Chapter 10
Jim had a hard time keeping his mind on his work. He had hidden his feelings of rage over someone harming his son. What he wanted to do was find the boy and tear him apart, then find his father and tear him apart. There was no way to keep the world from harming his son, but he could rage against it for trying. He felt himself obsessing over the fact that his feelings in no way would come to direct action. He remembered what it was like to be a boy and get into fights. Having his father come to his rescue would only make matters worse. When the chips were down he really didn’t know what to do. He would have to play things by ear and try to keep his temper under control. There was no easier way to rile a man than to attack his son. His mind churned on the day’s events as he went about his work. He was more brusque with the customers than usual. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist in general and tonight found him almost completely non-verbal. Even the regular clicking of the bored cover charge girl’s fingers on the door ledge didn’t bother him. After a time he felt his anger meld into a period of self-loathing so intolerable he cursed out loud.
“Got a problem with something?” The cover charge girl asked.
“No,” Jim said. She sighed and continued her endless finger drumming. Jim felt his stomach knot with inner rage. Rage he turned upon himself. He couldn’t keep his son safe if he wanted too. He didn’t even have what it took to keep the boy’s mother around. His wife left because he was no good. That he didn’t make enough money and couldn’t find a stable job were her main reasons. Jim thought her absence was mostly due to the disparity of the life she thought she should have and the one she actually ended up with. Successful business women ended up with successful men, not men like Jim. Even during their brightest days Jim would be lying if inside he didn’t feel this would happen. He was so very much in love with her. Since their relationship began Jim always had a fear that she would see him for what he really was. A loser. He knew that if the rose colored glasses were removed she would come to her senses and leave him. In the end he was right. Self-fulfilling prophecy. God only knows how deep the scars on his child were because of the absence of his mother. Jim remembered the nights and tears in the early days of her departure. Daniel blamed himself. Jim told the boy it was her choice to leave, that it didn’t have anything to do with him. But how could you know if he believed him? Jim looked at his watch and cursed aloud again. He still had a long night ahead of him. Looking down the club hallway he shook his head. Why did the economy have to go bad? There weren’t any good jobs available. Because he couldn’t land a day job he had to leave his son alone in the house all night long. What if something happened to him? Jim would have to carry that blame too. Some protector. Some provider. Some fucking father. Jim clenched his hands into fists. His inner disquiet boiled over into another curse.
“Do you have fucking Tourettes or something? What’s your fucking problem?” The cover charge girl leaned back as Jim turned his face to her with red vengeance in his eyes.
“I’m just having a bad night. Okay?” Jim said.
“Yeah, it’s okay.” She stayed still as Jim turned back around.
“Oh and you may want to skim a little less out of the till. The owner is getting suspicious,” Jim said.
“What are you talking about? I would never…” She mocked incredulous. Jim cut her off.
“Just don’t okay. Just don’t.”
Later in the evening the crowd in the club was picking up steam. Jim heard the alarm on his radio go off. One of the floor bouncers was at the door in an instant to take his place.
“Where is the problem?” Jim asked.
“Men’s bathroom,” The bouncer replied. “You better hurry.”
Jim worked his way through the club as quickly as possible. He turned sideways and pushed his way through the crowds, finally making it to the bathroom a couple moments later. He met the VIP backdoor bouncer on the way.
“What’s going on?” Jim asked.
“Some girls were taking shit about the long line to get in the bathroom. I told them there’s never a line for the men’s,” The bouncer smirked.
“They went in the men’s bathroom?” Jim sighed.
“Yeah. They’ve been in there awhile so I beeped you.” Jim went in the men’s bathroom. The girls couldn’t have been older than twenty five. They were sitting on the sink ledge, surrounded by six guys. The girls were laughing but you couldn’t mistake the nervous looks in their eyes.
“You can use the bathroom if you show us your tits.” The guys laughed and leaned against each other making a wall. The girls shook their heads and plastered crooked smiles on their faces, masking fear.
“Guys,” Jim said. Their heads turned. “Let the girls out of the bathroom. Come on.”
“Just a second man,” Their faces turned sour. “We’ve got something going on here.”
“Come on ladies.” Jim held out his hand and one of the girls gratefully took it. Jim pulled them through the yielding phalanx and to the other side. One of the guys slapped a girl on the backside as she passed. She yelped in surprise and pain. The guys laughed.
“Do you want to press charges?” Jim asked the girl. The guys laughed louder. The girl shook her head. “Bad things happen to girls in men’s bathrooms,” Jim said. “Don’t do this again.” They left.
Jim turned to the guys. “Is everything okay in here?”
“Are you a fucking faggot or something? You don’t like tits?” They laughed.
“I don’t like club patrons being sexually assaulted in the bathroom. It’s bad press,” Jim said. He stepped close to the guy would first mouthed off to him.
“Okay. Sorry, Okay? Now what?” The guy backed down.
“Now you guys wash your hands go back out to the club and have a good time,” Jim said. He turned to leave. He could hear them laughing as he walked out. He went over to the VIP bouncer. He was intently focused on a couple blonds dancing on the club floor.
“Watching women isn’t a part of your job. You need to keep you head on a swivel at all times,” Jim said.
“Whatever. How did the bathroom thing work out?” The bouncer did not take his eyes off the dance floor.
“Just fine. We got pretty lucky this time.”
“You get too uptight.” The bouncer picked his nose and flicked what he found into a dark corner.
“You’re damn right I do,” Jim said. The other bouncer shook his head.
“What is your problem?”
“I need this job,” Jim took a step closer to the bouncer.
“Sorry man,” The bouncer said. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.” Jim clenched his jaw. His head throbbed at the temples. He snapped. Jim grabbed the other bouncer by the shirt and slammed him up against the wall.
“You tell another dumb girl to go into the guy’s bathroom and I will beat the shit out of you. You will get her beaten, raped and left for dead. Is that something you want?” Jim could felt saliva spew from his words and land on the bouncer’s face. The bouncer winced and tried to push Jim off.
“No man. Shit, let go of me.”
“I need this fucking job.” Jim tightened his grip.
“I get you. I get you.” The bouncer said. Jim shoved him backward against the wall. The bouncer pulled his shirt back into place and looked at Jim with red venom.
“I have more riding on this work than you can ever imagine,” Jim raged. “I don’t need some back door asshole with shit for brains who can’t keep his eyes off the whores on the dance floor fucking this up for me. You keep your eyes moving. You keep the customers safe and do your job.”
“Okay. I fucked up. Sorry. Shit.” The bouncer spat on the floor. Jim shook his head.
“I’m going back to the front.” Jim turned and walked back to his post.
Showing posts with label colors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label colors. Show all posts
Monday, September 17, 2012
Saturday, September 15, 2012
The Provider - Chapter 9
Chapter - 9
Jim was cleaned up and ready by the time his son arrived home from school. He was about to light up his pipe when he heard his son enter the house crying. Jim ran to the front door and held his son which only escalated the boy’s sobbing. Jim broke off the hug and dropped to one knee and looked into Daniel’s tear streaked face.
“What happened?” Jim said. His son continued to whimper. He shook him a little and repeated louder. “Daniel, what happened?”
“I got beat up,” Daniel looked the picture of shame. He wiped his sleeve across his face, smearing mucus over his right cheek.
“Who did this to you?” Jim felt anger well up inside.
“Some kids from school.” Daniel dropped his backpack and Jim saw the urine stains on his pants. Jim’s fury drained instantly and he walked his son to the bathroom. He drew a bath and helped his son strip down. Both saying nothing. Daniel stepped into the bath and put his hands over his face. Jim splashed some water down his back from a pitcher and put a hand on his shoulder. His eyes searched his boy over for signs of abuse. After awhile he spoke.
“Are you hurt?” Jim asked.
“No,” Daniel’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Jim prodded.
“No,” Daniel kept his hands over his face. Jim didn’t know what to say to him. He didn’t know how to get him to open up. Daniel’s body shook with humiliation. He thought again of Daniel’s mother, his wife, she would know what to say. Jim felt a wave of anger at her for her absence but let it go. There was nothing to be done about it.
“It will be okay buddy,” Jim said. He scooped another pitcher of water and washed the day from his young son’s shoulders, the weight of which seemed heavy on his own. There was no protection from a hard world. Boys should stay small, Jim thought, the bigger they get the bigger come their problems.
“I’m nothing,” Daniel said.
“You’re not nothing. You’re my boy. I love you,” Jim said. Inside he felt like the pot calling the kettle black. One nothing trying to lift up another.
“I’m nothing and I want to die,” Daniel said softly. Jim felt his soul squeeze as if in a vice.
“You don’t mean that,” Jim said. “Don’t say that.”
“I want to die. I hate myself. I’m nothing.” Daniel began to cry. It was an unearthed sobbing that came slow and spent itself long and hollow.
“You’re my boy,” Jim said. “I love you.” Jim dropped the pitcher and hugged his son.
“I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.” Daniel let the litany rise and fall with the rocking of his body. Jim had never felt so powerless. “Fuck you mother,” Jim thought with deep hatred. “Fuck that bitch for leaving us. She’s the one that should die. Not my boy. Not my son.”
Jim rocked holding Daniel in the bathtub. One reeling in sorrow, one with anger. Neither thinking about the other. Lost in themselves and their own miseries.
The evening came quickly. “Do you want me to drive you to school tomorrow?” Jim asked. “I could also pick you up at the end of the day. Save your legs from all that walking.” Daniel shook his head.
“Is there anything I can do?” Jim asked. He felt a little helpless.
“No. I’m okay.” Daniel shut him out again.
“I have to go to work now,” Jim said. He looked at Daniel. He searched his face to see if the boy would be alright with him leaving tonight.
“I know.”
Jim stood up. “Don’t stay up too late.” Daniel nodded.
“Goodbye buddy.”
“Bye, Dad.” Jim left his son sitting at the table.
“Don’t worry about the dishes. I’ll do them when I get home.”
“Okay,” Daniel said. With one last look, Jim walked out into the darkening sky.
Jim was cleaned up and ready by the time his son arrived home from school. He was about to light up his pipe when he heard his son enter the house crying. Jim ran to the front door and held his son which only escalated the boy’s sobbing. Jim broke off the hug and dropped to one knee and looked into Daniel’s tear streaked face.
“What happened?” Jim said. His son continued to whimper. He shook him a little and repeated louder. “Daniel, what happened?”
“I got beat up,” Daniel looked the picture of shame. He wiped his sleeve across his face, smearing mucus over his right cheek.
“Who did this to you?” Jim felt anger well up inside.
