Boston Chronicles

Fiction

2008-07-20T14:10:00.004-04:00

I've been overwhelmed with more than a few personal projects in the last few weeks that have seriously hindered my ability to sit down and get some writing done. As of today, I've got 6k or so worth of stories that are begging to be polished and published but [shrug] I just don't have the time. I came across a story I began a number of years ago and, after a few touch-ups, decided I may as well share it. Drop a comment after you've had a good look at it - I'd love to know what you think. In the meantime, there's a beer to my left that's getting warmer all the time. I'll be back in a few days with a few more stories to share.

Thanks for stopping by -- D

[Fiction]

Pete Cook sat in his basement with the phone to his ear. His eyes, heavy and wet in their sockets, were fixed on nothing in particular. His left hand rested on the top of his head, fingers stuffed in a mass of dark brown hair giving him the look of a man who was in shock. And he had been shocked a minute ago. Topher Elliot had been on the other end when he had finally picked up the phone.

Before the call, he had been reading something – something really good actually. It was a letter from Liz…. an “I want you back – I need you back”, letter. He’d been secretly hoping to hear from her – anything really – for 4 months now. They had damn near been engaged when she had ripped out his heart and wiped her ass with it. Her name had been “whore” since then. But he did miss her… damn it he missed everything about her.

The reply letter came easily enough. It was the editing that was the trouble. The phone’s persistent ringing went unnoticed for damn near a full minute before he was startled from his fantasy and lunged to answer the phone. Topher’s voice had come through on the other end and he’d damn near jumped out of his seat. “Topher?! – Holy shit, man, how the hell are ya?”, he said – a smile pulling determinately at the corners of his mouth. 6 years of silence dropped away and there had been laughing and jabbing and how-the-fuck-are-ya’s.

But, despite all this, Pete’s guts started going cold. There was never any mistaking that feeling. Something was wrong. Something (Ben) had happened. Before he could even find a way to ask, Topher had started talking. Topher (the Terminator) talked and Pete slowly began crumbling. He suddenly wanted nothing to do with the phone or Topher. His tongue was a heavy wet thing that wouldn’t cooperate. Distantly, he was aware that he was going to (cry) need to sit down. Topher talked more and Pete listened more. After an eternity, he heard himself say goodbye and he hung up the phone – his mind flayed, his eyes locked in a flat stare. For a while, nothing seemed to happen – no thoughts, no words, no feeling, no time. And then, before he was even aware he had done it, he was on his feet… and packing.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Topher stood silently in the kitchen. His fingers were splayed on the countertop and he considered them for a while, his head cocked to one side. There had been a moment, when he was listening to the voice on the other end of the phone, that he thought he’d break down. He’d made it through the entire conversation without incident and, much like any man with brutal (suppression of) control of his emotions, he thought over what he had just heard. Ben was dead. He knew that much. Ben, impossibly young Ben, was gone.

He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. Part of him figured that he’d imagined the whole phone call. Another part of him kept him waiting in the kitchen, leaning over the kitchen counter, his arms like hollow tubes. That part of him expected the phone to ring again, an apologetic voice on the other line explaining it all away.

“I’m so sorry – see I had the wrong number…” “Good news! – he’s back! – Ben is back and he wants you to come down… he can have visitors in a few days and…”

He kept expecting to wake up. The idea of it all, the waking up, sounded stupid to him – weak. Ben was dead. He knew that. Ben, Benny S, Doctor BS, Ben… he was dead. He stood there being careful to breathe, careful to keep control, and oh so careful not to think too much. His face was heavy with concentration, blinking only occasionally with slow deliberate sweeps of his eye-lids. He barely heard his wife come in the kitchen else he would have straightened up – straightened up and, by God, gotten himself together. But he was only vaguely aware of someone coming into the kitchen until her slender arms wrapped around his waist. The light scent of her settled in his nostrils as she pressed in close to him and set a feather weighted kiss on the back of his neck. “Hey Toffee-lover”.

That was all it took.

Somewhere inside him the dam broke and his arms, his legs, became useless. He turned into her as he felt himself collapsing and held onto her. He gave himself over to cold clotted sorrow as tears helplessly washed over him. “Ben!! Oh God – Ben’s gone… Ben!!!”

He wasn’t able to get up for sometime.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Robbie Hanlon was tired. Hell he was fucking exhausted. Shlumping into his tiny apartment, he tossed his keys on a kitchen counter that had seen nothing more than frozen dinners, cheap wine, and the occasional backseat of some scandalous barfly. He surveyed his place with weary eyes. Damn we he ever dog-tired. He made his way over to the answering machine near his sagging recliner and punched play with a knotted knuckle.

“You have… FOUR new MESSAGES – beep!”

Trudging over to the fridge, he was not at all (not in the least baby) surprised to hear his mom’s voice coming through in metallic relief on the machine. He had long learned to ignore her seemingly sympathetic, always reprimanding, guilt trip of a voice. It made life much easier. He grabbed a beer and plodded back to the beat up chair while she droned on about his urgent need for

“… a change of scenery, sweetheart. It did a world of good for your sister. I mean, by god, it’s time you did something else with your life, hon. Do you know what it’s like for me? When people ask me what my son is up to? God forgive me but I lie… I have to lie, sweetie. What mother could ever be proud of a son that does what you do? It’s honest work, I know that, but You! Honey you weren’t meant for this. You did so well in high school honey – so well – and… well all I’m saying is that you should be farther along than you are now. Farther along… I mean in a completely different place, Robbie. Goodness knows your father and I did all we could to make sure…”

He didn’t even hear that much though she talked until the machine mercifully cut her off. He collapsed into the chair and drained half of the beer. One hand went automatically to the remote control and the TV popped on and faded in. Mark’s voice came on the answering machine and Robbie nearly choked on his beer. “Mark! Sonofabitch!” he said smiling. He leaned back and listened intently, suddenly caught in a tidal wave of memories. Then he heard the words. “Ben… he wants all of us to… Christ…”

Mark wept inside the answering machine and Robbie closed his eyes. “Shit”, he bleated, and chocked back inevitable tears. He would deal with it in the morning. Sure thing, in the morning. Right now, he just didn’t have time for this. Man was he ever tired of this shit.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Saturdays were the best days and this one proved no different. Anna Raven Best had something to show her daddy. Something wonderful! She had been practicing how to cart-wheel forever and she finally did one – a good one this time. Her brother never got too excited when she learned a new trick – he was too little - but daddy always did and this trick was even better than anything she had ever tried. This one was really REALLY good. She gathered herself up from a previous fall and bang-ran-tumbled into the house. She knew running wasn’t allowed “…at all EVER in the house, little girl!” but this was important! She might forget and then she’d have to learn it all over again. That would take forever and she certainly didn’t have that kind of time on her hands. That established, she rocketed through the house leaving tacky handprints in her wake.

“Daaaaddy! – Daddy come look! I have to show you something… DADDY!!”

She tore through the house breathing in great gulps of hair, her face bright with a panicked blush. Heading straight for the living room (Daddy almost always was in the living room) she let out another volley of excited screams.

“Daddy!! Daddy hurry up and look! I want to show you… I want to show you my car-wheels!!”

Rounding the corner, she met eyes with her father and slowed down dramatically moving toward him on little cat’s feet. She tried and failed to read the “why” in his face and finding no answer hurt her even more. He stared at her with sunken brown eyes in a face heavy with muscle and skin, a phone clutched absently in his right hand. “C’mere Princess”, he called. She picked up speed again and launched herself into her daddy’s lap. She was crying long before he could say anything. Daddy was sad. She could feel it. Her arms flung themselves around his neck and she kissed him behind his ear. “Don’t be sad, daddy”. Mark’s big arms pulled the little girl closer and his tears came slowly and silently. The Good Doctor was dead.

