| It was a hot August day when she rummaged through the attic trunk for the perfect outfit. Tank top won’t do, jeans are too casual. Finally, she settled on a white, long sleeve turtle neck with khaki slacks and flats to match. Someone heard her rummaging and hollered up, “Quiet down, up there!” She heard the nervous giggles of her housemates as she admired her outfit in the dusty full-length mirror. Heading out she walked down the sidewalk, more confident with each step. Her footfalls became more pronounced, her smile encouraged many to stare. Her long hair swayed with each step and her eyes invited a friendly hello from those that passed. It was a warm day, but poor circulation made her winter attire a necessity, even in Southern Florida in August. She heard whispers about her choice of clothing as she continued on her way, she was certain many knew her secrets, but she couldn’t let that stop her. She walked up the stairs and entered the old building, walking with more conviction than she thought possible she entered a hall of 750 professional social workers. She was there, to help them recognize the quiet signs a victim of abuse may offer up. For two hours she lectured about winter attire in the heavy summer heat, meant to hide bruises from professions of all sorts. She talked of the victims need to be perfect as she subconsciously fixed her hair. She talked of failure where there was none and friends lost to secrets never to be found again. Upon completion of her lecture she quietly slipped out of the hall and hurried home. For the first time in a hundred years, she undressed in front of the mirror and saw the handprints he’d left upon her neck, the one’s that snuffed her life that warm August day of 1911. She folded her clothes perfectly and placed them back in the trunk. She sat in meditation, where she would stay until next year. When on the 101st anniversary of her death she would repeat the lecture of the dead. |
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Lecture
The Story of Sarah
| If you have known me for some time, you may have heard this story, but it pulls at my heart strings every time I think of it. Part of me is curious as to how the story unfolded at the time, as well as what has happened to dear Sarah. It was evening and I had stepped out onto the porch of my apartment for a quick cigarette before bathing my kids and putting them to bed. I was still married to my first husband and he was playing video games, so I knew my kids were safe, sort of. I was enjoying the silence of the normally bustling courtyard of our community, I didn't even realize how eerily quiet it really was at the moment. The night was broken when a group of children ran out of a corner apartment screaming, "The baby is dead, Sarah died!" I didn't think, I just stubbed my cigarette and ran for the neighboring apartment. I knocked, as if I were company coming for coffee, then it all began ... something, as yet to be explained to me, but something told me to just walk in and so I did. There was Sarah, not even two years old yet, lying on the tan carpeted floor in the middle of a seizure. Family was gathering around, mostly panicked by her blue complexion, frozen with fear. That voice that told me to walk right in invited itself into my head again, "Go to her, help Sarah." I did just that, but had no idea what I would do next as the sea of family parted to let me get to her. I had read about seizures, but this was the first time I actually saw someone convulsing and I was scared. I took two large strides across the living room to Sarah's side and collapsed to my knees. "Warm wash cloths, can we get some warm wash cloths," I said it as if someone was holding my emotions in check, but I assure you, it wasn't me. "Yeah," her uncle yelled, "9-1-1 says to put warm wash cloths on her." Before he finished his sentence Sarah's loving family had formed a sort of human chain from the kitchen sink to where she and I were fighting for her life. "Come on, Sarah. Come on, Baby, you're going to be fine." I was so calm it amazed me, then I saw her complexion taking on a bluish tint again, "Breathe for her, breathe for her," the voice in my head was whispering. I responded by blowing in her face and watched as she seemed to magically turn pink again. The front door opened and there stood an off duty paramedic, he stuck his head in, saw that all was under control and went to direct the ambulance to the right apartment. Ken, where are you going, I wondered, I have no idea what I'm doing. Hey, hey, where are you going? Oh, she's turning blue again. I blew on her face again and again she turned a beautiful shade of pink, but this time she cried. I wanted to cry, even needed to cry, but the tears weren't there, all that was there was concern for this small child as we fought together for her life. It seemed to be about an hour before the ambulance arrived, though I'm sure it didn't take that long. Suddenly, the front door popped open and Bensalem Rescue Squad was on the scene. With a certain amount of relief I stood up and stepped away from Sarah so they could help her. In reality, I didn't step back, I stumbled and pasted myself against the wall. I watched in awe as paramedics did the work necessary to help Sarah. As they left the apartment I did something I hadn't been able to do, but desperately needed; I cried and I cried for a long time. Still, fifteen years later, I wonder, who was that giving me life saving instructions? Where is Sarah now? Is she okay? I will probably never have these answers, but I think she has a Guardian Angel, because I'm almost certain that is who helped me help Sarah. |
This Old Man
Every day I wonder where is that old man going? Today as I was more interested than normal as snow was flying through the city streets and it was well below freezing. I couldn’t help myself, I pulled up to the sidewalk, put some money in the parking meter, and then I walked back a block to visit this man that I saw every day.
“Good morning, sir, my name is Nancy. How are you this morning?”
“Oye,” he said with a strange accent, “I’d be just fine if my legs would work.”
“Yeah, I see you walking every day, no matter the weather. I drive past on my way to work and I wonder what is so pressing that you walk every single day.”
“Life, my friend, life is so pressing. You see, six years ago I lost my wife to breast cancer, just ten months before our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Every day I go to the cemetery and visit my darling Margaret.” He pointed to the thermos sitting beside him, “I have a cup of coffee and tell her about my plans for the day and how yesterday went. Just like when she was alive; every day she would send me off to work, but only after a cup of coffee and some great conversation.”
He looked at me and I witnessed a tear just before he flicked it aside, “So,” he continued, “every day I get on the bus, ride out to visit with her, we have our coffee, and conversation, then I walk to the Senior Citizen’s Center for a two dollar lunch. Once lunch has filled me up I converse with the younger folk at the center and catch the bus home.”
I sat in awe, speechless to the rounds this man made every day, and astounded that he would share so much information with me, a stranger. I pulled my coat tighter around me and noticed his flimsy spring jacket, yet he didn’t seem cold at all.
“Oye, Nancy, what is your last name?”
“Frantz, my name is Nancy Frantz.”
“Frantz? Any relation to Arthur Frantz?”
“Yes, he was my father, but he passed away a few years ago.”
“I know,” this nameless gentleman told me. “I fought side by side with him in World War II.”
“You knew my father? That’s not possible, you’re so young.”
“Oye, thank you, but my daily conversations with Margaret helped fight the aging effects of stress. I’m really 87 years old.”
“You knew my Dad? What was he like during his younger years? What’s your name anyway?”
“I thought you would never ask. My name is Felix Childs, you called me Uncle Funny when you were young and I would visit your family.”
I quickly stood up in shock and excitement, “Uncle Funny, I remember you now; you went to my big sister’s wedding with a banana in your pocket and told everyone you were ‘a monkey’s uncle’.”
“Oye, you remember that? Yes, that was me. The truth is I have diabetes so I carried something to eat wherever I went.”
“Uncle Funny, would you mind if I drove you to the cemetery and had coffee with you and Aunt Margaret?” I hesitated for a moment. “I don’t want to intrude, but I would love to spend some time catching up with you. My father left us kids with a lot of unanswered questions when he passed away and maybe you could help me.”
“What sorts of questions do you have, Nancy?”
“Well, I know my dad was a boxer in the military, but he didn’t talk much about that part of his life.”
“Oye. During the War no one really wanted to talk about it, but let’s go see Margaret and then I will answer as many questions as I can.”
“Good morning, sir, my name is Nancy. How are you this morning?”
“Oye,” he said with a strange accent, “I’d be just fine if my legs would work.”
“Yeah, I see you walking every day, no matter the weather. I drive past on my way to work and I wonder what is so pressing that you walk every single day.”
“Life, my friend, life is so pressing. You see, six years ago I lost my wife to breast cancer, just ten months before our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Every day I go to the cemetery and visit my darling Margaret.” He pointed to the thermos sitting beside him, “I have a cup of coffee and tell her about my plans for the day and how yesterday went. Just like when she was alive; every day she would send me off to work, but only after a cup of coffee and some great conversation.”
He looked at me and I witnessed a tear just before he flicked it aside, “So,” he continued, “every day I get on the bus, ride out to visit with her, we have our coffee, and conversation, then I walk to the Senior Citizen’s Center for a two dollar lunch. Once lunch has filled me up I converse with the younger folk at the center and catch the bus home.”
I sat in awe, speechless to the rounds this man made every day, and astounded that he would share so much information with me, a stranger. I pulled my coat tighter around me and noticed his flimsy spring jacket, yet he didn’t seem cold at all.
“Oye, Nancy, what is your last name?”
“Frantz, my name is Nancy Frantz.”
“Frantz? Any relation to Arthur Frantz?”
“Yes, he was my father, but he passed away a few years ago.”
“I know,” this nameless gentleman told me. “I fought side by side with him in World War II.”
“You knew my father? That’s not possible, you’re so young.”
“Oye, thank you, but my daily conversations with Margaret helped fight the aging effects of stress. I’m really 87 years old.”
“You knew my Dad? What was he like during his younger years? What’s your name anyway?”
“I thought you would never ask. My name is Felix Childs, you called me Uncle Funny when you were young and I would visit your family.”
I quickly stood up in shock and excitement, “Uncle Funny, I remember you now; you went to my big sister’s wedding with a banana in your pocket and told everyone you were ‘a monkey’s uncle’.”
“Oye, you remember that? Yes, that was me. The truth is I have diabetes so I carried something to eat wherever I went.”
