Boston Chronicles

Just A Boy

2011-12-07T15:48:00.003-05:00

[This is an excerpt from my upcoming novel "Son of the Memory Merchant"]

Just A Boy

I was awakened by the sound of rapping on our door. Metal on wood. Insistent. Before I'd opened my eyes, father was on his feet, signaling to me to lie down and be quiet. I watched him gather a robe about himself before heading off to answer, sword in hand.

He was dragged outside almost immediately after opening the door. I lept from my bed and rushed toward him, grabbing my sword along the way.

The men were large and armored, stinking of the sickness. One of them lay near the front door with a great slash across his chest. The other five had managed to subdue father.

My father had been pinned to an elm tree, a sword run through where his shoulder met his torso. One of the men held a dagger with which he meant to cut his throat. My father cried out like a wounded animal.

“Run, boy! I’m already dead! You must -”

The largest of the men struck him so hard, he hung there for a moment, unconscious.

I couldn't cry out. I couldn't breathe. My vision blurred with useless tears. Our years of running had come to an end. And now, my father was going to die. “No!”, my heart cried.

I rushed to meet them.

They seemed to take no notice of me until the moment I was in striking distance. And, even then, the first of them didn’t take me seriously. He taunted me on my approach and braced for me with a weak defensive stance, his sword sheathed. Before the last taunt fell from his lips, I had taken his left arm above the elbow and buried my sword in his belly to the hilt. He looked from his gushing limb to me and back in disbelief.

“Just… a boy”, he gurgled and fell to his knees.

I took his head.

Four men remained.

Two of them drew swords and approached me, one circling around, hoping to flank me.

I let him.

The first came at me with a volley of heavy blows, each one sending violent reports of pain up my arms. My hands began to hurt. And I knew it wasn’t long before my shoulders would give out. “Four more men”, I thought, and steeled myself.

The man in front of me drew back for another heavy blow just as the man behind me made his move. At the last possible moment, I pivoted and dropped to my knees. The man to my rear, caught off guard, hesitated, his sword above his head. With all my strength, I thrust my sword upward into his chin. He made a face as if he were going to cry out but didn’t. Instead, he stood there. Stunned. Dying.

The man who had been in front of me had only momentarily been stunned by my kill. I heard the whisper of his sword coming for my head and rolled out of the way.

I was not able to retrieve my sword.

Three men remained.

The two who had remained with my father now drew their swords and came for me.

One of the men struck with a downward blow, meaning to cleave me in half. I stepped into and under his blow, catching him by the wrists and tossing him over my hip, disarming him in the process. I planted his own sword into his face. His hands flew to his face clawed at the blade. But only for a moment. Then he was still.

Two men remained.

“You’ve some fight in you, lad”, one of the men snarled.” And you may think you know what you’re doing with that sword. But, make no mistake, pup. You will die on the end of my blade this day.”

He lunged and I side-stepped the tip of his sword, only to step on the handle of another sword that had been dropped on the ground. It was just enough to throw me off balance.

I fell.

He caught me by the wrist and broke it. The larger man began to close in. “Two men”, I thought. Before the larger man could reach me, I shoved my knee into the groin of the main that had latched on to my wrist, stunning him just long enough for me to remove a dagger he had on his belt. I planted it deep in his chest and twisted it once for good measure. He let loose a strained groan and fell.

I could still hear my father pleading. “Run, boy! Run while you still can! I’m already dead! I’m already dead!” But the words never fully reached my ears. It was not my father but his ghost. His voice rang hollow and impotent in my ears.

One man remained.

The last and largest of our attackers came forward. He considered the bodies of his four dead companions before giving me his full attention. After a moment’s thought he came for me, drawing a dagger and throwing it at my throat. I easily sidestepped the dagger and reached out to pluck it from the air, only to realize my mistake at the last moment. After throwing the dagger, he had launched himself through the air directly at me. Before I could react, he collided with me shoulder first, taking me off my feet, landing on top of me, and knocking the wind out of me.

I lay on the ground, crushed beneath him, gasping like a fish. He then reached back with one of his great fists and smashed my face. There was a bright flash of light and an enormous amount of blood. He’d broken my nose. By sheer force of will, I remained conscious.

He stood and picked me up by my broken wrist, meaning to force me to watch my father's execution. My father’s voice, once urgent and demanding, had become thin and desperate. He pleaded hoarsely, begging the man to release me.

“Shall I kill him first, old man? Or should I let him watch his father die?”

“Please,” my father whispered. “He’s just a boy.”

The man tightened his grip on my wrist, causing me to cry out. “Aye, he sounds enough like one. But no boy I’ve ever known could have done what he’s done to my brothers just now.”

He walked forward until his and my father’s noses were nearly touching. “T’would be blessing enough if I kill him quickly.”

“Please,” my father whispered. “Just… just a child. Spare him.”

The man lowered his voice, his teeth clenched. “The only thing he’ll be spared from is watching his cowardly father beg for his life.”

He then held me aloft by my wrist, and drew back his sword to run me through.

My father cried out in utter anguish.

The man growled. “What say you now, boy?”

I saw the hairs on his arm began to stand on end. His hair, also, stood up by itself. He looked about himself, momentarily unsure. Then, “Speak, boy! Or go to your grave mute”

I looked him in the eye, and spoke a single word.

“Burn.”

Lightning cracked from my hands and struck him in the face and shoulders. He released me and fell to the ground dead. My father cried out with his husk of a voice. “Declan! You mustn't!” But it was too late.

The power soon overtook me using my anger as a conduit. This time, it arched from every part of my being at once, annihilating the slain men on the ground, the grass, the trees, everything. Smoke and ozone filled the air. My muscles contracted painfully, trying in vain to restrain the onslaught. The smell of burning flesh was everywhere.

I called for my father in the chaos. Nearly all of the trees about us had caught fire. The smoke was as thick as wool. I knew I didn't have much longer. I called to my father once more, straining against the pain of my broken wrist. The last thing I heard before succumbing to the smoke was my father's voice, screaming in agony.

The fire had reached him.

-- D. Brathwaite 12/7/11

Feed

2011-08-22T15:17:00.003-04:00

I fed him. Bread at first. Little bits of leftover lettuce. An egg. Scraps from the dinner table. Nothing anyone would miss. Never anything anyone would notice. I'd sneak out after dinner and leave it where I knew he'd find it. Sometimes it would be there when I returned, orange peels and moldy bread sitting right where I left them. But most times, he ate. Most times, he ate every bit. So I fed him.

At first, he was just a series of odd tracks on the barn's dirt floor. Then a rustling in an old calf stall. Then a shadow. I couldn't tell if he was growing, at first. I couldn't tell if he was well. I just kept feeding him. I couldn't even see him. Just a shadow. And then the shadow that began to grow. The shadow became so mercilessly dark, so hopelessly black, that it sucked in the light from everything around it. Including me. Still, I fed him. And he grew.

It wasn't long before I couldn't even look at him anymore. The shadow became something more. Intentionally dark. Void. It made me feel void to look at it. Thin, like my soul was exposed. Like the breath was being sucked from my lungs. Like my blood ad become sand. Yet, I could feel something in him calling to something in me. I could feel something in that void that was just like me. Something in that void was true of me also. And, though I couldn't name it, I recognized it all the same. So I fed him. And he grew.

After a while, I pretended he was an old dog. An injured fox. A lame bear cub. A sick mountain lion. I couldn't look at him for what he was. The darkness wasn't real. It was a play of light. An old blanket. A speck in my eye. A stain on the wall of the calf stall. I fed him. And he grew.

It wasn't long until scraps of bread and lettuce wouldn't do. I knew that mother would notice if I dared to take more, even from the trash. I was at a loss and nearly panicked until a rat wandered into the calf stall. It drew near to the darkness. And ceased to be. It wasn't long until we no longer had a rat problem. It wasn't long after that that chickens began disappearing. One at a time. Two at a time. Three at a time. Nary a feather or bone to be found. Father blamed it on foxes and doubled the locks on the chicken coop. Still, two at a time. Three at a time.

I fed him. And he grew.

I found my dog's skin in tatters a few feet in front of the calf stall. I stood looking down at the remains, unable to weep, held fast by a cold curiosity. Why had the skin been left?

