The runs

- Written in 31 minutes with crazy cats. -

"Slow down. I can't keep up with that pace."

He heard his wife panting behind him, distracting him from the peace and quiet he had come to rely  on during his daily morning runs up the into the lush hills behind their house. The crunching of the dry soil underneath his feet rhythmically like a metronome normally allows him to concentrate his breathing in a similarly tempoed pattern. Prior to discovering nature's wonderland he was accustomed to the sound of music in order to help keep a high energy level necessary to maintain a competitive pace, It also helped in distracting him from the sounds of passing cars and obnoxious people that reminded him of the real world waiting for him afterwards.

"I'm sorry honey," he windedly blurted out, trying not to disrupt his breathing. "I'm just not used to running with anyone else."

His wife softly grunted and determinedly pulled up beside him, maintaining eyesight with the ground for fear of holes or any other hidden obstacles. A bead of sweat trickled down from underneath her headband and down her rosey cheek. "Go slower for a little bit and then you can go at your speed. I'll just catch up or just go back. I just want to run with you for a while."

He had only recently discovered the treasure chest of rarely used hiking trails, stumbling across one when searching for fire wood. For the most part he had assumed the rough terrain in the backyard was simply just that. He had never even imagined that others would be interested in escaping from the mundane realities of modern civilization by getting back in touch with the very essence of humanity. "Stupid me," he would mutter to himself in response to such ignorant thinking. Once he starting to become familiar with the lay of the land, his daily runs would lead him into the woods, jogging cautiously, unaware of what may lurk. He traded in his earphones for the sounds of silence mixed in with the shaking of trees and the occasional tweet from a bird.

"Honey."

The air felt cooler, crisper out in the open, without a hint of pollution.

"Honey?"

The slight downward shift of the hill quickened the pace, forcing him to shorten his strides.

"HONEY!"

He snapped out of his daze, remembering where he was and that he was not alone. His breathing was heavy, an obvious sign of abstractedly rapid ascension in speed. Abruptly slowing down, he turned around to find his better half a good 40 feet behind, standing in a rather disapproving way with her hands on her hips.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath and casually jogged back to his clearly irked wife. One of the things he truly loved about her was her patience and understanding, but when her limits have been tested it's not a pretty sight. This was very obviously one of those times.

"If you didn't want me to come out with you then you should have just said so," the fact that she was still out of breath just trying to keep up with him made it sound more pitiful than it was meant to. "I understand we rarely get a chance to do things together anymore and that you were excited to share this with me, and I appreciate that, but it's clear that this is something you would rather keep for yourself."

And the truth was she was right. This was something he wanted all to himself, not just from her but from everyone. Even if it was only 45 minutes it was 45 minutes of absolute solitude from everything; from life from stress from reality. He wasn't angry and he certainly wasn't trying to run away from anything. For him this was an opportunity to remember that life is much simpler than it's advertised as being. Nothing in the woods requires an update or an upgrade every few months. There are no payments to be made. This was something given to all as a gift and every day it's taken for granted and ignored. And even he needs that reminder that for all intents and purposed the best things in life are free.

He looked all around him, at the towering trees, branches softly bumping into one another allowing wild formations of light to peak through. He took a deep breath and smelled the earth beneath his feet. And then he turned to his wife.

"You just don't..." and then he stopped and looked at her, realizing that everything that he wanted from out here was the same as what he had with her. He spent so much time looking forward to his time alone out in the wild that he completely forgot about what he already had waiting for him at home and why he had wanted to share this with her in the first place.

He walked over to her and took her hands in his and smiled. "I want you here, with me, right now," he whispered, smoothly brushing away a tuft of hair peaking out from over her soaked headband.

She looked down sheepishly and girlishly smiled. A squirrel, as if on cue, scurried across the path and almost bumped into her foot, startling her. Her breathing remained short, but less from the exercise. I leaned in and kissed her. She melted.

"Let's go home."

She nodded.

And then I proceeded to run as fast I could back to the house.

At least I can get some alone time at home.

Priority lost

-26 minutes -

The rain finally subsided after what felt like an eternity. The heavy weight of the mist still lingered in the air, making it harder to take in the crispness of what remained. The sleek pavement shone under the blanket of street lamps uniformly lining the road. The faint sound of the wind swaying through the trees could easily be mistaken for a repeat performance from the rain gods, either way the sound emitted a sense of caution to all those within earshot. An odd warning to temptation of the serenity brought forth by nature's cleansing.

Erik crept over to the bedroom window, quietly opening it while taking a deep breath. A harsh gust of wind caused him to shutter ever so slightly, but not enough to influence his stance. He peeked his head out and looked in both directions - not a soul could be seen anywhere as was expected. The reflection of the light bouncing off the wet ground left a lava-like impression. Things were rarely as in focus as they were right after a storm.

"Honey? Did you open a window?"

Erik glanced back into the darkness at the silhouette at the body curled up on his bed. The light from outside positioned in such a way that divided the room into two.

"I Just wanted to see if the storm was over."

"Well now that you know, come back to bed." Her watched her turn over and pull the blanket up over her shoulder, signaling her disapproval. He turned his head back around, once again peaking out of the window. "I'll be there soon," he mumbled, unmoving. A lone drop fell from the top of window pane onto the back of his neck, startling him as it split up and raced on both ends down the side, startling him and snapping him out of his daze. He took one last deep breath, savoring its lushness and closed the window as quietly as he could. It wasn't until he walked back to the bed where he felt the coolness of the room and immediately sympathized with his wife's disapproval.

He was awake. Wide awake.

Moments like these rarely happen, at least to him. His schedule keeps him bogged down to the point where being able to stop and appreciate the simplicity of life is more of a chore than an opportunity to remind himself of what is really important.

He walked around the bed to the side his wife was on and gently kissed her forehead before pulling up the blanket tight around her shoulders. She smiled, subtlety and innocently, eyes remained closed as if she only dreamt the kiss happened.

Grabbing a coat, he crept down the stairs and out the front door. The creek of the heavy wooden door was the only other sound aside from the rustling of the leaves coaxing him to follow. So much of his days are spent hibernating behind the warmth of a computer screen, under the dull guise of overhead halogen lamps leaving nothing to the imagination. Every day the burden of the guilt from all of the self-realization regarding life and the misplaced priorities grew heavier and heavier. Distracted by other people's interpretations of what was important made it harder to remind himself what mattered the most to him. Nights like these were important for that. An emotional reset button.

A small puddle formed at the edge of his driveway. He crouched down and dipped his finger in, the water felt cold. He missed moments like these. He looked back around at his modest 3 story house. He wasn't ashamed of all that he accomplished, just disappointed in what he pushed into the back of his mind, nostalgia piled up like a trunk of forgotten memories in an attic. He was happy with his life but longed for a chance to do it all over again just to have that time back.

Up and down the street leaves glided down from their nesting place, high up in the trees. Once thought unreachable, they leisurely descended without worry of their final resting place. Erik put both his hands in his jacket pockets and stood in the middle of the deserted street for what felt like days. There was no other movement in his sightline, as if he were the last person inhabiting what was left of this world. The remnants of the rain soaked through his slipped like sponges, wetting the soles of his feet. A few faint droplets fell from the sky, or perhaps the tops of the trees, making contact with the tight leather of his jacket with an almost cracking sound. The wind picked up again causing more drops of rain and more leaves to fall at a more feverish pace. The breeze felt good on his skin.

"Sometimes," he thought to himself, "this is all the matters."

As if on cue, the rain began to pick up again, prompting Erik to scramble back to the house. Taking one last look outside he closed the door and took off his saturated slippers before proceeding back upstairs to be in the arms of the woman he loved.

