I was eighty-five miles away
close enough to think about driving home
far enough away to justify staying the night
a ring not quite on my finger
her ring not quite on hers
Reading Freaky Deaky in strip mall B&N
She was doing a Q&A for her book
an anthology of local murders, I think
it wasn't something I'd ask about
I just overheard every other question
She walked by twice, hoping I'd stop her
before she said that Leonard seemed light for me
I asked her what my middle name was
She said "I don't know, I don't know you"
I sneared "And don't you forget it"
Dean Koontz was her brain candy
I couldn't read him after Lightning
but we both liked DeMille
me for Cathedral & her for Charm School
It would be easy to get her home
but hard to get her undressed
I left my car in the parking lot
she drove a Prius or an Insight
I can't tell them apart
to an upscale cookie cutter flat
Minimalism could have been her style
but she was probably just poor
We drank cheap wine out of Riedel Sommelier glasses
She talked about Proust
I pretended to listen
until it was my turn to talk
about Lennon's nigger and The End
She ruined my favorite sweater
I got hard anyhow
She said she needed to change
I waited a half hour
then opened her bedroom door
she slept with a pillow between her legs
in a bra and panties
her alarm set for six ayem
I took 3 Ambiens from her cabinet
and fell asleep against her bathroom door
I woke when the pool opened at noon
her long gone for work, presumably unshowered
I went through her photo albums
the same boy at her prom
and again from just last year
I ripped out all his pictures
then burned them in the sink before I left
Friday, December 28, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
My Calling
If you asked me eighteen years ago where I thought I would be today, I would have told you with near-certainty that I would be a mission specialist preparing for my first shuttle launch. Yeah yeah, it was a goofy sappy aspiration but I pursued it with single-minded determination and fervent resolve.
If you told me that instead of working at Kennedy Space Center, I would be strapping an unconscious & naked 66-year old man to work table in the basement of my house, I would have had you institutionalized.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
My father was a psychiatrist, by training and sometimes trade. And as I still am now, I am my father's son. When I was young (10 or so), my dad's job fascinated me. Back then, my dad has his office downstairs at our home. We had a walkout basement and his patients would walk around the side of our house and through a set of french doors into an anteroom outside my dad's den/office. It wasn't a large room, maybe 12' x 12', but it was nicely appointed and had a wood-burning fireplace against the west wall.
During the summer when I was supposed to be outside playing, I would instead sneak around of the side of the house, quietly open the exterior ash cleanout door of the fireplace and eavesdrop on his sessions. And when my parents would go out for the evening, I would creep into my father's office, steal one or two of the cassete tape recordings he made of his appointments as well as his post-session recorded notes. I would get into bed and listen to the tapes on my Walkman until late into the night.
I don't know that if it was that I was getting more mature and subsequently more capable of recognizing nuance and subdued verbal cues or if my father was just becoming more calloused, but the tapes seemed to reveal a progressive degradation in the attention he placed towards his job. Initially, he would spend about 45 minutes after each session recording notes to himself, summarizing the appointment and preparing his approach to the next scheduled session. It was very detailed and meticulous. But as the months and years wore on, there was a subtle yet inarguable shift in his approach to his work. Where he was once proactively probed and questioned his patient during their session, he now just randomly interspersed some "hmm"s with a few "uh-huh"s. His once voluminous post-session recordings now became "Patient feeling more and more sorry for himself - I should make an effort to blow some smoke up his ass next week".
It was right there laying in my bed listening to those tapes that I decided that I didn't want any part of an occupation that numbed your soul and jaded your compassion.
I was in the Physics club in high school (sexy, I know). I went to college with a relatively prominent physics program. I was a physics major..... until midway through my sophomore year.
I am my father's son.
I was a psychologist way before I was a psychologist. Free will never had much to do with it.
You see someone hurting, you see someone lost, you see someone in pain - if you have the means and ability, then you have to do something about it.
When you're in you 20's, that sounds noble and righteous.
When you're in your mid-30's, you realize that it's a Sisyphean task. You never run out of the hurt, the lost or the pained. You start out naively thinking that you can immerse yourself in the depths of human misery without succumbing to despair. If, day after day, you hear about abuse and self-harm and adultery and incest and failure, it wears on you. You're faced with three distinct courses of action;
If you told me that instead of working at Kennedy Space Center, I would be strapping an unconscious & naked 66-year old man to work table in the basement of my house, I would have had you institutionalized.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
My father was a psychiatrist, by training and sometimes trade. And as I still am now, I am my father's son. When I was young (10 or so), my dad's job fascinated me. Back then, my dad has his office downstairs at our home. We had a walkout basement and his patients would walk around the side of our house and through a set of french doors into an anteroom outside my dad's den/office. It wasn't a large room, maybe 12' x 12', but it was nicely appointed and had a wood-burning fireplace against the west wall.
During the summer when I was supposed to be outside playing, I would instead sneak around of the side of the house, quietly open the exterior ash cleanout door of the fireplace and eavesdrop on his sessions. And when my parents would go out for the evening, I would creep into my father's office, steal one or two of the cassete tape recordings he made of his appointments as well as his post-session recorded notes. I would get into bed and listen to the tapes on my Walkman until late into the night.
