Saturday, July 31, 2010

Sunday, 8/1/10 - Ration

"You don't look happy."

"I'm not."

"Anything I can do?"

"Lend me some of your happiness."

"Sorry, I have plans for all of my happiness."

"I'm not in your plans?"

"You were but I am not hanging around if you can't be happy. It's easier to find someone who can."

"Well, that's really selfish."

"I'm selfish? Where were you when you were happy? You didn't come around or invite me out to enjoy those times. Now that you're down, you come around here hoping for some of my happiness. You might want to think about who is being selfish."

They look at one another: only one of them smiling.

"Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault. You do this all the time and if I wasn't so happy I would be upset with you."

"So, you're not going to help me out?"

"No, I'm not. Besides, I really have to get going, a bunch of us are headed out for some fun tonight... I would ask you to come but you wouldn't have a good time."

"Yeah, thanks anyway."

"Hey, it's not my fault. The government gives us each the same amount of happiness each month. You really should learn to ration."

Friday, July 30, 2010

Saturday, 7/31/10 - The Story

"How dare you?" It had been a bad day and from the sound of her voice on the phone it was about to get a whole lot worse. "You bastard!"

"Den, what's the matter?"

"Don't you whats-the-matter me - as if you didn't know! How could you?"

"It's the story, isn't it?"

She mimicked him in an accusing falsetto, "It's the story isn't it?" Then, as if all of the air had gone out of her, she whispered, "How could you?"

"Den, it's not about you."

He hadn't finished before she started, "Debi? You named the bitch in the story Debi. Odd coincidence that my name just happens to be Deni -- one letter -- very inventive!"

"Deni..."

"Oh, so now I'm 'Deni', huh? Don't you mean Debi?"

He could hear her on the other end of the phone slamming things down. Nothing had shattered yet but that was probably because she was calling from her home phone and the things within reach of her desk were not fragile.

"Do you know how I found out? Do you?" He left the question alone. "My mother - the woman you said that you liked so much - called me in tears wondering what she had done to deserve to be called a 'three headed dog'. You called my mother a dog!"

"Den, it's just a story. It's not about you or your mother or anyone. It's fiction!"

Again, she mimicked him, "'It's fiction.' If it's just fiction then why use my name and why include my episode with the new blue dress?"

"I just picked a name for the character. OK, it was a bad choice but it had nothing to do with you. And what episode are you talking about? What blue dress?"

"You made fun of me buying that dress on eBay. I like that dress and it was a bargain!"

"There was nothing in that story about eBay or a dress."

"Oh, you were smarter than that, you disguised it as a teapot but I knew what you were talking about."

A couple of best sellers had piqued public interest in anything he wrote. His publisher had been looking for ways to capitalize on his instant notoriety and strongly suggested that he contribute one story to the syndicated literary column called 'Shorts'. He had reluctantly agreed.

His short had been published this morning in all of the major papers and on several well-read websites.



The story hadn't been out for an hour before his phone had started ringing. His first call, before 6am, was from his neighbor.

"Do you know who called me at six o'clock this morning to complain about this story? Jack. My neighbor, Jack. Do you know what he said between all of the expletives? He said that he was going to sue me for telling the world that he skinny dips every morning. He accused me of watching him. You've seen Jack; he's easily 350 pounds. Why would I wake up early to sneak through the yard and peek at him? But you want to know what's worse? You read the story, there's no skinny dipping in the story! There's no pool, no lake, no bathtub. Heck, there's no water in the story - it's set in a desert! Where he got that from, I don't know."

"You just made that up about Jack. He never called you!"

"No, I didn't make it up, he did call. And, do you know what happened when I went out for breakfast? Emily refused to serve me. She asked why, if I hated their establishment so much, did I bother to eat there. Couldn't get a haircut either because Carl thought the story was about him. The cashier at the grocery looked right through me."

"Well, that's what you get when you write bad things about people. I hope you're happy Mr. I-got-a-book-on-the-NY-Times-bestseller-list."

"Deni, the story wasn't about you. It wasn't about Jack or the waitress or the barber or the cashier."

"So, then, who was it about?"

"Me. The story was about me."

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Friday, 7/30/10 - Shopping

From the way she looked straight ahead while walking past his window, Adam knew that she wasn't ready.

Three, he thought, they always enter on three. Adam knew how people behaved; in this business, you learned a lot about people. Understanding them was just part of the job.

Part of that understanding was used to design this shop. The first thing he needed was the right location - close enough to be convenient but far enough away to afford some privacy. To be able to afford his services, clients had to be wealthy - very wealthy - but he only opened shops in the worst neighborhoods.

The woman passing by was dressed too well for this neighborhood. She could be here for no other reason than to visit his shop. She was just building up enough nerve to enter.

Adam looks out through the shop window and up at the sky set ablaze by the setting sun.



The bells on the shop door tinkle as she enters. As anticipated, she entered only after having walked by twice.

Adam greeted her warmly looking toward her face but not directly at it. People found eye-contact too aggressive. He watched as she glanced around the shop casually, often over her shoulder as if she had seen all of this before and she was just browsing.

She will tell me that she is shopping for a friend, he thought, they are always shopping for a friend. "How may I help you, today?" he asked as she picked up a small display model.

She continued to look at the model, turning it over in her hands as she answered, "I'm just looking right now," she said then hastily added, "for a friend."

She is not ready. He knows it and rather than offer his services, he gives her some more time. "Feel free to browse around. Take your time. If you have any questions, I will be right over here." He returns to his stool behind the counter and starts sorting through a stack of papers - the same stack of papers he sorts through with every nervous customer.

