a final entry

She wasn’t sure what to include in her final entry. She thought about writing a poem, doing something more in the line of stream-of-consciousness, or, more pedantically, just saying good-bye. She finally decided that the final entry would be only one word. Only one. And it had to be the right one. She ran through these, of course: “love;” “hope;” “faith;” “truth.” They all sounded either to frou-frou or too preachy, and she was, truly, neither. After a time, she settled on “dignity,” which was a bit odd, at first glance. She wasn’t always the most dignified of people. Her language often was peppered with the most objectionable of vulgarities. She never really dressed with any purpose or élan. She never, as far as she could remember, which varied greatly, lately, depending on the day, used the word in conversation. Never discussed it. Never espoused it, for sure. But it was what she was feeling, now, what she was trying to meet, after all she’d been through. She wanted to be remembered by that – dignity. So, it was that which she left behind. In the end, that one word. Writing it made her smile, that final entry. And that, in itself, was a very, very good thing.

sparrow

He wasn’t into tattoos. He thought most of them seemed slutty, and not in a good way. But she had a peacock on her left shoulder, that bled down her arm, a bit, sort of faded, purposefully, he guessed, but colorful, and pretty damn sexy. Most importantly, she wore it well. Problem was, now, at this moment, that he wasn’t into tattoo talk. What was he supposed to say? “Nice ink?” “Sweet tat?” And he knew his first line, with her, especially, was critical. He thought for a moment, then for another, then said, to her, “You have very nice taste.” She smiled, said, ‘Thanks,” and blushed, just a bit, but enough for him to know that it was all good. Her name was Virginia; close friends called her Sparrow. She was 32 and single. She slept with him, that night. On her terms, which was fine with him. And: the peacock looked even better in the morning.

not roses

Her name is Claire Louise and he’s loved her since the first time his eyes met hers. It’s her smile, mostly. He gets lost in it. He’s not exactly sure how that happens, but it does. Just yesterday, he said to her, “I’d like a double vanilla latte with whipped cream and some chocolate sprinkles,” and he felt his heart trip, catching himself before he said "spronkles." She works at the Starbucks at the corner of Smith and Wesson streets in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and lives with her boyfriend, Todd, who drives a van for the state correctional facility in nearby Laramie. He plans to send her flowers for Valentine’s Day. Not roses. Something a bit less showy. Carnations, maybe. He’s started saving his money. His name is Roy. He’s a 10th grader at Wyoming Central High School. He's in the band, plays tenor sax. It will be the first gift he’s purchased for a girl, the flowers. His hopes are high.

as he did

It is a ceding of time and territory
and
possibility. They are where he was
30 years ago – and he is
jealous and he can’t help
it. Their canvasses are
blank, ready to be marked,
colored,
painted,
trimmed,
folded. Some has already
taken place. His is
cast, he thinks, indelibly. He tries
to convince himself that it
hasn’t been finished, yet, but he knows, too,
that some of
the colors
have been set
irrevocably, indelibly.
So, he wishes them
godspeed and
wishes,
too,
he could go with
them on their journey, if not just
to
be there. But they travel
alone, as
they
should. As he would.
As
he
did.

the morning before

“I’m not sure this is working,” he said, poking at the waffle iron, but addressing something much more tenuous. “Do you mean us?” she asked, softly, rinsing the dishes from last night’s late dinner that she planned to use for the morning’s breakfast. “It’s just cool. No heat,” he said, almost absentmindedly. “Just like us,” she said, quietly, almost under her breath, but not quite. “Maybe it just needs a bit more time,” he said, tapping a fork on the formica countertop. “Time, I have,” she said, this time completely indiscernibly. “Jeesh. Here it is. I just forgot to plug it in,” he said, tapping himself on the forehead. “There. All it needed was that.” She finished wiping the plates, then sat, at the table, watching him, feeling that he’d hit it squarely on the head without suspecting it. That was how he was. It wasn’t how she was. She felt the impending doom, but smiled nicely, politely, bravely, keenly.

hisself: a riddle

Where shall I go next, he asks himself, and his self responds: “Wherever,” knowing full well that he who asked trusts himself and his self, which means that it may be time, soon, to pack up, again. What he doesn’t ask himself is “why,” because he is sure that his self has no real answer, himself. It is a double-edged sword, himself and his self. They might seem as though they are the same person, but they’re not. They’re close enough, he supposes, for government work, but in the real world, not nearly. So, he will continue to second-guess himself, and, at some point, will maybe even be beside himself.

mountain climing

He knows what he needs
to
do: He needs to embrace
his aloneness, not
fight it, so he considers the benefits:
eating what he wants, when
he wants; watching what he
chooses, when
he
chooses; doing what he wants,
any old time – i.e. freedom, which is a good
thing, perhaps one of
the
best
of things, behind, only, maybe
hope. And he wonders, how would
he give up
all that
for someone? Could he?
Again?
Or is this the way it’s
supposed
to be. After all, it was this
way for his father – loveless, for so long, even
though he was married. He
sighs and thinks of
the warmth and touch of
a lover and that perhaps this, too:
maybe it’s
time to climb
a
real
mountain.

