"Shooting me would be the stupidest thing you could ever do. Tell me why you won't shoot me."
"I should shoot ya for being just that smug. I won't shoot ya because there had to be a reason. My employers - the Neck-less," he stopped himself and smiled at that, amused with his own turn of phrase. You could tell that it was the first time he had thought of it. "They have 2 years worth of bets with you. Two years of loans made and paid. You were a good risk right up until you weren't no more."
The man with the gun talked faster and faster. The thoughts seemed to be running out of him just as they occurred to him.
"That is a long game you were playin'. Ya set it up slow. Bigger and bigger bets. Paying off losses on time or almost on time, ya got people to sorta kinda trust ya. Which is news since these kinds of people don't trust each other much less a white boy like you."
"Ya married the Farfenelli girl, what, 18 months ago? All that money to bank roll ya. At least that's what it looked like from a distance. But ya do a little digging and she don't know nothin' about her man's card playin' ways. That was why I came here. Thought the pressure of her coming home from the ski trip and finding us here talking would make you sweat even more. I might hold off on shooting ya just to find out if that was your intention all along."
"The girl doesn't figure into this. All I ask is that if you are gonna shoot me, don't leave a mess here for her to find. I don't want her to go through that. But don't make me disappear altogether either. I don't want her thinking I ran off on her. She is fragile that way. Doesn't think much of herself compared to her name or her money and me just up and disappearing would do her serious harm. Better she should have to come to the morgue and see my face with a new hole somewhere on it. She's strong that way. Took care of her daddy while cancer ate him up. She could handle that."
"Wait. The girl is incidental? You set this whole thing up to get me alone in a room with ya, and the one thing that actually gets me alone in the room with ya, is a rich girl that you just have the hots fer? Omigod! What if ... Didn't ya ever think about the Neckless holding her until ya paid yer debt? Jesus, what a donkey ass gamble."
"I didn't lay it down perfect. I know that. It took me five years to find you and another two to figure out how to have this conversation without your Neckless listening in. I need you. I can help you. And we can both be filthy stinking, stupid rich beyond anything your employers or my momma could ever hope to deal with. That's the pitch. That's the angle. That's the hook."
The man with the pistol smiled at the man who claims to be his brother.
"I don't have money. I don't have access to money and you run a long game to get me in front of ya with a gun pointed atcha. Ballsy. Ballsy play. But you still gotta come up with the money for the Neckless or you get hurt badly. Or my rep takes a hit. And I figure my reputation is important to ya. How ya figure the play from here?"
The cool man smiled, "What? You don't have that kind of money laying around for when family needs it?"
The man with the pistol raises his eyebrow again and leans back in his chair and sips his Scotch. He wanted to like this man. He was starting to like him despite himself. That is how a grifter is able to work best. They engender trust and good will just because they have that something... He wanted to like this man.
"Why, specifically, did you want to meet me?"
The gun was still in his hand. The camaraderie, the funny little exchanges, the jokes. The gun had never left his hand. His forefinger still rested just on the outside of the trigger guard. His eyes grew colder as a resolve reasserted itself.
"I ain't leaving without the money. Wash that idea out of your head. Now, the specific question I just asked. I am not a patient man. My... heritage... has been ... Maybe it hasn't been a secret, exactly, but not too many people have ever been able to pin a connection to me and your Momma's operation."
"I have known about you since I was 18 or so. Momma may have kept everything in her head but Daddy kept a diary. He wrote about you a whole lot. I was envious of him teaching you to shoot so young. You beat me to it by 5 full years. Didn't seem fair. Took me a while to figure out why that all happened."
"You were being groomed. Hell, I was being groomed. The family business was intricate. The need for manipulation and glad handing was there. But so was the need for a well placed bullet. You and I were being prepared to carry on what my Momma had started and what our Daddy thought was his."
"I walked away from it just like you never stepped up to it. It wasn't mine. I didn't want to be a piece to somebody's else's puzzle. But I would never have thought of myself that way if I had not seen the way they catered your whole life for you. They paid for the private schools, the shooting lessons, they covered for you when you had your run ins with the law. They paid for all those self defense classes that you were so good at. They also made sure you never got a legit shot at those UFC tryouts when you were a kid. Too much fame is not the thing for a shadow to have."
"That's what you were meant to be, by the way. My shadow. I would be the face of the family. I would hold office of some sort. Momma hoped for Governor. You would be the muscle from behind the scenes that nobody ever saw coming until it was just too damn late. And it would all have been tied together in blood."
"Perfect plan except our Daddy had to go and die so young. No continuity. Nothing to tie the two of us together. Hell, nothing to tie you to her. So you got to go off and make your own life years before I did. Just like the whole learning to shoot thing all over again."
"But to answer your question, Daddy kept a journal. Stupidest thing a crooked judge could ever do, but then our daddy wasn't the smartest of souls that crossed the surface of God's green earth. It laid out who you were and where you were staying and who all you knew way back then. With that, it was possible to track you down. Not easy, mind ya, but possible."
As he talked he got up from the desk and slowly moved over to the safe hidden behind the glasses where the stranger had poured the Scotch. He punched in the numbers and pulled out two thick stacks of bills and pulled a few bills from a third thick wad. He was very careful that his hand never strayed too closely to the pistol there in the safe. He tossed the money on the desk while never closing the safe. The hook was set or he was dead. A few dollars more would not make a difference.
The man with the pistol made his way out of the house and walked three blocks down to a car parked in the shadow of an old oak. The car was in front of yet another old house with an iron fence weaving with age around what used to be one of the nicest places to live in this ancient neighborhood. He plopped down in the passenger seat. He sighed deeply and shook his head as looked at the attractive red head behind the wheel.
She only glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. She knew that after these visits he needed to feel alone even if he wasn't, so she gave him what space she could. He sighed again and she knew this was a queue for her. "Did he play the long lost brother bit like you thought he would?"
"Played it out better than I thought. Played like he didn't have the money right up to the very end. Ballsy little bastard. Have to give him that."
The red head nods and asks, "Do we need to have Jimmy come in and clean the place or did you keep your gloves on this time?"
"No. No. We don't need Jimmy. I let him live. Gonna let him live long enough to make us a great big pile of money. It won't be easy to kill him though. He is just so damn likable."
End Chapter Two
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Friday, August 16, 2013
Chapter 1 - Nice to Meetcha
"Hi. Come on in. Don't be nervous. Go ahead and sit down in that big old chair behind your desk and make yourself comfortable. Don't worry about that pistol in the drawer on the left. It ain't there no more. Hell, if you notice, the letter opener in that cubbie up front is gone too."
He sat there behind his desk just starting to sweat. He had not had the chance to take his overcoat off and for sure that played a part. The fact that a pistol was pointed at him did nothing to mitigate the heat. He sat and looked at the drawer to his left. He saw that it was still a little bit open and had no doubt that his gun was long gone from there anyway.
"I ain't here to kill ya but kill ya is what I will do if I have ta. You understand that part of this don't ya, sir? I mean, you been in a spot where violence was never the desired outcome, but you had had to make up you're mind beforehand, that if it came to that, you would do it without hesitation?" The stranger waited a bit as if he actually wanted a reply, and in fairness, maybe he did, but when one was not forthcoming he proceeded with, " I am here to collect $26,000 or else to hurt ya in such a way that no other degenerate gambler would ever again wind up in dept to my employers for such a sum."
They eyed each other for a beat and the man with the gun smiled just slightly. Might not have been a smile at all but just a crinkle of the wrinkles around the mouth. The man with the gun pointed at him pursed his lips against a smile, but his eyes, even in the fear of the moment, gave away a sense of amusement. "Yeah, I know. Nothing that happens to you will ever stop another degenerate bastard. We all assume that we'll hit the flush on the next card."
With that, the stranger moved gracefully to the bar and set out two glasses and began to look over the liquor. "If we really knew how to manage the odds, we wouldn't wind up in the debt of men who have no style, or grace, or ...necks."
The stranger settled on the Scotch. Specifically he poured two fingers in each glass of the MacAllen 25. "Ya know, somebody who has this kind of taste in Scotch, and the means to buy it, shouldn't ever have to go to a loan shark to cover gambling debts." He sat one glass on the desk and sat down across from his unwilling companion and stared at the slightly smokey, vanilla spirit. "But I guess if Momma don't know about hubby's debts and she holds the purse strings, it can get interesting, am I right?"
The man with the gun smelled the Scotch and then sat it back down without taking a sip. The man with his life replaying before him spoke in a whisper very much like someone watching a movie in a crowded theatre, "You know your Scotch and your gambling."
"And you are one cool son of a bitch. Most folks faced with a pistol in the hands of a man prepared to use it, they get cotton mouthed. They can talk mind ya, beg even, but not without coughing or some such first. You, sir, are a bit different, aren't ya?"
The man smiled first and then laughed that quiet kind of laugh that only comes out at things that aren't really funny. "Never bet big on something when you aren't willing to go all in."
"That sir, is toast-able. To going all in." And with that the two men at opposite ends of the gun sipped their Scotch. The drink had no burn. It was smoke and caramel and vanilla and old leather and warm goodness that trailed down the throat and found the back of the conscious mind and just slightly numbed the lips. It is the perfect drink, especially if it might be the last sip you ever take.
"What if I don't have the money? I know you can hurt me. I have thought that I had prepared myself for the hurt, but apparently I am even more of a coward than I thought. I am terrified. But in a cool way." And he smiled at that.
The man with the gun smiled back and shook his head. "I hate causing the pain, if that matters to ya. I have dreams about the things I have done to men and women like you. I hear things just as I start to go to sleep that keep me awake nights. Surely we can find some source of money to spare us both that nightmare? You seem like the smart type, present situation excluded."