I don't know that if it was that I was getting more mature and subsequently more capable of recognizing nuance and subdued verbal cues or if my father was just becoming more calloused, but the tapes seemed to reveal a progressive degradation in the attention he placed towards his job. Initially, he would spend about 45 minutes after each session recording notes to himself, summarizing the appointment and preparing his approach to the next scheduled session. It was very detailed and meticulous. But as the months and years wore on, there was a subtle yet inarguable shift in his approach to his work. Where he was once proactively probed and questioned his patient during their session, he now just randomly interspersed some "hmm"s with a few "uh-huh"s. His once voluminous post-session recordings now became "Patient feeling more and more sorry for himself - I should make an effort to blow some smoke up his ass next week".
It was right there laying in my bed listening to those tapes that I decided that I didn't want any part of an occupation that numbed your soul and jaded your compassion.
I was in the Physics club in high school (sexy, I know). I went to college with a relatively prominent physics program. I was a physics major..... until midway through my sophomore year.
I am my father's son.
I was a psychologist way before I was a psychologist. Free will never had much to do with it.
You see someone hurting, you see someone lost, you see someone in pain - if you have the means and ability, then you have to do something about it.
When you're in you 20's, that sounds noble and righteous.
When you're in your mid-30's, you realize that it's a Sisyphean task. You never run out of the hurt, the lost or the pained. You start out naively thinking that you can immerse yourself in the depths of human misery without succumbing to despair. If, day after day, you hear about abuse and self-harm and adultery and incest and failure, it wears on you. You're faced with three distinct courses of action;
- you either become my father - calloused to the torment of the people who place their trust in you
- you let yourself sink deeper and deeper into a bottomless pit of sordid misfortune
- or you walk away
I walked away about a year ago. My thinking was that I would allow myself to be powerless - unable to help a stranger looking for directions, unwilling to pull over to help an old man change his flat tire, unqualified to talk a jumper down from a ledge. I was going to be selfish. I was going to ignore any plea, any cry for help.
So almost a full year passes.
I'm still alone. But now I don't have the excuse of an emotionally-draining job for my isolation. I'm still thirteen hundred miles from any close family member. But now I don't have the excuse of the tempestuous relationship with my father to blame for it.
I was lost. Didn't know where I was going and now I wasn't even sure where I had been. Worse still, there was still no escaping the pain and grief - you turn on the TV and it's nothing but little girls being raped and killed by meth addicts, little boys being kidnapped and molested, wives being murdered and dismembered. At least when I was younger and saw someone in need, I had the means and ability to help them.
Then it came to me.
My calling.
I DID have the means and ability to help the raped, the molested and the murdered. I'm relatively financially secure. I live alone in a fairly remote house and property. And perhaps most importantly, I'm already convinced that my lifetime of inflicting pain on others has reserved my spot in hell.
It first hit me when I was watching Court TV. They were running one of their cold-case docudramas about a woman who had gone missing in 1975. She tucked her two kids into bed one night then was reported missing when she didn't show up at her job the next morning. There was wide concensus that her recently estranged husband was responsible for her disappearance. He had been a real dirtbag, a history of domestic violence against both his wife and his kids, alcoholism and drug abuse. The police had some forensics evidence from the house, but without her body, they never had enough the press charges. He was still walking free that day. The last shot of the show was him walking in to his front door with a smirk on his face.
So I was watching this show and I couldn't help but thinking that somebody should just take a 2"x4" to the husband and smack that smile clean off his face. Then I looked across the room to the hall bathroom where I've been doing some work to see a half dozen 2"x4"s leaning against the wall.
The means and the ability.
THIS is my calling. I have never been so certain of anything in my entire life. I am vengeance. I am justice. I am the reckoning.
Given enough time (and a strong enough stomach), it's relatively easy to get somebody to talk. Interrogation is all about psychology. When I was in school, we learned about a few different "interviewing" techniques most of which were modification to what's now known as the Reid technique - a nine step methodology for eliciting confessions. But what I needed to do was a bit different, essentially just steps 1, 3, 4, 5, 6 & 9 with welding torches substituting for 2, 7 and 8. And I didn't necessarily care about a confession per se - I needed evidence - the location of a missing body, a murder weapon or anything else objectively incriminating.
But you know what? Maybe I didn't even care about that. Maybe I'm just trying to assign nobility to the sociopathic. Maybe the only difference between him and me is that my victims deserve it. But does it matter to you anyhow? Do you really care if my motivations are honorable or if they're demented? Would you care who saved you if you were drowning? Fuck it all.I snuck into his house while he was at work and bought an Amtrak ticket to Salt Lake City in his name with his Visa Card.
I tailgated with him in the muni lot before the football game.
I offered to drive him home as he stumbled back to his car.
I placed his cell phone in an open boxcar as he lay passed out in my passenger seat.
I strapped him to the workbench in my basement with cargo tiedowns.
I burned his clothes in my bedroom fireplace.
I scorched the soles of his feet with a soldering torch so he knew I was serious (and so he couldn't run).
I ignored his muffled pleas for mercy.
I burned his tears as they ran down his face.
I smeared Vaporub on my upper lip to cover up the smell.
I felt nothing as he lost control of his bodily functions.
I placed the tape recorder closer to his face when his voice lowered to a whisper.
I listened as a godless man prayed for forgiveness.
I think he was relieved when I placed my fingers around his throat.
I laid down on the couch as my dog licked my hand.
I buried a husband next to his wife.
I said a prayer for absolution.
I said a prayer for guidance.
I began to plan.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Baby, It's Cold Inside - A Scheherezade Project
This is one of those stories that requires a substantial prologue. So here it goes;
Growing up, my family wasn't big on the traditional holiday experience. I don't mean this in a judgmental way, in terms of bad or good - they just weren't. Specifically, I don't ever remember a time when I actually believed in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. That illusion was just never perpetuated in my household. The one symbol of yuletide jubilee that we did tolerate - the Christmas tree - became nomore as we started spending the holidays in south Florida when I was a teenager. Most of my birthdays consisted of a drive into town so I could pick out something from the mall.
