View From God

The view was spectacular. 47 floors up on one of Manhattan's most illustrious and visible condo complexes provides a most vivid scenic summary of a bulk of the New York City skyline. Stare out into the horizon and on a clear day you can gaze into the dark sublimity of New Jersey and the gloomy cynicism that presides over it like a George Orwell experience. Look down from the cozy 4-foot balcony and you can make out the lethargic movement of the city's inhabitants down below, scrambling around like roaches. Only a very few select are lucky enough to experience the amenities that come along with being rich. I'm not talking an “I can pay my bills on time and still have enough left over for a brand new pair of sneakers” rich, where you proudly snub your nose disdainfully upon the poor, while still somehow being able to slide by amongst a more modestly wealthy class. No, the type of wealth I'm referring to is one only imaginable by those who have attained it. We snatch up land like you collect novelty magnets that say things like “Stuck on Miami”. When we crave European food, we go straight to the source where the more frugal plan their escape around a trip to the Polish Deli on the other side of town. But, there is no greater pleasure to being part of the absurdly upper class than being able to look down upon everyone... literally and figuratively. They say New York City has a thousand and one stories? Well, I'm forty-seven of those stories up from the starting point.

I wasn't born into money like so many of my colleagues. In fact, I wasn't born into anything, really. Never knew my biological family as I was one of those lucky orphaned babies, discarded just for breathing and basically being a burden. Don't get me wrong, the family that adopted me, June and Carl Gladstone were both loving and supportive parents who gave me an opportunity to be a somebody in this cold, pathetic world we live in – something my real parents never bothered to want. Or maybe they did, who am I to say the circumstances of what I was tossed aside like a choir boy in church with a cracking voice? I didn't find out I was adopted until I was in my late teens, and to be honest, it didn't hit me as hard as I thought it would, but it's still something that stays with you every day of your life, and for some, initiates that little extra motivation to prove everyone wrong – that your life is actually worth a damn. Eventually I found out my real parents were a couple of Jersey teens who got knocked up after Prom. Nothing like finding out you were a dumpster baby probably conceived in a “let's blow off some steam” romp during finals. In all fairness though, there's no doubt I ended up better off than if they would have kept me. Afterall, I grew up in a fairly healthy family environment. Mom... sorry, June ran a flower shop, typical, I know, while Carl, well I never really knew what Carl did. He was a good man, I don't want to give the impression that he was some non-existent father figure that showed up at odd hours, bought mom and me fancy things and then took off and we never saw him again for weeks on end. In fact, he was probably as close to the alpha male/father you could get. I just... I know his job was stressful and the only times he ever really scared me was when he would come home from particularly tense-filled days at work, get down on one knee, grab me by my shoulders and tell me, “Son, when you grow up, don't turn out like your old man.” It always seemed funny to me because I didn't know if he was talking about him or about my real father, who's probably off hoking tasteless souvenirs on the Jersey shore. But there was always food on the table, gifts around the Christmas tree and we all seemed pretty happy so who am I to complain?

It lingered though, the lasting image of a defeated man's plea to his son not to end up like him. A proud father, I figured, yearned to see his son follow in his footsteps. An embarrassed father does whatever he can to make sure his son doesn't make the same mistakes he did. For me, Carl strayed into the latter, and I took his warnings to heart. I started young, nabbing various treats from the corner store and offing them at a premium discount to the other kids in my grade. As I got older the risks grew as did my desire for more. By the time I was the age of my real parents when they decided I wasn't good enough for them, I had moved up to larceny and grand theft. I was seventeen the first time I got pinched, fortunately still young enough to be treated as a minor. But I've learned my second valuable lesson: Don't turn out like my father and don't get caught.

And here we are, twenty-seven years to the day my parents gave up on me. The phone rings, probably my driver letting me know it's time to go. He's been calling for a half-hour now. Fucking amateur doesn't realize it's important to be late to your own party. Twenty-seven years is a long time to be weighted down with the knowledge that you're not good enough. Twenty-seven years is an excruciatingly long time to feign happiness to everyone. This morning I got word that my real parents were killed in a tragic car accident along with their two children, two siblings I'll never get to know or even meet. My real father was drunk behind the wheel, blatantly disregarding the welfare of his family for his own selfish intolerance. It's sad not because this sort of shit happens all the time, but because I never had a chance to introduce myself to them and give them a great ol big “fuck you, look at me now” speech. Part of this bullshit consoles me in that they led the life I, looking back, feared living the most. By giving me up they gave me an opportunity to not be them, to not follow in my father's footsteps and getting shitfaced at a TGIFridays and sacrificing good judgment in hopes of catching the extra innings of the Yankees game. But, what hurts more than anything is the idea that they probably never even thought about me after leaving me for dead. They went on, had their own little white trash family and just chose to acknowledge that I ever existed. I mean I wasn't even good enough to drop off on someone's doorstep with a note. Nope, I was destined for the trash bin and it seems as if everyday, no matter how much closer I get to finding my way away from all the garbage, it's as if more gets piled on, preventing me from escaping. It's as if I'm still trying to do them right, have spent the last twenty-seven years doing so, and for what? And now, well now, it's completely irrelevant after what has recently transpired. I... I just can't do it anymore.

The phone rings again...