Something inside him felt cold and broken. The whole of him felt useless – suddenly he, BattleCat, felt useless – just like that. The little girl in his arms wriggled closer and he held onto her. She mattered more now than she ever had. He let himself cry a while longer and then held her back at arms length. She wriggled forward again and kissed him once enthusiastically on the nose. “I don’t want you to be sad”.

He considered her dirty tear-streaked face and smiled, sweeping her brown locks from her face. “Thank you for that kiss, Anna-Ray. I’m not sad anymore”. A tiny pink hand reached up and brushed away his tears. “I love you, poppa”

“Love you too, Sweet Pea”

With that, he set her down so she could show him her new trick.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Tyler had spent most of the afternoon in shock. For him, that meant a sort of suspension of thought – a dazed sort of wandering. He could eat all right and had been able to carry on well enough after he’d received the news. Yet his emotions had dwindled down to a “yes” or “no” consistency.

He was long past crying. That morning, after the phone call, he’d been a weeping dead man seated on the couch. His heart had broken and he knew it. There had been nothing left to do but cry at that point, and he knew that also. But now hours had past, and he was again, seated by the phone. His mind spun maddeningly and it was all he could do to hold on. He had to call them… had too. Yet each reach toward the phone brought back the wretched hollow feeling. Ben was gone.

Blindly, he got up to do something – anything. He knew he was just stalling, that he should just go ahead and make the calls. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that just yet. He needed to think, damn it. He shortly found himself walking toward the mailbox at the end of his driveway. The sun hit (Just right Ty, when it hits you like that you just know that…) him all over all at once and he started to feel somewhat better. By the time he’d reached the mailbox, he was almost sane again. He reached in, grabbed the pile of mail, and started toward the house, leafing through the letters. Suddenly, he was stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes were stuck on the letter, a letter from a ghost it now seemed, regardless of the postmarking. He stood there, ignoring the sun and the pavement beneath his feet. “You know what it is without even opening it, don’tcha Tyler? – That’s right… it’s the plan, baby – one hell of a plan…”

He’d never remember how he made it back into the house or how he found himself back at the couch by the phone… and smiling – almost smiling. He would remember, however, that after he’d seen that letter, he had no problem whatsoever picking up the phone.

Blood: Alpha

2008-07-14T18:05:00.004-04:00

His name is Danny Dan, the Master Plan
They call him “Solid Gold Gigolo”

-- Brat Pak, Traditional Childhood Song

I met my older brother in the winter of 1980, two days after I was born. At the time, I didn’t pay him much attention. I’d had a long day. My mother, no doubt, led him into the room where I slept and introduced us. Knowing my brother, he likely hung around for a while, curious, investigating the newcomer who would, for a time, steal away his mother’s attention. I would have said hello but, as I said, I was in no mood. My brother likely understood and was kind enough to wait a few years until I wrapped my head around the English language. Even before I could walk, before I uttered a single word, we were best friends. We still are. No one on earth knows me better than my brother.

My brother is a laid back mechanic, worried for nothing, rushed for nothing. Life seems to move in calm, comfortable slow motion for him, even when, all around him, there is chaos. I’ve never seen my brother panic. He is possessed of common sense and wisdom beyond his years, haphazardly applied with youthful exuberance. He wields slang with the practiced ease of a seasoned veteran; adapting the language for his own devices. At times, I can hardly understand a word of what he’s saying. Still, at the drop of a hat, he can braid up his tongue and speak the King’s English just as clearly as you please. In that way, my brother is a chameleon.

My brother is also quite the snappy dresser. Fully half of what I wore in college was hand-me-downs from my brother. Most casual wear would last a month or so before it fell into my hands; a tiny stain here, a little tear there, a bit of fading – that’s all it took. Whether it fit or not, I wore what (I stole) he gave me with pride – If Danny thought it was cool, who was I to question it?

My brother is much cooler than I am. We both know this. It is only an observable fact. It does not matter much. We hardly talk about it.

He languishes in casual blindness, cutoff from knowing the things that make him great. In many ways, that makes him the most unpretentious, unassuming person I have ever known. My brother does not brag… often. He has eyes that see the good and great in everyone, even his enemies, and knows enough to learn from those who touch his life.

I, on the other hand, am none of these things. I am not laid back. I cannot dress well. My tongue can only make use of practiced formal sounds. I am no chameleon. I am not cool. I am not Daniel.

For years, I had a recurring nightmare about a blood thirsty Viking named Martex. The dream was always the same; I’d awake in bed to the sound of something gargantuan running up the stairs to find me, shouting at the top of its lungs. And, each time, my brother would leap out of bed before I could make a move, grab a sword from the closet, and rush into the hallway to face the Viking. I only know he’s a Viking because it was my dream – I never actually saw the monster. My brother, though, whipped him every single time. For many years, I believed that to be the best way of describing our relationship. My brother is my hero. “We both can’t be scared at the same time”, he says. That’s my brother.

I’ve always thought of him as much braver and smarter than I was and spent a good deal of time trying to make up for the year-long head start he had. I was always jealous of my brother’s bravery and no nonsense way of handling things. I mentioned this to him a while ago. He smiled.

“Because of you, I’ll never run away from a fight in my life. Don’t you remember?”

I shrugged. He reminded me.

When we were much younger, we walked to and from school together. One day, we found ourselves on the wide-sweeping radar of a group of bullies. My brother ran. “I got about a block a way before I realized you weren’t running with me”, he said. “I looked back and you were by yourself. There were about four of them and all of them were bigger than you. And you were staring them down.”

Seeing this, my brother ran back and stood beside me. The bullies talked a lot of trash but not one of them laid a hand on us. Eventually, they went away and we went home completely unharmed.

“After seeing that, I never ran away from a fight again”, my brother said. “I had no excuse.”

My brother is my mirror. When I forget myself, he reminds me. He knows what drives me, which sweet and savory things can flare my nostrils and send me plunging into the woods and which I will ignore. He reads the truths and yearnings tattooed on my skin and translates them. I cannot read them without him. I wouldn’t want to. Over the years, I’ve come to understand and appreciate him for the boy he was and the man he has become.

He helped me to realize that I am not the second child as much as I am the first me. I am my own alpha. I am worthy unto myself, a man to be counted and qualified apart from all his successes and failures.

I’ve learned what stirs my blood and how to get the best of it. I’ve learned to embrace my fears and face them head on. I’ve learned when to quit. I’ve learned that sometimes apologies come before understanding. I’ve learned how to make friends and how to keep them. And I’ve learned that one doesn’t wear print with stripes – ever.

He is the most loyal man I have ever met and, from that, I’ve learned to be loyal to myself. I am proud to be his brother and proud to have him as my best friend.

Hell Belly

2008-07-06T17:14:00.005-04:00

"Never call a stomach a tummy without good reason"
- Strunk & White, The Elements of Style

I rolled over in bed for the thousandth time, again promising myself that I'd get up and go to the bathroom. My back muscles clenched and unclenched like a fist causing sympathetic quivering in my feet. I had slept in fits and starts throughout the night and my body had had enough. Sharp pain flashed through my guts like summer lightening. It was time to get up whether I liked it or not. The last thing I wanted to do was move.

I couldn't tell what time it was. My vision was a little blurry and no amount of rubbing my eyes or waiting would fix it. The clock across the room had been replaced by brownish tan blob, the nearby mirror, a silver stain. I wasn't nauseas yet and I counted that as a blessing. No matter what ended up happening, I knew there was very little chance of me going to work that day. I reached for my phone to make the call.