I went to high school out of state. I went home during the holidays of my freshman and sophomore years, but after that? I just mostly hung out at school.
Even now, with my family scattered between the west, midwest, southeast and western Europe, I usually just take the holidays as an opportunity to hole up and relax.
And now on to the story.....
I spent most of the year 2001 doing some contract work for pharmaceutical company. As far as the nature of the work went, it was pretty mindless for me. Even then, I just wasn't well-suited for rush hour commutes, cubicles and performance reviews. Just not my thing.
But there was one thing that I DID like - the company softball team.
Now, I wasn't technically an employee of the company, but considering that 90% of the people who worked there made Stephen Hawking look like Mark McGwire, they made an exception for me.
It was pretty much a beer league - not very competitive by any measure. But it was coed.
And that's where I met Leah.
At the time, I was working exclusively in HR while she worked in Research. So the only time we ever crossed paths was on the softball field. It was hard for me to get a bead on her. The contrast between her jet black hair against her pale pale skin made it hard to tell if she was Snow White or Meg White. But that was kind of my thing at the time. I was a fool for the goth chicks (which sucked for me since I was about as attractive to goth chicks as a Touched By An Angel marathon).
And she just worked me. I'd catch her eyeing me from across the infield as she played second and I played third. She'd stretch out right in front of me before our games. She'd sit just far enough away from me on the bench. And she'd brush by me to grab a beer at the bar afterwards.
But she never approached me. She never came on to me. She never dropped a clue.
She made me work for it.
And right around the start of the playoffs, she finally broke me. She completely wrecked me.
I asked her out. She said yes.
Things went well, to say the least. Given the nature of my job at the time, we had to keep things on the down-low at work, but I think that only served to add to the intensity of out relationship. The simply act of passing her in the hall turned into... I don't know. It was something else. She just had a way.....
So this goes on for a few months. Through September. Through October. Through November.
Then came December.
Were were laying in her bed when she asked me to spend Christmas with her at her folks house outside of Charlottesville, Virginia. I don't think we had talked about my predisposition for non-traditional holidays, but it seemed like she knew in advance how to sell it - we'd just spend Christmas Eve and Christmas day at her parents house, then we'd spend a few days at Greenbriar all by ourselves. No big deal, right? Besides, I didn't have any other plans.
So we went.
Looking back at it now, she spent the whole drive down there preparing me for what was going to happen - her parents were kind of old-fashioned so I was going to sleep in her brother's old room, there will probably be some of her aunts & uncles there too, she was the only daughter so her brothers were probably going to give me a hard time (but they mean well), etc.
So I should have seen it coming.
What I pictured was something out of a suburban Addams Family, but what I got was something more out of a de-pigmented Cosby Show.
I spent the morning of Christmas Eve playing "flag" football with her brothers, cousins & uncles. Well, not so much "flag football" as it was "throw the ball to Assclown then let everybody pile on top of him". But it was kind of a blast. I got my ass beat, but I was a good-natured ass-beating. After we showered and changed, Leah and I ran into town real quick to do some last minute shopping for a few of her cousins that she didn't know were going to be there. We were looking through the boys clothing at the Abercrombie & Fitch when she took me by the hand, led me to a corner in the back, pushed me against the wall and put her right hand over my mouth.
"I'm going to tell you something, and you're not going to say a word in return, ok? You're just going to listen and shut up about it, right?" she said.
Before I could even nod out a yes, she told me that she loved me.
I started to say something......... but she raised her eyebrows, muffled my words with her hand and led me back into the store.
When we got back to the house, there were even more family there. Grandparents and nieces and Aunts and in-laws. And I had to be introduced to every single one. What did I do? How did Leah and I meet? Where do my parents live? Did I go to UVa? Etc, etc, etc.
I spent most of the night catching glimpses of her as the swinging butlers door opened and closed. A half second of her licking a mixing spoon. A momentary glimpse of her whispering in her mother's ear. A flutter of her looking towards me.
We sat next to each other at dinner. We held hands under the table as her father said grace, giving thanks for the blessings of his friends and family. About 20 minutes into the meal, he father gives me a smile and says, "Soooo, Leah tells me that you're a consultant. How does that work - do you just go from company to company, doing your thing until a better offer comes around?"
She shook her head in his direction, but I answered the question he was really asking. I hoped he took comfort in my answer.
We went to the candlelight service at their church, then came back to put the younger kids to sleep and go downstairs to just have a few drinks.
Or so I thought.
Until her aunt busts out the karaoke machine. It was worse than I could have possibly imagined. Her goateed uncle sang Bad to the Bone. Her Dad sang Luck Be a Lady. My heart stopped as Leah sang Killing Me Softly. Her mom wanted to a duet with her father, but he was too tired to get up from his chair. So she drug me up to the microphone and we sang Baby, Its Cold Outside.
It was about as Norman Rockwellian of a moment as I've ever experienced.
And I spent the entire two days alternating between sheer bliss and unbridled fear.
I waited two weeks after we got back to break up with her.
I just don't know if I could be that person. Certainly not then. And maybe it's too late for me now.
Growing up, my family wasn't big on the traditional holiday experience. I don't mean this in a judgmental way, in terms of bad or good - they just weren't. Specifically, I don't ever remember a time when I actually believed in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. That illusion was just never perpetuated in my household. The one symbol of yuletide jubilee that we did tolerate - the Christmas tree - became nomore as we started spending the holidays in south Florida when I was a teenager. Most of my birthdays consisted of a drive into town so I could pick out something from the mall.