“Uncle Funny, would you mind if I drove you to the cemetery and had coffee with you and Aunt Margaret?” I hesitated for a moment. “I don’t want to intrude, but I would love to spend some time catching up with you. My father left us kids with a lot of unanswered questions when he passed away and maybe you could help me.”
“What sorts of questions do you have, Nancy?”
“Well, I know my dad was a boxer in the military, but he didn’t talk much about that part of his life.”
“Oye. During the War no one really wanted to talk about it, but let’s go see Margaret and then I will answer as many questions as I can.”
Laziness Letter
Dear Representative of Homeowner’s Insurance:
I recently received your denial letter for the claim that my husband submitted on September 9, 2012 and I am writing to tell you that your denial is unjust. Your denial claims that the damages to our home are normal wear and tear and could have been prevented with normal maintenance.
It is not normal to raise nine children in a three bedroom home nowadays. There is no way that any two parent family with nine children can keep up with “normal” wear and tear of the home.
After speaking with several neighbors I have also learned that it is not normal to have a trampoline in your living room. Therefore, the dents and holes in the ceiling are not normal wear and tear.
A local survey, which I conducted in my local grocery store, also taught me that it is not normal for children to throw each other into walls, this makes your claim that the holes in the walls are normal wear and tear invalid.
When we informed you that the septic tank needs to be pumped you stated that is normal household maintenance, so we built an outhouse to prevent further filling of the septic tank. The township sued us for having an outhouse; we also included that in our claim. You stated you do not cover laziness in your business. I beg to differ, if we are lazy, we wouldn’t have built something in order to fix the problem.
In your letter you repeatedly referred to my husband as lazy to protect your company from having to give us what we are entitled to. That, my friend, makes you lazy. You’re too lazy to take the time to fill out a few papers and give us a check.
Normal, you say, you say my family is normal? There is nothing normal about any of us, and for this reason I demand an appeal to the denied claim. It is not normal wear and tear that has caused the damages listed in the claim; in fact, it is an overabundance of activity! Furthermore, I insist, that nowadays it is not normal to be raising nine children in a two parent family.
If you cannot see it in your heart to award us this claim, then you could at least offer my husband and me a vacation and take the children for a week. Then you can claim normal wear and tear on your home.
Sincerely,
Lazy Homemaker
I recently received your denial letter for the claim that my husband submitted on September 9, 2012 and I am writing to tell you that your denial is unjust. Your denial claims that the damages to our home are normal wear and tear and could have been prevented with normal maintenance.
It is not normal to raise nine children in a three bedroom home nowadays. There is no way that any two parent family with nine children can keep up with “normal” wear and tear of the home.
After speaking with several neighbors I have also learned that it is not normal to have a trampoline in your living room. Therefore, the dents and holes in the ceiling are not normal wear and tear.
A local survey, which I conducted in my local grocery store, also taught me that it is not normal for children to throw each other into walls, this makes your claim that the holes in the walls are normal wear and tear invalid.
When we informed you that the septic tank needs to be pumped you stated that is normal household maintenance, so we built an outhouse to prevent further filling of the septic tank. The township sued us for having an outhouse; we also included that in our claim. You stated you do not cover laziness in your business. I beg to differ, if we are lazy, we wouldn’t have built something in order to fix the problem.
In your letter you repeatedly referred to my husband as lazy to protect your company from having to give us what we are entitled to. That, my friend, makes you lazy. You’re too lazy to take the time to fill out a few papers and give us a check.
Normal, you say, you say my family is normal? There is nothing normal about any of us, and for this reason I demand an appeal to the denied claim. It is not normal wear and tear that has caused the damages listed in the claim; in fact, it is an overabundance of activity! Furthermore, I insist, that nowadays it is not normal to be raising nine children in a two parent family.
If you cannot see it in your heart to award us this claim, then you could at least offer my husband and me a vacation and take the children for a week. Then you can claim normal wear and tear on your home.
Sincerely,
Lazy Homemaker
Alien Shampoo
| “Good morning and welcome to the ‘Alien Shampoo’ Infomercial. This is a production by ‘Alien Newbs’.” {Mechanical Audience applause inserted here.} “Hello there, this is Imminy Hayes here for Alien Shampoo. Today we are going to discuss alternate uses for this magnetizing shampoo. First, do we have any teenagers in the audience? Alright, you with the rainbow Mohawk and tattoos, you’ll be perfect for this; come on up.” “Hey, Son, what’s your name?” “Josh Pentergast.” “Alright, Josh, tell me, do you get in much trouble around home?” “Nah, I’m a good kid.” Imminy turns to the audience, “Josh, were you sitting with your parents?” “Yeah, that’s my ma and dad.” “Come on up here Mom and Dad.” As Josh’s parents approach Josh lowers his head in embarrassment. “Josh tells us that he’s a good kid, is that true?” Mom looks at Josh and says, “Why yes, he’s an all A student and generally a good kid.” “Well,” Dad says, “there was that time him and his buddies stole all of those political signs and took our cars out of the garage so they had room to hide them.” Imminy looks at Josh with a sly smile, “Great, Josh, you are exactly the kind of teenager we are looking for to demonstrate our new ‘Alien Shampoo’. Mom, Dad, if you can return to your seats, or stand up here with us, it’s up to you.” Imminy returns his attention to the audience. “Ladies and gentleman, the uses for ‘Alien Shampoo’ are amazing, mesmerizing, and magnetic. Let Josh and I show you how this works. Josh, come on over here to the shampooing chair and let me wash your hair.” Josh saunters over and takes his seat, lying back in the chair so the back of his neck rests on the edge of the sink. Imminy begins to wash Josh’s hair, first rinsing it well, and the camera zooms in so the audience can see the mixture of colors rinsing out of Josh’s rainbow Mohawk. “Now, look here,” Imminy says as he holds a palm full of green shampoo out to the camera. “See the sparkles? Those are actual alien magnets. This is revolutionary folks; now watch as I shampoo Josh’s hair here.” The suds move from green to gray to a silver color as Imminy continues to lather Josh’s hair. “Look, folks, see the color change, and this is just the beginning.” Josh’s hair is rinsed out and dried with a towel. “Okay, Josh, Mom, Dad, Camera Man, let’s head out into the starry night.” As soon as the studio door is shut a shooting star is heading right for them. “Watch this, watch!” Imminy shouts at the camera, “keep your eyes on Josh.” Slowly Josh’s feet leave the ground and he begins to dangle above the earth. The “shooting star” stops moving and hovers above them, suddenly they notice it isn’t a shooting star, but a flying saucer. A door slid open and light emanated from the underside of the saucer. Josh continues rising up away from the ground and toward the saucer. “No,” Mom screams as she reaches just above her head to grab Josh’s ankle, but she moves too slow, he continues to rise toward the saucer. Dad steps closer to Mom and holds her tight, “What have we done?” Imminy steps in and says, “No need to worry, Josh will be back with us in a few minutes and all will be fine.” Just as Imminy promised, a few minutes went by and a boy was returned, it looked like Josh, sounded like Josh, but there were no piercings, tattoos, even his hair was his natural color and had a business appearance to it. Mom fainted, but Dad held out his hand to shake Josh’s hand. “Welcome back, Josh.” Imminy grabs Josh’s hand and pulls him back into the studio. “Josh, how was it, what did they do?” “Imminy, you know I am not allowed to discuss it. However, I can tell you that I have a new, very positive outlook on life.” “So, you see folks, the true magnetic properties in ‘Alien Shampoo’ will help you mold your errant child into a respectful, goal oriented human being … with a few alien properties. Right, Josh?” “Yes, sir!” “Well, folks, you’ve seen it here, for just $57.92 you can get one two-ounce bottle of Alien Shampoo to transform your teenager into the child you dreamed of when you first had a positive pregnancy test. And you saw it all here on Alien Newbs Productions!” |
Editor Application
| What a morning! My flight to Washington, D.C. was delayed, and that was the highlight of the morning. I have an interview at 9am for Science Weekly, and I have to find a way from Grand Rapids, Michigan to Washington, D.C. in one piece, so far, not so well. In my rush to catch the red-eye flight I gulped some hot coffee, choked on it, and sent the coffee through my mouth and nose all over my lap, along with my false teeth. My husband found this quite humorous, but feared laughing as I was about to blow a mental gasket. As I ran to my room to change out of my now scalding skirt I broke a heel on my shoe and quite possibly my ankle. Breakfast seemed out of the question as I had no time to cook, and darling husband was having too much fun watching this display of stay-at-home mom trying to turn Editor-in-Chief of a magazine I’m unable to read without falling asleep. I’m not going to let that little point get me down though, as much of the science research of the last issue was learning through osmosis, so I put an issue under my pillow last night and feel much smarter this morning. So, here I am, in Washington, D.C. and I’m having trouble finding a parking spot, even for my tiny rental car. I am trying to turn around because I just passed a lot with a few empty spaces, but Secret Service surrounds me when I pulled onto the White House lawn to turn around. “Don’t shoot,” I cry out. “Get out of the vehicle with your arms above your head,” a bald gentleman yells at me. I do just that and follow their instructions until I am splayed upon the ground in the most awkward of positions and I feel guns scraping my scalp as they question me and a female has her knee planted firmly into my back and my arms at an odd angle above my body. “She’s clean,” the female yells and the guns are removed. I look down at my “Mommy Goes to Work” outfit and I am not clean, in fact, I’ve got White House lawn all over my beautiful suit. I take a deep breath as they lead me off the lawn and return my rental car to me. They escort me to the appropriate address with lights flashing so I could make my interview on time. I walk into the building covered in mud and open my attaché case out to find the appropriate suite for the interview. As I enter the office I notice a couple of people following me. I turn around and discover two Secret Service Members have followed me in, guns drawn. My confidence is just about gone when the suite door bangs open and a jolly man drops his jaw in horror. “You, ma’am, have got the job,” he says without even a single interview question. “What? Wait, how can that be? You don’t even know my name.” “Doesn’t matter, anyone that brings their own assistance is well aware of the difficulty of the job, though, I have to say, the guns are a bit much. Can you start today?” “Yes, Sir, just show me to my office and my team and I will get right to work.” |
