The Truckee Greyhound Station

For the second time in my life, I woke up on a bench in a bus station. The latest incarnation was a result of a series of very very poor decisions. What started out as a glorified plan rapidly devolved into an ill-conceived scheme over the extended Thanksgiving holiday.
But as I woke, I wasn't thinking of my current circumstances but rather my original walkabout twenty-some years ago.
I was fourteen years old when I stole eighteen hundred dollars out of a secret compartment in my dad's office drawer. I'll give you two guesses as to why he'd hide that much cash in his office. Both guesses are probably right.
By that point in my life, my parents had grown used to me taking off sometimes for a couple days on end. We lived out in the boonies so camping was only a half-mile hike away. I'd walk out the door with my backpack and tell me folks that I'd be back later. They'd nod and mumble something in reply. As long as I didn't miss any school, it was never a big deal. I only went camping about half the time. The other half was spent riding a Greyhound bus no where in particular, usually as far as half of whatever money I had would take me.
But this time I was going to take the train. I had the eighteen hundred plus about three hundred of my own lawn-mowing and babysitting money. I caught the Zephyr just outside of town (it's discomforting how easy it is for a fourteen year old to buy an out-of-state train ticket). I was going to take it to Truckee then hitch to Westville where my grandfather had an old hunting cabin. It was pretty much a shitbox - no electricity or running water but it was isolated and perfect.
It was scheduled to be a 19 hour train trip through some of the least scenic landscapes on planet earth. Not that it mattered much because it got dark a couple hours after we left the station. I passed the time planning the next couple months - buying sundries, a fishing pole and a bunch of toilet paper. I figured the money would last me about six months before I'd have to think of something else.
I estimated that we'd be passing through Elko before anyone would notice that I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Not that they'd start looking or anything. My dad would think that I was with my uncles and my uncles would figure that I was over at some friend's house. I could probably get pretty near my final destination before anyone would start to panic.
But they'd be too busy getting ready for my mom's funeral. When I'd left, my sister was trying to decide what to wear, my dad's secretary was parked down the street after spending the night at our house (a year later she'd be complaing that I refused to call her "mom") and my grandmother had drugged herself catatonic.
The blizzard slowed us down quite a bit and it took nearly three hours to get to Truckee from Reno. I didn't have much luck hitching from there. I-70 had been shut down for about an hour by the time I got there. Semis and station wagons lined the streets with their engines running to keep the occupants warm. This wasn't part of my plan.
It's only four or so blocks from the train station to the Greyhound station so I trudged through the snow dragging my Yankees duffel bag behind me. I figured the bus would give me a better chance to get me close to where I wanted to go. It was close to 10PM by the time I got there and I had 9 hours until the next departure.
I fell asleep on a bench next to the window.

Better

I know it's just the same old wine
a nineteen dollar bottle of Louis Jadot
but it just tastes better on your lips

I know that I've heard it before
two syllables a million times
but my name just sounds better when you say it

I know your sister wears it too
that paralegal from work does too
but Amarige just smells better when you wear it

I know it's just my white dress shirt
sleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned
but it just looks better when you wear it

I know it's just a spot on the small of my back
I've been around the block a time or two
but it just feels better when you touch it

I know it's just the same old house
been here for eighty-some years
but it just feels better when you're in it