The cool man sipped his Scotch again and just before he swallowed, inhaled a short, quick breath and let the vapors from the liquor waft its way throughout his consciousness and seep slowly out as he exhaled through his nose. "I am not afraid of dying. Never thought I would be able to say that honestly. I mean, you have to have a good poker face to do what I do for as long as I have done it. But looking like you don't mind and actually not giving a shit are two wholeheartedly different things. Do you understand that?" Before the man with the gun can answer, the cool man continues, "Of course you do. You've had all your chips in the center of the table with just a Jack high. The only thing keeping those other assholes at the table from calling with a pair of sixes is that ice cold, dead eyed look."
The man with the gun smiles again and sips his Scotch. He settles back in his chair and makes a show of making himself comfortable. Like any story teller, he can tell when a story is about to start. He crosses his legs and rests the pistol on his knee in a way that says, "Go ahead with your story. But...it better be a good story."
"Don't mistake me. I am scared to death of the things you could do to me - to hurt me. My imagination is of all these creative things you could do. The fact that you seem so intelligent is a concern to me. I know the stupid can be cruel, but the idea of someone like you turning ... The fact that you bring reason and patience to the issue - that's just the scariest damn thing I can think of."
The man with the pistol sat there - said nothing - gave no indication that the words meant anything to him. The cool man brought himself back to the problem at hand. "Twenty-six thousand dollars, huh?
The man with the gun raised one eye brow to acknowledge the number. The first sign of impatience. Circling around to the beginning of the conversation would not be a good thing. The cool man gulps the last of his Scotch and sits his drink down with just a hint of amber coloring the glass. "You know how I learned to play cards? My momma taught me. Good ole Texas housewife who knew her way around a deck of cards. And the frailty of human will. She could size a person up in minutes and fillet them if she needed to. Woman never paid full retail for anything in her life. Every charity she supported got all kinds of donations from businessmen who were never known to be a soft touch for anybody else. She just knew things about people and she played on that."
"Fortunately for my daddy, she loved him. Oh, she still maneuvered him around the board like everybody else, but she was supremely careful that he should never be aware of it. That took more work but she must have felt he was worth it. He died a happy man who thought he had made all his own decisions his whole life. Not many of us get that kind of peace on this side of the grave."
"I came along and she knew she loved me when I was a baby. When I got to the point that I had ideas of my own, she started having her doubts. When she realized I could see the strings she was pulling, she had to pause and reassess the whole situation. I was thirteen years old when I started calling bluffs nobody had ever called on her before. Three months after my 13th birthday she took me to a card game at Sleepy Jay's bar. She never questioned the fact that I already knew the difference between a straight and flush but just sat me down in front of middle aged men with 300 dollars and a hard look and a simple command, "Make money. Don't lose money."
"I sat down there and made 2700 dollars from old men who had never lost that much so fast from somebody so young. They called me when I wanted them to and they folded out when I had nothing. And the only two people who weren't surprised were me and Momma"
The man with the pistol smiled at him. It was a smile that said, "I ain't gonna ask the question. Just come on with the answer/"
"Yeah, I know. I said Momma taught me how to play cards and it is the truth. Just not all that accurate. I learned to play cards by hanging around the courthouse long after I was supposed to be in bed. She ran games out of the courthouse where my daddy was the county magistrate. I watched lawyers and district attorneys and folks serving 30 days play for dollars, dope, and favors. And my momma took a cut of all of it. I remember them all being so polite. Poker players are almost always the most polite."
The man with the gun laughed loudly while shaking his head. "You are a cold and cool son of a Bitch. Your momma is Ms. Wetta out of Katy, TX? Who set up shop in Houston 50 years ago? Who ran a little bit of Vegas for all the refinery workers down there in the gulf?"
"Yessir. That's my momma. Wonderful woman. Ahead of her time, really. She realized that all the money was green whether it came from black folks, brown folks, or the lily white folks who came to Daddy's re-election parties. I learned the game when I was 6 years old from the older black gentlemen who sat behind bars and played for cigarettes and rock candy. The rock candy was my lure, as you might imagine."
The man with the pistol sips the last of his Scotch. He smiles at the cool man but says nothing. The cool man sees the silence and raises an eyebrow. The man with the pistol blinks and inhales deeply. "Rumor was that a young black girl got herself shot at one of Ms. Wetta's games."
The cool man takes two fingers and pushes his glass towards the man with the pistol and smiles while waiting on his re-fill. "That was your Momma that died the night Junior Robinson had a full house beaten by quad sixes. They say he was just too fat for anybody to have found that itty bitty Derringer on him."
The man with the pistol sits very still. He knows now that $26,000.00 is nothing to this man. And he knows that it was no accident that brought him here this night. All alone with a man who was expecting him all along. His hand felt sweaty around the hilt of the pistol. But the best cards aren't always the winning hand.
"There is something else you should know about your daddy the Judge..."
"My daddy liked pretty young black girls and you and I are probably brothers." Called and raised.
"Nice to meet ya big brother. Now, why shouldn't I just shoot ya right betwixt the damn eyes and be on my merry way?"
End Chapter One
He sat there behind his desk just starting to sweat. He had not had the chance to take his overcoat off and for sure that played a part. The fact that a pistol was pointed at him did nothing to mitigate the heat. He sat and looked at the drawer to his left. He saw that it was still a little bit open and had no doubt that his gun was long gone from there anyway.
"I ain't here to kill ya but kill ya is what I will do if I have ta. You understand that part of this don't ya, sir? I mean, you been in a spot where violence was never the desired outcome, but you had had to make up you're mind beforehand, that if it came to that, you would do it without hesitation?" The stranger waited a bit as if he actually wanted a reply, and in fairness, maybe he did, but when one was not forthcoming he proceeded with, " I am here to collect $26,000 or else to hurt ya in such a way that no other degenerate gambler would ever again wind up in dept to my employers for such a sum."
They eyed each other for a beat and the man with the gun smiled just slightly. Might not have been a smile at all but just a crinkle of the wrinkles around the mouth. The man with the gun pointed at him pursed his lips against a smile, but his eyes, even in the fear of the moment, gave away a sense of amusement. "Yeah, I know. Nothing that happens to you will ever stop another degenerate bastard. We all assume that we'll hit the flush on the next card."
With that, the stranger moved gracefully to the bar and set out two glasses and began to look over the liquor. "If we really knew how to manage the odds, we wouldn't wind up in the debt of men who have no style, or grace, or ...necks."
The stranger settled on the Scotch. Specifically he poured two fingers in each glass of the MacAllen 25. "Ya know, somebody who has this kind of taste in Scotch, and the means to buy it, shouldn't ever have to go to a loan shark to cover gambling debts." He sat one glass on the desk and sat down across from his unwilling companion and stared at the slightly smokey, vanilla spirit. "But I guess if Momma don't know about hubby's debts and she holds the purse strings, it can get interesting, am I right?"
The man with the gun smelled the Scotch and then sat it back down without taking a sip. The man with his life replaying before him spoke in a whisper very much like someone watching a movie in a crowded theatre, "You know your Scotch and your gambling."
"And you are one cool son of a bitch. Most folks faced with a pistol in the hands of a man prepared to use it, they get cotton mouthed. They can talk mind ya, beg even, but not without coughing or some such first. You, sir, are a bit different, aren't ya?"
The man smiled first and then laughed that quiet kind of laugh that only comes out at things that aren't really funny. "Never bet big on something when you aren't willing to go all in."
"That sir, is toast-able. To going all in." And with that the two men at opposite ends of the gun sipped their Scotch. The drink had no burn. It was smoke and caramel and vanilla and old leather and warm goodness that trailed down the throat and found the back of the conscious mind and just slightly numbed the lips. It is the perfect drink, especially if it might be the last sip you ever take.
"What if I don't have the money? I know you can hurt me. I have thought that I had prepared myself for the hurt, but apparently I am even more of a coward than I thought. I am terrified. But in a cool way." And he smiled at that.
The man with the gun smiled back and shook his head. "I hate causing the pain, if that matters to ya. I have dreams about the things I have done to men and women like you. I hear things just as I start to go to sleep that keep me awake nights. Surely we can find some source of money to spare us both that nightmare? You seem like the smart type, present situation excluded."
The cool man sipped his Scotch again and just before he swallowed, inhaled a short, quick breath and let the vapors from the liquor waft its way throughout his consciousness and seep slowly out as he exhaled through his nose. "I am not afraid of dying. Never thought I would be able to say that honestly. I mean, you have to have a good poker face to do what I do for as long as I have done it. But looking like you don't mind and actually not giving a shit are two wholeheartedly different things. Do you understand that?" Before the man with the gun can answer, the cool man continues, "Of course you do. You've had all your chips in the center of the table with just a Jack high. The only thing keeping those other assholes at the table from calling with a pair of sixes is that ice cold, dead eyed look."
The man with the gun smiles again and sips his Scotch. He settles back in his chair and makes a show of making himself comfortable. Like any story teller, he can tell when a story is about to start. He crosses his legs and rests the pistol on his knee in a way that says, "Go ahead with your story. But...it better be a good story."
"Don't mistake me. I am scared to death of the things you could do to me - to hurt me. My imagination is of all these creative things you could do. The fact that you seem so intelligent is a concern to me. I know the stupid can be cruel, but the idea of someone like you turning ... The fact that you bring reason and patience to the issue - that's just the scariest damn thing I can think of."
The man with the pistol sat there - said nothing - gave no indication that the words meant anything to him. The cool man brought himself back to the problem at hand. "Twenty-six thousand dollars, huh?
The man with the gun raised one eye brow to acknowledge the number. The first sign of impatience. Circling around to the beginning of the conversation would not be a good thing. The cool man gulps the last of his Scotch and sits his drink down with just a hint of amber coloring the glass. "You know how I learned to play cards? My momma taught me. Good ole Texas housewife who knew her way around a deck of cards. And the frailty of human will. She could size a person up in minutes and fillet them if she needed to. Woman never paid full retail for anything in her life. Every charity she supported got all kinds of donations from businessmen who were never known to be a soft touch for anybody else. She just knew things about people and she played on that."