She returns the model to the shelf and continues browsing.

There are no prices on anything in the shop. Everything displayed is a simulation, their only purpose is to provide people with something to look at while they get comfortable enough to tell him what they want.

Six, he thinks glancing at his watch, it will take her six minutes to open up. He continues sorting papers.

"Excuse me, what is the price of a new one?"

He checks his watch as he puts two more papers in one of the sorted stacks. Seven minutes. Off by a whole minute. Damn.

He explains that the cost of a new one is prohibitively expensive and not at all necessary as he has the ability to repair any damage on the one her friend already owns. Pulling out a large black binder and placing it on the counter in front of her he offers to show her his three most popular services. She moves closer as he opens the book, flips forward a few pages then turns the book around to face her.

He points, "Our basic service is a complete cleaning and buffing. This is appropriate if your friend is not overweight, does not smoke or drink and has lived well, for example, your friend would have no criminal record.

"Our next level adds minor ding, dent and scratch repair to the basic service. This level does not include replacement of any parts." He pauses to allow her time to view the list of examples in the book.

He flips the page. "Our premium service is comprehensive. It includes all of the features in our basic and mid-level plans plus any replacement parts that are required. Unlike warranty service that only replaces parts that are defective, our service will replace all affected parts including those that are damaged through improper use, neglect or through normal wear and tear."

Again, he pauses to allow her to run her finger down the long list of covered items. "All levels come with a complete inspection guarantee. If, after repairs are complete, you fail an inspection, we will either complete the repairs necessary for you to pass the inspection or we will refund your complete purchase amount. And, I must tell you that we have been in business forever and have never had a complaint. I am not aware of even one failed inspection."

She is still not ready but he can see a man on his first pass by the shop. Rather than try to convince her to buy today, he will let her leave and think about it on her own time. She will be back. In the meantime, he will be able to work with the man that will soon be entering.

"If you tell me about your friend, I am sure we can choose the right service for them."

"Well, I'm not sure this is the right gift. I am just going to think about it for a while before I decide."

"That's fine. If I can be of any assistance," he hands her a business card, "just give me a call at that number."

She thanks him and looks at the card before putting it in her purse.

Adam's Soul Repair
Established in the beginning.

All work done on premises.

100% Money Back Guarantee


The bells on the shop door tinkle as she exits

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Thursday, 7/29/10 - Pumping Gas




Swipe



Credit.



Huh? I didn't have a pet...

Ummm....



No, I don't want more time.

I'll just press

'NO'.



How do I answer that?

Maybe I just type in

'N-O-N-E'.



I didn't have a pet!

I had allergies.

I did have a goldfish.

But nobody names their goldfish!!

OK, how about

'G-O-L-D-F-I-S-H'?



No!!!

I just want gas!

'YES'.



What????

I have no wife.

No first wife,
no second wife,
No wife at all!!!

'N-O W-I-F-E'.



Geesh!

Do I have to get married just to get some gas?

Wilma! How about that?

'W-I-L-M-A'.

You like that better?



YES!!!!

Another question!

How about one that I can answer?



Ah-ha!

Pizza! I paid for pizza!!!

'P-I-Z-Z-A'.



'ENTER'.

Finally!



No! I just want some gas!

Please give me gas!

'NO'.



No, I don't want your rewards!!!

My reward will be getting gas and getting out of here!

'NO'.




Yes!!!

I'm positive!!!

I JUST WANT GAS!!!

'YES'.



NOOOOOOOO!!!

No wash, no wax, no anything!!!

Just gas!

GIVE ME GAS!!!

'NO'.



AAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Wednesday, 7/28/10 - Butt

Like so many things,
His name was left,
Packed away,
Inside what was once his home.

So we call him,
By the street he occupies.

Today his name is Cleveland.

The grit he lives in,
Has worn down his language,
Leaving sounds,
More guttural,
More angry.

His words are blunt,
With too many consonants.
He uses them to bludgeon,
And to bruise,
Not to cut,
Or to pierce.

His words have no point,
No sharp edges,
They are just random punches,
Better for boxing,
Than for fencing.

Your morning latte,
Al fresco,
Sits,
As you watch him,
Pinballing,
Closer.

He hurls his hurt,
With such force,
That you look away,
Shy away,
Become afraid.

The thrust of his voice propels him,
Eyes darting,
First to the gutter,
Then receptacle,
Sidewalk,
Planter,
Until.

He stops.

Wordless.

Quick glances,
All around,
Then the quick snatch,
Of a cigarette,
Still smoldering,
In an ashtray.

And he is gone,
In a puff of smoke.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Tuesday, 7/27/10 - The Happiness Machine V



"Mother, what is that?"

"Never you mind." The older woman's words are intentionally short. She has conceded enough and has no intention of letting her daughter talk her into leaving this behind. "It's mine and I want to take it."

"I know this is hard for you," she walks over and sits beside her mother, "but the new place is not that big."

"Well, then we will just have to leave something else because I am taking this."

"I'm not saying you can't take it with you."

"Good. Now don't you look at me like that, I'm still your mother and you're not too big for a spanking, young lady."

They both laugh at the line her mother has been using on her since she was ten. She reaches over and picks up the machine that is no larger than a toaster and made of hard white plastic. A couple of dials and a meter are set on the front side below a grill. The other sides are sculpted plastic that seems to serve no purpose other than decoration.

