GCSPrank Is Here

Bismarck

2010-11-12T12:03:00.000-08:00

It still pisses me off...

In a tiny mini-mall, near the back, past Abbie's Irish Rose, was a small store that became another of my "lengthy hangout spots." It sold handcrafts and wargames. I bought one game, then another, and playing with and against Don and Bill quickly became a major interest for me. I'll point out that I won many more than I lost, mainly because I was very much a competitive little brat who played everything as if it were life or death. I had fun.

One day, I bought "Bismarck", an Avalon Hill classic that recreated the battle between the German super-battleship and the British Navy forces trying desperately to sink it before it reached the safety of the Mediterranean. The game, with its naval theme, was not high on my list of interests, but its game mechanics were. The German player would plot his movement on a pad with map sheets and when the British player found the Bismarck (on the board, searching with air and sea forces), the battle began.

Don and I played the game twice, he as the German both times because he respected (tolerated) my competitiveness and felt that by picking the "losing" side, if he lost, it was the "normal" result. I won both times, sinking the Bismarck with alacrity.

We played a third time, a sunny afternoon that didn't merit going to class. Once again, I took the British forces and Don plotted his moves on the pad. I sent out my planes in search patterns and sat back to enjoy the game.

After four turns, I sensed something was wrong. The obvious was that I hadn't found the Bismarck. I went over my moves and picked another set of searches. The Bismarck was coming south from the North Sea and had to pass the Straits of Gibraltar to win the game. The search area was large, but the British had plenty of planes and ships to ensure the German juggernaut was caught. I looked at the coastline--France, Spain, Portugal--and at the more westerly sections from my search areas and tried again.

Nothing. Another search. Nothing. I stared at the board, thinking Don must have moved west, in essence a flanking move, the veritable long way around, to get past the bulk of my forces and then dash east. I sent planes that way. Nothing. I tried the northern search area again, just in case Don had "parked" the Bismarck to throw me off. Nothing. I sent more searches and ships to the southern search zones. Nothing.

I sat there, wanting to ask Don if he had followed the rules, but knowing he was as fair a player as there was ever born, I simply stared at the board. I looked at every plane, every ship, every freaking hex of that board as Don sat there patiently.

Another search. Nothing. I sent my forces further south and west and then Don looked up at me, smiled and said "I'm in. I got past Gibraltar."

Stunned. I know I gawped at him. He was smiling, obviously pleased. He may have even started to apologize, good guy, knowing I took losses badly. I didn't hear him well because all I could ask was "How?"

He showed me. He took the Bismarck as close to the coast as he could, limiting his movement as per the rules, but in essence tracking along the coast lines, just past the edge of my search patterns. The ones I'd limited because the coastline path was...wrong.

Only it had been right. Don had made it right.

Back then, most of my self-image was wrapped up in "intelligence," the oft-mentioned notion that I was smart; to some people, amazingly so. But in Don I met the first person in my life who was at least "as smart" as I...and was a nice guy, to boot. Having noticed that and instead of being competitive about it, I'd found myself admiring it, with a personal caveat: Never underestimate Don. Never underestimate his intelligence, his creativity, his sheer ability to be brilliant. Never. And in Bismarck, I had underestimated him. I thought he couldn't beat me. And because I had thought that, I had been clearly outplayed and he'd won the game.

We never played Bismarck again. My fault, for I'm sure we played other games rather than that one because of that third game and Don may have offered to play it again--nice guy--but I'm sure I declined.

I never underestimated Don again. In anything. There were times when I may have exasperated him by saying he could do more--and he could--but I never tried to use my expectations against him, as some people do, to criticize him, using "friendship" as a cover for "envy." I never envied Don; I admired him. Always have.

And yet, when I hear or read or think about the Bismarck...it still pisses me off.

AFROTC

2005-06-15T07:12:00.000-07:00

A blue uniform, heavy in wool, cut squarely to flatter a figure both wider and shallower than mine. A peaked cap that acted more like weather vane than symbol. The ritual of dressing was akin to torture, a depressing rite faced only with the balm of music and flashes of anger.

Joining the Air Force ROTC program was not a wise decision for me. Although raised as an Air Force brat, familiar with base life and the rigors of military existence, AFROTC was more mild nightmare after anchovy pizza than a formative experience.

The first facet of the nightmare was the gung-ho mentality, the “War is Glory” vehemence of youths with battle experience limited to war movies, wargames and the occasional fistfight. They pranced and snorted like immature apes, bandying words of aggression like pre-schoolers talking about being policemen, firemen and superheroes.

The second facet was the banality of the program itself. Mired in post-Vietnam apathy, soured by the then-recent humiliation of the Iranian hostage crisis, the Armed Forces were searching for relevance in a world not yet fooled by Reagan’s policies and still fooled by so-called “Communist threats.”

The third facet of the nightmare was my hair, shoulder-length from Day One to well beyond the final hour. ROTC regulations no longer forced a cadet’s hair to be trimmed to specs, so with nary a thought, I let it grow. But in the midst of my natural incompatibility, I felt the vague wash of shame. My father had served honorably and with commendations for 21 years, and yet here I was, displaying a flip attitude in the uniform he wore with dignity. The colonel once remarked about it, unable to keep himself neutral as expected. I nodded as if he’d spoken words I’d make my own. But I didn’t say “Yessir” nor did I take his suggestion.

The fourth and final facet was my temporary loss of isolation and anonymity. Wearing that blue canvas tent made me feel like a marked man again, a target, a figure to be scorned and singled out for abuse. Knowing only one way to handle that—straight on and inflicting pain on others as well as myself—the exposure dragged me back to a time and place I had definitely left behind. Week after week I went through the gauntlet of exposure, struggling to beat the odds and my own fears. Yet I take away from those hours the certainty that while wearing the uniform I never missed a commitment, whether class or ceremony, was never late and never acted in any way that would chalk up a black mark on the unit. My hair was enough.

One Thanksgiving, the commander, Major Covell, invited me to his home. Three other cadets were also invited, but as I was the stranger in his home, I attracted the most attention. The conversation funneled through me, so much so that I barely ate. Once dinner ended, I headed for the kitchen to help with the dishes, but was shooed away by Mrs. Covell (with a warm smile) and called away by Major Covell, to sneers from the cadets. Football, of course. The cadets tried to impress Major Covell with their knowledge of the war sport, when in the middle of the second quarter, I predicted a lengthy series of plays and the commentary about it. The cadets lapsed into furious silence and Major Covell seemed to really notice me for the first time.

“You know a lot about football,” he said to me.

Eyes on my fellow cadets I said “I know a lot about a lot of things.”

Major Covell smiled. “So why don’t you put them on display in the program?” His eyes were cheerful, wine-happy without drinking wine.

I stared at the cadets. “Not enough competition,” I said. They paled and started talking loudly.

Major Covell asked “Run or pass?” then belatedly nodded towards the TV screen.

I almost laughed. I got the message. “They will pass, about 15 yards out,” I replied, pointing at the screen. “And I’ll stay.”

Major Covell laughed and clapped softly. The cadets stared at us like a befuddled hydra. The pass was complete for a 14 yard gain.

Oxpatch

2005-06-14T07:12:00.000-07:00

Every character needs a stage. For GCSPrank, that stage was a tiny village, wrapped in its myth of literary and historical pedigree. Dropped amidst the emptiness of northern Mississippi, Oxford was irreverently and accurately called Oxpatch, a moniker that framed its attitude and size quite well.

From dusty arrival one cool January morning to testy departure one cloudy January morning four years later, Oxford accepted me reluctantly. Long accustomed to outright rejection—some of it well-deserved—the lazy, impassive, almost bovine indifference to my presence that Oxford dropped in my path was like a Welcome Wagon on skids. Passing for an American in appearance and name, but Puerto Rican in heart and mind, the surprise was not that I was suddenly cold-shouldered after the revelation, but that Oxfordians and state brethren would consider it almost their duty to do so. The Old South had changed, from white sheets to blank eyes.

I walked the village for days, days I tell you, from one end to another, through shaded streets and open roads to grimy alleys and mottled woods. Time and again I’d visit the town, with its early rush of “farm folk” in the post-dawn hours to the staid passages of the mid-afternoon throng, heavily influenced by students, businessmen and passers-through on their way to someplace more important.

Oxford had a warm heart, a generous helping of Southern hospitality and gentility that could ease your mind. Oxford also had a mean streak, one that afforded open approval of a KKK rally during a Confederate flag controversy more academic than racial. The whites stayed on their sides; the blacks on theirs and I wandered through both sides. Never in defiance. My presence was never a challenge, but an admission that I could only truly learn if I shared openly. It was a challenge to myself and I confess I didn’t do as well as I wanted to.

I spoke more often than my habit with dozens of people of all ages and skin colors. Some conversations were brief and sharp. Very few, really. Most were rambling jazz sessions, trying to find a common rhythm we could attune ourselves to. The gap could be too wide and the end result was a slow descent into awkward silence. At other times, the gap was bridged with a rainbow of words and images that carried its own reward from beginning to end.

From oddness to odd comfort to odd distaste, Oxford mutated in my mind. A blanket in the dark, an aquarium during the day; playground in the summer and prison in the winter. I was unimpressed at first sight and unsentimental at the last. Oxford holds its own place in my mind, a curiosity that no longer inspires the need for examination, collecting dust on a mental shelf tucked deep.

One day I could arise to feel the urge to return to Oxford, though it has changed into another world by now. But I’ve learned quite well that what’s possible is very much outside of what’s expected. Especially in Oxpatch.

Pizza Inn

2005-06-13T07:12:00.000-07:00

Everyone in college seems to have a hangout or seven. A popular one for Bill, Don and me was Pizza Inn, across the road from Rebel Deli, just catty-corner to Kiamie Lanes and the useful Mr. Quik. The advantage of Pizza Inn was more location than Italian cuisine.

Going through management like Italy went through Prime Ministers, Pizza Inn went from hangout to job site and back to hangout. Bill and I worked there, and speaking for myself, my only gain was learning how to make a pizza, though in mediocre fashion. I’ve gotten much better.

As a hangout, Pizza Inn gave us a place where we could go play some video games, watch the big projector TV and just annoy the waitresses for hours, because there were always empty tables. (Sign number One about management changes.) The menu was simple: pizza, salads, pastas, soft drinks and beer, though beer wasn’t part of our diet. Bill and I were such regular customers that we were often given free pitchers… of Dr. Pepper. I hate Dr. Pepper. I said it every time. We kept getting free pitchers of Dr. Pepper. (Sign number Two about management changes.)

Walloped by the grand opening of Domino’s, Pizza Inn tried to match the “30 minutes or its free” deal, but with nowhere near the resources the delivery specialist had. So every night during that month, we’d brace for “The Big One,” an order that strained our manpower and oven capacity in a race against time. Sure enough, the phone would ring and we’d hear: “Six extra-large, with the works,” and an address on campus.

Dough and toppings would fly and pies were shoved into the ovens almost like shingles. Fifteen minutes later they’d be yanked out, slashed without mercy, dropped into boxes and the designated driver would race out and peel rubber…

And come back, pizzas congealing in soggy boxes. “No one there,” he’d say, shrugging. A few times he sold the pizzas at discount to guys who happened to be standing outside the dorm and eventually Pizza Inn dropped the charade. (Sign number Three.)

The buffet, Tuesdays and Sundays, then Wednesdays and Fridays and then some Mondays and then some Saturdays from 4 to 6 PM then only on Sundays from 11 to 2 PM (sign number Four) strangely ended every time with a large extra pepperoni pizza coming out one minute before the buffet closed and thus, to avoid wastage, was shared by the employees. Didn’t matter who was tossing pies: that pizza came out like, well, clockwork. You’d think management would figure out the logistics of pulling that off consistently and yes, apply it to the rest of the operation. Never happened. (Sign number Five.)

One Sunday evening, after eating like starving bears, Don and I walked out of Pizza Inn and spotted a group of about 10 people getting out of their cars, possibly after attending a church service. At that moment, a stray cat raced across the parking lot. Without a second’s hesitation, Don and I began chasing it at the same time yelling ”Food! Fooood!”

We chased the cat out of the lot and over a fence, then turned without a word and walked away.

The church group looked at each other, got back into their cars and left. I guess that could be taken as Sign number Six.

MASH

2005-06-10T19:12:00.000-07:00

It lasted almost 11 years, revolving around a time that lasted barely five. A satire of military half-thoughts and a herd-like society, the show also lauded dedication, compassion, tolerance, loyalty and humor. It blended comedy and drama in ways that are common now, but were strikingly new and powerful then and remain even so now. It’s name was a four-letter word that became an icon: M*A*S*H*

No show was better-suited for black-and-white TV, surrounded as it was by green and khaki. But no show was better-suited to the mind’s theater, that rich stage where words, images and their emotions come together to make you feel as if it were all real.

M*A*S*H* pulled you in, whether you were a hawk or a dove. It was grounded in the reality of war and the equal reality of its idiocy. M*A*S*H* thumbed its nose at high command and authority, disconnected from the truth, while elevating the common man and woman doing the extraordinary routinely to their rightful role as heroes. Facing pain with laughter, melding tears with smiles, M*A*S*H* also told us of the power of friendship to keep us hale when walking through portions of hell.

The final episode was a true happening, the first of what would become “must see TV” moments. For weeks before the two-hour movie that would close the longest war we never fought, the media kept the public posted on the final moments, the cast’s feelings and what TV critics were saying would be either a glorious finale or a fabulous flop.

Around the nation, M*A*S*H* parties were scheduled, with many attendees coming dressed in scrubs and mock-military duds; some men dressed as women to honor Corporal Klinger’s quest for a Section 8, though he was now a responsible sergeant. Bill invited me to such a party at the Student Union, but I declined. I would watch the last show, in my apartment, with Carol.

Storylines of the final half-hour episodes led into the movie and as scene after scene developed, I sensed, then knew I was watching something unique, a powerful collage of heart and emotion. I carefully kept my eyes on the screen and avoided looking at Carol, afraid my tears would give me away. And as the final scene unfolded, Hawkeye flying above a rock-dotted “Goodbye,” I struggled hard not to sob.

I could deny that I was caught in the emotion of a mere comedy show, but it was more than that: it was the acknowledgement--unknown to me--that “goodbye” was a word worth expressing. It accepts reality. It looks beyond and back at the same time. It frames and savors the bittersweet moment.

I learned that lesson then and then forgot it for years. In the silence that followed the show’s closing, I noticed Carol too had been touched by what we’d seen. It was several minutes before we spoke, but they were important to me because I had shared as much as I could without being hurt, a treasure to a barren soul.

The movie has been shown several times, but I haven't watched it again. Maybe someday I will. For now, I rely on my memories to bring the emotions back, and forward, to my time. I do watch the episodes every chance I get, though my TV time is now minutes a day rather than hours. Through M*A*S*H* I see friendship and remember my friends. That will never change.

Scuzzo

2005-06-09T19:12:00.000-07:00

I think Don and Bill gave him to me as a birthday gift. A tiny ball of fake fur, eyes and nose and feet connected to a roughly ovoid head, his color that of runny diarrhea. We named him “Scuzzo” and he became Rapline’s Official Mascot.

As Official Mascot, Scuzzo’s duties were quickly determined to be football, annoying projectile, conversation starter (“Have you seen Scuzzo?”) and gamepiece in the ensuing battle between Sonja, Protector of Scuzzo and “The Miscreants,” led by the rest of us.

One of Scuzzo’s first and most most frequent rescues was freeing him from hangman’s nooses. I would weave a noose from the curtain cords and then execute Scuzzo, a piercing metaphor for our times that Sonja thought was just plain cruel.

Bill and I would often carry on conversations with Scuzzo punctuating our wisdom as he flew back and forth across the office. Scuzzo’s usually-perplexed expression never altered, giving him the look of a dazed dodo as he hung in mid-air.

Time and again someone would hide Scuzzo, usually in a drawer, underneath a seat cushion, behind a file cabinet or even kidnap him for a day or two. However, the weeks of using Scuzzo as a prop ended when Sonja, winner of an enthusiastic game of “keep-away,” made a promise to protect Scuzzo “once and for all.”

Obeying the new rule that Scuzzo had to remain within Rapline’s two-room office, Sonja confidently announced to us that Scuzzo was “safe.” That night, and the next day, we searched the offices and came up empty-handed. As neither Bill nor I were known for reining in stubborness, we kept searching, but found neither cloth nor thread of our nearly-departed Scuzzo.

Life intruded and the search for Scuzzo took a back seat for almost a month. Bill asked Sonja if Scuzzo was within the office and she answered firmly “Yes,” prompting a renewed search.

Nothing.

After pondering for a few days, Bill came into the office and told me he had an idea. He placed a chair in the doorway of our “file closet,” climbed on the chair and peered up inside the closet. In a neutral voice he said: “I found him.”

Coming down from the chair, he politely waved me atop it. I climbed, peered back above my head and my mouth actually dropped open. High up on the “inner” side of the closet wall, about a foot from the top, was Scuzzo, his beady eyes wondering who I was. His feet, tucked neatly against his head, had been nailed to the wall.

I climbed down. “She crucified Scuzzo!” Bill nodded, climbed back up and using the filing cabinet as brace, managed to de-crucify our Official Mascot.

Well I can tell you that word of Scuzzo’s crucifixion flew through Rapline’s staff like measles in a playpen. Naturally, we had to hold a burial ceremony for Scuzzo, with the obligatory rising on the third day. Sonja acted casual about her cruelty and I, for one, was envious of her idea.

Scuzzo did return to his usual duties, except that his role as gamepiece was pretty much over. What do you do to someone who’s already been crucified?

Later that year I lost track of the critter and I don’t know where Scuzzo ended up. I suspect Sonja retrieved him and I hope he didn’t end up with her in a nunnery. He’d already been crucified for several weeks: he didn’t need a fate worse than that.

Music: 1984

2005-06-08T07:12:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Hattiesburg with barely a plan: say hi to Tim-the-Freudian, find an apartment, get a job. Though I had changed living quarters in Oxford a few times, the move to Hattiesburg was my first in four years, damn near a lifetime in my experience, and was the first I had orchestrated entirely for my own reasons.

A new sense of time, place and self had emerged. My own steps. My own decisions. Beholden to no one. Not yet 20, not really 19. Found Tim, an apartment and a job. And on the second day, I rested.

Music had become visual, as the MTV experiment had grown into a major entertainment phenomenon. Intrigued, I watched music. But despite some excellent and even artistic efforts, music would remain a product of my imagery. So despite the undeniable presences of Michael Jackson, Madonna, Culture Club and The Police, other songs and artists framed my moments.

Hours went by as I drove the streets and roads in senseless attempts to be what I wasn’t. The somber aches of those moments return with OWNER OF A LONELY HEART, by Yes and HARD HABIT TO BREAK, by Chicago. Hearing Chicago was especially poignant as Don was an avid fan of their music, the only person I ever met who had all their albums.

The newly-won freedom of relying entirely on myself is revived by Laura Branigan’s SELF CONTROL; Kool and the Gang’s JOANNA; I CAN DREAM ABOUT YOU by Dan Hartman and especially THE WARRIOR, with Scandal adding Patty Smyth to the mix. And Billy Joel's FOR THE LONGEST TIME was a connection to a rock and roll feeling I grafted onto my quickly-suppressed memories of Oxford.

Two songs evoke the feeling of Hattiesburg in ways I can’t pinpoint: HOLD ME NOW, by The Thompson Twins and The Cars’ YOU MIGHT THINK. Over the years, the undefinable essence of that evocation has prompted many a self-search. On the other hand, CUM ON FEEL THE NOIZE, by Quiet Riot reminds me of riding to Mac’s Fish Camp with Brendan and Terry, jammed together in his small Isuzu pickup truck… and me riding in the back during the return because the All-You-Can-Eat for $10 was a bargain, a challenge and a chance for gross excess we could not pass up. We were indeed a quiet riot then.

My central stage in Hattiesburg was Brendan’s comic book shop, a snug library of memories and discoveries. Conversation, joking, games, hilarity, trading, reading and music fused into a single experience, pearls on a growing string. The songs that place me there, sitting on an upturned milk crate and watching the oddities walk in and out are TRUE, by Spandau Ballet; OH SHERRY, by Steve Perry; IF EVER YOU'RE IN MY ARMS AGAIN, by Peabo Bryson and ALMOST PARADISE, by Mick Reno and Ann Wilson.

The jokes would fly and reach outer orbits as Corey Hart revealed he wore SUNGLASSES AT NIGHT, prompting intensive discussions of stupidity (in other people, never ourselves.) Tim Shoemake and I would argue constantly over Stevie Wonder’s nasal I JUST CALLED TO SAY I LOVE YOU, my trenchant observation that it was Stevie’s lament while sitting on a nail trouncing Tim’s loopy opinion that it was the love song of the decade. I still rehash the give-and-take that often included references to Watergate, the Byzantine Empire, John Lennon, bad cheesecake, the best way to drive to Alaska, impressionist paintings, how the invention of gunpowder doomed the Chinese empire, why money isn’t real, medical procedures that sound more horrible than what they actually are and doomed relationships. Customers walking into the middle of our conversation would invariably ask what we were discussing. Tim and I always shared what we called “the recap,” going backwards from the current topic and tracing the path back to Stevie, relishing the blank faces of reaction. I smile even now.

On the other hand, both Tim and I agreed that WAKE ME UP BEFORE YOU GO-GO, by Wham! would make them a one-hit wonder, never to be heard from again. Okay, so I missed one; he missed two.

Music: 1980

2005-06-07T07:12:00.000-07:00

I left the U.S. for Puerto Rico in 1972 and returned in 1980. At that time, it was my 16th move—averaging one a year—product of an Air Force that felt my dad was the guy for the job in too many places.

In the midst of making the transition back to what was once familiar, I didn’t take into account that my interests were no longer the same. My attitudes had changed. My horizons were broader than even many, much older people. If the world around me was different—very much so—so was I, even more different than the changes in the world now around me.

But like a masterful soundtrack, compelling but subliminal, music began linking the gaps. In Puerto Rico, music is like air, often hot, always present, occasionally overwhelming. Though first I noticed the relative silence, I quickly developed a habit of tuning in to the music of the new background, the melodies and rhythms that marked the minutes and suffused my space.

Music became my embodiment of time and place. It is for near everyone, but for me it wasn’t an automatic process: it was deliberately cultivated. It began with Queen’s CRAZY LITTLE THING CALLED LOVE, echoing the rollicking rhythm of Elvis and the nervous energy of arrival. LONGER by Dan Fogelberg settled like a butterfly on the soul, a signal that calm was not weakness. I can feel both songs as they place me in the Rapline office, the vintage 60s stereo the perfect companion for solitary nights and shared pain.

Wrenching Janis Joplin’s tragedy back to our minds was Bette Midler’s THE ROSE, a song that drifted over the nooks and crannies of Oxford like a gauzy curtain. Christopher Cross emerged full-blown and bracketed the summer with SAILING and RIDE LIKE WIND, songs that bring the heat of dry sunny days of exploration. IT'S STILL ROCK & ROLL TO ME, by Billy Joel, was the drumbeat of those lazy, hazy days, energizing and insouciant.

But the clearest mental stage is a bowling alley, Kiamie Lanes, where Mae Helen served chili and sandwiches, Bill, Don and I scattered pins and quips and music was like a second skin. FUNKYTOWN, by Lipps Inc., is the scenario for happy moments when a win was secured. The tender harmonies of SHINING STAR, by The Manhattans, brings moments of sadness, none my own. Not everyone went to Kiamie’s to share: some went to say goodbye. INTO THE NIGHT, by Benny Mardones and JUST THE TWO OF US, by Grover Wasington Jr. and Bill Withers are a sonorous reminder of quiet times with friends, those moments when silence is shared because it’s understood. STEAL AWAY, by Robbie Dupre is the song of a prank executed brilliantly, though I believe the bulk of the pain ended up being mine.

The Spinners are my bridge from Kiamie’s to everywhere else, with medleys that never failed to break my darkest moods. WORKING MY WAY BACK TO YOU/FORGIVE ME GIRL was the anthem of a future I could dimly perceive; CUPID/I'VE LOVED YOU FOR A LONG TIME was the paean of a brief past I felt too keenly.

The last piece of that 1980 collage came much later, in the summer of 1981, when The Manhattan Transfer, an outstanding jazz vocal group went nova with BOY FROM NEW YORK CITY. A jukebox in a long warehouse space, several pinball machines, four guys playing away, talking about everything and nothing, empty pizza boxes scattered about, the Oxford streets barren as the tiny clock buzzed the wee hours… moments of heart and mind caught in a web of notes.

It would happen again in 1984.

Wargames

2005-06-06T07:12:00.000-07:00

The store sat at the back of a “village mall,” some outré mélange of faux country-style and business rent. You literally walked into it, as the store seemed more an extension of the lobby than an actual store.

The lady in charge—one of the older ladies I bandied words with extensively—had created a store that was part women’s hobby shop, part decoration center and part wargame depot. Needlepoint and crochet kits vied with dried flowers and wicker baskets to create a visual eccentricity that was pleasing.

Up on shelves—sentinels over frippery—stood the wargames. In one of the many indications of coincidence as lubricant of the Universe, I had read about a wargame called Blitzkrieg, an abstract wargame more reminiscent of chess than simulations, pitting Red versus Blue. The next day, while going to visit one of “my ladies,” I saw the game on the high shelf, next to other boxed items of future interest.

I bought Blitzkrieg and jumped without a banzai into wargames. After wading through the rules, I went over the game with Don and we played a few times. In what was to become a defining moment, we discovered that the game essentially became a huge central-front gridlock with a desperate conclusion… so we tweaked the rules. Enter the mind of a game designer.

While others were focusing on the sci-fi randomness of Traveler and the fuzziness of Dungeons & Dragons, I jumped into the premier wargame catalogue of the day: Avalon Hill. Over the years, I bought games as diverse as Kingmaker, Machiavelli, Civilization, Circus Maximus, Alexander, Down with the King, Diplomacy, Third Reich, Storm Over Arnhem, Napoleon, Magic Realm, D-Day and Bismarck (aaaagghh!) The joy was always the same: defining an interesting game, ordering it, reading the rules, playing it once or twice and then tweaking the rules for better gameplay.

I often played alone, the only sad aspect of my love of wargames. I was not one to join a “club” or advertise my interest on scraps of paper pinned to a bulletin board. I explored the game designer’s lot of rules and strategies, seeking a balance between logic, accuracy and mental effort that would make the game more absorbing. Hours would fly by as I played scenarios over and over, trying new tactics and seeking flaws.

I learned to take apart a game’s mechanics and apply simple rules to make it work. I discovered that playability lay in keeping complexity at hand, but simplicity on the board. Naturally, I made up games, simple representations of what a game could be, and in those days before computing power at our fingertips, the games remained in embryo.

I never really pursued game design in any serious way. At most, I created games for neighborhood kids to play, and when I had the chance, introduced them into the world of wargames. It pleases me that some of the games I invented—and the memories of those days and nights playing wargames—are still brought up in conversations.

Avalon Hill is now a faded memory. Most of my collection of wargames is gone. It has been years since I played a wargame of that solitary time. Ever so often I yearn for the chance to play, to match wits across a colorful board, to battle time and again. I read about gamer clubs that revive the old AH titles and I feel the unaccostumed spearing of envy. It’s as if I had gone into mourning some 20 years ago, this extended, seldom interrupted, sadness, an emotional hollow of need that I can’t bring myself to express.

They’re only games, after all.

It

2005-06-03T19:12:00.000-07:00

There are days—not many—when I know I have it, a special energy that seems to beam from my skin. It attracts the eyes of women, some of whom stare like cats as they try to determine what caught their attention. It creates an aura that often startles a woman who sees me suddenly, a combination of surprise and puzzlement that leaves a strong impression, many times leading to a sudden relaxing of the body that serves as a prelude to more intimate conversation.

Men who look at me on those days often frown, as if challenged in some primitive way. On those days, men walking with women tend to reach out to them, pull them closer, openly place themselves between me and “their” woman or glare at me. Although I make eye contact with the woman, I never change expression or make any gesture, nor do I hold the contact longer than needed to see their reaction. Often enough to please me, on those days of it, women will move away from the men and keep their eyes glued to mine.

Those few days happen on their own. I can no more will them as I can will the sun to stop. They emerge slow, yet swiftly, a rising crescendo of energy that swoops upward to fly above the normal into the extraordinary. I ride that energy, play with it, revel in its glow like an otter in the bay, treasuring every minute as if collecting gold figurines.

The flight may last a few hours or several, but its afterglow carries me ‘til the morrow. Except for that one day when I thought it was mine to control, that I was pilot of my fantastic flight.

I have blue eyes. Not a big deal, except in a country where brown is the vast majority. They are almost certainly my only attractive feature, as I am neither tall, nor broad nor handsome. The blue is not singular in hue, but at times can become dark, tending to indigo or lighten from sky to baby. And on those days when it appears, my eyes have been described as vivid, haunting or unforgettable.

On one such day, in my teen years, I walked into the Post Office. As I addressed a letter, a woman walked over to me, entranced. I had noticed her outside. Her face was transformed, serene, intent and her walk was slow, as if in church. She stood within a few feet of me and said with liquid force: “You have such beautiful eyes.”

It was here. And with the mindless glee of the drunk, I replied: “It’s my contact lenses. They’re brown. My contacts that is.”

The face became mask. From alive to blank, vibrant to defensive. “I said you have beautiful eyes.” Her voice was dry, a hint of doubt creeping in like a weedy tendril.

“Oh, I know,” I babbled on, drunk on myself. “I paid green for brown that seems blue.”

Shutdown. Anger, sharp and thick, covered her face. She twirled, her heavy skirt a dismissive wave as she walked out. It followed her. I knew she thought her words and emotion were wasted on a dork. I knew she was right.

I felt empty. Not so much drained as sucked dry by the massive void of my careless words. For although I knew then I had ruined it, it was years before I knew why.

On those magical days that flow from me, I am giving the best of myself freely. I feel in tune with me, and that is what it shares with the world. It is generosity, the sharing of spirit; it cannot be forced, for doing so breaks the connection. Generosity denied is selfishness of the venal sort.

I took from that sincere woman not only my generosity, but hers. I severed mine, but what I did to hers went beyond denial to contempt and disrespect. She honored me in my moment: I dishonored her acknowledgement of it.

The flight—the magical flow—has returned many times. I let it happen as one lets the dawn. I neither seek nor rely on it, and while the energy glows, I move with it like a soaring bird, lightly upon its currents, content to follow any lead, swoop smilingly in any direction and land when it lulls away. Never again have I cut the flow… nor will I. It is mine and yet not. Maybe someday it will be.

Indy and Superman

2005-06-02T07:12:00.000-07:00

The movies came out in the same summer, with the fedora-topped Indiana Jones reaching the local screens before the Man of Tomorrow.

A fan of comic books since I started reading, Superman was the towering figure of Truth, Justice and what passed for an American Way that seemed to include only white people. Or pink, actually. The whole magic of the film was the selection of an unknown actor, Christopher Reeve, as the latest incarnation of the most emblematic of funny-book heroes and the latest technology to make it seem like a man (or woman) could fly. None of this “George Reeves on a table with strings tugging his cape” crap.

I point out that George committed suicide. I’m sure there’s no connection.

But before the flying unknown crossed the screen, Indiana Jones outsmarted death traps, ran through the jungle to escape a hundred crazed warriors, fought snakes, solved puzzles, took punches and blows that would deck a lesser man, sabotaged a plane, shot a swordsman (okay, not really sporting, but damn funny), hijacked a truck after being dragged under it (by choice, of course) and even infiltrated a Nazi submarine.

I remember telling Tim-the-Freudian that after seeing Indy, Superman would be a wimp. Well, he was. Although it’s true that Raiders is a much better movie than Superman, to me the difference went deeper. Superman was simply “unengaging”. He didn’t make you feel much because, well, he’s just loaded with advantages too overwhelming to pose a challenge, so you ultimately don’t care.

Indy was human, with common frailties, but a sense of purpose—and thus of self—that made him heroic. Superman was a hero because he simply had to be: he had no choice. Indy was a hero because he chose to be, despite the many chances to choose otherwise.

I’ve since watched people as they face challenges. I especially watch me. Are they—am I—choosing the heroic or the mundane? Although none of has ever been forced a la Superman to be a hero, there are times when the decision is made for us. Having a child who needs us is an obvious example. But in those foggy moments when taking the heroic road is difficult, especially when people will never see the choice, I always remember Indy and Superman: one human, one alien; the chooser and the chosen; free will versus obligation. I have failed to make the choice for heroic a number of times; it has yet to be a pleasant experience. Unlike the Man of Steel, I am flesh and blood.

Indy would understand. I couldn’t care less if Superman does.

Deli and Destruction

2005-06-01T07:12:00.000-07:00

It sat almost on a corner, across a wide parking lot from Mr. Quik and Kiamie Bowling Lanes and across the road from Pizza Inn. I once spent a solitary summer in its second room apartment. It had the publicity-oriented name of Rebel Deli and it was a den of destruction.

Rebel Deli served—-as expected—-deli-style sandwiches, with thin-cut meats and steamed goodness. A simple menu meant quality and service could be high and with about 12 tables, you always had a bit of a crowd. But to the rear of the Deli, standing like a stack of weapons, were the true engines of destruction: video games.

This was 1980. Pong had shown that a game played on a screen could foster addiction and the first wave of great video games emerged. For a generation raised on Half Life and Doom, Space Invaders seems throbbingly dull. But for us, the first generation of video gamers, the drumming metronome of descending aliens that gained aggressiveness as time ran out, was a shot of mental crack. Quarter after quarter was dropped into the console, techniques were debated, tested and approved and the early game wizards, guys who could play for an hour on just one quarter, were as close to demi-gods as we ever saw.

