drink, feeble, predict
It was his chair, the one his wife had bought for him. Deacon didn't shop; men of his generation rarely did.
Over time, the blue Lay-Z Boy recliner became Deacon's favorite place in the house. He'd sit it in every morning, drink his coffee and read the the newspaper, grousing about the day's events and checking the obituaries to "make sure he wasn't in them." He'd snooze each afternoon in the recliner while schoolkids noisily walked by the house on their way home from the parochial school across the street. A TV tray was the dinner table in front of chair as he ate and watched movies or "Law and Order."
Faded by time and stained by kids and grand kids, the blue recliner had been a fixture of Deacon's living room since well before the downstairs living room had paneling on the walls, blue shag carpet and that damn fake snow crap on the ceiling. If Deacon wasn't sitting in the chair, he was out in his man shed, smoking cigars and watching old John Wayne movies with the sound all the way up, the TV volume getting progressively louder seemingly with each birthday. Deacon didn't give a shit. He was unconcerned with aging. He didn't care his kids joked about his hearing. He didn't bother to answer the complaints that his jacket, the one he wore on cold nights in the man shed, had a funk that entered the back door 15 seconds before he did. He especially didn't care for the doctor. He'd as soon go quickly and quietly in his sleep one night. No fuss, no mess. "Have the coroner come, pick me up, put me in a box and be done with it all," he told his children.
When his beloved Kathy died, the chair became one of the only things he kept in the house. Everything else was donated, sold or trashed.
The goddamn toaster became too painful to look at -- a reminder of how Kathy had made his toast just so perfect -- crispy, but not burnt and with a side of marmalade -- each morning.
But the chair stayed. It would be his lifeline for the nearly two years he lived alone, before he met Martha and they two widowed friends became life companions.
The funky blue chair eventually migrated out to the man shed when Martha moved in and infused some life and modern decor sensibility into a house that was not only stuck in the past, but stuck in some weird afraid-to-move-one purgatory.
New paint, new carpet, new furnishings all brought life back into the house. But a fight, a big one and the first one the two friends had ever had, erupted over Kathy's chair.
Martha wanted to dump it and update. Deacon wouldn't hear of it. It was his lone umbilical cord to "his Kathy." In time, Deacon and Martha would learn to argue without hurt feelings, but not now. The fight over the recliner got ugly. It got personal. It nearly drove a permanent wedge between them.
Martha left, going to stay at her sons for the weekend. Deacon spent the weekend sitting in the chair, getting up only to use the bathroom. He slept in the chair, where Martha found him early Monday morning when she returned to mend fences.
They worked through the issue and it was decided the chair would move to the man shed. It stayed there for years, absorbing the smoke tendrills of thousands of cigars and watched an unending loop of "Rio Bravo."
Years later, when time had irrevocably joined Deacon and Martha a pair the house that once was stuck in neutral had been home to their children and grandchildren. A new family had sprouted from the ashes of two widowed families, joining in a weird Six Degrees of Separation way to become a group that needed a banquet room in order to go out to dinner.
But no one was in mood for dinner today. The doctor had just come from Deacon's room to let the family know the end was near.
Deacon's breathing was shallow and the death rattle, the sickening gurgle that sounds like you were drowning, was getting stronger.
"A day, two tops," the doctor said in a hushed tone to Deacon's middle son, Fitch, the one the family elected spokesman. "But it's not an exact science. We're close, but I can't predict exactly when."
Normally, Martha would've been the one to talk to doctors, but she was laid up, fighting what would be the final weeks of her three-year long struggle with lung cancer.
When Fitch broke the news to the family that Deacon would be gone in a day or two, there were tears, yes, but more shock than anything.
Sure, Deacon had declined in the past few years, but not to the point of incapacity. He wasn't feeble, but he'd definitely slowed. He still had been there for Martha's chemo and radiation appointments, but those daylong journeys began taking a bigger toll on him as well. Perhaps it was the realization he was going to lose another woman he loved -- a thought he could stomach -- but Deacon hadn't seemed himself in the past few months. A little more disoriented than usual and a whole lot more sluggish, Martha finally dragged Deacon to the doctor after she spotted blood in the toilet one morning. Deacon had been pissing blood for a week -- a secret he wasn't going to divulge.
An enlarged, cancerous kidney was the diagnosis. The 15-pound kidney was removed and the margins cleared.
"The biggest fucking kidney I've ever seen," the surgeon's non-PC boast went.
Deacon came home to rest, recover and, as it turned out, die. He stayed in the chair, which had again migrated, this time up to his bedroom, and he slept in the chair instead of his bed. He catnapped throughout the night, waking at 4 a.m. to pee, get a cup of coffee and then head back to bed. He woke again shortly before noon to eat lunch and then climbed the eight steps to the top floor, his room and another nap. A 5 p.m. dinner made him rise again for 30 minutes before a return to his chair. It became his routine, without deviation.
Martha grew concerned after two weeks, but couldn't convince Deacon's children of the problem. They were busy and they knew he was a perpetual curmudgeon.
It was only after Deacon went into diabetic shock one night that the gravity of the situation slammed his four children in the face.
An ambulance trip, ER visit, lab work and follow-up doctor visit revealed Deacon's cancer has spread; it was everywhere. He had one month, maybe. Less time than Martha.
And when Fitch told her the end was near, she climbed out of her bed -- she and Deacon had been friends, lovers and companions, but always kept separate bedrooms -- and went to his side, sitting next to Deacon's blue recliner.
She sat next to him that night, mopping his brow and whispering to him whenever he would get agitated.
Martha fell asleep about 4 a.m. waking two hours later as Deacon began a particularly nasty coughing fit.
She knew the end was near. She was ready to let him go.
At 7:56 a.m., Deacon died. He found what looked like a moment of lucidity, sat up, looked up at Martha, smiled and took his last breath. He went limp and Martha knew he'd gone from his blue recliner back to Kathy.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Monday's Musings
A break from photos and stories to talk about ... random shit.
I felt like a 3-year-old this weekend, no not shitting my pants and drooling. I walked around most of the weekend asking the age-old question ... "Why?"
1. Why do i have to dust? It's not like it's a winnable war. I cleaned house on Sunday and cleaned and dusted the living room before moving on to the kitchen and my bedroom. By the time I sat down to watch the Giants game at 5 p.m., there already was a layer of new dust settling on the TV stand.
2. Why do I never have enough hangars? Even when I buy more, they seem to disappear. Kind of like sock.
3. And speaking of socks, why do I never wind up with an even number of socks? It's a toe-curling conspiracy, I tell you.
4. Why does my boss fail to answer my e-mails in a timely manner -- two days -- but if I don't respond to hers by the end of the business day, she saunters over and asks me what she probably should asked in person anyway?
5. Why do some dudes insist on striking up a conversation while standing at the urinal? Rule No. 1 in life: Don't talk to another man with your dick in your hand.
6. Why don't I get rid of my dog? I don't like it, don't want it and ignore it except to feed it and give it water.
7. Why don't I get a dog I actually like?
8. Why don't I learn to say what I'm thinking, no matter who gets offended? I watched my former colleague and one of the replacements cover a football game on Saturday. I was pissed that something I took six years to build up unraveled in one afternoon. The new guy needed nearly 24 hours to post a story to the web, something that should've been done before he left that evening. And the old guy on staff should've taken the lead on that, something he was always spared of having to do, but now has to do it.