"Fortunately for my daddy, she loved him. Oh, she still maneuvered him around the board like everybody else, but she was supremely careful that he should never be aware of it. That took more work but she must have felt he was worth it. He died a happy man who thought he had made all his own decisions his whole life. Not many of us get that kind of peace on this side of the grave."
"I came along and she knew she loved me when I was a baby. When I got to the point that I had ideas of my own, she started having her doubts. When she realized I could see the strings she was pulling, she had to pause and reassess the whole situation. I was thirteen years old when I started calling bluffs nobody had ever called on her before. Three months after my 13th birthday she took me to a card game at Sleepy Jay's bar. She never questioned the fact that I already knew the difference between a straight and flush but just sat me down in front of middle aged men with 300 dollars and a hard look and a simple command, "Make money. Don't lose money."
"I sat down there and made 2700 dollars from old men who had never lost that much so fast from somebody so young. They called me when I wanted them to and they folded out when I had nothing. And the only two people who weren't surprised were me and Momma"
The man with the pistol smiled at him. It was a smile that said, "I ain't gonna ask the question. Just come on with the answer/"
"Yeah, I know. I said Momma taught me how to play cards and it is the truth. Just not all that accurate. I learned to play cards by hanging around the courthouse long after I was supposed to be in bed. She ran games out of the courthouse where my daddy was the county magistrate. I watched lawyers and district attorneys and folks serving 30 days play for dollars, dope, and favors. And my momma took a cut of all of it. I remember them all being so polite. Poker players are almost always the most polite."
The man with the gun laughed loudly while shaking his head. "You are a cold and cool son of a Bitch. Your momma is Ms. Wetta out of Katy, TX? Who set up shop in Houston 50 years ago? Who ran a little bit of Vegas for all the refinery workers down there in the gulf?"
"Yessir. That's my momma. Wonderful woman. Ahead of her time, really. She realized that all the money was green whether it came from black folks, brown folks, or the lily white folks who came to Daddy's re-election parties. I learned the game when I was 6 years old from the older black gentlemen who sat behind bars and played for cigarettes and rock candy. The rock candy was my lure, as you might imagine."
The man with the pistol sips the last of his Scotch. He smiles at the cool man but says nothing. The cool man sees the silence and raises an eyebrow. The man with the pistol blinks and inhales deeply. "Rumor was that a young black girl got herself shot at one of Ms. Wetta's games."
The cool man takes two fingers and pushes his glass towards the man with the pistol and smiles while waiting on his re-fill. "That was your Momma that died the night Junior Robinson had a full house beaten by quad sixes. They say he was just too fat for anybody to have found that itty bitty Derringer on him."
The man with the pistol sits very still. He knows now that $26,000.00 is nothing to this man. And he knows that it was no accident that brought him here this night. All alone with a man who was expecting him all along. His hand felt sweaty around the hilt of the pistol. But the best cards aren't always the winning hand.
"There is something else you should know about your daddy the Judge..."
"My daddy liked pretty young black girls and you and I are probably brothers." Called and raised.
"Nice to meet ya big brother. Now, why shouldn't I just shoot ya right betwixt the damn eyes and be on my merry way?"
End Chapter One
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!
The earliest fight of my life is not one that I can remember. I have no recall whatsoever but I have been told of it often. It involved what could be construed as a deadly weapon - a forklift to be honest. My opponent - who had tortured me for months and caused my mother to respond in anger at the sound of his name - was left bloody and broken and missing two teeth. I was not brutal. I had not learned that in my life yet.
But again, I don't remember this fight. I have had it told to me with pride and defiance and certainty that only comes from love and anger. I don't remember his name but I remember us being friends. I like the fact that memories of joy and happiness and contentment are the things that I summon up when I try to find this memory that simply isn't.
Of course I was only 3. My mother pointed out that the other boy was 5 and had been a terror who sent me home crying on more than one occasion. My mom used to watch us playing from the kitchen window of our trailer out across the trailer park to the front yard of his family's trailer and she said that our fun would invariably end with him slapping or kicking or punching me until I ran home to her.
She gave me no sympathy except to clean any blood or dirt away to be sure that I was not seriously hurt. To all of my complaints she simply responded that it would continue until I put a stop to it. Unknown to me she had gone to the boy's mother at least twice before to discuss the issue but was greeted with the response of "Boys will be boys," and a vacant grin known only to lobotomized mental patients. At least that is how my mother described the woman. She may have been biased.
My dad was co-owner of a sawmill and before that worked at a mobile home manufacturing plant. Some of my earliest memories are of the gigantic forklifts used to move material around. These were not the tiny little things that I would later use in various warehouses as an adult. Nor were they the things you see on cable TV that are the size of a small house (although to a 3 year old that is exactly what they looked like).
These things were big enough to move huge bundles of lumber and later logs. It was a no brainer for my parents to purchase a large (a third of my body size at the time) forklift toy made by Tonka. I had days and days of fun playing in the shadow of our trailer stacking and unstacking whatever items found their way into my imagination.
Apparently this was the perfect confluence of selfishness and independance and bravery. The five year old put in to take my forklift from me. According to my mom, he could not get it out of my hands, so he settled on kicking over the sticks I had been stacking up like logs (just like my dad, don't ya know) and then he slapped my face. My mom describes this like it was a John Wayne movie or a Clint Eastwood movie or an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie depending on the decade in which she has recited the tale. She says I turned around, spat on the ground, and then came around with the Tonka forklift for all my three year old limbs were worth.
The poor kid's mouth exploded with blood and at least two teeth. He lay there on the ground with me standing over him. Momma said she ran out to see to him and that my eyes were the size of saucers. Apparently his mother watched from her kitchen window too because she came running over to see to him too. I just stood there breathing deeply with the bloody forklift still clutched in my right hand. The woman was hysterical and crying and her son was crying. She and my momma both felt around inside his mouth to be sure the teeth had come out cleanly and that none of the rest were broken.
A day later, after the boy had been to a dentist to make sure that everything was alright, the woman came over to talk with my mother about the incident. She pointed out how much pain her son had been put through. She talked about the cost of the dentist. She talked about the danger of metal toys and the possibility of serious injuries. My mother made sympathetic clucking noises of support without any commitment or real comment. Finally the woman could stand it no more and said,"Dammit, Carolyn, what are you going to do about that boy?"
With the most idiotic smile that a woman of her intelligence could manage, my mother replied, "Oh, well, boys will be boys, won't they?"
I won't be including any of the fights between Mark and me here. Its not that I feel any sense of privacy about those times that my brother and I visited violence upon each other, but rather, if I am going to take the time to recollect all the times I have been a bad brother, this would be an altogether different story and probably much longer. I will stick to folks I am not related to or at least not related that closely.
The next fight I can remember fairly clearly. I was in kindergarten. Never really liked my kindergarten teacher or her teacher's aide very much. If you know anything about me at all, it does not surprise you that I had a problem with authority. My father could command me - I stood in awe of him for most of my life (and his since it was so short). I get how we are to interact with God from how I revere my dad. My mother did not command the same fear or reverence. I somehow saw all of her flaws without ever being mindful of his. Even as I grew older and my dad grew less perfect, I chose not to focus on the clay, but looked higher. My mom never got such a pass.
Later in my life as a teenager, Tanner (officially my agriculture education teacher /unofficially my mentor), could control me. He figured out that logic would work on me. It had to be logic masquerading as jokes and simplistic questions, dull edged and rounded, so as to not give a surface to support anger or indignation. But logic worked on me.
Funnily enough, Tanner's wife was my first grade teacher and first hand witness to the third fight on this list. But the second happened while I suffered under the type of woman who did not believe my five year old protestations that I did not like peach cocktail. She was the type that forced me to take a taste instead of maintaining the peaceful detente that the peaches and I had reached on our own. I had the joy of watching with a perfect view as my stomach refused to be intimidated with the rest of me and threw up on her shoes. You have not been mocked until a puke smeared five year old has smiled up at you while you stand in vomit soaked stockings.
One day before recess, we were told that we were not allowed to fight or wrestle on the playground. Apparently some of my brethren had engaged in this activity the day before. I marvel at how memory works since I have no memory of the day before this day. I don't know what I did that day except I remember remembering that I did not know anything about what the teacher's aide was talking about. I remember not remembering but I don't remember the day before the day that I remember. Got that?
Anyway, I was running down to my favorite half buried tractor tire on the playground (did I mention I went to kindergarten in deep South Georgia?) when Darrell O'Steen turned around in mid run and tackled me. He got both hands all the way around me and was laughing like a maniac. I had just managed to struggle free when the teacher's aide called both of our names, announced we had been warned, and had us both sit for the remainder of the play period. I remember angrily through tears trying to inform this stupid, stupid woman of her mistake. Trying in vain to point out that I was attacked and was the victim in this instance and feeling the burning white hot angry self-righteousness when it fell on deaf ears. Any other authority figure victimized by my quick wit, or acid tongue, or break room lawyering, you have this woman to thank.
Like I said earlier, Tanner's wife was my first grade teacher for my third fight that I can recall. We, my classmates and me, had spent the year working around Eddie. Eddie was exceedingly stupid and the poster child for social promotions in school. I have told several people that Eddie was still in first grade even though he was 23 years old. I have been told by several people that this is a gross exaggeration. Maybe I have let my sense of hyperbole get away with me but I still swear he was shaving by the time the rest of us had the misfortune to get to know him. Our play time was enjoyable to the extent that Eddie could be distracted with rainbows or butterflies. If Eddie became aware of us, it would be to pull things off of us the way he did the butterflies.