The gobbling munchies of Pac-Man, with its maze-running/escape skills, burst on the scene and added a new—disturbing—element to video games: women. Lacking in any true violence (eating meat on the hoof without caloric penalty being less violence than wish-fulfillment for the anorexic and bulimic corps, I guess), Pac-Man often had us guys waiting in line behind a girl to play a game. Some of the guys took advantage of the situation to play “video Lothario,” but the efforts (at least those in my presence) were as comfortable as using someone else’s dirty hanky.

But the Rebel Deli quarter-muncher, destroyer of budgets and savings, was Asteroids. Deceptively simple, with only lines to demark boulders, rocks and ships, Asteroids introduced full-screen movement in a circular universe: fly left, emerge on the right; fly up, emerge at the bottom. In a burst of genius, inertia was also a part of the formula, as your ability to maneuver was limited by your speed. Blast an asteroid, get two boulders; blast a boulder, get two rocks. Clear the screen of debris, shoot the trigger-happy little alien ship and move on.

Asteroids, boulders and rocks broke in reaction to speed and angle, so that sometimes debris would fly by as happy whales or at warp speeds. As your skills developed—-quarter after quarter—-you could anticipate how a shot would create a reaction and plan your moves. Like any challenging activity, focused effort and lots of practice gave you appreciable growth. But in the end, your little ships would find themselves overwhelmed and the death-phrase “Game Over” would shut down the flow to your pleasure centers.

Bill and I often spent hours at Rebel Deli, eating sporadically and practically living on a stool in front of Asteroids. One memorable day, we arrived at 11 AM, ate about 8 sandwiches apiece and left shortly after 6, our stomachs a bit fuller than our pockets. Near the end, I was playing mechanically, the way a lifeboat survivor continues to bail even as the rescue ship looms above. We walked out and parted ways.

Next morning, at 11 AM, we were back on the stool, blasting rocks, eating sandwiches, lost in the Deli and the Destruction.

Cleaning the Cleaners

2005-05-31T07:12:00.000-07:00

I had been down that alley several times before, a good shortcut from where I was to somewhere else. The glass window had an old wooden frame and a few times I’d peered in to see the silent, cold machines of a dry cleaner.

One night I absently pulled the window up…and it slid open. The sharp smell of dry cleaning fluid in warm air hit me like a warm sock. Without hesitation, I slid inside and pressed the window closed. The large room, open to view from the street, felt muggy and my skin tingled with the feeling of being exposed. I roamed aimlessly, just looking, keeping low as cars passed outside. Finally, tired of the effort, I headed back for the window. And I saw the safe.

It seems a natural tendency to see a safe and want to twirl the dial. I did and stopped as it clicked. I stared at the dial, sitting on 38. Then, without thinking about it, I twisted the handle… and the safe opened.

It was all dark. I reached in and discovered the safe was much smaller inside than the outside indicated, and that the small interior space was stuffed with paper. Dollars and checks. I emptied the safe and with no rush, found a paper bag in a drawer above the safe, stuffed everything into the bag and left the dry cleaners through the window. No one saw me as I made my way back to my apartment.

I counted the cash: $438. I totaled the checks: $519. A grand total of $957. I stared at the pile of money and colored paper. It wasn’t mine. I needed the money. It wasn’t mine. I had already escaped with it. I had to return it. The checks had to be destroyed. The checks might be replaced.

The clock said it was already 4:55 AM, with dawn only a half-hour away. Not now. Tonight.

I slept on it. During the day, I didn't think about it, but from 10 PM on, I was jittery. Reasons not to even try seemed reasonable: the theft was reported, there’ll be more vigilance. The window will be locked, so you can’t break in. The safe will be locked and you can’t just leave the money anywhere...

Midnight inched past and I gathered the bills and checks again, organizing the bills into denominations and the checks in alphabetical order. Earlier they were in order by serial numbers and amounts. I tried to watch TV, flipping channels while staring at the clock. One. One-thirty. Two.

Gathering the rumpled paper bag, I looked around, then sat down. Two-twenty. Two-forty. Time to go.

I took a circuitous route, walking at my normal pace. I didn’t spot any police cars, an odd but not unique pattern. I bought a Coke, drank it and headed for the alley. I didn’t pause at the entrance, but simply kept walking, disappearing into the darkness in seconds. Without hesitation, I tugged at the window.

It slid open. My mouth did too.

I climbed in, then shut the window. I moved quickly to the safe, and with a wry smile, twisted the dial to 38.

It clicked.

I twisted the handle as I pulled the paper bag out of its hiding place beneath my sweatshirt. Of course, the safe opened. Angry, I stuffed the bag into the tiny unlit interior and as I was about to close it, I reached up into the drawer above and rummaged until I found a piece of paper and a pen. Writing with stiff pressure, I traced six letters and an exclamation mark over and over, until the anger receded and the paper was dented and frayed.

I shoved the note on top of the money and slammed the door shut. I didn’t care if it made noise. I stalked to the window, shoved it open, jumped out and walked away. Maybe the open window, newly-locked strongbox and a note that demanded him or her to “BE SAFE!” would change their ways.

In any case, I never went back to find out.

Frodo and Gerard

2005-05-30T07:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes fictional characters come to you as if from on high, their reputations preceding them so that the first encounter is like meeting a celebrity. Then there are those characters that explode from the mists, leaping onto the mental stage with undeniable presence.

Frodo came recommended. From a chance encounter with The Hobbit, which I didn’t read at the time, I discovered the growing popularity of Tolkien’s creation. A few years later, I bought the books as a set and immediately plunged into it.

Not good. Although there are flashes of lyrical brilliance, The Hobbit's tone is often smarmy if not openly condescending. The adventure has a cartoony feel to it, flat yet colorful. The end result was that it put me off the trilogy for several months, until a lengthy bus ride—my last—almost forced me to find anything to do.

Starting slowly, almost ponderously, Tolkien weaves a very different tale in The Lord of the Rings. The smarmy tone is replaced with near-historical weight, a chronicler rather than chatter. And Frodo, tiny Frodo, is the golden thread that holds the story to the heart, an innocent struggling with a world beyond his ken or control. If Aragorn is the quintessence of human nobility, Frodo is that of the human soul, often battered, always challenged, but rising above it all to endure.

On a long bus ride, with a spot of light in inky darkness, Frodo carried me with him past The Tower, a shared journey unlike any other I will ever have.

Gerard, or more accurately, Brigadier Etienne Gerard, was the best rider, swordsman, adventurer and lover in Napoleon’s Grand Armeé. From the pen of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Gerard is Holmes’ equal in memorability, for despute the fact that Sherlock Holmes was the “first” of his kind and Gerard another soldier hero in a long line of warriors, Gerard is panache personified.

Told as tales of an old soldier, the set-up is perfect for romantic excesses handled deftly. Conan Doyle was always proudest of his historical writings and with Gerard, his love of history and powers of characterization are keenly displayed. With delicate tweaks at the British and French amour de guerre, Gerard swashbuckles and gamboles through his adventures, defeating the mightiest, wooing the loveliest and outshining the brightest of friends and foes across the face of a troubled Europe. Gerard is charming in his excessive self-love and pride, but his wit and eye give him a humanity we can all cherish.

Two British writers, two dissimilar characters, one obvious result: admiration. Like the ideal conclusion to blind dates—described beforehand or surprised afterward—one takes the chance and is pleased. Odd how life has a way of doing that, too.

3:16 Call

2005-05-27T07:12:00.000-07:00

The phone rang and I automatically checked the time: 3:16 AM. I was alone, and though the shift had long ended, I didn’t hesitate to pick up. I would wonder about that for a long time.

Her voice was ragged, broken in heart and spirit, her words tumbling softly without shape. “I wanna kill myself.”

When you joined Rapline, you were told to screen such calls carefully, to explore the sentiment and situation to determine how serious the caller’s intent was. In most cases, it was simply an expression of pain, a silent scream for support. In most cases.

You were also told to never work alone, for if a caller was serious and intervention was needed, your partner would alert the authorities while you made every effort to help the person. And if the situation became critical, your only goal then was to identify who the caller was and where they were, so that your partner could lead the authorities to the emergency. If it was critical. If you had a partner.

There was no need to screen this caller. Four times before I’d dealt with a possible suicide and each time it had been a slow process of trying to help the person before they reached the point of acting. Two of those had required intervention. And here I was facing a third, because I sensed--deep inside--that the girl had already acted.

3:17 AM. And I was alone.

I asked her what had caused her such pain. Her words came slowly, as if covered with razors. She was pregnant. Told her boyfriend. A week ago. She called him constantly. No answer. Went to his apartment. He was gone. Finally called his parent’s house. In Oregon. The first call, he answered. Then hung up. She called again. Many times. Finally a woman answered. Screamed. Called her a whore. Told her to stop calling. She took pills. Many, many pills.

I asked her name. No. Told her mine. Nice name. What pills. Blue. Used to be my roommate’s. How many. A bunch. Please, how many. I didn’t count. Did they have a marking. Yeah, a letter. What letter. B or D. Maybe an E. And some red ones. I’m really tired.

3:31 AM. All we had was each other and she was fading. I gambled. “I bet your name is ‘Sally’.”

A small laugh. “Silly. My name is Beth.”

“You sound like you live on campus, like on Sorority Row.”

Snorting. “Uh-uh. Got an apartment.” She named the building. I walked past it every night as I roamed Oxford in the dark.

She started gagging. “Which apartment?” My voice was strained. Almost harsh.

She coughed and wretched. I heard a faint Two-oh-four, then: “I gotta throw up,” followed by the phone hitting wood.

I raced out of the office and leaped down the stairs. The University Police Department was on the first floor. I burst in and told the dispatcher to alert the chief, a suicide intervention and to hurry. She stared at me like I was mad. I repeated myself then raced up the stairs.

3:36 AM. Faint sounds far from the phone. Then: “I threw up.”

“Beth? Is your door locked?”

“No.”

I asked her if she had confirmed the pregnancy. Yes. If she had family nearby. No. Family in Florida. Divorced. Hadn’t seen her father in three years. She was mumbling.

3:44 AM. “Beth!”

She grunted. “I wanna die.”

I told her I wanted to die too. Then I said it again. The desperate tone was sincere. Why. I felt alone and nobody cared about me. No friends? No. Like me. No, you have a friend. Who. Me. No you’re not. I am because I’m listening and I want to help. No. I’m listening. He left me. Because I’m pregnant. And I hate him. He shouldn’t have left me. That’s true. I loved him! She started to cry, then cough.

3:52 AM. The door behind me swung open and the UPD Chief, a lanky ex-Los Angeles cop, walked in and perched a hip on the desk. I passed him a note with the details. He read it and gave me a hard, bored look. I let him listen to Beth as she continued sobbing. I nodded. He just stared at me. Then Beth howled, a ragged, raw soul in torment, screaming without hope. I saw him shiver and he tried to cover it up. He didn't see mine. Without a word, he left.

“Beth?” The phone was set down gently, clicking into emptiness. “Beth!” No dial tone. “Beth!” I was standing, sweating, trembling, willing her to answer. She had to answer.

She did. “No.” The phone thudded softly, echoing my heart.

The seconds dragged, piling upon me like yokes of despair. I called her name and listened to the drumming of my chest as the only reply. My hands became slick with anxiety. I called again and again and again, a name to momentarily stop the whirlpool of thoughts that crushed my breath: If I hadn't been alone... If I hadn't answered the phone... If I hadn't failed...

3:59 AM. A loud series of knocks. A strong voice calling out her name. “Please answer the door.” More knocks, another request and a curt “We are coming in to help you.” I heard the door open, then movement and a request for assistance. Muffled phrases in staccato: Check her pulse. Roll her over. Breathing isn’t good. Stomach pump. The bathroom’s back there. Possible overdose. Take her in now.

The phone was picked up. “Hello?”

I replied: “She told me she has a confirmed pregnancy.” A hand covered the receiver and passed the information on.

“We’re taking her in. She’s pretty serious right now, but we’ll do all we can.” He hung up.

4:04 AM. I hung up. I was alone once more.

Student Body Elections

2005-05-26T07:12:00.000-07:00

It happened once a year, I think in the spring. Posters and flyers would circulate, The Daily Mississippian would pretend to cover “issues,” an assortment of people would knock on your dorm room door at odd hours to toss banalities at your feet and carefully-rehearsed impromptu scenes would erupt in the Student Union in support of some faceless drone or the other.

Student Body elections had all the charm of a hangnail. The best thing to do was just get it over with quickly, as painlessly as possible, understanding that there would always be a smidgen of pain in the process.

The truly annoying part of the process was the monkey fever intensity frat boys and sorority girls would display in favor of their brother/sister/third-cousin on Aunt Becky May’s side. The whole Student Body deal was a Greek thang, more a show of plumage and just as weighty in the grand scheme of things.

The independents, those of us wise enough to skip the Greek tragedy, made up a majority of the students. So for once, the Greeks had to come to us to help secure their puny ambitions. If Greeks bearing gifts were to be treated warily, Greeks with empy hands and empty smiles were to be run from.

Yet we held our ground. Some of us curtly, some of us patiently and some of us… well, some of us just had to do it our way. And in astonishing fashion, be frustrated anyway.

As many times as I was approached by a frat boy or a sorority girl and urged to vote in the STUDENT! BODY! ELECTIONS!, I would shake my head ruefully and say: “I can’t vote. I’m illegitimate.”

Eyes would glaze over, smiles would fade to blank and the usual response was a timid “Sorry” and a quick retreat to safety.

Absurdity aside, I was just aching to have one of those empty Greek urns say “Bastard,” so I could retort “It takes one to know one.”

Did I ever get to complete my pitiful little one-act play? ETA ALPHA!

I Want(ed) a Pipe

2005-05-25T07:12:00.000-07:00

I can blame Tim-the-Freudian for the inspiration, but only me for the continuance. Tim was the only person I knew who smoked a pipe and many times I was able to find him around campus by the trail his particular brand of tobacco left behind.

Tim was a graduate psychology student, stocky of build and thinning of hair. He affected an almost comical seriousness to his role as embryonic brainbuster and it was often amusing to see him struggle to avoid jumping into a situation with both Freudian feet.

Our friendship was sporadic, with frequent meetings for two weeks then a disconnect that could last two months. One summer I sub-let the apartment he had in the old two-story house Miz Evelyn owned across from the Oxford Cemetery. I saw him four times that summer, always harassed, as his summer internship turned him from amiable gadfly to lumbering oaf, a process that became irreversible.

Tim smoked a pipe like some people get tattoos. He was fussy about tobacco and sometimes finicky about pipes, but it was the ritual that intrigued me: the selection of just the right amount of tobacco, the careful packing, the oddly-lengthened lighter flicking to life, the rhythmic puffing and careful nurturing until the pipe was well-lit and clouds of smoke began attacking the surroundings.

I marveled at the smoothness of the wood, the rich grain, the careful shaping of bowls and stems, the artistry of bringing together diverse materials to create an instrument so powerfully experiential. When Tim got a job at The Smoke Shop—wooden Indian and all—he turned the experience into his own little psych lab and I used his meandering theories to cover my intense scrutiny of dozens of pipes.

I even tinkered with the idea of making my own pipe, buying a kit as a way of spending quiet hours in careful craftsmanship. But though I spent many months lingering over the idea, the reality of actually smoking a pipe—and how I would look doing so—always stopped me. A pipe would be a burden and as useful a prop for me as a paintbrush to a monkey.

The day I let the idea die I was having lunch with Tim at a restaurant with a prominent salad bar. An elderly couple walked up to it, the woman muttering a mile a minute, poking at the salad items, the dressings, vegetables and bread, always criticizing. The man carefully carried their tray to a nearby table, his face a wooden mask of disinterest. The woman filled her plate, then one for her husband, words machine-gunning the air. They sat down and the pattern continued: her mouth, his mask.

Tim and I watched in silence. Finally, their meal ended, the man gathered the tray and disposed of the trash. They left as they had appeared: her mouth, his mask. Tim took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed with it at the couple. “You’d think she was the head case, but she’s not that off.” He puffed on the pipe, then pointed with it again. “He, on the other hand, is certifiable. He is way past normal. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up taking an axe to her.”

He tapped the pipe on the table. “I know these things.” I looked at the tobacco flakes and ashes sprawled across the tabletop. Maybe he was right; I sensed he was. But the pipe? Overkill.

God is Black

2005-05-24T07:12:00.000-07:00

Silly me: I thought college classes were for exploring concepts. I quickly learned that the sheep want to graze quietly and that some of them are actually venomous when aroused.

A Basic Logic class, in an auditorium half-filled with breathing bodies, me perched in the highest back row, wondering how far I could jump. The class had two speakers: the professor and me. Everyone else spoke if spoken to, and maybe not even then. At the point in a lecture where the professor was describing arguments that are unsupportable and unassailable by logic, he asked for an example.

“God is black,” I said.

You could hear heads snapping around to look up at me. The professor cleared his throat strongly and said the example was correct and that positions such as th—-

“What did he say?” growled a voice somewhere to my right.

Before the professor could interrupt, I repeated: “God is black.”

There are moments when you see a disconnected group come together, a mass of people barely aware of each other all of a sudden discovering a common focus, a menace maybe, like a fire or a fistfight. When that focus centers on a person, when the random stillness and movements instantly coalesce into a current flowing at the focus, you have the beginnings of a mob.

Words erupted first.

“What the hell?”
“What did he say?”
“Black? Like a nigger?”
“Fucking crazy!”
“No way! The black guy say it?”
“Quiet, please.” The professor spoke alone, quite loudly.
“That’s wrong! Wrong! He can’t be right! God can’t be black!”

I chose to answer that one. “God can’t be black? I thought God was omnipotent.”

“He can’t be black!”

I rolled my eyes. “Somebody explain ‘ominipotent’ to this redneck.”

“God is white because He’s white in all the paintings!” She seemed on the verge of tears. I let that one pass.

“Quiet! Please!” The incipient mob herded right to look at him. He gave me a dirty look and I waved cheerfully. He proceeded to indicate that the example, though “touchy,” was valid. A few grumbles rippled through the classless room. I was ready as he asked “Any other examples?”

“God is a woman.”

Stunned. Until the professor slammed a hand on his podium and roared “That’s enough! Confine your examples to general topics!”

I smirked. “Oh, you want us to think as you do and not freely as we’re supposed to?” Cheap shot, but it was there. The former mob suddenly perked up, sensing their grazing grounds were not as green as they had believed.

With visible effort, the professor willed himself under control. “I am hear to teach Logic, not start a debating group.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Not enough brains in here for a debating group.” Some furious looks told me I had crossed the line.

Class continued and at the end, as the group filed out with stares and glares at me, the professor pulled me over. “Why did you do that?”

I looked out the door at the small group of guys waiting for me and decided to skip to the end. “I could have said God was a black woman.” I shrugged away from him and went to meet the “debaters.”

The Hoka

2005-05-23T07:12:00.000-07:00

It was as out-of-place as a tuxedo in a barnyard. To call it a throw-back would be to imply it actually had a shred of contact with current life. At its best, The Hoka was a timewarp, a pocket of illusion in a world that had begun to move wholeheartedly towards cynicism. At its worst—and it was often at its worst—The Hoka was the trash heap of discarded dreams.

The only word to describe its presence was “sprawl.” It didn’t sit so much as it oozed against the rising land, a tent made of wood, shingles, drywall and spit with the charm of an aging hooker who’d discovered the joys of basket-weaving. Part bar, part restaurant, part hangout, part theater and all Hoka.

My first visit there was like walking into fish guts. The air itself felt sticky, none the least for the obvious cloud of smoke that lingered above and beyond the bar. We ordered coffee with chickory, New Orleans-style, and the heavy mug was cracked to the point where creamy liquid seeped out like a tired tear. Around me appeared, disappeared and re-appeared relics of a bad memory: aging faces, stooped shoulders, emaciated bodies of the time when peace and love and drugs and rock and roll were virtually one magical amalgam. Long hair turning gray, tied back into ragged ponytails or hanging loose like dried kelp. Tie-dyed clothing desperate for patching. Sandals with blackened outlines of ancient sweat.

We ordered food. My choice was hamburger, rare, a choice that can only be deemed insane. It arrived wrapped in goat cheese, or something spewed, on buns that weighed a pound each surrounding a piece of meat so charred it should have been a paperweight. Two bites confirmed the cheese, the taste of wet cardboard and that paperweights are not food.

Music drifted in and out of the smoke, interruptus. A song would begin, the hazy tribe would oooh and then the music would fade to dreamy smiles. Notes plunked and clinked through the air, vying for escape. Then another song would begin, the ooohs, the fadeout, the dreamy smiles. Over and over.

We ordered more coffee and my mug had no handle. The movie was about to begin, the classic Humphrey Bogart in “The Maltese Falcon.” Popcorn appeared out of the dark, a Hoka gift that felt vaguely menacing. Tim-the-Freudian warned me that sometimes the reels were shown out of order and we sat on chairs that kept their shape out of sheer stubborness. The screen was a patched set of sheets that behind them had the parking lot. No walls, just a sheet. The Hoka never closed.

The movie began. Not even this smoky hovel could erase the snappy dialogue, the quick wit and sheer magnetism of Bogey, Sydney and Peter as they chased “the black bird.” But at the chase’s peak, Bogey doesn’t take the fall, the stuff dreams are made of is center-screen and then the tense apartment scene where the gunsel is sold down the river makes its play. Nobody said a word, and when the third reel ends, we get up and leave past the screen, into the dingy, sweet-smelling night. We didn’t pay for anything and we walked away in heavy silence.

At The Hoka, dreams came first and the sell-out last. Every day.

Fencing Wounds

2005-05-20T07:12:00.000-07:00

I took up fencing in 1986 as a way of trying a new sport. Always a fan of swordsmanship, I quickly discovered that fencing was serious effort, not trivial play, and that I enjoyed the challenges immensely.

I quickly became the second-best fencer in our small group and trained harder with our Captain, an accomplished modern pentathlete. One Wednesday evening, after sweating out a grueling 20-minute session, he asked me if I wanted to compete in a fencing tournament. I agreed instantly.

The tournament was held in New Orleans. A large, stuffy gym served as the stage for an old-fashioned club challenge, a “them-against-us” day of fencing with human judges instead of electric machines. The local club had about 30 members and though ours was half as big, only 5 of us had made the trip. We decided on a round-robin format, by divisions, and began fencing.

My first match pitted me against a burly, wide-bodied fencer. Because of the other matches, all the judges in ours were his club members. I noticed this, slipped on my mask and we began. My style was quite aggressive, relying on my reflexes and footwork to streak in and make rapid lunges. Almost immediately I scored and at my pause, he lunged at my chest. “Point.”

I returned to my spot when I noticed I was down 0-1. I questioned it, but the guy behind my opponent, who should have seen my touch, shook his head. Settling in, we resumed. Again I made a fast approach and scored, only to have the point awarded to my opponent, by the same “judge.” Down 0-2. The mask seemed to fade away as I attacked, scoring clearly on my opponent without him touching me in return. And once again, the same bastard shook his head, denying me the point.

I removed my mask to stare at him. Bad form. Like I cared. He pushed his glasses up, crossed his arms over his chest and avoided my eyes. He knew. The match resumed and I eventually lost 2-5. I should have won by that score. My first true fencing match and I had lost.

Four more matches and I won them all easily. Then my final match and as the luck of the draw would have it, my opponent was the near-sighted bastard of my first match. I almost ran to the strip. We shook hands and he gave me a weak smile. I was ready. Masks on, we began.

In an instant, I knew I could beat him. But I wanted more. With cold certainty, I created an attack pattern—up, down, side, then down—and kept it going until I scored. We resumed and I kept the same pattern, but scored from another angle. I did the same on the third point. And as he again assumed his en garde position, I knew had him. I started advancing, sword high. He stepped back. I closed and started my pattern: up, down, side… He went down and I immediately lunged, sword straight, my entire body a line of furious thrust from foil tip to left foot. I aimed through him, the tip slamming into the vest exactly where his heart was. As if punched by a heavyweight, he slumped back and fell down clumsily.

I straightened up slowly, the rush of energy flowing down and away. He groaned, grabbing his chest and his teammates came over. Edward, our captain, looked at me, his eyes boring into mine. Quickly, the bastard’s friends removed vest, sweatshirt and T-shirt. I stepped off the strip to wait. They left.

I won that match by forfeit and made it to the finals, where once again I faced the same stocky guy… with four of his club members as judges. I noticed no one from my club volunteered to judge and Edward couldn’t do it because he’d lost to the stocky guy in the semi-finals. I scored 9 times, but lost 4-5. What a surprise. The stocky guy even apologized.

As I was packing my gear, the near-sighted bastard ambled over slowly, his face a mask of pain. He kept rubbing his chest, just above the heart. “Look,” he pouted, raising his sweatshirt and T-shirt to show me an already-bruised and swelling plum-sized knot on his pasty flesh. “You hurt me!”

I stared back at him until he lowered his shirts and started to shuffle his feet. Surprisingly, he extended his hand.

“I was aiming for more,” I said and walked away, his hand ignored.

Bad form. Like I cared.

A 100 Degree Summer

2005-05-19T07:12:00.000-07:00

Growing up in Puerto Rico inures you to heat, as the blazing sun and high humidity wrap you like a damp blanket 270 days a year. I played all kinds of sports under Puerto Rico's summer sun, so walking around Oxford in the summer was fun. Even as the temperature slipped above 100 degrees, the relatively low humidity made it easy to live in.

Bill was also very comfortable in the mid-year sun, so in the summer of 1981, we began to play tennis as soon as the temperature topped 100. I think it was his idea, but I certainly jumped at it enthusiastically. Neither of us was really a good player and we actually had more fun whacking balls with exaggerated swings than trying to emulate classical play.

Several times that summer I'd be walking to the court and see people sitting on porches, fanning themselves with the slow desperate rhythm of the overcome. I stifled the urge to wave, for wasn't I blessed with youth, vim, vigor and a pleasant attraction to high infrared? Why rub it in? I'm smiling smugly now, just as I did then. (I didn't wave, but I smiled. Oh did I smile!)

What began as a day's impulsive whim soon stretched to three days, then six, eight and ten. Day after day, the heavy-handed heat slapped itself upon North Mississippi and sure enough, as the mercury hit triple digits, Bill and I hit the courts. Once we were able to determine that the temperature on the court was close to 125 degrees, the concrete slab almost clutching at us with wavy fingers of heat. And we played on.

Eleven, twelve, fourteen. Two full weeks of the longest heat wave in recent memory and we were as regular as two of those mechanical cuckoos. We played at least for an hour, often for two or more, a couple of young men just sharing time, space and the occasional metronome of ball over net.

Day fifteen. By noon, the temperature soared over 100 degrees and less than 20 minutes later, we were on the court. For almost an hour we engaged in our usual thwacking and wise-cracking play, when suddenly I began feeling tight, as if my stomach and leg muscles had turned to wood. I played through it and when I turned to pick up balls against the back fence, I slumped. Holding on with nerveless fingers kept me from falling. I didn't notice Bill standing next to me until he spoke.

I told him I was okay and let go of the fence. He asked me if it could be the heat and I gave him a look. But no retort emerged. With a touch of humility as new as the next minute, I nodded. Maybe. He asked me if I wanted to stop. I chuckled and said our streak had to go on. I took a deep breath, picked up the balls and we played on.

After 17 days, the temperature peaked at 98, then dropped to 95-97 for several days. It did hit 100 one more time and we didn't miss that. Our streak was intact, a tennis summer in the highest heat. It was a lark, an adventure, a deepened friendship and a lesson: I am not immune. Slow learner that I am, I needed several reminders before I got it right.

Australian Rules Football

2005-05-18T07:12:00.000-07:00

At 4 AM, TV used to be a wasteland. Even with the advent of cable, the darkest hours were populated by black-and-white B-movies, odd reruns and the occasional preacher desperate for attention. It isn’t much better now, because the peak moment of pre-dawn TV was Australian Rules Football.

ESPN was barely gaining momentum when, without fanfare, they started showing tapes of a sport that combined the high-impact action of rugby with the high-scoring drama of basketball and was simply mesmerizing to watch. Rugged guys in colorful uniforms of sleeveless T-shirts and shorts would run down and across an oval field, passing a large ovoid ball by punching it like a weak volleyball serve, by kicking it through the air or—daringly—by dribbling it in mid-run. Points were scored by kicking the ball throught two tall uprights or between a tall upright and a shorter one. Referees in long white coats and perky hats would indicate the score with mechanical gestures pre-dating “The Robot.”

Without explanation, with color commentary that assumed you were an Aussie fan and simply added to player bios that read like excised drafts of a Crocodile Dundee script, the action and intensity drew you in almost against your will. The play never stopped, and like in soccer, injuries (a few a game) were tended to on the field. I once saw a player knocked down, start getting attention from the trainer, only to bolt up and try to tackle an opponent and get even more viciously knocked out, forcing the trainer to sigh deeply, pick up his equipment bag and run over to the new mid-field “bedside.”

The hand-passing and dribbling seemed quaint and awkward, but the real drama was in “marks,” kicks that soared high and far across the field and were secured by players jumping like—well, kangaroos—to catch it in mid-air. The catches were not unchallenged: short of grabbing the other player, anything went. I saw a player run, leap, plant his left foot in the opposing player’s back for greater height and catch the ball while slamming the opponent to the turf, a catch so spectacular it was shown before and after almost every game.

Scores were often 80 points or higher per team as each goal was worth 6 points and a “behind” worth 1 point. Momentum could and did shift often and in one spectacular match, a league doormat overcame a 36 point deficit in the closing minutes to defeat a perennial winner, a sort of “Cubs beat the Yankees” scenario that was thrilling to watch. So what if I couldn’t tell one team from the other? I know a great game when I see one.

And so did thousands of others, especially in Australia. Despite its size (about 20% smaller than the States), Down Under is not nearly as populated as you might think. At the time, the total population of the country was around 14 million persons, and yet, these matches often had attendance that numbered over 100,000 fans. To give you an idea of what that really means, imagine a Sunday football game in Green Bay… with 12 million fans in the Stadium. All of them cheering, waving, singing, screaming, swaying and stomping their feet in the best soccer-crowd tradition.

The games were exciting, the marks were often spectacular, the close-ups of players who were “veterans” after 20 games and looked like middle-aged hockey players though they were 24 or 25, the drama of athletes playing hard because pride demanded no less and the sheer fun of being able to watch all this at 4 in the freakin’ morning was too much to pass up. But eventually, Life changed its rhythm, ESPN changed its schedule and Aussie Rules Football dropped off my radar. Still, the sporting excitement and pageantry remain a vivid, happy memory of the night’s quietest time.

Letters

2005-05-17T07:12:00.000-07:00

In those days before e-mail swamped us and placed letter-writing in a comatose state, I wrote letters, actual pieces of paper covered by my handwriting (such as it was) or my Smith-Corona’s inky output. They were often monologues—as letters tend to be—but always ended in a P.S., or two or eleven, although I once wrote a letter that was 98% P.S. (That’s “P,” okay?)

I wrote well over 300 hundred letters over a five year period, averaging 5 a month. The bulk of those letters I wrote to Carol, filled with anecdotes, tweaks (I bugged her a lot!), sports news, asides, feelings and low comedy. She wrote back often and the long-distance dialogue, the closing of space too vast for me to contain, went far towards healing my first bouts of loneliness.

I wrote to my mom, letters that let me express my feelings in a light manner, trying to hide my moments of pain or confusion and doing as good a job at that as is possible when a mother’s instinct has an uncanny way of seeing straight to the truth. Letters to my dad were military reports: long on facts, short on interpretation. He usually answered on the back of deposit slips that he got at the bank, often sent to me in bank envelopes he scratched the return address from and always with a stamp he charmed from a bank officer. A lady bank officer, of course.

My sister got more emotional letters, ones where I expressed concerns about her and about me. We seldom wrote as each tried to establish a space of one’s own, separate from family. As my sister kept mom and dad in the dark about many things (she was geographically closer, but emotionally more distant at the time, the opposite of my case), it was up to me to sound her out and pass on the “all clear,” true or not.

Letters to a high school friend were exercises in the excess of “one word.” Using my Smith-Corona and time, I wrote him letters that were one word, with no separation or punctuation between the letters. After the straight-through version, one letter was one word that spiraled in to the center of the page. Later I wrote a letter that had to be read vertically, again with no separations or punctuations. Another had to be read following the line from the front to the back, then back to the front again, a spiral across both sides of the paper. And my last, greatest effort, had a diagonal pattern, starting in the upper right corner and spiraling over both sides of the paper, ending in the lower left corner. And these were not random efforts either: I told him and his family my news, observations and thoughts, all within the exact confines of the pages and format. He still has them.

Another friend who kept my letters was Joeann. I flirted with her outrageously when we were in school together (her boyfriend was my friendly sports “nemesis”) and I did the same in my letters, behaving like a sex-mad fiend who was just a split-second away from conquering her with his animal magnetism. (Comedy is often based on reality.) (Often, not always.) Years later, Joeann told me she had kept the letters and when sadness or depression gripped her, she would read the letters and eventually start laughing, sometimes until she cried. She even showed me the creased, almost split pages, carefully tucked in their envelopes and wrapped in a linen handkerchief.

