My friend told me that he'd heard
that Michael Jackson started his infamous
surgical procedures after seeing his father's face
in the mirror one day.
That makes the Moonwalker's final stunt
slightly less funny, but I'll run with it anyway.
Seeing the quintessential pop icon
of my childhood die so prematurely
was a bit disheartening, despite the fact that
we all pretended not to feel a little upset.
It's alright, though; he's probably been
cryogenically frozen like Walt Disney
and Wesley Snipes, just chillin'
with the Elephant Mans' bones
in his extra creepy basement.
Part of me believes he's not really dead
and will come back
twice as big and blinking red.
Or perhaps he's just resting up
for the prophesied time in the near future
when he will ironically lead the Zombie Apocalypse.
It's one of those things we won't find out 'til we're dead
like how many morticians are also necrophiliacs.
Ah, the end-time revelations will be numerous indeed...
6.27.2009
6.26.2009
Milkflesh, philosophically.
If my alarm had gone off a mere
five minutes sooner
I would've been spared
but no.
This time it was a hat trick of misfortune
striking three distinct nerves
in my vulnerable semi-conscious state.
One of the girls whose honor
I borrowed back in my
er, oat-feeling days
was suddenly my English teacher
at the junior high I attended
ten years ago.
Her form-fitting black dress
with gray pinstripes
cut at the thigh, of course
did her justice
though I still wanted to rip
that stupid stud out of her face.
She was passing back papers
and donned a sinister grin
as she casually dropped
mine on my desk, a big "C-"
scrawled across the top
in red lipstick.
It looked almost as horrid
as it did on her face.
"This can't be right, I worked
so hard to put it out there,"
I pissed, shoving the crumpled mess
of my former pride into my bookbag.
Her reply was something
characteristically sarcastic
which I won't attempt to reproduce
fifteen hours later
for fear of misquoting
one of the most spiteful women
known to man.
Suffice it to say that
it didn't go over so well with its recipient.
How dare she insult someone
who took such pride in his craft
such time to get it right?
I stormed out of the class
dodging numerous security guards
and vowing to leave that school forever.
I guess I overshot with that one.
The steady beep
of my alarm snapped me out of it.
All there was left to do was rub one out;
I didn't care that five against one
were unfair odds.
I washed up and went to work.
I wish I could say more than that.
No, maybe I don't.
These things have a shelf-life, too.
five minutes sooner
I would've been spared
but no.
This time it was a hat trick of misfortune
striking three distinct nerves
in my vulnerable semi-conscious state.
One of the girls whose honor
I borrowed back in my
er, oat-feeling days
was suddenly my English teacher
at the junior high I attended
ten years ago.
Her form-fitting black dress
with gray pinstripes
cut at the thigh, of course
did her justice
though I still wanted to rip
that stupid stud out of her face.
She was passing back papers
and donned a sinister grin
as she casually dropped
mine on my desk, a big "C-"
scrawled across the top
in red lipstick.
It looked almost as horrid
as it did on her face.
"This can't be right, I worked
so hard to put it out there,"
I pissed, shoving the crumpled mess
of my former pride into my bookbag.
Her reply was something
characteristically sarcastic
which I won't attempt to reproduce
fifteen hours later
for fear of misquoting
one of the most spiteful women
known to man.
Suffice it to say that
it didn't go over so well with its recipient.
How dare she insult someone
who took such pride in his craft
such time to get it right?
I stormed out of the class
dodging numerous security guards
and vowing to leave that school forever.
I guess I overshot with that one.
The steady beep
of my alarm snapped me out of it.
All there was left to do was rub one out;
I didn't care that five against one
were unfair odds.
I washed up and went to work.
I wish I could say more than that.
No, maybe I don't.
These things have a shelf-life, too.
6.25.2009
Paging Miss Holstein.
I was working near the door
of the courtyard to get some fresh air.
The school was stifling in late June. I couldn't imagine
how uncomfortably hot it'd be if the students
were cramming the halls and classrooms.
Still, I wished they were there.
Maybe that kid who was reading
Dostoyevsky would walk by again
and I could ask him how he liked it.
We've all got a little Raskolnikov in us
whether we know it or not.
Teachers had been passing under my ladder
en route to various yearly de-briefings
in their casual clothes
hoodies and jeans and college T-shirts
as I laid my pipe in sweat-soaked denim
and a dusty pocket Tee.
A few of them were sitting outside
on a bench in that courtyard
talking about what they'd be doing
with their summer vacations.
None of them listed any books they wanted to read
let alone write.
A tenured man mentioned something about a time-share.
One young brunette not more than three years out of college
said how she wished she'd never have
to grade another paper or explain another poem again.
I squeezed the trigger on the electric impact wrench
the kind that auto mechanics use to remove nuts
so the loud buzz would drown them all out.
On lunch break I'd been reading about Hemingway's
World War I experience in "A Farewell to Arms";
The rat-tat-tat sound transformed my impact wrench into a machinegun.
Unfortunately, the battery died thirty seconds in to my venting session.
All of the teachers in the opposite trench
were gone when the imaginary smoke cleared.
Noise always did the trick.
I'd learned early on in my apprenticeship
how to get rid of unwanted guests:
noise, dust, or a whiskey-soaked tongue.
Some people don't know how good they have it.
Behold the green-eyed monster toting his powertools.
He knows he could do it better.
of the courtyard to get some fresh air.
The school was stifling in late June. I couldn't imagine
how uncomfortably hot it'd be if the students
were cramming the halls and classrooms.
Still, I wished they were there.
Maybe that kid who was reading
Dostoyevsky would walk by again
and I could ask him how he liked it.
We've all got a little Raskolnikov in us
whether we know it or not.
Teachers had been passing under my ladder
en route to various yearly de-briefings
in their casual clothes
hoodies and jeans and college T-shirts
as I laid my pipe in sweat-soaked denim
and a dusty pocket Tee.
A few of them were sitting outside
on a bench in that courtyard
talking about what they'd be doing
with their summer vacations.
None of them listed any books they wanted to read
let alone write.
A tenured man mentioned something about a time-share.
One young brunette not more than three years out of college
said how she wished she'd never have
to grade another paper or explain another poem again.
I squeezed the trigger on the electric impact wrench
the kind that auto mechanics use to remove nuts
so the loud buzz would drown them all out.
On lunch break I'd been reading about Hemingway's
World War I experience in "A Farewell to Arms";
The rat-tat-tat sound transformed my impact wrench into a machinegun.
Unfortunately, the battery died thirty seconds in to my venting session.
All of the teachers in the opposite trench
were gone when the imaginary smoke cleared.
Noise always did the trick.
I'd learned early on in my apprenticeship
how to get rid of unwanted guests:
noise, dust, or a whiskey-soaked tongue.
Some people don't know how good they have it.
Behold the green-eyed monster toting his powertools.
He knows he could do it better.
Ropeburn
I imagine the shades being half-drawn
forty-something years ago
in that haggard apartment in Haverstraw--
high enough to illuminate the shabby
hardwood floor in need of a good sanding
and a new coat of varnish, low enough to
hide what he was doing from the neighbors.
It's a second-story rental in a low-income
part of town, right above a bodega.
The room he's in is vacant
except for the wooden chair he used
to tie his knot up high
and the dusty baseboard covers.
Maybe I see it that empty because it really was
or maybe I'm just not creative enough to fill it right now
or maybe I'm afraid to look around my own room, room's I've had.
Regardless, it has one of those half-hexagonal
shapes to the street-side, the middle window cracked
where a rock had mysteriously hit it the previous summer.
And then there's that exposed rafter running along
the length of it that enabled his final endeavor.
I can't picture his face, but I have a strong feeling
that he was wearing a blue sweater for some reason.
The rope was one he'd stolen from his after-school job
at the fish market; the detectives figured that out
from the smell when they cut him down.
No, that's incorrect; they wouldn't have been able
to smell much aside from the pile of excrement
that had slid down his leg and out of his cuffed jeans
after he stopped thrashing around.
They don't show you that part in the movies
but I know it's there.
If his mother had found him maybe she would've
cleaned up his mess before the cops arrived to the scene
to spare him that last embarrassment, but it was
his old man who kicked in the door that evening.
He knew that any dignity his son once had
was gone no matter what.
The local paper bid a vague farewell.
There was no moment of silence at school.
It's never as dramatic as one that desperate hopes.
They never get to see that, sadly.
And the ones who fail only learn how little people care.
My mother merely mentioned it once in passing.
The part of me that tries to remember the sequence
of events in a less shameful way wants to say
that she told me after my own little episode
but I'm not entirely sure.
One of the first things she said when she saw me
afterwards was "I forgive you."
Her eyes were off somewhere else, though
as if she were looking right through me
and speaking to another person-- perhaps
the boy whose heart she accidentally broke as a teenager
by saying she wouldn't date him
despite his best speech.
She was the only one who really knew why
there was one less student in the Graduating Class of '72
at North Rockland High School.
I doubt she went to her prom, either.
I'm raising rabbits instead of having children.
forty-something years ago
in that haggard apartment in Haverstraw--
high enough to illuminate the shabby
hardwood floor in need of a good sanding
and a new coat of varnish, low enough to
hide what he was doing from the neighbors.
It's a second-story rental in a low-income
part of town, right above a bodega.
The room he's in is vacant
except for the wooden chair he used
to tie his knot up high
and the dusty baseboard covers.
Maybe I see it that empty because it really was
or maybe I'm just not creative enough to fill it right now
or maybe I'm afraid to look around my own room, room's I've had.
Regardless, it has one of those half-hexagonal
shapes to the street-side, the middle window cracked
where a rock had mysteriously hit it the previous summer.
And then there's that exposed rafter running along
the length of it that enabled his final endeavor.
I can't picture his face, but I have a strong feeling
that he was wearing a blue sweater for some reason.
The rope was one he'd stolen from his after-school job
at the fish market; the detectives figured that out
from the smell when they cut him down.
No, that's incorrect; they wouldn't have been able
to smell much aside from the pile of excrement
that had slid down his leg and out of his cuffed jeans
after he stopped thrashing around.
They don't show you that part in the movies
but I know it's there.
If his mother had found him maybe she would've
cleaned up his mess before the cops arrived to the scene
to spare him that last embarrassment, but it was
his old man who kicked in the door that evening.
He knew that any dignity his son once had
was gone no matter what.
The local paper bid a vague farewell.
There was no moment of silence at school.
It's never as dramatic as one that desperate hopes.
They never get to see that, sadly.
And the ones who fail only learn how little people care.
My mother merely mentioned it once in passing.
The part of me that tries to remember the sequence
of events in a less shameful way wants to say
that she told me after my own little episode
but I'm not entirely sure.
One of the first things she said when she saw me
afterwards was "I forgive you."
Her eyes were off somewhere else, though
as if she were looking right through me
and speaking to another person-- perhaps
the boy whose heart she accidentally broke as a teenager
by saying she wouldn't date him
despite his best speech.
She was the only one who really knew why
there was one less student in the Graduating Class of '72
at North Rockland High School.
I doubt she went to her prom, either.
I'm raising rabbits instead of having children.
6.24.2009
Alvin, Simon, Theodore.
My mother called to tell me
that I couldn't come to dinner
as planned this evening.
She said she had to go visit
my stepfather at their summer house
in the Catskills where he'd been
getting some odds-and-ends done
for the past few days.
"What's with the change of plans?"
I asked in a convincingly concerned voice.
"Craig's a little bummed about his friend," she replied.
It seemed odd that a fifty-five-year-old woman
was heading an hour and twenty minutes north
to surprise her fifty-eight-year-old husband
because he was "a little bummed about his friend."
I didn't ask any further questions about it for fear
I'd find out more than I wanted to know.
"How's the landscaping coming along up there?"
"Good," she replied with a sigh. "The mulch is down
and he bought some new goldfish for the pond."
"What about the weasel that kept eating the fish?"
My mother cleared her throat as if to say
she didn't want to field that question, but would.
"That's what he's bummed out about."
It still wasn't coming together.
"He put some poison out around the pond
in the hopes that the weasel would eat it
but he wound up killing his friend instead."
I'm very supportive of my family and would
stick by them to the bitter end
but manslaughter is another beast entirely.
Not something to be taken lightly, that whole
killing another person thing.
"Mom, is everything OK?"
"Yeah, he'll get over it. It sounded like he
had been crying a little when he told me
what had happened over the phone, that's all."
"Right, but isn't the real issue his dead friend?"
That's when the laughter came. At first I wasn't sure
if it was the maniacal laugh of a sociopath
or a sign that there had been an amusing misunderstanding.
"I'm getting senile, Mike. Sorry. I forgot to tell you
that Craig's been feeding a chipmunk up there
by hand for the past few weeks. The poor thing
must've eaten some of the poison and then Craig
found him. 'I killed my little friend,' he told me
over the phone this morning. If his friends knew
how upset he was over it they'd never stop goofing on him."
"Don't worry. His secret's safe with me," I said
as my hands tapped few choice words and phrases
into the keyboard for later reference.
Don't tell a writer anything you wouldn't want shared.
Don't call yourself a writer if you have the nerve
to start a story with 'My mother called to tell me...'
And for God's sake, don't poison your pets.
that I couldn't come to dinner
as planned this evening.
She said she had to go visit
my stepfather at their summer house
in the Catskills where he'd been
getting some odds-and-ends done
for the past few days.
"What's with the change of plans?"
I asked in a convincingly concerned voice.
"Craig's a little bummed about his friend," she replied.
It seemed odd that a fifty-five-year-old woman
was heading an hour and twenty minutes north
to surprise her fifty-eight-year-old husband
because he was "a little bummed about his friend."
I didn't ask any further questions about it for fear
I'd find out more than I wanted to know.
"How's the landscaping coming along up there?"
"Good," she replied with a sigh. "The mulch is down
and he bought some new goldfish for the pond."
"What about the weasel that kept eating the fish?"
My mother cleared her throat as if to say
she didn't want to field that question, but would.
"That's what he's bummed out about."
It still wasn't coming together.
"He put some poison out around the pond
in the hopes that the weasel would eat it
but he wound up killing his friend instead."
I'm very supportive of my family and would
stick by them to the bitter end
but manslaughter is another beast entirely.
Not something to be taken lightly, that whole
killing another person thing.
"Mom, is everything OK?"
"Yeah, he'll get over it. It sounded like he
had been crying a little when he told me
what had happened over the phone, that's all."
"Right, but isn't the real issue his dead friend?"
That's when the laughter came. At first I wasn't sure
if it was the maniacal laugh of a sociopath
or a sign that there had been an amusing misunderstanding.
"I'm getting senile, Mike. Sorry. I forgot to tell you
that Craig's been feeding a chipmunk up there
by hand for the past few weeks. The poor thing
must've eaten some of the poison and then Craig
found him. 'I killed my little friend,' he told me
over the phone this morning. If his friends knew
how upset he was over it they'd never stop goofing on him."
"Don't worry. His secret's safe with me," I said
as my hands tapped few choice words and phrases
into the keyboard for later reference.
Don't tell a writer anything you wouldn't want shared.
Don't call yourself a writer if you have the nerve
to start a story with 'My mother called to tell me...'
And for God's sake, don't poison your pets.
6.23.2009
My completely unbiased thoughts on Country Music.
There are three categories of what many drooling Americans know and love as Country Music: those that are intentionally sad, those that are intentionally funny, and those that are supposed to be sad but are so pathetic that they're funny. I prefer the latter, especially if it involves a grown man's grief over losing someone as near and dear as his faithful pick-up truck. Or the ones about the dangers of drinking with guns in the house, those are always hysterical, too. Whether it leads to a tragically violent domestic dispute or a tear-in-your-beer hari kari session, everyone wins. Well, at least everyone listening. Sayonara, sucker!
Then there's this one intentionally funny little number about fishing. The chorus says something to the effect of "My wife gave me an ultimatum (I guarantee you that this is not verbatim) to choose between her or fishing, and I'm sure going to miss my wife." Sure, it's tongue-in-cheek humor that applies mostly to people with family trees that more accurately resemble ladders, but it's light-hearted and sends a positive message: We'd all be OK alone as long as we have a hobby we love. For me, obviously, that hobby is...plumbing.
Now get ready to bow your head in shame at this statistic: Country is the most popular genre of music in the United States. What Bubba and Cletus won't tell you on their painfully commercial-free morning show, however, is that cities with more Country radio stations also have higher suicide rates. No, I'm not making this up. Do your own research if you don't believe me. You'll also learn that most losers off themselves in July, not December like most people think. Come on, Christmas isn't that depressing, not even when Grandma sends you a five-spot in a lousy card and tries to play it off like her Alzheimer's has caused her to forget that any inflation whatsoever has occurred since the second World War. Not being able to afford air-conditioning in a sweltering heatwave is a far more valid reason to cock your lever-action 30-30 and blow your brains through the patched tin roof of your double-wide. And to think that all these years you've been riding around with that rifle hanging in the rear window of your truck for nothing.
Finally, can we talk about the use of the fiddle a little? I'd like to put an end to this mockery of an artform entirely. It's the only instrument more annoying than the bagpipes; at least those skirt-wearing Scotsmen set some kind of worthy and somber tone with their plaid dust bags. "But Mike, the violin is a lovely instrument that's been used to expressed some of the deepest human emotions by some of the world's greatest composers." Yeah, that's all fine and dandy when that curvaceous hunk of wood is in the hands of some Eurotrash clown or a small-wanged Oriental, but as soon as a redneck picks one up it becomes a darn-tootin' fiddle! That's because our illustrious rural demographic had to go and "improve upon" a style that's been established and working just fine for centuries. Sounds like someone's had a little too much sweet tea again. "But Mike, adding some fiddle to an already obnoxious pop hit in an attempt to make it a palatable crossover cover song is a marvelous idea..."
BANG!
That was my Mossberg pump-action 12-gauge doing what you're 30-30 should've done a long time ago, partner.
Then there's this one intentionally funny little number about fishing. The chorus says something to the effect of "My wife gave me an ultimatum (I guarantee you that this is not verbatim) to choose between her or fishing, and I'm sure going to miss my wife." Sure, it's tongue-in-cheek humor that applies mostly to people with family trees that more accurately resemble ladders, but it's light-hearted and sends a positive message: We'd all be OK alone as long as we have a hobby we love. For me, obviously, that hobby is...plumbing.
