10th grader

“We are victims, casualties, some, of our births,” he wrote in his journal. He continued: “Who we are and what we become is affected most directly, impacted most effectively by that over which we have no control – whom are our parents. This is the one thing that everyone equally shares, this totally arbitrary beginning.” He paused to think, then began, again. “For some, birth is a head start; for others it is, ironically, and sadly, a death sentence.” He paused, again, then wrote: “If you could choose, whom would you pick for your parents? It is an interesting question. It goes to the heart of family and parenting, not to mention genetic engineering. Would a black child choose white? Would a white child choose other? Would a baby birthed in a refugee camp make the expected decision?” He put down his pen. Enough, for today. He had to finish his geometry homework, then read two chapters in “Catcher in the Rye.” Quiz, tomorrow.

angel baby

He lives in his parents’ basement and his girlfriend visits him, there. Her name is Angel Baby, an appellation she bestowed upon herself (feeling she’d outgrown Margaret), but that which caused some redundancy when he might say, “Come to your baby, Angel Baby, baby,” which wasn’t often, but, still, in this case, frequent enough. Angel Baby would sneak in through the back window. It was a tighter fit, recently, what with Angel Baby starting to sprout a genuine set of breasts. His parents, Stu and Laurie, knew all about the assignations, but figured it was better for her to come there than the two of them suffer their consummations in the back seat of the family car on some deserted stretch of Almond Avenue. (Car sex was so uncomfortable.) So, he and she banged away in the basement of the blue-shingled house on Catamount Lane. But never during “Desperate Housewives.” And that was his decision.

sex talk

“I want to have sex with you,” he said.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” she said.
“It’s easy,” he said. “You have two options.”
“It may be that easy for you,” she said. “It’s not.”
“Yes or no,” he said.
“A little bit both,” she replied.
“You’re just playing it safe,” he charged.
“For me and for you,” she said.
“Explain that.”
“If we have sex, there’ll be expectations,” she said.
“That sounds like a threat,” he said.
“It isn’t,” she said. “It’s the way things are.”
“I can handle it,” he said, confidently.
“You only think you can,” she said.
And, of course, she was right.

talking it out

“I need more emotional support,” she said.
“I try,” he said.
“I need more than effort,” she answered.
“Tell me what you need,” he suggested.
“I can’t tell you, exactly,” she said.
“What?”
“Yes, that -- what or when.”
“So am I supposed to be a mind reader?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I don’t think I can,” he said.
“Have you even tried?” she asked. “Ever?”
“I have not,” he answered.
“Perhaps you need to try,” she said.
“Can you give me a hint?” he said. “A signal?”
“I need a drink,” she said.

that moment

There is a time, she knows, during the act when she and he seem to become one. It happens sometimes, and sometimes not. It often surprises her, when it does occur, and brings with it such an intense emotional wash that she begins to cry, weep, actually. She turns away, then, because she’s either embarrassed or she doesn’t want him to see how deeply he’s touched her, how deeply she’s felt him, how connected they are, for that instant. She does, later, struggle to decide which it is, embarrassment or her vulnerability, then, instead, simply moves on because it’s not that important why and maybe some things are best just left alone. Besides, if she really contemplated it, investigated it, owned it, it might tell her something about herself she really doesn’t want to know.

a spirit of giving

At what point, he wonders, do you
pass the baton, and say, “I’m fine
with watching, from here on
out?” Is that resigning, or is
it
being realistic? It is a question
that not only
confounds, but challenges, too, for
if one
gives in and gives over, then who’s to
say one hasn’t
simply
given up? Perhaps, it’s a matter
of
interpretation. Perhaps, it’s a matter
of
rationalization. Perhaps, it’s
a matter of time, because
after all,
isn’t
just about everything?

author, author!

His father lifts him high on his shoulders, raising him into the night so he can see the colorful, flashing wonders of the festival parade. It seems a small gesture, a little thing to Enrique Gomez, the kind of thing a father does for a young son, even after spending a long, arduous day on the docks. A chance to see. Only that. What Enrique couldn’t see, wouldn’t even imagine is that his son Raul’s view from there -- the color, the sparkle, the beauty -- was somehow burned into his memory and changed his life. In 25 years, Raul Enrique Gomez will become the most celebrated, critically acclaimed and popular Mexican-American author in history. His stories and tales will entrance millions, touch millions, change millions of lives and he will trace everything back to the magic his four-year-old eyes saw that night when his father lifted him into the blackness. “It created in me a sense of wonder,” the author will say. And while others will try to analyze and decipher the how and why of Raul Enrique Gomez, disbelieving such a simple explanation, he knows. And he is thankful.

how, now?