9. Why don't I follow a friend's lead and quit this shitty business? I'm sure it would be hard, but I honestly think I'd be happier and could make a living, even if I had to work a couple of jobs for a while.
10. Why is that I always seem to wake up at 5:22 each morning, look at the clock and roll back over. Happened four times in the past two weeks.
I felt like a 3-year-old this weekend, no not shitting my pants and drooling. I walked around most of the weekend asking the age-old question ... "Why?"
1. Why do i have to dust? It's not like it's a winnable war. I cleaned house on Sunday and cleaned and dusted the living room before moving on to the kitchen and my bedroom. By the time I sat down to watch the Giants game at 5 p.m., there already was a layer of new dust settling on the TV stand.
2. Why do I never have enough hangars? Even when I buy more, they seem to disappear. Kind of like sock.
3. And speaking of socks, why do I never wind up with an even number of socks? It's a toe-curling conspiracy, I tell you.
4. Why does my boss fail to answer my e-mails in a timely manner -- two days -- but if I don't respond to hers by the end of the business day, she saunters over and asks me what she probably should asked in person anyway?
5. Why do some dudes insist on striking up a conversation while standing at the urinal? Rule No. 1 in life: Don't talk to another man with your dick in your hand.
6. Why don't I get rid of my dog? I don't like it, don't want it and ignore it except to feed it and give it water.
7. Why don't I get a dog I actually like?
8. Why don't I learn to say what I'm thinking, no matter who gets offended? I watched my former colleague and one of the replacements cover a football game on Saturday. I was pissed that something I took six years to build up unraveled in one afternoon. The new guy needed nearly 24 hours to post a story to the web, something that should've been done before he left that evening. And the old guy on staff should've taken the lead on that, something he was always spared of having to do, but now has to do it.
9. Why don't I follow a friend's lead and quit this shitty business? I'm sure it would be hard, but I honestly think I'd be happier and could make a living, even if I had to work a couple of jobs for a while.
10. Why is that I always seem to wake up at 5:22 each morning, look at the clock and roll back over. Happened four times in the past two weeks.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
3WW for July 28
the word prompts are: abuse, cramp, hatred
It was Hell Week and the abuse was coming strong, heaped on by that bastard Coach Johnston in those oh-so-out-of-style gray nylon shorts, Pierson Pirates T-shirt and his goddamn whistle.
25 up-downs. 30 sit ups. 20 push ups.
"Not fast enough, ladies," the coach screamed. "On your faces, sweethearts. Let's do it again and get it right. We can do this all night.
"Jesus H. Christ, Franklin, that's pathetic," Coach Johnston screamed. "Your granddaddy's right over there. You want me to have him come over and show you how to do a proper up-down? Shit, he's 85 years old and I'll be he could give me a better set than you just did."
"No, coach," screamed Taylor Franklin, a 6-foot-7, 285 pound junior right tackle hoping to get the starting nod this season and looks from more schools than Iowa State.
"Steve, bring me some water," the coach called mockingly to his assistant, Steve Neylor. "My mouth's getting dry from blowing my whistle so much. This is wearing me out."
"Not good enough," Coach Johnston yelled. "Again."
A collective groan, soft enough to not be traceable to any one player, but loud enough to be audible, rose from the turf.
"Fuck this shit," Steve Crawford, last year's second-string tailback, muttered under his breath as the whistle blew, marking the start of the second set of push ups.
"This is child abuse," thought Johnny Stevenson, the stereotypical fat kid always languishing in the back row. A cramp, a side-stitch made him vomit next to the space he was doing up-downs. He'd hated the first three years of football and openly questioned why he was back for a fourth.
But he knew the answer. Hell Week was a rite of passing in Pierson, Iowa, a pissant community not unlike the many one-stoplight towns many dotting the fabric of rural America. Make it through Hell Week and you were golden. You were on the team, free to run the school, chase all the pussy you could and, of course, play some football.
It's what your brothers did, what your dad and granddad did and what you were expected to do.
Drop from the team during Hell Week and you may as well pull off your red and black jersey off, pop the shoulder pads over your head, drop your girdle and walk naked down Main Street to Maryanne's Fabric Shop -- to buy the material your mom would need to make your skirt. Drop from Hell Week and you were no longer John or Jim or Shane; you were "Little Bitch." Through the years, only a handful of kids became "Little Bitch." It was a Scarlet Letter and a name openly used, even among polite company.
A Little Bitch was ridiculed, tormented and punked. It was one of the deepest shames you could bring on your family, short of becoming one of "them-there emo-faggots."
No, you didn't dare drop during Hell Week. Football was, after all, the lifeblood of the community. It was the dawn of the year, as if everyone in town went into a deep sleep from December to July, awakening in the heat of the summer for Hell Week's two-a-days.
Generations lined the fences lining Reardon Field that first day of practice, a muggy afternoon with the hint of thunderstorms off to the east, to catch a glimpse of this year's town.
The town was so interested in the football team that you probably could rob the bank, grocery store, mini mart, the one of the outskirts of town, and get a two-hour head start on the sheriff if practice was in session. Hell, they probably wouldn't care either, as long as Tim Reynolds, the senior linebacker who flattened fools like a steamroller, had his on straight and had mended the fence with Wes Slight, the start running back a mere 988 yards from becoming the fourth back from Pierson in the past 35 years to break the state rushing mark.
Reynolds and Slight spent all spring and most of the summer fighting for the affection of Tiffani Prowl, a lithe junior blond dick tease who craved attention and got her jollies off playing both boys. She knew neither boy was getting a piece of ass, and until they figured that out, she was content to play both sides of the line of scrimmage.
Tiffany knew she was a tease, but didn't care. She knew many in town disapproved of her antics. Hell, even her brother, Spencer, the latest quarterback to lead Pierson to a state title four years ago, despised Tiffany and her bullshit. He knew Tim and Wes, and knew they were the ones who could help bring home another banner for Pierson. If his bitch of a sister didn't ruin things. Coach Johnston had confided in Spencer and his dad, Henry, that Tiffany would be the undoing of a team poised for state unless. The three had concocted a plan, but would wait until Hell Week was over to see if things corrected themselves naturally.
And as the sweat dripped off the nose of the players, lined neatly in those goddamn rows, so straight and perfect, Coach Johnston wondered what was greater, the hatred of him or the hatred of Hell Week itself.
Paul Johnston, Coach Johnston to his players, both past and present, knew he was a bastard. He knew that fatass in the back row probably wanted to walk up and kick him in the nuts -- that is if tubby could lift his foot that high, but he didn't care.
There was a method to the madness. When you win 10 small school state titles in 20 years, you can do what you want, be as big a dick as you care to.
"That's better," the coach said smugly. "And it only took us four tries. Shit, we might just make football players out of you yet."
Friday, July 23, 2010
Surf City
This is a work in progress ~Aaron
Dante didn't need an alarm clock. The hum of the crashing surf and the thud of the slamming porch door -- the unmistakable sound of last night's dalliance leaving -- usually did the trick. If not, the rising sun was more than enough incentive for Dante to slide out of bed. The combination of the sun and surf were too great a lure to sit around and sleep, as if the sun was telling him "Get your lazy ass up, man" while the surf beckoned "Come and play, Dante."
