When people ask John Oliver about his parents, he likes to tell them that the was an orphan before he was born, which--although is not normally the way one begins polite conversation--is technically true. The only thing John knows about his family is that his mother's name was Georgia and she was seventeen when she was rushed into an emergency room. She died seconds before he was born and he lived for a month in the preemie ward.
The hospital never found out where Georgia came from. They only knew her name because it was the one thing she was able to scribble down before she was wisked away into an operating room. The EMTs said she was found sprawled in an alley. The police couldn't find any identification on her and the investigation into finding her family eventually beared no fruit. They concluded, for the lack of new information, that she had used a false name and was most likely a runaway.
The baby was named John because the nurses were not the creative type. His last name would have been Smith if not for Georgia's partially filled in admittance form.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Bobble This
There is a bobblehead on Stanley's car's dashboard. He doesn't remember who gave it to them and when they gave it, but it has already outlasted two cars. It is of an old man with a long white beard and a misshapen cane that looks like a weathered tree branch. Over the years, the spring coil that keeps his bald head attached to its body has developed an interesting quality that causes the bobblehead to gyrate side to side no matter how you pat, flick, or bobble the bobblehead.
Stanley uses his bobblehead as a stress reliever, releasing bouts of road rage with a tap of the old man's head. His head would sway side to side, as if admonishing him for his lack of self-control. Being cut off is no big deal, the bobblehead is saying. Being stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic is okay. You will get there soon enough; the old man dispenses his wisdom.
Stanley uses his bobblehead as a stress reliever, releasing bouts of road rage with a tap of the old man's head. His head would sway side to side, as if admonishing him for his lack of self-control. Being cut off is no big deal, the bobblehead is saying. Being stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic is okay. You will get there soon enough; the old man dispenses his wisdom.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Fishie's Last Rites
(Originally published - Johnny America December 2008)
Roy owned the only drive-thru funeral business in Maine. It said so in smudged black ink in the phone book. It also said that he specialized exclusively in pets, or "dearly departed human companions." It was the only pet funeral business in the state. The drive-thru was a perk.
Wally had won Fishie at one of those carnival games where you try to throw a ping pong ball into a fishbowl. It was his first pet and he was ecstatic, as four-year-olds tend to be. It was with equal intensity that he expressed his grief when Fishie was found floating belly-up five days later. Normally, I would have flushed Fishie or buried him in the yard because--well, let's face it--he's a goldfish. But Wally had other ideas. You see, we'd had a funeral for his grandmother recently. At the time, Ann and I had told him it was a celebration of life. We told him not to feel sad for her. Boy, did that come back and bite us.
So Wally cried and cried, begging us to hold Fishie's funeral. I told Ann that flushing Fishie down the toilet was a sort of funeral. We were returning him to the water. It would be what he wanted, I insisted. But of course, we decided that it was better if we tried to make it as authentic as possible, if only to help our son through what was a tough loss. Smart aleck that I am, I asked her if I should go take a look in the yellow pages for a pet funeral home. She tossed a phone book at me. I still have the bruise.
I called Roy, who sounded pretty normal as pet funeral directors go. When I told him we wanted to hold a service for a goldfish, even he took a pause. In the end, he told us drop on by the next day. When you run such a niche service, you're probably not that selective with the clientele.
While driving to Roy's establishment, I wondered how a drive-thru funeral worked. What were the logistics involved in running that sort of operation? Was there a big enough market for pet funerals and were the sort of people who sought a pet funeral so particular that the absence of a drive-thru was a deal breaker?
It was an old fast food restaurant, complete with its old drive-thru and in various stages of disrepair. We pulled in, rang a bell, and Roy popped his head out of the drive-thru window. He was wearing a sweater and jeans. There must be a different dress code for pet funeral directors.
"What can I do for you folks?"
"I called yesterday. We want to hold a service for Fishie here," I said.
Wally gingerly handled the bag in which the fish was held and gave it to me. I passed it through the window to Roy. He gave us a brochure, which Ann gave to Wally, who picked the most extravagant service in the book. I groaned quietly. Ann gave me a look.
I paid the man and he took my money happily.
"Drive around back," he said. "I'll be out in two shakes of a lamb's tail."
And that ended the drive-thru portion of it all. It was as if Roy used the drive-thru only because one existed. Hardly seemed worth it. I wondered what they did with larger pets. What if we had a golden retriever? Would I stuff that through the window too? Would it fit?
There was a gated garden in the rear with lines of tombstones of varied types and sizes. We waited for fifteen minutes before Roy came out. He was holding a small makeshift casket that looked like a matchbox in one hand and a shovel in the other. He laid down the shovel and asked Wally to hold the casket, which he did with reverence. Roy went back inside and returned with flowers and a CD player. It was the premium deluxe service after all. No skimping.
He led the way to the burial site, where he laid the flowers and played the music (Bobby Darin, "Beyond the Sea"). He dug a hole in one scoop and Wally put the casket in it. We covered it up and Roy stuck a piece of cardboard at the head of the grave. "Fishie," it read.
"I'll have the headstone engraved in a couple of days. Would you like to come back when it's ready?"
I informed him that it wasn't necessary. He recited some somber words about the passing and burial of Fishie which I'm sure are standard in his line of work. Then he asked if anyone had anything prepared. Wally looked up expectantly with sad doe eyes. Ann looked meaningfully at me. Sure, let Dad take care of it.
I cleared my throat and channeled fish thoughts.
"Today we celebrate the life of Fishie," I began. "Fishie was a good friend, especially to my boy Wally. He was a good fish as fish go. He was gold. He swam real well. Seemed to like food pellets. We'll miss you."
Ann touched my arm and smiled. Wally was happy and so was I. We left as Bobby's crooning faded out.
Back in the car on the ride home, Wally asked, "Can we get another fish?"
"What about a turtle?" I asked.
Roy owned the only drive-thru funeral business in Maine. It said so in smudged black ink in the phone book. It also said that he specialized exclusively in pets, or "dearly departed human companions." It was the only pet funeral business in the state. The drive-thru was a perk.
Wally had won Fishie at one of those carnival games where you try to throw a ping pong ball into a fishbowl. It was his first pet and he was ecstatic, as four-year-olds tend to be. It was with equal intensity that he expressed his grief when Fishie was found floating belly-up five days later. Normally, I would have flushed Fishie or buried him in the yard because--well, let's face it--he's a goldfish. But Wally had other ideas. You see, we'd had a funeral for his grandmother recently. At the time, Ann and I had told him it was a celebration of life. We told him not to feel sad for her. Boy, did that come back and bite us.
So Wally cried and cried, begging us to hold Fishie's funeral. I told Ann that flushing Fishie down the toilet was a sort of funeral. We were returning him to the water. It would be what he wanted, I insisted. But of course, we decided that it was better if we tried to make it as authentic as possible, if only to help our son through what was a tough loss. Smart aleck that I am, I asked her if I should go take a look in the yellow pages for a pet funeral home. She tossed a phone book at me. I still have the bruise.
I called Roy, who sounded pretty normal as pet funeral directors go. When I told him we wanted to hold a service for a goldfish, even he took a pause. In the end, he told us drop on by the next day. When you run such a niche service, you're probably not that selective with the clientele.
While driving to Roy's establishment, I wondered how a drive-thru funeral worked. What were the logistics involved in running that sort of operation? Was there a big enough market for pet funerals and were the sort of people who sought a pet funeral so particular that the absence of a drive-thru was a deal breaker?
It was an old fast food restaurant, complete with its old drive-thru and in various stages of disrepair. We pulled in, rang a bell, and Roy popped his head out of the drive-thru window. He was wearing a sweater and jeans. There must be a different dress code for pet funeral directors.
"What can I do for you folks?"
"I called yesterday. We want to hold a service for Fishie here," I said.
Wally gingerly handled the bag in which the fish was held and gave it to me. I passed it through the window to Roy. He gave us a brochure, which Ann gave to Wally, who picked the most extravagant service in the book. I groaned quietly. Ann gave me a look.
I paid the man and he took my money happily.
"Drive around back," he said. "I'll be out in two shakes of a lamb's tail."
And that ended the drive-thru portion of it all. It was as if Roy used the drive-thru only because one existed. Hardly seemed worth it. I wondered what they did with larger pets. What if we had a golden retriever? Would I stuff that through the window too? Would it fit?
There was a gated garden in the rear with lines of tombstones of varied types and sizes. We waited for fifteen minutes before Roy came out. He was holding a small makeshift casket that looked like a matchbox in one hand and a shovel in the other. He laid down the shovel and asked Wally to hold the casket, which he did with reverence. Roy went back inside and returned with flowers and a CD player. It was the premium deluxe service after all. No skimping.