I went to high school out of state. I went home during the holidays of my freshman and sophomore years, but after that? I just mostly hung out at school.
Even now, with my family scattered between the west, midwest, southeast and western Europe, I usually just take the holidays as an opportunity to hole up and relax.
And now on to the story.....
I spent most of the year 2001 doing some contract work for pharmaceutical company. As far as the nature of the work went, it was pretty mindless for me. Even then, I just wasn't well-suited for rush hour commutes, cubicles and performance reviews. Just not my thing.
But there was one thing that I DID like - the company softball team.
Now, I wasn't technically an employee of the company, but considering that 90% of the people who worked there made Stephen Hawking look like Mark McGwire, they made an exception for me.
It was pretty much a beer league - not very competitive by any measure. But it was coed.
And that's where I met Leah.
At the time, I was working exclusively in HR while she worked in Research. So the only time we ever crossed paths was on the softball field. It was hard for me to get a bead on her. The contrast between her jet black hair against her pale pale skin made it hard to tell if she was Snow White or Meg White. But that was kind of my thing at the time. I was a fool for the goth chicks (which sucked for me since I was about as attractive to goth chicks as a Touched By An Angel marathon).
And she just worked me. I'd catch her eyeing me from across the infield as she played second and I played third. She'd stretch out right in front of me before our games. She'd sit just far enough away from me on the bench. And she'd brush by me to grab a beer at the bar afterwards.
But she never approached me. She never came on to me. She never dropped a clue.
She made me work for it.
And right around the start of the playoffs, she finally broke me. She completely wrecked me.
I asked her out. She said yes.
Things went well, to say the least. Given the nature of my job at the time, we had to keep things on the down-low at work, but I think that only served to add to the intensity of out relationship. The simply act of passing her in the hall turned into... I don't know. It was something else. She just had a way.....
So this goes on for a few months. Through September. Through October. Through November.
Then came December.
Were were laying in her bed when she asked me to spend Christmas with her at her folks house outside of Charlottesville, Virginia. I don't think we had talked about my predisposition for non-traditional holidays, but it seemed like she knew in advance how to sell it - we'd just spend Christmas Eve and Christmas day at her parents house, then we'd spend a few days at Greenbriar all by ourselves. No big deal, right? Besides, I didn't have any other plans.
So we went.
Looking back at it now, she spent the whole drive down there preparing me for what was going to happen - her parents were kind of old-fashioned so I was going to sleep in her brother's old room, there will probably be some of her aunts & uncles there too, she was the only daughter so her brothers were probably going to give me a hard time (but they mean well), etc.
So I should have seen it coming.
What I pictured was something out of a suburban Addams Family, but what I got was something more out of a de-pigmented Cosby Show.
I spent the morning of Christmas Eve playing "flag" football with her brothers, cousins & uncles. Well, not so much "flag football" as it was "throw the ball to Assclown then let everybody pile on top of him". But it was kind of a blast. I got my ass beat, but I was a good-natured ass-beating. After we showered and changed, Leah and I ran into town real quick to do some last minute shopping for a few of her cousins that she didn't know were going to be there. We were looking through the boys clothing at the Abercrombie & Fitch when she took me by the hand, led me to a corner in the back, pushed me against the wall and put her right hand over my mouth.
"I'm going to tell you something, and you're not going to say a word in return, ok? You're just going to listen and shut up about it, right?" she said.
Before I could even nod out a yes, she told me that she loved me.
I started to say something......... but she raised her eyebrows, muffled my words with her hand and led me back into the store.
When we got back to the house, there were even more family there. Grandparents and nieces and Aunts and in-laws. And I had to be introduced to every single one. What did I do? How did Leah and I meet? Where do my parents live? Did I go to UVa? Etc, etc, etc.
I spent most of the night catching glimpses of her as the swinging butlers door opened and closed. A half second of her licking a mixing spoon. A momentary glimpse of her whispering in her mother's ear. A flutter of her looking towards me.
We sat next to each other at dinner. We held hands under the table as her father said grace, giving thanks for the blessings of his friends and family. About 20 minutes into the meal, he father gives me a smile and says, "Soooo, Leah tells me that you're a consultant. How does that work - do you just go from company to company, doing your thing until a better offer comes around?"
She shook her head in his direction, but I answered the question he was really asking. I hoped he took comfort in my answer.
We went to the candlelight service at their church, then came back to put the younger kids to sleep and go downstairs to just have a few drinks.
Or so I thought.
Until her aunt busts out the karaoke machine. It was worse than I could have possibly imagined. Her goateed uncle sang Bad to the Bone. Her Dad sang Luck Be a Lady. My heart stopped as Leah sang Killing Me Softly. Her mom wanted to a duet with her father, but he was too tired to get up from his chair. So she drug me up to the microphone and we sang Baby, Its Cold Outside.
It was about as Norman Rockwellian of a moment as I've ever experienced.
And I spent the entire two days alternating between sheer bliss and unbridled fear.
I waited two weeks after we got back to break up with her.
I just don't know if I could be that person. Certainly not then. And maybe it's too late for me now.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Show & Tell Tuesday: Oldest T-Shirt
I played a little football when I was in high school. From a purely objective perspective, I was a slightly-better-than-average player. But considering the fact that I competed with & against a disproportionately high percentage of Asian kids and future proctologists, I stood out a bit more than I otherwise should have. If I would have played for a public school, I definitely would have been more middle-of-the-pack.