Dante rubbed his eyes as his feet hit the floor. He shuffled into the bathroom, trying to remember her name.
"Mary?" he thought. "No, that was Monday.
"Oh, wait. Sonya. Sonya from Chicago," he remembered, smiling at the thought of the mattress gymnastics she performed last night.
Dante splashed some water on his face, took a leak and walked back toward the bed. As he passed the mussed up queen-size bed, he stuck out his foot, grabbed his shorts with his right big toe and flipped them up into his hand. He lifted his left leg and stuck his foot through the hole and repeated. Zipping up, he ambled into the kitchen. He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, reached into the pantry for the Nutella and grabbed a knife waiting for the toast to pop.
A creature of habit, Dante's life read like the back of a bottle of conditioner: Wet, lather, rinse, repeat. Only Dante's world was rise, surf, siesta, serve, sex and repeat.
Dante was a little groggy this morning after a long night at the bar -- no, he didn't imbibe, but owned a tiny cantina that catered to the locals and tourists on the Pacific coast of Mexico -- and an equally long night with ... oh, yeah, Sonya.
He opened the screen door off his bedroom and onto the patio overlooking the beach and stared out at the surf. He laughed that he couldn't remember her name, but it didn't surprise him. Last night it was Sonya. Last week it was Celia. Next week, who knows? An American expatriate in Mexico was a safe bet, a sure thing, for the hotties, Cougars and MILFs looking for a little unencumbered vacation action south of the border. It was a given down here that he was there for her pleasure, a vacation story to tell her friends back home, and he didn't mind extracting a little pleasure out of the tryst himself.
Dante's life was exactly what he'd envisioned 10 years ago. Stuck in a go-nowhere job, swearing he wouldn't die a human gopher in a maze of gray carpeted cubicles, he vowed that the day the rugrats were gone, so was he.
"I'm going to find me a beach, a bar to run, live simply and simply live," was Dante's oft-repeated refrain; so much so that his friends always knew when it was coming and learned to serenade him on cue right as he was getting ready for the chorus.
"Surf all morning, an afternoon siesta, get people drunk all night and find a little senorita to curl up with. That's the life," Dante -- and his friends -- would repeat.
He thought about his old life from time to time, usually when the ex called to complain about something or another. There were always too many decisions; too many quandaries; too much unhappiness. Being a corporate clone usually meant someone was unhappy. Too many hours at work took away from his home life. Too much time with his boys took away from his pocketbook. Too many decisions to make took away from his peace of mind.
But that was done and gone. Today, a Thursday he thought, was much like yesterday . . . and the day before.
Nowadays, his big decisions were which honey to flirt with, how long a siesta he would take and the day's first, and always important decision -- which surfboard to use.
He looked down the sand-covered patio at the surfboards, brightly colored fiberglass models of varying sizes and purposes, lined along the patio railing, trying to decide if today was a longboard day or if the tri-fin shredder was the stick for today.
Dante plopped down on the step, his feet finding the cool morning sand and watched the waves.
"Same as yesterday," he said to himself. "Left to right break starting at the channel."
After watching the sets roll in -- 5 feet high, sets of four 25 seconds apart -- Dante decided for the shredder today. He wanted to get the ole ticker humming and hanging 10 just wouldn't do today.
Dante watched the waves for a few more minutes, taking mental notes of the conditions and an internal inventory.
As a kid, he had learned to surfed. As an adult, he'd unlearned all the things he'd enjoyed as a boy. But that happens, he often thought. "You've got to do what you've got to do," he rationalized.
And he did do what he had to as an adult. He'd raised three boys, sending them all off to college and into their own lives. He was proud of the way they'd turned out and proud of his hand in it. And, he concluded, he'd done his job.
Not that he was abandoning his fatherly duties now Nathan, the youngest, was out of the house.
He'd just returned from Nathan's Georgetown graduation. The youngest of the three, Nathan had turned into quite the man, graduating as valedictorian with a law degree. Actually, Nathan, always the cautious one, passed on a chance to strike out on the PGA Tour, opting instead for the No. 1 spot on the Hoyas' golf team. He dallied in a few mini tours, but in the end took the sure-fire way, clerking his final summer at Georgetown for Smith, Jensen and Browing, one of D.C.'s most prestigious law firms. Nathan would begin working there after his three-week trip to Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego.
Dante spent the week in Northern Virginia, hanging with Nathan and his brothers, Brandon and Tyler, along with various aunts, uncles and cousins that lived in the metro D.C. area. They took in baseball games, made their way up to New York for a day and then sat up as close as allowed as Nathan talked about the future, the past, the struggles, the opportunities and then teared up as he thanked Dante for all he'd done in turning him into the man he'd become.
Yep, he was still engaged, still up to date, still connected.
Which was more than he could say for his ex-wife, who called the morning of graduation to ask Dante to let Nathan know something had come up and she wouldn't be there. Actually, Dellane had never planned on coming and was banking on Dante covering for her. She had checked out of the family life years ago -- about the same time Dante's Mexican dream hatched -- opting instead for the Quixotic quest of finding a man to adore her.
Dante's boys knew the depths of their mother's selfishness, learning a long time ago to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised if something was actually given.
No, Dellane was more concerned about herself and her own life. She's married Stan when the boys were in middle school, hoping to "be a family" again. Stan was a good guy, hell, even Dante liked him. But the family Dellane sought to create was a fabrication, a facade for her low self-esteem and a bridge to have someone next to her in her old age.
When Stan died, during Brandon's senior year of high school, Dellane fell apart. She was older -- if you call 50 old -- and just knew she would never find someone to love her again. So, instead of pouring herself into her boys' life, she retreated into herself.
Dante felt bad for her from time to time. But he also didn't need her bullshit. He'd had enough of that in the 10 years they were married. Dante still cared for Dellane, but that sentiment only went so far.
And so when Nathan graduated high school, Dante knew he was free. Not that he regretted being the stable parent -- quite the contrary. He loved that his boys had grown up to be fine men. He prided himself that his house was the start and end point of so many of their high school adventures. He wore their success and failures as a badge of honor.
But he also knew it was time to be free. Not free to run away and ignore his boys. But free to finally chase his whims, his dreams, his desires.
And that's what led him to Puerto Escondido. One of the untapped gems of Mexico, it boasted one of the best surf spots and a growing population of tourists looking to avoid the meat-markets like Cabo. Puerto Escondido offered a simplistic, throwback lifestyle, like Mexico used to be in the "Endless Summer" days.
But the dream didn't come easy -- or cheap. Aaron knew he'd need a nice chunk of change to buy something down south, probably more than normal, being a gringo and all.
So he worked, moonlighted, freelanced and something totally out of character, and honestly more like his dad, saved.
Half of what he made with his second, third and, sometimes, fourth jobs, went into the Elliott Ness account -- it was untouchable.
Two months after Nathan's high school graduation, Dante plopped $70,000 cash down on a cantina with an adjoining house.
Ten years after devising an escape to surf and sun, Dante was the proud owner of the Playa Cantina.
Dante picked up his board, rubbed more Sex Wax on it and tied the green leash to his right ankle. He walked across the sand and was greeted by the feel of bath-water warm ocean spreading around his feet and up to his knees.