I was able to roll out of bed on my third attempt. My feet hit the floor like expired meat. Stabbing pain tore through my back and belly, forcing my eyes shut. The bathroom may as well have been light-years away. My stomach grumbled with churning liquid anger. Gas forced itself out in loud and uncomfortable fits. The nausea I'd been waiting for finally kicked in. I hadn't even stood up yet.

The bathroom was only a few feet down the hall yet I was sweating by the time I reached the door. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the pain, and sat down to do my business. It was much worse this time. I cried out and readjusted myself on the bowl. By no means was I comfortable but that was irrelevant. I had made it. I pulled a book from the stash I keep under the sink and settled in.

After sitting there for an hour, my stomach felt no better. I stood a little and looked into the bowl. It was empty. I wasn't all that surprised. I put away the book and went back to my room figuring I could at least sleep there. Horribly alien sounds of liquid burbling came from my belly as soon as I lay down. "I don't like you either", I replied and closed my eyes against a new wave of nausea. My alarm went off and I threw my arm around trying to find the snooze button. Eventually, I rolled over my knife belly and reached for the clock. I caught a glimpse of the time just before I vomited into the trash can beside my bed.

It was 7:00 in the morning.

-----

Variations on the above scenario played out for years. My first doctor shrugged and attributed it to stress. His instructions were simple – more sleep, more water, more exercise. He wouldn't listen when I told her that none of those things were working. "It's only stress – see a therapist". Repeated phone calls and visits got me no closer to an answer. On the last visit, he was visibly upset, shaking his head and avoiding my gaze. "I'm not sure what you want me to do", he said.

"Nothing", I said and walked out the door. I never stepped foot in his office again.

I decided to take control of the situation myself. For a few months, I collected as much information as I could on my symptoms, educating myself on my malfunctioning guts. I spoke to medical professionals, chatted on line and read essays and stories by people with similar disorders. I went to a few doctors and made my case for a few conditions I'd narrowed it down to. They told me it could be any one of the things I'd determined – they were all very similar – but that it didn't matter. There was no cure. I'd be the way that I was for the rest of my life. One doctor in particular wasted no time getting to the point. "You'll have to deal with this for the rest of your life. Find a good fiber supplement and stick with it". I gave him the finger and stormed out.

For about a year, I went through a series of doctors who all guessed different things; cancer, gluten allergy, AIDS. Those tests all came back negative. More than a few doctors suggested that the condition was all in my head. With one doctor in particular, I suggested that it might be Chron's Disease, a gastrointestinal disorder. I asked for more information and the possibility of this being the answer I was looking for. He dismissed the idea. "You know, it's pretty rare. You're a healthy young man. It's probably just stress. Drink more water and stay active. You might also want to see a therapist." He hadn't performed a single test. I never went back.

I was getting worse. Nothing any of these doctors had to offer was of any help. The stress of being sick and getting worse began taking its toll. I lost weight. I hardly slept. My personality began to change. Little things that normally went unnoticed began to set me off. Within a short period of time, I became deeply depressed, convinced that I had some rare incurable disease. I was shocked at how cavalier the doctors were about my condition. I started thinking that maybe it was psychosomatic, that my first doctor had been right. I saw a therapist for a time and it changed nothing. The only major stress in my life was this disease. I was tired of running from doctor to doctor and not coming up with any answers. I just wanted to get well. Just when all hope was lost, a friend familiar with my situation suggested I try a gastroenterologist his girlfriend had been seeing. She had a similar problem and Dr. John had set her to rights in a matter of weeks. I took a chance and made the call.

Dr. John's office told me that I needed a referral from a primary care doctor before I could be seen. Having left a number of them over the course of the last year, I said "Send me to one – anyone. I don't care who." I was refered to Dr. Tim, a colleague of Dr. John. I made an appointment that same hour.

I walked in to Dr. Tim's office, pissed. My stomach was all knots and knives as I sat in the waiting room, preparing for a fight. The nurse showed me into the room and took my vitals. "What are you all jazzed up for today?" she asked. I pointed at my guts. "Feels like I swallowed a handful of nails. This guy is going to help me sort of my day".

Dr. Tim walked in and I stood up to shake his hand. "Hi I'm Dr. Tim. What's going on?" I pounced.

"You're the fifth doctor I've been to this year – at least the fifth. For the next little while, I'm going to talk and you're going to listen. I need you to know everything that's already been done so that you don't go duplicating what the other doctors have done. I work out. I eat right. I do not do drugs. And I don't like repeating myself. This has been hell on me for the last few years and all I want right now is to get well. If you can't help me or can't figure this out or don't like my attitude, let me know so I can leave. I'm out of patience."

He blinked.

I went through the last few years of my life from before the pain began up to the last doctor who dismissed me. Dr. Tim sat there with his chin in his hands, listening.

"I need you to understand that I can't leave here without and answer. I won't. Somebody has got to help me."

"Ok,", he said. During the course of my rambling, he'd taken a seat, eyeing me with patient, comfortable interest. He paused a beat or two after I finished and rose to his feet, his eyes dark with deep thought. "When's the last time you had a physical?"

It'd been at least two years. I stood there, flabbergasted. It'd never even occurred to me or any of the many doctors I'd seen to consider something so simple. In my search for answers, I had gotten to used to dismissive diagnosis and clumsy excuses. Most of the offices were only interested in getting me out as fast as they could. "I've got other patients", one doctor had said. "I can't answer all of your questions".

Dr. Tim smiled. I could only stand there, stupefied and on the verge of tears. "Don't misunderstand me", he said. "A physical might give us an answer. It might not. But it's a place to start. Don't sweat it. You and I are going to get to the bottom of this." He smiled again, walking over to shake my hand. I was there for over an hour.

Dr. Tim eventually referred me to Dr, John – a gastroenterologist who worked in the same building just three floors up. "Come back and see me if it doesn't work out with Dr. John and we'll send you to someone else", he said. We high-fived before I left. It seemed appropriate.

Dr. John was a short stocky man with a bristly mustache and a smart haircut. He listened to me ramble about the specifics of my problem and finally gave my trouble a name – IBS. "There is no cure", he said. I was given a prescription for something that would slow the spasms and ease the pain and sent out the door. I researched the syndrome when I got home. There are no known causes and no known cures. I thought of a lifetime of pain versus pills. I thought of waking up every morning and laying down every night in pain. I thought of all the things I loved and loved to do and how they would be changed, how I'd have to compensate for this disorder for the rest of my life. It wasn't fair. It was too much. I cried.

It took a while to come to terms with what was happening to me. For a few months, I sorted through a lot of useless complaining and grumbling, hoping that, somehow, my doctor had been wrong, that there was some kind of pill or surgery that would make it all go away. Eventually, I got over the useless grumpy self-pity and accepted my fate. I took all the research I done along with the advice from my two new doctors and started making some changes.

Some of my new rules for food are as follows:

No solid chocolate
No coffee
No onions
No fried foods
No fatty foods
No dairy [especially, no dairy (lactose intolerance)
No red meat
No spicy food
No salty food
No processed foods
Minimal sugar intake

In short, if it tastes good, I can't eat it. In addition to the above, there are a few "Watch Foods":

Apples (and apple juice)
Bananas
White bread
Olives
Peanuts

These may set me off. They may not. There's really no way of knowing. I've eaten apples and had no reaction for months only to be suddenly crippled by them. Ditto on all the above foods. Currently, bananas and apples can put me out of commission for a day or two. Less than a week ago, I ate 2-3 a day and had no reaction. It's a gamble.