He led the way to the burial site, where he laid the flowers and played the music (Bobby Darin, "Beyond the Sea"). He dug a hole in one scoop and Wally put the casket in it. We covered it up and Roy stuck a piece of cardboard at the head of the grave. "Fishie," it read.
"I'll have the headstone engraved in a couple of days. Would you like to come back when it's ready?"
I informed him that it wasn't necessary. He recited some somber words about the passing and burial of Fishie which I'm sure are standard in his line of work. Then he asked if anyone had anything prepared. Wally looked up expectantly with sad doe eyes. Ann looked meaningfully at me. Sure, let Dad take care of it.
I cleared my throat and channeled fish thoughts.
"Today we celebrate the life of Fishie," I began. "Fishie was a good friend, especially to my boy Wally. He was a good fish as fish go. He was gold. He swam real well. Seemed to like food pellets. We'll miss you."
Ann touched my arm and smiled. Wally was happy and so was I. We left as Bobby's crooning faded out.
Back in the car on the ride home, Wally asked, "Can we get another fish?"
"What about a turtle?" I asked.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
What I've Inherited from My Father
I never thought this would happen. I have become my father, not physically, no. I easily clear six feet; the tallest he ever got was five-six. I am religious when it comes to keeping to my exercise routine; he died relatively young from heart failure. No, I have inherited his thriftiness, his stingy nature, his tight hold on his wallet. I never intended it. We came from needy circumstances and I never blamed him for it either. My father knew how to stretch a dollar and took pride in it, enforced his rules strictly.
I remember lights being turned off at ten sharp each night. Unless I was still working on homework, he would come in my room and turn off my lights. I got a haircut every four months, regardless of how long it got. If I complained, he would tell me to ask my mother for a trim, a terrifying proposition. She was many things, among which was a good mother, but no one should ever let her touch their hair even if they offered money for it. I wore hand-me-downs until I was sixteen when I got a job and could pay for some of my own clothes. I rarely saw the doctor. I got two tablets of Tylenol from an expired bottle and told to get some rest. It didn't matter what I had. Stomach ache? Tylenol. Flu? Tylenol. Acne? Tylenol.
For all the good his behavior did me, kept me under a warm roof, sent me to college, I vowed tha I would make money and not hold onto it so tightly. That I would be well off enough that my children would get what they wanted, and needed. They would get to go out to restaurants once in a while. They could have delicacies like ice cream and non-powdered milk more than once a month. They would get Pepto Bismol if they had an upset stomach.
And I became well off. I am by no means rich, but I make a good living. I live comfortably and I can afford if not all, then at least some of the finer things in life. So it came to a surprise to me when I heard myself tell my son, "You don't need a haircut yet. Let's wait another month."
He looked at me incredulously, or at least I think he did. His bangs shielded examination of his eyes.
"Ask your mother from a trim," I heard myself saying.
I remember lights being turned off at ten sharp each night. Unless I was still working on homework, he would come in my room and turn off my lights. I got a haircut every four months, regardless of how long it got. If I complained, he would tell me to ask my mother for a trim, a terrifying proposition. She was many things, among which was a good mother, but no one should ever let her touch their hair even if they offered money for it. I wore hand-me-downs until I was sixteen when I got a job and could pay for some of my own clothes. I rarely saw the doctor. I got two tablets of Tylenol from an expired bottle and told to get some rest. It didn't matter what I had. Stomach ache? Tylenol. Flu? Tylenol. Acne? Tylenol.
For all the good his behavior did me, kept me under a warm roof, sent me to college, I vowed tha I would make money and not hold onto it so tightly. That I would be well off enough that my children would get what they wanted, and needed. They would get to go out to restaurants once in a while. They could have delicacies like ice cream and non-powdered milk more than once a month. They would get Pepto Bismol if they had an upset stomach.
And I became well off. I am by no means rich, but I make a good living. I live comfortably and I can afford if not all, then at least some of the finer things in life. So it came to a surprise to me when I heard myself tell my son, "You don't need a haircut yet. Let's wait another month."
He looked at me incredulously, or at least I think he did. His bangs shielded examination of his eyes.
"Ask your mother from a trim," I heard myself saying.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Re-education of Simon Jung
Simon looked behind him after he walked out the doors, an hour after his release papers were signed. The asylum looked cold, sterile, with large and unadorned granite walls that spared little space for windows. Up above, he was greeted by a sky of clouds. There would be no one to come pick him up. Anyone he would still know would have forgotten about him by now. No, he would be left to his own devices.
A twenty dollar bill rested alone in his wallet, an old artifact that remained from another life, its leather faded and cracked. The walk to the front gates was a long one. After twelve years being subjugated to medications and tests and exams that bordered on torture, he thought he would have made a run for freedom, but now that it had come, he was unsure of himself. He wanted to leave the asylum, yes, but had no idea where to go. For all its ills, it had been home.
On the bus that picked him up at the corner, he found an old woman who gave him change for this twenty for fare. The act of kindness was foreign to him, unexpected. He had even forgotten the idea of requiring fare, such as the life that had cocooned him for so long.
As the bus drove away, he rested his head to the cold glass of the window watching the cold granite building become smaller and smaller, not knowing where he was going, but realizing at the same time that he didn't care.
A twenty dollar bill rested alone in his wallet, an old artifact that remained from another life, its leather faded and cracked. The walk to the front gates was a long one. After twelve years being subjugated to medications and tests and exams that bordered on torture, he thought he would have made a run for freedom, but now that it had come, he was unsure of himself. He wanted to leave the asylum, yes, but had no idea where to go. For all its ills, it had been home.
On the bus that picked him up at the corner, he found an old woman who gave him change for this twenty for fare. The act of kindness was foreign to him, unexpected. He had even forgotten the idea of requiring fare, such as the life that had cocooned him for so long.
As the bus drove away, he rested his head to the cold glass of the window watching the cold granite building become smaller and smaller, not knowing where he was going, but realizing at the same time that he didn't care.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Hitchin'
"You sure this is okay? I asked Jen.
"No problem," she said, although I wasn't sure I believed her.
We were in her town car, she in her limo company uniform, me in jeans and a shirt.
"Really? You won't get in trouble? I can take the bus you know."
"Nah. It's cool."
I seriously doubted this. She had only started working last week and this was her fifth job this year already. Jen was not what you call stable. She was fun, a great friend, but wholly unreliable.
"Well, thanks."
"I think you past my stop," called a voice from the back.
"You pipe down back there," quipped Jen.
"No problem," she said, although I wasn't sure I believed her.
We were in her town car, she in her limo company uniform, me in jeans and a shirt.
"Really? You won't get in trouble? I can take the bus you know."
"Nah. It's cool."
I seriously doubted this. She had only started working last week and this was her fifth job this year already. Jen was not what you call stable. She was fun, a great friend, but wholly unreliable.
"Well, thanks."
"I think you past my stop," called a voice from the back.
"You pipe down back there," quipped Jen.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Munity on the Icebox
"We're going east! I've had enough of this! We're going east!"
I blink my eyes several times, shedding the sleep from them. The sea spray has formed a thin layer of dried salt on my sunburned face and it hurts a little when I do this. The blazing sun momentarily blinds me and I have to shut my eyes again.
"East! East! East!," the voice cries again. It flirts with madness.
I am still disoriented when I open my eyes and see a bearded man standing over me and pointing a shaking finger at me. For a moment, my scrambled mind thinks that we have been boarded by pirates, but the man has no eye patch, no parrot on his shoulder, and no blunderbuss at his side. It is only Tim.
"Calm down," I say.
"East! We have to go East!"
Our fishing boat was overturned in a storm and the only seaworthy vessel left in the wreckage was the icebox. It smells of fish and is just big enough enough for two people with a little legroom to spare. After Tim and I recovered from the freezing waters and returned some of the existing inhabitants to the sea, we decided that the best plan of action was to steer towards a bouy we saw in the distance. Tim remembered our boat passing it and since we were traveling east at the time, we surmised that we were going west as we passed the bouy. In the daytime, we were able to guide ourselves by the sun's position, but it was a crapshoot at night; we didn't know how to read the stars, even as they shined so brightly.
"East!" He is still pointing at me.
Tim is normally very mild-mannered, but a week and a half stranded at sea can do things to a man, and I fear his mind gone for a temporary sabbatical. Eating the raw fish might not have helped either. I prop myself and that causes the icebox to shift, causing the water in our rain collecting bottles to slosh around and Tim to fall into a sitting position.
"East," he says, but with less conviction, his voice less excited.
"What is it, Tim?"
"We've been going west for days and we've seen nothing. Nothing. We should change direction."
"Who knows where we are," I say. "We could be anywhere. We could have circled all the way back around during the night. Even if we're sure we've been going west would just mean backtracking for a week and a half. Maybe we should just wait, hope that the search and rescue crew will find us."
