Letters from Home - Part I: Soft Core Therapy

In a not too far off tomorrow, I’ll wake up with my arthritic fist knotted about my useless genitals. By then, my dreams will be dust. By then, I'll be dust. Mostly.

Until then, I'm carting around a ladder I'll never use to please people I don't love for reasons I don't understand. Because I'm a believer. I'm a believer and a fool. Mostly.

What kills me is the glimpses. The visions, I mean. I want to drill new holes in my head for new eyes that are honest. They'll be sober and they'll show me where to set the ladder and who to care for.

I want new legs and a new mouth. And new hands. Stronger hands. And I want a bird as large as a city. I'll lay on his back and sing, lost in a confusion of freedom and feathers. It'll be just like now only heartbreaking. And when I'm tired of my birdcity, I'll cast myself upon the iron clouds beneath us.

And when I land, I'll be buried. I'll bury myself. With my ladder. Because of gravity.

And my children will grow old. And my lovers will forget me. And the loveliest of my dreams will remain unsung. And my muse will live on to tempt other hearts.

For now, my insides are still pink with promise. And my children still wriggle. And my lovers are many. And my muse remembers me.

Without reason.

* * * * *

I think I want a whale for Christmas. And i'm not going to donate my organs to strangers no matter how many beers you dump in my underpants. It's unsanitary. And I can't ever justify underwear flavored PBR without cheap gin as a chaser. Gin which is, of course, beneath me. So there are class issues as well.

But back to the whale. I've changed my mind.

Adopting a whale isn't like peppering your salad or trimming your pubes. There are real consequences to consider. Like... who's gonna pay for schooling? And who's gonna buy him taffy? I can't be responsible for that - not at this stage in my life. So now I think I want a birthmark instead. It'll teach me to overcome adversity.

And it's funny. Like... I'm already missing my whale even though I never had one. Is that a metaphor for something? Like how I feel about my dad? Or why I can't sleep when it's raining? Or why I poop bright orange after I cut the grass?

In the end, I think it really comes down to combs - you know... the little ones you get just before class pictures? Those little useless pieces of plastic preparation. They're a classic act of passive-aggressive non-involvement, faux-preparation masquerading as sympathy. Was anybody fooled by those damn things? Did anyone think that the photographer really gave a shit if you looked 2% better? Because, at it's best, that's really all that comb could offer - 2%. Like chemically enhanced milk with all the life and fat drained out of it.

But I know better. Sure, I keep the combs. And I drink the milk. But I wait. And I watch carefully. Because, before long, I'll see a smile like mine in that crazy crowd. And we'll run off together and eat cheese stakes in fields of amber-ivory colored wheat. And we'll sing like gay custodians. And we'll engage in ruthless indiscriminate high-fiving.

And the clouds will come and we won't care. And our neighbors will dance and we'll join them. And all the people who ever thought we'd change into something more will be disappointed. Because their souls are flat.

And we'll drink. And we'll dream. And we'll invent a million curse words on the fly. Because that's what whales do. And that's who we are.

* * * * *
I'm about to say something strange. So brace yourself. Because I've been trying to figure out just how to say this so that you'd understand - that and I've been trying to figure out just how to say exactly what I mean. It wasn't easy. It wasn't easy at all and I need you to prepare yourself to listent to what I have to say because I think I'm only going to be able to say this once.

I kept thinking about how you might react. I kept thinking that you'd tell me that it's ok when really you'd be thinking something different. I kept thinking that I'd kill something good and fundemental between us. And, honestly, I'm still thinking about all of that now. But I want to tell you. Hell, in a way, I think I need to tell you. But I don't want you to feel any pressure to listen, you know? You're not responsible for me. And I know that you know that but still... I... I just had to say that for myself. Now that I think about it, maybe this whole thing is selfish as hell. It IS selfish, isn't it? I mean, now that I've said it, this certainly feels incredibly self-serving and sort of narcisistic in a way which isn't at all what I intended and I hope you don't think that of me when I'm done. But I got to say this.

Remember that party some years ago at Paul's place? I think it was Paul's place though, honestly, I wasn't ever sure who actually lived there. It was a party house so the residents were always changing. I remember that much. And I remember you.

I was drunk and tired and ready to leave. I made my rounds saying goodbye to the remaining people but I couldn't find you. I gave up after a few minutes and headed for the car, figuring I'd see you some other time.

I heard you holler at me from the stairs on the side of the house and nearly jumped out of my skin. And when I realized it was you, I felt this great big lump in my throat like I was gonna get it (though I didn't know what “it” was, let alone whether “it” was good or bad). I went over to where you were on reflex.

You stood and smiled at me and wrapped me up in a hug before I had a chance to protest.

I know you don't know this but... well when you held me like you did, I immediately realized how easy it was to fall in love with you. And, in a way, I suppose I fell in love with you at that moment. Sort of. I mean, I didn't want anything more than what you were giving me at that moment (though I wouldn't have argued if you'd tried to take it further). I just wanted to stay in that moment for as long as I could.

And... the way you held me...

I could hear your heartbeat thrumming beneath your shirt. I could feel how warm you were and the strength of your arms and suddenly... suddenly I was afraid. Something felt different. I became aware of all the people that must be watching us, how long we'd been standing there with me gathered against your chest and I tried to pull away – just a bit – to try and break the embrace. But you pulled me even closer and let out this great big sigh as if to say “You're not getting away that easy, bud” and nuzzled your nose into my ear. And that did it. I broke down and bawled like a baby in your arms and, for the first time, I was holding on to you instead of you holding on to me.

