Me The Other Twin

Themes

2011-12-05T18:19:00.000-06:00

Theme: Darkness Before Light

Dark Side of the Moon

The moon was full, glazed, the size of the world. He watched it eye him through the transom in his living room. A lover’s moon or the dead’s marker? he pondered. The latter he was sure. What was the moon after all but a lifeless, airless place. An ancient pebble drifting down the dark void.

The living room lit a deathly blue. Ice cold breaths smoked from his mouth in ghastly white plumes. He stretched his withered legs, curled long fingers around the armrest of his recliner. He squeezed nails into it, the leather splitting under his grip. Blood iced through his veins, surging hotter as he let the dark overtake him. He stared into the moon’s disfigured face. After dark, there is hope for light, he mused. Light entertainment perhaps and chuckled at the thought. Dark and light. Life and death; his awakening to another. I am the dark of the moon, he said out loud. He almost screamed.

There was a segment of cloud crossing the moon now, a blue gray veil, moving and boiling like a spider’s nest. The cloud looked like Jesus, the face hung deathly white, a ragged beard tormented the chin. His eyes narrowed. The winds swirled. The taxi would arrive soon. There were dinner plans tonight. He would insist the cabbie join him. The jesus face changed. The beard dipped like a tornado funnel, a pointed devil’s beard. A grin cut his face.

Theme: The ‘Golden’ Rule

Golden Boy

The fields ran by, flashing on the glass screen like an old-time movie reel. Ripples of prairie wheat and corn, a two second frame of crooked farm road, a six second frame of dirt brown field… then another… and another… a zoom in of a giant silo and cows standing still… then back to the moving picture - a new theme introduced this time – sunflower yellow fields. While we watched, we took in the drone – that sound of rubber on the road humming below - a certain hum that allowed our eyes to drop heavy, pulling us down helplessly into easy sleep. The sun reflected on the windows, the ghosts of three boys and a girl revealed, propped against the doors and pillows; on the radio, a crooner’s thin hypnotic voice attempted to infiltrate our back seat reverie.

The car shuddered as passing big rigs shoved and shouldered us, like over-sized bullies pushing down school hallways, plowing weaker bodies into lockers. With light fading, dad silenced the radio and piped his mantra again, something he’d repeated every few miles or so. “Anybody see it yet?”

I didn’t want to miss it… to be the first to pick out the Golden Boy on the horizon, the sun glinting off its golden torch, signifying we were almost home. Eyes wide open, I jockeyed for position on the seat, cheek against the glass. Shit, no sibling was going to beat me out of seeing it first.

Theme: Renewal

I Have A Confession To Make

It’s that time of month again and I’ve got a confession to make. The old man’s made it clear that we’ve all gotta go today. Shit, it’s not even Sunday. He says it’s a sort of “divine intervention” moment, a time to expel guilt, renew the spirit, and wipe the deep stains from our souls. Sounds to me like we’re changing our underwear. I don’t know what he’s done to feel guilty… other than to yell and falsely accuse me!!! of punching my little brother when he, asshole!!! started it!!

Anyway, this confessing thing is quite embarrassing and trusting a complete stranger with your most intimate failings is sheer lunacy. I, for one, will opt to blatantly lie. And I’ll use my trusty routine of standards too: lied, swore, had bad thoughts. Through the grate, I see Father Farrell sitting there in the dark. He’s young and might give me a pass. Looks like he’s writing stuff down. Maybe he wants to be a novelist someday, perhaps write a ‘tell-all’ book to rival the Bible… hehe! Shit… is that blasphemy? Fuck, that’s a mortal sin I bet. God I’m doomed.

Little brother insisted I go first. Fine. He’ll get his. He’s going to say the same bullshit I’m going to lie about and Father’s going to see he’s shitting him and hopefully call him on it. Then we’ll see if there’s such a thing as “divine intervention” … or righteous punishment for telling Pop on me.

Theme: Heavy Man, Heavy

Gun Play

In the cafeteria, the shooter takes out Mr. Hollis. BAM! … BAMBAM!… a ruler smacking a table and Hollis hits the wall and disappears down, like the floor just opened under him. The guy – it’s Billy Krazik - turns and aims at Jamie Stockwell, sitting there calmly as if he’s in the play or something and he takes two to the head. He rocks a little, then sits still. The fuck moves forward, looking right at me, our eyes lock and he points the gun… I peer down the black hole, see Krazik’s chewed red fingernail twitch slightly to the left as he fires off a barrage of shots. BAM! … BAMBAMBAM!… tables splinter and scatter behind me; there are heavy thumps and screams and I blink uncontrollably, a deranged twist creasing my face.

And then there’s Colby, backpack in hand, crossing the floor. He strides in quick purposeful steps. He looks insane. Parallel to Krazik, light as a ghost, I don’t think he sees it coming.

I’m woven in a cocoon. On the soundless floor, I watch bodies twitch. Heads cover. Krazik’s moved into the hallways. My chest weighs heavy, bubbling pink. Colby has nothing to say, his eyes vacant, surprised. Earlier this morning he boasted he’d brought his old man’s Glock to school… just to show it off you understand. Colby was cool… just playing … but well… Krazik’s crazy and he decided to swipe it and play the heavy… for real. He plays it well.

The Attraction

2011-08-24T12:23:00.004-06:00

He’d passed the same attraction three days running. Down the leafy back road, just off the golf course and up around the bend, it waited patiently for him like an old friend ready for play. The monument of snapped limbs and discarded brush stacked high, a rambling golden pyre, bone-dry, quivering like an expectant lover. He had hoped running would alleviate the burning need, create another game with less to lose. He slowed to a trot as the mind game caught hold; a glowing ember of it circled - wanted to touch with one strike of a match, one finger-flick of a clean cigarette - lightly crackling “you’re it.” Later, from his spot on the hill, he watched it run and play, quietly glowing hot and bright, pleased with what it had started.

It was faint at first, like a distant train whistle calling from somewhere along the darkening horizon, but now the sound was louder. It was not a whistle but the blare of wailing sirens and he relaxed a bit. The sirens smothered his pounding heart with a blanket of relief like of cool rain and he licked his dry lips.
“It will be alright,” he whimpered, almost collapsing. He turned to leave and his eye caught a glimpse of something that did drop him to his knees: a surging wall of orange flame boiling through a row of trees that kissed along a ridge of large homes hugging the golf course. “What have you done?” it said.

The first engine arrived and a fireman heavy with gear stumbled from the side railing. He was shouting instruction to the other firemen as they scrambled from the vehicle, serpentine hoses uncoiling over the road like spilled guts from some reddened beast. On the hill he watched them play, mesmerized as flames took the first two houses. They flowered, a hushing sound like marshmallows to the flame. “It’s just a game,” he whispered, his face shiny, angelic. “We can stop anytime.”

When he was very young, it spoke to him, drew him like moth to flame. His mother had seen it in him too - this calling - had noticed how his eyes would light as they stared blankly into the blazing fireplace. In church she encouraged him to light a votive candle for lost souls and the dearly departed. She believed it was goodness he saw, some guiding light, the flame a source of warmth and comfort. She was wrong. His father, mean and drunk, saw it exactly as it was. “You’re it,” he said, flicking a flaming match toward him while playing on the floor with his older brother, Davey. “Oh you’re it alright,” he said and laughed between pulls of the bottle and drags on the hand-rolled smoke. It was a contemptuous laugh, malicious. But it was quickly silenced the first time the boy - quick as a viper - snatched the lit match as it bounced off his chest. His eyes widened as he felt the sting of the flame, then an overwhelming sadness as it quickly extinguished, the burn searing his palm. He didn’t mind; he liked it… this new game. “Fire’s a motherfucker… a beast,” his father said, holding the shaky cigarette up close to eyes. He lightly blew on the smoldering orange ember. “It’s like you. It’s tricky.” His eyes faltered, then drowsily dropped down upon him. “Unplanned,” he mumbled. “Unplanned and tricky. That’s it.” The boy didn’t understand all the things his father said but he trusted the man knew what he spoke of. He and Davey rolled and played about on the floor, dumping plastic soldiers and Tinker toys into their father’s stained fireman’s helmet. Crinkled matches lay scattered about the carpet, as black and as brittle as torched bodies.

He started setting fires when he was eleven. The attraction was a rough clearing out in the old dump near Rollins Swamp. It seemed a safe place to play, with so much ready to burn, so much smoldering there just beneath the surface of discarded trash. It was a game - “I’m it… you’re it” he’d say - and flick matches one by one from the long matchbox, each one tumbling, some flaming out, others burning bright as they landed in a scratch of bramble and oily boxes. They quickly caught on. He heard the voice in the crackle - his father’s voice - a soft whisper at first that would detonate into a terrifying roar. “YOU’RE IT!” it boomed.

He controlled the fires at first, kept them small but the day came when the winds seemed to shift out of nowhere, the world opened wide and he was confronted with the beast. It stood before him, alive, taunting and unstable. He was not afraid. He was terrified. It ran around him, leering, its fiery tongue lolling and whispering around his ears. It quickly turned and rolled toward the swamp, like some living creature eager for water to soothe it, to cool it. He followed and waited. Instead of water, it found fuel to feed. The dry bramble swamp exploded and it consumed everything, its gaping maw, red and hot.

He had run then, somehow escaped through the thicket, excited and horrified, sprawling flat in a ditch as the fire engines screamed past down the smoke-choked road. As the last truck flared by, he glanced up in time to see his father riding the top of the engine’s cab, saw the terrified look as their eyes locked. He never saw him again. Outmatched and trapped in the swamp, his father and three other firemen were consumed by the monster’s fury.

There was no other consequence; the origin of the fire blamed on conditions at the dump, on shifting weather, an unfortunate and horrible accident the papers said. After that, he ran in a futile attempt to outrun what had happened. Then in his mid-teens, he started running with the fire, hoping it might grow tired of the game and burn itself out on its own. But it circled… circled and chased him. Always.

The fireman stood frozen. The blaze towered above him, the heat an open oven wrinkling the air. It had taken hold everywhere, jumped the street to the left of the golf course, rolling like a wave toward the opposite curb. Smoke churned between the remaining houses, hugged the gravel in a low thick fog as orange spikes flickered and peeked through like demon eyes in the night. He felt his partner then - Conrad - at his side grabbing his arm; he was shouting, barely audible through his mask over the roar.
“We gotta go… go now!”

For a moment, he thought he might faint. His vision blurred and he felt disorientated as if falling down a funneling dark tunnel. He thought he heard Conrad again but the voice was different, familiar.

And he knew.

The voice was high above him, on the hill somewhere, his brother’s voice screaming, screaming. He turned to look but all he saw was Conrad’s face wet and pleading, the beast rising behind him.
“We gotta go Davey,” he shouted. “We gotta go… NOW!”

The Color of Warm and Cold

2011-08-14T20:33:00.000-06:00

I exit the building onto River Avenue and flip my collar high around my ears, pulling my neck in like a turtle in his shell. The café is only half a block downstream but I’m a frozen fish when I arrive. At the counter, I order a large mocha house blend and wheat toast.

“To go please,” I tell the girl, “with extra butter and cream.”

She is shy and plump and moves like deliberate molasses. Her name is Chloe or Joni or something like that. She doesn’t wear a nametag and I can’t understand Mosca when he lays his bad English on her. Her straw-blond hair is short with a splendid slash of emerald veering across the one side. I imagine her an artist in the outside world. She wears pink glasses - ‘SW#6857 Pink Moment’ the paint chip sample book would reveal and wide rimmed. They frame beautifully warm eyes. I wonder if she knows how beautiful and warm they are or if anyone has ever told her that. ‘Burnt Sienna’, I’d say; a standard color but not standard for her by any means. She doesn’t look me directly in the eye, which tells me she may like me. Or maybe she is self-conscious about my eye, the left one that droops a bit. It’s just lazy, that’s all. I think she may find it rude to stare. She exudes a certain style, displays a confident palette; I can tell by the way she serves customers, efficient with a clean counter and orderly napkins and silverware.

Man, it’s snowing like a million angels exploded out there. The flakes are the size of downed feathers. The city plowed the streets yesterday and created huge snowdrifts along the walkways. There aren’t too many fools out in the cold. The ones that are, slip along in the narrow grooves that act as walkways. I damn near break my neck maneuvering the icy channel back to work and it’s not because I slipped. I’m laughing too hard. Up ahead, two approaching people have fallen. They stand again; the man and woman paw and grope each other for balance. They’re drunk as hell. Two steps and he is down. The woman bends and yells at him, expecting something impossible. He rises like a zombie, barely stable, and then it’s her turn. She falls straight-legged sideways like a tree in the forest. My eyes hurt. I shouldn’t laugh. I may be next. Tears freeze like clear glue on my face and I can’t see. I dab my eyes with the sleeve of my stiff overcoat. It leaves a glistening stain.

I enter the building and Claire is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She’s leaving for an appointment. She’s decided to have a cigarette first. The most interesting thing about Claire is her hair. It’s jet black and shrouds around a white oval face, a little egg in a nest. It cascades in a pool, splashes over her shoulders. It’s quite beautiful really, even when it’s up.
“I wish we could run away,” she says, blowing smoke against the windowpane.
I nod and look at my feet. The snow melts around my shoes, bleeding an ever- spreading puddle.