Everyone experiences it somewhat differently. Some foods like processed junk foods and greasy food are more likely than not to cause trouble. Others, though, may do absolutely nothing. Alcohol should be on the list with coffee but, for me, it causes no reaction. In fact, a beer or two counteracts what an apple or two does to me. The only way to get a somewhat reliable list of what one can and can't eat is to experiment.

For two years or so I experimented with all my favorite foods. Many of them did not make the cut. I more or less had to say goodbye to chocolate, cheese, coffee, and all things spicy. For a few years, I minimized the bad foods and maximized the good foods. I kept in touch with my doctors, keep reading up on my condition, and continued working out, staying hydrated, and getting as much rest as I could. I even added a fiber supplement to my diet, just to keep things nice and regular. Before too long, I felt almost normal again. I could even have small amounts of the no-no foods with little to no consequences. Life was good again. Granted, flare ups still occur no matter how well I behave and that's unavoidable. Still, it's better than feeling like I'm skewered through the guts 24/7. It's been a trial getting used to the changes but I can't complain. It could be much worse.

I consider all the things I've endured with regards to my hell belly as a valuable lesson learned. None of my doctors were willing to take my health all that seriously until I was. I learned to put myself in the drivers seat by doing my homework, asking questions, and demanding answer when I needed them. I learned that all doctors aren't created equal – it took me a good while to find a few that fit my needs. I also learned that being sick isn't the end of the world. Life goes on. I'm glad I was able to reign my monster belly in before it ran away with me.

For more information on IBS, visit:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irritable_bowel_syndrome
http://digestive.niddk.nih.gov/ddiseases/pubs/ibs/

The Scribble Crush

2008-07-01T16:21:00.009-04:00

RealLife Interlude #23: Much of my time in the last three or so months has been occupied with writing – lots and lots of writing – much of it concerning stories from my not-so-recent past. On average, I'm writing about six or so hours a day. Certainly, there are worse ways to while away the hours. It has, however, taken me away from much of the socializing I used to do. And by "much" I mean "just about all". Whereas three months ago I would be out nearly every night chumming it up with pals, these days I'm out one night a week at best. I spend much of my free time at the pub writing and drinking and chewing my nails – I'm there (here) now, in fact. The locals still eye my suspiciously, lowering their voices when I walk in. And that's a large part of the reason I come here – hardly anyone talks with me and I can be alone with my thoughts. They give me space and I give them something to gossip about. We make each other happy.

This marks my 15^th post since One Beer went up in early May and my 181^st post since this blog began in 2004. I've filled legal pads and notebooks with short stories, observations, and confessions, few of which will actually show up here. Total word count for the last 90 days or so has just topped 160,000. My hands hurt.

For those of you keeping track, the "Coming Soon" list is as follows:

Angry White Boy
D.O.G.
I Know Kung-Fu
Cuffed
Ginka!
Mr. Robin's Radio
The Speed of Sound
Tagging
Lucy Maldonado Ain't Got No Chest
I hope he DIES!
Tummy
Braver
Etcher (Fiction)
Blood (incl. Alpha, Forehead Bitter, and Deek the Freak)

I'm on my 7^th pen since July. Yup – my hands hurt pretty good.

Aside from a few caveats here and there, it's been quite a while since I've posted anything about my current goins-on. Likely, that will continue to be the trend (much to the delight of all my lady fans). More than a few good things are in the works, the least of which isn't a few whispers of opportunity to see this drivel "posted" elsewhere. Keep the faith, people. I'm certainly doing my best to do so. More on that later.

In the meantime, feel free to share any of the posts that tickle your fancy. I've enabled anonymous posting so feel free to speak your mind if you love/hate a piece.

As always, thanks for reading. I go to make peace with a beer and an egg salad sandwich. The belly, she is not happy with Drew.

DKB

A Certain Saturday

2008-06-29T12:04:00.003-04:00

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
- T.S. Eliot The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (excerpt)

My earliest memory of my father is of him singing. I used to think he sounded exactly like Stevie Wonder and would brag about him to my friends. On weekends, we’d go fishing. He’d wake us at the crack of dawn and we’d creep around in the early twilight so as not wake my mother. He was my favorite person. I loved my father dearly and wanted to be just like him. That’s all I remember of those days.

As a man, I haven’t often talked about my father because I haven’t had much to say. I hardly know him. Nearly everything that I know about my father, I’ve had to learn secondhand. Likewise, I am a foreign to my father – he knows little about me that he hasn’t learned by way of someone else. For most of my life, we’ve maintained a relationship primarily consisting of encounters by proxy. That relationship (if one could call it that) continues to this day. It’s been my only real connection to him for the better part of the last twenty years.

This is what I know: My father is exceptionally intelligent, quick witted, affable, and handsome with an enviable ear for music. It is difficult not to like him immediately. No matter the occasion, he wears a knowing smile. “Get me on the cheap while you can”, it says “I’m destined for bigger and better things”. He is a man of preternatural confidence and conviction and, at times, some are put off by his cocky attitude. To them, it’s as if he believes he could ascend at a moment’s notice, taking with him those lucky enough to be caught in his wake. I’m told by those who know my father that, after speaking with him for a few moments, such an event seemed inevitable.
He and my mother married in the summer of 1978. To his credit, he managed to woo and capture the only woman on earth capable of keeping him grounded. I asked my father why he married.

“I met your mother in [pause] 1975. We were members of an apostolic church and… see there were certain expectations at the time. Dating had a purpose. You couldn’t just date someone – not without eventually declaring your intentions to marry her”.

I asked my mother the same question. “I was in love with him,” she said.

By 1986, my parents’ marriage had ended.

In the aftermath, my father made it clear that he was committed to being involved in our lives. Saturdays would be our day. I remember the look in his eyes and the assurance I felt when he made that promise. In the moment wherein I embraced my father’s word, Saturday was an absolute certainty.

Over the years, though, the strength of that promise faded and we saw less and less of one another. More often than not, something would come up – the car, the girlfriend, the weather – always at the last minute and always out of his hands. And, of course, I would understand – tomorrow, next weekend, we’ll get together then, sure dad. I became a liar. I’d laugh as if nothing was wrong. “No worries, dad! Next weekend for sure!”

It was like swallowing sand.

To hear him say it, Saturday was not a hope, it was a certainty. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted from my father – something certain. To be sure, there were many Saturdays where he kept his word and showed up. But there was no telling when that would happen. Countless afternoons I spent waiting on the steps of our home for a man that wasn’t coming. He made himself so unreliable that his word lost all meaning. I couldn’t trust him.

By 1990, I hated Saturdays. I hated his lies. I hated feeling like the inconvenient option. I grew to hate the mention of his name. He became “That Man They Call My Father”. Still, I pursued him, desperate to be loved by him.

By the time I got to college, I had given up on my father. I stopped chasing after his affections and made myself unavailable when he tried to reach me. We only talked when it was necessary, which was rare. I came to understand that the father that I missed, the one I loved and longed for, was gone. And this strange man, this liar, had taken him from me. It wasn’t long before it stopped occurring to me to miss him. By the time I left college, we were father and son by blood alone.

My father, improbable with distance and uncertainty, is still my father. By no means does this credit him with any measure of immutable honor nor does it obligate me in any way, yet the distinction is not entirely moot. He is the only person with the power give me what I’ve wanted most – my father’s love.

I have forgiven him. Of that, I am certain. Mom said, “Forgiveness doesn’t free the people that wrong you. Forgiveness frees you” and I resisted. I grappled with forgiveness for a long time before I was able to free myself from the hate and the anger I’d been living with for twenty years. Here, on the other side of things, I can honestly say that I do not hate my father. But, now that I’ve settled that, I don’t know how I feel. Now that the anger is gone, I have no idea how to relate to the man they call my father.