You'd told me that you loved me a thousand times before. But it wasn't until that moment that I believed you.

Pretty the Wolves

originally posted 9.7.08

I stood transfixed, arrested by the stench of death. Bits and pieces of bygone naughty children lingered in her merciless maw. A bloody tongue ran lustily over the dead unseasoned meat lodged between her molars. Those molars craved violence. And there was no escape.

The impish children leapt, howling, churning, tearing and gouging themselves with pale, hateful fingers. Their shrieks demanded blood. And the terrible Raga, chest heaving, smothering me in the stench of young death, would gladly oblige them.

All at once, I was caught by her claws. The Raga seized my throat with its horrible mouth of swords, growling with hellish wounded longing. Blood came forth in eager gushing freshets. I closed my eyes, surrendering, embracing death, hoping that the delicious crunching of my bones would be enough to quench her bloodlust. Her demon children leapt upon me and fed also. “My God”, I thought. Crazily, I wondered if I’d taste better with ketchup. Tearing into my chest, she thrust my still-beating heart heavenward to insane cheers of –

“Andrew?”

As usual, my imagination was getting the better of me. The other children hadn’t moved an inch. A quick check assured me that I was whole. No blood. No terrible teeth. No violence. A friendly face framed by brown shoulder-length hair hovered above me. She was smiling sweetly over ample bosoms held fast by Playtex and prayer. The longer I stared, the more urgent that smile seemed to be. I hoped I didn’t look as scared and desperate as I felt. She beckoned me reassuringly to the front of the class. The whispering began and I blushed bone-deep.

Mrs. Raga was a large motherly woman with a pleasant voice and an abundance of patience. She beamed brightly as I walked to the front of the classroom, showing off her impossibly white teeth. “Shark’s teeth”, I thought, and shuddered. She stood, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her sun dress before striding towards me, her hands clasped in front of her enormous breasts. That smile seemed to brighten a bit with each step, blinding me with its improbable intensity. I stared helplessly at this woman advancing with cool predatory confidence, the click of her sensible low-heeled shoes, holding me captive, promising my inevitable demise.

To the left was our audience, a sea of curious pink faces marking my paces with glistening bovine eyes. Their gazes passed over and through me with shameless indifference. The smell of dust and pencil shaving stung my nose making me sneeze like a field mouse. “Bless you”, she sang, advancing like a panther, wading through clouds of chalk particles, smiling like a crocodile.

Everything about this school was new and different and threatening. I broke out in a light sweat and clenched my fists at my sides.

When I at last arrived at her desk, Mrs. Raga stood behind me with her hands on my shoulders. I shivered in my favorite pair (my only pair) of sneakers fixing my gaze firmly on various floor stains. She sensed my tension and gave my shoulders a little squeeze. Grinding my teeth, I willed my chin away from my chest and looked about the room.

Strange strangers oogled and evaluated me. And not one of them looked friendly.

These kids were dressed like department store mannequins. They sat quietly and comfortably, smelling new and important. It was clear that they came from money - at least, much more money than I or my family had ever had. And I’d come to find out overtime, that these kids had a vastly different understanding of things like money and fairness than I or my family had.

They had it made and had no clue. Even knowing a thing like this was possible, that people like these handsome children and their relatively wealthy parents actually existed, did not prepare me for facing the reality of the thing. I was stunned and comforted all at once.

Had things began a bit differently, my first few years there may have been a bit more friendly. At that moment, though, I was being gawked at by a bunch of spoiled ungrateful rugrats. And I hated everyone of them for it.

“This is Andrew”, she began. “He’s part of the Project Concern program and comes to us by way of Hartford.”

The latter part of that brief introduction was emphasized with a deliberate ritardando. Their eyes widened comically at the word “Hartford” and another fit of whispering broke out. I may as well have been from Mars.

“He lives in Hartford?” came a voice from the back of the room.

“Yes. He’ll be joining –“

“Why doesn’t he go to school in Hartford?” the voice insisted.

While Mrs. Raga searched for a suitable answer, I dropped my eyes back to my favorite floor stain. The voice was right. I didn’t belong there. This was a white school. And I wasn't white. Was I?

Mrs. Raga finished speaking and I eagerly trip-stumbled back to my desk on pudding legs. I cast a glance at the giant analog clock above the classroom door.

9:08 AM

My stomach rumbled and I sank in my seat, praying for the bell to ring.

Bustin' Up the Chifferobe

In Harper Lee's novel, To Kill A Mockingbird, Tom Robinson, a black field hand, comes to the aid of Mayella Ewelle; a young white woman who needs a chest of drawers destroyed. Shortly thereafter, he is falsely accused and convicted of rape,eventually losing his life in the process.

For a while after reading the novel, I'd think to myself, “He knew that this young woman was up to no good. Why didn't he say 'No, ma'am, I can't help you'? He would have avoided the situation altogether. He'd still be alive.”

It wasn't until recently that it occurred to me that he was a field hand. He couldn't have said no, even if he'd wanted to.

When Mayella Ewelle attempted to seduce Tom Robinson under the guise of asking him to help her 'bust up a chifferobe', she effectively sentenced him to death.