But the strongest emotional impact I’ve felt about my letters happened many years after the fact. My dad’s only sister and I wrote to each other 4-5 times a year. Some 15 years after I left college and stopped writing letters, I went to visit my aunt in San Francisco. We spoke about her dead husband, Jack, a former Air Force pilot who I only met twice, but with whom I traded news through my aunt. I knew Jack thought highly of me, but not much else, so I asked her to tell me more about him. She told me that even when his health faded badly and he didn’t even want to watch television, Jack would perk up whenever one of my letters arrived. He would ask her to read them aloud and laugh at my my comments and sarcasm. Sometimes he would ask her to pull out older letters and read them, too. The week before he died, she gathered all my letters and read them to Uncle Jack, one after the other, to take his mind off the pain of his dying. His soft laughter echoed hers, she said. That night he slept soundly for the last time.

Cheerleaders

2005-05-16T07:12:00.000-07:00

They swarmed on campus like a multi-headed creature, with an odd number of heads and legs. They tittered, giggled, cheered, tittered, screeched, tittered, shrieked, clapped and did I mention they tittered? They moved in herds with amoeba-like fluctuations that were appealing and disturbing to watch.

They were high school girls on a college campus... where there were college men. Even I qualified as an interesting specimen when that broad a definition was used. The occasional exchange was a break from routine for me and an anecdote in the fall for them.

One Tuesday afternoon, passing the Student Union, a voice from a cheerleader herd called out in a cloud of laughter: “Would you date me?”

“Only if you’re naked!” I yelled back, causing even greater clouds of laughter and setting off a flutter of spastic gyrations.

The top moment in my mind was sitting in the cafeteria with Bill, in our usual next-to-the-entrance table. The place was almost empty when four cheerleaders came in, a grand total of nine inches separating all four heads from each other, their legs choreographed in some instinctive way so that every step landed where it should. They were dressed up in what I could only describe as “informal teenage chic,” a fashion trend that changes every eleven days (except in big cities where it changes every six.)

I was ruminating about something to say as they walked by, an integrated unit of teenage vanity, when Bill yelled out “Look at them! They think they’re pretty!”

The girls wilted. Wilted, I tell you. In the time it took them to walk twenty feet they went from “fabulous” to “failures,” their body language a visual apology for being in our midst.

I turned to Bill and said “That was cruel.” He looked at me, impassive. I shook my head and added “I wish I’d said it!”

I brought that up when we saw each other recently and he told me his top cheerleader moment was something I’d done. We were sitting on the window ledge up at the office, the summer heat forcing a search for some less-stale air. A group of some 15 cheerleaders herded by and as they passed near us, I let out a wolf whistle. Heads snapped in my direction and smiles flashed. Then I yelled “Not you!”

Heads snapped back and some dropped. Postures slumped. But as Bill so keenly remembers, one girl had not turned to seek out the whistler. And as the herd moved on, her smile made it clear that my little jest had very much made her day. Maybe even the whole summer.

Computer Football

2005-05-13T07:12:00.000-07:00

This is complicated: While at Rapline, I answered a call from a young lady who complained bitterly about her boyfriend, a computer geek who treated her like dirt. We spoke three nights in a row and as chance would screw it, I sat next to her in the computer center later the third night. I recognized her voice and name and before I could escape, she recognized my voice and broke through the veil of secrecy that should separate Rapline from the world.

Her boyfriend, Steve, was the quintessential nerd: pencil-neck, glasses, mussed-up hair and the social skills of an aardvark. A lot like me, actually. The computer center was his living room and this was back in the days of mainframes, green-tinted monitors, BASIC, FORTRAN, COBOL and line-by-line debugging of programs with under a hundred lines.

Mae, Steve’s tolerant victim, sort of let it slip that “Ben” was, well, interesting. Steve, with some inane and ill-suited jealousy, wanted to make something of it. But he couldn’t fight his way into a paper bag, so he was not about to physically challenge me, even if I did match him as a welterweight. He let it come out that nobody, n-o-b-o-d-y, could beat him at Computer Football.

Now Steve was a heavyweight in the computer division and I was barely a flyweight, but that wasn’t going to stop me from taking on the feeb. Not for Mae, who was not only unattractive, she was snotty. (Steve was lucky to have her.) It was because the challenge was flung at me by someone who couldn’t sniff my jock when it comes to sports.

Steve sat in a corner of the 24-terminal center; I sat in the middle of the right-hand wall. Maybe it was my imagination, but the scattered few were behaving like a showdown was happening at the OKilobyte Corral. The game came up, all text. Steve “won” the toss and elected to receive.

Nine plays later, he had scored a touchdown. I received and two plays later, he intercepted, then scored on the next play. I was down 14-0 and there was about 6 minutes left in the first quarter. I received, drove downfield and with a second-and-goal, Steve intercepted the screen pass and scored again. It was now 21-zip and I was about to punch my way through the monitor.

Steve, great guy that he was, was yakking it up, reiterating that he was simply unbeatable at the “real” kind of football, the mental game that separated the men from the boys. I wanted to separate his manhood from any future of spawning boys…or girls. Mae, who had been sitting at the far end of the room and had told me she would love for me to beat Steve badly, had now moved and was sitting three seats away from Steve. Bitch.

The second quarter started and I was able to manage a field goal, but Steve matched it: 24-3. I drove to the 4 and on third-and-2, I ran a roll-out pass play and to my utter astonishment, the pass was intercepted and run back for a touchdown. 31-3, 44 seconds left in the first half and Steve was cackling softly, his arm around Mae. Bitch. And so was Mae.

At that moment, Bill, a silent observer of the proceedings, said “You’re playing football. This is computer football.” I nodded, my anger freezing into a cold spike aimed directly at Steve.

The return was to my 34, and knowing that Steve expected a deep pass, I ran a sweep. Then another, a sideline pass and then a slant and I scored with 4 seconds to go. 31-10. The second half started with me receiving and again I mixed plays nearly at random and scored again: 31-17. I kicked onside, recovered and scored in five plays: 31-24. The cackling had long been silenced and Steve’s keyboard was getting abused. I kicked off and after giving up good yardage, intercepted and scored in four plays. The game was tied, the scattered denizens of computerland had gathered around me and Mae had been shoved aside as Steve cursed a blue streak. Nasty temper in that boy.

He managed a field goal to go ahead 34-31, but as the fourth quarter started, I nailed him again and took the lead 38-34. For several minutes I was the distinct center of geek worship…and then the computer crashed. Steve immediately left the center as some über-geek in charge came rushing in to ask what had happened. I didn’t know, but everyone else seemed to.

Mae gathered her books and walked out without a word.

A couple of weeks later, I entered the computer center and Steve was thrashing another geek on the virtual football field. He cackled that he was invincible, and after a few minutes, he turned and saw me. His words died out and a dry chuckle from somewhere preceded a “Yeah, but you can’t beat him without crashing the store.” Steve said something crude and left.

It was the shallowest of victories. But it sure as hell beat the other option.

The Day John Lennon Died

2005-05-12T07:12:00.000-07:00

I was bowling the sixth frame of my third game and it wasn’t going well. My first game had been a bust, the second even worse and so far in the third game, I was making my first two look like masterpieces.

The radio over the loudspeakers squawked, then an oddly-detached voice came on and read a statement. I took a shot, left pins standing and as I turned to mumble a curse, the words drifted into my brain: John Lennon had been killed.

I looked up. Of the 20 or so people in the bowling alley, no one was reacting. The same thing had happened in March when then-President Reagan had been shot. I was sitting in the cafeteria that day, the news came on and though some 25-30 people must have heard it, no one said anything or even tried to find out if the news was true.

As if aware of my doubt—of the doubts of so many—the news item was read again, each word a separate tile placed in a mosaic of collective pain. John Lennon, ex-Beatle and symbol of a generation, had been shot and killed outside his Manhattan apartment building. The shooter, a fan, had been arrested and was being interrogated.

No one seemed to care. I bowled quickly, the change of pace actually improving my game so that I finished with my best score of the night. I paid and got back to my room.

When Don came in, I told him the news. In his characteristic way, he avoided looking at me and said “I don’t believe you.” I knew Don was a fan, not obsessed, but a true fan, and I never expected he wouldn’t believe me. He thought I was joking. I told him I didn’t joke like that, but he still refused to believe me. I had to sit down.

Don left and when he came back a couple of hours later, he told me he’d heard the news. He apologized and I made a feeble attempt to wave it off. I was still hurt, but the intervening time had made me wonder what about me would create the impression that stupid and pointless behavior, almost cruel in intent, was part of my make-up. I didn’t have to think for long. Not to find evidence, that is. Beyond a doubt, there was plenty to think about afterward.

We never mentioned the incident again, or if we did, it made no impression on me. But in a rare moment of lucid and mature introspection, I could deem Don’s paining disbelief as understandable. A moment of shared tragedy yielded to me some much-needed perspective. Sometimes you are given gifts in unlikely packages. Don is as unlikely a package as could ever come your way, but without a doubt, he is a gift.

Non-refundable. Believe me, I tried.

11:57

2005-05-11T07:12:00.000-07:00

Bill urged me to join and being the son of an Air Force veteran (retired), I figured it would be a good experience. Forget the fact that I already had longish hair and an aversion to clothing more complicated than jeans, T-shirts and sneakers, and that my idea of disciplined behavior was limiting my sarcasm to only several forays a day. Air Force ROTC was waiting for me.

In some mysterious way, I lasted a year. Despite the long hair that gave me the moniker of “Custer,” (yet never to my face), a laissez-faire attitude towards “gung ho” activity and no interest in pursuing a career where brown-nosing was a requirement, I occupied a space in the Air Force’s universe for those nine months. A full-term stillborn, if you will.

The second semester we had a Phys. Ed. requirement of running a mile and a half in under 12 minutes. I noted the fact, then promptly ignored it, even when it was mentioned ever so often. I must point out that despite my love of sports, running just for the sake of running was idiocy to me. I could run all day on a baseball field, a basketball or tennis court or on a beach playing touch football all afternoon, but running just to get back to where you started from? Puh. Leez.

Suddenly one morning, Bill tells me that the final day for the P.E. requirement was that day; in fact, that the timed trial was going on at that moment. I threw sarcasm his way, missed and went to the Rebel Coliseum.

Several LeMay-wannabes were gathered, a few holding stopwatches. Nothing like redundancy. I walked up and said I had to run and their glances were almost interested enough to be perfunctory. One nodded and said I could start anytime. I dropped my notebook on the ground and started running, although I was dressed for day, not sports. Someone had told me 12 laps around the dingy dome was the requirement, so a minute a lap was required. Woop-de-doo.

I ran with a blur of anger in my head. Stupidstupidstupidstupid was the rhythm of my run. I noticed one poor sap, red-faced and heaving as he lugged fat and gristle around with two buddies encouraging him every two seconds. Along the way, I heard another trial was set for late afternoon, so runners who failed now could try again. I shook my head: I’d do it now or forget it.

Time passed and I kept my rhythm. I lapped the heavy-legged sap whose buddies were now pleading with him to go on, to pick up the pace, to make it happen. I lost track of the laps as my pace never changed and I kept running, just running, doing nothing but running.

I passed my timekeeper who raised one finger. “Last one!” he told me. I ran on. Then, as I passed the halfway point of the final lap, I heard a yell. “Seventeen seconds to go!” I immediately kicked into a sprint, passing the lumbering trio and racing to whatever passed for a finish line. I pulled around the final turn and accelerated as I passed my timekeeper, who clicked his stopwatch and nodded. I took several more steps to slow down, then walked over. As I did, the trio went by me. A collective groan washed past me. “Twelve nine.” Lumberjock had failed.

I was handed a clipboard with my name and 11:57 next to it. Uh-huh. I signed, the timekeeper signed and I picked up my notebook. The trio was now a duet as the main character had collapsed to the ground, his whole body heaving for breath. I heard someone say “You can do it this afternoon.”

In a car, I said to no one in particular. As I walked to the cafeteria, I noted I hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Jefferson Avenue Hideaway

2005-05-10T07:12:00.000-07:00

Even if you were looking for it, it was hard to find. A converted home that sat atop a steep hill, the four apartments had been carved from the upper floor and the narrow basement had been made into a fifth.

That was my hideaway, Jefferson Avenue #5. To get to it, you had to walk to the right of the building, get off the sidewalk onto a footpath and reach the door tucked under a small awning. To the right as you approached my door was the beginning of urban wilderness, a grassy cliff that plunged into a wooded stream where raccoons, possums, squirrels and wild cats made their presence felt regularly.

The door was in the center of the apartment, a narrow rectangle stretching some 35 feet one way, but only 10 feet from front-to-back. In front of the door was the closet and Murphy bed, usually down. To the left, the living room. Along the left-front wall was my Smith-Corona. Along the left-side wall was the TV set and to the right of the TV was a built-in set of drawers, well-made and convenient.

To the right of the door was a tiny breakfast nook (actually, a tiny table) and the kitchen, with a half-sized fridge and a full-sized range. Beyond the kitchen, in the far right corner, was the bathroom.

You could see the whole apartment in under 10 seconds and most everyone did. In the summer, the trees and concealed nature of the place kept it fairly cool. In winter, once the door was sealed properly, the space heater kept the place toasty with little effort.

The hideaway was large enough to contain my few belongings and small enough to induce intimacy. I never felt cramped there, and with only very few exceptions, it never felt empty. My friends came over enough to keep it social, but not so much that it lost a sense of my self. I wrote hundreds of pages, read thousands, listened to music, watched TV, played wargames, cooked and had a blast usually doing a few of those things at the same time. I learned to be comfortable with another person and that sharing words and silence is a glorious thing.

My late night walks launched from there and quite often ended abruptly as I was escorted back by police, to make sure I didn’t keep the lips or hips going. My daytime forays were always wrapped in the feeling of excursions, as coming back had the feeling of comfort. In solitude, day melted into night bloomed into day with a sense of exploration and discovery, leavened by humor as the world, or my world, burped an odd idea.

Up to the moment I moved in to Jefferson Avenue #5, I had lived in 14 different places, product of an Air Force master sergeant father and the vagaries of military assignments. Within a week, my Jefferson hideaway was home. My list of places where I’ve lived has more than doubled, but that narrow rectangle tucked beside a steep hill still feels like home.

Diana

2005-05-09T07:12:00.000-07:00

I wrote several years ago that one sometimes has friends one doesn’t deserve. I used no names, but I had a shining example in my own life to show me such Truth.

Diana met me on our first night at a residential school in Puerto Rico for advanced science and math students. In my first true moment of deep introspection, I was walking back and forth across the rough surface of the basketball court, nearly oblivious to the jolly gathering around me. I had noticed Diana sitting on a large table along with other students, singing hymns. She seemed the happiest person in the place and even then her smile was a joy to behold.

My mind whirled as I contemplated the abrupt and fundamental change I was facing: most of my behavior and many of my attitudes were aimed at being sent away from my immediate environment. Now here I was in a place I desperately wanted to stay in and I had no idea how to behave. I’d already caused a stir and my experiences up till then told me the situation—or I—would force something to happen.

At one point, wandering aimlessly, I passed by the singing group and was grabbed. The shock froze me. Diana had reached out and pulled me, patting the table so I’d sit next to her. Nonplussed, I sat. The singing went on and for a few minutes, I forgot my dilemma. I watched her sing. She was fully in the moment, her dark eyes flashing happily.

We started our classes and as the days went by, I noticed Diana noticing me. As I hesitantly carved a unique niche for myself, she was a constant presence, always friendly. In the wordless way of shy adolescence, we drifted together, and though we never said as much, we were something of an item.

Or more accurately, Diana was seriously interested and I was an immature bastard. In the presence of one of the kindest, most generous and genuine persons you could ever hope to meet, I was a lying, insulting, mean-spirited moron. Don’t blame youth or inexperience: even children know when they hurt someone and only the backward ones continue to do so.

We occupied the same space for the rest of the year, and occasionally interacted, but it was painful and inconclusive. I left for college; Diana went her way and time worked on me. Those college years filled with living in my past showed me where I’d gone wrong, what I’d wasted and how I’d lost so much for no reason at all.

I learned. Thanks to wonderful people, warm hearts and my growing sense of self, I learned. But a deep ache entered my memories of Diana, the awful remorse of causing so much needless pain. I wanted so much to speak to her again, but I didn’t know how to find her and at times, that brought despair.

Months and years went by. One morning, as I slept late in my unusual schedule, the phone rang. When I answered, I heard the voice that collapsed my reserve. Before Diana could explain who she was and how she found me, I blurted out an apology. Like water through broken floodgates, my words rushed downstream, trying in their brief vibrations to assuage the hurts of long before, to relieve the burden of guilt I carried and to let Diana know that I did care for her, that I had finally learned how to express it.

I ended as I ran out of breath, clutching the phone like a lifeline. The silence went on for seconds and I dreaded saying something to an empty line, or hearing the hum of a connection cut. Then Diana spoke. She told me she expected many things—sarcasm, insults, contempt—but never what she’d just heard. I felt like crying. Then she said she was surprised, and grateful, that I was not what she expected. She said she accepted my words and their feelings. And with that, we began catching up.

Over the years, we’ve kept in touch sporadically, but with emotion. As my highs carried me away, Diana was there to keep me grounded. As my world collapsed inside me, she was there to give me hope. I gave back only a tiny portion of the grace and peace she gave me. I denied us a chance to meet while in New York, but she made it a point to meet me shortly after my son was born.

And on a day I thought the end could now be embraced, Diana called, compelled by some powerful instinct to tell me I was wrong. She was brutally honest: “God knows you’ve never given me very much, but for some reason I care a lot about you and you will not give up now.” I didn’t, because she was right. On all counts.

Diana is one of my oldest friends, an amazing presence in my sparsely populated life. She revels in pointing out that I’m damaged goods (at best), that I am often my only enemy and that there is always hope. We laugh at me and with each other, with the ease of honesty and comfort. (I notice she uses potty language with me. Maybe because it’s the only way to make me listen?)

Today is your birthday, Diana. On the day you blessed the world with your presence, I want you to know I have loved you since the moment my arm was kindly yanked out of its socket. We both know I don’t deserve you, but we both also know I’m fascinating.

Okay, I know it and you pretend you don’t. What are friends for?

A Moment of Gravity

2005-05-06T12:12:00.000-07:00

At 11:20 that night I decided that I needed to go to Dallas. I packed some clothes, toiletries, a couple of books and by 11:26 I was leaving Oxford.

The summer heat still hung in the air, a heaviness that came in through the open window on ponderous wings. I was sitting in a 1973 Dodge Maverick, tan with white stripes, "The Grabber" tatooed on its hood. Some 430 plus cubic inches of engine rumbled impatiently as the three speed kept clutch use to a minimum. The light chassis didn't cut through the air so much as it surfed, and the miles dropped away quickly.

The highway became a dual two-lane affair heading almost due south towards Jackson. The median area was a grassy river that seemed gray and deep in the midnight hour. My speed kept creeping up, passing 80, then 90. I was going to Dallas. I was in a hurry.

Trees would pop up as boulder islands in the river. The stars ahead were twinkling madly and I wondered if it would rain before I crossed into Louisiana. At times the highway curved, gently. I passed 100 miles per hour and felt at ease, though The Grabber was shaking like a palsied hound.

Clouds moved in and a distant rumble crept into view. I closed the window a bit, the roar becoming a howl. Stars winked out, covered by gray cotton in mindless flotation. Somewhere, I passed 110.

The highway was now a promontory, a ridge, and I was the greyhound fleeing atop. My eyes were drawn to the arrow-straight path of the northbound lanes and in the vaguest of manners I saw a yellow sign try to tell me what I needed to know.

As trees broke the silhouette I wanted to follow, I looked ahead. And the road was gone. The yellow sign flared in my mind, an arrow bent at 90 degrees to the right. I glanced down: 122. And the road was running out.

I plunged the clutch to the floorboard and thought of downshifting. My mind was filled with a scream and in an instant, a now moment frozen in my memory like a snapshot of lightning, I pulled the stick back, released the clutch and turned into the curve like a suicidal hawk.

The brake barely cut the speed and I pumped twice, again, then a last time. The steering wheel fought to break my grip. I was leaning against the door, my neck stiff as stone as I kept the wheel steady.

By instinct, a moment of lucidity or insanity, I jammed the brakes again then shoved the accelerator down, the engine's ignored roar exploding into the night. I felt the wheels slip, grip, lurch, grip and then as if slung by David the Shepherd, The Grabber was rocketing down the highway again, straddling the center line.

I whooped! I hollered,yelled, screamed, howled and shouted my laughter to the night. The clouds parted, stars emerged and with a vicious grunt, I slammed on the brakes, fishtailing the car until it faced my immediate past. Unconcerned about traffic, I drove back to the right-angle, parked on the narrow shoulder and walked until I saw the first signs of fresh rubber.

I traced my path, eyes glued to the ground like a tracker. I could see where the brakes had bit into the road and as the edge came near, how the skidmarks ended. Dust and gravel showed me the track, the tires cutting a message of speed in the gritty surface.

Only to disappear at the edge. Two interwoven tracks continued unabated, but the other ones, on the left, were halved. One track slashed to the edge, the mesa above a twenty-foot drop into a veritable wall of pine trees. The other track just stopped at the edge, a lone voice of surrender to the improbability of friction overcoming such inertia.

I stood there, in awe. Then I followed the emptiness of one line to its completion as two, then four, the tracks disappearing as I had started to straddle the center line.

I thought of leaping and cavorting, of punching the air with the power of beating the odds. I thought of it, the power surging like electric waves. I thought of it.

The moment passed. Back in The Grabber, I turned around and cranked it up to a steady 90. Well before noon, I was in Dallas, my brush with the law of gravity long forgotten.

A Confederacy of Dunces

2005-05-05T07:12:00.000-07:00

I’d seen the book many times, sitting at eye level, the cartoonish characters on the cover almost in motion, a fat guy wearing a green hunting cap (the kind with ear flaps) posing in a Jack Benny-ish gesture of simpering disdain.

The book had raised some controversy, for being a comedy about the South, it had struck the many exposed nerves of the “Dixie Gentry.” The author, John Kennedy O’Toole, had woven an outrageous tale centered on one of the most improbable, undefinable and fascinating characters to ever lumber, thunder and gambole across the printed page. That this character and his supporting cast happened to accurately skewer Southern life, mores, society and misperceptions-taken-as-Gospel only added well-deserved insult to insight.

The novel, the brilliant outpouring of a young man’s talent and ambition, almost didn’t see the light of day. Depressed over his inability to find a publisher, Kennedy committed suicide seven years after finishing Dunces. It fell upon his mother, a teacher of dramatic arts and avid reader, to find someone who could see in the manuscript what she had seen. Rejection followed rejection over several years. Then she collared Walker Percy and practically forced him to read it. As the novelist says in his Introduction, he reluctantly read it at first hoping it was bad, then with increasing wonder until he was overwhelmed. In 1980, the novel won the Pulitzer Prize.

Ignatius J. Reilly is described as “part Falstaff, part Don Quixote” by some lazy reviewer. Reilly is much, much more. Philosophical, dependent, arrogant, erudite, lazy, intuitive, confused, passionate, analytical, funny, bone-headed, pathetic, sensitive and insensitive, a heroic coward wrapped in stained bedsheets, Reilly stands alone as a literary creation. As you read the novel, you shake your head in disbelief, and if you are a writer, you gape in Percy-like awe at what Kennedy flung at the page with devastating accuracy.

And beyond Reilly is a cast of deftly-written portraits that feel more like biographies than fiction. Time and again the reader with Southern memories will find familiar “faces” and scenes that seem as if Kennedy had sat on the collective porches of Southern families and simply taken notes.

I’ve read Dunces six times now and I look forward to a half-dozen more readings in the coming years. The novel lulls you in like the French Quarter on a foggy morn, odd and quiet, eerie even, then erupts into a raucous romp that carries you along to a bittersweet end. Few novels are more absorbing; even fewer have such soul.

Kent and Jeannie

2005-05-04T07:12:00.000-07:00

He was quiet, a rangy athletic type with a fade-in-the-walls demeanor. She was almost as tall as he, with shoulders that gave his a run for their money and was about as quiet as a frat party.

They sat together in English Lit, usually one or two spots removed from where I sat. After the first week of class, Jeannie figured out I was breezing and made sure she sat next to me, to ask me questions, and of course, boyfriend Kent sat where she told him to.

The class was engaging enough to have me drop in more than half the time and the show was often Kent and Jeannie. Although tall, blonde and pretty in the way sharp knives are, Jeannie was no Barbie, so seeing Kent as “Ken” was difficult until you realized both only spoke when spoken for.

Any questions directed at Kent were answered by Jeannie. On the rare occasions when Kent proffered an answer or even an opinion, Jeannie would immediately counter with “What Kent means is…” and proceed to mangle whatever he said.

At one point, during a pop quiz, with an essay question about the role of irony in Hamlet, Jeannie asked me for an example of irony in the play. The professor noticed and the three of us pretended this was normal. I told her irony was dripping all over “the play within the play.” She turned to Kent, smacked him on the shoulder as if she had to break through armor to get to his skin and said out loud “Don’t write about the play ‘cause that’s my answer.” Kent kept writing.

To say that Jeannie was physical was like calling a tornado windy. She pushed, pulled, yanked, smacked, slapped, bumped and otherwise beat you senseless if you stayed within arm’s reach. At the oddest moments, she would grab Kent and hug him so hard his feet would dangle. His expression at those moments was a blend of chagrin, affection, physical discomfort and deer-in-headlights awareness.

One day she grabbed my arm and said “You wouldn’t last ten seconds in a fight with me. You’re too scrawny to put up a good fight.” Kent rolled his eyes slightly. I pulled my arm out of her grasp because I relished blood circulating through it and replied “I’d never fight you.”

She cocked her head at me. “Why not?”

“I might like it and then what will I do? You’d never leave Kent for scrawny ol’ me.”

She laughed like I’d done a whole Three Stooges routine and then whacked me so hard even Kent winced.

The last day of English Lit, Jeannie came into the room with reddened eyes, her usually vibrant face a tragic mask. Kent was not with her. I leaned over and asked her what was wrong, knowing a direct question would get an answer. “We broke up,” she said quietly.

“Just now?”

She nodded, her eyes watering. I figured this would work. “Just tell him. Don’t beat him up because you can’t say the words.”

Her jaw dropped. I waited until she looked at me. “It won’t kill you to say what you feel.”

Jeannie was puzzled. I sighed. “Stop pushing him around and tell him you love him,” I said. “Beating up the poor guy is a sorry excuse for true love.”

She actually blushed. I could barely believe it. “How’d you guess?”

I waved a hand at the room. “Everybody can see it,” I lied. “So go tell him.”

She grabbed her books, aimed a swinging slap at my back that I almost dodged, tossed a “You’re a good guy!” over her shoulder and blew down the hallway.

They got back together and I saw them a few times more. But I wonder if clinging to Kent like a barnacle was any better than whacking him.

Animal Moment #3

2005-05-03T07:12:00.000-07:00

When you’re a door-to-door salesperson, you have plenty of time to think. In fact, you have so much time to indulge in your own lines of thought that the whole purpose of being out there, selling, can become secondary to roaming the streets. And when the hours—or days—go by and your weekly commission check stuns you with its paltriness, you either refocus on the “door-to-door” activity or you find another job.

I refocused, despite the certainty that being a vacuum cleaner salesman was the most atrocious waste of my time that I had ever been involved with (except for every classroom I’d ever been in.) I was caught between loathing the freaking job and stubborness at trying to prove I could rise to the challenge.

That morning had been typical: Many knocks, most on doors, some on me. One potential nibble turned sour when I mentioned that the vacuum cleaner I sold was Electrolux. The woman had apparently developed a phobia to the brand when some relative had dropped one on her foot back in the Johnson Administration. I asked her if it was Andrew. She gave me a quizzical look and said No, it was Maureen.

I drove to another neighborhood and chose one that was obviously filled with employed people. At 10:35 A.M., most of the houses looked empty, so I aimed at strolling around, leaving cards in doors for people to dispose of properly and just indulge in some daydreaming.

After parking near the corner, I walked down one side of the street, noticing the little signs of suburbia: slightly-tended lawns, tricycles, a motorbike tucked along a porch, the occasional dented mailbox, earth tone facades and no sense of personality to the entire tableau.

Coming down the opposite side of the street, my luck held: nobody answered. Four houses from my car, I stepped up to a marvelously carved door and knocked. As my arm came down, I felt a rustle in the pine needles behind me and to the right. I turned and barely got my hands up in time as a large furry thing slammed into me.

Grabbing the thing’s mouth, I pushed and twisted as I fell against the wall and to the ground. I—felt—a crackling snap then a huge thud as I hit the porch. For a couple of seconds, I held the thing tightly, my chest heaving it up and down. With a quick shove, I pushed the thing off of me and stood up, my heart hammering like a trapped frog.

It was a collie. Was.

I looked all around, a hint of panic thrumming in my chest. Nobody stirred. Hooking the dead dog with my foot, I shoved it across the porch and tucked it behind some bushes.

Thinking clearly, I left a card in the door, and the other three houses’ doors leading to my car. I got in and with a touch of restraint, I drove away. I never went back to that neighborhood and my sad door-to-door days came to an end.

Dino's

2005-05-02T07:12:00.000-07:00

A Greek restaurant specializing in pizza. A college hangout that professors and university muckety-mucks frequented. The first place to close when the second summer session ended. A place where food came first, service came second and friendship was always in the mix.

Dino’s was usually dark. A long rectangle, you walked past the main counter/kitchen area and headed for a booth somewhere in the back. The booths, lined in vinyl and with a sticky slickness that implied use and cleanliness, were not designed for efficient use of space. They were laid out because they were there.

You know what I mean.

The house specialties were gyros, strips of roast lamb wrapped in doughy pita and pizzas. The gyros were always a treat, though the variety was ostensibly less than what you’d find in the Greek isles. It didn’t matter: none of us was going there for comparisons.

The pizzas displayed more flair and were cut Chicago-style, in squares. I once asked for my pizza to be cut in wedges and I’m still waiting for an answer…unless you count square-cut pieces as a reply. You could order sandwiches, but even though I remember eating a few, I can’t recall what they were. I may have had a hamburger there once, but that memory smacks of revisionism: either I ate one and that shows I could waste time and money on a bad decision, (it may have been a good hamburger, but what’s the point of ordering it there?) or I didn’t have one and I’m just trying to spice up my recollection needlessly.

I spoke with the owner almost every time I went in, usually when hanging out with Bill, Don or both. I guess his name was Dino, though it’s more likely he was just called “Dino.” In any case, we spoke often. Don’t ask what about: I don’t remember. Maybe about Greece or Italy or football or finals or vacations or the number of angels that should dance on a pinhead. It didn’t matter: we spoke as part of the ritual of our visits.

I never met anybody new at Dino’s. That was me being me. I never partied there. In over three years of visiting the place, nothing remarkable ever happened that I can comment on. (Except that I once got skunked by a pinball machine: three balls, three instant wipeouts.)

So why recall Dino’s? Because it fulfilled my expectations every time. It asked nothing more from me than my presence and I requested of it good food and a comfortable time for myself. We each kept our end of the bargain, through every one of many visits. It was a relationship built on few demands and the trust that they would be met faithfully.

You could do a lot worse. Quite often, in fact.

Janet

2005-04-29T07:12:00.000-07:00

She was in her early 30s, a woman with leathery constitution and enough oddness to populate a circus.

Janet was easy to spot in a crowd. A little over 5 feet tall and weighing a wispy 100 pounds, she was wiry, fidgety and loud, with hair the color of hay, flashy make-up and clothes that were made to be seen from a distance.

All of which made Janet both magnet and repellent. Magnet because you couldn’t help noticing her and she seemed approachable, if not downright invitational. Repellent because Janet was nobody’s fool, aimed her words like arrows and had a 16-year old daughter.

I never met Janet’s daughter. If there are sitcoms that glorify the odd couple relationship between one “wild” person and a “shy” one, Janet and her daughter would have served as role models. Of course, having never met the offspring, my only reference is her mother, but Janet spoke about her child with almost compulsive consistency.

First of all, Janet always said “my daughter” or, less frequently, “my little girl.” Never said her name. It got to the point where I wondered if said daughter existed, or if she did, whether she lived with Janet or not. My friend Tim did confirm that Janet’s daughter existed and lived with her.

Janet treated me like a child, ordering me around like I needed a mother figure. At first, I followed suit, but that wore thin quickly and I’d politely decline to get her purse (only a few feet away from where she was sitting), buy her cigarettes or do anything that saved her effort. She would then tell me about “the daughter” that was a precious angel and did all those things for her mother and more.

Eccentric as she was, Janet would cut clean to the heart of a matter, damn the consequences. Once while I was describing a story I wanted to write, she frowned at me. “You got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“You get one by meeting girls, not by writing stories.” I actually blushed. She puffed on her cigarette.

“You know I’m right. Meet some girls. But stay away from my daughter. She’s too good for you.”

I tried to rally. “Maybe I should date you.”

She puffed again. “Nah. I’d use you and throw you out. You’re too good for me.” Damn me if I didn’t blush again.

One late night, as we drank coffee, Janet stopped looking at the distance and said “My daughter is going to college. Early entry.”

I nodded and drank coffee. She wasn’t finished. She tried to light a cigarette and for the only time in my life, I helped light one. Her hand was shaking severely. Her voice barely came out. “What am I going to do?” Tears started to fall.

She was hard as nails and soft as a dandelion. She was loud to fill her silences. She protected her daughter because she had no other shield. She demanded gentle truth. “Throw a dart at a map. Go there.”

She froze for long seconds. “Are you kidding? That sounds stupid.”

I sipped some more coffee, slowly. “I knew you’d like it.”