"So, where did you get it?"

The older woman remembers the young man who rang the doorbell and waited patiently for her to make her way from the back of the house to the front door. She remembers opening the door and almost fainting dead away at seeing her husband - five years gone - standing there looking exactly as he did sixty-five years ago.

He was even carrying the same General Electric AM radio - the white one he had given her in celebration of six months of dating.

She stood there staring with her mouth open as the young man started speaking. His words made no sense as her mind tried to understand how her eighty-four year old self could be looking at her twenty-one year old husband. But he wasn't her husband then; he was still only her boyfriend. Her "steady" boyfriend and not yet her fiancee.

Her mouth moved soundlessly. She finally managed to whisper just one word: "Jack?"

The young man on the porch asked if she was alright. The boy's words were not spoken by her late husband, the voice was too high and too jagged to be Jack. Jack's voice was pure honey: smooth and sweet and golden.

He asked again and she realized that he really didn't look at all like Jack. No, Jack was taller and thinner and his hair wasn't so red.

But the radio really was the very same one that Jack had given her. She remembers the many nights spent listening to the music and thinking about Jack and how much she loved him. She loved him so much she wrote his name on the corner of the radio then every night she ran a pin over the name until it was engraved there.

The young man on her porch was telling her about The Happiness Machine and holding out the old General Electric for her to see. He told her how this device created soothing sound waves across a wide spectrum of frequencies and how the volume of these healing sounds could be adjusted to allow her to place the machine in one room and still feel the effects in another.

He's trying to tell me that this old AM radio is a fantastic machine that can make people happy. She listened but laughed inside knowing that he thought she was stupid. She supposed that none of her younger neighbors would know what this boy was holding. With the switch to HD twenty years ago, there were no more AM radio stations.

She surprised him when she asked how much he wanted for his Happiness Machine.

Every night she reaches over on her nightstand and clicks it on. She turns the dial and listens for familiar sounds like the waves rolling onto the beaches of Maui on their honeymoon, or the fizzing of root beer floats on summer evenings at Coney Island, or the early morning sound of Jack's footsteps slowly retreating down the driveway and the quickening sound of them returning in the evening, or his hushed whispers breathily tickling her ear.

Now, her daughter was asking where it came from.

"I've had it for years," replies the mother.

"And what is it?"

"The young man that sold it to me said that it's a Happiness Machine."

"Oh he did, huh? A Happiness Machine?" She turns it over looking at all sides. "Mom, did you see that it has J-A-C-K engraved on the side?"

NOTE: Today's image is not mine, it was taken from the internet and modified for this post.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Monday, 7/26/10 - The Happiness Machine IV



"He freaked! It was like watching a mad man." She hasn't seen him in over two weeks but the thought of him still raises her shoulders in a cringing, self-protective way.

Her mother reaches out and lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It's OK, he's gone and we will be with you for as long as you need us."

"I don't know what I would do without you." Her fingers gently trace the space below her right eye. With the stitches removed the cut doesn't look too bad but it is going to leave a scar.

She knew that he had violent temper but he only hit her when she did something really stupid.

Her mother, as if reading her thoughts, spoke softly but firmly, "You're a good-hearted person. I know you wanted to help but there are just some people that you can't help. They require someone professional."

In the ten years that she had lived with him her parents never knew about their occasional fights. Being eight hundred miles away they never heard them scream at each other or watched as he sometimes turned their verbal disagreement into something physical.

They still wouldn't know if there hadn't been blood and neighbors and police. If there hadn't been court orders and warrants and threatening late night phone calls. If there hadn't been the machine.

Her fingers are still absently stroking her cheek. "The Happiness Machine."

"What?"

"That's what he hit me with, The Happiness Machine." She tells her mother about the machine: how she saw it and bought it on an impulse thinking that the manufacturer's statements about aligning energies made sense. She remembers the picture on the side of the box showing a typical room with a network of wiring in the walls emitting red waves of random magnetic energy. In the next picture the chaotic red waves were replaced with evenly spaced blue lines of the aligned energies.

"It didn't cost much but then, he was right, we didn't have much." She pauses. "Maybe it was foolish but I wanted so much for us to be happy."

Her mother listens without comment.

"I was hoping I could put it in the room and just turn it on - and maybe, before he knew it, we would be happy - and it wouldn't matter that I spent a few dollars on it." But that wasn't how it happened. He saw it and things got too crazy too fast.

She pushes the thought away and turns to face her mother. "Mom, do you remember a box, it was, oooh, about the size of a toaster with blue wavy lines on the side?"

Her mother thinks about it. They had gotten the call and were on the road within an hour. They arrived twelve hours later and started packing immediately. The move had happened so quickly that she doesn't really remember the details. Looking over at the boxes still stacked in the corner of the living room. "Which room was it in?"

"The living room."

"Well, all of the living room stuff is either unpacked or it is still in those boxes."

They both get up and start opening boxes.

"Here it is!" She holds it up for her mother to see then flips the switch to turn it on. A blue light next to the switch winks on. "It still works!"

The front door opens. Her father and brother come in carrying groceries. Her mother reaches out to help them.

She stands there holding the The Happiness Machine feeling all of those random red waves smoothing out, aligning themselves and slowly becoming row upon row of smoothly ordered blue waves. It's working, she thinks, yes, it's working!

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Sunday, 7/25/10 - The Happiness Machine III


"What's that?"

"What's what?"

He points. "There, under the end table."

"Oh, that. It's nothing."

