Letters To Loves Long Lost - Vol. I (Tanya)

Dear Tanya,
Without getting into my own personal motives for writing this, I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for the way things ended between us. We had been through a lot together and you deserved more than just a message on your answering machine. I doubt that it's any consolation, but I spent the next 3 months trying to build up the courage to set things right. But each time I got close, I convinced myself that you'd be better off never hearing my voice again.
I heard that you got married a few years back. I'm legitimately happy for you and I hope that he's everything you need in a man and a husband. You really are one of the few truly good people I've ever met in my life so I'm glad that things are working out for you.
I actually saw you at the airport a few weeks back. You were about 50 feet in front of me in the Security line. It looked like you were with some friends. I was going to try to catch up to you in the terminal, but I think it would have been a little too awkward, considering. Still, you looked great.
Anyway, I just wanted to get this all on paper so you'd know that I really regret being such a painful episode in your life. I really never meant to hurt you. But I hope that you get the life and the happiness you deserve.

Sincerely,

****

Crash

She'd driven winding paths before
twisted & curvy, hills and bumps
she reveled in it really
making the road her own
riding every single one
of the 280 horses
at her fingertips
under her seat
rushing through her veins

She downshifted just as she'd done
a thousand times before
left foot synchronized with the right
taking the top of the curve
effortlessly turning the wheel
down into the turn

the tires begin to slip

Her determined, self-satisfied grin disappears
and is replaced with something else
surprise, fear, excitement, anticipation
the back end starts to slide out
the car begins to scream
her knuckles are drained of blood
her pupils fill her eyes

the sky is the ground and the ground is the sky
once, twice, three times, more
her hands are jolted off the wheel
her body slammed against the door
then back to the other side
whiteness explodes in her face
softening the blow
she's smiling now

one last floating spiral
through the air, through the dust
suspended animation
and in that fraction of a second.......

a pure blanket of freedom

The Hotel Room

Warm champagne spoils in a bucket of water
one lipstick-ringed plastic cup
three broken french manicured nails
black cumberbund draped over the back of a chair

silky petals sleep on the carpet below
Tuxedoed groom slumped unblinking in the corner
his shirt slowly turning from red to brown
scattered envelopes litter the bed

Her never-worn teddy stuffed in the trash
the morning sun peeks through the drawn curtains
both key cards tossed on the dresser
"Do Not Disturb" sign hastily hung on the knob

Overturned lamp next to the still-made bed
neighbors still upset from the newlywed's vigor
two calls to the front desk complaining about the noise
six-inch stiletto dropped thoughtlessly in the sink

Simple yet beautiful wedding dress hung up with care
jeweled heels placed perfectly beneath
a note scribbled on a napkin & pinned to the pillow
unconsummated air grows stagnant in the room

Stupid People Getting What They Deserve

So I go to the same diner a few times a week. It opens at 6AM so I can stop in on the way to the office. Sometimes I have breakfast, sometimes I'll just pick up something for lunch later and sometimes I'll just have a couple of cups of coffee. There's a regular crowd that time of the morning but they're good at leaving you alone if that's what you want.
Anyway, there's this bus boy that's been working there for a while. I'm not sure what his problem is (cleft palate maybe) but he talks really funny and he scampers everywhere he goes. Annoys the hell out of me. I used to keep dropping my silverware on the floor just to watch him scurry back and forth.
So I get in there this morning and what happens? Little retarded busboy comes over to take my breakfast order! I couldn't believe it. He wasn't that great of a busboy so why the hell should he be promoted to waiter? I don't care how busy they are, I shouldn't have to listen to him try to lisp out the daily specials - "shaushage and home fwies".
But I was starving to death so I decided to just deal with it. I gave him my order but told him to make sure to wash his hands before he brings it back - I sure as hell didn't want to catch whatever he had. That got a laugh from the next table over. You could tell that they didn't want the bucket head bringing their food either.
So I watch him scamper to the kitchen, scamper to another table, scamper here, scamper there. Finally I just get sick of it. He comes out of the kitchen carrying this big ass tray of food to one of the tables in the back, heading right towards me not even paying any attention to where he's going. All it took was me barely sliding my foot out from under the table and WOOSH - the hairlip busboy flops onto the floor sending eggs & syrup everywhere. You should have seen it, absolutely hilarious.
So he's laying belly-down on the tile floor and looks up to see the whole place just laughing their asses off - he actually had a pancake on his head and powdered sugar all over his face - absolutely freakin' priceless. He gets up as fast as he could trying to clean up the mess he made - "I'm shorry, I'm shorry, I'm shorry".
Hopefully he'll be back bussing tables tomorrow morning.

Not Quite Drunk Enough

Not quite drunk enough
to give her a call
to say her name out loud
to leave my door open
to throw away the key
to tell her I'm sorry
to explain why I'm an asshole
to ask her to come back
to tell her to stay away
to send her the letter
to remember her touch
to forget her voice
to stop picking her scab
to delete her number
to run to her
to make it better
to make it worse
to finish this bottle
to pass out in my chair
to open the childproof cap
to let her know how I feel

Why She Went Away

I spent hundreds of hours trying to reach level 70 in WoW
I didn't ask who she was talking to while I watched TV
I offered her a drawer when she needed my entire home
I convinced myself that what she wanted was what I wanted
I pretended to sleep while she cried next to me
I turned away when she showed me who she really was
I took her to the same restaurant where I'd taken all my ex's
My only present to her wilted in the cheap plastic vase
I waited patiently on my couch for her to come over
I touched her where my last girlfriend liked to be touched
The only ink on my birthday card to her was Hallmark's
I thought my wants were more important than her needs
I cooked her dinner in the microwave
I thought she was ugly when she was never more beautiful
I wrote about inanity when I should have been writing to her
I let her think she wasn't important to me
I fucked her when she needed to be loved
That's why she went away

The Rest of the Story - Tuesday at The Corner Bar & Grille

She emailed me after seeing me in the paper. Just a quote, eight paragraphs down. We hadn't talked in nine years, and then only a quick phone conversation when I came back to town. I asked her to lunch. At first she seemed interested, but she called back and said no. Then not a word for almost a decade.
She contacted me from her work email address. No matter what time of day we emailed, it was always from her work email. The conversations were always about her and me. Some here and there about her kids, but almost nothing about her husband. But it was always friendly and platonic. But still, lots of red flags. I even brought it up once. Asked her what her intentions were. She pretty much laughed it off and attributed it to my ginormous ego. From an Occam's Razor perspective, she was probably right.
So by now we're emailing back and forth fairly regularly. Not even about "catching up" topics. It was like no time had passed. And it wasn't even as if we were all that close back then either. She ran track at my sister school so we'd ridden on busses together. She high jumped and ran the 800, and I just pole vaulted so we had a LOT of time between events. You wouldn't even think we'd be a thing, especially if you saw her back then. Kinda mousy and slender (that my polite way of saying she was very flat-chested). Were were just mostly back-and-forth flirty, but we ended up getting together at regionals in a tent under the bleachers (if you know anything about track meets, particularly relays, they last a long long time with HOURS between your events). At the time, I was dating this college girl who was growing bored with dating a high school kid and she was dating the guy named Shawn who everyone else in the world except for her knew was gay. Like Adam Lambert gay.
Yeah, so we're mailing back and forth. And in my head I'm thinking it's strange that we hadn't exchanged phone numbers, but since I'm not a big phone-guy anyhow, I just look at it as a blessing.
I don't even remember which one of us suggested lunch. Probably me. We decided on a place halfway between my office and her house. And...... she stands me up. I sit there like a chump for an hour and a half (kind of ironic considering my history of being "stood up"). And since I don't have her number, I can't call her.
So I get back to my office and see that she's sent me several emails apologizing, something or the other came up, but maybe we can meet at the same place for drinks later if I was free. Now, if this was ANYONE else, I wouldn't have been free. I wouldn't have been free for a while. But I was free.
She stopped by on her way to work. She was a trainer (just not at Bally's), and showed up in her work clothes. I showed up in mine. Quite the pair.
So we talk about nothing.

Si Usted Me Necesita...

