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.
Saturday, March 03, 2012
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Sunday, December 04, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
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
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
Sunday, August 21, 2011
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
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
Thursday, July 21, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
Saturday, April 02, 2011
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
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
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
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
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
Thursday, March 13, 2008
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
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
Sunday, March 02, 2008
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.
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
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)
Thursday, February 28, 2008
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.
Friday, February 22, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
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?
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?
Friday, February 08, 2008
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
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
Sunday, January 27, 2008
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 know I’m broken
But You alone
Can mend this heart of mine
You’re always with me
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
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 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.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
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
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
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
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
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
Monday, January 14, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, December 28, 2007
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
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
Thursday, December 27, 2007
My Calling
If you asked me eighteen years ago where I thought I would be today, I would have told you with near-certainty that I would be a mission specialist preparing for my first shuttle launch. Yeah yeah, it was a goofy sappy aspiration but I pursued it with single-minded determination and fervent resolve.
If you told me that instead of working at Kennedy Space Center, I would be strapping an unconscious & naked 66-year old man to work table in the basement of my house, I would have had you institutionalized.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
My father was a psychiatrist, by training and sometimes trade. And as I still am now, I am my father's son. When I was young (10 or so), my dad's job fascinated me. Back then, my dad has his office downstairs at our home. We had a walkout basement and his patients would walk around the side of our house and through a set of french doors into an anteroom outside my dad's den/office. It wasn't a large room, maybe 12' x 12', but it was nicely appointed and had a wood-burning fireplace against the west wall.
During the summer when I was supposed to be outside playing, I would instead sneak around of the side of the house, quietly open the exterior ash cleanout door of the fireplace and eavesdrop on his sessions. And when my parents would go out for the evening, I would creep into my father's office, steal one or two of the cassete tape recordings he made of his appointments as well as his post-session recorded notes. I would get into bed and listen to the tapes on my Walkman until late into the night.
I don't know that if it was that I was getting more mature and subsequently more capable of recognizing nuance and subdued verbal cues or if my father was just becoming more calloused, but the tapes seemed to reveal a progressive degradation in the attention he placed towards his job. Initially, he would spend about 45 minutes after each session recording notes to himself, summarizing the appointment and preparing his approach to the next scheduled session. It was very detailed and meticulous. But as the months and years wore on, there was a subtle yet inarguable shift in his approach to his work. Where he was once proactively probed and questioned his patient during their session, he now just randomly interspersed some "hmm"s with a few "uh-huh"s. His once voluminous post-session recordings now became "Patient feeling more and more sorry for himself - I should make an effort to blow some smoke up his ass next week".
It was right there laying in my bed listening to those tapes that I decided that I didn't want any part of an occupation that numbed your soul and jaded your compassion.
I was in the Physics club in high school (sexy, I know). I went to college with a relatively prominent physics program. I was a physics major..... until midway through my sophomore year.
I am my father's son.
I was a psychologist way before I was a psychologist. Free will never had much to do with it.
You see someone hurting, you see someone lost, you see someone in pain - if you have the means and ability, then you have to do something about it.
When you're in you 20's, that sounds noble and righteous.
When you're in your mid-30's, you realize that it's a Sisyphean task. You never run out of the hurt, the lost or the pained. You start out naively thinking that you can immerse yourself in the depths of human misery without succumbing to despair. If, day after day, you hear about abuse and self-harm and adultery and incest and failure, it wears on you. You're faced with three distinct courses of action;
If you told me that instead of working at Kennedy Space Center, I would be strapping an unconscious & naked 66-year old man to work table in the basement of my house, I would have had you institutionalized.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
My father was a psychiatrist, by training and sometimes trade. And as I still am now, I am my father's son. When I was young (10 or so), my dad's job fascinated me. Back then, my dad has his office downstairs at our home. We had a walkout basement and his patients would walk around the side of our house and through a set of french doors into an anteroom outside my dad's den/office. It wasn't a large room, maybe 12' x 12', but it was nicely appointed and had a wood-burning fireplace against the west wall.
During the summer when I was supposed to be outside playing, I would instead sneak around of the side of the house, quietly open the exterior ash cleanout door of the fireplace and eavesdrop on his sessions. And when my parents would go out for the evening, I would creep into my father's office, steal one or two of the cassete tape recordings he made of his appointments as well as his post-session recorded notes. I would get into bed and listen to the tapes on my Walkman until late into the night.
I don't know that if it was that I was getting more mature and subsequently more capable of recognizing nuance and subdued verbal cues or if my father was just becoming more calloused, but the tapes seemed to reveal a progressive degradation in the attention he placed towards his job. Initially, he would spend about 45 minutes after each session recording notes to himself, summarizing the appointment and preparing his approach to the next scheduled session. It was very detailed and meticulous. But as the months and years wore on, there was a subtle yet inarguable shift in his approach to his work. Where he was once proactively probed and questioned his patient during their session, he now just randomly interspersed some "hmm"s with a few "uh-huh"s. His once voluminous post-session recordings now became "Patient feeling more and more sorry for himself - I should make an effort to blow some smoke up his ass next week".
It was right there laying in my bed listening to those tapes that I decided that I didn't want any part of an occupation that numbed your soul and jaded your compassion.
I was in the Physics club in high school (sexy, I know). I went to college with a relatively prominent physics program. I was a physics major..... until midway through my sophomore year.
I am my father's son.
I was a psychologist way before I was a psychologist. Free will never had much to do with it.
You see someone hurting, you see someone lost, you see someone in pain - if you have the means and ability, then you have to do something about it.
When you're in you 20's, that sounds noble and righteous.
When you're in your mid-30's, you realize that it's a Sisyphean task. You never run out of the hurt, the lost or the pained. You start out naively thinking that you can immerse yourself in the depths of human misery without succumbing to despair. If, day after day, you hear about abuse and self-harm and adultery and incest and failure, it wears on you. You're faced with three distinct courses of action;
- you either become my father - calloused to the torment of the people who place their trust in you
- you let yourself sink deeper and deeper into a bottomless pit of sordid misfortune
- or you walk away
I walked away about a year ago. My thinking was that I would allow myself to be powerless - unable to help a stranger looking for directions, unwilling to pull over to help an old man change his flat tire, unqualified to talk a jumper down from a ledge. I was going to be selfish. I was going to ignore any plea, any cry for help.
So almost a full year passes.
I'm still alone. But now I don't have the excuse of an emotionally-draining job for my isolation. I'm still thirteen hundred miles from any close family member. But now I don't have the excuse of the tempestuous relationship with my father to blame for it.
I was lost. Didn't know where I was going and now I wasn't even sure where I had been. Worse still, there was still no escaping the pain and grief - you turn on the TV and it's nothing but little girls being raped and killed by meth addicts, little boys being kidnapped and molested, wives being murdered and dismembered. At least when I was younger and saw someone in need, I had the means and ability to help them.
Then it came to me.
My calling.
I DID have the means and ability to help the raped, the molested and the murdered. I'm relatively financially secure. I live alone in a fairly remote house and property. And perhaps most importantly, I'm already convinced that my lifetime of inflicting pain on others has reserved my spot in hell.
It first hit me when I was watching Court TV. They were running one of their cold-case docudramas about a woman who had gone missing in 1975. She tucked her two kids into bed one night then was reported missing when she didn't show up at her job the next morning. There was wide concensus that her recently estranged husband was responsible for her disappearance. He had been a real dirtbag, a history of domestic violence against both his wife and his kids, alcoholism and drug abuse. The police had some forensics evidence from the house, but without her body, they never had enough the press charges. He was still walking free that day. The last shot of the show was him walking in to his front door with a smirk on his face.
So I was watching this show and I couldn't help but thinking that somebody should just take a 2"x4" to the husband and smack that smile clean off his face. Then I looked across the room to the hall bathroom where I've been doing some work to see a half dozen 2"x4"s leaning against the wall.
The means and the ability.
THIS is my calling. I have never been so certain of anything in my entire life. I am vengeance. I am justice. I am the reckoning.
Given enough time (and a strong enough stomach), it's relatively easy to get somebody to talk. Interrogation is all about psychology. When I was in school, we learned about a few different "interviewing" techniques most of which were modification to what's now known as the Reid technique - a nine step methodology for eliciting confessions. But what I needed to do was a bit different, essentially just steps 1, 3, 4, 5, 6 & 9 with welding torches substituting for 2, 7 and 8. And I didn't necessarily care about a confession per se - I needed evidence - the location of a missing body, a murder weapon or anything else objectively incriminating.
But you know what? Maybe I didn't even care about that. Maybe I'm just trying to assign nobility to the sociopathic. Maybe the only difference between him and me is that my victims deserve it. But does it matter to you anyhow? Do you really care if my motivations are honorable or if they're demented? Would you care who saved you if you were drowning? Fuck it all.I snuck into his house while he was at work and bought an Amtrak ticket to Salt Lake City in his name with his Visa Card.