Lost...

Written in 11 minutes. No editing. I really like this for some reason.

-----------------------------------

Awake...

"I don't know what time it is or even the day for that matter."

"All I know is that i'm awake yet I'm not."

"Something doesn't seem right."

"I don't know who I am. I don't know where I am. I don't know..."

I have to get up. I have to get up and understand. I need to understand.

Maybe this is just a dream. Some horribly twisted, haunting nightmare holding me hostage from not only reality, but my sanity.

No...that isn't the case.

This is my reality and my sanity...well, maybe just my reality. My sanity seems to have been put on reserve until I can figure all of this out.

This isn't the first time I've woken up in a place that my brain doesn't compute as recognizable. However, this IS the first time that I have needed more than 30 seconds for the haze to disappear and my memory to return.

This is no time to panic. No, not yet...

Calm down...

Just get out of bed and turn on a light.

Perhaps it's the dimness of a room only illuminated by the faint hint of dusk that is causing this distortion.

No, but now my eyes would have adjusted to what little light was trying to sneak into the room.

Where are my slippers? I always keep them next to my bed. If I didn't, I would have even less incentive to drag myself away from comfort. Even when I travel, my hush puppy slippers are the first thing in my bag.

Forget the slippers, find the light...fuck, it's so dark in here. Just have to find the switch, it's gotta be on the wall.

Click!

Nothing.

I don't know this room.

This isn't my room.

It's clearly not my room, it's nobody's room.

There is nothing in here. No clothes in the closet, no personal sundries in the bathroom, and for sure no hush puppies on either side of the bed.

In fact that room is bare.

It seems I arrived to this room with little more than the clothes on my back... which are now neatly stacked and folded on the faux leather chaise in the corner of the room

But I wasn't alone last night.

There are two imprints shaped like bodies on the mattress.

Mine is hard and angry. Shaped like Jesus, the body language appears to have suffered in similar fashion.

The other is curvaceous and soft. It is peaceful and at ease with something. I guess that's the luxury of knowing what I don't

Where is she? Why would she leave so early?

This isn't her place so she obviously did not want to be here when I woke up.

There are only 2 things in the room aside from the furniture and the double breasted baby blue suit on the chair.

A Tag Heuer Kirium Quartz watch and a wallet with no identification but a stack of 48,49, 50... hundred dollar bills

This is too fucking weird, even for me. I've done a lot of crazy shit in my life, but I could always tell whether or not I am on the right track. This time I feel lost. I am lost and confused and perhaps what scares me the most is that I am not in control. I may not remember much, but the desire to be in control is one of those genetic traits that passed its way down to me. Some Darwinian bullshit about survival of the fittest. A need to be in control is just one of those things that I instantly know determines my level of comfort and right now I don't feel that comfortable. I

I feel lost

I feel helpless

I feel....I feel.....

I think i'm gonna be sick.....

Dance Maniac

I wrote this when I was 12 years old. No shit. I think it's the greatest thing I've ever written. 

------------------------------------------------------------------

What ever happened to my once flourishing dancing career? 

I was by far and away the greatest dancer to ever come through the West Island. I remember one particular grade 7 dance where I really left my mark as a supreme dance artiste if you will. Our school was both socially and racially segregated. There was quite a large contingent of Black students, black stereotypical students who walked the walk, talked the talk and more importantly danced the dance. At the same time socially, the jocks hung out with other jocks, outcasts with fellow delinquents, skaters among the roller freaks and of course everyone else just struggled to survive in the most important years of a child's social development. When grade 7 came around I was a small fish in a large pond. Having lost both my parents to a tragic jai lai accident, my sister and I were left to take care of ourselves even though she was only a couple of years older. However, we thrived in our little environment, making the best of what we had. She worked various nigh jobs to pay for her portion while I taught tap dance. As expected from many of the kids of the inner city portion of Dollard Des Ormeaux, very few actually had enough money to pay for my invaluable lessons. Their compensation was role reversal in that I learned many of the more urban dance moves like the Big Slick Pierrefonds Shuffle and the Lapa-Rockland which is basically the running man mixed in partially with the robot partially with a fake epileptic seizure. I had always been extremely passionate about dancing ever since I went with my mother as she competed at the 73rd annual Tuskanee Dance fever competition. She may have finished out the running ( a more than respectable 13th out of more than 800 competitors), however from that fateful moment on, I was 100% inspired. I saw the pride bursting from her as she completed a triple toe loop double sow-cow after pulling a head spin for more than 30 seconds, it was magical. The judges seemed to agree, however, it is next to impossible to compete against performers who actually have the power to defy logic and gravity. Regardless of where she finished, I knew from that moment that my place in life involved gettin' funky. However, seeing as I have been working in the job market since I was 7, I haven't had very much time to perfect my skills. So when the opportunity arises to play the role of student as opposed to the role of teacher, I jump at it. Anyways, I felt it was my duty to keep this little dance exchange quiet from my sister because we were both equally responsible for maintaining the economic balance in the household, yet I wasn't really pulling my weight. Besides, I didn't want to deal with the ridicule of giving away my skills for free (my sisters thought process was more financially driven than mine). So this exchange went on for more than a year but it wasn't until I met Esteban that I truly understood the value of my talents....

I remember one day trying to teach my sister the basics of the Pierrefonds Pop n Lock, however she seemed to be lacking in what us pros call rhythm. For some reason I found this quite strange considering how passionate she is about music (only later in life did I find out she suffered from Refractiologism – a very rare disease in which the muscles in your body do the opposite of what the brain tells them to do). Our infrequent and usually short, tense sessions would go something like this:

"You suck and you have no rhythm."

"Yeah well you’re an asshole. I quit."

And by then one of us would end up stomping off to our room while the other would walk around the house triumphantly, as if they had won the mini battle of having the freedom to roam anywhere they wanted except for that one room where the other had stormed off to. And usually that one triumphant person would act very indifferent about the incident even though in the back of their mind, it would be eating them up inside. This internal aggravation would be caused by either the idiocy of how quickly the argument escalated or the ignorance of the other person.

Getting back to Estaban, he was my sister’s boyfriend for a brief period of time and was a fairly quiet and reserved young man. His persona was quite a contrast to my sisters outgoing, oblivious and ambitious sense of self and I think he felt threatened by that. Even though they were both young, their relationship was heavily influenced by their desire to act like adults. My sister, seeing as she was older, took the onus of being the one who should set a good precedence and serve as a good, responsible role model, and the only way to do so would be to act years beyond her actual age. Estaban had the competence of someone you would expect at his age, yet felt it was necessary to at least try to mimic my sister’s attempt at maturity. Thus, they ended up having adult problems on a regular basis. With Estaban, he was constantly being told of his inadequacies and inferiority and that he was not as polished and refined as my sister. And she let him know that, always telling him how he will never be ready to commit to a serious relationship or will never be capable of taking care of kids. And he would shoot back by criticizing her need to nag him all the time and that if she wasn't careful he was going to pack up and leave (even though he didn't live there).