The Long Walk Home

If you've ever been down to Church Street Station in Orlando, you'll know what I'm talking about.
Church Street Station is the little entertainment district of downtown Orlando. Every Friday and Saturday night, the OPD cordons off two square blocks and open the streets to drunken tourists and college students. People mosey in and out of Rosie O'Gradys, the Cheyenne Saloon and the Orchid Garden.
But my favorite part?
At about 12:15AM, there's a CSX freight train that pulls directly through the party.
The first time I ever saw it, I was amazed. One minute there's hundreds of people carousing around the track, the next minute the RR crossing signs start flashing and barriers drop signalling the coming train. For several minutes the partying is put on hold while the freight train inches through. Once it's gone again, party on.
I was there with some friends of some friends of some friends. How I got from here to there is another post altogether. But anyways, on Friday night my group had met up with another group. I can't recall exactly if they were TA's from Rollins College or RA's from UCF, but I'm pretty sure it was one of the two.
Out of the new group, I had my eye on two or three women. Back then, my theory was to cast a wide net just in case one or two wiggled their way through the net. But there was one that I hadn't paid much attention to. Our only interaction had been when she finished one of my jokes. So we shared a laugh and little else.
We'd all decided to meet back up there the next night with the intention of getting stupid drunk then go driving go-karts at one of those places off International Drive (if you slip the guy at the gate an extra ten bucks, he'll turn a blind eye to any extracurricular bumping and slamming).
But by the time the next night rolled around, several people from both groups had found something (someone) else to do, so only about a half dozen of us were there on Church Street. Given that we now lacked our designated drivers as well, we thought it best to just hang out there for the evening. Drinking, flirting and general stupidity ensued.
A couple hours passed before we heard the tale-tell DING DING DING and saw the flashing lights. So we stood there drinks in hand as the train crawled through the intersection. But after about 10 or 12 cars, I noticed that many of them were empty and the sliding doors wide open. Now, maybe I'm just weird but when I see a slow-moving train with a bunch of open box cars, only one thought was crossing my mind;
I gotta jump on that bastard.
So I look to my left to see my friends standing there completely oblivious to the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity staring them in the face. Then I turned to my right and locked eyes with my joke-sharing compatriot. She had this evil little mischievous smile on her face and, without a word, I could tell that we we thinking the exact same thought.
I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head toward the train. She nodded and we both ducked under the barrier and paced the train until we could hop in through an open door. Howls of laughter and raucous applause could be heard as hurried inside and out of view of any police.
The inside of the car is pretty much what you'd expect - plank wood floors, girded metal walls, some scrap iron littering the deck. I guess it was around then that we first gave thought to a couple of fairly obvious questions - what do we do know, where the hell is this train going and how are we going to get home?
After laughing our asses off for a few minutes in pure idiotic glee, we answered the first question.
As the train finished it's trek through downtown Orlando, it began to gradually build up speed. The resulting rocking motion forced us to sit down against the forward wall. She turned to me and said," So are you going to kiss me or what?"
I guess when you're young and stupidly irresponsible, you haven't learned of many ways to communicate feelings of joy, passion, excitement, etc. If this had happened now that I'm older, I would have told her how amazingly brave and wonderfully crazy (in a good way) she was for jumping on the train with me. We would have spent that time telling jokes and exchanging antecdotes, finding out about who we were, building a foundation for later on.
But I was in fact young and stupidly irresponsible, so I just kissed her.
And she kissed me back.
The trained cruised through Winter Park, Maitland, Altamonte Springs and over the inland waterway before finally slowing down 100 miles later in Palatka. We jumped off a few hundred yards short of the railyard and sprinted behind an old metal shed to make sure we weren't caught. We hadn't planned on riding for so long, but.......
She held my hand as we walked a couple miles or so to a 7-11 for coffees and directions to somewhere we could rent a car. Then we huddled together down in the Enterprise parking lot while we waited a few hours for them to open. She sat to my left with her head on my shoulder and both arms wrapped around my one. I tried to think calming thoughts so she wouldn't feel my heart slamming against my chest.

First Day of School

If I hadn't paused to scan through CD's to find the right song
I would have made it in front of the bus on my way to work
I had forgotten that this was the first day of school
and I should add ten minutes to my commute

My delay was made worse by parents, camcorders and hugs
wishing kindergarteners love & luck with long goodbyes
Crying kids and tearful moms, clinical separation anxiety
But by next week they'll be glad to see them go

I was barely paying attention by the third stop, a safe distance behind
A woman hand in hand with her raven-haired son
her grip preventing him from racing towards the school bus
I hadn't seen her in almost five... no, six years

I heard that she had moved shortly after her wedding
Married an orthodontist or an oncologist, I can't remember which
I was at home drinking myself unconscious as they exchanged vows
Jim Beam in my right hand and wedding invitation clutched in my left

We'd never even officially broken up, just both knew it couldn't work
she met him sometime as we were fading away from each other
I secretly wished she'd find someone to take my place anyhow
Any excuse to blame my failure, my disease, my weakness on her

I wondered where she was working now, her hair done & mostly dressed
When I knew her, she'd grown weary of nightshifts in the NICU
One too many times coming home to me in blood & tear-stained scrubs
She was barefoot now beneath her tasteful skirt and blouse

They embraced then she checked his backpack - pencils, glue, scissors
He wiped her kiss off his cheek as he darted onto the bus
She waved while he stumbled his way to the empty back seat
Then he turned and looked at me with my eyes, my face, my lips