Now get ready to bow your head in shame at this statistic: Country is the most popular genre of music in the United States. What Bubba and Cletus won't tell you on their painfully commercial-free morning show, however, is that cities with more Country radio stations also have higher suicide rates. No, I'm not making this up. Do your own research if you don't believe me. You'll also learn that most losers off themselves in July, not December like most people think. Come on, Christmas isn't that depressing, not even when Grandma sends you a five-spot in a lousy card and tries to play it off like her Alzheimer's has caused her to forget that any inflation whatsoever has occurred since the second World War. Not being able to afford air-conditioning in a sweltering heatwave is a far more valid reason to cock your lever-action 30-30 and blow your brains through the patched tin roof of your double-wide. And to think that all these years you've been riding around with that rifle hanging in the rear window of your truck for nothing.
Finally, can we talk about the use of the fiddle a little? I'd like to put an end to this mockery of an artform entirely. It's the only instrument more annoying than the bagpipes; at least those skirt-wearing Scotsmen set some kind of worthy and somber tone with their plaid dust bags. "But Mike, the violin is a lovely instrument that's been used to expressed some of the deepest human emotions by some of the world's greatest composers." Yeah, that's all fine and dandy when that curvaceous hunk of wood is in the hands of some Eurotrash clown or a small-wanged Oriental, but as soon as a redneck picks one up it becomes a darn-tootin' fiddle! That's because our illustrious rural demographic had to go and "improve upon" a style that's been established and working just fine for centuries. Sounds like someone's had a little too much sweet tea again. "But Mike, adding some fiddle to an already obnoxious pop hit in an attempt to make it a palatable crossover cover song is a marvelous idea..."
BANG!
That was my Mossberg pump-action 12-gauge doing what you're 30-30 should've done a long time ago, partner.
Misnomer
I sat outside my deli again
waiting for that daily sandwich
and smoking that hard-to-shed habit.
There was a clay flower pot
next to my right leg
about two feet tall
suggesting that it was very deliberate
at least at one time.
It appeared to be forgotten by its Italian owners, though.
The only living things residing within the boundaries of
its chipped finish that'd been dulled by acid rain
were a few determined ants
and a poison ivy plant.
At one side of its circumference
was a black and withered flower.
A tag was stabbed into the soil next to it
like a tombstone-- "Draga" was the breed apparently.
I guess it wasn't as strong as its namesake implied.
It didn't seem like such a sin to shove my butt
into the wasted soil; I liked to think myself quite the Samaritan
for helping that dragon breathe fire one last time.
You'd be right in assuming that when I'm not berating my failures
I'm giving myself too much credit.
A fluent German-speaker once told me that my surname
has something to do with water, but I'm convinced
that it translates as "No happy medium."
Currently reading:
"A Farewell to Arms" by Ernest Hemingway.
waiting for that daily sandwich
and smoking that hard-to-shed habit.
There was a clay flower pot
next to my right leg
about two feet tall
suggesting that it was very deliberate
at least at one time.
It appeared to be forgotten by its Italian owners, though.
The only living things residing within the boundaries of
its chipped finish that'd been dulled by acid rain
were a few determined ants
and a poison ivy plant.
At one side of its circumference
was a black and withered flower.
A tag was stabbed into the soil next to it
like a tombstone-- "Draga" was the breed apparently.
I guess it wasn't as strong as its namesake implied.
It didn't seem like such a sin to shove my butt
into the wasted soil; I liked to think myself quite the Samaritan
for helping that dragon breathe fire one last time.
You'd be right in assuming that when I'm not berating my failures
I'm giving myself too much credit.
A fluent German-speaker once told me that my surname
has something to do with water, but I'm convinced
that it translates as "No happy medium."
Currently reading:
"A Farewell to Arms" by Ernest Hemingway.
post-academic required reading.
So I've finally read "The Old Man and the Sea"
twelve years too late, but in a mere two sittings
and I now have a better understanding
of several different reactions to the book.
To the millions of students forced to read it:
I comprehend why it makes you want to kill
Mr. Hemingway, though he already beat you to it:
it's over a hundred pages of a man hunting a fish
for three days, and he doesn't even get to
reap the benefits at the end; I'm sure
you've learned by now that there are no happy endings
and that even graduation is more of a painful beginning
than a triumphant conclusion.
Read it again after you've lived a little--
no, after you feel like you've lived too much for your years.
You'll thank me.
My literary idol, Charles Bukowski--
you had a love-hate relationship with Hem
for most of your life, and this final work was the one
you used most in your arguments against the man
or at least the writer.
Well now, ten years after your death, a kid
who will never aspire to be half the writer
half the lush, half the tail-chasing tale-chaser that you were
is sitting here telling you that you only hated Ernie's
final masterpiece because you were envious;
your life-long hero taught you that it didn't take
a story laden with liquor bottles, or dead-end jobs
or bad parenting, or a woman (other than the Sea)
to pin down what every writer has always been trying to say:
life's a hell of a fight-- glorious even, if you can pull that off--
and in the end we can only hope to pick up what's left
and start over.
And you, Ernest: you're the real Christ in coward's clothing.
Was it you searching for that majestic marlin too far out?
Was it you holding fast to that rope for three days?
You who landed the harpoon, fought off the sharks
and ultimately lost to them
and your own human nature
by taking on more than you could handle?
You were right to refrain from calling it sin.
I'd like to think that it wasn't a gambling debt
an old flame that you couldn't blow out
or a drunken night of lonesome introspection
that made you decide that your glass of orange juice
was a better place to keep your brains.
I'd like to think that you knew
that in order to live you had to write
and that you'd never be able to top that last little number
your typer and the gods slid your way.
Your shotgun didn't admit defeat, it announced victory.
Don't worry;
I get it, if no one else does.
twelve years too late, but in a mere two sittings
and I now have a better understanding
of several different reactions to the book.
To the millions of students forced to read it:
I comprehend why it makes you want to kill
Mr. Hemingway, though he already beat you to it:
it's over a hundred pages of a man hunting a fish
for three days, and he doesn't even get to
reap the benefits at the end; I'm sure
you've learned by now that there are no happy endings
and that even graduation is more of a painful beginning
than a triumphant conclusion.
Read it again after you've lived a little--
no, after you feel like you've lived too much for your years.
You'll thank me.
My literary idol, Charles Bukowski--
you had a love-hate relationship with Hem
for most of your life, and this final work was the one
you used most in your arguments against the man
or at least the writer.
Well now, ten years after your death, a kid
who will never aspire to be half the writer
half the lush, half the tail-chasing tale-chaser that you were
is sitting here telling you that you only hated Ernie's
final masterpiece because you were envious;
your life-long hero taught you that it didn't take
a story laden with liquor bottles, or dead-end jobs
or bad parenting, or a woman (other than the Sea)
to pin down what every writer has always been trying to say:
life's a hell of a fight-- glorious even, if you can pull that off--
and in the end we can only hope to pick up what's left
and start over.
And you, Ernest: you're the real Christ in coward's clothing.
Was it you searching for that majestic marlin too far out?
Was it you holding fast to that rope for three days?
You who landed the harpoon, fought off the sharks
and ultimately lost to them
and your own human nature
by taking on more than you could handle?
You were right to refrain from calling it sin.
I'd like to think that it wasn't a gambling debt
an old flame that you couldn't blow out
or a drunken night of lonesome introspection
that made you decide that your glass of orange juice
was a better place to keep your brains.
I'd like to think that you knew
that in order to live you had to write
and that you'd never be able to top that last little number
your typer and the gods slid your way.
Your shotgun didn't admit defeat, it announced victory.
Don't worry;
I get it, if no one else does.
6.22.2009
Been seeing poems, been reading signs.
I wondered if the Mexican kid
or the new girl was making
my sandwich as I sat outside
the deli smoking a cigarette.
I hoped it was the Mexican.
A minivan pulled up to the curb in front of me.
A rushed mother slid out from behind the wheel
to open the side door and release
her four-year-old daughter upon the world.
The part of me that still feels shame
from time to time
tried to hide my bogey
between my bent knees.
My knuckles grazed the bench
as I tried to appear nonchalant.
I'm not much of an actor.
Mom grabbed little Sally by the hand
and pulled her towards the neon signs
that framed the doorway of the deli.
"Best to stay away
from big, sweaty construction workers
with dirty boots and dirtier habits."
I could read minds in that lucid state.
I agreed with mom's assessment of the situation.
Little Sally stared at me sideways
as the tips of her sneakers scraped the concrete
under mom's forceful tug.
In her left hand was an ice cream bar
with the sides bitten neatly off
all the way around.
"Pretty creative for a four-year-old," I thought to myself
as the cherry of my smoke began to burn my fingers.
She'll grow up to be an innovator
after she breaks her fair share of hearts
and vice versa.
Currently reading:
"The Old Man and the Sea" by Ernest Hemingway.
or the new girl was making
my sandwich as I sat outside
the deli smoking a cigarette.
I hoped it was the Mexican.
A minivan pulled up to the curb in front of me.
A rushed mother slid out from behind the wheel
to open the side door and release
her four-year-old daughter upon the world.
The part of me that still feels shame
from time to time
tried to hide my bogey
between my bent knees.
My knuckles grazed the bench
as I tried to appear nonchalant.
I'm not much of an actor.
Mom grabbed little Sally by the hand
and pulled her towards the neon signs
that framed the doorway of the deli.
"Best to stay away
from big, sweaty construction workers
with dirty boots and dirtier habits."
I could read minds in that lucid state.
I agreed with mom's assessment of the situation.
Little Sally stared at me sideways
as the tips of her sneakers scraped the concrete
under mom's forceful tug.
In her left hand was an ice cream bar
with the sides bitten neatly off
all the way around.
"Pretty creative for a four-year-old," I thought to myself
as the cherry of my smoke began to burn my fingers.
She'll grow up to be an innovator
after she breaks her fair share of hearts
and vice versa.
Currently reading:
"The Old Man and the Sea" by Ernest Hemingway.
6.21.2009
A Gelding, Post-Op
"Did she give your shit back?"
"No, she took her shit back."
"Then she's not really done with you, whether or not that's a good thing."
"How do you know?"
"Think about it-- if she really wanted you out of her life for good she wouldn't want a bunch of things that remind her of you around."
"But but all girls have those boxes they keep under their beds..."
"Fuck those boxes."
"...and the ticket stubs, receipts, and dried flowers they contain."
"Did you keep it together at least?"
"Didn't shed a tear until I changed the subject by telling her about the '87 Monte Carlo I had in high school."
"That awful beige thing that reeked of cigarettes and french fries? Your abandonment issues include former vehicles?"
"I'd give all of them up to have that car again."
"It wasn't even the eight-cylinder version."
"But it was really mine."
"No, she took her shit back."
"Then she's not really done with you, whether or not that's a good thing."
"How do you know?"
"Think about it-- if she really wanted you out of her life for good she wouldn't want a bunch of things that remind her of you around."
"But but all girls have those boxes they keep under their beds..."
"Fuck those boxes."
"...and the ticket stubs, receipts, and dried flowers they contain."
"Did you keep it together at least?"
"Didn't shed a tear until I changed the subject by telling her about the '87 Monte Carlo I had in high school."
"That awful beige thing that reeked of cigarettes and french fries? Your abandonment issues include former vehicles?"
"I'd give all of them up to have that car again."
"It wasn't even the eight-cylinder version."
"But it was really mine."
Thermopylae
A few of his better friends
were standing vigil in the hallway
near the bathroom where he'd been holed up
while acquaintances and bar trash
cluttered his back porch
a few of them throwing beer bottles
at each other, the glass shattering on the patio.
"He only drinks twice a year," someone said in an
apologetic tone as I walked towards the bathroom door.
I knocked twice, entered, closed the door behind me.
"Here's the Birthday Boy..."
He was standing over the toilet
wearing only a bathing suit.
His back was as hairy as mine;
it was one of the few things we had in common.
The familiar scene made me feel his vulnerability
in a way that only someone who's sworn off drinking
at least fifty times can understand.
"Thanks for coming," he said. "I ruined myself."
"At least it smells like coffee in here, not vomit."
"I was puking up coffee," he replied
refusing to accept my consolation prize.
I figured his parents had given it to him
in an effort to help sober him up, but didn't ask.
Mentioning the substance floating in the toilet
is against the rules.
"Are there girls here?" he asked
in search of validation for the success of his party.
"Tons."
I would've lied if there weren't.
Another one of the rules.
That real friend who had tried to explain things
had gone upstairs to deal with
the bottle-flingers after I'd told him about it;
he knew them better than I did
and could probably handle it more
diplomatically than I would've
despite the fact that I was sober.
I hoped that the man hunched over the toilet
in front of me would never learn
about the crime-- it might negate
the female presence factor for him.
"I'm going to take off. Just wanted to wish you
a happy birthday first."
I didn't tell him why I was leaving, didn't quite know why myself
other than the fact that I felt like a washed-up actor
who had forgotten his lines and was stumbling
through a scene he used to play so well.
"I love you, man," he said over his shoulder.
He looked so different without his glasses.
It broke my heart slowly and beautifully.
"Me too," I said as I closed the door behind me
and snuck out to my truck
before I could be guilted into staying
by people I know I'll have plenty of time
to talk to in Hell.
were standing vigil in the hallway
near the bathroom where he'd been holed up
while acquaintances and bar trash
cluttered his back porch
a few of them throwing beer bottles
at each other, the glass shattering on the patio.
"He only drinks twice a year," someone said in an
apologetic tone as I walked towards the bathroom door.
I knocked twice, entered, closed the door behind me.
"Here's the Birthday Boy..."
He was standing over the toilet
wearing only a bathing suit.
His back was as hairy as mine;
it was one of the few things we had in common.
The familiar scene made me feel his vulnerability
in a way that only someone who's sworn off drinking
at least fifty times can understand.
"Thanks for coming," he said. "I ruined myself."
"At least it smells like coffee in here, not vomit."
"I was puking up coffee," he replied
refusing to accept my consolation prize.
I figured his parents had given it to him
in an effort to help sober him up, but didn't ask.
Mentioning the substance floating in the toilet
is against the rules.
"Are there girls here?" he asked
in search of validation for the success of his party.
"Tons."
I would've lied if there weren't.
Another one of the rules.
That real friend who had tried to explain things
had gone upstairs to deal with
the bottle-flingers after I'd told him about it;
he knew them better than I did
and could probably handle it more
diplomatically than I would've
despite the fact that I was sober.
I hoped that the man hunched over the toilet
in front of me would never learn
about the crime-- it might negate
the female presence factor for him.
"I'm going to take off. Just wanted to wish you
a happy birthday first."
I didn't tell him why I was leaving, didn't quite know why myself
other than the fact that I felt like a washed-up actor
who had forgotten his lines and was stumbling
through a scene he used to play so well.
"I love you, man," he said over his shoulder.
He looked so different without his glasses.
It broke my heart slowly and beautifully.
"Me too," I said as I closed the door behind me
and snuck out to my truck
before I could be guilted into staying
by people I know I'll have plenty of time
to talk to in Hell.
6.19.2009
In the Pinch
Every man has a bar, even the ones who don't drink. They have a place out there where they'd feel at home, even if they don't know it yet, or how to stare straight ahead over a double-whiskey among a tired row of men doing the same as if using the urinals at Grand Central Station. Harry Morgan was no saint in denial, though; he knew his place, or thought he did. Knew his friends just the same, same stipulation attached. After a double-shift at the tennis ball factory where he worked that double-whiskey sounded quite appealing. It wasn't hard to force the wheel in the direction of the Rusty Rail's parking lot. Those friends of his were already there; he knew their cars. As the front door of the bar squeaked open the four faces he expected to see turned ninety degrees to greet him. "Hey, Har," they half-heartedly grumbled in unison. It was a routine they'd stuck to since reaching the legal drinking age twenty-something years ago. Traditions don't change much in small towns like Buxton. Traditions don't change much, and word travels fast.
"Let me buy this round," Harry said as he bellied up to the bar. It used to be a longer trip, but his wife's cooking had improved exponentially and he was a firm believer in positive reinforcement. The drinks were doled out dutifully by Doris, the chain-smoking bartender, and various forms of forced gratitude were expressed. Harry had the smallest income, but always bought the most rounds for his friends. That's how that goes sometimes.
The conversation picked up where it had left off when the door opened. "That kid barely knew which way to run around the bases..." Dick Bagg started back up in his trademark superior tone. He was the most successful of the bunch and wouldn't let anyone forget it. "...but by the end of the season I had him knocking them out of the park." Dick was the long-time coach of the Buxton Bucks, the local junior high baseball team. His ability to lead young men to athletic victory had saved him from the typical factory and construction jobs that most men in the neighborhood struggled to maintain. All he had to do was take attendance for eight hours, pass out basketballs, blow a whistle once in awhile, and then drill some fifteen-year-olds in the finer art of America's favorite pastime until dark. The thought of him having summers off made most of his peers sick. His attitude convinced the rest to follow suit. Still, in a place like Buxton with that invisible glass dome, one tends to stay friends with the people one grew up with, regardless of their actual personality.
"Yeah, but don't count on getting that lucky again this year," said Sam Stickler, the local realist. Sam was to Dick what gravity was to their rapidly aging wives-- a constant reminder of the painfully sober truth. A man like Dick needed to be grounded and Sam was just the man to do it. "I saw that bunch of sissies you had running around the track. Ain't no all-stars in that line-up, man." Sam sipped his drink as if to seal some secret deal.
"Hey, now," spat Johnny Stevens, the Buxton's biggest drunk. "My kid's on that roster, Sam. You best watch what you say." Johnny's kid deserved to be on that team more than anyone if only to get him away from his alcoholic father for awhile.
"Mine, too!" exclaimed Frank Muller, slamming his palm down on the oak next to his crumpled pile of singles. It suddenly became obvious to Harry that his friends had been there awhile. He hated working the double-shift for that very reason.
A strange silence hung in the air, one that only Harry's two cents could break. No one looked in his direction, but he could feel their souls' eyes bearing down on him. He knew what they wanted to hear. He wasn't ready to give it to them yet. "Another drink please, Doris. Just for me this time, these boys seem to have had enough." The chorus of drunken laughter that came as request's response reminded him of how right his father had been about just one thing: kill them with kindness.