“Yes?”

“Mr Gladstone? We must be going if you don't want to be late.”

“I'll be down in a minute.”

“Yes sir.”

The balcony seems higher than it ever has. I wonder how long it'll take to hit the ground from here?

Jitter Bugs

It took what felt like the longest five seconds of my life, but the line eventually connected and the phone on the other end started to ring. When the high-pitched broken muffling of a poor connection became evident, panic began to set in the pit of my stomach, causing it to make incoherent sounds not of this world. The second ring consisted of an even more unbearable connection. The third ring never came, or maybe it came but the voice on the other end didn't, or perhaps the length of the pause in between rings tortuously dragged on for dramatic effect.

I hung up the phone and, resigned, stared at the small object in the palm of my hand in a defeatist way. All the technological advancements in the world couldn't help me grow balls. Cowardly? There's no app for that.

I took one last undesired drag and flicked my cigarette out into the mocking darkness and walked back in to my one bedroom apartment. Somehow the small shelter felt much larger and emptier than it did when I walked out onto the deck mere minutes prior. One thing about me, whenever I'm about to make a phone call where I know nerves will get the best of me and latch on to every appendage associated with my five senses, It's absolutely imperative to make it with a smoke. Blaze of Glory? Ha! More like a Blaze of Cancer. Within seconds of relieving my hand of the burden of the phone onto the night table does the uncomfortably startling buzz of the vibrating furniture cause me to jump up and the familiar tinge of neurosis saturate my body.

I left the phone screen-side down so as to not see who's calling unless I actually pick it up. I guess it's my way of convincing myself that if I don't see the call, it didn't happen. Shame my ears still work though.

After a little self-deliberation, I picked up the phone and instantly recognized the number as the one I just called. In my losing bout with nerves, I neglected to realize that caller ID has existed for almost 20 years now. I let it ring a couple of times, not because I didn't want to seem overeager because my hand simply refused to lift itself anywhere remotely close to my face and my mouth numbed as if I had been sucking on ice cubes for the last hour. With every bit of strength I could muster, I jerked my arm up and pressed the 'answer' button. Here goes nothing.

“H-hello?” I thought I sounded pretty smooth, but it probably came out like something resembling, “Glooosh?” Confidence has never been my forte.

“Oh... hi. Someone just called this number,” It was just as I remembered. She still had a voice like an angel.

“I did... Hi,” I cleared my throat in a desperate attempt to stall.

“I figured it was you. Um, who is this?” Her tone contained all the assurance I wish mine did.

“Hi, uh... sorry.” I cleared my throat again, this time more to allow myself to breathe than a time tactic. I then took a deep breath and smiled to no one in particular. “Sorry, this is Greg. I don't know if you remember but we met at the Blenz down on Robson a few days back.”

“Oh!” Her voice virtually dissolved from poise to insecure with just a few words. “I wasn't sure you were going to call... n-not that I was waiting for your call, because I wasn't... well, I was but...” The ball was back in my court.

I chuckled at how quickly her demeanor changed and it filled me with a renewed vigor that I still had that effect on someone who made me feel the same way, turning me into a slack-jawed stammering idiot. “I had no intention of not calling.” Now was the time to turn on the charm. “It's not like I go around asking for every girl's number just to never call.”

She laughed, slightly uncomfortably. “Well... I don't know. Maybe you do!”

“Ok, I do, but usually every tenth one I'll follow through, you know, to keep up appearances,” It was a bold attempt at humor. What girl doesn't like it when a guy makes fun of his own arrogance?

“Haha... I see. So I'm lucky number ten?”

“Well, I lose track all the time, so for argument's sake, I'll say yes.”

We both laughed for a while until the inevitable uncomfortable silence set in. It's a damn near guarantee that silence will always trump comfort. Where did we go from there? I decided to take a chance, but she beat me to the punch.

“So what do I win?”

“Excuse me”

“For being number ten, what's my prize?”

Bonus points to her for making this easy. “Well, as our grand prize winner, we have a bevy of options for you,” This was clearly a girl who loved to laugh and loved surprises... I hope. “Option one is a nice home cooked meal at Casa Greg.”

“Hmm.. “ She giggled, playing along. “What are my other options?”

Since she seemed to dig my somewhat risque sense of humor, I continued to push the boundaries. “Well, as a woman, I'm sure you'll love this lovely dinette set and silverware.” I immediately regretted taking this route, which was met with a deafening silence. Thankfully she put my panic out of its misery.

“Oh wow, tough choice for a lil ol' domestic lady like me. I'm gonna have to go with the dinette set and silverware, Greg.”

“Excellent choice, however you will have to come pick them up from here at Casa Greg seeing as I don't have a spare set. There may or may not be an accompaniment of food with them when you do come.” The prelude to a date disguised as a mock gameshow presentation.

“Hmm... well it better be a nice set seeing as I have to go all the way there to pick it up.”

“Limited time offer, as in limited to Friday night?” I hope I didn't sound too beggarly.

“Friday works.”

“Great, I'll see you then. 7 works?”

“7 is perfect.”

The tension on both our ends at the beginning of the conversation has somehow transitioned into what felt like a relaxed catch-up between two old friends.

“Great, see you then.”

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Um, where do you live?”