Headache Cure
| Selena had just completed her eight-hour day at the aquarium, the job is stressful, with thousands of school age children coming through on a daily basis, as if the yelling kids weren’t enough the louder parents often gave her a headache. Today’s headache is blinding, she was stationed in the stingray pool, and the room has an uncontrollable echo that makes even a whisper sound like a scream. Selena’s headache was to a point she was beginning to feel nauseous. Wonderful, she thought, now I have to pick up the kids at the sitters, make my way back to the aquarium and take the train to Trenton. How can I handle all of this with four children and this blinding headache? Clocking out of work Selena rushed to the sitter’s house three blocks away. As was her custom, she didn’t knock, just walked into Janine’s house, but today there was no urgency to see her own children; the urgency was to make it to the bathroom. Running past her children Selena crashed up the stairs to the bathroom, as she slammed the door closed she began a cold sweat that sent chills all over her body. Selena fell to the cool tile and enjoyed the sensation it sent through her entire body. She laid there trying to get the energy to get up, all she needed to do was get the children home and she could take a nap. The pain is forcing itself from her head, down her spine and to her toes. Her entire body aches now and tears involuntarily escape from her eyes. Closing her eyes she begins to take a few deep breaths and then she feels someone tug at her right hand. She opens her eyes to see her long dead grandfather standing over her sweat covered, aching body. “Gramps,” she stuttered in awe. “What are you doing here?” “Come on, Sunshine, you have a family to care for, let me show you a trick I learned in when I was battling brain cancer.” Selena rolled to a sitting position and curled against the tub in an upright fetal position attempting to stay away from the entity. “Don’t touch me, you’re dead, you can’t help me anymore!” “Oh, Sunshine just let me try this once. I promise, if you let me show you this one time you will always remember what I’ve taught you and will never be bothered by headaches again.” Stunned, Selena held her hand up as if to say she was ignoring him, but Gramps ignored the request and took her right hand in both of his hands. Carefully, slowly, he massaged the joint where her thumb bone and index finger met in the palm and back of her hand. Selena wants to pull away, but she quickly recognizes the comforting effects she is feeling from Gramps touching her. “Gramps, what are you doing, this is amazing!?” “I’m using ‘reflexology’ on you. It helps to take your pain away so that you can move on through your day.” “It’s working, Gramps, it’s really working! My headache seems to be gone!” “Great, now I want you to remember two things about this meeting. First, remember that I love you. Second, remember, it’s called reflexology. Now go on downstairs and give those children a proper hello.” “Gramps, thank you and I love you too.” “I know Sunshine, I know. Now go take care of your family.” Selena left the bathroom relaxed and rejuvenated for the first time in months. |
27 Years and Counting
| Lillian woke up this morning and gave a shudder at the thought of going to work. Soon, well, in three years she would be retiring from the dingy old machine shop where she works. Even with all those years in the old shop she was still not very far up the seniority ladder. That’s why she had to play dirty. Jim worked with her for as long as she had been at the plant, he’s a hard worker and a great guy in general. If Lillian could find a way to get him removed from the shop she could be top dog in her department. This was provided that his replacement didn’t have more seniority than Lillian. Yet, she kept her hopes up and her eyes and ears open looking for Jim to make the smallest mistake so that she could have him removed from the department and she could take lead. One day it finally happened, she had conspired to catch Jim and she did. There were four employees in the department, but only three were needed. Since Jim was lead he had to train the new guy, which Jim did by giving him instructions, then sitting back to watch over the guy. As soon as Jim went to break Lillian called their supervisor to tell him that Jim had been on break too long. What a plan, she thought, all she had to do was prove they only needed three people in the department and Jim would be moved, as long as she could prove he didn’t do anything anyway. Soon after the phone call Lillian saw Jim standing at the equipment with the supervisor going over paperwork. She laughed to herself as she figured he was being written up for something he didn’t do, but she could prove otherwise. See, Jim had the new guy filling out the paperwork, so it did appear that Jim did nothing but sit in the break room. Ha, she had gotten Jim good, now he would be removed from the department and she would be top dog. As Lillian was imagining the power of top seniority in the department her supervisor approached her, “Lillian, we have four people in this department, but we only need three. For this reason, I’m going to move you to the paint department until our trainee gets through his on-the-job training and schooling.” She couldn’t have heard him right. She was being moved? Until the new guy finished school, which could be next week, or it could be three years from now! Until he was done she would be in the worst department in the entire shop, the paint department. Reluctantly, she nodded her understanding to her supervisor and packed her tools up for the move. The paint department is where they send the people who cause trouble, that get in the way, that can’t do their job. What had she done to deserve this? Could she survive the paint department for three years, so she can retire? Twenty-seven years and counting. |
Oldsmobile
| It began with a summer job when I was sixteen years old; I was netting $100 a week, big bucks for a sixteen year old. I tried to save money, but there were silly things like food, clothes and such that I had to have. The following spring I was making $8 an hour, a full $3 raise, but still, the money was slipping through my fingers and into the cash registers of local businesses. I didn’t care though, because now I had my driver’s license and $500 saved for a car. Being a naïve seventeen year old I thought $500 was a lot of money and would make a nice down payment on a car. I had a job, so payments would be no problem. I began my search for the perfect first car. I started with car lots, used cars of course; even in my dreams I knew a new car was not practical for a teenager. I looked at one rust bucket after another, falling in love with each one without even a test drive. With each car that I saw for $500 I promised myself one day it would be mine, if only I could get Dad to agree. Dan and I would find these perfect cars, then I would take Dad to see them, a quick look at the body and a listen to the engine was all he needed to tell me that this one wasn’t going to be mine, nor the one next to it, or the other one. Then, I found my car, a 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme; she was booger green on the interior and had been painted black over the original booger green on the exterior. Dad went with me to look at it and my stomach danced with nervousness because I knew his answer would be no, but I was going to stand up this time. The salesman started the car and she purred like an African Lion in heat, oh yeah, I have got to have this car. I was under eighteen years old, so I wasn’t allowed to test drive it, but Dad could; and he did. This time he was a bit hesitant, but he gave in. Besides, it was my hard earned money, so he let me get the car. In all my fantasizing about the independence a car would give me I didn’t think about needing extra money for car insurance, taxes, registration, gas, maintenance, and all that other good stuff that goes with the responsibility of owning a car. So, my first car cost my Dad more in loans for me to pay all the extras. I ended up having to pay $66 a week to Dad to re-pay him, and I still needed gas, food, and clothes. The car was mine and it became a bubble of independence. I could go anywhere, and do anything, having a car was a status symbol. Suddenly people that never spoke to me became my friends, but I didn’t realize it was because I had wheels, I just knew that I was cool. I was going places, lots of places, as far as the gas tank could take me. One day, it happened, my baby broke down, it was dark and I was cruising along when suddenly the motor quit running. I was able to coast into a shopping center, where there was a pay phone. I scrounged through my car and couldn’t even find a quarter to call home to tell someone I broke down. I went into a store and they kindly let me use their phone to call my house. My brother came to save the day. “What happened?” he asked. “I was driving down the road and all of a sudden everything just shut down, except the lights, radio and such; the motor just died.” Dan tried to start the car to no avail. “Do you have gas?” “I think so, I’ve been running on empty for three days, but usually I can do that for four days.” “Laura, you need gas. Do you have any money?” I hung my head in idiotic shame, “No, I’m broke.” Dan bought me enough gas to get home and the car sat until I got paid the next day. It doesn’t sound long, but for a seventeen year old with new independence it seemed to be an eternity. As soon as I had a half tank of gas I was good to go and I went to see my sister. I pulled into the driveway via a right hand turn and crashed into her car. I tried to back away, but our bumpers were locked. I went inside to tell her and she didn’t believe me, thought it was a joke. After about ten minutes I finally convinced her to step outside and see the damage. It took some doing, but we were able to get the cars unhooked from one another. It was then that we discovered my car would only drive in reverse, so she informed me I would have to leave the car there until she could find someone to work on it. “No, I’ll drive the car home in reverse. Besides, it’s only what, four miles?” “Laura,” she laughed, “you can’t drive home in reverse.” I was serious, I couldn’t leave my baby here, I had to get home … in my own car. It took a while for Linda to convince me, but finally she did, I had to leave my car there. For a day or two I was back to walking to and from work, but it wasn’t long before my car was up and running again. My uncle asked me to take care of his new kitten while he was out of town for a few days, since I had a car now. Not only was this cool, but he would pay me to run back and forth from his house to mine … oh, money, let’s do it! The first night came and I went to Uncle Dick’s house I cared for the kitten and left. I got in my car in the driveway and it wouldn’t start, it wouldn’t do anything. I went back into the house and called home, this time it would be Dad to save the day. Turns out, my alternator had died, and a few more days with no wheels. The whole idea of independence was getting annoying and expensive. Once again, I was broke, so Dad lent me the money to fix the car. And away we go! This time, it was a flat tire, Dad had paid special attention to showing me how to change a flat when I got the car, but I couldn’t think when it happened. The radio was so loud at first I didn’t even realize I had a flat and I have no idea how far I drove on it like that. My niece was with me, she was twelve and no help to fixing a flat. Finally, a kindly gentleman came along and changed the tire for us. I offered him five dollars for the work, but he refused the offer. I silently thanked him, because that was the last of my money for another week. All fixed up, Susan and I headed back home to tell our tale of the kindly gentleman that did repairs for free. Thanks to him, my bubble of independence seemed to be extending a bit. I had quite a few accidents in that old car and it kept running. All told I had the car for about four months when I ran away from home. Mom and Dad knew how important the car was to me, so they said I had to bring the car home or they would report it stolen. This was a possibility because the car was in Dad’s name; I never stopped to think that I was listed as co-owner. Instead, I returned the car to my parent’s house, where I never saw it again. I don’t know exactly what happened to the car, but my brother tells it that someone ran a stop sign and crashed into him in MY car! It was towed to destination unknown and the symbol of my independence went to car heaven. |
