mason

His name is Mason and his job is overseeing the self-checkout aisles at the Stop-and-Shop at 8th and Green. He’d planned to be a rock star, but reality intervened – he couldn’t play guitar, much less keep a beat, and he sang like a pig getting stuck. He lives at home with his parents, in the far corner of the damp and dusky basement, with a pet ferret named Garret and a caged boa named Ralph. He drives a red, 1997 Chevy Impala that a former girlfriend nicknamed "Afterbirth." When he graduated high school two years ago he was voted “kid least likely to be voted for” on Jimmy Korn’s “MySpace” page. Korn was an ass, so he disregarded it, pretty much. The other 257 votes did bother him a bit, though, he had to admit. When he finishes his eight-hour shift at the self-checkout, he’ll head to his friend Moe’s house to sit around and maybe play three hours or so of “World of Warcraft,” then go home and eat dinner and end up downstairs, reading the graphic novel he pilfered from the library branch across from work. Tomorrow, he’ll buy a lottery ticket, just for the hell of it. And he will win -- $250 million. But he won’t know it. The prize will go unclaimed for five years. Then, one day, he’ll find the lotto ticket balled up in the bottom pocket of his cargo shorts and spend three months trying to see if it won. He does get his money. And, actually, that's where the story begins.

the bride

She knew at the altar, and even months before, that she was marrying the wrong man, or at least one she didn’t love. It had bothered her, at first, but she became used to the idea, or at least had made peace with it. Two things: one, she was almost 27, and all of her girlfriends were married, some for a few years, already. Two: her mother had told her that she’d done the same thing – married her father out of resort, rather than love. She knew, too, that she had him convinced that she loved him. It was better that way. After all, he was the one who believed in love.

For years, later, they would tease each other about how he loved her more than she loved him. She would see the smile on his face, but the pain in his eyes, too. That tiny little show of desperation, just that hint, always steeled her against ever giving in and loving him, really loving him. It was her wield, her power, all that she had, and she needed it. Years later, still, when it was all over and they’d divorced and went their ways without ever talking, even once, again, she held on to that as her victory, not only what she’d won, but how she’d won it. She hadn’t given in. She’d been tempted, now and again, but she hadn’t given in, given up, allowed him that.

But that would be later, years and years, later. Now, as she stood at the altar, gazing across at him as a bride would, she gave no indication of what she was doing and why, though she did feel a slight twinge of sadness. For him, surprisingly. For she knew that he knew not what and into what he was getting.

The thought passed as quickly as it had arrived.

Outside, it was snowing and minus 16.

the shot

It has happened, again, father said to his son,
We’ve once more been wooed and seduced
into thinking, my Lord, it’d be different this time,
that this time, we just couldn’t lose.

As he said so his focus, again, scanned the board
the reality dealt his soul more --
Shot, Drive, Fumble, Mesa, Red Right 88 --
‘tis the last time, he silently swore.

Then from the next seat came the tiniest touch,
Little Billy, his face red and wet.
“We’ve still got a second, Dad, don’t give up hope,
“there’s time for a miracle, yet.”

The dad turned to fils and gathered a breath.
“It is time, my sweet son, you must know
“This is Cleveland, not anyplace else in the world
“If you’re Cleveland, all ends but in woe.”

As TV took its breaks and the pundits began
to hammer the soul of the place,
the youngster who knew not of life’s heartache, yet,
why, a short smile crept up ‘cross his face.

“LeBron is here, dad; he won’t let us lose,”
and the dad, wearied out, shook his head
“’Tis to much to ask of a man even him.”
Shot, Drive, Fumble, 88 Right and Red.

For it wasn’t one shot or one point at the task,
It was years of it all hung askew
And to cover it all in one tick of the clock
e’en Clevelanders knew what they knew.

But then something happened, Dad and son saw
That changed all their views of the world.
In the longest of seconds, the shortest of time
all the ghosts of defeat out were hurled.

A player name Mo, not a Stooge, not this time
packed his hopes and all theirs in a toss
of the ball to the player who came to its call
one sec’ now ‘tween a breath and a loss.

As he caught it and rose, all there rose’d up, too
and no one dared even a breath
as he loosed free the ball and he drifted and watched
one short moment ‘tween life and its death.

The clock clicked to zero, the place still a morgue
not a yell, not a smile, not a peep
‘til the ball touched the rim and dropped through to the floor
then the screams roused e’en Moses from sleep.