merry christmas

It is after midnight, Christmas Eve-cum-Christmas morning and sporadic fireworks light the sky, a celebration that is new to him. Five hours north, a sneak attack of winter wreaks havoc with holiday travel. Here, the wind gusts with a certain fervor, but does no more damage than toss about strings of Christmas lights that really needed, hindsight being what it is, to be secured a bit more carefully. Coffee brews in the kitchenette counter, behind him. The $9.99 WalMart clock, leaning securely against the wall, ticks and tocks far too loud, though he usually doesn’t hear it. He’s usually asleep, by now. In the old days, years ago, he’d use these dark, quiet hours to wrap gifts and lay them beneath the glowing Christmas tree. He has no tree, this year. First time, ever. Times change. Time changes. He gets all that. In fifteen minutes, he will leave to meet the flight that will reunite his children for the first time in more than a year. He pours himself a cup of coffee, sips it. It tastes better than he’d expected.

20 items or ... fewer

The sign at the checkout counter read, “20 items or less,” and while he wasn’t going to waste anyone’s time by pointing out that it should read, “20 items or fewer,” he did give the woman ahead of him a look that said, if she was willing to listen (which she wasn’t), “20 items, not 35.” He did no more than that, though, because it was Christmas Eve. He counted his own cartful – 18 items – then thought for a moment about whether he should attend church. He decided against it. He knew the late-night service might make him feel less lonely, but he fancied himself someone who was honest in everything he did and going to church on Christmas Eve to avoid the awaiting loneliness seemed phony. He’d bought a bottle of wine. Not the cheap stuff, but nothing too pricey, either. He would go home, cook a frozen pizza, one of those rising-crust brands, with pepperoni and sausage, open the wine and pass the next six hours until Christmas Eve was gone. Then, he would sleep. Then, all that would be left would be Christmas Day. He knew the drill, only too, too well.

why don't you ...

He was sitting on the toilet when the car plowed into the side of his house and ground to a halt inches from the bathroom sink. When the smoke cleared, he could see that the driver’s head was stuck in the windshield. His left ear was severed, it seemed, though from where he sat, Leny Doon wasn’t exactly sure. But blood was everywhere. The car’s engine was still grinding, but all Leny could think of, for the moment, for the briefest of moments, for Leny was a good guy, was the $2,000 deductible on his insurance. The man in the windshield started groaning, surprisingly on beat, to “Build Me Up, Buttercup,” which was playing on the car stereo. Leny moved toward the man, who said, “Please, help me.” Leny did, but first he reached in, fished around for the dial, and turned off the radio. It seemed like the right thing to do. Besides, he never did like the song.

stranded

The snow kept falling. Pretty soon it would cover their tracks.
That wasn’t good. They’d left the car, the safety of the car, because they’d die if they didn’t, which was an irony he understood only too, too well. The flakes were getting smaller, icier, it seemed. Instead of falling silently, they made a sound, now, tinny, clinking, something, some sort of sound that was clearly different from soundlessly. He turned. Mollie was 15 feet back. She usually was stronger than him. He knew that. But she didn’t look good. He stopped, waited. “We’ll be okay, babe,” he said. She carried Oliver against her chest. Ollie was 18 months. Their first. “I’ll take Ollie,” he said. She looked into his eyes and said, “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?” He tried to look away, but couldn’t. “Tell me,” she said. “We’ll be okay,” he said. The snow was falling heavier, now. “We’ll be okay,” he repeated. He checked his watch – 4:13 p.m. In half an hour, darkness would fall.

christmas day

It is his first Christmas away from home. He is spending it in Beeville, Mississippi. At home, back in Vincent, Kansas, a fire is roaring in the fireplace and Aunt Junie has just arrived with her mince-meat pie. In an hour or two, his father will pull the turkey from the oven and slice it into submission, while his mother mashes potatoes and his two younger sisters, now 16 and 18, respectively, set the table. Twenty-three people, relatives and friends, are expected. The family dog, Junior, sleeps at the top of the stairs. Outside it has begun to snow. Three to five inches are expected. It’s 83, with 90 percent humidity, in Beeville. In 15 minutes, he will drive to the nearest Subway and order a foot-long meatball sub. He will eat it alone, while watching ESPN2. He should call home, but waits, instead, for them to call him. He is feeling sorry for himself. He feels as though he’s allowed to. This one day, if none other.

we need to talk ...