North to Alaska
| “North to Alaska old buddy, that’s where I’m headed,” Rick told Steve. “I’m in a heap of trouble in this old town and I’m getting out of here before the pigs come looking for me on that trumped up charge of corrupting the morals of a minor.” “Jesus, Rick, don’t you think they’ll come looking for you?” “Nah, not in Alaska, it’s too damn cold for these old boys. Besides, knowing what these small town cops do on their free time, they’d probably get stuck ice fishing or something. I hear alcohol flows pretty easily in these old parts, so I’m heading north. You’re welcome to come along if you want.” Steve was a bit hesitant of this plan that old Rick had worked out, if he did get caught, that would leave Steve in Alaska, thousands of miles from family, alone. Yet, he loved Rick and knew that Rick loved him. Granted, in the nineteen forties homosexual relationships were strongly forbidden and even punishable by jail time, still, Steve suddenly had an image of him and Rick cuddled in an igloo somewhere in the backwoods of an Alaskan island. “When are we leaving?” Steve asked. “First thing in the morning, I just want to tell my mom goodbye and pack a few necessities. Are you sure you want to come along?” Steve lowered his voice to be sure no one else could hear, “I love you Rick and I want to go where you go.” Rick gave a quick peek around before kissing Steve, his kiss was both appreciation for joining him and love for his dear friend. In the morning Rick and Steve headed out in Rick’s old pick up with a case of beer and a box of clothes each. The boys were on the run long before the police even realized Rick was missing. For two months Rick and Steve lived in the ice riddled environment. Then, Rick got a letter from home, “Well, everything is good at home, but there’s one problem here.” “What’s that?” Steve asked. “It seems the draft board is looking for me, Steve, I’ve been drafted.” Of all the things Rick considered about leaving home, he never stopped to think he might be drafted to fight in World War II. Rick kissed Steve goodbye and stood before the draft board in Anchorage, Alaska. Rick was scared, he couldn’t tell if he shook from nerves or cold, but he was shaking a lot. From there Rick was sent to boot camp, where he sent occasional letters home asking his parents to send him odds and ends that he couldn’t afford to purchase. After boot camp Rick was sent straight to Germany where he saw and did things he never spoke of after the war. His return home was joyous for his mother, but he stayed in a steady alcohol induced state for the remainder of his life, never sharing a single thing about his experiences. He took those secrets to his grave. |
Black Kitten
| The year was 1991, and I was seventeen years old. The year was very eventful for my family, we sent a lot of family members off to heaven, and my brother and I graduated from high school and technical school. The world was moving fast and I was scrambling to keep up and understand the ending of life and the beginnings of stages in life. My first family loss was a family friend, a distant uncle, a close friend, a rock, and I reeled from the loss for a very long time. I didn’t go to Uncle Bob’s funeral; I opted out, stating I had too many responsibilities as foreperson in my tech school class. It was a poor excuse, but seemed plausible to me. The next family loss was my Aunt Ruth, I saw her one day, and Uncle Dick was taking her to the doctor, that evening we got a phone call that she passed away. This death was different, Uncle Bob had cancer, we knew he was going to die, but Aunt Ruth had a sudden, massive heart attack, we never suspected having to say goodbye to her so soon. One afternoon she was here, the same evening she was gone. Someone gave Uncle Dick a brand new black kitten to help keep him company. Shortly after that Uncle Dick wanted to head north to upstate Pennsylvania to visit with Aunt Ruth’s family, but he needed someone to watch after his new kitten. I had recently purchased a car and I needed money, Uncle Dick was willing to pay me money to come to his house in the evening to feed his cat and empty the litter box. This was a perfect set up … or was it!? I hadn’t been in Uncle Dick’s house much since I was much younger and I had only been there, maybe two times in the dark. Couple this with the fact that I was positive that Aunt Ruth returned to her house after her death in the hospital, because she passed away so quickly. So, the first night came and I drove to Uncle Dick’s house, using the key he had given me I walked into the creepy, dark, one bedroom home and carefully tripped over furniture as I felt on the wall for a light switch. I wasn’t having much luck finding a light switch in the living room, the next room on that wall was the bedroom, where I was sure Aunt Ruth lies in wait to scare the crap out of me. I avoided that room at all costs and tripped my way to the far wall. I still couldn’t find a light switch, so I headed into the kitchen, hanging onto walls and knocking things down all along the way. I imagined I was really bugging Aunt Ruth, but I just kept going, I had a responsibility to this kitten, I had to feed her before I left, no matter how scared I was. Wait, I think, I heard something… suddenly a hiss comes from about a foot above my head and something crashes onto my head hissing the entire way. I don’t know what I thought was going on, but I was scared, I swiped at my head as I screamed for help, though I don’t know who would have helped me other than my deceased Aunt Ruth! As I swatted at the thing on my head I felt claws digging into my scalp. For every shame I ever held was about to be punctuated by my simple move, I took the hissing clawing thing and threw it across the room, anywhere as long as it was away from me! That’s when I heard it … “Meow!” I returned to my place on the wall and flipped the light switch on in time to see the friendly kitten running away. The thing had been on top of the fridge and attacked me from above on the darkest night ever. I fed the cat, changed her litter, and got the hell out of there. Of course, life can’t be so easy, my car’s alternator had died and I was now forced to return to the house of fear to make a phone call for help. Oh, and that was the last time I ever stepped foot into Uncle Dick’s house. |
Mr. Officer
Rain and hail were hitting my car in one of those weird, August, West-Michigan storms. Noon time was approaching and I had to be home soon, our lunch time visit with my husband had taken a bit longer than usual. Just like the rest of society, I am on a time crunch and have got to get home!
As I went around the curve approaching the river bridge I slowed to a crawl, once out of the curve I quickly moved the odometer needle to 75 in a 35 mile per hour zone. Topping the hill, much to my dismay was a police officer lying in wait. I turned to my daughters and said, “Oops, Mom’s busted.”
I didn’t even wait for the officer to pull out; I just pulled over and waited for him to pull up to where I had finally come to a rest. I can hear my nine-year-old in the back seat whimpering in fear. My twelve and sixteen year olds are chastising me on my poor judgment; at least they did until the officer approached my window.
I opened the window just a crack so no rain or hail would come into the car. “Roll your window down, Ma’am.”
“I just did, Sir.”
“Roll it all the way down,” he yelled through the crack.
“I don’t want to ruin the interior of my car,” I said, thinking the officer would understand.
“Ma’am, roll the window all the way down.”
“Fine!” I say like a stubborn kid not getting his own way.
“Ma’am, I clocked you doing 75 in a 35. Can you tell me what the rush is?”
I give a bit of a giggle as an answer came to mind. “Well, see, Mr. Officer, my girls and I had chili for dinner last night and the beans have us all gassed up. The four of us are trapped in this airtight car, just farting like crazy. I was only trying to outrun our skid marks.”
“I fail to find any humor in this, Ma’am!”
“Oh my God, Mom,” my sixteen year old whispers, “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Ma’am, I need your license, insurance, and registration.”
I hand him all the documents as I smile with pride in my very original excuse for speeding.
“I’ll be back in a few moments,” he said, still not smiling back.
The girls and I sat silently for a few seconds before I finally spoke, “I guess I’m not as funny as I used to be.”
“Ya know, Mom, people would give you a lot more respect if you could take serious situations with less sarcasm and a lot more common sense!”
I can’t believe I’m being lectured by my sixteen year old daughter. “You know, you’re probably right, I’m going to go back to his car right now and tell him the truth.”
All three of my daughters murmured agreement so I exited the car.
“Ma’am,” the officer yelled over the rain pounding our vehicles. “Get back in your car.” I kept going. “Ma’am, I said, get back in your car!”
“But, I just want to tell you the truth,” I yelled as I continued my advancement towards him.
“Ma’am,” the officer said as he rested his hand on his gun, “get back in your car, now.
I was about three feet from him when I saw him draw his gun. I immediately raised my hands so he could see they were empty and walked backwards until I reached my car. I got in as fast as I could and all three children were crying.
“It’s okay, he didn’t shoot, and everything is fine. When he comes back with my documents I’ll tell him the truth.”
As I completed my sentence the officer returned. “Here are your documents Ma’am,” he said as he rested his hand on his gun. “Now what was so important that you almost had me shooting you?”
“Sir, I just want to tell you the truth, I wasn’t trying to outrun our skid marks. I just have to be home by noon so I can find out if I won the Writer’s Cramp writing contest on Writing dot com.”
“And you risk your children’s life for that?”
“Yes Sir. The critiquing is amazing, so even if I lose, I still win. This is a huge part of my life and I have to know how I did!”