I won't be easy to find alcoholico de pueblo in Salsipuedes middle of nowhere, Mexico far enough down the baja where you run out of beach and run into rocky inhospitable coast not even in una casa more like una choza wearing a perpetual week-old beard where the coast looks like...... hmmm upside-down senos (not to be coarse) but I'll be around Well, there or in town for cervezas and arroz my dog in the truck I'll be the one with Doc Martens & guitar no phone or address just ask for the gringo chistoso they'll know who you mean and point you down a long dirt road towards Fin del Mundo both in name and in purpose waiting for perdon o muerte whichever comes first or maybe both You'll be expected an extra cup, an extra plate but only one cama just for me so you can't stay long probably not even worth the effort to talk to a broken old young man no good to anyone anymore anytime except my dog and my bartender but if you're in the area within a hundred miles or so and you want to say 'hello' I promise to kiss you goodbye

Égoïste

I used to have a real job. A real boss, 401k, bi-weekly paychecks - the whole 9 yards. And because I wasn't bound by the constraints of family, friends or a social life, I used to work relatively long hours. The only problem with that is, at that time, I lived about an hour commute away from the office. So working until 10-11 o'clock 5-6 nights a week, then driving 40+ miles home, sleeping for 4-5 hours, then getting up and driving another hour back into work got a little old after a while. So I was left with 2 basic options - either sell my house and get a place in the city OR find a cheap little studio downtown to crash after working late. I opted for door number two. I found a place about 2 blocks from my office. It was an unfurnished loft in a converted bottle factory (glass, not baby). Nothing extraordinarily special about it - about 600 sq ft of open space with ladder access to a raised sleeping area, but it was perfect for my needs. And it had a lot of good light, which was unfortunate because I didn't think I'd see much of the place during the day. I signed a 6-month lease with an option for month-to-month after that. I bought a cheap couch, a platform bed and stashed a week's supply of clothes in the closet. It was pretty sweet for a while. Kinda like my own little private hideout, a safehouse that only I knew about. Until I made the mistake of letting someone else in on the secret. There was this admin in Finance. We had exchanged pleasantries and innuendo for a few weeks until one night when we were the last two people in the office. I was working late. She was working late. We went for drinks afterwards. We wanted a little privacy. You get the picture. This went on for the better part of 2 months. We'd work late, get drunk then go back to my place and have at it. We even took advantage of the close proximity to have a few long "lunches" as well. We'd come back to the office with our hair mussed and clothes wrinkled, but I don't think anyone suspected anything nefarious. A little background on her - early 20's, graduated from a private catholic college in Texas, tight swimmer's body, dating a 3rd year med student. It would be fair to say that she didn't have a lot of bedroom experience up until that point in her life. And the experience she did have wasn't much more than the drunken-frat-boy "grope'n'poke" variety. Since her boyfriend spent a lot of time at school, they didn't have much of a chance to spend much time together. So she really came of age bedroom-wise while we were together. So anyway, this goes on a bit longer until she starts feeling guilty about her boyfriend and decides that she needs to spend more time with him. She tells me that she can't do this any longer and breaks it off. She even gave her notice at our company and started working for the census bureau. I was definitely ok with it because I was getting even less sleep than when I was driving all the way home each night. And it wasn't like I had anything invested in her except the physical thing. So I stopped seeing her...... for about a month. She developed this habit of hanging out with her friends at a downtown bar and getting too drunk to drive home. So she'd walk over to my loft and knock on the door to see if I was there. This happened once every couple of weeks. I'd let her in, put her to sleep in my bed then I'd go sleep on the couch. Then she'd come over to the couch and start kissing my neck. I'd tell her to knock it off because I had to go into work early. Then she'd start rubbing my chest. So we'd end up making out for a while. Out of a convoluted respect for her relationship with her boyfriend, I wouldn't go any further than that. A few months of this goes by. It starts getting pretty old for me. I got the place so I could get some sleep after working late, but now I was sleeping way less if at all. So she comes over late one Friday night. After her engagement party. Smashed as she could be. I tell her that she can sleep on the bed but she better stay there. I lay down on the couch and go to sleep. I wake up about 7am when I feel her on top of me, completely undressed. I tell her to cut it out. She starts doing certain things to me (for the sake of decency, I'll leave it at that). I push her away and tell her to get off me. She starts doing something to me even more provocative. I'm a man. I have weaknesses. I roll over on top and enter her. Nothing intimate. Nothing affectionate. Just going through the motions to get it over with. I look down to see her avoiding eye contact with me as her eyes almost start to tear up. I couldn't freaking believe she was pulling that shit. I roll off her said things that I regret. Pretty much a total prick. Things like "what the hell did you expect me to do?" and "what's your f-ing problem?". You know, being the sensitive guy I am. She stopped coming over after that.

Yet

Grown up to be a woman yet still a little girl inside Settled for a boy yet still longing for a man Found her purpose yet not the one she hoped it would be Living with uncompromising honesty yet still hiding one dark secret Content to wear jeans and a sweater yet gazes longingly at the gown in the window Pleased with her life yet holding out hope for another Grasped hard-learned lessons yet feels like a schoolgirl next to him Sees the beauty around her yet dreams of somewhere else

Tuesday at The Corner Bar & Grille

i should have known better i had no business being there but she laughed when i hesitated "as if you could still charm my pants off" "you know we're not 18 anymore" she said she could only meet at lunch she worked evenings at Ballys spinning class til 5, pilates at 7 she'd be at the Corner after her shower just to talk & hear about the Alison i was cautiously cautious at first we had a past and she had a present married a decade, 3 kids of her own one played the piano, 2 danced ballet she lulled me into apprehensive optimism the conversation flowed then ebbed she paused then asked if i was happy "youve known me since i was 16" "you ever know me to be happy?" i noticed her eyes were as weary as my own right then i hoped we could be friends and she told me she decided to be happy right after her dad died last year it got closer to 7 and she had to go sometimes her husband brought her lunch i stepped up to hug her goodbye as we stood shivering outside the bar i swear to God i wanted to be friends but the our lips somehow met our bodies somehow embraced "lets go sit a minute in my car" she said as she took me by my hand i should have known better i had no business being there but it was cold & maybe i could make her happy she drove a few blocks away, quiet she was going to be late anyhow her tiny hands in mine, it began slowly at first, then with a hunger then with a longing, i began to drown she unbuttoned my shirt, 6 buttons down then my belt as she unzipped her pants i looked around to make sure we were alone both of us half-naked under the streetlight the windows fogged, streaked by fingerprints i saw the truth as she crawled in the backseat leopard-print bra and laced black thong no way she'd wear that just for work it should have been boy-shorts & jogging bra she knew we'd be here when she woke this morning i should have seen this coming i should have known better theres no way i should be here right now but i still crawled back to be with her next to the child safety seat and bookbag we couldnt be friends after this we would be something else entirely stolen glances as we past in the street she'd be someone to give me what she wanted me not man enough to give her what she needs

The Facade

I just happened to be positioned behind her as she mingled at a cocktail party, a drink in her right hand so she could be demonstrative with her ringed left. She was halfway through telling a woman ten years younger about the roses her husband had bought herfor her birthday and the "just precious" construction paper card her son made her in art class, concluding with "and the he hugged me and told me I was the beautifulest mommy in the whole world!". I just shook my head, thinking about the last time I'd seen her - checking her re-applied lipstick in my passenger-side visor mirror before she returned to work. I offered her a piece of gum as she reached to open the door. But her decade-long marriage must have improved over the last three months. I took my time pouring myself a drink as she continued her soliloquy, no audience in particular, oblivious to my proximity. Now talking about her job, how embarassed she was when her boss singled her out for praise for her "invaluable contribution" and he "wouldn't know what to do without her". I reflexively shook my head, knowing her role to be a faceless administrative drone, reviewing paperwork and spell-checking other's work. I was courteously apologetic as I brushed by, spilling my drink down her dress, name-brand but purchased during offseason clearance. Her face went from shock to anger to recognition to surprised to unsure to uncomfortable over the next few seconds. Had I overheard her well-rehearsed script, her smoky mirror? She looked down to the floor, then back at me and cautiously gestured to the back door. I brushed some invisible lint from my lapel, grabbed the hand of a younger woman and walked away.

Particle Board

You stood two steps behind him as he unlocked the door to his 2nd floor apartment with a partial view of the pool & the highway Carrington Place or Crane's Landing or The Meadows He walked in, flipping the light switch a black halogen pole lamp illuminates the foyer you step cautiously onto the neutral linoleum your heels sticking a bit, leather on plastic He walks four or five steps into the kitchen opening the cabinet, you know the kind tan pressed wood that swells when wet he withdraws a bottle of peppermint schnapps he rests the bottle on the laminate countertop youre still wearing your charcoal gray peacoat as he gestures to Sanyo cd player and asks you to put on some "mood" music Flipping through his random collection The Killers, Creed, the Crue & Chili Peppers "hey, just push play" he calls over to you Sex of Fire begins to play from the tinny speakers He sets down two plastic schnapps-filled glasses on the black particle board coffee table that he bought in a box & assembled with an allen wrench water rings & ciggy burns scattered randomly he makes room for you on his futon you remove your coat, draping it on his gamer rocker he leans over as you sit beside him his goatee tickles your chin as you kiss you look around while he squeezes your breast aluminum, particle board, plastic and polyester a lack of permanence and perspective all of it garbage within five years, maybe less Is that where you really want to be? hooked up with some random who smells like Axe while I'm at home on my leather chaise making out with a waitress from Applebees

The Pill

Sulphur in her mouth cursing the physician so sickened by the treatment she doesn't even realize she no longer has the disease

Subtle

Its the little things that let me know she's been here (when she not supposed to be) still-warm water droplets in my tub the scent of a cologne I haven't worn in a while Diorskin Nude inside the collar of my favorite shirt My bed a little too well-made her silhouette barely graces my pillow my robe hung a little too neatly on the closet door HF Saint upside down in my bookcase Damien Rice at the top of my playlist Prescriptions aligned in the medicine cabinet My notebooks, dog-earred and well-read a cigar missing from my humidor (not one of the good ones though) Maybe I shouldn't be away from the house for so long maybe I should keep all the windows locked but then who would keep me company?