The Slow Sort Of Bad - Scheherazade Project

He used to think that flooding at test depth would be the worst way to go - a massive surge of pressure as the ocean overwhelmed the submarine would cause the men within to essentially implode. An instant yet ultraviolent death.
But waiting to die? This was much worse.
It had been 17 hours since a torpedo hot run had filled the forward compartment with cyanide gas, the faint scent of almonds lingering in the air. The subsequent explosion irreparably damaged the seals on the hatch separating the torpedo tube from the compartment.
It had been 14 hours since the knocking on the airtight door between the forward compartment and engine room had stopped. It had started out as a cacophonous banging but slowly degraded to an almost inaudible tapping as the men on the wrong side of the hatch succumbed. Only one of the remaining 11 crewmembers on the right side of the hatch made any effort to open it, but he was quickly restrained by the others. Opening that door would only slightly extend the life for the few lucky enough to survive the initial blast but would mean certain death for everyone else as the gas and smoke filled the only compartment not yet inundated with them.
So they sat there and listened to the banging turn into knocking turn into tapping turn into silence. None dared make eye contact with anyone else as the waited for their comrades to die.
Alexei dreaded the impending shame he would feel in the event they were rescued. How could he look into the eyes of the wives and children of the men he let die? How could he face his own family, his own father knowing he was a coward? He had been trained to fight fires and combat flooding. He had been drilled on every conceivable casualty scenario. But he had never been trained on how sacrifice other lives so that he may live.
Their initial expectation was that rescue was imminent. They could hear the emergency beacon reverberating of the sides of the hull and transmitting a signal to the other ships in the area. Surely it would be heard.
Hours passed before beacon faded to nothing as the ship's battery weakened, it's output now a trickle as the lights began to slowly dim. This was among other signs that their situation was getting worse rather than better - the aft section rising as the bow filled with water, the periodic bursts as the forward compartments & tanks collapsed under the intense pressure, and the undeniable diminishing of the ever-present hum of machinery and electronics.
The only officer present assigned teams of two to alternate pounding on the hull with wrenches, weighing the importance of signaling their position with the inescapable fact that the more energy they expended, the more oxygen they consumed. The sound would resonate through miles of seawater in hopes of reaching the sonar arrays of rescue ships.
They kept this up for 11 more hours, their efforts sustained only by drinking handfuls of water from the bilges and eating packets of sugar found in one of the lockers.
The monotonous sound of wrenches pounding against the bulkheads began to be interspersed with the sound of grown men weeping - weeping for sons & daughters never to be seen again, weeping for words unspoken to their wives, weeping for wasted years and weeping for their impending doom. Some began to write letters on whatever scraps of paper they could muster. While not knowing how much time they had left, the notes were rushed and absent of any extraneous thought or emotion. One was even a remorseful confession to his wife for infidelities too numerous to mention.
Then it began to happen.
At first it was the overweight diesel mechanic that drifted off to sleep. Then it was the 42-year old electrician. Not a word was spoken but every single one of the remaining men was secretly relieved - more air for them.
But the distress beacon MUST have been heard. Or at least some ship must have heard the rhythmic metallic beating against the hull. It was only a matter of time before they were rescued. They just had to stay awake.
But now gathered in the aft-most bay and surrounded by silent machinery, the men slipped away one by one. Some attempted to only inhale tiny amounts of air at a time, hoping against hope to buy just a few more minutes. Others discreetly took slow deep breathes, consuming more so that others would have less.
But not a single person moved. Not even an inch, fearful that any wasted movement would mean wasted air. But no matter how they tried, they couldn't stop their own hearts from beating faster and faster, racing away in panic and knowledge that rescue efforts would come too late. The more rapid their hearts fluttered, more oxygen was stripped from their lungs.
Then there were just eight left.
Then seven.
Four others went in rapid succession - one moment with tears running down their cheeks and the next moment..... nothing.
Alexei watched as his officer's eyelids began to slide down, pause for just a moment then continue all the way shut.
"I don't want to die. Please God don't let me die", begged his last remaining comrade.
Those were his last words, repeated over and over again until they became a whisper.
Alexei reached over and removed the philanderer's letter from the grip of his lifeless fingers. Pulling out his lighter and fully understanding it's oxygen-burning implications, he lit the note and brushed the ashes into the bilge below. He scribbled "I'll always love you" on a page ripped from his bible and put it in place of the original goodbye.
Then he held his breath and waited - waited for the slow sort of bad that robbed him of tomorrow.