“So you can remember him. You loved him, no?”

The voice was lush and deep. Cold. Infinite. Ancient. Like a black ocean. Like a bone yard. I froze. “It speaks,” I thought.

“Yes”, it said. “And it hears.”

I wept.

“David, would you like to see something evil?”

I remained silent. And my heart broke.

“Give me your heart, David”, it said.”

“No”, I whispered.

Your heart, David”, it said.

“I cannot”, I said.

“I hunger, David”, it said.

I walked away.

Father disappeared first. I found his clothes in a heap on the south side of the barn just after evening chores. I buried them. A final bandage of sunlight stained the horizon. “Blood”, I thought, and shivered. Mother was certain to ask after him but I wasn't worried. She would be gone soon. I was sure of it. I avoided the barn altogether, fearing it had left me another token – this one from my father. When mother disappeared, I returned to the barn.

The shadow was everywhere. It seemed to pulse, breathing, beckoning. I clenched my fists, resisting.

“David, would you like to see something evil?”

I wanted to say yes. But my heart protested. “Run!”, I thought, and could not. “Fight!”, I thought, and could not.

“Give me your heart, David”, it said.”

“Kill me”, I whispered. “Please.”

“Not yet”, it said. “Your heart, David”, it said.

“Please”, I said.

“I hunger, David”, it said.

I obeyed.

I was careful at first. I brought people that were careless. I brought people that wouldn't be missed. I brought strangers. Loners. Lost ones. Stragglers. But it was bigger than me now. Unrecognizable. Insatiable. Soon, it would be able to feed itself. Soon, I would be nothing more than food. Still, I fed it. And it grew.

“They'll find me”, I said. “This can't go on forever”.

“I hunger, David”, it said.

I had to end this.

There is no barn. Only blackness. I entered the darkness with my father's lantern. I could feel it all around me. I could feel it's hunger. And it was my turn to be eaten.

“David, would you like to see something evil?”

“Yes”, I said.

It showed me it's face.

I dropped the lantern.

* * * * *

(Jared Hill, NH) Firefighters responding to a barn fire in Jared Hill made a grisly discovery once the blaze had been extinguished. The charred corpses of at least a dozen victims were found along with the remains of several dozen animals. Law enforcement officials long on the trail of as yet identified serial killer dubbed “The Jared Hill Strangler” have no comment as to the identity of the killer, citing only that the killer was himself a victim of the fire. Remains were also discovered elsewhere near the barn. "They are human remains. None are complete bodies, they are partial human remains," says one investigator.

A state police rep confirmed that investigators "did locate some bones, and those bones will be transported to the Jared Hill County Medical Examiner’s office."

The Jared Hill Strangler first came to prominence in early May when a string of unexplained disappearances in the area...

Emma and the Whole Heart: Part X

2011-08-16T16:50:00.002-04:00

I only got two see her every two weeks now, on the weekends. My ex-wife called it a “gift”, told me that I should be grateful. She smiled when she said it, like she'd won something. I was able to endure her sneer. And I was even able to endure Emma's tearful pleading, begging me to do something, anything to fix this. It broke my heart to pieces and I hated myself for doing this to her, but I kept it together. I sucked it up and said the things a father it supposed to say.

“Don't worry.”

“It's going to be alright, love.”

“We'll still get to see each other.”

“I'm going to fight this.”

“They can't keep us apart.”

“I love you.”

But when my wife's new guy-friend tried consoling me, I lost my patience. “Abe, I hope you're not taking this personally. Grace and I, we're doing what's best for our daughter.”

'Our daughter', he said.

I decked him.

He lay on the ground like a dazed fish, reaching out for nothing.

I walked away.

At first, I stopped drinking entirely when she was here. But we never had enough time. As soon as I felt like I had my daughter back, as soon as we began slipping back into that old easy way of talking, they came to take her away. I gritted my teeth each time and forced a smile for Emma's sake.

“See you later, kitten”, I'd say.

“I love you daddy”, she'd say.

“Love you too, honey”, I'd say. “With my whole heart.”

And then things got too familiar. Things got too easy. I'd petitioned the courts for more time to no avail. I completed an alcohol education program, got myself a couple chips from AA, and secured a job. But it wasn't enough. And Grace was not willing to compromise.

It was only a matter of time before I fell apart.

The last time she was here, we sat at the table together joking and eating breakfast. Everything was perfect. Everything was normal. And then it wasn't.

“You're getting sloppy in your old age, dad”, she said. “I mean, Christ, I can smell the booze from here”. She held her nose and waved her hand dramatically in front of her face.

“And rum and coke? For breakfast? You're not even trying any more!”

“Em -”

“A six pack first thing in the morning? Now that I understand. It's basically wheat and water, right? Like uncooked pancakes with a kick, no? But, shit, rum and coke -”

“Language...”

“ - at 8 A-fucking-M is just embarrassing.”

“Watch your mouth young...”

“What kind of ball-less, defanged, low-life sham of a man -”

“That's enough, Emma.”

“ - mixes himself a cocktail for breakfast and leaves his daughter hanging? Let me guess – the DTs got so bad you spilled half the booze on the floor and only had enough left to make one. Am I right or am I right, Dad?”

“I said that's enough.”

“But then it's never really enough, is it, Dad? I mean it's one thing to get piss-pants drunk when I'm not here and then play sober when I come around. But you! You go ahead and -”

“Young lady you -”

“ - get cocked right in front of your daughter. And why not? There's no problem living every day like it's your last, right?

“I don't have a -”

She slammed both fists down on the table. “SHUT UP!”

“Emma I've had enough of -”

She slammed her fists again, repeatedly, this time hard enough to send her plate to the floor. “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

She sat there, shaking, crying, furious. I sat there, useless and drunk, desperately trying to come up with something to say or do that might mend this. “Emma honey, I love you with my whole heart”, I thought and didn't say. Because I wasn't sure if that was true any more. I couldn't remember what it felt like to have a whole heart let alone to love someone with one. I wanted to reach out to her but I didn't dare. I was poison. So I sat in my chair. Sipped my drink. And cried with her.

She never came back.

Emma and the Whole Heart: Part IX

2011-07-26T22:39:00.001-04:00

I awoke to the sound of rain, flat pale light casting odd shadows here and there. I rolled over on to my back and scratched myself. Out of habit, I listened for signs that she might be awake; the clatter of breakfast dishes, the shower, her footsteps up and down the hall. I heard nothing and almost went back to sleep. And then guilt kicked in. I forced myself to stay awake and listen to the silence.

“You did this”, I thought to myself. “This is your doing”.

I wanted a drink so badly my chest began to tighten, my fingers gathering into useless fists. I wet my lips and cleared my throat. Desperation began creeping in. I let it.

There remained a solitary bottle of whiskey in my house, hidden in the kitchen. I mentally walked myself over to it, and poured a drink. At first, it'd be like swallowing fire. And then, a warm rush would spread from my middle, unknotting everything. I'd forget how to be stressed. I'd forget to be depressed. I'd be sloppy but centered. “Whiskey Sure”, my daughter called it. And, even then, I would know that it wouldn't last. Still, I'd be free enough to be happy. For just a minute. Just one. Just enough to get my head on straight. To start the day. Just enough to get loose before work. Just a swallow to get nice and easy before bedtime. Just one. That's it. That all I wanted.

What I needed, however, was quite another thing.

What I needed was to get completely stinking drunk. Before my shower. Before breakfast. Before crawling out of bed. Before the day had a chance to get it's hooks in me. Before I remembered what a loser I was, what a con and a sham of a father I had become. Before I had a chance to feel guilty and lonely and love-starved. Before I looked in the mirror and saw what I was. Before regret. Before self pity. Before I opened my eyes.

Before she opened hers.

I lay there contemplating the whiskey for an eternity before finally getting out of bed and stepping into my slippers

“Just one”, I said aloud, and started toward the kitchen.

* * * * *

I stared at the bottle for the better part of an hour, mumbling to myself like a crazy person.

Ashes

2011-06-27T14:50:00.002-04:00

Well now.

Hello again.

*wave!*

It's been quite a long time since I've post anything to this here blog, and with good reason. Back in August, I was in a pretty bad car wreck and broke some stuff - specifically my wrist and my heart. I broke my wrist upon impact. When I learned that The Mustang that had been so dear to me had been completely destroyed, my heart broke on the spot.

