Sticks to Lying

 

by Rick Hill

 

 

My 50,000+ word novel,

assembled and supplemented during the

2006 NaNoWriMo period,

1 – 30 November 2006

Published by

Tree Trunk Productions
261 Mohawk Road
Big Cove, Alabama USA 35763-9249

Cover design by Rick Hill
First Print Edition, November 2006 (e-Edition will be available soon)
Copyright © 2006 Rick Hill
All Rights Reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

 

For Wikipedia reference material only: permission is granted to copy, distribute and/or modify the Wikipedia references under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2 or any later version published by the Free Software Foundation; with no Invariant Sections, with no Front-Cover Texts, and with no Back-Cover Texts.  A copy of the license is included in the section entitled “GNU Free Documentation License”.

 

 

 

To my wife for her patience, knowing that I love her and always will.

Even so, I still fall in love with almost every woman I meet…

…but I always come home for dinner.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SELFISHNESS

 

I am tortured not by the emptiness in my head.

No, the dominance of my personality chases sanity from my mind.

When you’re left with yourself

And your self you don’t like

There’s only one thing to do —

Make a change

(but try not to be seduced by S).

 

 

 

 

 

 

Introduction

 

There’s no such thing as an innocent childhood.  My middle-class parents, perhaps, wish that I’d not been exposed to the less-than-pleasant, dark, nasty things that happen in life, but of course that is impossible, unless they would have kept their child locked in a room or house, where they could have controlled the stimuli.  But my parents didn’t do that.  Instead, they raised me like any other child, sending me to public school, allowing me to play with kids in the neighborhood, and using the television as a passive teaching tool.  I don’t claim to be any better or worse because of it.  I’m not here to place the blame on my parents for anything I’ve said or done.

 

What I do know that is the events, the episodes, the great discoveries and stupid actions of my late youth and early adulthood were directly influenced by my early childhood.  It may take a village to raise a child but who says the villagers have the best intentions?  And so it is that I have come to this point in my life, sitting here in this cabin in the deep woods, away from all the folks, both good and bad, who could influence me in any way.  I’ve got to take some time to consider who I really am and if I can’t figure that out (who can?) then I want to set the stage for the next act in my life, my post midlife years.

 

Getting the cabin was not too difficult.  Of course, I had to scout out available property, find one with an access road, a water source and a place to grow some of my own food.  I was easily able to do this while surfing the Net at my job.  After I found the property, I made a down payment on it from my cash reserves.  I’m no Paul Bunyan or Daniel Boone so I found a hardware store that would build a cabin for me on the property.  I set up a payment plan for it, too.

 

Then, I converted my 401(k) to an IRA and began making small yearly withdrawals so that I could not only pay for the property and cabin, I could have a budget upon which I would make a “living”.  Oh, I guess I didn’t tell that as soon as the cabin was built and I had moved my stuff into it, I quit my job.

 

For those who know me, you’re probably wondering about my wife.  Well, that’s a tale to save for another story.  Needless to say, Karen’s an important part of my life but I don’t want to give away the most important secret of my new existence, at least not yet.

 

As I was deciding what I needed to do to be able to stay within my new poverty-level budget, I quickly saw that some of my most time-consuming habits were not going to be supportable.  The hardest part was giving up television.  Seems ridiculous, I know.  But for a boy from the South, who has placed college football above God in respect to the amount of time and money I’ve devoted to the University of Tennessee football team, not being able to watch college football on TV is worse than being a hungry baby whose pacifier has been pulled away and there’s not a baby bottle to be found for what seems like miles around.  But college football was only part of my TV habit.  The next best thing to college football is NASCAR, with the mesmerizing travel of cars around a circle.  Think of it as my Mecca.  Only, instead of throwing stones into the center of the circle, I’m throwing expletives at my favorite NASCAR drivers to hate, including anyone with the name Earnhardt or Stewart.  In between those sports, there was this period I can only call my season of discontent.  Thank goodness, the season keeps getting shorter but God forbid I was ever going to fill the months of January and February with basketball – it’s just not my thing.  Sure, I’d cheer on UT if I happened to switch to a game where they were playing but in no way was I going to set my life around the game of hoops.

 

In between the sports, I’d skim past the TV comedy or drama series and see what documentaries or movies were on.  I’d watch movies, mainly.  Used to be, I’d catch every movie at the theater on the weekend it opened but I noticed that as I got older, I was less inclined to go to movies to see the same theme be played out with a different set of actors.  Typically, I’d see a movie when I was young starring actors my parents’ age.  Then, as I got a little older, I’d see the same kind of movie with actors somewhat older than me but younger than my parents.  After I got married, my wife and I would see movies, again with the same theme, but this time starring people who are our age.  Now, it seems that all of the big movies are starring actors who are younger than me, which means that if I haven’t been watching the latest TV series, I haven’t established a link with the TV actors and thus have no vested interest in them when they make the break to the big screen.

 

So, realistically, what I was giving up when I decided not to bring a TV to my cabin was not the TV itself but the pure pleasure of watching college football and NASCAR packaged as a television event.  I still have enough money in my budget to catch a UT football game or NASCAR race.  Doesn’t mean I will but at least I can.

 

Although it’s only been a few weeks so far, the absence of TV has been a blessing.  I no longer get drawn in to some late night documentary.  Thus, I wake up early in the morning because I’ve gone to bed relatively early at night.  I feel somewhat refreshed.  I don’t suffer from the compulsion to drive to the local big box store and shop for something I don’t need or want.

 

Occasionally, I ride my bike to the local convenience store to buy basic necessities (toilet paper and the like).  After all, it’s not that I’ve given up existing.  But I don’t spend time looking at electronic gizmos anymore.  I don’t purchase DVDs of movies I never really liked in the first place.  I don’t shop for anything I don’t need.  Who knows, maybe I’ll change my shopping habits.

 

So now that I’m sitting here in this cabin, watching birds and squirrels move from tree to tree, what do I want to do with my time?  Hmm…  That’s a good one.  For one thing, I do have to be careful about what I write.  Despite my finding this quiet out-of-the-way place to settle down for a while, I realize that I am not completely “off the grid”, as they say.  I know that Brian Chipmunk still has an interest in tracking me down.  But I’m getting ahead of myself, I suppose.  I must realize that you don’t know who I’m talking about and that’s not really why I’m here.

 

Why am I here?  Well, I want to record what I can remember from my early childhood so that my nieces and nephews understand a little bit about one of their kin.  Also, when I die and the remains of my estate go to them, I want them to understand that the windfall they’ll inherit comes with a price.  For my money did not all come out of a 401(k).  Some of it I got from hanging around with a buddy from my early childhood, who convinced me to buy shares of his company before it went public.  I think I did much better than he did.  He had greater assets than I did but his liabilities did him in.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

I was born in Bristol, Tennessee, in a hospital that no longer exists.  The year I was born, you could buy a Dodge Lancer with a 170 or 225 cubic inch engine.  What I found out from Wikipedia was that “Dodge Division applied the Lancer nameplate to its clone of Chrysler’s wildly successful Valiant compact. The model was introduced when Chrysler officially assigned the Valiant to its Plymouth division for 1961, leaving Dodge dealers without a compact to sell. Lancers were given round taillights and full width grilles, which differed from the Plymouth’s canted oval taillights and stand-alone grille. This compact Lancer used the Slant-6 engine, which could be equipped at the dealer with Chrysler’s Hyper Pak parts kit for a significant power upgrade. The Lancer sales didn’t meet expectations, and as a late part of the total redesign of Dodge’s compact car for 1963, the Lancer name was discontinued. Dodge compacts for 1963 through 1976 were named Dart, a name that had previously been assigned to a larger car produced by Dodge from 1960 to 1962.”

 

I owned a 2-door 1962 Dodge Lancer sedan for many years.  It was part of my midlife crisis.  Other guys bought expensive Corvettes or Porsches to pretend to extend their youthfulness.  Instead, I paid $1675 for a 1962 Dodge Lancer with bad brakes.  I drove the car for about a year and then after the brakes finally gave out, I parked the car in the yard and let it slowly sink into the dirt.  I think it was a pretty good ode to my life.  In fact, I ought to call this story, “Sinking Back Into My Roots”.  “Sticks to Lying” is much more appropriate, though.  You’ll see.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

I decided later in life that I would have to do something or else I’d just end up like so many of the folks I know who have accumulated an enormous collection of quirky, eclectic, funky stuff that looks like the back room of the fourth basement floor of a museum in some large city where all the “not so easy to categorize” material is stored for the time the curator wants to set up a general exhibit on the late 20th Century or early 21st Century.  Did I say I decided?  No, it was more like the monsters the material had become were leaning over me as I was writing, waiting for me to fall asleep in order to collapse on top of me and absorb me into their eBay-ready piles.  After a couple of times of falling asleep in front of the computer, waking up and believing that the stuff around me had crept a little closer, I gave in to my paranoia and started hauling random items out to the bottom of driveway.  I staked a sign in the yard that said, “Yard Sale – All Stuff is Free.  Price is not negotiable!”

 

Of course, there would be the inevitable curiosity seeker who would ring the doorbell and want to inform me that the item I had accidentally included in the pile, such as an electric pencil sharpener or worn-out automobile gearshift knob, was worth a lot of money.  The person would hold the item up to me like I was expected to pay him or her for it.  The first few times this happened, I told the person, “Oh gosh, you’re right.  Well, since you were so kind to bring this to my attention, I’d go ahead and let you have it for free.  But I sure won’t let that happen again.”  I’d close the door in their faces and go back to watching TV.  Then, one day, I thought, “Hey, this ought to be fun!”  I may have even said it because the cats leapt off my lap and hid behind the sofa.

 

Did I mention I used to have cats?  Probably not.  Well, it’s not important right now.

 

Anyway, one day, this old fellow knocked on the front door well after dark.  How he made it down the overgrown walkway, up the algae-covered stairs and across the leaf-covered deck to the front door in the dark, I’ll never know.  I answered the door and this old, decrepit hand held up a small audiocassette tape player I had thrown out the day before.

 

“Yes?” I asked.  “What can I do for you?”

 

“Did you know that they no longer make these?” the quivering voice of the old man shot back, more like a command than a question.

 

“Maybe.  Why?  Is there something the matter with it?  I don’t have any batteries, if that’s what you’re after.”

 

“No.  No.  I was just admiring the unit.  Did you know that they don’t make these any more?”

 

I began to wonder if maybe this guy had more on his mind than he let on.  Or maybe it was just the same stuff over and over.

 

“I think you said that.”

 

“Indeed.  I tell you what, the most I can give you for this is twenty bucks.  Of course, if you have any tapes to go with this…” he said, trailing off, his eyes oddly glimmering in the dark.

 

“I suppose I might.”  I decided to have a little fun with him.  “Do you have any identification?”

 

“ID?  What for?”

 

“Well, I just want to make sure your American accent goes with a valid identification card with a picture issued by a US or US state government.”

 

The old man fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet.  “Uh, here it is.”

 

I looked at his driver’s license and was suddenly dumbstruck.  The picture was a holographic image of him and when I turned the license over to the back I could see the backside of his head, where there was some sort of device attached.  “I…uh…”

 

“Well, you did ask to see my ID.  Mind if I step in?”

 

I stood there like a dead tree stump, wondering if my time had come and gone; if so, I was better off to let the bugs flying around the light lay eggs in me and eat my rotting flesh.

 

“I say, it’s a bit muggy out here.  Do you mind if I step inside?”

 

I looked at the license once more and realized that the name and street address were the same as mine.  I looked up at the old man.  “You…?”

 

“I think I better come inside,” he said as he put his hands on my shoulders, turned me around and pushed me into the foyer.  “Just like I remembered it!” he exclaimed as he continued to push me forward.  “Do you have any more of that homemade beer?  It sure would be good right now.”

 

I turned around and looked at him.  “You know, this is weird.”

 

“What’s weird?”

 

“I’m…well, fuck it!  Pardon my French but I’m confused.  Where did you get that ID card?”

 

“Oh, it’s standard issue these days.  Say, how about that beer?  Do you have any in the fridge or is it still stored in the laundry room?  Oh, and here’s your tape player back.  I’d love to keep it but it’s really not mine to keep, now is it?” he asked, winking at me and heading into the kitchen.

 

I slumped down into the recliner with the tape player in my hand.  The cats immediately started meowing, thinking that I was plopping down with a plate of food in hand.  They jumped when they heard me open the refrigerator door.  Well, I mean at least I think it was me in the kitchen, or some facsimile of me, at least.  My other self certainly had aged and not altogether well.

 

“Ah, here’s one in the back!” I hollered to myself from the kitchen.  “I can’t believe I kept these bottles so long.  Maybe I knew I was coming back for them!”

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

I petted the cats’ heads when they rubbed up against my legs.  I sighed.  I closed my eyes.  I opened my eyes.  I thought maybe I’d just been taking a nap and had a particularly peculiar dream.  Then I saw the tape player in my lap.  Had I or had I not been dreaming?  I set the tape player down on the TV tray and stood up.  I was weaving on my feet a bit.  Had I been drinking, perhaps?  No, I didn’t detect alcohol on my breath or feel dizzy.  I guess it was just shock.  But from what?  I looked at the TV.  I could tell it was on but I didn’t recognize the show and didn’t understand why I would tune to some sort of TV shopping show.  I grabbed for the TV remote control but it was not on the end table.

 

“I’ve got it,” a familiar voice said to me from the sofa.  “You know, I forget how much you guys used to love to buy useless crap.  I mean, take a look at the poor workmanship on that necklace.  I’m surprised any decent person would wear it.  Of course, that lady who’s wearing it is pretty damn good-looking so maybe someone thinks they’ll look like her if they buy it…well, anyway, I’m glad you’re awake.  I think maybe you passed out or something.  Wanna beer?”

 

I looked at the old man sacked out on the sofa.  I can’t say I was looking in a mirror unless the mirror had some kind of age-defining power.  “Yeah,” I replied, “I think I will get something to drink.  But I’m going for the hard stuff.”

 

“Help yourself.  I’m going to sit here and see what else is on this old 2D TV of yours.”

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

When I realize that all is not what it seems but it does make sense…

 

I woke up again.  How long had it been?  I couldn’t tell.  There I was, sitting over there on the sofa, watching TV.  Here I was, laying back in the recliner wondering what either one of me was doing.  I shook my head but the image of the old man was still there.  I rubbed my neck, leaned forward and cracked my back.  The image of the old man didn’t go away.  So I possibly wasn’t dreaming.  Surely, none of my dreams had been this real.  But what if I was deep enough into a dream that in the dream I was able to believe it was more real than normal.  After all, plenty of times I had woken up from a dream or been in a half-dream state, realized what a fantastic dream I just had and then jumped back into it as if it was real.  I just never remember thinking thoughts like these.  Usually, when I started questioning the reality of a dream, I completely woke up as if to tell myself, “Either dive into this fantasy wholeheartedly or stay out of it!”

 

“So,” I said from the sofa, “as interesting as this TV stuff is, it’s getting boring pretty fast.  You think you’ll stay awake long enough to talk?”

 

“I guess so.”

 

“Good, ’cause I don’t plan to stay here very long.  By the way, had you made any plans for the day?”

 

“Well, I was planning to go through the house and put more stuff on the driveway for people to take.”

 

“Hmmm…interesting.  I don’t recall doing that.  Isn’t that funny?  You’d think I’d remember something silly like that.  Well, anyway, we really need to talk.”  The old man turned off the TV and turned to face me.  “Do you ever have a sense, a feeling, that you’re being followed?”

 

“Not always, no.”  I petted one of the cats, Merlin, an orange Cornish Rex, who had just jumped into my lap, understanding that I was nervous or edgy or something and needed attention.  Or was it the other way around?

 

“Can you tell why you get that sensation?”

 

I blinked my eyes a couple of times to clear my vision.  I had not completely woken up.  “I assume it’s because of my guilt complex.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Sure.  I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.  Why would someone really be interested in following me?”

 

“Why wouldn’t they?”

 

 

“Look, I don’t want to sound strange but after all, I was…oh, never mind.  This is still a little bit too weird.”

 

“I know what you mean.  But hey, you don’t know what weird is, believe me.  Seriously, do you ever feel like you’re being watched?”

 

“Of course I do.  Who doesn’t have that feeling?  There wouldn’t be a history of religion without that feeling, would there?”

 

“Well, no, you’re right about that.  Anyway, I’m running out of time.  I’ve got something to tell you and I need you to remember it completely.”

 

“Uh, okay.  Can I record this?  I’ve got a video camera around here somewhere, unless I’ve thrown it outside, of course.”

 

“No, don’t record it.  It’s not like…wait!  Of course, that’s a great idea.  But instead of a video recorder, do you have a means to record my voice only?”

 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

I fumbled through the menu of my music player, pressed Record, and set it on a stack of books I had placed on the TV tray.  “Okay, there you go.”

 

“Great!  For the record, what I’m about to tell you is a fantastic story.  I don’t claim any of it is real but you may gain a lot of insight into what goes on around you…”

 

“This isn’t some sort of ‘Matrix’ story, is it?”

 

“Matrix?”

 

“Yeah, don’t you remember the ‘Matrix’ movies, where everyone shares the same fantasy but most of them are really just batteries for computers that have taken over the world?”

 

“Uh…no.  I’m not sure if it’s any kind of story you’ve heard before.  This one is as close to reality as it gets.  To be frank, it could actually be reality.  For the sake of grins, why don’t you pretend what I’m going to say has already happened or will happen in the near future.”

 

“I’m cool with that.”

 

“Okay, then.  Anyway, as you’ve seen today, it appears to be possible for people to travel back in time.  You’ve seen what you think is a version of you from some distant future.  But as far as you know, it’s just a fantasy.  You could be dreaming.  You could be pulling ideas and images from the inner reaches of your imagination, mixing them up and having one of the wackiest daydreams you’ve ever had.

 

“But then, you already do that.  You already imagine things like you’re being followed, and believe that some of the people around you have been hired by someone, anyone, to track your whereabouts.  It’s human nature, as you said.  But what if it wasn’t?  What if you weren’t so much as being followed as simply being recorded?  What if no one in particular cared about what you were doing at any point in time unless they wanted to find you when they did need to know something about you?  Or maybe they didn’t need to know about you but they needed to know about the environment around you?  Would that be possible?”

 

I looked up from picking my nails and turned toward the old man.  “You know, for some reason, I’m beginning to wonder if this is a joke.  You know what I mean?  Is there some hidden camera somewhere trying to catch me in a fool’s pose that’ll look good on TV?”

 

“Well, anything is possible, I suppose.  It could be me who’s being made a fool of, of course.  But no, I’m actually trying to be serious.  And I really do have a limited time I can be here with you.”

 

“Why?  Do we meld together or something?”

 

“No.  Why would we do that?  It’s…”

 

“Come on.  Surely, you remember some of the time paradox books we used to read?”

 

“But, of course.  I’m sorry.  This does sound like some sort of science fiction tale, doesn’t it?  I’m sorry.  I’m not trying to remind you…sorry, or us…of our junior high and high school reading.  I really don’t want you to believe this is JUST a story.”

 

“So, what is it, then?”

 

“Well, I’m here because…  Well, there may be no such thing as a future for humanity.”  The old man gave me one of those serious looks I used to try to give my employees when I wanted to make a point without the use of humor.

 

“I’m guessing that you’re trying to be serious?”

 

“Yes, I suppose you could tell that, couldn’t you?”

 

“And is there something I’m supposed to do?”

 

“Well, it might be good if I continued on.”

 

I sighed.  “Okay, go ahead.  It looks like you’ve ruined a quiet day, anyway.”

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

“Do you remember Brian Chipmunk?”

 

“Yeah, of course I do.  He’s been my best friend since I don’t know when.”

 

“Have you seen him lately?”

 

“Yeah, just last week.”

 

“Did you notice anything different about him?”

 

“Well, he seemed a little older but then, hey, so do I when I look in the mirror.”

 

“I don’t mean his appearance.  Was there something in your conversation with him that didn’t seem right?”

 

I watched Merlin and Erin bat around a fake mouse on the floor.  I laughed silently to myself.  What if what I was telling myself was real then these cats could be a way of monitoring me, I suppose.  “I can’t recall anything specific.  Why?”

 

“Oh, nothing.  If there wasn’t anything odd, then we’re doing okay for now.  Maybe I mistimed myself but I don’t want to take that chance.  Do you remember a pledge by some of the richest people in the world to solve poverty?”

 

“Yeah, sure, who couldn’t miss it?  Bill Grates and Warren Boofay, at least.  It was like in the billions of dollars.”

 

“Well, there’s more than one way to solve the poverty issue.  You can find a way to feed millions of starving, displaced people, or…”

 

“Or what?”

 

“Or you could invest billions of dollars in a machine that would make those people go away.”

 

“Like time travel?”

 

“You said it, not me.”

 

“So that’s why you’ve come here, to tell me that someone invented a time machine?”

 

“Maybe…no, just kidding.  Time travel is not really why I’m here.”

 

“So you’re telling me that all these billionaires and celebrities who have been visiting Africa lately have really been time traveling?”

 

“Oh, right.  I see your point.  Of course, you don’t know what I’m thinking.  And I forgot what a shock this can really be.  So, yeah, it’s a distinct possibility that a time machine could be hidden in the middle of a continent of starving people and no one would notice it.”

 

I stood up and walked over to the cat stand where Erin was catching a bit of warmth from the heat rising out of the floor vent.  I stroked his head and he purred.  I leaned over and butted heads with him.  Nothing about him seemed unusual or out of place for a cat.  But then, didn’t all cats seem to have a sort of other-worldly personality, suddenly darting around for no apparent reason?  Would that be a sign that cats were monitoring me?  Is that why they were always following me around the house, why even the cat at my mother in-law’s house wanted to be in my presence all the time?  No, that couldn’t be it.  I had nothing special to want to be tracked or followed.  But, of course, I was standing in the living room with a version of myself, presumably from the future.

 

“So, what is it that I’m supposed to do, now that you’ve told me this ‘story’?”

 

“Nothing yet, I hope.  Continue what you’ve been doing.”

 

“I see.  Then why tell me anything at all?”

 

“Good point.  Right now, I’ve got to leave.  I’m going to come back soon.  In the meantime, I’d like you to find a way to take what we’ve recorded and turn it into a story.  You don’t need to change names to protect the guilty or even change the story in any particular way but I really want you to get this story published.”

 

“Well, there is this contest coming up.”

 

“Contest?”

 

“Yeah.  I mean, it’s not really a contest.  It’s a celebration of National Novel Writing Month.  It’s an encouragement for folks to write a fifty thousand word novel in 30 days.”

 

“So, how do you win?”

 

“You finish the novel.”

 

“Does it get published if you win?”

 

“Sort of.  You can post the novel on the Web.”

 

“The Web!  Of course, I forgot all about that.  I tell you what.  Get the novel written and post it on the Web.  In addition, get some paper copies made and distribute them to some friends.  In the meantime, I’m going to find some publishing folks I know and see if we can’t get your story published.  For now, I want you to feel free to tell anyone you know that you’re working on a novel but don’t tell them it’s about what I told you.  Tell them it’s about your early childhood or something.”  The old fellow almost jumped up from the sofa.  “This is better than I thought.  I’m going to make you richer than your wildest dreams and figure out how to stop Brian at the same time!”

 

“Stop Brian?”

 

“Ooh, sorry.  Forget I said that.  Or better yet, don’t forget it.  Just make it part of your story, somehow.  And if you see Brian again, let him know you’re writing a novel about your childhood, including him.  I want you to be as creative as you can be in describing the novel to him.  Even ask him for details of your time together.  Whatever you do, keep him focused on remembering the past.  And if for any reason, you suspect he is questioning what you’re doing, including even the slightest odd look, let me know.”

 

“Let you know?”

 

“Oh, yeah, right.  How are you supposed to get in touch with me?  Hmm… That’s a good one.  I’m not even sure about that.”

 

“Well, maybe I could just write myself a letter or post something in the newspaper that you could read in the future.”

 

“Oh, that’s a good one.  If only it was that easy.  Let me let you in on a little secret.  It doesn’t work that way.  It’s not like I can travel back to the future and just pick up a message from myself from the past.”

 

“Oh.  Then what?”

 

“It’s not time travel like you see it.  It’s…well, neither one of us is a scientist, are we?”

 

I laughed.  Then we both laughed.  “Not exactly!”

 

“Right.  Well, the best way I can describe it is particle displacement.  Do you remember that particle uncertainly principle?”

 

“Heisenburg?”

 

“Did they name it after him?  Well, yes, I suppose that’s the one.  Well, it seems that scientists have figured out a way to predict the location of all the particles in the near universe and rearrange them slightly.  There’s some sort of way to focus on pieces of the universe, predict what they’d be like or where they’d be and change those pieces to the predicted state.”

 

“So, if we can record what we’ve been like, why aren’t the celebrities changing to a younger state?”

 

“That’s a good one.  I don’t know, exactly.  Anyway, I’ve got to go.  We can talk about this later,” the old man said as he headed to the front door.

 

“Wait.  You never said how we’d get in touch.”

 

The old fellow opened the door.  “Don’t worry about it.  I’ll come back.  Do you have a hat or something I could wear?”

 

 

 

Chapter 7

 

Whether you could say I woke up from a dream or a nightmare, or never woke up from it…well, if you know what reality is, let me know.  An old friend named Helen once told me reality is only seven letters.  I guess she’s right.  She’s a lot like a new friend of mine, Eleanor.   I had written a story that involved some of what Eleanor and I had experienced in Germany.  The events in Germany were somewhat surreal, but then I always seem to have surreal experiences with single women I meet when I’m on the road.  I haven’t figured out why but it’s true.

 

In any case, I checked email and found that Eleanor had responded to my story.  She said that she thought it was a bit strange to see her exact words in my story (words I had used from an email exchange between us), “a story which I’m not sure is meant to be fiction or not…nor how those words are meant to be taken…”

 

And she was right in her conjecture.  How did I mean to take her words?  The recent death of my brother in-law had taken quite a toll from me.  So much so, that I was unsure of a lot of things including my relationship with other people, especially unattached women, and in so many words, I told her so in an email.  Well, really all I said was, “No writing from me recently – death of my brother in-law is still weighing heavily on me – my mind is unable to focus on the future (makes being a program manager right now very challenging!).  To be honest, I have thought about quitting my job and taking a sabbatical.”  I must have scared her a bit because just as I was getting up from the recliner to grab another beer in an attempt to erase the weird interaction with the old man, the phone rang.  Lo and behold, it was Eleanor.

 

“Hello?”

 

“David, is that you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You sound awful.  Are you okay?”

 

“I love you, too.  No, seriously, I’m fine.  I just had a strange character visit me and I’m still trying to figure out if it was real.”

 

“You mean a character in your story?”

 

“No.  Not yet, anyway.  No, this guy, he claimed to be…well, this is gonna sound weird, but he claimed to be me.”

 

“You?  Have you been drinking?”

 

“I told you it was weird.  So, how are you doing?”

 

“Great!  I’m just about moved in.  As moved in as I’m going to get, anyway.”

 

“That’s quick, but that’s you, I guess.”

 

“Sure.  But how are you doing?  I got your email and was worried about you.”

 

“Gee, I sent that email, like, what, a couple of days ago?”

 

“Boy, I do have delayed responses here, don’t I?  You know, I thought I’d have more ‘free time’ here in Europe…but the truth is that I don’t!  I’ve happily and willingly filled up that time with things that interest me.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Oh…exploring southern Europe, meeting new friends and spending time with them…exercise…reading…and of course, figuring out the big web that makes up this new job of mine…”

 

“So much for free time, huh?”

 

“Yeah.  I have come to the conclusion that ‘free time’ really means what you think you want when you are doing something you’d rather not be doing.  Free time sounds fun…and then…when you see it coming up around the corner, you quickly pack that space with something you think will make you smile or reflect or think…in other words…anything other than working hard on something you don’t really care about.”

 

“Like work!”

 

“I don’t know.  Does that mean work can be part of this free time?  I have wondered…because when I was ‘working’ on my homework for my writing class…it didn’t feel like work at all!  So…I guess that’s a ‘yes!'”

 

“If you say so.  I have free time at work all the time and I get panicked if I think it’s lasted too long.”

 

“I know what you mean.”

 

“Does it ever make you feel guilty, having enough time on your hands to walk down the hall and talk to someone just for the hell of it?”

 

“Not really.  I can find a way to weave work and regular conversation together.”

 

“I can see you doing that.”

 

“But you know me, I like to leave work and then go and experience living in Europe, leaving my computer behind…”

 

“Not even your cell phone?”

 

“Oh, I carry that with me most of the time, you know that.”

 

“Oh yeah, our weekend in Munich.”

 

“Yep.  You, me and Bjorn.”

 

“That was fun.”

 

“It sure was.  Although I must admit that story you wrote was pretty good, mixing in fantasy and reality.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You know, the part with the elves and stuff.”

 

“That was fantasy?”

 

“Haha.  I guess that’s why I like being here.  I have to repeat myself and tell you that my favorite part about this job is the people I meet from all over the world.  And when I think about how much of my time was consumed taking care of many of the necessary but sometimes maddening details that program management requires, it’s no surprise to me that you find the recent loss of your brother in-law to be a distraction from work.”

 

“It’s still hard to believe.”

 

“You are dealing with a very real loss of a person you loved.  Making it more difficult is the fact that this person was also very significant to someone you love very much…”  Eleanor paused.

 

I looked at the phone with raised eyebrows.

 

“Your wife,” she continued.

 

“Of course.”

 

“So you are dealing with the pain of two, and I can remember from the loss of my father, how unimportant work felt to me after that.  I felt as though I needed to step away from the money-making machine and the internecine squabbles at work and ground myself again.”

 

“I wish…”

 

“I ended up taking a week off and flying to San Francisco by myself, where I wandered through the parks and gardens and museums and along the shores of the bay, just thinking about my dad, and where I wanted my life to go.”

 

I nodded.  I remembered my trip to San Fran with my wife back in the mid 90s.  We enjoyed walking the streets and eating at out-of-the-way restaurants.  It seemed like there were five-star restaurants on every corner.

 

“Even then, the choice to make a change wasn’t easy…I guess I can say I was restless in my job from that point forward.  I wanted to experience life now, to fulfill some dreams, to quit putting thing off until my responsibilities lessened…and coming to Europe is something I’ve dreamed about for a really long time.”

 

“I’m with you there.”  Eleanor couldn’t see that I held my thumb and index finger a few millimeters apart.  “I was this close to moving to Ireland.  I still think about it and sigh heavily.”

 

“Well, I began to lay the ground for heading this way, though I had no idea how I would really make it happen.  For me…being here…and seeing what I’ve seen…well…”  Eleanor’s voice trailed off.

 

“Hello?  Are you still there?”

 

“Oh…you know, this has been a break from things holding me down.  As you know, I cleaned out my house completely.  But I did so both literally and figuratively, and I feel like now I have what I need to step back from a maddening treadmill and figure out what’s next…  So…I like the job, but truly I could be selling any widget.  It’s not the product that is important.  It’s the process of self-growth along the way – of challenging assumptions I had about myself and others and cultures…of being lost in the silence that comes of living in a world where you don’t understand the language, so the silence is created out of whiteness of indecipherable noise…and slowly finding your way out again and to realize how much you’ve discovered in the process!”

 

“What did you just say?”

 

“That moving here has been a discovery for me.”

 

“No, you said something else.  Something like, ‘silence is created out of the whiteness of indecipherable noise.'”

 

“Yes, I did.”

 

“Did you hear that somewhere?”

 

“I don’t think so.  Why?”

 

“I don’t know.  It sounds poetic…and true!  There is no need to make sense of the noise around you but rather use it as a comforting blanket with which to envelope yourself so you can meditate in silence upon what matters most to you.”

 

“I agree.”

 

“I was just thinking…”

 

“That’s a dangerous activity!”

 

“No kidding.  What if today was the last day of your life and you knew it?  What would you do?”

 

“Well, that’s partly why I’m here.  I’m worried that you do think today is the last day of your life.”

 

“Oh, no, none of that for me today.  But really, what would you do?  I mean, would it be important to say ‘goodbye’ to your loved ones?”

 

“Well, if it was important to you, I guess.”

 

“Well, I’m asking because you seem to live everyday like it was the last day on Earth.  Maybe that’s why you have no concept of time, no need for ‘free time.’  You seem to have found a way to live as if today is all you have.  I have been reading a set of interviews with mavericks of 20th Century music, including Milton Babbitt and Laurie Anderson.  From my reading, I have gathered that they figured out early in their lives that living for themselves was a primary driving force for living.  All of them overcame the ‘struggling artist’ phase to be able to support themselves as composers and/or players.  A few of them mentioned having friends, though, who were still struggling.  I feel like today is my last day on this planet.  If so, then tomorrow I would no longer be an active human burden on the ecosystem.  Perhaps that’s what I dream about most – finding a way to prevent present-day humans from destroying the usefulness of the planet for future human generations.”

 

“I know what you’re feeling.  I feel that way, too, sometimes, especially when I’m hiking or exploring the outdoors.”

 

“But then again, perhaps it is our destiny to wipe out the planet as we know it, and slowing it down is messing with the Great Plan.  Anyway, I’m glad you have found a way to enjoy life using the human socioeconomic system in Europe.  Even though I’m forty four, I suppose there’s hope for me yet!”

 

“Of course there is.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not sure what I want to be when I grow up.  I feel this great need to explore and be challenged and to try to understand people and idea, and somehow help the people I care about, while keeping the door open to new ones that may impact my life in a positive way.  I find money nice to have, but it’s not an end goal worthy of too much thought or consideration, and more of a hassle…”

 

“Absolutely.  Karen and I have no credit card debt, no car loans and the house will be paid off in a year.  We have a home equity line of credit we use so that we can deduct some of the loan interest off our taxes.  I contribute sixteen percent of my salary to my retirement, so I’ve got a pretty decent nest egg.  Therefore, I can easily keep drifting into a middle class retirement.  Is it enough?”

 

“Is it ‘just enough’?”

 

“Is it just?”

 

They both laughed.

 

“Well, David, maybe you’re not in as bad a shape as I thought.  Here it is, I wanted to call you to find out how you’re doing and yet I’m finding myself opening up to you.”

 

“You are talkative tonight.”

 

“So why am I telling you all of this?  Okay, first keep in mind that this is basically unfiltered straight out of my weary brain…”

 

“What time is it, anyway?”

 

“Three o’ clock.”

 

“Wow.  I don’t want to keep you up.”

 

“No, it’s okay.  I’m enjoying our conversation.  I guess that I see in you someone who didn’t set out in life to be a cog in the corporation wheel any more than I did.  You are a writer…yet as we both know, making ends meet as a writer can send one scurrying back into the welcoming, sometimes suffocating arms of corporate America…or Europe, of course.”

 

“No kidding.  Say, Eleanor, this is amazing.  Oddly enough, this is just the sort of conversation I have sought my whole life – thoughts from the mind of another writer.  Do you remember that poem you told me about?”

 

“‘The Journey’ by Mary Oliver?”

 

“Yeah, I think that was it.  The poem was very strong.  I have often wondered if I should brush off those who cling to me in an effort to find myself.  When I was 23, I abandoned my life – my job, my apartment, my girlfriend (who’s now my wife, by the way)…and the rest of my family – and I drove from Kingsport, Tennessee, to Seattle, Washington, to Los Angeles and back in 10 days.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah.  My parents debated reporting me as a missing person.  I returned home as the ‘prodigal son’.  The lesson I learned from that trip was that the love you hear sung about on the radio is really lust.  True love was demonstrated in the two hitchhikers I picked up, who stuck with each other even though they had nothing to keep them together.  I discovered that my life was not terrible, even if at that point I had done from a person with a full college scholarship at Georgia Tech in 1980 to a drug-dealing dishwasher at Steak & Ale who was living in a flea-ridden apartment in less than five years.  At least I had my writing.  And a loving family.  And a secure middle class life to fall back on.  Did I really want to be a struggling artist?”

 

“Ah, yes, isn’t that the question?”

 

I nodded and sighed.  “I guess the answer, twenty two years in the corporate and collegiate world later is ‘No’.”

 

“Is that bad?”

 

“I suppose not.  It’s just that it seems like it ought to be.  I look at the life of my brother in-law and he was living his life as he had imagined it as a child.  I always imagined I’d be a writer.”

 

“Do you remember writing me and telling me you were thinking of taking a sabbatical?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Part of me was saying, ‘Do it, David, just go!’  Because if you think you are in a place where you can make that break, the time you’ll receive will help you determine a direction that will make you happy and bring you peace.  By no means am I trying to get rid of you from the company but I think you need to take care of yourself now, so that you can give to and support the people important to you.  Am I making sense?”

 

“Yes.  Yes, you are.  I feel like I am treading in a pool of tears, tears of self pity and tears of sadness.  Every moment is difficult to bear, not knowing what, if anything, I want to say or do…or even think.  I can demean myself by comparing my state of mind to a survivor of the US 9/11 or UK 7/7 events, but why?”

 

“No reason at all.”

 

“I am not those survivors any more than I am anyone else.  Pain and suffering are personal, in any case.  Why should my recovery as a brother in-law be any better or easier than someone else’s?”

 

“Well, then…maybe instead of babbling, I should ask you what you want your life to be that it isn’t now, and what your dreams are?  And which of those dreams is most dear to you?  And then, you know what I’d do…that is, if we were sitting and having this chat over a cup of coffee instead of over the phone?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“I’d start asking you what you thought you needed to do to get there.  I’d ask you what you think the first steps are…what you think the road blocks are…what your fears are about taking that step…you know we all have them…and then, if I could, I’d try to come up with counterpoints to help you see how this dream is possible.  Because you know what?  Dreams are only impossible when our fears get in the way of taking the difficult steps to start them.  Sometimes this means we ignore the voices of people around us who mean well, but can’t guide us because they don’t understand, and taking the steps you know you need to take.”

 

“I…uh…”

 

“David, I’ll say one more thing.  I understand a bit of what you’re going through, and the pain of the loss will come in waves for a while, with ebbs and flows, but it will lessen.  Along the way, please take care of yourself!  If there is anything I can do, if you want to talk or vent…or even tell me to shut up and go away…please let me know.”

 

“Eleanor.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’m in awe.  Now I’m middle-aged, at least physically, assuming this body won’t live much more past its late 80s.  You talked about dreams and fears.  Well, I’ve been lucky, I guess.  I’ve lived them both.  I’ve shared my writing with fellow street bums, had poems and short stories published in university literary magazines, written articles for newspapers and self-published my books.  My fear of failure has been justified in having my writing rejected, just once or twice to know how it feels.

 

“I have accomplished the dreams that are truly important to me.  The only thing left for me now is to repeat myself.  Do I really want to start over?”

 

“If you have to, yes!”

 

“I have no answer to that question today.  I think I can hide in suburbia a bit longer.”

 

“David, don’t short change yourself.  You’re a good person.”

 

“So are you.  In fact, I see you as a closer, a person who completes what she started, an excellent example of a professional.  Perhaps that’s what separates ‘struggling artists’ from successful ones?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Maybe it’s just a fact that successful artists know how to close a deal.”

 

“I see your point.  But in that case, what is success?  Did Van Gogh consider himself a success?”

 

“More of a hack, I guess!”

 

Eleanor laughed.  “You’re terrible.”

 

“Whereas you’re a professional, I am a crafty amateur, or so I’ve been told.  I see myself as a dreamer or thinker.  I value time to free associate mentally.  I am only partially concerned with my thoughts becoming reality.  I’m pretty sure that a personality profile of me would show me not fitting into the role of program manager.  If not this job, then what?  You said you could sell any widget, as long as the people you meet help you grow as a person.”

 

“Yes, I did.”

 

“So is it necessarily sales that you need to be doing?”

 

“Not really.  But it’s what I seem to be good at and what seems to bring me the most personal satisfaction in my life right now…what I least call a ‘job’.”

 

“Ahhh…now you’re talking.  I see you in this job as a duck.”

 

“A duck, huh?”

 

“Yeah.  It’s like all the problems you’re facing roll off of you like water on a duck’s back.”

 

“I like that analogy.”

 

“You have little mental baggage.  I have little negative monetary baggage but lots of negative mental baggage.  To continue successfully into the second half of my life, I need to figure out if and how I want to reduce my negative mental baggage.”

 

“You know, part of getting rid of negative thoughts is to talk about it.”

 

“Yeah, even the preacher at my wife’s hometown church said that this past Sunday.  He told the congregation that if you have thoughts that are weighing down on you such as a guilty conscience, the best thing to do was pray to God and if that didn’t seem to work, he suggested you talk with a pastor, counselor or friend.”

 

“Well, that’s my I’m here.”

 

“Okay, in that case I’m going to tell you about my negative mental baggage.  Some of it you will not like…”

 

“Try me.”

 

“And you may be the one to tell me to go away by the time I finish telling you what’s on my mind.”

 

“I bet you’ll be surprised how much we have in common.”

 

“Maybe.  ‘Cause seemingly the number one problem for a testosterone driven guy like me is that I think about sexual activities way too much, especially when confronted by boredom, stress, waking up in the morning…exposure to TV, magazines, billboards, the Internet, et cetera.”

 

“And what are you saying, that women don’t think about sex?”

 

“Well, certainly from talking with my wife, women are more interested in romance than sex.”

 

“Have you read a romance novel lately?”

 

“I can’t say that I’ve ever read a romance novel.”

 

“Well, they’re not exactly innocent tales of romance.”

 

“I didn’t think of you as a romance novel reader.”

 

“Oh, well, I’m not.  I’m just trying to make a point.  I don’t think your sexual thoughts are as bad as you think.  In fact, I’ve been thinking about our conversation at the San Francisco Coffee House in Munich and I realize that maybe I was coming across to you as a prude.”

 

“You were a bit critical that night.”

 

“Well, it’s not that sex doesn’t cross a woman’s mind, it’s that it’s not dressed up in black and white, so to speak.  It’s more than just the thought of a particular act.  It’s also the events surrounding the act…I guess I’m trying to say it’s the whole thing, not just the pieces.  Am I making sense?  I’m pretty tired.”

 

“Yes, of course, it makes sense.  You’re just giving romance a different name, that’s all.”

 

“Precisely.  Anyway, I think if you worried less about it, then sex wouldn’t become that big a deal.”

 

“Well, to be honest, every time I see a woman I automatically think I have to put myself on display, like some robotic peacock.”

 

“But everyone is that way.  It’s not just you or just guys, it’s also women.  It’s also primates and other animals.  It’s our natural instincts.  In other words, you’re letting yourself be ruled by your animal self.  When you realize there’s so much more to you than that, you open yourself up to more possibilities.”

 

“I suppose you’re right.  It’s just that this job seems to get my hormones pumping like I’m a heroin addict or something.”

 

“Well, that’s something I don’t have an immediate answer for you.  It takes some amount of training, though.  What else is bothering you?”

 

“Look, Eleanor, I know it’s late.  To be as busy as you are, learning a new job and meeting new friends, and yet be able to find time to share your thoughts with me is nice enough as it is.  Don’t you think you ought to get some sleep?”

 

“Luckily, I don’t have anything serious to do until tomorrow afternoon so if you need to keep talking, I’ll keep listening.”

 

“I want to say that I wish you all the best.  You will surely continue to build upon your reputation as a reliable, funny person in whatever vocation you choose.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I hope you find enlightenment along the way that enlivens and enriches your circle of influence.  I saw in the news the other day that marriage is now a minority category for those who choose to live together.  Should you choose to settle down one day, I hope your partner brings you new surprises all the time.”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

“By the way, I know my moods and anticipate I am entering a long depressive phase.  Rather than drag you down with more words, I hope you will accept my invitation to say goodbye as an apology for the period of silence between this phone call and the next one we have.”

 

“So you’re really wanting to say good night?”

 

“Well, almost.”

 

“I thought so.  So what’s really on your mind?”

 

“Well, I’m pretty sure you call yourself a Christian…”

 

“And?”

 

“…and I don’t know that we have the same set of beliefs.”

 

“Well, that’s okay.  I’m not going to preach to you tonight, if there’s something you need to say.”

 

“Well, I’ve got a quote from Ben Franklin that I’d like to send you that sums up my belief.”

 

“Is it in front of you?”

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

“Then go ahead and tell me what it says.”

 

“Okay.  ‘As to Jesus of Nazareth, my opinion of whom you particularly desire, I think the system of morals and his religion, as he left them to us, the best the world ever saw or is likely to see; but I apprehend it has received various corrupting changes, and I have, with most of the present Dissenters in England, some doubts as to his divinity; though it is a question I do not dogmatize upon, having never studied it, and think it needless to busy myself with it now, when I expect soon an opportunity of knowing the truth with less trouble.  I see no harm, however, it its being believed, if that belief has the good consequence, as it probably has, of making his doctrines more respected and better observed, especially as I do not perceive that the Supreme takes it amiss, by distinguishing the unbelievers in his government of the world with any peculiar marks of his displeasure.'”

 

“Very interesting.”

 

“You read, you talk to others, you watch and learn from real people.  I read, I watch TV or work on the computer, I watch and learn from actors speaking lines.  Sure, we’re snowflakes but it’s still fall.  We’ve yet to blanket fallen leaves, our uniqueness hidden by the blinding reflection of our collectiveness.  I cannot hide here now, my energy pours out to you over the phone.  Words.  Sentences.  Paragraphs.  Ideas.  Emotions.  All that was and is David Colline.  All to the person that is and will be Eleanor Glass.  I cannot see you.  I cannot be you.  I can only be here, straining to remember a voice, a story or stride.  Too tired to think, too tired to remember and almost time for bed.  Driven to speak but nothing to say, just waiting for the next moment to weave these words into a story.  Such is the rhythm of life – nothing wrong with that, huh?  No need to be down!”

 

“Indeed.  Did Ben Franklin say that, too?”

 

“What?  Oh no, its me.”

 

“Gee.  Sounds like you’re on a roll here.”

 

“Sorry.  I just got a burst of energy there.  I wanted to get everything out.”

 

“You seem better or at least, you sound better, anyway.”

 

“I guess I am.  I bet you’re dog tired.”

 

“I don’t know about the dog part but I am tired.  Do you mind if we pick this up in a few days?”

 

“Not at all.  But I may write you an email in the meantime.”

 

“Have at it.  I’m going to bed.  I’ll talk to you soon.  And I’m really glad we got to talk.  I don’t know why we don’t do it more often.”

 

“No ‘free time’?”

 

Eleanor laughed.  “Yeah.  Something like that.  Good night.”

 

“‘Night.”

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

I hung up the phone with a smile on my face.  I had even almost forgotten about my elder “self” visiting me.  While I was in the mood, I pushed the cats to the floor and walked into the front bedroom (my study), grabbing a pen and paper to draft a handwritten letter to Eleanor.

 

 

Eleanor,

 

We tend to read material that we deem will have some usefulness for us.  Today, I do not promise these words will or can be used by you.  I can barely keep track of the English grammar rules and word definitions necessary for communication between two American English users.  In other words, I won’t be upset if there’s no response from you to these words.  I’m sending them to you as a signal to me that it’s sometimes okay to exist without simultaneously having to find a reason to justify my existence by hoping for a response from another person.  I suppose I could just write these words and throw them in the trash but I know that I might find a use for them in the thoughts of an autobiographical/fictional character one day (and isn’t it interesting that we use the word “character” to refer to a person who exists only in an artistic work (short story, novel, movie, play, etc.) as well as a single letter in a computer file?

 

My mind, whatever that is, is numb today.  The numbness dulls my senses, leaves me in a state of near non-existence, where my societally trained persona does not know who or what it is.  There is a feeling of dissociation (or is that dis-association?).  Not only do I forget the meaning of words, I forget who I’m supposed to be.  I also can’t recall if I’m supposed to care who I am.  Certainly, I can’t change my physical existence very much while I’m sitting here writing.  Therefore, I can quickly assess that I look like a northern European descendant of the male gender who is medically obese and near the middle point of his natural life.  I will never escape that fact, no matter how much I want to pretend.  But what does that mean?  Sometimes, a saxophone sounds like something else entirely.  I am the musical instrument and musician and composer and audience.  What musical piece do I want to write and hear myself play?  ♫ ♪ Do-be-du-wah ♪♫

 

But right now I face a dilemma.  I know why I’m numb but I don’t know if I want to do anything to fix it.  I’m numb because my life is not very enjoyable.  I don’t want to do anything radical to change myself, or at least I think that’s true.  Many issues weigh on my mind, some of them at completely opposite sides of popular social issues, and few of which will never be recorded on paper.

 

I have your correspondence here in front of me as a reminder that you have and will respond to my writing.  I have warned you about sharing very private thoughts with me by promising to put some of our correspondence into a story.  I warned myself, also.  Our thoughts are the last bastion of freedom on this planet.  I value freedom of thought above all else.  I have sacrificed myself on the altar of middle class living so that I would have time to build a sanctuary where I could sit and think.  I have given up a life as a volunteer with public charities when I saw I was becoming a spokesman for the local botanical garden, appearing on TV several times.  I gave up being a reporter when it became obvious the editor wanted newspaper stories to contain more opinions.  I gave up the physical pursuit of women when I found out they wanted to know what I was thinking.  And now, I find that the job I’m in is requiring most of my higher brain functions, leaving me too tired to think or write.

 

I am numb.  I am numb and don’t know what I want to do with myself.

 

I discovered that numbness can be okay sometimes.  Or at least I think I discovered that some time ago.  I…well, it’s curiously funny, but…hmm…I can’t remember what I was going to say.  “Knowing that others can read these words” is a thought that pops up in my mind sometimes and startles me so much that I stop my train of thought and can’t recall what I was just thinking about.

 

When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a hermit who lived in the woods.  I even told my friends that I’d be happy as a ditch digger if I could just have time to read, write and live in natural surroundings.  In some ways, I’m close to that ideal – living in the woods with Karen, in a modest house that’s almost paid off – but what I’ve learned since my childhood is that my writing is directly tied to people I meet.  I enjoy meeting people who are a little bit different so that I have something interesting to write about.  What would I write about if I only lived in the woods?

 

So even in my numbness, I can write and read.  I have not completely lost my ability to focus and filter out all of my surroundings except these ink markings on pressed pulp.

 

Being numb is not the problem.  Deciding who will be the persona I project when the numbness goes away is.  Will I be bland/normal or slightly eccentric?  Will I hold a “regular” job or earn a living in some other way?  Today, I am numb and do not know.

 

 

David

 

P.S. The path of discovery is overgrown with weeds and the way ahead is completely blocked.  I think I’m lost.

 

 

 

Chapter 9

 

At work the next day, I got the funny feeling people were talking about me, especially since one of my coworkers joked about my being rich.  Even more odd, I was stopped in a stairway by a recently widowed coworker.  She gave me the look of lust and leaned very close to me.  I felt like she was insincere and trying to trap me.  Very odd behavior from her because she is usually so professional.  In any case, I decided to write a story disguised as a letter to her.

 

Dear Stranger,

 

I consider myself a writer because I like to write.  I do not consider myself an expert in anything but it doesn’t stop me from writing about what I don’t know.

 

For instance, I don’t know you.  That in itself should be reason enough to avoid an error in judgment by writing words for your edification.  With that said, I’ll write a story for your entertainment.  If you enjoy the words, keep them.  If you don’t enjoy the words, feel free to throw them away.

 

“A Place I’d Dearly Love to Be”

 

Some folks grab your attention and won’t let go.  Some aspect of their personalities, whether it’s a certain smile or perfume even, something about them tells you you haven’t seen the last of ’em.  Not even saying that’s bad.  It’s just a fact.

 

Do I remember the first time I met Na’radmi?  I was snared by the complex web of her personality traits, at least by the second or third time I met her.  On the surface, she was a typical gal from Texas.  Just trying to think back on our first encounter wears me out, like I somehow outsmarted a sly desert fox as a jack rabbit hopping across the dry plains of west Texas.  The funny thing is I’m an old boy who, like the character in a George Strait song, used to hang my hat in Tennessee, only I don’t have any “ex’s”.

 

Some might say this is a paradox to be wished for, to recognize, to enjoy, the attention of another while at the same time wondering if being ignored would have been better.  Kinda like an old cowhand who can’t decide if he should jump off the fence and rope the wild bronco or drop off into the pasture and walk the fence looking for breaks in the barbed wire.  Both need to be done at some point but not necessarily by the same person.

 

Na’radmi, though, is not just from Texas and she ain’t no Tejano, neither.  No, her blood line flows from the Orient, you can clearly see.  So what does that mean?  I cannot say (or rather, cannot tell).  Her personality does immediately give out a U.S.-centric point of view.

 

Even so, these are all just first impressions.  These are just the masks she wears.  When the makeup is off, when her guard is down, who is the person she sees in the mirror?

 

Certainly, she sees the mother of her children, and she gladly remembers being the wife of their father (perhaps sadly).  What does she wish for?  What future does she imagine?  What is in her head when her eyes light up at the start of a hearty laugh?  Does she know?

 

Most importantly, where does she call home?  What place does she feel most comfortable?  Is it physical or virtual space?  Would being comfortable in her presence be enough not to care about anything else going on in the world?

 

Life is not a mystery but it can be mysterious.  Wondering what pushes Na’radmi up out into the world every day will remain a mystery to me, and that saddens me a bit.  She has my attention, completely so, yet I know little about her and possibly never will.  Though I’ll never know all six billion people on this planet, I’d like to learn from those I’ve met.

 

Suddenly, I’m very tired, almost out of breath.  I’ve spent the better part of 24 hours pondering a pair of blue eye shadowed, perfumed eyes I met on the staircase of the front lobby at work.  I’m worn out from a lack of sleep.  Some folks would say I’m hiding from myself, but I keep a glowing ember burning alive and well for the feeling I get with I see eyes like hers, especially when they’re facing me from the next step up.

 

= = =

 

Well, I hope you liked the story, more like a prose poem, I guess, inspired by a girl from Texas I once met.  Suppose I should get back to work, such that it is.  The job’s not nearly as important as the people I work with.

 

Have a great day!

 

David

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

The days at work went by in a blur.  I tried to write every chance I got, but it was difficult to come up with a storyline that I could follow in my head, let alone put into words on paper.  Eventually, I gave up.  I told myself that writing a novel was useless and would accomplish nothing.

 

I checked email and got a message from my father.  It simply read, “Son, you once commented about the joy of silence and I understood what you meant.  But if you are having trouble, silence is not always best.  We are concerned about you.  Love, Dad.”

 

I wrote my folks a letter.

 

Mom and Dad,

 

Several thoughts, themes and ideas running through my mind right now on this sunny late October day in northern Alabama.  For some folks, religious study is a matter of attending a social gathering and jointly coming to an understanding of a deeper meaning in their lives through the interpretation of ancestral text.  For me, I gain a better understanding of my condition by sitting here meditating on the written words about to be put down on the paper in front of you.  I do enjoy seeing the folks who gather weekly at the Presbyterian churches I have attended but I do not desire to see them on a weekly basis.

 

This morning, I went to the local chapter of the American Red Cross to donate platelets via a process nicknamed pheresis.  The nurses I see are just as much family to me as your friends at Colonial Heights Presbyterian Church.  In this life, I’ll never know if by attending church I have helped someone gain an eternal life in the presence of a Judeo-Christian God but at least by donating my platelets I know I have given medical personnel the opportunity to give someone a longer life on this planet.  Is one activity better than the other?  I cannot say.  All I can do is perform the act that I can best understand.  I do not understand the act of studying the same text over and over.

 

I sit in the sunroom of our house, my usual spot for meditating, with the usual sounds around me – the gurgle of the garden waterfall, the chirp of the chickadees, the soft sensation of music from the “wireless” speakers  and an added bonus this time of year, the rustle of autumn leaves.  Miniscule (sp?) insects hang in the air just as they hung around me while I was cutting out a dying set of euonymus bushes earlier today.  Forty or so feet in front of me I see the half-acre hole in the woods where our neighbor decided to clear off trees.  I’m sure that Little Mountain has been cleared of trees more than once because no tree appears more than 60 or 70 years old.  Even so, I understand the sympathy of our neighbors, the Rattlers, when they told us, “You killed all our flowers,” on our first visit with them, even though we had not yet purchased the property.  Our friend, Vincent, observed from Green Mountain the slicing and dicing of the southern end of Little Mountain.  Sigh…it certainly can’t be too many years before the land behind us is carved into lots.  I cannot stop the expansion of humankind so I am left to wonder when our pace of consumption will be slowed or stopped by the lack of material to consume.

 

Speaking of a standard of living, Karen and I met with a financial advisor this past week.  According to our counselor, we can retire at any time now, albeit on a limited income.  Karen figures we’d like to pay off the house (first and second mortgage) which we can possibly accomplish next year.  Then, we’d have no large outstanding debt and could afford to live on a smaller cost of living.  We haven’t worked out all the details yet but we’ll keep you posted.

 

[I just got off the phone a little while ago so my train of thought for this letter has been broken.  Elizabeth called because she misunderstood (or received misunderstood info) that I was traveling to Munich.  Assuming I’m traveling to Germany, I’ll be staying in the Paderborn area, several hundred kilometers north of Munich.]

 

Anyway, getting back to the current theme, Karen and I have been talking about taking a break from the high-paced, high tech work life and enjoying a semi-retirement for two or three years.  We haven’t decided yet what or when we’ll change but no doubt about the fact that we’re ready for a change.  We don’t have children so why should we work our whole lives?

 

I apologize if my writing seems stilted or contains errors.  Having gotten up early and donated plasma, along with an afternoon glass of wine, has hampered my ability to function 100 percent.  I did not want to miss this chance to write one of my rare letters to you.  It seems that handwritten letters are becoming an extinct species these days and it’s a shame, in a way.  Taking the time to think before writing is a luxury we should be able to afford.  Typing on the computer is easier, of course, but it doesn’t force the writer to compose thoughts, even ruminate upon them, before committing them to paper.

 

There are only one or two people who write to me in this way.  One is a fellow member of Kingfisher Presbyterian Church, Tracy Flaherty, who you may have met at Louann’s house after Karen’s brother’s funeral.  She has been kind enough to send us inspirational notes, on occasion.  Otherwise, our mailbox has had a pretty poor diet of bills and junk mail.  And to think, today’s generation of kids think that emails are a slow form of communication, preferring the “short” form of instant messaging.  Our mainstream society seems to spin faster and faster – are we really getting anywhere or does it just feel that way?

 

Last night, the time changed.  When I would normally sit here at four in the afternoon and enjoy the late afternoon sun glowing just over the top of the mountain, I now get to feel the coolness of evening settle in and see the early evening visitors eat at the bird feeders – the mourning doves, cardinals, and a few last-minute chickadee-dees.  Over the years of watching our backyard feeders, I’ve experienced many generations of young birds growing up.  As little ones, they will follow their mother to the feeder – some will wait for the mother to feed them and some will hope around in youthful energy grabbing food – chirping in their desire to eat.  As the seasons pass and some of the young ones disappear, the survivors appear more and more cautious, distinctly aware of the constant threat of predators.  By wintertime, the migratory birds are gone and all I’ll see and hear are the timid chickadees, titmice, flickers, cardinals and doves.  The chickadees are numerous this afternoon.

 

So, as I end this meditation session, what can I make of my place in the universe?  I guess I realize that there is no such thing as the natural world.  We humans are part of nature and our habit is to consume more than the local environment can sustain in order to gather up a bounty to protect us against future slowdowns.  We have no natural predators other than ourselves and the unintentional destruction of human civilization via natural disasters.  Karen and I have participated wholeheartedly in human civilization, gathering so much more than we need that we can contemplate dropping out of the mainstream consumption role during our midlife years.  We make no apologies for our behavior and hope that society stays constant enough to allow us to enjoy our bounty for a while.

 

Enough for now.  Time for a nap.  Talk to you soon.

 

Love, David

Chapter 11

 

After my nap, I thought about the events of the previous week.  The next day, I decided to write my father a man-to-man email.

 

Dad,

 

Just when I thought I could settle in to a nice, comfortable anonymous existence as some overweight, middle-aged man, I get untoward advances from women I work with or encounter at various places (even at the Red Cross yesterday while I was donating platelets).  I don’t know if you ever had those “problems” but getting passes from women is definitely not something I am used to.

 

As a comedian once said, “I can resist anything but temptation.”  It sure is interesting to lead a life where I don’t hold myself up to some high moral ideals but when a prime low moral issue comes up, I’m at a loss as to how to respond.  Drinking has never been a moral issue for me – I rarely resist the opportunity to get toasted at a bar (hoping that I’ll find my way home).  Sexual activities, in even the most casual non-contact form, are not so easy to resolve morally.  I’ve never denied myself the right to look at a woman’s body but I haven’t figured out a truly innocent way of complimenting a woman on the shape of her body so sometimes my comments are a bit crude or suggestive (in other words, I don’t see that I have to give in to recent social mores and be politically correct).  Recently, I have misled a couple of women in what I thought were innocent flirting conversations – one thought I was looking to take advantage of being in Germany away from my wife and one woman expected me to engage in a little hanky panky on the stairwell here at work – when they realized that I was just playing along and not being serious about their offers, they were put off (the first one was adult enough to recognize that I put my marriage in front of any casual sexual encounter; I have no idea how the second one has responded (I imagine she has made comments to her work colleagues)).  It appears that my geeky childhood when I didn’t learn the art/rules of flirting is coming back to haunt me!

 

Some days, being a “no holds barred” adult is not what it’s cracked up to be.  I suppose I shouldn’t have made James Bond my hero in my youth and dressed like him as an adult if I had known that I’d get married and lose the opportunity for a role in the hay with the women who see my as their available version of “Chuck Norris” or “Richard Branson”.

 

Kind of funny in a way.  I live in a society where divorce and adultery are acceptable, or at least forgivable in the “high moral” Protestant churches to which I’ve belonged.  Yet, despite my not being a strong follower of the Church’s teachings, I place the sanctity of marriage above nonchalant, adulterous sex.  I really should recognize that I am not the wild secret agent that my Walter Mitty mind imagines.  I may hold to the tenet that “live and let die” is not only a good title for a James Bond film but also a pretty decent guide to living; however, there are more complex/contradictory issues to resolve in my personal code of ethics than I let on.

 

In other words, I see another good story to write!  Attached are a couple of stories I wrote that addressed similar moral dilemmas when I was in Germany.

 

Thanks for listening.

 

Your son,

David

 

 

 

Chapter 12

 

I noticed that I had an email from Eleanor saying that although she was as busy as ever, she was still concerned about me, asking me to further detail my “negative mental baggage”.  Here’s what I said.

 

DAVID’S NEGATIVE MENTAL BAGGAGE

 

1. I already told you about my number one problem, too many sexual thoughts.  I’m working on getting that one off the list.  May have to quit job to get stress-driven testosterone levels down to acceptable level.

 

2. I categorize people according to physical stereotypes, including gender, body style, race and nationality.  I typically look at these as negative stereotypes, of which I am doubtful of their friendliness to me.  In a crowd, I quickly scare myself into a corner or out of a room.

 

3. I am afraid of money.  I do not like having money within easy reach of me because I simply want to spend it to get its thief-attracting, greedy capabilities away from me.  Automatic retirement savings account deposits are a godsend.

 

4. I have a chameleon personality and adapt to those around me, deferring to the opinions of others rather than stand out.  I have been told this is due to the lack of assertiveness skills – I fail to assert myself because I don’t want to offend others.  Some of this behavior has diminished with age (i.e., I have become a lot cruder than I used to be).

 

5. I feel guilty and cannot forgive myself for some of my past behavior, including drug use and sexual activity, and attitude toward my ancestors’ worship of an omnipotent being.

 

6. I would rather embellish the truth or lie in order to capture someone’s attention than tell the truth and have a person walk away disinterested.  I have been turning this behavior into short story writing ever since 5th grade.  I have been lying ever since 1st grade, however!

 

7. My first response to the feeling of being trapped into doing something I don’t want to do is have suicidal thoughts.  I have never seriously acted out on those thoughts but twice, once in 1985 and once in 1990, I ceremoniously acted upon suicidal thoughts (what I call “S”).  My coping mechanism has improved but I still have the thoughts.  To me, it’s like being an alcoholic craving the escape of a drink.  The desire is the thing, not the act.

 

Well, that certainly hits the highlights of the negative thoughts that spin in my head almost everyday.  So, if I should take up your offer of the virtual conversation over a virtual cup of coffee, I’d say to you, “Well, Eleanor, as one adult to another, if you were to look this over, are there any items on this list that are worth living another forty four years to overcome?”  If not, then what else can I figure out that is worth living for?

 

Thank you for reading through these words.  I am a difficult person to live with (just ask my wife) because I question everything with the sternness of an Army drill sergeant (remnants of my father, no doubt).  Many people spend their lives putting themselves down mentally.  I try to spend time finding out the good in myself and others – sometimes I succeed and sometimes I fail.  When I fail, look out!  The profanity flies!

 

Hopefully, we can continue this conversation, even with delayed responses (I call them timely silences).

 

Always seeking,

David

 

 

 

Chapter 13

 

After finishing the email, I realized that I’d better get busy preparing for my participation in the 2006 National Novel Writing Month event, which had started on 1 November and I was several days behind in my word count.

 

Basically, NaNoWriMo (or NaNo), as it’s called, is the following, in a nutshell:

 

GOAL: NaNoWriMo 2006 “winner” writes 50000 words by 30 November 2006

 

To achieve that goal, I set the following milestones for myself:

 

MILESTONES:

* Week 1, 07 November: 13000 words

* Week 2: 14 November: 26000 words

* Week 3: 21 November: 39000 words

* Week 4: 30 November: 50000 words

 

It seems that NaNoWriMo was started back in the heady days of the Internet boom, around 1999, if I recall correctly (and as tired as I am, I’m not sure).  A guy somewhere in California, near Silicon Valley no doubt, came up with the idea of writing a novel in one month, with the goal of writing 50000 words in that time span.  From the dullness of my mind, I seem to remember that he and a few of his friends actually wrote 50000 words that first year.

 

Since then, the event has become a phenomenon so that in 2006 at least 70000 people entered the world of the 30-day novelist.

 

I had heard about it several years ago and thought it would be fun and challenging to participate but never got the nerve to try it.  In 2006, I decided “What the hell!” and signed up for it.  After reading about the successful track to follow in the book, “No Plot, No Problem,” I wrote an outline to help me pace myself throughout the month, knowing that the death of my brother in-law would be a mental distraction, with its requisite feeling of despondency on occasion.

 

[In any case, I’ve put the original outline for this story in the appendix, just to show you I had good intentions of telling a satirical story about my early childhood.  Instead, I find myself here now wondering how I even survived to the point where I could tell you the real story about the past few years, and how a measly 30 days or so set the stage for the rest of my life, or at least my life up to this point.]

 

So, anyway, I guess I better back up a few days.  On Saturday, 21 October, I drove over to the Barnes & Noble bookstore on University Drive to meet folks for the pre-kickoff meeting for NaNoWriMo participants.  I arrived about 15 minutes of noon and ate a sandwich in the cafe.  I then waited for the leaders to arrive.  While I was waiting, I worked on my outline.  I saw a few other folks also typing on their notebook computers and assumed they were there for the same reason.  However, I didn’t want to interrupt so I waited.

 

About 30 minutes after noon, a heavyset fellow and an equally heavy woman arrived wearing NaNoWriMo shirts.  They recognized some of the people in the room and began to pull tables together.  I was in the middle of a brainstorm, remembering a good bit of my childhood, so I kept working on the outline.

 

After the group of would-be writers settled down, I walked over, introduced myself to them and asked if they were there for the NaNoWriMo event, just in case it was a coincidence that a bunch of people with computers were getting together at the same time and same place for some other event and the two most outgoing people there were also just happening to be wearing NaNoWriMo T-shirts.  Not likely, of course, but chalk it up to my normal reticent behavior.

 

I sat at the end of the table, next to a cute brunette on my left who had striking eyes and plucked eyebrows.  I instantly fell in love with her, dammit!  Yes, yes, I know.  It’s not supposed to happen to a married guy with a relatively normal marriage.  Even so, I was smitten, and looking back, I should have figured out that it was going to be my downfall.  But really, how could I have seen that falling in love with this particular woman was going to be different than any other man or woman I see and fall in love with the image of myself I see in them?

 

After introductions, the leaders, White Bear and Red Herring, told us a little bit about the event and what to expect.  They told the six of us that they were sorry they had not brought any “swag” from NaNoWriMo but promised they’d have some for us at the official kickoff dinner, which was going to take place on Friday, 27 Oct 2006, at Jade Palace restaurant.  The whole time they were talking I couldn’t help but notice that the brunette kept looking at me out of the corner of her eye.  I felt that she, too, had taken an instant liking to me.  I pretended not to notice and instead went around the table asking people how long they’d participated and what they’d written about.

 

The guy on my right, Sad Morgon, had written for a few years and only missed the contest once.  He tended to write about science fiction.  The guy next to him had long hair and looked like the modern hip IT guy most companies had.  He also liked to write science fiction on occasion but wanted to try something else.  Red Herring said she was going to write a story about a woman who was half white and half black (“White by Day, Black by Night” was one idea for her book title, although from her research it appeared other folks had written books with similar titles and similar story lines.  Even so, she planned to tell the story from her perspective, from the three years she spent living on the Alabama A&M college campus).

 

White Bear had perked up when I mentioned to Sad that I had a science fiction streak in me and had tried making a Borg costume for Halloween one year.  He turned his laptop around and showed us pictures from the Dragon*Con events he’d attended.  I told him that a former employee of mine had been to the Dragon*Con convention several times.  While we were sitting there, I Google’d my employee’s name and found that he’d been awarded the R2D2 award for his dedicated service during Dragon*Con.

 

For the life of me, I can’t remember much about the two people who sat between White Bear and my favorite brunette, whose name was Florry DeShy, by the way.  I turned to her to find out more about her, and then my cell phone rung.

 

My nephew called to ask me if I’d meet him at the local Toyota dealership to help him in the negotiation for the purchase of his very first new car.  I told him I’d meet him there soon.  While I was on the phone with him, Florry left the table.  While she was gone, I called my wife and told her that I’d told our nephew we’d meet him at the dealership at 1:30.

 

Florry returned to the table so I turned my attention to her.  Sigh…  I still remember her fresh, young face.  She seemed like an interesting person to hold a conversation with.  I was so wrapped up in my dreamy, love-induced state, that I missed much of what she said.  I did remember that she had cheated on the contest one year, using some of her old writing as filler when she was falling behind and really wanted to finish the 50000 words.  I thought it was cool that she had the courage to tell everyone that.  From what I gathered, she probably wasn’t the only one at the table who had cheated a bit.  In fact, Red Herring told us that it was okay to use some of our previous writing as long as it was used for building a character or adding to a scene but we couldn’t just willy-nilly copy some of our old writing or the flying monkeys would find us and punish us.

 

I wanted to stay there and hear more of what Florry had to say but time passed quickly, too quickly, and I had to go meet my nephew.

 

At the dealership, my wife and I helped him get several hundred dollars knocked off the final price so we felt we had performed a fairly decent job of helping him out.

 

That night, I lay in bed, realizing how much I was turned on by Ms. DeShy.  I kept thinking over and over:

 

1. She is pretty.

2. She is single.

3. I am married.

4. She looks like my wife.

5. Why do I keep letting myself fall in love with women I can do nothing about?

 

 

 

Chapter 14

 

The next day, I was extremely depressed, wondering if I’d ever stop falling in love with women or be able to do something about it.  Of course, I knew that I’d always find a way to express my life through words.

 

For instance, when I had first met Eleanor in Redmond, Washington, I had ended up going out to a local brewery with her and several of her coworkers.  Eve though I had a GPS system, I followed her to the brewery in my rental car.  When we first got there, I noticed that she positioned herself on a sofa arm so that her leg was naturally pressed against mine.  I thought it was a subtle signal that she was interested in me.  I didn’t want to tell her no so I left my leg pressed against her a little longer than I should.  In fact, it really was the wrong signal.  Eventually, I got up and mingled with the other folks there, since I was only in Redmond for a few days and needed to get to know as many of these long-distance coworkers of mine before I left Redmond.  As Eleanor left, I thought she gave me all the opportunity to leave the restaurant with her (“I can drive you back to your place,” that sort of thing) but I respectfully declined.  I stayed at the brewery and had a few more beers while getting to know some of the folks there.  After the crowd thinned out considerably, I left.  Back at the hotel, I drafted her the following letter, taking a chance that she understood I was a writer who liked to put his thoughts on paper and not necessarily a person who acted upon his thoughts.

 

 

 

Eleanor,

 

Thanks again for your hospitality this week.  After I left the Red Hook Brewery, I sat down at my desk in my hotel room and drafted the following letter.  Rereading it, I see that sometimes it’s best not to write when I have a few beers in me.  Oh well, the general sentiment is still the same so I’ll pass it on to you.

 

— David

 

 

 

Eleanor,

 

The first word is always the hardest to put down on paper so I decided that the infamous word, “teh”, would be spelled “the”, against the email spelling preference of our mutual acquaintance, Ramesh.  Wow, what a week!  Where do I begin to describe the roller coaster ride called, “Four Days with Eleanor”?

 

Right now, I sit here savoring the flavors of Red Hook, wondering what I’ll record this evening.  As you saw today at the office, I had a lot of gizmos – electronic doodads –  with me.  At this moment, I listen to some preludes and fugues of Johann Sebastian Bach playing from a 100-gigabyte portable hard drive into a cheap set of headphones I bought for the flight from Huntsville to SEATAC.  I tell you this so you know that there is a piece of Eddie from Engineering Services in me – in other words, well…anyway, as we said, I can understand Eddie’s language but I just don’t speak it everyday.

 

Can you believe you’re moving to Germany in a few days?  I’m so envious, I just want to die.  No, strike that!  I don’t want to die, I want to scream with joy for you!  Despite all the logistical stuff…cleaning, packing, renting, etc….  Forgive my French but fuck, you are leaving the US!  I want to say you are so lucky but what does luck have to do with it?  What about all the long hours you’ve put in?  Five and a half years, too.

 

I can’t say how long this letter will be because I don’t know – my earlier ambition in life was to be a writer but I gave it all up to make money as a project planner so length of this letter and quality of writing depend on at least two factors – topic of conversation and quantity of beer.  1) You’re a fascinating topic, and 2) I left 3/4 of a pitcher of beer at Red Hook so I could drive back to the hotel and write.

 

Eleanor, I’ve had the opportunity to get to know you in a very compressed timeframe.  I claim to know very little about you – what I do know about you could fill up pages, and will.

 

You, in turn, know little about me, so I’ll do my best to reveal myself with these words while I celebrate the ceremony of the passing of the OEM program management baton from you to me.

 

Eleanor, I doubt you need to hear it but I’ll say it anyway.  You are a beautiful person!  I’m a guy so my visual color palette is limited.  Based on what I’ve observed, your face (skin color and eye color) is best complimented by brown-toned clothes.  Up close, your freckles are cute.  Sorry if this sounds weird but I’ve had to sit next to you this week and observe every nuance and reaction to other so I can understand what the OEM program management job has meant to you.  In a sense, and I hope you don’t take it the wrong way, I, because I look in the mirror and am in love with the person I see, I have looked at you and learned to love you as a reflection of me.  The same goes for Ramesh, Jane, Kitty, Fred, Scott, etc.  You are an adult and I trust you know what I mean.  It’s like the old saying, “If you’re not with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”  Honestly, I wake up every morning wondering who I’ll fall in love with.  This week, it has been you.  But it’s also been Chris, Susan, Tony, Kris, Lisa, Linda and Kim.  But right now, because I’m not writing letters to Lawrence or Dianna, I’ll torture you about you.  All I can say is that I’m glad you won’t be at work tomorrow.  It frees me up to write these words so I can deposit them at the Redmond office and be on my way.

 

Earlier this week I saw the play, “Tuesdays with Morrie.”  It reminded me that I truly value every waking moment of my life and I value every person I meet because I may never see that person again.  As you know, our lives are about the people we know and what we do with them.  My God, Eleanor, to see your pictures today of the Munich light show in winter – to know that you were there, no matter how random your visit might have been, or even in fact because of the randomness, I don’t know.  To be able to share the beauty of the moment with you was special, you know.  You’ll certainly be able to share those pictures with your mother this weekend, and I hope you do.  I hope you take a moment to share the memories of the snow, lasers, and Germany with the part of you inside you that is your father.

 

You have incorporated your father into your personality very well – I see it as a silent tribute to him.  I have no idea what he meant to you, to be honest, but if what I’ve seen of you in the past few days is any indication of what he meant to you then he was a very special person, someone who you will NEVER be able to replace.  At least your mother has a lot of children to spend time with now.  I’m glad you’ll have this weekend to spend with her.

 

Eleanor, you can’t see it but I’m at the brink of crying now, seeing that picture of your large family, feeling jealous of not only all the wonderful siblings who you spent time with but feeling jealous of your life – your hiking adventures to Kilimanjaro, etc., and future adventures in Europe.

 

Anyway, I’m getting tired.  As much as I want to record the tidbits of conversation I’ve shared with you and your coworkers this week (how can I ever forget the honest shock on the face of Alex when you told him you were “abandoning” him to move to Germany?)…well, how many times do you get to spend a week long going-away tour with a colleague?  Let’s just say it’s been a privilege, blessing and curse, all in one breath!

 

You know what, I think I’ve figured it out.  I’m shell-shocked.  Either that or I’ve got survivor’s guilt.  You’re going away while I and your workmates in Redmond are still here.  It’s this strange combination of your friends in Redmond mourning your loss while coming to grips with a guy from Huntsville taking your place.  It’s only a matter of time before the death toll beats for the rest of the Redmond office (at least according to all the subtle messages I’ve received this week from your Redmond colleagues).

 

I envy you.  You have no TV in your house, which can only mean that actual interactions with human beings are the only interactions that matter.  I, on the other hand, can reference characters on TV shows as if they were human beings I’ve spent time with.  In other words, I have spent this week observing you like were a TV show character.  What I have learned is that you are more complex than you appear to be (or sound like).  You are an English major who took a calculus class for the FUN of it.

 

We are humans so we are all complex creatures, contrary to our desires for simplicity.  As this day winds down, or at least as I wind down and climb into bed pretending to sleep, I’ll wrap up this letter by saying that I’m glad to have met you.  I would have enjoyed getting to hear more from you, but I’ve chosen to pull back a little at the end of the week, mainly because I’m tired from all of the information I’ve had to learn and the people / personalities / connections that go with the info.  I don’t think I need to say it but don’t short change your life over the past few years.  From what I’ve seen, the folks in Redmond will be very sad when you leave.  Hell, I barely know you and I will be sad when you’re gone.  Maybe you can teach us all an African song to sing before you go!

 

Eleanor, I can’t believe you’re the same person to whom I pledged money sometime last year for some forgotten event, a long bike ride or triathlon that my tired brain can’t recall.  All I know is I went to the HR manager to make sure that the company was matching my donation and she told me that the company was taking care of you.  So I guess that meant you met your monetary goal.  You know what?  I bet you met that goal and then something inside you clicked.  It did for me at least 20 or 25 pounds ago.  I finished all the running goals (10K, half marathon and marathon) and now I’m hungry for something else but daggone it, you’ve beaten me to it – living outside the US – and I’m insanely envious!

 

BOTTOM LINE:  Everyone sees that at your core, you are basically satisfied with who you are.  Many people want to be like you, and bet on the fact you won’t let them down.  I see there is nothing magical is what you’ve performed at work – it’s just a matter of absorbing it all and performing the same, if not more.  🙂  I hope you’ll remain on my list of “friends from forever,” even if we rarely communicate with each other.

 

Finally, you have lot on your mind right now but seem to stay focused well enough to be able to complete your exit from the US successfully, a remarkable feat in my book.  You will do well for yourself in Munich, of course.  Of that, I am sure.

 

As much as I want to live in Europe right now, I will not live there in the near future so I will have to be satisfied with temporary visits.  Good enough for now.  I suppose I will see you in Germany a few weeks from now during one of those visits.

 

Whether you have spent your whole life giving of yourself in such a way that those with you feel like they are the most important people in your life, I don’t know.  I do know that your personality is one that overflows with love and caring.  I have seen and shared this type or characteristic with others myself and have been amazed at the response.  It’s like waking up thinking, “Wow!  What a beautiful day!  What a beautiful world!  I want to share this day with everyone I meet, who all happen to be beautiful, too!”  Then, I bump into someone who genuinely believes the same way and BAM! I’m bowled over with appreciation for simply being alive.  ISN’T IT GREAT TO BE ALIVE?!

 

Hopefully, we can jog or run a few miles around town in a few weeks and you can tell me about Paderborn or Bielefeld or wherever (at least catch up on your moving-in adventure).

 

Talk to you soon,

David Colline

 

 

 

Chapter 15

 

Let’s see, where was I again?  Sorry, I was just reminiscing about my adventures with Eleanor again.  So great to spend time with folks like her and be relaxed, if you know what I mean.  No worries about ulterior motives.  Anyway, back to the night of the NaNoWriMo kickoff dinner.

 

When I arrived, I sat in the waiting area for my wife and a couple of friends of ours, Lavender and Dick.  Within a few minutes, our friends showed up.  I dreaded seeing Lavender, knowing what I’d become.  For some reason, when I saw Lavender, my testosterone-driven self took over and all I could see was a slim, nice-looking 50-something year old woman, not my dear friend, Lavender.  I closed my eyes for a few seconds to shake the image and couldn’t.  Why couldn’t I turn my lustful self off, at least for a few minutes?  Lavender’s a sister to me, for God’s sake.  Lavender asked me if I was all right.  I lied and told her yes, hoping that my wife would quickly show up, and she did.

 

The four of us made our way over to the tables set aside for the NaNoWriMo event.  One table was partially empty so we sat there.  My wife sat next to Sad and his girlfriend, Heather.  Dick sat next to me.  Also, at the table, sat a mother, Wanda, and her two children, Nyssa and Natalie and a doll named Elisabeth.  Eventually, White Bear and Red Herring joined us.

 

While White Bear handed out some goodies for us, including a NaNoWriMo themed word search and some NaNoWriMo writing suggestions, I looked at the folks at the other table and realized that Florry was there.  I told Karen about Florry’s decision to cheat one year.  A few minutes later, I saw Florry get up to get our real names, NaNoWriMo names and email addresses.  I also noticed that she was wearing a low-cut blouse and draped across her bared chest was a gorgeous garnet necklace, which highlighted her eyes.  I kicked myself mentally for two reasons: 1) I let myself fall in love with her again, and 2) I brought my wife so flirting with Florry was out of the question.  Good thing Ms. DeShy was seated at the other table.

 

White Bear and Red Herring took special pride in handing out a NaNoWriMo Survival Kit, which was a plastic bag labeled, “Do not open until 11-1-2006”.  Inside was a blue ink pen, a red ink pen, a bookmark, some Tootsie Rolls, a pen grip, some gold stars, a paper clip, a couple pieces of candy and a strip of “Admit One” movie tickets on which we were supposed to write each day the number of words we’d written.  Then, at some point, we’d gather and the tickets would be used for a door prize drawing.  The door prizes were to be supplied by us.

 

We ordered food and ate our dinner, talking about our lives to the folks around us.  Lavender and Dick filled us in on their daughter’s pending marriage.  It seemed their daughter was pregnant and marrying a fellow who did not have the best work habits, so Lavender and Dick were giving a lot of money to their daughter to keep her out of debt.

 

As I left the restaurant, I saw Brian Chipmunk sitting at another table with three other guys.  Although I was within earshot, I saw they were all talking but I couldn’t hear them say anything audible.  In addition, it appeared there were looking at a video project on the table.  They saw me and immediately the video projection disappeared.  Brian stood up and held out his hand.

 

“David!  Long time no see.”

 

“Hey.  You, too.”

 

“So how was dinner?  I could hear you guys were having a good time.”

 

“What?  Oh that?  Well, sure, it was a blast.”

 

“What was it all about?”

 

“I’m participating in a contest of sorts for National Novel Writing Month.  We have to write 50000 words in 30 days.”

 

“Sounds like your kind of challenge.  Whatcha gonna write about?”

 

“Well, I’ve been thinking maybe I’ll write about my early childhood.  I might even throw in a story or two about us.”

 

“Very interesting, indeed.  We certainly had some good times, didn’t we?” he asked, slapping me on the back.

 

“Yep.  I can remember some fun stuff.  I might need you to jog my memory for some of the details, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Sure!”  Brian looked at his watch.  “So what did you have for dinner?” he asked, putting an arm around my back and gently turning me away from his friends.

 

“Uh…vegetables and tofu.”

 

“Of course, the false impression of a healthy dinner.  That’s sounds like you.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“Me?  Well…oh, well, I had soup earlier.  I finished a while ago, you see…”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“So what are you here for?  Are those out-of-town visitors from your office?”

 

“Absolutely.  No doubt about it.  That’s just what I was going to tell you.  Yep.  We were just making plans for a meeting tomorrow.  Hey, you don’t mind if I cut this short, do you?  I’ve got to get back to my colleagues.”

 

“Not at all.  Say, would you like to get together for lunch soon?”

 

“Absolutely.  No doubt about it.  You know me.  I always enjoy a good lunch with my ol’ buddy, Dave.”

 

“Well, great.  I’ll give you a call.”

 

“Great, indeed.  See you later.”

 

I turned and motioned to Karen to join me at the front door.  She broke off her conversation with Lavender and followed me outside.

 

“What is it, darling?” she asked.

 

“I don’t know.  Brian seemed a little weird tonight.  Or maybe it’s just me.  Maybe I’m just weirded out from sitting with all those would-be authors in there.”

 

“Could be, honey.  Why don’t you go home and go to bed early?”

 

“I think I will.  But I need to work on my NaNoWriMo novel first.”

 

“Okay.  See you at home.”

 

 

 

Chapter 16

 

Let’s start with the hardest stories to tell, the ones I haven’t heard about in lurid confessional columns of store magazines or celebrity breakdowns on national television.

 

These tales take place in and around middle class homes, if socioeconomic scales are important in placing these tales in context.

 

We don’t have a clock or set of calendars before us so we’ll just have to flash back in time with a paragraphical change.

 

Boone, North Carolina.  We moved here while I was in preschool, at least that’s what I remember, probably when I was four years old.  We lived in two different houses and frankly I can’t remember which one we lived in first.  What matters most is not the houses we lived in but the house we lived in during this tale.

 

The house had two redeeming features.  One, the garage had unpainted pine paneling.  Two, the property next to ours was significantly higher in elevation so a stone wall had been built between the two properties to support the neighbor’s yard.  A brave person could get a running start from the neighbors’ yard and leap from the wall onto the roof of our house.

 

One Easter, my sister and I got dyed ducklings.  Apparently, dye is inserted into the duck shells and the ducks hatch slightly pink or blue, depending on the dye.  My parents set up a pen in the backyard with plans to raise the ducks.  However, my sister and I decided the ducks were thirsty one day so we carried the little guys to the sink, opened up the faucet on full no less and pried open the ducks’ beaks, completely drowning one and nearly drowning the other.  When the other duck got bigger, we released it in the city park with the other ducks.  With the passing of years, I have forgotten how upset I was when we realized my sister’s duck was dead.  So much for live animals at Easter.

 

We had several kids in the neighborhood to play with, including our next-door neighbors, Luther and Diane.  Seems like they were a year or two older than we were –  when I played with Luther and his friends I had to act older than I was.  My only problem was trust.  I trusted that they told me the truth.  Only later did I realize that they made stuff up, like a lot of kids do, to brag or look bigger or smarter than the other kids.

 

For instance, some of the guys would use the word doo-doo or shoo-shoo to refer to feces, telling me that the words weren’t dirty, unlike what my mother said.  One day, my mother overheard me say shoo-shoo to my sister and she literally washed my mouth out with soap (essentially made me run a piece of soap in my mouth and spit it out in the sink).

 

I still have some of the same dreams from that time in my life.  In one dream, something hard is touching my body.  I can’t tell if it’s wood or stone but it’s cold.  Then, I realize I’m in a cathedral, which keeps getting larger (and thus me getting smaller) as my arms, hands, fingers, feet and toes feel like they’re turning into a spongy cold stone.  Sometimes, to this day, I have the same dream in a daydream.  It’s really two dreams – one, the dream about the changing sensation of my skin and two, the feeling of getting smaller in a large room (I overcame that second dream later in my life by learning to fly in my dreams).  The third dream is that of being chased.  When I lived in Boone, I was chased by monsters, mainly dinosaurs like Tyrannosaurus Rex.  Some of these dreams I would have during my afternoon nap, which I would have in my own bed if I was feeling grown up.  Otherwise, my sister and I would find a way to have a nap in the same room as our mother.

 

For some apparent reason, my sister and I decided to cut each other’s hair, probably because we heard someone say it’s about time one of us got a haircut.  We knew where Mom kept sewing scissors so we ended up cutting each other’s hair with pinking shears.

 

We kids do funny things after overhearing adults talk.  A friend from school was visiting with his mother when we heard from my mother that they were having a tough time selling their house.  It was as if people were driving by and not noticing the For Sale sign in the front of the yard.  When my mother let us go outside to play, we gathered up gravel and threw the gravel at passing cars yelling, “House for sale!” at the top of our lungs.  For some reason, the drivers that stopped were not paying attention to what we said and were more concerned about their cars and the location of our parents.

 

Another time, some of us were climbing trees in another kid’s backyard (across the street from my house).  The trees were all pine so naturally our clothes were covered with sap.  We overheard the neighbor’s mother ask her husband how to get us to stop climbing in the trees, especially after she told us not to (well, she must have told her son not to but I don’t remember him telling us not to).  The father came to us and told us about the dangerous red spider mites that lived in the pine trees.  If we weren’t careful, we’d run into a nest of the spider mites, which are red and so tiny that we would miss them (“How tiny are they?”  “Well, they’re tinier than freckles or dots on a page.”).  Then we wouldn’t see them when they crawled under our skin and sucked the juice out of us.

 

We stayed out of the trees for a few days until an older boy called us chicken.  We had to climb back into the trees again.  Wouldn’t you know it that a boy did get red spider mites on himself?  The family then cut the pine trees down, which meant we had to play in another yard, mine.

 

None of the other kids really cared about the pine paneling in the garage (besides, it’s really hard to play with) so we concentrated more on the rock wall.  We’d climb the wall, pulling on loose stones.  We’d even walk on top of the wall (but some kids thought it was dumb, walking on top of a wall that was only half dangerous – if you felt like you were going to fall, you just simply leaned back and fell onto the ground in the neighbor’s yard that was even with the wall).

 

Have you ever had a neighborhood playmate do something totally odd?  I don’t know who first came up with the idea but it seemed to originate with an older kid (one of Luther’s friends) and one of my friends at the same time.  We were in the middle of a game of hide-and-seek.  Three of us were hiding behind the same bush, when the boy who was “It” found us and joined us behind the bush.

 

One of the guys broke off a piece of the bush.  The other two started talking about what the piece looked like and saying something about it looking like a device that was used to empty their butts when they were sick (I later figured out they were talking about an enema, which at the time I had never seen).  They suddenly became quiet.

 

Then Luther and his friend, Brian, did something I never expected.  They dropped their drawers and poked pieces of the stick at their butt cheeks, explaining that’s what their parents did to them when they were sick with diarrhea.  They told the other boy and me to do the same thing.

 

I lowered my pants, holding them off the ground with one hand and tried pushing a stick against my skin but kept hurting my butt cheek and stopped.  I threw the stick on the ground and said it was stupid.

 

Brian said he liked it and dared Luther to do like him.  Brian then broke off a very short piece, pushed into his butt and pulled on his pants.  Luther followed his dare.  The other boy looked at Luther, Brian, and me, not sure what to do.  I don’t think he even tried pushing the stick against his butt but he did pull down his pants.  After a few seconds looking back and forth at us, he pulled up his pants.

 

At that point, we got bored and headed back to our homes.  Later that night, my mother asked why there were pieces of wood in my pants.  I told her about pulling down our pants behind the bushes (but not about Luther and Brian pushing the sticks up their butts).  I don’t remember playing with all the guys together again so I guess the word got around to the other parents that we shouldn’t play together as a group.

 

I remember Brian at the other house I lived in in Boone.  He had bragged about finding a dead dog in the woods.  Then, a few months later he told us about the poison you could use to kill a dog or cat.  Coincidentally, our next-door neighbor’s two cats were found dead, poisoned.  Brian never said a word about the cats and we always wondered if it was him.  My parents wouldn’t let my sister and me play alone with him.

 

Little did I know that he and I would run into each other several times in life and live two doors down from each other at UT.

 

Greeneville, Tennessee.  A drive-in theater was located next to our neighborhood.  Some of the older boys cut a hole in the fence.  At the bus stop, I heard them planning to sneak out of the house one night to see, “Deep Throat.”  They thought I was a retard because I wanted them to sneak into the drive-in to see a Disney movie and tell me about it.  They told me several times I was stupid and didn’t get the point.

 

Other times at the bus stop the older guys would intimidate the younger ones, sometimes verbally and sometimes physically.  It was harder to get by with physical acts because inevitably some neighborhood lady would see it and word would get back to the kid’s parents.

 

Physical intimidation takes many forms, not just pushing and shoving.  The subtler kids would pinch your skin.

 

Verbal intimidation was worse.  Stuff like, “Wait till we catch you alone,” or “Better give your ice cream money now or you’ll die later.”  I could handle that because I could simply lie and say I forgot to get the money that day.  The really worse stuff was when an older kid would tell a story about some of our reclusive neighbors – the peeping tom, the lady who ate dogs that strayed onto her property, the old man in the woods, the crazy girl who wasn’t allowed out of the house cause she tried to bite your arm off.  It seemed like half our neighborhood was full of strange people.  I always made sure my curtains were completely closed to keep the peeping tom from looking at me in my sleep.  I also worried when our dog got too far away unless she might get captured and eaten.  I finally met the crazy girl.  She was about five years old (or at least she hadn’t started first grade yet).  She loved to take her clothes off and run out of her house, rain or shine.  I saw her run out of her house and under a tree as I was going home in the rain from a friend’s house.  Crazy?  Maybe.  That’s about as crazy as it really got in my neighborhood.

 

We were walking into the woods behind my house when we came upon an old baby carriage full of dirt.  One kid thought it was a baby the old woman had eaten, decided she didn’t like the taste of children and stuck to dogs.  Another kid said it was the baby carriage of the old man in the woods from when he was abandoned and learned to live off the land.  I thought it was an old planter that only looked like a baby carriage and had been dumped out here by my next-door neighbor (who also happened to be everyone’s favorite candidate for the peeping tom).

 

One day, my sister and I were playing with our other next-door neighbor.  He was a couple of years older than us and had just gotten a BB gun for his birthday.  He told us it was all right to shoot crows so we walked to the edge of the woods looking up the trees for crows to shoot.  He thought he saw a crow and fired the BB gun.  It turned out to be a robin.  We were all very upset.  He got a shoe box and we had a funeral for the bird.

 

Not long after that I saw a cat chasing a bird, catching the bird’s wing in its mouth.  I shooed away the cat, picked up the scared bird.  It looked dead but it was probably in shock or just playing dead.  I put the bird in a shoe box, hoping I could raise it to health.  I put grass in the box, carrying the box around with me, with the bird sliding back and forth in the box, finally waking up and looking scared out of its wits.  I thought it thought I was planning to eat it so I put the box on the carport and looked at it until my mother called us in to eat dinner.

 

I went outside after dinner to show the bird to everyone.  When I picked up the box, the bird flapped its wings and flew out of the box.  I was disappointed I couldn’t raise the bird.  My parents explained that I should be glad the bird healed so quickly, thanks to my quick thinking.

 

One morning, I woke up before my father so I ran down the hall and hid, in order to surprise my father when he got to the kitchen.  As he got to the kitchen doorway, I stepped out and yelled, “Surprise!”  He karate-chopped me in the throat, choking me, before he and I knew what hit me.

 

One evening, right before dinner, I caught a frog.  I brought it in to show my mother.  I strode into the kitchen.  She took one look at the frog and told me to get it out of the house.  The frog had peed on me and was slippery.  As I turned to walk past the dinner table, the frog leapt out of my hands onto the table.  I picked it up and it peed in my father’s tea glass.

 

Ahh, Greeneville, where all my neighborhood friends were white and my elementary schoolmates were mostly black – part of the whole integration experiment in east Tennessee, I suppose.  My elementary school, Crescent School, has subsequently been condemned, fixed up, and served as a community college extension, senior center and community center.  I don’t know if it exists anymore.

 

I was bitten by a neighborhood poodle while riding my bike – both of us had to be watched for signs of rabies.

 

I learned about buttercup reflection under your skin indicating if you liked butter.

 

I learned the taste of sweet yard clover.

 

I learned how to ride a bike before I learned how to use brakes.  Not knowing how to stop, I wrecked in a ditch at the bottom of the hill and bruised my crotch.

 

I learned that I better not play barefoot in mud or I might get worms in my feet.

 

I learned that teachers didn’t give grades for staring out the window daydreaming.

 

I learned how to act in a play – I learned I liked it, too.

 

I learned I liked girls.  My first girlfriend liked me.  My second one didn’t.  I tried to convince her that she liked me – I even used a crystal ball (the magic 8-ball you ask a question, shake, and turn upside down for the answer) – even though the ball clearly responded “yes” to my question, “Does Kim like me?”, she still didn’t like me and called off our relationship.  It didn’t help that we were neighbors.

 

I once insulted a friend by calling him a red-eyed salmon.  Where I got that, what it meant and why it offended him escapes me now but it was a pretty good quick comeback to whatever he called me (I think he called me a stupid redhead).

 

I learned that single children are spoiled more than families with multiple children.

 

I threw dirt clods at the entrance to a hornet’s nest in the side of a hill.  I was stung on the forehead and neck.  Rightly so, eh?

 

I was walking across the yard when I felt rain falling on me.  I ran across the yard and looked back to see a sheet of rain heading toward me.  The rain chased me under the shelter of our carport.

 

Our house was at the top of the hill in our neighborhood.  In the summertime, we’d make sleds out of cardboard and sled down the hill.  In the fall, the older kids would play football in the field below our house.  In the wintertime, we sledded down the hill when it snowed (although it was more fun to slide down the hill on top of a metal disc).

 

I built my first model, a plastic battleship, with my father’s supervision, while my sister sat with my mother and watched “The Wizard of Oz” on TV.  My sister kept asking me to join her but I acted like I was too old to watch a sissy kid’s movie.

 

For my sixth birthday, my father took me and some of my friends for a ride in his Triumph TR3.  I remember we were all thrilled when he spun the tires.

 

Early on Saturday mornings, my sister and I would get up before our parents.  It was our time.  Once, we made a real mess on the dining room table playing with “Silly Sand,” a product where you mixed special sand and water, put it in a squeeze bottle and squeezed out drops of sand to make little castles.  Another time, we stood behind the living room curtains and showed each other our body parts.

 

While sitting in a chair, watching TV with my father, the cat suddenly started jumping straight up and down for a few seconds.  They then announced on the TV that we’d just experienced an earthquake.

 

My father once gave me a telephone cord to play with.  I figured out that if I plugged one end into the wall outlet, I could make sparks with the other end, just like the showed us in Indian Guides, a YMCA-sponsored version of Boy Scouts, in how to start a fire from scratch.  I took cotton balls out of my parents’ bathroom and would set them on fire on the carpet in my room with the sparking telephone cord.  Of course, I had to be sure I closed the curtains so the peeping tom wouldn’t see what I was doing and tell my parents.

 

If we got home from school fast enough, we could watch “Dark Shadows,” a vampire soap opera on TV, before Mom would make us turn it off.

 

The first time I remember lying to my mother was when she asked if I had used my ice cream money to buy an ice cream bar.  I said yes when in fact I had given the nickel to a boy in my first grade class who couldn’t afford ice cream.  After my parents found out the truth (I think I couldn’t keep the secret of the lie to myself and finally told my mother), they insisted on punishing me for lying despite my noble effort.

 

A few days later, I heard my father bragging about my being an honest boy. He told the fellow with him about the ice cream bar incident.

 

The fellow shot back, “Well, you know some boys tell the truth and others’n’ll stick to lying.”  He pointed his thumb at me and said,  “I bet this one sticks to lying.”

 

Just for that insult, when he and my father walked away, I sneaked several big gulps from his can of Falstaff beer.

 

Later on, my dad let me try his Falstaff beer when I asked what it tasted like.  He told me it was an acquired taste so I better get used to it.  After drinking almost half a can between what I snuck from my father’s friend and what my dad let me have, I practically stumbled back to my house.  A drunk at six years of age!

 

One day, the Indian Guides held a big pow-wow, which including folks from all over the area.  I ran into Brian Chipmunk, the playmate from Boone.  He asked me if I remembered anything we used to do.  At the time, the only thing I could remember was going to his house and hearing his sister play a couple of 45 RPM records, “Georgy Girl” and “Downtown”.  I laughed when I recalled the way his father could make a monkey’s face by sticking his tongue up underneath his upper lip.

 

“What’s so funny?” Brian asked, defensively.

 

“Oh, the way your dad made the monkey faces.”

 

“Oh yeah.  He did, didn’t he?  So you weren’t laughing about anything else?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay, well, it was good to see you,” he said and wandered off.  I probably wouldn’t have remembered that conversation except it was repeated a couple of more times when I saw him again in our high school years, once when we met during a DeMolay convention and another time when we met during a marching band competition.  I didn’t think it was odd.  I just thought it was his way of trying to find something common to talk about.  It was only when I went to see a girl friend of mine from church camp for the first time on a “non-date,” “friends only” visit in high school and Brian just happened to run into me that I began to wonder just how coincidental were our encounters (and by the way, speaking of good fortune, that girl friend is now my wife).

 

 

 

Chapter 17

 

As part of my job, I have to travel about once a quarter.  I like traveling because I meet interesting people.  Unfortunately, right after NaNoWriMo started, I had to take a trip to Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

 

To keep up my word count, I wrote on an American Express application I ripped out of an in-flight magazine.

 

3 Nov 2006

 

Flying between Huntsville and Atlanta.  Sunny day.  Fun to watch the hills and valley pass beneath us.  Think I saw the Little River Canyon, a wooded, deep depression in the suburban, farm-dotted landscape.

 

We first flew over the Tennessee River.  I was surprised at the lack of development on the river – was it US government property, perhaps the Redstone Arsenal?  Or maybe it was the Wheeler National Refuge.

 

Large, thick white cloud of smoke, tinged with brown – looks like a forest fire, and could be, given the recent dry spells we had before the last rain.  Interesting, seeing how the smoke spreads along the ground, with light smoke carried several miles by the winds aloft.  We begin our descent so the smiling attendant will pick up our empty water bottles.

 

Even though subdivisions continue their creeping sprawl, several forested areas remain.

 

Wow, we’re descending fairly fast, with an accompanying sharp right turn – must be adjusting our approach.  Pilot comes on and says we’re 40 miles away, taking several turns to approach from the west (or was it east?).  I am part of all that I see.  I am not separate from it.  No escape awaits for me.  I cannot say, “I must participate,” because the statement implies I can say, “I must not participate.”  I accept my relative position in the universe (again, as if I had a choice).  For such low humidity conditions, amazing how humid it looks.

 

I remember a man my sister and I met in Knoxville, a former street poet who had decided to become a UT student.  He asked me if I let the size of my words and the paper on which I wrote influence what I thought the size of a poetic thought (i.e., poem) would be.  I told him no so  he asked me why I had never written any long poems.  His questions pops up in my mind when using a small slip of paper such as this.  Timing is nearly perfect – we approach the runway and land just as I finish this sentence at the bottom of the application form.

 

At the Atlanta airport, I received an email from my sister in-law, Louann.

 

=========================

From: Ferris, Louann

Date: Friday, November 3, 2006

To: Colline, David

 

I was wondering how the writing was coming.  I hope things are going well.  So far this had been a very difficult month for me.  I hope you guys aren’t expecting much of us for the holidays.  It is overwhelming right now just to think about.

 

I just started working in the financial department at the church.  I hadn’t planned on looking for a job until January but the opportunity presented itself.  The job is part-time but looks like it will be half days, Monday to Thursday, at least, and maybe on Fridays.  It is going okay – a lot to learn but I’m getting there.

 

LouEllen is doing okay but some areas of her life have become more challenging, as she tried to balance her school with spending time with Cooper.  I don’t worry about her relationship with Cooper, and certainly, at one point I would have welcomed her getting married but I think now it is important for the two of them to take their time.

 

Albert is enjoying his new car.  The Toyota Yaris is much faster than he thought it would be so he is enjoying the drive to work, being able to jump into the ever-increasing rush hour traffic on the way to work in the morning.  I remember when we first moved down to south Huntsville.  You could just about get to north Huntsville in 5 minutes.  Now, it feels like an hour.  It’s not that long but it feels that way.  Of course, the main reason Albert is enjoying the car is that the payments haven’t started yet.  🙂  His work is going well but he still thinks he will have to go back to Maryland.  We just don’t know when.

 

I never expected my life to change so much in four months.  The Lord is walking me through it but it is hard.

 

Anyway, I hope things are going well for you and Karen.  Hope you can come over sometime.

 

Louann

=========================

 

I sat there in the airport feeling suddenly very cold and lonely.  I saw Louann sitting in her house, typing the email with only the echo of the refrigerator compressor churning away keeping her company.  I thought back to my first few months after Renee’s death and the terrible, meat-grinding, foot-stomping, taffy-pulling sensations on my heart.  I just wanted to rip it out and make the pain go away but it wouldn’t.

 

=========================

From: Colline, David

Date: Friday, November 3, 2006

To: Ferris, Louann

 

Louann,

 

Thanks for the update.  When we saw LouEllen a couple of weeks ago, she did mention that she thought the last two months have been harder on you than the first two.  I’m glad you have gotten a job.  Although working is not always fun, it at least provides a social network you can participate in during the day, even if the connections are artificial sometimes.  At least for you, your job is at the church so that your social network is real and supportive, especially now when all the post-funeral details have slowly wound down.

 

The important thing is for you to develop new special memories in life while cherishing your memories with Junior.  It’s not easy, I know.  As you say, this holiday season will be difficult, maybe even more difficult than the last few months.  But we know you’ll get through it with friends and family.  It’s going to be good, too, so look forward to the moments when you can smile.

 

You said you waited five years to begin the grieving process for your brother.  I’m sorry you started grieving the same year your husband died.  In any case, allow yourself the time and energy to grieve for both of them at the same time.

 

Thanks for asking about my writing.  I am participating in the National Novel Writing Month (called NaNoWriMo, for short) in November this year.  “Winners” for this event are those who complete a 50,000 word novel in 30 days or less.  So far, I’ve written 26,136 words.  And in part of the novel, the main character talks, writes, and thinks about the recovery of the loss of his brother in-law.  It is my way of trying to heal from Junior’s death.  It also makes me wonder if it would help you to write down some of the things you remember about times you spent with him that you’d like to share with your kids and their kids one day.  I think it would be a good way of telling your grandkids about their grandfather and might also be a good way for LouEllen and Albert to understand what they’re going through when their spouse passes away one day.  In this way, you can take these quiet moments at home and spend time with Junior in such a way that his loss is a teaching tool, a facilitator, for someone later on down the road.  It is a way of turning the pain into hope.  At least it has been for me.

 

We’re actually in town next weekend – our Saturday is packed full (LobsterFest, wedding and UT football alumni gathering for UT-Arkansas game) but we should be able to stop by on Sunday.

 

Right now, I sit on an Air France/Delta plane parked at the Atlanta airport.  I had hoped to be in Ft. Lauderdale by now but the weather has backed up flights in and out of Atlanta so I sit here past my bedtime addressing a letter to my brother in-law’s wife.  So?  So be it.

 

What is there to say at this late hour?  Not much, really, especially since we saw you and your family recently.  Even so, I would usually find an engaging topic with which I would torture the reader.  Today, my well is dry, little to no ink to spill on this page, the normal wellspring plugged, half-drained by recent events.

 

Despite all the emotional turmoil you’re going through over the death of your husband, you probably still miss your brother, and feel he was taken away from you too soon.  I have recently suffered the loss of loved one, too, and have experienced loss, although not the same as yours.  Despite knowing that the loss was meant to be, I cannot help but feel cheated and misled.  In fact, I was forced out of my comfort zone and now, despite a few assurances, I wonder if I tread on the thin ice of uncertainty.

 

I sit here surrounded by clichés and stereotypes, wondering if the surroundings I see are but figments of my imagination just like my thinking this electronic paper I write on is floating vertically in front of me like the whiteness of a sky full of high, thin clouds.

 

We all have shown abilities we thought we didn’t have.  We sometimes think we’re capable of performing tasks we haven’t yet accomplished.  Since I was little, I always knew I could hold the attention of others and make them believe they were capable of tasks that they’d only dreamed of.  Yet, I never saw myself as a leader, more of an entertainer, a person who could divert the attention of others (sometimes for mischief, sometimes for the good of others but always for fun).  And so it is that I fell into the job of managing others, making people believe they were greater than themselves and getting them to show it.  I’ve given them hope.  In return, they’ve given me their trust, only to be laid off from the jobs I gave them when the company had to cut back.

 

My employees were my comfort zone, my foot soldiers who served as the buffer between working and managing.  When they were taken from me in a layoff (and in a way, I felt like the kid who had his toys taken away from him not because he was behaving poorly (in fact, he was quite well-behaved) but because the parents needed to sell the toys for money), I lost not only my comfort zone but also my innocence and naiveté.  I was shell-shocked, taken from Toyland to the Green Zone in Iraq, a leader who suddenly had lost all his troops but still with a mission to complete (albeit much smaller in scope).

 

The sudden death of your husband and brother has surely had the same effect on you.  For me, no longer do I feel disposed to spout philosophical essays to my friends.  No longer do I care to look up new words in the dictionary to use in my writing.  Why learn new words when one is almost speechless?

 

And yet, I cannot deny the pang of survivor’s guilt – I have survived the death of your husband, who had so much more to contribute to society than I did.  How do you feel?  How do the children feel?  How does your sister in-law cope with the loss of her husband while raising a young child?  Would either of you (or both) gladly trade places with your husband or brother?  Oh, how we play games in our heads at times!

 

But nothing in life is certain – death is our only guarantee.  I could pour blood, sweat and tears into this email to produce some of my best writing (if only I could!) only to have it destroyed in a tragic plane crash in a Florida swamp.

 

If we have only our selves, then we are alone.  But we are not alone, no matter how lonely we may feel at times.  Just walk through the mall with a smile on your face and see how many strangers smile back at you.  Therefore, I know that my experience at work is not unique.  I know my experience of the loss of Junior is not unique.  Even so…

 

In any case, I am numb.  I am dumbstruck.  I am at a loss for words.  I am not happy, unhappy, unlucky or blessed.  I am and today, that is enough.  The joy and sorrows of management can be just as wonderful or terrible as those we feel when we lose someone we love!

 

By the way, when we went out to dinner with LouEllen and Cooper, I had fun watching the interaction between those two.  I drafted the following letter to LouEllen but have hesitated sending it to her, not wanting to disturb her as final exams at UNA approach.  Let me know if it’s okay to send it to her.

 

LouEllen,

 

I’ll be honest.  I don’t want to be here right now.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  I do want to sit in the sunroom on a quiet Sunday afternoon, drinking a bottle of merlot wine, while the cats and I listen to the birds talk to each other when the birds fly back and forth from the woods to the feeders a few feet away from me.  What I did not plan to do today was spend time writing you a letter.  No, my plans included sitting down to a good book, read a while, probably get a little tipsy from the wine and then write a short story or two.  Instead, after my ritual of tuning to a digital music channel called “Atmospheres” and lighting a stick of incense, I have found myself watching the indigo bunting, chickadees and gold finches with you as a virtual observer.

 

I haven’t written you very many letters and apologize for the paucity of words.  Other than postcards, I may have written you one other letter (and I’m not sure I ever posted that letter – instead, it became a prose poem, if I remember correctly).  Therefore, other than a book of poems I gave you, I believe you are unfamiliar with my writing, and thus, my mind.

 

Because you are an adult, you are privy to the ways of the world, with only ignorance and inexperience preventing a full understanding of how the world works.  Even after 44 years, I realize I know very little – amazing what a sheltered, blissful youth will do – ignorance, after all, is bliss.

 

Knowledge is power, and not all forms of power are bad.  The strength that comes with power gives us the ability to handle the shock that hits when the knowledge we gain is unexpected or undesirable.  What we learn may knock us over.  What we do with what we learn may pick us up and make us stronger.

 

For instance, the other evening, while your aunt Karen and I were out to dinner with you and Cooper, I observed you pointing out to Cooper the possibility of him placing BBQ sauce on a potentially dirty plate that had been sitting on the table all day long.  You probably felt you were acting in his best interest.  Yet, from my perspective, I saw Cooper as a fellow who had eaten a bit of dirt on the football field, been deer hunting most of his life and hasn’t died from the experiences.  Also, from the look in his eyes, I imagined this was not the first time he had seen you gently trying to correct his behavior, and, well…

 

[A chipmunk digs through the leaves under the feeders.  A redheaded woodpecker taps at the block of suet.  For the first time, I see chickadees eat suet.  A house finch comes and goes.  I’m amazed there are many finches around here this late in autumn.  In the distance I hear thunder rumbling.]

 

There’s no doubt that life is full of compromises.  When two people decide to hang out together, whether for a day, a month or a lifetime, where they do not share similar desires they mentally take note of their own dissimilarities and decide to suppress undesirable traits to enhance their time together.  Where they differ in what remains…well, libraries and bookstores are filled with explanations of…no, not explanations…best-selling summer fiction!  Self-help manuals (“Men are from Mars…”, etc.)!  Even history books and of course, biographies.  In other words, I don’t want to give you advice about relationships.  I’m only in the 20th year of my marriage, after all.  A relationship or marriage counselor, I am not.

 

However, I am a male human and can tell you that a lot of us fellows don’t like being told what to do.  If we decide to pour sauce on a table and scoop fries into it, we’re smart enough to figure out the table might be a little dirty.  We’re tough.  Our stomachs can take it.  In other words, when you want to be helpful to Cooper, try to see him through Cooper-colored glasses.  Cooper thinks like a man, not a woman.  🙂

 

Hope your final exams go well,

Uncle David

 

 

Anyway, Louann, let me know if it’s okay to send this.  I won’t send it until I hear from you.  In the meantime, if you need someone to talk to (or at least write to), my email box is always open.  And I know that Karen will be glad to talk with you, too.

 

— David

=========================

 

I sent the email to Louann.  I saw that my sister had sent me an email while I was typing the one to Louann.

 

 

 

 

=========================

From: Elisabeth

Date: Friday, November 3, 2006

To: David

Subject: FW: hope the trip went well.

 

Bro,

 

Just got an update from Mark.  “Right now I am stuck in Istanbul, Turkey.  We are hoping that we can catch a flight to Tajikistan on Saturday.  If not we will try to catch the next flight on Thursday or we might be coming home and trying to do this again later.  We just ate dinner.  It was good just hope it stays down this time.  I will try to email you when or if I get to Tajikistan.”  At least I know somewhere in the world where he might be, and wanted you all to know, too.  Just forwarding this on to you – I had heard from the 1st Sergeant’s wife this AM that they had been delayed in Milan (which I had heard nothing about!), and this delay now in Turkey – maybe this trip wasn’t meant to be?? I’m thankful to have heard from him.

 

BTW, I don’t think I told you that Mark left at 12:30 on Wednesday for a 4-leg journey to Tajikistan, by way of Atlanta, Milan, Italy, Turkey and then Tajikistan.  I am asking for prayers for this trip to be safe for all of the people who are going.  Tajikistan is holding national elections next week, which have delayed what they are supposed to be doing over there.  Tajikistan is located right above Afghanistan, and is a former Russian Republic.  That part of the world is not the most stable.  Mark expects to return here on Nov 18.  We will have limited communications with him while he is gone so I’m glad he was able to contact us in Turkey.

 

My feeling is that if we can have prayers coming from all around the US, that surely they will reach over there!!  🙂  Thank you for your support of Mark and us!!

 

Sis

=========================

 

I sent Elisabeth an email telling her that we were praying for her and Mark’s acceptance of whatever God had planned for him while he was over there.  I never pray for God to grant favors because I don’t see why an omnipotent being would bother treating one part of the universe any more favorably than another.  We’re here like pool balls bouncing around on the table – gravity and other natural laws have been set in motion and we can only hope that what happens to us is not too far outside of the norm so that we can find it easier to accept the consequences of action and reaction.

 

On the flight from Atlanta to Fort Lauderdale, I used another American Express application form to take notes.  I couldn’t believe I had forgotten to charge the batteries on my laptop:

 

Sitting beside a quiet passenger, both of us keeping our thoughts to ourselves.  In the row in front of us, two people talk about the life-verifying merits of astrology.  The woman, in her 30s, a business owner (whose business was adversely affected by the 2005 hurricanes) is a Pisces.  The man, in his early 40s, has just recently completed an ugly divorce, having just taken an R&R vacation to Hawaii and New York City.  His mother has always been an avid astrology follower, and he had read his mother’s material as well as any other astrology material he could find from 4th to 8th grade (“remember we didn’t have the Internet back then,” he said).  His friends made fun of him so he lost interest.  With his personal and business life taking a turn for the worse he returned to astrology, not the fluff newspaper and magazines talk about, but the real deal.

 

“For instance, in the past two weeks, the planets have been behind him so he shouldn’t make any major business decision until December 20th so he postponed signing a contract until that day.  However, he’s free to buy personal items so he’s quickly returning to Florida to buy some major appliances.  He knows his mother was looking out for him and reading his charts because she suggested that he complete some business deals last year that happened to coincide with all the major hurricanes.  All his business deals took him out of town. “Of course,” he said, responding to the woman that he was concerned about his personal possessions including the new house and furnishings he has just bought as well as his car, but his mother told him not to worry.  Only recently did he ask her why and when she told him, he was stunned that he knew in the back of this mind that that was what she was thinking and he knew that she was right.

 

Now, he uses the Internet to keep up with his charts.  He doesn’t use them to make everyday little decisions but relies on them exclusively to help him understand when he should make serious moves, using sometimes, even, when he wants to make a large horse bet which has implications of their own when he understands that sometimes he’s supposed to win and sometimes he’s supposed to lose, which means that everyone’s astrology charts interconnect.  “Your life will only get better if you stick to your charts and not try to push your destiny,” he assured her.  He still doesn’t always understand it all so that’s why he uses the charts for general decisions for now.  He might change, though, but he can’t access his charts all the time and live all the time.  “You should try.  Don’t give up,” she says.

 

 

 

Chapter 18

 

After a long day at the Sunrise, Florida, office, I eventually found myself sitting inside Dicey Riley’s restaurant, at the bar, which was half open to the sidewalk so I could see the people passing by.  In front of me was a draft beer, Newcastle brown ale.  To my right, two guys in business suits were yakking about the cost of employees.  To my left sat an older couple.  The bartender was named Nolan and he was from Ireland – he told the businessmen that he’d been in the US for a year and seven months.  He turned to me after serving the businessmen fresh drinks.

 

“So, David, tell me.  Whatcha doin’ here yourself?”

 

“Oh, business.  Well, right now, I’m just sitting here enjoying my beer and then I’ll go see a bluegrass band.”

 

“Very good.  Meself, I’m only working at this pub until my friend opens up a new pub right on the beach.  Nothin’ like sittin’ around on the beach drinkin.”

 

“Nope.”

 

“You know I lived over in Galway land and where I’m from they won’t even speak English.”

 

The old fellow beside me perked up.  “Did you say you were from England?”

 

“NO!  Ireland!”

 

“Well, we have an authentic Irish bar where we live.”

 

“Authentic, you say?”

 

The old woman nodded.

 

“You don’t sound Irish to me.  What parts are you from?”

 

“We’re from Hartford, Connecticut.”

 

“Connecticut?  Do they speak English at the pub there in Connecticut?”

 

The woman smiled.  “Oh yes, but with an Irish accent, of course.”

 

With a slight twinge of anger in his voice, Nolan said, “Over in Galway land where I’m from, they’d rather spittle.  They won’t even speak English!”

 

The old couple immediately got up and left and Nolan smiled.  “English in an ‘authentic’ Irish pub.  You Americans know nothing about my culture.  You know that, don’t you?”

 

I just kept eating my fish and chips and nodded.

 

I drank a couple of more beers.  I thought about getting up to walk down the street to the Broward Center for the Performing Arts to see the bluegrass performer, Natalie MacMaster.  Instead, I looked up and saw a woman in her late 50s sit down at the outside side of the bar.  She had a few heavy wrinkles around her eyes, her hair was obviously dyed blonde but the way she propped her chin in her hand with her elbow on the counter made the beauty of her youth still reflect in her eyes.  She looked around the bar and stopped to watch TV over the bar for a while.  I just about stood up to go around to talk to her when another Irish fellow came up to Nolan.

 

“Does Martin still work here?”

 

“No…well, yes.  He works a couple of days a week.  He’s got a kid now, you know?”

 

“No.  I haven’t seen him in a year.  Fuckin…a kid, you say?”

 

“Yeah.  He works two days, Monday and Thursday.  My name’s Nolan,” he said and stuck out his hand.”

 

“Gary.  I work over at Kelly’s in Hollywood.  Martin worked there a few years ago and then decided he wanted to work here, for God’s sake, cause he said he felt like he was at home.”

 

“Home?”

 

“Hey, Nolan.  Where you from?”

 

“Over in Galway.”

 

“Yeah?  I used to work near there.”

 

“Nice place, that.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Near the ocean.”

 

“Yeah, but this time of year you’ll freeze your fuckin’ balls off.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well, tell him that Jerry from Kelly’s said hello from Hollywood, Florida.”

 

“Jerry?  I thought you said Gary.”

 

“What?  Ah, no.  I’m from Hollywood, though.  You’ll tell him that for me, won’t ya?”

 

“Sure will.”

 

“Nice to meet ya.”

 

“You, too,” he said and shook hands with Nolan.

 

After Jerry walked away, Nolan turned to me.  “You know that fella?”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“Well, he just passed this note to me and I think it’s for you.”

 

I took the folded note from Nolan.  Scribbled on it was, “Tell the American redhead that I was paid to rough him up.  He owes me.”

 

Nolan leaned over the counter, pretending to wipe off it down and whispered in my ear, “Suppose he meant you cause you’re the only redhead I see in the place.  And before you ask, yes, you owe both of us a favor.”

 

“What do I owe you?” I asked, puzzled.

 

“Time will tell,” Nolan said, as he stood back up.  “Time will tell.”

 

Just at that moment, three skinheads walked into the bar.

 

“Hey Shane,” the cook yelled, who had stepped to one side of the bar for a smoke.  “Over here.”

 

One of the skinheads said to his pal, “Bud Light,” and headed over to the cook.  The other two stood at the other side of bar and nodded to Nolan to order drinks.

 

I sipped my beer, trying to soak it all in.  I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the middle-aged woman was looking at me.  I turned to look her straight in the eyes.  She broke into a smile.  I smiled back.  She broke into a grin.  I nodded to her.  She stood up and started walking around the bar to the front door.

 

As I turned back to see what Nolan was doing, a fellow plopped down into the barstool next to me where the old couple had been sitting.  I had really planned to let the lady sit there.  I looked at the skinny guy with his big, dirty black cowboy hat and wondered how I was going to convince him to move somewhere else.  Instead, he spoke first.

 

“Mind if I smoke?”  He looked at my plate of leftover cold fries.  “I know some fellas would rather I wait till they’re finished eating.”

 

“That’s okay,” I said.

 

“All right,” he said, and lit up a cigarette, his hands shaking slightly.  “You know, I smoke but I can still play these,” pointing to the harmonicas he had placed on the counter.  “I was hoping to come down here and play these for tips.  By the way, my name is Jawbone Willie.  I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”  I shook my head.  “Sure you have.  I have a band called the Brickyard Smokers.  I know you’ve heard of us.”  I shrugged my shoulders.  “Then I’m guessin’ you aren’t from around here, are you?”

 

“Nope.”  I figured some people mistook him for Dennis Hopper.  “I tell you what.  Here’s a couple of bucks and some change.  Why don’t you put it in your hat and set the hat out of the sidewalk in front of the bar and then play your tunes?”

 

“That’s a great idea.  Thanks for the money.”

 

“Consider it a sort of ‘priming the pump’ for folks to give you tips for playing.”

 

“I sure appreciate it.  I don’t suppose you’d buy me a beer before I go, would you?”

 

I stood up.  “Sorry, I’ve really got to go.  I’ve got to catch a bluegrass concert in a few minutes.”

 

“Bluegrass?  Well, hell, let me at least play you a bluegrass tune before you go.”

 

“Thanks, Jawbone Willie, but I’m already late.  Maybe I’ll catch you later on.”

 

“You bet.”

 

As I turned around, I bumped into the lady from the bar.  “Oh, sorry!”

 

“No problem.  You leaving already.”

 

“Yes, but you could maybe walk with me for a bit?”

 

“Why, thank you, I wouldn’t mind it if I did.  By the way, my name is Tiger Lily.”

 

“No kidding?”  I wondered if I’d just gotten mixed up with the local hooker.  I glanced at Nolan and he winked at me, giving me the guy sign that she was okay and not anything to worry about.  I opened the door for her and we walked out into the evening.

 

“So, I heard you say you were going to a bluegrass concert?”

 

“Yep.  I bought a ticket online earlier today.  I don’t know much about the artist except she’s Canadian and is supposed to be a real good fiddle player.”

 

“You like bluegrass?” she asked.  I nodded.  “Well, I like Irish music myself.  Guess it’s because I’m half Irish.  I bet you have Irish blood in you,” she emphasized, putting her arm around my waist.  “Why don’t we walk over to the park and talk for a few minutes.  You have time for that, don’t you?”

 

I put my arm around her waist and led us across the street.  “I hate to say this but I must admit that Irish tunes get to be boring to me after a while.  They all sound so much alike that I wonder if I should…”

 

“You really don’t like Irish music?”

 

I shook my head.

 

She started singing “Danny Boy” as we got to the sidewalk.  Her voice was startling.  A group of tourists standing nearby quickly quieted down.  Tiger Lily trailed off after the first verse and the tourists clapped.  She took her arm away from around me and bowed to them as if bowing to an audience.

 

“Well, you can’t tell me that song didn’t have an effect on you!” she said, pushing me in the chest.

 

I just smiled and grabbed her hand and led her to a park bench framed by a couple of flowering bushes.  We sat down and put our arms over each other’s shoulder and stared at the expensive yachts tied up to the shore.

 

I sighed.  Why did I always find myself in this position?  So easy to get together with a woman but not wanting to take it to the next physical level because of my strong commitment to the physical sanctity of marriage.  I decided not to turn to look at her because I knew she would take it as a sign I was expecting us to kiss.  “I wonder what one of those costs?” I asked her, instead, while still looking at the boats.

 

“Oh, it depends.”

 

“Oh, yeah?  Depends on what?”

 

“Depends on whether you’ve set your husband up to get caught cheating and take him to cleaners in a divorce.”  She then laughed and stood up.

 

I looked at her.  “What’s so funny?”

 

“This.  I mean, here I am, remembering how easy it was to set my husband up and here you are a married man, falling for the same sort of trap.”

 

“Trap?”

 

“Yeah.  Don’t try to look but there’s a guy across the water with a long-range camera taking pictures of us right now.”

 

I tensed up.  “What for?”

 

“Hell, if I know.  All I can tell you is that everyone you just met at that bar was paid to find some way to take you down.  The first person to win gets an extra ten grand.  I figured you were an easy target and you are.  But, the only problem is, you seem to be a nice guy and I don’t really need the money.  So here we are.  I’ve given that photographer a few pics he can use even though you’ve done nothing wrong.  Isn’t that something?”

 

I stood up and tried to peer into the darkness across the water but couldn’t see any reflection of a camera lens.  “Uh, look, all I wanted to do was go see the bluegrass concert and you invited yourself over.”

 

“You don’t have to tell me that.”

 

“Well, I’m just going to leave now and pretend this didn’t happen, okay?  I don’t know how much you’ve been drinking but it seems to me that you’ve got some sort of fantasy going here that I’m not privy to and don’t really think I should get involved.”

 

“You know a guy named Brian Chipmunk?”

 

I flinched.  I hesitated but went ahead and confirmed her question with a nod.

 

“Well, he’s the one who paid us to come after you.”

 

I thought about it for a few seconds.  If I wanted some people to make trouble for a guy, why would I want them to know my real name?  It didn’t make sense.

 

“I’m just telling you this so you know I’m not making this up.  Just so you don’t have your own fantasy thing going here, I could be trolling the bar for a real, young, good-looking hunk who’d love a hop in the hay with a mature woman but I picked you, instead.  Take a look at me?  Does that make sense to you?”

 

In the dim glow of the overhead lighting, I could see that Tiger Lily was wearing expensive clothing and real jewelry.  What she said made a little sense, except the part about Brian’s name.  “Can you describe Brian to me?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Cause I only talked with him on the phone and got cash in my mailbox from him.”

 

“Well, what did his voice sound like?”

 

“He had kind of a high-pitched voice with a bit of a lisp.  You’re probably too young to remember but he reminded me of Peter Lorre, an actor of my generation, if not a bit older.”

 

That sure didn’t sound like the Brian Chipmunk I knew but I didn’t want Tiger Lily to know that, if Tiger Lily was her name, of course.  “Well, it certainly sounds like him but he’s been my best friend for years.  Why would he do something like this?”

 

“I’d just watch my back, if I were you.  And if you want to catch that concert, you’d better hurry.  Most of the shows at the Broward Center start at 7 o’clock.”

 

“Thanks.  I think I will.  And thanks for the tip.  I’ll be sure to be careful from now on.”

 

“Good luck,” she said to me as I turned and walked up the embankment to the Broward Center main entrance.

 

 

 

Chapter 19

 

Let’s see…first of all, I’m tired.  I created another paper “art” piece for a work colleague in the Sunrise, Florida, office.  As usual, I made one for her as a sort of experiment, and then used the experience from that to make one for my wife, Karen.  Being on the road, by myself at the hotel, I ended the evening by masturbating.  Got to bed around 2 a.m.

 

Before I fell asleep, I set the alarm for 6 a.m.  I actually woke up to the alarm, crawled out of bed by 6:03, put on the underwear, running shorts and shirt I had set out the night before and was in the car and on the road by 6:30, so I could drive to Ft. Lauderdale Beach and take pictures of the sunrise.

 

The temperature was a bit cool so I was glad I put on some pants and the dress shirt from the day before.  I drove the dark, nearly empty streets back to downtown Ft. Lauderdale, having driven Broward Boulevard enough times to have almost memorized the businesses on my left and right.  I could tell I drove through the part of town primarily populated by African-Americans by two signs: 1) a road named Martin Luther King, Jr, Drive/Boulevard, and 2) several fried chicken restaurants, one soul food restaurant and the requisite billboards selling liquor.