Dante ran five or six steps away from the shore and flopped on his board as it slid across the next set of shorebreak waves.
He paddled out through the channel and took his spot in the lineup with the three other early risers, one of whom Dante knew. The other two looked like surf-trekkers, guys who roamed the globe in search of the dream wave.
Dante nodded to his company, spun his board and paddled to catch a promising swell.
Three hours and countless tube rides later, Dante was back on dry land. Sated, he sat on the beach, watched a few tourist girls frolic in the surf and made mental notes of items he needed to restock in the bar.
He would send Maria, his longest-tenured waitress and second in command, into town to replenish the the low stock while he took his siesta.
Dante didn't need an alarm clock. The hum of the crashing surf and the thud of the slamming porch door -- the unmistakable sound of last night's dalliance leaving -- usually did the trick. If not, the rising sun was more than enough incentive for Dante to slide out of bed. The combination of the sun and surf were too great a lure to sit around and sleep, as if the sun was telling him "Get your lazy ass up, man" while the surf beckoned "Come and play, Dante."
Dante rubbed his eyes as his feet hit the floor. He shuffled into the bathroom, trying to remember her name.
"Mary?" he thought. "No, that was Monday.
"Oh, wait. Sonya. Sonya from Chicago," he remembered, smiling at the thought of the mattress gymnastics she performed last night.
Dante splashed some water on his face, took a leak and walked back toward the bed. As he passed the mussed up queen-size bed, he stuck out his foot, grabbed his shorts with his right big toe and flipped them up into his hand. He lifted his left leg and stuck his foot through the hole and repeated. Zipping up, he ambled into the kitchen. He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, reached into the pantry for the Nutella and grabbed a knife waiting for the toast to pop.
A creature of habit, Dante's life read like the back of a bottle of conditioner: Wet, lather, rinse, repeat. Only Dante's world was rise, surf, siesta, serve, sex and repeat.
Dante was a little groggy this morning after a long night at the bar -- no, he didn't imbibe, but owned a tiny cantina that catered to the locals and tourists on the Pacific coast of Mexico -- and an equally long night with ... oh, yeah, Sonya.
He opened the screen door off his bedroom and onto the patio overlooking the beach and stared out at the surf. He laughed that he couldn't remember her name, but it didn't surprise him. Last night it was Sonya. Last week it was Celia. Next week, who knows? An American expatriate in Mexico was a safe bet, a sure thing, for the hotties, Cougars and MILFs looking for a little unencumbered vacation action south of the border. It was a given down here that he was there for her pleasure, a vacation story to tell her friends back home, and he didn't mind extracting a little pleasure out of the tryst himself.
Dante's life was exactly what he'd envisioned 10 years ago. Stuck in a go-nowhere job, swearing he wouldn't die a human gopher in a maze of gray carpeted cubicles, he vowed that the day the rugrats were gone, so was he.
"I'm going to find me a beach, a bar to run, live simply and simply live," was Dante's oft-repeated refrain; so much so that his friends always knew when it was coming and learned to serenade him on cue right as he was getting ready for the chorus.
"Surf all morning, an afternoon siesta, get people drunk all night and find a little senorita to curl up with. That's the life," Dante -- and his friends -- would repeat.
He thought about his old life from time to time, usually when the ex called to complain about something or another. There were always too many decisions; too many quandaries; too much unhappiness. Being a corporate clone usually meant someone was unhappy. Too many hours at work took away from his home life. Too much time with his boys took away from his pocketbook. Too many decisions to make took away from his peace of mind.
But that was done and gone. Today, a Thursday he thought, was much like yesterday . . . and the day before.
Nowadays, his big decisions were which honey to flirt with, how long a siesta he would take and the day's first, and always important decision -- which surfboard to use.
He looked down the sand-covered patio at the surfboards, brightly colored fiberglass models of varying sizes and purposes, lined along the patio railing, trying to decide if today was a longboard day or if the tri-fin shredder was the stick for today.
Dante plopped down on the step, his feet finding the cool morning sand and watched the waves.
"Same as yesterday," he said to himself. "Left to right break starting at the channel."
After watching the sets roll in -- 5 feet high, sets of four 25 seconds apart -- Dante decided for the shredder today. He wanted to get the ole ticker humming and hanging 10 just wouldn't do today.
Dante watched the waves for a few more minutes, taking mental notes of the conditions and an internal inventory.
As a kid, he had learned to surfed. As an adult, he'd unlearned all the things he'd enjoyed as a boy. But that happens, he often thought. "You've got to do what you've got to do," he rationalized.
And he did do what he had to as an adult. He'd raised three boys, sending them all off to college and into their own lives. He was proud of the way they'd turned out and proud of his hand in it. And, he concluded, he'd done his job.
Not that he was abandoning his fatherly duties now Nathan, the youngest, was out of the house.
He'd just returned from Nathan's Georgetown graduation. The youngest of the three, Nathan had turned into quite the man, graduating as valedictorian with a law degree. Actually, Nathan, always the cautious one, passed on a chance to strike out on the PGA Tour, opting instead for the No. 1 spot on the Hoyas' golf team. He dallied in a few mini tours, but in the end took the sure-fire way, clerking his final summer at Georgetown for Smith, Jensen and Browing, one of D.C.'s most prestigious law firms. Nathan would begin working there after his three-week trip to Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego.
Dante spent the week in Northern Virginia, hanging with Nathan and his brothers, Brandon and Tyler, along with various aunts, uncles and cousins that lived in the metro D.C. area. They took in baseball games, made their way up to New York for a day and then sat up as close as allowed as Nathan talked about the future, the past, the struggles, the opportunities and then teared up as he thanked Dante for all he'd done in turning him into the man he'd become.
Yep, he was still engaged, still up to date, still connected.
Which was more than he could say for his ex-wife, who called the morning of graduation to ask Dante to let Nathan know something had come up and she wouldn't be there. Actually, Dellane had never planned on coming and was banking on Dante covering for her. She had checked out of the family life years ago -- about the same time Dante's Mexican dream hatched -- opting instead for the Quixotic quest of finding a man to adore her.
Dante's boys knew the depths of their mother's selfishness, learning a long time ago to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised if something was actually given.
No, Dellane was more concerned about herself and her own life. She's married Stan when the boys were in middle school, hoping to "be a family" again. Stan was a good guy, hell, even Dante liked him. But the family Dellane sought to create was a fabrication, a facade for her low self-esteem and a bridge to have someone next to her in her old age.
When Stan died, during Brandon's senior year of high school, Dellane fell apart. She was older -- if you call 50 old -- and just knew she would never find someone to love her again. So, instead of pouring herself into her boys' life, she retreated into herself.
Dante felt bad for her from time to time. But he also didn't need her bullshit. He'd had enough of that in the 10 years they were married. Dante still cared for Dellane, but that sentiment only went so far.
And so when Nathan graduated high school, Dante knew he was free. Not that he regretted being the stable parent -- quite the contrary. He loved that his boys had grown up to be fine men. He prided himself that his house was the start and end point of so many of their high school adventures. He wore their success and failures as a badge of honor.
But he also knew it was time to be free. Not free to run away and ignore his boys. But free to finally chase his whims, his dreams, his desires.