“Some kids from school.” Daniel dropped his backpack and Jim saw the urine stains on his pants. Jim’s fury drained instantly and he walked his son to the bathroom. He drew a bath and helped his son strip down. Both saying nothing. Daniel stepped into the bath and put his hands over his face. Jim splashed some water down his back from a pitcher and put a hand on his shoulder. His eyes searched his boy over for signs of abuse. After awhile he spoke.
“Are you hurt?” Jim asked.
“No,” Daniel’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Jim prodded.
“No,” Daniel kept his hands over his face. Jim didn’t know what to say to him. He didn’t know how to get him to open up. Daniel’s body shook with humiliation. He thought again of Daniel’s mother, his wife, she would know what to say. Jim felt a wave of anger at her for her absence but let it go. There was nothing to be done about it.
“It will be okay buddy,” Jim said. He scooped another pitcher of water and washed the day from his young son’s shoulders, the weight of which seemed heavy on his own. There was no protection from a hard world. Boys should stay small, Jim thought, the bigger they get the bigger come their problems.
“I’m nothing,” Daniel said.
“You’re not nothing. You’re my boy. I love you,” Jim said. Inside he felt like the pot calling the kettle black. One nothing trying to lift up another.
“I’m nothing and I want to die,” Daniel said softly. Jim felt his soul squeeze as if in a vice.
“You don’t mean that,” Jim said. “Don’t say that.”
“I want to die. I hate myself. I’m nothing.” Daniel began to cry. It was an unearthed sobbing that came slow and spent itself long and hollow.
“You’re my boy,” Jim said. “I love you.” Jim dropped the pitcher and hugged his son.
“I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.” Daniel let the litany rise and fall with the rocking of his body. Jim had never felt so powerless. “Fuck you mother,” Jim thought with deep hatred. “Fuck that bitch for leaving us. She’s the one that should die. Not my boy. Not my son.”
Jim rocked holding Daniel in the bathtub. One reeling in sorrow, one with anger. Neither thinking about the other. Lost in themselves and their own miseries.
The evening came quickly. “Do you want me to drive you to school tomorrow?” Jim asked. “I could also pick you up at the end of the day. Save your legs from all that walking.” Daniel shook his head.
“Is there anything I can do?” Jim asked. He felt a little helpless.
“No. I’m okay.” Daniel shut him out again.
“I have to go to work now,” Jim said. He looked at Daniel. He searched his face to see if the boy would be alright with him leaving tonight.
“I know.”
Jim stood up. “Don’t stay up too late.” Daniel nodded.
“Goodbye buddy.”
“Bye, Dad.” Jim left his son sitting at the table.
“Don’t worry about the dishes. I’ll do them when I get home.”
“Okay,” Daniel said. With one last look, Jim walked out into the darkening sky.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Thanking the Damned
“Your mother asked me to stop by,” the pastor said. “Is it okay?”
“There’s nobody else here now,” The man said. “I don’t mind the company.”
The pastor looked at the middle-aged man in lying in a hospital bed. It was late, but the pastor was given a little lee-way from the nurses since the man he was seeing was dying. The man recently had a massive heart attack. There would be no recovery.
“You have everything you need?” The pastor said.
“I don’t need much now,” The man said. “Was going to play golf this weekend. I don’t think that’s going to happen.” The man didn’t move except for his mouth. He was too weak. His words came out of cadence.
“Your mother wanted me to talk to you,” The pastor said.
“I always knew she would outlive me,” The man said. “She trying to get you to convert me?”
“I think she just wants to know where you are with God,” The pastor said.
“She’s worried,” The man said.
“She’s your mom,” The pastor said. “It comes with the territory.”
“She doesn’t have to worry,” The man said.
“You’re saved then? You’re alright with God?”
“No,” The man said. “God and I are far from okay.”
“That’s why your mother is worried.” The pastor said.
“I know why she’s worried,” the man said. “I said she doesn’t have too. It’s her choice.”
“That’s a little bit of a harsh stance against the people who care for you,” the pastor said. “She doesn’t want this to be the last time she sees you.”
“You’re talking about heaven and hell. She wants to make sure I’m in.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” The pastor said. “God forgives everything. He even forgives a stubborn heart against him. You will rest in heaven. That’s a promise.”
The man raise his eyebrows.
“How many theology classes do you have under your belt?” The man said. “You and I don’t see eye-to-eye on your understanding of free will.”
“You have free will,” The pastor said, “But God can see into your heart and knows what you really want. He knows what’s best for you and that’s an everlasting life with him.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” the man said.
“What doesn’t make sense?”
“Here’s the thing,” The man said. “I don’t see how this can go both ways. I don’t see how everyone can get into heaven. The whole thing wouldn’t make sense. God has promised me free will. If he automatically forgives me and lets me into heaven, then I don’t have free will. I don’t have a choice. I’m choosing to hold God to his promise.”
“You don’t believe in grace?” The pastor said.
“I didn’t say that,” The man said. “I said I was exercising my choice. I don’t want God‘s grace. God gave me free will and I‘m holding him to it. I want nothing to do with him.”
“You don’t mean that,” The pastor said.
“You mean God won’t let me ‘mean that.’ He has too. If he doesn’t, than I don’t have free will.”
“For once in my life I really don’t know what to say,” The pastor said.
“You may as well say ‘thank you’,” The man said. “For the same reason I can say no to God, you can say yes. “
The pastor got up to leave. He hesitated at the door.
“One more thing,” The pastor said. “Why should I thank you for something that is really a gift from God?”
“Well,” The man said, “If everyone did the same thing, you wouldn’t really know if free will existed. How can there be free will if all outcomes are the same? I will be your proof. My ability to say no proves you can say yes. My damnation - your salvation.”
“I just don’t understand your choice.”
“That’s the whole point,” The man said. “You don’t have to understand. It’s my choice. I find myself suddenly minding company. Go away.”
And the pastor did.
“There’s nobody else here now,” The man said. “I don’t mind the company.”
The pastor looked at the middle-aged man in lying in a hospital bed. It was late, but the pastor was given a little lee-way from the nurses since the man he was seeing was dying. The man recently had a massive heart attack. There would be no recovery.
“You have everything you need?” The pastor said.
“I don’t need much now,” The man said. “Was going to play golf this weekend. I don’t think that’s going to happen.” The man didn’t move except for his mouth. He was too weak. His words came out of cadence.
“Your mother wanted me to talk to you,” The pastor said.
“I always knew she would outlive me,” The man said. “She trying to get you to convert me?”
“I think she just wants to know where you are with God,” The pastor said.
“She’s worried,” The man said.
“She’s your mom,” The pastor said. “It comes with the territory.”
“She doesn’t have to worry,” The man said.
“You’re saved then? You’re alright with God?”
“No,” The man said. “God and I are far from okay.”
“That’s why your mother is worried.” The pastor said.
“I know why she’s worried,” the man said. “I said she doesn’t have too. It’s her choice.”
“That’s a little bit of a harsh stance against the people who care for you,” the pastor said. “She doesn’t want this to be the last time she sees you.”
“You’re talking about heaven and hell. She wants to make sure I’m in.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” The pastor said. “God forgives everything. He even forgives a stubborn heart against him. You will rest in heaven. That’s a promise.”
The man raise his eyebrows.
“How many theology classes do you have under your belt?” The man said. “You and I don’t see eye-to-eye on your understanding of free will.”
“You have free will,” The pastor said, “But God can see into your heart and knows what you really want. He knows what’s best for you and that’s an everlasting life with him.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” the man said.
“What doesn’t make sense?”
“Here’s the thing,” The man said. “I don’t see how this can go both ways. I don’t see how everyone can get into heaven. The whole thing wouldn’t make sense. God has promised me free will. If he automatically forgives me and lets me into heaven, then I don’t have free will. I don’t have a choice. I’m choosing to hold God to his promise.”
“You don’t believe in grace?” The pastor said.
“I didn’t say that,” The man said. “I said I was exercising my choice. I don’t want God‘s grace. God gave me free will and I‘m holding him to it. I want nothing to do with him.”
“You don’t mean that,” The pastor said.
“You mean God won’t let me ‘mean that.’ He has too. If he doesn’t, than I don’t have free will.”
“For once in my life I really don’t know what to say,” The pastor said.
“You may as well say ‘thank you’,” The man said. “For the same reason I can say no to God, you can say yes. “
The pastor got up to leave. He hesitated at the door.
“One more thing,” The pastor said. “Why should I thank you for something that is really a gift from God?”
“Well,” The man said, “If everyone did the same thing, you wouldn’t really know if free will existed. How can there be free will if all outcomes are the same? I will be your proof. My ability to say no proves you can say yes. My damnation - your salvation.”
“I just don’t understand your choice.”
“That’s the whole point,” The man said. “You don’t have to understand. It’s my choice. I find myself suddenly minding company. Go away.”
And the pastor did.
The Provider - Chapter 8
Chapter - 8
Jim and Daniel washed the dishes. Jim smoked away at his pipe and hummed a tune. He felt good. His son was looking at him sideways, but he felt too good to allow Daniel to peer pressure him into being dignified.
“I think I’ll look for some day work,” Jim said. He handed over a pot for Daniel to dry.
“Think you’ll find anything?” Daniel asked. His tone a dead match for the last hundred times they had this same conversation.
“You never know. Today could be my day,” Jim said “You and I could be driving matching red Corvettes and drinking Dom Perignon by the gallon in a month.”
“Yeah right. I have to get to school”.
“Are things going okay at school? You don’t talk about it much,” Jim said.
“Yeah. It’s okay.”
“I don’t know whether that means you’re making straight A’s or joining a suicide cult,” Jim said.
“It’s fine,” Daniel said. Jim knew this conversation was over and didn’t push is further.
“Okay,” Jim said. “Have a good day.” He watched his son go out the front door.
“I love you Dad,” Daniel called over his shoulder. The words hit Jim like a thunder clap.
“I love you too son,” Jim said. He turned to the sink and finished up the dishes.
Later that day Daniel was in his history class. The teacher was handing out their latest graded tests. The teacher had the interesting habit of laying their tests face down on their owner’s desks for confidentiality while at the same time, making loud public comments about their scores. When he approached Daniel’s desk and laid his test down the teacher looked at him and sighed.
“Another C. Mr. Average strikes again. Your predictability keeps me sane. Keep it up and I’m sure you’ll be a great used car salesman someday.” Daniel heard the snickers from the other students. He willed it not too, but Daniel could feel his face flushing at the attention. The teacher sensed his discomfort and moved on.