She tried to keep a straight face, then burst into laughter. “You got a map?” I shook my head and we talked for another hour.

Two weeks later, Janet was gone. She left me a note that said: “I threw two darts. The first one missed.”

Elevator Drama

2005-04-28T07:12:00.000-07:00

Shortly before 10 PM, I entered the West Tower elevator. As the door started to close, three guys and a young lady in evening wear rushed into the lobby. I pushed the “Open” button and waited for them to pile in. I noticed the young lady entered last and what little color her skin had faded to nothing under the harsh fluorescent light.

The door closed. I pushed 10 and one of the guys asked me to push 11. For a few seconds, the elevator pondered whether the trip was worth making or not. The guys were looking at me; I was looking at the young lady, who seemed more statue than human.

Taking in my jeans, sweatshirt and sneakers versus their full evening attire, one of the guys asked me “Don’t you feel under-dressed?”

“Don’t you feel over-dressed?” I replied and the elevator jolted upward.

It isn’t often that you see emotional extremes; raw, naked expressions of a person’s deepest feelings. The young lady in that elevator was terrified. Her body was stone, her hands white-knuckled clamps on a tiny purse twisted horribly out of shape. Her eyes were frozen wide, unblinking, unseeing, incapable of looking at anything except the polished metal door. She was barely breathing. We were passing the fourth floor.

I looked at the guys and none were paying her any attention. I opened my mouth to say something, but what was there to say? They either knew and didn’t care, or didn’t know and pointing out what was happening could be humiliating to her. At least she was holding herself together, though in so brittle a fashion that I felt she would shatter if I touched her.

She glanced up. Seventh floor. Cords on her neck were straining for escape. I fought down the urge to slap 8 and help her out. That wouldn’t help. I forced myself to accept that.

Finally, the 10 above the door lit up and the elevator grumbled to a halt. The doors opened, I stepped out and turned to watch as the doors closed. I stared openly at the young lady, both our mouths compressed into thin lines. Just before the doors closed, her eyes found mine and with the barest motion, she shook her head.

The door closed. I barely breathed, stock-still as a painting. I waited until the elevator reached 11, stayed there for a few minutes, then made the long trip down to 1. Then I walked to my room.

Hide and Seek

2005-04-27T07:12:00.000-07:00

It was a serious game.

From beyond the Cafeteria, past Guyton Hall, one could walk along a tree-lined road that led to Rebel Deli, Mr. Quik, Pizza Inn, Kiamie Bowling Lanes and more distant points of interest. Once you went down the embankment that marked the edge of the main campus, you were walking on a stretch of road of about a mile and a quarter, maybe a mile and a third in length.

To your left as you walked away from the campus was Faculty Housing and the Chancellor’s Residence, hidden behind scattered trees. To your right was a wooded area, home for future development not yet envisioned. Ahead of you was a long—tunnel—with a slight curve to the left. From both directions, you could see the headlights and hear the engine noise of oncoming vehicles.

Plenty of warning to hide.

That’s what I did. For every solitary late-night walk along that road, and there were many, I’d dive into the brush or run into the trees as cars came along. The idea was to cover the entire stretch of road without being seen once.

Sometimes cars came in waves, several at a time, so hiding became waiting for an opportunity to make some progress. At other times, hiding was basically a quick in, pause, then back out on the road to keep walking.

On one occasion, as I hid from a stream of Homecoming visitors, the Campus Police patrolled the Faculty area. From that side, I was visible, so I lay down atop cool pine needles, arms behind my head and waited them all out. I had time to write a story and once the busyness ended, I made it down the road unseen. Again.

A couple of times, my disappearing act was too slow, and cars would slow down near my spot, or even stop to figure out if man or beast had taken flight. Those were defeats, as burning in my chest as any other defeat.

When I knew I was leaving for good, I walked down the road one last time. I dodged and hid, the movements as easy as if rehearsed. As it came time to emerge from the darkness for the last time, I waited. Several minutes went by and finally, one last car rolled by. I watched it pass, then stepped out into the light.

The game was over.

Pinball Demons

2005-04-26T07:12:00.000-07:00

I’ve had a few addictions in my life. Nasal spray comes to mind, as does caffeine in various forms. But none was more compulsive than playing pinball.

I started in seventh grade, when school and I parted ways to mutual accomodation: My teachers hated me as much as I hated them and being apart was satisfactory. I would stop at the nearest bar/café/store with pinball machines and taking advantage of the 5-cents-per-play bonanza, I’d get some coins and play all day.

Literally. I’d get to the machines at 7 AM and play straight through until 4 or 5 PM. As I improved, I could challenge other players and win free games, money or even lunch. As my reputation grew, I’d have to handicap my play to find any takers, usually by me playing only one ball versus my opponent’s playing 2, 3, 4 or even 5 balls. I won far more often than I lost, but every loss was an inducement to rage.

There were times when I shoved machines across the room, bouncing them off walls, counters, other machines and even people. In one raging fit, I cut the cords on all six machines that had somehow managed to defeat me that day. I once kicked a machine so hard that I staved in a side panel and exposed the coin box, filled to the brim with quarters and nickels. I took the box out, plunked it in front of the bar’s owner and walked out.

Weekends and school holidays became nightmares as I simply couldn’t control my need to play. I’d stumble around, wondering who was playing what machine, recalling all the nuances each machine had in flipper strength, tilt potential and scoring spots. I even built a home-made version, with a large board, assorted hardware pieces, a steel ball I’d yanked from the innards of a machine I’d wrecked and my sister as scorekeeper.

At night I’d dream of playing, sometimes reliving moments of victory, but more often focusing on moments where I’d failed. One recurring nightmare sickened me every time: Needing only 100 points to beat a particularly loathsome bastard, with the ball on my right flipper, I flicked it carelessly up the middle, aiming at nothing as anything it hit was worth 100 points. It hit a rubber post that bounced the ball straight down and through my flailing flippers for no score and defeat. I’d never lost to him before and he refused to play me again. I’m still angry.

If school led me to pinballs, school led me away. More exactly, college did. One morning, seeing the most popular pinball place empty, I crossed the street to the local college. I wandered around until I found a classroom, sat down and listened to a lecture on Spanish literature. I was hooked.

My routine became playing pinball for some extra money then wandering the college’s classrooms for any class that caught my fancy. Soon I skipped pinball entirely. The possession faded until the sounds and lights lost their fascinating magnetism.

But ever so often, the rhythm and pulse of guiding a steel ball through high-scoring paces thrums in my mind. It was control where once I had none other; a challenge that was clean where others were dirty. It was rare moments of excitement in a world full of dull pain. It was an addiction…and maybe a cure.

Star Trek Solitude

2005-04-25T07:12:00.000-07:00

The dorm's two towers had 11 floors each and shared a common lobby. To one corner was the snack room and directly across from that was a small TV room, the set mounted high on the wall.

The room was usually empty and I thought that was because the semester had begun and people were busy with fitting in, class schedules and catching up with friends. That probably wasn’t it, but I did notice a time when the room was usually not empty.

Channel 24, an independent station out of Memphis, had one sure-fire hit: Star Trek. Every afternoon, from 5 to 6 PM, the original series—Kirk, Spock, McCoy, et al—would transfix a room into silence. As I had yet to engage in exploration, the sight of old friends—even fictional—was a tiny relief.

We’d start filtering in at about 4:30, when either The Flintstones or I Dream of Jeannie was on. My first day, I sat near the far wall and noticed that no one caught my eye as they came in. Not one hello, to me or anyone else. As 5 PM loomed, one or two chairs were brought in and placed with almost geometric precision away from all the others. The episode began.

It was a good one: “The Wolf in the Fold,” a nod to Shakespeare and Jack the Ripper. It was suddenly very interesting to me, but more so became the behavior around me. Commercials came and went without a word. No sarcasm, no wise-ass quips, nothing. Star Trek was always good for starting an exchange of remarks for it was often a clever, well-written show that dared to have a message, but in this group, opinions went unpronounced.

As the show ended, the instant the last line was uttered, two of the group bolted out of their chairs and were out of the room before the credits were rolling. The others left one at a time, some even sitting back if someone got up at the same time. I waited until the next show started and walked out.

For a week, I watched Star Trek in that room. Although the group was never the same in composition and size, it was exactly the same in behavior: no eye contact, no remarks, no acknowledgement that anyone else was in the room. The TV as security blanket, speaking only to each person in the way he craved.

I never stepped inside the room again as I discovered other, newer, voices and minds around me…and I chose to sit amongst them.

Shogi

2005-04-22T07:12:00.000-07:00

Brendan owned a comic book shop in Hattiesburg back during the early heyday of the comic book explosion. I practically lived there and because the place was more refuge than mere store, we played games.

The one I was keen on was Shogi, the Japanese version of chess. Slower to develop into a mid-game, shogi offers a greater variety of tactics than its Western counterpart. It also offers a higher level of complexity, leading to tension. You’ll see why.

I taught Brendan how to play and he took to it immediately. However, he had a store to attend to so he could never fully focus on the game. We played about 5 games and I won them all. Brendan may have seemed an amiable goof to many people, but he had a great knack for tactics and it was serving him well, as each victory was notably more difficult than the one before.

One afternoon, just past lunch, I brought the shogi board to the shop and set it up to play against myself. Brendan walked over and said “Let’s play. I’m ready!” And the most intense game we’d ever played started.

The opening was typically slower than Western chess, as pawns only move one space at a time and the board is 9 squares to the side. By nature and lack of guidance, I played the so-called “modern hyper-aggressive” mode, which means I go on the attack and don’t try to build a “castle” of pieces around my King. Brendan, knowing my style, chose to play a more traditional style.

As soon as I could, I captured a couple of pieces and leaned back. The genius of shogi, it’s true leap above chess in terms of excitement, is the fact that captured pieces can be returned to the game as part of your army…at any time. This “parachuting” effect gives shogi an extra dimension that makes the game very much a race to keep your nerve.

Brendan’s castle was strong, as he had figured out that my aggression would lead to pieces being exchanged, so a well-defended King would slow me down. I captured another couple of pieces, but Brendan pushed his forces forward and began limiting my options. Rather than seek a strategy, I dropped pieces aggressively and forced several exchanges. All of a sudden, both Brendan and I had pieces in hand, scattered forces and vulnerable Kings.

Brendan could not sit still. He paced, sat down, got up to pace, sat down and popped up again. He wasn’t hurrying me, but it was obvious he was eager to get something going. I stared at the board for what was for me an incredibly long time. In my mind, I could see two paths to a checkmate, but my hesitation hinged on how precarious each path was. I weighed my chances against Brendan’s skills.

I picked up a Lance and dropped it against his Knight. The game was on.

For almost four hours, Brendan and I agonized over each play. No time limits: the only limits we had were our imaginations and whether we’d be cool enough to take chances. With every drop and move, I reduced Brendan to simply defending his King. Time and again, just when it seemed he’d get the breather he needed to fight back, I’d come up with another twist and another battle sequence began.

Customers came and went and other friends of ours took care of them. Conversation, usually bright and edgy, was muted. Brendan paced, pumped his fists, mumbled to himself, talked to the walls and even opened a comic book to tell The Incredible Hulk I was going down. Out of the blue, he reached into the cash register and drew out a tattered pack of cigarettes and lit up. I gaped at him.

“I quit two years ago,” he said to me, a bit sheepishly. “But I need this right now to play this damn game.”

I almost felt guilty about driving him to smoke again. But I pressed on, only to realize that my fears were accurate: Brendan had played brilliantly and I was one, at most two pieces short to force checkmate. I had run out of forcing options, Brendan had several pieces in hand and now I had to play what I despised most: defense.

Brendan lit another cigarette and without hesitation, launched his attack. With keen deliberation, piece after piece clicked on the board, then slid forward. In a wise move, Brendan made sure my captures were few and even costly, extending my forces so that I had to drop pieces for defensive purposes only. As the pressure grew, I did the unthinkable: I focused solely on defense. Slowly, but with the growing inevitability of a tidal change, I gained a little space, a piece here, then another piece later in the battle. I knew Brendan’s offense was weaker than mine, but I knew I was still very vulnerable. Forced to move my King, Brendan made a series of brilliant plays and the game hung truly in the balance.

I had several powerful pieces and Brendan was facing my dilemma of a few hours earlier: could he finish me off? Time and again he glanced at the pieces I had, and we both knew there was too much for me to lose. All I needed was the chance. The moment I got it, the game was over.

Brendan’s shirt was soaked. The cigarettes were long gone and he had taken to chewing gum, adding pieces until he had a wad worthy of a baseball player in his left cheek. My heart hammered and I forced myself to breathe normally, my eyes taking in everything around me, but always coming back to the board. The sunlight was now almost horizontal through the picture window and in a flash, I saw it.

Brendan could win. In three plays. No matter what I did, he could win in three plays.

Brendan fingered his last piece to drop, a Silver. That wasn’t it. I saw where he could drop it and the countermove that would end his chances. For a moment, he looked at his King and I thought he would drop the Silver to defend it, a sort of pre-emptive shield.

Then, as if from a silent movie, I watched Brendan put the Silver back down and slide his lead Gold forward. Check.

I had to capture.

No attacking place to drop the Silver and now I had another major piece. But the next play was the key. He had to think “space” and he would see it. I glanced away, looked at the walls and wondered if The Incredible Hulk really knew anything about shogi. I had one chance: no piece could drop and give checkmate, so maybe Brendan would miss the more subtle route.

With a sudden lunge, as if the board would vanish in an instant, Brendan made the key play, cutting off my King’s only escape route. The next play ws my inevitable checkmate.

I stared at the board as my heart thrummed down. Brendan held his breath, looked intently at the board, then leaped to his feet with a loud “Yes!,” his fists in the air. I flicked my King off the board and stood up, my first steps since lunch. Brendan came back to me and grabbed me in a bear hug.

“That was the most intense game of my life! That was great!”

I grinned. “You played great. Wanna play another one?”

He shook his head. No, he shook his whole body. “No! I’m never playing shogi again! Are you kidding? I could die of lung cancer if I play a few more games like that one!”

Comic Books

2005-04-21T07:12:00.000-07:00

It started when I was 4 years old, with a fat issue filled with colorful heroes and a slim book with a blind hero and an evil frog.

Like most kids, I was aware of comic books, but lacked the money to buy any. That changed as I started doing odd jobs, saving my gift money and especially when I went to college and discovered direct buying through a number of mail order companies.

I started out buying a few favorite titles, mainly in the DC Comics line, with some Marvel titles thrown in. But this was 1980 and the comic book explosion—as collectibles, small-investment bonanza and creative supernova-- was about to leap into overdrive.

Always a Batman and Daredevil fan, I gained greater appreciation for old favorites such as Green Lantern and Thor, revived with skill by old hands. A young gun named Frank Miller took over Daredevil and made it the single-best reason to read comic books for over a year. He later moved to Batman, redefined the character and practically launched the graphic novel market with his incredible “Dark Knight” series.

From Great Britain, Alan Moore wrote comic book stories that defied the genre. He took a sad excuse for a character named Swamp Thing and gave it the depth one finds in classical literature. Alan then encompassed and reframed the entire comic book genre with The Watchmen, still the best graphic novel I’ve ever read.

Independent companies launched hundreds of titles and long-time independents gained a greater audience. Cerebus the Aardvark kept climbing the pantheon to greatness. John Ostrander and Timothy Truman created the unforgettable Grimjack, he of the leathery soul in the heart of Cynosure. Mike Grell moved from the fantastic Warlord to the amazing Jon Sable, a comic book that often let only the drawings and layout tell the whole story.

Every month I’d order about 100 titles and await the arrival of huge, heavily-stuffed envelopes. In a ritual as important as the reading itself, I’d open each envelope and carefully, methodically, sort the titles in the exact order I would read them. Then, after making sure I had something to eat and drink within reach, I’d start to read.

Sometimes Carol would be there as I was reading, and on occasion, she would pick one up to read. She read with care and a sense of absorption which I found endearing. (Another thing: she never messed up my order. How great is that?)

The stories were both escape and art, literature and playtime. Alone, I reveled in the wave of creativity I immersed myself in every month. With Carol, I felt I could share a thought or two that later would help me create a better story, or find a stronger phrase, as well as sharing what little connection I had with my childhood with her. If only for a couple of hours, I—or we—were in a colorful, kaleidoscopic cocoon that moved at breakneck speed, a trip through Imagination that would never be the same again.

Trailways Trash

2005-04-20T07:12:00.000-07:00

“See America” is a slogan often linked to riding a bus across the length and breadth of the nation. A more accurate slogan would be “See Ugly America.”

My biggest gripe is that in over 130 hours of bus-riding on Trailways, Greyhound and assorted lesser-known diesel dogs, I never once saw a pretty woman riding a bus. Nor one who may have looked pretty at the beginning of her trip. Now I know that “Beauty is as Beauty does” and “Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder,” but that doesn’t change the fact that on my buses, Beauty wasn’t even Skin Deep.

Considering the surrounding cast of characters (excluding me, natch) and the locations, a pretty woman on a bus would be an unwanted anomaly better described as “target.” People seldom look their best on buses, and when they are not paragons of success and virtuous living before they get on the bus, it would take some sort of miracle (or several ounces of hard liquor) to suddenly make them attractive.

For one thing, a cross-country bus ride doesn’t encourage a high degree of self-interest in one’s appearance. The miles drag, the bus smells, your clothes get wrinkled and bathing suddenly drops off the list of daily activities with an ease that rivals a politician’s shutdown when he discovers you can give him neither money nor a vote.

For another, why worry about your appearance if the reason you’re on the bus is usually that you lack the wherewithal, attention-span or opportunity to worry about it anyway? It’s not like you’re riding in a church, right?

Then there’s the food. Bus stations are the last bastions of Medieval food left in the States. Food that is served regardless of the condition it might be in. It is served because it is there, it is meant to be eaten, someone will eat it and you have just ordered it so it’s up to you to make sure it doesn’t go to waste. It is prepared without care or fuss, as simply and as quickly as possible, with the least amount of personality to suit the plebeian surroundings. And this pleasure comes to you at a price that rivals fine family dining in some other corners of the city, corners that are quite far from the Medieval keep you find yourself in.

Sleeping on a bus is possible if one is deprived of it for 2-3 days, uses drugs (including alcohol) or has experiences that make riding a bus a potential pleasure. Some of these experiences are prison, combat, a busted drug deal three states back or a death wish. Some of the hardier souls prefer reading over sleeping, but they are only kidding themselves. Sleep will creep up on even the finest book and when it does, one is still left with the situation described above, only it’s now three hours later, those that can sleep are snoring and those that can’t—or won’t—are watching you. Very, very carefully.

The best part about the lengthy bus trip is the end, the moment you arrive at your destination and realize the long dark sojourn into the soft underbelly of America is over.

The second best moment is when you are about to begin the trip, when your imagination fueled by hope dares to envision moments of purity, enlightenment and Elysian camraderie. The doors close, the rumble rises, the diesel slices into your brain and you understand that imagination and hope have stayed behind. For you and everybody else on board.

The Empire Strikes Back

2005-04-19T07:12:00.001-07:00

On a warm summery night, I walked past the decrepit piss-pit of a movie theater that crouched across a gutted street from a church. As was my habit, I pushed the greasy door open, snarled a curse at the old man who asked for my ticket and made my way carefully down a sticky, steep ramp. I tucked myself in the first row, the screen towering above me into the scarlet darkness above. A few minutes later, with a rumble that shook the wall, a huge spaceship soared from behind me, passing heavily overhead as lasers fired in battle across a star-filled sky.

I was overcome with awe. The moment the movie ended, I ran to my house, got my sister and went back to see the movie again. I even paid for the tickets.

Star Wars was without a doubt the culmination of my childhood dreams. For all the pie-plate spaceships, rubber-suited aliens and wooden dialogue I put up with for years, George Lucas’s vision was my vision, space opera done with grandeur. The story echoed the fairy tales of good and evil we glossed over, but secretly longed for, as they made the world simple, dramatic and somehow more real.

But it was The Empire Strikes Back that catapulted the whole saga into the realm of permanence. Prosaically, sequels struggle to recapture the lightning-in-a-bottle impact of the original, especially one so successful as Star Wars. So for all of us who had thrilled at the first movie, even with high expectations we were girding our emotions for a letdown.

It never came. The movie picked up the drama and energy of the first and deepened the story, raised the stakes and then closed with an obvious cliffhanger: Hans Solo in cryogenic freeze. What made it work was the confidence Lucas had in narrative, in telling a story the way it had been told for millenia. Yes, the story was set in space and the movie used much visual trickery (special effects are tricks to make you see what really doesn’t exist) as part of its stage, but it all hung together from a powerful story, oft-told.

At the conclusion of The Empire Strikes Back, I left the new, air-conditioned theater with cloth-covered seats and carpeted floors and thought back to when I saw Star Wars. For a moment, I wished to be back on the wooden slats, lying down, the screen a towering wall above me, as the visionary magic of cinema carried me away for the last time.

Me and the Mrss.

2005-04-18T07:12:00.000-07:00

One of the advantages that English has over Spanish is the distinction between “solitude” and “loneliness.” Solitude is a good thing, a reaching inward that connects you with yourself. Loneliness is pain, expressed or concealed. Spanish has only one word—soledad—with a heavier weight towards loneliness in its meaning, painting what could be a marvelous experience repeated throughout life into a murky corner best avoided.

Before I set foot in Oxford, I called my life one of solitude. I made it a point to revel in my isolation, to see the few interruptions as highlights in a journey, instead of oases. The sense of isolation increased in college, for though I found people I could truly share with, there was an entire world I wanted to explore: me.

My method was simple, but odd: I’d talk with older women. Much older, married women. It started with the white-haired woman I’ve called “Dorm Mother,” and continued with several other women. Three were bookstore employees, women in their late 40s-early 50s who espoused the bookish personality of librarians with the eager curiousity of avid readers. I visited these 2-for-1 bookstores as a way of exploring new authors, styles and genres, but I went just as often for the conversation. On occasion, I even helped stack or sort books, a great way to discover hidden gems.

Another of the conversation companions was Mrs. Smith, the Storage Room Supervisor of the AFROTC program. Her son was also in the program, and as her counter was at the end of a little-used hallway, we could talk with few interruptions. With her, the conversations ended as she became afraid that my lengthy stays could harm her evaluation. Unsaid was that it could harm her reputation.

For you see, I spent hours in these conversations. It wasn’t a rare thing to have me arrive at 10 AM and leave at 4 PM, having spent the six intervening hours talking about any subject that caught our fancy. To me the whole conversation was an expedition into minds, mine and hers. Unlike other conversations, for example, those of people who weren’t really my friends, I made no attempt to impress these women except in one way: I wanted to make them laugh. I succeeded often.

In the bookstores, clients would come in, browse slowly, make their purchases and leave. If the lady had to attend a customer or visitor, I’d wait patiently, read a book or go off to find something for me to amuse myself with. There were times when I felt the lady’s discomfort, impatience or unease at my continued presence. I pretended not to notice and made an effort to use my charm to get over the moment, to find another connection that would revitalize the conversation and make it special again. I always succeeded. The lengthy talks ended when I was done, when the energy of my exploration had ebbed to a tolerable dimming.

How much time, how many hours did I invest in these ladies, these vessels of my self-proclaimed exploration? I’ll never know, but it was certainly days.

From the deepest part of me, I can tell you I felt safe with them. My only requests were attention and appreciation, and that they gave me freely. I like to think I was a gift of time, energy and good humor in their lives and that they remember me fondly as a quirky character that passed through their lives. But somehow I can’t help but feel that maybe I left them with a touch of sadness, a remnant shadow of the melancholy I tried so desperately to hide.

Elizabeth

2005-04-15T07:12:00.000-07:00

Tall and lanky, she was either a basketball player or a volleyball player. Turns out volleyball was her sport.

Elizabeth had straight, shoulder-length blond hair and she walked like an athlete, with springy steps and slouchy posture. I saw her playing racquetball a couple of times on the “outer” courts, numbers 2 through 10, where less capable players usually played.

I hung around Court 1, the showcase court with the plexiglass right-hand wall that extended up some 20 feet. Known as the “Challenge Court,” winner stayed and that was all that mattered to me.

Racquetball was a new sport to me, but taking advantage of my reflexes and sheer “I won’t get hurt” bravado, I quickly gained some basic skills and what was once “one-and-out” became “Uh-oh, here he comes” looks that I collected like trophies.

I was on a roll one afternoon, having easily turned aside five challengers, when Elizabeth walked over and said she wanted to play me. I nodded, tossed her the ball and went in. Several players gathered to watch and within a short time, I had won 21-6. Elizabeth had excellent reach and was smooth moving forward and back, but she was slow in lateral movement and unless planted, had very little power. So I kept her moving from side and side and changed pace so she was never really set for any shot.

We shook hands and I started another game. I won and she challenged me again. I won 21-8, but several points had to be replayed because she “crowded” my shot. Instead of giving me a clear line to the front wall, Elizabeth would partially “block” my line. The first time I hit a weak sidewall shot, but after that, I did what I did to other players: I drilled her in the back. And the right buttock. And her legs.

After each thwack, even though it had to hurt, she’d turn and get set for the replay. She didn’t change expression, didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at me.

We played a few more times and she never scored more than 9 points. One afternoon, with no other players around, she told me she preferred playing against me. As she was still crowding and getting whacked, I asked her why. “Because you play against me like I was a guy. You don’t give me anything.”

I almost gawked. “It’s the Challenge Court,” I said. “If I lose I have to wait to play again.”

She gave me a direct look. “What if we played on another court?”

I shrugged. “Same thing.” She smiled.

As we talked, a guy who beat me fairly often walked by, pulled himself upright and said to me: “She’s good, right? Beat me 21-19 last week.” He walked into the Challenge Court and was surprised to see me follow him in.

He beat me 21-17. Then he lost to Elizabeth 21-18, committing what I thought were at least 30 unforced errors. He challenged, then jogged off for water. She watched him leave. “And that’s another thing,” she said, “You never straighten up when you see me even though I’m taller than you.”

I grinned. “Wouldn’t help.”

She handed me the ball. “No, it wouldn’t.”

I beat her 21-1. That cut her down to size

Sonja and Mary

2005-04-14T07:12:00.000-07:00

One was good-looking in a voluptuous way, but wanted to be a nun. The other was squarely stocky and chased ideal “Mrs.” candidates. One had no experience leading a group, but learned the business of doing so. The other had no business leading a group and gained no experience doing so.

Sonja was a natural redhead (I guess) with unfreckled skin, generous curves, a quietly smiling disposition and a Catholic jones that rubbed me like steel wool. At first we treated her with kid gloves, but we learned the gloves could come off and she wouldn’t bruise.

Although we had our differences, there was mutual respect and even trust. On one occasion, Bill and I were tossing our mascot, Scuzzo, (topic for another day) like a limpid volleyball, making detours off walls, ceiling and desks, when Sonja snatched him to “save the poor thing.” As I darted and dodged around her trying to “rescue” Scuzzo for our game, Sonja suddenly stopped and plunged the little fella into her sweater, in whatever space existed between her ample breasts.

I paused. Sonja stared at me, arms at her side. Bill’s eyes bugged out. I twisted my mouth in disgust. “You wouldn’t do that if I were Bill,” I groused.

Sonja smiled and shook her head. I waved her away and accepted defeat. Bill’s eyes darted back and forth between us.

Mary inspired me to hateful heights. I called her “Plymouth Rock” as in “You are under the rock upon which we stand” or “Built like a Plymouth, head like a rock.” I lean towards chivalry with women, but Mary got the worst of my snide lip. She would often come in and say something like: “Guess how much I paid for this dress?” Ignoring the fact that she often looked like a loosely-draped toad, I had several options and I had chances to use them all more than once:

“Too much.”
“Four thousand dollars,” (to make her sound cheap.)
“Two dollars,” (to make her sound like a bad shopper.)
“Bird feathers.”
“You paid for that?”
“Not money, I hope.”
“Bottle caps.”
“Don’t need to guess: you’re wearing the price tag.” (She fell for that one several times.)
“Oh hush. The corpse wants it back.”

No, it wasn’t pretty. Mary once pouted that she wanted sympathy and I replied she could find it in the dictionary, between “shit” and “syphillis.” (I was way past trying to be clever.)

She stared at me for about ten seconds then replied: “So’s Schmidt.”

Nice try. Probably her best effort. Her absence in my life would have been a joy.

And speaking of joy, maybe I should have gone in after Scuzzo.

Lock and Chain

2005-04-13T07:12:00.000-07:00

There are some summer nights when nothing moves. The air sleeps, the crickets chirp as isolated metronomes and it seems as if everybody chooses that time to stay put indoors.

I was walking from the bowling alley back to my apartment, an hour’s worth of exercise I was settling into. My habit on a jaunt like that was to amble along, thinking about nothing and everything, hands in pockets. The voice cut my reverie and I froze.

“Who you callin’ a nigger?” The voice was high-pitched, sharp, but strained.

I looked up. Seven young black men were arranged next to and against the dark-side Mr. Quik brick wall. Two of them pushed off the wall to complete a semi-circle in front of me. The speaker was a thin, gangly guy about my age, wearing a Dodger cap around his neck. He was glaring at me.

“Nobody,” I answered.

Dodger Cap feigned surprise. “You called me a nigger!” He looked around for support, agreement, chiming in. One guy, unbelievably wearing a leather jacket, nodded.

I shrugged. “No.”

He convulsed, affronted. “You callin’ me a LIAR?” he yelled.

“Yeah.”

The group moved, but stayed the same. Dodger Cap took a step forward. Only then did I realize I wasn’t an observer, but a participant. The radar I’d developed since childhood had faded to black. This was not banter and I had failed to act before it had gone too far.

Dodger Cap took a wild swing at me. I stepped back and when the guy on my right tried to grab me, I side-stepped and pushed him into the others. He and Dodgr Cap went down.

Suddenly heavy metallic clinks broke the muffled silence. Leather Jacket had a length of large-linked chain, a heavy padlock at its end. With two short swings he got it in motion, the others stepped back and he swung at me.

I saw the flash on my left and I ducked. I felt the padlock cut the air above my head and thud into the bricks, chunks and fragments flying. I pivoted and ran, bursting through the group into the parking lot beyond. I ran without looking back, without thinking of anything but distance. I heard vague jeers and a word or two. I didn’t look back. I ran until I was sure they couldn’t follow. I got home in under half an hour.

The anger I kept expecting never came. My usual pattern of self-abuse over any perceived failing never raised its ugly head. I’d fallen out of a useful habit because I had come to believe that the world had changed, that it was fundamentally different, that my past was an anomaly that the present would never enact.

I was wrong. I didn’t even shrug it off: the moment of recrimination simply dropped away like a dead leaf. The radar, that useful habit, came back, like retrieving the old flannel shirt that’s become a second skin. I kept walking, kept passing through the same area where once seven guys tried to make trouble and seldom gave them another thought. As lessons go, it was relatively painless.

NBC News Overnight

2005-04-12T07:12:00.000-07:00

It came on after The Tonight Show and The Tomorrow Show, NBC’s contribution to lineal time. NBC News Overnight was an experiment, a fanciful leap into the world of “24-hour news” that CNN had already launched. The thought was probably something like: People are obviously awake at 2 AM, so maybe we can keep them from jumping to cable by throwing news at them.

As obnoxiously banal as the thought may have been, the execution was brilliant. Linda Ellerbee and some guy named Lloyd sat at desks that faced each other, with a newsroom gently scurrying away in the background. And I’m not talking about “newsdesks,” those illegitimate pieces of furniture that have no useful function other than kindling: NBC News Overnight used real desks.

Over time, the desks started letting their hair down, as personal items began making appearances: mugs, photos, stuffed animals, stray paper, the stuff of working life. Lloyd, or whatever his name was, was a stuffed shirt in rolled-up shirtsleeves acting like his presence at that hour was the result of his agent’s ineptitude, but he was too much of a newsgeek to actually drop the ball. Linda was totally different: she twinkled, in on the fun of being up at 2 AM and watching a news show that—heavens to Betsy!—actually gave you news.

For you see, NBC News Overnight was the best newscast network TV ever presented. It didn’t try to shoehorn a topic into a 90-second segment: it followed leads, checked with less-known sources and offered viewpoints from around the world to give you context, not soundbites. It was pure TV journalism without the smarmy pseudodrama of news magazines, an hour that was worth a week’s worth of prime-time network news (and this from a guy who wanted to be Walter Cronkite.)

And above all, Linda had style. Her half-smile clued you in that the serious matters had ended and the lightness was coming. When Lloyd left and Bill came in, Linda explained that a producer had suggested she move from the viewer’s left to the viewer’s right, where Lloyd sat. With a verbal scalpel, Linda said: “The producer called it an idea off the top of his head, and ideas off the top of one’s head are very much like dandruff, small and flaky.” She stayed at her desk.

Linda hated doo wop music, nature pieces and pretty much all sports. Her crowning moment, rewarded by my ejecting cereal halfway across the carpet, was her brief: “In baseball today, the scores were 4 to 1, 5 to 3 and 7 to 2. You like it, you figure out who played who.”

Aside from wit, Linda had soul. She ended one show speaking about the difficult woman who challenged her constantly, never let up on her and never seemed to acknowledge her growth. She ended by telling us the woman was her mother, who had died earlier that day. Her voice broke and my tears emerged as she said goodbye to the woman who pushed her so hard and loved her so much.