And he went to his end with his eyes wide open.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"Don't ask God not feel this pain. Because he's not going to change that."

I was on the phone with my mom talking about heartbreak. It was a long conversation consisting mostly of me snotting and moaning like a sick hippopotamus and her listening with practiced patience. Eventually, I asked if she would pray with me and she agreed but with the caveat:

"Don't ask God not feel this pain."

And, as crippling as it was to do so, I agreed.

I'd like to believe that I agreed because I understood that I had to live through that pain, that there was some lesson to be learned or some strength to be gained from it. In reality, though, I would have agreed to anything in that moment, anything that offered even a modest suggestion of relief. The truth wasn't as romantic as the idea that I grew up and understood that the pain must be for the sake of a future me. The truth was that I agreed out of sheer panicked desperation.

The truth was that I was scared as hell.

That pretty much sums up the entirety of my relationship with God.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Much of my early experiences with God involved feeling guilty or afraid or both - usually relating to something I'd done (or hadn't done). By itself, that guilty feeling would have had no staying power if it weren't for the fear that came along with it – specifically the fear of hell.

For years, I pursued a relationship with God solely to avoid his wrath.

But, for all my running, Hell has never made sense to me. I couldn't imagine anything that I or anyone else could do (or not do) that would inspire God to send me to hell (or 'allow me to go to hell' if you prefer). I couldn't imagine sending anyone (or allowing anyone to go) to hell. How could God who not only feels love but, according to the bible IS love, let such a thing be?

And then I understood. Hell and Satan exist because God wants them to.

One of the first questions I ever asked in Sunday school was effectively about hell and Satan. More specifically, my question had to do with Satan and forgiveness.

Drew: We're supposed to forgive people no matter what they do to us, right?
Sunday School Teacher [SST]: Absolutely right. God will forgive us all our sins and we should do likewise for our neighbors.
Drew: [pause] Well, what about the devil?
SST: [laughs] You don't have to forgive the devil, Drew
Drew: No – I talking about God. Why wouldn't he forgive the devil?
SST: Excuse me?
Drew: The devil tried to be like God and overthrow heaven. Not only did God NOT forgive him (and, in fact, still hasn't) but he kicked Lucifer out along with all of his friends.
SST: [pause] That was all part of his plan
Drew: But he could have forgiven Lucifer if he wanted to, right? He just didn't want to forgive him.
SST: He's God. He can do whatever he wants. His ways are not our ways. His thoughts are not our thoughts. Hallelujah!
Drew: Well, clearly not. I wouldn't have kicked the devil out only to furnish him with his own kingdom I wouldn't have give the devil (his arch enemy) direct access to his most precious creation – man. It sounds to me like God didn't forgive Lucifer because there was nothing he needed to forgive. In fact, it sounds to me like he was rewarding Satan for a job well done. Satan and hell were all a part of God's plan, right?

I was immediately kicked out of class.

In the moment that I left the room, I became an agnostic.

If I took my teachers at their word (and I did) God was an extremely insecure, violently psychotic, emotionally unstable sadist. I used to think “If I ever met a human that behaved like the old testament God , not only wouldn't we get along, but I'd be morally obligated to have them committed”.

By his own description, God is an extremely violent and jealous lover. And that's not the sort of person you want to piss off.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The phrase "The Lord works in mysterious ways" has been congealing in the filthy hidden compartments at the back of my mind for some time now, stirring up dusty questions, mingling with all manner of irony and parody, and generally instigating trouble. The problem I have with it (and, indeed, have always had with it) is the same problem I have with just about all religious nomenclature.

It's a turn of phrase that, when place within the context of the religious attitudes that inspired it, encourages us to "Ooo" and "Ahh" rather than to think and reason. On it's face, it supposes to teach us something about God's behavior - mostly that it's mysterious. But at the back end is an implication that God's ways will ALWAYS be mysterious and unknowable. We'll NEVER understand and we shouldn't ask. Ever.

The smoke and mirrors obfuscating God will never be retired. Because religion is big fan of preserving unsolved mysterious.

And I have a big problem with that.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Note: A Chifferobe is a large wooden piece of furniture with drawers and space for hanging clothes.

Note: Harper Lee did not write another novel after To Kill A Mockingbird.

Bet

"He's a cream puff. Trust me."

"Cream puff?", I hissed in a fierce whisper. "Who says that? Are you trying to tell me he's gay? Is that what you're telling me? Because "gay" isn't going to shrink his biceps or quell his rage. Not even Streisand could make -"

"Dude, focus. You're a tiger. You're a f’n tiger!"

I looked around at all the people assembled in the parking lot. "Why am I even here?", I whispered. "I don't want to do this! I do not want to do this!"

"Free. Booze. All. Night."

I couldn't argue with that. "I can't argue with that", I said.

Hooter grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me square in the eyes. "Creampuff", he said.

"Creampuff", I said and tried not to vomit.

"Creampuff" stood almost a foot taller than me. Keloid scars crisscrossed all over his bald head. Telephone pole arms grew out of his bullish frame. One of his legs was easily the width of my torso. He had hands like catchers mitts that turned into anvils when he made a fist. I noticed his dark blue shirt clearly had a patch over his heart with the name GUS stitched into it.

His name wasn't Gus.