A Hard Truth - Scheherazade Project

It's easier than you might think.
By the time I volunteered to do pro bono counseling at Mansfield Correctional (not to be confused with the Mansfield reformatory, site of Shawshank Redemption, Tango & Cash, etc - it's been closed down for over 15 years) most of the work had already been done. By then I already had a fairly comprehensive list of all the inmates, their crimes and sentences. From there it was only a matter of developing a profile for just the right target. God bless the internet.
You'd also be surprised at how easy it was to get inside. Prisons are so desperate for counselors that the background check consisted of little more than a basic criminal history (I didn't have one - my record has been expunged) and a set of my fingerprints.
Done.
Within two weeks of my initial offer to volunteer, I was counseling inmates in my own non-tape-recorded office. It was pretty much what you'd expect - anxiety over their wives fidelity on the outside, feelings of hopelessness, rough facades replaced by tears, etc. Not that I gave a shit about them or their problems. That wasn't what I was there for.
I started out hoping that one of the prisoners I had targeted would just walk right in, but after a week or so I started to get a little anxious. Thinking that I'd have to settle for less than desireable, I started amending my plans.
But I didn't have to. Because that's when I met 50 Grams. And he was perfect.
He was nicknamed 50 Grams because that's the smallest amount of pure methamphetamine that will trigger the harsher mandatory minimum of no less than 20 years. He was busted after a routine traffic stop turned up the meth in the trunk of his car - boom, first offense. The subsequent search warrant for his apartment turned up another 75 grams - boom, second offense & twenty to life.
Already 51 years old, it was essentially a death sentence and he knew it. He was going to die behind cinder blocks and razor wire.
I meant to work him along slowly, but I was just giddy in anticipation. I turned every session towards his feelings of remorse and regret for not being able to take care of his family. Week after week after week, I fed his inner turmoil until he was ready to explode.
"You have a daughter graduating high school this year, right? Is she planning on going to college" I asked innocently.
He answered that she had done well in school, but there was no money for college. Personally I found it remarkable that she even made it that far. I'd already searched the county records to find that she'd been in and out of foster care as her biological mother fought her own drug demons. The kid certainly deserved a better fate.
"But there are all sorts of scholarships and grants out there for deserving students, especially if there's a financial need. She'll find something". I just egged him on. "As a matter of fact, I give a $5,000 scholarship to children of inmates. I've done it for the last 3 years".
His eyes lit up.
Criminals know another con when they see one. It's just an awareness they have after having lived the Life for so long. And he knew right then that something devious was in the books.
I continued - "She really does sound quite deserving. Plus, it's not like you're some lowlife kiddy rapist. You know, kinda like the one living right down from you on the block - the guy that molested all the pre-schoolers. That guy is a real scumbag and deserves something else entirely."
His shoulders squared to me as he responded.
"So what would think he deserves?", both of us NOT having the same conversation.
"Oh, I don't know. But if it were me, I'd want him to get some of what he'd been giving to those little kids. A taste of his own medicine. Then I'd want him to bleed out as slowly and painfully as possible. Too bad he's locked up here though".
We both walked a little farther across the line.
"Well, things like that have been known to happen here behind bars. Guys like him usually don't make a lot of friends" he said, tacitly agreeing to his half of the deal.
"Frankly I think there's a certain honor in dealing justice like that. It's scary knowing that he's up for parole in 16 months. I don't see how he got 4 years while you got 20. It's just not right. But I'd bet that someone will take care of your family while you're in" I said as I tacitly agreed to my half of the deal.
We did one more session before he stopped coming. I did another month before I told the associate warden that I wouldn't be able to volunteer anymore. It was just becoming too big of a burden on my professional life.

A child molester was buried in scarcely marked grave on the prison grounds a few weeks later. The daughter of a meth junkie started community college four months after that.

And my pain still hasn't gone away.
Not after the molester.
Not after the punk that shot a gas station attendant for 27 bucks.
Not after the babysitter that shook an infant to death.
And not after the drunk driver that killed my fiance.

But maybe after the next one........

What We Needed - A Scheherazade Project Entry

Disclaimer - I wrote this in the window seat on a red-eye flight to Florida after a long day and a few drinks. I take no responsibility for it's shittiness.