He gets up from his recliner and picks up the object.

It is rectangular, black and about the size of a two-slice toaster. He turns it over looking for a way to open it. There are no latches, locks or screws visible on any of the surfaces. All sides are solid; even the edges are seamless.

No matter which way he turns it, there appears to be no way to open it.

He turns it over and reads the label on the bottom. "The Happiness Machine?"

The guilt she feels over having spent money is evident in her weak smile. "I know I shouldn't have but things have been bad lately. I just thought...".

His response is swift and loud, cutting her off in mid-sentence. "That's just it! You didn't think!"

He shakes the machine. It makes no sound. "I don't even have money for beer and you go and buy this! I can't believe it!"

She tries to gather enough breath to tell him that she bought it for him - to make him happy - but the words won't come. The tears gather in her eyes as she watches him lift the machine above his head.

His motion is a blur through her tears. The machine suddenly a broken mass of springs and wires. A battery rolls across the wooden floor.

She finds her voice. "Look what you've done. Are you hap..." The words fade away as she realizes that he is; he really is.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Saturday, 7/24/10 - The Happiness Machine II



Sitting beside him on the couch she asks, "What do you want to do tonight?"

"Seeing as we have no money, how about we just stay home and watch TV?"

She wishes things were different. "OK."

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

He points. "There, under the end table."

"Oh, that. It's nothing."

"Well then, we have a nothing under our table - and it's blinking." He gets up from beside her on the couch and picks up the object.

It is the same size as a toaster but there are no slots in the top; with all of the switches, dials, gauges and LEDs, there wouldn't be enough room for slots. On opposite sides are grates that appear to him to be used for airflow. He holds the box up to his ear and hears the soft whirring of a small fan.

No matter which way he turns it, there are settings, displays, readouts and indicators.

He turns it over and reads the label on the bottom. "The Happiness Machine?"

The guilt she feels over having spent money is evident in her weak smile. "I know I shouldn't have but things have been bad lately. I just thought...".

She says nothing more while he carries the box back to where she is sitting. Placing it on the coffee table, he sits down beside her. "Do you know what you have here?"

"What do you mean?"

He leans forward and inspects the machine more closely. "I mean that this thing is pretty amazing. Look here..." He tells her about each readout and what it is measuring. His explanations are long and involve charged particles and energy transfers and something accelerating and laws of physics and... and... and...

She is pleased that he understands what he is looking at. To her it means nothing. She stopped understanding ten minutes ago but he is so excited that she can't help but be excited along with him. There is a little boy gleam in his eye that hasn't been there in years. "So, you like it?" she asks over the top of his explanations.

"This is great! Did it come with a manual?"

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Friday, 7/23/10 - The Happiness Machine I


"What's that?"

"What's what?"

He points to something that looks like a toaster. "Under the end table."

"Oh, that. It's nothing."

"Nothing? Honey, when I look in my wallet, that's nothing. When I look under the end table, that's something." He gets up from beside her on the couch and picks it up.

It is the same size and shape as a toaster. It has the same shiny chrome surface but without the slots and handle. There are no lights, no cord and no brand name emblazoned on it. It does have a small dial with a picture of the sun on it.

No matter which way he turns it, he sees himself reflected on its surface.

He turns it over and reads the label on the bottom. "The Happiness Machine?"

The guilt she feels over having spent money is evident in her weak smile. "I know I shouldn't have but things have been bad lately. I just thought...".

She says nothing more while he carries the box back to the couch and sits down beside her. "So, how does it work?"

"It balances the magnetic energy around us by ...".

As she tells him about all of the wonderful things this machine is doing, he is looking into its shining surface and seeing reflections of the room around them and the sun spilling through the curtains. He can change the angle and see the ceiling or the floor but no matter which way he holds the machine, he can see the reflection of the two of them sitting side by side on the couch.

"... it takes several days for the the full effects to be felt."

He smiles at their reflection then directly at her. "I think I am feeling it already."

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Thursday, 7/22/10 - The Way Of Trains



Tom steps up onto the platform. He checks his watch, 4:58, walks the length of the platform and sits on an empty bench.

He looks at the ticket booth then along both platforms and out along the tracks, first one way and then the other, squinting, hoping to see an approaching headlight. Taking a deep breath and sitting back, Tom allows himself a few moments to relax.

Behind closed eyes, Tom sees a pair of rails threading through his life. For him, there have always been trains.

His first train was an HO-scale Lionel Iron Horse. The site of it stopped him halfway as he raced downstairs on Christmas morning. He was four and the train was a gift from his grandfather.

His grandfather is gone but Tom still has the train and he still sets it up under the tree every Christmas. Over the years he has added several other trains to his collection but the Iron Horse - the black engine with a single headlight, front rake and working smoke stack, yellow coal car, silver tanker, green boxcar and red caboose - is still his favorite.

As a boy he would run to the station on Saturday mornings with his ticket gripped in one hand and his sack lunch in the other. He would board the train and ride to the end of the line where he would run ahead of the conductor pushing all of the seat backs to face the opposite direction, ready for the return trip.

He would sit in the train at the turnaround and eat his lunch, watching as the the seats slowly filled with a new set of passengers and the conductor made his way from car to car punching tickets.

And then he would ride back home.

Tom always clipped his ticket on the back of the seat in front of him and watched, station after station, as the conductor passed by without pulling it out, punching it and placing it back as he did for all of the other passengers. The first time it happened Tom was almost to the exit when he heard a deep voice call from behind him, "Son, you've forgotten something." Tom turned around and the conductor was holding the unpunched ticket out to him. He thanked the conductor, pocketed the ticket, and raced for the exit knowing he would be back next weekend.