One night, like a newsflash, Linda told us that NBC News Overnight was “going off the air.” With Bill nodding slightly as she spoke, Linda went on to say that NBC was canceling the show, not because of ratings, for ratings were actually fairly good, but because the show “was not making enough money.” She slashed at the parsimony that weighed news content versus profits and I got the sense she was closing doors forever. The sharp mind, curled smile and vivid eyes behind oversized glasses was firing away at dandruff thinking and scoring with every word.

I cheered her on and wrote NBC a letter that explained why stupidity reigns in network TV. I sent it with a pocket dictionary so the morons would understand it. I’d like to think Linda would have flashed a half-smile of approval, then skewered me for including a doo wop lyric as my opening line.

Chicken and Potato Logs

2005-04-11T07:12:00.000-07:00

Fall, 1983. The days were pastel and vague, having lost their brilliance and sharp edges. Rather than driving myself energetically, I drifted from hour to hour, a high-charged battery losing power.

To amuse myself, I’d try to find different paths to walk to and from classes, often losing myself in the walks so that not arriving was the ultimate result. It didn’t matter if I got to where I was going: I didn’t want to be there anyway.

One afternoon, a warm sunny day that promised summer would return, I stopped at a gas station, one of those little spots that calls itself a “mini-mart” with the confidence a terrier calls itself a guard dog. There was no plan in my mind; I was just marking time.

A twenty-second tour of the place led me to stop at a glass case. Under heat lamps, arranged with the care of an art gallery, were large pieces of chicken and potato logs. I ordered a box of two pieces of white meat (a Southern courtesy to avoid the word “breast” not extended to words that are truly offensive) and some potato logs. With a Coca-Cola tucked in the bag, I walked away in some direction not leading to my apartment.

Food is food, in my book. It is not a passion, though I understand it is to some. I prefer simplicity, and it’s hard to get more simple than chicken and potatoes, dipped in batter and fried. But there are times, beyond physical need, when food becomes comfort, soul-affirming, a blanket on a chilled soul, a moment of pleasure that breaks a long dark night in the heart.

Or maybe I was just hungry. In any case, the chicken was a revelation: fried to crispiness, yet juicy, filled with flavor beyond just salty to encompass rarer spices and a touch of pepper. In a break from my usual habit, I ate the chicken first. Then I bit into a potato log and forgot my day.

It’s basically a large french fry, but this potato log was a work of art, well-deserving of careful display and appreciation. The batter was crisp and whole, not flaking or clinging. The potato itself was soft and firm, as spicy as the chicken, but with more subtlety. In minutes, all four of the revelations were gone, the Coke was slamming down my throat and the day sharpened in contrast.

My walks now crossed the path of this mini-mart every day. My lunch or dinner was the same box of two pieces of chicken and four potato logs. I always ate it while continuing my walk, enjoying the flavors, the moment and the slight but noticeable difference in my day.

I once asked for the recipes, but the guy told me the food was prepared by a woman at her house and she brought it in twice a day. I never asked her name, nor did I ever bother to seek the recipes again. I saw these simple items as gifts to my day and I wanted to keep them that way. One must learn to accept gifts as they come, when they come… without having to deeply explore why they come.

One Night in a Laundromat

2005-04-08T07:12:00.001-07:00

Someone had spelled “Nadir” wrong and the sign said “Laundromat.”

Four loads of laundry stuffed into a denim duffel bag that also needed washing. Almost 11 PM and the place looked like it had been frozen in the 60s and smelled like it had been dipped in the sweat of greasy men with hairy backs and flabby women with hairy chins.

Usually, only a few machines rumbled, twitched and twirled. Paper signs decorated surfaces in never a discernible pattern. Tiny boxes, empty and gaping, dotted the floor and other horizontal surfaces like dead cartoon mice. Hangers were cast about like sprung snares. In a corner, ashamed, lay an article of clothing that could have been a towel, a shirt or a throw-rug. It wasn’t.

Next to Nadir was a small apartment complex boasting a menagerie of more than the usual oddballs: the guy who washed only jeans and blue T-shirts (I grokked); the gal who brought all her clothes, but pulled out underwear and socks and took them back; the guy that washed everything together and wore gray, except for his colorful bandannas, washed separately, and the gal that sat on her washer and leaned against her dryer’s door during the entire process. I asked her if the door got hot. She told me to mind my own business. I told her she had lipstick on her tooth.

That night, the menagerie had spilled over. Every available washer was churning its guts, the dryers were roasting and one had its temporary owner standing guard. A wasted trip was not an option. I actually started thinking about dumping the laundry and buying new clothes. As I calculated how much that would dent my budget, Hortense-at-the-Dryer yanked her clothes out and after giving me—or the wall next to me—a dirty look, I was alone.

With lots and lots of clothes.

I was moving even before the decision was made. I flung open every washer and dryer. With production line efficiency that would have made Henry Ford, Sr. weep, I carried clothes from one washer to another, from dryer to dryer, then from washer to dryer and dryer to washer. I danced, twirled and whistled, a busy dwarf named “Bubbly.” First lineal, then skipping every other, then as random as can be, I tossed clothes around with merry abandon until I was sure I had been generous to everybody. I even placed quarters in every machine, to keep the party rolling.

My duffel bag felt weightless. The night had cooled for everybody but me. I was free from Nadir, my heart was pure and all was right in Prankville.

I switched my laundry drag to another place, one called “Doldrums.” It too had its sign misspelled as “Laundromat.”

Raiders of the Lost Ark

2005-04-07T07:12:00.000-07:00

It begins with a climax, thrusting us directly into a sense of heightened drama, then danger, with an adrenaline rush that drops, surges, then drops again only to surge as Indiana Jones ecounters his one true fear: snakes.

But it is the next scene, the Professor in his classroom filled with dreamy-eyed coeds brought up short by a love note pencilled on eyelids, that the movie takes off. Our hero can be taken by surprise, thus so can we.

Raiders of the Lost Ark can be viewed in many ways, but it is, without reservation, pure entertainment. It rumbles along in rollicking fashion, at an almost breakneck pace, leavened with flashes of humor. I still remember sliding off my chair convulsed with laughter as Indy shrugs tiredly at the antics of the black-robed swordsman, then casually shoots him. (Later I found out that Harrison Ford had suggested the scene because he was feeling ill.)

Movies in the 70s had been dominated by disasters, epics and special effects, and in that rush for box-office dollars, the industry had lost sight of what really matters: the drama of one person struggling against the odds.

In Dr. Jones, we have the ultimate “one against the odds.” The special effects--and they abound in the movie--take a clear back seat to the central figure as Indiana tackles natives, snakes, death traps, puzzles, an irate jilted lover (“God hath no fury…” you know), Nazis and even infiltrating a submarine as part of his struggles.

With a wink to the serials my dad watched as a kid, Indy punctuates the movie’s pace and style with wit as he replies to a question about his plans: “I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go along.”

And therein lies the hero, the man who will find a way, a true American icon. In Indiana Jones, the collective will, energy and “can-do” spirit that exemplified what the world began calling “the American way” gained a new face, one that even so seems bland without its hat.

Raiders blazed its way into my mind, and the minds of so many, with sheer energy, an electric thrill that reached deep into the roots of our best stories and flashed its modern essence on the screens of what was then our newest art form. It was also pure fun. In a way, the second is much more important than the first.

A Question of Faith

2005-04-06T07:12:00.000-07:00

I was raised Catholic so I had a head start on becoming an atheist.

It is a cliché that one’s college years become a Period of Exploration, a form of mental and emotional trek into the wilderness of adulthood. Religion often becomes a large part of that trek, as assumptions are challenged, egos are buffeted and the need for reliable answers becomes an agonic hunger.

To GCSPrank, exploring religions was more an analysis of the thought processes behind religion, primarily the concept of “faith.” A professor once casually tossed off the “faith can move a mountain” reference, which led to this exchange:

“If the mountain doesn’t move, it’s because I lack enough faith?” I asked.
“Precisely,” beamed the professor.
“Well, the me of little faith gets tons of dynamite and an army of bulldozers and moves the mountain.”
The professor smiled beatifically: “Faith gave you the answer.”
“No,” I replied, “Common sense did. Faith would have me wait for the answer to drop on my head.”

My classmates thought it funny, but not Mr. Faith. He called my remark “a silly notion” and I shot back “Like yours is scientific fact, right?” Things got interesting then.

The concept of faith bothered me because I saw it as passivity, as a simple notion of “don’t think, don’t question, just believe.” Faith as the antithesis of Reason, the Denial of Thought for the dubious benefit of Comfort.

But then what was the power of the mind for? To be placed in the harness of vague concepts, like hitching a Clydesdale to a toy cart? Even the dumbest beast is smarter than a wooden toy.

On the other hand, isn’t faith a form of release, an acknowledgement of limitations that are real and that by accepting these limitations, one can truly accept freedom? Why then is faith used as a shield to rickety notions, so that when pressed, you get an almost-inevitable “It’s a matter of faith”? The fault may lie in the user, not the shield, but when the user is deemed an expert—-minister, priest, theologian, fanatic—-hiding ignorance or faulty arguments with a wall that tries to demean rationality is not a path to freedom, but to subservience.

Case in point: the Dark Ages.

From challenging the notion of faith to challenging what people often place their faith in was but a small step. Belief had long yielded to doubt and doubt became, slowly, non-belief. But in the spirit of rationality and search for freedom, my decision is my own. I neither expect nor want others to choose “my way.” As convinced as the religious feel about their choice, I feel about mine. For now. Rationality, unlike faith, demands that I keep searching, probing, questioning and challenging.

Maybe someday I can meld faith and rationality so that what is now a kaleidoscope becomes a clear window within and without. And no, I have no faith in achieving that result.

Spaghetti Ankle

2005-04-05T07:12:00.000-07:00

A late night basketball one-on-one against Chuck, an overweight tyro who sweat from the moment we agreed to go the court. I had won the first three games by the usual wide margins, pouring in basket after basket from 12-15 feet. We’d played over 50 games against each other and Chuck had never come close to beating me. So I continued my shooting practice as the night grew chillier.

I was leading 9-3 when I decided to cut around Chuck and drive to the basket. I seldom did this, as even though I wasn’t really a good ballhandler, it was ludicrously easy for me to leave him in my dust. As I cut to my left, my weaker hand, he turned and instead of stepping back as he often did, Chuck stepped to the side and forced me to abort my move to the basket and drift left.

I put up the shot and came down. The court, a cement slab, ended just behind the basket. The ground, eroded from water and steps, was almost three inches lower than the cement surface. My left foot landed on the court’s edge, but my ankle bone, that large knob on the outside of my foot, touched the dirt. I couldn’t shift my weight and the knob ground into the dirt as the pain exploded up my leg.

I rolled twice in the grass and grabbed my leg. Chuck came over saying “Nice shot,” then knelt to ask me what had happened. I could only grunt, then gasp as I felt my ankle begin to swell.

Then those fatal words floated down: “Wanna play another?” Despite the pain, I said yes. Playing on one foot, cursing inwardly at my growing stupidity, I saw Chuck take the lead 8-7. With a final burst, I ended the game 10-8 and drove back to my apartment. I couldn’t feel my lower leg.

I lay down on my bed and within minutes, was about to drift off to sleep when my left leg relaxed, turned slightly outward and instead of moving a few inches, it stopped almost immediately and a blast of agony made me sit up in a cold sweat. Without my sneaker, the ankle had ballooned to an obscenity.

Fortunately, the bed and the bathroom were next to each other, so in seconds, I had propped my left foot in the bathtub and turned on the cold water. Fed by deep pipes and still wrapped in February frost, the water was harshly cold, exactly what I needed. For the next seven hours, I drifted in and out of sleep, sitting on the toilet cover, my foot in the bathtub and my eyes looking at my leg, but not my ankle.

The next day, I hobbled to my hell as vacuum cleaner salesman. Next door to the Electrolux sales office was a podiatrist’s office and in a coincidence, the doctor and I arrived at the same time. He took one look at me limping and told me to get into his office. A few minutes later, he gasped. My ankle was about the size of a softball, with swelling rising along the outside of my calf to just below my knee. Even gently, his probing fingers made me sweat as I fought to hold in my dignity.

Slumping back in to his chair, he told me that I had spaghetti surrounding my ankle, one of the most severe sprains he’d ever seen or heard about. In fact, he said, I would have been better off breaking it as then the mess could be put back together in some semblance of order. To top it off, he said it would take at least one year for my ankle to heal completely.

Yeah, right, I thought. I was 20, a fast healer and hey, I was me. I hobbled out and discovered that every step was a gamble. For months after that, my ankle would give out suddenly or blast pain for any slight misstep. And yes, despite my age, condition and being me, it did take a year for my ankle to return to normal.

It took me longer to forget the image of my ankle, water streaming over it, a bulge so big it forced my foot in and to the right, a visible shudder of pulsing rippling along the surface. That stayed with me for years, the ugly image of going too far to preserve self-image.

THGttG

2005-04-04T07:12:00.000-07:00

The cover had the friendly words “Don’t Panic!” It made me smirk. Over a series of weeks, I’d walk into the Bookstore, peruse the titles and I’d never fail to smirk. The buzz about the book was slight, and if just knowing about the buzz places me in the nerd category, so be it. Finally, I plunked down my money for Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and read it that same night.

And I laughed my butt off.

Science fiction, up to that time, had had its dilettantes of humor, such as Lester del Rey, William Tenn and Isaac Asimov. But humor and science fiction don’t mesh well, as science fiction requires creating an artificial world and humor has its strongest basis in reality. We don’t care for contrived humor. And I personally believe that most fans of science fiction—writers and readers alike—are angry people, angry at the rejection they feel for being different and thus have very little sense of humor, unless it’s the cruel kind that belittles those they would consider inferior.

But Adams was just plain funny. His humor, based on some deranged Apocalyptic scenario that destroys Earth to make way for an intergalactic highway, has science fiction as its background, but human foibles and eccentricities as its forefront.

Take Marvin the Robot, seriously, seriously depressed for being incredibly superior to those around him but being seen and treated as nothing more than a glorified lump of metal. Yet all he does is act like a lump of metal. (Science fiction fans were both target and audience here.)

Or how about Zaphod Beeblebrox, a two-headed, three-armed egotistical mush-for-brains con man who somehow always gets his way? In an exaggerated way, we know people like that, who seem to live a charmed life despite obvious disadvantages in acumen. How pathetically funny is someone who utters and believes “I’m so hip I have trouble seeing over my pelvis”?

The Girl in The Story, as SF fans objectify the species, was Trillian, Zaphod’s girlfriend and all-around wishing-to-be-free spirit. She is disconcerting if not downright unfathomable, not only for the odd things she says, but for her choice of Zaphod (the creep) over Arthur (the nice guy.) Trillian is the only character with a level head, except that it works on some jarringly-parallel level.

It is in Arthur Dent, Earthman extraordinaire (poor slob) that Adams shines. Befuddled, bewildered, a babe in the woods and the woods are beyond weird. Arthur embodies the deep-seated feelings we have that the world is one big party and we’re not only not invited, but if we go, we’re the hired help. Arthur gives the madness a touch of the ordinary and the humor emerges from tweaked humanity, the kind that lets us laugh at and with each other.

But above all that, I owe Adams for hundreds of smiles and lightened moments when my patience and interest were strained beyond endurance, when the droning voice or insipid event dragged on and on towards infinity. Two words: Vogon poetry. Those who’ve read the novel will know what I mean.

Tattoo Parlor

2005-04-01T07:12:00.000-08:00

A Sunday afternoon in the Big Easy. The French Quarter was napping just after lunch, the streets and sidewalks casual with traffic.

Brendan and I were roaming under the guise of exploring. He’d been displaying his inventory at a comic book convention at some hotel and I’d tagged along to meet Scotty. I had, pleased to discover that James (he insisted) was as big a fan of “Star Trek” as the rest of us, a man genuinely pleased to be remembered and recognized for playing a TV character.

Brendan had left his dozen or so boxes to the custody of his best friend and since he knew I was familiar with New Orleans, asked me to join him. We’d wandered down Bourbon Street, encountered some biker bars, visited a dingy museum, had joshed a fortune teller, laughed long and hard at the “I bet I can tell you where you got those shoes” gambit and, feeling thirsty, had stepped into a bar for a beer.

Now I seldom drink beer or hard liquor, but I was a lush compared to Brendan. A few years older than me, he stayed away from anything with alcohol. But, when in Party Town, do as the Party Townies do. So beer it was, a tall, tall glass of beer.

To my surprise, Brendan drained his. “I was thirsty,” he said sheepishly. I finished mine and we walked on. We hadn’t covered two blocks before he tells me he’s feeling a little woozy, but waves off my offer to stop and sit. Spying a tattoo parlor, I figure it would be a good place to stop for a few minutes, so we went in.

The walls and even the ceiling were covered with tattoo designs. The array of colors, swirls, jagged lines, stark monochrome and glittery neons almost floored Brendan. Then we saw who was behind the counter and we both swayed.

Petite. Long black hair framing an olive-tinged oval face with almond-shaped eyes. Full lips. A serene expression that, unless she moved, made you think she was a mannequin. She was drawing, leaning forward over the counter, the tip of her tongue just peeking between her lips, her eyes darting up and down, from us to her drawing and back.

Brendan staggered forward, an iron filling dragged by a magnet. His eyes bugged out and he slumped against the wall, entranced. I stepped forward to see the drawing. No, really, to see the drawing.

It was a dragon-butterfly, or a lizard-moth. I couldn’t tell as I caught a glimpse of what had stunned Brendan: the young lady had a blouse opened low, no bra and the view inspired a moment of silence. Or two. Two long moments of silence.

She kept drawing.

“Are you here for tattoos?” Her voice was honey. Brendan actually sighed.

“I don’t know about him,” I replied, flipping a thumb in Brendan’s direction, “But I have too many marks already.”

She smiled. Very white teeth. “You can always have more marks.”

I shook my head. “Nah. Mine are scars and if the FBI were after me, a tattoo would just make it easier to track me down.”

She cocked her head slightly to look at the lump that used to be Brendan. “And what about you?”

He babbled. Brendan was a cool guy and my good friend, but at that moment, I’d be a stone-cold liar if I described his sounds as anything except “babbling.”

A behemoth emerged from a back room, parting a curtain and sticking a head the size and shape of a buffalo’s butt into our suddenly-smaller room. He grunted and she shook her head. Three hundred pounds of grunting disappeared behind the curtain.

“My husband.”

Oh.

“Are you sure you don’t want a tattoo?” she asked me. “It doesn’t have to be visible, you know.”

Yeah, like I wanted BeastMan to puncture some intimate skin. “True. How many tattoos do you have?”

She smiled. “Seven. All over my body.”

I pointed at her chest, possibly a Freudian gesture. “You don’t have one there.”

Brendan groaned.

Slowly, very slowly, the lady sat up, the drawing paused, the view gone. “No. I don’t.” Her eyes held mine. I held hers.

“Not yet?” I said. Brendan groaned again.

She didn’t blink. “Maybe.” Her smile was somewhere deep.

“Then I’ll wait until that happens.” I turned, started to walk out, then turned to pull Brendan off the wall. She smiled at me like it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen.

Brendan started arguing with me the moment we hit the sidewalk and he didn’t stop for three weeks. I had ruined his view!

Borg vs. McEnroe

2005-03-30T18:48:00.000-08:00

July, 1980. Wimbledon, the tradition if not the very soul of tennis on a chewed-up grass court. Bjorn Borg, four-time consecutive Men’s Champion, a gentleman of uncanny restraint and icy nerves was to face the fiery volatility of John McEnroe, an uncouth brat with the mouth of a sailor and pure genius in his left hand.

Bill and I had spent the night before playing tennis under the lights. To be precise, what we did was hit balls back and forth with the kind of savage creativity that gets toddlers fingered for pre-school therapy. By the time morning rolled around to present the growingly-famous “Breakfast at Wimbledon,” I was spent, barely awake and rooting feebly for Borg.

The hell with patriotism: I liked the Swede better and he was ranked #1. Go with a winner!

The first sets were tight, with Borg firing rifle shots from the baseline while Mac darted to the net for putaways that defied logic. To my surprise, McEnroe took the first set with slashing volleys. The second set was a struggle, with Borg taking it on quick forays to the net. The third seemed closer, but once again Borg dominated with risky approaches and pinpoint passing shots. Borg led 2 sets to 1 and I drifted to sleep on the Student Union couch.

When I woke up, Borg was leading 5-4 in the fourth set. In that game, he had two match points, and despite superb play, McEnroe saved both with diving volleys that were the essence of genius and desperation. Winning that game, they remained tied so that at 6-6, they went to a tiebreak.

The players call it “lingering death.” Anyone who watched that fourth set tiebreak live knows exactly what that means. Borg, wide-shouldered, slumped, walking quickly on short steps. McEnroe, lithe, slouching, a petulant look on his face as he stalked the court. First to seven points, but must win by two. Before the tiebreak started I yelled out “Go, Borgie baby!” And then I forgot to breathe for the next 20 minutes.

What had been an excellent match turned into greatness then ascended into legendary. Borg fired cannon shot after cannon shot, hitting his strokes with a precision and power that had never been seen. McEnroe kept sprinting in, daring the Swedish sniper to find an opening that his strings couldn’t block. Time and again the crowd gasped as one magnificent shot was met with another, the cathedral-like silence imposed on such proceedings squeezing emotions into uncontrollable yips and squeaks.

Borg fought off seven set points that McEnroe achieved, but to the enormous credit of the brat, he fought off five Championship points, four of them with Borg serving. In the greatest cauldron of pressure on the greatest stage of their sport, both men danced like high-wire artists over a bottomless chasm.

It ended in a blazing slash, McEnroe winning an unbelievable set, 18-16. As the crowd rose to its feet in admiration and anticipation of a fifth set, I saw something in Borg’s eyes I hoped was not there: fear. His eyes were mirrors of fear. I whispered to myself that stamina would now be the difference and nobody was fitter than Borg.

Years later, I read that Borg admitted to feeling fear at that moment, between the fourth and fifth sets. He decided to go for broke, to simply chase down every ball in an effort to beat this unfathomable lefty.

And scramble he did, swooping like a falcon from corner to corner, firing shots that were inhuman in power and angles. Only to find that McEnroe was willing himself to stay in the match, flinging his body like a mistreated marionette in pursuit of a near-invisible ball.

Neither player gained an advantage, and the fifth set reached 6 games all. No tiebreak in the final set; winner has to win two games in a row. Borg won to go ahead 7-6. A close-up at that moment of each player gave a clue: Borg looked like a bank teller at 10:30 AM; McEnroe looked like a bank robber on the lam. Still striking shots only they could hit, the magnificent game ended, Borg fell to his knees releasing all the emotion he kept hidden every other day of the year and the greatest tennis match I’d ever seen ended in a “Borgie baby” victory.

But as I walked away on numb legs, I kept thinking about those mirrors of fear and what they meant to Borg. I sensed that Borg would never be the same, and he wasn’t, retiring a little over a year later at 26. I couldn’t help but wonder when I would see those mirrors in my eyes and how I would change after that.

Blood Will Tell

2005-03-30T07:12:00.000-08:00

Ask 100 people who knew me before I entered college what the odds were that I would volunteer to help others by doing menial tasks and 100 would have said “No way.” It would have been unanimous even if you included me in those 100.

As with so many things with GCSPrank, I don’t know how I happened to volunteer for the Red Cross blood drives. I guess I walked up to to some nurse-looking person and said I wanted to help and they pointed me to a table. Most of the time I handed out bags, taking down a person’s name, verifying they had received a check-up and getting their signature. Not exactly rocket science, nor beaming spotlight.

I did try to leaven the moment with humor, using the poetic “Proceed to bleed” as a send-off, often countered by guys with “Drain a vein” and by women with blanching. Worst moment: A young lady whose name was “Toy” receiving a distracted “When I was a kid I loved playing with toys” from me. Her response was a disgusted “I know,” and I was left feeling like the gum on the sole of a dirty sneaker.

At other times, I would handle the blood bags, stripping and sealing them. Unlike the other volunteers who passed the blood-filled bags around like water balloons, I was always very conscious that I was holding an essence of life. Pointing out the level of activity to Don, he said with admirable acuity: “This shows the level of civilization we have achieved, that this is so routine.” I wish I’d said it first.

But nevertheless, stripping and sealing was a job a well-trained monkey could do. No matter: I did it anyway.

The best part was sharing the time with Don and Bill. Don, usually in charge of the snacks, received the putdown of “Bartender” from me. When I handed out bags, he put me down with “Paper Pusher.” But the real character was Bill, who volunteered according to his own standard. With amazing skill, he would pick out the nervous belle—the nervous pretty belle—and shepherd her through the entire process, a Southern gentleman of the old school. If at any point any other comely maiden suffered the vapors or just barely hinted at a moment of weakness, Gentleman Bill would immediately beam over to her side and offer courtly comfort.

I once told Bill he’d run through an ugly woman to reach a pretty one and he replied “Yeah, wouldn’t you?”

Uh, no. But I wish I could.

I also donated blood, sometimes too often and with too much vim. Once I was sharing a head-to-head table with a very nervous guy. The nurse, who knew me from previous blood drives, told me to turn my head and I said “I don’t mind. I like seeing the needle penetrate my arm.” We heard a brief groan, not mine. She rolled away behind me, then rolled back. Flipping a thumb over at the other guy, she said “He fainted.”

Definitely no Bill to his rescue.

Alyson

2005-03-29T07:12:00.003-08:00

She complained fairly often that the guys she dated were “off.” I thought they were jerks. True, Alyson would win no conventional beauty pageants. Maybe she had bad taste in men. But any guy who spent an hour with her and didn’t see how special she was was brain-dead. Of course, the argument could be made that most men are, indeed, brain-dead.

Alyson spoke with a breathy little-girl voice that contrasted with her very adult mind. She had a heart that dwarfed my entire body and a way of focusing all her attention on you that made you feel as if you were being absorbed.

We called her our “Mother Figure,” and teased her about everything. I actually pretended to be gay around her, a move that backfired badly. I invited her to dinner at Ruby’s and offered her wine. When she declined, I told her I was trying to get her drunk to take advantage of her. Her look practically snapped me in half, made up as it was of 6% “With what?,” 11% “I’d like to see you try” and 83% “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

I didn’t feel shot down, I felt annihilated.

My standard line with her was to subtly put her down for being a woman. I used “female” a lot, a word that deeply annoyed her to the point that she confessed to a co-worker “It’s not that it isn’t accurate, it’s just the way he says it.”

If not for my reflexes, she would have hurt me once. Several of us were at the office, late one winter night. While Alyson was washing her mug for the hot chocolate I’d make later, I quipped “That’s the female's true role, washing dishes.” The sink was six feet to the right of the doorway and I was leaning on the far wall, ten feet from that same doorway, the only exit. To escape, I had to get through there, open a number-pad keylock to the outside door and rush out down the stairs. The instant I saw her back stiffen, I moved. I actually got past her, punched in the “2-then-1” combination, turned the latch and doorknob and raced out ahead of her grasp. She hissed at me from atop the stairs, truly upset, so I waited a few minutes and returned. Alyson was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her usual way of sitting. She ignored me.

I said “Females are known to kill for sport.”

She didn’t look up and said: “In your case, it would be by necessity.”

Ouch.

The day she was leaving, I took her a gift, a book of horse diseases, defined and illustrated. Alyson was mad about horses and the gift had been the end result of a very long search. She tore the wrapping paper off and immediately cried out happily. She sat down, cross-legged, right there in the parking lot. Turning pages, Alyson pointed out details I knew nothing of, but that made her very happy.

I realized then that I had always had a crush on her.

She closed the book. I helped her up and zipped my lip about that. For a few seconds, we avoided the words. Then I held out my hand and wished her success and blessings. Alyson took my hand and said she was very pleased to have worked with me.

As I walked away, she called out to me: “Are you really gay?”

I paused and turned around. “Can’t a female tell?” She laughed merrily and waved goodbye.

Eudora, Elvis and Faulkner

2005-03-28T07:12:00.000-08:00

They are names that resonate with a power that transcends even the basest elements associated with the Magnolia State. One wrote fiction that defied belief and acted in ways that fostered disbelief. Another was a slick-haired rebel, sneering and sneered at for his pelvic "obscenities." And the third grew slowly on the consciousness of the country, a lady far above and beyond the belles.

You couldn’t squat in Oxford for more than a day without encountering some mention of William Faulkner. And yet, it wouldn’t take you another day to realize that while the town and university played him up for benefit, they not-so-secretly looked down upon him…and not because “Billy” was height-challenged.

Faulkner was not one to go through life rounding off his sharp edges. He once upbraided his daughter, who hassled him about his drinking, with “No one remembers Shakespeare’s daughter!” A drunkard of epic proportions in a land that considers drunkenness a weekly rite (and right), Faulkner skewered his surroundings and its people with bone-slashing observations that, couched in mellifluous and overwrought sentences, dared to reveal more than they concealed.

His words adorned the Ole Miss Library; the Yoknapatawpha Conference was an international hit and his home was a tourist attraction. And yet, you got the feeling that if Faulkner vanished from memory, the collective sigh of relief would have drowned the tinkle of steady money.

Elvis was born in Tupelo and that’s as much of Mississippi as he or anyone else cared about. The Great State, as so many laughingly call themselves, had little to do with his eventual power as a cultural icon. That Elvis strode the earth like a giant, almost single-handedly remade American society and gave us an iconoclastic 20th century Greek tragedy of a life is hard to ignore.

Mississippians don’t ignore it. They talk around Elvis, close to Elvis, make references to Elvis and sometimes even talk through Elvis, but in the end, they pointedly downplay Elvis. Until that moment—and it always comes—when they drawl with ill-conceived and badly-misplaced hubris: “You know, he was born in Tupelo.”

Eudora Welty is not a Nobel Prize winner nor is she an American icon. She was a writer, one of the great ones from a land that produces writers like royal families produce inbred feebs. Her prose was—is—clean and simple, with consistent flashes of insight and charm. She wrote for decades, her works defined by both quantity and quality and the ability to blend in with, not shake up, society.

She was gracious where Faulkner was abrasive; real where Elvis was fantasy. Eudora Welty was never as famous as the other two, but she was easily the more admirable, the friendly one who never soured her name or that of others, who cherished herself to a long and worthy life. She scaled no great heights, but she never descended from her scaled steps.

I heard too much about Faulkner there in his hometown and wished I’d heard less about Elvis. But not once did I hear a word about Eudora Welty. If the good die young around the world, the good die unremarked in Mississippi.

"Sentimental Journey"

2005-03-25T07:12:00.000-08:00

It was on Saturday nights, from 6 to 8 PM, then later the schedule was from 7 to 10. The theme song, a flowing instrumental arrangement of the Les Brown/Doris Day hit that evoked such memories for the wartime generation, would swell into the room with ballroom elegance. A Memphis DJ with a scratchy mellow voice would present songs of the 40s and 50s with a little story for each. However, each story seemed to have an aimless quality, like the ramblings of a garrulous old man.

There were occasional bits of gold: How Doris Day went from dancer to singer because of a broken leg; how Johnny Mathis transformed himself from failed jazz singer to superstar; how Frank Sinatra went from superstar to seedy club singer and back to superstar again; why Johnny Ray cried so often; where Frankie Laine sang an entire concert to exactly 3 people; how Columbia records had two “Italian” singers under contract at the same time and chose to push one named Sinatra over one named Perry Como; the song a wandering hobo gave Nat “King” Cole that went on to sell over two million records; how the recording ban actually propelled The Mills Brothers to national fame; that Glenn Miller knew he was going to die and got on the plane anyway and how little-known Jerry Vale made it big in Vegas.

That last story made several appearances, as did Jerry Vale, for he was a close personal friend of the DJ. (If I remembered his name I would use it, natch.) Jerry would act all gangster-cool, dropping names like his life depended on it and refusing to talk about any aspect of his life except singing.

Vale hit it big with “Eternally” (which he co-wrote with Engelbert Humperdinck!) and at about that time, the DJ and he became good friends. They bantered well and showed a good friendship, but the shows with Vale felt awkward nevertheless. When he wasn’t around, the music took center stage and on those nights, time melted.

There is a poignancy and innocence to the music of that era that appeals to me. The lyrics feel like poetry even when the words are simple and unadorned. The recordings hissed and popped slightly, but the voices came through with such clarity, style and charm, reminding you of a time before studio engineering transformed the true talent and beauty of a live recording done superbly into an artificial construct.

One could marvel at the power and emotion of a very young Tony Bennett, the easy-going baritone of Vic Damone, the cool flair of Ella Fitzgerald, the unbelievable charm of Buddy Clark (who died in a plane crash on Beverly Boulevard, in Beverly Hills), the deep emotion of Eddie Fisher and the homespun charm of Patti Page.

I discovered singers, songs and the joys of music that resonates with your heart. The show framed my nights with rare comfort. If I was alone, solitude gained the depth of emotions far outside my own. If Carol was there, it was a chance for discovery and conversation, as songs opened hidden doors inside of me that I often didn’t know were closed.

I never heard the show with anyone else, nor did I actively try to catch it every week. In that sense, it was like a close friend: there for me when needed, able to proceed alone knowing I would return. My journey into music has expanded far beyond what “Sentimental Journey” offered, but despite so many joys along the way, it has never been as satisfying as those Saturday nights, when the music fulfilled me and the world felt right.

Kenny

2005-03-24T07:12:00.000-08:00

He was too good for GQ. If the average GQ guy improved twofold, he’d still be in Kenny’s shadow.

I met him the summer I roomed with Steph, a 275-pound second-string tackle on the Ole Miss football team. Steph was big, black and his friends thought he was reckless or weak for accepting a white roommate. Except Kenny. He shook my hand and then ignored my blatant admiration.