"We should go east," says Tim stubbornly.
"Fine," I say with a sigh. A week and a half stranded at sea can test friendships and I would rather placate him than hear him go on and on.
The sun is still baking us straight overhead as he searches our 360 degree unobstructed view of the horizon.
"Which way is east?" he asks.
I go back to sleep, wondering how far into dementia Tim would have to be before it was morally acceptable for me to throw him overboard.
I blink my eyes several times, shedding the sleep from them. The sea spray has formed a thin layer of dried salt on my sunburned face and it hurts a little when I do this. The blazing sun momentarily blinds me and I have to shut my eyes again.
"East! East! East!," the voice cries again. It flirts with madness.
I am still disoriented when I open my eyes and see a bearded man standing over me and pointing a shaking finger at me. For a moment, my scrambled mind thinks that we have been boarded by pirates, but the man has no eye patch, no parrot on his shoulder, and no blunderbuss at his side. It is only Tim.
"Calm down," I say.
"East! We have to go East!"
Our fishing boat was overturned in a storm and the only seaworthy vessel left in the wreckage was the icebox. It smells of fish and is just big enough enough for two people with a little legroom to spare. After Tim and I recovered from the freezing waters and returned some of the existing inhabitants to the sea, we decided that the best plan of action was to steer towards a bouy we saw in the distance. Tim remembered our boat passing it and since we were traveling east at the time, we surmised that we were going west as we passed the bouy. In the daytime, we were able to guide ourselves by the sun's position, but it was a crapshoot at night; we didn't know how to read the stars, even as they shined so brightly.
"East!" He is still pointing at me.
Tim is normally very mild-mannered, but a week and a half stranded at sea can do things to a man, and I fear his mind gone for a temporary sabbatical. Eating the raw fish might not have helped either. I prop myself and that causes the icebox to shift, causing the water in our rain collecting bottles to slosh around and Tim to fall into a sitting position.
"East," he says, but with less conviction, his voice less excited.
"What is it, Tim?"
"We've been going west for days and we've seen nothing. Nothing. We should change direction."
"Who knows where we are," I say. "We could be anywhere. We could have circled all the way back around during the night. Even if we're sure we've been going west would just mean backtracking for a week and a half. Maybe we should just wait, hope that the search and rescue crew will find us."
"We should go east," says Tim stubbornly.
"Fine," I say with a sigh. A week and a half stranded at sea can test friendships and I would rather placate him than hear him go on and on.
The sun is still baking us straight overhead as he searches our 360 degree unobstructed view of the horizon.
"Which way is east?" he asks.
I go back to sleep, wondering how far into dementia Tim would have to be before it was morally acceptable for me to throw him overboard.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Adventures in Self-Copulation
It had been a week without his car, an inconvenience that irked Greg to a great degree. He had been getting a ride from a roommate, Anton, for the time being. Anton was still perfecting his English and talked a lot to try to pick up more of it. For his part, Greg tried to use simple words when speaking to him.
"How was work today?" he asked Greg when he got into the car.
"Fine. It was slow. Not much to do."
"Yes. Me too. Very boring."
"Yeah, I was jerking off half the day," replied Greg, for a moment not realizing that Anton might not know what that meant.
The next day, Anton picked him up again at the usual place and time.
"How was work today?" he asked.
"Fine. Busier. You?"
"It was okay. No more masturbating today?" Anton added with a laugh. "You know, even in Europe we do not talk much about these things."
Greg was caught off guard, shocked. "Er...what?"
"You know, 'jerking off'? Like you said yesterday."
"Oh," Greg said, the connection dawning on him. "No. That means like screwing around."
"That means the same thing, yes?"
"Oh. No, no, no. That's another saying. It just means wasting time. Procrastinating. Just being lazy."
"Ohhhh. Makes more sense."
"Who told you about, you know, the other thing anyway?"
He responded with a quizzical raised eyebrow.
"You know, the masturbating thing."
"Alice helped me."
"Alice? Our Alice!?" Greg's eyes went wide. She was the roommate that completed their trio and a good friend, but hopefully more. The last thing he needed was for her to think he played with himself all day, even if it was a joke.
He called her and she answered on the first ring.
"Alice? Hey, I'm talking to Anton and he said he asked you about--"
A bout of uncontrollable laughter preempted his explanation.
"How was work today?" he asked Greg when he got into the car.
"Fine. It was slow. Not much to do."
"Yes. Me too. Very boring."
"Yeah, I was jerking off half the day," replied Greg, for a moment not realizing that Anton might not know what that meant.
The next day, Anton picked him up again at the usual place and time.
"How was work today?" he asked.
"Fine. Busier. You?"
"It was okay. No more masturbating today?" Anton added with a laugh. "You know, even in Europe we do not talk much about these things."
Greg was caught off guard, shocked. "Er...what?"
"You know, 'jerking off'? Like you said yesterday."
"Oh," Greg said, the connection dawning on him. "No. That means like screwing around."
"That means the same thing, yes?"
"Oh. No, no, no. That's another saying. It just means wasting time. Procrastinating. Just being lazy."
"Ohhhh. Makes more sense."
"Who told you about, you know, the other thing anyway?"
He responded with a quizzical raised eyebrow.
"You know, the masturbating thing."
"Alice helped me."
"Alice? Our Alice!?" Greg's eyes went wide. She was the roommate that completed their trio and a good friend, but hopefully more. The last thing he needed was for her to think he played with himself all day, even if it was a joke.
He called her and she answered on the first ring.
"Alice? Hey, I'm talking to Anton and he said he asked you about--"
A bout of uncontrollable laughter preempted his explanation.
Friday, January 23, 2009
An Extraordinary Interview
Bad economic times are tough on everyone, even--as it turns out--superheroes. Of course it's no problem for ones with trust funds and fight crime as their only hobbies. Even super humans need money. They need food. Short of a super power for fasting or using their skills for ill-gotten money, even your most super of superheroes need a job, one that pays. When practical skills are close to nil, the options become scarce.
It is for this reason that Captain Extraordinary is now sitting in Wallace Fry's office. He is interviewing for the utterly pedestrian position of security guard with Prime Security Associates. He is highly overqualified, but he is behind on rent and they have good benefits.
"So, Mr. Extraordinary," Wallace says while perusing the resume. "Why do you think you'll be an asset to us here at PSA?"
"I'm glad you asked that. I have extensive security-related experience."
"I see."
Wally looks at the muscular man in front of him and then returns his attention to listed work experience on the resume. It was short. It began: "Hero, May 2005 to present."
"We're looking for people with good personal skills. Our employees are assigned to all sorts of companies and we have to be sure that any prospective hire can interact well with all types."
"Completely understand. I've worked with tons of people, usually the police. I'm good with kids too. There was a school bus incident a while back--"
"Right. I see that here. I saw that on the news too. What happened again? There was a runaway school bus?"
"A madman tampered with it. I had to deflect twelve oncoming cars before I could slow it down."
"But didn't you do that by throwing it into a lake? I remember seeing children crying on television. Aren't some of them still in therapy?"
"Yea," Captain Extraordinary said with a wave of his hand, "but at least they're safe."
"Sure. And this here about the militia compound?"
"They were holed up for two days before I got the call. Heavy arms fire. Kept the cops away every time they got close. I took care of it for them. Easy-peasy. As you can see, I well-suited for this security gig."
"Well, our guards don't see this much action. To be honest with you, it can be pretty boring. In fact, half of them don't carry guns."
"No problem. I don't need one anyway. And I'm not worried about being bored. To be honest with you also, I'm just looking for a paycheck." At that moment, his phone beeped with a text message. He looked at it quickly. "Um, I'm going to have to go. Duty calls."
Against his better judgment, Wallace says, "Mr. Extraordinary--may I call you Ken? Ken, I won't keep you. Why don't we set up another appointment, and I'll try to get some other people to meet with you as well."
"Sounds great!" Captain Extraordinary flashes his newsworthy smile.
"And Ken?"
"Yes?
"Maybe you should leave the tights at home next time."
It is for this reason that Captain Extraordinary is now sitting in Wallace Fry's office. He is interviewing for the utterly pedestrian position of security guard with Prime Security Associates. He is highly overqualified, but he is behind on rent and they have good benefits.
"So, Mr. Extraordinary," Wallace says while perusing the resume. "Why do you think you'll be an asset to us here at PSA?"
"I'm glad you asked that. I have extensive security-related experience."
"I see."
Wally looks at the muscular man in front of him and then returns his attention to listed work experience on the resume. It was short. It began: "Hero, May 2005 to present."
"We're looking for people with good personal skills. Our employees are assigned to all sorts of companies and we have to be sure that any prospective hire can interact well with all types."