A few frustrated glances were shot back-and-forth amongst his friends as they settled back down. This was an important juncture in the dance, the next step would be important. Someone had to pick the bat back up and take a swing. Leave it to the coach to go for the rebound.
"Well your kid didn't even try out this year, Sammy-boy," sneered Dick. It wasn't Sam he was talking to. Even Doris knew that from her spot next to the register.
"No kidding. That's 'cause he's playin' for a traveling team this year. Didn't want him to be embarrassed off the field next to a bunch of snot-nosed brats led by the biggest fraud in Buxton." Sam sure knew how to get under a man's skin, four men at once even.
It was Harry's turn again. It was always Harry's turn, he just didn't want to take it. Instead of giving in he ordered another whiskey.
"Jesus, Harry. There a hole in your boot tonight?" asked Johnny. It seemed a bit hypocritical, considering its source. Johnny was known to be found sleeping on the lawns of various neighbors from time to time.
"I used to think you were dropped, Johnny. Now I think you were thrown."
"Maybe your daddy should've thrown you, Har. How is the old geezer anyway?"
"He died two years ago, Johnny. You would've gotten the invitation to the funeral if you were sober enough to walk to your mailbox." The sly smile on Harry's face told his friends that it was OK to laugh, but Doris knew better as she wiped a dirty pint glass with an even dirtier rag.
That was how the game was to be played for the sake of dodging another bullet. He wouldn't let them get the best of him so easily. He owed that to his son, Dave, who was fast asleep at home after a discouraging week. There were three things not to be toyed with: a man's vehicle, a man's livelihood, a man's family. Harry was known to care most about the third.
Dick, Sam, Johnny, and Frank carried on about several topics that were constantly discussed in bars across the globe. Somehow, though, it always went back to that stupid junior high baseball team coached by Mr. Dick Bagg. It was no coincidence, and it was cruel. Harry shot the whiskey back and pretended to have an itch on his earlobe; he was really trying to rip it off.
"Say, Mr. Morgan..." Dick taunted in his increasingly obnoxious voice. It was evident that he was about to go for the jugular out of full-count desperation. "You ever bring home any of those tennis balls you make so well?"
"I see plenty of them at the plant, Dick. No need to bring my work home with me."
"Well maybe you should. I mean then your kid could learn to throw a ball correctly."
There was that silence again, though this time everyone feared what Harry would say next. They feared it as much as they yearned to hear it. An image of Dave's face when he walked through the door and said that he didn't make the team was burned in the front of Harry's mind.
Again, good old Charlie Morgan's advice came into play, God rest his soul. Harry's eyes smiled brightly, half a glow on his sweaty brow.
"Friends are cheaper in bulk, Coach Bagg," Harry said, killing the last of his whiskey in a single gulp. "Just like those tennis balls I make all day."
This time only Doris laughed. Harry tipped her heavily and headed home.
"You're a real piece of work, Dick," Sam said under his breath.
"Last call!" proclaimed Doris as if the four men in front of her didn't know the routine.
Harry did. He always left before being asked to. That was rare for a Buxton boy.
"Let me buy this round," Harry said as he bellied up to the bar. It used to be a longer trip, but his wife's cooking had improved exponentially and he was a firm believer in positive reinforcement. The drinks were doled out dutifully by Doris, the chain-smoking bartender, and various forms of forced gratitude were expressed. Harry had the smallest income, but always bought the most rounds for his friends. That's how that goes sometimes.
The conversation picked up where it had left off when the door opened. "That kid barely knew which way to run around the bases..." Dick Bagg started back up in his trademark superior tone. He was the most successful of the bunch and wouldn't let anyone forget it. "...but by the end of the season I had him knocking them out of the park." Dick was the long-time coach of the Buxton Bucks, the local junior high baseball team. His ability to lead young men to athletic victory had saved him from the typical factory and construction jobs that most men in the neighborhood struggled to maintain. All he had to do was take attendance for eight hours, pass out basketballs, blow a whistle once in awhile, and then drill some fifteen-year-olds in the finer art of America's favorite pastime until dark. The thought of him having summers off made most of his peers sick. His attitude convinced the rest to follow suit. Still, in a place like Buxton with that invisible glass dome, one tends to stay friends with the people one grew up with, regardless of their actual personality.
"Yeah, but don't count on getting that lucky again this year," said Sam Stickler, the local realist. Sam was to Dick what gravity was to their rapidly aging wives-- a constant reminder of the painfully sober truth. A man like Dick needed to be grounded and Sam was just the man to do it. "I saw that bunch of sissies you had running around the track. Ain't no all-stars in that line-up, man." Sam sipped his drink as if to seal some secret deal.
"Hey, now," spat Johnny Stevens, the Buxton's biggest drunk. "My kid's on that roster, Sam. You best watch what you say." Johnny's kid deserved to be on that team more than anyone if only to get him away from his alcoholic father for awhile.
"Mine, too!" exclaimed Frank Muller, slamming his palm down on the oak next to his crumpled pile of singles. It suddenly became obvious to Harry that his friends had been there awhile. He hated working the double-shift for that very reason.
A strange silence hung in the air, one that only Harry's two cents could break. No one looked in his direction, but he could feel their souls' eyes bearing down on him. He knew what they wanted to hear. He wasn't ready to give it to them yet. "Another drink please, Doris. Just for me this time, these boys seem to have had enough." The chorus of drunken laughter that came as request's response reminded him of how right his father had been about just one thing: kill them with kindness.
A few frustrated glances were shot back-and-forth amongst his friends as they settled back down. This was an important juncture in the dance, the next step would be important. Someone had to pick the bat back up and take a swing. Leave it to the coach to go for the rebound.
"Well your kid didn't even try out this year, Sammy-boy," sneered Dick. It wasn't Sam he was talking to. Even Doris knew that from her spot next to the register.
"No kidding. That's 'cause he's playin' for a traveling team this year. Didn't want him to be embarrassed off the field next to a bunch of snot-nosed brats led by the biggest fraud in Buxton." Sam sure knew how to get under a man's skin, four men at once even.
It was Harry's turn again. It was always Harry's turn, he just didn't want to take it. Instead of giving in he ordered another whiskey.
"Jesus, Harry. There a hole in your boot tonight?" asked Johnny. It seemed a bit hypocritical, considering its source. Johnny was known to be found sleeping on the lawns of various neighbors from time to time.
"I used to think you were dropped, Johnny. Now I think you were thrown."
"Maybe your daddy should've thrown you, Har. How is the old geezer anyway?"
"He died two years ago, Johnny. You would've gotten the invitation to the funeral if you were sober enough to walk to your mailbox." The sly smile on Harry's face told his friends that it was OK to laugh, but Doris knew better as she wiped a dirty pint glass with an even dirtier rag.
That was how the game was to be played for the sake of dodging another bullet. He wouldn't let them get the best of him so easily. He owed that to his son, Dave, who was fast asleep at home after a discouraging week. There were three things not to be toyed with: a man's vehicle, a man's livelihood, a man's family. Harry was known to care most about the third.
Dick, Sam, Johnny, and Frank carried on about several topics that were constantly discussed in bars across the globe. Somehow, though, it always went back to that stupid junior high baseball team coached by Mr. Dick Bagg. It was no coincidence, and it was cruel. Harry shot the whiskey back and pretended to have an itch on his earlobe; he was really trying to rip it off.
"Say, Mr. Morgan..." Dick taunted in his increasingly obnoxious voice. It was evident that he was about to go for the jugular out of full-count desperation. "You ever bring home any of those tennis balls you make so well?"
"I see plenty of them at the plant, Dick. No need to bring my work home with me."
"Well maybe you should. I mean then your kid could learn to throw a ball correctly."
There was that silence again, though this time everyone feared what Harry would say next. They feared it as much as they yearned to hear it. An image of Dave's face when he walked through the door and said that he didn't make the team was burned in the front of Harry's mind.
Again, good old Charlie Morgan's advice came into play, God rest his soul. Harry's eyes smiled brightly, half a glow on his sweaty brow.
"Friends are cheaper in bulk, Coach Bagg," Harry said, killing the last of his whiskey in a single gulp. "Just like those tennis balls I make all day."
This time only Doris laughed. Harry tipped her heavily and headed home.
"You're a real piece of work, Dick," Sam said under his breath.
"Last call!" proclaimed Doris as if the four men in front of her didn't know the routine.
Harry did. He always left before being asked to. That was rare for a Buxton boy.
6.16.2009
Nothing that'd grab you by your insignificant throat.
"My iPod keeps playing sad Death Cab songs,"
she said loud and clear from the other side of town.
It was almost shaping up to be one of those nights for both of us
since Jesus isn't much of a conversationalist these days
and slapping him around a little doesn't liven him up
just further guarantees my seat in Hades.
The whiskey swirled around in my mug
reminding me that God created our need for sleep
to promise us that tomorrow is another day.
Most nights I'm the rain on hookers' hairspray.
But tonight was different.
Looking through the hundreds of digital pictures
from last weekend's testosterone-fueled Catskill retreat
revealed that I need to stop being such a hermit
since I have some noteworthy men in my life
who aren't dead authors.
I didn't stop to debate whether or not it counted
as drinking alone if I was surrounded by photographs of friends...
Or maybe I did since I've mentioned it now.
Still, it's lonely on top, or bottom
or wherever you and I think I am, not that it matters.
I'm sitting on a pillow; I've been at this desk for too long again.
I don't want someone to tell me that I haven't done wrong--
I want them to tell me that they understand why.
The ice cube bell curve rages on.
she said loud and clear from the other side of town.
It was almost shaping up to be one of those nights for both of us
since Jesus isn't much of a conversationalist these days
and slapping him around a little doesn't liven him up
just further guarantees my seat in Hades.
The whiskey swirled around in my mug
reminding me that God created our need for sleep
to promise us that tomorrow is another day.
Most nights I'm the rain on hookers' hairspray.
But tonight was different.
Looking through the hundreds of digital pictures
from last weekend's testosterone-fueled Catskill retreat
revealed that I need to stop being such a hermit
since I have some noteworthy men in my life
who aren't dead authors.
I didn't stop to debate whether or not it counted
as drinking alone if I was surrounded by photographs of friends...
Or maybe I did since I've mentioned it now.
Still, it's lonely on top, or bottom
or wherever you and I think I am, not that it matters.
I'm sitting on a pillow; I've been at this desk for too long again.
I don't want someone to tell me that I haven't done wrong--
I want them to tell me that they understand why.
The ice cube bell curve rages on.
CTRL + ALT + DEL
Stacey, as he hated to be called, taught computers to thirteen-year-olds as an excuse to run the ski team. One time he brought my friend to the principal's office and accused him of eating his ice cream bar like a penis. We suspected that was just his own little fantasy.
"Mr. Lazarus," I said with a sly smile, a pipe wrench in my greasy hand.
"Yes? Do I know you?" He appeared to be a bit alarmed. I'd grown a bit since then, physically and otherwise.
"You were my seventh-grade computer teacher at South Junior High."
"What's your name?"
"Mike Vahsen," I mumbled. "Andrew Maroney was in my class, and...."
"Don't remember you. I've had so many students over the years."
His beard and hair had grayed since then. He seemed to have shrunk as well, which didn't seem possible since he was already five-foot-nothing. And he still had that snobby air about him, right down to the strict rules he had posted on the door of the classrom he'd just walked out of.
"Were you a good student or a bad one?"
The question didn't seem appropriate so I fielded it diplomatically.
"I was really good at Oregon Trail..."
He laughed and walked away.
"...the rare times when you let us play it."
Not all of us have changed in these twelve years, Stace.
"Mr. Lazarus," I said with a sly smile, a pipe wrench in my greasy hand.
"Yes? Do I know you?" He appeared to be a bit alarmed. I'd grown a bit since then, physically and otherwise.
"You were my seventh-grade computer teacher at South Junior High."
"What's your name?"
"Mike Vahsen," I mumbled. "Andrew Maroney was in my class, and...."
"Don't remember you. I've had so many students over the years."
His beard and hair had grayed since then. He seemed to have shrunk as well, which didn't seem possible since he was already five-foot-nothing. And he still had that snobby air about him, right down to the strict rules he had posted on the door of the classrom he'd just walked out of.
"Were you a good student or a bad one?"
The question didn't seem appropriate so I fielded it diplomatically.
"I was really good at Oregon Trail..."
He laughed and walked away.
"...the rare times when you let us play it."
Not all of us have changed in these twelve years, Stace.
6.15.2009
.333
I didn't want to ask that Guinea bastard to move his van, but my twenty-foot lengths of steel pipe weren't going to make it into the building with the entrance blocked. I'd worked on jobs with these clowns before and knew that the whole "Asbestos Abatement" scam was just another mob cover up. Come on, the men in charge of this outfit brought pans of sausage and peppers for the guys once a week and played Sinatra all day long in their break room while using their cell phones to creatively berate the less fortunate in their thick Brooklynese. And that one kid, the son of one of the owners who was younger than me and always had a toothpick in the corner of that shit-eating grin that I'd give a week's pay to slap off his face-- he was on this job too, and still walked right by me like I was nobody just because I actually get my hands dirty for a living. I didn't want to have to ask whoever it was hunched over in the side of the van to move it, but again with those Goddamn pipes...
"No problem, man," said a friendly, middle-aged I-talian who was sneaking a smoke in the back of the company vehicle since it was prohibited on school property. "Where's good for you?"
I instantly felt like an asshole. Well, a bigger one.
"Anywhere you want. Just not in front of this door."
"Hey, weren't you on that job down the road? The courthouse renovation?"
"Yeah, that was me. Working for a better outfit now."
"My old man was a plumber. He tried to teach me, but I wasn't ready to learn a trade then."
"At least you still keep it in the family."
The mafia joke didn't go over so well. He flicked his butt into the lawn, suddenly unafraid of the repercussions.
"Whattaya mean by that?"
"Isn't that kid with the toothpick your son?"
Good save, Mike.
"Ha! That brat? That's the boss' kid. I can't stand that little prick. Thinks his shit don't stink."
"Yeah, at least you wear your gold horn necklace on the inside of your shirt."
I had to. I just had to.
"It reminds me where to stop shaving," he replied. He must've heard the joke before. "Let me move this hunk'a shit outta the way before both our foremen bust our balls for bullshittin' like normal human beings."
As he stepped away from the side door of the white service van I saw two aluminum baseball bats tucked into the frame of the door, poised and ready for action.
"You guys have a company softball team?"
He looked at me and smiled.
"Ya' never know what you're going to run into..."
"You must work in some nice neighborhoods."
"This Newburgh shithole's worse than most parts of the City."
"It's not so bad. Just be sure to look 'em in the eyes."
I knew he wouldn't need any clarification.
"As long as I take a few down with me," he said with a smile boasting of its sincerity via several missing teeth.
"And Jesus, you've got two bats there..."
"One for me, one for my partner."
We both heard the door open behind us, but didn't realize who it was until after he took the toothpick out of his mouth to speak.
"You keep runnin' your mouth instead of workin' and the only partner you'll have will be your old lady sittin' next to you on the couch."
"Sorry, boss," said my newfound friend. "Just gotta move the van for the fitters real quick."
"So do it already," said our mutual arch-nemesis.
We shot each other a look that said "You take one bat, I'll take the other. We'll do this little shithead in"; but we didn't. He walked around to the driver's seat, I went to fetch my Goddamn pipes. It was a moment we'd save for another time, another life, where we'd be the ones blasting Sinatra non-stop to the chagrin of frustrated mere mortals. Nah, that's not our style.
"No problem, man," said a friendly, middle-aged I-talian who was sneaking a smoke in the back of the company vehicle since it was prohibited on school property. "Where's good for you?"
I instantly felt like an asshole. Well, a bigger one.
"Anywhere you want. Just not in front of this door."
"Hey, weren't you on that job down the road? The courthouse renovation?"
"Yeah, that was me. Working for a better outfit now."
"My old man was a plumber. He tried to teach me, but I wasn't ready to learn a trade then."
"At least you still keep it in the family."
The mafia joke didn't go over so well. He flicked his butt into the lawn, suddenly unafraid of the repercussions.
"Whattaya mean by that?"
"Isn't that kid with the toothpick your son?"
Good save, Mike.
"Ha! That brat? That's the boss' kid. I can't stand that little prick. Thinks his shit don't stink."
"Yeah, at least you wear your gold horn necklace on the inside of your shirt."
I had to. I just had to.
"It reminds me where to stop shaving," he replied. He must've heard the joke before. "Let me move this hunk'a shit outta the way before both our foremen bust our balls for bullshittin' like normal human beings."
As he stepped away from the side door of the white service van I saw two aluminum baseball bats tucked into the frame of the door, poised and ready for action.
"You guys have a company softball team?"
He looked at me and smiled.
"Ya' never know what you're going to run into..."
"You must work in some nice neighborhoods."
"This Newburgh shithole's worse than most parts of the City."
"It's not so bad. Just be sure to look 'em in the eyes."
I knew he wouldn't need any clarification.
"As long as I take a few down with me," he said with a smile boasting of its sincerity via several missing teeth.
"And Jesus, you've got two bats there..."
"One for me, one for my partner."
We both heard the door open behind us, but didn't realize who it was until after he took the toothpick out of his mouth to speak.
"You keep runnin' your mouth instead of workin' and the only partner you'll have will be your old lady sittin' next to you on the couch."
"Sorry, boss," said my newfound friend. "Just gotta move the van for the fitters real quick."
"So do it already," said our mutual arch-nemesis.
We shot each other a look that said "You take one bat, I'll take the other. We'll do this little shithead in"; but we didn't. He walked around to the driver's seat, I went to fetch my Goddamn pipes. It was a moment we'd save for another time, another life, where we'd be the ones blasting Sinatra non-stop to the chagrin of frustrated mere mortals. Nah, that's not our style.
6.14.2009
Confucius say: He who walks through airport door sideways is going to Bangkok.