Roughly three quarters of the year had gone by when Eddie finally targeted me. I remember making the decision to not back down. It seemed so simple then. I back down now and let him have his way and I go sit quietly to the side. Okay. What do I do tomorrow? And the day after that?
I have no idea what the argument was about but I said no or yes or whatever the hell the prelude was to him grabbing me. I must have seen how he grabbed and slung others. I remember knowing to keep my arms in and up with my fists in front of my chest. He grabbed my collar like he had so many times before with so many of his other non- shaving classmates before and my right hand shot up under his chin. I still smile when I think of that clicking noise. Nobody wants their teeth to click like that.
I turned my head down and watched my fists pound into this stomach again and again as his loud teeth caused him to forget to sling me away for the tiniest of moments.
When he remembered, it was to sling me into one of the pine trees on the playground. Coincidentally, it was against this same tree that one of my senior pictures was taken. It was nice having the tree behind me. Clarified the argument about running away with a logic that I might not have mastered otherwise. Instead I stood my ground and traded blows with a boy I swear could have legally driven us to the emergency room after it was all over. Apparently we both had given into the moment and were swinging blindly with no intention of stopping since Mrs. Tanner and her aide could not get us to stop and were forced to wait until we were spent on the ground and simply dragged us apart by our feet.
I never got punished at school because my dad pointed out that I should have been given my merit badge for bear wrestling when he saw Eddie and finally learned how old he was. The school was too happy to pretend that the whole thing had never happened.
I was in the second grade when I was in my fourth fight. It was, unsurprisingly, on the football field. I say unsurprisingly because all of us first grade boys longed for the day we could take second grade PE and play football with Mr. Bussey as our quarterback. When the fight finally happened at the end of the year, I have no idea where Mr. Bussey was. Must have been called away for something.
I didn't want to get into a fight I couldn't win. And it also took a major threat to get me steamed enough to throw the first punch. I remember tolerating Lamar. I remember being pushed into the wall of the restroom on the way to the urinals by a boy who was going thru the second grade for the second time.
It happened all year and I was not alone. I remember others having to submit to tiny, petty indignities that may not have seemed to be all that big a deal to the one boy who was larger than all the rest of us.
I remember my own petty revenge that backfired. I had a birthday party. It was a party that was to have enough guys there to play a full game of football with one guy playing QB for both teams. And everybody said they would come. And everybody took evil delight in the fact that Lamar was not invited no matter how much he liked football. The day of the party came and most everybody was already there when my mother called me to the phone.
It was Lamar. He asked if it was my birthday. He asked if there was a party. He asked if we were planning on playing football. I said yes to all of his questions while trying to find my resolve to tell him that it would be a cold day in hell before he would be welcome at my house. He said," That sounds like so much fun. Ray, would it be okay if I came and played with you guys?"
I couldn't tell him no. I could not be that cruel. I was not yet brutal. He came over and despite a few friends literally asking me, "What the hell.." even as 2nd graders, we played football for hours and had fun.
On the last day of 2nd grade we fought at school. Fight is too strong a word. It was mainly a wrestling match. Remembering the best tumbles of Ricky Steamboat and Superfly got me out of the tough parts. And it established that I was not one that he could push around any more.
And then he had to fight Joey Thomas. And Stacy Anderson, and Donnie Ray Anderson, and Scotty Ivey, and Donny Burch, and Wesley Gilliard. Nobody was letting this opportunity pass. And a teacher could not be found. I still don't know if we were lucky or if the teachers were having a moment like my mother all those years before. We came away thinking something was settled. We came away with PRIDE.
Fighting the world for so long since with no clear cut signs of accomplishment, I wonder sometimes if we should not have sent Lamar some sort of card or cake or even cash. It was one of the few times the world made sense and so closely resembled a fairy tale
.
But again, I don't remember this fight. I have had it told to me with pride and defiance and certainty that only comes from love and anger. I don't remember his name but I remember us being friends. I like the fact that memories of joy and happiness and contentment are the things that I summon up when I try to find this memory that simply isn't.
Of course I was only 3. My mother pointed out that the other boy was 5 and had been a terror who sent me home crying on more than one occasion. My mom used to watch us playing from the kitchen window of our trailer out across the trailer park to the front yard of his family's trailer and she said that our fun would invariably end with him slapping or kicking or punching me until I ran home to her.
She gave me no sympathy except to clean any blood or dirt away to be sure that I was not seriously hurt. To all of my complaints she simply responded that it would continue until I put a stop to it. Unknown to me she had gone to the boy's mother at least twice before to discuss the issue but was greeted with the response of "Boys will be boys," and a vacant grin known only to lobotomized mental patients. At least that is how my mother described the woman. She may have been biased.
My dad was co-owner of a sawmill and before that worked at a mobile home manufacturing plant. Some of my earliest memories are of the gigantic forklifts used to move material around. These were not the tiny little things that I would later use in various warehouses as an adult. Nor were they the things you see on cable TV that are the size of a small house (although to a 3 year old that is exactly what they looked like).
These things were big enough to move huge bundles of lumber and later logs. It was a no brainer for my parents to purchase a large (a third of my body size at the time) forklift toy made by Tonka. I had days and days of fun playing in the shadow of our trailer stacking and unstacking whatever items found their way into my imagination.
Apparently this was the perfect confluence of selfishness and independance and bravery. The five year old put in to take my forklift from me. According to my mom, he could not get it out of my hands, so he settled on kicking over the sticks I had been stacking up like logs (just like my dad, don't ya know) and then he slapped my face. My mom describes this like it was a John Wayne movie or a Clint Eastwood movie or an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie depending on the decade in which she has recited the tale. She says I turned around, spat on the ground, and then came around with the Tonka forklift for all my three year old limbs were worth.
The poor kid's mouth exploded with blood and at least two teeth. He lay there on the ground with me standing over him. Momma said she ran out to see to him and that my eyes were the size of saucers. Apparently his mother watched from her kitchen window too because she came running over to see to him too. I just stood there breathing deeply with the bloody forklift still clutched in my right hand. The woman was hysterical and crying and her son was crying. She and my momma both felt around inside his mouth to be sure the teeth had come out cleanly and that none of the rest were broken.
A day later, after the boy had been to a dentist to make sure that everything was alright, the woman came over to talk with my mother about the incident. She pointed out how much pain her son had been put through. She talked about the cost of the dentist. She talked about the danger of metal toys and the possibility of serious injuries. My mother made sympathetic clucking noises of support without any commitment or real comment. Finally the woman could stand it no more and said,"Dammit, Carolyn, what are you going to do about that boy?"
With the most idiotic smile that a woman of her intelligence could manage, my mother replied, "Oh, well, boys will be boys, won't they?"
I won't be including any of the fights between Mark and me here. Its not that I feel any sense of privacy about those times that my brother and I visited violence upon each other, but rather, if I am going to take the time to recollect all the times I have been a bad brother, this would be an altogether different story and probably much longer. I will stick to folks I am not related to or at least not related that closely.
The next fight I can remember fairly clearly. I was in kindergarten. Never really liked my kindergarten teacher or her teacher's aide very much. If you know anything about me at all, it does not surprise you that I had a problem with authority. My father could command me - I stood in awe of him for most of my life (and his since it was so short). I get how we are to interact with God from how I revere my dad. My mother did not command the same fear or reverence. I somehow saw all of her flaws without ever being mindful of his. Even as I grew older and my dad grew less perfect, I chose not to focus on the clay, but looked higher. My mom never got such a pass.
Later in my life as a teenager, Tanner (officially my agriculture education teacher /unofficially my mentor), could control me. He figured out that logic would work on me. It had to be logic masquerading as jokes and simplistic questions, dull edged and rounded, so as to not give a surface to support anger or indignation. But logic worked on me.
Funnily enough, Tanner's wife was my first grade teacher and first hand witness to the third fight on this list. But the second happened while I suffered under the type of woman who did not believe my five year old protestations that I did not like peach cocktail. She was the type that forced me to take a taste instead of maintaining the peaceful detente that the peaches and I had reached on our own. I had the joy of watching with a perfect view as my stomach refused to be intimidated with the rest of me and threw up on her shoes. You have not been mocked until a puke smeared five year old has smiled up at you while you stand in vomit soaked stockings.
One day before recess, we were told that we were not allowed to fight or wrestle on the playground. Apparently some of my brethren had engaged in this activity the day before. I marvel at how memory works since I have no memory of the day before this day. I don't know what I did that day except I remember remembering that I did not know anything about what the teacher's aide was talking about. I remember not remembering but I don't remember the day before the day that I remember. Got that?
Anyway, I was running down to my favorite half buried tractor tire on the playground (did I mention I went to kindergarten in deep South Georgia?) when Darrell O'Steen turned around in mid run and tackled me. He got both hands all the way around me and was laughing like a maniac. I had just managed to struggle free when the teacher's aide called both of our names, announced we had been warned, and had us both sit for the remainder of the play period. I remember angrily through tears trying to inform this stupid, stupid woman of her mistake. Trying in vain to point out that I was attacked and was the victim in this instance and feeling the burning white hot angry self-righteousness when it fell on deaf ears. Any other authority figure victimized by my quick wit, or acid tongue, or break room lawyering, you have this woman to thank.
Like I said earlier, Tanner's wife was my first grade teacher for my third fight that I can recall. We, my classmates and me, had spent the year working around Eddie. Eddie was exceedingly stupid and the poster child for social promotions in school. I have told several people that Eddie was still in first grade even though he was 23 years old. I have been told by several people that this is a gross exaggeration. Maybe I have let my sense of hyperbole get away with me but I still swear he was shaving by the time the rest of us had the misfortune to get to know him. Our play time was enjoyable to the extent that Eddie could be distracted with rainbows or butterflies. If Eddie became aware of us, it would be to pull things off of us the way he did the butterflies.