It was a pretty lousy ending to an otherwise decent day.

Months later, after some physical therapy (I had also sprained and torn a great many things), it was discovered that there were internal injuries as well - injuries that had gone unnoticed for months. I was rushed to the hospital and admitted to the ICU. Following surgery, I was on bed rest for about 4 months.

Which brings us to about March of this year.

From then, I had spent so much time on bed rest, my muscles were atrophied. So I bought myself a gym membership, bought some groceries, and spent the next three months getting my strength back.

And here I am. Decidedly healthier.

As gauche a cliche as it may be to apologize for not having posted anything in a long while, I apologize nonetheless, if not only to myself. It's been far too long, readers, and I am exceedingly glad to be back again.

New pieces are in the works and, hopefully, we can get this train going again.

Thanks to all who asked after me, called, sent cards, etc. - I wasn't able to reply to everyone but your care, concern , and well wishes were much appreciated.

With that, I invite you to keep your eyes open for new stuff. Let's pray still remember how to do this.

Alive Again... mostly,

D. Brathwaite

Emma and the Whole Heart: Part VIII

2010-11-11T05:27:00.004-05:00

I gave up. Once.

I was sitting in the bathroom, waiting to die. For real. I had spontanesly gobbled a handful of sleep-aids and chased them with a bottle of gin. As I pulled further away from reality, I started singing. Mostly songs from my childhood at first. And then songs about what a coward I was. Songs about losers, bad boyfriends, wayward fathers, lost love, etc. It was pathetically maudlin – a very daytime television sort of way to spend my last few moments, to be sure. But I didn't feel pathetic. Or dramatic. I felt grateful. And peaceful. And holy. I was getting what I deserved. I was paying the piper and it was ok. I kept singing and it was ok.

When Emma found me, I was still singing. That's the last I remember.

In the hospital, she asked me why – why I tried to do myself in, not why I was singing.

I smiled at her. “Fresh out of courage”, I said. I had smiled but, amazingly enough, I actually felt like laughing. Mostly because I hadn't even gotten suicide right.

She stared at me like I was a stranger. It was the same look she gave me every time I told her something she deemed ify or questionable. “Really?”, the look said.

“Really, really”, I said. I cried then. I couldn't help it.

She held my hand.

I wasn't surprised to see her mother, Grace, lingering just outside my door. Before she had a chance to speak, I sent Emma to find me a candy bar. Her eyes lit up, as if my wanting sweets was a sign that I was getting better. She dashed into the hallway in search of a vending machine before I could tell her to take her time.

Grace was going to ask for full custody. And I was going to say yes. That much was clear. But a part of me had already come to terms with losing Emma.

I lost Emma the moment I'd decided to start drinking again. Not all of her, of course. Not all at once. But the easy carefree love between us changed over time into something hard and almost utilitarian – a love borne of duty.

I blamed myself.

She never trusted me again. Her looks of love and adoration were more and more frequently replaced with looks of pity and anger. It occurred to me that I'd likely spend the rest of her childhood trying to mend that bridge, never knowing (or caring) if I was wasting my time.

The last time she visited me in the hospital, she brought a large white box along with her. “Courage” was written in large bold letters on the top. Inside was a stuffed lion. I saw that one coming but it choked me up all the same. “That's his name?”, I asked.

“That's HER name”, she said.

I nodded.

* * * * *

This is the entirety of "Emma and the Whole Heart". The original eight parts are available here on www.bostonchronicles.blogspot.com

Comments/Questions/Critiques are welcome and encouraged. Thanks for reading.

-- Drew K. Brathwaite

* * * * *

Emma and the Whole Heart: Part VII

2010-10-25T13:03:00.001-04:00

Truth be told, succumbing to the bottle was a huge relief in it's own way. The pressure of being sober was off. I could be the embarassing drunk asshole that everyone expected me to be. Or not. But I didn't have to think about it or dwell on whether or not I was going to do it. I could just do it. Or not.

I was making pancakes on a Saturday morning three weeks after I'd started drinking again. Emma was reading the newspaper with a worried look on her face. I set a short stack of pancakes in front of her. “Whatcha readin'?,” I asked in a sing-song voice.

“It says that too many eggs in your diet is bad for you,” she said.

“Too much of any one thing is usually bad for you,” I said and started cutting her pancakes.

“Yeah but... we eat eggs every single day, dad,” she said, shooing me back to my seat. “Aren't you afraid that we'll get sick or something?”

“Waaaay ahead of you, darling,” I said, tipping my beer towards her and winking.

She stared at me with horrible grief stricken brown eyes, a triangle of pancakes trembling at the end of her fork. Tears were imminent. I had blown it somehow but wasn't sure what I'd done wrong.

“Em,” I began but was too late. She dropped her fork, pushed away from the table and ran off to her room.

“Em!” I said, louder this time, getting up to follow her. “Come back honey. I'm sorry!”

I heard her door slam a moment later. I didn't know what to say but knew I had to say something. “Em, honey, your pancakes will get cold,” I said and immediately regretted it. She didn't care about the pancakes. She cared about me. I felt like crap. I WAS crap. She didn't deserve a father like me.

I sat outside her room, coaxing her out for the better part of an hour. When she finally opened the door, I went to hug her. Her eyes were bloodshot and her nose was runny. She pushed past me and quietly returned to the dining room. I offered to warm up her pancakes but she didn't respond. I apologized for the umpteenth time and she didn't respond. I cracked a joke and she didn't respond. I had blown it.

Hours later, I made one last attempt at fixing things. She had gotten dressed and was on her way out to ride her bike. I tried to get a word or two out of her before she left the house.

“Honey, maybe we can head out for ice cream when you get back. How's that?”

“You won't be able to drive,” she said.

“Hon your dad is one of the best --”

“You can't drive drunk,” she said. “I won't get in the car.”

I swallowed. “Emma, I'll be fi-”

“I'm not going to cry at your funeral,” she said, choking back tears. “I'm getting it over with right now. And, when I get back, you can go on killing yourself. And I'm not gonna say anything any more.”

“Em, I promise I--”

“But I'm not gonna let you kill me,” she said. Her eyes burned with anger. Her hands hung in fists at her sides. She stared me down, daring me to respond.

“You did that to her,” I thought. “You did that to your little girl.”

She left without saying goodbye.

Emma and the Whole Heart: Part VI

2010-10-25T12:59:00.002-04:00

In the end, I tell myself that I have never failed Emma - never missed a softball game, never missed a dance recital, never missed a parent/teacher meeting or a birthday or even a tea party. I've always been there for her. That's what I tell myself. That's what makes it all not so bad.

I also convinced myself that my little girl couldn't see how far gone I was. I made it a point to hide most of my drinking from her. She'd see me have a beer with dinner and not know that I'd had four while making it. She'd see me have a gin and tonic and not know that I'd knocked back an entire bottle that afternoon. At least, that's what I told myself.

The illusion fell apart when she begged me to quit drinking. The look in her eyes was so sincere and full of love, I had no choice. I promised her I would try.

I quit for four months. My appetite returned with a vengence. I put on a ton of weight and grew out my beard. I slept 10 hours a night. Emma nicknamed me “The Fatsquatch”. I split the majority of my time between work and sitting in front of the television eating Hot Pockets and M&Ms. I took the money I was saving and bought a gym membership. I even started dating again.

And then it was over. I started drinking again because I started drinking again. Only this time, I stopped going out. I stopped socializing. I became the master of excuses and blow-offs. I had no interest in explaining to people why I'd started drinking again. I had no interest in being lectured or encouraged or saved from myself.

I convinced myself that my daughter didn't know I was drinking again. I hid all the bottles and cans out in the trash and only drank in my room. I chewed gum and popped breath mints religiously. That lasted until she walked in to help me tie my tie. I'd left half a bottle of gin out on my dresser. She looked from the bottle to me and back to the bottle. “Booze goes in the liquor cabinet, dad,” she said. “And be sure to lock it. Remember – there's a child in the house!” she said, managing a weak smile.

“Em,” I said.