I tailgated with him in the muni lot before the football game.
I offered to drive him home as he stumbled back to his car.
I placed his cell phone in an open boxcar as he lay passed out in my passenger seat.
I strapped him to the workbench in my basement with cargo tiedowns.
I burned his clothes in my bedroom fireplace.
I scorched the soles of his feet with a soldering torch so he knew I was serious (and so he couldn't run).
I ignored his muffled pleas for mercy.
I burned his tears as they ran down his face.
I smeared Vaporub on my upper lip to cover up the smell.
I felt nothing as he lost control of his bodily functions.
I placed the tape recorder closer to his face when his voice lowered to a whisper.
I listened as a godless man prayed for forgiveness.
I think he was relieved when I placed my fingers around his throat.
I laid down on the couch as my dog licked my hand.
I buried a husband next to his wife.
I said a prayer for absolution.
I said a prayer for guidance.
I began to plan.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Baby, It's Cold Inside - A Scheherezade Project
This is one of those stories that requires a substantial prologue. So here it goes;
Growing up, my family wasn't big on the traditional holiday experience. I don't mean this in a judgmental way, in terms of bad or good - they just weren't. Specifically, I don't ever remember a time when I actually believed in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. That illusion was just never perpetuated in my household. The one symbol of yuletide jubilee that we did tolerate - the Christmas tree - became nomore as we started spending the holidays in south Florida when I was a teenager. Most of my birthdays consisted of a drive into town so I could pick out something from the mall.
I went to high school out of state. I went home during the holidays of my freshman and sophomore years, but after that? I just mostly hung out at school.
Even now, with my family scattered between the west, midwest, southeast and western Europe, I usually just take the holidays as an opportunity to hole up and relax.
And now on to the story.....
I spent most of the year 2001 doing some contract work for pharmaceutical company. As far as the nature of the work went, it was pretty mindless for me. Even then, I just wasn't well-suited for rush hour commutes, cubicles and performance reviews. Just not my thing.
But there was one thing that I DID like - the company softball team.
Now, I wasn't technically an employee of the company, but considering that 90% of the people who worked there made Stephen Hawking look like Mark McGwire, they made an exception for me.
It was pretty much a beer league - not very competitive by any measure. But it was coed.
And that's where I met Leah.
At the time, I was working exclusively in HR while she worked in Research. So the only time we ever crossed paths was on the softball field. It was hard for me to get a bead on her. The contrast between her jet black hair against her pale pale skin made it hard to tell if she was Snow White or Meg White. But that was kind of my thing at the time. I was a fool for the goth chicks (which sucked for me since I was about as attractive to goth chicks as a Touched By An Angel marathon).
And she just worked me. I'd catch her eyeing me from across the infield as she played second and I played third. She'd stretch out right in front of me before our games. She'd sit just far enough away from me on the bench. And she'd brush by me to grab a beer at the bar afterwards.
But she never approached me. She never came on to me. She never dropped a clue.
She made me work for it.
And right around the start of the playoffs, she finally broke me. She completely wrecked me.
I asked her out. She said yes.
Things went well, to say the least. Given the nature of my job at the time, we had to keep things on the down-low at work, but I think that only served to add to the intensity of out relationship. The simply act of passing her in the hall turned into... I don't know. It was something else. She just had a way.....
So this goes on for a few months. Through September. Through October. Through November.
Then came December.
Were were laying in her bed when she asked me to spend Christmas with her at her folks house outside of Charlottesville, Virginia. I don't think we had talked about my predisposition for non-traditional holidays, but it seemed like she knew in advance how to sell it - we'd just spend Christmas Eve and Christmas day at her parents house, then we'd spend a few days at Greenbriar all by ourselves. No big deal, right? Besides, I didn't have any other plans.
So we went.
Looking back at it now, she spent the whole drive down there preparing me for what was going to happen - her parents were kind of old-fashioned so I was going to sleep in her brother's old room, there will probably be some of her aunts & uncles there too, she was the only daughter so her brothers were probably going to give me a hard time (but they mean well), etc.
So I should have seen it coming.
What I pictured was something out of a suburban Addams Family, but what I got was something more out of a de-pigmented Cosby Show.
I spent the morning of Christmas Eve playing "flag" football with her brothers, cousins & uncles. Well, not so much "flag football" as it was "throw the ball to Assclown then let everybody pile on top of him". But it was kind of a blast. I got my ass beat, but I was a good-natured ass-beating. After we showered and changed, Leah and I ran into town real quick to do some last minute shopping for a few of her cousins that she didn't know were going to be there. We were looking through the boys clothing at the Abercrombie & Fitch when she took me by the hand, led me to a corner in the back, pushed me against the wall and put her right hand over my mouth.
"I'm going to tell you something, and you're not going to say a word in return, ok? You're just going to listen and shut up about it, right?" she said.
Before I could even nod out a yes, she told me that she loved me.
I started to say something......... but she raised her eyebrows, muffled my words with her hand and led me back into the store.
When we got back to the house, there were even more family there. Grandparents and nieces and Aunts and in-laws. And I had to be introduced to every single one. What did I do? How did Leah and I meet? Where do my parents live? Did I go to UVa? Etc, etc, etc.
I spent most of the night catching glimpses of her as the swinging butlers door opened and closed. A half second of her licking a mixing spoon. A momentary glimpse of her whispering in her mother's ear. A flutter of her looking towards me.
We sat next to each other at dinner. We held hands under the table as her father said grace, giving thanks for the blessings of his friends and family. About 20 minutes into the meal, he father gives me a smile and says, "Soooo, Leah tells me that you're a consultant. How does that work - do you just go from company to company, doing your thing until a better offer comes around?"
She shook her head in his direction, but I answered the question he was really asking. I hoped he took comfort in my answer.
We went to the candlelight service at their church, then came back to put the younger kids to sleep and go downstairs to just have a few drinks.
Or so I thought.
Until her aunt busts out the karaoke machine. It was worse than I could have possibly imagined. Her goateed uncle sang Bad to the Bone. Her Dad sang Luck Be a Lady. My heart stopped as Leah sang Killing Me Softly. Her mom wanted to a duet with her father, but he was too tired to get up from his chair. So she drug me up to the microphone and we sang Baby, Its Cold Outside.
It was about as Norman Rockwellian of a moment as I've ever experienced.
And I spent the entire two days alternating between sheer bliss and unbridled fear.
I waited two weeks after we got back to break up with her.
I just don't know if I could be that person. Certainly not then. And maybe it's too late for me now.
Growing up, my family wasn't big on the traditional holiday experience. I don't mean this in a judgmental way, in terms of bad or good - they just weren't. Specifically, I don't ever remember a time when I actually believed in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. That illusion was just never perpetuated in my household. The one symbol of yuletide jubilee that we did tolerate - the Christmas tree - became nomore as we started spending the holidays in south Florida when I was a teenager. Most of my birthdays consisted of a drive into town so I could pick out something from the mall.
I went to high school out of state. I went home during the holidays of my freshman and sophomore years, but after that? I just mostly hung out at school.
Even now, with my family scattered between the west, midwest, southeast and western Europe, I usually just take the holidays as an opportunity to hole up and relax.
And now on to the story.....
I spent most of the year 2001 doing some contract work for pharmaceutical company. As far as the nature of the work went, it was pretty mindless for me. Even then, I just wasn't well-suited for rush hour commutes, cubicles and performance reviews. Just not my thing.
But there was one thing that I DID like - the company softball team.
Now, I wasn't technically an employee of the company, but considering that 90% of the people who worked there made Stephen Hawking look like Mark McGwire, they made an exception for me.
It was pretty much a beer league - not very competitive by any measure. But it was coed.
And that's where I met Leah.
At the time, I was working exclusively in HR while she worked in Research. So the only time we ever crossed paths was on the softball field. It was hard for me to get a bead on her. The contrast between her jet black hair against her pale pale skin made it hard to tell if she was Snow White or Meg White. But that was kind of my thing at the time. I was a fool for the goth chicks (which sucked for me since I was about as attractive to goth chicks as a Touched By An Angel marathon).
And she just worked me. I'd catch her eyeing me from across the infield as she played second and I played third. She'd stretch out right in front of me before our games. She'd sit just far enough away from me on the bench. And she'd brush by me to grab a beer at the bar afterwards.
But she never approached me. She never came on to me. She never dropped a clue.
She made me work for it.
And right around the start of the playoffs, she finally broke me. She completely wrecked me.
I asked her out. She said yes.
Things went well, to say the least. Given the nature of my job at the time, we had to keep things on the down-low at work, but I think that only served to add to the intensity of out relationship. The simply act of passing her in the hall turned into... I don't know. It was something else. She just had a way.....
So this goes on for a few months. Through September. Through October. Through November.