“I will tell her, tonight,” he tells his best friend. “I will tell him, tonight,” she tells her best friend. “Are you sure?” his best friend asks. “Are you ready for this?” her best friend queries. Both he and she nod. They both tell their best friends that they have spent time and energy thinking everything through. “I’ll be around, later, if you need to talk,” his best friend says. “Call me and tell me how it goes,” hers says. It is mid-evening when they sit to talk. The dishes are done. The kids are in bed. The TV has hummed itself into a whispery, flickering drone. Outside, it’s snowing, lightly. “I need to talk,” he says. “Me, too,” she replies. “You first,” he says. “No, you,” she replies. “You. You go.” He nods okay. “I’ve been thinking a lot, lately,’ he says, “and I think I want …” “Another baby?” she says, finishing his sentence with a lovely smile. “… a divorce,” he says, before her words hit home. She is stunned to tears. He, to silence.

winnie

The dog was abandoned and suffers from separation anxiety, if there is such a thing for dogs. He’s pretty smart and terribly athletic. His first owner called him Zeke. The guys at the pound named him Max. His third owner rechristened him Winston. He is a beautiful specimen of Golden Retriever. He gnaws cooked bones with relish and protects raw ones with bared teeth. He was a good friend, an unconditional companion. He is missed. Terribly.

her butt

Her name is Ronnie and she’s got the nicest ass anyone’s ever seen, herself included. It was God’s gift, genes, but she doesn’t take it for granted. She visits the gym six times a week, minimum, and bumps and grinds for all she’s worth so that she keeps her tukus in shape. Her boyfriend worships her derriere, her husband, too. Just kidding. She’s monogamous, with a girlfriend-partner. She’s not exactly a lesbian, she says, though she’s hard pressed, when asked by friends just what “not exactly” means. She’s studying to be a surgeon. She won’t end up a surgeon, of course. She will go into AIDS research and lead a team that will find an antidote for the virus. The year will be 2023. Two things will never be forgotten: her contribution to mankind and her butt when she was 26. Such is life.

now

Here’s what he dreamed of: a wedding, not theirs, but a final child’s, a daughter’s, and he would look into her eyes, not his daughter’s, but his wife’s, and, without saying a word, both would know, exactly, what each other was thinking: we made it. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t always pretty. But we stuck with it. It was, he thought, the way it should end, or the way a new beginning should begin. She, however, his wife, had other ideas, a few years ago, none of which included him. So much for that dream, he knows, now. A little sad, now. More than a little, now and then. But it is what it is, he tells himself. It was what it was, he tells himself. She is who she always was, he knows, now. Now. Now.

o quiet night

It is the first year, ever, that she will not have a tree. She is not sad about it. Or maybe it’s just because she doesn’t think about it much, if at all. She has become good at compartmentalizing, like this: Her place is too small for a tree and a tree would just be more mess to clean up, after the holidays. Plus, she can use the extra $35 a tree would cost, the economy being what it is. She has memories of grand trees, years ago, with presents spread beneath, while the snow fell, quiet and soft, outside, and the children giggled and buzzed with anticipation. Then, back then, the tree was the center of their Christmas celebration. When she lived in the country, after the divorce, she’d gone out in the moonlight at midnight, exactly, one year, and cut a tree from the forest, and she felt guilty about it, because she'd made a hole in the woods. She sits, tonight, in a room that looks the same as it did in August, September and October. Perhaps she’ll connect with the real idea of the holy day, this way. Or perhaps she’ll weep. She’s still not sure.

little drummer boy

He once was a terrific drummer. He knew it. Everyone knew it. He could keep the beat, and then some, and he loved it, lived for it. It was more than the music. It was … him. Then, he stopped playing, just like that. Don’t count on music, his mother had said. It’s a tough life, his father had said. So, he moved on, not realizing that you never really move on from music, that it becomes part of you, almost like a heart beating, blood coursing, breathing. He filled the emptiness with other things, busyness, mostly, and anything else he could find, but the beat always played in his head, in his heart, in his soul. It was him. When he finally realized that, he promised himself he would someday return to it, but he hasn’t, yet. There’s still time, he thinks.

questioned marks

A life well lived is
what? And how? And what happens,
if, in the end, you somehow realize
that
yours wasn’t? Do you
carry
that
disappointment into the
next life – if there is one? Or does
a light flash and everything suddenly
is
made
OK? Or do you, can you
in your last breath, if given one,
reconcile all that was done and even
that
which
wasn’t? Someone once told me not
to write
questions if I was trying to write poetry,
and
I think
he may have been right.
But what else is there, in the end,
but
questions?
Answers, perhaps?
Maybe that’s
the
heaven people
talk of – knowing that you did
what you did and why and that it was
all alright.

the street

She can hear the traffic from the road outside her place. She’s set back from the street, but sound carries better, here, than in other places she’s been. Sometimes it’s soothing, comforting. Some nights she falls asleep to the noise. Other times, it reminds her of how alone she is: she imagines everyone passing her place is heading toward someone, while she stays alone. It wasn’t always like this. When she was younger, she had more friends than she could count. Or at least it seemed so. Now, most of her friends are in other places, literally and figuratively. She is tempted to go on the road, again, to start driving and keep driving until she arrives someplace that feels more like home. Problem is, she doesn’t know where home is, anymore. So, she’s decided to make a stand, here, and hope tonight, anyway, that the road lullaby sings her to sleep. She’s learned, better, by now, to take it one night at a time.

