Introduction

Hello and welcome! My name is Annie Darek. I’ve written and published for years and a few of the things are here.

Annie

“Life is an open book. It’s up to you to learn the language.”

Twenty-One and Lucky (Fiction)

I wasn’t born “Lucky.” It was just my nickname, for as long as I can remember. Since I was really small, my dad used to push me, smack me and say, “do you feel lucky? Hmmm? “ Nothing I did was ever good enough. He could blow a gasket at the drop of a fucking hat. I had to learn to avoid him, take the beatings, become stoic. When I was in school, I was always bullied by the big guys. They’d push me around, knock off my glasses, slap and jab me and laugh. Mostly, I remember the laughing. I finally graduated from high school and I bought a bus ticket and moved to the city.

The city ran autonomously, with no regard to the individuals actually making it work. It was a weird change from a small town, but I remember being excited about my new chance. I got a job in the mail room of a large ad agency. I found an apartment in a run-down, but mostly safe neighborhood. Life was great, for about two weeks. Then, the asshole came back from vacation. I remember pushing the mail cart one day and a foot protruded from a cubicle. The bottom of the cart stopped short, but the top kept going forward. I fell over it and the mail spilled and unsorted itself. I looked up. A big, loud guy stood over me. For a minute, I thought he was going to unzip and pee on me just to extend the humiliation. But, causing a scene and complaining about me upsetting the cart was enough for him. That day.

For some reason, he seemed to make it a cause of his to be in a different place every day as I came through with the cart. Sometimes, he’d try to upset it. Some days, he’d just jump and say, “Bah!” Warped humor, I guess. He’d been on vacation when I’d started. Funny thing is, when I’d veer out of his way, he’d shrug and say “lucky.” Shortly thereafter, it was again my nickname, a thousand miles away from my asshole father.

At night, I’d go home to my old apartment. It was small and expensive. That how it is in the city. I always had old Chinese food boxes in the refrigerator, and frozen corn dogs in the freezer. Some nights, I ate Bean with Bacon soup straight out of the can. I set mouse traps pretty often, but at least, no rats. I told my landlord if he ever turned these into condos, I’d like to buy my space. I hated moving. My dad rented house after house, moved from town to town. I saw so many schools I can’t even remember. I really never wanted to move again.

So, I’d been on my own for nearly three years. I woke up this morning, my special day. My twenty-first birthday. This was the day that would change my life forever, because I said so. That’s how it was going to be! I smiled to myself as I got ready for work. I stopped off at the doughut shop and bought two dozen for work. When I got back to my car, it had a parking ticket. I froze as I stared at it. No. No. No. This would not bring me down. It was just a parking ticket. I hopped into my car and put the doughnuts in the passenger seat.

When I arrived at work, I brought the boxes in with a cheerful, bouncy step. Suddenly, a force from below my arms slammed the boxes several feet over my head. The boxes were just fold-overs, and they unfolded in mid-air. Everything scattered and came down around me. I turned and saw the asshole. He was laughing his head off. “What an idiot! God, you’re such an idiot!” People from other cubicles stood up and looked as I got down and picked up pieces of doughnuts. When it was all clean, I put the boxes in the trash and swept up the crumbs.

I punched into the time clock seven minutes late. My boss was standing at the time clock, arms crossed. He said he’d gotten a call from “the offices.” Heard I’d created a ruckus at the entrance and made a mess. Why wasn’t I using the backdoor? Mailroom employees should never use the main entrance. We should remember our place, be seen and not heard. I nodded and said nothing. He also said since I wasn’t on time, he was going to dock my pay a full half-hour. If I didn’t like it, I could leave.

I considered it. Everything flashed before me and I cocked my head, puzzled. I tuned back into his screaming, “Can you fucking HEAR me, Lucky?” Are you deaf or just stupid?” So, I took my card, clocked back out and walked out the back entrance. He was saying something, but I wasn’t paying attention.

I walked around the building to move my car from the front spot. I’d left it there just to carry the doughnuts to the front desk. I watched as the tow truck turned right at the far end of the block, with my car in tow. No. This was my day. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. I steeled myself against the world.

No. It was still early morning. I was going to turn this around. I walked up the street and stood at the bus stop, remembering the transit system I’d used the first year here. I got on the bus and took a seat towards the back. My eyes kept closing and block after blocked looked less familiar. Someone’s booming voice woke me up and I looked up to see a policeman. I was confused. The cop said I’d ridden on the bus for over an hour and a half. The bus driver thought I might be dead or a transient. I said I was not a bum, I’d just fallen asleep.

“If you’re not a bum, why aren’t you at work? Let us confirm where you work, and we’ll let you go.” I couldn’t believe it. The day I’d quit my job… I shrugged, left the bus and watched it drive away. I looked around. It took me awhile to realize I was nowhere near where I could pick up my car or go home. I tried to catch another bus going the other direction to back track.

That’s when I realized I no longer had a wallet. I felt every pocket over and over, as if it would suddenly reappear. But, this wasn’t going to get me down. Because, I was Lucky.

I started walking and went about fifteen blocks before I decided to check the time. No watch. Great. This wasn’t the part of town that had bank clocks, either. I kept walking and turning and making my way back to the area that towed cars were taken. Then, I realized, without a wallet, I couldn’t pay the fine, prove my identity or pick up my car. I turned one more time and headed for home. I was starving, but with no money, I just kept walking. City block after city block, I realized I had miles and miles to go, no one to call for help. I didn’t make it back to my apartment until seven-thirty at night. I could barely walk. I’d just kept going at a steady pace and stopped thinking about four hours before.

I walked up to the entrance of my building and realized I had no keys. Nice time to think of that. I pressed every damn buzzer to the building over and over. The door opened. I made it up five flights of stairs and was ready to kick down my damn door. But, as it turned out, there was no need. The door was slightly cracked and I stood still and pushed it slowly open wide. My stereo and tv were noticeably gone. My CDs. I walked into the apartment the rest of the way. My wallet and keys were lying on the coffee table, on top of a note that said “thanks for the good stuff, Bus Guy.” I sat down numbly. The wallet was empty. No I.D. No money.

It could have been worse. It could have been much worse. I stared ahead into my nasty kitchenette. I notice two mouse traps needed emptying. I was so tired, but somehow didn’t think I could sleep. I went and opened the refrigerator and the Chinese was too old too be edible. The corn dog box in the freezer was empty. I heard a small beep. Walking back into the living room, I saw my answering machine sitting on the floor beside the phone. The red light was blinking. It beeped again. I walked over and pressed play.

“Yeah, Lucky, this is Mr. Greeley. I decided to take you up on your idea and turn this building into condos. Good call. I sold it to this developer who’s going to take over for me next month. He wants to raze the building and start over. Lucky we’re on a month-to-month lease. You’ve got forty-five days before the building’s torn down. Good luck to ya. And, thanks for the heads up.” Beep.

Fucking Beep. He sold out from under me. My idea just cost me my apartment. I went to the bathroom cabinet, smiling to myself. Opened up the box of feminine napkins I’d bought two years ago. Under the individual pink pouches, I took out a sock and opened up the top. I pulled out the money and counted. Two hundred and eighty dollars. I put it in my wallet and smiled. No thief would open a tampon or pad box like that to look for money. Going to my dresser, I opened my top drawer and strapped on my old watch. I found a lighter and fixed a few things in my apartment before I left for the night.

Hailing a taxi, I asked it to take me to Stanton Harbor. I got out and walked to the restaurant that overlooked the harbor. It was a glorious dinner. I thought of my car locked up behind the chain link fences, guarded by dogs from the pits of hell. I smiled. My waiter left and I went to the bathroom and showed myself out. They shouldn’t mind giving one free meal. As I walked along the wharf, I doled out what was left of my two-eighty to bums covered in rags and boxes. The bridge loomed up ahead of me, so brightly lit in the night, even with a slight fog rolling around the waters.

I’ve always loved this bridge specifically. The architecture. Its placement in the city. The way it lights up the night. I walked out to the middle and leaned on the railing, breathing in the crisp air. For the first time, I noticed the temperature has really dropped since this afternoon. It felt like winter again. It must have dropped at least thirty degrees.  I pondered that as I realized the tips of my fingers were a little numb and my forehead was unable to wrinkle in thought.

I thought fondly of the flames that must have slowly engulfed my run-down apartment building by now. So much easier for that new buyer….

I looked over to my right and saw a cop parked on the bridge, his lights flashing. He was walking towards me. That was odd. He had his right hand on his gun, ready and his walk was slow. He was saying some dumbass thing. No idea what. For shits and grins, I looked the other way. Whatta ya know? One coming from the left, too. Hand at gun, ready.

Did I look dangerous? I was casually leaning back on the rail of the bridge, looking out into the night. Life was strange, but at least it all made sense now. I had figured out everything on my twenty-first birthday. I must say, not a moment too soon. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw them closing in. With arms outstretched and face gazing up at the stars, I smiled with relief as I stepped out into thin air. And mostly, all I can say is, I felt lucky….

The Storyteller (poetry)

The storyteller weaves her magic spell upon the crowd
All ears around were riveted to – each word she said aloud.

With a gentle, calming voice – enchanting stories she does tell.
She spins words into a fabric – no other does it quite so well.

All around the blazing fire – the circle holds its breath
As she speaks of truth and wisdom – and of life and love and death.

So enraptured are the lovers – of the storyteller’s words
The faces loes expression – with each passing word that’s heard.

She lulls them into silence: peaceful, wistful and content
Their worries long forgotten, their dreams alive again.

The telling of the tale: turning phrases like a dance.
Slowly stripping off each veil – a tantalizing, slow romance.

Carefully crafting words with wisdom, spinning life out of a dream
Captivating, mesmerizing, seducing all upon the scene.

Perhaps she’ll come to you to visit – invigorate you with her spirit
Whisper secrets softly to you – listen closely, you may hear it.

She might caress your soul with comfort – linger near you for a spell
Share her wisdom with you, knowing, there are stories you must tell.

Tell It Like It is

There’s not
enough time
To waste your time hiding
There’s not enough places to hide.

Just tell it like it is.
Stand up and be heard.
The only thing to fear – is fear
(and being hated by the world).

There’s not enough reason
To always – go down fighting
There’s not enough reasons to fight.

Just stand up and be heard
For all the world to see.
When you tell it like it is
The truth can be set free.

There’s not enough consequence
To really make you cower
Humiliation is as bad as it would get.

So throw off all your fears.
Stand up and take a chance.
You’ve been wanting to for years.
It’s time for you to dance.

There’s not enough love -
That you don’t need to share.
There’s not a surplus of selflessness around.

So pull up a chair and sit -
With someone torn apart.
Lend a sympathetic ear -
And listen with your heart.

The Worst Enemy I’ve Ever Had

Her appearance was just ostentatious
Her words were mean, unjust, hellatious
She appeared each time I was flying high
To pull me down from the clear blue sky.

In veiled disguise – she could pour on
A smiling manner – an oxymoron.
Underneath she raged with hate
Enjoyed me in weakened state.

All my life her voice was caustic
She thought herself a wizened Gnostic
She was just a jaded soul
Who never felt she was quite whole.

Her shrill insults were cacophonous
Contorted faces were no bonus.
Mein Enemy – her sobriquet
She couldn’t, wouldn’t go away.

Her anger spewed like a volcano
Lava poured as does a vein flow.
Every time I was on top
She tried to put it to a stop.

For thirty years she did ensue
I wasn’t sure what I would do.
Each dream I had was stolen such
I didn’t want them all that much.

I never would be beautiful
I never would be suitable.
I never would become a writer
I wasn’t even a worthy fighter.

She picked at me and wore me down
She thrashed my deeds and stole my crown
Her evil ways tormented me
And no one else could even see.

Thirty years I did endure
Her wrath, her lies, her overture
She took my hopes and gave back fears
Did I endure for thirty years?

I told myself – I’ve had enough
No need to listen to that stuff.
I’m bright, I’m fun, I look just fine
No longer could she undermine.

I took her words and laughed out loud
I told her that she should be proud
I’ve come so far – through such hard times
My writing has earned several dimes.

I may not be well known or rich
But I still write, I’ve got the itch.
I may not be living all my dreams
But all is never what it seems.

At least I try – I yelled at her
I offer more than unkind words
When you insult me you inspire -
Your evil only lifts me higher.

The worst enemy I’ve ever had
Gasped and finally said – I’m glad.
I looked confused – did I just hear her?
She smiled back from my own mirror.

What?

What can I write – when I don’t know what to say?
So much in my mind – that words get in my way.
What’s new with me – it always comes to this
My hopes get high – and then get dashed -
Fucked but never kissed.

What can I do – to protect myself from pain?
Going down the same road – again and again.
What should I feel – when everything seems wrong?
The happiness I’m craving – is taking way too long.

What should I see – as the world slips away
And then comes into focus on any given day.
What would it take – to ever stop the hunger?
How long will I wait – I ‘m not getting any younger.

What day is this – they all run into one
Sometimes my life seems over – sometimes it’s just begun.
What answers me – erases all the pain?
What do I need – to satisfy my brain?

What will it be – and where and when and how?
I know I should be patient, but by God, I want it now.
What’s the real point?  I over-analyze.
But letting life just pass on by – would it really be more wise?

 

The Violation

The memory – it haunts me – from time to time.
Like a wave of nausea – suddenly – in my mind.

Appearances can be deceiving
The smile that’s upon my face
Hides the breath holding moment of yielding
Covers the shame and disgrace.

At least in death – there can be dignity
But living on – has killed a side of me
Humiliation and the degradation
That accompany – the violation.

The violation -  that shouldn’t have been
Gets replayed in my mind – again and again.
Nothing in this world deserves eternal damnation
With no questions asked – except the violation.

 

The Tunnel

I understand the tunnel
Where so many people go
The strength with which it pulls you
It’s violent undertow.

I know, now, the detachment
The hunger I don’t feel -
Is just another symptom of
How nothing seems too real.

There is no special place -
You need to go – to get there
There is no one – you need to know
To feel that you fit there.

When everything falls out of place
The tunnel sucks you in
There is no way for one, alone
To make it out again.

A hand – outstretched to bridge the gap
Across the heartless land
Pride and ego put at bay
Reach out and take the hand.

Sometimes

Sometimes I look into your eyes
And see inside your soul -
The man I want to ravage
The boy I want to hold.

Sometimes I look into your eyes
And only face a wall -
That hides you and protects you
Till I can’t see in at all.

Sometimes you look into my eyes
I’m unaware again -
To distracted to become attuned
And I don’t let you in.

Sometimes you look into my eyes
My heart sticks in my throat -
Not certain if you feel it too
But thought I’d let you know.

Something Else

Sometimes I sit and try to write
The way I feel for you inside
But the words, they never come out right
(Hell, most of the time – they don’t even rhyme.)

There’s so many things that I’d like you to know
So many feelings I struggle to show
A head full of thoughts that would show you I care
A heart full of love that I’m longing to share.

But, you know, not everyone’s a poet…

So I come to you and I look in your eyes
And I try to tell you I apologize
I know that my heart’s got something to say
But words only seem to get in my way.

I beg your forgiveness; I feel so ashamed
That there’s words in my heart I’m unable to name
In frustration and worry, I turn away
Then you lift my head gently, and smile as you say…

“It’s okay…not everyone’s a poet.”

Morning Train

When I met you
I was really
On the rebound.

Life seemed over
Nights were colder
I was low-down.

Then stepping off the morning train
I tripped over your shoes -
Dropped your paper when you caught me
I spilled coffee on your news -
And picking it all up then made you
Miss the train for you -
Couldn’t have  planned it any better if I’d tried.

Shrugged your shoulders
Dropped your paper
In the can.

Replace my coffee?
Yes, why thank you…
…what a man!

I walked into the diner with my
Heart up in my throat -
By then I needed decaf but I
Couldn’t let you know -
We talked and laughed until the time
You said you had to go.
Couldn’t have planned it any better if I’d tried.

With my number
In your wallet
Off you took.

An hour late, my
Friends gave me some
Curious looks.

For the next eleven hours, I was
Bouncing off the wall -
But tried to sound composed and calm
When I took your call -
But you were so excited
I didn’t feel dumb at all.

Couldn’t have  planned it any better if I’d tried.

Now our friends think
That it’s truly
Destiny.
And our kids say
You were always
Meant for me.

Enemy Mine

There once was a man – with eyes of fierce steel
Impressive and strong – undeniably real.
With his shirt sleeves rolled up – he was rugged and tough
When he laughed his eyes sparkled – and his face lightened up. 

Beneath the tough image – was a man with a heart
His IQ could blow most – sorry Joe’s off the chart.
He liked doing crosswords – I admit, so did I
Brought them in from my planes when I’d be passing by.

I thought I was smart – but he blew me away
He knew what the tough clues – were trying to say.
We’d do puzzles together – he’d talk of his life -
The Navy, his daughters, Big Red and his wife.

 It was a pleasure for me – to have such a distraction
Don’t know when I noticed – my hidden attraction.
His smile and demeanor – always brightened my day
If I’d only known then – I’d have just walked away.

It would have been better – than what happened next
Though what happened to cause it – I only can guess.
He grew distant and quiet – so I gave him some space
I just couldn’t see the hate – there in his face.

Finally, a friend put a knife in my soul
When she spoke of the anger he just didn’t show.
I’d only assumed he was preoccupied
When my very presence – had him cringing inside.

I was treating this man – like a long, lifetime friend
Asking romance advice, yet again and again.
Staying and sitting, when I should have been walking
No longer able to listen, just incessantly talking.

There was a time when I was just – a girl passing through
We didn’t notice each other – so I had nothing to lose.
Over time, – I guessed that he somehow understood.
I had something-worth-something to offer this world.

 It was a boost to my ego, I can no way deny
Though I boosted his too, well, at least for a while.
The saying about loving and losing’s a lie
I’d rather have nothing – than watch something good – die. 

This was all my own doing – that led to this end
An enemy stands where I thought stood a friend.
I’d change my behavior – or words I misspoke
Turn time back – and fix up – whatever I broke.

No puzzles, no flirting, no asking advice
Internally checking each word I spoke twice.
But I’m left in a quandary – there is no way to repair
The rift that leaves me over here – and mein enemy there.

Three Men

Just another melodramatic, country song.

Everywhere I go
I find three kinds of men:
The ones whose heart’s are taken
The players – and the friends.

It’s a little frustrating
I’ve really begun hating
Going down the same road
Again and again….

I’ve know him all my life
I’m not meant to be his wife.
He’s a confidant, a comrade
And a friend.

My mom will never understand
Why he will never be my man
I could talk till I am blue
And it would never sink in.

~ ~ ~

THREE MEN – all wrong
The road’s – been long
But I’ll wait – I know
Because there’s nowhere else to go.

~ ~ ~

I saw him from a distance
He broke through my resistance
With a gesture and a smile,
He took hold of my heart.

I didn’t have a clue
He was only passing through.
And when the player made his exit
Half my world fell apart.

~ ~ ~

THREE MEN – all wrong
The road’s – been long
But I’ll wait – I know
Because there’s nowhere else to go.

~ ~ ~

We were working side by side
A man with whom I could confide
I knew that he was taken
By the ring he had on.

His family was his life – you know
He actually loved his wife.
What made me want him – made me walk
Another oxymoron.

~ ~ ~

THREE MEN – all wrong
The road’s – been long
But I’ll wait – I know
Because there’s nowhere else to go.

~ ~ ~

99 To Life

99 to Life (Part 1 of 3)

He managed all his duties
He tended all her fears.
He lived the life, the lie, so well
It fooled him for years.

The passion slowly died
Camaraderie was scarce.
Things they once enjoyed
Became routine, almost rehearsed.

At first he thought that he expected
Something he should not.
Guilt at not being satisfied
With everything he got.

They bought the house, the dogs, the cars
Fulfillment did not follow.
All the things which filled their house
Rang empty, then, and hollow.

He loved the girl, he lived the life
But time grew them apart.
He lost the love, then lived the lie
He always played his part.

Who’s to say what catalyst
Can spark a man to action?
What makes someone realize
The need for satisfaction?

Whatever shock it takes
To bring about a revelation
Is an albatross, because
It makes one start a new foundation.

Should he leave a woman who
No longer seemed his wife?
Should he stay and bravely face
A long and empty life?

What’s for better, what’s for worse
It’s a personal decision -
No advice but inner voice
Can follow inner vision.