“The breath mints were a dead giveaway”, she said. “At least now, I don't have to pretend I don't know”. I searched for words but there was nothing to say. She smiled again in that tragic, lonesome way. It usually meant 'It's ok, Dad'. This time, it meant 'I pity you, old man'. I smiled back and let her tie my tie.

Emma and the Whole Heart: Part V

2010-10-22T12:03:00.005-04:00

From what I'm told, my dad was an excellent athlete in his youth. And by that I mean, my dad is was a big fat liar. Sure, he wrestled and ran a little track for a year when he was 16. But a car accident took all the running and jumping out of his legs his junior year. After that, he mostly smoked pot and wrote awful teenaged poetry.

I only pretended to believe him because I loved listening to his stories. It didn’t matter to me that half of them were made up. He was my hero.

I got caught drinking my dad’s scotch in his basement when I was 17. He sat next to me and we did shots until the bottle was empty. I puked my brains out.

The next day, my dad woke me up and made me mow the lawn. He sat and watched me push the mower from our porch. With a glass of scotch.

He never drew lines on his bottles or locked his booze up in a cabinet. And, as brutal as that ‘lesson’ was, I still pinched his alcohol. I was just more careful about getting caught.

On my twenty-first birthday, my dad handed me a bill. He had tracked every ounce of booze I’d taken from him and charged me for it. I gave him a big hug and laughed nervously. “Good one, Dad!”, I said.

It took me 4 months to pay off my tab.

* * * * *

Whenever Dad had a drink, it was important. That is to say, whenever dad had a drink, it was for a reason that only a drink could fix. At least that's how he made it seem. When he came home from work, he'd disappear into the basement. He'd finally emerge just before dinner, jolly and stinking. It seemed, then, the most normal thing in the world.

My dad did this because all dads did this.

On weekends, when I was old enough to drive, mom would send me to pick up dad from the pub. It wasn't long until I knew the regulars by name. The bartender was a largish blond woman named Joanna. She called me “stud”; partly because she was being flirtatious and partly because she never bothered to learn my name. When I wasn't “stud” I was “Orson's Boy”. I hated both.

When I finally got him into the car, my dad would kiss me on the ear and tell me that he loved me. When he had really tied one on, he'd call me by his brother's name. I didn't bother correcting him.

The last time I ferried my dad home, I was eighteen years old. My brother had left for college the previous year and I had been looking forward to my own departure ever since. This time, Dad was more drunk than usual. I had to help him out of the car and into the house. Mom was sitting at the kitchen table clipping coupons. At 11:30pm. I put my dad into bed and took off his shoes. “You're a good man, Teddy,” he said. I went to my room.

A short while later, I heard my mother's footsteps headed toward my door. She knocked for a few minutes before opening the door slightly. “Abe?,” she called. I pretended to be asleep.

She crept in and sat next to my bed. “Abe,” she said, placing a hand on my hip and shaking gentley. I ignored her. She cleared her throat and continued.

“He... Abe, your father is a good man. It's just that... well he works so hard to support this family. The stress sometimes gets to be too much for him.”

She paused and cleared her throat again. It sounded like she was holding back tears. I ignored her.

“He means the best for all of us. And you've got to know that he loves you, Abe. Sometimes things get a little out of hand but he loves you. He just needs an outlet every now and again. Christmas is coming up and he's working even more overtime to make sure that I... that we...,” she clearned her throat again.

“He's never hit you, Abe. Or me or any of us. I mean really when you look at this it's such a small --”

“I hate him,” I said.

She gasped a little. “Abe, I know you're upset but your father --”

“I hate him,” I said again.

She started to respond and was cut off by my dad's cries from down the hall. “APRIL! WHERE'S THE GODDAMN CLICKER?”

Mom stood and began walking towards the door. “It's not his fault, honey.”

I ignored her.

She closed the door behind her and her footsteps disappeared down the hall.

“It's YOUR fault,” I said under my breath, and rolled over to go to sleep.

Emma and the Whole Heart: Part IV

2010-10-19T12:37:00.006-04:00

“Dad.”

I rolled over on to my stomach and farted loudly.

“Dad. The girls are coming over. Time to put pants on.”

I ignored her.

Emma groaned and left the room. She was going to get water. To throw on me. I just knew it. And that meant that I had been up to my old tricks again. By which I mean I was drunk. Sloppy drunk.

““Shit,“ I mumbled. “At least I'm at home”. I could hear Emma at the sink filling a large glass with water.

I groaned and rolled over on to my side to vomit. The shower seemed impossibly far away but I knew that I had to get there. And then I had to put on pants and be a dad again.

At least for a few hours.

I couldn't remember why the girls were coming over to begin with but it didn't matter. It was too late to play sick this time. I had to behave while they were there. And that meant more than retiring to the garage while they sorted out the cultural significance Miley Cyrus or cooed about which boy was cutest. I had to be an actual dad. Which, meant being sober enough to greet the parents as they dropped their kids off. And sober enough to linger until the girls kicked me out of the room so they could gossip in private. That was a lot of sober time. And I was starting off in a pretty deep hole.

Emma returned with the water and unceremoniously threw it in my face. “Up, Dad,” said commanded. I sat up and burped loudly. “Who’s a handsome boy?“, I sang.

She had gone to my bureau and was picking out something for me to wear. I burped again and rolled into a kneeling position. She arranged some clothes on my bed and walked into the bathroom with the empty glass.

“More water,” I thought, and made an effort to stand.

This time she handed me the glass with a couple pills. I drank them down with my eyes closed.

“Thirty minutes, dad,” she said. “Shower”.

I knew I was going to vomit again but I was determined not to do it in front of my daughter. “Thirty minutes,” I said and managed a smile.

Emma left the room.

Emma and the Whole Heart: Part III

2010-10-19T12:36:00.002-04:00

The day my daughter was born, my dad was admitted to the hospital with chest pains. I spent the better part of six hours between two hospital rooms; Grace in labor, grunting and cursing in one, and my dad dying in the other. Nine hours after Emma was born, I snuck her down to my dad's room. We had just named her. Beaming proudly, Dad kissed her forehead, took her into his arms, held her against his chest, closed his eyes, and died.

It was the only time I've cried in front of my daughter.

Grace kept me around until she decided that my older brother was better looking. Frank and Grace both left their significant others and eloped to Cabo San Lucas. I broke my hand on our fireplace. Emma was six.

The divorce took the better part of a year. Emma and I stayed with my younger brother Ethan during the worst of it. His wife was under the impression that there was no ailment that could be solved by her cooking. I put on 60 pounds.

Frank killed himself four years to the day when he decided to start nailing my wife full time. Grace found him in their garage with the car running, a note pinned to his chest.

“Forgive me, Abe”, it read. I didn't go to the funeral.

Instead, I went to my dad's grave and shared a bottle of whiskey with him. I did most of the drinking. By some miracle, I made it home to my little girl who ended up caring for her puking father. The next morning, she made me promise never to do drink again. I put my hand over my heart and swore to her - “Never again.”

I lied.

She's forgiven me but won't let up on telling me that I should get help. I tell her that I'm ruining my life just fine on my own, thank you very much, and keep drinking. She doesn't find it funny at all. I blame her lack of a sense of humor on my ex-wife. And my drinking.

I've cut out drinking and driving and managed to avoid puking my guts out every night. I even went to a meeting (“Once”, my daughter reminds me) and stayed the entire time. The woman running the meeting cornered me afterwards and encouraged me to come back – sober next time.

I laughed and threw up on her shoes.

* * * * *

Emma turned on the radio as she made me breakfast and we sang along, substituting our own lyrics for most of the songs. She burned the bacon but I didn't care. I love her.

“I'm pregnant”, she said.

“It's not mine”, I said.

“I'm serious”, she said.

I rose from my seat. “You're pregnant?”, I asked.

“I'm pregnant?”, she asked.

I let out a huge sigh of relief. “Smartass”, I said.

“Wino”, she said, placing a plate in front of me. “Now eat your eggs, old man.”

I cleaned my plate.

Emma and the Whole Heart: Part II

2010-10-19T12:35:00.000-04:00

I found her on the couch the next morning wrapped in blankets she'd dragged down from her room. She had left the TV on. I smiled and left the room to grab a beer. Her voice came from the other room the moment I opened the fridge. “Breakfast?”, she asked.