Claire has a boyfriend. I’ve never met the guy. I never ask too many questions. I wonder what he doesn’t have that I possess. I wonder what she sees in me? She hasn’t said. I’m cool with that. I work in the paint department. I’m not that colorful. I’ve been there five years and I’m not even manager.

Claire’s a nice girl, smart and attractive in an ordinary way. She holds a safe managerial job - executive assistant. She’s been with the company for almost a year. We hang out a bit. Privately. She prefers it that way. We’ve never been intimate. I have seen her in a bathing suit though.

She lives in a two-story house on a decent street with shady trees. She rents the bottom floor suite. I wonder why the boyfriend of three years doesn’t live with her. The landlady, a Ukrainian woman occupies the upstairs and is particular to guests hanging about. “He’s a nice boy,” Claire says up the stairs and a door closes. She gives me a smirk.

It’s a blistering summer day, the kind where the humidity wears your skin out, squeezes your body like a wetsuit.

“I’m going to change,” she says. “Make yourself at home.”

Her apartment is ordinary with dark wood floors, a plain taupe carpet. The walls are a darker taupe and pictureless. She doesn’t entertain much of a color palette. A couch and chair look new, sleek black, straight from a CB2 catalog. The coffee table isn’t clear. It’s covered with travel magazines.

Claire exits her bedroom wearing a bikini. It is celadon green, though brighter, ‘SW#6705 High Strung’, I’d say. A saturated splash of yellow overtakes it. It shouts ‘SUMMER!’ It screams ‘you can fuck me!’ I love that color. I could give you its mixed color values. I want to paint my bedroom that exact color. I’ve never considered her like this. Her achromatic breasts sway freely inside the full halter and I see her hips dance, suggesting that I do something. She stands with her knees turned slightly inward and she bows as she wrestles her hair up into a ponytail. “God it’s hot out there, don’t you think?” She glances up sideways; a coy smile parts her lips.

“I wish we could run away. Go some place warmer, different. Away from here.”
She stares out onto the street. I wait.
“Would you go?”
I wonder if it’s a question or a request. The brown bag holding my toast is weightless. My coffee is cold mocha. Chloe is happy to give me a refill. The drunken couple has arrived and stopped in front of the door. Their arms rotate, pinwheel through the air. Stiff hands claw for purchase. They grasp at snowflakes, floating angel’s wings. Then they fall.

Motel 6

2011-07-06T07:36:00.001-06:00

Room 205
In between long tasty tokes on a reedy blunt, Benny Kaz allowed his thoughts to bounce down the hall to the dude in Room 203. The unshaven man - older, sixties maybe, white shirt and dress pants - had given him the ‘shifty eye’ scan as they’d passed in the hallway, a scan any hustler knew suggested one of two things: keep walking or move for the hardware. The man had carried an over-sized briefcase - heavy by the way he two-handed it – and Benny K was positive it contained something valuable like money or drugs or better still, both. Benny, now strung out and twitching for relief wondered if this man was a better score than the one he was waiting on - a hook up with the delivery maid and his much needed supply. He lit another reed, a new score orchestrating in his head, his thoughts swirling around the older man; there was something else going on here… like maybe the dude was the big cheese with all the goodies… the delivery maid just the mouse with crumbly samples and he, Benny the K… the recipient of a golden opportunity. Benny rolled off the bed, pulled on his jacket - the snub-nose weighted heavy in the pocket - and went to the door.

Room 203
“Guy wuz’ a punk,” Powell grunted as he threw the oversized briefcase on the bed and popped the side clips; he’d better watch his back. Inside the open case lay eight neat rows of crisp twenties, a family of Jackson’s staring back like a repeating Warhol pop art piece. Powell smiled a shark’s grin and stretched, feeling the coolness of the gun nestled under his shirt, snug against his lower back, then went to the window and looked out into the steady rain; the parking lot sat quiet except for a couple of young preppies quickly unloading golf bags from the back of their dripping station wagon. “Ahh… a not so relaxing getaway,” he chuckled. His own getaway from the bank he’d robbed across the line a week ago had been a rather smooth one. He pulled a flask from the case and took two long tugs, decided quickly that he needed ice, recalled an ice machine just outside his door.

Room 201
Kreskie swiped the door key and entered. He went to the window, scanned the parking lot, then pulled the drapes closed as his rookie partner Digby lugged in the golf bags and dropped them with a ‘thunk’ onto the bed. “Manager says our man’s down the hall in 203.” They’d tracked him quick after HP saw him pass, recognized the APB car description and done the smart thing and called in the FBI. Kreskie unzipped the first bag and pulled out the M4 and fed the magazine. “We’re not waiting for backup…this guy’s going down quick before any more people die,” and he turned for the door.

Room 202
Stella Beem quickly finished cleaning the bathroom, opting to skip a set of fresh towels and soap bars for the shower. She was nervous about the drug drop; there was always the chance of these things going bad. It was a sweet little deal though: Hugo supplying and setting up the connection, she making the drop and collecting the cash. A few more of these and she’d have enough put away to vanish out of this place, reappear in dreamy California somewhere and a new life. Stella went out into the hallway and stood still for a moment, glancing up and down the hallway’s tunneling emptiness. She squatted in front of her cart, parked next to the floor’s vending machine and was about to pull out a towel folded around a fat bag of crystal when a door clicked open to her right; she froze, her eyes dropping to her Colt laying beneath a set of clean towels.

Room 204
Kyra Downs stepped out the door, faltered as the baby kicked - hard this time - and she uttered a tired groan. Gently rubbing her stomach, she padded across to the ice machine, ice bucket in hand. She noticed two men at the end of the hall walking slowly toward her with what she thought were closed umbrellas. There was a click at her feet and she saw a maid kneeling by her cart, the maid’s eyes not registering on her but focused wide just beyond her shoulder. Kyra turned, sensing someone close behind, the air defined by the distinct sweet odor of weed. There was another click then - a door opened from the room opposite them - and an older man stepped into the hallway, one hand now reaching behind his back and someone yelled, “FREEZE!”

Room 206
Simon Dennis was quite pleased with the progress of his novel. His old nemesis - writer’s block - had hounded him for weeks and his wife’s idea to getaway to a private location and perspective had been the perfect remedy. His characters were finally coming to life - the cops and the robber, the girl on the run, the shady druggies…all of it. Simon stared out into the motel’s parking lot, the rain falling heavy now. The lot was empty save for his old Volvo and two passing police cars. He looked at his watch – it was time to check out - and he went to the door and stepped out into the hallway.

The Cold Locker

2011-05-18T14:19:00.007-06:00

It is a place of dusty dreams. The twisted light cord hanging from the center is gallows rope, its naked light bulb, an abandoned blackening body when lit, barely gives life. The floor grades down to a centered sewer hole for plumbing that was never finished. Stagnant water encircles it, left from old rain that drips in and stays for weeks. Nobody comes down here much but when they do, it is for jars of fruit in the room buried in the far corner; the ‘cold locker’ the young boys call it. It is cold, as cold as a tomb.

A tower of boxes near the stairs seems to shift. Bundles of yellow newspapers stacked next to them huddle like crooked gnomes; they reek something grim. There are paint cans and open tins of varnish near a barren worktable. Long hooks grip it, holding it tight against the wall. Rows of cigarette burn decorate its edge. I remember them. The burns. The partially sealed room next to the worktable allows no light. It is the old coal chute.

A newspaper lays crumpled on the worktable, open to a page, damp with age, wrinkled like old skin. Cold air seals the headline news and photos of the Garrisons. There is a photo of Red Garrison being led handcuffed from the house. There is a picture of his wife Cora, slumped in the back seat of a police car. A blanket partially covers her head. In the corner, a picture of Beale, their oldest daughter, head crooked to the camera, her eyes – shark eyes – staring dead into the lens. Their faces are grainy black and white. Their faces are the same face I see reflected back on the glass jars in the cold locker. My face. No. That’s not true. My face is different. The eyes are the same. Maybe. There are no photos of me. Only reflections.

Beale Garrison moves about upstairs, pattering alone with the cats. I sense their smell. They sense me too and they don’t come down. Beale comes for the baskets of fruit stacked along the wall in the cold locker. She doesn’t venture to this side of the basement. She returned to the house after Red and Cora were sentenced to prison. She was never implicated. I know better. I know what she did. What they did to the child.

Ruth was her name. My name. Time muddles memories. The years meld and twist, bind up in a foggy dream. It feels like a dream. I don’t know if it is. There’s no one to set it right. I am happy to be her, to be Ruth, to be someone. Ruth is gone. She didn’t survive. It says so in the newspaper under the stairwell. Every moment is thick, fuzzy as if looking through a cocooned web. My thoughts come down to me, dream-like, a milky gray and then blackness.

They burn me. Tie and cut me in the coal chute where it is private. I am born different. Deformed. “God’s mistake!” echoes in my dream. “God’s mistake!” There hands are eager. Deliberate. Impatient. There is hurt and blame. I read it in the paper. I don’t know how that is possible. I don’t know how to read. It said I died when I was two. I don’t remember dying.

Red Garrison built this house. He was a craftsman, the newspaper said. He was good with his hands. He made a hobby of carving intricate wood pieces, birds and animals, innocent creatures. I was his hobby too. I remember his fingers. Long. Agile. His hands would harden. Turn dangerous. Cora knew. The doctors at the hospital rebuilt her cheekbone. She said it was an accident while working on the house. We know the truth.

Two neighborhood boys sometimes visit Beale. They are young too. They’ve heard the stories. They’ve been told to stay away from this house. Young boys don’t listen. They are curious. They come to taste the peaches that she preserves in jars. I want to play with them when they come to the cellar. They don’t want to stay. They are afraid. They lurk together, watching the darkened corners. The edges are black cement, an abyss. The minimal light never ventures far. ‘Spider-child’ I hear them say. ‘In the coal chute. Where the spider-child was kept.’

I’m drawn to the cold locker. The baskets stacked along the wall hold the fresh fruit - apples, peaches, pears. They smell sweet. Alive. The light glows on their skin. They were taken from the tree. A tree of life. I know that somehow. I sense it. The fruit did not die. It was given a second life. A new life. The light is warm. It sparks bright on the golden glass jars. I watch the boys gather them, full of the fruit I’ve never tasted. I see their faces as they open the tops and slip out the dripping wedges. ‘She won’t know,’ they whisper licking their fingers. ‘Sweet,’ they say. I wish to taste too. I wish to eat with them. I wouldn’t hurt them. I hear Beale shout for them not to dawdle if they know what’s good for them. Their eyes quickly dart about. They don’t stay long. They gather the jars, then quickly scramble up the stairs, clawing over each other, neither wanting to be the last up. They think something like a hand is reaching for their leg. It is.

My withered arms are bent at the elbow, my hands hooked down, but yesterday I managed to climb to the top of the cellar stairs for the first time. At the far end of the kitchen, the two boys sat waiting. I stood in the darkened frame of the cellar door as Beale moved past. I filled the doorway. I’ve grown some. I don’t know how. She didn’t feel my breath kiss against her neck. She was carrying a bowl of peaches. They were soured. I wanted to reach out and touch her. Tonight I will. Tonight.

Clarence Downe was waiting by his truck when Hawkes showed up. Two other men leaned against a flatbed parked behind, smoking harsh hand-rolled cigarettes.
“Moanin,” Hawkes said as he spilled out of his Suburban. A wide Panama hat covered his round bald head; a pair of blue bib-overalls did their best to stretch over his massive frame. He puffed when he spoke.
“You must be Clarence,” he said, stretching out a beefy hand.
Clarence gripped it and gave it a fair shake. He was a short stocky man with a tall shock of ‘70’s curly black hair and his skin shone black as oil in the morning heat.
“Yes sir, Mr. Hawkes, pleased to meet you,” he said, his steel blue eyes peering at the sky. “Looks like it’s ‘gonna be a blister peeler.”
It was a cloudless day, cicadas already beginning to sing. Hawkes nodded at the flatbed behind Clarence’s truck.
“Brought the bruiser I see. I think we’re going to need it.”
A large Cat bulldozer, school bus-yellow sat dirty on the flatbed. It had seen better days.
“Yep. She’s all primed and ready to do business. Brought a couple of my boys along too.”
He nodded toward the two smokers, then to the house.
“What we got here?”
Hawkes reached awkwardly through the cab window and pulled a rolled document from the cab of the Suburban and waved it at Clarence.
“It’s the old Garrison place. Got a court order here to tear her down, the whole she-bang.”
He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
“I figure if we set the Cat over in the west side corner there we can get her started, get her going. Should start to collapse I hope.”
Hawkes moped his face with a rag.
“Sure as hell don’t want to go in there,” he said.
Clarence surveyed the property.
“She don’t look so bad. What’s wrong with the place?”
“You ain’t from these parts I see,” Hawkes said.
He took a long, silent look at the house.
“It belonged to the Garrisons some years back,” he said. “Place never seen anything but misery.”
He paused and spat, as if the words had been distasteful in his mouth.
“They killed their little girl in there. Ruthie.”
Clarence looked up at him, his head slightly cocked, his eyes thin.
“Got them life in prison for it. Their oldest daughter Beale got off. Couldn’t pin nothing on her.”
The other two men had stamped their cigarettes and moved closer.
“Beale came back and took up residence again,” Hawkes continued. “There was a public outcry but well,” he paused, “it’s a free country for the supposed innocent, ain’t it? Turned out to be a big mistake.”
He stepped towards the house and stopped at the fence, ran his hand along the gate.
“Where is she?” Clarence said. “This Bea person.”
“Beale,” Hawkes said. “Well she’s dead now too.”
Clarence squinted up at him.
“There were two young neighborhood boys used to visit her,” Hawkes said. “They didn’t know no better, just kids, told to keep away but they didn’t. Beale murdered them. Poisoned them. Used some tainted fruit she was luring them in with I guess.”
He paused.
“Then she hung herself in the basement.”
Hawkes shook his head.
“Cops found her swinging down there.” He paused, rubbed his slack jaw.
“Didn’t make sense though.”
“Why’s that?” Clarence said, studying him.
“Cops couldn’t figure how she did it, hanging herself I mean. There was nothing beneath her feet for her to stand on. Nothing near her at all.”
Hawkes stood unsteadily at the gate.
“It’s as if she was put there.”