Then came December.
Were were laying in her bed when she asked me to spend Christmas with her at her folks house outside of Charlottesville, Virginia. I don't think we had talked about my predisposition for non-traditional holidays, but it seemed like she knew in advance how to sell it - we'd just spend Christmas Eve and Christmas day at her parents house, then we'd spend a few days at Greenbriar all by ourselves. No big deal, right? Besides, I didn't have any other plans.
So we went.
Looking back at it now, she spent the whole drive down there preparing me for what was going to happen - her parents were kind of old-fashioned so I was going to sleep in her brother's old room, there will probably be some of her aunts & uncles there too, she was the only daughter so her brothers were probably going to give me a hard time (but they mean well), etc.
So I should have seen it coming.
What I pictured was something out of a suburban Addams Family, but what I got was something more out of a de-pigmented Cosby Show.
I spent the morning of Christmas Eve playing "flag" football with her brothers, cousins & uncles. Well, not so much "flag football" as it was "throw the ball to Assclown then let everybody pile on top of him". But it was kind of a blast. I got my ass beat, but I was a good-natured ass-beating. After we showered and changed, Leah and I ran into town real quick to do some last minute shopping for a few of her cousins that she didn't know were going to be there. We were looking through the boys clothing at the Abercrombie & Fitch when she took me by the hand, led me to a corner in the back, pushed me against the wall and put her right hand over my mouth.
"I'm going to tell you something, and you're not going to say a word in return, ok? You're just going to listen and shut up about it, right?" she said.
Before I could even nod out a yes, she told me that she loved me.
I started to say something......... but she raised her eyebrows, muffled my words with her hand and led me back into the store.
When we got back to the house, there were even more family there. Grandparents and nieces and Aunts and in-laws. And I had to be introduced to every single one. What did I do? How did Leah and I meet? Where do my parents live? Did I go to UVa? Etc, etc, etc.
I spent most of the night catching glimpses of her as the swinging butlers door opened and closed. A half second of her licking a mixing spoon. A momentary glimpse of her whispering in her mother's ear. A flutter of her looking towards me.
We sat next to each other at dinner. We held hands under the table as her father said grace, giving thanks for the blessings of his friends and family. About 20 minutes into the meal, he father gives me a smile and says, "Soooo, Leah tells me that you're a consultant. How does that work - do you just go from company to company, doing your thing until a better offer comes around?"
She shook her head in his direction, but I answered the question he was really asking. I hoped he took comfort in my answer.
We went to the candlelight service at their church, then came back to put the younger kids to sleep and go downstairs to just have a few drinks.
Or so I thought.
Until her aunt busts out the karaoke machine. It was worse than I could have possibly imagined. Her goateed uncle sang Bad to the Bone. Her Dad sang Luck Be a Lady. My heart stopped as Leah sang Killing Me Softly. Her mom wanted to a duet with her father, but he was too tired to get up from his chair. So she drug me up to the microphone and we sang Baby, Its Cold Outside.
It was about as Norman Rockwellian of a moment as I've ever experienced.
And I spent the entire two days alternating between sheer bliss and unbridled fear.
I waited two weeks after we got back to break up with her.
I just don't know if I could be that person. Certainly not then. And maybe it's too late for me now.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Show & Tell Tuesday: Oldest T-Shirt
I played a little football when I was in high school. From a purely objective perspective, I was a slightly-better-than-average player. But considering the fact that I competed with & against a disproportionately high percentage of Asian kids and future proctologists, I stood out a bit more than I otherwise should have. If I would have played for a public school, I definitely would have been more middle-of-the-pack.
I played a little bit of everything but mostly wide receiver and strong safety (for the sake of the girlies in the audience, that's the guy who catches the ball and the guy that hits the guy that catches the ball). I was kind of a total dick once I got on the football field, talking a LOT of trash and committing the occasional personal foul (not a lot of risk involved considering, as I said, that I was playing against mostly Japanese and Sri Lankan kids). I don't know what brought it out, but I just seemed to have a lot more anger on the field than I did off of it.
I also punted, although I absolutely hated it. I thinks it's the least manliest role on the entire team. At least the field goal kicker got to score points. I just got to stand back there and pray that Sumir could block the guy coming off the edge. But unlike my receiver and safety abilities, it was my punting skills that got me scholarship offers.
Well, actually it was only ONE scholarship offer. To Oregon State.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the Fightin' Beavers, Oregon State wasn't a very good football team back then. From 1976 through 1996, they averaged about 2 victories per year (mostly against nursing schools and smaller community colleges). So it wasn't exactly a prestigious honor, but I was looking forward to it nonetheless.
The OSU campus is in Corvallis. It's really a beautiful place, close to both the mountains and the Pacific, and just far enough away from home. I grew up out west but when to high school in a place about as mountainous as Topeka, Kansas so it was going to be good to get back in my element.
National Letter of Intent Day was in late January.
I was playing a game of pickup football in late December. I caught a pass, planted my left foot in the mud and POP! My anterior cruciate ligament got jiggy wit it.
It wasn't like it is today, when an ACL tear is a very recoverable injury. Back then it meant that you were done. And I was. Scholarship offer rescinded. Dreams of getting my ass handed to me by UCLA gone in an instant.
So this is the t-shirt I was given by one of OSU's assistant coaches before I became an invalid. It's now 18+ years old and gets worn under black v-neck sweaters whenever I'm feeling saucy.
Whenever I put it on, I can't help but wonder what would have happened if my foot had just landed 3 inches to the left. Or if Baxter had thrown the ball to somebody else. Or if I'd just slept in that Saturday. Not so much that I didn't get to play football again, but rather the people I would have (and wouldn't have) met, the places I would have (and wouldn't have) been and how different my life would have been in general.
I had no chance of playing anything other than 3rd string for a shitty football team, but sometimes it just makes you wonder.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
I'm Not Anymore
I'm not 10 years old anymore
eyes freshly opened
newly aware of others pain
but still keenly naive
of my own ability to hurt
I'm not 14 anymore
feeling rage instead of grief
no desire for comfort
no use for condolences
running anywhere but here
I'm not 18 anymore
so stupid to think I was a man
that my hands could wash clean
a cacophony of bullshit
hiding my tattooed back
I'm not 22 anymore
getting feeling back in my extremities
not quite so numb
taking pleasure in pleasure
and feeling pain with pain
I'm not 27 anymore
a thousand ways to blame myself
chanting the tired mantra
Gentle Lady, Do Not Sing
doesn't deny me my own hell
I'm not 30 anymore
losing track of whores
Amy and Lil and whats-her-face
they're remnants in my bed
unwilling to sleep alone
I'm not 34 anymore
the path behind me now dark
only glimpses of the road ahead
waking to see a half-sun on the horizon
uncertain if it's dawn or dusk
I'm 35 years old now
still no use for pity
save your tears for yourself
there are no victims here
I'm just the sum of my days
not a slave to my hours
eyes freshly opened
newly aware of others pain
but still keenly naive
of my own ability to hurt
I'm not 14 anymore
feeling rage instead of grief
no desire for comfort
no use for condolences
running anywhere but here
I'm not 18 anymore
so stupid to think I was a man
that my hands could wash clean
a cacophony of bullshit
hiding my tattooed back
I'm not 22 anymore
getting feeling back in my extremities
not quite so numb
taking pleasure in pleasure
and feeling pain with pain
I'm not 27 anymore
a thousand ways to blame myself
chanting the tired mantra
Gentle Lady, Do Not Sing
doesn't deny me my own hell
I'm not 30 anymore
losing track of whores
Amy and Lil and whats-her-face
they're remnants in my bed
unwilling to sleep alone
I'm not 34 anymore
the path behind me now dark
only glimpses of the road ahead
waking to see a half-sun on the horizon
uncertain if it's dawn or dusk
I'm 35 years old now
still no use for pity
save your tears for yourself
there are no victims here
I'm just the sum of my days
not a slave to my hours
Saturday, July 28, 2007
The Rest Of The Story Vol. II - Things I Keep In The Box
The only thing I knew about Scott at the time was that he was an Art Kid. Our school was much like any other (as much as it could be). We had stoners, preppies, burnouts, geeks, jocks.... and Art Kids. That was Scott.
The only reason I was aware of his existence was that he went through regular fashion phases as he attempted to fit in with some clique. He did the skater thing, then the goth thing, then the uber-geek thing before finally settling in with the artsy thing. This was made all that more amusing with the fact that we had uniforms and a fairly strict dress code dictating haircuts, color, jewelry, etc. So any attempt to stand out was fairly obvious (and in vain).
So I was, at best, vaguely aware of his existence when I broke my wrist skiing (not playing football). I only noticed him (and his older cast) when I caught him staring at mine the first morning I had it in class. At first I thought it was kind of strange. he wasn't paying attention to anything else - not the instructor, not the fellow students, not even me - just my cast.