Even though he was a couple of years older than me, we spent a lot of time together. I loved hanging out with someone already in high school and he needed an outlet for his anger and frustration. I was basically his opportunity to vent while he was my crystal ball for what to expect in the future. He would always tell me how his one want right now was to be able to do something my sister had never been able to and I made mention of her inability at mastering the art of Tap. I knew for a fact that Estaban was a pretty good dancer when it came to the more hip and urban moves because he had previously been in Boxers not Briefs, a local boy band that momentarily hit it big in the midst of the whole boy band craze. You may remember them for the hit Don’t snap my undies,, a song that was geared more towards the youngish crowd as opposed to the normal audience of boy bands alike. Anyways, they were known more for their vastly superior dance moves than their musical abilities and sure enough, as quickly as their rise to fame, so too was their drop. After the release of their second album was met with abysmal sales, Estaban decided that at the age of 12, he was too old to be living with a rock n roll fantasy and decided, to his parents delight, to re-enroll in high school, which is where he met my sister. So the moment I made mention of my sisters two left feet syndrome he immediately took me up on my offer to teach him tap in exchange for his training me in every other form of dance known to man (or at least known to him). For him, he didn't mind spending all his free time with me so long as I made it perfectly clear in front of my sister how well he was learning and how I had never had a student progress as quickly as he. And of course I really didn't mind devoting all my time to him as opposed to everyone else that I teach because very few of them actually did pay and those that didn't had nothing on Estaban as far as dance skills go. Besides, no amount of money would have been worth giving up the opportunity to see my sister get so infuriated. It wasn't those moments in which she made it obvious that she was upset that made it worth it, it was those moments where she tried admirably to make it seem as if she was proud of him. Her face would let off a nice reddish hue and you could hear her grind her teeth in the next house over as she put on just about the fakest little smile worthy of belonging at the Miss America pageant. And just because I could, I would take it just a tad too far to the point where she could no longer stand it and would tell me enough already. Call it a little bit of sibling rivalry.

What also helped was the fact that this casual agreement came right on the cusp of summer and both of us had this unspoken bond of wanting to accomplish something during the time off. It was also fortunate that our goals coincided with what the other had to offer. He wanted to learn the only skill I had to offer while I wanted to learn everything else, and he happened to be knowledgeable in some of that everything else. And the timing could not have been better. I was already basking in the glory of vacation while he only had a couple of exams left before he could finally succumb to the pleasures of summer, although in our cases there wasn't a lot of fun to be had. It was a summer of hard work with the result hopefully leading to something much more satisfying than whatever the two months off had to offer. He felt it was worth giving up the time in order to piss off someone close to him. I, on the other hand, had even more superficial reasons for making such a sacrifice – I wanted an opportunity to prove my worth in dance form, especially for when I make the transition to high school. And lets be honest, I was not going to win over anyone with my stellar tap dance routines. Kind of like making the adjustment from the minors to the big show, because of my ability to bunt – it’s a skill, but no one is gonna pay to watch it.

Because Estaban and I had spent a lot of time together, he had no problems in telling me everything about high school and some of the keys to succeeding socially. And of all of his stories, at least half of them had something to do with something that happened at a school dance. He told me how he remembers his first high school dance and how the only people that made any real attempt at dancing were pretty damn good while those who clearly looked as if they had no clue just stood off to the side and blended into the background. What I got from that is that cool people dance, losers watch. Estaban learned a lot about this specific age group from his days on tour and he gave me one of the most obvious yet valuable pieces of info about high school kids that helped me throughout my entire high school tenure – kids are extremely dependent on how others perceive them to be (well, he didn't quite use such eloquent terminology. I believe his words were no one wants to look like a friggin moron in front of everyone else). He would tell me how it was always the popular kids who knew how to dance, while it was the dorky ones who just went for the punch while secretly ogling the girls. I always knew that if I was gonna get anything out of my 5 years of high school, it was gonna be popularity. Who really gives a fuck about knowledge when you are in your early teens? High school is more about teaching you how to survive and more importantly how to thrive among your fellow peers. And if I wanted that to happen I was gonna have to make an immediate impression. Besides, if I was able to sell myself at these dances, well just imagine would kind of business that would drum up? Not only would I no longer be limited to teaching tap, which isn't exactly a big hit with the young crowd nowadays, but if everyone were able to see me do what I know I am capable of doing, then they will be practically kicking down my door just for the opportunity to have 10 minutes with me.

I told Estaban of these hopes and dreams and he seemed genuine in his excitement to see me become everything I hope to become. He also told me that if everything worked out and business does pick up, he would love the opportunity to work with me. He already had the credentials and would certainly bring in a broader clientele base. However first things first…I had to teach him how to Tap.

June 23^rd finally came around, a day that both Estaban and I had been waiting for. His last exam came on the 18^th of June but he wanted a few days to prepare for what he knew was going to be a lot of hard work and dedication. It also didn't help that the last school dance of the year was taking place only a couple of days after his last exam (which he aced, he told me on severely occasions) and he happened to spend much of his time in preparation for the evenings events. Êstaban also wanted both of us to spend a few days preparing lessons. The way our schedule was going to work was that he was going to spend a week straight teaching me and the following week I was going to teach him. That way we would both be able to spend a week practicing what we had learned. I will spare you the specific details of what went on week after week, but I will say this, our relationship blossomed into more than just companions on the dance floor  we became life dance partners, not in a sexual way, but through a great amount of respect and admiration for one another. Week in and week out we spent the days helping each other practice and perfect what we had set out to do. There were moments where he would stumble or I would stumble (more often me than him), and there were times when the level of frustration would be too overbearing, but neither of us ever even thought about quitting. We had both overcome much adversity in our lives and neither of us were prepared to give up so easily. Whenever there were moments of tension, we would just remind each other of the goals and how the benefits of only a couple of months worth of hard work and one sacrificed season would last forever.

And I kept up my part of the bargain or at least tried to. I didn't see my sister alone that much during the season. Estaban spent a great deal of time at our house (we managed to convert the basement into a fairly professional looking dance studio) as we spent the entire afternoon and many evenings working at perfecting our craft. Most evening sessions went late into the wee hours of the morning and he would end up staying the night, sometimes leaving early in the morning sometimes staying for an early morning tap bonanza. Those few moments when I was able to see my sister alone, I made sure she knew how well her boyfriend was doing. Ambling by her very deliberate and lethargic talking about how much Estaban had worn me out from our all night sessions and how I ad never had a dance partner as sensuous as he. I am sure on more than one occasion my sister wondered whether I was teaching him to dance or having a torrid love affair. Truth be told, the way she would get angry by my compliments, I am sure she wished it were the latter. And it wasn't like I had to lie either as Estaban truly was able to pick up tap faster than any other student I have ever had. By the end of our two month intensive course, it was not much of a stretch to say that he became as good at tap as I. Once he realized the simplicity of the basics of tap, everything else was gravy. Tap, like most dance forms, only requires a small basic understanding, and a whole lot of rhythm and practice. And Estaban picked up the basics much quicker than I could, has more rhythm than the Jackson 5 combined, and gives a 110% in everything he does. I clearly remember the last thing he said to me on our last day together. We were sharing a coke and he looked at me and said,

"Tim"

"Yeah?"

"I don’t think your sister is ever going to talk to me again. But it was worth it."

---------------------------

I, on the other hand, was not the swiftest of feet as Estaban was. I tried my hardest to pick up everything that I was taught but in all honesty, I was so used to practicing tap and little else that I looked like a puppet with no knees and absolutely no upper body movement. Estaban would tell me I look too mechanical whenever I dance, but I can honestly blame that on my experience with the tap. It requires that you subtly swing your arms and concentrate on using the balls and the heels of your feet – nothing more. Estaban taught me all about learning how to feel the music and let my body move with the beat. The difference, he would tell me, between tap and all this other stuff is that in tap you are supposed to look stiff and uptight. What I am teaching is supposed to go against the grain of everything those tap pros believe in. I guess you could say we are the rebels, the James Deans in a world of Richard Nixons. While at my age, the names were just names, I got the idea. Estaban, while fairly immature in almost all aspects of his life, was wise beyond his years when it came to dance. He told me that in order for me to learn how to dance and dance passionately, I had to forget everything I had already learned, meaning tap. He also stressed that I basically had to deprogram myself and erase everything I was taught when I was younger. He said dancing involves not memorizing steps, but feeling what comes naturally. Basically, in order for me to make it as a dancer, I was going to have to forget my bread and butter, my meal ticket, the one thing that still connects me with the memory of my mother. I was going to have to forget tap.