“We win, we do win, I told you so, dad.”
And the father hugged son, spilled his beer
‘til the next time, dad thought, always that, always that,
but for now, what the hell, let’s just cheer.

dan's story: a play

Dark stage; one spotlight; Dan Strogen sits on a chair, leaning forward. He looks up, pauses, then begins, still sitting.

I want to tell you a story. It’s my story. But it’s yours, too, if you’ll accept it. And by the end of the night, I think you will. And if not, well, that’s up to you, too. My name’s Dan – Daniel Mercer William Strogan. Soft “g.” I was born in 1950 in St. Anne’s Hospital in Cleveland, Ohio – October 29. It was a snowy day and I was a small baby. Put me in an incubator for a few days. Three, I think. My mother smoked. But most everyone did, back then. I suppose that might’ve had something to do with it, me being smallish.

I grew up in Euclid, Ohio, a blue-collar suburb east of Cleveland, hard by Lake Erie, which was a stinking, polluted mess, back then. My dad worked in a city garage. He fixed busses, and the trolleys before the put those in mothballs. I went to school in Euclid, Catholic school. Played some high school ball – football. I was a linebacker. Not big, not quick and not very fast. But I played hard. The coach liked that. Coach Dillon. He liked me.

I was an altar boy, too. And I collected baseball cards, but not like kids did in the ‘90s. We bought ‘em, then traded ‘em – the ones worth it, that is. Some of the others ended up in the spokes of our bikes, attached with clothespins. Made a neat sound. Like a motorcycle, we pretended. Doubles, mostly, those cards, like that. But some Yankees, too. Even Maris and Ford and Mantle. We grew up hating the Yankees.

I fell in love in high school, like most everyone else. Never had sex – intercourse, that is. I fooled around a bit. Felt awfully guilty about it, too. I’d spend an hour necking with Laurie Fillent in the Robert Hall’s parking lot on a Saturday night, trying to cop a feel, then’d rush home, change clothes and head to confession. “Father forgive me …” My mother had us kids pretty spooked about heaven and hell. Hell, especially. It wasn’t until later, after I’d graduated high school and went in the Army that I realized my mother had no clue, whatsoever, about hell. Wasn’t even close. It wasn’t her fault. It was just that she didn’t know. Her hell was a cartoon. Mine wasn’t. We’ll get to that.

Just so you know, too, before we get too far, I’ve invited a few other folks, here, tonight. They’ll jump in when the time’s right. I’ll introduce them. You’ll see. I think it’ll work out okay.

Anyway, I was pretty normal, I think, I suppose. I mean, some kids went off to college. More very year, it seemed. But lots of us didn’t, too. Those of us who didn’t mostly ended up getting drafted. Most all of us, those who were drafted, did some time in Vietnam. Some lucked out. Like Bobby Latin. He spent his entire two years working on a base newspaper in South Carolina. I bumped into him a short time back, told him I was going to do this, like I am, tonight, and he said he wanted to be here, too. He’s got some interesting stuff to say. He didn’t go but, even he … well, you’ll see.

Anyway, we can get started, here, in a moment. Billy Keene will be here in a second. He and I grew up together. I’ll introduce him. Before that, I guess it’d be best for me to tell you why I decided to do this. (PAUSE) On second thought, no, I won’t. I won’t.

Stage to black.

willy loman

Willy
Loman
spoke
to me last
night. He had, before,
a few times,
but not like
this. He had before,
a few times,
but
differently. Last night
he talked to
me.
I didn’t know what
to
say.
I didn’t know how to answer. So,
I didn’t.
All I know
was that I wanted him
to
stop.
But he didn’t, and I listened,
still.
I
had
no
choice.
No one does.
Not when
he
speaks.

the doctor's wife

Mary Carlton rushed out of the supermarket, three kids in tow. Nico was the youngest. He was three. He wrestled with the wrapper on a Snickers bar, had just about liberated the entire piece of candy.

“Mommy, Nico’s eating the Smickers,” Molly said. She was four and had Mary’s curls, if not her disposition. Mikey was Molly’s twin. He’d been second-born. By fifty-eight seconds. He turned, now, too, to catch a glimpse of Nico. So, too, finally did Mary.

She sighed, then said, “Nicky, what’d I tell you?” Nico gave her a guilty look, then reached forward to hand her the treat. She reached to take it, then pulled back her hand. “Yuck,” she said. Molly and Mikey laughed. Nico, too.