I chuckled, embarrassed by my own relative stupidity. “I guess that would help. 782 Dunbar, apartment 815.”

“Got it. See ya on Friday.”

“Friday.”

-Click-

Heart To Heart

The sound of George Jones' “What's bad for you is good for me.” echoed throughout the small, rag-time diner, setting the tone for another quiet Sunday afternoon. Aside from Todd, the only other customer in the place was a regular by the name of Earl, a reserved fellow who usually kept to himself, sipping coffee and making the occasional comment in response to something on the TV. He was a friendly enough Joe that the waitresses tolerated his relative cheapness and obvious lack of respect for the serving industry, waving his hand and snapping his fingers in vain attempts to get attention. His forte wasn't small-talk or any sort of conversation at all, but any roadside diner would take whatever they could get in the form of repeat customers, even if it's just a customer taking advantage of the free re-fill policy.

Todd had been in diners just like Leeroys thousands of times, and like the thousands of other times, nothing particularly intriguing stood out about this one, separating itself from the rest of the pack. The menus all looked as if they'd been designed by the same person who seemed to have a monopoly on the standard menu blueprint. The selections rivaled that of a chicken and waffle stand fresh out of waffles, compensating by offering up kitschy names like the “Franki Valli-nila Shake” or the “Vietnam-n-eggs”, as if there was something appealing about feeling stupid when ordering a goddam meal.

The jukebox, still showing off its extensive collection of old '45s, hadn't been updated since the Reagan administration, and, because it was busted, was no longer able to make the traditional exchange of song for coin. Instead, it just randomly punched in numbers and played the resulting match. The black and white photos on the wall exhibited a number of American icons from yesteryear, a great many signed and personalized, which the diner proudly displayed to provide proof to any straggler who sets foot in the joint that it used to be relevant, or at least worthy enough of being a desirable pit stop. Yup, Leeroys was a diner, in fact, Leeroys seemed to fit more perfectly into the stereotype of the great American diner than most.

But, Todd wasn't there for a slice of Americana, and he certainly wasn't there for a slice of Marilyn Mon-rocky-road cheese cake. As he cocked his head and veered ever so slightly towards the cooler sitting discreetly next to him in the booth, he snapped back into reality and, taking a modest sip of his coffee reminded himself that he was there on business, not pleasure.

“Would you like to order an appetizer while waiting for your friend? Perhaps our world famous Truman Bloomin' Onion?”

Todd, lethargically shifted in the general direction of the voice, where stood an older lady, no younger than 40, exhibiting far too much exuberance for a mid-life crisis waiting right around the corner. “What makes it so world famous?”

“Well...” Della immediately chimed in as if half-expecting him to ask. “The story goes that on one fine day back in '44 none other than our 33^rd President, Mr. Harry Truman himself , well back then he was just Vice-President Truman, stopped by our little establishment and got himself what was then just called the Golden Onion. Well, he became so smitten with it, when he did eventually become the big chief, he made this little hole in the wall a constant stop whenever he came through our fine state. He once even had the secret service wake up the cook in the middle of the night because he had a hankerin'. Darn near scared the wits outta ol' Chester when they came a knockin' at his door, but, God rest his soul, that man would do anything to serve his country proud.”

“Is that so,” Todd replied with a lack of enthusiasm rivaled only by the dead.

“Ain't that a trip?” Della, not sensing Todd's lack of shared passion for the subject, smiled, twirled and pointed to a framed glossy of Mr. Truman sitting proudly at his desk while in office, signing what one could only assume to be important documents, probably supporting the humiliation of one of America's foes. “We were hoping he would show up one more time so we could get a little ink recognition on that ol' 8X10, but, I guess being the commander in chief means you don't got time for the little things anymore.”

Todd, losing what little patience he had, swirled his half-empty coffee cup around its saucer., tapped a button on his cell phone and sighed. “Yeah, he's a busy man. Can I get a little more coffee?”

“Sure thing, sugar. You want anything else, food or stories, just holler in my direction. I'll be right back.” Della smiled again, gave a slight wink and sashayed her way back to the counter. The sounds of George Jones and Della's clicking heels seemed to blend into each others' rhythm, only to be broken up by the tinkle of the bell above the diner's entrance followed by the sound of the door banging against its frame as it closed. Todd couldn't see who had meandered in, but judging by the reactions of both Della and even Earl, who only seems to divert his attention away from the telly in very particular circumstances, he knew who it was.

New footsteps now started making their way towards Todd. “Was beginning to wonder if you were going to show or not.”

“I made the call. Wouldn't make any sense if I didn't.”

“Sit down.”

After a brief pause, Tin took a seat in the booth adjacent to Todd. While the two had never met face to face, Tin was almost exactly how Todd had pictured him; to say he had a menacing presence was like saying King Kong was slightly larger than your normal silver back. Black adorned all of Tin's 6'6 frame, complete with a raven-esque black stubble hidding a still very noticeable scar stretching from above his right pupil down his throat and into the trenches of what other battle scars hid behind his clothes. An ironic presence considering his forte was supposedly staying inconspicuous.