Some boys would spend Saturday afternoons sitting in the darkness at The Capitol Theater staring up at the screen watching Hollywood stories unfold. Tom preferred to spend his time riding the trains, staring out the window and watching the world unwind.

There was a comfortable magic in trains: they could take you far away but never so far that you couldn't get home.

But that was many years ago. Boys grow up and life moves them to places too hurried and too crowded for the lazy comfort of country trains.

Tom opens his eyes to check his watch then closes them again.



His first job was in a high rise far beyond the reach of the small trains of his childhood. In a pressed three-piece suit and polished wing-tip shoes Tom would pack himself into subway cars with hundreds of other commuters. All seats taken, Tom would stand holding onto the overhead handrail and balance himself against the unpredictable bucking and pitching.

Through grime covered windows instructing him IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, PUSH WINDOW OUT FROM THE BOTTOM, the subway's third-rail sparking would provide brief flash-bulb illuminations of empty sooty-black tunnels.

But, as a boy, Tom saw all he needed through train windows: fields, factories and farm workers. In the summertime the wind would blow through the open windows tousle young girl's braids, give flight to their mother's feathered hats and flutter the pages of their father's newspapers. In the winter Tom's breath would fog the window making a colorful blur of all that passed outside.

Young Tom knew all of the stations by heart. Pick one and a direction, east or west, and he could tell you the name of every town strung out like pearls on the long silver chain of tracks. He could tell you, with breathless anticipation, when the train would submerge cool and dark beneath mountains and when it would surface again into the brightness of the day.

Subways never surface but their passengers do. Tom retired and moved back to the country. If the home he had grown up in had been available he would have bought it. He settled for another home only a few blocks away.

Every day he takes his exercise by walking down to the station. He sits for a while then walks back home.

He used to watch the people waiting on the platform and wonder where they were going and where they had been. He would sometimes buy a ticket and ride to the end of the line where he would fight the urge to run ahead of the conductor flipping the seat backs to the opposite position. He would then ride back home, watching out the windows, knowing the stations, holding his breath through the darkened tunnels.

Tom hears the rumbling and the long wailing sound. He opens his eyes and looks at the station clock. Time is frozen at 3:16, the ticket booth is closed, the platform littered with leaves. The sound is from the street below, not from the the tracks. He stands and takes a final look in both directions. No train will be coming tonight.

Or ever again.

He had watched several years ago as bulldozers excavated the tracks, like the bones of something prehistoric - like his own bones - from the earth. With no sense of reverence the rails were raised high - dripping clots of dirt and weeds - then dumped, clanging and banging, into trucks and hauled away.

Tom walks along the platform toward the stairway that will take him down one flight to the street. He will walk across the street, down six blocks then across and down three more to his home. He will enter, lock the door behind him, walk to the kitchen and help Maggie with dinner.

Tomorrow, as he does every day, he will walk back to the station, sit on the bench, close his eyes and wonder when he will go the way of trains.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Wednesday, 7/21/10 - Holy Roller

Ok, to make this work, I am going to need you to participate.

That's right, this is not just a sit-in-your-seat-and-read post. No! This is a get-up-and-get-down post.

Before we get started I need to tell you that we are doing this on the shoulder of Interstate 75, just north of Zephyrhills, FL. I can give you lots of logical reasons that this is happening where it is but it's probably best to accept "mysterious ways".

You see, I was driving and writing the lyrics to this song and there, on the side of the road was a bus. Broken down. The occupants standing a safe distance from the road fanning themselves in the hot Florida sun.

Being a nice guy, I pulled over to see what I could do to help.

Turns out that this was the New Life Inspriational Gospel Choir from Fort Valley, Georgia.

As we talked about how I might be able to help them - lyrics still spinning themselves in my head - some of the members started humming, and swaying, and clapping... somehow, they were in perfect time to the crazy lyrics in my head.

So, here we are, on the shoulder of I-75 Northbound somewhere north of Zephyrhills, FL. There is traffic flowing by at 80 mph...

... the choir is humming...
        Hmmmmm-hmmmmm-hmmmmm

... and swaying...
        Hmmmmm-hmmmmm-hmmmmm
        Llleft, rrright, llleft, rrright, llleft, rrright

... and clapping...
        Hmmmmm-hmmmmm-hmmmmm
        Llleft, rrright, llleft, rrright, llleft, rrright
        Clap-clap, clap-clap, clap-clap


Are you ready? C'mon, just follow along.

Let go!

Get into the rhythm.

That's it, that's it! Sway with the choir.

Keep clapping, keep swaying...

Listen to them, now. In three parts! Harmonies! Rhythms!


Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
        Ho-ho-holy roller
                Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
        Ho-ho-holy roller
                Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
        Ho-ho-holy roller
                Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

They call me a holy roller
Rolling in my hot rod Ford.
        Vrrrroooommmm
Goin' just as fast as I want to
And rippin' down the road for the Lord.
        Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm

Now some folks say I'm a sinner,
And that I always drive too fast.
        Go fast!
But the good book says I'm a winner,
So just move over and let me pass.
        Beep-beep-beep

You say it's the work of the devil,
Turn my wheels just as fast as they'll turn.
        They turn!
And that in hell I'll be burnin'
He's gotta catch me before I can burn.
        No, no, no!