Reigning Cats and Dogs

2011-04-18T07:49:00.002-06:00

I have to say right off that I’m not much of a dog person. It’s not that I don’t like dogs. I just feel uneasy when around them and I’m not sure where this stems from. I was never attacked or chased down by dogs as a child, never had any negative experience at all really. But when I encounter one - particularly a dog whose head is at groin level or a breed with an unfortunate killer reputation - I sense a deeply inbred intelligence, a yearning to dominate and challenge. There’s an overwhelming feeling of being observed with an instinctual malice. Perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe they just want to play, to engage me as if I were a walking plaything. Or chew toy.

My friends, Henry and Frank own a pair of beautiful Border Collies named Mamie and Bess. They are devoted to them and as with most people who own dogs, treat and pamper them like they are their children. These are kind and loving relationships between dog and man but the ‘dog bug’ has never bitten me.

-2-

On a visit to Henry and Frank’s house, my knock on the door is greeted with the double barking and ruckus of Mamie (May-me) and Bess as they barrel down the stairs to engage the intruder. Once they see it’s me, they quiet down and allow me to peaceably enter. I too relax but still entertain a lingering memory of Frank and Henry telling me on first meeting the dogs specifically, not to stare at Mamie.
“Don’t stare at Mamie,” they said in unison. “She’s had a history of snapping at people’s faces. It’s a territorial thing. Something like that. Just ignore her.”
Border Collies are very smart. I hear they’re very good at herding sheep, cows and the elderly. Henry said she’d never hurt anyone. It was just a precaution. I began to wonder how she got the name ‘Mamie’.

In the beginning, I did my best to stare at the ceiling fan if the dogs were in the room. Frank said I didn’t have to go to such an extreme. He explained there was an easy way to tell the dogs apart. Though both dogs looked exactly the same to me, Bess had a white spot on the top of her head. Or was that Mamie?

My nervousness grew. Every once in a while, I’d drop my eyes and try to get a quick bead on where the dogs were lurking. There... one was off in the corner of the kitchen, pretending to sleep, and the other... Christ! right beside my foot! her muzzle barely touching my toe, eyes raised, fixed lazily on me! Boy, they were smart. Were they testing me? Gauging my every move?

I’ve heard that dogs can smell fear and if that was the case then I reeked of ‘Eau I’m Bleeding’. This was ridiculous. I wanted very much to reach down and pet the beast (Good Girl!!) and put an end to my paranoia but then realized I wasn’t sure which dog it was. Mamie or Bess? White spot, no spot. I didn’t want to examine or stare at her head trying to locate a spot. She might misinterpret this. Moreover, my heroic effort to connect would end in a snap with me staring at the pink stump of Spam that used to be my writing hand, which I had unwittingly used, in quick reflex to protect my face.

I entertained another approach.
"So... does Mamie sleep a lot... back there in the kitchen?" My voice was high and lilting like a young girl. Then I remembered once hearing that you should talk in a low voice around dogs. Or was it a high voice? Maybe that was around cows. No, a low voice for dogs. Yes that was it. Or did that sound too much like a growl? How about a normal voice.

“Come Mamie.” Frank said. “Time to eat.” With that, Mamie darted from my foot, joined by Bess, and tails wagging devoured their bowl of meaty Kibbles.

-3-

“We’ll leave the collars and treats by the front door,” Henry said in a short instructional phone conversation. Doing this favor was privately a big step for me. I didn’t tell them that I had some reservations about taking the dogs for a walk. It’s like when someone asks you to baby-sit their child for an hour. That I can handle, having a child of my own. With children, you can discuss, reason and if necessary, clobber to stay in command. Dogs are a different breed. A child may test your patience but a dog can take your leg.

“What do you mean they’re gone?”
It was my worst nightmare scenario. Somehow, this simple task of going for a walk would end with the dogs getting loose and I’d be left, limp leash in hand, staring at the two faint dots disappearing on the horizon, the whoosh of the highway just beyond.
“Ha! Gee, you’ll never believe what happened!” I’d say, holding up my self-inflicted stump of pink Spam.
“I guess they really wanted their freedom! Those dogs sure were smart!”

When I arrived to pick them up, they came barking and hurling at the door. I quickly announced ‘Walk! Do you want to go for a walk!’ an instruction Henry had suggested, at which point both dogs settled and calmly waited for the coronation of the collars. (Who’s the boss now!!!)

Out the door, they immediately proceeded to tow me along the path toward the beach, sniffing and peeing along the way. (Boy, were they strong!!!) There was no way that I was going to go to the beach where there was a good chance of meeting up with other dogs so I steered them around several houses and after much lurching and tugging, gradually made my way back to the house. Along the way, they had vacuumed the underside of every bush and examined every moving blade of grass and previous dumpsite around. I had nervously scanned the area, looking out for other dog-walkers. (Don’t dogs attack each other when they get together?)

Once back inside, I uncollered them and dealt out the treats, all the while assuring them that Frank and Henry would be back soon to give them a ‘real’ walk. I was panting. I tossed a few extra treats down the hall. As they spirited after them, I quickly slipped out the door, locked it and went home.

“Oh they were just great. No problem. Yeah, it was fun! Great exercise! They sure are strong dogs.”

It’s a Saturday evening at Henry and Frank’s home and I’ve had a cocktail or two. I find myself at ease in a chair and staring at Mamie. Is she still a challenge? Who has control here, the beast or me? My relaxed state of mind tells me to keep on staring. She wouldn’t snap. Not now. I feel pretty sure that she knows me. We’ve bonded.
The dog doesn’t hold my gaze, most likely bored by my presence, shifty frown and delusional mind game.
I smirk and allow a fleeting sense of superiority, then think that maybe, as usual I’ve been staring at the dog with the white spot on her head.

The Catcher in the Rye- What Happens Next

2011-03-31T06:38:00.002-06:00

I’m not going to tell you much, only that I didn’t go back to school. Those morons didn’t want me back anyway. Mr. Antolini, my old English teacher talked it up with the faculty at old Pencey about my potential but I’d be crazy to go back. To tell the truth, I wasn’t in the mood. You got to be in the mood to try something again especially if it didn’t work out the first time. I don’t miss any of those lousy creeps anyway. I bet if I went back, Old Stradlater for one would still be combing his gorgeous locks in front of that same goddam mirror. He spent half his life in front of a mirror. I swear he did.

I decided instead to come out to Hollywood and stay with my brother D.B. for a while. I probably told you about him. He’s a Hollywood writer and writing a new movie. I’m staying at his house. It’s not some crumby place either. It’s all organized and everything with a pool that looks out onto the hills. That’s what they call the mountains out here. The Hills. That kind of thing drives me crazy. It really does. Some rich bastard probably woke up one day and decided it would be smart to start calling mountains hills. Like it was a brilliant idea. Maybe his phony wife thought it was sophisticated. Strictly for the birds. I can tell you everything in Hollywood is phony. It’s all make-believe. That’s what they do out here for a living. They make up corny stuff. Everyone is a show-off too. Some dopey looking guy in the movies isn’t just an actor. He’s known as a celeb. I could puke every time I hear that word. That’s what they call them. Celebs. The actresses fall all over themselves trying to become lousy celebs themselves or a girlfriend of some hotshot celeb. D.B. says that’s just the way it is in Hollywood. It’s the new thing. Most people aren’t that bad. I wouldn’t argue with him. Why bother. These morons wouldn’t know a mountain from a molehill even if they stepped in one.

I’ve been hanging out by the pool. It’s pretty small. It’s got a bunch of cactus plants sticking out of giant pots around it. Real California. The weather’s not bad either. Much better than New York. D.B. advised me to work on my tan. He’s says I look sickly. He should look in a goddam mirror. His English girlfriend hangs out sometimes. She’s pretty sexy I have to admit. D.B. pretty good at that sort of thing. Girls I mean. She’s all skinny all over and wears those big sunglasses all the time. It’s a phony Hollywood thing. Every jerk and their brother out here wear sunglasses. They’re real grand she says. God I hate that word.

D.B. says he wants to write a script about me. About all that boring stuff that happened in New York. That knocked me out. I told him it wasn’t such a good idea. Besides, who would want to be in a picture like that? To tell the truth, it was all kind of depressing. In New York I mean. I didn’t tell D.B. about meeting a prostitute. It was too embarrassing. I wouldn’t want any sexy parts to be in a movie anyway. Not that there were any. Then I thought about that dirty crooked bastard Maurice punching me. We had a disagreement over money. For the prostitute I mean. He got all bent out of shape and took a swing at me. I guess I cried a bit which I wasn’t too crazy about. I tried not to show it. I wouldn’t want some phony crying on the big screen. Maybe a flit like James Dean. How depressing would that be? Then I thought about old Spencer, my history teacher and to tell you the truth, an actor like Melvyn Douglas could play him exactly, only bony and wheezy and all. The thing is, I couldn’t think of anyone to play Jane. Jane Gallagher. She’s a girl I know. I wouldn’t want anyone to anyway. I don’t think there’s even one actress that could play her. Not in all of Hollywood I bet.

Anyway, D.B. said he’d work on it all. I can stay at his place as long as I want. He said whatever he wrote he would let me read first. I wasn’t going to stop him. If something like that became a movie, I’d be real surprised. I swear to God I would be. The goddam movies. They can ruin you. I’m not kidding.

Threat Along The Border

2011-03-25T11:41:00.001-06:00

The border crossing office is small. A pale yellow light illuminates the bare walls, casting a muddy yellow sheen as if viewed through a cataract lens. There are several rows of empty chairs. An officer - ‘Erickson’ it reads on his badge - leans behind a long counter as we enter. “I need to see your ID’s?” he says, motioning us forward, his face a gravestone.

We shuffle up slowly like the dead, cold stiff hands gingerly reaching for our wallets. Erickson flips three licenses to another officer in front of a computer screen. “Take a seat.” I sit next to Cal who pulls his hood over his head, rocks back and forth in time and hums Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water. I draw a smoke of my own. “Not in here,” Erickson says, his voice boss, law.

We wait. JT stands by the front door, looking out into the night. “We’d like to get going,” he says into the black glass. “Looks like there might be a turn for the worst coming soon.” It has started to snow again. The north wind howls; a low snow-fog swirls along the plowed drifts that bank the roadside and it dances back across the highway like some spirited dervish.

Erickson leans over the officer on the computer and points to the screen.
“Which one of you is Cal Embrie?”
Cal stops humming.
“Is there a problem?”
Erickson blinks his index finger twice.
“We’d like to speak with you sir?”

Cal looks to JT standing at the window.
“Go on,” JT says without turning, watching the officer’s distorted reflection in the glass.
“Just tell the truth.”
Wharton, the officer on the computer leads Cal into an adjoining office. Erickson leans against the doorway, arms folded against his chest, his eyes shifting to JT. I can hear murmuring inside the room but the conversation isn’t clear.

A few minutes later, Cal emerges; his face reveals nothing.
“It was bullshit,” he mumbles. “Some dropped misdemeanor bullshit.” Wharton and Erickson return to the computer.
“John Baryado Truino?” Erickson says.
“Have a word with you, sir?”

JT turns from the window.
“Of course,” he says.
This time, Erickson leads JT into the adjoining room and closes the door.
The building shakes as the wind picks up.
“Young fella’ there may have been right,” Wharton says absently, staring at the computer. “Looks like maybe bad weather approaching.”

Ten minutes later, the door opens.
“You can go,” Erickson says, his voice flat. ”You all best get going.”
“Your ID’s fellas,” Wharton says, glancing at Erickson.
JT eases to the front door and disappears without looking back. The wind shakes the building again; Erickson rubs his neck, unable to shake an image: his wife and daughter waiting at home.

“What’d the guy want JT?” Cal says, squirming into the back seat.
The car cuts sharply out of the parking lot.
“He’s a family man.”
“Who… Erickson?”
“Mmmm… pretty wife and a little one. We had a nice talk about them.”

The highway tunnels before me, my headlights tracing the obscured center white line, the wind now whipping and rocking the car like a heavy cradle.
“So what did he want,” I ask.
“He suggested I had something hidden in the trunk.”
“There’s nothing hidden in the trunk?” I say, glancing at him.
“Mmmm…” JT says, “he was trying to be a pretend cop… brought up some old possession charges of mine… he wanted to play, I think.”
He turns in the dark, his teeth flashing.

“I told him to check the trunk if he wanted but suggested he first check his computer.”
“For what?”
“I gave him a name… a link… and a code and he did…reluctantly. The computer brought up another flag… a DEA flag… a deal… all that secretive government stuff.”
JT pauses, his eyes shone blood moons.
“You should have seen his face.”