And that's what led him to Puerto Escondido. One of the untapped gems of Mexico, it boasted one of the best surf spots and a growing population of tourists looking to avoid the meat-markets like Cabo. Puerto Escondido offered a simplistic, throwback lifestyle, like Mexico used to be in the "Endless Summer" days.
But the dream didn't come easy -- or cheap. Aaron knew he'd need a nice chunk of change to buy something down south, probably more than normal, being a gringo and all.
So he worked, moonlighted, freelanced and something totally out of character, and honestly more like his dad, saved.
Half of what he made with his second, third and, sometimes, fourth jobs, went into the Elliott Ness account -- it was untouchable.
Two months after Nathan's high school graduation, Dante plopped $70,000 cash down on a cantina with an adjoining house.
Ten years after devising an escape to surf and sun, Dante was the proud owner of the Playa Cantina.
Dante picked up his board, rubbed more Sex Wax on it and tied the green leash to his right ankle. He walked across the sand and was greeted by the feel of bath-water warm ocean spreading around his feet and up to his knees.
Dante ran five or six steps away from the shore and flopped on his board as it slid across the next set of shorebreak waves.
He paddled out through the channel and took his spot in the lineup with the three other early risers, one of whom Dante knew. The other two looked like surf-trekkers, guys who roamed the globe in search of the dream wave.
Dante nodded to his company, spun his board and paddled to catch a promising swell.
Three hours and countless tube rides later, Dante was back on dry land. Sated, he sat on the beach, watched a few tourist girls frolic in the surf and made mental notes of items he needed to restock in the bar.
He would send Maria, his longest-tenured waitress and second in command, into town to replenish the the low stock while he took his siesta.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Dead again
The parking lot sang
Songs of old echoed
Remnants of a past life
Suddenly rekindled
Glowing bright
The corners of his mouth upturned
And he was reminded of a time long ago
When life was full of promise and gratefully dead
Songs of old echoed
Remnants of a past life
Suddenly rekindled
Glowing bright
The corners of his mouth upturned
And he was reminded of a time long ago
When life was full of promise and gratefully dead
Victim or the crime
3 Word Wednesday prompts are: bait, jump, victim
Shane reached for his pistol. He steadied the Glock 9mm and aimed it right between the fucker's eyes.
"Move away from the woman," Shane yelled. "Now, scumbag."
The tattooed teen was defiant.
Her purse in one hand, a blade against her throat, Jason had pegged her as the perfect victim.
She was blond, pretty, a little chunky with a nice rack and, most importantly, she wasn't paying attention. God, how Jason loved dumb people listening to iPods. The world could end and they wouldn't know until their playlist was over.
He didn't know her faux Gucci handbag was bait.
He also didn't count on being confronted.
But then again, he didn't care. He knew no chickenshit fucker wouldn't shoot him with this blond human-shield in front of him. Most people wanted this shit to be over as quickly as possible.
"Take my wallet."
"Here's my purse."
"This is all I have, please take it and go, just don't hurt me."
Those were the refrains. No one wanted confrontation. No one wanted any trouble. No one wanted to be a hero.
Jason knew the station was quickly approaching. He would wait for the doors to open, toss the bitch toward Johnny Law and jump off the train and into the crowded platform. No one would dare fire at him as he ran away, not even a limp-dick cop.
"Fuck you, bitch," the vato spat. "I'll kill this cunt."
Shane had the shot, but missed. Right as his finger squeezed the trigger, the subway train lurched. He lunged, fired and grazed the kid's left ear.
"Motherfucker," Jason screamed.
It wasn't the first time Jason had been shot, but, still, it's something you never get used to.
"I told you, asshole," he screamed as Jason slid the blade across the woman's throat. He held the bitch up tight to him so that fucker couldn't squeeze off another shot. Jason shuffled toward the door, dropped the woman and bolted.
He got two steps off the train before a gunshot ripped through his spine, dropping him instantly.
Shane looked to see where the shot came from only to see the blond, with blood spurting down her chest, holding her own pistol.
He ran to her, leaned down and whispered, "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't think he would cut you."
She looked up and smiled through the pain.
"Just get me out of here before the cops show up. They arrest vigilantes, you know."
Shane reached for his pistol. He steadied the Glock 9mm and aimed it right between the fucker's eyes.
"Move away from the woman," Shane yelled. "Now, scumbag."
The tattooed teen was defiant.
Her purse in one hand, a blade against her throat, Jason had pegged her as the perfect victim.
She was blond, pretty, a little chunky with a nice rack and, most importantly, she wasn't paying attention. God, how Jason loved dumb people listening to iPods. The world could end and they wouldn't know until their playlist was over.
He didn't know her faux Gucci handbag was bait.
He also didn't count on being confronted.
But then again, he didn't care. He knew no chickenshit fucker wouldn't shoot him with this blond human-shield in front of him. Most people wanted this shit to be over as quickly as possible.
"Take my wallet."
"Here's my purse."
"This is all I have, please take it and go, just don't hurt me."
Those were the refrains. No one wanted confrontation. No one wanted any trouble. No one wanted to be a hero.
Jason knew the station was quickly approaching. He would wait for the doors to open, toss the bitch toward Johnny Law and jump off the train and into the crowded platform. No one would dare fire at him as he ran away, not even a limp-dick cop.
"Fuck you, bitch," the vato spat. "I'll kill this cunt."
Shane had the shot, but missed. Right as his finger squeezed the trigger, the subway train lurched. He lunged, fired and grazed the kid's left ear.
"Motherfucker," Jason screamed.
It wasn't the first time Jason had been shot, but, still, it's something you never get used to.
"I told you, asshole," he screamed as Jason slid the blade across the woman's throat. He held the bitch up tight to him so that fucker couldn't squeeze off another shot. Jason shuffled toward the door, dropped the woman and bolted.
He got two steps off the train before a gunshot ripped through his spine, dropping him instantly.
Shane looked to see where the shot came from only to see the blond, with blood spurting down her chest, holding her own pistol.
He ran to her, leaned down and whispered, "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't think he would cut you."
She looked up and smiled through the pain.
"Just get me out of here before the cops show up. They arrest vigilantes, you know."
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
what a wreck
sunset fades to dusk
dusk morphs to black
black becomes sunrise
sunrise climbs into daylight
daylight fizzles into sunset
life spins on a never-ending axis
tossing us around for its own pleasure
watching us bump into things
and people as
sunrise, daylight, sunset dusk and black
mark the time those collisions occur
dusk morphs to black
black becomes sunrise
sunrise climbs into daylight
daylight fizzles into sunset
life spins on a never-ending axis
tossing us around for its own pleasure
watching us bump into things
and people as
sunrise, daylight, sunset dusk and black
mark the time those collisions occur
Friday, July 16, 2010
Chance
The end of the day brings relief and reflection
The beginning offers redemption
The middle gives opportunity, a chance to succeed or fail.
Life puts forth time to master one, the other or all.
The beginning offers redemption
The middle gives opportunity, a chance to succeed or fail.
Life puts forth time to master one, the other or all.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
12 lines
The sun still rise
it still shines
no matter what happens
Good or bad,
life keeps moving
happy, sad
doesn't matter
to the ticking clock of life
our devestating problems
our smile-enducing triumphs
our life-altering decisions
are merely part of the fabric of existence
it still shines
no matter what happens
Good or bad,
life keeps moving
happy, sad
doesn't matter
to the ticking clock of life
our devestating problems
our smile-enducing triumphs
our life-altering decisions
are merely part of the fabric of existence
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Friday night, home and horny (3WW)
3 Word Wednesday about six days late.
The prompts are:
acrid, bane, tepid
Fuck, he was horny. Fuck, he was pissed.