“Sure”, I said, pausing with a beer in my hand. After a moment, I grabbed some bacon and a carton of eggs and shut the fridge.

She shuffled into the kitchen a moment later, frowing a little when she saw the beer. “Burbon is the classier side of alchoholism, dad”, she said.

“I'm a drunk, sweetie”, I said. “Alcoholics go to meetings. Besides, burbon is for lunch. I thought you would have learned that by now.”

“You're a terrible failure of a father”, she said, planting a kiss in my morning stubble and reaching for my breakfast beer.

I lifted the beer out of her reach. “Not 'till you're 16, kiddo”, I said. “Now how's about making your old man some eggs?”

She rolled her eyes and jabbed a finger into my beer gut. “Sinner”, she said, and grabbed a pan.

Emma and the Whole Heart: Part I

2010-10-18T17:06:00.003-04:00

Emma sat cross-legged in the middle of the kitchen floor, gnawing a nature bar, her head cocked to one side. I was making brownies. And drinking.

“When's your doctor's appoinment again?”, she asked.

I sighed. “Thursday”, I said, and dumped a generous amount of rum into the brownies.

I heard her shift into a more comfortable position on the floor behind me. “Mom says you'll be dead what with the way you're drinking.” She tore off a huge chunk of the nature bar with her mouth and began grinding it into something digestable. “She says you're making a mess of things”.

I scooped up a bit of the brownie batter with two fingers and flicked it over my sholder. Her yelp of surprise was more satisfying than I expected. “Her exact words were 'irredemable disaster'”, I said. I couldn't help smiling.

“I'm only telling you this because I care”, she said through a mouth full of nature bar. “Sooner or later she's going to hatch a plan to take me away from you. I'll be forced to live with her and Melvin in friggin' Ohio. They'll make me wear skirts and force me to listen to Christian rock.”

I laughed heartily. “How grim”, I said.

“I'll resist like a champ but, eventuallly, it'll wear me down.” She swallowed dramatically. “Eventually, their kind wears EVERYONE down.”

I had my back to her but knew the face she was making, her mouth off to one side, her cinammon nose crinkled up, her brown eyes creased menacingly. It was her 'doom' face. And, had I been looking, I would have laughed again. Instead, I giggled at the phantom image of it and kept stirring the batter. “Skirts, you say? AND Christian Rock? Spooky stuff, Em.”

“I'm serious, dad! I can't imagine growing up in fucking Leave It To Beaver Land.”

“Language”, I said.

“Friggin'”, she said.

“No one's taking you from me, Em, no matter how grim your mother makes it sound. We're doing just fine, you and I.”

“And your drinking?”

I put down the spoon and took a comically large swig from the bottle of rum beside me, sighing dramatically afterward. “I've got a liver like a 12 year old, sweetheart. It'll take more than some merlot and a bottle of whiskey to take out your old man.”

She stood and popped the rest of the nature bar into her mouth. “Seriously, dad”, she said.

I turned to say something clever and the words caught in my throat. The brownie mix I'd flung earlier had hit her high on her left cheek. She'd gotten most of it off but only most. I tore a paper towel from the roll. “Seriously, Em”, I said and reached for her face.

She snatched the paper towel from my hand and wiped at her face, making an even bigger mess. I let her.

“I'll be fine”, I said.

For a split second, her face turned down into a childish pout – one I hadn't seen since she was in diapers. Then, as quickly as it had come, the pout was replaced with a know-it-all smirk. “Yeah right”, she said, and headed toward the living room.

I ended up burning the brownies.

The Swear Jar

2010-08-26T11:41:00.000-04:00

Hey Gang -

The Swear Jar is back. We be the love-children of free speech. And we got us some internet access.

Check it.

Letters from Home - Part II: Clouds and Hammers

2010-08-14T20:31:00.004-04:00

Dear Drew,

I don’t know how, after not seeing me for all this time, you’ve managed to remember how to ignore my bullshit. But I’m glad you have. I was very rude to you yesterday. Please forgive me.

I was never terribly good at making friends and I’ve proven even worse at keeping them. I’ve never had much use for other people. I suppose, however, that by now you know that I very much enjoy your company. That is to say that I am fond of you.

At her insistence, Margret will be keeping an eye on the house while Early and I are in Ohio. I’ve told her not to be alarmed should you come by, though, for reasons as yet unknown to me, she’s become very suspicious of you. Should she ask you for a “password”, tell her “Morris is dead”. Feel free to whisper it in her ear for effect. I’m sure she’ll get a big kick out of it.

Enclosed is the key to my front door. It will also unlock the door to the basement. Please stack those boxes piled in the living room against the far wall in the guest bedroom.

I’ve left you most of a pie and a bit of milk in the refrigerator. Feel free to make a pig of yourself.

Warmest Regards,

Morris

=====

We walked along the bank of the river until it was too dark to go on. Mark, who had held my hand in a vice grip since we'd started, grabbed my arm and pulled me down towards him. "What now, Jim?", he whispered fiercely.

I wrestled my arm free and, in the darkness, grabbed him by the sholders. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes", he said.

"Good", I said and knelt down, gathering him into a hug. That seemed to be enough.

I hadn't planned on navigating in the dark but here we were. 16 hours ago, I was driving to the market for mother. 16 hours ago, Maria Jensen was falling all over herself just to kiss me. 16 hours ago, Teddy was sane and Cleo was alive and our house wasn't an enormous pyre.

I released Mark from the hug and held him by the sholders, tenderly this time. "Can you remember how to get there from here? In the dark?"

Silence.

"Mark. Are you nodding?"

"Yes."

"So, yes then?"

He paused, most likely nodding again. Then, "Will you carry me?"

"Sure", I said.

"Piggyback?", he asked.

"Sure", I said.

He climbed on to my back and wrapped his tiny arms around my neck. I held his legs against my sides and stood up. "Which way?"

"We're not gonna make it, are we Jim", he said.

A comforting lie lingered on the tip of my tongue like a prayer. "We'll make it", I said. "We'll make it as far as we can."

The clouds parted a bit, bathing the land in pale moonlight.

Mark shifted about on my back, getting the lay of the land. "That way", he said finally.

I thought of asking if he was sure and then resisted. Instead, I closed my eyes took a deep breath. "Heaven help us", I whispered, and started off into the dark.

=====

Oscar,

The word is "Cancer". Say it out loud. Go on, do it. Hell, say it enough times and it'll hardly sound like a word any more. It'll hardly sound real.

Give it a shot, Oscar. It's theraputic.

If anything, at least this is interesting. I couldn't stand dying in a boring way. Wouldn't that be the saddest thing you've ever heard of? Wouldn't you want a do over? Would you just about want to change your mind about not wacking off in the shower this morning?

I never imagined that loving Molly would lead to anything subtantial or worth it. Goodness knows I've never been all that into brunettes. She just sort of fell off the truck at the right moment and I happend to be in the mood for loving someone. Someone different. Hell, even someone as different as Molly.

That's the truth of the matter. It wasn't a fairy tale. Hell, it wasn't even beautiful - not at first anyway. We ambled through the first few months like awkward teenagers. She just about flintched every time I tried to kiss her.

"Am I doing something wrong?", I'd think and never say. "Is there a proper way to love this woman?"

And now I pray to her every night and sing about her in the mornings. She's the only reason I've ever given a damn about anything. Which is to say that I love her.

And she loves me.

Even as my hair is reduced to phantom whisps. Even as I waste away to a pale husk of skin and liquids. Even as they cut me open and feed me poison to fix me and lop off my breasts. She loves me.

Do yourself a favor and visit me here. I don't want to have died without having said goodbye to my only son. And I'm pretty sure God would approve of you forgiving your unholy dyke of a mother.

I think of you everyday. Not a moment has passed wherein I haven't loved you. And, whether you decide to come or not, that will never change.

Things will get better. They always do. Now get over here and give your mother a kiss.

Love you up to the sky,

Mom

=====

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part XII: Second Wind

2010-07-31T11:01:00.000-04:00

Dear Mr. Norris,

I was driving home from work a few days ago and singing along with the radio with the windows down. I came to rest at a stop light singing (rather shamelessly) Nickel Creek’s “Helena” and decided to thumb through my playlist for something more dance-worthy.