Uninvited

I heard footsteps walking up the path to my house But I had sent no invitations I had made no appointments No welcome mat in front of my door Then a delicate knock on unstained oak and a silhouette against the frosted sidelights She had no way of knowing anyone was home No lights, no sound, mailbox overflowing with postcards Her frailty calmed my unease What danger could she possibly pose? I unlatched the deadbolt, removed the chain Cracked the door and let her inside She said she's driven by this house for years always wondering what it was like inside finally worked up the courage to knock Grateful to find someone inside I hadn't wanted/expected company But still I said nothing as she walked through the first floor and began to turn on all the lights She seemed to know her way around Removing two mugs from the pine hutch and brewed coffee for me, tea for her as we sat on opposite ends of my couch Obviously incapable of doing any harm to a calloused, caustic man like me I didn't thank her for her warmth But I didn't latch the door when she left Afterwards, she came and went as she pleased sometimes I was home, other times not Though aware of one unspoken rule Make yourself at home, but respect locked doors My bedroom, the basement, the garage All else was hers to explore, to wander For which she appeared to be content Even when I wasn't there to police But then I arrived home, worn & humbled Things seemed slightly out of place my nightstand, my wine cellar, my keys She lied and said it wasn't her I didn't invite her in my home after that

Easter Shenanigans

I have precisely one Easter tradition in my house. Hell, it's probably the only actual holiday tradition I have. The house I lived in about 14 years ago backed up against a winding creek that formed the border of my little town. The creek made a fairly straight run through my property but then made a sharp right turn as it headed east. So the patch of land between my house and my neighbor's house was a 3/4 acre triangle swatch peppered with oak trees and tiger lillies that had spread from the roadside path. During the summer, the trees were full enough to form an impervious curtain that provided total isolation between the two properties. But starting in late fall and lasting until mid-spring, I could sit on my back deck and see my neighbor sitting on his though the bare trees. It was on such a early spring Saturday evening when Robyn and I were laying in the chaise on one of the first semi-warm nights of the season. We began to watch as our neighbor, Ron (maybe in his mid-50's then), walking around his backyard in with no discernible pattern or purpose. He'd walk behind a tree, bend over, walk across to the flower garden, bend over, and so on. This went on before we figured out what he was doing - hiding little plastic Easter eggs for his grandkids to search for the next day. Now for most people, this might seem a precious & tender moment to be enjoyed and savored. After all, I lived In a town seemingly painted by either Norman Rockwell or Thomas Kincade, depending which side of town you were on. But for us, it was an opportunity for some slightly more, well, not-quite-malicious activities. "Would you like some Peeps?" I asked her as my neighbor headed inside, task completed. She playfully slugged me, but I knew her thinking was along the same lines as mine. We drank a bottle and a half of Louis Jadot Bourgogne until we saw the lights go out next store. We crept though the woods until simply planning on stealing some Peeps and Cadbury eggs neatly contained in a small plastic egg. But then we found the first egg, it's outer shelled scribes in block letters, "Audrey". The next we found was labeled Ethan. It turns out all were marked with the names of one of his 5 grandkids. We crouched behind a tree plotting our next course of action. The fair thing to do would be to steal candy equally from each child's egg. The evil thing to do would be to steal all the candy from only one child's eggs, thereby sentencing him/her to a lifetime of low self-esteem and feelings of familial inadequacy and alienation. But then Robyn asked, "How much cash do you have?". I pulled out my money clip and she extracted a fifty dollar bill. "Which name is your favorite?", she asked next. "Hmmm, let's go with Nora". She walked over to the bird feeder, picked up an egg labeled "Nora", opened it up, inserted the fifty, re-sealed it, placed it gently where it was, grabbed my hand and led me back home sans chocolate or Peeps. We woke early the next morning and drank coffee on the dock along the creek where we had a full perspective on the festivities next door. A "ready....set...GO!". Five kids, toddlers through elementary, scramble through the yard. A 5 year year old girl (presumably Nora) squeals in delight. The four others, seeing her bounty, now dash madly around the property looking for their own $50 egg..... To no avail. Confused parents. Ron in a state of complete disbelief. Kids begin to cry. Nora fiercely protecting her priceless egg. Parents begin to argue. While Robyn and I drink hazelnut coffee, blissful and contented. Nora got fifties for the next two years with the same results. The following year Ron tried to head off the holiday disaster by putting one $50 bill in each of the kids' eggs. I replaced Nora's fifty with a $100 bill. The kids stopped getting eggs when they hit about 14 years old, but the older kids would be replaced with younger ones, one of which would always be selected at random for added cash from me. I think Ron began to suspect I was involved, but abandoned that theory when it continued after I moved away. So early in the morning every Easter, I sneak into Ron's yard for another round of holiday shenanigans.

Instead

She dreamed of backpacking Hemingway's path Pamplona, Key West, Cojimar, School Creek Reading & writing every mile along the way She took 8 community college courses Instead She envisioned skin & sweat & passion Two bodies intertwined and afire Nothing existing beyond themselves She accepted an accountant's proposal Instead She wanted to save a piece of the world One sick and deprived soul at a time Nothing so pure as a woman with a cause She took a job selling condos instead She still always kept two books in her purse On Writing Well and Slaughterhouse Five Trying to finish a rough outline of her novel But she got pregnant Instead Refocused and her life reprioritized Intent on raising a gentleman & scholar Museums, culture, sport and charm She started drinking at noon Instead She met a man who lived her unlived life Bitter, jaded, diseased, and unloved Who longed for the things she had But she envied him Instead.

Twenty Minutes Pass

"I'm not crazy. I just needed someone to talk to"
"Holidays can be a stressful time, but I'm really glad you called"
"Yeah, right. I'm sure there's nothing else you'd rather be doing"
"Actually, I'm very happy to be here"

"It's not fair - you know my name but I don't know yours"
"It's Jason"
"Jason? Is that your real name or the name they make you use?"
"The one they make me use. It's really ****"

"So did you lose a coin flip or something?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean how'd you get suckered into working Christmas?"
"Just lucky, I guess"

Twenty minutes pass.

"So is that pathetic or what?"
"Actually it sounds like you've handled it pretty well"
"It just seems like it's getting harder and harder"
"But you're getting stronger and stronger"

"Karen is not my real name"
"I know, but that's OK"
"There's something else I should tell you"

Twenty minutes pass.

"I'm gonna finish watching 'Traveling Pants'"
"I admit - that made me cry"
laughing "I should have guessed"
"Shhh, don't tell anyone"

"I think I'm going to be OK"
"I think so too"
"I almost didn't call"
"It made my day that you did"

Twenty seconds pass.

"Thank you" *click*

"No, thank you"

Things That Separate Us

A half a lifetime
twenty seven miles
your well-meaning friends
my hidden guilt

A fraction of an inch
an unspoken promise
a glance in a crowd
the scent of Amarige

Three more hours
a 12 year old vow
an uneasy laugh
fear of tomorrow morning

A forlorn sigh
surpressed pain
memories that don't go away
forbidden desire

A knock at the door
hurt in a child's eyes
a knowing look from a stranger
an ounce of gold

To Andrea I Never Knew

You don't know who I am but I know everything you want in the world.
You're an innocent soul filled with hope, taking giddy pleasure in simplicity.
Hungry Hungry Hippos

I've never seen you but I know your eyes are filled with wonder.
You long to explore, uncover and conquer mysterious worlds.
Dragon Books

We've never spoken but I know what you need.
Child-like joy in winter's fury.
Hat & Mittens

I've never felt you squeeze my hand but I know what's in your heart
You hide the isolation you feel from being different.
Sparkly Jeans & Soft Sweater - Size 8

I don't know where you live but I can picture your room
The few things you treasure neatly stowed away.
Floor Puzzle

I hope I never exist in your world. I wish that you know nothing more than the simple pleasure of getting everything you've asked for on Christmas morning. And more. Because I know you're thankful for everything you have. I won't be there to see it but I know your smile will light up the room and I will feel it in my heart.