"Completely understand. I've worked with tons of people, usually the police. I'm good with kids too. There was a school bus incident a while back--"
"Right. I see that here. I saw that on the news too. What happened again? There was a runaway school bus?"
"A madman tampered with it. I had to deflect twelve oncoming cars before I could slow it down."
"But didn't you do that by throwing it into a lake? I remember seeing children crying on television. Aren't some of them still in therapy?"
"Yea," Captain Extraordinary said with a wave of his hand, "but at least they're safe."
"Sure. And this here about the militia compound?"
"They were holed up for two days before I got the call. Heavy arms fire. Kept the cops away every time they got close. I took care of it for them. Easy-peasy. As you can see, I well-suited for this security gig."
"Well, our guards don't see this much action. To be honest with you, it can be pretty boring. In fact, half of them don't carry guns."
"No problem. I don't need one anyway. And I'm not worried about being bored. To be honest with you also, I'm just looking for a paycheck." At that moment, his phone beeped with a text message. He looked at it quickly. "Um, I'm going to have to go. Duty calls."
Against his better judgment, Wallace says, "Mr. Extraordinary--may I call you Ken? Ken, I won't keep you. Why don't we set up another appointment, and I'll try to get some other people to meet with you as well."
"Sounds great!" Captain Extraordinary flashes his newsworthy smile.
"And Ken?"
"Yes?
"Maybe you should leave the tights at home next time."
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The Last Wedding
They received the news three months before the wedding and his wife and daughter considered postponing the event, that the time for celebration could come later, that the planning would keep everyone busy and he deserved to have peace, even if it was for a short period of time. With the smile that he had throughout the ordeal, he said no, that it was because he only had a short period of time left, that he wanted to see it through. He was going to see his only daughter get married. The sickness might take his life, but it wouldn't take this.
Invitations went out. Planning resumed. Everyone went through their routines, the only thing keeping them going was the smile on his face. He told them that he had learned to accept his fate, and once that happened, each day was a gift.
When the day came, everything was ready. Family and friends came from all parts of the country. No expense was spared. The multi-tiered pearl white cake was ordered from an award winning pastry chef. They had decided to have the wedding at the house because it was getting hard for him to get around. Flower arrangements gracefully adorned every room and the backyard where the ceremony would be held. A live jazz band played in the background.
On that beautiful Spring day, he almost looked healthy if you hadn't known how fit he used to be. For the first month after the call, he was still able to run everyday. Now he needed a cane, although he managed on this day without one. The family had kept the news from everyone but for some reason, they all knew something was wrong, even if they didn't know what. They saw them paying more attention to him. They saw his egnimatic smile, but it seemed different, weak. His clothes fit loosely on him and his gait was not that of the marathon trainer they had heard him to be. Whispers and rumors cast a pallor on the otherwise joyous day.
This didn't lost on the father of the bride. He saw the strange looks. He saw conversations take on a different tone when he entered a room. He noticed all this and it just wouldn't do. Everything could be taken away from him, but this was unacceptable.
When everyone was gathered in the yard for the wedding, he took a microphone and welcomed everyone to their house, to the wedding. He beamed charismatically as he went on, walking through the crowd, patting friends on the back, delivering corny jokes, working the crowd. And for a moment, everything felt normal again. A gloom lifted. People smiled. Some laughed. When he was done, he went back to his seat and his wife grabbed his hand and told him he was great.
When it came for the father daughter dance, he took his daughter by the hand and led her to the temporary dance floor they had set up on the lawn. He told her she looked beautiful and how proud he was to have her as his daughter. Then the music came on, a much exuberant number than expected, and he broke into a lively rendition of the Macarena. The crowd roared and clapped in approval until he motioned for the conspirator DJ to put on the planned music. As father and daughter started and swayed around the dance floor, she laughed and lovingly called him a loser.
The dance floor opened and his son-in-law took over. He motioned for his wife to join him on the dance floor now that he was without a partner. It took some convincing, but she could never resist him. As they danced, arms intertwine, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. Please don't die, she said, choking back tears. She lifted her head from his shoulder. He just looked at her, smiling, and kissed her on the head.
Later that night, when everyone was gone, the guests, the jazz band, the florists, the caterers, the DJ, he walked through the house with the aid of his cane. It had been a good day. He had made it this far and it was great day.
In the shower, a heavy weight fell from his shoulders. As the water cascaded onto his face, he thought of how grateful he was to have been able to walk his daughter down the aisle, but his mind also wandered and he thought of the days he would be sure to miss. And for just a moment, he could not be strong anymore and tears flowed, mixed with water and went down the drain. He did not hold back. He would let it all out, because he would not do it when someone could see him.
His wife asked him how he was when he came into the bedroom. He smiled, kissed her gently on the lips, and told her everything was fine.
Invitations went out. Planning resumed. Everyone went through their routines, the only thing keeping them going was the smile on his face. He told them that he had learned to accept his fate, and once that happened, each day was a gift.
When the day came, everything was ready. Family and friends came from all parts of the country. No expense was spared. The multi-tiered pearl white cake was ordered from an award winning pastry chef. They had decided to have the wedding at the house because it was getting hard for him to get around. Flower arrangements gracefully adorned every room and the backyard where the ceremony would be held. A live jazz band played in the background.
On that beautiful Spring day, he almost looked healthy if you hadn't known how fit he used to be. For the first month after the call, he was still able to run everyday. Now he needed a cane, although he managed on this day without one. The family had kept the news from everyone but for some reason, they all knew something was wrong, even if they didn't know what. They saw them paying more attention to him. They saw his egnimatic smile, but it seemed different, weak. His clothes fit loosely on him and his gait was not that of the marathon trainer they had heard him to be. Whispers and rumors cast a pallor on the otherwise joyous day.
This didn't lost on the father of the bride. He saw the strange looks. He saw conversations take on a different tone when he entered a room. He noticed all this and it just wouldn't do. Everything could be taken away from him, but this was unacceptable.
When everyone was gathered in the yard for the wedding, he took a microphone and welcomed everyone to their house, to the wedding. He beamed charismatically as he went on, walking through the crowd, patting friends on the back, delivering corny jokes, working the crowd. And for a moment, everything felt normal again. A gloom lifted. People smiled. Some laughed. When he was done, he went back to his seat and his wife grabbed his hand and told him he was great.
When it came for the father daughter dance, he took his daughter by the hand and led her to the temporary dance floor they had set up on the lawn. He told her she looked beautiful and how proud he was to have her as his daughter. Then the music came on, a much exuberant number than expected, and he broke into a lively rendition of the Macarena. The crowd roared and clapped in approval until he motioned for the conspirator DJ to put on the planned music. As father and daughter started and swayed around the dance floor, she laughed and lovingly called him a loser.
The dance floor opened and his son-in-law took over. He motioned for his wife to join him on the dance floor now that he was without a partner. It took some convincing, but she could never resist him. As they danced, arms intertwine, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. Please don't die, she said, choking back tears. She lifted her head from his shoulder. He just looked at her, smiling, and kissed her on the head.
Later that night, when everyone was gone, the guests, the jazz band, the florists, the caterers, the DJ, he walked through the house with the aid of his cane. It had been a good day. He had made it this far and it was great day.
In the shower, a heavy weight fell from his shoulders. As the water cascaded onto his face, he thought of how grateful he was to have been able to walk his daughter down the aisle, but his mind also wandered and he thought of the days he would be sure to miss. And for just a moment, he could not be strong anymore and tears flowed, mixed with water and went down the drain. He did not hold back. He would let it all out, because he would not do it when someone could see him.
His wife asked him how he was when he came into the bedroom. He smiled, kissed her gently on the lips, and told her everything was fine.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
In Preparation
"What do you mean, 'You have to study'?"
I looked at Martin who looked back as if I had told him the most incredulous thing ever uttered.
"Study. It's what you do before tests," I said.
He waved off my perfectly practical explanation.
"Party. It's what normal people do. Besides, Pam's going to be there. Don't tell me you don't want to go."
I did. It was Pam after all. I was so close to getting the nerve to ask her out. It was on the tip of my tongue last time I saw her. But no. I had the physics test. If I failed, it would torpedo my grade in that class.
"I can't."
"It's Pam."
"I can't," I insisted.
He groaned. "So, I'm supposed to go to this thing by myself?"
"Seems like it."
He picked up the physics textbook, looked at it. "What did you say you were studying for again?"
"Physics."
"Um."
"What?"
"The physics test is next week. The calc test is tomorrow."
The moment he said it, I knew it was true. I threw my pencil against the wall and skittered around the room looking for my math notes.
"So, you coming?"
I gave him a stare that could melt ice.
I looked at Martin who looked back as if I had told him the most incredulous thing ever uttered.
"Study. It's what you do before tests," I said.
He waved off my perfectly practical explanation.