"Fuck them," the perpetually pissed off and horny teenager spat as he sat alone in his bedroom on Friday night.
Sixteen and stuck on restriction for breaking curfew -- again. He couldn't say it was worth it, but he couldn't deny it wasn't.
After all, he'd gotten laid the night before; by the lake, on a blanket beneath a full moon next to the shore. Twice, in fact, which was made him late.
"The smell of acrid smoke and horse's breath," Iron Maiden's Bruce Dickinson sang into the Bose headphones he'd slammed on trying to drown out the world.
She was good. Beautiful and willing, but mostly willing. Oh, he had standards, but the incessant search for carnal knowledge dulled those standards somewhat. His latest conquest wouldn't ever win homecoming queen -- for one, she didn't roll in that social circle -- but, hey, she was a solid 8.
And that was good enough. He'd tired of chasing little Ms. Perfect. He was beginning to realize that OK was good enough, especially when it came to girls, or women, or
No, she wasn't like the tepid girls he'd "dated" in the past, the kind of cocktease he'd wasted many a weekend chasing. The kind who only wanted a boyfriend to drag around school. He'd had enough of those bitches, the kind who clung to him when their friends were around, acting all attentive and loving, but who turned into an ice princess in the backseat after the football game.
As he cranked the music up even louder in an effort to punish his asshole parents, he thought "Which is a bigger bane? My lust for nubile female flesh or my parents' persistent insistence on rules and shit?"
"Defintely, the 'rents," he concluded.
Oh, how great life would be to come and go as he pleased, to stay out till all hours of the night getting nut after nut with his "8."
Fuck, he was horny. Fuck, he was pissed.
The prompts are:
acrid, bane, tepid
Fuck, he was horny. Fuck, he was pissed.
"Fuck them," the perpetually pissed off and horny teenager spat as he sat alone in his bedroom on Friday night.
Sixteen and stuck on restriction for breaking curfew -- again. He couldn't say it was worth it, but he couldn't deny it wasn't.
After all, he'd gotten laid the night before; by the lake, on a blanket beneath a full moon next to the shore. Twice, in fact, which was made him late.
"The smell of acrid smoke and horse's breath," Iron Maiden's Bruce Dickinson sang into the Bose headphones he'd slammed on trying to drown out the world.
She was good. Beautiful and willing, but mostly willing. Oh, he had standards, but the incessant search for carnal knowledge dulled those standards somewhat. His latest conquest wouldn't ever win homecoming queen -- for one, she didn't roll in that social circle -- but, hey, she was a solid 8.
And that was good enough. He'd tired of chasing little Ms. Perfect. He was beginning to realize that OK was good enough, especially when it came to girls, or women, or
No, she wasn't like the tepid girls he'd "dated" in the past, the kind of cocktease he'd wasted many a weekend chasing. The kind who only wanted a boyfriend to drag around school. He'd had enough of those bitches, the kind who clung to him when their friends were around, acting all attentive and loving, but who turned into an ice princess in the backseat after the football game.
As he cranked the music up even louder in an effort to punish his asshole parents, he thought "Which is a bigger bane? My lust for nubile female flesh or my parents' persistent insistence on rules and shit?"
"Defintely, the 'rents," he concluded.
Oh, how great life would be to come and go as he pleased, to stay out till all hours of the night getting nut after nut with his "8."
Fuck, he was horny. Fuck, he was pissed.
The sound of silence
It's quietness is deafening
It's tranquilty maddening
Silence is golden
until you crave the din of life
The chatter of children
the musings of friends
the sounds of sweetness
Yet, for all the noise around us
it's only when things fall silent
can we truly learn to listen.
It's tranquilty maddening
Silence is golden
until you crave the din of life
The chatter of children
the musings of friends
the sounds of sweetness
Yet, for all the noise around us
it's only when things fall silent
can we truly learn to listen.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Fear
This isn't my work, but that of a long, lost friend named Geoffrey, a person who helped me in my initial stages of sobriety. He and I were in rehab together. I lost contact with him about 3 years into my sobriety, but his words, written in my AA book, have always been a reference.
Fear
I'm scared. I've been scared all of my memorable life ... Fear! Born out of rational and irrational thoughts. Like angry dogs, inside, clawing at my ego, my sanity, my soul ... Fear ... Sickening Fear ... uncertaintity. What will happen? Can I trust you? Will you lie to me? Leave me? Hit me, hurt me? Why should I trust you? Trust you? ... I'm scared to. ... Fear ... Terror. Am I nice enough, tough enough, brave enough ... NO ... I'm scared ... What will you say? Will you tell someone else? betray me? Questions ... unanswered questions... uncertaintity ... Fear! I'm scared of fear ... Full of fear ... Fearful. Will I be good enough? Am I what you expected? Did I disappoint you? Did I measure up? What is the standard? Where did I go wrong? I feel defeated already. I know you won't like me ... Fear ... Am I normal? Am I going crazy? Did I get the job? Did I say the right thing? Was I impressive? How was your dinner? Did you like it? Too much salt? Pepper? Not the way it should be? Not done right? Am I even in the right profession? Maybe I'm not even cut out for this! Doubt .. Full of Doubt ... Doubtful ... Dear .. Tell Me .. I'm scared. What will she think? How do I look? Teeth brushed? Smell good? Did I go too fast? Too slow? How were the kisses? The embraces? My touches? Will she like my approach? My execution? Will she cum? Will I cum too fast? Was I better than her last lover? Will she talk? Giggle to her friends? Oh, fuck! I think I'm going to die! Those dogs! Those fear dogs! ... Uncertaintity ... Insecurity .. I'm not secure! ... Will I get the money? Will I score teh drugs? Will I get ripped off? ... Questions ... Fear! ... The Police! They're coming! I know they're out there! ... Panic! ... Terror! ... will I get arrested? Go to jail? Jail! Oh, God, not jail. Will my prayers be answered? Is God listening? Is he there at all? If he is, will be listen to me? Fear! Real Fear! What will become of me? Die? Is there a heaven? Will I go there? Fear! ... Can I trust you? ... Fear!
Yes ... I can trust you, Aaron.