“Mr. George,” The teacher mockingly bowed to the boy sitting in the desk directly in front of his. “You seem to want to grace us with yet another year of your presence. You must love this class to want to take it two years in a row. Would you like me to save this desk for you?” The class laughed but none as loudly as Daniel heard coming from his own mouth. Stepping directly on the heels of his embarrassment, Daniel’s laughter tripped to a higher decibel level than his peers making his voice ring clear amongst his classmates. George turned around.
“What do you think is so funny?” George said.
“Oh, Shush,” The teacher said to George. “Your scores are laughable. If you don’t like being laughed at I suggest opening your book and study.” The teacher walked to the next desk. When he was done handing out the tests he walked to the front of the classroom and began the next chapter’s lesson.
“Hey laughing boy.” Daniel looked up to see George hissing words at him through clenched teeth. “I am going to kick the shit out of you after school.” He turned, looked at the clock and turned back around. “You have five hours until then. I’m going to knock your fucking teeth out.”
Daniel left school at a fast trot. He neither looked right nor left, just picked his legs up and put them down. The rest of his day at school was a half remembered dream. His anxiety rose with each passing hour. When the final bell rang, Daniel found himself almost running out the door. Sheer panic of the coming fight battled against the anvil like middle school peer pressure to look cool and not stand out. It was all for naught anyway as he almost ran right into George before he saw him. George had four of his friends with him making a veritable wall that pinned Daniel to his position. Daniel didn’t run. He felt his mind race at light speed while his frame stayed nailed in place. His body drawn, hands in pockets, under the sneers of George and his friends.
“Well. Look who’s trying to run home. Couldn’t back up your fucking mouth?” George’s friends laughed.
“I don’t want to fight,” Daniel said quietly.
“You don’t have a choice.” George pushed Daniel backwards. His hard and awkward fall was cushioned by his backpack. Daniel lay prone on the ground, frozen in fear.
“Get the fuck up you coward,” George yelled at him. Daniel’s submissive figure only seemed to enrage his attacker. George kicked him in the side. Daniel moaned and rolled on his stomach. George felt the excitement wane from his friends at Daniel’s lack of fighting spirit. He ripped open Daniels backpack and chucked his papers and books out into the street.
“You fucking asshole! Get up and fight me! Damn it!” George roughly turned Daniel over and saw he was crying.
“Please stop. Please don’t hit me again,” Daniel sobbed. George cupped his hand over Daniel’s nose and mouth. Daniel struggled and choked. George looked up at his friends who all looked really uncomfortable. He released Daniel, stood up and spit in his face.
“Pussy,” George said. He walked away with his friends.
Daniel slowly got up from the ground crying and coughing. He gathered up his papers and books from the street. Other children from the school walked past him. Not helping him. Not looking at him. Daniel felt the indignity of the assaulted. Fighting is accepted as a part of youth and the young get away with things adults would be imprisoned for. His broken spirit was accentuated by the uncomfortable wetness and stain widening on the front of his jeans. He held his backpack in front of him as he walked home. At some point during the fight, he had wet himself.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
The Provider - Chapter 7
Chapter 7
The morning found Jim in his car looking down at his worn shoes. Jolting his body into action, he dug into his pocket and brought out the rumpled twenties. He opened the window and dropped the bills onto the pavement. “I don’t need your fucking charity. You’re the loser.” He said with vehemence. Dignity slightly restored, Jim put the car into drive. His son would be waking up soon and would be hungry for breakfast.
Jim cleaned up in his bathroom. Looking at his face in the mirror revealed more of the same dark and grim countenance he had begun to regard as normal. He shaved off his wiry stubble, rinsed his hands and drew them wet through his peppered grey hair and brushed it into place. He ran the water ice cold and splashed it aggressively on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. The face looking back at him was clean, clear and not unhandsome. Feeling like a new man, Jim went back into the kitchen and prepared breakfast. He cracked a couple extra eggs and laid our a few more strips of bacon than normal. Today he was going to eat breakfast with his boy. The sun was beginning to rise. The smell of crisping bacon wafted in the air. Jim put on a pot of coffee and lit up his pipe. Fragrant vanilla flavored smoke filled the air. As he turned the eggs in the skillet he smiled.
“Hi dad,” Daniel said. He looked at the spread on the table and moved into his chair.
“Hey buddy,” Jim said.
“Are we having company for breakfast or something?”
“Not unless you have one of your girlfriends in there,” Jim said. Daniel laughed and the father felt his heart surge with delight. How long has it been since he heard the boy laugh? He thought. Weeks. It had been weeks. He sat down across from his son and dug into his eggs. His son was eating too. Bacon first, then onto the eggs. He ate his food one section at a time. Nothing like his father who didn‘t care if his foods mixed. No, the boy was more like his mother this way. Thinking of her made his stomach knot and he lost his hunger. He shoved the pain deep and forced himself to take another bite of toast. This morning was going too well to allow his illogical crave of her presence to waste it.
“You’re hungry today,” Jim remarked, wrenching his thoughts back to his boy.
“Yeah. The food is good,” Daniel stared a moment into his plate. He stuttered and suddenly blurted out “I know you work all night and are probably really tired by now. You don’t have to cook me breakfast everyday. I could just eat a bowl of cereal or something.” Daniel’s eyes darted up and met his father’s for a moment, then looked back down.
“I like to cook for you,” Jim said.
“I know,” Daniel said. “I just don’t want to add any more pressure.” The boy trailed off and dropped his fork on his plate. His countenance darkened.
“The only pressure cooking eggs is that they might burn,” The father joked.
“I’m serious. You don’t have too!” Daniel said. Jim saw the earnestness on Daniel’s face. He couldn’t help himself, he was a bit giddy from being tired and he kept joking.
“But I’ve seen you cook. It’s downright scary,” Jim regretted it as soon as he said it. His jest seemed to sting Daniel.
“Listen to me!” Daniel yelled. “I know you work all night and look for work during the day. You don’t sleep. You don’t need to do this for me.”
“Okay. Sorry. Okay. Seriously, it’s not hard for me to make you breakfast,” Jim said. “I feel a little guilty having to leave you alone every night and it’s really one of the only times I get to see you. It’s for my benefit really. I just like spending the morning with you. Okay?”
Daniel sat sullen for a moment. “Okay,” He said and picked up his fork. They resumed in silence.
The morning found Jim in his car looking down at his worn shoes. Jolting his body into action, he dug into his pocket and brought out the rumpled twenties. He opened the window and dropped the bills onto the pavement. “I don’t need your fucking charity. You’re the loser.” He said with vehemence. Dignity slightly restored, Jim put the car into drive. His son would be waking up soon and would be hungry for breakfast.
Jim cleaned up in his bathroom. Looking at his face in the mirror revealed more of the same dark and grim countenance he had begun to regard as normal. He shaved off his wiry stubble, rinsed his hands and drew them wet through his peppered grey hair and brushed it into place. He ran the water ice cold and splashed it aggressively on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. The face looking back at him was clean, clear and not unhandsome. Feeling like a new man, Jim went back into the kitchen and prepared breakfast. He cracked a couple extra eggs and laid our a few more strips of bacon than normal. Today he was going to eat breakfast with his boy. The sun was beginning to rise. The smell of crisping bacon wafted in the air. Jim put on a pot of coffee and lit up his pipe. Fragrant vanilla flavored smoke filled the air. As he turned the eggs in the skillet he smiled.
“Hi dad,” Daniel said. He looked at the spread on the table and moved into his chair.
“Hey buddy,” Jim said.
“Are we having company for breakfast or something?”
“Not unless you have one of your girlfriends in there,” Jim said. Daniel laughed and the father felt his heart surge with delight. How long has it been since he heard the boy laugh? He thought. Weeks. It had been weeks. He sat down across from his son and dug into his eggs. His son was eating too. Bacon first, then onto the eggs. He ate his food one section at a time. Nothing like his father who didn‘t care if his foods mixed. No, the boy was more like his mother this way. Thinking of her made his stomach knot and he lost his hunger. He shoved the pain deep and forced himself to take another bite of toast. This morning was going too well to allow his illogical crave of her presence to waste it.
“You’re hungry today,” Jim remarked, wrenching his thoughts back to his boy.
“Yeah. The food is good,” Daniel stared a moment into his plate. He stuttered and suddenly blurted out “I know you work all night and are probably really tired by now. You don’t have to cook me breakfast everyday. I could just eat a bowl of cereal or something.” Daniel’s eyes darted up and met his father’s for a moment, then looked back down.
“I like to cook for you,” Jim said.
“I know,” Daniel said. “I just don’t want to add any more pressure.” The boy trailed off and dropped his fork on his plate. His countenance darkened.
“The only pressure cooking eggs is that they might burn,” The father joked.
“I’m serious. You don’t have too!” Daniel said. Jim saw the earnestness on Daniel’s face. He couldn’t help himself, he was a bit giddy from being tired and he kept joking.
“But I’ve seen you cook. It’s downright scary,” Jim regretted it as soon as he said it. His jest seemed to sting Daniel.
“Listen to me!” Daniel yelled. “I know you work all night and look for work during the day. You don’t sleep. You don’t need to do this for me.”
“Okay. Sorry. Okay. Seriously, it’s not hard for me to make you breakfast,” Jim said. “I feel a little guilty having to leave you alone every night and it’s really one of the only times I get to see you. It’s for my benefit really. I just like spending the morning with you. Okay?”
Daniel sat sullen for a moment. “Okay,” He said and picked up his fork. They resumed in silence.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
These Four Walls
I've never done good thingsI've never done bad things
I never did anything out of the blue
Want an axe to break the ice
Want to come down right now
It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls. He was awake. He would rub his fingers over the mesh of his port-a-crib. Faster and faster, he would rub until his fingers burned from the friction and his senses ran into overdrive. He would hesitate for a moment and let those feelings pass, then rub again, over and over and over. If he stopped rubbing everything would stop. There was nobody to talk to him. There was nothing in the crib except a soiled blanket. There used to be a yellow and pink stuffed bear as well. Like the ones won at a carnival. But he had thrown that out days ago and nobody had placed it back in the crib with him. The silence was too much of a void so he would rub and rub and rub. The mesh wove patterns of light as his fingers raced back and forth. Millions of rays played a frantic game of light and shadow. Sometimes he would get lost in them. He could get so involved that he would just stare at the little holes. Those were the best times. It was like he wasn’t even there.