"Party. It's what normal people do. Besides, Pam's going to be there. Don't tell me you don't want to go."
I did. It was Pam after all. I was so close to getting the nerve to ask her out. It was on the tip of my tongue last time I saw her. But no. I had the physics test. If I failed, it would torpedo my grade in that class.
"I can't."
"It's Pam."
"I can't," I insisted.
He groaned. "So, I'm supposed to go to this thing by myself?"
"Seems like it."
He picked up the physics textbook, looked at it. "What did you say you were studying for again?"
"Physics."
"Um."
"What?"
"The physics test is next week. The calc test is tomorrow."
The moment he said it, I knew it was true. I threw my pencil against the wall and skittered around the room looking for my math notes.
"So, you coming?"
I gave him a stare that could melt ice.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Pickpocket's Apprentice
In Leonard's Square, there were hundreds of townfolk out and about. It was nighttime and they were enjoying their night at theater houses, ale houses, and eateries. In the bustle, no one noticed a small boy of eight meandering through the crowd. They did not notice when he bumped into them and took their watches, their coin purses.
When his pockets are full and he is weighed down so much that he can no longer nimbly perform his slights of hand. The boy tapped a door in the depths of an alley five times. The door opened and his master stood in the doorway.
"How were the pickings today?" he asked.
When his pockets are full and he is weighed down so much that he can no longer nimbly perform his slights of hand. The boy tapped a door in the depths of an alley five times. The door opened and his master stood in the doorway.
"How were the pickings today?" he asked.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Savage Rabbits
In the early winter morning, I heard a rustling of trash cans outside. Expecting to see the usual family of raccoons, I peeked out the window and found white ears bobbing up and down inside the overturned trash can. The rabbits dragged the contents out onto the snow covered ground, nibbling furiously on the free buffet.
I rushed outside in nothing but slippers and a robe. The cold pinched into my feet. Smacking the siding of the house to scare them, they looked up from their feast and wiggled their noses. Unafraid, they resumed until I walked closer and they looked at me again as if daring me to come closer.
I walked even closer and then they scrambled away, leaving prints in the fresh snow.
I rushed outside in nothing but slippers and a robe. The cold pinched into my feet. Smacking the siding of the house to scare them, they looked up from their feast and wiggled their noses. Unafraid, they resumed until I walked closer and they looked at me again as if daring me to come closer.
I walked even closer and then they scrambled away, leaving prints in the fresh snow.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Roadside Lunch
Kevin and Gary stopped on the side of the old country road. They were in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing for miles of asphalt on either side of them. Even if there was plenty of gas left, their stomachs couldn't handle waiting for the next diner or truck stop.
Gary had read somewhere that people have cooked food on car engines before and he had come prepared. Sixty miles back, he had taken two chicken breasts out of the cooler, put them in aluminum foil with a dry rub and closed it tightly. He stuck duct tape to the bottom of it, pressed the wrapped chicken onto a hot spot over the engine and lowered the hood on top of it to hold it in place.
Sixty miles later, they say by the edge of the road in the dirt, feasting on perfectly cooked chicken with ice cold sodas. Meals on wheels.
Gary had read somewhere that people have cooked food on car engines before and he had come prepared. Sixty miles back, he had taken two chicken breasts out of the cooler, put them in aluminum foil with a dry rub and closed it tightly. He stuck duct tape to the bottom of it, pressed the wrapped chicken onto a hot spot over the engine and lowered the hood on top of it to hold it in place.
Sixty miles later, they say by the edge of the road in the dirt, feasting on perfectly cooked chicken with ice cold sodas. Meals on wheels.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Anniversary
When people describe an eccentric and rich old man, they probably are describing a man not unlike Bartleby Jones. Gregarious and still energetic as ever at the young age of seventy one, Bartleby Jones was what would you call...strange, but in the best way possible. So when the announcement was made for the company to gather at the atrium on the ground floor after lunch that day for a speech from their owner and CEO, there were rampant rumors flying around. Would they now be offered an option of receiving Jello instead of cash for overtime? Would razor scooters be the new mode of intraoffice transportation? Would Mondays now become luau Mondays including pig roasts?
The employees of Bartleby's Socks and Shoes gathered expectanctly as instructed and Bartleby Jones showed up at noon on the dot, standing on a podium on an upper floor that looked down on the atrium crowd. He wore a green suit and a polka dot tie and his cheerful voice boomed through the mike.
"Thank you for coming today," he said. "You're all probably wondering why I called you here today. Some of you may have been here long enough to actually attest to this. Bartleby's Socks and Shoes has been opened for forty years today. I thank you all, who I consider my family, and have made it possible."
An applause broke through the crowd, not the polite applause one might expect, but a raucous one with hooting and hollering. They were truly excited. An exception to the corporate world, working at this company was a pleasure. They felt appreciated there. Their owner even knew some of their names and often addressed them informally when he made rounds around the office.
"In celebration today, I have decided to share with you some of the good fortune this company has seen in the last forty years."
He reached from behind him to produce a large device with wide-diameter tube behind it.
"I'm told they use these on New Year's Eve to shoot confetti into the crowds," he said.
He flipped a switch, and in a short moment, a fountain of green shot from the device and rained on the crowd. Singles, fives, tens, and twenties fluttered down into the atrium, turning it into a veritable swimming pool of cash.
The employees of Bartleby's Socks and Shoes gathered expectanctly as instructed and Bartleby Jones showed up at noon on the dot, standing on a podium on an upper floor that looked down on the atrium crowd. He wore a green suit and a polka dot tie and his cheerful voice boomed through the mike.
"Thank you for coming today," he said. "You're all probably wondering why I called you here today. Some of you may have been here long enough to actually attest to this. Bartleby's Socks and Shoes has been opened for forty years today. I thank you all, who I consider my family, and have made it possible."
An applause broke through the crowd, not the polite applause one might expect, but a raucous one with hooting and hollering. They were truly excited. An exception to the corporate world, working at this company was a pleasure. They felt appreciated there. Their owner even knew some of their names and often addressed them informally when he made rounds around the office.
"In celebration today, I have decided to share with you some of the good fortune this company has seen in the last forty years."
He reached from behind him to produce a large device with wide-diameter tube behind it.
"I'm told they use these on New Year's Eve to shoot confetti into the crowds," he said.
He flipped a switch, and in a short moment, a fountain of green shot from the device and rained on the crowd. Singles, fives, tens, and twenties fluttered down into the atrium, turning it into a veritable swimming pool of cash.
Friday, January 16, 2009
One Week Later (Revised)
We've been without power for a week now. The lines snapped under the weight of falling ice-encrusted branches and we plunged into darkness. They've been trying to get it back on-line, but there have been setbacks. Some supermarkets are still open in the daytime and some in the night with generators. People buy canned goods and water to get by until we are reintroduced into the twenty first century.
Most gas stations are out of power too, but hopefully they will get them back up soon. They usually prioritize their efforts, give power to critical needs like hospitals and fire departments. I get into my car and drive, hoping to find fuel. I have a quarter of a tank left and hope maybe there is enough to drive far enough that I will hit the edge of the power outage and find an open gas station. I have nowhere else to go so I don't necessarily need the gas, but there is no heat in the house. At least in the car, I can stay warm without having to wear three sweaters.
It is a strange sight on the road, feels like I'm in a post-apocalyptic movie like Mad Max, but without my leather jacket, a cool car, or guns in the trunk. The roads have yet to be completely cleared. It's an obstacle course so filled with debris that I have to squeeze my way through on most small roads or drive over the small branches if I can.
There is hardly a person in sight, especially none out walking. Once in a while, there are a few cars that pass, but most of the time an eerie silence pervades. None of the street lights are working. All the stores are closed even though I'm in the busy downtown area and it's the middle of the day on a Tuesday. I almost expect to see a tumbleweed to blow across the road or a pack of stray dogs to run up along side the car.
Almost as if on cue, a deer appears in the middle of the intersection in front of me. It studies me for a moment and then bounds off into a side street. I weave around a fallen street sign and keep driving, sporadically checking the rear view mirror for signs of marauders in disheveled dress on gas-guzzling ATVs.
Most gas stations are out of power too, but hopefully they will get them back up soon. They usually prioritize their efforts, give power to critical needs like hospitals and fire departments. I get into my car and drive, hoping to find fuel. I have a quarter of a tank left and hope maybe there is enough to drive far enough that I will hit the edge of the power outage and find an open gas station. I have nowhere else to go so I don't necessarily need the gas, but there is no heat in the house. At least in the car, I can stay warm without having to wear three sweaters.
It is a strange sight on the road, feels like I'm in a post-apocalyptic movie like Mad Max, but without my leather jacket, a cool car, or guns in the trunk. The roads have yet to be completely cleared. It's an obstacle course so filled with debris that I have to squeeze my way through on most small roads or drive over the small branches if I can.