Across the parking lot, three spots over and two back, Rolland Beatie watched from a parked Hyundai. His dark, cloudy eyes were hidden behind darker sunglasses. He flipped open a cell phone, hit a speed-dial key. “I’ve got her,” he said. “Yeah, she’s with the kids. Sure, that won’t be a problem. Right. Yep. OK.” He hung up and continued watching as Mary Carlton loaded her kids, then the groceries into the silver Lexus wagon. He waited for her to start her car, then he started his. He waited for her to pull out, then he did, too.

As he did, Rolland Beatie thought about lighting up a cigarette, but fought the urge. He was trying to quit. He rolled down the driver's window. It was 93 degrees in the baking, noon sun and the air was as still as a dead cat. The heat never bothered Rolland Beatie. For him, the hotter the better.

He caught a closer glimpse of Mary Carlton, now. She was prettier than he'd expected. He liked pretty women. It made everything much more interesting.

He rolled down the passenger window, sucked in a deep breath, then gave in and lit up a smoke.

there-apy

He was raised
or taught himself
to be
a Great American:
Shane. Natty Bumpo. JFK. FDR.
Heroic.Honorable. Stoic.

INDIVIDUAL.

A
lone.

Can do.
JUST DO IT!

I will.
I must.
I can.
Or can I?

He sits, now,
in a faceless
room
that always looks the same & he wonders:
Has all of that
come to this?
And a gentle,
caring, soft, non-threatening
voice says:
"And what shall
we talk
about
today?"

whiskey notch

Earle locked the door behind him, hugged Shoe, turned, headed up the street, north, away from the park and the festivities.

Shoe headed the other way. He stopped after a few steps and spun to say something more, but Earle was already halfway down the next block. So, Shoe stood there until Earle was completely out of sight. He fought off one more urge to stop by Billy’s place, got to his car, started it, tuned in the Red Sox game on the radio, and started back for Boston.

It had been 36 years since the three of them, on the same day – Earle, Shoe and Billy – left Whiskey Notch for Vietnam. In some ways, they’d never left the Notch. In more ways, they’d never really returned from ‘Nam.

Billy, especially.

drummer boy

Sid said goodbye after a job after the Teen Fair battle of the bands. It came as a surprise, though things were beginning to molt away a bit by then. I’d decided to head to college. Harry, too, though he’d only spend a week away from home, then return, never to try, again. Kevin was headed to a prep school in New England. Why, no one was sure, except maybe to escape his family. Sid – he was re-enlisting.

“Got to go, drummer boy.”

He was smiling, but I saw the tears in his eyes.

“Got a mama-san, over there, and a baby, I think.”

“Over there” was Vietnam. It was the first I’d heard of a family.

“You got the gift, my man. You ever want to play in Motown, for real, my boys’ll take care of you.”

I hugged him; he hugged me back. Then, he waved to us all and was gone. We never heard from him, again.

felony phil

The guys at the desk called him "Felony Phil,"
though he’d never committed a crime.
Someone said it one day and it stuck, goes the tale,
and he didn’t object at the time.

He camped in the doorway of Engine House 3,
with two bags and one blanket, one book,
and a dog name of Bunko, he told everyone,
who, in fact, looked much more like a crook.

He woke up one morning, a cold day in May,
packed up without saying a word.
Took his bags and his blanket and that single tome.
They found him at Peacock and Third.

His body was crumpled and cold to the touch.
He’d left but a note to be read.
It was simple and short and right to the point:
“My name,” he had written, “is Fred.”

the death of a child

She does not speak of the loss,
that lives in her eyes, and
is louder than a word or voice,
the cry that sleeps there.

It would leave if she let it,
but she so fears the pain that
she keeps it locked away,
inside, safe, where it cannot kill her.

So, she smiles with her lips,
only, and leaves it at that,
because it’s all that she can do.
It is all that she can do, except,

at night, when she prays
to see him, again, then falls
asleep knowing to what she
will wake, always: the ache

that only the
left-behind
parent
can
know.

sold!

they took the chairs.
they had been gifts.
from a life
that happened way back when.
will you take $100, he asked,
then said:
because they haven’t been weather-proofed.
he said, yes, then went inside.
they were just chairs
but
he
didn’t want
to watch
them
go.

the music

We all came from pretty ragged circumstances, actually. Ralph’s father had just left him, his sister and his mom for good. John’s old man beat him. Harry’s parents were about as absent as parents could be. My mother was religious to a craze and manic as the day was long. She wasn’t against smacking us around in the Name of God. Sidney, Floyd and Andy – who really knew much of anything about them? At any given time it seemed at least two of them were on the run from one thing or another.