It was a strange turn of events, one that seemed so fitting for this life that feels like a bad screenplay at times. Two days prior I had told the pipe insulator on the job that he looked like that soft-spoken, wispy-haired actor from "Kung Fu" and "Kill Bill". He informed me that I was not the first person to say that so I didn't feel too off-base. One fortunate enough to not be in the building trades cannot fully appreciate how tiresome it is to constantly be referred to as "buddy", "guy", "pal", "brother", or "kid" while working with those who don't know, or care to know, your name. That's probably why this David Carradine look-alike didn't mind me calling him "Grasshopper" when I wanted to get his attention; anything was better than one of those other cliches, even the name of a character played in a lame 70s TV show.
After two short days of using that light-hearted nickname I almost spat out my chocolate milk while reading the newspaper at the deli as my coworkers' breakfast sandwiches finished cooking. A picture of David Carradine appeared next to a headline announcing his death. The circumstances were just as odd as the roles the man played: he was found hanging bound and naked in the closet of a Bangkok hotel. Foul play was not mentioned and no one seemed to want to suggest whether it was intentional suicide, though the man's previous autoerotic asphyxiation hobby had some shameful light shed upon it. I took a picture of the article with my camera-phone to show the insulator.
He already knew what I was about to tell him when I approached his ladder. "Let me guess: it's about my death." The words sounded strange coming from his lips, must've felt even more bizarre to be the one saying them. "I saw it on the news last night and thought of you." That statement left an equally unsettling feeling in my stomach. After all, only I am allowed to bring the characters at work home with me...
"So I guess this means I can't call you Grasshopper anymore," I said, shoving my phone back into my pocket since the proof would not be needed.
"The name's Craig," he said with the same grateful smile that Lazarus must've had two thousand years ago.
"That's easy enough. Same as my stepdad. Hey, Craig, if ya' need to talk at any point, feel free..."
"Don't worry, Mike. I won't go hanging my naked ass in any closets."
The joke went over well and I shot him a half-grin to show it, but on the inside I felt guilty. He'd taken the time to learn my name long before I'd bothered to ask his. There are worse things in life than shampoo in your eyes or buttoning your shirt wrong.
If I had another nose I'd turn it.
While driving up Broadway last week to cash my check
I saw the guy who broke my nose
with a beer bottle four years ago.
He was going to the bank as well, or at least
he was parked in front of one.
My window was already down and I was only
doing twenty-five, but I decided to keep
my mouth shut and let him enjoy
his shiny new Mercedes. The last time I saw him
at the liquor store awhile back
he was pushing a rusty old tank of a Benz--
the boxy Eighties type that wanna-be Yuppies buy used
in order to tell attractive young ladies that they own
German luxury sedans. "Good for you, Anthony,"
I thought to myself as the six-disc stereo in my truck
cycled to the next musical selection.
We're both moving up in the world.
I saw the guy who broke my nose
with a beer bottle four years ago.
He was going to the bank as well, or at least
he was parked in front of one.
My window was already down and I was only
doing twenty-five, but I decided to keep
my mouth shut and let him enjoy
his shiny new Mercedes. The last time I saw him
at the liquor store awhile back
he was pushing a rusty old tank of a Benz--
the boxy Eighties type that wanna-be Yuppies buy used
in order to tell attractive young ladies that they own
German luxury sedans. "Good for you, Anthony,"
I thought to myself as the six-disc stereo in my truck
cycled to the next musical selection.
We're both moving up in the world.
6.13.2009
There was something in the water of Ketchum, Idaho.
I've been sending some of the cleaner ramblings to my mother. She usually responds within a day or two with some feedback, tells me she prints them out and keeps them in a folder. It's the least I can do to let her know her son's not totally given up on himself.
Something tells me that it's inspired her to read. Last week she e-mailed me with "an interesting tidbit on Papa [Hemingway]" that she'd recently read, as if she's always had her nose in a book like her progeny. The article said that he was once challenged to tell a story in only six words. He came back swingin' with "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Quite the statement indeed, Ernie, like a more concise version of those damn "Hills Like White Elephants" that another important woman in my life once made me read.
"How good was that?" my mother asked at the end of her informative e-mail.
So good that we both cringed a little on either side of our monitors, though for different reasons.
For a man crazy enough to write standing up at eight in the morning with a cocktail next to his typewriter, he sure knew how to lay down a line. Do they bottle that stuff?
Something tells me that it's inspired her to read. Last week she e-mailed me with "an interesting tidbit on Papa [Hemingway]" that she'd recently read, as if she's always had her nose in a book like her progeny. The article said that he was once challenged to tell a story in only six words. He came back swingin' with "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Quite the statement indeed, Ernie, like a more concise version of those damn "Hills Like White Elephants" that another important woman in my life once made me read.
"How good was that?" my mother asked at the end of her informative e-mail.
So good that we both cringed a little on either side of our monitors, though for different reasons.
For a man crazy enough to write standing up at eight in the morning with a cocktail next to his typewriter, he sure knew how to lay down a line. Do they bottle that stuff?
...and the mayor will ride shotgun as we descend.
The eight of us had only been in that quiet mountain village for an hour and a half, but on that glorious Friday night no one would've denied the fact that we owned it. That's not to say that we raped and pillaged, painted it red, disrespected the locals, or failed to tip properly; our solidarity and comradery spoke louder than our obvious out-of-towner status. Who was really going to stop a bunch of happy-go-lucky drunks in baseball caps, bandanas, and sleeveless shirts who had clearly spent a lot of time drinking next to a campfire due to the thick smell of smoke emanating from their bodies from having a good time? Apparently no one, not even the bartender who was chastised by a bitter female coworker of his who felt that we should be cut off. "They're fine, just having a good time! I'll drive them home if I have to!" he shouted as she stormed out of the bar. It's safe to say we had the chips in our favor, if only for that night.
Time wore on exponentially fast as it tends to do as the alcohol filters through the brain. One friend danced for us in a charades-style game at our table imitating whatever ridiculous act we requested, another danced with a forty-five-year-old townie in search of some fresh young meat to make her feel wanted again, and I continued to dance with my demons behind a rum-inspired pirate's smile. Things were going better than I'd thought they would. Everyone was getting along, no one was a maudlin drunk, and the pay phone in the corner of the joint still worked which could come in handy in a pinch since cell service was thankfully non-existent. Buy-backs came every third drink and the bartender was doing shots with us. No one in our group could force a frown if they wanted to. The same went for a quiet, well-dressed old gentleman who had been staring at us from his seat at the bar, a wide mysterious smile glued to his deeply-creased cheeks. I'd notice his blatant observation of our little center-stage party early on, but had thought nothing of it. If anything I figured he was enjoying himself by watching us make drunken fools of ourselves with our raucous merriment. True to character I was wrong.
I found out the real source of his smile shortly before leaving. A few of us were smoking on the patio when he came out and approached me. Apparently I was the leader of the haggard bunch.
"I overheard you say you fellas were from Newburgh."
"That's right. You familiar with the place?"
"I did some business down that way a long time ago. You're not driving all the way back there tonight, right?"
"No, we're staying at my parents' house down the road. Thanks for the concern, though."
I inhaled deeply on my mentholated cigarette as his gin blossom nose glowed almost as brightly as the tip of my smoke.
"Good, good," he said with a sincerity that can only be found in a small town like the one we were in. "I used to be the mayor here," he added, though I'm still not sure why. He handed me a business card with his wife's name on it.
"It seems we have friends in high places," I replied. His gray eyes stayed fixed on me as if I hadn't said anything at all. His mind was somewhere else, there was something he'd been waiting to say. The eight of us would not be able to stop him from saying what we has thinking, even if we wanted to. I know that look.
"You boys are having fun. You remind me of friends I had in high school. I can name every one of you," he said as he pointed to each of us standing in the June air. "Thank you."
I don't recall if we shook hands or if he just turned and left. The conversation hadn't fizzled out like so many taproom discussions-- it had come to a head that meant we'd done something right, made an old-timer feel young again while writing some stories for our unborn grandkids. I reached into my pocket for that business card the old man had handed me, turned it over, and started jotting down what had happened and what he'd said. Normally my friends would've made fun of me, but they got it this time. Some things are undeniable, even for the most allegedly detached.
"That was pretty neat," said my biggest critic as another guy offered me some more paper to write on if need be.
A disinterested "Yeah" came from my mouth as my pen scratched words onto the back of the card. My mind was traveling forty years into the future with the hopes of being as blessed. I walked back inside to pay my tab and say goodnight to the bartender.
"That was the mayor, you know. He took a liking to you guys," said the man in the black button-down. He slid the bill across the oak quite deliberately while maintaining eye contact. I tallied the drinks and noticed several missing.
"Thank him for me the next time you see him," I said, though I knew it wasn't necessary. We'd both earned it that night.
Time wore on exponentially fast as it tends to do as the alcohol filters through the brain. One friend danced for us in a charades-style game at our table imitating whatever ridiculous act we requested, another danced with a forty-five-year-old townie in search of some fresh young meat to make her feel wanted again, and I continued to dance with my demons behind a rum-inspired pirate's smile. Things were going better than I'd thought they would. Everyone was getting along, no one was a maudlin drunk, and the pay phone in the corner of the joint still worked which could come in handy in a pinch since cell service was thankfully non-existent. Buy-backs came every third drink and the bartender was doing shots with us. No one in our group could force a frown if they wanted to. The same went for a quiet, well-dressed old gentleman who had been staring at us from his seat at the bar, a wide mysterious smile glued to his deeply-creased cheeks. I'd notice his blatant observation of our little center-stage party early on, but had thought nothing of it. If anything I figured he was enjoying himself by watching us make drunken fools of ourselves with our raucous merriment. True to character I was wrong.
I found out the real source of his smile shortly before leaving. A few of us were smoking on the patio when he came out and approached me. Apparently I was the leader of the haggard bunch.
"I overheard you say you fellas were from Newburgh."
"That's right. You familiar with the place?"
"I did some business down that way a long time ago. You're not driving all the way back there tonight, right?"
"No, we're staying at my parents' house down the road. Thanks for the concern, though."
I inhaled deeply on my mentholated cigarette as his gin blossom nose glowed almost as brightly as the tip of my smoke.
"Good, good," he said with a sincerity that can only be found in a small town like the one we were in. "I used to be the mayor here," he added, though I'm still not sure why. He handed me a business card with his wife's name on it.
"It seems we have friends in high places," I replied. His gray eyes stayed fixed on me as if I hadn't said anything at all. His mind was somewhere else, there was something he'd been waiting to say. The eight of us would not be able to stop him from saying what we has thinking, even if we wanted to. I know that look.
"You boys are having fun. You remind me of friends I had in high school. I can name every one of you," he said as he pointed to each of us standing in the June air. "Thank you."
I don't recall if we shook hands or if he just turned and left. The conversation hadn't fizzled out like so many taproom discussions-- it had come to a head that meant we'd done something right, made an old-timer feel young again while writing some stories for our unborn grandkids. I reached into my pocket for that business card the old man had handed me, turned it over, and started jotting down what had happened and what he'd said. Normally my friends would've made fun of me, but they got it this time. Some things are undeniable, even for the most allegedly detached.
"That was pretty neat," said my biggest critic as another guy offered me some more paper to write on if need be.
A disinterested "Yeah" came from my mouth as my pen scratched words onto the back of the card. My mind was traveling forty years into the future with the hopes of being as blessed. I walked back inside to pay my tab and say goodnight to the bartender.
"That was the mayor, you know. He took a liking to you guys," said the man in the black button-down. He slid the bill across the oak quite deliberately while maintaining eye contact. I tallied the drinks and noticed several missing.
"Thank him for me the next time you see him," I said, though I knew it wasn't necessary. We'd both earned it that night.
6.11.2009
12-bar Blues
If you're ever afflicted with a Southern sojourn
and need your daily dose of heartache
in a falsely friendly Dixie Hell
walk into any given pawn shop.
Take a look around at the failed passion
lining the walls like cheap wallpaper.
There's something very symbolic
about a man selling his guitars;
it's more than just needing money--
it's sacrificing your soul
to a world full of people who can't kiss
let alone dance.
You won't see any typers on the shelves.
This breed knows that
it doesn't get better before it gets worse
and someone's got to remember
what the rest want to forget.
and need your daily dose of heartache
in a falsely friendly Dixie Hell
walk into any given pawn shop.
Take a look around at the failed passion
lining the walls like cheap wallpaper.
There's something very symbolic
about a man selling his guitars;
it's more than just needing money--
it's sacrificing your soul
to a world full of people who can't kiss
let alone dance.
You won't see any typers on the shelves.
This breed knows that
it doesn't get better before it gets worse
and someone's got to remember
what the rest want to forget.
Rum, nicotine, and other perks of working the night shift.
Foreman: Everything locked up?
Apprentice: Of course. See ya' in the AM.
Foreman: Enjoy your reading.
Apprentice: It'll be limited tonight.
Foreman: To what?
Apprentice: The label on my bottle of Sailor Jerry.
Foreman: You won't be worth a shit tomorrow.
Apprentice: Relax, I do my best work drunk.
Foreman: Don't you mean you do your best work in the dark?
Apprentice: No, drunk.
Foreman: Goddamn kids...
Apprentice: It's all fiction from here on out.
Foreman: So?
Apprentice: I'll give you the luxury of having the last word.
Foreman: Don't do me any favors.
Apprentice: Only for the ones I love.
Foreman: Now you've abused your license.
Apprentice: Confiscate my union card.
Foreman: I'll do ya' one better.
Apprentice: Couldn't be any worse.
Foreman: I thought you said you'd let me have the...
Apprentice: Then take it.
Foreman: Goddamn kids...
Apprentice: Of course. See ya' in the AM.
Foreman: Enjoy your reading.
Apprentice: It'll be limited tonight.
Foreman: To what?
Apprentice: The label on my bottle of Sailor Jerry.
Foreman: You won't be worth a shit tomorrow.
Apprentice: Relax, I do my best work drunk.
Foreman: Don't you mean you do your best work in the dark?
Apprentice: No, drunk.
Foreman: Goddamn kids...
Apprentice: It's all fiction from here on out.
Foreman: So?
Apprentice: I'll give you the luxury of having the last word.
Foreman: Don't do me any favors.
Apprentice: Only for the ones I love.
Foreman: Now you've abused your license.
Apprentice: Confiscate my union card.
Foreman: I'll do ya' one better.
Apprentice: Couldn't be any worse.
Foreman: I thought you said you'd let me have the...
Apprentice: Then take it.
Foreman: Goddamn kids...
6.09.2009
St. Elmo's Fire
Last night
Well, no
Early this morning
I dreamt
Or dreampt, phonetically
But probably just dreamed
That I was dragged
To a religious seminar
Hosted by those silly Scientologists.
It was impossible for me
To hold back the laughter
As one Mr. John Travolta himself
Gave an almost moving speech
On his cult
Complete with life-sized puppets
To demonstrate whatever the Hell
It is that those clowns
Believe in.
Tim was there, maybe my Dad
And an Eric or two.
For the little life of me I couldn't
Stop laughing at the coining and repetition
Of the term "alien Jesus" throughout the sermon
And commentary of my friends.
At some point I escaped to the basement
Of the compound to reload
Multiple magazines of the .22 caliber variety
Though I never got to empty them
On any deserving parties.
And just when I thought it was safe
Tim hit me with it again:
"Alien Jesus! Alien Jesus!"
It was hilarious to the point of tears;
I almost woke in those.
I woke in those.
I'M TYPING IN CAPS BECAUSE I'M YELLING NOW.
I WOKE IN THOSE.
I've had a few
And I apologize--
Like I told her last night:
If you're lonely
Talk to Jesus.
They say He's still listening
Rubbed raw and useless
And ready for another round...
Well, no
Early this morning
I dreamt
Or dreampt, phonetically
But probably just dreamed
That I was dragged
To a religious seminar
Hosted by those silly Scientologists.
It was impossible for me
To hold back the laughter
As one Mr. John Travolta himself
Gave an almost moving speech
On his cult
Complete with life-sized puppets
To demonstrate whatever the Hell
It is that those clowns
Believe in.
Tim was there, maybe my Dad
And an Eric or two.
For the little life of me I couldn't
Stop laughing at the coining and repetition
Of the term "alien Jesus" throughout the sermon
And commentary of my friends.
At some point I escaped to the basement
Of the compound to reload
Multiple magazines of the .22 caliber variety
Though I never got to empty them
On any deserving parties.
And just when I thought it was safe
Tim hit me with it again:
"Alien Jesus! Alien Jesus!"
It was hilarious to the point of tears;
I almost woke in those.
I woke in those.
I'M TYPING IN CAPS BECAUSE I'M YELLING NOW.
I WOKE IN THOSE.
I've had a few
And I apologize--
Like I told her last night:
If you're lonely
Talk to Jesus.
They say He's still listening
Rubbed raw and useless
And ready for another round...
6.08.2009
On sleeping in the wet spot.
When I came down from the mountains
more like Cain than like Moses
the rabbit's water bottle rattled empty
though I'd filled it two days prior.
I knew then.
I just knew
like when the scrape on my wrist
was still only a scrape
from a fall on a hike
that we all couldn't take.
Funny-- I didn't tremble
talking about the two of them
to the Devil's advocate on the way home.
The cigarettes were purely recreational
that time.
We laid in bed like the LI Double-R
with half as much baggage.
Bit my lip to taste copper
since I hadn't worked in a few days
and that Indian I'd hunted for
continued to laugh from his
spot on the shelf
red and white and making me blue.
I'm begging him to give my god back now.
more like Cain than like Moses
the rabbit's water bottle rattled empty
though I'd filled it two days prior.
I knew then.
I just knew
like when the scrape on my wrist
was still only a scrape
from a fall on a hike
that we all couldn't take.
Funny-- I didn't tremble
talking about the two of them
to the Devil's advocate on the way home.
The cigarettes were purely recreational
that time.
We laid in bed like the LI Double-R
with half as much baggage.
Bit my lip to taste copper
since I hadn't worked in a few days
and that Indian I'd hunted for
continued to laugh from his
spot on the shelf
red and white and making me blue.
I'm begging him to give my god back now.
6.04.2009
Note found in a hallway of North Junior High (verbatim, folded sixteen times).