So I struggled quite a bit, not because I was so used to dancing tap, but because it was very difficult for me to voluntarily let go of something that is so personal. I had to make a choice; tap or popularity. Needless to say I went with the choice that would be more beneficial in my high school days. Everyday I would get up an hour early, half an hour to forget the past, half an hour to memorize my future. The more that left the easier it seemed to pick up what Estaban was teaching me. What he had to offer was a million times better, flashier and more innovative than anything the other punks in my neighborhood tried to teach me. He would always have a story to go with every dance move he showed me.

- This one drove the girls wild in Europe, especially Spain.

- If you can master this one, guaranteed that you would be the most respected kid in Brooklyn, just like I was when I was forced to compete in an underground break dancing competition in between shows in New Jersey and Long Island.

I don’t know how many of these stories were actually true but it didn't matter because they did their job. I was inspired beyond belief. Between Estaban's tour stories and his school stories, I knew exactly what I wanted to be and what I needed to do to achieve that.

And Estaban was as determined as ever to see that I became a great student. He and my sister were constantly getting into fights and I can probably take a lot of credit for that. In fact, the more fights they got into, the more he wanted to hang around the house which meant he was relishing every moment of her envy. So he either wanted to teach me the best he could to show his appreciation, or just as an excuse to constantly rub it in my sister’s face. Either way I was the one benefiting the most. I was getting the best training and was able to enjoy the ire of my older sister.

As our two months together passed, I started to see a lot of changes in my dancing abilities. No longer was I restricted by the same almost robotic out-dated style. Now I was a new man and let me tell you, papa had a brand new bag. I was on the cusp of starting high school and thanks to the steps that Estaban taught me, I was bursting with confidence. The first day of class was on the 28^th of August but the first school dance wasn't until the end of September. I had little more than a month to prepare for what could transform me into what I always wanted to be.

------------------------------------------------

Well tonight is the night. Months of practice and years of anticipation and expectations have all led up to this one 5 hour period. It was going to make me or it was going to break me. And since the sheer mental and physical exhaustion over the summer already broke me, I figure I deserved to have it made. The week leading up to the big dance was an intense crash course as Estaban and I devised a list of songs that would probably be played at the dance. We scoured all the top 40 lists and he actually went out of his way to sneak into a rival schools (Riverdale) dance to see what songs were playing and what songs were getting the greatest response.

Was I taking this too far? Probably. But Estaban is to blame for a lot of that. It was his stories that inspired me and scared me into thinking that how I perform at a dance would be a gigantic peer evaluation of what kind of a person I was (sure, I mean forget about the 40 hours a week I spend with these people, it all comes down to how I am at special outings). It was Estaban that wanted to show his appreciation because of the sheer satisfaction he got out of our tap experience. It was Estaban that seemed to want to live through me vicariously and thus practically ran a dance boot camp which made things a little uncomfortable as the weeks waned. Heck, he even came up with some two-people simultaneous dances just in case he decided to show up. I don’t know how that would have helped his school cred but it would sure give mine a boost. Imagine this unknown little 7th grader in a dance off with the self-titled best dancer in the school. He really had nothing to lose as he was already in grade 10 and his popularity was already at a high level. He would never have to worry about losing any steam because, let’s be honest, being a celebrity at some point in your life is equal to guaranteed status. He didn't seem to have a problem with it and frankly nor did I. In fact he seemed downright giddy over such prospects. It is as if he took me under his wing and wants to be there the moment I skyrocket into social acceptance.

He was going to help me in one way or another, even though I kind of preferred that I did it alone. I don’t want too many people making the connection between him and me (read: my sister). Maybe after I bust out a few moves he could like jump in three quarters of the way through a song and that’ll really get the crowd moving. For example, I could keep it real throughout Bust A Move by Young MC and when the third verse starts (you know, the one that begins – my best friend Harry has a cousin Larry…), he could jump in and everyone in the audience would be hooting and hollering, saying stuff like Oh Snap or Check out my BOY. But most importantly, I want that moment in the sun alone; the simultaneous dancing would just be the icing on the cake.

So during the first few weeks of my high school career, I purposely gave myself a low profile leading up the dance because I thought it would be cooler if I didn't spend the entire time boasting. If I did that, I know the hype would certainly exceed my abilities and that would for sure crush any dreams I had of popularity. It was extremely tough to do because I only knew a couple of people in the school (who went to the same elementary school as me) and everyone was clearly going out of their way to make an impression on the rest of their classmates. It is early in your first year at high school that you get categorized into the group that you will be a part of for your entire 5 year tenure. The nerds establish themselves early, as do the burnouts, the jocks and the bullies. It was easy to see many of the students try too hard too early and end up being stereotyped as wannabes, or those who will do anything to achieve popularity, but end up being the butt of everyone’s jokes. By the time the dance came along, it was clear that the boundaries were set. In one corner were the burnouts, standing near the exit as groups of two or three would meander out and come back slightly loopy, and then another group would go out. The Chaperones were none the wiser, and maybe playing the role of ignoramus as if they refused to believe that kids this young were doing this sort of thing. In another corner were the nerds brave enough to show up where they don’t belong. These are the unfortunate students who made the mistake of raising their hand and answering the teacher’s questions thus being permanently labeled as geeks or teacher’s pet. The other side of the gym was where all the jocks and the cool kids marked their territory. And naturally, where the jocks go, so too go the women. My biggest problem was that I didn't know where I was supposed to go. Like I said, I spent so much time not committing to any single group; I was a man without a crew. I always felt that once I achieved what I came to achieve, I was going to have my choice of who I wanted to be hanging out with. I was going to be the prize free agent who was going to bask in the glory of fringe benefits and luxuries until I made my choice. But for now, I had to wander until I found a spot where I didn't look like such a stranger.

The first half an hour was excruciating. All the songs were unfamiliar and I was completely unprepared mentally. I mean technically I could have gone out and tore it up, but I just didn't quite feel like I was ready. This was my big moment and it had to be perfect. If my dances were horrible or I blew the timing on anything, I was going to be labeled in a completely new group – the weirdo who has absolutely no idea. There’s no group worst than that. I would rather be part of the weird Goth kids or the ‘mama’s boys’ than be one of the weird, loners. My one shot at fame and I blew it. Well, I didn't want that to happen so if I was going to do this, it was going to happen on my terms.

So what happened next? Well, again, Estaban happened. He, along with his cool crew walk in fashionably late as they make the rounds with the other cool grade ten students along with all the ultra-cool kids in lower grades. You see once you achieve a certain level of coolness at your grade; it is fairly common to start hanging around with kids in higher grades. But they were select company, and you had to do more than just dance really well to achieve that. These kids are like the pro bowlers of the NFL. Making the NFL is cool, but being voted as the best among your peers puts you at a level not reached by many players. In high school, you had to do everything well – dress well, have the look, the style, the luxuries, the ability to get alcohol AND hold your liquor and sometimes, only sometimes, do good grades matter. I never dreamed of reaching that plateau, at least not yet. This all wasn't going to happen at one dance, but this is where I was going to make my start.

Anyways, after making his rounds, Estaban looked over and saw me leaning against a wall looking anxious and overwhelmed. He said his goodbyes and walked right over to me. That alone put me at a popularity rate higher than about half of the grade seven class, that’s how much leverage the guy has. He looks at me, opens his arms and says:

“What the fuck are you doing man? This is your moment. We didn't bust our asses all freakin’ summer for you to cop out now!”