Roughly three quarters of the year had gone by when Eddie finally targeted me. I remember making the decision to not back down. It seemed so simple then. I back down now and let him have his way and I go sit quietly to the side. Okay. What do I do tomorrow? And the day after that?
I have no idea what the argument was about but I said no or yes or whatever the hell the prelude was to him grabbing me. I must have seen how he grabbed and slung others. I remember knowing to keep my arms in and up with my fists in front of my chest. He grabbed my collar like he had so many times before with so many of his other non- shaving classmates before and my right hand shot up under his chin. I still smile when I think of that clicking noise. Nobody wants their teeth to click like that.
I turned my head down and watched my fists pound into this stomach again and again as his loud teeth caused him to forget to sling me away for the tiniest of moments.
When he remembered, it was to sling me into one of the pine trees on the playground. Coincidentally, it was against this same tree that one of my senior pictures was taken. It was nice having the tree behind me. Clarified the argument about running away with a logic that I might not have mastered otherwise. Instead I stood my ground and traded blows with a boy I swear could have legally driven us to the emergency room after it was all over. Apparently we both had given into the moment and were swinging blindly with no intention of stopping since Mrs. Tanner and her aide could not get us to stop and were forced to wait until we were spent on the ground and simply dragged us apart by our feet.
I never got punished at school because my dad pointed out that I should have been given my merit badge for bear wrestling when he saw Eddie and finally learned how old he was. The school was too happy to pretend that the whole thing had never happened.
I was in the second grade when I was in my fourth fight. It was, unsurprisingly, on the football field. I say unsurprisingly because all of us first grade boys longed for the day we could take second grade PE and play football with Mr. Bussey as our quarterback. When the fight finally happened at the end of the year, I have no idea where Mr. Bussey was. Must have been called away for something.
I didn't want to get into a fight I couldn't win. And it also took a major threat to get me steamed enough to throw the first punch. I remember tolerating Lamar. I remember being pushed into the wall of the restroom on the way to the urinals by a boy who was going thru the second grade for the second time.
It happened all year and I was not alone. I remember others having to submit to tiny, petty indignities that may not have seemed to be all that big a deal to the one boy who was larger than all the rest of us.
I remember my own petty revenge that backfired. I had a birthday party. It was a party that was to have enough guys there to play a full game of football with one guy playing QB for both teams. And everybody said they would come. And everybody took evil delight in the fact that Lamar was not invited no matter how much he liked football. The day of the party came and most everybody was already there when my mother called me to the phone.
It was Lamar. He asked if it was my birthday. He asked if there was a party. He asked if we were planning on playing football. I said yes to all of his questions while trying to find my resolve to tell him that it would be a cold day in hell before he would be welcome at my house. He said," That sounds like so much fun. Ray, would it be okay if I came and played with you guys?"
I couldn't tell him no. I could not be that cruel. I was not yet brutal. He came over and despite a few friends literally asking me, "What the hell.." even as 2nd graders, we played football for hours and had fun.
On the last day of 2nd grade we fought at school. Fight is too strong a word. It was mainly a wrestling match. Remembering the best tumbles of Ricky Steamboat and Superfly got me out of the tough parts. And it established that I was not one that he could push around any more.
And then he had to fight Joey Thomas. And Stacy Anderson, and Donnie Ray Anderson, and Scotty Ivey, and Donny Burch, and Wesley Gilliard. Nobody was letting this opportunity pass. And a teacher could not be found. I still don't know if we were lucky or if the teachers were having a moment like my mother all those years before. We came away thinking something was settled. We came away with PRIDE.
Fighting the world for so long since with no clear cut signs of accomplishment, I wonder sometimes if we should not have sent Lamar some sort of card or cake or even cash. It was one of the few times the world made sense and so closely resembled a fairy tale
.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Things You Regret
Missed Opportunity: Wish I had done it.
It was a school dance. This was a small school. I think there were 22 of us in my graduating class. There was only one more class after us before they consolidated my alma mater. They legislated my old school out of existence to spare a bloated budget that has only grown exponentially larger; And to have a football team that could beat Valdosta. Don't know for sure that we have beaten Valdosta twice in the 20 plus years since either, but I am sure some politician ranks the elimination of heritage and tradition at my little backwater school as a feather in his cap.
But.
It was a school dance. The kind held in the lunchroom with most of the lights off and crepe paper streamers running down from a mirror ball to the far corners of the room. Music was playing over large speakers that were just a few decibels too loud for the music to be understood. It was the mid 80's so the music was not very good and thus not a great loss.
She asked me to dance. That is, she came up to me and shout/whispered, "Do you wanna dance?" I have never given her enough credit for that. I had forced myself to overcome the mind numbing fear of laughter, rejection, and humiliation to ask some girls to dance over the past couple of years. It never occurred to me until tonight that walking up to me and asking me to dance was just, or even more, terrifying.
This was roughly 1986 or '87, or '88. I didn't go to any dances in '89, my senior year, because I had already grown too anti-social to even pretend anymore. But she walked up to me and asked me to dance.
I was flattered. I knew she thought I was cute. I had known for some time that she thought I was cute. She had pretty eyes. And freckles. And she had her hair cut short with bangs that raked across her eyes. It was Tomboyish to most from the deep south. It was really cutting edge punk beyond the slack jawed yokels that we shared the lunchroom with that night. I have never given her credit for that either.
She asked me to dance and I said yes. We walked out to the place that I have never been more self aware. The dance floor was the place where I was aware of my arms and my hips and my hands and my feet and my knees and my back and how none of these parts had any business working together with any kind of graceful cohesion. Slow songs were the only thing that let you focus on ankles, knees, hips, arms, neck, thighs, and hands and keep them all moving in some sort of unified ceremony.
She put her hand in mine and rested the other on my shoulder. The one in my hand felt cool and dainty and fragile. Conversely, the one on my shoulder felt warm, weighted, and ...wonderful. My left arm reached around behind her, traced the outline of muscle and flesh that led to the small of her back. The small of a woman's back... I didn't know it had a name back then. I just knew it was a place where it seemed natural for my hand to stop. My fingers found the soft curves and settled there with my palm subtly pulling her to me - just by the natural shape of the muscles in her back.
I could feel her breath on my neck as I inhaled the smell of her short cropped hair and found myself silent and caught up in the moment. This is a meaningful memory. There are very few moments in my life where I don't have some sort of commentary. I was silent in anticipation.
She was dancing too fast. The music was playing and she was moving so much faster than the beat that even with my lack of rhythm and talent and timing, I could tell we were moving too fast. I didn't know what to do - especially since I couldn't make myself speak.
Even though I hadn't given her the credit she deserved for the courage to ask me to dance, I was still flattered that she had asked. I knew, or maybe only imagined, that she found me attractive in some way. That held an allure that was precious to me. I never felt attractive as a young man. I learned a confidence as an older man but had little to none as a boy. This night I was awash with virility and a confidence that she provided for just one dance. And she was dancing too fast.
I pulled her closer with my hand at the oh so intimate small of her back and pulled her hand that was held vice-like in mine to my chest and we came to an almost complete stop. She looked into my eyes as I looked into hers. I tried to be subtle as I licked my upper lip with a soft, quick flip of my tongue, but I was acutely aware that her eyes followed my tongue as it traced the outline of my thin, red lip.
I remember not breathing for what seemed like minutes. I couldn't feel or hear her breathing. I don't know for sure if the music was still playing. I wanted to kiss her. I soooo wanted to kiss her. I wanted to feel my hand at the back of her head where her hair was cut so short. I wanted to feel the tip of her nose against my cheek as we pressed closer and closer together. I wanted the awkward smile as the chaperone pulled us apart. And I wanted to see which one of us looked away first in innocent acknowledgment of youthful, inexperienced desire.
But I was a coward. I let the moment pass. And now I have reached the age where the saying about regrets comes into clearer and clearer focus. You may regret some of the things you HAVE done. But you regret the things you HAVE NOT done so much more.
"Oh," she said, " You want to slow down."
It was a pragmatic statement. It was a logical statement. It was the truth as only humans can limit the accuracy of life through words. What I wanted was a kiss. What I wanted was to feel desired. What I wanted was to have someone hold me as she was held in comfort and joy and peace.
And I wanted her to slow down. And she did. And she looked into my eyes. And she was expecting something. And I whiffed.
It was a school dance. This was a small school. I think there were 22 of us in my graduating class. There was only one more class after us before they consolidated my alma mater. They legislated my old school out of existence to spare a bloated budget that has only grown exponentially larger; And to have a football team that could beat Valdosta. Don't know for sure that we have beaten Valdosta twice in the 20 plus years since either, but I am sure some politician ranks the elimination of heritage and tradition at my little backwater school as a feather in his cap.
But.
It was a school dance. The kind held in the lunchroom with most of the lights off and crepe paper streamers running down from a mirror ball to the far corners of the room. Music was playing over large speakers that were just a few decibels too loud for the music to be understood. It was the mid 80's so the music was not very good and thus not a great loss.
She asked me to dance. That is, she came up to me and shout/whispered, "Do you wanna dance?" I have never given her enough credit for that. I had forced myself to overcome the mind numbing fear of laughter, rejection, and humiliation to ask some girls to dance over the past couple of years. It never occurred to me until tonight that walking up to me and asking me to dance was just, or even more, terrifying.
This was roughly 1986 or '87, or '88. I didn't go to any dances in '89, my senior year, because I had already grown too anti-social to even pretend anymore. But she walked up to me and asked me to dance.
I was flattered. I knew she thought I was cute. I had known for some time that she thought I was cute. She had pretty eyes. And freckles. And she had her hair cut short with bangs that raked across her eyes. It was Tomboyish to most from the deep south. It was really cutting edge punk beyond the slack jawed yokels that we shared the lunchroom with that night. I have never given her credit for that either.