Tin watched Della eye him suspiciously before she adjourned to the kitchen. He then diverted his attention over to Earl, who was trying his hardest not to stare at the two men, but if his goal was to not be noticeable, he was failing miserably. If this joint was as hoppin' as Della claimed it once used to be, clearly it had taken a tumble somewhere along the line where just about any customer is a cause for celebration, let alone two customers. Tin looked around to see if there was anyone else in the place. Satisfied, he crossed his hands on the table and learned in. “And?”

“And what?'

“And, how did you do?”

“Fuck off. Not here.” Todd surveyed around, one to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, and two because Della never warmed up his coffee. He leaned in to where his face was mere inches from Tin's. “Keep your voice down. And would it kill you to maybe try not to be such a focal point?”

“The fuck you...” Tin altered his tone to just above a whisper, “the fuck you talking about? There's no one here! We're in the middle of fucking nowhere. Rainman over there don't know either one of us and the waitress don't give a shit what we do in here as long as we pay the goddam bill and tip her nicely.” Tin then raised his hand and bellowed out. “Excuse me, Miss?”

Todd looked on incredulously as Della flew through the swinging door, a little cautiously, but still with that trademark smile of hers. She slowly made her way over to where she assumed the voice originated from.

“Yes?”

“Any way I can trouble you for a glass of water and a menu? I've heard a lot about this little place you got here and can't wait to try out one of those Henry Kissinburgers y'all are famous for.” He tilted his head towards Todd and mumbled almost inaudibly, “Saw it on a billboard about a mile up the road.”

Della giggled and slightly blushed, “Not a worry! And,” turning her attention to Todd, “I'll be right back with a fresh pot of coffee.” She stood idly for a second before enthusiastically marching back to the kitchen.

“See? She don't give two shits what we do in here as long as we treat her nice. So again, I'm gonna ask you, without using cuss words, How. Did. You. Do?

Todd looked on in absolute shock and dismay, but eventually caved to the rationale of what Tin was preaching. “I do what I do well.”

“So we're in business?”

“We,” Todd slightly rubbed the palm of his hand across the handle of the cooler, “are definitely in business.”

“That's what I like to hear.”

The kitchen door swung open and out came Della carry a tray with a menu, glass of water and plate of what looked like hotdogs. “If you think the Kissingburgers are good, wait'll you try our Benjamin Franklinfurters, on the house, not even on the menu yet. Just let me know what you think.”

Tin grabbed one of the glutinous dogs and took a healthy bite followed by an exaggerated look of ecstasy. “Oh wow, these are a-ma-zing. Now I have another reason to come back,” he leaned in to read her name tag, “Della.”

“Oh,” Della laughed, abandoned were the reservations she had mere minutes earlier. “You can call me Del.”

“Um,” Todd chimed in, “how's the coffee coming?”

Della, unwillingly taking her eyes off Tin, looked down at Todd's empty cup.” I'll go check on it right now.” She looked back towards Tin, smiled a little less forced this time around, and moseyed to the back.

Tin starred at the kitchen door until it stopped swinging and, without taking his eyes off the door asked, “And the numbers?”

“Numbers stay where they are.”

“Good. So... can I see it?”

“In here?”

“Cleaner than being outside.”

“I'd rather you waited til you were alone.”

Tin was clearly getting agitated by Todd's demeanor. “I'd rather not considering it's costing 25,000 dollars.”

“Understood,” Todd snuck another look around the still mostly-deserted restaurant and casually handed over the cooler to Tin, who hastily snatched it, set it down on the table and slid open the top.

“Is that what I want?”

“I guess you never excelled in biology.”

“Don't be a smart ass. Just tell me, is that a...”

“Yes, yes... just... can you just close it?”

Tin closed the lid, slid out from the booth and non-chalantly pulled out his ray-bans and put them on. He then pulls out a small, bulky manilla envelope. “It's all there. Care to count it or would you rather wait til you're alone.”

“Funny...” Todd snatched the envelope and placed it in his inside jacket pocket. “I take it you're not staying for the burgers.”

“Nah,” Tin adjusted his hat, “Can't eat that shit, man. Makes you need another one of these,” Tin states, holding up the cooler. “Anyways, see ya.”

And with that he was out the door, skidding away in his Cadillac like he was making up for lost time. As Todd watched him drive away, he heard the sound of a ceramic mug being filled with liquid. “Sorry your friend had to take off, real nice fella.”

“Yeah...” Todd responded as the sound of Johnny Cash's “Folson Prison Blues” drowned out the sound of approaching police sirens along with the beating of his own heart, thumping heavily.

Borrowed Time

The squeaking of the old wooden rocking chair churning rhythmically against the creaky wood planks of the front porch had always had a soothing effect on Harry. The sound coupled with the subtle bumps caused by the imperfect arches of the chair consistently reminded him of the same stretch of highway he used to drive almost everyday. The poorly-paved roads offered a plethora of different opportunities to jolt you into alertness, making it impossible to drift off... unless you've driven the road enough to know what to expect. By then, the repetition lulls you into a state of dull relaxation. On more than one occasion had Harry fallen asleep behind the wheel, fortunate that the blares of horns caused by panicked drivers had done their job in snapping him back into reality before disaster struck. Lady luck had been on his side far too many times for a man most of the townfolk assert that he's living on “borrowed time”.