his mistake, as
it were, if
it was, was defining home
as where
the family was, because
he forgot
to consider or never considered
considering
the absence of family.
the
picture he saw always
included
a family,
his
family. any other
picture
made no sense, was no picture,
at all,
but, instead,
something abstract and
undefinable, which is where he
finds himself,
now,
someplace abstract and
non-definable.
here,
but
not
home.

mandy

Amanda Cutler brushes her hair, looks, once more, into the mirror, drops the brush, grabs her coat, and heads downstairs, where she will meet the man who will murder her in 17 years. The murder will occur the day after New Year’s. Her body will go missing for three months, before a neighbor’s dog will stumble her remains in a patch of undergrowth near a deserted cabin in the furthest reaches of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Now, though, Amanda’s only concerned about the blind date she’s about to meet. She’s had her fix and fill of blind dates, so what’s another one? Well, there is this: she’s decided that if he’s anything close to acceptable she’s going to try to make it work. She’s tired of being alone. She wants to start a family. She’s 30, after all, and all her friends seem settled. And, indeed, as she is about to find out, he is more than acceptable. He’s actually a good catch, or so he will seem, for about 16 years or so. His name is Roger. He and Amanda will have three children, Faye, Angie and Eric, all of whom will struggle, for the rest of their lives, with the fact that their father killed their mom. And, quite brutally, it is reported.

it's about time

The teacher doesn’t
like boys, the kids say. Girls can do
no wrong;
boys have no wiggle room, and a hue and cry
develops and cries: unfair!
and so it must be, for education
should be as clean as possible of
biases. but another voice, a shy one, a
tiny one, says: “well,
it’s about time,” though not at all
in defense of the
teacher, who, quite frankly, is a
witch, but in
the stead of the girls.
good for her;
good for them.
it is about time.

good sox!

A new pair of socks.
Is all.
So, why the thrill?
3 pair for 12 dollars.
blue with argyles.
green with diamonds.
grey with dots.
or marks.
do socks make the man?
or the outfit?
or has it just come
to this?
socks?
what next? euphoria over underwear?
he once received a gift from a friend:
two dogs pulling on a leg dressing with
the caption:
good sox!
a play on words.
indeed.
perhaps.
yes.

perky

His name is Percy Alwyn Hertzog Simmons III. He has a dog named Garfield and a cat named Snoopy. He wears size 17 EEEE shoes, sneakers, mostly, white, predominantly, Velcro-ed, always. He is very slender for his height, which is 6-foot-2; he weighs 135. His goal in life was to drive a Yellow Cab. He doesn’t. He’s a toll-taker at Exit 34B on the Ohio Turnpike. It’s a rather boring job, he doesn’t mind admitting to himself, nor telling others, but he makes do by playing Sudoku. He’s become very good. He’s never been married, though he came close: in January of 2003 he proposed through the toll-booth window to Mary Sue Finklestein Winslow as she headed to work at the turnpike Sbarro between Exits 34A and 34B. She said yes, then no, then maybe, which didn’t surprise him, though her indecision did send him into a rather steep bout of depression for three weeks. He hasn’t allowed his heart to wander since. Today, “Perky,” as he’s called by friends, will become a national hero, when he unknowingly foils the kidnapping of a six-year-old, Malamute, Indiana, girl. He will be shot in the head and die in the process. Two years later, the nearby rest stop will be named in his honor and Mary Sue forever will rue not saying yes.

tom

She wonders more and more about exactly what and how much of it she is supposed to give up? When does someone’s willingness to go without, one’s sacrifice cross the line into “bad marriage?” She takes stock, a lot. She makes lists, a lot. In the end, what keeps her here is one word: family. She knows what divorce does to a family and she’s convinced there’s no way around any of the repercussions and ramifications. But what about her, herself, her being? When does her satisfaction, her growth, if there is such a thing (and she thinks there is), become selfish. When does self-less become dangerous? Because the bomb does have a timer and she does hear the ticking. She talks to her friend, Betty, about all of this. Betty simply listens. She’s either too smart or too cowardly to get involved. So, it goes and so it is, she tells herself. The worst thing is that Tom is a good man. No, what’s even worse than that is that she knows it.

pan handled

He stands in the median, in the 89-degree heat, in a faded, green Army jacket and a backpack, holding a sign that reads, ”Homeless; I need a hand.” No one stops to give him one, of course. Most are afraid that he will do something crazy. He might, certainly, for the look in his eyes is more dangerous than bedraggled. Perhaps it’s the beard -- long, unruly, angry. Perhaps it’s the Army jacket – who even wears those, anymore? The boots? Old, Velcro Nikes would be less threatening. Louisa Alyssa Hornet drives by and notices all of this, for she is quite perceptive. She doesn’t stop to help him, for she is not certifiably insane, as she might put it. No, she heads home to do what anyone would, these days – brainstorm a website, this one for hoboes, obviously: The Panhandlers Guide to Survival. After all, she considers herself a humanitarian.