Kenny was handsome. Not pretty-boy or ruggedly handsome, just plain jaw-dropping handsome. If you looked at him for a while, he didn’t seem real. Even his friends would dart sidelong glances at him as we played Spades or talked about stuff, checking his expression, maybe trying to confirm he was still there. If he hadn’t been so quiet and self-effacing, he probably would have had no friends. At least, no male friends.

Besides his looks, Kenny dressed to perfection. His clothes seemed a part of his body, an extension of his grace and style. The combinations were gloriously matched, meshing into a whole that seemed so absolutely right you’d wonder why everyone didn’t dress that way.

So being the way I am and knowing I could bug Kenny for the fun of it, I chose to bug him about his clothes. That’s right, me, the T-shirt/jeans/sneakers guy doing a Blackwell number on über-GQ Kenny.

It was simple. He’d show up and I would pause, giving him a slow once-over from head to toe and back again, only to shake my head sadly and mutter something like “Brown belt, tan shoes. How bold,” or a mock-disbelieving “Tweed in the spring?” or “Really. Gabardine,” in a dismissive monotone.

The first time, Kenny froze, then broke into his strong, silent laughter. He even laughed handsomely, with dignity yet joy. From there on out, for the many times we saw each other, he’d break into a grin when he saw me, chuckled as I gave him the haute couture eye and then crack up as I uttered my ponderous judgement.

His dates—always beautiful young ladies—would look at us as if some white/black nastiness was going on, but Kenny would say I always commented on his clothes and I’d nod in satisfaction as the ladies would look me over like I had six legs. Hey, somebody had to keep him humble.

Kenny graduated and I saw him no more. Until one day, while ambling through Atlanta, I spied a familiar walk in front of a glass, people-filled monolith. It was Kenny, looking even better than ever in a finely-tailored suit, a shirt and tie combination that screamed class and shoes that matched the buttery leather of his slim briefcase. I stopped in his path and crossed my arms, cocking my head as if analyzing his presence on the planet. Then he saw me and instantly broke into a huge grin. I started to shake my head sadly and he cracked up, raising a hand to stop my words.

“Uh-uh,” he said, laughing through the words. “I KNOW I look good.”

Insight. And the sharing of joyous laughter as our goodbyes.

A Thoughtless Act

2005-03-23T07:12:00.000-08:00

He walked into my room and made fun of my surname, targeting my dad’s Air Force name tag. For some reason, I knew he was being friendly, not obnoxious. Though sometimes, with Bill you could barely tell the difference.

It’s not that he was mean. It’s just that between brain and broadcasting, Bill would simply bypass anything remotely resembling a filter and simply say what popped into mind. Forever after, the word “cringe” became a visceral part of my vocabulary.

Bill would show up in a restaurant at one minute to closing time and expect service, for, after all, it really wasn’t closing time yet, right? He’d mention someone’s distinctive-yet-best-ignored feature as if it were the weather, like the time he asked a woman with very long toenails if they were thorns or a woman with small breasts if she liked being flat-chested. He belonged to both the Black Student Union and some other group opposed to such unions, enjoying the contrast both cards created in his wallet and on people’s faces. And he’d press a question if, once asked, it had been politely ignored until it was rudely ignored and then he’d ask it again.

But Bill had another side. As a friend, he’d be there, come Hell or high water. He could be obtuse about some things (so could I), but if he knew you needed help, he was an unconditional ally. And his word was pure gold: if he agreed to it, he was committed.

For three years we spent at least a day or two a week hanging out. During the summers, we’d spend entire days just skimming from one activity to another, from dawn to dawn, take a nap, then get up to keep going. I must have hit 500,000 tennis balls and 200,000 racquetballs at him. We probably competed for weeks—weeks I tell you—at video games. We ate about 450 pizzas together, traveled twice across the desolate length of the State of Mississippi and added maybe 5,000 miles more in our trips together.

Hell, he even stored stuff I forgot when I left. He still has it, 22 years later. For you see, when I left Oxford on that gray January morning, the trunk of my car and back seat packed with the memories I’d lose later that year, I didn’t say goodbye to Bill. I got in my car, turned the key and drove away. Not once did I look back.

Last year Bill and I shook hands again and eventually he brought up that distant day. Of course he would. I sidestepped it quickly as the pain gripped my heart in a way I’d hoped would never return.

Bill didn’t deserve that from me. It was a thoughtless act and I’m sorry. And for last year, when your generosity was not answered with my usual equality, I apologize, too. I should have told you my marriage was dying. It is moribund now. I hope our friendship isn’t.

Animal Moment #2

2005-03-22T07:12:00.000-08:00

Did you ever have one of those days when whatever rules the Universe had are set aside in favor of any arrangement aimed at just ticking you off?

The day had started poorly, with a headache from sleeping in an awkward position and had gotten progressively worse. I couldn’t write, cable was out, nobody I knew or cared to see was in town, I hadn’t done laundry and I didn’t have food at hand.

I tugged on an ugly shirt, slammed a cap on my head, which just made my head throb even more and headed for Mr. Quik. I figured the walk would do me good. Until I stumbled and almost fell while getting into the elevator.

Great.

The campus was empty for Spring Break. The day was warm and windy, but the walk dragged on and on because of my headache.

I got to Mr. Quik and discovered that nothing I wanted was available. Not a thing. In an even fouler mood, I grabbed whatever was at hand, paid for it and ate it in the parking lot.

Walking back, I decided to just shut myself in and wait the day out. Something would come up and I’d find a way to finish my story. Writer’s block was for wimps and I would not accept being a wimp.

Nearing the Cafeteria, I peripherally noticed birds flying in circles. As I walked near the hedges, I heard chirping, sharp and fast. Glancing through the leaves, I saw a tiny chick caught about a foot off the ground. I looked up and near the top of the hedge, almost at eye-level, was a small nest. The chick had fallen. The birds kept circling.

Intent on not touching it, I found a small stubby branch and gently placed it beneath the chick. Slowly, over a period of minutes, I helped the chick climb through the brambly maze of the hedge until finally I was able to tilt the branch gently and place the chick in his nest.

The day had changed. My headache was gone. In a moment, the day’s ragged events seemed to make sense. I tossed the branch away and started walking back to the dorm.

Suddenly that inner voice you cannot ignore screamed DUCK! I crouched instantly. A bird hit me on the head hard enough to knock my cap off. It was like being hit with a curveball. Twice.

I grabbed my cap, stood up and shrieked at all the birds. I screamed that they would die if they messed with me again! I would shred their bodies and stomp the pieces into dust! Just try me again!

One of them did. I missed.

Then I saw a woman standing on the opposite sidewalk, staring at me like I was mad.

The birds kept circling, way out of reach. My head throbbed again, my throat hurt and I kept reliving my bird-swat miss. And that damn woman kept staring at me.

Stupid. Birds.

Sweet Sue

2005-03-21T07:12:00.000-08:00

It would be so dramatic to say that I recall the first moment I saw the sky-blue can, tall and inviting, with its sunny-faced Sue smiling all my cares away. Dramatic indeed.

No can do. I bought my first two cans of Sweet Sue Chicken and Dumplings on a whim. I’d never had dumplings, or at least, I didn’t remember ever eating them. I knew what they were (in theory) and I’ve always been partial to soups anyway.

The part I liked best was the fact that it was a 48-ounce can, a can worthy of feeding a hungry family. None of this Campbell’s Soups “add a can of water” tripe, either. This was the essence of good food: open, heat and serve.

You can smirk at my gourmet pretensions. Before I had any faith in my culinary abilities, I had to survive first and 48 ounces of anything edible would keep me alive for at least another couple of days.

On a chilly fall night, I cranked open the first can and set it to heat. It looked great, home-made rather than machine-churned. Sweet Sue looked smilingly out of place in the wastebasket so I turned the can to have her face downwards: out of sight, out of mind.

I served myself a large bowl of chicken and dumplings and had my first spoonful.

Here’s what’s left of my initial paragraph once references to sexual peaks and over-bearing emotional excesses were wisely pared away: The soup was hearty, savory and satisfying from start to finish.

I finished the first can, opened, heated, served and polished off the second as well. Restraint often eludes me. Over the next several years, Sweet Sue and I had plenty of dinner, lunch and breakfast dates. I particularly enjoyed reheating the soup a couple of times until the dumplings softened the soup into a heavy stew. It was the first meal I turned to when the weather was cold and the first I turned to when my time for seclusion was ending. It filled my stomach, warmed my heart and gave me moments of peaceful bliss amidst storms.

Gives “Rhapsody in Blue” a different meaning.

Dorm Mother

2005-03-18T06:21:00.000-08:00

Dorm rooms are squares more akin to coffins than living spaces. A coffin is useful immediately, whereas a living space takes time to create and mature.

My arrival at the dorm was the dropping of a soul into the desert. I knew no one. I had yet to develop the urge to explore. I brought no books, had no TV or writing machine. So I took to going down to the lobby and met the Dorm Mother.

Her name disappeared within days of the last time I sat with her to speak. She had incredibly white hair, glasses the Cleavers would have found stylish and arthritic hands that moved restlessly. I sat with her the night after my arrival and started a conversation. It didn’t take much. She went on about her daughters, her garden, Tupelo, the pains she endured daily, her husband pushed to work beyond retirement age and Tom Snyder.

She loved Snyder, watching him faithfully every night. She got home too late to catch Carson, she’d say, but then Carson said things she didn’t quite understand. Snyder—she always called him Snyder—spoke simply, made himself understood and his jokes always made her laugh.

I told her about Puerto Rico, which was the same as telling her about the Amazon, Nepal or Xanadu. She wasn’t slow or ignorant; it’s just that her world was a familiar wool blanket and mine was a cascade of clashing colors. She focused more on family and friends and seemed distressed that neither group was large in my life. She made up for it by telling me all about hers.

Several times I spent the last few hours of her shift with her, from early evening to late night. She asked me if I knew anybody or did anything; I shrugged. Several times, other lost souls would drift into the snack room and give me dirty looks because I was talking to her. I felt superior to them because I never gave dirty looks when the situation was reversed. I was too proud.

A couple of weeks into that first semester, the urge to explore hit me, friendships were being established and books were piling up. I skipped a night, visited her again and then went no more.

Occasionally I’d see lost souls wander in, their attitudes changing as they saw her. A few weeks later, I passed through the lobby and we saw each other. She seemed more tired, stiffer and I thought she looked at me with a touch of anger.

She probably didn’t. That wasn’t her style. Nevertheless, my guilt was real.

Dean

2005-03-17T07:12:00.000-08:00

He was a straight man with wit and style. A baritone with effortless delivery, he was probably better known for having a drink in his hand (often apple juice), being surrounded by pretty women and living life like it was one genteel party.

Dean Martin was never the crooner Bing Crosby was, but he outsold him for many years. He was never the actor his best friend Frank Sinatra was, but he was well-respected by actors for being natural. He was never as funny as Jerry Lewis, but then again, Jerry wasn’t as funny after he split from Dean.

“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” was the first song I ever heard by Dean. Christmas in our house was the musical time of the year, so any voices heard then tended to stay with me year-round. We’d watch The Dean Martin Show, with his dancers, piano and couch, but that didn’t impress me as much as the fact that he knew Rudolph and Santa.

I bought a tape of Dean’s Greatest Hits and played it often. Unlike other singers, Dean could add an enormous amount of personality to lyrics, whisking you along through an Italian love song, a country tune or a broken heart.

The song that hooked me on playing him more often was “Houston,” a wistful-yet-plucky song that served as a soundtrack to the summer when Carol was an intern in that city. I gained a new appreciation for monster hits like “Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime,” “You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebody Loves You,” “That’s Amore,” “Standing On The Corner,” “Memories Are Made of This” and “Volare.” Dean was often the catalyst that started my letters to Carol, but when she returned, I seldom heard his voice: when she was there, he wasn’t needed; when she left, he reminded me too much of her.

Years later I explored more of his songlist: “Sway,” “Return to Me,” “Innamorata,” “Angel Baby,” “On An Evening in Roma,” “Ain’t That A Kick In The Head” and “I’ll Always Love You” also became favorites. I learned he had deliberately copied the easy-going style of The Mills Brothers, also one of my favorites. I discovered Dean knocked The Beatles off the #1 spot and he was the only artist to ever have 5 simultaneous albums on the Best-Selling List. My dad had all of them.

Dean was suave and debonair, a character who could make you smile with him as he ambled confidently through life. I am so sure I wasn’t alone in wanting to be like him.

Stories That Ain't True

2005-03-16T07:12:00.000-08:00

Over the years I developed a series of routines, comedy pieces I would spin out to entertain and amuse… me. They were often dropped into the middle of conversations or as distractions within an otherwise free-flowing lecture. Unfortunately, tossing them off in deadpan style often created the sense that I actually lived these experiences and that I was either:

A) Terribly weird.
B) Delusional (a subset of A.)
C) A bare-faced liar.
D) A pig.

To some, I may have been a combination of any or all the above.

So, to clarify the matter, these stories ain’t true:

“I moved into an apartment that was converted from an old hotel. While setting up my things, I opened a kitchen cabinet and discovered a medicine bottle stuffed with all kinds of pills. Blue, green, yellow, red, two-toned, some round and most of them capsules. There were maybe 50-60 pills in that bottle. I guess I could have sold them, but I decided to just flush them down the toilet. A few days later, I was reading when I heard a small tap-tap-tap on my door. I opened it. There was nobody there. Then I looked down and I saw a rat shaking horribly, clutching itself like it was going to fly apart. He saw me looking, licked his lips and yelled ‘Gimme more drugs, man!’”

“I hated doing laundry. I hated going to the laundromat with its dead air, funky smells and aura of gloom. I hated sorting the clothes, getting change, washers that didn’t wash, dryers that didn’t dry or that roasted your clothes, seeing people I wouldn’t want to be caught dead with and then lugging the whole mess of laundry back. I hated it all. So instead of doing laundry every week, I started stretching it out to every two weeks. That got old quickly, so I stretched it to once a month, then every two months. At that point, to find clothes I could wear, I’d just throw them against the wall. Whatever didn’t stick, I could wear again. When all of it stuck, I’d throw it against the ceiling and wear whatever came down during the night. When I had nothing to wear and couldn’t chip the stuff off the ceiling, I’d move to a new apartment and buy new clothes.”

“The problem with admitting a weakness is that your friends are usually the first ones to use it against you. Because of a childhood pre-operation diet, I developed a loathing of Jell-O. Couldn’t stand the stuff. So of course, on my birthday, what did these f(r)iends get me? A case of Jell-O. Assorted flavors! A tidy bundle of 48 little boxes of gastronomic sludge. I put the box in my kitchen and forgot about it. Until one day I realized that 48 little boxes of gelatin need a lot of hot water and that unless you have some cannibal’s stewpot, you only have one choice for that big a batch: the bathtub. Filled halfway with hot water and with the multi-colored Jell-O contents poured in, I had me a reddish purple sloshing mass that just begged to be tested. I learned three things: Sitting in a tub full of Jell-O is not as fun as it sounds. Jell-O has a way of creeping into crevices that you will not like. And finally, that it takes hours to clean the gunk off your skin and you can write off the bathtub as a loss.”

Well, actually, that last one is true. Don’t tell anyone.

Polymath Pal

2005-03-15T07:12:00.000-08:00

pol•y•math n. A person of great or varied learning.

I wasn’t impressed when I met him. He was distant, which caught my eye, but not isolated, which made me curious. We walked out of the meeting room together and ended up walking over to the Student Union. I don’t know why, but I was angry at him. Later I realized it was that ability of his, already noticeable, of connecting with people without giving anything away, as if he were some sort of holographic chameleon with the integrity of an ideal Jesuit priest. I was jealous of it.

It took me but an hour to wipe away my lack of impression and incipient jealousy. Don could talk about anything with wit, depth and ease. Not only could he open a new subject, making connections that were almost beyond me, he could also take my leaps of creativity and improve them. With that much talent and brainpower flashing about, we naturally turned this motherlode to…humor.

I blame college for that.

The next few days, I made it a point to hook up with Don as often as possible, delighting in his company as if I’d found an alter-ego. Pardon my self-centeredness: it’s all I had back then. That Don was much more than that was never in doubt.

Don made me laugh. Often. His sense of timing and the absurd were uncanny. (Still are.) I prided myself on being a dead-still poker face in almost any situation. Don cracked me up until I no longer tried too hard to dead-pan anyone.

Don could draw. His doodles were filled with personality, odd quirks that brought them to life and gave them a depth few others could match. Interesting to note, he drew GCSPrank as a blank-faced character, hiding his expression behind eyeglasses. I guess he saw me dead-panning fairly often. I’ve been known to not see myself accurately.

If Don had a flaw it was his insistence on being an Engineering major. I’m a little pained to admit that I rode him hard for wasting his time getting poor grades when he was so obviously brilliant. I may have crossed the line more than once, but I think—I believe—he grasped that my insistence was from caring, not belligerence.

Finally, and thanks more to his then-future wife than to me, he went ahead and followed his heart. Three Masters degrees later, Don continues to grow in mind and heart. He steadied my road in college, again as an adult and if I had more sense I’d confer with him weekly.

My grandmother met him once, at my wedding. A few months before her death, out of the blue, she sat me down and looked into my eyes for long seconds. Then she said “The fact that you have a friend like Don means you are very special.” I froze. She went past my malaise and hit on a truth so strong I simply couldn’t ignore it. It was a long road back from that much darkness, but the day I took the first step to truly heal myself is very clear to me.

I thanked my grandmother, in life and death. Now I thank you, Don.

Jane Pauley

2005-03-14T07:12:00.000-08:00

She was there, every morning, and I didn’t pay attention. At that hour, I was either going to sleep or sleeping, so the brief glimpses I had of her were charming, but quickly forgotten, like cotton candy.

One summer I developed a habit of walking through town late at night, returning to write until the sun rose, then making breakfast. Too keyed up to sleep, I started watching "The Today Show." And in a couple of hours, I fell in love with Jane Pauley.

Obviously, not in a creepy stalker way. It was more in that soft-boned way shut-ins become enamored of soap opera stars: you see someone attractive and interesting every day and you want to be with them all day. Jane was not a traditional beauty. She didn’t look artificial or Hollywood-bound. What she had was much more special: intelligence, vitality, perspicacity and that vague but valuable quality called heart.

She was all-too-human. I read that she had lost twins and missed her on the show. She returned a couple of weeks later, pale, drawn, evidently sad. That first moment on the air was weighed with pain, and her co-host (Gumbel?), reached over and held her hand for a few seconds. Her smile was brave, but flickering. For the first time, I cared about a celebrity as if she were one of my own.

Her hairstyles were the playful exuberance of a teenager, while she dressed with the savvy of a career woman who thinks fashion is a good place to start. I know the show had a wardrobe coordinator, but Jane made her own choices, adding touches that were hints of both flair and defiance. Who else would pin a chiffon scarf with a Snoopy brooch on a Dior jacket and make it look great?

There’s one moment I absolutely cherish: During the overbearing wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana, Jane, Bryant and some British newspeddler were commenting on the wedding. Bryant was playing it cool, but Jane was like a teenager, soaking in the pomp and pageantry. The British guy was pointing out the significance of events in a monotone, so he may have been “frightfully excited.”

At one point, the British hysteric said that Lady Diana would enter the church unescorted, but after the ceremony, she would have a Royal escort. Jane immediately said “Oh, that’s when her blood turns blue?”

I cracked up. Coming from me, it would have been the depths of sarcasm. Coming from Jane, in innocent fashion, her question was too obvious for television, but perfect for the audience. Bryant tried to hide behind his tie, the British guy appeared to have sucked on a lime and as the silence stretched into several seconds, Jane was looking like a schoolgirl who’d been caught drawing unflattering doodles of the headmistress.

British guy unpuckered his face long enough to pointedly change the subject, while Bryant and Jane exchanged a look that means more than just sharing glances. For the rest of the show, Jane was subdued, making quiet and accurate remarks that met with the approval of the British pinhead.

I wished I’d been there. She and I would have had a blast.

Tennis Eddie

2005-03-11T07:12:00.000-08:00

Eddie was tall and lanky and looked like an intellectual having a bad day. He bit his fingernails something fierce, and amazingly, his toenails as well. You’d think he’d refrain from wearing sandals.

I don’t remember how we met. There’s this vague memory of an overcrowded cafeteria and me sitting alone. Sounds about right. He was majoring in Political Science, or as I told him, “Something Useless.” He chuckled and didn’t retaliate when I told him my major was biology.

Eddie brought up tennis first, that I remember. He complained that his regular playing partner, a Korean student with a powerful forehand, had left the university on an internship. I offered to play him and he quizzed me about my skills. In summary: weak serve, weak forehand, weak backhand, good volleyer. We decided to play later that afternoon.

When I got to the courts, Eddie was already practicing his serve. A high, lazy toss. Several dozen angles as his arms and legs flexed and whirled and uncoiled. Then a meaty splat as the ball rocketed off the racket like a fuzzy bullet.

Into the net. Fourteen times in a row.

I walked confidently onto the court and we started warming up. Eddie’s forehand was smooth, but his backhand was sickly. He was a baseliner, declining to even practice volleys. He twirled his racket, won the up/down and elected to serve.

I was so ready. Hard flat serves were easier than hitting a fastball and I could hit a fastball. Eddie tossed, angled, corked, uncoiled and fired a fuzz-bullet long. Second serve. I was ready. Toss, whirligig, spinning serve that practically bounced sideways.

A lesser athlete would’ve broken a limb trying to reach that ball. I lunged, rolled and spun to sprint back onto the court in time to see Eddie punch a forehand into the far corner of my side.

And that was the pattern of our matches: A hard serve that never came over often enough for me to use it, with crazy-ball second serves that had me moving in and out, side to side and punching it back as if I were 73 and had suffered a stroke.

I never beat Eddie. (It irritates me just to write that.) We played some 14-15 matches against each other and I always lost two sets to one. My serve let me down, as did my forehand, backhand, overheads and lobs. My volleys and quickness kept me close. But it was Eddie’s second serve, that lollipop-from-Hell, that kept me at bay.

And you know what? He never stopped bashing the first serve. I once suggested he make his second serve his first since it went in frequently and was hard to read. He thought about that for a moment, then said “But that’s not the way you’re supposed to do it.”

Spoken like a Poli Sci major.

2 Out of 3

2005-03-10T06:21:00.000-08:00

I hated selling vacuum cleaners. I took the job because I wanted to challenge myself and have the freedom to explore the Hattiesburg area. It was a challenge just trying to stick with it, I had the freedom to explore and in general, it—well—sucked.

The Sales Manager was a small, sharp-faced man called Jake. Raised snakes and looked like one so you can guess what the salesmen called him behind his back. Jake had only one focus: sales. How many did you sell? was his constant greeting, even at 6 AM. Yes, 6 AM.

At first I was bothered by having to respond “None.” Jakes eyes would freeze, he’d blink slowly 3-4 times, like a… reptile, and he’d turn away as if I had ceased to exist. For all I know, to him I had. As the weeks went by, saying “None” was a pleasure, as it defied everything he stood for. (And because I was making money on the side. Details later.)

Paul was the office’s star, a slim, balding man with impeccable grooming in “formal casual,” his way of describing dressing well enough to be respected, but casual enough to avoid intimidation. Women loved him and he received several calls a day for “service.” He was happily married, though, and he did sell a vacuum cleaner almost every day. In the Renaissance, he would have been the Captain of the Guard with ladies writing him secret letters filled with poetic musings.

Billy Bob—and believe me, I wouldn’t make that up—was a paunchy good ol’ boy who loved huntin’and fishin’. He said his secret to selling a vacuum was to put it together in smart snaps and clicks. He told me once that when any guy saw him click them tubes together like armin’ a rifle, the guy was sold. Billy Bob called me an intellectual, which was always a bad word when he said it. Still, he gave me my first sale, a “college lady” who didn’t like his down-home country style. Sold her the vacuum in six minutes, the time it takes for her to write a check and for me to carry it in.

Hank was an alcoholic who started drinking about 8 AM and sold most of his vacuums after 1 PM, when his tongue and belligerence got loose. There were days when he out-sold Paul, but most of Hank’s sales were canceled a day or two later. See, he’d get mad if he went through his spiel and you didn’t want to buy. In the morning, he’d smile and leave. In the afternoon, he’d threaten to take your old vacuum and throw it away. He often did. But he sold enough to stay in Jake’s terrarium.

Jim was the Service Manager, a veteran of the Korean War married to a Japanese lady. He spoke fluent Japanese, was a whiz with mechanics and read voraciously. I spent more time talking with him than selling, and because he was limited by Social Security and Jake knew it, we devised a system of taking Hank’s returned units, reclassifying them as inventory for parts and I’d sell them at half-price, splitting 50-50 with Jim. Suddenly, I was making $400-$500 a week and cavorting on Easy Street.

And Jake kept asking “How many did you sell?” Only now I was lying.

The best Jake-tweak happened on a Wednesday. I was pretending to go door-to-door (covering the scheme) when I stopped at a large Georgian (or Victorian?) mansion. My knock was answered with a shout and seconds later, the door flew open.

“What do you want?” A small man, dark-faced, sharp eyes squinting at me like I had slapped his favorite parrot.

I said “Good morning” and told him my spiel, noticing the large white wall-to-wall carpet in the foyer. Or living room. Whatever.

He shook his head. “We already have another brand. The wife loves it.” He started to close the door, then snapped “Do you play chess?”

I said yes and he invited me in.

That afternoon, I walked into the office and started to tell my story. At the point I stopped above, Jake jumped in and said excitedly “You let him win and sold him a vacuum cleaner!”

I scowled. “No. I won two out of three.”

Jake’s face fell. He didn’t even blink: he just walked away.

Billy Bob said he didn’t know how to play chess like us intellectuals.

Jim gave me a big thumbs-up.

Hank was snoring in the back room, propped against the wall.

Paul watched Jake leave, smiled at me and said “You’re not a salesman, Gil.”

I nodded and offered to play chess with him. He agreed, in exchange for the address of that house.

I beat him twice. He sold the lady of that house a vacuum cleaner the next day.

Freezing

2005-03-09T07:12:00.000-08:00

It was a record-high 94 in San Juan when I left that January morning. Three hours later, I arrived in Atlanta and I heard the temperature was 26 degrees. Less than two hours later, we landed in Memphis. I didn’t know the temperature. Less than four hours later, the bus left me and my baggage at the Oxford station. The driver told me that the temperature was 0 degrees, with a wind-chill of minus 10. But that was at 5:00 PM, when the sun was still a feeble light in the gray sky. Now it was 7:30 PM and very dark.

I was wearing my usual: jeans, T-shirt, light jacket, sneakers and a cap. As the bus pulled away, I realized just how quiet everything else was, how shuttered and closed it all felt, with scattered layers of snow like trimming along streets and rooftops. I knew calling a cab would be useless. The dorm wasn’t far. I could walk.

Practically my whole life has been spent in warm weather. Winter to me is any drop into the 60s. I had encountered true winter the year before, a day or two in the low 20s, but rode those out by staying in, where the thermostat and some judicious tinkering would keep my room in the high 70s.

I felt pain in my hands and face, an alarming tightness exacerbated by the knifing gashes of breath in my nose and throat. I walked slowly, fighting the urge to hunch over as the wind slashed around me. My bags were light, but began feeling immense and my pace slowed. I looked at the houses with the warm glow of lights behind frosted windows. Maybe I should knock on one of those doors, I thought. But arrogance can be an unjust master and I walked on.

A sudden gust doubled me over and I dropped my bags. I looked at the back of my hands, where the veins rise prominently and was aghast. There were jagged crystals pushing up from inside the veins. My hands were literally freezing. As if in a trance, I touched the largest of the jagged mounds. I felt it move and scrape deep within. I had been walking less than 15 minutes.

I was in front of a dentist’s office. A low hedge ran along the right-hand side of the building, covered in ice and snow. I threw my bags between the hedge and the wall and tried to pick up the pace. The wind slammed from all sides and as I flexed my hands, I could feel more jagged scrapes in places I refused to notice. I didn’t think of taking clothes out of my bag to layer for warmth. I thought only of getting to my room.

The Law Center. If I could get there, I could rest and warm up. Between the town and the campus lay a tree-ringed bowl, an almost elven cubbyhole with a raised sidewalk through the middle. As I crossed it, this space I found so endearing, I felt myself unzip my jacket. The wind howled through the treetops and I almost fell off the sidewalk. I could no longer feel my hands.

I trudged up the low hill to the Law Center, passing several houses. I ignored them. I didn’t care for them. I could barely breathe and my throat was raw. The Law Center was lit. I stumbled to the door and pushed against it with my shoulder, keeping my hands from something bad I couldn’t quite remember.

The door was locked. I had wanted to return early to beat the crowds. I had.

I cowered near the door, trying to draw a less-painful breath. The Student Union. It would be open. It had to be. I swung myself off the door and fell. I didn’t break my fall at all, slamming my head onto the concrete. Rolling over, I pushed myself upright. I had the vague sense that the time was 8:10 and that I should have been in my room five minutes ago.

My steps were painful and clumsy. I could sense it, but not put it into words. I also sensed I should close my jacket, flapping in the sharp wind. I took off my cap and tucked it inside my jacket, against my ribs. It was my favorite cap and I didn’t want it to be damaged.

I stopped walking, turned to my right and took a few steps towards some bushes. I fell forward.

How long I was there, I’ll never know. I spasmed awake to enormous pain. Ice broke off my face and the bush’s branches as I pushed myself to stand. Slowly, without thought, I made my way to the Union. As I approached the door, I could see a gap. It's open, I thought, without concern. I pushed the door open with my shoulder and out of habit, went to my mailbox. I slumped to the floor in front of it and fought the pain as I recovered. I was probably there for half an hour.

From the Union to the dorm was a slow trek without incident. I got to my room and simply collapsed on the bed, too weak to wrap myself in a blanket or change clothes. I had trouble breathing. I didn’t want to move so I could ease the pain.

The phone rang. The phone rang. It rang again. I barely made it there to pick it up. I knew I had never felt so drained in my life.

“Hello?” Four musical syllables. Carol.

I croaked a reply.

“Gil?”

Another croak. Carol and Don had returned early too and were at the office. Would I join them?

I said yes. Changed clothes slowly, gritting my teeth to shallow breaths. Got a stocking cap, heavy jacket and gloves. Layered an extra sweatshirt and longjohns. Made it to the office because they were there and that’s where I wanted to be, more than anywhere else in the world. They noticed I wasn’t feeling well. I never told them what happened, except for my bags. We went and picked them up.

Later that night, Don and I went out and peed our names in the snow. Luckily, my name isn’t “Alexander.”

Gómez vs. Sánchez

2005-03-08T07:12:00.000-08:00

There was never a greater small fighter than Wilfredo Gómez. Known as “Bazooka” for his awesome two-handed punching power, or “The Cobra” for his hypnotizing side-to-side movement, Gómez at his peak was an incomparable combination of aggression, speed and wallop.

His killer instinct was superb, as time and again he would get opponents into trouble and finish them off in seconds with dazzling combinations. Gómez cemented his stardom when he faced the legendary Carlos Zárate, a slim power-punching Mexican who boasted an incredible 55-0 record with 54 KOs. Zárate knocked Gómez down in the first round, but Gómez shook it off and proceeded to demolish the legend with a brutal 5th round knockout.

Salvador Sánchez rose quietly through the ranks, suffering an early loss in an opponent’s home city. Steady and methodical, training like a demon, Sánchez efficiently rose to become a champion and made himself one of the greatest small fighters ever seen.

Although Gómez was a bantamweight and Sánchez a slightly-heavier featherweight, it was inevitable that they would meet. On August 21st, 1981, the fight called “The Battle of the Little Giants” took place. Sánchez was then 41-1 with 31 KOs while Gómez was 32-0-1 with 32 KOs. (It bears repeating: 32 wins, all by knockout.) Gómez had developed the reputation of destroying Mexican fighters and his arrogance grated on Sánchez, who was normally unemotional about his opponents. Although Gómez was moving up in weight to challenge Sánchez, the Puerto Rican juggernaut was still a 2-1 favorite.

For the first time in my life, I bet on a fight: $100. I was so sure of the outcome, I even forgot to watch it. Small mercies.

Gómez landed the first knockout punch and anyone else but the Mexican would have gone down. Sánchez stayed upright, then knocked Gómez down in that first round and only heart kept Gómez from losing the fight in the first few rounds. Sánchez pressed his advantage and pummeled Gómez, beating him soundly until the fight ended on an eighth round TKO.

I lost $100. Much later, I learned how losing my bet was inevitable.

Sánchez was a gym rat, a dedicated athlete who polished his skills with discipline. Gómez was flying high, confident to the point of vanity about his abilities. Hell, he was even dating a distant cousin of mine and making a point of staying out until dawn, singing, dancing and living it up until a week before the fight.

Only one recognized expert called it. My dad’s closest cousin, Waldemar Schmidt, one-time Ring Magazine “Referee of the Year” and early holder of the record for most championship bouts, said it loud and clear: Gómez will lose. To Puerto Ricans, this was high treason, to have one of their own pick a Mexican over a boricua. ¡Al carajo con eso! I wish he’d told me.

The epilogue is both tragic and touching. In July of the following year, Sánchez won with a champion’s brilliance against a very strong Azumah Nelson in what turned out to be his last fight. On August 12th, 1982, less than a year after defeating The Cobra, Sánchez died in a car accident. One of the mourners at his tomb was Gómez, who brought flowers, shared the family’s grief and has stayed in touch with them ever since. The town where Sánchez was born, Tianguistenco, celebrates a festival every year in commemoration of their champion. Gómez has been the Guest of Honor 19 times.