It's been over 15 years since Harry last drove his dinged-up reliable Chevy up and down the quarter-mile stretch. Years of mistreatment of his body slowly broke him down and forced him to succumb to the inevitability of fragility... namely diabetes. Eventually, his eyes surrendered to condition forcing him to hang up his trucker's hat... and essentially the only life he'd ever known up until then. Most of his life was spent behind the wheel of some vehicle or another, and now he was forced to concede into only driving short distance where rarely ever did other cars cross his path. Despite his efforts to alter his habits, the eyes continued to diminish to the point where just being able to decipher between the R for reverse and the D for drive would have been impossible if his hands weren't already pre-programmed to know where they were on the gearbox.

And now the rusted vehicle sat idly in the garage, collecting as much dust as it did memories. There were enough cobwebs, debris and decaying rodents underneath the truck to require a shovel should anyone be interested in taking the ol' girl for a spin. Harry thought about it from time to time and, as much as he yearned for the old days, he thought better of it and left fate and luck to the younger folk and those who haven't cheated death already. Instead, the classic Chevy C/K was put into permanent retirement and buried alive, replaced by the less risky rocking chair. The smooth wooden steering wheel that his hands spent so much time manipulating have become two unfinished armrests, while the rigidness of the unfinished roads became a smooth journey of about a foot.

Contentedly, Harry looks out over the horizon where the sun currently makes its final decent. The brightness is blinding, even for Harry's deteriorating eyes. He is forced to squint, further blurring the homogenous sights of the unblemished nature in which he had surrounded himself with. The sounds of swaying leaves and branches reminds him how much he loves the outdoors; the musky, humid smell of the summer heat and the fertile soil filling his nostrils, intoxicating him. He'll always miss the smell of cheap gasoline and the droning sound of the motor as it chugged to where it had to go, but these are the things Harry truly loves.

The swaying of the chair gradually slows down as Harry peacefully closes his eyes and drifts off.

And then he crapped his pants.

Apparently Harry can't control his bowel movements.

Crash and Burn

The moment Charles took the bend at a speed far beyond what the limit permitted, he knew that things were bad, but going to get much, much worse. It was one thing to be driving a luxury coupe not registered in his, or anyone's name he knew, but to have the car collide with an immovable object such as the side of a 7-11 with a fifth of vodka resting in a bottle laying in the passenger seat and another mickey resting uncomfortably in his stomach, the repercussions were severe enough to contemplate fleeing the crime scene – if there weren't so many witnesses staring observantly at the scene and hence his every move thereafter... and if he could move.

“Oh fuck.”

The car slammed sideways into the brick wall, causing the half-empty bottle of booze to smash against the dashboard, shattering on impact, polluting the entire front seat with shards of glass and alcohol. The booze splashed the cuts scattered all over Charles arms and face, resulting in an intense burning sensation strong enough to leave him queasy in his dazed state. The numbness proliferated through his lower extremities; his arms flailing frantically almost to compensate for the quasi-vegetative state of the rest of his body. A fear of blindness washed over him until he realized his eyes were masked in a constant flow of dripping blood oozing from a horrific gash just above his left eyelid – the result of turning his head at the last second as if looking away from the wall would prevent the tragedy from happening. His hands brushed across twisted metal in places where there was no metal just seconds earlier. The coppery taste of blood in his mouth did not mesh well with the unfamiliar smell of burning vinyl.

The ringing in his ears was a sound unlike any he had ever heard. Somehow he was able to hear the muffled voices of concerned passerbys, opting to be sympathetic spectators in the scene as opposed to acting participants in the saving of a young man's life.

“Oh my God, is that man alright?”

“Somebody call 9-1-1! He needs help.”

“He looks like he's dead!”

“I can't even watch.”

“This is tragic.”

The numbness in his lower half increased to a unbearable tingling, as if a million ants invaded his legs. The pain also increased to torturous levels, making Charles wish all of his body was completely devoid of feeling not just his legs.

The ringing in his ears subsided to echos, the muffled voices distanced themselves to where they were barely more audible than whispers. The only sound that grew and increased in clarity was the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding at a lighting-fast pace at first, but gradually dwindling to a tempo that made Charles question whether or not it would beat again. The sound was deafening in his panic-stricken state, but also reassuring in that he knew he wasn't dead yet.

Ba boom

Ba boom

Ba boom

Ba boom

Was the sound growing quieter?

Was it stopping?

Is this how you're supposed to feel?

His breathing was shallow and came like rapid fire. He could feel his mouth and throat working to engulf as much oxygen into his lungs as possible, but the dizziness escalated.

He thought about everything in his life leading up to this moment. He thought about how he tried to be a good kid and how easily he succumbed to the vices of life, making all the excuses in the book with every piss-poor decision he made. He remembered smoking weed for the first time at twelve and moving on to petty crimes and harder substances before he was even out of High School. And now here he was at twenty-four, fucked up in some stranger's car.

That was the last thought he had before blacking out from the pain.

“Sir? Sir? Can you hear me? Everything is going to be ok... Damnit, get him on the gurney! We're losing him!”

Simple Times

Over the last little while, as the months faded from one to the next until they were all just one big blur, I came to a sudden realization. Looking back, the older I got, the more I began to appreciate just how good life was back as a kid. I go through these periods every now and then where I look back quite fondly as to how easy it was to just live when your biggest concerns were getting your homework in on time and how noticeable the new found crack in your voice would be to all the other kids going through the same hormonal uncertainties as you.