“Don’t worry,” I told him in a relaxed, almost cocky way. “I’m just waiting for the right song. Everything they've played so far has been absolute crap.”

“Well, you do what you gotta do but remember man, this is your time” He jams a finger into my shoulder as if to literally jam his point home. “If I don’t see you on that dance floor soon man, I’m gonna steal your thunder. Remember, I taught you some of my secret moves and if you ain't gonna use em man, I will.”

I nodded. We slapped hands. As he starts to walk away he says, “Listen dude, do this shit and it’s smooth sailing from here on in. If you pull this shit off, come over and hang out with me and my crew. If you do what I've seen you do, you’ll be in. And the babes,” He kisses his fingers like the way the French do, “the babes will be crawling all over you like you were Vanilla Ice himself.”

And ,almost as if right on cue, out of the gym’s booming speakers, a voice makes one request…

“Yo V.I.P., Let’s kick it…”

Estaban looks at me and mouth’s the words “Oh snap!”, and with that we both walk out and jump in pose right when Vanilla goes “Alright STOP!”

We tore it up.

We had the whole crowd around us in a circle. Some people thought we were just hired dancers who came with the DJ, but most knew we were just students when they saw Estaban. The whole school knew what he brought to the table, so most of the murmurs and questions surrounded who the hell I was. You could hear some of the kids screaming out phrases like “man, they kickin it!” or “those moves are funky fresh!” all while they all pumped their fist in the air like Arsenio Hall used to do. No one knew my name, but they clearly recognized me as I would hear people talk about how I am in their class but I never talk. I couldn't spend too much time concentrating on them because I had to make sure I didn't screw up any of the moves. It’s one thing to throw my own popularity on the line, but with Estaban dancing in sync with me, I didn't want to take the chance of hurting his rep. Like I already said, I don’t know if my screwing up would actually damage him, but it would certainly mess up the bond I have with him. Would he still introduce me to the other cool kids or even worse, would he still think I was cool enough to hang around with? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that his camaraderie was way more beneficial to my rep than the dance moves he showed me. The dancing was a way to make an impression, but with Estaban, as long as he was still in high school, I would always have an ‘in’ with the cool kids. I could have made it without the dancing, but never without Estaban.

And it went just like it did at practice. We were on fire. We were tighter than gold-medal winning synchronized swimmers. We must have busted loose on six or seven straight songs and the crowd ate it up. We hustled to ‘it takes two’ by Rob base and DJ EZ Rock. We rocked the house when Dee-Lite told us where the groove was. We lit it up when Fresh-Wes’ ‘let your backbone slide’ bumped on the speakers. We broke it down when we were told to stop because it was hammer time. Heck, Bell-Biv-Devoe had nothing on us. We even put the humpty back into the humpty dance.

Everything went perfectly, but I would be lying if I didn't say that a little guilt didn't creep into my mind from time to time. I would start thinking about to the dance competition my mother was in and I started thinking about how thrilled she was when I came home the next day and told her I wanted to be a tap dancer. Back then I didn't really know what tap was, but I did know that her father was a world class tap dancer and they had spent many nights talking about his achievements. My mother was almost as enthralled by his stories as he was! I would hide behind the couch (for no reason I might add!) and eavesdrop on their conversations as if it was some taboo subject that I couldn’t know about until I was older (truth be told, my grandfather told me much later in life that they both knew I was hiding and that is why they began talking about the subject. This made the guilt ever more unbearable and I never had the heart to tell him I purposely forgot how to tap).

And now look at me. I have completely abandoned my heritage and for what? What was so important that I was willing to neglect my roots and ruin the significance of what my grandfather worked so hard to achieve? The answer to that is acceptance. I basically slapped my family in the face so I can get a bunch of 12 year old kids to like me, kids that I will probably see again after graduation. Kids who would probably treat me like garbage if not for my dance abilities.

No.

I couldn’t do it any longer.

Estaban and I left the dance floor to a chorus of applause and hooting, and walked over to the forbidden zone – the cool kids. Everyone was talking and high-fiving Estaban and I, but I wasn't really paying attention. All I could hear were the voices of my mother and my grandfather chatting enthusiastically about my future as a world class tap dancer.

“He’s going to make us all proud.”

“I am so proud of my little tap dancing Tim.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked back to the dance floor without saying a word to the others, and the moment the first notes of Wild Thang started playing, I did what I should have done from the beginning. I tapped my ass off. I poured my heart and soul into my tap routine.

And the crowd looked on silently. No one knew what to think. I closed my eyes and imagined myself at a competition and in the first row were my family cheering me on. I could literally here the cheers and applause. And then I opened my eyes, and the cheering continued.

I don’t know if it was just because I had already shown myself to be cool or if the kids just dug tap, but they loved every step, every tap, every swing of the arms. Well, the real answer was because in my moment away from myself, Estaban joined me and started to tap alongside me. I looked back and he nodded as if to say “hey man, I got your back. Do what you gotta do.”

And that’s where the story ends.

I achieved my popularity but it wasn't because of the dance moves that Estaban taught me. It was the exact opposite. It was because of the dance moves I taught Estaban. The two of us made tap cool again. Once the other students saw Estaban dancing, they all wanted to learn tap. Burn-outs would be seen tapping while smoking a joint at the blue doors. The hippies found a way to blend in the style with the grateful dead. Heck, even the coach of the football team forced the entire team to learn it as a way to improve their footwork. Everyone and I mean everyone was desperate to learn.

And fortunately for me, I was the only one in town who would teach it, or at least the only person who could make it cool to learn. Estaban and I did what we said we were going to do. We taught everyone in the neighborhood. He kept his word and brought in everyone, but truth be told, I didn't really need him. After all, I was the best tap dancer around.

Wannabe

Writer's Block so here is something I wrote back in 2001

-------------------------------

Sometimes instant success allows a person to choose between maintaining their respective place in stardom where they can live off of their past accomplishments or they may dwindle into obscurity, not letting the world see the true character behind the mask they choose to present to the world. Erving Goffman would be proud.

“May I take your order sir?”

“Yes, I’ll have the penne with the Alfredo sauce. Oh and uh, no asparagus.”

“Very good sir. Would you care for anything to drink?”

“No…water will be fine, thank you.”

He never drank anything but water when going out to eat on account of it taking away from a well thought out , carefully prepared meal. For him, one drop of alcohol can make any meal taste like that last meal prisoners on death row get before they are to meet their destiny. The meal will always taste fantastic, but as the night progresses and the booze begins to take its toll, eventually the only thing that would seem to be able to ease the pain is either sleep or lethal injection and for some reason sleep never seems like a viable solution. If he was going to drink, he was going do so in the privacy of his own home …alone. This was done so frequently it became worse than a routine, it became a bad habit. Turn the lights down to a dim level, slip on the first C.D. his fumbling hand snatches off the custom made oak shelf designed by Mel, the old carpenter who used to live in the apartment next door to his, and sit back in one of the two chairs in his four bedroom apartment which was situated right in the heart of trendy Gastown where just a few blocks away sleeps the degenerates and the misguided of Vancouver’s version of skid row.