Bad Habit (Poetry Humor)

I’ll tell you of my nasty habit
When I write – I continue to rhyme
But sometimes my meter gets screwed up
And make you stop, and re-read a line one more time.
(see what I mean?)

When I write it, it seems to flow naturally
I think I’ve gotten it – all down just so
Then I read it out loud – and it stops me
Off to the edit button – I go.

I try to write with consistence
But meter is weird when it’s read
When I read it aloud I feel stupid
I get these worrisome looks from my pets.

So I finish my writing so certain -
That everything flows along fine
I come back to read it the next day
I’ll be darned if I can’t find the rhyme.

To the edit button I scurry
I’m sure I can fix this one yet
Sometimes silent and out loud don’t mesh well
Maybe it’s really as close as I’ll get.

If you’ve ever read one of my poems
And found yourself stop in your tracks
I probably botched up my meter
And might fix it before you check back!

I edit and edit and edit
I read it to make sure it’s good.
One day it sounds awkward and choppy
The next day, – it sounds just like it should.

I try to put dashes and commas
To help the poor reader with me
If I’m going to write metered verses
The rhythm should feel natural – and free.

“Earth To Annie” is just one example
A comment was left in talk back
He had to re-read it out loud – (a whopping three times)
To get the lines written – to rhyme with a whack.

There are times, of course, that I don’t rhyme
Then the meter’s – no matter at all.
“All I Ask” and “Sensual Moments”
Were just my mind in a state of free fall.

And I certainly don’t rhyme my stories
There’s no meter I must keep in check.
And with some of my poems, – it’s on purpose
Poetic license I use just a speck.

So, to all of you great Themestream readers
I apologize well in advance
For the meter that sometimes – will be hard to find
Making you take a quick second glance.

Spring Cleansing

Too many scars, too many fears -
to give any one a review.
Cluttering up my mind over the years -
Afraid to try anything new.

It’s never easy – to remember
things that caused your life pain.
And it’s never simple to face all those evils
Or give any one its true name . . .

Jealousy often is called “realism”
by the one who can’t say “insecure.”
Worry is “reason” by the one who just cannot
connect it to feeling a fear.

Caution is “wisdom” – to the one who can’t struggle
to get himself up out of bed.
And Hatred is called “religion” by those
who don’t question words they have read…

Here is a time to open our eyes
to the things that are painful to see.
And spring-clean the closets of our spirit and mind -
so, once more the soul can be free.

When we look inward and we can accept
the darkness that has always been -
Then the Light can grow strong and honest and pure
as the god and goddess living within.

Ice Girl

There’s a wall of ice – that nature gave her
Covering up the fire.
The simplicity of – the way God made her
Hides all the passion and desire.

Calm and collected – No one’s ever suspected
That there’s more to her than meets the eye.
The end situation – There’ll be no indication
Of the warmth and love she carries inside.

Everyone looks, yet nobody sees her
Splitting apart from the pain.
Everyone listens, but nobody hears her
Screaming aloud in her brain…

While…her heart is a blazing inferno
Raging wildly out of control.

Her mind is alive and it’s burning
With an intensity no one would know.

Her soul is a silent contender
That will never give up the fight.

But her body and expressions
Mask her feelings and impressions
So none of this will come to light.

Least Likely To Succeed

When we graduated, I was glad to say goodbye.
Years of suffering ended.

The first reunion, I actually contemplated it.
Then the feelings of the past
welled up in my throat.

No distance I could climb up the ladder of success.
Could change the picture in your mind, . . .
your hate, or your ideas.

But now I’ve come to recognize water under the bridge.

You said I’d never amount to much, and I…
I was so ashamed,-sure that you were right.
I know now that I was wrong, for believing you.

And when I see you at this reunion-
I’ll feel challenged by your presence.
And I’ll look you in the eye.

I won’t need to make excuses, or hesitate, or stutter.
I won’t need to explain myself to you at all.
Because I’ve really graduated this time.

Facing Misdemeanor

Retrospect is such a mystery
Careful plans, rewrites of history
Only aid in the deception over time.

Reconstructing, reconditioning
Really seeing, really listening
To the echoes that reverberate in mind.

I close my eyes, then turn the pages
Time and reason rearranges
All the fears and hopes and dreams of yesteryear.

Come to terms with where I find them
Find acceptance – fight subsides then
Life resumes once more – with one less cross to bear.

Jury: Please Disregard

Your picture haunted my dreams last night.
There was a time that the Indians
Believed a photograph would steal one’s soul -
And it frightened them.

I don’t believe that’s true, but maybe -
in some inexplicable way
It captured your essence -
And that was enough.

The picture kept invading my mind –
It tore at my soul with questions unspeakable.

Then it tried to make me feel safe
It told lies that it believed were true –
That way, it could never feel guilty
When it walked away

But this is a modern version of the same old song
The new verse will always end in good-bye
There is nothing new to say -
No words that can make it all better

Not even you are strong enough to make the pain go away.
And I – I am not a challenge

Nor am I a good deed.

Some things should be left alone.

The whole of my being was fused into one dark abyss
That once was a heart, a mind, a spirit, a soul
That once had hope, instead of numb detachment

That once had faith, not just apathy.

But my soul was stolen once, maybe from a picture -
And my mind became lost, could not find the way back -
And my spirit was too weary to try.
And my heart – was too afraid.

And the saddest part of the whole story
Is that my heart lay here broken, yet again.
And we’ve never even met.
Your picture haunted my dreams last night.

Another Sad Day In Paradise

The words you said – they threw me
For a loop, I guess they say.
It made me really angry
That you’d think of me that way.

So I picked up all my anger
Cast it aside – with words -
And found that anger – really
Just covered up my hurt

I didn’t understand if I was
Hurt by seeing truth
Or sad because – I wasn’t shallow
And thought – perhaps – you knew.

You asked me where I get
My ideas and experiences -
You wouldn’t listen when I said
“Just keeping up appearances.”

Now, you have unleashed a pain
No one would want to see.
Pain should be kept hidden
Only happy thoughts set free

**************Part 2****************

While I was left – cut open
By words not meant to hurt
I ran the gamut of emotion -
A simple phrase had come and stirred.

The sadness got cried out, so I
Looked deeply underneath . . .
I cried when I saw – what was there -
I never liked to see.

The pain came reeling through my head
And tore apart my mind.
Scabs that covered unhealed wounds
Dripped blood and tears and wine.

The funny thing; you needn’t fear
What worried you the most.
The one thing that is crystal clear -
I’m haunted by my ghost.

How many times can I endure
A cathartic, soul release
And have the blackness seep across
My heart and mind with ease.

**************Part 3****************

When the tears had run their course
Just emptiness remained
A vision of the scars and
quilted remnants of the pain.

My old mind – it remembered
And old truth – I once discovered
The baggage in my heart
Would be too much for any lover.

You see, I’d never ask for empathy
For pity or compassion.
The Law of Threefold’s always just
I’ve made this baggage happen.

The weight I carry doesn’t hail from
Some traumatic life event
But from the secrets and the shame
And base embarrassment.

If I could check this luggage -
All the way to Timbuktu,
And never go and claim it
Then, that’s what I’d like to do.

But on my back, it’s carried
The weight presses on my soul
The only thing – alive in me
Are the words – to let you know.

No Trespassing

My heart was trampled on too many times
To plant any more of hope’s seeds
My love was: sown, reaped and shipped down the line
So I put up a sign – and it reads:

No trespassing! Violators will be towed.
No trespassing! Perpetrators will be shot.
No trespassing! Till I get back the debt that I’m owed.
No trespassing! You know, I’m not really asking a lot.

Well, . . .

No one wants in till you put up a fence
And tell them to stay the hell out.
And you’re just not sexy till you’re on the defense
And waving that rifle about . . . My sign reads:

No trespassing! I told you to stay the hell out.
No trespassing! I don’t wanna have to scream and shout!
No trespassing! I’ve just got to think this thing through.
No trespassing! Well, now, I know what I’ve just gotta do.

{Musical Interlude}

No trespassing! I told you to stay the hell out.
No trespassing! I hate to have to scream and shout.
No trespassing! I’ve just got to think this thing through.
No trespassing! Well, now, I know what I’ve just gotta do . . .

That sign came down with a crack and a thud
The fence was dismantled and stored.
I’d given up my fighting and was ready for love . . .
But there ain’t no suitors no more! . . . Hello?

No trespassing! . . .

{Repeat chorus…till you’re blue in the face.)

The Matrix

The silence is broken
The stage is now set
The game will be played out
They will never forget.

The silence is broken
The bells will toll free
In limbo they lied there
And, no one could see

The world speeds to normal
As if it’d been paused
No regard to life’s rules
Or to natural laws.

The matrix they lived in
Shattered and fell
Truth melted the false life
That they knew so well.

A new world emerges
Full of promise and hope
How many will die so
The truth can be told?

A hard road lies forward
Only lies lay behind
Discarded and silenced
To free every mind

Along the hard, new path
Will be shadows and death
Agents who’ll kill them
To stifle Truth’s breath.

But Truth will enlighten
At a cost -devastating
The bodies they fed on
Were renegades – hibernating.

As the rebels take foothold
Their strength will outlast
Because the silence in broken
And so is the past.