I remember how the small semi-circled block I lived on – one of virtually hundreds in the surprisingly quaint suburbs just on the verge of experiencing a major boom in population, but not quite there yet – seemed to have more kids than adults, thus emitting a bit of a summer camp vibe. Everyday after school the block became alive with youths, as did the countless others in the neighborhood. It's funny how when being nostalgic, the weather always seems just right, the sounds soothing and the trees always had the perfect level of branches for climbing.

I can recollect quite vibrantly just how much even my own backyard offered innumerable outlets for escapism for a young boy, with its miles and miles of woods, culminating with a pond somewhere in the middle that became almost a weekly field trip thanks to our green-enthusiast elementary school teacher – Mr Finnegan. As much as he enjoyed shaping our minds and preparing us for the real world we were inevitably going to enter, his true passion lay in nature. Even as a young kid whose primary concerns involved baseball cards, Transformers and making the most aerodynamic paper planes, it was hard to not see the level of pure joy and excitement in Finnegan's eyes whenever we would bring back our amphibious plunder. And the enthusiasm seemed to be infectious throughout us lot of kids. Boy oh boy, let me tell you, you ain't seen nothin' til you've seen a grown man almost cry at the sight of tadpoles!

Even today I still compare my relationships, including my failed marriage, to my first kiss – Leena. As I got older, the complexity of each romantic affair grew extreme, not like it was back in the day, when things were so damn simple! Leena wasn't anything special, at least not a boy of twelve who, as far as he was concerned, didn't really know the difference between a good lookin' gal and an ugly one, nor did it seem to matter. She was my age, but in the grade below me as she had the misfortune of being born just after the cut-off and had to settle for being the oldest kid in her class.

We didn't get to see each other much in school save for recess and the usual after-school shenanigans you come to expect from kids. She would hang out with her little group of girlfriends doing who-knows-what while I would hang with the boys, playing 'Bums-up' against the side of the gym wall. The game wasn't much of a game at all so much as us whipping tennis balls at each other, but when the coast was clear, we would run to our secret spot where we were able to climb up onto the roof of the gym and hence the whole school and collect all the treasures that somehow managed to make their way up there. The spot wasn't anything fancy, just a cage encasing some electrical equipment attached to one of the lower sections of the school that made it easy to just hop up, but for some reason it made us boys feel like kings of the world. Even when I moved on to High School and more mature endeavors, the thrill of the Beechwood roof climb coursed through my body every time I would let my hand wrap its fingers around the rusty metal of the cage. Sadly, word is that a couple of years after I left, some kid tried to show off to his chums and ultimately fell off the top of the gym, a good 40 feet drop. Miraculously nothing severe happened to the kid save for a broken ankle and a solid month of detention, but the damage was done and soon afterward a grill was placed atop the corner of the roof making it impossible for us to reclaim our glory. I went back a few years ago, and while the feat doesn't seem as impressive as it did then, I still looked back fondly at the dare-devilish things we did to amuse ourselves.

Most of the girls cared little of our childish attempts at being manly, but Leena always seemed impressed at the stupid things we did. One time when she was waiting to be picked up by her mother, she went against the norms of our little gender segregation by wanting to see what it was like up on the roof. All the other boys scoffed at her, laughing at her clumsy attempts.. I always saw myself as the more sympathetic of the bunch so I gave her a hand. When she finally caught her breath and worked up the nerve to look over the edge, boy let me tell you, I don't think I've ever seen anyone that proud. But, what she proceeded to do afterward changed my life forever. She grabbed my hand, leaned over and gave me what could only be described as the most awkward kiss in the history of romance. I remember being completely taken aback, playing off this spontaneous moment of affection as her uncontrollable girlish way of showing gratitude. Afterall, as far as I knew, that's what girls did. What the hell did I know?

Only later in life, when I ran into her many years later at a coffeeshop only a couple of miles away from the school, did I find out that she had a crush on me, something I was completely oblivious to back then. She told me how frustrated she was that despite this one isolated event not once did I even so much as give her the time of day, no matter how hard she tried to compete for my attention. She admitted that she wasn't really interested in climbing and never was able to wrap her head around why us boys were so passionate about it (Truth be told, looking back neither do I), but she figured that this was the best opportunity she was ever going to have to get me alone at a place I really couldn't escape from. This is the second time she managed to completely blindside me, spanning twenty years, leaving me jumbling up my words in a poor attempt at justification. All I could do was apologize for being so blind to what apparently was obvious to everyone in school except for me.

I then thanked her, a gesture that managed to this time catch her off guard. I proceeded to explain that, despite how uncomfortable it may have seemed at the time, it was also one of the most magical moments of my life. Everyone has a million stories, but the one you always seem to be able to recall in pristine detail is your first kiss. I told her that the kiss lingered mentally and taught me perhaps the most important lesson I've ever learned – always be nice to people. Yeah, I know, it sounds quite cliché, but I'll be honest, it's a cliché that has served me well in life.

