in your eyes even if it was just an act for you,  and we left and sat out in my car and made out for a few hours before heading to your house to make out more until the sun came up and I had to drive home, I had to open up and work having slept not the night before, and I was SO EXCITED!    I think that was the last time, I think you were the last one.   I also think with the expiration of this particular fantasy died my ability to believe any of it was possible anymore, now I do not trust myself or anyone else enough, I have become stale and stuck and broken.

    But I have other virtues!   I do!   I have become softer, and I do not just mean I got fat.  I am easier, I am capable of not arguing, I just get too comfortable and think I am being funny.

   I am tired now, it is like those other times I type when I should not.

   Her:     Not even important.   I was confused.   You did not figure into those days.  A Blip, a sneeze, a tiny flying insect.  With the wave of a hand the past swallows her whole.    Like pushing a button.  FF, RW ?   I want to push REC.    I'll say it to you again; I want to push REC.  I would push many buttons to make the present crystallize as it has been visioned.  I would shout out get ready! I would say to you say cheese, I would say to you here we go!  There are tools, and they are real.  The door squeezes shut in the jamb, but there is still enough room left, there has to be, there is no other option.