To: Karisma
From: Jessica
I'm so sorry 4 calling u an emo bitch. I'm really sorry. Your [sic] one of my best friends, and I hat[e] 2 c u mad at me. It's your choise [sic] to stop being mad at me. I'll stop calling u an emo bitch. But if you were mad you should of [should've] told me that calling you a[n] emo bitch bothers you and I would have stopped. So it[']s all up to you if you don't want to talk to me anymore. But I am really, really, really sorry. I hope you forgive me.
SORRY!! [two tears streaming down from eyes formed by the dots of the exclamation points to a large frown underneath said punctuation]
[Ed. Note: I too weep, though more for the Future than for Jessica and Karisma.]
From: Jessica
I'm so sorry 4 calling u an emo bitch. I'm really sorry. Your [sic] one of my best friends, and I hat[e] 2 c u mad at me. It's your choise [sic] to stop being mad at me. I'll stop calling u an emo bitch. But if you were mad you should of [should've] told me that calling you a[n] emo bitch bothers you and I would have stopped. So it[']s all up to you if you don't want to talk to me anymore. But I am really, really, really sorry. I hope you forgive me.
SORRY!! [two tears streaming down from eyes formed by the dots of the exclamation points to a large frown underneath said punctuation]
[Ed. Note: I too weep, though more for the Future than for Jessica and Karisma.]
6.02.2009
Tool sheds of various sorts.
There's a fine line between "burning" and "arson". I forget how it came up in conversation, but one doesn't pay much attention to that sort of thing at work. People think that rambling makes the day go by faster so they flood the air with words. Sometimes its entertaining, other times its obnoxious. Sneaky Pete the electrician was usually on point with his yarns. His barn-burner tale was no different.
But let me back up a bit and tell you about Sneaky Pete: he looks like Charlie Sheen gave up. I'd say "a shorter Charlie Sheen", but all actors are shorter in "real life" than they appear to be in films anyway; Pete was probably the right height. The lazily trimmed beard and slightly sagging jowls betray the sunglasses he wears. Besides, Charlie would rather be caught coked up with a hooker than caught dead in those ridiculous blue reflective wrap-around shades. It doesn't make him a bad guy, though. He's one of the breed that's always smiling, telling a joke, laughing at ones that are neither new nor funny. Sneaky Pete's been even happier ever since handing his wife those divorce papers he'd been talking about at work.
That grin can be deceiving sometimes, like when the topic of arson came up and he said it wasn't a laughing matter while smiling from ear to ear. "I did four months for that six years ago," Pete remarked casually in an ambiguous tone. It was hard to tell if he was kidding or not, but my loud-mouth partner chimed in before I could seek clarification.
"I did six months for the same," said my illustrious partner.
Pete and I looked at each other as if to show our lack of surprise, then he reclaimed his rightful place in the story-teller's position with a mildly excited "I burnt my own shed to the ground." It seemed unfair for a man to do time in county lock-up for burning something on his property down. Pete took the time to inform us where the Law stands on the issue: 1. One must remove any shingles from the roof of the structure. 2. One must dig a trench at least four inches wide around the structure. 3. One must notify and gain permission from the local fire department before incinerating the structure. We weren't about to question the man, it sounded like he had a long time to get it straightened out in his head for future reference.
My mind wandered to the typically nightmarish Hollywood prison scenes, and I hoped that Pete had his own cell and shower stall since he was so small. "Why'd you do it, aside from the alcohol?" I asked. He hadn't fessed up to being drunk at the time yet, but even plumbers aren't that stupid.
"I came home from the bar and my father-in-law was at my house. He stormed inside from my shed all full of piss and vinegar. Said something about me needing to clean up in there so he could work. I walked out back to see what he was complaining about and found all of my tools on the ground. It looked like he'd cleared them right off of the workbench with one swift swipe of his arm. I went to the garage, got a can of gasoline, doused the shed, and torched it. My wife videotaped me pouring the gas all over and lighting the match. Used it against me in court. Had to plead guilty to Arson in the Fourth Degree to avoid a possible conviction in the Third."
Suddenly I knew why he was so thrilled about those divorce papers finally being delivered. His kids were off to college, there was no sense in staying tethered to such an unfair family. I had been sad for the man's divorce and suspected a hidden pain before hearing the story, but not any more. He was free, or would be as soon as the lawyers hashed it out and took their cut. Something tells me that Pete would've paid any price.
"I robbed a house and burned it down when I was sixteen," my illustrious partner said with what sounded like pride. Sneaky Pete gave me a look resembling pity. You can choose your friends, you can choose your wife, but you can't choose your family or partner at work. People like Pete and I just make the best of it.
But let me back up a bit and tell you about Sneaky Pete: he looks like Charlie Sheen gave up. I'd say "a shorter Charlie Sheen", but all actors are shorter in "real life" than they appear to be in films anyway; Pete was probably the right height. The lazily trimmed beard and slightly sagging jowls betray the sunglasses he wears. Besides, Charlie would rather be caught coked up with a hooker than caught dead in those ridiculous blue reflective wrap-around shades. It doesn't make him a bad guy, though. He's one of the breed that's always smiling, telling a joke, laughing at ones that are neither new nor funny. Sneaky Pete's been even happier ever since handing his wife those divorce papers he'd been talking about at work.
That grin can be deceiving sometimes, like when the topic of arson came up and he said it wasn't a laughing matter while smiling from ear to ear. "I did four months for that six years ago," Pete remarked casually in an ambiguous tone. It was hard to tell if he was kidding or not, but my loud-mouth partner chimed in before I could seek clarification.
"I did six months for the same," said my illustrious partner.
Pete and I looked at each other as if to show our lack of surprise, then he reclaimed his rightful place in the story-teller's position with a mildly excited "I burnt my own shed to the ground." It seemed unfair for a man to do time in county lock-up for burning something on his property down. Pete took the time to inform us where the Law stands on the issue: 1. One must remove any shingles from the roof of the structure. 2. One must dig a trench at least four inches wide around the structure. 3. One must notify and gain permission from the local fire department before incinerating the structure. We weren't about to question the man, it sounded like he had a long time to get it straightened out in his head for future reference.
My mind wandered to the typically nightmarish Hollywood prison scenes, and I hoped that Pete had his own cell and shower stall since he was so small. "Why'd you do it, aside from the alcohol?" I asked. He hadn't fessed up to being drunk at the time yet, but even plumbers aren't that stupid.
"I came home from the bar and my father-in-law was at my house. He stormed inside from my shed all full of piss and vinegar. Said something about me needing to clean up in there so he could work. I walked out back to see what he was complaining about and found all of my tools on the ground. It looked like he'd cleared them right off of the workbench with one swift swipe of his arm. I went to the garage, got a can of gasoline, doused the shed, and torched it. My wife videotaped me pouring the gas all over and lighting the match. Used it against me in court. Had to plead guilty to Arson in the Fourth Degree to avoid a possible conviction in the Third."
Suddenly I knew why he was so thrilled about those divorce papers finally being delivered. His kids were off to college, there was no sense in staying tethered to such an unfair family. I had been sad for the man's divorce and suspected a hidden pain before hearing the story, but not any more. He was free, or would be as soon as the lawyers hashed it out and took their cut. Something tells me that Pete would've paid any price.
"I robbed a house and burned it down when I was sixteen," my illustrious partner said with what sounded like pride. Sneaky Pete gave me a look resembling pity. You can choose your friends, you can choose your wife, but you can't choose your family or partner at work. People like Pete and I just make the best of it.
6.01.2009
...as long as the weight that we gain is together.
There's a silverfish next to my keyboard
whose presence is turning my stomach
almost as much as those god-forsaken pre-fab
meatballs I washed down with too much milk tonight
and this other latest dilemma.
The nail of my right middle finger collides with the bug
making it airborne for all of two feet until
its exoskeleton meets with the thick layer of eggshell off-white
to make a metallic sound reminiscent of
my non-existent pill-popping days.
Then the rabbit's snout pokes out from underneath
the wooden baseboard cover, her whiskers covered in dust.
She twitches her nose in general disapproval
and all is well in the world again
for now
or as long as I can continue this tired two-step
convincingly enough...
Sometimes I am grateful for the several states between us.
Currently reading:
The life/limb/eyesight insurance policy that came with my NRA membership.
whose presence is turning my stomach
almost as much as those god-forsaken pre-fab
meatballs I washed down with too much milk tonight
and this other latest dilemma.
The nail of my right middle finger collides with the bug
making it airborne for all of two feet until
its exoskeleton meets with the thick layer of eggshell off-white
to make a metallic sound reminiscent of
my non-existent pill-popping days.
Then the rabbit's snout pokes out from underneath
the wooden baseboard cover, her whiskers covered in dust.
She twitches her nose in general disapproval
and all is well in the world again
for now
or as long as I can continue this tired two-step
convincingly enough...
Sometimes I am grateful for the several states between us.
Currently reading:
The life/limb/eyesight insurance policy that came with my NRA membership.
5.30.2009
On AC with the windows open and other shameful wastes.
My stomach was digesting itself again
until beer put that one fire out.
My ego caught a mean pistol-whipping
that wasn't half of what it deserved.
My heart and my mind stopped talking
a long time ago, and both have paid the price.
I told myself that Second Best ain't so bad
with a beer in hand as the sun sets, at least not for a guy
who can admit that he wouldn't mind dying
if the right song was playing.
Though this isn't my only recent drunken fumbling.
Last week a jukebox and I managed to rip
a dollar bill in half at that bar where I stole
a bottle of vodka on a birthday dare.
George still winked at me despite my
defiling of his face. I taped him back together
and pawned him off like one of those
good habits I used to have.
So you, you:
you refuse to bleed out in the sand
so we join the Canadian Club instead
swearing to a life of high-proof spiced piracy.
They're right in what they say
about all being fair in both;
you're better at one, I at the other.
This is just another of the many times
when nothing gold could stay, babe.
It's Sunny, and we can't Share.
But what to do with the kids?
You take poetry, I'll stick to prose
and we'll both stay away from dialogue
since it only shows the weakness we have
aside from each other.
until beer put that one fire out.
My ego caught a mean pistol-whipping
that wasn't half of what it deserved.
My heart and my mind stopped talking
a long time ago, and both have paid the price.
I told myself that Second Best ain't so bad
with a beer in hand as the sun sets, at least not for a guy
who can admit that he wouldn't mind dying
if the right song was playing.
Though this isn't my only recent drunken fumbling.
Last week a jukebox and I managed to rip
a dollar bill in half at that bar where I stole
a bottle of vodka on a birthday dare.
George still winked at me despite my
defiling of his face. I taped him back together
and pawned him off like one of those
good habits I used to have.
So you, you:
you refuse to bleed out in the sand
so we join the Canadian Club instead
swearing to a life of high-proof spiced piracy.
They're right in what they say
about all being fair in both;
you're better at one, I at the other.
This is just another of the many times
when nothing gold could stay, babe.
It's Sunny, and we can't Share.
But what to do with the kids?
You take poetry, I'll stick to prose
and we'll both stay away from dialogue
since it only shows the weakness we have
aside from each other.
5.27.2009
Writhing alongside you.
With baited breath
we've all confessed
to reddening our wings.
What desperate men
we've all become
while waiting for the bus.
The bears won't let you blame it
on supply-side economics.
"It's not my thing," she swore...
Play the role that's been assigned you.
Why have them, if not loaded--
and if you mean it, chambered?
"Oh, Lord..." I said and he sang out
the rest with that sad twang.
My horoscope was lying
about that four-star day.
we've all confessed
to reddening our wings.
What desperate men
we've all become
while waiting for the bus.
The bears won't let you blame it
on supply-side economics.
"It's not my thing," she swore...
Play the role that's been assigned you.
Why have them, if not loaded--
and if you mean it, chambered?
"Oh, Lord..." I said and he sang out
the rest with that sad twang.
My horoscope was lying
about that four-star day.
5.25.2009
Pubis Vulgaris
The stubble wasn't the worst part.
That I could deal with, especially since she probably wasn't
expecting anyone at the party to find it that night--
hadn't given old Deadeye here enough credit.
Hell, finding stubble down there's a bit of a compliment
to a man's prowess if you stop and think about it.
No, what killed me was the way she kept panting my name
at every other awkward bump of our newly acquainted hips.
At least twice during the shameful act I stopped to
ask her if everything was OK, if she had a question.
She covered my mouth with her hand and coaxed me
into picking up where I'd left off. It was bizarre.
I'd had my share of dead fish floating lazily in the sheets
before, but never an accusatory broken record.
The first option seemed like the better deal.
Hell, no one even called me by name anymore.
I'd been reduced to initials against my will.
What made her any different?
And if anyone else had been on top of her that night
she would've been saying his name instead.
Neither of us were special.
The sad part is we knew it and didn't care.
We were just a convenient combination
of alcohol and a vacant couch.
I hadn't seen the sex for the pointless search yet.
You can't fill your own void by filling someone else's...
or can you?
That's a rhetorical question.
That I could deal with, especially since she probably wasn't
expecting anyone at the party to find it that night--
hadn't given old Deadeye here enough credit.
Hell, finding stubble down there's a bit of a compliment
to a man's prowess if you stop and think about it.
No, what killed me was the way she kept panting my name
at every other awkward bump of our newly acquainted hips.
At least twice during the shameful act I stopped to
ask her if everything was OK, if she had a question.
She covered my mouth with her hand and coaxed me
into picking up where I'd left off. It was bizarre.
I'd had my share of dead fish floating lazily in the sheets
before, but never an accusatory broken record.
The first option seemed like the better deal.
Hell, no one even called me by name anymore.
I'd been reduced to initials against my will.
What made her any different?
And if anyone else had been on top of her that night
she would've been saying his name instead.
Neither of us were special.
The sad part is we knew it and didn't care.
We were just a convenient combination
of alcohol and a vacant couch.
I hadn't seen the sex for the pointless search yet.
You can't fill your own void by filling someone else's...
or can you?
That's a rhetorical question.
Peace be with you. And also with you.
"I was wearing that shirt yesterday," said the guy
in line ahead of me as he double-fisted his groceries
onto the conveyor belt. He was about thirty-two, your
average Joe with a baseball cap and five o'clock shadow.
I looked down to remember which shirt it was.
A black tee with "I'm blogging this." written
across the chest in non-descript white lettering.
"Yeah. My roommate got it for me as a joke,"
I replied, reaching for the plastic divider to
put between our respective items in order to
eliminate any confusion for the cashier.
"It's not the kind of thing you buy for yourself."
"Tell me about it," he said emphatically.
"My wife gave me mine. She makes fun of me
for constantly blogging from my desk at work."
We felt each other's pain in quiet understanding
and went about our business
feeling slightly less alone in a world
who misunderstands us and our stupid hobby.
We made each other's days
in well under one hundred fifty words.
I bet he told his wife all about it when he got home
right after he told his computer.
in line ahead of me as he double-fisted his groceries
onto the conveyor belt. He was about thirty-two, your
average Joe with a baseball cap and five o'clock shadow.
I looked down to remember which shirt it was.
A black tee with "I'm blogging this." written
across the chest in non-descript white lettering.
"Yeah. My roommate got it for me as a joke,"
I replied, reaching for the plastic divider to
put between our respective items in order to
eliminate any confusion for the cashier.
"It's not the kind of thing you buy for yourself."
"Tell me about it," he said emphatically.
"My wife gave me mine. She makes fun of me
for constantly blogging from my desk at work."
We felt each other's pain in quiet understanding
and went about our business
feeling slightly less alone in a world
who misunderstands us and our stupid hobby.
We made each other's days
in well under one hundred fifty words.
I bet he told his wife all about it when he got home
right after he told his computer.
A proper diagnosis, considering the family's medical history.
1 Admit to caring who they're fucking and you lose.
2 You still fucking her?
I No.
II Then you lose anyway.
A It wasn't about that.
B Ditch the halo before I puke.
< If you puke, I puke.
> You're starting to get the hang of this.
^ All too late.
+ There's plenty of time for the post-game report.
- They can never hurt you as well as you can hurt yourself.
= And so the student becomes the teacher.
Though really they were one from the start.
(Exit coconuts, stage left.)
Currently reading:
"A Story Teller's Story" by Sherwood Anderson.
2 You still fucking her?
I No.
II Then you lose anyway.
A It wasn't about that.
B Ditch the halo before I puke.
< If you puke, I puke.
> You're starting to get the hang of this.
^ All too late.
+ There's plenty of time for the post-game report.
- They can never hurt you as well as you can hurt yourself.
= And so the student becomes the teacher.
Though really they were one from the start.
(Exit coconuts, stage left.)
Currently reading:
"A Story Teller's Story" by Sherwood Anderson.
5.24.2009
Blood on the Tracks.
I worked on my feet all day, mostly outside.
She sat in an office from nine to five, barely awake.
Needless to say we sought to spend our precious
weekends doing the opposite of what
our respective jobs entailed: I wanted to lay around
all day reading dead men in the tranquil comfort of
my temperature-controlled domicile; she wanted
to wake up at the crack of dawn to drive an hour north
haul ass up a mountain, eat a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich at the top, and run back down.
It was one of the many reasons
why it was doomed from the start.
Still, it had its valuable lessons
if not its perks.
"Put those in here," she said
handing me the Zip-Loc bag that
she'd pulled from her pack
like some sort of second-rate
tree-hugging magician.
"Are you serious?" I asked
with the raise of just one eyebrow.
Smoking while hiking was enough
of a paradox; fussing over biodegradable
bits of paper and cotton was
the icing on the cake that I'd rather be eating
with a nice glass of milk and some Dostoevsky.
The familiar half-squint she shot my way
as she pursed her lips professed the severity
of her demand and convinced me to comply.
I didn't want to risk being cut off from
the Catskill Mountain mid-hike sex.
That was the only reason I'd joined her
on the few Sunday excursions that I did.
It made all of those calorie-burning sweatfests worth it
for fifteen minutes or so.
I'll never forget the time that black bear
stalked up along the creekside ridge
just twenty feet from where we were doing the nasty.
He must've smelled it in the air and wanted a piece.
Maybe I should've let him maul me to death then and there
thus saving myself from the beatings that she'd come
to give me later on, and our eventual demise after
almost two years of trying not to lose what wasn't really there.
But hindsight's 20-20 and she always made a good sandwich.
I can live with that.
She sat in an office from nine to five, barely awake.