We promised to keep in touch, but I never spoke to Leena again after that. Truth be told, it was probably better that way as it allowed that memory to remain as perfect as it is. Who knows though? It would have been a great story to tell the grandkids when they ask about our first kiss.

I began writing this as a way to procrastinate from dealing with the everyday adult issues we all must eventually face. My front table has bills scattered across it, my mental scrap book has images of heartache and lost love with a few happy memories scattered in for good measure, and the mirror reminds me everyday that I'm getting older and time never stops.

And then I remember that Corey Feldman still thinks he's cool.

At least I can leave my pastoral memories where they belong, in the past.

Loser.

March to the Same Drum

The mood around the table was tense. Both sides of the argument had their strong points while their respective rebuttals did an effective job in refuting whatever the other fought so diligently for. The atmosphere left the bystanders at a stalemate.

“I'm telling you, man, because he only has one arm AND is the drummer for one of them most successful bands of all time, the dude from Def Leopard should be considered THE pinnacle of the drumming world. Name me one other major band whose drummer is handicapped?”

“Okay, first of all? What you just said, was retarded. Second of all? James Mitchell had Psoriasis.”

“Who the fuck is James Mitchell”

“Uh... hello? Only the drummer for Flesh For Lulu.”

“I said MAJOR band. And Psoriasis isn't a fucking handicap, moron.”

“It is when you have hair that long, wear that much make-up and live on a bus nine months out of the year.”

The rest of the group murmured unanimously in agreement with every valid point and counterargument put forth, a veritable verbal sparring match for music lovers and the uneducated masses alike. Every Wednesday night consisted more or less of the same thing – copious amounts of alcohol and casual disagreements escalating to full-fledged heated debates in which everyone else sits by idly, laughing at first at the insanity of whatever is being disputed and then awkwardly as the non-nonchalance intensifies.

“I'll give you that one. But if you're gonna sit there and tell me James Fucking Mitchell and Flesh For Lulu are even in the same stratosphere as that one-armed dude and Def Leopard, well then maybe Donny should cut you off,” Billy gestures over to Donny the bartender, who, despite the joint being empty, has no interest in involving himself in their weekly brouhaha.

“Rick.”

“What?”

“Rick Allen. The dude's name is Rick Allen. Jesus, if you're going to argue his merits, the least you could do is know his fucking name,” David chimes in, rolling his eyes at the absurdity.

“I don't have to know his name. All I need to know is that even with one drumstick that man could rock the shit out of 'Armageddon It'.

“You're an idiot.”

“Oh so 'Armageddon It' doesn't rock now?”

“We're done, this conversation is ten minutes I'm never getting back,” David picks up his half-empty pint of Harps and turns away from his combatant.

The Wednesday night formula has been as much a tradition as the crew members themselves. And despite the topic of discussion usually being neither informative nor relevant, it rarely mattered. What mattered was that inside the four walls of the Spread Eagle Tavern, the pessimism and hopelessness of the outside world did not exist and the normally mundane lives of its patrons did. With its flickering halogen light above the bar and outdated television set mounted to the wall complete with names and cuss words smudged into the dust on the screen, the small watering hole was closer to a sight for sore eyes than an architectural masterpiece, but that wasn't what brought the people back.

“Peart. Neil Peart epitomized the perfect drummer.”

“The dude from Rush? I'm okay with that.”

Both David and Billy raised their glasses as the rest of the table followed suit. Even Donny nodded his head in approval.

Heart Spark

“What’s the matter, Frank? You’ve hardly touched your meatloaf.”

“Huh? Oh… it’s…. it’s nothing. I just ain’t too hungry right now. I’m gonna go grab a beer from the fridge, you want anything?”

“Frank… sit down. Tell me what’s wrong.”

How could Frank even begin to tell Beverly, his wife of twenty-seven years that after everything they had gone through for the majority of both their lives, all the blood, sweat and tears they both have poured into assuring their marriage was going to stand up to the test of time, that he had unwittingly thrown it all away thanks to a temporary lapse in judgment? They’ve managed to survive a long-standing loathing of each others’ families, two miscarriages, three state-wide moves and, most pressing, a drastic disagreement over the ending of Seinfeld (“I thought it stunk, they didn’t do nothing,” claimed Frank while Beverly asserted that it meshed well with the personality of the revered sitcom resulting in Frank’s temporary move to the couch for an entire weekend).  But through it all, not once did Frank ever consider that the damage would be so lasting that it would crush the structure that he and Beverly worked so hard to build. And never did it happen. The love prevailed, and for every vital dispute they both knew how insignificant it was in the grand scheme of things.

But Frank also knew that there was a limit. He also understood that there is a fine line between appreciating an understanding spouse and taking advantage of a spouse’s understanding. Most importantly, Frank was well aware that he had chosen the path of the latter. He has already allowed himself to accept the consequences of his guilty conscious, but he wasn’t quite ready to accept the consequences of watching his loving wife fall helplessly apart because of his selfishness. It’s hard enough to see someone you love so dearly in a complete state of emotional shambles, but to have you be the cause of such disarray, it’s the emptiest feeling in the world.  He had always been there for her, he loved being her shoulder to cry on when her family would scold her for the career choices she’s made and he loved being her friend who she wanted to talk to about work whether frustratingly or gleefully. He fell in love with her for being all the things he wanted in a woman, but more impressively he fell in love with her for introducing him to her unique quirkiness and spirituality – two traits he had previously scoffed at, claiming they were just procrastinations from the real world. In fact, when they first met, there was no spark, no love at first sight, not even a yearning to be introduced to one another.