The rest of the apartment is a melancholy blend of all things tasteful and kitsch. Old wedding photos embedded in exquisite platinum displays surrounded by unopened collectible Pez dispensers, Framed Georgia O’Keefe prints showcased on the same walls as movie posters of Shaft and The Big Lebowski, a collection of antique engraved pens being flaunted out of old cans of the now defunct crystal Pepsi. Each room was as diverse as the decorum. The first “bedroom” on the left contained nothing except awards and certificates earned throughout his literary career, cluttered up in a corner as if petrified of whomever entered the room next. He had been meaning to find another shelf or display case in which to put them on however the only time he ever seemed motivated to do so was late at night starring wide-eyed at the ceiling, unable to sleep while making a mental note that “tomorrow I’m finally going to do something with all those awards “, only to drift off and forget come morning which leads to the same one act play the following night provided he was not drinking heavily (which was more frequent than the shelf insomnia). This routine has been going on for close to two years ever since he found his ‘Simon Fraser University Contribution to the English Program’ Plaque on the bottom of the pile, chipped in three corners with a scratch going across his name making it illegible which was more a scar for the ego than a simple scrape, however nothing has yet materialized.

In the room adjacent to that one is unidentifiable to most people however it was originally designed to be known as a bathroom. With the exception of a toothbrush and a stack of Readers Digest magazines with someone else’s name, Joseph Jenkins, and address, 2298 Hempley Ave, apartment 222 on the bottom right hand corner the room was bare. The magazines were courtesy of a seemingly unsuspecting neighbor (John’s apartment was 223) who would repeatedly bang on his door inquiring as to what had happened to his most recent issue. Not every issue was “borrowed”, usually 2 or 3 would go by before another one magically disappeared. That way Joseph wouldn't cancel his subscription, but would get justifiably pissed off over getting a little over half of what he was entitled to. John would always be the first and only person interrogated about the lost issues because Joseph knew about his enthusiastic love of reading as well as his well publicized career in the same field. The arguments were so routine that they gave the impression that both had been preparing their lines for weeks.

“Listen man, I know I've asked you this before but I didn't get my issue of Readers Digest this week. But you don’t know anything about that, do you?”

“Listen, I’m a very prominent figure in the literary world who came this close,” John put his thumb and his index finger about an inch apart and right up to Joseph’s nose, so close that Joseph would have to have gone cross-eyed or moved his head back in order to see in focus, “to winning a Pulitzer prize. Do you think I would EVER be in such an uncompromising economic or social position where I would even care as to what magazines you subscribed to, let alone steal them?”

“Hey…all I’m asking is if you've seen anyone take….”

“No you’re not. You damn well know you’re accusing me and I’m telling you for the last time I DIDN'T TAKE IT!” John can count on one hand how many times he had uttered the words ‘For the last time’ without mentally cracking up.

At this point Joseph begins to stutter and a dejected look appears. “A-alright John…whatever. I just want to get what I’m paying for, you know?”

John will usually drape an arm around Joseph and tell him it’s reasonable for him o be upset however how many times is it going to take for Joseph to believe him?

And of course Joseph knew that John had indeed stolen them. When the thefts became more frequent, Joseph started taking every second Tuesday off from his job as a day trader, for Tuesday was the day the magazine was supposed to arrive (sometimes it arrived on Wednesday which really threw him off). And every Tuesday between 11 A.M. when the mail showed up and 2 P.M. when he finally went out to get his mail, he would do nothing but spy out of his peep hole anticipating the perpetrators next strike. The first, second and third times he clandestinely caught John, he did not say anything, as if waiting for John to fess up would be more a weight lifted off both of their shoulders. However there was more to it than that for secretly, Joseph was a passionate fan of John’s work and figured that eventually John will crack, and confess to everything while begging for his forgiveness. This moment of vulnerability will create a new found bond between the two and Joseph figured, rather hoped that this will lead to a close friendship between the two and would allow him the opportunity to ask John all the questions that ran threw his mind about the world of being a professional writer. Joseph would mentally visualize the scenario every time he saw John come out of his apartment and ogle the flimsy magazine lying motionless on his doormat. John would come over to his apartment and answer all of his questions while the two of them would stay up until 4 in the morning, getting drunk on red wine and their newborn alliance while gossiping about celebrities.

“Tell me something about Anne Rice.”

“Hmmm….well I bet you didn't know that she was bisexual.” Slurring his words, while giggling.

“NO.” Joseph was in utter shock. They high five each other and down the rest of the wine.

And John knew that Joseph knew for he never made much of an effort to conceal his kleptomania tic and figured that Joseph would have to be a complete idiot or at least missing 3 of the 5 major senses to have not grasped the notion that John was a thief. What Joseph didn't know was that John knew he was an avid admirer of his work. He had no proof of this but he could tell just be the look of awe in his eyes. He could tell by how easily he was able to dominate their recurrent arguments over the lost issues. Most importantly, he could tell by how long Joseph used to pace outside of his door muttering to himself before pestering him about the most recently ‘misplaced’ issue. John would periodically catch him while looking out of his own peep hole and wait until he was about to knock before suddenly barging out the door as if he was on some urgent mission for the CIA startling Joseph enough to get him off his game plan, throwing the argument in John’s favor. If anything was working for Josephs it was that John admired his persistence and how he took his weekly verbal Fuck-offs like a man. But that was not nearly enough to make John like him just merely tolerate him.

The room across the hall way was where John was supposed to sleep in, however for the few times he actually spent the night at home, chances are he became too intoxicated to convince his drunken carcass to shift from the one chair in his living room to the queen size Futon Mattress he had on the floor in his bedroom. He had bought the mattress at full price at Ikea even though Sandy’s, a discount furniture store that sold Ikea knock-offs and was situated on Marine Drive which was much closer to his house, had the same exact Futon more or less with the frame on sale for just a little more than half the price. The difference maker was the fact that Ikea delivered free of charge while Sandy’s would have forced him to cough up a minimal fee for delivery. Even though he would have saved a bundle buying from Sandy’s, it was the principle of it all, the belief that what you see is what you get and that there shouldn't be any more ‘buried’ costs for getting a piece of furniture from their display room to your bedroom. It was also bought at a time in which he did not have to count pennies for he was still receiving substantial royalty checks from his book sales. The Futon was also the only piece of furniture he bought to replace everything that Jessica had taken when they went their separate ways. When they finally got married, every single possession in their quaint house down in Kitsilano was bought by him courtesy of the still prosperous income he had. When things fell apart a little more than a year later, she managed to walk out of his life with almost every non-sentimental possession he had. Thankfully she allowed him the dignity of maintaining custody of the small number of personal items that meant the most to him, or in other words, the items which had very little monetary value. He could have put up more of a struggle considering she was nothing more than an unemployed mescaline-addicted shadow of her former self , but that notion was nothing more than an afterthought for he wanted it to be an amicable separation. Unfortunately she did not, so he figured that by letting her remember him for allowing the opportunity to walk all over him, it would at least show that she wasn’t the one making all of the sacrifices, which she rarely made. It has been just over two years since he has spoken to her and just under one since he’s spoken to her lawyer.

Along with the Futon, the only other thing bothered to be purchased was a small mahogany dresser and an over-sized oak executive desk which had to have the legs dismantled in order to fit it into his office.

The office was the most furnished and the one John was least embarrassed about showing to others. Upon entering, the first thing that sticks out is the oak desk which was obviously too big for the room. While the brownish tint did not match the eggshell white walls nor the moldy green carpeting, it did go with the other two pieces of furniture in the room.

Found himself asleep in his trophy room with his arms embedded deep as if they were a pile of breasts.

Usually before the first notes are heard, a bottle of Absinthe or Wild Turkey is opened, depending on which one is higher in quantity. Always, at some point, the CD begins to skip or the bottle hits the ground with a thud, either way causing a rude awakening.