Needless to say we sought to spend our precious
weekends doing the opposite of what
our respective jobs entailed: I wanted to lay around
all day reading dead men in the tranquil comfort of
my temperature-controlled domicile; she wanted
to wake up at the crack of dawn to drive an hour north
haul ass up a mountain, eat a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich at the top, and run back down.
It was one of the many reasons
why it was doomed from the start.
Still, it had its valuable lessons
if not its perks.
"Put those in here," she said
handing me the Zip-Loc bag that
she'd pulled from her pack
like some sort of second-rate
tree-hugging magician.
"Are you serious?" I asked
with the raise of just one eyebrow.
Smoking while hiking was enough
of a paradox; fussing over biodegradable
bits of paper and cotton was
the icing on the cake that I'd rather be eating
with a nice glass of milk and some Dostoevsky.
The familiar half-squint she shot my way
as she pursed her lips professed the severity
of her demand and convinced me to comply.
I didn't want to risk being cut off from
the Catskill Mountain mid-hike sex.
That was the only reason I'd joined her
on the few Sunday excursions that I did.
It made all of those calorie-burning sweatfests worth it
for fifteen minutes or so.
I'll never forget the time that black bear
stalked up along the creekside ridge
just twenty feet from where we were doing the nasty.
He must've smelled it in the air and wanted a piece.
Maybe I should've let him maul me to death then and there
thus saving myself from the beatings that she'd come
to give me later on, and our eventual demise after
almost two years of trying not to lose what wasn't really there.
But hindsight's 20-20 and she always made a good sandwich.
I can live with that.
White gloves, and roadblocks, and tube socks-- oh my!
White folks revel in their shiny excuse to sit in lawn chairs
on sidewalks and in shoulders of suburban byways
as hordes of local girl scouts, boy scouts, veterans
and volunteer everythings march by;
the bolder of the genus call this
painfully rhythmic catastrophe a parade
but I have other, more descriptive names for it
that will be left to the imagination for decency's sake.
My town feels the need to indulge in two of these
festive forays twice a year: today's occasion
being Memorial Day, the other one I'm not sure of
though summer's Labor-related bookend holiday seems
to ring a bell for more than the end of white-wearing season.
Again with those pesky whites.
All roads and thoroughfares in the vicinity of my quiet abode
are blocked off to make way for the bagpipers, buglers
and their brain-dead spectators. I'm a captive in my house
for three to four hours all in the name of a local tax expenditure.
With so many squad cars and fire trucks present it seems to be
a good time to rob a bank or burn your ex's house down
assuming you don't mind walking there.
I'm forced to catch up on my reading in this air-conditioned cell.
But who am I kidding? I'd be sitting here doing the same
even if I could escape the confines of the casa.
As long as my closed windows protect my throbbing head
from the incessant thump of the bass drum I'll be fine.
At least
they spare me the irony of doing the same on Independence Day.
Currently reading:
"The Poetry Anthology, 1912-1977"
on sidewalks and in shoulders of suburban byways
as hordes of local girl scouts, boy scouts, veterans
and volunteer everythings march by;
the bolder of the genus call this
painfully rhythmic catastrophe a parade
but I have other, more descriptive names for it
that will be left to the imagination for decency's sake.
My town feels the need to indulge in two of these
festive forays twice a year: today's occasion
being Memorial Day, the other one I'm not sure of
though summer's Labor-related bookend holiday seems
to ring a bell for more than the end of white-wearing season.
Again with those pesky whites.
All roads and thoroughfares in the vicinity of my quiet abode
are blocked off to make way for the bagpipers, buglers
and their brain-dead spectators. I'm a captive in my house
for three to four hours all in the name of a local tax expenditure.
With so many squad cars and fire trucks present it seems to be
a good time to rob a bank or burn your ex's house down
assuming you don't mind walking there.
I'm forced to catch up on my reading in this air-conditioned cell.
But who am I kidding? I'd be sitting here doing the same
even if I could escape the confines of the casa.
As long as my closed windows protect my throbbing head
from the incessant thump of the bass drum I'll be fine.
At least
they spare me the irony of doing the same on Independence Day.
Currently reading:
"The Poetry Anthology, 1912-1977"
5.23.2009
We'll never leave the asterisk class.
When I was a kid
my mother would remind me
that 'hate' is a strong word.
Although she was right
she failed to mention
that sometimes it's
not strong enough
especially in regards
to what one feels towards
the alarm clock.
There's a nasty bruise on my knee
and I don't know how it got there.
I can tell you right now
that it wasn't from praying.
God gave up on us a long time
before we gave up on Him.
Pass the rum jug, brother.
But somewhere in the darkness of my driveway
was a breathing diamond ablaze
unencumbered by the limits of modern-day smelting.
I pictured us at thirty, forty, if we live that long, fifty.
And until the cockroaches take their rightful place
he'll never change.
Currently reading:
"From Hand To Mouth" by Fitz-James O'Brien.
my mother would remind me
that 'hate' is a strong word.
Although she was right
she failed to mention
that sometimes it's
not strong enough
especially in regards
to what one feels towards
the alarm clock.
There's a nasty bruise on my knee
and I don't know how it got there.
I can tell you right now
that it wasn't from praying.
God gave up on us a long time
before we gave up on Him.
Pass the rum jug, brother.
But somewhere in the darkness of my driveway
was a breathing diamond ablaze
unencumbered by the limits of modern-day smelting.
I pictured us at thirty, forty, if we live that long, fifty.
And until the cockroaches take their rightful place
he'll never change.
Currently reading:
"From Hand To Mouth" by Fitz-James O'Brien.
I hate it when they're right.
"I can't sleep."
"Why not?"
"That last chapter shook me up."
"It's just a book. Go to bed."
"We both know there's no such thing as 'just a book'."
"Go to sleep."
"I'll try."
"Me too."
"Why not?"
"That last chapter shook me up."
"It's just a book. Go to bed."
"We both know there's no such thing as 'just a book'."
"Go to sleep."
"I'll try."
"Me too."
5.20.2009
Shriveling in the Sixth Borough.
We were on the roof of the junior high school, supposedly to bust some holes with the hammer drill. It was a good gig for a pleasant May morning. We felt momentarily free up there like in that scene from that famous prison movie. My partner had to ruin the mood by breaking the rare silence with one of his typically asinine remarks. I use the term 'partner' loosely; he's more of an opponent than anything else. I've never seen a grown man make so many stupid mistakes, forget such simple directions, talk so incessantly about absolutely nothing to the point where duct tape seems like a reasonable means to an end. I often think he does these things on purpose to test the limits of my patience. Then I stop and realize that he's not half as clever.
"What's that building over there with the dome on it?"
Being the local boy means the questions are aimed my way. Sometimes I'd give up the five-minute commute to change that.
"That's one of those places that would've given you one of those fancy pieces of paper if you hadn't dropped out."
"A high school, I get it!"
Part of me was happy-- not because he got it, but because I wouldn't have to explain it any further. That was a place I'd rather not discuss. Changing the subject before he could interject with another random outburst seemed like a good idea. Is there a lesser form of Turrets?
"It's almost easy to forget we're in the ghetto when most of our view from up here consists of trees."
I was referring to the hill behind the high school. There used to be tales of kids skipping class and hiding out up there for hours on end. A keg was rumored to be buried somewhere with only the tap exposed. All of that was before my time, though-- the time of scanning ID cards with bar codes, passing through metal detectors, armed police officers walking the halls. And I'm supposed to want to bring children into this world?
"Yeah. Your town is scary."
That sounded funny. Until then I hadn't thought of it as 'my town', though it was indeed frightening at times. Almost as frightening as the awful racket that accosted our ears out of the clear blue. It appeared to be a butchered rendition of the hook from a hip-hop song that was popular two years ago. Yes, it was just as painful as it sounds.
"Oh, great. The marching band is serenading us."
We walked towards the edge of the roof to get a better look at the source of the cacophony coming from the parking lot. Our eyes scanned the sloppy mass of teenagers in search of the easiest target. My opponent scored before me.
"Man, why do they always strap the bass drum to the smallest, goofiest kid?"
I hated to admit it, but he was right. I told him so. Both halves of the sentence. I felt part of me die.
A blindingly bald man in his early forties stood in front of that clump of misapplied hormones with a bullhorn in his hand. He pleaded with them to pay attention. It's hard to watch a losing battle, even from a safe and hidden vantage point like a roof.
"Come on, guys! March! No, don't actually move forward! Just lift your heels! No, don't waddle like penguins! And straighten up! There are supposed to be four columns! You were supposed to learn how to line up in Kindergarten..."
My opponent lit a forbidden cigarette despite the school's policy. It was due more to a lack of brains than a presence of bravado. We were our own bosses up here to an extent, but being caught smoking on school grounds would get us instantly thrown off the job.
"At least taking orders like this will be good training for when they're all in prison," I said as I stepped aside to move upwind from the smoke. My opponent laughed and choked on his nicotine fix.
What I'd just said echoed through my skull like a resonating gunshot. It was sad to admit that I believed it. Perhaps it was best that I wound up on the roof of this building instead of underneath it with an attitude like mine; or maybe my cynical stance had developed as a result of my own experiences and environment. Regardless, it made me feel like someone I hadn't been seven years ago. There's just as much comfort in defeat as there is in acceptance if you look hard enough.
One person can't change the world.
It takes a village to raise a child.
And one lousy city has managed to ruin a lot of them, present company included.
Pack it in, kids. The band's budget's been cut.
"You got an extra one?" I asked while fumbling through my pocket for the lighter that I always carry.
"For you? Anything, partner!"
Seven years ago, when I was immortal, he would've been right.
"What's that building over there with the dome on it?"
Being the local boy means the questions are aimed my way. Sometimes I'd give up the five-minute commute to change that.
"That's one of those places that would've given you one of those fancy pieces of paper if you hadn't dropped out."
"A high school, I get it!"
Part of me was happy-- not because he got it, but because I wouldn't have to explain it any further. That was a place I'd rather not discuss. Changing the subject before he could interject with another random outburst seemed like a good idea. Is there a lesser form of Turrets?
"It's almost easy to forget we're in the ghetto when most of our view from up here consists of trees."
I was referring to the hill behind the high school. There used to be tales of kids skipping class and hiding out up there for hours on end. A keg was rumored to be buried somewhere with only the tap exposed. All of that was before my time, though-- the time of scanning ID cards with bar codes, passing through metal detectors, armed police officers walking the halls. And I'm supposed to want to bring children into this world?
"Yeah. Your town is scary."
That sounded funny. Until then I hadn't thought of it as 'my town', though it was indeed frightening at times. Almost as frightening as the awful racket that accosted our ears out of the clear blue. It appeared to be a butchered rendition of the hook from a hip-hop song that was popular two years ago. Yes, it was just as painful as it sounds.
"Oh, great. The marching band is serenading us."
We walked towards the edge of the roof to get a better look at the source of the cacophony coming from the parking lot. Our eyes scanned the sloppy mass of teenagers in search of the easiest target. My opponent scored before me.
"Man, why do they always strap the bass drum to the smallest, goofiest kid?"
I hated to admit it, but he was right. I told him so. Both halves of the sentence. I felt part of me die.
A blindingly bald man in his early forties stood in front of that clump of misapplied hormones with a bullhorn in his hand. He pleaded with them to pay attention. It's hard to watch a losing battle, even from a safe and hidden vantage point like a roof.
"Come on, guys! March! No, don't actually move forward! Just lift your heels! No, don't waddle like penguins! And straighten up! There are supposed to be four columns! You were supposed to learn how to line up in Kindergarten..."
My opponent lit a forbidden cigarette despite the school's policy. It was due more to a lack of brains than a presence of bravado. We were our own bosses up here to an extent, but being caught smoking on school grounds would get us instantly thrown off the job.
"At least taking orders like this will be good training for when they're all in prison," I said as I stepped aside to move upwind from the smoke. My opponent laughed and choked on his nicotine fix.
What I'd just said echoed through my skull like a resonating gunshot. It was sad to admit that I believed it. Perhaps it was best that I wound up on the roof of this building instead of underneath it with an attitude like mine; or maybe my cynical stance had developed as a result of my own experiences and environment. Regardless, it made me feel like someone I hadn't been seven years ago. There's just as much comfort in defeat as there is in acceptance if you look hard enough.
One person can't change the world.
It takes a village to raise a child.
And one lousy city has managed to ruin a lot of them, present company included.
Pack it in, kids. The band's budget's been cut.
"You got an extra one?" I asked while fumbling through my pocket for the lighter that I always carry.
"For you? Anything, partner!"
Seven years ago, when I was immortal, he would've been right.
5.19.2009
Somewhere in there.
The young black cashier asked
to see my license after she'd already
bagged the beer, probably only
because there was a woman in line behind me
who seemed like she would have no qualms
about making a phone call to the local police.
I passed her my ID with my sleeved arm
that usually serves as proof enough.
The photo hadn't been updated
since I was sixteen. I'd asked to pass
on having a new one taken when it was time to
renew my license because my nose had been
recently broken with a beer bottle at a dive bar;
I didn't think a photograph of me
with stitches across my bridge and two black eyes
would behoove me while having
my license checked during a traffic stop.
"I can only recognize you by your eyes,"
the girl said as she inspected the nine-year-old
photo on my license before passing it back.
I thought of explaining that it was an old picture
that wasn't replaced due to a broken nose
but that woman standing behind me
was already clutching her purse tighter than before.
"Thanks," I said with a sly smile as the cashier
handed me my six-packs, and I didn't just mean
for the beer.
to see my license after she'd already
bagged the beer, probably only
because there was a woman in line behind me
who seemed like she would have no qualms
about making a phone call to the local police.
I passed her my ID with my sleeved arm
that usually serves as proof enough.
The photo hadn't been updated
since I was sixteen. I'd asked to pass
on having a new one taken when it was time to
renew my license because my nose had been
recently broken with a beer bottle at a dive bar;
I didn't think a photograph of me
with stitches across my bridge and two black eyes
would behoove me while having
my license checked during a traffic stop.
"I can only recognize you by your eyes,"
the girl said as she inspected the nine-year-old
photo on my license before passing it back.
I thought of explaining that it was an old picture
that wasn't replaced due to a broken nose
but that woman standing behind me
was already clutching her purse tighter than before.
"Thanks," I said with a sly smile as the cashier
handed me my six-packs, and I didn't just mean
for the beer.
5.18.2009
More sacrilege.
There was a parable in the Bible
in which the chief of a village was captured
by his arch nemesis after the city walls fell.
In a barbaric display of power
they brought his offspring to the town square
and lined them up, shoulder-to-shoulder
in front of all the defeated inhabitants.
The conquering ruler ordered three of his best archers
to draw their bows and await further instruction.
As their arms quivered with the tension of the strings
and the arrowheads glistened in the deceptive sunlight
the invading general asked the captive leader
which of his three sons would be executed
as an offering to the pagan gods.
Without a moment's hesitation the answer came
and at the raise of a hand the archers let loose.
The three arrows protruding from the boy's chest
broke in half as he silently folded into the sand.
Tears hit the dust in unison as the onlookers
remembered their beloved adolescent neighbor
whose life had been sacrificed so mercilessly.
Even the cruel despot who had given the order
felt unusually stirred by the scene, specifically
the decisive strength with which his foe had replied.
Not willing to let his curiousity run rampant forever
the evil man stepped down from his horse
and approached his stoic adversary.
Once within arm's reach of the unflinching chief
he met his eyes and asked in an exalted tone,
"Why did you pick your eldest son to die?
Surely he was your favorite."
Again, without the slightest pause, the man
responded in a confident, even voice--
"Because he was the strongest one among them
and would best understand."
With frightened, shifting eyes the victorious sultan turned
to mount his horse, commanding his troops
to fall back. A great commotion erupted
among the ranks as the heavily armed men
fled for their lives.
So maybe this wasn't a Bible story
but it should've been.
in which the chief of a village was captured
by his arch nemesis after the city walls fell.
In a barbaric display of power
they brought his offspring to the town square
and lined them up, shoulder-to-shoulder
in front of all the defeated inhabitants.
The conquering ruler ordered three of his best archers
to draw their bows and await further instruction.
As their arms quivered with the tension of the strings
and the arrowheads glistened in the deceptive sunlight
the invading general asked the captive leader
which of his three sons would be executed
as an offering to the pagan gods.
Without a moment's hesitation the answer came
and at the raise of a hand the archers let loose.
The three arrows protruding from the boy's chest
broke in half as he silently folded into the sand.
Tears hit the dust in unison as the onlookers
remembered their beloved adolescent neighbor
whose life had been sacrificed so mercilessly.
Even the cruel despot who had given the order
felt unusually stirred by the scene, specifically
the decisive strength with which his foe had replied.
Not willing to let his curiousity run rampant forever
the evil man stepped down from his horse
and approached his stoic adversary.
Once within arm's reach of the unflinching chief
he met his eyes and asked in an exalted tone,
"Why did you pick your eldest son to die?
Surely he was your favorite."
Again, without the slightest pause, the man
responded in a confident, even voice--
"Because he was the strongest one among them
and would best understand."
With frightened, shifting eyes the victorious sultan turned
to mount his horse, commanding his troops
to fall back. A great commotion erupted
among the ranks as the heavily armed men
fled for their lives.
So maybe this wasn't a Bible story
but it should've been.
Stupid kids talking politics.
Landmines and bayonets aren't meant to kill--
they're meant to maim, leave men screaming for help.
Same thing with bullets with full metal jackets;
they go right through the person, don't mushroom
on impact like your standard lead-tipped hunting round.
The reasoning behind all these lovely little inventions being
that an injured man takes three men off the battlefield--
the victim, and two of his allies to drag him to safety.
Disfiguring a man for thinking differently
and counting on the loyalty of his peers to kick in.
What a lovely way to win a war.
And after it's won, what does one do?
Well, the United States chose to rebuild Japan
after leveling two of its cities with the first and only
nuclear weapons deployed in combat
to date, that we know of.
We industrialized a country so effectively
that it out-smarted and out-sold our technological sector
for the following decades to come.
And the Germans got a similar consolation prize
though not as profound. See, us Yankees stole
the design of the classic German Mauser
to create the 1903 Springfield Bolt-Action Rifle, a military
standard issued to 'Merican snipers right on up until
the turn of the following century.