She was still a High School senior, who, even in her teens, had already accepted her calling in the arts. She loved to write, particularly poetry, but even though she wasn’t very good at it, she still continued to scribble endlessly, working to make romantic metaphors that flowed melodically with the rhyme schemes.

Frank, on the other hand, was a year older than her and had no idea where his life was going. He was great with numbers, and had a knack of understanding all things that fit in the realm of quantitative.  He was urged by teachers to follow a plethora of different paths: law, science, medicine… the options were plentiful and regardless of where life took him, the results were no doubt going to be bountiful. He liked having options and had he had his way, he would have dabbled in them all, becoming a veritable Swiss army knife for the 21^st century. He dreamt of being Time Magazine’s man of the year while also envisioning himself as the man The Economist proclaims as being the one redefining how we viewed and perceived politics and economics. He wanted it all; the fame, the glory and, most importantly, the riches.

No one could have predicted what would eventually blossom between these two. She was the type of gal Frank would shake his head at, internally questioning how she could squander her youth with alliteration, metrical patterns and symbolism. To him, what mattered was what was said and said in the most straight-forward manner possible, not how something was expressed, and no doubt ambiguously. And for her, she felt sympathetic for his inability to escape the black and white.

There was, however, one common bond the two shared and that was their curiosity. She aspired to know what made his heart beat faster while for his itch to be scratched he yearned to know how she thought about things, not just how she felt about them.

Over time the two became close and he found that her heart and mind flowed together effortlessly like the words of the poetry she adored. She, much to his surprise, was extremely astute to current events and was very diligent in her opinions, even if he didn’t necessarily agree with them.  At the same time, he had become infatuated with her ability to create ideas so effortlessly. He loved her imagination and how simple it was for her to establish heroes and villains to escape the humdrum-ness of the world they both knew they lived in.

And for close to three decades they continued to envelop their own hearts and souls into the other’s world, establish a deeper understanding and appreciation for not just what they shared, but for the world and all of the individuals inhabiting it.

Three decades, boiling down to one moment of weakness. The past three decades were magical, and Frank knew anytime after would be borrowed time if he was lucky. She had forgiven his occasional bout of ignorance and even rarer bout of a bad temper, but this was unchartered territory for both.

“Honey, there’s something I need to tell you…”

Dresses For Successes

It wasn’t the first time I woke up wearing a dress, but there was definitely something unique about this particular piece of attire that currently draped this far-too-manly physique I call a body.  No, it wasn’t the Vera Wang name featured prominently on the tag adorned to the back, flipped upwards, covering the nape of my neck. I’ve woken up wearing styles of all the significant designers, from  Gaultier to Betsey Johnson, I guess I’ve always been a subconsciously fashion-conscientious fella with a keen eye for trends. So the Wang moniker didn’t stand out in any which way. And it wasn’t the pervading notion that I woke up wearing a dress let alone the fact that this is an event that happens almost routinely.

 No, what stood out was the fact that the dress fit to a T.

That may sound like an otherwise trivial addition to what may already sound, I’m sure, curious to you, the reader, but let me assure you, this was a revelation that transcended my previously conceived justifications regarding these so-called “dress incidences”.

You see, up until now, every time I woke up crossing the gender-attire boundaries, what I was wearing never fit, leaving me to believe that it was all a result of the previous night’s epic obliteration of all things common sense.  Raging black outs, the consequence of a myriad of vices both natural and manmade, gave me reason to think I had, at some point during the evening’s affairs, turned into a sexual madman, quenching my insatiable thirst with no less than a harem of appealing women, my sexual conquistadors. And, I presume, during these romps, I would somehow slip into one of their evening’s wear as an attempt to maintain my reputation as a complete lunatic, permitting my ladies of the night an opportunity to laugh for all the right reasons, giving myself precious time to recover for a second, but usually a third round.

Of course, I never once took into consideration that I would wake up alone, which, of course, meant that one of my evening’s conquests did the walk of shame naked as the day she was born (save for jewelry, which, thankfully, I had not committed myself to modeling just yet). Nor did I consider that, unless I was also an obsessive-compulsive cleaner when severely under the influence, my small bachelor pad was usually found far closer to immaculate in the morning than a mid-lifer’s version of a frat house. My clothes from the night before wouldn’t be scattered throughout the 500 square foot spot, as they would have been had there been a gaggle of rambunctious and over-anxious jezebels requiring my undivided attention. No socks flung to opposite sides, no bras hanging lucidly from the lamp.  Instead, they were usually placed neatly in a paper bag next to my dresser, not the bras, as there wouldn’t be any save for the one I would occasionally wake up wearing. Interesting and suspicious, but never a cause for concern, not in my book.

But that is neither here nor there. The dresses were always way too small, the result of my preference for petite ladies to balance out my above-average frame.

But this particular gown, this one fit like a glove. It fit like a latex suit. It fit like Lincoln Navigator Hybrid and an aging yuppie still ignorant to the fact that they no longer matter.

And it changed everything…