Merry Christmas Andrea - you're more than just a name on a tree.

XC90

We had taken turns driving
But to be honest
she'd done more than her share
Maybe because I needed more sleep
Maybe just because she wanted to get there faster
But you couldn't tell by her pace
five miles above the speed limit
middle lane, no worries about being stopped
She would sing along softly to the radio as I slept
then laugh at my jokes when I took the wheel
I'm not sure when she slept
She followed the GPS's commands to the letter
I shut if off and stopped at every tourist trap
I was never entirely sure when we'd get there
unsure if the destination would be better than the ride

My Own Medicine

It was really just pure chance that I was close enough to stumble over to your house
I was at that hotel bar a few blocks away and must have lost track of my drinking
Didn't even realize how far gone I was until I stood up to try to leave
Yeah, I know there are bars that are a lot closer, walking distance even, to my house
But I wasn't even thinking about that when I headed out the door. Swear.

I was just going to walk for awhile because I accidentally drank my cab money
But then a car drove by and that "Anything For You" song was playing on the radio
You know, the one that you dedicated to me on K105 after I broke up with you?
I thought it was pretty cheesy back then, funny even, but it kinda struck me as I walked
It made me feel guilty for not returning all the voicemails you left that week

So that song reminded me of you then I remembered your house was close by
I knew you wouldn't be home yet. You're still on second shift at the hospital, right?
That's why I didn't even knock on the door & just headed on back to your porch swing
Maybe to sleep for a while until I sober up enough to drive on back home
I probably should have bought a coffee when I passed that convenience store

I didn't even hear your car pull into the garage, I was sleeping so hard
Only knew you were home when you closed the door and went inside
Right then I figured I should just go because you were probably to tired to deal
I was going to wait until the lights went out, but I guess you heard me swinging
Don't know why you weren't scared at first, but who else would it have been but me?

It was real cool of you to invite me in to sleep on your pullout couch
You really really didn't have to do that. But I know you're that kind of person
I promise I'll get up and before your new boyfriend comes over tomorrow
That might be hard to explain. What's that? Oh yeah, I know were just friends now.
And again, I'm really sorry for causing so much trouble. And for that stuff before

Do you have like a trash can or something that I can keep here next to me?
I should be ok, but 'member that time we rented that beachhouse with Mike & Laura?
I got so plastered and couldn't stop throwing up. I might've had the flu then too
But I felt better the next day because you made me drink fluids and take Tylenol before bed
That was a pretty good weekend, you think? Oh yeah, probably not as much fun for you

Just go to bed, ok? I'll be fine out here. Besides, you look tired. You should try to get more sleep
I worry about you sometimes thinking about you here all alone without someone to care for you
I really hope you find someone to make you happy. What? He proposed? That's .... good for you
Ummm I'm really happy, but you know what? I feel better now so I'm just gonna go
I'll be alright once I get back to my car. The roads should be pretty clear by now

One more thing before I leave....... thanks.

She Gave It Away: The Rest of the Story

Semi-true story. Lisa, not Lara. And if her house was 50 feet west of where it sat, she'd probably be alive today. Her house was a skootch over the dividing line between two school districts. Fifty yards west and she attends Norman Rockwell-ian public schools in the same town where my prep school resided. But where it sat? Working class stoner high school (though its more meth-ish than stoner-ish nowadays).
So anyhow, on those lesser school holidays that typically didn't have a corresonding work holiday (Veteran's Day, Rosh Hashana, Presidents Day, Shavuot, etc) some of us would hang out at her BFF Vicky's house while her parents were at work, Liquor cabinets, truth or dare - you know, that sort of thing. So anyways, I'm over there with my friend Steve. Lisa brought another of her friends and they had been there a while before we got there. Mixing whatever cocktails fifteen year olds are able to conjur. Schnapps and 7-Up, Vodka and apple juice and gin, Jack Daniels and Dr. Pepper, whatever.
So we drank too. I'm sure you get the dynamic. Scholarship prep school kids and a couple of trashy girls who stole their dad's cigarettes and were still figuring out how to apply eyeliner correctly. Steve and Vicky and the other girl are off somewhere, I could hear laughing coming from the other room. I'm sitting with Lisa on the couch. Now to this point, she and I had messed around within the context of teenage games - Seven Minutes in Heaven, Spin the Bottle, that sort of thing. But I never thought of her as anything more than that. If I had seen her at the mall, her hanging out with her friends and me hanging out with mine, I wouldn't have even acknowledged her.
But there we were with my hand under her shirt but over her bra, and her mouth on my neck about to leave a very juvenile hickey.
And then she puts her lips against my ear and whispered two things; the first was very provocatively slutty (enough to startle a scared little shit like me) and the second was "Let's go upstairs".
We had clumsy sex on Vicky's parent's bed, with my shirt still on and pants around my ankles. I finished and said we better get back downstairs.
So that became and fairly regular thing. We'd be at some party, run into each other, then go upstairs and fuck. It happens less often when I started dating a girl from St. Catherine's, but she was still nice to have around. But then I started going to different parties than she did. I had heard that she started getting into (a different kind of) trouble.
She died of a heroin overdose when she was 31. I didn't find out about it until almost 3 years later. I ran into Steve at some airport. He had heard about it from someone else and only mentioned it to me in a passing "Hey, do you remember that slutty chick Lisa from high school?" sort of way.
And when I get just the right amount of drunk, I never fail to consider the question......
"What if I, at any point in our 'relationship' had asked her out on a proper date?"

A New Scar in my Closet

I found a hole in my collar while ironing
in a shirt I've had forever
well,not quite "forever" forever
just "forever" given the lifespan of a typical shirt
fourteen years

She gave it to me the night before an interview
along with having my lucky shoes polished
she was so excited as I opened the Nordstrom's box
wanted me to hurry and try it on
she really wanted me to get that job

It had been in my regular rotaion ever since
so ofen that I almost don't think of her
every morning I put it on... almost
how many times would that be in 14 years?
Maybe 300 or so?

I suppose I could still wear it under a sweater
or under a blazer I don't plan on removing
But It will probably just hang in my closet
Causing me to reach for it once a month
before realizing it has a hole

Bildungsroman

Full disclaimer - I'm thinking that this post is going to ramble a bit. May get a little lengthy so I can't guarantee I'm even going to finish it. I mean, I'm reasonably sure I know the point in the story that I'm going to start writing and I know the point where I plan on stopping (which implies, rightfully, that it has some prologue and some epilogue that I'm not going to get into right now), but I may lose focus at some point and just post whatever I have written at that point in time.
But here it goes.........

Whenever anybody asks about where I was on December 31st, 1999, I tell them that I rented a cabin in Amish country. No phones. No electricity. No comforts of modern life in anticipation of the impending apocalyptic effects of Y2K. Ok, not that many people ask. Just when it comes up in conversation.
Which is not often.
But I wasn't there.