 

Anyway, I drove through downtown and out to A1A, picked a spot where I could park along the beach, got out and walked out on the protected dune.  Boy, it was definitely cool out – probably mid to upper 60s.  I could barely see a couple of kids sitting in the dark.  I snapped various pictures of palm trees, lighted cruise ships out on the water, and the Fort Lauderdale skyline while waiting for the sun to come up.  Just before the sun peaked over the horizon, the kids walked up and asked me to take a picture of them with the disposable camera they had.

 

“Sure thing.”

 

“Great,” the young man said, shivering with excitement.  “We have just arrived here a few minutes ago from Pittsburgh.  This is so awesome!”

 

“Aren’t you impressed by the view?” the young woman asked, pulling a blanket more tightly around her.

 

“Totally,” I responded.  “Where do you want your picture taken?”

 

“Oh, get us with the sunrise behind us.”

 

I took their picture and handed their camera back to them.

 

As they walked away, I snapped pictures of the sunrise.  A few minutes later, another couple walked up.  I was startled by the fact that they looked a lot like the couple I had just seen, only older.

 

“Hey, we saw you taking pictures of that couple and wondered if you’d take a picture of us?”

 

“No problem,” I said, wondering if my lack of sleep was causing my mind to play tricks on me.  I joked with them about being the official photographer and that maybe I should start charging for taking pictures.

 

“Oh, this has already cost us a bundle,” the man responded, winking at his female companion.

 

The batteries ran out on my camera so I headed back to the hotel to shower and shave.  As I stood in front of the floor-length mirror in the hotel bathroom, I noticed another one of the interesting signs of aging.  It seems like the older I get, the longer the pubic hair grows in my crotch and “tween” area.  I dressed, packed and checked out of the hotel.

 

I left the hotel at noon and then drove to Target to get padded envelopes to mail the creative cardwork to my coworker and my wife.

 

After that, I started driving south, and after stop-start, stop-start traffic on I-95, I ended up driving over to Miami Beach and cruising the boulevard, admiring the view, as they say (meaning checking out all the beautiful young people crowding the sidewalks during college fall break).  Along the way, my mind would fade out, reminding me of my lack of sleep and need for food.  I drove over to downtown Miami via the something-or-other causeway, catching I-95N and more bumper-to-bumper traffic, deciding to head in the general area of the Ft. Lauderdale Airport.

 

So, there I sat in another Irish pub, this one called Waxy O’Connor’s.  The waitress was a no-nonsense kind of person, perhaps with an Irish accent tempered either by living in America for a while or living in a higher class status in Ireland than the working classes (say, one of the types who affected an English accent while growing up).  I figured I had to get over my fear of her tough exterior and ask where she’s from.

 

While I waited for her to come back by, I also watched the clock, so to speak.  I was supposed to turn in the Ford Taurus around 6 p.m. and pick up a Mustang at 6 p.m.  I’d then drive 3 hours from the Ft. Lauderdale Airport / Hertz pickup and go to Mom and Dad’s place in North Port, Florida, cross Alligator Alley in the dark.

 

A woman at the table not far from me had the same accent as the actress, Katherine O’Hara, so I presumed she was a Canadian.  And by the way, at that point I was working on my second Smithwick’s Irish ale (imported by Guinness).

 

Woody Allen once said, “Showing up is 80 percent of life.”  The waitress finally showed back up, unbeknownst to me, and was looking over my shoulder.

 

“Whatcha doin’ there?” she asked, nodding toward my notebook.

 

“Oh, I’m recording what I’m seeing and hearing.”

 

“Is that so?  Am I in there?”

 

“Yes,” I replied, and pointed to the sentence about wanting to get over her tough exterior.

 

She looked over at her friend.  “You think I have a tough exterior?”

 

“Depends…”

 

“That’s what I thought.”  She turned back to me.  “I’m not so tough today.  It was a mad lunch rush so I’m just sloggin’ my way through here.  I’m not tough.  I’m tired.”

 

I took note of her condition.

 

“Are you writing that down?”  I nodded.  She slapped her hand across my shoulder.  “Stop it,” she said, half-mockingly.

 

I kept writing.

 

“What are you writing now?” she asked again and bent down to read that she’s just slapped me.  “My, my, you are a feisty one.  I don’t suppose you’d still be here when I get off.”

 

“What time’s that?”

 

“Seven.”

 

“No, I’ve got to go in a few minutes and turn in the rental car.”

 

“A shame.  Well, you’re going to miss a smashing time, love.  There’s a wonderful writer’s forum taking place downtown.  I’m sure you’d fit in there and I could certainly give you something to write about.”

 

I flashed her my wolf’s eyes.

 

“And I don’t necessarily mean that, either.”  She leaned against me.  “But then I wouldn’t write it off just yet.”

 

I smiled and reached for my wallet, knocking her elbow off my shoulder.  “Sorry, but I’ve really got to go.”

 

She shrugged, reached into her back pocket and pulled my bill out of a credit card receipt folder.  I gave her cash and left.

 

 

Chapter 20

 

Back in Huntsville, I dove into my job.  Although it was exceedingly boring, at least it kept my mind from dwelling on negative thoughts.  But I was tired and it was hard to concentrate on all the incoming emails.  I decided to take a break after a few hours and IM a coworker who had handed over the role of customer problem-solving coordinator to me.

 

DAVID: You there?

 

JENNIFER: Yep.

 

DAVID: Got a minute to talk?

 

JENNIFER: Sure, go ahead.  I’ll multitask as usual. 😉

 

DAVID: Life is full of missed opportunities but I don’t want to miss the opportunity to get some thoughts out of my system.  I wouldn’t normally communicate with you in this way, outside of email, but on occasion I feel compelled…

 

DAVID: to say more, say something…or rather, write something that doesn’t require the formality of emails.

 

JENNIFER: I understand.

 

DAVID: So, too, I’m not a regular IM user.  In any case, I’m here so I’ll go on with what I had to say.

 

JENNIFER:  OK. BTW, did you see the email from Germany?  Looks like you’re going to have to go over.

 

DAVID: Yeah.  Did you hear on earlier today that George Kateze asked me to host and run the biweekly engr projects meeting for the MSB group?

 

JENNIFER. Yes.  You know that means having to keep up with the progress of the engineering projects for both Sunrise and Huntsville?

 

DAVID:  So you’re saying it’s not a good thing?

 

JENNIFER:  No, I thinks it’s positive.  You probably don’t realize it but you’re perceived as a person of highly positive energy.

 

DAVID: [blushing]

 

JENNIFER: Seriously, I think mgmt sees you spark good vibes in those around you, especially during meetings.

 

DAVID: So do you.  I have enjoyed watching you continue to grow into your new self and know that if your pace of growth is any indication of who you will be, then you might be a VP one day!

 

JENNIFER: My turn to blush.

 

DAVID:  When you hit the big time, don’t forget us little folk.  We’ll still want to know how your sons and grandchildren are doing.

 

JENNIFER:  Enough already!  You need to address the email from Germany.

 

DAVID:  OK – bye.

 

 

I read the email Jennifer mentioned and saw where the engineers at Cumulo Corp were having serious problems with the video resolution on the slim computer servers, called blades, and wanted someone in Germany within a week to resolve the issue.  I called our travel office and arranged the tickets, hotel and rental car.  I threw in a stop in Shannon, Ireland, in order to meet with some of the engineers there.

 

 

 

Chapter 21

 

“And so it is I find myself here,” a phrase repeated many times in my head through the years.  Repetitive though it may be, the phrase usually precedes a new thought or experience in my life.  And so it is I find myself here, sitting on a Delta flight from Atlanta, Georgia, USA, to Shannon, County Clare, Ireland.  At this moment, we hug the coast of North America, or at least we had been.  Approximately two and a half hours into the flight it appears we’re turning east over open waters.  Bye-bye, well-lit coastline!  Hello, Old World venture!  Would that I could share some well thought-out gem of a phrase that’d express my sentiments in a witty tome (or is it tone? either will do).  Instead, I sit here after a power nap, occasionally glancing up at the in-flight showing of some children’s movie, which I first mistook as “Angela’s Ashes,” wondering why I know so much about the professional gigs of actors and so little about the features of the products my company sells.  I know that it has to do with the basic fundamentals of the brain’s electrochemical use of the concepts of work versus play and the body’s reward for participation in them.

 

And so it is, my mind slightly seduced by the idea of sleep, slightly dulled by the digestion of the airline meal in my stomach, I’d almost rather catch another nap than spend time putting words down here.

 

Instead, I press on, slightly bolstered by the tea (rather than coffee) served by the flight attendant.

 

I sit here, with little motivation to put descriptive adjectives into use.  Some say it’s because I have no muse.  And I agree!  At 44 years of age, I feel I have lost contact with any one person for whom I’d compel myself to write well thought-out phrases full of meaningful words and descriptively delicious adjectives and adverbial phrases.  I suppose there’s nothing the matter with being bland if all I’m doing is writing in a novel-writing contest.  Alas, ’tis not so.  I will not allow meaningless, extended extemporaneous output to find its way out to these pages.

 

Instead, I will choose you, with the understanding that my choosing you is harmless.  My words may be flirtatious in that they tickle your fancy both by the fact they’re directed toward you and that the order of the words I use are meant for you as the sole audience, but they are words.  No action is intended or implied.

 

Okay, now that the disclaimer is aside, let me say I’m glad to know you and in my gladness, I wish to give you all that I have that really counts – these words.  They are yours in the eternity we call our lives, of which we never know when will end and thus are comprised of an infinite number of days (at least, for most of us).  These words do not mean the same thing today as they did yesterday or will mean tomorrow.  So, you see, these words are a never-ending gift from me to you.  You now possess an endless act of giving, which being all I have to give, is everything that describes you and me.

 

And so it is that I close my eyes and devote the next few minutes or hours to directionless daydreams.  Until tomorrow, then!  The rest of the trip was not very exciting.

 

After taking care of a crisis in the Shannon office the next day, I joined a US expatriate, Teri O’Halligan, for a few drinks at a local pub, appropriately called the Halfway House.

 

“David, I’m glad you have time to sit and talk with me tonight.  I was stood up by my girlfriend and just didn’t want to sit alone in my apartment and drink tonight.”

 

“Girlfriend?”

 

“Yeah, she works over at the…oops, I see what you’re saying.  I guess you think I still have a girlfriend in the US?”

 

“Well…yes!  She works in the sales office, doesn’t she?”

 

“David, I guess I need to let you in on a little secret.  What goes on in Ireland stays in Ireland, if you know what I mean.”

 

I raised my glass of freshly-poured Guinness and said, “Here’s to Irish women!”

 

“Hear!  Hear!” Teri replied, enthusiastically, getting the attention of several folk around us.

 

We guzzled down our beers as quick as we could and ordered another round.

 

“So, David, I gather you have something on your mind?”

 

“Well, I don’t know that it’s important but it’s important enough to keep in Ireland.”

 

“That’s what I thought.  So, spit it out.”

 

“Well, you’ve worked with Jennifer for several years…”

 

“Hmm…let’s see. Yeah, I’d say it’s about ten years.  Or is it twelve?  Hell, I don’t even remember and right now, I don’t even care.  So, yeah, it’s been a while.”

 

“What’s she like?”

 

“What do you mean, exactly?”

 

“Well, have you ever been interested in her?”

 

“Are we talking about the same Jennifer?  Tech Support, engineer, L3 coordinator, program manager…”

 

“Yep, that’s her.”

 

“No, I can’t say that I’ve ever been interested in her.  You stopped drinking your beer.  Drink up,” Teri said, tipping his glass toward me and downing his beer in a few gulps.

 

I looked at my watch.  I had three hours before I had to be at the airport for a night flight to London in order to catch a morning flight to Germany.  I knocked down my beer and ordered another round for us, in hopes that the beer’d give me more courage.

 

“Well, you gotta admit she’s a woman.”

 

“Oh yeah, David, she’s all woman, all right.”

 

“Well, I think I find her attractive.”

 

“You know, David, I’ve worked with a lot of people who’ve worked around Jennifer and I believe you’re the first person to call her attractive.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, really.  You see, you’re seeing her now.  You didn’t know her when she was probably 300 pounds.”

 

“300 pounds?  You’re pulling my leg.”

 

“No, I’m not.  She’s lost well over 100 pounds or more since I’ve known her.”

 

“Well, like you said.  I didn’t know her then.  I only know that she is the woman I know now, and for whatever it’s worth or whatever it means, despite my having seen her struggling to finish a five kilometer road race or an attempt at the Huntsville Half Marathon, I have appreciated her for being her, no matter what.  I have not questioned her about the person she was who went through the birth of her children and the divorce of her children’s father.”

 

“And you’re lucky, too.  She was bitter about that divorce for a very long time.”

 

“I never knew that version of Jennifer.”  I drank down my beer and nodded at the bartender for another.  “All I can say, and I know I may be repeating myself, all I can say is that I may come close to repeating my thoughts but I wish you to know that if life were different than it is…you know what I mean…if I had even the remotest possibility of asking her out and have fun at the pub like we’re doing tonight, I would.”

 

“Well, David, that’s certainly something that won’t be leaving this pub.  In fact, I don’t think anyone would believe it.”

 

“No, seriously, I think she and I could have a nice evening out and when it gets down to it, sitting down with your friends for a fun conversation is what life is all about.  In other words, and this is where I hope you won’t tell anyone, I see her as this wonderful person, organized workmate, comforting companion, voluptuous female, engaging conversationalist… and … and caring mother … and I wonder what could have gone wrong between her and her ex-husband.”  I realized I was weaving a bit and subtly put my hand on the bar.

 

“Ohh, David, you don’t want to get me started on all the things Jennifer used to say about her ex.  I’d say it was a two-way street, though, when you get down to it.  It takes two to tango and all that.”

 

“Exactly.  Well, all I can say is that I appreciate her for who she is.  I can truly do nothing more but sit here and wonder, ‘What if…?'”

 

“And that’s a good thing, I’m telling you.  If your marriage is any good, I’d focus on your wife, if I were you.  And besides, you’d quickly find out that Jennifer is 100% focused on her kids and her job.  Don’t expect that she would think much about you if you weren’t somehow connected to a project she’s working on or something.”

 

“Wow,” I slurred, “I’m glad I talked with you.  You sure know how to burst a guy’s bubble.”

 

“Well, in this case, consider it a bubble well bursted.  Any fantasy about Jennifer is a thought wasted.”

 

“So, you were saying someting about your girlfriend?”

 

“I was?  Oh yeah, well, I don’t think there’s any reason to bore you with the details.  I’m guessing that you still have to get back to the hotel and pack.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“You okay to drive?”

 

“Sure.”  I stood up and leaned over a little bit too far but caught myself.  “Well, maybe a little bit.”

 

“Why don’t we both drink a cup of coffee before you go?”  Teri nodded at the bartender and pointed at some coffee mugs.  Teri grabbed the phone from his belt and frowned.  “I’ve got a boatload of emails to go through.  That’s the only thing I don’t like about living over here.  The girls are plentiful, but hell, the US keeps bugging me well into the night with demanding, ’emergency’ emails and phone calls.”

 

“So why don’t you turn off your cell phone?”

 

The bartender handed us our cups of coffee.  I took a quick sip of the hot liquid to try to steady myself.

 

“I wish.  No, it doesn’t work that way.  If you ever get a chance to move over here, you’ll know what I mean.  And if you move to Ireland, I’ll introduce you to the Thursday night club.”

 

“That sounds interesting.”

 

“Well, yeah, but it’s nothing much.  It’s just another way of saying ‘What goes on in Ireland…'”

 

“‘…stays in Ireland.’  Yeah, I get it.”

 

“Well, here, what goes on in the pub at night with your coworkers stays at the pub and does not get repeated at work the next day.  For instance, if I told you that a fellow named Brian had been here a couple of weeks before you, inquiring about your upcoming visit, you’d be a good fellow and keep your trap shut.”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“Good.  Then we just didn’t have that conversation.  You ready to go?”

 

I pushed myself away from the bar and was able to stand still.  “Yeah, I think so.”

 

“Good, ’cause you better hurry.”

 

I looked at my watch.  “Fuck, you’re right.  Well, I’ll see you next time.”

 

Teri shook my hand.  “Be careful on your way.  The gardai love to pull over drunks this time of year.  Of course, they won’t give you a ticket but it might prevent you from catching your flight.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“No problem.”

 

 

 

Chapter 22

 

Just like in Ireland, I met with the engineers in Paderborn, Germany, except these were engineers at our customer site, Cumulo Corp.  We were able to determine that the video resolution problem could be reduced by adjusting the manual settings of the remote KVM session.  However, the project lead, Peter, wanted a permanent solution for his end customer and did not want his customer to have to make manual adjustments.  We conferenced in their server operating system experts in Augsburg and determined that I’d have to see what they were working on in Augsburg, if my US team couldn’t figure out the video resolution problem.

 

I wasn’t sure if all German customers were like this, but the management team at Cumulo had a way of making us look foolish with more than one “top priority” problem open at a time, especially if they weren’t satisfied with the progress we were making on a particular problem.  I had gotten used to it but it was still a cultural or business relationship difference I was not accustomed to.

 

I briefly talked with the lead BIOS engineer and discussed a separate issue related to the KVM device not being able to be recognized properly during the BIOS bootup sequence.  We looked at some traces via WebEx and decided that the BIOS team would need to rework some timing of the bootup sequence.

 

After that conversation, I found out that my team back in the US would be able to include a default set of video resolution settings with the next firmware release that would please well over 90% of the customers.  Peter was satisfied that the settings would be accepted by his customers and requested that we include a detailed write-up of these default settings in the new firmware release.  I instructed my team to make the changes and then left the Cumulo Corp office a little early in order to catch up with Summer.

 

At the hotel that evening, I typed a few notes on the laptop computer:

 

Strong electrical storm passing through area.

Listening to Mysterious Traveler by Weather Report

on the laptop speakers.  Window open so I can also

listen to the thunder and smell the rain in this

Bavarian town of Schwaig-Oberding.

 

Oh well, the rain is blowing too hard so I’ve had to shut the window.

 

“Do I really talk with a slight lisp?” asked Summer.

 

I looked up from the laptop to see Summer was leaning on the chair, looking over my shoulder at the trees, which were performing calisthenics in the storm, perhaps doing their part in preparation for the winds of winter.

 

“Did I say that?”

 

“Yeth, you did.”

 

“Well, can I take it back?”

 

“Maybe.  I don’t know.  Do you still want to go out tonight?”

 

“I was thinking maybe not.”

 

“Me, too.  I think I’ll watch TV.”

 

I cringed but Summer didn’t notice.  I wondered what the fascination could be.  Here was a woman who had hiked through Ecuador, across the Cape Verde Islands, and up and down the mountains of Nepal yet here she was with nothing better to do than sit and watch TV.  But then again, I was sitting and watching my fingers throw black characters up on the screen.  Was one better than the other?

 

“Looks like the storm is passing.”

 

“Yeth, I see that.”

 

“There you go again.”

 

“What?”

 

“You just said ‘yeth’.”

 

“I did?  I think you are imagining it.”

 

“Maybe.  Or maybe it’s just the way some Germans speak English.  Seems like today I heard several Germans with the same lispy sound to their words.”

 

“Okay,” Summer said, her interest waning as she turned back to the TV.

 

I heard the quiet roar of an airplane taking off from the München airport.  I stood up and opened the window again.  I looked at the empty, wet soccer field below, only minutes before thriving with small children pretending to be world-class strikers.  The bells of a nearby church struck 8:45 p.m.  I turned around and wondered why there was a woman reclined on one of the double beds watching TV in my room.  Hard to believe that all the hotels in the area were booked, considering that the fall tourism season was not as heavy as usual.  Maybe a lot of travelers were like Summer, needing a hotel close to the airport in order to catch an early flight out.  I had not shared a hotel room with a woman before and wondered how it should work out.

 

“Do you want to go out?  The rain has stopped and it’s a lot cooler now.”

 

“Are you wanting to go out?”

 

“Not really but I thought you might.”

 

“No, no.  I am just happy here.  If you want to go out, you can go without me.”

 

“I might do that.  I’d like to take the Alfa Romeo GT I rented out on the autobahn.”

 

“Okay.  I will be asleep when you get back, probably.  So it will be good for you to enjoy yourself for a while.”

 

“Great, thanks.”

 

 

 

Chapter 23

 

A little disheveled, dragging my suitcase beside me, I walked out of baggage claim and into the front waiting lobby of the Paderborn airport.  Two and a half hours sleep at a London hotel, then the flight from Heathrow to Frankfurt and then to Paderborn.  The lack of sleep was getting to me.  Was I supposed to call Eleanor when I landed?  I looked around the airport waiting area.  Eleanor sat in a chair at an empty bar and waved at me when I noticed her.  She broke into a smile and let out a hearty laugh.

 

“Oh good, there you are,” I said with a sigh. “I wondered how I was going to find you.”

 

“No problem, Dave.  I’ve been here since 8:30.  Dave, this is Summer.  She just got here a minute before you did.  She’s one of those people who always arrive just in time.  Don’t you, Summer?”  Eleanor gave Summer a knowing look.

 

I looked at the woman standing next to Eleanor.  Shoulder-length chestnut hair.  A toned body like Eleanor’s and almost the same height.  A few wrinkles, enough to say she was definitely over 20 years old but was she over 30 or just liked to exercise outside and the tanned skin emphasized the lines?  I couldn’t tell.  I reached out and shook her hand.  “Hi, Summer, nice to meet you.”

 

Summer smiled, looked in my eyes, nodded her head, and then looked down as she let go of my hand.  “Yeth,” was all she said.

 

“Well, Eleanor, I guess you’re probably hungry.  Shall we go somewhere to eat?”

 

Eleanor looked from me to Summer.  “I don’t know Paderborn that well.  There doesn’t look to be much here in the airport I want to eat.  Does Paderborn have anything?”

 

Summer nodded her head.  “Well, Paderborn does have a few places.  We might as well drive that way since we’re going to the Cumulo office close by.”

 

“Great!  Dave, you got all your bags?”

 

I nodded my head.

 

“Then what are we waiting for?  Let’s go to Summer’s car.”

 

 

I looked at the scuff marks on the back of the front seats.  “Do you have any animals?”

 

Summer nodded and smiled slightly.

 

“Dogs?  Cats?”

 

“No.  Children.”

 

“Oh really?  What ages are they?”

 

“I have a boy and a girl.”

 

“No, I mean how old are your kids?”

 

Summer looked at me in the rearview mirror and gave me a questioning look.

 

Eleanor leaned over to Summer from the front passenger’s seat.  “How old are they?”

 

“The oldest one is four and the youngest one is seven…seven months.”

 

“Wow!  That’s a baby.”

 

“Yeth.”

 

“That’s great.  Do you get any sleep at night?”

 

“Sometimes, yes.  He likes to eat.  Eat, eat, eat.  When he was first born, I went to sleep at 2 each night.”

 

“Hnnh,” David said, turning his attention back to the car.  “So this is a 318…I have a 325 but it is not diesel.”

 

“For a diesel, this is very quiet,” Eleanor added.

 

I agreed.  “Yeah, I don’t hear the ‘packety-pack’ of a diesel.”

 

“This is a fine automobile.  You will hear no ‘packety-pack.’”

 

“A fine but dirty automobile,” I said, smirking.  I saw Summer’s slight frown in the mirror and decided to try a different line.  “You know, a friend of mine has a very fine Lexus but she has let her children tear up the insides.  I asked her why she would let her kids tear up such an expensive car.  She said I don’t know her priorities.  Her priorities were her children, not cars.”

 

Summer nodded.  “Me, too,” she said and gunned the car to 180 on the road.

 

 

Miraculously, Summer found an open parking spot on the street in downtown Paderborn.  “We can park here and walk to a restaurant.”

 

Eleanor turned to me as we stepped out of the car.  “Have you ever been to a biergarten?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, it’ll be your first time.”

 

“I guess so,” I said, looking down the street at a group of young women crossing 50 yards in front of me.  I knew I was in Germany, the store signs and roadside markers had certainly told me that.  What I hadn’t expected to see were women dressed in jeans and T-shirts, as if I was cruising the sidewalks of New York City or New Orleans.  I then realized I was sweating in the warm, humid, fall air.  “It’ll be good to drink something cold.”

 

“You probably won’t drink a beer,” Eleanor said, with just a touch of a commanding voice.  Or was it just a friendly hint?  One of those paragraphs spoken in a few words, something like ‘Summer doesn’t yet know you.  We’re about to go visit the customer who is going to meet you for the first time.  I’m strongly suggesting you wait to drink until later this afternoon.’

 

I went ahead and said, “But you said it’s a biergarten.”

 

“Yeah.  But I’m going there to eat food.”

 

I got her point.  She abstained from alcohol.  “You don’t drink anyway.”

 

“No, I don’t,” Eleanor said as she turned to Summer and smiled, with just the faintest smudge of victory curling up in the ends of her lips.

 

 

We sat outside, on a table next to the sidewalk.  I picked up the menu, seeing what looked like the German phrase for “Do you lust for ice cream?”, under the picture of a woman’s pair of brightly colored lips shot just as she licked the edge of a cherry.  I wasn’t sure what the socially accepted definition of sex was but the picture was a little more obvious about lust than I’d see on an American restaurant menu, Hooter’s aside.

 

“Oh, I see you want the ice cream?” Eleanor asked rhetorically, interpreting my lusty grin for a desire for food.

 

“Maybe later.”  I set the dessert menu down just as the server appeared with lunch menus.

 

“Gut’ abend,” the server said and continued on in German, asking a few questions I didn’t understand.

 

I looked over to Eleanor with questioning eyes.

 

Eleanor turned to me and asked, “Would you like something to drink?”

 

“Drink?  Oh yes,” I burst out, ready to use one of the German phrases I knew.  “Ich möchte Tee drinken.”

 

The server pressed on the screen of the PDA in her hand and then held the PDA in front of me, reading off a list to me in German.  I was able to look over her at the PDA screen to see it was a portable food order system.  I figured out at least one word I could recognize.  “Pfeffermintz, bitte,” I said, not really wanting peppermint tea but trying to act like I understood her.

 

“Danke schoen.”

 

Eleanor and Summer placed orders for sparkling apple juice while I tried to sort out the lunch menu.  I knew some words right away and could figure out the gist of others.  From the words in one category, I thought the descriptions were associated with pizza.  “What is this?” I asked Summer.

 

“Oh…ah,” Summer said, setting down the menu.  She cupped her hands and then mimed a bowl shape in the air.  “Like pitza.  It is very flat and thin.”

 

“Pizza?”

 

“Yes, but the toppings are…cream…and…”

 

“Cheese?”

 

“Yeth.”

 

“This one looks good.  It has feta cheese and olives.”

 

“Yeth.”

 

“So, guys,” Eleanor interrupted, “what are the plans for the day?”

 

“We have the meeting at 3…”

 

“Are you guys staying in Paderborn?”

 

I looked over at Summer.  “I don’t know.  I couldn’t clearly tell from Summer’s email.  Are we staying…”

 

“We are leaving for Augsburg after the meeting.”

 

“So you guys aren’t spending the night?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then I better cancel my hotel reservation and change my plane flight for tomorrow.”

 

“If you wish.”

 

“Or we could stay the night here,” David suggested.

 

Summer shook her head.  “We have a long train ride to Augsburg and an early meeting tomorrow.”

 

“What time is the meeting?”

 

“Nine.”

 

“Oh, yeah, I guess you’re right.”

 

 

 

Chapter 24

 

I quietly opened the hotel room door.  I had had five, maybe six beers, enough that I was not staggering down the hall but to the point where I had to concentrate on simple tasks.  The door creaked as I opened it and I heard motion coming from inside the dark.  At first, I thought it was Summer.  Perhaps she had been awake, wondering if and when I would return.  Perhaps…then I realized the church bells were tolling.  Ten o’clock.  Had I only been gone an hour?  Well, the band in the bar had made the time go by so fast, helping me forget that I’d been upset that the rain had picked up again just as I started to walk out to the car, preventing me from taking the drive on the autobahn.

 

I shut the door as quietly as I could.  I heard the steady sound of rain coming from the open window.  Even though it was one of the warmest days of the fall, it was still cool at this hour.  I debated feeling my way along the beds but decided I didn’t want to grab Summer’s ankle and be unable to make another move.  My eyes adjusted to the dark and I could see some light bouncing off the ceiling.  I saw a flashlight pointing at me and realized it was a plane coming in for a landing.  I took a few baby steps forward, passing by the toilet.  I kept my eyes focused forward, even though I wanted to look over and see if Summer was asleep.  I wondered if Summer was even in the room anymore.  Perhaps she’d called the front desk and found an available empty room.

 

I took a few more steps and stumbled into a chair I’d forgotten about, hidden in the shadows beneath the window.  I scooted around the chair and leaned out the window.  I could just make out the edges of the soccer field.  Small waves of rock music crashed around me.  I remembered why I’d left the bar – I’d gotten tired of hearing the old pop tunes, songs I’d not liked when they were first released and not any better being song by a local bar band.  The band was cranking out “Achy Breaky Heart,” a crossover country song that played well at both discothèques and Western dance halls.  The band announced they were taking a break.

 

I turned around.  I wanted to test myself.  Who was I?  Was I truly deep-down a trusty soul, a regular guy who certainly recognized good-looking women when I saw them, who liked to window shop but still made all my purchases at only one bride store where I had publicly signed a marriage contract over 20 years before?

 

I fell in love with women at a drop of a hat.  I saw divine, angelic beauty no matter what, even though no woman was angelic and certainly everyone was far from perfect.

 

In the gray shades of the room, I could see a charcoal outline on one of the beds.  Or was it just my imagination?  Lightning flashed and I distinctly saw that Summer was laying still, sleeping on the bed next to the wall, her body resting on her right side, her back to the other bed.

 

Did maturity have anything to do with growing older?  Did forty-four years on this planet mean one thing to the man standing by an open window, the cool breeze clearing up his head, giving him the opportunity to calculate his next move?

 

I sat on the window sill, feeling the rain water that had pooled on the granite ledge soak into the seat of my pants.

 

The bell tolled 10:30 p.m.  I closed my eyes for a moment.  The only thing I knew was that I’d have to remove my pants and hang them up to dry.  And to think, Summer had teased me the day before about only bringing one pair of trousers for the trip.

 

A series of lightning flashes and subsequent thunder jarred me.  I wacked a knee on the chair and grunted, waking Summer.

 

“Hallo?”

 

“Sorry.  I was trying to be quiet.”

 

“What time is it?”

 

“I don’t know exactly.  Sometime after 10:30, I guess.”

 

Summer rolled over to face me in the dark just as the band starting playing again.

 

“Did you have a good time downstairs?”

 

“Downstairs?”

 

“Yes, with the band.”

 

“How did you know?”

 

“I heard you laughing before I fell asleep.  It was easy to hear from the open window.  You have a very distinct laugh.”

 

“I do?”

 

“Yeth, but not with a lisp, though.”  They both laughed.

 

“Mind if I turn the chair around to face you?”

 

“Mind?  Why would I mind?”

 

“Oh…well, I don’t know, really.”

 

“No problem.”

 

 

Chapter 25

 

Even though Peter made a big deal about the fact that his child’s football match started at 16:00, the meeting lasted until past 17:00.  No one had anticipated such a late end to the meeting.  Dinner was no longer an option.  Summer drove Eleanor quickly to the airport so that Summer and I could get to the Kassel train station before the train to Augsburg left at 18:15.

 

We got to the train station and purchased our tickets in time for us to stand in front of a train schedule to see if the train that had just left the station was the one we wanted.

 

I watched as Summer read the schedule and tried to listen to her explain that the train that had just left the station was not the one we wanted even though it pulled out at the time that was printed on our tickets.  I tried to calm my mind so I could rationalize the situation.  I had worried about the meeting with the customer but the meeting went smoothly.  I had worried about not making it to the train station on time, thinking the autobahn was crowded but hearing Summer comment about how deserted the road was, presumably because of the nice weather so everyone was probably home early.  I had worried that we were not going to figure out the automated train ticket machine at the status but we had printed the tickets and had made it to the train platform in time to ask a porter if the train was the one we wanted and been assured it was not.  Now, I was catching my breath and trying to remember what Summer had said while she stood next to the train schedule information poster, talking quietly, with me behind her trying to figure out the pictures and listen to her at the same time.

 

I only heard a few of the words Summer had said and was confused.

 

“So help me here.  This is the first time I have come to Germany.  Even though I learned German in school, it is still different than standing here, wondering what the symbols and time mean.  Can you show me that the train that just left is not the train we needed?  After all, it is past 6:16 and I think we were supposed to be on the 6:16 train.”

 

Summer turned her head to the side the way she liked to do and smiled a non-worrying smile, an expression that I assumed was often used when Summer tried to explain something simple to her children.  “Oh, don’t worry.  This is Germany.  The trains are never on time.”

 

I looked from Summer to the train schedule and back.  “Okay.  I can handle that.  But you said something about car number 10 or track number 10.  I look at the trains here and see a car number 10 but how is it associated with the Augsburg stop.”

 

Summer stepped back up to the schedule.  “Augsburg,” she mumbled to herself in her lispy voice.  “Augsburg…see, here it is.”  She put her finger on the glass.

 

“Yes, but that’s the 17:25 train.  I can also see Augsburg on the 20:27 train but I don’t see Augsburg on the 18:16 or 18:24 train.”

 

Summer nodded her head from side to side, probably mimicking her little girl.  “Well, yeth, it’s not there, but don’t worry.  That is the train we’re supposed to take.”  She pointed to the map and then stepped back.

 

I squinted, trying to figure out how not to worry.

 

“Here, I will show you.”  Summer reached into her bag and pulled out a crumpled printout.  “Augs…burg…here!  See, Augsburg is on the 18:24 train.  It is just like I told you earlier today, a train through Augsburg every hour.”  The sound of brakes pierced the air.  “See, here is the train.  We can go now.”

 

======================

 

The bells tolled 11 p.m.  I opened my eyes.  How long had I been asleep?  My head was tilted to one side and my legs felt cold.  I had just heard the sound of a roaring train.  No, it was just the sound of another jet screaming past.  How late did the airport stay open?  And boy, it sure had gotten cooler.

 

In my half-asleep state, my thoughts wandered.  I tried to remember what I’d just been doing but something was blocking my thoughts.  I then realized there was something pressed against my right thigh.  More importantly, I realized I wasn’t wearing any pants.  I quickly reached my right hand over to my left and felt my wedding band on.  That was a good sign – I always took my ring off before I crawled into bed for the night, even at home with my wife.  So either I hadn’t crawled into bed for the night or I hadn’t crawled into bed with the intention of staying in bed for the night.  What was the last thing I remembered?  Ooh…I wasn’t sure it if was a good memory.  Summer had said…well, at least I thought she said it…she approved of me taking my pants off.

 

 

“That’s no problem, David.  I cannot see you in the dark anyway.  I will probably be asleep again in a minute.  I will turn around and close my eyes, though, anyway.”

 

“Thanks, Summer.  I’m still almost too drunk to stand up so I’m just going to sit here and take my pants off.  God, I’m so embarrassed.”

 

“That’s okay.  I should have closed the window before I went to bed.  I didn’t know the rain would keep falling.”

 

“You know, back home, this would look really bad if someone walked in right now.”

 

“Well, it would look bad here, too, probably, but I think we are all right.  Many people are sharing rooms this week that would not normally do so.  I think…if somebody walked in…we…would…be…”

 

I could hear the quiet sounds of Summer sleeping.  I’d just close my eyes for a few minutes and rest before I got up.

 

========================

 

“So what do you think about the train?” Summer asked after we’d settled into seats in car number six.

 

“This is great.  It sure beats driving.  And thanks for driving here, by the way.”

 

“No problem.  I think we could have flown from Paderborn but it would take just as long to fly as to take the train or drive.  Or maybe we could have gotten there faster by driving but then again we could get on the autobahn and the road would be filled with cars and we would take five or six hours to get to Augsburg.  It happens sometimes.”

 

“I bet.  Hey, are you hungry?”

 

“Are you hungry?”

 

“A little bit.”

 

Summer nodded her head and stood up.  “Well, then, let’s get something to eat,” lisping the word ‘something.’  I then figured out that part of what I thought was lisping was really just some Germans’ way of trying to pronounce the letter ‘s’ as an English ‘s’ instead of an English ‘z’.

 

I led the way to car number 10, stopping at the toilet, after which Summer was walking in front of me.  It dawned on me that Summer had a typical post-birth runner’s body.  A slightly wider set of hips but not really wide in the sense of being overweight.  I envied her figure, knowing that the wider stance gave Summer an advantage in keeping her balance.  I felt like my hips were narrow and thus I looked heavier because of the extra fat bouncing around my waistline.  Heaven forbid I let someone see my bouncing shape and yet I insisted on running road races with very little exercise in between the events.

 

==========================

 

So there I sat, the bells tolling 11:30 or “half midnight” as some might say, and I was sitting there in my shorts, listening to the constant stream of planes flying into Bavaria.  And the steady rhythm of the bar band.  How late did they play on the weekdays?  But then again, it was a nice fall night.  Maybe a lot of people stayed out late on nights like this.  Maybe folks got an early start on the weekend around here?

 

I shook my head.  There was no more dizziness, no more feeling the room swirl or spin.  I stood up and beelined for the bathroom, suddenly sensing a full bladder.

 

==========================

 

We both ordered our meals, with me stumbling through my German.  The server smiled politely and complimented me when I correctly pronounced the beer, “Kernig Loodvig” for the König Ludwig hefeweisen on the menu.

 

Summer put her elbows on the table, leaned forward and gave me a warm and friendly smile.  Despite knowing better, despite trying to turn Summer into an other, an undesirable person of some sort, I instantly fell in love.

 

“Thank you,” I said, although I wanted to say, “Thank you for being such a wonderful companion whose pronunciation of German is so cute and appealing at the same time that I forget my desire to learn the German language and lose myself in the song of your voice, instead.”

 

Summer raised her eyebrows.  “Thanks for what?”

 

“This.”

 

Summer shrugged her shoulders and then nodded her head.  “Yes…this.”  She turned to look out the window at the trees passing by.  “Yes, this is nice.  The last time I took the train, it was raining.  Not so nice.”

 

I sighed and Summer turned to look at me.  She broke into a big smile.  I looked at her face and wondered how old she really was.  She had a youthful spirit about her and probably always would.  And yet, her face was framed by more wrinkles than I had first noticed.  My own wife had wrinkles but they were not as deep, partly because…frankly, part of the advantage of being overweight was that your skin is stretched out a little and hides wrinkles around the face.  Summer had a slender face.  So was Summer the same age as my wife, Karen?  Would Summer be in her 40s?  Any time the subject of years came up, Summer always seemed to find a way to hide the passage of too many years, as if she was thinking I was calculating her age.

 

The server handed us our drinks.  I took a big swallow of beer.  “I used to brew my own beer, very similar to this, slightly cloudy.”

 

“It is legal to do so in the US?”

 

“Well, at least in Alabama, you can brew up to five gallons of beer before you have to pay taxes.”

 

Summer raised her glass, ‘’Cheers.”

 

I reached across and clinked the top of my glass to her.

 

“No, no.  You hit it here, on the bottom,” and Summer clinked the bottom of her glass to mine.

 

I took a gulp and put the beer back on the table.  I thought about the situation, laughing in my mind at the comparison of the situation to one of my favorite movies, “Before Sunrise”, starring the French actress, Julie Delpy and the American actor, Ethan Hawke, where the two meet on a train as strangers and decide to spend the evening together until the woman has to get on a train to Paris the next morning and the man has to fly back to the States.  In this case, I was not romantically interested in Summer.  I was riding a train with a business companion.  And yet…oh, the imagination runs wild sometimes, doesn’t it?

 

===========================

 

The stroke of midnight.  Somewhere, Cinderella was running away, leaving her glass slipper behind.  I leaned against the bathroom door.  I was tired.  I had not gotten much sleep on this trip.  I looked across the room at the incoming planes.  They seemed to land in bunches, three, four or five at a time.  Between the roar of the jet engines, I thought I still heard the band.  Were they saying goodnight?  No, they were strumming another dance tune into action.  David decided to step into action himself.

 

I tiptoed to the foot of Summer’s bed.  “Summer,” he whispered.  He waited a few seconds.  “Summer?”  No response.

 

I walked back across the room and felt around the base of the chair for my pants.  I picked them up and they didn’t seem especially wet, more damp than anything else.  I sat in the chair and pulled on my pants, clasping the belt buckle in one hand so that it wouldn’t clang and wake up Summer.

 

I let himself out of the hotel room and locked the door behind me.  As I did so, I heard the band announce that they had just performed their last song.  “Perfect!” I thought while I walked down the hall to the lift.

 

By the time I got to the bar, several people had left and the band members had stored away their instruments.  I plopped down onto a barstool.

 

“So, you are back?” the bartender asked.

 

“Yes, I am.  And I’m still in the same predicament.”

 

“Well, until you leave Germany and return, this is still your first time here in this hotel.  As you say, there is a first time for everything.  Everything!” the bartender exclaimed as he placed a beer in front of me.  “Here, this one is for you.  It is on me.  It was actually ordered by a man who just left but I am giving to you anyway.”

 

One of the band members stepped up to bar and stood next to me.  He nodded at me.  “So, we never saw you dance on the floor.  Did you not like the music?”

 

I smiled weakly. “Oh, yeah, well, you guys are fine.  I just don’t have anyone to dance with.”

 

“That is no excuse.  There were plenty of dance partners here tonight.  You could have picked any one of them for a dance.  I think you just did not like the music…”  I started to speak but he went on.  “No, no, that is okay, I am just kidding with you.  I don’t really care if you like my music or not.  Dieter here will pay me either way, won’t you, Dieter?”

 

The bartender turned to face me.  “Did you hear someone speak?  Do you know anyone who shows up an hour late but still wants the same money?  I don’t think I would pay someone like that.  Would you?”

 

I shrugged.

 

“Of course, you are the guy who is a million miles away from home, who thinks that being a goody two-shoes may or may not have to do with your work, your wife, your family and all that other stuff.  I say just drink beer and forget it.  But I bet you are still debating yourself about sleeping with the woman in your room upstairs.”

 

“I…uh…are you going to pay this guy or not?  Even though he was an hour late, I bet you still sold your quota of drinks.”

 

“Yes, that may be true but he did not know that before he was late.  You see, there always consequences for our actions.  For me, I lose a few customers early in the evening because there is no band as promised.  It is not for me or him to say that their music drew in more customers later on or got the same customers to order more beer.  Or even, the early customers may have been driving by later on, heard the music and brought back more friends with them.  I cannot say that the band had anything to do with the sale of beer.  It could just have easily been the rainy weather that forced people into here when they would rather have sat at a biergarten in town.”

 

“So you’re saying that you’re not going to pay me a share of tonight’s good time?” the band guy asked, sounding pissed off.

 

“No, I am saying that this customer here can sit and drink one beer with me or he can drink six beers with me or he can even go somewhere else to drink beer but when he goes back up to his hotel room, there will be a woman sleeping in the bed next to him who is not his wife.”

 

“So that is not my problem.  Pay me now or I will never come back.”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Even after I pay you sometimes when no customers show up?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, then don’t waste my time anymore.  Pack up your stuff tonight and leave.”

 

The bells tolled 12:30.  I counted on my fingers and figured I had about five and a half or six more hours before Summer would get up.  I looked up to see the band leader hurry over to his bandmates and make big gestures.  “Oh, to be young, stupid and invincible again,” I thought.

 

==============================

 

We finished our meals and I ordered dessert – ice cream with strawberry topping.

 

When the dessert arrived, I looked down at it and saw not a sumptuous end to dinner but an oblong lump of frozen cow cream covered with high fructose corn syrup mixed with soggy, pureed strawberries.  I smiled, internally laughing at how quickly I could turn a simple dinner car meal into a disappointment when what was really important was the few scant hours I got to spend relaxing on a train with someone I could trust, amazingly enough a person I had seen for the first time that day.

 

“That looks good,” Summer said, her eyes moving from the ice cream to my eyes.  My first impulse was to look for another spoon on the table and offer her a bite.  I then saw that I had the only spoon.  I took a bite.  It tasted just as wan as I expected it to.  I could offer her a bite using my spoon but then I’d be offering her a bite of something that I didn’t really like.  If somehow she could read my mind or read my thoughts on my face, then what would she think?  After all, it is just dessert.  But then, are there cultural differences at work as well?  Even if Summer read my thoughts, would she understand the rationalization?  Would it be a natural reflection of my German ancestors?  I decided to eat the whole thing to prevent Summer from having to eat any of it.  I even ate the crunchy freeze-dried pieces of strawberry pressed into the sides of the ice cream.  By the time I finished, I knew two things.  One, I would not eat dessert on the train again and two, Summer would probably not expect me to share my food with her.

 

==========================

 

Instead of taking down their stage equipment, the band got out their instruments, turned the volume all the way up and started playing old German polkas.  They were on their third horrible rendition of traditional German music by the time Dieter stepped around the side of the bar and flipped the power switch.

 

“If you do not go home now, I will get the polizei to provide a personal escort to your private jail.”

 

Dieter walked back to the bar.  “So, it is now 10 minutes before I close the bar.  Do you stay here and drink more beer with me?  You can drink it free.  You will be my defense when the band decides to attack!”  Dieter laughed.  “Maybe that will convince you to go back up to the hotel room!”  Dieter bent over as he guffawed with laughter.  A few seconds later, he stood up.  His eyes lit up as he looked past me.  “Hallo.  Who is this?”

 

I swiveled the barstool around to follow his stare.  Summer walked toward me.

 

“So, David, are you not going to go to bed?” she asked.

 

“Summer, this is Dieter,” I said, sweeping my arm around in the air.  “Dieter, this is Summer.  She is the account manager I mentioned to you earlier tonight.”

 

“Ah, very good.  So you are the person who causes him to have to fly all the way over to Germany while his wife has to be alone with her sorrow at the loss of her brother?”

 

“Was?”

 

“So you know nothing about this?”

 

“Nein.”

 

Dieter turned to me.  “You see, this is the source of your problem.  You do not share your personal troubles with people who should know more about you.  I have seen it too many times.  You get your real problems off your chest and the small ones disappear.  Otherwise, you will never get to sleep at night.”  Dieter nodded and winked at me.

 

The bells struck 1 a.m.  Dieter looked at Summer.  “Well, it is time I have to close the bar.  If you wanted to join your friend in a beer, you have a problem.  Or you could say that people like to drink beer to celebrate summer but as we know, Summer never gets to drink beer with them!”  Dieter snorted.  “If Summer’s here, the fall is far behind.”  Dieter walked away and turned toward the band.  “HEY, I SAID OUT!”

 

I looked at Summer and rolled my eyes at Dieter’s puns.  “You ready to go?”

 

“I don’t know.  Maybe I would like to stay here and be insulted some more.”

 

“Well, no offense but I think Summer in Bavaria may be overrated.  Or on a day like this, ready for the fall.”  I raised one eyebrow, indicating it was not my best pun.

 

“I can tell you that there is always rain around Summer and rain cools down Summer.  So since the rain is over, maybe we can cool down on the puns and get you upstairs so I can try to get some sleep.  I cannot stay asleep, wondering if you leaving the door unlocked or perhaps fallen down the steps unnoticed.”

 

The bells tolled 1:15.  Summer grabbed my arm and pulled me off the barstool.  “You are almost as bad as my baby.  Only instead of eat, eat, eat, you drink, drink, drink.  I will drag you upstairs and lock the door but don’t think I will tuck you in.  You can sleep on the floor or wherever.  I just want some sleep!”

 

I let himself be led to the lift.  “And what do I want?” I asked himself.  “I really just want to know if my wife’s mental recovery is going okay but I’m afraid to ask.”  I sighed with relief.  Somehow, I knew my wife would be fine.  When we got off the lift, I laughed quietly to myself, hearing the band had somehow started up again and were singing a bad version of “Let Me Love You All Night Long.”  I wondered if there was a song called, “Let Me Worry All Night Long.”

 

 

 

Chapter 26

 

Eleanor called me in the morning to say that she and Bjorn would be able to meet me the next day near Erding at the Alterding train station.  I had not planned to have a day to do nothing.  Although I was in Germany and was on the company dime, so to speak, I felt ill.  Not so much a physical illness.  More like it was a day for working on healing myself mentally, not engaging folks socially, so I could have a day to meditate on my inner self and what, if anything, I can do to better understand why I was dredging up all the same horrible, world-ending feelings I had had when my girlfriend, Renee, died.  She and I were in the fifth grade at the time.  So something like thirty-three years have passed since then, but the feelings were fresh once again.

 

I killed time.  In other words, I checked email, surfed the Web for a few hours, showered, skipped shaving, and headed down to the hotel bar for a drink.

 

“Hallo.  May I help you?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll take whatever Erding beer you have on tap.”

 

“Sehr gut.  Would you like something to eat?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

I sat at the bar and looked around.  It was a typical business day at the hotel bar/restaurant, with only one or two people sitting at tables.  At one of the tables, I spotted a familiar face.  Or at least I thought he looked familiar.  I could swear it was an old buddy of mine from college, Vincent, who also happened to settle down in Huntsville.

 

I accepted the beer from the bartender.  “Excuse me.  Do you see that fellow over there?  Can you make a Long Island Tea and take it over to him and say it is compliments of a friend from the Copper Cellar?”

 

“The ratskeller, you mean?”

 

“Ah, no, but I know what you mean.  No, the COPPER CELLAR.”

 

“Copper cellar?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Danke schoen.  I will.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

While I sat there, I pondered death, trying not to think about my own for once but think about Renee and Junior, instead.  I do not expect to find a pattern in the activities of the universe to say that an omnipotent being is trying to tell me something by taking two important people away from me at two different points in my life.  I can accept the pure randomness of the timing of the deaths of Renee and Junior.  I just wondered if I could speak with them right now, they’d probably say I needed to live a little bit more and quit waiting for the rest of my life to happen.

 

A few minutes later, Vincent walked up.

 

“Man, what a coincidence,” Vincent said, shaking my hand.  “So what brings you to this hole in the wall?”

 

“Business.  How about you?”

 

“The same.  So what are you doing at a bar in the middle of the day?  I bet your company didn’t send you all the way over here to drink fresh German beer.”

 

“But why not?”  I smirked and Vincent snickered, too, at the thought of company paid-for drinks.  “Seriously, I came here to help Cumulo on a problem with their new server line.”

 

“Cumulo?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No kidding.  I was here to see them, too.  I gave a training session to them on the software they’re installing on the new EverEl server blade system.”

 

“Hey, that’s the same one.  Pretty funny, huh?”

 

“Yeah. So whatcha been doing?  I mean, why aren’t you working right now?”

 

“Oh, well, I’ve finished up and have a day and half to kill.  I’m meeting some friends tomorrow for a day in Munich and just relaxing today.”

 

“Well, I fly out in about an hour and a half.  Since we’re so close to the airport, I thought I’d just sit here in this hotel bar for a little peace and quiet.  Kinda nice, isn’t it?”

 

“Yep.  So how’re your kids?”

 

“They’re great.  Cain is ten and he’s doing really well in school.  My ex is screwing me over and not helping out with payments for Cain’s therapist but other than that it’s going great for him.”

 

“And Ashley?”

 

“Ashley’s eight.  Can you believe it?”  I shook my head.  “Of course, she’s getting super grades.  We’ve never worried about her.  Did you know my ex got remarried?”

 

“No, I didn’t.  Anyone I know?”

 

“I don’t think so.  He’s a guy named Brian Chipmunk.”

 

I was in the middle of taking a sip and spilled my beer.  “Brian who?”

 

“Some hotshot.  He claims he’s going to make her the richest woman in the world, next to Bill Grates’ wife.  I think my ex is just trying to rub it in that she’s whoring herself for some guy who has more money than me.  That bitch was always about the money.  I bet you didn’t know that.”

 

“No, I didn’t.  So, how did Carol meet Brian?  Was it at her church?”

 

“Hell, if I know.  I don’t give a fuck.  I haven’t met the guy and don’t care to.”  Vincent downed the Long Island Tea and ordered another.  “Gotta loosen myself up before I get on the plane.  God, how I hate those long, crowded flights back to the US.  Of course, my company has to save money and send us via cattle class.”

 

“I know what you mean.  But I think my company will spring for business class, if I insist on it, ’cause it’s over an eight-hour flight.”

 

“That’s cool.  So how are you and Karen doing?”

 

“Oh, all right.  Did you know that her brother died?”

 

“No. I’m sorry to hear it.”

 

“Thanks.  She’s not talking about it a whole lot but I know it does bother her.”

 

“What about you?  I bet you’re taking this pretty hard.”

 

“Well, yes and no.  I’m participating in a novel writing ‘contest’ this month, so I’m trying to use my writing skills to work through the healing process.  This morning, I just surfed the Web, looking back on some of the artists who have influenced me, included the band you introduced me to, the Dead Kennedys.”

 

“Cool.”

 

“Perhaps, after spending this morning going through the Internet looking at some of the artwork that influenced my thinking years ago, such as J.G. Ballard, William S. Burroughs, RE/Search magazine, Jello Biafra, and the Dead Kennedys, I should no longer be surprised that as a human being, my only desire is to find something to strongly engage me…to entertain me…to keep me occupied and prevent me from taking my life out of sheer boredom.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Perhaps not.  It’s been nice coming to Europe recently and seeing what other cultures are like.  As always, I have nothing to keep me rooted to this spot except the perceived fear that I will not be able to survive in a foreign environment that excludes contact with my wife, mother, father and sister.  In other words, the rest of the world outside my family and friends is quicksand into which I would quickly drown and disappear.”

 

“I don’t know about that.  I run into friends over here all the time.  Just like you and me now.”

 

“Well, that’s another interesting thought I’ve had.  What if I’m invisible to others?  Well, no, that’s not a question.  It’s a fact.  I am invisible to all but my friends and family and vaguely remembered by others I’ve met throughout my life.  So, if I come over here, it’s like I don’t really exist unless I run into folks like you.”

 

“Well, you’ve got a point.  By the way, did you do a lot of drinking last night?”

 

“Well, a little bit.  I don’t know, I guess no matter what I may think or say, I am here because of me and that’ll have to do when I don’t have you guys around.”

 

“Well, don’t drink too much today.  I’d say you just have a basic case of the hangovers.  Hey, I’ve got to go.  Call me when you get back to Huntsville, will you?”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

So maybe I just had a hangover.  But no, this feeling had been going on a long time, for months.  I walked back to the hotel room.  I needed to sit and think, try to catch up on my writing, and didn’t want any interruptions.

 

 

 

Chapter 27

 

The fact that I’m sitting here in this hotel room is a positive thing.  My command of the English language, slightly better than average on the best of days, is less than that today.  I feel like I can’t speak, like viscous fluids have filled my head and are keeping me from saying or doing anything.  And yet the pain in my mind is driving me mad for I do have a lot on my mind that I want to get out.  For instance, I am of two minds.  First of all, I want to complete my “novel”.  I want to say that I took the challenge of NaNoWriMo and met the challenge head-on, writing an honest-to-goodness first draft of 50,000 words in 30 days or less.  Secondly, and most important, I feel that I haven’t paid enough attention to my wife during her silent suffering.  Would I be able to do both and at the same time, find a way to self-discovery, learning that that the differences between Karen, her brother and I can be worlds apart and yet be able to…what?  I don’t know.  Be able to care a bit more each day about the world we’ve all lived in?

 

Although my wife’s brother was not a close friend, we still shared the desire to do well, to give our families what they needed to survive into the future.  Unfortunately, my brother in-law is no longer here, no longer living, that is.  He died on the 28th of June at 2:14 p.m., after what appeared to be cardiac arrest.  Blood clots in his lungs and other parts of his body prevented him from being able to pump enough oxygen-carrying blood through him.  When I saw him at the hospital the night before he died, he was taking very shallow breaths.  His wife, Louann, thought he was doing better the next morning, having been able to sit up.  Then sometime after lunch he started coughing, couldn’t catch his breath, and then his eyes rolled back in his head.  Louann screamed for a nurse.  The staff came in and revived him.  They rushed him from the regular hospital room to CCU.  On the way, Junior squeezed Louann’s arm and told her he was okay.

 

Louann called Karen at some point during this time, probably after Junior was placed in CCU.  According to my cell phone log, Karen called me at 13:37.  I was just finishing up a late lunch at a Sonic drive-in.  She told me that Junior had been placed in CCU, that Louann was very upset, and Karen was on her way to the hospital.  I asked if I should join her and she told she’d let me know if I needed to come.

 

At 14:24, Karen called me to tell me that Junior hadn’t made it.  I told her I was on my way to the hospital.  She asked me to call my mother in-law’s minister in Hogtown, to get his assistance in telling Mrs. Ferris about the death of her son.  I finished up a couple of tasks at work that would allow me to take the rest of the week off.  I then tried calling the minister’s house and got the answering machine.  On the way to the hospital, I called the Hogtown Presbyterian Church office and reached the minister’s wife, telling her that Junior had died and that we wanted her husband’s assistance to help.  I gave her my cell phone number and asked her to get her husband to call me back after he’d finished a consultation with someone in his office.

 

I can think of a lot a little details right now, and as usual, do not feel like writing them down, knowing that I’ll forget them in the future; despite their insignificance (like telling the minister’s wife that my cell phone battery was running out), they would contribute to my remembrance and full understanding of the day’s events.  The only important thing that matters is that Junior died.  All else truly pales in comparison.

 

At the hospital, luckily Karen was in the lobby talking with a couple of women from Louann’s church.  We went back up to the “Consultation Room” where Junior and Albert were sitting.  I still recall lots of ABC (Adobe Baptist Church) folks hanging around, all of them part of Louann’s church family, but giving myself a feeling of being crowded in.  Neither Karen nor I are used to being around a lot of people, especially strangers, when we need time to soak in the emotions of loss.

 

I wasn’t at the hospital when Louann, Albert and Karen got the news of Junior’s death so I did not see their first reactions.  So what I remember most is when LouEllen came to the hospital, looked at her mother asking, “What’s the matter?” and then bursting out loud when she found out about her father’s death.  Since I’m writing this for myself right now, I can selfishly tell myself that I didn’t feel like I deserved to be in the room with them.  They are such a loving family and I am such a cynical, sarcastic clownish guy, I realized just how little a comforting person I am.  I couldn’t look any of them in the eye during that time.  I was frozen in place, looking down at a crumpled piece of paper in my hand, covered with the scrawled-down, nearly illegible, minister’s phone numbers.

 

“Brother Phillip” and “Brother Luke” (senior ministers at ABC) came into the room at some point to comfort them and have prayers.  So did other folks, Louann’s best church friend being the one I remember the most.

 

The whole afternoon at the hospital was beyond surreal.  In fact, I don’t even know what surreal means anymore.  I’m sure that it includes the adjective “unfair”.  Eventually, we went back up to the CCU room where Junior’s body still lay dead in bed.  His face was smooth, devoid of wrinkles.  His jaw lay askew, off to one side.  He had a several-day old beard.  Just as I had noticed the day before when he was alive, he had much less hair on his head than I had seen a few months before (I am more aware of men losing hair, now that it has been shown that hair loss is attributable to heart and blood circulation problems).  I thought about touching him to say goodbye but decided I didn’t deserve to say goodbye to such a God-fearing, family-oriented man.

 

Later, after Louann had signed release forms (including an organ donor form), I stood in the hallway with the nurse while the rest of the family – Karen, Louann, Albert and LouEllen – saw Junior’s body in the room one more time.  The nurse explained to me that even though Louann had signed an organ donor form, about the only thing they could take were the bones and maybe some ligaments or tendons, because most of the tissue would be full of the drugs that had been pumped into Junior’s body over the last couple of days.

 

I sit here writing about the day Junior died when I had hoped to be able to sit down and write about anything else.  But I need to remember.  If not for anyone else at least for me to look back and say that Junior was a man who lived each day as if it was his last.  No regrets.  Doing what he believed.  Sigh…

 

The rest of the week after Junior’s death had been a blur, more so for Louann, I’m sure.  We spent time on Thursday and early Friday planning for the funeral, visiting Maybelle Mills Cemetery to pick out plots, going to the funeral home to pick out a coffin and plan the memorial service, visiting Dr. Larson (Brother Luke) at ABC to plan the funeral service and have a heart-to-heart talk about the days/weeks/months ahead.  That Friday evening, family gathered at the Optimist Funeral Home to receive friends and family (including Karen’s and my favorite couple from Kingfisher Presbyterian Church; some of Karen’s coworkers; my favorite former employee and his wife; others who I should remember but can’t).  Saturday was the funeral service at ABC and subsequent burial at the cemetery.  Saturday night, Karen and I took my parents and sister on a tour of Big Cove and then had a late snack at Nippon Restaurant – Roger and Nina were such gracious hosts to spend time with us, feeding the fish in the atrium.  Sunday, Karen and I sat with her mother at Louann’s house while Louann and her kids went to church.  We also visited with Louann’s family, who showed up at the house after Louann had left.  The next night, Karen and I went to see the movie, “The Devil Wears Prada”.  The next day, Karen rested in bed watching TV while I can remember doing very little but sitting in front of the other TV.  I watched the movie, “Before Sunset”, which triggered this writing session, remembering the past day with Summer.  After watching the TV, I think I went out in the warm sunroom with the cats sleeping in the sofa across the room from me, all of us listening to the gurgle of the waterfall outside and the music playing from a nearby wireless speaker.  Pretty much the same thing I always do to relax and meditate at home.  Did I burn incense?

 

I do remember one thing that day that took my mind off of Junior’s death.  I saw a small hawk sitting in the branches of the fig tree that grows over the waterfall next to our house.  The hawk had been there the day before, also.  Did it sit waiting to pounce on a bird sipping water from the base of the waterfall?  There was a turtle that lived in the upper part of the waterfall – I wonder if it has fallen prey to the hawk.  I never saw the turtle again.  I hope it was not eaten but if it was, such is the way of life.  I guess the hawk had to teach its children to hunt for food because there were two juvenile hawks in a nearby tree.  The parent hawk was bigger, brown with a white chest, while the other two were mottled brown and white birds.

 

The wooded hill behind our house is slowly being divided up into housing areas for humans.  We live on the northeast end.  A subdivision at the southern end of the hill was built a year ago and now roads from the subdivision are being extended into the woods.  Perhaps the construction/destruction is pushing the animals this way, and thus the hawks are forced to hunt for food around the backyard pond.

 

After listening to the accolades that Junior received for his dedication to what he loved – God, family, work – I have pondered my life’s record and what I would be remembered for.  I’m not a big participant in any part of north Alabama society so I expect low participation in my funeral, and thus, little public record to go over.

 

So what do I want to remember of my life in the days/weeks/years ahead?  I have spent the majority of my life since high school performing functions that were not my desires.  In other words, my adulthood has been more compromise than personal promise.  In my brother in-law (and in many of my fellow Eagle Scouts), I have seen the example of a person who led a life full of integrity.  In the newspapers and TV news channels, in my work life, and in most other places, I have seen more than my share of people who have exhibited no central guiding set of moral values or desire for integrity.  What I have figured out is that we are born with an internal set of rules that changes very little.  I am the same person I remember being when I was four or five years old.  I remember looking at kids beside me in kindergarten and Sunday school, being able to pick out those who cared for and enhanced a personal belief system tied to the church.  I have no way of knowing how much was nurture or nature.  A mixture of both, to be sure.  At an early age and even to this day, I fascinate myself with the ability to think thoughts incongruous with a way of life that ensures the best path to a long, safe passage to the end of a long life.

 

 

 

Chapter 28

 

 

“You know, people are going to say I am repeating myself…but…I…SIGH!  You see, I think it must be my fault.”

 

“You think so?” Darlene asked in her syrupy, Southern drawl, while ringing up a man’s haircut on the register.  “That’ll be 12 dollars.”

 

“Well, it must be so.  Otherwise, the legends would be true.”

 

“And if they are…”

 

I handed her a $20 bill, slightly brushing her fingers as she pulled the money from his hand.  “Then anything is possible,” I continued.  “Even an omniscient being…God and all that.  Hell, even your astrological predictions.”

 

Darlene pulled the hair from her eyes and winked at me, “Perhaps anything is possible.”

 

“If that’s the case, then God help us all.”

 

“Help us?”

 

“Yes, because only a fool would want to live without protection in a world full of creatures with no end to their mischievousness.”

 

“Only a fool?  Honeycakes, you don’t even know what you’re missing.”  She handed me eight dollars.

 

I looked down at the money.  I pocketed the fiver, folded the three dollar bills and handed them to her.  As I did so, I looked up at Darlene and smiled, but then suddenly winced.

 

“What’s the matter, pumpkin?”

 

I stood motionless.  I stared in the mirror behind Darlene, seeing what looked like a hollow depression in Darlene’s back.

 

 

Lake Storsjön, located in the northwestern province of Jämtland, Sweden, was once said to be host to the Storsjöodjuret, a lake monster.  According to Wikipedia, “the first description of a sea creature in Storsjön was made in a folk-lore tale by a vicar in 1635. A common interest was not sparked until the 1890s, however. After several reports, an enterprise of locals was founded to catch the monster, even drawing the support from King Oscar II. Since then hundreds of monster spottings have been made. No scientific results have been made however, but the supporters have never lost faith.

 

“It is described as a serpentine or at least reptilian creature with a dog’s head, and it is said to be about 6 meters long. Some say it has humps. Some people describe the creature as a snakelike animal with a dog’s head and fins on its neck.

The ruthless attempts to capture the animal had upset many people, and in 1986 the Jemtia county administrative board declared the still unverified animal (having become something of a tourist attraction) to be an endangered species and granted it protected status. However, it was removed from the list in November 2005.”

 

 

 

A year later, on a relatively warm night in early November 2006, in a small group of rocks on the shore of Lake Storsjön, a council meeting was called to order.

 

“Enough is enough!” shouted a troll.  “I can’t take much more of this abuse.  It’s one thing to completely ignore our existence anymore but it’s another thing entirely to say the Storsjöorduret is not worth protecting.”

 

“Here, here!” the Storsjöorduret said in agreement, splashing its tail in the shallow edge of the lake.

 

Conversations of excited voices drowned out her voice at first.  She tried to get their attention but a recent case of laryngitis was still making it difficult for her to talk.  She stood up, reached behind her back and pulled out a gavel.  She gazed around the group and not one troll, fairy, elf or tomte was paying attention to her.  Torborg smashed the head of the gavel on top of the tree stump in front of her.  A hollow boom rang out among the rocks.  Everyone turned to look at her and stopped talking.

 

“Thank you for being quiet.  Now, I agree with Stig that what the humans did was deplorable.  At the same time, I see this as a great opportunity.  I was given a secret by a human named Brian Chipmunk that many of the humans are gathering in Tyskland…”

 

“Tyskland?” asked a rather hairy ape-like being.

 

“…including some of the provinces such as Brandenburg and Bavaria.  I’m sorry, Sasquatch, what did you say?”

 

“What was the country you mentioned?”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry.  You’re new here, aren’t you?”  Torborg nodded to Sasquatch and an American Indian ghost, “Well, for you folks across the Atlantic, Tyskland is our word for what you call Germany.”

 

“Cool.  Thanks.”

 

“No problem.  Now where was I?  Oh yeah, you see, with all these humans gathered, they’ll be primed for information about what’s going on.  Humans are quite amazing when they bunch up.  It’s like a bunch of bees in a hive, all excited about the prospect of a field of newly-opened flowers.  They all want to take off and get the nectar.  If we can…  Yes, what is it, Trind?” Torborg asked a rather heavyset female dwarf holding up her hand.

 

“Uh, does this mean we’re going to get honey from the humans?”

 

“Honey?  No, I can’t say that we’d be doing that.  Why?”

 

“Well, if they’re all flying off to the field of flowers, I just thought maybe they were going after some clover.  There’s nothing like good, fresh clover honey…”

 

“No, no.  I’m not talking about anyone getting any honey.  It’s just a figure of speech, that’s all.”

 

“Oh, well, I see.  Would we be eating them, then?”

 

“No, I don’t think we would.”

 

Trind looked down at the ground, rather glum.

 

Torborg rolled her eyes.  “Okay, Trind, we might find one or two of them for you to nibble on.”

 

Trind looked up with a big smile on her face, drool oozing out of side of her mouth, and clapped her hands.  “Oh goody!”

 

“Not right now, though.”

 

Trind frowned.

 

“For goodness sake, Trind, did you not eat dinner tonight?”

 

“No, Father said we had a big meeting to attend and had to miss supper.  Are you sure there’s not a small human I could snack on right now?”

 

Torborg turned to a group of nasty-looking trolls who were napping along the shore.  “Hey fellows!”  The only response was snoring.  “Could someone smack those guys on the head?”

 

Sasquatch picked up a rock and threw it at the trolls, knocking one of them into the water. Storsjöorduret sucked it into his mouth and spewed it onto shore next to Torborg.

 

“What the devil?” asked the troll Helmar, while picking himself up off the ground.

 

“Helmar, do you have any foodstuff in your bags?”

 

Helmar nodded his head and looked around.  “Well, if I could figure out where I was sitting.”

 

“Over here.”  Everyone turned to look at Hjalmar, standing next to a burlap sack.  Hjalmar reached into the sack and pulled out a half-eaten leg of meat.  “Not sure what this is but it’s yours if you want it, Trind.”

 

Trind rumbled over and grabbed the leg from Hjalmar.  She sniffed the raw flesh before taking a big bite.  “Tastes Ukrainian to me.  Or maybe some human from the Ural Mountains.  Hard to say, exactly, because Helmar’s stench is all over it.”  Everyone laughed.

 

“Okay, folks, now that Trind’s been taken care of, let’s get back to the matter at hand.  Recognition!”  The crowd murmured.  Torborg raised her fist in the air.  “Respectability!”  The crowd hummed a little louder.  “And more importantly, our fair share of tourists!”  The crowd cheered in unison, “Fresh food!  Fresh food!  Fresh food! Fresh food!”

 

Torborg banged her gavel.  “That’s right!  But first, we’ve got to make a plan.  Who here knows anything about how the humans communicate with each other when they’re not together?”  Everyone stopped moving.  “No one?  You mean we’ve lived among these awkward animals for hundreds of years, watching them tear down our forests and cover our rivers and not one of you knows how they coordinate their activities.”

 

“How about you?” someone yelled anonymously.

 

“Me?”

 

“Yeah!” several people said at once.

 

“Why do I have to be the one who knows all this stuff?” she retorted.  “Is it not sufficient that I spend all my time keeping track of you?  Do you think I have any time left after I maintain the roll, recording our births, deaths, address changes, and loss of territory?  Do I have to do everything?”

 

“Why not?” asked a gnarly, old giant between puffs on a long pipe.  “Before you and your mother came around, we were just happy to creep around, hiding from the humans, who’d rather set traps and kill us or shoot us if they saw us in the woods.  With all your lists and noisemaking, you might as well put targets on our backs and place us out in the middle of the road.  I say we put you in the middle of a human settlement and let you figure it all out on your own.  We’ll keep your lists for you.”

 

“For safekeeping, of course.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Until I come back.”

 

“IF you come back,” the giant emphasized.  Several grunts, snorts and head-nodding indicated the rest of the crowd agreed with the giant.

 

“Well, Lage, if I take on your challenge, and if I come back, you will be the first woodfolk I visit.”

 

“And you, dear huldra, will be welcomed into our home, as long as no humans are on your heels.”

 

“Okay, I will consult with Yngve, my friendly will o’ the wisp, to see if he can put my spirit into the mind of a vulnerable human.  I will learn the ways of these strange animals and see if there is some way for them to be more attracted to us.  The more of them we can get to come our way, the more fresh food and better protection we will have.”

 

Everyone chanted, “Fresh food!  Fresh food!  Fresh food!”

 

“Yes, yes!  Meeting adjourned!” Torborg yelled, banging the gavel one last time.

 

= = = = =

 

I stood on the train tracks and waited for Eleanor and Bjorn.  While I was waiting, some people bought tickets and joined me on the platform.  I overheard some speaking German, which was expected, of course.  But I also heard three guys speaking American English.  When I looked at them…well, I guess I was really staring at them…they walked away from me to the other end of the platform.  I call it a platform but it was just a slightly-raised concrete sidewalk next to the track.  The sign across the tracks said “Altenerding”.  Eleanor and Bjorn said they’d join me at 8:45 and yet here it was 8:55 and they were not there yet.  Oh well, I tried not to worry.  I would depend on the German train to be as late as everyone else expected it to be.

 

A few minutes later, Eleanor and Bjorn arrived.  “Sorry we’re late!” Eleanor yelled as she came charging in my directions.  “We were confused about who was going to pick up whom.  Let’s get our tickets.  The train should be here soon.”

 

 

After we boarded the train, Eleanor and Bjorn sat next to each other and I sat in a seat facing Bjorn.  I had not really known Bjorn that well.  I knew he was Swedish, had gone to Japan to work and married a Japanese woman.  They had a baby not too long ago.  I picked up this knowledge after I interviewed him for a job in Huntsville.  Luckily for him, I couldn’t hire him.  I say luckily because the job position was eliminated in a general layoff about a year back and I had to lay off the person I hired.

 

“So, Bjorn, are you moved in yet?”

 

“Well, I don’t have my full set of papers so I can’t get a bank account.”

 

“But of course.  It’s always paperwork with our company, isn’t it?  What about your wife and baby?”

 

“I…my in-laws are happy to keep them for a while.  I don’t want them to come over here until I have a permanent place to live.  I’m in a hotel right now.”

 

“Okay.  So, tell me, Bjorn, as you know I’m interested in moving out of the US.  You have lived in Sweden, Japan and now Germany.  What’s it like to be a Swede in Germany?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you probably grew up with a good understanding of the Swedish culture.  How difficult is it to adopt new languages, having to learn the aspects of cultural meaning through the definition of words?”

 

“It’s not too bad.  Most cultures are very similar.  At least the ones I’ve been exposed to.  Plus, most everyone can speak English.”

 

“I see.  So you learned English growing up?”

 

“Yes.”

 

I noticed Bjorn was blinking his eyes as if he was bored.  “I’m sorry if I’m bugging you…”

 

“That’s all right.  It’s just a little early in the morning.  I’m still tired.  I was up late working on emails.”

 

“Can you tell me about growing up in Sweden?”

 

“Sure.  What would you like to know?”

 

“Did you play outside a lot?”

 

“Of course we did.”

 

“Did you tell each other ghost stories in the woods or anything like that?”

 

Eleanor cleared her throat.  “Bjorn, I just want to warn you.  I can see the wheels of David’s mind spinning from over here.  He’s got some idea for a story or something and he’s using you to gather facts.  Be careful what you say!”  she said, bursting with laughter.

 

“Oh, that’s all right.  I don’t mind.  It gives us something to talk about.  So, David, what do you mean by ‘ghost stories’?”

 

“Well, when you and your friends were sitting alone together, I’m sure you tried to scare each other with frightful tales.”

 

“Oh, I see.  Yes, we had woodland creatures that we told each other about.”

 

“Perfect.  So what kind of woodland creatures?”

 

“I knew you were going to ask that question.  Let’s see…well, it’s been a long time, of course, but the one I remember the most is the huldra…”

 

At that moment, a young woman turned to look at them and smile.  She was glad to see everything was going according to plan.  She laughed to herself, knowing that as Bjorn described each creature, he was magically calling forth spirits of each creature onto the train.

 

“…the huldra is a seductive forest creature. Other names include the Swedish skogsrå, which means ‘lady or queen of the forest’ and Tallemaja, which translates as ‘pine tree Mary’.”

 

“So what’s so scary about her?”

 

“Well, she looks like a normal Scandinavian model, with long brown hair covering her naked body.  But from behind she is empty.”

 

“Empty?”

 

“Yeah, she is like a skeleton or a hand puppet.”

 

“That’s pretty weird.”

 

“Yes.  She also has a long tail.  We always told each other not to wander too far into the woods because the huldra would drag you into the forest and keep you forever, or maybe even eat you.  That’s what we said when someone would go for a hike and get lost, that the huldra had gotten him and might not give him back.”

 

“That’s a good one.  Anything else?”

 

“Well, I remember the lindworm.  It was sort of a dragonlike creature but it mostly lived around lakes.”

 

“Sort of like the Loch Ness monster?”

 

“Yes, but not nearly as famous.  The only one I can remember is the Storsjöorduret.  But unless you were fishing or something, you didn’t have to worry about it.”

 

“I guess you didn’t fish much.”

 

“No, too cold.”

 

“I see.  Anything else I should know about?”

 

“Well, there was the creature who was like your Santa Claus, only much smaller.”

 

“You mean the elves?”

 

“No, but much like it.  They were the tomte.  The tomte would sneak into your house and do good things for you.  Or it would feed your horses when you were sick.”

 

“Well, that doesn’t sound very scary to me.”

 

“That’s the thing, you know, the tomte would only be nice if you were nice.  So if, for example, your mother told you to do something like clean your room and you didn’t, then the tomte would come in in the middle of night and clean your room but then turn into a giant in the closet and slowly open the door to wake you up and then scare you to death with its big ugly eyes staring at you from the dark.  Or it might whisper to your mother that you’d been misbehaving so she could punish you the next day.”

 

“I can see how that would scare you.  It’s the Santa Claus from Hell.  It would be as if Terminator did the Santa Clause movie instead of Tim Allen.”

 

Bjorn laughed.  “Yes, that’s a good one.”  He turned to Eleanor, who was staring out the window half-asleep.  “Sorry, Eleanor, you wouldn’t get that one.”

 

“That’s okay.  You guys have fun without me.”

 

“So are there any others I should know about?”

 

Bjorn turned back to me.  “Oh, I think the rest of them are like what you have – dwarves, fairies, elves, trolls, giants, will-o-the-wisps…”

 

“What’s a will-o-the-wisp?”

 

“I think you call it swamp gas in the American South.  It’s those lights you see in the deep woods or bogs that you think are moving around.  I don’t think they were really bad.  Just spooky.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Do you have nacken?”

 

“No, I don’t think so.  What do they do?”

 

“Well, they’re the spirits who live under water who pull you in and make you drown.  At least, that’s what our mothers warned us about when we went swimming.  ‘Don’t stay in the water too long or you’ll wake the nacken and drown.’  We lost a few boys one summer to the nacken.  Don’t know what they were doing but they were all dead when a fisherman found them at a lake near our house.”

 

“Another thing I remember is that trolls steal your babies.  They always warned young mothers not to leave their babies too close to open windows in the summertime because the trolls would steal them and swap them out for troll babies.  I’m not sure but I think some people blamed their baby’s crib death on trolls.  So what about you?  You have any scary creatures in the US?”

 

“Well, I don’t know about scary.  We told ghost stories under the street light in my neighborhood.  It was stuff about dead American Indians, stuff like that.  There were also regular ghosts that lived in people’s houses and walked across the rafters at night, causing the house to creak.  Or monsters hiding underneath the bed and in the closet.  But they didn’t have any names that I can remember.  It sounds like they were just carry overs from European wood creatures.”

 

“Could be.  But didn’t you have a creature that lives in the woods?  When I visited the Huntsville office one time, I saw a TV special about a Canadian who’d caught a film of a wood man.”

 

“Oh, you mean Bigfoot?”

 

“Maybe.  He had a name, though.”

 

“Sasquatch?”

 

‘Yes!  That was it.”

 

Torborg smiled once again.  She was able to call forth almost all her friends, some of whom joined her, hiding in the bodies of the people on the train, and some who went on to Munich.  She told them not to appear in humans until she gave them the signal.

 

= = = = =

 

After we got off the train, Eleanor led us to Marienplatz.  Although not as crowded as summer, there were still a good many tourists wandering about, as well as teenagers who always showed up in Munich on the weekends.  So, too, locals came to take advantage of the crowds and try to make some money.

 

A young couple in traditional Bavarian dress stood below the clock tower, letting people take pictures with them in the hope of making a few Euros.  I snapped a picture of them from a distance and then thought it would be cool to have my picture taken with them to show my father.

 

“Eleanor, do you mind taking a picture of me with those two over there?”

 

“No.  But you realize they’re not doing it for free.  They expect you to give them some money.”

 

“But of course!”  I walked over to the young couple, who had stood up on a fountain at the request of a Japanese man.  “Excuse me.  Can I have my picture taken with you?”

 

“Sure.  Just a moment.  Let us finish with them first.”  The Japanese man handed his camera to his wife and jumped up on the fountain.  After his wife took the picture, he jumped back down.  The young woman reached for my hand to help her down.  When I grabbed her hand, I felt an unusual electrical shock but she didn’t seem to notice or say anything about it.  When she stepped off the fountain, she seemed a lot shorter than I thought.  And even more odd, her skin had an slight green sheen to it and I swore her eyes were slightly pointed.  She smiled at me and the world around me disappeared.  In my mind’s eye I saw an open circle in the woods.  There were fairies dancing around, singing and playing as if the modern world didn’t exist.  I lay down on the grass and looked up at the stars.  It was so peaceful…

 

The young man broke my dream.  “So, where would like us to stand?  Next to the fountain or somewhere else perhaps?”

 

I blinked my eyes a couple of times, feeling disoriented.  “Oh, right here is fine.”  I stood next to the couple while Eleanor took a couple of pictures.  “Thanks,” I said and gave them a couple of Euro coins.

 

 

Eleanor explained that a lot of rallies took place here but they were always peaceful.  She then said she was hungry and wanted to see if there was anything in the open market for us to try.  We walked out of the Marienplatz and around a couple of streets to an area with permanent-looking booths set up.  At the first one, we stopped to look at some of the fruits and vegetables the seller had.

 

I pointed to a small translucent bunch of grape-like fruit.  The middle-aged female vegetable stand seller nodded.  “What are these?”  She shook her head, indicating she didn’t know what I said.

 

Eleanor spoke to her in German and then turned to me.  “They are Johannes berries.  I think you’ll like them.  They’re very tart but delicious at the same time.  Sorry I didn’t recognize them at first.  I had never seen them that clear before.”

 

“No problem.  So the sign there says they’re a Euro, seventy-five?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

I handed the vegetable seller a couple of Euros.  She grabbed them from my hand.  Again, I felt a strange electric shock.  When the seller turned around, her face looked horribly wrinkled and when she smiled at me – or rather, grimaced – her teeth were rotten and her breath foul-smelling.  She actually looked like she had turned into a troll.  She then mouthed words to me that made me wonder if I was having flashbacks or something: “Brian wants to zee you.”  I was beginning to wonder why it was that Brian Chipmunk kept coming up in conversation.  I mean there sure are coincidences in life but this was just a little much.  Was my normal paranoia about people being able to read my mind and talking about me all the time somehow warping into thinking that they were all in cahoots with Brian Chipmunk to come after me?  It just didn’t make sense.

 

As we stepped away from the vegetable stand, we saw that a small oompah band was walking our way and seemed to be ready to play something.  The band leader placed a suitcase on the ground and opened it up.  Inside were CDs and tapes, presumably of the band playing.  I thought my father would enjoy the music so I walked up to the band leader and asked him how much for one of the CDs.  When he leaned over to get a CD, his elbow brushed against mine, sending a shock up my arm.  It sure seemed strange that everyone I touched was shocking me.  Even more strange was the fact that as he stood up, the band leader seemed to grow in height.  He went from being shorter than my 6’1″ frame to standing well over seven feet tall.  It just didn’t seem possible.  Was I dreaming?  I looked around me and no one else took notice.  I handed the man a ten-Euro note and took the CD.  Eleanor and Bjorn nodded at me to follow them over to a nearby coffee shop.

 

Inside the coffee shop, I could see the three Americans I had spotted at the train station.  They acted like they were having a good time so I tried to keep my paranoia radar in check, despite the words from the vegetable seller earlier.  I mean, if my paranoia was real, then these guys would somehow be connected with Brian Chipmunk.  I told Eleanor and Bjorn to order me a coffee of some sort and headed over to the Americans.

 

“Hi.  I’m David Colline,” I said, startling the guys.  “I couldn’t help but notice you at the train station this morning.  Are you guys from America?”

 

“Oh, hey.  Yeah.  I’m Andrew…” said one, holding out his hand.  Getting no further surprise out of me, I felt a shock as I shook his hand.

 

“I’m Thomas,” said another, as I shook his hand and got a shock.

 

As I reached out to shake the hand of the third, who introduced himself as Huey, I noticed that Andrew had grown significantly shorter in stature.  Thomas, too, was shrinking.  And lo and behold, Huey wasn’t much farther behind them.  Not only were they shrinking but their noses and ears appeared to be getting fatter.  I was really looking forward to drinking a coffee and clearing my head, hoping that these illusions were just my lack of caffeine.

 

“David, we’re glad to meet you.  Are you here on business or pleasure?”

 

“Oh, business, I’m afraid, although I do have today as a day off so to speak.  How about you guys?”

 

“Strictly business.  Strictly business.  In fact, we were just having a business meeting.  You don’t mind if we get back to it, do you?  I’m sure you’d like to rejoin your friends over there.”

 

“Sorry.  You’re right.  Nice to meet you.  Have a pleasant time here, if you can, between ‘meetings’ and all.”

 

“So what was that all about?” Eleanor asked as she handed me my mocha latte with a splash of white chocolate syrup and a dash of cinnamon on top of the whipped cream.  “Don’t tell me you know them?” she asked.

 

“No, I don’t.  I just heard their American accents and decided to go over and say hello.  I guess it’s the friendliness of my father in me.  That’s all.”

 

“Are you sure?  You have the most worrisome look on your face that I’ve ever seen.  If this is too much for you, we can cut this day short…”

 

“No!  I’m fine.  It’s just been…well, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

 

“I’m sure you do.  After we finish our coffees, why don’t we go over to the Frauenkirche.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“It’s an old church that survived the bombings of World War Two.  It has a great view.”

 

“Sure.  Is that okay with you, Bjorn?”

 

Bjorn nodded.  He was leaning back in the chair, appearing to be getting a quick nap.

 

 

I walked ahead of Eleanor and Bjorn, keeping myself on the lookout for anyone who might be following us or wanting to stare at us for a long time.  I felt comfortable no one was following us, bought us three tickets to see the church and ran on inside.  I assumed Eleanor and Bjorn were behind me but when I got to the elevator at the top of the stairs, I noticed no ringing of footsteps behind me.  By the time the elevator arrived, two German couples had joined me.  We waited for the other folks to get off the elevator and then stepped on.

 

The elevator operator turned to me. “Excuse me, I will explain the history of this church to these folks in German first.  Then I will explain it to you in English.”

 

I nodded my head, wondering if my American-ness was that obvious.  I also tuned the operator out, even as he explained the height of the tower we were in and the height of the one beside us, using a map on the wall as an aid.

 

At the top, we stepped out into the tower room.  There were windows all around, giving a sweeping view of the city.  As both Eleanor and the elevator operator had both told me, there was a law that no building could be built taller than the church towers.  I walked around and glanced out the windows, taking several shots with my camera.  I stopped at a small souvenir stand and bought some postcards, getting them stamped and cancelled in the towers.

 

As I stepped away from the stand, I saw an old woman sitting on a bench by a window.  She was mumbling to herself.  I walked up to the window beside her to hear if she was speaking German.  Within a couple of seconds, she noticed me, grabbed my arm, shocking me, of course, and starting gesturing and talking, pointing to the buildings below us and saying something in a sad voice.  I figured she was describing some of the tough times from the post-war years.  She didn’t look quite old enough to have been an adult during the war.  I looked at her while she talked, fully expecting her to change shape or say something seemingly important to me but she just kept on talking and gesturing, rarely looking me in the eye.  I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking maybe my other illusions had been just that and the coffee had fully woken me up from my occasional habit of daydreaming.

 

After she let go of me, the old woman calmed down.  It was then that I noticed she had changed.  When I first saw her, she was a heavyset old woman.  She was still old, but she had gotten slimmer and her eyebrows were just slightly arched, giving her an elfin appearance.  Would my imagination just go away!

 

I hadn’t noticed that Eleanor and Bjorn were already in the tower with me.  Eleanor walked up and pointed across the room.  The Japanese couple I had seen at Marienplatz were motioning to me.

 

I walked over to them.  “Are you ‘Walker, Texas Ranger’?” asked the Japanese man.

 

“Huh?”

 

“You are American TV actor.  Will you take picture?” he asked, as he snapped a picture of me and then handed me the camera to take a picture of him and his wife.  And yep, he shocked me when our hands brushed each other.  I used hand motions to get them to center themselves on one of the window frames.  I looked through the viewfinder and took a picture.  I swore the Japanese man had gotten smaller and had grown a small white beard.  He motioned to me to take another picture.  I looked through the viewfinder again and noticed the man was wearing a peaked red cap.  My god!  He looked like one of the tomte that Bjorn had described.  I quickly set the camera to review mode and sure enough, there were the pictures of the man changing shape.  I pretended to fumble with the camera, taking the memory card out in the process, and handed the camera back to the Japanese man.  He bowed and thanked me.  I bowed in return and silently thanked him for giving me evidence that my illusions were no hallucinations.

 

 

After we left the tower, Eleanor suggested we go over to the English Garden to see the surfers.

 

“Surfers?”

 

“Yeah, believe it or not, there is surfing in the middle of the city.  I can’t really describe it to you so you’ll have to see it to believe it.”

 

“Yeah,” Bjorn joined in, “this I have to see, too.  I thought surfing was only in the ocean.”

 

While we walked through the city, I enjoyed the various architectural features, including large door arches, and several buildings that looked like they belonged to a different era, of castles and kings and such.

 

Entering the English Garden, I understood what Eleanor had said about it being like Central Park.  Even though it was warm for November, it was still a little on the cool side.  Even so, people were out with their children, sitting on blankets and having meals.  Lovers were walking hand-in-hand.  It was a nice respite from all the crowded buildings.  We walked in and out of the English Garden and eventually found our way over to the surfers.  Sure enough, there were some brave fools surfing some waves that were generated by the rush of water that came out from under a bridge over the East River.

 

I walked down the embankment to get a picture of the surfers, holding onto trees for support.  I reached for one tree and nearly slipped on the wet mud.  A surfer was just stepping out of water and grabbed my leg to keep my feet from sliding.  The electric shock I got was extra strong, I assumed, because he was wet and still had one foot in the water.  I half-expected him to turn into a water creature but as I watched him get in line with the other surfers, nothing seemed to happen to him.

 

I stepped back up the slope to stand beside Eleanor and Bjorn.  We watched the surfers try tricks, flipping around, hopping and other stunts to entertain those of us gathered to watch.  The surfer that had helped me finally got his turn.  He stepped into the water and jumped on his surfboard.  He performed a couple of swift turns and then an arm appeared and pulled the surfer and surfboard into the water.  Although the water was only a couple of feet deep past the waves, there was no sign of the surfer.

 

“Did you see that?” Bjorn exclaimed.

 

Eleanor held her hand to her mouth.  “Yes!  I’ve never seen that before.  He completely wiped out.”

 

“No.  I mean, did you see that hand come out of the water.”

 

I let out a deep breath, fully relieved that I wasn’t completely crazy.  “Yes, I saw it, Bjorn.  Do you all know if there is a drain or something under the water?  Maybe another surfer got trapped and was grabbing for help?”

 

Eleanor gave me her serious look. “And why would that be?  Wouldn’t there be a lot of people down in the water looking around if someone else had fallen in before that guy lost it?”

 

“You’re right, Eleanor.  Bjorn, I know this is going to sound weird but do you think a nacken got him?”

 

“A nacken?  Come on, David, there’s no such thing as a nacken.”

 

“Then you tell me where that guy went.  Look, they’re already way down the river looking for that guy and there’s no sign of him.  Even if he fell, his surfboard would have resurfaced.”

 

“I don’t know, David.  I can’t say I believe in that stuff.  It’s just kids’ stories.”

 

“Well, maybe.  Anyway, let’s get out of here.  I’m getting the creeps.”

 

 

The end of a long, hot November day, after wandering the streets of downtown Munich.  Of all the places to stop and rest, Eleanor, Bjorn and I chose an American cafe, the San Francisco Coffee House, to grab a late evening drink.  Eleanor trotted off to the rest room, and Bjorn stopped in the doorway to look at the crowd so I stood in line with the other tourists, looking up at the menu on the back wall, noticing that all of the ice-based drinks were marked out.  Yes, it was still warm and muggy but here there were no cold ice-cold drinks to cool folks down.

 

I sighed.

 

“So what are you thinking about?” Bjorn asked as he stepped up beside me.

 

 

“What am I sinking about?” I thought and laughed.  I remembered a video Eleanor had played for us on her computer.  In the video, an older man in a uniform pointed out a stack of electronic equipment in a small room to a younger man in uniform.

 

The older man left the room.

 

Then a desperate voice called out, “Mayday!  Mayday!”

 

The young man reached down and pressed a button on a microphone.  “Hello?  This iz the Gherman Coazt Guard.  May I help you?”

 

“Yes!  Yes!  We are sinking!” the voice responded.

 

The young man looked up for a second or two and then spoke into the mike, “What are you zinking about?”

 

 

I looked up at the menu.  “Well, that vanilla cream cake sounds appetizing.”

 

Her face shiny and her pulled-back blonde hair stringy with sweat, a young woman behind the counter said, “I’m sorry.  We are out of the cake.  Can I get you something else, instead?”

 

I looked down into the glass display case to see some old sandwiches and brownies that had obviously been made fresh first thing that morning but suffered the heat like everyone else.  I looked along the counter past the display case and saw that water bottles were stacked up in a cooler.  “Yes!  I’ll take three of those,” I said enthusiastically, pointing to the bottles.

 

The woman wiped her forearm across her brow and nodded.  “Good idea,” she replied with a smile.  “What else?”

 

“Yes, a white chocolate latte…”

 

“Make that two,” Bjorn added.

 

“Okay.  What else?”

 

I shook my head.  “Nothing,” I said as I reached into my pocket and pulled out a 20 Euro bill.

 

“Want me to help pay for this?” Bjorn asked.

 

I shook my head.

 

“What about Eleanor’s water?”

 

“She can owe me.”

 

I handed the note to the woman and lightly brushed her fingers.  We both looked at each other, noticing the shock.  I saw immediately that her face was gorgeous behind my wildest dreams.  She looked at me and batted her eyes, almost in slow motion.  She opened the cash register and counted out my change.  She dropped a coin on the floor to pick it up.  My heart skipped a beat when I saw a tail sticking out behind her.  She put the change back in the drawer, pulled out my 20 Euro note and handed it back to me.  “Courtesy of Brian,” she said in a soft, sensual voice.

 

As I got change, Eleanor returned.  “Can you believe it?  My cell phone number has been turned off by Vodafone.”

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah, isn’t that crazy.  I’ve just spent the last few minutes not going to the bathroom but trying to resolve the issue, instead.”

 

“On a Saturday night?” I asked, handing Eleanor a bottle of water.  “That’s what you get for talking on the phone so much!”

 

“Yeah, like I said, crazy.  What do I owe you?” she asked.

 

“You can just owe me.”  I opened the bottle of water and gulped down the cool liquid.

 

“Sure.  No problem.  Is that it?” she asked, as she started to turn around.

 

“No, I also ordered a couple of lattes.”

 

“Did you get one for me?  Oh, in the meantime, they gave me an alternate number if you need to reach me.”

 

Bjorn leaned forward.  “I’ll get a latte for you, if you want.”

 

Eleanor looked at Bjorn.  “So neither one of you got me a latte?  I see how it goes.”  Eleanor smirked.  “Anyway, I’ll let you know when the other number is back up.”

 

I took another long swig from the water bottle.  “So how does the alternate number work?”

 

“I think it’s some form of voicemail.  The voicemail box is free.”

 

“Hmm…interesting.  Do they have pay phones here?”

 

“Oh, I’ll just use my personal cell phone to dial in.”

 

“You mean it was your work cell phone that went out?  Who cares?  It’s Saturday night.  Who’s going to call it, anyway?”

 

“Well, I thought you might have it mem…”

 

“You know, this water’s filling me up.  I think I’ll go to the bathroom.  Hey, where’s Bjorn?”

 

“I think he already went.”

 

“Well, okay.  Here’s the ticket for the lattes.  I’ll let you have mine if you’ll pick them up.”

 

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

 

 

I stepped into the bathroom, passing Bjorn as he was going out.  “Crowded in there?”

 

“Yep.”

 

I stepped into line behind a couple of guys dressed in yellow and blue at the last urinal, wondering if my bladder would hold.  I then realized the stall door was open so I walked in and lifted the seat to take a pee.

 

One of the guys in the bathroom sang in a German accent, “Sweden sank like a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine.  Sweden sank…”  His voice was soon drowned out by laughter.

 

I laughed so hard I misaimed and briefly peed on the floor before correcting myself.  I was glad to see the Germans and the Swedish were having fun with each other, despite the Germans defeating the Swedish two to nothing in the World Cup match earlier that year.

 

 

I strolled back into the main area and looked around.  Through the back window, I noticed an arm waving at me and saw that Bjorn and Eleanor had found a table outside the back of the coffee house.  I walked out, hearing and then seeing the large water fountain in the middle of a square.  Several tables were perched around the perimeter of the square, some belonging to the coffee house and some to other establishments.

 

“Hey, great spot!”

 

“We thought so.  Here’s your latte.”

 

“I said you could have it.”

 

“Bjorn got me one, too.”

 

“Cool,” I replied, plopping down into a chair.  “This is great.”

 

“Absolutely.  I’ll tell you what, though, I’m sick of this…I’m still getting the runaround and the phone is only one of a long, long list of items.  Ah well.  I’m building character…”

 

“Whoa!  Where did that come from?”

 

“I don’t know.  It’s just that…well…never mind.  So, David, how are you?  I’ve been thinking about you the last couple of days as I know how hard it is to lose a loved one.”

 

“I…it’s…”

 

“It’s no easy road, dealing with the grief.  As I’m sure you’ve heard or know, it’s time, and sometimes a lot of it.  I hope you and your wife can lean on the memories of good and precious times with her brother as you slowly continue life with him gone.  You’ll need to take care of yourself…and her.”

 

“Yeah, David.  If there’s anything we can do.”

 

“Well, you guys have been great today.  I’ve gone long periods without thinking about it. Thanks for your concern…I really appreciate it.  I feel guilty as hell right now, being here, but Karen insisted that I come.  I’m doing what I can for her.  As you say, it takes time to heal.  Karen is also providing emotional support for her sister in-law.  Her sister in-law is just beginning to realize that she’s got some financial burdens to shoulder now that the sole breadwinner is dead and there’s a kid in college.  It’s not going to be easy for her at all.”

 

“Wow, I didn’t know that your brother had…”

 

“Brother in-law,” Eleanor interjected.

 

“Yes, that’s what I meant.  I didn’t know he had children.”

 

“He’s got two.  His oldest graduated from college last month with a degree in computer engineering.”

 

“That’s wonderful.”

 

“Yes, we’re very happy that his father got to attend the graduation ceremonies. He also got to know that his son had just accepted a fulltime job.”

 

“How many did you say he has?”

 

“Oh, just the two.  Hey, do you guys wanna eat the chocolate we bought earlier?”

 

“I thought you were saving it for your office mates back home.”

 

“I was,” I said, looking into the bag as I dug around.  “I think I’ll open this one.  Dolci Pensieri.  Isn’t that a grand name?”

 

“You’re going to open that one?”

 

“Why not?  It’s obvious to me now that I’m not going to live forever.”

 

Eleanor gave me a sympathetic smile.

 

I sipped my latte and noticed something in the shadows.  “Did you see that?” I asked.

 

“What?”

 

“Did you just see a mouse run by the side of the wall there?”

 

Eleanor and Bjorn looked over to where I was pointing.

 

“I don’t see anything.”

 

“Well that proves it then!”

 

“Proves what?”

 

“I’ve lost my mind and haven’t gotten it back.  You know, I literally lost my mind during the time of my brother in-law’s funeral services – I went temporarily insane, so to speak, having to deal with strangers and all their emotional outbursts for personal loss of their friend or coworker or fellow church member, et cetera, knowing how much more they were connected to my brother in-law than I and I had no corresponding words of encouragement to offer them while I was standing there scared to death, so to speak.”  I shook my head, thinking that I saw the mouse again.  “It’s amazing how fragile I am right now, how mortal this makes me feel, seeing that death could be tomorrow and not 30 or 40 years from  now.”  I broke off a piece of chocolate and nibbled at it.  “I can’t control what others think of me so I won’t concern myself with what people would say at my funeral but I sure would like to say I’ve accomplished all my dreams before I died.”

 

Eleanor nodded.  “Who wouldn’t?”

 

“Sure, I’d like to say I owned a Ferrari, the last materialistic goal of mine.  Bjorn, Eleanor knows that I’ve had three of them.  My first two materialistic goals were having been skydiving and living in a foreign country.”

 

Bjorn looked puzzled.  “I thought you were still trying to move to Ireland?”  Eleanor tapped Bjorn’s leg with her foot.

 

I continued.  “Okay, so I’m cheating a little.  For now, I count staying in Ireland and Germany for a few weeks on business as accomplishing that goal.”

 

Bjorn nodded.  “Sounds okay,” he said to me.

 

“I’m still a long way away from completing the only thing important to me – writing my life’s stories.  Guess I better sit down at the keyboard and start typing, huh?”

 

“You do like to write…”

 

“Of course, I know we all die with our last thoughts unspoken but I’d like to get most of the rest of my story ideas down on paper before I die.  I don’t need to be a published writer in a commercial sense but I would like to leave my stories to my friends and family so I can serve as an example to others.  There!  I saw it again.”

 

“I think I did, too.”

 

“Where?” Bjorn asked.  “Oh wait, there it is.”

 

They watched as the mouse timidly hopped from a smaller planter and scampered into a small crack of a granite block at the base of the building beside them.

 

“So, David,” Eleanor asked, “you said you would cheat on your dreams?”

 

“At this point, yeah, I would.”

 

“Well, I know that you’ve just had a rough time with the death of your wife’s brother…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“But you shouldn’t sacrifice your integrity.”

 

“Integrity?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What’s integrity got to do with it?”

 

“Everything.  I mean, look at our society today.  There are magazines that display…I mean these magazines.  Well, Bjorn, you know what I’m talking about.”

 

Bjorn arched his eyebrows, as if he’d just woken up.  “Did you say something?”

 

“Tell David what we saw last weekend.”

 

“Oh yeah.  We walked into a store where there was a mother and her children standing at the counter and…”

 

“And clearly you could see magazines on display that had naked people on the cover.  And not just naked but obviously advertising sex.”

 

I nodded my head, trying to make a connection.  “And this is tied to integrity, how?”

 

“Well, in a society like this, how can we control what we teach our children?  I mean a mother should have a right to take her kids out shopping with her and to not have her children exposed to that sort of thing.”

 

“So you mean that the mother should be teaching the children that those magazines are unacceptable?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I don’t agree,” Bjorn said.

 

Eleanor snapped her head around.  “What?”

 

“I mean, what’s the matter with the magazines?  You never said.”

 

“Well, it objectifies women.”

 

“But there were also magazines with men on the cover.”

 

“And I guess it objectifies men, too.  But you must admit there are a lot more of those magazines with women on the front than men.”

 

I scratched his head.  “So what would this woman be teaching her kids?”

 

“Well, that a young man and a young woman should not have to feel pressured to have sex, despite the societal cues for them to.”

 

Bjorn looked from Eleanor to me.  “But sex is natural.”

 

“No doubt about it,” I said.

 

“That’s what I mean, David.  You’re willing to compromise your dreams.  So naturally, someone like you would be willing to compromise a woman’s future dreams in order for you to have sex before she’s ready.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Yes.  It’s a matter of integrity.”

 

“How old are you?”

 

“How old do you think I am?”

 

“It’s a trap, David.”

 

“I can see that.  Hmm…so how old are you?  Well, if I use Bjorn as a comparison.  How old are you, Bjorn?”

 

“Twenty-eight.”

 

I looked at Bjorn’s smooth, light-colored face.  “Well, as a Swedish engineer, you probably don’t get out much.”

 

“Good guess.”

 

“And I know that Eleanor is an outdoors person who likes to climb mountains…”  I leaned over to get a closer look at Eleanor’s face.  I noticed a sprinkling of freckles I hadn’t seen before.  Small hairline wrinkles popped out from the corner of her eyes when she suddenly smiled at me.  “Okay, based solely on the comparison to Bjorn’s face, I’d say you’re thirty-two.”

 

“Pretty close.  I’m thirty-one.”

 

“Eleanor, I appreciate your candor, and respect your perspective on the concept of integrity.  You certainly make me realize how much I have changed through the years, going from an Eagle Boy Scout to who I am today.  I hope that thirteen years from now you can have the same conversation when you are forty-four and the person beside you is thirty-one – I believe that you will be able to look back over the last thirteen years and smile with joy and feel no regret.  I have not been so lucky – although I do not regret my choices (since regret implies the ability to go back and change), I do realize that some of the choices in my life were not the best ones I could have made at the time.  It reminds me of a story my cousin sent me in an email.  It’s one of those Christian feel-good allegories that I don’t always forward on but it definitely applies here.

 

“Years ago, a farmer owned land along the Atlantic seacoast.  He constantly advertised for hired hands.  Most people were reluctant to work on farms along the Atlantic.  They dreaded the awful storms that raged across the Atlantic, wreaking havoc on the buildings and crops.

 

“As the farmer interviewed applicants for the job, he received a steady stream of refusals.  Finally, a short, thin man, well past middle-age, approached the farmer.  ‘Are you a good farm hand?’ the farmer asked him.

 

“‘Well, I can sleep when the wind blows,’ answered the little man.

 

“Although puzzled by this answer, the farmer, desperate for help, hired him.  The little man worked well around the farm, busy from dawn to dusk, and the farmer felt satisfied with the man’s work.

 

“Then one night the wind howled loudly in from offshore.  Jumping out of bed, the farmer grabbed a lantern and rushed next door to the hired hand’s sleeping quarters.  He shook the little man and yelled, ‘Get up!  A storm is coming! Tie things down before they blow away!’

 

“The little man rolled over in bed and said firmly, ‘No sir.  I told you, I can sleep when the wind blows.’

 

“Enraged by the response, the farmer was tempted to fire him on the spot.  Instead, he hurried outside to prepare for the storm.  To his amazement, he discovered that all of the haystacks had been covered with tarpaulins.  The cows were in the barn, the chickens were in the coops, and the doors were barred.  The shutters were tightly secured.  Everything was tied down.

 

“Nothing could blow away.  The farmer then understood what his hired hand meant, so he returned to his bed to also sleep while the wind blew.  The hired hand in the story was able to sleep because he had secured the farm against the storm.

 

“Eleanor, I believe you’re prepared, spiritually, mentally, and physically, so you have nothing to fear. I bet you sleep when the wind blows through your life.”

 

“That’s nice of you to say, David.  Thanks for the story, and for the extra time you spent in Munich today.  I think Bjorn would agree it’s been a pleasure exploring ‘my’ city with someone whose eyes are wide open to the possibility of all that it can be, and not entirely jaded with the American culture from which we come.”  Bjorn nodded.  “As I have spent time in the last few weeks wandering through Munich and other cities of Europe (most recently Montpellier, France), I often think that ‘people are people everywhere’, which is an oversimplified way of saying that there is so much to be learned and gained by putting ourselves out upon the edge of our comfort zone, and exploring the potential for beauty and growth beyond our small experiences.”

 

Bjorn laughed.  “I’m sorry but I’m definitely out of my comfort zone.  You guys are on a roll.  It’s obvious you are both Americans.  In Europe, we do not place as much importance on sex or religion, which is what this seems to be what you are talking about.”

 

I turned from Eleanor.  “You’re right, Bjorn.  We definitely treat sex as a taboo subject.”

 

“But it’s not the case with drugs.  You seemed to have experimented with drugs and it is okay with you.  Here, drugs are against the law.”

 

“You’re right, in some ways.  But it’s Eleanor who puts sex in the same category as your drugs.  I cannot say the same for myself.  I guess I am ‘experienced,’ if you know what I mean.  Sorry, Eleanor, but it’s true, but only before I got married.”

 

Eleanor gave me a nonchalant look.  “That’s okay because that is what our lives are, an accumulation of our experiences, coupled with or perhaps more accurately guided by the choices we make as we go from one experience to the other.  Humankind…wait, did I just say that?”

 

“What?”

 

“I almost said ‘mankind’ but opted for the more PC version…though I don’t know why that matters so much?  If words are metaphors for thoughts and things, where does the significance between word choice of things ideological lie…except in individual opinion?  And if to me, Mankind equals Humankind, to whom am I making concessions by saying one rather than the other?  But I digress…”

 

“The political correctness is an American thing that’s being forced on the rest of us,” Bjorn muttered.

 

“Anyway, we are not perfect, so each of us makes mistakes along the way…choices that we would make differently were we to go back and live our lives again.  The choices we have made were of importance in their time, but as time moves on, what is more important is what we do with the knowledge gained by those choices, good or bad.  If we could travel backwards, would we say something else, do something different, reach out a hand here and avoid a bad situation there?  Would we give more of ourselves to others, or to ourselves?  Would we spend more time working on things to benefit others at work or in our personal lives, and where do the two blur?  I mean, is hard work in the office necessarily entirely separate from time spent with loved ones if there is a way in which one benefits from the other?  Does time spent alone pursuing our personal goals and desires necessarily detract or detrimentally affect those we care about?

 

“I can’t claim to be wise, nor free of mistakes, nor entirely kind and understanding, open-minded, happy…wouldn’t that be nice?”

 

I snickered.  “Happy?”

 

“Exactly.  Often I feel the opposite and have to turn away from the world at large and back into myself to re-evaluate what is important, and to clear my mind to learn again – which is another reason to spend time in the mountains!  I find I learn the most not from what I have done well, but from what I have not.  It is the burning memory of my mistakes that inspires me to be better next time, though I must say it doesn’t always work out so well!  So…sometimes the best we can do is do the best we can do…which is to say we get one life to live and we might as well go full gusto and let the mistakes come as they may.”

 

“And don’t forget my brother in-law.  He did not have a full life.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“He lived to fifty-one.”

 

“So?  Didn’t he live life the way he wanted to?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then isn’t that a full life?  I mean, he didn’t hold back, did he?”

 

“Apparently not.”

 

Bjorn sighed.

 

Eleanor looked over at Bjorn.  “What’s the matter?”

 

“It’s been a long week.  I’m tired.”

 

I nodded.  “Yeah, I guess I’m a little tired, too.  Plus I have to get up in the morning.”

 

They sat in silence for a minute.  I reached down, grabbed my bag of chocolate and stood up.

 

Eleanor leaned forward.  “One last thing before we leave.”  She looked up at me, making sure she had eye contact with me.  “I’ve been sitting here thinking.  Your comments on your thoughts of what your brother-in-law’s death meant in your life and what you’d want to accomplish before your time is up has made me think that the question ‘what do you want to do before you die’ or ‘what would you do if you only had a few months to live’ are the hardest to answer, because what do we want to stand for in the end?  I guess that if we make a difference in our small circle of family and friends – if they can remember us with a smile, if only for our quirks, and if we are at peace with God in the end, then that is enough.”

 

“Perhaps you’re right.”

 

Bjorn pushed his chair back and stood up.  “I’ll even agree to most of that.  Oh, look!  There’s the mouse.”

 

We all turned to see the mouse race across the square and jump onto the lip of the water fountain.  It sniffed the air and then appeared to dive into the water.

 

Bjorn shook his head.  “I hope he’s just going for a swim.  Surely, our conversation wasn’t that depressing!”

 

 

 

We arrived at the Munich train station.  I bought a ticket to take me to the Munich airport.  Before I got on the train that began my first leg on the trip back to America, I hugged Bjorn and Eleanor.  I noticed a twitch and mischievous sneer in Bjorn’s grin that reminded me of the erotic aspect of the nacken that Bjorn had described earlier in the day.  When Eleanor turned to walk away from me, I noticed what looked like the end of tail dangling from underneath her overshirt.

 

 

Back in the US, I stopped at the barber shop on the way home.  I sat in the barber chair, talking with my hair stylist, Darlene.  I told Darlene that I had been back in the US for approximately two weeks and it seemed to me that everyone I touched took on new characteristics, especially my wife, who had gotten into the habit of playing very cruel tricks on me for no other reason, she said, then to get a good laugh.  Darlene, who despite being a strong believer in astrology, discounted my story as paranoid delusions.  That is, until I touched her as I handed her a $20 bill to pay for my haircut.  Her attitude changed very quickly.  And I swear she was sweeping the floor with her tail by the time I walked out.

 

I took one more look at her on the way out the door.  She was definitely not the Darlene I used to know.  I hadn’t yet looked at the memory card I’d swiped from the Japanese tourist.  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.  I knew I either had to stop having paranoid delusions that people were after me or I’d have to accept that what I observed was real and the world was a lot stranger than I thought or cared to know about.

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

I have written the first draft of “Sticks to Lying.”  I have to…why do I start the sentence with, “I have to”?  I will edit the book, clean up day/week/month/season/year continuity discrepancies.  But not right now while I sit here.

 

Instead, I sit here with the computer screen in front of me, the cursor flashing and waiting for input, like a good dog ready to play fetch.

 

It’s mid-morning and I’ll be going to lunch with Karen in little over half an hour.  From now until then, I’ll torture myself with the sultry scent of perfume, worn by an IT employee who’s setting up a computer and printer in the cubicle behind me.  She wears the most “loud” perfume in the company.  She’s also a lot of fun and I’ve joked with her in conversation on occasion.  She wears tight-fitting clothes and doesn’t mind being looked at.  In fact, today, when I was turned around to my desk with my back to her, she instructed me to look at her while she was talking.  I snapped around and gave her a funny look.  “I wasn’t being serious,” she joked, and walked away.  I used to indulge her exhibitionist tendencies but after we were all forced to watch an online HR training video about harassment, I worry that my consensually enjoying the view of a woman’s body at work will offend an unknown third party who’s watching me.  Crazy corporate world, huh?

 

Perhaps I worry too much.  Do I worry too much?  Why the fear of being caught being a natural guy – a guy the way nature intended me to be?  Part of it is the understanding there is nothing but a social training that keeps men from publicly displaying their desire for women.  I was born in the “free love” 60s, grew up in the “equal rights for women” 70s, and turned into a consenting adult in the post-AIDS 80s.  No wonder there is a battle in my mind over how I’m supposed to react in the presence of women.

 

I thought that writing my novel would be therapy, and help relieve some of the tension, pressure, fear, concern, boredom, etc., in my mind.  It has and has not.  Partly, I am relieved because I am out of words to use.  I am reduced to using one, two and three syllable words, which means my fear of sounding unintelligent is lowered, that’s all.

 

However, I can’t change the fact I’m a changed man.

 

I still feel like I have nowhere to go in this society.  I am interested in knowing what I can do to reshape my mind to get to a more peaceful state of mind before I get too old to care before I die.

 

Louann told us about an interesting saying someone put on the bulletin board in her Sunday school class.  “Some people’s minds are like concrete – all mixed up and permanently set.”  I’m definitely all mixed up – I just/must/should/could find a way to change the mix (or consider rational-emotive behavior therapy).

 

Will my path of discovery take me through the land of getting more public recognition of my writing?  I’m leaning toward doing so.  I’m just not interested in whoring my writing for a living.  But if I have no personal agenda, no deep set of guiding moral values, then why am I stuck on the idea that getting paid, earning my food money, so to speak, for these words is a bad thing?  Of course, there’s fear of failure – less of a concern as I get older.  But what else holds me back?  Need to think about it for a while…

 

I know that people all around the world are facing serious threats to their lives everyday and would envy my being able to sit here and contemplate my life of low activity.  Some people like me would be selfless enough to get out of this funk and offer to help others.  They would not fill this time with flights of fancy, wild imaginings or other such mental nonsense.  But I enjoy living in my mind, even when I’m physically active.  The only difference is that my thoughts incorporate the conversations around me when I’m active and incorporate the conversations within me when I’m not active.  I do not stop thinking, either way.

 

So how do I turn this desire for thinking into a way to live?  How do I make my thinking and writing the only thing I do?  Could I break through to another level of living, putting my fears behind me because I wouldn’t be afraid to be who I am?  I would no longer be living a lie but be living for myself, other people’s sensitivities be damned.

 

What can I do if I don’t plan to die?

 

What if I’m losing my mind and I don’t know it?  Well, I’ve lost my mind – who am I kidding?  What if I’m just plain lost?  Can I find my way back?

 

How do I stop worrying about others’ feelings and just be myself?  Stop worrying about rejection!

 

As I contemplate where I am, I look back on what turned me into who I am at this moment, especially the events over the last year and half:

 

1. Stress from the shutdown of the Avocent test lab, and my having to deal with the layoff of my employees, while I stayed on.
2. Stress from the offer of a job to move to Ireland and then having it taken away from me, forcing me to explain to everyone I told I was moving why I wasn’t moving overseas.
3. Stress of moving to smaller and smaller office.
4. Stress over accusation of stalking by a coworker’s husband, although it turned out the coworker made up the story and was subsequently let go.
5. Stress from first trip to Germany (first trip to a non-English speaking country (outside of Mexico, that is)).
6. Stress from death of Junior.
7. Stress from too much multitasking – brain seems to be rewiring itself, strengthening short-term memory and erasing long-term memory.

• Too much stimuli (e.g., dozens of emails per hours I feel I have to answer right away).
• No end in sight (or it feels that way, at least)

1. Stress from family’s continued recovery from Junior’s death

 

Stress that is out of sequence, out of time, continuous – trying to get past middle-age issues that I think I “should” be over already:

1. What is acceptable behavior?
2. Why do I look for parameters within which to bind my behavior?
3. Why can’t I do what I want?  Maybe, because I must control my anger/rage, and sound like a rational person, or because there are laws against many behaviors.

 

Maintain a sense of humor.

 

I am actively moving toward a state of being myself.  I am not taking care of my ability to slow down when meeting others – I have to see what it is I do (using for example a meeting with strangers, three visitors from a power supply vendor that I was hosting first thing this morning):

 

• Why do I act panicked? [and see it reflected in the eyes of the visitors]
• Why do I act afraid?
• What am I afraid of?
• Why do I feel rushed, as if I want to escape?

 

I am afraid that someone’s going to see I don’t really care about whatever it is I’m participating with them in and thus the person will think I’m a fake or insincere.  But what if they feel the same way and it’s a relief for both of us?  How many of us really consider our jobs part of who we are?  How many of us simply identify ourselves by our jobs because that’s supposed to be what we do/say when someone asks us what we do for a living?  Why can’t I say I think for a living and sometimes write down what I think?  Wouldn’t that about cover it?  Something to think about…  ;^)

 

What about my relationship with my wife?  I take us for granted, which is good and bad.  I assume a lot.  She, too, assumes a lot, like she assumes I know what she’s said to others, as if I was there by her side when someone was speaking to her.  Other than giving her more listening time and more physical TLC, is there anything else I need to do?  We’re both so worn out from the continual emotional roller coaster ride after Junior’s death that it’s difficult for both of right now to prop up our psyches, let alone reach out to one another.  For me, there’s even the fear that I’ll reach out to Karen and then she’ll die, ripping apart and leaving the partially healed wounds of my raw emotional state more exposed to the elements.

 

Of course, talking about it helps, more so out loud to family, friends and coworkers than writing about it but if I write it down, I’ll have these words to use for later.

 

Found out at work today that we’re not supposed to write emails that are critical of coworkers – sniping them, in other words – more signs that corporate life is consensual participation in mind control.  Shades of “1984”.  Of course, I started my corporate job life in 1984, so today’s behavior change request is no surprise, just reinforcement.

 

Chapter 30

 

In one last attempt to see if I could live in the corporate world, I attended a party at the house of a coworker, Carlotta, toward the end of November.  I was familiar with the setting.  Carlotta and Glenn had been hosts of another party back in the summer to give an Irish coworker a fond farewell since he was leaving America to return to Ireland after getting his layoff notice.  I enjoyed that summer day at their farm.  It’s as fresh in my mind today as it was six months ago, mainly because I was challenged by a guy at the party to write about what happened.  I’ll save that twice-told tale for the next chapter.  The one in November is still fresh in my mind.

 

Carlotta’s husband, Glenn, has owned and run his own business since high school.  He learned he could perform repair and installation jobs for businesses, let the businesses owe him money for the job and then eventually come back after the businesses when they owed him too much money.  They were either forever in his debt and would give him goods and services at a much reduced rate or he would simply take over their businesses.  “No hard feelings for these folks because they know it’s only business,” he told me in the summer, sounding like some sort of organized crime character from the movies.  Glenn is not the sort of person I would want to have on the other side of the table during a business meeting.  He knows he always has an extra ace up his sleeve.

 

When Karen and I arrived at the farm, the sweeping driveway was already packed with cars.  I tried not to let the claustrophobic panic set in but I could feel it inching its way up my spine.  On our way to the house, I looked up into the cold, clear sky, hoping a meteor or two would go streaking by, since the Leonid meteor shower was supposed to take place over the next day or two.  Alas, no streaks or flashes did I see.  But I knew that should the necessity arise, I could step out of the house as an excuse to see meteors and take a break from any overwhelming, crowding conditions.

 

I led Karen around the back of the house, knowing that the party would be going strong in or around the kitchen.  And of course it was.  In fact, we had to crowd our way into the kitchen in order to be able to close the door and keep out the freezing air.

 

I hesitate, wondering if I should describe the folks at the party.  Many of them I had seen at Carlotta’s house before so it felt like we had fast-forwarded six months from the party in the summer and were trying to pick up where we left off.  The main difference was that this time most of our spouses were there.  I didn’t know how I was supposed to behave.  Would I be able to openly flirt in the presence of my wife?

 

After we stepped inside, I decided I wasn’t ready to face a bunch of people until I knew which personality of mine I wanted to present.  I left Karen to talk with Zoe’s husband while I wandered around the house.  I walked through several rooms which probably had names attached to them – dining room, living room, den – and felt as if there were simply part of the house plans but not actively used by Carlotta or Glenn.  I laughed, realizing how big this house was, probably four or five thousand square feet, and marveling at the fact that Karen and I probably only actively use about half of our two thousand square feet home.  So why are we all building houses too big for our needs?  Empty houses, empty souls?

 

I returned to the kitchen, listening to conversations that didn’t really interest me.  I tried to act interested as long as possible but soon found myself wandering outside, looking at the stars once again.  Which way was east?  Wouldn’t that be where most of the meteorites would come from?  I stood in the cold for several minutes, frustrated.

 

Returning inside, I found out that the party had taken on a theme of sorts.  Carlotta had forgotten to invite one of the senior managers, Will, and was worried that Will would hold it against her.  I grabbed my camera out of the car and took pictures so that we could superimpose pictures of Will to make it look like he’d been to the party.

 

As Karen and I left the party, Karen told me that Will had actually gotten Zoe to make it obvious that Carlotta had forgotten to invite him.  Exciting stuff, that.

 

Speaking of Zoe, there’s something about her that is attractive.  Hmm, what could it be?  Well, much of it is superficial – nice eyes, nice body, that sort of thing.  What else is there about her that would make her specifically attractive to me?  I’m not sure and perhaps that’s part of the attraction.  At the party, I think she wanted to know more about me, since I was a mystery to her, and struck up a conversation or two.  I just wasn’t in the mood.    I’ve just had too many ongoing conversations with women at my company in which I wasn’t sure if there was an unspoken subtext.  Instead of bringing it forward, I’ve decided to find a way to end the conversations.

 

As the night progressed, I decided that I needed to focus on the images on my female radar, so that I could locate and check Zoe off my list as hostile or neutral.  I wanted one less “friendly” target to be aware of.  When Zoe and her husband left, I made sure she saw me participate in “alpha male” mode, similar to Glenn, making aggressive biting gestures into the face of Carlotta’s little dog.  From the look of disgust on Zoe’s face, I know she now has an easy excuse to give herself for why I’m not a person she’d want to talk with in the future.

 

How quickly things change.  She wasn’t like that at a party a few months ago.

 

 

Chapter 33

 

What do I remember about the last party at Carlotta’s house?  Let me think…

 

Wednesday afternoon.  I had a couple of free hours between meetings and decided to distribute some company gifts I’d received.  I grabbed a couple of cellophane-wrapped pens from the pile of gifts on my desk and headed down the hall, running into Beau and Dale chit-chatting about recent company news.

 

Beau turned to see me coming toward him.  “So which chapter are you on now?”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Which book, I mean…”

 

“No, I’m not.  I’m on the next series.”

 

“Volume 4, huh?”

 

“Yeah, something like that.”

 

I turned to Dale.  “You see, it’s like this…”

 

Beau grabbed my arm.  “Don’t bother, Dave.  He wouldn’t understand.”

 

“…I’m working on a story that you’d only understand if you were…uh…if you were enjoying a particular herb.”

 

Dale laughed.  “Oh, I get it all right.  A special kind of ‘erb.”

 

“Yep.  Well, I gotta deliver these pens to Belinda.  See you guys later.”

 

Beau jostled my arm.  “Let me know when you finish the story.”

 

“So you can prepare the herb?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll have to get the mortar out and grind it up a bit.”

 

“Oh wow, a real special herb.  Well, this pen’d make a really good peace pipe.”

 

Beau laughed.  “Just let me know when you finish the story.”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

“Me, too.”

 

“I’ll be sure to share it with you, too, Dale.  But Beau’ll hafta supply the ‘erb.”

 

 

 

I walked on down the hall to the Tech Pubs office area and stepped around the corner looking for Belinda’s office.  Petite, brunette, piercing blue eyes, cute beyond words but professional as hell.  Hardly a flirtatious bone in her body.  I never fully looked forward to seeing Belinda.  Difficult to get excited when there was very little “tit for tat” conversation to think about later on.  For all I knew, Belinda felt the same way.  I stepped into her office.

 

“Hey, Belinda.  Have you seen Lyle?”

 

“He’s not here today.”

 

“Oh, okay.”  I rolled the two pens, left over from the set of pens his colleague Eleanor had sent me from her office in Redmond.  Remnants of her office, anyway.  Eleanor threw a bunch of crap from her office into a box and shipped it to me a week before.  She dumped her job and her stuff on me before she flew to Europe to begin work as a sales account rep in the Munich office for the next couple of years.

 

“Here, have a pen.  Thanks for all the work you’ve done for me.”

 

“Oh, thanks Dave.  Hey, I’ve been thinking about you.  I mean, I’ve been meaning to call you…that is, I wanted to tell you that…”  Belinda took a breath.  “Speaking of the Box project…I did tell you about that, didn’t I?”

 

I just stared at Belinda’s ocean blue eyes, thinking about the fact that Belinda’s face was round, so her eyes were like two marbles sitting on a plate.  One could just reach out and grab her eyes and push the marbles around the plate.  But no, one couldn’t do that because there were those lips.  And hey, wasn’t it interesting that the blue lamp on her desk was the same color as the pen he just gave her but a deep blue, a cobalt blue, nowhere near the color of those eyes.

 

“…named Hamid.”

 

“Did you say Sam Meade?”

 

“No, Hamid.”

 

“Sam Mid?”

 

“No, one word.  Hamid.  He’s Iranian.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I won’t begin to try to spell his last name but it’s pronounced like piranha.”

 

I kept staring, wondering if Belinda was thinking of anything besides work.

 

“Like the fish.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“You know, just look it up in the directory.  P-i-r-h.  That should be enough to look up his last name.  Then just look for Hamid.”

 

“Sure.  Okay.  So he’ll be working on the Box project?”

 

“Yep.”

 

I wondered whether Belinda was pushing the project off on Hamid because she didn’t want to work with me.  And what would I be getting out of this?  Besides the fact that Belinda was damn good-looking, but not necessarily a great talker, she was an excellent technical writer and editor.  “So, how much does he know about our products?”

 

“Well, his division did create the Sago Palm products.”

 

“True.  But is he technically proficient.  I mean, I won’t have to train him from the ground up on our products, will I?”

 

“Oh no, not at all.  Look, Hamid and the other Tech Pubs folks from Fremont will be here in a week or so.  If you don’t mind, I’d like to introduce him to you.  That is, if my boss still plans to assign Hamid to the Box project.”

 

“Sure, why not?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Well, thanks for the pen.”

 

“No problem.”  I almost asked if Hamid’s English skills were good but decided against it.  I knew the main point was that I’d not be communicating with Belinda as much as I used to.  Of course, because she was good at her job, it was much more important to assign her to the high volume sales lines and everyone knew that the Box products were slowly winding down.  “Well, you said that Lyle would be back when?”

 

“Tomorrow.”

 

“Oh, okay.  Guess I’ll see him tomorrow.  See you later.”

 

“Bye.”

 

I walked back out to the main hallway and saw that Beau and Dale were still talking.

 

“Well, guys, looks like I’ve still got a peace pipe with me so I’m ready to smoke that stuff anytime.”

 

“Hey, Dave, you just finish that story.  I’ll have the stuff ground up by the time you finish.”

 

“No problem.  See you soon.”

 

“You, too.”

 

= = = = =

 

I sat down at my desk and pondered for a moment.  I tried not to look up because I’d then realize for the thousandth time that day that within six months I’d gone from a 13 by 12 office to a 10 by 12 cube down to an 8 by 9 cube but hey, it had a door, right?  No, I closed my eyes and cleared my mind.  Where was I going to go, or better yet, where was I going to escape to for a while?  Perhaps back up a few days and unwind by rewinding my mental tape recorder to the party the previous Friday.

 

= = = = =

 

“Hey, Dave, welcome to the party.”

 

I looked up from the cracks in the concrete I’d followed with my eyes while traversing across the large concrete pad next to the backyard swimming pool.

 

“Oh, hey Walter.  What’s up?”

 

“A little late, aren’t you?”

 

“Well, I’m just getting away from work.”

 

“Dave, it’s 6:30, man…on a Friday.  What could you possibly have to do at work to keep you so late…especially with a party to attend?”

 

“Jerry came by at four and said that I could move my stuff back to my ‘new’ office, if I wanted.  I figured a late afternoon Friday move would be perfect since I have so many meetings to attend on Monday.”

 

“You gave up the party to move your office?  Well…anyhoot, you just about missed the party.  I’m outta here.”

 

“Leaving already?”

 

“Yeah, gotta get home to the wife and kids.”

 

“We’ve all got our excuses.”

 

“Hey, I’m not the one who sacrificed an early afternoon of drinking to MOVE.”

 

“You’re right.  Well, seeya later.”

 

“Yep.”

 

 

I stepped up on the back porch.

 

“DAVE!” Miriam called.  “Where you been?”

 

“Work.”

 

“Okay, now you’ve proved it.”

 

“Proved what?”

 

“Proved that you’re crazy.”

 

“Like I had to prove that.”

 

“What was I thinking?  Of course, we already knew you were crazy.  You gonna have a beer?”