I always thought that forgiving my father and coming to terms with all the pain and disappointment would have a more concrete end, that there would be some great revelation or resolution. But that hasn’t happened. Instead, I’ve exchanged the waiting and wanting for a strange and selfish peace.

Maybe, in some certain future, we will resolve this – maybe not. I’m sure if that’s even a possibility. In the interim, though, I have found and forgiven myself. And it’s turned out to be all I ever needed.

Mercy!

2008-06-19T22:12:00.016-04:00

Caveat #212: I decided that this story hadn’t done anyone much good- my self included –sitting in my mental secret stash collecting dust for the last seven years. Mom says ”Some things are meant for you and only you” and I’ve come to agree with that. Mom also says “Tell the truth and shame the devil”. At least, she used to.

This is a love story. Sorry, guys.

Feel free to post comments. It’s what all the cool kids are doing.

Thanks for reading.

D

* * * * *

Mercy!

"Be the change you want to see in the world”
- M. Ghandi, Humanitarian

February, 2001. Toronto, ON – Canada.

It was cold.

I wandered the streets of Toronto shivering, my hands stuffed in my pockets of my jeans. I had on gloves but they were useless. The cold reached my hands through the pockets and the gloves, defying even the deep warmth of my thighs.

I’d been lost for a half hour or better since I’d separated from my friends. They’d headed over to a strip club to ogle the gals of the great white north. I opted to take a stroll instead, not all that interested in the XXX show. Ten minutes later, I had lost sight of the few landmarks I could have used to navigate home. My cell phone was dead, I’d forgotten the name of our hotel, and just about every business was closed. I was on my own.

An hour or so into my meandering, I spotted two men exiting a bar. I approached and asked them for directions figuring that they just had to be local. Turns out that one was mute and the other only spoke French. Both were dog-sloppy drunk. I moved on.

Further down the road, I spied an internet café with its lights still on. The Korean woman inside spoke perfect English but had never heard of any of the landmarks I described. I moved on.

I walked for another hour or so before I came upon a large and expensive looking hotel. It was too late and too cold for any doorman to be outside but I figured that someone inside might be able to help me. I began stomping the muck and snow off my boots, preparing to head inside, nearly giddy at the prospect of warmth. I happened to look across the street while I was doing this dance and spied a trio of stone benches situated under a cluster of large maple trees about a block away. On the middle bench was something that looked like it could be human. I squinted as a blast of cold air blew through me. Being in no particular rush, I decided to investigate.

“It” turned out to be a “he”. A homeless man lay curled into a ball on the bench. He was dressed in dark brown pants, a thin tan jacket, and a nappy wool cap. The sneakers on his feet were old and worn. He wasn’t moving at all. There were no footprints in the snow around him. He’d been there for quite some time.

By then, I was ready to head back to the hotel. I stood there for a minute or so shivering, before I turned and walked away, looking back every so often at the homeless man. It was hard to imagine how cold he must have been. I had only been outside for an hour or so dressed in weather appropriate clothing and could hardly feel my hands and feet. There was no telling how long he’d been out there on that frozen bench. I stopped walked and looked back again. He was still there lying motionless under a pile of newspapers. It occurred to me, then, that he hadn’t moved since I’d first noticed him. The wind tore into me, mocking my winter gear and I wondered if the man was still alive. Still, I turned and continued walking in the opposite direction. It was a tough thing to witness but I wouldn’t let myself be reeled in. I had to get home.

I got about a few steps from salvation before I had to turn again and look. He still hadn’t moved. I stood there, chewing my lip, trying to decide what to do. He shouldn’t be out there. No one should. For the second time, I wondered if he was alive. Figuring that I had to at least check on him, I reversed course and headed back.

I walked back to the benches and stopped about ten feet from the body on the bench. Clearing my throat I called out to the pile.

“Excuse me. Hello?”

Nothing.

I tried again, this time much louder. “Are you OK?”

Still nothing.

I was looking at a dead body. A biting wind howled through me and the benches, threatening to snatch the newspapers off of the corpse. It was the loneliest thing I’d ever seen. I prayed then, feeling selfish and desperate. He couldn’t be dead. I wouldn’t let him be. I cried out at the top of my lungs, frozen and afraid.

“HELLO!” My hands curled into useless fists in my pockets. He was dead. I looked around for help that wasn’t there before I gave up. There wasn’t a thing that could be done. I’d have to call the police from the hotel. I swallowed hard, feeling like I should say something.

He moved then, pushing the newspapers aside and maneuvering himself into a sitting position. My guts turned to ice. I watched the man-corpse emerge from the frozen newspapers. He was very old and very filthy. “That’s someone’s grandfather”, I thought. My heart broke.

I wondered how long he’d been out there, braving the cold. Even in the thin winter moonlight, I could see how yellow and weathered his skin was. His sunken eyes were spider-webbed with bright red veins. Seeing me, he stood and began backing away with his hands at his shoulders. I had satisfied my initial concern but couldn’t bring myself to walk away. He was alive but he wasn’t immortal. If he stayed out there much longer, he would die. I had no idea what to do but felt I had to do something.

“Wait a minute!” I said, stuffing a frozen hand into my back pocket and fishing out my wallet. I grabbed a few bills and held them out to him.

He stopped backing away and eyed me with hungry, hunted suspicion.

I grabbed him by the wrist and pressed the money into his hand. “Please. You can’t sleep here.” He smiled then and spoke for the first time– in French.

He held on to both my hands, desperately trying to get me to understand. I nodded, trying to sort through his words for one or two that I might know – all I could understand was “Mercy!” Part of me was glad that I didn’t get it. I was self conscious enough as it was and just wanted to flee the scene. God only knows what else he was asking for. “Mercy!”, he cried, again and again. I stood there feeling awkward and foolish. He eventually let go of my hands and went back to the bench, smiling and nodding politely. I quickly returned the wave and headed off, not once looking back, glad it was over.

Walking down the road toward the old hotel, I felt terrible. He’d gone right back to the bench and would likely be there for the rest of the night. I pulled out my wallet and thumbed through the bills, figuring out that I’d given him about twenty bucks. I knew I hadn’t really solved anything and hadn’t really intended to do anything more than make myself feel good enough to walk away. At best, I may have made his night with that money. And none of that fazed me so much – it was the best I could do and I had been honest with myself.

Yet, even with that understanding, I was haunted by the image of that man returning to the bench. He had begged for mercy and I had left him there. I felt helpless and angry in ways I couldn’t quite articulate. He could have easily died on that bench in weather like that. He still could. As I walked, I realized I was looking for places to sleep that were warmer than that bench. I felt stupid, unsure of what I hoped to accomplish by looking. That man was likely in the warmest place he knew of. If there were some place warmer, he’d be there by now. I kept an eye out anyway – it was something to do.

I was but a phone call away from a nice hotel with plenty of food and enough money for the remainder of my vacation – and more besides. Something about that didn’t seem fair. Maybe he was a wino or a drug addict – I had no way of knowing. All I knew is that it was very cold and he was out there. Alone. There was nothing fair about that.

Something my mother once said to me came to mind:

“It’s not your job to figure out what they’re going to do with whatever you decide to give them. It’s up to you to be a good person. That’s all you can do. The rest is up to God.”

That’s what was on my mind when I turned around for the second time.

He was still sitting on the bench when I got back and he smiled and waved a little as soon as he saw me. By now, my feet were getting numb. I wasn’t sure if I was about to do the right thing but I had made up my mind. I was going to do something.