A girl my age went off her head, hit some tiny children
If the black hadn't a-pulled her off, I think she would have killed them
A soldier with a broken arm, fixed his stare to the wheels of a Cadillac
A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest, and a queer threw up at the sight of that
Sometimes he would scream. There was delicious times where he found his voice. He would sound loud and louder. The air would expel from his lungs. His muscles would tense with the joy of it all. It wasn’t for any sort of purpose. Just to sound was enough. The volume was ecstasy in his ears. He could push everything else away with the sound. He would close his eyes tight and a torrent of white and black spots would dance in the darkness behind his eyes. The sound would sometimes bring something else. Something beautiful or painful. It was only a matter of time. It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls.
I'm an alligator, I'm a mama-papa coming for you
I'm the space invader, I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you
Keep your mouth shut, you're squawking like a big monkey bird
And I'm busting up my brains for the words
Sometimes she would come. Staggering with eyes closed from light and pain. Heavy hands would land on the frayed edges of his port-a-crib. She would regard him and he her. If only he could stop screaming for a moment. But he found that he could not. He could just scream and scream. Sometimes she would tell him to shut the fuck up. Sometimes she would hit him. It made no difference. The screams would come from somewhere inside of him. They were as regular as breathing and as normal as his beating heart. There were the moments of silence. Sometimes a hit would come so hard that screaming was impossible from the incredible jar of the strike and the spots in his vision would become swirling stars and dazzling explosions of sharp pain. After, there was a tingling numbness as he sucked in air, Though not enough for another scream. Focus came back as often as it did not. When it did, she was gone. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
We live for just these twenty years
Do we have to die for the fifty more
Sometimes when she came it was different. She would coo and pick him up. His body would tense against her touch. So much in his little body wanted to press into her. To feel her skin. To be close to her. There was something in her touch that repelled him as much as it drew him. He found himself fighting against her, pulling at her hair, biting her. Sometimes she would throw him back into the crib and be gone again. Sometimes she would place him on the ground on his back. She would take off his foul and dripping diaper, clean him and put on a new one. She would tell him that he smelled like shit. She would say he was disgusting. She would tell him she wished he was dead. He couldn’t look into her eyes. There was so much he didn’t like to see there. He would lay on the floor, let her clean him, avoid her eyes and concentrate on the touch. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test
Sometimes he would drop. Legs just didn’t work after awhile. He would lay very still and look toward the ceiling as it spun and spun and spun. She would lounge on the couch and pick her nose. Sometimes she would forget to take the needle out of her arm and it would bob with the motion of her hands. She stared and stared, smiling all the time, nothing behind her eyes. He would cry sometimes. The pain would make him cry. There was something missing. She would drift off the couch and move to the kitchen as if in a dream. She would get the yellow box and float back toward him. Then the rain would come. Small tan circles poured into the crib, bouncing off his face, arms and body. He would open his mouth and some would drop in. They crunched when he worked his jaw. Delicious. Salvation. He would crawl through his stained and foul crib and eat every one he found. Sometimes she would only drop in a little. The best times where when the yellow box would fall from her fingers completely and it would all be his. He would sleep after eating. When he awoke, he found his legs worked again and he could stand up.
I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence and
So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
“I have to shit,” She said. “Oh, man I have to shit so bad. Where’s the fucking bathroom? I have to get to the fucking bathroom.” She stood up and wobbled grotesquely, bumping against the wall as she staggered to the bathroom. “Shut the fuck up,” The man would say. “You’re just coming unplugged from all that shit you do. It has to happen sometime.” The man laughed and laughed. The child rubbed my fingers over the mesh and watched her. “Go and get some more shit,” She said. “I think I will,” The man said. “I don’t want to be around when you take a super dump anyway.” He walked out of the house and closed the door. She pulled her pants down and slumped onto the toilet and shuddered. The child rubbed the mesh on the port-a-crib. The child tried to leave and get lost in the light, but it wouldn’t let him. He had to watch. He had to be there. “Oh, shit. Holy shit,” She said. She lifted her body off the toilet and it tensed as her body shoved forward. A baby dropped from her vagina, cradled in a wet weave of afterbirth. The tiny body thumped on the bathroom tile. She stood there looking down at the baby. The umbilical cord snaked into her. She pulled on it like it could be unplugged from her body. The tiny baby cried. So did she. All of a sudden the flickering light from the mesh caught The child’s eye and he was lost in the sparkling light. He could feel the heat from his fingers rubbing back and forth, faster and faster. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth
You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette
The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget
I never did anything out of the blue
Want an axe to break the ice
Want to come down right now
It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls. He was awake. He would rub his fingers over the mesh of his port-a-crib. Faster and faster, he would rub until his fingers burned from the friction and his senses ran into overdrive. He would hesitate for a moment and let those feelings pass, then rub again, over and over and over. If he stopped rubbing everything would stop. There was nobody to talk to him. There was nothing in the crib except a soiled blanket. There used to be a yellow and pink stuffed bear as well. Like the ones won at a carnival. But he had thrown that out days ago and nobody had placed it back in the crib with him. The silence was too much of a void so he would rub and rub and rub. The mesh wove patterns of light as his fingers raced back and forth. Millions of rays played a frantic game of light and shadow. Sometimes he would get lost in them. He could get so involved that he would just stare at the little holes. Those were the best times. It was like he wasn’t even there.
A girl my age went off her head, hit some tiny children
If the black hadn't a-pulled her off, I think she would have killed them
A soldier with a broken arm, fixed his stare to the wheels of a Cadillac
A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest, and a queer threw up at the sight of that
Sometimes he would scream. There was delicious times where he found his voice. He would sound loud and louder. The air would expel from his lungs. His muscles would tense with the joy of it all. It wasn’t for any sort of purpose. Just to sound was enough. The volume was ecstasy in his ears. He could push everything else away with the sound. He would close his eyes tight and a torrent of white and black spots would dance in the darkness behind his eyes. The sound would sometimes bring something else. Something beautiful or painful. It was only a matter of time. It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls.
I'm an alligator, I'm a mama-papa coming for you
I'm the space invader, I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you
Keep your mouth shut, you're squawking like a big monkey bird
And I'm busting up my brains for the words
Sometimes she would come. Staggering with eyes closed from light and pain. Heavy hands would land on the frayed edges of his port-a-crib. She would regard him and he her. If only he could stop screaming for a moment. But he found that he could not. He could just scream and scream. Sometimes she would tell him to shut the fuck up. Sometimes she would hit him. It made no difference. The screams would come from somewhere inside of him. They were as regular as breathing and as normal as his beating heart. There were the moments of silence. Sometimes a hit would come so hard that screaming was impossible from the incredible jar of the strike and the spots in his vision would become swirling stars and dazzling explosions of sharp pain. After, there was a tingling numbness as he sucked in air, Though not enough for another scream. Focus came back as often as it did not. When it did, she was gone. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
We live for just these twenty years
Do we have to die for the fifty more
Sometimes when she came it was different. She would coo and pick him up. His body would tense against her touch. So much in his little body wanted to press into her. To feel her skin. To be close to her. There was something in her touch that repelled him as much as it drew him. He found himself fighting against her, pulling at her hair, biting her. Sometimes she would throw him back into the crib and be gone again. Sometimes she would place him on the ground on his back. She would take off his foul and dripping diaper, clean him and put on a new one. She would tell him that he smelled like shit. She would say he was disgusting. She would tell him she wished he was dead. He couldn’t look into her eyes. There was so much he didn’t like to see there. He would lay on the floor, let her clean him, avoid her eyes and concentrate on the touch. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test
Sometimes he would drop. Legs just didn’t work after awhile. He would lay very still and look toward the ceiling as it spun and spun and spun. She would lounge on the couch and pick her nose. Sometimes she would forget to take the needle out of her arm and it would bob with the motion of her hands. She stared and stared, smiling all the time, nothing behind her eyes. He would cry sometimes. The pain would make him cry. There was something missing. She would drift off the couch and move to the kitchen as if in a dream. She would get the yellow box and float back toward him. Then the rain would come. Small tan circles poured into the crib, bouncing off his face, arms and body. He would open his mouth and some would drop in. They crunched when he worked his jaw. Delicious. Salvation. He would crawl through his stained and foul crib and eat every one he found. Sometimes she would only drop in a little. The best times where when the yellow box would fall from her fingers completely and it would all be his. He would sleep after eating. When he awoke, he found his legs worked again and he could stand up.
I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence and
So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
“I have to shit,” She said. “Oh, man I have to shit so bad. Where’s the fucking bathroom? I have to get to the fucking bathroom.” She stood up and wobbled grotesquely, bumping against the wall as she staggered to the bathroom. “Shut the fuck up,” The man would say. “You’re just coming unplugged from all that shit you do. It has to happen sometime.” The man laughed and laughed. The child rubbed my fingers over the mesh and watched her. “Go and get some more shit,” She said. “I think I will,” The man said. “I don’t want to be around when you take a super dump anyway.” He walked out of the house and closed the door. She pulled her pants down and slumped onto the toilet and shuddered. The child rubbed the mesh on the port-a-crib. The child tried to leave and get lost in the light, but it wouldn’t let him. He had to watch. He had to be there. “Oh, shit. Holy shit,” She said. She lifted her body off the toilet and it tensed as her body shoved forward. A baby dropped from her vagina, cradled in a wet weave of afterbirth. The tiny body thumped on the bathroom tile. She stood there looking down at the baby. The umbilical cord snaked into her. She pulled on it like it could be unplugged from her body. The tiny baby cried. So did she. All of a sudden the flickering light from the mesh caught The child’s eye and he was lost in the sparkling light. He could feel the heat from his fingers rubbing back and forth, faster and faster. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth
You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette
The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget
Monday, September 10, 2012
The Provider - Chapter 5
Chapter - 5
Jim parked his car a couple blocks from the nightclub where he worked. He walked the darkening residential streets. Hitting the main drag was like emerging from dark tangle of jungle into a blinding shoreline. The flickering sheen of the neon lights reflected sickly off his skin. The lights drove away the darkness and with it the stars. He descended the stone, semi-damp basement steps and opened the club door. The club’s décor was Hindu Religious symbolism mixed with Tribal iconography. Jim referred to it as“religion in a blender.” There was nobody in the main hallway. He pushed back a tapestry to reveal a hidden closet door which held the broom for him to sweep the steps. Jim walked out the door and back into the night. He swept the stairs quietly and quickly. He swept away the fatigue of his body. He swept away the anger at this being the best employment he could find and it wasn’t enough. The past due bills hung heavy on his conscience. It was a slow burn. Falling ever further behind. It wasn’t a question of if the bottom would drop out, but when. Everything untended eventually failed. Jim thought of his house. The were several repairs past due. Leaks that began as a small dot of stain on the ceiling became larger with each passing week. He thought of his old furnace and water heater. Either one of those going out would finish him. Jim thought it would be justice for a life misspent. The economy failed and took the working class with it. It was his responsibilities to his son that made him hang on. Failure was the eventuality. Jim chose the graceful collapse, instead of the hard and fast implosion of many in this area. His work finished, he walked back into the club. Jim peeked around the hallway to nod to the bartenders and servers who were congregated in the main bar area.