I played a little bit of everything but mostly wide receiver and strong safety (for the sake of the girlies in the audience, that's the guy who catches the ball and the guy that hits the guy that catches the ball). I was kind of a total dick once I got on the football field, talking a LOT of trash and committing the occasional personal foul (not a lot of risk involved considering, as I said, that I was playing against mostly Japanese and Sri Lankan kids). I don't know what brought it out, but I just seemed to have a lot more anger on the field than I did off of it.
I also punted, although I absolutely hated it. I thinks it's the least manliest role on the entire team. At least the field goal kicker got to score points. I just got to stand back there and pray that Sumir could block the guy coming off the edge. But unlike my receiver and safety abilities, it was my punting skills that got me scholarship offers.
Well, actually it was only ONE scholarship offer. To Oregon State.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the Fightin' Beavers, Oregon State wasn't a very good football team back then. From 1976 through 1996, they averaged about 2 victories per year (mostly against nursing schools and smaller community colleges). So it wasn't exactly a prestigious honor, but I was looking forward to it nonetheless.
The OSU campus is in Corvallis. It's really a beautiful place, close to both the mountains and the Pacific, and just far enough away from home. I grew up out west but when to high school in a place about as mountainous as Topeka, Kansas so it was going to be good to get back in my element.
National Letter of Intent Day was in late January.
I was playing a game of pickup football in late December. I caught a pass, planted my left foot in the mud and POP! My anterior cruciate ligament got jiggy wit it.
It wasn't like it is today, when an ACL tear is a very recoverable injury. Back then it meant that you were done. And I was. Scholarship offer rescinded. Dreams of getting my ass handed to me by UCLA gone in an instant.
So this is the t-shirt I was given by one of OSU's assistant coaches before I became an invalid. It's now 18+ years old and gets worn under black v-neck sweaters whenever I'm feeling saucy.
Whenever I put it on, I can't help but wonder what would have happened if my foot had just landed 3 inches to the left. Or if Baxter had thrown the ball to somebody else. Or if I'd just slept in that Saturday. Not so much that I didn't get to play football again, but rather the people I would have (and wouldn't have) met, the places I would have (and wouldn't have) been and how different my life would have been in general.
I had no chance of playing anything other than 3rd string for a shitty football team, but sometimes it just makes you wonder.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
The Rest Of The Story Vol. II - Things I Keep In The Box
The only thing I knew about Scott at the time was that he was an Art Kid. Our school was much like any other (as much as it could be). We had stoners, preppies, burnouts, geeks, jocks.... and Art Kids. That was Scott.
The only reason I was aware of his existence was that he went through regular fashion phases as he attempted to fit in with some clique. He did the skater thing, then the goth thing, then the uber-geek thing before finally settling in with the artsy thing. This was made all that more amusing with the fact that we had uniforms and a fairly strict dress code dictating haircuts, color, jewelry, etc. So any attempt to stand out was fairly obvious (and in vain).
So I was, at best, vaguely aware of his existence when I broke my wrist skiing (not playing football). I only noticed him (and his older cast) when I caught him staring at mine the first morning I had it in class. At first I thought it was kind of strange. he wasn't paying attention to anything else - not the instructor, not the fellow students, not even me - just my cast.
It was only then that I noticed that are casts, altough similar in size and location, were completely different. His had one thing scribbled on it in ballpoint pen, while mine was pretty much covered with autographs and doodles. I'd stopped by my girlfriend's basketball game on the way back from the emergency room and she had all her friends sign it. Then some of my buddies signed it when I got back to the dorm as we hung out in the lounge. But he'd had his on for at least a couple of weeks. Nothing on it.
All of a sudden, I felt like shit.
As stupid as it sounds now, crap like that mattered back then. It mattered how many people signed your yearbook, it mattered how many letters you got girls back home...... and it mattered how many signatures you had on your cast.
I had dozens. He had none.
And we both hated it.
I didn't sign his cast after class to make him feel better. I did it to make me feel better. It's not like we started hanging out together after that or became lifelong friends. But I think it mattered to me and maybe it even mattered to him.
But there are people like him all over the place even now. All they need is a "hello", a smile or even just the smallest recognition that they exist. And I've been guilty of walking on by, not even cognizant of their presence, too wrapped up in my own life and my own stupid problems to even notice.
So hello.
The only reason I was aware of his existence was that he went through regular fashion phases as he attempted to fit in with some clique. He did the skater thing, then the goth thing, then the uber-geek thing before finally settling in with the artsy thing. This was made all that more amusing with the fact that we had uniforms and a fairly strict dress code dictating haircuts, color, jewelry, etc. So any attempt to stand out was fairly obvious (and in vain).
So I was, at best, vaguely aware of his existence when I broke my wrist skiing (not playing football). I only noticed him (and his older cast) when I caught him staring at mine the first morning I had it in class. At first I thought it was kind of strange. he wasn't paying attention to anything else - not the instructor, not the fellow students, not even me - just my cast.
It was only then that I noticed that are casts, altough similar in size and location, were completely different. His had one thing scribbled on it in ballpoint pen, while mine was pretty much covered with autographs and doodles. I'd stopped by my girlfriend's basketball game on the way back from the emergency room and she had all her friends sign it. Then some of my buddies signed it when I got back to the dorm as we hung out in the lounge. But he'd had his on for at least a couple of weeks. Nothing on it.
All of a sudden, I felt like shit.