Whisper

~~~    ~~~    ~~~ Whisper into the night Call my name in the breeze Feel the touch of the gentle air Caress you like calming seas. ~~~    ~~~    ~~~ Whisper into the sunrise My name on the golden dawn Feel the lightness of morning For just moments, before it is gone. ~~~    ~~~    ~~~ Whisper into the mid-day My name in the vast, warm light Feel the warmth on your body Before day once again turns to night. ~~~    ~~~    ~~~ Whisper into the sunset My name to the sky, blue and gold Feel the loving peace that I send you When I cannot be there to hold. ~~~    ~~~    ~~~ Whisper into the darkness Call my name to the stars Feel the shimmering light, like water Until time, again, will be ours. ~~~    ~~~    ~~~

When I Tell You

     Sometimes my friend just can’t find the right words to say how much you frustrate her. And when she does, you only hear what you want to hear anyway. 

     You think romance and sex are the same thing, and you don’t realize just how offensive you can be. So if you find this poem funny, you’re wrong. If you find it offensive, you’re right, and just think how she feels.

When I tell you -

When I tell you – I’d like to hold your hand
You say that – you have a better plan.

When I tell you – I’d like to kiss your face
You say I – could kiss another place.

When I tell you – I get lost inside your eyes
You say you’ll – get lost between my thighs.

When I tell you – I’d like to have this dance
You say that – you want inside my pants.

When I tell you – I want the gentle touch
You say, “Babe, let’s do it in the truck.”

When I tell you – I like when it’s romantic
You say it’s just – a question of semantics.

When I tell you – my rules are hard and fast
You say I must – have issues from my past.

When I tell you – to please respect my feelings
You say rules and such – send your head to reeling.

When I tell you – sacred moments are the best
You say “Rev me up – and put me to the test.”

When I tell you – the tortoise won the race
You say the rabbit – was probably getting laid.

When I tell you – it’s time to say goodbye
You say, “don’t leave, oh please don’t make me cry.”

When I tell you – I can’t make it any clearer
You say sincerely – you’ve never held me dearer.

When I tell you – someone else would treat me better
You say you’ll – obey my wishes to the letter.

When I tell you – I still know I should go
You say “come on, let’s have a dance – real slow.”

When I tell you – I’ll give you one more chance
You say, “so finally – I get inside those pants?”

When I tell you – goodbye pathetic loser
I walk away before I hear your lame reply.

When Dreams Do Come

(a simpleton’s words to a craftsman)

As I venture to the south – for the winter
And leave you – up there – in the cold -
I wonder – if I’ll come back in the springtime
I sit and ponder words – I was told.

I wonder – if you’ll buy the plastic -
To cover up your windows – from the draft.
I wonder – if the birds will flock up -
And eat all the precious seeds – that we left.

You asked me – to sit and write about you
A poet – just simple, pure and true.
You think my lines – opportunistic -
But if I were – this line would rhyme
With two. (oops)

So maybe I am – opportunistic!
Maybe I like reading – over skating.
Maybe I’d sit – and write – at the window -
While you were out – with your friends – circulating.

I wonder – if you’d ever understand me
If you’d appreciate the simple things – like me
If you’d realize – there’s no game I am playing
. . . That what you – get – is exactly what you see.

I sit here – putting pen and ink to paper
I write, but a wordsmith I am not
There is no craft – to jotting down my feelings
There is no effort in my – capturing a thought.

How simply – I rhyme one word with another
A habit – that I know – does grate your nerves
Harder still – to write with Emily’s meter
And I never even use – collegiate words.

Could you ever – tolerate such madness?
Could I ever – accept intolerance?
Would you see me – as a fragile, little princess -
Would you want me – to give up my innocence?

I wonder – if I’m being foolish.
I wonder – if you’re even there.
I’m writing this – to stroke your male ego -
But I sit here – wondering if you care.

When the snow melts – her silvery, last teardrops
And the fresh grass – basks beneath the sun
Will I . . . remember frozen memories -
Of just a moment . . . in time – when dreams do come.

If I’d Met My Soul Mate When…

. . . If I’d Met My Soul Mate . . . ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ If I’d met my soul mate when I was a child: I would never have learned my ABC’s I wouldn’t have wanted to learn how to read I wouldn’t have tried to learn how to write I wouldn’t have learned how to be strong and fight. If I’d met my soul mate when I was a teen: I would have been happy to leisure in love I wouldn’t have pushed myself quite far enough. I wouldn’t have tried to earn my degree Or find out just who I am – what makes me – me. If I’d met my soul mate from twenty to thirty: I would have offered too little and expected too much I would have been self-absorbed and a bit out of touch I wouldn’t have learned to endure and stand tall I wouldn’t have known you get up when you fall. Though life has been hard and dealt some cruel blows I’m stronger and wiser for all of life’s lows. I’ve learned to speak out and learned to be tough I’ve learned to be patient when things seemed so rough. I’ve learned to listen to stories of people I meet And use them as lessons, overcoming defeat. I’ve learned to be open to more points of view Life’s not all about me, it’s about all you too. I’ve learned from mistakes that I won’t make again I’ve struggled to learn to be a good friend. Life is a teacher and it’s taught me a lot Life is for giving it all that I’ve got. If I’d met my soul mate, in days long ago: I would not have been willing to learn compromise I would not have experience that wizened my eyes I just wasn’t ready – I see that now clearly I’ve still so much to learn – and that fact scares me dearly. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Cancel My Subscription…

Cancel My Subscription!

Did I tell you
to call me during dinner?
Did I say 
that I wanted to be thinner?
Did I ask you 
if my name was a winner?
If I converted, 
would you save a sinner?

Did I tell you 
how the windows of my house -
Weren’t going up, 
were getting stuck, were falling out?
Did you know 
my home needed to improve -
And needed a 
free estimate from you?
******************
Baby, cancel my subscription
don’t call back.
Take my name and number off
your mailing list.
I’ve got a fully stocked spice
and magazine rack.
Cancel my subscription
don’t call back.
****************** 
In fact . . .

I don’t even 
own my house – I rent it.
They never even
put no windows in it…
And I don’t need 
to win McMahon’s big sum.
At Clearing House,  
I may have already won!

And . . . I ‘d really love 
to hold this phone and chat.
Dinner talk -
That’s really where it’s at.
But the stove remains
just beyond my reach -
And I’m cooking things 
that certainly won’t keep.

I’m trying to 
wedge-the-phone
between my head and shoulder.
The meat pulled
from the broiler’s -
getting colder.
I’m being nice, 
but you’ve got a lot of nerve -
Trying to make a sale
while dinner’s being served.

I want to say . . .
******************
Baby, cancel my subscription
don’t call back.
Backspace out my number
just like that.
The service to my phone ‘s
just what I need.
Maybe this is not 
what I should plead . . .
******************
So, baby . . . What time 
do you get off of  work?
You already have
my name and number.
Come over here, 
I’ll make you go berserk.
If you’re nice, 
I’ll even let you ride the thunder.

Don’t get nasty -
I’m not being too obscene.
If you forgot, 
then remember, you called me.
If you don’t want -
to hop right in my sack
Baby – Here is the condition -
don’t call back!

One Moment In Time

Emily and I – went out into the garden
We each had a box, wrapped all up in twine.
We loosened up the ribbons, and opened up each carton.
And sifted through the writings – that occupied our time.

She wrote of religion; I wrote of relation -
We didn’t mind the differences between.
We read each other’s work with unbridled adulation
We looked through eyes a way we’d never seen.

Her sister appeared, and brought us cakes and tea
Then turned right around to wander back inside
One last glance of confusion – at Emily and me
She couldn’t understand us, though she tried.

We finished up our snack, set the plates aside
And continued with our nourishment of the senses.
She read of Truth and Beauty meeting once they’d died
I read about an Ice Girl’s sad defenses.

Taking turns we read, our time – it passed too soon -
The sunlight faded -  I knew I couldn’t stay . . .
More than a century has passed – since that fateful afternoon
In Emily’s words, “Feels shorter than the Day.”

Call Me Crazy…

Ok, I’m a little different. But, it’s not like I have cornered the market on crazy or anything. I’ve just chosen a path no one else seems to have taken. You know all about the road less traveled, right? Well, at some point, I don’t remember exactly when. I came to a crossroads.

The left side was the well-worn path taken by most people. It’s the one I had been on before I came to the crossroads. I knew I didn’t belong there because people looked at me like I was too different, too abnormal. Thought provoking and rebellious, I didn’t fit there. So, I didn’t look back.

I turned and started down the right side, thinking I’d meet fellow bohemians – people who looked at life differently. And I did, but I soon found they looked at me differently. I was not different enough, not abnormal enough, not rebellious enough. I looked too much like the people on the other path, too mainstream, and I was ignored.

So I came back to the crossroads and sat for a while. I didn’t want to buy into keeping up with the Joneses, the commercialism, the status quo. I didn’t want to dye my hair pink, or get a nose ring, or say “groovy” all the time. So I sat and thought. After a time, I stood up and walked into the woods. There was no path at all. It was the wild land in between the two, never tamed.

I’ve been exploring in the woods now for years. I thought maybe there would be more people who didn’t like either path, others who were adventurers and wanted to make their own way, without the labels found in the other two. I was wrong.

I stop in the woods now and then and watch the sunrise, and revel in it. I feel the warm wind in my face and I inhale it. I slip down into the water of each beautiful lake I pass and I bask in it. I build a fire at night and sing haunting, folky songs. Sometimes I hear a flute playing, but I don’t know the source of the beautiful music.

In my back pack I carry four books: The Poems of Emily Dickinson and The Little Prince, a dictionary and a thesaurus. I carry a sketch pad, pencils, pens and a notebook. When I need to rest, I sit down in the warm sunlight and I read, or I write.

I keep thinking I’ll hear footsteps meandering through the foothills, but I hear none. I wait for company, someone to share my thoughts and words with, someone to listen to, but no one shows. I know if I change, there are many people who would accept me, back on those two paths. all I have to do is change.

But I stay in the woods, admiring the beauty and gift that’s called life. I hear laughter in the stars, but I realize it’s only The Little Prince, and he’s so far away. I hear the flute play and let the music soothe me. And I let the sunshine warm me. And I keep writing.

I never give up hope, because then I’d be just like them. I’m creating a new path, one without judgment or labels, no rules to belong, no membership cards. Maybe someone will follow it, and someday they’ll find me. Until then, I’ll remain alone, in the wild, just off the beaten path. So call me crazy . . . but maybe someday you’ll join me.

A Touch of Class (2001)

A Touch of Class

A funny thing happened to me and it started me thinking in great detail. Someone described me recently and said ‘she has class’ . . . The one thing I’ve always wanted, but never at the price it would cost me, is to have class. It’s something with which I fall short, but wish I didn’t. Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me go back to November.

I wrote a 2-part article and poem called One Rainy Afternoon, and in it described Pierce Brosnan as a man of class and intellect with an aura of mystery and mischievous eyes (among other things.) A reader back then wrote and asked me if I’d be interested in accepting three of the four, because he didn’t consider himself classy and abhorred class distinctions within society. That really floored me.

When I said I liked class, I did not mean “brought up in a wealthy family”, nor did I intend to mean “class distinction” as in lower, middle and upper. So, now I wonder, is this how other people use the word? When I think someone has class, I think they know how to handle themselves and adapt to situations, they have tact, they help those in need anonymously (like the person who fixes your tire, who won’t accept money, and drives away from your life.)

A person with class would call you aside and discreetly tell you there is spinach in your teeth. A person with class wouldn’t tell you how your face contorts and you get horrid sounds of congested snot when you’re crying uncontrollably. Classy people seem to know the right thing to say in the most embarrassing situations. They know how to turn around disastrous parties, be compassionate while maintaining a cool demeanor, be empathetic – when you know they’ve never made a fool of themselves in their lives. Classy people are an enigma.

Princess Diana had class – that’s why she was loved. Prince Charles never did – that’s why he was an awkward dork with big red ears. (We’re getting used to him now.) Prince William, like Diana, has class. Elizabeth Taylor has class. Ross Perot doesn’t (he has style). Jessica Tandy had class. Elvis didn’t (he had style!) The Professor had class. Mr. and Mrs. Howell had style! You get the idea.

In my life, I’ve been told I’m everything under the sun, except classy. While it would be a dream of mine to walk into a room on the arm of 007, elegantly, warmly, and with grace . . . in all actuality I would probably babble the entire night. Give me a topic: remodeling houses (I used to have a company), computers (I used to build them), real estate, mutual funds, hair colors, sex, politics, Patricia Cornwell, James Patterson, Dean Koontz, anything in the air related industry including airplanes, airlines, airplane crashes throughout history, FAA regulations, NTSB investigations, I could go on. I won’t.

But at the party, I would. I’d be on a roll – telling stories, mingling, walking around the room to listen in on stories being told, doing sing-a-longs, entertaining a group of bored children, helping the cooks in the kitchen, asking the servers what their plans are in the future… None of my behavior would be considered bad, mind you, just not classy. The main feature of my personality is talking through a stream of consciousness. Do you remember Jordan in “Real Genius”? No? Too long ago. All right, Sally, in “When Harry Met Sally.” Now, you can form a picture of my personality.

I want to know, how does Meg Ryan get away with it? She plays all these characters that babble incessantly and she is absolutely adorable and everyone loves her, including me, and yet when other people talk in run-on sentences, like me, it can be quite annoying, instead of adorable, and that just isn’t FAIR!

 I don’t think Meg could annoy a living soul, other than perhaps Dennis Quaid at the moment, but her personal life is of no concern to me and it’s none of my business. Every character she plays is honest, and likeable, and downright babbly. Yet, in my whole life, no one has ever said to me, “Annie, you’re so talkative and animated, you remind me of Meg Ryan! You are so adorable.” Stream of consciousness speaking is not really highly regarded in the real world.

So, I have a choice. I could be classy, would like to be classy, but the price is just too high. I like being animated, and unpredictable, and having fun – more than I’d like to be tactful, elegant, eloquent or mysterious. Ben Ranney, thank you for your compliment. It made my day, my week, my year, maybe my life. I’ll never forget my moment of class. And, everyone,  even though I’ll never have more than a touch of class, I promise, I’ll always call you aside to discreetly tell you if you have spinach in your teeth.

Annie

Dreamteam (Themestream)

(Sorry, the great colors did not come through.)

Earth Year: 2002

sometime in the spring . . .

---

I originally read this ad in the back of the magazine:

Want to earn some extra money and make great friends in the process? Do you like to write? Our website offers money for contributors with topics on everything. We pride ourselves on covering it all  from politics to poetry! GET PAID TO WRITE! Feel free to tell your friends and family, and submit what you write to search engines. The more you get noticed – the more you’ll get paid. At ten cents per view, you could make thousands of extra dollars this year for those much needed expenses! Stop by and sign up today . . . at DREAMTEAM

I cut the ad out, because I’d written for years. I definitely wanted to be a part of the opportunity. Then life got in the way of silly things like writing. I found out I was pregnant. My husband and I prepared for the new family we were creating and moved from our small apartment into a house of our own.

When I packed my belongings for the move, I came across the ad I’d cut out of that magazine. I read it again. Then, I slipped it in my purse. During my family leave from work would be just the time to get started earning extra money. Eagerly, I went to their local office in L.A. – the address listed on the ad.

Josie: Excuse me, is this Dreamteam? Hi, my name’s Josie. I cut this ad out of a magazine two years ago. I wondered if you still are looking for writers. I have a sample of my writing with me, and I’d love the opportunity to earn extra income.

Dreamteam Clerk: Yes, you’re at the right place, dear.

Wow! I’m so excited. I can’t wait to earn ten cents for every viewer who reads my work. I already write for a parenting newsletter, and they all promised they’d read it. I submitted my parenting website to search engines and I get about 200 hits a day. I am SO ready for this.

That’s great Josie. We love eager people like you. The thing is, some of the policies have changed, just a tad of course. We’ll have to go over that before you sign.

Oh, that’s fine. Let’s go over everything. I mean, I have been carrying this dog-eared copy for over two years. What has changed?

Well, with the economy and all, we just couldn’t continue to pay ten cents a rate, especially for unregistered views coming from search engines. We had to lower the rate to two cents and cap the totals on each article to $150 each.

<disappointed, sighs> We-ell, I guess that’s ok. I’ll make a BIT less money, but I’ll still get exposure and some is still more than none! So, where do I sign?

Um, well, those changes were a year ago, and what with the plummeting economy and demise of the internet business, we found that just wasn’t enough.

Uh-huh???

Starting in the summer we had to reduce the cap again, to five dollars each. It seems some people were really taking advantage of the free money – and they continued to be read by way too many people! You understand, of course, don’t you?

Uhhmmmm, well….

You see, our site was paid for by advertisers, and when the numbers came down, they realized, no one had ever clicked on their ads. Without advertising, we couldn’t continue to pay content providers. Our prices are really reasonable though, and the per view rate now includes non-registered members again. So things are looking up!

You’re prices are really reasonable?

Oh yes! It only costs you twenty dollars to register as a contributor and five dollars for each article you post. Views from other registered members are two cents each, and for non-registered members you only pay a cent to be viewed. Isn’t that great? And each comment you receive is completely free of charge!

So, what you’re saying is I’d have to pay you to join, to submit and to be read? I won’t get paid anything for all my time, dedication and hard work?

Josie, thing of us as a family – a small one, a very small one. We’re GIVING you the opportunity of a lifetime, to be read and judged by your peers. Not everyone can offer you that! This is a deal like no other. You’ll meet people just like you, writers, a passionate people. You just need to sign right here. In fact, if you sign up today, I’ll give you this free deck of cards, a must-have for when our servers are down. Whadda you say?

Hmmm, words seem to fail me. Gee, ok, I’d love to sign up, I really would! But, only if your site has those wonderful pop-up advertisements! What WOULD I do without them!

Now that’s the spirit, just what we like to see. Josie, and I do mean this sincerely – you’ll fit right in . . .

**********

So, I joined Dreamteam on the spot. I love writing, and even with the search engines leading people here, it’s only cost me $4,177.03 to date!

---

DISCLAIMER: This short story is completely fictitious and any resemblance to anyone or anything, alive or dead, is purely coincidental . . .

---

Emotional Iceland

The day I looked into your soul
And saw my own reflection
I turned around and bolted in
The opposite direction.

Panicked, crazed, I ran like hell
Did not know what to do
Like in a dream, my legs of lead
Kept leading back to you.

Alarms let loose inside my head
The power surged about
My generator came online
Before I faded out.

A tornado swept across my brain
My mind left in disarray.
A path emerged – engulfed by flames
I turned the other way.

I wandered down the narrow streets
My mind had mapped for me.
Freedom, Spirit, Strength, Desire
Were nowhere to be seen.

Caution Street loomed up ahead
Where Worry intersected
Emotion Street was all blocked off
No repair date was projected.

The streets seemed an endless maze
But they all led to one dead end.
A flashing warning sign said -
The Unknown was round the bend.

Just past the sign again emerged
That fiery passageway.
I didn’t want to take it
Yet, I couldn’t look away.

Staring down the scary path
I glimpsed into our lives.
The time we’d spend, the love we’d share
Reflected in your eyes.

The vision made me shiver
It was more than I could stand.
I wouldn’t let you in because
You weren’t in my plan.

I donned my hat and then my shades
And turned to face the night.
In the arms of cold and darkness
I would find a place to hide.

 

 

Hanging In The Balance

3 Lives, 3 Stories: TOLD

IN

THEIR

WORDS

---

AGE 16:      I know I’m only sixteen, but I’m really mature for my age. My friends can see that, but my parents can’t. They treat me like a child and get really upset if I have a few beers or smoke a little pot. I told them that I wanted to be an actor, that I’d better start soon and get my foot in the door. I can always go back to get my GED. When I even mentioned moving out to Hollywood, they balked. They never take me seriously. I just wish they were cool. My dad is the worst.      Anyway, I’ve got it all planned out. I’ve been saving up money from my lunch and allowance for months. By spring, I’ll have enough money for a bus ticket, and some left over. I only need a few clothes, and I’ll pack a lot of food to last me for awhile. When I get to Hollywood, I’ll check out the scene, hit all the right places. If I get in good with the stars, I’ll always have a place to crash and I’ll be able to get my start in movies. Within a year, I’ll write and invite my parents out to visit my new place. I’ll show them I was right. You’ll see…

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AGE 46:      Someday soon, I’m going to sit down and write my novel. I was going to start it back in college. I got married, had kids, there’s just never enough time in the day. My daughter’s in college and I hope my son will be someday soon..      Once things settle down around here, I can really concentrate. I’ve got it all planned out. I’ll get myself organized, buy a new desk, a good office chair, some trays to hold my pens, paper clips and staples. I’ll get it all together. I’ve always known I was destined to write a masterpiece and someday  I’m going to do it. Oh yes, someday soon.

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AGE 45:      Hollywood just wasn’t what I expected it to be. The people weren’t that nice. Nobody thought I was special. Nobody could see. The food in my suitcase didn’t last very long. I crashed where I could, but not with any stars. I guess I met some real low-lifes, but at least they noticed me. When I had nowhere to sleep, I’d lean up against a dumpster and watch for cops. If they found out who I was, they would have sent me home. I watched the back doors of restaurants and went through their trash for leftover food. Some good stuff, even if it was a bit mixed up together.      I survived for many years by learning a trade that I won’t speak of here. At least I was drunk or stoned most of the time, so I don’t remember all that much. By the time I turned thirty, my body had deteriorated considerably. Most of my teeth were gone and I was underweight. I had aged beyond my years. Business dried up completely by then. There were shelters where I could get a meal, and winters weren’t like they’d been in Iowa, so I endured. The cops never did learn my true identity. Tommy got shortened to Tom-Tom, as I was known to them and everyone else on the street. I was so sure I would make it. Now, I just wait for the end. I know it won’t be long.