They call me a holy roller
Rolling in my hot rod Ford.
        Vrrrroooommmm
Goin' just as fast as I want to
And rippin' down the road for the Lord.
        Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm



Some folks say I'm a heathen,
I've fallen under some curse.
        He's cursed!
But me I'm just thankin' heaven,
For this little piece of heaven on earth.
        It's Hea-ven!

Now don't go try to be savin'
My soul just get outta my way.
        Get out!
Cuz' I know that God'll be wavin'
The checkered flag on the judgement day.
        Flip-flap-flap!

You know no cop ever stopped me,
I blow by 'em at a hundred and three.
        Bye, bye.
No miracle, no it's nothin'
I got Jesus in the shotgun seat.
        Be-side me!

They call me the holy roller,
I'm blowin' off all your doors.
        Ka-pow!
You call me whatever you want to,
I just thank God he put four on the floor!
        Shift-shift-shift!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
        Ho-ho-holy roller
                Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
        Ho-ho-holy roller
                Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
        Ho-ho-holy roller
                Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!



You say that it is unnatural,
To use the right as the passin' lane.
        Don't pass.
I say I wouldn't-a had-ta
If you shut up and got outta' my way!
        Move o-ver!

You tell me that I should be thankful,
I should get out and get down on my knees.
        My knees!
But I say that God knows I'm thankful,
For givin' me this hellish machine!!!
        Burn rub-ber!

They call me a holy roller
Rolling in my hot rod Ford.
        Vrrrroooommmm
Goin' just as fast as I want to
And rippin' down the road for the Lord.
        Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
        Ho-ho-holy roller
                Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
        Ho-ho-holy roller
                Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
        Ho-ho-holy roller
                Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!



Amen.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Tuesday, 7/20/10 - The Edge



Do all writers stand this close to the edge, toes hanging over - unbalanced - the slightest shift in currents enough to send them cartwheeling, all arms and legs, down and down into the dark place?

Do they, like I do, fix their stares on that blackness, unable to look away, straining to see what is hidden within?

Do they give name to the shadows then repeat that name, over and over - an insane mantra or incantation to raise ghosts, spirits, visions - daring the demons or whatever lives or lurks in those depths to rise up - all horns and claws and fangs - to rend their flesh and scatter their bones?

Or do they quietly request, hand cupped to ear, that the darkness give voice and whisper its secrets?

Are we all maddened men on sad, sway-backed steeds stabbing windmills with words too rusted, too worn, too dull?

And are we all doomed to be consumed by the darkness that calls to us for the illuminations only cast by written word?



NOTE: This post is the result of having read some past winners of literary contests that I have recently entered. If what I read is an indication, writers are the saddest, most tortured group of individuals on the planet. Not a single nice thought in the dozen or so winning entries that I read. Not one. It made me feel bad for the authors. Then I wondered who would want to read someone else's tales of pain and misery and I felt bad for the readers. People that sad, that close to the edge - and I just wanted to lend them an hand, and push...

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Monday, 7/19/10 - Two for the One

The Crook

Wrapped up here with you,
I never noticed,
When the crook of your arm,
Stole my heart.




A Note On Wealth

If I had a penny,
For each time I thought of you,
I would be a wealthy man.

But then,

Just having you to think about,
Makes me a wealthy man.




NOTE: Both pieces are from my archives. The Crook was written 12/26/89, A Note On Wealth was written 04/15/90

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Sunday, 7/18/10 - Not Yet



In the not-yet-caffeinated comfort
and the not-yet-interrupted silence
of the not-yet-risen day
I pillow my not-yet-washed-brushed-combed head
inside the not-yet-unwound goose down cocoon
and consider the not-yet-discussed-or-decided plans
while anticipating the not-yet-made love, coffee, breakfast.

I am eager for the not-yet-limited possibilities
of this not-yet-started Saturday.

Eager,
yes,
but
not-yet-ready.

No,
not yet.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Saturday, 7/17/10 - Save Sunday



Marry me on Monday.
Take me home on Tuesday.
Walk away on Wednesday,
knowing we're both bored.
Think of me on Thursday.
Fight with me on Friday.
Console my soul on Saturday.
Save Sunday for divorce.

NOTE: This poem is from my archive files and was probably written 15 years ago. I wasn't quite as optimistic back then, was I?

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Friday, 7/16/10 - O2 (a screenplay)

Slow fade in from black to something out of focus moving clockwise around the outside of the screen.

As the credits roll the scene continues to lighten and achieve focus.

The even sound of a motor and the crunching of gravel.



As the camera zooms out the scene comes into focus. The camera is panning along centered on a large truck tire, deep treads spinning around the outer edge of the screen move inward as the camera continues to zoom out showing the first hints of the terrain: flat, dusty, red clay.

The tire, still filling most of the screen, hits a small rock causing it to jump with an accompanying sound of rattling metal.

As the tire jumps over the rock, the camera moves in alongside the tire revealing some of the approaching landscape. The spinning tire is still prominent on the left side of the frame.



The engine continues an even humming. A click and then staticy AM radio sounds scanning then settling on a crackly and indistinct tune.

Female Voice: What's that?

Male Voice: Where?

Female Voice: Over there.

Camera is still showing a view of the tire from ground level.

The even sound of the engine hesitates then accelerates.

The tire turns raising dust and spitting sand and small stones. Speed increases, tire spinning faster, landscape approaching more rapidly. An occasional bump as the tire passes over cracks and small rocks.

Tire skids to a stop raising dust that obscures the limited view.