payback

It wasn’t the right thing to do, invite the kid to her place, after the party, but she did it, anyway. She’d never done anything like it. Never even come close. But she was tired of being alone, tired of him being gone, tired of feeling so angry, all the time. They drove in separate cars and when the kid finally arrived, she gave him the rules. No kissing. No hugging. No nudity. No exchanging phone numbers. And if he somehow got ahold of her cell number and tried to text her, she said she’d find him and slap him silly. She only wanted him because she needed him to complete her infidelity. When she was done with him, with it, that was that. He said he could deal with that, so she turned off the lights and backed into him and he, soon, moved into her. It all happened quickly, much quicker than she’d even imagined it would, though she was so overcome with anger that she only realized the act’s ice cold brevity much, much later. When they were done, she put herself back together and led him to the door, let him out, locked the door and sat on the couch, still in the darkness. It was 2:11 a.m., and she was alone, again. And it was at that very moment that she decided she wouldn’t cry. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. Maybe not ever, again.

the way we were

She teases him with images
from the
past and she knows exactly
what
she is doing though she
feigns – nice word, feign –
ignorance. But he knows
how she is and what she
does and why
she
does it, which doesn’t make anything
any easier, but does, in a way,
warm his heart and soul, for it does
remind him
of
the way things were, which
was
a movie of the 70s, or so,
he remembers. He
never thought,
tho,
he would
star
in
it, even though he does fancy
himself a
bit of
a
Redford.

brother robert

He lay in bed, in the darkness, thinking. He had given his life to God, spent 70-some years in his service. His name was Brother Robert and he knew his time was drawing to a close. The cough had grown more rancorous, gripping his lungs every time he breathed deeply. The diagnosis was pneumonia. He’d managed, however, to remain resolute in his faith. He harbored no anger, no resentment. God’s will was God’s will. He did allow himself this, though: As his condition had worsened, he grew more and more inclined to think about Clare, the only girl he’d loved and how things might have been different if he’d chosen her, instead of his Savior, for she had made no bones about choosing him. He thought of her smile and how her eyes lit up the night and how her touch somehow made him feel safe. In a few minutes, he would get up from his bed, sit down and handwrite a letter to her, beginning “Dear Clare” and ending “Oh, how I loved you and love you still.” He would never get to mail it.

back home

He returned from Iraq and Afghanistan without injury. Not a scratch. Three of his West Virginia National Guard mates were not so lucky. Two died. Vinnie Ray Murray lost his left leg and part of his right. The Boles Springs community held a “Welcome Home” dinner at Coleman Middle School last night and a thanksgiving prayer service at the 5th Baptist-Methodist Church this morning. Both were well attended. People did care, he decided. He figured he’d take off a few weeks, then return to work, after Christmas, as a mechanic at the Pep Boys franchise at Wilson and Main. They’d held his spot. Before that, he’d thought about taking a trip, driving somewhere, take it slow. He thought about visiting Maggie, who lived in Pierre, South Dakota, but he knew she’d ask too many questions, even if he asked her not to. It was just the way she was. Maybe he’d just pick a road, get on it, just drive and end up where he’d end up. He needed space. Lots of it. So much that it scared him, sometimes. He also needed to come to peace with being alive. Space helped with that. A little.

on tour

She was a dancer with the “Mary MacCarthy “Proud Mary’ Revue” and she was on the road for the 106th straight day, with some two weeks-plus yet to go. Her back, neck and hips ached from the recent back-to-back-to-back shows, and the drugs she’d negotiated from the doctor in Vienna had lost their pop. It was 2 a.m., now, the final show in Frankfurt having ended 20 minutes ago. Most everyone in the band and crew was heading off to a local pub for drinks and a late dinner, but she was tired of that, too, and decided to head, instead, back to the hotel. It was only a seven minute walk from the theater, but she decided to sight-see on the way back. A good night for it. The shops and buildings were festooned with Christmas lights and snow drizzled down in tiny, whispery flakes, like something out of a movie. Her little boy, Jed, was home in Georgia with her mother. Jed’d be spending another Christmas with his grandparents. He was three, and she missed him. She stopped, for a moment, by a window filled with toys, looking for something to pick out for him, tomorrow, before they boarded the train for Prague. That’s when the first shot rang out.

drive, papa

His daddy comes home, tonight,
which is a good thing
for
everyone but
me. I liked being a
dad, again, not that I’m not,
still, but
not in those same ways, of course, the
ways of wonder
and
discovery
and unconditional love and
intense discussion highlighted
by a
lack of
vocabulary on both parts –
him with me and
me with him. But
the process, even when
consternating,
is
joyful. And light.
And happy.
And gay.
“Drive, papa.”
“I have to wait for
green. Green means
go.”
He knows that,
now. I
taught him.

walled-en

He stands outside, in his driveway, and stares across the street at the wall. His house is in Texas, a few hundred feet from Mexico. His father was born a Mexican citizen, delivered by a midwife in the very same house, years ago, of course, before the Rio Grande redirected itself and turned what was then Mexico into what is, now, the United States. Levees have been built, since, so that the river, the one-time line of demarcation, will never, would never, again, pull that sort of passport-boggling trick. But, now stands, there, the wall, as much a necessity, some believe, as he thinks an insult. He looks at it, gazes at it mostly in the mornings, as he leaves for work. By night, he’s too tired to think about anything but dinner and a cold beer. But those mornings he does marvel at the idea of the anniversary recently celebrated over the fall of the wall in Berlin and this one, here. He tries to discern a difference, but he sees little dissimilarity between the two.