“Ma’am, you were doing more than twice the legal speed limit for a writing contest? Please step from your vehicle.”
“Yes, Sir.” As I got out of the car I saw him pulling out his handcuffs.
“Ma’am, you have the right to shut up, but you can write down everything and enter it into a competition after you see the judge.”
“But, my kids? What about my children?”
“We’ll take care of them, you care more about your writing than you do them anyway, so it’s only fitting I tear up the ticket I wrote for you and send you to jail.”
I stood in the rain rethinking my entire stand on writing and my children. Balance is key, and slowing down so I don’t kill anyone.
As I went around the curve approaching the river bridge I slowed to a crawl, once out of the curve I quickly moved the odometer needle to 75 in a 35 mile per hour zone. Topping the hill, much to my dismay was a police officer lying in wait. I turned to my daughters and said, “Oops, Mom’s busted.”
I didn’t even wait for the officer to pull out; I just pulled over and waited for him to pull up to where I had finally come to a rest. I can hear my nine-year-old in the back seat whimpering in fear. My twelve and sixteen year olds are chastising me on my poor judgment; at least they did until the officer approached my window.
I opened the window just a crack so no rain or hail would come into the car. “Roll your window down, Ma’am.”
“I just did, Sir.”
“Roll it all the way down,” he yelled through the crack.
“I don’t want to ruin the interior of my car,” I said, thinking the officer would understand.
“Ma’am, roll the window all the way down.”
“Fine!” I say like a stubborn kid not getting his own way.
“Ma’am, I clocked you doing 75 in a 35. Can you tell me what the rush is?”
I give a bit of a giggle as an answer came to mind. “Well, see, Mr. Officer, my girls and I had chili for dinner last night and the beans have us all gassed up. The four of us are trapped in this airtight car, just farting like crazy. I was only trying to outrun our skid marks.”
“I fail to find any humor in this, Ma’am!”
“Oh my God, Mom,” my sixteen year old whispers, “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Ma’am, I need your license, insurance, and registration.”
I hand him all the documents as I smile with pride in my very original excuse for speeding.
“I’ll be back in a few moments,” he said, still not smiling back.
The girls and I sat silently for a few seconds before I finally spoke, “I guess I’m not as funny as I used to be.”
“Ya know, Mom, people would give you a lot more respect if you could take serious situations with less sarcasm and a lot more common sense!”
I can’t believe I’m being lectured by my sixteen year old daughter. “You know, you’re probably right, I’m going to go back to his car right now and tell him the truth.”
All three of my daughters murmured agreement so I exited the car.
“Ma’am,” the officer yelled over the rain pounding our vehicles. “Get back in your car.” I kept going. “Ma’am, I said, get back in your car!”
“But, I just want to tell you the truth,” I yelled as I continued my advancement towards him.
“Ma’am,” the officer said as he rested his hand on his gun, “get back in your car, now.
I was about three feet from him when I saw him draw his gun. I immediately raised my hands so he could see they were empty and walked backwards until I reached my car. I got in as fast as I could and all three children were crying.
“It’s okay, he didn’t shoot, and everything is fine. When he comes back with my documents I’ll tell him the truth.”
As I completed my sentence the officer returned. “Here are your documents Ma’am,” he said as he rested his hand on his gun. “Now what was so important that you almost had me shooting you?”
“Sir, I just want to tell you the truth, I wasn’t trying to outrun our skid marks. I just have to be home by noon so I can find out if I won the Writer’s Cramp writing contest on Writing dot com.”
“And you risk your children’s life for that?”
“Yes Sir. The critiquing is amazing, so even if I lose, I still win. This is a huge part of my life and I have to know how I did!”
“Ma’am, you were doing more than twice the legal speed limit for a writing contest? Please step from your vehicle.”
“Yes, Sir.” As I got out of the car I saw him pulling out his handcuffs.
“Ma’am, you have the right to shut up, but you can write down everything and enter it into a competition after you see the judge.”
“But, my kids? What about my children?”
“We’ll take care of them, you care more about your writing than you do them anyway, so it’s only fitting I tear up the ticket I wrote for you and send you to jail.”
I stood in the rain rethinking my entire stand on writing and my children. Balance is key, and slowing down so I don’t kill anyone.
Why, tell me why?
Children up at the crack of dawn, blaring the television, fighting for a spot in front, a kick to the groin sends one in to wake his parents.
“Mom, Junior kicked me in the privates!” he yells at the top of his lungs.
“Do you guys realize it is five o’clock in the morning?” Mom questions.
“But it hurts …”
Mom attempts to rise from her comfortable bed, only to fall out and onto the floor. “Thanks, floor, I always knew you’d be there for me when I’m at my lowest,” she said to no one in particular. Following her son out to reprimand the children and chase them back to bed.
Mom considered her predicament, this has been going on for weeks now and she needs to be creative in rectifying this situation.
Mom and Dad quietly discuss their options; after all, tomorrow is April Fool’s Day, the perfect day to get back at the children for waking them up so early and so frequently. They set the plan in motion.
That night they get all the children tucked into bed by nine o’clock and the plan begins. Once they are certain all of the children are asleep they go through the house turning clocks ahead four hours and brew a pot of coffee.
At two o’clock in the morning alarms sound for the children to prepare for school, but only Mom and Dad are awake. The alarms ring for forty-five minutes before they run into each child’s room telling them to hurry up, they are late for school.
Wearily, each child rose and began their morning routine, while Mom and Dad tied shoes, zipped coats, and cherished their morning coffee. As the children headed out to school at three o’clock Mom and Dad yelled, “April Fool’s!”
Junior looked angrily at his parent’s, “Why, tell me why…”
“We merely wanted to show you guys what it is like to be woken in the middle of the night,” Dad said as Mom snorted with laughter.
Each child went back inside, dropped everything where they stood, went back to bed and never woke their parents before six o’clock in the morning again.
“Mom, Junior kicked me in the privates!” he yells at the top of his lungs.
“Do you guys realize it is five o’clock in the morning?” Mom questions.
“But it hurts …”
Mom attempts to rise from her comfortable bed, only to fall out and onto the floor. “Thanks, floor, I always knew you’d be there for me when I’m at my lowest,” she said to no one in particular. Following her son out to reprimand the children and chase them back to bed.
Mom considered her predicament, this has been going on for weeks now and she needs to be creative in rectifying this situation.
Mom and Dad quietly discuss their options; after all, tomorrow is April Fool’s Day, the perfect day to get back at the children for waking them up so early and so frequently. They set the plan in motion.
That night they get all the children tucked into bed by nine o’clock and the plan begins. Once they are certain all of the children are asleep they go through the house turning clocks ahead four hours and brew a pot of coffee.
At two o’clock in the morning alarms sound for the children to prepare for school, but only Mom and Dad are awake. The alarms ring for forty-five minutes before they run into each child’s room telling them to hurry up, they are late for school.
Wearily, each child rose and began their morning routine, while Mom and Dad tied shoes, zipped coats, and cherished their morning coffee. As the children headed out to school at three o’clock Mom and Dad yelled, “April Fool’s!”
Junior looked angrily at his parent’s, “Why, tell me why…”
“We merely wanted to show you guys what it is like to be woken in the middle of the night,” Dad said as Mom snorted with laughter.
Each child went back inside, dropped everything where they stood, went back to bed and never woke their parents before six o’clock in the morning again.