“My mother is going to kill me”, I said through chattering teeth.

I pulled out my wallet and removed all the bills. He furrowed his brow as I held out the money. “Take this”, I said. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the money I’d given him earlier and showed it to me. “Mercy”, he pleaded. I took a few steps closer and, like before, grabbed him by the wrist. This time, he recoiled a little.

“Can you understand me?” I asked.

He looked at the money, then at me, then at the money, and nodded.

I motioned for him to hold out his hands. “I don’t care what you do with this. That’s up to you”, I said shaking the bills for emphasis, feeling a bit like I was scolding him. “You have to get out of here and get some place warm”. He nodded again but I wasn’t sure he was getting me.

“Show me that you understand what I’m saying”.

He stood and pointed towards the hotel across the street then pantomimed sleeping.

“OK”, I said and gave him the money. By no means was I giving him enough to stay in that hotel for more than one night but that was ok. He understood was I was getting at. And, likely, he wouldn’t blow the money on a one night stay at a fancy hotel.

“Thank you”, he said in heavily accented English. “Mercy!” He was crying. The word came again and again to his trembling lips. “Mercy!, Mercy!”

In that moment, understanding finally dawned on me: “Merci!” – Thank you .I swallowed hard, feeling more self-conscious than ever.

“Get some place warm or you’ll die. You will die out here, understand?”

He nodded vigorously and pointed to the hotel with tears in his eyes. “Thank you”, he said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you”, over and over. I nodded, unsure of how to leave.

The rest is up to God.

Having done all I could, I still felt like I’d come up short. Closing my eyes, I prayed the only thing I knew to pray – “Please God”. It would have to be enough. Forcing a smile, I shook his hand and left.

On the way home, I saw my first taxi of the night. Laughing, I hailed him and asked for directions back to my hotel. “Hop in, my friend. I’ll give you a ride”.

“I’m good with walking. I just need to know how to get there”.

He paused and looked me over. “Good exercise, eh?” he said with a wry smile.

“You can say that again”, I said.

He peeled off after giving me directions, having asked twice if I was sure I didn’t want a ride. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and watched him disappear around a corner. It had gotten much colder since I’d first started walking. After a short while, I got my bearings and started home, taking my time walking against the wind.

Special thanks to:
M. Fougere –Canadian by way of Gabby’s
J. Clemens – The kindest person I‘ve ever met

* * * * *

On deck for July/August:

Cuffed
Braver
For Etcher (Fiction)

Green

2008-06-18T19:34:00.003-04:00

Green

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

--Leonard Cohen, Anthem

A number of my earliest memories involve a small green bathtub that I had when I was 2 or 3. To me, it was a boat, a spaceship, and a reading chair all in one. Many the long and lonely afternoon I've battled space pirates and sea monsters, saving the world from imminent doom with the help of Dr. Seuss. There wasn’t a gift in the world that could replace it. Other kids dragged around blankets or sucked their thumb. I sat in the boat and read, dreamed, explored. I was forced to land only to be bathed by my mother. She scrubbed me mercilessly, singing like an angel all the while. In fact, that pretty much sums up the first 3 years of my life – my mother singing, singing, singing, and me stuttering through Dr. Seuss books.

Most of my favorite memories of my mother involve her singing. In those days, the radio was always on when we were in the car and my mother seemed to know the words to each and every song. She sang her heart out – the way most people sing only when they think they’re alone. I loved her for that and still do. Her freedom made me jealous. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to sing as fearlessly as she did. The radio would be turned up to a near intolerable volume yet my mother could still be heard. On one occasion, we were riding around listening to the Winans cassette, “Long Time Comin’”. Mom was belting out “I Really Love You” – a song my brothers and sister and I eventually renamed “Hot Cereal Lovers”. I had been lucky enough to nab the front seat and had the window all the way down, smiling, wanting to sing along but not daring to do so. My mother looked over at me, singing at the top of her lungs:

I love you because you loved me
I loved you because you loved me
I called on you when I couldn’t call no one else
You cared for me when I didn’t care for myself

That look was her cue. Everyone else was singing but me. She smiled recklessly, encouraging me to sing along with nods and more looks. Eventually, I threw in my voice with the rest of them, clapping and bouncing in my seat in time with the music.

I really love you (every day of my life)
I really love you (I wanna say hallelujah)

In the car that afternoon, we sang our own words:

Hot cereal lovers (apple cinnamon raisin)
Hot cereal lovers (I wanna add a little milk)

It was hard not to get on board with a song like that, especially when mom was leading.

Maybe all young sons think their mother’s are beautiful but, for me, there was never any doubt that she was the MOST beautiful. When I thought of what an angel should look or sound like, I almost always thought of her – in my reality, she was as angelic as they came. I loved her then more honestly than I have ever loved anyone or anything since.

Since then, my love for my mother had changed. Even though I grew to have years of reasons to love her, the fights and disagreements increased, hardening the once flexible and easy love between us. The unmitigated love that the tub kid had for that angel was lost. The years had had their way with both of us, bleeding the innocence out of our mother-son relationship. In short, we grew apart.

But everything hadn’t been lost.

A few years ago, I was over mom’s place supposedly helping around the house but really eating tasty pork chops and hiding out downstairs when she called for me – yelled for me, really. I pretended not to hear and kept eating, hoping she’d go after my older brother instead. She called for me again, louder and using my full name. Then time, I screamed back. “I’m comin’!” unconsciously mumbling under my breath as went to see what she wanted. Despite the years, deep down, I knew I’d always be the curious kid in the plastic tub. And if the kid in the tub still lived in me, the angel must be alive in her. I thought about that, laughing to myself as I went upstairs.

She had called me to help her with the groceries. I decided to tell her about the memory of the tub while I handled the food off to the fridge and cabinets. It was a much simpler telling than written here – I only mentioned that I remembered the little green tub and that it was my “boat”. For a second, I thought I was going to hear “What are you talking about?” and I suppose that would have been fine. Instead, she caught me off guard.

“You remember that?”, she said and smiled.

I saw her then – the angel – right there in front of me. I watched her smile a minute longer before nodding my head. “Sure I remember”, I said, turning to deal with the rest of the groceries. As if on cue, my mother began singing:

I really love you (every day of my life)
Oh I really love you (I wanna say hallelujah)

I laughed as I hefted cans of peaches over to the panty. Somewhere inside me, the kid in the tub still lived. And he had never lost his angel. I was sure of it.

Hot cereal lovers (apple cinnamon raisin)
Hot cereal lovers (I wanna add a little milk)

I couldn’t help but sing along.

Charlie Radar

2008-06-16T18:42:00.007-04:00

Charlie Radar

I think some people can handle listening to old music without feeling weird, without it dredging up all these complicated memories of unpacked and unprocessed parts of their lives. I unfortunately can't do that.

--John Flansberg, They Might Be Giants

A strange thing happened.

I couldn’t sleep – hadn’t slept well for a few months having been caught up in the throes of a number of issues that made easy sleeping all but impossible. I was thinking too much but felt helpless to stop it. All day and all night, my mind chugged along, trying its hand at solving an impossible “it”. And, all day and all night, I was obliged to go along for the ride, whether I liked it or not.

Day time wasn’t so bad. I worked during the day and threw myself into that. Afterwards, I wrote for a few hours or, my pockets permitting I shuffled over to the pub to socialize. But there was only so much beer and so many words one could fit into a single day. Inevitably, both would run out and I’d be back at square one.