Then this happened: A man pumping gas just across the road yelled at me.

Because I had stopped singing.

I was immediately confused and embarrassed and now extremely self-aware. He smiled big and made a beckoning motion with his free hand. “Keep singing!”, he shouted.

And so I did.

Quitting smoking feels a little like that, Chuck. Almost exactly like that, actually. Plus a lot of sweating.

As of 11 am this morning, I am 8760 hours smoke free. In other words, today, I have hit my one year mark.

So. Yay!

*celebratory dance!*

When I started a year ago, I had no intention of making it a year without smoking. I couldn’t have imagined making it that far. But I WAS able to imagine going a single day. So I told myself, “just don’t smoke today”. And I didn’t. And, somehow, I managed to do that 365 times in a row. Which, in the end, implies that my success is little more than the byproduct of repetitive self-delusion. Because it sort of is. And I’m perfectly alright with that.

No more smoker’s cough, no more stinky fingers and clothes, no more money-wasting, no more standing out in the cold to get a fix, no more perpetual sore throats, and no more horrible brownish wads of gelatinous expectorate – it’s all gone. Done. Finished.

Pwned, if you will.

I won’t lie, I’m about 10,000 times more excited than I’m letting on, mostly because this is the first time I’ve really allowed myself to be excited about the progress that I’ve made. Granted, my young success can still easily be spirited away by some unbidden, brown-fingered Erlkönig. But I doubt it. I’m thinking that I may have very well kicked the habit for good. Which is awesome, considering that I’ve gotten used to this business of being alive and healthy.

If anything, I've learned that quitting smoking (or any bad habit) is an ongoing process. There were a number of times where I wanted nothing more than to break down and light up, especially in the beginning. And, if I were to be completely honest, I still find myself pining for a smoke every now and again. Some nights, a wispy phantom of longing comes a’tuggin’ as the hem of my consciousness and I say to myself, “Just one – one can’t hurt, right?”

I’m not sure that those moments will ever completely and forever go away. Which is both sad and a little encouraging. Because now I have to be vigilant. Forever.

Which, if you think about it, puts me in the same category as Batman.

…no?

*ahem*

Sure, there are other not-so-great habits I have. I eat a ton of fried foods and drink lots of beer. And I'm sure I'll get to those and other bad habits before too long. But, if it’s alright, I’m going to go ahead and celebrate this win before I start drafting a battle plan for the next one.

The truth of the matter is that I was a drug addict who was dying. And now I am not.

I had it in my head that I'd be a smoker my entire life. But here I am, Chuck.

I am not a smoker.

Your #1 fan,

Drew Brathwaite

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part XI: Escape Velocity

2010-05-13T10:29:00.001-04:00

Hope is 'it may be true'. Faith is 'it must be true'.
-- Morris Ackley, Humble Moose

Dear Mr. Norris,

The last time I quit smoking, I made it 18 months. I put on a bit of weight but most of it was muscle. I'd been hitting the gym to help stave off the cravings and sort of became addicted to working out. It was tough but I survived. Because I had a plan.

I set reward points along the path:

24 hours - cheeseburger
72 hours - trip to the movies
one week - case of beer and a pie
one month - a night out @ Vito's
3 months - new clothes
6 months - iPod shuffle
1 year - XBox 360

I had a partner in crime who had that list. I saved the money I would have otherwise been spending on smokes and, as I made it, my buddy used the money to get me those things. It was gimicky and involved more than a little self-deception but, hey, it worked.

By the time I hit the one year mark, I had forgotten all about the XBox 360. Which made it all the more sweet when it arrived.

Later that year, I hit a snag and suffered a nasty breakup. And I started smoking again. I was (and am) surprised at how quickly I fell back into the habit. Before I quit, I'd been a pack a day smoker. When I relapsed, I was smoking nearly twice that amount in less than 2 weeks.

I justified my smoking then as a means of mitigating stress. As an inevitability of my depression. As an expression of my right to do with my body as I pleased. As the eventuallity of my fears, my doubts, and my self-loathing. And just about all of those things were true to some extent. But if I were to be completely honest with myself, I started smoking again because I was arrogant.

I had quit successfully before. And I believed that, since I had done it once, I could do it again. Whenever I wanted. No problem. And, you know what? I was right. Sort of.

I found out that I certainly could quit again when I wanted. What I didn't anticipate, however, was how much higher the cost would be the second time around.

In physics, escape velocity is the speed at which the kinetic energy plus the gravitational potential energy of an object is zero. In plain english, it is the speed needed to "break free" from a gravitational field. Thus far, I've been on this rocket for 284 consecutive days. Yet I can still feel the pull of my former sin. It's just beneath me, a gaping merciless maw full of ragged teeth and regret. Some days, it seems larger and more sinister and than the day before. Some days, it's like I've not escaped at all.

The old familiar hooks linger in my flesh tied by the few and final tethers of yesterday. And, as much as I'd like to believe my smoking days are behind me, I still remind myself daily that almost everyone who's tried to do what I'm doing, have eventually given in. I remind myself that better than 90% of people don't last a year.

I remind myself that what I'm attempting is effectively impossible.

And yet, somehow, here I am - hooks, tethers, teeth, and all.

Not too bad for a quitter, eh Mr. Norris?

Your #1 fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part X: The Daily Grind

2010-03-30T10:26:00.000-04:00

I stretched my arms above my head in an unfolding "V" motion as I waited for my coffee. My accompanying yawn was anything but modest. My eyes felt hard and sandy but the yawning had made me feel better. So I scratched my chest and yawned again.

"Long night?" A co-worker, RatherLargeTodd, sidled up next to me, grinning with concern.

"Birthday party last Sunday", I mumbled grabbing my coffee from the machine and smiled back. "It was awesome".

RatherLargeTodd crinkled his brow and leaned in towards me. "This past Sunday?", he asked.

I yawned, nodding at RatherLargeTodd.

"But... it's Tuesday now."

I smiled. "Indeed it is, Todd".

RatherLargeTodd tousled my (nonexistent) hair, jostling my brain against my skull. "Atta boy", he said, slapping my back, pushing me forward a bit.

The back slap caused me to not-so-entirely-unintentionally spill the slightest amount of piping hot coffee on him.

His accompanying yelp was anything but modest.

* * * * *

Dear Chuck Norris,

I'm 30.

I spent the better part of this weekend stuffing myself with cake and pie and and beer and whiskey, dancing and singing loudly and off-key in bars.

I had a birthday pie and two (count 'em, two!) birthday cakes. And some birthday cookies. And birthday wings. I had something called “baked potato soup”, some killer lobster bisque, enough potato chips to choke a clysdale and enough Guinness to drown a porpoise.

And before you ask, the answer is yes. I did, in fact, try the veal.

I nearly got in a fight with a guy who tried to insult me by comparing me to Barack Obama. When I wasn't insulted by the comparassion, he suggested I perform an anatomically impossible act with my front bits. My friend Tim very politely directed him to the door.

I danced with a pretty girl and laughed at my own bad dancing, even though she was kind enough not to say a word about it. Instead, she asked me to dance again. And she even let me lead.

All in all, Mr. Norris, I had a great birthday weekend full of fantastic friends, delicious food, wonderful beer, and pie.

It was the best birthday party ever.

For the record, I'm 245 days smoke free.

That's 5,880 hours
or 352,800 minutes
or 21,168,000 seconds

Or about 8 months, if you're a big picture sort of guy.

So far, my 30s have been entirely smoke free. I'm got about 4 months until I reach the 1 year mark and, I gotta tell you, Chuck, I'm feeling pretty good about it.

Here's to 8 months of distance from the demon.

Cheers!

Your #1 fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part IX: Minority Report

2010-03-08T12:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mr. Norris,

When I was 15, I was hospitalized after smoking what I thought was just plain old marijuana. As it turned out, the joint had been laced with PCP and formaldehyde. On the way to the hospital, I was sweating and convulsing violently, only vaguely aware of where I was. Convinced that I was going to die, I managed to tell the woman in the back of the ambulance with me that, if she believed in God, I would need her to pray for me.

She burst into tears.