christmas shopping

He pulled a CD from the display – “The Wonder Pets,” a Nick show. It was for his little sister, Monica. It was her favorite. He took a quick look around, feigned nonchalance as best he knew, slid the CD inside his shirt and pushed it into the waistband of his pants. He knew, of course, what could happen to him. This wasn’t the first time, and it wasn’t as if he’d never been caught. But this was important. The county had placed him and Monica in different homes. The lady in the office said they wouldn’t split up siblings, but they did. He only saw her every other week and she always cried when they had to leave one another, again. This would be the perfect Christmas gift, though. He took a deep breath as he neared the exit and felt the package slide down from his waistband into his pants leg. No matter, he made it out. He felt the sweat on his back, now, in the cool evening. He walked a few blocks before re-examining the CD. He could almost picture Monica’s smile. She was three and not nearly as brave as he. Not yet, anyway. He was 12.

his birthday

His name is Harold and he has only one leg. He’d lost the other in Vietnam, had come home to a country that hated him, and him without the means to run away. He has a recurring dream that his leg has regenerated itself, regrown, only to wake to find himself the same cripple who’d drunk himself to sleep. Never married, he has a steady girl, lately, named Deb, who’d lost her boyfriend in ‘Nam. Deb isn’t much to look at, but she gets him, and that’s good. Tomorrow is his birthday. He’ll be 61. Forty-one years in a wheelchair. As a present, Deb is setting him up with a doctor who specializes in high-tech prosthetics. Her goal is to have him up and walking within the year. It is a surprise. He will not be happy. Too much effort, he’ll reason, too little reward, not to mention too, too late. It will not be a happy day.

the moment

He remembers the moment like few he remembers. She was lying in bed, naked, and he was leaving, because it was time, and he looked over at her and saw, for the first time, how incredibly beautiful she was and how beautifully innocent she was, and he realized, then, that he never would have her, never could have her. He kept seeing her, of course, but, from that moment on, with an understanding of what it was: a moment of time borrowed, not owned, and never forever. He couldn’t explain it to her, even if he tried, which he didn’t. He was certain, and correctly so, that she wouldn’t understand.

tattoed

She couldn’t decide on the tattoo. She knew where she wanted it: on her left breast, just above the nipple and curved around it. She’d narrowed the list of possibilities: a dove with an olive branch; a single word – LOVE; a red rose. She was nervous, too. It would be her first tattoo. She hadn’t told her parents. They would be crazy. Especially her father, Stu. He was pretty hard core. She hadn’t told anyone, not even her best friend, Hattie. This was her thing. She had the money. She’d selected the artist – Bunny, a girl on 65th and Warden, who seemed pretty cool. All she needed to do, now, was do it. She pulled into the parking lot, found a space, parked, turned off the car. The moment of truth. It was hot, unseasonably so. She checked her purse, made sure she had enough money; Bunny only took cash. On the way in, she decided on the rose. The rose would be it, it would be good.

the secret

Everyone has a secret, his mother once told him, and, she said, it’s often better if you don’t know exactly what that secret, their secret, is. He never asked her about that bit of advice, but he would, now, if he could, and the question would be, perhaps a bit inappropriately: what was yours? He suspects hers, his mother’s, might have been that she’d been molested by her father. He’d always had this creepy, gut feeling about that and about his grandfather. In the broader view, he’d always looked differently at people after she’d said that to him. It was a bit of a game, at first – who was doing what to whom? But later it became more and more of an obsession: what was his, hers, theirs? And why was it a secret? His secret? He wasn’t telling anyone, ever. It was better, that way, for everyone – especially his siblings.

the phone call

She doesn’t have long to live, she knows that. The doctors gave her six months, but she doesn’t trust them. She trusts her instincts, now, as much as ever, and she always had good instincts. So, she needs to act, she thinks. She’s made a list of things she wants to do and at the top is calling him. She will call him and tell him that she always loved him, always wanted to be with him, that her life always seemed empty without him. He will be devastated, she thinks, but she has no choice. She needs to say it; he needs to know. She will do it this weekend, when her husband is out of town with the kids – a hockey tournament in Erie. She’s not sure, yet, of exactly what she will say, but she will say something. Then she will say goodbye and hang up. Just like that. Her name is not important, but you probably know her.

snowstorm

He’d worked on the road crew for about seven years, now. Good pay. Decent hours. Lots of overtime. It was mindless work, mostly, but he liked the guys and the few women who worked his shifts. He generally didn’t think much about what he was doing, he just did as he was scheduled and told. Put in the time, head home, do it again the next day. He had a young son and a wife and bills and she was pregnant, again. His job wasn’t exactly recession-proof, but he had built up some seniority, so things weren’t as gloomy for him as for others, nowadays. Except when he allowed himself to stop and take stock. He was in his middle 30s, now, and he was in pretty deep. He’d invested time and effort. Another 10 or so years and his retirement would be pretty well set. It didn’t seem like such a long time until he thought about what he’d really wanted to do. He’d always wanted to be an artist. He’d won awards in grade school and high school for his sketches. In the yearbook, he was listed as “the Hixson High Panther most likely to have his work displayed in an art museum.” Today, not so much. A snowstorm was due in a few hours and he’d be on the plow until late tomorrow morning. Then, sleep.