But what we all had, too, was the music. We all had the music. “Dancin’ in the Streets.” “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg.” “My Girl.” The list seemed endless – and for a while it was. The hits just kept coming, rolling out from Detroit and to us through that Windsor, Ontario, radio station we all listened to. And while we listened to it and while we played it, the music got us through what needed to be gotten through. In fact, it kept some of us alive. Most important, it kept hope alive.

resolute

he resolves himself
to fate.
he resigns himself
to fate.
he surrenders himself
about it.
then,
he absolves himself
of
any attendant guilt.
well,
sort
of.
but not
really.
it’s all he knows.
how very catholic
of
him.

torturous

“torture is torture,” the torturer said.
it’s not easy to make someone squeal.
you get grimy and bloody and covered with snot
which can really affect how you feel.

for example I once had george abdul bin bad
at the point where I felt he would flip
on his buddies who ran this place, Mid’Eastern Breads
the breakthrough lay right on his lip.

he gagged and he gurgled, he blubbered and wept.
not your man, not I am ’s’how he cried
and just when I thought he was ready to crack
he rolled his eyes back and he died.

I know what you’re thinking: a horrid mistake.
what a terrible thing to take place.
Relax, take a breath, chill a pill, have a smoke,
there’s twenty plus more from his race.

we’ll bring in another, he’ll look ‘bout the same
he’ll plead for his life, nothing new.
we’ll listen a bit, take some notes act real kind,
then we’ll board him and jolt his ass, too.

if he lives, that’s ok; if he dies, ok, too.
we’re not acting like God around here.
we’re just saving our freedom and our way of life
nothing gets in the way, never fear.

to finish I’ll repeat what started all this:
it’s not easy to make someone squeal.
you get grimy and bloody and covered with snot
which can really affect how you feel.

broadcast

the tv man raised a thick eyebrow then said,
"we have gut-wrenching news from the coast.
last night a lone gunman walked into a bar
and threatened all there with this boast":

“I’ve been over there; I’ve watched dozens die
“I know what it’s like to see hell
“I’ll let you all live, let you all walk away
“if just one of you’s seen it as well.”

a silence o’erlayed all around in that room
no one spoke. no one sniffed. no one dare.
til Annabelle Moon in the corner did stand.
she’d lost two of her boys over there.

with this news the talking head slivered his eyes
he softened his voice a bit, too.
while the crawler below told the middle day scores
an eye-witness reported her view.

“this lady she said ‘I don’t know what you’ve seen,
“’I would never assume what you feel,
“’but if you’ll take a moment and put down that gun
“’maybe most of the rest here can leave.’”

he did and did we, she went on with a tear,
we walked into the dark, out of view
then we stood in the silence still holding our breaths
til we heard not one gunshot, but two.

"no one knows what was said in the dusk of the pub,"
the newsman said, reading his part.
tho later ‘twas said annie’d waited for years
prayed for ease from the pain in her heart

"it’s a story of war and of tragedy’s pain,"
the reporter reported to close.
then the anchorman teased, a smile now his look,
“coming next, Mylie Cyrus’ new pose.”

next stop: somewhere else

There’s a moment
in time,
a sliver of space
‘tween what could be
and what never
will.
It’s a quick
flash
of fate,
a second of life’s
do -- or
you don’t;
you will
or
you won’t.
And the destination
suddenly
changes.

boomer

He rolled onto his side, to the outside. His head throbbed, his neck ached. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was. He blinked his eyes, tried to focus on the clock across the room. Finally did. Seven-forty, he guessed, wasn’t exactly sure. Yes. Now, 7:41. He rolled back onto his back. He was afraid to look right to see who was in bed with him. The revelations in the past, near and distant, hadn’t always been flattering to his ego, much less gild for his reputation. Before that, before he saw what – who -- was there, he needed to remember what day it was. For some reason he guessed Thursday. And, it was, he would discover in a moment or two. Thursday. He looked right. Dark hair. Freckled shoulders. That was all … and he had no idea. He needed to piss. That, first, now. He swung his legs off the bed, sat slowly, finally stood, waiting for his equilibrium to register before trying a step. Suddenly, his memory caught up. Thursday. Yes. And – holy shit! -- he was in the second foursome. He didn’t have much time. He pulled on his pants, grabbed a T-shirt, yanked on that, too, then headed toward the bathroom. A voice from the bed, raspy, whispery, said, “Good luck, today, Boomer.” He didn’t turn back. If he did, he’d have to remember her name and he didn’t have enough time for that. “Thanks,” he said. He really did have to whiz.