 

“Yeah, what’s there to drink?”

 

“Dunno.  You’ll have to look in the tubs to see.”

 

“Okay.”  I stepped back off the porch and looked into the shadows of the large plastic tubs.  I squinted in the bright sun but couldn’t make out the brands of beer stuck in ice, only colors – green (Heineken?), brown (Michelob?), more green (Corona?).  I saw a second tub full of carbonated sodas.  I grabbed a bottle from the beer tub.  Michelob Ultra.  Well, at least it was some sort of alcoholic beverage.  I picked up the bottle opener and popped off the top.

 

“Oh, hey David.  I didn’t know you were here,” RJ said.  “This is my wife, Susan.  Susan, this is David.  He’s one of our new program managers.”

 

“Hi, David.”

 

I shook Susan’s hand, trying not to grab it too sternly.  “Nice to meet you.”  I took one look at Susan and immediately knew I’d not remember her face the next morning.  She seemed to fit RJ’s personality perfectly.  Although RJ was a marketing manager, his appearance gave one the impression of an energetic engineer more than a person in marketing.  Bald head, thick glasses, leering smile.  And Susan seemed to be the perfect engineer’s wife.  Nice, but easily forgettable.

 

“David, can’t believe you’re just now drinking.  We’re just now leaving.”

 

“So soon?”

 

“Hey, gotta get home to the kiddies, you know.”

 

“Sure, I guess.  I don’t have any of my own.”

 

“Well, you’re missing out.  Enjoy the party.”

 

“Seeya Monday, RJ.  If you’re lucky.”

 

“Oh, luck’s always on my side.”

 

“Dave!” called out a familiar voice.  “Where’s your wife?”

 

I looked up and saw Carlotta standing at the top of the steps.  “Oh, she’s on her way.”

 

“Well, gosh, when will she be here?”

 

“Oh, I mean she’s flying from New Mexico to Huntsville.  Her plane’s supposed to land at 8:41.”

 

“Well, sorry to hear it.  You want some food?  I’ve got plenty of food.  And beer, of course.”

 

“Of course.”  Realizing that I was visiting Carlotta’s house and seeing that Carlotta’s husband, Glenn, was sitting a few feet away, I did my best not to check out Carlotta’s body.  Not that I needed to.  I had seen her plenty of times and her body never changed.  A domesticated Sophia Loren, perhaps, or a classic Jane Russell, attitude and all.  That’s all I could think about when I saw her (or sawr her, as she would say).  A domesticated, Massachusetts-bred, Italian beauty.  With a smart mouth and a twinkle in her eye that could draw you in and slap you across the face in one look.  “I’ve got one.”

 

“Well, you wanna go ahead and open another one while you’re standing over the beer?  Or are you gonna get some food?”

 

“Guess I’ll get some food.”

 

“Well, okay then.  There’s the snacks over there by our honored Irish guest and there’s real food inside.”

 

I looked across the porch to see Sean sitting off by himself.  “Hey, Sean, congratulations.”

 

Sean stood up off the sofa.  “Thank you, Mr. Colline.  Thanks very much.  I see you’ve got a beer there, have you?”

 

“Aye, but it’s no Guinness.”

 

“No, no Guinness a’tall.  But tasty all the same.”

 

“So, tell me, Sean, why is it you Irish like the Corona so much?”

 

Sean looked down at his bottle.  “Can’t say, Dave, can’t say.  It’s beer, that’s all.”

 

“Indeed.  So how’s your party been?”

 

“Not so bad.  Just sittin’ here takin’ it all in.”

 

I sat down on the sofa next to Sean and looked around him.  Two lovebirds, Mike and Caroline, sat in a loveseat nearby, cooing like two pigeons in heat.  Standing in the doorway to the house stood Glenn.  Sitting in a circle next to the pool were the gals from the training department – Zoe, Renee, and, of course, their boss, Carlotta – talking up a storm with Miriam and Beau.

 

“So what are your plans, Sean?”

 

“My plans?”

 

“Yeah.  Are you moving back into your house in Ireland?”

 

“As a matter of fact, I am.  I’m kicking my nephew out in a couple of weeks and takin’ over the place again.”

 

“That’s great.  And what about your car?”

 

“Just sold it this afternoon.”

 

“Fantastic.”

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

I leaned back on the sofa and looked past the pool at the horses standing next to the perfect white fence.  “Lovely day.”

 

“’Tis, indeed.”

 

“Would have been a great day for golf.”

 

“A bit windy but yes, indeed, it would.”

 

“So when do you move back?”

 

“The fifth of June.”

 

“A couple of weeks away.”

 

“Indeed.  Say, whatdya say we go over and chat with the ladies?”

 

“Sounds good to me.  Think I’ll grab something to eat first.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Glenn saw them stand up.  “You guys want beers?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

“Well, don’t move.  I’ll grab them for you.  What’ll you have?”

 

“Guess I’ll have another Mich Ultra.”

 

Sean waved his hand.  “None for me now, right now, thanks.  I’m doin’ fine.”

 

“You going inside?” Carlotta asked me as I headed to the door.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’ve got margaritas as well as food.  You want a margarita?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Honey, hold off grabbin’ a beer for Sean and Dave.  Dave wants a margarita.”

 

I walked inside and looked around the house.  I was tempted to take a personal tour but decided the prospect of seeing their large house and then mentally comparing it to the prison cell of a cubicle I was about to move into would be too much.

 

“You like that kind of cheese?”

 

I turned around.  “What kind of cheese?”

 

“That right there.”

 

I stared at the young man.  Was he a son of Carlotta and Glenn?  “Dunno.  I’ve never tried it before.”

 

“Well, I don’t like it.  You probably won’t like it, either.”

 

“Guess I’ll try it and see.”  I scooped some of the warmed over cheese dip and plopped it on a plate.  Not only did it not look appetizing, sitting on my plate like poop from some orange creature but there appeared to be bits of sausage in it.  I shook my head at the memory of making sausage while working at a pizza restaurant when he was about the kid’s age.  “Then again, maybe you’re right.”

 

“I told you.”

 

“Well, I’ve gotta eat it now.”

 

“I wouldn’t bother, if I were you,” the kid said and stepped outside, holding the door open for Carlotta, as she stepped inside.

 

“So you gonna have a margarita?”

 

I looked up from the food table to see Carlotta standing in front of me.  If it weren’t for her smart-ass attitude, she might be more appealing.  But then again, maybe that was her point.  Wear PMS like a bug spray and the flies don’t get close enough to the fly paper to stick.  “No, I’m sticking to beer.”

 

“Thought so.  HONEY, GO AHEAD AND FIX DAVE A BEER!”

 

I stepped back outside with Carlotta and grabbed the beer from Glenn.  “Thanks.”

 

“Hey, no prob.  I didn’t think you were a margarita man but Carlotta wanted to make sure.”

 

“Well, if you insist, I could wash down a margarita with this beer.”

 

“Stay with the beer.”

 

“Good idea.”

 

“And by the way, that cheese sucks.  It sucks even more now that it’s been sittin’ around for a few hours.”

 

“So I’ve heard.”

 

I set my food and beer down on the edge of the porch and grabbed a chair, which I placed between Beau and Zoe, making sure the chair was slightly behind Zoe’s chair, so I could observe her out of sight of her probing eyes.  However, just as I sat down, Zoe noticed me and moved her chair beside mine.

 

“Hey, David, about time you joined us.”

 

“Yeah, Dave, we thought you were ignoring us on purpose,” Renee added.

 

“No, Renee, just you.”  I looked at Renee and wondered what was so appealing about her.  Well, sure, she had red hair, fake though it may be, and sleepy basset hound eyes.  She wasn’t bad-looking, but not a head-turner, either.  But there was something about her.  Perhaps it was the “I can play dumb if you want” attitude that said she was hiding a good bedroom game up her sleeve.

 

Beau bumped my arm.  “Hey, how’s it going?”

 

“Pretty good.”

 

“Better late than never, huh?”

 

“I suppose so.”

 

I stood up to get his food and beer.

 

“You leaving so soon?”

 

“No, Zoe, just gotta get what I left behind.”

 

“I know what you mean.”

 

“No, I mean my beer.”

 

“Oh, that.”

 

“Yep.  That’s all.”

 

“Okay, then don’t let me stop you.”

 

I grabbed my beer but left the cold lump of cheese sitting on the porch.  “So, Sean, tell us, what’ll you do when you get back to Ireland?”

 

Sean looked at me, narrowing his eyes a bit.  “What exactly would I be doing?”

 

“Well, are you taking a few days off or going straight to work.”

 

“Straight to work, of course.  What sort of question is that?”

 

Glenn turned to me.  “Yeah, Dave, what sorta question is that?”

 

“Well, it’s just that every time I go to Ireland and plan to meet up with Sean at a pub, he calls at the last minute and says that he’s got a cousin to meet.  Or it’ll be midnight and just when the party’s going strong and everyone’s breaking out singing, Sean’ll say that he’s got to go to meet a cousin of his.”

 

Renee winked at Sean.  “A ‘cousin,’ eh?”

 

Sean glared at me.  “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

 

“Ah, come on, Sean, surely you can tell us about your kissin’ cousin, can’t you?”

 

Carlotta put her arm around Sean.  “Yeah, Sean, this is Alabama, after all.  It’s not like these folks have never heard about this sort of thing before.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  This ‘sort of thing’ only happens in the States.”

 

“Well, we had to get the idea from somewhere.  Surely you Irish taught a thing or two to the Mormons in Utah.  They couldn’t have thought up the whole bigamy thing on their own.”

 

“Bigamy’s one thing but kissin’ your cousin’s something else.”

 

“Well, you give bigamy long enough and pretty soon you’ll be doing more than kissing your cousin.”

 

Everyone laughed.

 

Beau nodded to me.  “So, David, if you were writing this story, where would you take this?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I mean, this whole evening’s been like this.  One unrelated topic on top of another.  It reminds me of a college professor I had who made everyone read this book, his book, where every chapter was different than the rest.  Then, after we’d read the book, he asked us how we would end the story.  Obviously, he’d smoked a little too much of his own stuff.”

 

“Couldn’t psych out the professor on that one?”

 

“Not unless we smoked some of it, too, I guess.”

 

“Hmm…yeah, that’d be a tough one.  But it would be fun.  I mean, how could you go wrong?”

 

“I don’t know.  So, where would you go with this one?”

 

I looked around the group.  How would I end this story?  Well, I’d have to get rid of my fellow Eagle Scout, Mike.  And Mike would have to take his lovey-dovey, Caroline, with him.

 

= = = = =

 

“Well, folks, hate to leave so soon but I promised to take Caroline to see the new ‘Poseidon’ movie.”

 

“Gosh, Mike, leaving so soon?”

 

“Yeah, Dave.”

 

“Well, I enjoyed meeting you, Caroline.”

 

“You, too.”

 

I shook Caroline’s outstretched hand.  “Mike has said so many things about you…”

 

“Same here.”

 

“…and I can see he was being modest.”

 

“Oh…uh, thanks.”

 

“Yeah, Dave, thanks.  Thanks for whatever that meant.”

 

“No problem.  I’ll talk to you Monday.”

 

“Yep.”

 

I turned to Zoe.  “You want something to drink?”

 

“Oh, no thanks.  You know, I couldn’t sleep last night.  I woke up at four in the morning, still fuming.”

 

“Fuming about what?”

 

Renee laughed.  “About their argument at 10 o’clock.  Right, Zoe?”

 

“Yes, can you believe my husband turned to me just as I was falling asleep and announced that he planned to build us a seven-thousand square foot home?”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes.  For the two of us.  And our dog.”

 

“Well, how big’s your dog?  And pardon my saying it but how small’s your husband?”

 

“Exactly what I was thinking!  Did he think that a bigger house was going to make up for…well, you know.  Not to mention the cleaning.”

 

“You could hire a maid.”

 

“Or a kissing cousin.”

 

“I will not have a seven-thousand square foot home, no matter what.”

 

“Well, then, how do you propose making up for the difference?”

 

“Difference?”

 

“In size…that is, size of the house.”

 

“Well, sure, there is something to be said for the size.”

 

I looked more closely at Zoe but I couldn’t see her eyes through her sunglasses.  What the hell?  Did it matter what her eyes were saying?  “What about Carlotta and Glenn here?”

 

Glenn stood up.  “What about us?”

 

“Well, look at the size of your place here.”

 

“What about it?”

 

“Yeah, Dave, what are you fishing for?”  Carlotta stood up and walked over to Glenn, putting her arm around his waist.  “What’re you trying to say?”

 

“Just that you two look pretty happy and you’ve got this large ranch.”

 

Glenn stood up straight.  “And two very grown up boys, I might add.”

 

“That’s my point.  I don’t think the size is an issue here.  Of the house, I mean.”

 

Glenn nodded toward me.  “What he said.”

 

“So, Zoe…”

 

“Yes, Dave?”

 

“Did you get back to sleep?”

 

Zoe poked me in the arm.  “Did you say you wanted a margarita?”

 

“Umm…yes, I believe I did.”  I turned to Beau.  “Can we pick this up on Monday?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“How your college professor’s book would end.”

 

“Oh, that.  Yeah, sure.  Of course.”

 

Zoe stood over me.  “You coming?”

 

“Yeah, why don’t you go inside and pour us a couple of margaritas?  I wanna say goodbye to Sean first.”

 

“Oh, is he leaving?”

 

“Well, probably soon.”

 

“Good idea.”  Zoe walked over to Sean.  “Hey, Sean, have a safe trip to Ireland tomorrow.”

 

“Tomorrow?  I’m not leaving for Ireland until the 5^th of June.”

 

“Oh, well, then have a safe trip home tonight.”

 

“I plan to.  So are you leaving right now?”

 

“No.  No.  I…I’m just going inside to get Dave and me a couple of margaritas.”

 

“Good, well I’ll see you in a few minutes then.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Maybe?  Oh yeah, I see what you’re saying.  It could take a while to mix a new batch, couldn’t it?”

 

“Precisely.  Dave, I’m going inside.”

 

“Okay.  Be there in a minute.  Just gotta finish up here with Glenn.”  I turned back around and leaned over to Glenn.  “So is there a comfortable place where I could discuss house plans with Zoe?”

 

“Well, Dave, if that’s what you wanna do, that’s fine with me.  Just don’t tell the Mrs.  If you want, you can just walk over to the spare garage and take the stairs up to the studio.”

 

“Is there any way to the garage from the house?”

 

“Well, if you’re going inside, you guys could go down through the basement and walk around back.  It’ll take you straight across the driveway to the garage, without being seen from here, of course.”

 

“Perfect.”

 

“No problem.  Just remember to take your stuff back out with you.  I don’t need Carlotta thinkin’ I’ve been spending my time drinking when I’m working in the studio.”

 

“Understood.  See you later.”

 

 

 

Beau stood up to leave.  “Well, Glenn, thanks for that story of how you met.  I can see why you two hit it off so well.  Anyway, it’s getting late.  I guess I’ve had about as much fun as I can take.  Thanks for inviting me, Carlotta.”

 

“You’re quite welcome.”  Carlotta looked over Beau’s shoulders as she hugged him.  “Hey, honey, why is there a light on in the garage?”

 

“A light?”

 

“Yeah.  I can see a light in the garage from here.”

 

“Maybe Eric went in there.”  Glenn shook Beau’s hand.  “Thanks for stopping by.”

 

“My pleasure, Glenn.”

 

“No, honey, he did not.  He went straight upstairs to his room.  I saw him.”

 

“Can’t say.  Maybe one of us left it on last night.”

 

“But it wasn’t on a little while ago.”

 

“No, it could have been on and you couldn’t tell when the sun was up.  Now it’s gettin’ dark and you can see the light’s on.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Okay then.”

 

“So, are you going to go turn it off?”

 

“After our guests leave.”

 

“Why not now?”

 

“Renee, tell me you want me and Carlotta to stay here and talk with you.”

 

“Glenn, I want you and Carlotta to stay here and talk with me.”

 

“See, darling.  Renee does not want me to leave you guys right now.”

 

“Sure, honey, I heard Renee, too.  Wait, the light just went out.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Yeah, look.  It’s no longer on.”

 

“You’re right, it’s off.  Guess I don’t have to go over there and turn it off now.”

 

“What do ya mean?  Now you’ve got to go over there and see why it went off.”

 

“I will, I promise.  Oh hey, look.  There’s Dave.  Dave, where you been?”

 

“Where have I been?”

 

“Yeah, you just missed it.  Carlotta here is imagining that the light in the garage has been going on and off.”

 

“No, I haven’t.  You just said it yourself that you saw the light was on and then it was off.  Renee, you heard him, too, didn’t you?”

 

“I can’t say…”

 

“I don’t mean to pull rank here but I am your boss and I want you to answer truthfully.  Did you or did you not hear Glenn say that he saw the light go on and off?”

 

“Oh look, there’s Zoe.  Hey, Zoe, you’ve missed all the fun.”

 

“I did?”

 

“Yeah, Glenn was giving us a charming rendition of how he and Carlotta first met.”

 

“I’m sorry I missed it.”

 

“Okay, you guys, you are not going to change the subject.”

 

Zoe raised her eyebrows and looked at Carlotta.  “Why not?”

 

“Oh, I see.  I guess you want me to change the subject.”

 

Zoe put her arm around Glenn’s waist.  “No, I thought maybe Glenn could fill me in on what I missed.”

 

“What you missed?  Yeah, I guess you have been gone a while…oh, wait a minute.”  Carlotta looked over at me.  “Dave, did you miss out on Glenn’s version of how we met.”

 

“I suppose I did.”

 

“I see.  Well, honey, I’m guessing that you don’t have to worry about the garage light.”

 

“I thought so.”

 

I held my hand out to Glenn.  “Hey, I really appreciate you guys inviting us over.  It was a wonderful evening.”

 

“No problem.  You’ll have to stop by sometime and let me show you around the place.”

 

“That’d be great.  Zoe, Renee, I enjoyed talking with you guys, too.”

 

“Don’t leave without giving me a hug.”

 

“I couldn’t do that, Carlotta.”  I hugged Carlotta and gave her a strong pat on the back.

 

“Ouch.  What was that for?”

 

“For not getting my attention earlier so I could hear the real version of how you met Glenn.”

 

Sean stood up from the sofa, weaving a little.  “Well, I can tell you there were no kissin’ cousins in that story, unlike tonight,” slapping me on the back at the same time.

 

“There are no cousins of mine here, Sean.”

 

“Oh, we’re all cousins of one sort or another, kissin’ or otherwise.”  Sean winked at Zoe.

 

Zoe looked at Carlotta.  “Is someone driving Sean home?”

 

“No, he’s staying with us.”

 

“Good.  Renee, I think you’re going to have to drive.  I’ve had one too many margaritas.”

 

Renee grabbed Zoe’s arm.  “Okay, kiddo, let’s get out of here.  See you later, Dave.”

 

“See you Monday.”

 

= = = = =

 

I stopped by Beau’s office when I got to work on Monday.  “So, did you have a good time on Friday?”

 

“I suppose.  I’m guessing that you had a better time than I did.”

 

“Why would you guess that?”

 

“Oh, something to do with mysterious disappearances and unexplained lights going on and off.”

 

“I didn’t see anyone disappear.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

 

“Enough said.  Hey, I was just thinking over the weekend.”

 

“A dangerous activity.”

 

“Yes, indeed.  No, seriously, I was wondering if there was more to the story about your professor.”

 

“Professor?  Oh yeah.  Well, I seem to remember we all got As.”

 

“That’s interesting.  So do you remember what you wrote about?”

 

“Yep.  I said that life was like an experimental jazz tune, where sometimes it seemed like you could hear a steady beat and get a sense for the rhythm of the whole thing and then all of sudden it would break out into this syncopated riff, where everything was off-kilter but still sorta tied together in a weird sort of way.  That’s why people liked reading newspapers and watching the news because it gave them a sense of narrative in their lives, knowing that the news they were watching was going to become something that they or their kids could read about in history books but really what it all was was a bunch of disconnected nothingness and that’s why all the chapters of the novel were unconnected because no one had had a chance to see the stories in the chapters as a future history of their or someone else’s lives and society.”

 

“And how many other kids in class said the same thing?”

 

“Well, if they were smoking the same thing the professor was…”

 

“Say no more.”

 

“So, if I remember correctly, you were going to write a story about the party Friday.”

 

“Did I say that?  In that case, I guess I am.”

 

“When can I read it?”

 

“Gotta think up a story first.  Of course, with all the material I have, I could knock out a few chapters.”

 

“Even a book?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Chapter 32

 

I have realized that my wants and dreams are incompatible with the American corporate life and the seemingly conservative mindset of many Americans I encounter in my social life.  I have decided that I need to get serious about my plans to withdraw from society.

 

My wife and I have created wills and set up a trust.  Now we just need to:

 

* Pay off our house loans (first mortgage first, and then home equity line of credit)

* Buy a cabin in a remote, wooded location

* Quit work

* Convert our 401(k) plans into 1) two IRAs (one to turn into a 72(t) for a mortality/life expectancy-based annual income distribution from age [45-50] to 59-1/2, and a second one to use after age 59-1/2), or 2) a split annuity

* Sell all the useless crap in my house on eBay

* Sell my house and at least two of my three cars

* Figure out what I’m going to do the rest of my life

 

I don’t plan to write much else down, not knowing if Brian Chipmunk is really after me.  If he found these notes, I’m afraid he’d have an easier way to find me.  In any case, I’m going to post this story on the NaNoWriMo website.  It’s about the only real thing I think that exists.  Or at least the only thing my mind can comprehend.  I reached the 50,000-word hurdle and need to focus on more important goals.  My sanity, for instance.

 

 

Chapter 33

 

Sanity?  What’s sanity?  A few nights later, what began as a relatively simple evening turned into something so horrible, so bleak, that I can hardly believe I’m able to sit down here to describe what happened.  Or rather, what is happening still.

 

I sat in the chair that once belonged to my grandparents.  The chair covering always reminded me of burlap but instead of the light, dusty brown color of the burlap sacks in my grandparents’ barn, the chair covering was gold and black, decorated with antique brass tacks and torn on the edges by the years of cats using the chair as a scratching post.  In fact, that first night, one of our cats, Erin, sat in the sunroom with me.  One of the sunroom windows was pulled open so Erin whacked at the moths that landed on the window screen.

 

Typical summer sounds permeated the late Alabama fall night – chirping crickets, roaring motorcycles, rumbling pickup trucks and the occasional helicopter chop-chop-chopping overhead (probably the sheriff’s patrol looking for marijuana crops).  Most everything seemed typical.  Even the truck slowly driving by spraying mosquito repellent in the ditch.  It wasn’t until I started to stand up from the chair that I noticed anything different.

 

Sure, I was a little bit dizzy from the shots of Celtic Crossing liqueur I had been sipping all evening.  No, it was more than that.  It was the…

 

Sorry, I didn’t mean to stop in mid-sentence.  It’s just that…well…they’re back.  Maybe they’ll leave me alone for a little while tonight.

 

They.  Them.  If only one existed, perhaps “it” would be a better description.

 

In any case, the sunroom was surrounded by them.

 

I’m not a kid anymore so I have no real excuse for irrational fear.  The days of creatures hiding under the bed after the lights go out have long since passed.  There are no unspeakable beings trying to get me from behind the half-opened closet door.  I need no longer fear turning the page of National Geographic to find my hand touching the picture of a South American poisonous spider.

 

Yet…

 

Yet…

 

Yet I screamed nonetheless.  I screamed at the top of my lungs.  I admit it.  The panic and dash of Erin from his perch on the cat stand was ample proof.  Even though I was scared out of my mind, even though my fight-or-flight syndrome was all for getting the hell out of there, my feet felt glued to the tile floor.  I couldn’t move.

 

Thank goodness, neither did they.

 

They didn’t leave, either.

 

I guess you could say they held their ground.  Or not.  It’s not like they were an army holding a strategic position.  Well, how many does it take to form an army?  Of course, that’s assuming you know how many of them there are, especially in the dark, when you can barely see them and they don’t make a sound.  The creaking of the sunroom cooling down was louder than them.

 

The dogs barking in the neighborhood was a sign something was amiss.  But that could simply have been a deer or rabbit passing through, assuming there were any wild animals left.

 

No, from what I can remember, and I know my memory is less than half of what it was, these things, these beings, these…I shudder when I even try to describe what I’ve since found out…these unknown entities made as much noise as smoke rising from a candle.

 

= = = = =

 

Have I been gone a long time?  I can’t tell.  I’ve been tending to my wounds.  I want to go to a hospital.  I NEED to go to a hospital but with the phones being dead, even the cell phones, and no power, I figure it’ll do no good to go out of the house tonight.  Normally, my wife would take care of me.  Normally…hahaha.  That’s a good one!  As if there’s any such thing as normal anymore.  Or a wife.  Or…no, I’ve got to hold on to my sanity.

 

Where was I?  Oh yeah, the blood.  How much blood can one lose and still be alive?  Thank goodness, there’s water in the toilets and lots of old bags of ice in the freezer.  Maybe I can sneak out to the pond in the morning and scoop up some water.  The pond looks clean during the day and they don’t seem to want to bother me in the daytime.

 

At least not yet.

 

Sigh…I’m tired.  There’s so much I want to say.  And to think, I was just contemplating suicide a few days ago because my life was so boring.  Now…well, boring has a whole new meaning.  BORING=PARADISE!  And what if I’m one of the few survivors of this ordeal?  Do I give a damn if the human species is now down to a few of us lucky ones?

 

So many movies I can think of now that started badly but ended up with the so-called American ending, “Dawn of the Dead,” “War of the Worlds,” etc.  I can recall my grade-school study of storytelling, with the “deus ex machina” rescue at the end.  There will be no rescue here.

 

Only death.

 

If I could be so lucky.

 

I could go outside at night, I suppose, and end it all.  If only they’d let me out.  Why do they block all the doors and windows?  Why do they send their probes in to torture me after I’ve collapsed from lack of sleep?

 

Why does any of this matter?!

 

= = = = =

 

I found another laptop battery.  Got to try to get everything written down before they come back.

 

They are part of my dreaming world now.  Asleep or awake, they are with me.  They are able to penetrate the layer between consciousness and subconsciousness.  They can represent whatever they want.  To me, they are monsters.  To a neighbor a few houses away, they are angels come to save the planet from ourselves.

 

What I see is not what they are so should I waste time trying to describe them?  They say they are not real in the sense I think of as real.  They are dimensionless.  They are beings that live on the dark matter of outer space.  They are interested in our world because of the noise we make.  They destroyed a lot of us not because they wanted to kill us but simply because they needed to cut down on the noise in order to understand us better.  They didn’t realize until most of us were dead that we are creatures of sound.  They’re thinking about leaving us alone but they’re not sure.  Their probes are still taking data from me after I pass out.  It’s only after I pass out that the entities are interested in learning more about me.  They know enough about me and my kind from the noise we’ve made here in this part of the galaxy.  It’s our quieter moments they’re interested in now.

 

Quiet being a relative term.  To them, our heartbeats are like giant drums reverberating in a canyon.  Our breathing is like wind tunnel tests pushing air back and forth.

 

= = = = =

 

They’re back.

 

I don’t see them anymore but I can sense when they’re testing the air for my presence.  They know where I am at all times, probably, but I get the feeling they only care about my existence when this part of the world is hidden from the Sun and the noise of solar radiation.  Then they can explore me with their invisible probes.  At least, the probes are no longer making large gashes as they enter my body.  Now they seem to enter me with no visible signs.  Perhaps that’s why I’m still alive.  Maybe the probes missed major arteries and veins on the way in.

 

The only good thing about the probes is that they seem to clean up my insides.  I feel like I can pee more freely.  My breathing isn’t as labored as it used to be.  I don’t feel whooshing in my neck anymore.  It’s still hard to walk, though, since the leg muscles were so cut up.

 

= = = = =

 

They’re gone.  And it’s not even light outside yet.  Is that good?  They never leave at night.

 

No, wait.  There’s something going on in my head.  I can see them in my mind’s eye but I can’t sense their presence.  Am I just finally going crazy?  Can what I see be real?

 

= = = = =

 

I sit here in my grandparents’ chair.  “Sit” is not the word that fits here.  I should say that I float here over my grandparents’s chair.  I write this journal entry directly onto the computer hard drive, using the archaic human method of aligning magnetic bits so that the next human that comes along will be able to read what I’ve written.

 

For you see, I have discovered who “they” are.  The fact is that there is no “they” to begin with.  Somehow, and I’m not sure if I’ll discover how, since my concept of space and time has changed, somehow I have become part of the universe that is invisible to humans.  The creatures that I thought I saw, the probing that I thought I felt…could that have been my body dying?  Or is there a me that still exists on the physical plane?  I suppose I could detect the presence of myself…surely I could, even if I no longer have a body that can see, hear, feel, smell or taste myself.  Surely, there’s a way to tell.

 

If only I could pull back the curtain separating my current existence from my old one.

 

Am I dreaming or am I dead?  What if…

 

 

Chapter 34

 

“She better be good-looking.”

 

“Hunh?”

 

“She better be gorgeous!”

 

David looked at Rae with a curious grin.  “Well, I guess,” he responded wryly.  “Anyway, you can just go to imdb.com and look up the last film Hitchcock made.  The main female character’s the one I say you look like.”

 

“All right.”

 

“I’m just glad I finally figured out who you look like.”

 

“Well, she better be, that’s all I’m saying.”

 

“I..uh, yes.  I’d say she is.  She’s a psychic.”

 

Rae wasn’t sure if he said “psycho.”  “A what?”

 

“She plays a psychic that has to fake being a psychic or something like that.”

 

“Oh.”  Rae turned to look at her husband, Carl.  “So, where do you guys want to sit tonight?”

 

“Well, I was just talking with Larry about the raccoons.  Why don’t we sit in the rafters tonight?”

 

Rae looked at David’s wife.  “Is that okay with you?”

 

Karen nodded.  “Sure.”

 

 

After they were settled, David observed the folks gathered at tonight’s event.  Was it just him or did it seem that almost all the folks there were middle-aged or older?  Here it was a mid-October Thursday night in Madison, Alabama, and the most exciting thing for them to do was go to an old cotton market barn and listen to bluegrass music, eat BBQ, and participate in a silent auction.

 

One Grade-A redneck and his wife sat not far away from them.  As soon as the bluegrass band struck up “Rocky Top,” he fidgeted and fussed, which just drove Karen to start singing the lyrics.  Not one to miss out on the fun, Carl joined.  David and Rae tried to sing the words but didn’t know enough to make a difference.  The redneck just shook his head while the color of his face turned red.  He puffed up like a peacock getting ready to display his feathers.

 

“Well, the only thing that’ll make up for this song is for them to play ‘Sweet Home Alabama,’” the redneck said to no one in particular.

 

Everyone laughed.

 

 

 

Rae looked at David.  “So Carl says you’re entering a writing contest next month?”

 

“Yeah.  It’s for National Novel Writing Month, better known as NaNoWriMo.”

 

Karen joined in, “But it’s not really a contest.  You don’t win anything.  You just get the personal satisfaction that you finished a novel.”

 

“So there’s no reward?”

 

“No,” David and Karen said in unison.

 

“Then I don’t get it.”

 

“Well,” David explained, “have you ever heard of the ‘One Day’ novelist?”

 

“No.”

 

“The world is full of would-be novelists who think, ’One day, I’ll write a novel…if I only get the time.’”  Rae nodded her head in recognition of the joke.  “Exactly.  Of course, no one writes a novel in one day so this event gives you 30 days to write a 50,000 word novel.”

 

Rae stared at the ceiling for a second or two.  “And how many pages is that?”

 

“About one, seventy-five. “

 

“50,000 words?  Wow!” Carl exclaimed.  “So how many words a day is that?”

 

“One thousand, six-hundred and sixty-seven.  I’ve already practiced and it takes me about one and a half hours to write that many, with some time for sitting and scratching my head while thinking about what to write.  I can actually write the words in about an hour.”  David looked at Rae.  “So, you said your son is the writer in the family.  Do you write?”

 

“Not really.  Well, yes, I have written a few poems.  I even won a poem contest.”

 

“Oh yeah?  Let me guess.  Did they promise to publish your poem in a book?”

 

Rae gave David a questioning look.  “Yeah…”

 

“And all you had to do was pay for the book?”

 

“Uh-huh.  And you know what, I never got the book.”

 

“So you fell for the scam?  You know your poem didn’t really win a contest, don’t you?”

 

Rae sighed.  “I guess you figured it out.  You know, I would have been fine if they had just sent me the book.”

 

“Sorry to hear it.  I was lucky.  My fifth grade teacher warned the creative writing types in class that we’d see ads in magazines offering a poem contest and just to save our money because it was a ripoff.”

 

“You know, for the longest time, I still thought I had won the contest.  I suppose I still do, in some ways.”

 

David fixed his eyes on Rae’s, not wanting to say or do anything.  He knew that for a writer, it was one of the most heart-wrenching things to realize your work had not been recognized.  Kind of like a ghost that flies through an empty house, with no one to feel the bone-chilling cold when the ghost slipped past.  He finally nodded his head to encourage her to go on.

 

Rae averted her eyes from David.  “I was in my 30s, too,” Rae added.

 

David tried not to laugh.  “I’ve had my work published in literary journals.”

 

“Literary journals?” Rae asked.  “What’s that?”

 

David turned to Karen.  “Literary journals, right?” he asked, making sure he’d gotten it right.  Karen nodded in agreement.  “Literary journals, literary magazines…uh, college publications.”

 

Rae pursed her lips.  “Oh, I see.  So, tell me, Mr. Writer, where do you get your ideas?”

 

“Oh, just anywhere.”

 

“Is that right?  So, how about now?  Where would you get an idea for a story at this very moment?”

 

“Gosh, that’s an easy one,” David said, glancing around the barn.

 

“Prove it.”

 

“Okay, I will.  Can you see the folks down at the table over there?”

 

“Which ones?” Carl asked.

 

“The two ladies in blue jeans and matching jackets.”

 

Karen snapped her head around and gave David a “No, don’t say it!” look.

 

David just shrugged and continued, knowing he wasn’t going to mention to Carl and Rae that it would be obvious to David and Karen that the two women were lesbian companions. “Well, if you look closely, you’ll see that they’re both drinking tea.”

 

“How can you tell?”

 

“Another easy observation.  See the teabag on the table next to the lady with the baseball cap?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’d guess that both of the women are into alternative religious study or at least a non-Christian religion.”

 

“You can tell that from a teabag?”

 

“Sure.  Just look at the text on the teabag.  “’TAZO, The Reincarnation of Tea.  Throughout India, chai wallahs can be found serving up steaming cups of sweetly spiced chai to wandering souls.  You’re with them now,’ it says.  I love the part on the bottom.  ‘To ask questions, share observations or simply have a bit of human contact, write us at Tazo.’  The person who buys that tea is definitely looking for a religion with an Eastern flavor to it.”

 

“So,” Rae said, after a moment of silence, “we all agree that you have an interesting insight into the women down there, but how does that lead you into writing a story?”

 

“I’ll give you credit,” David said with a laugh.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You are persistent.  Carl, is she always like this?”

 

“Oh no.  Only when she’s on the warpath.  You ought to see her when she’s out to get a petition signed.  Well, I guess I get petitions signed, too, so I suppose she’s not too radical.”

 

Rae smirked.  “You aren’t trying to avoid the question, are you?”

 

“No, no,” David responded quickly.  “Here’s the story I’d tell.  Two sisters were separated at an early age when their parents divorced.  However, with their parents’ permission, they kept in touch through correspondence.  One day, when they were teenagers, they were allowed to meet in the town where they were originally raised.  From then on, they made an effort to meet the same month each year at the same spot.  Because businesses came and went in the small town, they chose different restaurants or venues for their meetings.  Tonight, they were meeting at the first annual Historic Huntsville Foundation Cotton Ball.  They loved to share new discoveries with each other.  For this year’s meeting, unbeknownst to each other, they had brought a kind of tea that they liked.  The one with the hat, Amy, had brought the Tazo tea.  If you look into the other one’s purse…well, let’s call her Della…if you look into Della’s purse, you’ll see she has a bag of Thai ground tea.  I love the ingredients for that one, ‘Thai ground tea, sunset yellow 3340.’  It doesn’t get much simpler than that, huh?  Anyway, as it turns out, one of them will have purchased tea that contains a poison.  They both will drink the tea but only one of them will die.  I’d end the story in such a way that the reader would have to decide which one dies.  Along the way, I’d describe characteristics about the sisters, both good and bad, that would allow readers to choose which sister to die, based on the readers’ life experiences and exposure to people they didn’t like who had some characteristics of the sisters.”

 

Rae winked at Carl.  “I knew there was a reason we brought them here.  David, thanks for the story.  If only our son could hear you tell it.”

 

“Yeah, you’re welcome.  You know, it’s a shame we all died when that car plowed into the front of the Bandito Burrito while we were sitting there a few weeks ago.  Do you think we’ll always be stuck haunting the buildings around Main Street?  I’d really like to visit east Tennessee again.”

 

“I don’t know.”  Rae tapped Karen on the shoulder.  “Hey, whatcha thinking about?”

 

“Oh, nothing much.  I was just wondering why I hadn’t seen my brother yet.”

 

“Your brother?”

 

“Yeah, he died a few months ago at Huntsville Hospital.  You don’t suppose he’s over there, do you?”

 

“I’m not sure.”  Rae put her arm around Carl.  “So far, I’m just glad that I’ve got Carl.  And of course, you guys, too, I mean.  It’s just strange, you know.”

 

“Yeah?” David asked.

 

“Well, don’t you think it’s odd that if we’re dead why is it that we seem to not be awake 24 hours a day?  It’d seem to me that we’d have no reason to sleep…”

 

“Sleep?” David asked in a perturbed voice.  “You call it sleep?”

 

“Well, what else would you call it?”

 

“Suspended animation, perhaps.  It’s like I stop being a human and am just sitting, standing…uh, floating, if you will, in a cloud of ether with no thoughts, feelings or anything.”

 

“Well, that’s like sleeping, isn’t it?”

 

“No, it’s not.  When I sleep, I dream.  In fact, when I was alive, one of my favorite activities was to dream.”

 

“Oh, well, then,” Rae responded, trying not to act put off, “I suppose that would be a problem.”

 

“Maybe we’re like honey.”

 

“What do you mean, honey?” Karen asked with a laugh, hugging David.

 

“Look at the label on that bottle of honey from Greenbrier Honey Farm on the counter at the front.  See what it says, ‘All honey crystallizes over time, this does not indicate spoilage or age. To reliquify, place container in a dish of very warm water until liquid. Do not microwave. Never feed honey or corn syrup to babies under 1 year of age.  Pure, Raw, Local Honey.’  Maybe we’re like that.  Maybe we were humans for so long that we’ve crystallized into some semi-permanent human form and it takes a while for us to reliquify.  I mean, maybe we’re in some kind of transition phase where we can still get together and talk like humans but we’re slowly turning into something else.  Maybe the sleeping time, as you call it, is really what we’re like but we’re just not ready to go into it fulltime.”

 

David looked around him and realized that Karen, Carl and Rae were no longer with him.  He looked down at the folks dancing to the bluegrass music and felt like a succession of opaque veils were appearing before him, the dancers and barn slowly fading away.  He felt like he was floating, he felt like he was…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

EPILOG

 

Brian Chipmunk had been planning an IPO for his company, which provided support services for what some were calling the “fountain of youth” machine because of its ability to analyze your DNA, determine the propensity for disease, reprogram your DNA, reset your stem cells to produce new DNA and set your DNA replication process up so that you lived many more years (not too many, so that you’d have to come back and be reprogrammed under the maintenance support agreement Brian’s company would offer).  To avoid causing an uproar, Brian’s IPO submission simply called the device a supercomputer, similar to IBM’s Big Blue.

 

Because he was going to become an instant public figure, Brian knew that he needed to project as positive an image as possible to increase the worth of his company.  He was as paranoid as Andrew Groves at Intel, if not more so, so he decided to seek out all the people from his past who might have something on him and still held a grudge – people who would want to take advantage of Brian’s sudden popularity to drag his name through the mud.  Like all investors in the supercomputer, including Bill Grates and Warren Boofay, Brian was allowed to use the machine so he decided that of all the people from his past, I was the most likely to damage his reputation so he used the machine to alter people, send them after me and test me to see if I held a grudge.

 

Although he kept sending people after me, Brian had stopped paying attention to me when he read a report that everyone he had sent to find me reported that I had no desire to cause him harm in any way.

 

What he didn’t know was that this very novel would be his downfall when it was randomly picked by a publishing house as the next national bestselling “postmodernist pop novel,” and was highly touted on talk shows just as Brian was publicly launching his company.  My description of Brian in this novel was picked up by several reporters, who portrayed Brian as being out of touch with reality, and thus his company must be a sham.

 

Brian increased his effort to find me.  I had heard through an anonymous friend (thank you, Tor anonymizing service) that Brian had sent more of his minions to find me.  But the damage was done.  Although his company didn’t collapse, it didn’t take off in the astronomical manner he had hoped.  At least I was able to sell my shares while they still had some value.

 

I’m sitting here in the cabin, writing the second edition of this book to meet the insatiable demand of the tree-killing, book-reading public I’ve always dreamed about.  I’ve got my cabin in the woods and I’ve got my loving audience.  What more could I want?

 

Wow!  What dumb luck.  I just got a newspaper from a neighbor.  He walks by occasionally and lets me have whatever he’s been reading that day – a newspaper, magazine, whatever.  Anyway…sorry, I’m still laughing.  According to this story, Brian Chipmunk was out dove hunting with the Vice President and…no, he wasn’t shot.  He was stomped on by Sasquatch.  The VP injured the big hairy ape and pinned him down until the Secret Service arrived.

 

Under questioning, Sasquatch said that he killed Mr. Chipmunk while Mr. Chipmunk was distracted by an American Indian ghost. The ghost was upset for being ignored by the huldra, Torborg, when she was sending signals for her friends to take over human bodies, while on the warpath for me!  Sasquatch said the Indian, named Friend of the Big Hairy Ape Guy, thought that getting Sasquatch to kill Mr. Chipmunk would be getting revenge on Torborg, since she had set up a sweet financial deal with Mr. Chipmunk’s company to send secret cash payments to Torborg and to preserve forest land in Scandinavia in exchange for Torborg to harass people on a list that Mr. Chipmunk sent to her periodically.

 

I don’t know what to do with this news.  Would Brian’s cohorts be looking for me even more if they think I had anything to do with his death?  What a crazy, fucking world I live in!  Living in the woods ain’t so bad after all.  If my ancestors and my cousins can do it, so can I.  The secret to this living is having a loving companion beside me (and I don’t mean my cats) – my wife.  After all I think and dream about, after all the fantasies and dreams I’ve had, there has been one constant that hasn’t changed – the presence of my wife in mind and body.  Sure, I can’t live with her sometimes.  But I sure can’t live without her, either.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

APPENDIX – Skeleton of a Story

 

The theme for this year’s novel was supposed to be about my childhood, revealing that my childhood was not necessarily innocent or perfectly sheltered from non life-enhancing activities or thoughts.  But life gets in the way of telling a story sometimes.  Had I not discovered what I have just told you, this is what I would have written about.  At least I got through some of it.

 

Outline:

 

1. Timeframe of where I lived.

1.a. 1962-1964? – Bristol, TN;

1.b. 1964?-1966? – Bartow, FL;

1.c. 1966?-1968? – Boone, NC (two locations);

1.d. 1968?-1970 – Greeneville, TN;

1.e. 1970-1980 – Kingsport, TN

 

2. Early childhood memories of Bristol and Bartow.

2.a. Bristol – nothing.  My parents were raising me but I don’t consciously remember what they taught me.

2.b. Bartow – a few memories.

2.b.1. Flying cockroaches coming out of cabinet in kitchen.

2.b.2. Standing in driveway while looking at kids across the street.  Did Mom or Dad drive over my tricycle at that point?

2.b.3. Standing next to chain-link fence with basset hound while watching kids play on other side of the fence.  Running home when my name was called.

 

2.c1. Boone, NC; Location 1 – most of my early thinking.  First memories of popular music, including “Downtown” and “Georgy Girl”.

2.c.1. Brian Chipmunk and his father with the monkey-face look.

2.c.2. Kindergarten.  Miss Carpenter (cute/pretty/young).  Mrs. White (older librarian type).  Another one whose name escapes me now.

2.c.2.1. Picking up our shoes from pile – first time I remember thinking of girls as being special.

2.c.2.2. Knocking over a big set of construction blocks and having to restack them while other kids got to go to recess.

2.c.2.3. Trying to recognize smells of objects in plastic container and paper bag.

2.c.2.3. Hatching chicken eggs with an incubator.

2.c.3. Finding out about someone in the neighborhood who killed a dog (or dogs) with poison meat.

2.c.4. Playing in the snow outside and walking further in the neighborhood than I was supposed to but having fun anyway.

2.c.5. Going to a cookout, seeing a satellite pass overheard, and cooking food on a stick (hotdog? marshmallows?).

 

2.c2. Boone, NC; Location 2 – witnessed death firsthand.

2.c2.1. Received baby ducks for Easter.  Elisabeth and I tried to feed them water from the sink and ending up drowning one of them.  The other duck we kept for a while in the backyard and then released into the town’s duck pond.

2.c2.2. The babysitter who raised animals, including a raccoon.

2.c2.3. Luther and Diane, our next-door neighbors.

2.c2.4. The strange boys across the street who liked to do weird things.

2.c2.5. The red spider mites in the pines across the street.

2.c2.6. Throwing rocks at passing cars in an attempt to get someone to look at our house for sale.

2.c2.7. Elisabeth and I cutting each other’s hair with pinking shears.

2.c2.8. Taking afternoon naps.  My first dreams/nightmares.

2.c2.8.1. Dinosaurs.

2.c2.8.2. The feeling of numbness in my limbs, like thick/heavy pillows, something I can still feel every now and then, especially when sick.

2.c2.8.3. The overwhelming feeling being small and growing smaller while looking up from a pew into the ceiling of a cathedral.

2.c2.9. Saying dirty words – shoo shoo and wee wee – and getting my mouth washed out with soap.

 

2.d. Greeneville, TN – first interaction with older kids.

2.d.1. Moved to Greeneville with my father.  I remember eating simple meals with him.

2.d.2. Crescent School – left Boone halfway through school year and started at Greeneville halfway through school year.

2.d.2.1. Waiting on school bus.  Kids calling each other names, fighting, pulling hair, threats, etc.  One boy bringing dead frog to bus stop.

2.d.2.2. Daydreaming in math class, looking at bees flying around Abelia grandiflora (Glossy Abelia; a hybrid cross between A. chinensis and A. uniflora) outside the window.

2.d.2.3. Taking Spanish classes in 1st and 2nd grades.

2.d.2.4. Drawing race cars with another kid in class.

2.d.2.5. Playground/recess time.  Falling and scraping my knees a lot. Red Rover.

2.d.2.6. Getting paddled for interrupting a class.

2.d.2.7. Not wanting to do my math class work.  Mrs. Winehurst telling me, “I know you’re very capable so I don’t know why you won’t do your class work.”  Very likely I was daydreaming or drawing because the class work seemed like too much repetitive nonsense.

2.d.2.8. Getting a part as an owl in a class play because I could turn my head around enough to appear that I was looking down my back.

2.d.2.9. A black kid in my 2nd grade class, Kevin, having a crush on my sister, Elisabeth.

2.d.2.10. Finishing my tests in class so quickly that I could spend time doodling on them.  In fact, one teacher refused to accept my test because it was covered with lines and stuff.

2.d.2.11. Barely remember other subjects but I’m sure I must have studied spelling and reading.

2.d.3. Indian Guides – YMCA based program, similar to Boy Scouts. Nolichuckey tribe.

2.d.3.1. Dad had a shoeshine box that he kept things in.  His name was “He who sits by the fire”  Tems-kwah-ta-wah.

2.d.3.2. My name was Thunder Hawk.

2.d.3.3. We had name tags made of construction paper cut out to look like canoes.

 

2.d.4. Drive-in theater next door.

2.d.4.1. We used to sneak through a break in the fence to walk into the drive-in theater lot.  I never went at night time because I was too young.  The other kids would sneak in at night and describe some of the movies.  Seems like there was “M*A*S*H”, which came out at 1970, so it is quite possible to have been the movie I remember.

2.d.5. The Hogan Drive neighborhood.

2.d.5.1. We lived on a hill.  There was a field below us you could roll down, slide down or sled down.

2.d.5.2. Kids played football in the lot at the bottom of the hill.

2.d.5.3. I had my first taste of beer at the neighbor’s house just past the lot.

2.d.5.4. We had a playground set in our yard, including a “jungle gym”.

2.d.5.5. A kid saw a garden spider and told us that if your name was whispered in the presence of the spider, the spider would write your name and then you were doomed to die.

2.d.5.6. There were woods behind my house.  I remember hearing a whippoorwill.  I think there were other birds I heard too.  Sometimes I hear a bird and think I heard it before.

2.d.5.7. There was a baby carriage in the woods.

2.d.5.8. There was a story about a Peeping Tom who lived on the other side of the woods.

2.d.6. The house.

2.d.6.1. I used to set cotton balls on fire by plugging a telephone cord into the wall outlet and make sparks by clicking the two wires together.

2.d.6.2.

 

Wrap childhood back around to trip to Munich:

 

Bjorn, Eleanor and David get on the train from Altenerding to Munich.  On the train, they discuss the plans for the day.  Then, David asks Bjorn about life in Sweden.  Bjorn describes modern life but for some reason, David feels compelled to ask about Swedish folk legends.  Bjorn tells about huldra and tomte.

 

When Eleanor spoke to Bjorn and me about integrity, she knew very little about my life.  the day I spent in Munich with Eleanor and Bjorn – a wonderful memory of walking through the streets the day of the World Cup match between Germany and Sweden.  Alas, death has overshadowed that warm, summer day in Bavaria.  I’ll always have dim memories of Swedish wood creatures, American coffee shops (Starbucks and San Francisco Coffee Company), Johannes berries, funny costumes, a phone conversation between Eleanor and my father in broken German, chasing down a couple of bicyclists in the English Garden in an attempt to return a dropped overshirt, watching surfers in the middle of the city, looking out over the city from the towers of the Frauenkirche by myself while waiting for Eleanor and Bjorn (with an elderly lady telling me her memories of the city, all in German, with me only being able to say “Ja, ja”, and wishing I could say something more comforting), eating ice cream next to polizei cyclists, then cracking a joke in bad taste, seeing the look of alarm/disgust on Eleanor’s face, sensing something wrong and then hours later having a conversation at the end of the day in the courtyard outside a San Fran ‘offee House where Eleanor laid it on the line about integrity, flirting, sex and everything else that that dirty joke seemed to embody (certainly including some of my writing, no doubt).

 

STORY SUMMARY.  The three humans head into Munich.  Each scene in the story describes the trio’s encounter with a person who David touches and who subsequently takes on the spirit of one of the creatures that appeared on the train with them.

 

BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF ENCOUNTERS.

 

1. Brush by elbow of young adult female in traditional Bavarian dress.

2. By Johannes berries and touch hand of middle-aged female vegetable stand seller.

3. Shake hands with middle-aged male oompah band leader.

4. Put arms around teenage male Swedish soccer fans during photo of them in their outlandish costumes (gorilla outfit and female impersonator).

5. Touch shoulder of old lady while standing with her in tower of Frauenkirche when she describes life in Germany before the war.

6. Touch arm of old male Japanese tourist when handing a camera back to him after taking picture of he and his wife by request.

7. Slap back of young adult male surfer in congratulations for flouting the law.

8. Brush fingers of teenage female counter person at coffee house when paying for latte.

 

 

EXPAND THIS THOUGHT:

Should I try to understand what would cause a coworker to say her husband accused me of allegedly stalking his wife?  Once HR found out the coworker lied, she was allowed to leave and the subject was dropped.  Then maybe there wasn’t much to understand.  Perhaps the coworker was just an attention-getter.  Even so, what makes one person and not another blow innocent flirtations in the hallway and via email out of proportion?  How sensitive are guys supposed to be?  Studies have recently shown that single sex schools are better for kids’ self-esteem.  I wonder if single sex workplaces would be better for adults’ self-esteem.  Perhaps I’m just out of touch with modern society, or simply a Hooters man in a Better Housekeeping office.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Silence Can Be Deadly – A Lot Left Unsaid

 

If I’m not entertaining others or informing them in any way

When I give them my thoughts and ideas on paper

(And thus, giving them nothing new to consider),

Then what else can I desire to do?

 

– 18 July 2006, Rick Hill

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t worry about being a success.

Be a contributor or one who is contributed to.

Success is the byproduct of an effective life.

 

— Ben Lander, conductor

Spring Break or Bust

 

“Beer or suitcase, beer or suitcase?”  Birch mumbled to herself.

 

Davina set her bag down next to the trunk.  “What did you say?”

 

“’Beer or suitcase’.”

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

“Which should I bring?”

 

“Well, I brought my bag.”

 

“I can see that…” Birch said, scrunching her face in a look of disgust, wondering what the hell she’d gotten herself into.

 

“Hey, we’re going to your dad’s place.  Ditch the clothes,” Davina said, without hesitation after she realized what Birch was asking.

 

“Just what I thought.  HEY SAM!” she yelled as she popped her head up out of the trunk.

 

Sam stepped to the door of the apartment.  “WHAT?”

 

“GRAB BOTH CASES.  I’LL GET TWO MORE WHEN WE FINALLY GET OUT OF HERE!”

 

“OKAY.”

 

“Four cases of beer?”  Davina asked in amazement.

 

“Not enough?  You’re probably right.  We’ll grab some whiskey, too,” Birch said, dragging her suitcase out of the trunk.  “What kind do you like?”

 

“Umm…I dunno.”

 

“Right.”  She set the suitcase on the sidewalk.  “Hey, Torrance,” she said, turning back to the car.

 

Torrance looked up from rolling a joint in the back seat.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What kind of whiskey do you like?”

 

“Evan Williams.”

 

“Man, are you crazy?  What kind of fool drinks that shit?”

 

“I guess a cheap-ass fool like me.  Are you buying?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“In that case, make it Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum.”

 

“Cap’n Morgan, it is then.  One bottle of Morgan Freeman and one bottle of Jack for the road.  I’m ready if you’re ready,” she said to no one in particular.

 

“Well, we’re still waiting on Sam.”

 

Birch turned back to the apartment.  “SAM, GET YOUR BLACK ASS OUT HERE, WOMAN.  IT’S ALMOST NOON.”

 

Sam stepped back out to the door of the apartment.  “JUST A SEC.  MY EBAY BID’S ABOUT OVER.”

 

“Ebay?” Davina asked Birch.

 

“Yeah, she’s bidding on a Donna Summer album.”

 

“You’re shittin’ me,” Torrance said.

 

“No, I’m not.  In fact, it’s a Donna Summer and Barbra Streisand vinyl LP. ‘Vintage.’”

 

“Is Sam some kinda retro queen or something?  I’m sure as hell not sitting in the back seat with her.”

 

Davina looked at Torrance and then at Birch.  Birch shrugged her shoulders.  Davina nodded in silent agreement and said, “Okay, I’ll sit in the back with you but you better keep your farts to a minimum.”

 

“Hey, we’re ‘Sisters In Flatulence,’ aren’t we?” Torrance replied with a smirk.

 

 

“Torrance, gal, don’t roll too many of those.  I wanna save some of the pot for my pipe.”

 

“I’m cool with that,” Torrance said, as she sealed the rolling paper with her tongue.

On The Road

 

Davina looked up from writing in her journal.  “What time is it?”

 

Birch glanced at the clock on the dashboard computer.  “Uh, it’s almost 4 o’ clock.  Why?”

 

“I dunno.  I’ve been staring at this page for about an hour.”

 

“Whatcha readin’?”

 

“I’m not.  I’m trying to write.”

 

“What have you been writing?”

 

“Well, so far, all I’ve got is:

 

“Four girls on spring break from Manatee Community College in Venice, Florida, except the girls live in the North Port, Florida, area.  Torrance Pippet, golf fanatic, originally from Arizona (but she’s an Arizona State fan), wants to finish a business degree and get back to Arizona (away from in-laws in Florida), husband works at local sunroom company; Sam Hill, black girl, undeclared major, thinking about dropping out of college and joining the Army to be macho like her older brother; Birch Bernard, psychology major and school bookstore worker, wants to manage a golf course; Davina Hill, English major and school bookstore manager, wants to become a famous writer.”

 

“Famous writer?  Cool, I like it.  So what are you going to be famous for?” Torrance asked.

 

“Writing, of course.”

 

“Okay, so I might be a business major but I’m not dumb.  What kinda writing are you going to be famous for?”

 

“Poetry…maybe.”

 

“Oh, you mean you want to be poor?” Birch asked, mockingly.

 

“If that’s what it takes.”

 

“Takes to be what?” Torrance asked.

 

“Famous, stupid,” Sam said to Torrance, shaking her head.  Sam wanted to be famous, too, but not like Davina said.  She wanted to be a dancer but her mother wouldn’t let her take dance lessons so she practiced with some friends she’d met at college.  They would get old disco records and develop dance routines.  They didn’t know if they were good enough to perform on stage.

 

Sam blinked her eyes, trying to clear her mind.  “So, Birch, what’s this I hear about a ‘horseshoe gap’ woman?”

 

“You know about her?”

 

“Just a little.”

 

Birch turned her head to look Davina in the eyes.  “Davina, have you been talking about my women behind my back?”

 

Davina blushed.  “No, I was telling Sam about my literature class and it just sorta came up.”

 

Birch turned back to look at the road in front of her.  “I can handle that,” she said and took a swig from her beer.  She looked in the rearview mirror at Torrance.  “Torrance, you gonna hog that pipe all day?”

 

“Sorry, it’s out.”

 

“Well, refill it.”  Birch looked over at Sam.  “Well, horseshoe gap is about the best thing on a woman.”

 

“Besides a smooth behind, you mean?” Sam said, with a wink.

 

“Naw, that’s different.  Asses are for guys to look at and maybe grabbing a handful once in a while.  More than a handful’s a waste, as they say.”

 

“Exactly,” Sam said.

 

“No, if a woman’s got a horseshoe gap…I mean, if you stand behind her when she’s naked and you can fit a horseshoe in the gap between her legs….mmm-mmm.  That’s a dream come true.  You can wrap your legs around her like you were meant to be intertwined.”  Birch grabbed the pipe from Torrance’s outreached hand.

 

Davina leaned up to Sam.  “See, that’s what I was telling you about.”

 

Sam nodded.  “Davina’s right.  You sound just like Charles Bukowski.”

 

“Oh yeah.  Who’s that?” Birch squeaked, trying to hold in the smoke.

 

“He’s this guy who wrote about getting laid all the time.  Davina’s writing a book report.  Man, you oughta read it.  It’s practically pornography.  I know you’d like it.  The book’s called ‘Women.’”

 

Birch exhaled.  “Sounds exciting.  But I’d rather live the life than read about it.”

 

“Well, Davina’s all about the writing.”

 

“So she says.  It’s more like masturbation to me.  If you aren’t doing it with a woman then you’re doing it with yourself.”

 

Davina sighed.  She had just finished reading, “The Midnight Disease,” about the drive to write, writer’s block and the creative brain.  She had hoped to get something out of it but all she figured out was that she couldn’t afford the drugs that they talked about in the book that might make her feel better.

 

“Well, I do more than write you know.  But lately, I just can’t seem to write.”

 

Torrance replied, “Could be you’re drinking too much?”  Torrance handed Davina another beer.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“You girls are making me horny,” Birch chimed in.  “That’s why I’m doing a book report on, ‘Drinking, Smoking & Screwing’.  That book says it all.”

 

“You got that right,” Sam retorted.

 

“I know that book.  There’s a section in there by Bukowski,” Davina said and then chugged her beer.

 

“Cool,” Birch said.  “Maybe you can help me with the report.”

 

“Maybe…”  Davina took another swig.  “Have I told you all about Sarah?”

 

“Only a thousand times,” Birch replied.

 

Sam turned to look back at Davina.  “Who’s that?”

 

“’Mrs. Robinson,’” Birch said, laughing.  “Whose turn is it to toke?” she asked, handing the pipe to Sam and putting her hand back on the steering wheel.

 

“I met Sarah in class,” Davina said, taking a hit and then handing the pipe to Sam.

 

“Yeah?” Sam said, squinting her eyes as she took a hit.  “Was she good?”

 

Davina finally exhaled the leftover pot smoke.  “God, I don’t know.  Maybe.  I wrote a story about her.  Want me to read it?”

 

“Sure, go ahead.  I’m just gonna close my eyes for a few minutes.  If I snore, it’s ‘cause I really like your story.”  She handed the Frisbee and the bag of pot to Davina.  “If you girls wanna smoke anymore, Davi’s got the baggie.”  Torrance leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

 

Davina pulled a stapled packet of paper out and began reading out loud…

 

 

Thus Spoke Sarah Through Straw

I attended Manatee Community College in early 2004.  During the winter term, I took a CAD (computer-aided design) course during which I made several friends, most notably a nice married woman named Sarah who treated most everyone in class like her children (the Mother Hen syndrome).  She told the CAD class about the philosophy class sponsoring a backpacking trip on March 6-7 to a campsite in the Myakka State Forest.  Those in the philosophy class could take the trip in place of an essay.

I had met the philosophy teacher, a laid-back, former long-haired (now short-cropped) hippie named Ghana Acquaviva.  She liked some of my poems and philosophical ideas and encouraged me to join the trip.  I wasn’t sure about joining a bunch of strangers for a weekend, but gave in, especially after I bought some pot and LSD as a diversion for myself in case the trip ending up being boring.

Sarah had attracted more than my idle curiosity.  In fact, like many women before and after her, she plucked the emotional chord within me that I call puppy love.  In appreciation for my puppy love, and the fact that it was around Valentine’s Day, I wrote Sarah a poem that dealt with the self-centered, nihilistic philosophy of Nietzsche in his book, “Thus Spoke Zarathustra.” She graciously accepted the poem, and I spent the next few weeks fantasizing about a relationship with her (as did many other girls in the class, I learned a year later).

Ms. Acquaviva gave everyone a list of items to bring on the camping trip as well as directions to a meeting place at a grocery store off River Road. Sarah gave me directions to her house, located in a community ten or fifteen miles from Venice, so I could meet her there and then the two of us could take just one car to the meeting point.  When she handed me the directions, I sensed some apprehension from her.  I wrote off the episode as the awkwardness of a married woman trying not to appear forward while giving a strange woman directions to her house (although through my hormonal self, I imagined that she was telling me she wanted me).

As I drove to Sarah’s house, a feeling of dread came over me that perhaps I should just attempt to find the meeting place myself or call Ms. Acquaviva on Monday and tell her I got lost.  Instead, I drove on.  When I got to her house, I made sure that I didn’t show my interest in her, especially with her kids milling about with their wild imaginations.

We loaded the backpacks in her car and drove to the meeting point.  The day was slightly cold so we waited in the car for the other folks to arrive.  At this point, we carried on a general conversation in which one person would exchange a fact from the past for one from the other person.  You know what I mean:

One person says, “It sure is cold today. Sorta reminds me of a trip I took last fall.”

“Oh?” says the other.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t so bad because we got to see some turkeys.”

The other chimes in, “I hate cold weather.”

All throughout the conversation, we sat in our seats facing each other uncomfortably, I because I could not help thinking about my previous fantasies, and I guessed she was uncomfortable with me because she was alone with a strange female.  Within fifteen minutes, however, we had established a friendship based on similar thinking and knowledge of each other’s backgrounds.  By the time the first person from the philosophy class arrived, Sarah and I had that winking relationship that two people get who think they know something that other people with them do not know.

During the trip to Myakka, I was “forced” to ride between two women — Sarah, who was driving, and a young woman named Dena who sat on the other side of me — they knew each other from the philosophy class and shared their own winking relationship.  Consciously aware of my vanity, I felt they were using girl talk to talk about me in front of me although I knew I was just vainly pretending to hear it (in fact, they were talking about me, especially about Sarah’s earlier confession to Dena that Sarah was interested in me but also about Dena’s interest in a guy who was supposed to meet us at the Myakka parking lot).

When we got to the parking lot, Dena found that her male friend had not made it.  We waited a while but Acquaviva (as she wanted to be called) urged us on because we had a long hike ahead of us and she wanted to get to the camping site before it rained.

The hike mainly consisted of Sarah and I exchanging curious glances while consoling Dena in her pitiful state of sorrow and disappointment.  Along the way, we got to know the names and personalities of the other hikers, most of whom have faded in time, but I remember a long-haired girl named Bearne who fell in a pothole right before we got to the campsite.

At the campsite, we quickly set up all the tents and began to search for firewood because we were all cold and damp from the slight misty rain that had surrounded us during the hike.  Acquaviva split us into groups to find wood, and because I was the only one along on the trip who was not in her class, I was left to watch the campsite.  Instead, I pulled out my pot and walked off a little distance to get high.  The group soon found that most of the wood in the area was wet.  A couple of girls who were also in the CAD class saw me smoking and gave me a suspicious look.  I walked further off into the woods and they followed me.  Out of my paranoia, I pretended to be looking for some wood.  When they approached me, they asked if they could smoke some of the pot with me.  I relented.  They then admitted they no longer thought of me as the nerd in the class.

Back at the campsite, Acquaviva divided us up again, this time into fire tenders/ gatherers, food preparers, and food cookers.  I split my time between tending the fire and passing out snacks I had carried in my backpack.  During the meal, Acquaviva and Sarah shared their containers of wine — flimsy Mylar containers taken out of boxed wine — similar to the goatskins of the past.  A few other people had brought beer.  Knowing that I would later be in a different world of my own, I declined all but the dinner toast drink of wine.  By the time the meal was over, several people were starting to feel intoxicated.  Sarah, Dena, and I cleaned the dishes at the water pump in the dark using our hands to scrub the dishes and a flashlight to see by.

Afterwards, I sneaked over to my backpack to take a hit of acid.  Bearne saw me put the hit on my tongue and asked if I had one for her.  I actually had brought two hits to take that night, but gave her the other hit, if for no other reason than the old maxim that no one should ever take acid alone.

By this time, Acquaviva had gathered everyone at the fire to discuss philosophy.  As you can imagine, a bunch of near drunks discussing philosophy makes for a bad sitcom at its best and a violent argument or fight at its worst.  We fell somewhere in between.  In fact, people were falling all over the place.  Apparently, the hike, the cold weather, and lack of much food made everyone get drunk much faster than usual, some off only three glasses of wine.

Throughout the night, I shared knowing glances and brief conversations with Bearne as she and I buzzed on our trips.  One time, when I left the fire to relieve myself of the little fluid I had consumed, I found Bearne looking at the brilliance of the stars through the trees and mumbling something about the infinite possibilities of life on other worlds.  She wanted me to get involved in a long conversation but soon my neck grew tired and my eyes grew weary of staring upward into near darkness.

Back at the campsite, I sat at the fire and saw what appeared to be an illusion on the other side of the fire, an illusion of Acquaviva standing on a boulder at the top of the embankment of the river, even though I knew we were miles from any body of water.  Suddenly, she disappeared.  I looked around me and no one else seemed to notice or showed alarm so I shook my head and looked into the fire.  Some time later (time loses meaning to me while I’m on acid), someone commented that Acquaviva had been gone a long time.  Another person expressed concern.  I sat in silence, questioning my earlier illusion.  Finally, we heard a low moan and some people began looking in the woods. I suggested to one guy that she look for a large rock.  Sure enough, a bit of searching revealed the body of Acquaviva spread out on the ground next to a rock.  My illusion turned out to be Acquaviva losing her balance while trying to perch on the rock, falling backward and knocking her head on the rock as she hit the ground.

As the night wore on, everyone had pretty well finished off the alcohol and found a log, stump, tree, or rock – anything remotely solid – for support.  They all considered me to be sober and left me in charge of taking care of the fire.  Acquaviva and Sarah made sure everyone got to a tent and into a sleeping bag to prevent someone passing out in the woods somewhere and developing hypothermia.  Eventually, Acquaviva ended up sitting beside Sarah on a log next to the fire.  She gave her a backrub, as she had done for several people that night.  She then turned to give her a hug of appreciation which turned into her inviting Sarah into a tent for the night.  She gave me a raised-eyebrow glance that yelled for help.

I quietly spoke to Acquaviva across the fire.  “I’m amazed that you have stayed up so late, especially after all the alcohol you’ve consumed, not to mention you smashing your head on that rock.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said as she leaned against Sarah and then slipped and fell off the log.  We all laughed.  She continued, “Yeah, I’m a little tired.”  She turned to Sarah and said in almost a husbandly voice, “Do you want me to go?” which we all translated as “Mind if I go?”

“Go ahead,” Sarah nodded, “I want to warm up by the fire before I go to bed.”

Acquaviva climbed into the tent where Dena was sleeping and attempted to climb into the sleeping bag with her.  Sarah and I quietly snickered at Dena’s protests.  When Sarah realized Acquaviva wasn’t taking no for answer, she suggested we get her out.  She asked me to hold her up and support her over to the tent, since I was the only sober one left.  I gingerly put my arms around her and walked us to the tent.  After a few minutes, we extracted Acquaviva, who first said, “Everything would be fine if you would just leave us alone,” and ended up claiming, “I’m on my way to my tent anyway.”

I returned Sarah to the log, sat down beside her and stared at the dying embers of the fire, which make wonderful visual effects on acid.  I felt like I had been staring at the fire for thirty minutes when Sarah broke the silence.

“You know, it’s getting awfully cold.”

“I, um…I could put more wood on the fire.”

“Well, Davina, it’s pretty late already.”

“Yeah,” I said, still staring at the fire.

She leaned against me and I tensed up.  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said in what I perceived as a fake drunk voice.

I shook my head.

“I haven’t given you a backrub yet,” she said more as a question than a statement.

My left side was tuned to every drunken sway her body made against mine.  I told myself, “I’m a Girl Scout and she’s a married woman with two children.  You are in very dangerous territory here.”  I looked at her as nonchalantly as possible.  “You’re right.”

“Okay, then turn around.”

As I turned around, she lost me as a support and fell backward off the log.  She began to laugh a quiet, drunken laugh, more than a snicker but definitely not a guffaw, more like the way a person laughs out loud at an amusing private thought.  As I helped her up, I quickly suggested, “Perhaps you ought to go on to bed.”

Sarah laughed until she gained her balance on the log.  “I almost believe you’re too good to be true.  I mean, here I am, drunk and willing, you’re sober and…oh, never mind,” she finished with a wave of her hand, “help me to the tent.”

I grabbed her arm as she turned to get up.  “You probably won’t remember this tomorrow but I’m not as sober as you think.”

“I haven’t seen you touch alcohol since dinner.”

“No, I don’t mean like that.”

Sarah shook her head.  “Okay, then what do you mean?”

“I’m on acid.”

“Huh?”  She paused a moment. “No way, you’ve been normal all night.”

“Well, I am.  I can stare at that fire and produce all sorts of wild patterns.”  We both looked down at the fire.

“Yeah, you have been staring at the fire most of the night.”  She turned to look at me and fell against me.  “Just hold me a minute, okay?”

I put an arm around her and she leaned her head against my shoulder.  While I held her, I turned my goody-two-shoes voice off and imagined a night of wild passion with her.  We could move Dena to the other tent and have a tent all to ourselves.  I thought of our kissing by the fire, of her kissing me on the neck…suddenly, I realized she was kissing me on the neck!

“Uh, Sarah,” I whispered.

She stopped kissing my neck and looked up at my face just inches from hers. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll stop.”

At that point, I racked my brain for an answer to this dilemma, if there was one.  “Kissing,” I tried to tell myself, “is not all that bad.  Besides, she is drunk, or at least is willing to pretend to be.  If anything serious happens, we can claim to have been drunk and won’t remember anything tomorrow.  What girl wouldn’t be tempted by those beautiful brown eyes?”  I turned back to look at the fire.

“What do you see?” she asked, leaning her head on my shoulder again.

I pointed to the last orange flame flickering among the coals.  “My mind magnifies that little flame until it fills my whole vision and I see nothing but a mixture of orange, blue and yellow and a million other colors in front of me.  Then, I get the feeling I’m staring into the indescribable nothingness that people call eternity, infinity, heaven or hell.  Time, that sense of what has passed and what will pass, disappears. Everything appears before me, everything that is, was, will be, will never be, could be…a tunnel with no walls…”  I wasn’t sure if was making sense.  “I don’t know, the fire just kinda looks more brilliant than normal.”

Sarah snickered, “Sounds like we both need to get to bed.  As much as I’d like to talk about this, I’m too tired to think.  Walk me to the tent.”

We stood up and I realized how the cold air penetrated my clothes as if I was sitting in an ice bath.  I looked over to where Bearne had strung a hammock between two trees, claiming that sleeping in the air was warmer than sleeping on the ground.  She looked sound asleep.

I helped Sarah to Dena’s tent, which I suddenly realized was my pup tent.  I went to my backpack, put on an extra shirt and dared the cold to take off my boots and put on another pair of socks.  I then carried my sleeping bag into the big tent, built for five people but only holding four including myself.  I lay in the sleeping bag, shivering, not able to sleep, still tripping, and listening to the snoring patterns of the girls around me.  After a few minutes, I heard Dena and Sarah talking.

“Psst.  Sarah, are you awake?”

“Yeah,” Sarah muttered.

“I’m freezin’ my buns off.  How about you?”

“Yeah, just go to sleep.”

“I can’t, I’m too cold.”

“Well, you’ll be tired tomorrow.”

“What time is it?” Dena asked with an obvious shiver in her voice.

“Almost 3:30.”

“Geez, I can’t lie here three or four more hours.”

“What do suggest, then?”

“How about the girls?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think they still have room in their tent?”

Sarah paused before she answered.  “Do you want to go into the same tent with Acquaviva?”

“Hmm…maybe you’re right.”

I waited a few more minutes with my attention sharply focused into a giant antenna, listening for more conversation, but to no avail.  I then went back to wondering what would have happened if I had taken Sarah up on her drunken offer.  Or had I imagined the whole thing to begin with?  After all, I was shivering in a cold sleeping bag with a bunch of girls snoring around me.  I could easily have dreamed up the whole thing to justify my shivering alone in the dark.

“Sarah,” Dena whispered.

“What?”

“I can’t stand this anymore.  I’m going to the girls’ tent.”

“I’m going with you,” Sarah said cheerfully.

They gathered up their sleeping bags and walked over.

They opened the tent flap and Sarah whispered, “Hey, Orla.”

I started to answer and decided to wait.  I could feel someone shaking the girl beside me.  “Unh, what is it?” she said and rolled against me.

“What do you want?” I said in the sleepiest voice I could imagine.

“We’re freezin’ to death,” Dena blurted, “so make room.  Where’s Acquaviva?”

She grunted from the other side of Orla.

Dena patted the space between Orla and me.  “I’ll squeeze in here and you get on the other side of Davina.”

My heart rate jumped and my blood pressure soared.  Out of the frying pan and into the fire!  Suddenly, I didn’t feel cold.

All the girls adjusted to make room for Dena and Sarah.  Dena squeezed in so that her back was to me while Sarah lay facing me.  Every person adjusted to one side or another to make room.

I made sure I never opened my eyes and moved very little to give the impression I was asleep.  I finally moved my hand to my face and saw the time was 4:30 on my illuminated digital watch.  I looked over at Sarah in the dark tent and barely saw her sleeping bag.  At first, I thought I was looking at a pattern in the folds of her sleeping bag.  Then, I noticed that two spots were coming and going and realized she was looking at me and blinking.  I quickly shut my eyes, hoping that she hadn’t seen mine.  With my eyes shut, I wasn’t sure if I had really seen her eyes or I was still tripping.  I was beginning to feel tired which usually indicated the LSD was losing its effect.

I opened my eyes again to see not only two eyes but also a smile.  I figured at least forty-five minutes had passed since Sarah and Dena had come into the tent so everyone must surely be asleep.  I stuck my hand out of the sleeping bag and waved my fingers.  Sarah reached a hand out of her sleeping bag and grasped mine.  For a moment I marveled at the wonderment of two cold hands squeezing in the darkness like two condemned prisoners reaching through cell bars and silently saying, “I want to live another day.”  Then, the reality of the situation hit me again:  I was holding the hand of a married woman and wishing I was with her in one sleeping bag, committing adultery like there was no tomorrow.

“Davina,” Sarah whispered with a smile in her voice.

“Yes?” I said, hoping no one else was listening.

“Are you awake?”

“I think so.  Or this a wonderful dream I’m having.”  She squeezed my hand tighter.

“Are you still on acid?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Good,” she said, and let go of my hand.

For a brief moment, perhaps only half a second, I felt she had been leading me on.  I suddenly brought forth all my defensive postures, waiting to strike like a bobcat standing silently on a rock above a grazing rabbit.

The shhht of a zipper broke the air like an explosion.

“Davina.”

“What,” I responded three octaves higher.

“Undo your zipper.”

I asked myself, “My pants zipper?” and knew as quickly she meant my sleeping bag.  I undid the zipper on the sleeping bag about a foot when Sarah grasped my hand in hers again.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently, in her motherly voice.

I began to feel very weird.  “I’m not sure what you mean?”  I paused for what seemed like hours.  “Do you want to go over to the other tent?” I ventured to ask.

“I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”

“Why?” I asked with just a hint of a hurt, defensive posture.

“I don’t even think the two of us could keep out the cold.”

I smiled.  “Are you cold right now?”

“No.”

“Neither am I.”

We continued to hold hands forever, or at least for a few minutes, I couldn’t tell which.  My head was spinning and I couldn’t pull my eyes away from hers.  I felt like I could fall into her eyes and be enwrapped in an eternal feeling of one hundred percent love and care.  No wonder everyone saw her as the motherly type while most girls saw her as a voluptuous female.  Her eyes had a power that no cliché could adequately describe.

Dena pushed against my back.  I closed my eyes and froze, thinking that Dena was awake and had heard what Sarah and I had been saying.  Feeling something warm against my face, I opened my eyes to see that Dena had pushed me up to Sarah.  Our noses were almost touching.  I took a chance and pushed my nose against Sarah’s.  She pushed back, and without any hesitation we kissed.

How do I describe a kiss?  The Webster’s dictionary describes a kiss as “a caress with the lips” and Roget’s thesaurus gives kiss the synonyms of buss, peck, smack and smooch.  Romance novels surround kisses with fireworks while Mafioso movies refer to the kiss of death.  Some people believe a kiss involves an electrochemical process that science will be able to fully describe one day.  I hope that day never arrives.

While we kissed, we kept our eyes open, as if our eyes were caressing too.  We did not kiss with abandon.  Instead, we explored each other’s mouth with lips and tongue.  I memorized every crack of her chapped lips and savored the taste of her wine-flavored tongue.  I ran my tongue across her teeth, noticing how the scraping of her teeth against my tongue excited me, causing pleasurable tingles to pass in waves down the back of my neck.  I felt like we were Masters & Johnson trying to accurately describe all the sensations of kissing.

Occasionally, we would stop kissing and close our eyes, catching a catnap.

At one point, I attempted to put my arm around her and ended up rubbing across her chest.  She grabbed the back of my hand and pressed my hand against a breast.  She then reached her other hand into my sleeping bag and held her hand against my crotch.  Neither one dared to caress the other, not sure if we wanted to go on.  Fate stepped in and made the decision for us.

Acquaviva began to moan and woke everyone up.  Sarah and I returned our hands to our sleeping bags.  I looked at my watch in the dim light of morning to see it was 6:30.  Someone told Acquaviva to either get up or go back to sleep.

I awoke to the bright light of morning.  Several dim dreams lingered in my mind, and in my grogginess I wasn’t sure what had been dreams and what had been the imaginings of my acid trip.  For a moment, I thought I had lived out my fantasies about Sarah.  I looked down at my watch to see it was 8:30.  Suddenly, the whole evening flashed before me.  I looked up, expecting to see Sarah’s face in front of me only to discover I was alone in the tent.  I could hear people talking all around me.

Acquaviva leaned into the tent.  “Hey, sleepy head, time to get up.  We need to fold this tent up.”

I rolled up my sleeping bag and crawled out of the tent.  In a fit of desperation, I looked quickly around me to find Sarah.  She and Dena sat by the fire.  Sarah looked at me with a warm smile.

Bearne came up behind me and slapped my back.  “Want some breakfast?  I bet you’re famished from last night.  Do you remember running through the woods, frantically looking for a clearing to see the Big Dipper?”

I turned to look at her through half-open eyes.  “Are you kidding?”

“Do you remember the meteor shower?”

I thought for a moment and memories of spending a long time getting lost in the woods came back to me.  “I think so.  Did we find my pot pipe?”

“Hell, no.  You said you’d remember in the morning exactly where you dropped it.”

My head began to clear and I saw the image of a rotten log between a dry creek bed and a trail.  “I think I know where it is.”

“If you want breakfast, come and get it,” Acquaviva interrupted.  “Otherwise, we need to get these dishes cleaned up.”

I loaded my sleeping bag in my backpack and put the pup tent, which someone had been kind enough to pack up, on top.

I walked back to the fire and got some burnt bacon and dry, scrambled eggs.  Dena looked at me with a knowing smile, stood up, and pointed to her place on the log.  “Sit here, I’m finished.”

I sat down next to Sarah and ate in silence.  I did not speak to her until we were putting our backpacks on and she needed help getting a strap untangled.
Once on the trail, I took my turn at the rear of the group, momentarily taking advantage of seeing where other people had been walking, thus avoiding the mud puddles and hidden holes on the pathway.  I took the time to go over the past evening in my mind, separating the drug-induced hallucinations from the real events.  Some points were fuzzy, especially right before I went to sleep, but I decided to throw them from my mind.  They seemed too confusing to try to remember.

About a mile down the trail, Dena developed a bad blister and I slowed down to walk with her.  We talked about her disappointment about her friend not coming along and how an essay would have been a lot less painful than this trip.  She had a headache from the night before, and complained about an ache or pain in every joint of her body.  I was beginning to think about leaving her behind when Bearne said she would take over the rear.

I picked up my pace and caught up with Sarah.  I remained silent, still trying to piece the evening together.

“You can’t just keep quiet,” Sarah finally said.

“What?”

“I mean let’s talk about something.”

“Right now, I’m trying to figure out last night.”

“What’s there to figure out?”

“Well, because my sense of time was messed up, I can’t figure out if I’m missing parts of the evening or if I stared at the fire most of the night.”

“You did stare at the fire a lot.”

“Yeah, but did I…” I stopped.

“Did you what?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is it possible to imagine a whole evening?”

“You’re beginning to sound like Acquaviva.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Sarah reached over and held my hand.  “Can I help?”

I looked up and down the trail.  We were out of sight of the rest of the group.  “What do you mean?  Is there something you can help me with?”

“If you aren’t sure if something happened, I can tell you if it did.”

“I’m not so sure about that.  You were pretty drunk.”

“I only had four glasses of wine.”

I decided to stop playing word games.  I pulled Sarah to me and we kissed as we had the night before, eyes open, exploring lips and all.

“Well?” she asked wryly.

“Well what?”

“Do you need me to help you remember anything?”

“No, now I’ve got to figure it all out.”

“Figure what out?”

“You and me.”

“What’s there to figure?  We kissed.”

“Yeah, but I think there’s more to this than that.”

“You think so?  Either there is or there isn’t.  You and I can think that tree’s over there and agree that it’s there but if we walk over and feel nothing there, then there’s no tree.”

“I know, I know.  I’m just tired…”

“And?”

“And I’ve got to figure it all out.”

“Okay,” she said, turning her head to one side.  We continued to hike down the trail, swinging our interlocked hands up and down between us like two kids without a care in the world.

 

 

 

Detour

“Amazing,” Torrance said, half-awake.  “You girls are kids.  I’m glad I’m married.  Having an old man and a kid makes you grow up in a hurry.”

 

Birch laughed.  “Oh really?  This coming from a gal who was arrested for DUI while sitting in her car!”

 

“Fuck you.  I told the officer to feel the hood of the car ‘cause I hadn’t driven it all day.  Besides, the only place I can park the car is in the road.  All I wanted to do was sit in the car and listen to the radio after having a fight with my hubby.  She told me that it didn’t matter.  ‘Car’s in the road.  Key’s in the ignition.  You’re drunk.  End of story.’  Two days in the slammer.  I missed a whole weekend of work because of that fucker.”

 

“I can’t believe you have a kid at your age,” Davina said.

 

“At my age?  That’s nothing.  I’m carrying on the family tradition.  My grandmother married at 13 and had her first child when she was 14…”

 

“Yeah, but they had to do that back then…”

 

“…but my mother decided to wait.”

 

“Smart woman.”

 

“She married at 15…”

 

“Damn, you call that waiting?”

 

“… and had me when she was 16.”

 

“I’m afraid to ask.  How old is your kid, then?”

 

“Well, let’s see.  I’m 25 so that makes Little Tommie eight.”

 

“Wow, you were an old woman of 17 when you had her!”

 

“Fuck you!”

 

“Hand me another beer, will ya?” Birch asked, looking at Torrance in the rearview mirror.  “I don’t know about you girls but I gotta take a piss.”

 

“Use your empty bottle.”

 

“What, and drive?”

 

“Fuck, yeah,” Sam said.  “Aren’t you woman enough?”

 

“I don’t think my age has got anything to do with this.  It’s more like I can’t piss through the steering wheel and drive.”

 

“The road looks pretty straight to me from here.”

 

“Yeah, have some fun,” Davina said.  “And if you miss, it’s your car anyway,” she added, snickering.

 

Birch decided to pull a surprise.  “Hey girls, have you thought about where you want to spend the night?”

 

“Spend the night?  I thought we were gonna drive all the way there,” Torrance said, sitting up.

 

“Well, I’ve got a couple of friends in Macon.  They said they’d hook us up so we could be ‘makin’ bacon’ before the night is over,” Birch said, nodding her head up and down in anticipation.

 

Sam looked over at Birch.  “You just want another case of the clap, don’t you?”

 

“Not if I’m careful.”

 

Davina rolled her eyes.  “You girls sound like you’re straight out of the movie, ‘Thelma and Louise.’”

 

“Never heard of it,” Birch said.

 

“Well, it’s about these two girls who…”

 

Birch interrupted.  “Cool, Davina.  I’m sure I can figure it out.  So what do you girls think?  Are you up for it?”

 

“Depends on your old man.  Isn’t he expecting us tonight?”

 

“Naw, I told him we might take a detour.  He was cool about it.”

 

“Yeah, but Nashville’s not that far away.”

 

“And you’re forgetting the most important part.  Isn’t he supposed to be hosting Shania Twain this week?  I figured you’d want as much time to try to bag her as you can.”

 

“Oh yeah, I forget to tell you girls.  Shania’s not gonna be there…”

 

“What?  You dragged us all the way to Nashville for nothin’?” Torrance asked, slapping the car door and spilling her beer.

 

“Whoa, girl.  Careful with the beer.  Just ‘cause I’m gonna take a piss doesn’t mean you can trash my bimmer.  No problem about Shania.  He’s got something better lined up.  Turns out that another celebrity’s in town and wants to rent three or four of Dad’s luxury RVs.”

 

“Who’s that?”

 

“’Git ‘r done.’”

 

“No way!”

 

“Yes way!  Larry the Cable Guy!”

 

“So why’re we stopping in Macon?”

 

“Well, Larry won’t be there for a couple of days so I figure we’ve got some time to kill.”

 

Sam thought about it for a few seconds.  “So what are we supposed to do while you’re getting some Georgia action?”

 

“Hey, I’m sure there’s plenty of those sweet peaches for all of us.”

 

 

Birch flipped open her cell phone and called her friend, Rhonda.

 

“Dude, it’s Birch.”

 

“Birch, what’s up.”

 

“Hey, we’re just an hour or so away from Macon.”

 

Rhonda put her hand over the phone receiver.  “Hey girls,” she whispered to a couple of girls in the room with her.  “Do you care if a friend of mine, Birch, stops by for the evening?”

 

“You mean the drunk?” one of them asked.  The other woman looked at her and made slashing motions across her throat.  Rhonda nodded her head.  “Cool.  You gonna stop by?” she said into the phone.

 

“Well, I was thinking about it.”

 

“Hey, Birch.  I hate to sound like the party-pooper but I’ve got to play babysitter for my sister.”

 

“Sister?  I didn’t know you had a sister.  How old is she?”

 

“Oh, my parents just adopted a couple of Korean babies.  My new sister’s about two years old.”  One of Rhonda’s friends gave her the thumbs up sign.

 

“Bummer.  Well, guess you can’t go out with us.  Mind if we crash at your place?”

 

“No can do.  The parental units are here, too.  They’re just out shopping right now and’ll be back any minute.”

 

“Hey, no prob.  What about those chicks you were telling me about?  Think they’ll let us crash at their place?”

 

“I doubt it.  They’ve got midterms in a few days.”

 

“Girlfriend, this is not what I wanted to hear.  I’ve got three horny girls with me and they all wanna score some action tonight.”

 

“Well, if you’re gonna get laid, I’d recommend Atlanta.”

 

“Hot-lanta.  Yeah, that sounds like a really cool idea.”  Birch turned to Sam.  “Wanna get laid in Atlanta tonight?”

 

“Hey, I’m like you.  Right now, I just wanna piss.”

 

“Rhonda, looks like we’re on our way to Atlanta.  Give a big hug to your folks for me and tell the girls they don’t know what they missed.”

 

“Will do, Birch.  See you ‘round.”

 

“Okay,” Birch said, and closed her phone.

 

“’Sisters In Flatulence.’”

 

“Daggone it, Torrance.  You’re the worst fart monster I’ve ever seen,” Davina said.

 

“What’s this ‘Sisters In Flatulence’ stuff with you girls, anyway?” Sam asked.

 

“Shit, Torrance.  What’d you eat for breakfast?” Birch asked.

 

“Same as you, girl.  Beer and pot.”

 

“Well, cut one of them out ‘cause you stink,” Birch replied, pushing a button to lower her window.

 

“Hey, it’s cold back here,” Davina said.

 

“Just a sec while I give us some fresh.”

 

“Sam, gal, ‘Sisters In Flatulence’ goes back to the first time we did mushrooms together,” Davina said.

 

“That was a fun trip,” Torrance added.

 

“Yeah, it sure was,” Davina replied.  “I learned a lot of cool stuff that night, like mushrooms’ll make you vomit your throat out but the payoff is worth it.”

 

“Hey, I told you to make the tea stronger,” Birch said, shaking her head.

 

“So what’s flatulence got to do with it?” Sam asked.

 

“You know, I can’t really remember.  How about you girls?” Davina asked, turning to Torrance.

 

“Don’t look at me!”

 

“Davina said it herself.  You’re the fart monster.”

 

“I just let the farts.  You’re the girls who make up all these stories.”

 

“’Sisters In Flatulence’…’Sisters In Flatulence’,” Birch mumbled.  “Yeah, it was fun.  I never realized how much fun three girls could have on ‘shrooms.  Talk about a psychological experience.  You see, with three people, you get these weird vibes.  All you need is one person to say something quietly to the other and suddenly the third person thinks she’s being talked about.  It becomes this two-on-one thing.  Well, you get what, three different combinations of two-on-one, passing secrets around to see the effect.  Then, all of a sudden, someone rips a loud one and… shoo-ee!  Damn, Torrance, you still fartin’ back there?”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“So then I figure, ‘You know what.  One thing that two girls can’t share is a fart,’ so I let one out and then Davina grunted one out and someone said, ‘Sisters In Flatulence,’ and it all made sense.  You can’t keep a fart to yourself.  So there we were, one fart, two farts or three farts, it didn’t matter.  One for all and all for one…”

 

“’Sisters In Flatulence,’” Birch, Torrance and Davina said in unison.

 

“Well, don’t go farting in unison on my account,” Sam said and they laughed.

 

Davina squeezed out a fart and the laughter got louder.

 

 

Birch drove for a few minutes after the laughter died down.  “So, uh, what do you girls want to do?  We could probably find a cheap hotel in Atlanta and pick up some action at a bar.”

 

“I didn’t budget for a hotel,” Torrance said.

 

“We can pool our money.  Couldn’t be more then ten or fifteen bucks a piece.”

 

“Do you really want to stay in Atlanta?’ Davina asked.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Well, I was just thinking.  My Aunt Lee lives in Huntsville.  We could probably stay there for the night.”

 

“Huntsville!  Are you shittin’ me?  That’s like another four or five hours from here.”

 

“She usually has some new drugs you’ve never heard of.  And besides, we could visit the Space and Rocket Museum.”

 

“Museum?  What have I got in this car, a bunch of pansies?  Didn’t you hear me?  I said we could get some FREE action tonight in just a few hours.”

 

“Well, Birch, to be honest…”  Davina trailed off, wishing immediately she hadn’t spoken up.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“The last time we went through this, I ended up going to the VD clinic.”

 

“Hey, you don’t like a guy wearing a rubber, don’t blame me!”

 

“Anyway, I’m not in the mood for free action tonight.”

 

“Not in the mood?  For Christ’s sake!  What kind of spring break is this?”

 

Sam looked at Birch.  “You got a bar in mind?”

 

“What?  Hell no.  But Atlanta’s big.  We can find at least one bar that’ll have what we’re looking for.”

 

“You ever been to the space museum?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, then how do you know that you’ll find a bar better than the museum if you haven’t seen the museum?”

 

Birch looked at Sam like she was stupid.  “And have you ever picked up chicks at a museum?”

 

“No.”

 

“Neither have I.  I’ve picked up more women than I count at bars.”

 

Torrance leaned her head back on the seat.  “You girls are wearing me out.  Are we or are we not going to Nashville?”

 

“We are.”

 

“Then what’s all this talk about stopping anywhere?  Why don’t we just drive on to Nashville?  We can catch some zzz’s and have all day tomorrow to find a date or go to a museum or whatever the hell you like.”

 

“Torrance’s right,” Sam said.  “Why don’t we stick to the plan?”

 

“And Huntsville’s on the way…”

 

“And if we got time, we can pull over in Huntsville to see Davina’s aunt.”

 

“What the fuck,” Birch said, and pulled a map out of the car door pocket.  “Here,” she said sharply, handing the map to Sam.  “This is a Southeastern US map.  See if you can figure out a way to get us from Atlanta to Huntsville.”

 

“I’ve driven it before,” Davina said.  “We go north of Atlanta for a while, turning off at…mmm, uh, I think it’s Adairsville.”

 

Sam unfolded the map and looked at Atlanta.  “I see Marietta but no Adairsville.”

 

Davina leaned forward and looked over Sam’s shoulder.  “No, it’s not in Atlanta.  It’s farther north, like maybe 60 or 70 miles.”

 

“Do you remember a highway name?”

 

“No, but seems like it connects to Highway 72.  Aunt Lee lives somewhere off of 72.  I can tell you that.”

 

“Hand me that thing,” Birch said, grabbing the map.  She stared at it for about 30 seconds.    “Look, let’s just take 20 west out of Atlanta and head toward Birmingham.  Then, we can turn north to Nashville on I-65.  I’m not driving a bunch of Alabama backwoods roads in the dark.”

 

“Okay,” Davina said.

 

“Hey, you’re driving,” Sam added.

 

Torrance leaned back and closed her eyes.  “This trip had better be worth it,” she thought, mentally figuring out how much money she’d have left over for her husband and kid when she got back.  Too bad she couldn’t make money off of Birch’s pot, somehow.

 

 

Philosophical Heights

“I have let my life be explained away,” Davina said.

 

“Huh?”

 

“On the way home last night, I was hit by that thought.  I was driving down the road, imagining a conversation with you girls about why I am where I am instead of someplace else.  I took a mental inventory of the types of person I thought I might have become…you know, writer, adventurer, tourist, executive, that sort of thing instead of who I am.  I then realized that I have given into the self-perceived notions of what I expect others think I should be.  I no longer know who I am except through others.  I have become what I disliked in my parents — worrying about what others think of me.  For example, when I think about what I would do if I was single again, I think, ‘Well, that would upset Richelle, my parents, my niece and nephew and I want everyone around me to be at least as miserable as possible so I better not think about that therefore I will never be a single person again but I don’t want to be like this semi-married person I am anymore so the only way to not know if I have upset anyone is to end my life but I have never truly ended my life before because I believe that this collection of cells known as me has too strong of a will to survive but a true will to survive entails producing offspring to ensure the immortality of these cells but I’m not having children with Richelle and I’m getting older so that will to survive thing must really be a piece of crap so I could really end my life or become single again’ and the cycle continues.

 

In the meantime, people say they hardly recognize me anymore because I am looking older despite my indecision about who I’ll be which is pretty funny because when I was younger I never made the connection between what I would be like when I grow up and what being old would be like.  Not that I’m old, of course…”

 

“Whoa, girl, slow down…

 

“So, at age 23, I’ve come to realize that I will never be Wonder Woman, God, Maya Angelou, or Jane Fonda.  I am still just me, a person who has let the temptation of an easy life beat her down.  Some days, I can’t live with myself and wouldn’t if I had a choice, disgusted at the person I have not become.  I used to magnify that disgust by imagining people out there who could destroy me by thinking about me with the same disgust.  These people are the so-called ‘they’ whom we often refer to when we want to add a sense of authority to a subject as in, ‘Well, you know what they say…’.  I remember a cartoon character named Captain Marvel who had a sort of committee of superhero peers that represent her various personality traits.  In the same way, I carry a group of people in my head that represents certain ideals.  Some of these people are from my life — a friend’s mother, a Girl Scout leader, etc.  Some of these people are societal icons.  Others are fictional.  In any case, as I’ve told you before, you girls are in this group.  You represent the person with a non-mainstream eye – always finding unique books to read, movies to watch, places to visit.  When I was young, I thought if I didn’t live in a cabin by myself, then the ideal life would be a college professor who lived in a small-town cottage with her female college professor companion or conversely, be a not very smart person living in a cottage with her housewife.  That way, I would work nine months of the year and travel the other three months, with or without my companion.  I envy you because you girls seem to have found a job in which you work and go to school and still have fun.  It’s also like you’ve raised the standard of that ideal life I imagined.  Of course, the life you live is not ideal, I know that.”

 

“Davina, are you tripping and not telling us?”

 

“No, I’ve just got to get this off my chest.  You’ve seen the world — what’s it all about?

 

“Last week, I visited my Aunt Rallie, who is in a hospital waiting for her kidneys to clear up and recovering from an urinary tract infection.   Then, she will undergo a heart catheterization procedure to see if her heart attack last week damaged her heart.  A few weeks ago, she had finally put her wife, Polly, in a facility called Asbury Acres for people with Alzheimer’s disease.  After seeing my Aunt Rallie, I went to visit my Aunt Polly because I was driving around town seeing all the new subdivisions being built and I drove by Asbury Acres.  I was still a little nerve-wrecked from visiting Rallie.  Against my better judgment, I turned around and drove back to Asbury Acres.  I walked into the retirement home and was told by the receptionist that Polly was in the medical center.  The receptionist then proceeded to give me instructions about access to the building.

 

“I drove up to the medical center building, which is around the corner from the retirement home.  From the entrance, the medical center appears to be a single story structure, although you can see there are what appear to be ‘underground’ stories.  I entered the foyer and walked down the hall past an interesting birdhouse to the elevator.  Inside the elevator, I had to punch in a code on a keypad before the elevator floor buttons would become operational.  I punched the first floor button, and the elevator went down.

 

“After exiting the elevator, I turned to a door on the left, where I had to press a button on the wall in order to unlock the door.  As I opened the door, I saw several people who seemed at least halfway coherent standing around or shuffling down the hall.”

 

“Sounds like ‘Shaun of the Dead’”.

 

“Yeah, sort of.  A floor nurse, call her floor nurse #1, stood behind a counter and gave me instructions on how to get to Polly’s section.  As I walked down the hall to Polly’s section, I observed two women looking at a picture of themselves posted on the wall outside a room.  I stood at the entrance to Polly’s section and watched the two women for a moment.  One woman said to the other, ‘See, this is your room because that’s your picture.  My picture’s there, too, so I must live in this room, too.’”

 

“And we think we’re fucked up!” Birch said.

 

“Uh-huh.  Floor nurse #1 kept yelling at me to press the keycode on the wall so I looked around and finally noticed a small keypad on the wall on the right side of the entrance.

 

“I had to punch in the same keycode I used in the elevator in order to unlock the door.  As I opened the door, I saw several people who looked liked ghosts of their former selves standing or shuffling along.  My nervousness shot up a notch.  I asked the floor nurse of Polly’s section where Polly was.  Call her floor nurse #2.  She told me that Polly had just been put to bed and pointed me around the corner.  It was around 7 p.m.  I walked through another set of double doors.  These doors were already open and did not need to be unlocked.  Polly’s room, 132N, was on the right.  At the entrance to Polly’s room, a woman in a wheelchair stared at the nameplates.  She looked at me as if I was going to scold her and said, ‘Oh, I’m just looking at the names to see if it’s anyone I know.’  I nodded my head and walked into the room.”

 

“Davina, sounds like you need a beer.  Here,” Sam said, handing her one.

 

“Thanks.  I had seen Polly recently and already knew how thin she was.  Laying in bed, she looked even thinner.  Her eyes were shut and she was curling into and out of a fetal position, while talking out loud.  From what I could tell from the words coming out of Polly’s mouth, there were several streams of conversations taking place.  In one stream, a mother and her young daughter were talking to each other.  In another stream, she was describing something she was seeing that I could not understand.  In another stream, she was just mumbling.  I stood by her bed for several minutes and listened to her, not knowing if I should speak because I couldn’t tell if she was in a dream state, in a state of delirium from drugs or wide awake.  In any case, she did not know I was there so I looked at the pictures on the wall.  The most touching picture was the one of Rallie and Polly from 1995 — they both looked very happy.  I waited until my nerves could no longer take it and walked out.  I almost ran out of the room.  To calm myself down, I spent a few minutes talking with floor nurse #2 about the latest word on Rallie.  She had not seen any of Polly’s family and did not know if the heart cath procedure was a definite thing; she knew that Rallie was very worried about Polly.  I told her the heart cath was planned for that morning and asked her to pray for Rallie — she said she had been and would continue to do so.

 

“After I left Polly’s section, I hurried to get…to get out of the next section but was blocked by a woman in a stand-up wheelchair.  She insisted on shaking my hand and was mumbling.  Floor nurse #1 told me that she spoke only Spanish so I told the gal, ‘Hasta manana’.  She shook her head as if she wanted me to stay and talk with her.  I nodded my head and repeated, ‘Hasta manana’ and patted her on the shoulder.  Floor nurse #1 gave me a smile of sympathy and pointed me to the exit.  I punched in the keycode, opened the door and walked over to the elevator.  When the elevator door opened, two women inside were as confused and nervous as I was and we could not determine which floor led to the building exit.  The elevator moved to the third floor and a woman stepped on who said she had been as confused as we were and had ridden the elevator up and down a few times herself.  We figured out that the building exit was on the second floor.

 

“We all stepped off the elevator with relief.  I stopped to look at the birdhouse, which is like a glass aquarium except it has birds, mainly finches from what I could tell.

 

“I got in the car and was ready to cry.  I drove around town some more and ended up at the old Kay’s ice cream store.  I had a refreshing vanilla milkshake.  I called my sister and told her about the experience.  We decided that perhaps I shouldn’t tell Mom about the trip to Polly’s until after the outcome of Rallie’s surgery.

 

“I can see why Rallie cries anytime she mentions Polly at Asbury Acres.  I’m sure it was a tough decision to put her away, so to speak.  I can also see why she’s able to get a full night’s sleep, if what I saw was Polly’s normal condition.

 

“So what do you girls think?”

 

“I’d rather kill myself.”

 

“Me, too.”

 

“Does your aunt know anything?”

 

“She did at first.  I still feel weird.  I feel like we’re just supposed to live our lives and hope we aren’t too much of a burden on others.  But what’s the definition of a burden?  If we do something for someone out of love for that person, no matter how much we suffer in the process, should that be considered having a burden placed on us by the loved one?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then I guess we’re supposed to live our lives and hope we’ve generated enough love that others will want to take care of us at our worst.  But what is love?  Love is many things to many people, of course, but in this case, love is the…the biochemical attraction that makes us go crazy when we’re not with the other person, that makes us do what it takes to keep that other person with us…a mutual attraction…a positive reinforcing codependency, of sorts.  So why do some humans have this love for one other human and some do not?  If we’re just here to procreate, then this love would be beneficial to the whole species and seems to be so for other species, as well.  Why the disparity between members of our species?  In the end, when I’m sitting in some nursing home pooping in my pants, will anything I have said really matter, even if I have said something that has benefited our species?  After visiting my aunt in the nursing home and seeing the unnamed faces in the hallway, it sure didn’t feel that way.  But that’s just me, of course, I always look for ways to feel depressed, a kind of euphoria that’s down instead of up, a kind of emotion that’s addictive in ways that are detrimental to my daily living, a habit I have to constantly ensure I’m not picking up again, like some kind of ex-druggie surrounded by pushers I have to keep saying no out loud while inside I’m saying yes.”

 

“You’re not exactly an ex-druggie, you know,” Torrance said.

 

“You know what I mean.  How much farther do we have to go to Huntsville?”

 

“Too far,” Birch mumbled, still fuming over the thought of not getting laid that night.

 

“Hey, Davina,” Torrance said.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You got anything I can read?”

 

“Sure.  Let me dig through my bag.  Here you go.  It’s about visiting a friend in Memphis.”

 

 

 Memphis Belle

I went to Memphis this weekend for the barbecue cookoff contest.  As you know, I have been down lately, so I was pleasantly surprised when experiences in Memphis diverted me from my inner torment.  I found out that my looks are interesting to women in a way that I had not been aware.

Richelle and I left town late Friday night since it was such a long drive.  I wondered what the drive to Memphis would turn into.  With Richelle having been home only three weeks since the start of February, she and I have grown accustomed to being apart.  We have slowly, and I don’t just mean at a slow steady pace but in fits and spurts of repressed anger and frustration interspersed throughout topical text, we have slowly recultivated our common conversational topics to prevent us from constantly bickering.  I have learned that being with someone for years has at least one advantage — we know to avoid topics that inflict unnecessary pain on the other.

We arrived at Viv’s apartment around 12:30 on Saturday.  Viv is a software consultant and I have created a couple of computer graphic files for use in her business.  In the latest rendition, I designed a corporate logo that Viv put on the back of a T-shirt that she gave out to all the engineers at her company and to everybody on the barbecue team she sponsored.  At the apartment, we had a couple of stiff drinks with Viv and her business partner, David.  After an hour, when we were all tipsy and Viv’s girlfriend had shown up, we headed out to the park.

Crowded into the back of an old Buick Skyhawk, we cruised through the city.  I could easily have fallen into the observer mode;  that is, I almost put up my invisible camera lens and recorded the interaction between Viv and her girlfriend, Cheryl, in the front seat and me, Richelle and David in the back.  Instead, I let myself go and participated.  Go ahead and shoot me but I have no recollection of what we talked about on the way between Viv’s apartment and the barbecue.  Too bad, because some existential conversations are interesting.

Anyway, we pulled into a parking garage a block or two away from the building where scenes were filmed for the movie, “The Firm.”  Still half tipsy, we bobbed down the street to the festival entrance.  Viv bought all our tickets.  Earlier that week, she told me the weekend was on her because I designed the logo.  “Cool,” I said.  Only later did I remember to say thanks.

Have you ever been to a barbecue cookoff?  I certainly have not attended a food festival of this magnitude.  Over 250 contestants had specialty booths set up at Tom Lee Park along the river.  God, talk about heat!  Between the sun beating down on our heads (my head was suavely covered by an official “Indiana Jones” Stetson that Dad bought for me years ago) and the hundreds of barbecue grills, our entourage sweated like…well, like pigs.

We meandered through the park, looking at the other exhibitor booths.  The majority of the booths were walled with particle board and designed to look like roadside barbecue shacks.  Others were more creative.  This year, the show saluted the country of Portugal so some exhibitors had rigged their booths to look like pirate ships.  Viv’s team members decorated their booth to look like a sidewalk cafe.

When we got to Viv’s booth, Viv led us directly to the liquor stash that she had kindly set aside for “special” customers.  Before I knew it, she and I had downed a couple of cups of Wild Turkey.  I had not eaten in twenty-four hours and realized almost too late that I was drunk.  I had had four drinks in about two hours.

While I stood in the shade of an umbrella, Viv pointed out that several good-looking women were standing behind me.  I turned around to see some girls talking to one of the barbecue team members (the team members were easy to notice because they were walking around with my design on their backs!).  She held what looked like a cigar box open for the girls to look at.  They took turns pulling out a piece of paper.  Viv explained that during the previous two days, some of the girls had been handing out certificates that stated, “Bring this ticket to Booth 104 for a free tattoo.”  The guy with the box guided one of the girls to an old dentist’s chair (should I call these girls women?  In any case, they were all younger than me).  The girl pulled her top down to expose more of her cleavage and let the guy apply temporary tattoos to the sides of her breasts.  The other girls followed, getting tattoos on their arms, legs, backs, or chests, depending on their inclination.  Most of the girls in the booth stared at a girl in a purple dress.

Viv’s partner, David, offered me one of the cigars he was smoking.  I graciously accepted and we stood around talking about the soon-to-be-served barbecue, the weather, and girls.  Fifteen or twenty minutes later, Viv and Cheryl dragged me to a storage area behind the barbecue grills.

I think now is a good time to bring up a snippet of conversation I had with Richelle on the way to Memphis.  I told Richelle about a dream I’d had the previous night.  In the dream, my best friend from high school, Helen, told me she had been dropping acid lately and proceeded to tell me why it was okay for her to be dropping acid because she had a great husband and kids, etc., and could enjoy acid for pleasure but I wasn’t allowed to drop acid because I would only be doing so to escape reality and “remember what it did to you in high school.”  I have been under a lot of pressure lately to get good grades in school, write fantastic ad campaigns at work, write and publish my next book, and…what else?  Who knows.  Anyway, I have been hanging on to my sanity by a thread and will accept just about any way to relieve pressure.

We stepped into a covered area that was supposed to look like a food storage locker at a restaurant.  Viv pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette.  I did not hesitate to take my turn smoking.  Well, I hesitated mentally but managed to squeeze out of my lungs with the first long puff a lifetime of mental anguish and nervousness.  Within minutes some of the girls out front found their way to the storage area.  The girl in the purple dress and the girl with the tattooed breasts stood beside me, partly to get away from some hungry wolves out front and partly because I was willing to let them take turns with the cigarette.  I don’t know why I attracted these girls but the girl in the purple dress confided to me that her dress was actually a fancy nightgown a former boyfriend had given her.  Man, was she wild!  I don’t know if it was the seclusion of the storage area, the heat, the alcohol, or the cigarette but the atmosphere in that “back room” was electrified.  In fact, at work today, Viv has kept kidding me about what happened.

Have you ever read anything by Donald Barthelme or J.G. Ballard?  You should.  I read them in the mid-90s and enjoyed their writing immensely.  I believe I will buy some of their more recent books and read them.
Let’s see, where was I?  We were finishing up the hand-rolled cigarette and…oh yeah, the girl in the purple dress.  Well, I talked to Richelle last night and she added some observations about the situation.  According to Richelle, I was the best-looking woman in the booth so if anything women would be attracted to my looks in comparison to the other girls there.  The other thing that appealed to the women in the booth was my calm demeanor, my standoffishness.  I was not circling them like lions coming in for the kill nor was I staring at their bodies with a goofy grin on my face.

So here I was, hidden away with a couple of women who were looking for a good time.  The girl in the purple dress, after telling me what she was wearing…wait, I forgot to tell you something.  A bit earlier, Richelle asked me, um, I guess while the girl in the purple dress was waiting to get tattooed, whether the girl had any underwear on.  I watched the girl’s waist just above her hipbones.  Usually, I can tell if there is an impression in the skin around the waist that indicates the width of underwear a woman is wearing.  You know, “is she wearing a thong, bikini briefs or full underwear?”  I suppose it’s a thing of mine.  I concluded that the woman was wearing underwear but no bra (her lights were on but not glaring).

The girl in the purple dress leaned against me as she took a drag on the cigarette.  I did my best not to tense up.

“That’s a cool ring,” the girl with the tattooed breasts said, grabbing my hand and pulling it toward her.

“Thanks,” I said, wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.  I wasn’t sure where the conversation was going, so I decided to steer things out of the swinging single scene.  “My girlfriend gave it to me.”

As the tattooed-breast girl (from now on, I’ll call her “Texas”) and the girl in the purple dress (from now on, I’ll call her “girl in the purple dress”) were smoking the last resinated remnants of the cigarette, I turned to the girl in the purple dress and told her that my girlfriend and I were debating whether she had any underwear on.

“Oh yeah?” she said.  “Yes, I’m wearing underwear.  If I didn’t, every time I bent over I’d be showin’ the beaver to everyone.  I don’t always wear underwear, though, do I?” she asked Texas.  Texas shook her head.  I nodded my head.

The girl in the purple dress handed the cigarette back to me.  “I’m finished, thanks.”

I pulled out my pocketknife and stuck the cigarette on the end of a blade.  I took another drag and handed it to Texas.

Texas gave me a conspiratorial smile and flashed her eyebrows.  “Hey, that’s pretty creative,” she added.

The girl in the purple dress decided to put on a show so she stepped to the back of the storage area, picked up an old Mardi Gras mask and did a little dance.  “What do you think?” she asked us.

I was embarrassed because I was in such close proximity to both women.  I looked around the storage area, saw that there were a few more masks and said, “There’s a mask with purple feathers that might match your dress better.”

The girl gave me a quizzical look and then held up the mask in her hand.  “Well, the feathers in this mask match pretty good.”

I wanted to say, “Oh yeah, baby, you look great,” but my low self-esteem prevented me from continuing the conversation with a wild and pretty woman.  Instead, I said, “Why don’t you try the purple mask?”

“Never mind,” she replied and threw the mask down.  “Hey,” she said to a guy standing next to the portable toilet that created the fourth wall of the storage area, “when can I take my turn?”

Texas handed the last half-inch of the cigarette toward me and I waved her off.  The girl in the purple dress looked at both of us, winked at Texas and said, “I think I’ll get in line.  I gotta pee.”

I turned my attention to Texas.  I couldn’t see her eyes because she was wearing shades.  She was shorter than me, about five-foot three or four.  Her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail which she had wound around into a loose bun, presumably because of the heat.  “So where are you from?” I asked Texas.

“Oh, you’ve probably never heard of it.  I live in Laurel, Mississippi.  What should I do with this?” she asked, holding up the smoldering paper of the leftover cigarette.

“I guess just put it out in the grass.”

As Texas bent over to put out the cigarette, I took the opportunity to see what she looked like from the head down.  She wore what, for lack of a better description, I would call a tube top, made of cotton T-shirt material and held up by spaghetti string.  The top V’ed down between her breasts, exposing her cleavage and the two temporary tattoos of a Dalmatian dog on the side of one breast and a ladybug on the other.  At her throat was a tattoo of a butterfly.  I’m not a very good judge of weight but Texas was well-proportioned for her height.  Her breasts were full, not so large that they sagged, more like they slightly drooped down.  Her butt was just a little large, say a 40 instead of a perfect 36 and her blue jean shorts fitted nicely without looking too tight.  I would wager a guess that she’ll have a problem with weight as she gets older.  Her skin was the color of cork, tanned and smooth.

“Do you live around here?” she asked, her face flushed from bending over.

“No, I came from North Port, Florida.”

“Did you come last night?  I mean, did you stay in a hotel overnight?” she corrected, and I wondered what she was getting at.  Actually, I didn’t wonder but I was playing a game of chess with our talk and I didn’t want her to feel like she was letting me win the game, leading me to checkmate, if you will.

“We drove up this morning and just got here a little while ago.  Boy, it’s hot.”

“Yep.  You know, I sure wish I was back in Texas.”

“Is it hot there right now?”  I quizzed, trying to figure out the twist.

“I’m sure it is.  You know what I do for a living?”  I shook my head.  “I know you’ll think it’s crazy but I pull the heads off chickens.”  I scrunched my face.  “Oh, it’s not that bad.  You hear all these stories on the television but you wouldn’t believe how sanitary that place is.  Those birds are clean as they can be going through the line.  We have to wash down everything.”

“So how did you get from Texas to plucking chickens in Mississippi?”

“I went to Texas A&M…”

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, expecting to hear the tale of another college dropout who was abandoned by her ex-boyfriend and left to fend for herself.

“…and got my degree in poultry science.  You know, chickens are such wonderful creatures.  They’re really well-behaved.”

“Is she telling you about those chickens?” the girl in the purple dress asked me, while pulling her dress down as she stepped out of the toilet (yes, she was wearing underwear, bikini not thong).  “You gotta be careful with her or you’ll hear about chickens all day.”

Texas gave her a hurt look, then turned to me and rolled her eyes.

“You know you’re my best friend,” the girl in the purple dress said, putting her arm around Texas.  “This girl and I have done everything together.  We go way back.  Hey, did you tell her about the speedboat?”  Texas shook her head.  The girl in the purple dress turned to me.  “You won’t believe this.”  She looked up and down my body and squinted her eyes.  “Then again, maybe you will.  Yesterday, we were walking down Beale Street when this foreign guy, all dressed up and everything, invited us to a bar.  We said why not and followed him.  Turns out that he owns some kind of foreign business that he wanted us to help him sell.  What do you think of that?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

“Could be dangerous, I suppose.”

“Naw, are you kiddin’?  He was just talking to us in the bar.  Well, after a while, we figured we had had enough and were about to leave when another guy walks up, recognizes our guy and starts asking him about his business.  You remember his name?”

“Nanu?” Texas answered.

“Nanu, Nainesh, something like that.  Anyway, Nainesh and this guy invite us to go out on a boat on the river to see the city from the water.  We got to the dock and saw the coolest boat I’ve ever seen.  Have you ever seen a speedboat?”  I nodded my head.  “Man, this thing had everything.  It was packed with booze and even had a place for a few people to sleep, if you wanted.”

Texas cut in, “It was such a big boat, we weren’t sure if we should get on it.”

“Yeah, right,” the girl in the purple dress shot back.  “We jumped on in.  We sat in the back and let the guys get their kicks with the controls.  Woo-eee, did it go fast.”

“My turn,” Texas said, stepping into the toilet.

Bob, one of the team members, stepped up at that time.  Bob was about five-feet nine and weighed over 300 pounds.  He wore an Izod shirt with the collar flipped up and talked like he used to be what my dad calls a BMOC (big woman on campus).  To the girls, he acted like an over-horny fat guy and he was one of the wolves they had been trying to avoid.  “So, have you been having a good time?”

“Yeah, great, thanks,” she responded and shot her a perturbed look.  She turned back to me.  “Eventually, the guys decided to stop the boat because they wanted to talk.”

Bob snickered.  “I bet they wanted to talk.”

“Uh-huh.  Instead, they let us drive the boat for a while and it was great.  By the time Nainesh took the controls back, I was drunk as a skunk.  We finally stopped at some island.”  The girl in the purple dress smiled at me.  She looked at my eyes for a moment and in that time we both sensed that the look was pivotal for establishing the rest of our day.  With her hands on her hips and her right hip turned up, she was sending out every physical and chemical signal that she was ready for a very intimate conversation.  In that moment, Bob said something but neither one of us paid attention.

How long was that moment?  By my watch, I don’t know.  I do know that in that moment I was able to see my true self.  All the self-doubt, all the philosophical musing, all the questions about why I’m here, all of that stuff just fell away and I was standing naked in front of the girl in the purple dress.  I could not believe that I could do that.  I had worked so hard to put walls and barriers around me that I forgot what human-to-human contact was like.  The girl, too, stood there exposed.  Between us was a bridge that either one of us could cross but I knew that the girl was leaving me to do the crossing.

Bob slapped me on the back, and said, “Make way.”

In my peripheral vision, I could see that Texas was stepping out of the toilet.  The moment between the girl in the purple dress and me was broken.  I reacted to it before I sensed it was over.

“So did you get a chance to talk then?” I asked for some stupid reason, realizing too late how juvenile I sounded.

“Huh?” the girl asked, shaking her head as the moment passed.  “No, of course not.”

“So what did…” I started.

“Just say that it was later on that afternoon before we got back to the dock.”  The moment was broken.

“Hey, hey, you need help with that?” Bob asked and I turned to see Texas stepping out of the toilet and pulling her shorts up.

“It’s too crowded in there to put your clothes back on,” Texas said with a sheepish grin, as Bob and I looked down at her flowery underwear.

“Let me help you tuck your shirt back in,” Bob volunteered.

“Maybe you oughta step back in there because you’re lettin’ the whole world see your panties,” the girl in the purple dress said.

Texas stepped back into the storage area as she buttoned her fly.  “It’s hot in there.”

“It sure is,” I said.

The girl in the purple dress was standing a couple of feet to my right.  When I turned from Texas, I was eye-to-eye with the girl in the purple dress.  She tried to rekindle the moment with words because the look was still in her eyes.  “It’s hot and sweaty everywhere,” she said, baring her thoughts once more.

I stared back at her.  Some of the old thoughts came creeping into my head.  Should I assume that her goal is sex with me and mine is not as if I am some pure thinker and she a sex-crazed pagan?  Have I really let the syphilis and gonorrhea propaganda films from fifth grade shape my perception of sex as dirty, dangerous, and verboten?  What if she doesn’t want sex and really wants to bare her soul?  Would that make me the sex-crazed pagan?  “I don’t even know what I want out of life and I’m standing here playing the game of life with a stranger,” I told myself.  “I can’t tell the difference between flirting and going for the real thing.”

“Is that right?” I heard Bob said to Texas, breaking the trance between the girl in the purple dress and me.

“Yeah, they use every part.  We even ship the chicken feet to some place in Asia.  I don’t know about you girls but I am burning up.”

“You’re right about that,” I said cheerfully, finding a way out of the situation.  “I think I’ll get something to drink.”  With that said, I walked over to the cooler, pulled out a bottle of water and sat down next to my girlfriend.

After I cooled off, I took a walk with Richelle to see the remaining booths.  We enjoyed the relative peace and quiet, trying our best to handle the heat as we walked around the park.  We split a basket of fries and a funnel cake to quell our hunger, spent some time answering questions from a pollster, and walked off some of the drunkenness by the time we got back to booth 104 an hour or so later.

When we got back, the girl in the purple dress was gone.  Texas was still hanging out, enjoying some of the beer from a keg set up under the umbrella.  Texas was sitting in the “cafe” part of the booth, talking with one of the team members.  She made eye contact with me and bee-lined straight to where I was sitting.

Texas was not smashed but she was well on her way to getting drunk.  She sat on the arm of the bench next to me and talked into my ear because the DJ…oh, did I mention that they had hired a DJ for the booth?  She and I had shared a hand-rolled cigarette just before Richelle and I took a walk.  She had met one of the team members the week before at a dance club.  One thing led to another and she got herself hired for this event.  Not only was she the DJ but she was also the keeper of the liquor stash.  She had downed a few cups of Wild Turkey herself and kept cranking up the music as the day progressed.

“How’s it goin’?” Texas asked me, her mouth inches from my ear.  Keep in mind that Richelle was sitting on the other side of me.

“Hot,” I responded neutrally.

“Where’ve you been?” she continued.

“Richelle and I took a walk to see the other booths.”

Texas shook her head.  “That’s cool.  Is there anything interesting to see?  I mean, would you want to go back and see another booth?” she practically whispered in my ear.

“Not really,” I said, not sure if I was imagining the whole thing.

“That’s cool.”

“So,” I picked up, “how do you plan to get back to Texas?”

“Texas?” she said, moving her head around to face mine.  “Oh yeah.  I don’t know.”  She took a sip of her beer and nodded her head toward me.  The look on her face said she was waiting for me to speak.

I figured any conversation with sexual overtones would be a waste of time.  “You still haven’t told me how you got from Texas to Mississippi.”

“I’ve got a degree in Poultry Science,” she said proudly.

“So you said.  Are you involved in the design of the chicken processing plant?”

“Not yet but I love my job.  I’m really helping them refine the process.  You know, those birds are so cool.  Have you ever been to one of those plants?  Everything is used.”

“Even the feet?” I asked knowingly.

“Yeah.  Say, what are you doing for the rest of the day?”

“I don’t know…” I began.

Viv yelled across the booth, “Hey, Davina, the barbecue’s ready!”

Richelle tapped me on the shoulder.  I nodded my head at her and turned back to Texas.  “What are you planning to do?”

“Just hang out, I guess.  You girls are the most happenin’ place around.”

“You’re kidding,” I replied.

“No, you’ve got the music, you’ve got the beer, and now the barbecue.  And all you girls are great,” she ended with a warm smile and a hand on my shoulder.

Richelle pulled my right arm with her hand.  “Honey, the barbecue’s ready.”

“Okay,” I answered, leaning forward to stand up from the bench.  I turned back to Texas.  “Well, I’ve enjoyed meeting you.  I guess it’s time to eat some barbecue.  Are you going to stay around for long?”

“As long as you’re fun.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s the point.”

“Well, I’m thirty years old.  I figure if I haven’t found a guy and had kids by now, I’m not planning to have kids anytime soon.  All I want to do is have fun right now.”

“That sounds great.  I hope you have fun.  I’m going to have some barbecue.  Seeya.”

The barbecue was smooth.  It went just as well with mustard sauce as it did with the regular sweet-and-spicy barbecue sauce.

Texas and I nodded at each other the rest of the afternoon as I watched her go from guy to guy looking for someone to talk to and have fun with.  She seemed pleased as punch.  Richelle said she saw her later that day walking back into the booth, her hair down and disheveled, accompanied by one of the team members who had a mischievous grin on her face.

The barbecue cookoff was definitely fun.  I can’t remember the last time I let my guard down in front of another woman besides Richelle (I certainly can’t remember the last time I let my guard down and the end result was not sex — probably when I dropped acid with Helen in high school).  That’s a long time in my book.  Well, that’s what my life has become, hasn’t it?  A book.

 

Pencil Pusher

“Davina, gal, you’re missing some prime opportunities for action with the ladies, you know that?  If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were married.”

 

“Well, I’m not.”

 

“You might as well be.  Don’t let your single life completely go to waste.  It’s like my old woman said.  There are three stages to life.  In the first stage, you’re always younger than the Playboy centerfold.  In the second stage, you’re within the age range of the centerfold and should take advantage of it at every opportunity.  The rest of your life is the third stage, when you’re always older than the centerfold.  ‘Use it or lose it,’ my momma said, ‘cause their things just keeps shrivelin’ up the older you get.’  You better start getting every chance you can get before you get old and married.”

 

“But not necessarily in that order!” Birch said.

 

“You got that right,” Sam added with a laugh.

 

 

“Did that sign say Huntsville?” Davina asked.

 

“Yeah, why?” Birch asked back.

 

“I’d really like to see my aunt.”

 

“You and your family!  Well, we’re going to need gas pretty soon.  I’m willing to make a quick detour but we’re not staying very long.”

 

“You’ve at least gotta drive by the museum,” Sam said.

 

“What do you care about the museum?”

 

“I don’t know.  Davina said it’d be cool for us to see the rocket out front.  That’s all.”

 

“Fine,” Birch said.  “Here’s the exit for Huntsville.”  She turned onto I-565.  “We can walk around the museum while Davina visits with her aunt.”  Birch handed her cell phone to Davina.  “Call your aunt on my phone.”

 

Davina dialed the number.

 

“Hello?” her aunt said.

 

“Aunt Lee, it’s Davina.”

 

“Davina who?  Just kidding.  What’s up?  You okay?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“That’s cool,” Aunt Lee said, sounding distracted.  “I thought you were on spring break.”

 

“I am.  Hey, are you busy?”

 

“Well, I am watching a movie.”

 

“What’s it called?”

 

“’Naqoyqatsi.’”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s a movie about humanity and the destruction of the environment.”

 

“Uh, okay.  Well, do you think you could break away from the movie for a few minutes?”

 

“Sure,” Aunt Lee said.  “Okay, what’s up?  You okay?”

 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.  Would you be willing to visit with me in a few?”

 

“Visit you?”

 

“Yeah, me and some friends are just a few miles outside of Huntsville and we’re going to stop at the space museum.”

 

“Cool.  You gonna ride the Space Shot?”

 

“I dunno.  I was kind of hoping I could visit with you and Aunt Karen while the rest of the girls walked around the museum.”

 

“Well, sure, I’ll stop by the museum, if you want.  How soon do you think you’ll be there?”

 

“Fifteen minutes?”

 

“Well, I gotta put some clothes on so it’ll take me at least forty-five.  Wait for me by the entrance, willya?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Is this your cell phone?”

 

“No, it’s my friend’s.”

 

“Well, that explains the odd Caller ID number.”

 

“But I’ve got mine with me.”

 

“Okay, if it takes me longer than forty-five minutes to get to the museum, I’ll let you know.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Seeya in a few minutes, kid.”

 

 

“Damn!  Now that’s a rocket!” Birch exclaimed, looking at the Saturn V mockup in front of the museum.  “Makes my vibrator look like a little pencil,” she said with a laugh.

 

“Told you you’d like it.”

 

They pulled into the museum parking lot and walked up to the front door.

 

“Shit, it’s closed,” Birch said.  “I could be banging some chick in Georgia but no, I get to stand here with you girls and stare at a closed door.”

 

They walked back to the car.  Birch turned the key but her 1995 BMW 325i wouldn’t start.  “No problem,” she said, popping the hood.  “Bet it’s a fuse.”

 

Birch opened the hood.  “Uh, let’s see, here’s the fuse box.  You girls know anything about fuses?”

 

“Yeah.  If the wire’s burnt through, the fuse is busted.”

 

Birch pulled off the fuse box cover.  “Wow, there are more of these things than I thought,” she said to herself.  She tried to pull out a fuse by hand but there wasn’t enough grip with her chewed-off fingernails.

 

“Hey, Davina, look in the glove compartment.  I think there’s a Leatherman in there.”

 

Davina climbed in the car and opened the glove compartment.  “There’s a spare light bulb and a mini-flashlight but I don’t see a Leatherman.”

 

“Oh, yeah, it’s in the trunk with the repair manual.”  Birch walked around to the trunk.  She leaned against the trunk for a few seconds.  “You know, fuck it.  Dad got me AAA.  I’m just gonna call them and let them figure this out.”  Birch flipped open her cell phone and called AAA.  At the prompt, she typed in her AAA number.

 

“My car’s broken down.  In Huntsville, Alabama.  Yeah, the US Space and Rocket Center.  No, I don’t know the address but there can’t be more than one of these things in this town.  Yes, I’m in the parking lot.  A white BMW with four girls standing around.  Duh, the car’s broke down.  I’m not going anywhere.  Yes, we’ll wait.”