He called his mouth his 'animal hole'. As in "Dude, I'll be there as soon as I shove these wings in my animal hole.

Weird.

Oh. And his eyes were red.

That's the last thought I had before he hit me.

"His eyes are red".

Suddenly the world was ringing. Everything flickered in black and white. Hooter was shouting at me but I had no idea what he was trying to say.

I heard Alison shouting “Help him!” but no one moved. My teeth were loose. My jaw was sore. Only one of my eyes would open.

“Stay down”, Creampuff commanded. His voice was made of darkness and gravel.

I struggled to my feet, wobbling on watery legs. Creampuff handed Hooter a piece of paper.

“What street are we on?”, Hooter read.

“Berkshire Drive”.

“Seattle’s professional football team”.

“Seahawks”.

“Name three active Red Sox players”.

“Beckett, Varitek, Pedroia”.

I horked and spat out a mouthful of blood and phlegm. The onlookers cheered.

Hooter rushed over, caught me by the wrist, and raised my hand in the air. “That’s my dawg!”, he cried.

Creampuff walked over and slapped me on the shoulder. “You’re one dumb sonofabitch”, he said.

I threw up all over him.

Who's That Girl?

My sister was born on September 1, 1981. She was smaller than me. And I wanted to protect her.

She came back from the hospital as the third of the Brathwaite children. I didn't mind. There was room in the apartment for one more. And she didn't eat much.

When I was eight years old, I had a dream that she was killed in a shopping mall by a maniac with a shotgun. The dream was so realistic that I woke up crying, thinking that my sister had been killed. When I finally realized that it had only been a dream, I sneaked into her room to be sure. She was sleeping in a patch of urban moonlight, resting as innocent as anything I'd ever seen.

I slept under her bed that night. Just to be sure.

She won't admit it but she grew up spoiled. As spoiled as a poor kid could be, anyway. And, though I never understood why SHE got treated better than all of us boys did, I honestly didn't care. She was, as I was constantly reminded, "the girl". The ONLY girl, even. And that, more than anything, confused the hell out of me.

She wasn't a "girl". She was my sister.

My sister played football with me and the rest of the boys, throwing knees and elbows into the faces and kidneys of all non-believers while the "girls" sipped tea and cleaned house.

My sister freestyled on the corner until midnight with the rest of us boys and did better than hold her own while the "girls" read Cosmo and did their nails.

My sister once knocked a boy unconscious. With one punch. In his own home. In front of his mother. All because he insulted her. Girls giggled behind their hands and wore makeup.

My sister once brought a boy by the house and left him in the living room with my older brother and I while she went to her room, presumably to change clothes. By the time she emerged from her room, the boy was a shifting, sweating, stuttering, mess. She never brought another boy by the house. Ever.

My sister was no girl. Girls, in fact, were AFRAID of my sister.

She moved some years ago to a tiny town outside of anything I'm familiar with. It doesn't matter where she is. It only matters that she's not here. While she was away, she became a lady and a preacher. More or less in that order. And, though I likely won't ever scare off her "male friends" or sleep under her bed, or watch her drop some punk kid with her magnificent right hook, I still have a difficult time reconciling the memory of my sister with this... girl.

She wears dresses now. And wears make-up. And does... other.. lady-type stuff. And I realize that, at some point, all of our sisters are replaced by women. Women, in fact, who look nothing like our little sisters.

As the years do their best to wedge us apart with distance and strange changes, I find myself asking "Who's that girl?”

(Quien es esa niña?)

And then the light will shift or we'll be on the phone or she'll turn a year older (without my permission, by the way) and I'll remember what I learned some (cough cough) years ago.

She's no girl. She's my sister.


Happy Birthday Sis,

D

Mr. Robins' Radio

Mr. Robins was a South Paw, the first I’d ever met. At the time, I thought it was the coolest and most mysterious thing in the world. He introduced himself on the first day of class noting, among other things, his left-handedness. I went home and told my mom about it, trying and failing to get her as excited as I was.

For the next few weeks, I practiced writing left-handed in secret but it never quite took. I eventually quit, deciding I was ok spending the rest of my life “normal-handed”. But, even though I gave up on converting to a South, I still wanted very much to be like Mr. Robins.

He was my very first hero.

* * * * *

September , 1987

I often came to school having not eaten breakfast. We were poor. Mr. Robins began to notice how distracted I was, how I never had anything during snack time, and how longingly I stared at the clock above the door just before lunch time.

One morning, just after class began, he called me up to his desk. I noticed a box of Teddy Grahams directly in front of him. My stomach growled immediately.

“Andrew, listen. I can’t eat these things. My wife’s got me on this diet and she’ll strangle me if I bring these home. Do you like Teddy Grahams?”
I nodded.

“Here - take a bunch of these.” He dumped a huge pile of crackers onto a napkin.

“I’ll keep the rest here in my desk. You ever want any, just come up and ask.”

I nodded furiously. “Thank you.”

Eh, don’t you worry about it, Andrew. You’re doing me a favor!”, he said with a sly wink. Then, in a lower voice, “I’ve got a bunch of Triscuits in here too if you like those. I’m allowed to have them but I’ll share with you. Now listen - the next time you don’t have breakfast, you just come up here and take some of these crackers from my drawer.”

“Ok. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Andrew.”