Distant Relationship
| Ed hadn’t talked to Lisa for at least eleven months. His high school graduation and her family situation had pulled them apart. He had just finished boot camp and was home for ten days leave before being deployed to Desert Storm. He realized during boot camp how much he loves Lisa, and he needs her in his life. Now, his fingers shake as he tries to dial the right phone number, he had to see her, he just had to. Lisa answered the phone, shocked to hear Ed’s voice on the other end of the wire. “Hi, Ed.” She wanted to hide the quiver in her voice, but she didn’t do a good job. “Lisa, I’m home, but I only have a few days left before I leave. Can I see you?” Lisa opened her bedroom door, curious to her mother’s location within the home. “Ed, I don’t think I can, my mom would be furious if she knew I met up with any boy. I don’t think this is a good idea.” “Geez, you’re seventeen, about to graduate, when will she stop being over protective of you? Please, honey, please, I need to see you. I have missed you so much; I just want to see you one more time.” “Alright, when?” “I can be at your house in fifteen minutes.” “Oh no, Mother would freak, Ed! I will sneak off and meet you in the park in half an hour. Okay?” “I don’t understand the need for secrecy, but I will do anything just to see you. At the park in half an hour, right?” “Yes, I’ll see you then.” They hung up the phone and Lisa began to put an impromptu plan together. “Mom?” she hollered out, I’m going to Kathy’s house; I’ll be back by dinner time.” She didn’t hear her mother respond, but she didn’t really hang around either, she knew her mother would question her until she got the truth, and then Lisa would never be able to see Ed. Lisa walked a little less than a mile to get to the park, as she walked through the playground she saw Ed, standing against his car, as she began to sprint she realized her true love for him. She ran to him and snuggled into his familiar hug, tears of happiness for his remembered scent; she looked up at him and stole a kiss, remembering the softness of his tender lips. Ed and Lisa stood that way for a short time, then he pulled away to look into her precious green eyes. “Lisa, I’m leaving for Desert Storm in three days, I don’t know how long I’m going to be gone, I can’t stand being separated from you, I’ve missed you so much. Will you write to me while I’m deployed?” “Ed, I can’t, my mother …” “I was afraid you would say that, but I need you, honey, I’ll take you home right now and tell your mom how much I love you and how we just want to write letters back and forth while I’m gone.” “I can’t, we can’t, Mother would not be happy with me. I know you think she is over protective, but I need a place to live and she always says, ‘If you are going to live under my roof, you’re going to live by my rules’. Her rules are no boys, none, I don’t think she will care if you are off fighting for our country. I’m sorry, Ed, but I can’t write to you.” “Okay, I can accept that, but when I come home I’m going to call, by then you will be old enough to make your own decisions. Until we meet again, please, please know that I will always love you.” “Ed, I love you too, and I can’t wait to hear from you again.” Ed watched as Lisa walked away, knowing his heart had been touched by love, he might never see her again, but he would always love her. As Lisa walked away, she looked over her shoulder for one more look at the man she loves and always will. |
Finding the Lost Boys
| Father and I are now proud owners of an abandon boy’s school in Florida, my job, to clean the little white house behind the main building. The building itself was built of cement blocks painted white, but the interior of the building was disgusting; full of what appeared to be coagulated blood, long ago dried and left as a gift for me to find. When we toured the property the real estate agent refused to walk us through the forest, and claimed she didn’t have a key for the little white house. Our gruesome discoveries of eighteen grave markers in the woods and dried blood in the white house left us feeling quite disturbed. So many thoughts ran through my mind as I knelt on hands and knees scrubbing the floor. Maybe this building was used for butchering of meat to feed the reform school boys. Yes, that must be it, there is no other sane explanation for the amount of blood I am crawling through and scrubbing at. I hear a squeaking noise coming from about three feet behind me. I spin around on my knees and the squeaking stops. Returning to my duty I hear the squeaking again. It must be the smell of bleach and the creepy surroundings getting to me, and so, I continue to scrub. I’m putting a bit more elbow grease into the task; I’m in such a hurry to get done. I’m working on a three foot square area and my arms are almost numb for the work I’ve done so far. The squeaking is still going on, with an occasional thump followed by more squeaking in a rhythmic style. Deciding I’ve had enough bleach killing off my brain cells I turn to step outside, but my path was blocked. There stood a group of young boys, and as I turned I saw the cause for the thumping noise as a boy shut the trap door I hadn’t even noticed until now. I stumbled backwards, through the bleach and blood I had just been scrubbing. “Wh … what are you doing here?” I ask with obvious fear. All of the boys yell out, “We are here to pay you back.” “For what?” Now, I’m horribly confused as I mentally count the wrongs I’ve done in my lifetime and search the boy’s faces for familiarity. The trap door opens again and another boy joins the crowd. “You let us die,” they say. Suddenly the boys circle around me, clasping hands with each other they chant, “We are here, we are here, we will haunt you ‘til you listen.” This is no joke, I realize as I take note of the transparency of each boy. They are ghosts and they will haunt me. My body quivers and I tearfully tell them that I will listen. One boy, he appears to be the leader, steps out of the circle and closer to me, I feel for the wall behind me and realize that the wall is no longer there, hasn’t been there since the boys gathered into their circle. I step back, looking over my shoulder for the wall when I feel a cold chill and realize I have touched two of the entities. I couldn’t help myself; I scream as loud as possible, “HELP! Help me please.” The boys guffaw at the thought of me asking for help. “We tried that, each of us, many years ago, when our teachers were beating us to death, but no one listens to the sounds from the white house,” the leader smirks as he speaks his words. The entire group steps closer to me, and the leader speaks again, “We were killed here, and no one knows, they think we ran away. It is up to you to seek justice on our behalf. We were bad, we ran away, we smoked cigarettes, we robbed stores, but none of us deserved to die at such a young age.” I know they will never let me go, until I agree, so I do. “Yes, yes, I will help you,” my voice quakes out. The entities began to dance around me as they chanted, “Justice for us, Harem House is going down!” With that, one of the entities opens the trap door and all fifty or so boys are swooped into the chute, I run out of the building silently swearing I will never return there, and realizing it was their blood I had been kneeling in. As I run around the main building of the school I find the gas can Dad was using for the mower, I had a fleeting thought of burning the building down, but the boys already lived a life of hell, it’s up to me to make sure they get justice and see their way to Heaven. |
Everything I Ever Needed to Know
| Everything I ever needed to know about my children’s education I learned from Pop Leary. How can that be when he died more than twenty years before my birth? Through the stories my father shares: Pop was a hard labor sort of man, as the story goes, he kept his boys busy with chores, but not just any chores, they had real chores. At one point, Pop bought a house that had burned to the ground in a hellacious fire. The boys dug all of the rubble out of the basement, then Pop helped them build a roof over the basement and it became their home, they called it the “hole in the ground.” One may think, after all of that work, they have a home, so all is well, but Pop wasn’t done yet. He bought a cinder block maker and every day the boys came home from school to make blocks. When enough blocks were made Pop would jack up the roof of the house and the boys would add a layer of blocks to the basement. This process was repeated until they added a first floor onto the hole in the ground. There was another time that the family moved, Pop bought a horse carriage, but not the horse, they loaded up the carriage and the boys pulled the carriage to their new home. Again, the process was repeated until the job was done. What does all of this have to do with education? Well, my father would come home from school with a mountain of books claiming he had a ton of homework, thus avoiding the hard labor his brothers endured. Not only was he intelligent enough to think of this, but his constant “homework” made him even more intelligent. Here’s the thing though, maybe Pop assigned that hard work hoping all the children would respond like my dad did. What makes you say that? I just got done having an hour long conversation with one of my children about missing assignments in several classes. No doubt, she’s a smart cookie, but chooses not to do the work. I told her what Pop did with his children and she said, “If I had to do all that when I got home from school I’d bring home a ton of homework too!” Bring on the cinder block maker; my daughter is going to build us a house! |
Death Doth Not Separate
December 21, 2012 today is the eleventh anniversary of my husband’s death. I suppose I should feel sad, maybe some grief, or some other sort of emotions, but I feel free. I probably shouldn’t say this aloud, but it’s true. It’s been my secret for eleven years now, the best day of my life was the day he passed away. I’m sure you’re curious; how can a young woman say such things about a man that has passed away. Well, the secret gets a bit deeper than my freedom. My husband was very abusive, I was thinking about leaving him when he was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. Just like any normal abusive person, like the bully he was, he blamed me for cooking his meals the wrong way, for not exercising with him, for denying him a healthy lifestyle. His health was so bad and he made me feel so guilty that I stayed and when he passed away, so did our secret of the constant beatings. I pretended to grieve, but really, I was celebrating, though a bit lost … what’s a domestic violence survivor supposed to do with a sudden onslaught of freedom?
Every year, for the past ten years, I’ve come here, to his grave, with eight watermelon wine coolers and my dancing shoes. I sit and write about everything I have done with my freedom in the past year, drink, dance, drink some more, and dance some more. Right now I’m so drunk I’m having trouble writing, I will never be able to decipher this later, but I don’t care, I’m partying.
Drunk, so drunk, can hardly dance, but I’m gonna stagger out the two-step, just me and my wine cooler. Freedom, lovely freedom.
And that is where my journal entry ends and sobriety begins. There is nothing more sobering than dancing on your dead husband’s grave and suddenly being pulled down. I knew I was drunk, but I was plastered to the ground, someone was holding me down. And then, I heard it, he was laughing his evil laugh, suddenly my husband rose from the grave. I puked up all the wine coolers I had drank when I smelled the scent of eleven years of decay. I tried to run, but he held me down, his evil laugh ringing in my ears.
I squirmed and kicked until I was able to grab the last two wine coolers and beat his head as it rose from the grave. SMACK! The bottles broke open and still, his evil laugh rang in my ears. He reached out and grabbed me by the throat with his hand, he held fast as I continued to squirm. Then his arm came off, still attached to my neck, but detached from his body. I released the grasp from my throat and used his own arm to beat him back into his grave. I felt a great satisfaction of seeing him to the grave two times, but I was scared, so I began to run.
It was then that I realized all of the graves were open, the Zombie Apocalypse really did occur, but like all bullies, they ignore those that have great confidence in themselves.
Every year, for the past ten years, I’ve come here, to his grave, with eight watermelon wine coolers and my dancing shoes. I sit and write about everything I have done with my freedom in the past year, drink, dance, drink some more, and dance some more. Right now I’m so drunk I’m having trouble writing, I will never be able to decipher this later, but I don’t care, I’m partying.
Drunk, so drunk, can hardly dance, but I’m gonna stagger out the two-step, just me and my wine cooler. Freedom, lovely freedom.
And that is where my journal entry ends and sobriety begins. There is nothing more sobering than dancing on your dead husband’s grave and suddenly being pulled down. I knew I was drunk, but I was plastered to the ground, someone was holding me down. And then, I heard it, he was laughing his evil laugh, suddenly my husband rose from the grave. I puked up all the wine coolers I had drank when I smelled the scent of eleven years of decay. I tried to run, but he held me down, his evil laugh ringing in my ears.
I squirmed and kicked until I was able to grab the last two wine coolers and beat his head as it rose from the grave. SMACK! The bottles broke open and still, his evil laugh rang in my ears. He reached out and grabbed me by the throat with his hand, he held fast as I continued to squirm. Then his arm came off, still attached to my neck, but detached from his body. I released the grasp from my throat and used his own arm to beat him back into his grave. I felt a great satisfaction of seeing him to the grave two times, but I was scared, so I began to run.
It was then that I realized all of the graves were open, the Zombie Apocalypse really did occur, but like all bullies, they ignore those that have great confidence in themselves.