“How are you doing man?” One of the bartenders smiled and waved to him.
“I’m good,” Jim said. I’m going to open up.”
“Okay,” The bartender turned back to the others. Jim was by far the oldest member of the staff and felt an inability to relate to his younger colleagues. They looked at him with a kind of dread. To them, this job was a stop-gap. It was a cool college job they could get nostalgic about in later life. Jim was a walking nightmare to them. He was their reminder to go home after closing and finish homework, complete degrees or marry well.
Jim went back to the safety of the empty hallway. He flicked on the lights and put out the dress code sign. He turned to see the girl who collected the cover charge skipping down the hallway. Her spike heels clicked loudly on the concrete floor. Jim thought she look like a walking skeleton. Her pale, stretched skin was further accentuated by a slathering of harsh bright whorish makeup.
“Hi!” She said brightly as she snapped open the door to the small closet sized room that would serve as her spot for the night. She flipped open the cash-box and counted its contents. She finished and snapped the box closed. She turned toward Jim and drummed her lacquered red fake nails on the ledge of the half door. He could already feel her boredom beginning to darken her exterior. He couldn’t help but take it personally. Jim knew he was hard to talk too. He never had anything to say. The more he though about something interesting he could say, the less came to mind. Every night was like a first- date failure with this girl.
“How are you doing tonight?” He asked her.
“Fine,” She said. She stared directly at him and continued to drub her fingers. She left her mouth hang open after saying “Fine,” Waiting for Jim to expound on the conversation. Jim thought she looked like a cow who’s forgotten a mouth full of cud.
“Did you have a good day off yesterday?” Jim said. She nodded and gazed off longingly down the empty hallway toward the main bar where the interesting people worked. She shut down. Jim shut down. The both of them waited in silent awkwardness for the customers to begin arriving.
Jim parked his car a couple blocks from the nightclub where he worked. He walked the darkening residential streets. Hitting the main drag was like emerging from dark tangle of jungle into a blinding shoreline. The flickering sheen of the neon lights reflected sickly off his skin. The lights drove away the darkness and with it the stars. He descended the stone, semi-damp basement steps and opened the club door. The club’s décor was Hindu Religious symbolism mixed with Tribal iconography. Jim referred to it as“religion in a blender.” There was nobody in the main hallway. He pushed back a tapestry to reveal a hidden closet door which held the broom for him to sweep the steps. Jim walked out the door and back into the night. He swept the stairs quietly and quickly. He swept away the fatigue of his body. He swept away the anger at this being the best employment he could find and it wasn’t enough. The past due bills hung heavy on his conscience. It was a slow burn. Falling ever further behind. It wasn’t a question of if the bottom would drop out, but when. Everything untended eventually failed. Jim thought of his house. The were several repairs past due. Leaks that began as a small dot of stain on the ceiling became larger with each passing week. He thought of his old furnace and water heater. Either one of those going out would finish him. Jim thought it would be justice for a life misspent. The economy failed and took the working class with it. It was his responsibilities to his son that made him hang on. Failure was the eventuality. Jim chose the graceful collapse, instead of the hard and fast implosion of many in this area. His work finished, he walked back into the club. Jim peeked around the hallway to nod to the bartenders and servers who were congregated in the main bar area.
“How are you doing man?” One of the bartenders smiled and waved to him.
“I’m good,” Jim said. I’m going to open up.”
“Okay,” The bartender turned back to the others. Jim was by far the oldest member of the staff and felt an inability to relate to his younger colleagues. They looked at him with a kind of dread. To them, this job was a stop-gap. It was a cool college job they could get nostalgic about in later life. Jim was a walking nightmare to them. He was their reminder to go home after closing and finish homework, complete degrees or marry well.
Jim went back to the safety of the empty hallway. He flicked on the lights and put out the dress code sign. He turned to see the girl who collected the cover charge skipping down the hallway. Her spike heels clicked loudly on the concrete floor. Jim thought she look like a walking skeleton. Her pale, stretched skin was further accentuated by a slathering of harsh bright whorish makeup.
“Hi!” She said brightly as she snapped open the door to the small closet sized room that would serve as her spot for the night. She flipped open the cash-box and counted its contents. She finished and snapped the box closed. She turned toward Jim and drummed her lacquered red fake nails on the ledge of the half door. He could already feel her boredom beginning to darken her exterior. He couldn’t help but take it personally. Jim knew he was hard to talk too. He never had anything to say. The more he though about something interesting he could say, the less came to mind. Every night was like a first- date failure with this girl.
“How are you doing tonight?” He asked her.
“Fine,” She said. She stared directly at him and continued to drub her fingers. She left her mouth hang open after saying “Fine,” Waiting for Jim to expound on the conversation. Jim thought she looked like a cow who’s forgotten a mouth full of cud.
“Did you have a good day off yesterday?” Jim said. She nodded and gazed off longingly down the empty hallway toward the main bar where the interesting people worked. She shut down. Jim shut down. The both of them waited in silent awkwardness for the customers to begin arriving.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Saying Goodbye
Atticus sat in the front row at his mother’s funeral. His mother lay in a cheap-looking green casket fifteen feet in front of him. Her funeral was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago, but nobody had showed, so Atticus asked the proceedings to wait. The clergy member he paid to give service sat outside the room in the hallway drinking coffee. Every few minutes he would peek his head in and ask if he should begin service. Atticus didn’t like the way the searching look the man gave him.
Atticus stood up and walked up to the wooden podium placed left of his mother. He looked at the empty seats for a moment, began to speak, then faltered. “This is stupid,” He thought. He was about to sit down when the clergy member walked back into the room. He sat in the front row and put his folder in the chair next to him.
“Looks like you’ve got something to say,” The clergy member said.
“It’s silly. There’s no one here,” Atticus said.
“I won’t lie to you, I’ve seen a lot of strange stuff in my calling, but I’ve never seen a whole funeral where no-one showed up,” The clergy man said, “Who are we waiting on?”
“I don’t know.”
“They’re going to need this room again sooner or later. If you want to get started you’d best do it now. I don’t think you really need me to preach to you, although I will if you want, I think I’d be of best service to listen,” The clergy man said. Atticus nodded. “You’d best get started.”
Atticus gripped to podium with two hands then dropped them awkwardly back to his sides. He could get the words out.
“Just start talking,” The clergy man said, “Let it kind of flow out of you.”
“My father told me that the two most important relationships in your life are to God and then your spouse,” Atticus said, “He used to tell me when I misbehaved that I shouldn’t make him choose sides between her and me, because he would pick her every time. He loved her very much. I don’t remember them fighting at all. They stayed married until he died. Most people don’t stay married anymore. I could always tell their relationship would make it. It would have been the worst shock of my life if they had gotten a divorce.” Atticus shook his head. “Is this okay?”
“Just keep talking,” The clergy man said.
“When he died it was like I lost two parents,” Atticus said, “I never knew any different than when they were together. My mother was always with my father. I never thought of her as a single person. She was always Mom. I don’t even think our relationship ever got past when I was a child. I kept growing but she didn’t allow our relationship to grow. I remember her saying things like, ‘The best times were when your father was alive and you were small.’ I didn’t know what to say about that. It was like she made a choice of where she was comfortable with me and that’s where she stayed. Time’s a bitch though, it doesn’t allow for anything to stay the same.”
“That’s not all, is it?” The clergy man said.
“No,” Atticus said, “Sorry I said bitch.”
“It’s okay.”
“I think part of her not changing was that I wasn’t a very good person. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had no real plan for my life. I had a way of messing things up. I was barely eeking by and my life was ending one day at a time. I don’t think I’m a very good person. I don’t think I’m worth very much. I don’t think anyone will give a shit when I’m dead. My mother probably thought the way she did because when I was little my life had endless possibilities. The older I got, the more my useless reality began to set in. I’m nothing. Why would any Mom want a nothing for a child?” Atticus frowned.
“What happened to your mom?” The clergy man said.
“I don’t know,” Atticus said. He began to cry.
“You said you were the one who’s supposed to die alone,” The clergy man said, “How come she’s the one?”
“I told you I don’t know,” Atticus said, “I kind of lost track of her, you know? I got older and moved out. I got a job. I didn’t call, write or visit much. I just kind of lost her. I don’t know what she did every day. I don’t know who she spent her time with. Why she’s alone at her death? I don’t know.”
“What do you think about that?” The clergy man said.
“I think that maybe I’m more like her than I may have thought,” Atticus said, “Maybe I’m just as guilty of not wanting our relationship to grow past what it was. I know I was bitter when my father died. I had my own life and didn’t want to be saddeld with taking care of her. She was always very touchy when I saw her and I’m not that kind of person. I think she always knew this but would invade my personal space anyway. It was like she thought she had a right to hug and kiss me just because I was her child. I didn’t have the courage to tell her I was uncomfortable to her face because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. However, I think she used that to her advantage too! Her personal space blitzcrigues made me avoid her all the more. It’s very complicated.”
“Where are you going with this?” The clergy man said.
“I feel like I’ve failed in my life again. Just another link to a long chain of fucking up. Here I am at my mom’s funeral and there’s nobody here. I should have known this was going to happen. I should have known my mother was alone.”
“Maybe,” The clergy man said, “She’s not totally alone. You’re here. She’s not even really ‘here’ anyway. Was your mother a Christian?”
“I think so.”
“Did you ever go to church with your parents when you were a child?”
“We went to a Methodist church for awhile,” Atticus said.
“What happened?”
“My family was real involved with the church,” Atticus said, “We were there almost every Sunday. They left because a lesbian couple wanted to have their adopted baby baptized in the church and the church wouldn’t do it.”
“So they left?” The clergy man said.
“They did. They didn’t think the child should suffer for the parent’s decisions. The church may have a beef with what the parent’s were doing, but they shouldn’t have an issue with a baby,” Atticus said.
“What did you think about that?”
“I used to agree with my parents,” Atticus said, “It just doesn’t make sense to not baptize anyone, especially a baby. When I got older and thought about it more, by having a baptism with a lesbian couple in the front of the church the church is making a pretty huge public statement. I can see both sides of the issue. I still think they should have baptized the baby. Love the sinner, right?”