The sound of people exiting the vehicle: doors opening, feet hitting the ground and rushing a few steps.

Male Voice & Female Voice (muted, under their breath): Oh, my god. Oh, no.

As the dust clears the camera zooms out. The scene is slowly expanding to the right - tire remaining on the left side of the screen. A space suited figure is lying face down on the ground, unmoving.

At ground level, the camera snakes over to the prone figure. All shots are tight on the suited figure. Little of the surrounding environment is visible.

The rushing sound of feet moving on the dry terrain is punctuated with other sounds: moving, breathing and a creaking sound like the bending of leather.

Male Voice: Help me turn him over.

Sounds of scraping and exertion.

The camera, still close in, shows the suit turning over. A gloved hand falls limp to the ground raising a small puff of dust.

The camera snakes along the suit from the hand up to the faceplate passing over blinking controls on the suit and the inhabitant's nameplate: Andersen, Franklin. The face inside is male, undamaged and just appears to be sleeping.

Male Voice: Quick, get the medical supplies in the trunk.

A scuffling of feet, the sound of a trunk opening,

Male Voice: Oh no. Hurry!

Female Voice (urgently): What's wrong?

The sound of returning feet and the scraping of the medical kit being placed on the ground.

Male Voice: Stay back! The suit is full of poison gas. And it's leaking!

Female Voice: Poison gas? How?

Male Voice: I don't know but we have to get him out of there quickly or he'll die.

Female Voice: Be careful!

The camera is still focused on the face of the fallen astronaut. A line of spittle leaks from the corner of his mouth.

Male Voice: I need something to pry the faceplate - ... - tire iron!

A few quick retreating steps, a scraping, steps returning.

The camera shows the edge of the tire iron being inserted under the faceplate.

Male Voice: (grunt)

The faceplate shatters. A spray of diamond-like glass fragments flies up along with a puff of vapor.

Female Voice: Get back!

The eyes on the face inside the suit spring wide open. There is a single, deep gasp of breath, a look of panic, choking and struggling before the face stops then goes limp.

The camera slowly zooms out to include the prone body of the astronaut and a crashed landing ship behind him. The camera swings around to a position near the lander. Leaning over the fallen astronaut is a green alien. Human looking in every way except the color of the skin. Behind the alien is another and behind them a transport vehicle with large, wide tires.

The alien closest to the astronaut takes a half step backward away from the body.

Female Voice: Is he... ?

Male Voice: Yes, he's dead. There was really nothing we could do - his suit was full of oxygen.

Female Voice: Oxygen! Look at what it did to his skin. What a horrible way to die. Who would do such a thing?

Male Voice: I don't know...

The music on the radio becomes more prominent as the scene fades to black.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Thursday, 7/15/10 - Plastic

Donna changed her grip shifting most of the weight from her right hand to her left. She left the plastic shopping bag hanging from her right wrist hoping to balance the weight more evenly. It had been a long walk from the parking lot. The vase and bag, which both seemed so light when she first picked them up, were now causing her arms to cramp.

Peering out through the bouquet, she carefully makes her way down the long hallway toward room 204 and her co-worker, Richard.

Donna doesn't mind bringing the flowers. She didn't mind collecting the money, shopping for the card or any of the other trivial tasks needed to show Richard how much he was missed at the office. It would have been easy to go online and order flowers to be delivered but she liked delivering them personally. Truth be told, she liked Richard.

The money she collected paid for the flowers and the card. There was even enough left over for her to purchase several bags of individually wrapped treats. She had called ahead and spoken with the floor nurse; Richard was not on a restricted diet. In addition to the bags of dried fruit, nuts and granola that she had purchased, Donna added several Saran Wrapped packages of her secret-recipe brownies - Richard's favorite.

"Knock, knock," she said standing in the doorway and hiding her face behind the flowers.

"Donna, how sweet!" Richard, who had always been healthy and active, looked old and tired.

Donna looked around for somewhere to put the vase and noticed that there were no other flowers or cards in the room. "Everyone at the office misses you. They all send their best and John said to tell you that he knows how much you enjoy them so he's saving all of the receivables for when you get back."

Richard tried a hearty laugh but quickly broke down into a series of hacking coughs.

Uncomfortable just standing there watching him cough, Donna pulled over a molded chair and sat down in it. She expected it to be hard and unyielding and was pleasantly surprised at how well the chair conformed to her shape. She assumed that the decision to use a solid surface chair rather than a cushioned fabric was for health reasons: this chair could be disinfected with a wipe.

The sound of Richard's coughs combined with his sallow complexion worried Donna. She wanted to know what was wrong with him, she wanted to help, but she didn't want to appear nosy. "Is there anything I can do for you?" She knew that Richard lived alone and had no family in the area. "Is someone looking after your place and checking your mail?"

Richard thanked her and indicated that his neighbor was looking after his place.

Looking over at the card and the bag of goodies sitting next to the flowers, she wondered if she should give them to him now but ended up deciding that she would wait until she was leaving as it would give her the opportunity to hold his hand or possibly give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

Donna tried to keep the conversation light and moving but after a few minutes it began to drag. She fidgeted with the parking pass, absently bending it backward and forward. When she realized what her hands were doing she stopped. She didn't want to crack the pass and causing herself an unnecessary delay getting out of the lot.

After an uncomfortably long pause, Richard started talking. "It's funny, you do everything right: you eat right, you exercise, you don't drink or smoke, and you still wind up in here."

Donna wanted to ask about his condition but thought it best to just let him talk.