I was grateful for the graham crackers and excited about the prospect of not having to worry about breakfast. But I would never go up and ask for them no matter how hungry I was. I didn’t know how to tell him this so I just thanked him and walked back to my desk.

The next day, there was a medium sized baggie of Teddy Grahams in my desk. I didn’t have to worry about breakfast for the rest of the year.

November , 1987

“Here”, he said, handing me the device. “Now, it’s going to need a battery. The one that’s in there now is dead. It takes a 9-volt, the little rectangle one. I don’t have any else I’d give you one.”

I looked at the silver and black box in my hands, not knowing what to say. Without a doubt, the gesture made me more than a little nervous and suspicious. I couldn’t afford to pay him for the radio. If I’d learned anything at that age, it was that nothing was free. You might pay now, you might pay later but, in the end, you will pay.

I stood there at his desk, excited yet waiting for the other shoe to drop. He grabbed my little arm just below the shoulder and pulled me close. “Here it comes”, I thought.

He fixed his gaze directly on me and raised his right paw, jabbing a finger at the radio. I held my breath. “You take care of that thing”, he said, giving the statement more than a little emphasis. I was shaking a little from equal parts excitement and fear, still bracing for the inevitable take away.

“Ok”, I managed. He smiled and gave my arm a squeeze. I couldn’t help but smile back. He waved me back to my desk and I scurried back, scared and excited, wondering how I was going to hide the radio from my mom.

That night, while the rest of the house slept, I lay awake in bed listening to Moonlight Serenade for the first time. The radio station had been playing nothing but jazz standards and I was transfixed, hearing many of the songs I would eventually perform hundreds of times over for the first time that night. I’d thought that I had been aware of jazz but I was dead wrong. This music was much different than the elevator music and TV commercial renditions that I’d heard before. This was cheesy old people music that I shouldn’t like but there I was, grinning and digging it. I lay awake for hours listening to song after song, continually breaking my promise to go to bed after “just one more”.

I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around what it was that made this music so special. It resonated in ways and places that nothing else ever had or would. I was overwhelmed, almost to the point of confusion, alternately turning the radio up and down, praying I wouldn’t wake anyone up. Something in me was convinced that my mother should never find out about this radio or she’d take it away. I turned it down for the last time, eventually falling asleep somewhere in the middle of “Misty” around 2 AM. In the morning, I hid it deep in my book bag and took it to school.

For the rest of the school year and quite a while afterwards, I went to bed listening to that radio.

*****

April, 2008

I was reading outside enjoying a little late May sunshine when the story of a small radio came to mind for the millionth time. For a few years, it had been that radio that lulled me to sleep when I hadn’t been able to manage on my own. More than that, the radio had been my periscope – the means by which I saw above and beyond the intolerable circumstances in which I lived. It showed me that grand and beautiful things really do exist and dared me to believe that they might happen to me.

That morning, I was enjoying some free time, waiting for the clock to tell me to get back to my desk when the radio came to mine gradually without provocation. I sat there rolling the memory around in the back of my mind, smiling.

It occurred to me that I’d never once said “Thank You” to Mr. Robins for the radio. Sure, I thanked him the day he put it into my hands but I’d never said a word about the aftermath. The little radio that put me to bed had changed my life. That afternoon, I wondered what I could do after 20 years of complete silence. Even if I wanted to, I had no idea how to reach him or what to do once I did. He probably wouldn’t even remember me, anyway. I shuffled my feet and glared at my book, unable to keep reading. “Fine”, I said aloud. “This is dumb. Go ahead and embarrass yourself – get it over with.” All at once, I was on the phone to my elementary school and shaking.

“Good Morning, Wheeler School.”

“Hello! Good morning this is Drew Brathwaite, how are you?”

Silence. Then, “Fine.”

“Uh, I’m a former student there and was trying to get in touch with Mr. Robins. I know this is a bit unusual. It’s just – let me explain myself.”

In my mind’s eye, I saw the secretary mouthing the words “call the police” to a colleague. I had precious little time and, likely, this would be the last time I’d be brave enough to call.

“I’m not selling anything. I’m just a writer [pause] sort of. I was writing, I am writing a story about a favor he did for me years back. When he noticed I wasn’t sleeping too well, he gave me this tiny AM radio. Because of that music, I ended up becoming a musician, went to college to study music, and had a number of awesome life experiences that I otherwise wouldn’t have had. I honestly just want to say thank you. I’m not asking for his contact information – I know that can’t be done – but I wanted to maybe give you my contact information. I’m sort of a writer now and I was writing something about a favor he’d done for me years ago. I never thanked him for it. And now I’m repeating myself. I’m sorry.”

“Really”, she replied dryly. I was done for. I knew it. I figured that I’d get in as many words as I could before she hung up on me.

There was even more silence. Then, “What was your name again?”

“Drew?” It came out like a question. “You probably knew me as Andy”. More silence. “The black kid”.

“Oh I remember you! [Laughter] You had a couple brothers and a sister than went here as well!”

“That’s me”, I said laughing.

“I’m sorry Andrew but Dave retired about five years ago.” I sank a little and drew a breath to say ‘thanks anyway’ when she said, “What’s your number?”

I spelled out my full name and gave her my telephone number.

“That’s just great! Ok… well I’ll try and get in touch with him and let him know that you’re trying to reach him.”

“Awesome! Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.”

We hung up. I figured that, at best, I’d hear from him in a couple weeks. I went back to my desk feeling unusually peppy.