As stupid as it sounds now, crap like that mattered back then. It mattered how many people signed your yearbook, it mattered how many letters you got girls back home...... and it mattered how many signatures you had on your cast.
I had dozens. He had none.
And we both hated it.
I didn't sign his cast after class to make him feel better. I did it to make me feel better. It's not like we started hanging out together after that or became lifelong friends. But I think it mattered to me and maybe it even mattered to him.
But there are people like him all over the place even now. All they need is a "hello", a smile or even just the smallest recognition that they exist. And I've been guilty of walking on by, not even cognizant of their presence, too wrapped up in my own life and my own stupid problems to even notice.
So hello.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The Lie - A Scheherazade Project Entry
I told her I was tired and really didn't feel like going out
she seemed ok with it but asked if she could just come over
just for a little while, maybe order Chinese & watch a movie
I felt better knowing she was on her way over
She unlocked the door, key in one hand & groceries in the other
"I felt like cooking. Is that ok?" she asked before kissing my neck
and stroking my back as I sat working at my desk
"Sounds perfect. Let me finish this one thing then I can help"
We maneuvered around each other in my under-construction kitchen
grilling chicken, boiling noodles and slicing tomatoes
like we've done dozens of times before, our tasks unspoken
she gives her "naughty boy" look when my hand lingers on her thigh
She tells me about Mrs. Thaelus at work, matchmaker for her gay son
knowing that I don't care but only talking about it to make me laugh
and it works as I try to hide my smile, but she sees it anyhow and grins
by now wearing only a camisole, her blouse draped over the chair
We eat as she pries out the details of my week, labors unrewarded
knowing that I need to tell them despite my half-hearted reluctance
it feels better getting it all out, but I'm sorry she's bearing the brunt
on her slight wispy shoulders and graceful musician's hands
She leans her back against the arm of the couch as I rest my head in her lap
her fingers interlaced in my hair as we half pay attention to The Guardian
drinking a bottle of wine she brought back from Asheville, saved just for me
she slides down in front of me, facing away, as I wrap her in my arms
I feel her breathe dance on my wrist and her pulse throb in my hand
no more talking as we take pleasure in this fleeting peaceful moment
A moment that I'd rarely allowed myself before her, before this
smelling her hair and perfume as I draw her even closer
The credits roll as she turns to face me, bliss and contentment in her eyes
placing her hand on my face as our lips and bodies come together
"I'm going to stay the night, ok?" she asks as if it was even a question
she takes my hand and leads me down the hall to the bedroom
So why couldn't I stop thinking about you?
she seemed ok with it but asked if she could just come over
just for a little while, maybe order Chinese & watch a movie
I felt better knowing she was on her way over
She unlocked the door, key in one hand & groceries in the other
"I felt like cooking. Is that ok?" she asked before kissing my neck
and stroking my back as I sat working at my desk
"Sounds perfect. Let me finish this one thing then I can help"
We maneuvered around each other in my under-construction kitchen
grilling chicken, boiling noodles and slicing tomatoes
like we've done dozens of times before, our tasks unspoken
she gives her "naughty boy" look when my hand lingers on her thigh
She tells me about Mrs. Thaelus at work, matchmaker for her gay son
knowing that I don't care but only talking about it to make me laugh
and it works as I try to hide my smile, but she sees it anyhow and grins
by now wearing only a camisole, her blouse draped over the chair
We eat as she pries out the details of my week, labors unrewarded
knowing that I need to tell them despite my half-hearted reluctance
it feels better getting it all out, but I'm sorry she's bearing the brunt
on her slight wispy shoulders and graceful musician's hands
She leans her back against the arm of the couch as I rest my head in her lap
her fingers interlaced in my hair as we half pay attention to The Guardian
drinking a bottle of wine she brought back from Asheville, saved just for me
she slides down in front of me, facing away, as I wrap her in my arms
I feel her breathe dance on my wrist and her pulse throb in my hand
no more talking as we take pleasure in this fleeting peaceful moment
A moment that I'd rarely allowed myself before her, before this
smelling her hair and perfume as I draw her even closer
The credits roll as she turns to face me, bliss and contentment in her eyes
placing her hand on my face as our lips and bodies come together
"I'm going to stay the night, ok?" she asks as if it was even a question
she takes my hand and leads me down the hall to the bedroom
So why couldn't I stop thinking about you?
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The Rest of the Story - 1511
I have a confession to make - some of my posts are completely 100% absolutely true (more than you probably know) and some of them are little slivers of truth surrounded by metaphor and bullshit.
1511 was one of the latter.
I was in Seattle three years ago for a week's worth of work. Actually it was about a day's worth of work but I was given a week to do it. I'll spare you my itinerary for the first few days and skip to the good part. I was staying in room 1511 at the Red Lion right downtown.
I almost ordered room service my last night in town. I had eaten out every night that week and I was just tired of it. I laid there on my bed for about an hour while I tried to motivate myself enough to either dial four numbers on the phone for some Extreme Nachos or put my pants back on and walk to the restaurant downstairs.
The pants won out.
At that time in my life, I was really into the black thing - black slacks, black cashmere sweater and black blazer - quite the brooding ensemble. So I slunk (slunked? sloonk? Somebody help me out here) down to the elevator and into the bar. But as I turned the corner, I saw that the place was jammed packed. I really really really don't do well in crowds. That just wouldn't do.
I should have walked back to the elevator.
But I walked next door to the Rock Bottom Brewery instead.