30 years

He was born 30 years
too soon, or she was born
30 years too late, if chronology has
anything
to do
with anything. He used to think, yes,
but sometimes, now,
he’s not so sure. He wondered, tonight,
about her in 20 years. Will she
still look at him
like now? Will she even
recognize him? How will she regard
what once was? He thought about
what it would
be like
to grow old
with her and how unfair that
might be
to her.
Or not? And is it even his
job to worry
about that. Perhaps it’s not.
Still, he wonders, more, now, than
he thought he ever would about
what
might
have
been.

the interview

The coach took a long drag on his cigarette, then a drink from his bottle. It was past midnight and he was in his campus office with the new beat reporter from the Daily News. He said, “You know all those blowhards – I’m not going to name names – who pass out all this sanctimonious bullshit about why they coach? Because they’re competitors. Because of the kids. Because … shit. I could go on and on.” The reporter nodded. He was young, too, too young, his editor at the paper would soon discover. “It’s all about one thing. Are you ready?” The reporter nodded, again. “Coaching is finite. That’s right. There’s an end to it. And if you fuck up – when you fuck up – you always get another chance, or mostly always. There’s always another game. Maybe not as big as the last one, but another one, just the same, and you know, too, that all you have to do is be good enough for an hour or two. It’s defined. You think all these guys are fucking geniuses?” The reporter shook his head, this time. “Most of them couldn’t pee by themselves if they had to do a real job. In real life, they’d be losers. And isn’t it funny that they’re the ones writing the books about how to be successful.” He paused, then said, “My fucking ass.” He looked at the reporter. The kid’s mouth was wide open, now. The coach said, “Aw, shit, you’re just a kid. Just my luck.”

mary loo2

Mary Loo Tortella was and interesting amalgam of grit, hustle, comeliness and sexual energy. She’d finished first in her high school class and first in college, too. Her plan was to attend Harvard Law and become rich. The reality was that she was overqualified for law school, even Harvard Law, in that she was a doer and lawyers didn’t do. They waited for others to do, then cleaned up the mess. Mary Loo needed to be on the front end of things. She had energy to burn. When she walked into Walker Jonas’s shop, she already had a plan. She’d just seen him on TV and it had come to her. She was ready to change his life – and maybe hers, too.

her dream

On gusty, brittle nights like these, the wind slapped you in the face no matter which way you turned, which she knew was impossible, but true, nonetheless. She checked her watch – almost midnight. The last train was due in 12 minutes. She’d make it if she hurried. She was running down McAdam – well, not really running, but hurrying, quickly. She was almost to the train station when she stopped. She’d heard someone call her name. Or at least she thought she had. The intersection – she was at McAdam and Purifoy – was deserted. Neon signs lit each corner. Two flashed; two were steady. She heard it, again. She looked all about – nothing. No one. She had two minutes to spare, so she stood perfectly still and listened. The wind blew, then whistled. The neon sign closest to her – McCready’s Deli -- clicked and snapped. She held her breath. Nothing. She must’ve been hearing things. She crossed Purifoy in a slow walk, then began jogging as she reached the other side. She made the train with only seconds to spare. That night, she dreamed she’d seen her father, downtown, in a sidestreet alley. He’d died three years earlier. She still missed him. Terribly.

rik

His name is Ricardo and he goes by Rik. He uses the “k,” because he thinks it’s distinctive. He’s a sophomore in high school and he’s in the marching band and he’s heard all the “beater or blower” jokes from the jocks and other BMOCs and he doesn’t really care, most of the time, except that now he has a crush on Maryela, who’s the lead in the school play and likes drummers and he plays clarinet. He wanted to be a drummer, but his family had a clarinet, not drums. That was the way things worked in his family: you did with what you had. He’s decided that he still will try to woo Maryela, but, in the end, as always, she will dance at the musical after-party with someone more important. This time it’s Ned, who is a football player. He will take her outside, ply her with booze and have sorry, fumbled sex with her in the backseat of his car. Someday, Rik will be a featured jazz clarinetist on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Millions of jazz aficionados will know his name. Maryela will marry Ned. And you do know the rest of that story, don’t you?