It was only then that I noticed that are casts, altough similar in size and location, were completely different. His had one thing scribbled on it in ballpoint pen, while mine was pretty much covered with autographs and doodles. I'd stopped by my girlfriend's basketball game on the way back from the emergency room and she had all her friends sign it. Then some of my buddies signed it when I got back to the dorm as we hung out in the lounge. But he'd had his on for at least a couple of weeks. Nothing on it.
All of a sudden, I felt like shit.
As stupid as it sounds now, crap like that mattered back then. It mattered how many people signed your yearbook, it mattered how many letters you got girls back home...... and it mattered how many signatures you had on your cast.
I had dozens. He had none.
And we both hated it.
I didn't sign his cast after class to make him feel better. I did it to make me feel better. It's not like we started hanging out together after that or became lifelong friends. But I think it mattered to me and maybe it even mattered to him.
But there are people like him all over the place even now. All they need is a "hello", a smile or even just the smallest recognition that they exist. And I've been guilty of walking on by, not even cognizant of their presence, too wrapped up in my own life and my own stupid problems to even notice.
So hello.
The only reason I was aware of his existence was that he went through regular fashion phases as he attempted to fit in with some clique. He did the skater thing, then the goth thing, then the uber-geek thing before finally settling in with the artsy thing. This was made all that more amusing with the fact that we had uniforms and a fairly strict dress code dictating haircuts, color, jewelry, etc. So any attempt to stand out was fairly obvious (and in vain).
So I was, at best, vaguely aware of his existence when I broke my wrist skiing (not playing football). I only noticed him (and his older cast) when I caught him staring at mine the first morning I had it in class. At first I thought it was kind of strange. he wasn't paying attention to anything else - not the instructor, not the fellow students, not even me - just my cast.
It was only then that I noticed that are casts, altough similar in size and location, were completely different. His had one thing scribbled on it in ballpoint pen, while mine was pretty much covered with autographs and doodles. I'd stopped by my girlfriend's basketball game on the way back from the emergency room and she had all her friends sign it. Then some of my buddies signed it when I got back to the dorm as we hung out in the lounge. But he'd had his on for at least a couple of weeks. Nothing on it.
All of a sudden, I felt like shit.
As stupid as it sounds now, crap like that mattered back then. It mattered how many people signed your yearbook, it mattered how many letters you got girls back home...... and it mattered how many signatures you had on your cast.
I had dozens. He had none.
And we both hated it.
I didn't sign his cast after class to make him feel better. I did it to make me feel better. It's not like we started hanging out together after that or became lifelong friends. But I think it mattered to me and maybe it even mattered to him.
But there are people like him all over the place even now. All they need is a "hello", a smile or even just the smallest recognition that they exist. And I've been guilty of walking on by, not even cognizant of their presence, too wrapped up in my own life and my own stupid problems to even notice.
So hello.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The Lie - A Scheherazade Project Entry
I told her I was tired and really didn't feel like going out
she seemed ok with it but asked if she could just come over
just for a little while, maybe order Chinese & watch a movie
I felt better knowing she was on her way over
She unlocked the door, key in one hand & groceries in the other
"I felt like cooking. Is that ok?" she asked before kissing my neck
and stroking my back as I sat working at my desk
"Sounds perfect. Let me finish this one thing then I can help"
We maneuvered around each other in my under-construction kitchen
grilling chicken, boiling noodles and slicing tomatoes
like we've done dozens of times before, our tasks unspoken
she gives her "naughty boy" look when my hand lingers on her thigh
She tells me about Mrs. Thaelus at work, matchmaker for her gay son
knowing that I don't care but only talking about it to make me laugh
and it works as I try to hide my smile, but she sees it anyhow and grins
by now wearing only a camisole, her blouse draped over the chair
We eat as she pries out the details of my week, labors unrewarded
knowing that I need to tell them despite my half-hearted reluctance
it feels better getting it all out, but I'm sorry she's bearing the brunt
on her slight wispy shoulders and graceful musician's hands
She leans her back against the arm of the couch as I rest my head in her lap
her fingers interlaced in my hair as we half pay attention to The Guardian
drinking a bottle of wine she brought back from Asheville, saved just for me
she slides down in front of me, facing away, as I wrap her in my arms
I feel her breathe dance on my wrist and her pulse throb in my hand
no more talking as we take pleasure in this fleeting peaceful moment
A moment that I'd rarely allowed myself before her, before this
smelling her hair and perfume as I draw her even closer
The credits roll as she turns to face me, bliss and contentment in her eyes
placing her hand on my face as our lips and bodies come together
"I'm going to stay the night, ok?" she asks as if it was even a question
she takes my hand and leads me down the hall to the bedroom
So why couldn't I stop thinking about you?
she seemed ok with it but asked if she could just come over
just for a little while, maybe order Chinese & watch a movie
I felt better knowing she was on her way over
She unlocked the door, key in one hand & groceries in the other
"I felt like cooking. Is that ok?" she asked before kissing my neck
and stroking my back as I sat working at my desk
"Sounds perfect. Let me finish this one thing then I can help"
We maneuvered around each other in my under-construction kitchen
grilling chicken, boiling noodles and slicing tomatoes
like we've done dozens of times before, our tasks unspoken
she gives her "naughty boy" look when my hand lingers on her thigh
She tells me about Mrs. Thaelus at work, matchmaker for her gay son
knowing that I don't care but only talking about it to make me laugh
and it works as I try to hide my smile, but she sees it anyhow and grins
by now wearing only a camisole, her blouse draped over the chair
We eat as she pries out the details of my week, labors unrewarded
knowing that I need to tell them despite my half-hearted reluctance
it feels better getting it all out, but I'm sorry she's bearing the brunt
on her slight wispy shoulders and graceful musician's hands
She leans her back against the arm of the couch as I rest my head in her lap
her fingers interlaced in my hair as we half pay attention to The Guardian
drinking a bottle of wine she brought back from Asheville, saved just for me
she slides down in front of me, facing away, as I wrap her in my arms
I feel her breathe dance on my wrist and her pulse throb in my hand
no more talking as we take pleasure in this fleeting peaceful moment
A moment that I'd rarely allowed myself before her, before this
smelling her hair and perfume as I draw her even closer
The credits roll as she turns to face me, bliss and contentment in her eyes
placing her hand on my face as our lips and bodies come together
"I'm going to stay the night, ok?" she asks as if it was even a question
she takes my hand and leads me down the hall to the bedroom
So why couldn't I stop thinking about you?
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The Rest of the Story - 1511
I have a confession to make - some of my posts are completely 100% absolutely true (more than you probably know) and some of them are little slivers of truth surrounded by metaphor and bullshit.
1511 was one of the latter.
I was in Seattle three years ago for a week's worth of work. Actually it was about a day's worth of work but I was given a week to do it. I'll spare you my itinerary for the first few days and skip to the good part. I was staying in room 1511 at the Red Lion right downtown.
I almost ordered room service my last night in town. I had eaten out every night that week and I was just tired of it. I laid there on my bed for about an hour while I tried to motivate myself enough to either dial four numbers on the phone for some Extreme Nachos or put my pants back on and walk to the restaurant downstairs.
The pants won out.
At that time in my life, I was really into the black thing - black slacks, black cashmere sweater and black blazer - quite the brooding ensemble. So I slunk (slunked? sloonk? Somebody help me out here) down to the elevator and into the bar. But as I turned the corner, I saw that the place was jammed packed. I really really really don't do well in crowds. That just wouldn't do.
I should have walked back to the elevator.
But I walked next door to the Rock Bottom Brewery instead.
I paced to the end of the bar, vaguely aware of the three or four other people already there. I was halfway through my first beer before I noticed her four stools over. She's was like a woman but also like a little girl. I'm sitting here now trying to think of how to describe her, but I just can't. A little "Meg Ryan in DOA"-ish. A tad "coffee shop clerk with the scars on her wrist"-ish. She just made you instinctively want to protect her.
She was talking with the bartender like they knew each other. They were talking about the Mariners, about the Seahawks and about her fantasy football team (I wish it was something more poignant or impassioned, but it is what it is). I interjected something stupid and she looked over at me like I was trespassing. But I couldn't help it. The stupidity flowed out my mouth until I made her laugh.
The bartender slipped away and left us talking across four barstools. She asked/told me to move closer so we wouldn't have to yell to be heard. I moved over three seats leaving only one between us. She then looked at me like I just backwashed into the sacremental wine. I moved over one more.
She was 35 and recently divorced. A 17 yr old golf-playing son and an eleven year old daughter. Ex-husband is a suburban cop. They split because he cheated on her. I lied about what I did - probably told her I sold insurance or something. Everything else was the truth though.
I asked her if she'd been shopping - she had a Gap bag down by her feet. She looked at me nervously and said no. I thought that was kind of weird but I just dropped it.