What We Needed

The three of us originally planned to go island-hopping in the Caribbean for 10-12 days to celebrate college graduation. Not that our commencement was in any way praise-worthy. In fact, we’d all cruised through our four years with minimal effort and fanfare. So I suppose the vacation was really just an excuse to drink Red Stripe by the caseload in our best attempts to convince comely exotic beauties to recreate the Lancaster-Kerr beach scene in From Here To Eternity.
But after reviewing my finances, I knew that we would have to scale back our trip if I was going to be able to afford to go. I was a scholarship kid and the money would be coming out of my own savings. The cost wasn’t a factor at all for Travis or Derrin. They were both trust fundies and seemed to have unrestricted access to their fathers’ bank accounts.
So we decided to limit our trip to one island – Puerto Rico. There would be plenty to do and see to keep us busy between the beaches, rain forests, bars, etc. Besides, Derrin had said he had a Puerto Rican housekeeper as a kid and had a thing for that type ever since – soft eyes, raven hair, winsome bodies. I could tell that the opportunity to fulfill some prepubescent wanderlust was very appealing to him.
Our original plan was to spend the first four or five days touring the island and taking in all the tourist sites. But after we missed the tour bus on the first day, inertia kept us at the bars of San Juan pretty much the whole time. The nights were blurs of dance clubs, giggly island girls and empty Cuervo bottles. Mornings were spent stumbling back to our rooms, sometimes alone and sometimes not. The afternoons consisted of each of us filling our ice buckets with a three dollar bottle of Captain Morgans & a two liter of coke and slowly emptying them as we recuperated in lounge chairs by the pool.
It didn’t take us long to figure out that the discos weren’t the safest places to loiter after about 1-2 in the morning. Cash-soaked, liquor-drenched Americanos were prime targets for muggers, pick-pockets and bad characters in general. Fortunately for us, we were able to find a few places we could drink, relax and fraternize in relative safety after hours.
The bordellos.
Now it’s not necessarily what you think. They’re actually very nice establishments with bars downstairs and bedrooms upstairs. The working women chat you up as you drink and, if you’re interested in that sort of thing, lead you upstairs for a little stress relief. But if you just want to sit and drink, there weren’t a lot better places to do it. The Lucky 7, the Hawaiian Hut and the Black Angus were our favorites, the latter in particular.
We had three or four days to go and morose melancholia was beginning to set in. You can only drink so much before you drown in introspection or regretful contrition. Travis & Derrin dealt with it in their way and I dealt with it in mine. They had requisitioned a handful of girls at the Black Angus for a few hours of depraved gluttony. I had requisitioned a bartender to keep my glass filled downstairs.
I watched her descend the stairs through rum-filled eyes. It wasn’t just her natural blond-hair that made her stand out from the rest of the native women working there. It was just a clumsy gracefulness that seemed more than a little out of place. And I couldn’t figure out if she was smiling at me or just in spite of me. It wasn’t even a smile really. More of an upturned lip acknowledging me acknowledging her.
By now, I’m sure that everyone who worked there realized that I was only there to drink, but she sat down next to me anyhow.
“Is it ok if I hang out here while they clean my room?” she asked without regard to what my answer would be. She said it would be about a half hour and ordered a drink on my tab.
“You probably want to hear my story. How I got here, right?”
I’m sure she had a story, well-rehearsed and completely false, that she repeated to different men every night, explaining how she went from rural South Carolina to Puerto Rican whorehouse. Probably filled with larger-than-life characters and tales of rebellious (mis)adventure. I imagined the real story had more to do with a sexually abusive father and parasitic “boyfriends”, but neither of us really cared at that point.
“It depends. Do you want to tell it?”
“Not really” she conceded.
So we talked about personal nothings. She drew on a cigarette, leaned back in her chair to exhale, then leaned back in to draw me nearer. As if affirming some secret only the two of us shared, unspoken. Every few minutes she would take my left arm, pull it towards her and look at my watch, mindful of how much time we had left until she had to go back to work. And every time she did, I was filled with more and more panic that I was about to lose something I’d never had. It never occurred to me how little sense it made.
A khakied Brit walked across the room and placed his hand on her shoulder.
“How bout we go upstairs for a bit, sweetheart?”
I followed her eyes as they went from mine, to his hand, to his face, then back to mine again.
“A little later. I need to finish this conversation first”. Docile yet subtly assertive, he got her point and sulked over to the girl at the next table.
Effortlessly she took me by the hand and walked me over to the bartender.
“How long you gonna be?” he asked.
“The rest of the night” she answered for me as she took my wallet from my pocket, extracted four crisp one-hundred dollar bills and handed them to him.
Placid serenity washed over me as she led me to her room and laid me on her bed. Using the chair in the corner to support herself, Lillian leaned down and slid off her surprisingly casual heels and began to remove her stockings.
“No, that’s not what I want” I protested.
“I know, but I just don’t want to wrinkle my dress” she replied, seemingly amused by my chaste resistance. She turned around and knelt in front of me so that I could unzip her dress. It was only when she pulled it over her head and laid it gently on the chair that I noticed her become nervous, self-conscious. But it passed in a moment and she was herself again.
Now clad only in her bra and panties, she straddled my body and placed her lips next to my ear.
“Trust me” she breathed.
Using her left hand, she deftly unfastened the buttons of my shirt, unbuckled my belt and undressed me. She carefully folded my shirt and pants and placed them next to her clothes before lying down next to me. Her lips pressed against my ear as we wrapped our arms around each other and drifted off to sleep.