I was fully aware that it was going to seem totally cliche to do it on December 28th. Exactly one year after (that's prologue, pay no attention to that). But that wasn't the only reason for picking that day. Sure, it was a big part of it but it wasn't just that. It just seemed liked the last few months had been leading to that horizon. That sunset.
I put a lot of thought into how I was going to do it. Well, not so much HOW but more about WHERE. Specifically, I was worried about who would find me. I didn't want to put any of my friends or family through that, seeing my bloated and/or bloody and/or rotting corpse. So I thought about just chaining barbells to my ankles and steeping off a boat in the middle of the ocean. Or shooting myself in the middle of the woods (assuming the critters would take care of the rest). But then I just thought that mightbe worse. Essentially just disappearing and everyone living the rest of their lives not knowing.
So I came to the conclusion that I'd have to do it in a hospital. Sure, it would suck for the unlucky doctor, nurse or orderly who found me, but its not like that wouldn't have seen a dead body before. But the flipside to that? It's a hospital. Filled with people trained to save the lives of people who did stupid stuff to themselves. Even if I walked into the emergency room and popped a cap in my dome, there would be a trauma surgeon 15 feet away just waiting to resuscitate me even before my body hit the ground. So I spent literally almost every waking hour from Thanksgiving to mid-December trying to figure out a way around these obstacles.
This is why I shouldn't be left alone with too much free time on my hands. I think too much.
But I figured it out.
I called a doctor friend and told her I had a sinus infection. She called me in a prescription for omoxicillin. I called he back a couple days later and asked her to switch the prescription over to penicillin because the omoxicillin was freaking me out (this becomes important later). Then I tossed my stationary bike in that back of my truck and drove (I didn't want to go to a local hospital - I know a lot of healthcare professionals and didn't want to run into one inadvertantly).
So I drive 2 entire states away. Find some not-quite-rural-not-quite-suburban town, pull into a convenience store, ate a microwaved burrito, thumb through the phone book, find the nearest hospital, drive over there, and park at the edge of the lot near a clump of trees (it's just about getting dark.
I drag the bike out of the back of the truck, plant it in the middle of the trees, then just start pedalling away at max resistance. 10 minutes. 30 minutes. 45 minutes, the lactic acid burning in my calves, sweat rolling off my brow. I made it an hour and 15 minutes before stumbling back into my car and driving over to the emergency room entrance.
I walk in clammy and clutching the lower right part of my abdomen.
So by the time they take my temperature and draw a blood sample, I'm running a decent fever and my white blood count is elevated (but not off the charts). They ask me to rate my pain. I say "7, sometimes 8". It didn't take House to diagnose acute appendicitis. It would definitely have to come out. But since it was getting late and the pain was manageable (and I had recently eaten), it could wait until the morning. So they admitted me and administered 500mg of omoxicillin.
They put me in a double room. That was bad. I really hadn't considered that possibility. With an older guy, mayble late 60's or early 70's, who had just broken his hip. It was close to 11:30PM by then. But he seemed pretty medicated and was 3/4th's asleep most of the time. So I just read The Heart of Darkness in my head to pass the time.
The nurse walked in about 1:30AM to change his IV and check on mine. I waited about 20 minutes after she left to get up, get my boots, trenchcoat and pants out of the plastic bag the ED nurse had packed them in, and pulled my IV into the bathroom. I sat on the toilet, unlaced my boots and withdrew the belts from my pants and coat. This is the only part I hadn't fully planned out because there was no way of knowing what the configuration of the room was going to be. I just assumed that I could loop one end of my McGyver'ed noose over the bathroom door onto the room-side doorknob, then tightened to other end around my neck. Then it would just be a matter of stepping off a stool. Badabing badaboom, problem solved. But the room-side doorknob was actually handle-shaped. When I quietly looped one end of my "noose" over it (careful as to not wake my roommate), re-closed the door, and gave the belt/shoelace/belt a little test tug, it slipped right off. That was a problem.
So I had to improvise. The bathroom-side doorknob was actually a doorknob-shaped doorknob. The only way I could make it work would be to open the door fully against the bathroom wall, loop the noose on the knob-side and hang myself in the bathroom with the door wide open. So I checked to make sure my roommate was still asleep, carried the stool over from the shower, tightened each end of my makeshift rope, and stepped up on the stool.
But it didn't seem high enough.
There was no way just "stepping off" was going to do the trick.
So I jumped up as high as I could.
It hurt like a son of a bitch.
Like a lightning bolt from the top of my head all the way down to my tailbone.
But my momentum pulled the door away from the wall and it was now only halfway open. So now I'm staring straight ahead directly at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, head askew and turning reddish-blue (or just purple, I guess). I also feel my toes barely touching the floor as my "rope" slowly stretches.
This isn't good.
But it gets worse.
Apparently my attempted leap to death has caused a bit of a ruckus. Enough of a ruckus, in fact, to wake my roommate from his painkiller-induced slumber. I look over just in time to see hime come to, gradually lift his head... and lock eyes with my own now-bulging eyes.
Needless to say, he freaks the fuck out.
So now I'M freaking out. I start to kick my legs up and down like a toddler throwing a tantrum trying to snap my vertabrae before he can push the call button to get a nurse to come a'running.
So to my left I have an old geezer frantically screaming and reaching for the alarm, and directly in front of me I have my own flailing reflection which, by now, I can barely make out because the capillaries in my eyes were beginning to burst.
It would have been hilarious if I had taken the time to fully appreciate the insanity of the moment.
But I didn't have the chance because I was busy slipping into unconsciousness.
I woke up several hours later in a different room (without a door) with a nurse or doctor checking in on me every 15 minutes and giving me looks of alternating pity and disgust. I just pretending to be confused and kept asking why I was there.
Dod you know that omoxicillin can, in rare circumstances, cause hallucinations? It's true. And since I had a recent (and spectacularly convenient) history of omoxicillin-induced psychotic episodes (confirmed by my doctor back home), I was able to convince the hospital psychatrist that the suicide attempt was a result of those hallucinations rather than my rather depressing prologue.
Unfortunately for me, the hospital (or maybe it was the entire state, I'm not sure) had a policy that you have to be held under observation for 72 hours after a suicide attempt. So I spent the day of New Years Eve 1999 playing euchre in the psych ward with a 19 year old bipolar girl and 2 generally mentally-disturbed middle-aged men (I was asleep at midnight because the hospital was pretty fascist about their "lights out at 10pm" policy - hardly seemed fair).
Good times. Good times.

Sol y Estrellas - a haiku

He's her kept secret
paragraphs and monologues
but scared to say "hi"

Tuesday @ the Corner part deux

Husband, pick-up truck, kiss

Normally I would write this in some dime-store poetic/esoteric fashion, maybe via a seemingly random list of things (insert 3 of the following - brand name liquor, popular late '80's girls name, lipstick color, mid-selling fiction author, female recording artist, hotel chain), but I'm currently incapable of drawing a plausible analogy. So here's the deal;
I had the same dream 3 times 5 years apart. Ok, not necessarily the "same" dream. More like a very similar version with the same themes. Different locations, characters and backstories, but the same general storyline: I meet the husband of a current female co-worker for the first time, I end up in a pick-up truck with said female co-worker, we have a moment and end up kissing. Not "consumed in a moment of hunger and passion" kissing, but more like "neither of us knows if this is right or wrong, we've definitely crossed a line we can't uncross but we also don't know if it will ever be anything more than that kiss" kissing. And it's not necessarily a random female co-worker. ll of them have been married. All of them have the same general body type: slender, semi-boyish, straight shiny hair, late 20's-to-early 30's. But they have different characteristics as well; ethnicities, reporting relationships, personality types. We just end up in a pickup truck and tenderly kiss, hesitant and impulsive at first, turning into mutual want, her right hand on the back of my neck and my right hand on her cheek/neck.
And it's not like I had any inkling of a romantic relationship with any of these women in real life.
I have nothing more to offer.

Click here for the audio version

Oh, The Places You'll Go (An Very Un-Suessian Tale)

Between dinner & dessert behind Shooters in Orlando
Amtrak lavatory between Pittsburgh & Newark
My cousin's dorm room at CU
The world's nastiest motel room at the world's nastiest Travelodge in DC
An under-construction beach house in Isle of Palms
Parking garage stairwell behind The Quaff in Kansas City
The Bachelors Suite overlooking Lake Michigan at The Drake
Storage closet in the basement of a college rec center
Rental car outside a concert in Tinley Park
Laundromat bathroom in Virginia Beach
Party van coming back from a wedding in Naples
A very cold creek that ran behind my house

The Smerdyakov Pickup

You don't have to be good-looking or funny or smart or obviously wealthy to pick up a woman in a bar. Living proof right here.
Get there about 7. Early enough to find two empty stools at the bar. Sit down in one and place your blazer over the back of the other. It's not necessarily required that you do this while on a business trip, but it's what seems to work for me.
Then order a drink and ask for two menus. Scan the menu, check your watch, fiddle with your shirt buttons (top button unfastened... no, better keep in buttoned), check your phone to see if you missed any calls, glance toward the door every time someone enters.
Things will start to get busy. The bar will start to fill up.
Eventually, someone will ask if the seat next to you is taken. Maybe its a man. Maybe its a woman. Doesn't matter. Just apologize and tell them you're waiting for someone.
Order another drink. Maybe 30-45 minutes have passed by now. Check your watch a little more frequently. Another beer. Then order an appetizer. Look at your phone again. Pretend to leave someone a pathetic voicemail ("Hey, just checking to make sure I heard you right - 7PM at The Charterhouse. Please give me a call when you get this.... oh, and if you're on your way, let me know and I can order for you so you don't have to wait. I was running late anyways, just got here. Ok?"). Another drink.
She'll have started paying attention by now. She will self-select.
She'll probably be with a group of friends. All of them will be sneaking glances and whispering back and forth, but she'll be the one with the look of empathy and concern. Do NOT make eye contact. You're just focusing on who is NOT there rather than who is.
She will ask if the seat next to you is open. Pause before answering. Look towards the door. Check your phone again. Exhale barely audibly, remove your blazer from the stool and say "yeah, I guess it is".
Immediately summon the bartender and order another beer. This is when you stop glancing towards the door and looking at your watch. You will feel her looking at you.
She'll eventually break the ice, saying something like "Maybe she's just running late" or "Don't feel bad. We've all been stood up before" or "She must be an idiot". Flash a quick smile, a little laugh at most.
Say something self-deprecating.
By now, the following thought will have already crossed her mind;
"This will be such a cute story to tell people about how we met - he was stood up by his date, we started talking, hit it off".
Much cuter than "we met in a bar on a Thursday night".
After a few minutes, ask her to save your seat while you go to the men's room. Don't refer it it by anything other than that; the men's room. Not "the little boys room". Not "the head". Not "the bathroom".
The men's room.
Take a couple steps towards the men's room, pause for a second, then turn around to ask her, "hey, if you see a redhead, about 5'8" walk in, can you please tell her I'll be right back?".
Pathetic.
You'll come back. She will have saved your seat. Don't sit down though. Reach for your jacket, thank her, and tell her that you're gonna take off. She'll grab your arm and ask you to stay, maybe just have one more drink. Her treat.
Slowly open up. Share a joke. Let her cheer you up. She'll say something bad about the girl who stood you up. You say,"No, no, no. It's no big deal. I'm over it".
That's it. Yours. Without fail.