As we talked I thought to myself that it was too bad we hadn't met a few days before. That would have given us some time to click while I was in town. As it was, I was probably going to go home never knowing what could have been.
As it got later, we played a little pool and put about eight beers on my tab. It was getting late and I offered to walk her to her car. She said that she took the bus into work that morning, but that she'd just go home with me that night.
Look, I'm no prude. I've had my share of "short term" relationships before and I really wasn't averse to another one.
But it just didn't feel right.
I kind of laughed it off and changed the subject to something a little less nerve-wracking. But that recess only last about ten minutes before the subject was broached again.
"I think we need to go to your room now" she said plainly.
"But don't you have to work tomorrow" I protested.
She smile mischievously and opened up her Gap bag to reveal a neatly folded blouse and skirt along with assorted undergarments and toiletries.
She planned this before she left for work that morning - she wasn't going home that night.
Needless to say I was a little taken aback as to how inconsequential I truly was to the equation - I was merely a means to an end. It wasn't my subtle charm or disarming good looks that seduced her - I just happened to be the guy that sat down next to her.
But I knew where she was coming from. But I also knew that the last thing she needed was to fuck some random guy. She just needed to be away from home for a night. Maybe feel a little attractive, a little wanted, a little desired. But mostly she wanted to feel safe. And if she had to give out a liitle sex to feel that way, it was something she was willing to live with.
I thought to myself how incredibly lucky she was - I looked around the bar and tried to figure out who would have been the chosen one had I stayed in my room. But she was lucky precisely because I did walk into the bar. She was lucky because I wanted her to feel needed. She was lucky because I wanted her to feel safe more than I wanted to get laid.
We held hands for the four minute walk back up to my hotel room. As we walked, I hatched a half-assed plan to get her back home - I was going to go back to the room with her, have a couple diet cokes while I sobered up enough to drive her home.
But things went awry once we got inside.
The first thing she did was open my curtains. I'd been there all week and I'd never even looked out the window. We could see the illuminated top of the Space Needle across the downtown skyline. We laid on the bed and talked for about an hour.
What did we talk about? Nothing really. Certainly nothing that we could have or should have talked about. Just her family and my made-up job and her kids and my dog. Everything but us. Then she shut up for a second and asked me if I was going to kiss her.
"I promised myself I wouldn't" I answered. She leaned up, took off her earring and turned around to place them on the nightstand. And as she did this, her blouse rose up in the back revealing and six inch patch of soft white skin.
I stopped breathing for a moment before she turned back around and kissed me.
It wasn't the kiss of a drunken woman unaware of what she was doing. It was the kiss of a woman knowing exactly where she was and doing exactly what felt right. And I kissed her back for the same reasons.
I woke up in the morning to the image of her looking out the window past the city as the day broke. She was wearing nothing but my sweater from the night before and I could almost feel the soft wool against her skin.
That moment was the most afraid that I've ever been in my entire life. I was scared because I knew I was about to lose something I never really had. I was scared of how intense I felt after only nine hours. I was scared because I'd never had a problem walking away before. I was scare because I'd never wanted anything that badly.
I watched her with my eyes half-opened for ten minutes. I closed my eyes in pretend sleep when she picked up her bag and walked to the bathroom to shower.
It actually ended better than I thought it would. I got up and drove her to work - fifteen blocks to her office building. I met her for lunch and we went to Ivar's for fish and chips. I gave her my number before heading to the airport.
I honestly thought she'd call.
A month passed before the thought of her drove me to distraction. In a fit of stupid curiosity, I googled her name. The third entry down was from a registery of legal announcements. I opened the site to find that it was a court record of divorce proceedings. The date next to her and her ex-husband's names caught my eye - her divorce became official six hours before I met her. That's why she wasn't going home that night. That's why she needed to feel safe.
I really wish she would have called.
And that, my friends, is the rest of the story.
1511 was one of the latter.
I was in Seattle three years ago for a week's worth of work. Actually it was about a day's worth of work but I was given a week to do it. I'll spare you my itinerary for the first few days and skip to the good part. I was staying in room 1511 at the Red Lion right downtown.
I almost ordered room service my last night in town. I had eaten out every night that week and I was just tired of it. I laid there on my bed for about an hour while I tried to motivate myself enough to either dial four numbers on the phone for some Extreme Nachos or put my pants back on and walk to the restaurant downstairs.
The pants won out.
At that time in my life, I was really into the black thing - black slacks, black cashmere sweater and black blazer - quite the brooding ensemble. So I slunk (slunked? sloonk? Somebody help me out here) down to the elevator and into the bar. But as I turned the corner, I saw that the place was jammed packed. I really really really don't do well in crowds. That just wouldn't do.
I should have walked back to the elevator.
But I walked next door to the Rock Bottom Brewery instead.
I paced to the end of the bar, vaguely aware of the three or four other people already there. I was halfway through my first beer before I noticed her four stools over. She's was like a woman but also like a little girl. I'm sitting here now trying to think of how to describe her, but I just can't. A little "Meg Ryan in DOA"-ish. A tad "coffee shop clerk with the scars on her wrist"-ish. She just made you instinctively want to protect her.
She was talking with the bartender like they knew each other. They were talking about the Mariners, about the Seahawks and about her fantasy football team (I wish it was something more poignant or impassioned, but it is what it is). I interjected something stupid and she looked over at me like I was trespassing. But I couldn't help it. The stupidity flowed out my mouth until I made her laugh.
The bartender slipped away and left us talking across four barstools. She asked/told me to move closer so we wouldn't have to yell to be heard. I moved over three seats leaving only one between us. She then looked at me like I just backwashed into the sacremental wine. I moved over one more.
She was 35 and recently divorced. A 17 yr old golf-playing son and an eleven year old daughter. Ex-husband is a suburban cop. They split because he cheated on her. I lied about what I did - probably told her I sold insurance or something. Everything else was the truth though.
I asked her if she'd been shopping - she had a Gap bag down by her feet. She looked at me nervously and said no. I thought that was kind of weird but I just dropped it.
As we talked I thought to myself that it was too bad we hadn't met a few days before. That would have given us some time to click while I was in town. As it was, I was probably going to go home never knowing what could have been.
As it got later, we played a little pool and put about eight beers on my tab. It was getting late and I offered to walk her to her car. She said that she took the bus into work that morning, but that she'd just go home with me that night.
Look, I'm no prude. I've had my share of "short term" relationships before and I really wasn't averse to another one.
But it just didn't feel right.
I kind of laughed it off and changed the subject to something a little less nerve-wracking. But that recess only last about ten minutes before the subject was broached again.
"I think we need to go to your room now" she said plainly.
"But don't you have to work tomorrow" I protested.
She smile mischievously and opened up her Gap bag to reveal a neatly folded blouse and skirt along with assorted undergarments and toiletries.
She planned this before she left for work that morning - she wasn't going home that night.
Needless to say I was a little taken aback as to how inconsequential I truly was to the equation - I was merely a means to an end. It wasn't my subtle charm or disarming good looks that seduced her - I just happened to be the guy that sat down next to her.
But I knew where she was coming from. But I also knew that the last thing she needed was to fuck some random guy. She just needed to be away from home for a night. Maybe feel a little attractive, a little wanted, a little desired. But mostly she wanted to feel safe. And if she had to give out a liitle sex to feel that way, it was something she was willing to live with.
I thought to myself how incredibly lucky she was - I looked around the bar and tried to figure out who would have been the chosen one had I stayed in my room. But she was lucky precisely because I did walk into the bar. She was lucky because I wanted her to feel needed. She was lucky because I wanted her to feel safe more than I wanted to get laid.
We held hands for the four minute walk back up to my hotel room. As we walked, I hatched a half-assed plan to get her back home - I was going to go back to the room with her, have a couple diet cokes while I sobered up enough to drive her home.
But things went awry once we got inside.
The first thing she did was open my curtains. I'd been there all week and I'd never even looked out the window. We could see the illuminated top of the Space Needle across the downtown skyline. We laid on the bed and talked for about an hour.
What did we talk about? Nothing really. Certainly nothing that we could have or should have talked about. Just her family and my made-up job and her kids and my dog. Everything but us. Then she shut up for a second and asked me if I was going to kiss her.
"I promised myself I wouldn't" I answered. She leaned up, took off her earring and turned around to place them on the nightstand. And as she did this, her blouse rose up in the back revealing and six inch patch of soft white skin.
I stopped breathing for a moment before she turned back around and kissed me.
It wasn't the kiss of a drunken woman unaware of what she was doing. It was the kiss of a woman knowing exactly where she was and doing exactly what felt right. And I kissed her back for the same reasons.
I woke up in the morning to the image of her looking out the window past the city as the day broke. She was wearing nothing but my sweater from the night before and I could almost feel the soft wool against her skin.