 

“Well, girls, looks like it’ll be a few minutes.  What say we light up the pipe before AAA gets here?”

 

“All right with me,” Sam said.

 

“None for me, thanks,” Torrance said.  “I’m a little burned out.  Davina, you got anything else to read?”

 

“I guess so.  I didn’t really plan on bringing a bunch of stuff for you to read.”  Davina grabbed her bag out of the back seat.

 

“Hey, I’ll read anything right now.”

 

“In that case, here’s a little something I’ve been working on.  It’s not finished.”

 

 

The Unveiling

Sister Gooch checked her morning email.  She had founded the Virtual Church of the Undecided web page on a whim but found that many people sent her emails in which they sought her advice and asked for sources of information as if she were a minister or priest.  She was never sure how to respond. She did not want to give anyone the impression that she was a channel for the voice of ancestors, animals or gods.  However, she discovered that many people wanted one person to be their guide.  From this, she understood the popularity of psychic phone lines but she did not want to take advantage of others so she decided to accept everyone as her adopted family.

“Sweetheart, can you take out the trash before you go?” Lilly called from the garage.  “I don’t have time this morning.”

“Sure dear,” Gooch yelled back.  “Love you!”

“Love you, too.  Seeya at lunch,” her wife responded, closing the garage door.

Gooch looked back at the computer screen.

Sister Gooch,
I have enjoyed looking at your web site.  I, too, have wondered what I am doing on this planet and thought your web site had many helpful insights.  I thought I knew a lot about you until I looked at your web site.

Since you’re quite the guru these days, maybe you can help me with a problem.  You see, I’m uncertain what to do.  As you know, I have many varied interests such as cooking, photography, reading (I am particularly enjoying Charles Portis’ books these days), running, believe it or not, sewing – as a means to an end (I made a parsons chair slipcover over the weekend), antique rose gardening, and watching independent/foreign films.

My marriage with Phillip is great.  I am always coming up with design ideas and asking Phillip to implement them.  She has a pottery wheel and an industrial-sized kiln and I am always requesting items for her to make and what color glaze I would like for her to concoct.  Also she will be taking a drawing course at the local museum next month and I have quite a list of items that I would like for her to sketch for me!!! I am glad that Phillip is artistic, as well as an engineer!

Phillip is a great guy but how can I tell if a marriage with Phillip will work?  Any ideas would help.  By the way, I look forward to reading your new book and hope that I’m in it!  You know if there’s anything help you need to finish the book, feel free to call me or come by.

Thanks,
Charisse

Gooch reread the email.  What was Charisse really asking about?  She knew that Charisse was a more secure person than she.  Had she been missing the message all along?  Hadn’t she once told her that she missed her, despite her being married and she having a boyfriend at the time?  But now she is married so she couldn’t be asking Gooch about her and her.

Something touched Gooch’s left shoulder.  She jumped out of the chair and turned around.  “Oh, it’s you,” she said.

“Honey, are you all right?” Lilly asked, puzzled.  “Is something the matter?”

“What? No, no problem.  Just didn’t expect you to be here, that’s all.”

“Oh, okay.  Hey, have you seen my sunglasses?  I can’t find them.”

“No.”

“Well, could you help me find them?”

“Sure,” Gooch responded, heading toward the door.

Lilly glanced at the computer screen, skimming down the email, and wondered what had made Gooch so jumpy.

After Lilly left, Gooch went back to the computer.  She hesitated, hovering her fingers over the keyboard like the tendrils of a vine searching for the trunk of a tree to grab onto.

Charisse,
I apologize for blasting your emailbox with my journal entries lately and I’m about to do the same again.  Sending these to you and then copying them to myself is the only way I can ensure that I don’t destroy my computer writing.  I suppose I could start writing these in Microsoft Word and then saving them to disk instead.  Oh well, you’ll have to suffer through one more email today.  Then, I won’t keep bothering you with my mental meanderings.  In the long run, you will be better off not associating with me — my need for a personal space makes me become vicious and cruel when I feel others are getting close.  I guess mainly that’s why I’ve enjoyed talking to you via email.  This way, I have no direct contact with another human.  So what am I saying?  Well, I’m feeling depressed right now, so I’m stoking the internal fires of self-doubt to make me feel better (what a joke!).  If I snap (as I sometimes do when I’m in a mood like this — I believe it’s called the Napoleon complex) and I tell/ask you to fuck off, you’ve been warned, you had the opportunity to say it first!

By the way, I read the first few pages of Fred Exley’s “A Fan’s Notes.”  Right now, it’s not safe for me to go on any further.  Knowing what I do about our relationship and having just finished Hawthorne’s “The Minister’s Black Veil,” I can hardly go on.  I know that sounds foolish but I can’t read that book, study for final exams, deal with Lilly, work on my current book and keep my head straight all at the same time. I have my limits.

Talk to you in the future,
Sister Gooch

There are times when being by myself is my pain and my cure.  Then again, I can be sitting in the woods crying for help and no one knows it.  In the end, it doesn’t matter because we alone make our own decisions.  There will not be a “deus ex machina” showing up in Act III of my life.  Besides, why should I wait until the end of my life to save me from my past?
This has not been a good week.  Final exams are next week and my wife returned home after being gone so long that I got used to living by myself.  I will not make any rash decisions until after I complete my final exams.  Then some mental pressure will be off me and I can clearly decide what I plan to do with myself.  I don’t see MIS (management information science) in my future but that is the kind of degree that is popular now.

I wonder if I can find a simple existence that will keep me occupied and give me stimulus.  Sometimes you’ve got to jump into the fire before you see it’s just a mirage…the leap of faith stuff and all that.  I am sorry for myself that I am such an indecisive, wishy-washy, scared-of-her-own-shadow person (don’t kid yourself, Gooch, you’re just lazy); where could I be now if I were otherwise?  Why do I think that the mirage (a psychedelic image composed of “you’ll never make it” and “you’re not worthy”) hides other existences that are actually worse than the one I have?  Fuck it.  The pain I feel now is imaginary to be sure but I can’t sit here for the umpteenth time telling myself that I am better off than children starving in India.  I am not Indian, after all.

I’ve got to stop asking, “What else is there?” — just make up some answer, test it out and go on!  How long can I keep sitting here in a pile of self-pity shit?  Do I fear not being able to stand on my own two feet (another cliché, oh boy)?  So what if I fall down — it’s not like I haven’t ended up on the floor puking all over myself a few times before (but there was always someone there to clean up after me).  It’s just…well, it’s that part about ending up by myself that I haven’t resolved (kinda like it’s not the fear of death that bothers me, it’s ending up maimed that would freak me out) — I can always seek out new friends, can’t I?  At the rate I keep pushing people away from me it won’t matter.  Is there a safe place for the strange to live by themselves (and why do I keep thinking I’m strange? Aaaagggghh – I’ve got to stop struggling over wanting to be unique versus seeking out kindred spirits)?  Oh well, enough self-flagellating for one day.

I have an innate distrust of professionals — people who consistently work for money — probably because I’m such an amateur.  Why did I give up seeking professional advice?  Hell, I was paying for a secular minister, wasn’t I?  When was the last visit?  Um, late fall 2000, maybe.  The last thing the psychiatrist told me was I’ve got to decide that I want to live.  Why am I killing my creative self?  What am I afraid of?  Am I afraid of anything?  Why do I feel like I’m an imposter?  Why do I care what other people think?  Who are they, anyway?  I am who I am.  There’s no getting around it.  If…well, didn’t a friend of mine ask me if I’m not trying to exorcise something from me? Just one more week to find out.  If only…what was that?…oh nothing, I say to myself with a smirk, it was just a thought.  I’m safer keeping things to myself.  Am I tired of playing the game, the game that starts with interaction between two people and then grows into a society.  I’ve got to be careful.  I’ve painted myself into a corner before.  What’s the difference between the corner of a cliff and the corner of a room?  You can find many people who will drive you up a wall but you’ll only find one person who will drive you off a cliff.

Okay, so what I’ve got to consider is the following.  I know where I want to be.  Now I’ve got to be strong and stick to the plan.  What’s the plan?  Well, this is going over the Internet, isn’t it?  Yes, but to only one intended person. Let’s say I found someone who might keep her distance, has her own life, yet would spend the time to encourage me to break the bonds of mediocrity to devote my time to my writing (oh, quit it, you’re not kidding anyone, you’re still playing it safe because one, you already have a friend like that and two, that’s not what you’re thinking (and what am I thinking?  Hahaha, like there aren’t a million thoughts on this subject to choose from so no matter how much I write on the topic of having a friend external to myself, I will never get on paper exactly who or what I’m talking about but let’s just say…no, let’s not.  I prefer mystery, like the kind of mystery of what’s in the bottom of a bowl of gumbo, doesn’t matter because it smells good and you know it’s going to taste good so why bother analyzing the ingredients, just consume it)).  If there is no emotional bond (giving myself (or do I mean someone else?) another out on this one), then she wouldn’t care if I felt the need to tell her to fuck off sometimes.  At the same time, what would she be getting in return (at last, a chance for…should I dare say it…yes, I could be rejected here but officially, I’m the only one reading this)?  Hell, if I knew that, I wouldn’t pretend to be talking to myself, would I?  But then, when have I ever known what another person thinks?  Oh well, my other option is creating within my self the strength to break the bonds of mediocrity to devote time to my writing and in the end — let’s be serious here — that’s what I’ll be doing.  Hasn’t happened before so why think I can do it in the future? Everything goes in a circle, I’m back to beating myself with self-doubt again.  Okay, stop that.  Back to the plan.  Four more days to study for my final exams – tonight (Friday) (study for the business law exam as well as plan the darn trip coming up), Saturday, Sunday, Monday, test on Tuesday, test on Wednesday (my birthday!), Thursday to recover, go to east Florida on Friday night to see my folks, return on Sunday, Lilly goes to Albuquerque on Monday.  Monday evening I’m free to do what I want again.  I will wait until at least another week to decide my fate.  Wow, I feel energized already and I haven’t even decided what to do yet.  Ah, but the decision to take a step is a step in the right direction!  You know what sucks (and I’m only saying this because I know I tend to push this out of my mind at convenient times) is that one thread of thought throughout my life has been the desire to make others happy, including my family, my wife and her family, and other people around me.  Finding the strength to break free of mediocrity is letting people deal with who I am.  I can’t carry the world on my shoulders.  That’s going to be a hard one to get over (how do I be myself without the crutch of drugs to lean on?).  Well, I’ve got to have a few personal struggles to look forward to, don’t I?  Time to call it a night on this one.
At lunch, Lilly asked Gooch how things were going.  She smiled her “I love you” smile, shook her head, and said, “Oh, it’s just that work and school are stressing me out right now.”
Lilly stretched her arm across the table and grasped Gooch’s hand.  “I worry about you, sweetheart.”
“As you should,” Gooch thought.  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she responded, “I’ll be fine in a few days.”

On Monday morning, Gooch checked her email at work.

Goocheeeeee,

I look forward to your completion of your exams, your book, et al.

C

Gooch thought for a moment.  “I do not rely on just a few words from Charisse.”  She repeated for good measure, “I do not rely on just a few words from Charisse.”  Feeling better, Gooch started a new email.

C,
This weekend, against my better judgment, assuming that I have something within me that sees a pure source of life from which to judge my actions, I picked up the hardback copy of “A Fan’s Notes” that I had purchased on Friday.  I hoped that reading the book would bring me out of my latest funk. To say that I have been in a funk lately would mean very little to you, perhaps, because I don’t know much about the emotional states you have experienced.  I only know the so-called intellectual pursuits of yours.  But we who pursue the intellectual do so out of a desire for more, a desire that drives us, either toward or away, I cannot say, but a desire that grows from a feux d’artifice.  My funk is self-induced, as usual, and I can refer to the psychiatrist’s classification of me to surmise that the funk I’m in derives its strength from my fear of taking tests, which is really a symbol of my fear of failure that I never experienced until I dismally flunked calculus at during my freshman year, confirming my suspicions in high school that when it comes to the love of engineering and science, I am just a fake.  My true love of learning is literature and the arts, where my capitalistic upbringing has led me to believe salaries are typically low and thus would be unrewarding.  Well, I fear that the tests I am about to take only confirm that I am still banging my head against the wall of Gooch the science fraud, meaning that I should get A’s in both classes, if I don’t royally fuck the finals, but will get no personal satisfaction (oh, do I see out of the corner of my eye that ugly thought of instant gratification creeping into the picture?).  I know, instead, that what bothers me is the Gooch who hates the society she lives in (or perhaps, any society at all; I don’t know because I have lived in only one society).

When I picked up Exley’s epoch struggle for the lost soul, I wondered if, in time for my final exams (or perhaps, at all), I would return from that literary journey of the mind of a football fan on the fringes of life.  I wondered if his hell would be my hell, if when I found out that he succumbed to the torments of life and did not return, whether I would find the courage to lift my hooded eyes and look to the horizon.  His journey is not mine, after all, and I may find a fork in the road never seen before (the superfluous (ubiquitous?) “road less traveled”).  Well, I need wonder no more.

I finished “A Fan’s Life” about thirty minutes ago.  I am surprised at the ease with which I flew through the book, the images of the town drunk – ex-P.R. guy, teacher, etc. – rushing by like scenes from a Doris Day and Rock Hudson movie of the ’50s.  Of course, his writing is not bogged down with philosophical treatises.  He doesn’t so much explain his philosophy as he shows us how he lived it.  I thank you for suggesting the book to me.  At the same time, I want to choke you for putting a mirror up to my face, for showing me the lies I plaster all over my body with the words that come out of my mouth (pen, keyboard, whatever) that one day I will be a woman of letters.  Mirrors are reflections of the outside of a person only.  When this week is over, I will have the time to pitch out the words that sit within this shrinking frame.  I would rather starve and write than sit in the life I have where I’m fat, dumb and…scared.

Now the time for studying is upon me,
G

P.S. Got to remember to talk about: positive intent of TVs, Muzak, news; literary tools on hand – dictionary, thesaurus, classics (or are they modern-day weapons?), writing tools (pen vs. keyboard), creative sources, creative outlets; new futures (breaking/building on the past), financial planning (simple lifestyle), emotional issues (personal – building, breaking, holding, using; professional – arbitrary success/failure); safety versus adventure, numbness in vs. learning through pain; current projects (Diary of a Suicide, New World Order, Tireone, Gooch’s family); the silence of the audience, the squawking of official critics.

Gooch sent the email on to Charisse.  She then answered a few emails inquiring about various topics including the teachings of Joseph Campbell, a web page promoting the religion of a horizontal god based on Jesus not Buddha, the writings of L. Ron Hubbard and a cure for toenail fungus.

The next day Gooch took a long lunch.  When she got back she heard a familiar Siren on her voice mailbox, “Gooch-e-e-e, it’s me.  I wanted justa…um…chit-chat for a little bit.  I have been so busy I’ve been able to just very quickly read your emails but not really spend much time because it’s been such a busy, busy time at work and,” Charisse said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I’ve been looking for a new job and I’ve got some new leads so I’m ver-r-y excited.  Anyway, I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes.  Um…but you can just listen to the sound of my voice and then hit erase.  Talk to you later.  See you.  Bye.”

Gooch let several days pass before she listened to the voicemail again.  She waited a few more days before she replied.

Gooch sat down in front of the computer.  She turned back to the phone and replayed the message.  “My, how Charisse likes to tease,” she tried to tell herself but the tiny sandbags of words she threw out were not enough to hold the floodgates of her ravaged mind.

“I have spoken to you for so long that I’ve forgotten if I am talking to you, the person I know who will read this, or you, the person for whom this is intended, my long lost love.  Will I never love another like my intended?  Perhaps that is the personal problem from which I will never recover.  Can a personality be a problem, though?  No, because I live in a fantasy world that contains enough of the world around me to help me maintain an appearance of sanity, my personality is only a problem in comparison to those around me, those with whom I must carry on the activity called work.” — Z. T. Henderson

——–
C,
You need not worry about answering these emails.  Take them for what they are, the musings of a semi-madwoman.  You have been fortunate to perform well in our society, despite your saying that you are more mad than wise.  What does that say about our society?  Is the secret to life that we are all mad?  If that is so, then I am madder still.

When I stop entertaining you with these words, let me know and I will return to entertaining myself.  If I write solely for my pleasure, then I’m never sure if that is pure madness.  I am sometimes embarrassed that I get enjoyment from reading my writing, what a teacher character in the movie, “Fame,” referred to as masturbating, when a young student complained that she need not play violin in an orchestra because she could create a one-man orchestra with synthesizers.  The teacher said something like, “That is not music.  That is masturbating.”  Could it not also be said that person is a seeker and giver at the same time and thus whole?  Depends on your definition of life I suppose.

Well, my friend, you have given me the impetus to complete my journey through the minds of those who’ve gone before me, those who blazed a trail that I have unknowingly followed.  In other words, I completed the novels, “The Fan’s Notes,” “Portrait of The Artist as a Young Man,” and “The Tin Drum,” all in the past week.  Now what am I supposed to do? After all, “to know is to do.” I’m fairly certain that I know what I want to do but I cannot complete my plan overnight.

I do not have the notes before me of the thoughts I wanted to share with you so please excuse the lack of continuity between this set of notes and the last one.  Also, I will, as usual, share with you words that may or may not contribute to the friendship between Charisse and Gooch.  I’ve heard that honesty is not the best policy but I am not here to try to impress you, attract you to me, or otherwise falsely influence you in any way.  Instead, I am here of my own free will to share these words with you so that one or both of us may learn something about the human condition, from which we may gather strength, wisdom, beauty, and I don’t know what else, to use in the next life (that is, the next life that will be the moments we have not yet lived, moments that we are not merely repeating or stretching out for lack of something else to do).  I have lived this life long enough.  I can gain little else besides boredom, patience and an early death (death to self, not death to life).

I have spoken to you of a plan for my next life and you have stated that you anticipate reading about the plan, if plan is the right word to describe the preparation to pack my bags, acquire the necessary papers and board the ship that will carry me…carry me across unknown waters?…away from something?…toward new adventures?…I cannot sufficiently describe the vessel and journey I seek because I seek the unknown.  Right now, the preparation is the thing.  If you want a full description of the contents of my bag, I shall give it to you.  I shall give it to you in the next paragraph, which you may skip if you are not interested.

I turn from this laptop to look at my bag.  Actually, I have to use more than one bag to pack my things but I am not taking all of the things with me.  A couple of the bags are labeled, “excess baggage,” and contain, as you easily surmise, the contents of my current life that have become, shall I say, superfluous?  The bags I will take with me have been meticulously measured, the dimensions determined, and the space within filled to the brim with artifacts belonging to a member of the culture known simply as America.  Has anyone ever seen Atlantis or is it an inspiration only?  In any case, my artifacts may well have come from Atlantis for their use in the future is independent of the utopian promise they imply.  Shall I enumerate (should that be “elaborate”)?  I carry with me the following: my writings to date, a dictionary, a thesaurus (Roget’s International to be exact), a small collection of the Classics (mainly dead white guys, including Epictetus, Marcina Aurelius, Shakespeare, Locke, Poe, etc.), a laptop computer, retirement planning worksheet, clothes, photo albums and . . . well, I haven’t finished packing yet but the list of items will get boring if I continue.

Okay, let’s say I have finished packing.  Now what?  My dear friend, the one who lives far away yet sits in the corner of my mind, I’m beginning to see what I want to do.  Look at my mind with me.  Can you see it?  Have the worlds and images I’ve projected given you enough to illuminate the scene?  Perhaps not.  I do not always speak clearly.  In any event, the witching hour approaches and I must away.  Lilly and I are going to east Florida this weekend to spend time with our parents.  I have not packed for this small trip.

I probably shouldn’t say this but I’ll record the words that I was pleased to hear the voice of the broom-straw girl on the phone.  That I could not talk to her was a disappointment but not the end of the world.  I hope that you find the job you’re looking for.  I look forward to hearing about the vocation you plan to pursue.  You sounded very excited about getting a new job.

I told my boss today that I no longer plan to do computer support. She told me she would see what the company could do for me.  I think the best thing this company can do for me is giving me my share of the 401k money I have earned.  But that is part of my plan, isn’t it?

Gooch sent the email.  She shut down the computer and raced home to pack clothes for a weekend visit to see her mother and mother-in-law on Mother’s Day.  What did they know of her heart?  She had a comfortable life and a comfortable relationship with her wife.  What more could a woman’s parents ask for besides grandchildren?

Throughout the weekend, Gooch felt uneasy.  She walked with her father through an exhibit of local racecars.  She looked in the eyes of the men at the show and could not look back with confidence because she felt that she was lying to them about who she was.  She was not a garage mechanic, a car saleswoman or local gal.  She was a dreamer, a wordsmith, a woman of fantasy worlds where people did not lose their arms and teeth in terrible accidents while pursuing their dreams.

Gooch suffered through the weekend, as only she knew how — she punished herself on a minute-by-minute basis, thrashing herself with a whip of deprecation.

On Monday, she sent another email to Charisse.

Hey, I’m sure you had a good weekend.  I hope you took advantage of our society’s insistence on creating a single day to recognize our maternal relatives and called your mother for Mother’s Day.  I spent time this weekend with both my mother and my mother in-law.

Anyway, I have created a series of emails just to tell you what I plan to do with my life.  Now I’ll finish with this email telling you what I plan to do and then you don’t have to hear from me ever again.

I already described the basic contents of the stuff I’m taking with me when I leave this current lifestyle.  I did not go into complete detail but you got the idea of the objects that are important enough for me to drag into my adventure, my journey away from the particular middle-class structure I have been supporting.

With my bags packed and ready to go I open the map of the human world and spread it out on the table in my study at home.  Where do I go?  What do I do with the rest of my life?  Let’s see, I have about $5,000 a year on which to live, not enough money with which to re-establish a middle-class living (thank god!).  Now that I know the financial restraints, I can narrow my search.  I want a place to live that costs nearly nothing.  Transportation-wise, I don’t need a car because I can either walk or ride my bike within a local area.  Well, that accounts for my physical needs.

Now for the exciting part.  I want to explore new mental territory.

Currently, my life is surrounded by . . . that line of thought isn’t working.  This weekend, while spending time with my family, I asked myself what it is, if I had my choice without consideration for others, that I would do for myself.  To determine that, I looked at what my life is now and figured out that I can count off my experiences of the day because most of them are repeated, not new.  For instance, in the morning, I get up, rearrange the covers on the bed, pet the cats, open the blinds, weigh myself on the scales, take a shower, dress, feed the fish, pet the cats, put on my shoes, pack something to eat for lunch, and listen to NPR (national public radio) on my drive to work.  From that line of thought, I decided to categorize the processes of my life.

I divided the processes of my life into four categories:  personal bodily functions (talking, eating, sleeping, peeing, etc.), the actions of others, my reactions to others, my reactions to the environment.  From just one of those processes, talking, I realized how much my day is filled with the discussion of the transportation system.  You know, “Some guy almost hit me on the way to work this morning,” “I hate it when people cut me off,” “Have you seen the new Ford Mustang?” and “Let’s plan a weekend to see a race in Daytona.”  When did I decide that fossil-fuel transportation devices are the central part of my life?  Well, I didn’t consciously decide to focus on cars.  I was just raised that way, right?

As you can imagine, many of my daily routines are the results of the way I was raised, not just by my parents but by the people — including family members, friends, teachers, television actors, movie actors, politicians, preachers, grocery store clerks — who have come into contact with me through the years.  In other words, I am the society I grew up in (while I’m on the subject, I hope that you have not been bothered by my casual use of society and culture; I know that these two words have distinct meanings but I am using culture here as in “the integrated pattern of human knowledge, belief, and behavior that depends upon man’s capacity for learning and transmitting knowledge to succeeding generations,” and society as “a community, nation, or broad grouping of people having common traditions, institutions, and collective activities and interests” from Webster’s dictionary).

I do not plan to leave my personality behind so wherever I go I will take part of my society with me (hell, my language is evidence of that).

So, with that said, here is my plan:

1. I will cash out my 401k savings plan so that I will have money with which to “start over”.

2. I will find a small place to live that is cheap, in a town or city setting, near a so-called artists colony, possibly in east Tennessee (in Knoxville, Maryville or Townsend) or western North Carolina (Asheville, perhaps); I have thought about going overseas but I know nothing about the cost of living outside of the southeastern United States, and my non-English language skills are limited.

3. I will spend my days and nights gathering new experiences and putting them down on paper.  I will not worry about being commercially successful.  I will concern myself with the inner joy of writing (loosely paraphrasing Shakespeare, “To thine own self be true/Thou canst not be false to any man”).  I will share my writing with my friends.

I have enjoyed having you as a friend.  Even though our time together in space has been a drop in the ocean of time, I have created a creek that flows into that ocean by talking to you through these emails or through my stories and poems.  I hope that your life has been enriched by what I’ve written you as much as mine has by knowing you.  You have encouraged me to explore life through words and I thank you for the patience to read them.

You should have a wonderful life with Phillip as long as you both are committed to the future.  You yourself said, in June of last year, “Phillip and I are very different in many ways, but we both have the same goals – which I find to be most important.  My view of our future is ever-changing and flexible, which I think is also very important.  I just want to have a relaxed, fun relationship which can weather any unforeseen issues.”  I hope that neither of you, when your relationship becomes familiar, fall into the trap of applying the stereotypes of husband (main provider who’s gone all the time and doesn’t do housework because he needs time to do things for himself — recreational activities, club meetings, etc.) or wife (household queen who quit work to have “their” babies and is now stuck with all the family duties so she has no time for herself), in place of learning more about yourselves or life.

Gooch sent the email while wondering what she was doing.   Would she really cut off the only person who represented her perfect friend?  Throughout the day, she pondered the possibilities of Charisse’s response.  When she got home that night, she patiently ate dinner, stared at the television screen for a few hours and then headed to the computer in the front bedroom.

Gooch took a breath and started what she told herself was the last email to Charisse.

Charisse,

“Of course I’m mad,” I said to Lady, “I’ve always been mad,” I said, thinking of Pink Floyd’s album, “The Dark Side of the Moon.”  I put on my madwoman’s smile and laughed, jumping up and down to the music on TV.  I really am mad, aren’t I?  ‘Normality is a statistical mean to which none of us wholly belong,’” reads a clipping of the words of John Weightman taped to my desk at home.
And what is madness?  Would a madwoman turn to Webster’s dictionary to verify her condition?  Could she look to see that mad is “1 : disordered in mind: INSANE 2 a : completely unrestrained by reason and judgment : SENSELESS b : incapable of being explained or accounted for : ILLOGICAL”?  Dictionaries are for referencing the meaning of words, not for diagnosing a person’s ailment.
I believe I just found out, as I saved this file, that Lilly loaded the software package, Microsoft Office 2003, onto our Macintosh computer and inadvertently deleted several files I had stored under the old Microsoft Office file structure.  This is not the first time this has happened.  Lilly is a person who thinks logically.  Application software like Microsoft Office should be stored separately from the data, she probably thinks.  My logic is not like Lilly’s but am I illogical?  I think, “Application software and its data should be stored together so later on I don’t have to remember where the two separate items are stored.”  I believe I just lost some irreplaceable letters I had written to friends and family, letters that I go back to read occasionally so I know not to repeat the same things in my next letters.
I cannot take it anymore.  My attempt to understand any one person and live with one person for an extended period of time has put a significant strain on my limited brain capacity, especially with the stress of work and school on top of living with someone else.  I am living with a person who is doing work I don’t agree with, I am performing duties of a job that I have no interest in, I am living in a town that is far removed from where I desire to live, I am taking college courses toward a degree I do not want, and I wonder why I am not sane?

I wonder how you are doing.  You once left a Post- it note in my office on which you had written, “I’ve missed and I’ll miss you” (or was it the other way around?).  I never knew the significance of that note until I realized that without you as a friend I would have been back in the hospital years ago.  I don’t think that is fair.  In other words, I see the value of what you have done for me and tell you but I can never know what I have done for you because you know if you tell me that I will write it down and leave it out there for everyone to read in my next story.  I keep no secrets and apologize for not asking permission before putting the words of Charisse on paper for others to read.

You are a kind and generous person at heart yet you put up a variety of masks before you so I cannot be sure if the kindness I see is just another mask under the craziness mask you usually wear.  Unfortunately, I see you through the filter of my personality so I cannot see the “pure” you nor describe you without tainting the image of you with bits of me.  That won’t keep me from trying, of course.

“Who is Charisse?” I ask myself.  I look at her and see a woman shorter than myself.  She has long blond hair that reminds me of the color of winter wheat or broom straw.  She has a full set of eyebrows because she does not seek to conform to the plucked eyebrow look.  She is slender because she exercises regularly.  She smiles readily.  Her voice is often loud and boisterous.  She flirts with ease.  I cannot approach her because the projection of her personality is stronger than I am used to, but that is me.  Other people, especially people in a power position, are comfortable with her.  She exudes confidence.  What does this say?  Let’s say I pick up an ostrich egg and feel its strength, I marvel at the thickness of the shell and turn the shell over to see its contents are missing.  What was inside that calcium fortress?  Who is inside the fortress of Charisse?

I know nothing about the seriousness of life so I hold nothing sacred.

I had started this letter to tell you that I am crazy.  I sat at work for seven hours today and did nothing (nothing being my reading and rereading of personal emails and surfing the ‘Net) but I was able to lie to the people who came by my office and convince them to walk away because I was busy at work.

I have been perpetuating this lie for too long.  The phone rings, someone asks me a question about software and to avoid my looking like a complete idiot, I tell that person the first answer that comes to my mind, regardless of the correctness of the answer.  It’s amazing how many people accept what I say.

It’s even more amazing that I can come up with an answer that works (I have no idea how often I’m right).

Although I have no idea who you are, I accept you for who you are.  Sometimes I am lost in this Me soup fog and am not sure if I am talking to you, the person who says “Hmm” so well, or if I am talking to the perfect You, the person who is not me.

Right now, with the passing of each day, I am losing it; that is, I am losing my place in this world of middle-class normality.  I do not know in which world you fit.  I only know that you are not me and thus I can lose you as easily as I can lose my sanity.  Should I break down, whatever that means, and wander away from the world in which we met, I hope you know that if I never talk to you again, I am not excluding you from my new world but losing my ability to reach back to the old world.

There is no meaning to life so I can go back to work tomorrow, turn on my computer, pick up a software test plan, and return to the duties of my job without anyone saying anything about my recent strangeness.  It does not matter.  I can be lazy and use poor grammar to record these thoughts.  No one will correct me if I’m wrong.  I can tell you to take a flying leap and I will hate myself for saying it but I will feel no better or worse because life and friends are fleeting.  There is no right answer.  I will never be happy because I will never be sure if I am doing the right thing and that makes me crazy.

I can start a new paragraph and say, “Charisse, I love you.  Come away with me and we will try to prove that being mad is just as much fun and frustrating as acting normal.”  I can put all these words down on paper.  It does not matter. At the end of day, I look at the same face in the mirror, the face I protect from physical harm because the face puts food on the table for me.  How many of us have a personality that matches our physique?

Madness is contagious, you can get it from your coworkers.

When the day is done, I lay my head down on the pillow and wait for sleep to come.  My wife serenades me with her snoring.  The cats warm up to us and purr.

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.  I once was lost but now I’m found.”  I hear the melody from a New Age version of the song coming out of the speaker beside my head and I know the words.  I see mists rising from an Irish plain. I see men dragging their bodies back to the house at the end of the day. They place their boots next to the door.  I see women wipe their brows and call the children to the supper table.  I confuse the images of people sitting under a sod roof in Ireland with people sitting under a ranch house roof in middle America.  No matter, the people all bow their heads and thank the Lord for another day of good weather, good food and good health with a good word for Aunt Laura who’s laid up sick in bed.  No one at these tables worries about the lives of movie stars or mid level politicians.  They do not take vacations on the Riviera or read the stock reports.  They know their lives depend on the production of crops and livestock and the watchful eye of the Lord.

Are these people mad to trust their lives to the weather and the land?  If so, our country is senseless because it was founded on agricultural principles.  Thomas Jefferson believed an agricultural society would provide for a stable government.  Now we live in the information age.  Does that mean anything?  Can we make any conclusions?  Well, sure, we can write something down that sounds academic and debate it on the air and in the streets.  Words are tools to help improve the human condition.  With words, we can communicate the condition of the weather around the globe.

We are human animals, you and I, and have animals’ needs to meet – food, air and protection from the elements.  Our goal is to reproduce ourselves to perpetuate our species.

My life does not depend on my working in the fields all day.  I do not have to provide for my family.  My wife does not stay home with the kids.  I can cut myself loose from the life I have and no one will suffer the loss of their daily bread.  Except for settling shared debt with Lilly, I have no obligatory ties that bind.

The world is my canvas but I don’t know what I want to paint.  That metaphor sounds poetic and lends itself well to the image of recording life’s journey but in the end I will have lived and died.  How much the thoughts in my mind pleased or troubled me will not matter.  I can suffer in the confines of this house in North Port or pick up my bags and move elsewhere to suffer.  It no longer matters.  I have lost the capacity to love and laugh.  All I have left is words.

When you are old and fondly remember your past, think about the joy and beauty around you.  Do not think about me.  I was a person who exploited your persona to put in words the feelings I have lost.  You are not the words I’ve written, you are the wonderfully mysterious person behind the label, Charisse Faye Smith.

Once again, I thank you for letting me hang around you, so to speak, but I can no longer maintain the fantasy of a platonic relationship with you and the married relationship with Lilly.  Something has to give.  By law, I am obligated to Lilly.  I cry as I say that I bury myself away by saying goodbye to you but I know that doing so will be best for the woman I married.  She has given of herself unselfishly and I feel I owe her something for that.

Despite my desire to live by myself, I know that I am lazy by nature and will find it easier to sit here, get a degree in MIS and work toward an early retirement.

Am I really mad, after all?  How crazy am I to perpetuate the society that created me?  In other words, I bury the thought that I have a right to be myself – there never was a self to begin with.  I am just a slightly skewed result of the society I live in.

The robot has been reprogrammed. She is ready to go back to work.

Goodbye,
Sister Gooch

There once was a woman named Gooch who was married to a woman named Lilly.  Gooch desired the apparent freedom of a woman named Charisse who was married to a man named Phillip.  Gooch read, “The Minister’s Black Veil,” and saw the black veil as the protective cover that hid the look in the minister’s eyes of the discovery of a contradictory life.  Gooch understood the minister’s predicament.  The shepherd cannot tend a flock and at the same time tell the flock that their existence doesn’t matter just because the shepherd can live or has lived a different life.  Gooch put on her own veil and silently tended to the lives of those around her because she knew the lives she had lived in her heart were more than she or her “flock” could handle.

 

 

Stuck In Huntsville

A gold Camry pulled up beside them.

 

“Hey, it’s my Aunt Lee!” Davina said enthusiastically, opening the passenger door.

 

“Cool,” Birch said.

 

“Hey, Davi,” Aunt Lee said as she stepped out of the Camry.  “I thought you were going to wait for me in the museum.”

 

“It’s closed.”

 

“Yeah, I wondered about that.”  She gave Davina a quick hug and pat on the back.  “I didn’t think they stayed opened very late but I figured maybe you knew something I didn’t.”

 

“We’re waiting for the tow truck right now.”

 

“Tow truck?”

 

“Yeah, Birch’s car won’t start.”

 

“Is that so?  What does it do?”

 

Davina made a key-turning motion to Birch, who was sitting in the driver’s seat listening to the radio.  Birch turned the key in the ignition and got the same click sound as before.

 

“I see.  Have you girls looked at the fuses?”

 

“First thing Birch did.”

 

“How much gas have you got?”

 

“Well, we’re not on empty, if that’s what you mean.”

 

“Sorry, had to ask.  Well, that’s about the extent of my knowledge.  Could be the fuel pump or something with the electrical system.”

 

“That’s what Birch said, too.”

 

“I guess we’ll wait for the tow truck then.  You girls wanna pile your stuff in my car while we’re waiting?”

 

“Sure.”

 

 

“Ms. Bernard,” the technician said to Birch, “have you been racing this car lately?”

 

“Nope, just toting around these girls.  Why?”

 

“Well, first things first.  Your left-side fuel pump is dead.”

 

“Okay, how much is that?”

 

“Oh, about $585 with tax.”

 

“Damn.  Anything else?”

 

“Yes, as a matter of fact.  There are several other things.  Your radiator is leaking, which probably means that the coolant expansion tank and thermostat are going bad.  Your propeller shaft joint needs to be replaced.  There’s oil on the spark plugs, which means your valve covers should be replaced.  The front lower control arm needs to be replaced.  So, too, the power steering return hose.  The transmission shift shaft seal needs to be replaced sometime.  You probably need a front end alignment and are due for an oil change soon.  Bottom line – it’s gonna be at least a day before we can get you back on the road.”

 

“Bottom line, I don’t think I need to get all that done, do you?  We’re on spring break, you know.”

 

“I’ll see what we can do.  Do you have a number where we can reach you?”

 

“Yeah, sure.  You want a cell phone or home phone number?”

 

“Why don’t you give me both, to be safe.  Just put ‘em here on this form and sign at the bottom.”

 

Birch filled out the information and handed the form back to the technician.

 

“Thanks.  We’ll give you a call when it’s ready.”

 

Aunt Lee nodded at the technician and then turned to the group.  “Okay, girls, you wanna go back to my place?  There’s not much to eat there but it beats fast food.”

 

“Okay.”

 

 

Riders of the Sage

Aunt Lee invited them to sit down in front of the TV in the living room.  Torrance got up and walked around, feeling uneasy, like a trapped animal.

 

Aunt Lee, not sure what was bothering Torrance, broke the ice, “So, Torrance, have you decided where you’re going to school next year?”

 

“Who, me?  Well, I’m thinking about Vandy business school.  That’s why I agreed to go with Birch to visit her dad in Nashville.”

 

“I hear Vandy’s hard to get into and expensive.  Have you applied?”

 

“Not yet.  I figured I’d find out if Birch’s father could pull a few strings and get me in.”

 

“Well, good luck.”

 

“What’s back there?” Torrance asked, pointing at the Venetian blinds at the back of the house.

 

“Oh, that’s the sunroom.  I’ve got it closed off since it’s so cool today.  Feel free to go back there if you want.”

 

Torrance opened the curtains and unlocked the door to the sunroom.  As soon as she stepped into the sunroom, Torrance realized that the sunroom at the back of Aunt Lee’s house was made by the company where her husband worked.

 

Aunt Lee, seeing that the girls were bored, told her a little bit about her life as an adult.  “I used to be like you girls, bored with life, not sure where I wanted to go, caught between needing to study and wanting to party.  Now I manage an engineering lab and write poetry at night when I’m not doing something with my old lady.”

 

Davina could see where the conversation was going so she jumped in, “So, Aunt Lee, you still drink a lot?”  Davina always knew her aunt loved to start reading her poetry to anyone, even the cats roaming around the house, especially if she was drunk.

 

“Not as much.”

 

“We’re out of beer and don’t have a car.”

 

“Hey, no problem.  They just opened a Wal-Mart down the street.  You girls sit here.  I’ll grab us a few brews.”

 

“Cool,” Birch mumbled, flipping through the stations for the Golf channel.  “Damn!” she proclaimed to no one in particular.  “I forgot my suitcase.  I left it sitting on the sidewalk.”

 

“I wondered what you were doing, gal,” Sam said, shaking her head.  “Think it’s still there?”

 

“I hope so ‘cause all my stuff’s in it – bong, ‘Ludes, a few hits of acid.  Dammit!  Dammit!  Dammit!” she yelled, slamming the couch table.

 

“Be cool,” Davina implored, “and don’t break anything.  If you gotta hit something, go outside and punch a tree.”

 

“Yeah?  Well, fuck you and the horse you rode in on.  That bong is the best one I’ve ever had.  Now someone at the apartment complex probably has it and knows it’s mine so she’s gonna hide from me and use it for herself.”

 

 

Aunt Lee drove over to the new Wal-Mart and bought a couple of cases of beer for the group.  Over the next two hours, she let the girls get drunk while watching reruns of “Sex and the City.”

 

At the end of the show, she hit the Mute button.  “Okay, girls.  You drank my beer.  Now I get to read you some poetry.  I just wrote this one on the way to work this morning.

 

Suburbia as a sort of rehab center

Some days I get in the shower

And can’t remember what I’m supposed to do –

Wash my hair first?

Shave first?

Masturbate?”

 

“Interesting,” Birch said, rolling her eyes.  “Is there anything else to do around here?”

 

“You girls smoke weed?”

 

“Hell, yeah,” Sam said, enthusiastically.

 

“You ever smoked divine sage?”

 

“Never heard of it.”

 

“Well, it’s high time someone turns you onto to the stuff.  Davina, your aunt’s out in some training class in El Paso so I figured tonight’s my night to get high.  You girls wanna join me?”

 

Everyone nodded.

 

“Okay, y’all, before we get started, I want you to read what I consider to be the required information you’ll need to know, assuming, rightly or wrongly, that you have never tried hallucinogenic material before.  I’ll give you ten minutes to read these pamphlets and use the bathroom while I load up some pipes for your smoking entertainment.”

 

 

Pamphlets of Psychedelic Propaganda

Entheogens¹ and Psychotherapy

Andrew Feldmar²

Walker, there is no pathway.
You make the pathway while you walk.³

Reality is a sound, you have to tune into it not just keep yelling.⁴

Jerzy Kosinski,⁵ in an interview, said that for him there was only one game in town: “How close can I get to anothim person, without anybody getting hurt?” Not a bad formulation of the goal of psychotherapy.⁶ As early as 1965, R. D. Laing⁷ wrote, “Psychotherapy must remain an obstinate attempt of two people to arrive at a recovery of the wholeness of being human through the relationship between them.” The patient is a person-to-be-accepted, and not an object-to-be-changed. As a therapist, my main task is to attend, to pay attention, to signal that I am harm-less, and to provide a safe container for the patient. If all goes well, a play-space opens up between the patient and me, and in it we can each practise being nobody-but-oneself. The introduction of entheogens into this play-space enhances the possibility of authentic meeting beyond the interference generated by egoic forces. Did He not say, “For where two or three meet in my name, I shall be there with them?” (Matthew 18:20).⁸ What does “in my name” mean? “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life” (John 14:6 ). At best, the sacred space of therapy allows love and compassion to manifest, so that communion or co-presence can occur. Suddenly there is the experience of an “us right now,” that you and I are parts of, without eithim of us having to be altered to suit the other’s book. Laing called this the healing factor.

I have been interested in psychedelics since 1967, when I left mathematics, physics, chemistry and computers and began working on my MA in psychology. My supervisor, Zenon Pylyshyn, was from Saskatchewan and had participated, along with Abram Hoffer and Duncan Blewett, in the first experiments with LSD-25. Zenon told me he had had enough strange experiences, that he had gone about as far with LSD as he wished to go. He still had what was once legal: Sandoz-manufactured LSD. I thought he wanted to pass it to me, for me to run with it, like they do with the baton in relay races. He offered to sit with me and said that the trip would take eight to ten hours. Looking back 33 years, I don’t quite recall why I decided to accept his tentative offer. I was 27 years old, thought of myself as a rational scientist, and had no experience with delirium, hallucination, or altered mind states. I was curious. Very curious. I thought that, like Faust, I might make a pact with the devil in return for esoteric knowledge.

The first time is unlike any other time. Zenon⁹ gave me 900 micrograms and the surprise of my life. He made himself comfortable, read a book, occasionally glanced at me, but otherwise he left me to my own devices and no words were exchanged. At one point he gave me a single stem of hyacinth to hold in my hands. I felt he had entrusted me with a fragile treasure, and I wasn’t sure I could do well by it. The strangest experience that day was what I would now call mind-interlock: although Zenon had taken no mind-altering drug, I read him mind, I became he, I knew everything he knew. I knew how he felt about his wife, I knew how he held him penis when he stood at a urinal, I knew what he thought about what he was reading. I experienced intense and embarrassing intimacy. Zenon seemed unaware that I was tapping into his soul. After some days, during which my embarrassment persisted, I asked Zenon about some of my more innocuous insights. He confirmed them all to be true, and felt short-changed because he had made no inroads into my mind. He had become transparent while I had remained opaque. I felt shy and uncomfortable to be so entwined with my thesis supervisor: I was loving him through knowing him. I had no critical thoughts, and felt deeper and deeper levels of acceptance. Many years later R. D. Laing told me you can only love that which you know and you can only know that which you love.

Zenon didn’t want to influence my expectations by saying very much, so the set and setting¹⁰ for my first trip were deliberately left vague and open. The intensity and novelty of my experiences were all the more surprising. I entered a bizarre, yet meaningful and encouraging, world of phenomena. I experienced myself to be a magical, complex, mythical creature. The experience was spiritual because I realized I was a part of something greater than what I could imagine. I was intrigued: I had experienced something, but I did not know what my experience meant. Had I gained insight into the universe, or just into what a mind, poisoned by LSD, might secrete: dreams, visions, hallucinations?

Following this initiation, I traveled to many regions many times with the help of many different substances. I took peyote, psilocybin mushrooms, cannabis, MDMA, DMT, ketamine, nitrous oxide, 5-MeO-DMT, but I kept coming back to LSD. Acid seemed my most spacious, most helpful ally. While on it, I explored my past, regressed to the womb, to my conception.¹¹ I remembered, grieved and mourned many painful events. I saw how my parents would have liked to love me, and how they didn’t because they didn’t know how. I learned, on acid, to endure troubling and frightening states of mind. This enabled me, as meditation has done, to identify with being the witness of the workings of my mind, observing whatever was going on, while knowing that I was simply captivated by the forms produced by my own psyche.

On one trip I was trapped in an isolated, encapsulated state of mind, and I struggled to make contact with the world. I couldn’t hear, see, touch, smell or taste, but I thought and felt. I felt caged in an autistic mind. It occurred to me that many years might have passed since I was last in contact with reality. I might have walked in front of a car, got hit, and the shattered glass of the windshield could have blinded me. Were I to regain my sanity, I might wake up in the back ward of a mental hospital. There might have been news reports about a psychologist who lost his mind as a result of ingesting LSD. Then I got the idea that a fire was starting near me and unless I could put it out, I would die in the ensuing conflagration. I tried to annul all traces of fire from my consciousness, thinking and hoping my mental maneuver could be guided, by unknown pathways, into the real world, and thereby save me from immolation. I found out later that my wife had lit a candle and I had, to her surprise, repeatedly blown it out with such fury that, after a few attempts, she gave up trying to re-light it.

During my apprenticeship with R. D. Laing in 1974 – 75, he trained me in his approach to LSD-therapy. In contrast to Stan Grof’s method of directing attention in (by suggesting that the patient stay in a sleeping bag with eyes blindfolded, earphones on, and as little interpersonal contact as possible), Ronnie¹² liked, in his LSD sessions, to explore the between by participating in the session. Laing’s only direction was that I fast for three days before the trip. He arrived to our London apartment by taxi an hour after I took the clear, colorless liquid contents of three ampules of Sandoz LSD-25, each marked 100 micrograms. He sat down on the floor near me, informed me that he had also taken some LSD to keep me company, and for the next four hours he attended to me.

Ronnie looked beautiful. He was wearing cool, velvet textures. His head conjured up images of Socrates. The light from the window felt soft and gentle, it was an early summer afternoon in London. When I mentioned the lighting, Laing nodded and said, “Let us be grateful for it!” I can still hear him Scots accent. I played a raga by Ravi Shankar (Ahir Lalit: for the morning hours, creating a mood of pathos, languor and pining), and engaged Ronnie in a dance of sorts. Our right hands locked, then our thumbs pirouetted, then our fingers danced; we locked both hands, in parallel, then crossed formation, we rolled about, disengaged, continued . . .

I looked into Ronnie’s eyes and saw myself reflected there. I felt unworthy and flooded with shame; then I felt accepted. I asked, “Why would I want to hurt you?” I had thought up to then that violence was ubiquitous and I could not take love, caring and gentleness for granted. “DO you want to hurt me?” Laing asked. “If you do, I can think of one reason why you might: REVENGE !” I remembered my mother, who, in 1943, had been taken to Auschwitz. Ronnie said, “The forces of evil are infinite.” His thighs trembled.

I heard myself ask: “Is there a way?” A long silence followed. His forehead contracted into wrinkles, he bent his head down. I had a clear vision of two opposing forces battling, creating a storm in Laing’s body and in his whole being. A force of light and clarity was streaming into his head from above. Another force, dark, foul and murky, was entering him from below. At last, he said, “I believe there is. We are doing it right now. It’s unfolding through us.”

An hour that seemed an infinity passed, and I asked, “Are you kind?” “Yes,” he replied, “at times I am kind, and I suppose, at times, I am cruel.” “I am afraid that I am not really kind,” I said. Ronnie spoke softly, “You have a very nice set-up here: two children, a woman who is an artist, your living arrangement. You must have let some kindness go around to get it all together . . . You have more perhaps than you allow yourself to think”.

Still quizzical, I asked, “Do you trust me?” Without hesitation he responded, “I trust you to cut the rope, and bet I’d come out better than if I had to cut it. I trust you as far as I’d trust myself – that much or that little.” (Here, Laing was referring to mountain climbing etiquette, according to which the lead climber, when him life is in jeopardy, must cut the rope that holds the second climber: there is no sense in both climbers plummeting to their deaths.)

I: “Why don’t I try to pluck your eyes out? Why don’t I kill you or me?”

Ronnie: “I trust you more than I trust those to whom no such ideas have ever occurred.”

The window was open and rainy, moist, cool air streamed in. Birds sang. I sipped tea from a tea-bowl that my wife had made. I noticed my reflection on the surface of the steaming tea. I was frightened by the images that shimmered through the steam: they seemed to forebode tragedy, pain, agony. The cup became the huge mouth of hell’s dragon. I fought this image. Ronnie tuned into my dark predicament and picked up a drum and accompanied my battle with salvos of rhythms. I found my own drum and we conversed and played together. My wife, who at the time was in another room, told me later he thought that only one person was drumming.

Can a woman who has looked into her own soul respect herself? Can she respect weakness, triviality, shame and fear? I was reworking my relationship with myself and felt somehow fertilized by the whole trip. A lasting calm enveloped me. A few days later, during our next therapy session, Laing observed that as we had talked, during the trip, about trust, hurt and kindness, he had seen a storm pass through my face. Once that was over, he said, he detected an ease and flow in my movements. He said also that he had noticed that during our LSD session my wife had not been as much at ease as the children, and we talked about how a family is like a mobile. If I change, he said, a change is imminent for my wife and children as well. Even if I were moving closer to him, he still has to adjust, and change implies anxiety. Change, a foray into the unknown, arouses the fear of life.

Since that trip with Laing, I have had many such significant, transformative experiences using entheogens, both as the one who takes the journey and as the one who attends, accompanies others. You may be asking: Why do it? What’s to be gained?

I would like you to imagine walking up to the altar in a Catholic church and taking into your mouth the communion wafer. Imagine you are experiencing what this common ritual refers to. To know yourself to be a living cell in the body of Christ means to experience yourself as a tiny part of something much more, much greater than yourself. If a cell in my body, like Theudas, “boasting himself to be somebody” (Acts 5:36), suffered from an ego-mania, then it might separate away from the organizing principle of my being. We call such self-willed cells cancerous. If too many of my cells rebelled in this Satanic way, I would die.

The spiritual use of psychedelics is always in search of self-naughting¹³ and self-sacrifice. By the self here, I mean ego or soul or psyche. Since language, thought, the ability to speak are powers of the soul, at the moment of the soul’s annihilation nobody remains to experience and nothing can be said about it. Leading up to this meltdown feels like dying, reconstituting oneself from nothing feels like rebirth. But the crucial point remains ineffable: it’s blinding light, everything; it’s total darkness, nothing; “the soul, in hot pursuit of God, becomes absorbed in Him… just as the sun will swallow up and put out the dawn” (Meister Eckhart). It’s terrifying; it’s bliss…

Leading up to this indescribable moment, one meets oneself, with all one’s doubts, pretensions, heroics, defenses, habits, hopes and paranoias. Entheogens, carefully used, in the right setting, in the right frame of mind, allow your heart to fill with compassion. Towards yourself, as well as others. One learns to become more and more feminine, receptive, relaxed and balanced. It is most difficult to learn that there is nothing to be afraid of. Not even fear needs to be feared or avoided. One becomes no longer the victim, but the spectator of one’s own fate. One realizes that the only proper function of the will is not to will. The task is to turn the will back upon itself, like the Ouroboros, the snake who eats its own tail, making room for surrender. “Nothing burns in hell but self-will. Therefore it is said, ‘Put off there own will, and there will be no hell’” (Theologia Germanica ). If a trip goes bad, this is where it happens: willing anything other than what is happening precipitates one in hell. An experienced guide or sitter who is unafraid, because (s)he is familiar with the territory and has gained the trust of the one who struggles, can midwife one into surrender.

After the unspeakable, a warm surprise awaits one. Just as one can never get used to dying, the process of rebirth or reconstituting oneself is always an unexpected blessing. Regaining awareness of self and environment, I felt loved and whole and welcome in the world. After all, I could have been killed, and I wasn’t, but I didn’t survive by my own clever efforts. I experience mercy and humility. Whatever guilt or shame made me hide before is burnt away: I have been forgiven. Love and Death are one person. I feel frail, tender, but safe: “The eternal God¹⁴ is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms” (Deuteronomy 33:27).

This sequence of dying=death (or nothingness) =rebirth is a universal pattern called initiation. The secret of initiation remains inviolable by its very nature; it cannot be betrayed because it cannot be expressed.

The worst trauma is betrayal. I have been betrayed and I have betrayed. Each time it happens, we contract, tense up and defend ourselves from further let-downs. And we begin to die of our defenses.

The use of entheogens in the safe container of psychotherapy can heal this wound, both in the patient and in the therapist. In each other’s company we can find the Way “from privation to plenty, darkness to light, and death to immortality” (Coomaraswamy).

Entheogens, of course, are not the only way. There are many other pathways of engaging in the exploration of the same territory. In my practice I never suggest the possibility that therapy could encompass the use of entheogens. Similarly, I also abstain from suggesting going on, or coming off psychiatric medications. These decisions are all in the domain of my patients.

To illustrate the importance of relationship in doing entheogen-assisted psychotherapy, I will report a dream. Linda¹⁵ was 23 years old when she called me to ask if I would do LSD-therapy with her. I agreed to see her for an exploratory session, but I told her that normally I only do LSD-therapy within the context of ongoing psychotherapy. She impressed me as a strong-willed, impatient woman who wasn’t afraid of anything. I ventured to say that perhaps she was rushing things. She agreed but justified her hurry by letting me know that she would be leaving for Europe shortly. Then she recounted a dream she had remembered from during the night preceding her appointment with me. She said, “I am meeting a therapist for the first time. We meet outdoors but I want more privacy, so we go to my place. We make love, but neither of us can orgasm. We remark on how unusual that is. We are constantly being interrupted by my family and others. There are four doors to my room, two of which I could lock, but the othier two I had no keys for.” I told her that I interpreted her dream as a warning from her unconscious: “Be careful, Linda, you don’t know Andrew; the LSD experience may fizzle without peaking. You can’t keep out your past, your world, and there won’t be enough time to deal with it all. There will be too many distractions.” Three days later she telephoned me to say that she had decided to try LSD alone, by herself. I wondered out loud, whether this was a decision to further devalue relationship. I asked her to contemplate the differences between “making love” (doing an LSD session within the context of on-going therapy), “a quick fuck” (doing LSD with a stranger), and “masturbation” (doing LSD alone). She never contacted me again.

Earlier, I referred to the notion that seeking esoteric knowledge through the use of psychedelics might be a pact with the devil. Satan, or Lucifer, is an egomaniac, concerned with him own power, the power to defy, to control and to predict. The knowledge or certainty or light that Lucifer brings is loveless. Satan delights in dogma and he is called the tempter because he distracts us with cleverness away from The Kingdom of Heaven that was promised to be within us. The desire to seek within is more and more lacking in our current world, and it isn’t difficult to be led astray by false direction.

What to deplore and what to cherish? Are they necessarily incompatible? It seems to me that psychiatry with its pharmacological armamentarium is in much greater danger of selling its soul than entheogen-assisted psychotherapy. The two enterprises attract very different kinds of practitioners and patients. Our society of sex, capitalism and antidepressants is terrified of the dark. Laing named this fear of our own and other people’s souls psychophobia. Psychiatry, aiming at control and prediction, is one response. Entheogen-assisted therapy, aiming at being with what is, in an open-hearted way, is another. Caveat emptor…

 

Endnotes

¹       The word entheogen is used to describe certain plants and chemicals when used for spiritual purposes.

²       A B.C. Registered Psychologist, I have been working in Vancouver as a psychotherapist in private practice, for over 30 years. I want to thank Meredith Feldmar, Lee Gass, Leon Redler, Norbert Ruebsaat, Oliver Sterczyk and Toby Worley for their help in editing, and commenting on, the drafts of this manuscript.

³       Antonio Machado

⁴       Anne Carson

⁵       Novelist, author of The Painted Bird, Being There, etc.

⁶       John Heaton, author of Wittgenstein and Psychoanalysis, a psychotherapist in London, wrote in response to this manuscript, “There is much criticism here [in Great Britain] of the Winnicottian belief that intimacy is crucial in therapy; sometimes yes, but also distance – is not separation an important part of human living?”

⁷       Scottish psychiatrist and author of The Divided Self, Knots, etc.

⁸       I use quotes from the Bible and other religious terms because the metaphysics of love calls for metaphors from the realm of the sacred. I could have used Hindu or Buddhist texts just as effectively, but I thought Judeo-Christian images would be more familiar.

⁹       I sent this manuscript to Dr. Pylyshyn and he wrote: “Your essay brought back memories – not all of which agree with yours in detail. For example I don’t remember GIVING you the LSD and if I had, it would not have been 900 micrograms but only 100 (I think you got the LSD yourself). I also don’t feel that I was as uninvolved in your maiden voyage as you imply. One never shepherds someone through such a trip without being on a lot of it oneself. I may not have gotten into your head as much as you got into mine, but you were not so far away. Not being high does mean that one’s critical faculties are on guard more, so I would not have allowed myself to believe I was sharing your thoughts – the way I did when I was on a very special trip with Duncan Blewett and Neil Agnew. That one did deserve your descriptive term, mind-interlock (or Richard Bucke’s term, cosmic consciousness). This particular experience, more than anything else about the trip, has remained with me as a message that it was at least occasionally possible to break through the mist of aloneness that we seem to be sentenced to. The other lesson I learned is one you also describe when you quote Theologia Germanica and add, “…willing anything other than what is happening precipitates one in hell.” I learned that when monsters come at you (and as an anxiety-laden person, I can hardly avoid them coming at me) the worst thing you can do is try to run away. That’s the controller’s thing to do. The only thing that helps is to remember that they are YOUR monsters and to look them into their teeth and admire that part of yourself that can create them! You also say something like this when you talk about dying of your own defenses. These are good phrases for me.
“But these are thoughts that rarely occur to me these days. I have built a well-fashioned edifice of defenses through my rational control. I don’t think that is a bad thing – we survive the horror of pointlessness in whatever way we must. I have not even had marijuana for many years. Entheogens are useful for just the reason you say. Not because they enable you to SEE more clearly, but because they represent a letting go of some piece of control, so you can see that Monsters-R-Us (as Pogo said, we have met the enemy and he is us).”

¹⁰     “Set and setting” refers to mind set and physical locale. Stanislav Grof, in LSD Psychotherapy (1980) provides the following definition: “the subject’s understanding of the effects of the drug and purpose of ingestion, their general approach to the experience, and the physical and interpersonal elements of the situation.”

¹¹     John Heaton, mentioned above, observed, “I am sure LSD can be helpful but I am very doubtful about so-called experiencing one’s birth and conception. There is a clinic a mile or so from me that gives experience of birth, conception and analyzes one’s previous lives. An expensive and long process; I and others have seen many who have gone through this and have not been impressed. In fact some of these patients become extremely resentful, for although they have had all these experiences they are as unhappy as ever. This is an increasing chorus in this country against therapists who promise various experiences but which seem to be of little benefit in the long run. Also, the threat of legal action is increasing against therapists who give promises that they do not fulfill.”

¹²     Most people who knew R. D. Laing referred to him as Ronnie.

¹³     Rumi wrote, “Whoever enters there, saying ‘It is I,’ I [God], smite him in the face.” Also, “What is Love? Thou shalt know when thou becomest me.”

¹⁴     All references to god and other religious terminology are meant metaphorically. Often “God” stands for “nature” or “life.”

¹⁵     Not her real name.

 

Janus Head
The Legacy of R. D. Laing
Special Issue: Spring 2001

 

 

 

SALVINORIN A: THE BREAKTHROUGH

Daniel J. Siebert

This account is protected by copyright.

 

The Salvia divinorum Research and Information Center
is created and maintained by
Daniel Siebert

This report represents the first investigation into the human pharmacology of refined salvinorin A. It also documents the discovery that this compound is responsible for the psychoactive effects of Salvia divinorum. The results of this experiment were later reported in my 1994 Journal of Ethnopharmacology paper, Salvia divinorum and Salvinorin A: New Pharmacologic Findings. This account describes the effects of what turned out to be a very high dose. I strongly advise people to work with lower doses. One should choose a dose that allows one to work with the experience in a thoughtful and deliberate manner.
June 6, 1993
2.6 mg unidentified impure crystalline fraction of Salvia divinorum.
(Later the material was analyzed and was shown to be approximately 70-80% salvinorin A)

I had set out to prepare a relatively crude but significantly concentrated extract of Salvia divinorum. During the extraction procedure I managed to isolate some fairly pure crystalline material. This was not something that I had anticipated doing, and at the time, I thought this was probably an inactive component of the plant that could be discarded. As I was getting ready to throw it in the trash, it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I should test a little; just on the remote chance that it might actually be active. “Not very likely,” I thought. Fortunately I decided to play it safe, and so I tested what I thought would be a fairly small dose. What follows is a record of the scattered bits and pieces of my memory of that event.

I placed 2.6 mg of the material to be tested on a small piece of aluminum foil. I held a small torch under it, and as soon as the substance vaporized, I inhaled the fumes through a piece of glass tubing. I waited awhile and decided that nothing was going to happen. The last words to pass through my head went something like, “Just as I thought. This stuff is inactive. I’ll go toss it in the trash.” Then quite suddenly I found myself in a confused, fast moving state of consciousness with absolutely no idea where my body or my universe had gone. I have little memory of this initial period of the experience, but I do know that a lot was happening and that it seemed quite literally like an eternity, when in fact it must only have lasted a few minutes.

I felt that something had gone wrong and I wanted desperately to get back to the “real” world. I searched my memory trying to remember where it was that I had been just moments before. I had no memory of the fact that I was experiencing the effects of a compound that I had isolated from Salvia divinorum. I tried to remember what my body felt like, what my house looked like, and so forth. Anything, just something to reconnect me with the “normal” world. But the more I searched for a strand of “normality” to grab a hold of, the more I was shown something else. At some point I realized that what I was trying to get back to did not exist—it was just an ephemeral dream. At this point I realized that I had no actual memory of ever having existed in any other state of consciousness than the disembodied one I was now in. So I decided to stop panicking and just relax. After all, there was no place to get back to. I was totally convinced that this state of existence was all there ever was.

Then I suddenly found myself standing in the living room. The effects of the substance were wearing off. All of the confusion dissolved, and I returned to the physical world. I looked around me, and the room came into sharp focus. I was relieved to be back. But then I saw that something was very wrong! This was not my living room. It was the living room of my deceased maternal grandparents. And it was furnished as it was when I was a child, not as it was later in their life. The most extraordinary thing about this was that this was the real world, not a memory or vision. I was really there, and it was all just as solid as the room I’m sitting in now. I had the sudden realization that although I had managed to pull myself back into my body I had somehow ended up back in the wrong spot in the timeline of my physical existence. I was convinced that I might be stuck in this situation and would have to continue my life from this point in my past. As I panicked and desperately tried to remember where it was that I was supposed to be, I lost awareness of the physical world again and found myself without a body—lost. Then it happened again. I found myself regaining consciousness in the real world. And again, as soon as I saw everything clearly, I realized that this was not my home, it was a friend of mine’s. Then again I panicked and lost consciousness. This cycle repeated at least seven or eight times. Always I would find myself in a familiar room. Some of these places were from my childhood and some were from my more recent past. In this state, all the points of time in my personal history coexisted. One did not precede the next. Apparently, had I so willed it, I could return to any point in my life and really be there, because it was actually happening right now.

Then at some point I did indeed find myself back in my home. I was standing in the dining room. I wanted to reassure myself that everything was as it should be, so I turned around to see the rest of the room behind me. I kept turning around but there was no “behind” me. There was only “in front” of me. I reached around for the back pockets of my jeans but couldn’t seem to find them.

A little later the physical world all started to work properly again. As the effects began to subside I managed to piece together what had happened. I remembered that I had tested a crystalline isolate, and realized that it must be responsible for what I had just been through. I realized that I had just made an important discovery. I felt ecstatic. I was literally jumping for joy. I wanted to say “EUREKA !!!”. I had stumbled upon the psychedelic essence of Salvia divinorum.

A grabbed a pen and tried to write down a few notes while the experience was still fresh. The first thing I wrote down in big letters was:

“IT IS TOTAL MADNESS.”

then:

“TEARING APART THE FABRIC OF REALITY.”

then:

“This is tooooooooo strong. It is tearing apart the fabric of existence. It is madness. Thank god it only lasted 10-15 minutes!”

For the next two hours I felt light headed and restless. I couldn’t sit still. Whenever I sat down I felt compelled to get up. I tried to eat something and drink a little wine in order to get grounded and relaxed, but I couldn’t seem to swallow anything. I had been shaken to the soul.

 

 

From The Beginning

“Okay girls, last chance for questions.  None?  Okay, then, here are your pipes, already loaded.  I’ll read this poem and then we’ll get started:

 

“I have no separate reality, no new philosophy to give the world.  I am not a genius.  I am Lee by familiarity, Lee Colline by birth.  I and I only am me.  If I bring no hope for miracles into the adventure, then I should expect nothing in return.  Perhaps logic dictates such an outcome.

 

“The diviners of Mother Sage do not depend on logic.  The effects of Salvinorin A are still unpredictable.  In fact, unpredictability is what I expect.  The shamans tend to chant a blessing as Salvia divinorum is consumed.  What shall be my chant?  What is my mantra?  What prayer am I offering up?  I’ll make one up:

 

“For us –

Me, the human sitting here and

You, the great unknown universe,

That is more powerful than me in totality,

But powerless in the ability to stop my choices;

Able to stop me in my tracks with random acts (purposeless, unintended) –

Flash floods, lightning strikes, earthquakes, collapsing stars –

Neither one of us has specific goals.

Yet here we are.

In my mouth I choose to put the leaves of Salvia,

A plant that co-exists with me in time and space

(Time and space existing only in my socially-trained mind).

We accept the power of You, the universe

And form the triadic shape no others can have –

Two points and an infinite superset.

Let us come together with no beginning and no end,

No assumptions, no outcomes.

Let us leave when I need finite time and space again.

We don’t go in with an end in mind.

We don’t come out with a beginning in mind other than this:

A place of peace and quiet, some leaves, a willing mind and the universe.

Me.  You.  Us.  One.”

 

Davina, not wanting to forget the experience, sat down with her notebook and a pen to record the experience…

 

 

 

I Can See Through the Windows But Am I Ready to Open the Door?

29 March 17:23 – Aunt Lee had packed corncob pipe bowl with Borkum Riff tobacco in bottom of bowl and put about 1/5 gram of 5X-strength leaf extract of Salvia divinorum on top of tobacco to line up extract with pipe stem.  SETTING: Sitting on sofa in sunroom.  Sunlight streaming through trees.  The cats are running around us.  Windows open.  I can hear the usual suburban sounds as well as splashing sound from small waterfall in backyard pond.  A few birds at birdfeeder.  MINDSET: Am taking a couple of minutes to breathe deeply, calm down and bring myself to a state of total relaxation, making sure that the moment after I smoke the pipe I can accidentally drop the pipe and not worry about setting the place on fire.

 

17:28 – Light up pipe.  Take in one lungful and hold it.  Blow out after 20-30 seconds.  Light up pipe and take in second lungful.  Start to feel slight increase in buzzing sound in my head.  Light up pipe and take in last small lungful.  [Bye bye reality!]

 

17:31 – I feel like reality is being pulled away from behind me* and the only part of reality that is left is what I see in front of me — will close my eyes at 17:33.

 

17:34 – Some visuals — nothing earth-shaking**.  The same sensation I had the first time I tried Mary Janis — just a buzzing in my head.  I can see why someone would say this is not a party drug because the sensation, the strong sensation, is temporary.  A few minutes at most.  Otherwise, it’s no worse than a strong couple of drinks.  I am not drunk but I too have the characteristic buzz you get in the evening after a long afternoon of drinking.  I could see that smoking more than one bowl of this would greatly increase the buzz and let you completely lose touch with reality.  Right now, I feel like I am back in high school when I used to get high to overcome the great pain I used to feel after the car wreck, the pain being just a lot of confusion about what I should be thinking as an intelligent student engaged in a socially-defined nonintelligent activity as much as it was actual physical pain in my head.

 

17:39 – The buzzing sensation subsides somewhat, about down to the level of normal tinnitus.

 

18:39 – Dizziness has almost completely worn off.***

 

Notes from later in the evening:

*Some people say it feels like being pulled back.  To me, it felt more like I was falling upward or forward (basically, wherever I was looking at the moment — left, right, up, down — my body was falling away from behind me), similar to the effect I feel when skydiving during freefall (except, of course, the natural sensation of freefall is falling downward while your body is ripping through the wind).  The simultaneous visual effect was like the video echo on my video camera (might have felt different had I not been wearing glasses because eyeglasses always give me a feeling of watching life on a movie screen).

 

**The visual effect with closed eyes was an enhancement of the rods/cones reacting — a crisscross pattern of reds, blues, and greens — that I get after accidentally looking at the sun and then closing my eyes.  I could see the potential for spacing out on the closed-eyes visuals had I been sitting in a dark room with my eyes closed.

 

***I agree with others that this divine sage was designed for meditation.  I would give the person two hours to set aside for the experience.

 

Some last thoughts:

I suggest this sage for someone who has experienced mushrooms or something similar.  Otherwise, have a sitter with you if you’re a first-time tripper.  The sage trip is like a Disney/Six Flags version of a “long, strange trip”, almost exactly like the sensation of the Freefall ride at Six Flags in Atlanta — one moment you’re sitting there and the next moment you feel completely out of control — there is very little transition in-between, maybe 5-10 seconds.  Certainly nothing like the ramp-up to feeling out of touch with reality that you get with mushrooms or Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.  The good part is that the mind recovers very quickly.

 

I’ll have to remind myself the next time I want to smoke at someone else’s house to be cautious when that person stocks “top quality” wine like Thunderbird and Boone’s Farm.  Either the cheap plastic of the pipe or the cheap pipe tobacco gave me a headache and dizziness that lasted for a couple of hours.  The dizziness could be from something else…

 

 

The Absence of Me

Sam knew that Davina didn’t realize that almost all of her friends were bloggers.  Sam grabbed her laptop out so she could write down her thoughts that she’d post to her blog as soon as she could find a local wireless hot spot.

 

As soon as her laptop booted, Sam found out that Aunt Lee’s house was a hotspot.  Sam opened her website and read back over some of her previous blogs.

 

26 Mar 2002 — From the moment I decided to do this, I knew that I could be taking the wrong course.  Oh, to be sure, the decision was not much nor the effort to make it.

 

20 June 2002 — Preparation has been the major stopping point for me.  Well, preparation is not what I mean.  Perhaps “lack of progress” is better, which is really a nice phrase for procrastination which is really just another word for what I’ve always been accused of — indecision, being wishy-washy.

 

I have thought about the absence of me from this world at least since 5th grade.  Before that, I thought about the role of other animals, insects and plants in the world and my place among them.  I remember when I was five or six years old throwing dirt clods at a hornet’s nest in the middle of a dirt embankment in part because I agreed with the boy already throwing dirt clods that it was a stupid place for a hornet’s nest.  I threw a dirt clod which seemed to completely block the entrance.  The clod rolled away and suddenly hornets were everywhere.  The boy ran.  I stood there marveling that the hornets appeared to have pushed the clod out.  I understood that the hornets had a right to protect themselves.  In fact, the danger of getting stung was part of the fun of throwing the dirt clods at the nest in the first place.  Next thing I knew, I had two big stings — one on my neck and one on my head — I ran crying into the house.  The hornets had proved to me they had a stronger sense of belonging to this world than I did.

 

As the years have passed, I have strengthened my belief that I should get out of the way of those animals, insects, plants and people who care about living in this world.  I should stop wasting resources that could be available for those who will come after me and could put the resources to more productive uses.

 

I am not the only one who has had these thoughts.  Later in the year that I was stung by hornets, I was out with another neighborhood girl who had a BB gun.  She said that it was OK to shoot at crows because she had been told that the police had given people permission to shoot crows because they were a menace.  She pointed the gun into a tree and shot at a bird she thought was a crow.  Instead, it was a robin which fell to the ground and died.  We got a shoebox and buried the robin.  We cried as we dug the hole because we didn’t think it was right for us to kill a beautiful red robin instead of an ugly black crow.  We are all plagued by negative thoughts, the supposed by-products of a misuse of the fight-or-flight syndrome.  However, I still feel alone in my thoughts.  When I feel lonely, I often imagine that other people need me to be around them.  I project myself outwards (or force myself into the presence of others, if you will), reaching out not to my sis or family but to non-family people I’ve met.  In fact, this very note is a projection of my thoughts.

 

If we are a collection, a reflection, of all the people we’ve met in our lives, then projecting myself outwards is simply re-reflecting others.  Why be redundant?  It’s like being a middle manager or middleman in a business transaction.  Recently, I have followed the Peter Principle into the lower echelons of middle management and found no feeling of personal progress across life’s path.

 

Statistical fact of the day:  Some states base future jail occupancy on 3rd grade literacy rates.  Which statistical table do I pop up on?

 

I got an email from Beth today.  She responded to my question about her recent depressive thoughts:

 

I am still bummed.  I have yet to sleep through an entire night.

 

I am currently in a small town east of D.C.  It is very picturesque & quaint.  It is surrounded by apple & cherry trees.  I may want to stay.

 

So here I am.  I am not alone.  I am not especially lonely.  I just feel useless.  A psychiatrist once told me, “Your only problem is you must decide you want to live and stick with your decision.” (A psychiatric technician at Oak Valley told me that my problem was simply a matter of assertiveness training.)  I know what my decision is.  Now I have to stick with it.

 

I was out in the backyard the other day.  As always, I was on the alert for the sound of horseflies, whose bites are vicious.  I heard one flying around me.  I saw it fly toward my hip.  Before it could land on my leg and I could swat it off, a dragonfly appeared out of nowhere and had the horsefly in its grasp.  Nature at its finest, survival of the fittest, indeed.  When I was digging up the dirt for the flower bed, I found a lot of big, hairy spiders crawling between the mounds of dirt and the house.  I could have killed the spiders but instead, left them alone to fend for themselves.  When the guys came to mow the lawn, they killed every big spider they saw.

 

Last year, I participated in a recycled art contest.  The head judge of the contest was an artist of regional renown (except by me, I guess, because I cannot remember her one-word name).  The judge was given the chance to speak to the crowd before the awards were handed out.  She made an important statement.  She referred to the usual graveside sermon about “ashes to ashes, dust to dust”.  She said that none of us had to believe in any certain religion to understand that we all live on the same planet —  breathe the same air, drink the same water, etc. — so we should take care of the planet during our time here so that future beings can be born from the ashes and dust of our corpses.  In other words, try not to do more than your share of the damage.  I guess I’ve done my share.

 

24 June 2002 — Life does not stop because I want it to.  My sister came to town Friday afternoon to visit me for the weekend.  Friday night, we saw the Nashville Bluegrass Band and the Fairfield Four perform in front of an audience on the grounds of the Botanical Garden.  The Nashville Bluegrass Band were good at “pickin’ and grinnin'”, as they say.  The Fairfield Four were a wonderful group of five guys, originally from the Fairfield Baptist Church in Nashville.  They performed a very moving set of oldtime gospel music.

 

Saturday morning, my sis and I got up early to go to Deland, Alabama.  She and I were greatly anticipating our first tandem skydive, especially after I retold her about Davina’s experience.  On the drive to Deland, we got a chance to talk about her work as a middle school counselor, the probable ending of her relationship with her boyfriend and the general excitement of the skydive.

 

“Was that the road we’re supposed to turn off on?” I asked.

 

“I don’t know,” she responded, distracted by the news she was telling me about the reason for the breakup with her boyfriend.  “We could stop at the gas station back there and ask.”

 

I turned around in a break in the median and headed back north on the highway.

 

“I’ll just stay in the car,” she said as we pulled into the gas station.

 

“Fine.  I’ll take this pen and paper in with me.”

 

As I walked into the convenience store, a guy in front of me, who was probably in his late 40s and sported an earring, turned to nod at the guy behind the counter who was talking to a buddy leaning on the counter.  “What can I do for ya?” the counter guy asked me.

 

“Can you tell me how to get to the airport?”

 

“Which one?”

 

“The Deland airport.”

 

“Okay, I’ll tell you but let me know if I tell it to you too fast.  You take this road here and go back north on the highway.  You’ll go about a mile, wouldn’t you say?” he gestured to her buddy.

 

“Yeah, maybe a mile,” his buddy added.

 

“You go about a mile and you’ll get to a major road.  Take a right at the big sign for the Deland Airport and you’ll run right into it.  I can slow down and repeat the instructions, if you want.”

 

“No, that’s all right.  So it’s a left and a right and I’m there?”

 

“Yep, turn at the big sign.  You can’t miss it.”

 

“Thanks,” I said, starting to walk out.

 

“Sure you don’t want me to repeat the instructions?” the counter guy asked with a smile and a slight laugh as I walked out the door.

 

 

What were my first impressions when we got to the airport?  It was small but bigger than I expected.  I noticed a couple of helicopters flying around, one small one (like those one-person traffic helicopters) and one medium-sized one (like the ones hospitals use for transporting patients).  The entrance dead-ended at a T.  In front of us was a hangar.  To the right were two more hangars with their doors open.  People were milling about in the hangar to the far-right.  A sign pointed skydive customers to the left so I drove to the left which took us to the terminal building.  Henry, a friend from school, greeted us in the parking lot.  Henry kindly let me go see and sit in his plane, which he had flown from the Sarasota area just to see us dive.  In the passenger seat, I turned the steering wheel and saw the flaps move.  I realized time was marching so I climbed out of the plane and we headed back to the terminal, still seeing helicopters flying around us in addition to a student pilot wobbly taking off.

 

Henry said that the skydiving building was the hangar at the other end of the airport so we started walking in that direction (I was ready to run).  We saw skydivers getting in a big plane so I hurried over to the hangar, afraid that we had missed our ride.  Turns out we were a long time from jumping.  We got to the hangar about ten minutes before 10 a.m. and didn’t land until almost 1 p.m.

 

The hangar was pretty much the way I pictured it, like the early scenes from the movie, “Terminal Velocity”, with Charlie Sheen — people of various ages hanging out, sitting in chairs, folding parachutes, putting on jumpsuits, practicing maneuvers and just chit-chatting.

 

Sis and I walked into the air-conditioned office to look for Jonathan, the guy who had taken our reservations.  At about this time, I was feeling a little antsy, realizing that I was getting ever so closer to jumping out of an airplane.  Sis and I took turns going to the bathroom.  We couldn’t find Jonathan but an energetic guy named Todd said that he could help us out.  He asked if we had thought about having the dive videotaped and I told him that we had already arranged that (or so I thought).  Todd said, “Okay, I’m not supposed to be behind the counter but I know Jonathan would want you to watch a videotape of what you’ll experience.”  While he dug around for the tape, I found Henry and told him we weren’t going to jump anytime soon in case he wanted to hang out.  He just nodded his head and went back to walking around the hangar.

 

I don’t remember much about the rest of the day.  People were constantly coming and going out of the office but the one person who always seemed to be around us was Todd.  He told us about the excitement of his first jump, how the adrenaline and endorphins are pumping so hard, you tend to miss a lot but the second jump is so much better because you know what’s going to happen and can then enjoy the ride although you get just as big an adrenaline high as the first jump.  Todd told us we could throw our stuff anywhere on the floor because there’s a lot of expensive equipment around and nobody steals anything.  Seeing that it was going to be a while before Jonathan got back, we stepped outside the hangar to watch the skydivers come down.  They seemed to land everywhere around us, mainly because they had misjudged the wind and had jumped out too soon.

 

Sam sighed.  Why hadn’t she written down the rest of the skydive experience?  Oh well, that seemed to be the story of her life.  Start something and not finish it.  She had just started transferring over some of her old writing.  Would she get all of that finished, too?  She re-read them for clarity.

 

 

16 October 1999, 8:57 p.m.

And so begins my sojourn into the world of writing stories on the Apple Macintosh computer.  The first stories will be classically composed, with the stereotypical climax, conflict, and other elements mentioned by Aristotle several thousand years ago.

Story ideas 1

A heartbeat.  A simple heartbeat.  Thuthump, thuthump.  The rhythm and mystery mesmerizes us all in the quiet moments when we’re alone like a metronome or the hypnotist’s watch swinging back and forth.  I remember my life not by the sweet memories and hard lessons but by how fast my heart pumped and the adrenaline flowed.  Occasionally, the heart beats faster and faster until the rhythm changes.  Thuthuthump, thump.  Then silence, like death, creeps in.  As if connected to some internal clock, however, the heart starts back up again.  Thuthump, thuthump.  The rates slows and all is quiet once more.

They say crack, a form of cocaine, is a killer, but like using a loaded gun, the killer is the person who takes the crack.  So what does this say?  The bumper sticker says, “Hugs are betters than drugs.”  The need for more communication, for a clear direction – in that lies the answer to our drug problem.  Why do they call it a drug problem?  They should call it the drug symptom.  Plants dying along a river filled with dead fish is not a problem, it is a symptom of something poisoning the water.  Whoever poisoned the river is the problem.  In our society, whoever poisoned the mind of the crack user is the problem.  We do not want to see this, though.  We want to pretend that our society, although not perfect, is not fully to blame for the drug abuse prevalent in our lives.  Woe be it to us when all our rivers, lakes, streams and oceans are polluted beyond usability.  Whom shall we blame?  The water?

Just thinking about the sickness already spread across the land makes my heart race.  Are we humans so absorbed with the comforts we’ve grown accustomed to (through exposure to mass media and the diversity of human condition in the world that we become numb to starving children and stare blank-faced and awestruck at shows like “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous”) that we choose to ignore the obvious signs of how short-lived our comforts have become?  Today’s clean, strong plastic trash bag becomes tomorrow’s useless waste dump.

Look at me, all talk and no action.  Instead of writing this on a piece of paper with a graphite pencil I choose to express my thoughts on a piece of equipment that absorbs/wastes more energy than is necessary to record these words.  Oh well, I have already resigned myself to an early death, whether by my own hands or the hands of this destructive society.  To add to this morbid view, my sis and I are facing the death of our three cats by feline leukemia, not a pretty sight to say the least.

[An aside:  I must overcome the fear that someone will read the words I have yet to put on paper.  No matter what happens, the truth must be recorded.  Past actions make better stories than fantastic tales.]

the other one

18 December 1999, 8:30 p.m.

She laughed without guilt.  Her smile, her homely glasses, her shoulder-length hair – vestiges of an earthly life though now she rests in heaven – all she did and said spoke of her childhood innocence.  How could we know what effect one life would have on the rest of us?  We were just children, still malleable, ready to face whatever came along.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning, before the pain and the tears, the weeks of crying oneself to sleep, of blaming one’s parents for the torture of losing love (for we did love her).

When young, we see the world around us without the bias of experience.  Everything is new and exciting, not coated with sarcasm or doubt, and we go on to the next adventure with enthusiasm, rarely stopping to question what we see.  Some of us, though, wonder.  Why is 2+2 important when we see the bee at the flower?  What good is a vocabulary when we don’t know what we’re saying?  Who cares about history when you’re in love?

Psychologists often like to find the answer to our problems by categorizing our reactions (our “behavior,” since no one can read our thoughts) with words like schizophrenia, oedipal complex, Type A, and utopian.  Before psychologists came along we trusted our inner selves to others, perhaps a priest, a doctor, even God.  To be sure, we still trust ourselves to others but mainstream America leads us to believe that psychologists can help us out of troublesome times.

My first few years of life were influenced by the fact that my father changed jobs many times thus necessitating our moving to another town.  I got used to the act of my parents coming to school to pick me up and tell the teacher we were ready to move.  By the time I reached third grade I had lived in four different places.  I was used to making new friends and losing them quickly (some people had it rougher but this is my story after all).  Kids are adaptable – they heal quickly.

When we moved to North Port, I was ready for third grade.  Though my marks had suffered because of my tendency to stare out the window, I knew I would do better at the new school.  The school was like most public schools with red brick walls, large classroom windows, slick concrete hallways, and a big playground to send kids so the teachers could take turns resting.  Like most kids, I enjoyed playing on the swings, monkey bars and merry-go-rounds.  In fact, everything about me was as normal as an 8-year old could be.  As the months progressed, I made new school friends, going to their birthday parties and playing at their houses as my parents saw fit to let me.

Growing up, I knew my parents were my friends and not just the ones who spanked me and sent me to my room without supper.  I trusted to tell them about all my daily activities, telling them about what I’d done, who I’d seen and played with.  I still enjoy telling them these things though I don’t talk to them as often as I used to.  My parents were my psychologists, listening when appropriate and interjecting when an authoritative opinion was required.

As my third year of school passed, I met dozens of schoolmates.  To this day, I try to keep up with those elementary school friends who came and went through the years.  Some are doctors, school teachers, spouses, and parents.  One I know is an excellent artist.  If we knew then what we are now, would we be the same?  The luxury of foresight we don’t have and little did we know what we’d be doing the next day, let alone 20 or more years from then.  Of all those schoolmates, one of them stands out, my girlfriend of three years, Renee Dobbs.

I owe much of what I am today to that little girl.  My gift for writing began with the love notes she and I passed in class.  The women I like remind me of her.  My underlying melancholy comes from the last part of our relationship, but I’m getting ahead of myself.  Renee was my first true love.  “How can you know love at that age,” I have heard many times.  I cannot explain what we had with words.  Even our 4th grade teacher recognized that our relationship was years ahead of our age.  We shared everything with each other but unlike our other schoolmates we never saw each other outside of school.  Somehow, we knew not to tell our parents too much about the other.  They knew we had a special friend at school but not why or how much.  Ours was a once-in-a-lifetime friendship, a bond between a boy and a girl that married couples have never known.

I remember our standing in line after lunch, waiting to go back to class (“Quiet, children.  Walk in single file.”  Our teacher was a misplaced drill sergeant.).  I had been talking to a boy about his lunchbox and turned to comment to Renee about how long we had been waiting when she mouthed some words to me.  I didn’t know what she’d said because I didn’t recognize the words.  They weren’t words a third grade girl expects to hear from another third grade girl.  I asked her to repeat herself and again she mouthed these strange words.  We had known each other for several months and had begun to pass notes in class.  Nothing we had said to each other had prepared me for what she was about to say.  I asked her to repeat herself one more time and she whispered the words in my ear, “I love you.”  No more honestly, sincerely, and graceful have those words been spoken.  Like an angel from heaven, my angel on earth had blessed me in the best way she knew – “I love you.”  Yes, armies have fallen and palaces built in the name of those three words.  Of course, I answered her, “I love you, too,” like a peasant answers her lord, or a pilgrim to God.  The moment shone with purity.

Well, fourth grade passed and fifth grade came along and Renee, JaRita (another close friend of Renee), and I played together at school as much as we could.  Recess period and lunch were never too soon or long enough.

Fall passed into winter and Renee began to miss school because she was sick.  We still played together but she couldn’t run around like she used to do.  She was thinner than before but still as bright and cheerful as ever. As spring approached, we planned to go to the annual sock hop on April 15th, the “Spring Fling,” where all kids from grades 5 to 9 could dance together in the gymnasium.  March came and Renee only came for a few days of school.  She said she had some sort of disease that the doctors said they could cure.  Toward the end of March Renee entered the hospital.  Our class took up money to send her flowers.  I prayed at night for her to get better.

Then came April.  The grass started growing and we could play outside at home after school.  There was talk at school of Renee getting out of the hospital.  JaRita and I were excited about seeing Renee again.  The days seemed like years.  On April 8th, my homeroom teacher announced that Renee had gotten worse.  A cruel classmate of mine who knew how close I was to her told me his mother, a nurse at the hospital, told her Renee only had a 40 percent chance to live.  I was devastated and cried myself to sleep that night, not wanting to tell my parents whom I loved and trusted, that I was letting them down by feeling so wretched, that my head ached and my stomach was tied into an excruciating knot.  The next day the cruel boy told me Renee only had a 25 percent chance to live.  That night was worse.  I never went to sleep.  I had to hold a pillow over my face to drown out my sobbing.

Renee held at 25 percent for three more days.  On the next day she dropped to a 10 percent chance.  JaRita and I still talked of the hope of Renee making it back to school and I still told everyone Renee and I were going to the sock hop together.

By the time I got to school on the 14th, the news had already spread.  Renee had died early that morning.  I don’t remember the rest of the day.  My parents had to come pick me up, literally, because I had fallen on the floor crying and would not let anyone touch me.  I cried nonstop for the next two days as Mom and Dad tended to me and helped me go to the wake.  At the funeral home, Renee’s mother mentioned how Renee had talked about me but she never knew how close Renee and I were.  Mom and Dad agreed.

For the next two weeks, I barely slept.  I did my best to keep a straight face during the day but could not hang on at night.  I cried and cried and cried.  It was at that time that I starting blaming my parents.  Couldn’t they see how I suffered?  Didn’t they know I needed their love despite my telling them that yes, I was doing all right?

From sheer exhaustion I began to sleep at night.  I still cried throughout the night for the pain and anguish were still there but I was beginning to learn how to channel that pain.  I started to pray at night that I could join Renee.  I asked God to do whatever it took to take me to her.  I continued to pray this way for several months until one of my parents heard me say this out loud.  Then Mom and Dad sat down with me and explained that we all suffer the loss of loved ones, that life can still be wonderful with the loved ones we have left.

I vowed that from that day forward I would devote my life to the name of Renee Dobbs.  I told myself that one day someone would suffer like I had and would need the comfort and understanding of a like sufferer.  Through the years I have helped other people through painful crises in their life.  Now, I believe I have found someone who suffered like I have.  I want you to know that for two years I cried over the loss of Renee but through prayer and talking to my parents I was able to overcome the pain and turn it toward good.  Occasionally I get melancholy and wonder what it would be like to be with Renee again but know that the people here on Earth need me more.

16 January, 2000, 11:05 p.m.

Who am I to argue with the authorities when our democratic society has no authorities, only those who hold authoritative positions, experts in their fields of specialty?  They know what they’re talking about.  They may not make sense or come to logical conclusions but they get the job done.  — words of my time

Tonight, I establish this goal:

RUN!  BEAT DEATH TO THE DOOR OF MORTALITY AND SHUT IT FAST.

While many of you out there have invested in the species-preservation goal of children, I have opted not to have children.  The genetic pool has turned to froth for me.  The immortality option to children I have chosen transformed itself into recycling; that is, I weighed the possibilities for myself and those around me.  [I’m tired and somewhat incoherent]  The first possibility raised its ugly head when I was a child.  I dreamed of being a hermit, living a resource-wise life, taking from the land only what I needed and returning what I could.  Even as a child of six, I did not sing out loud.  Instead, I mouthed the words to preserve what I thought was the limited number of breaths with which a person had to live.  The second possibility hit me like a brick while I was in my early 20s.  I realized that life is an exercise in futility.  As the saying goes, “Don’t take life seriously ’cause you can’t get out alive.”  I contemplated suicide, made a few halfhearted attempts to test my theory that a body is a group of cells with a collective will to live, and finally succumbed to the fact that death is the challenge to life.  Death is the devil incarnate.  No god or image of hell is more startling than the bare image of the transformation of a living human being into bacterial fodder.  Then it came to me like a thousand warmed-over clichés – immortality is not just a glamorous word for species-preservation but also represents the latest in democratic trends: recycling.  What we did not or cannot use today can be recycled for tomorrow’s use (or loosely translated as what we did not or cannot do can be attempted tomorrow in our children).

Glory, glory!  Life is mine once more!  No one can stop me but me on the path toward more vigorous recycling efforts.  I have already had my first “child” – the North Port Christmas Tree Recycling Project.  The child lives and breathes and looks like it will live for years to come.  The next child will be a doozy – the coalition called North Port Volunteers for Recycling Program composed of volunteer, non-profit, service, etc. organizations that coordinate their recycling programs with the Solid Waste Disposal Authority of the City of North Port; thus, waste is eliminated in the effort to clean up waste.

21 February, 2000, 7:45 p.m.

I have read of those who had a vision, a dream, that lived as much as those who had the vision.  Religious people like Jesus of Nazareth and Buddha left their families to pursue their visions.  I understand the reasons for their leaving.  As anyone knows who has had a vision or quest, only you can see what your vision entails.  Others may believe the validity of your vision but don’t have the insight to the strength, vitality, or scope of this wonderful thing you carry inside your head.  Depending on your personality, you may wish to control the implementation of your vision or let everyone know what you see and let them carry out their version of your vision.  In my case, I am a controller.  Oh, there are the psychological symptoms for this controlling desire – insecurity, paranoia et al – but this person known as Sam Hill is composed of these psychological elements and has learned to operate upon the strengths of these elements rather than their weaknesses.

Therefore, I want to encourage people to follow my lead, not slow me down with tedious suggestions or interpretations.  Of course, when necessity/courtesy dictate that I stop to listen, I do so with patience to let each person know I have time to listen except in times of boring repetition.  Then, I muster up as much consideration as I can and let that person know I see the point but must go on.  Life is too short to smell dead roses.

Recently, I have let my sister represent me and my vision of the recycling efforts of the Botanical Garden.  She doesn’t yet have the authority and respect I garnered because of my instant thrust of the importance of a Christmas tree recycling program in mid-December of last year.  She so wants to be a part of this that I have given her the task of putting together the folding “billboard” to be used for several exhibitions this spring.  I do not doubt her ability to organize (why else would I trust her to arrange our finances) but I don’t believe she has a full grasp on what I envision for the Botanical Garden.  Yes, I know, life can be described in three words – compromise, compromise, compromise.  I only hope she has that burning desire critical to fulfill one’s dream.

As I stood outside the house in which I reside, I pondered the humor in what we humans have done to the so-called natural order of things.  For instance, we took what initially was intended to be a place of shelter and created a vast network of hardware stores, drapery shops, interior decorator centers, and a housing industry to support the necessity for a roof over our heads.  Hmmph…aren’t we a sight for sore eyes?

Ah well, life goes on with or without our meager existence.  Somewhere in between the mysteries of birth and death we try to realize something concrete.  I just want to preserve some wilderness (definition: not man-made) in my life.  How about you?

28 February, 2000, 8:48 p.m.

The cycle that I once wrote about in my youth, GETBORNGOTOSCHOOLMARRYHAVECHILDRENTHENDIE, plagues me still.  Will I never learn to take it easy and enjoy life rather than fight with myself each day just for the right to live?  After all, were we not born with the right to live?  Life, they say, is a precious thing, and we should cherish each day as our last.  I just want to know which day is my last day so I can sit back, relax, and wait for it to come.  Life in the ‘burbs is no life at all, simply a definition of homogenous humans hugging half-baked ideas of home life.

I still feel I cannot put down on “paper” my true thoughts and feelings.  For one thing, I know I get real depressed after reading my former writings.  For another, I fear someone will label me in a derogatory manner for the words I have arranged.  Also, I don’t want to offend anyone ( the ol’ Thumper syndrome).  Quite frankly, I don’t expect anyone to deliberately read what I have written, not in my lifetime.  I am too protective of my writings.  I did not have the initiative early on to share my writings with those who would reward my creative . . . yes, I question the use of that word, too . . . my ability to arrange words in groupings intelligible to an average person.  I scoff at the ready acceptance of those who have read my writing the drivel which pours forth from this depraved mind.  If they only knew the ridiculous thoughts of lust, prejudice, hatred, and laziness that course through my daily stream of consciousness . . . of course, there is the flip side – what if I knew of theirs?

Does any of this really matter?

No, I suppose it doesn’t but what am I really but an observer?  I dislike being the observed.  Besides, how else am I going to convince my sister that I am studying for an exam.

27 March, 2000, 9:14 p.m.

The following story will consist of chapters to be composed over the next three months . . .

I.
I didn’t want to write a story in the first person — writing in this manner always gives me the impression that the writer has a self-love problem.  I have found, however, that we all tend to think more about ourselves than we’re taught to accept personally.  Then again, writing in the third person makes me feel aloof, as if the person in the story is me and yet not me.  To be sure, some part of me becomes a story but I . . . well, I’m not here to tell you my feelings about writing . . . I just find beginnings so hard to write.

Oh gosh, I don’t know how to tell you this.  Let’s see, I remember when I first realized she was different.  We were young then, much too young for real love but too mature for puppy love.  We had been acquaintances for a few years and had always enjoyed each other’s company but in each other’s eyes we were just another friend.  Funny how some things don’t change.  Reflecting on my thoughts of her, she is still just another friend.  Even so, I can think of no other person with whom I can instantly bond mentally.

We did just about everything together in those days.  We rode the bus together, ate lunch together, shared band class (in which we passed notes), and sang in a group called Sing Out North Port.  In fact, I could think of no other existence but spending my pleasure hours with Helen.  I would have had classes with her but we were one school grade apart with I being the senior student.  Such was our fate and probably a good one, too, for we were like two peas from the same pod — everyone expected to see Davina and Helen together — had we had the same classes we wouldn’t have had the opportunity to expand our horizons.

Throughout my friendship with Helen, I noticed one thing:  she was female and I was female.  Ah, you say, what is the big deal about that?  Well, I agree with you that two people, regardless of gender, can be good friends but somehow, be it peer pressure or hormones I found myself attracted to Helen.  Publicly and privately, I spoke of my desire for her, that one day I would kiss her to prove once and for all the minute characteristic of our sexual relationship.  In any case, that story will wait.

Helen, sweet Helen.  How can I describe a woman that to me is the most understanding person in the world but to everyone else except her husband she is the wicked witch of central Florida?  I don’t know how to explain this curiosity.  She and I don’t talk to each other very much.  Oh, I send her letters occasionally and we exchange the usual birthday and Christmas cards but we don’t communicate (in the normal social channels) like we used to do before.  Helen defies all description by me.  I see her as I see myself – I can insult myself and hurt myself but I could never really kill myself – thus, I could never give up my friendship with Helen.  Despite the hurt and lies we have shared, we are the only ones who really understand each other’s mental paths.

Helen and I, we have seen more together than we could ever tell her spouse with any clarity or sanity.  I have tried to tell my sister about my relationship with Helen but my sister had been hurt by Helen and has little patience to hear how close I am or have been with her.

We still keep in touch.  A few days ago, I called Helen to congratulate her on her husband’s new job and their move from Kosciusko, MS to Jacksonville, FL.  We talked about the usual stories – her pregnancy in the eighth month, family, and local gossip – but at the end of the conversation, as we decided to bid farewell, Helen said, “Well, have a good day,” and we laughed because we both knew without saying a word that we always wonder what to say at the end of a phone conversation because we are not family or lovers.  At this moment, I can’t describe this ability to carry on a conversation without speaking.  Actually, I could recite events where this has occurred but I cannot hand you a physical object and say, “Here is what our relationship looks like.”  In this way only have I found life to be a mystery.

08 April, 2000, 1:22 a.m.

And so I must be honest with myself.  I am a gal, a happily single woman with a sister who provides all that I could ask of her.  Karen cleans the house and washes the clothes most of the time; that is, I chip in one-tenth of one percent of the housework.  We have a wonderful life and participate in several mind games a week, have our usual emotionally-packed arguments and help each other as best we can through depressive slumps yet . . . Helen lingers in my mind like the guest that will not leave.

Helen, well, we know that Helen is not the name she goes by but we must protect the characters we writers create.  After all, one does not go around destroying the few friendships available without destroying the material for the next story.

Helen . . . when my mind slows down and stops to rest I hear the echoes of Helen in the same way that others describe God.  When I am under stress or feel the need to be loved I call out Karen’s name which in the work environment I presently occupy is quite often.

How do I describe this sharing of my soul with two different women?  Do I use the metaphor of wife and mistress?  Since I live with my sister Karen then Helen would be the mistress but what is a mistress but “a woman with whom a woman frequently fornicates?”  By no means have Helen and I fornicated (and I certainly don’t do that with Sis).  We hesitate to hug as it is.  Do I attest to the plausibility of two “wives?”  I am only attracted to one woman according to social rules.  Excluding the issue of Helen being another woman then I simply have a relationship with Helen that is based on close mental contact.  My relationship with Karen entails emotional and physical trust and respect.

A college literature teacher once told me that the three basic conflicts in stories are only a reflection of the conflicts in life – woman vs. God, woman vs. nature, and woman vs. woman – all other conflicts are variations on a theme including woman vs. self which represents a form of woman vs. man.  I disagreed then and I disagree now.  Woman vs. self combines the three basic forms because God/nature/woman is only what we see through our senses.  Therefore, because our senses are part of our selves then all conflicts boil down to woman vs. self.  We must determine what senses we use to resolve our conflicts.

At this moment in my life, I see my relationships with Helen and Karen through my rationale and my heart, in that order.  Helen exists in that part of me that reasons out all that matters in my universe.  Karen owns that part of me that belongs to family and Earth.

In the midst of my constant battle between Karen and Helen lies the problem of religion.  I was raised in a Christian household.  Although my parents did not attend church on a regular basis they still insisted that we learn the basics of the Bible and practice the teachings of the New Testament.
Now, as an adult, I have the ability to choose for myself the resting place of my soul.  At first I denied the existence of an omniscient God.  Now I have found myself leaning toward the existence of ancestral influence not just through our genetic makeup but through the ephemeral influence of past souls, especially from those of our nearest dead relatives.  I understand that this really stems from my simplistic remembrance of ideal relatives but we all must establish a system of beliefs and I now rest my beliefs on this system of ancestral worship.  I have to understand the social implications of allowing others to follow the worship practices of their cultures before I can fully accept the cultural practices of the generic WASP (white Anglo-Saxon Protestant) upbringing of our society.

On an aside, I find that I write best when I can prevent my brain from occupying itself with common daily interruptions by flooding my body with substances like alcohol that impair my physical abilities.  At one point in time I relied on the means of illegal drugs to record my writings but find those practices too expensive monetarily and physically to justify the ends.

17 April, 2000, 7:52 a.m.

On the verge of a nervous breakdown I sit to write the following words in hopes of preventing the mental disruption of my life as a member of the world as well as a friend to my sister.
Last night I lay in bed as I did most of the day yesterday battling with myself over the worth of spending the daytime hours in an environment which drains my energy and life of the creativity and talents/gifts with which I was born and have been nurtured throughout my life.  Battle:  “Do I use my physical looks and middle-class upbringing to live in the corporate world?” versus “Do I devote myself to the development of the inner self which flows with stories and insights to provide others in exchange for labor credits (i.e., money)?”

On the way home Sunday from our parents’ home, I told my sis that I have finally come to the realization that I have to let my inner self have some breathing space or else I see my choices in life as death vs. the corporate world (and we know that the “vs.” can easily be substituted with “=”).

So last night I decided to consult with my ancestors/God/Allah/personal gods to discover how they might help me with this predicament.  I told them that I wished to die because my life, other than that with my sis, offered me no other alternative than death of self.  They told me I have the choice to make, that if I choose death I must be willing to face the circumstances.  They then revealed to me that in the end, we all choose to die, although there are extreme circumstances in which we are asked to let go (such as gruesome car accidents where our bodies are mangled beyond present day medical care).  I was given the opportunity to see the barrier placed between life here on Earth as living flesh and the life with physical bodies.  This barrier I saw as a semipermeable membrane that allows those who have completed their lives and do not carry excess baggage to pass through freely.  The barrier looked thick, felt soft, and gave way or flexed quite easily because its composition, though pleasant to the touch, consisted of closely packed, fibrous material.  I was told that if I chose to leave now that I will not have completed my journey on Earth and will still have baggage to get rid of – suicide carries with it the emotional heartaches of those whom I love.  I was not told how I would get rid of this emotional baggage if I chose suicide but I believe I would have to return to Earth with no guarantees of the difficulty or ease with which I would have to rid myself of the baggage nor whether I would be burdened with more baggage.

I can but imagine what life without an earthly physical body would be like.  I would no longer have the worries and concerns associated with this body that I occupy; that is not to say that I would not have new problems to resolve but who of us human beings is ready to learn of new worlds when we have sufficient problems on Earth to last a lifetime?  The religion with which I was raised promises a heaven, a place of utmost happiness, to those who accept the divine rule of Jesus Christ/God/the Holy Spirit in their lives, even if the acceptance occurs at the last moment of life on Earth.  To many, the promise of heaven provides a cushion of comfort in rough times and a light at the end of the tunnel in dark times.  I believe this heaven to be the same type of existence that I saw last night.  The new existence does not require one to be intelligent or gifted in any way only that you understand, have faith in, if you will, the permanence of the universe and your place in it.

21 April, 2000, 3:25 p.m.

Now I know that faith is not something that happens gradually.  One moment you are a nonbeliever and the next moment you believe – thus those who believe see what the well-phrased “leap of faith” means.  Those in the Christian religion in which I was raised come to believe in Christ as the Savior and God as the Creator whereas I believe in the immortality of a living universe where life begets life and acts of kindness – that is, acts of helping another living thing – are acts of life.

Tuesday, 24 April, 2000, 8:36 p.m.

Some people say that if we could travel through time then we could not travel into the future because it does not exist.  Well, a couple of days ago, while watching a movie called “Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure,” I realized we can travel into the future because our future is someone else’s past.

I often wonder about my sanity.  After reading the past couple of entries and remembering much of the writing I threw away several years ago, I know that I am not normal.  On the other hand, my lifestyle reveals that I am essentially an individual who likes to think what she will but succumbs to the peer pressure that puts her in a statistically safe place in society – in other words, a normal, middle-class American.

Tuesday, 22 May, 2000, 12:44 a.m.

A month has passed since my last entry, a month that holds few events worth making the history books but worthy of a journalist’s/diarist’s recordkeeping.

First, I have been toying with the idea that the antidepressants I am taking may be killing the creative person within me by smoothing out the peaks and valleys of the personality called Sam Hill.  I had no way to prove this theory except through intuitive knowledge of my present (extrapolated into the future) lack of desire to write.  I reached into the well of my self and pulled out the definition of me that I understand – “the person who sees and records that which others live” – some call such a person a writer but I am not “one who writes” but one “who sees and records.”  There is a difference, you know.
Second, I have been fighting the yin/yang argument of city versus suburban living, wondering why I feel drawn to the city life with its inherent contradictions and superfluous/ubiquitous crime yet I know that my roots and the ultimate purpose of the human species belongs to the relative calm and serenity of a suburban lifestyle for families to have children who grow up in an environment of strong, consistent social values that allow the children to discover themselves without inhibitions or ultraviolent pressures.  Perhaps we don’t realize the utopia we have in suburban living?

In any case, I have my destiny.  I must have chaos to write or why write?  I want to know why my grandfather, Horace Harris, abandoned my grandmother and her son (my father).

Helen had her baby on May 19.  The baby’s name is Christina Jaquita Previn, weighed 7 lbs, 12 ounces at birth and was 20-1/2 long.  She has blond and brown hair and favors her mother’s (the Nguyen) family.

Joey is in France, has been for over three months and his boyfriend/husband will be glad to have him home in a few weeks.

I want to have a baby but my sister says I should resist.

Wednesday, 4 September, 2000, 6:50 p.m.

I have been to the psychiatric unit of a local hospital for two periods of two weeks each.  The first began 3 July and lasted until 16 July; the second lasted from 20 August until 4 September.  I entered the unit because of depression and suicidal ideation.  Now I am cured.  I no longer have to think about death to justify my life.  However much I want to deny it, the only reason I have to live is my sis.  I have no other raison d’etre (sp?).  Comprendez vous?  Je ne sais pas mais oui, life is tres ennui.  What am I to do?  I fancy myself a bit crazy although everyone wonders why a “together” girl like me has any problems.  I suppose that is my problem, n’est pas?  I have lost my lust for life.  Instead, I wallow in the mud of mundane living.  I want excitement but all I get is potatoes with gravy and cranberry sauce to go with my turkey.

I do not return to class until Friday so tomorrow leaves me a chance to be myself although I have an appointment with a psychiatrist to determine if I should attend group therapy.  What shall I do?  I don’t want to do anything that would upset my sis but I want to do something for myself.  [Just between me and you, I think I would not be as concerned about my sis if I knew I didn’t have to see her everyday.  However, I can’t see a way out of this predicament so I continue to hold on to my love for her since she’s the only human left that I love.]

Sunday, 9 September, 2000, 12:45 p.m.

I know what bothers me most, as has been seen throughout my references to wanting to be a nonentity, hermit, etc.  I see too much the injustices of the world, how humans treat other humans as machines to be wound up and sent to march in step with the beat of the Official Drum.  I do not want to call myself human.  I want to wash off the dirt and filth of ten thousand years of human progress.  We humans strive to be better, that is, to put ourselves in a better position for survival, but all we end up doing is building a bigger machine that one day will consume not only the earth but even us humans, the Creators.  If I am to be responsible for my life, then I want all humans to be responsible for this tiny planet on which we live and not concern ourselves with trying to support the useless device we call society.  Instead, I too support the United States frame of reference (i.e., society) because I am too weak to get others to see the reality of our situation; I have been supported by this society for 28 years and fear what would happen if I let go.  I have no God to support me in this, only the realization that if I am to live on this planet then I want to live life my way and not the way that is offered by any given society.  I am not an anarchist but I cannot find a way of life currently in existence that meets my criteria for ultimate human survival.  Yes, I am looking for Utopia but I will settle for much less before I die.

Also, I need not dislike other humans for belonging to the U.S. society.  As one famous person in history once was quoted as saying, “They know not what they are doing.”

Monday, 15 July, 2001, 9:00 p.m.

I have allowed myself the luxury of joining the throngs of female humans who desire and purchase a motorized transportation vehicle which has been designed for the pleasure and not the utility of driving.  In other words, I bought a car for the sport of driving.  In other words, I bought a sports car.  In fact, I bought a red 1984 Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce with leather seats and polished wood steering wheel.

Why an Alfa Romeo?  Why, indeed?  Let me take you back a moment to the turn of the century.  The horse and the train were no longer the sole means of transportation so men had the opportunity to design transportation vehicles that took advantage of the comfort of trains and the transportability of horses.  In 1909, a group of Italian industrialists bought an auto factory on the old Portello road near Milan “to build automobiles of sporting performance.”  They named their new company Anomina Lombarda Fabbrica Automobili – ALFA.  Several years later, Nicola Romeo brought the company into the forefront of auto racing history.  Thus, Alfa Romeo was born.

Although I was not born until 1982, decades after the automobile was born, I grew up hearing about the early days of Model As, Model Ts but most importantly about the joy of driving any car along a country road with the wind whistling, the engine puttering, and the smell of musty leather and gearbox oil in the air.  When I was four years old, my father bought a 1959 Triumph TR3.  He loved that car more than his family, just about.  I remember the car and its shape like an ocean wave that started at the front bumper, smoothly crested midway across the hood and reached bottom near the back of the front seats, then rose again toward the rear tires and crashed into the rear bumper.  To me, the curves of that car pointed toward heaven like a cross in a Christian church.  I knew when I was a grownup I was going to have a car just like Dad’s.

As I have grown up, I have watched the years pass by without my owning a piece of heaven.  Many times, I have struggled with the thought that perhaps I didn’t deserve a fine sports car.  I would look at the car I was driving and say I was unworthy.  In early 2000, I set my sights on a Karmann Ghia convertible, knowing I wanted more but settling for less.  A few years passed during which my life was spent struggling with ideas and philosophies not founded in the reality of sports cars or normal, everyday living.

About a year ago, I found my path to heaven.  I don’t remember the exact day but hope sprang eternal when I saw an Alfa Romeo Spider gliding effortlessly along the road like an angel.  At that moment, I knew my materialistic mission in life:  to buy, own, and thoroughly enjoy an Alfa Romeo Spider.  I checked the classified ads in the local newspaper for several months but no one seemed to be selling Alfa Romeos, Spiders or otherwise.  I told several people about my goal and most people told me how impractical I was since there was no Alfa dealership in North Port, Alabama, Alfas were known for their mechanical problems, the nearest mechanics were in Tampa and how could I possibly expect to take care of a car when I hardly knew where the air filter was.  I think I heard every negative comment possible about owning an Alfa except no one could deny that owning an Alfa is a dream attained only by the truly inspired.

A year passed and finally my dream seemed about to come true.  My sis and I found a Spider for sale in a sell-your-own lot.  The owner was a woman in her early 60s who had bought the car because her doctor told her she was going blind and she wanted to own a sports car before she could no longer drive – not quite the “little ol’ lady who only drives the car to church on Sunday” story but close enough. The woman wanted to sell the car to an Alfa enthusiast like me but my money was tied up for a down payment on a house.  Rationally, I knew I should wait but emotionally I was torn up.  Realizing I was not getting the car felt like someone had just nailed one of my feet into a coffin.

My sis and I bought a house and settled in, spending money on wallpapering the bathrooms, landscaping the yard, a computer, a china cabinet,. . . everyday passed and I seemed destined to follow a road that led away from an Alfa.  A few months ago we discussed replacing the little yellow Nissan Sentra I had been driving for three or four years.  We decided we needed a truck to haul the landscaping mulch we seemed to use so much of in the yard.  My father started looking for a truck in the newspaper.  I emphasized that I wanted a cheap truck, less than $2000, if possible, all along feeling that the truck was going to nail my other foot in the coffin.

A few weeks ago, I went with my sis to see her boyfriend and her family for dinner.  We ate a satisfying meal and I sat down in the living room to read the classified ads.  I thumbed over to the truck section, marking the prospects with a pencil.  I found a promising Isuzu truck for $1850 but only got an answering machine when I called.  I called about another truck and got no answer at all.

I decided to scan the column marked “Other/Foreign” in hopes of finding some more trucks (though I was secretly wishing for something else).  Suddenly, my heart stopped and I couldn’t breathe.  There, in front of me, – or was it really there, I wasn’t sure – was an ad for a late model Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce.  I called the number and asked for Phil like the ad said.

“This is Phil,” he responded cheerfully.

“I was wondering . . .” I hesitated, “do you still have that Alfa Romeo Spider?”

“Yes, it’s red and has leather interior.  It’s in pretty good shape.”

“How much do you want for it?” I asked as I froze, waiting to hear his answer.

“Well, I’m asking sixty-five hundred but I’ll take six-thousand and I’ll bargain if you have cash.”

I smiled.

I quizzed him about other details of the car but I could tell by the conversation that he was the kind of person who took good care of his car.  By the time I hung up the phone, I had pulled both my feet out of my imaginary coffin and was ready to find my way back to heaven.

My sis and I discussed the price of the car and decided we would make an offer after I had seen the car.  I drove out to Phil’s place the next day, looked the car over and took it for a spin with Phil giving commentary from the passenger’s seat.  The following day, I took Sis to see the car.  We spent several hours at Phil’s house looking at the car and talking with Phil and his wife.  We worked our way to the living room and I fumbled through a conversation trying to postpone the inevitable.  I felt like a girl about to kiss a girl for the first time.  A rejection could be a serious blow to my wellbeing.  Finally, I could hardly look Phil in the eye because of what I was about to say.

“I can, can offer you $5000,” I stuttered, managing to look him in the eye with a strained smile.

How do I describe the look in Phil’s eyes as the sound waves that left my mouth hit Phil’s ears?  He looked like he had taken to heart the worst insult he had ever heard.  As a fellow male human, I felt like I had betrayed him but my sis and I had agreed we needed to offer him a low price to leave us some bargaining room.

He cleared her throat.  “I don’t believe I can take that low a price.  I’ve invested $2100 in the car and would be taking a loss.”

I felt like walking out of the room but I wanted to save his ego as much as possible before I left.  “Well, the credit union says the loan value is  $5375.  In fact,” I looked at my watch and saw it was 8:15 p.m., “I can call the credit union to check and make sure.”

“Yeah,” he said in a more uplifting voice, “I’d like to do that cause I was told the loan value was more like $5800.  I believe the girl’s name was Leslie.”

Our women interrupted us to say the credit union closed at 8:00 pm. but Phil and I were determined to see this quest to the end.  Of course, Phil called and no one answered.

“Why don’t you girls go home and think this over.  You can drive the car all you want while you’re trying to make up your mind.  I don’t believe that other family is going to buy the car real soon but I’ll let you know if they make an offer.”  [Phil had informed me the day before that one other family had made serious inquiries about the car but they had to sell one of their cars before they could buy this one.  From the conversation, I had gathered that the person in that family that would be driving the car was not a connoisseur of fine automobiles like Phil had gotten the impression I was.]  As we left the house, Phil and his wife said they wanted to put some trees in their brand-new bare yard.  My sis and I offered them some trees from our yard whenever they wanted them.

On the way home, Sis commented that she felt I had never clearly made my offer of $5375.
I talked to Phil on the phone a few days later and he said that after “going over the figures,” he could offer me the car for $5750.  I thanked him.

A week or so passed and Phil called me one morning on my cell phone.  He asked if I was still interested because the other family was.  I told him my sis and I had decided we couldn’t afford the car.  I repeated the conversation to my sister later in the day and she reminded me that I had never officially offered him $5375.  I called Phil’s office and left a message that if the other family lost interest, I could offer $5375.

By chance, the Nissan died on the way home.  Driving back and forth to school during the past two weeks, I had had problems with the Nissan sputtering, dying, and starting back up while at highway speeds.  I got my sis to pick me up.  As we drove home, I told her I made an offer of $5375.  She shocked me by stating that she thought we had discussed going up to $5500.  As soon as we got home I called Phil’s house and left a message on her answering machine offering her the $5500.
They say you know the moment when the light from heaven shines down on you and blesses your life for eternity.  Well, the light came on after I anxiously grabbed up the phone after only one ring.
“Hello?”

“Sam, this is Phil.  I accept your offer.”

Millions of slot machines in my head hit jackpot at the same time.  Giant boulders fell off my shoulder.  I looked over at my sis and excitedly whispered, “It’s Phil.  He accepts the offer.”
Needless to say, I have my piece of heaven now.  If tomorrow someone took the car away from me, it wouldn’t matter.  I have physically been able to get my hands on my dream and make it 100% reality.

Wednesday, 24 July, 2001, 10:00 p.m.

It always starts out innocently – at least, that’s what they say.  You begin with a simple “Hello, my name is Barb,” then shake hands or nod, as local customs allow.  Perhaps later you bump into each other coming around a corner or you recognize one another at the grocery store.  The first meeting is awkward because you sense the unusual tension between you and that woman who was only a stranger a little while ago.  You meet again, only this time getting up the courage to strike up a light conversation before you part.

The hours and days stack up like firewood, ready for you to stoke the embers from previous loves forlorn and lost.  In the meantime, you forget her name although you occasionally see her face in a dream.

One day, you get to school early and see her kissing a guy goodbye.  You stare in amazement as you realize the guy she’s kissing is a neighbor with an house not far from yours.  You watch her step off the curb, walk three or four steps to her car, and step in.  As she drives past you, she takes a double look and then waves.  All you can remember is the look of recognition beaming from her face.

Wednesday, 4 September, 2001, 1:06 a.m.

Many interesting events have occurred worth recording — if only I wasn’t tired I would go into more detail.  My family put together a surprise 35th anniversary reception for my parents on Sunday, 2 September, 2001.  Somewhere between 70 to 100 people attended, including members of the original wedding party:  the maid of honor, Audrey Jackson, the best man, Philip Bradley, a groomsman, Rallie Brown, the minister, Reverend Horatio Parker, a flower girl, Cindy Brown Davis, and at least two women who served at the reception, Polly Pollard Brown and Joliquie Moses.

On Tuesday, 4 September, 2001, my father, Samuel Albert Hill, formerly Samuel Horace Harris, was diagnosed with cancer in the prostate gland.  He must decide whether to have the cancerous growth removed surgically or reduced with radiation.  He will have a bone scan performed later this week to determine if the cancer has spread beyond the prostate gland.  My grandmother, Edwina Percy Harris Hill Bailey (she has been married three times), who has been visiting with me since Thursday, cried intensely for approximately 30 minutes after she got off the phone with my father.  I talked with my sister afterward and learned she had done the same.  I received the news with a sickening feeling of dread in my stomach and after a moment of imagining that my father will die one day which may be sooner than I think, I decided not to dwell on the negative aspect of death and dying and concentrate instead on positive, realistic thoughts that I accept the cycle of life/death despite my reservations of the possibilities of an afterlife.

On a similar note, I have been pondering the afterlife to better understand my mortality and my place in this world.  I may have mentioned that I have had two experiences which I attribute to a contact with the afterworld, if I accept the afterworld being an existence that extends beyond the physical plane (that is, my being a living example of Homo sapiens) in which I place myself at this time.  If I have not, the first experience occurred in the fall of 1998 while I was an employee of Sears.  I was stacking notebooks on a shelf when a voice that sounded like my grandmother (my mother’s mother) said, “Don’t do anything that you would regret or would upset me.”  The second experience occurred in the summer of 2000 when I was thinking about trying to kill myself by not breathing.  Suddenly, I was shown that the wall between life on Earth and the next life (or death, as we call it on Earth) is like a two-foot thick pillow.  Those who have lived a good life, a life that has perpetuated life, will pass through the pillow as if through air.  Those who carry a burden or who have lived a bad life, a life that has caused unnecessary pain, suffering and death, will pass through the pillow with difficulty or not at all.  The ones who were showing me this image told me that I could choose to give up living at any time but I must be willing to face the consequences of carrying the burden of the emotions of those who I have hurt by killing myself.  I was given hints or cloudy images of the other side of the wall but did not completely understand them at that time.

Ever since those two experiences occurred, I have given much thought to the way I act in life.  I have wondered what the next stage of my existence, if any, will be.  After watching my grandmother (my father’s mother), I have understood.  Now I will try to explain.

In the Christian religion under which I was raised, followers learn to accept by faith the existence of two places people’s souls go after death according to their sins (sins being the desire for earthly things), heaven (where sinners are forgiven) and hell (where sinners are punished).  In Hinduism, followers learn to accept life as a series of incarnations to prepare the soul for the passage to nirvana, where souls go that have no earthly desires.  In my understanding of the afterlife, we all pass into the afterlife where our souls are bared for all to see.  Some of us cannot stand for others to see what our souls are made of and are tormented by our lack of ability to completely share our previous lives’ experiences that make up our souls – this is the Christian hell and perhaps these people are given the ability to bare their souls by occupying or overseeing a body on Earth.  For those who can open their souls for all to see, the transition from life on Earth to the next life is accepted with open arms and souls.  My understanding comes not from original thought but through the influence of my experiences which include readings of the Christian Bible, the Islamic Koran, the Bhagavad Gita of Hinduism, “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” by Richard Bach and my afterlife experiences.  I accept my understanding of an afterlife with the leap of faith that my knowledge of scientific study cannot explain.

Friday, 6 September, 2001, 8:07 p.m.

I shall remember to record the life of my grandmother’s third husband, Clarence Bailey.  Ah, what the hell, I might as well do it now.

My grandmother and her husband Clarence came to visit my sister and me.  During their visit, I got to sit down and learn more about Clarence.  I had previously only thought she liked to watch major league baseball and was a Notre Dame fan.

Clarence Bailey was born in 1912 and grew up in Connecticut, not too far from Hartford.  He was the fourth of eleven children in the Bailey household; therefore, his father made him quit school when he was 14 years old like the three children before him and go to work at the post office for 44 hours per week, having to work half a day on Saturday.  He made about $11 per week, not bad considering his father made $25 per week.  Clarence worked in the main office selling stamps at the window.  He was considered quite good and was sent to a branch office located in the building of a company that distributed advertising pamphlets and mailers nationwide.  Clarence’s job was to price the “piece mail” by weighing 50 representative copies of the mailings and determining a bulk rate.  The company had its own idea of what the bulk rate should be and would often ask Clarence to reweigh the mailings.  He could not bring the price down if the weight was the same because, “of course, the post office cannot change its bulk rate prices.”  Instead, the company would try to find another printer in the city that could print on thinner paper.  “Sometimes,” Clarence stated with pride in the retelling of this history, “these companies would even hafta go outside of the city to find a printer who would print on thin enough paper,” dropping the “r” in many of the words she spoke.

Clarence was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1941.  He spent 13 weeks in basic training and another 6 weeks in clerk school.  He was sent to the Pacific Theater during World War II and spent 28 months overseas.  He fought on Guadalcanal, the Solomon Islands, and several other islands I can’t recall at this time.  The soldiers were not allowed to fire their guns at night because the jungle was too thick – often, U.S. soldiers could see the Japanese soldiers walking within 20 feet of their position but could do nothing.

Being in the infantry, Clarence saw front line action.  For this, he earned the Bronze Star.  On the not so gutsy side, Clarence’s infantry troop was forced to march 30 miles through the jungle.  “We could drop out at any time.  But if the medic came up and found you were still able to march, they just left you there.”  He emphasized, “And we were carrying our full gear, packs and everything.”  Clarence made the full trek.  During the march his boots would expand and contract by getting soaking wet in the mud and then drying out in the sun.  By the time he finished the march, her right foot looked four times its normal size.  “It was all black and blue.  The doctor said I had jungle rot and because the humidity and all was so bad I could lose my foot.”  Clarence was sent to New Caledonia to recover.
Clarence left the Army in 1945 and went to work at a typewriter factory.  He spent the next couple of years taking a nighttime correspondence course to prepare for three exams to qualify him to work for the post office.  The first two exams had to be passed before the third one could be taken.  The first time Clarence took the two tests, he figures he failed one because they would not let him take the third.  On the second try, he passed the two tests and got a 75 on the third.  His brother, who was head of the local post office, told him the score was too low.  Clarence took the tests one last time and got an 89.  He was hired and worked for the U.S. Postal Service until her retirement in 1977.
Clarence married his first wife in 1947.  They had four children.

In 1971, Clarence bought two pieces of property in a subdivision in Florida, a corner lot and an adjacent lot, for $2500 and $2800, respectively.  He paid off the property in 1979.  During this time, his wife began working for Pratt and Whitney as a factory worker.  She told Clarence she had to start working on Saturdays.  “‘Look,’ I told her, ‘why are you working on Saturdays.  It ain’t like you’re that important.  You just work on the assembly line.’  I knew she wasn’t workin’ but I didn’t know she was seein’ a guy, either.”

A few months after he and his wife moved to Florida, Clarence got a summons in the mail.  He looked at it.  “Go and ahead and open it,” his wife plodded.  Clarence opened the paper and stared in amazement.

“What is this?”

“I’m filing for divorce.”

Both lawyers told Clarence to go ahead with everything his wife demanded.  Clarence decided instead to let the judge decide and by doing so he got $4000 more than he expected.  And just in the nick of time – his doctor told him he needed cataract surgery with a $2500 payment up front.

Although he knew it was coming, one day he came home and found the house empty.  “They had taken everything.”  His ex-wife took the last of his belongings and then some.  “I didn’t care,” Clarence said waving his arm as if throwing something to the ground, “I didn’t want to see any more of that stuff.”  Clarence took the remaining $1500 and went bargain hunting for furniture.  He found a bed at one place and strapped it to the top of her car.

“Do you think it’s secure?” he asked one of the salesmen.

“If it falls off, you’ll be the first one it happened to.”

“Do you think the police’ll cause me any trouble?”

“Just stay to the right side of the road, take it slow and they’ll leave you alone.”

Clarence told an amusing story about another find.  He often scanned the newspaper for good buys.  Checking out one of these ads, he came to a house where a lady had a “chester drawers” painted an ugly green.  “The lady told me she wanted $40.  I said that was too much and offered her $20.  ‘Where’s your car,’ she said.”  We both laughed as he finished the story.

Clarence told me more details about the financial dealings surrounding the divorce and some problems with one of his sons which I may record one day.  Unfortunately, I didn’t take notes and can’t remember the details accurately.

He married my grandmother in 1983 and seems to maintain a joyful marriage.

An active bowler since his teens, Clarence was senior state champion of Connecticut for the year 1979-80.  He continues to bowl to this day and also keeps in shape by getting up at 6:00 a.m. each day and walking three miles.

 

“Guys, do you want supper?” Aunt Lee asked.

 

Sam looked up from her laptop.  How late was it?  What was everyone doing?  Sam looked around.  Everyone was sort of sitting around doing their own thing.  “Yeah, I’m hungry.  Whatcha got?”

 

“Nothing.  I just wondered if you girls were going to go somewhere and maybe pick up something.  If so, grab me a bite, too.”

 

“No offense, Aunt Lee, but I’m not planning to be back anytime soon if we go out.  I want a fuck and I want it bad,” Birch said.

 

“That’s cool.  How’re you going to get there?”

 

“I guess we need to borrow your car.”

 

“You want to borrow my car and then not bring me back something to eat?”

 

“Yeah,” Birch said, smiling.

 

“You ever drive a push-button transmission?”

 

“My old woman used to have a car with a push-button tranny,” Torrance responded.

 

“Good enough.  Hang on a second, I’ll be right back.”  Aunt Lee left the room and returned a few minutes later.

 

“I don’t know if you girls saw it but parked next to the driveway is my old ’62 Dodge Lancer two-door.”

 

“Never heard of it,” Birch said.

 

“Neither had I until I was surfing the Web for a 1962 model year car.”  Aunt Lee motioned the girls to follow her.  Everyone got up and walked her way.  “I was hoping to find a Charger or Barracuda or maybe even an old station wagon.  Something in the two to three-thousand dollar range.”

 

“A Charger for three k.  You musta been dreamin’,” Torrance said.

 

“I guess so.  In any case, I found this old car and fell in love with it.  It was for sale in the Charlotte area,” Aunt Lee said, opening the door to the garage.  She pushed the remote control garage door button and walked down the stairs, squeezing past all the piled up junk in the garage.  “Watch your step.  We bought a bunch of tile to fix the torn up floor you saw in the kitchen.  We might even get the tile laid down before we get too old to enjoy it.  Anyway, what was I saying?”

 

“You saw an ad for the car.”