“I told him we’d keep it between us - Baryado, my family name down in Juarez and who my father is. He backed off then but I didn’t. I reminded him about a recent killing down there, the beheading of a cop making accusations.”
“I don’t understand?” Cal says, rocking back and forth like a dark gnome.
“Truino’s not your real name?”
JT turns in his seat and looked at us, his face a black hole.

“I told him exactly how it would play,”
“I told him about what was in the trunk. I hoped he’d play some but he didn’t want to. Pity.”
Cal stopped rocking; the air felt colder.
“Don’t you fellas want to know… what’s in the trunk?”

To Love Somebody

2011-02-13T14:34:00.001-06:00

John tells me to do it before it’s too late but I already know. I’m such a chicken-shit when it comes to these things; maybe it’s because I’m such a lousy dancer, stepping all over everyone and myself. I can’t fast dance; I hate jiggling around like good dancers do so I try to imagine something fun like being mowed down by a machine gun, riddled full of bullets all jerky like, but the last girl I danced with two-fisted my shoulders and told me to loosen up. When that last song comes on - it’s always To Love Somebody – you see all the losers scrambling around like hyenas looking for some poor girl - any girl - to maul. Somehow I’ll find myself standing next to her… the one I saw from the beginning that stood with her friends and slowly shook her head to every invite. In a quiet voice, I’ll ask if she wants to dance and she’ll look up and surprise me by saying okay and my mind will reel when we touch.

50/50

2011-02-13T14:33:00.001-06:00

The 440 is my race and I could own it outright if I were going up against the snails in my weight bracket like Donnie Tilsbury or Sid ‘Legs’ Wenton or even Sal Swann who runs like a fast four year old girl but fucking Coach Walters decided to put Dave McDonald in the race and the only other event I’m in and it’s going to be iffy. I’m running as a Junior but McDonald’s an Intermediate – shit, he’s a Senior as far as I’m concerned - he’s got a full beard for Christ’s sake. Coach Walters can’t run anything except his mouth and he dribbled some bullshit about not enough runners in Junior to be competitive so he stuck McDonald who’s a good ten pounds heavier in there. I might have a chance in the 440 but I swear I’ll be toast when that 880 comes around. We’re running at the high school arena with that rickety circular track… God, I can feel it now, the boards shuddering under my feet, the jeering crowd right on top of us, my legs like rubber bands after the first curve and my lungs collapsing and bailing as McDonald makes his move to the inside like a gazelle and then disappearing around the final turn… man that guy can fly. There’s an outside chance Walters will let me bump down to Primary, get up against some first year doe-eyed farm boy challenger trying to make a mark and allow me a chance to deal out an old McDonald on his sorry ass.

Rubber Soul

2011-02-13T14:32:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, right in the middle of class, a light will go on and I’ll come up with a perfect name for my band. Like during Science yesterday while old Pickell was flying all over the chalkboard like a maniac drawing up charts with colored chalk, this popped into my head: Orange Appeel. I love names like that, like the Beatles Rubber Soul or Strawberry Alarm Clock, Electric Prunes, Iron Butterfly, Moby Grape. Ha, we’ll wear orange - that’s the appeal man! - like orange colored socks or ties though truthfully I don’t like oranges much since they give me canker sores and taste kind of sour and ties make my neck itch. Maybe I can find an orange guitar, yeah, an orange Rickenbacker like the guy in the Byrds only his is yellow but that’s cool and I bet if I let him in the band, my friend John who’s a good artist will draw up some posters in that crazy Fillmore-type lettering style I saw in Rolling Stone. I’m almost as excited as Mr. Pickell up there, randomly scribbling zippy arrows and complex formulas like C5H8 with different color chalk; I have to give him credit though for loving something with such passion, even if it is just science.

Wellington Crescent

2011-02-13T14:31:00.001-06:00

Sometimes when it’s real rainy, the stairs get slippery and my books slide around like madmen so I hold tighter going to my locker just in case that asshole Soldersen is waiting by a classroom, gnawing about nothing with some dick friends, ever-ready to knock my books flying all down the hall with that quick sucker punch from behind. He’ll have some witty quip he’s probably worked on all night like, hey goof… which twin are ya, number 1 or number do-do? to which he’d snicker like he’d just dropped a big one. Ha! I’d laugh and scramble for my books, relieved I wasn’t walking with my brother, who would have painted the lockers with old Soldersen or tried to anyway… Soldersen’s a big guy but Gram would have gone for it… I bet he would have.
Sometimes I see Joanne French hanging around the office bulletin board with some other Wellington Crescent girls, not reading messages or nothing, just posing there so natural like, as if they’re storefront models on display for the rest of us to admire as we float by, their wide fixed eyes transmitting, ”yeah look, but don’t even think about touching” even though I bet that’s what they’re thinking in their stupid heads. They are kind of cool though I’ll admit…pretty types with perfect angles and poise and judicial daddies and shade tree homes, holding their books preciously against their tight bodies as if they’re into academics or something. They’re all cheerleader types… except that short dark haired girl with the Cher bangs and almond eyes; I don’t know her name but I saw her look at me once, not in a weird sort of way either but like she could almost talk to me if she chose to slip away from the others who only want the perfect square jaw dopes like Soldersen who I bet wouldn’t know what to do with a girl anyway, given half a chance.

Six Hours

2011-01-30T21:33:00.001-06:00

First Hour

Rounding the high curve along the front beach access, I come upon it.
There are perhaps fifty cars, stopped dead in traffic, more on the opposite side of the double yellow disappearing east. The occupants are abandoning them, running toward the water. There, the wind blows our bodies and scatters our thoughts but we sway like dazed birds, helpless to move, our eyes on the horizon. A smudge the color of tobacco streaks along the rim of the world, blending the flat white sky mocha like a wet watercolor landscape. Then the air ‘whumpts’ and ‘chops’ all around us with giant noise and metal as military helicopters buzz overhead and dart away toward the sun.

Second Hour

We stare, uncomprehending. We wait for a signal from some authority to tell us what’s happening; that it’s a dream, a government exercise perhaps. The signal doesn’t come. Hundreds of people are arriving, drawn to the water’s edge only to collapse in the sand. My cell phone shakes; it’s my father’s voice calling my name - so far away - with long distance crackle and panic on the line. I can hear Mom in the background saying the picture is snowy - on all the news stations - and then there is a muffling sound and she is on, weeping softly “are – you - alright?” and the phone goes dead.

Third Hour

The helicopters shoot past and skim a few hundred yards off shore. They don’t venture toward the horizon anymore; the first ones that did vanished… simple as that. No explosion… no attack… just gone… as if absorbed by the air. The beach is now standing room only, the air heavy, humid and humming as we watch the spectacle. Along the horizon, long black mirrored cylinders rotate, smooth and seamless like cigar tubes, cylinders the size of aircraft carriers, hundreds of them, more. They sit silent, suspended above the water.

Fourth Hour

The man next to me is sobbing. He whispers, “this can’t… it can’t.” He stands in an open stance, his legs apart, a small pistol quivering in a two handed grip, the front of his jeans soaked in urine. Along the darkened rim, the cylinders double in size, then triple as if magnified, rising up like sudden skyscrapers, blotting out the sky. The sobbing man puts the gun to his head and I don’t stop him. Instead, I run.

Fifth Hour

The mind falters when overwhelmed. It staggers, protects… closes down. I wonder if I will ever be open again. I don’t know my own name. Some primordial instinct instructs me to burrow away… to hide in this expansive house nestled in along the dunes. Like a badger, I burrow deep in a dark downstairs closet, clawing under fallen wardrobe, unable to look past neither the drawn drapes nor the next ticking second.

Sixth Hour

They are upstairs. I can hear them ‘clicking’ across the floor. It is a sound I can’t describe. They are like music, a musty melody worming inside my head, slightly nauseating, pleasing. That could be a good thing, I whisper to no one… it can... it will. It is.

Ivory Wave

2011-01-26T21:08:00.000-06:00

When Clara Early hears her grandson Boyd is in the Itawamba County emergency room mindlessly raving about man-eating lobsters, she isn’t surprised. She is told he arrived drenched like a drowned rat and not from any immediate downpour.
“The young man’s sweatin’ buckets and his hearts racin’ like Nascar,” the resident, a Dr. Stockwell says. “Got some cuts on his face too. He’s in and out of delirium. Best we keep him overnight for observation.”
“And what exactly caused this?” Clara asks, knowing full well the answer.
“Well, we’ve seen a lot of this lately. It’s called ‘Red Dove’. It’s a bath salt kids are buying legally, then smoking and snorting. Vanilla Sky. Ivory Wave… got different names. It can cause paranoia, hallucinations… suicidal thoughts.”
“And it’s legal?”
“Yup,” Dr. Stockwell says, sighing. “At least for a while until the government clamps down… or enough people die.”

Returning home, Clara storms Boyd’s bedroom. “I may be old but I ain’t stupid,“ she hisses. In the closet, she finds the duffel bag Boyd has poorly tried to hide and begins to pull the packets out. There are over a hundred, labeled Ivory Wave. Clara’s bones crack. Her spindly fingers ache from arthritis that has set in over the years and her slowly deteriorating hip stabs and stings. “Sixty-eight and here’s what I got,” she says to Raymond, her gray Tabby who has followed her into the room.
“A no good grandson living and stealing from me. Spending it on this. No more.”

The bathroom steams tropical. Clara dips a stubby toe into the hot bath water and stirs it about. On the floor, empty packets of bath salt lay scattered like weekend sunbathers. An intoxicating aroma hangs in the thickening air.
“Ivory Wave?” she murmurs. “Pure Paradise I’d say.”
She drops her robe, averting her eyes from the aged and sagging reflection in the mirror and lowers herself into the tub. Easing back, she closes her eyes, her body; a round egg coming to a simmering boil. Her fingers gently tap and play along the surface like piano keys creating snickering splashes. She imagines little fish jumping in the now sudsy foam. She smiles and takes in a deep breath. “Now this, I deserve.”

It is then she feels a change. Opening her eyes, her breasts poke the surface like a rising archipelago. They seem firmer - feel firmer - younger, the brown areola strangely now the color of corral. Below, there is a tingling. Her bottom shifts down like a sunken ship on the ocean floor and between her thighs, a deeper stirring begins. Her mind reels in darkness, a switch turning off. Something slithers over her hip and between her thighs along the seaweed trench. The bathroom is burning a fever. Clara struggles, her mouth puckering like a dying fish. Her foot rises through the suds. It is black; the toes melded together, a curved black fin. It cuts the water, pushing an ivory wave back and forth, back and forth. She tries to scream but she has no voice. As her eyes roll white, she sees the scissors next to the tub, their silver edges serrated like shark teeth. She grabs it and begins to stab.

Boyd arrives home around two. He is dull and annoyed. He notices the open bathroom door. He notices the glistening red packets, pink fur on the floor, the bathtub crimson. He never notices her standing behind the door.

Going To Find Out On Christmas Morning

2010-12-25T13:05:00.001-06:00

Late Christmas morning, Nick slid from his crumpled bed. His head was afire, his cider-filled brain shouting and pounding like an aching old tooth. He sat with his feet barely touching the floor and scratched his belly. He wondered if he was going to puke, and then decided against it. “Always too much,” he thought. It was always this way. Downstairs in the kitchen, he could hear his wife frantically preparing hot pots of coffee, working up “the perfect breakfast feast” just to please him and the guests. He stood and tottered to the window. A carved coo-coo clock ticked loudly next to him on the wall, its monotonous tocking hammering a spike through his swollen brain. His eyes, thin as dimes stayed locked on the horizon as he raised one large craggy hand and with a full powerful grasp, crushed the clock to dust. “That… will be… enough… of that,” he growled.

A white fog had settled over the barren snow-covered fields, leaving them flat like white canvas awaiting lines to be drawn. Below, the trees in the yard hung heavy with snow and ice, their branches bent, about to break. “They will break,” he said softly. “Everything breaks. Eventually.’ Last night during all the festivities, he had seen many broken things: hearts, dreams, homes, bodies, promises. Yes, promises. Every year it was the same. It wore him down and there would be a steep price to pay.

As he rubbed his head, he caught his reflection in the pane. It painted him a ghost, almost transparent, his white hair exploding up, his long johns pewter gray and as thin as his thoughts. His weathered face was heavily lined with what his wife called ‘smile’ lines. “Not for long,” he scowled and turned away quickly, grabbing for his boots. “Take care of the dear ones first,” he muttered, his body aching, his back cracking as he straightened up.

On a bench in the kitchen near the cellar door, a group of elfin figures much like young boys huddled and waited nervously. Through a window, they watched Nick stomp past on his way to the shed carrying two buckets, one of fresh hot gruel, the other warm flavored milk, the way the reindeer liked it. The ground under his boots crunched loud and firm like crisp cornflakes. The missus was busy cutting up loaves of bread for her guests. She hummed a familiar Christmas jingle, “he knows when you are sleeping… he knows when you’re awake… he knows when you’ve been bad or good… lada-deeda-lada-dee!” One of the elves leaned and whispered. “I watched old Nick last night…he had that list again… longer than last years. He took his time going over it. He checked it twice.” His small voice shook and cracked. “He’ll show no mercy. He never does.”
Then the kitchen door flew open and Old Nick was upon them, flying past, bellowing:
“OHH I KNOW WHO’S BEEN NAUGHTY!… OH YES I DO!!!”
His face was a red blaze and he swung a heavy switch in his trembling hand as he roared like a fire down into the cellar.