She Was A Bitch Anyways

Hometown

See that junior high over there?
2nd floor, 3rd classroom from the left?
That's where Mrs. Nax kept me after school
So the social workers could talk to me
voices of concern, pity and uncertainty

And the grocery store down the street?
I used the men's room to clean myself off
on the way to my girlfriend's house
after I visited with Dana Chapman
reeking of sex, Organza and pride

That chinese restaurant used to be a Denny's
halfway between the bars and home
3AM Moons over My Hammy & coffee
before the days we designated a driver
wrecking Barb's car, Barb's leg and Barb

And that little shitbox motel right there?
you'd think it used to be cute & cozy
but its been rundown since the day it was built
I tried to drink myself to death in Room 26
surrounded by bottles, vomit and photographs

That housing development used to be woods
dark, secluded & perfect for two 17 yr old kids
fumbling with belts & zippers & bra straps
unknowingly making a baby, never to be born
costing me $300, a day of school & a friend

She knew she could never live anywhere near here
Addresses all belonging to someone else & me
Not a single place that could be truly ours
She smelled every sin as we drove down South Ave
warm and intrusive, like a strangers breath

Mandingo - A Haiku

She never felt so...
Powerful, free, unchained, strong
Than when beneath him

Dumped for Galifianakis

I did my undergrad at Northwestern
finished my Masters at Cornell
Eleven point nine Q on my MCAT
but she dumped me for Galifianakis

Completed a 1/2 triathlon at Sarasota
in a shade under six hours
Starting scrum half for the Oneida FC
she still dumped me for Galifianakis

Junior Achievement, Red Cross, ASPCA
passed out blankets to the homeless
I run a rescue shelter for greyhounds
Got dumped for Galifianakis anyhow

I surprised her on her 25th birthday
flew her sister in from New Zealand
bought her a signed 1st edition Lagerlof
Yeah, dumped for Galifianakis

I live in an 19th century firehouse
restored with my own sweat & two hands
the firepole just where she liked it
The bitch dumped me for Galifianakis

I would keep her going for hours
breathless, bordering on unconscious
regardless of my own carnal needs
but now she's banging Galifianakis

She

Shi has always been my closest companion
my confidante, my lover, my judge
touching the lives of the people around me
her hand so close to grazing my own
I can feel the warmth of her fingertips

Shi whispers her name in my ear as I sleep
I'm unsure if it's a tease or a prophecy
uncertain if I want her to lay down beside me
taking me in her willowy arms
embracing me as the candle slowly burns

Shi comes and goes as she pleases
but never quite leaving me alone
reminders of her presence litter my room
a murder of crows, a salt-pepper ram
keep me company until shi returns

Shi promises me comfort & redemption
alluring in her matte black dress and veil
a vision of fate and relentless certainty
her broken watch oddly out of place
but still keeping perfect time

Shi goes days without a single word
then blusters on for weeks on end
"hominem te esse memento" & "memento mori"
repeated until I hear them in my sleep
never knowing if she'll be there when I wake

Show Me Where It Hurts

I was going through some boxes and I came across and old gig case for a guitar I no longer own. It was just folded up inside along with a few zippos and 18" x 12" unframed canvas painting. The initials "R.J" scripted neatly at the bottom right in black oil.
Regina J. was an art student I dated a long time ago. A million years ago, it seems like. She had this exquisite tattoo on her shoulder of Alice gazing through a looking glass to see herself reflected as the Queen of Hearts. She sculpted mostly. Industrial stuff - definitely not marketable to anyone mainstream. But she didn't give a shit.
We dated for a few months. Actually, "dated" would be a rather generous term. We fought some. A lot. About politics, about movies, about art, about other men or women. We would literally scream at each other at the top of our lungs while our faces were inches apart. But it would only be a matter of time before I'd grab her by her hair or she'd shove me against a wall.
Needless to say, it was a fairly frenzied couple of months.
Anyway, I unzipped the guitar case and found a sheet of spiral notebook paper with a song I'd written for her. It was from my early "three chords of crap" period. Not quite power-ballad, not quite bubblegum punk. Just self-important bullshit.
But I humbly present to you "Show Me Where It Hurts". For Regina.

Don't hide behind that bandage

Can't numb it with that pill

I feel a little greedy

but I promise I won't kill

***

Take your finger off the trigger

I'll take my hands off your throat

Who are you trying to fool?

I read your suicide note

***

(chorus)

Show me where it hurts
tell me where it bleeds
let's take off all our clothes
and find out where it leads

***

Don't you like it when I scratch?

Do you like it when bite?

candle wax and razor blades

I love it when you fight
***

(repeat chorus)

***

Let's get you in the shower

and wash off all that pain

some of yours & some of mine

half-naked in the rain

***

(repeat chorus)

Beautiful Without Me

I had found the place by accident. There are a few thousand acres of woods behind my house and I used to spend a lot of my time walking the horse trails that meander through the trees. Though quite primitive, the paths had always been lifesavers for me becuase of my uncanny sense of misdirection. Once you get a hundred yards or so beyond the treeline, it's difficult to find your bearings. A 30 minute walk could easily turn into a two hour domestic replay of Lord of the Flies.

But being the gadget man that I am, I invested a couple hundred bucks in a handheld GPS unit. Voila - I was no longer a slave to the tramped dirt pathways. I could mark my house on the GPS and use it to to find my way back without leaving a proverbial trail of breadcrumbs.

The forest was now mine.

So I set out, GPS firmly in hand, determined to discover the outermost reaches. Through clearings, crouching under branches, snagging my shirt on thorns. For almost an hour before I found it - a place where the rock ledges intertwined to form a natural cathedral of stone, accessible only through an almost invisible three foot wide crevice.

Emboldened by explorers of the past - Desoto, Magellan, de Leon - I walked through the opening to see........... crushed beer cans and broken whiskey bottles littering the leaf-covered floor. So apparently I wasn't the first to grace this virginal outpost. It must have had a 20+ year history as a hangout for underage drinking and general mischief.

But beyond the spray-painted graffiti and discarded trash lied a truly beautiful, almost majestic, place. The sunlight broke through the trees above to form a thousand spotlights, each one framing a a dark corner in a bath of light. The main 25 foot wide opening was encircled by a dozen or more rocky outcrops. And the intersection of each one of those formed an almost unpassable exit to yet another smaller opening. Definitely a place to be explored rather than defiled.

I marked the point on my GPS and filled my backpack with as many cans and bottles that I could carry.

I go back to that place every now and then, each time trying to scrub and little more paint off the rock walls or disposing of a little more litter. Not for myself - I think I can see past the traces of refuse and appreciate the sublime for what it is, before it was besmirched by inconsiderate shitheads. But maybe I can make little easier for the next guy to realize how beautiful it is. Even without me.