Usually, in situations like these, I’d just talk it out with a friend or, in the case of minor annoyances, simply forget about it. However, my friends have been less than available this go-around and forgetting was much easier said than done.

I’d found over the last few weeks that the rhythm of walking was good for keeping my evening thoughts at bay for a while and it became an evening regimen of sorts. The night this strange thing happened, I had been walking for the better part of two hours, aimlessly strolling past sleepy houses trying to shut my brain off long enough to have a chance at rest. And it was working. I even started singing to myself, improvising little songs about nothing in particular. After a few hours, I almost felt normal again. But it was like clenching a fist or tensing a muscle. Though I told myself otherwise, I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. Still, I kept walking, turning corners and ignoring street signs.

I had been at it nearly three hours when my legs began to call it quits. I knew I’d have to sit down to rest soon. I also knew that stopping meant that the thoughts I’d been running from would soon catch up to me. And there was nothing I could do about it. I got my bearings and began heading towards to the pub – likely the only place I’d find any sort of distraction at that hour.

The pub came into view as I rounded the final corner. The lights were still on and I smirked a little – I wasn’t too late. Maybe I could manage in there for an hour before they closed up shop. Ignoring the ache in my legs, I increased my speed. Everything was going to be just fine.

With a half block to go, the cheesy country music ringing out from the bar’s interior reached me and it shook something loose. All at once, I felt like crying, blind-sided by the loneliness I’d hoped to outrun. Tears threatened, a few came, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to go inside until I straightened up a bit. I squeezed my eyes shut, begging God for a night off as I limp-staggered to something like salvation. Tears or no, I had to make myself known quickly in case the place was empty and ready to close early. Reaching the bar, I sucked it up long enough to order a beer and say a quick hello before sneaking out the back door to get myself together.

No one was in the rear parking lot save me and a few cars. I knew I would break soon and looked around for a proper hiding place. Tucked in a forgotten corner of the lot was a gigantic vehicle with a flat tire. Likely, it wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon. I walked to the far end of the lot, ducked behind the SUV, and sat on the ground. At the last minute, I looked around the side of the vehicle to make sure I was truly alone before settling back against the van and taking a deep breath. I drew my knees up to my chest and bowed my head. “Go ahead”, I said to myself. “Get it out”.

Scenes like this one happened often, without warning (and in secret if I could help it) over the past 2 months or so. I hated myself for feeling this way, for not being strong enough to push through and move past the hurt. This time, the flood came with unexpected force, shaking my body with sobs as I wrestled with myself. I couldn’t understand what was happening, why it hurt so much, why I even had to do this. I couldn’t understand much of anything. I’d forgotten all that was important to me, everything I loved, everything I was capable of, and, worst of all I didn’t know how to remember. I didn’t know how to get well.

It was nigh impossible for me to be alone with my thoughts like I was then. They weren’t even real thoughts, just streams of guilt, anger, and confusion, muddled by lack of answer. I didn’t have much of a choice. The thoughts haunted me for days at a time, knocking at the perimeter of my consciousness, demanding acknowledgement. Even when I didn’t give in, their weight pressed me down at the shoulders, encouraging me to brood, moving me to do strange things in strange ways. I hardly knew myself at those times.

I don’t know how long I’d been down there before I shut myself down. There were plenty of tears left but I’d gotten through enough to get by. And I didn’t want to be discovered. Reluctantly, I wiped my face and stood up, preparing to go inside. But it was too late. By the time I’d picked myself up, I found myself standing face to face with a very large someone. And he wasn’t looking too happy.

“Hey! Hell were you doing down there?”

I mumbled an apology and started past him. “Whoa, whoa!” He grabbed my shoulders. “Are you crying?”

“I’m fine”, I said trying and failing to wriggle from his grasp.

“Hey you’re the guy that’s over there writing all the time, bringing your work to church and everything.”

I shrugged in response. I’d never seen him at the pub before but, apparently, he’d seen me. He drew me closer and looked me in the eyes.

“Look I don’t mean to get all over your in your business, I don’t, but you look like you could use a friend. C’mon. Talk to me. Wassa matta? Your old lady kick you out or somethin’?”

He was holding me by my shoulders and trying to make eye contact. I kept my gaze low and avoided his as best I could. I had to keep moving. I had to do something. I looked him straight in the eye and shook my head no. “Nah – Hey I’m just trying to get inside.”

I tried to push by him but he wouldn’t have it. He grabbed me by the shoulder just as I was passing him and pulled me into a bear hug. “It’s alright buddy. It’s alllllright. Shhhh!”

Now I DID fight. I struggled and pounded on his back as hard as I could but he didn’t seem to notice. My face was buried in the middle of his chest – the best I could do at crying out for help was muffled by t-shirt and chest. I struggled all the more, hitting his back as hard as I could. I was already worn out from the crying and didn’t have much left in me. Still I raged until much of the fire left in me had gone out. He still held on to me. “Shhhhh! It’s ok man – take it easy. Taaaake it easy buddy.” I took a deep breath and prepared to fight again.

When I let that breath out, something happened.

I started crying. Hard. I was angry and confused and lost and being attacked by some drunk asshole in the parking lot of a bar I shouldn’t have come to in the first place. I swore and scream and kicked as hard as I could, desperate to get away. If the man felt any pain, he showed no sign. All my swears and threats and such were ignored. He held on determined. Eventually, I had nothing left. I stood there fuming, crying, embraced by a stranger. I hated this man. I hated him for stirring up things he didn’t understand. I hated him because he was there, because he wouldn’t let go, because I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I couldn’t wriggle free and figured he’d let me go if I relaxed and pretended to go along with the program, at which point I’d have a chance at fighting back. I relaxed and hugged him back, gritting my teeth and waiting for an opportunity to strike.

What he said next, he said in a low, matter-of-fact tone, “I know you don’t want to hurt me, eh? You don’t want to hurt me. You’re a good person. You need this right now and I’m not gonna let you go”. That did it. As frustrated and angry as I was, I gave up. I gave up and completely let go. I stopped caring about what was happening and just bawled my eyes out. He squeezed me tighter. “There you go, man. Shhh… let it out”.

I held on for dear life. My legs started shaking and all but gave out. I screamed and cried and snotted all over this stranger. None of the sounds coming out of me were human. I forgot all about being self-conscious and embarrassed and afraid. I just cried. “It’s not fair!”, I screamed. “It’s not fucking fair!”

He held me up and didn’t say much. I cried myself out until I was all whimpers and moans and tears. My limbs felt like rubber. We stood there for a long time, the thick, steady, insistent thrumming off his heartbeat sounding in my ears. Then I was embarrassed. Eventually, he released me from the bear hug but kept hold on my shoulders. This time, there was no avoiding his gaze. “You ok?”

I stood there for a minute trying to answer . “I just want to go home”, I said. I was getting angry again.

“Where’s home? You ok for a ride? You need to call somebody?”

“I’m fine”.

Silence. Then…

“Ok. Well you get home”. He pointed toward the bar. “There’s nothing for you in there”.

I hated to admit it but the man was right. I had no business drinking in that state. Even one beer was too much. I nodded to let him know I understood. He smiled at me and it made me want to start blubbering all over again. I bit my lip and looked him in the eye. “I really just want to go home and lay down”.

“Good. You do that. There’s nothing for you in there and you know that. You’re a good man. Don’t start coming here to fix things”.

I nodded.

We talked for a short bit before parting ways. He went over to his truck and fumbled with his keys while I walked to the entrance of the parking lot, finally worn out enough to sleep. By the time I reached the sidewalk, he was pulling up next to me in a truck that sounded like an angry animal. “Hey what’s your name, bud?” he stuck a hand out the window.