Along the frozen basement floor, thousands of burlap sacks tied with heavy rope writhed and squirmed like boiling serpents. From within, soft moans and child-like pleading hung suspended, frozen in the frigid air. Old Nick glowered over them, his dark switch racking stiff against his knee. “So many promises broken. Now a price to pay.” He moved slowly among them tapping his switch along the bags. “Everything breaks eventually,” he said lovingly. “Everything.”

Missing The Talk

2010-11-20T10:03:00.000-06:00

Tito ‘The Talk’ Moncuso keeps all of his secrets buried under his house, out of sight where nobody will know. That’s really funny because Tito’s never been the secretive sort. Matter of fact, he’s known as a big mouth, which in our business ain’t such a good thing.

Tito wants to move up. That’s okay, a lot of guys do. Just do it the right way I say, that’s all - - the way that don’t draw too much attention if you know what I mean. Show the right temperament and have a little patience. From what I’ve seen, Tito don’t have neither. Tommy ‘Two Tunes’ has talked to him but Tito keeps missing the point. See - - everything about Tito is loud. He’s always had a nose for seeking the limelight, dressing loud and flamboyant-like, shootin’ his mouth off about stuff he shouldn’t be shootin’. Like when we was kids, he’d steal from the till at old Marco’s market stand, then hang with Marco’s kid Frankie and spout off about it. No shame. No tack. You gotta know to keep some things under wraps. Private. Secret. Tito’s not like that.

Tito and me and Vinny ‘Van Go’ Flowers used to take care of business for friends and family if they needed it. We called it a ‘cleaning’ business… you know, tidying up messes and loose ends, getting rid of problems in a discreet manner. Unfortunately, Tito weren’t too discreet. The cops started listening in on his big talkin’ mouth, though they couldn’t quite prove nothin’. Tommy ‘Two Tunes’ thought it’d be a good idea to send Tito out to Biloxi to quiet down for a while with instructions to lay low. But guys like Tito don’t have a nickname like ‘the talk’ for nothing. He got bored and started gambling too much, then hooked up with some high roller old fuck at the tables - - a Mr. Bromley - - that really took a shine to Tito. He was a real piece of work, another big mouth conversationalist like Tito with money, rings and cigars, lots of gold and chain that dazzled the pants off Tito, if you know what I mean. I don’t condone that sort of thing but it’s none of my business. When Tito started talking about personal stuff to Bromley, well it became my business. Turns out, old Bromley there was retired FBI and Tito didn’t have a clue about it.

It’s all been taken care of though. Vinny Flowers and me have gone out to Biloxi to help Tito relocate again and do a little tidying up. It seems Mr. Bromley has gone missing. It’s okay. He’ll show up again… in the morgue… the recipient of an apparent heart attack. Tito’s missin’ too. The feds would love to talk to ‘the talk’ but that ain’t gonna happen any time soon. Like I said, Tito keeps his secrets buried under his house and the only talk he’s gonna have are with the bugs and the worms crammed down his big talkin’ mouth.

Black Candles

2010-10-15T12:32:00.002-06:00

I saw the building from across the street as I was waiting in line for a bed at the shelter. It wasn’t hard to miss with its castle-like structure looming ominously over the street like a gray stone angel. The drunk in front of me said it was a holy place, a church. I knew that already. He suggested I go and take a look inside. ‘Migh’ even get somethin’ ‘spiri’ual’ out of it’, he added dreamily. And it was free to visit, warm too and nobody really bothered you, at least until closing time when they kicked you out.

I gave him a half dozen smokes to hold my place in line along with a hard stare that told him he’d best not fuck with me and still be there when I got back.

I needed to find out. I needed to know if anything had really changed.

The sun was beginning to set as I darted across the street, up the large flat steps that led to two large wooden doors. Entering the vestibule, I was overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia. The air was pungent, the smell of burning incense, candles. It brought back memories from when I was a child; back to a different church my parents took me to regularly. I hadn’t thought of that place until recently… not since I’d gone off the meds.

‘That’s all in the past,’ I told myself. But the transition had been difficult. Years of therapy had shed some light on understanding it rationally. The meds had blocked out the events that had happened there. Ending up on the street though… I wondered how far I had really progressed? They still lurked, just beneath the surface like flashing snapshots at the crime scene: the candles and dark shapes, the rituals, the black-candled underground room, the unholy sacrifices. What they made me do to that girl.

I eased along a recessed wall, passed veiled statues and carved pictures and I quickly turned away. I slipped quietly onto a bench near the center of the church. This place was different from what I had attended as a child. It was open and serene; its brightly colored glass with Madonna and child, the saintly faces gazing down, shining through in the dimming light. Long wooden benches stretched in front of a large ornate altar, crisp and white as if glowing in a hushed transcendent light. A few people sat silently in front of me and for once in a very long time, I felt at peace.

I closed my eyes and centered myself into a calm trance-like state. My mind slowly began to wander… up to the magnificent altar with its golden candles and shrouded tabernacle… up the giant wooden cross to the luminous vaulted ceiling… back across to the choir loft. Casually floating down, I entered… into a darkened corner.

There were rows of red glass along the sidewall, glowing with dots of candlelight that shook and shuddered as a slumped shadow knelt in front to offer up secret, whispered words. Oh yes, the whispered words. Secrets. I shifted in my seat and tried to refocus. The darkened corner seemed to brighten. Then it quickly slammed shut. Ink black. I froze. There was nothing, only a dark hole in the earth and I fell into the abyss. I could hear the voices now in my head and I tried to silence them but they were loud, rising up, garbled like someone turning the dial on a radio quickly, round and round, round and round, round and round. I shut my eyes tighter and my mind ran, escaping back down along the shadowed recessed walls. I stopped dead in my tracks. Hung along the wall were the carved pictures I’d seen earlier when I’d entered, a row of pictures that stirred something deep, so deep within me - - carvings with depictions of torture and agony, blood and nails, crucifixion and death, of whispered words and secrets.

* * *

The voices haven’t said anything just yet. They’re unclear and I pray sitting here silent in the gloom on this wooden bench will make them stop. Perhaps it would help if someone turned a few more lights on because it is getting darker out. And the light may be the only thing that can save me… me and that innocent girl sitting in the next row.

Beware of Darkness

2010-09-24T11:30:00.000-06:00

I’ve got it most squared away, just in case. James Pilkerton filled out the appropriate papers for me, all my worth - - horse and gun - - most all a man like me really has left. I’ll let him do with it what he wants if need be, him being the mayor and all. I too made arrangements with old Marteen the coffin maker and undertaker for a simple box and burial. I didn’t come into this life with no fanfare and I don’t expect to go out with any either. The people here came out of the woodwork when they heard the news. Town meeting brought plenty of concerned folks and plenty of men ready to show what they got. “We’re here with you, Sheriff Drewry,” they spat. “We got guns. Let ‘em come!” They hooted and hollered mostly for the benefit of the women standing there but I saw it in their eyes, that shifty sideways glance, uncertainty running fast under the surface like critters from a prairie fire. They were missing it… the part inside necessary for this kind of thing. That edge. They all wanted to run. They were waiting for me to let them off the hook, tell them to go on home and take care of their families. And I did. I promised I’d take care of it. Do the job they were paying me for. I can guarantee they won’t be around when the trouble here starts.

* * * * *

The boy is coming out of Kansas with a couple of like riders. He is a name I recognize, sixteen years old. That is hard to believe counting the number of men he’s killed. They say he is the fastest anyone has ever seen, in these parts least wise. They’ll be here in the morning. There’s not much time but I’ll wait and think on them coming. Think about Josephine too.

* * * * *

I still have a picture of her from years back. I keep it stuffed in my shirt pocket. There was much about her that made me want to stick around even after the baby was born. She was a hard woman but she held a steadiness rooted in the earth that drew me to her. I should have stayed and tried to make a go of it but I knew better; knew myself better. A few years later, by pure chance, our paths crossed again in San Maria. She told me of our son, told me he was trouble from the start. No man around to set him right she said. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He began killing things early, when he was eight years old, maybe even younger, unsuspecting creatures that he trapped then tortured. He would show her what he’d done. He was unashamed she said, describing every hunt, the setting of his traps, all the terrible detail, searching for her approval. She never gave none. She said she prayed on it to make him stop. He would sit and stare at her, his mind elsewhere. She said he was missing something, something God had forgotten to form in his being. She didn’t know what to do. When he was nine, she sent him away with a preacher who came through the town. The boy showed no emotion when he left, only gave a look that shook her. There was a ‘hunger’ there, sitting behind his dead eyes she said. She told me she heard the boy began a different kind of killing then. Word came he’d murdered the preacher and his two young children while they slept, girls barely older than he at the time. He left the preacher’s wife alive. She’d have been better off if he hadn’t she said. He left a note etched across the charred skin of her stomach. ‘Momma’, it read.

* * * * *

Traveling up near San Maria last year, I heard news of Josephine’s passing. It was then I made a promise to her and myself that I would make things right. Just like I’ve promised this town. I will take care of it. I will go out early and meet them on the edge of town near the bluffs, just me and them. My edge? Josephine’s words and this: I know the boy is exactly like me… exactly like me… and I have already set the trap.

Along the Battlement

2010-09-17T08:07:00.001-06:00

We gather in our makeshift camp, a scrub of branch, log and bush hidden near the eastern end of the bay. We - - myself, William Cobb and Robert Forrester - - study X’s and O’s linked by dotted lines that cover a crudely drawn map. Two brothers, Henry and James Connor lay prone nearby, on cool grass next to a fallen tree and attend to muddied rifles, worn and bent. The days have been long and lazy, this summer the hottest that we can remember in our short time here. We have spent many hours scouting and planning and it has paid off with the taking of Red Rock and the capture of the northern Ridge. And now the plan for the attack on the fort has taken shape. Cobb has organized daily explorations of the terrain, sketching these quick maps and discussing plausible scenarios for our attack. He has an eye for this, a talent for taking on and conquering the vast world around him. He has become our group’s quiet leader and my best friend. The fort will be a challenge though. It sits atop a hill, with high limestone walls on all sides protected by a surrounding moat perhaps thirty feet deep. The bay cups the south and west corners, the north and east sides open and steep, the ground barren, no trees or rock for camouflage or cover. Cobb encourages us. “A piece of cake,” he says. “A piece of cake.”

Forrester believes there may be a way into the fort, a tunnel on the west side. We head out in search and after sloughing through the thicket along the west water’s edge find a drainage tunnel leaking out between an avalanche of cascading rock. Its opening is only a yard or so across at best and it smells of heavy raw sewage.
“We ‘aint goin’ in there,” James says. “It’s too small anyway.”
“Alright,” Cobb says with a cough. “Here’s the plan. We’ll make a surprise attack from the north then. They won’t expect that.”

We creep the hill, flat on our bellies through yellowed grass and stone, black dirt grimed on our bright faces like powdered war paint. We are sitting ducks as we approach, out in the open like this but Cobb believes no one will be watching this side; it is so exposed. We believe him. Henry Connor is to my left with his younger brother at his hip. They now move in a low, slow crouch, ready to spring upon command. Up ahead is Forrester, the youngest of our group, acting as lead scout. To my right is Cobb. I stare at his shadowed face as he surveys the hilltop. He will not live to see the coming fall.

Our rifles lead the way, pointed at the ready, aimed at the quiet ramparts staring down at us. The day is getting late and there is a sense to hurry. “GO!” Cobb grunts and we pick ourselves up and charge the hill.

POW! POW! POWPOW!

There is the fierce sound of voices yelling and hooting as we race up toward the moat’s edge, firing at will, firing over the long black cannons that nose out along the battlement, silently commanding the northern horizon.

POW! POW! POWPOW!

I turn and see that Cobb has stopped running. He is sitting with his back to me, facing the darkening skyline.
“Wait!” I call to the others and rush back down.
“William. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says quietly. “Just a little winded. I feel kind of weak.”
Henry and James come sliding along side us.
“What? What’s going on?”
“Let’s head back to camp,” I say, taking William by the arm, waving Forrester back from the moat’s edge. He ambles down, joining our slow retreat.

* * * * *

There are no more campaigns for us. The fort remains occupied. The cannons watch silent out over the bay as the ghosts of our youth perform revolving plays of forceless attacks. We return to the world, to thoughts of the not-so-distant new school year and to a different battle looming, a confounding fight led by worrying adults who will struggle to understand William’s incurable illness. I will wonder what part a ten-year-old boy is supposed to play and I will struggle hard to carry on the following summer’s campaign without him.

The Amber Sea

2010-09-10T09:03:00.001-06:00

The blizzard has picked up in intensity. It stretches along the horizon, fusing clouds, snow and iced air into one. It blasts up the drifts like white dirt dug up from the ground, a frozen burial ground encircling our thin tent, entrapping us. It may well blow us clear off this floe into the arctic sea. Captain Wells has stepped outside to secure the rigging; “batten us down for the night ahead,” he said. St. John is bundled up beside me, asleep. His eyes twitch and roll as he escapes into the warm safety of his dreams. Lucky him… able to drift off so easily.