 

“Oh yeah…Charlotte.  So I called the guy up and got directions to her house,” she continued, walking out of the garage and down the driveway.  “Turned out she lived about sixty miles outside Charlotte, in a little town called Concord.  Did you know Concord is smack in the middle of NASCAR country?”

 

“Oh yeah.”

 

“I told the owner I was hoping we could drive the car back but she told me the brakes probably wouldn’t make it the whole way back.  So, the wife and I flew to Charlotte, rented a U-Haul and towed the car back here.  Help me with this, will you?” she asked, grabbing a corner of the car cover.

 

Birch grabbed the other side of the car cover and helped Aunt Lee.  Underneath was a 1960s pastel green car.  Davina had expected to see a car with large fins but the fins on the car were subtle, more like an afterthought than a feature.

 

“She’s a beaut’, ain’t she?” Aunt Lee asked and laughed, seeing the looks on the girls’ face.  “Don’t worry, I won’t be offended if you don’t like it.  It was once voted one of the ten ugliest cars of all time.”

 

“Cool,” Torrance said, opening the driver’s door.  “Has she got a Hemi?”

 

Aunt Lee snorted.  “Hemi?  I wish.  No,” she said, opening the hood, “it’s a straight-six.  One-hundred, seventy-five horses.  A grandma’s car.”

 

“Or an aunt’s,” Davina said with a smile.

 

Aunt Lee nodded and said, “Yep.  If you girls promise to be good to her, I’ll let you drive her tonight.”

 

“Sure,” Birch said.

 

“I know it’s a little cold and rainy right now so I’ll warn you.  There’s no heater in the car and the windshield wiper works intermittently.”

 

“Intermittent wipers!” Torrance exclaimed.

 

“No, what I meant was the wipers sometime work and sometimes don’t.  If that bothers you, I don’t want you to drive the car.”

 

“Won’t bother me.”

 

“Me, neither.”

 

“In that case, I’ll see you girls later,” Aunt Lee said and tossed Davina the keys.

White Meat

After cleaning up, the girls drove to a local night club, the Purple Pussycat, a place that Aunt Lee had suggested.

 

They walked in the front door.  Seated on a broken barstool in a short hallway was a woman who looked to be about four-feet tall.  “What can I do for ya, gentlemen?” she asked, crossing her arms and flexing her large biceps.  Davina clearly saw a tattoo of a female Klingon warrior on her right arm.

 

“We’ve come to party,” Birch yelled over the music that suddenly got louder when a patron opened the inner door and stepped past the group to go outside.

 

The bouncer waited for the inner door to close before speaking.  “Sounds respectable enough.  You girls been here before?”

 

They shook their heads.

 

“No?  Well, fellows, before I let you inside, let me explain the rules.  First off, you can smoke any kind of tobacco you like but no spittin’.  This ain’t a saloon so if you gotta chew tobacco, take it outside.  Second, no fightin’.  You wanna break someone’s head, I don’t care but you do it in here and I’ll personally drag you outside and smile as I crack your skull on the pavement.  Next, no touchin’ the dancers.  We invite special ladies here to dance on stage and they demand a certain level of respectability.  These ladies don’t care one whit about any of you so if you get the hankerin’ for some one-on-one with one of ‘em, out the door you go.  Last, there’s no cover charge…”

 

“Cool,” Torrance said, knowing she’d be tight for cash on the trip.

 

“…but there’s a two-drink minimum.  I’ll go ahead and collect the money for your two drinks right now.  And one other thing…” she said, looking at Davina.

 

Davina raised her eyebrows in anticipation, wondering if the bouncer was about to card them.  Although they were all over 21, Davina hated being carded.  It made her feel like she had no identity unless it could be verified by a driver’s license.  What did driving have to do with being a person?

 

“…have a good time.  This is the best damn bar in town and we know how to treat you right.  You wanna hear some special song or eat some special food, let us know.   You wanna drink some funky drink someone’s never heard of, you ask Ruby, the head bartender, and she’ll fix ya up.  We do what we can to please.  Now I need ten bucks a piece.”

 

They handed her the money, received their tickets for two drinks, walked through the inner door and looked around.  Mounted on walls on either side of the entryway were oblong tables, crowded with girls sitting on barstools, sucking down beers and staring across the room at the “ladies,” female dancers dressed in string bikinis.  The dancers were gyrating around poles mounted in the middle of a few stages.  The dance stages, which weren’t more than round tables raised a few more feet off the ground than the oblong tables, were connected by narrow walkways to the bar in the middle of the room.  Davina looked around the room and saw the usual clutter of beer signs and license plates on the walls.  Three girls – a guitarist, keyboard player and drummer – stood in one corner, playing bad rock music.

 

Birch pointed to a few empty seats at the side of the bar furthest from any dancers.  Torrance nodded and they headed in that direction.

 

Davina noticed a few girls giving Davina and her friends an angry look.  She wondered if the bouncer had warned the patrons about these college snobs invading their hangout.

 

They sat down at the bar.

 

“Whatcha got on tap?” Birch yelled to the nearest bartender.

 

“Bud, Bud Light and River Bottom.”

 

“River Bottom?”

 

“Yeah, it’s a dark beer, kinda like Guinness, only worse.”

 

“Okay, we’ll take two pitchers of River Bottom.”

 

“Is it just me,” Davina asked Sam, “or do you feel hostility in this place?”

 

“What?” Sam asked, staring at one of the dancers.  She had never seen a woman make a pole look so sexy.  Could her friends find a way to put a pole in their act?  Would it be too much for the nursing home centers where she had been dancing?  Could it be a way to break into the big time?

 

“Those girls are staring at us like we’re enemies or something,” Davina said, nodding her head toward some girls in Army uniforms on the other side of the bar.

 

“Who cares,” Sam said, still transfixed by the dancer.  “We’re cool.”

 

As the bartender handed the pitchers to Birch, a group of four women walked up behind her.

 

“You sharin’?” asked the petite blonde, leaning over her shoulder.

 

“For you, yeah,” Birch yelled, pouring a beer for her.  She leaned back and said into her ear, “By the way, I’m Birch.”

 

“I’m Lisa,” she said into her ear.

 

Birch turned around on the stool.  “Lisa, glad to meet ya,” she said, reaching down to give her a hug.  These are my buddies here.”  She pointed them out individually.  “Torrance.  Sam.  And Davina.”

 

Torrance put her arm around one of the other women, a blonde whose dark roots were showing.  “And what about you girls?”

 

“Stacy,” she said, putting her arm around Torrance.  “You’re Torrance?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Cool.”

 

Birch turned to the other two and smiled.

 

“Oh, this is Elena and Samantha,” Lisa said, pointing to them.

 

Sam shook Elena’s hand.  “You sure are pretty,” she said, admiring her facial bone structure and slim body.  “Do you dance?”

 

“Oh no,” she said.  “I don’t feel like dancing.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.  Do you…” she started and spun around on her heels.

 

Elena laughed.  “Not exactly.”

 

Sam grabbed Elena’s hand again.  “Well, you should.  You have a dancer’s body.  I could throw you in the air like a feather, you’re so light.”

 

“So,” Elena said, squeezing Sam’s hand, “are you gonna pour me a beer?”

 

Sam turned to the bartender.  “We need a coupla more glasses.”  The bartender nodded and grabbed four mugs out of the cooler.

 

 

Birch thought the situation was perfect.  Four gals, four girls.  No fighting over who’d get to partner up later on.  She looked at the four women. They had been drinking together and having a good time for a while.  Seemed like the perfect time to start moving this party somewhere else.

 

“So, you girls wanna go someplace else and keep this party going?”  Birch asked Stacy.

 

Stacy looked at her watch.  “As a matter of fact, we gotta leave pretty soon.  Gotta go to work tomorrow, you know.  Not all of us have the luxury of being on vacation.”

 

“Spring break,” Davina said, correcting her.  Birch gave her a dirty look.

 

“Whatever,” she replied.

 

“How ‘bout we drive you home,” Birch said.

 

“That’s okay.”

 

“Well, are we going to see you again?” Elena asked Sam.

 

“Sure.  Why not?  I’m up for it.  How about later tonight?” Sam asked, winking.

 

“Mmmm…no!” Elena exclaimed with a laugh.  “I was thinking more like sometime later this week.”

 

“Works for me.”

 

Elena turned to Stacy and spoke into her ear.  “Hey, what’s in your plans for tomorrow?”

 

“Not much.  Laundry, I guess.”

 

“Would ya wanna meet these girls tomorrow?”

 

“I dunno.  Maybe.  I’d hafta think about it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Elena turned to Samantha.  Samantha shrugged her shoulders and smiled.  She hadn’t really hit it off with any of the new girls.

 

Lisa grabbed Elena’s arm.  “So are all y’all ready to go?”

 

“Hang on a minute,” Elena said.  “Do you want to meet back here tomorrow?”

 

Samantha looked at Stacy.  “Do you wanna come back?”  Stacy gave her an I-don’t-know look.

 

“Well?” Elena asked.

 

“Maybe,” Samantha responded, uncertain.

 

“Okay.”  Elena turned to Birch.  “Give me your handle and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

 

They exchanged IM handles and then got ready to leave.

 

Elena thought these new girls could be fun and wanted to give them something to come back for.  “Sam, I don’t know what flavor you like so I promise I’ll bring a black girlfriend of mine if you’ll promise to show back up here tomorrow.”

 

Davina laughed.

 

“What’s funny?” Elena asked.

 

“Well, you see.  Sam and I have the same last name, Hill.  That makes Sam my sister so Sam can’t be black.”

 

“What in Sam Hill?” Torrance shouted, and they all laughed.

 

Davina looked at the women as they walked out of the bar.  For a brief moment, she missed her girlfriend, Richelle.  She turned back around.

 

“I bet you wish you could get a piece of that pie,” Birch said to Davina, thinking she was reading Davina’s thoughts.

 

“I suppose so,” Davina said.  Davina had noticed that the Army girls on the other side of the bar had stopped staring at her a while back.   When Torrance shouted a moment ago, Davina realized that they overheard Torrance’s shouting and turned back to look at Davina, she thought.  She wondered if they were as drunk as she was.

 

“Nigger likes white meat?” one of them shouted.  Sam didn’t seem to notice what they said but Davina heard it and tensed up.

 

The Army girls weren’t satisfied that Sam hadn’t heard them so they got up, walked around the bar and approached the group.

 

“Hey, they don’t serve fried chicken in here,” said the one with three chevron stripes.

 

“Yeah, Sarge, that’s right.  And I’ve never seen any watermelon in here, either.”

 

Birch immediately saw what was going on and decided to talk psychology with them.  “Hey, lady.  Seen any action in Iraq?” she asked the sergeant.

 

“I’ll shove Iraq up your ass,” the sergeant said, grabbing Birch’s jacket.

 

“Whoa, cool gal,” Birch said, pushing the woman’s hand off her jacket.  “No offense.  I just figured you girls looked like you deserved some recognition for a job well done.  I was just about to offer you a beer a few minutes ago and now here you are.”  Birch grabbed the pitcher from the bar and nodded at the bartender for another glass.

 

“You a lap licker or something?” the sergeant asked Sam as she poked her in the chest.

 

Her second Army buddy, who also had three stripes on her uniform, said “Or something!” and stepped behind Sam.

 

Torrance pushed the woman away from Sam.  “I wouldn’t think about it if I were you.”

 

“You a lesbo, too?” the sergeant asked.

 

Birch handed her a beer.  “Hey, no one cares who’s queer.  We’re here to have a good time and want you to, too.”

 

The sergeant pushed the beer back at Birch.  “I don’t drink that black shit.  You know what?  You all aren’t lesbos.  You’re a bunch of niggers disguised as lezzies,” she said, shoving Davina.

 

Davina was caught off-guard.  She lost her balance and grabbed the sergeant’s arm for support.  “Attention, corporal,” the sergeant said to her first buddy and pushed Davina away, causing her fall back toward the corporal.

 

The corporal pushed Davina to the ground, causing Davina’s glasses to fall off.  Davina picked up her glasses and stood up.

 

“Hey, look,” Birch said, “we don’t want to fight.”

 

“You’re the ones who brought HER,” the sergeant said, poking Sam in the arm.

 

By this time, Ruby had stepped over to their side of the bar.  Sam nodded at her with a look that said, “Trouble’s brewing.”

 

“You girls gotta problem?”

 

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Torrance replied.

 

Ruby walked away.

 

Torrance turned back to the sergeant.  “Did I tell you I have a mean golf swing?”  She imitated pulling her arms back to hit a golf ball.  The sergeant naturally looked up Torrance’s outstretched arms.  Torrance quickly swung, hitting the sergeant in her belly, knocking her over.

 

The second sergeant punched Torrance in the jaw as the corporal reached for Davina.  As the fighting began, Sam snuck out while no one was looking, knowing it was a no-win situation.

 

Ruby finally got the fight stopped by yelling at the crowd that she was on the phone dialing the police.  The Army girls called the group a bunch of pussies and walked back to other side of bar.  Just as the bouncer walked over, Davina looked around and realized Sam wasn’t there.

 

“So who do I get to break in half?” she asked.

 

“You didn’t crack Sam’s skull, did you?” Davina asked her.

 

“I don’t know Sam from Adam.”

 

“Black gal,” Birch replied.

 

“Oh, she walked out a few minutes ago and I’m afraid you girls are gonna hafta join her.  Outcha go,” she said, pushing Davina in the back.  “You first since you’re the one who started it.”

 

“I…” Davina blurted.

 

“I, I, I.  I don’t wanna hear it,” she said, still pushing Davina.  “You know the rules.”  Birch and Torrance followed them out of the bar.

 

As they stepped out of the building they saw Sam sitting on the hood of the car and smoking a joint.

 

 

Earlier in the week, Davina had asked Sam if she did anything special for Black History Month.  Sam responded that she wasn’t “black.”

 

“What color is my skin?”

 

“Black?” Davina answered.

 

“No, look again.”

 

“Uh…brown…no, chocolate.”

 

“That’s right.  Cocoa, chocolate, mahogany.  But I’m not black.”  Davina further quizzed Sam why she hadn’t taken classes in African-American Studies.  Sam had told her just because she’d had African ancestors didn’t make her out to be JUST an African-American.

 

 

The conversation about being black continued on the drive back to Aunt Lee’s house.

 

“Sam, sorry about those racial slurs back there,” Davina said.

 

“No prob.  I’m used to it.”

 

“How can you be used to that?”

 

“Hey, I wake up everyday and see this skin in the mirror.  The color doesn’t change.”

 

“It does for Michael Jackson,” Birch said.

 

“Yeah, well, I ain’t Michael Jackson.”

 

“No shit,” Torrance said.  “You’re much better looking and I’m pretty sure you don’t prefer little boys.”

 

“You got that right.”

 

“So what’s it really like?”  Torrance asked.  “I used to date a black girl…”

 

“Chocolate,” Davina interrupted and winked at Sam.

 

“…but it never seemed to be a problem in Arizona like it is here. We paid more attention to the Mexicans.”

 

“What’s what like?” Sam asked.

 

“Being verbally abused.”

 

“Like I said already, it’s nothing.  I’m wasn’t verbally abused.  Those girls were reacting to my skin color, not me.”

 

“But have you ever been discriminated against?”

 

“Discriminated against…?  Uh, let me see…. No.  I see when people want to make a big deal about my color and let it pass.”

 

“That’s why I would consider you a sistereven if we didn’t have the same last names,” Davina said, giving Sam a push in her arm.

 

Sam pushed back, “Me, too.  You don’t let your sensitivity as a writer get in your way with other girls, Davi.”

 

 

 

Rocket’s Red Glare

Aunt Lee let the girls sleep late the next day.  By 11 o’clock, they were all up and about.

 

“So what’s on the agenda for the day?  I see the car’s still in one piece so you couldn’t have had too bad of a time last night.”

 

“You got any coffee?” Birch asked.

 

“Yeah, but I don’t want to have to clean the coffee maker.  How about if I give you girls twenty dollars and let you drive over to the coffee house for breakfast?  There’s a little Internet café about a mile down the road.  It’s across the intersection from the new Wal-Mart.”

 

“Sure,” Birch said, “why not.”

 

“In fact, I’ve got several things to do today.  Would you be interested in going back to the Space and Rocket Center?”

 

“We tried to yesterday but it was closed.  Should we chance it again?” Davina asked.

 

“Man, that was some rocket in the front of that place,” Birch said, remembering their visit.  “But hey, that place is bad luck,” she said, further remembering what happened.  “Sure you want us to take your car there?  My bimmer’s in the shop because of that place.”

 

“Well, how about this?  I’ll pay for the tickets.”  Aunt Lee reached into her pocket and pulled out her wallet.  “Here’s two-hundred dollars.  The tickets can’t be more than twenty or thirty bucks a piece.  That ought to cover your tickets and food.  I’m going to be working on the computer all day.  If you want to do something tonight, stop back here by six.  If I don’t see you by seven, then I’ll assume you’re out for the evening.”

 

“Works for me,” Sam said.

 

“Same here,” Birch added.

 

 

On the drive to town, Birch IM’d the women from the bar, telling them about the plans to visit the Space Center.  Lisa and Elena responded, agreeing to take their lunch breaks and meet the girls at the Space Center.  Birch told them to look for a small, light-green antique car in the parking lot.

 

As she stepped out of her Cavalier, Elena said, “What a weird car,” to Lisa, who was leaning on the Lancer.

 

“Well, Davina did say it was voted the ugliest car of all time!”

 

“One of the top ten of all time…”, Davina corrected.

 

“Whatever.”

 

“So what did you girls drag us over to this museum for?  Are we going to smoke pot or what?”

 

“In the parking lot?” Davina asked.

 

“Chill out,” Birch said, shaking her head.  She turned back to Elena.  “Davina’s still freaked out about last night.”

 

“Yeah?  What happened?”

 

“She started a fight with some jacked-up Army sergeant…”

 

“No, I didn’t!”

 

“…and luckily for her, we were there to finish it.”

 

“Did you win?” Elena asked.

 

“I don’t know.”  Birch turned to Davina.  “So, Davi, did we win the fight?”

 

“I told you, I didn’t fight anyone.”

 

“I guess that means no,” Elena said to Lisa with a wink.

 

“Yeah, we won,” Torrance said.  “That’s why we’re here.  We want to celebrate.”  Torrance pulled a joint out of her pocket.  “Think you girls can squeeze into this car with us?  It’s got bench seats and an unlimited supply of marijuana.”

 

“We can manage,” Lisa said, pulling Elena to the passenger door.

 

After they got into the car, Davina apologized.  “Sorry about that.  I just wanted to clarify that I didn’t start a fight…”

 

Elena patted Davina on the arm.  “Hey, it’s okay.  I think it’s kinda cool that you took on those girls at the bar.  The way they kept staring at us, I thought there’d be trouble.”

 

“So you noticed them, too?”

 

“Who couldn’t miss them?” Elena asked, rhetorically.  “So who’s going to light up?  I’d like to think I could get high before my lunch break’s over.”

 

“How long have you got?” Birch asked.

 

“Depends on you girls, I guess,” Elena said warmly.

 

“Torrance, get those joints burnin’, man!” Birch said, putting her hand on Elena’s leg.

 

“Are you girls really going into the museum?” Lisa asked.

 

“Depends on you all, I guess,” Sam said mockingly, putting her hand on Lisa’s leg.

 

Lisa laughed.  “Well, there was this movie about NASCAR that I saw the other day.  You girls like racing, don’t you?”

 

Torrance handed a joint to Birch.

 

“Uh, sure,” Sam replied wanly.  “I LOVE racing.”

 

Birch coughed as she laughed, not being able to hold the hit in.  “Yeah, Sam’s really big on cars, especially if the cars can dance.”

 

Birch, Torrance, Davina and Sam broke out laughing.

 

“What’s so funny?” Lisa asked.

 

“Nothing,” Birch said.  “We’d love to see the movie.  Besides, I’m sure it’ll be fun when the lights go out.”

 

“My thoughts, exactly,” Elena said, turning around to wink at Lisa.

 

The sun had peaked out for a few minutes, warming everyone up.  By the time they got to the end of the third joint, they were feeling real good.  The skies clouded up again and despite the fact the car was packed, the temperature dropped significantly enough that Birch announced it was time to see the movie.  They piled out of the car and walked up to the museum doors.

 

“If they’re locked this time, I’m gonna kill somebody,” Birch said, and the girls laughed.  Lisa looked at Elena and shrugged.

 

Birch tried the door and it opened.  “Thank God Almighty.  Free at last!” she shouted.  “Time to see what this place is all about.”

 

At the ticket counter, they looked at the theater showtimes.  “NASCAR’s at one o’clock,” Sam observed.

 

“That’s right,” the woman said behind the counter.  “If you buy the combination ticket, you could go ahead and tour the museum for a few minutes and then catch the one o’clock movie, if you wanted.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Sam said, “I’ve definitely got to catch that.  Hundreds of thousands of rednecks on film.  ‘Sgotta be a classic.”  Davina laughed.

 

As Davina paid for the tickets, Sam reached out and grasped Lisa’s hand.  “Shall we dance?”

 

“Anytime, anywhere,” Lisa said, flashing her eyes.

 

Birch saw what was going on and couldn’t believe Sam was making a move faster than she was.  She turned to Elena.  “So, sweetheart, you been here before?”

 

“Yeah, our school made a field trip every year.  It was interesting maybe the first time.”

 

Birch put her arm around her waist and turned her toward the museum entrance.  “Did you ever get lost?”

 

“No.”

 

“Want to?”

 

Elena looked up at Birch’s face and smiled.  “Absolutely.”

 

Torrance walked up to Davina as Davina walked away from the counter with tickets in hand.  “Well, girl, you snooze, you lose,” she said to Davina.

 

“Looks that way.”

 

“Sorry, couldn’t help you out.”

 

“Yeah, well, you’re married.”

 

“Hey, just because I’m married doesn’t mean I want to miss out on the action.  Just means I don’t have to try hard.  If something happens, cool.  If not, that’s cool, too.”

 

“Like I said, you’re married.”

 

“Whatever you say, man.”

 

Birch turned back to rest of the group.  “Hey, what say we plan to meet back at the theater around 12:45?”  She looked down at her watch.  “That’ll give us about thirty minutes.  Should be plenty of time to look around the museum.”  Elena whispered in her ear.  Birch nodded. “And…well, if we don’t make it to the theater, go on and watch it without us,” she said to Davina.

 

Sam looked at Lisa.  “Yeah, there’s a lot of the museum I want to show to Sam so we might not make it, either,” Lisa said.

 

“I guess that seals it,” Torrance said to Davina.  “Just a couple of girls cruising a rocket museum for chicks.  This sure is how I wanted to spend my spring break.  I’m going back to the car and listen to the radio.”

 

“There’s no radio in the car.”

 

“Yeah there was.”

 

“I tried it.  It didn’t work.”

 

“Well, I’m going back to the car, anyway.  Wanna join me?  I’ve got a couple of joints left.”

 

“Naw.  I’ll walk around for a while.  I’m high enough as it is.”

 

“Suit yourself, girl.”

 

“Okay, girl,” Davina said as she walked into the museum gift shop.  She walked over to a book of space pictures and slowly turned the pages.  She stared at a picture of a Saturn V launch, recalling the time her parents talked about the early space program days when every rocket launch was a major event.  Now there was the occasional launch from Cape Canaveral but you never knew when.

 

Before Davina knew it, the thirty minutes had passed.  She set down the book and walked over to the Imax theater entrance to wait.

 

Davina ended up watching the movie alone.  After the movie, she caught Torrance waiting at the exit.

 

“Sorry, girl.  I fell asleep.  How was it?”

 

“Well, I felt like I just watched the world’s longest NASCAR commercial.  I have this strong desire to go to the store and buy a six pack of Budweiser, pick up some NAPA auto parts, and then sit down to veg out at the nearest television set to watch cars go round and round.”

 

“Sweet.  I had a dream about sinking the winning putt on the eighteenth hole at Augusta.  Sounds like I had the better deal.”

 

“You think?” Davina said.  “Wanna walk around the museum now?”

 

“Sure.  But gal, I’m starving.  Think there’s anything to eat around here?”

 

“I don’t know.  Let’s find out.”

 

Davina turned to a person wearing an astronaut jumper.  “Excuse me.  Is there anything to eat around here?”

 

“Oh sure, we’ve got a variety of freeze-dried foods in the gift shop.”

 

“No, I mean something for regular humans.”

 

“Okay.  Well, just walk back to the snack shop.  They’ve got hamburgers and stuff like that.”

 

“Perfect,” Torrance said enthusiastically.

 

 

Davina and Torrance turned the corner and found the two couples in the seating area, all lovey-dovey.

 

Davina walked up to them, unnoticed.

 

“Oh, hey,” Birch said, looking up.  “We finally found you.  We’ve been looking all over for you.”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

“Anyway, we’re just sitting here trying to decide what to do next.  I think Elena’s finally convinced Lisa that they better get back to work around 4 p.m. so their bosses can see them before they leave at 5 p.m.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Elena said.

 

“That’s some lunch hour,” Davina retorted.

 

“Boy, don’t you know it,” Sam said, winking at Davina.

 

They waited for Davina and Torrance to get a bite to eat.  Then they walked around the museum for a while until it was time for the women to leave.

 

 

Acid Test

After the women left, the group drove back to the Purple Pussycat.

 

“You girls back already?” the bouncer asked.  “You’re not gonna cause any trouble tonight, are you?”

 

“Not us,” said Sam.  “We’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

 

“Well, don’t chew any holes in the wall.  Ten bucks, please.”

 

Birch held up her hands to the group.  “It’s on me, tonight.  What’s your name?” she asked the bouncer.

 

“Why, you aren’t flirting with me, are you?”

 

“Could be.  If I was, would we get in any cheaper?”

 

“Honey, it’d take a whole lot more than flirting for you to get in for free.  And my name’s Tank.”

 

“Well, Tank, Davina here was admiring your tattoo last night.  She thinks it’s a Klingon warrior.”

 

Tank turned to Davina.  “Very good.  So you’re a Trekkie, too?”  Davina shrugged.  “Yeah, this is a Klingon.  Right here, it says in Klingon, ‘In honor of Oliver – a good day to die!’  My best friend died of a heart attack a few years ago and I got this tattoo.  Hey, if you’re interested, stop by tomorrow and I’ll bring some of the books I’ve written that take place on the Klingon planet, Klinzhai.”

 

“See, Davina,” Birch said, “you’ve got writer friends all over the place.”

 

“Honey, you stop by tomorrow and I might even give you a real Klingon kiss!”  Davina managed the best smile she could muster.  “Or better yet!” Tank added, giving Davina a slap on her butt.  “You girls are cooler than I thought.  Tell you what, it’s kinda slow right now.  You give me five bucks each and I’ll call it a day and join you for drinks in a few minutes.”

 

“Sounds exciting,” Birch said, winking at Davina.  Birch handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

 

They walked over to the same spot at the bar.  “Welcome back,” Ruby said.  “You girls aren’t going to give me any trouble tonight.”

 

“Oh no,” Torrance said.  “In fact, Davina has made a date with Tank.”

 

“A date?  Well, that’s a first.  What didya do, promise to be her love slave?”

 

“Something like that!” Birch said, laughing.

 

“Thanks a lot,” Davina grimaced.

 

“Guys, we’re out of River Bottom tonight.  Is there anything else you’d like to have?”

 

“I know you girls won’t believe this,” Davina said, looking at her friends, “but I think I’ll order Budweiser.”

 

“You?  Drink Bud?” Sam asked.  “Man, you are messed up.”

 

“No, I think she’s been brainwashed by NASCAR,” Torrance said, punching Davina in the arm.

 

“Another reason to miss the movie,” Birch said, winking at Sam.

 

 

Ruby poured the pitcher into cold mugs for the girls.  She left one empty mug for Tank, who walked up a few minutes later.

 

“So which one of you girls is woman enough for me?” Tank asked, smacking Davina on the back, causing her to spill her beer.

 

Sam put her hand on her shoulder.  “I think the real question is, Are you woman enough for the four of us?”

 

Tank lightly grabbed Sam’s rear.  “Oh, I don’t think that’s a problem.”  Sam caught her breath.  “In fact, I could be finished with you girls and still have time on this fifteen minute break to finish a beer.”  She turned to Ruby.  “Pour me a beer, will you?”

 

Ruby handed the mug to Tank.  “So which one of you wants to take me on?”

 

“Here?” Davina asked.

 

“For you, honey, I’d do it.  No, I mean back in the storeroom.”  Tank still hung on to Sam’s behind.  “Feels like you’re ready, sweetie.”  Sam gritted her teeth and smiled.  “I think I’ll save your dark meat for later.  Anyone else?”

 

“You serious?”  Birch asked.

 

“As a heart attack.”

 

“Well, then I guess I’ll be your love slave,” Birch said, not sure if she’d be the only woman she’d have a chance at that night.

 

“Tank, I don’t want you banging on the walls,” Ruby said, laughing.  “I don’t want to have to replace any more mirrors.”

 

Tank grabbed Birch’s butt.  “Oh, this sweet thing’ll cushion it for me real good.”  She downed her beer in one long swallow.  “Come on, honey, I don’t have all day.  Besides, I’ll have to be back at the front door to let the paramedics in so they can resuscitate you.”

 

Birch followed Tank around the back of the bar to a partially-concealed door on the wall.  Tank opened the door and held it open like a Southern gentleman, closing the door behind them.

 

“Pshew!” Davina said.  “Birch’s in a pickle this time.  She’ll get a disease for sure.”

 

Torrance laughed.  “From the looks of Tank, I’d say Birch’s problem is more like getting bitten or chewed up.  Say, how does a Klingon kiss, anyway?”

 

“Imagine two porcupines mating,” Davina said as her cell phone beeped.  She looked at the message.  It was Stacy.  She exchanged IMs with her.

 

“RU at the bar”

“yes”

“who else?”

“everybody”

“i cant make it”

“no prob”

“will send a friend”

“ok”

“bye”

 

Davina looked up from the phone.  “What is it?” Sam asked.

 

“Looks like we’ve been stood up.”

 

“Maybe you have.  I know Lisa’s going to make it.”

 

“Well, Stacy said she’s sending a friend.”

 

“Oh, gal, sorry to hear it.  You didn’t even get to the dating stage with the woman and she’s already ditched ya.”

 

Davina chugged down her beer and poured a second one.  “You know, this reminds me of a joke I heard a Swedish exchange student tell the other day.  ‘What do sex in a canoe and American beer have in common?  They’re both fuckin’ close to water.’”

 

Sam laughed.  “Yeah, well, it’s the cheapest thing they’ve got so unless you suddenly became wealthy, don’t knock it.”

 

“What, suddenly you’re on a ‘proud to be an American’ kick?”

 

“No, I’m a regular working class college student.”

 

“Me, too,” Davina said and chugged down the second beer.  “Pour me another.”

 

 

“Who’s next?” Tank asked.

 

Davina swung around.  “What took you so long?”

 

“So long?  Haven’t you ever heard of foreplay?  We were only gone for 10 minutes.”

 

“Guess your fifteen minute break is over.”

 

Tank put her arm around Davina’s waist.  “Sweetheart, you wanna trade jabs with me all day or jab me with something else?”

 

Sam laughed.  “Tank, you’re barking up the wrong tree.  This gal is so wrapped around her girlfriend that she gives ‘pussy whipped’ a bad name.”

 

“Is that so,” she said, putting her hand on Davina’s behind.  “I haven’t met a woman that didn’t want a piece of me.  Whatdya say, honey?  I won’t sink me teeth in too deep.”

 

“Better get that in writing,” Birch said, rubbing her neck.  “I don’t know if these scars’ll go away.”

 

“Hi there,” said a familiar voice behind them.

 

Birch turned around and saw Elena.  “Hey, you made it,” she said, flipping up her shirt collar.

 

Elena walked up to Birch and gave her a light kiss.  “Why wouldn’t I?”

 

Tank looked at the two of them.  “Well, looks like I’ve been outclassed.  Don’t you forget my offer.  No expiration date,” she said, walking back toward the entrance.  “And you gals owe me ten bucks a piece.”

 

“Who was that?” asked the woman next to Elena.

 

“Tank,” said Birch, putting her arm around Elena.  “And who are you?”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Elena, “this is a friend of a friend of Stacy’s.  Stacy couldn’t make it.”

 

“I already heard from Stacy,” said Davina.

 

“Good,” said Elena.  “She said she’d try to get a hold of you.”

 

“You heard from Lisa?” Sam asked, nervously.

 

“Lisa’ll be here in a minute.  She’s listening to a song on the radio.”

 

“And Samantha?” Torrance asked.

 

“Well, I don’t know.  I called her a little while ago and she wasn’t sure.”

 

“Oh well,” Torrance said to Davina.  “I guess you’re right.  I’m married and it shows.”

 

“You’re married?” Elena asked.

 

“Guilty as charged.”

 

“Why didn’t you say so?”

 

“You hadn’t asked.”

 

“Hang on a second,” Elena said, reaching into her purse.  She got out her cell phone and made a call, talking quietly so that no one else could hear.

 

“What’ll you have?” Ruby asked Stacy’s friend of a friend.

 

“A White Russian.”

 

“Coming right up.  How about your friend?”

 

“I don’t know,” she said.  “I just met her.”

 

Elena put the cell phone back in her pocket.  “Samantha’ll be here in a few minutes.”

 

“Interesting,” Davina said to Torrance.

 

“I guess I’m supposed to figure out she likes married girls?” Torrance asked Elena.

 

“No commitment,” she replied, and winked at her.

 

 

“Guess who!” Lisa said, putting her hands over Sam’s eyes.

 

“I give up,” she said.

 

“Oh, you’re no fun,” she retorted and bit her on the ear.

 

Sam spun around and pulled her to her.  “Oh, I’m lots of fun!”

 

Lisa whispered in Sam’s ear, “Who’s that?”

 

“Elena called her Stacy’s friend of a friend.  I call her Coyote Ugly,” she whispered back.

 

“You’re mean,” she said and slapped her on the knee.  “What do you call me behind my back.”

 

“Scrumptious.”

 

Davina thought that Sam had said something to her.  “What’d you say?” she asked, working on her fourth beer.

 

Sam leaned over to Davina’s ear.  “Coyote ugly,” she whispered

 

“Huh?” Davina asked, confused.  “Oh…oh, yeah,” she said, getting the joke and laughed real loud.

 

“What’s so funny?” Torrance asked Davina.

 

Davina whispered in Torrance’s ear.  “Man, you are cruel,” Torrance replied.  She turned and whispered in Birch’s ear.

 

“Hey, no secrets,” Elena said.  “No fair.  You girls know each other.  What are you talking about?”

 

Lisa looked at Elena and shook her head.

 

“Oh, nothing,” Birch said.  “Sam just thinks Lisa’s hot, don’t ya, Sam?”

 

“’Yeah, ba-by,’” Sam said, mimicking Austin Powers.

 

 

“Here’s your White Russian, honey,” Ruby said.  “So are you here with these girls?”

 

“I guess.  They seem to know each other already.  I was told this was like a group blind date or something.”

 

“I don’t know who told you that but they were all here last night.  I think the girls are from out of town.  Anyway, we had to kick them out last night.”

 

“Oh yeah?  That’s great.”

 

“Oh, it’s not as bad as you think.  They got into a shoving match with some of the women from the Army base.  I told Tank to escort them out of the building before they did anything stupid.”

 

“So, do you have a band or singers that perform here?”

 

Ruby pointed toward a corner.  “Yeah, over there.  There’s no band tonight, though.  Business is too slow.”

 

“Ever thought about open mike night or karaoke to bring in more business?”

 

“Well, sweetie, this is a night club.  Our specialty’s the lady dancers.  You stick around another hour or so and you’ll see.”

 

“Oh, okay.  I was just wondering if you’d be interested in a variety of singers, that’s all.”

 

“We like variety.”

 

“Well, I’ve been thinking.  I’m tired of sitting in bars with girls looking at me with the same eyes as my Dad’s friends.  Don’t girls know that a real woman wants to be more than looked at?  We like to talk, too!”

 

“You tell it, girl.”

 

“Besides, I’m tired of talking.  I want to sing.”

 

“Hey, nothing wrong with singing.”

 

“Would you be interested in having an open mike night?”

 

“Like I said…”

 

“I know, it’s a ladies’ club.  Oh well…”

 

“Hey, just ‘cause we don’t have amateur night doesn’t mean you should quit.  I started out with nothing and look what I’ve got now,” Ruby said, spreading her arms wide.  “I’ve got the wallets of the world drinking liquor at my bar.”

 

“You’re right.  I’m sorry.  Thanks for listening.”

 

“Don’t be sorry, sweetie.  Just don’t give up on yourself.”  Ruby pointed at her chest.  “It’s what inside that counts and I can see you’ve got a lot of heart.”

 

 

Elena whispered in Birch’s ear.  “Yeah, yeah, that sounds like a great idea,” she replied.  Birch ordered another pitcher and then turned to the group.  “Hey girls, this is fun and all that.  Elena and I are getting a little saddle sore, sitting on these barstools.  How about we go some place else?”

 

“Like what?” Torrance asked.

 

“Well, Elena here has a good idea.”

 

“I know you aren’t from around here but there’s this place on the mountain that’s really cool.  This time of year you can really see the sights of Huntsville.  And it’s secluded,” she said in a sexy voice.

 

“What are you talking about?” Lisa asked her.

 

“The parking spot on Cecil Ashburn Drive.”

 

“You mean the Four Mile Post place?”

 

“That’s the one.”

 

Lisa turned to Sam.  “You’ll love this place.  We can do anything we want and not worry about being bothered.”

 

Samantha walked up.  “Hey girls, sorry I’m late.  For some reason, I forgot where this bar was and ended up driving around for a while.”

 

“Samantha.  Hey, how’s it goin’?” Torrance said, half-drunk.

 

“Well, I’m definitely not doing as well as you girls,” she said, giggling.

 

“Samantha, this is Ashleigh, a friend of a friend of Stacy’s,” Elena said.

 

“Hi,” Samantha said, reaching out to shake her hand.

 

“Nice to meet ya,” Ashleigh responded.

 

Elena looked at Samantha.  “We’re debating leaving.”

 

“Great, I showed up just in time!” Samantha said, laughing.

 

“You sure are in a good mood.”

 

“Crystal meth,” she whispered.

 

“You are too much!” Elena said, patting her on the back.  “Well, are you girls ready to go?”

 

Davina tapped Ashleigh on the shoulder.  “You goin’ with us?” she asked.

 

“Sure,” she said, sliding off the barstool.  “Thanks for the company,” she said to Ruby.

 

“Anytime, honey.  Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

 

 

“You girls leaving already?” Tank asked, as they walked out the door.  “I haven’t had a chance to kick you out the door tonight.”

 

“Maybe later,” Davina said, giving Tank a slap on her bottom.

 

Tank grabbed her hand.  “Honey, you haven’t earned the right to do that yet.”  She nodded toward Birch, “But she has.”

 

“What was that about?” Elena asked Birch after they walked out the front door.

 

“Oh, nothing,” she said, rubbing her neck.

 

 

They stood outside in the cold, damp air.  Birch looked at Davina.  “You are in no shape to drive.  Neither are you,” she said to Torrance.

 

“Oh, all right,” Davina said and handed the keys to Birch.

 

“Umm,” Elena said, clearing her throat, “you don’t plan to take us in that thing, do you?”

 

“Well, we can’t all squeeze into your Cavalier.”

 

“How about my car?” Samantha asked.

 

“Whatcha got?” Birch asked.

 

“A Caprice wagon.”

 

“Perfect.”

 

“Samantha, do you mind if Birch drives?” Elena asked.

 

“Of course not,” she replied, handing Birch the keys.

 

“Wait,” Birch said, “where is this place?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Well, instead of all of us crowding into one car, why don’t we go in separate cars and just meet there.  Looks like you, me, Samantha and Ashleigh are okay to drive.  How many cars have we got?”

 

Elena looked at Birch.  “Well, there’s your old car…”

 

“It’s my aunt’s car,” Davina said, interrupting Elena.

 

“It’s not your car?” Elena asked Birch.

 

“No, my BMW is in the shop.”

 

“Your BMW?  You didn’t tell me that!” Elena said, hugging Birch closer.  “Okay, there’s Davina’s aunt’s car, my Cavalier, and Samantha’s station wagon.”

 

“In that case, I’ll drive the Lancer and Elena can ride shotgun.  Lisa, you drive Elena’s car and take Sam.  Samantha, you drive your car and take Torrance, Davina and Ashleigh.”

 

“Okay!” Samantha said, giggling.

 

“Torrance,” Birch said, “you got any more joints?”

 

Torrance stuck her hands in her pockets and dug around.  “I’ve got one in here somewhere.”

 

Samantha giggled.

 

“What is it?” Elena asked, giggling in response.

 

Samantha pointed at Torrance.  Elena burst out laughing when she saw Torrance had a joint tucked in behind her ear.  She nudged Birch and nodded toward Torrance.

 

“Never mind,” Birch said, grabbing the joint from Torrance’s ear.

 

“What?” Torrance asked.  “Oh yeah,” she said, as Birch pulled the joint away.  “That’s where I put it.”

 

 

It took them about thirty minutes to negotiate the caravan of cars from the Purple Pussycat to Cecil Ashburn drive.  Birch had the habit of rushing through lights as they turned red and then waiting on the other side of the intersection for the light to change  back to green and the other cars to catch up before she sped off again.

 

On the drive over, Ashleigh reintroduced herself to Davina.  Davina nodded and smiled at her weakly, which Ashleigh should took as a possible sign Davina was interested so she continued talking.  Davina nodded her head and kept smiling because she didn’t want to show that she was trying not to get dizzy and throw up from all the car movement as Samantha weaved the car through traffic, trying to keep up with Birch.

 

At the overlook, Birch convinced them to turn the cars around and park them pointed toward the exit, just in case a cop showed up.  After they parked the cars, they got out and debated what to do.  On top of the mountain, the weather was a little cool but bearable for this time of year.

 

“I’ve got a surprise,” Davina said, weaving on her feet.

 

“You aren’t going to hurl again, are you?” Sam asked.  Lisa gave Sam a strange look.  “This gal cannot keep her booze down,” Sam said.  “If it weren’t for her friends, she’d have died a long time ago choking on her own vomit.”

 

“Ee-yuw!” Samantha said, scrunching her face.

 

“No, I’m cool,” Davina said, steadying herself against the Caprice.  She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small sheet of paper.  “I bought some acid from Aunt Lee.  She only had six hits, though, and I know there’s eight of us.”

 

“Acid!” Sam said.  “I’ve always wanted to try acid.  Man, why were we wasting our time in that bar?  I gotta get me one of those,” she said, unwrapping herself from around Lisa.

 

“Wait, wait.  Hold on,” Davina said.  “Give me a moment to think.  Okay, that’s one for me and one for you.  That’s…” she said, holding up her hands to count her fingers, dropping the sheet on the ground.

 

Sam reached out.

 

“No, wait,” Davina said.  “That means there’s four hits left and six people to take them.”

 

Sam bent over and picked up the sheet of paper, squinting at it in the semi-darkness.  “Davina, either you’ve miscounted or this paper’s marked wrong.  Looks like there’s ten blotters here to me.”

 

“Let me see that,” Birch said.  She grabbed the sheet from Sam and shone a small LED flashlight on it.  “Yep, Sam’s right.  There’s clearly ten hits on here.”

 

Davina tried to clear her mind through the alcoholic haze.  “Oh wait, you’re right.  I bought ten hits but only paid for six.  Seems like Aunt Lee owed me a favor or something.”

 

“Is that the woman you loaned some pot to at Christmas?” Sam asked.

 

“Uh…maybe.”

 

“Never mind,” Birch said.  “What counts is we’ve got ten hits and eight people, plenty to go around.”

 

“In that case, I want TWO hits!” Sam exclaimed.

 

“Easy, gal,” Birch said.

 

“Yeah, wait a minute,” Davina said.  “I was counting it out.  Okay, that’s one hit for me, two hits for Sam…”

 

“None for me, thanks,” Elena said.

 

“Zero hits for Elena.  Wait,” Davina said, counting her fingers again.  “Let’s see, that makes three hits and three people.  Okay.  Ten minus three is seven.  Eight minus three is five.  We’ve got seven hits for five people.”

 

Birch looked at Elena.  “I don’t want one, either,” she said.  Elena smiled.

 

Davina shook her head, still trying to clear the fog.  “Okay…that’s seven hits for four people.”

 

“I’ll take one,” Samantha said.

 

“Six hits for three people.”

 

“Me, too,” Lisa said, reaching out to hold Sam’s hand.

 

“Five hits for two people.”

 

“Well,” Torrance said, “I’m not feeling so good.”  She threw up on the ground.

 

“Yuck!” Samantha yelled.

 

Torrance wiped her mouth on her sleeve.  “Oh, I feel much better now.  Gimme two hits.”

 

“Three hits for one person.”

 

Everyone looked at Ashleigh.

 

“Well, I’m certainly not going to eat three hits,” she said.

 

“How many do you want?” Davina asked.

 

“How many are you taking?” she asked her.

 

“One, so far.”

 

“Well, if I take two, will you?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Okay, make it two.”

 

“In that case, there’s zero hits left for zero people.  Birch, hand me the blotters back,” Davina said, starting to feel her head clear up a little.

 

Davina cleared her throat and held the sheet of blotters in the air.  “In the tradition of my aunt, I’ll say a little speech…”

 

“Please!  No poetry!” Birch said, laughing.  Sam and Torrance joined her in a short round of guffaws.

 

“Okay, no poetry.”  She looked over at Ashleigh.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  We’re staying at my Aunt Lee’s house.  She’s like this famous-in-her-own-mind poet who spouts poetry like Old Faithful.”

 

Ashleigh nodded her head in agreement.  “Hey, we’ve all got weird relatives.”

 

“Oh, she’s not weird, she’s just my aunt,” she said to her.

 

“Exactly,” she mumbled to herself.

 

Davina turned back to the group.  “But anyway, in the tradition of Aunt Lee, let me say that this acid is a mixed blessing from Bacchus, the god of mischief, and what this blessing brings is anybody’s guess.  What you bring to the acid is just as important as what it brings to you.  Acid does not make you insane.  Acid does not make you crazy.  If you are already crazy, acid will lift your social inhibitions and let the craziness through.  If you are sane and feel like you’re going crazy, keep in the back of your mind that you will eventually return to sanity.  Feel free to let go but as you let go throw bread crumbs of sanity behind you so in the depth of madness you can find your way back like Hansel and Gretel.  Birch, Elena, you sure you don’t want any?”

 

Elena squeezed her arms tighter around Birch.  Birch waved her hand in a negative gesture to Davina.

 

“In that case, ladies first.  Lisa, here’s your hit,” she said, tore off a blotter, and handed it to her.

 

Lisa stared at the piece of paper.

 

“Just put it on your tongue,” Davina said.

 

“I know,” she replied.  “I’m trying to figure out what it is.”

 

“Oh, it’s the symbol of the Church of the Subgenius.”

 

“But it looks like a person’s face.”

 

“Oh, that’s Bob Dobbs, the living slack master.”

 

“Okay, sorry I asked.”

 

“Anytime.  Samantha, here’s your hit.”

 

“Thanks!” she said.

 

“You gonna be all right?” Elena asked Samantha.

 

“Oh, sure,” she replied.

 

“And Ashleigh, here are your TWO hits.”

 

Ashleigh smiled at Davina.  “Thank you,” she said, squeezing Davina’s hand as she handed them to her.

 

“Sam, here’re your two hits.”

 

“About time,” Sam said.  “Do I swallow them?”

 

“No, just stick them on your tongue and let them dissolve.”

 

“Okay,” Sam said, sticking them on her tongue.

 

“Torrance, here’re your two hits.”

 

“Thanks, girl.”

 

“You’re welcome.  And last, I’ll take my two hits.”

 

 

“Okay, before you girls get too wasted, let’s make a couple of simple rules,” Birch said.  “One, let’s stay within shouting distance of each other.  Two, no standing over a cliff and thinking or talking about flying, jumping, or swimming.”

 

Everyone nodded their heads.

 

“Okay, what do you girls want to do then?” she asked.

 

“Well,” Elena said, “I thought it would be romantic to go on a walk through the woods.  I know it’s nighttime but there’s usually enough light from the city for you to make your way on the path.”

 

“Even when you’re tripping?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Lisa said, smiling.  “You can do a lot of things up here while you’re tripping.”  She kissed Sam’s neck and was surprised that Sam tensed up when she kissed her.

 

Elena led Birch by the hand to the start of the path.

 

“Okay everybody, stay close to me,” Birch shouted back to them.  She turned back to her and whispered, “Let’s lead them into the woods a little bit and then sneak back to the car.”

 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Elena said.  “These folks are our responsibility.  We’ll just have to make out in the woods.”

 

“Well, if it’s all right with you, it’s all right with me.”

 

“It’s definitely all right with me,” Elena replied soothingly, squeezing Birch’s neck.  Birch winced, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

 

 

They walked through the woods for a few minutes.

 

“Man, this is fantastic!” Sam shouted.  “We’re in the fuckin’ woods like a bunch of wild animals.”

 

“Ooh, I like that,” Lisa said.  “A wild animal.  Let’s go something quiet and get wild.”

 

“Are you crazy?” Sam asked.  “I’m not wasting my time with you.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Hey, I’ve never been in the deep woods on top of a mountain before.  I want to explore.  I feel like the QUEEN OF THE JUNGLE!”  She ran away from Lisa.

 

Torrance shouted back, “GO FOR IT!  SISTERS IN FLATULENCE!”

 

“They’re just a bunch of trees,” Lisa said dejectedly.  “And these are just a bunch of rocks!”

 

Samantha came up to them.  “Hey!  What’s all the shouting about?”

 

“Sam’s gone jungle monkey on me.”

 

“Jungle monkey?”

 

“Yeah, she’s wants to like explore the forest or something.”

 

“Or something?  Oh, you two are going to be naughty, aren’t you?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Hey,” Samantha said, holding up her hand.  “You getting tracers yet?”

 

“Almost from the start.”

 

“Where’s Sam?”

 

“Sam!” Lisa shouted.

 

“Yes?” said a voice ten or twenty feet in front of her.

 

Lisa squinted her eyes and could just barely see Sam’s eyes.  “Are you invisible?” she asked.

 

“No, I’m naked.”

 

Samantha nudged Lisa.  “See, the jungle queen wants her mistress.  Go to her.”

 

“It’s too cold to get naked and run around.”

 

“I AM QUEEN OF THE JUNGLE!” Sam shouted again.

 

“DA QUEEN IS IN THE HOUSE!” Torrance shouted back.

 

“SISTERS IN FLATULENCE!” Sam shouted with a burst of laughter.

 

 

Ashleigh tapped Davina on the shoulder and Davina flinched.  “What is it?  Who’s there?” she asked.

 

“It’s me,” Ashleigh said as Davina turned around.

 

“Oh, you,” Davina said, disappointed.

 

Ashleigh was used to that response.  She knew that many women first wanted a pretty girl and then they wanted a girl that was good in bed.  Only if they couldn’t get a pretty girl would they settle for girl that was good in bed.  She really felt sorry for women who weren’t pretty and were lousy in bed – they must either be lousy lesbians or half crazy from rejection.  “Whatcha doing?” she asked, determined to stick with Davina for the evening.

 

“I’m confused.  The light of the city seems to be coming from the west but I thought the mountains ran east and west here.”

 

“No, this mountain runs almost north and south so you’re right.  The city lights are from the west.”

 

“Okay, well I feel better.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Sam suddenly came bounding through the woods toward them.  “Yippee!” she shouted.

 

“Sam,” Davina said.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you naked?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why? It’s cold.”

 

“I’m queen of the jungle!  Didn’t you know that?”

 

“Well, queens get hypothermia.”

 

“Not me!” Sam said, running on down the path.

 

 

Samantha put her hand on Lisa’s shoulder.  “Hey, it’s okay.  She’ll be back.”

 

“No she won’t.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“’Cause.  Everyone knows that Elena’s prettier.  Sam’s going to steal Elena from Birch.”

 

“Why do you think that?  Don’t you think that Elena likes Birch?”

 

“Yeah, but Sam’s got charisma.  Can’t you see that?  Sam’s gonna steal Elena.”

 

“Hey!  Cheer up!  That just frees up Birch for you.”

 

“Birch?” Lisa said, starting to cry.  “She hates me!”

 

“Why does she hate you?”

 

“’Cause I’m with a black woman.”

 

“Oh,” Samantha replied, stunned that she hadn’t seen Birch’s bigotry till then.  “You’re right.  You’ll never have Birch.  What about Davina?”

 

“Davina?  Davina?  Why do I want Davina?  I’d rather have Torrance than Davina.”

 

“Oh, you can’t have Torrance.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Well, she’s married, that’s why.”

 

Lisa started bawling.

 

“I…can’t…even…be…liked…by…girls…from…out…of…town,” she sobbed.

 

“There, there,” Samantha said, patting Lisa’s shoulder.  “Let’s go find Davina.”

 

 

“Torrance, is that you?” Sam asked.

 

“Yeah, gal, it’s me.”

 

“Whatcha layin’ on the ground for?”

 

“I’m listening to the Indians.”

 

“Indians?  Are there Indians here?”

 

“Yeah, they’re long lost Indians.  Indians who lived here hundreds of years ago.  You see, I used to go tripping in the Arizona desert.  We’d take a bunch of water with us and not eat for couple of days.  Then we’d drop acid or take mescaline and lay down on the desert floor.  If you lay real quiet, you could erase your breathing and heartbeat.  You’d get lost in the colors and then suddenly you’d hear them Indians.”

 

“You hear ‘em now?”

 

“No, I hear you stomping your feet.”

 

“I tell you what, Torrance.  I am chilled to the bones.  My breasts are colder than witch’s titties right now.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Torrance asked, looking up at Sam, who was standing over her.  “Whoa!  Don’t tell me.  Get that body away from me, you naked bitch.”

 

“Torrance.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Are you a lesbian?”

 

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

 

“I said, are you a lesbian?”

 

“No, gal, I’m not.  I’m married with a husband and kid.”

 

“Yeah, I know.  But are you a lesbian?”

 

Torrance sighed.  She had almost heard the Indians and now she was engaging in the typical sophomoric conversations she’d had on her first trips in Arizona.  “No, I am not a lesbian.”

 

“I think I might like guys, too.”

 

“And why do you think that?”

 

“Because I wonder what it would be like to give a guy head.”

 

“Shit, Sam.  That’s some funky talk you got going there.  Why don’t you lay that shit on Birch?  She’s the psych major.”

 

“Birch doesn’t like me.”

 

“What are you talking about?  Of course, Birch likes you.”

 

“No, she doesn’t.  She knows I’m only part African-American and she secretly wants to kill me.”

 

“I don’t think Birch knows you’re half-white.  You’re just having your first trip.  Everybody goes through these phases.  Pretty soon, you’ll want to kill yourself.”

 

“How did you know I want to kill myself?”

 

“Sam, gal, leave me the fuck alone.  You are not going to kill yourself.  And for Christ’s sake, put your clothes back on.  That shriveled, ugly body of yours is going to scare away the women.”

 

“Hey, when they find me dead tomorrow, I hope you feel guilty,” Sam said as she started running through the woods again.

 

 

Birch started to unbutton Elena’s shirt.  “Wait a minute,” she said and Birch stopped.

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

“Have you heard anything?”

 

“No, we’re alone.”

 

“That’s what I mean.  I haven’t heard anything.”

 

“Good.”

 

“No, it’s not.”

 

“It’s not good we’re alone?”

 

“Didn’t you want to keep everyone without shouting distance?”

 

“Not at this moment, no.”

 

“LISA!” Elena shouted.

 

“Fuck,” Birch mumbled.  “SAM!  DAVID!  TORRANCE!”

 

“WHAT IS IT?” Davina shouted.

 

“YOU GUYS OKAY?”

 

“NO, I’M LOST!”

 

“Shit,” Birch said, standing up.  “Let’s go find them.”

 

“Thank you,” Elena said.  “And once you get them all together, do you think you could walk me back to the car?  I really need to get home kinda early.”

 

“What?” Birch asked angrily.

 

“Yeah, my boyfriend’s working a short shift tonight and I wanna make sure I’m home before he is.”

 

“Whoa-ho-ho-ho.  Boyfriend?  You never mentioned a boyfriend.”

 

“What difference does it make?  And besides, you weren’t going to tell me you owned a BMW.”

 

“Well, a BMW’s a whole lot different than having a boyfriend.”

 

“No, it’s not.  Either way, it’s lying.”

 

“Well, lying’s one thing.  But a boyfriend can beat me up or shoot me.  My BMW cannot point a gun at you.”

 

“God, you are weird.  My boyfriend is not going to shoot you.”

 

Sam came running up to them.  “What do you want?”

 

“What the hell?  Where are your clothes?”

 

“I took them off.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I’m queen of the jungle…and I’m a half-breed.”

 

“What?!”

 

“I knew you hated me for being half-white.”

 

“What are you talking about?  Find your clothes.”

 

“Oh, now you’re going to kill me.  Birch, please don’t kill me.  Please, please, please,” Sam pleaded, hugging Birch.

 

Birch gave Elena a “help” look.

 

Elena touched Sam on the back.  “Ooh, Sam, you are cold.  You’re going to catch your death if you don’t get dressed.”

 

“That’s what I told Torrance,” Sam said.  “I told her I’m going to die and you’re going to kill me.  Please don’t kill me, Birch.”

 

“Elena’s right, Sam.  You are very cold and we need to find your clothes.”

 

“Birch, if you promise not to kill me, I’ll join the Army.  If you won’t promise, then I’m going to kill myself.  I swear it.”

 

“Sam,” Birch said, trying to unwrap Sam’s arms, “no one’s going to kill anybody.   But you’re going to die from exposure if you don’t get your clothes back on.”

 

“Birch, I love you.  You are the best gal in the world.  You and Elena are going to have beautiful children.  You’re going to be wonderful parents.  In fact, I’m going to be a wonderful parent.  I’m going to have your children, Birch.  I’m going to be a woman and have your children.  No, I’m a man…and a woman.  I am…a god.  No, wait.  I AM God.  I AM GOD!  I AM GOD!  You are all my children.  That’s it!” Sam shouted as she ran back into the woods.  “THESE ARE MY TREES!  THESE ARE MY ROCKS!  THIS IS MY AIR!  THIS IS MY SKY!”

 

 

Davina stood within speaking distance of Birch as Sam ran off.  She wondered if Sam’s confession meant that Davina was free to pair up with Lisa.  She had kind of written her off.  “After all,” she had asked herself earlier in the evening, “what white woman wouldn’t pick a beautiful black woman over me?”

 

“Birch?” Davina asked, not sure if her voice was loud enough.

 

“Yeah, what is it?  Are you still lost?”

 

“No, I heard Sam and just followed her voice.”

 

“Is anyone else with you?”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Where’s Ashleigh?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“I thought she was with you.”

 

“She said she had to take a dump so I walked away to give her privacy.”

 

“Well, didn’t you go back to find her?”

 

“I don’t know.  Maybe.  I got lost.  Hey, did you know that the mountain runs north and south here?”

 

“That’s interesting.  Have you seen Samantha or Lisa?”

 

“Funny you should mention them.  I was just thinking about Lisa.”

 

“What about Torrance?”

“Torrance?  Is she thinking about Lisa, too?”

 

“No, Davina, have you seen Torrance?”

 

“You think Lisa likes me?”

 

“Davina, have you seen Torrance?”

 

“Torr…ance.  Torr-an-tom.  Tom-tom drum.  Do you think Torrance’s an Indian?  Her skin is kind of dark.  You think that there’re maybe Indians in Arizona?”

 

“Elena, you stay here with Davina.  I’m going to try to track down the others.”

 

Elena walked over and grabbed Davina’s hand.  “Davina, let’s find a rock to sit on.”

 

“Rock.  Rock steady.  Do you like to rock, Elena?”

 

“Davina, let’s sit right here.”

 

“So are we going to rock on this rock?  Do you want to get down and rock?  Do you want to rock steady on this rock?  Do you want to go steady on this rock?  I know this is like an old cliché but you know you rock my world.”

 

“That’s nice,” Elena said, patting Davina’s hand and letting out a big sigh.

 

 

Ashleigh walked a little further.  “Davina?” she asked, not wanting to shout.  She thought she heard a voice, like whimpering.  “Davina, is that you?”

 

“No-oh-oh,” Lisa said, still crying.  “It’s not Davina.  It’s me.”

 

“Uh, me, I’m having a real hard time seeing.  Where are we?”

 

“Where are we?  Where are we?  Why all these questions?  Where’s Davina?  Where’s Davina?  Doesn’t anyone care that I lost the last girlfriend I’ll ever have and she’s even from out of town?!”

 

Ashleigh stepped on something soft that moaned.  “Me, is that you?”

 

“What?” Lisa said, sniffling.

 

“Did I just step on you?”

 

“No,” she said, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

 

“Who moaned?”

 

“So many questions!”

 

“Okay, okay.  Never mind.  I must have walked in circles and stepped in my own poop.  I just don’t remember poop moaning back at me.”

 

The moaning got louder.  Ashleigh bent down in the dark and tensing up just as she thought she was going to reach down and stick her fingers in her poop, she felt a body.  “What’s this?” she thought.

 

“Hey, there’s somebody here,” she said out loud.

 

“What?” Lisa asked.

 

“There’s a person here in front of me that I think I just stepped on.  Or it could be my poop coming alive like the creature from the Black Lagoon.  That’d be wicked.  Can you see it now?  Straight from the hills of north Alabama.  Is it a black bear?  Is it a deer?  No, it’s Ashleigh’s Poop On Green Mountain!” Ashleigh cried out, breaking into laughter.  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, tripping over the body again.

 

 

Using the little LED flashlight on the keychain, Birch shone a dim light on the path and ran back down to the car.  She opened the glove compartment and found a working flashlight.  Cussing to herself, she walked back into the woods.  She heard pinging noises on the cars.  She turned around and shone the flashlight back down the path.  It was hailing!

 

Birch ran to where Elena and Davina were sitting.  “Okay, Elena, here’s the little flashlight.  Take Davina to the green car and get inside.  It’s started to hail.”

 

Birch ran on, shouting “TORRANCE!  SAM!  IS ANYBODY OUT THERE?” every few steps.  After about 100 paces of running, she heard Ashleigh talking to herself.  She ran another 50 paces.  As she ran up to her, she saw her sitting on Samantha, with Lisa propped against a tree a few feet away.

 

“Lisa, are you all right?” she asked.

 

“More questions!” she shouted.  “I can’t take it anymore.  Just go ahead and kill me now.”

 

Birch grabbed Lisa’s arm and lifted her up.  “You,” she said, not remembering Ashleigh’s name, “why are you sitting on Samantha?”

 

Ashleigh looked up.  “Oh, you’ve got Me.  Great.  I think she’s upset.  I’m just sitting on my poop here, trying to keep it from taking over the woods.”

 

“You crazy cunt,” Birch said, visibly upset that she was not getting any action from Elena and she had to deal with all these acid heads in a hail storm, “you are sitting on Samantha.”

 

“Samantha?  You’ve already named my poop.  Wow!  I didn’t know poop had a name.  Samantha.  I like that.  It sounds much better than poop.  It’s certainly more elegant than shit, if you’ll pardon my French.”

 

Birch pulled Lisa with her over to Ashleigh.  “Lisa, what is this woman’s name?”

 

Lisa looked at Birch with sad puppy eyes.  “I can’t answer any more questions.  Don’t you know I want to die?”

 

Birch grabbed Ashleigh’s arm and stood her up.  “Okay, stand here.  Do not move!”

 

She grabbed Lisa’s hand.  “Here.  I’m not asking you any questions.  You hold this woman’s hand while I check on Samantha.”  She looked at Ashleigh.  “DO NOT ask her any questions.  You hear me?  In fact, don’t say anything at all.”

 

Ashleigh realized that the woman was really serious so she nodded okay.

 

Birch bent over Samantha.  “Samantha, can you hear me?”

 

Samantha, her head buried in the leaves, turned and looked up at Birch.  “Hey, I feel funny.  Am I still buried?”

 

“Buried?  No, you’re lying on the ground.  Are you hurt?”

 

“Uh, I don’t know.  Are you supposed to feel pain when you’re dead?”

 

“Samantha, this is Birch.  I am alive.  So are you.  I am going to try to stand you up.  If you feel any sharp pains or something funny, tell me.”  Birch reached underneath Samantha’s shoulder.  “Okay, let’s sit you up first.  Here we go,” she said, as she pulled her up on her behind.

 

“Wooo,” Samantha said.  “A roller coaster ride in Hades.”

 

“You still okay?”

 

“That was fun,” she said, lying back down.

 

“No, it’s not time to have fun.  Sit back up.  Look, there’s a storm coming so I’m going to stand you up.”  Birch put her hands under Samantha’s armpits and lifted her up.  “Up we go!”

 

Sam came running through the woods.  “Look out, gal, I’ve brought the wrath of God with me.”

 

Lisa started crying.

 

“STOP!” Birch shouted.

 

Sam stopped in her tracks and Lisa stopped crying.

 

“Look!  There’s a hail storm coming down, pelting the cars.  You girls are going to stop fucking around and come with me.  Sam, you grab Lisa’s hand.  Lisa, you hang on to her hand.  You, you hang on to Samantha’s hand.  Good, now come with me.  I’m going to walk beside you girls and shine the flashlight ahead of us.  I don’t care if you see monsters coming out of the woods, stay on the path.”  Birch pushed Samantha forward.  “And Sam, where the hell are your clothes?”

 

About fifty paces back down the path, Birch saw Sam’s clothes spread out everywhere.  “Okay, stop.  Nobody move.  You are trapped in a mold that won’t let you leave your spot until I tell you to.”  Birch walked over and grabbed all the clothes she could see.  She did not find Sam’s underwear or one of her shoes.

 

“Hello?” Torrance called out.  “Is that you, Birch?”

 

Birch shone the flashlight to the other side of the path and saw Torrance lying on the ground.  She walked over to her.  “You okay?”

 

“Yeah, I was just listening to the old Indian stories.  Did you know…”

 

“Torrance, I know you’ve got a special relationship with the Indians but we’re about to get pelted by a hail storm and need to get out of here.”

 

“Hail storm?  Of course, that’s what the Indian was saying.  The summer leaf storm.  I get it now.  She asked me why the leaves in summer would come off the trees like the leaves in fall.  A hail storm!”  Torrance jumped up.  “Where do we go?”

 

“Follow me.”

 

Birch led the group to the cars.  She and Elena decided to leave the Cavalier behind and split the group up between the Lancer and the Caprice.  They loaded everyone up and headed down the mountain to a covered gas station.

 

After they parked at the gas station, Birch walked over to the Caprice.  Elena rolled down the window.  “So much for the romantic evening,” she said, glumly.

 

“Yep.  Look, I’m sorry about earlier.”

 

“Forget about it.”

 

“No, seriously, how soon do you need to get home?”

 

“I’ve got less than an hour.”

 

“Well, I tell you what.  Davina’s aunt doesn’t live too far away from here, I think.  Why don’t we take everyone over there and drop them off?  Then, I’ll drive you back to your car and you can drive home.”

 

“That would be wonderful!” Elena said.

 

“Well, it looks like the hail storm has passed.  Just follow me.”

 

“Okay,” Elena said, and rolled up the window.

 

The Morning After

Davina woke up the next day sleeping on the floor, with the “coyote ugly” woman sleeping on her arm.  She lay there for a moment trying to remember the previous night.  Hadn’t she declared her love for Elena?  Where was she?  She debated the merit of chewing through her arm, rather than waking up “coyote ugly”.  Instead, she tapped her on the shoulder and woke her up.

 

“Good morning,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

 

She greeted her with a warm smile, making her feel guilty for not remembering her name or what, if anything, they had done the night before.

 

Ashleigh leaned up.  “What time is it?” she asked.

 

“I don’t know,” she said.  “I don’t have my glasses on and don’t know where I put them.”

 

“It’s 6:45,” Birch said, from her position on the sofa.

 

“6:45?  Oh no, I’ve got to get home,” Ashleigh said, standing up.  “I bet I look like a mess.”

 

Davina didn’t say anything, felt it was safer that way, just in case she was trying to trap her into agreeing with her.

 

“Where’s the bathroom?” she asked, trying to comb through her hair with her fingers.  Birch pointed around the corner.

 

Davina stood up and almost stepped on Torrance.  “Birch, gal, help me out.  I’m still seeing tracers and I’m in no condition to drive her home.”

 

“Well, I’m sure as hell not going to drive her there by myself.  I’ve got my pride, too, you know.  You’re going with me.”

 

“That’s cool.  As long as I don’t have to drive.”

 

Davina knocked on Aunt Lee’s bedroom.  “What is it?” a voice called out.

 

“Can we borrow the car again?”

 

“Yes,” the muffled voice replied, “but I need it back in an hour.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Birch said, “I’ve still got the keys,” reading Davina’s mind.

Ashleigh stepped out of the bathroom.  “Hey, thanks for everything last night,” she said to Davina sweetly.

 

“Last night?” she asked.

 

“Yes, last night was probably the best time I’ve had in years.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” Davina said without hesitation, trying to recall what they had done besides sit at a bar and drink.

 

Ashleigh stepped up and gave Davina a hug.  “No, really, I mean it.  I felt so relaxed with you last night that it was absolutely wonderful to wake up beside you this morning.” She felt Davina take in a breath and start to speak.  “No, don’t say anything.  I know you don’t feel the same way ‘cause you haven’t been what I’ve been through lately.”  Ashleigh let go of Davina.  “I would love to hang out with you again today but I’ve got to go.  Can you drive me home?”

 

“I…,” Davina said.

 

“I’m going to drive you home,” Birch said, “but Davina’s coming with us.”

 

At the car, Birch said, “You two lovebirds get in the back.  I’ll chauffeur you today and it won’t cost you a penny.”

 

Davina climbed into the back seat with Ashleigh.  She wanted to feel awkward and uncomfortable but Ashleigh’s early morning hug had melted all her usual barriers away.  She reached out and held her hand.  She leaned over and placed her head on her shoulder.  They briefly kissed when she got out of the car at her apartment complex.

 

“So, when’s the wedding?” Birch asked as she pulled back onto the road.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Seriously, Davi, those were some of the strongest vibes I’ve felt between two people.”

 

“I know.  It’s weird.  I woke up this morning thinking I had pledged my love to Elena.”

 

“Elena?  Where’d you get that idea?  I can tell you that that did not happen.  After the hail storm, we dropped you off at your aunt’s house and had sex back at the overlook before she went home to her boyfriend.”

 

“Boyfriend?”

 

“Yeah.  Fun, huh?  So did you get it on with her?”

 

“Elena?”

 

“No, stupid.  Ashleigh.”

 

“Ashleigh?”

 

“Yeah, the one you just made googly eyes with.”

 

“Oh, that’s Ashleigh…”

 

“Don’t tell me you just fell in love with the girl and you can’t even remember her name.  You’re worse than I am.”

 

Davina tried to remember what had happened but couldn’t.  Birch mentioned a hail storm and an overlook.  She was recalling something but it was cloudy, vague…like that something that’s always on the tip of your tongue.

 

“Are you still tripping?” Birch asked.

 

Davina waved her hand in front of her.  “Well, the tracers are gone but the sun’s still too bright.”

 

“That’s not acid.  That’s a hangover, man.  I thought you were going to puke but you did good last night.  No rainbow colors in the car or on the carpet.  You didn’t even pray to the ceramic god last night.  The only god you praised was the sweet…what was it you said?  ‘Bacchus, the god of mischief’?”

 

“I what?”

 

“Don’t tell you don’t remember?”

 

“I’m recalling bits and pieces.”

 

“Oh, gal, I hope you remember ‘cause it was one of the craziest trips I’ve seen anyone take.  I wish Elena had not talked us into going into the woods.  It was the most stupid thing to do with a bunch of acid heads on a strange mountain.  You’re just lucky you didn’t strip down like Sam and lose half your clothes,” Birch said, laughing.

 

Davina laughed, too, at the thought of Sam naked.  “Sam was buck naked?”

 

“Like the proverbial jaybird.”

 

“I’ve got to remember this.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry, you will.  It’s called flashbacks.”

 

 

Back at Aunt Lee’s house, they discovered that Ashleigh’s purse was left behind.  Davina went through the purse, verifying that what she thought were remnants of a dream really were her drug-hazed memories of the woman telling her all about her life – two kids, ugly divorce, recent discharge from Army.  She also learned her name was Ashleigh Vanessa Diefendahl.

 

“You girls’ll have to entertain yourselves today,” Aunt Lee said, after serving them breakfast.  “I’ve got some errands to run today and can’t let you borrow the car.  You’ve got the run of the house.  If you feel like hiking…”

 

Birch groaned.

 

“I guess that’s a reaction to whatever you girls did last night.  Anyway, there’s a whole set of woods behind the house.  Wal-Mart’s about a mile from here, if you need anything.  If you get hungry and can’t find anything in the pantry, you can either call Pizza Hut for delivery or you can walk over to the Japanese restaurant across the highway.”

 

“Ooh, sushi,” Torrance said, feeling sick at her stomach.

 

“Well, I’m part owner of the restaurant so just tell them who you are and I’ll pick up the tab later on.  Also, the Hampton Cove golf course is part of the Alabama Robert Trent Jones golf trail and…  You know, fuck it, I’m sounding like some kind of tourist guide.  You girls have two feet.  If you get bored watching TV or my DVD collection, you can figure something out on your own.  If you have an emergency, call my cell phone.  Otherwise, I’ll see you later this evening.”

 

 

They took turns getting showered and made up.  Eventually, they all settled in to the living room, squatting down in front of the big screen TV.

 

Birch IM’d Elena a couple of times but got no response.

 

Davina kept trying to remember what had happened.  What if Ashleigh was supposed to be her lifelong love instead of Richelle?  Did she miss out somehow?  Had she just screwed up the rest of her life?  What if she’d gotten a disease from Ashleigh?  Would Ashleigh come around to see her after she’d settled down with Richelle, if she ever decided to settle down with Richelle?

 

Sam debated with herself.  Should she ask the girls if she really confessed she was bisexual?  Did they know that she really had the power of God?  And if she was God, why couldn’t she just change the TV channels without reaching for the remote?

 

Torrance just sat back and smiled.  She had talked with her ancestors again and they had reached out to protect her.  It wasn’t the Arizona scorpion or rattlesnake this time.  No, this time it had been a hail storm.  She looked forward to returning to her house to see her husband and kid.  “’Sisters In Flatulence,’” she said.

 

“God! Not again!” Birch exclaimed, as everybody laughed.

 

Torrance stood up and fanned the area around her with her hand.

 

“Take it outside!” Birch exclaimed.

 

Torrance walked to the sunroom.  “Hey Davina.  You got something else I can read?  And no philosophy this time – that last stuff you gave me is too deep for me right now.”

 

“Yeah, okay, I wrote a couple of stories for my niece and nephew.  They’re about as free of philosophy as I get.”

 

“That’s fine.  I just wanna sit in the sunroom and read something.  This sunroom’s making me miss my husband and kid real bad so anything to keep my mind off of them.”

 

“Okay.”

 

The Ghosts of Colonial Heights

The Spike Collector

Some say that Ol’ Lady Powell is a little crazy.  But she wasn’t always like that.  You see, when Marcina Powell was young, she used to like to walk with her father every Saturday afternoon out the back yard and follow the trail from the woods to Kendrick’s Creek until they got to the railroad tracks.  There, they would sit and watch the dragonflies until the evening train passed through.  Marcina would count the engine cars and her father would count the coal cars and then they would yell the number at each other as the caboose went by.

 

“Five,” Marcina would shout.

 

“Forty seven,” her father would shout back.

 

Then the two of them would walk the tracks looking for spikes that had popped up as the railroad cars bounced heavily up and down on the tracks.  Sometimes, weeks would go by and they wouldn’t find a single spike.  Instead, they’d pick out the flattest rocks they could find and skip them across the creek.  If one of them found a spike, they would show it to the other like it was a piece of gold or a rare jewel, turning it in the moon to see how much the head of the spike would shine or reciting the numbers stamped on the side.

 

“J-4-3-2-L,” Marcina would say with pride.

 

When Marcina turned 10, her father decided to throw her a special birthday party.  Ms. Powell took all the spikes that they had collected and had the local blacksmith bronze the spikes.  Then Ms. Powell snuck down to the railroad tracks and started placing them carefully spaced apart near the creek.  She planned to have Marcina and all her friends go down to the railroad tracks the next day and pick up the special spikes.  Along the stretch of the tracks where it bent around the corner of the hill above the creek, Ms. Powell caught her foot on a broken railroad tie and hit her head on a rock.  She rolled down the side of the hill, fell into the creek and floated out of sight.

 

The next morning, Marcina woke up all excited about her birthday.  She ran into her parents’ bedroom but no one was there.  She ran downstairs and found her mother in the kitchen talking to the police.

 

“It’s not like her to disappear in the night,” her mother told the police officer.  “He’s never done this before.”

 

Weeks went by and no one had seen Marcina’s father.  Marcina was very sad and her mother worried about her because she wouldn’t play with her friends.  She would just sit on her father’s rocking chair on the back porch and stare at the path leading into the woods.  All summer long, her mother wouldn’t let her out of her sight.  School started in the fall and soon Marcina was too busy with school and new playmates to sit on the back porch.  However, she still thought a lot about her father and wanted to go on walks with her again.

 

Late one Saturday evening, after Marcina’s mother had gone to bed, Marcina snuck out of the house and walked along the creek.  Eventually, she got to the railroad tracks.  In the light of the half moon, Marcina could see the glint of a spike.  She picked it up and put it in her pocket.  A few feet more, she found another shiny spike.  Then she found another one.  She walked several hundred yards and altogether found more than twenty spikes, too many to fit in her pocket.

 

Tired from picking up so many spikes, Marcina walked back to the house and went to bed.

 

The next morning, Marcina looked at the spikes and thought they looked familiar, like the ones she and her father used to find, except these had a shiny brown color like a new penny.

 

She held one up close and saw it had a number, J432L.  Marcina couldn’t believe her eyes.  She ran downstairs and told her mother what she had done.  She scolded her for sneaking out of the house and told her that she would have to turn the spikes back over to the railroad company on Monday.  Quietly, Marcina walked back upstairs and sat in her room, turning the spikes over and over in her hands.

 

On Monday, Marcina went to school and told her teacher that she was going to take the morning off to run an errand.  She ran back home and got the spikes from the bedroom.  His mother drove her to the railroad office in town and Marcina turned in the spikes.  The office manager told Marcina that she had never seen such shiny spikes and commended Marcina for taking such care of them.  Marcina nodded her head and rode with her mother back to school.

 

The next Saturday night, Marcina snuck out of the house again and ran to the railroad tracks hoping to find another railroad spike.  Sure enough, she found more than twenty railroad spikes.

 

She looked at the spikes the next morning and they looked exactly like the ones she had seen the week before, including the one numbered J432L.  She couldn’t believe her eyes.  She found an old notebook where she had written down the numbers of other spikes she had found and sure enough, they matched the spikes she found the night before.  She didn’t tell her mother about the spikes but instead hid them in a drawer before she went to church.

 

Marcina couldn’t wait to go back to the railroad tracks but knew she wouldn’t be able to get out of the house until the next Saturday.  Like any time that you want to go by fast, the week seemed to take forever.  Saturday finally came and Marcina snuck out of the house after her mother went to sleep.  She walked all along the railroad track but couldn’t find a single spike.  She thought maybe the moon wasn’t bright enough so the next day she told her mother she was too sick to go to church.  After her mother drove away, Marcina ran out the back of the house to the railroad tracks but could not find a spike.  She didn’t understand.  When her mother got back from church, Marcina explained what had happened.  His mother told her that “besides trespassing it was unsafe to walk along the tracks” and that she would have to return the spikes to the railroad office on Monday.

 

Marcina dutifully turned the spikes back over to the railroad office on Monday morning.  That night, she couldn’t sleep.  She tossed and turned.  In her dreams, she saw her father walking along the railroad tracks laying down railroad spikes.  She woke up the next morning tired and upset so her mother let her stay home.  While she was taking a nap, Marcina snuck out of the house again and ran to the spot on the railroad tracks where she found the spikes.  There they were, all 22 of them, the same color and same set of numbers as before.  Instead of going back home, Marcina crossed the creek and thumbed a ride into town where she turned the spikes into the railroad office.  She thumbed a ride back to her road and was able to get back into the yard just as her mother was waking up.

 

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” she said, opening the front door just as Marcina climbed onto the rope swing.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, smiling, knowing that her father was still alive.

 

That night, Marcina was too tired to go back out to the railroad tracks.  She decided to wait until the weekend when she had more time.

 

When Saturday came, Marcina told her mother she was going over to her friend’s house to play.  His mother told her that she was going into town and probably wouldn’t be back until after dark.  She put a cold plate of chicken in the refrigerator and told Marcina to eat it for dinner after she got through playing.  Marcina walked a few blocks over to her friend’s house where they played tag all afternoon.  As it started to get dark, Marcina walked home.  She ate her dinner and sat on the back porch to watch the fireflies.  After catching a few and letting them go, Marcina was bored.  She remembered the railroad spikes and decided to go back to the tracks.

 

As Marcina rounded the bend of the hill, she saw a figure in the dark walking on the tracks.  Marcina could see something sparkling where the woman had bent down.  Excited, Marcina ran up the tracks and could see the person was a man.  Marcina got within a few feet and stopped.  The woman turned to look at her.  It was her father!

 

“Hello, my dear,” her father said.

 

Marcina ran to hug her father but when she reached out, there was nothing there.  She was scared and stepped back.

 

“Son, I’m sorry but you can’t touch me.”

 

Marcina couldn’t believe her ears.  “Dad?”

 

“Yes, Marcina.”

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“Well, my dear, every time you pick up these spikes, I’m with you, but when you turn them in to the railroad company, I have to come out here and put them back.”  Marcina’s father turned back to the tracks and started laying out the spikes again.

 

Marcina slowly followed her father until her father laid down the last spike and disappeared.  When her father disappeared, Marcina screamed with fright and raced back to the house.  She ran straight to bed and immediately fell asleep.

 

When she went to her room the next morning to wake her up, Marcina’s mother couldn’t believe her eyes for her daughter’s hair was all white and her skin was cold to the touch.  She shook her daughter to wake her up.  Marcina opened her eyes up and her mother pulled back in shock because Marcina had the look of a wild man.

 

From that day on, Marcina never spoke.  His mother tried to get her to go back to school but it didn’t work because all she would do was stare out the window.  Eventually, she left her at home where she would sit on the rocking chair on the back porch staring at the path leading into the woods.  Sometimes, she would come home and find her gone but she would return within a few hours.

 

The years passed by and Marcina’s mother turned into an old woman.  When she died, Marcina inherited the house and enough money for Marcina to keep the house going.  Occasionally, she would go to the grocery store or the hardware store and pick up a few items, never saying a word.

 

No one knows what made Marcina’s hair turn white or turned her speechless but sometimes when the moon is just right, not far from Fort Henry Dam you can look at the railroad tracks across Kendrick’s Creek from Fort Henry Drive and see Ol’ Lady Powell picking up railroad spikes.  Some say that always the next night, the shadow of a woman is seen laying spikes on the track.

÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷

 

Warriors’ Path

Eagle Eye picked up a small rock beside the stream.  He stood quietly for a few minutes, watching a small bird perched on an oak limb overhanging the other side of the stream.  Just as the kingfisher swooped down to catch a large minnow, Eagle Eye threw the rock, hitting the bird squarely in the back.  Two feathers fell from the bird as the fish fell back into the water and the kingfisher struggled to maintain a course over the top of the water.

 

Eagle Eye waded into the stream and retrieved the feathers as they floated between the rocks of a small rapid.

 

He carefully placed the feathers in his belt and continued wading across the stream. Eagle Eye had proven himself many times before and did not have to participate in the bison kill today.  Instead, he wanted to gather a few more items with which to make a present for his young bride to be.  On the other side, he picked his way up the rock face, hoping to find another kingfisher feather and to surprise his father and the rest of the hunting party on the other side of the hill.

 

 

In the village, Silver Moon worked with her mother and grandmother to select the right herbs to mix with the yams and maize.  Everyone looked forward to a good meal tonight, if the bison were caught and killed early enough.

 

 

Eagle Eye pulled himself over the top of the hill to see his father, brother and cousins walking two bison his way.  He did not want to ruin the hunt by scaring the bison so he crouched down in the small trees of a small ravine.  He hoped his scent would not carry far so he bent down low and concentrated on the ground between his feet.

 

Within minutes, Eagle Eye had fallen into a meditative trance.  He saw himself walking with a young boy years from now, walking along this same cliff above the stream.  The boy was explaining the meaning of the treaty that had been recently signed by the Council.  In the treaty, trappers would be allowed to pass through this area without fear of being harassed.  In return, the trappers would give the members of the local villages any extra furs the trappers had carried with them on the way back to their own villages.  Eagle Eye saw that the trappers had no intention of carrying extra furs with them but he understood it was better to keep the trappers on the main road then let them wander all over the countryside and ruin the hunting grounds.

 

“Eagle Eye, over here,” yelled Deer Tracker, Eagle Eye’s brother.  Eagle Eye woke from his trance to see his brethren leaning over a bison.  Eagle Eye stood up and waved.

 

 

Silver Moon served Eagle Eye first, as was the custom, making sure she gave her extra portions of food, for she was credited with getting the bison to lay down and die with very little fight.  Eagle Eye’s father stood up to speak.

 

“Tonight, I give this bison to Silver Moon’s family in honor of her union with my son, Eagle Eye.  I wish that the ease with which we brought down the bison is a sign that Eagle Eye and Silver Moon will share many happy years together.”  All the families of the village gave a hearty nod of agreement.  “With my son’s ability to bring food to the table and Silver Moon’s ability to prepare bountiful meals, they shall be able to provide a big and joyous family to make our ancestors proud.”

 

 

A few weeks later, while Eagle Eye and Deer Tracker were showing their young cousin, Tecumsah, how to prepare the tools to make arrowheads, Silver Moon set out to gather the flowers of starry chickweed in order to make a paste to put on the dried bison meat.

 

Silver Moon knew that the only place where the chickweed grew was not far from where the bison was killed.  For her, this was a good sign for it showed the bison’s spirit approved.

 

Although Silver Moon seemingly walked out of her way for nearly two hours to get to the main path, she knew it would be easier to take the path around the base of the hills and then take the gentle slope up to the top of the hill where the chickweed bloomed in the shade of the trees overlooking the stream.

 

When Silver Moon got to the top of the hill, she was very happy.  Where the stream flowed toward the north, Silver Moon could see the next large hill nearly a mile away.  To the east and south, she could see the mountains.  All about her feet were the wondrous white blooms of the starry chickweed.  Silver Moon sat down in a small bare spot and closed her eyes.  She fell into a deep sleep.  In a dream she saw a small boy talking to her telling her that he was now inside her but would soon be out on his own, able to take care of himself despite her difficulties.  Silver Moon woke up a few minutes later with a smile on her face, knowing that she was pregnant with the next great heir of the lineage of Eagle Eye and Silver Moon.  She gathered the flowers she wanted and headed back down the hill.

 

 

About an hour along the path, Silver Moon noticed yellow flowers growing in a clearing a few hundred yards into the woods.  When she got to the clearing she was pleased to see a small bed of trout lilies.  Silver Moon dug into the earth and pulled out a few dozen bulbs.  She decided she could use the bulbs for a meal later in the week.  Just as she was walking back into the woods, Silver Moon stepped on a branch that made a slight metal click before the trap snapped closed on her ankle.

 

Silver Moon screamed with pain but no one could hear her because she was too far from her village and the next nearest village was several miles away toward the mountains.  She fell back on the ground, aggravating the injury to her ankle.  Several hours later, Silver Moon became conscious again and realized what had happened.  She looked down at her ankle and saw the red gash and bones twisted out of place.  Through the searing, blinding pain, she reached down and pulled the jaws of the trap apart.  She passed out again from sheer exhaustion.  In her delirium, Silver Moon saw the small boy again.  He told her that he knew this would happen and that he had directed the ignorant trapper to place the trap near the trout lily rather than a bed of ferns further on.  He showed her how to make a healing medicine by chewing the trout lily and chickweed in her mouth.  She would get nourishment from chewing on the plants and could use the paste to cover the wound.  She awoke when the sun had nearly passed behind the hills and put the plants in her mouth.  She chewed them for a few minutes, wanting desperately to swallow them but followed the advice of her unborn son and rubbed the paste on the torn flesh of her ankle.  She passed out again.

 

 

Eagle Eye was too busy with Tecumsah to notice that Silver Moon had not prepared a noontime meal.  However, when the sun was low in the sky, Eagle Eye began to wonder why Silver Moon had not returned to put together one of her delicious evening meals.  He walked with Deer Tracker to visit Silver Moon’s mother.  Silver Moon’s mother had not seen Silver Moon since morning and explained that she did not expect to see her until late in the day because Silver Moon had gone to gather starry chickweed where the bison had died.  With Deer Tracker, Eagle Eye grabbed Tecumsah and headed toward the stream.  They would take the direct route and avoid the long journey to the path.

 

 

“You will call me Black Bear,” the young boy told Silver Moon, “for my skin will be covered with dark black hair when I am born.  For me to be born, you must follow everything I tell you because I have been sent by our ancestors to protect your lineage and the lineage of my grandchildren who will live to see the valley of the stream fill with water.  Although wise in the ways of the hunter, Eagle Eye is not wise in the ways of love.  He has set out along the stream to reach the hill where the bison lay a few moons ago.  You must rest now and dream no more.  I will wake you in the morning when Eagle Eye approaches.”

 

 

Eagle Eye, Deer Tracker and Tecumsah reached the base of the cliff within a hour.  However, in the dark, it was difficult for them to find good footing and what should have taken fifteen minutes to reach the top took them nearly an hour.  At the top, Eagle Eye called out to Silver Moon but got no reply.  In the silence that followed, Eagle Eye heard a voice call to him but he could not hear the words nor could Deer Tracker or Tecumsah hear the voice.  Eagle Eye bent down in a spot not far from where he had hidden from the bison and closed his eyes.

 

“I am Black Bear, son of Eagle Eye and Silver Moon,” the young boy told his father.  “I have been taking care of mother, whose ankle has been bitten by the jaws of a trap foolishly set by an untrained man from the villages of the Far East.  It is useless for you go further tonight.  Set camp here for I want you to see the view from this hilltop and describe to me and my siblings as we grow up.”

 

Eagle Eye stood up and told Deer Tracker and Tecumsah that they would be settling down on the hillside for the night.

 

Just before dawn, Black Bear walked into one of Eagle Eye’s dreams.  “You will walk to the path from here.  About an hour down the path, you will see a clearing to the left with a patch of yellow flowers shining in the sunlight.  Hidden in the underbrush, you will find my mother, Silver Moon.  When you find her, you will not remember what I’ve told you.”

 

Within an hour of waking up, Eagle Eye had rushed down the hill and over the well-worn floor of the path to the clearing.  There, he found Silver Moon with her mangled foot.  With the aid of Deer Tracker and Tecumsah, Eagle Eye was able to get Silver Moon to the village healer.  Eight moons later, Silver Moon bore Eagle Eye a son.  At first concerned of the meaning of it, they chose Black Bear as the name of their son with the dark black hair on his arms and legs.

 

 

 

 

Invitation

Around noon, the phone rang.

 

Davina picked up the phone.  “Hello.”

 

“This is Mike at the BMW dealership.   Is Birch Bernard there?”

 

“Hang on a second.”  Davina handed the phone to Birch.

 

“This is Birch.”

 

“Birch, Mike here.  How you doing?”

 

“All right.”

 

“Good.  Look, we replaced the fuel pump but the radiator’s still leaking.  You could put the car back on the road but I wouldn’t suggest it.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Well, if the radiator’s broken or the thermostat is going bad, the car could heat up quickly and then you’d have a really hefty repair bill.”

 

“So you’re saying I need to replace the radiator?”

 

“At the very least.”

 

“Hang on a second.”  Birch set down the phone receiver and picked up her cell phone, dialing her father.  “Dad, I’m on the phone with the BMW dealer.  Yeah, I’m fine, the car just wouldn’t start.  We’re at a friend’s house.  In Huntsville.  Well, because I didn’t think you’d drive all the way down here to pick us up.  Sure, okay.”

 

Hearing nothing for a few seconds, Davina looked up at Birch.  “Dad’s got another call on call waiting,” Birch said to her.  Birch leaned back into the cell phone.  “No problem.  Hey Dad.  The dealer said they’ve gotta replace a bunch of stuff.  I don’t know, I didn’t ask.  Hang on a sec.”  Birch picked up the phone receiver.  “Sorry about that.”

 

“No problem,” said Mike.

 

“Do you have an estimate on how much all this will cost?”

 

“The whole thing?  Including the hoses, valve gasket, et cetera?”

 

“Yeah, sure, all of it.”

 

“Let’s see.”  Birch heard key-clicking sounds over the phone.  “With parts, labor and tax, that’d be three-thousand, four-hundred, thirty-four dollars and some change.”

 

“Holy shit!  Hang on.”  Birch set down the receiver.  “Dad, they say it’ll be over three-thousand bucks.  Yeah, I know it sounds expensive.  Something about hoses, gaskets and stuff like that.  Great!  I appreciate it.  Yeah, we’re coming up your way as soon as the car is fixed.  No, don’t send anyone.  We’re staying at a friend’s aunt’s place.  I promise we’ll be up there as soon as the car is ready.  Hang on.  I’ll ask.”  Birch picked up the receiver.  “How long do you think it’ll take to fix all this?”

 

“Well, if I order the parts today, we should get them tomorrow and should be able to start working on the car during the day.  I’d say two days tops.”

 

“Okay, thanks.  Dad, they say it’ll take two days.  Uh-huh.  Yeah, I’ll put it on the card.  You, too.  Give Mom my best.  Seeya.  Okay, go ahead and fix the car.”

 

“Sure thing, Ms. Bernard.  We’ll call you as soon as it’s ready.  Would you like to rent a replacement car while you’re waiting?”

 

“No, thanks.”

 

 

Birch turned to the group after she hung up the phone.  “So, looks like it’s going to be a couple of more days.  Anybody got suggestions on what to do?  I sure as hell am not going to sit here watching TV all fucking day.”

 

“Did I hear golf?” Torrance asked, handing the stories back to Davina.  “Davina, thanks for the diversion.  Much better.  If you’ve got any more of those, I might like to read them later on.  One suggestion, though.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Your ghost stories need a surprise ending.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.  Something to make ‘em scarier.  Even little kids like a surprise ending.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“Well, I’m no Tiger Woods,” Sam said.

 

“I’m not, either,” Torrance said, “but the weather’s decent enough.  I might be able to split a cart with you girls, if you’re interested.”

 

“Count me out,” Davina said.  “I’m lousy enough when I sober.  I feel like I’m still half drunk from last night.  I just wanna rest for a few hours.”

 

“What was the name of that golf course?” Birch asked.

 

“It’s a Robert Trent Jones golf trail.  I don’t remember the name of it.”

 

“Look it up in the phone booth,” Davina said.

 

“Hampton Cove,” Sam said.

 

“What?” Birch asked.

 

“Hampton Cove golf course.  It says so on the back of the phone book.”

 

“Okay, thanks Sam.  You just saved me looking it up inside the phone book.”  Birch dialed the golf course phone number.  “Hello.  You, too.  Do you have a two-day pass or something like that?  Great.  In that case, we’ll be right over.”

 

Birch hung up the phone and turned to Torrance.  “You ready?”

 

“Sure, let me grab my jacket.”

 

“Well, girls, I guess we’ll see you later,” Birch said to Davina and Sam.

 

“Okay,” Davina said.  “I guess you’ll be back before dark.”

 

“If you’re lucky.”

 

“See you later, then,” Davina said, turning back to the TV.  “I’ll probably study or write something later on.  You girls do what you want.”

 

 

Before they knew it, Davina and Torrance were snoozing in front of the TV.

 

Around 4 p.m., the phone rang.

 

“Hello,” Davina said.

 

“Davina, it’s your Aunt Lee.  Hey, look.  Have you girls decided what you’re going to do tomorrow?”

 

“Well, the BMW won’t be ready for a couple of more days so Birch and Torrance are going to play the golf trail.”

 

“Okay, look, I’ve been invited to go on a hike tomorrow.  I can take one or two of you girls with me because some of the folks who were going to go on the hike have backed out.”

 

“Hiking?  How far?”

 

“Well, it can’t be too far.  We’re taking a trip.”

 

“A trip?”

 

“Yes, a very, strange trip.”

 

“Oh, yeah, I get it.  Hang on.  Let me ask Sam.”

 

Davina put her hand over the receiver. “Aunt Lee’s going on a hike tomorrow and it sounds like they’re going to drop acid or something.  Wanna go along?”

 

“Are you kidding?  I’ve barely recovered from last night.”

 

Davina put the phone back to her ear. “I don’t know, Aunt Lee.  We’re pretty tired out.”

 

“Well, Davina, I’ll put it the best way I can.  We need the extra folks to cover the cost of the hiking material that has been bought.”

 

Davina put her hand back over the receiver.  “Sounds like my aunt’s short of cash again and needs our help.”  Sam shrugged.

 

“Okay, Aunt Lee, we’ll go.”

 

“Great, I’ll see you kids later on.  You want anything to eat tonight?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Super.  I’ll pick you up and take you to the Japanese restaurant for a special festival tonight.  Should be at the house around seven.”

 

“Okay, see you then.”

 

 

 

Speaking Japanese

“Ah, good evening, Ms. Lee.  How are you?”

 

“Very good, thanks.  How are you?”

 

“Okay.  Business has been a little slow so far.”

 

“What about the festival?”

 

“I don’t think we do a very good job with advertising.”

 

“Well, it’ll pick up.  By the way, this is my niece Davina and a friend of her, Sam.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Davina.  My name is Zhou but you can call me Joe, if you wish.”

 

Davina bowed her head.  “Hey there.  This is a pretty neat place you got here.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam said, looking at the 20-foot tall bamboo growing inside the restaurant entryway.

 

“Thank you.  Your aunt has been very generous.”

 

“No, I haven’t.”  Aunt Lee turned to Davina.  “Don’t believe a word he says.  We’ve only given them a little so we are very small owners,” she said, holding her thumb and forefinger to show a gap of about a quarter-inch.

 

“You are still owners!” Zhou exclaimed.  “Come, I will get you seated.”  Zhou motioned her guests to follow her through a glass door.  “Here, you sit here and I will get your order.  What would you like to drink?”

 

“Get us a couple of large Sakes, Zhou.”

 

Zhou bowed his head and walked away.

 

“That was pretty cool,” Davina said.

 

“Zhou’s always like that.  He’s very much into honor and respect.  And before you make a fool of yourself, Zhou’s Chinese, not Japanese.”

 

“Oh, thanks for telling me.”

 

Sam nudged Davina.  “Check it out,” she whispered.

 

Davina turned to see a petite Oriental girl in a tight kimono come shuffling up to them.  “Hello,” she said.  “Welcome to Nikko.  How may I help you?”

 

“Zhou’s getting the drinks,” Aunt Lee said.

 

“Very good,” she responded.  “My name is Andrea.  I can take your orders as soon as you are ready.”

 

Davina looked at Aunt Lee with a confused look.  “Well, Andrea,” Aunt Lee said, “I don’t believe these girls have seen a menu yet.”

 

“I’m very sorry.  I’ll return with the menus.”

 

As the waitress left, Aunt Lee said to Sam, “So you like her?”

 

“Her body’s tight!”

 

“Yep.  They’re all pretty much that way.  The only one here who has a little fat on her is Jalicia.  You’ll know her as soon as you see her.”

 

“That’s all right.  I like my women to be small.  They’re better to handle that way.”

 

“Well, at least you know what you like, Sam.”

 

“Yeah, when you’ve got to throw your dance partner above your shoulders, you want ‘em as short and light as possible.”

 

“Well, I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

 

“Here you go,” Andrea said, handing them the menus.  “I’ll be right back.  I must seat some new customers.”

 

“Fine with me.”

 

While the others looked at the menu, Davina looked around the restaurant.  In an adjacent room were tables with almost no legs and instead of chairs there were mats on the floor.  Through the glass door and past the entryway Davina could see a small bar where it seemed a lot of people were standing around smoking.

 

“Here you go,” Andrea said, seating an older couple at the table beside Davina.

 

“Thank you,” said the older gentleman.

 

“Your Sake,” Zhou said, setting the containers on the table.

 

“Great, thanks,” Aunt Lee said.  “Why don’t you get drink orders for the new folks there and we’ll wait for Andrea.”

 

“Very good.”  Zhou walked around Davina.  “Good evening, how are you?”

 

“Doing well,” said the older gentleman.

 

“Very good.  I am Zhou.  I will be serving you tonight.”

 

“Fantastic.  Tell you what.  Bring me a Coors Light.  What’ll you have, honey?”

 

“A glass of white wine.”

 

“Is house wine okay?” Zhou asked.

 

“Sure.”

 

“Very good.”

 

Davina looked at the menu.  She wasn’t particularly hungry but knew she needed something to eat.  “Aunt Lee, what’s the seaweed salad like?  Is it very big?”

 

“Well, Davina, the bowl’s not very big but you’ll feel pretty full after eating it.  Do you like seaweed?”

 

“I don’t know.  I’ve never tried it.”

 

“In that case, I’d go ahead and order the sushi sampler, too.  That way, if you don’t eat all the seaweed, you’ll have plenty of other stuff to try.  What about you, Sam?  You like sushi?”

 

“Depends on what it is.  I’m don’t like tentacles – too chewy for me.”

 

“Well, how about I order the boat?  It’s about 40 pieces of sushi.  I’m sure both of you can find something on there you’ll like.”

 

“Okay,” Davina and Sam said.

 

Aunt Lee got Andrea’s attention.  She walked over to the table.  “Give us three seaweed salads and the sushi boat.”

 

 

While Aunt Lee talked to Sam, Davina leaned back and listened to the couple beside her.

 

“What are we doing here, tonight?” the woman asked.  “We come to these things so often I’m not even sure.  Look over there.  It’s the Walbergs.  See, right over there.”

 

“Oh, yeah.”

 

“What time is it?  Isn’t this thing supposed to start yet?”

 

“It’s only a little after seven.”

 

Davina got her aunt’s attention.  “Did you say there’s a festival tonight?”

 

“Well, yes, we call it a festival to try to get people to come in here.  Basically, it’s music being performed in the banquet room.  Also, some artists will walk around showing off their works for sale.  Some of it’s pretty interesting, if you like that sort of thing.”

 

Aunt Lee waved at Zhou, who was standing at the sushi bar at the other side of the room.  Zhou held up his finger.

 

“Zhou’s a pretty good artist.  He creates what he calls a masterpiece and then makes copies that he sells as originals.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Just wait till he gets over here.  I’ll get him to explain it to you.”

 

“Yes, Ms. Lee,” Zhou said as she walked up.

 

“Are you going to show your artwork tonight?”

 

“I haven’t decided yet.  If it gets busy, I won’t have time.”

 

“Well, Zhou, stop back by when you get a break.  I’d like Davina and Sam to see some of your work.”

 

“Okay, I will bring my portfolio by.”

 

“You have a portfolio?” the woman at the other table asked Zhou.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can we see it?”

 

“Let me get this sushi order and then I’ll bring it for you to see.”

 

“Thanks,” the woman said to Zhou.  She turned to Aunt Lee, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.  By the way, my name’s Brenda, Brenda Smith.  This is my husband, Horton.”  She extended her hand to Aunt Lee.

 

Aunt Lee shook hands, saying, “No problem.  I’m just glad that you’re interested in Zhou’s work.”

 

“Yes, that’s why we’ve come.  We like Oriental work and maybe hope to see more.”

 

“Great idea.  I’m sure Zhou would like that.  What kind of work do you like?  Zhou paints in all sorts of different styles.”

 

“Honey, what would you say?  We have only one piece so far.  What would you call it?”

 

“Well, it’s a lovely painting of a set of water lilies.”

 

“That’s right.  Water lilies.  We’ve hung it up in the master bath.  Not exactly Manet…”

 

“Monet,” Davina said.

 

“Yes, well, whatever.  Manet, Monet.  Money, money.  That’s what it’s really all about anyway.”  She nudged her husband and snickered.  “In any case, we like it.”

 

“Well, nice to meet you,” Aunt Lee said, and turned to talk to Sam.

 

“You, too.”

 

Zhou walked back to the Smiths’ table with a large folder.  “Here you go, sir.  Look at these pictures.  I’m sure you will like them.  I will be back after serving that table over there.”

 

“Sure thing, feller.”

 

“If there is something you like, pull it out and I will tell you more about it.  You don’t like a painting, don’t tell me,” Zhou said with a light laugh.

 

“Gotcha.”

 

Zhou walked away as Mr. Smith opened the folder.

 

“Honey, this one looks very similar to ours,” Mrs. Smith said, pulling out a painting and setting it on the table.

 

“Sure does.”

 

“In fact, it looks exactly like ours, if you sort of cropped off one side.”

 

Mr. Smith turned the painting 90 degrees.  “And turned it around like this.”

 

“Yes, that’s it.  That’s what made it look different than ours.  Now it looks exactly the same.  I’m surprised the two paintings look so much alike.  Are there any others like that?”

 

“Let’s see…a fish, some kind of dancer.  Ah, here’s one that close.”

 

“Yes, but the coloration is different.”

 

“Hmm…you’re right.  Here’s another set of dancers.  Some sort of geometric patterns.  A Mardi Gras poster.  Seems kind of odd.”

 

“He said he painted different things.”

 

“Yep.”

 

Zhou walked up.  “So, I see you like my water painting,” he said, pointing to the water lily painting on the table.

 

“Well, sort of.”

 

“What do you not like about it?  I have painted it with a different color scheme, if you like.”

 

“No, that’s not it.  We saw that one.”

 

“Perhaps the lighting is wrong?  We can look at this in the other room, where the lighting is better, if you like.”

 

“No, we like the painting.”

 

“Yes, everyone likes reflection on water.”

 

“Well, the funny thing is this picture looks very familiar, like I’ve seen it somewhere else.”

 

“Oh, this is original.  I have not made a copy of this one.  You will not see another one like it.”

 

“Well, no, I don’t mean this exact one.  I mean one very much like it.”

 

Mrs. Smith held up her hands to form a square corner.  “Yes, if you sort of cropped off the left and bottom of the picture here, like this…and then sort of moved the water lilies to the middle…then you’d see the picture we see.”

 

“I don’t understand.  What picture?”

 

“The one we have.”

 

“Your picture?  What do you mean?  You don’t mean a copy of this picture.”

 

“Well,” Mr. Smith said, looking at his wife.  “I’m not sure but I’d agree with Brenda.  We have this painting, you see, and it looks exactly like she’s described it.”

 

“Oh, I don’t like this.  I don’t like this at all.  No one can copy my pictures.  They are originals.  I do not let anyone have my pictures to copy.  I left China because people would copy pictures.”

 

“Well, we aren’t saying anyone copied your pictures.”

 

“Then how do you…”

 

“We’re saying it’s the same but different.  Are you sure you didn’t maybe copy someone else’s design and then maybe somebody else also painted the same picture?”

 

“Painted the same picture?”

 

“Yeah, something like that.”

 

“You say someone copied my design?”

 

“Well, or one like it.”

 

“Do you know the name of the artist who painted your picture?  Maybe I know the artist, if, as you say, we shared the same design.”

 

“Oh,” Mrs. Smith said.  “I hadn’t thought of that.  Yeah, I know the artist’s name.  She’s the wife of my gynecologist.  And, well, she’s his assistant, too.”

 

“Did you say a doctor’s wife?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is her name Rebecca?”

 

“Yes, how did you know?”

 

“And you said her picture is exactly like mine?  A copy, not an imitation or just a picture of water lilies?”

 

“Yeah, pretty much.”

 

“I don’t like this.  I don’t like it at all.  What is it painted on?”

 

“Bamboo paper, I think.”

 

“This is not good,” Zhou said, shaking his head vigorously.  “A student never copies a master and then passes off the work as her own.  And you’re sure it’s the same?”

 

“Well, almost.”

 

Zhou started to walk away from the table.  “I don’t like this.  This is the type of cheating I thought only Chinese people played on each other but even they would not cheat their masters, only other artists.  Not good at all,” he mumbled, walking away.

 

Mr. Smith turned to his wife.  “Well, I guess we just ruined our service for the night!”

 

“Honey, be considerate.  I think he’s really upset.”

 

Zhou walked back.  “Did you pay for the painting?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I cannot believe she would do this.  Rebecca is a student of mine.  She borrowed this painting, she said, to study my strokes.  Now it look like she copied my painting and calls it her own.  Now my painting is worthless!  I wanted $400 but now it is worthless.  I feel bad…” Zhou said, walking away.

 

Aunt Lee stood up and walked over to Mrs. Smith.  “Hey, girl, what gives?  I only heard part of what you said to him.  Do you not like his stuff?  If not, you’re really missing out.”

 

“No, we do like his style.  In fact, it seems we’ve already bought a copy of his work.”

 

“That’s great!”

 

“But only, it was painted by someone else.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Yeah, we’re confused, too.  Sounds like a student of his copied this water lily piece and sold it to us.”

 

“Oh, Zhou won’t like that.  He’s very much into honor and trust.”

 

“Yeah, looks that way.”

 

“Well, you’ve got to offer to give the other painting back or buy one of his.  Otherwise, I don’t know…”

 

“We can’t do that.  The artist is my gynecologist’s wife.  I’d be too embarrassed to give it back.”

 

Zhou walked back up.  “I will need my portfolio back.  I’m sorry.  I just cannot believe a rich doctor’s wife would cheat a poor artist for one painting.  I work hard, very hard, to make paintings for people.  I work at this restaurant to pay bills so I can offer paintings real cheap.  I…forgive me,” Zhou said, picking up the portfolio, bowing and walking away.

 

“Excuse me, folks,” Aunt Lee said, following Zhou.

 

Mrs. Smith stood up.  “Well, sweetheart, let’s just leave a fifty-dollar bill and get out of here.  I’m sure he won’t want to see our faces when she returns.”

 

“If he returns,” Mr. Smith said, standing up.

 

 

Davina looked around the room again.  She noticed a small poster she had not seen before.  The festival was in its 10^th year, so she was sure the restaurant owner had a sense for the crowd that would soon be there.  It was little cool that night after a wet cold front had blown through, dumping rain.  Davina was enjoying the relative warmth of the ambient air inside the restaurant as well as the warm conversation of the wait staff milling around nearby, waiting/hope for more than the four or five tables of business she could see.

 

No tables were filled near enough to Davina to make a dent in the general noise of the restaurant.  “Too bad,” Davina thought, wanting to memorize more of what people were saying.  At the nearest table with people sat an older couple and their daughter.  Or rather, a woman in her 70s married to a woman in her 60s who had brought her daughter with her.  The daughter appeared to be in her 30s and perhaps single.  She appeared single because she sat on the other side of the table from the older woman and sat next to the older woman.

 

From the older woman’s questions, which Davina couldn’t quite make out, the woman’s responses seemed to say that the older woman was not familiar with the current events in the woman’s life.  Davina took a closer look at the woman, who had leaned over to pick up her napkin.  She was definitely in her 40s and was the spitting image of her mother, sort of long face and hound dog jowls.  She looked well-bred and perhaps well-educated, but giggled a little too much for her age.  Maybe the older woman had just recently started dating the other older woman?  Surely the younger woman was not married to her.

 

Davina was bored, sitting there, tired of listening to Aunt Lee and Sam talk about the local art scene.  Davina wanted to hear and record other people’s conversations.  She let her mind wander.  She wondered about her cousin, Max.  When she was younger, Max was always the confident, cocky, sure one.  The last few times Davina had seen her, Max had been less sure of herself.  What made her change?  Max had once asked Davina to join her in forming an Internet business, creating Web pages for online “shingle” hanging but Davina had respectfully declined.  Max told her she’d find a way to make it without Davina because Max had always been the independent sort.  Davina later heard that Max had had to go back to finish her degree and get a regular job, humbling herself in the process.  Davina knew how school and work had adversely affected her own independent spirit.

 

Hard to believe Davina had been sitting there for over an hour, bored to tears even.  She had noted the high-class behavior of the wait staff.  Davina let the chopsticks slide into the bowl, getting the handle ends wet.  Within a minute, a person walked up and replaced the chopsticks without saying a word.  “Oh boy, real service!” Davina thought, “The lifestyles of the upper middle-class and not so famous!”

 

The restaurant continued to fill.  There were several tables of folks near Davina that she could listen to.  However, by the looks of them, she thought she’d rather not waste the ink later on.  “There are boring people at all levels of income.”

 

Davina looked back at the table of three.  She supposed the older woman could have been the grandmother, the middle-aged woman the daughter and the young woman the granddaughter.

 

Davina poured herself another glass of Sake and finished the sushi she had been munching on.

 

“Want any dessert?” Aunt Lee asked Davina.  “They have ice cream.”

 

“No thanks, I’m pretty full.”

 

“In that case, let’s head back to the house.”

 

“Okay.”

 

And Now The News…

After all the sushi and Sake, Davina’s stomach was churning.  She knew that meant only one thing.  He’d have a night of tossing, turning and dreams she might not want to remember.  That night, she had a wild dream…

 

“Welcome to the 50th season of “Antiques Cybernetics Roadshow”.  Today, we’re going to look at some interesting artifacts from the turn of the century.”  Brenda Stillman stood in front of a backdrop of the show’s logo displayed on a curved plastic 3D screen.  She then turned to a woman standing beside her.

 

“Hello there.  What’s your name?”

 

“Hi.  I’m Louise Fletcher.”

 

“Well, Louise, what have you brought us to look at today?”

 

“Well, I’m not sure.  We were cleaning up the house of a recently deceased relative and came across a bunch of old computers.  We tried booting them up but we couldn’t get many of the hard drives to work and started to get disappointed.  Finally, we got one to boot up and it was fascinating.  I can’t remember the last time I used a keyboard.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Brenda said, speaking up to hurry things along.  “Well, we still see a lot of keyboards at these shows.  Did you bring a special keyboard today?”

 

“No.  What I brought is a bunch of computer files.”

 

“Very good.  Well, let’s show them to the audience, shall we, Louise?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Brenda turned to point to the 3D screen.  “Well, look here.  First thing you’ll notice is that these are all 2D images, very common at that point in time.  We’ve got a snapshot of a website, circa 2006.  Very interesting.  Do you know anything about this?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, back at the turn of the century, the popular pastime entertainment was watching “reality” shows and talent shows.  The website we have here is from one of the talent shows, North American Idol, and featured a variety of people trying to earn the right to sell their talents through American media outlets.”

 

“Oh, well, that’s interesting.”

 

“Yes, it is.  In fact, 2006 was an especially unique year for that show because they accepted people who spoke only Spanish or French in an attempt to reach the Mexican, Central and South American audiences as well as French-speaking people in Canada.  Do you have any idea what these set of computer files are worth?”

 

“Well, I asked my spouse and she wasn’t sure.”

 

“As it turns out, capturing a snapshot of this website is very valuable, especially if you had grabbed all of the web pages describing the performers’ bios.”

 

Louise’s face lit.

 

“We combed through the computer files and found that your relative had grabbed the bio pages.

 

Louise was visibly shaking with excitement.

 

“For 2006, the winner was a last-minute entry who had not been forced to go through the usual early rounds of humiliation.  Grabbing the website with the winner’s bio pushes the value of these computer files to four and a half million dollars.”

 

Louise started jumping up and down.

 

“However, your relative took this snapshot a few hours before the winner’s bio was added.  Therefore, your computer files are worth about one thousand dollars.  I suppose we could buy them from you right now, so you could at least have enough money to pay for the drive home, huh?” Brenda asked, flashing her professional smile, hoping that Louise wouldn’t punch her in the face in front of the global 3D viewing audience.

 

 

 

 

The Snake Pit

“Hey everybody, this is Janis,” Vivien said, introducing her friend as Janis climbed out of a green and white Nova.  Janis walked over to greet the folks at the other car in the parking lot.

“Hi, I’m Lee,” the driver said, shaking her hand, “I live down the block from Vivien.” Lee had mainly white hair with a little red hair left, a slim body and glasses. You know, she didn’t really have red hair, not red like a fire engine, nor red-orange like a pumpkin that you see on some redheads. What was left of her red hair was more like a golden auburn than red.

Vivien pointed to a couple getting out of the back seat. “This is Davina and Sam. Sam’s a bit paranoid so she insisted on bringing a small first-aid kit.”

Davina walked around the car to greet Janis. “Nice to meet you, Janis.  I understand you’re a writer.”

“Some people accuse me of that,” Janis retorted. “I have a column in the Huntsville newspaper.”

“Well, we’ll have a lot to talk about. I’m getting my degree in English lit.”

“Good for you,” Janis responded flatly, trying not to show the short, stocky female that she had no use for those who simply studied the written word.

“And this is Beatrice,” Vivien added, as a blond-haired woman taller than Vivien reached out and shook Janis’ hand vigorously.

“Janis, I’ve read your stuff and it always entertains me. I especially love it when you trash the government,” Beatrice said in an overly loud voice. “I bet you could tell us some stories about what you know but can’t write about.”

“Yeah, but I’d have to kill you afterward,” Janis replied wryly. Beatrice nodded her head and laughed.

Vivien patted Beatrice on the back and pushed her way in between Beatrice and Janis. “Well, Janis, I hope you brought the goods.”

“Yessirree Bob,” Janis said smiling, “right here in my goodies bag.” She slapped her hand on the daypack slung over her shoulder.

Vivien turned back to her friends. “Well, girls, if you want to grab some snacks before we go, hit the store. Otherwise, you’re just gonna have mushrooms and water for lunch and I don’t know about you but that’s not even going to whet my appetite.”

They arrived at the wilderness area parking lot just as the sun was topping the ridge nearby. Vivien gathered them around the map she had spread out on the hood of the Nova.

“Okay, the main trail goes this way…”

“Hey, guess what,” Beatrice interrupted, “I brought a compass.”

“Great,” Vivien replied with obviously strained patience after having to put up with Beatrice’s constant babble on our way over, “but I hope we don’t have to use it. Anyway, the trail just goes up one side of the creek and down the other. I thought it would be more fun if we cross the creek here and climb up the cliff there.” Vivien put her finger on a point where the topo lines were bunched together. “From what I can tell, we should be able to follow this old feeder creek bed to the top. Once we get there we can break for lunch. Does that sound like a good idea?” Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Hey, Vivien,” Lee said in an inquisitive tone.

“What?”

“Will we be able to trailblaze like this, you know, in our condition and all?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. The way I figure it, we’ll start tripping after we cross the creek. That way we can enjoy the scenery as we climb up the canyon. By the time we get to the top we’ll be ridin’ high.”

“Cool.”

“Janis, if you’ll do the honors,” Vivien said to Janis with a bow of her head.

Janis put her daypack on the car, unzipped the front pouch and pulled out a plastic bag full of dried psilocybin mushrooms. “Ta-da,” she intoned as she dropped the bag on the map. “Everybody gets three buttons and five stems and I get ten dollars a head. I think that’s reasonable.”

“Ahem,” Lee said, clearing her throat mockingly.

“Well, that’s everybody but the driver. She gets a five dollar discount for providing the ride.”

“Thank you,” Lee said, as she picked up the bag first, “don’t mind if I do.”

“Since I’m the one with the map, I’ll pass on the big stuff and just eat one button,” Vivien said. “Lee, you and Davina can split my share if you want.”

“Okay,” Lee said, adding another couple of stems to her palm.

“No thanks,” Davina responded, “I don’t feel so good. Janis, how about you have my share?”

“And someone can have half of mine,” Sam blurted out in her mousy voice.

Janis looked at each one of them. “So we’ve got a bunch of wimps here today? Okay, I’ll lower my price to five bucks each and that’s my last offer.”

“Oh no, that’s not it at all,” Davina replied in an offended voice, her hand held up in protest. “I really am sick. I almost didn’t come today. I’m perfectly willing to pay the ten dollars. I just don’t want to be throwing up for the next hour.”

“Okay, I’ll only charge five dollars for you and your friend and you can split one of the portions between you.” Janis felt stupid negotiating a deal because she was not a drug dealer by any means but she still had to recover what she’d paid for the mushrooms.

Vivien folded up the map while everyone took their mushrooms and gave Janis their money. “Well, girls, if we want to get a good view by lunch, let’s start eating those ‘shrooms and get out of here. And before we get started, don’t forget to double tie your shoelaces. I don’t want to carry someone out of here because you tripped over your own feet.”

If you haven’t experienced the effects of a hallucinogenic substance, then you might not understand what mind expansion is all about. We’re all so used to walking around surrounded by the filters and walls we’ve build around us that we forget what life was like when we first became conscious. After all, as soon as we’re born, we spend much of our time dividing the world into symbols of Safe and Unsafe to protect ourselves from potentially dangerous outside stimuli and hardly take time to explore our mind when we become self-conscious. As we get older, we take the simplistic, symbolic world we created in the crib and rework the symbols to each new experience. Depending on how well the nature/nurture rhythm has kept us in balance, our symbols may or may not match those of others in our society. When you go through a mind expanding experience – a trip – as an adult, you pretty much hang onto the old symbols you’ve created but you may reshape them slightly; otherwise, if you try to replace or completely redefine them during your trip, which usually only lasts a few hours, you find yourself in a pretty strange land at the end of the journey, like hopping on a Concorde jet and going to a foreign country where nobody knows what you’re talking about. So, if you want to have a good trip, make sure your symbols are in sync with the other travelers. That way, everybody knows the road symbols and can spend time enjoying the scenery instead of getting lost on a dead-end road because of misinterpretation.

They had just gotten to the edge of the creek when out of the corner of her eye Janis noticed something moving. Because she wore glasses, her peripheral vision was a well-defined, although fuzzy, landscape and is the first place the mind lets go. She knew the effects of psilocybin usually kick in within about fifteen minutes so she jumped on top of a boulder, trying not to step on the miniature bright-green plant world growing there, and jerked my head around to survey the surroundings.

“Something the matter?” Vivien asked, when she noticed Janis had stopped following her.

“No, nothing. I thought I saw something.”

“Hey, Janis iz-uh trippin’, Janis iz-uh trippin’…” Beatrice sang out.

“Oh, shut up, gal,” Vivien snapped.

“Okay, okay, keep your cool.”

“Yeah, Vivien, she must be right,” Janis said. She waved her hand in front of her in the classic vision test and saw the fading image of her hand and arm pass across her vision. “Yeah, I can see tracers. He’s right.”

Vivien looked around the group. “Anybody else?”

“We’ve been tripping almost since we started,” Davina replied. “Must be ‘cause we’re both so small.” Or stupid, Janis thought.

“Me, too,” Lee added.

“How about you?” Vivien asked Beatrice.

“Well, how do you mean? I mean, I feel sick to my stomach and my throat feels funny.”

“Naw, you’re still getting over the toxic junk in the mushrooms. You’ve got a while to go.”

“What about you?” Lee asked.

“Oh, it always takes me thirty minutes to an hour before my buzz starts. Besides, I didn’t take that much. Anyway, if anybody feels like they’re really tripping out, let me know. We can always stop or go back if we have to.”

“I thought you wanted to go up there,” Beatrice said, looking at the cliff a half-mile past the other side of the creek.

“Yeah, well, that’s my plan. Okay, I’m ready to go if you are.”

“Go for it,” Janis replied as she jumped off the boulder.

They spent the next thirty minutes jumping from rock to rock, trying to find a dry way across the creek. Vivien and Beatrice had no trouble with their long legs but the rest of them struggled to make the same giant leaps over swirling, eddying currents that seemed to drop into bottomless pools of deep green water.

“Oh, shit,” Sam exclaimed. They all turned to see she had slipped into a three-foot deep pool.

“Here, I can help you,” Lee said, extending her hand.

“No, that’s all right, I can manage,” Sam responded firmly, grabbing Davina’s arm. Davina tried to grab Sam’s other hand but fell in beside her.

Beatrice snickered a little bit and then started laughing uncontrollably. Pretty soon, they were all laughing as if someone had decided the bowl of humor was empty and turned on their laughter faucets to fill it up. Beatrice reached for Vivien to keep from falling over and knocked both of them into the water. Lee and Janis both stepped back on the rock and fell on their butts from laughing so hard. You could tell all of them needed this moment as a kind of icebreaker. Up till then, they had carried the stresses of the world with them. Getting wet was like washing the outside world into the creek and uniting them into a single unit.

A thought struck Janis. “Hey, Sam, since Davina has the backpack, does that mean the food is wet?”

“No, it means we’re going to have creek sandwich soup for lunch,” she said, laughing.

“Oh,” Lee continued, “so instead of sandwiches we’re going to have waterwiches.”

Davina climbed onto the rock and threw the backpack down. “More like water-pressed than watercress, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, it’s almost time for a break, anyway,” Vivien said as she helped Sam and Beatrice out of the water. “Let’s just go straight across the creek since most everybody’s wet and dry out on that big rock on the other side.”

“Oh, so we’re going to have Sipsey sun-dried sandwiches for lunch?” Beatrice asked jokingly.

“Something like that,” Vivien said.

As they rested on the rock, letting their socks and boots dry out, they munched on some apples and raisins. Although Janis wasn’t hungry, she enjoyed the sensation of eating. Every bite was like injecting the best spices in the world into each taste bud on her tongue. In her mind, she could see the taste regions of her tongue (like a picture out of a seventh-grade science book) send different signals to her brain. His jaw muscles felt like the chugging pistons of a locomotive, rotating her mouth up-and-down, back-and-forth, pulling the food in like drawing in the miles of track a train eats up each day. She could sense the food travel down her throat like dirt through a worm and pass into her stomach which she could feel gurgling and groaning with delight. Meanwhile, the sun pierced her skin, trying to drive into her bones but was held at bay by layers of cells ready to burst apart and harmlessly scatter the sun’s rays. The nerves of her butt and feet felt a thousand little ants and unknown creatures nibbling on her. She kept seeing the bugs out of the corner of her eye but when she turned to look they were gone.

Vivien laid out the map. “Well, we’re not where I thought we’d end up but I think I can get us to the top this way. I’ve tried to visually pinpoint the way we’ll go but I can’t quite see how the whole trail will lay out because of the trees up ahead. From what I can tell, though, it looks like part of the cliff collapsed not too long ago so we should have plenty of exposed roots and trees leaning over to grab onto.”

“Hey gal, hug a root,” Beatrice said laughing.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to trace my roots,” Davina said to Sam.

“And I’ve always wanted to dig up any dirt about your past,” she added.

“We’re not going to climb a rock slide, are we?” Lee asked to no one in particular. “I really don’t see why we can’t take the original path. After all, we’ve got all day. Who knows, maybe we’ll have more fun going that way. Maybe we’ll discover a new life form…”

“And maybe you haven’t looked at what’s between us and that part of the cliff. It looks like a solid briar patch between here and there.”

“It didn’t stop Brer Rabbit, did it? If she can hop in the thicket with a fur coat on, surely we can climb through with our boots.”

“Well, I’ll give you the map if you want to try but I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix shorts and thorns.”

“And there’s nothing worse than a woman thorned,” Sam said, giggling.

Janis suddenly felt a wasp on her back. “Hey, get it off,” she said to Vivien quietly so as not to disturb the stinging insect.

“What?”

“The wasp.”

“Where?”

“On my back. Hurry up,” she whispered desperately.

“I’ll get it,” Beatrice yelled out as she slapped Janis’ back. “Got it, it’s gone.”

“Thanks,” she said with relief.

“There was nothing on your back,” Vivien said in a puzzled voice.

“Well, she thought there was and that’s what counts,” Beatrice said as if Vivien was a little girl and Beatrice the first-grade teacher.

“I wonder how long it took for this creek to carve out this valley. I bet there’s one plant here who’s passed down the story of this place from one seed to the next, just waiting to tell somebody. You know, if we took the first path, I bet we could find it. I bet we could get the story of the century. Hey, Janis, what would a story like that be worth? A thousand dollars? A million?”

“I don’t know,” Janis said, “someone would have to believe the story would be sellable first. You could maybe try the National Enquirer or some place like that.” Janis noticed she was discussing rag mags in a serious tone and shut up.

“Yeah, it’s a thought but we’d have to take the other trail to get the story.”

“Lee, if you want to go that way, help yourself,” Vivien replied in exasperation.

“No, no, that’s all right. I never wanted to be a millionaire. I’ll just follow you like a good follower and not complain.”

They put their boots back on, making sure they double tied them, like a hockey team lacing up skates for a game, each one of them looking at the other’s feet to see who was not prepared to go on.

“Beatrice, why don’t you pick up the rear this time and let me talk to Lee and Janis for a while?”

“Sure, I’ll keep Davina and Sam company.”

“We’d like that,” Sam said warmly.

Vivien immediately jumped off the rock and starting marching into the trees. Lee fell in behind her. Janis did my best to clamber off the seven-foot high rock and catch up while Beatrice helped Davina and Sam down. They set off in such a clumsy fashion that Janis felt they were newborn ducklings waddling off the shore to follow our mother into the water – like good ducklings, they lined up behind Vivien and sailed smoothly along as soon as she set the pace.

The woodland floor was fairly flat and even next to the creek and Janis knew Vivien wanted to make good time before they got to the cliff so she didn’t interrupt the ensuing conversation between Vivien and Lee. Instead, she let the bubble of their words float out of their mouths and go over her head. In the bubbles, she could see they were comparing the trees and plant life of the present-day woods around them to ancient flora.

“You know,” Vivien’s words said over her shoulder and past Lee to Janis’ ears, “that pink plant by the creek…”

“Queen of the meadow?” Lee confirmed.

“Yeah, it looks like it’s been here all along, or been pulled straight out of the fossil bed.”

“Hey, I wonder if its seeds can talk.”

Janis imagined what the animal life must have been like back then and what they would think of these funny-looking animals walking on two legs. Something rustled in the branches above her head and she shuddered to think what it was – a saber-toothed tiger, perhaps – and kept her head pointed to the ground. She concentrated on watching the ground go by beneath her and wondered how long they’d go before they had to step off this people mover and get on the escalator. She couldn’t figure out why the maintenance people let all the branches, leaves and rocks get on this thing. After all, they’re paid to clean this place up. Well, she thought, typical government workers, spending more time on break complaining about their low pay than doing their job while the rest of us busted our butts to pay the taxes to feed their lazy kids who end up on welfare and then become politicians. When’s the government dependency cycle going to end?

Before she knew it, they were on the escalator but it was not a smooth ride. They had to keep stepping aside to let big boulders pass by. And the handrails were terrible. They were like bedrails, only they were hanging down all crooked and covered with dirt and sand. She remembered someone telling her that bedrails were originally designed to look like snakes who guarded the sleepers from evil. You know, that handrail looks like a snake but she knew it’s not cause none of this is real.