“It would have probably taken a lot of courage on the part of the church to do that baptism,” The clergy man said.
“Anyway, they left the church,” Atticus said, “They never went back. My father told me that you don’t have to go to church to be a Christian. Do you agree?”
“I think that could be true. There really isn’t any perfect formula to becoming a Christian. It all boils down to a person’s personal relationship with God,” The clergy man said, “Do you believe in God?”
“I think so,” Atticus said.
“You either do or you don’t,” The clergy man said, “Would you come down here please? It feels kind of odd talking to you standing up there behind that podium.” Atticus walked over and sat in the chair next to the clergy man. He continued, “Where your mother is now is between her and God. If I were you I would feel confident that he is taking care of her. It sounds like you and your mother both faltered a bit in your adult relationship with each other. There’s nothing you can do about that now and it will do you no good the suffer yourself about it. Say goodbye to your mom. Make your peace. Get your ass in church and get on with things.”
“I will,” Atticus said, “should I pay you now?”
The clergy man looked around the empty room. “I don’t think I would feel right taking money for doing this. Show up in church, any church, and we’ll call it even,” he said.
“Okay,” Atticus said. The clergy man patted him on the shoulder, got up and left.
Atticus stood up and walked over to his mother. She didn’t look like he remembered her. Her skin shined and a plastic kind of way. Her flesh looked sunken. She was thin. Atticus didn’t know whether this was from the funeral director’s preparation of her body, or if she’d lost weight before she died. Atticus thought she was wearing too much make-up.
“Goodbye mom,” Atticus said. He thought he should kiss her, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Randolph, the funeral director, spoke softly to him from the door.
“I hope everything was satisfactory,” he said, “I hate to do this but we are well over time to begin the burying ceremony. May I begin preparations to move your mother?”
“I’m done here,” Atticus said. Randolph walked in and gently closed the coffin lid. Atticus tried to keep in his mind his last look at his mother as the shadow of the coffin lid passed her face and shut her away forever.
“I won’t be going with you to the graveyard,” Atticus said.
“Everything is prepared. Are you sure?” Randolph said.
“I think you took advantage of me,” Atticus said.
“I only did what you asked. Nothing more. Your mother couldn’t have had better care upon her passing. What else would you have had me do?”
“Forget it,” Atticus said, “Enjoy my money.”
“I regret this conversation,” Randolph said, “I really do.”
“I hope you so,” Atticus said. He walked out of the funeral home and made the miles slowly home on foot.
Atticus stood up and walked up to the wooden podium placed left of his mother. He looked at the empty seats for a moment, began to speak, then faltered. “This is stupid,” He thought. He was about to sit down when the clergy member walked back into the room. He sat in the front row and put his folder in the chair next to him.
“Looks like you’ve got something to say,” The clergy member said.
“It’s silly. There’s no one here,” Atticus said.
“I won’t lie to you, I’ve seen a lot of strange stuff in my calling, but I’ve never seen a whole funeral where no-one showed up,” The clergy man said, “Who are we waiting on?”
“I don’t know.”
“They’re going to need this room again sooner or later. If you want to get started you’d best do it now. I don’t think you really need me to preach to you, although I will if you want, I think I’d be of best service to listen,” The clergy man said. Atticus nodded. “You’d best get started.”
Atticus gripped to podium with two hands then dropped them awkwardly back to his sides. He could get the words out.
“Just start talking,” The clergy man said, “Let it kind of flow out of you.”
“My father told me that the two most important relationships in your life are to God and then your spouse,” Atticus said, “He used to tell me when I misbehaved that I shouldn’t make him choose sides between her and me, because he would pick her every time. He loved her very much. I don’t remember them fighting at all. They stayed married until he died. Most people don’t stay married anymore. I could always tell their relationship would make it. It would have been the worst shock of my life if they had gotten a divorce.” Atticus shook his head. “Is this okay?”
“Just keep talking,” The clergy man said.
“When he died it was like I lost two parents,” Atticus said, “I never knew any different than when they were together. My mother was always with my father. I never thought of her as a single person. She was always Mom. I don’t even think our relationship ever got past when I was a child. I kept growing but she didn’t allow our relationship to grow. I remember her saying things like, ‘The best times were when your father was alive and you were small.’ I didn’t know what to say about that. It was like she made a choice of where she was comfortable with me and that’s where she stayed. Time’s a bitch though, it doesn’t allow for anything to stay the same.”
“That’s not all, is it?” The clergy man said.
“No,” Atticus said, “Sorry I said bitch.”
“It’s okay.”
“I think part of her not changing was that I wasn’t a very good person. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had no real plan for my life. I had a way of messing things up. I was barely eeking by and my life was ending one day at a time. I don’t think I’m a very good person. I don’t think I’m worth very much. I don’t think anyone will give a shit when I’m dead. My mother probably thought the way she did because when I was little my life had endless possibilities. The older I got, the more my useless reality began to set in. I’m nothing. Why would any Mom want a nothing for a child?” Atticus frowned.
“What happened to your mom?” The clergy man said.
“I don’t know,” Atticus said. He began to cry.
“You said you were the one who’s supposed to die alone,” The clergy man said, “How come she’s the one?”
“I told you I don’t know,” Atticus said, “I kind of lost track of her, you know? I got older and moved out. I got a job. I didn’t call, write or visit much. I just kind of lost her. I don’t know what she did every day. I don’t know who she spent her time with. Why she’s alone at her death? I don’t know.”
“What do you think about that?” The clergy man said.
“I think that maybe I’m more like her than I may have thought,” Atticus said, “Maybe I’m just as guilty of not wanting our relationship to grow past what it was. I know I was bitter when my father died. I had my own life and didn’t want to be saddeld with taking care of her. She was always very touchy when I saw her and I’m not that kind of person. I think she always knew this but would invade my personal space anyway. It was like she thought she had a right to hug and kiss me just because I was her child. I didn’t have the courage to tell her I was uncomfortable to her face because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. However, I think she used that to her advantage too! Her personal space blitzcrigues made me avoid her all the more. It’s very complicated.”
“Where are you going with this?” The clergy man said.
“I feel like I’ve failed in my life again. Just another link to a long chain of fucking up. Here I am at my mom’s funeral and there’s nobody here. I should have known this was going to happen. I should have known my mother was alone.”
“Maybe,” The clergy man said, “She’s not totally alone. You’re here. She’s not even really ‘here’ anyway. Was your mother a Christian?”
“I think so.”
“Did you ever go to church with your parents when you were a child?”
“We went to a Methodist church for awhile,” Atticus said.
“What happened?”
“My family was real involved with the church,” Atticus said, “We were there almost every Sunday. They left because a lesbian couple wanted to have their adopted baby baptized in the church and the church wouldn’t do it.”
“So they left?” The clergy man said.
“They did. They didn’t think the child should suffer for the parent’s decisions. The church may have a beef with what the parent’s were doing, but they shouldn’t have an issue with a baby,” Atticus said.
“What did you think about that?”
“I used to agree with my parents,” Atticus said, “It just doesn’t make sense to not baptize anyone, especially a baby. When I got older and thought about it more, by having a baptism with a lesbian couple in the front of the church the church is making a pretty huge public statement. I can see both sides of the issue. I still think they should have baptized the baby. Love the sinner, right?”
“It would have probably taken a lot of courage on the part of the church to do that baptism,” The clergy man said.
“Anyway, they left the church,” Atticus said, “They never went back. My father told me that you don’t have to go to church to be a Christian. Do you agree?”
“I think that could be true. There really isn’t any perfect formula to becoming a Christian. It all boils down to a person’s personal relationship with God,” The clergy man said, “Do you believe in God?”
“I think so,” Atticus said.
“You either do or you don’t,” The clergy man said, “Would you come down here please? It feels kind of odd talking to you standing up there behind that podium.” Atticus walked over and sat in the chair next to the clergy man. He continued, “Where your mother is now is between her and God. If I were you I would feel confident that he is taking care of her. It sounds like you and your mother both faltered a bit in your adult relationship with each other. There’s nothing you can do about that now and it will do you no good the suffer yourself about it. Say goodbye to your mom. Make your peace. Get your ass in church and get on with things.”
“I will,” Atticus said, “should I pay you now?”
The clergy man looked around the empty room. “I don’t think I would feel right taking money for doing this. Show up in church, any church, and we’ll call it even,” he said.
“Okay,” Atticus said. The clergy man patted him on the shoulder, got up and left.
Atticus stood up and walked over to his mother. She didn’t look like he remembered her. Her skin shined and a plastic kind of way. Her flesh looked sunken. She was thin. Atticus didn’t know whether this was from the funeral director’s preparation of her body, or if she’d lost weight before she died. Atticus thought she was wearing too much make-up.
“Goodbye mom,” Atticus said. He thought he should kiss her, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Randolph, the funeral director, spoke softly to him from the door.
“I hope everything was satisfactory,” he said, “I hate to do this but we are well over time to begin the burying ceremony. May I begin preparations to move your mother?”
“I’m done here,” Atticus said. Randolph walked in and gently closed the coffin lid. Atticus tried to keep in his mind his last look at his mother as the shadow of the coffin lid passed her face and shut her away forever.
“I won’t be going with you to the graveyard,” Atticus said.
“Everything is prepared. Are you sure?” Randolph said.
“I think you took advantage of me,” Atticus said.
“I only did what you asked. Nothing more. Your mother couldn’t have had better care upon her passing. What else would you have had me do?”
“Forget it,” Atticus said, “Enjoy my money.”
“I regret this conversation,” Randolph said, “I really do.”
“I hope you so,” Atticus said. He walked out of the funeral home and made the miles slowly home on foot.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Prodigal
The dad sat smoking his pipe on his front steps. His son drove up, his car clanged and shuddered, as he pulled into the driveway.
"The Alternators going," The dad thought.
The son got out of the car. Every time the dad saw his son he was surprised with how old he looked. His boy was thirty. Definitely not a boy anymore. His son had dark, almost black, hair combed and gelled in place. His features were softer than his father's. The dad thought he was more like his mother in that way. Thinking of his wife made the dad happy she was out running errands. Having her here when the boy showed up made things more difficult.
"That's probably as it should be," The dad thought, "I don't think I ever handle this right."
The boy got out of the car and walked over the grass to his dad.
"Hi dad," The boy said.
"Hi," The dad said. The boy looked terrible. Unhealthy. His skin was pockmarked with zits and scabs. His eyes were sunken and black. The dad thought his son was missing some teeth too, but the boy was a soft talker. His mouth never opened wide enough for the dad to be sure.