It took a minute before he started speaking again. "Two weeks in ICU. It took them that long to figure out what the problem was and to get it under control. And do you know what it turned out to be?"



Donna said nothing, just shook her head.

"Plastic."

"You're allergic to plastic?" she asked, amazed that she had never heard of anyone with a similar ailment.

"No, not allergic, deficient. Turns out that I don't have enough plastic in my system."

"Are you sure?" The words were out of her mouth before she realized how they sounded. She tried to soften them a little, "I've never heard of that before."

"It's called hypo-plastoma and it's not as uncommon as you might think."

Richard explained his condition and the treatments.

"So, the tube under your nose is delivering gassified plastic not oxygen?" She had no reason to doubt him but it was hard to believe what he was telling her. She wanted to know more about his condition but she didn't know what questions to ask.

Sensing her discomfort, Richard explained further. "Turns out that humans can evolve pretty quickly. In just two generations we have been able to alter our basic physical makeup to include elements in our environment. Some people, like me, evidenced the shift quicker than others. This is probably because, like me, my parents were health conscious and always drank bottled water. The bottles were leaching plastic gases into the water. Our bodies took it in these foreign compounds and assimilated them into bone, muscle and tissue structures."

Richard broke into another fit of coughing that was more violent and longer lasting than the first. When it subsided, he continued, "Once they get the level of plastic in my system properly adjusted I will just need a daily supplement and annual monitoring."

Donna didn't know what to say. She considered Richard's condition and her own use of bottled water.



She mentally reviewed all of the things she ate and drank every day, the things she used, even the things she wore.



Everything was either made from or packaged in plastic.



The ring of her cell phone interrupted her thoughts. She reached into her pocket and silenced it without looking at who was calling.

"That's the other thing that got me." Richard was pointing at the pocket with her cell phone. "It probably wouldn't have been so bad for me but at the same time that I stopped drinking bottled water I had broken my cell phone. Seems that our bodies have also become dependent upon cell phone frequencies."

He pulled open the top of his robe open exposing a small incision on the right side of his chest. "They inserted a frequency generator so I will never have that problem again."

Richard paused a moment, thinking. "It's amazing," he said, "twenty years ago they wouldn't even have been able to detect these diseases."

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Wednesday, 7/14/10 - My Life

This is my life.




A picture's thousand words cannot begin to describe its fullness, its sweetness or the intensity of its color. The picture only shows what is on the surface at a single point in time. Life does not occur in an instant. Ironically, life takes a lifetime to achieve.

Go ahead, look again.



Pretty nice, huh?
Funny part is that I had very little to do with this.
I was not the one who filled this bowl - you did.

Each cherry - stem and pit included - is not an accomplishment, an achievement or an acquisition, it is an experience; one that I shared with you. None of these experiences can be owned or measured, they can only be shared and appreciated. They cannot be compared, one against another, as each is identical in weight, importance, and value.

You see, the thing I cherish most in this life is time; not the ever marching progression of seconds, but the moments - whether mere seconds or many years - that we spend together learning, teaching and being with one another. To me, a life worth living is not achieved through my actions but through our mutual interactions: yours and mine.

It is you that makes me happy and whole.

For me there is never a worry that this bowl might overflow, spilling precious memories. I am also unconcerned that as I feast upon its contents it might one day be emptied. Neither of these is possible. The bowl will always be large enough to store sacred memories and to accept new experiences; it will always be full enough to allow me to enjoy and to share as much as I like.

Yes, the picture can help to convey how I view my life but to really understand we would need to spend some time together because that is what makes this life fulfilling.








So let me take a moment to recognize a few of the people who have taken time to fill my bowl with cherries.

First (and they will always be first) are my parents who set the standard for most things in my life. So many times I patterned my behavior after their example - trying hard to walk in their footsteps - and I have always been pleased with the result. Had they not been my parents I would have sought them out as friends.

Next is Don who sweetens every day with his wit, humor and simple, thoughtful acts. We differ in every way - except in those ways that really matter.

All of my brothers and sisters who, with a pinch of this and a dollop of that, have added zest, flavor and dimension to my life. You all shared those awkward and unsteady adolescent moments. We crawled, walk, ran, fell down, got up, laughed and cried as one. We grew together, as only siblings can, and when the time came for each of us to grow independently we did so with the assurance that the others would always be there. My siblings are the only "bling" I need in my life.

From here, the list unfurls in an almost unending procession of names. It includes you and everyone I have ever met. Even if I don't remember your name, you have helped to fill this bowl.

You may read this and think, "No, my name is not on that list. I have dropped nothing in his bowl."

Think again.

You taught me to read or to ride a motorcycle. You shared the Four Winds with me. You flew with me on the four winds. You danced till dawn at The Saint. You were less than saintly in Chicago. You drove the boat. You drove me home. You read what I wrote. You wrote me. You read to me. You cried on my shoulder. You let me cry on yours. You shared a hot fudge sundae on Kiawah Island. You talked to me. You listened. You fixed my car. You broke my heart. You helped me to put up a fence. You cut down a tree that threatened to fall on my house. You threatened to leave. You left. You came back. You hiked with me in the back woods. You picked me up hitchhiking. You remembered cinco de mayo. You sat with me. You stood with me. You walked with me. You skipped school with me. You love me. You hate to see me fail. You put me first. You served me seconds. You woke me on time. You let me sleep late. You took nothing. You gave me everything. You. Yes, you.

When I talk about my life, I am really talking about you.

Thank YOU.