So, in true diplomatic fashion, after neutralizing the Nazi threat
we proceeded to pay royalties to Germany
for the patent law infringement associated with one of the
weapons that helped us send Hitler back to Hell.
Makes sense, right? At least it's in accordance with
similar common practices of the so-called Powers That Be.
I gave up rooting for the home team a long time ago.
It's hopeless. We're all doomed, it's a matter of when.
I joined the NRA so I can jokingly make dramatic references
to "my cold, dead hands" like the departed Mr. Heston.
They haven't sent me my sticker yet, I hope there's still time.
At this point I'm just waiting for the missiles to fly
and pray that I'll be on the verge of something worthwhile
when the mushroom cloud engulfs my computer and me.
This one wouldn't have counted.
they're meant to maim, leave men screaming for help.
Same thing with bullets with full metal jackets;
they go right through the person, don't mushroom
on impact like your standard lead-tipped hunting round.
The reasoning behind all these lovely little inventions being
that an injured man takes three men off the battlefield--
the victim, and two of his allies to drag him to safety.
Disfiguring a man for thinking differently
and counting on the loyalty of his peers to kick in.
What a lovely way to win a war.
And after it's won, what does one do?
Well, the United States chose to rebuild Japan
after leveling two of its cities with the first and only
nuclear weapons deployed in combat
to date, that we know of.
We industrialized a country so effectively
that it out-smarted and out-sold our technological sector
for the following decades to come.
And the Germans got a similar consolation prize
though not as profound. See, us Yankees stole
the design of the classic German Mauser
to create the 1903 Springfield Bolt-Action Rifle, a military
standard issued to 'Merican snipers right on up until
the turn of the following century.
So, in true diplomatic fashion, after neutralizing the Nazi threat
we proceeded to pay royalties to Germany
for the patent law infringement associated with one of the
weapons that helped us send Hitler back to Hell.
Makes sense, right? At least it's in accordance with
similar common practices of the so-called Powers That Be.
I gave up rooting for the home team a long time ago.
It's hopeless. We're all doomed, it's a matter of when.
I joined the NRA so I can jokingly make dramatic references
to "my cold, dead hands" like the departed Mr. Heston.
They haven't sent me my sticker yet, I hope there's still time.
At this point I'm just waiting for the missiles to fly
and pray that I'll be on the verge of something worthwhile
when the mushroom cloud engulfs my computer and me.
This one wouldn't have counted.
5.15.2009
Connecticut.
I was nineteen and knew it all
but Death wasn't real yet.
She passed while I was on my way
from Albany to say goodbye.
Uncle Marty called, said they'd wait
to move the body until I arrived.
It seemed kind of them.
When I got there the rest of the family
had already found their respective sources
of consolation, be it a story from years gone by
a comfortable corner of a couch, or a drink.
I made my way to the guest room
where she'd been fighting for her last breaths
having long been freed from her final demons.
Her jaw sagged low, her mouth wide open.
The undertaker's wire would fix that.
Aunt Ronnie was sitting next to the bed
holding her hand that had looked like wax
for the past ten years of her life.
She was ready.
I wish I could say I cried, but I didn't.
It had been a merciful release.
And to tell you the truth
she looked so much more at peace
in that reclined position
than she did at the wake
where I didn't cry, either.
Carmen's final statement was the best of her lifetime.
She arranged to be buried on a grassy knoll
near some tall pines in a secluded Connecticut cemetery
near my uncle's house instead of next to my grandfather
in the plot he'd bought in the Adirondacks.
The bottle, the beatings, and the mistresses had been
punishment enough for her. She didn't want to rot
next to that miserable man forever.
I can still hear her dry cackle when I think about it.
My father said he'd be buried next to Charles Senior instead.
Some sons don't know when to see the man for the monster.
Let them.
I wouldn't have much nice to say in the way of a eulogy.
The tears would come that time, but for different reasons.
Let them as well.
The worst deaths occur before the heart stops beating.
I'm twenty-five now and know that much
if nothing else.
but Death wasn't real yet.
She passed while I was on my way
from Albany to say goodbye.
Uncle Marty called, said they'd wait
to move the body until I arrived.
It seemed kind of them.
When I got there the rest of the family
had already found their respective sources
of consolation, be it a story from years gone by
a comfortable corner of a couch, or a drink.
I made my way to the guest room
where she'd been fighting for her last breaths
having long been freed from her final demons.
Her jaw sagged low, her mouth wide open.
The undertaker's wire would fix that.
Aunt Ronnie was sitting next to the bed
holding her hand that had looked like wax
for the past ten years of her life.
She was ready.
I wish I could say I cried, but I didn't.
It had been a merciful release.
And to tell you the truth
she looked so much more at peace
in that reclined position
than she did at the wake
where I didn't cry, either.
Carmen's final statement was the best of her lifetime.
She arranged to be buried on a grassy knoll
near some tall pines in a secluded Connecticut cemetery
near my uncle's house instead of next to my grandfather
in the plot he'd bought in the Adirondacks.
The bottle, the beatings, and the mistresses had been
punishment enough for her. She didn't want to rot
next to that miserable man forever.
I can still hear her dry cackle when I think about it.
My father said he'd be buried next to Charles Senior instead.
Some sons don't know when to see the man for the monster.
Let them.
I wouldn't have much nice to say in the way of a eulogy.
The tears would come that time, but for different reasons.
Let them as well.
The worst deaths occur before the heart stops beating.
I'm twenty-five now and know that much
if nothing else.
5.14.2009
po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
The pre-weekend party-planning phone call
blew up in my face quite nicely tonight.
"You coming out Saturday?"
He's a regular, it seemed like a given.
"Can't. Waking up early for my sister's graduation party."
It wasn't intended to be a dig in the ribs, but it was.
"Have fun with that."
I meant it.
"Yeah."
I think he did, too.
And hey, if you're going to shoot me
have the courtesy to use good ammunition.
I hope your compass works better than mine.
blew up in my face quite nicely tonight.
"You coming out Saturday?"
He's a regular, it seemed like a given.
"Can't. Waking up early for my sister's graduation party."
It wasn't intended to be a dig in the ribs, but it was.
"Have fun with that."
I meant it.
"Yeah."
I think he did, too.
And hey, if you're going to shoot me
have the courtesy to use good ammunition.
I hope your compass works better than mine.
5.12.2009
Thanks for the ad.
After-school activities were still in full swing at 4:30 in the afternoon. Us stupid fitters were gathering our tools and prepping our materials for a night's worth of pipe-laying misery. My stride was sure and true as I careened down the faux-marble hallway of North Junior High. A buxom young teacher was walking ahead of me with a seductive switch that only a male above eighteen would notice. She slowed her pace to ask a plump boy standing in the doorway of a classroom a quick question.
"How do you like the book so far?"
My ears perked up, my eyes opened wide and shot for the cover. There he was in large white block lettering over a blood-red backround-- Dostoevski.
"It's pretty good," the round little kid replied.
Pretty good? Just 'pretty good', man? Jesus, what was the world coming to? I halted that once-stable gait of mine to catch a glimpse of the title-- 'Crime and Punishment'.
My thoughts ran rampant in my head: Oh Lord, please don't let me fall to my knees right here in this hallway with my partner five steps ahead of me. Don't let Shakespeare go out like this. I promise to learn the Cyrillic alphabet someday.
Little Jimmy in the too-tight T-shirt had noticed my ogling. I had to say something to him to avoid being escorted off school property for staring inappropriately at a minor. But what to say? How would I be able to plug the waterfall of sheer joy and admiration for one of the world's best writers that'd spew forth from my mouth? My knees weakened, and that mouth of mine didn't make up for it with any form of brilliance.
"Dostoevski, huh?"
Chubby nodded his head of curly hair and squinted his beady little eyes. I could tell he's always last picked in gym class.
"He's a bastard," I emphatically declared. Chubs dropped his jaw and cocked his head in utter astonishment as I turned to catch up with my coworker again before he'd wonder what the hell I was doing talking to this kid about a book. Maybe Chubs wasn't expecting a dirty, sweaty construction worker to have such a strong opinion of a Nineteenth Century writer from Eastern Europe. If only he knew that I could spell Dostoyevky's name three different ways, or that I'd read all of the works of the good Fyodor Mikhailovich, and by my own volition.
But "He's a bastard"? Really, whom was I even referring to with that gem? Dos himself?, or that literal lady-killer character of his, Raskolnikov? I'm still not sure what I meant by my statement; it seemed like a good idea at the time, though. Most of the worst ones do. Even Dos and his Existentialist buddies could admit that.
The toils of work led me to and fro across the jobsite. I think by now I've spent more time walking in this school than I did during my entire junior high career. As I lept and bound up and down those flights of stairs I considered what I should've said to that poor kid. Things like: "Do you know Dostoevsky was sentenced to death during his young adulthood for his alleged involvement in a revolutionary group, and that they pulled the mask from his face and pardoned him at the last minute as the firing squad was loading their rifles?" Or maybe "He left his wife towards the end of his life and married a girl half his age who tended to the blinding old nut, even transcribed some of his last works for him." If I wanted to bring it home I'd say something to the effect of "Right up until his death at the age of sixty he was questioning the same things that you may be wrestling with now, like the existence and intentions of God, and the disappointing nature of Man." But I didn't say any of that. I had my chance to play English teacher and missed it. Again.
I made it a point to pass by that classroom twenty minutes later, but the lights were off and everyone had left. My potential Russian Literature Apprentice had gone home to eat Oreos and play video games until his mother made him walk the dog. I'd failed. Again. Second chances and I don't seem to get along.
But now, sitting here at this forgiving screen eight hours later, I don't feel so bad. Chubs'll figure all that stuff out on his own if he's worth a damn, or at least his weight in paperbacks. If not then he doesn't deserve to have those pieces of the puzzle figured out. For the sake of a rare happy ending I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.
Good luck, kid. Sorry I couldn't help you. And stay away from pipes in general.
"How do you like the book so far?"
My ears perked up, my eyes opened wide and shot for the cover. There he was in large white block lettering over a blood-red backround-- Dostoevski.
"It's pretty good," the round little kid replied.
Pretty good? Just 'pretty good', man? Jesus, what was the world coming to? I halted that once-stable gait of mine to catch a glimpse of the title-- 'Crime and Punishment'.
My thoughts ran rampant in my head: Oh Lord, please don't let me fall to my knees right here in this hallway with my partner five steps ahead of me. Don't let Shakespeare go out like this. I promise to learn the Cyrillic alphabet someday.
Little Jimmy in the too-tight T-shirt had noticed my ogling. I had to say something to him to avoid being escorted off school property for staring inappropriately at a minor. But what to say? How would I be able to plug the waterfall of sheer joy and admiration for one of the world's best writers that'd spew forth from my mouth? My knees weakened, and that mouth of mine didn't make up for it with any form of brilliance.
"Dostoevski, huh?"
Chubby nodded his head of curly hair and squinted his beady little eyes. I could tell he's always last picked in gym class.
"He's a bastard," I emphatically declared. Chubs dropped his jaw and cocked his head in utter astonishment as I turned to catch up with my coworker again before he'd wonder what the hell I was doing talking to this kid about a book. Maybe Chubs wasn't expecting a dirty, sweaty construction worker to have such a strong opinion of a Nineteenth Century writer from Eastern Europe. If only he knew that I could spell Dostoyevky's name three different ways, or that I'd read all of the works of the good Fyodor Mikhailovich, and by my own volition.
But "He's a bastard"? Really, whom was I even referring to with that gem? Dos himself?, or that literal lady-killer character of his, Raskolnikov? I'm still not sure what I meant by my statement; it seemed like a good idea at the time, though. Most of the worst ones do. Even Dos and his Existentialist buddies could admit that.
The toils of work led me to and fro across the jobsite. I think by now I've spent more time walking in this school than I did during my entire junior high career. As I lept and bound up and down those flights of stairs I considered what I should've said to that poor kid. Things like: "Do you know Dostoevsky was sentenced to death during his young adulthood for his alleged involvement in a revolutionary group, and that they pulled the mask from his face and pardoned him at the last minute as the firing squad was loading their rifles?" Or maybe "He left his wife towards the end of his life and married a girl half his age who tended to the blinding old nut, even transcribed some of his last works for him." If I wanted to bring it home I'd say something to the effect of "Right up until his death at the age of sixty he was questioning the same things that you may be wrestling with now, like the existence and intentions of God, and the disappointing nature of Man." But I didn't say any of that. I had my chance to play English teacher and missed it. Again.
I made it a point to pass by that classroom twenty minutes later, but the lights were off and everyone had left. My potential Russian Literature Apprentice had gone home to eat Oreos and play video games until his mother made him walk the dog. I'd failed. Again. Second chances and I don't seem to get along.
But now, sitting here at this forgiving screen eight hours later, I don't feel so bad. Chubs'll figure all that stuff out on his own if he's worth a damn, or at least his weight in paperbacks. If not then he doesn't deserve to have those pieces of the puzzle figured out. For the sake of a rare happy ending I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.
Good luck, kid. Sorry I couldn't help you. And stay away from pipes in general.
I swear I don't spit in their coffee.
"Hey, Jose," came his gruff voice from the darkness of the job trailer. My eyes hadn't adjusted yet, everything was a blur. Slowly, that blur became a blue blob of three-hundred sixty pounds. Pat's small bald head sat atop his oversized denim work shirt like a cherry on one of the thousands of ice cream sundaes he'd devoured over the course of his thirty-five years.
"I got your fuckin' Jose swingin', pal," I said with a smile befitting a humble apprentice. It was too early in the day to throw wrenches or resort to fisticuffs.
"Todd told me you're Puerto Rican," he said in a softer tone. It was as if he'd revealed the fact that he knew I was a convicted sex offender. My jaw tightened, I felt my cheeks jut out at the sides. I wasn't scared, I'd heard stories of this lump of shit getting his ass beat by people half his size. I was just tired of the damn routine.
"Yeah. So?" Eye contact was impossible, the fake smile was just hard.
"Look, you could've told me. I know I make racist jokes, but I'm trying to turn over a new leaf." The sweat trickled down over three rolls of fat on the side of his head. I wanted to puke over this grotesque man's attempt at unsolicited pity. He'd been thrown off jobs before over dropping the N-bomb, calling Mexicans 'Wetbacks', and being ignorant in general. I knew who he was before he tried to convince me otherwise. A reputation goes a long way in the trades, especially a bad one.
"That's good, Pat. Good for you." It was all I could say. I wanted to present him with a mirror to show him that he'd probably die prematurely like his brother if he didn't lose weight, or remind him that he was a notoriously worthless worker without a condom's worth of common sense, or ask him what series of poor decisions caused him to lose his house and force his wife to pile his four kids into their one family vehicle to drive him to and from work every day. But I didn't. Again, the humble apprentice. The typical Pisces. The underdog tired of trying to settle an ancient and pointless score. My lower lip's got scars in the shape of my upper teeth.
"You're a good worker," he spat out like some sort of consolation prize for being Puerto Rican. "That's all that matters to me." His dull eyes tried to smile, but all I saw was that stupid grin that I wanted to slap away from his sloppy goatee.
"Thanks, Pat. Means a lot." I left him there in the darkness of the job trailer and went about my business. Some people still earn their pay.
And later on when he asked why I didn't take off work for Cinco de Mayo I fired back with something about wanting to drape the Mexican flag across the hood of my truck. Make your punchline better than theirs. Steal their thunder. It's all you can do sometimes.
It's not the constant jokes at work that get me. I'm not thin-skinned, and I know that people take themselves way too seriously. Hell, I even call myself out sometimes-- "Not bad, for a Spic," and such being a common response to a compliment from a coworker on my job performance. I can take it just as well as I can dish it, if not better. No, it's not the jokes themselves that get under my dark skin, it's that unwritten expectation for me to just silently take it because I'm a Hispanic on a construction site. It's that requirement to grin, bear it, and eat more shit force-fed by the White Male Republicans (who secretely vote for Democrats since that party is pro-Union). High school doesn't ever end, and neither does hypocrisy.
All of the men I've worked with have vouched for me in one way or another, whether I knew it or not. I'm going to continue to make a name for myself in this business, whether I like it or not. And someday, when I'm general foreman, I'll be sure to remind those creative poets who use their Sharpies to label the inside of the shithouse as "the Mexican Spaceship" that at least those silly Wetbacks didn't pretend to land on the fucking moon forty years ago.
"I got your fuckin' Jose swingin', pal," I said with a smile befitting a humble apprentice. It was too early in the day to throw wrenches or resort to fisticuffs.
"Todd told me you're Puerto Rican," he said in a softer tone. It was as if he'd revealed the fact that he knew I was a convicted sex offender. My jaw tightened, I felt my cheeks jut out at the sides. I wasn't scared, I'd heard stories of this lump of shit getting his ass beat by people half his size. I was just tired of the damn routine.
"Yeah. So?" Eye contact was impossible, the fake smile was just hard.
"Look, you could've told me. I know I make racist jokes, but I'm trying to turn over a new leaf." The sweat trickled down over three rolls of fat on the side of his head. I wanted to puke over this grotesque man's attempt at unsolicited pity. He'd been thrown off jobs before over dropping the N-bomb, calling Mexicans 'Wetbacks', and being ignorant in general. I knew who he was before he tried to convince me otherwise. A reputation goes a long way in the trades, especially a bad one.
"That's good, Pat. Good for you." It was all I could say. I wanted to present him with a mirror to show him that he'd probably die prematurely like his brother if he didn't lose weight, or remind him that he was a notoriously worthless worker without a condom's worth of common sense, or ask him what series of poor decisions caused him to lose his house and force his wife to pile his four kids into their one family vehicle to drive him to and from work every day. But I didn't. Again, the humble apprentice. The typical Pisces. The underdog tired of trying to settle an ancient and pointless score. My lower lip's got scars in the shape of my upper teeth.
"You're a good worker," he spat out like some sort of consolation prize for being Puerto Rican. "That's all that matters to me." His dull eyes tried to smile, but all I saw was that stupid grin that I wanted to slap away from his sloppy goatee.
"Thanks, Pat. Means a lot." I left him there in the darkness of the job trailer and went about my business. Some people still earn their pay.