I grabbed it and shook politely. “Drew”.

“Charlie. Or Radar. Either one is fine.” He smiled again, broad and easy. I stared at the ground, a little put off.

“I have a hard time with people being nice to me just now”, I said. “And it’s not even that so much. I just – I mean with the punching and everything. I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t know… I mean I had no idea who – ”

“I knew what I was doing.”

I stared at him. He leaned towards me and furrowed his brow a little.

“Whoever it was must’ve been really special to you.”

“No, no… it’s not like –”

He looked me square in the eyes. “Go home”.

“He –” I stared to say but he’d already leaned back into his truck and was looking left and right, waiting for traffic to clear so he could pull into the road.

“You be good, Drew, ok?”

Pause. “I will”.

He nodded then hooked a left out of the parking lot, honking twice before disappearing down the road. I stood there watching him drive off. “Charlie Radar” I said to myself and shook my head. “What the hell?”After a minute, I turned my back on the pub and started home.

I slept like a baby.

Sum

2008-06-09T07:30:00.001-04:00

Sum

"For any consistent formal, recursively enumerable theory that proves basic arithmetical truths, an arithmetical statement that is true, but not provable in the theory, can be constructed. That is, any effectively generated theory capable of expressing elementary arithmetic cannot be both consistent and complete."

— Kurt Gödel's first incompleteness theorem, 1931

* * * * *

Last night, I came upon an old drink recipe in faded ink on the wall in the men's room of a 210 year old bar. It read:

The Hobbled Minotaur

One [1] part Gödel's Incompleteness Theorem
One [1]part Seneca's Fortuna
Two [2]parts Roshomon Effect

Serve over crushed ego w/a twist of zero-sum

Beneath it in fresher letters was written:

I’m not as good as I once was
but, once, I’m as good as I ever was

I’d found this place purely by accident, stumbling down an alley with an urgent need to pee. After I’d relieved myself, I sat at the bar and listened to a large gentleman and a smallish gentleman argue over where I might be from. Neither man bothered to ask me. Somehow, the conversation lasted longer than the five dollars I put in the jukebox. When it looked as if the bickering might come to blows, the bartender stepped in and attempted to soothe them with tales of Eartha Kitt and Patron at ten bucks a shot.

The man nearest to me, directly to my left, in fact, put a hand on my shoulder and a finger into my cheek. "This young man right here is decent! Ain't no way he come from hillbilly Arkansas. That's a fifty-nine hour drive!" This was the smaller of the two gentlemen. I leaned over and flat out told them where I was from hoping it would end the argument.

"What the hell, kid? What made you think this had anything to do with you?", growled the wee man.

The large man held up a paw and started barking. “I got nothing against ‘im. You hardly know ‘im. I hardly know ‘im. We all ‘re just meeting an’ makin’ nice in here.” The smaller man nodded in agreement and bought a round.

Thirty seconds later, they were boxing one another's teeth out on the patio. The bartender glared at me and walked away.

The owner of the bar was placed in a seat beside me, brought in by a young gentleman and an ogre who I later learned was the bouncer. She was much too drunk to stand or talk, but blissfully unaware of her handicap. She rocked back and forth, drooling her leathery face a contortion of wrinkles and pock marks. One scarred sexless breast hung out of her sundress, patchy with tans of varying shades. Bruises and veins stood out beneath a sheen of sweat and drool. The nipple looked like it had been sewn on yesterday. I couldn’t look away.

When the man beside her stood to leave, she pulled his pants down to his ankles, kneading his crotch and gurgling incoherent sexual innuendo. He swept her into a passionate embrace and they made out like sloppy teenaged cartoons. I pretended not to notice.

The bouncer came over and stood behind me with his hands on my shoulders. He squeezed and rubbed –I couldn’t tell if it was a botched massage or well executed torture. He put his lips up to my ear and said “Do you know a guy named Pedro?”. He sounded serious.

“No.” I said. “No sir.”

“Fucking liar.” He clamped even harder onto my shoulders. “I don’t pal around with scum”. I tried to tell him that I lived no where near this town but he’d already walked away. I ordered another beer.

Having pissed herself, the owner ended the makeout session. She swore and called for a bar towel. “I’m no geriatric. Woo! That Bud is… it’s like a acid in my panties!”

Apparently, this happens all the time.

The bartender obliged her request with a smile. I cocked an eye a the barkeep. “The hell just happened?”, I asked.

"Oh this is nothing” he said. “She's actually doing real good tonight". He set a fresh beer in front of me. "And she likes you. This one's on her".

The owner fell on her back from a full standing position and pulled her sundress up over her head. She was not wearing panties. She dabbed her pudendum with the bar towel and threw it into her lover’s face. “Oh sugar!”, he groaned. “That’s a bad girl!”

It was time to leave.

On my way out the door, I was stopped by the brawlers who had decided that I was, in fact, from Arkansas. They bookended me and walked me outside. The larger one spoke first. He backed me up against the building, gripping the shiny black dog-tags that hung around his neck. He was more than a little pissed off. The small man lit a cigarette and looked away.

“Did I say something racially offensive to you?”

I shook my head no.

“‘Cause I would never do that! I would never say anything racially offensive! I don’t have it in me! I AM NOT A FUCKING RACIST!”

He was loud and getting louder all the time. The bouncer came outside and bummed a smoke from the smaller gentleman. I looked over and gave him my best “help me” expression. “Little help here?”, I said meekly.

“Brock’s a handful, ain’t he?”, laughed the bouncer. He and the smaller man disappeared into a nearby alley. Seconds later, the air was filled with the smell of pot. Brock began grunting and speaking in German.

I looked up at Brock and smiled, figuring it would be my last smile. “Ever watch the Venture Brothers?”, I asked. It was too much for Brock. He put a hand on my shoulder and bowed his head, shaking with sobs. “You’re ok, kid”, he said through his tears. I laughed in spite of my impending death. “I’ve got sadder stories than that”, Brock moaned. “And I ain’t no Venture Brother”.

“Huh?” I asked. He dragged me back inside.

By then, the owner was dancing with a morbidly obese woman in a mobility scooter. No music was playing. The air was tangy with the smell of piss and gin. Brock retold my “joke” and tequila shots appeared. The bartender leaned over and smiled at me. “What time is your flight back to Wichita, son?” I cringed. Brock slammed both fists on the bar and stormed outside.

The bartender chuckled and said, “I just saved your life kid”,

I flipped him the bird.

The bar owner sat next to me and demanded pretzels or “something groovy”. The bartender screamed, “We haven’t had pretzels in here for thirty years, bitch!”

The owner threw back her head and cackled madly. “I know! I know! Isn’t it awful?”

Later that evening, I stopped off at a convenience store to grab something to drink that wasn’t beer. When I pulled out the cash to pay, a card fell out of my pocket. Scrawled on one side of the card was the name “Luscious Alice” with a phone number beneath it. I gave it to the cashier along with directions to the bar. “Best bar in the state”, I said laughing. He frowned at the card and placed it on the counter. “This is a local number”, he said, almost to himself. “She told me she was from Arkansas”.

* * * * *

A F T E R W O R D

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen – Anthem

I hid from my problems this weekend – tried, anyway. The hope was that I'd somehow be able to have a few days of something approaching "normal" or "fine". Things didn't quite work out that way.

After a few days, I gave up and decided to go home.

On the way home, I drove past a house with a sign outside. Eight squares of paper hung on a line, each square painted with it’s own colorful letter. Bonnie Rait’s I Can’t Make You Love Me came on the radio as I pulled past the sign. It read:

L O V E H A R D

I cried the rest of the way home.