sunday morning

The couple stands atop a small dune, looking out at the Gulf. She is slender and appears younger than he. Her smile is younger, at least, or somehow seems so. He is slender, too. His hair is gray and thinning and blows in the wind. They talk, but their conversation, nothing too intense or intimate, it is assumed by their smiles and carriage, is carried off by the gusts. They might be husband and wife, or perhaps lovers, or could be, more innocently, father and daughter. What they are – how they are – isn’t important. What’s important – and, for that matter, so nice on an overcast, chilly December morning – is that they’re together. Light laughter rolls down from the dune, now. She kisses him on the cheek, puts her arm in his. He kisses her back.

tomorrow

Tomorrow, she will turn in her son. He knows nothing of it. The sheriff’s deputies will arrive at 8 a.m., sharp, they promised, handcuff him and take him to the county jail. She will try to explain, but he won’t listen, of course. He will feel betrayed, as she might, too, she knows. But it has come to this. She has no choice. If not this, he will end up dead, and, she fears, sooner than later. This is no panacea, either. She knows that, too. But it might forestall the inevitable, buy her some time to try to figure out how to – who can – help him. She pours herself some wine. It is late. After midnight. The wind wails at this hour, in this part of the country, especially in the dead of January. The temperature is expected to drop to minus-15, much lower with the wind chill. She opens the door to the wood-burning stove and throws in two logs. She will wait for another 15 minutes, then enter his room to make sure he’s covered and to kiss him on the cheek. Then, she will go to her bedroom and weep and, maybe, sleep.

fat a**

Burger King calls them
“French toast” sticks,
but they’re really just fried
bread, and
who thought
up
that? And: did he (or she) win
a prize or bonus – not to mention the
genius who came
up with the
truncated “tater tots.” And
while
we’re on the subject, walks
past a woman
with the “guess” logo slapped across her butt.
that’s just
a no-brainer:
FAT
ASS.

one 'tall,' please

“You’ve ruined coffee, you know,” he says, aloud, at the Starbucks kiosk concession at the LA airport. “All this frou-frou crap. Coffee used to be coffee, but now it’s a fucking soft drink.” The clerk looks confused, then a bit frightened, and who wouldn’t be, this day and age, when people pull out guns and start shooting anyone over anything. Just yesterday, a guy in Culver City shot a 13-year-old girl for trying to steal his lawn gnome. “Latte this, latte that. Coffee is supposed to be coffee. Fuck all this other shit.” Security is called, beckoned away from people a stone’s throw north who are busy taking off their shoes to prove they’re not terrorists. “Excuse me, sir,” the first guard on the scene says. “You’re excused, asshole,” the coffee whisperer says, in a voice louder, of course, than a whisper. “Will you please come with us?” The answer is “No,” of course, and a second guard appears, this one a bit more focused. He tasers the protestor. When he comes to, Arnie Slobodokian, the patron, will find himself face down in an airline holding cell. His first words will be, “And what’s with a goddam 'tall'?”

sadness

What makes his sadness
seem
worse, at least
to him
is that
for some reason
everyone
around him seems
happy and he wonders: are
they, really,
or is it just me? He doesn’t wish
them unhappiness or sadness,
but he
does feel left out and
that
makes it more
difficult to navigate. It’s a funny
thing,
this feeling bad, he thinks,
not so humorously. The way it would seem is to
be around happiness,
but often being around it only exacerbates
the
pain (and makes it worse, too,
he thinks, redundantly, which makes
him smile, a bit – and
that’s not
a
sad
thing).

the maid

Anja comes bumping into the classroom and complains, aloud, “The maid keeps stealing my clothes,” then drops herself into an empty desk with a disgusted thunk. No one asks her how she knows this for certain or why she feels it necessary to announce it to a group of 15-year-old biology students, few of whom seem to be her friends. Anja’s father owns six car dealerships in the valley; her mother is an art broker. Her personal driver brings her to school. A bodyguard accompanies her. She will graduate in the top third of her class, though barely, and matriculate to one of the toniest colleges on the East Coast, at which time her father will refer to the annual tuition as “tip money.” Over the same period of time, the maid, who is not stealing Anja’s clothes, will suffer her mother’s death, her father’s hospitalization and the diagnosis of her teenage son’s learning disability as “severe.” The maid’s name is Luisa. She once saved Anja’s life when Anja was choking.

christmas eve

It’s late and cold and windy and Maria Gutierrez has no idea where she and her two children, Rey and Nelda, will spend the night. Last night and most of today they stayed at a friend’s, Jessie’s, but that place turned ugly in the late evening when Jessie’s boyfriend, Oscar, came by drunk and angry, threatening Jessie and anyone who might get in his way. Had things been different, Maria would’ve stayed for Jess, or, better, convinced her friend to come with them. But another body was, well, another body, she rationalized, and Jessie seemed okay, or at least said she was or would be. She said she could handle Oscar. The fact was, she couldn’t. Tomorrow she would be found beaten, her bloodied body stuffed in a kitchen closet. Maria knows none of this, now, of course. She is busy parking her car in the back of the vacant, flea market parking lot. It’s a safe spot, she guesses, though so very dark. She turns off the engine and climbs into the back seat with the children. Rey asks, in a polite whisper, for Nelda is already asleep, “Momma will we go to church tomorrow? It’s Christmas.” Maria smiles as bravely as she can, shushes him, pulls him closer. She is 23, Maria is, and scared to death.