As part of my punishment/rehab, I was forced to attend a meeting of Narcotics Anonymous. I sat there as people poured their hearts out, sharing stories about their struggle with addictions, the high cost of their transgressions, and their cautious optimism about the future. Some of these people had lost everything and everyone their cared about. Some had nearly lost their lives. It was moving.

And then a strange thing happened.

After the meeting, a large contingent of these so-called former addicts ran outside to smoke. With large cups of coffee in their hand. The irony was so blatant, it defied any emotional response. I watched them, recovering addicts, giving in to addiction, in concert, right before my eyes.

I felt like I had been lied to.

I remember asking my mother why it was ok for them to be addicted to caffeine and nicotine but not heroin and cocaine, specifically pointing out that nicotine alone has made more addicts and claimed more human lives than all illegal drugs combined. She looked me in the eyes and smiled. “Exactly”, she said.

I didn’t have to go to another meeting.

As of today, I am 220 days smoke free. In exactly 145 days, I will have hit the one year mark. It feels great to have made it this far. Only about 5-8% of people who quit smoking do so permanently. Most don’t even make it six months. So, as far as I’m concerned, I’m still a part of that successful minority group. For now.

I know that I’ve still got a long way to go before I’m out of the woods. Spring and Summer bring with them a minefield of temptations. And I have yet to attend a baseball game or hit the beach without a cigarette. We’ll see how those play out. In the meantime, I remain optimistic and 100% smoke-free.

Your #1 Fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part VIII: 180 over 60

2010-02-06T11:16:00.000-05:00

originally posted January 25, 2010

Dear Mr. Norris,

Smoking disgusts me. Completely. The very thought of smoking actually makes me nauseous. And watching someone smoke, even from afar, is enough to make me wretch. Even if it’s on television. Even if someone is just holding a cigarette. And, God forbid, someone lights up around me. You would think they pointed a gun in my face the way I take of running. And the smell! Sweet Jesus, the SMELL, the dank yellowing cloak of eventual death that “they” drag around. Blech! How can they stand it?

Ugh.

Does that mean I’m one of those ex-smoker snobs now?

You know the ones I’m talking about: the newly enlightened, recently redeemed smokers who seemingly can’t wait to tell you just how awful smoking is for you (as if you didn’t already know), those plucky defenders of your freedom to breathe freely, striking at your bad habit with morbid statistics gleaned from pamphlets they don’t understand with numbers that don't bear repeating. The ones who’s entire lives seem to be framed around the fact that they DON’T SMOKE (and neither should you – nasty habit. Here, read this pamphlet), ugh, and my favorite, the ones who cough like precious ailing mice the moment someone lights up within 20 yards of them.

“Do I even have to mention what it would do for your health, or your kids' health if you quit? And just THINK of what it would do for your pocketbook. How much money would you save each year if you quit smoking right now? Just think of it - thousands and thousands of dollars left over for healthy life-enriching activities. I won’t even mention the health benefits. Of course it's your life. Enjoy it however you want. But…”

Am I one of "them" now?

It’s been about 180 days since my last cigarette. That’s about 6 months. And, in terms of my past attempts to quit, this is the second longest I’ve lasted.

The last time I quit, I last 18 months before I gave in. I told myself that I could get away with smoking occasionally, that one cigarette wouldn’t hurt. And of course I was wrong. Within a week, I was back to smoking a pack or more a day. The speed and relative ease at which the habit returned was frightening. I’ve learned my lesson. No more forays back to the dark side.

And I can say that with confidence. The very idea of smoking repulses me. Which, in it’s own way, is sort of interesting given that I can specifically remember enjoying smoking. A lot. And I’m certain that just now I couldn’t be any further removed from that feeling of enjoyment. Which I guess is a good thing.

It also occurs to me, Chuck, that I’ll be 30th in about 60 days. Or, as one person put it, I have 60 days left of my twenties. Or two months left of my twenty-something. Or who cares, really. I only hope my birthday comes with pie and presents.

Speaking of pie, the weight issue has begun evening itself out. I’ve leveled off just now, partly because it was bound to happen and partly because I’m a bit more active now. Sure, I still get winded much more easily than I should but I’ll deal with that in a little while – one thing at a time, eh, Mr. Norris?

Now before you say anything, I swear, I haven’t become complacent. I haven’t adopted this anti-smoking attitude as a sort of cardboard defense against a relapse. I really do detest smoking. Straight up. Nonetheless, I put no faith in my hate, relying instead on the day-by-day vigilance that got me here: six months without a cigarette.

I’m not ignorant of the fact that about 90% of smokers who attempt to quit end up relapsing within the first year. That’s most of them, Chuck. And you better believe that every day I ask myself if I’m among most of them.

The cold hard reality of all this is that, as strong and sure as I feel right now, I am statistically bound to fail. According to the numbers, this is a fools errand that’ll only end in tears. According to the numbers, I won’t succeed.

And, oddly enough, I’m liking those odds.

I’ve spent a good chunk of my life beating the numbers and defying the odds. It’s sort of my thing. And, though I am up against one hell of a monster just now, that little voice inside me is still saying “One more day, Drew. One more day”.

So I’ll make a deal with myself. I’ll throw myself a party when I make it to the one year mark. That’ll be July 31, 2010. It’s a Saturday, Chuck. I’m sure you have plans for that day but you’re invited to come along if you like. Hell, I’ll even buy the first round.

180 days smoke free. 60 days out from 30-something. I gotta say I’m feeling pretty good right about now, Chuck.

Pretty good indeed.

Your #1 Fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part VII: The Weighting Game

2010-02-05T11:14:00.000-05:00

originally posted November 29, 2009

Dear Mr. Norris,

If I’m not mistaken, today is my 121st day smoke free. That's 2904 hours.

174,240 minutes.

10,454,400 seconds.

Roughly 4 months if you're a big picture sort of guy.

So yippe. Or something.

I don’t feel MORE smoke free today than I did on day one or day fourteen or yesterday for that matter. Still, it’s nice to have made it out this far. Very nice, even.

As life’s stresses creep in, so does a desire to start smoking again- I haven’t, by the way. In fact, I haven’t even physically touched a cigarette since that last one that I stubbed out behind the garage some months ago. But I still find myself handling my pen like a burning cigarette from time to time. And I still occasionally feel pangs of something like jealously or longing when I see someone light up. It’s a dim phantom of a feeling but it’s there all the same.

In some ways, being this far out from the poisoned shore worries me. I don’t want to get comfortable out here, especially not so comfortable as to set myself up for a relapse. But I also don’t want to spend all my time bracing for a relapse. I just kinda want to be done with the whole mess altogether.

And I’m not sure that’s going to happen. At least, not any time in the foreseeable future.

Nonetheless, I remain focused on the positive and look forward to remaining healthy and smoke-free.

I found this “Smoking Recovery Timetable” online earlier today. Check it out. I read it from time to time and mark my progress. It gives me tangible somethings to look forward to.

In the meantime, my body has been giving me not-so-subtle clues that I need to get my weight under control. The first few months were hilarious and interesting but now, I'm edging ever closer to having gained 50 pounds.

50 pounds – have mercy.

I'm eating much more than when I was smoking and I'm not nearly as mobile. The pounds crept in on cat's feet and wrapped themselves around my middle. I didn't even notice how out of shape I was until I found myself completely winded after climbing a flight of stairs – stairs that I have easily galloped up and down before.

So far, even though I've put on a substantial amount of weight (average gain of about 2.5 pounds a week), it hardly shows at all. I'd imagine that I'd have taken action a bit sooner if it had.

Meh.

I keep telling myself that this is all better than smoking. And, though I've never tried before, I can't imagine that losing weight will be remotely as hard as quitting smoking. At least not for me. To my mind, I just need to take a couple more walks, maybe even hit the gym a bit, and I'll be back to normal. Or something close to normal. Hell, to be honest, I'd be happy just not gaining any more weight for right now. And I think that's a realistic goal.

I'm not going to stop eating pie. Or bacon cheeseburgers. Or chocolate anything. I'll just start paying the physical price up front.

In the meantime, pudgy or no, I remain smoke free. Here's to another 121 days, Chuck.

Your (ever so slightly pudgy) #1 fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit, Part VI: Flashback

2010-02-04T11:12:00.000-05:00

Dear Mr. Norris,

I nearly had a setback a few days ago.