faster food

she pops
popcorn chicken
oblivious to the plop
flopping over
her belt.
he molests chicken
fingers with no regard
to his
love
handles.
who cares, anyway?
they might wonder, though
they don’t, because nine
of 11 of their fellow
Americans,
at
the
very least, are
similarly slovenly
and
ok, portly, to put it
thinly.
fat, fatter,
fattest.
But careful, always, to wash
it
down with
Diet
Coke.

richard windimere

It’s time, said the voice whis’pring inside his head.
It’s time for the pain to subside.
It’s time to be free from the dark and the blue,
“It’s time,” Richard Windimere cried.

He’d loaded the gun, checked it once, checked it twice,
Every day for a weekend or two.
Paid his bills, fed the cat, wrote the note, swept the floor
All was left was that for him to do.

The bloggers, on morrow, will guess and surmise
What’d caused an old man so to be
A killer, a mur’drer, to slay such a crowd,
The total: thirteen, and then he.

The letter behind was reviewed sixty times
Even though it quite plainly said:
“All I wanted from life was for someone to say,
“I mattered more ‘live than when dead.”

The families of victims will damn Windimere
For the sorrow and pain he has wrought.
They will weep for the loss, for the still, for the dead,
For the peace the old man finally bought.

casualties

She wanders the days in her mind that they walked,
Sees clearly what could be her life.
But that was before she’d waited so long,
‘fore she weld a thin pen to a knife.

Weeping hot tears, now she traces the loops
Of the letters, the words she must send
To change two young lives, to break two young hearts,
The other choice ‘tis but pretend.

She’ll mail off the letter tomorrow come noon.
He’ll get it eight days and two hence.
He’ll read it six times and then three times more,
Then retake his post at the fence.

He’ll finish his tour and up for two more
She’ll wed the boy met in between.
And their disp’rate lives will play out apart,
But for war how it all might have been.

a moment

A moment,
he awaits, that might
bring some clarity
or at least a clarification
about what’s not
clear.
The way it happens
in movies
would be nice.
Gadzooks!
Eureka!
I get it!
But everything remains
mushy, murky, muddled,
mopey.
He looks in others’ eyes,
trying to see what they might
be seeing.
Do they see it?
Are they seeing it?
And, if they are, why isn’t he?
So, he hopes.
And, for a string of
moments, he awaits that epiphany,
that something,
that
some time,
that might
bring at least a hint
about what’s
not
clear.
And really:
is that
so
much to ask?

floyd

Floyd was something else, too. Where Sid kept his hair cropped short, Floyd was into the process. Brother, he was something else. Sweet-talking. Debonair. Slick. Always showed up with a pair of hard-looking blondes. And sometimes one or both was almost scary looking. I got to know Floyd better than I knew Sid. I would become closest with Andy. Floyd was a high school dropout. Actually, he was a high school “kicked out.” I asked him why, once. He told me.

“I got angry and pulled a knife on a boy at school. It was lunch and he was messing with my food. And where I come from there’s two things you don’t mess with – someone’s name and someone’s food.”

Floyd disappeared, too, when the band broke up. Andy kept in touch with him for a time. Floyd was a tough one, though. No set phone. No stable address. Last we heard, through Andy, he was in jail, somewhere. Got in a fight. Stabbed someone. Andy says it was over food. I believed that. Had no reason not to. I don’t know, now, where Floyd is. Ralph and I tried, for a time, to locate him. Then, we gave up.

gripping

I am coming to grips
with
solitude, in
this
way, at
least:
I expect to spend
the
rest
of my days alone.
Not without
friends, I hope; not
without family,
I hope;
not without
a
dog or even a
cat,
perchance.
Just alone.
It seems easier, that way,
to face up
to it
and
with it.

man-o-nimity

He walks through
the local park
with
a ferret
on
a
leash.
The ferret’s
name is
Lilly. No one
asks
his.