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…