Schismatist

Even after I stopped doing some serious drinking, I still made a habit of spending a lot of time in bars. It was probably good for me to get out in a social atmosphere, even if I wasn't directly contributing to the fraternization. I suppose that my theory was that I would somehow absorb the ability to mingle via osmosis.
But mostly I just found myself clinically observing other people.
And I spent one night observing one person in particular.
She was drunk even before she walked in. It was a hotel bar, so my first thought was that she may have been a prostitute. But that belief quickly faded away. I knew a hooker when I see one, and she was no hooker. Though she was a little under-dressed for this particular bar. Her clothes a little too tight & cheap and her shoes much too Payless.
Just a drunk whore.
I'm surprised they even served her. She was visibly wobbly and obviously alone - a combination that's usually a prologue to trouble. So I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I nursed my sidecar. It wasn't so much a predatory gaze, but rather how one would look at a car careening out of control on a winding mountain road - something bad was about to happen and I didn't want to miss it.
As my eyes volleyed back and forth between her now slumping figure and my melting ice cubes, I noticed another man in the corner doing the very same thing. But he wasn't merely looking on in grotesque amusement. He was patiently waiting for opportunity.
He was about my age, maybe a little younger, well-dressed and sober enough to know exactly what he was doing. And planning. An unintentional predator salivating at a target of convenience.
He waited 30 seconds or so after she gulped what remained in her glass then stumbled toward the door before he left a twenty on his own table and followed her out. But not before scanning to his left and right to see if he was the only one eyeing the unsuspecting girl.
I watched them both through the picture window facing the street, their bodies now framed between Bass & Guinness neon signs. She was attempting to sort her thoughts, obviously in vain. Maybe trying to figure out how she'd get home, remembering the bus schedule or calculating what the cab fare would be . But much too engrossed in her ephemeral thoughts to notice him approaching.
I saw the whole episode acted out in mime to the jukebox soundtrack of Stevie Ray Vaughn's Tightrope. He was trying to give off the impression of a helpful stranger, offering her a ride home. Or maybe just walk with her a while to make sure she was ok - there were a lot of crazies out in the streets that late, right?
She clutched her purse tight against her ribcage, perhaps sensing that he wasn't as he seemed. She drew back as he reached his hand out to rub her shoulders - just a warm, friendly gesture, right? Her apprehension didn't deter his physicality. To the contrary, he must have liked his women with a little fire in their bellies. He stepped up his tactile offensive by wrapping his arm around her waist.
I'd seen enough. I left money on the bar to cover my tab and strode through the door
"Leave her alone, you piece of shit", I said.
Perturbed at being interrupted, he placed his hand on her breast and told me to mind my own business.
I asked her if she wanted me to call her a taxi. She looked at him before answering in the affirmative. I held out my hand for her to take and led her away from the dirtbag.
And he was pissed. But he didn't move from in front of the building. Just watched us walk halfway down the block to the hotel entrance and to the curb as I hailed a cab.
I opened the back door and made sure she was in safely as I handed the driver 2 twenties and told him to take her home. She looked at me without a 'thank you' as the car pulled away.
I started heading back to finish my "conversation" with the scorned shitbag. Since he clearly wasn't interested in going back in the bar, he must have wanted to have a few words with me. And by now, I couldn't help but notice a few patrons watching us through the window, waiting for the discussion.
But then I heard a car honk from the street as the same taxi pulled back next to me after circling the block. The driver rolled down his window.
"She's too drunk. She won't tell me where she lives. Told me to take her back here. I don't have time for this" he said, frustrated, as he handed me back one twenty.
She opened the door, nearly falling to the pavement face-first, and exited the car.
"Sorry", she apologized. "I don't remember my address. I guess I'll just have to go home with you".
I was suddenly disgusted by her tequila-slurred words and clumsy attention-seeking.
"Look, there's no way you're coming home with me. You better get your ass back in that cab before you do something really stupid or before someone does something real stupid to you", I spat out.
What the hell was the point of helping someone who was pretty much deadset on self-destruction?
"Come on, guy. Just take me home, ok? I just need to sleep a little then I'll feel better in the morning. I swear I'll be good", she pleaded.
The spurned suitor was watching this all in amusement.
"I'll take you home, sweetheart" he offered with a smile, ever the helpful gentleman.
She looked at him then she turned back to me.
"So what's it gonna be, huh? Are you going to make me go home with him?" she asked, almost daring me to take advantage of her.
"You're going to have to find yourself another hero, little girl" I told her as I walked back into the bar for 8 or 9 more drinks.

Does He?

Does he make you smile like I used to do?
whispering a dirty joke in your ear at a funeral
then glaring at you in mock disdain
as your cashmere lips form a resisted grin
Does he?

Does he make you laugh like I used to do?
when you're alone in your car, me miles away
but you titter thinking about the time
I painted happy faces on my nipples
Does he?

Does he make you come like I used to do?
turning you on like a switch
my finger tracing gently on your hip
as my teeth sink into your neck
Does he?

Does he make you feel like I used to do?
hunger, madness, longing and desperation
all before I finish your song
my fingers raw against the steel strings
Does he?

Does he make you scream like I used to do?
as I peel back your scabs
and probe your wounds with my finger
not sure if I'm a healer or a masochist
Does he?

Does he make you cry like I used to do?
wiping your tears before I walk back in the room
pretending everything couldn't be better
as if I never said the things I did
No he doesn't, does he?

Intoccabile

I exited the lobby of my hotel
temporarily blinded by the reflection
off the glass highrise across the street
I had to quickly jerk myself back
to escape being trampled by commuters

I stood motionless waiting for my chance
to merge with the industrious crowd
not wanting to be absorbed by the bustle
shrinking myself to fend off their touch
practically leaping into an approaching void

I skitted to the right and left
nearly colliding with oncoming traffic
not even wanting to be casually brushed
nor inadvertantly bumped, tapped or rubbed
content to be tactually invisible

Then I noticed a strange phenomenon
just before I would flinch to dodge a passerby
they would move away from me instead
the more I condensed myself
the bigger the buffer they allowed
until I was surrounded by an ethereal halo

It was warmly comforting..... at first
unconcerned with their brutishness
lengthening my stride, slowing my gait
brazenly immune to my environment
my own aura of sanctuary

But as I reached out my open hand
to aid a fallen pedestrian
her purse strewn across the pavement
she suddenly withdrew from me
with a sickening churlishness

And she wasn't alone in her revulsion
a colleague refused my handshake
a grandmother dismissed my embrace
a lover spurned all intimacy
as my sanctuary became a prison

The Redline

When I was younger, I used to take the train into the city to buy my drugs. It was a real pain in the ass, but if the cops saw a nice car with suburban plates in that part of town, they'd pull you over every time. Not that they'd have probable cause for a search, but that rarely stopped them. Fortunately, I learned this fact by proxy when one of my college roommates got busted for possession when he was pulled over in his Lexus one block away from a crackhouse.
So I'd drive to Union Station then take the Red Line to Logan Circle (this was right before the area started getting gentrified) then walk four blocks around the back of this 3-story brownstone. It was one of the only places I knew about where you could get both coke and heroin. Moonrocks was my thing at the time and it was a real pain to go to two different dealers.
I'd made this trip a couple dozen times maybe. This was over about a year and a half, so it's not like I was a complete junkie or anything.
So, I'm sitting there on the train in a pair of A&F cargoes, an Eddie Bauer rugby shirt and my Timberland leather jacket. It had been a good month since I'd really let loose so I was getting a little heavy, counting the minutes until my stop.
We pulled into Metro and I noticed this black dude, a younger kid - maybe just old enough to drink, wheel himself into my car in a beat-up old wheelchair. I was surprised that his transfer was almost... well, graceful. I figured he must have been in it for a while to the point where this was second nature for him. He got himself settled in as the doors closed and the train pulled away.
He was a big guy, even to me. Not "fat" big. Just substantial. Massive even, to the point where his frame looked grossly disproportionate to the chair that supported him. He was nattily dressed, sweatsuit and cap, but it was clean and in good repair. A 7-11 nametag, Ruslan, was affixed to his chest so I assumed he was on his way to work.
I found myself silently theorizing how he ended up chairbound. Aside from his shrunken, degenerated legs, he didn't have anything else obviously wrong with him. Car accident probably. But as he backed himself into the handicap slot, the sleeves of his sweatshirt worked themselves up to reveal a telltale one inch crater scar bullet wound on his forearm and I assumed that wasn't the only one.
He was directly across from me when he took off his redskins Starter cap, placed it upside-down in his lap... and began to sing.

I call, You hear me

I’ve lost it all

And it’s more than I can bear

I feel so empty
You’re strong I’m weary

I’m holdin’ on

But I feel like givin’ in

But still You’re with me

His voice was... soulful, heartbreaking, joyous, triumphant and broken all at once. I've never been one for gospel, but he was simply amazing. I mean, after the first note, every single person in that train car stopped whatever it was that they were doing and just gazed at him in awe.

And even though I’m walkin’ through
The valley of the shadow
I will hold tight to the hand of Him
Whose love will comfort me
And when all hope is gone
And I’ve been wounded in the battle
He is all the strength that I will
Ever need
And He will carry me

The words "wounded in battle" struck me and all of a sudden I knew exactly how he ended up in his chair. Might've been a drive-by. Might've been a deal gone bad. Might've been ice-driven frenzy. But one was the same as the others. And the outcome was sure the same.

I know I’m broken
But You alone
Can mend this heart of mine
You’re always with me

He breathed out the last word and stared right into my eyes. Not because he saw me as a fellow broken soul. But because he saw me as a predator. As a killer. His killer.