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AGE 67:      I was sitting on my bed staring out the window, thinking how much I missed my wife. The doorbell rang. I got up and went to the door.. My grand-daughter Alex, who was sixteen, bounced in with her notebook and gave me a big hug. She was excited because she’d just written a story she was so proud of and had to tell me about it. I made some hot tea and she chatted with me about becoming a writer. It was her dream. I smiled to myself. After tea and sugar cookies, she bounded out again with the same energy.      I went back to my bedroom and stared outside until there was only darkness. That night I dreamed. My epiphany came at age sixty-seven, too late for me, but only for me. The next morning I fished some paper out of my filing cabinet and scurried around to find a pen. I sat down and wrote Alex a letter. My dear Alex,      Your energy and determination always brighten my day. You’re so excited about writing, always carrying that journal around with you and writing any new idea in it. You told me your dream is to be a writer. Once, I wanted to be a writer too. I was going to write the Great American Masterpiece. I was always waiting for the perfect time, the best conditions. I waited too long. I kept putting it off for someday. Someday never came.      Tommy was just the opposite of me. I’ve never told you about him. It’s been something we kept from you to protect you. I think that was a bad decision. You don’t need protecting. Tommy was four years younger than your mother. He ran away from home when she was away at college. He wanted to become an actor. I traced his bus ticket to Hollywood, but every  lead eventually turned into a dead end. I always hoped he’d prove me wrong. I always hoped he’d make it. I watched for him in the movies, but I never saw or heard from him again.      Tommy was impulsive. I was the procrastinator. If you’re going to be a writer, this is the advice I would give you. Write something every day. Join your school newspaper now and when you go to college. Research the industry. Know what’s expected of you. Find your voice, and don’t let anyone’s rejection stop you. Believe in yourself, but listen to criticism with an open mind. You don’t need the perfect desk, or a tray for your paper clips and staples. They come in a box, use it. And never use the word someday. It will only steal your dreams. I love you Alex. Granddad

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AGE 41:      I’m going to start writing my new novel. It’s been on the back burner for twenty-two years. When I graduated from college, I got married and had children right away. It was wonderful to stay at home with them and write. I published many articles on parenting to magazines and published my first children’s book when I was twenty-four. I signed on for a series and produced several over the next two years. When I was twenty-six, I went to Hollywood. I said it was to research a novel, but that wasn’t the truth. My husband was the only one who knew.      I took pictures of Tommy with me and started to research his whereabouts on my own. I’d already called over two hundred phone numbers of the same name with no luck. The private detective I’d hired had come up with nothing.      In Hollywood, the police station produced no results. Tommy did not exist on paper. I went to shelter after shelter, visiting with the homeless and the caregivers. I asked if there was anyone who’d been there for many years. I struck out time and time again. An old homeless man on the street thought he recognized the picture. He said it looked like Tom-Tom, a vagrant who hung out farther down in the district. Traveling on foot, I went through many alleys until I found him. But I did find him. He was forty-five then, but he looked much older. I told him who I was and why I came, and he stared at me for a long time. Then his face filled with emotion and he began to cry. I held him in my arms, trying to ignore the stench of the unwashed and comfort this man, my uncle.      I knew I couldn’t take him back home in this condition, so I rented an apartment. He didn’t look much better cleaned up, but he smelled better. His health was rapidly failing and I worriedly got him to a doctor. He was diagnosed with full-blown AIDS. It was in the late stages. It was only a matter of time. Very little time.      I stayed with him for five months, we chatted every day. He wasn’t strong, but he wanted to talk, to be heard. So I listened. He told me how he’d wanted to be an actor, come out here, become a star. He told me of the world of  prostitution, the drugs, the drink, life on the streets. He insisted I write down everything – to publish his story some day. I did as he asked and filled journal after journal with writing, a sad and compelling tale of a life stolen, a dream unrealized. When pneumonia won the battle, I made sure he had a decent burial. I sighed as I locked the apartment for the last time, turned in the key, and headed for home.      I’d visited my husband and children every other weekend, leaving a nurse in my place when I went, but it would be nice to be home again to stay. Granddad had moved in with us when he was seventy-five, two years before. He had a nice area to himself, and we had our privacy too. On the plane ride home, I realized I could never tell Granddad the truth. He had two dreams in his life – to become a writer, and to see his son make it after all.      Excited to hear about my visit, I told him of all the places I’d seen and people I’d met. He nervously inquired about Tommy. I told him I never met him, but I did hear of someone by that name who owned a production studio called Tom-Tom pictures. His eyes welled up as he relived a memory.      “I used to call him Tom-Tom when he was just a boy.”      I smiled at him as I handed him a cup of hot tea. He seemed so relieved that his son might have proved him wrong. I would never break his heart. I would write the book, as I’d promised, but not until Granddad was gone from this world. He was with us until he was eighty-seven, lively and encouraging – always curious about my work. He was always my first reader, my best editor, my steadfast inspiration. I’m thankful I had him with me until I was thirty-seven.      Four years have passed since he died. My one regret is that I never had the courage to tell him that it was his letter that changed my life. Each year on his birthday,  I go to his gravesite and place a copy of that letter on his gravestone. On the envelope, I write “Thank you, Granddad, I’ll love you always.”      One day, when I die, I’ll see Granddad again. I’ll run right up to him and hold him tightly. I’ll have the courage to tell him what his words meant to me. One day, I’ll let him know – he did write his masterpiece. It was his letter to me. I would say  “someday”, but I erased that word from my vocabulary twenty-five years ago. And I never looked back.

 

Words Strike Back

            The words resented being used and raped over and over. The man was always grabbing them and slinging them at people. The angry words didn’t mind so much. They never felt like they were used enough. “Screw you buddy” and “up yours” were happy to comply. But the sensitive words didn’t like being grabbed or tossed about. They liked being caressed and nurtured. The man came in again today. The words cowered in the corner. He found them anyway. He chose “I love you” and “I could never live without you.” These were beautiful words surely, but he’d used them all too often. He could piece phrases together quite well and the words could never truly hide from him. The individual letters were usually ok, except I. He liked that letter the best, used it all the time.

             He continued his behavior for years, stealing words, twisting them around, putting them out there, but never the meanings behind them. Finally, they couldn’t take it any longer. They decided to press charges. They took their case to the high court and just cause was found with little delay. The man was brought in against his will. He was pompous and arrogant. He thrust his finger into the face of the judge and said he’d get a lawyer. The judge told him to sit down and shut up. Flustered, he began to slew words in all directions at the top of his lungs.

           The benches emptied at once as all the words looked for a place to hide from his wrath. There wasn’t any place. Finally, he began to sling words that didn’t even exist. Security was called and the room was settled into a semblance of order. The judge warned him that no more outbursts would be tolerated and he was not allowed to come in here and start beating up on words left and right. (Left and Right were very relieved to hear this I might add.)

             The proceedings began. Slowly words came forward to tell their tale of woe and abuse. The judge listened (for in the high court there were no lawyers.) Anger and bitterness testified first to their abuse. Even though they like being used, he did so selfishly. Next, Innocence took the stand. He stated that every time this man had been in trouble, he had pulled this word from his hat. Up next, Guilty agreed with the testimony. He said there were many times he should have been used by this man, but never was. Entitlement got up there and said though his word was never used, the full meaning was always clear.

             Then, against their will, Deceit and Betrayal were called as hostile witnesses. Begrudgingly they told of the man’s shenanigans. Then, the court was adjourned for a break. At two-thirty the reason was not quite clear. All the words were whispering to one another, and it was so cluttered and wispy, the man couldn’t understand one word. They could be quite clever, you know.

             During the break, the man felt admirably confident. He was sure that the testimony of mere words was utter nonsense. Who would listen to such lowly commoners? The court came back to order and a hush fell over the room. The double doors at the back swung open. Standing there was a group of words. He looked them over closely. Promise, Truth, Hope, and Justice stood there in a line. They looked very smug.

           The man’s confidence buckled a little and he squirmed in his seat. He squinted, and started to lift out of his chair to get a better look. Together, in line, the group walked up the long aisle to the front of the room. As they walked, a muted sound of astonishment followed them up the aisle. They stopped at the opening of the room. And parted. And there in the center, was glorious Love. He fell back into his chair with a thud, flabbergasted. He knew he had just lost the battle.

             He stood up and faced the judge. “It’s true”, he said. “I am guilty of raping these words, of stealing their meanings, of using them and manipulating them for my own sordid gains. I suppose I should feel remorse or sorry. But I don’t. Those are words I’ve never used.” The words shook their heads with sadness at this utter truth. The judge told him that he was guilty as charged. (Guilty was happy to finally be used.)

           His sentence was a lack of sentence. In other words, there would be no other words. He was forbidden to use letters, words, phrases or sentences every again.

              I would tell you how that made him feel, but he never said. He lived the rest of his life alone, lying to no one, deceiving no one, betraying no one. And the words were so happy that they wanted to jump for joy. But they couldn’t, because Joy was on vacation in the Bahamas. So they settled for sighing with Relief.

The Spectrum (an email to a friend)

You were talking about how hard it is to be where you are. How alone you’ve always been. I think I can try to explain why.

Let’s say emotions are on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the happiest, 10 being the most upset. It’s the spectrum of emotion.  Think about a child at age one or two. They still run the full gamut of emotions. When they’re happy, they burst with joy. When they’re upset, they cry and scream. They express the 1s and the 10s.

By the time a child reaches school age, they try to be more grown up. It’s embarrassing to throw tantrums in school. So, they begin to temper their emotions. They become 2s and 9s.

Around age 7 to 11, team activities become involved. P.E., sports, motor-cross, etc. Bruises, breaks, physical pain. And it’s embarrassing to cry over cuts and bruises, even when they hurt. They want to be grown up. So, they become 3s and 8s.

Then puberty hits. Somewhere between puberty and adulthood comes attraction, crushes, love, heartbreak. And they’re told to get over it. Move on. This pain is worse than cuts and bruises. Worse than broken bones. The only way to move on is to reduce the amount of emotion they allow themselves to feel. They become 4s and 7s.

Then adulthood, with all of its pains, heartaches, disappointments, death of loved ones. It’s too much to bear. The only way to get through life, to be a grown up, is to set goals, move towards them, and relinquish some emotion – to compartmentalize their lives. They become the 5s and 6s. Stable, unemotional, with only quick allowances of depth: falling in love, having a child, losing a parent. Being a 5-1/2 is the goal for everyone. That’s strong. That’s adult.

I’ve never been a 5-1/2, though I can keep that appearance to the general public. That’s what’s expected. But I have 4s and 7s. I have 3s and 8s. I have 2s and 9s. And yes, I have 1s and 10s.

I understand that. I made a conscious choice to let myself experience life to its fullest. But it’s a trade off. I can’t open my emotions to burst with joy, but close them to pain or grief or heartbreak.

I could say there are subjects I don’t want to talk about – because they’re too upsetting. I could be in denial that pain affects me. I could close the emotional spectrum, narrow the band, so that I could cope. And that may be coping, but I don’t think that’s living.

I think that people who are drawn to creative outlets aren’t drawn there through choice. They’ve made the decision, conscious or not, to feel the whole spectrum. And the vastness of experience sends them to vent part of what they absorb. So, they are our actors, our poets, our musicians. The world identifies with these people because it’s searching for something it lost, but doesn’t want to handle. It lost it on purpose.

Little children question everything. They think things through to the point of exasperating their parents. They love a silly rag doll, a blanket, a book. They carry it around with them as if it means the world. How childish? How beautiful. How innocent.

I think you are one of the ones who feel the spectrum. Partly, I think, it is a conscious decision, but maybe you had never labeled it as such. But, it troubles you. And you’ve always felt alone, never belonged anywhere – even when everyone around you thought you were the shit, the comrade, the leader.

People who have the ability to not go with the flow, not compartmentalize their lives, not shut off the full spectrum of emotion – they see others for what they really are. They don’t open up and tell everything that’s inside them to just anyone. They would scare the general public – who has forgotten how to feel. They talk about basic stuff, expected stuff, regular topics. Every now and then they try something a little deeper, and they get a look of confusion. So, they drop it again. Sometimes, they try again and again to find a kindred spirit. Sometimes, they stop trying.

I’m telling to this so that you can make a conscious choice. If you want to belong, you’ll have to shut down your innocence, your wonder, your spectrum. Then, you’ll be just like the grownups. You won’t be happier, because happier implies “more” than normally happy. But, you won’t be sadder, because that will be gone too.

Or, you can choose to embrace who you are, what you are, but with more understanding. You have to realize that you can’t experience the burst of elation, but compartmentalize the pain, the shame, the guilt, the heartbreak. The spectrum can never be skewed and stay healthy. That’s just not how it works. You fight it though, you fight it so much. You want to take the best, forget the worst. Yet, privately, you revel in both, in your past and choose to not move on. You have to ask yourself why. Are you afraid your capacity for 1s and 10s is so great you couldn’t handle it? Are you positive that nothing that comes later will be as good as it was before? Do you put the past on a pedestal, so that you can justify living in the present, thinking of the past, and not wanting a future? Are you afraid the love could be so great, it would minimize what you’ve experienced and betray it? Are you afraid the pain you might feel could make your desire to live completely extinguished?

You know that toddler I mentioned? Toddlers are fearless. They will try anything, eat anything, do anything. They will jump and run and laugh and cry. They experience life to the fullest. But then, they’re taught “the rules.” And they are afraid. Suddenly, the clown sitting on the chair seems like it’s looking at them. The shadows of the tree branches seem to come after them. What might be under their bed terrifies them. Why? Because they know they’re supposed to be a big boy, a big girl. They know they’re not supposed to express fully how they feel anymore.

So, what do they do? They avoid what causes them pain, what causes them fear, what makes them uncomfortable. That’s the only way to not live in the spectrum. Life is hard. Life is an opportunity: for growth, for understanding, for sharing. With that opportunity comes risk. Risk that is greater than death. And most don’t take that risk. They do the normal things, feel the allowed feelings, grow the normal amount: by getting a decent job, getting a fancy car, having a nice house, raising a family. Only then do they think that they’ve made it.

And then what? Then, they watch movies or read books that allow them to escape from the life they’ve created. What kind, you ask? The kind where people take risks. The kind where life has danger, and bliss, and heartbreak.  And,  they talk about how much they liked that movie, very unemotionally. “The director did such a good job with the effects.” “The actor did his best performance ever.” For a few moments though, even though they don’t admit it, they got to “experience” again. And then, they compartmentalize it. And the feeling goes away. So, they see another or read another, to be taken back to the land of the living once more. Because, truly, they’re not living.

I ask you, what’s so great about being a 5-1/2?

A Match Made In Heaven

I’m married to the most wonderful woman in the world. How that came to pass is a story I’ve never shared with anyone, until now. The year was 1991. I was twenty-three and living in a small city in Anytown, USA. Still single, and living with a roommate I’d known since college.

 Janet was a great girl, but a real homebody. The few times I convinced her to go out with us, she’d sit alone at the table as we all danced and partied. She wasn’t extremely large, but the bars were crowded with Playmate wannabes, and she just didn’t compare. I know it must have hurt, and I know that’s why she begged off of most occasions. The show she just had to see or the book she had to finish were only a guise for the pain she didn’t want to endure. Again.

 I was tall, dark and handsome by society’s standards. Janet took all of my incoming messages with a smile and would pass them to me each night as I came home, usually over her bowl of ice cream.

 It was Saturday night. Janet stayed home again. I went out to a new club to meet friends who would be showing up. The bar was already smoky at 10:30. The lights were dim and the music on the dance floor was insanely loud. Sitting at the bar, waiting for my buddies, was quieter, almost tolerable. I talked up a tall, pretty blonde who was sitting alone beside me. My mind felt amusement as I thought about the ironies of life. Janet sat home because she was too plain to be asked out and this woman sat alone in a bar because men were too threatened by rejection.

 She said her name was Lisa. Two hours later my friends still hadn’t shown. I felt a bit woozy. The lights were really bothering me and the noise seemed almost surreal. Lisa and I walked out together. She noticed I didn’t look so well and offered to drive me home. I declined. Then I stumbled.

 She said, “Please. Come to my house. You can stay on the couch. My best friend was killed by a drunk driver. Please don’t insist on driving.”

 The truth is, I didn’t feel drunk. But her words were so strong, so wrought with emotion. I accepted her help. I barely remember stumbling into her house. But I remember waking up.

 The bedroom was dimly lit and smelled like cheap incense. A dressing table was to my left, a bathroom beyond glowed from a night light. On the dressing table, a long blond wig was sitting on a wigstand. I winced. Then I heard a voice: a harsh, gruff, mocking voice.

 “Looks like Mr. Perfect is waking up.”

 I turned my head to the right and saw a huge hand come at my face. The room was darkened. I realized I’d just been blindfolded. That was the first time I tried to move. I couldn’t. My hands were bound by rope above my head. My ankles were restrained together. Her voice… “Maybe he needs a little more.”

 “All right. But not too much. We want him conscious.”

 A teaspoon of something drizzled down my throat. I remembered how to scream just as the gag was pushed into my mouth and tied around my head. I felt woozy again. The room felt like it was moving. Too late, I realized I was. My body hit the floor with a thud. I couldn’t fight. My hands were untied and crossed behind my back as my face was burned into the carpet. I pulled my knees up to sit up and was slammed down again, the burn intensifying.

 “Not yet, asshole. I’m not ready for you yet.”

 Something hot ran over my skin. Hot oil, hot wax, I don’t know. It seared as it dripped, and smelled like vanilla. I decided it was hot wax. He laughed. Sinister. Delighted. Aroused. And then my hips were pulled up high in the air. My face scraped the carpet and I moaned in pain.

 “You ain’t seen nothing yet, pretty boy.” More hot liquid scalded my skin as it ran down my buttocks, my testicles, dripped farther down. With my hips raised vulnerably in the air by this unseen monster,  I was stabbed violently as his body slammed into mine. My face reared up from the floor. Even woozy and weak, the pain was excruciating. With my arms crossed and tied behind my back, I couldn’t fight as my body was slammed forward again. The carpet caught my shoulders and gave me new burns. My head was thrown like a ragdoll. The piercing pain continued as I became vaguely aware of what was being done to me. I moaned and writhed, but had no way to fight off this attack.

 My hips were pulled high, my rear greased and penetrated in violence and agony and animalistic passion. His passion. He held on to me and rode me, screaming obscenities, and then suddenly, it stopped. I was discarded on the floor, barely able to breathe. Tears that streamed from my eyes burned into my raw face. I was pulled back onto my knees by my hair. My cheeks were squished tightly as the gag was removed. Another teaspoon of liquid  hit my tongue, and then the gag was forced back into place. I was slammed to the floor.

 Around me were noises. I tried to understand them. Walking around, a weak cry, a strong slap. “Get it, bitch. You know the drill. What’s the fucking holdup? Whimpering and then a push that sent Lisa several feet across the room and flailing onto the floor. The room seemed to be moving again. I wanted to get out of there while the attention was diverted, but I couldn’t lift my body. A drawer slid open, then shut. A door opened. Hangars slid across the pole. “Put it on! I don’t want to tell you twice!” The whimpering continued. I was at a loss for what was going on. “Good girl. Now bend over and take the heat, baby.” I couldn’t see anything through the mask, but the smell of vanilla filled the room again. “Purify. We must always purify the unclean.” More footsteps, coming towards me, falling over me clumsily. “DO IT!”

 Shaky, cold hands grabbed my hips. I moaned in advance of the pain as my hips lifted slightly off the ground. Then something cold, hard, big – entered me, pierced into my body as Lisa’s hips slammed against mine.

 “Good girl.” The weight of a body slam knocked us both to the floor. The fire on my face was renewed. “A little more heat, baby. Can you take the heat?” No answer. “I said can you take the heat!?” The sound of a whip hitting flesh hung on the air and she cried out. “Yes, yes, I can take it…”

 “That’s my girl.” The oil must have been hotter now, or I’d just gotten used to the pain. I felt her wince and suck in the pain as the beast poured hot oil down her flesh. “Keep your legs together, Lisa. You know how this goes.” I felt her legs pull away from mine and move together. Then his knees came down beside my thighs. His fingertips touched me as he grasped her hips and pushed her into me. She cried out into the night as he slammed into her body and the force ricocheted into me via her artificial penis. The pumping began. I moaned. She screamed. He cursed.

 “C’mon bitch. Help me out here. Ride him like I ride you now.” Her hands tried to hold me and move in the savage rhythm. I don’t know for how long. I was stepping outside myself. This was not happening, could not be happening. Over and over, harder and harder, it went on. The rhythm tore my face back and forth against the carpeting. Her crying, whimpering, screaming bit into my ear like nothing before this. And then she was slammed down into me, into the rug, fully.

 His voice was altered, more affected. “Now it’s my turn.” She laid there on top of me limply. “LISA!” Wincing, she pulled herself off me and the piercing pain turned into a raw, open sore as she moved away. And then he was there. Again. My hips pulled sharply into the air. I heard movement. Then he thrust himself into me again. My head reared up in newfound pain, then fell over into the carpet again. My forehead took the brunt of the fire.

 “NOW. Get behind me you stupid, fucking bitch. Now! Oh, yeah. That’s right baby. Put your hands around my waist. Slip it in, baby. Agghh. Yeah. That’s it. Here we go. You ride me hard, and you won’t have to get hurt this time.”

 His sweaty body came down on me and began to thrust in the savage way only a psychotic would know how. He screamed out in agony too, delighted by it. Slam after slam, my face rubbed into the floor. I wanted to pass out, but I was becoming more aware of my surroundings, and less able to move on my own. As he finally came inside me, the burning inside was overshadowed by panic. He pulled out and I pressed as hard as I could to remove the vile fluid. It gurgled out and ran down my body. I moaned loudly. I was sure I was going to throw up, and I knew I’d gag on it. He kicked me in the side so hard I rolled over. I lay still. I stopped moaning. Slivers of light came in from the top of the blindfold. It just made the room seem to move more.

 He was up stomping again. Screaming obscenities at her. And he slapped her, and beat her and kicked her. I could hear it all, but I couldn’t move. I was laying on my arms, and  completely weak. I could still feel a warm, burning sensation as his nastiness dripped out of me.

 It got quiet for a while. I must have fallen asleep. I’m not sure. I heard footsteps moving around and couldn’t remember where I was. More drops of fluid passed down into my lips. What the hell was that shit? Why wasn’t I passing out? How was it just making me weak? I was angry at the very thought of that, but unable to move.

 They kept talking to each other, but the words were lost on me now. I heard new sounds I tried to identify. The two of them were right beside me. When I realized what I heard, I was sickened again. It was a slick, fast movement. Without sight, I knew his hands were on the back of her head. The words he used were encouragement, however unclear. I knew he was getting closer.