That moment was the most afraid that I've ever been in my entire life. I was scared because I knew I was about to lose something I never really had. I was scared of how intense I felt after only nine hours. I was scared because I'd never had a problem walking away before. I was scare because I'd never wanted anything that badly.
I watched her with my eyes half-opened for ten minutes. I closed my eyes in pretend sleep when she picked up her bag and walked to the bathroom to shower.
It actually ended better than I thought it would. I got up and drove her to work - fifteen blocks to her office building. I met her for lunch and we went to Ivar's for fish and chips. I gave her my number before heading to the airport.
I honestly thought she'd call.
A month passed before the thought of her drove me to distraction. In a fit of stupid curiosity, I googled her name. The third entry down was from a registery of legal announcements. I opened the site to find that it was a court record of divorce proceedings. The date next to her and her ex-husband's names caught my eye - her divorce became official six hours before I met her. That's why she wasn't going home that night. That's why she needed to feel safe.
I really wish she would have called.
And that, my friends, is the rest of the story.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The Truckee Greyhound Station
For the second time in my life, I woke up on a bench in a bus station. The latest incarnation was a result of a series of very very poor decisions. What started out as a glorified plan rapidly devolved into an ill-conceived scheme over the extended Thanksgiving holiday.
But as I woke, I wasn't thinking of my current circumstances but rather my original walkabout twenty-some years ago.
I was fourteen years old when I stole eighteen hundred dollars out of a secret compartment in my dad's office drawer. I'll give you two guesses as to why he'd hide that much cash in his office. Both guesses are probably right.
By that point in my life, my parents had grown used to me taking off sometimes for a couple days on end. We lived out in the boonies so camping was only a half-mile hike away. I'd walk out the door with my backpack and tell me folks that I'd be back later. They'd nod and mumble something in reply. As long as I didn't miss any school, it was never a big deal. I only went camping about half the time. The other half was spent riding a Greyhound bus no where in particular, usually as far as half of whatever money I had would take me.
But this time I was going to take the train. I had the eighteen hundred plus about three hundred of my own lawn-mowing and babysitting money. I caught the Zephyr just outside of town (it's discomforting how easy it is for a fourteen year old to buy an out-of-state train ticket). I was going to take it to Truckee then hitch to Westville where my grandfather had an old hunting cabin. It was pretty much a shitbox - no electricity or running water but it was isolated and perfect.
It was scheduled to be a 19 hour train trip through some of the least scenic landscapes on planet earth. Not that it mattered much because it got dark a couple hours after we left the station. I passed the time planning the next couple months - buying sundries, a fishing pole and a bunch of toilet paper. I figured the money would last me about six months before I'd have to think of something else.
I estimated that we'd be passing through Elko before anyone would notice that I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Not that they'd start looking or anything. My dad would think that I was with my uncles and my uncles would figure that I was over at some friend's house. I could probably get pretty near my final destination before anyone would start to panic.
But they'd be too busy getting ready for my mom's funeral. When I'd left, my sister was trying to decide what to wear, my dad's secretary was parked down the street after spending the night at our house (a year later she'd be complaing that I refused to call her "mom") and my grandmother had drugged herself catatonic.
The blizzard slowed us down quite a bit and it took nearly three hours to get to Truckee from Reno. I didn't have much luck hitching from there. I-70 had been shut down for about an hour by the time I got there. Semis and station wagons lined the streets with their engines running to keep the occupants warm. This wasn't part of my plan.
It's only four or so blocks from the train station to the Greyhound station so I trudged through the snow dragging my Yankees duffel bag behind me. I figured the bus would give me a better chance to get me close to where I wanted to go. It was close to 10PM by the time I got there and I had 9 hours until the next departure.
I fell asleep on a bench next to the window.
But as I woke, I wasn't thinking of my current circumstances but rather my original walkabout twenty-some years ago.
I was fourteen years old when I stole eighteen hundred dollars out of a secret compartment in my dad's office drawer. I'll give you two guesses as to why he'd hide that much cash in his office. Both guesses are probably right.
By that point in my life, my parents had grown used to me taking off sometimes for a couple days on end. We lived out in the boonies so camping was only a half-mile hike away. I'd walk out the door with my backpack and tell me folks that I'd be back later. They'd nod and mumble something in reply. As long as I didn't miss any school, it was never a big deal. I only went camping about half the time. The other half was spent riding a Greyhound bus no where in particular, usually as far as half of whatever money I had would take me.
But this time I was going to take the train. I had the eighteen hundred plus about three hundred of my own lawn-mowing and babysitting money. I caught the Zephyr just outside of town (it's discomforting how easy it is for a fourteen year old to buy an out-of-state train ticket). I was going to take it to Truckee then hitch to Westville where my grandfather had an old hunting cabin. It was pretty much a shitbox - no electricity or running water but it was isolated and perfect.
It was scheduled to be a 19 hour train trip through some of the least scenic landscapes on planet earth. Not that it mattered much because it got dark a couple hours after we left the station. I passed the time planning the next couple months - buying sundries, a fishing pole and a bunch of toilet paper. I figured the money would last me about six months before I'd have to think of something else.
I estimated that we'd be passing through Elko before anyone would notice that I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Not that they'd start looking or anything. My dad would think that I was with my uncles and my uncles would figure that I was over at some friend's house. I could probably get pretty near my final destination before anyone would start to panic.
But they'd be too busy getting ready for my mom's funeral. When I'd left, my sister was trying to decide what to wear, my dad's secretary was parked down the street after spending the night at our house (a year later she'd be complaing that I refused to call her "mom") and my grandmother had drugged herself catatonic.
The blizzard slowed us down quite a bit and it took nearly three hours to get to Truckee from Reno. I didn't have much luck hitching from there. I-70 had been shut down for about an hour by the time I got there. Semis and station wagons lined the streets with their engines running to keep the occupants warm. This wasn't part of my plan.
It's only four or so blocks from the train station to the Greyhound station so I trudged through the snow dragging my Yankees duffel bag behind me. I figured the bus would give me a better chance to get me close to where I wanted to go. It was close to 10PM by the time I got there and I had 9 hours until the next departure.
I fell asleep on a bench next to the window.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Better
I know it's just the same old wine
a nineteen dollar bottle of Louis Jadot
but it just tastes better on your lips
I know that I've heard it before
two syllables a million times
but my name just sounds better when you say it
I know your sister wears it too
that paralegal from work does too
but Amarige just smells better when you wear it
I know it's just my white dress shirt
sleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned
but it just looks better when you wear it
I know it's just a spot on the small of my back
I've been around the block a time or two
but it just feels better when you touch it
I know it's just the same old house
been here for eighty-some years
but it just feels better when you're in it
a nineteen dollar bottle of Louis Jadot
but it just tastes better on your lips
I know that I've heard it before
two syllables a million times
but my name just sounds better when you say it
I know your sister wears it too
that paralegal from work does too
but Amarige just smells better when you wear it
I know it's just my white dress shirt
sleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned
but it just looks better when you wear it
I know it's just a spot on the small of my back
I've been around the block a time or two
but it just feels better when you touch it
I know it's just the same old house
been here for eighty-some years
but it just feels better when you're in it
Sunday, October 08, 2006
The Long Walk Home
If you've ever been down to Church Street Station in Orlando, you'll know what I'm talking about.
Church Street Station is the little entertainment district of downtown Orlando. Every Friday and Saturday night, the OPD cordons off two square blocks and open the streets to drunken tourists and college students. People mosey in and out of Rosie O'Gradys, the Cheyenne Saloon and the Orchid Garden.
But my favorite part?
At about 12:15AM, there's a CSX freight train that pulls directly through the party.
The first time I ever saw it, I was amazed. One minute there's hundreds of people carousing around the track, the next minute the RR crossing signs start flashing and barriers drop signalling the coming train. For several minutes the partying is put on hold while the freight train inches through. Once it's gone again, party on.
I was there with some friends of some friends of some friends. How I got from here to there is another post altogether. But anyways, on Friday night my group had met up with another group. I can't recall exactly if they were TA's from Rollins College or RA's from UCF, but I'm pretty sure it was one of the two.
Out of the new group, I had my eye on two or three women. Back then, my theory was to cast a wide net just in case one or two wiggled their way through the net. But there was one that I hadn't paid much attention to. Our only interaction had been when she finished one of my jokes. So we shared a laugh and little else.
We'd all decided to meet back up there the next night with the intention of getting stupid drunk then go driving go-karts at one of those places off International Drive (if you slip the guy at the gate an extra ten bucks, he'll turn a blind eye to any extracurricular bumping and slamming).
But by the time the next night rolled around, several people from both groups had found something (someone) else to do, so only about a half dozen of us were there on Church Street. Given that we now lacked our designated drivers as well, we thought it best to just hang out there for the evening. Drinking, flirting and general stupidity ensued.