I was awoken by Travis the next morning. We were being “asked” to leave by management and the faster the better. I looked around groggily to see she was gone. Not a trace of her remained except for a faint scent of perfume. Travis tossed me my clothes, I got dressed and we left.
Before falling back to sleep in my own hotel room, I found a pink envelope in my jacket pocket that hadn’t been there before. In it were 4 fifty dollar bills and a note scribbled in eyeliner;

“Here’s my half. We both got what we needed – L.”

Things I Keep In The Box - Part One

Growing up, I was kind of a bookish & sickly little dork. I didn't have much in the way of a social life outside school and the only friends I had worth mentioning were the handful of guys I roomed with.
When I was around 15, I was in my dorm and the weather was getting a little chilly. The building was very old and the windows usually stuck open or shut at the most inconvenient of times. This was on of those times - I pulled, pounded and pushed until it finally closed...... right onto my right thumb, breaking it in two places.
The plaster cast went from the first knuckle of my fingers to halfway up my elbow.
I was two weeks into the month I was supposed to wear it when another classmate (let's call him Archie Costello) had his own accident - he broke his wrist at football practice when he was tackled by the biggest guy on the team.
Now Archie was the kind of guy who just pissed you off by being so fucking perfect - effortless valedictorian, president of every cheesy extracurricular club, captain of the football team - your basic posterboy for pubescent heterosexual sublimity.
So he walks into our trig class the next morning, right arm clad in a cast identical to mine in every way, save one - in the 13 hours he'd had his cast on, he had managed to get it covered in signatures, well-wishes and lame platitudes in an assortment of fonts and colors. One glance and I could tell that a majority of these had come from female hands - all the more of an accomplishment since it was an all male school.
After I looked at his cast, I looked down at my own older cast - the only writing on it was from myself, a scribbled reminder to finish my term paper by the previous Monday. Talk about a perfect microcosmic description of my own existence up to that point in my life.
I couldn't stop thinking about the stark contrast even after class had started. So damn unfair! Like I needed another reminder of how unpopular and anonymous I was. Completely ignoring whatever lesson the teacher was trying to cover, I withdrew into my own private cavern of self-pity and abasement.
So I barely noticed when the bell rang and the class began to empty... except for Archie. I only realized he was there when he lifted my casted arm and started to write in bold red permanent marker -

"Get well soon

Your Brother In Arm,

Arch"

"People are going to think that we're trying to start a new fashion trend" he said with a smile as he called a few of his buddies over. I sat there mute and brainless as they doodled, drew and autographed on my own cast until soon it was a veritable replica of Archie's - minus the girly script.

My cast lasted longer than Archie's. He cut his off on his own after a week and a half in order to play in the Homecoming game. Mine came off a week later.

I still have it in a box in my attic.

Emptiness - Scheherazade Project Entry

She had to stand tiptoed on a dining room chair to even be able to reach the heating vent. Her foggy recollection of a stashed bottle drove her frenetic search. The butter knife bent just a little as she unfastened the two retaining screws holding the cover in place, reaching inside and pulling out a blackdust-covered fifth - mere ounces left. The amber liquid served as a prism as the light from the chandelier filtered through the rum and danced on her face.
She drank until it was empty.