 I was sorry for this poor woman, but I felt relieved it wasn’t me. And then I heard her hit the floor, violently. Before I knew what was happening, his knees were on each side of my shoulders. I could hear the fast, slapping sound above my face as he groaned. In a split second, the gag was removed as hot, nasty liquid poured over my nose and mouth. He laughed as I tried to sputter and spit, then the side of my head slammed into the carpet as he backhanded me. The gag was replaced. The room grew quiet.

 Light began to stir me to consciousness. My eyes slowly opened. I was sitting in the driver’s seat of my car. I looked around, through the windows. Bells rang out. I stared. I was in a church parking lot. Services were just beginning. I slowly raised my hand to adjust the rear view mirror. My right wrist had rope burns. I winced. I gingerly moved my arm and turned the mirror to my face. I had abrasions over most of it. I realized what had truly happened to me and the vomit couldn’t stay down. I reached for the door handle, then couldn’t bring myself to throw up on church grounds. The indecision brought it up all over me, before I could turn towards the passenger seat. After heaving up what was left in my system over my clothes, the car seat, the steering wheel, I sat and stared for several minutes.

 Finally, I rolled down the window and started my car. And not knowing what else to do, I drove home. It was mid-morning when I stumbled incoherently into the house. Janet heard me. She came out of her room in an oversized t-shirt and stopped in her tracks. Our eyes met. She beckoned me with just a look. What to do? Call the police? I knew what she was thinking. My shame was too great to contact anyone. I’d realized on the drive home that I couldn’t identify either one of the people who’d attacked me. I didn’t know where they lived, where I’d been. I remembered the blonde wig on the stand.

 I shook my head slowly, then lowering it, I headed to the bathroom. She came with me. I turned on the faucet and began to run a bath. Her eyes were filled with tears, but she found inner strength from somewhere and began to help me undress. Every abrasion, every burn – made more tears flow from her eyes.

 I stood in front of her completely naked for the first time. My body was a mess. Dried blood was caked to my skin. She helped me step into the tub, and then to my surprise, she lifted off her t-shirt with a self-conscious hesitancy. She slipped off her underwear. And she crawled in behind me, gently.

 With a washrag, she began to cleanse my body. The water became pink from the blood as she soaped and rinsed my wounds. She let the water out and helped me stand. With the shower running, she soaped my hair and my body again, making sure no trace of that vile man resided on my skin. She gently dried me with her favorite, fluffy towel and then dressed my wounds one by one.

 In the bedroom, she put me on her bed. Smelling mildly of her familiar perfume, she pulled the covers up and we lie there together. She never asked me to describe what happened. Not then. Not ever. I cried into her arms for the longest time. And then I slept. I’d wondered on the drive home if I’d ever sleep again. But with her there beside me, I was completely safe. And after the tears, sleep came easily.

 Later that day, she brought me some soup and crackers and slowly spoon-fed me small bites. She called into work for me, told them I had mono and would be out for a while. She called her work and told them the same. And day by day, she took care of me. I regained my strength, my inner strength, slowly. Several days after the event, we were watching tv together, snuggled up on the couch. Something made me laugh. It sounded strange. I realized I hadn’t laughed, hadn’t even spoken, in days.

 Time passed. I went back to work. Daily routine began to replace the level of guilt, shame and dread that had encompassed my life. My friends were concerned about me. They told me I just wasn’t the same since getting mono. They said I never wanted to party anymore. They were right. That was a chapter of my life that had closed.

 A month after the event, Janet went with me to the clinic. My results were in. They wouldn’t tell me over the phone. They said that was standard procedure. I was terrified as the nurse sat down across from me. She said that the preliminary tests were negative. She looked me over closely and added, “However, if you have some reason to be concerned, you’ll need to be tested again in six months to be sure.”

 Those six months were the longest of my life. Janet slept with me every night. And it was a comfort, but it awakened fears inside me. My body had healed. The natural response of a woman next to me could make me hurt the woman I loved most in the world. I’d surprised myself. I thought of it again. I loved this woman. I no longer saw the awkward, heavy girl of my college days. I saw a woman of grace and beauty, a woman of generosity. I knew I never wanted to be with another woman again.

 The results of the second test finally came. I was clear. Janet and I broke down. We cried in relief, together. She’d never spoken of her feelings for me. I wondered just how long she’d loved me. How long had she watch me notice every woman around her, and not see what was right in front of me?

 I thought to myself that night, while Janet made our favorite dinner. There was no reason to jump into a physical relationship, even though I was physically ready and emotionally healed. I knew I wanted to be with her always. Another thought occurred to me like a jolt. Had this whole thing not happened to me, how long would I have taken to change? Would I have ended up with her? I knew now how thankful I was for the savage attack, as crazy as it seemed. And then dinner was ready.

 I stepped into the bathroom first. Then I went to the table. I knelt down before her and took her hand. She gasped. Her eyes welled up.

 “Janet, I don’t have a ring yet, but if you’ll accept this lovely piece of dental floss from a loving, devoted man – as a token of my intentions… we can replace it with a ring of your choosing in short order.” Tears gently slid down her cheeks. “Janet, will you be my wife?”

 She sucked in her breath and swallowed hard. Words finally came. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes, of course I’ll marry you.” Her hands slid around my neck and we held each other, there in the kitchen until long after the food had gotten cold.

 The next day we shopped for a ring and two months later we were married in a beautiful ceremony to the complete surprise of all my still partying friends. That was nine years, two houses and three children ago. And I feel the same today as I did back then. I know that everything happens for a reason. And with all the trauma that still comes back to haunt me, even today, I still know I’m the luckiest man in the world.

 I love you, Janet.

A Good Day to Die.

He loaded the gun with a single bullet and spun the wheel of fortune, listening to it come to a stop. Was today a good day to die? He wondered.

He was a well dressed man, sitting in a large, comfortable chair behind a massive cherry desk. Around him, the study was immaculate. Shelves of books lined the walls. A few pieces of art adorned a table here and there. Dark, elegant, opulent, only the best. He looked around at the understated decadence, his eyes coming to the framed picture sitting on his desk. A tiny spider was crawling across his phone cord. He tore a paper from his notebook and set it down before the spider. It crawled onto the paper and he gingerly carried it, opening the French doors to the patio, and shook it away outside. It was a beautiful day. He inhaled the fresh air deeply and went back and sat down in the study.

Smiling peacefully, he picked up the gun again, put it against his temple and pulled the trigger without hesitation. Click. Nothing. He shrugged his shoulders with a resigned sigh and unloaded the gun, placing it back in his right-hand drawer, and locked it securely. That done, he went out to the patio for breakfast.

The table was set for one. He sat down and unfolded the napkin, placing it on his lap. The morning newspaper was laid out in front of him. As he put on his reading glasses, a servant emerged from inside and began to pour his orange juice.

“Sir, what would you care for this morning?”

“Oh, let’s see Gabriel, how about French Toast, no butter or sugar, with a side of fresh fruit. Nothing too heavy on such a beautiful morning.”

“As you wish, sir.” With that, the man quickly and silently disappeared back into the house.

He browsed through the paper. His stocks were up. A new slew of murders had the south side retreating in fear. The election campaigns were in full swing, with mud slinging in all directions. And, there was a sale at Penney’s. He chuckled at the allusion, and tossed the paper aside.

The breakfast was utter perfection, as it always was. He could set his watch by the arrival of his morning pickup. The car arrived at eight-thirty on the dot. He checked his pocket watch with another amused look and seated himself in the limousine. His secretary was waiting for him inside.

“What’s on the agenda today, Coleman?”

“Good morning, sir. Today’s schedule, yes. You have a meeting with Dalmer and Dalmer at ten a.m. Lunch with Gina Mathers, eleven thirty. Don’t know how she arranged that. Gerard’s. Two p.m., Derek Waters, Twin Oaks Country Club, round of golf. Dinner party at Solomon’s, six o’clock.”

“That’s all?”

“Uh, yes sir, that’s all, sir.” Coleman wasn’t sure if that comment had been facetious or not. As relaxed as his boss was, there was something intimidating always lurking. He shifted in his seat.

“So, this Gina Mathers, tell me more about her. She’s lunch?”

“Yes, sir, lunch. Ms. Mathers works for CGA, newly established, looking for backers. The firm uses donations towards helping people of various bad situations move on with their lives: victims of domestic violence, cleaned-up drug abusers, depressives, early widows, displaced homemakers – you name it. All non-profit, focusing within the city limits at present. Hopes to expand. Some big names on board, backing them.”

“Yes, yes, all good, of course. Fine then. Ah, we’re here.”;

The car pulled up in front of the stately building and the driver came around to open the door. He stepped out of the car and walked to the entrance. The door was opened for him. As he went down the hallway to his office, he had to endure at least eight “good morning, sirs” and watched one nervous assistant drop her armful of files as he passed. He smiled, nodded, and proceeded into his suite promptly at nine a.m.

His receptionist followed in behind him and walked directly to the pot of fresh coffee behind the bar. She poured a steaming cup, set it down before him, and closed the double doors behind her as she left. All was quiet again.

He enjoyed the feel of the steam heating up his upper lip and nostrils as he took a drink of coffee. Turning his chair, he peered out the windows at the city. His city. He’d built an empire so well, it ran perfectly without him. The look of amusement left his face, replaced with a grimace of pain. His eyes squinted and he sipped his coffee, staring into nothing. A buzzer on his desk brought him back to attention.

“Sir, your ten o’clock appointment is here. Dalmer and Dalmer, sir.”

“Yes, send them in.”

The grimace of pain receded behind the mask. The two men were greeted by a warm smile and a firm handshake. They took their seats and the meeting began.

“Sir, what you’ve asked us to do is very unusual. As legal counsel, we found it imperative to meet with you in person. We’re sorry to interrupt your busy schedule, but sir, are you sure this is what you want?” He smiled reassuringly at the two uneasy men squirming in their seats.

“Yes, I’m well aware it’s an odd request, gentlemen, but I do assure you, it is exactly what I want. Please have it drawn up per my specifications, then send it over to me.”

The men looked at each other beseechingly, but had no response for someone whose mind was clearly made up. They stood up and shook hands again.

“As you wish, sir. We’ll be happy to comply. The papers will be drawn up immediately.” They stiffly walked from the room, barely able to contain their bewilderment until the double doors closed again.

The clock read merely six minutes after the hour. Nothing to do until lunch. Again. Such a busy schedule on paper, so boring in life. Maybe he needed a vacation. He could herd cattle at a ranch, build bridges to connect the uncivilized parts of the world, bag sand for the impending flood he saw on television. But they wouldn’t let him. No one would ever hear of him doing physical labor. It seemed blasphemous, sacrilegious. What a hypocrisy. What an irony. What a joke, but the joke was on him.

His car delivered him to the restaurant moments before eleven-thirty. Gina Mathers was a well-dressed woman who’d obviously worked her way up from middle-class society. He had keen observation skills. Wearing a navy business suit, she had dark brown hair, pulled back into a French roll, short, clean nails and a good handshake. At least, she had him intrigued. They sat at a table in the corner, away from the incoming lunch crowd.

“I’m so glad you accepted this meeting. I was told it’s hard to get through to you, and you don’t accept invitations from fledgling companies with people like me at the helm.”

“Really? And what kind of people are people like you?”

“Well, basically…,” she hesitated, “nobodies sir. I’m not even sure how I got this meeting arranged. I called several times and the receptionist politely told me to go away. Each time I got another backer, I’d try to use the name to get credibility with her. We’re trying to do a good thing here. I couldn’t get anywhere. And your backing would help us so much.”

“So, what happened, Ms. Mathers? How did you get through?”

“Gina’s fine, really. One day I called and a man’s voice answered. I asked him if he was the new receptionist. He laughed and said no, just a temp filling in. She’d had a dental appointment. I told him of the situation, and he said he’d ask you about it. Within just a few seconds, he told me it was all right and set up the appointment. So you see, I don’t know how I got through, but I did.” He smiled at her, thinking of the day Joyce was having dental pain and he sent her straight away to his own dentist, listening to no arguments from her. The day that he’d had control of the phone.

“Well, then, a stroke of luck for you. You got me here. Now, what can I do for you? I understand CGA helps turn around people after unfortunate situations, domestic violence and the like?”

“Yes, exactly. We offer funds to those trying to start over. There’s not a list of qualifications, per se. So many people have different stories. There aren’t any right or wrong answers, just an explanation of the circumstances and a demonstration of intent to turn things around. The people are followed closely to make sure they adhere to the requirements set. If they don’t, the grant is rescinded. We’re doing well, so far. We’d have donations from many interested people, but your name on that list would give us the power to increase our credibility and donor base. I know I’m taking your time, and it’s valuable, but this program is valuable too. Please, at least consider what you could do for people who are out there struggling, right now.”

“Well, Ms. Mathers… Gina. You seem level-headed and off to a good start. I’d be happy to help you. Just get in touch with my accountant, Dave Mason and he’ll work it out with the lawyers.” He wrote down the number and passed it to her. “I’ll send him the go ahead and we’ll get something arranged. Now, shall we eat?”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you so much. Yes, let’s do, if you have time.” She smiled gratefully at him.

After a nice meal, and pleasant small talk with her, he asked, “What have you heard about me, if you don’t mind my asking. You can’t be from around here. You must have moved here recently. You know, you’re one of the few people I’ve met who’s not completely terrified of me.”

“The truth, sir?”

“Yes, of course, by all means.” He motioned for her to continue.

“Well, as for me, I moved here a year ago. You were right. And about you, well…, the story goes like this. You were a happily married man, with two children. Several years ago, your family was killed by a drunk driver who crossed the intersection and hit their car head on. People say it destroyed you, though you don’t show it. Since then, you’ve never dated. You’ve mostly been a recluse between home, work, and necessary social functions. You’re always calm and relaxed, but you have a sense of power that people find intimidating.” She looked at him worriedly, wondering if she should have been so honest. He smiled at her and took her hand.

“Thank you, Gina. Thank you for your candor. And your lack of fear. It’s very refreshing to me.” He took his hand away, nodded, and sipped his water. His driver appeared at the table, and told him it was time to leave for his two o’clock appointment. For once, time had passed too quickly.

“It’s been a pleasure Gina. Please, keep me posted. Let me know whenever you need anything, if I can be of help.” With a smile, he turned and left for his meeting at the golf course. Business as usual.

The next morning, he promptly called his accountant and arranged for a donation to CGA. Ten million dollars. He smiled to himself. “That should hold her for a while.”

Taking the gun from his drawer, he loaded one bullet and spun it around in the chamber. Was today a good day to die? Putting the gun to his head and squeezing, he heard only a click. He sighed. Replacing the gun in his drawer, as always, he went out to breakfast. He passed the day, watching the second hand count time down in his office. Another day passed excruciatingly slowly.

A week later, he came home from another boring day at the office and went to his study. For some reason, he couldn’t get that Gina Mathers out of his mind. He was thinking about her again as he went to his study. Coming around to take a seat, he noticed the right hand drawer had been forced open. Bullets were scattered out of the box and the gun was missing. He looked up to see a man nervously wielding the gun at him from across the room in the shadows.

“It’s all your fault. I could have gotten a lesser sentence. It was an accident. I never meant to kill anybody.” He shook the tip of the gun back and forth as he spoke.

“Michael Conrad,” he said evenly. “What brings you here? I thought you were still in prison for killing my family.”

“I was, man. I got out. I got out of that joint. You smug piece of shit! Do you know what it’s like in prison? Do you know what they did to me? I’m not a criminal, man. I’m in there with killers, see? Killers and psychos. I’m not a killer, man. I got drunk. I hit a car. It was an accident” He was enraged. His hand continued to shake as he yelled. “Then I read about this thing in the paper! Ten million dollars to help rehab people, give people a second chance. You never gave me a second chance, you piece of shit. You had them throw the book at me! You’ve got power, man! And you used it. It’s your fault. But, guess what? Guess who has the power now, asshole?” He shook the gun.

“Michael, Michael, Michael.” Moving around in front of the desk and away from it, he nodded to the drawer. “Better see for yourself. “Confused, Michael backed along the wall towards the desk.

“What do you mean, see for myself? This better not be some kind of trick! Because I’ve got the gun. I’m in charge! See? I’m in charge! “He peered down into the drawer. “What? What am I supposed to see?”

“Michael, would you believe my family was everything to me? My reason for living. That I would have gladly been in the car, instead of them, but I wasn’t given the choice? That my life ended that day?” He nodded at the drawer and continued. “For four years, every morning, I’ve loaded that gun with one bullet, spun the chamber, put it to my head and pulled the trigger.”

“You’re full of it, man! You expect me to believe you did that every day since they died, and you’re still here? What are the chances of that, huh?”

“Every day since you were put behind bars, but, that’s exactly what I mean, Michael. What are the chances of that? You see, if you knew about guns and bullets, you’d know. They’re blanks. If I’d used real bullets, I’d have been dead fifty-seven times already. I’ve kept track. It’s all there in the notebook.” He nodded towards the drawer again. “You see, I didn’t really want to die. I just didn’t want to go on living either. It was merely an amusement for me, a way to pass the time. I wondered every morning when I put a bullet in the gun, was it a good day to die? Would that have been the day I’d meet my wife and family again? Would I ever see them or would there just be nothing after death? Are they up there somewhere, or simply gone? Forever. Gone from me. Taken from me.”

“Shit!” Michael put the gun down on the desk, exasperated, and started pacing to the wall, and then back. “Shit! What kind of stupid fuck are you? I’m not that fucked up!” He paced some more. “Shit!” he stopped in the corner.

“So what do you want from me? Forgiveness? Absolution?”

“I want your help! You can fix it. You’ve got the power. You can fix it. You can change things around for me!”

“You took my wife!”

“I told you I didn’t mean to!”

“You took my children.”

“It was a fucking accident man! I was drunk! I didn’t mean to kill nobody. You think I wanted to kill somebody? Wanted to go to prison? Fuck no, man! That place is a hole. I wanted outta there!” He continued to pace. “Shit.” He paced back and forth, stopping in the corner. “So why do you have this bleeding heart with everyone else? What about me? What about a second chance for me?” He stared at Michael, standing there screaming, and a thought occurred to him. He breathed in deeply, and sighed as he let it out. He began speaking softly and resolutely.

“You’re right, but of course you are. I should have seen it. Here I am, helping others get a second chance. Why not you? After all, like you said, it was an accident. After all this time, it still hurts me like it was yesterday. Seeing their bruised faces, their lifeless bodies. I need closure. It’s time for me to do something.” He came around the desk, looking directly into Michael’s eyes as he spoke. “I can help you, Michael, you’re right. And I will help you, in any way I can. I can see now just how sorry you are.” He opened his arms as a show of truce, after years of bitterness, anger and hatred. Michael’s nervous demeanor relaxed a bit.

“You mean it? You’ll help me?”

“Yes, I will.” Michael walked slowly from the corner of the room to the desk. He breathed a sigh relief and relaxed as they stood facing each other and opened his arms to embrace. The sound of the gun’s explosion boomed through the night air as the force of the bullet ripped into Michael’s chest. With a momentary look of confusion, he fell to his knees, then crumpled to the floor. “Wha…?”

“You see, Michael, a thought occurred to me. The police would have never believed I’d killed you in a struggle, if I shot you from over ten feet away.” With complete calm, he set the gun back on top the desk and picked up the phone.

“I’d like the number for Gina Mathers please. Yes, please connect me…Gina, hello, you got my check I see. There was a write-up in the paper. Oh, that’s quite all right, as you said, it’s for a good cause. People everywhere need a second chance. Say, what are you doing for lunch on Friday? I have some things to take care of before then. Great. How about Gerard’s again, same time? Wonderful, Gina, I look forward to seeing you. No, I really mean it. OK, I’ll see you then.” He hung up the line. Staring at his wife’s picture on the desk, he nodded to her absently and touched her face with his fingertip. “I’ll guess I’ll see you when I see you, love. Kiss the children for me.” He took the picture off of his desk and carried it over to a table, placing it by another photograph from a time long gone by. Then, returning to the telephone, he dialed the police.

Lightning Strikes

       The lightning struck the tree with an ear splitting force. I wasn’t around when the tree fell, but I know it made a deafening sound. It had been the tree I climbed as a little girl. A tree my father had climbed when the farm was his. I didn’t think anything could destroy it. I didn’t think it could become part of a trail of destruction.

       I had gone shopping with my husband, then to a matinee and out to dinner. We knew a storm was coming, but nothing of any magnitude – or so we thought. We live out of town, (so small you could barely call it a town), but it had an old theater, some quaint shops and one nice restaurant. Forty minutes of driving back into the boonies, it was nearly dark. Almost six o’clock. As we pulled down the long drive and rounded the curve, we both looked at the charred remains of a house, still smoldering. We just sat and stared, unthinking, unfeeling.

       I heard the car door open and realized my husband was walking through the deep snow, so far still from the house it hadn’t melted. It must have been ten degrees by then. The wind chill was more than thirty below. I slowly regained use of my muscles and opened the car door to a harsh, bitter unwelcome.

       The light remaining from the setting sun and the climbing full moon illuminated a hideous sight. I held tight my arms to my body and trudged through the snow until it became melted streams of black. I heard the sounds of crackling here and there as I approached. My husband had made a full circle around the foundation, stepping over the fallen tree that was lying over what would have been our bedroom.

       He came up and stood beside me, but didn’t speak. We both just stared in dismay. Finally walking away, he trudged over to the car. I didn’t know it then, but he had gone to use his cell phone. He called the volunteer fire department in Derry, the town we’d been in all day. They told him the roads were too treacherous to get here with any speed, especially as darkness was falling rapidly. And there was not really much of a point anyway. Not any more.

       We waited in the car with the heater running. In silence. The first sound to break the silence was the siren of a truck in the distance. It grew louder, until it was deafening. I realized there was more than one siren. That didn’t matter either. The trucks pulled up and somehow found water to spray at the remains of a lifetime. I didn’t really notice how they did it. My husband was out of the car, but I stayed behind, lifeless.