She Called Herself Shannon

2005-03-07T07:12:00.000-08:00

The small metal table, topped with a heavy mug of chickory coffee and a beignet, bordered the French Quarter sidewalk. Scattered about my body were $2,200 in cash, product of my first real contract as a writer. Midnight had passed and the weeknight crowd was sparse but active.

She walked up to me in a roundabout manner, heading away from me, then back, then away, only to return and make a beeline for my table. She was young, a few years older than me, slim, in jeans and boots, with a light jacket covering a sheer yellow blouse. She was blonde. Mostly.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Her voice was soft and insistent.

I shook my head.

“Would you like company? We can find a room nearby.” She walked closer and her perfume was flowery.

I sat up straight and waved a hand at one of the chairs. “Not interested. But I can pay you for your time just to chat.”

She stared hard. “You want to give me money just to talk?” she said harshly.

I smiled. “Sure. You don’t waste your time and I get conversation.” I placed a twenty on the table, under the coffee mug. “We can talk until you get bored.” She looked at the bill, then at me. She grunted—a nasty sound—and sat down. She grabbed the bill and put it in a jacket pocket.

“What do you want to talk about?” she grated.

I asked her about other cities she had visited and how they compared to New Orleans; about good restaurants and bad; about magazines she’d read recently; about movies from Hollywood and foreign movies that didn’t make sense; about fashion and how it seemed to be aimed at making women look ugly or foolish and other unlikely topics. Every 15 minutes or so I’d place another twenty under the mug. By the fourth bill, she was asking me questions: why was I in town, where did I live, what job did I have, was I really a student, where did I grow up, did I have a girlfriend. I placed a bill under the mug and she waved it away.

She accepted coffee and we talked on. We discussed our families, or at least I discussed mine. She told me about tragedy and abuse that seemed smooth and vague. I nodded and murmured at the right moments. When she finished, I asked her what her name was.

“Shannon,” she replied immediately.

I waited. She got fidgety. I waited some more. “Is that it?” she demanded. “Are we done?”

I shrugged. “Do I owe you any more money?”

She was disdainful and started to get up.

“I enjoyed it. Hope it wasn’t boring.”

She paused, then looked around. We were now surrounded in the French Quarter. She sat back down and suddenly looked 10 years older. “It was nice.”

“Good to know.” I sipped coffee as she just sat there, a deep and unnerving sadness in her eyes. Suddenly she jerked her head around and got up. “I gotta go.”

She didn’t see me nod. She adjusted her purse, straightened her jacket, readjusted her purse, glanced at me as if taking my measure, then leaned over a bit to get closer. “Brenda,” she said softly and walked away quickly.

I quelled the urge to say Goodnight, Brenda as she left the café. For once I had the wisdom to let someone else have the final word.

G(r)eeks Without Gifts

2005-03-04T07:12:00.000-08:00

The males trod the countryside attired in neon greens, shocking pinks and bilious yellows not found in nature, shod in leather shoes from which socks were absent and moved with the uncanny physical and social grace of young warthogs. The females were distinguished by hair that defied gravity and common sense, wore patterns designed to fool the eye into thinking that substance was disguised by style and during that curious week between mid-spring and spring’s end, would suddenly redden to painful lobsterosity in search of early tanning, also known as “a pre-cancerous glow.”

Their ilk dominated the social and pseudo-political atmosphere of the university. Banding together like molting birds, they “rushed” and “pledged,” “partied” and “socialed” and generally behaved like the immature slobs they aspired to be. In that sense, they were a great success.

Joining a fraternity or sorority at the university was deemed an honor by people whose notion of honor is based on the dollar. These starry-eyed dimwits were overjoyed to be selected by some random trio of Greek letters that tried to convey virtues the way a strumpet pretends to be a virgin. They preened. They tried to prance. And they socialized mostly amongst themselves, which was a blessing to the rest of us.

Sour grapes? Pardon me while I retch. What possible benefit can there be to subsuming one’s identity to a fuzzy notion molded by peers less capable than me? What benefit could there be to following an agenda hidebound by the idiotic notion of “tradition”? Why make my entrance into a larger world by allowing people whose opinion was worth nothing to me to guide my path?

Try as I might, no put-down I ever came up with could top Bill’s quip about their Izod-dependent, crocodile-adorned wardrobe eyesores: “Garanimals for adults.” A. Men.

I lost track of the number of times a young lady would walk up to me, strike up a conversation for some ungodly need they might have and then ask the inevitable (and I insist: inevitable) question: “What fraternity are you in?” When the cheerful answer came back—“None”—their eyes would blank out for a couple of seconds, the engaging smile would fade like fog and they would leave. A few would say something inane like “Sorry.” Those that did would get another retort, zooming over their heads like jets above pond water.

Lest you think that bothered me, it was actually fun and life-affirming. Would you want someone to accept you simply because a group gives you identity? Because you’re a Republican? A Rotarian? A Trekkie? (The list is in rising order of importance.) Do you accept that your value rests on affiliation rather than talent, moral values, virtues, skills, intelligence, charm and personality? If you do, then I’m better off watching your eyes go blank, your smile fade and your back recede as you do me the favor of walking away.

E.T.

2005-03-03T07:12:00.001-08:00

Its impact has faded under the weight of other successful movies, the expanding career of its director and the melodrama lived by one of its tiny stars. It stands alone as a rarity: a blockbuster movie sans sequel. If you’re less than 15 years old, you may not have ever seen it because it just doesn’t seem dazzling enough. If that is the case, then you won’t know what you have missed.

More so than any other classic, E.T.: The Extraterrestrial was a “you had to be there experience.” Great movies transcend time, but what constitutes greatness in a movie is debatable. Sometimes it’s great actors, stars whose personality leaps off the screen and into the minds and hearts of moviegoers. In E.T., an expensive puppet with soulful eyes (based on Albert Einstein’s) is the star. Sometimes it’s a great story, filled with passion, angst and truth. In E.T., the story is of a lost alien who wants to go home. And more recently, technical excellence (special effects, costumes) can elevate a movie to greatness, but E.T. broke no new ground, going so far as to have a “little person” in a costume for many scenes.

What made E.T. great was not only the movie itself, but its timing. It was the first urban fantasy that children and adults could believe. It presented a world slightly-removed, viewed by children and where children were the heroes, not by imitating adults, but by being children.

I waited until the final week of its local theater run to see the movie. I picked a weekday matinee, thinking the crowd would be sparse. Not to be. The theater was almost full when I walked in, a crowd made up almost entirely by children. I also noticed that, counting me, there were only eight adults.

I figured I was in for a miserably noisy experience, but decided to stick it out. From the movie’s opening scene, the kids were enraptured. They gasped when Elliot’s ball returns from the shed. They laughed uproariously at a drunken E.T. and giggled when he hid in the closet. His apparent death had many of them in tears, but the cheering, stomping and waving were delirious as Elliot and E.T. made their escape on a bike.

Throughout the film, I watched the other adults. Every emotion expressed by the children was mirrored in their reactions. They laughed, giggled, teared up and cheered, sharing every moment. And when the movie ended, everyone was clapping. Even me.

As the mass walked out, I could see the same light in young eyes and old. The snippets of conversation had the same feel, as no matter who spoke about a scene, they expressed vivid wonder. Whatever barrier separates an adult from believing the fantasy story he or she watches with the children simply did not exist. And instead of being cynical about it, I quietly cheered.

Time passes and what was once unique becomes jaded, especially in Hollywood. Sheer repetition, in the form of sequels and crass merchandising, can push the enchantment of fantasy into the mire of mainstream. E.T. stands alone, more a product of memory than of commercialism. It captured magic, before that magic was drained to banality. If only we could hold on to—or find more of—that magic.

Mae Helen

2005-03-02T07:12:00.000-08:00

A sky-blue uniform stretched to polyester limits over a generous frame. Sensible shoes. Hair always neat and black as a starless night. When you walked into the bowling joint and she was there, you could feel it. A certain vibrancy. Then her mellow voice calling out “Hi, honey!” or “Hello, darlin’!” Sounds corny, but it was like coming home.

If you dropped in more than once, she’d ask your name. More often than not, the next time you came in, she’d remember it. Many times people would come in and say “Hey, Mae Helen! Remember me?” and she’d give them a square look and say their names. The only time I saw her miss, she retorted “I don’t remember your name, but you owe me some postage.” The guy laughed and paid up.

She sold mail-order gift jewelry, but not to everybody. She would keep the catalogues near the counter and if she thought you were worthy, you’d be shown one or two. Took me two years before she showed me one and I bought something just to make sure I’d remain in her inner circle. When I tried to pay her up front, she waved it off and said “Wait until it gets here and see if you like it.” I joked that I could spend the money by then and she said softly “You can pay me later. It’s important that you like what you’re giving.” I have forgotten what I bought (a bracelet?), but her words have guided my gift-giving ever since.

Late at night, Bill, Don and I would often drop by to eat chili and barbecue beef sandwiches, gourmet chow from Mae Helen’s food emporium. The chili was one of those all-day deals: in the pot before noon, a rich mélange of texture and flavors by midnight. I quipped that by then you couldn’t tell the beans from the beef. But not in front of Mae Helen.

Bill and I would ask for really hot barbecue beef sandwiches and I may have indicated they weren’t spicy enough once too often. One night, she tossed in a little extra sauce from a small bottle she had tucked in a corner. One bite later, I was learning how to breathe without a trachea when she turned casually and asked “Hot enough for you?” I so wanted to say “Yes,” but broiled vocal cords don’t work at will. I limited my response to a nod, sipped some water and gamely made my way through my usual four sandwiches in what became a very long night.

Mae Helen was soft where it mattered and hard when it counted. You were always welcome, but you had to behave to her standards. One night, a drunk guy interrupted my bowling, yelling and taking shots on my lane. I went and got the heaviest ball in the joint and urged him to use it because he was a big, strong guy and needed a heftier ball than what I used. When he tried to grab it, I dropped it through his hands onto his foot. His scream froze the place. While he was down, I finished my game.

Feeling smug, I sat down to order chili and sandwiches. Mae Helen nodded, started to make up the order, then came and leaned over me. I was suddenly engulfed by her presence. “I saw what happened,” she said. She held my gaze for several seconds. “Was that really necessary?”

I have been scolded, reprimanded, criticized, dressed down, threatened, badgered, attacked, scorned, spat upon and reviled by dozens of people in my life. I am not evil and I am not proud of being such a frequent target, but it’s a fact; I have learned to live with it. But never have I felt so—crushed. Her tone was level, her words soft and simple, but I would have given a lot to erase what had happened and avoid being the target of Mae Helen’s disappointment.

She served my order, leaned on the counter and we talked for hours. After that night, I often dropped by just to see her. She knew. I wasn’t the only one.

When I said good-bye to her for the last time, she must have sensed I wasn’t coming back. “Do you remember everything we talked about?” she asked suddenly.

I thought for a few seconds. “No.”

She nodded as if the answer pleased her. “You will, sugar. I know you will.”

Charlene's Bitter Coffee

2005-03-01T07:12:00.000-08:00

Charlene was stacked. A tall brunette with slim hips, long legs, dark blue eyes and excellent excuses for mammary fixation, Charlene was a vision. The fact that she was a biology major made her a swan amongst groundhogs. A female swan amongst male groundhogs.

She and I met when I ventured into the herpetology lab. Eighteen cages were filled with a variety of snakes, one to a cage, all of them venomous. On several occasions prior to that day, I had milked the rattlesnakes, for making antitoxin, so I had dropped in just to see what was going on. Charlene walked by and started a conversation about the snakes.

She dressed very well, with great style and her attire was meant to be looked at. One could sense where she was in the Biology building by the scattered rush to a certain floor. Comical. Or worse.

We saw each other fairly often, but always in passing. I found it odd that she was almost always alone. We talked a couple of times, but like the first time, she would keep asking questions. If she hadn’t volunteered her name, I wouldn’t have asked. She was definitely behind a wall.

One morning, I had lingered in the cafeteria past mid-morning, sipping coffee. There were some 20 guys in the place, with a group of about 12 sitting together as a mass some tables away from mine, which was near the door. Charlene walked in. Tight jeans, stylish boots and boasting a grey angora sweater with a thin belt at her waist.

Conversation stopped. Twenty pairs of eyes watched her as she went through the line and started to get coffee. One pair of eyes dropped out. I searched the tables with two thoughts in mind: sugar and location. I was looking to see if there were still sugar servers on the tables. They weren’t, having been collected prior to lunch. Then I tried to predict where Charlene would sit. It would have to be somewhere between the mass of guys and my table. She wasn’t going to sit with me, that I knew. I noted the table. And made a decision.

Charlene paid for her coffee and once again, twenty pairs of eyes were glued to her. She glided to the table I had selected as her most likely choice. As she set the cup down, she glanced over at me and nodded. I nodded back. She sat down and reached for… nothing. She looked over at the register, past the mass of guys, where the sugar was. Then she turned and looked at me, a soft appeal on her face.

I waited half a second to shake my head. It was simply the expression of my earlier decision: If she wants sugar, she can get it herself.

I knew my reasons. The overt one was my thought that if she dressed for attention, then she had to live with the results of that attention. That one made me feel self-righteous. The other, darker and covert reason was that I simply would not risk being seen doing her a favor, the sad sack guy trying to coddle up to the beauty queen. She picked me because I was safer than any other alternative. I was also the only guy who simply couldn’t do it.

Charlene drank her bitter coffee. Mine was suddenly bitter, too.

My Uniform

2005-02-28T07:12:00.000-08:00

For a guy who practically made a fetish of being different, who seemed to expend a great deal of energy in not conforming and who pretty much made sure to never be mistaken for being common, I dressed like a nobody.

Now I understand that college isn’t necessarily a fashion show and that the majority of students dress more for comfort than for style. Kudos to all. But what is irritating is to have someone settle—settle, I tell you—for a uniform instead of making a small effort and developing a style.

My clothing was almost always the same: T-shirt (never a polo shirt or anything with buttons), jeans, white athletic socks, tennis shoes and a jacket. The jacket was red (a bold choice, but not when repeated every day), with a dual white stripe running down the sleeves. Of a style popular during the 70s, when leisure clothing was a way of showing you were health-conscious and a slave to fashion, I wore it because it was at hand.

For fall and early spring, I would add a sweatshirt to the uniform and winter would see me cover the whole thing with a heavy leather jacket, one blessed with a flannel inner lining.

If you looked at my wardrobe, you’d see 10-11 pairs of jeans, 14-16 T-shirts, 19-20 pairs of white socks and a red jacket. (Boxers? Briefs? Ask me later.) Substitute the jeans for 13-14 pairs of shorts during the summer. Week after week, month after month, I pretty much wore the same clothes, in a monotonous litany that expressed nothing except maybe a disdain for shopping.

I did have moments when I wore a cap or stocking cap touting the Pittsburgh Steelers. I would get clothes for my birthday or Christmas, but unless they conformed to my uniform, they would languish in obscure corners of my closet. I grew an inch or two, added a bit of weight, changed my social style, but never got rid of my (foolish) consistency.

This is not an exercise in hindsight ranting. It is the pointing out of a glaring inconsistency. I was the guy who refused to get a haircut while taking AFROTC courses, to the extent that my hair was shoulder-length in a world of crewcuts. They called me “Custer” behind my back. Therefore if I wanted to stand out so damn much, why fade into the background with a uniform?

Or did I? I was so recognizable in my haute couture that Don used the jacket as the only article of clothing on GCSPrank. But he knew me well; saw me practically every day. Did the many others see me? Did I simply fade from view as someone who just couldn’t “catch the eye”? Was that the point, not catching anyone’s eye? Or was the uniform my way of creating an image that would stand out, that would brazenly make it obvious that I was not trying to fit in, to show that I didn’t care what fashion or peers were saying?

I don’t have an answer now. And that’s the problem: I didn’t then, either.

Nat

2005-02-25T07:12:00.000-08:00

He died before I was born. His whole career spanned a time when the color of one’s skin meant more than the content of his soul. But Nat sang through that and emerged as a voice that transcends time.

Music was not important to me until I got to college. I don’t remember ever turning on a radio to listen to my “favorite station,” though often I would turn one off to stop the caterwauling. Pisses people off when you do it in public places.

If I had a favorite music it was Christmas songs. The only time of the year when we listened to music in our home was that magical time between Thanksgiving and the day I opened all my gifts. My dad’s LP collection was heavy on crooners, so Bing sang “White Christmas,” Dean sang “Rudolph,” Ella did her “Jingle Bells,” Johnny his “Winter Wonderland” and Nat his incomparable “Christmas Song.”

So when it came time to buy music of my own, I started with the decades that my dad enjoyed. And I discovered Nat “King” Cole in my own way. I bought a tape of his “Greatest Hits,” with songs I had heard before and discovered many more wonderful surprises.

“Mona Lisa” was considered by no less an artiste than Duke Ellington to be “the greatest vocal recording ever made.” Songs like “L-O-V-E,” “Route 66,” “It’s Only A Paper Moon,” “Orange-Colored Sky” and “Send For Me” showed a touch of swing that stayed in your bones. The “choir” arrangements of “Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer” and “Rambling Rose” had the power and verve I often feel with Southern Gospel music. Nat was a consummate pianist, which he displayed often with no better example than when he and his trio recorded a bouncy “Straighten Up and Fly Right,” which he also wrote.

A close friend of Nat's urged him to record in Spanish and Nat’s three albums of favorites, including songs in Portugese and Italian, were huge best-sellers, his rounded vowels and accented phrasing adding charm to his masterful musicianship. He might be the only American singer of his time whose recordings are still being used in Hollywood, national commercials and regional anuncios far south of the border.

It was in love songs, the quiet ballad from the heart, that Nat excelled. “Tenderly,” “Answer Me,” “Stardust,” “Too Young,” “That Sunday, That Summer,” “Nature Boy,” “Sentimental Reasons,” “Darling Je Vous Aime Beacoup,” “Smile” and “A Blossom Fell,” along with many others, are gems that retain their deep feeling despite the years. “The Very Thought of You” nursed along my first love, “Unforgettable” defined it and “Autumn Leaves” was the paean of its departure.

Nat became the music of my thoughts, the backdrop to my most creative hours. And over the years, his voice and songs have been a faithful companion. He never ages, while I do. Somehow that makes it right.

Coda: Duke Ellington wrote “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.” Nat’s version strikes the perfect balance between wistfulness and bravado. In the lyrics, he sings:

Thought I’d visit the club,
Got as far as the door,
Awfully different without you,
Don’t get around much anymore.

It was only last year that I realized that Duke was referring to the club’s door, not his door. That probably says more about me than I ever wanted to.

The South Ain't Riz

2005-02-24T07:12:00.000-08:00

The best of the South—and there is plenty—is often obscured by its worst. It won’t take the average visitor very long to realize that the South’s biggest enemy is its attitude, not so much about the present, but about the past.

When you hear someone say “They burnt my house,” relax. It won’t be on the nightly news. (If it is, then you’ve saved yourself some stress anyway.) The house they are referring to is most likely the family shack burnt by “damnyankees” back in the “War for States’ Rights.” Nothing “Civil” about it.

It’s not that atrocities were not committed. It was a war and atrocities are an inseparable part of such activity. It’s the sense that what happened way over a century ago should have any bearing on what you feel today.

The issues were obviously taken personally then, but there is no reason—no reason at all—to keep making those issues a valid influence in the present. But try as you might, when faced with one of these “The South Will Rise” fanatics, you will never get them to change their point of view.

But it is possible to shut them up.

Robert was an ex-Navy midshipman who bragged about living on the same patch of land for “over 150 years.” He was 27, but he had “lived” on that land since the 1820s. He constantly spoke of “the stolen lands,” “the raping of our women” and “how the North won’t ever let us forget the War.” If we spoke for more than 20 minutes, he’d unleash a salvo worthy of a “Son of the Confederacy.”

Drove. Me. Nuts. If it weren’t for the fact that he knew how to play Shogi and was the most intense sub-creation writer I ever met, I would have avoided him like I avoid stabbing my eyes with forks and pro wrestling.

His day came. Over a very early breakfast, he went off on the dreaded subject. His whole spiel was coming out like a well-oiled tapeworm when I cut him off.

“Is there an organization like the Sons of the Confederacy in the North?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s called the Grand Army of the Republic.”

“How many members does it have?”

He smirked. “About 500.”

I took a stab at it. “How many members do the Sons have?”

Pounding the table, he crowed “Over 22,000 strong!”

I had him. “So who won’t let who forget the freaking war?”

I never heard another word on the subject. Not that we spent much time together after that.

Ruby's Chinese Restaurant

2005-02-23T07:12:00.000-08:00

You would call it nondescript. A low brick building with a small semblance of a pagoda design on the roof above the front door, set in the left corner. The parking lot was shared by an apartment complex and there were plenty of times when I know residents had to park far from their spot because the restaurant was full.

People would drive two hours one way for dinner at Ruby’s. The moment you walked in, you left the routine behind and entered a tiny corner of the exotic. The overwhelming impression was of red—on the floor, the walls, lanterns, booths and decorations. But not the same red: shades of red that called the eye and made the room warm and expansive.

Everyone who worked at Ruby’s was Asian. Extremely polite, ranging from reticent to friendly, but always attentive. The menu was huge, and if you tried pronouncing the sonorous dish names in Chinese, the waiter or waitress would say the number; if you said the number, you’d hear the words. I stuck to the English descriptions, and over the years, tried all of the almost 200 dishes they served.

I had my favorites—Mo Shu, Sizzling Rice Soup, Mongolian Beef, Moo Goo Gai Pan—and whether it was a favorite or a new dish, I was never disappointed. Not once. In the middle of my run of weekly visits, I actually focused more on seeing if something would go wrong rather than on enjoying the experience. Fortunately, that ended quickly.

Most of the time, I’d dine alone, so food was the only focus. I learned to appreciate green tea, my consumption rising over the years from one cup to a pot or maybe two in the winter. If I ate with a group and Bill was there, we’d both pass on entrees until the Mongolian Beef appeared, then we’d pretend not be hogging it as we polished off the plate.

Dining at Ruby’s was always… spiritual. Believe me, I tried to avoid using that word. Recorded as an incident, a visit to Ruby’s was prosaic: one entered, ordered, was served, ate, paid and departed; nothing intrinsically metaphysical about any of that. But the time one spent there was somehow sharper, brighter, clearer, more real.

Maybe it was the night I’d arrived a bit later than usual and as soon as I’d finished eating, Ruby’s began closing around me. As I got up to leave, one of the waiters came to me and, without a word, motioned for me to sit at the long table that flanked the kitchen entrance. It was usually reserved for special parties as it oversaw the entire L-shaped restaurant. (The private room had a smaller table, tucked in the short arm of the L.)

I sat down as the door swung open and every employee of Ruby’s came in carrying a bowl, tureen, plate or pot. Without a wasted motion, almost a dozen dishes were arranged with artistry, water glasses filled and tea served. Ruby’s owners, a middle-aged couple with friendly eyes, came in, sat down and everyone began to eat.

I hesitated. Chinese was flitting back and forth interspersed with laughter and food floating onto plates all around me. The owner caught my eye and smiled. He pointed at a dish placed in front of me that somehow I had missed. Mongolian Beef. No one had touched it.

My hesitation ended. I took a small portion and passed the Mongolian Beef into the stream criss-crossing the table. Dishes came my way, contributed new flavors to my plate and were passed on. The only words I spoke during that meal were “Thank you” and “This?” No one spoke to me. No one needed to. I was asked to share their private moment and had been welcomed.

I never went to Ruby’s after that expecting to be invited, but I never turned it down, no matter how much I’d eaten. I marveled at how comfortable I could feel while being the only non-speaker at the table. I was both guest—-honored and treated with deference—-and family, maybe like the quiet cousin from a far province.

On a wintry November night, at the end of the meal, I announced I was leaving town. As if rehearsed, everyone bowed to me and then converged, patting me on the shoulders, shaking my hands, even gently tugging my hair. As I groped for the words to thank them, the owner and his wife handed me a small box. It contained a small dragon, made of golden wire with red lacquer. A strip of paper was curled atop the figurine, adorned with Chinese characters. Tapping my shoulder, he pointed at the paper and said: “Wherever you go, our heart follows.” I nodded as my throat tightened. “You come back anytime.”

I nodded again, said good night and walked out into the cold, never to return. In some way, I never really left.

Library Girl

2005-02-22T07:12:00.000-08:00

Roam a library long enough to become familiar with it and you discover its quiet spots. Theoretically they are all quiet, but we denizens of the bookshelves know better.

The quiet spots attract a certain type of person, one who can close out the world in wonder at what the printed page shares, who can almost occupy two places at once, body anchored to a chair; mind and soul exploring the Universe.

It takes hours to meld into a library, to learn its rhythms and cadences, to pattern its ebb and flow of humanity. Sometimes you explore the books, ambling the spine-stepped paths, letting whatever words and ideas come to mind serve as Muse. Other times, you cast your eyes upon the readers, writers, browsers, talkers and borrowers who enchant or infect the sanctuary.

I turned around a tight stack searching for I forgot what. Black hair, red blouse, white shorts. I know I didn’t make noise, but the quiet enhances senses and she felt my presence. I learned what if felt like to be transfixed by another person’s eyes. She smiled. I nodded and scampered away.

Against my instincts, I worked my way around to the other side of the bookshelves and peeked. Peeked! And she caught me. Her face and expression were perfect for a Renaissance noblewoman. I smiled and she laughed softly. She lifted the book she was reading so I could see the title. I understood: She thought I was looking for that book. Of course I was.

Have you ever seen someone you consider attractive, but when you get close to them, they drop down the attractiveness scale faster than a dive bomber? It is an awful feeling, like having a wonderful prize snatched from your grasp. But the reverse? Pure joy, a joy almost impossible to contain.

We spoke for over two hours in that disjointed, scatter-shot way two people engage in when interests are shared and neither have a clear agenda. The hell with that: we clicked. Smiles and laughing were frequent, muted and enhanced by our surroundings. After some time, she stopped being real. Or everything around her faded into unreality. If I could explain it, I’d be a poet.

She looked at her watch and reality crashed into me. She had to go. I looked at her and blinked in self-defense: she actually looked disappointed that she had to leave. Then she said exactly that. We each gave a short wave. Twice she turned to wave again. I behaved like a gentleman and replaced her book, a history of Victorian art.

Many times I searched for her, there in that quiet spot. Only once in a while did anyone use that table. But never her. Never her.

Once I found the same book on Victorian art atop the table. I grabbed it and searched every nook and cranny of that infernal place, to no avail. When I went to replace it, an index card peeked out from the book. Three words: Thank you, Gil.

I replaced the book and stopped going to the library. Goodbyes can take so many forms.

Frisbee Golf

2005-02-21T07:12:00.000-08:00

It isn’t complicated: you fling a Frisbee until you hit the target, then go on to the next target. Fewest throws wins.

Seems like every sport or game can be reduced to a simple, even simplistic, summary. In the case of Frisbee Golf, that genteel blend of hippie freeform with corporate ritual, it is that simple. Throwing a Frisbee can be learned by a toddler and you can play the Golf version anywhere. At least the way we played it you could.

Our targets were trees, stumps, signs, poles and hydrants. We roamed the campus, the nearby woods or a part of town, most notably the cemetery. We played around traffic, through pedestrians and amidst the silence of the long-departed.

Two friends, two Frisbees and time to share. That’s what Frisbee Golf boils down to. You play to win (okay, I play to win), but the game itself takes second place to sharing conversation and soaking up the view.

Then there’s imagination. After you start playing, wherever you go you begin to look at angles and locations, adding hazards and complications, so that any natural or urban setting becomes a playground. I still do it, park or plaza, eager to try out the difficulty of that long shot over a 2-throw penalty area versus playing safe. In my mind, I’m always going for it; in practice…

Sure, you can muck it up with complications, like different Frisbees for different throws, and three-hooped chain targets and rigidly-delineated courses. We added penalties as our only complication, risk versus reward, a simple concept that adds a spice of challenge. And our courses changed as often as we wanted them to: a few seconds of discussion to agree where the target was and how many throws were par and off we went.

Sure the game lacks the edge of danger that some find necessary. There is always the danger of embarrassing yourself, of playing atrociously or of choking when the pressure's on. But if it’s physical danger you want, well, there was one moment…

Don and I were playing in the “bowl” we had chosen as our “short course,” close to some dorms, with a few tall trees and the challenge of making no throws on level ground. Don was standing near the tallest tree when suddenly a loud crack startled us and a large branch thudded to the ground, missing him by less than three feet.

We were quiet for a few seconds. My second thought, uttered aloud, was “Are you okay?” He nodded.

My first thought had been: I almost won by forfeit. Told you I play to win.

End of the Line

2005-02-18T07:12:00.000-08:00

The bus left Miami and within 20 minutes, I was staring down at a redhead in a topless convertible who was naked from the waist down. I blinked. She looked up, waved at me and drove off. I considered getting off the bus right there because nothing would ever match that moment. Thirty hours later I was regretting denial of that impulse.

When asked why I was taking a bus across the Deep South I answered that it was because I wanted to see what was out there, instead of looking at clouds at 30,000 feet. They believed me. What I actually had in mind was some formless idea of getting off the bus somewhere and roaming until my money, nerve or luck ran out. I was in no hurry to get anywhere so long as I kept moving. Could be the story of my life.

One long day and one interminable night later, I got off the bus in the tiny station of a town I never knew existed until it sent me a letter. The stationmaster (busman? ticket agent?) pulled out a box and a large suitcase. None were mine. The bus took off like whales out of Purgatory don’t. I asked the guy about my suitcases. He took it as a matter of routine and walked back in to pick up the phone.

The station area was dirty and faded. I looked up and down the street. Nothing caught my eye. I walked into the station and asked the guy when the next bus was passing by. That snapped him out of routine. He looked me up and down and said “You just got here.”

I nodded. “When?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, glancing at a schedule. “Five hours. Goes to Jackson.”

I walked out of the station as a cab drove up. The driver got out, a burly guy, with a crew-cut, reddened face, rough features and gray eyes. Gray hair. “Take you in?" he asked. I was slow in answering so he jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said “The university. Get you settled in.”

I agreed and got in the cab. He said his name was Earl and he’d been driving a cab for 14 years. He asked me where I was from and I said Miami. He’d never been there. He told me his grandchildren had gone to Disney World, but he stayed behind because he was too old for that.

He dropped me off in front of a red brick building with columns. Less than an hour later I was staring out of a sixth-floor window, wondering what to do. I called the station. My bags were in Atlanta. I called the cab company and asked for Earl. They told me they would send a cab immediately. I told them I’d only go with Earl. The dispatcher hung up while saying something that sounded a lot like swearing.

Earl drove up half an hour later, looking worried. “You asked for me?” I said yes and asked him if that was a problem. He told me that lots of people asked for him, more than any other driver. It did give him trouble because the other drivers and the dispatcher complained about it. He shook his head. “Where do you want to go?”

“Any store that sells clothes and personal items. My bags won’t be here for a few days.” He took me to a small department store. I told him to wait. He looked uncomfortable. I bought what I needed in minutes and he took me back.

Along the way, I asked him if he liked living here. He thought about that for a while and said “I like other places more, but this one suits me fine.” He gave me a sharp look. “Fixin’ to leave already?”

I shrugged. He kept glancing in the mirror to look at me as I stared out the window. Back at the dorm, as I got out of the cab Earl said to me: “Call me when your bags come in and I’ll take you to pick ‘em up.”

“Won’t that be a problem?”

“Not this time.” He waved my money away. “Call me.” I watched the cab make a left, a right and disappear from my sight.

I walked back into the dorm as my formless idea faded away.

Ms. in MS

2005-02-17T07:12:00.000-08:00

The problem with Advanced English Literature, or any Advanced Literature course, is that it implies mastery or strong familiarity with the “basic” literature. Since nobody agrees what “basic literature” is, who’s to say what “advanced literature” is? The upshot of this is that then you’re a victim of the professor’s whims, notions and preferences within a framework that relates to literature like a camel resembles a horse.

My case: She was a feminist. Long-skirted, peasant-bloused, stubbled legs, no makeup and no bra. Many guys would have called her a word similar to “Dutch seawall,” but that would have been jumping to conclusions. My objection to her wasn’t the fact that she was a feminist, but her insistence that everything we read could be viewed only through a feminist lens.

By the second week of class, I took umbrage, a fancy phrase for “acted out.” When she remarked that she’d be teaching a course on “Great Women Authors,” I asked “A one-hour seminar?” Her reaction was a paragon of suffering patience. From that point on, not a class would go by without my challenging her statements.

It came to a head when we were discussing Jane Eyre. She assigned a paper on the topic of “Abused Jane.” Our professor insisted on seeing Jane as a puppet, downtrodden and emotionally-starved by a cruel society centered on Rochester. I went at the subject from another angle: Jane as the expression of free will.

I read dozens of commentaries and analyses of the novel (before the Internet, folks, so this was library-time galore.) I made sure to include views that supported her position along with excerpts that supported mine. My paper was a 12-page examination that framed her viewpoint while clearly stating the reasons for rejecting it in favor of my own.

I got a “C.” I shrugged, annoyed but not combative; I could take criticism half as well as I could dish it out. (Maybe less.) Until I read some of the other papers the students shared with me. A two-pager that misspelled “Eyre” four times and “Jane” twice got an “A.” But it called Jane a “poor suffering woman” and Rochester an “evil monster.” Another confused Jane with Rochester’s wife and remarked that “Rochester caused Jane’s madness like she caused the fire.” That one’s three pages, one of which was the title page, got a “B.”