There is hardly a person in sight, especially none out walking. Once in a while, there are a few cars that pass, but most of the time an eerie silence pervades. None of the street lights are working. All the stores are closed even though I'm in the busy downtown area and it's the middle of the day on a Tuesday. I almost expect to see a tumbleweed to blow across the road or a pack of stray dogs to run up along side the car.
Almost as if on cue, a deer appears in the middle of the intersection in front of me. It studies me for a moment and then bounds off into a side street. I weave around a fallen street sign and keep driving, sporadically checking the rear view mirror for signs of marauders in disheveled dress on gas-guzzling ATVs.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Our Nighttime Ritual
"I will not. I won't," she said, as if she really believed she had a choice. It would have been cute if she hadn't stamped my foot at the same time she said it.
"You will and there's no fighting it," I said.
"You can't make me! Foul demon, release me!" She wrenched free from my grasp and ran down the stairs, depositing a trail of dirt from the soles of her bare feet.
"Grace!" I yelled. "You come back here or you'll regret it." I chased after and caught up just as she rounded on the bottom of the stairs. Her small, slow legs were no match for me no matter how fast they moved.
She wiggled and jerked in my arms, an exhaustive effort that finally stopped as we got back onto the next floor. We entered the bathroom where she disrobed, relenting under my gaze. She got in the tub and looked at me with unmasked anger.
I took the sponge full of soapy water and shampoo and worked up a lather on her unkempt dirty blonde hair. I never know how she gets so dirty. It's as if she had spent the afternoon playing in a tar pit. She wasn't in a cooperative mood and swayed and dodged when I tried to untangle her hair, causing a bit of lather to get into her eye.
"Dad!" she wailed, her anger downgrading to moping.
"Oh hush." I wiped the offending puff of shampoo from her face. "What did you do today? You're filthy."
She smiled in triumph, quite proud of herself and eager to share her day now that she had temporarily forgotten that she was furious with me.
"I fought a T-rex." Her hands mimicked dinosaur claws.
"Did you win?" I asked and rinsed off her hair.
"You will and there's no fighting it," I said.
"You can't make me! Foul demon, release me!" She wrenched free from my grasp and ran down the stairs, depositing a trail of dirt from the soles of her bare feet.
"Grace!" I yelled. "You come back here or you'll regret it." I chased after and caught up just as she rounded on the bottom of the stairs. Her small, slow legs were no match for me no matter how fast they moved.
She wiggled and jerked in my arms, an exhaustive effort that finally stopped as we got back onto the next floor. We entered the bathroom where she disrobed, relenting under my gaze. She got in the tub and looked at me with unmasked anger.
I took the sponge full of soapy water and shampoo and worked up a lather on her unkempt dirty blonde hair. I never know how she gets so dirty. It's as if she had spent the afternoon playing in a tar pit. She wasn't in a cooperative mood and swayed and dodged when I tried to untangle her hair, causing a bit of lather to get into her eye.
"Dad!" she wailed, her anger downgrading to moping.
"Oh hush." I wiped the offending puff of shampoo from her face. "What did you do today? You're filthy."
She smiled in triumph, quite proud of herself and eager to share her day now that she had temporarily forgotten that she was furious with me.
"I fought a T-rex." Her hands mimicked dinosaur claws.
"Did you win?" I asked and rinsed off her hair.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Flight
It was the first time I had seen flying man before and it was not what I had imagined. In movies and comic books, they soared majestically, aerodynamic and confident. The man I saw by the bridge did not soar so much as he dropped, tumbling and freewheeling. He was not dressed in spandex and a flowing cape, but just a shirt and pants--disheveled, sure, but not so different from your average guy. When he got near the water's surface, I almost expected him to kick it into gear, skim the river's top and then blast off upward like an Apollo rocket. But none of this happened. He just fell and the splash was no spectacular. It was normal, like a big rock in a lake. No special effects, no dramatics. A few minutes later, his body floated to the top and I wondered where the superheroes were when you needed them.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Pick
It was made from a stick he had found, one of many behind his cabin in the woods. With his worn, but sharp knife, he whittled it down to a point. He sat on the chair on the porch, rocking back and forth. There wasn't much for an old man like him to do but sit and do nothing. Somewhere overhead a bat made a sound. He took the lantern and pointed it in the direction it came from, but whatever was there was gone. The handmade toothpick stuck out from between his lips, dangling. He pulled his baseball cap down so the brim covered his eyes, put his hands across his chest, and drifted off into sleep.
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Twelfth Day
To the average person, a stay on an exotic island sounds sublime. Ken is an average person, had that average inclination. Not anymore. Now he sits, stranded in what he believes is the middle of the pacific on an uninhabited island. He doesn't even remember the cruise anymore. It has only been twelve days, but his memory does not extend before the day he woke up baking on this pad of sand in a sea of water. He vaguely recalls a rocky night on the cruise ship and some screaming that might have been his own. The next thing he knew, he was lying face down and soaked in unfamiliar territory.
An accountant by trade with little to no survival skills, Ken is even surprised he has made it this far. After days of eating bananas and fallen coconuts, he fastened a crude spear from a stalk of unidentified vegetation. The fish, not used to human contact, had no problems swimming close to his legs. It took all day, but he managed a fish the first day. Building a fire was the harder part. At first, he had a lighter, but it got washed away when he went swimming one day. He discovered fire using bark shavings and rubbing sticks.
Ken places the last stone in the sand and steps back to admire his handiwork. HELP, it says. He wonders if it can be seen from the sky, then clambers back to the shade of his makeshift hut. A person could get burned really quickly in the midday sun. He found that out the hard way. He takes a drink of water that he has caught from the rain using funnels made of leaves. Some it trickles down his beard.
He lies down and naps, trying to enjoy himself. It is an exotic island after all.
An accountant by trade with little to no survival skills, Ken is even surprised he has made it this far. After days of eating bananas and fallen coconuts, he fastened a crude spear from a stalk of unidentified vegetation. The fish, not used to human contact, had no problems swimming close to his legs. It took all day, but he managed a fish the first day. Building a fire was the harder part. At first, he had a lighter, but it got washed away when he went swimming one day. He discovered fire using bark shavings and rubbing sticks.
Ken places the last stone in the sand and steps back to admire his handiwork. HELP, it says. He wonders if it can be seen from the sky, then clambers back to the shade of his makeshift hut. A person could get burned really quickly in the midday sun. He found that out the hard way. He takes a drink of water that he has caught from the rain using funnels made of leaves. Some it trickles down his beard.
He lies down and naps, trying to enjoy himself. It is an exotic island after all.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Capital Offense
Jeffrey was not what you would call a gullible child, but his father was drunk and when he was inebriated, the normally timid and thoughtful man was downright charismatic. Credible, even. And when he spoke to Jeffrey, the boy soaked up every word as if it was the truth. So when his father offered to help him prepare for the geography quiz tomorrow, Jeffrey took him up on it.
The next day, Mrs. Parish handed out the quiz to her fourth grade class. When she collected them twenty minutes later, she picked up Jeffrey Tanner's because it caught her eye. In tight, neat pencil handwriting were all wrong answers. They were completely off and uncharacteristic of young Jeffrey.
"Jeffrey?" she called out.
"Yes, Mrs. Parish?"
"Did you study for this test?"
"Yes."
She looked down at the piece of paper again.
"What is the capital of Japan?" she asked.
"Sapporo."
"And Mexico?"
"Corona."
"Egypt?"
"Stella"
"Jeffrey, stop joking around."
"I'm not."
"I'll call your father."
"You can't."
"I can and I will."
"No, you can't. He's in Boddingtons."
"Where?"
"England."
The next day, Mrs. Parish handed out the quiz to her fourth grade class. When she collected them twenty minutes later, she picked up Jeffrey Tanner's because it caught her eye. In tight, neat pencil handwriting were all wrong answers. They were completely off and uncharacteristic of young Jeffrey.
"Jeffrey?" she called out.
"Yes, Mrs. Parish?"
"Did you study for this test?"
"Yes."
She looked down at the piece of paper again.
"What is the capital of Japan?" she asked.
"Sapporo."
"And Mexico?"
"Corona."
"Egypt?"
"Stella"
"Jeffrey, stop joking around."
"I'm not."
"I'll call your father."
"You can't."
"I can and I will."
"No, you can't. He's in Boddingtons."
"Where?"
"England."
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Mariposa's Errand
She received the pills from Star Pharmacy just around the corner, gripped the small white paper bag close to her chest, warding off gossips' eyes, made a straight line for her family's small cramped rent-controlled apartment. Nine floors above Upper Manhattan's urban sprawl, Mariposa sat, examining the pill bottle that she withdrew from the bag.