It was not always like this for me. As recently as four years ago I was being praised by literary stalwarts such as Margaret Atwood and Tom Clancy for my impressive contributions in the field of literature. Everything was coming up roses. I had recently wed my longtime sweetheart Jessica and was on the verge of releasing my second novel in a trilogy revolving around Detective Jarod Madison, a fictional character I developed while daydreaming in Grade seven math class on August eleventh, 1977. This day is still as clear to me as the bonus question I got wrong on the math test the very next day. In all fairness though, are we really going to need to know what the square root of 37,433 is or what 8 times 8 is?? The only ones who will ever need that kind of knowledge are the same people who are so gifted that they could have figured out the answers in Kindergarten anyways, never mind grade seven! These are all the rocket scientists and creators of all those late night infomercials (Come on…are you going to honestly tell me Ron Popeil isn't a genius?) Anyways, the result being my flunking of the class and eventual quitting of school altogether. Of course for me, it didn't matter. No amount of education could have changed my mind, for from that moment on I knew that all I wanted to do was write. And now, a little more than twenty-five years later, that passion has been transformed into frustration and unattainable expectations.

“John-boy, is that you?”

“Christ, Mitchell…how the hell are you?” John frantically wiping the Alfredo sauce that was dribbling down his chin.

“Can’t complain really. I’m on one of those good streaks where life has turned into one positive shot in the arm after another.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“ Never mind, I’m just babbling. It’s been so long since we've talked, I…I don’t know where to begin!” Mitchell hesitates for a moment and John takes another bite, waiting for Mitchell to elaborate thus creating an uncomfortable pause.

“Uh…well for starters, the missus and I just returned from out honeymoon in Fiji.”

“I didn't know you and…”

“Margaret” He quickly blurted out, obviously forgetting that John has known them for several years.

“Yes Margaret. I didn't know that you two were planning on getting married.”

“Yes, after two years we finally decided that now was the time. I mean I’m not getting any younger and the women aren't ogling me as frequently as they used to.” He said with a smile and a wink while nudging John on the shoulder, “I actually sent an invitation out to you but you never RSVPed. I just assumed you were too busy working on another one of your masterpieces.”

“No…I have just been lounging around trying to recapture those masterpiece glory days from the past. It is a shame though but I never did receive your invite,” he lied. “ you know what they say, never let a disgruntled postal worker do a courier's job.” They both laughed, John wasn't sure Mitchell fully got the gist of it.

“Yes…of course,” Mitchell was attempting to wipe away fake tears of laughter. “It’s too bad you weren't able to make it, you would have fit in quite nicely. We were only planning on having a small ceremony but soon enough, we were getting calls from Dave Eggers and the entire staff of Pendleton Publishing asking to join us. Security had to literally stop Steven King from beating down the door but we felt so sorry for him and everything he had recently gone through that we had no choice but to let him in. But we got the last laugh by sticking him at the kiddy table along with Henry Winkler! It ended up being the literary event of the season that didn't involve a book reading of some sort.” Mitchell was chuckling at his own joke, never being one to shy away from exaggeration.

“Well it sounded like quite the affair. The only thing that seemed to be missing was Edgar Allen Poe” Showing as much enthusiasm as his uninterested mind would allow

“Who needed fictional horror stories when I had Margaret’s family! The sheer sight of her sister alone would have you cowering under your covers for days.”

John remembers how, last year when he and Jessica split up, Mitchell tried to set him up with her telling him that she has ‘exquisite beauty that must be seen to believed’. He chose not to remind him and blocked the entire notion out. “Well had I shown up, everything would have been flipped upside down.”

Mitchell thought about this for a moment and gave up. “What do you mean?”

“ Never mind, this time I was babbling.” John wasn't sure what he meant either, but it sounded witty in his head. “Well I’m glad to hear that it was a success and I wish nothing but the best for the two of you.” He hated cliches but he had to admit there was a time and a place for every one of them.

“Thank you, thank you. Much appreciated by both the wife and I. Well, I must be going, we had not even unpacked yet before we returned to our regular routines. I guess now is as good as any time to do so.” He slipped John his business card, one of many John had collected over the years. “Listen, I still have the next week off from work so if you want to get together and discuss anything, feel free to call.”

“ Perhaps lunch at wazubee’s on Friday?” He wasn't filled with anticipation but knew this was a first-class opportunity to scam a free meal.

“Sounds like a plan, but call me first just to make sure.” And with that Mitchell walked away without waiting for a response. John took a sip of his coffee without realizing that it had gotten cold, and quickly spat it back into his cup. He looked up again at Mitchell as he was waving goodbye, folded up the business card and stuffed it into his half-filled cup of chilled coffee. “A free meal isn't worth sacrificing my sanity for a couple of hours” He thought to himself.

He met Mitchell at a writing workshop on Granville Island close to ten years ago. At the time, I was struggling with getting from A to B and Mitchell was having a hard time creating an A and a B. Fortunately, what we did have in common was our love of nicotine and our inability to last longer than half an hour before the cravings came back and hit us like a ton of bricks, at least that’s how it felt for me. We must have chatted a good two and a half hours spread out over ten or twelve intervals (also known as ‘smoke breaks’) and we both came to the realization that we’re both pretty much in the same boat.

But none of that matter now for all he could think about was what right Mitchell had in assuming that the wife appreciated what he had said? She never seemed to make any attempt at initiating some kind of friendship nor made an effort to show up at any of his gatherings or offer any kid of congratulatory rewards for his literary accomplishments. He thinks back when he released his second novel and he had the release party at a post little steakhouse called Gotham. Not only did she opt not to show at the last possible moment complaining of a headache or some other obscure illness, she even conned Mitchell into staying home with her because she ‘ didn't feel like being alone in her current state of mind’. We may not have gotten along but even she wasn't naive enough to not know how important Mitchell was in getting this novel to print.

He remembered that this kind of thinking usually gets him in nothing but trouble so he erased any notion of it from his mind. He tried to finish his penne but suddenly found himself lacking in appetite.

“Would you care for something else? More coffee or tea, dessert perhaps?”

“No…no thank you. The bill will be all. And, oh, do you mind wrapping up the rest of this? I’m stuffed.”

Duty Calls

This is a loosely autobiographical retelling of a portion of my jury duty encounter.

Written in 42:00, no editing

---------

"Would you like me to do something, your honor?"

"No bailiff. I don't think there's a problem, is there juror 4788?"

I lean back in the rickety wooden chair, creaking with every movement as if its lone goal is to make the world aware of its existence. "You reminded me I was under oath. All I did was tell the truth."

The bailiff returns to his post, continually glaring in my direction as if his intimidating presence meant anything to me beyond the confines of this courtroom. He looked young, 25 maybe, with a freshly placed bandage atop his shaved head. Clearly he's already had an action-packed day. I have no doubt that he's already yearning to go home and tell his girlfriend about the shit he has to put up with at work, and she'll once again feel too guilty to tell him she's been shacking up with a co-worker for what feels like forever. It makes me feel a little better knowing I am helping contribute to his daily misery, thus prolonging his fucked-up relationship. In a way, he should thank me for allowing him to avoid a deeper misery and heartbreak for at least one more night. After all, I'm sure some kind of physical altercation happens more often than we think in shitty little courtrooms all around the country, especially ones like this one here in Van Nuys, the land of the chronically poor, dumb and useless. and I'm also sure they get their fair share of smarmy assholes like me, who have already decided that they're basically too good to be wasting their time deciding the fate of some fucking messed-up broad who decided to key her ex-husband's car and then had the gall to plead not guilty.  And no I'm not kidding. Apparently dragging the edge of a piece of metal against what I would imagine to be nothing more glamorous than the paintjob of a 1993 Honda Civic based on the style and demeanor of the plaintiff in question is enough to waste an obscene amount of taxpayer's money and an even more obscene amount of the time of probably more productive members of society for what could be a week. But, for the bailiff to have to endure both in the same day, well, while most women are heartless, most at least have the common decency to know when adding insult to injury (and insult) is just overkill.