Fear
I'm scared. I've been scared all of my memorable life ... Fear! Born out of rational and irrational thoughts. Like angry dogs, inside, clawing at my ego, my sanity, my soul ... Fear ... Sickening Fear ... uncertaintity. What will happen? Can I trust you? Will you lie to me? Leave me? Hit me, hurt me? Why should I trust you? Trust you? ... I'm scared to. ... Fear ... Terror. Am I nice enough, tough enough, brave enough ... NO ... I'm scared ... What will you say? Will you tell someone else? betray me? Questions ... unanswered questions... uncertaintity ... Fear! I'm scared of fear ... Full of fear ... Fearful. Will I be good enough? Am I what you expected? Did I disappoint you? Did I measure up? What is the standard? Where did I go wrong? I feel defeated already. I know you won't like me ... Fear ... Am I normal? Am I going crazy? Did I get the job? Did I say the right thing? Was I impressive? How was your dinner? Did you like it? Too much salt? Pepper? Not the way it should be? Not done right? Am I even in the right profession? Maybe I'm not even cut out for this! Doubt .. Full of Doubt ... Doubtful ... Dear .. Tell Me .. I'm scared. What will she think? How do I look? Teeth brushed? Smell good? Did I go too fast? Too slow? How were the kisses? The embraces? My touches? Will she like my approach? My execution? Will she cum? Will I cum too fast? Was I better than her last lover? Will she talk? Giggle to her friends? Oh, fuck! I think I'm going to die! Those dogs! Those fear dogs! ... Uncertaintity ... Insecurity .. I'm not secure! ... Will I get the money? Will I score teh drugs? Will I get ripped off? ... Questions ... Fear! ... The Police! They're coming! I know they're out there! ... Panic! ... Terror! ... will I get arrested? Go to jail? Jail! Oh, God, not jail. Will my prayers be answered? Is God listening? Is he there at all? If he is, will be listen to me? Fear! Real Fear! What will become of me? Die? Is there a heaven? Will I go there? Fear! ... Can I trust you? ... Fear!
Yes ... I can trust you, Aaron.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Don't forget
Absence dulls the senses
The memory quickly moves on to the next thing
So don't forget
Remember the two-hour phone calls
Remember the ease of our conversations
Don't forget the spark
the looks, the longing
Remember things we planned to do
places we could see, adventures we could take
So don't forget
The feeling of new love
The excitment
The butterflies
The fear
And remember
how I told you our first kiss would be magical
The memory quickly moves on to the next thing
So don't forget
Remember the two-hour phone calls
Remember the ease of our conversations
Don't forget the spark
the looks, the longing
Remember things we planned to do
places we could see, adventures we could take
So don't forget
The feeling of new love
The excitment
The butterflies
The fear
And remember
how I told you our first kiss would be magical
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Keep beating
Keep beating
Keep seeking
Don't stop
No matter what
False starts
Empty promises
Delayed gratification
None of those matter when it's real
So embrace the heartace
Relish the pain
For when the heart finally finds a match it will be heavenly
But until then
Keep beating
Keep seeking
Keep seeking
Don't stop
No matter what
False starts
Empty promises
Delayed gratification
None of those matter when it's real
So embrace the heartace
Relish the pain
For when the heart finally finds a match it will be heavenly
But until then
Keep beating
Keep seeking
A bit of Thursday fun
"FML," he thought as the phone rang for the umpteenth time.
He slid the right side of his headphones off his ear, interrupting the Smiths streaming on the interweb, and picked up the phone. Not another asshole, he hoped.
"Hello," he said.
No reply.
"Of course," he said into the mouthpiece.
He hung up and resumed what he'd been doing before the latest interruption.
But, sadly, the words had vanished from his head, as though they'd been sucked into the vacuum of the phone call.
He'd been making good progress before the latest annoyance -- he'd gotten two pages nailed with some witty dialogue -- but suddenly it was gone.
He was new to writing, at least this style of writing. After 10 years at a newspaper, he knew how to put words on paper, or computer screen. But this, creative writing was something he felt like he was learning anew. It was his dream; one shared by his mother. And it was a promise made close to her death. He would write his novel. He would give it a shot, even though he knew that every two-bit hack who can string four or five sentences together has the same dream.
"Oh, I can write. I'm funny. People would like to read what I have to say," the refrain goes.
He didn't have that opinion of himself. His mother did, but she was biased, he thought.
Sure, he has stories to tell. But who would want to read them? Who would be interested in his childhood, his troubled teen years or even his tumultous 20s?
And then he realized, he would. A lot of the good stuff he'd read in the past three years -- after his committment to always have a book, or two, in the reading rotation -- was real stuff about real people. His stories were no less funny, poignant than some of the crap he'd poured through.
So, he stood up, walked to the refridgerator, poured a glass of water and walked outside. Sitting on the front step, he thought of the all that he'd been through. Growing up, getting older and finally trying to pass all the lessons, all the don't-do-these-mistakes on to his children.
And then he remembered where he'd been before the phone call.
He slid the right side of his headphones off his ear, interrupting the Smiths streaming on the interweb, and picked up the phone. Not another asshole, he hoped.
"Hello," he said.
No reply.
"Of course," he said into the mouthpiece.
He hung up and resumed what he'd been doing before the latest interruption.
But, sadly, the words had vanished from his head, as though they'd been sucked into the vacuum of the phone call.
He'd been making good progress before the latest annoyance -- he'd gotten two pages nailed with some witty dialogue -- but suddenly it was gone.
He was new to writing, at least this style of writing. After 10 years at a newspaper, he knew how to put words on paper, or computer screen. But this, creative writing was something he felt like he was learning anew. It was his dream; one shared by his mother. And it was a promise made close to her death. He would write his novel. He would give it a shot, even though he knew that every two-bit hack who can string four or five sentences together has the same dream.
"Oh, I can write. I'm funny. People would like to read what I have to say," the refrain goes.
He didn't have that opinion of himself. His mother did, but she was biased, he thought.
Sure, he has stories to tell. But who would want to read them? Who would be interested in his childhood, his troubled teen years or even his tumultous 20s?
And then he realized, he would. A lot of the good stuff he'd read in the past three years -- after his committment to always have a book, or two, in the reading rotation -- was real stuff about real people. His stories were no less funny, poignant than some of the crap he'd poured through.
So, he stood up, walked to the refridgerator, poured a glass of water and walked outside. Sitting on the front step, he thought of the all that he'd been through. Growing up, getting older and finally trying to pass all the lessons, all the don't-do-these-mistakes on to his children.
And then he remembered where he'd been before the phone call.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
3WW
The 3 Word Wednesday prompts are: hassle, inject, wealth
Here it is, a little tardy
The water washed over him. Cool and tangy with that chemical taste that only comes in a public pool. Not too gross, but flavorful enough to let you know there's more than water in the water.
Yet, despite the taste sliding into the water for the first time in more than a year was heaven; like a rebirth of sorts. Gone were the worries of the day. Work troubles gone. Girl problems vanished. No one, or nothing, could hassle him in the pool.
It used to be his escape, an opportunity to disappear for an hour and inject himself with a revitilization tonic -- maybe that's what was in the water. But for some reason, unknown to him, he stopped going, stopped working out. He got fat -- fatter. He once again took a backseat to life, worrying about other things before his mental, physical and spiritual well being. Part of that was due to circumstances. Dying mom. Trips to the Bay Area. Kids' needs. All drained his time, like a debt draining the wealth of his personal bank.
But that's life, he reasoned. Things must be done. And if he didn't do them, he reasoned, who would? The sister? The ex? The kids, themselves? It was, after procrastination, his worst character trait -- taking on a problem, owning it, rather than allowing someone to step up, and perhaps fail, and chip in for the common good.
He was good at taking on too much, and feeling like a martyr for his troubles. He never complained -- outwardly, at least. But every trip, every rescue, every project drained him until the pool he longed to dive in was empty.
Until he realized that he needed his metaphorical pool and the YMCA pool to be filled and wash over him.
Here it is, a little tardy
The water washed over him. Cool and tangy with that chemical taste that only comes in a public pool. Not too gross, but flavorful enough to let you know there's more than water in the water.