a victim

She remains in the hospital, recovering from the gunshot wound suffered during the attack. She was a secretary, still is, or still will be. It wasn’t being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was her place. She’d worked in the office, there, for five years. Nothing, of course, ever happened like this. When he walked in, she’d had a tiny flash of panic that something was wrong, or was about to be wrong. He had words with the receptionist, then reached into his pocket, pulled out a gun and started shooting. He hadn’t aimed at her, not so that she remembered. It was more he just started shooting, at anything and at nothing. The first bullet hit her in the hip, fracturing her femur. The second hit her in the back. Funny, both times she didn’t feel pain, but just a thump or thunk. The doctors said she might not walk, again, and she wasn’t so angry with the shooter as she was with her God. She believed He had control over everything. So: why her? She’d since stopped praying and resorted, instead, to hoping. She was 27 and had her whole life in front of her. Had. Despite her injuries, the doctors said she could expect to live a long life, one, she knew, now, she might spend questioning the existence of her God, or any God. Just so you know, her name was Millie. Is Millie.

rachel

He’d never paid for sex, but he knew, too, that everything had its time, so he was able to rationalize it, for this was the time, or so he told himself. Her name was Rachel, or so she said, and he’d met her at the furthest barstool from the entrance at The Barnstormer, a local meat market in the downtown singles area. They talked a bit and he told her he hadn’t had sex in a year and she said she’d be willing to address that, if he was interested. He said he was and they bartered a bit, in a consciously clandestine way, and they agreed on a deal and found a motel nearby and, over the course of the next few hours, settled matters. He, of course, was taken by her kindness, which was genuine, he’d judged. She was perfunctory, as always, though sympathetically so, and, perhaps, a trifle taken. When they left, he paid her $300. It was, he would later assess, the best $300 he’d ever spent. She used it to get her car fixed – new muffler. It was a perfect example of free-market economy: A good deal was had by all.

the cold

She thought she missed the snow, but what she’d really been missing was the cold. The cold seemed to clear everything, to sweep away all the “stuff” that hung around and grew in the heat and the dampness. When the front swept through in the early morning, the early daylight hours, she felt a lightness she’d been missing. Nothing she could quantify, just something that made everything seem a bit less complicated. She slept better, at night, too, knowing that the darkest hours would be the coldest, the most brittle and brutal and that as the sun warmed things, life would become a bit more manageable, that she could hide beneath the covers during the night, but emerge to a kinder morning. She was sure she was just making it all up, rationalizing it, how things changed for her, depending on the weather, but it made her feel better, nonetheless, and that was all that mattered.

hello mary loo

His business was called “Music 2 Live By,” and he’d divined the idea from a TV sitcom years ago that had a tag line about a good life made better by living it to music. His idea: put together musical selections for individuals based on their likes and dislikes, lifestyles and personalities, with different playlists for different moods and times. His friends thought the idea was crazy. He thought it was crazy, too, but crazy like bottled water. His main goal was not to make money, but to meet women, whom he assumed would be his main clients. He was right – and on all accounts. In the first year he’d netted $75,000, been featured in Rolling Stone, the New York Times and on the Today show and had dated 29 of his 75 female clients. Life was good. Then, one day, into his tiny shop on 66th Street walked Mary Loo Tortella.

the party

They give him a party, now that’s back home from the war – and in one piece, “Let’s all drink a toast.” It is a gala affair, by mid-sized town standards. Beer. A nice dinner at one of the nicer restaurants. A cake, later, at home, while everyone sings, “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow,” because, well, that’s what someone started singing. But it’s two hours later, now, and everyone is gone and he’s alone in his bedroom, the bedroom he had as a boy, with everything still the way it was, and instead of feeling at home, he feels an anger well up, deep inside, which is from where his anger always seems to come. And he knows at whom it’s directed, or mis-directed. At them. All of them, at the party, at his party. He knows it’s not fair to be upset with them, but he is, nonetheless, because they do not know, he knows, that he never will come home. He can’t come home, anymore, though they act as though he should, and did, and he is maddened by their ignorance. He decides he can’t stay, it is best that he leave, and he quietly grabs a few clothes and goes. He does not know where to go, but he will find it, the place, he knows. Maybe not soon, but someday. His name is Allen Joseph Walker. You maybe meet him, someday, or perhaps you already have and didn’t know it.

safety

He had not thought if it like that – safety. He’d thought that he was supposed to make her feel safe. But she’d made him feel that way. It was true, now that he thought about it, and even though he’d heard the line, been introduced to the sentiment in a recent “chick-flick” movie. Even that didn’t diminish the truth. They were, those were the moments when he felt untouched by everything that was happening around and about him. Moments. Minutes. Half-hours, sometimes whole. She was younger and less experienced and less worldly, certainly, but she had that effect on him, on his life. He didn’t feel as safe, now that she was gone, off, away. He didn’t feel in danger, it wasn’t like that. He just didn’t feel safe.