My phone rang not thirty minutes after I closed it.

Mr. Robins was on the other end and he sounded… confused. “Sure I remember you. But uh… what exactly is it that you want?” he asked.

“I just want to talk with you a little about that radio. Lots has happened since then and, well, I’ve never given you a proper thank you.”

“Ok, ok. So you mean like… an interview?”

“Sure – that works”. A huge grin blossomed.

Later that afternoon, we met at a coffee shop in West Hartford. He was already inside ordering a coffee and laughing with the girl at the counter. I took a seat at a nearby table and watched, smiling.

A few strands of grey were creeping in and he seemed a bit softer around the middle but, other than that, there he was, just as I remembered him. I became conscious of how different I looked compared to the tiny kid I had been twenty years ago and wondered if he would even recognize me.

He thanked the girl behind the counter and turned to find a seat. “You were my favorite teacher!”, she exclaimed. He smiled and thanked her again.

He recognized me in no time at all, walking to my table wearing a familiar grin.

“Hey! Andrew!”. We shook hands and sat down. I sat there in the coffee shop spilling my guts, catching him up on the last twenty years. I relived the hundreds of shows, the smoky taverns and old churches, the embarrassing cat calls, the sweaty palms, the MLK Day’s at the State Capitol, the Presidential Debate gig – I even told him about getting hammered at 15 years old and nearly getting sexed up in a woman’s bathroom stall. He sat there, listening with the patient practiced ease of a longtime educator.

“Andrew… that’s… great. It’s great that all that happened for you. I just… well I’m not sure why… I mean what is it that YOU want from ME?”

I frowned a little. “It’s been twenty years. It’s been twenty years and I’ve never had a chance to say thank you until now. So… thank you.”

He sat forward a bit and looked me in the eye. "Is that really all you wanted?"

I leaned forward and smiled unconsciously. "That's really all I wanted", I said.

I’ll never forget the way he smiled then. It was the same smile he’d given me when he’d handed me the radio some twenty years ago. He stood and stuck out his hand. “You’re welcome, Andrew”.

We shook hands and parted ways.

* * * * *

January, 1989

Mrs. Senatore sat in a chair across from me, getting her things organized. I held my trumpet for the first time, fingering the keys. She handed me my lesson book and pointed out the part of the instrument, taking special care to talk about the importance of instrument maintenance.

“So go ahead and pick up your mouthpiece – just the mouthpiece. We’re going to
practice buzzing.”

I held the mouthpiece and did my best to listen. She put the mouthpiece to her lips and demonstrated. “What you want to do is –”

Brrrrrrrrrrp!

“Well that’s it!” She beamed, picking up her trumpet and putting in the mouthpiece.
“Have you played before?”

I shrugged. My dad had been a trumpet player for years. Maybe it was genetic.

“Well, let’s move on then. We’re going to learn how to play a “G”. It may take a
while to get a decent sound but don’t be discouraged. It’ll happen in time. That’s what practice is for.

Not waiting for her instruction, I let loose with a long, clear G. Ten minutes later, I was playing hot cross buns. By the end of the lesson, I was attempting raggedy snatches of “Rhapsody in Blue”. She recognized it despite my awful bungling.

“Where’d you learn that?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Heard it on the radio somewhere”.

Mr. David Robins was born in New Britain, CT on June 19, 1942. He graduated from Belknap College in Center Harbor, NH with a BA in English shortly thereafter earning his Masters in Education from Central Connecticut State College. He taught for a total of 32 years, 16 of which he spent at Wheeler Elementary School before reluctantly retiring in 1999. He’s picked up his tenor sax after a 35 year hiatus and now spends his time performing with his band “Dave and Friends” – a senior ensemble specializing in music from the 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s. They manage about 40-45 gigs a year. When he’s not gigging, he enjoying bowling and fishing. He still lives in CT with his wife.

Angry White Boy

With perseverance (and a little help from Richard Pryor) I officially became black in 2004. I was 24 years old, had all my hair, and could run mile in four and a half minutes. On that day, as I watched the unshaven Red Sox work toward an improbable world series win, a stranger opened his mouth and America had gained herself another Afro Amer-I-Can

Which means I have "hommies" or whatever... which I'm guessing is a good thing.

Let me start from the beginning…

My birth into a family of honest-to-god black people (yes Lawd!) in March of 1980 was smooth enough. Love was in abundance. Hip Hop and Jesse Jackson were relevant and international, and “The Cosby Show“ was just three short years away. Soon after my birth, however, it became apparent that I was the victim of a crippling social handicap.

As it turned out, I had been born an Oreo (much to the dismay of Eddie Murphy, Jesse Jackson, and half of Halle Berry). And in the year of our lord 1980, there was no cure.

It wasn’t so much that I didn’t have rhythm (even though I didn’t), or couldn‘t play basketball, or never (ever) spoke slang well. It was a little of all of those things… and more beside.

Other than being dark-skinned, I showed no sign that I was black. I was a cultural misfit. A piece without a puzzle, if you will. And, sure, I looked like I should fit somewhere. But, despite all my searching, there never seemed to be a place for me.

Those of us uninitiated in the subtle ways of the urban parlance were branded "white" in the eyes of those who could "yo" and “whassup" with the rest of them. I never understood what was so “white” about the way I spoke. Ever. And it was that lack of understanding, that unanswered ’why’, that drove a wedge between myself and blackness. To hear them say it, black was something one did. More specifically, it was something I wasn’t doing.