My fingers tingle. Frostbite I’m sure but what do I know for certain? They are remote from my hands, floating just beyond but I can still see them move. I barely keep a clutch on the pint bottle. It is my true savior. My insides burn with its fire as it consumes my being, dulls my thoughts. If I could only climb inside, immerse myself in its warm amber sea. It is the color of the earth. Oh, the earth. What I wouldn’t give to have it under my feet again… green grass and the hot soil… the smell of clean rain… the seed of life bursting everywhere. There is no life here, only a bleak slab of frozen desert and a sorrowful wind that calls for me to venture out.

How have I come to such a desolate place? Was this not what I wanted? An escape? Her letter spelled out her wishes, a biting end to our engagement, pure and as cold as this foreboding landscape that surrounds my heart. Oh Emilee, I have tried but you… I cannot escape or forget.

I stare into this bottle and the calm amber rolls in a gentle wave, back and forth, side to side, leading my thoughts to a safer place - - oblivion - - slowly taking me down. I can hear it now, clearer, just beyond the flap, a whispering call beyond these thin walls. The isolation has crept in; I can’t keep it out. It is colder, though only to that of which I can feel. Captain Wells? He should have been back by now. I lean into St. John but he doesn’t stir and his eyes no longer move. I’ll wait a little longer… before I go out. The wind is insistent though, with my amber all but now gone.

A Dark Passage

2010-09-04T07:55:00.001-06:00

Something wasn’t right. The power was out. Not unusual, Reed told himself. Out here in the country, outages were common and there had been heavy thunderstorms off to the east earlier that morning. But the phone was dead too, a long static hiss on the line.

Coop hadn’t said much until dinnertime came around.
When’s Pa coming home?
He’d been tearing around the farm all day, his eight year old legs in constant motion, head to the ground, lost in his own world.
I don’t know Reed said, working together a couple of sandwiches. Must be in town… at the Run Aground probably. Truck’s gone. He didn’t tell me nothin’ and he didn’t leave a note. Here… eat.

Coop was asleep by ten, worn out from his active day. Reed stepped out onto the porch and looked across the shifting fields. Silence. He sat on the porch swing, an oil lantern beside him. The air was cooler and still. Not a sound. Not even the usual song of crickets. But there were thunderstorms still to the east, silent with quick flashes of yellow-green light. An orange moon cast a blue glow over the fields. He sat and waited.

He woke in the morning on the porch-swing, shivering in the cold morning air. It was still dark. He went inside, checked on Coop sprawled in a mess of blankets, then went to his father’s room. The bed was undisturbed, the same as yesterday. He picked up the phone and tapped the cradle. Still nothing. He flicked the light switches and tried the radio and TV. Nothing. He went back to his room and grabbed a sweater. In the kitchen he left a note on the table for both Coop and his father: Power’s out. Gone to old man Shelby’s place. Back soon. Reed.
Outside, he scooped up his bike and sped off down the road toward the Shelby farm two miles away, the morning light flickering behind him, his breath puffing small white clouds.

The Shelby place looked empty. Reed went up on the porch and knocked on the door. Then he banged on it. He walked around the house and shouted. Anyone here? Mr. Shelby? Silence. A sour ache formed in his stomach. The fields carried a colder wind. He stood still on the porch for a while and listened, not a sound.

And then he heard it, a distant thumping. It was coming from the east, from town, towards the farm. He crossed the road and climbed on a tall fence. Shading his eyes, he could see the large mass of forest, just the other side of where their farm sat. The thunderstorms still flashed. He froze then and blinked. Trees were dropping. All along the horizon, the trees were dropping. He’d once seen on TV, a hotel being demolished, imploded from the inside, crumbling and dropping straight down out of the sky. He saw that now but couldn’t understand.
Coop.
Reed ran to the house. He grabbed up his bike and turned and there stood Mr. Shelby, crooked on the road looking at the spectacle on the horizon. At first Reed thought he had imagined him but then Shelby shifted and in an odd voice said; we gotta’ go.
What’s going on, Mr. Shelby? I gotta’ get Coop. He’s home.
Cooper’s gone.
What? Reed said, his face blank.
Gonna’ be here soon. No time. Come on.
Shelby headed across the road and into the ditch toward a sectioned field. He turned to Reed who stood frozen, watching the falling horizon.
You see that? Shelby shouted. It’ll be here in a minute. If you wanna’ live, you best come with me. Nothin’ we can do ‘bout the others. Sorry.

Reed watched the hazed green horizon approach. The thumping had grown louder, a buzz-sawing hum, the forest now gone and the farm… Coop… then Shelby was at his arm, tugging him hard and they ran. A hundred feet into the field, Shelby stopped. Next to a block stone pillar, a dark maw lay open in the ground, a heavy wooden door propped open above it. A dark passage led down into the earth. Go, Shelby croaked, now panicked, pushing Reed down the dirt stairs. The sound was on top of him then and Shelby gave a quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes unbelieving as he slammed the heavy door down, bolting it. The passage swallowed them into darkness.

Slipping, a Faulty Memory

2010-08-27T12:13:00.000-06:00

I’ve existed for over half a century. That is mind-boggling. It seems like a long time, over five hundred thousand hours of thinking; you’d think there would be a lot to remember. Not really. About half that time I slept away. Many of my memories are faded, skewed and some are flat out fiction. There are few points of pure clarity. That’s not helpful if you’re a writer.

My recent memory isn’t bad and by recent I mean maybe a month ago. Events from my early years are more obscure like old snapshots in a deteriorating photo album: here I am at two, in a stroller with my brother; here I am staring out a car window, a prairie landscape skimming by and here I am throwing rocks into a lake with faceless friends of yesterday. I have thousands of snapshots like that floating about in my subconscious. Was it real? Is it real? Maybe life is but a dream.

I’ve read that the cells of the brain have a limited shelf life. Our brains will shrink and wear out as we age. I believe it. There are things you try to forget and can’t. Other things you try to recall and it slips away. I have a vivid memory of an annoying girl from high school. I remember her name, see her eye-glassed and pimpled face and visualize the pink sweater and blue-gray wool skirt she wore ‘everyday’, according to my memory. But there’s only a faint glimpse of a girl I dated for a couple of months. I don’t remember her name. I’m embarrassed to say that I barely remember my own wedding. Worse, I can barely remember what I had for dinner last night and I don’t drink.
“You’re slipping,” the guy in the mirror says. It doesn’t help to hear that when you’re shaving.

I wonder if my brain is crumbling? I worry if I’m a candidate for Alzheimer’s. Looking at my family history, there’s no evidence of it. My mother had a pretty good memory. She would tell us about her childhood during the war, stories of the German occupation in Belgium. Her stories were riveting with such fine detail and clarity. She was eighty-two when she died in 2008. Cancer. It seems almost impossible up here in my questionable memory. It feels more recent than that. I find the pain and disbelief of her death beginning to subside but with that, there’s a gnawing thought that keeps nibbling the soft cheese. What if I start to forget her life? I already feel guilty that I don’t think about her or my father much. I can still clearly see them both in their respective caskets. I suppose my mind tells me to retain these images because they are important and I want to remember. I hope that doesn’t sound too morbid.
“You are slipping.” I guess, maybe I am.

My wife’s memory is terrific. She relates stories and events from our thirty years together and I nod and say, “Really!” or “Really?” depending on the importance. More often, it’s the second ‘really?’ that I entertain. She’ll tell me that it’s so-and-so’s birthday and I cringe. Some of these people are obscure, some of them my own relatives. As long as I don’t forget her birthday, our son’s or our wedding anniversary, I think I’m safe.

“No, you’re slipping.” OK, I am.
I don’t remember everything about our relationship that I should. Let me write that down to remind myself. Maybe I should stop writing altogether? If I’m not being honest then why bother. The thing is I am being honest, as far as I can remember. Forget what I said.

Man’s Got a Gift

2010-08-07T09:23:00.001-06:00

Of all the residents spending time at the Parker Park nursing home, Mr. Perry was the oldest. He clocked in at 103. Can you believe that? Man that guy was healthy. He claimed his longevity was due to this philosophy: always keep your mind and legs moving simultaneously. Cute for the nursing staff but I knew better. I knew it had everything to do with that plain blue “music” box next to his bed.

It was an unassuming little cube; small and wrapped like a gift with a bow on top. It wasn’t that noticeable sitting there between a vase of flowers, water glass and medications. There was a wind-up key on its side but oddly, when you wound it, no music played. Not a sound. But there was a gleam in old Perry’s eye when he would look at it. It was a secretive childlike look, as if he had just pocketed money from some unsuspecting purse. I’d visit with him every so often and I’d see his wandering gaze settle on it. He thought I didn’t notice but I did.

When the “music” box went missing, well, that was the day old Perry’s health started to decline. He lay in bed, raving about his missing music box, refusing to eat and then refusing to speak. Very quickly, he began to look that 103. Man, the whole place went nuts trying to find that box. Funny thing was, they weren’t sure what to look for. “What is it?” from the nursing staff. “A music box?” from the orderlies. Everyone claimed they’d never ever seen such a thing. But soon, there were several suspects. There always are with things like this. By the end of the day, it had narrowed down to a short list. There was talk of a happily humming nurse walking off with it. Fingers were pointed at one orderly whose last name unfortunately happened to be ‘Fingers’. Man, it got crazy as every resident on the floor became a suspect, even Mr. Kern across the hall in Room 3 who suffered from throat cancer but for the past two months, slept quietly in a coma.

Of course, all who could deny ever taking it did but man, I won’t. I can admit it now; I took it. No, that’s not quite accurate. I borrowed it for a while. I’m always up and down these halls and I look in on every single one of these folks daily. I took the “music” box, wound it and put it under old Mr. Kern’s pillow across the hall there in Room 3. The next day, well, old Perry was up and around, crowing that he’d found his music box again, right where he’d left it, there between his vase of flowers, water glass and medications. He was his old self again. The stunned staff wasn’t paying much attention to him though as they were all gathered in Room 3 with Mr. Kern. He was sitting up rubbing his throat, saying, “Can you feel that? Can you hear that?” I’m no doctor but man, I surely can.

Murderer’s Road

2010-04-27T09:46:00.006-06:00

The road ran an empty mile, straight to the Gulf of Mexico. North, it sandwiched neat between prehistoric land where snarled tangles of branch filled a landscape of dune and swamp. A thousand burned sticks, tall and barren rose to a burning blue sky.
Nuketown, Sillinger mumbled. He shifted slightly on his seat and leaned against the van door. Beyond his windshield, he watched convicts lay sod.

There were four of them dressed in baggy prison gray. Jim Davis, a black, Walt Henley and Johnny Watt, trailer-whites and Hector Chochu, an Indian or mexican maybe. Sillinger fired up another cigarette and sucked the smoke deep down into his lungs. He looked at his watch. It was almost nine.

Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath. He’d lost track of the years, four… five, sitting screw-ups who landscaped and constructed nothing in the middle of swampland. Saved taxpayers money, they said. Big money. He started to drift. His eyes were heavy, just another minute, he thought. Convicts weren’t going anywhere. They were ‘shorty’s’ doing lesser times for their aggravated crimes-- assault, robbery, drugs and trafficking. No murderers slipping away here, nowhere to run to anyway.

His thoughts shifted to Brenda. Darlin’ Brenda, love of his life. They’d been adrift for months. It didn’t help she was away much of the time.
It’s DEA Ray, she had said. The Sabina case is my case. What do you want me to do, quit? This case means a lot; it’s everything.
A Federal agent, she spent much of her time in Coyoacan securing the deal for drug lord Eduard Sabina and his family members and it was almost done. She had trailed the accounts, the deals and was now ready to move on him. Just a few loose ends, she had said. Then it’d be over.

This ain’t no Boy Scout outing.
Sillinger jumped. His eyes popped open to Jerry Remy, scowling at him through the open cab window. Remy’s eyes were black and dead, his ruddy pockmarked face expressionless. He wore an ivory white handlebar mustache that dripped down below his chin; a tight red bandana surrounded the top of his head, a pump-action shotgun at his side.
These boys need an ass kickin’, he said. You might want to get off yours and give me some help.
Sillinger crushed his cigarette and climbed out of the cab. They stood side by side and watched convicts kick dirt and lay sod. A single hawk flew low over them, its shadow crossing like a dark omen. It would turn out so.

What time is it?
Nine-o-three, Sillinger said, eyeing his watch.
Get these pricks moving then. Truck‘ll be here soon.
Remy eased across the road. He nodded at the mexican.
Get that barrow over on this side, then added in a mocking tone, mucho pronto amigo.
Without expression, Chochu dropped his rake and picked up the waiting wheelbarrow holding broken soil and a busted spade shovel. Sillinger made his way down the road toward the others, kicking the ground absently. Only Remy seemed to notice the car slowly creeping down the road toward them from the north.

He’s sleeping with her, Sillinger thought, shuffling through the dust. That much he knew about Jerry Remy. He had no proof, only a feeling. But he knew. Ahead, Watt and Henley unrolled sod sections in the simmering morning heat, stomping them haphazardly into place. Davis was further up raking debris off to the side. Cicadas and blue jays chirped relentlessly from the surrounding swamp, a chaotic distraction, a warning. Watt stopped and looked up the road toward Davis, shielding his eyes from the morning glare. Sillinger looked up to see the car approaching, a sleek black Lincoln Continental that stopped next to Davis. As Sillinger approached, he was surprised to see his wife Brenda’s smiling face perched behind the wheel.