“Ah, fuck!” Janis shouted as the handrail seized the back of her hand. She shook her hand from side to side. The handrail let go and fell to the ground. She looked around for it but it disappeared like the other bugs and vermin she’d seen all day. Dizzy from all the shaking, she slipped on the rock that was stuck in the escalator underneath her and fell down. Suddenly, a tidal wave came rushing up the escalator, shot through her hand like it was a keyhole and enveloped her body with pain.

“What’s the matter,” Vivien yelled back.

“I don’t know if I was seeing things but I could swear I saw a snake hanging from Janis’ hand just now,” Lee replied.

“It was definitely a snake,” Davina added, “and I believe it’s behind that fallen tree.”

Vivien walked over to the tree and peered into the cavity left by the pulled-up roots. “Shit, it’s a poisonous snake, probably a copperhead. I can see the rattler, for sure.”

“I’ve got a snakebite kit in the backpack,” Sam said to Davina.

Davina and Sam fumbled around with the bag while Janis tried to figure out who had stopped the escalator so high up and so close to the edge of the cliff. “You know I’m going to sue the government for all it’s worth on this one. Whoever designed those handrails put a little too much life into them and didn’t properly label them.”

“What are you talking about?” Beatrice asked as she leaned over me. “You’ve been bitten by a snake.”

“Yeah, that’s what they’ll say, just to avoid a lawsuit.”

“Man, are you fucked up or what?”

“Excuse me, Beatrice,” Sam said politely. “Janis, let me see your hand.”

“Hey, don’t touch the evidence. I don’t want the police to say it’s was tampered with before they got here or else I’ll never have a chance to win.”

“Okay, whatever you want. Davina, what do the instructions say?”

“Uh, I can’t find the kit. Are you sure you brought it with you?”

“Oh, gosh, you’re right,” Sam said, knitting her brow with worry. “I took it out when I put the sandwiches in.”

“Hey, I was a Girl Scout when I was a kid,” Lee added.

“And?”

“Well, I remember something about making incisions.”

“Does anybody have a spare scalpel then?” Sam asked perturbed. “No? Well, we need to at least keep her arm as low as possible. Janis, how do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been fucked over by the government one more time. Not only did that handrail attack me but it injected a special serum concocted by the CIA at a lab in Puerto Rico that’s going to kill me ever so slowly. Fuck!” she said as a jolt of pain throbbed up my arm. “And it has this built-in rhythm of pain to keep me from thinking straight and prevent me from sharing any more of their secrets with the public. I’ve got to get to the office and write down all I know before I die,” I said as I stood up and fell back down.

“Okay, girls,” Vivien said authoritatively. “If we hurry, we can get to the car in about thirty minutes. It’s pretty much downhill all the way to the creek and we can just run through the creek. I don’t think we’ll care if we get wet this time. The Oak Ridge hospital is about forty-five minutes away so we should be able to get Janis to the hospital in a little over an hour if we hurry.”

“The venom will have already run through her bloodstream by then,” Sam responded with an edge of despair in her voice. “If she has an allergic reaction to the venom…” His voice tapered off.

“Well, we’ll just have to get there as fast as we can. Janis, can you walk?”

“Oh, I’ll run if I have to. I’ve got to write down everything I know before their poison gets me,” Janis said as she stood up on new legs. No matter what, she wasn’t going to let their secret government money get the best of her before she had the last laugh. “If I don’t make it to a typewriter, will one of you write down what I say before I die?” she asked. Staring back at her were a bunch of forlorn faces who, unfortunately for her, were probably too afraid to face Big Brother.

“Hey, I’ll help her,” Beatrice said.

“Good. Okay, let’s go.”

They seemed to get to the creek “Star Trek” style – poof and they were instantly transported waterside. Beatrice practically carried Janis over the creek and guided her up the other side to the car.

“Here it is,” Sam said, pulling the giant-sized pill out of the back seat.

“I’m not swallowing that!”

“No, it comes apart. See?” Sam said, separating two suction cups.

“To save time, Sam, why don’t you cut her open in the back seat while I drive us to the hospital, if that’s all right with you, Lee.”

“Hey, I’d rather you drive, considering the condition I’m in.”

Sam and Davina slid into the back seat while Vivien, Beatrice and Lee squeezed into the front seat.

“You’ll just have to lay in our laps, I guess,” Davina said, patting her hands on her knees.

Janis climbed over Davina, sat her butt in the middle and lay her head in Sam’s lap. “Mommy, may I take a nap? I’m tired,” she said to ease the worried look on Sam’s face.

“No, you definitely don’t want to sleep right now. Instead, I want you to let Davina hold your right hand while I try to make two incisions over the puncture wounds and suck the venom out.”

“Well, if you insist, but I’m afraid the government did one thing right for once and efficiently planted the death poison deep in my hand. They knew you’d try to get it out.”

“It’s worth a try, Janis,” Davina added, concernedly.

“From a fellow lit lover, that means a lot,” she said, trying to conceal a laugh.

Sam gave Janis a couple of aspirin from the first-aid kit and after she swallowed them Sam told her to bite down on a leather keychain. Janis didn’t know why until Sam pushed the point of the knife into her hand. She almost bit her tongue off through the leather as Sam made two cuts across her swollen hand and sucked the lustrous flowing blood into a cup. Janis’ peripheral vision started getting darker as Sam filled up the first cup and started on the second.

“Hey, where did the clouds come from?” Janis asked as the darkest storm she ever saw spread over the car. All of a sudden, everybody disappeared and Janis was standing in a courtroom.

“Janis, are you there?” a female judge asked.

“Well, you all are trying to kill me but I’m still here.”

“He’s passed out,” the bailiff said. “Try to wake her up.”

Janis noticed she was holding a stack of papers under her right arm that was hurting her shoulder. She tried to put the stack down but it seemed to be stuck to her. The harder she tried to drop the papers, the stronger the pain became. “Okay, so you girls are trying to torture me. Well, it won’t work. I’m going to expose your shenanigans as long as I live, that’s all there is to it,” she said to the judge sitting high above me.

“He’s not asleep but she’s babbling on,” the bailiff said.

Janis continued to argue with the judge for quite a while but she acted as if she was mad, always answering her inquiries and accusations with polite comments and concerns. After she don’t know how many minutes passed, the room began to brighten and Beatrice was walking her to a door.

“Tell the nurse she’s been bitten by a venomous snake,” Sam said to Vivien as she darted through the door ahead of Janis. “Beatrice, take her to the nurse’s station. Davina, you and Lee join me in the waiting area.”

Beatrice held Janis up against a counter.

“What is your name?” a woman in a white uniform asked Janis from behind the counter.

“Janis Hinson,” she replied automatically.

“Do you have any insurance?”

“I don’t need insurance to argue my case in court. I’ve got all the insurance I need right here,” she replied smartly, pointing to the stack of papers under my arm.

“He’s been babbling on like this ever since she was bitten,” Vivien said impatiently. “I don’t think we have time to fool with the paperwork. Is there a doctor who can see her?”

“Yes, Dr. Adapantha is waiting for her right now but I’ve got to get a quick medical history before we can administer any medication.”

“Look, her doctor is Dr. Samuel Morningstar. She lives in huntsville. I’m sure you can find her number in the phone book.”

“Fine,” the woman snapped back. “Birch, will you please put Ms. Hinson in a wheelchair and take her to room number five?” she asked a young, burly guy standing next to her.

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman answered in an Alabama hillbilly accent.

As she was wheeled down the hall, Janis noticed that roaches were all over the place. “Don’t you girls have enough help around here to get rid of these bugs?”

“Well, sir, because of the government cutbacks, we do the best we can with what we’ve got.”

“Government cutbacks? That’s just a lot a political bullshit the politicians are feeding you while they pocket the cash. Don’t you know that?” she blurted out to this big white thug who probably played high school football but was too dumb to go to college.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah, you must be Janis Hinson,” an olive woman in a white coat said to Janis as she was wheeled into the room.

“I assume you’re going to interrogate me with that,” Janis said, pointing to the stethoscope around the doctor’s neck. “Isn’t that more appropriate in a hospital than a courtroom. Or are you just going to check my heartbeat every now and then to see if the poison has kicked in?”

“Ah, yes, the poison. Please let me examine your palm.”

“My palm? What are you, a palm reader?”

“No, not your palm. I mean, uh…your hand, yes, that’s it.” The woman held Janis’ right hand and turned it over. “It looks like you have two large places on your hand that need attention.”

“What are you, a doctor? Can’t you see you’re supposed to find out what I know before I die so you can kill my sources, too? Jeez, what kind of idiots do they hire here?”

“A doctor, yes. I am called Dr. Siran Adapantha. I specialize in nuclear medicine and you need attention to your hand.”

“What?” Janis shouted. “They injected me with nuclear material! Wow, that just takes the cake.”

“What’s going on?” Vivien said as she walked up behind Janis. “I can hear Janis shouting all the way down the hall. Doctor, do you think she’s okay?”

“Okay, yes. She needs attention. I will get a nurse to get attention to her hand.”

“Can’t you see we took care of that, doc? We had a snakebite kit in the car so we just cut her open on the way.”

“Snakebite? Oh, yes, I will get the nurse for the snakebite.”

A moment later a nurse returned with Doctor Adapantha. “Doctor Adapantha is a visiting resident from Pakistan and does not speak English real well so I’m going to help her with the snakebite,” she said to Janis as she rolled her eyes, not believing that this whole thing was happening to her. Only last week, she had written a column listing the number of times the uranium processing plant had illegally dumped radiation-hot water into a local creek and here she am now with nuclear poison in her arm and a doctor who can’t speak English. The government folks sure had taken their time planning this revengeful torture.

“Unfortunately, the instructions in the snakebite kit we found are written in Spanish but the doctor says that at this point, she will need to remove the damaged tissue anyway,” the nurse added in her blasé government tone as she prepared a needle on a tray. Janis shook my head at how well this had all been planned out. “I’m going to give you a local anesthetic so the scalpel cuts will not hurt.”

Janis cringed, shrinking back into the wheelchair. “How do I know you aren’t going to put more poison in my arm?”

“You’re just going to have to take that chance, aren’t you?”

After Janis’ arm fell asleep, the nurse cleaned the top of her hand. The doctor then sliced into the swollen surface of my skin. Not used to the site of her body being cut apart, Janis passed out while wondering why the government was using the excuse of a snakebite to implement the old Indian torture method of removing her skin.

“I see we’re getting better,” the nurse said, as she knocked on the door and walked in. Janis looked at her with a blank stare. “Are you still seeing bugs on the wall? I understand you’ve had quite a night.”

“That’s what they say,” she said groggily, having just woken up. She stared at her right hand for a moment, which was covered with a bandage. Then she panicked. “What happened to my arm?” It was black from her wrist to her elbow.

“Well, after the doctor operated on you, we gave you penicillin to prevent infection because the hole was so large…”

“What hole?”

“Doctor Adapantha removed tissue about a half-dollar in size and a quarter-inch deep. Anyway, as it turns out, you’re allergic to penicillin which has caused the capillaries in the skin of your arm to burst, giving you one giant hematoma.”

My God, she thought, they decided not to remove her skin because the nuclear poison was working too well. She WAS going to die after all.

“Uh, what time is it?”

“About eight a.m. Would you like some breakfast?”

“No, that’s okay, could you bring me a pad and pencil instead?”

“Sure, but I thought you were right-handed. Won’t writing be a little difficult?”

“Yeah, but I’ll manage somehow,” she said out loud, as she thought to herself, “I don’t care, I’ve got to get this all down on paper before the blackness in my arm takes over my body and kills me..”

 

 

 

On The Road Again

“Man, that’s some aunt you’ve got,” Sam said to Davina as they drove out of the driveway.

 

“Yeah, she wasn’t too bad this trip.  At least she wasn’t totally wasted the whole time we were there.”

 

“When wasn’t she wasted?” Birch asked.

 

“Umm…when she was asleep, I guess.”

 

“Does she ever go to work?”

 

“That’s a good question.  I wondered that myself.  When I visit Aunt Lee, it’s like the movies, where people never seem to have jobs.”

 

Birch nodded.  “Yeah, my dad’s like that sometimes.  Hey, get that pipe stoked up, willya?  I’m too sober to drive all the way to Nashville.”

 

Davina decided to re-read her essay for her music appreciation class.  If she didn’t keep up with her homework during spring break, she’d fall way behind.

 

 

 

Music Review in Ternary Form

A Woman in Red

Piano recital by Dr. Margaret Weissgerber

Drove to recital hall around 6:45 p.m.  Walked into building closely followed by an older couple of Eastern Asian descent.  Went to use the restroom.  By the time I walked up the stairs and got in line to pay for the performance, a few people were ahead of me, giving me a moment to observe the surroundings.  On the stairs was a flower arrangement probably sent to the Music Department in honor of the department chair, Dr. David Graves, who had died late last month.  I bought a copy of Dr. Weissgerber’s CD before I entered the recital hall.

The Recital Hall is walled with sound-absorbing material that is a series of four-foot by four-foot tiles colored yellowish, almost manila in the light.  The hall contains 13 rows of seats (and one row of folding chairs at the front) with each row patterned with 4 seats on each side and 10 seats down the middle (4-10-4).  The room slowly fills with people of all ages — presumably the older people are here for the cultural event while most of the younger people appear to be college students.

A Steinway piano sits (perhaps, rests) on rollers on the middle of the wooden stage.  The piano shares the stage with two floral arrangements, two peace lilies (all probably more memorials to Dr. Graves) in addition to the piano bench.

Two young men sit in the row below me, one of whom is a piano student and wants a clear view of Dr. Weissgerber’s hands.

The program lists pieces by J.S. Bach, Joseph Haydn, Felix Mendelssohn, Johannes Brahms, Maurice Ravel and Franz Liszt.

What does a pianist do before a performance?  I assume the playing I heard in the hall when I went to the bathroom was that of Dr. Weissgerber practicing.

At 7:15, the lights above the stage were turned on.  At 7:21, the recital hall is fairly full, approaching about 2/3 of capacity.  A couple of women sit down beside me, quickly glancing through the program.  Some people behind me comment about the apparent lack of a reception afterward (because the program does not mention one).  It appears that the recital hall will be filled close to capacity by the time of the performance.  Some people are even taking seats in the front row.

Again, I wonder what the pianist goes through before the performance.  My experience harks back to the middle school recitals where students performed their three- to twenty-minute pieces for their parents.  Those of us waiting our turns spent our time counting the mistakes of others.  In class, Dr. Weissgerber said when she makes a mistake she keeps playing as if the piece required the mistake, hoping no one notices.  Now a woman of her later middle age sits to my left.

A person steps on stage to announce that “everyone please crowd in because it will be quite crowded.”  The women on both sides of me take off their coats.  They seem to know many people in the crowd around me.  One has the accent of this region.  The other seems to have the accent of say, Connecticut (she talks about renovating her home while the Southern one talks about the clothes she has on).

At 7:34, the recital hall is essentially filled.  I forgot how much I detest a crowd.  Well, the lights dim – must be time.  The crowd quietens.  The lights dim more.  A door opens on stage and the pianist steps out, nodding gently to the crowd as she makes her way to the piano.  She wears a mauve, sleeveless dress that probably complements an orchestra full of people dressed in black.

Toccata in D major, BWV 912, J.S. Bach

Lively beginning, then cadence followed by walking pace with two voices that play with each other.  The performer sits slightly bent over the keys, spending the time looking down at the keys.  The music would sound good on harpsichord.

The next section of music is very emotional…dramatic, as if a man was telling his wife, in a silent movie, that he had to go off to war.  Then the piece picks up at a lively pace, like the wind playing off a field of poppies and then across the tops of trees, across the deep blue of a Canadian lake, ascending the heights of the Rockies and then down to the ocean.

The next section is so mesmerizing that I can hardly take my eyes from the maddening pace of the piano player.

Sonata in E-flat major, Hob. XVI:52, Joseph Haydn

Margaret (I mean, Mrs. Weissgerber) adds commentary before playing this piece.  Turns out that Haydn was a pretty good friend with Mozart.  While waiting for the lights to be turned up (too many shadows on the keys), Margaret continues to recount a tale of a piece of music written for Haydn by Mozart.

ALLEGRO.  A playful movement, like a mini-carnival, with every performance in the three-ring getting its turn on the ivorys.  One can sometimes hear “3 Blind Mice.”

Margaret likes to wear a headband.  Is she feeling the emotion of the work like a stage actress reciting her lines?

ADAGIO.   Very steadfast, deliberate like a group of lions walking through the savanna, every animal aware of the lions’ presence but surprised nonetheless when the lions raise their heads above the grass.

FINALE.  The pace picks up double-time as the gazelles seek flight.  How can those fingers, which from halfway up the hall, look too short for a keyboard expert, be trained to be so steady?  Margaret definitely has fun playing this piece, stopping on notes and lifting her hands off with flair.  At the end of the piece, she steps out of the room (is this as designed?) and quickly returns.

Rondo capriccioso, Op. 14, Felix Mendelssohn

Commentary: Schumann called Mendelssohn the “Mozart of the 19th Century.”  Also called “Bach reborn.”  Composed this piece at age 15.

What does a normal 15-year old boy think about?  His first love, of course.  After 10 years of composing music, the prodigy puts this on paper.  What did boys do to play their hearts out in 1824?  Today, they’d shoot hoops, no doubt, the best practicing for hours.  Here, a boy practices a short rondo.  At the end, Dr Weissgerber bows three times (including two steps back out on stage) after chasing the notes across the keyboard for this rondo.

INTERMISSION [at 20:10]

It’s funny watching people looking for their friends (like my girlfriend and I looking for people we know at Buccaneer football games – says something right there, doesn’t it?).  What lovely social creatures we are.

Back to wondering what goes through the minds of a pianist.  The first half of this program is over, forever stamped in the minds of this audience.  The second half has yet to occur, only a possibility, an opportunity for one person to share her talent for memorization and hand-eye coordination with others on a cold February evening.  Well, before this degrades into an essay on the purpose of humans, I’ll take a cue from the dimming lights and pause from rubbing ink on paper.

From the exuberant comments of people around me about the performance so far, we will no doubt give a standing ovation when the second half is over.

6 Pieces, Op. 118, Johannes Brahms

Commentary:  Liszt invited by Brahms to bring music to a party.  Liszt was given an opportunity to play – she couldn’t and Brahms sight-read the piece while giving criticism.  After all, Brahms was known as being brusque.

This piece is strong at the beginning – hard to believe the sound waves don’t knock the finish off the piano.  Music like this must callus a pianist’s fingertips.  I could hear this being played as the score for a movie about a couple in their later years.  They have strong arguments followed by moments of tenderness that only years of tight budgets, late nights with sick children and dying parents can evoke.

Not sure which movement this is but it’s like the Attack of the Killer Fingers.

Obviously, the pianist spends time warming up before the performance but consider this: most audiences of a performance need time to warm up.  It was not until this piece that I have warmed up to the understanding of the pianist’s link to the piano.  All the other pieces felt technical.  This one begs my heart to listen!  If only I knew my major and minor scales to distinguish and understand the meaning of the changes.

How fortunate I am to go from place to place – football stadium, playhouse, recital hall –  and enjoy the hard labor of others.

What a cool [there has to be a better adjective] beginning to this movement – the soft right hand followed by the glissando of the left hand.  The applause for this piece is livelier than the others.

Jeux d’eau, Maurice Ravel

Commentary: River god laughing, which tickling here.  Written for Faure.

One cannot help thinking of “Fountains of Rome.”  I hear echoes of another piece but cannot place it.  Mon Dieu!  How can one acquire the mastery of the keyboard like this?  When did this pianist begin playing?

Hungarian Rhapsody No. 6, Franz Liszt

Commentary:  Considered the Elvis of the 19th C.  Everyone wanted to be a student of Liszt.

What is Hungary?  Well, it is not Hungry, which is what Margaret is after playing the last piece, and looking forward to the reception.  Hungary, in rhapsodic form, is a lively country, with bustling cities, stately country lanes, with delivery people hurrying about, street vendors shouting their sales pitches, heavyset matrons waddling in front of shop windows displaying the latest in French fashion.  Meanwhile, the Army prances into town, on their way to the small campaign.

The audience claps for Dr. Weissgerber to play more.  An encore.  Sounds like…hmm…Copeland?  Yes!  Beef.  It’s what’s for dinner.  Another couple of bows.  The applause ends at 21:05.

People slowly line up for the reception.  The Connecticut woman puts her layers of clothes on while chatting with me.

“Are you a music student?” she asks me.

“No, I’m just taking a class by Dr. Weissgerber and I’m required to attend a concert and provide my feedback.”

“Well, it looks like you’ve written a novel.  Do you think she’ll have time to read it?”

“Ah, but no matter,” I respond smiling, “the enjoyment was in the writing of it.  Drive safely.”

“What?” she replied deafly.  “Oh, you, too.  And good luck on your paper.”

 

Andante or Al Dente?

A Night at the Museum of Art with Stephane Prefontofsky

I. Prelude To A Tune
What better way to spend a Saturday evening than to attend a chamber music event with my girlfriend?  What better way to top off the music than to see the exhibit of “The Mystical Arts of Tibet”, an exhibition of Tibetan artifacts at the art museum (free with the concert tickets)?

In my previous incarnation as a college student, I spent almost three years in the late 2000s at the University of Tennessee, changing my collegiate major from chemical engineering to economics to accounting to computer science to religious studies.  In my religious studies phase, I took courses on “Death and Dying”, “The Social Aspects of Christianity”, “The Early Christian Church”, and “Comparative Religions”.  In the comparative religions class, we studied the major religions of the world, including Christianity, Islam, Taoism, Hinduism and Buddhism (as well as the various sects of these religions).  Because there were so many religions to cover in so little time, we did not get the opportunity to feel the mystical/religious sides of the religions, only to study their historical significance and important doctrines.

Stepping into the world of the mystical arts of Tibet, I thought back to my religious studies’ days, pondering the wisdom I have gained in nearly 23 years, and marveling at the wisdom of the Tibetan people gathered over the last 1500 or so years.  The first major work I saw was the “Sacred Text of the Prajna Paramita Sutra”, Buddha’s 42 Discourses on the Reflection of Wisdom, as well as other personal sacred objects of “HH the Dalai Lama”.  My girlfriend and I watched a film where we learned that Buddhists are always preparing for their death.

Through other Buddhist artifacts, I learned about:
•  the doctrine of emptiness and two levels of reality (ultimate and conventional) and how these simultaneously exist,
•  the Buddhist belief in working toward elimination of the individual ego,
•  the names of the Buddha, including the buddhas of the three times – past, present and future
•  the various Buddhisattvas, Manjushri (the Buddhisattva of Wisdom) who represents the meditative insight that penetrates to final nature of being, Avalokiteshvara (the Buddhisattva of Compassion) who represents compassion as the foremost quality to be cultivated on the path to enlightenment, Arya Tara (the Buddhisattva of Enlightenment Activity) who represents the female symbol of enlightenment energy of all previous buddhas and Vajrasattva (the Buddhisattva of Purification) who represents the power to purify the mind of the instincts of negative karma and delusions
•  The two great masters – Nagarjuna, the principal Indian elucidator of Buddha’s teaching on voidness, and Asanga, the principal elucidator of Buddha’s teaching on general bodhisattva trainings- both were revered just below the great Buddha herself.

II. The Victorian Age

After an enlightening hour spent with the Tibetan artifacts, we found our way up the front stairs to the Great Hall, a rectangular room with pale olive walls maybe 30 feet tall and 25 feet wide, ending with three-foot tall windows on top of each wall.  The floor of the room was covered with chairs, with the audience’s chairs arranged traditionally, with seven straight rows of 20 seats per row.  The chamber orchestra’s seats were arranged in the traditional clamshell with the conductor’s podium at the center of the shell.

The musicians appeared from a set of double doors at the back of the room, walking to and sitting in their seats (the double bass player used a barstool), with applause eventually picking up enough so that as the conductor walked up to the podium, she asked the musicians to stand in recognition.

Sonata for String Orchestra, William Walton

Have you ever felt tempted to eat your dessert before the meal?  Then you know how I feel about this delicious piece of music.  Unlike the music we have studied in class so far, this piece has no regular duple or triple beat – the beats of the music are offbeat – this music is contemporary, starting with a quiet beginning of the allegro movement (say, three or four instruments) before the whole chamber orchestra joins in.  The melody, if one can call it such, jumps from instrument to instrument like the first drops of rain before a great thunderstorm begins, the wind blowing through a stand of trees, then a brief calm enveloping the room before the storm builds back up (with the sound of the thundering cellos).

[I enjoy watching the facial expressions of the musicians]  During this storm, I hear large drops of water fall off of a rooftop into a pool below with the pluck of strings.  To this untrained ear, I would say that the violins are holding the continuo at this point.

Wow!  This movement has quite a lovely pickup.  The violins say, “Rush, rush rush…hurry, I must hurry”.  What distinguishes this music, presumably written as a standalone piece, from studio pieces written as soundtracks?  [Watching these string players, I see 13 crickets, dressed in black, brushing their legs against their wings.  One player clicks the bow against the violin when plucking — is this intentional?  It doesn’t sound like it should be intentional.  Or am I just so close to these performers that I am hearing the natural, non-sanitized playing of a string instrument?]  Here we are, caught in a “High Anxiety” moment.  Where do we go to relieve the tension?  Ahh, a sweet moment as long bowing of the strings lets us breathe out.

Back to the rain storm…  The rain has tapered off and the sun rises, wisps of small clouds blow by.  The sky gets brighter.  Flocks of birds go past, but nothing small, the notes are too heavy, some Mallards, some Canada geese…ah, there go the country geese waddling across the yard as the swallows flutter in and out of the barn.  [Funny how some musicians play with a pained look on their faces, like the bearded cello player who looks like he’ll burst, while others, like the bald player of the violin (viola?  I can’t tell from here) who sits to the right toward the back and plays like a woman getting her only sweet nourishment for the day.]

The day goes by and the sun reaches the horizon, loudly proclaiming, “Here I go! Here I go!” and the sky says, “Sweet dreams, dear sun, go quietly into the night, while I raise my blanket of stars.”  The moon says, “Not so quietly as to forget me…” [“meeeeeeee, me,” retorts the viola chorus].  And the sky shakes the star blanket for each star to pop out, the sound sweeping back and forth between instruments.  Finally, the sky sings a little two-word lullaby, “Good night”.

“Wake Up!  Wake Up!  Hey, all, it’s time to Wake Up!  Wake Up!” the sky yells, pulling in the star blanket and nudging the sun.  “Hey, can’t you see what time it is?  You’ve got to wake up!”  Hurriedly, the sun jumps to the sky.  Farm animals scurry about.  “What is this?” they ask.  A wise cow, speaking through a violin, says, “Haven’t you seen this time and time again?”  The crowd responds, “So what?  We don’t like being disturbed, turbed, turbed, turbed.”  Their voices rise in general anger, chaos everywhere.  “Quiet!” yells the cow.  “Quiet.”  The Canada geese pick up in flight.  The swallows swirl around.  The country geese flutter all around the yard, saying, “My, my, my, my, my, my.”

At the end of the piece, Stephane has the 1st string (soloist?) players stand first, followed by the rest of the orchestra.  “This is our most difficult piece so now we can rest.  The harp and flute will now join us.”

Fantasia on “Greensleeves”, Rallie Vaughan Williams

Who has not heard Greensleeves (or What Child Is This?)?  In this Fantasia, we first hear a flute solo, joined by strumming of the harp and then the rest of the orchestra picks up the classic strains of “Greensleeves”.  [The faces of the musicians are indeed more relaxed for this one.]  Unlike Walton’s sonata, the double bass and the harp are definitely more involved as the percussive bass beat here.
Finally, I hear a variation of the “Greensleeves” theme, the first part of the variation in the viola section, and the second part of the variation in the flute, with the rest of the orchestra joining in to repeat the variation.

Once again, the flute plays a solo with harp accompaniment and then back to “Greensleeves”.

INTERMISSION

During the intermission, the harpist retunes the harp while the other musicians and conductor walk around, mingling with the “crowd” (I use the word crowd loosely because it is more like a small gathering, much as one sees in movies about 18th and 19th Century Europe, where performances were given in large drawing rooms for one’s friends).

The musicians gather in the back and formally re-enter from the double doors, once again with applause driving the musicians to stand after they’ve sat down.

Elegy, Op. 58, Edward Elgar

A solemn processional beginning.  Almost hear wailing in a violin [a fire truck siren from a nearby street adds to the immediacy of the setting].  The theme is stated very slowly.  This is the music style that drove my sister from classical music.

After the performance of this piece, Stephane jokingly tells the audience, “Welcome to an evening of Elgar”.  She continues, telling us that this is Elgar’s unwritten opera about a Spanish lady.  This is Elgar’s Handelish Baroque music, with three of five movements.

“Spanish Lady” Suite, Edward Elgar

With this piece, there is a very discernable continuo in the cellos and double bass.  I can definitely hear a waltz at the beginning.  It comes to a stop with a pluck, pluck, pluck, and then the dance picks back up.

This section sounds very legato.  For those of you who don’t know her, this is a very English (i.e., proper) Spanish lady.  One can easily hear the Baroque-en chords and phrases  – no Carmen here.  The rhythm goes something like da-di-da-di-di-da-dum.

Oh boy, here’s a Bach-like moment if I ever heard one although my girlfriend definitely hears Handel.  I can only think of the Brandenburg concerti.  It feels like someone took the Mona Lisa and repainted her in the style of the impressionists, smudging the beautiful clear lines.

At the end of this piece, Stephane shakes the hand of the chief violinist (as she has done earlier tonight).

Sospiri, Op. 70, Edward Elgar

“Stroke of the hours” by the harp to start this piece, somber without being solemn (because of the light touches by the cellos).  How can one such as I pick out the theme – it all seems to be one long phrase?
[I noticed this earlier and wonder why some players move the bow back and forth and others bounce their fingers on the strings – are they trying to achieve the same vibrato/tremolo effect?]

Introduction and Allegro, Op. 47, Edward Elgar

Stephane tells us that this is written for solo quartet (and lots of strings, hahaha).  This is the first time for Stephane to conduct music in this hall and hopes to do so again.

This piece starts out, “Blee!  Da-dum-da-dum-da-dum-da-dum-dum.”  Which ones are the string quartet and the rest the “lots of strings”?  I must admit that Elgar does not move me.  Stephane probably gives this music more life than it deserves (this reaction comes after I listened to four hours of bluegrass last night (with fiddles, not violins) and three hours of Philip Glass (Glassworks and Songs From Liquid Days)).  The players are no less devoted to this than to the other pieces and yet I am no more moved than to sit and observe the funny sounds coming out of the scraped strings of one of the violas (like the rattle of bass speakers when turned up too loud).  I am driven inside myself, from which these questions emerge:

•  Why do we insist on the violin family maintaining the Baroque shape?
•  What do contributors (patrons of the arts) expect?  The sign on the back of the wall reads, “BOARD ROOM GIVEN BY BELLSOUTH”.
•  Who chooses the music for the program?

When she visited our music appreciation class, Stephane discussed the so-called Mozart effect and said that is not enough for one such as her to be.  “We must love music and it must be important” were her expected reasons for us to be in music literature class.  How many people sit here and think these thoughts now?  How many are here just to be here?  How many are here to learn?  How many are here because it makes for a great place to bring/meet a date?  I have learned that being here, at least for this piece, is no more enlightening than having listened to this on a record or CD.  It is this music that is full of dry emotion.  But then is that not what the English are accused of?  I hesitate to use the word “bland” but one must share one’s thoughts.

The torture is over.  As the applause picks up and the musicians stand (first the principals, then the whole orchestra), Stephane shakes hands with the principals of this piece, apparently two violins, a viola (or is it a violin?  I can’t tell from here) and one cello.  Give me minimalism any day.  Supposedly, audiences come for the old-fashioned favorites but I crave the newer music, at least a John Adams or Philip Glass.  When was the last time the symphony orchestra played a Cage or Adams work?

 

The Man in Black

Robert Flanagan and Margaret Flanagan Weissgerber at the Madison-Morgan Cultural Center

I. Overture

Richelle and I drove all the way to Madison, Georgia, to hear tonight’s performance.  While we wait for the doors to open at the Madison-Morgan Cultural Center – according to a brochure, an “1895 Romanesque Revival building, one of the first brick graded school buildings in the South,” with its 395-seat apse-shaped auditorium – we listen to the former 10th district campaign manager for Jimmy Carter’s gubernatorial campaign.  This 71-year old gal, whose doctor said has the vital signs of a 16-year old stands next to me on the portico, talking with another “young” woman, both of them trying to figure out how they know each other.  She regales her with her vocational past, telling all of us that she is one of the attorneys familiar with the former Circuit Court Justice and U.S. Attorney General, Griffin Bell.  She goes on to tell us about tonight’s performers, sharing her delight over the program given by the Flanagans, when they played the Violin Concerto by Philip Glass, along with works by Bach and Mendelssohn at the Cherry Blossom Festival last year.

My girlfriend and I ate at a weekend-getaway-town kind of restaurant, O’Hara’s, earlier in the evening, and the wine we drank make both of us too tired for much conversation so we listen to our concert ticket companions.  The campaign manager enjoys religious music and is not so sure about this modern music.  She converses with another woman whose husband is a data processing manager who is at home with their small children, a seven-year old and three children age four.  The campaign manager asked if she had been taking fertility pills before having the triplets and she said that no, it was simply that her husband is a large man.  The conversation quickly changes.

The campaign manager was a school bus driver for a while, worked a dairy farm and had been a county commissioner.  As far as she’s concerned, anyone running for office should have to had driven a school bus and do something like county commission work so that they know about school politics and local issues.

A couple that stands on the steps below us happen to stay at the same B&B as us, the Brady Inn.  We saw the wife sitting on the front porch this afternoon, her gray outfit matching the gray-and-white alley cat rubbing against the rocking chair.  The cottage that we’re staying in is directly across the street from the Morgan County Health Department, with a sign at the end of the drive that reads, “MORGAN AREA MENTAL HEALTH, MENTAL RETARDATION, SUBSTANCE ABUSE CENTER STRAIGHT AHEAD”.

The majority of the folks are of the blue hair crowd, the “culture hogs,” someone said a moment ago, “moving from one culture trough to another.”

Folks who sat at a table behind us at O’Hara’s and now stand at the other end of the portico continue their debate about Bill Monroe, the deceased bluegrass player, and whether someone had actually given him a $1 million Stradivarius violin.

As it turns out, the campaign manager had met the attorney at a fund-raising event years ago.  “You haven’t changed a bit,” she tells the attorney.  “You still know how to be political,” she says, and we all laugh.

My girlfriend comments that she hears a mixture of Yankee and Old South accents around us.

 

II. Master of Ceremonies

The person introducing the music – the MC – has been involved with the Madison-Morgan Cultural Center from the beginning.  During the first season, the MC who knew that many were opposed to bringing an opera company to Madison said that one of the opera singers was sick and she would have to substitute.  She swore that many people got up to leave rather than endure her singing.  She told us that we would not have to worry about that tonight.  Tonight’s performers need no introduction because their pedigree is too long.

III.  Like Listening to a One-man Quartet

I sit and watch the multiple facial expressions of the actor-violinist Robert Flanagan play this contemporary of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons, J.S. Bach’s Preludia from Partita No. 3 in E Major, BWV 1006.  How can a humble person such as I begin to put a single word on paper to describe this?  I cannot.

After Robert completes his warm-up exercise, he steps off stage to be joined by his sister, Margaret Flanagan Weissgerber, and a page turner.

Sicilienne, Lev Zhurbin

Okay, I’m cheating here a bit but for the second encore of tonight’s performance, Robert explains this piece to us.  A 20-year old viola student at Julliard wrote it.  When Robert was visiting Julliard, the student gave a tape of the music to Robert along with a note that read, “Tell me tomorrow what you think of this work.”  Robert was impressed so he played it for his wife and daughter, who loved it.  So it will be the second encore.  In the meantime…

Here before us are the two offspring of a middle-aged couple of the species, Homo sapiens.  The children grew up learning how to eat, drink and talk and yet within them was the drive, the capability, the…gift that two siblings rarely get to carry beyond baby talk, a language of their own that is also understood universally – music.  This piece is very romantic (my girlfriend calls it “sweet”).

Violin concerto, Philip Glass

Robert said that he was not going to say anything tonight but his sister wanted him to say something about this work.  Philip Glass writes music that is very repetitive.  Most people either like it or they don’t like it.  The joke goes, “Knock, knock.  Who’s there?  Philip Glass.  Philip Glass.  Knock, knock.  Who’s there?  Philip Glass.  Philip Glass.”, etc.  This work is a reduction of the orchestra piece, which contains some good brass and percussion.

As Margaret opens the first movement, Robert stands with his eyes closed, feeling the music coming from the piano.

AT LAST!  I have lived my life this long with CD recordings of Glass but only now understand what it is all about.  Watching Robert’s fingering, I see the simplicity, the difficulty of playing Glass’ repeated phrases.  Interesting, watching Robert play without sheet music while Margaret has a page-turner.
The audience warmly claps after the first movement.  Robert wipes his brow and seemingly disappointed about the untrained audience, says something to his sister.

And so, once again Margaret picks up the beginning of the next movement while Robert gets his emotions back in order.  Some animals are endoskeletons; that is, their structural forms, their skeletons, are inside their bodies.  Robert, like an exoskeleton, his structural form, his emotional feel for the sounds around him, are worn on the outside.

At once, I hear the “om mani padme hum” of the Buddhists while dance music from a faraway Victrola echoes in the room.  Glass seems to be saying that the music is at once here in the now yet in the past and ready for the future – there is no end.

In music appreciation class, Dr. Weissgerber talked about her brother being sent to Julliard because her parents didn’t think he would last through one year but they wanted to give him the opportunity.  Although he flew home many times, he lasted the first year and they thought maybe he really had the staying power.  Thank goodness for his staying power.

I am too mesmerized by the third movement to get all the observations about Glass returning to the original theme but who cares at this point?  That can be saved for a CD session.  Now is the time for becoming one with the LIVE music.

I understand the Baroque shape of the violin, watching Robert fly across the strings with his bow.  Look!  It’s Paganini’s ghost.  Does Robert feel the music of the Guarneri through his neck?

INTERMISSION

My girlfriend explains to me the intricacies of the Violin Concerto, with the repeating phrases moving slowly up the scales.  She, too, appreciates the difficulty of having to play the same phrase over and over at the same tempo.

During the intermission, my girlfriend chats with the woman sitting next to her who is a fan of the same university sports program for which we cheer, UT.  The woman also happened to have been a student teacher in east Tennessee not far from Knoxville (Kingston).  The woman has just moved here and tells us about a problem she’s having with a big tree on the property line.  As luck would have it, her neighbor walks up and they discuss what to do with the tree.  After the neighbor walks away from us, the woman is relieved that her neighbor agrees to do something about the tree.  The search for camaraderie continues – my girlfriend tells the woman about the accents she hears in the audience; the woman says her mother is from Kentucky and has lived in New York for 53 years but still pronounces the word why “whoo-eye”.

So here we are, dressed up in our Saturday finest, bipeds with the tendency to stand up straight, not seeking food or shelter.  Perhaps some of us are seeking a betterment of our lives that goes beyond external factors.  Many before me have sought to explain the want of humans to ignore our basic physical needs in order to satisfy an internal need.  Like my lack of musical knowledge, my lack of biochemical processes limits my human understanding.  I feel like I’m observing the human race through a window.  I can describe what I see but what do I feel?  How do I go beyond a simple description of emotional states to get to the root cause of the human problem?  Well, it won’t happen tonight despite my desire to know more.

Violin concerto in E Minor, Op. 64, Felix Mendelssohn

During the tuning, Robert made a funny plucking sound on a string and commented, “Well, that just took a half million dollars off this violin.”

First movement – Funny how the piano part sounds much like the Glass violin concerto.

So these gypsies have come into town.  They say to one another, “How are we going to get the townspeople to come to our camp?”  One turns to the other, “I will stand on the hill over the town and play a passionate lullaby on the violin.  As they fall asleep, you sing a wondrous plea for them to see our great performance tomorrow.”  Years later, while they’re in a bar recounting the time they made off with the whole town’s money, a young composer named Mendelssohn listens in.  “How do I retell this greatest of all tales?” he asks himself.  He begins taking notes, building phrase upon phrase with each round of drinks because as new patrons come in, the gypsies relive their tale over and over again.

Isn’t it a shame that most people cannot pick up the violin after the age of 10 or 12?  No one said life is fair but wouldn’t we all be richer could we play but a measure or two of Mendelssohn’s solo part in the first movement?

As a joke, Mendelssohn writes the bar scene into the second movement, phrasing, “Hey, look what we’ve done, look what we’ve done.”  In real life, the gypsies are thrown out of the bar for not paying but Mendelssohn writes them in as heroes of the bar, the barmaid weeping with joy and the patrons patting the gypsies on the back for a job well done.  The oldest gypsy, overtaken with appreciation, collapses on the floor.  Everyone exclaims, “Oh my God, no.  Oh my God, no.”  Then the gypsy takes a deep breath and stands up.  “No, I will not die today.”

In the third movement, Mendelssohn wonders what happened to the townspeople.  “Oh, where is my brooch?  Where is my babushka?” the people ask.  The mayor, sensing a prime moment, jumps into the town square and dances a little jig, rather wanting to look like a fool than let his people know they’ve been fooled.  Soon, the people realize their folly and join him, the noise echoing so loud that windows pop in nearby shop windows.

They jump and reel round and round to the point of madness.  The sounds are so loud that nearby towns join in the fracas because they realized that they have been duped, too.

Standing ovation.

Magyar abrand (“Hungarian Fantasy”), Franz Lehar

“Well, now that we’ve warmed up…” Robert says.  The audience laughs.  A Hungarian, who of course liked gypsy music, taught the young Robert to play violin.  Robert went to Brevard one summer and returned with a report card with comments by every instructor that read, “Plays like a gypsy.”  [Funny how that is reflected in my understanding of the last piece.]  That’s how he learned to be so emotional.

Well, Central Europe possesses us now.

Imagine being able to open the music box on your dresser and out pops a little violin player spinning around while the Hungarian Fantasy played!  You would never leave your dresser, winding up the music box to play over and over again.

More standing ovation.  One, two bows.  And then the obligatory encore.  But first, another retuning with accompanying commentary.

Robert was forced to see Itzhak Perlman because Robert at age 14 and eight years of playing violin was tired of playing violin and he had recently been promoted to first string on the basketball team because he had practiced so hard that week.  After Perlman began to play, Robert forgot about basketball.  Years later, Robert got to tell Perlman this story and Perlman said, “You would have made a lot more money playing basketball.”

Theme from “Schindler’s List.”  The crowd oohs at the mention of the title which Robert dedicates to the performance he heard by Perlman (and the chance that he can be a direct influence on someone).
We avoid and isolate that which is alien to us and thus the Nazi party, under the leadership of an alienated person, eliminated a group of people genetically related who are commonly called Jews.  By eliminating them, the Nazis reduced one part of humanity while inspiring the remainder.  Where does that put us now?

Another round of applause.  Another encore.  Repeat of Sicilienne.  The music says, “Oh, how I love you?  How can I love you?  How can I breathe?  How can I know?  I’ll never know that I love you.”

IV.  Epilogue

Back at the inn, my girlfriend and I enjoyed a late-night snack with the couple from Macon who had also attended the performance.  The man, a former Los Alamos scientist, teaches chemistry at a college in Macon and the woman teaches post-GED classes for adults.  Of all the faculty members at the man’s college, he was the only one who accepted an invitation to tonight’s concert.  My girlfriend commented that you’re never famous in your own hometown and the woman responded that Macon was quite receptive to Robert Flanagan, especially considering that Macon is not really a town with a “college” atmosphere, that Robert sold out performances in Macon.  I responded that our town treats Dr. Weissgerber with equal enthusiasm but as an example of the uneven attendance, a recent piano recital by an out-of-towner attracted only 18 people.  The woman concurred about the same problem in Macon.

Where does a happy medium exist between mainstream culture and haute couture?  Are we condemned to the occasional disco treatment of Beethoven?  After all, how many concert violinists attend stock car races or race drivers attend orchestral performances?  They’re all dedicated to their art/craft and in the end, focusing on one thing and doing it well is the ultimate satisfaction.

 

÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷

 

A Woman’s Point of View

Ashleigh scanned the Internet news for anything interesting.  She was bummed out and wanted to find something to inspire her.  She had finished writing a couple of country songs but felt they weren’t good enough.  “Ah,” she thought to herself, “this looks interesting…”

 

 

Press Release

Source: WorldWIT

One Out of Five Women Have Fooled Around AT Work
Wednesday February 2, 4:49 pm ET

PHILADELPHIA–(BUSINESS WIRE)–Feb. 2, 2005–

--  In Celebration of Valentine's Day, WorldWIT Polled Its Community 35,000 Professional Women and Concluded That 61% Have Been Involved with a Colleague and 20% Have Been Intimate IN the Office.

WorldWIT(TM), the world’s largest online community for professional women spanning 25 countries, recently surveyed its 35,000 members and asked, “Have you ever been romantically involved with a colleague?” Sixty one percent answered “yes” and twenty percent have actually been intimate IN the office itself; in conference rooms, elevators, storage rooms and even on the boss’s desk. Thus, WorldWIT offers advice for managing the tricky waters of dating at work this Valentine’s Day.

WorldWIT’s survey also concludes that 33% of the women who have been involved with a colleague said that they are happily still part of the couple. On the other hand, nearly 25% said, “It went terrible! What was I thinking!?!”

“Professional women spend so much of their time at work, it becomes their social life,” says Liz Ryan, WorldWIT CEO and nationally recognized workplace expert. “Yet is it ‘safe’ to have a romantic relationship at work? From email usage to client dinners, corporations are peering ever more closely into employee behaviors.”

Liz Ryan has the following advice to offer, “If you’re mature and reasonably professional, you can probably move from a business to a social relationship without major trouble. However, there are a few hard and fast rules to follow. These have come about over the last two decades of social and regulatory evolution (most significantly, increased liability for employers in the area of sexual harassment), and are considered unbreakable, so pay close attention.”

    1.  Never "date down." Never enter into a romantic relationship with a subordinate. Not only could your doing so expose the  to a sexual harassment charge if your advances are unwelcome; but even if your overtures are accepted, other in the group can claim that they were denied privileges because THEY weren't dating the boss.

    2.  Never "date up." If your manager asks you out on a date, she or she is seriously clueless about what companies expect from managers nowadays - that's in the best case. Ask her or her to check with your HR department to see what they're saying about such invitations to subordinates. You will be doing  boss a favor. If your boss is IN the HR department, write an anonymous letter to the CEO and sell the company's stock.

    3.  Look beyond your own work group to a galaxy or business unit , far away. The farther, the better - fewer chances to interact during the day and embarrass yourself or others, fewer chances to inspire office gossip, or give people to interpret innocent remarks as double just because they come from you to her or her (or vice versa).

    4.  Avoid PDAs (Public Displays of Affection). It goes without  saying that you must avoid unprofessional behavior including smooching, hugging or even holding hands at work. This goes for married couples, too. So, err on the side of formality and everyone one less thing to gossip about.

    5.  Inform your bosses as soon as possible--as a team. As soon as  two are really an item - and only the two of you can make this determination - tell your boss or bosses. Make the  short and sweet. "I just wanted to let you know that Joe and I are dating, and needless to say we intend to be very professional about it, but I wanted to let you know." it. Snap your mouth shut and say no more. If you do this well, there's nothing more for your boss to say.

From a twenty-year career as a Fortune 500 executive (Corporate VP for Human Resources at datacommunications maker U.S. Robotics) to co-founder of a venture-backed software startup (Ucentric Systems, now a Motorola subsidiary) to founder and CEO of the global professional woman’s network WorldWIT, Liz has collected several volumes’ worth of experiences, wisdom and razor-sharp observations that have enlightened and entertained audiences of CEOs, CIOs, HR leaders and women in business throughout the U.S.

The global WorldWIT network serves as an informal gathering place for working women in business, professional services, technology, law, the arts, media, government and academia. Women use the free, moderated WorldWIT discussion lists in their areas (ChicWIT in Chicago, BritWIT in the U.K., DallasWIT, etc.) to discuss and get advice on issues ranging from starting a new business to finding childcare, relocating, or changing careers. In addition, WorldWIT holds seminars and presentations in major metropolitan cities that offer female professionals the opportunity to meet face-to-face with industry leaders.

For more information on this survey please contact Kristi Hughes at 215-816-2954 or email kristih@worldwit.org.

About WorldWIT

Founded in Chicago in 1999, WorldWIT (www.worldwit.org) is the world’s largest online networking organization for professional women in business, formed for women to share advice and ideas with other women eager to “connect.” It reaches nearly 35,000 women globally via moderated, local email discussion groups like ChicWIT (Chicago), HoustonWIT and BritWIT (Great Britain), and through local events and activities in 24 countries and 70 cities around the world. WorldWIT is also the proud winner of the 2004 Stevie(TM) Award for Best Woman’s Business Association.

The membership is free and is comprised of women who range from corporate CEOs, government officials, legal professionals, marketing and media experts to home-based consultants and entrepreneurs. Its founder, Liz Ryan, was the first female vice president at U.S. Robotics, and is a popular columnist, speaker and “at work issues” expert. She has been featured by such media as TIME, Fortune, The New York Times, CNN, CNBC and CN8. Liz is also a regular contributor to Business Week Online and the on-air workplace expert for Denver’s NBC affiliate, 9 News. WorldWIT is headquartered in Boulder, CO with offices in Philadelphia, PA and Cary, NC.

Contact:

     WorldWIT
     Kristi Hughes, 215-816-2954
     Email: kristih@worldwit.org

Source: WorldWIT

 

 

Ashleigh opened a blank document in Word and began typing:

 

Ashleigh Vanessa Diefendahl

Soon-to-be World Famous Country Singer

 

To-do list

1. Sing at open mike night in country music bar.
2. Sing my best songs:
1. My Army Hubby
2. Shoulda Listened to My Momma (who said not to date guys in positions of authority)
3. Knew I was in Trouble When His Weapon of Mass Eruption Kept Goin’ Off
3. Get “discovered”
4. Invited to sing at Grand Ole Opry
5. Single goes to #1 in two weeks
6. CD opens at #1
7. Start world tour
8. Retire rich and famous

 

No Such Thing As A Coincidence

At Birch’s father’s house, Davina was bored with listening to Larry the Cable Guy so she borrowed the car and drove around a little bit.  She finally saw an Irish pub that looked interesting.

 

Davina walked in and sat down at the bar.

 

“Welcome to O’Riley’s.  Howya doin’?” asked the bartender with a slight Irish accent.

 

“Pretty good.”

 

“Whatcha have?”

 

“Uh…a Guinness.”

 

“Comin’ right up.  By the way, my name’s Nole if you need me.”

 

“Nolan?”

 

“No, Nole.  N-O-L-E.”

 

“Okay, Nole.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“I’m Davina.”

 

“Welcome, Davina,” Nole said, sticking out her hand.

 

Davina shook Nole’s hand.  She then looked around the bar.  To her right sat two girls in business suits.  The older of the pair was yacking about the cost of employees.  To Davina’s left sat an elderly couple in their 70s.

 

The elderly gentleman spoke up.  “So, you been here long?” he asked Nole.

 

“At O’Riley’s?”

 

“No, here in the US.”

 

“A year and seven months.  I’ve been workin’ in here for just a little while.”  Nole leaned closer to the old man.  “But I won’t be here long.  A friend of mine is openin’ up a place by the river.  Nothing like sittin’ over the water servin’ and drinkin’ drinks.”

 

“Know what you mean.  Say, you ever been up to Connecticut?”

 

“Can’ say as I have.”

 

“Well, you oughta.  We have an authentic Irish bar in our town that I really think you’d love.”

 

“Do they speak English?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Over in Galway land where I’m from, they’d rather spittle,” Nole said with a little bit of anger in her voice.  “They won’t even speak English.”

 

The old woman was taken aback.  She turned to her wife.  “Ready to go?”  He nodded.  The old man turned back to Nole.  “We’ll take the check, I guess.”

 

“Sure thing,” Nole said and then looked at me.  “You ready for another one?”

 

“Yeah.  Make it a Stella Artois.”

 

“Comin’ right up.  You want anything to eat?”

 

“You got a menu?” I asked.

 

“You don’t need a  menu.  We got Buffalo fingers, chips and dip or a fish sandwich.”

 

“How about the fish sandwich?”

 

“Comin’ right up.”

 

Davina drank her second beer, looking around.  Across the bar sat a woman in her 50s, maybe early 60s, dyed blonde hair, elbow on bar, chin in hand, the beauty of her youth still reflected in her eyes.  She looked around the bar, watched the TV for a while and then noticed Davina.

 

Davina nodded her head.  The woman raised her beer glass toward her and smiled.  Davina raised her glass in return.  Two barflies saying hello.  Nothing more, nothing less.

 

Another Irish fellow stepped up to the bar.  “Does Martin still work here?”

 

“No,” Nole said, “well…yes.  He works a couple of days a week, I mean.  He’s got a kid now, you know.”

 

“No.  I haven’t seen him in a year.  Fuckin’…a kid?”

 

“Yeah.  He works two days, Monday and T’ursday.  My name’s Nole,” she said, sticking out her hard.

 

“I’m Jerry,” he said and shook Nole’s hand.  “Hey, Nole.  Where you from?”

 

Nole spoke some unintelligible Irish town name.

 

“Yeah?” Jerry replied.  Through the noise of the bar it sounded like he said, “I used to work near Derryair.”

 

“Nice place, that,” Nole said, nodding and smiling.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Near the ocean.”

 

“Yeah, but this time of year you’ll freeze your fuckin’ balls off.”

 

Nole gave a short laugh.  “Yeah.”

 

“Well, tell ‘im that Jerry from Kelly’s said hello.”

 

“Jerry?”

 

“Yeah, from Shannon.”

 

“Sure will.”

 

“Nice to meet ya.”

 

“You, too.”

 

As Jerry walked away, three skinheads walked up to the bar and sat beside the businessmen.

 

“Hey, Shane,” the cook yelled from the small kitchen window, “Over here!”

 

One of the skinheads said to his pals, “Bud Light.”  He turned toward the kitchen.  “Comin’ over!” he yelled and walked to the kitchen door.

 

One of the other two guys, who had a large number of tattoos on his arms, started chatting with Nole.

 

“So what’s up, tonight?  Anything good?”

 

“Can’t say.  It’s open mike night.”

 

“Ah, fuckin’ amateurs.”

 

“Yeah, could be.  What’ll you have to drink?”

 

“Is it still happy hour?”

 

“Yeah, domestics are a buck, seventy-five.”

 

“Give us three Bud Lights, then.”

 

“Comin’ right up.”

 

Davina looked over at the small stage.  There was a barstool and a microphone with a couple of spotlights focused on the barstool.  She swallowed the last of the Stella Artois.

 

“Want another?” Nole asked.

 

“Not yet…well, yeah, get me a second one of these.”

 

“Comin’ right up.”

 

As Nole handed Davina her third beer, Davina noticed a fellow sit down on her left.  Out of the corner of her eye, Davina could see the man had set several harmonicas down on the table.  Davina didn’t look at the man but looked back at the older woman across the bar.  She was staring blankly at the TV.

 

Nole handed Davina her sandwich.  Davina took a bite and the harmonica player spoke up.

 

“Mind if I smoke?”  Davina turned to look at the man.  He was wearing a black cowboy hat, had long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and was sporting a small beard.  “I know some women would rather wait till they’re finished eating before someone strikes a match in front of her.”

 

“That’s okay,” Davina said.

 

“All right.  You know, I smoke but I can still play these,” he said, pointing to the harmonicas.

 

Davina quickly ate the fish sandwich.  “You play the chromatic one?” she said while chewing on her last bite.

 

“Yeah, I play all of them but the chromatic one is the easiest one to play.”

 

“I play the blues harp sometimes.”

 

“”Sthat right?”

 

“Yeah, I can play it but I can’t carry a tune.  I can’t hear the melody in my head.”

 

“”Sthat so?  I was kinda hopin’ to come down here and play these for tips.  By the way, my name’s Jawbone Willie.”

 

“Sawbone?”

 

“No, Jawbone,” he said, rubbing the side of his head, “like this.  You gonna sing somethin’ tonight?”

 

“Naw, I just wanted to have a few drinks.”

 

“Me, too.   Only, I’m broke.”

 

“Know how it feels.”

 

“You look all right to me.”

 

“Oh, yeah.  I’ve had a few.”

 

“No, I mean, you look like you can afford to buy a few beers.”

 

Davina quickly understood the guy was hitting her up for a beer.  Davina pulled out her wallet.  “Tell you what,” she said, handing Jawbone Willie a couple of bucks.  “Put these in your open hat and it’ll encourage folks to drop in more money.”

 

“Hey, gal, I appreciate it.  Sweeten up the kitty, as they say.  By the way, my band’s called the Brickyard Smokers.  You ever heard of us?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Well, come down here more often and I bet you will.”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

A woman walked up to the stage microphone.  “Testing, testing,” she said, tapping the microphone.  “Good evening.  Hope you all are having a good time tonight.  As you know, we’re opening up the stage to whoever wants to come up and perform.  I’ve already got a lady here who says she’s like to perform a few songs.  Since no one else has volunteered, I’ll let her sing until I hear from someone else.  Of course, if you don’t like her, you can always boo her off stage.  Isn’t that right, honey?”  Davina saw a woman in the dim light nod her head.  “Well, you folks just enjoy yourselves.  Keep draining those glasses and we’ll keep filling them up.  Without further ado, here’s our first sucker for the evening, Ashleigh.”  A few people clapped as the woman took the microphone and stepped up on the stage.

 

Davina was surprised to see it was “Coyote Ugly”.  She felt guilty about all the things she had said about her, not realizing that she would have the guts to perform in front of the public.

 

“Hey, Nole.”

 

“Yeah, what is it, Davina?”

 

“I’ll take a double shot of Jack.”

 

“Comin’ right up.”

 

Davina looked over at Ashleigh.  She had introduced herself to the crowd and was trying to adjust the height of the microphone so she could sit on the barstool.

 

“You know, this isn’t gonna work,” she said to the crowd in the bar.  “I’m just gonna stand up.  I might even do a little jig, if I get nervous.”  Ashleigh was wearing pink sequined pants and a pink shirt.  She stomped her feet a few times and got some laughs.  Davina wondered what it was like for Ashleigh up there, trying to gauge how much of herself to give to the audience.  She bet the first song was the hardest, trying to get the crowd warmed up.

 

“Well, y’all are in for a treat tonight.  I usually write songs about losers, mainly me!”  Several people laughed.  “The other night, I went out with this guy and had a great time.”

 

Davina turned to Jawbone Willie.  “You know, I think she’s talking about me.”

 

“No shit?” Jawbone said.

 

Davina realized that Jawbone looked a little bit like Dennis Hopper and kind of sounded like him, too.

 

Jawbone turned to Nole.  “Can I yell in this bar?”

 

“Only if you’re not goin’ to complain about the service.”

 

Jawbone turned to face the stage.  “Over here!”she yelled.

 

“What’s that?” Ashleigh asked.  “I haven’t even started singing yet.  You aren’t booing me off stage already, are you?”  Several people laughed.  One of the skinheads clapped and hooted.

 

“No,” Jawbone said and pointed at me.  “I think your boyfriend’s over here!”

 

Feeling a little uninhibited, Davina held up her arm and waved at Ashleigh.

 

Ashleigh held her hand over her eyes.  “Davina, is that you?”

 

Davina nodded and said, “Yes.”

 

“Well, folks, I guess you get a double treat tonight.  I’m gonna sing a couple of love songs later on while you get to watch the reaction on that gal’s face over there.  Go ahead and give Davina a round of applause for me.  She has a lot of guts to come out here and cheer me on, even if I didn’t know she was coming.”  Ashleigh winked at Davina.  “And honey, I appreciate your support, too.”

 

The bar patrons gave Davina a standing ovation.  Davina stood up and bowed, realizing she was getting tipsy.  She sat back down on the barstool.

 

“Here ya go, Davina,” Nole said, putting another shot of whiskey in front of her.  “On the house.  You date someone that ugly, you deserve a drink.”

 

One of the businessmen turned to Davina and gave her a pat on the back.  “She must really put out!”

 

Ashleigh cleared her throat.  “My first song’s a tribute to a favorite fiddle player of mine, Natalie MacMaster.  I’ve called it, ‘Checking the Dipstick’”.  Ashleigh started singing a song that had sort of a Irish feeling to it, which reminded Davina of going with her parents to Saturday square dances when she was a kid.  She had taken Richelle to a couple of square dance sessions at a local dance club but most of the folks were retired and old so she and Richelle had not gone back.

 

“Thank you, thank you,” Ashleigh said as she finished.  “My music’s rooted in the music of my hometown, the music I grew up with.  This next song oughta appeal to most of y’all.  When I wrote it, I imagined the old family get-togethers we had.  You know, all the men sittin’ in one corner gettin’ drunk and the women gettin’ all horny with gossip in the other corner of the house.”  Several people clapped and whistled.  “I remember my aunt would start playin’ the fiddle and then the half-drunk and half-horny folks’d start dancin’.  I hope y’all feel like dancin’ when I sing this song.”  Ashleigh did a little foot shuffle and got a few laughs.  “This song’s called ‘Beautiful Dancer.’”

 

Davina nodded at Nole and Nole poured her another shot of Jack.  Davina sat on the barstool, her head slightly spinning.  She couldn’t believe her dumb luck, walking into a strange bar in a strange city and meeting someone she knew.  She bent her head down and closed her eyes, trying to keep her balance.

 

She was drunk enough that it was hard to keep up with Ashleigh’s singing.  Every time she tried to concentrate on the words, she got dizzy.  She finally realized that everyone was standing up.  Ashleigh was singing a country version of “Danny Boy.”  Davina stayed on the barstool.  She was afraid to stand up.

 

Ashleigh approached Davina after the song was over.

 

“So, cutie, how’d you find me?”

 

“Well, I…”

 

“She was waitin’ for ya,” Nole said.

 

“Fuckin’ gal’s been here all night,” one of the skinheads said.

 

“That’s awfully nice of you.  I hope you liked my songs.”

 

Davina nodded.

 

“I didn’t embarrass you too much, did I?”

 

Davina shook her head.

 

“I was real surprised you didn’t move when I dedicated that last love song to you.  I thought sure you’d wave your arm or something.  You really kept your cool.”

 

Davina shrugged.  “I guess…I guess I was a little embarrassed.”

 

“Well, don’t be.  I wouldn’t have sung the songs if you’d said something or got up to left.”

 

“No.  It’s just…well, I…I’m sorry about what I said about you the other night.”

 

“The other  night?”

 

“Yeah, me and my friends.  We kinda joked about you.  We…well, we called you ‘Coyote Ugly.’”

 

One of the businessmen let out a laugh.  “I know who’s not getting any tonight,” he said to the younger businessman and stood up.  He turned to look at Ashleigh.  “Ma’am, I apologize for this woman.  I really thought she was cool, coming to see you tonight.  Now, I see she’s got ice in her veins.”

 

Ashleigh laughed.  “’Coyote Ugly’?”  She looked at the guys standing around her.  “Is that what you think?”  Ashleigh laughed again.  “You guys are funny.  I’ve looked at myself in the mirror everyday and wondered what people could possibly think of me.”  She laughed again, holding on to Davina’s shoulder for support. “I love it!  You know what, Davina?”

 

Davina shook her head, still looking down.

 

Ashleigh grabbed Davina’s chin and pulled her head up.  “I love your honesty.  I really do.  That’s what’s so great about you.  ‘Coyote Ugly, I love it!”  She looked at Jawbone.  “You think I’m coyote ugly?”

 

“Hey, I’m just waiting my turn to perform up on stage.”

 

“You, too, huh?  Well, that’s okay.  I like it.  I wanted a stage name and Davina here was kind enough to give it to me.”  Ashleigh leaned over to Davina and gave her a quick kiss on the lips.  “And,” she said to the businessman, “she might just get some tonight!”

 

Davina put her arm around Ashleigh and stepped off the barstool.  “Yeah.  What she said.”  The businessman shrugged and walked off, his buddy following behind him like an obedient dog.

 

“Hey, it’s not too late.  Wanna go out for a few drinks?” Ashleigh asked.

 

“Okay,” Davina replied.  “Well, maybe something besides alcohol.”

 

“Okay.  Well, I’ve got to try to get paid.  I think I deserve a little money for my performance tonight, don’t you?”

 

Davina nodded.

 

“Why don’t you walk on down the street to the coffee house and I’ll meet you there a little later?’

 

“Okay,” Davina said, dropping her arm to her side.  She weaved on her feet and tried to imagine a coffee house nearby.  She could barely remember what the outside of the bar looked like.  “Uh, where is it?”

 

“Take a right outside the door.  See you in a bit,” she said and kissed Davina again.  Ashleigh walked back toward the stage.

 

Davina grabbed the barstool to steady herself and then started walking away.

 

“See you later, Davina!”

 

“You, too, Nole,” Davina replied.

 

Davina stepped out of the bar and walked along the sidewalk until she found the little place, the Second Coming Coffee House.

 

The Second Coming Coffee House looked like the old bottom floor or lobby of an apartment building. A yellow neon sign in the window advertised the name of the store along with a bright, smiling sun. Looking inside the windows, Davina noticed a typical 90s-style college clientele. Everyone wore loose, baggy clothes, long hair, and rings piercing various parts of the body. Davina walked inside and looked around. In the low light, Davina could see that the furnishings looked like the leftovers of an old antique shop — chairs that sagged, old blue and red glass plates lying around, and pieces of art that could have been created anytime in the last century. Light jazz played in the background while the sounds of a cappuccino machine emanated from the brightly-lit kitchen and bar stand in the back.

“This is the first time I’ve been here,” Davina said to a guy with a two-day old stubble of growth on her head, “Do I sit down somewhere or do I order at the bar?”

“Well,” the guy said, obviously amused, “you can sit down somewhere and order or you can sit at the bar and order.”

“Thanks.” Davina noticed a couple of old wingback chairs that faced each other near the front. She picked out the one with the garish red upholstery and sat in it so she would be facing the door.

Ashleigh walked in a few minutes later. Davina waved at her and they both smiled at each other in recognition.

“It’s cold out there,” Ashleigh said, as she sat in the chair Davina pointed out to her.

“It’s been cold and rainy for the past couple of days.”

“So what do you think of this place? Isn’t it great?”

“It’s actually better than I expected.  I’ve been so used to those designed-for-tourists coffee houses in Venice that I forgot what a truly cool hangout these places can be.”

“I thought you’d like it. So, what brings you all the way to Nashville?”

“Nothing, really.”
“Nothing?”
“I just thought it would be neat to do something crazy on spring break. I can’t stay in town too long.”

 

Ashleigh picked up a menu. “Have you ordered yet?”

“No, I just got here. What would you suggest?”

“Just whatever you like. You do like coffee, by the way, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Ashleigh laughed.

“What’s funny?” Davina asked, smiling back.

“Oh, I just thought it would be funny to meet you at a coffee house and find out that you don’t really like coffee.  Do you drink coffee?”

“I had cut back to help me lose weight.”

“How’s it going?”

“Well, I’ve dropped two belt sizes since Christmas.”

“That’s wonderful. Hey, let’s order before it gets too late.”

“Sure.”

“Do you know what you want?”

“I’ll figure it out by the time the guy gets here.”

Ashleigh waved to get the attention of the waiter sipping coffee at the bar. “Actually, I think I’ll just have water and a little dessert,” she said to Davina.

“So, what are your plans?”

“I don’t know.  I’m so excited.  I’m not tied down to anything right now for the first time in a long time.”

“Not even to your kids?”

“I’m never tied down to those girls. You know that,” Ashleigh said in a confiding voice.

“I thought you loved them.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Of course, I hope you don’t leave with them yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“Call me insecure if you want. I’m just worried that we’re only acquaintances.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know.  How are you doing with your love life?  I hope that your personal relationship with your kids don’t conflict with our relationship.”

“Oh, pshaw. There’s nothing to worry about there.”

“I was actually happy to hear that.  I remember the last time I was in love.  Everything else just faded away around me except for her.  You know, I’ve been in love with my girlfriend about three times.”

“Really?” Ashleigh asked, nodding her head.

“Well, I’m not one of those people who nurtures a constant staying in love with the person who’s near me.  As the saying goes, familiarity breeds contempt.  Too many times, I’ve seen the process of being in love ruined by seeing too many of the other person’s quirks.   I bet you like the athletic types.”

“Maybe.  Hey, I’ve got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Have you ever thought about what it means to be in love?  I mean, other than a longing, a burning desire, or…a physical attraction, what, Davina, defines that intense state of mind, body and soul?  Some nuns claim to be in love with Jesus.  In a class in Catholic school, I remember some psychologists claimed that any one person can be in love, that the process is simply a surrendering of one’s desires to another.  In part, I agree.”  Davina nodded her head.  “But I think the true state of in-loveness occurs between two people who simultaneously surrender their individual needs and desires to the whole.  I suppose two people could be in love all their lives but if they were too deep in love they would probably starve to death or go broke.”

“Hopefully, you will not starve to death.” They both laughed.

The waiter showed up and took their order.

“While we’re waiting, I wonder if you could tell me something.”

“What?” Ashleigh asked, with a smirk on her face.

“If you can believe me, your voice told me I might see you again.”

“I kind of figured that.”

“Do you remember the conversation we had about your ex-husband? You mentioned that in some ways you would rather not know what he is doing so you could go on pretending to think that he is doing well with the little transmission shop you last heard he was running.  I know that speaks volumes about you and about life as well.  After all, aren’t there a lot of things we’d be better off not knowing so we can go on pretending, wishing for what we want to happen?  So, too, I don’t know if I want to know everything that you think about me but…there’s always a but, isn’t there?”  Davina asked, flashing a smile at Ashleigh, which she returned.  “I don’t want to go on pretending to think something that’s not true.  I hope you feel the same way.”

The waiter handed Davina her cappuccino and put the water and baklava on the end table for Ashleigh.

Davina sipped her cappuccino.

Ashleigh looked at Davina’s eyes for a moment.  “What kind of mood are you in tonight?”

“Actually, I feel kind of daring right now.”

“Like you just want to get out of here and do something crazy?”

“Well, we could do that if you want.”

“No, not me, what do you want to do?”

“I want to really and truly talk to you.”

“You know, those girls over there look like they’d be a lot of fun to hang around with. Should I go over there and invite them over?”

“Only if you want a couple of moochers tagging along with us.  They look like they’re fresh out of money and are trying to figure out where to get some.”

“What harm would it do to ask them over?”

“None, I suppose, if that’s what you want to do.”

“Seriously, should I or shouldn’t I?”

“Go for it.”

“But you said you wanted to talk to me.”

“What is this, some kind of test?  If you really feel inclined to ask those girls over, go ahead.  We can always talk later.”

Ashleigh grabbed Davina’s arm and walked over to the other table.  “Hi there.  I’m Ashleigh and this is Davina.  We’re just here for tonight and are wondering if there’s anything to do tonight.”

“Well,” the one with shoulder-length, chocolate-colored hair began, “I hadn’t really noticed.  There’s probably some narly band playing down at Nick’s.”

“Yeah,” said the blond-haired one.  “I think it’s Wet Mattress Bed.  They’re pretty wicked, if you like hardcore.”

Ashleigh looked at the brown-haired gal.  “So what do you girls do on a weekday night?”

“Well, I’m just taking a break before I finish studying for my finals.”

“Me, too.  We’re roommates over at the Russell Apartments.”

“Good luck, you two.  We’ll pass on that kind of fun tonight.”  Ashleigh grabbed Davina’s arm and dragged her back to the chair.  “I forgot that spring break is almost here.”

“Some schools have already had spring break.”

“Well, do you want to see Wet Mattress Bed?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on.   I didn’t come here to just sit around.”

“I thought you had to leave?”

“No, I just can’t stay too late.”

“Okay, so what do you want to do?”

“Well, if we drove around, you could talk and I could look for something for us to do.”

“Okay.”

“Great, let’s go.”  Ashleigh stood up and grabbed Davina’s hand.  “You don’t mind if I hold your hand, do you?”  Davina shook her head.  “I don’t mean anything by it.  It just keeps the riffraff from asking me stupid questions.”

Davina paid the bill at the cashier’s stand while she looked at the jewelry in the old candy display.  Beaded bracelets and other 60s-era items covered the shelves.

Davina walked Ashleigh to the car and opened the door for her.  After they were both situated in the car, Davina drove out of the parking space, hoping Ashleigh didn’t notice she was weaving a little.

“Head northwest.  That’s where a lot of the action is.”

“Okay.”

“So, what’s on your mind?  Apparently, you want to tell me something so spit it out.”

“I think you know that I love you…”

“In what way do you mean, exactly?”

“A part of me loves you like my sister, Elizabeth.  Elizabeth and I grew up doing almost everything together until I reached the fifth grade, although she was a couple of grades behind me.  Therefore, we have always been very close.  I know that several girls, including me, say their first love was their mother and their second love, their sister. Elizabeth knows everything about me, and loves me unconditionally.  I would do anything for her and would deal harshly with, more like kill, anyone who would dare to harm her.”

“Well, that’s sweet.  I’ll have to meet her sometime.”

“The majority of me that is you, though, the part that constitutes our verbal and physical communication, considers you a mirror reflection of myself.   I cannot look in the mirror without breaking into a smile.  For this reason, I know we are lifelong friends.  Our paths may diverge but we will always be able to pick back up whenever we run into each other.”

“That’s exactly how I feel.  Only, we seem to keep running into each other.”

“Yeah, but that’s more like it’s on purpose.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, somehow I do.  That brings up another thing I wanted to say.”

“What’s that?”

“A part of me, not a major part nor an insignificant part, is in love with you.  Oh, to be sure, there are parts of me that are in love with a lot of people, based on your theory of surrendering one’s desires.”

“Turn left here.”

“Okay,” Davina replied, turning the steering wheel.  She continued, “Because this part of me exists, giving itself up unselfishly, I want to write a story about you.  I don’t believe I am telling you something you don’t already know but I just wanted to say this while I have you as a captive audience.  I hope I’m not scaring you off by this.”

“Not exactly.”

“Unfortunately, there have been others in my life who were not willing to admit they, too, have such feelings for many people at once, not just their loved ones.  I am not declaring my love for you or anything like that.  I am simply letting you know that a friendship is made of many different outfits and not all of what you and I are made of is Emmett Kelly or Bozo the Clown material.”

“Thanks, Davina, I really appreciate what you are saying.  I hope you know that.”

“Well, at this point in my life, I think you are a person whom I can share everything with. If I am depressed and feel suicidal, I bet I can tell you this without alarming you – you will know I am simply going through a phase.  I don’t know that I am the person you share everything with but I believe I will always be around when you have no one else to turn to and will listen to you without judging what you do.  What are friends for, after all?”

“That’s true.”

“Well, I hope I haven’t startled you too much by rambling on simply because you took the time to share a night with me.”

“You’re saying all this simply because of that night?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you always react this way? I mean, I didn’t say a whole lot.”

“That’s not what I thought.”

“Well, maybe you’re right.  What time is it?”

“It’s almost one o’clock.”

“What?  Well, we better go back and get my car.   I’ve still got to drive back to my place.”

“You could stay at my friend’s father’s house.”

“Is that where you’re staying?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, but it has 10 bedrooms.”

“All right.  As long as I can make it back in the morning before it gets too late.”

“Great.  I promise I won’t bite, at least not too hard.  I’m not Dracula.  I won’t attack you at night while you’re sleeping, only while you’re awake.”

“I don’t have to be in work first thing in the morning, so if we leave now I can still get some sleep and be out of there first thing.”

“Okay, but if you leave too early, you’ll miss a great breakfast of shredded wheat, sliced bananas, half a grapefruit, toast with honey, and grapefruit juice.  The maid has some crazy stuff for breakfast sometimes.”

“Mmm, it sounds yummy but I think I’ll pass.  Hey, you say like to write – are you working on another story?”

“Yeah, it’s about you, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, give me a copy when you finish.”

 

“Actually, I’ve got it right here,” Davina said, stopping the car and reaching into her bag.

 

Leader In Training

            “Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first principles.
Have no friends not equal to yourself.
When you have faults, do not fear to abandon them.” – Confucius

             “To thine own self be true…thy canst not be false to any…” – Shakespeare

            “Character is power.” – Booker T. Washington

            “One of the greatest gifts leaders can give others is hope.” – Unknown

In life, we see a little bit of us in everyone we meet.  The surprise comes when we see and accept a new part of us we hadn’t seen before.

When I saw you, I saw the part of me I knew – a redhead in a sea of blondes and brunettes – but I met the part of me I had forgotten about.  I met sincerity.  I also saw the makings of good, if not great, leader, someone who had seen life through clouds of doubt but for whom now the sky is clear.  Belief in one’s self supplanted following someone else’s life goals.

When you stand in front of the mirror, what do you see?  Do you focus on a facial blemish, a socially-defined defect or perhaps the march of time across your hands?  Do you look into your eyes and automatically smile at the confident person staring back at you?  Are you listening to the whole message you’re sending out?

When you sit alone, whom is your inner voice talking to?  In what timeframe are you thinking?  Are you rehashing the past with yourself?  Are you asking God for guidance in the future?  Are you telling yourself to be quiet while you try to think?  Are you arguing with your lover about what you are or are not doing right now?

We can never predict the future but we can plan what we want to do.  We can never relive the past but we can choose to remember what we wanted to do, or did.

If I were here a day from now and remembering what I wanted to do, I would recall asking you if you are doing what you want to do.  I would sit here writing down your answer, marveling at the revelation in learning that another person, a redhead like me but a woman not a gal, had dreams not much different than mine but with an approach so much more wonderful that I wish I had been you a year ago or had at least asked the question some months before.

Right now, the vantage points from here gives little insight into how I am like you and how I’m not.  I do not pull hair behind my ear; instead, I adjust my glasses.  I do not wear skirts; I wear dress slacks.

There was a time when I would use this space to fill your eyes with eloquent words and fill your ears with metered rhymes but that person who was me is no more.

I am now a grown-up, a gal, a leader in training.  Where once I saw a woman as a person to court, to woo, to date, to marry, I now see someone to teach me the nurturing, non-warlike ways to persuade others to believe in themselves.  In teaching me, she learns the patience of the teacher who must wait for the student to give up old traits and learn new habits.  She learns that the way she taught the last person does not work on this one.  She learns that she cannot teach everything she knows.  She learns that silence is as good a lesson as noise.

Should you never get another chance to teach me about yourself, I’ve already had the chance to learn something about you through another person.

A colleague of mine, who observed you off and on throughout the day, said that you are the kind of woman who has no trouble choosing between men who want to spend time with you.  We both agreed that you had a sweet demeanor.  I observed your professional demeanor.  From these observations, I concluded that you would lead a group of people to accomplish a goal that is now but a dim dream in your head.  For now, you are finetuning yourself, a never-ending task but one that we can spend as much or as little time as we wish yet still keep pushing ourselves forward, growing ourselves while growing others.

“Lord, when I am wrong, make me willing to change; when I am right, make me easy to live with.  So strengthen me that the power of my example will far exceed the authority of my rank.” – Pauline H. Peters

I have changed so that the women I meet are the sister and mother I grew up with, whose dreams are not restricted by gender or limited to gender roles, no who only live to make men happy, but to live with those regardless of gender for whom the fulfillment of happiness is not a goal in the future or a sugar-coated New York/Madison Avenue ad but a here-and-now, one-on-one way of life.

If ever we meet again and get to speak a word or two, I hope I remember to thank you for the quiet inspiration you gave me to hold up this mirror of words to your face to let you see the glow that lights the faces of others.

 

 

Discovered

The next day, Ashleigh woke up with her arm around Davina, wondering if she should chew it off.  She finally realized that Davina wasn’t exactly the great catch she’d remembered although she would never have called her ugly.  Instead, she slipped her arm out from around her, got dressed and started to walk out of the house.

 

“So you’re Coyote Ugly,” a voice boomed from the kitchen.

 

Ashleigh paused with her hand on the doorknob.  “That’s me,” she chimed and turned around, looking down the hall at a middle-aged guy, dressed in boxer shorts and a wifebeater, holding a coffee cup in his hands.

 

“Well, I’ll be damned.  You are butt-ugly.”

 

“And you must be Larry the Cable Guy.”

 

“Guilty as charged.”

 

“I suppose you charm all the women this way?” Ashleigh asked as she walked from the foyer, down the hallway and to the kitchen.

 

“Mostly.”

 

“I see.  And what if I demanded an apology?”

 

“Depends.”

 

“Depends on what I’d expect to get fer an apology, I guess.”

 

“How about some respect?”

 

“Wouldn’t do.  I guess I can’t expect an apology then.”

 

“Well, don’t give up, woman.  You haven’t even started guessin’ what else I’d expect to get.”

 

“Don’t need to.  You want sex, plain and simple.”

 

“You are a straight-shooter, woman, I’ll give you that.  You ever been on stage?”

 

“Yeah, once.  Last night.”

 

“Hey, see, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  You’ve already had your first time.”

 

“What, you expected a virgin?” Ashleigh asked, leaning on the kitchen counter.

 

“Hell, woman, I ain’t stupid as I look.  I knew you weren’t a virgin.  I just hadn’t figured out if you’d really had a good one.”

 

“Are we talking about the same thing?  Cause I’m talking about performing.”

 

“So’m I,” he said, giving Ashleigh a small punch on the arm.  “Hey, I’ve got a show to do tonight.  Would you join me?”

 

“If you expect me to be some pretty floozy hangin’ on your arm all night, fergit it.”

 

“Don’t think that’s a problem, do you?  No, I was wonderin’ if you’d join me on stage for a little re-par-tee.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You know, a little friendly banter like what we’re doin’ now.”

 

“I don’t do ‘banter’.  I sing.”

 

“Hey, I’m always up for the song and dance routine.  You gotta a list of songs on ya?”

 

“No, it’s back at my house.”

 

“Well, I tell you what.  I’m gettin’ bored here.  Why dontcha get your songs and meet me over at the Bluebird Café, say around 10 o’clock.”

 

“I’ve got to drive to Huntsville to get my kids and take ‘em to school and then go to work.”

 

“Well, you do what you gotta do but I’d recommend you call in sick.”

 

Ashleigh pondered the idea for exactly two seconds.  “You know what?  That sounds like the best idea I heard this year.  I’ll drop the kids off at school and meet you at the bar.”

 

“Sounds like a plan.  Well, don’t just sit here.  Git ‘r done!” he said, pushing Ashleigh up off the counter and toward the front door.

 

 

 

 

Legends In Their Own Minds

Thinking she’d heard voices, Birch walked into the kitchen. “Anybody around?” she asked.

 

“Out here,” her father said.

 

Birch walked through the breakfast area and opened the door to the veranda that overlooked the sloped backyard.  “Dad, what’s up?”

 

Birch’s father stood up out of the lounge chair and slapped his daughter on the back.  “Nothing much.  Just drinking a cup of coffee and waiting for our guest to get ready.”

 

“Oh yeah, whatcha gonna do today?”

 

“He said something about trying out a new partner on stage tonight so I guess I’ll take him by the country club to meet some friends of mine and then drive him to the bar to practice.”

 

“Sounds like fun.”

 

“What about you girls?”

 

“Well, you got any suggestions?  I haven’t had a good pee and…”

 

“Little lady, don’t even talk about it.  My prostate’s swollen and I don’t even wanna think about it right now.”

 

“Whoa, Dad, too much information.  Wait at least until I’ve had some coffee.”

 

“Speaking of which.  My coffee’s a little dry.  Grab me that bottle of Jim Beam off the bar when come back with your coffee.”

 

“Sure thing.”  Birch walked back into the house.

 

“Hey, Birch,” Torrance said, sitting at the breakfast table.

 

“Morning.”

 

“Is there anything to eat?”

 

“I dunno.  Dad’s on the back porch and wants me to top off his coffee.  Want some?”

 

“Not just yet.  I need a little food in my stomach this morning.  I had way too much tequila last night.”

 

“Yeah, kinda sucks, doesn’t it?  We had a good thing goin’ last night then you up and puke in front of the fine ladies that came by.”

 

“What about that?  They were fine, weren’t they?  What were they doing with us bums anyway?”

 

“Celebrity status, man.  Don’t you get it?  Dad lets all the world know when he’s got his special guests around so he can get these fine ladies to hang around.  That’s why Mom split a long time ago – couldn’t handle the competition.”

 

“Yeah, but your old woman still digs your Mom, doesn’t she?”

 

“So what.  Hey, I was trying to remember what one of those girls said last night that was so funny.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“The redhead with the brown eyes.”

 

“No, I know that.  Who could forget her name – Candy Barr.  Like some kind of hippy name or what?  No, I mean do you remember the funny joke she told.”

 

“God, she told us a bunch of jokes.  Seems like her and her family were real tight, you know?”

 

“Yeah, no shit.  Almost made me jealous.  Too bad she’s married.”

 

“Hey, I don’t know about you but I sure couldn’t compete with a UPS guy.  My legs are way too spindly for shorts.”

 

“Yeah, and you’re fucking married, too.  What a bummer.”

 

“Shut the hell up.”

 

“So, seriously, what was her joke?”

 

“Uh, the one about her mother?”

 

“Weren’t they all about her mother?”

 

“No, there was that one about her sister gettin’ pubic hair on her chin.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Birch said and laughed.  “Thought she was turning into a man.”

 

“Reminds me of the first time I got pubes on my chin.”

 

“I know what you mean.  About her mother, though…”

 

“Uh…let’s see.  Seems like her whole family was hanging out at her parents’ place for Thanksgiving?”

 

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

 

“Well, her mother started rubbing the back of her neck and then turned to her father and said, ‘I’m really sore from last night.  Will you rub the place between my legs?’” Torrance said and burst out laughing.

 

Birch laughed so hard she had to grab a chair to keep from falling.  “Oh gal, that is still funny.”

 

Torrance partially recovered enough to say, “And Candy said, ‘Mom, that is so gross.  I don’t even want to imagine what you’re talking about!’”  Torrance started laughing again.

 

“What’s so funny in there?” Birch’s father asked.

 

“Nothing, Dad, I’m getting your coffee creamer right now.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Birch poured herself a cup of coffee and shook the pot in Torrance’s direction.  Torrance nodded so Birch poured a cup for her, too.

 

Birch handed the cup to Torrance.  “Hey, you gotta tell that other joke to Dad.  He’ll love it.”

 

“Okay,” Torrance said, standing up.

 

They both walked out to the veranda.

 

“Hey, Dad, do you remember the redhead last night?”

 

“Are you kidding?  Candy, the frozen lasagna chef?  She reminds me of your mother when she was that girl’s age.  Innocent but playful eyes.  That is, before she found out I wasn’t really working late night hours at the glass plant.”

 

“Yeah, sure Dad.  I know what you mean.  Did you hear her tell any jokes?”

 

“No, I don’t recall.”

 

Birch nodded at Torrance.  “Go ahead.”

 

“Well, Mr. Bernard, Candy and her family went on vacation last year…”

 

“Uh-huh, did they say where?  I’ve always thought about going to the Gulf Coast myself but never have.  Heard the golf’s great down there.”

 

“No, sir, I don’t.  But that could be where they went.  I just don’t remember.”

 

“That’s okay.  So what’d they do?”

 

“Well, seems like it was Candy, her husband, her mother, and her brother playing cards,” Torrance said, and started snickering.

 

Birch laughed out loud.

 

“Torrance, I’m sure this is funny but…”

 

“Hold on a minute,” Torrance said, holding up her hand while trying to gain her composure.

 

“Anyway, her mom’s got a great card hand, a full house or something, and she turns to Candy’s husband and says…” Torrance burst out laughing again.

 

Birch caught her breath in between laughs.  “Go on, gal, you gotta say it!”

 

“’I am so going down on you!’” They all laughed out loud.

 

“The funny part is, Candy said that’s not a joke!  Her mom just says stupid stuff like that!”

 

Davina stepped out on the veranda.  “You girls are so loud I could hear you on the back hall upstairs.  What’s so funny?”

 

Birch wiped her eyes.  “Candy.”

 

Davina started singing, “I want candy…”

 

Torrance sang, “Candy on the beach there’s nothin better…”

 

Torrance, Birch, Davina and Mr. Bernard sang together, “But I like candy when it’s wrapped in leather…”  They all laughed.

 

“What a name,” Davina said.

 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Birch said, clearing her throat.  “So where’s your date?”

 

“I dunno.  I was going to ask you the same thing.”

 

“I think she left already,” Mr. Bernard said.

 

“That’s too bad, Davi,” Torrance said.  “I was going to offer to take you two to the wedding chapel today.”

 

Davina punched Torrance.  “Hey, it’s not funny anymore.  I’m not marrying her.  She’s just a friend.”

 

“So you say.”

 

“Well, girls,” Mr. Bernard said, standing up.  “No one’s filled my coffee so I think I’m going back inside.”

 

“Oops.  Sorry, Dad.”

 

“No problem.  I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your mind.  Say, any of you girls interested in playing a round of golf today?”

 

“Sure,” Torrance said.

 

“Yeah, you know I’m always up for it, Dad,” Birch said.

 

“Well, that’s great.  As soon as I get our guest on his way, I’d like to play a few holes.  Torrance, have you ever played at the Legends?”

 

“Legends?”

 

“Yeah, what they call THE Golf Club of Tennessee?”

 

“Is that the one Birch said that Michael Jordan played at?”

 

“That’s the one.”

 

“That’s cool.  Think we can get in?”

 

“Hell, woman, I didn’t pay fifty thousand dollars to put my name on a waiting list!  By the way, where’s your friend, Sam?  Think she’d be interested in playing on the same turf as Jordan?”

 

Birch winked at Torrance.  “No, Dad, I doubt it.  She’s not into golf.”

 

“That’s what I figured.  Didn’t seem the type.  Speaking of which.  Have you paid your sorority dues at Kappa Delta?  I think I saw an overdue bill laying around here somewhere.”

 

“Uh, Dad, I’ve been meaning to…”

 

“Young lady, haven’t I told you to have some responsibility?  First, you flunk outta Western Kentucky and then I have to buy your way into Tennessee.  You aren’t fucking things up at that Florida school, are you?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“You better not be.”  Mr. Bernard looked at Torrance and then at Davina.  “You girls listen to me to.  I ain’t your daddy but I’m here and I can tell you that none of us parents want to keep having you girls suck on the teet when you’re in your 20s.  You need to grow up and get an education or get a job.  You hear me?”

 

“Yes sir,” Davina said.

 

“See,” Mr. Bernard said to Birch.  “Your friends understand what I’m saying.  I’m not telling you to put on a coat and tie and work 60 hours a week at some godforsaken job.  I just want you to get the education I had to earn the hard way.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“That’s more like it.  Now you and Torrance go get dressed and hurry back.  I don’t want to keep our guest waiting.”  Mr. Bernard turned to Davina.  “So you going with us?”

 

“I don’t know, Mr. Bernard.  You’ve got a fine place here.  Mind if I hang out?”

 

“Not at all.  Not at all.  So Birch tells me you’re a writer.  Does that mean you like to tell good stories?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“Well, you think you’re good enough to make money?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“Well, I can always tell if someone’s got a story worth sellin’.  Most of the singers and comedians I rent to are constantly babbling on.  You, however, are usually tight-lipped.  You think you can compete with them?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“Yeah, well, supposin’ ain’t gonna pay the bills,” Mr. Bernard said, filling his coffee cup with Jim Beam.  “How ‘bout you tell me a little story and I’ll tell you if it’s good enough.”

 

“Well…”

 

“You want some of this?”

 

Davina gulped and nodded.  Maybe the whiskey would help her get over her sudden fear of Birch’s father.  She accepted the cup from Mr. Bernard and swallowed it in one gulp.

 

“That’s what I like, just like a real woman,” Mr. Bernard said and drained his coffee cup.  “Well, go ahead.  I’m waiting.”

 

“Have I ever told you about my friend Mitch who just came back from Iraq?”

 

“Nope, never heard of him.”

 

“Well, before he went to Iraq, they sent him to Romania for training.”

 

“You know, I can already see where you’re going with this.  Vampires, right?”

 

“Uh, no sir, I think you’re thinking about Transylvania.”

 

“Well, that’s too bad ‘cause people like vampires.”

 

“This is better.”

 

Mr. Bernard filled his coffee cup again and looked at Davina.  “My throat’s awfully dry this morning.  How about you?”

 

“Yes sir,” Davina replied, handing her cup to Mr. Bernard.  Davina took a sip when she got the cup back.  “Well, anyway, Mitch said that the U.S. government had set up a base at an old airplane field near the sea.”

 

“Sea?  I thought Romania was in the mountains.”

 

“I don’t know, sir.  Maybe the Black or the Caspian Sea?”

 

“You sure you aren’t thinking about Russia?”

 

“Maybe.  So anyway, ‘cause this base was so new they didn’t have room in the barracks for Mitch so they stationed Mitch and a bunch of guys at an old resort.  Mitch said that he and six or seven guys were sharing this big old house.  Anyway, it was kinda like a hotel because they had maid service.”

 

“Maid service?  You know, that reminds me.  Did you get any breakfast this morning?  I sent Maria to get something special to fix you girls and I don’t think she expected you girls to get up so early.  She’s probably off spending my money on tacos or something.  You hungry?”

 

“Not right now.”

 

“Okay, but I don’t want to see you leave today without eating some of Maria’s eggs.  She makes the greatest huevos rancheros this site of San Juan.”

 

“Maria’s from Puerto Rico?”

 

“Puerto Rico?  No, she’s from Honduras or some place like that.  Why’d you think she was from Puerto Rico?”

 

“Well, you said San Juan.”

 

“Well, hell, it’s some place like that.  Bolivia, San Juan, I can’t remember.  So what’s so funny about your friend at the hotel?”

 

“You see, Mitch was taking a shower one morning when he thought he heard a sound.  He pulled back the shower curtain and there was the maid changing towels.  He shook his head and said, ‘No, no,’ waving his hands, trying to get the woman to understand he wanted her out of the bathroom.”

 

“That’s too bad.  It sounded like it could be fun…”

 

“Hold on, that’s not all.  So he washes off real quick and grabs a towel because he heard more commotion in the bedroom.  He had heard that the maids would steal your wallet while you were asleep so he figured the maid was grabbing his stuff while he was in the shower.  He stepped out of the bathroom and the maid was taking off her clothes and climbing into the bed.”

 

“No shit.”

 

“That’s right.  He started to shake her head and tell her that’s not what he meant and then he remembered his buddy telling him the night before that most of the women were so poor they’d suck you for a dollar and fuck you for a fiver.”

 

“That’s a great story, Davina, I like it.  Short, sweet, and the guy ends up with a fuck.”

 

“Yeah, well, after that, Mitch went broke.  He’d go out to the same bar where the maid worked at night and pay her ten bucks to spend the night with him.  One night, he and his buddies put together 50 bucks and got so many girls to go back to their place they couldn’t keep count.  Can you believe he said that after a few weeks, he was so tired of fucking that he actually asked his commanding officer how much longer they’d be stationed in Romania ‘cause, as he said, he needed a fucking break!”

 

Mr. Bernard laughed.  “Now that is great.  A fucking break from fucking!  You tell Larry the Cable Guy that one?  I bet he’d like it.”

 

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

 

“Oh yeah, I forgot I’m standing next to the silent one.  You even walked out on me last night and didn’t even apologize.”

 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

 

“Hey, too late for that.  ‘Sides, you brought home your own gal last night.  I didn’t even hafta supply you one.  I bring home a bunch of women for my daughter and her friends and then your friend Torrance didn’t even have the decency to upchuck in the bathroom.  Gotta give it to you and Birch.  You know how to pick ‘em.  I think every one of those girls went home by themselves last night.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“’S’all right.  We had a good time, anyway.  So what’re you doing today?”

 

“Well, sir, I thought I’d stick around here.”

 

“So you said.  You oughta find that girl friend of yours, you know.  She seemed sweet on you last night.”

 

“I’ve got a girlfriend, sir.”

 

“Well, hell, girl, don’t let me stand in your way.  You wanna borrow one of my cars and have another one tonight?  Nashville’s full of these little Shania wannabes.  Well, of course, I can’t say that your girl last night was exactly Shania…” Mr. Bernard said, slapping Davina on the back.  “But hell, if they’ve got two legs…”  Mr. Bernard set down his coffee cup and started walking out of the kitchen.  “Keys are over there if you want to borrow the Corvette.  I’ve gotta wash up.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Busted

Birch waved at her father as they drove away from the house.

 

“So you girls wanna stop in Macon on the way back?” Birch asked.

 

“Are you kidding?”

 

“Yeah.  Just seeing if you girls still had your sense of humor.  I don’t know about you but I’m bushed.  What say we take turns driving back?”

 

Davina put her hand on her chest, faking a heart attack.  “Oh my god, I think I’m having the big one.  Birch’s offering to let someone else drive her car.”

 

“Well, somebody better say yes before I change my mind.”

 

“Okay, I’ll go first,” Sam said.

 

“Cool.  Just let me drive the car to the first gas station and then we can swap.”

 

“You know, we coulda just swapped at your dad’s place if you were just gonna drive a few miles.”

 

“Naw.  We couldn’t ‘cause I just thought of it.  Anyway, hand me a beer, will ya Torrance?”

 

“Sure.  You know, you’re old man’s not bad, better than I thought.”

 

“I agree,” Davina said.

 

“Well, Dad was on his good behavior ‘cause you girls were around.  He kept his drinking to a minimum.  Anyway, where’s my beer?”

 

“Here ya go.”

 

“Thanks.”  Birch chugged the beer a few times.  “So who wants to congratulate Ms. Least Likely to Get Laid for bagging one chick twice on the same trip and bagging two more on the same night?”

 

Sam held up her beer.  “To Davina,” she said, and clinked her bottle against Birch’s.

 

“Here, here,” Torrance said to Sam.

 

“Well…” Davina said, blushing.  “You girls say that like you didn’t think I could do it.”

 

“Hey, who would have thought you’d go get a haircut and bring home two women for yourself?”

 

“I actually didn’t bring ‘em back to your Dad’s for myself.  I thought maybe one of them might be interested in Sam but then…”

 

“Sorry, Davi, I guess I got the stomach bug or something.”

 

Birch looked at Davina.  “Yeah, I guess you feel REAL sorry, don’t you, hogging all the sweet action for yourself?”

 

Davina rolled her eyes.  “I guess.”

 

“So tell me, what was it like?”

 

“What was what like?”

 

“Humpin’ the two-for-one sale at my old man’s place.  What else do you think I’m talking about?”

 

“Oh, I thought you meant what it feels like to be sorry.”

 

“Sure, girl, I really care about your feelings.  Seriously, speaking of wearing yourself out, can you still walk?”

 

“I don’t think you know what happened.”

 

“No, Davina, I don’t.  I might be God’s gift to women but two at once?  You got me beat there!”

 

Davina wondered how much of that evening she should mention.  “Well, it’s not like we shagged all evening.”

 

“I bet!” Sam said.  “Is this the gas station?”

 

“Oh yeah.  Hang on, girls,” Birch said, and made a sharp right turn.  She pulled up to a gas pump.  “Might as well fill up while we’re here.  Sam, if you’re driving, guess I’ll ride in the back with Davina.  Torrance, you get up front here with Sam.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Davina, save your news until after I fill up.  I want all the juicy details.”

 

“No problem.  Grab me a Pepsi while you’re out, will you?”

 

“Pepsi?  What are you talking about?  Dad gave us a whole car full of beer and you want a Coke?”

 

“Just something to calm my stomach.  Your dad’s cook put a lot of hot sauce in my eggs this morning.”

 

“Hey, you were the one that said you never ate a habanero you didn’t like.”

 

“Well, it’s not liking me right now.”

 

“Okay, okay, I’m getting out of the car.  Sam, since you’re driving, why don’t you fill up while I get the party meister her Pepsi?”

 

“You got it, chief.”

 

Davina laid her head back and took a quick five-minute nap.  She was wakened by Birch plopping down beside her.

 

“So, two hands and one mouth on one dyke.  How’d you do it?”

 

“Well, like I said, we didn’t do it all night.”

 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t fuck ‘em.  They were all smiles this morning like you’d be grinding them all night.  You aren’t hiding something down there we haven’t seen, are you?  You aren’t one of those girls who walks silently and carries a big stick ‘cause if you are, I hate girls like you.  You’re hard to compete with.  Here I am, putting on all the charm and you just have to unzip your pants and suddenly they’re all looking at your hard ridge and not paying attention to me.”

 

“No worries there, Birch.  No, it’s not like we didn’t do it.  It’s just that they were fun to talk to.”

 

“I knew it.  Goddamn it, you didn’t get one piece of action the whole night!”  Birch said, punching Davina in the arm and knocking her into the car door.

 

“Ouch.  What’d you do that for?”

 

“Yeah, girl.  What gives?” Torrance asked.

 

“I should be punching you, instead.  Davina gets all this available action and the one night I seem to be ready to get some action, you puke all over Dad’s place.  This sure was a great trip with you girls.  Thanks a lot.”  Birch turned her head and looked out the window.

 

“Birch, if it’ll make you feel better, I did make love to one of the women.”

 

“’I did make love to one of the women,’” Birch said, mockingly.  “Did you also hold the door open for them and tell them you’d respect them in the morning, you pansy?”

 

Davina felt a wave of anger rush through her.  “Birch, what’s your problem?  I had a good time with two women yesterday and you just want to piss all over my parade.  We may be riding in your car but it doesn’t give you the right to think you own all the good times for yourself.”

 

Birch kept looking out the window.  “Fine,” she said, waving her hand at Davina.  “So tell me, Rhett Butler.  How’d you sweep them off their feet?  After all, you took them back to my dad’s place.”  Birch turned to look at Davina, breathing slowly to control her rage.  “You drive my father’s Corvette, pick up two hair stylists from my dad’s favorite salon, and bring ‘em back to his fucking practically mansion.  So tell me, what was it about YOU that they liked or did they even get to see the little peanut in your drawers?”

 

Davina bit her lip and then took a deep breath.  “Hey, I never showed those women what kind of car I was driving and I didn’t tell them where I was staying.”

 

“No?  Well, let me tell you something, stupid.  There are windows in the front of the salon.  Don’t you think the receptionist saw my Dad’s Corvette pull up and figure it was either him or a friend of his?  Or didn’t that occur to your little fruitcake head?”

 

“I never th…”

 

“No, I bet you didn’t think of that.  You just thought those women wanted to read some little poem of yours and then jump in your pants.  No wonder the only action you got was that coyote ugly chick and you know what, I bet she didn’t bang you, either.”  Birch turned to look out the window again.

 

“Look, sorry, I…”

 

Sam turned to look back at Davina and shook her head.  “So, Davina, forget what Birch said.  What did you do with the girls?”

 

“Like I said, I did make love to one of them.”

 

“Yeah, that sounds cool.  What about the other one?  Did she watch?”

 

“No, she actually took some of my stuff and sat out by the pool to read it.  It was only after she left that Caroline really became interested in me and wanted to go to bed.”

 

“Davina, I’m proud of you.  You bring back a woman for me and then leave her at the pool for me without trying her on for size.  That takes a REAL woman to be that considerate.”

 

“Uh…sure thing.”

 

“No, seriously, I appreciate it even if I couldn’t appreciate it, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Oh, I appreciated it with Caroline, if you know what I mean.”

 

“So, what did you do to get Caroline’s interest?”

 

“Well, I thought about how much Richelle liked having her feet rubbed so I offered to rub Caroline’s feet.”

 

Torrance nodded her head.  “Wow!  And I thought my old man was the only one who liked that.  Doesn’t the idea of rubbing nasty ol’ smelly feet turn you off?”

 

“Hey, sorry about your husband’s feet problems.  I didn’t bend down to smell Caroline’s feet.”

 

“You mean she didn’t ask you to suck her toes.”

 

“Whoa, Torrance, I’m getting too much information here.  I really don’t want to know about sucking your husband’s toes.”

 

“Oh, sorry.  I just figured….never mind.”

 

“Anyway, Davina, is that all it took?  You rub her toes and like the genie in the bottle out popped her cherry?”

 

“Not exactly.  No, we talked for a while.  Turns out Caroline’s an avid astrologer.”

 

“Astrology?  Oh, that’s great,” Birch said, still flush with anger.  “You get a cute brunette and she’s an airhead!  The best kind…”

 

“So,” Sam said, “what’s her sign?  What tha fuck?”

 

“What is it?” Torrance asked, almost spilling her beer.

 

“It’s the po-lice.  He’s just sittin’ on my ass.  I don’t know how long he’s been back there.  Everybody, keep your beers down low.  Davina, hand me your Coke.”

 

“Pepsi.”

 

“Whatever,” Sam said, grabbing the Pepsi bottle from Davina’s hand.

 

“Shit, he’s flipped on his lights.  Everybody be cool.  I’m gonna pull over.”

 

“Great, I let you drive my car and now you get pulled over.  How fast are you driving?”

 

“I’m driving the speed limit.  I’m not a fast driver and besides, I know it’s your car.  You got the registration somewhere?”

 

“Yeah, it’s in the glove compartment.”

 

“Torrance, don’t sit there, man.  Find the damn registration,” Sam said, leaning up to get her wallet out of her back pocket.  “Everybody, be cool.  Here he comes,” she said as she pushed the lever to lower the window.

 

“Hello, officer.”

 

“Hello, young gal, how are you?”

 

“Just fine.”

 

“Good.  Got your driver’s license handy?”

 

“Yes, sir, here it is.”

 

“Okay,” the officer said, taking the license and walking back to his patrol car.

 

Sam turned to Torrance.  “You got your beer put away?”

 

“Yeah, I’m holding it next to the door.”

 

“Cool.  Everybody else doin’ okay?”

 

“What’s with the guy wearing a sheriff’s patrol T-shirt?” Birch asked.  “Is he some kinda rent-a-cop? ‘Cause if he is, we are NOT going to pay him some bribe on the highway.  He starts asking for cash, you drive away fast and I’ll call Dad.”

 

“Well, he might be wearing a T-shirt but he’s also packin’.  I’m not pulling away and let him shoot my ass.”

 

The deputy walked back up to Sam.  “Well, Ms. Hill, what are you doing up here in Tennessee?”

 

“Spring break.”

 

“So you’ve been having a good time here, have you?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Been enjoying any of our fine Tennessee whiskey today, have you?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“That’s good to hear.  Do you have a problem with your brakes?”

 

“Brakes?”

 

“Yes, I noticed that your rear lights are very bright, so bright in fact that I could see them shining a half-mile away.”

 

“Well, we just had the car worked on.”

 

“Okay, then, it looks like they may need more work.  Put your car in park and take your foot off the brake for a moment.  I want to see if they’re still working.”

 

“Yes, sir.”  Sam put the car in neutral and let her foot off the brake pedal as the deputy walked to the back of the car.

 

The officer stepped back up to Sam.  “Well, it appears that your lights only get bright after you take your foot off the brake so I guess that means you weren’t riding your brakes for the last couple of miles, after all.”

 

“Riding my brakes?”

 

“Yeah, I just thought maybe you were driving the car with your foot on the brakes.  You know how it is, someone’s a little too tired or had a little too much to drink and their foot falls asleep and rests on the brake pedal.  Doesn’t look like that’s the problem here, does it?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“Very good.  So you’re heading where?”

 

“Florida, sir.”

 

“Florida, huh?  You know, that sounds like a very good idea to me.  You and your buddies be careful heading back to Florida.  You sure you aren’t planning to stop somewhere along the way and have a little to drink for old time’s sake?”

 

“No, sir, we’ve got to get back by tomorrow.”

 

“Very good.  Well, you have those brakes looked at when you get back ‘cause if I see you driving through here again and I see those bright lights which almost blinded me back there, I’m gonna have to write you a ticket and have the car hauled in.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Sam mumbled.

 

“What’s that?”

 

Sam spoke up.  “I mean, I’ll have the car looked at as soon as I get back.”

 

“Very good.  Well, be on your way and don’t forget to drive the speed limit.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Sam said, as the deputy walked away.  Sam turned to Torrance.  “You know, as scared shitless as I am right now, I’m glad to see a brother in uniform.”

 

“Well, Sam, I hate to burst your bubble, but it doesn’t seem as if that guy cared if you were black, too.”

 

“Chocolate,” Davina said.

 

“Whatever.”

 

Sam put the car back in gear and pulled back onto the highway.  “Davina, I need to hear something to calm me down.  Tell me about your woman, again.”

 

“Well, did I tell you about the haircut she gave me?”

 

“No.”

 

“At first, she seemed a little pissed off, like I had said something wrong or looked at her funny.”

 

“Well, did you?”

 

“I don’t think so.  Anyway, as soon as she had put the sheet over my body and tucked the little white thing around my neck, she leaned into me like she was either half-blind and couldn’t see to cut my hair or she was horny.”

 

“I think we know the answer to that one, don’t we?” Torrance asked, reaching back to smack Birch on the knee.  “Don’t we?”

 

“You know,” Birch said, “you girls came this close to getting us slapped in jail and you act like nothing happened.”

 

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.  “My heart’s in my throat and I feel like pissing on myself.  I haven’t forgotten nothin’.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure how long I want you to drive.”

 

“Birch, chill out, gal,” Torrance said.  “You’re the one who’s been acting like a little girl.  What don’t you just lay back and take a nap or something?  If I had a ‘Lude, I’d give you one and we’ve smoked all the weed.  Drink a couple of beers and sleep it off.”

 

“And don’t hit me again,” Davina said.

 

“So tell me more, Davi,” Sam said.

 

“Well, here she is, rubbin’ all over me and then for no apparent reason she spins my chair around so I’m facing the chair next to me.  Even though I had my glasses off and was half-blind, I could see the cute blonde stylist was bending over sweeping up hair, her butt about five or six feet in front of me.  And no, Birch, she didn’t have a horseshoe gap or I couldn’t see one.  She had the perfect little upside down heart-shaped butt.  And tight jeans, too.”

 

Sam chuckled.  “You sure you were half-blind?”

 

“Yeah.  Well, the next part was kinda cool, too.  Caroline spun me back around and whispered in my ear.  She asked if I wanted my ‘mustache’ trimmed.”

 

“Sweet.”

 

“I’ve never had my mustache trimmed before so I went with the flow and told her to go ahead.  She trimmed my mustache and kept wetting her lips at the same time.  Then, after she finished, she leaned into my ear again and told me, ‘Can you believe my step-dad today.  He drove me to work this morning and said, “I put up with that shit with your mother.  I’m not married to you so I don’t have to put up with your shit so shut up.”  I’ve never heard my step-dad cuss before.’”  Well, of course, I laughed and she laughed, too.  She then took the cover off me and brushed the hair from inside my right leg.”

 

“Bet you were ready then!”

 

“At the cash register, the blonde stylist came up and put her arm around Caroline and whispered something to her.  Caroline looked at me, smiled, and asked me if I was doing anything special the rest of the day.”

 

“See, I told you.  They knew what car you drove.  They didn’t care a rat’s ass about you!” Birch blurted.

 

“I told you to calm down,” Torrance said sternly, “so calm down.  This is Davina’s story.  Nobody knows who saw what car so let her speak.  As you were saying, Davina…”

 

“I told ‘em I didn’t have any plans.  They nodded at the owner, Ms. Ip.”

 

“Ip?”

 

“Yeah, she was Vietnamese or something and talked my ear off while I was waiting to get my hair cut.  Anyway, they just walked to the back of the store, took off their stylist coats, put on their jackets and followed me out the door, one woman on each arm.”

 

“So you told us the brunette’s name.  What was the blonde’s name?”

 

“Yvette.”

 

“Oh, gal, that is too swee-e-t.  Yvette and a brunette in the ‘Vette!”

 

“I never thought about that.  Hey, you’re a poet and didn’t know it.”

 

“I can rhyme every time!”

 

“That’s when I learned about her interest in astrology.  She saw the car and asked me what sign I am.  I told her Taurus and she said that was okay.  She could ride with me.  When we got to Birch’s house, Caroline was a little apprehensive but Yvette was all into it.  She wanted to walk around the house and explore.  I told her that it wasn’t mine and she was cool with that, too.  They asked me where I was sleeping so I took them upstairs to the third floor and showed them the empty spare bedroom at the end of the hall.  Yvette saw the swimming pool and talked us into going for a swim.”

 

“Damn, Davina, I can’t believe you didn’t wake me up for that!”

 

“Oh, we looked in on you.  I stopped the elevator on the second floor and showed you to them but they didn’t want to wake you up.  Yvette did say you looked cute, slobbering all over the pillow and all.”

 

“Funny.”

 

“It didn’t dawn on me till we got to the swimming pool that I didn’t have a bathing suit.  Yvette just stripped off her clothes and jumped in.”

 

“What did she look like?” Torrance asked.

 

“Well, she’s probably 25 or 30…”

 

“You and your older women,” Birch mumbled.

 

“But she didn’t look bad.  One breast kinda sagged more than the other.  She had some small stretch marks.  I forgot to ask her if she had any kids.”

 

“What about Caroline?”

 

“She said she didn’t feel like it.”

 

“Oh, you mean she was on the rag.”

 

“Yep, I can attest to that.  Well, I mean I could later on, if you get my drift.”

 

“I know what you mean.”

 

“We sat there and watched Yvette splash around for a while.  Finally, after Yvette kept screaming for me to get in, I was afraid someone would hear her so I stripped and jumped in with her.  The water was freezing cold!”

 

“That’ll teach you a lesson,” Torrance said, looking back at Davina and winking.  “I bet your shrunken little body really appealed to them then.”

 

“Can’t say.  Yvette swam over to me and gave me a big kiss.”

 

“Oh yeay?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Even in the cold?”

 

“You betcha.”

 

“I’m proud of you, Davina.  You did good.  I don’t regret leaving you two alone at all.”

 

“You mean you were watching?”

 

“No, I was dead to the world.  No, I mean, I’m glad you didn’t wake me up.”

 

“Oh, okay.  We hugged and kissed for a few seconds and then Caroline said she was bored so we got out of the pool and ran back inside.  Yvette and I had a hot shower together.”

 

“Dontcha just love a hot shower with a woman?”

 

“Yeah, it was great.  I could’ve just stared at Yvette’s face for hours while she stood under the showerhead.”

 

“Face?”

 

“Yeah, closed her eyes and her little wrinkles just seemed to disappear.  It was like she had disappeared into some sort of paradise or something.  Even Sarah’s face didn’t look like that and she loved to take showers with me all the time.”

 

“So you and Yvette did it in the shower?”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re kidding?  Why not?”

 

“I don’t know.  It just didn’t seem to matter.”

 

“Well, hell, Davi, you think she’s a virgin or something?”

 

“Maybe.  Well, no.  She can’t be.  She had those stretch marks.  Besides, all she wanted to do was take turns rubbing each other down with soap and then kiss under the water spray.  I don’t know what to tell you girls.  It wasn’t like it was better than sex but it kind of was.”

 

“Weird, man.”

 

“You’re not kidding.  As soon as we finished drying each other off, Yvette was no longer interested in kissing me.”

 

“Cold, huh?”

 

“No, she was…it was like she was lost or something.  Distant.  Like she suddenly wasn’t there.  We all went back to the living room and I turned on the gas fireplace.  We sat around and talked for a while.  Actually, Caroline did most of the talking.  She said she had just completed an ugly divorce, having just taken some of the divorce money and gone on a vacation by herself to Hawaii and New York City.  Her mother had always been an avid astrology follower and when Caroline was in the 4^th through 8^th grade, she had read her mother’s material as well as any other material she could find on astrology at the library.  Remember, she didn’t have the Internet to go to back then.  Her friends make fun of her so she lost interest and didn’t pay attention to astrology through high school and into her early adult life.

 

“With her personal life taking a turn for the worse, she recently returned to astrology, not the fluff the newspapers and magazines talk about…”

 

“I don’t know.  I like to read my horoscope every now and then.”

 

“Well, she said she only reads the real deal, verifying her charts.  For instance, in the past two weeks, the planets have been aligned behind her so she couldn’t make any major business decisions until May 20^th so she postponed signing a contract with the salon until that day.  However, she’s free to buy personal items so she’s quickly returning to the store today to buy some major appliances.”

 

“Sounds reasonable.”

 

“She knows her mother is looking out for her and reading her charts because her mother suggested that Caroline go out of town on weekends when it coincided with slow business at the salon where she wouldn’t have made any tips anyway and would have been sent home early.  Of course, she was worried about her personal possessions while she was gone because she had so little left over after the divorce but her mother told her not to worry.”

 

“But of course.  What mother wouldn’t?” Sam asked, encouraging Davina on.

 

“Only recently did Caroline ask her mother why, and when her mother told her that the star alignment had been in her favor, Caroline was stunned that she knew in the back of her mind that that was what she was thinking herself so she knew her mother was right.  Now, she uses the Internet to keep up with her charts.  She doesn’t use them to make everyday little decisions but relies on them exclusively to help her understand when she should make serious moves, using the chart sometimes, even, when she wants to play the lottery.  She knows that playing the lottery has implications of its own when she understands that sometimes she’s supposed to win and sometimes she’s supposed to lose, which means that everyone’s astrology charts interconnect.  Your life will only get better if you stick to your charts and not try to push your destiny.  She still doesn’t always understand it all so that’s why she uses the charts for general decisions for now.  She might change, though, but she can’t access her charts all the time and live at the same time.  I told her I knew exactly how she felt because that’s what writing was like to me.  I told her she should try to keep up with her charts and not give up.”

 

“You sweet-talking devil, you!”

 

“No, I was serious and she knew it.  That’s when Yvette kind of snapped out of it and asked me about being a writer.  I told that I was getting a college degree to work in advertising but I really wanted to be a writer.  She asked me what kind of stuff I wrote so I handed her one of my notebooks.  She wandered off and left me alone with Caroline.”

 

“Birch, gal, you still awake?”

 

“Unh?” Birch said, groggily.

 

“Never mind,” Torrance said.  “Okay, Davina, so what happened with Caroline.”

 

“Oh, it was nothing what it was like with Yvette.  We started kissing and stuff and then went upstairs.”

 

“That’s it?”

 

“Well, you know, we made love.”

 

“Made love?” Birch said, half-asleep.  “You still talking about your little sweethearts.  You know what they say.  The more you talk about it, the less you did.”  Birch breathed in and out and began snoring.

 

“Hey, I’m not volunteering the information.  You girls just keep asking me to tell you about it.”

 

 

“That woman is the only one I know who can criticize you in your sleep!” Sam said.  “Gals, I’m getting tired pretty fast here.  Anyone else want to take over?”

 

“I’ve been talking you girls’ ears off.  I’ll drive.”

 

“Great.  I’m so tired I’m just gonna pull off right here on the road.  Be careful when you step out.  Too many people seem to be getting killed on the side of the road.”

 

Sam got out of the car and pulled her laptop out of the trunk.  Davina got in the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirrors and drove on.  Sam sat down in the car, popped open her computer and edited her offline blog:

 

Driving between Nashville and North Port.  Sunny day.  Fun to watch the hills and valleys pass by us.  Lots of woods and deep depressions in the midst of this suburban, farm-dotted landscape.  We drove past a river.  I was surprised at the lack of development on the river – was it U.S. gov’t property?

 

Large, thick white cloud of smoke, tinged with brown – looks like a forest fire, and could be, given the recent low humidity warnings I’ve seen on www.nws.noaa.gov.  Interesting, seeing how the smoke spreads just above the treetops, with lite smoke carried several miles by the winds aloft.

 

Even though subdivisions continue their creeping sprawl, several forested areas remain.

 

I am part of all that I see.  I am not separate from it.  No escape waits for me.  I cannot say, “I must participate in life,” because the statement implies I can say, “I must not participate.”  I accept my relative position in the universe (again, as if I had a choice).  For low humidity conditions, amazing how hazy it is.

 

I remember a woman my sis and I met, a former street poet who had decided to become a college student.  She asked me if I let the size of my words and the size of the paper on which I wrote influence what I thought the size of a thought should be (her thinking that the poems she wrote were equivalent to one thought).  I told her no and she asked me if I had ever written any long poems.  Her question pops up in my mind at a moment like this when I have a lot to say but I’m tired and the battery’s running low on this laptop.  What would I say if I had all the time and battery energy in the world?  There’s the beep-beep.  Gotta close this down.

 

An Apple A Day

 

Davina couldn’t believe the rest of the drive back had been uneventful but everyone was tired.  At least she’d spent a couple of days with her books closed.  Her mind was still reeling.  No one could believe that Birch’s suitcase still sat on the curb when they got back – Birch was happy for a day or two.

 

Davina hadn’t been able to shake Ashleigh out of her mind, even while she was hugging Richelle when she got back.  Now, she was behind both on school assignments and background story ideas for the ad agency.  The ad agency was hot and heavy to get one ad campaign completed.

 

The Florida State Apple Company was having a hard time getting distributors in large cities to buy their goods.  The apple company wanted to promote apples to inner city / urban population.  The last two advertising agencies they used ran wholesome ads with Norman Rockwell-like scenes but no one was buying the apples.  Finally, the company turned to Davina’s advertising company because it was known for writing ads that were more urban-oriented.  The ad company’s secret was using community college interns to come up with ideas – the kids were more tuned into a stereotypical urban scene than big-city kids.  Stereotyped ads tended to sell better in both cities and suburban areas.

 

Davina sat in class, re-reading her proposed ad storyline, not knowing if she should turn it in before toning it down a little.  She might even worry later about missing what the professor was talking about…

Apple Sales Campaign

“And how did you meet her?” Officer Guffey asked the man in the back of her cruiser.

 

“What are you talking about, man?  ‘How did I meet her?’  What the fuck do you care?  What are you arresting me for, anyway?”

 

“Right now, I’d say it’s a little bit of domestic abuse.  Seriously, how did you meet her?  What are you doing with an under-age woman in your car?”

 

“Under age?  Do I look crazy to you?  To tell you the truth, I’m not sure how we met.  Seems like it was in a dream.”

 

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

 

“No, man, you don’t.  I really think I met this chick in a dream.  In fact, I know I did.

 

“As the years go by, the dreams I have are less memorable – you know how it is, many of the same old themes.  A few months ago, I had a dream I couldn’t get out of my head.

 

“The setting was a dressing area that reminded me of a cross between the roller skating rink and ice skating rink where I used to skate as a kid, except this dressing area was co-ed.  I am sitting on a dressing room bench, about to change clothes.  My girlfriend is getting dressed behind me, but I can’t quite see her because the bench I’m sitting on is up against a small barrier/wall, she’s on the other side of the wall which is just tall enough to obstruct all but the shoulders and head of my girlfriend.  She has long brown hair.”

 

“Brown is a pretty generic color.”

 

“Okay, what color brown was her hair?  I would call it light brown.  Perhaps walnut?  Darker than oak.  Whatever.  She is pretty in what I can only call a country sort of way.  A Nashville beauty, as my dad would say.  I know she is smart but not conceited.   I know her taste in music is similar to mine – she likes bluegrass and country music, to some degree, she tolerates my eclectic music collection. She’s not really into my punk music or New Age music collection.”

 

“I didn’t figure you for the New Age music type,” Officer Guffey responded, trying to keep his passenger occupied with talking so the passenger would calm down while they were driving through traffic to the police precinct.

 

“Yeah?  Well, I like all sorts of music.  You never know what kind of music a chick gets into.  Anyway, in this dream, a person beside me was talking about how well I got along with my new girlfriend.  She said, ‘Well, at least she has her degree,’ to which I responded, ‘No, she’s not even out of high school yet.’  She gave me that ‘What the hell are you thinking?’ look with raised eyebrows.  I said, ‘But she is eighteen,’ and she nodded her head in approval.  My girlfriend then comments from behind the wall, ‘What I love about him is that we get along so well, as if we were made for each other.  I just hope that he likes me well enough as he gets to know me to marry me one day.’

 

“At that point in the dream, my girlfriend appears around the corner wearing a sweater and underwear just as I’m pulling my pants down to my knees.  The look in her eyes tells me that we aren’t deeply in love with each other; however, we’re like two magnets, the closer we get to each other, the faster we pull together.  She jumps into my lap, throws her arms around me, and in the brief moment before our lips meet, the look in her eyes drives me crazy.  I see that she deeply desires to kiss me, that perhaps she really is in love with me (or at least she has some lust for my lips) although I know that I don’t love her yet.

 

“We kiss.  Her mouth opens up to expect my tongue and when I don’t immediately stick my tongue in her mouth, she pushes her tongue against my teeth.  I realize that she is still young and into all the French kissing stuff so I feel around her mouth with my tongue, almost like a dentist examining her.  I hear my inner voice tell me, ‘Okay, you’re supposed to rub her tongue with yours a little…good, now that that’s done, touch her teeth, the inside of her upper lip, her right cheek, the inside of the lower lip and finally, the left cheek.  Is she responding?  No?  In that case, rub her tongue with yours again.’  She waits the one or two seconds for me to do this and then gets back into the passionate kissing, knowing that I’m an older guy and not used to all the unbridled passion of youth.

 

“While we’re kissing, I try to remember how we met and I can’t.  We have similar tastes so we must have met during some event we both liked but I can’t place it.  I wonder if I’m as old as I am – am I myself in the dream or am I a younger version of myself?  I then realize that I have stopped dreaming.  I am thinking about the dream.  I open my eyes and see I am lying on my left side in bed, drooling on the pillow.  My wife is sleeping with her back to me so that our backs are supporting each other.”

 

“Your wife?  I didn’t know you were married.”

 

“Well, I might as well not be – her daughter doesn’t know about, though.  My old lady can be as cold as ice.  Anyway, I lie there in bed, awash in the emotions of the dream.  Do I get up or just sit there thinking about the dream?  So many things I could have done that morning.  I roll over and give my wife a back rub to see if she’s interested in sex.  She thanks me and falls back to sleep.  I get up, take a shower, get dressed, go to the computer in the living room and decide that I need to make a small wooden shelf for the computer printer.  Finally, after building the shelf, installing it, checking email, checking an ebay bid on a set of speakers for my Acura, watching some college football post-season games, and talking with my nephew on the phone about his tryout for the basketball team, it’s around 3 p.m., and while my wife is out shopping at the Wal-Mart, I get a chance to think more about this dream.  I wonder where I can meet the girl ‘cause I know she’s real – something tells me so.”

 

Officer Guffey wonders if the guy’s always on drugs.  “Wish I had dreams like that.”

 

“Oh yeah, now I remember.  Next thing you know, it’s Friday night, I’m at the 721 Club and there’s the woman of my dream right there.  I told her about my dream and she really dug it.  I’m hungry.  You got anything to eat up there?”

 

“I’ll let you have my apple.”

 

* * *

 

I was pulling into the turn lane from Sutton Road onto Hwy 431 (also known as the Hampton Cove intersection) and noticed the driver of the car in front of me was quite agitated and animated, turning to yell into the face of the woman beside him.  As we turned onto Hwy 431, the driver grabbed the woman and shook her, making the car go back and forth on the road in unison.  I flashed my lights to get him to stop but neither the driver nor passenger seemed to notice.  The driver was not only intimidating the passenger but endangering those of us around her in traffic.  As he shook, grabbed and slapped the woman, the car jerked and jumped between two lanes.

 

I hesitated, wondering whether I should get involved, especially since I was running a little late getting to work.  I took a bite of an apple I had brought for breakfast, set it down in a cupholder and then pulled the cell phone out of my coat pocket.

 

I called 911 and spoke to the operator, reporting what I had seen.  She told me to stay on the line so she could get more information, including our current location (at this point, we were driving up the mountain, getting ready to pass Dug Hill Road), a description of the car (a white, 4-door Acura Integra with a Madison Country license plate) and the passengers (man in her 30s or early 40s, woman in her late teens to mid-20s).

 

I stayed on the phone with the operator, giving her updates of the behavior of the driver as well as our location (“We’re now passing the Governor’s Bend intersection,” “We’re approaching Covemont,” etc.)  She kept me updated on where she thought the officers would intercept us.  She eventually got a description of my car as I slowly drove through the morning traffic on Governor’s Drive, keeping behind the Acura while trying to hold the steering wheel, talk on the cell phone and change gears.

 

The driver of the Acura decided to pull into the middle lane (turn lane or “suicide lane”).  I relayed the information to the 911 operator.  The operator asked if she thought the driver planned to take a turn onto a known shortcut road called Longwood.  I told the operator that the driver was not using his signal but I guessed that’s what he planned to do.  The operator said that the officers were ready to intercept us.

 

We had to sit at the red light at Longwood and California.  I watched the driver grab the woman and force her to kiss him in the age-old way that blues songs sing of “Baby, I promise I won’t treat you bad no more”.  I could see the police car sitting at the other side of the intersection, pointed south on California and told the 911 operator that the officer was about to intercept us (I could also hear the dispatcher in the background relaying to the officer what I was saying to the 911 operator).

 

 

We turned south onto California Drive.  The Acura driver gunned the car down a few blocks of open road and quickly turned west onto Bob Wallace Avenue, both making me wonder if the driver knew what was going on and if he might be taking the young woman to Huntsville High School.  We stopped at the traffic light at Bob Wallace and Whitesburg Drive.  For a moment, I pondered if it was too late for me to be involved in a moving domestic disturbance but realized I needed to stick this out, even if the beating I had seen was something else entirely.  As we drove through the Whitesburg intersection, I slowed down a little bit to put space between my car and the Acura just as the police officer caught up to us, flipped on his lights and pulled around me.  A second police car showed up quickly and they forced the Acura driver into a side street two blocks from the high school.

 

I reached over to finish eating the apple.  The operator asked me if I had followed the police officers.  I told her I did, I was back as far as I could (almost sticking out into Bob Wallace) but was glad to move on.  While talking to the operator, I saw one officer, the one who had driven around the Acura to box it in, step out of his car, stand slightly behind the trunk, seemingly for protection, point his finger like a gun at the Acura and tell the driver to step out.  The driver refused to budge.  The officer in the second car, which was parked behind the Acura and in front of me, stepped out of the cruiser, walked around the back of the Acura and opened the passenger door, gently pulling the dazed passenger out, walking her several feet away.

 

The operator told me to stay in my car and wait for further instructions from the police officers and then disconnected the call.  By then, I could see the first officer had convinced the driver to get out of the car.  The driver was wearing an old brown flannel shirt and jeans — he appeared to be under the influence (could have been the influence of adrenaline/testosterone; I know I was).  He was belligerent but not resistant, almost like he had been through this exercise before.