       I don’t know how long it was before he came back. He put the car into gear, and slowly backed down the driveway. I saw then that the firemen had turned off their lights and were leaving. Other cars were pulling away too. I didn’t remember that any had arrived, how the siren of a fire truck brings out curious onlookers. Somehow, he got me into a hotel room. I don’t know where. He helped undress me and put me in the bed. The last thing I remember was the sound of the shower running.

       The next morning I awoke with a start as the clock radio belted out monstrous music. My husband pulled the cord right out of the wall. I awoke again about ten to his gentle nudging. He had doughnuts and coffee on the table. When had he left the room? I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, but I couldn’t seem to find my appetite.

       We walked outside, fighting the wind all the way to the car. The weather had gotten even colder. The thunderstorm had gone, but a front had moved in. Even in the daylight it was below zero, the wind chill hovered around twenty below. We drove back to the house, and arrived there by noon.

       I’d been hoping that everything had been a bad dream: too many burritos, too much drink. But we hadn’t eaten burritos, we’d eaten pasta. Neither of us drinks. Rounding the curve, the house came into view. It no longer was a house, just a shambles of a foundation. Few boards stood anywhere to create a semblance of structure. We peered at the rubble in the cold, looking for anything that was recognizable. I couldn’t tell where my Christmas tree had been. I wasn’t even quite sure where the living room had been.

       I knew that people would be coming by to offer encouragement at some point. They’d all expect our homeowner’s insurance to cover this mess. The truth that they wouldn’t know, is that we’d canceled the homeowner’s insurance when the farm was taking a beating, about five years ago. We had never thought to renew it.

       As I walked the perimeter of the place, I was suddenly dumbstruck. How I didn’t think of it immediately, I couldn’t say. Our dog. Duke. Where was he? Had he gotten trapped in the blaze? We certainly did not make him stay outside in this weather. Frozen to the bone, moving slowly in the icy air, I circled to where there used to be a back door. And steps to the basement. The steps were still there. I looked down into the inky blackness and saw water. The fire trucks…

       I walked back to the car with a more determined pace and grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment. Circling back around, my husband gave me a worried look from thirty yards away. He saw me start down those stairs. The look of horror that crossed his face did not deter me. I continued into the darkness. The stairs held and I made my way into the basement. My feet crunched though a thin layer of ice as I came off the last step. Cold, then, just numb.

       Daylight beamed down from the opening and I could see the family room dimly. Old furniture sat in three inches of water. The photographs I was going to put in an album sat in a water soaked box on the floor. Some pictures had floated out and were caught, along with a shoe, having floated until caught by the forming ice. I turned around the corner and went into the laundry room. Darkness. My flashlight showed a few boards had fallen from the ceiling, but it looked safe to keep moving. I shined the light up and down and over the room. And that’s when I saw it. My heart winced in pain.

       Duke’s tail was there, sticking out of a pile of cold, wet dirty laundry. I waded across the room, breaking the layer of ice as I went, and knelt down into the water. His body was thankfully out of the water, his head nuzzled into some towels. I ripped off my gloves and felt his body. Was I crazy or did I feel a bit of warmth? Was that a faint heartbeat or as my dad used to say, a pipe dream to insanity? I moved all the clothes away from his face. His eyes were closed, but I was sure he was still alive.

       I guess when he was trapped by the fire, he tried to run for safety. The doors were locked. There was nowhere to go but down. The clothes would have provided a filter for the toxic fumes. Some must have gotten to him, enough to weaken him. He would have eventually climbed up the stairs to fresh air, if he’d been able. I gently lifted him into my arms, not noticing the icy water that was saturating my clothes. The light went out. Too late, I realized I’d set my flashlight down into the water.

       I’d lived in this house thirty-five years. I figured I could find the stairs in pitch black. If nothing else, I could follow the cold draft. I bumped into a few things, and almost tripped on something floating by me. I heard a groan above my head. I knew I’d better get out of there quickly, but I was walking through molasses. I couldn’t go any faster. I turned the corner as saw the beams of daylight. The family room glowed, surreal and haunting as I turned the corner again and started up the stairs.

       As I made it to the third step, my husband saw me. I could see alarm, recognition and relief sweep across his face. I could see him thinking he’d relieve me of Duke and help me, but I only looked at him and said “no.” He hesitated at the top, but in the end, did heed my words. Duke weighed forty pounds. That was forty more than had gone down these stairs. My husband’s weight added to that would not have been a good idea. On the second step from the top, the wood bowed under my feet. I staggered and almost lost the dog, but my husband was there to steady me.

       We didn’t speak at all. Walking straight to the car, he opened the door for me, and I awkwardly climbed in, putting Duke in the back seat. I squatted down on the floor board and stroked him. By this time I was sure he was breathing, at least faintly. Dazed, I couldn’t speak to comfort him. I could only lean my head against him and cup his head in the crook of my arm.

       It was a long, bumpy ride to the veterinarian’s. My husband aggressively pulled into a spot, got out and ran like a madman into the office. Moments later, he and a man in a white coat ran back with urgency. They opened the door, and the man leaned in with a stethoscope. He checked some things, then scooped the dog up and they took him inside.

       On the table, under a warm light, he worked on our dog. Looking up he saw that my clothes were drenched. My jeans and sleeves were stiff from the icy water. “Why don’t you go change clothes and I’ll do my best to save your dog. Get a bite and come back in a few hours.”

       I just stared blankly at him. I was vaguely aware that I had no other clothes. He looked at me intently and raised his eyebrows. The same thing must have occurred to him too, because he flushed, then stepped out of the room for a few seconds. When he returned, he said his assistant would be back with some clothes shortly, and he laid a blanket over me. I stared off into the distance, but could feel his eyes studying me. He pulled my husband aside, by the wash basin, and talked to him in a hushed, concerned voice. I registered my husband’s face. He looked surprised, anguished, then he nodded. Who knows what they were talking about?

       Then, there were other men, also in white. They peered into my eyes, held my wrist, listened to my heart. I can’t quite remember. By then, I was fixated by this crack in the wall across from me. They gave me some kind of shot. I thought it was a sedative. Looking back, I realize they wouldn’t have give a hypothermic woman in shock a sedative. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything. And then I slept.

       I woke up in a bright room. If I’d been wearing my glasses, I could have seen the details. I heard muted voices somewhere, and then soft footsteps coming nearer. The person gasped, and I heard the footsteps take off in a run. Then there were people, pastel people. They lifted my wrists and poked and prodded and kept saying, “it’s all right, sweetie, you’ll be fine now. It’s all right.” Whatever, I thought distantly. I just wanted my glasses. I wondered if I’d hit my head or been in a car accident. Maybe they had me on really weird drugs.

       I’d dreamed my house had burned down. I dreamed my dog had died in my arms. “Duke.” I guess I said that aloud, because some woman’s voice said, “Sweetie, everything will be fine, just fine. Don’t worry now. You just work on getting better.  Rest, and eat and get stronger. You could have died. Everything’s going to be fine.”

       I slept some more. I kept hearing her voice in my dreams. During the next few days, I did get stronger. I understood where I was, in a hospital. I understood what had happened – how the tree I’d loved and had refused to cut down had been split in two and fallen through our roof catching the power lines on the way. Even though I now fully realized our house was gone, I knew we hadn’t lost everything that mattered, just possessions. Possessions that could be replaced, with time.

       Three days later, my husband pushed the wheelchair down the hallway. I’d been released. He told me the car was waiting right out front. I could hear a crowd of people as we got closer to the lobby area. Suddenly, people applauded as I came into view. I had no idea why. I questioned my husband.

       “Why are these people clapping? Since when does losing your house or going into shock or catching pneumonia inspire people?”

       My husband smiled, that old indulgent smile that made me fall for him years ago. “Honey, it’s not that. They’re amazed that you had the courage to go into those ruins and that you came back with a nearly lifeless dog in your arms. The story made the local news. Then it was picked up by the national news. The donations that have come in because of it have surpassed the homeowner’s insurance we used to have. Money’s still coming in. Honey, the whole world’s fallen in love with you.”

       I was stunned. “But I don’t care about money, or if I made the news . I just wish I could have saved him. I wish I could have gotten there sooner – have gotten there in time. If we’d only stayed home . . .”

       “If we’d stayed home, love, we’d be under that tree – dead and cooked to a crisp. God was looking down on us that day. It wasn’t our time.”

       “But I didn’t want it to be his time either,” I cried. He bent down, smiled and stroked my hair. Reassuringly, he motioned over to the people with a sideways nod. Confused by that, I slowly followed his gaze. Everyone there was smiling at me and a hush fell over them. With an unlikely grace, they quietly parted. There, sitting behind them all, was good old Duke, a little thinner, wearing a homemade sign around his neck that said “Welcome Home, Mom!”

       I ran over to him, falling to my knees and hugging that big, old lug of a dog. As tears fell down my cheeks, I thanked God. My husband bent down beside me and hugged us both. Duke licked his face, then turned to me and licked the tears off my cheek. I laughed, for the first time in days.

We were back, and back with a vengeance. That fire may have taken our house, but it would not burn up our spirit. I leaned up and kissed my husband, my arm around his neck. Cameras flashed, people cheered, applause exploded. I didn’t even notice.

The Firefighter’s Wife

She leaned up and turned off the water from the tap, then sank back down into the now hot again, bubbly water. This time, when it started to cool, she would get out and dry off. She heard the key turn in the front door and the door open. Heavy footsteps and the door shut again.

 An acrid odor touched her nostrils. She could always smell it right away, even when he’d showered at the station. The fact is she was married to someone who left every day, married to a job that at times could be dangerous. There could be a time that he didn’t come home, that the doorbell rang, and she’d open to one of his comrades. She dreaded the idea that he placed himself in danger, even though it was so noble and honorable and touching.

 The sounds of shoes being removed, gear put away, keys jingling till they reached their resting place – all of these filled the steamy air. Slow, heavy footsteps came down the hallway, stopped, sensing, then proceeded to the bathroom door.

 She opened the drain and stood up, grabbing the hand towel on the bar to fluff out her hair. Water started to coil down into oblivion as he took the towel from her gently and scrunched it into her hair. Her body still had areas where bubbles clung to it as the water slowly drained from her skin. His face nuzzled for a moment in her neck, kissed it, then his lips moved down to her breast, gently kissing, gently sucking, caressing the other, so soft in his large, calloused hand. As he pulled back and moved his arms to her waist, the cold breeze made the tips of circles stand erect in front of her delicate, ivory skin.

 He helped her step out of the tub, so she wouldn’t slip. Lowered on one knee, he kissed and nuzzled her belly, stroking it longingly with the side of his face. She didn’t know how thankful he was to have gotten to come home to her once more. He was well aware that someday he may not be able – though he was a religious man, he didn’t know what his destiny held.

 Every time the sirens rang through the small town, a prayer was issued by both. They never spoke of it, but each time he came home, smelling of fumes and smoke and death, the lovemaking was like the first time all over again.

 He carried her to the bedroom as if she were a flower whose gossamer petals would come apart from the slightest breeze or touch. Gently laying her down, he kissed so many places on her skin, softly and gently, like the famed Hawaiian waterfall of kisses. At length, his lips found hers and she responded with an urgency so unexpected and unlike her usual gentle demeanor. Only he knew the truth of her longing, her wild side, the unhinged woman behind the child and lady. Only he knew of the fierce, loving animal inside the porcelain doll. He reveled in knowing this private secret, shared only by them.

 He responded to her urgency with a knowing hand, drifting down her belly to the ache that was awakening and screaming for him below. There was no question how much she wanted him now, his hand slid so easily down. With one finger, he gently opened her and found his way inside. So small still, so fragile she was. He curved his finger upwards, towards the heavens, and slowly stroked it against her, making sure to use the pad of his finger. No nails against her skin. When she was able, he used two fingers, so he could slowly alternate the rhythm of his movements, all the while brushing her hair away from her face and watching the rapture and abandon take over her soul.

 Her eyes were closed, her back and neck arched, then her head swung forward with sudden force. The moment her hand gripped the sheet, her head went back and her body arched once more. The tactile sensation of her sliding into that abyss, the fact that his fingers could feel it, yet his mind was detached enough to observe it, amazed him. Watching her filled him so much with love.

 Seconds passed, a minute or more. Her head lolled a little and bit by bit she came back into reality. He kept his hand in her hair and gave her a look of love and awe and then he kissed her. Once more she found him, her arms slid around his waist, up his back and gently clung to him. They kissed. She smiled. They kissed again and this time, she moved one hand between them, up to his head, and with it on the back of his neck, and the other on his side – she brought him down to her.

 He moved gently as he lowered himself and she could feel him tease her, again an again, taunting them both. She was in no shape for being made to wait, her hands lowered to his hips, her legs wrapped tightly around him. As she pushed up, they both let out of moan, the moment of penetration overcoming their senses. They slowly rode this love together, and the ache she felt didn’t go away. It grew and grew with every thrust, until she thought nothing would make it release. She knew she was being very vocal. She would stop if she could, but she couldn’t. Each thrust slammed into her being, her spirit. She groaned with pleasure and release and abandon, and he joined her there – reckless, loving, ravenous, raw.

 They moved around and around, each position offering a greater release than the last until the moment that had been building was going to arrive. He faced her then, back in each other’s arms, they continued their last stretch of lovemaking for the moment, falling abruptly off the face of that great abyss together. It was a long and powerful fall.

 At the bottom, they rested in each other’s arms. They acrid smell was gone, replaced by love. Maybe, it took their loving union to cleanse his pores and renew their life, their future, once again. After a small nap, resting in his arms as he lie on his back, she slipped quietly out of his reach and padded to the kitchen. She made a platter of nourishment and took it into to the bathroom. As she turned on the tap, water gushed out. Steam rose from the tub. She smiled contentedly. This time, she added enough bubbles for two.

Writing Rules: Obey or Ignore?

Screenwriting Format Rules

 

Eleven books, a couple hundred scripts and 431 screenwriting sites later… I’ve found there are hard and fast rules, guidelines and complete inconsistencies.

 

Examples of this:

Rule: Double space

Guideline: Use parentheticals sparingly

Inconsistency: To Cut or not to Cut To:

 

Below are some things I’ve read that are advised by different and conflicting experts. I’d like your opinion on whether you adhere to it as a rule, use it as a guideline, or disregard it as unimportant, old-fashioned, irrelevant.

 

As far as standard screenplay format, I’m going to assume we all follow those rules of double spacing and general margins.

 

COVER PAGE: Personal Info bottom left or right. Seems right is right, but that’s changed from the past.

Copyright?

WGA Registered?

To put it or not to put it. Etc.

How much is too much and how much is too little?

 

TRANSITIONS: Cut To: (Match Cut/Dissolve/Etc.)

Previously a requirement. Ten years ago, started to become optional. Currently, used very little in spec scripts. However, it’s a well known cheat that if your script is running long, you remove them and if it’s running short, you add them. I think it’s probably better to tweak the story and make it better.

 

Match Cuts, Dissolve and others: Very controversial. On the one hand, extremely directorial for a spec. But, absolutely expected at the shooting script stage.

 

SHOTS AND ANGLES: From above, we see this desk and me writing these thoughts down. Angle on my face, deep in thought. Closeup on my furrowed brow.

 

These shots are descriptive, but can be very insulting to the reader that the screenwriter is acting as director. Alternative might be Annie sits at her desk, brow furrowed in deep thought, as she types intermittently.

 

(CON’T): Once always used to continue dialogue onto the next page. Now, seems to be old-fashioned and frowned upon if seen in a script.

 

SOUNDS in CAPS: In a shooting script, yes. In a spec script, I’ve studied this at length. It seems to be very sparingly now, or not done at all. “The plate CRASHED to the floor as the doorbell RANG” has morphed into “The plate crashed to the floor as the doorbell rang.” Do you capitalize sounds always, sometimes or never?

 

PARENTHETICALS: (wryly)

Some screenwriting experts say that the first thing “some” actors would do is take a marker and mark through every parenthetical in a script before coming back to read it.

 

I’ve also read it’s the mark of a complete amateur to use them. Having said that… it’s also clear that they serve a purpose and are necessary at times to clarify something that would be read incorrectly.

 

Personally, I think of the movie When Harry Met Sally when she is so upset with him. Harry tells Sally “I love you.” She replies (angrily) “I hate you.” He repeats “I love you.” She replies(wavering) “I hate you.” Third time (sincerely)”I love you.” I always think of that because she delivers three extremely different tones.

 

Of course, that could be written as action lines in between:

 

Seething with hatred:

 

SALLY

I hate you.

 

She is beginning to waver.

 

SALLY

I hate you.

 

Realizing finally.

 

SALLY

I love you.

 

I’ve also read that some actors only read the dialogue and that it can be a good idea to put action into the parentheticals to grab their attention.

 

HARRY

(grabs her arm)

No, Sally. I don’t want what you’re having.

 

Thoughts on how you apply parentheticals in your own scripts?

 

SUPER, SUPER OVER,SUPERIMPOSE or INSERT TITLE: Rarely done, but used to show words appearing over black or over a scene. From what I’ve read, INSERT TITLE has gone by the wayside. SUPER OVER seems the most recent.

 

MONTAGES and SERIES OF SHOTS: Used rarely. I’ve found several formats, some numbered,

some with dashes… and struggled with this as I had a couple of montages that I had to incorporate. Because of the rare use and the difficulty in keeping the reading involved, I opted for an action cheat. It saved pages and read better (to me.)

 

Example of what I’m talking about:

 

MONTAGE

- Sally checks her mail.

- Sally watches tv.

- Sally checks her mail again.

- Sally is at work.

- Sally checks her mail. Finally.

 

Days pass by. Work, tv, sleep and checking the mail. Finally, it arrives.

 

Which way would you handle it and why?

 

WE SEE:

When I first started writing, I realized I used this term a lot. One of the books I had addressed it and I remember thinking, “well, how do I write ‘we see a photograph on the table’ without saying we see.” Then, I realized I could write “a photograph sits on the table.”

 

I can’t tell you how many I took out of my first draft even, just in five pages. It was a great lesson. Now, some very famous screenwriters use this all the time. Some hate it. I try very hard to keep the reader in and not PULL them out of the story with CAPS and “we see” and ANGLE ON me right now… But, I mustconfess, if I feel like breaking the fourth wall to the reader, I do it. Subtly and sparingly. I’m not really a Shane Black writer. How about you?

 

BOLD, ITALICS, UNDERLINE, EXCLAMATIONS, ELLIPSES, DASHES: I’ve read that it’s getting more common to bold the sluglines, though since some consider it annoying, I abstain. As far as emphasis on words, I’ve read that bold and italics can be hard to notice, so the underline is the most common, but is not to be used often.

 

According to a lot of sources, exclamation points are the mark of an amateur. It should be clear in the writing and unecessary. I did a search and destroy mission on my script to see if I’d included any. It was enlightening! Truly!

 

Ellipses are when you trail off….

Dashes are when you get cut off in the mid-

You get the idea. It seems a second ellipsis can be used …if you remember where you left off.

How do you use and incorporate (or avoid) these things?

 

INTERCUT:

I only use this to explain two ends of a phone conversation without repetitive slug lines. You?

 

SLUGLINES: Major and Minor. Do you incorporate minor sluglines for an easier read or stick to major sluglines?

 

BEAT:

Oh no.

(beat)

You know where I’m going with this?

(beat)

What? I have to explain it?

(sighs)

Fine. Can’t an actor pause without being told to? Does it depend? Okay.

(beat)

Then, explain it to me.

 

FADE OUT.

Essence (poetry)

If I shared with you my essence
Opened up and let you in
Would it be just the beginning
Or the beginning of the end?

If I shared my very spirit
My heart, body, mind and soul -
Would you do the same intensely
Or simply turn from me and go?

**

If I let you see my essence
Would your eyes be satisfied -
With the binding and the title
And the contents locked inside?

Would you read each page with wonder
As if the words were always new?
Would you trade the dog eared copy
For a Volume Number Two?

**

If I let you hear my essence
Spoken softly in your ear -
Would it speak the very words
You dreamed you’d someday hear?

Would the echos touch the places
Where no one had ever gone?
Would their resonance lift you higher
Than any height you’d ever known?

**

If you inhaled my small essence
A light and subtle scent -
Would you inhale me deeply
Then breathe me out again?

Would you like the fragrance?
Would you infuse it with your own?
Would it be the kind of smell that
Warmly – made you think – you’re home?

**

If I let you taste my essence
Would you discern the subtle taste -
If it’s not a sassy salsa
In a jalapeno base?

Would the taste in-satiate you?
Would it satisfy your needs?
Could your thirst and hunger both be quenched
By a woman-child like me?

**

If I let you touch my essence
Would you plumb the depths inside -
With a gentle curiosity
That could never be denied?

Would you venture past those pleasures
To my fragile inner core -
And protect me when I’m vulnerable
Overwhelmed , unsure?

**

Would you hold at bay each fear I have
Would my heart, for once, be spared?
Would the echos that can haunt me -
Steer clear of what we shared?

My essence can’t be taken
And, no, it won’t be sold -
But, I can give it freely
Or leave it silently on hold.

**

If just one exists who has a silver tongue
And nerves of steel -
A heart of gold and head of reason
The ability to feel…

An essence waits in limbo
Not lonely, but alone.
Remembering faith in fairy tales
And, too, what dreams I’ve known.

Complicated (Fiction)

****************
Part 1 (His P.O.V.)
****************

He waited at the crosswalk for the signal. Without effort or forethought, his mind turned to her. He knew it was complicated. It was foolish. It was wrong. Still, the attraction was there. There was no denying it. It lingered there – teasing them, taunting them, testing his loyalty, questioning her integrity, ripping apart his sanity, her composure.

He longed for a feeling he hadn’t known for a very long time. He wanted to be ravaged with the intensity and screaming desperation of a rabid animal. He wanted to share in the hunger and the madness and the mystique of this other woman. And suddenly, she was there.

He pulled her away from the curb, absolutely astonished at her timely appearance. He sunk his hands into her auburn hair and pulled her to him, holding her, inhaling her, not caring what the people on the street must think. He took her in his arms and took just a moment to brush the hair out of her eyes. She made him so insanely happy again.

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then her ear, her cheek, and once again – found her lips. And he was amazed that she let him hold her, kiss her, burn through her like no one had ever done. He was so lost in her that he barely heard the words, “Hey buddy, the light changed. If you’re not going, get out of the way.” Grimacing, he stepped off the curb and crossed the street.