Which begs the question, what should I have been doing? And just what is blackness, exactly?

It took almost twenty years and one very special jerk in a bar before I got my answers.

I was sitting in a local bar watching a ball game and chatting with the bartender and a few other Red Sox fans. In the middle of the conversation, a younger guy wearing a backwards ball cap and an oversized crucifix spoke up.
“You don’t talk like any black person I eva met”.

I smiled. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. But it was somewhat rare to hear it coming from a white person. “There are lots of us”, I said. “And, believe it or not, we all sound a little different.”

“Naw but I mean like… it’s like you’re trying to sound like… like you’re smart or something”.

I laughed and sipped my beer.

“I’m sayin’, you don’t think that’s a little disrespectful?” he said. “You’re actin’ like a white boy”.

“Let’s not go there”, I said. “Drink your beer.”

“Don’t be mad ’cause I’m blacker than you are”, he said.

I put my beer down and got in his face close enough so he’d know I meant business. “Black isn’t what I’m trying to be, it’s who I am. I didn’t have to BET and listen to hip hop to get it - I AM it. Now get the hell on.”

The bouncer, having caught all this, made his way over and grabbed the bar jerk by his collar. He threw him out into the street and screamed after him, “Have fun being black outside, jackass.”

I realized that I had spent most of my life as an angry white boy. I had let people define “black” for me and wasted a whole lot of time being disappointed that I couldn’t live up to their expectations. I realized, too, that, as a black man, I played a part in deciding what black was and wasn’t.

Black isn’t a fashion trend. It isn’t a way of talking or walking or dancing for that matter. And Black is most definitely not available in stores.

Black is our history. Black is grandma’s cornbread and nappy hair - sometimes. Black is “amen” and “you betta preach”. Black is my music and my bad dancing and my struggle and my passion and my brothas and sistas. Black is beautiful. And Black is who the hell I’m is.

The Job Search

It's not a job search. It's a snipe hunt.

I'm wandering through the woods, nose to the ground like a bloodhound, looking for something that doesn't exist. And even though I know it's a hoax, even though I know that I'll never find anything, I keep searching, clapping my hands like a jackass and calling “Here Snipe! Here Job! Here Anything!”

Occasionally the phone will ring or the email inbox will beep and it won't be someone looking for donations or spamming me with ads for dick creme. It'll be a real live HR person, delivering unto me with singsong voice (or Times New Roman font) an invitation to an interview.

And my heart will flutter and my toes will curl and suddenly, suddenly I'll know what it feels like to be a virgin who's been invited to the dance. A small town girl, living in a lonely world, who listened to Journey and didn't stop believing. And, like that virgin, I'll go to that dance, ignoring the nigh explicit expectations of lusty thereafters, because it's my turn, it's my turn to be beautiful, damn it! And, just like that poor not-so-unsuspecting virgin, I'll ignore the impending penetration until we're in the car. And alone. And the hands, they aren't where they should be. And, just like that little ol' virgin, I'll cry out in desperation, “Lord help me, I don't think I'm ready. Lawd Jesus I'm not ready!” but it won't matter. In the end, I'll be screwed.

Or something like that.

The whole interview adventure is pretty awkward and uncomfortable. It’s like being forced to endure some combination of a long funeral and bad puppetry. They “um” and “err” and “let's see” like verbal epileptics with toasters in their bathwater. But you sit there and smile and take it like a man. Because you need the money. Badly.

And then, all too soon (or not soon enough) they stand and shake your hand and you smile and thank them and they walk you to the lobby and they laugh a goodbye and you leave them to their Zoloft and corporate whatnots so you can rush home to scarf ice cream and masturbate.

I tell myself that them not hiring me is an act of mercy. I tell myself that I know what mistakes I made and that my next interview will be that much smoother. I edit my resume in my head on the way out of their offices. I convince myself that they’ll call – the interview went so well. But it ends the same – no calls, no jobs, back to the drawing board. And, in the aftermath, I’m forced to eat discount mac and cheese whilst attempting to understand why I’m 29, unemployed, and sexually active by technicality alone.

Such is the sum of my “career moves” in the last [counting on fingers] six months.

So the next time you're thinking about asking me how the “job search” is going, pause for a moment first and consider the above. If there's an ounce of humanity left in you afterward, you'll withhold your question and force broken glass up my pee-hole instead.

Or, better yet, don't ask. I've got a feeling it's gonna be a while before either of us will like my answer.

For Etcher, Part X: Message in a Bottle

Catch up on the whole story at www.foretcher.blogspot.com

Robbie was alone. He usually was. This time, he was on his knees, his arms wrapped about the toilet. He ran his tongue over his front teeth and grimaced. “Sandy”, he thought and soon forgot. He thought of what he must look like, crawling about on the floor and drooling. The image that thought called up was hysterical but he didn’t laugh – a sign that he needed more whiskey.

The bottle clicked painfully against his teeth on the next swallow and he reminded himself to pay more attention. This was supposed to be forgetting. This was a vacation from his problems brought to me by the good folks on the pirate ship Revenge, a message in a bottle, “Step Zero” his dad called it.