They were Misoprostol pills, procured without a prescription, dispensed by a phamarcist with discretion. She had told him she had missing periods and needed something for it. He understood. The word "abortion" was not uttered. It was a conservative neighbhorhood after all and she was an unwed mother of seventeen. The original use of the pills were for something she could not remember, but what Mariposa knew, or was told, was that if she took all of them, she would no longer be pregnant. They cost forty dollars, a weeks worth of babysitting for families as well off as her own, which is to say they were not.
She felt sick shortly after, like a tornado ripping through her insides. It was three in the afternoon, three hours before her mother would be home in time for a short rest before her next job. Tomas would be home at any time from school. She squatted on the toilet, sweating profusely, cursing, gritting her teeth.
When it passed, she flushed. She cleaned herself, plopped down on the couch, exhausted and in a daze. Tomas came through the door then, jumped onto the couch next to her, dumped his backpack on the floor, and turned on some cartoons.
"You're home early," he said.
"Mm hmm," she said wearily and laid her head on his small shoulder while he stared at the television unperturbed.
They were Misoprostol pills, procured without a prescription, dispensed by a phamarcist with discretion. She had told him she had missing periods and needed something for it. He understood. The word "abortion" was not uttered. It was a conservative neighbhorhood after all and she was an unwed mother of seventeen. The original use of the pills were for something she could not remember, but what Mariposa knew, or was told, was that if she took all of them, she would no longer be pregnant. They cost forty dollars, a weeks worth of babysitting for families as well off as her own, which is to say they were not.
She felt sick shortly after, like a tornado ripping through her insides. It was three in the afternoon, three hours before her mother would be home in time for a short rest before her next job. Tomas would be home at any time from school. She squatted on the toilet, sweating profusely, cursing, gritting her teeth.
When it passed, she flushed. She cleaned herself, plopped down on the couch, exhausted and in a daze. Tomas came through the door then, jumped onto the couch next to her, dumped his backpack on the floor, and turned on some cartoons.
"You're home early," he said.
"Mm hmm," she said wearily and laid her head on his small shoulder while he stared at the television unperturbed.
Friday, January 09, 2009
No One's Home
A dilemma was forming for Charlie Beckett. He had precisely one sick day left to use for work and today would quite possibly be the best snowboarding day of the year. There were feet of fine white powder on the mountain, waiting to be carved into.
With a few practiced coughs and imitating a sore throat, he called his boss and claimed sickness and said he required bed rest.
The drive to the mountain was treacherous, but the pay off was sublime. He felt the snow engulf him like a blanket as he flew down the slopes, taking multiple trips per lift again and again.
At the end of the day, with the sun beating down all day, a few icy patches had formed. With all the luck he had so far, Charlie was in for some misfortune. He hit one of the slick spots, fell, and broke a wrist.
Unfortunately for Charlie, he had just used his last sick day.
With a few practiced coughs and imitating a sore throat, he called his boss and claimed sickness and said he required bed rest.
The drive to the mountain was treacherous, but the pay off was sublime. He felt the snow engulf him like a blanket as he flew down the slopes, taking multiple trips per lift again and again.
At the end of the day, with the sun beating down all day, a few icy patches had formed. With all the luck he had so far, Charlie was in for some misfortune. He hit one of the slick spots, fell, and broke a wrist.
Unfortunately for Charlie, he had just used his last sick day.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Hush, Sleep Tight
"There are no monsters under your bed, in the closet, or on the walls," her mother assures her before giving her a kiss on the forehead and tucking her in.
The feeble nightlight at the opposite end of the room casts a withering glow across the room. Sarah almost wishes that that it was completely dark. At least that way she wouldn't see anything, wouldn't imagine malicious shadows on the cream blue walls. She shuts her eyes so tight that they form creases on her face. Counting silently to herself, she tries to fall asleep but to no avail.
Then she hears a creak of a floorboard. She perks up, listening for more, but it's gone, an old house stretching...or something else.
Sarah closes her eyes again and hums a song to herself, an improvised lullaby. Just as she drifts into slumber, she hears breathing. It is coarse and labored and sounds like it is from something large. There is a sniffling sound and then silence. She grabs at the sheets and throw them over her head.
The night's excitement is wearing her out and as she lets herself relax, she drifts off again. But just as she does again, she gets up with a start because she hears the breathing again. This time she feels it on her neck too.
The feeble nightlight at the opposite end of the room casts a withering glow across the room. Sarah almost wishes that that it was completely dark. At least that way she wouldn't see anything, wouldn't imagine malicious shadows on the cream blue walls. She shuts her eyes so tight that they form creases on her face. Counting silently to herself, she tries to fall asleep but to no avail.
Then she hears a creak of a floorboard. She perks up, listening for more, but it's gone, an old house stretching...or something else.
Sarah closes her eyes again and hums a song to herself, an improvised lullaby. Just as she drifts into slumber, she hears breathing. It is coarse and labored and sounds like it is from something large. There is a sniffling sound and then silence. She grabs at the sheets and throw them over her head.
The night's excitement is wearing her out and as she lets herself relax, she drifts off again. But just as she does again, she gets up with a start because she hears the breathing again. This time she feels it on her neck too.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Powers of Persuasion
I have a special gift. You might even call it a super power. I can persuade a person to do almost anything, a realization that came to me slowly. As a child, I was a good kid, but I would get into trouble once in a while. At first I would be punished, but then I learned to talk, and I would talk my way out of everything. My parents would later wonder how they could have let me go so easily after breaking a vase or violating curfew, but these moments of clear thinking were gone from their memory quickly.
For years, I attributed this to my charismatic nature, my gift for gab, my silver tongue. I thought it was why I got free food, how I got I got of traffic tickets, how I got such great deals at yard sales. But it didn't explain how I could convince my history teacher that yes, Columbus was really Japanese and discovered Atlantis. It didn't explain how I could coax my stingy friend Marcus to lend me all the money in his wallet when he normally did everything to get out of paying for his share of a meal. It didn't explain how my father, a rational man, conceded that every Leap Day the poles of Earth reversed. These events didn't last long however. My history teacher would remember that Columbus was Italian and discovered America. Marcus would not remember that I borrowed money, even though he would always accept it when I returned it. My father would come to his sense and know that a Leap Day comes by once every four years and has nothing to do with the poles.
I can't decide what to do with this power. It's true I never need to work. All I need to do is ask anyone, even a stranger, for money and I'll have it. Hell, I could rob a bank, and then convince everyone that the missing money was just an accounting error. The only thing that doesn't seem to work is love. I tried one time in high school to get Patty Holcomb to go out with me. She was the decidedly any by concensus, the prettiest girl in school and clearly unattainable for me. I thought I could get her to fall in love with me. Instead, she dismissed me with the regularity that visited other failed suitors. I couldn't get someone to even fall in like with me. Sure, I could get someone to smile at me and like me for a few minutes, but after our conversation all they would have is a distant memory that--for some reason--they enjoyed my company, but for the life of them could not remember why.
In this it seemed like a stuck somewhere between a hypnotist and a vampire. A hypnotist can't get someone to do something that is morally reprehensible to them, but I can get a PETA member to eat veal. A vampire has a power similar to mine, but they can get anyone to fall for them. They ooze seduction.
Maybe I'm a Jedi. That's something at least.
For years, I attributed this to my charismatic nature, my gift for gab, my silver tongue. I thought it was why I got free food, how I got I got of traffic tickets, how I got such great deals at yard sales. But it didn't explain how I could convince my history teacher that yes, Columbus was really Japanese and discovered Atlantis. It didn't explain how I could coax my stingy friend Marcus to lend me all the money in his wallet when he normally did everything to get out of paying for his share of a meal. It didn't explain how my father, a rational man, conceded that every Leap Day the poles of Earth reversed. These events didn't last long however. My history teacher would remember that Columbus was Italian and discovered America. Marcus would not remember that I borrowed money, even though he would always accept it when I returned it. My father would come to his sense and know that a Leap Day comes by once every four years and has nothing to do with the poles.
I can't decide what to do with this power. It's true I never need to work. All I need to do is ask anyone, even a stranger, for money and I'll have it. Hell, I could rob a bank, and then convince everyone that the missing money was just an accounting error. The only thing that doesn't seem to work is love. I tried one time in high school to get Patty Holcomb to go out with me. She was the decidedly any by concensus, the prettiest girl in school and clearly unattainable for me. I thought I could get her to fall in love with me. Instead, she dismissed me with the regularity that visited other failed suitors. I couldn't get someone to even fall in like with me. Sure, I could get someone to smile at me and like me for a few minutes, but after our conversation all they would have is a distant memory that--for some reason--they enjoyed my company, but for the life of them could not remember why.