The boy toed the ground for a minute.
"Can I have a smoke?" He asked.
"Did you bring a pipe?" the father said. The boy shook his head no. The dad took out his tobacco pouch and handed it to the boy, who put it in his pocket. "Try and remember to bring the pouch back later."
"I'm in some trouble dad," The boy said.
"What do you want?"
"I want some money." The boy said.
"You remember our fishing spot?" The dad said, "You and I used to spend long weekend mornings there. Caught some catfish and talked away the morning."
"Lake number three," The boy said. He rubbed his face. "I need money dad."
"What do you need money for?" The dad said.
"I'm in trouble. I was kicked out of my apartment."
"For what?" The dad asked.
"I lost my job."
"When did you lose your job?"
"A couple weeks ago."
The dad took a long pull from his pipe. He watched as his son leaned on one foot then the next. His son picked his nose.
"Do you still play baseball?" The father said, "I remember you used to have a great throwing arm. Do you still hang out with those guys?"
"No, I don't play that anymore," The son said. He was agitated. "I haven't played that in years. Are you hearing me? I lost my job and I don't have a place to live."
The father nodded. "I hear you," He said.
"Can I stay here a few days?" The son asked.
His father said nothing.
"Dad," The son said, "Can I stay here for awhile?"
Everything inside the father screamed 'Yes' like a chorus of Angel's heralding the coming of Christ. He bit down on his pipe. "No," The dad said.
"No?" The son said. loudly. "What am I going to do?"
"I don't know," The dad said.
"What the fuck dad? I'm your son. I'm in trouble. I'm begging for your help."
"You know what they call me in town?" His father said softly.
"Always with your fucking tangents," The boy said, "I don't believe this. What do they call you in town?"
"Enabler," The dad said, "They call me enabler among other things. I don't let it bother me too much. In some ways I think they're right, but most of the time when someone calls another person something derogatory it's because they don't know what the hell they're talking about. I doubt they know how hard it is to say no when your children are in trouble. I'm learning how. The trouble is I tried to raise you right. I did all the right things but sometimes that isn't enough. Your kids get older and become adults. Adults make their own decisions. The trouble with parents is that they never see their children as adults. I look at you and see the little boy I love."
The boy kicked a piece of gravel.
"I'm hungry dad," The boy said. The dad pulled out a half-sandwich wrapped in plastic from his pocket and handed it to the boy. The boy took the sandwich and put it in his pocket. "Can I stay here for just one night. I just need a place for one night."
"Do you remember going to Sunday School?" The dad said.
"I remember. You took me there almost every week," The son said, "I also remember a story about the Prodigal Son whom messed up royally and his father took him in a helped him. What kind of dad does that make you?"
"Some men are better father's than others," The dad said.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Some men are better than others. Some sons are better than others," The dad said.
"You're going to shut me out, not help me and now your lecturing me on top of it? Fuck you."
"I've kept my part of the bargain," The dad said. "I've done my part. I've helped you find jobs. I've given you money. I've taken you in time after time. You always blame someone else for your problems. You take no ownership of them. You don't think about what you're doing with your life and how it kills me and your mother a little more each day."
"I'm fucking leaving," The boy said. He stormed over to his car. The father stood up on the steps.
"Your Sunday School teachers messed up your lessons," The dad said, "There is no repentance without a change in behavior. The Prodigal son came back to his father a changed man. You are no different. I can help you, but it won't change anything about you. You have to change yourself."
"Fuck you dad. I hate you." The boy tore open his car door.
"Son?" The dad said. The boy grimaced, but hesitated before getting in the car.
"What?"
"Your Alternator's going," The dad said. He sat back down on the steps. The boy got in his car and tore out of the driveway.
The dad tapped out his pipe and patted his pockets for his tobacco pouch. He remembered he gave his pouch to the boy. He put his pipe in his pocket.
His wife turned her car into the driveway a few minutes later. She got out of the car.
"Hi honey," She said.
"Hi," the dad said, "The boy stopped by."
"Where is he?" The mom asked.
"He's gone," The dad said, "He's gone."
"The Alternators going," The dad thought.
The son got out of the car. Every time the dad saw his son he was surprised with how old he looked. His boy was thirty. Definitely not a boy anymore. His son had dark, almost black, hair combed and gelled in place. His features were softer than his father's. The dad thought he was more like his mother in that way. Thinking of his wife made the dad happy she was out running errands. Having her here when the boy showed up made things more difficult.
"That's probably as it should be," The dad thought, "I don't think I ever handle this right."
The boy got out of the car and walked over the grass to his dad.
"Hi dad," The boy said.
"Hi," The dad said. The boy looked terrible. Unhealthy. His skin was pockmarked with zits and scabs. His eyes were sunken and black. The dad thought his son was missing some teeth too, but the boy was a soft talker. His mouth never opened wide enough for the dad to be sure.
The boy toed the ground for a minute.
"Can I have a smoke?" He asked.
"Did you bring a pipe?" the father said. The boy shook his head no. The dad took out his tobacco pouch and handed it to the boy, who put it in his pocket. "Try and remember to bring the pouch back later."
"I'm in some trouble dad," The boy said.
"What do you want?"
"I want some money." The boy said.
"You remember our fishing spot?" The dad said, "You and I used to spend long weekend mornings there. Caught some catfish and talked away the morning."
"Lake number three," The boy said. He rubbed his face. "I need money dad."
"What do you need money for?" The dad said.
"I'm in trouble. I was kicked out of my apartment."
"For what?" The dad asked.
"I lost my job."
"When did you lose your job?"
"A couple weeks ago."
The dad took a long pull from his pipe. He watched as his son leaned on one foot then the next. His son picked his nose.
"Do you still play baseball?" The father said, "I remember you used to have a great throwing arm. Do you still hang out with those guys?"
"No, I don't play that anymore," The son said. He was agitated. "I haven't played that in years. Are you hearing me? I lost my job and I don't have a place to live."
The father nodded. "I hear you," He said.
"Can I stay here a few days?" The son asked.
His father said nothing.
"Dad," The son said, "Can I stay here for awhile?"
Everything inside the father screamed 'Yes' like a chorus of Angel's heralding the coming of Christ. He bit down on his pipe. "No," The dad said.
"No?" The son said. loudly. "What am I going to do?"
"I don't know," The dad said.
"What the fuck dad? I'm your son. I'm in trouble. I'm begging for your help."
"You know what they call me in town?" His father said softly.
"Always with your fucking tangents," The boy said, "I don't believe this. What do they call you in town?"
"Enabler," The dad said, "They call me enabler among other things. I don't let it bother me too much. In some ways I think they're right, but most of the time when someone calls another person something derogatory it's because they don't know what the hell they're talking about. I doubt they know how hard it is to say no when your children are in trouble. I'm learning how. The trouble is I tried to raise you right. I did all the right things but sometimes that isn't enough. Your kids get older and become adults. Adults make their own decisions. The trouble with parents is that they never see their children as adults. I look at you and see the little boy I love."
The boy kicked a piece of gravel.
"I'm hungry dad," The boy said. The dad pulled out a half-sandwich wrapped in plastic from his pocket and handed it to the boy. The boy took the sandwich and put it in his pocket. "Can I stay here for just one night. I just need a place for one night."
"Do you remember going to Sunday School?" The dad said.
"I remember. You took me there almost every week," The son said, "I also remember a story about the Prodigal Son whom messed up royally and his father took him in a helped him. What kind of dad does that make you?"
"Some men are better father's than others," The dad said.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Some men are better than others. Some sons are better than others," The dad said.
"You're going to shut me out, not help me and now your lecturing me on top of it? Fuck you."
"I've kept my part of the bargain," The dad said. "I've done my part. I've helped you find jobs. I've given you money. I've taken you in time after time. You always blame someone else for your problems. You take no ownership of them. You don't think about what you're doing with your life and how it kills me and your mother a little more each day."
"I'm fucking leaving," The boy said. He stormed over to his car. The father stood up on the steps.
"Your Sunday School teachers messed up your lessons," The dad said, "There is no repentance without a change in behavior. The Prodigal son came back to his father a changed man. You are no different. I can help you, but it won't change anything about you. You have to change yourself."
"Fuck you dad. I hate you." The boy tore open his car door.
"Son?" The dad said. The boy grimaced, but hesitated before getting in the car.
"What?"
"Your Alternator's going," The dad said. He sat back down on the steps. The boy got in his car and tore out of the driveway.
The dad tapped out his pipe and patted his pockets for his tobacco pouch. He remembered he gave his pouch to the boy. He put his pipe in his pocket.
His wife turned her car into the driveway a few minutes later. She got out of the car.
"Hi honey," She said.
"Hi," the dad said, "The boy stopped by."
"Where is he?" The mom asked.
"He's gone," The dad said, "He's gone."
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Jason of Astor Park
The boys and girls playing at the park saw him limp toward them. He was more than a block away. It was Jason. He had dirty blond hair. His malformed face turned toward the sky. His slack-jawed smile, plastered and permanent. He howled as he walked. The children climbed high on the playground equipment, spreading out to keep from getting cornered by the man. The girls screamed and so did some of the boys. Stories of Jason raced through their heads as he crossed the street and headed into the park.
-Jason was hit by a semi-truck as a kid and his parents found him hanging from a telephone poll.-
-Jason has weird diseases and you’ll end up like him if he drools on you.-
-Jason caught a kid alone in the park one day and raped him behind the clubhouse.-
-Jason is a retard that killed his mom…Jason is homeless…Jason died and came back…Jason has AIDS…Jason escaped from an insane asylum…Jason…Jas…J…-
And then there he was. Jason Hooted loudly at the children he’d treed on the playground equipment. Today was different than most days. Today, Jason had brought with him a red wagon. The wagon was filled with magazine clippings that were held down by a brick. Jason gestured sweepingly to the wagon and the children. His voice garbled nonsense. Spittle flew from his mouth and dripped down onto his clothes.
Some of the braver children would drop down from the playground equipment and Jason would chase them. He smiled, laughed and howled breathlessly as he attempted to catch each taunting child. Sometimes, while they ran from him, the children would grab a handful of wood chips off the playground floor. Once back up in the safety of the equipment, they would throw the chips at Jason. It never made him mad. He would laugh. The children never knew why he didn’t climb the equipment. He just didn’t.
Most of the time Jason would stalk around the children until he got bored. Then he would leave, going back the same way he had come. Not today. Today, one of the children, a girl, fell off the equipment and landed on the ground. She cried. She had skinned her knee. Jason sat down beside her. His smile had gone. It was the first time the children saw him without it. His mouth formed a large O. A large gob of drool dripped down his chin. His eyes showed concern.