He forced himself back to the mundane reality of his pathetic life. He made it to the restaurant, gave his name and waited for the table to be ready – and waited to see if she’d really show at 2:00 p.m. – thirty minutes from now. He’d arrived early. He knew he wanted her more than he had ever wanted any other woman. She was the only thing he was sure of right now.

He wanted to touch her, to taste her, devour her, and then, at last, he would be inside her. He knew with her there would be no holds barred, no uncomfortable moment, no barriers at all. She would take him to the brink of insanity, and then, lost in denial, he’d slip over the edge. “Sir, your table’s ready.” The vacant look on his face slowly recovered and he acknowledged the hostess. “What?”, he managed. “I said your table is ready sir, are you all right?” He nodded and stood up. The waitress took off, away from the picture window and into the room. He followed her to the table.

From across the street, she watched him stand up and make his way towards the table. It was 1:45. Now, she knew the same thing he had been thinking earlier. It was complicated. It was foolish. It was wrong. And she walked away.

****************
Part 2 (Her P.O.V.)
****************

They met at a social function in the ballroom of a hotel. Christmas decorations were up and the evening air was absolutely electric. As people were bustling around her, she fought to get the olives on her shiny plastic plate with the over sized tongs. She kept them from rolling everywhere but some strategically placed cubes of cheese. Proud of her small accomplishment, she was momentarily oblivious to the world.

She came back to reality with a jolt, not caused by the commotion around her, but by one lone pair of eyes, quietly regarding her. He stood at quite a distance, but she could still see his expression. Amusement. His smile told her how entertained he was by the cheese and olive war she had currently waging on her plate. Not even sure why, she flushed with embarrassment so strong – it colored down to her soul.

She felt the immediate and mighty urge to swing swiftly around, but her mind worked faster than her body. In less than a second, she had already envisioned the scene – her spinning around and subsequently losing the war to both the olives and the cheese. Which would be fine, she told herself, but not in front of him. She wouldn’t allow him the pleasure of watching one more display at her expense. With much effort, she s-l-o-w-l-y turned around and calmly (on the outside) made it back to her table. She sat down with her coworkers. No one even noticed. She had become invisible once again.

When she coaxed within her – the nerve to look over his way, he wasn’t there any longer. Her eyes desperately searched the room, eventually finding him seated at another banquet table, not nearly far enough away to give her comfort. Their eyes met. She hadn’t had time to look away. He smiled. What could she do? She smiled back. He subtly tipped his glass in a toast shared only between them. This made her blush. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and looked away. She was terrified, but still longing to look over just one more time. It was disconcerting to look at him, and know – absolutely know – that they both wanted to take each other to bed. She had already been undressed in his eyes, but that wasn’t what embarrassed her. It was the fact – he knew she’d done the same.

Did he also know her first vision of him, across the room, included wine and grapes and some of those damn cubes of cheese? He couldn’t know what a sap she was! He couldn’t know about the romance novel stuffed down in her purse under the wallet and Kleenex, the one under the car seat, the ones littered throughout her apartment. She had waited for someone to look at her like he was doing all of her life. Twenty-eight years. Instead, she’d been invisible.

It was when she couldn’t take this line of thought anymore that she went out onto the patio. Just like in the movies. She stood looking out at the lights of the city, out at nothing, and he was there. He put his hand on the small of her back, and as she turned, he slipped his hand into her long auburn hair. That was it. That was all it took. He said, “My God, My God, where did you come from? How?” And he kissed her. And she let him.

The noise from the party started to move towards the patio. He said, “Friday, two o’clock, Angelo’s. I’ve got to see you again. I’ve got to.” And he was gone. The last thing she saw, as he walked away from her, was the Christmas lights reflect on his wedding band. And it cut her to the bone. There she stood – her knees weak, her lipstick faded, unable to speak, or think, or talk. Her coworkers stepped out onto the patio, laughing and carrying on. Her entire world had just begun and ended in the same moment. As usual, they didn’t notice.
Friday was six days away. She had time to think this through, time to decide. Maybe his wife was in a wheelchair, on her deathbed with cancer or lupus or something really bad. Maybe they were separated. Maybe, maybe she had died and he just still wore the ring.

And maybe she should get a big “L” tattooed on her forehead. She didn’t know what to do. She’d had boyfriends, she’d had lovers, but this man – his eyes. My God – for the first time she realized she didn’t even know his name. Just like a movie. This rendezvous, if you will, was the craziest thing she’d ever done, well, thought about doing… Not just the craziest, also the stupidest. Definitely the most immoral. She made herself go to Angelo’s on Tuesday, for a late dinner, just to check it out. Her heart told her – he was her soul mate. Her head told her – she was an idiot.

On Friday, she got there at 1:00 p.m. She walked in. She walked right back out. Across the street was a pub called O‘Malley’s. She thought to herself, “just like in the movies.” She got a table by the window and watched. And waited. And worried.

He walked up to the door around 1:30, nearly half an hour early. He was ambling slowly, seemed preoccupied. He even aimlessly bumped a stranger in passing. Her mind panicked. She thought, “maybe he’s taking his time, just coming to let me down easy, because we’d made plans… Maybe it’s a setup and we’ll go to a hotel and (you know) and then all his friends will jump out of the closet, laughing and laughing, at me – the joke… Maybe he already had an appointment, that’s why he told me Angelo’s at two. He knew he’d be there. He won’t remember me. He won’t even recognize me. I’ll just be invisible again.”

She watched him move away from the window, following the waitress to the table. Their table? Maybe he is my soul mate. Maybe it was really a class ring. But she knew the truth in her heart. She stepped out of O‘Malley’s and watched as he faded from view through Angelo’s window. She knew this was complicated. It was foolish. It was wrong. As she turned her eyes into the sunlight, squinted, and walked down the street, she walked away, not knowing the rest of the story . . . .

**************************************
Part 3 (past, present, future & the waitress)
**************************************

The waitress led him to the table and he sat down, facing the room. It was 1:45. His mind was racing and he was beginning to feel ill. He thought about ordering a drink to calm his nerves and realized that was the worst thing he could do. He would not let himself resort to a sorry crutch that his wife had used for years. A crutch that had ended up taking a life, two years ago. Instead, he ordered a chocolate milk, large. The waitress gave him a funny look, but walked away with her notepad. This was his story.

He was 35 and had been married for 17 years. They got married the summer after they graduated from high school, so she could live with him when he went overseas for the military. She got a clerical job at the embassy. Things had been good. But they were so young then. And clueless.

They found out she was pregnant just before returning to the states, so the welcome back party was for two and a half. When they came back, his parents showed them a nice sized house about thirty minutes away from them. Her parents were only about an hour. They stayed with his parents until they closed on it and moved in to their new place excited and expecting. Four months later, their son was born.

It took a long time for him to realize that things had gone sour. He tried to get home often, but was gone at least two days every week, sometime three or four. Once, when he came home, the baby was screaming and she was passed out on the couch. Whatever was left of the bottle of vodka, had seeped into the carpet.

He got her to bed, let her sleep it off and sober up. He thought one of her parents must have died, or something tragic. She said the baby wouldn’t stop crying and she couldn’t take being alone all the time. From that day on, things changed.

He called her brother and told him move his family out of his apartment and move in with them, rent free. The house had room, and a big yard. He respected his wife’s privacy, so he never told her brother why. And besides, the problem seemed to go away. His mom had experienced postpartum depression, so he was not going to be an insensitive jerk.

His wife was thrilled to have family nearby, and help with the baby, and she wasn’t alone anymore. Three years later, the family next door put their house up for sale, and her brother snatched it up in a heartbeat. So, family was near family.

Life went on pretty smoothly from then on. She seemed happy. He never found her drunk, passed out, or the boy in harmed in any way. Except for a few bruises, but you know, boys will be boys. He was home more than half of every week and she never complained about anything that had happened during the time he was gone. He thought everything was under control.

While he was at the base, he got a phone call from the hospital. His son, seven years old, had fallen and injured his face and ribs. They were wiring his broken jaw back together. He rushed to the hospital and was greeted by his brother-in-law. His wife was not there.

Dismayed, he had to sit down when his brother-in-law whispered quietly to him, “She’s sleeping it off. She’ll be fine. She must have been so upset to find him hurt like that. I guess he fell and hit the coffee table? She must have went into shock. I came over and nobody answered when I knocked on the door, so I let myself in.

“She was sitting on the couch, staring at the wall. There was some vodka on the table. He was lying on the floor there. I thought he must be dead. By God. But he wasn’t. He was fine. I mean, he’ll be fine. It’s not too serious. I guess if I must’ve thought he was dead, lord, what must have been going through her mind.”

He didn’t know how to respond. He could only give a blank stare and look straight ahead, his eyes boring right through the wall. His mind was racing, trying to put this picture together. He didn’t want to believe the worst. He wanted to have complete faith and trust in his wife, and believe every word he’d just heard. He heaved a heavy sigh as he stared at their past, at that day years ago he’d come home by surprise.

For the first time, it hit him. He’d come home by surprise. In all this time, that had never occurred to him before. He wasn’t supposed to be home until the next day, but he’d finished early. Did that have any bearing? The picture forming in his mind was scaring him to death. Her brother was saying something to him.

“What? I’m sorry I was somewhere else.”

“Oh, that’s okay, bud. I said that was one heavy sigh of relief there. I’m so glad the doc said he’ll be okay. You know, I have to go pick up the kids from the old lady across the street. If you need anything, call or knock.” And he was gone.

Sitting there, waiting for the doctor, reviewing their entire marriage, looking for clues to reassure him, or clues to unmask a lie – looking for the truth, not knowing which way to look. His questions were answered when the nurse called him aside. They went into some kind of private area. She asked him where he was when this happened. And how many injuries his son had had before. The line of questioning was really a line of attack.

He told her he hadn’t been home, he’d been on the base when it happened. He thought his son had fallen on their coffee table. She gave him a doubtful look and gave him the name of a social worker who would be coming by to see them. That’s when they started counseling. And bit by bit, the sad truth unfolded. Here is his wife’s story, as recorded, in her own words:

“I didn’t think I had a problem. Not at first. My parents always had a stocked bar. I’d sneak drinks because I thought I was being cool, being rebellious. My mom and dad always seemed to have a cocktail with dinner, or in the evening. It was no big deal. I only drank on occasion. When I drank too much, I told Mom I was too sick to go to school. She never suspected a thing.

“When we were married, I still had it under control. I only drank enough to feel calm. I hid the bottle behind the household cleaners under the kitchen sink. I really tried to stop when I got pregnant, and I was so proud of myself. I guess, subconsciously, I did know I had a problem, or why would I have been proud?

“After the baby was born, sometimes I just couldn’t handle the pressure. The day he came home and found me drunk, I was so filled with shame. I didn’t tell him it was a longtime habit. How could I tell him when I’d kept it a secret for so long? And I was sure, after that, I could change – without any help from anyone. And I did pretty well, at keeping the fact that I couldn’t stop a secret.

“The nurse thought I’d hurt him on purpose, that I was an abusive parent, but that’s just not true. I never hit him once. Not ever. Sometimes, he was just so hard to handle. I didn’t want to say anything, because I wanted to be strong enough to handle it myself. I didn’t want to lean on anyone, my husband or my brother or anyone. Sometimes, when he would cry, I would shake him and tell him to stop. I never meant to give him bruises.

“And that day he broke his jaw, I didn’t hit him. He came home early from his friend’s house. They’d had a disagreement over sharing. I was so frustrated, because this was my time. My bottle of vodka was on the end table. I yelled at him, because I thought he needed to learn to get along with people, if he was going to make it in this world. He cried and cried. I started to shake him to tell him to stop it. It was making my head explode with pain. He turned to run away from me and fell hard against the table, then slipped to the floor.

“I panicked. I thought he was dead. I ran to him, myself crying by this time, and I felt his neck. He was still alive, thank God. I didn’t think he was hurt at all. My mind was so muddled, and the quiet was such a relief. I just sat down for a minute. It seemed like a minute.

“I swear if I’d known his jaw was broken, I’d have called 911. But I couldn’t tell that by looking. God, I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him, either one of them. Please, I’ll do anything. Please, God. Whatever you want. Just don’t take my family away from me. “

Whimpering, she finished, “please, I’ll do anything you want.” She was crying. Her husband, also in tears, reached out and held her. He didn’t want to lose her. He loved her. He loved his son. He knew she wasn’t mean, she was just sick. People understood these things now. Their whole family would get help.

The social worker was pleased, but wary. He took a leave of absence to stay home with his boy. His wife entered rehab and was gone for several months. The secret was out, now things could get better. And they did. She stayed clean and sober,

After eight years in the military, he left and worked with his dad, who had a general contracting company. It wasn’t the work he was used to, but it was a nice change and it allowed them all to be together – and be a family.

One day, when their boy was 11 years old, she got a phone call. Her parents were getting divorced. Her mom was devastated, they had been married thirty-two years. Her dad wanted to marry his 23 year old secretary, who was pregnant with his baby. She talked to her mom for over an hour, and told her husband she had to go be with her. That wasn’t the truth. Her mom was flying to Key West to think this whole thing out. On her dad’s credit card, of course. She didn’t stumble in until after midnight, staggering her way to the stairs. He made sure she got to bed, and then he prayed. He didn’t know it, but in the next room, his son prayed too.

The next four years were a roller coaster ride. Sometimes she could stay on the wagon, twice she went back to rehab, several times she didn’t come home all night. Their son tried to nurse her, every time she was hung over. He tried to do the chores and shopping, and didn’t tell his dad how bad it was when he wasn’t home. He loved his mom so much, and his dad. He couldn’t stand the chaos, the drama, the crying. So he tried to cover up.

Until, one night, she didn’t come home. The fourteen year old opened the door to the police. His face registered the reason for their visit and he just crumpled to the floor. Coming out of the study, seeing his son, the police in the doorway, a surreal moment froze him in time. He couldn’t move and just stood in the doorway of the study staring at the horrific apparition before him.

The car was totaled. Her funeral was four days later. They’d found the broken bottle of vodka and her purse lying near the car. He and his son were on their own. They couldn’t stop her disease. In the end, they couldn’t help her. Two years had passed since then. He and his son had grown closer. It would only be them now. That was his vow the day of her funeral. He would never love again. He could never love again. There was an emptiness and a loss so great – that even his desire was extinguished.

Until he saw the girl with the auburn hair. And now, here he was waiting for her. He couldn’t do it. How could he ever expect her to understand everything that had happened to him, to his son? And how could he push a new woman onto his son? She had no idea was she was getting into. He came back to: it was complicated; it was foolish; it was wrong. Making his decision, he jotted a quick note, paid up, and gave it to the waitress.

“I’m expecting someone in five minutes, but I just got paged. I have to go. Can you give her this note for me?” The waitress agreed and he hurriedly walked out of the restaurant before he had to face her. He never knew she had already walked away. And she never got to read his note:

“I knew you were my soul mate – from the moment I saw you, your eyes, your auburn hair. But I can’t even ask you if it’s possible for you to feel the same. My wife died two years ago. Drunk driving. It’s just me and my son now. How could I ever ask you to deal with all the pain we have experienced in our family, all of the baggage we carry? I couldn’t. Take care, my angel.”

The waitress ended her shift and went home. As she closed the door to her small, plain apartment, she sighed. On the table was a suicide note she’d been working on. She read it over, shook her head, and tossed it into the trash can. Shoes kicked off, coat discarded, she wound her way through the mess and sadly made her way to the bedroom. A bottle of pills on the end table caught her attention and she just stared blankly for a few moments then let out another sigh that the world couldn’t hear.

Undressing for bed, she began emptying her apron pockets to put her tips in her top drawer and she came upon the note the man had given her. A little surprised, but now, she remembered. She knew she shouldn’t read the note, but then, what did it matter now?
Not even knowing the whole story, as she read the words on the napkin – tears softly slid down her cheeks. Soul mate. Drunk driver. Baggage… The vision of the preoccupied, worried man tapping his fingers entered her mind. Then, the pacing young girl from earlier invaded her memory.

No. She wouldn’t let it end this way. A sense of purpose surged through her veins. She’d keep this note, and watch for the girl with the auburn hair who had come in and left so abruptly. Maybe someday she would come back. She took the bottle from bedside the bed and flushed the pills from it down the toilet.

The waitress knew that only she held the key to true love, even it if wasn’t hers. At least not this one, but just maybe… Her eyes now quietly reflected a glimmer of hope that had drifted into her soul as gently as a leaf falling, as accidentally as fate unfolding. And with that, she slipped into bed and peacefully closed her eyes for the first time in a long time.

Wash Away The Rain (song lyrics) [folk rock ballad]

[folk rock ballad. melissa etheridge. sheryl crow.]

There’s a sunshine deep within you
So spotless, real, sublime and pure
That’s cluttered by your darkest baggage
Tucked deep within you, remote and obscure.

You try to open up your window
You get cut deeply by the pane
If the sunlight touches your eyes, baby
Will it wash away the rain…

**

Left behind, alone, discarded
Licking wounds that you wish would heal
Somebody you thought you were close to
Left for a bigger… much better deal.

Look to the sunlight – see it shining
Release all of your darkest pain
Let it warm you, let it soothe you
Let it wash away the rain.

**

**

The rain comes down
You can’t deny it
The truth is written in your eyes.

No one may see
No one does know it
No one can hear your silent cries.

The sun comes out, though
Maybe you’ll try it
You could feel whole again.

You have to open
Up the window
And just wash away your rain.

Emotional Iceland (poetry)

The day I looked into your eyes
And saw my own reflection
I turned around and bolted in
The opposite direction.

Panicked, dazed, I ran like hell
Did not know what to do.
Like in a dream, my legs of lead
Kept leading back to you.

Alarms let loose inside my head
The power shorted out
My generator came online
Before all faded out.

A tornado swept across my brain
My mind twisted in the fray
A path emerged engulfed by flames
I turned the other way.

I wandered down the narrow streets
My mind had mapped for me.
Freedom, Spirit, Strength, Desire
Were nowhere to be seen.

Caution Street loomed up ahead
Where worry intersected
Emotion Street was all blocked off
No repair date was projected.

The streets seemed an endless maze
But they all led to one dead end
A flashing warning sign
Said the unknown was ’round the bend.

Just past that sign, again emerged
That fiery passageway
I didn’t want to take it
Yet, I couldn’t look away.

Staring down the scary path
I glimpsed into our lives
The time we’d spend, the love we’d share
Reflected in your eyes.

The vision made me shiver
It was more than I could stand.
I wouldn’t let you in because
You weren’t in my plan.

I donned my hat and then my shades
And turned to face the night
In the arms of cold and darkness
I would find a place to hide.

On The Brink (poetry)

Twisted up in faulty reason
Tormented by those sultry lines
Strung along through darkened season
Left behind, another time.

Lost within my mental labyrinth
Chaotic calls do beckon so
Echoes bound around the chasm
And linger still – before they go.

Wafting madness, creeping sensually
Insanity’s alluring touch
Caressing softly, stroking gently
Whispered words that wield so much.

Slipping down inside dementia
Like sinking down into a bath
Melted, creamy butter kisses
No hope or thought of coming back.

The seduction of my sanity
More effortless than you might think.
Madness – such a subtle lover
Or maybe I – was on the brink.

The Postcard (song lyrics) [rock ballad]

[rock ballad with a james taylor/bobby goldsboro/paul simon feel]

 

 

all i had left – in my desk
was this postcard
pictured on it – where i’d once been

a reminder – so distant
of a past i once held, where
i’d never be going again

so i sat down – to write you
some solace and sham
penning words – that i’m feeling no pain

and i realize now
that this pen’s – not a fountain
and it better not run in the rain.

the words – better not run in the rain…

on the back – of the card,
i scrawled down – that it’s sunny
that it’s never looked – brighter than this

prospects are golden
and my luck’s running honey
i’ve been blessed – with some heavenly kiss

what i didn’t say,
i didn’t want you to know
i’ve no intention of showing the pain

the sun’s not really shining,
and this pen’s only felt,
and, it better not run it the rain.

oh, it better not run in the rain…
i hope it won’t run in the rain.

Life Was Meant To Be Lived (song lyrics) [garage rock]

[smithereen's, rem, nickelback. could go different ways.]

She was an innocent girl
In a dangerous world
She was full of blind trust and light.

But that was bastardized
And that was stolen away
Innocence lost in the blink of an eye.

She could have fallen down
She could have run to hide.
She could have given up on living her life.

She could’ve shadowed out
All the gold  inside
But, she held on to some of the light.

*******
Because….
Life was meant to be lived, lived.
Life was meant to be loved, right?
He took what she wouldn’t give, give
But not the beauty inside, ‘side.
*******

She grew up and worked
On an aeroplane
She served passengers with a warm smile.

She greeted people she loved
From all over the world
With the glow of an innocent child.

Then, the towers fell
And, the jobs were gone
More than a hundred thousand strong.

She felt like giving up
And she felt so alone
But, she knew giving up would be wrong.

*******
Because…
Life was meant to be lived, lived.
Life was meant to be loved, right?
She still had something to give, give
She wouldn’t give up that fight, fight.
*******

So, she began again
From the bottom rung
She held onto all the good she believed.

She settled down with her love,
They had a beautiful son
She was thankful for all she received.

When the days get so hard
And, the nights last so long
She tells herself – she’s just not done!

And, when success seems so far
And everything has gone wrong
She takes comfort – how far she has come.
*******
Because…
Life was meant to be lived, lived.
Life was meant to be loved, right?
And maybe she hasn’t won, won
But there’s still time, she just might, might.

Life was meant to be lived, lived.
Life was meant to be loved, right?
You’ve got to reach out and give, give
And hold onto the light, light.

Life was meant to be lived, lived…
Life was meant to be lived, right?

Life was meant to be lived, lived…

Sometimes, You Lose

Sometimes, You Lose…

(Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and even the guilty.)

Yeah, I tuck in my shirts. I’d better start with that, because I’ve been told it’s very much a sign of what a dork I really am…

Growing up, I was a teacher’s kid: kinda smart, a little nerdy, still waiting for puberty to look like it’s hit and I’m forty. I was a bookworm, because I got lost in a world where I could be anything, do anything, look any way, solve crimes, experience life and time periods vicariously. It was wondrous, exceptional, stellar. My room was my sanctuary and I laugh at the basement dweller in the song Online, because I understand all too well. But, there was a time, and there was a place…