I paced to the end of the bar, vaguely aware of the three or four other people already there. I was halfway through my first beer before I noticed her four stools over. She's was like a woman but also like a little girl. I'm sitting here now trying to think of how to describe her, but I just can't. A little "Meg Ryan in DOA"-ish. A tad "coffee shop clerk with the scars on her wrist"-ish. She just made you instinctively want to protect her.
She was talking with the bartender like they knew each other. They were talking about the Mariners, about the Seahawks and about her fantasy football team (I wish it was something more poignant or impassioned, but it is what it is). I interjected something stupid and she looked over at me like I was trespassing. But I couldn't help it. The stupidity flowed out my mouth until I made her laugh.
The bartender slipped away and left us talking across four barstools. She asked/told me to move closer so we wouldn't have to yell to be heard. I moved over three seats leaving only one between us. She then looked at me like I just backwashed into the sacremental wine. I moved over one more.
She was 35 and recently divorced. A 17 yr old golf-playing son and an eleven year old daughter. Ex-husband is a suburban cop. They split because he cheated on her. I lied about what I did - probably told her I sold insurance or something. Everything else was the truth though.
I asked her if she'd been shopping - she had a Gap bag down by her feet. She looked at me nervously and said no. I thought that was kind of weird but I just dropped it.
As we talked I thought to myself that it was too bad we hadn't met a few days before. That would have given us some time to click while I was in town. As it was, I was probably going to go home never knowing what could have been.
As it got later, we played a little pool and put about eight beers on my tab. It was getting late and I offered to walk her to her car. She said that she took the bus into work that morning, but that she'd just go home with me that night.
Look, I'm no prude. I've had my share of "short term" relationships before and I really wasn't averse to another one.
But it just didn't feel right.
I kind of laughed it off and changed the subject to something a little less nerve-wracking. But that recess only last about ten minutes before the subject was broached again.
"I think we need to go to your room now" she said plainly.
"But don't you have to work tomorrow" I protested.
She smile mischievously and opened up her Gap bag to reveal a neatly folded blouse and skirt along with assorted undergarments and toiletries.
She planned this before she left for work that morning - she wasn't going home that night.
Needless to say I was a little taken aback as to how inconsequential I truly was to the equation - I was merely a means to an end. It wasn't my subtle charm or disarming good looks that seduced her - I just happened to be the guy that sat down next to her.
But I knew where she was coming from. But I also knew that the last thing she needed was to fuck some random guy. She just needed to be away from home for a night. Maybe feel a little attractive, a little wanted, a little desired. But mostly she wanted to feel safe. And if she had to give out a liitle sex to feel that way, it was something she was willing to live with.
I thought to myself how incredibly lucky she was - I looked around the bar and tried to figure out who would have been the chosen one had I stayed in my room. But she was lucky precisely because I did walk into the bar. She was lucky because I wanted her to feel needed. She was lucky because I wanted her to feel safe more than I wanted to get laid.
We held hands for the four minute walk back up to my hotel room. As we walked, I hatched a half-assed plan to get her back home - I was going to go back to the room with her, have a couple diet cokes while I sobered up enough to drive her home.
But things went awry once we got inside.
The first thing she did was open my curtains. I'd been there all week and I'd never even looked out the window. We could see the illuminated top of the Space Needle across the downtown skyline. We laid on the bed and talked for about an hour.
What did we talk about? Nothing really. Certainly nothing that we could have or should have talked about. Just her family and my made-up job and her kids and my dog. Everything but us. Then she shut up for a second and asked me if I was going to kiss her.
"I promised myself I wouldn't" I answered. She leaned up, took off her earring and turned around to place them on the nightstand. And as she did this, her blouse rose up in the back revealing and six inch patch of soft white skin.
I stopped breathing for a moment before she turned back around and kissed me.
It wasn't the kiss of a drunken woman unaware of what she was doing. It was the kiss of a woman knowing exactly where she was and doing exactly what felt right. And I kissed her back for the same reasons.
I woke up in the morning to the image of her looking out the window past the city as the day broke. She was wearing nothing but my sweater from the night before and I could almost feel the soft wool against her skin.
That moment was the most afraid that I've ever been in my entire life. I was scared because I knew I was about to lose something I never really had. I was scared of how intense I felt after only nine hours. I was scared because I'd never had a problem walking away before. I was scare because I'd never wanted anything that badly.
I watched her with my eyes half-opened for ten minutes. I closed my eyes in pretend sleep when she picked up her bag and walked to the bathroom to shower.
It actually ended better than I thought it would. I got up and drove her to work - fifteen blocks to her office building. I met her for lunch and we went to Ivar's for fish and chips. I gave her my number before heading to the airport.
I honestly thought she'd call.
A month passed before the thought of her drove me to distraction. In a fit of stupid curiosity, I googled her name. The third entry down was from a registery of legal announcements. I opened the site to find that it was a court record of divorce proceedings. The date next to her and her ex-husband's names caught my eye - her divorce became official six hours before I met her. That's why she wasn't going home that night. That's why she needed to feel safe.
I really wish she would have called.
And that, my friends, is the rest of the story.
1511 was one of the latter.
I was in Seattle three years ago for a week's worth of work. Actually it was about a day's worth of work but I was given a week to do it. I'll spare you my itinerary for the first few days and skip to the good part. I was staying in room 1511 at the Red Lion right downtown.
I almost ordered room service my last night in town. I had eaten out every night that week and I was just tired of it. I laid there on my bed for about an hour while I tried to motivate myself enough to either dial four numbers on the phone for some Extreme Nachos or put my pants back on and walk to the restaurant downstairs.