Mid thought, he vomited so hard that it splashed back into his face – some got on his earlobes and that’s funny somehow. “My laugh makes me sound like an alcoholic.”, he thought to himself. “My laugh makes me sound just like dear old dad”.

He crawled out from the bathroom without flushing the toilet. “Sleep”, he thought. “All I need is some sleep.”

“But first, another drink. Just one more to put you under, eh? A night cap, matey. ”

He smiled up at the bottle of rum across the room. “You are absolutely right, my captain”.

He braced himself against the wall to stand and managed to do so without too much trouble. Silently congratulating himself for a job well done, he lurched-lunged toward the kitchen finding purchase on the walls and shelves and other accommodating spaces along the way. After a few steps, he overbalanced, his head bobbing comically like a flower at the end of his neck and promptly fell over.

“I fell”, he said aloud and giggled. “Daddy I fell!” he screamed suddenly, clutching the carpet hard enough to make his fingers numb. He tells himself this is funny too but can’t bring himself to laugh.

He was going to puke again. This time, he lay on his stomach and turned his head to the left before he did so. As the vomit soaked into the carpet, he wondered if, maybe, he'd taken things a bit too far this time. Struggling to his feet, he ambled toward the rum, belching and wincing at the smell of his own breath. “Almost mostly there, Cap'n”, he sang. “Don't start without me!”

The phone rang.

Even drunk, he knew who it was and he knew (certainly knew) what they wanted. But all that would have to wait. There was always time for one more drink. And, by God, he was going to have it.

The image of his ruin was reflected in watery relief on the glass of the wall clock in the kitchen.

The time read 9:49 AM.

For Etcher: Crush

Catch up on the whole story at www.foretcher.blogspot.com

Part IX: Crush

Entry #104 - July 8

Dear Jules,

My addiction lives without. It's at the bus stop and in my favorite seat on the couch. It's in the back of the office building and outside the movie theater. It hides right behind food, sex, and masturbation. It stalks behind every moment that isn't occupied with something that isn't it. It's behind me, encouraging me to quit being a quitter. It lies to me and tells me it's OK to give in. It holds my shaking hands and stares into my eyes and tells me what I want to hear.

It understands me. And it knows just what I need to get by.

It's tell me that if I just have one cigarette, I'll see how bad they are. I'll remember how terrible smoking made me feel. And I won't feel the need to smoke any more.

It shows me every cigarette butt [today, I saw over 90] and tells me which ones aren't quite smoked all the way down. It never goes as far as telling me to smoke them [never that] but it lets me know that it’s possible. Always possible should I ever decide to dip my big toe in the gutter.

I want to smoke all the time.

There is no break. My mind does not wander. I am not saved by eating food or other distractions. Food is not enough. I am a mentally dedicated junkie. And my addiction is a diligent demon.

My addiction does not give a rat's ass about books or guitar or long walks or chewing gum. It is there, patiently sitting indian-style in the cup of my ear, telling me to smoke, urging me to smoke, begging me to smoke, commanding me to smoke.

Constantly.

And all I can do, my only recourse, the only power I have left in this world is the word “no”.

God help me if I ever lose that word.

“Marc?”

He looked about him, for a moment, a man in a dream.

“I’m sorry, Ma. Spaced out for a minute there.”

He wrung his hands a bit and scratched his head before continuing.

“Make sure she gets to bed by nine. And no sugar after 5, Ma, no matter how much she begs. I’ll call you from the road when I figure out where I’m staying. Oh and make sure -”

“Marc, honey.” She was using the “mom” voice. “I have a bit of experience when it comes to children.”

Marc leveled a glance at his mother which was returned in equal measure. “I know mom. I just -”

“Get going, sweetheart. Call me when you get settled.” Marc’s mother planted a quick kiss on his forehead before turning and gently closing the door. He stood staring at the door for a few moments thinking of…

Beloved Spirits, we summon you from death into life. Commune with us. Move among us. All are welcome.

The incantation moved through him, lingering like a phantom before departing, entirely forgotten as he approached his truck. He loaded all 360 pounds of himself into the vehicle and let out a sigh before closing the door with a dramatic grunt. He didn’t bother adjusting the seat - it was as far back as it would go. He cast a glace down as his belly before looking once more toward his mother’s front door.

“Daddy loves you”, he whispered, and forced himself to look away.

He started the truck and, immediately, his fingers betrayed him, dragging through his pockets for the cigarettes he’d abandoned.

The memory of your skin
Lingers on my tongue
Haunting me like bitter smoke
As sacred as a final breath

The craving never departed. It only became manageable, reasonably conquerable, when he...

...noticed an empty pack of smokes on the floor of the passenger seat. And there another. And another.

He hefted himself from the car and noticed an army of empty cigarette cartons and packs laying about the vehicle. He bit his lip and began to sweat.

I cannot name this longing, this music, this quiet fire. I cannot know it’s ending – it is beyond my view. I only know it as the bitter blessing, the sweetest needle that has pierced my veins and filled me with nameless desires, the fever that burns in the sacred hollows of my lonely heart. It is the lovely dream from which I cannot wake.

One by one, he gathered the corpses of his former sin and made a pile of them by the trash can his mother had placed by the road for collection. When he'd gathered them all, he picked one from the pile and lifted the lid of the trash can. He paused for only a moment before crushing the pack in his paw.

“No”, he said.

It took him 20 min to clear the pile