In her office, the conversation was strained. I pointed out that my paper, if graded by the same standards as the rest, deserved more than a “C.” She said I had “flawed reasoning.” I asked her to point out where and how my reasoning was flawed. Silence. I placed the paper in front of her so she could refresh her memory. She shook her head and remained silent. I pointed out that I had all day, that I really wanted to hear where and how I’d gone wrong in my analysis of Jane Eyre.

I asked if my paper was disorganized. No. Was I off-topic? No. Did I use improper or irrelevant sources? No. Had I seriously misquoted or misrepresented any source? No. Did I commit major grammatical or spelling mistakes? No. Did I hand it in late? No. Was my paper’s tone disrespectful or sarcastic? “Not really.”

I looked at her. She had barely moved since I’d stressed how much I wanted to hear where I’d gone wrong. “I got a ‘C’ because you don’t agree with my opinion.” She nodded as if her neck was iron. “And that’s the only reason.” Another creaky nod.

I stopped going to the class and skipped the final. I was in college for my own reasons, not hers.

My final grade for Advanced English Literature was an “A.” When I dropped by to see her, she handed me my paper. She had written notes along the margins and on the backs of most of the pages. And she had changed the grade to an “A.”

I had to say it. “I don’t deserve this.” She gave me a sour look. “I’m through with you.” She walked past me, down the corridor and I never saw her again.

Mejoni

2005-02-16T07:12:00.000-08:00

A missed backhand volley got the ball rolling. (I pun because I can.) A stream of self-directed cursing came pouring out in my rapid-fire Spanish: Me cago en la crica de Marta. Don asked me what I had said and when I translated it—when I actually grokked what I’d said—I was appalled. But in the mysterious way that curse words from another language are picked up quickly, the phrase stuck and was used whenever needed.

Another time, on another tennis court (what is it about those fuzzy balls?) I said Me voy a patear el culo, to which Bill asked “What about your cooler?” So “cooler” became our catch word for “butt.” It backfired on me one summer day when I saw a big handsome guy walk into Mr. Quik with his cheerleader-pretty girlfriend and requested “Ten pounds of ice for my cooler.” I spewed Coca-Cola all over the floor just trying to imagine how big that bee sting on his ass must have been. He thought I was crass. She laughed with me or at me. Who knows.

Another time, Bill and I were with the pseudo-Freudian Tim climbing a watch tower in some forest. Tim was practicing his Spanish with me and was inviting me back to his house to drink café bueno. Bill piped up “You’re doing what with guano?” Cracked me up. So “guano” was good. Probably still is.

One day Bill suggested we make up words that sounded like Spanish. Yes, your tax dollars as college grants at work. We came up with several, but the only one I remember was mejoni. It meant whatever we wanted it to mean, and to this day, it’s the word I use to deliberately confuse people who actually speak Spanish.

But the Acme Moment belongs entirely to Don. We were working a blood drive, me on the blood bags and Don in the snacks area. I had noticed students from La Tertulia, the Spanish club, meeting behind the snack area. At one point, Don tried to pour ice into a cooler (don’t giggle: a foam ice chest) and some of it dropped on the floor. I smiled. Don could be adroit and clumsy at the same time, sometimes in rapid succession. With no wasted motion, he collected the stray ice and I went back to handing out blood bags.

A few minutes later, he came over to me and said: “You know that phrase you taught me? Well, when I said it, those people over there gave me the strangest look.” I almost fell out of my chair laughing, imagining the look on their faces as they saw Don—-a blondish über-gringo-looking guy—-spewing one of the vilest phrases it has ever been my misfortune to utter. Repeatedly.

I explained and Don didn’t even start to blush. Cool.

Wolfman

2005-02-15T07:12:00.000-08:00

They howled whenever they saw me, up on that tenth floor. It started out, as it always did, by one guy suddenly noticing that I wasn’t… normal. That in some way—like those odd pictures that hide images you have to find practically cross-eyed—once you’d “seen” me, you couldn’t seem to stop “seeing” me.

I don’t mean that it happened all the time, only that it happened. I made the process easier by having hair that brushed beneath my shoulders, by acting like I didn’t need the world and like the world didn’t need me. I never made much of an effort, if any at all, to fit in, to try to pass as “one of us.” I didn’t care for “us.” So I was always one of “them.”

The guys in the corner room just two doors down from me were “normal.” Three in that room with friends that came almost every day to share loud music (heavy on hard rock and metal and most of it quite good), beer, some marihuana and a howling session if I happened to drop by.

Because I had an odd routine, we never met in the communal bathroom. I wonder what would have happened if they had walked in while I was showering. A fight, I’m sure. If it’s at least three to one and you’re naked, you negotiate or flee only for further humiliation.

For weeks, they howled. Several times, in the early A.M.s, they’d pound my door and yell “Wolfman! Hey, Wolfman!” shout obscenities and howl like maniacs. Once they dragged a protesting young lady “to see the Wolfman.” I opened the door that time, actually carried on a conversation with her and when we’d finished, I heard her ask “Why do you bother him? He’s okay.” Maybe I was.

I superglued their lock shut, even down through the doorplate. Took Campus Services three hours to get it open. The next night, my door was glued. Took the same guy ten minutes to open mine, cursing most of the time. While he worked, we stared at each other, four guys in full understanding that a line had been crossed.

The muttering worker left and as soon as the elevator dinged closed, I walked towards them. Six steps. They backed up, into their room. I stopped at their door and they sat down, ignoring me. The TV came on, one grabbed a magazine and the third pulled at a longneck beer. I stood.

“You started it.”
“No.”
“You glued our door.” The TV guy wouldn’t turn around.
“You don’t know that.”
They all turned to me. “Who else would do it?” Beer guy sucked at an empty bottle. Nerves.
I shrugged. “Same guy that puts superglue on the toilet seats.”
They started. One of them mumbled morosely. “We’re even.” They looked at me.
“No.”
“What are you gonna do about it?” Magazine guy was pissed.
I pointed to the lock. “Guess who’s got a master key now?” I walked back to my room and shut the door.

The howling stopped. I even got a surly “Hi” every now and then. It wasn’t peace, but it was tolerance.

Things would have been different if only they figured out that the answer to my question was “Not you.”

Thank you, Carol

2005-02-14T07:12:00.000-08:00

We’d seen each other many times, usually at the Cafeteria. I always sat at a table near the main entrance and saw you walk in dozens of times, books clutched to your chest in a tight embrace, on pixie steps I’ve never seen since. You were always cheerful, and even when frowning, your face was always on the verge of smiling.

It got to the point where I’d wonder about you if a few days went by without seeing you. I found that odd for we never said “Hi.” Not then.

The day you walked into the office, I froze. I remember hoping you’d be charming, interesting, funny… any of them. You were all of them and so much more.

I already had the reputation of working alone until wee hours. You began to work shifts, even the graveyard hours I practically owned. Maybe I was slow, or stupid, but it took me weeks to realize you were often choosing my shifts, or dropping in when I was around. (Hell, I was always around that office.) I was sure it had to do with the others. It did, but for once, I was one of them.

Do you remember our first kiss? It started as a playful tussle and the playing continued for a long time because I was so afraid I was wrong, afraid that I was projecting my feelings on your actions… One kiss, and I was never the same.

We spent time together, but it wasn’t in the burning fashion of Romeo and Juliet; it was deeper, calmer, more a sense of sharing than of consuming. You studied often and hard, and your ferocious will awed me. But in the middle of your reverie, when I felt I was miles away at arm length, you’d reach out to me, to hold my hand or run your fingers through my hair. You’d suddenly close your book and embrace me. Or I’d be busy and you’d come up to place your hand on my shoulder or your arm around my waist. Those moments made the universe and my place in it right. It changed me. I never told you that. I should have.

Reading, watching TV, cooking, playing, walking, driving around or just sitting together, it all felt right. I don’t know how else to say it except that everything we did together made sense. It was you, Carol. You accepted me. My rough edges and fears, everything I tried to hide and the pain I had to reveal. With you I was embraced body and soul. I’m crying as I write this. Sorry. It’s taken me all this time to truly appreciate what a rare and wonderful gift you gave me.

When you left, we parted softly, gently. For the only time in my life, summer held no warmth. We stayed in touch as you plunged into your new job in Texas. I was happy for you, but I grieved for me.

Two months later, just before midnight, I threw clothes in a bag and took off for Dallas, driving for nine hours straight. I surprised you on your doorstep that evening. We spent a few hours together and in a moment ordained by Fate, when “The Twelfth of Never” came on, I asked you to hold me close. You did. We did.

We stayed in touch. Three years later, I received your wedding invitation. My car was in the shop, but a bus would leave the night before and get me there two hours before the ceremony. Carrying my best suit, I rode six hours. I changed in the bus station and was the first person in the church that morning.

Suddenly you appeared, ablaze in your wedding gown, with that brilliant smile I could never forget. You raced up the aisle and greeted one of your friends with that musical “Hello” no one could match. You didn’t see me and I was glad.

The wedding was wonderful. Your father arranged a ride for me to your reception. I stood in line and then, dreamlike, we saw each other. You were so surprised. You turned to introduce me to Lonnie, but your husband and I had already met. You smiled at me, held my hands and gave me a warm embrace. We spoke for a few seconds and I ceded my place to the next person.

I left then, walked to the station, changed into jeans, shirt and sneakers and rode six hours back home. We exchanged one or two more letters, the last of many, and I did what I have always done: I faded away and out of touch.

There are memories in a life that are kept tucked away, in a special place of the heart, touched with the lightest of thoughts as if these moments were made of the finest, most delicate porcelain. Memories so beautiful that peering into that special place is to welcome a sweet yearning ache. For many, the joy is in the remembering. For me, it was a joy best left untouched.

And yet… Half a day just for a moment to see your smile, hold your hands and embrace you. Would I do it again? Oh yes I would. I would until the day I die.

Animal Moment #1

2005-02-11T07:12:00.000-08:00

Spring Break, 1981. I decided to skip trips to anyplace interesting and stayed in my dorm to read, play wargames and watch TV. If I bottled that stuff it would outsell Valium 4-to-1.

It was the week when the sun first went long, when night didn't leap on your head 90 minutes before a decent dinner hour. I wanted to stretch my legs and buy some apple juice at Mr. Quik. The sun had set and I moved across a very quiet campus, thinking deep thoughts, or at least pretending to.

For years I've been startling people by walking up to them and standing at their side before they notice me. Scares the crap out of my mom. I guess I lack the "presence" needed to register on people's radar, aura or whatever pseudosense it is that notices another human being close by. Alternate theories: (A) I am not human. (B) I walk very quietly. Okay, B.

Between the Cafeteria and Infirmary was a block-long promenade of grass lined by trees along both sides. It separated two large parking lots and bordered the main back street of the campus. As I walked into it, I saw a bulky shadow on the ground ahead. I slowed my pace and peered closely. It was a rabbit, a fairly large one, eating something leafy. Its head was pointed away from me, so I walked softly towards it, expecting it to bolt at any moment.

Three steps, four, six, eight... I was less than ten feet from the deer-brown rabbit, still eating quietly. Two steps, then a third and then one more. I was three feet from the rabbit. I watched it eat, nose and cheeks twitching madly. There was no other sound aside from my heartbeat.

I leaned forward and said "Boo." The rabbit bolted away from me in frantic bounding, burst from between the trees onto the back road and was crushed by a pickup truck. I saw it bounce twice and lie still.

Not ten seconds had passed since I'd said "Boo." In horror, I ran to the rabbit. It was breathing fast and shallow, eyes glazed, a foreleg twitching. The back legs were pointing towards me. The forelegs weren't.

I almost threw up. Before I could think, I was running back the way I came, running without control to the campus police station. Before I burst in, I stopped and surprised myself by wiping tears from my eyes and cheeks. I told the guards on duty there was an injured animal near the Infirmary. I raced out, back to the rabbit.

Three squad cars appeared. I didn't even think about a wisecrack. All I could do was stand at the edge of the promenade and stare at the rabbit, both of us struggling for breath. Five campus cops stepped out and surrounded the rabbit. The dialogue would have shredded a screen hack's soul:

"Looks like a rabbit."
"That's a rabbit."
"There are some rabbits around here."
"Looks hurt."
"It ain't running."
"Back's broke."
"And the legs, too."
"I don't see no blood."
"Blood's there on the tar."
"It's gonna die or we have to kill it."
"Gotta kill it."

They all looked at me. I looked back. "That's why I called you guys." I was relieved my voice didn't break. "I can't kill it with my cap."

The fattest guard nodded like I'd quoted Scripture. I'm fuzzy on the Old Testament so maybe I did. He pulled out his nightstick, a smooth baton over two feet long, hitched his belt and slacks underneath a basketball belly, stared at the rabbit for a few seconds, then whacked it hard atop the skull. I flinched at the meaty thunk.

Another stare, from all six of us. The rabbit was dead. Fat cop picked it up by the ears and said "You want it?" He wasn't talking to anybody in particular, but I noticed we all said no quite distinctly.

Like one unit, the five guards turned and got back in their vehicles, the rabbit dumped in the trunk of his killer's squad car.

Correction: his executioner's squad car. I was the killer. That's not melodrama or guilt-tripping, it's simply a fact. I didn't mean to do it, but I caused it.

I wondered for several weeks if I'd been a coward by asking the campus cops to do what I didn't have the nerve to do. I decided a coward would have run away and left the animal to suffer a lingering death. That's what I told myself. I pretended to believe it.

A Smith-Corona and Me

2005-02-10T06:47:00.000-08:00

It was displayed in a large glass cabinet at a newly-opened discount store a couple of miles from my apartment. It was a lazy summer Sunday afternoon and I had wandered in to see what the fuss was all about. Normally I avoid crowds, but in this case, I was bored enough to mix with the masses.

My eye was drawn to it immediately. Blacke matte finish that just ached to be touched. Sleek lines and a low profile made it look refined, the artful combination of form-to-function that great design always has. It was a Smith-Corona typewriter, or more accurately, word processor.

I stared at it like I'd found The Holy Grail. I didn't even know I wanted it until I saw it; a triumph of modern consumerism, I guess. People pushed and bumped around me, trying to get better views of whatever else the large cabinet held. Outweighed as I was by even slender women and large children, I was rooted to my spot in front of the Smith-Corona.

The description was brief: A small screen allowed two lines to be viewed at once, it could save about two pages of text, printed with a "one-off, high intensity" ribbon and included more than 150 "international symbols." Price tag: $99.95.

I checked again. $99.95. It didn't make sense. A blue-jacketed drone walked by and I actually grabbed his shoulder to ask "Is that the price?" He peered closely, bumping his nose against the glass and said "Yeah. Discounted from $249.95." He lumbered away.

The original price I could understand, though I knew very little about word processors in 1982. (Yeah, this is a period piece. Please adjust your timeframes.) I searched the cabinet and found nothing like that Smith-Corona except some clumsy monstrosity priced under $70.

I know I walked home, but as soon as I got there, I turned around and walked back to the store. Still there. (The store and the Smith-Corona.) The price tag practically glowed like neon: $99.95. I walked home again. I know I did. I just can't remember anything about that walk except the numbers 9,9,9 and 5.

See, at the time, I was down to $110 to my name and didn't have a job until the semester started in six weeks. Could I make it another month and a half with only $10? What about the rent? Food? Pizza? (Pizza was a definite expense category during my college years.)

Monday morning, nine A.M., I was the first customer to enter the store. I walked to the glass cabinet and the Smith-Corona wasn't there. It wasn't there. It wasn't there. The ragged edges of a disturbing panic clouded my vision. I whirled to find a drone and suddenly saw the Smith-Corona, in a small display case, with a price tag of $90.00. No other nines, no five. I put my hand on the display case and yelled "I'm buying this!" (I wanted to lie and say "announced." Honesty prevailed: I yelled.)

A member of the near-dead came to sell me the Smith-Corona. The whole transaction moved like rust. From display case to solid cardboard box, passing through insertion into molded foam endpieces, use of plastic wrap, placed in large plastic bag, the bag taped shut, inserted wrong in the box, then right, box flaps closed, then opened to insert smaller plastic bag with Owner's Manual and assorted papers, close flaps and finally taped shut. I wanted to scream.

I paid, ignoring the quiet voice that told me rent was due in two weeks. After I'd paid, the zombie came to life and told me to wait one more minute. From some cranny beneath the register, he pulled out a small white box. "Ribbons," he said. "There's only a few in here, but you can have them." He shrugged. "Can't sell them." I grabbed the box and practically ran home.

The next two hours are etched in my mind like some people grok movies. Everything I did with the Smith-Corona seemed so right: it fit my desk perfectly, the cord was exactly the right length, the ribbon practically installed itself, it hummed at just the right pitch (neither too loud to cause distraction nor too low to make you wonder if it was turned on), the keyboard was made for my fingers and the clicks it made were marvels of audio engineering. I wrote with ease as every function was exactly what I needed and printing was a smooth flow of beautiful letters.

The small white box had eleven extra ribbons. Eleven! That and the five reams of paper I had were enough to ensure that I might starve, but I could write until I fainted from hunger.

I wrote. That day, the next and deep into Wednesday. I took two short naps, ate Oreo cookies and drank apple juice. No TV, no radio, just the Smith-Corona and me. Wednesday evening I slumped back, turned my new workhorse off and gathered several dozen pages that had scattered themselves all over my apartment.

Thursday morning, I walked into the local paper's office and offered some samples. The editor took half an hour to read them (slow news day, apparently) and then surprised me: "I like two of these. How much do you want for them?" I stuttered. I hate stuttering. He chuckled and offered me $30. Each. I nodded a lot. I hate nodding a lot.

With a check in my pocket and a request to present more pieces, I floated home. The summer went from lazy to focused, my perspective switching from lump to explorer. Writing went from "once in a blue moon" to daily ritual. But what remained as crystal light in my mind was that I had gambled, had plunged ahead once again and in an unforeseen way, I had won. Call it a leap of faith or fortune favors the brave, it doesn't matter. What matters is that passionate risks are the only ones worth taking. And we tend to forget that as the years go by.

(Closing note: I was late with the rent, but the owner was out of town and didn't collect it until mid-September anyway. The Smith-Corona wrote over 60 selling pieces with me and my first novel. As part of the last box of belongings I had sent to my new home, the Smith-Corona was lost. I received $400 compensation for the lost box. I never cashed the check: that box was worth many times more.)

Food for Love

2005-02-09T07:12:00.000-08:00

I learned to cook because my mom made sure I could take care of myself. Cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, sewing, ironing... you name it, she either taught me how to do it or made sure I knew what to do. Her argument was that she never wanted me to hook up with a woman simply because I was useless in the self-care department.

For a while, I quipped that I'd make a great wife for some lucky guy. Uh-huh.

More as a form of amusement than anything else, I bought two good cookbooks and spent some very merry (you think I'd say "gay"?) hours experimenting with meats, poultry, seafood, vegetables, legumes and more herbs than you could ever grow on a windowsill. Two things emerged quickly: I loved it and it was the perfect hook for getting dates.

First, there was the surprise factor. "You? Cook dinner? Yeah, right," was a common response. The riposte was easy: "What would you like to eat?" Didn't matter what they said: I either had the recipe, or in those pre-Internet days (early 80s, people, early 1980s, okay?) I could find it at a bookstore or by calling a restaurant for some pointers.

Second, there was the "comfort" factor. I never asked any woman for a date unless they had known me for a while. By the time I asked, the woman would know two things about me: I didn't ask just anybody and what I said was the whole agenda. If I invited her to a dinner and a movie, that was it. I played no games, made no demands, eschewing the wolf act in favor of what was described as a "stress-free evening."

Was I aiming low? Certainly. But I rationalized that my batting average was excellent: I was only turned down once in three years. (Her fiancee was in town for the weekend, so she gave me a "rain check" for Tuesday. She actually said "rain check.") By being a gentleman, and a good cook, I gained a reputation that also helped make getting a date much easier, going out once or twice a week.

Whether in my apartment, the car, the restaurant or just walking to keep the night alive, the questions would come eventually:

** Why don't you try to kiss me? Don't you find me attractive?
** You seem nice. Why don't you have a girlfriend?
** You're not what I expected. Why are you alone so often?

And other variations on the core question: Why are you strange? (Sometimes hiding "Why are you strange to me?") I was strange because I am. Sounds like a vapid response, but it was/is the truth. When I entered college, I was 16, skinny, small, acne-scarred and half my face hidden by Coke-bottle glasses. My hair was long in a time and place that considered long hair a slap against nature. I saw challenges everywhere, chips on both narrow shoulders and hated the notion that anyone could label me and be accurate.

But label me they did. We all do it. So rather than continue to receive the "little weirdo" or "bratty braniac" label, I chose to morph it into "mystery guy." Not in any James Bond way, but in the sense of defying expectations. Lo and behold, it worked. I got dates, on my knowingly-limited terms. I discovered that interesting women are worth the time invested in getting to know them, and that most interesting women are hidden gems. And I learned that my self-image, even my public image, was mine to alter as I saw fit. Sadly, it was a lesson I forgot years later.

Did my acne clear up? No. Did I hit the gym to add muscle and bulk? No. Did I dump the massive cheaters for contacts? No. The terms may have been limited, but they were still my own. "My way" is not a song title in my life. The bottom line was, I developed a passion for cooking, met some beautiful women and grew up enough to not care so much what others thought about me. I may have been alone often, but eventually that was by choice, not timidity. In many ways, my kitchen became my best classroom.

Cop Baiting

2005-02-08T06:06:00.000-08:00

When you sleep an average of 3 hours a night, it gives you plenty of time to get bored. Freed from the tyranny of a college schedule (I took classes as optional, more a diversion than a routine), my schedule morphed to a vampiric style: I'd go to bed just before dawn. I'd still be up between 7 and 8 out of some strange urge to be awake when classes were proceeding without me.

Nights became a personal playground. Understand I didn't drink or use drugs or have any urge to be around people who did, so I spent many hours on my own. With some exceptions, I was my favorite person to hang out with. But even true love needs a break from itself every once in a while.

Late at night, after the bars had closed, was a perfect time for me to leave my little digs and walk around the small college town. Everything was quiet and faintly glowing. The town was a good place for a friendly stroll in the daytime, but at night it became a fabulous terrain of hidden paths, odd corners, undiscovered angles and thinking space.

With the occasional troll. For even a nice troll is still a troll. Once a week, maybe more, I'd be stopped by one of the town's finest and be asked to identify myself. I always refused until I'd been given a valid reason, even if I knew the troll and had engaged it several times. (How different now, when you can be arrested and detained without reason, as Bushie the Cretin and his Suckturd Sycophants have decreed.) In the spirit of adventure (also known as "acting stupid") I'd inject inanity into the dialogue:

"You have a name, son?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"A three letter word."

Or:

"Why are you walking at this hour?"
"Cuz flying at night is dangerous," or "I tried crawling, but I hate getting dirty."

According to many, I should have been pistol-whipped by any number of Southern cops. I've only given you a few examples, but the "cop asking for I.D." scenario happened dozens of times over a two-year period and I never--never--complied without acting like a wit or openly challenging the process. Stupid? Granted. But I was well within my rights to not comply and as soon as any valid reason was proffered (report of a Peeping Tom, possible burglar in the area), I presented identification and answered simple questions.

It seems odd to me that what I thought was a nuisance then is actually a fond memory now, back to a time when one's normal activities were considered innocent and the idea of slapping police action on normality was insane. True, times have changed; the world is no longer what it was 20 years ago. But I leave you with this: Although I was seriously threatened several times, not once did any of those "dumb Southern cops" ever cross the line. They may have been pushed to the limits of their patience, but they remained guardians of the law. Any one of them had more integrity than the entire gang that currently seeks to treat us like the coward's "them." Yeah, I wasn't a terrorist. But neither are the vast majority of us.

Miz Evelyn

2005-02-07T06:26:00.000-08:00

Her house was diagonally across from the cemetery where William Faulkner is buried. The house had seen better days (so had Faulkner), but it retained a degree of sober elegance, much like its owner.

Miz Eveleyn was rail-thin, white-haired and her cane was more battering ram than walking stick. She moved slowly but implacably and forced herself to walk around the block on every sunny day; a 5-minute jaunt for me, a 45-minute epic for her.

She spoke clearly and directly, never wasting words. She rented out the second floor of her home because "Money is a tool and I need tools." She selected her tenants on two criteria: "Good manners and good grammar." A former English and literature teacher, she was forever challenging whomever she spoke with to "Drop that 'ain't'" and "Nothing is broken so don't say 'fixing'."

Her two great joys at the end of her life were baked potatoes and pancakes. During that lazy summer, I'd frequently bake a few potatoes and share them with her. A couple of times a week I'd mix up some pancake batter, knock on her door and make breakfast for us. She was always a gracious host and in the battle of wills over who would do the dishes, I won because I raced to the sink ahead of her.

She told me a little about her life. After getting married, she discovered that her husband "Was not good for anything or anyone," so in the mid-20s, in her mid-20s, she went to Europe and bicycled around the continent for two years. She came back because "Europe was headed for disaster." She didn't get a divorce because her husband "did the smart thing and died." I asked her if she missed him and she glared at me and asked "Would you miss a bad toothache?"

Our conversations that summer were frequent, but brief. I had my own interests, whatever they might have been, and Miz Evelyn reminded me too much of my paternal grandmother, in both looks and attitude. I felt drawn and repelled. The months went by, I saw her every day... and yet I didn't really see her.

What could I have learned from a woman who biked around Europe in the Jazz Age? And what could I have learned from a woman who referred to Faulkner as "Billy," as in "Billy was always a brat" and "Billy thought he was clever, but all he ever did was tell secrets?"

Miz Evelyn is gone now, when and how I'll never know. Youth often disdains old age, almost always for the wrong reasons. I missed a golden opportunity to explore a life utterly unlike my own, to live a time that will never return. I once read that what you do and regret you can recover from: what you don't do leaves a regret that never heals. How true.

Manners, Chicken and Glee

2005-02-04T07:12:00.000-08:00

William was a journalism student, a year ahead of me. I don't remember how I met him. We weren't close friends, but we hung out together quite a few times, discussing everything from ancient sports to political theory.

Several times, we'd meet somewhere on campus, start talking, walk several miles and end up in town eating greasy food and drinking something non-alcoholic. If I could recover times past, I'd ask for recordings of those conversations. They weren't earth-shattering or historic, but for a guy with so few friends at the time, the idea of talking for a couple of hours with anyone is more than a fond memory: it's a rare spiritual gift.

On occasion, we'd play basketball. William was a lanky 6'4"; I was topping off at a skinny 5'9". I was definitely the more competitive of the two, playing with a fiery will, but maybe the fact that William was tall, lanky and black made him play basketball with a sluggish disdain, as if the whole exercise were beneath him. He once swatted 9 of my shots in a row and when I asked him why he didn't do that more often, he replied "You don't shoot more often." Cracked me up, then I ran off eight straight baskets. He won more often than I did, a fact that still galls me, because he did it without passion, as if the outcome didn't matter to him, though it always mattered to me. (Ask me about "Bismarck" some day...)

We discussed racism a few times. At first, I was tentative, not wanting to offend him or come across as "a white brother." William got me past that quickly by pointing out that talking about racism with him was an education for both of us. I remember those conversations and I read everything he suggested to me. But what I remember best was his attitude, his disengaged intimacy with life as a black man in a southern U.S. state.

The shining moment came in a KFC, then a Kentucky Fried Chicken. In his own nonchalant way, William stood in line, just ahead of me, and blocked my view of the counter. We waited, then all of a sudden a blue-eyed blonde young lady wearing a hideous outfit peeked around William and said "Yessir, may I take your order?" I was taken aback and was fumbling for a response when William, voice pushed down to a deep rumble, said to me: "Yah, massa, ya orda' fo' me."

I collapsed laughing. For as long as I can remember, I've been a sucker for the clever quip that tweaks the nose and parlays anger into wit. For make no mistake, I was heading towards anger. Maybe not for the right reasons, but the impolite and offensive behavior of a twitty countergirl was the perfect target, one William knew I could never pass up (to which he gently remonstrated me more than once.)

I laughed so hard I cried. Every time I tried to stop, I'd look up at the gawping blonde and lose it again. Just when I was getting control, with exquisite timing William said "Hurry up, I'm hungry." I lost it again.

I can't help but smile even now. I finally pulled myself upright, choked out my order and turned to let William order. He looked at me with gently mocking eyes and said "Naw, you order cuz you're paying," words that had me rolling on the floor again.

See, he'd invited me to eat. It was his turn. But the opportunity was too good to pass up. As we ate, I asked him if the incident had bothered me. "Yeah," he said thoughfully. "I had to wait for you to stop laughing. And I wondered if you would pee yourself and embarrass me."

"Don't you mean I'd be the one embarrassed?" I asked. "Naw," he replied, drawing himself up regally. "You lack my quiet dignity."

He was right. William graduated a month later and I never saw him again. It's been many years since we shared the same space, but I'm convinced that wherever he may be, he still has that quiet dignity I lack.

Racism and Intelligence

2005-02-03T06:04:00.000-08:00

Go together like being dead and breathing. The only way "dead and breathing" happens is if you're brain dead, and for the reddest of necks out there, I'm saying you have to be brain dead to be a racist.

I'll use an analogy: "All white cars are superior to black cars, yellow cars or brown cars." It's obvious that this statement is idiotic and that whoever utters it, believes it and lives it is an idiot. And don't give me that feeble-minded retort of "Cars are not people." That's obvious too. By saying that, you're stupidly attacking the elements of the analogy (mere props) while ignoring the underlying principal.

Again, for the brain dead, I'll explain: Outside color is no indication of internal quality, whether the topic is cars or human beings. To insist that this statement is false requires willful ignorance, defective thinking and cowardice.

** Willful ignorance: You choose to ignore or avoid the evidence of genius, passion, heroism, talent and humanity in persons whose skin color doesn't match yours.
** Defective thinking: You conclude your views are rational based solely on emotion, leap to conclusions based on no evidence and filter thoughts according to criteria that have no logical basis.
** Cowardice: You are a racist because you are afaid of "them". Instead of facing the fear and exposing it as a silly wispiness, you choose to wrap yourself in it and boast about your moronic lifeview.

Think of any widely-acknowledged hero, in fact or fiction. (The stupid amongst you pick someone other that a person generally considered a monster, criminal or sociopath. I am assuming you can read and understand, so I'm probably backing a dead horse here.) Could you describe that hero/heroine as being willfully ignorant, defective in thought and a coward?

Being heroic, rising above the average to almost superhuman level, represents what's best about humanity. If what's best about humanity is the direct opposite of what racism represents, then what does that make a racist? Subhuman? The same word they often use to decribe "them"? Funny how the finger points in the wrong direction.

Babies are not born racists. Racism is not genetic. One learns to be a racist by having their intellectual and emotional growth stunted by lies, fear and cruddy thinking. So you racists, go ahead and blame your parents and family. They were idiots. Then suck it up and understand that you are responsible for still being one.

The Origin of GCSPrank

2005-02-02T08:20:00.000-08:00

We all have a dark side; some hide it better than others. Some expose it as a badge of honor, a shield or with the glee usually associated with a Halloween costume. My dark side was like a long sharp knife: hard to hide, flashed often and meant to wound, not destroy.

That's overly dramatic, but you've read this far so I'll be banal: I was quick to say nasty things, challenge authority, attack stupidity (or what I perceived to be stupidity) and keep pushing the issue until the other person attacked or gave up.

Quick question: How popular was I? Right. One good friend and a tiny handful of people I'd say "Hi" to who'd actually respond kindly. But, that good friend was worth any 50 other people. Maybe he didn't see deeply into me, but he saw me.

This friend would draw for the university paper, editiorial cartoons mostly. As a gimmick, like Herblock, he'd draw a tiny critter, a duck actually, with big thick glasses, long hair in (what else?) a ducktail and wearing a light jacket. The critter would often lambast what was going around him, often in almost the same words I'd use. My friend would get a kick out of showing me the cartoon, covering the critter, and then compare what I said to what he had written. He matched more than he missed and every once in a while, he'd "out-me" by being even more cynical.

The critter's name was "GCSPrank." My friend could never remember how the name came to him, but it was after staying awake for almost three days' straight, so it could have come from anywhere. A few people caught on, making the connection between the critter and me, but most simply accepted its presence and, to our surprise, the critter became a bit popular. I remember the first time I saw it on a bathroom wall, expressing revulsion at the overall hygiene level of the facility. His words were cruder than mine, but his presence was an unexpected delight. Too bad I couldn't take the damn wall home with me, though I tried.

For a year, GCSPrank was the occasional verbal bomber, dissing bathrooms and councilmen with equal fervor (they are almost equivalent in terms of hygiene, too.) Once my friend stopped drawing, GCSPrank faded away quickly. But his impact on me and my social self remained. I learned that others could be who they are without me having to attack them to prove who I was. I sheathed the long knife, then discarded it: it was always at hand, but no longer as cheap accessory.

About once a year, maybe less, GCSPrank comes back, flailing and stabbing at the world around me. Then, after slashing some of the underbrush and foolishness out of my life, he drifts off to whatever cubbyhole or treehouse he spends the days in. I like GCSPrank, but I don't miss him. To Freudians, he might represent the Id Unleashed, or some penile hangup only they can see. (Freudians and astrologers are two sides of the same worthless coin.) I simply see a persona who helped me cope, to whatever degree, with Life As I Knew It. And when push comes to shove, as it often does, I'd rather hang around GCSPrank than 99.999999% of the world's population.

That's still about 7,000 guys, gals and assorted whatnots. Good-sized posse, actually.