She asked me to dance and I said yes. We walked out to the place that I have never been more self aware. The dance floor was the place where I was aware of my arms and my hips and my hands and my feet and my knees and my back and how none of these parts had any business working together with any kind of graceful cohesion. Slow songs were the only thing that let you focus on ankles, knees, hips, arms, neck, thighs, and hands and keep them all moving in some sort of unified ceremony.
She put her hand in mine and rested the other on my shoulder. The one in my hand felt cool and dainty and fragile. Conversely, the one on my shoulder felt warm, weighted, and ...wonderful. My left arm reached around behind her, traced the outline of muscle and flesh that led to the small of her back. The small of a woman's back... I didn't know it had a name back then. I just knew it was a place where it seemed natural for my hand to stop. My fingers found the soft curves and settled there with my palm subtly pulling her to me - just by the natural shape of the muscles in her back.
I could feel her breath on my neck as I inhaled the smell of her short cropped hair and found myself silent and caught up in the moment. This is a meaningful memory. There are very few moments in my life where I don't have some sort of commentary. I was silent in anticipation.
She was dancing too fast. The music was playing and she was moving so much faster than the beat that even with my lack of rhythm and talent and timing, I could tell we were moving too fast. I didn't know what to do - especially since I couldn't make myself speak.
Even though I hadn't given her the credit she deserved for the courage to ask me to dance, I was still flattered that she had asked. I knew, or maybe only imagined, that she found me attractive in some way. That held an allure that was precious to me. I never felt attractive as a young man. I learned a confidence as an older man but had little to none as a boy. This night I was awash with virility and a confidence that she provided for just one dance. And she was dancing too fast.
I pulled her closer with my hand at the oh so intimate small of her back and pulled her hand that was held vice-like in mine to my chest and we came to an almost complete stop. She looked into my eyes as I looked into hers. I tried to be subtle as I licked my upper lip with a soft, quick flip of my tongue, but I was acutely aware that her eyes followed my tongue as it traced the outline of my thin, red lip.
I remember not breathing for what seemed like minutes. I couldn't feel or hear her breathing. I don't know for sure if the music was still playing. I wanted to kiss her. I soooo wanted to kiss her. I wanted to feel my hand at the back of her head where her hair was cut so short. I wanted to feel the tip of her nose against my cheek as we pressed closer and closer together. I wanted the awkward smile as the chaperone pulled us apart. And I wanted to see which one of us looked away first in innocent acknowledgment of youthful, inexperienced desire.
But I was a coward. I let the moment pass. And now I have reached the age where the saying about regrets comes into clearer and clearer focus. You may regret some of the things you HAVE done. But you regret the things you HAVE NOT done so much more.
"Oh," she said, " You want to slow down."
It was a pragmatic statement. It was a logical statement. It was the truth as only humans can limit the accuracy of life through words. What I wanted was a kiss. What I wanted was to feel desired. What I wanted was to have someone hold me as she was held in comfort and joy and peace.
And I wanted her to slow down. And she did. And she looked into my eyes. And she was expecting something. And I whiffed.
Friday, March 8, 2013
One More Mile
I am losing weight again. It is embarrassing to have to admit that again - even if it was only to myself and not to all of you who might be reading this. I am happy right now with my progress - 20 lbs since the first of the year, 27 lbs since mid December. I am actually running this time. Most of the other times I lost weight there was not an exercise part to the equation. And the exercise part feels good too. I have more energy and I have a sense of accomplishment as my times on the mile run, 3 mile run, and 5 kilometer runs get smaller in tandem with my very own self getting smaller.
What is embarrassing is the fact I not only let myself get out of hand again, but I let it go so far this time. Two years ago I stepped on a scale in a doctor's office and was literally shocked at how bad it had gotten. There is a trick the eyes or the brain plays on you (who knows, they may be in cahoots with the stomach in a giant gastrointestinal plot), but most of us fat people can't see how fat we are. I have heard others talk about this so I know its not just me.
The sizes of your clothes go up, ... but gradually, so you think you've only "put on a few". Before you know it, you have a closet full of clothes you can't wear at all and a select few items in there that are just "really comfortable". But it doesn't ring a bell because it all creeps upon you so slowly.
You might think that unless the fat guy is a vampire, he has a freaking mirror that could point out the sad truth. Ahhh, but remember, the eyes are in on this flim flam game. Fat people have no idea looking in the mirror exactly how fat they are. It is one of the greatest optical illusions out there. I have no idea how it works. Do we turn ourselves just so, angle our chin(s) just right, so as to minimize what we see? If we do, it is all subconscious.
But pictures don't lie. Pictures catch the unflattering pose and the sag of fat in areas that in the mirror just don't look like that. More than once I have had pictures taken and sat and stared at them knowing that the image is me but marveling at how I had gone months without ever encountering this particular "me". There is a famous saying that the "camera adds ten pounds". That saying has been around since before I was born. I wonder if it was an actor or actress that was the ball of self loathing and vanity that prompted the first sycophant to coin that lie. The camera tells the truth.
So do scales. I think to avoid this embarrassment in the future I am going to have to commit to weighing myself once a week for the rest of my life. It makes sense. You wouldn't think of going months without checking your bank account information, why would you ignore your health for months at a time? The stupidity of that leaps out at me when I type it - kinda the point of this post.
The weight is coming off though and the exercise is actually an enjoyable challenge - I fight to get my times lower and the competition of healthy me versus fat slob me is a fun one. And I do picture that in my head while I am running. The voice that tells me that I am too tired to continue is FAT SLOB ME. The voice that wants to sit down with a pint of ice cream is FAT SLOB ME. The voice that wants to take any of the disappointments of the day and drown them in beer and chicken wings is FAT SLOB ME.
I have called FAT SLOB ME all kinds of names in my head. This morning while running I punished FAT SLOB ME. He wanted to stop running after the first 20 minutes because of the heart burn I had from last night's chili. I cussed him out with the best words I ever learned from the old saw mill and turned the resistance up on the machine for 15 minutes until he whimpered and went away.
I know that's crazy but it is working for me. Having a food scale is another thing that is working for me. The last time I counted calories and lost a lot of weight, I avoided pork and beef all together. It was skinless, boneless, tasteless chicken breasts all the time. This time around I found out the calories per ounce of pork loin and roast beef and used the food scale to finally realize just how much food 4 ounces of meat actually is.
Roast pork with a side of garlic red wine vinegar green beans is a fantastic meal.
I still eat everything. I still have a beer and / or a glass of wine on occasion. But I count the calories for it. I tend to do frozen yogurt now instead of ice cream. The taste has improved leaps and bounds since the 80's (when I first tried it) and the calorie impact is really small. So my menu is encouraging and enjoyable too.
And here is a fun fact. Went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago. She is really excited about my weight loss too. She only wants to me to lose another 50 lbs. She thinks that weight will be easier for me to maintain and limit my health risks. My goal is to lose another 75 - that would take me to the ideal weight for a man of my height and age. And it would really piss off FAT SLOB ME too.
But the fun fact - we did blood work on my last visit. I am just about in perfect health except for the weight. I don't have enough of the good cholesterol - which has Priscilla pushing fish oil pills on me like a drug dealer who is afraid of not making her quota for the cartel. But my bad cholesterol is good, my sugar levels are great, my liver function is perfect, and I am stunningly handsome. Don't argue with me - its medical science!
God has blessed me with an opportunity to go into the second half of my life with the best possible chance to avoid an early death and some of the most debilitating diseases that too many of us inflict upon ourselves. It would almost be blasphemous to not take advantage of this opportunity. My dad didn't. He was diagnosed early with "sugar" as we called it then. Doctors tried to control it with diet, but Dad didn't. He finally wound up having to take insulin. He had his first heart attack just a few years later. Within 10 years of that, he was dead at the age of 58.
There is so much about my father's life that I can only hope to emulate. He gave money to those who needed it more than him when he didn't really have enough to be giving any away. He taught us boys to think and question (regretted that last one sometimes). He taught us pride and humility. He taught us to look at the sacrifice of Christ with awe and shame and sadness and joy - he couldn't talk about the thief on the cross who acknowledged the Godhood of Jesus without his voice cracking. He taught us to honor our elders even as he showed us honestly and humbly that they were not always honorable.
When I first moved out of his and Mom's house he sat at the end of my bed and told me things about the world and about me and about him. I know at some point I will share all of those with you because that is just what I do. The one thing I will share today is that he walked me through a list of things in his life that he had handled poorly and asked me to learn from his mistakes without having to make them myself.
I am too embarrassed to list all the things on that list of his that I have unfortunately checked off on my own list as I lived a life of which he would have been both proud and ashamed. And I was well on my way to checking off the way his life ended on my list. Sometime imitation is not the finest form of flattery. Sometimes the best way to honor a memory is to walk the other path.
All of this is not to say that I will succeed in losing all the weight. And even if I do lose it all, it doesn't mean I will keep it off. One of the things I have learned from the weight going up and down and up and down is that good intentions count for nothing. Every day I have to choose to live my life differently than I used to live it. Every day I have to look FAT SLOB ME in the eye and say, "One more mile."
What is embarrassing is the fact I not only let myself get out of hand again, but I let it go so far this time. Two years ago I stepped on a scale in a doctor's office and was literally shocked at how bad it had gotten. There is a trick the eyes or the brain plays on you (who knows, they may be in cahoots with the stomach in a giant gastrointestinal plot), but most of us fat people can't see how fat we are. I have heard others talk about this so I know its not just me.
The sizes of your clothes go up, ... but gradually, so you think you've only "put on a few". Before you know it, you have a closet full of clothes you can't wear at all and a select few items in there that are just "really comfortable". But it doesn't ring a bell because it all creeps upon you so slowly.