Ungracefully climbing down from her perch, she continued to the kitchen. Callously knocking over cereal boxes and Tuna Helper, she knew it was there somewhere there amongst the bottles of vinegar and salad dressings. Cooking sherry. Never opened. Bought under the suspicious eye of her husband (there was a new recipe she wanted to try, she told him). Her trembling hands slipped on the foil cover, unable to gain enough grip to twist off the cap. Undeterred, she grabbed the bottle by it's body and broke the neck over the edge of the marble countertop. The shards bloodied her lips as she up-ended the bottle.
She drank until it was empty.

Redness dripped down her chin and neck as she tried to organize her thoughts. The garage. Her gait a little more awkward now, she rambled down the hall and through the door. Unzipping each pocket of her husband's golf bag and probing until she found what she was looking for - his flask, given to him for serving as a best man at his little brother's wedding (the night she hit four mailboxes on the drive home). Past the point of being able to taste the scotch inside, she let every drop fall from the silver vessel.
She drank until it was empty.

With a new-found clarity of purpose, she returned to the kitchen. The refrigerator. The thirty-two ounce bottle of real vanilla bought for fifteen dollars during their vacation to Jamaica (his idea - he wanted to celebrate her six months of sobriety - she ended up unconscious at the bottom of Dunn's River Falls). 35% alcohol. Her apathy morphed into a reluctantant smile as the cool sweetness burned her bloody lips and coated her screamed-raw throat.
She drank until it was empty.

Now that she had drunk enough courage, she walked the mile down the hall and into her bedroom. Leaning up against the headboard, she pulled three things out of the nightstand drawer. The first, a pack of Newports - she slid one out, snapped off the filtered end, lit it and drew the delicious smoke into her lungs. The second, the note her husband had left on the dining room table - she read it one last time, folded it back up and laid it on her lap. The third, the S&W revolver her father had given to her when she turned 22 and moved out on her own - she placed it in her mouth.
She drank until it was empty.
She drank until she was empty.

Predator

I watched you dance through the rain-streaked window
swaying to a song only you could hear
oblivious to the danger just beyond your door

I crept up on your porch, thunder muting my steps
still watching you glide over the tile floor
I wondered if you were in there alone

My hand is against the glass now, shadowing your neck
the chill down my spine not from the cold
my claws scratching against the window pane

The latch barely creaked as I slipped inside
your back still turned facing the wireless
nothing between us but a thin cotton sun dress

Our eyes met in the stainless steel reflection
but you weren't alarmed or frightened
but casually reached for your sharpened blade

Just In Case

I noticed it only because of the deathly quiet
it's wings moved the air & the air moved the leaves
I looked to see it land in the crimson maple
the night heron's crest stark against the twilight sky

Curious as to how it wandered so far
I froze, not wanting to frighten it away
the bird's head swiveled across my gaze
Not certain if it was in danger or in sanctuary

I silently wondered about my winged guest
why my tree? why my plot of earth?
was it flying towards a safe secluded hideaway
or flying away from winter's wicked wrath?

My heart leaped as it looked to take air again
then leaped higher when it settled in to stay
I slowly crept back into the comfort of my home
but left the window open, just in case

C17H19NO3

I awoke from a dream in human form
crawled out of my black bed
through my black room
filled with yellow poppies

I walked in the light and examined myself
wearing someone else's clothes
speaking someone else's words
living someone else's life

I covered the eyes of a passing woman
showing her things she'd never seen
thoughts she never pondered
sins she had long forgotten

I laid her down in a bed of Ivory
promised her treasure and love
adorned her in silver and lace
as my brother prowled in the distance

I kissed her softly with milky lips
as she drifted off to narcotic slumber
her pulse lightened under my touch
her breath slowing to a whisper

I wrapped her completely in my arms
a stranger she's known all her life
just one of a thousand sons
who leaves before she wakes

Numb

I'm going to drink this absinthe
til I can't feel your hand in my hair
your lips on my neck
your breathe in my ear

I'm gonna take these pills
til I can't hear you calling my name
your accidental sigh
your heart against my chest

I'm gonna turn off the lights
til I can't see you walk in the room
take off your clothes
lay on my bed

I'm gonna get lost in myself
til I can't remember your laugh
the way you made me ache
the way I made you cry

I'm gonna take this poison
til I can't feel no pain
I can't taste your sweat
til I'm totally numb

Hypotheticals

What if I had business in your town
just for a day?

What if my hotel was just 10 minutes
from your house?