therein lies the truth

There lies a silence
in the room that is
disquieting.
It is there, even though the
two do speak and they do
hear it
even as they talk, trying, if nothing
else,
to
drown
it
out. It is not a new
silence. It has been
there
and has grown, until it has
almost
taken
shape. Some might call
it palpable,
but it is even more than
that. It is domineering, dominating all that is
said and,
certainly, all that is
heard. “Funny,” he says to no one, for she is gone, now,
“I need to find someplace quiet to think.”

whether the storm

thunder storms.
snow flurries.
rain showers.
it all seems so simple,
and,
yet,
confusion rains.
or is it (?):
confusion reigns.

jeannie

He wonders a lot about Jeannie, recently. Why, he’s not exactly sure. If someone asked him flat out, he’d probably say he’s just being melancholy. But that would be a lie. It’s because he wonders, still, if she wasn’t the one. He knows all about the grass being greener. He understands that. But this feels different, somehow. There was a time when he thought he couldn’t live without her. Then there was a time when he told himself that he had to. Now, he’s not so sure the latter was the best, correct, right. He’s married, now. Been for 17 years. But in all that time he’s kept that tiny spot for her in his heart. He’s decided that he will call her, tomorrow, just to hear her voice. If it goes no further than that he still knows that he will have cheated on his wife. But he has no choice. He’s still in love with Jeannie. Never stopped, actually, being in love with her. Just stopped, for a time, acknowledging it, that, her.

she wonders

She struggles with the feeling
that
everything has
passed her by, or, as she might say:
bypassed her. Or bypast her, as if
everything
good had already
happened. She wonders how many
people
feel this way and if it has
anything to
do with her
age, which isn’t so aged, yet not
so new, either. She tells herself that
the journey is still
young, but she knows she’s not
being so truthful, or at least as
honest as she could be with
herself. It’s a wrestling match she
faces often, a grappling that
leaves her
emotionally and sometimes
spiritually spent. And sometimes she does
wonder
if it might just be better off
ended – quietly,
peaceably,
peace-fully. She
does wonder that.
Did.
Has.
Does.

valentine's day

The kids are selling roses for
Valentine’s Day for
$3
and they want
him to buy one for someone, but he
cannot decide for whom, or, rather,
he
has no one who’s a whom, then he
thinks and he thinks, and re-thinks,
because he does
want to buy
a rose for
someone, and he finally settles on
Sister Helga, who’s a whom only
for God, he figures, but still might
feel
left out when the all of Whoms down in
Whomville get theirs, figuring that
He won’t make a red
rose appear,
so he puts down three ones, and
signs the card, “God,”
and feels better, feels good.
He hopes
she
smiles.

a zephyr

There is magic in the breeze.
It caresses and warms and cools, and all
at
the same time, and the wonder is:
why is that possible – or even is it?
Perhaps it’s not but it’s just
imagined because someone
needs to imagine it. Does that mean
the “timbered” tree makes no sound in the
deserted forest? And what is so wrong
with imagination? Einstein thought it
invaluable, likening it almost, it seems,
to a spiritualism, and maybe it is.
So, imagine away. No one will
punish you for it. In fact, they probably
will envy you.
And well they should, for imagination is
another name for dreaming, is it not?
Imagine that.
Yes.
Imagine
that.
Please do.

re-consideration

She thinks she can live without men. She really does. She’s had a husband. She’s had a few lovers, after the divorce, of course. But she wonders whether it’s worth all the trouble, anymore. After all, she has learned to care for herself, in more ways than the one. She has a job. She has friends. She has ways to make certain that frustration doesn’t become unmanageable (as long as the batteries remain charged). So, why go through it – the lobbying; the posturing; the angling; toilet seat up, the belching, the farting, the ESPN, for God’s sake? Life is too short to navigate through all that, again. Been there; done that. Then, again, the new guy in receivables has a nice smile and a nice ass, and she has caught herself thinking: let’s go over this, one more time, just to be sure.

the day

An empty house.
An empty bed.
Begin to seem as though the life to
be
lived. Watching alone; listening
the same. Forgotten is how
things look and seem when
shared.
There is a difference – yes?
Or was it a mirage?
Mirrors report what moves is
he. They also
report he moves alone. But
they report in silence,
of course, because they do not
speak, but only reflect
what is to be reflected:
a life, at odd times, in which:
Melancholy lists into despair,
or thereabouts, then rights itself,
lights itself, from black
to
a sodden gray. The morning
may bring sunshine, or not, but:
The stillness stays.
Solitary remains.
Alone is always there.

the clown

The “Balloon Clown” sits on the couch near the register at the iHop, curling balloons into curious shapes for $1, each, scaring most kids – and maybe a few adults. Most of his creations look pretty much the same except for the markings he adds with a marking pen, which sort of seems like cheating, doesn’t it? He has a smile painted on his face, for, after all, he is a clown. It is apparent, too, that most folks give him no more than a perfunctory glance and that his only real connections with human beings are the smiles he coaxes from the children, which is either laudatory or creepy, depending on how you consider a single, 42-year-old adult who plies a trade to four-year-olds while wearing oversized shoes. During the week, the clown is a janitor at the bus stop, downtown, sans smile, mostly. Weekends he gets to be creative. He once dreamed of being a Broadway actor. He still does, sometimes.

i can't get no ...