Yet, despite the taste sliding into the water for the first time in more than a year was heaven; like a rebirth of sorts. Gone were the worries of the day. Work troubles gone. Girl problems vanished. No one, or nothing, could hassle him in the pool.
It used to be his escape, an opportunity to disappear for an hour and inject himself with a revitilization tonic -- maybe that's what was in the water. But for some reason, unknown to him, he stopped going, stopped working out. He got fat -- fatter. He once again took a backseat to life, worrying about other things before his mental, physical and spiritual well being. Part of that was due to circumstances. Dying mom. Trips to the Bay Area. Kids' needs. All drained his time, like a debt draining the wealth of his personal bank.
But that's life, he reasoned. Things must be done. And if he didn't do them, he reasoned, who would? The sister? The ex? The kids, themselves? It was, after procrastination, his worst character trait -- taking on a problem, owning it, rather than allowing someone to step up, and perhaps fail, and chip in for the common good.
He was good at taking on too much, and feeling like a martyr for his troubles. He never complained -- outwardly, at least. But every trip, every rescue, every project drained him until the pool he longed to dive in was empty.
Until he realized that he needed his metaphorical pool and the YMCA pool to be filled and wash over him.
Friday, June 25, 2010
3WW
It's been some time since I've posted so I thought some 3WW would help spark the juices.
feign, imply, virtue
Virtue was his aim. After all, you don't fuck someone over like that -- especially someone you know, even if he is just a casual friend and not your BFF.
That's not to imply she wasn't worth cock-blocking for -- she was amazing, everything he wanted. Smart, funny, beautiful, engaging, independent and captivating; all the things he'd sought all those post-divorce years, all the things he'd sought on endless, unsufferable blind dates, set-ups and fix-ups. All the things he'd been seeking, but not finding on those uncomfortable dates that both parties knew were fruitless but would feign the cliche "I'll-give-you-a-call-sometime" line to spare the others' feeling and save a little dignity, when both new damn well that there was no tomorrow -- hell, there wasn't even a today -- for a possible relationship.
But as wonderful as she was -- as giddy as he was about being with her -- virtue kept coming back into the equation.
"Do things the right way," he always preached.
It was a cornerstone of who he was, what he was about and the way he lived his life. And now he was having to not only listen to his own advice, but live his own advice. Oh, the irony.
It was the ultimate battle of wants, desires, needs and delayed gratification. He knew they had more in common; they were more compatible; and ultimately, he felt, destined to be together.
But he had to wait until life played out how it was supposed to. In the meantime, he would sit, wait, pine and dream. For the day virtue would pay him back.
feign, imply, virtue
Virtue was his aim. After all, you don't fuck someone over like that -- especially someone you know, even if he is just a casual friend and not your BFF.
That's not to imply she wasn't worth cock-blocking for -- she was amazing, everything he wanted. Smart, funny, beautiful, engaging, independent and captivating; all the things he'd sought all those post-divorce years, all the things he'd sought on endless, unsufferable blind dates, set-ups and fix-ups. All the things he'd been seeking, but not finding on those uncomfortable dates that both parties knew were fruitless but would feign the cliche "I'll-give-you-a-call-sometime" line to spare the others' feeling and save a little dignity, when both new damn well that there was no tomorrow -- hell, there wasn't even a today -- for a possible relationship.
But as wonderful as she was -- as giddy as he was about being with her -- virtue kept coming back into the equation.
"Do things the right way," he always preached.
It was a cornerstone of who he was, what he was about and the way he lived his life. And now he was having to not only listen to his own advice, but live his own advice. Oh, the irony.
It was the ultimate battle of wants, desires, needs and delayed gratification. He knew they had more in common; they were more compatible; and ultimately, he felt, destined to be together.
But he had to wait until life played out how it was supposed to. In the meantime, he would sit, wait, pine and dream. For the day virtue would pay him back.
Monday, January 18, 2010
three word wednesday (four days late)
Jolt
Ribbon
Zeal
It was an open expanse of road, a black ribbon of asphalt that stretched as far as the eye could see, until the heat rising up from the ground swallowed the horizon.
It was a familiar patch of highway for Tim, a long haul trucker gets to know things, familiarize himself with restaurants, roads, truck stops, hell, even the "special ladies" he often would find comfort with on the mandatory overnight rest period.
But there was something different about this patricular stretch of Highway 395 -- the Devil's road in between Reno and Las Vegas -- that caught his eye that scorching summer afternoon. It wasn't the jolt of wind that damn near tipped his rig over, spilling the covertly packaged cargo he was ferrying on a side job. No, the wind wasn't the problem. Hell, he'd driven on nine wheels for damn-near a mile once on the coast of California on a stormy night he thought would kill him or someone around him. No, the wind was nothing. But the zeal with which is hit him was something he didn't expect. It felt, well, almost unworldy.
He was after all, approaching the poorest kept secret in the United State -- Area 51.
But Tim didn't believe in that shit. Aliens? Little Green Men? All bullshit as far as he was concerned. But something, little did he know it was someone, had blown his truck, carrying U.S. Army weapons, off the road and on to the shoulder.
Steeping out of the cab, he looked at the five blown tires and muttered, "Fuck" to no one and all the coyotes in ear shot. "Well, better hunker down and wait," he thought. No telling when someone's gonna come and find me.
Little did Tim know he was right. It would take someone a long, long time to find him on that remote stretch of 395. But something finding him? That was where the whole adventure started.
Ribbon
Zeal
It was an open expanse of road, a black ribbon of asphalt that stretched as far as the eye could see, until the heat rising up from the ground swallowed the horizon.
It was a familiar patch of highway for Tim, a long haul trucker gets to know things, familiarize himself with restaurants, roads, truck stops, hell, even the "special ladies" he often would find comfort with on the mandatory overnight rest period.
But there was something different about this patricular stretch of Highway 395 -- the Devil's road in between Reno and Las Vegas -- that caught his eye that scorching summer afternoon. It wasn't the jolt of wind that damn near tipped his rig over, spilling the covertly packaged cargo he was ferrying on a side job. No, the wind wasn't the problem. Hell, he'd driven on nine wheels for damn-near a mile once on the coast of California on a stormy night he thought would kill him or someone around him. No, the wind was nothing. But the zeal with which is hit him was something he didn't expect. It felt, well, almost unworldy.
He was after all, approaching the poorest kept secret in the United State -- Area 51.
But Tim didn't believe in that shit. Aliens? Little Green Men? All bullshit as far as he was concerned. But something, little did he know it was someone, had blown his truck, carrying U.S. Army weapons, off the road and on to the shoulder.
Steeping out of the cab, he looked at the five blown tires and muttered, "Fuck" to no one and all the coyotes in ear shot. "Well, better hunker down and wait," he thought. No telling when someone's gonna come and find me.
Little did Tim know he was right. It would take someone a long, long time to find him on that remote stretch of 395. But something finding him? That was where the whole adventure started.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Coming home?
the boys and i went back to church, them for the first time, me for the third. we are in the process of "finding" a church. we will hit up St. Joe's next week, then sacred heart before deciding.
it's interesting that the thing i used to dread as a child, teen and even into adulthood has become a comfort. in a way, it does feel like home.
it's interesting that the thing i used to dread as a child, teen and even into adulthood has become a comfort. in a way, it does feel like home.
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