What if I happened to mention to you
my room number?

What if you could take that day off work
and maybe that night?

What if you happened to stop by
just for a minute
just to say "hi"?

What if no one else in the world
knew where we were
or what we were doing?

What if we forgot about everything
outside that room
just for a while?

What if we tried to pretend
to be somebody else
just for a day?

What if we gave into temptation
and crossed that line?

What if we satisfied our hunger
like never before?

What if we lost our inhibitions
as if nothing else mattered?

What if your sweat became mine
and mine became yours?

What if you walked out the door
as if nothing had happened?

What if we tried to get back
to living our lives?

What if no one else knew
about our precious secret?

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

The Empty Space

It followed me to the Cabo Rojo lighthouse
as I stood on the limestone cliffs
Two hundred feet above the sea
the Empty Space watched over my shoulder

It walked with me in Westminster Abbey
past the Unknown Warrior & Poets Corner
breathing in Chaucer's dust
The Empty Space's footsteps echoed

It bathed with me in the mist of Rifle Falls
then hiked to the catwalk above
leaned over the edge until we were sure to fall
The Empty Space grasping my arms

It sat behind me as I signed the mortgage
planning in our heads even then
to make the house all our own
The Empty Space lives in every room

It stood in the back at my best friend's wedding
where I was far from the Best Man
watching the last of my friends get married
The Empty Space danced alone

I've never been anywhere
I've never done anything
I'll never be anyone
without the Empty Space where you should have been

It's Not Enough

It's not enough to hear you say my name
I need to feel your breathe on my face as you say it

It's not enough to feel you
I need to hold you until every inch of your body touches every inch of mine

It's not enough to spend a moment with you
I need to be with you until the stars fall around us

It's not enough for me to make you happy
I need for you to never want again

It's not enough to know what perfume you wear
I need to swim in your scent, your sweat

It's not enough to love you
I need to to feel it in every synapse of your body

It's not enough to tell you
I need to show it for the rest of my life

The Bridge To NoWhere

We'd been running from the cops
for what seemed like an hour
both of us half-dressed and barefoot
the rest of our clothes under our arms
except for the sock & panty dropped behind us
laughing at our misfortune with every step

It's not like we planned it that way
we'd parked behind the old high school
with the most moral of intentions
just going to catch up on old times
maybe take a walk through the park a bit
and sit atop the Bridge To NoWhere

I didn't notice you steal the bottle from the head table
I don't even want to know where you stashed it
no place to hide it under your bridesmaid dress
and that look of pure mischief in your eyes
made me walk a bit faster, a tad quicker
thats when you decided to run onto the playground

I made you push me on the swingset
your dress nearly flew up over your head
as you almost made the back handspring on the balance beam
then walked over as I hung upside down on the monkey bars
and cocked my head to one side, yours to the other
and you kissed me, five years before Spiderman

That's when I knew I was in trouble

After indulging our inner seven year olds on the playground
we raced to indulge our inner seventeen year olds
your tafeta dress (or chiffon, I don't know) tore a little
as we crawled under the chain link fence
and travelled back in time ten years
right back to that night on the Bridge To NoWhere

You hopped up onto the guardrail, raised your dress a tad
as interstate traffic rushed beneath us
the whoosh of semis made your hair dance under the streetlight
you pulled me close & wrapped your legs around mine
undid my rented bowtie and silken cumberbund
when the passing cars noticed and honked their horns

unbuttoning, unzipping, unsnapping, unhooking, undressing
undoing every second that had passed us by
but feeling as if not a moment had ever slipped
since we'd seen each other last (as you walked down the jetway)
And we stood motionless for what seemed like forever
after we saw the headlights of the only police car in town

Before we ran off the other side of the Bridge To NoWhere

She Comes To Me

When it all gets to be a little too much
her husband is gone a little too long
she's feeling a little too alone
she comes to me

A cigarette whisper on the end of the line
desperation veiled by seduction
like orange stripes on a black wall
she comes to me

When she's had just a little too much to drink
my house is a little too close
my bed a little too comfortable
she comes to me

fingernails tapping on my kitchen window
her soul camouflaged in apathy
like black stripes on a black wall
she comes to me

When she's been thinking a little too much
memories a little too foggy
her needs a little too intense
she comes to me

Lips brushing against the back of my neck
hiding a secret in plain sight
like butterfly wings on a black wall
she comes to me