When I was in my twenties, I had this favorite place to go. It was amazing. An equal playing field for all. Truly humbling, leveling, elevating… all at the same time. Everyone who showed up there — gosh, it didn’t matter who you were, where you were from, how you looked, how much money you had — you were all equalized in one moment. That sounds like it could be a bad thing, but it soooo wasn’t. It was the kind of place where everyone who showed up immediately blended into the moment without feeling ignored. I have never felt more alive than in that place. I don’t even need to close my eyes. I can hear it, smell it, feel the moment surrounding me and everyone who ventured to that spot. I lived it in person more than thirty times. I can relive it at will, just by calling it to memory

As an aspiring artist, I designed a shirt to wear on these occasions. A piece of artwork I’d seen, with an obscure, historic connection to this favorite place in my world. Those in the know were impressed, which actually surprised me and made me feel a bit special. Those who had no idea  of the connotation still liked the shirt without knowing the reference. I was a small-time star. Very small time, but just enough to make me feel great.

On one New Year’s Eve, I made plans to got there with an acquaintance, but we arrived too early. Sometimes, when there’s a drive involved… and inclement weather, it’s hard to judge one’s timing. So, she and I showed up to closed doors and had to demur to another location down the street that was open. And, that’s when I met her.

It started out innocently enough. She was beautiful, hip, a counter-culture beauty that reminded me of Neve Campbell, sitting with two friends of her own. She immediately took to me and our groups combined. The night progressed and we all ended up going to my spot together. I found out they were all from out of town, as were we. I offered up my hotel room as a night’s refuge in the blizzard and the three politely declined in favor of more partying and then driving home after. Yet, as fate would have it, they showed up at 3 a.m., hoping I would not be angry and would still take them in. Well, duh! Of course. They were trustworthy and that was the “code.” We talked a few minutes, then all crashed on the two double beds, dressed but exhausted. and satisfied. In the morning I snuck out and brought back doughnuts. Everyone exchanged numbers and addresses. The girl I’d gone with orignially was from Detroit and just visiting me for the week. (she was actually pretty mental, but that’s another story entirely. Oh my.) Wayne was from Indiana. Greg and this girl, this girl, she was from Ohio. I will refer to her forthwith as Ohio Girl.

When you meet people on a drunken night, or a party circuit, or while out of town, how often do you exchange information and follow up? We did. Unusual, yes, but we had a common ground. That place. That favorite thing in the world. She and I talked on the phone many times, many nights. Usually the calls lasted an hour and a half, and I was paying dearly on my phone bill for this burgeoning friendship. Even when she called me, I called right back. She was still a student. I had a full time job.  One of their three fell by the wayside, Greg. He decided he was gay and to change his lifestyle to suit his newfound outness. But the rest went on strongly. Not one month after meeting for the new year celebration, she drove from Ohio to Wayne’s house in Indiana and then he drove to my house in St. Louis. I felt so validated, so wonderful, so indescribable. They stayed for a three day weekend. I showed them about town. We listened to music, watched videos. drank a little, made the worst video you have ever seen. I still have it. It sucks balls.

We made plans for February. We met in mid-Illinois to collect together in one car and make the trek to this spot. I guess I need to explain something here. At this place, there was an inner circle that was extremely popular, hard to get to know. There was an outer circle of people who I knew very well, having developed a rapport over the years. It was clear to me that one of their pet peeves was for strangers to figure out they knew the power-hitters and ask to meet them. Talk about insincerity. So, I never did ask. Not time after time, year after year of going there.

One reason was because the friends I’d made — I didn’t consider them “contacts” or “stepping stones” to rich, powerful circle of people. I considered them friends. But, truth be told, there was another reason. The reason I liked this place so much was its leveling factor. In reality, I was a bit of a nerd, a geek, a dork, a scrawny mid-western poetry girl. I liked the distance, the remoteness of it all. When I went there, to the inner circle, I was this mystery girl who sometimes showed up and quietly disappeared into the night. The place was crawling with gold-diggers and whores. In fact, the reason I designed the historically significant artsy shirt was because I never wanted to be mistaken for one of those.

So, Ohio Girl, Wayne and I went on a road trip to our place. Our “Sedona,” if you will. They were short of cash, so they provided gas money to meet up with me, and from there, I provided vehicle, gas money, food money, hotel money and all other expenses. Hey, they were my friends, right? So, we arrived at our destination. Upon stopping in and greeting my outer circle that morning to let them know I was in town, I saw the inner circle surprisingly there in daylight. The four of them were at a distant side of the room. It freaked me out, because on the trip, those people were the only topic holding Ohio Girl’s interest. I already had a vague feeling of apprehension. Even worse, my two closest outer circle friends were smitten immediately with the Neve Campbell mystique of this pre-Emo, underground beauty. We did leave and went out about the town, took naps, ate, and got ready for our night. I slipped into a black turtleneck and jeans, topping the turtleneck with my art design original that had won acclaim. It’s how the inner circle knew I was there on any given night, from my safe distance of blurred dorkiness.

Ohio Girl, she looked at me and said, “You’re NOT going to wear that shirt, are you? You look like a dork.” I was rather taken aback. She had no comprehension of its meaning, its Picasso-like attraction from worthy newcomers. I sound so elitist. Heh. I didn’t know what to do. Then she added the all-too-perfect “look, I’m just telling you this as a friend, because I care about you.” The shirt came off and for the first time in years, I wore someone chosen by someone else: a rather sleazy bodice topped with some front layer that de-sleazed it imperceptibly. The night actually went well until the last moments. You turn one wrong corner, switch locales to wind down, find a completely dead hotel bar to just discuss the night before we headed home, and boom… in walks Victim 1 (hereby referred to as Single Guy) of the inner circle. To his defense, he was the only single one and was obviously smitten with Ohio Girl. He joined our table and we talked. She watched us talk, but offered nothing as he tried to warm her to him. And then, he asked for us to come back the next night. To our special place. I told him it was tempting, but we had such a long drive in different directions to get back home. He said he’d watch for us just in case.

Argument one broke out back at the hotel. She said we just had to stay, and I was driving, and if we left it would ruin Wayne’s and her life. I told her I had to work. Wayne offered up that he was willing to lose his job over an opportunity like this. It might never happen again. I looked at them there. No money, willing to lose everything, it all hinging on me. Of course, I chose friendship over logic. Night number two proved he did watch for us to show. For the first time, the outer circle had been apprised of our potential arrival. We were met with freed drinks, VIP treatment and later to a private chat area. That sounds weird, but there was a room away from the noise — fully lit, nothing sleazoid, where we sat and talked for an hour or so. Well, not all of us. Single Guy was joined by Victim 2 (hereby referred to as Married Guy) a  freshly married man brimming with joy, talking about his family life and pending arrival of a new baby boy. The discussion was actually quite pleasant. I was surprised by my level of complete comfort with these two and chuckled at my earlier fears. They didn’t seem to treat me like I was a dork at all. And, most of the discussion was directed toward me, as she barely spoke. She did manage to say “Give me a light!” And, she muttered, “I HATE that kind of beer. It sucks.” Other than being confused by that, I remember nothing of verbal content from her. To my chagrin, Single Guy tried again with her by altering our plan, my plan to work at a job… He asked us to come back again the next night. Both of my friends immediately agreed, while I swallowed hard at the growing severity of my situation and the apprehension grew.

Argument number two broke out at a truck-stop diner that had private jukeboxes at each table. The night had gone better than ever expected. How could we stop now? We were “in.” I don’t know if I was psychic or just being negative, but I saw this all blowing up in my face. And, I was out of money. I would have to hit the ATM and maybe even do a credit card withdrawal. I was not only out of planned money, and had spent my emergency fund hidden in a key box in my engine. I was now faced with retrieving bill money and running short for the month.

Tears slid down my cheeks as I pleaded to go home and come back another time. But, no. If we were “in” now, it could be short lived. We needed to ensure it. I didn’t want to ensure anything. But, again, I still believe to this day that friendship is worth more than any job. Had it been a “career,” that would have been different. It was just a job. So, yeah, we stayed for a third night. I spent more money on food for all, watched videos, window shopped, etc. The place that night was so packed, there was no room to be a VIP. We just enjoyed the moments alone, knowing that what was to come was to be more special. We went back to our hotel, where a van was waiting for us. My outer circle buddy, Billy, loaded us into it and we were driven to a little corner bar that was quiet and nearly empty. There were, like, two patrons, and then the rest of the people we knew. They had chosen a place which was leveling to them. No one there thought they were rich, powerful or important. Ironic, really.

It was then she pulled me aside into an empty bathroom. Not the first crack in her veneer, but the first telling one to me. She said “the reason I’ve barely said anything to these guys is because I’m so intimidated. And, what makes it worse is… you’re not. You’re completely comfortable talking about any subject, and I have no idea what to say. I blurted out I hate that beer and give me a light, because I was struggling. If you’re really my friend, please do me this favor. If Married Guy talks to me, please just walk away. Please.” I said, “I’ve taken two extra days off work, probably lost my job, spent my money, my emergency money, my bill money, driven us everywhere and you’re telling me NOT to talk to this guy because I treat him normally and we have a rapport? Are you serious?” She said, “if you’re my friend, you’ll walk away. It’s the only way I’ll be comfortable being myself.”

We left the bathroom and went into the main bar. Married Guy greeted me with a huge, warm hug and smile. He hugged Ohio Girl, also, though she didn’t receive it well. I said “it’s so good to see you, um, I have to go over there though. Take care.” He looked really, super confused. Just as perplexed as a face can get. He continued to say he was on his way out. His wife was potentially going into labor and he was actually staying in our hotel, because he’d moved too far away to drive home on weekends. He pointed out Single Guy and asked me to cheer him up. He said that the guy was too drunk, was really down, and would be glad to talk to me.  I told him how excited I was for he and his wife, how happy to have seen him before he left, (and to his confused face) hugged him goodbye and walked away as previously asked, leaving Ohio Girl alone with Married Guy. I walked over to Single Guy and we sat together. He perked up and we had a great conversation, for about two minutes. She came over, looking defeated, angry, pouting for a moment, then her face lit up and she turned to the single guy of the inner circle, hence… Single Guy.

After rubbing his thigh and flirting immensely, she needed to use the ladies room. She needed me to come with. Needed. I was getting the look. So, back in the empty bathroom she told me something that knocked me flat. “Look, Married Guy left the building and he married a slut and she’s having his baby, but I’m his soul mate. I’ve been in love with him for years. That’s why I can’t talk around him. This guy is my only chance. He’s single. If I get “in” with him, I’ll be able to get closer to the other guy. He’ll see that I’m the one for him. I’ll never get closer to Single Guy if he keeps talking to you. Why is it so easy for you to talk to anyone about anything? Please, just walk away. Let me have my chance.” Oh, yes, she did.

I was stunned. I countered with logic, of course. “You don’t even know this guy you say you love. If you don’t know him, that’s not love. Maybe, you have a crush, infatuation adoration, I don’t know. He just remarried this woman and he’s so obviously happy. He’s beaming! If you love him, then you’ll trust his judgment. Let him alone. And, furthermore,  to use Single Guy as a vehicle to reach Married Guy is beyond immoral and unbelievably unethical on every level. I care about them, whether I know them well or not.  I won’t let you do that.”

Her face set with determination and she looked straight into my eyes. “Oh, you’re not going to stop me.”

And, she was right…

I told him goodnight and thanked him for his generosity. I got another confused look, but endured it. I walked to the bar and was sucker punched by something I never saw coming.

There’s something I haven’t told you. Because, it’s embarrassing. Within that inner circle of four, there was one guy who did intimidate me. In this story, he will be referred to as Mentor Guy. Because, he was my mentor guy, my Mr. Miagi, if you will. (He still is to this day, though I’ve never told him and he’d never have guessed and probably not cared either.) He was underestimated by nearly everyone, unbelievably astute, yet wore a zany façade that fooled most into seeing him as just a caricature. Around him, I could not speak. I had been told he didn’t suffer fools gladly and was at a loss for words around him. He was a mentor of mine without knowing it, cultured yet down to earth, a steady upbringing and a true family man with integrity, warmth and compassion. He somehow turned zany into cool.

On many occasions, he’d seen me from a distance and protected me. I’d never known until earlier that day, in fact. Billy said “remember that guy who was bothering you that one night? He was removed from the premises. And, this time and that time and then, etc…” I thought back to all the times weirdos and jerks approached me and disappeared when I showed no interest. I was so complimented to find this out, and yet it became so short lived. It didn’t even last a day. I walked to the main bar and ordered a beer and uncannily… up walked Mentor Guy to the other end of the same bar. He eyed me in new evaluation,  looked at the beer in my hand, squinted, and I then received the coldest stare I’d ever received in my life. It had come from the one person I was afraid wouldn’t like me, the one man I didn’t want to ever know I was just a geeky nerd out on the town, trying to erase that stigma and feel a sense of belonging. Mentor Guy was displeased. That mystery girl in the artsy shirt had gotten too close and, ironically, had been mistaken for one of the shallow, gold-digging whores. I was so crushed I had no words. I set down my full beer and walked away from the whole situation.

If you are the company you keep, it was time for me to change company. Ohio Girl and her need for being “in” had pulled me into a part of a nightlife I was unequipped to handle. I thought I took the high road and went back to the hotel. Thinking it was a brilliant idea, I drank a beer. And, then, I had a second and third. Yay me. I have no idea how much time passed… an hour, three, I don’t know.

She came back to the hotel room, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, she said, “Oh, Annie, I just don’t know what to do. The wrong guy likes me. He thinks I want him and he gave me the key to his hotel room. But, I only like him as a friend. I went to the other hotel room, the guy I like. The door was open and there’s a group there just sitting around to see if his slut wife goes into labor. Anyway, I told him that his buddy likes me and wants me. And, I told him I just can’t do that, because you have a huge crush on his buddy. I told him that you’ve liked him for years and I know it would never work out because he’s a partier and you’re just a innocent sweetheart from the Midwest, but because he’s so well-traveled and rich and powerful, you’re a little bit star-struck, a little obsessed with him.

“You said what????”

“Of course, I told him you weren’t dangerous and they had no reason to worry. It’s just that you had built your life around the times you got to come and see this guy in the room, even from a distance.”

“But, you know that I’ve dated a guy on and off for the last year and a half…”

“Well, he was really shocked. He said he said he had no idea and that you acted so normal. He never would have guessed. I told him that I just wanted to be a good friend. How could I date a guy you liked and still be a good friend? Well, he was soooo comforting. He told me that there was nothing I could do and that it was so sweet of me to be so considerate of you, but I needed to follow my heart.”

“Did you happen to tell him that you were just trying to impress him to get him to leave his pregnant wife and the single guy was just a pawn?”

She laughed, then talked softly again. “Of course not. Oh sweetie, you know how much you like this guy.”

“I do?”

“Oh, it’s so obvious. And, I don’t want to hurt you…. Then, I went to Single Guy and told him…”

“You…”

“He’s really angry right now. It pissed him off. He just didn’t see it coming either. He said you’ve never flirted and he had no idea. Now, he is mad he can’t be with me because of you. He even said he’d fuck you if that would mean he could fuck me…”

Tears came hard. What a low blow. I have no idea if he ever said that. He probably did. He was drunk and mad at her sudden story that made me a scapegoat after her heavy flirting. When I finally could speak…

“You just ruined my reputation. They think I’m some obsessed, crazy, small-town waif, trying to move up in the glamourous world and I’m starstruck by some powerful guy who can ‘take me places.’ And, they didn’t see that coming based on how I acted, which means that all the trust I’d earned is gone. It’s all gone.”

She smiled so sweetly, so believably my good friend. And, she said in the kindest voice,  “I told you that you weren’t going to stop me.”

I was way too drunk, way too hurt, way too stunned and blubbering in tears. I left and went to my friend Billy’s room. I told him what happened and he was infuriated. He said, “I’ve known these guys for years. They meet women like her all the time. TRUST me, they will never believe that load of crap. It’s obvious who is who and what is what. Don’t even worry for a second. They would never believe that conniving, psycho bitch!” He went down the hall for ice and his phone rang. I thought he might be calling from the front desk or something with a question. So, I answered his phone. It was her target, Married Guy, looking for Billy. He recognized my voice and said, “Hey, Sweetie, while I have you on the phone, I know you don’t want to hear this right now. But, just listen. My buddy is not the right guy for you. You may think you’re in love with him, but you don’t even know him. I know how easy it can be to get obsessed with someone, but I promise you… you’re wonderful and you will meet the right guy. It’s just not him.”

I said, “But, that’s not…” and he said, “Tell Billy I called. I have to keep this line open, hon.” And, he was gone.

Never believe her? Never fall for that? Well, at least Married Guy was nice, but time told the story. Four months later she invited me out to make up for her behavior and talk to me. Then, when Single Guy found out I was coming and was afraid because I was “obsessed” with him, she ditched me. Ironically, Married Guy, her “man,” found me and brought me back to the group. He introduced me to his older son and sat me with his family. She looked visibly upset. Then, it was time to go and I got hugs and goodbyes and I was left with her. She broke into tears. It was quite a highlight, actually. She said that everything had gone wrong and, for some reason, Single Guy “thought” she liked the married guy and was not speaking to her. Simply because she laid a pillow on the married guys lap and laid down on it, and Single Guy walked in and stormed out. Poor Married Guy was left to explain her behavior to his seven year old boy. *ugh* Anyway, it was so nice to see her behavior blow up in her face. In the sweetest voice, I said, “tell me everything.” She did, and I supressed the smiles and cheers of her being recognized for the shallow, two-faced scum that she was.

I thought, for me, it could be good again. But, it was too late. Even though they “found her out,” they still had no reason to believe that I was not obsessed and trying to hook up with the single guy. I went back a few times. Single Guy, he avoided me, 2 was more wary around me and Mentor Guy, the one I admired the most, became the caricature he was known to be once again. I believe that 4 in the group remained uninvolved and unaware of the situation in its entirety. For what it’s worth, I had been demoted. Of course, I ended my pretend friendship with her, Ohio Girl. I realized that there had been so many signs of her insincerity along the way. I hadn’t wanted to see them, because I’d never been befriended by a gorgeous, trophy friend. In truth, it had made me feel important, which was my most shallow moment to date. And, I paid dearly for being so shallow. Yes, I learned a lesson, but at a cost greater than anything but death. You see, that place was my favorite place in the world. It was my escape from stress, from work, from being a dorky, scrawny, bookworm next door. It was my favorite thing to do and it had been tainted. I no longer blended in and became an equal. I stood out and became an outsider. It was not the most painful hardship of my life, but it was the hardest lesson I ever had to endure.

There are some things you can never undo, some places you can never revisit, some innocence that can never be regained, some impressions than can never be rectified. Sure, I could have told those guys “she’s making that up.” But, she was so believable I nearly wondered if I had a crush on that guy. It’s more likely they would have thought I was so humiliated I was side-stepping it to save face. I could have said that I was skittish around guys, and had they even mildly flirted they would have seen me shy away, not blossom under the affection. I did consider it. To clarify what had happened would have been to clarify that I was an awkward woman-child, who escaped in the crowds to feel a sense of belonging in one special, irreplaceable spot. To leave it be, I was viewed as an obsessed Midwesterner trying to live out some kind of big city fantasy, maybe even as a whore, looking for a hot time. I chose the lesser of two evils. I’d much rather have that inner circle of guys think me a whore, than know me flat out as a dork.

And, so, I walked away for good, from my favorite thing in the world, my favorite place in the world. Forever. It was like I’d gone to “the dark side” that night and would wear the Scarlett Letter forever. It was my own fault, too. I’m not blaming anyone but me. Everything was exactly perfect until I changed it. I had the perfect escape, the perfect place, the best moments ever. Yet, I allowed myself to be bullied and much worse… to be shallow. If I lived my life over, when that moment again arose, I would never have crossed that line.

I think of the lyrics to a Nickelback song (please, please…. humor me here) and they express how I feel about that moment in time: a  beautiful memory, a lesson learned, a betrayal that stole a piece of my heart, a place that shifted from refuge to refuse.

“I miss that town, I miss the faces / You can’t erase, You can’t replace it / I miss it now, I can’t believe it / So hard to stay, Too hard to leave it… / If I could I relive those days, I know the one thing that would never change…”

The truth is: sometimes, you lose.

.

Mama Lies . . . (song lyrics) [country folk song]

[country folk song. maybe emmylou harris, pam tillis, reba.]

Her mama told her Papa died
When she was just a baby.
There was no other family
The two were on their own.

She didn’t question Mama’s word
She prayed for Papa daily.
And did her best with Mama
To create a happy home.

Gradually, the years went by
The girl became a woman.
It didn’t seem so very long
She’d children of her own.

When cancer came to visit them,
The stay was not a long one.
And she couldn’t help but feel
A little lost with Mama gone.

**

Now Mama lies
in a chamber filled with roses
Mama lies
in a bedroom made of stone.

Mama’s eyes
look down on her from heaven
She couldn’t help but feel
A little lost with Mama gone.

**

She held the – picture of her grand kids
As she sat down at the table
And told her husband of – these thirty years
The lump might be benign.

Her doctor’d asked her family’s history
She didn’t know the story too well.
She finally did a search on Papa
And boy – had Mama lied…

With shock still ringing in her head
She gathered up the family
Together they walked through the courtyard
Of the nursing home.

Fifty-seven years she was,
Her Papa nearly eighty.
He smiled weakly at the strangers
Then stared out onto the lawn.

**

Well, Mama lied -
She left Papa to his family.
Mama lied -
She’d changed her job and then moved on.

Mama lied -
She never told him of their baby
She thought alone – she’d make things right
and it – would fix their wrong.

**

Now Papa’s eyes
look at his daughter and her family
Papa’s eyes
look into eyes he should have known.

Papa’s eyes
Travel to a distant memory.
He smiles weakly at the strangers
Then stares out onto the lawn.