The pants won out.
At that time in my life, I was really into the black thing - black slacks, black cashmere sweater and black blazer - quite the brooding ensemble. So I slunk (slunked? sloonk? Somebody help me out here) down to the elevator and into the bar. But as I turned the corner, I saw that the place was jammed packed. I really really really don't do well in crowds. That just wouldn't do.
I should have walked back to the elevator.
But I walked next door to the Rock Bottom Brewery instead.
I paced to the end of the bar, vaguely aware of the three or four other people already there. I was halfway through my first beer before I noticed her four stools over. She's was like a woman but also like a little girl. I'm sitting here now trying to think of how to describe her, but I just can't. A little "Meg Ryan in DOA"-ish. A tad "coffee shop clerk with the scars on her wrist"-ish. She just made you instinctively want to protect her.
She was talking with the bartender like they knew each other. They were talking about the Mariners, about the Seahawks and about her fantasy football team (I wish it was something more poignant or impassioned, but it is what it is). I interjected something stupid and she looked over at me like I was trespassing. But I couldn't help it. The stupidity flowed out my mouth until I made her laugh.
The bartender slipped away and left us talking across four barstools. She asked/told me to move closer so we wouldn't have to yell to be heard. I moved over three seats leaving only one between us. She then looked at me like I just backwashed into the sacremental wine. I moved over one more.
She was 35 and recently divorced. A 17 yr old golf-playing son and an eleven year old daughter. Ex-husband is a suburban cop. They split because he cheated on her. I lied about what I did - probably told her I sold insurance or something. Everything else was the truth though.
I asked her if she'd been shopping - she had a Gap bag down by her feet. She looked at me nervously and said no. I thought that was kind of weird but I just dropped it.
As we talked I thought to myself that it was too bad we hadn't met a few days before. That would have given us some time to click while I was in town. As it was, I was probably going to go home never knowing what could have been.
As it got later, we played a little pool and put about eight beers on my tab. It was getting late and I offered to walk her to her car. She said that she took the bus into work that morning, but that she'd just go home with me that night.
Look, I'm no prude. I've had my share of "short term" relationships before and I really wasn't averse to another one.
But it just didn't feel right.
I kind of laughed it off and changed the subject to something a little less nerve-wracking. But that recess only last about ten minutes before the subject was broached again.
"I think we need to go to your room now" she said plainly.
"But don't you have to work tomorrow" I protested.
She smile mischievously and opened up her Gap bag to reveal a neatly folded blouse and skirt along with assorted undergarments and toiletries.
She planned this before she left for work that morning - she wasn't going home that night.
Needless to say I was a little taken aback as to how inconsequential I truly was to the equation - I was merely a means to an end. It wasn't my subtle charm or disarming good looks that seduced her - I just happened to be the guy that sat down next to her.
But I knew where she was coming from. But I also knew that the last thing she needed was to fuck some random guy. She just needed to be away from home for a night. Maybe feel a little attractive, a little wanted, a little desired. But mostly she wanted to feel safe. And if she had to give out a liitle sex to feel that way, it was something she was willing to live with.
I thought to myself how incredibly lucky she was - I looked around the bar and tried to figure out who would have been the chosen one had I stayed in my room. But she was lucky precisely because I did walk into the bar. She was lucky because I wanted her to feel needed. She was lucky because I wanted her to feel safe more than I wanted to get laid.
We held hands for the four minute walk back up to my hotel room. As we walked, I hatched a half-assed plan to get her back home - I was going to go back to the room with her, have a couple diet cokes while I sobered up enough to drive her home.
But things went awry once we got inside.
The first thing she did was open my curtains. I'd been there all week and I'd never even looked out the window. We could see the illuminated top of the Space Needle across the downtown skyline. We laid on the bed and talked for about an hour.
What did we talk about? Nothing really. Certainly nothing that we could have or should have talked about. Just her family and my made-up job and her kids and my dog. Everything but us. Then she shut up for a second and asked me if I was going to kiss her.
"I promised myself I wouldn't" I answered. She leaned up, took off her earring and turned around to place them on the nightstand. And as she did this, her blouse rose up in the back revealing and six inch patch of soft white skin.
I stopped breathing for a moment before she turned back around and kissed me.
It wasn't the kiss of a drunken woman unaware of what she was doing. It was the kiss of a woman knowing exactly where she was and doing exactly what felt right. And I kissed her back for the same reasons.
I woke up in the morning to the image of her looking out the window past the city as the day broke. She was wearing nothing but my sweater from the night before and I could almost feel the soft wool against her skin.
That moment was the most afraid that I've ever been in my entire life. I was scared because I knew I was about to lose something I never really had. I was scared of how intense I felt after only nine hours. I was scared because I'd never had a problem walking away before. I was scare because I'd never wanted anything that badly.
I watched her with my eyes half-opened for ten minutes. I closed my eyes in pretend sleep when she picked up her bag and walked to the bathroom to shower.
It actually ended better than I thought it would. I got up and drove her to work - fifteen blocks to her office building. I met her for lunch and we went to Ivar's for fish and chips. I gave her my number before heading to the airport.
I honestly thought she'd call.
A month passed before the thought of her drove me to distraction. In a fit of stupid curiosity, I googled her name. The third entry down was from a registery of legal announcements. I opened the site to find that it was a court record of divorce proceedings. The date next to her and her ex-husband's names caught my eye - her divorce became official six hours before I met her. That's why she wasn't going home that night. That's why she needed to feel safe.
I really wish she would have called.
And that, my friends, is the rest of the story.
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