You might think that unless the fat guy is a vampire, he has a freaking mirror that could point out the sad truth. Ahhh, but remember, the eyes are in on this flim flam game. Fat people have no idea looking in the mirror exactly how fat they are. It is one of the greatest optical illusions out there. I have no idea how it works. Do we turn ourselves just so, angle our chin(s) just right, so as to minimize what we see? If we do, it is all subconscious.
But pictures don't lie. Pictures catch the unflattering pose and the sag of fat in areas that in the mirror just don't look like that. More than once I have had pictures taken and sat and stared at them knowing that the image is me but marveling at how I had gone months without ever encountering this particular "me". There is a famous saying that the "camera adds ten pounds". That saying has been around since before I was born. I wonder if it was an actor or actress that was the ball of self loathing and vanity that prompted the first sycophant to coin that lie. The camera tells the truth.
So do scales. I think to avoid this embarrassment in the future I am going to have to commit to weighing myself once a week for the rest of my life. It makes sense. You wouldn't think of going months without checking your bank account information, why would you ignore your health for months at a time? The stupidity of that leaps out at me when I type it - kinda the point of this post.
The weight is coming off though and the exercise is actually an enjoyable challenge - I fight to get my times lower and the competition of healthy me versus fat slob me is a fun one. And I do picture that in my head while I am running. The voice that tells me that I am too tired to continue is FAT SLOB ME. The voice that wants to sit down with a pint of ice cream is FAT SLOB ME. The voice that wants to take any of the disappointments of the day and drown them in beer and chicken wings is FAT SLOB ME.
I have called FAT SLOB ME all kinds of names in my head. This morning while running I punished FAT SLOB ME. He wanted to stop running after the first 20 minutes because of the heart burn I had from last night's chili. I cussed him out with the best words I ever learned from the old saw mill and turned the resistance up on the machine for 15 minutes until he whimpered and went away.
I know that's crazy but it is working for me. Having a food scale is another thing that is working for me. The last time I counted calories and lost a lot of weight, I avoided pork and beef all together. It was skinless, boneless, tasteless chicken breasts all the time. This time around I found out the calories per ounce of pork loin and roast beef and used the food scale to finally realize just how much food 4 ounces of meat actually is.
Roast pork with a side of garlic red wine vinegar green beans is a fantastic meal.
I still eat everything. I still have a beer and / or a glass of wine on occasion. But I count the calories for it. I tend to do frozen yogurt now instead of ice cream. The taste has improved leaps and bounds since the 80's (when I first tried it) and the calorie impact is really small. So my menu is encouraging and enjoyable too.
And here is a fun fact. Went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago. She is really excited about my weight loss too. She only wants to me to lose another 50 lbs. She thinks that weight will be easier for me to maintain and limit my health risks. My goal is to lose another 75 - that would take me to the ideal weight for a man of my height and age. And it would really piss off FAT SLOB ME too.
But the fun fact - we did blood work on my last visit. I am just about in perfect health except for the weight. I don't have enough of the good cholesterol - which has Priscilla pushing fish oil pills on me like a drug dealer who is afraid of not making her quota for the cartel. But my bad cholesterol is good, my sugar levels are great, my liver function is perfect, and I am stunningly handsome. Don't argue with me - its medical science!
God has blessed me with an opportunity to go into the second half of my life with the best possible chance to avoid an early death and some of the most debilitating diseases that too many of us inflict upon ourselves. It would almost be blasphemous to not take advantage of this opportunity. My dad didn't. He was diagnosed early with "sugar" as we called it then. Doctors tried to control it with diet, but Dad didn't. He finally wound up having to take insulin. He had his first heart attack just a few years later. Within 10 years of that, he was dead at the age of 58.
There is so much about my father's life that I can only hope to emulate. He gave money to those who needed it more than him when he didn't really have enough to be giving any away. He taught us boys to think and question (regretted that last one sometimes). He taught us pride and humility. He taught us to look at the sacrifice of Christ with awe and shame and sadness and joy - he couldn't talk about the thief on the cross who acknowledged the Godhood of Jesus without his voice cracking. He taught us to honor our elders even as he showed us honestly and humbly that they were not always honorable.
When I first moved out of his and Mom's house he sat at the end of my bed and told me things about the world and about me and about him. I know at some point I will share all of those with you because that is just what I do. The one thing I will share today is that he walked me through a list of things in his life that he had handled poorly and asked me to learn from his mistakes without having to make them myself.
I am too embarrassed to list all the things on that list of his that I have unfortunately checked off on my own list as I lived a life of which he would have been both proud and ashamed. And I was well on my way to checking off the way his life ended on my list. Sometime imitation is not the finest form of flattery. Sometimes the best way to honor a memory is to walk the other path.
All of this is not to say that I will succeed in losing all the weight. And even if I do lose it all, it doesn't mean I will keep it off. One of the things I have learned from the weight going up and down and up and down is that good intentions count for nothing. Every day I have to choose to live my life differently than I used to live it. Every day I have to look FAT SLOB ME in the eye and say, "One more mile."
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Agreed with the Wrong Guy
Ever get in a discussion with a group of people and wish that one of the guys agreeing with you, wouldn't? Like if you were arguing that chocolate ice cream was the very best ice cream ever and all of a sudden Hitler walks up and agrees with you. Now I don't know how you wound up in hell with Hitler and that is not the point, although I can see how discussions of ice cream might be popular in a fiery pit. But you get my meaning, right? Even if you are firmly convinced of your argument, the fact that Hitler agrees with you might create the tiniest of self doubt or at the very least weaken your credibility with your audience. Hitler was, after all, a vegetarian and foodies routinely discount their opinions on great cuisine.
On a tangent, have you ever heard someone make an argument, agree whole heartily, only to have the absolute authority on the subject disagree with you both? You, like me, might want to change your mind and would only feel a slight embarrassment at being seen to be so wishy washy. But what if you found yourself still agreeing with the first guy even in the face of the one person who is the final say in all matters on the subject? That is hard to deal with.
Happened to me in church one Sunday. I was a kid and I have no idea how old I was. I think I must have been somewhere between 12 and 19. I don't know that on an intellectual level as a fact, but I trust that the emotional certainty that I felt had to be from that age. I have never, ever, ever been so sure of myself as I was from the time I was 12 until I was 19.
The preacher was preaching about a variety of people interacting with Jesus and the the reactions of those people close to them. There was one story of one sister who sat at HIS feet and listened to every word HE said while the other sister was rushing around making sure that everyone was fed and wined and comfortable. She grew frustrated in a way that I understand all to well and asked HIM to tell her sister to get off her can and help take care of everybody the way the hostesses of a good dinner party should.
This made sence to me. This was only right. The work had to be done and it was the polite thing to do. And it seemed patently unfair that one sister should just push it all off on another. I was waiting for the MESSIAH to come off the top rope with a full on elbow of righteous indignation about laziness and poor manners. Only he sided with the lazy girl that sat at his feet who listened to every word he said. That seemed wrong to me. And that is scary. Standing in opposition to GOD is the very definition of sin. But I still wanted her to get up and help her sister the way my dad had made me go help Mark clean the table after Sunday dinner.
The second story was about the woman that came into another dinner party with Jesus (is it just me or was there a time in HIS life when he was the social GET of the dinner party crowd?). Anyway, there was a woman that showed up and cried over HIS feet in shame of her sins and used her hair to wipe HIS feet clean and then took a vial of ridiculously expensive oil and perfumed his feet. Now this story has a twofer. It has the person who you wish was not on your side and the authority figure siding against you.
Completely ignoring the emotional purity of the moment of the woman cleaning HIS feet with her tears, a DOUCHE (not DIVINE but just a major league douche) pointed out that perfuming HIS feet with the oil had been an outrageous waste. If they had sold the oil at market it would have fed all the poor people in that area of ancient Israel until about 1972 (or thereabouts, Biblical scholars bicker over the exact time frame). Again, I found myself agreeing with the emotionally neutered douche. I thought that the emotional symbolism was an impractical bit of theatricality that over looked a pragmatic sacrifice that would have honored HIM while feeding the poor of the region until I was two years old.
Again, the MASTER disagreed. He called douche boy on his insensitivity to the pure emotional honesty of the woman's reaction to the one PERSON who could forgive all transgressions. HE also stated that she was right in the incredibly expensive demonstration of respect she made in spilling oil on his feet. I remember being so confused as a boy. And this was at a time when so very little confused me. I knewright from wrong better then than I do now.
Back then, I had no qualms with any actions I took when I knew I was right. If you are right, your rightness justifies your actions. Any compromise when you are right is only weakness and cowardice. In those days I stood firm in almost every petty example of rightness that I found myself in no matter the consequence. Hell, the better, or I suppose worse, the consequence, the greater the honor.
But to find yourself in opposition to Jesus. Now GOD proper? That I can understand. GOD proper is the ultimate authority figure and we have all found ourselves questioning HIM if only at funerals. I made that distinction really early on in my life. GOD proper scared me and loved me the way my dad did. I had complete faith in my dad to protect me from anything and to strangle me if I disrespected him.
But Jesus? Jesus was always the friendly face of my faith. The one who was slow to anger and was actually cool. Learn your old English and go back and read HIS dealings with the political and religious leaders of his time. Our LORD and SAVIOR was the ultimate in disinterested, cool dude, smooth argument. HIS appeal to the teenage me was subversive as much as redemptive.
As much as I would like to be Paul (for you non-churched out there - Paul was Han Solo if Han had been Vader's right hand and then defected to the rebellion), I am much more like Peter (the closest I can come is Ben Kenobi who thought the chosen one was gonna be one thing but was another and then thought the son of the chosen one would kill the chosen one - the analogy really breaks down - maybe I should find something from Star Trek).