A couple hours passed before we heard the tale-tell DING DING DING and saw the flashing lights. So we stood there drinks in hand as the train crawled through the intersection. But after about 10 or 12 cars, I noticed that many of them were empty and the sliding doors wide open. Now, maybe I'm just weird but when I see a slow-moving train with a bunch of open box cars, only one thought was crossing my mind;
I gotta jump on that bastard.
So I look to my left to see my friends standing there completely oblivious to the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity staring them in the face. Then I turned to my right and locked eyes with my joke-sharing compatriot. She had this evil little mischievous smile on her face and, without a word, I could tell that we we thinking the exact same thought.
I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head toward the train. She nodded and we both ducked under the barrier and paced the train until we could hop in through an open door. Howls of laughter and raucous applause could be heard as hurried inside and out of view of any police.
The inside of the car is pretty much what you'd expect - plank wood floors, girded metal walls, some scrap iron littering the deck. I guess it was around then that we first gave thought to a couple of fairly obvious questions - what do we do know, where the hell is this train going and how are we going to get home?
After laughing our asses off for a few minutes in pure idiotic glee, we answered the first question.
As the train finished it's trek through downtown Orlando, it began to gradually build up speed. The resulting rocking motion forced us to sit down against the forward wall. She turned to me and said," So are you going to kiss me or what?"
I guess when you're young and stupidly irresponsible, you haven't learned of many ways to communicate feelings of joy, passion, excitement, etc. If this had happened now that I'm older, I would have told her how amazingly brave and wonderfully crazy (in a good way) she was for jumping on the train with me. We would have spent that time telling jokes and exchanging antecdotes, finding out about who we were, building a foundation for later on.
But I was in fact young and stupidly irresponsible, so I just kissed her.
And she kissed me back.
The trained cruised through Winter Park, Maitland, Altamonte Springs and over the inland waterway before finally slowing down 100 miles later in Palatka. We jumped off a few hundred yards short of the railyard and sprinted behind an old metal shed to make sure we weren't caught. We hadn't planned on riding for so long, but.......
She held my hand as we walked a couple miles or so to a 7-11 for coffees and directions to somewhere we could rent a car. Then we huddled together down in the Enterprise parking lot while we waited a few hours for them to open. She sat to my left with her head on my shoulder and both arms wrapped around my one. I tried to think calming thoughts so she wouldn't feel my heart slamming against my chest.
Church Street Station is the little entertainment district of downtown Orlando. Every Friday and Saturday night, the OPD cordons off two square blocks and open the streets to drunken tourists and college students. People mosey in and out of Rosie O'Gradys, the Cheyenne Saloon and the Orchid Garden.
But my favorite part?
At about 12:15AM, there's a CSX freight train that pulls directly through the party.
The first time I ever saw it, I was amazed. One minute there's hundreds of people carousing around the track, the next minute the RR crossing signs start flashing and barriers drop signalling the coming train. For several minutes the partying is put on hold while the freight train inches through. Once it's gone again, party on.
I was there with some friends of some friends of some friends. How I got from here to there is another post altogether. But anyways, on Friday night my group had met up with another group. I can't recall exactly if they were TA's from Rollins College or RA's from UCF, but I'm pretty sure it was one of the two.
Out of the new group, I had my eye on two or three women. Back then, my theory was to cast a wide net just in case one or two wiggled their way through the net. But there was one that I hadn't paid much attention to. Our only interaction had been when she finished one of my jokes. So we shared a laugh and little else.
We'd all decided to meet back up there the next night with the intention of getting stupid drunk then go driving go-karts at one of those places off International Drive (if you slip the guy at the gate an extra ten bucks, he'll turn a blind eye to any extracurricular bumping and slamming).
But by the time the next night rolled around, several people from both groups had found something (someone) else to do, so only about a half dozen of us were there on Church Street. Given that we now lacked our designated drivers as well, we thought it best to just hang out there for the evening. Drinking, flirting and general stupidity ensued.
A couple hours passed before we heard the tale-tell DING DING DING and saw the flashing lights. So we stood there drinks in hand as the train crawled through the intersection. But after about 10 or 12 cars, I noticed that many of them were empty and the sliding doors wide open. Now, maybe I'm just weird but when I see a slow-moving train with a bunch of open box cars, only one thought was crossing my mind;
I gotta jump on that bastard.
So I look to my left to see my friends standing there completely oblivious to the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity staring them in the face. Then I turned to my right and locked eyes with my joke-sharing compatriot. She had this evil little mischievous smile on her face and, without a word, I could tell that we we thinking the exact same thought.
I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head toward the train. She nodded and we both ducked under the barrier and paced the train until we could hop in through an open door. Howls of laughter and raucous applause could be heard as hurried inside and out of view of any police.
The inside of the car is pretty much what you'd expect - plank wood floors, girded metal walls, some scrap iron littering the deck. I guess it was around then that we first gave thought to a couple of fairly obvious questions - what do we do know, where the hell is this train going and how are we going to get home?
After laughing our asses off for a few minutes in pure idiotic glee, we answered the first question.
As the train finished it's trek through downtown Orlando, it began to gradually build up speed. The resulting rocking motion forced us to sit down against the forward wall. She turned to me and said," So are you going to kiss me or what?"
I guess when you're young and stupidly irresponsible, you haven't learned of many ways to communicate feelings of joy, passion, excitement, etc. If this had happened now that I'm older, I would have told her how amazingly brave and wonderfully crazy (in a good way) she was for jumping on the train with me. We would have spent that time telling jokes and exchanging antecdotes, finding out about who we were, building a foundation for later on.
But I was in fact young and stupidly irresponsible, so I just kissed her.
And she kissed me back.
The trained cruised through Winter Park, Maitland, Altamonte Springs and over the inland waterway before finally slowing down 100 miles later in Palatka. We jumped off a few hundred yards short of the railyard and sprinted behind an old metal shed to make sure we weren't caught. We hadn't planned on riding for so long, but.......
She held my hand as we walked a couple miles or so to a 7-11 for coffees and directions to somewhere we could rent a car. Then we huddled together down in the Enterprise parking lot while we waited a few hours for them to open. She sat to my left with her head on my shoulder and both arms wrapped around my one. I tried to think calming thoughts so she wouldn't feel my heart slamming against my chest.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
First Day of School
If I hadn't paused to scan through CD's to find the right song
I would have made it in front of the bus on my way to work
I had forgotten that this was the first day of school
and I should add ten minutes to my commute
My delay was made worse by parents, camcorders and hugs
wishing kindergarteners love & luck with long goodbyes
Crying kids and tearful moms, clinical separation anxiety
But by next week they'll be glad to see them go
I was barely paying attention by the third stop, a safe distance behind
A woman hand in hand with her raven-haired son
her grip preventing him from racing towards the school bus
I hadn't seen her in almost five... no, six years
I heard that she had moved shortly after her wedding
Married an orthodontist or an oncologist, I can't remember which
I was at home drinking myself unconscious as they exchanged vows
Jim Beam in my right hand and wedding invitation clutched in my left
We'd never even officially broken up, just both knew it couldn't work
she met him sometime as we were fading away from each other
I secretly wished she'd find someone to take my place anyhow
Any excuse to blame my failure, my disease, my weakness on her
I wondered where she was working now, her hair done & mostly dressed
When I knew her, she'd grown weary of nightshifts in the NICU
One too many times coming home to me in blood & tear-stained scrubs
She was barefoot now beneath her tasteful skirt and blouse
They embraced then she checked his backpack - pencils, glue, scissors
He wiped her kiss off his cheek as he darted onto the bus
She waved while he stumbled his way to the empty back seat
Then he turned and looked at me with my eyes, my face, my lips
I would have made it in front of the bus on my way to work
I had forgotten that this was the first day of school
and I should add ten minutes to my commute
My delay was made worse by parents, camcorders and hugs
wishing kindergarteners love & luck with long goodbyes
Crying kids and tearful moms, clinical separation anxiety
But by next week they'll be glad to see them go
I was barely paying attention by the third stop, a safe distance behind
A woman hand in hand with her raven-haired son
her grip preventing him from racing towards the school bus
I hadn't seen her in almost five... no, six years
I heard that she had moved shortly after her wedding
Married an orthodontist or an oncologist, I can't remember which
I was at home drinking myself unconscious as they exchanged vows
Jim Beam in my right hand and wedding invitation clutched in my left
We'd never even officially broken up, just both knew it couldn't work
she met him sometime as we were fading away from each other
I secretly wished she'd find someone to take my place anyhow
Any excuse to blame my failure, my disease, my weakness on her
I wondered where she was working now, her hair done & mostly dressed
When I knew her, she'd grown weary of nightshifts in the NICU
One too many times coming home to me in blood & tear-stained scrubs
She was barefoot now beneath her tasteful skirt and blouse
They embraced then she checked his backpack - pencils, glue, scissors
He wiped her kiss off his cheek as he darted onto the bus
She waved while he stumbled his way to the empty back seat
Then he turned and looked at me with my eyes, my face, my lips
Friday, September 29, 2006
The Slow Sort Of Bad - Scheherazade Project
He used to think that flooding at test depth would be the worst way to go - a massive surge of pressure as the ocean overwhelmed the submarine would cause the men within to essentially implode. An instant yet ultraviolent death.