How do you write a song?
Does it sing itself to you?
Does it whisper itself into existence?
And, really, what does come first:
Music? Or words?
Or do they come together,
like morning’s first light with
the freshness of the new day?
And why can she write
a
song?
And him not?
Has a god somehow consecrated one and not
the other?
It is said that Keith Richards birthed the hook
to “Satisfaction” while on a flight
from somewhere to somewhere else.
God’s messenger.
Interesting choice.

the combat zone

She waits for him to
come back to bed,
but she knows it
won’t be
soon, because he knows what she wants
and she knows he knows and
it’s, well, become that way, all
the
time, now. Sex, for them, always has
been a matter of control, survival of
the
quickest to sense the
other’s
vulnerability and refuse to
salve it. He will wait as long as
he can, hold out
as long as he must,
to make certain that he has
the upper hand, if only for
this night. It is that and that only, for them, now: a contest, a battle of
wits, a struggle of wills. And
they
are
not
alone. Not even close.

ay-dee-dee

Every time a body is
pulled, breathing, from the
rubble, hopes soar and
people, entranced by their own
lives and struggles and challenges, stop
and pray and, if nothing more,
keep a thought of hope alive. But they’ve
finished pulling live bodies
from
the
wreckage, which means that soon many,
if not most, will turn their heads back to their
own lives, not to be disturbed,
again,
until the next catastrophe breaks into
this season’s American Idol. 9/11: now,
mostly forgotten. Katrina: left to those who
are working
there
with their hands. Afghanistan: Huh? Iraq: What?
This shooting.
That one.
The human heart is a fickle thing, now,
if not having always been. Our
attention span is from
wreckage to wreckage, a nation
of
ADDers. Think about
that for, well, at least a minute,
during the commercial
breaks.

just because

She smiles bravely and
reads the old letters, the
old
notes. They make her feel
wanted, loved,
needed, even though he
may not need her, anymore. She
doesn’t dwell too long on that,
because,
well,
just because. She thinks instead
about the first
times she read
what he wrote and
she warms herself with
that idea, of him writing, which is so soft
and
gentle
that she can feel the words almost
as he
writes them. They do come alive
for moments, seconds,
times too fleeting
to
settle her soul, to comfort her heart. But
she is willing to suffer them
in that way, like that, because,
well,
just
because.

tuff times

She is confused by
this
idea of
happiness. What if she
ever
isn’t? Has she
failed? Did she? Is she unworthy? Or
has she somehow made a choice
she doesn’t
know
she’d ever made, because she would
never choose
to be
unhappy. Would she? She wonders
about that,
too: maybe she
would, might
could. And why? She doesn’t
think about this
a
lot. Maybe
just once
a
day. Some people say
that happiness
is
a
choice, but she thinks
that’s just
one of those
correct things to say, like
“when the going gets tough,
the
tough
get going.” She knew plenty
of tough people who never went when things
started getting
difficult. Sometimes,
they were
just
too
tired.

whys guy

He is not sure that things
happen for
a reason. He wishes he
did, because it might help
him understand everything. He would
like to think that life has
a rhythm, a mind of its
own, and he thinks he
does. So, he wonders if
things do happen according to some plan
or if the mind
bends ideas and thoughts and rationales
so that
sense can be made
of the
senseless. After all, isn’t that life’s
biggest, toughest
challenge, understanding why?He used
to tell his students that the most
important question they could ever
ask
was:
WHY? He still tells
them that, when
he remembers to. The
problem comes when
no one can
answer, which is
a good bit
of
the
time. Why?
(Shrug.)
Is this where
faith is supposed
to come
in?

our father

He is surrounded by
people who believe in
a life
after and he must admit, at
least to
himself, that they do seem
mostly so
very happy and he does wonder, too,
if
they
are
just fooling themselves because
it feels good knowing that
there is more than
just this. He even wants to
believe, himself, sometimes, but
he’s
not
sure
what to
believe. And, for that matter,
what
not, and he figures there
is a dignity and honor
in wondering,
in being open
to just about anything. This idea
of mortality
is something new and came upon
suddenly. He is
curious about it and that and
about
faith. It intrigues him.
It does
do
that.