In this it seemed like a stuck somewhere between a hypnotist and a vampire. A hypnotist can't get someone to do something that is morally reprehensible to them, but I can get a PETA member to eat veal. A vampire has a power similar to mine, but they can get anyone to fall for them. They ooze seduction.
Maybe I'm a Jedi. That's something at least.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Black Holes and White Holes
Matt wasn't a bigot, a racist, or ignorant. In fact, he too was Asian, but when the class was presenting their science projects that day in Mr. Hansen's eighth grade science class, and Will Chung was presented his on astronomical phenomena, Matt could not contain himself.
Will had the misfortune of not being able to pronounce his Ls very well and since his project was mainly on black holes and white holes, he spent all of ten minutes talking about "white hos and black hos." Matt learned that black hos suck everything in sight and white hos blow everything in site. Black hos can come in different sizes. When Will concluded by saying that one day he hoped to actually see a black ho, that he would actually pay to see one, Matt barely contained fits of laughter erupted and he fell off his chair.
Will had the misfortune of not being able to pronounce his Ls very well and since his project was mainly on black holes and white holes, he spent all of ten minutes talking about "white hos and black hos." Matt learned that black hos suck everything in sight and white hos blow everything in site. Black hos can come in different sizes. When Will concluded by saying that one day he hoped to actually see a black ho, that he would actually pay to see one, Matt barely contained fits of laughter erupted and he fell off his chair.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Relative Strangers
"So when are you getting married?"
A distant uncle is talking to me, but I am miles away from here. I try to zone on, but he goes on.
"It should be about time right? What are you? 27? 28?"
I'm twenty two, but I don't correct him. I just want him to go away. He's not even my uncle, not really. I think he's my mother's sister's neighbor's family friend, or something like that. What does he care? I'm young, single, out of college, enjoying life. Just because I'm home for the holidays and we're throwing a party doesn't mean I need talk to everyone.
"Sherry? You okay?"
"John?"
"Jack," he corrects me.
"Jack. I have a headache. I'm going to get a fresh breath of air."
He leaves me alone and I give a sigh of relief. I walk outside into the brisk night air. It's cold but just warm enough that I don't need a jacket. I see my little sister already outside. She looks up at me when I get closer.
"You too, huh?" she asks, a smile curling on her face.
A distant uncle is talking to me, but I am miles away from here. I try to zone on, but he goes on.
"It should be about time right? What are you? 27? 28?"
I'm twenty two, but I don't correct him. I just want him to go away. He's not even my uncle, not really. I think he's my mother's sister's neighbor's family friend, or something like that. What does he care? I'm young, single, out of college, enjoying life. Just because I'm home for the holidays and we're throwing a party doesn't mean I need talk to everyone.
"Sherry? You okay?"
"John?"
"Jack," he corrects me.
"Jack. I have a headache. I'm going to get a fresh breath of air."
He leaves me alone and I give a sigh of relief. I walk outside into the brisk night air. It's cold but just warm enough that I don't need a jacket. I see my little sister already outside. She looks up at me when I get closer.
"You too, huh?" she asks, a smile curling on her face.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
John Doe
She looked at him as for the first time. The eyes she had looked into so many times were now unfamiliar to her. His lips, the ones she had kissed, felt different, the sensation distant.
"Who are you? she asked.
"You know who I am." He looked at her, piercing and probing.
"George Grant. That's who you were, the name you gave me. But that's not who you are is it? That's not even your name. Is it?"
He looked away. "No."
"Please," she said, grabbing hold of his hand, "tell me your name. Give me that much."
"I can't."
She let go of him and got up, ready to leave.
"I can't tell you. It's not safe for you to know."
"Goodbye George or whoever you are."
He looked at her helplessly, wanting to chase after her but knowing he could say nothing to keep her.
"Who are you? she asked.
"You know who I am." He looked at her, piercing and probing.
"George Grant. That's who you were, the name you gave me. But that's not who you are is it? That's not even your name. Is it?"
He looked away. "No."
"Please," she said, grabbing hold of his hand, "tell me your name. Give me that much."
"I can't."
She let go of him and got up, ready to leave.
"I can't tell you. It's not safe for you to know."
"Goodbye George or whoever you are."
He looked at her helplessly, wanting to chase after her but knowing he could say nothing to keep her.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Friction
She felt a static electricity building between her thumb and middle finger, a itchy and warm sensation. The itch had to be scratched and she did, in the form of a snap of her fingers. First came a spark, then a flame. It hovered over her fingers, as if they were a lighter. Slowly, as she flexed her hand out, the flame jumped from finger to finger until it formed a fiery palm.
She looked at the auburn glow, felt its warm. There was no pain. It felt safe, like home. She snapped her fingers on the other hand and an orange fireball engulfed her entire arm. She looked skyward and breathed in deeply in concentration, the embers of her clothes crinkling as the fire consumed everything but her body. In the end, she was but an image of a person outlined in licking flames.
She looked at the auburn glow, felt its warm. There was no pain. It felt safe, like home. She snapped her fingers on the other hand and an orange fireball engulfed her entire arm. She looked skyward and breathed in deeply in concentration, the embers of her clothes crinkling as the fire consumed everything but her body. In the end, she was but an image of a person outlined in licking flames.
Friday, January 02, 2009
A Cut Above the Rest
Mark tussled his hair in the mirror, wondering if it was a good idea to let Patty cut his hair for the big interview tomorrow. Something didn't look right. There were rogue hairs that were sticking out where they shouldn't be, longer than the rest of its friends.
"Patty?"
"Yeah," she said from the bedroom.
"You think you can touch this up a little?"
She came bounding into the bathroom. She had been so giddy when he said she could cut his hair. He had no idea why, but it seemed to make her happy, and that usually meant that he would stay happy.
"Where?"
"Here." He pointed to the rebellious patch by his left ear.
She turned on the clippers.
"Hold still." She held down his ear and nudged the clippers into place. When she was giving the haircut earlier, he was seated, giving her a much better position. But with both of them standing, she was on her tiptoes--not the most stable of stances.
"Oops."
"What do you mean 'Oops'?" he said. He looked in the mirror. The stray hairs were gone. In fact, they would not be posing much a problem for a few weeks. There was no hair there.
"Do they let you wear hats to interviews?"
"Patty?"
"Yeah," she said from the bedroom.
"You think you can touch this up a little?"
She came bounding into the bathroom. She had been so giddy when he said she could cut his hair. He had no idea why, but it seemed to make her happy, and that usually meant that he would stay happy.
"Where?"
"Here." He pointed to the rebellious patch by his left ear.
She turned on the clippers.
"Hold still." She held down his ear and nudged the clippers into place. When she was giving the haircut earlier, he was seated, giving her a much better position. But with both of them standing, she was on her tiptoes--not the most stable of stances.
"Oops."
"What do you mean 'Oops'?" he said. He looked in the mirror. The stray hairs were gone. In fact, they would not be posing much a problem for a few weeks. There was no hair there.
"Do they let you wear hats to interviews?"
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Last Call on the 7 Train
In the wee hours of the morning, the subway rumbled through Queens, rattled windows and woke cats. Inside the car, nearly empty a few hours before rush hour, laid the body of Montgomery Dean, a homeless man of two months, three weeks, and six days. Fired and unable to find new work, he was evicted when he couldn't pay the rent and sold his car when he didn't have any more money for food. Up until this morning, he was spending most of his time on the subway, enjoyed the comforts of heat and reading light for the price of a one-time fare that he exhausted for as long as he could on any given day until he was kicked off. Up until this morning, he was also alive.
It would be another hour before Montgomery is found by a subway cop making random rounds through the cars. He will cover his nose when he finds him not because of the spreading pool of blood but because of the smell. Montgomery had not showered in quite some time. The cop will shut down the subway at the next stop and empty the cars. Homicide detectives will show up to the scene and bring forensics technicians, but there will not be much they can do. They will find an empty wallet next to the body with nothing in it. They will not know it, but there was only five dollars in there, not that it stopped someone from taking it. The medical examiner will find five stab wounds that will be the cause of death. The case file will find its place on an overloaded desk and maybe will finally be labeled unsolved in a few months when someone comes across it again.
It would be another hour before Montgomery is found by a subway cop making random rounds through the cars. He will cover his nose when he finds him not because of the spreading pool of blood but because of the smell. Montgomery had not showered in quite some time. The cop will shut down the subway at the next stop and empty the cars. Homicide detectives will show up to the scene and bring forensics technicians, but there will not be much they can do. They will find an empty wallet next to the body with nothing in it. They will not know it, but there was only five dollars in there, not that it stopped someone from taking it. The medical examiner will find five stab wounds that will be the cause of death. The case file will find its place on an overloaded desk and maybe will finally be labeled unsolved in a few months when someone comes across it again.
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