A Parent's Boot Camp Graduation Story
| Day One We have just landed in San Diego, California, and the first thing my husband and I notice is the vast amount of smoking areas available to us. This is far different from the recent ban on smoking in Michigan, which even includes no smoking in bars and taverns. We realize we just landed in nicotine heaven. There is one problem, we are running low on cigarettes, and as a matter of economy had made the decision not to rent a vehicle. Currently, we are smoking the last of our cigarettes as we wait for a shuttle bus to pick us up and deposit us at the motel we will be staying at for the next four days. The bus picks us up and our luggage is carefully loaded into a compartment in the rear of the bus. As we move along we are watching the occasional palm tree scoot passed the window. It seems the palm trees are moving, because the bus is at a slow crawl through rush hour traffic and construction. Our scenery also includes highway, interstate, and, uh, no place to buy cigarettes. Our nicotine habits have just been dealt a devastating blow, we can smoke just about any place, but we can’t find any place to purchase them. We arrive at the motel, it is noon and we can’t check in until three, though they did offer to lock our luggage away for the three hours so we could venture around town. Cautiously we head toward the direction our GPS says we can purchase cigarettes. We walk for about five miles before we find a gas station that sells the habit sticks. Quickly we purchase a lot of cigarettes and some water to replace the electrolytes we had sweated out under the hot California sun. As we make our trip back to the motel we discover we walked in several circles and what was actually a two mile walk, GPS had led us on a five mile adventure. We don’t care though, as we suck down water and nicotine, though our feet are a bit tired. Returning to the motel we retrieve our luggage and locate our room on the vast complex of swimming pools, hot tubs, and palm trees. A bit of rest and off to the pool we go, Chris and Jenalee are swimming and I, of course, am fully engrossed in a book. Tomorrow we will see Aiden for the first time in thirteen weeks. Day Two The alarm rings way too late for us, as we are still trying to adjust to the three hour time difference. Breakfast is at nine in the morning California time, which is noon our time. Hunger has struck and we are still waiting for the shuttle to take us to base. Many other people are waiting for the same shuttle, they also have boys that have spent the past thirteen weeks in boot camp, and we are all eager to see the children that left us as kids and to become Marines. Shuttle bus is finally here, more traffic, even at this early hour and lots of waiting. We get to base and everyone is required to exit the bus so that our identification can be scanned. To my right stands a Military Police (MP) Officer with a very mean looking German Shepard dog standing at attention. I’m no good at identifying guns, so I’m not sure what he is holding over his shoulder, but it is quite intimidating. I feel a sense of peace, and anxiousness as we return to the bus. Peace, as if I’m sitting behind bullet proof glass that will save me in case of a misfire, yet anxiousness because I know I’m not really safe from a misfire as the glass is so thin. After ceremonies, tours, and detailed instructions we are finally able to see our Marine. He’s a bit bulkier we note as we pick him out of a crowd of like dressed men. His hair a bit shorter, his glasses, though different from the one’s he left home with, not as ugly as the birth control glasses (BCGs) we were expecting. Moving forward we scream his name, just one name of a thousand being screamed. He steps forward and we cry as we grieve the loss of our little boy and eagerly greet the man he has become. “Well, Son,” Chris says, “what do you want to do first?” “I don’t know, I’ve never been allowed past those walls over there, I don’t know what the rest of the base looks like.” As a family we agree that food is first, Aiden is most excited to see something that resembles food and the possibility of having more than five minutes to eat a meal has him nearly jumping with glee. We walk to the base mall, where he spies pizza, “Oh my God,” he exclaims, “I’ve not had pizza in so long.” “Pizza it is,” I say, stepping into the line of other families gushing over the changes in their boys. We watch him as he carefully removes his cover from his head; places it on his lap and chows down as if someone might steal his food at any moment. He stuffs himself to near bursting capacity, and then heads to the general store where he loads his belly full of trail mixes and anything else that looks remotely edible. Day Three Graduation is upon us and we eagerly await the shuttle to take us to base. Seating for graduation ceremonies begins at 9:45 and ends at 10 when the ceremony begins. It will be a couple of hours before we need to be in the stands at the Parade Deck, so we head to breakfast, then a walk through the mall. We are still about thirty minutes early when we are ready to take our seats, so we head to the stands expecting to have to line up and wait to be seated. Were we shocked when we discovered that seats were no longer available? Though there seemed to be some empty seats, when we headed toward them someone would inevitably say, “This seat is taken.” “I’m saving this seat for my wife.” “Sorry, my camera stuff is here.” Overwhelmed with frustration tears sprang from my eyes, this only served to make my husband angry. We left the stands and I was willing to watch the ceremonies from the distant end of the deck. Jenalee, ever the brave one went to another Platoon and asked if we could sit with them. Kindly, they scooted over and made room for us on the bleachers. From our new found seats we strained our necks around other platoons to see our son graduate from boot camp. We cheered for Platoon 3225, our son’s platoon and for Platoon 3226, those kind enough to accept that we are all here for the same reason, to see our boys become Marines. When the ceremonies were complete we quickly gathered our Marine and all of his gear and headed back to wait for the shuttle to take us back to the motel. Once there we decided to take Aiden to see some of the sights that our long trip had taken us past, the most important being the outdoor mall. And our walk began, but we couldn’t leave Aiden without food for even a few minutes. Ever the creative one he took his sister’s purse, hung it around his neck like a feed bag and slipped his bags of trail mix inside. We walked the streets of San Diego with our long missed son, in civilian clothing for the first time in thirteen weeks, but his new haircut gave away his status, he’s a Marine. People drove by us, laughing, as if they knew we were from Michigan and only we would be dumb enough to walk in the hot April sun. After being laughed at for most of our two mile walk I looked behind me and there was Aiden, shoveling trail mix into his mouth as if he had been starved. The “feed bag” dangling around his neck, shivered with convulsions as his hands piled in and grabbed more food. No wonder people were laughing at us, we no longer have a boy, we have a hungry Marine with a bottomless stomach. Day Four We were awake even before the shuttle driver, unlike most, I had not slept much. I was awakened by a demonic voice coming from my once angelic infant son … “Sir, yes Sir, One-Two-Three-Four,” he yelled out in his sleep. It was a voice I had never heard, though I have no reason to fear my son, I had the sudden realization that he now has the potential to be a killing machine for this great country. Some will understand the sacrifices he has made, but some will never get it. Some will get that we have given our son to defend our nation, and again, some will never get it. No matter his strength, or his abilities, he will always be our son. Now, if only the taxi would hurry and find us, take us home so we can enjoy ten days of catching up. |
Home for the Holidays
After spending several days pouring over maps and schedules I decided my cheapest ticket home for the holidays was to have no ticket at all. Airfare is way too expensive for me, rental car will cost about the same, and it will take me two days to get home via bus. There is only one way home, and that is to hop a train. What about a ticket? Who needs a ticket, those are for wimps.
I left home with nothing more than a few tens in my front pocket and the clothes on my back. Parking my car at my sister’s house I watched as the train slowed for the intersection ahead. You can do this, I thought. It’s just like high school track, clear the hurdle and you’re home free.
There were three empty cars with their doors open. I rushed from the forest on the North-West side of the tracks. The closer I got the slower the train went, just as I made it to the edge of the forest I saw the conductor poke his head out of the window, looking to the South for oncoming traffic. With one courageous leap I was on the train. In the darkness I couldn’t see the other person, but I could smell several weeks’ worth of body odor tearing through my nostrils and forcing my gag reflex into action. I tried to hold it back, but it was no use, turning around I leaned my head out of the freight car and tossed my night’s dinner all over the side of the train. It seemed as if I puked for miles, but my car-mate was extremely nice about the entire situation.
Pulling my head back into the car he said, “Motion sickness, eh?”
“Yes, I get sick quite easily,” I said as I pulled my sweat jacket up over my nose and mouth.
“That ain’t gonna help, what helps is to take your mind off the ridin’. Let me tell you a story:”
“My son, he just graduated from Boot Camp, I’m gonna see him for the holidays.” Pulling a flask out of his jacket pocket he tipped his head back and took a swig or two before offering me some.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Vodka, you’re gonna need a lot of this to get you home. Where you headed anyway?”
“Philadelphia,” I told him as I reached for the flask and against the olfactory sense took a nip of the burning liquid.
“Warms the soul, don’t it?” he asked me.
“Mm,” I responded.
“So, my son, he just finished Boot Camp.”
“What branch?”
“He’s a Marine,” the man said. “I’m headed to his graduation. Ain’t seen him in two years, though it feels like a hundred. I’m gonna surprise the young’un and his Mama too. She don’t know I’m headed that way.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I haven’t been home for a few years, just can’t afford it, that’s why I decided to travel this way.”
“I can tell, you’re a newbie, too clean to be doin’ this for a livin’. My son, he don’t approve of this here means of life. Thinks I’m worthless, but I’m gonna show him, remind him where he done come from. His mama been talking crap ‘bout me his entire life. I’m gonna prove I ain’t all that she done told him. Gonna ride this here train all the way through to South Carolina, then I’m gonna clean up in the river, runs right behin’ their house. I’m gonna knock on the door and they’s gonna say, ‘Holy crap, he ain’t dead after all.’ I’m gonna show dat boy my battle scars, all that I’ve been through, a Vietnam Veteran and years on the rail, he’s gonna find out his Daddy ain’t no deadbeat.”
“Wow, South Carolina, that’s a long way!”