Peter thought that Jesus was going to destroy the Romans and establish an Earthly kingdom in which Peter was promised to be a cornerstone of the whole empire. Turns out it was nothing like Peter thought and after years of disappointing HIS teacher and even renouncing HIM publically, Peter became one of the most accomplished leaders in the movement. So maybe I am not SO much like Peter.
I just had ideas of how HE would react and HE had the infuriating habit of not reacting that way. The whole idea of those bracelets asking believers what HE would do always got me to smirk. WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? I have no idea. I wanted to take the oil and sell it and feed as many people as possible. And then I realized, it wasn't my oil.
Louis CK, a comedian, has a wonderfully bitter bit about how he does not need his Lexus. He could do everything he needs to do with his car in a Camry. He could pick his girls up from school, buy groceries, and go to movies in a shitty little Camry. He could take the money from selling his Lexus and he could feed starving people in Africa for two or three decades. "But I ain't gonna sell my damn car!"
He goes on to point out that he makes the decision to not sell his car and keep people from dying in Africa everyday, multiple times each day. I know. Funny, right. But it is the same kind of insight that haunts me. I would have hypocritically sold the woman's oil every single time, but I ain't selling my truck.
Oh, I happen to think that the only reason the self hating Louis CK is still with us is that he has custody of his two daughters and can't bring himself to check out on them. But that is just my opinion. I think he is like me in that he would like to make the world better in some grand way but not in a way that requires too much (any) sacrifice.
I do a small bit. I feed the hungry. I support others who have actually taken an oath of austerity if not exactly poverty and help others. I want to secure some sort of future for my wife and then I want to do more for those in need. I think that makes sense. The voice in my head says that makes sense. I wonder, though, if I am listening to the wrong man.
On a tangent, have you ever heard someone make an argument, agree whole heartily, only to have the absolute authority on the subject disagree with you both? You, like me, might want to change your mind and would only feel a slight embarrassment at being seen to be so wishy washy. But what if you found yourself still agreeing with the first guy even in the face of the one person who is the final say in all matters on the subject? That is hard to deal with.
Happened to me in church one Sunday. I was a kid and I have no idea how old I was. I think I must have been somewhere between 12 and 19. I don't know that on an intellectual level as a fact, but I trust that the emotional certainty that I felt had to be from that age. I have never, ever, ever been so sure of myself as I was from the time I was 12 until I was 19.
The preacher was preaching about a variety of people interacting with Jesus and the the reactions of those people close to them. There was one story of one sister who sat at HIS feet and listened to every word HE said while the other sister was rushing around making sure that everyone was fed and wined and comfortable. She grew frustrated in a way that I understand all to well and asked HIM to tell her sister to get off her can and help take care of everybody the way the hostesses of a good dinner party should.
This made sence to me. This was only right. The work had to be done and it was the polite thing to do. And it seemed patently unfair that one sister should just push it all off on another. I was waiting for the MESSIAH to come off the top rope with a full on elbow of righteous indignation about laziness and poor manners. Only he sided with the lazy girl that sat at his feet who listened to every word he said. That seemed wrong to me. And that is scary. Standing in opposition to GOD is the very definition of sin. But I still wanted her to get up and help her sister the way my dad had made me go help Mark clean the table after Sunday dinner.
The second story was about the woman that came into another dinner party with Jesus (is it just me or was there a time in HIS life when he was the social GET of the dinner party crowd?). Anyway, there was a woman that showed up and cried over HIS feet in shame of her sins and used her hair to wipe HIS feet clean and then took a vial of ridiculously expensive oil and perfumed his feet. Now this story has a twofer. It has the person who you wish was not on your side and the authority figure siding against you.
Completely ignoring the emotional purity of the moment of the woman cleaning HIS feet with her tears, a DOUCHE (not DIVINE but just a major league douche) pointed out that perfuming HIS feet with the oil had been an outrageous waste. If they had sold the oil at market it would have fed all the poor people in that area of ancient Israel until about 1972 (or thereabouts, Biblical scholars bicker over the exact time frame). Again, I found myself agreeing with the emotionally neutered douche. I thought that the emotional symbolism was an impractical bit of theatricality that over looked a pragmatic sacrifice that would have honored HIM while feeding the poor of the region until I was two years old.
Again, the MASTER disagreed. He called douche boy on his insensitivity to the pure emotional honesty of the woman's reaction to the one PERSON who could forgive all transgressions. HE also stated that she was right in the incredibly expensive demonstration of respect she made in spilling oil on his feet. I remember being so confused as a boy. And this was at a time when so very little confused me. I knewright from wrong better then than I do now.
Back then, I had no qualms with any actions I took when I knew I was right. If you are right, your rightness justifies your actions. Any compromise when you are right is only weakness and cowardice. In those days I stood firm in almost every petty example of rightness that I found myself in no matter the consequence. Hell, the better, or I suppose worse, the consequence, the greater the honor.
But to find yourself in opposition to Jesus. Now GOD proper? That I can understand. GOD proper is the ultimate authority figure and we have all found ourselves questioning HIM if only at funerals. I made that distinction really early on in my life. GOD proper scared me and loved me the way my dad did. I had complete faith in my dad to protect me from anything and to strangle me if I disrespected him.
But Jesus? Jesus was always the friendly face of my faith. The one who was slow to anger and was actually cool. Learn your old English and go back and read HIS dealings with the political and religious leaders of his time. Our LORD and SAVIOR was the ultimate in disinterested, cool dude, smooth argument. HIS appeal to the teenage me was subversive as much as redemptive.
As much as I would like to be Paul (for you non-churched out there - Paul was Han Solo if Han had been Vader's right hand and then defected to the rebellion), I am much more like Peter (the closest I can come is Ben Kenobi who thought the chosen one was gonna be one thing but was another and then thought the son of the chosen one would kill the chosen one - the analogy really breaks down - maybe I should find something from Star Trek).
Peter thought that Jesus was going to destroy the Romans and establish an Earthly kingdom in which Peter was promised to be a cornerstone of the whole empire. Turns out it was nothing like Peter thought and after years of disappointing HIS teacher and even renouncing HIM publically, Peter became one of the most accomplished leaders in the movement. So maybe I am not SO much like Peter.
I just had ideas of how HE would react and HE had the infuriating habit of not reacting that way. The whole idea of those bracelets asking believers what HE would do always got me to smirk. WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? I have no idea. I wanted to take the oil and sell it and feed as many people as possible. And then I realized, it wasn't my oil.
Louis CK, a comedian, has a wonderfully bitter bit about how he does not need his Lexus. He could do everything he needs to do with his car in a Camry. He could pick his girls up from school, buy groceries, and go to movies in a shitty little Camry. He could take the money from selling his Lexus and he could feed starving people in Africa for two or three decades. "But I ain't gonna sell my damn car!"
He goes on to point out that he makes the decision to not sell his car and keep people from dying in Africa everyday, multiple times each day. I know. Funny, right. But it is the same kind of insight that haunts me. I would have hypocritically sold the woman's oil every single time, but I ain't selling my truck.
Oh, I happen to think that the only reason the self hating Louis CK is still with us is that he has custody of his two daughters and can't bring himself to check out on them. But that is just my opinion. I think he is like me in that he would like to make the world better in some grand way but not in a way that requires too much (any) sacrifice.
I do a small bit. I feed the hungry. I support others who have actually taken an oath of austerity if not exactly poverty and help others. I want to secure some sort of future for my wife and then I want to do more for those in need. I think that makes sense. The voice in my head says that makes sense. I wonder, though, if I am listening to the wrong man.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Just Not Nice
There is an impossible arrogance to writing. You take your thoughts and spill them out for the world to see. Prideful "artists" will maintain that it has nothing to do with the audience but I think that is a crock of sh.... stuff. Large pile of extremely smelly stuff. Even those who set out to demonstrate that they don't care what an audience thinks by putting out things that are designed to be off putting (see what I did there?) are still reacting to you people.
I think that I can turn a phrase and I can occasionally spit out the truth in ways that are palatable or toxic depending upon my mood or intent. I think that I can affect you folks and that is important to me. It is how I matter. Don't ask me where that realization comes from because I don't know.
As much as I like to clown around and cut up, I am not a very social person. I don't so much laugh with people as get people to laugh. I appreciate a good audience. See where the arrogance comes in? Why are my thoughts so important? Why do I care that I can affect you? It very well could be the exact opposite of arrogance. It could be that I don't value myself enough in and of myself and so I need to stir something in all of you to continue to prove that I have worth.
The people that I dislike most in this world are the people who have demonstrated or actually come out and said that I am not smart or don't contribute or matter. I am not so unique in that regard. Very rarely do you hear someone say, "See that guy over there? He hates my guts and thinks I am stupid. I hope I have a chance to do something wonderful for him someday." I just think that I might be more extreme in that regard.
The people I love the most are the people who have demonstrated some sort of appreciation for me. Again, not that abnormal at all, but I may be more demanding than most.
I have said for years that humanity is amazing - people are stupid. I think I like the idea of people more than actually being around people. If left to my own devices, I would more often than not be alone with a book or a pen (computer now a days) and not interact with most people. I don't have many deep, personal friendships because deep down, I don't want that many. I see some of you with 432 friends on Facebook and even that much sanitized, electronic intrusion makes me wince a little.
But I love to write stories that are not all that much fiction. I see some of you who grew up in horror and have somehow managed to not be a horror and I want to write about you. I see some of you who went off to war and became a warrior and then a minister and I want to write about you. I see some of you who have pledged your lives to the poor of this world and I want to write about you. I see some of you who have survived things that scare me when you talk about them and I want to write about you.
I admire you. I tip my hat to you. I toast you and I will buy you a drink. I think the wonder of God's imagination sparkles in your eyes. I tend to find value in my ability to make you mad, make you cry, make you laugh, or make you think.
I.... I just don't want to hang out with you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)