She watched Sillinger. My husband, the fool, she thought. That Remy too, swaying and grinning just beyond like death in a withering heat haze. Remy had believed her about everything; about ridding herself of Sillinger, the easy access to the Sabina drug money, springing the guy for a big payoff. It was all setup. She had slept with Remy to secure his participation, to get them isolated, to seal the deal. But now there would be another deal.

Davis stepped off toward the ditch as Sillinger leaned in the open window on the passenger side.
What ya doin’ here, Bren?
He scanned the interior.
Where in hell ‘ya get this car?
I bought it for me, she said smiling. It's a bonus from the Sabina case.
I brought you something too.
A delayed smile crossed Sillinger’s face. He glanced back at Remy who had not moved. His dark eyes appeared to shine. What is she doing here, he thought?
He never saw it coming.

Brenda was quick. The blue silver revolver fired two shots through Sillinger’s head, wiping the confused smile from his face. The first bullet dropped him to his knees like a sinner on Sunday. The second removed his left cheek and ear but he was already dead. He toppled over backward and was still. Remy grinned. He was impressed. He had been sure that when it went down, she wouldn’t pull the trigger but she had, quite easily and it was his last sure thought. The broken shovel handle entered the base of his neck just above the top vertebrae. The broken point exited his throat and he grasped it with his right hand. Remy’s dead black eyes were alive. They bulged from their sockets and he half turned, dropping his shotgun and gurgled nothing to Chochu standing there. Then there was no more. Chochu squatted and picked up the shotgun. Both Henley and Watt were running and he methodically took them down. Davis hadn’t moved from beside the ditch. He smiled up at the open cobalt sky. He didn’t say a word. Brenda squeezed the trigger, emptying the gun into him.

Hector "Cho" Sabina stepped over Sillinger and got in the car.
How you doing baby? Brenda said.
I see my father got you the money and our ride. Drive.
The Lincoln’s wheels spun shards of gravel and stone as they fishtailed down the road. Two hawks flew high above them, sitting silent on the wind.

Dolls

2009-12-14T11:25:00.006-06:00

When I saw the doll in the tartan outfit, my first thought was; I must have it. At the time, it never crossed my mind that I would actually steal it.

I’d noticed it in the section of the toy store where they display all the ‘New Arrivals’. I overheard the storeowner tell a customer, “Oh yes, she’s Scottish alright, I imported her directly. Pretty in all that tartan, don’t you think? I’m sure she’ll sell quite quickly.” She was pretty as far as dolls go. Most have ‘dead-eyes’, blank and dull. The Scottish doll had bright eyes; wide-open, projecting a dreamy gaze as if she were remembering some far away place. “Scotland” the storeowner had said.

It was not her face that first caught my eye. It was the way she was dressed.
A snow-white hat and boots offset the regal reds and deep forest greens of her cross-striped dress. A woven cloth draped down from her shoulder and from her waist hung a small white purse. Around her neck were four black pipes; a form of musical instrument.

The doll spoke to me. I could hear her whispering softly. I don’t believe anyone else in the store heard her. Her words were what I longed to hear, words of beauty, of adventure, of belonging, things that I would never have and places I would never see. Perhaps that’s why I stole it.

There was a shelf for exotic dolls just above the New Arrivals table. They are the dolls from Asia, Africa, Latin America, the Mediterranean and the like. Their lively colored costumes and mysterious origins were fascinating. I loved the doll from Spain, Adoracion. That was her name. She wore a dress of bright red flame broached in black lace. Her hair was jet black, pulled back in a tight bun. She was a dancer. She was the most beautiful doll I had ever seen.

There was nothing beautiful about my doll collection. They were ‘modern drab’, cheap plastic figures, plainly dressed and uninspired, nothing special really. They wore floppy hats over coiled, curly hair. Wide bows draped down their plain dresses. They carried cheap plastic purses. They suited me I suppose. I have been described as somewhat plain. I can admit that now. My world was pretty small. I’d never been anywhere. I longed to travel, to see exotic places, this Scotland maybe.

It is on a Friday night that I steal the Scottish doll’s dress. After the store closes and the owner is gone, I drop down from my crowded shelf and make my way to the New Arrival’s table. Her eyes are open. I know she is asleep. I carefully remove her white hat and the black musical pipes from around her neck. (I pull the burlap sack-dress from my body) I remove her woven tartan and work it over my bulky shape (my red spaghetti hair of yarn catches in the straps. The dots for my eyes and the line for my mouth register no expression) I wrangle with her white hat and boots (they barely cover my ragged hair and stumped feet) I slip the musical pipes around my bloated neck. The look is complete. Perhaps now someone will purchase me.

I didn’t expect the fire. It broke out early Saturday morning and burned most of the storefront. I suffered only minor smoke and water damage and my hair was singed on the ends. The storeowner saw fit to get rid of me anyway. As he pulled me from the New Arrival’s table, he said, ”She’s not the same. There’s something about her.”

Next to me in a box is Adoracion, her flame red dress and hair now gone. As we are carried out to the alley, I whisper to her, “I’m sorry. We will never see Scotland.

Fireworks

2009-12-01T17:55:00.002-06:00

The sound comes; a distant thumping, the dull falling of running feet, a low voice barking, then feet on the veranda, then John exploding out the screen door slamming:
“YOU COMIN’ OR NOT!!!”

I lean awkwardly into the heavy wooden lawnmower and turn to watch John vanish around the side of the house. I look back to the veranda, half expecting to see the old man’s chair roll up but no one comes. Sweat streaks down my red face, my stiff stubby fingers tight and cramping on the handle. The lawnmower sits silent, patient in the morning heat, its shadow long on the grass and dandelion. Above, the sun burns a white coin.

Down the lane, I catch up to John. He’s stopped to pick up small red racket that has fallen from his pockets. The air smells of mint and over-packed garbage cans, the heat of the day starting to take hold of the waste.
“You got matches?”
John pulls a small box from his waistband and hands them to me.
“I brought this too,” he says.
He holds out a bright yellow pool ball. He presses the side. A spark. Again. A flame.
“Pop’ll kill ya if he finds out.”
“He woan,” John says. “Here, I got some string too.”

We cross the road to Higgins field and wade through the waist-high grass, thistle-burrs hitching to our socks and jeans. We climb a long slow hill. Below lies open land, sporadic trees to the west, the town a brown cluster in a wheat yellow patchwork. We lurch in the morning heat, and then come to Pinkers, the stink smoldering at the top of the hill. Somewhere off, a dog barks but nothing else stirs. We kick through fly mounds of trash and debris, old furniture, boxes, paper, black plastic.
“Here,” John says. He picks up a cracked glass jar. Inside are a few green plastic soldiers, a blue bowlegged cowboy, a faded gray aluminum horse, stubby bits of used crayon.
“Yeah these. Let’s do these.”
In a shallow dirt ditch next to the field, he dumps the contents of the jar in the dirt. I sit, pulling the box of matches and string from an oversized pocket.

We blow up everything. John handles the fused red shells with precision, his hatchet face shiny, jubilant, blasting foam cups, tin cans, soldiers, and crayons. When the matches are done, we switch to the pool ball lighter, its flame orange and pointed. We set fire to a small village of milk cartons. We watch an old cigar box full of derby ticket stubs burn and smolder. We blow apart a bald plastic doll. Later, with our artillery exhausted, we lay still in the ditch, surrounded by mangled Marines and a now blackened horse. I flip through the odds and ends of bundled colored paper from the cigar box; quinellas, exactas, stained paper like a foreign currency.

“We goin’ to the parade?” I say, handing John our spoils of war.
“Naw. There’s not much of a show ‘less you like lame fireworks. It’s the old man’s thing down at the firehouse anyway.”
The heat of the day simmers in the dirt around us. John paws the sweat from his thin face. He slowly rotates the lighter in his hand. “You ‘wan any of this stuff?” he says, nudging one of the fallen green Marines with his toe as if it might be somehow alive.
“These here ain’t too bad. I used to like them. Tough guys.”
I pick up the plastic cowboy. A leg has melted to a twist. “This one’s pretty banged up. Kinda like Pop’s.”
“Shut up,” John says. “It ain’t like that at all.” He stares at the lighter. “It ain’t.”

We sit in silence and watch the horizon. A light wind now moves over the wheat fields below. I cup a hand over my brow and squint at the sun.
“It’s gonna be some h…”
WHUMPT!
The grass behind us suddenly shoots up, orange and white crackling fast. Fat smoke plumes gray then turns black. The wind picks up and the fire explodes. I jump, stepping back as John leaps away, dropping the lighter.
“Pop’s gonna kill us.”
“He woan find out,” John says. “We weren’t here.” The flames leap higher.
“Ya hear’n me. I wasn’t.”

I watch as John races down the hill, his own shadow chasing after him as he plunges and disappears into the tall dry chaff. As I turn to run, I step on something hard. The lighter. Jamming it in my pocket, I run into the dump, a shadow myself, quickly swallowed whole by Pinker’s smoldering landfill.

On the road, the engines go up the hill, their red racket rumbling, their sirens blaring around the melting morning sun.

Muddled Thoughts of Woodstock Remembered

2009-07-11T11:35:00.004-06:00

Twang…twang…hummm…twang…buzz…
oh hello, didn’t see you there. I was just flubbing around here on the old guitar trying to remember that song by that group… what was there name? They were at Woodstock. Country Joe and something. Canned Tuna?
A Tin of Tuna? Mmmm.. that sounds delicious.
Something about a fish. I forget how it goes. twang…buzz…

This guitar here, I’ve had it for over forty years. It’s the size of a baby cello. twang…bzzz...twang. Cliff, one of my friends in high school, made it in shops class. He wasn’t very good at math or deciphering scale measurements. He was more of an abstract thinker. Psychedelics I remember. I’ve been practicing this opening riff to the old Who song, “I’m Going to Explain” or whatever it was called. “I’ll Explain Later”, that’s it. Remember…Bah!…Bah-ba!… Bahhh! Bah-ba! I think they did it at Woodstock.

Oh boy, yeah Woodstock. August 1969. twang…twang…buzzzz…
This year is the 40th anniversary but it seems like it was just yesterday. Or the day before. What is today, by the way? Wow those memories come seeping back man. Three days of peace, music and mud. A lot of mud. That’s what I remember…the mud. And the music, it was something else. It was muddied too and distant but I still heard them all… Jimi, Janis, the Who, Canned Tuna, Santa Anna, the Doors, Dylan. twang…twang…hummm…

I was, let’s see, ha, the mind seems to be slipping some these days, oh about eighteen back then…. twang…twang…
I do remember looking up through my parent’s basement window and seeing my best friend, Jorge on his knees growling, “hey Desieldorfor, grab some dough and a sleeping bag. Yasgur’s farm awaits!” I was puzzled because it looked like a large cat with a rat’s face peering in at me. I had just dropped some acid. “Farm?” Okay I told him.
We took off with some guy Jorge knew from school who had wheels. I think his name was Roscoe or Rothco, something like that. Off we went on this unplanned adventure to New York and an ‘Aquarian Festival’. It was the ‘Age of Aquarian’ or some crazy thing. Remember that song?… twang…twang…hummm… it is a drowning of the age of Aqu…anyway, it was a chance to get away from the SS back on the home front there in North Dakota. The ol’ Herr Fuhrer and Frau never said anything. I don’t think they knew I was gone. I did say bye to my little brother Mark who came chasing up behind Romeo’s car with my sleeping bag. Thanks Mark. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

To tell the truth, I don’t remember much about the trip having just dropped that acid. twang…twang…twang…buzz… We dropped another tab just as we were leaving the city.
I do remember lying in a field and it was raining pretty hard. I was trapped in my mudbag, damn that cheap bag and zipper… twang… and I could hear music playing off somewhere down a hill. Mostly I recall some farmer guy plowing by in a tractor, zig-zagging around a couple of us sleepy people. He was yelling at us, “fuck hippie, git outta here!” then,“OOOOH SHIT.” The rest is foggy. Twang…twang…buzz…

I guess Woodstock was a huge happening and there were drugs and music and plenty of bands to see and a ton of them got even more famous but I didn’t see them. I didn’t see anybody. We never did get to Yasgur’s farm.
We got as far as old farmer Rawley’s potato field about five miles from my house. Appears that acid was a real mind-bender.
I remember waking up in a rather comfortable bed…my own. And there was little Mark standing beside it holding my muddy sleeping bag. He told me I had been gone a day. twang… twang…Old Rawley had called the cops. Seems he ran over Jorge in his sleeping bag. The ground was so wet and mucky; he sunk into it like a log in quicksand. He was okay. Not a dent. And apparently all that music I heard…KCSN-92.5 FM blaring from Roy’s car, which had somehow found its way into Rawley’s ditch. Man those were some crazy times but I think most of us turned out all right. Twang…twang…buzz…twang

My little brother Mark called last week and asked if I wanted to go out to New York to celebrate the 40th anniversary. A lot of things have changed since the 60’s but not Mark. He’s still looking out for me. He’s like that Who’s song, “The Kid is Alright”. He even bought me that Woodstock DVD for Christmas. He said he didn’t want me to ever forget the experience. twang…twang…hummm…twang…buzz…

I’m now just a regular family man and I don’t need too many drugs these days to enjoy myself. I mostly get my high at my job landing airplanes. Maybe Mark’s right. We should go to the celebration and I’ll bring along Janine and the kids too. And when they ask, “Gee, were you really here?” I’ll pull out this baby cello and twang that wonderful old riff from that Who song, “I Can Explain”.
I really can.
Twang…twang…buzz… Twang…twang…buzz…

30A Series

2009-03-25T19:10:00.011-06:00

I live in Santa Rosa Beach, a wonderful beach resort area situated on the Gulf Coast along the Florida Panhandle. The area is strung together with small seaside communities- Blue Mountain, Grayton Beach, Alys Beach, Rosemary Beach and Seaside which was featured in the Jim Carrey movie, 'The Truman Show'. The scenic highway running through it all is County Road 30A.