“Maybe so, but worth the trip,” he said as he placed his lips on his flask and drew another nip. “That boy o’ mine ain’t gonna know what hit him when I sit him down and tell him all the lies his mama done told him. And the government, I fought for this country and they don’t offer nothin’ for bein’ homeless. They done say I need a permanent address to receive services. Hello, homeless, no address, what the hell are they thinking anyway?”
“I’m not sure,” I said as I felt the train begin to slow; I crawled to the gaping opening of the freight car, feeling the need to puke. Tossing the last of my stomach’s contents I sat back and the man spoke from the darkness again.
“Eh, dat there stomach ain’t made for life on the rail.”
“No, not really. I think I’m on empty now. Can you tell me more? What was it like in Vietnam?”
“Nasty. Ain’t a damn American that understands what dat war stood for. Blamin’ us soldiers for fightin’ for a cause. We fought ‘cause we was ordered too. Do you think we enjoy dat fightin’?”
It was a rhetorical question and somehow I just knew I better not answer.
“Watchin’ people, innocent people done bein’ hurt for no reason other than we were train to kill the enemy. Ain’t no enemy in a seven year old girl, but those damn Gooks, had little girl’s carryin’ ‘gernades in you know where. We ain’t have a choice but to kill dem all, ‘cause we had no way of knowin’.”
“Wow!” I said, only half believing him.
He tipped his head back, with his flask close to his lips, he wasn’t nipping at the flask anymore, he was chugging. The stranger pulled another bottle out of his sack, which was sitting close by, and filled the flask again. The sun was shining into the car now and I could see my new friend was missing several front teeth and he was extremely unkempt. He seemed to have a nervous habit of pulling at his long beard. If he had been a bit cleaner and a lot heavier I would have described him as a Santa look-alike with his long beard and rosy cheeks.
Suddenly he rose his voice, startling me, “Ya ain’t believin’ what I have ta say about the war is ya?”
“I believe you,” I lied. “I just never heard it told like that.”
“Yup, it’s da way it was. We wasn’t killin’ just to kill, like all those peace lovin’ hippies thought, we was killin’ to stay alive. Mighta been some innocents we done had to kill, but we ain’t know who was holdin’ a ‘gernade in their body and who ain’t holdin’, so they all had to go. ‘Very damn one of dem was the enemy. Worse, when we came home we was spit on, cussed at, damn draft jumpers comin’ back from Canada and spittin’ on us for stayin’ alive. Dat’s all we was doin’, fightin’ for our life. When you sick, you go to da doctor, when you at war you fight like hell. Some us made it home, but ain’t all us so lucky, or unlucky. I done came home to a war of another kin’, my first wife done left me, I got a place o’ my own and the neighbor’s, dem son bitches, they done egged my house, busted up windows, all sorts of shit. Dat’s da truth. Dat’s why I ain’t want no permanent address. I fought da war over da sea, now I fight da war on my own turf. Ain’t nuthin’ worse than being called a ‘kiddie killer’ ain’t nuthin’ worse than dat.”
My new friend must have talked for hours, because it seemed like he just started talking and it was time for me to jump train and wait for the next one. I was sorry to go, sorry to see him left in such a mess. “I hope your son enjoys your visit,” I said, but secretly, I knew it was going to be an intrusion in his son’s life.
I looked at my new friend, “What’s your name, anyway?”
“In dis life, ain’t no one got a name, we just faceless Veteran’s.”
I left it at that, as I leapt from the train, and rolled down the hill away from the tracks. I came to a stop at the bottom of the hill, I crawled forward and waited at the edge of a new forest for an East bound train.
I left home with nothing more than a few tens in my front pocket and the clothes on my back. Parking my car at my sister’s house I watched as the train slowed for the intersection ahead. You can do this, I thought. It’s just like high school track, clear the hurdle and you’re home free.
There were three empty cars with their doors open. I rushed from the forest on the North-West side of the tracks. The closer I got the slower the train went, just as I made it to the edge of the forest I saw the conductor poke his head out of the window, looking to the South for oncoming traffic. With one courageous leap I was on the train. In the darkness I couldn’t see the other person, but I could smell several weeks’ worth of body odor tearing through my nostrils and forcing my gag reflex into action. I tried to hold it back, but it was no use, turning around I leaned my head out of the freight car and tossed my night’s dinner all over the side of the train. It seemed as if I puked for miles, but my car-mate was extremely nice about the entire situation.
Pulling my head back into the car he said, “Motion sickness, eh?”
“Yes, I get sick quite easily,” I said as I pulled my sweat jacket up over my nose and mouth.
“That ain’t gonna help, what helps is to take your mind off the ridin’. Let me tell you a story:”
“My son, he just graduated from Boot Camp, I’m gonna see him for the holidays.” Pulling a flask out of his jacket pocket he tipped his head back and took a swig or two before offering me some.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Vodka, you’re gonna need a lot of this to get you home. Where you headed anyway?”
“Philadelphia,” I told him as I reached for the flask and against the olfactory sense took a nip of the burning liquid.
“Warms the soul, don’t it?” he asked me.
“Mm,” I responded.
“So, my son, he just finished Boot Camp.”
“What branch?”
“He’s a Marine,” the man said. “I’m headed to his graduation. Ain’t seen him in two years, though it feels like a hundred. I’m gonna surprise the young’un and his Mama too. She don’t know I’m headed that way.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I haven’t been home for a few years, just can’t afford it, that’s why I decided to travel this way.”
“I can tell, you’re a newbie, too clean to be doin’ this for a livin’. My son, he don’t approve of this here means of life. Thinks I’m worthless, but I’m gonna show him, remind him where he done come from. His mama been talking crap ‘bout me his entire life. I’m gonna prove I ain’t all that she done told him. Gonna ride this here train all the way through to South Carolina, then I’m gonna clean up in the river, runs right behin’ their house. I’m gonna knock on the door and they’s gonna say, ‘Holy crap, he ain’t dead after all.’ I’m gonna show dat boy my battle scars, all that I’ve been through, a Vietnam Veteran and years on the rail, he’s gonna find out his Daddy ain’t no deadbeat.”
“Wow, South Carolina, that’s a long way!”
“Maybe so, but worth the trip,” he said as he placed his lips on his flask and drew another nip. “That boy o’ mine ain’t gonna know what hit him when I sit him down and tell him all the lies his mama done told him. And the government, I fought for this country and they don’t offer nothin’ for bein’ homeless. They done say I need a permanent address to receive services. Hello, homeless, no address, what the hell are they thinking anyway?”
“I’m not sure,” I said as I felt the train begin to slow; I crawled to the gaping opening of the freight car, feeling the need to puke. Tossing the last of my stomach’s contents I sat back and the man spoke from the darkness again.
“Eh, dat there stomach ain’t made for life on the rail.”
“No, not really. I think I’m on empty now. Can you tell me more? What was it like in Vietnam?”
“Nasty. Ain’t a damn American that understands what dat war stood for. Blamin’ us soldiers for fightin’ for a cause. We fought ‘cause we was ordered too. Do you think we enjoy dat fightin’?”
It was a rhetorical question and somehow I just knew I better not answer.
“Watchin’ people, innocent people done bein’ hurt for no reason other than we were train to kill the enemy. Ain’t no enemy in a seven year old girl, but those damn Gooks, had little girl’s carryin’ ‘gernades in you know where. We ain’t have a choice but to kill dem all, ‘cause we had no way of knowin’.”
“Wow!” I said, only half believing him.
He tipped his head back, with his flask close to his lips, he wasn’t nipping at the flask anymore, he was chugging. The stranger pulled another bottle out of his sack, which was sitting close by, and filled the flask again. The sun was shining into the car now and I could see my new friend was missing several front teeth and he was extremely unkempt. He seemed to have a nervous habit of pulling at his long beard. If he had been a bit cleaner and a lot heavier I would have described him as a Santa look-alike with his long beard and rosy cheeks.
Suddenly he rose his voice, startling me, “Ya ain’t believin’ what I have ta say about the war is ya?”
“I believe you,” I lied. “I just never heard it told like that.”
“Yup, it’s da way it was. We wasn’t killin’ just to kill, like all those peace lovin’ hippies thought, we was killin’ to stay alive. Mighta been some innocents we done had to kill, but we ain’t know who was holdin’ a ‘gernade in their body and who ain’t holdin’, so they all had to go. ‘Very damn one of dem was the enemy. Worse, when we came home we was spit on, cussed at, damn draft jumpers comin’ back from Canada and spittin’ on us for stayin’ alive. Dat’s all we was doin’, fightin’ for our life. When you sick, you go to da doctor, when you at war you fight like hell. Some us made it home, but ain’t all us so lucky, or unlucky. I done came home to a war of another kin’, my first wife done left me, I got a place o’ my own and the neighbor’s, dem son bitches, they done egged my house, busted up windows, all sorts of shit. Dat’s da truth. Dat’s why I ain’t want no permanent address. I fought da war over da sea, now I fight da war on my own turf. Ain’t nuthin’ worse than being called a ‘kiddie killer’ ain’t nuthin’ worse than dat.”
My new friend must have talked for hours, because it seemed like he just started talking and it was time for me to jump train and wait for the next one. I was sorry to go, sorry to see him left in such a mess. “I hope your son enjoys your visit,” I said, but secretly, I knew it was going to be an intrusion in his son’s life.
I looked at my new friend, “What’s your name, anyway?”
“In dis life, ain’t no one got a name, we just faceless Veteran’s.”
I left it at that, as I leapt from the train, and rolled down the hill away from the tracks. I came to a stop at the bottom of the hill, I crawled forward and waited at the edge of a new forest for an East bound train.
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