And later on when he asked why I didn't take off work for Cinco de Mayo I fired back with something about wanting to drape the Mexican flag across the hood of my truck. Make your punchline better than theirs. Steal their thunder. It's all you can do sometimes.
It's not the constant jokes at work that get me. I'm not thin-skinned, and I know that people take themselves way too seriously. Hell, I even call myself out sometimes-- "Not bad, for a Spic," and such being a common response to a compliment from a coworker on my job performance. I can take it just as well as I can dish it, if not better. No, it's not the jokes themselves that get under my dark skin, it's that unwritten expectation for me to just silently take it because I'm a Hispanic on a construction site. It's that requirement to grin, bear it, and eat more shit force-fed by the White Male Republicans (who secretely vote for Democrats since that party is pro-Union). High school doesn't ever end, and neither does hypocrisy.
All of the men I've worked with have vouched for me in one way or another, whether I knew it or not. I'm going to continue to make a name for myself in this business, whether I like it or not. And someday, when I'm general foreman, I'll be sure to remind those creative poets who use their Sharpies to label the inside of the shithouse as "the Mexican Spaceship" that at least those silly Wetbacks didn't pretend to land on the fucking moon forty years ago.
5.10.2009
Bikini Scars.
Hid the pearl under his tongue
for a belated safe delivery.
What's that they say about
the truly generous deed
having to go unclaimed?
But there are bigger sins
like kissing cousins
and giving up on what could be
for what was.
I hope the accent lighting on Fifth Ave
doesn't blind you.
She gave me a painting of Jacob
wrestling the Angel as the maids watch
in horror. I forget the outcome
of that Biblical battle
but I know from my own experience
that even if
Jake won
he lost.
We're alive, well, and not yet incarcerated--
Maybe just a bit dehydrated.
I should've stayed on the 405.
for a belated safe delivery.
What's that they say about
the truly generous deed
having to go unclaimed?
But there are bigger sins
like kissing cousins
and giving up on what could be
for what was.
I hope the accent lighting on Fifth Ave
doesn't blind you.
She gave me a painting of Jacob
wrestling the Angel as the maids watch
in horror. I forget the outcome
of that Biblical battle
but I know from my own experience
that even if
Jake won
he lost.
We're alive, well, and not yet incarcerated--
Maybe just a bit dehydrated.
I should've stayed on the 405.
5.08.2009
Blood in the boogers.
That bimbo barmaid undercharged me as usual:
thirteen bucks, just enough to cover
the pulled-pork sandwich and the first pint.
The first of seven pints, mind you.
She never seemed to make it back
to the touch-screen register to enter the drinks
on my tab for reasons that seem more than
the normal breast-implanted blonde excuse.
Her husband, who owns the joint, is also Puerto Rican.
If she were twelve years younger and single she'd try.
I offered to pay the rightful difference but
she laughed it off and told me not to bother.
Her tip reflected her hospitality.
Sometimes I wonder if in another life
she could've been something more
than a trophy wife used to lure dirty old bikers
and construction workers to an otherwise worthless bar.
I try not to dwell on it, though.
It's too real.
The slightly ossified ride back from the bar
was livened up by a strange turn of events.
I came around a bend and had to slam on the brakes
since a line of three cars stood still in the middle
of the forty-five mile-an-hour highway.
My eyes unblurred themselves and saw
a small black dog standing in the shoulder
on the other side of the road. A red leash
was attached to its neck, but no human hand was present.
A woman in the first stopped car frantically hopped out
of the passenger seat of the late-Eighties convertible
that she was riding in and approached the little canine.
He took off running like a bat out of Hell, a broad
saw-toothed grin on his face. I watched him pass by my truck
and bang a sharp left up a driveway in my rear-view mirror.
It seemed like he knew where he was going.
Or maybe he didn't.
I hope he did; that woman got right back in that
bucket of bolts and drove away in the opposite direction.
Good Samaritans have gotten lazy, doughy in their apathy.
The mall seemed like a logical destination once I got back into town.
I probably shouldn't have been driving, but I was having a party
that night and needed a new multi-media stereo for the occasion.
My initial failure in the electronics department of the "anchor store"
I first tried on my quest led me to question what's wrong with
a world that cannot sell the display model, even for full retail price.
Words were kept civil, though I'm pretty sure the clerk could sense
the frustration burning in my eyes almost as clearly as he could
smell the beer on my breath. I headed for a specialty store.
They had what I was looking for there, it was even on sale.
I paid with exact change and heaved the awkward box onto my shoulder.
It was almost a successful voyage for me in spite of the speedbumps.
But then that damn Piano Man caught my eye.
He was back amongst the overpriced pianos on display
in an intersection at the mall, and he was even more disgusted.
The music wasn't playing automatically this time, but the rubber-faced
gray caricature of himself wasn't tickling any ivories either.
His elbows rested on his knees as he bent over on an uncomfortable
stool with his back to the hunk of wood and metal that he was
supposed to be trying to sell. I was mid-stride when our eyes met.
My boots nearly tripped over themselves when he looked me
square in the face and shook his head slowly.
He knew. Somehow, he just knew.
I hope they bury him in a more expensive tux.
thirteen bucks, just enough to cover
the pulled-pork sandwich and the first pint.
The first of seven pints, mind you.
She never seemed to make it back
to the touch-screen register to enter the drinks
on my tab for reasons that seem more than
the normal breast-implanted blonde excuse.
Her husband, who owns the joint, is also Puerto Rican.
If she were twelve years younger and single she'd try.
I offered to pay the rightful difference but
she laughed it off and told me not to bother.
Her tip reflected her hospitality.
Sometimes I wonder if in another life
she could've been something more
than a trophy wife used to lure dirty old bikers
and construction workers to an otherwise worthless bar.
I try not to dwell on it, though.
It's too real.
The slightly ossified ride back from the bar
was livened up by a strange turn of events.
I came around a bend and had to slam on the brakes
since a line of three cars stood still in the middle
of the forty-five mile-an-hour highway.
My eyes unblurred themselves and saw
a small black dog standing in the shoulder
on the other side of the road. A red leash
was attached to its neck, but no human hand was present.
A woman in the first stopped car frantically hopped out
of the passenger seat of the late-Eighties convertible
that she was riding in and approached the little canine.
He took off running like a bat out of Hell, a broad
saw-toothed grin on his face. I watched him pass by my truck
and bang a sharp left up a driveway in my rear-view mirror.
It seemed like he knew where he was going.
Or maybe he didn't.
I hope he did; that woman got right back in that
bucket of bolts and drove away in the opposite direction.
Good Samaritans have gotten lazy, doughy in their apathy.
The mall seemed like a logical destination once I got back into town.
I probably shouldn't have been driving, but I was having a party
that night and needed a new multi-media stereo for the occasion.
My initial failure in the electronics department of the "anchor store"
I first tried on my quest led me to question what's wrong with
a world that cannot sell the display model, even for full retail price.
Words were kept civil, though I'm pretty sure the clerk could sense
the frustration burning in my eyes almost as clearly as he could
smell the beer on my breath. I headed for a specialty store.
They had what I was looking for there, it was even on sale.
I paid with exact change and heaved the awkward box onto my shoulder.
It was almost a successful voyage for me in spite of the speedbumps.
But then that damn Piano Man caught my eye.
He was back amongst the overpriced pianos on display
in an intersection at the mall, and he was even more disgusted.
The music wasn't playing automatically this time, but the rubber-faced
gray caricature of himself wasn't tickling any ivories either.
His elbows rested on his knees as he bent over on an uncomfortable
stool with his back to the hunk of wood and metal that he was
supposed to be trying to sell. I was mid-stride when our eyes met.
My boots nearly tripped over themselves when he looked me
square in the face and shook his head slowly.
He knew. Somehow, he just knew.
I hope they bury him in a more expensive tux.
5.06.2009
I once knew men from Peru and Nantucket...
You're supposed to use hot water to make ice cubes. I could explain it scientifically, but you wouldn't care. I bet you thought this line would end with the word 'bucket'.
The women who know me also know that brownies are the best way to control my simple self. Yes, I just denied my alleged complication. Turns out chocolate and flour, when combined with an egg or two and some oil, form the demise of my own free will. Totally worth it in most cases. Pawned off the rest of my mother's on lunch break at work last night. One of the guys, his mouth full of chocolate, told me to thank her. It may have been a cheap shot, but I let it slide. Saved the other batch to munch on in my truck during those fleeting quiet moments in between the pipes that I've come to cherish so much. Even heathens keep some things sacred.
Then, as always, there were the silent deals made with God and the devil. It's important to include both in case one's having an off day, and to deny the existence of One is to deny the existence of the other. Sometimes I throw the Easter Bunny into the mix for good measure, but never Saint Jude; that poor slob's got his own list of woes.
See, there were two birds doing the nasty in the lilac bush outside my kitchen window this morning. That's what Walt and Frost forgot to tell you: We're all only human. Even the birds are human. 'Human', as I use the term, means flawed by the unruly combination of instinct and desire. I once had a car that was human, it always stopped at the beer distributor on the way home from work. Those were the days when brew still did the job. Four stiff cocktails and I'm straight now. Straight enough to see crooked and smile wide for no good reason, often times a bad one. Not tonight, though. Tonight I deserve the pain of sobriety. Penance for all this humanity inside of me. The aftertaste of milk is aiding the process.
I got rid of the monkey, but now there's this albatross on my back. And it's not necessarily a bad thing, it's just a thing. A thing I'm not sure what to do with, where to keep. I am not capable of eluding a high-speed pursuit. I'm not capable of anything faster than the ticking of my watch sitting on my dresser to the left of my head. Quite frankly, I'm too sore to do anything but sink into bed tonight. This typing business is just a promise I made to myself, one of the few and true minority.
Citronella candles don't work as well as advertised, but I'm going to buy them anyway. Sometimes I bet the slow horse since I know it will lose. That knowledge is comforting. Almost as comforting as the smell of those burning yellow tins will be, even without the sound of the ancient bug zapper going off in the back of my head. My father and my neighbor shared one. Its bright blue light symbolized all being right in the world back then. It hung right on the property line behind the last peach tree. I hated the peach trees, the fruit would fall and I'd have to clean it all up and the bees would swarm 'round my six-year-old head. That's the head I miss most. It was smarter in knowing less. You don't appreciate good head 'til it's gone. And now I hate my father instead of the peach trees. He cut them down when I got old enough to tell him what I thought of picking up the fruit.
If you have to ask if there's something wrong, there probably is.
But at least the Easter Bunny made the rain hold out 'til night time for once. He's not such a bad guy sometimes, despite moments of humanity.
The women who know me also know that brownies are the best way to control my simple self. Yes, I just denied my alleged complication. Turns out chocolate and flour, when combined with an egg or two and some oil, form the demise of my own free will. Totally worth it in most cases. Pawned off the rest of my mother's on lunch break at work last night. One of the guys, his mouth full of chocolate, told me to thank her. It may have been a cheap shot, but I let it slide. Saved the other batch to munch on in my truck during those fleeting quiet moments in between the pipes that I've come to cherish so much. Even heathens keep some things sacred.
Then, as always, there were the silent deals made with God and the devil. It's important to include both in case one's having an off day, and to deny the existence of One is to deny the existence of the other. Sometimes I throw the Easter Bunny into the mix for good measure, but never Saint Jude; that poor slob's got his own list of woes.
See, there were two birds doing the nasty in the lilac bush outside my kitchen window this morning. That's what Walt and Frost forgot to tell you: We're all only human. Even the birds are human. 'Human', as I use the term, means flawed by the unruly combination of instinct and desire. I once had a car that was human, it always stopped at the beer distributor on the way home from work. Those were the days when brew still did the job. Four stiff cocktails and I'm straight now. Straight enough to see crooked and smile wide for no good reason, often times a bad one. Not tonight, though. Tonight I deserve the pain of sobriety. Penance for all this humanity inside of me. The aftertaste of milk is aiding the process.
I got rid of the monkey, but now there's this albatross on my back. And it's not necessarily a bad thing, it's just a thing. A thing I'm not sure what to do with, where to keep. I am not capable of eluding a high-speed pursuit. I'm not capable of anything faster than the ticking of my watch sitting on my dresser to the left of my head. Quite frankly, I'm too sore to do anything but sink into bed tonight. This typing business is just a promise I made to myself, one of the few and true minority.
Citronella candles don't work as well as advertised, but I'm going to buy them anyway. Sometimes I bet the slow horse since I know it will lose. That knowledge is comforting. Almost as comforting as the smell of those burning yellow tins will be, even without the sound of the ancient bug zapper going off in the back of my head. My father and my neighbor shared one. Its bright blue light symbolized all being right in the world back then. It hung right on the property line behind the last peach tree. I hated the peach trees, the fruit would fall and I'd have to clean it all up and the bees would swarm 'round my six-year-old head. That's the head I miss most. It was smarter in knowing less. You don't appreciate good head 'til it's gone. And now I hate my father instead of the peach trees. He cut them down when I got old enough to tell him what I thought of picking up the fruit.
If you have to ask if there's something wrong, there probably is.
But at least the Easter Bunny made the rain hold out 'til night time for once. He's not such a bad guy sometimes, despite moments of humanity.
5.05.2009
5.03.2009
It didn't stay in Vegas.
The sky pissed down as two cops smoked in their squad car.
A Hispanic man pushed a perambulator down the wet sidewalk.
I'm left to wonder which was the greater crime.
Perhaps it was the rain soaking the living room furniture
that someone had left by the side of the road
for the next day-sleeper to sequester.
But we've all done worse for a Klondike Bar
between overhead lights and landing strips
so let's play by the house rules
and fetch our seconds for the duel.
Here I am, laughing at you
not with you
denying the fact that Sin's always ugly.
Satan slept on my sofa once, followed me ever since.
Now, for the love of God
will you all stop calling me Michael?
A Hispanic man pushed a perambulator down the wet sidewalk.
I'm left to wonder which was the greater crime.
Perhaps it was the rain soaking the living room furniture
that someone had left by the side of the road
for the next day-sleeper to sequester.
But we've all done worse for a Klondike Bar
between overhead lights and landing strips
so let's play by the house rules
and fetch our seconds for the duel.
Here I am, laughing at you
not with you
denying the fact that Sin's always ugly.
Satan slept on my sofa once, followed me ever since.
Now, for the love of God
will you all stop calling me Michael?
Coitus Interruptus
We lay in bed on a lazy Sunday morning
with shades drawn and lights out.
She closes her smoky eyes and tilts her head back
for a yawn. My right index fingers darts towards her face
as if by second nature, shoves itself into her uncovered mouth
in an attempt to tickle her tonsils, maybe make her gag.
It's a game I've played for a long time.
She bites down hard, harder than ever before
but I can't let out a sound.
When I finally get my finger back
I see the red indentations left by her flawless teeth
between my first and second knuckles
like temporary reminders of a permanent pain.
It's a game I've played for a long time, but still haven't perfected.
with shades drawn and lights out.
She closes her smoky eyes and tilts her head back
for a yawn. My right index fingers darts towards her face
as if by second nature, shoves itself into her uncovered mouth
in an attempt to tickle her tonsils, maybe make her gag.
It's a game I've played for a long time.
She bites down hard, harder than ever before
but I can't let out a sound.
When I finally get my finger back
I see the red indentations left by her flawless teeth
between my first and second knuckles
like temporary reminders of a permanent pain.
It's a game I've played for a long time, but still haven't perfected.
5.02.2009
Underliner.
Their points can be valid
their pen-strokes perfect
their cadence and word choice
grossly familiar
but you'll still be expected
to loathe the faceless fraud
whose notes have tainted
the book's margins since
long before you ever dreamed
of getting your grubby little hands
on the fucker.
their pen-strokes perfect
their cadence and word choice
grossly familiar
but you'll still be expected
to loathe the faceless fraud
whose notes have tainted
the book's margins since
long before you ever dreamed
of getting your grubby little hands
on the fucker.
5.01.2009
Weekly Jobsite Safety Meeting #341
"Jesus, Dave. This coffee tastes like shit."
"That's what you get for short-changing me again."
"The union's turning out some lousy apprentices."
"It's hard to find good help these days."
"You hear what happened to Raskey?"
"DWI?"
"Not that. Most of the guys in our local have at least one of those."
"So what'd he do now?"
"Got his nuts all twisted up."
"What do you mean? He's always bent outta shape."
"He did it for real this time...well, his girlfriend did."
"How the hell?..."
"She got a little over-zealous with her hands."
"He OK?"
"They had to open his ballbag up surgically and untangle them."
"The members should send him a Get Well card."
"No way, Kid. Would you want one?"
"Good point."
"Keep it to yourself. I only told you this for your own benefit."
"I'll never ask the Old Lady to cup the balls again..."
"Get married. The situation won't ever even present itself."
"You're a real ray of sunshine, Earl. Be a fountain, not a drain."
"You and your Goddamn plumbing puns, Shakespeare."
"That's what you get for ruining my coffee break."
"That's what you get for ruining my coffee."
"Raskey's got it worse."
"Agreed."
"That's what you get for short-changing me again."
"The union's turning out some lousy apprentices."
"It's hard to find good help these days."
"You hear what happened to Raskey?"
"DWI?"
"Not that. Most of the guys in our local have at least one of those."
"So what'd he do now?"
"Got his nuts all twisted up."
"What do you mean? He's always bent outta shape."
"He did it for real this time...well, his girlfriend did."
"How the hell?..."
"She got a little over-zealous with her hands."
"He OK?"
"They had to open his ballbag up surgically and untangle them."
"The members should send him a Get Well card."
"No way, Kid. Would you want one?"
"Good point."
"Keep it to yourself. I only told you this for your own benefit."
"I'll never ask the Old Lady to cup the balls again..."
"Get married. The situation won't ever even present itself."
"You're a real ray of sunshine, Earl. Be a fountain, not a drain."
"You and your Goddamn plumbing puns, Shakespeare."
"That's what you get for ruining my coffee break."
"That's what you get for ruining my coffee."
"Raskey's got it worse."
"Agreed."
No homo.
Real love is
putting another man's socks and underwear
in the dryer for him--
not in the washer machine, though;
that's just gay.
putting another man's socks and underwear
in the dryer for him--
not in the washer machine, though;
that's just gay.
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