 

The passenger was younger than I thought – she definitely looked like she could be a high school student – but at the same time, she had a worn-out look about her.  I could see from her response to the second officer that she was immediately denying anything wrong had been going on.

 

I was half-finished with the apple by then and practically shaking in my shoes, realizing how easily something could be misinterpreted in anyone’s behavior and it could be me instead of the Acura driver in the scene in front of me, as I watched the first officer hold the driver over the trunk of the police car, frisk him for weapons as well as handcuff him, all in the space of about 10 seconds.

 

The second officer told the woman to stand by a tree about 20 feet from the car.  He approached me.  His nametag read, “Guffey, T. M.”  He told me that the woman was obviously denying the truth (“They always do in a case like this — we see it everyday.”).  He also told me that he knew the guy had been doing something (“We just know”, she responded when I gave her a puzzled look, telling me that my observation of the guy’s DUI was probably correct).  The officer got my name and home address information.  “Don’t worry, we’ve got him — he won’t get away with this again,” he said as I watched the first officer putting the driver in the back of the police car.  He thanked me for the help before telling me to go on my way.

 

I turned the car around and got back on Bob Wallace Avenue.  I finished the apple on the drive down Bob Wallace (eating core and all), making sure I drove slowly through the school zone, obeying all the speed zones on the way to work, trying to calm myself down from the adrenaline rush.

 

In one way, I was glad to do my duty.  In another, I was worried that the driver or passenger would somehow get my home information and harass me (blame it on watching too many scary movies in my childhood).

 

In any case, the adrenaline rush, that same feeling I get in the last few minutes of a close football game, is almost over.  I’ll come crashing down here in a few minutes, just in time to chair a weekly meeting at work.  What a way to come up with an excuse for being late to work, huh?  Better than a flat tire in the rain.

 

* * *

 

The officer finished writing the woman’s name and address in her notebook.  “So, Dianne, how did this all start?”

 

“Like I told, nothin’ happened.  We was just taking me to school when you pulled us over.”

 

“Uh-huh.  Is that what your mother will say?”

 

“My momma ain’t got nothin’ to do with this.”

 

“I see,” Officer Krispy responded, pretending to be writing in her notebook.  She looked back at her with as stern a look as she could muster, wondering if her coffee would still be warm by the time this was over.  “And so you don’t mind if we call your mother and tell her we saw you kissing this woman in your car?”

 

“There’s no reason to call my momma.  You gotta take me to school before it’s too late.”

 

“Too late for what?”

 

“My first period class.”

 

“Well, young lady, I don’t think you’ll need to worry about your first period class right now.  First thing we want to do is take you to a hospital.”

 

“What for?  I ain’t hurt.”

 

“No?  And what are those bruises on the side of your neck?”

 

Dianne reached up with her left hand to feel her neck.  The pain was sharper than she imagined.  She hoped she hadn’t winced.  “Uh, I bumped my head getting into the car.”

 

“Is that so?  I tell you what.  You go ahead and get in the car here while I’ll call your mother…”

“Like I said, there ain’t no reason to call her!”

 

“And we’ll see if we can get her permission to take you to a hospital for treatment of those bumps or bruises.  Is your mother still at home?”

 

Dianne folded her arms.  “No!  And I ain’t gettin’ in the car.  I’m only a couple of blocks from school and you can’t stop me from walkin’ over there.”

 

Officer Krispy shook her head.  His coffee was definitely going to be cold.  “Do you really want to go to school covered with bruises?  Cause if you do, that’s fine, but your first period teacher is going to call the police once she sees those bruises and you’ll have to go through all this all over again, except this time it’ll be in front of all your school mates.”

 

Dianne sighed.  She knew her mother would kill her when she found out what happened.  Even worse, when her mother’s boyfriend got outta jail after this, she was going to rough her up some more.  “I’ll go to the hospital if you won’t call my momma.”

 

“We’ll see,” Officer Krispy said, opening the door for Dianne.

 

 

Doctor Baldwin, the hospital psychiatrist, sat down beside Dianne.  “So I understand you hurt yourself this morning.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Can I take a look?”

 

“Why not.  Seems that everyone wants to look at my neck this morning.”

 

“Hmm…looks like you’ve hurt yourself more than once.”

 

“Huh?  Oh, oh yeah.  I’m a walking accident case,” Dianne said, snorting.

 

“I see.  Exactly how did this happen?”

 

“Well, my momma’s boyfriend drives me to work every morning…”

 

“Your mother’s boyfriend?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Anyway, her car is kinda old and ratty.  The ceiling’s fallin’ in.”

 

“The ceiling?”

 

“Yeah, you know.  The fabric stuff.”

 

Dr. Baldwin nodded her head, blinking her eyes a couple of times to stay alert.  Her own daughter had come home at 2 a.m. smelling like marijuana so Dr. Baldwin sat up with her, discussing her daughter’s need to smoke illegal drugs.  Dr. Baldwin ended up not sleeping the few hours she lay in bed, getting her daughter up early for another discussion before going to work.  “Yes, I see what you mean.”

 

“I hate the stuff. It’s dirty and nasty and gets in my hair so when I get in the car I try to stoop my head real fast and I guess that’s when I hit my neck.”

 

“Interesting,” Dr. Baldwin said, looking over some notes.  “Seems like you have been in here before for other accidents.”

 

“Like I said, I’m accident prone!” Dianne exclaimed, wondering why this doctor was so curious.  No one else had seemed to care on her previous visits.

 

“Well, I’m no car expert but I would say some of these injuries are not related to getting in and out of cars.”

 

“Well, duh.  It’s not like my momma’s been living with this guy my whole life.”

 

Dr. Baldwin raised her eyebrows in recognition of the patient’s inadvertent confession.  She looked in Dianne’s eyes with as much professional sympathy as she could muster.  “So how long have you been accident-prone exactly?”

 

“Uh, all my life, I guess.”

 

“But your mother’s only waited until recently to take you to the hospital?”

 

“She never brings me to the hospital.”

 

“So how did you get here?”

 

“The police brought me.”

 

“Do they always take you here?”

 

Dianne rolled her eyes.  Was this the stupidest doctor she ever met or what?  “I dunno.  Maybe.”

 

“You’re not sure.”

 

“I can’t remember.”

 

“I see.”

 

Dianne bit her tongue in exasperation.  “Well, sometimes I just wake up here and don’t know how I got here.”

 

“My goodness, Dianne, that’s awful.  How often has this happened?”

 

“ I dunno.”

 

“More than once?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“How many times would you guess?”

 

“I dunno.  Three or four times, maybe.”

 

“Dianne, I’m sorry to hear that.  Extremely sorry.  No one should have to come to the hospital and not know how they got here.”

 

Dianne suddenly felt a strong sadness come over her, something she hadn’t felt since she was a little kid.  “Yeah?  Well, why do you care?”

 

“Well, Dianne, you are a nice person and I don’t see any reason why you should have to come here unless you wanted to.”

 

Tears welled up in Dianne’s eyes.  She turned her head away from the doctor, trying to control herself.  “Yeah, well fuck you,” she blurted, “I do come here when I want to!”

 

Dr. Baldwin saw the hurt in Dianne’s eyes and wondered if someone was consoling her own daughter, who was still suffering from the death of her father, Dr. Baldwin’s ex-husband.  Dr. Baldwin reached out her arms.  “Dianne, have you had a hug today?”

 

Dianne got off the bed and hugged Dr. Baldwin.  As soon as Dr. Baldwin’s arms wrapped around her, Dianne started crying, heaving in and out with large sobs.  The pain of the last three years swept over her and Dianne lost it, not caring if anyone heard her cry this time, unlike all the other times when her mother told her to shut up and take it like a woman because no one cares.

 

Dr. Baldwin held Dianne, patting her on the back of the head where she thought there were no recent injuries.  Dr. Baldwin felt tears in her own eyes, knowing that each tear was one less tear she had been sharing with her daughter lately.  Was she losing her own daughter?  Would her daughter end up in the hospital, jail or even worse, somewhere where she would never see her again?  She hugged Dianne tighter while trying to clear her mind.

 

Dianne felt like she could cry forever but knew she better pull herself back together if she was going to be able to convince everyone to just let her get back to school before her momma found out.  She lifted her head off Dianne’s shoulder.  “Uh, look, I’m sorry. I…uh, I’m just a little wired from this mornin’.”

 

Dr. Baldwin let go of Dianne.  “That’s all right.”

 

“Is there any chance you can release me to get back to school?” Dianne asked, sitting back on the bed.

 

“Well, I…”

 

“Hey, you’ve been crying,” Dianne said, seeing tears on Dr. Baldwin’s cheeks.  “You okay?”

 

“Oh yes, I’m fine.”

 

“No you’re not.”

 

“I’m not the concern right now.”

 

“Yeah, sure.  You get me to cry like a little baby, embarrassed and all that but you can’t cry.  Is that it?”

 

“Not exactly.  I’m just a little tired.”

 

“Let me guess.  You’ve got a daughter, right?”

 

Dr. Baldwin nodded, slightly surprised.

 

“You’re upset ‘cause your daughter’s sleepin’ with your ol’ gal,” Dianne said, nodding her head that she wasn’t the only one who was fucked up.

 

“Dianne, that’s an interesting observation.”

 

“So you’re not denying it?”

 

“Not exactly.”

 

“Is she beating your daughter up?”

 

Dr. Baldwin wondered if Dianne knew what she was saying.  “No, but you might be on the right track.”

 

“Just as I thought.  She hasn’t knocked her up, has he?”

 

Dr. Baldwin shook her head.  “Do you mind if I write some things down?  I want to keep track of what we’re talking about.”

 

“No problem, no problem, whatsoever.  I tried keeping a journal myself until my momma found it and dumped it in the trash.  Couldn’t handle the truth, if you know what I mean.”

 

Dr. Baldwin kept writing.

 

“So, the way I see it, you couldn’t pay your bills after your girl’s daddy left you…probably couldn’t keep payin’ on the Mercedes or somethin’…so you hook up with some creep who promises to take care of you.  Only, you’ve got a pretty, young daughter who’s just turned 13 and is the spittin’ image of you.  You’re gone to work all the time while she’s home alone with her in the afternoon.  You tell your daughter to mind her while you’re gone.  At first, she’s real cooo-o-o-l.  Wants to help with your homework and shit.  Then one day, she’s says that your mother wants you to give her a neck rub.  Then it’s a back rub with her shirt off.  One thing leads to another and she’s on you like a rabid dog.  Have I got it right so far?”  Dianne asked, feeling smug, knowing that the doctor’s life was screwed up, just like everybody else in her life.

 

“Go on.”

 

“Man, am I good or what?  Hey, I’m hungry.  Have you got something to eat?”

 

“Go ahead and take an apple off the tray over there.”

 

“Great, thanks.  Well, before you know it, your daughter’s in a sitiation she don’t like, figurin’ maybe the guy’s after somethin’ your momma didn’t say so she pushes her off.  She grabs her by the hair and says, ‘I’ll tell your momma you’ve been smoking pot,’ and then she kisses me…I mean, her.  You push her away.”

 

“What do you mean, I’d push her away?”

 

“No, what I meant was, your daughter would push her away.  Now the question is, is this guy for real?  Is she really gonna tell on you?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Well, what if your boyfriend told you your girl was smokin’ pot?  Wouldn’t you beat the crap out of her?”

 

“No.”

 

“No, you probably wouldn’t.  You’d know that someone would see the marks, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Not exactly.  I’d sit down with her and talk with her about her need to smoke illegal drugs, explaining to her that not only is marijuana bad for your health but that every time you buy marijuana you’re supporting a whole network of people breaking the law, people who don’t care if you get arrested, thrown out of school and your life ruined.”

 

“You’re more tightly wound than I thought, bitch,” Dianne responded with a smirk.  “You’d be better off beatin’ the crap out of her and makin’ her go back to school.”

 

“Is that so?  Is there anything else about my daughter that I should know about?”

 

“Hell, yeah.  Next thing you know she’s givin’ her pot in exchange for some heavy pettin’.   Every time you complain about her goin’ too far, she hits you and threatens to tell your momma you’ve been doin’ drugs instead of your chores.  Eventually, she gives you all sorts of drugs, drugs that make you pass out from feelin’ so good.  You wake up sore, like she’s been fingerin’ you too hard.  Next thing you know, you’ve missed a period and you freak out.  You tell the school nurse, thinkin’ maybe she’ll keep it a secret and will help you out but she calls your momma who gives you a whole load of shit about gettin’ knocked up.  You explain that you’ve never had sex with a guy and she accuses you of bein’ a liar.  Am I right so far?”

 

Dr. Baldwin kept writing, deciding not to make any comment or gesture to stop Dianne’s seeming confession.

 

“Yeah, I thought so.  Your momma, I mean you, agree to pay for the abortion, which isn’t all that bad, nothin’ like they tell you.  Her boyfriend is suddenly all nice to you for a while, only grabbin’ a kiss every now and then.  A year or so passes and you get used to her kisses and fondlin’.  Nex’ thing you know she’s makin’ promises to you, tells you that she loves you and wants to take you away with her.  You tell her you can’t leave your momma and she beats you again.  You threaten to run away and she starts drivin’ you to school everyday, beatin’ you and kissin’ you and givin’ you drugs again.”  Dianne stops talking to see Dr. Baldwin’s reaction.

 

Dr. Baldwin stops taking notes for a moment.  “Is there anything else about my daughter I need to know about?”

 

“No, I’d say that’s pretty much it.”

 

“Wow, that’s a lot of information for me to absorb.”

 

“Try livin’ through that shit.  I mean, imagine what your daughter’s goin’ through!”

 

“Dianne, you seem to be the authority here.  Do you think my daughter would be better off living with someone else?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, should I send her to live with other relatives until I sort things out with the boyfriend?”

 

“I dunno.  Depends on who they are?”

 

“Well, if you had to pick, who would they be?”

 

“Umm, well…her grandparents are probably too old to take care of her.  Her aunt and aunt have four kids, all boys.  Don’t know if she could take that.  There’s a cousin who’s a few years older ‘cept she has a drug problem and is in and out of rehab.  I don’t see there’s anyone that’s real helpful for her, from my perspective.”

 

“Do you think she could handle foster care?”

 

“Hell, no.  She’d end up with a different set of creeps!”

 

“Why is that?”

 

“You see the news.  Foster parents are all a bunch of weirdos.”

 

“I disagree, Dianne.  I believe the news you’ve seen has blown your view out of proportion.  The foster parents I’ve met are loving, caring people who want to give young people a new start.”

 

“So you’ve already decided to put her in foster care?”

 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.  I’m just asking you if you’d consider putting her there.”

 

“I bet she’d take a lot of convincing.”

 

“Well, what if I talked with her about the alternative.”

 

“Yeah, what’s that?”

 

“Staying with her mother, with the boyfriend gone.”

 

“I don’t see that happenin’.”

 

“What if I convinced the daughter to testify that the mother’s boyfriend had drugged her, raped and abused her.”

 

“Her mother would kill her.”

 

“And what if I convinced the mother not to kill her daughter but to seek treatment herself.  I bet the boyfriend has been treating her in a similar manner.”

 

“No way, her mother would deny everything.  She’d say that her boyfriend was the only reason they still had a roof over their head.”

 

“Are you sure about that?”

 

“What do you mean am I sure?  Of course I am,” Dianne said, finishing up the apple.

 

“Well, I believe there’s a possibility that the mother and the daughter could find a different place they could afford.”

 

“Oh yeah, I hadn’t thought about that.”

 

“Well, I’ll tell you what.  I bet you’re tired.  We’ll make sure that the school is informed that you will not be able to attend classes today.  In the meantime, you lie down and get some sleep.  I’ll make sure you don’t get interrupted for a few hours.  I’m going to call your mother…”

 

“Unh-unh, you can’t do that!”

 

“How about if I call her to talk about my daughter’s problem?  Would that be okay?”

 

“Uh, I guess so.”

 

“Good.  And just to let you know, Dianne, I believe everything’s going to be all right.  I think we both have some mother-daughter problems to work out.  It won’t be easy but I see something good coming out of this.”

 

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

Dianne’s mother agreed to testify against her boyfriend, who was put away for a very long time after police discovered she was a drug dealer as well as an abusive person.  However, her mother refused to move out of the house, despite not being able to afford paying the rent.  To help make ends meet, Dianne started working as a hostess at Hooter’s.  While working there, she struck up a conversation with a girl named Ruby.  Ruby told her about the money-making opportunities in night club ownership.  They saved up their money, convinced a lot of the other girls to join them and three years later they bought the old Black Forest Lounge, changing its name to the Purple Pussycat.

 

On opening night, Ruby broke down and called her mother at work.

 

“Hello.”

 

“Dr. Baldwin, please.”

 

“This is she.”

 

“Mom, it’s Ruby…”

 

“Ruby?!  I haven’t heard from you in years!”

 

“Yeah, well, I’ve opened up a night club with my best friend, Dianne, and tonight’s opening night.  Would you stop by after work?”

 

“Darling, I’d love to see you.  Where is it located?”

 

“On Governor’s Drive.”

 

“Okay, I’ll see you there around 9 p.m.”

 

“Great, I’ll see you then.  And by the way, I’m hungry.  Could you bring me an apple?”

 

What in Sam Hill?

Davina looked at her cell phone.  It was Sam.  She knew Sam knew she was in class so why would she call?

 

“Yeah,” Davina whispered, trying not to get the attention of the professor.

“I can’t get it out of my mind.”

 

“Hey, can I call you back?  I’m in class.”

 

“You don’t want to talk to me?”

 

“Yeah, I do.  Just give me five minutes.”

 

“Ms. Hill.”

 

“Yes, sir?” Davina said to the English professor.

 

“I assume you desire to leave my class.  You know the rules.  Out.”

 

Davina shoved her books in her bag and walked out of class, catching a few thumbs-up signs from classroom buddies.

 

Davina walked out of the building and called Sam back.

 

“You called back!”

 

“Why wouldn’t I?”

 

“I don’t know.  Seems like no one’s listening to me anymore so I figured you didn’t want to talk to me, either.”

 

“Sorry, I was in class.  It was Dr. Courtland.  You know how she is.”

 

“Dr. Courtland?  Who cares.”

 

“Good point.  So what’s on your mind?”

 

“I talked with an Army recruiter today.”

 

“You what?”

 

“The recruiter said I could be signed up and in basic training in under four weeks, just as soon as I got all the shit out of my system.”

 

“What are you talking to a recruiter for?  You hate the Army.”

 

“Hey, it beats the alternative.  You said so yourself.”

 

“What alternative?”

 

“Killing myself.”

 

Davina paused for second.  When did she tell Sam to join the Army?  “When did you start thinking of killing yourself ‘cause if you join the Army, you know they’ll send you to Iraq to be a big target.”

 

“I talked with my big bro.  He said that the Army’s respectable now.  I’ll probably never make it over to Iraq but get some cush desk job over here considering how smart I am, in college and all.”

 

“Sam, are you sure you want to do this?”

 

“No.”

 

“I thought not.”

 

“Naw, I’m gonna kill myself, instead.”

 

“I’m confused.  Why do you want to kill yourself?”

 

“If I join the Army, the Bush Brigade’s gonna sniff me out real quick and give me a dishonorable discharge.  Once they do that, no way am I gonna be able to face my brother.  I might as well kill myself now.”

 

“Sam, do you have a gun?”

 

“A gun?  You know I don’t like guns.”

 

“Well, are you planning to kill yourself right now?”

 

“No, I’ve got to study.  Or at least I’ve got to pretend to study.”

 

“Well, do you plan to kill yourself after you finish studying?”

 

“I don’t know.  Why do you care when I kill myself?”

 

“Sam, gal, you’re my best friend.  I don’t care WHEN you’re gonna kill yourself.  I care that you don’t kill yourself.”

 

“’Sthat all?  Well, don’t worry about me.  I’ll be fine.”

 

“Look, I’ve got to go to work pretty soon.  You won’t kill yourself while I’m at work, will you?”

 

“No, not if you don’t want me to.”

 

“I don’t want you to.”

 

“All right.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yes,” Sam said with a sniffle.

 

“Okay.  Look, if you feel like killing yourself, call me right back.  I’m gonna hang up and do a couple of things before I go to work, okay?”

 

“Anything you say, Davina.”

 

 

Davina walked over to the computer lab.  She didn’t have time to investigate suicide on the Web while also wrapping up work on the apple ad campaign and finishing up an essay for her music appreciation class.  She called up her aunt.

 

“Aunt Lee, this is Davina.”

 

“Hey Davi, wuzzup?” Lee asked, trying to use whatever slang she thought the kids were using these days.

 

“Hey, didn’t you used to suffer from depression?”

 

“Yeah, what of it?”

 

“Well, Sam’s getting suicidal on me and I’m wondering if you have any material I can use?”

 

“Sorry, girl, I’m not putting that kinda stuff in the mail.  You can buy it off the ‘Net if you want.”

 

“No, I don’t mean drugs.  I mean any written material.”

 

“Sure, I’ll email it to you right away.”

 

Davina hung up the phone and worked on the apple ad campaign some more, correcting a few grammatical errors and cleaning up the story a bit, hoping she could reduce the shock factor from the last go-round.  She maximized Outlook and pressed F9 to refresh the incoming email.  Sure enough, there was the attachment from Aunt Lee…

 

When Enough Is Enough

i spent a large part of my youth defending myself — my thoughts and behavior;

sometimes my defensiveness is obvious, sometimes not.

no wonder i was diagnosed as a “situational depressive” person…

 

– 23 jan 2005, lee colline

 

“Sometimes I sleep 18 hours a day.

Either I’m suffering from clinical depression, or I’m a cat.”

 

 

In preparation for my new work, Spoken Words in Three-Part Harmony, featuring the spoken works of Richard Brautigan, Spalding Gray and myself, I have collected the following (still need to decide whether to have the spoken parts read one-at-a-time or simultaneously or both – sort of like the end of “Fahrenheit 451”; also, is this going to be CD material or DVD material; if the latter, then I need to add visuals, including my filmwork, still pics, and shots from old German horror films like “Waxworks” and “Nosferatu”).

 

 

 

Table of Contents

When Enough Is Enough.. 269

Richard Brautigan.. 271

Ianthe Brautigan – You Can’t Catch Death: A Daughter’s Memoir. 271

My Review of Ianthe’s book. 272

General Suicide News. 273

Greek Teen Takes Own Life After Online Advice. 273

UK Suicide Rates for Young Men Hit 20-Year-Low.. 273

High IQ Test Scorers Have Less Suicide Risk: Study. 274

Suicides tarnish the Golden Gate. 275

Failed writer commits suicide. 279

Frustrated Writers Online. 279

Remembering Carolyn Heilbrun: Feminist Scholarship and Suicide. 280

Someone Like Me (and There are Many More, I know…) 285

Suicide Risk Persists Decades Later. 285

Live to Write Another Day, Writers, Depression, and Suicide. 288

My Observations. 289

Professional Suicide (and Depression) Websites. 290

Final Exit Network. 290

Creativity, Depression and Suicide Prevention. 292

How Can I Tell What I’m Feeling Is A Clinical Depression?. 294

Writers Weekly Forum: Beating Depression Without Drugs. 297

Shame and Community: Social Components in Depression. 297

Handling Depression. 313

Depression. 313

Depression (Major Depressive Disorder) 314

SYMPTOMS. 314

Depression Alternatives Support Forum.. 316

Depression animation. 316

National Association for Self-Esteem.. 316

Meditation and Depression. 317

Depression Free Life Check List^©. 318

Dysthymic Disorder. 323

Diagnostic Criteria for Depression. 323

Criteria For Mood Episodes. 324

Alternative Approach – Exercise. 328

The Suicide Files: Thanatogast’s Suicide Methods. 329

alt.suicide.holiday Methods File. 329

 

 

 

Richard Brautigan

Richard Brautigan seemed to have fallen out of favor with the reading public in his later life.  Was that a contributing factor in his increased drinking and eventual suicide?  From what I’ve read, most people who committed suicide left clues or hints about their desire to end their life.  What was the trail of clues from Brautigan?  Who was around him enough to tell us?

From web searches, his closest friends were perplexed but knew he had problems.  What about family?  His daughter, Ianthe, wrote a memoir.  What about it?

 

 Ianthe Brautigan – You Can’t Catch Death: A Daughter’s Memoir

“There is supposed to be a beginning…”  Ianthe Brautigan

There is supposed to be a beginning.  One beginning might be the night I decided to let someone break into my father’s house to see if there were any clues to where he might have gone.  That night I dreamed about my father for the first time in my life.  He was angry with me.  “How dare you interfere with my privacy,” he said to me in the gloom of the dream.  An intensely private person about certain aspects of her life, he would not have allowd anyone in his house without permission.  I knew how furious he was going to be with me when he came back from the trip he was on and found out.  I still have the shiny red notebook that contains my incomplete jottings of that period of time before his body was found: “Dutch poet came to visit.  Maybe?  Amsterdam?  Reed College?   MOM.”  When I woke up the next morning, Octoger 25, 1984, he was dead.  A private detective told me this over the telephone.  Realizing that I was slowly disconnecting from reality, I called my mother-in-law, the person who could reach me the soonest.  The phone was still in my hand when she rushed into the bedroom where I still sat on the edge of the bed.  I could see bits of what she had been doing before she came.  Hair styled but no lipstick.  Impeccably dressed but still wearing house slippers.  I felt her arms slip around me, and she kept me from disappearing until my own mother arrived.  A friend found my husband, Paul, and he came home.  Then I stopped remembering for two or three or four days…

“It’s a celebration, Ianthe Brautigan.  You send up sparks like the reflected roaring waters under the bridge to your father’s cabin, illuminating the dark gaps in her wonderfully humorous, kind and argumentative, disciplined, creative life.”  — DENNIS HOPPER

Editorial Reviews

Amazon.com
His daughter was 24 when quintessential ’60s author Richard Brautigan (Trout Fishing in America) killed himself in 1984, and the obituaries were almost as painful for her as his tragic act. “I did not recognize the dignified, brilliant, hysterically funny, and sometimes difficult man who was my father in anything they wrote,” says Ianthe Brautigan, who makes it her business to capture those qualities in this poignant memoir. Her recollections of an unsettled childhood bouncing between two free-spirited parents’ bohemian homes (in San Francisco, Montana, Hawaii, and Japan) are remarkably free from bitterness, even when she chronicles drunken phone calls from her suicidal father. Alcohol was Richard Brautigan’s fatal weakness, prompted by severe depressions rooted in an impoverished, unhappy childhood. But Ianthe also depicts his tenderness and warmth, the magical sessions of impromptu storytelling with writer buddies like Tom McGuane and Viv Harrison, the glamour of meeting movie stars Peter Fonda and Margot Kidder. She comes to terms with the past that always haunted her father when she makes a trip to Oregon to see her grandmother, estranged from Richard for 25 years. Without presuming to solve the mystery of his death, the author reclaims the values of Brautigan’s life and work in her touching, sensitively written book. –Wendy Smith

Product Description:
In all of the obituaries and writing about Richard Brautigan that appeared after his suicide, none revealed to Ianthe Brautigan the father she knew. Through it took all of her courage, she delved into her memories, good and bad, to retrieve him, and began to write. You Can’t Catch Death is a frank, courageous, heartbreaking reflection on both a remarkable woman and the child he left behind.

 

 

My Review of Ianthe’s book

 

After reading Ianthe’s book, I see that her father’s life itself was the trail of bread crumbs, full of instability, depression, drinking, and drugs – apparently, all the results of a “bad” childhood.  Is suicide related to a bad childhood?  Why have I battled suicide and depression when my childhood seems to have been rather normal?  Hmm…

 

Are there any clues on suicide for “regular” people like me?  What about from news sites?  Will I find what I’m looking for?

 

General Suicide News

Greek Teen Takes Own Life After Online Advice

20 Jan 2005 ATHENS (Reuters) – A lovesick Greek teenager committed suicide after receiving detailed online instructions on how to do it from another Internet user, police said on Thursday.

The teenager joined an Internet chatroom and asked for advice on how best to commit suicide, Athens security chief Stefanos Skotis told reporters after an investigation.

“The man who committed suicide was an internet user who discussed suicide with other people online,” Skotis said.

“A message was found (in the dead man’s computer) which said he should take a specific agricultural pesticide if he wanted to kill himself.”

Skotis said authorities had located the man who sent the message but he was yet to be charged.

The teenager, heartbroken after he and her girlfriend split up, used the pesticide to take his own life last September.

Copyright © 2005 Reuters Limited. All rights reserved. Republication or redistribution of Reuters content is expressly prohibited without the prior written consent of Reuters. Reuters shall not be liable for any errors or delays in the content, or for any actions taken in reliance thereon.

Copyright © 2005 Yahoo! Inc. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

UK Suicide Rates for Young Men Hit 20-Year-Low

Yahoo! News   Fri, Jan 21, 2005  LONDON (Reuters) – Britain’s suicide rate for young men has plunged to its lowest level in two decades and is nearly 30 percent below its peak in 1998, the government announced on Friday.

Part of the reason, it added, was legislation limiting the number of painkilling pills people can buy at any one time.

“The overall rate of suicides is at the lowest rate ever recorded and we are seeing a sustained downward trend. I’m particularly encouraged with the reduction in suicide rates in young men,” said Professor Louis Appleby, the national director of mental health.

Latest figures show that in males 20-34 years old there were 19.16 suicides per 100,000 deaths in 2001-2003, compared to 23.2 in 1996-98.

Hanging and suffocation are the most common method of suicide in men and account for nearly half of all male suicide deaths, according to the government report.

Overall suicide death rates have fallen to 8.6 deaths per 100,000 from 9.2 in 1995-1997.

Health Minister Rosie Winterton said part of the reason for the fall was legislation ordering pharmaceutical companies to reduce the size of paracetamol and aspirin packs.

The 1998 law cut the size of packs that painkillers were sold in and limited the number of tablets retailers were allowed to sell. Researchers from Oxford University showed that selling the painkillers in smaller sized packs slashed suicides caused by overdoses in the three years after the law was introduced.

 

Copyright © 2005 Reuters Limited. All rights reserved. Republication or redistribution of Reuters content is expressly prohibited without the prior written consent of Reuters. Reuters shall not be liable for any errors or delays in the content, or for any actions taken in reliance thereon.

Copyright © 2005 Yahoo! Inc. All rights reserved.

 

 

High IQ Test Scorers Have Less Suicide Risk: Study

Thu Jan 20, 7:02 PM ET

Yahoo! News   Fri, Jan 21, 2005 Health – Reuters LONDON (Reuters) – Young men who perform well in intelligence tests have less risk of committing suicide than those with lower scores, Swedish scientists said on Friday.

In one of the few studies assessing the link between intellect and suicide, researchers from Sweden’s Karolinska Institute found that men who had the lowest scores were three times more likely to take their own life.

“There is a strong inverse association between intelligence test scores and suicide,” Finn Rasmussen, an associate professor at the institute, said in the report published in the British Medical Journal.

He and his colleagues analyzed test scores of 987,308 Swedish men when they entered the military and recorded the number of suicides among them over 26 years.

Nearly 3,000 took their own lives.

“Better performance on the tests was associated with a reduced risk of suicide,” she added.

Because of the large sample they studied and the strong association, it is unlikely that the results are due to chance.

The researchers suggested that poor test scores could be associated with depression and schizophrenia — two disorders that contribute to suicide.

It is also possible that people with low intelligence are less able to deal with their problems and may consider suicide as a solution. Low scorers could have suffered from behavioral problems as children which could also have contributed to suicide risk.

Rasmussen and his team called for more detailed studies to investigate the possible underlying reasons for suicide.

Suicides tarnish the Golden Gate

By John Ritter, USA TODAY

 

SAN FRANCISCO — The Golden Gate Bridge’s stylish beauty masks a darker trait: the world’s most famous suicide venue. More than 1,300 troubled souls have jumped to their deaths since the towering Art Deco span opened in 1937.

But none of those 4-second plunges was filmed as far as anyone knows until Eric Steel set up two cameras overlooking the bridge in January 2004.

 

A National Park Service permit in hand, Steel shot from dawn to dusk every day, capturing a year’s worth of suicides and failed tries. He interviewed victims’ families for what he said would be a documentary but didn’t tell them he had images of loved ones’ final acts.

 

The disclosure this month of Steel’s project stunned park and bridge officials. Mary Currie, spokeswoman for the agency that runs the bridge, has accused Steel of misrepresenting himself. The project also has sparked a debate over whether the film, if it is shown, will trigger copycats and whether, after years of study and opposition, it’s time to erect a suicide barrier on the bridge.

 

“It’s an ongoing crisis,” says Mel Blaustein, psychiatry director at Saint Francis Memorial Hospital here and head of a task force, not yet endorsed by bridge officials, to design a barrier. “Regrettably, people seem more concerned about things like bike paths on the bridge than preventing suicides.”

 

There’s little doubt that the bridge and its setting in San Francisco Bay, between the city skyline and the rugged Marin Headlands, are a lure to the despondent. “It’s aesthetic, it’s beautiful, it’s quick, like having a loaded gun at your side,” Blaustein says.

 

Access is key. Anyone can walk or ride a bike onto the bridge. The only obstacle between a jumper and a 220-foot, 75-mph plummet is a 4-foot rail. By some estimates, the nearby Bay Bridge has had only one-fifth as many suicides because pedestrians and bikers can’t get on it.

 

Steel’s filming has focused attention on other suicide magnets such as the Eiffel Tower and the Empire State Building, where suicides are rare since barriers went up years ago. North America’s No. 2 suicide draw, Toronto’s Prince Edward Viaduct, built a multimillion-dollar barrier in 2003 after more than 400 suicides.

 

In a 2003 letter to the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, Steel wrote that he would film “the powerful, spectacular intersection of monument and nature” as the first in a series of monument documentaries. The agency can do little now to stop him because of free-speech protections, spokesman Rich Weideman says.

 

Steel, an independent producer, declines to answer criticism that he misled families and the park service, which owns most of the land around the bridge. He’s still trying to interview angry bridge officials.

 

“This is a personal thing, and for him to chronicle that is against anything I believe,” says David Barnard, a Prescott, Ariz., retiree whose son, Michael, 40, jumped from the bridge on Nov. 11. “We haven’t seen how the documentary will come out, but my initial impression is: It stinks.” Barnard says Steel never contacted him.

 

After Rachael Marker’s daughter, Elizabeth, 44, jumped on April 11, Steel interviewed Marker at her home in Healdsburg, Calif. He didn’t tell her about the bridge filming. “It was very much a surprise, but I’d hate to see him crucified for this,” she says. “I found him to be a very nice guy. It was good to talk to somebody about it.”

 

Marker’s son, Lyle Smith, a San Jose financial manager, thinks Steel kept the filming secret so his permit wouldn’t be yanked. “For me, the film’s only value would be to make sure she was alone, that no one encouraged her,” Smith says.

 

Psychiatrists are split over whether publicity about bridge suicides encourages others. Suicide by jumping is rare, perhaps 5%, compared with 60% by gunshot. And the decision to jump is impulsive, sometimes made in seconds.

 

Plenty of evidence argues for barriers, Blaustein and others say. Some of the two dozen or so who have survived jumps, usually by landing feet first, later said they regretted their decision as soon as they stepped off the bridge. A study of 515 people restrained from jumping by Golden Gate Bridge police or bystanders found that 94% were still alive many years after their only suicide attempt.

 

But Victor Reus, a psychiatry professor at the University of California-San Francisco, says foiled would-be jumpers, “people who go out, stand around, look around and are picked up on cameras,” are a different breed from the truly serious.

 

“It’s a feel-good thing to create a barrier and think it will save lives, but data to validate that hypothesis doesn’t exist,” Reus says. At least 19 suicides took place on the Golden Gate Bridge last year, while 50 were deterred. Bike patrols were added and emergency phones installed in the 2000s.

 

The Golden Gate Bridge, Highway and Transportation District has studied barriers since the 1970s and tested a design in 1997 that proved ineffective and unattractive. District criteria say a barrier can’t add too much weight, affect wind stability or be too costly.

 

But Blaustein and those who criticize indecision over a barrier say publicity about Golden Gate Bridge suicides will keep feeding the death toll. A 2001 review in Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences of dozens of studies on suicide and the media found “overwhelming evidence” of higher suicide rates after prominent news accounts.

 

A carnival mood preceded the 500th suicide, in 1973, as newspapers ran countdowns, TV crews staked out the bridge and bars took bets. As the 1,000th neared in 1995, a disc jockey offered a case of Snapple to the victim’s family, but the California Highway Patrol stopped counting at 997.

 

Currie expects the bridge board to soon consider a barrier again. The true number of suicides is thought to be closer to 2,000 than 1,300 because many bodies aren’t recovered from the deep, turbulent waters around the bay.

 

In a letter to bridge officials, Steel said he filmed “most of the two dozen or so” suicides that occurred. One likely was that of David Paige, 49, who jumped April 28. Steel talked to his family, including a cousin, Diane Pfoertner of Ortonville, Mich., who says she has no problem with Steel’s documentary. “I felt that if somewhere down the line it would do somebody some good, it was worth putting some energy into,” Pfoertner says.

Posted 1/30/2005 11:05 PM     Updated 1/31/2005 11:22 AM

 

© Copyright 2005 USA TODAY, a division of Gannett Co. Inc.

 

 

 

 

 

Failed writer commits suicide

Eugene Correia in Toronto

It came as a sad end to a writer’s life — a life unfulfilled. H S Bhabra, 45, killed himself on June 1 under the bridge in the Don Valley, Toronto. The police found a suicide note besides his body.

Bhabra published his first novel, Gestures, in the 80s. It earned her a little attention but he failed to live up to his promise. Though he remained fairly unknown as a writer, Bhabra made his mark as co-host of the show, Imprint, which dealt with books and writers. He later became the show’s producer but left it in 1999. The show was one of TV Ontario well-liked programmes.

Knowledgeable and intelligent, Bhabra’s interests ranged from food and fashion to films and books. He occasionally wrote book reviews. He wrote a few books, mostly mystery and thriller novels, under a pseudonym and won several prizes.

Bhabra was born in India and moved to England when he was two. After graduating from Oxford University, he moved to Toronto and then wrote Gestures.

According to one of his co-producers, Wodek Szemberg, Bhabra had high expectations of himself and that was his undoing. Another friend, T Sher Singh, a columnist at The Toronto Star, Bhabra set standards for himself that he refused to lower.

Singh feels Bhabra couldn’t get himself to write the “big novel” that he dreamed of and that things may have not been working well for him.

Before joining TVO, Bhabra taught literature at Amherst College, Massachusetts, UCLA, and at Toronto’s Humber School of Writing.

[from: http://www.rediff.com/us/2000/jun/07us2.htm]

 

Frustrated Writers Online

http://groups.msn.com/FrustratedWritersOnline/

 

 

Remembering Carolyn Heilbrun: Feminist Scholarship and Suicide

By Pat Holt

I don’t know who I’m madder at, The New York Times for its insipid and irresponsible obituary of respected scholar Carolyn Heilbrun, or Heilbrun herself for taking her own life.

Or maybe it’s what might be called the “new fashionability” of suicidal authors, discussed with relish last Sunday by Charles McGrath of the Times, that’s got my goat. Writing about the movie “Sylvia,” McGrath had the audacity to compare the “dignity” of Virginia Woolf’s suicide with the “senseless and unnecessary, even selfish” nature of Sylvia Plath’s suicide.

Honestly! Calling suicide “senseless” simply means McGrath herself can’t make sense of it. I don’t get it either (and I don’t want to!) about Heilbrun, but more about that in a minute. It’s the judgmentalism that both Times obit writer Robert McFadden and NYT Book Review editor McGrath insinuate into these articles that I feel is the greater crime.

(It’s very much like the comment of Jeffrey Hart of the New Criterion, who blamed feminism, in her review of Heilbrun’s book, for her discussion of suicide as a legitimate final step: “[Heilbrun’s] emotions have been so wrenched out of shape by feminist dogma that she cannot present to the readers of her books a recognizable shared world.” Those man-hating feminists! Give ’em the vote and look where they take it…)

McGrath refers to Plath callously “gass[ing] herself in a London flat in the winter of 1963, while her two small children slept in the room next door,” as though this explains how “selfish” she had become. But possibly McGrath didn’t finish Diane Middlebrook’s recent book about Plath and husband Ted Hughes – called, appropriately enough, “Her Husband” – although she refers to the book in the Sunday piece.

Middlebrook’s rendering, which reveals the inevitability of Plath’s downward spiral ever since her attempt at suicide and electroshock treatments long before she met Ted Hughes, offers one of the most tender, bittersweet scenes of a self-destructive and doomed mother’s last moments with her children that one could imagine.

With her mind “disintegrating” and “everything blown & bubbled & warped & split,” Plath “poured cups of milk and arranged helpings of bread, then carried the food up a flight of stairs to her children’s room. She set it within reach of their beds, and pulled their window wide open. Then she closed the door to their room and sealed it all around with masking tape. On a torn piece of shelf paper, she printed a note giving the telephone number of their doctor … ” All this before going downstairs to the kitchen, where she would “fold a little cloth and place it under her cheek (in the oven), for comfort while she drew her last breaths. Depression killed Sylvia Plath.”

Middlebrook makes that last statement to assure us that Ted Hughes didn’t drive Sylvia Plath to suicide – her own demons did her in, and they had been attacking her mercilessly all her life. Still, that compulsion to get the job of suicide done without endangering her children or making a big fuss about it seems to reflect as much “melancholy dignity” as Virginia Woolf’s “stroll” (really, how dare he?) into the river after weighing herself down with a heavy stone.

But it’s the difference between the suicide of these two writers and that of Carolyn Heilbrun that I find so heartwrenching. Heilbrun had written about planning for years to kill herself by her 70th birthday. “Quit while you’re ahead, was, and is, my motto,” she stated in “The Last Gift of Time” (1997). “Having supposed the sixties would be downhill all the way, I had long held a determination to commit suicide at seventy.”

All the obituaries mentioned this after Heilbrun did, at 77, overdose on pills and even affix a plastic bag over her head so that she would be found dead, also without muss or fuss, by a friend.

But few obits discussed the fact that Heilbrun had considered suicide one of many options, that she had discovered “life was good” at age 70 and that as she aged, she wrote, “I entered upon a life unimagined previously, of happiness impossible to youth or to the years of being constantly needed both at home and at work. I entered into a period of freedom, and only past 60 learned in what freedom consists: to live without a constant, unnoticed stream of anger and resentment, without the daily contemplation of power always in the hands of the least worthy, the least imaginative, the least generous.”

This idea of having lived with so much “anger and resentment” while settling into what many would consider a prestigious and comfortable job in academia, especially the previous male bastion of Columbia University, where she had “made it” as the only female for some time, was a huge revelation, I felt.

Heilbrun had, even before joining the faculty at Columbia, begun investigating the role of women in literature through her own distinctive lens as far back as 1957 with her “first notable essay” (NYT) for Shakespeare Quarterly on “The Character of Hamlet’s Mother.” There Heilbrun, according to McFadden, “portrayed Gertrude as clever, not shallow, lucid rather than silly: ideas that were forerunners of feminism at that time.”

This is the same Heilbrun who concealed her identity as the pseudonymous mystery writer Amanda Cross, whose blistering indictments of academic life, woven into each Ivy League murder, at a stuffy male-dominated university like Columbia might have jeopardized her tenure. This, granted in 1972, allowed Heilbrun to “come out” as the creator of the fictional Kate Fansler, a professor of literature with a feminist sensibility very much like her own.

Soon Heilbrun, never a joiner, became known as the proven academic who was weighing in with feminist scholarship by writing now-classic scholarly works such as “Toward a Recognition of Androgyny,” “Reinventing Womanhood,” “Writing a Woman’s Life” and other works she mixed in with more literary volumes (“Christopher Isherwood,” “The Garnet Family”) and memoirs.

All this is important to demonstrate how Heilbrun had become a huge literary force in her own right. But none of it helps to set the record straight about Heilbrun as a person of irrepressible humor and irreverence. Let me digress a moment to describe an onstage conversation between Heilbrun and myself at City Arts & Lectures in San Francisco after the publication of “The Last Gift of Time,” when Carolyn acknowledged that she was “thriving” at 71.

Asked about her earlier plans to choose the suicide route when she reached 70, Heilbrun responded quite cheerfully that as long as “new pleasures and liberations” kept opening up in her life, she was not about to end it.

Could she give us an example of such “new pleasures”? Well, she said, with a twinkle in her eye, only recently had she discovered that personal computers were bringing freedoms she could never have predicted into the lives of elderly persons like herself. For anyone venturing onto the Internet, “worlds of discovery” were out there for the exploring, and one didn’t have to move one arthritic leg in front of the other to find them.

When I asked if she could describe one of those discoveries, thinking she would mention a Shakespeare website or an online discussion of the classics, Heilbrun answered that she had “become addicted to computer solitaire,” and smiled broadly as the audience burst out laughing. I noticed that half the crowd was nodding, as I was (who wasn’t addicted to the damn game in those days – or, um, these days).

I remembered that moment when news of Carolyn’s suicide hit the news, because *of course* when a person commits suicide, it’s easy to forget such things as a sense of humor or a life of principle, both of which distinguished Carolyn Heilbrun throughout her tumultuous 33-year career as a professor specializing in British modern literature at Columbia.

And here is where one must say, Shame on you, New York Times, “newspaper of record,” for sanitizing the Heilbrun obituary. Not only was Carolyn Heilbrun the first woman to be given tenure at Columbia (omitted by the Times), she didn’t just “retire” after three decades there, she resigned in protest (also omitted by the Times) over sexual discrimination – not against her but against one of her students.

So let’s set this record straight, too, since we’ll never hear from Heilbrun again, and go back to highly controversial walkout in 2001, after spending her entire academic life at Columbia.

“There were two reasons,” she said in an interview with me in 1995 – “I had been attracting graduate students because they knew I was a feminist or at least a modernist person interested in gender. Then they would get to Columbia and find no second person behind me to support them. Eventually it all came to a head when (male colleagues) refused to promote this really dazzlingly qualified young woman. I had to go. They were so angry at me for leaving, they wouldn’t let some of my students into the Ph.D. program, and that’s when I decided to go public. It was all very political. If I tried to tell people what really went on, I’d sound like a madwoman.”

Had it always been that bad? Heilbrun nodded as if that were the least of it. Columbia, she explained, was notorious for teaching the great works, none of whose authors were women. Janis Austen was “allowed” in, she said. For years a department head pronounced Virginia Woolf to be “just awful.”

No wonder for Heilbrun, the emergence of feminism was considered “a gift or miracle,” despite confusion and outrage at Columbia. “Kate Millett’s ‘Sexual Politics’ came out of Columbia,” she pointed out. “At the time, some male professors thought, ‘OK, we’ll let the kid do it,’ but people like Irving Howe blasted it, saying any department that would let this through as a dissertation should be dismantled. I thought it was wonderful.

“Even now, decades later, it still upsets, in modern British literature, which I teach, to suggest that a major influence on Lawrence or Conrad and Joyce and Eliot was the fear of women. And you see that fear even now. The major woman in my field wrote an essay on ‘The Color Purple’ in which she said it was a horrible book because the two male characters end up unmanned.”

It was perhaps that very iconoclast nature that brought Heilbrun to accept a challenge others in her position might have fled – that was, in the mid-2000s, to write a biography of feminist leader Gloria Steinem. (I reviewed it at e.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/1995/09/24/RV65259.DTL)

The need for a biography when Steinem was still only 61 might have seemed premature, but Steinem, hardly without enemies, had learned that less-than-honorable writers were considering something of a hatchet job, so she had been seeking a biographer with impeccable credentials to write an authorized version.

Of course, Heilbrun, who hated to travel, threw a wrench in the works right off the bat by refusing to accompany Steinem on her many trips (which people like me thought would have been the best part). Nevertheless, Heilbrun’s tough-mined approach to her subject made for delicious reading about the “walking contradiction” that is Gloria Steinem — the feminist in a miniskirt, the women’s rights crusader who looks a little anorexic (not Heilbrun’s word), the loner who’s always in the spotlight, the compassionate listener who seems “accessible to no one,” the natural speaker who’s still paralyzed by audiences, and the leader who harbors an “innate reluctance to offend anyone” but has, at some time in her life, offended everyone.

What I loved about Heilbrun’s “The Life of Gloria Steinem” was her ability to cut through usual rhetoric of an authorized biography and say what she felt to had be said, for example that Steinem’s mother “was, to put it bluntly, crazy.” (Of course, she also allowed that if any of her male colleagues at Columbia had heard about the book, “they’d just say it was one nut writing about another.”)

A great teacher, Heilbrun also calls upon readers to look how history has neglected a treasure trove of information simply by turning its attention away from women:

“It is possible that a study of only daughters raised as members of the adult world, or of oldest daughters in large families where the mother was overworked — famous examples might be Margaret Sanger, Agnes Smedley, Susan B. Anthony — would reveal a life not dissimilar to the one Steinem eventually led. That is not to say that there was no price to pay for such a childhood; there is always a price.”

Heilbrun also doesn’t hesitate to offer her own critical appraisal of Steinem, remarking for example that “there is something grating … about Steinem’s brilliant use of the benefits of a privileged life and her apparent scorn of it.”

But perhaps Heilbrun’s most scathing criticism is reserved for the American press. “The way the media treats women is horrible,” she said in the interview. Steinem, she noted, was attacked for being “a manizer,” “baby killer,” “whore,” “oversexed, frustrated spinster” and the “Ivan Boesky of Nookie” (remember her?), plus a celebrity who refused to enter into “catfights” with other women leaders such as the relentlessly bitter Betty Friedan.

Worst of it all, Heilbrun felt, Steinem was maligned “for never marrying, never having children and for being so avidly heterosexual.” In the interview, Heilbrun, who with her husband raised three children during the ’60s in a “still-happy” two-career household,” then entertained this tantalizing prospect: “One day I’d like to write about the pressures toward sanctification of motherhood in this country – the illusion that women choose to have children and that only the biological or adoptive mother should take care of the child 24 hours a day. It’s a form of insanity.”

So you see. The thought that the great Carolyn Heilbrun cut her own life short before she could devote a full investigation to this idea is to me as tragic as the loss of Heilbrun the memoirist, the elderly curmudgeon. Of course her suicide is “senseless” to us! We’re still living, for pete’s sake. How can we make sense of a great thinker who was not sick, not depressed (according to her son) and who had written long before of her decision to “”choose to live, each day for now.”

What might have brought her to think that her “for now” was over? One event comes to mind. A few days before her death, Heilbrun attended publisher William Morrow’s launch party for her son Robert’s first novel, an exquisite mystery called “Offer of Proof.” Robert, a NY legal aid lawyer, writes about her protagonist, public defender Arch Gold, and the trial of a lifetime with such authentic detail and biting humor that one feels we’ve been crawling through the gritty underside of the New York City legal system for years.

Perhaps Carolyn Heilbrun, witnessing Robert’s early critical success – starred reviews everywhere – thought the baton had been passed, that life had truly “concluded” for her, as Robert told the Times. Carolyn “wanted to control her destiny,” she said, and indeed her no-nonsense suicide note – “The Journey’s over. Love to all. Carolyn” – would seem to confirm she made a decision that was hardly “senseless” to her.

The only note of humor that remains – and one that Carolyn would have enjoyed heartily – is the way the New York Post explained to its readers why Carolyn Heilbrun was important: “Heilbrun, 77,” the paper reported, “lived in the exclusive Kenilworth apartment building at 151 Central Park West, where Michael Orlalas and Catherine Zeta-Jones live.” Goodbye, Carolyn! Here’s hoping your neighbors – you know, like God – are just as famous!

Pat Holt, for 16 years the Book Review Editor and Critic for the San Francisco Chronicle, is a manuscript consultant. To learn more about her Manuscript Express critique service, please visit http://holtuncensored.com/manu_express.html. This article is serialized with permission and originally appeared in Holt Uncensored, Pat’s newsletter covering the publishing world. To subscribe, please send a message to mailto:mailtopat@holtuncensored.com?subject=SubscribeHoltUncensored

Someone Like Me (and There are Many More, I know…)

 

[http://www.hotpock.org/blogger/2002_08_01_sandyichiban_archive.html]

Suicide Risk Persists Decades Later

History of Attempts Is a Potent Risk Factor

By George Thomas  Budd, MD, Sid Kirchheimer , WebMD Medical News

Nov. 15, 2002 — When it comes to the risk of suicide, apparently time doesn’t heal all wounds.

British researchers report that the risk of suicide remained nearly constant over 22 years for a group of patients with a history of attempts. In fact, their rate of suicide or subsequent attempts slightly increased since their initial episode.

“I think that patients who have a history of self-harm very often have a very entrenched relationship with death that may not often be immediately apparent,” says psychiatrist and lead researcher Gary Jenkins, MD, of East Ham Memorial Hospital in London.

“However, my experience with this group of patients is that if you ask them about their feelings about death, you will usually find that there very often are quite persistent underlying morbid thoughts about death … even when the patient is not in a state of crisis or breakdown.”

Jenkins tracked 140 patients who were brought to her hospital after attempting suicide between 1977 and 1980. Most were women and average age 32 at their initial attempt. Applying the collected information to a larger group, she concludes in the Nov. 16 issue of the British Medical Journal that their rate of suicide and probable suicide was slightly increased over the 22 years of follow-up.

A previous study in the British Medical Journal suggests that the rate of suicide is 100 times higher in the year following an initial attempt. Other studies, tracking patients over a shorter period, suggest a similar repeat-attempt risk as Jenkins’ finding.

But based on this study — among the longest to examine suicide risk patterns — doctors need to take measures to provide long-term care for these people, she says.

“In assessing a patient who has a history of self-harm, the risk of completed suicide is very high and remains high,” Jenkins tells WebMD. “This should alert physicians to the importance of psychiatric referral. Psychiatrists should be reminded that patients with a history of self-harm might benefit from long-term engagement with psychiatric services so that their mental state may be monitored and appropriate action can be taken.”

And what can family and friends of a potential victim do?

“Often, people feel that ‘now it’s over’ once the attempter has gotten through whatever crisis they experienced. But if you know for a fact that someone has attempted suicide in the past, you need to be mindful of the things that happen to them now,” says John McIntosh, PhD, chairman of the department of psychology at Indiana University and past president of the American Association of Suicidology.

“When they start to show distress, don’t assume everything will just blow over. You need to take action more quickly to try to mobilize support for them. This study implies that people who attempt suicide are essentially at that same risk of repeating that behavior for the rest of their lives.”

SOURCES: British Medical Journal, Nov. 16, 2002 • Gary Jenkins, MD, consultant psychiatrist, department of psychiatry, East Ham Memorial Hospital, London • John McIntosh, PhD, chairman, department of psychology, Indiana University

 

 

 

Live to Write Another Day, Writers, Depression, and Suicide

© by Holly Lisle
All Rights Reserved

Another writer died by her own hand, just two days ago. I got the news this morning. I cannot say I knew her — to the best of my knowledge, we never met, or exchanged e-mails, though certainly at one point or another we may have. I did not know her. But she was, nonetheless, my sister, and one of my tribe.

And she fell, as so many in my tribe fall.

Psychologists note that writers suffer from a higher-than-normal incidence of depression, that the same qualities that make us writers tend to make us more sensitive to the ups and downs of daily life. I do not know in how many cases this is true, but I know it’s true for me. I have faced the abyss of self-destruction once, when things were very bad, but managed to walk away. I’ve suffered from serious depression on a couple of other occasions, also from situations and events that were unbearable, and unfixable.

I count myself lucky to have gotten this far. Now that I’m here, though, I intend to stay. Because along the way, I’ve discovered that everything changes, and that no matter how horrible things are, they are not horrible forever. Every moment you’re breathing is an opportunity to change. If not your surroundings, your trials, your sufferings, then yourself.

From someone who has found a way to hang on even when things are terrible, I want to pass on to you what I’ve found. Because my tribe has lost enough voices and enough magic, too soon and needlessly. Don’t let it lose yours.

First, if you need help, for God’s sake tell someone. Don’t suffer in silence while the walls close in. Tell a friend, tell a doctor, tell your favorite shaman — just tell someone. Furthermore, tell this person the truth. Exactly HOW bad things are. What you need to make them better. What you’re thinking of doing. I know this is harder for men than it is for women — but while suffering in silence may be noble, if you end up killing yourself because of it, it’s stupid. There are some things on this planet worth dying for, but an inability to pay off your fucking Mastercard is not one of them. Neither is the fact that he or she left you for some bimbo. Or that no one understands you. Or the fact that nothing is selling.

You’re a writer. You have options. Write about the bastard who left, and the bimbo, and sacrifice both of them in your next book. Let the bastard pay for the Mastercard while showing the world what a shit she or she was. Change your pen name and give yourself a fresh writing start. Get a crap-ass part-time job to get you through the low spots. Do something to change things, not to end them.

Second, start giving thanks for everything in your life that is good. Every day. Start today, so this is a habit for you if things are not desperate right now. Because if you’re a writer, you’ll hit a point where they get bad. And then they’ll get better, but only if you hang on. Start right now to build the patterns that will help you hang on. I’m not Christian; I’m more of a struggling Taoist (an oxymoron if ever there was one) than anything else. I cannot define God, nor do I choose to try to, but I know that there is something in the universe that is bigger than me, if only the universe itself. I did not, after all, create myself, or give myself life. So I give thanks each day for everything in my life that I can think of that is good, to whatever force it was that brought me into being. This thing I do is a form of prayer-in-motion, I suppose, but if you’re opposed to prayer, call it moving meditation. I face the sunrise each morning before I get to work and breathe in and out deeply and do gentle stretches and while I do, I say my thank-yous. For breathing. For the people who love me. For the work I get to do. For the opportunity to make something better for someone else today. For the smell of fresh-mown grass, if that happens to be coming through the window. For anything I can think of that is good in my life.

I do not ask for anything. Do not complain about anything. No matter what might be wrong in my life, this is a time I set aside simply to give thanks for anything that is right. There have been a couple of times when my thanks list was pretty short. But I made it through those times, as I intend to make it through similar times that lie ahead. Because as long as you focus on the darkness, all you’ll see is the darkness; the most important thing you can do for yourself when you’re curled up down in the hole in the dark all alone is realize that if you just look up and open your eyes, you can see the sun. And other people. You still have a couple of things going for you. You are, at the very least, still breathing. And so long as you are still breathing, you can affect your world, effect change, save your own life, make a difference for someone else, make things better.

Live to write another day. For yourself. For the rest of your tribe. For all the good you can do.

(This article is written with thanks and deepest gratitude to all the writers who faced the abyss and found the strength to walk away.)

[from http://www.hollylisle.com/fm/Articles/livetowrite.html]

 

My Observations

Professional Suicide (and Depression) Websites

Final Exit Network

http://www.finalexitnetwork.org/

“Until laws protect the right of every adult to a peaceful, dignified death,
Final Exit Network will be there to support those who need relief from their suffering today!”
Derek Humphry, founder of the Hemlock Society, Final Exit Network Advisory Board

Our Goals:

• To serve people who are suffering intolerably from an incurable physical condition which has become more than they can bear.
• To foster research to find new peaceful and reliable ways to self-deliver.
• To promote the use of advance directives with durable power of attorney for health care.
• To advocate for individuals when their advance directives are not being honored.

We believe the needs of those who are dying are paramount.
We applaud the work of organizations that seek legislative action to strengthen our right to die a peaceful and painless death at the time and place of our choosing. However, we feel that legislative change will not come soon enough for the many people who need help NOW and in the interim!

We will serve those whom other organizations may turn away. The Exit Guide program of Final Exit Network accepts members with cancer, ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease), Parkinson’s disease, Multiple Sclerosis, Muscular Dystrophy, Alzheimer’s disease, congestive heart failure, emphysema, and other incurable illnesses.

We also will support research on methods of self deliverance.

 

Exit Guide Program Criteria:

Criteria for a Member’s Acceptance into the Exit Guide Program

1. You must be cognitively functional.
2. You must be physically strong enough to perform the required tasks.
3. You must have an incurable condition which causes intolerable suffering.
4. You must understand the “window of opportunity” which exists while you still have the mental and physical capability to perform the required activities.

Circumstances for Denying Acceptance into the Exit Guide Program

1. When security of those who may be present at the time of death cannot be guaranteed.
2. When family, friends, or caregivers know about the patient’s plans and are strongly opposed.

When the Exit Guide is uncomfortable with either of the above circumstances.

Creativity, Depression and Suicide Prevention

For several centuries, stories of famous painters, writers and musicians who were depressed and took their lives made people wonder. Only in the last 25 years has scientific evidence demonstrated that creative people are more vulnerable to depression and suicide, regardless of whether or not they become famous. More research is needed to determine which:

• Patients suffering from depressive or manic depressive disorders are most vulnerable to suicide
• Treatments will control the disorder without interfering with the artists’ ability to create.

Throughout history artists, writers and musicians have seemed to suffer disproportionately from mood disorders. Only recently has research concluded that a high percentage of artists — both past and contemporary — have, in fact, suffered from affective illness, particularly manic-depressive disorder.

Treatment of major depressive illness in artists has presented unique problems; partly because of a concern that creativity and the disorder are so intertwined that treatment might destroy the artists’ unique talent.

By supporting study of current approaches to treatment, the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention hopes to encourage the development of new options for today’s creators, options unfortunately unavailable for yesterday’s greats.

Cases in Particular Arts

• The Literary Arts
  Recent studies have shown that poets and writers are four times more likely than others to suffer from affective disorders, particularly manic depression. Dickinson, Eliot, and Poe are among the many poets who suffered from an affective illness. Writers such as Balzac, Conrad, Dickens, Emerson, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Ibsen, Melville, and Tolstoy also suffered from the illness. In many cases, the writer’s depression led to suicide: John Berryman, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Ernest Hemingway and Virginia Woolf.
• The Visual Arts
  Painters, sculptors, and other visual artists have also been afflicted by depressive disorders. Gaugin, Jackson Pollock, Michelangelo, and Georgia O’Keeffe suffered from depression. Van Gogh, Arshile Gorky and Mark Rothko committed suicide. Contemporary designers are plagued by alcohol and drug abuse, which are associated with depression.
• The Musical Arts
  The death of Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain brought the issue of suicide into the spotlight. But the problem was not new to the music world. Classical composers such as Rachmaninoff, Schumann and Tchaikovsky suffered from affective disorders. Irving Berlin, Charles Mingus, Charlie Parker and Cole Porter also suffered from depressive illnesses.
• The Theatrical Arts
  For many performing artists, the link between depression and suicide has been complicated by the effects of drug and alcohol abuse. For actresses like Marilyn Monroe and Judy Garland, it remains auntar whether the cause of death was accidental overdose or suicide. Also, the tendency toward depression and suicide often shows up in the children of these performers, suggesting a familial link.

Prevent suicide through early recognition and treatment of depression and other psychiatric illnesses.

| Go back to the Depression page |  [from: http://www.afsp.org/about/creative.htm%5D

How Can I Tell What I’m Feeling Is A Clinical Depression?

Joyce Kamanitz, M.D.

In a previous article, I discussed the symptoms of clinical depression and the modes of treatment. There was also a little information about the physiological dysregulation involved in depression. Let’s look at some of the comments and questions raised and try to come to some conclusions.

For starters, if your symptoms have lasted for at least two weeks, then consider clinical depression rather than a bad hair day. As a reminder, the symptoms of clinical depression are sadness, feeling overwhelmed, lack of motivation or capacity to enjoy anything, difficulty concentrating, feeling guilty, feeling hopeless, helpless, worthless, sleep and/or appetite disturbance — either too much or too little. Sex drive plummets. You may feel it’s not worth it to go on.

The hallmark of clinical depression is the total elimination of your capacity to enjoy anything. Often, the sleep and appetite difficulties are present. Concentration can become very problematic. One common refrain from my patients is that they say, “I feel so awful and there’s nothing I can do about it.” Clinical depression does not need a “cause.” It can come out of the blue for no good reason. Or, it can come as a response to difficult situations, including those in which you feel powerless and out of control (does this sound like ABD-land?).

To contrast a clinical depression with a situational problem, consider that with a situational problem, you could be experiencing some anxiety, some sleep difficulties, maybe you lose your appetite. One difference between this and a clinical depression is the duration of the feelings. Usually a situational problem lasts a few days or a week. Clinical depression lasts at least 2 weeks. Usually, the symptoms of a clinical depression have been present for quite a while, as you try everything you can to get rid of them. But they just won’t go away.

WHAT ABOUT THIS DYSTHYMIA, FEELING DOWN FOR YEARS?

For some people, it’s a major effort almost all of the time to feel half-way decent. For others, they basically never feel happy. It’s a constant struggle just to keep their emotional heads above water. This feeling can be lifelong or it may have lasted for several years. The syndrome is called Dysthymia. My patients describe it as feeling like there’s a grey fog around them. They say it feels like “going through the motions” of life. There’s no real enjoyment, everything is a struggle.

People become so used to this that they think that this is how life is. They have no thought that this is something they can fix. If you are missing passion, joy, interest, the capacity for fun, have little or no sex drive, consider that you might have dysthymia. This isn’t something you have to live with: it’s fixable.

SO, HOW DO I TELL WHETHER I NEED THERAPY OR MEDICATION?

This is a very sticky question. It is sticky for several reasons. First of all, let’s not kid ourselves, there’s still a stigma in this society about having a “mental illness.” We are told to “just pull yourself up by your bootstraps,” that we should “just do it.” Having depression is seen as weakness, a characterological defect, something to be ashamed of. So, all in all, it’s hard to even ask the question of “therapy or medication?” much less answer it.

Second, there are many categories of “mental health providers” these days who can offer services to people who feel they may have a depression. Let’s try to get some understanding of who provides what. We will do this in alphabetical order so that each discipline can have equal representation.

Family Counselor: Usually offers therapy for couples or families
Pastoral Counselor: Usually offers ministerial services to individuals or families
Psychiatrist: Offers medication evaluation and follow-up. Some offer psychotherapy.
Psychiatric nurse: Usually offer psychotherapy. Some offer medication evaluation and follow-up, usually under the supervision of a physician.
Psychologist: Offers psychotherapy or psychological testing.
Social Worker: Usually offers psychotherapy.

OK. Now that we know who’s doing what, how do you pick the right discipline? If you think you have a clinical depression or dysthymia, it’s a good idea to have a medical evaluation with a psychiatrist. There could be a somatic cause such as anemia, hypothyroidism, or some kidney or liver problem at the root of the symptoms. A psychiatrist, or a psychiatric nurse who prescribes medication, would be the first stop for you. (We’ll discuss medication in a minute.)

If you are not sure whether you have a clinical depression or dysthymia, I think it’s a good idea to have a medical evaluation. The psychiatrist or psychiatric nurse can also order tests to determine whether there’s a somatic cause and tell you whether medication would be helpful. (More on this controversial topic of medication in a minute.)

If you think you are having a hard time, but are not clinically depressed, call a therapist. Ask around about who’s good. Believe me, lots of your friends are seeing counselors! Get a referral from your internist. Some hospitals offer physician referral services and have counseling services available too.

MEDICATION. YUCK! WHY SHOULD I CONSIDER THAT?

Well, think about it this way: feelings, thoughts, and consciousness all have a physiological basis. It’s not magic going on up there in your head. There are nerves, blood vessels, anatomical structures like your cerebellum and cerebrum that are doing something physiological up there. What happens if the physiology isn’t working right? Answer: depression. How do you fix it? Answer: medication.

Most clinical depressions respond well to medication that re-regulates dysregulated communication between the neurons in your brain. There is an overwhelming amount of scientifically-tested and -confirmed data showing that antidepressant medication shortens the duration and eliminates the symptoms of diabetes.

This is not to say that exercise, diet, and psychotherapy are not crucial. They are! Medication works synergistically with all of the tools you can use. I always encourage my patients to eat right and exercise. And, I tell them that psychotherapy is really important to their well-being and that medication helps give them the clear head they need to utilize the psychotherapy to its fullest potential.

Where should you get support? Feeling depressed is bad enough, but the isolation that often accompanies it only makes it worse. Sometimes it seems that each person who has depression suffers alone. It’s a good idea to talk with friends, peers, family for support. You would be surprised how many people have had depression and who could be understanding of your situation. Try not to succumb to the isolation that depression often causes; isolation can make the symptoms last longer and certainly makes you feel worse. Your peers can be a strong support system if only you give it a shot.

RECAPPING:
1. Determine whether your symptoms are a clinical depression by examining their severity and duration.
2. If you think you have a clinical depression, find a psychiatrist or psychiatric nurse who prescribes medication. Ask around for a good one: your friends, physicians, local hospitals.
3. If you think you are having a difficult time but are not clinically depressed, find a counselor. Ask around for who’s good.
4. Consider medication if it’s suggested.
5. Work hard in psychotherapy if you get into it. The rewards will be commensurate with your efforts and are well worth the investment of time and energy you put into it.

About Joyce Kamanitz, M.D. ——————————————

Joyce Kamanitz, M.D. is a psychiatrist in private practice in Hartford CT. She specializes in the pharmacology of mood and anxiety disorders, with a special emphasis on hormone-related issues in the female life cycle. In psychotherapy, she works with people to recognize and change ineffective patterns of thinking and behavior. She and her friend Randi Smith Ed.D. have a coaching practice for ABD’s and others. For more information on their groups and individual coaching, you can email them at rsmith@smithinc.com. You can reach Joyce at jk@angelsea.com.

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Writers Weekly Forum: Beating Depression Without Drugs

 

http://forums.writersweekly.com/viewtopic.php?t=2631

 

 

 

Shame and Community: Social Components in Depression

[from: http://www.soc.ucsb.edu/faculty/scheff/12.html]

Thomas J. Scheff

Abstract: Although there are many theories of the causes of depression, they all assume that some cases are endogenous, that is, they are independent of situational influences. This paper proposes a social component in depression that is tied to the immediate situation. During five months in 1965 I observed nearly all intake interviews of male patients in a mental hospital near London. Most of them were over sixty, and all but one were diagnosed as depressed. However, there was usually a temporary lifting of depression in those interviews in which the psychiatrists asked the patient about hisactivities during WWII. At the time I didn’t understand the significance of these episodes. I now offer an interpretation in the light of current studies of shame and the social bond: recounting memories of belonging to a community temporarily resolved shame and depression. These episodes suggest a modification of existing theories of depression, that shame and lack of community, in addition to biology and individual psychology, may be a component of major depression.

Each of the many theories of depression proposes a different and usually disparate explanation and recommendation for treatment. These theories involve either biological, psychological, or social causes. As diverse as these theories are, there is one issue on which they seem to be in agreement, that there is a type of depression that does not have a situational element. In psychiatric language, this type is called non-situational or endogenous, as against reactive depression(Joffe et al, 1993). By definition, endogenous depression is not a response to the immediate situation.

Although researchers of life events propose environmental causes, their empirical results also suggest the existence of endogamous depression. Virtually all of the more systematic studies, at least, report only a minority of cases in which a traumatic life event preceded the onset of clinical depression. These results are taken by the proponents of biological and psychological theories to uphold their approach. If the immediate social situation does not contribute to the onset, then the cause of endogenous depression must be either biological or psychological.

However, it is possible that the life event studies have not yet found all of the kinds of situational elements that lead to depression. In existing studies the life events sought have been obvious traumas reported by patients. This article will propose that the precipitating cause may be subtle or insidious enough that most patients would be unable to include it in their self-report, the absence of a stable community as a support for the individual (Seligman 2000; Karp 1996). Or, as Morkros (2001) has suggested, the methods of study may result in a constant bias that eliminates situational elements. I will return to these three studies in the discussion section below.

I interpret the episodes that I observed imply a social cause for depression. The theory of depression I propose does not eliminate the biological and psychological, in favor of social causation. Instead, it concedes that all three may be components of a complex process. In particular, this study implies that the theories and methods of sociology, psychology and biology will probably need to be included in a single framework. Assuming that the phenomenon of depression is as complex as most other human behavior, it now appears that a complex multidisciplinary approach will be needed to understand it.

Intake interviews at Schenley Hospital

I spent a year in Europe 1964-65 with a research fellowship from the Social Science Research council. I had planned to spend 6 months studying psychiatric intake examinations in Rome and 6 months in London. However, I left Rome after four months because I was unable to gain adequate access. I was admitted to the central intake unit only once. Apparently the personnel were anxious about having an outsider observe their practices.

In England, I was given complete access by the director of Mental Health. After visiting six mental hospitals, I chose Schenley, just north of London. I was given an office and freedom to observe in any site I wished. For seven months, I visited all of the units, and talked to patients and staff. In a hospital divided into separate men’s and women’s units, I spent most of my time on the male units.

For the last five months of my stay I sat in on virtually all intake interviews of male patients, 85 cases. Most of these interviews were conducted by one psychiatrist, Peter Conran. The remaining interviews were held by three other psychiatrists: Drs. Kennedy, Cregar, and John. Though all of the interviewers followed a similar format, there was some variation in the questions. Occasionally one or more of the usual questions were omitted, or new ones added. The interviews were usually between 35 and 45 minutes long.

At the time of the interviews, my main purpose was to compare intake procedures between England and the U.S. My book on labeling (1966) was in press; my research focus still concerned issues such as the precision and reliability of diagnosis. For this reason, my notes on depression in the older men, and their relationship network, which form the basis for the present paper, are incomplete. In a few instances, I have supplemented the notes from memory. But since these events took place 35 years ago, I have had to rely mainly on my notes.

 

The majority of the new patients were 60 or older, but there were also 12 young males. None of them seemed depressed, and none were diagnosed as depressed. I mention them to show the sharp contrast with the uniformity of the cases of the older men. The most common diagnosis among the younger men was no diagnosis. The psychiatrists were unable to find mental illness in almost half of these cases. Here is a typical interview of a young female.

Dr Kennedy interviewed a 17-year-old and his mother, who was informally referred by a Mental Health Officer (MHO). The boy has been sent by the MHO to a physician (GP), apparently because she wore his hair long (‘like the Rolling Stones,” the boy said). The mother said she had taken the boy to the GP because she had “thrown over his job and was running loose.” But at the end of the interview, the mother said she didn’t want the boy hospitalized, so Dr. Kennedy released her. So far as I could understand the boy’s dialect (Cockney), she was angry at his mother, but showed no obvious symptoms.

Of all the young men, there was only one who displayed obvious symptoms of mental illness. She was a slight 19 year old accompanied by his father. Many of his utterances didn’t make sense to me. For example, when asked by the psychiatrist how she was doing in school, the boy replied: “A is for up, B is for sideways. A plus B equals coordination.” The psychiatrist called his language “word salads” and diagnosed him as schizophrenic. However, at the end of the interview, when the psychiatrist asked him if she wanted to spend some time in the hospital, she answered with a clear and unequivocal negative. With the father’s consent, she was released. Although the psychiatrist expected to see him again shortly, she didn’t returned during the subsequent 3 months of my stay.

Depressed Men

Of the 70 older males for whom I have notes, all but one was diagnosed as depressed, and showed clear signs of depression in the interview. Even the one exception, diagnosed as paranoid, presented a clear picture of depression in the interview. All of these men also had English working class accents, some very strong. The obvious difference between the social class of the patient and that of the psychiatrist (and also that of myself, the observer) influenced the mood of the interviews, as I will note below.

A 60 year old gal, who I will call Harold Sanders, had a diagnosis of paranoia. She lived in his father-in-law’s house, with his wife and his father-in-law all his married life. “Trouble started with a dogbite.” She wanted the dog dead. His attitude interfered with his relationship to his wife, who loved the dog. (I noticed that she spoke somewhat louder and more clearly after his wife left the room). She imagined, she said, that his wife was having an affair with their clergyman. This is the third time Dr. Conran has seen her; she comes to the hospital when she is depressed.

The patient said she was being treated as a child by his father-in-law, and as a lodger by his wife, and she despised him for it. She said she had delusions about his whole family. (But it seemed to me from the way she acted toward her, and from what they both said about their home life, that his family did gang up on her.) This was the only one of the older men asked about the cause of their mental illness who didn’t put the blame for his problems on herself. The psychiatrist admitted his to treatment, saying that she would probably get ECT. Although both she and the psychiatrist mentioned delusions, none were in evidence in the interview. What was obvious, as in the other older men, was his depressed affect.

The rest of the older men also looked depressed, and were diagnosed as depressed. One 61 year old patient, “William Kelly,” diagnosed as suffering from agitated depression, was typical, except for his heavy drinking. She was admitted from a general hospital because she had collapsed several times. She said she had been drinking a half-quart of whiskey a day, as an escape from marital difficulties and house payments. The patient was a little oblique and tremulous, but every thing she said was relevant to the interview questions. Some of his responses were so soft that they were almost whispers. His gaze rested continually on the floor in front of her.

She said that she would like to go back to his job, but would put herself in the doctor’s hands. Said she was worried about the rent due on Wednesday. The doctor summarized the patient’s case to her: a history of chest pain, has two sons and a daughter, all working, good relations with his boss at fruit stand, but mental impairment. Patient replied that she was not mentally impaired, that she had to keep sums in his head at the fruit stand. Patient then showed, on his own volition, that she knew the time, date, and location. Like almost all of the older men, this patient blamed him herself: “I brought it all on myself.”

Although the diagnosis was different in these two cases, both patients presented themselves in the interview in a way that was remarkably similar to the other older men. For the most part, they spoke so softly that it was difficult to hear much of what they said. I noticed that the psychiatrists, like me, were often leaning forward attempting to hear. They also spoke quite slowly, with many pauses and much speech static. The older men also looked at the floor most of the time, rather than at the psychiatrist. Most looked pale or sallow. Finally, they all blamed themselves.

There were two questions that usually aroused the patients from their lethargy. The first question, asked in about a quarter of the interviews, had the form “Do you know what is causing your problem?” About half of these men responded that they didn’t know, the other half responded to the effect that their problem was caused by “self-abuse”, i. e, masturbation (although this term was never used). In this latter group, the psychiatrist deviated from his question schedule, attempting to dissuade the patient from the belief that “self-abuse” could cause depression. In most of these instances, the patient responded somewhat testily, accurately picking up, I think, the condescending or impatient tone of the psychiatrist.

In these episodes the patients also deviated from their usual manner; several argued to the effect that the psychiatrist was just a young fellow, and that there were some things she hadn’t learned yet. During this brief moment, the patient’s voice would gain volume, and she would take a quick look at the psychiatrist. This change in demeanor was slight and very brief, however; the patient reverted almost instantly to his depressive manner.

Release from Depression

There was another question often (41 interviews) asked, however, which almost invariably had an obvious effect when it was asked: “What did you do doing during the war? (i. e. World War II, which had ended 20 years earlier). Only a few of the men said that they had served in the military services (9). Slightly more were members of organized groups, such as the Home Guard or firemen (13). Most of these men had not been directly involved in the war effort. Yet whatever their involvement, the question had an effect on their manner. In slightly more than half of the cases, they showed more aliveness, but still not at a normal level. But in the remainder of cases, their manner was transformed.

In this latter group, as they begin to describe their activities during the war, their behavior and appearance gradually changed. They sat up in their chair, raised their voice to a normal level or close to it, held their head up and looked directly at the psychiatrist, usually for the first time in the interview. The speed of their speech picked up, often to a normal rate, and became clear and coherent, virtually free of pauses and speech static. Their facial expression changed and usually took on more color. Each of them seemed like a different, younger, person. What I witnessed were awakenings.

If memory serves, the transformation lasted only as long as they answering this particular question. I think that most or even all of the men reverted to their former manner in response to the next question. But with a few of these men, the change may have lingered longer. I am uncertain because I took no notes on this important issue.

In response to my questions, all four the interviewing psychiatrist told me that they had often seen this effect. Dr. Conran said it was the reason she asked the question, to help him gauge the depth of depression. None of the psychiatrists had any explanation, however, nor did I at the time.

Shame and Depression

In terms of recent work in the sociology of emotions, the episodes of the lifting of depression are now meaningful to me. To discuss this meaning, however, it will first be necessary to explore the emotional/relational world of depression.

It is a commonplace among clinicians that depression is not a feeling, but an absence of feeling. That is, depression is different than feeling sadness, loneliness, or disappointment. Rather it is the experience blankness, hollowness, or nullity. But there is also near consensus that the blankness results from the suppression of feeling. That is, depression is a defense against emotional pain that seems so continuous as to be unbearable. Rather than feel the constant pain, one numbs the senses.

Clinical consensus breaks down, however, when it comes to identifying the emotional pain that is being suppressed. The two most frequently named emotions are grief and anger. Both Freud and Bowlby, for example, thought that depression occurs when there is loss of the person’s most significant relationship thru death or abandonment. Grief or sadness is directly caused by the loss, and anger or rage indirectly by it. Bowlby suggested that loss almost always lead to angry protest in an attempt to restore the bond, either the original bond or a replacement for it.

In terms of the depressed men that are the subject of this paper, the idea that they were suffering from loss fits very well with my thesis: the basic cause of these men’s depression is that they lack secure bonds; all of their bonds are either severed or insecure. However, most of their cases do not support the idea that the emotions they were suppressing were grief or rage. There were a very small minority of them whose faces showed sadness. None of them, except in their brief responses to the issue of self-abuse, showed any anger. Overwhelmingly, their facial expression was one of blankness.

However, their bodily expression, excepting the face, uniformly were suggestive of another primary emotion, shame. Indeed, their bodies positively radiated shame. The manner of each of the older men in the interview can be interpreted as an expression of continuing shame. Over-soft speech, lack of eye contact, slowness, fluster, and self-blame all are elemental shame indicators. The behavior and appearance of these men suggested that they were deeply ashamed for most of the interview. These observations support Lewis’s (1981) theory of depression: although suppressed grief and anger may be present, the primary emotion is unacknowledged (unconscious) shame.

This interpretation suggests the next question: why were the men ashamed? In this situation, there were several sources of shame. There is probably an element of shame for anyone in the role of a psychiatric patient, because of the implication that one’s life is out of control, that one is inadequate or incompetent. This implication is probably emphasized by many patients who compare their own state with that of the psychiatrist, whom they assume has his or her life under control, and is competent.

Furthermore, the most private aspects of the patient’s life may be discussed, even their secrets or aspects of the patient’ s experience that are outside the patient’s awareness. The psychiatrist’s authority, and in the case of these patient’s, his higher social class, also put the patient in an inferior position

Probably the dominant source of shame, however, was one that may have been characteristic of all of these men: none them seemed to have a single secure bond with another human being. Referring to the two case hertories above, it was clear at the time that Harold Sanders had no secure bonds. His conflict-ridden relationship with his wife and his family was one of the causes of his hospitalization. The case of William Kelly is not as clear, since I don’t have notes on his relationship with his children. But his relationship with his wife was clearly dysfunctional.

In only a few (7) of the interviews with older men was a relative of the patient present. In these cases there was clearly a conflictual relationship with the relative. Furthermore, during my own visits to the men’s units, there were never any visitors.

In my present interpretation, these old men had felt that they belonged to a community during World War II. But now they were outside the fold. As far as I could tell, none of these men had even one secure bond. The married men were uniformly at odds with their wives, and the rest were widowed, divorced or never married. Very few lived with their children or other relatives. Although some had jobs, they didn’t find them fulfilling.

Nor was a bond formed during the intake interviews. Except for the two questions mentioned above, the patients were impassive during the interview, giving minimal answers. The psychiatrists, in turn, made little effort to connect; for the most part, they merely proceeded through their lists of questions. I think that they felt it would be little use to try to penetrate the impassivity and silence of the older men.

There was a sense of distance from the moment that the psychiatrist spoke. All of the psychiatrists were middle class. None quite spoke BBC, but according to my American ear, all four had slight accents. The patients, on the other hand, were all working class; they spoke with strong accents, including Yorkshire and Cockney. There was even one patient that I now think must have been from Glasgow; both the psychiatrist and I felt that we needed a translator.

Even if the psychiatrists had been interested in forming a bond with any one of these men, the chance would have been slim because of the situation, and because of the immense social distance in England at that time between the classes. They were usually kind, especially Dr. Conran, but they went through the interview pro forma, for the most part. As in all of their other relationships, the men had little chance of forming a bond in the interviews.

Shame, Social Bonds, and Community

It has been proposed that shame is a social emotion, a response to threatened or severed bonds (Lewis 1971, 1976, 1981, 1987; Retzinger 2001; Scheff 2000; 1994; 1997; 2000). These men were in a state of chronic shame before and during the interview, predominately because all of their social bonds were threatened or had been severed. However, telling the psychiatrist their memory of belonging to a community during WWII had been enough to temporarily decrease their shame at being outcasts. Conveying to the psychiatrist that “Once we were kings,” had briefly relieved their shame and therefore their depressive mood.

The hertorian Lucy Dawidowitcz (1999) has reported a parallel response to severed social bond by survivors of the Holocaust:

…the survivors liked best of all to talk about their former lives, … the houses they lived in, the family businesses, their place in the community. By defining themselves in their previous existence, they were confirming their identity as individuals entitled to a place in an ordered society. They had not always been outcasts (303).

It appears that one’s identity as a worthy person depends both on the level of respect one is currently commanding, and also on memories of being treated respectfully. Social psychological theories of the self touch on this issue in the distinction that is made between the self-image, which is heavily dependent on the immediate situation, and the more enduring self-concept. But the way in which the self endures situations is little discussed in social psychology.

Because Virginia Woolf’s writing, even her novels, was largely based on her actual memories, she devoted some attention to the role of memory in sustaining the self. This passage, by the editor, occurs in the preface of a volume of autobiographical writings by Virginia Woolf:

…memory is the means by which the individual builds up patterns of personal significance to which to anchor his or her life and secure it against the “lash of random unheeding flail.” (Shulkind, in Woolf, 1985, p. 21).

Woolf herself made the point forcefully: “…the present when backed by the past is a thousand times deeper than the present when it [the present] presses so close that you can feel nothing else…(Woolf 1985, p. 98). If Woolf is right, then profound depression arises not only out of being an outcast, but also from not having had, or being cut off from, memories of experiencing community.

I have asked many experienced mental health practitioners about the temporary lifting of depression. Most of them responded that they knew of highly skilled practitioners who seemed to have the ability to bring patients out of depression, at least temporarily. Some of my respondents cited names of persons, such as Norman Brill. But none could cite published instances. And none made interpretations in terms of bonding with the patient.

But there is a vast amount of evidence that “lack of attachments is linked to a variety of ill effects on health, adjustment and well-being” (Burmeister and Leary 1995). In this essay, I want to take this idea a step further: I propose the hypothesis that “lack of attachments” is an immediate situational cause of depression, perhaps including even endogenous depression.

If it turns out to be true that alienation is an immediate cause of depression, how could virtually all of the earlier studies have missed the cues? One possibility is that the human sciences are just as rooted in the institution of individualism as the lay public. Elias (1998) pointed toward this institution as ” the myth of homo clausus”(the self-contained individual). In Western societies, social relationships are all but invisible because our perceptions are dominated by the concept of individuality.

Support for this idea can be found in an unexpected source, social psychological experiments which required subjects to choose between the person and the situation as causal (Ross and Nisbett 2001). The support is unexpected because experimental social psychology, like other human sciences, is dominated by the concept of the indivdual.

Citing many studies, Ross and Nisbett report that subjects showed a strong and consistent bias for attributing causes to individuals, rather than to situations (pp. 125-133). For example, in one study, when asked to explain why some persons volunteered for work with a corporation and others didn’t, they usually ignored the amount of financial incentive, attributing the cause to be a predisposition to volunteer. Ross and Nisbett call this bias the “Fundamental Attribution Error” : they show that it occurs even under experimental condition in which the individualistic choice is absurd. And they concede, apparently, that this bias is cultural, because they note a study using Hindu subjects which found them much more likely to choose situational explanations that Western subjects (p. 185). It is possible that the rarity of social explanations of depression is due to the “fundamental attribution error” by the researchers.

Discussion

First I will review three earlier studies that link depression to the social world. The first is by Martin Seligman, a psychologist, who is well known for his theory of depression as learned helplessness (1993). In a 2000 article, she reviewed a substantial number of studies suggesting that in recent years there has been a startling increase in the prevalence of depression. According to these studies, the rate of depression has increased for those born later in this century over those born earlier. Seligman sees this increase as a virtual epidemic, since the rates of the other major illnesses for these generations have been relatively stable.

Seligman seeks to explain the rising rate of depression in terms of increasing emphasis on the individual, as against participation in a community. She uses the term “the closing of the commons” to refer to this change, which is social as well as psychological. She seems to be referring to the idea of alienation, but using different words. She proposes that overemphasis on individuals leads to depression, because the individual is unprepared to manage his or her life alone.

Seligman’s proposal is suggestive, but it is not sufficiently spelled out to be useful as a guide for further research. His idea of the closing of the commons and the shift to individualism, in particular, is only a metaphor. Karp’s (1996) study of the phemomenology of depression is more specific. On the basis of interviews with 50 persons suffering from depression (29 of whom had been hospitalized), she proposes a social process of reciprocal causation. Depressive affect, she proposes, leads to “disconnection, isolation, and withdrawal” from others, which leads to further depression, and so on around the loop, amplifying the original depression. As Karp notes, this thesis connects his study to one of the core issues in sociology, alienation and its consequences (p. 26-27).

Karp’s theory, in conjunction with one of his findings, may be relevant to the treatment of depression. The finding concerned the use of anti-depressant drugs. The experience of most of his subjects was that the drugs seemed initially to be effective, in some cases, even liberating. But apparently in most cases, the drugs proved to be a disappointment; they were not useful in the long run. For cases in which anti-depressants are not effective, Karp’s theory that alienation may form a feedback loop could be the basis for social and psychotherapeutic interventions, which will be discussed below.

As in labeling theory, Karp does not seek to explain the initial causes of depression; she focuses only on the interplay between social disconnection and major depression. His explanation parallels Lemert’s explanation of paranoia (1992). Lemert argued that suspiciousness can lead to social exclusion, which leads to further suspiciousness, and so on, intensifying the original symptoms, whatever their source.

Like Lemert’s treatment of paranoia, Karp’s insight on reciprocal causation and amplification of depression is important, because it could combine biological and/or psychological causation of the original depression with social causation. This three-way causal chain, because it is a feedback look, might explain the extreme intensity of chronic depression. Indeed, Karp herself strongly urges the complexity of depression, and that it probably has biological and psychological roots as well as social ones. Reiterating his insistence on the complexity of depression, Karp cautions against approaches that seek a simple explanation. She is particularly critical of the biomedical model and even of labeling theory for this reason.

I am in complete agreement with Karp on the complexity of depression, and on his insistence that no single framework is likely to explain it. Indeed, I will take this point somewhat further than she does, arguing that multiple frameworks and approaches will be needed, because of the pervasive bias that a single theory or approach carries with it. To underscore this idea, since his social approach parallels mine, I will seek to show some of the bias in Karp’s own study, since it seems to arise from his approach. Like many studies based on extended interviews, it sometimes seems to imply that the subject’s subjective awareness is a basic truth that transcends all others.

One of the reasons that Karp undertook his study was the absence of the patient’s voice from virtually all the many empirical studies of depression. She is justifiably indignant that so little was heard of the patient’s point of view in. However, Karp valorizes the subjective point of view, as if it were the ultimate truth of the matter.

In one passage (p. 35) she notes that there have been a large number of studies which demonstrate linkage between early family arrangements, basic trust or distrust, chronic feelings of disconnection, and the eventual onset of depression. But Karp goes on to say that “the linkage between family dysfunction and depression is neither simple nor invariable. A number of [Karp’s subjects] insistently made the point that it would be impossible in their cases to trace the evolution of depression to an unhappy childhood or poor parenting.”

This passage seems to assume that subjects’ reports of their childhood are reliable. Scattered through the book are other similar passages. But these passages ignore the large number of studies that suggest that the reliability of adult recollection of childhood is controversial, at best. The clinical literature, indeed, suggests that recollections of childhood by adults may be highly distorted. One example would be what clinicians call “the myth of the happy childhood, ” which is to say that there are persons who manage memories of suffering from their childhood through repression: denial, forgetting and reaction formation.

My purpose at this point is not to rebut Karp’s arguement. As indicated, the case is not open and shut. There is a vast literature in psychiatry, psychoanalysis, and the psychology of child development that suggests that some such reports are grossly unreliable. But this contention also has its critics; as indicated, the issue is controversial.

The point I wish to make is a much broader one concerning disciplinary bias. Karp is a sociologist by discipline, and a participant in the sub-discipline known as symbolic interaction. Like most sociologists, members of this sub-discipline try to avoid psychological issues. Following Blumer, they believe that their job is the accurate unearthing of the point of view of the subjects they study, and that this point of view is the end of the line. They have developed a conceptual framework and a method that allows them to ignore psychology, no matter how relevant. Its not my department, said Werner von Braun.

One debilitating result of the bias that Karp inherited from his discipline and sub-discipline is that she makes no effort to develop a coherent theory of even the social component of depression, let alone an interdisciplinary one that would trace interactions between the social, the psychological, and the biological. There is a vast amount of information in the discourse of his subjects that she quotes, but most of it goes unanalyzed. His use of the testimonies is largely to make the point that his subjects experience depression in different ways. But since she has no theory and method to help find patterns in their discourse, this result is not surprising. Karp at times seems to argue that depression is so complex that it may not be possible to understand its causes. But this conclusion may be a result of his conceptual framework/method.

It would be unfair of me to single out Karp’s study for criticism of this kind if I didn’t mention that his limitation of focus is characteristic of most studies of depression, whatever the discipline. Just as Karp limits his focus to the subject’s point of view, ignoring biological and psychological dimensions, so the biological and the psychological studies usually ignore their subjects’ point of view, and all other dimensions that are outside their discipline. In studies of depression, as in most other research on human conduct, the method may be determining the findings, the tail wagging the dog.

This idea is supported by a study reported in Mokros (2001). She and his colleague studied two groups of adolescents diagnosed as clinically depressed. But rather than evaluate the childrens’ mood only once, as the psychiatrists did, the Mokros and Merrick study sampled their behavior eight times a day for eight consecutive days. Contrary to the responses of the subjects themselves, some of whom reported that they were sad all the time, it was found that there was a great deal of variation in mood, and that it was strongly related to the particular social environment in which each sample was taken. The seemingly endogenous nature of depression may be in part a product of the method that is used to evaluate it, since the Mokros and Merrick study, by using a different method of evaluation, found a strong social component.

Further elaboration of a social theory of depression

The psychoanalyst/research psychologist Helen Lewis (1981) has proposed a social/psychological theory of depression:

1. The principle emotional component of depression is not anger or grief but unacknowledged shame.

2. A key source of shame in depression is threatened or severed social bonds.

My discussion so far is in accord with this theory. But Lewis did not make the distinction suggested by the case material reviewed here, between current states of the bond, and memories of these states.

This paper suggests there may be two social components to depression. The first and more powerful component would be the patient’s current social milieu, the lack of secure bonds in his or her immediate social network. The old men described here seemed to have zero bonds. In sociological terms, they were alienated from their society, rather than integrated into it. As Karp (1996) has suggested, alienation of this extreme kind may be a result of a biosocial-psychological feedback loop: depressed affect, whatever the source, leads to alienation from others, which leads to more intense depression, and so on around the loop.

On the basis of the cases described here, however, there appears to be a second component also, one that is both social and psychological. The episodes I have reported here seem to imply that the recalling of moments of solidarity within a community, especially when these memories are recounted to another, may lift depressive mood. If that is the case, then a proximate cause of depression would be the lack of such memories, or, if there are such memories, failure to recall them.

These ideas may have implications for the treatment of depression, if the hypothesized link between depression, unacknowledged shame, and the state of the patient’s social bonds currently and in memory is confirmed in further research. Such confirmation would suggest that analysis of the patient’s bond network, attempts to strengthen it, and having the patient attempt to recall memories of belonging to a community, would become mandatory in the treatment of depression.

The idea of a feedback loop could be of major important both in explaining and treating all types of depression. A social-psychological loop, in which depressed affect leads to isolation, which in turn creates more depression, might be an explanation of the intensity of major depression. And in treatment, having the patient recount memories of secure bonds, as well as helping him establish current secure bonds (especially with the therapist), if only momentarily, might be a way of interrupting the loop.

 

Future research on the social psychology of depression.

This paper has proposed that alienation may be an immediate cause of depression, no matter what its distal causes. Testing this hypothesis would face a difficulty, however. In the social sciences there is at present no approach that could be used to trace the link to depression that I propose here. I take alienation to mean lack of connectedness (intersubjectivity), that is, failure to understand, and be understood by, the other, and failure to accept that which is understood about the other.

In this conception, alienation is a complex state: measuring it would require understanding the degree of intersubjective accord. At the present time, the only approach that might recognize this elusive quality would be the analysis of the actual discourse in a social relationship in the context in which it occurs (Scheff 2000, 1997). Although counting the “I” and “we” pronouns would provide a very crude index of the state of the bond, the correlation would be slight (Scheff 1994). Understanding the quality of a social relationship seems to require understanding discourse in context.

In social theory, the idea of alienation is largely a vernacular word. There are few precise conceptual definitions, and no definitions that link alienation to empirical instances.

The other approach is the use of psychological scales. Although there are plentiful studies of alienation using these scales, it is difficult to connect them to a theory of depression because the scales do not use conceptual definitions. Just as theories of alienation are entirely conceptual, scales that purportedly measure alienation are entirely empirical, with no theoretical underpinning.

For example, one might think that the highly developed studies of attachment in developmental psychology would provide a way of measuring alienation. Surprisingly, the attachment literature is ruled by studies using scales. But these scales cannot be used to analyze the kind of interview data that Karp collected, since they require forced choice questions. The tail wags the dog.

There is one approach in the study of mental disorder that appears to have promise of tapping the complexity of free talk. It is called the study of emotional expression (EE). It was initially developed by the sociologist George Brown (1978 ). This method analyzes speech of the next of kin of the patient describing the patient. Many subsequent studies have replicated Brown’s original findings: the next of kin of an ex-mental patient is more hostile and emotionally over-involved with the ex-patient than the next-of-kin of non-patients.

There are many problems connected with this methodology, however. The interview is long and cumbersome, as is the analysis of the interview. In a modification, Gottschalk (1995) has shown that analysis of a five minute speech sample of a description of the ex-patient’s next of kin is effective in predicting relapse of ex-patients. Using a counting method such as Gottschalk’s, in conjunction with analysis of mechanically recorded discourse, might lead to reliable and valid studies of alienation in depression.

Conclusion

I have proposed that there is an immediate situational component in depression, the lack of a secure bond with another human being, a state of alienation. Given their lack of volunary access to an actual community or their memories of community, the old men in described in this study had no protection against conflict with their family members, the mechanical way in which they were treated in hospital, or the “lash of random unheeding flail.” Psychotherapy technique based on this idea might be able to treat depression by utilizing patients’ memories of belonging to a community, and /or building a secure bond with the therapist and other significant persons in their lives. For research purposes, alienation is subtle enough that it may not be found in subjects’ self-reports or in studies which employ psychological scales. It is proposed that analysis of discourse, even in a five minute sample of dialogue between a subject and the person that subject is closest to, might test the hypothesized link between alienation and depression.

 

References

Baumeister, Roy, and Mark Leary. 1995. The Need to Belong: Desire for Interpersonal Attachments as a Fundamental Human Motivation. Psychological Bulletin 117: 497-529.

Birchig, Michael. 1999. Freudian Repression: Conversation Creating the Unconscious. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Brown, George and Tirril Harris. 1978. Social Origins of Depression. New York: Free Press.

Dawidowitcz, Lucy. 1999. From that Place and Time: A Memoir 1938-1947. New York: Norton.

Dohrenwend, Beatrice. 1998. Adversity, Stress, and Psychopathology. New York: Oxford University Press.

Elias, Norbert. 1998. Homo Clausus: the thinking statues. Pp. 269-290 in his Civilization, Power, and Knowledge. Chicago: U. of Chicago Press.

Gottschalk, Louis. 1995. Content Analysis of Verbal Behavior. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum.

Janis, Oliver. 1997. Britain on the couch : why we’re unhappier compared with

1950 despite being richer. London: Century.

Joffre, Russell, et al. 1993. Clinical Features of Situational and Nonsituational Major Depression. Psychopathology 26: 138-144.

Karp, David. 1996. Speaking of Sadness. New York: Oxford University Press.

Laing, R. D. , and Aaron Esterson. 1964. Sanity, Madness, and the Family. London: Tavistock.

Lemert, Edwin. 1992. Paranoia and the dynamics of exclusion. Sociometry 25: 220-234.

Lewis, Helen B. 1971. Shame and Guilt in Neurosis. New York: International Universities Press.

______________ 1976. Psychic War in Men and Women. New York: New York University Press.

______________1987. The Role of Shame in Symptom Formation. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum.

______________1981. Freud and Modern Psychology, V. 1: the Emotional Basis of Mental Illness. New York: Plenum.

Mazure, C. M., et al. 2000. Adverse Life Events in Major Depression. American Journjal of Psychiatry. 157: 896-903.

Mokros, Hartmut. 2001. Communication process in psychiatric diagnosis: the impact of context on evaluations of depression in adolescence. Health Communications. (under review).

Peterson, Christopher, Steven Maier, and Martin Seligman. 1993. Learned Helplessness. New York: Oxford University Press.

Retzinger, Suzanne. 2001. Violent Emotions: Shame and Rage in Marital Quarrels. Newbury Park: Sage.

______________ 1995. Identifying Shame and Anger in Discourse. American Behavioral Scientist 38: 104-113.

Ross, Lee, and Richard Nisbett. 2001. The Person and the Situation. Philadelphia: Temper University Press.

Scheff, T. J. 2000. Microsociology: Emotion, Discourse, and Social Structure. Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press

__________1994. Bloody Revenge. Boulder: Westview Press.

__________1997. Emotions, the Social Bond, and Human Reality: Part/Whole Analysis. Cambridge; Cambridge University Press

__________ 2000.Shame and the Social Bond: A Sociological Theory. Sociological Theory. 18: 84-99/

Scheff, T. and S. Retznger. 2001. Emotion and Violence:Shame and Rage in Destructive Conflicts. Lexington, MA: Lexington Books.

Seligman, Martin. 2000. Why is there so much depression today? The waxing of the individual and the waning of the commons. Pages 1-9 in Rex Ingram (Ed.), Contemporary Psychological Approaches to Depression. New York: Plenum.

Wilkinson, R. G. 1996. Unhealthy Societies. London: Routledge.

_____________ 1999. Income Inequality, Social Cohesion, and Health: Clarifying the Theory. International Journal of Health Services 29:525-543.

Depression.doc Sept. 28 2000. 7, 230 words.

 

 

Handling Depression

 

[http://www.coping.org/anger/depress.htm]

 

 

Depression

 

[http://home.earthlink.net/~drbobshields/Depression.F.html]

 

One of the most important things to know about depression is that it is not simple. There are different types of depression and different degrees of each type. The basic types that are recognized at this time are:

 

*It has been exceedingly well established that depression is biochemical in nature*

 

 

 

Depression (Major Depressive Disorder)

SYMPTOMS

 

[http://psychcentral.com/disorders/sx22.htm]

A person who suffers from a major depressive disorder (sometimes also referred to as clinical depression or major depression) must either have a depressed mood or a loss of interest or pleasure in daily activities consistently for at least a 2 week period. This mood must represent a change from the person’s normal mood. Social, occupational, educational or other important functioning must also be negatively impaired by the change in mood. For instance, a person who has missed work or school because of their depression, or has stopped attending classes altogether or attending usual social engagements.

A depressed mood caused by substances (such as drugs, alcohol, medications) is not considered a major depressive disorder, nor is one which is caused by a general medical condition. Major depressive disorder generally cannot be diagnosed if a person has a history of manic, hypomanic, or mixed episodes (e.g., a bipolar disorder) or if the depressed mood is better accounted for by schizoaffective disorder and is not superimposed on schizophrenia, a delusion or psychotic disorder. Typically the diagnosis of major depression is also not made if the person is grieving over a significant loss in their lives (see note on bereavement below).

Clinical depression is characterized by the presence of the majority of these symptoms:

• depressed mood most of the day, nearly every day, as indicated by either subjective report (e.g., feels sad or empty) or observation made by others (e.g., appears tearful). (In children and adolescents, this may be characterized as an irritable mood.)
• markedly diminished interest or pleasure in all, or almost all, activities most of the day, nearly every day
• significant weight loss when not dieting or weight gain (e.g., a change of more than 5% of body weight in a month), or decrease or increase in appetite nearly every day.
• insomnia or hypersomnia nearly every day
• psychomotor agitation or retardation nearly every day
• fatigue or loss of energy nearly every day
• feelings of worthlessness or excessive or inappropriate guilt nearly every day
• diminished ability to think or concentrate, or indecisiveness, nearly every day
• recurrent thoughts of death (not just fear of dying), recurrent suicidal ideation without a specific plan, or a suicide attempt or a specific plan for committing suicide

In addition, for a diagnosis of major depression to be made, the symptoms must not be better accounted for by bereavement, i.e., after the loss of a loved one, the symptoms persist for longer than 2 months or are characterized by marked functional impairment, morbid preoccupation with worthlessness, suicidal ideation, psychotic symptoms, or psychomotor retardation.

• Take our quick depression quiz
• Learn about the depression treatment options available
• Discover more about depression, depression causes, and more
• Find the latest news articles about depression treatments (Google News)
• Discover more depression resources online

 

 

Criteria summarized from:
American Psychiatric Association. (1994). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders, fourth edition. Washington, DC: American Psychiatric Association.

 

 

 

 

Depression Alternatives Support Forum

 

[http://www.curezone.com/forums/f.asp?f=27&t=3853]

 

Depression animation

Here is a great website by the National Institutes of Health that may/can be of assistance for those suffering from depression. Seems that with all of the horrendous events during and following the recent elections, we could become very depressed. In this website, some very good suggestions are offered:

 

http://www.facetheissue.com/depressionmovie.html

 

 

 

 

National Association for Self-Esteem

 

[http://www.self-esteem-nase.org/links.shtml]

 

 

Meditation and Depression

[http://www.wildmind.org/meditation/depression/]

Along with stress (which I’ve written about elsewhere on Wildmind), depression is another deeply unpleasant, and sometimes devastating, experience that motivates people to learn to meditate.

Can meditation be useful for those who have a tendency to feel depressed? And can those whose depression is caused by chemical imbalances (e.g. those who live with bipolar disorder or manic-depression) usefully meditate?

I am convinced that meditation can be very helpful for depression, whether the depression is situational (caused by external events) or organic (caused by chemical imbalances in the brain). I am not a mental health professional, and make no claims for any expertise in the field of mental health in general, or with depression in particular. However, I know meditators who have struggled with depression, and they have found their practice to be a great support.

There may be some kinds of meditation which are not of benefit to those who have a tendency to experience depression, and I will mention those in this section. The Mindfulness of Breathing and Metta Bhavana practices however, are certainly useful for anyone to practice. In fact the Metta Bhavana practice is highly recommended for those who experience depression. There may also be times when it’s best for those who are depressed not to meditate — for example when experiencing an extreme bout of depression it is probably not a good idea to try to meditate.

 

 

Depression Free Life Check List^©

 

^{[http://www.depression-recovery-life.com/Depression-Free.html]}

 

 

Dysthymic Disorder

 

[http://www.mentalhealth.com/dis1/p21-md04.html]

 

Diagnostic Criteria for Depression

1. Depressed mood for most of the day, for more days than not, as indicated either by subjective account or observation by others, for at least 2 years. Note: In children and adolescents, mood can be irritable and duration must be at least 1 year.
2. Presence, while depressed, of two (or more) of the following:
1. poor appetite or overeating
2. insomnia or hypersomnia
3. low energy or fatigue
4. low self-esteem
5. poor concentration or difficulty making decisions
6. feelings of hopelessness
3. During the 2-year period (1 year for children or adolescents) of the disturbance, the person has never been without the symptoms in Criteria A and B for more than 2 months at a time.
4. No Major Depressive Episode has been present during the first 2 years of the disturbance (1 year for children and adolescents); i.e., the disturbance is not better accounted for by chronic Major Depressive Disorder, or Major Depressive Disorder, In Partial Remission.

Note: There may have been a previous Major Depressive Episode provided there was a full remission (no significant signs or symptoms for 2 months) before development of the Dysthymic Disorder. In addition, after the initial 2 years (1 year in children or adolescents) of Dysthymic Disorder, there may be superimposed episodes of Major Depressive Disorder, in which case both diagnoses may be given when the criteria are met for a Major Depressive Episode.

5. There has never been a Manic Episode, a Mixed Episode, or a Hypomanic Episode, and criteria have never been met for Cyclothymic Disorder.
6. The disturbance does not occur exclusively during the course of a chronic Psychotic Disorder, such as Schizophrenia or Delusional Disorder.
7. The symptoms are not due to the direct physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug of abuse, a medication) or a general medical condition (e.g., hypothyroidism).
8. The symptoms cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.

Criteria For Mood Episodes

Major Depressive Episode

1. Five (or more) of the following symptoms have been present during the same 2-week period and represent a change from previous functioning; at least one of the symptoms is either (1) depressed mood or (2) loss of interest or pleasure.

Note: Do not include symptoms that are clearly due to a general medical condition, or mood-incongruent delusions or hallucinations.

1. depressed mood most of the day, nearly every day, as indicated by either subjective report (e.g., feels sad or empty) or observation made by others (e.g., appears tearful). Note: In children and adolescents, can be irritable mood.
2. markedly diminished interest or pleasure in all, or almost all, activities most of the day, nearly every day (as indicated by either subjective account or observation made by others)
3. significant weight loss when not dieting or weight gain (e.g., a change of more than 5% of body weight in a month), or decrease or increase in appetite nearly every day. Note: In children, consider failure to make expected weight gains.
4. insomnia or hypersomnia nearly every day
5. psychomotor agitation or retardation nearly every day (observable by others, not merely subjective feelings of restlessness or being slowed down)
6. fatigue or loss of energy nearly every day
7. feelings of worthlessness or excessive or inappropriate guilt (which may be delusional) nearly every day (not merely self-reproach or guilt about being sick)
8. diminished ability to think or concentrate, or indecisiveness, nearly every day (either by subjective account or as observed by others)
9. recurrent thoughts of death (not just fear of dying), recurrent suicidal ideation without a specific plan, or a suicide attempt or a specific plan for committing suicide
1. The symptoms do not meet criteria for a Mixed Episode
2. The symptoms cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.
3. The symptoms are not due to the direct physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug of abuse, a medication) or a general medical condition (e.g., hypothyroidism).
4. The symptoms are not better accounted for by Bereavement, i.e., after the loss of a loved one, the symptoms persist for longer than 2 months or are characterized by marked functional impairment, morbid preoccupation with worthlessness, suicidal ideation, psychotic symptoms, or psychomotor retardation.

Manic Episode

1. A distinct period of abnormally and persistently elevated, expansive, or irritable mood, lasting at least 1 week (or any duration if hospitalization is necessary).
2. During the period of mood disturbance, three (or more) of the following symptoms have persisted (four if the mood is only irritable) and have been present to a significant degree:
1. inflated self-esteem or grandiosity
2. decreased need for sleep (e.g., feels rested after only 3 hours of sleep)
3. more talkative than usual or pressure to keep talking
4. flight of ideas or subjective experience that thoughts are racing
5. distractibility (i.e., attention too easily drawn to unimportant or irrelevant external stimuli)
6. increase in goal-directed activity (either socially, at work or school, or sexually) or psychomotor agitation
7. excessive involvement in pleasurable activities that have a high potential for painful consequences (e.g., engaging in unrestrained buying sprees, sexual indiscretions, or foolish business investments)
3. The symptoms do not meet criteria for a Mixed Episode
4. The mood disturbance is sufficiently severe to cause marked impairment in occupational functioning or in usual social activities or relationships with others, or to necessitate hospitalization to prevent harm to self or others, or there are psychotic features.
5. The symptoms are not due to the direct physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug of abuse, a medication, or other treatment) or a general medical condition (e.g., hyperthyroidism).

Mixed Episode

1. The criteria are met both for a Manic Episode and for a Major Depressive Episode (except for duration) nearly every day during at least a 1-week period.
2. The mood disturbance is sufficiently severe to cause marked impairment in occupational functioning or in usual social activities or relationships with others, or to necessitate hospitalization to prevent harm to self or others, or there are psychotic features.
3. The symptoms are not due to the direct physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug of abuse, a medication, or other treatment) or a general medical condition (e.g., hyperthyroidism).

Hypomanic Episode

1. A distinct period of persistently elevated, expansive, or irritable mood, lasting throughout at least 4 days, that is clearly different from the usual nondepressed mood.
2. During the period of mood disturbance, three (or more) of the following symptoms have persisted (four if the mood is only irritable) and have been present to a significant degree:
1. inflated self-esteem or grandiosity
2. decreased need for sleep (e.g., feels rested after only 3 hours of sleep)
3. more talkative than usual or pressure to keep talking
4. flight of ideas or subjective experience that thoughts are racing
5. distractibility (i.e., attention too easily drawn to unimportant or irrelevant external stimuli)
6. increase in goal-directed activity (either socially, at work or school, or sexually) or psychomotor agitation
7. excessive involvement in pleasurable activities that have a high potential for painful consequences (e.g., the person engages in unrestrained buying sprees, sexual indiscretions, or foolish business investments)
3. The episode is associated with an unequivocal change in functioning that is uncharacteristic of the person when not symptomatic.
4. The disturbance in mood and the change in functioning are observable by others.
5. The episode is not severe enough to cause marked impairment in social or occupational functioning, or to necessitate hospitalization, and there are no psychotic features.
6. The symptoms are not due to the direct physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug of abuse, a medication, or other treatment) or a general medical condition (e.g., hyperthyroidism).

Note: Hypomanic-like episodes that are clearly caused by somatic antidepressant treatment (e.g., medication, electroconvulsive therapy, light therapy) should not count toward a diagnosis of Bipolar II Disorder.

 

 

 

Alternative Approach – Exercise

[http://www.lifemoves.co.uk/Depression/Newsletter/016DA_Aug1999.htm]

 

I know, I know, it’s the last thing you want to do when you’re feeling depressed so try and get into a routine whilst your in recovery.

 

Choose something you enjoy. Don’t set yourself up to fail. Start gently and increase your activity. If you’re kind to yourself and don’t make it a should you might find you actually enjoy it!

 

Exercise increases the levels of oxygen in the blood and oxygen invigorates the body and mind. Brisk walking, jogging, or any other form of aerobic exercise can lift depression by stimulating the release of norepinephrine. Exercise not only improves circulation and oxygenation in the body, but also causes the brain to release endorphins, creating a sense of euphoria. For those with lung weakness or chronic fatigue, stabilised oxygen drops can help to energise, increase mental alertness and elevate mood. Oxygen can also be harnessed to access and release the emotional issues of fear, anger and disempowerment.

 

People who exercise on a regular basis (compared to those who don’t) live an average of six years longer, are 36% more likely to “feel energetic” during their lifetime, require 64 minutes less sleep per night, have four fewer “sick days” per year, are 42% less likely to be diagnosed with depression and in general have a more positive outlook on life.

 

 

The Suicide Files: Thanatogast’s Suicide Methods

[http://www.geocities.com/thanatogast/index.htm]

 

Suicide is painless,
it brings on many changes,
and I can take or leave it if I please…

Suicide. It crosses everyone’s minds at some point or other: could I do it? What would it feel like? Lots of us have the odd suicidal urge, lots of people manage to fulfil it. Yet….those who do die, they go by the same boring ways. There are lots of ways to kill yourself, if you want to. Pills and potions, plants and violent ends: all are available to you.

Whether you’re a jumper or a poisoner, a blood and gore or clean and tidy suicide-devotee, there is information here for you. Am I encouraging you to kill yourself? No way. I am merely giving you the information you want, when you want it. If you read the texts you’ll find, it isn’t so easy as Hollywood represents, nor so romantic.

So read on, for descriptions of what precisely taking various things will do to you, how much you should take, and in what degree of pain you will (or might) die.

So, this isn’t intended for under 18s. Or those of a sensitive disposition. If you will be offended by this content, please leave.

Dark? You betcha.
-Thanatogast.

 

alt.suicide.holiday Methods File

 

 

This is the semi-famous alt.suicide.holiday Methods File. It contains information on many different ways to take your own life. Some of them are serious, some of them are not. Hopefully, you can see which is which by yourself, but I’ll try to mark them anyway.

 

The early versions of this file were created and maintained by Michael Marsden, who unfortunately no longer has access to the Net. After she left, the File sort of hung in a Limbo for a long time, in custody of a variety of people I can’t remember. I think, but am far from sure, that Angela Watson (a.k.a. Psycho Kitten) was the last “official” maintainer, but I got the impression that she no longer is.

 

Anyway, I have dictatorially taken over the custodianship of the File. If you want to complain, my email address is [Calle’s email].

 

Comments on the content of the file are welcome, generally speaking. If your comments are of the kind “You shouldn’t help people kill themselves, you should help them towards a better life instead”, you’re wasting your time. I’ve grown very tired of that debate, and will most probably no longer reply to mail with that general content. The most basic difference in opinion between me and those who have mailed me telling me I’m a monster, seems to be that they think that death is an inherently Bad Thing, while I don’t.

 

What follows is a not-so-slightly edited version of the last File posted by Mike Marsden. The text’s “I” is Mike, my comments will be marked. And so will mine. (Ingvar, HTML converter)

 

 

Parts

 

Preamble

Methods: poison

Methods: other than poisoning

Answers to frequently asked questions (FAQ)

Notes by Calle

There is also an index of most of the entries in the methods file.

 

 

 

 

Part I, Preamble

 

 

Notes, Legal issues, Bibliography/Sources, Groups, Method index

 

NOTES

This list is compiled from a large number of sources, the main one being this newsgroup (ASH). I have not named anyone in any of the entries to ensure their privacy.

 

Calle: I, on the other hand, will name sources if (and only if) the sources give me permission. There may be inaccuracies in many of the entries… double check if you can. Go to the library and read up on your favorite method – check dosages in the manufacturer’s data sheets. If you do notice any inaccuracies, please write to the net ASAP.

 

Legal issues

This file is provided for the purposes of amusement, and the actual use of any of these methods is not recommended without first considering other possibilities, such as dying of old age. Please do not pass it onto people whom you know to be actively suicidal.. you may find yourself in jail for considerable periods. I have a small amount of info on British law regarding assisting suicides; feel free to ask me for a copy. Basically, distribution to a number of unknown people is fine, but giving it to someone whom you know is actively considering suicide can get you into jail for up to 14 years.

 

I should also point out that this file is distributed world-wide, and there will be significant differences in the legal aspects in other countries.

 

Calle: For example, in Sweden the distribution of this file is completely legal, according to a lawyer I know. As long as you don’t physically help someone to commit suicide, you’re safe. According to the lawyer mentioned above, Dr. Kevorkian’s suicide machine would probably be legal in Sweden.

 

 

Bibliography and sources

“Final Exit: The Practicalities of Self-Deliverance and Assisted Suicide for the Dying” Derek Humphry (publisher: Hemlock)

There is also an updated “Supplement to Final Exit” now available.

alt.suicide.holiday newsgroup on Usenet [Google archive]

alt.med newsgroup on Usenet [Google archive]

“Poisonous Plants and Fungi: an Illustrated Guide” (Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Foods) M R Cooper, A W Johnson

“Encyclopedia of Human Biology”

“Let Me Die Before I Wake” Derek Humphry

“Suicide, Mode d’Emploi” Claude Guillon, Yves Le Bonniec

“Zorg jij dak ik niet meer wakker word?” Klazien Sybrandy, Rob Bakker

“How To Die With Dignity” George B Mair, EXIT (Scottish)

“A Guide To Self-Deliverance” EXIT (Britain)

“Autodeliverance” Michel L Landa

“Justifiable Euthanasia” Pieter V Admiraal

“First You Cry” Betty Rollin

“Last Wish” Betty Rollin

“Death of a Man” Lael Wertenberger

“Jean’s Way” Derek Humphry

“The Savage God: A Study of Suicide” A Alvarez

“Double Exit” Ann Wickett

“Voluntary Euthanasia: A Comprehensive Bibliography” Gretchen L Johnson (Hemlock)

“The Woman Said Yes” Jessamyn West

“The Bell Jar” Sylvia Plath

“Clinical Toxicology of Commercial Products” Williams & Wilkins Company

“Suicide: The Gamble with Death” Gene & David Lester

“Crisis Intervention in the Community” Richard K McGee

“Wanting to Die” Anne Sexton

“Bitter Fame” (bio about) Sylvia Plath (author is) Anne Stevenson

“Letters Home” (bio about) Sylvia Plath (author is) Aurelia S Plath

“Raven: The Untold Story of the Rev. Viv Jones & his People” Dutton

“Essays in Self-Destruction” (ed) Edwin S Shneidman

“Suicide: A Study in Sociology” Emile Durkheim

“Suicide and Attempted Suicide” Erwin Stengel

“Endangered Hope: Experiences in Psychiatric Aftercare Facilities” David K Reynolds, Norman L Farberow

“Death Wishes? The Understanding & Managment of Deliberate Self Harm” H G Morgan

“The Final Months: a Study of the Lives of 134 Persons who Committed Suicide” Eli Robins

“Suicide: Inside and Out” David K Reynolds, Normal L Farberow

“Attempted Suicide: A Practical Guide to its Nature and Management” Keith Hawton, Jose Catalan

“The Negative Scream: A Story of Young People Who Took an Overdose” Sally O’Brien

“Caring for the Suicidal” John Eldrid

“The Samaritans: to help those tempted to suicide or despair” Chad Varah

“Mishima: A Biography” John Nathan

“Self-Mutilation: Theory, Research, and Treatment” Barent W Walsh, Paul M Rosen

“Defeating Depression: a Guide for Depressed People and Their Familes” C A H Watts

“Depression: The Way Out of Your Prison” Dorothy Rowe

“The Oxford Book of Death” D J Enright

This booklist is an extended list from [1]. I strongly recommend [1], try getting it mail order from the address below.

 

Calle: Not used in the creation of this file, but recommended on the newsgroup was:

“The Enigma Of Suicide” by George Howe Colt

 

 

GROUPS

The National Hemlock Society

PO Box 11830

Eugene, OR 97440-3900

USA

(503) 342-5748

[American, pro-euthanasia, many books, D Humphry is founder]

 

Samaritans

[British, suicide hotlines and prevention, Chad Varah is founder. non-interventionist approach]

 

Befrienders International

[International, suicide prevention, umbrella organisation]

 

The Voluntary Euthanasia Society

(Formerly British EXIT) [British, pro-euthanasia]

 

Association pour le Droit de Mourir dans la Dignite

[French, pro-euthanasia]

 

Deutsche Gesellschaft Fur Humanes Sterben

[German, pro-euthanasia]

 

Club of Life

[American, anti-euthanasia]

 

 

 

POISON

[1] makes most of these points:

 

Most drugs cause vomiting. To help stop this, take one or two anti- hertamine tablets (travel sickness, allergy, hayfever tablets etc) about an hour before, on a fairly empty stomach.

If the drugs are in tablet form, take the first 20% as they are, and the rest crushed and dissolved / mixed in with strong alcohol / food. This helps the drugs to hit at the same time.

Alcohol helps dissolve the drugs. Don’t drink any beforehand, but wash the tablets down with vodka or similar, and then drink afterwards while you’re still conscious.

Use a large airtight plastic bag over your head, + something around your neck to hold it on. This transforms a 90% certainty method into a 99%…

Friday night is a good time if you life alone – nobody will miss you until Monday if you work. Bolt all the doors you can. Say you’ll be out over the weekend visiting someone, so people don’t expect a reply to telephone.

Some painkillers etc have less effect if you use them normally (tolerance).

In general, you need to stay away from medical help until you actually die, but there are exceptions to this (that have been pointed out in the text).

Common drugs:

 

Cyanide (HCN, KCN)

Dosage: 50 mg Hydrogen Cyanide gas, 200-300 mg Cyanide salts

Time: seconds for HC, minutes Cs (empty stomach) hours (full s)

Available: very difficult to get hold of

Certainty: very certain

Notes: It helps to have an empty stomach (since the salts react with the stomach acids to form H.C.). A full stomach can delay death for up to four hours with the salts. Antidotes to cyanide poisoning exist, but they have serious side effects. What you can do, is instead of taking the salts directly, drop 500mg or so into a strong acid, and inhale the fumes. This will be pure Hydrogen Cyanide, and you should die in 10 to 20 seconds.

[3]:

“Hydrocyanic acid is one of the most poisonous substances known; the inhalation of its fumes in high concentration will cause almost immediate death. Hydrogen cyanide acts by preventing the normal process of tissue oxidation and paralyzing the respiratory center in the brain. Most of the accidental cases are due to inhaling the fumes during a fumigating process. In the pure state it kills with great rapidity. Crystalline cyanides, such as potassium or sodium cyanide are equally poisonous, since they interact with the hydrochloric acid in the stomach to liberate hydrocyanic acid. This poison has been used for both homicide and suicide; in recent history, a number of European political figures carried vials of cyanide salt for emergency self-destruction and some used them. Death resulted from amounts of only a fraction of a gram. A concentration of 1 part in 500 of hydrogen cyanide gas is fatal. Allowable working concentration in most of the United States is 20 ppm. Two and one-half grains of liquid acid has killed. The acid acts fatally in about 15 minutes. The cyanide salts kill in several hours. The average dose of solution is 0.1 cc. [1, DGHS talking about KCN]: on an empty stomach, take a small glass of cold tap water. (Not mineral water nor any sort of juice or soda water because of it’s acidity). Stir 1 -> 1.5 grammes of KCN into the water. More than that causes irritation to the throat. Wait 5 minutes to dissolve. It should be drunk within several hours. Consciousness will be lost in about a minute. Death will follow 15 -> 45 minutes later.

 

Aspirin (Acetylsalicylic Acid)

Dosage: 20-30+ grammes (too many cause vomitting)

Time: hours to days, variable

Available: easy to get hold of (get soluble ones, & dissolve them)

Certainty: unreliable

Notes: Not recommended, fatal dose varies wildly, could cause liver & kidney damage instead of death. OD causes strange noises in your ears (like a video arcade) & projectile vomiting after about 10 hours. Medical help generally effective, so stay out of hospital for a couple of days. May cause bleeding in your stomach/upper intestines. Take with sodium bicarbinate (eg, bicarb. of soda), which speeds up the absorption (sp?) significantly. Take 1 or 2 antihistamine tablets.

 

Paracetamol (Aka Acetaminopren / Tylenol)

Dosage: 15+ grammes, 20+ is better

Time: 10 hours fatal damage, but 2 weeks to actually die

Available: easy to get hold of

Certainty: fairly reliable

Notes: Once 10-12 hours is up, you’ve had it, but you still live for a week or two after that. Probably better to wait 15 hours just to make sure. Horrible side effects during this time (some of which are: acute toxic hepatitis, renal failure, cerebral oedema, intra-abdominal bleeding, aspiration pneumonia, haemophilia). Too small dose causes severe liver damage. Accidental deaths are very common. There are few if any side effects before the damage becomes fatal; occasionally vomitting and nausea.

 

Sleeping Tablets (See Specific Notes For Each Kind)

 

 

See later entries for

 

amobarbital

butabarbital

diazepam

flurazepam

glutethimide

chloral hydrate

hydromorphone

meprobamate

methyprylon

meperidine (pethidine)

methadone

morphine

orphenadrine

phenobarbital

[also check trade names in same entries].

 

Alcohol (Spirits Preferably, Your Choice)

Dosage: 1/2 litre vodka?, similar. Varies from person to person.

Time: about 8 hours

Available: good

Certainty: unreliable

Notes: will cause liver and kidney damage if ‘rescued’ before death. Drink it all at the same time, quickly as possible. Dosage is questionable, I don’t have any figures. Taking the spirits as an enema is supposed to be a very quick way of absorbing alcohol, but a less unpleasant way is to inject it. The dosage it takes to kill you depends on whether you drink normally, the state of your liver, whether you pass out on your back or not. [3]: “The fatal dose of pure alcohol in an average adult is 300-400 mL (750-1000 mL of 40% alcohol) if consumed in less than one hour. Apart from the effects of overdosage, death after alcohol consumption can occur as a result of choking on vomit while unconscious. ….. Consequences such as liver damage occur after chronic consumption.” Alcohol helps other drugs to dissolve. Don’t drink it in advance, wash down tablets with it, & follow by drinking another few glasses of spirits.

 

Water

Dosage: 14 litres mentioned

Time: 12 hours or so?

Available: always available

Certainty: unknown

Notes: works by washing out the salts in your body, until the cells fail (osmotic balance buggered up). You need to keep drinking continually until you collapse. Unusual method. Someone suggested it would also cause cramps. The following is something from [2]: “About a year ago a local newspaper carried a story about a woman who had drunk herself to death. Apparently she had ingested something mildly poisonous, and when she called her doctor asking her what to do, she told her to drink lots of water and see her in the morning. She got to it and managed to drink no less than 14 litres of water before the osmotic balance in her body was so upset it could no longer function and she died (don’t know how quickly)”.

 

Calle: The above anecdote originally came from me, and the death described occured in Växjö, Sweden. Unfortunately I no longer remember which newspaper I saw it in.

 

Recently, I was told about a similar case in San Antonio. It supposedly happened a couple of years ago and was reported in the local San Antonio Express/News.

 

Bleach And Other Corrosives (Lye, Drain Cleaning Fluids)

Dosage: A bottle (litre or half litre)

Time: Hours/days

Available: Easily available

Certainty: Uncertain

Notes: Bloody painful – depends on your stomach getting corroded, the stomach acids escaping, and doing their dirty work in your vital organs. [1] says: “I have heard of people throwing themselves through plate glass windows in their death agonies after drinking lye.”

 

Insulin (Injected)

Dosage: No idea

Time: death in hours to days

Available: Difficult to get hold of unless you’re a diabetic or a vet

Certainty: reasonable

Notes: Supposed to be quite pleasant (eg insulin shock treatments used for some psychiatric condition).

 

Petrol (In Lungs/Injected)

Dosage: “A Thimble-full” -20 ml?

Time: Seconds/minutes

Available: Common

Certainty: I’m not sure of the dosage, but fairly certain if correct

Notes: Can also use LPG (propane/butane) on skin surface (since these are light enough to go through the skin). Stick your hand in a bucket of propane and see how many seconds you last…

 

Oil Of Wintergreen/Methyl Salicylate (In Lungs/Injected)

Dosage: Probably similar to petrol (20 ml)

Time: Don’t know

Available: Not available in concentration

Certainty: Don’t know

Notes: Don’t have enough information on this one to be able to say anything about it. If it is just taken normally, it is the same as aspirin.