Jason picked a Dandelion and handed it to the girl. She slapped it away with a shriek.
Jason tried to put his arm around her. She screamed and turned away from him.
Jason sighed and began to play with the wood chips. Sometimes he would glance at the crying girl.
While Jason was sitting with the girl a couple of the boys dropped from the playground equipment and took Jason’s wagon. They rolled the wagon away from the playground about a hundred feet to the park’s small wading pool. It was Autumn and the shallow pool had long since been closed down for the season. The fence surrounding the pool wasn’t very high. Sometimes the children would climb the fence and roller-skate and skateboard in the empty pool.
It took all three boys to lift the wagon. They dumped the wagon into the pool. They had to stand up on their tiptoes to do it. The wagon landed with a loud clang. Magazine clippings blew everywhere. The boys laughed and ran. The children on the playground cheered.
Jason stood up. He’d covered his ears at the noise. He saw his wagon in the pool and limped over. The children dropped from the playground equipment and went home. It was supper time.
One of the children looked back at Jason as he went home. He saw Jason standing at the fence. Jason had both his hands pressed to the chain-link. His face was pushed so far into the fence that it seemed like he would pass right through. The boy heard Jason Howl. It was higher pitched than normal. It sounded worried. The boy thought he sounded like a dog.
The boy walked backwards home. He watched Jason. Jason walked around the fence of the wading pool once, twice, then he sat down. He howled again. The sound was long and very sad. Again, the boy thought about how closely the sound resembled that of a dog. Tomorrow he would tell his friends that Jason’s mom had sex with a dog. He would tell them Jason’s mom had sex with a dog and that was how Jason was born.
-Jason was hit by a semi-truck as a kid and his parents found him hanging from a telephone poll.-
-Jason has weird diseases and you’ll end up like him if he drools on you.-
-Jason caught a kid alone in the park one day and raped him behind the clubhouse.-
-Jason is a retard that killed his mom…Jason is homeless…Jason died and came back…Jason has AIDS…Jason escaped from an insane asylum…Jason…Jas…J…-
And then there he was. Jason Hooted loudly at the children he’d treed on the playground equipment. Today was different than most days. Today, Jason had brought with him a red wagon. The wagon was filled with magazine clippings that were held down by a brick. Jason gestured sweepingly to the wagon and the children. His voice garbled nonsense. Spittle flew from his mouth and dripped down onto his clothes.
Some of the braver children would drop down from the playground equipment and Jason would chase them. He smiled, laughed and howled breathlessly as he attempted to catch each taunting child. Sometimes, while they ran from him, the children would grab a handful of wood chips off the playground floor. Once back up in the safety of the equipment, they would throw the chips at Jason. It never made him mad. He would laugh. The children never knew why he didn’t climb the equipment. He just didn’t.
Most of the time Jason would stalk around the children until he got bored. Then he would leave, going back the same way he had come. Not today. Today, one of the children, a girl, fell off the equipment and landed on the ground. She cried. She had skinned her knee. Jason sat down beside her. His smile had gone. It was the first time the children saw him without it. His mouth formed a large O. A large gob of drool dripped down his chin. His eyes showed concern.
Jason picked a Dandelion and handed it to the girl. She slapped it away with a shriek.
Jason tried to put his arm around her. She screamed and turned away from him.
Jason sighed and began to play with the wood chips. Sometimes he would glance at the crying girl.
While Jason was sitting with the girl a couple of the boys dropped from the playground equipment and took Jason’s wagon. They rolled the wagon away from the playground about a hundred feet to the park’s small wading pool. It was Autumn and the shallow pool had long since been closed down for the season. The fence surrounding the pool wasn’t very high. Sometimes the children would climb the fence and roller-skate and skateboard in the empty pool.
It took all three boys to lift the wagon. They dumped the wagon into the pool. They had to stand up on their tiptoes to do it. The wagon landed with a loud clang. Magazine clippings blew everywhere. The boys laughed and ran. The children on the playground cheered.
Jason stood up. He’d covered his ears at the noise. He saw his wagon in the pool and limped over. The children dropped from the playground equipment and went home. It was supper time.
One of the children looked back at Jason as he went home. He saw Jason standing at the fence. Jason had both his hands pressed to the chain-link. His face was pushed so far into the fence that it seemed like he would pass right through. The boy heard Jason Howl. It was higher pitched than normal. It sounded worried. The boy thought he sounded like a dog.
The boy walked backwards home. He watched Jason. Jason walked around the fence of the wading pool once, twice, then he sat down. He howled again. The sound was long and very sad. Again, the boy thought about how closely the sound resembled that of a dog. Tomorrow he would tell his friends that Jason’s mom had sex with a dog. He would tell them Jason’s mom had sex with a dog and that was how Jason was born.
Abortion
Steve and Fred sat down to dinner at a local diner.
"My sister got an abortion yesterday," Fred said.
"Is she okay?" Steve said.
"I don't think so. I don't see how anybody could be when they make a decision like that. I know the kids not okay," Fred said.
"You sound upset with her decision," Steve said.
"She didn't talk to me about it first."
"You talk over every little thing with your sister?" Steve said. "You're a little old for that. Doesn't sound like any of your business."
"Maybe," Fred said, "I don't know about that."
"What do you mean?"
"I think something like abortion is everyone's business," Fred said.
"You having some issues with your ovaries you want to talk about?" Steve chided, "Fallopian tubes acting up on you?"
"Don't give me that shit about being a man and having no call about what women do with their bodies," Fred said, "I'm talking about children."
"I just don't think you should have an opinion on something that you can't understand," Steve said, "Do you think your sister is a bad person?"
"No," Fred said, "She's not a bad person. One action doesn't define a person. I do think abortion is wrong and I feel pretty lucky that I don't have the ability to have that kind of temptation in my life."
"Yeah," Steve said, "By now you would have had about three abortions and I would have had at least two."
"This isn't funny Steve."
"I didn't say it was," Steve said, "You going to order?"
Fred hadn't noticed the waitress at their booth. They ordered coffee and omelets. The waitress went to the counter to give the order to the cook.
"I'm not mad at my sister," Fred said, "I'm worried about her."
"It's the law of the land," Steve said, "You have to follow the law of the land. You don't want women having back alley abortions like it was before Roe vs. Wade."
"I don't want women getting hurt," Fred said, "Don't you just get a bad feeling in your gut when you think about abortion. Don't you just get a feeling that it isn't right."
"I do. It's ugly business," Steve said.
"I've been thinking about it for awhile. Even before my sister had one," Fred said, "I used to be pro-choice. My parent's are."
"What flipped you?" Steve asked.
"I'm a Christian and..."
"Don't give me any of that shit," Fred said, "I'm a Christian too AND pro-choice."
"It's not like that. We've been friends for a long time just hear me out. Part of my beliefs about people is that they have souls and are built for eternity. I believe that all children have souls. What I don't know is when those souls are placed in the bodies. I can't tell for sure if a human has a soul when he's a single cell, a hundred or a million."
"What are you getting at?" Steve said.
"I'm a cautious man," Fred said, "I could be wrong and when I get to heaven Jesus will tell me the whole soul thing doesn't happen until about six month's gestation or something. But I figure if that's the case, I was just being careful with something I don't understand."
"So if the soul is there at conception..."
"If the soul is there at the moment of conception, at the moment the tissue becomes viable, then you're talking about a life built for eternity. If that's the case then abortion is the termination of human life. It is big people killing the smallest and most vulnerable of our population. It is someone taking the life of something God has blessed with a part of himself."
"But you don't really know that," Steve said.
"I don't," Fred said, "Like I said, I'm a cautious man."
"My sister got an abortion yesterday," Fred said.
"Is she okay?" Steve said.
"I don't think so. I don't see how anybody could be when they make a decision like that. I know the kids not okay," Fred said.
"You sound upset with her decision," Steve said.
"She didn't talk to me about it first."
"You talk over every little thing with your sister?" Steve said. "You're a little old for that. Doesn't sound like any of your business."
"Maybe," Fred said, "I don't know about that."
"What do you mean?"
"I think something like abortion is everyone's business," Fred said.
"You having some issues with your ovaries you want to talk about?" Steve chided, "Fallopian tubes acting up on you?"
"Don't give me that shit about being a man and having no call about what women do with their bodies," Fred said, "I'm talking about children."
"I just don't think you should have an opinion on something that you can't understand," Steve said, "Do you think your sister is a bad person?"
"No," Fred said, "She's not a bad person. One action doesn't define a person. I do think abortion is wrong and I feel pretty lucky that I don't have the ability to have that kind of temptation in my life."
"Yeah," Steve said, "By now you would have had about three abortions and I would have had at least two."
"This isn't funny Steve."
"I didn't say it was," Steve said, "You going to order?"
Fred hadn't noticed the waitress at their booth. They ordered coffee and omelets. The waitress went to the counter to give the order to the cook.
"I'm not mad at my sister," Fred said, "I'm worried about her."
"It's the law of the land," Steve said, "You have to follow the law of the land. You don't want women having back alley abortions like it was before Roe vs. Wade."
"I don't want women getting hurt," Fred said, "Don't you just get a bad feeling in your gut when you think about abortion. Don't you just get a feeling that it isn't right."
"I do. It's ugly business," Steve said.
"I've been thinking about it for awhile. Even before my sister had one," Fred said, "I used to be pro-choice. My parent's are."
"What flipped you?" Steve asked.
"I'm a Christian and..."
"Don't give me any of that shit," Fred said, "I'm a Christian too AND pro-choice."
"It's not like that. We've been friends for a long time just hear me out. Part of my beliefs about people is that they have souls and are built for eternity. I believe that all children have souls. What I don't know is when those souls are placed in the bodies. I can't tell for sure if a human has a soul when he's a single cell, a hundred or a million."
"What are you getting at?" Steve said.
"I'm a cautious man," Fred said, "I could be wrong and when I get to heaven Jesus will tell me the whole soul thing doesn't happen until about six month's gestation or something. But I figure if that's the case, I was just being careful with something I don't understand."
"So if the soul is there at conception..."
"If the soul is there at the moment of conception, at the moment the tissue becomes viable, then you're talking about a life built for eternity. If that's the case then abortion is the termination of human life. It is big people killing the smallest and most vulnerable of our population. It is someone taking the life of something God has blessed with a part of himself."
"But you don't really know that," Steve said.
"I don't," Fred said, "Like I said, I'm a cautious man."
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