And he was right. I pulled that trigger. Not literally, but it didn't matter. I hadn't picked up a gun in years, but the bullets in his arm and his back were mine. Or maybe even meant for me. My money bought the gun, loaded the clip and squeezed the trigger.

The train stopped at Farragut as passengers drifted by and filled his cap with singles and a few fives.

The train moved on towards Logan Circle, but he didn't sing again. He just looked at me with a sense of.... I wasn't sure at first. But then I knew. He was sitting in judgment, waiting to see which stop I'd make my own. Would I get off on the next stop or would I stay on until Bethesda or maybe Rockville. If I stood up too soon? He'd find me guilty. And he'd be right.

The train slowed as it pulled up to the platform. He stopped looking at me only long enough to gather his things in preparation for his own departure. But he glared back at me as I began to stand up myself. He was about to say something, spit out some invective perhaps, when I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my wallet.

I placed 7 fifty dollar bills in his hat and sat back down.

Are You Experienced?

Has it ever hurt so bad that you didn't care what happened
90 miles per hour down Suicide Hill
seatbelt unbuckled and The Cure full volume
Not quite deliberate but not quite unplanned
Reckless and surrendering to chance?

Have you ever fallen so hard that you plan your breakdowns
laying a Franklin and a Jackson on the bar
your address scribbled on the twenty
to (maybe) get yourself home
as long as you don't puke in the cab?

Are you consumed by the past that you risk your future
hiding her painting in the trunk with your old trophies
her first initial and last name in the bottom corner
an excuse already prepared if someone finds it
"Oh, I didn't even know I still had that old thing"?

Have you ever felt so alone, lying next to someone else
just as beautiful, just as passionate, just as kind
holding out your arm to keep her at the right distance
close enough to invite her inside
far enough so that she won't stay?

Ever want the pain to stop so much that you........
still refilling your prescriptions
but no longer taking your pills
full honey-colored bottles with childproof caps
lining the inside of your medicine cabinet?

Because if you haven't felt what I've felt
desperation, anguish, rage, wretched longing
then no amout of caring or desire
will countermand the difference
between my past and our future

She Doesn't Deserve Me

I can give her a good five minutes a day
I'll be there for her most of the time
Her birthday is next week, I think
I'll try to get her some flowers
She doesn't deserve me

I kinda have my own thing going on
Things I'm trying to work out
Maybe I'll figure it out this year
She's got time to waste, right?
She doesn't deserve me

I'll always love someone else more
but she's right up there, top 5 at least
She really means something to me though
I say "me too" when she says she loves me
She doesn't deserve me

There's that guy that likes her at work
who brought her soup when she was sick
She ate it as she ironed my shirts
I didn't give her a hard time when she spilled
She doesn't deserve me

I should probably call her tonight
She's seemed kind of down lately
especially when she left this morning
I thought last night was great though
She doesn't deserve me

Chapter Two

Even before my recent hermitage, I haven't been working all that much. Technically speaking, I still have an office, but I eased back my schedule to less that a half dozen sessions per month. Bridge sessions - deaths in the family, temporary job woes, ex-clients who need some quick reinforcement - that sort of thing. None of them are long term. If I see them heading that way? Immediate referral.

Pretty much everyone here knows this. I'm effectively out of business. Then they had that mall shooting in Omaha last month.

I have these friends, David and Dahlia ("Dolly" to friends) with a 17-year old son, Seth. I saw Dolly for about 4 years, so I was well aware of Seth's issues - self-harm, drug use, violent behavior, etc. I was there when he was involuntarily admitted to residential care after a suicide attempt a couple years ago. The kid has been in a pretty dark place for a long time. A lost cause if there ever was one.

So anyway, after that kid in Omaha shot up the mall a couple weeks before Christmas. David and Dolly call me and tell me that their very worried about Seth. They had found a box of shotgun shells in his room. No gun, but they were alarmed nonetheless. They couldn't get over the fear that they would see him on the news after he shot a dozen of his schoolmates. They just wanted to know if I can just talk to him and get a feel for what kind of path he was on. He was already in court-ordered therapy (group and individual) after his last legal run-in, but unfortunately it was with a court-appointed therapist. And a kid like Seth can easily manipulate most of those types. Real life isn't like Good Will Hunting.

So I'm back at the office.

He walks in, pretty much exactly as you'd think he'd look. Black on black on black.

I started by asking him if he knew why his parents were so concerned. He was fully aware that they saw him as a ticking bomb. In fact, he took pleasure in that role. It empowered him. His parents weren't the only people who saw him as a potential threat. He said he had heard the same thind, directly or indirectly, from his teachers and classmates. "Freak" and "psycho".

"So do you think that there is an appeal to something like that? I mean, is there a temptation for yo to fulfill that?" I asked.

"I can't tell you that. If I talked about wanting to hurt people, you'd have to report it to the cops", he replied.

"Actually that's kind of a gray area", I answered. "Technically speaking, there's a relatively fine line between mandatory reporting and therapist privilege. It's even more nebulous in this particular instance. Your father is a attorney, correct? More importantly, your father is YOUR attorney - he represented you when you vandalized the school last year, right? There was a case a few years ago, New Jersey I think, that found that psychologists contracted to evaluate a client by that client's attorney now fell under the attorney-client privilege and were not legally required to report past of future acts of violence or abuse. It's probably splitting hairs, but I'd be in as much trouble for not reporting anything as I would if I actually did report it. But if it makes you more comfortable, you can just talk about it in hypotheticals - you hypothetically thought about taking a gun to school - that sort of thing."

He seem a little confused.

"What kind of therapist are you?" he asked.

"The kind that's been around long enough to know that you're probably going to do what you want to do regardless of how well I do my job".

So he talked about "hypothetically" buying a gun from a kid at school who "hypothetically" stole it from his father. He wasn't planning on doing anything with it per se. He just liked the way it felt in his hand. Cold, substantial, powerful. He was oppressed, after all. Picked on at school. Beat up on a fairly regular basis. So sure, it crossed his mind to take the gun to school, "hypothetically". But he doubted he would ever do anything with it.

"I guess there's one thing I don't get", I stated. "School shootings, aside from being totally passe, actually accomplish the opposite effect of what the killer is trying to accomplish".

"What do you mean", he asked.

"Well, these kids take their guns into school and shoot up the people that have somehow wronged them - the bullies, the girl that jilted them, the teacher that gave them an F. Or they shoot up the place thinking that they'll somehow gain some eternal infamy. But what actually happens is that they martyr the people they mean to harm while they themselves become soon-to-be-forgotten footnotes. The victims will get plaques, statues, posthumous book deals, while the killer gets a few days of the press talking about what a loser freak he was. I just don't see how that's anything that anyone would want. Especially if they're willing to kill themselves to do it.
He shook his head. "That's not true. People remember the school shooters", he responded.
"Really now?" I said. "Let's try an experiment. I'm going to give you some homework. You ask 20 random people to try to name the person who shot those kids at Virginia Tech, or the kid that shot his classmates in Arkansas or Columbine. Heck, see if they know the name of the kid who shot up the mall in Omaha. That was just last week. If 20% of the people you ask know them, then I'll get you out of your counseling sessions".
He came back two days later. One person knew Robert Hawkins from Omaha and three knew Klebold & Harris from Columbine.
"So what does that tell you?" I asked.
He thought his answer would startle me. "It tells me that if I want to be infamous, I (hypothetically) need to kill even more people."
"Wrong" I said. "If the goal of this 'hypothetical' school shooter is to be remembered, then he needs to forget about the quantity of his (hypothetical) victims and start thinking about the quality of his victims. These killers have just targeted innocent people. Like I said last time, that's totally passe. But if you (hypothetically) want to be remembered when you go out in your blaze of glory, why not take out those that deserve it in the process?"
He sat up straighter in his chair.
I continued. "Take child molesters for example. They have all these laws that prohibit them from living within so many yards of a school, playground, etc. So they end up clustered in these little shitty apartment complexes filled with their own kind. They're easy to find. All you have to do is look in the online database and check for a bunch that have the same address. If someone were to (hypothetically) shoot a place like that up instead of their school, then they'd be remembered. Forget being called a loser freak. They'd call that person a hero. A vigilante. A martyr for justice".
Seeds of thought began sprouting in his head.
I didn't stop. "And it probably wouldn't stop there. There would be copycats. Maybe even an entire movement. If a person were to do something like that? They'd be remembered. Revered even".
There was a minute of silence between us.
From there, the conversation gradually segued into his grades, his relationship with his parents, his friends, etc. But I could tell that the seeds were taking root.

It won't happen today. It probably won't happen next month. But it's going to happen. I'm certain of it.

Venetian Plaster

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

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;

• 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.