But waiting to die? This was much worse.
It had been 17 hours since a torpedo hot run had filled the forward compartment with cyanide gas, the faint scent of almonds lingering in the air. The subsequent explosion irreparably damaged the seals on the hatch separating the torpedo tube from the compartment.
It had been 14 hours since the knocking on the airtight door between the forward compartment and engine room had stopped. It had started out as a cacophonous banging but slowly degraded to an almost inaudible tapping as the men on the wrong side of the hatch succumbed. Only one of the remaining 11 crewmembers on the right side of the hatch made any effort to open it, but he was quickly restrained by the others. Opening that door would only slightly extend the life for the few lucky enough to survive the initial blast but would mean certain death for everyone else as the gas and smoke filled the only compartment not yet inundated with them.
So they sat there and listened to the banging turn into knocking turn into tapping turn into silence. None dared make eye contact with anyone else as the waited for their comrades to die.
Alexei dreaded the impending shame he would feel in the event they were rescued. How could he look into the eyes of the wives and children of the men he let die? How could he face his own family, his own father knowing he was a coward? He had been trained to fight fires and combat flooding. He had been drilled on every conceivable casualty scenario. But he had never been trained on how sacrifice other lives so that he may live.
Their initial expectation was that rescue was imminent. They could hear the emergency beacon reverberating of the sides of the hull and transmitting a signal to the other ships in the area. Surely it would be heard.
Hours passed before beacon faded to nothing as the ship's battery weakened, it's output now a trickle as the lights began to slowly dim. This was among other signs that their situation was getting worse rather than better - the aft section rising as the bow filled with water, the periodic bursts as the forward compartments & tanks collapsed under the intense pressure, and the undeniable diminishing of the ever-present hum of machinery and electronics.
The only officer present assigned teams of two to alternate pounding on the hull with wrenches, weighing the importance of signaling their position with the inescapable fact that the more energy they expended, the more oxygen they consumed. The sound would resonate through miles of seawater in hopes of reaching the sonar arrays of rescue ships.
They kept this up for 11 more hours, their efforts sustained only by drinking handfuls of water from the bilges and eating packets of sugar found in one of the lockers.
The monotonous sound of wrenches pounding against the bulkheads began to be interspersed with the sound of grown men weeping - weeping for sons & daughters never to be seen again, weeping for words unspoken to their wives, weeping for wasted years and weeping for their impending doom. Some began to write letters on whatever scraps of paper they could muster. While not knowing how much time they had left, the notes were rushed and absent of any extraneous thought or emotion. One was even a remorseful confession to his wife for infidelities too numerous to mention.
Then it began to happen.
At first it was the overweight diesel mechanic that drifted off to sleep. Then it was the 42-year old electrician. Not a word was spoken but every single one of the remaining men was secretly relieved - more air for them.
But the distress beacon MUST have been heard. Or at least some ship must have heard the rhythmic metallic beating against the hull. It was only a matter of time before they were rescued. They just had to stay awake.
But now gathered in the aft-most bay and surrounded by silent machinery, the men slipped away one by one. Some attempted to only inhale tiny amounts of air at a time, hoping against hope to buy just a few more minutes. Others discreetly took slow deep breathes, consuming more so that others would have less.
But not a single person moved. Not even an inch, fearful that any wasted movement would mean wasted air. But no matter how they tried, they couldn't stop their own hearts from beating faster and faster, racing away in panic and knowledge that rescue efforts would come too late. The more rapid their hearts fluttered, more oxygen was stripped from their lungs.
Then there were just eight left.
Then seven.
Four others went in rapid succession - one moment with tears running down their cheeks and the next moment..... nothing.
Alexei watched as his officer's eyelids began to slide down, pause for just a moment then continue all the way shut.
"I don't want to die. Please God don't let me die", begged his last remaining comrade.
Those were his last words, repeated over and over again until they became a whisper.
Alexei reached over and removed the philanderer's letter from the grip of his lifeless fingers. Pulling out his lighter and fully understanding it's oxygen-burning implications, he lit the note and brushed the ashes into the bilge below. He scribbled "I'll always love you" on a page ripped from his bible and put it in place of the original goodbye.
Then he held his breath and waited - waited for the slow sort of bad that robbed him of tomorrow.
But waiting to die? This was much worse.
It had been 17 hours since a torpedo hot run had filled the forward compartment with cyanide gas, the faint scent of almonds lingering in the air. The subsequent explosion irreparably damaged the seals on the hatch separating the torpedo tube from the compartment.
It had been 14 hours since the knocking on the airtight door between the forward compartment and engine room had stopped. It had started out as a cacophonous banging but slowly degraded to an almost inaudible tapping as the men on the wrong side of the hatch succumbed. Only one of the remaining 11 crewmembers on the right side of the hatch made any effort to open it, but he was quickly restrained by the others. Opening that door would only slightly extend the life for the few lucky enough to survive the initial blast but would mean certain death for everyone else as the gas and smoke filled the only compartment not yet inundated with them.
So they sat there and listened to the banging turn into knocking turn into tapping turn into silence. None dared make eye contact with anyone else as the waited for their comrades to die.
Alexei dreaded the impending shame he would feel in the event they were rescued. How could he look into the eyes of the wives and children of the men he let die? How could he face his own family, his own father knowing he was a coward? He had been trained to fight fires and combat flooding. He had been drilled on every conceivable casualty scenario. But he had never been trained on how sacrifice other lives so that he may live.
Their initial expectation was that rescue was imminent. They could hear the emergency beacon reverberating of the sides of the hull and transmitting a signal to the other ships in the area. Surely it would be heard.
Hours passed before beacon faded to nothing as the ship's battery weakened, it's output now a trickle as the lights began to slowly dim. This was among other signs that their situation was getting worse rather than better - the aft section rising as the bow filled with water, the periodic bursts as the forward compartments & tanks collapsed under the intense pressure, and the undeniable diminishing of the ever-present hum of machinery and electronics.
The only officer present assigned teams of two to alternate pounding on the hull with wrenches, weighing the importance of signaling their position with the inescapable fact that the more energy they expended, the more oxygen they consumed. The sound would resonate through miles of seawater in hopes of reaching the sonar arrays of rescue ships.
They kept this up for 11 more hours, their efforts sustained only by drinking handfuls of water from the bilges and eating packets of sugar found in one of the lockers.
The monotonous sound of wrenches pounding against the bulkheads began to be interspersed with the sound of grown men weeping - weeping for sons & daughters never to be seen again, weeping for words unspoken to their wives, weeping for wasted years and weeping for their impending doom. Some began to write letters on whatever scraps of paper they could muster. While not knowing how much time they had left, the notes were rushed and absent of any extraneous thought or emotion. One was even a remorseful confession to his wife for infidelities too numerous to mention.
Then it began to happen.
At first it was the overweight diesel mechanic that drifted off to sleep. Then it was the 42-year old electrician. Not a word was spoken but every single one of the remaining men was secretly relieved - more air for them.
But the distress beacon MUST have been heard. Or at least some ship must have heard the rhythmic metallic beating against the hull. It was only a matter of time before they were rescued. They just had to stay awake.
But now gathered in the aft-most bay and surrounded by silent machinery, the men slipped away one by one. Some attempted to only inhale tiny amounts of air at a time, hoping against hope to buy just a few more minutes. Others discreetly took slow deep breathes, consuming more so that others would have less.
But not a single person moved. Not even an inch, fearful that any wasted movement would mean wasted air. But no matter how they tried, they couldn't stop their own hearts from beating faster and faster, racing away in panic and knowledge that rescue efforts would come too late. The more rapid their hearts fluttered, more oxygen was stripped from their lungs.
Then there were just eight left.
Then seven.
Four others went in rapid succession - one moment with tears running down their cheeks and the next moment..... nothing.
Alexei watched as his officer's eyelids began to slide down, pause for just a moment then continue all the way shut.
"I don't want to die. Please God don't let me die", begged his last remaining comrade.
Those were his last words, repeated over and over again until they became a whisper.
Alexei reached over and removed the philanderer's letter from the grip of his lifeless fingers. Pulling out his lighter and fully understanding it's oxygen-burning implications, he lit the note and brushed the ashes into the bilge below. He scribbled "I'll always love you" on a page ripped from his bible and put it in place of the original goodbye.
Then he held his breath and waited - waited for the slow sort of bad that robbed him of tomorrow.
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