"Mr. Asshole Defense Attorney (NOTE: not his real name, just fitting), do you have any questions?" The perplexed look on the face of the judge was priceless.

The DA gets up from his way-too-comfortable leather executive's chair and beelines it straight to the podium, all while eyeing me as if he either couldn't fathom the shit that was coming out of my mouth, or was amused by the audacity of the shit coming out of my mouth. "Juror number 23 (apparently i'm not just a number, i'm TWO numbers), would you mind if I asked your opinion of me?

I looked him straight in the eye. "I'm not a fan."

He chuckled, half-expecting a smart ass response. Either that or used to it. After all, he was an asshole. "Juror 23, is there any particular reason that you do not like me?

I continued looking him directly in his sleazy little eyes to let him know that I had come this far and wasn't going to be backing down anytime soon. In actuality I did have a reason as to why. I simply did not like the way he talked to a woman downstairs in the lobby. Nothing major, but it stuck. However, I wasn't going to get into it. "I don't need a reason. I told you, I was judgmental."

I felt the bailiff mentally preparing to take another step towards me, but it never happened. "Juror 23," Asshole DA remained persistent and unperturbed by my excruciatingly blunt answers, "do you want to be a juror?"

"Am I still under oath?"

"Yes you are, Juror 23."

"Then no I do not." I felt a silent collective of envy and regret from the other 30 or so potential jurors over such a simple loophole, if you could call it that. After all, I didn't do anything wrong. I was asked if I wanted to waste a few days listening to a bunch of people spew fact after useless fact pertaining to an even more useless case where the amount of money I would have lost missing work would have probably been equivalent if not more than the amount of money the defendant would end up paying out of pocket for being a jealous bitch obviously lacking in common sense, wit and sensibility, not to mention a skill level hovering around -1 when it comes to being inconspicuous. And since I was obliged to be truthful with regards to everything I say, I was gonna jump all over the chance to say, 'There is no fucking way I want to spend another minute in this goddamn courtroom and if you decide I would make a good juror, then you obviously failed the portion of Law School that stresses the importance of having good observational skills.' Naturally, I didn't go the long route simply because Bull Shannon Jr. over there was clearly ready to take his early court session aggressions out on me with or without the judge's consent, and also because even I was aware I may have been taking the asshole route a little too far. At least the DA was being paid to make me hate him. I was doing it pro bono.

Truth be told, this wasn't really my style, but to be honest, I had no choice. I was in a group of 10 "alternate" jurors - jurors only brought in during the selection process if the lawyers couldn't come to a concrete decision of which 12 jurors out of the original 20 they felt would best help represent a fair trial in a simple goddamn vandalism charge. Naturally, both the prosecutor and the DA starting picking off "unqualified jurors" like it was going out of style. It was also becoming painfully clear that both lawyers seemed to want a Caucasian-heavy group of 12, because, really, what better way to decide the fate of a white person fucking up another white person's property then by having 12 more white people involved (15 actually if you include both lawyers and the Judge)? Now, I may be Jewish, but my fair Canadian skin and somewhere deep inside inability to tan beyond an off-white (more like eggshell) made me the whitest motherfucker in the room. To make matters worse, the other alternates, like myself, began to realize that the lawyers had already picked out their favorites and wanted to dropkick as many of the jurors as possible to get to the ones they did want. I felt like I was numero uno on the DA's wishlist because, obviously the guy who looks like a piece of shit is gonna side with the girl that does shitty things (the rules of attraction - it's in the bible). 

Clearly I wasn't the only one to figure out this grand scheme as suddenly the farfetched fables and rogue pleads for excision began to seep out. One guy claimed he was robbed and because the police didn't react in record time, he now holds a permanent grudge against all authorities, which may or may not hinder his ability to be impartial (cough... cough... bullshit). Another claimed to be a Jehovah's Witness thus it was against his religious beliefs to pass judgement (to which I found out later also happened to be complete and total bullshit - the part about him being a JW, not whether or not judging is a sin in Jehovaland). There were tales of child abuse and molestation and I'm pretty sure one potential juror admitted that he was in this country illegally. I also believe one even tried admitting he was gay, as if that would have been a viable excuse to be sent home. Maybe he just felt comfortable being in a room full of anonymous strangers and really did just come out for the first time, who am I to judge? Regardless,  if I were the stenographer that day, i would have made a killing selling ideas for messed-up predicaments to Maury.  A whole season of daytime drama conglomerated into one courtroom. I feel like I'm witnessing history.

Which is why it was so integral for me to go above and beyond if I wanted out. Those who know me know I'm not a bad guy. Sure I may be overly sarcastic and could be downright rude if I wanted to, but that's normally my style. What IS my style is perhaps a tendency to take things a tad too far, even if it's notin my best interest to do so. Basically, I'll go until it becomes awkward for everyone involved, which may have been the case today.

"One more question, Juror 23..."

Of course.

"You say you're judgmental and you stand by your beliefs and opinions."

"Some people like it, some people hate it..."

He removed his glasses and pretended to clean off a non-existent smudge on one of the lenses.  "Say it's late in the day on Friday and you have a hot date that night," he actually did a slight pelvic thrust to hint at something. I feel sorry for any girl that's ever been on a "hot date" with Dickless Attorney over here.  "Now everyone is voting one way, but you, as you said, refuse to waver from your opinion. Would there be a chance you would be persuaded to vote the other way if it sped up the process?"

I leaned back, "Absolutely."

The DA looked slightly shocked. " With regards to everything you said about your strong convictions and stubbornness, you would be willing to just simply change your mind?"

"Sure looks that way, doesn't it?" A slight giggle from the courtroom. Clearly I was providing far more entertainment that I'm sure was originally anticipated.

"I have nothing else, your honor." He glanced back at me, sneered ever so slightly and returned to his seat. 

"Mister Prosecutor, do you have anything to ask?" The judge asked, seemingly as annoyed with the progressions of the jury selection as I and everyone else.

The prosecutor swiveled around in his chair, scanned the remaining 10 alternate jurors and stopped when his eyes reached me. "No I do not, your honor," he responded without taking his eyes off me. Clearly his initial opinion had soured. His slight look of disappointment indicated that my inclusion would have been a beneficiary to him (why was I such a sought-after juror? I never felt so wanted!). It was clear he wanted to say something to me, but I think even he understood that I wasn't going to have anything constructive to contribute. He glanced back over at the bailiff as if hoping he would finally step in and put me in my place, but apparently even he had no interest in prolonging the day.

"Very well, if the Counselors will join me in my quarters, we will reconvene in 10 minutes," the Judge directed. "However, I also think it would be in the court's best interest to excuse Juror number 23. Counselors, do you have any objections?"

"No, your honor."

"None whatsoever, your honor."

"Will juror number 23 please leave his badge with the Bailiff and leave the courtroom, immediately." She didn't even look at me. I felt used.

I got up, leered around at the remaining jurors still in the running for "World's Shittiest Trial" and swaggered on out of there. The looks of envy were rewarding in itself. Even the Bailiff  nodded in some sort of appreciation for the entertainment I provided. Either that or he was trying to tell me that I'll be back sooner rather than later and and not as a potential juror.

I walked outside, grabbed my certificate stating my jury duty obligations had been fulfilled and breathed a gigantic sigh of relief.

The best part about the whole experience? Paper-clipped to my crappy dot-matrix-printed certificate was a crisp 5 dollar bill, which I promptly went out and spent illegally on weed.

God Bless America