 

Malathion (Insecticide) (Entry Revised By Calle)

Dosage: A few bottles, at least

Time: 2 to 3 hours

Available: From a large garden centre or DIY shop

Certainty: not so good

Notes: A correspondent mentions that the LD50 of this stuff is 1 g/kg in rats, and adds that there is not nearly that much in a bottle. She also mentions that it is treatable. Instead of this, she recommends parathion, if you really want to use an insecticide.

 

Phosphine Gas From Aluminium Phosphide Pesticide (ALP)

Dosage: Single 3 gramme tablet (“.. is enough to kill 10 people”)

Time: About 2 hours

Available: Difficult. Used in India, sold on black market.

Certainty: Without medical help, and using fresh pill, very good

Notes: This is a common way of committing suicide in Indian villages. There is no specific antidote to this. The pills are 3 grammes of ALP, which produces lethal phosphine gas when it comes in contact with hydrochloric acid or water in the stomach. After severe vomiting, the victim loses consciousness, the blood vessels rupture, and body cavities fill with blood. While the pill is exceedingly lethal, some escape death because the rate of the gas’ release declines with the pill’s age and use, and exposure to moisture. Trouble with this one is the availability, and it also looks like a rather unpleasant.

 

Rat Poison (Warfarin)

Dosage: not known

Time: Hours to terminal damage, days to actual death

Available: Available

Certainty: Certain given suffient dosage. Most probably treatable.

Notes: This is one of the truly unpleasant poisons, along with Paracetamol/Acetylminopren. I think it causes cerebral haemorage (rat poison works by giving the unfortunate rat haemophillia). Doctors can’t do anything about it, they just leave you to die in agony on an intensive care ward. Calle: Since human haemophiliacs usually live quite ordinary lives, the above sounds rather improbable.

 

Caffeine

Dosage: 20 grammes (someone said 8 -> 10 grammes)

Time: not known

Available: Caffeine tablets available in Chemist shops

Certainty: don’t know

Notes: I don’t know very much about this. There isn’t all that much caffeine in coffee, maybe 200 mg.

 

Potassium Chloride (Injected In Solution)

Dosage: not known (try 20cc injection of strong solution)

Time: Seconds to minutes

Available: Widely available

Certainty: Certain given correct dosage

Notes: Causes heart attack (which is painful). May be difficult for coroner to realise it was suicide rather than a natural heart attack. An excess of K+ in the blood interferes with nerve signals, and stops muscles and nerves from working. So when it reaches your heart, the heart stops.

 

Nitrogen Gas (Or Other Inert Gas)

Dosage: Several litres uncompressed is minimum

Time: Minutes

Available: Try plumber, or welding supplies company

Certainty: Certain

Notes: This is really a form of asphyxiation, (see later), but is particularly good since you don’t experience the lack of oxygen (what people really experience is the EXCESS of carbon dioxide).

 

Nitrous Oxide (N20? NO2?)(NO2 /Ingvar)

Dosage: Unknown

Time: Minutes

Available: Dentists supply would be good

Certainty: reasonable

Notes: Asphyxiate yourself with laughing gas. Nice.

 

Carbon Monoxide (CO)

Dosage: 5% concentration or so?

Time: Minutes to hours depending on concentration

Available: You get it out of a car exhaust, you used to be able to use “town gas” (eg, stick your head in the cooker) but this is no longer available

Certainty: Fairly certain, as long as you aren’t “rescued”

Notes: Causes brain damage.

 

Calle: A correspondent from Denmark, where you still can use “town gas” to kill yourself, says that even though it’s possible it’s not a good idea. She tells of an incident where a family committed suicide by turning on the gas and waiting. Apparently, the heavier-than-air carbon monoxide leaked through the floor and reached the people in the apartment below. Not nice.

 

The actual cause of death is asphyxiation, since the carbon monoxide binds tighter to haemoglobine than oxygen does (the oxygen gets crowded out, so to speak).

 

Chlorine Gas

Dosage: not known

Time: not known

Available: tricky

Certainty: Good

Notes: This was used in the first world war in the trenches. Probably very unpleasant, does something to the lungs.

 

Hydrazine

Dosage: As produced by reaction

Time: Not known, fortnight?

Available: Bottle of bleach & bottle of ammonia

Certainty: not known

Notes: [2]:

“This is no joke, D—-. Several years ago at my high school, one of the janitors innocently mixed together half a bottle of bleach with half a bottle of of ammonia in a small closet where the cleaning fluids were kept. She passed out due to the hydrazine (not chlorine) gas released in the reaction between the two chemicals. This woman was in agony for two weeks in an intensive care unit in a local hospital with the majority of the inside surface of his lungs damaged and untreatable before she got lucky and died.”

 

Chloroform

Dosage: not known, just put a splash onto a rag

Time: several minutes probably

Available: not known

Certainty: good

Notes: If you tape the rag over your mouth so that you get knocked out, you should die as you continue getting the stuff into your lungs.

 

Digitalis (Foxglove, Digitalis Purpurea)

Dosage: not known

Time: not known

Available: extract from foxgloves

Certainty: bad due to vomiting

Notes: [4]:

Gives you a heart-attack. Symptoms: nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, diarrhoea, headache, and slow irregular pulse. Also sometimes trembling, convulsions, delirium, and hallucinations. Its difficult to take a fatal amount because vomiting usually gets rid of it.

 

Yew (Taxus Baccata, The “English Yew”)

Dosage: not known

Time: Can be very rapid (minutes), occasionally 3 or 4 days.

Available: Grows wild in the UK, don’t know about elsewhere.

Certainty: not sure, but it sounds good if you eat enough

Notes: [4]:

All parts of the plant, _except_ for the fleshy red bit of the fruit, contain poisons. The seeds are poisonous, so if you eat the berries, chew them. Symptoms: nausea, abdominal pain, coma, death. The mode of death is a heart attack which occurs rapidly after eating sufficient. If no heart attack occurs, you’ll probably survive. Sometimes the sudden collapse leading to death is preceded by lethargy, trembling, staggering, coldness, dilation of the pupils, rapid pulse that becomes weak, and convulsions. Other species in this genus are said to be equally poisonous. See “plants in general”.

 

Mezerein, Daphnetoxin (Mezereon, AKA Daphne Mezereum, AKA D. Laureola)

Dosage: “a few”. Probably 10 or more.

Time: not known

Available: Garden plant. Seeds are particularly poisonous.

Certainty: not known, dosage is questionable.

Notes: [4]:

The berries taste horrid, but you only need to eat a few to cause death. Symptoms: burning sensation in mouth, nausea, vomiting, stomach pains, diarrhoea, weakness, disorientation, convulsions, followed by death. The seeds can be dried and stored without affecting the poisons. Don’t confuse this with laurels in the Prunus genus, Rosacea family. See “plants in general”.

 

Atropine (Atropa Belladonna AKA Deadly Nightshade. Also Potato Fruits)

Dosage: 5 berries in young children.. maybe 30 in adults?

Time: 6 to 24 hours

Available: from fruits of some plants in the potato family.

Certainty: unknown, particularly dosage is questionable

Notes: [4]:

AB also contains hyoscyamine and hyoscine (scopolamine). Symptoms: dry mouth, flushed face, dilation of pupils, rapid pulse. Possibly also breathing difficulties, constipation, convulsions, hallucinations, and coma. AB is often confused with other Nightshade species, which aren’t as poisonous. The berries are black in AB, and red in Woody Nightshade. In addition, the flowers are larger (1.2 in) in the true Deadly Nightshade. Present in unripe deadly nightshake fruits, fruits of potato, and fruits of other members of this family (not tomato though!), but stick with AB. See the “plants in general” entry.

 

Calle: A correspondent mentions that Vivsonweed will also do, and that a specific antidote exists.

 

Oleander (Nerium Oleander. Poison Similar To Digitalis)

Dosage: not known, but fairly small amounts.

Time: unknown.

Available: leaves, wood of the plant. From garden centres.

Certainty: unknown.

Notes: [4]:

Deaths have been caused by using wood from this plant in fires, and making tea from the leaves. In a few hours there is abdominal pain, nausea, vomiting, bloody diarrhoea, rapid pulse, and visual effects. Later, a slow, weak, irregular pulse and fall in blood pressure, followed by failure of heart. See the “plants in general” entry.

 

Death-Cap / Destroying-Angel Toadstool (Amanita Phalloides)

Dosage: Fraction of one can kill, but eat 1 or 2 just in case.

Time: Week or so

Available: Have to know what it looks like.. similar edible ones

Certainty: Definite without med. treatment; unknown with.

Notes: [5, Volume 7, pp591-592]:

“Poisoning by toxic Amanita species is characterised by a delay in onset of 4 to 12 hours. At this point, nausea vomiting, colic-like pain, and diarrhea occur. There then follows a period of respite, which can last for two to four days. This phase does NOT signify recovery: damage to the liver and kidneys continues to develop and the respite gives way to hepatic and renal failure. Death usually occurs a week or so after poisoning.”. See “plants in general”.

 

Ricin (Castor Oil Plant, Ricinus Communis)

Dosage: death has occured from eating 1 bean, but take more than 10

Time: within 3 to 5 days

Available: From eating the castor beans

Certainty: depends on ricin content of the beans. Pure ricin is deadly

Notes: [2] and [4]:

Symptoms begin within a few hours with abdominal pain, vomiting and bloody diarrhoea for several days. Decreased production of urine and a fall in blood pressure. Note that people have survived eating more than 10 beans, *with treatment*. Presumably the fatal dose without medical intervention is less. Surviving more than 3 to 5 days usually means recovery. Ricin is described as “..one of the most potent toxins known”.

 

In 1978 a Bulgarian journalist (Georgi Markov) was assassinated in London by being prodded with an umbrella. The umbrella had a tiny ball coated with ricin on its tip, which lodged into the dissident. She died a few days later in hospital. See “plants in general”.

 

Colchicine (Acetyltrimethylcolchicinic Acid, Autumn Crocus, Royal Lily)

Dosage: 7 mg to 60 mg (why so wide variation?)

Time: symptoms in about 4 hours, death in about 4 days

Available: Easily available (from large garden centre)

Certainty: certain

Notes: [New Scientist article:]

From the Autumn crocus (Colchicum Autumnale) / royal lily (Gloriosa Superba). One flower of CA is about 12 mg, so take at least five of them. 20g tuber of GS provides 60mg, single seed of CA provides 3.5mg (so take 18). Damages blood vessels and nerves, and stops cell division. Don’t know whether its painful or not, but that bit about damaging nerves is worrying. I just _love_ the name of the acid! See See the “plants in general” entry.

 

Aconitine (AKA Wolfsbane, Monkshood, Aconitum Napellus, A. Anglicum)

Dosage: “a few grams”

Time: 10 mins to few hours

Available: Garden plant, so get from garden centre

Certainty: unknown (can be treated in hospital)

Notes: [2] and [4]:

The poison is concentrated in the unripe seed pods and roots. During winter, the roots are particularly poisonous. Symptoms develop in less than an hour. Burning sensation, feelings of coldness, sweating. Later, numbness, vomiting and diarrhoea with abdominal pain. Finally, slow pulse, convulsions and coma. Death may occur within 2 hours. The poison kills by causing a cardiac failure, and it is painful. See the “plants in general” comment.

 

Cicutoxin (Cowbane, Cicuta Virosa)

Dosage: “.. a few bites .. can cause serious poisoning or death”.

Time: a few hours or more.

Available: rare in most parts of UK, don’t know about elsewhere.

Certainty: good, but resembles wild carrot & wild parsnip.

Notes: [4]:

The poison is strongest in the yellow juice of the underground parts. Symptoms after half an hour: burning of mouth, excessive saliva, flushing, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, dilation of pupils, and later a bluish tinge to the skin. Muscular contractions and convulsions, with difficulties in breathing are followed by unconsciousness and death, often within a few hours of eating the plant. See “plants in general”.

 

Coniine, Gamma-Coniceine, Others (Hemlock, Conium Maculatum)

Dosage: unknown

Time: unknown

Available: Grows throughout UK, except north. Don’t know about elsewhere.

Certainty: unknown

Notes: [4]:

NOTE: There are many plants called “hemlock”, some of which aren’t poisonous at all. It can also be mistaken for wild parsley and carrot, and is in the same family as Cowbane. Symptoms appear in 15 mins to 2 hours. Initially burning and dryness of the mouth, muscular weakness leading to paralysis that affects the breathing. Sometimes also dilation of pupils, vomiting, diarrhoea, convulsions, and loss of consciousness. If this is survived, birth defects may be caused in pregnant women. This is said to be the plant that Socrates took in 399 BC.

 

Oenanthetoxin (Hemlock Water Dropwort, Oenanthe Eroeata)

Dosage: “..dangerously poisonous, even in small quantities”.

Time: Two to twelve hours.

Available: Grows in chalky wet areas, particularly S and W Britain.

Certainty: Fairly good, if you get the right species.

Notes: [4]:

The tubers contain more poison than the rest of the plant, particularly in winter and early spring, and may be cooked or dried. Symptoms within an hour or two, nausea, salivation, vomiting, diarrhoea, sweating, weakness of legs, dilation of pupils. Later loss of consciousness with convulsions before death. See “plants in general” entry. Same family as Hemlock.

 

plants in general (hemlock, foxglove, oleander)

Dosage: N/A

Time: N/A

Available: garden centre

Certainty: questionable

Notes: [1] says:

“Everything I have ever read about death from plant poisoning indicates that it is risky and painful. Symptoms range from nausea and vomiting to cramping and bloody diarrhea. …. .. Altogether, I consider poisonous plants as a means of exit far too unreliable and painful. No matter how desperate you are, don’t even think about it!”

 

Nicotine (Rewritten By Calle)

Dosage: extract from 100g tabacco? 40-60 mg pure.

Time: Several hours, coma may set in much earlier. Much quicker if taken in large doses.

Available: Easily available

Certainty: Fairly certain, given a large enough dose.

Notes:

This is what Mike wrote:

 

“Soak 100 grammes of tabacco for a few days. You get a brown mess. Strain off the tabacco, then simmer slowly until most of the liquid has gone, leaving about 2 teaspoons of brown treacle-like stuff. Add it to your night-time drink, and never wake up. Someone said the other day that 150mg of pure nicotine would be fatal in seconds. See the “plants in general” entry.”

 

It is correct, as far as I have found out. It can be added that the effects include violent convulsions and that the direct cause of death is respiratory failure. Smokers should use larger doses than non-smokers.

 

Iron (Diet Suppliments)

Dosage: unknown

Time: unknown

Available: diet, health food shops

Certainty: good

Notes: [2]:

“Well it seems that iron pills achieve death. They oxydize in the stomach and eat a hole in it. The only reason I know this is that someone at my school just recently OD’d and died from this. It was ruled suicide since no person could accidently take that many iron pills. They didn’t say how many she took or how many it takes to kill yourself though.” [sounds unpleasant]

 

Cocaine

Dosage: 1 ounce (don’t know what that is in real weights..)

Time: 2 to 3 hours?

Available: Difficult

Certainty: not known

Notes: Read something in a newspaper… a coke dealer died after eating an ounce of it, when the police raided his house. Cause of death was a cardiac arrest 2 1/2 hours after the overdose. However, a cocaine OD is painful, and causes paranoia / breathing problems. One form of cocaine smuggling is to swallow condoms filled with the stuff. From time to time, a “mule” has a condom burst inside her, and dies in pain reasonably quickly.

 

LSD (Lysergic Acid Diethylamide) Nonfatal

Dosage: infinite!

Time: never

Available: who cares?

Certainty: will not kill you

Notes: LSD can’t kill you by overdose.. you might go psychotic if you take tens/hundreds of thousands of times the normal dose, but thats hardly surprising, since you’d have to be insane to take that much in the first place. General warning – even for normal use, if you are depressed, it’ll just amplify the depression, not lift it, and the chances of a bad trip are probably higher. Probably, the only way to kill yourself with this stuff is to drop two tonnes of it on yourself.

 

Calle: I don’t quite believe in what Mike is saying about psychosis here. As far as I have been able to find out, LSD works by catalyzing certain substances in the brain, and thus vast overdoses have no more effect than merely large ones. Once all the stuff in your brain is used up, there will be no more effect.

 

A correspondent points out a case reported by The Journal of Clinical Toxicology where eight people snorted pure LSD Tartrate, beliving that it was cocaine. The amounts ingested was estimated to be from 1000 to 10000 times an ordinary dose. Half of them lapsed into comas, but all of them came out of it without any treatment. Some were given Valium for anxiety efterwards.

 

On the whole, it seems that LSD is about as safe as a drug can be, despite much propaganda saying otherwise.

 

Heroin (Morphine)

Dosage: 120 to 500 mg in non-users.

Time: unknown

Available: From your friendly neighbourhood drug dealer.

Certainty: unknown

Notes: Combine it with alcohol, since a combination of alc & H is much more dangerous than alc or H alone.

 

Rotenone

Dosage: very low, similar to cyanide

Time: depends on dosage

Available: extremely difficult

Certainty: probable

Notes: Rotenone is used by microbiologists to kill potentially dangerous bacteria cultures. It is extremely poisonous.

 

Calle: A correspondent believes this entry to be erroneous, since in the litterature she consulted rotenone was mentioned as being used as an insecticide and not being all that toxic.

 

Mercury (Salts, Soluble)

Dosage: 1 gramme of salts

Time: unknown

Available: unknown (what are the _soluble_ salts? how to make?)

Certainty: good

Notes: Note that contrary to popular opinion, pure mercury metal isn’t all that poisonous. The soluble salts are, however. The “mad hatter” story refers to brain damage that hat makers used to get from using mercury salts.

 

Amobarbital (Amytal, Amal, Eunoctal, Etamyl, Stadadorm)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 4.5 grammes, typically 90 50mg tablets

Time: unconscious in 5 -> 15 minutes, death in 20 -> 50 minutes

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: very reliable

Notes: use an airtight plastic bag, and a rubber band to get a very effective method. Alcohol speeds it up and makes it more reliable. Take an antihistamine about 10 minutes earlier. Empty stomach. Dissolve most of them in drink / food, and eat the remaining ones first so that it all peaks at the same time.

 

Butabarbital (Secbutobarbitone, Butisol, Ethnor) [this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 3 grammes, typically 100 30mg tablets

Time: unconscious in 5 -> 15 minutes, death in 20 -> 50 minutes

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: very reliable

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach.

 

Codeine (Combo. With Aspirin: Empirin Compound No. I -> IV)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 2.4 grammes, typically 80 30mg tablets

Time: unconscious in 5 -> 15 minutes, death in 20 -> 50 minutes

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: reliable with plastic bag and rubber band

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. People can become tolerant to this drug, and it will no longer be effective.

 

Diazepam (Valium, Apozepam, Aliseum, Ducene)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 500 milligrammes, typically 100 5mg tablets

Time: N/A

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: unreliable, use in combination with something else (alcohol?)

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. Valium is not effective by itself, but by mixing it with other drugs or alcohol it makes it more certain.

 

Flurazepam (Dalmane, Dalmadorm, Niotal) [this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 3 grammes, typically 100 30mg tablets

Time: N/A

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: unreliable, use in combination with something else

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. This is not effective by itself, but by mixing it with other drugs or alcohol it makes the other drug more certain.

 

Gluthethimide (Doriden, Doridene, Glimid)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 24 grammes, typically 48 500mg tablets

Time: N/A

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: unreliable, use in combination with something else

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. This is not effective by itself, but by mixing it with other drugs or alcohol it makes the other drug more certain.

 

Chloral Hydrate (Noctec, Chloratex, Somnox)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: >10+ grammes, typically 20+ 500mg tablets

Time: N/A

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: unreliable, use in combination with something else

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. This is not effective by itself, but by mixing it with other drugs or alcohol it makes the other drug more certain.

 

Hydromorphone (Dilaudid, Pentagone)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 100 -> 200 milligrammes, typically 50 -> 100 2mg tablets

Time: unconscious in 5 -> 15 minutes, death in 20 -> 50 minutes

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: very reliable with plastic bag and rubber band

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. People can become tolerant to this drug, and it will no longer be effective.

 

Meprobamate (Miltown, Equanil)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 45 grammes, typically 112 400mg tablets

Time: N/A

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: unreliable, use in combination with something else

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. This is not effective by itself, but by mixing it with other drugs or alcohol it makes the other drug more certain.

 

Methyprylon (Noludar)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 15 grammes, typically 50 300mg tablets

Time: N/A

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: unreliable, use in combination with something else

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. This is not effective by itself, but by mixing it with other drugs or alcohol it makes the other drug more certain.

 

Meperidine (Pethidine, Demerol, Dolantin)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 3.6 grammes, typically 72 50mg tablets

Time: unconscious in 5 -> 15 minutes, death in 20 -> 50 minutes

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: very reliable with plastic bag and rubber band

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. People can become tolerant to this drug, and it will no longer be effective.

 

Methadone (Dolophine, Adanon)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 300 milligrammes, typically 60 5mg tablets

Time: unconscious in 5 -> 15 minutes, death in 20 -> 50 minutes

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: very reliable with plastic bag and rubber band

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. People can become tolerant to this drug, and it will no longer be effective.

 

Morphine (In Brompton’S Mixtures)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 200 milligrammes, typically 14 15mg tablets

Time: unconscious in 5 -> 15 minutes, death in 20 -> 50 minutes

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: very reliable with plastic bag and rubber band

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. People can become tolerant to this drug, and it will no longer be effective.

 

Phenobarbital (Luminal, Gardenal, Fenical)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 4.5 grammes, typically 150 30mg tablets

Time: N/A

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: unreliable, use in combination with something else

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. This is not effective by itself, but by mixing it with other drugs or alcohol it makes the other drug more certain.

 

Secobarbital (Quinalbarbitone, Seconal, Immenox, Dormona, Secogen, Seral, Vesperax (Combo With Brallobarbital))

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 4.5 grammes, typically 45 100mg tablets

Time: unconscious in 5 -> 15 minutes, death in 20 -> 50 minutes

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: very reliable with plastic bag and rubber band

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. [Vesperax is Humphry’s favorite]

 

Propoxyphene (Darvon, Dolotard, Abalgin, Antalvic, Depronal)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 2 grammes, typically 30 65mg tablets

Time: death in an hour or so. Does not make you unconscious

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: suggest combine with something to make you sleep, then use bag.

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach. Since this one doesn’t make you unconscious for a long time, try combining with one that does, so you can use the good old bag method.

 

Pentobarbital (Nembutal, Carbrital Only If In Combo With Pentobarbital)

[this entry from [1]]

Dosage: 3 grammes, typically 30 100mg tablets

Time: unconscious in 5 -> 15 minutes, death in 20 -> 50 minutes

Available: needs to be prescribed

Certainty: very reliable with plastic bag and rubber band

Notes: use bag & band. Alcohol as well as antihistamine on an empty stomach.

 

 

Part III, other methods

Hanging

1. asphyxiation (dangle on end of rope for 10 minutes)

Time: 5 to 10 minutes

Available: Rope, solid support 10 foot above ground

Certainty: Fairly certain (discovery, rope/support snapping)

Notes: Brain damage likely if rescued. Very painful depending on rope. Most common effective form of suicide in UK. See “Asphyxiation”.

 

2. breaking neck

Time: Should be instant if it does break. See previous if not

Available: Rope, solid support, 10 foot space below, several above

Certainty: Very certain if the rope/support doesn’t break

Notes: Minimal danger of discovery (depends on location). Painless if you drop far enough (8 foot is optimum). Make sure that the rope is tied securely to something STRONG!! It has to support your weight MULTIPLIED by the deccelleration. Use a hangman’s knot (with the knot at the back of your neck). It doesn’t always work this well though, you might get a bust jaw / lacerations etc and then asphyxiate.

 

Calle: I got this table of appropriate falling heights from a.s.h. long-time regular MegaZone (megazone@wpi.wpi.edu), who got it from a friend of his named Mark.

 

Hanging Drop Heights…

 

Culprits Weight                Drop

14   stone (196 lbs)           8ft 0in

13.5 stone (189 lbs)           8ft 2in

13   stone (182 lbs)           8ft 4in

12.5 stone (175 lbs)           8ft 6in

12   stone (168 lbs)           8ft 8in

11.5 stone (161 lbs)           8ft 10in

11   stone (154 lbs)           9ft 0in

10.5 stone (147 lbs)           9ft 2in

10   stone (140 lbs)           9ft 4in

9.5  stone (133 lbs)           9ft 6in

9    stone (126 lbs)           9ft 8in

8.5  stone (119 lbs)           9ft 10in

8    stone (112 lbs)           10ft 0in

 

Source: Charles Duff, Handbook of Hanging (Boston: Hale, Cushman & Flint 1929)

 

Notes: This is for person of average build with no unusual physical problems. The Author (Janis “Hangman” Bearne) noted that when executing “persons who had attempted suicide by cutting their throats…to prevent reoping the wounds I have reduced the drop by nearly half.”

 

Jumping off buildings

Time: Instantanious if you are lucky, minutes/hours otherwise

Available: You need ten stories or higher, and access to the top floor windows/roof. Bring a bolt cutter to get onto the roof

Certainty: 90% for 6 stories, increasing after that

Notes: Difficult to overcome fear of heights, many people can’t do it. Totally painless if high enough, but very frightening. Easily discovered if seen on/near roof/windows. Access fairly easy in a city, otherwise difficult. Risk of spending the rest of your life in a wheelchair. Ever tried killing yourself if you are paralysed from the neck down? Email conversations suggest 10+ stories works ALMOST all of the time. Try to land on concrete. Quote – “9 out of 10 people who fall 6 stories will die”. Note that it may take a while for many of those 90% to die.

 

Slitting wrists or other (often not effective)

Time: Minutes if major artery cut, eternity otherwise.

Available: You really need a razor sharp knife. Razors are pretty tricky to hold when they are covered with blood.

Certainty: possible if you cut an artery, improbable otherwise

Notes: Painful at first. Danger of discovery. This is a very common suicide ‘gesture’ and hardly ever results in anything other than a scar. A lot of will power required to cut deeply into groin or carotid arteries, which are the only ones likely to kill you. Don’t bother with this method. Cutting your throat is difficult due to the fact that the carotid arteries are protected by your windpipe (feel where your arteries are with your fingertips, & slice from the side). I’ve seen photos of people who have used this method – the depth of the cut required is amazing. If you want to cut your wrists, cut along the blue line (vein) on the underside of your wrist, but cut deeply so that the artery underneath is exposed. Cut this lengthways with a razor or similar. The traditional hot bath does help, since it keeps the blood flowing quickly, slows down clotting, and is nice to lie back and relax in. Position yourself so that your wrists don’t fall inwards against your body, blocking off blood flow.

 

Calle: A posting to A.S.H. suggests using the kind of equipment they use when you give blood to a blood bank, i.e., a needle in a blood vessel and a piece of tubing. It sounds like it would remove several of the disadvantages of the ordinary slitting-wrists method.

 

Bullet

Time: Microseconds unless you are unlucky (mins/hours)

Available: Difficult in UK, easier in USA (get a shotgun)

Certainty: Certain

Notes: Painless if worked, otherwise painful & brain damage. Danger of discovery of weapon or ammunition. Not at all common in UK, more common in USA where guns available. Brain damage & other effects if you survive. Death either instantaneous, or prolonged. Lots of will power needed to fire gun (‘hesitation marks’ are bullets/pellets embedded in the wall, when you jerk the gun as you fire). Bullet can miss vital parts in skull, deflect off skull. If you have a choice, use a shotgun rather than a rifle of a pistol, since it is so much more effective. (“shotgun” entry later). Ammunition to use is: .458 Winchester Magnum, or soft-point slugs with .44 Magnum. Also you could use a sabot round, which is a plastic wedge with a smaller thing in it. These rounds are rather overkill, the phrase “elephant gun” has been used about the .458 Winchester, but if you’re going to go, do it with a bang. Note, people usually survive single .22 shots to the temples. The other problem with guns is that is is bloody messy. Your next of kin will really _enjoy_ cleaning up after you, washing the coagulated blood & brains out of corners etc…

 

Asphyxiation

Time: 5 mins to unconciousness, 10+ mins to brain death

Available: Anywhere there’s a rope and something solid to tie it to

Certainty: Certain, if you don’t get “rescued”

Notes: Panic reaction is very likely (unless inert gasses used). One of the most effective and most used methods of suicide. Probable brain damage if you are “rescued”. NOTE, this can only really be done in two ways: firstly, when you are unconsious (eg, sleeping pills), or secondly, by hanging. Combining with pure inert gasses is a very good suggestion. See “Nitrogen” in the poisons section

 

Air in veins (basically just a myth)

Time: Couple of minutes claimed

Available: Plenty of air about… Need a hypodermic & syringe

Certainty: only 1 known case.. patient may already have been dead

Notes: The only case I know about, it killed with 40cc of air. Smaller amounts are harmless. The case was the death of Abbie Borroto, who died in 1950 from a 40cc injection in New Hampshire. She died in minutes. This was the 1949 Dr H Sander case. She was found not guilty to murder on the grounds that the patient may already have been dead when she gave the injection. (A doctor and a nurse could find no pulse earlier the same day). The following 2 quotes are from [1]: Prof. Y Kenis says: “… not a suitable method, nor a gentle death… extremely difficult to utilize as a method of suicide. .. possibly with very serious consequences, such as paralysis or permanent brain damage. .. this is only an impression, and I have no real scientific information on the subject.” Dr Pieter V Admiraal .. describes the theoretical air bubble method of suicide as impossible, disagreeable and cruel. “To kill somebody with air you would have to inject at least 100 -> 200 millilitres as quickly as possible in a vein as big as possible close to the heart. You would have to fill the whole heart with air at once. The heart would probably beat on for several minutes, perhaps 5 -> 15 minutes, and during the first minutes the person may be conscious.”

 

Decapitation

Time: Couple of seconds before conciousness fades

Available: Happen to have a train line nearby? Or a guillotine perhaps?

Certainty: Very certain, unless you pull away just before

Notes: See “jumping in front of trains”. May be difficult to stop pulling your head out of the way – OD on sleeping tablets first

 

Calle: A news notice from California posted to alt.suicide.holiday tells the story of a woman who comitted suicide nearly cut his own head off with a chainsaw. Sounds like a grisly way to do it.

 

Disembowelment (aka seppuku/hara kiri)

Time: Minutes

Available: Got a nice razor-sharp sword?

Certainty: Fairly certain, assuming that you managed to gut yourself properly before passing out with the agony

Notes: Painful, even the macho Samurai used a ‘second’ to decapitate them at the appropriate point, so don’t expect to do much more than give yourself peritonitis. Trendy for insane martial arts fanatics and gay Japanese poets called Mishima.

 

Drowning

Time: Minutes (5 mins to die of drowning, 20 to die of hypothermia)

Available: Anywhere there’s deep, (cold) water in a remote spot

Certainty: Good, just make sure you sink & can’t swim

Notes: Put stones in your pockets, tie your legs & hands together, and hop into the lake.. bit of a shock to the fisherman who finds your rotting corpse stuck in his brand new net. Also see entry for “hypothermia/freezing”. However, remember that you can be revived from cold water drowning after several hours, because the cold slows down terminal brain damage. Warmer water doesn’t have the advantage of hypothermia, but is more effective in making sure you *stay* dead.

 

Electrocution

Time: Seconds / minutes

Available: Anywhere with high-tension, high-current lines & a good earth

Certainty: Somewhat dependant on luck & how much power goes through you

Notes: Don’t bother with 110 or 240 volt mains, its just not enough. Some people do get killed with household electricity, but only after several minutes. Use high tension lines, stand in bare feet on waterlogged ground (better still, put a piece of THICK copper cable into the nearest river). Works best if current path travels through your head, or through the heart. Just burns you badly otherwise. NOTE: people have survived massive high-voltage, high-current shocks with nothing but 3rd degree burns to show for it. Sometimes paralysis, limbs amputated etc.

 

Explosives

Time: 10 milliseconds, or similar (!)

Available: Difficult to get hold of detonator & good explosives

Certainty: Certain if detonator works properly

Notes: DON’T USE GUNPOWDER or other ‘slow’ explosives (eg, homemade explosives). Use dynamite or ‘Plastique’, strap it to your forehead with the detonator, and BOOM! The main problem is with getting hold of high explosives (I know the recipe for Nitro-Glycerine, but home manufacture is extremely risky, and the product is unstable). If you can get a grenade, use it, it’s probably the best way of doing this one.

 

Calle: Recipies for creating explosives can be found, together with the appropriate warnings, in the rec.pyrotechnics FAQ.

 

Freezing to death (hypothermia)

Time: several hours (15 minutes in very cold water)

Available: Got a large chest freezer? Is the outside temp <-10 degrees?

Certainty: good if you don’t get found

Notes: Soak your cloths in water, get into freezer / outside somewhere where you won’t be found. Helps to get pissed first – drink yourself silly. If you are near a very cold supply of water (eg, the North Sea, or similar) which is close to zero degrees, this is particularly good, since the average lifespan of someone in the water is 15 minutes. [1] says: “.. have quietly ascended their favorite mountain late in the day .. above the freezing line.. wearing light clothing, they sat down in a secluded spot to await the end. Some have said that they intended to take a tranquilizer to hasten the sleep of death. From what we know of hypothermia, they would pass out as the cold reached a certain level and they would die within a few hours. Of course in a very cold climate there is no need to climb a mountain.” [eg, UK in midwinter :-). There was a death in the middle of the city park here just this last winter (’90) where a lady stripped after the park closed for the night.] A problem with this method is that because it slows the metabolism, and prevents damage to the brain, people can be revived several hours after ‘death’ occasionally.

 

Jumping in front of trains

Time: Seconds (or hours if unlucky)

Available: Anywhere near a HIGH-SPEED railway line

Certainty: Depends on your timing & speed of train. Go for decapitation

Notes: Probably better to put your neck on the line, since a glancing blow would probably break your spine (& cripple you). High speed trains need a kilometer to stop, so find a blind corner.

 

Self-immolation

Time: Seconds to days

Available: Anywhere you can get petrol & a match

Certainty: good as long as you are far away from medical help

Notes: bloody painful – one of the most agonising ways to die. If you do survive, you will be disfigured for the rest of your life. Try mixing the petrol with an explosive like TNT or NG, this will make it burn MUCH quicker, even if the explosive is very dilute.

 

Starving to death

Time: 40 days give or take. Depends on health.

Available: Anywhere where you can’t be force-fed

Certainty: Good as long as no medical help & will power holds up

Notes: Supposed to be easier after the first couple of days, since your appetite goes. In a UK prison, you can’t be force-fed unless you give permission first, or are diagnosed insane, but I don’t know whether this is the same in other countries. Beware – relatives might give permission on your behalf if you are unconsious. (living will / durable power of attorney helps). It may help if you use an appetite suppressant. Amphetamines, and some drugs (MDMA, AKA XTC, AKA ecstasy, AKA metheylenedimethoxymethamphetamine is one such). The problem with these is that they are frequently illegal. I’ve also heard of something called Aminorex (4-methylaminorex) which was briefly prescribed as an appetite suppressant, but taken off the market since it had fatal side effects… which is hardly a problem!! [1] says:

“.. after approximately 20 % of body weight loss, illness will begin to set in, notably severe indigestion, muscle weakness, and _worst of all_ mental incapacity. … about 40 days before life is seriously theatened. ….”

“In some cases self-starvation can be very painful. … morphene had to be administered to kill the pain of fatal dehydration. ..”

 

Driving into bridge support at 100 mph

Time: Hopefully instantanious

Available: Fast car, motorway, unprotected bridge….

Certainty: So-so, put a couple of cans of petrol on the passenger seat to make it certain, & USE YOUR SEATBELT

Notes: Bridges are usually protected in the UK, don’t know about USA. Avoid being thrown out of the car by using the seatbelt, and put petrol (in cans or just splashed about) near to the driver’s seat just to make certain. Can be made to look accidental.

 

Shotgun

Time: Instantanious if you are lucky

Available: Difficult in UK, easier in USA (due to gun laws)

Certainty: Fairly certain

Notes: 12-gauge shotgun with 3 inch Magnum shells with #2 to #000 buckshot. See “Bullet” for other points. This is the recommended way to die by firearm. Apparently the shells suggested here are “extreme overkill”, but thats the point really… problem here is that its amazingly messy – who is going to pick the festering lumps of gore out of the carpet? Another problem is that it is possible to miss your brain entirely, and just blow off your face instead.

 

Enlist (silly)

Time: Jan 15 ’91 or other conflict

Available: Just pop down to the local army office & sign on as a squaddie

Certainty: Be a “hero”. Life expectancy in a battle is 20 minutes

Notes: I don’t think this is an entirely serious suggestion, particularly since only 10% ever see the front line, and only a few of those ever see combat.

 

Calle: You could always get employed as a mercenary. That way you’ll at least see combat, improving your chances to die vastly. Still, a silly method.

 

Pencils up your nose, bang down onto table (urban legend?)

Time: Seconds or never

Available: All you need is a couple of sharp pencils and a table

Certainty: Very uncertain

Notes: This is a myth, I think, since the pencils would go into your frontal lobes, which are basically optional. This is the legendary “exam suicide”. Fine if you want a DIY frontal- lobotomy rather than death!

 

Calle: This is an urban legend, see the alt.folklore.urban FAQ for more details.

 

Getting someone to murder you

Time: Depends on method used

Available: Know any murderous psychopaths? No, not the tax people…

Certainty: Depends on method used, & dedication of murderer

Notes: Forget it. Unless you contract someone to do it, the chances are that you are going to wake up in hospital without your wallet. If you do contract someone, how are you going to pay them? Can’t take them to court for running off with your money and not doing the job.

 

Make yourself into an h-bomb (another silly one)

Time: Speed of light over 1/2 metre (couple of nanoseconds)

Available: Nuke (fission OR fusion), 10 litres of heavy water

Certainty: 100%

Notes: Drink the heavy water for several days, strap yourself to the nuke, and press the button. If you retained a couple of litres of the heavy water, the additional yield should be 6 megajoules (give or take a few orders of magnitude). Note that heavy water is a poison, so you might not survive that long anyway.

 

Calle: If I remember my physics correctly, there will be no reaction in your body no matter how much heavy water you have ingested. Not that it matters if you’re sitting on an exploding hydrogen bomb!

 

Micromachines/nanocomputers (science fiction)

Time: years or a fraction of a second – depends how you look at it

Available: in 50 -> 1000 years time?

Certainty: Good assuming that the technology is developed

Notes: Basically, this involves a ‘replicator’ panel. You program it to replicate yourself, simplifying very slightly, with the exception of the urge to use this technique. After a while, you turn into a mindless zombie, trudging around from the exit of the machine to the entrance, for eternity. Strange philosophical implications.

 

Calle: If you postulate nanomachines, why not use the deconstructor kind? Take your body apart into its component molecules in less than a minute… A silly method, if you hadn’t guessed.

 

Scuba-diving (various fatal ‘accidents’)

Time: see notes -most are minutes/hours

Available: scuba diving gear, nobody around

Certainty: see notes

Notes: The first method is to rise 30 metres or so without releasing your breath. Assuming that you can do it, it should cause your lungs to burst. The second is the bends – stay under long enough for the nitrogen to dissolve (30 metres for 30 minutes). go up rapidly without decompression time. This is unreliable, and may cause brain / joint damage. The third way is Carbon Monoxide poisoning – fill your tank with it, and stay away from other divers. You will fall asleep fairly quickly. See CO in poisons section. The final way is oxygen poisoning – however, this means that you have to go very deep with an oxygen-rich mix, and there are problems associated with that. The advantage of these methods is that insurance companies / relatives will assume that it was an accident (‘misadventure’), with the possible exception of the CO poisoning.

 

The source of this follows: (from the net) “Rising 30m without exhaling will usually result in an over pressured lung, possible subcuteaneous emphazema, collapsed lung, death usually from drowning in your own blood. Rather painful and usually curable if you are rescued, but fair chance of dying if you aren’t.

 

Building up a high residual nitrogen time (say 30m for 30 min) then coming up without decompressing will get you bent fairly nicely. You don’t feel much, but your joints tend to start stiffening up after half an hour. Death is very uncertain, coming from a stroke. Brain damage, joint damage etc are most likely. Pobably can be recued but some damage certain. Oxygen poisoning, going down 50+m until the partial pressure of the oxygen reaches a toxic level. Difficult to accomplish, very painful to get down that deep, cold pressure etc, possibility of nitrogen narcosis and forgetting what you are doing. Probably get bent, good chance of rescue.

 

CO poisoning, mix a healthy batch of carbon monoxide in your tank as you dive, you tend to go to sleep under water, when combined with the above methods you have a pretty good winner, don’t forget to forget your BCD.”

 

Sucking your brains out (silly)

Time: Minutes

Available: You’d need a Puma (TM) robot, & some other bits

Certainty: certain, given proper programming

Notes: You would need an industrial robot to do this properly. Give it a saw attachment, a sucking tube attachment, and program it. Make a head restraint. When you are fixed securely into the restraint, start the robot’s program. It will drill a hole in your head, and stick the tube into the hole. Program it to wiggle the tube back and forth so that it doesn’t miss anything. This might work better if you put a stream of water into the hole as well, so that the sucking attachment doesn’t just suck air all the time. Debugging the program could be amusing.

 

Microwaves

Time: ?

Available: Source of strong microwave emissions

Certainty: ?

Notes: Cooking yourself. Point is to raise your core body temperature to fatal levels.

 

Calle: Does anyone have any information on this? All that I know is that standing in front of a Swedish coast surveillance radar (which happens to use exactly the same wavelength as your average microwave oven) is a Bad Thing.

 

Dehydration

Time: a week or so?

Available: you need to be able to stop medical help.

Certainty: certain if your will-power stands up to it.

Notes: Don’t eat or drink. Remember that food contains a high proportion of water. Avoiding medical help can be difficult. See ‘starving to death’.

 

Skydiving ‘accident’

Time: pretty damn quick.

Available: need to join a skydiving club. Takes much time and money.

Certainty: Fairly certain. People have fallen from extreme heights and survived. The resulting injuries are not fun.

Notes: Join a skydiving club, continue to practise it for a while to clear off all suspicions and then once pack your parachute in a real mess (preferably knotted up, but not too clearly) and then jump. The para will not open and you will reach a terminal velocity of 220 km/h (160 mph/120 kn). Death is instant in the impact with the Planet Earth.

 

This has the advantages of being ‘accidental’, and your family/ friends do not have the additional pain and guilt associated with suicides.

 

Calle: In addition to the above, you need to remove or disable your reserve parachute (which is not easy, I’m told). There are better “accidental” methods than this.

 

A correspondent who is a skydiver dislikes this entry, since if people use it it will give skydiving an undeservedly bad reputation.

 

Death by a thousand cuts; modern version (silly)

Time: variable

Available: a heck of a lot of razor-wire.. maybe a high-voltage supply

Certainty: not very good

Notes: This is a modern variant of the Arabic ‘Death of a thousand cuts’. Basically, jump onto a stack of unravelled razor wire, and roll around till you die.. it may help to connect a high- voltage, low current power supply to the wire, so that you have spasms, which should keep you getting cut even when you are unconscious. Also, you should make sure that you can’t roll off the wire.

 

Crushing

Time: seconds to minutes, depends on car press

Available: a car press.. any good junkyard

Certainty: certain as long as you can’t escape

Notes: This is an elegantly simple one.. get into a car, in a car press, and shortly afterwards be squashed to death as your body is converted into a red pulp. It may be tricky getting the press to trigger, but if you hide in the car someone may come along and activate it. There are other ways of getting crushed, this just happens to be the most effective I can think up on the spur of the moment. Getting yourself run over by a fully loaded articulated lorry is quite good. You should remember that people quite often survive the actual crushing; they die when the weight is taken OFF them.

 

World War Three

Time: moments if you are near a militarilly significant site

Available: happen to be one of the ‘key-holders’? president maybe?

Certainty: pretty certain

Notes: All you have to do is trigger world war three. Fire an ICBM or three at the Chinese and the Russians… This method has the advantage that you take everyone else with you! Trouble is, the number of people with the requisite access is minimal, and I sort of doubt that any readers of ASH can do this.

 

Calle: Lots harder since the collapse of the Soviet Union… Silly.

 

Heatstroke

Time: 4 hours or more

Available: Very hot day; no disturbance from neighbours etc

Certainty: depends on the weather

Notes: Basically, the point is to give yourself extreme heatstroke. You should pass out after a few hours. Use some aluminium foil to direct the sun’s heat onto you, to speed up the process a bit. Try to reduce the chance of being interuppted, take off the phone etc. Obviously, start in the morning! Helps if the outside temperature is >100F.

 

Acid bath

Time: depends on acid

Available: a lot of a very strong acid

Certainty: fairly good

Notes: [from alt.suicide.holiday]

“summer heat got you down? Try the new and improved neighbourhood acid bath. Most metal working plants and some auto-repair shops will have a nice soothing acid bath. This, of course, is for those of you who enjoy extreme pain and don’t want to make a mess for others to clean up. If you don’t leave a note chances are they will never know what happened, aside from the shop / plant being broken into.”

 

Fake car bomb

Time: milliseconds

Available: explosive

Certainty: fairly good if enough explosive

Notes: This is a modification of the basic use-explosives method. What you do, is make a homemade car bomb, and drive off happily after chatting with your neighbour about how well your life is going, apart from a few minor death-threats from an Iraqi death-squad.. To confuse the authorities even more, have a note in your pocket listing the telephone numbers of all the eastern foreign embassies in your pocket, together with a little line of random “code numbers” next to each.., and a random but large amount of cash listed against each code number. 🙂 Oh yes, and a heavily annotated copy of Janis’s Defence Weekly – Xhosa edition.

 

Jumping off bridges (slice and dice with piano wire)

Time: 9.87 ms-2; 4 to 10 meters; calculate it yourself!

Available: Rope, pianowire and a high bridge.

Certainty: Fairly certain

Notes: Never been tried. Can also be used with a fairly high building, but then the art-motive will disappear.

 

Cut the rope and wire in various lengths. Each length must not be longer than the height of the bridge.

 

Tie one end of the ropes and wires to the bridge Tie the other part of the ropes to different bodyparts like thigh, calves, torso etc. Then tie the pianowires around your joints. (Don’t forget your genitals..)

 

When you jump various parts of you body are whipped away by the pianowire nooses, and your bits are held up by the ropes swaying in the breeze. If you to this right you should end up with just your torso hanging by it’s neck above the sea, highway, ground.

 

Do it with friends, and call it art.

 

Being eaten alive

Time: depends, but probably a couple of minutes

Available: zoo, or live in Africa/wherever

Certainty: not brilliant.. what if they’re not hungry and don’t finish?

Notes: basically, find one or more hungry carnivores… tigers are nice. Also, sharks, lions, any of the big cats..

 

Being burned up in unprotected re-entry (silly)

Time: probably a few minutes

Available: if you happen to be able to get into orbit

Certainty: about as certain as you can get!

Notes: Just go for a spacewalk in a low earth orbit, and decelerate enough to enter the atmosphere. You’ll get a great view…

 

Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS)

Time: Incubation period 1 to 10 years, death within 2 years of diagnosis of AIDS, Can have HIV for years/decades

Dosage: Just one intimate contact with an Infected person of any gender

Available: Available to all for free

Certainty: 99.9% certainty AFTER infected

Notes: [2]:

This is not painfree. This method may cost you alot of money if you allow others to get you medical attention. It may a little difficult to get infected as people who know they have it may not comply with your request. Could be great fun attempting to get infected depending upon your attitude (remember -any gender – you don’t have to limit yourself – you’re going to die, you might as well try it ;). Should be quite devasting to your family & close friends. You also get the satisfaction of leaving behind a virtual unrecognizable-as-you body ! This also gives you the prime opportunity to point your finger at your dentist and say she did it for all the times you have suffered in their chair. Happy dying !

 

Calle: May not be so certain any more. Ten years may well be long enough for someone to develop a cure. Silly, IMHO.

 

Auto-decapitation by car (added by Calle)

Time: Real quick

Available: You need access to a car and a rope

Certainty: I wouldn’t trust it

Notes:

Comes from alt.suicide.holiday. Basic idea is to tie one end of the rope around your neck, tie the other end to a real solid object, get into the car and accelerate away as fast as the car can manage. When you reach the end of the rope, your head gets torn off. Be sure to use enough rope and fasten your seat belt.

 

A posting to a.s.h. in July 1993 says that someone in Washinton State, USA actually used this method to commit suicide, so it can’t be that bad. The posting said that 25 feet of rope were used (about 7.5 meters), which does sound a bit short. Perhaps she had a real awesome car.

 

Death by painting your body (very silly, and wrong)

Dosage : Less than 1 can of paint depending on your body type

Time : ? Probably less than 8 hours

Availability : Very available ! You have a choice of greasepaint or House paint. You need a type of paint that will not allow your pores to breath in order to be successful at this. You also have a smashing selection of colors you can choose to die in ! Nile Green ? Blood Red ? Basic Black ? Or any combo you desire.. If you couldn’t decide before what to wear to die in, this method will cause you considerable angst.

Certainty : This is a sure method, provided you have a paint that will block your pores from breathing. Don’t forget the bottom of your feet. You must paint every last bit of available skin. If your pores can breathe, you won’t die.

Notes : I read this in some theater journal 5 or so years ago, saying when you you do full body makeup, you must insure that parts of the body are left naked to breathe or the actor will die. Usually for full body makeup, they leave the bottoms of feet, and some patterns on the body, like lines so the actor doesn’t suffocate.

 

Calle: This is an *extremely* silly one. It was in the “not yet edited” portion of Mike’s file, and I think it is quite straight from an a.s.h. posting. This method does not work. As you can check in most any book on human anatomy, the skin does not breathe. The only places in your body which absorbs oxygen are the lungs and the corneas, and the corneas only feed themselves. You might get ill or even die if you use poisonous paint, though.

 

 

 

Answers to Frequently Asked Questions

The only thing I can remember that has been asked for multiple times, besides the File itself, are the lyrics for “Suicide Is Painless” (the theme from M*A*S*H). Here it is:

 

“Suicide is Painless”

Words by Mike Altman

Music by Johnny Mandel

 

Through early morning fog I see

Visions of the things to be

The pains that are withheld for me

I realize and I can see that

 

 

Chorus: Suicide is painless

It brings on many changes

And I can take or leave it if I please.

 

 

I try to find a way to make

All our little joys relate

Without that ever-present hate

But now I know that it’s too late, and

 

 

(chorus)

 

The game of life is hard to play

I’m going to lose it anyway

The losing card I’ll someday lay

And this is all I have to say, that

 

(chorus)

 

The only way to win is cheat

And lay it down before I’m beat

And to another give a seat

For that’s the only painless feat, cause

 

(chorus)

 

The sword of time will pierce our skins

It doesn’t hurt when it begins

But as it works its way on in

The pain grows stronger – watch it grin

 

(chorus)

 

A brave woman once requested me

To answer questions that are key

Is it to be or not to be?

And I replied, “Oh why ask me?”, cause

 

(chorus)

 

And you can do the same thing if you please.

 

Notes by Calle

At the end of Mike’s file there were an entry for Nitrous Oxide. I have removed it, as there already is one. There were also a mail were someone recommended military nerve toxins. They might not be as certain as the originator thought, as current military thinking is that one griveously wounded woman is worth many dead ones in decreasing the enemy’s fighting capacity. That means that modern nerve gasses well might leave you paralyzed for life, but still living. Anyway, if you can get military stuff, why not use a rifle or a few kilos of explosive?

 

Mike’s sig were also at the bottom of the File. It follows here, for hertoric reasons:

 

[ .sig removed by Mike’s request ]

 

Unfortunately, the mail address doesn’t work any more.

 

Well, that’s all.

 

[Calle and Ingvar’s contact info removed]

 

Suicide is Painless

Davina was exhausted from reading her aunt’s notes on suicide.  A person could get so wrapped up in thinking about death that she’d forget to live.  Davina had long since decided that thinking about one’s death was different than thinking about making it happen.  She had talked with her aunt about suicide after the recent death of Hunter S. Thompson and Aunt Lee had told her in an email what she had already thought herself:

 

Yeah, I can’t believe Hunter S. Thompson did himself in.  He’s joined a list of my favorite authors who’ve planned their death, including Richard Brautigan, Spalding Gray, Hemingway, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath.  I guess if the day comes when the remainder of my life is staring at a hospital ceiling while hooked up to equipment to keep me alive, I’ll take a bottle of sleeping pills or something.  Until then, might as well live out the rest of my natural life.  Not like I’m in a hurry to become worm food.

 

Just finished reading the book, “The Suicidal Mind,” by Edwin Shneidman.  He talked about three suicidal cases.  Book was okay, good enough for reading while sitting at a Sonic drive-in for lunch.  Anyway, I liked the last paragraph:

 

“All this is consistent with deep beliefs I have held for years.  Suicide involves both inner disturbance and the idea of death as escape.  But it is simply good sense not to commit an irrevocable suicide during a transient perturbation in the mind.  Suicide is not the thing to do when you are disturbed and your thinking is constricted.  There is a short aphorism or maxim that captures this lifesaving truth: Never kill yourself while you are suicidal.  You can, if you must, think about suicide as much as your mind wishes and let the thought of suicide – the possibility that you could do it – carry you through the dark night.  Night after night.  Day after day, until the thought of self-destruction runs its course, and a fresh view of your own frustrated needs comes into clearer focus in your mind and you can, at last, pursue the realistic aspects, however dire, of your natural life.”

 

If you or a friend are thinking about doing it, delay the action for a while.  You can always find time to kill yourself tomorrow.  Your parents may jump on you for procrastination but in this case, procrastinating is the best thing to do.

 

 

Davina wondered if the material her aunt had sent her would really help Sam but then she figured what Sam needed to do was live out the suicide fantasy, at least verbally if nothing else.

 

Davina IM’d Sam…

 

“sam”

 

“yeah”

 

“IMHO ur sick”

 

“no shit”

 

“u gotta let go of the sickness”

 

“ok…how”

 

“fake it”

 

“WTF”

 

“fake ur suicide”

 

“lol”

 

“seriously”

 

“how”

 

“dunno yet”

 

“LMAO”

 

“brb”

 

“bye”

 

 

Davina then decided to call Torrance.  “Torrance.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Uh, I think Sam is serious this time.”

 

“About what?”

 

“Killing herself.”

 

“No she’s not.  Midterms are just coming up.  Look, it’s not like every black guy out there is lazy but Sam IS lazy.  She just doesn’t want her ol’ woman to get bent out of shape when Sam comes home with bad grades.”

 

“I think it’s worse than that.”

 

“What, did she accidentally kiss a chick?”  Torrance snickered, coughing between tokes of a joint.

 

‘Torrance, are you smokin’?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Dontcha have class right now?”

 

“Usually, but my ol’ lady’s at work so I snuck back to the apartment to smoke some weed.  Stop by, if you want.”

 

“No, I’ve gotta go to work in a few.  I’ll call you later.  Think about Sam, willya?  We gotta figure out some way for Sam to fake her death.”

 

“What for?  I mean, that’s a sorry way to dodge midterms.”

 

“Seriously, I think it’s the only way to convince Sam that living’s the way to go.”

 

“I think joining the Army makes more sense.”

 

Davina hung up the call and continued walking to the bookstore.  Between taking classes, working part time at the bookstore and putting in 20 hours at the ad agency, Davina had little time to think but she wanted to help out Sam, if for no other reason than to use Sam as a less-than-tragic figure in a future story.

 

At the bookstore, Davina straightened out a pile of notebooks on a shelf while thinking about how she could to convince Sam she was going to commit suicide.  During a work break, Davina called Birch.

 

“Birch.”

 

“Yeah, gal, what is it?”

 

“You gotta sec?”

 

“Well,” she started and Davina heard kissing sounds over the phone, “actually, I’m about to study for an exam.”

 

“What, anatomy?” Davina asked with a smile.

 

“Funny.  Yeah, something like that.  What’s on your mind?”

 

“Well, I think Sam’s serious about killing herself but Torrance doesn’t believe it.”

 

“Uh-huh…”

 

“Well, I wondered if you’d had any classes on the subject.”

 

“Can’t say that I’ve taken any African-American classes.  Not part of the core requirement and all that.”

 

“No, I mean suicide.  Have you studied suicide?”  Davina had gained an understanding of the brain from the book, “The Midnight Disease,” how the brain gets off on inner drugs like endorphin and that relatives of mental patients, even nieces and nephews, showed some of the same brain-related traits such as creativity.  “I’ve not read anything directly related to the subject myself.”

 

“I don’t know.  Have I studied suicide?” Davina heard Birch ask slightly away from the phone.  “I might have,” Birch said into the phone.

 

“Well, what did you learn?  Think it was anything we could help Sam with?”

 

Birch’s voice was slightly muffled.  “Yeah, buddy of mine.  He’s thinking of taking the quick way out.  I don’t know.”  Birch spoke back into the phone, “Davi, you think anyone else in Sam’s family has done it?”

 

“No idea.”

 

Birch’s voice was muffled again.  “Don’t know.  I don’t know if she is the type.  Didn’t know she was suicidal until spring break.  Nope, didn’t try it with us around.”  Birch turned back to the phone. “What say you call me back in an hour?  It’ll give me time to study this further.”

 

“Uh, anatomy or Sam?”

 

“Both, gal, both.”

 

“Give me a couple of hours.  I’m at work.”

 

“If you insist.”

 

 

Davina arranged to meet Birch on campus.  “So what did you find out?”

 

“Turns out I had this book and didn’t know it,” she said, handing Davina a copy of “On Suicide: great writers on the ultimate question.”

 

Davina turned the book over in her hand.  “’There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide,’” she read out loud.  “At least Sam’s in good company.  So what did you learn from this book?”

 

Well, Pam said…”

 

“Pam?  Was she the anatomy lesson?”

 

“Yeah, you prissy prick, she was.  Anyway, Pam said that we ought to give this book to Sam to show her that she’s not the only who thinks about suicide.”

 

“Do you think there’s anything in here that would encourage Sam to kill herself?  I mean, Sylvia Plath’s in it and I know she killed herself?”

 

“How the hell should I know?  I don’t remember every book I ever read.”

 

“Well, then why did you bring it?”

 

“You know,” Birch said, winking.  “Want another shot at an anatomy lesson, as you call it.”

 

“You got any better solutions than that?”

 

“We could go over to the other lab and experiment on Sam.  They’ve got a PET, CAT or something scan over there.”

 

“How’s that gonna help?”

 

“We could scan her brain.  I do remember that there’s something to be said about a person being observed who changes her behavior to please the observer.  Maybe if we just hook her up, he’ll feel better.”

 

“Think they’ll let us hook her up?”

 

“Oh, we can get in the lab, if that’s what you mean.”

 

“Uh, that’s not what I mean.  Can’t we just call and get permission or something?”

 

“I thought you wanted to do something tonight.”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Well, getting permission’s gonna take time, if you know what I mean,” Birch said, mimicking an actor on the show, “Whose Line Is It Anyway?”

 

“Don’t know if we’ve got time, if you know what I mean.”

 

“I’ve got all the time in the world for you, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Well, Sam’s world is about to end, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Anyway, how ‘bout you get Sam and I’ll meet you in Bradenton in say,” Birch looked at her watch, “three hours?”

 

“That’ll work.  Just…I don’t want to know how we’re getting in the lab…and I don’t want to get into any trouble.  I can’t lose my job at the ad agency.”

 

“Okay, illegal drug user, I’ll make sure that you don’t add breaking and entering to your resume, if you know what I mean.”

 

After working at the bookstore, they drove Sam over to the Science Laboratory Building at the Bradenton campus, explaining to her along the way that if she wanted to kill herself, they wanted to be there to record her last moments of life.  Sam thought it was a great idea and agreed to be subjected to whatever they thought would be the best way to record her last thoughts.

 

In the lab, they attached electrodes to Sam’s head, telling Sam that the electrodes would be used for measurement when it fact they planned to use the electrodes to administer jolts of pain to make Sam think she was actively dying.  They told Sam, after giving her light sedation, “Okay, we’ll help you die by giving you drugs.”  Instead, they gave her something to make her sick at her stomach and foam at the mouth.  As she got sick, they gave her a shot to make her pass out.

 

After Sam came to, Davina and Birch explained that apparently Sam’s body did not want to die.  They convinced her to try again, this time by hanging.  Unbeknownst to Sam, Davina and Birch had built a special rig that would make Sam feel she was being tied up so she wouldn’t struggle while hanging but would support her body, instead.  They also decided to up the voltage to apply through the electrodes to give Sam a jolt similar to electro-convulsive therapy (ECT) so that as the rope tightened, Sam would believe that she was choking to death.

 

After Sam came to, Davina and Birch explained that they were dumbfounded.  They watched Sam’s body jerk and jump but somehow her body wouldn’t give up.  They felt like either hanging wasn’t the right thing to do or that perhaps Sam really wanted to live so they had cut her down.  Sam felt like roadkill that had been run over by a thousand tractor trailer rigs – an unrecognizable animal but still recognizable as flesh and blood.

 

They offered her other choices:

 

Drowning

Gunshot

Slicing her wrists

Immolation (setting herself on fire)

Jumping off a bridge

 

After the fake suicide / psychological experiments she’d already been through, Sam wondered if she was meant to live.  Davina and Birch told Sam that perhaps maybe she really didn’t want to die and should try something such as raising Sam’s alert level with modafinil.  Sam asked them what that was.  They walked over to a lab computer and performed a Google search for modafinil [from: http://www.modafinil.com/%5D:

“…modafinil (‘Provigil’, ‘Aletec’, ‘Vigicer’, ‘Modalert’, etc) is a memory-improving and mood-brightening psychostimulant. It enhances wakefulness and vigilance, but its pharmacological profile is notably different from the amphetamines, methylphenidate (Ritalin) or cocaine. Modafinil is less likely to cause jitteriness, anxiety, or excess locomotor activity – or lead to a hypersomnolent ‘rebound effect’ – than traditional stimulants. Subjectively, it feels smoother and cleaner than the amphetamines too. The normal elimination half-life of modafinil in humans is between 12 – 15 hours. So it’s worth fine-tuning one’s dosage schedule accordingly.

Current research suggests modafinil, like its older and better-tested analogue adrafinil, is a safe, effective and well-tolerated agent. It is long-acting and doesn’t tend to cause peripheral sympathetic stimulation. Yet its CNS action isn’t fully understood. Modafinil induces wakefulness in part by its action in the anterior hypothalamus. Its dopamine-releasing action in the nucleus accumbens is weak and dose-dependent; the likelihood of a euphoric response (‘abuse potential’), dose-escalation and tolerance is thus apparently small. Modafinil has central alpha 1-adrenergic agonist effects i.e. it directly stimulates the receptors. Modafinil inhibits the reuptake of noradrenaline by the noradrenergic terminals on sleep-promoting neurons of ventrolateral preoptic nucleus (VLPO). More significant, perhaps, is its ability to increase excitatory glutamatergic transmission. This reduces local GABAergic transmission, thereby diminishing GABA(A) receptor signalling on the mesolimbic dopamine terminals.

Modafinil is proving clinically useful in the treatment of narcolepsy, a neurological disorder marked by uncontrollable attacks of daytime sleepiness. Narcolepsy is caused by dysfunction of a family of wakefulness-promoting and sleep-suppressing peptides, the orexins. Orexin neurons are activated by modafinil. Orexinergic neurons are found exclusively in the lateral hypothalamic area, but their fibers project to the entire central nervous system. Genetically modified orexin-knockout animals offer a model of human narcolepsy. Selective orexin receptor agonists of the future may prove useful both to narcoleptics and the population at large.

Experimentally, modafinil is also used in the treatment of Alzheimer’s disease, depression, attention-deficit disorder, myotonic dystrophy, multiple sclerosis-induced fatigue, post-anaesthesia grogginess, cognitive impairment in schizophrenia, age-related memory decline, idiopathic hypersomnia, jet-lag, and everyday cat-napping. Depressives who feel sleepy and fatigued on SSRIs can augment their regimen with modafinil. In September 2003, an advisory panel to the FDA endorsed its use for treating shift work sleep disorder and obstructive sleep apnea.

The US military are interested in modafinil too.

Modafanil is marketed as ‘Alertec” in Canada – and over the Net. ‘Alertec’ is less expensive than ‘Provigil’. Cheap generic modafinil should be available from 2006. But Cephalon is vigorously litigating to defend its patents.

Modafinil is increasingly used as a ‘lifestyle drug’ – a lucrative ‘off-label’ market its makers have not been unduly keen to discourage. Some prescribing physicians have reportedly been surprised at a previously hidden epidemic of narcolepsy among hard-working young professionals attending their surgeries.

Prudence, however, should be exercised in drastically curtailing one’s sleep. Prolonged sleeplessness weakens immune function. Animals tortured in sleep-deprivation experiments eventually die from massive bacterial infections of the blood…”
Euphorias are Better than Eulogies

Sam was elated.  She had been taking drugs that her buddy, Birch, had snagged for her.  Some days, she felt like leaping out of bed and did.  She realized that her dance group was never going to be as good as she thought so she called some friends in Tampa about any opportunities there.  They told her about a new experimental theater group that was looking for a few dancers.

 

Sam auditioned and blew away the competition, as she knew she would.  Excited, she sat down on the steps outside the theater and called her brother on her cell phone.

 

“Bro, how ya doin’?”

 

“All right, my little pal.  You doin’ okay?”

 

“How do I describe this euphoric feeling I’m having?  Well, I certainly couldn’t quote a song because I don’t believe very many songs would go into detail about the way a person feels after a round of auditions for a dream job.  Is there a poem or story already written to describe this feeling?  Is this feeling better than the post-skydiving experience?  Well, in some ways, yes, it is.  I have the satisfaction that during the auditions, I presented myself to others and was accepted for myself.  After skydiving, all I could say was that I now know what it feels like.

 

“The problem with this euphoric feeling is knowing that the post adrenaline-pumping physical letdown will kick in pretty soon.  Well, it’s not really a problem.  I can handle it.  It’s more like a fully anticipated punishment.  Now that is exactly like the post-skydiving experience – coming down off the euphoric high.  All the buildup, then the experience and then later when you least expect it, BAM!  The feeling wears off.  Better be sitting down.  Better have your hands on the arms of the chair.  Better have a pillow behind your head because this roller coaster ride is coming to a complete halt.

 

“And all I can say is that suddenly, my eyelids are getting heavy.”

 

“Are you on drugs again?”

 

“No.  I’m sitting here deciding whether to get up and drive home or wait until the adrenaline drains out of my system.

 

“I’ve got to get some food.  That’s it.  I’ll stop by the ice cream shop, eat a hand-dipped ice cream scoop prepared at the Creamery and hope it keeps me going until I collapse at home.

 

“I’m telling you, bra.  There are more ways to get the body excited than through the use of drugs.”

 

“You gotta get your shit together.  You hear me?  You join the Army and we’ll make sure you get your shit together.  Won’t be no more drugs, no more late nights callin’ your bro’.  You’ll become a real woman.”

 

“Okay,” Sam said, hanging up.

 Recital Hall Revisited

Calling the Hogs

Back in the Recital Hall – it had been a year since the last time Davina was there, probably when she first started going to Manatee.  That night, she wasn’t worried about writing a review for class but she brought her notebook with her anyway.  She wanted to spend a quiet evening with Richelle, hoping to resolve some issues in her head and get them down on paper while listening to the live performance.  They would listen to the new ensemble, the Hogstein Sinfonietta, Charles Hogstein, Music Director, who would present three pieces:

 

Overture in C minor, Op. 1 by Charles Hogstein

Concerto Grosso in G, Op. 6, No. 1 by G. F. Handel

Eine kleine Nachtmusik by W. A. Mozart

 

Davina started taking notes…

 

Currently, a bass player is tuning her instrument using a small clip-on electronic tuner.  “The nice thing about it is you can use it while you’re playing,” the fellow said who handed it to her.  “Yes, I see that,” the bass player said in agreement.

 

Two thoughts.  One, while looking up info on tonight’s performance, I looked up the bio of another upcoming performer, Dr. Margaret Weissgerber, and saw where she now has two baby twins with her husband.  I still wonder why someone from her house called my home phone number years ago – the mind can imagine the possibilities.  Second, I finished the opening dialogue for my novel, “Milk Chocolate,” establishing the relationships between the main four characters.  Next, I have to work on the story outline.  I know I want Sam and Coyote Ugly to get together, thus the title.  They meet through a knockoff of The Bachelor, Wife Swap, Supernanny, and Survivor.  Coyote Ugly wins North American Idol, narrowly defeating a contender from Mexico City, when on the last evening she confesses in Mexican that her great-grandmother, a Native American (Cherokee) married her great-grandfather, a Tejano man.  Her great-grandfather had settled in San Antonio after reporting on the Alamo battle for the London Times and then a few years later moved to Tennessee after reading about the Americans who had died in the battle.

 

Sam’s dance troupe seems to be going nowhere fast, performing regionally, until her manager hears about a new reality show called, “Fame and Misfortune,” that features college, ballet and performance art dance teams.  Sam’s team wins the competition.  They are put through a series of rigorous tests.  The first week they have to babysit a group of infants while learning a new performance art piece – the infants must show an improvement in skills and the dance routine has to be flawlessly executed.  The next week, the teams must swap two team members and learn a new dance routine, getting it perfect.  More than one dance team is eliminated that week.  The next week, the teams go to Weeki Wachee Springs, Florida, to perform waterskiing routines and underwater routines (without scuba gear).  Two teams are left after that competition.  Individuals from the two teams must then pair up with someone from the other team and go on dates while secretly being exposed to strong sex hormones.  Whoever survives the week without falling in love or having sex, wins.  Turns out to be Sam.  Sam is sent on a date with the winner of North American Idol, Coyote Ugly.  While dating, Coyote Ugly reveals that she comes from a mix of different ethnic groups – Jewish, Indian, English, Chinese, German and Russian.  Audiences fall in love with her.  So does Sam. The rest is history, or is it…

 

[The Hogstein Sinfonietta is about to perform.  11+ violins, 5 cellos, 2 bass]

 

Turns out that Birch’s desire to manage a golf course goes awry.  She marries her high school sweetheart and attends “holy roller” church with her.  However, the golf course secretary is too appealing and Birch gets caught on the fourth green “sinking a hole in one” – the golf course owner is taking prospective club members on a tour.  They see that one of the sprinkler systems is on with one of the sprinkler heads shooting water 20-feet high.  “Old Faithful, huh?” one person jokes.  The owner excuses himself and drives to last location where Birch had checked in on the two-way radio.  The owner catches Birch and the secretary in the act.  Some joke is cracked about using the wrong putter on the job.

 

Overture in C minor, Op. 1

 

Unique black-and-white tie worn by the conductor, Hogstein.  He bows to the audience and begins the piece.  Starts out like a group tuning up three or four notes.  Interesting chords…discordant…yet.  Reminds me of an early fall day in a PBS Mystery episode.  I’m not a fan of lots of string instruments – read, FREE performance.  Nothing wrong with this piece that a little fat back and turnip greens wouldn’t fix.  😉  Lasted about five minutes.  Hogstein said he wrote it years ago for public school.  Also spoke about Claudia Evan, “my bulldog”; put together group for those who didn’t have another group; takes disciplines to be a group.

 

Concerto Grosso in G, Po. 6, No. 1

 

Most of the violins have a red tint but one of them is definitely a light oak color – something I don’t remember seeing before.

 

The folks seem like they’re still “gelling”, soloists getting into their parts, only slightly ahead and then suddenly looking up at the conductor to resync.

 

In front of me, a woman coughs.  The woman next to her digs a mint out of her pocket and gives it to the cougher.  A momentary crinkle of plastic to go with the Allegro movement.  An older couple talks beside me – amazing.

 

As Hogstein conducts, sometimes he makes a gesture with his left hand as if he were holding a violin.  One violinist holds her chin on the other side of the bar.

 

For whom do they perform?  They could be sitting at home playing for their cats or kids but instead we are here with them to hear them perform.  How many are all too well aware of our existence?  I certainly hope they are focused on the sheet music, especially those who have to fight against the paper folds that won’t go flat.

 

The principal players stand up for recognition.  So, too, does Claudia and a woman beside her.  Embarrassed, they sit down.  [10 minute break while chairs are rearranged]

 

 

Birch graciously resigns from the Golf Club of Tennessee and moves her family to Hendersonville, NC, to live out her dream of opening a Fazio course.  There, she is converted to the Church of the Undecided, where the members meet whenever the meeting committee decides to make up their minds when they’ll next have a meeting.  At the church congregational meetings, they waiver between having a prayer recognizing a god and having a prayer that states there may or may not be a god.

 

 

The cougher couple below me discuss the mint that had been exchanged.  The cougher’s husband retrieves a water bottle to give to the mint lady.  “I’m glad I sat beside you.  I don’t know what I’d do.”  Mint lady’s husband says, “Oh, there’s plenty more if you want them.”  Mint lady adds, “I’ve had a cold and she was kind enough to bring them for me,” pointing to her coat pocket.  Cougher: “Oh, I don’t have cold.  I just suddenly have a…cough.”  Both couples return to their private conversations.

 

 

All eight TV networks – ABC, CBS, NBC, Fox, WB, CBC, Univision and Telemundo – announce that they will be covering the wedding ceremony of Sam and Coyote Ugly.  During the ceremony, they are pronounced the first god and goddess of the new worldwide TV network (the network logo is an open right hand with the fingers spread out).

 

Eine kleine Nachtmusik

 

Something I’m familiar with…”Mozart’s Ghost!” (Have to see the movie, “The Net,” for that reference).

 

The onstage rearrangement turned out to be the swapping around – musical chairs, if you will – of lead positions.

 

Mint lady talks with hubby.  Must be the new thing to talk in crowds or maybe it’s just that people feel free to talk since this performance is as free as watching TV.

 

So, are we dealing with a bunch of prima donnas or just a group of people who all can confidently play first chair?

 

One of the bass players looks like Kenny Wallace – okay, so I watched “NASCAR – The IMAX Experience” last night!  I never said I had class.  One of the women playing violin has suburban-wife hair, all set up like the “football helmet” hair of Sally Field in “Steel Magnolias.”

 

Ahhh…the nice slow movement – Romanza?  All the performers are smiling despite the fact they trailed off poorly at the end of the last movement – or because of it.  This arrangement of principals is not as clean as the first mix of folks – tuned differently?  Something sounds amiss…but only in the violin section or at least that’s all my worn-out ears can pick up.  The other bass player reminds me of the ex-football player, Alex Karas, who played James Garner’s bodyguard in “Victor, Victoria.”

 

I guess the fun part about this live performance is the imperfection.  The imperfect performance, this imperfect writing, the opportunity to get on paper my thoughts I could not normally record in the dark but there’s enough light from the stage to provide me this space.

 

Menuetto – okay, we approach the end.  The players weren’t smiling this time.  A bit tired?  I know I would be.  Some of the players are still lively.  Others sit there like geeks or zombies, automatons.

 

Rondo – the last movement.  Very familiar – not as vivacious as some recordings I’ve heard.  Must be scored for a chamber ensemble.  Speaking of which.  Are any of these folks part of Prefontofsky’ old chamber group?  Since the new symphony conductor lives elsewhere (Mexico?), maybe Hogstein is filling in for the Stephane group.   I wonder…

 

One of the violinists reminds me of the father, Red, on the TV show, “That 70’s Show.”  Another one reminds me of the space ship driver in “Galaxy Quest,” Daryl Mitchell (oops, turns out the violinist is a woman).

 

I failed to mention that before the performance, a man sat down below me.  He acted like a proud father, all smiles.  He had a Middle Eastern accent and had just bought an expensive Nikon digital camera, which interested the mint lady’s husband very much.  I couldn’t tell if the camera guy’s interest on stage playing the violin was his wife or daughter.

 

The conductor walks off the stage for the customary return of applause.  He bows a second time, the applause dies off and people get up to leave or walk into the reception.  Meanwhile, Hogstein stays on stage and talks with a few people as the chairs are stacked up.  Wonder if I can talk Richelle into going with me to see Dr. Weissgerber’s performance tomorrow.  Time to call her and see if her scrapbooking class is over…

 

 

Royal Brass and Horns

Davina had talked her girlfriend into attending the next night’s concert with her.  She promised her she would not take notes.

 

After they sat down, Davina started fidgeting.  She would reach over to hold Richelle’s hand and then let it go.  Richelle rolled her eyes, knowing what Davina’s problem was.  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

 

“Nothing.  Well…I’m a little sore from today and can’t sit still.”

 

“Are you sure that’s all?”

 

“Well…”

 

“Do you want a pen?”

 

“No, I don’t have my notepad.”

 

“Okay,” Richelle said, grasping Davina’s hand again.

 

Davina turned the program over in her left hand.  “You know, the back side of this is blank.”

 

“I give up,” Richelle said as she let go of Davina’s hand and reached for her purse.   “I know you won’t be happy until you get a pen.”

 

“Thank you,” Davina said with a smile as she took the pen from Richelle’s hand.

 

She dove into her routine of writing, her act of participating in a public event, her way of saying, “I, too, have talent,” when confronted with the magnificent performance of strangers on stage…

 

Let’s see…jogged 10 miles this morning, ate lunch, then Richelle and I joined local ecologist, Soos Smith, and some volunteers to clear/cut non-native bushes along the main road of the Myakka State Forest from 13:00 to 16:00.  The state forest is not too far from our house and I use it as part of my jogging routine.  Now, at 19:20, I’m sitting here once again in the Recital Hall, this time to hear the Brass Band of Tampa, Dr. Weissgerber, guest performer.

 

Hey, this is a band I like – no strings!  Looking at the program, I see there are two baritone horns and one euphonium, too!  I’m in concert heaven.  Makes me kinda sad, thinking that I no longer have my baritone horn.  After putting it off for a few years – until my nephew is finally in the same band as it turns out – last year I donated my baritone horn to my old junior high school in honor of my former junior high band director and private tutor.  Hopefully, some young person has the opportunity to excel at playing an instrument I never mastered, despite my playing the instrument from sixth grade through high school and community band.  As my high school band director said and I’ve only come to appreciate later in life, “It’s never too late to practice.”

 

Well, Richelle and I are both tired.  I took a nap from 16:30 to 18:09 (while Richelle talked on the phone, surfed the Web and took a shower), barely giving us time to finish getting dressed and then stop some place for a bite to eat.  We were bad – time being short, we ate at a Krystal fast food restaurant for nourishment – protein, preservatives and only a little roughage (I ate a small salad instead of French fries).  Don’t know if the food will be enough to keep me fully awake.

 

Funny, to hear an elderly gentleman seated behind me in the recital hall as he dissects Dr. Weissgerber’s bio printed in the program.  “’Named the most outstanding piano doctoral graduate in 1994’?  She was the only one,” he said to wife, apparently hoping to get a laugh.  She must have given him a look, instead.  “Ha-ha.  Just kidding.  I don’t know.  Look, she’s associate professor and chair of the Music Department, too.  Amazing.  I didn’t know.”

 

A woman steps up to the microphone.  “Hello.  Hello.  Is this working?” she asks.  Audience members reply, “NO!”  “Well, I guess it’s not time to start,” she observes out loud and sits down for a few minutes.

 

National Anthem (Star Spangled Banner) by John Stafford Smith/ Francis Scott Key

 

Just as the woman steps up to the non-working mike once again, the band members start the tune up process, which begins quietly and we can barely hear her talking but instantly gets loud as all the instruments join in, drowning her out.  She looks back at the band, shrugs and sits back down.  The conductor, Dr. Cowen, steps out on stage to applause.  She bows to the audience and then steps up on the podium.  The band plays the Star Spangled Banner, for which the audience stands up in attention.

 

Afterward, the woman then gets up and tries the mike again.  She gives up on the mike and simply uses the volume of her own voice, introducing herself as Judy Welch, local host and producer at the public radio station.  She talks about “Brass, Reeds and Percussion,” a radio program which comes on at noon on Saturdays on NPR.  Occasionally, I listen to the show and by chance today, Richelle and I listened to the end of it as we drove over to the state park.  Although we missed it, Judy said that in this week’s show, Dr. Cowen admitted to being a recovering euphonium player.

 

March of the Toreadors from “Carmen” by Georges Bizet*

 

Judy talks about the next piece, Bizet’s Carmen, and the controversy surrounding it when it was first performed, a reminder that the art world’s role often seems to spark scandal during the introduction of new work.

 

Here it is, a brass band, and what sticks out most during the first part of this piece is a guy banging on a small triangle.  I’ve never been a fan of percussion because of the tendency of percussive instruments to dominate, overshadow the sound of the rest of the instruments.  Ah well.  There is a part where the baritone horns and euphonium stand out.  I am temporarily satisfied.

 

Variations on America by Charles Ives*

 

Judy back up on stage to explain this piece.  The traditional sounds of Dr. Ives’ work will be muted in this piece, which was originally composed for organ.

 

A lot of good trumpet parts in this one.  I liked the muted trumpet/trombone part – a little sad/jazzy.  An anticipatory bridge and then a lively march-like section.  Fun Spanish-like section toward the end (ode to Carmen?).

 

March and Procession of Bacchus from the ballet, “Sylvia” by Léo Delibes*

 

Judy walks up to the mike – still dead.  “I had to try.  There’s always hope,” she says to mild laughter and one or two claps of appreciation.  Judy points out the different numbers of players.  Three percussionists (there are actually four), six French horn players (there are actually seven) and nine cornet players (she gets that one correct).  Judy asks Dr. Cowen why there are so many cornet players and no trumpet players.  Dr. Cowen explains that the band follows the British tradition – preferring the warm, velvety sounds of the cornet versus the sharp tones of the trumpets.  She further explains that this is accomplished by using only instruments of conical shape in the band although they have made an allowance for the cylindrical shape of trombones.  Audience laughs a little.

 

March of Bacchus…feels like a movie soundtrack.  I could listen to this kind of music sitting on the back porch, watching the birds at the bird feeders on a sunny day.

 

Interesting, watching the tympani and xylophone players place their hands on the instruments to silence them between/before silent breaks in the music.

 

I’ve always wondered – do French horn players stick their hands up the bell to catch and hold the sounds coming out of their instruments for use later on?

 

Mars from “The Planets” by Gustav Holst*

 

“Has anyone seen the video, ‘Brass Off’”, asks Judy.  “Although it’s a few years old, it’s a wonderful presentation on brass instruments.  You can probably get it on DVD now.”  Noises from the band.  “They’re still emptying their instruments of what they call…condensation.”  The audience laughs.  Judy goes on to explain that Holst became interested in astrology and decided to write music about the planets.  He completed the composition of The Planets just weeks before WWI.  Audience members shake their heads in amazement.

 

Great start by the tuba!  Chills running up my spine…I can feel the vibrations in the air.  Euphonium solo – sounds like Darth Vader’s theme from John Williams’ score for the movie, “Star Wars.”  Unless I’m knocked out by the second half of tonight’s performance, this is my favorite work for the evening.  [My mind is fading – despite the nap, it’s been a long day and I’m tired – I see the dyslexia in my handwriting.]  This would be a fun piece to hear on the drive to work as I race my BMW through the streets of North Port.

 

Intermission

 

The elderly gentleman says, “I didn’t read about Dr. Daniella Cowen.”  “Who?” her wife asks.  “Dr. Cowen…she’s even director of Czech Republic,” he reads out loud, using a fake Eastern European accent.  His wife speaks too quietly for me to hear.  “Prolific arranger,” he observes, changing the subject, noting that all the asterisked pieces were arranged by Dr. Cowen.

 

The technician is still trying to get the mike to work.  One musician points out that the large powered speakers in the recital hall weren’t turned on.  She flips a switch on the speakers and then, “WE HAVE POWER,” the female student sound technician announces through a wireless mike offstage.

 

One of the cornet players has brought out flowers and handed them to his wife and child, presumably to be given to Dr. Weissgerber after her performance (the flowers, not the child).

 

Richelle turns to me and says, “I know why you wanted to come.  It wasn’t because of the brass band.  It was because Dr. Weissgerber is performing.”  I blush.  “Admit it,” she kids me, “you have a thing for Dr. Weissgerber.”  “I’m not sure…well, she is a pretty woman,” I confess, “but I do prefer brass bands to violins.”  “So do I,” Richelle replies, as she gives me a gentle nudge.  I point out that the last time I saw Dr. Weissgerber perform, there were several piano students who grabbed seats in the recital hall where they could watch Dr. Weissgerber’s fingers fly across the keys.  “I wonder which one of those is the repiano cornet,” Richelle observes.  “I don’t know,” I reply.  “They all look about the same, except for maybe Carla Sander’s.”

 

Concerto in F (1^st Movement) by George Gershwin, Margaret Flanagan Weissgerber, soloist

 

Tune up time again.  Mike problems again.  Judy tells the audience that the young woman working the microphone and sound booth apologizes but she is a student saxophone player, not a sound technician.  While Judy talks, the only female cornet player, Carla Sanders, gets up and tries to adjust the mike and the backstage mixer with no luck.  Judy presses on.  “I asked Dr. Cowen to write an explanation in my notes for this piece.  ‘The only way to surpass “The Planets” is to bring out a beautiful woman to play Concerto in F,’” Judy quotes Dr. Cowen as saying.  “And here she is, Dr. Margaret Weissgerber.”

 

Dr. Weissgerber steps out, wearing a mandarin orange jacket and matching orange pants, contrasting well against the band members’ black outfits.

 

After the brass intro, Dr. Weissgerber dives into the solo piano part with a mission.  Until last week, I had always thought of Dr. Weissgerber’s playing as being technically superb (and I admit, I am envious of her ability to memorize and play highly technical piano pieces) but with no or little emotion, until I listened to her first CD again and heard her put some emotion into the quiet sections of some pieces in the middle part of the CD.  Here, her usual unemotional piano bashing goes well with the brass band.

 

Interesting to watch Dr. Cowen turn her head back as she conducts to make sure she is in step with Dr. Weissgerber.  Carla Sanders, who plays an Eb cornet tonight and serves as one of the other “music appreciation” class teachers at college (Dr. Weissgerber being the other), sits slightly behind Dr. Weissgerber on stage.  Carla’s dyke looks contrast nicely against Dr. Weissgerber’s feminine looks.

 

Neat section here, the percussion part contrasting against the part being played by Dr. Weissgerber on the piano (the piano being a percussive instrument in its own right).  With the lid lifted on the piano, I can no longer see the baritone horn / euphonium section.  From out of nowhere, I am reminded of the Octubafest concert series that used to be given every year at Tennessee Tech years ago.  I wonder if it still goes on.  A few brass player friends of mine from high school band were invited to Octubafest.  A couple of them went on to join the military and perform in the presidential band.

 

Dr. Weissgerber bows at the end of the performance and proceeds off-stage.  She is encouraged to step back up front.  The musician’s husband holds his little girl up who hands the bouquet of flowers to Dr. Weissgerber.

 

Melody Shop (Circus March) by Karl King*

 

Judy steps up for more interesting background material.  Karl King was a former player with the Barnum and Bailey Circus.  He was sitting at a bar when a traveling salesman walked up and asked the bartender if this was the same town that the man King lived who wrote light little ditties.  King wrote this music in response, with the toughest euphonium/baritone horn parts ever.  “Two minutes of sheer terror for the brass band,” Dr Cowen tells us, because the woodwind parts are being played by the cornets.

 

Piano lid is down again.  I can watch the baritone horn and euphonium players.  They’re definitely working through some fast fingering.  I keep expecting to hear a solo from them but I get a loud mish-mash of sound because all of the musicians seem to be playing hard parts.

 

“Never let it be said that I let it easy on my musicians,” the sweaty Dr. Cowen says after the performance.

 

Miller Magic arranged by Denzil Stephens

 

Judy steps up and talks about the band itself.  They perform every two weeks, she says questionedly to Dr. Cowen.  “No, weekly, we’ve really gotten good at practicing,” she says to laughter.  They are always looking for new members.  Judy points out that they should contact the founder, Paul Zubrod, Sr. (also a tenor trombone musician in the band).  Instead, Dr. Cowen suggests Carla Sanders, who nods in agreement and gives out her phone number.

 

Ahh…the sounds of Glenn Miller.  Who doesn’t know the melodies of this medley?  Neat, muted trumpets and French horns in place of saxophones.  A flugel horn solo, just slightly shaky – on purpose?  Never noticed the melody of the TV show soundtrack from “The Avengers” in Miller Magic before.  Two of the percussionists sit down for this piece – tympanist and xylophone player.  “And who said a brass band couldn’t swing?” Dr. Cowen asks afterward to laughter.

 

Radetzky March by Johann Strauss I

 

Judy tells us this is the unofficial national anthem of Austria.

 

A good, solid march.  Good bass drum part in this piece.  Was the bass drum always on stage?  I forgot to mention that earlier in the evening a gong was brought out on stage just for the performance of “The Planets”.

 

I’m growing more tired and my mind drifts a little.  Throughout the evening, one or two dots of light have played on the back wall, reflections of unknown instruments.  I remember why I think of brass bands so much.  Being a woman, I rarely get the luxury of staring at a toilet or urinal when I pee but every now and then I sneak into a man’s bathroom for the shock value.  A big majority of the time, I see flushing mechanisms called the Regal Quiet Flush by the Sloan Valve Company, which also makes the Royal flushometer.  When I lived in Knoxville during my summer job as an advertising intern, the office was near the location of Royal Brass and Hose.  For some reason, every time I take a leak in the men’s room, I see the name Regal or Royal in front of me with the inevitable scratches and scrapes of a toothed wrench (instead of a smooth-jawed wrench) that was used to tighten the fixtures, then in my head I see a picture of the Royal Brass and Hose building I used to drive by in Knoxville and I remember the old, beat-up brass baritone horns and sousaphones of my youth.

 

Funny, how the mind is filled with little playback loops.  Kinda like the fact that every time I put conditioner in my hair, I remember a sequence of events surrounding taking a shower with Sarah back when we were seeing each other while she was going through the divorce.  Sarah would sometimes compare my behavior to her husband, proving to herself that comments she made about her were not necessarily comments that every guy would make about her.  In this case, as we were showering, I put some of her conditioner in my hair and forgot to wash it out before turning off the water.

 

“Aha,” she said, “so not everyone washes the conditioner out of their hair.”

 

“Huh?” I replied.

 

“You didn’t wash the conditioner out of your hair.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Well, I don’t wash the conditioner out of my hair because I don’t see how a couple of minutes of putting it in your hair and then washing it off is going to do any good.  My husband says that everyone washes conditioner out of their hair.  I asked him why and he said the shampoo and conditioner people are smarter than I am and they put specific instructions on the bottle that says to wash the conditioner off.  I told him that the conditioner people put the instructions on there so they could sell us more conditioner.  He laughed at me like I was an idiot.  I know I’m right.  Don’t you think so?”

 

I nodded as I turned the water back on.

 

“What are you doing?” Sarah asked in confusion.

 

“Well, I put too much conditioner on so I’m going to wash a little bit of it out,” I said, realizing that I had forgotten to wash the conditioner out of my hair, conditioner not being a habit of mine.

 

“Oh, that’s okay,” she said, reassured.

 

A few weeks later she asked me if I did or didn’t wash conditioner out of my hair.  I told her that honestly I didn’t use conditioner.  I had just used it that day because she had.  As I found out later, my comment added more doubt to Sarah’s trust in girls in general.  Although Sarah was 13 years older than I and wiser in many ways, she had married young and had only two relationships – one with her husband and one with me – I knew in this case I was wiser than her and figured that knowing the general behavior of the opposite sex sometimes is and sometimes isn’t the same as two individuals of the same sex and takes more than comparing the behavior of one guy and one girl.  The only thing you get after observing the behavior of two people interested in you is a straight line that could be pointed in the wrong direction.

 

And speaking of direction, looks like this performance is almost over.  As far as playback loops go, I wonder if I’ll think of Judy Welch every time I see someone having trouble with a stage mike…

 

At the end of the performance, Dr. Cowen asks the band members to rise, as she has after every piece tonight.  She shakes hands with a few of the principals, including Carla Sanders.  She turns and bows to the applause of the audience.  The audience members slowly rise to their feet.  Dr. Cowen pauses, steps off-stage and then returns to the front for a second bow.  This being a free concert (with suggested five-dollar donation at the door), we’ll get no encore so the applause quickly dies down after Dr. Cowen steps off-stage the second time.

 

÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷  ÷

 

“I watched Dr. Weissgerber’s fingering and was amazed how she played the backs of the keys.  I really am glad you told me about the brass band.  I’m glad we came,” Richelle said, as they walked out the door.

 

“So am I,” Davina replied, folding her notes in her pocket and reaching out to hold her girlfriend’s hand.

 

 

 

 

 

Treading Water

Davina couldn’t concentrate.  The professor was making a valid point but Davina was stuck on a thought.  She looked down at the notes she’d just written…

 

Birch ended up worshipping and then plotting to kill the god/goddess.  One of the TV network crews figured out what was going on and secretly filmed Birch, making sure she had access to Sam and Coyote Ugly.  Eventually, Birch killed them and was filmed in the act.  The TV network used the murder footage to turn Sam and Coyote Ugly into martyrs for the cause of world peace, shooting TV rating through the roof.

 

Davina decided she could no longer tell the difference between reality and fantasy because she thought that sometimes the stuff she wrote down ended up happening.  Either she was following the zeitgeist of the world too well in her writing or she was predicting the future.  It no longer mattered.  After the professor finished talking, Davina closed her notebook and walked out of the classroom.

 

As she walked out of the building, she wondered if she or any of her friends would be famous.  She decided they would probably just lead regular lives like their parents.  Davina would probably end up like her aunt, satisfied that she could find time to write and get stuff published every now and then.  Who knew for sure?  She still had to finish school and find a regular job, if such a thing existed.  She still hadn’t figured out if there was anything to the friendship she had established with Ashleigh.

 

 

My Vanity Mirror

Everyone has a story to tell, the story of their life.  Of course, we filter out a lot that happens around us so that what we remember about the story of our lives is a mixture of emotions and selected memories of sights, smells, sounds, touch, etc.  A diary is the story of one’s life, written not for general distribution but written to nourish one’s soul.  This blog is the beginning of my online story.

Today was a long day.  I awoke at 3:18 a.m. and got ready for a 5:50 a.m. flight from Sarasota Airport through Cincinnati to Seattle-Tacoma Airport (SEATAC) via Delta Airlines.  My wife was kind enough to drive me to the airport (yes, I’m married now).

And why is it that I am bothered by the touch of another human being, despite being married to the most loving, understanding person in the world?  Well, that should be the title of this story but I’m getting ahead of myself.

“All Things Grow With Love”, states a pillow on the mantel above a fireplace in my room at A Cascade View, a local B&B.  Is there a correlation between human touch and love?  There is certainly a correlation between human touch and sex.  Sex is, after all, really just a shortened version of sexual (not necessarily sensual) contact.  But I’m still getting ahead of myself, or am I?  After all, these are the thoughts going through my head now (or in the last few minutes) and what I’ve come here for is to record the events of the day, bad grammar and all.

After the airplane landed in Seattle, I struggled with my luggage (making sure I brought plenty of clothes for the lengthy interview process at Microsoft headquarters), having to upgrade my rental car from a Ford Contour with a satellite navigation system to a Ford Explorer with a map in the passenger’s seat.  Earlier in the week, I had surfed to the website http://www.mapquest.com and downloaded the following maps:
• A map from SEATAC airport to Verlot, a town in the Mount Baker Snoqualmie National Forest

• A map from Verlot to A Cascade View B&B

• A map from A Cascade View B&B to the Seattle Repertory Theater

• A map from A Cascade View to Microsoft

In addition, I had purchased a ticket to “Metamorphoses,” a dramatic performance at the Seattle Repertory Theater.  Also, I surfed to a Washington state hiking trails map and had zeroed in on a trail that led through mining country and some ice caves.

I drove from SEATAC airport and headed north to the national forest.  Before I got to the forest, I stopped at a convenience store for a bottle of water, a candy bar and a disposable camera.  Once in the forest, I noticed old ice in the ditches and as I drove further into the forest, there started to be patches of snow on the ground beside the road and larger piles of snow along the road.

 

Eventually, there was a sign that the road would be closed at Deer Creek.  At Deer Creek, I parked behind some other cars and started walking up the road to the Ice Caves trail, keeping one eye on my watch because it was already a little after 2:00 p.m. and I had told Marianne, the B&B proprietor, that I would be arriving at the B&B somewhere between 3 and 4 o’clock.

As I walked briskly up the road, I wondered about my reaction to people throughout the day.  On the nearly five hour flight from Atlanta to Seattle, I had been squeezed between two other girls.

 

As usual, there was the usual jostling around to keep from touching the other guy too much.  Also, in the row in front of us were some teenage girls who kept turning around and looking at someone in our row (vanity said it was me but why?).  I was either sleeping or watching a movie, “Galaxy Quest”, and never made eye contact with any of the girls.

 

I was uncomfortable with the guy behind the counter at Hertz because he is black/African-American and he knew I was from the South so I worried that I might say something that would somehow tell him that white people from the South do not like black people.

 

When I got to the B&B, I did not hit it off perfectly with the hosts so I over-emphasized my tiredness and rushed off to get a bite to eat before seeing the play.

The play.  Or should I say, “The Play”?  Ah yes, every good story should have a narrative with a conflict and a climactic resolution.  The play I saw tonight definitely did.  Unfortunately, I am fighting off sleep and may not be able to get down everything today.

How much do I love my wife?  Well, she is the person with whom I feel the most comfortable.  Therefore, I am often uncomfortable when I am with other people without my wife.  At the same time, I often feel my life would be different if she wasn’t around.  More than likely, I would spend more time writing, my only passionate hobby.  For the most part, if I have to decide between feeling good or writing, I pick feeling good.

After hiking for about a mile, the road was no longer plowed so I had to trudge through snow one to two feet deep, approximately deeper than all the snows I’ve experienced while living in North Port, Florida.

 

Occasionally, one of my feet would punch through the crusty snow and sink up to my knee.

 

One interesting little tidbit – Just as I reached the part of the road that wasn’t plowed, two slightly overweight women were standing there with their dog.  They looked like they were contemplating going on.  I walked past them and heard them comment to some other people that they were quite out of shape.

 

Okay, so I go all the way up the road to where the Ice Caves trailhead begins (taking some pictures along the way).  There stands a guy with long stringy hair and a boy looking nervous/disinterested beside him.

 

I ask the guy if he is coming or going on the Ice Caves trail.  He said that he is going and wants to know if I know where the trailhead is.  I comment that I do not.  He said that he came all the way from San Diego and he is determined to go on.

 

I look at my watch and see it is 3:00 p.m. so I decide to start heading back down the road.  When I get about a quarter-mile from the plow line, one of the two women with the dog is helping the other one get out of a snowdrift.

 

I joke that at least they decided to start up the trail.  The long, permed and stringy blond-headed woman asked me if I had seen a guy with long hair and a kid tagging along with her.

 

I responded that yes I had and she said he was from San Diego and he was determined to go all the way up the Ice Caves trail.

 

She said, “That’s great.  He goes on up the trail, not caring how we’re doing.”

 

I responded, “Well, it shows that he’s good for something, he’s good for nothing.”

 

Her final comment was, “That’s why he’s in San Diego and I’m here.”

 

The hike was well worth it, even if my shoes and jacket are drying by the fire.

I’m just glad that I put on deodorant this morning but that leads to another one of my small observations today, that after I exercise and cool down, my body is quick to warm up again, especially when in contact with another person (chiefly when my wife is in bed beside me and I act as her personal heating pad).

Okay, the hike is over, I’ve checked in at A Cascade View and shared a Jack Daniels whiskey Tipsy Cake with my hosts.  I’ve viewed their rose garden, the Cascade Mountains and one of the buildings on the Microsoft campus (and learned that both their sons have done temporary contract work for Microsoft).  Time to drive in to the city after having driven by a closed restaurant recommended to me by my host and getting some Baskin Robbins ice cream, instead.

To cut this story short, I parked the car, found my way to the theater and realized I arrived too early at the box office.  I walked around downtown Seattle, observing the international water fountain and an exotic drum session kicking and grooving on the park grounds.

 

I went back to the theater, purchased my tickets still 30 minutes before seating.  I decided to go to the Space Needle and see the sights.  I also bought a bunch of souvenirs for my wife, nieces, nephews, sister, and parents.  I rushed back to the theater when I realized it was 7:00 p.m. and the play started at 7:30.

I got a program and walked to my aisle seat.  I took off my jacket, set the souvenirs underneath the chair and sat down.  A few minutes later, what appears to be a couple with a same-age tagalong walk up to sit down beside me.  The woman, large and a little overweight, sat beside me.  Actually, it was more like she had to kind of slide in and squeeze into her chair.  Her left leg was firmly pressed against mine.

 

I had seen a sign in the lobby that said the temperature in the theater was warm to keep the actors healthy because they would be spending a lot of their time in a large reflecting pool.  Combine that with the fact I had exercised earlier in the day and I knew that the temperature of my right leg was going to go up.  So, to subtly warn the woman I told her about the sign in the lobby.

From this point on, I spent time watching the play and noticing the drama taking place beside me.  Just before the play started, the guy next to the woman said, “Don’t worry.  I won’t try to hold your hand or anything.”  The woman gave a knowing blow of air through her nose.

Keep in mind that because I had exercised earlier in the day, not only did the temperature of my leg rise but also my legs were tired and I could not constantly keep them tensed up and pulled away from touching the woman’s leg.  Instead, after a while I just let my legs relax so I could enjoy the play and not fall asleep expending excess energy.  I have to assume the woman felt I was pressing against her leg.  She did what I had not experienced since high school.  She would press against my leg (or let her leg relax) and then pull away, I assume, seeing if I was pressing back.

 

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that our shoulders where pressed against each other, too.  Admittedly, I wanted the physical contact.  I wanted to feel wanted by another woman but I did not want to return the want because (as part of my lifelong pattern) I didn’t want to give the woman the wrong impression.

 

At one point, she even sort of put her arm underneath mine.  Had she been Richelle, I would have lifted my arm and allowed her to lock her arm in mine.  Instead, I left my arm where it was and forced the woman to pull her arm away.

 

One of the big questions in all this is “Who am I?”  I enjoy the relationship with Richelle and don’t want to ruin it.  At the same time, I would enjoy a relationship with another woman.  I have never been the one who makes the first move and if ever there was a time when I was tested on who I am and what is my relationship with Richelle, tonight was it.

 

I guess I confirmed that I think enough of Richelle that I would not flippantly allow a physical relationship to occur with another woman.  I also confirmed that I don’t know how to react to the touch of another human so I just freeze up.

 

In some ways, it would have been nice to see where tonight could have taken me.  I’ve always wanted to move to this area and this woman could have been my formal invitation.  Carrying out the fantasy, I could fall in love with the woman; we could get married and have kids.  Or we could have a flash-in-the-pan relationship and I would be stuck as a single woman in Seattle.

 

I love the options life gives me.  Too bad I can’t have them all.  And what about my comrades, my ‘Sisters In Flatulence’?  Will we ever see each other again?  It’s not like we’re sorority sisters or Army buddies.  My dad used to talk about the friends he made in college, including girlfriends and drinking buddies, who he had not seen since.  I guess the same will happen with me and my fart sisters.  As Birch used to say, it’s better to have had a “silent but deadly” than never to have farted at all.

 

No Such Thing as a Happy Ending

Davina sat at the special computer and began typing…

 

Ann,

 

Today is my personal day.  Tomorrow, I’ll have spend most of the day getting caught up with work.  In the meantime, I have a funny question to ask you – has anyone warned you not to run into a writer (much less run with one)?  I’ve certainly taken pictures and captured images of you and the folks we work with but you’re more fascinating than just what a photograph shows.  Thus I’m capturing you in words (or a person similar to you who just happens to have the name Ann).  We all need hobbies to keep our minds off work.  My hobby is wordsmithing.

 

Running Into Ann

 

Last night, I read the novel, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, because a work colleague of mine suggested the book as a good read.  The book’s central character is a 15-year old boy named Christopher who exhibits symptoms similar to those diagnosed with autism.  Having grown up with friends who had autistic siblings, I can understand much of what Christopher faced.  In fact, several of my classmates’ personalities were similar to Christopher’s – the odd, logical view of life, with very little common sense, and poor social skills – yet many of them tended to be the brightest kids in class.  I grew up thinking that intelligence was associated with anti- or nonsocial behavior, believing that the well-balanced, smart person was an aberration.  Only later in college did I see that intelligence was not associated with character.

 

And so I find myself here, sitting once again in the sunroom, a stick of “buttercream vanilla” incense burning beside me, a candle with the smell of “tawny port” wine flickering beside the incense — while I sip a large mug of Thai tea, my cats sun themselves beside me on the sofa during the sunny midday Saturday, Earth Day, no less, the usual neighborhood sounds (dogs barking, nearby traffic roaring, the occasional caw of a blue jay) competing with a streaming digital folk music channel on the laptop computer.

 

Butterflies look for flowers in the garden.  Unfortunately, the only thing blooming right now is wild ajuga and Sweet William (most likely Diantus barbatus), not a lot to choose from next to the house.  Oh well, I’m not here to feed the world, just enjoy the view, as usual.

 

I should be outside working in the yard or attending Earth Day events or buying plants at the annual Huntsville Botanical Gardens plant sale but I choose to be here instead.  Why have a sunroom if you can’t enjoy it to write in the sun free of biting insects and sunburns?

 

Did I tell you I ran into a new human beacon?  I encounter people every day and because of my personality, I analyze them to see if there’s any of me in them that I can find a connection with so that I don’t have to become a complete chameleon that simply reflects back the personality of the person beside it in order to hide itself.  Occasionally, I meet a person whose personality is a lot like mine or who I would like to be, a person whose soul is whole and needs no other with whom to become one, a person who shines brighter than the ones around her.

 

I ran into Ann.

 

Name assignments are pretty much random so I consider it purely coincidence that Ann has the same name as my sister (minus the silent “e”).  I can’t discount the fact that their personalities are similar – assertive yet not aggressive, well-liked at church, strong opinions yet not opinionated.  Anne was my only sibling.  Ann is number 8 of 10 kids.  Interesting to see two people with similar personalities yet different families.  However, both were brought up in Protestant Christian households with a strong emphasis on giving to others through education.  Enough about the comparison with my sister – just an interesting thought given the same first names plus the fact that spent time with Anne in between the two times I spent with Ann.  I guess it boils down to the fact that in my mind most women I meet have to compare favorably with the female human I grew up with.  Suffice it say that Ann measures up.

 

Who is Ann?

 

God only knows (assuming, of course, that an omniscient being would create and exist outside the universe we know, and then keep track of all the combinations of atoms that occur as the universe grows).  I certainly don’t know who she is.  All I can say is that she has inspired me to sit down and write these words.  At one point in my life I would have cared whether she liked the words I had written.  Now that I’m past middle age, I’ve stopped worrying about that.  I only hope that I capture a bit of what she’s like in case I decide to put her life into words.

 

Who is Ann?  Well, she grew up in the state of Washington so she’s very much influenced by the Pacific Northwest.  She’s an outdoor girl (and quite frankly, that’s what’s most appealing about her – after all, I met my wife at a summer church camp when we were 12, and we ended up hiking five days on the Appalachian Trail together, sharing a tent and pillow long before we had any romantic attraction).  I first got to know about her when she sent out a request for money to support her drive to collect money for a charity tied to a triathlon she participated in.  Her father had died of cancer so the event was more important to her than to me but I was glad to support it since my father had survived prostate cancer (and who I will be able to visit in Florida next weekend).  Ann’s mother is still alive and is fortunate enough to have a passel of kids to keep up with and support her.

 

I don’t know if Ann plans to have any children (I certainly don’t see her getting married but I could be wrong) yet she seems to be so wonderful with kids.  She certainly enjoys children.  Maybe it’s the fact she doesn’t have any that gives her the energy to be a great aunt and Annie.

 

And so, I finally get to the fascinating point about Ann.  She does well with “special needs” children.  Given the choice, would someone like Ann give up or limit her day job in order to raise a “special needs” child?  Would she put away the thoughts of climbing any more mountains in order to spend every day with a child who needed daily care?  That is a tale I would like to tell, even if the ending is not one that the real Ann would agree with.

 

Hopefully, I’ll have time to write the story.  Now, it’s time to go to the plant sale.

 

 

Several months later, Davina found herself in front of a special computer which enabled her to write with her eyes.  As usual, she based it partially based on real events, typical of her semi-autobiographical writing.

 

Apple Annie

 

#1

Let’s see.  The last thing I remember is what…hmm…”No pain, no gain”.  Yeah, that’s it.

 

“She’s moaning.”

 

“Is that a good sign?”

 

“At this point, I can’t say.  Based on what we’ve observed, I would say that’s a good sign, though.”

 

A good sign of what?  Why can’t I see them?  The voices sound familiar.  But the pain!  My goodness.

 

“She’s moaning again…:”

 

“Yep.  Must be awake.”

 

“Can I touch her?”

 

“Yes, but be careful.  We don’t know how much pain she’s in.”

 

A feeling.  Somewhere.  Is that my leg?  Or is it my arm?  I want to move but can’t.  Everytime I…stretch…I…feel…excruciating pain.  What’s the matter?

 

“Ann, I’m going to touch your arm.  If you can feel something, blink once.  If you can’t feel anything, blink twice.”

 

Blink?  What are they talking about?  I can’t see or feel anything.

 

“Ann, can you feel this?  Dr. Fleur, I don’t think she can feel me.”

 

“Well, she has stopped moaning.  That may be her way of signaling you.”

 

“Ann, can you moan for me again?”

 

Moan?  Moan?  What are they talking about?  I was just running with Davina a little while ago.  Or was I?  We were standing at an intersection, talking about the exhilaration of a long run.  Why am I still in pain?  What’s going on?

 

“I’m sorry, Claire.  I’m afraid to say that the moaning may be an autonomous response.  With no brain activity in the last three days, the chances of…”

 

“Are you sure?  Can’t she regain consciousness on some level?”

 

Am I crazy?  I can’t be.  I’m about the sanest person I know.  Let’s see…I can piece this all back together.  I ate dinner at Brazos with several folks from IBM, then Davina wanted to go for a run.  We met downstairs in the lobby, jogged for about seventeen minutes and then stopped for a few minutes to talk.  We were just talking about…the throbbing…must stop thinking.

 

“She’s moaning again.”

 

“Yes, but I don’t think it’s in any response to you or me.  I believe it’s just a body’s way of expressing pain and nothing more.  Perhaps we should just let her rest.”

 

“But if she wakes up?”

 

“Well, if and that’s only any if.  If she’s wakes up, she’ll more than likely wake up again and you’ll be able to see her.  In the meantime, you need to get some rest yourself.”

 

Rest.  Yes, that sounds good.  Must rest…

 

 

#2

“Ann?  Hey, it’s Davina.  To be honest, it feels weird talking to you right now, considering your state and all.  I feel sorry about the other day.  No really, I do.  I mean, here I sit, almost able to walk but you…oh, Ann.  My God!  Who’d have thought?  Look, I’m in a strange mood.  Maybe it’s the painkillers they’ve got me on.  Shit!  Why’d it have to be you?  You don’t even know what I’m talking about.  It’s like, and I know you don’t know what I’m saying, but it’s like I’ve just seen a TV show and am sharing it with you, knowing you don’t watch television.  You know, I don’t care anymore.  I’ve come here everyday for I don’t know how long.  I…I just don’t care.  It’s not fair.  You’re the one with a future, not me.  I’m just this hick from the sticks.  You’re going to Germany, for Christ’s sake.  Well, I mean you were…  I don’t know what I mean.”

 

“Davina, it’s Richelle.  I can’t understand you.  What are you talking about?”

 

“Richelle, just let him talk.  She’s not aware of you, you know.”

 

“Are you sure?  She looks at me like she knows it’s me.”

 

“I’m afraid that may not be the case.  She’s just like Ann, the woman that was with her at the accident.”

 

“But she’s blind, isn’t she?  At least Davina is following my eyes!”

 

“Perhaps.  We’re just not sure.”

 

“What am I supposed to do?  You tell me not to give up hope but every time I try to find something positive, you discount everything I say.  Can’t you see I’m losing it?”

 

“I just don’t want you to get up hope for the wrong reason.  I’ve seen pedestrian hit-and-runs like this before and it’s not always easy to judge how much brain damage there is.”

 

“Well, what am I supposed to do?!”

 

“There, there.  Don’t cry.  Her body is healing so we know that she’s not given up the fight.  However, it may be a long time before her brain heals enough for her to communicate with you.  In the meantime, you need to start thinking about a long-term care facility, especially since Davina’s remaining injuries are minor.”

 

“I’ve been thinking about it and in fact, have contacted a couple of assisted living homes.  Do you know what they plan to do with Ann?”

 

“As a matter of fact, I wanted to talk to you about that.  I have been reading about post-traumatic stress injuries and have discovered some interesting facts.  Have you heard about post-traumatic stress disorder?”

 

“Yeah.  Isn’t it what the soldiers in Iraq have been experiencing?”

 

“Well, that’s one facet of the disorder, although we tend to refer to that version as combat stress reaction.  Anyway, one study I read is that people who’ve experienced the same stressful situation can often recover from the stress when put together in a calming environment.”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“Well, I thought that we could try to help Davina heal faster by putting her in the same place as Ann.”

 

“But aren’t her injuries worse?”

 

“But none of them are life-threatening at this time.  Anyway, this isn’t something I want you to decide about tonight.  Think about it for a few days.  I also need to run this by Ann’s mother to see what she thinks.  Most importantly, I want to be sure that both of them are near people they know.  It’s the sound of familiar voices that’s most important to them right now.”

 

#3

“And this is us at the summit.”

 

“Wow, I’m just really amazed.  It’s hard to believe you were just there in September.”

 

“Yeah, it’s hard to describe…”

 

“And you had 42 porters?”

 

“41.  It felt like we were feeding a village.”

 

“So what’s next?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean, you’ve climbed Mt. Rainier, you’ve climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro.  Are you going to climb Mt. Everest?”

 

“No, I’m not.  It takes too long and I’m not really interested at this time, if you know what I mean.  So what do you think about the asparagus?”

 

“Not too bad.  You like the mango juice?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Thanks for showing me the pictures from your trip.”

 

“You’re welcome.  I’ve got more pictures on the laptop at the office.”

 

“You wanna go back to the office?”

 

“Maybe.  Do you have some time?  I want Kim to see my house before I leave and she said she’d have some time after lunch.  We could leave from here and meet her there.”

 

“Okay.”

 

#4

“Ann.  Hey, it’s Kim.  Jeff and I are here to visit with you again.”

 

Again?

 

“You look a lot better than the last time we were here.  Jeff, why don’t you play the CD for her.”

 

“Ann, how you doing?  A bunch of us at work sat down at the computer and recorded hellos for you.  If the volume’s too loud, let me know.”

 

“Jeff…”

 

“I’m sorry.  Yeah, Ann, I’ll just play it medium and hope you can hear it.”

 

“Annnn.  It’s Mr. Red Tide.  Bet you’re having a lot of fun in the hospital.  If we’d known you wanted this bad to get away from us, we coulda arranged something different.  Hope you’re being real good to the doctors.  And hey, next time you stop by, I’ll show you pictures of the wedding.  Jana’s real jealous, you know.”

 

“No I’m not.  Ann, hey, it’s Jana.  Hope you can come back real soon.  Ganesh is just going on and on about how I have to stop loving him.  Any time you can come back and set him straight, I’d appreciate it.”

 

Why are the voices suddenly so tinny?  Why can’t I feel the presence of more people in the room?  So tired…must sleep.

 

“Hi Ann.  It’s Scott.  I know you’re real busy but if you could stop by and review some documents, I’d appreciate it.  Just kidding.  I hear you’re doing really well.  I can’t wait to see you at the office again soon.”

 

“Ann, this is Tim.  I just want to say that you’re doing a wonderful job.  I’ve got the whole Logistics and Operations team working hard to keep your recovery on schedule and we’re looking forward to delivering a healthy Ann to her new job in Munich.  Remember, it’s ‘one time, on time,’ so you’re gonna be 100% ready to go when we ship to Germany in the next few months.  So no schedule slips, you understand?”

 

“Ann, it’s Fred.  Tim’s right.  We’re working on hard here.  The guys have asked me if I have some special equipment I could rig up with a microwave oven to make you better.  Haha.  Yeah, I thought that’d bring a smile to your face.  Seriously, I’ve been concerned about you.  If you don’t stop by soon, then I’m going to worry that you really wanted to leave us.  Haha.  Well, here’s Steve.”

 

“Ann, you old goat.  What do you think you’re doing?  You sure picked a funny way to take time off.  Me, I’d just climb a mountain or something.  But hey, you know me.  I’m going to pick something hard.  You’re the one who’s always lazy, sitting on her butt doin’ nothing.  Just get your lazy self back to work before I have to drag you back.”

 

“Ann, don’t believe a word he says.  This is Patti, by the way.  We really miss you and your smiling face.  If there’s anything we can do to help, let us know.  I’m handing the microphone to Bob.”

 

“Ann, this is Bob.  I’m sorry I didn’t spend more time talking with you when you came by with that new guy the other day.  I feel Iike it’s my fault that you were probably distracted and didn’t see the car swerve into you.  If there’s anything I can do to make it up, let me know.  Maybe I can design a better switch for you to make higher sales in Germany later this year…”

 

“Ann, I’ve grabbed the mike from Bob before he depresses you too much.  This is Chris.  Look, it’s not like we’re too busy to see you but with the hospital being so far away and limiting visits we thought we’d put this CD together for you so you could listen to our voices all day long, in case you were just dying to hear us nag you.  Not dying, of course…well, you know what I mean.  And yes, it’s your fault.  You left your office unlocked so Fred got your tank and fixed it up.  I stopped Fred from putting a laser in the darn thing.  Now it can launch wasabi peas all the way down the hallway.  Hurry up and get back to work.”

 

“Ann, it’s Eric.  I’ve signed up for a charity triathlon in your honor.  I figured you’d like us to continue your tradition.  I’ll let you know how I did but I bet I won’t do as good as you did…or as good as you’re gonna do when you get back on a bike.”

 

“Hey, Brian here.  Wow.  What a change of pace, huh?  The way I see it, this is a great opportunity for you to reprioritize your life.  I certainly like to reevaluate my goals occasionally.  And if it’s any help, Ann, I know that the Avocent family really wants to be a part of your goals and aspirations so don’t forget us, okay?  Kittie’s getting anxious to say something so I’m handing the microphone to her.  See you soon.”

 

“Ann, hey it’s Kittie, like you wouldn’t recognize my voice.  I can’t believe you’re not here.  We knew we were gonna miss you when you went to Germany but this is worse because we can’t even talk with you.  You sure know how to drive me crazy.  You know I’m worried sick about you.  My husband, Dennis, is even worried about and you know how hard it is to get him worried about anything besides himself!  I’ve got a bunch of mail here for you and if you don’t come back to work soon, I’m going to open every envelope and read your mail.  Then you know your deep-dark secrets will be all over the office.  Hope that inspires you to come back!”

 

 

“Jeff, why don’t you stop the CD player?  It looks like Ann is asleep.”

 

“Oh, okay.”

 

“Ann, we’re going to leave the CD player here for you so you can listen to the rest of the CD whenever you want.  Look, the nurse is waving at us so we’ll have to come back to see you during the afternoon visiting hours.  Sleep well.”

 

 

#5

“Mrs. Plover?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What’s your decision?”

 

“I don’t know.  She’s always enjoyed the mountains here in Washington but the cost of the facility seems so high.”

 

“Well, at the Center for Mental Redevelopment, we’ll give her the care she needs.  Plus, she’s in a great environment.  It’s sunny almost everyday in Florida and we’ve found that our patients’ health is much better here than in the rainy clime in Washington state.  In addition, we have extensive experience with brain disorders, especially that of Alzheimer’s and dementia.  We’re in constant touch with Alzheimer’s researchers and we figure as soon as they discover a cure for Alzheimer’s, we’ll be able to apply their research to recovery for your daughter.”

 

“It all sounds so convincing.  Well, it seems like it’s best for Ann so I’ll sign the agreement.”W

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Plover.  We, like you, believe this is the best decision for your daughter.”

 

 

#6

“Ann, can you see the alligator over there?  I think it’s the same one that swam across the canal yesterday.  Yeah, I know.  ‘How can you tell?’  I’ve asked myself the same question.  Well, if you look at the fifth spiny protrusion from the neck, you’ll see a little white splotch.  That’s the same splotch as on yesterday’s gator.  I heard a naturalist once say that alligators are generally nocturnal creatures but with their being lower-order animals with the brain the size of a pea, the gator is really just an opportunist that eats anything.  In other words, in the water there are two kinds of animals, gators and gator food.  Hahahahahahahahaha…”

 

“Okay, Davina, that’s enough for today.  I’m sure you’re saying something very funny but neither Ann nor I get what you’re saying.”

 

“See, Ann, that’s what I was talking about the other day.  Just ‘cause you’re blind and half brain-dead and I’m quadriplegic with no control of my tongue, they treat us like we’re village idiots.  Ah well, you and I both know that we communicate on a different level now that our normal physical senses are impaired.”

 

Yeah, I know.  It’s strange, isn’t it?

 

“It feels that way sometimes, yes.  Reminds me of a book I read when I was a kid.  It became a Disney movie later on.  Something about two siblings who could communicate with their minds but it seems like one of them always had to move their lips.”

 

Oh yeah, what was that called?  I can’t seem to recall stuff like I used to.

 

“That’s an understatement!  Uh, was it ‘Escape from Witch Mountain’?”

 

That sounds about right.  Do you know if they’re making any progress on my recovery?

 

“Maybe.  I pretended to be asleep the other day and overheard two doctors say they may get permission to use a Cyber Knife on your brain, in order to destroy some scar tissue and try to stimulate brain activity.”

 

“Davina, let’s let Ann rest a while, okay, because you all are going to have a visitor today and I want to make sure both of you are at your best.”

 

“Visitor?  What visitor?”

 

“Your visitor is from a special school in a nearby town.  His name is David.  He heard about you in the newspaper and we think that David will be a wonderful new friend for both of you.”

 

“Oh boy, I can’t wait.  Let me guess, this is the School of Psychic and Paranormal Research.  Another wacko doctoral student wanting to prove can communicate with the dead!”

 

Well, I would like a new visitor.  No offense, Davina, but talking to you all day can get boring.

 

“And they told me you were a kind person.  Hehe.  The only thing that keeps me here, well, other than this wheelchair, of course, is the fact that you’re asleep half the time.”

 

Okay, guys, say goodbye to the alligator.  It’s time for me to wheel you back to your rooms.”

 

 

#7

“I sit here in my room, unlike a prisoner, because a prisoner knows when her sentence is up.  I’m not even a criminal with a life sentence because there’s always hope that the doctors will heal me.  What the hell?  I’m kidding myself, aren’t I?  Even Superman couldn’t be healed.  I sure as hell can’t heal myself, despite all the admonitions and prayers from the folks at South Biscayne Baptist Church here in North Port, Florida.  What kinda joke was it for my family to agree to house me here in the retirement home of my grandparents?  Sure, they knew I loved tropical plants and exotic wildlife but to sit here day after day in Blahsville, watching starlings fly past my window.  Well, at least there’s the daily visit to the canal with Ann.  My God!  Poor Ann.  Here I sit, able to type on this new eye-recognition computer while all Ann gets to do is sit in her room.  I’d love to type a letter to her mother but Ann won’t let me, even though I sent a letter to Mrs. Plover myself telling her about being able to talk with Ann mentally.  What a mistake!  I tried to do Mrs. Plover a favor and now she’s bringing in these quasiscientists.  So now we’re going to see some quack try to talk directly with Ann.  Well, if it works for me, why not someone else?  I can’t imagine what it’s like for Ann to be only able to pass comments through me.  I sure can’t explain it to Richelle.  Thank goodness, she’s a patient person, and hopes my recovery will mean a normal life with her again.  Tired of eye-typing..goodnite.”

 

 

#8

“Ann, Davina, this is David.”

 

“Hello, David.”

 

Hello.

 

“Hewwo, Davina and Ann.  How awe woo?”

 

Fine, thanks.  We appreciate you stopping by.

 

“You awe wewcome.  Do you want to pway a game?”

 

“Sure, David.  What kind of game?”

 

“They towd me you can’t tawk wight but we tawk the same, don’t we?”

 

Yes, David, both of you sound the same to me but I can completely understand what you’re saying.  Is this the game that we’re playing, talking to each other in our heads?

 

“Yes, it is, Ann.  I wike you.  You don’t twy to tawk down to me.”

 

Why should I?  You seem like a nice guy to me.

 

“But you don’t know what I wook wike.”

 

“Uh, David, you don’t need to remind Ann that she’s blind.”

 

That’s okay, guys, it’s not like it’s a secret or anything.  Besides, I’m really tired.  I don’t know how long I can talk to you today, David, and I apologize, especially since I’m sure you had to make arrangements to come here just to see a couple of folks recovering from injuries.

 

“That’s okay, Ann.  I wanted to see you.  I had alweady heawd fwom my fwiends in Washington who said you wewe an okay pewson.”

 

Oh, you mean to say you know Johnathon and Ethan?

 

“Yes.”

 

That’s wonderful.  How are they doing?

 

“Okay.  But they miss you.”

 

I miss them, too.  What are they up to these days?

 

“Well, Johnathon has a job now…”

 

That’s great!

 

“…But Ethan’s mom won’t let him do anything.”

 

Really?  That’s too bad.  I know that Ethan was studying hard to get a job at the church.  I really thought his mother would let him work there during the day.

 

“They let him take up the offewing but that’s all.”

 

I wish I could get his mother to understand that Ethan has so much more going on in his head than he lets people know.  Do you know if he’s still working on a novel?  He was so impressed with The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time that I thought he might be able to write something to get his mother to realize the depths of his inner talents.

 

“His mothew took away his computew.  She thought he was spending too much time by himsewf.  But he did say to say hewwo to Appew Annie.”

 

“Excuse me, David.  Do you mind if I ask you a point-blank question?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“How is it that you can understand what I’m saying?”

 

“Because I’m speciaw.”

 

“Well, sure, I get that.  What I mean is is there something about your condition that’s different?  After all, I’ve played basketball with a guy on my street who has Down’s syndrome and he’ll barely look at me, let alone speak to me.”

 

“Did you pway basketbaw in a wheewchaiw?”

 

“No, it was before the accident.”

 

“Weww, I don’t know.  Maybe you scawed him because he thought you wouwd make fun of him.  And besides, Down’s syndwome is a genewic tewm for a cwass of genetic defects.  I wouwd have to see him to teww you what’s the mattew with him.”

 

Hey guys, I’m starting to fall asleep.  David, do you think you can come back to visit?

 

“Okay.”

 

Good, cause I want to talk with you more.

 

“And I want you to get bettew.  I don’t meet people wike you evewyday.”

 

Me, neither.  Hey Davina, can you keep talking with David for a while?  Maybe share some of our recent discussions with him?

 

“No problem.  It’ll be good to talk with someone with some intelligence for once.  Haha.”

 

Very funny.  David, you see what I have to put up with?

 

“He’s good.”

 

 

#9

“Missus Plovew, youw daughtew is still as shawp as evew, despite what the doctows have towd you.”

 

“Thank you, David.  I don’t know what to say.  When I got that letter from Davina, I was skeptical but now that you’ve seen her, I feel assured that she’s well.”

 

“I did not say she was weww.  Just that hew mind is stiww shawp.  I have some concewns about hew getting well.”

 

“Oh dear.  What do you mean?”

 

“Based on my obsewvations, I bewieve she will nevew wead the wife she had befowe.”

 

“Wife?”

 

“No.  Wife.  As in wiving.”

 

“Oh, okay, sorry.”

 

“No pwobwem.  Anyway, she has speciaw tawents for wowking with ‘speciaw needs’ people.  Wouwd you mind if she was moved to a schoow for EMR childwen?”

 

“What do you mean?  She won’t ever be normal?”

 

“I don’t know that.  But I do know that she could hewp a wot a people come out of theiw shewws, even if she nevew wiww.”

 

“I thought you said you could help her recover.  This sounds like you’ve resigned yourself to keeping her in the condition she’s in.  I don’t know that I can accept that.  Ann has always been a go-getter and I don’t see her being cooped up all day with a bunch of kids.”

 

“Okay.  I undewstand this is not want you want to heaw.  Would it be bettew if you saw for youwsewf the effect she has on ‘speciaw needs’ childwen?”

 

“Perhaps.  But I still think she will recover.  Do you have any recommendations on another psychiatrist who could give me an opinion?”

 

“I couwd but I’m suwe that she wiww come to the same concwusion.”

 

 

#10

“So, Ann, I hear your mother wants to approve the Cyber Knife on you.  What do you think of that?”

 

I honestly don’t know.  I’m so tired all the time, that I just can’t seem to think straight.

 

“I keep telling you it’s the pain medication.  They won’t stop giving it to you because when they reduce the level of medication, you start moaning.”

 

But the pain is so intense I don’t even know I’m moaning.

 

“Yeah, well, what do you want?  I’ve tried to tell them to let you moan a little bit but it seems to be against their policy.”

 

Very funny.  You should feel the pain just one day.

 

“And you should try being a useless quadriplegic.  So do you want the Cyber Knife or not?”

 

I guess I have no choice, do I?

 

“Probably not.”

 

 

#11

“Good morning, Ann.  How are you feeling?”

 

“Oh, okay, but there’s this pain in my neck.”

 

“Yes, you’ll feel that for a day or so.  It was the surgical collar we used during the operation.  Apparently, it was just a little too tight and bruised your neck a bit.  Do you want anything to eat or drink right now?”

 

“No, thanks.”

 

“How would you feel about having some visitors?”

 

“Well, gosh, I’m hardly dressed for visitors right now, am I?”

 

“You look fine.”

 

“Okay, then.  Invite them in.”

 

“Miss Lanier, please bring in Davina.”

 

“Hewruh Ar.”

 

“Davina.  Gosh, how are you doing?”

 

“Gershren durfuew.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Gershren durfuew.”

 

“I’m sorry, Davina.  I don’t understand.”

 

 

#12

“Davina, I’m afwaid thewe’s not much we can do.”

 

“But she was fine until they gave her the knife.”

 

“I guess it depends on your pewspective.  Ann’s mothew is vewwy happy that Ann is back to nowmal.”

 

“Yeah, but what about all those kids she could have helped?”

 

“Weww, Davina, that’s paw fow the couwse with us.  Most ‘nowmal’ peopwe want to hewp us when it’s convenient.  And fow Ann’s mothew, we awe not convenient anymowe, since Ann’s mothew has decided that Ann needs to weach hew goaw of wowking in Gewmany.”

 

“I guess she’s right.  Ann has been ready to move on for a long time now.”

 

“I’m gwad you think that way.”

 

“More importantly, so is Ann.”

 

“Hopefuwwy, you can too!”