The icons I've created are available for purchase- there are 2 sizes; 11x14 digital prints are $30 and the 24x36 digital prints are $120. Shipping is additional (rolled and sent in a tube)

From left to right- Click images to enlarge
Red Heron - Seaside Church
Alys Beach Architecture

Alys Beach Fonville Press - Heron Moon
Pelican - Rosemary Beach Pensione Hotel

Watercolor Clocktower - Alys Beach Cone
Rosemary Beach Town Hall - Rosemary Beach Barbados Pool

If you're interested, just email me at metheothertwin@aol.com

Of Gods and Men (Part 1 &2)

2009-02-06T12:39:00.003-06:00

Part 1: Of Gods and Men

Pink!
Ahh, I love that. Not the color. The sound. The sound of a well hit golf ball.
Golf is a mystery to me. It’s a wondrous sport that we sometimes love to hate, yet it keeps calling us back no matter how bad things get. It’s a simple premise that takes a tremendous amount of skill and patience to play well. It can be very frustrating. It’s essential that we mere mortals leave certain things at home before going to the course. These things include expectations, emotions and guns. You need bring only a keen sense of humor. I tip my hat to anyone who, by the end of playing a round, can say that they still have all their clubs in their bag and a stable enough mind to operate a motor vehicle.

I believe you need to be super-human. Take the men and women on the professional tours. These are not mere mortals. An unseen hand has touched them. Butch Harmon's perhaps? A David Leadbetter? They play with such control, such certainty. How is it that they can hit a drive without taking up two feet of prime real estate or shape a shot that drops fifteen feet past the hole, then mysteriously reverses back to within three. No magic. No strings. It’s just divine.

I enjoy the game of golf especially when I’m eyeing every putt from the undulating green of my couch. I haven’t played in months. I’m not very good. Perhaps there are easier recreational endeavors that are not so taxing on the mind or body; things like log rolling or zoo docent. My commitment and faith to the game has dwindled so much that I’ve considered giving it up. Almost.

A while back, I attended a Champion's tour event, the one held by the senior PGA players. It was exciting to watch so many legends, these gods of the game, and in such an intimate and beautiful setting. When I arrived, Lee Trevino and Tom Watson were chipping on the practice tee. Bruce Lietzke and Andy Bean were further down, effortlessly hammering straight shots that disappeared into oblivion. Gary Player was already out on the course tending to his devoted flock of followers.
I watched them practice for a while then made my way down to the first tee. A crowd of fellow seekers had bunched around the tee box so I made my way up the fairway and waited at the dogleg with another group of believers. It was amazing how quiet we were, serene and silent, waiting for that unseen object to drop out of the sky. The people around me talked in low whispers as if in a holy place. The few that were disobediently using cell phones were unaware that they were setting themselves up for a sudden public stoning.
Then out of nowhere, I heard that sound again.
Pink!

It’s what you pray for. The thud of the ball landed safely on the fairway about ten yards in front of us. In golf, there's always a chance that someone might drop suddenly, an unwitting recipient of an errant ball to the left frontal lobe. Two more thumps nearby indicated that things had gone well for the threesome teeing off and no calls for medical assistance were needed from any of us. Our threesome featured Trevino who hit a nice shot into the green up ahead. He made zigzag hand gestures to his caddie as though he had expected the ball to do something different. I would have been pleased with still having a ball to hit. Oh, these gods; so demanding.

As the crowd moved on, I waited. According to my schedule, Tom Watson was part of the next trinity, along with Doug Tewell and Peter Jacobsen. I decided to follow them. All of their tee shots landed in the same proximity as the previous group. While the players hovered with their caddies, we stood as still as lawn gnomes, our ears sharp to the hushed utterances on the fairway. We listened for a suggested path, a defining word. Any small crumb of truth that might help us unlock the mystery of this game. The trinity continued on, seemingly oblivious to our presence. They proceeded to create their own little universe, miraculously dropping balls around the flagstick like planets around the sun. I followed them on their pilgrimage for three holes and then decided to leave.
On the way out, I passed Raymond Floyd on the practice tee. He was going through his routine. I stopped and watched the way he stood over the ball, the form of his back swing and his classic finish. I seared the image in my mind. Was it possible to believe that I could shape myself in that image? Transform myself from mere mortal into...one of them? I was feeling a sudden renewal, a rebirth. Was there hope? Three holes of perfection had been enough to actually make me consider retrieving my golf clubs from the thrift shop. All the way home, I searched my spirit for an answer to the question: Could there be salvation for my game?

Later, as I dozed on the couch, I heard that beautiful angelic sound again. Pink!
Reaching for the remote, an undeniable truth revealed itself to me. God no. I realized then that if I were ever going to reach salvation, I would have to completely surrender and submit my life to golf’s siren call.
Starting from scratch, I was willing to renew my spirit, reclaim my clubs and with absolute free will, deliver my body and soul to golf’s ultimate madness.

Part 2: Of Gods and Madmen

I began with a basic fundamental: etiquette. Understanding that the game of golf is first and foremost, a gentleman’s game, I came up with five simple rules of etiquette to ensure a great round of golf. When out tearing up the course, I thought it might be useful to remember this acronym: OCRAP, which stood for Observe, Courtesy, Repair, Attire and Pretend.

#1 Observe
Golf is a game of observation. From the first tee to a rough fairway to the smooth surface of the green, the goal is to observe and follow your ball, your fellow foursome’s balls, and even other foursome’s wayward balls. You must always be observant for the game of golf is fraught with hazard. Water, sand, wildlife, marshy thickets, wandering elderly, well, it’s a real challenge to the full-of-himself golfer in his colorful attire. Try to forget for a while your own ‘look at me’ attitude and start looking around. You never know what’s lying ahead or for that matter, what’s tracking behind. Always be on alert. Golf is full of surprises. For instance, you may come upon an elderly couple quietly tending their tomato garden in a bunker on the eighth hole where unfortunately, your ball has landed. Senility may have led them to this place but they are more likely than not, harmless. Is it a surprise? Of course it is, quite frightening really. But if you’re observant, you may see that there are a bunch of discarded tomatoes littering the crooked path up to a house just behind the bunker. Suggest to them that you would like to purchase a few tomatoes and when they head off to the house to get you “a nice brown paper bag”, pitch your ball out (careful to avoid the scarecrow in tam o’shanter cap and knickerbockers) and move on quickly before they come back.

#2 Courtesy
Golf is played in the wonderful wonderland of nature. Lost in the wild, you’ll need to be aware and respectful of sharing this carved out piece of natural habitat with its current rightful inhabitants: eagle, rabbit, gofer, fox, snake, homeowner foolish enough to have purchased along fairway. All reside in your field of play and are potential targets for your unskilled gaffs. Yes, it is possible for your wayward tee shot to de-beak an unsuspecting falcon that was peacefully dozing in its nest deep in the woods some thirty feet off the fairway. It’s not unheard of to inadvertently scorch the top of a rabbit‘s skull or even blow a lizard in half that was minding its own business sunning on a rock near the thirteenth hole. (Oh, unlucky 13!)

These things weren’t planned but they happened anyway due to your unforeseen actions. There’s really nothing you can say other than “Yikes!” but if you find yourself stepping in and falling down this all too common rabbit hole of course discourse then listen up especially if you encounter that unpredictable homeowner. With him, you will need to muster all of the courtesy you can get.
Golf will test all of a player’s mental, physical and emotional considerations. The trick here is temperament. Don’t let these needless maiming and deaths affect your play. Just let it go. Yes, express a heartfelt apology to Mother Nature but then quickly move on. (run if you’ve only winged the coyote) It’s understandable that you’re upset at the loss. That ProV 1 cost bucks! If it’s that crazy homeowner that you encounter remember, it was he who fell for that real estate agents “Location! Location! Location!” bullshit and so tactfully inform him that damage to his broken sunroom window or headless ceramic lawn gnome should be settled with his HOA and not you. Remember, be courteous but pick your fights. There will always be something or someone just around the next dogleg that will challenge your sense of good golf etiquette.

For instance, out of the blue, a ball lands on the green just as you are about to putt. What is your response? Your initial reaction probably goes something like this: reason tells you golf balls don’t grow on trees so it didn’t just drop from that annoying knotty pine overhanging the green. Searching the horizon, you zero in on the asshole that had the luck to hit her ball some three hundred plus yards. You simmer as the foursome of silhouetted cavewomen dance and high-five each other. If this tribe of hostiles had any understanding of golf etiquette, they would know that all players currently on a green should be clear of it before the next group can hit. Did they extend you that courtesy? I think not but perhaps it was just an unfortunate mistake on their part. When a second ball lands even closer to the hole, follow this helpful rule. It’s called Burying the Hatchet.
Using a sand wedge, hatchet deep furrows in the green where their balls landed and then bury them deep using your heel to really get them down there. This should delay them for a while and allow time for some welcomed breathing room.
As the day wears on, you may grow tired and impatient and your genial spirit may start to suffer. Try to refrain from setting your clubs on fire. Instead, focus on your fellow players and offer courteous words of encouragement. Phrases like “Nice shot!” or “Great putt!” are cliché but always prized. Friendly warnings such as “Watch out for that OB marker or rattlesnake” are helpful too. Though most players don’t really mean it when they say it, it’s better than hearing, “ Nice shot…asshole!” or “Great putt…putzinberg!”
Courtesy is essential, a gift really and as with any gift, it’s the thought that counts.

#3 Repair
This rule is less of an issue mainly because you’re surrounded by nature and not in an environment that can be easily controlled or readily fixed. You can’t just turn off the wind. That huge sequoia rudely planted in front of your ball can’t be moved. That nutty squirrel running down the fairway with your ball can’t be arrested. What can you do? Just understand that the leaves, acorns and vermin strewn about can be a good thing, a logical reason as to why you didn’t play well. Replacing divots, plugging ball marks, raking bunkers; these minor disturbances shouldn’t bother you too much for they take very little time or effort to fix or ignore. Now if you come across, for instance, an unfortunate ‘Burying the Hatchet’ incident…

#4 Attire
Attire covers everything from what you wear to the clubs you use so be conscientious of how you appear on the course. Loud is a good way to start. I believe, depending on your handicap, following a color code similar to that of Homeland Security. It’s a safety issue. A bright red jumpsuit for a high handicapper tells fellow golfers you’re a clear and present danger. A serene green for a low scratch player suggests an incident-free round and just a hint of envy from others. Your golf clubs should also match your playing ability though this is usually not the case. Many players feel the fancier and more expensive the club; the better they will play. This truth is not always true. For instance, I was once paired with an imbecile dangerously waggling a shiny new Cobra. His ensuing tee shot traveled ten feet and forty-five degrees right, squarely into an unaware Palmetto bush. He had several immediate excuses ready. The day before, he had moved his three- bedroom apartment and he was currently nursing a hangover. I would suggest he wear a Caution yellow outfit that screamed “Liar!” Our round became nothing more than an advice column. “You should keep your head still when you swing,” he said while searching the water hazard. “You keep looking up.” On the next hole, a disembodied voice floated from the woods, “So you’re thinking a pitching wedge eh…from here?” This from a fool who, while on the way to the par five third, asked to borrow my extra golf balls and 3-wood.

#5 Pretend
Golf for most enthusiasts is a fantasy. It’s beautifully marketed on the idea that if you spend enough money and time on gizmos and gadgets, videos and lessons, practice and practice, you will eventually be able to break that magic number of 200. Yes it’s fun and good exercise and a way of escaping the family but ultimately it’s a chance to imagine possessing an improbable skill. Miraculously, that elusive skill will actually show up sometime during the round when by chance, one in your delusional foursome will fluke a magical shot. Congratulations will abound and all will pretend to buzz about the shot as if it had actually been planned. Try to remember that moment because it may be the one thing that will keep you all coming back to the course to try to recreate again.

* * *

My last round of golf was a disaster. Though I did try to renew my spirit by following my rules of etiquette and wearing something green, nothing worked. I lost all my balls on the front nine and walked away.

I periodically have thoughts of playing golf. I periodically have thoughts of purchasing a new set of Cobra golf clubs. My non-playing wife disagrees. A new washer and dryer have been suggested instead. Honestly, she may be right. I now think that golf may be a waste of time, money and valuable real estate that would be better used for building a state prison or a Costco. I’m realizing now that maybe it’s all bullshit. My clubs are down at Gig’s Thrift and Rifle Repair. I don’t care if he sells them or forges them into gun barrels or musket balls. They are out of my life! There will be no salvation for me.
No, get the washer and dryer combo. I’d rather sport a clean pair of shorts than a lingering foul mood.