I was hanging out at my bar when the urge to smoke hit me. Hard. So hard, in fact, that I momentarily reasoned that having a smoke - just one – wouldn't be so bad. I looked around at the ash trays situated on the tables about me on the patio eyeing the bevy of half-smoked cigarettes with a lusty eye. In fact, truth be told, Chuck, I was checking my pockets for a lighter before I came to myself.

I used to think that the more days that I managed to put behind me, the better insulated I'd be against the naughty nicotine. Now I realize that, despite all of my investments (physical, emotional, and otherwise), I am just as vulnerable as I was on day one.

And that's depressing. Sort of.

In reality, I'm sure that well beyond the worst of the cravings and suffering and so forth. But this last episode was unexpected – unexpected and more than a little scary, even.

I still have dreams about smoking every now and again. I wake up wracked with guilt and self-loathing, feeling disgusted and weak and all manner of horrible things. And then it occurs to me that it was all just a dream and I sigh with relief. And then I wonder how in the world I was able to make it this far without smoking a cigarette. And then I wonder how much farther I can make it before I finally break down or screw up or give in. And then I feel the sinking hopeless quicksand pull of inevitable failure.

And I think to myself, just for a moment, that it would be better if I failed with my eyes open, that I should just quit and start smoking now, that all of this isn't really worth all the hassle and the struggle and the worry and such and that I really don't want to fight any more and that, hell, smoking isn't really all THAT bad for you and that I could smoke occasionally and get away with it as a sort of compromise.

And then I remember chocolate. And breathing. And not smelling like a chimney. I remember how much I don't like poisoning myself. I remember how much I like money – especially when it's in my pockets and not wasted on cigarettes.

I remember that, even though this is impossible, here I am nearly 100 days into my journey.

Not too bad for a quitter eh, Chuck?

Your #1 Fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit!: Part V: Keeping Up with the Joneses

2010-02-03T11:09:00.000-05:00

originally posted October 9, 2009

Author's Note: "Jones", a slang term meaning "strong desire" or "addiction", originally came from the heroin addicts who hung out in Manhattan's Great Jones Alley.The use of "Jones" in this way dates back to at least 1968. Prior to that it was slang for "heroin," which helps explain how it became an analog to words associated with intense cravings.

On July 31, 2009 (or thereabouts) I smoked my last cigarette. If I had to sum up the feeling of that last smoke in a single word, I'd pick "desperate". Even as I sucked the smoke deep into my chest delivering the satisfying corruption to my uttermost parts, it didn't much feel like any of the other smokes I'd ever had. It felt final and, therefore, desperate - desperate and not at all delicious.

For the next few weeks thereafter, I suffered. Terribly.

But you know that already.

What you may not know is that nicotine is an appetite suppressant. And that a nicotine jones is very similar to a food jones. What's more, smoking kills the sense of taste. A few weeks after I quit smoking, my sense of taste came back. And everything became overwhelmingly delicious.

In short, when I quit smoking, I ate the world.

Whenever I felt like smoking, I had a sandwich. Or a doughnut. Or 7 cans of Beefaroni and a loaf of bread (true story).

As of right now, I've put on thirty-four and one half pounds - that's this [34.5] many. None of my underwear fit properly and I've broken a belt. But I don't look any different. At least not to my own eyes. Which is a good thing.

I think.

And get this - not only am I getting chubbier (ha!) but... well there's hair springing up where there was little to no hair before - particularly on my brand new belly. It's a little weird but I'm ok with it.

Now, Chuck, I'd be lying if I said that eating a ton of food makes me forget about smoking (though, for the most part, it does). Every now and again (and usually out of nowhere) I'll want a smoke. Badly. As badly as I wanted one the first day after I quit smoking. Instead of resisting the feeling (which almost always leads to failure), I acknowledge it. "Yes", I tell my body. "We want a cigarette and nothing else will do. But we're not going to have one. No matter how much you piss and moan and beg. So give it up. Here, have some cheesecake instead.

[Mmm. Cheeeeesecaaaaake]

I let the feeling flow right through me and acknowledge it for what it is - an powerless illusion that only gets as much power as I give it. And these days, I'm saving all my love for meatloaf.

Besides, I'm allergic to smoke now. Can you believe it?

I, who at my peak smoked nearly two packs a day, I who once trolled an ashtray for stray butts in a moment of desperation, I, who could smoke a pack in an hour if I had a guitar, a bottle of scotch, and a listener - I, that same I, am now wicked allergic to smoke.

How allergic, you ask?

A man walked into the bar after smoking a cigarette and sat next to me. The next morning, I had a sore throat.

In fact, that's happened so many times, I've stopped writing in the evenings or during other times when the bar gets busy. I can't take it. Which is weird and depressing and cool in all sorts of ways that I'm not prepared to articulate just now.

So this is where I am just now - hungrier, chubbier, healthier, and hairier. I'd say that's a fair exchange, no?

I'm still on that path. And it's still impossible. But here I am. A few months in. Still a quitter.

Your #1 fan,

Drew

P.S. - Send Beefaroni. It's my favorite.

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part IV: Thirty Something

2010-02-02T11:05:00.000-05:00

originally posted September 12, 2009

Dear Chuck,

Nobody knows how to write a sad song like the folk who write country music. Of all the tears I've shed over things that don't matter and people who don't care, the most sincere of them all were inspired by twangy southern drawled men and women crooning about loss, love, and heartbreak.

Country singers approach whore houses and Sunday services with the same piercing innocent harmonies. Even when you're listening to the words, you can hardly tell the difference. Country, too, is the only genre that can tackle whiskey and Christianity with sincerity.

In other words, country music is the most emotionally honest music you or I have ever heard – and that's probably why most folk can't stand it.

I know this now because I've become an emotional basketcase.

I'm writing this as I'm tearing up to some song by some band about some woman who hurt some man. And, until today, I haven't figured out why my tears and chuckles and eyebrow raises and such have been so much more intense as of late.

No one ever told me that quitting smoking would trigger menopause.

It's been thirty something days since I've quit smoking. My allergies have eased up, my breath smells fresher, and I sleep like baby Jesus just about every night. But if you play “Here Comes Goodbye” by Rascal Flatts, I will cry like a baby. Every single time.

My doctor tells me that I'll even out eventually. He asked me what I'm doing to compensate in the meantime.

“Chocolate”, I said.

“Chocolate?”, he asked.

“Well and pizza. And candy. And like... chicken and stuff. Oh and mac and cheese. And oh! Oh! Wings! And eggs – lots of eggs and bacon. And sausage grinders and steak and cheddar burgers and...”

“Easy there, buddy”,he laughed, pausing for just a brief moment before asking, “You're not seriously eating all that crap are you?”

I didn't answer.

“How much weight have you put on buddy?”

I didn't answer.

“Tell the truth and shame the devil”, he said.

I laughed. “About... 24 pounds?”

It was his turn not to answer.

“I sweat a lot”, I said.

“I'll bet”, he said. Then silence.

“You think I'm an emotional overeater... don't you”, I said. It wasn't a question.

“Stay away from the chocolate”, he said. “And the country music. They'll get you in trouble.”

He hung up and I ate two ice cream cones and a microwave pizza. To spite him. I swear.

(candy bar)

It hasn't been easy, Chuck. I've gained some weight, lost my mind, and shivered like a junkie while trying to find my way back to something like being normal. And I'm still on that path. And it's still impossible. But here I am. Thirty something days in.

Your #1 fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part III: Apes in the Parlor

2010-02-01T10:59:00.002-05:00

originally posted August 18, 2009

“To quit smoking, all you have to do is forget everything you love. Everything. Forget your family. Forget your friends. Forget your lover. Forget your hopes, your dreams, your oh-so-perfect plans. None of that matters anymore.

When you’ve forgotten all the things you love (and I do mean everything) the only thing left will be you. Now, before you even think about quitting, you need to take a good long look at that remainder. Because that is the only thing that you're going to be able to count on to get you through.”

I said that (or something very similar) just a short while ago to someone who’d asked me how I’d managed to quit smoking. I didn’t really mean it. It just sounded cool and sort of profound, like it came from a place of deep insight and secret knowledge.

The truth is, I don’t know how anyone quits smoking. Sincerely. As I sit here now, 20 days removed from the slim lip-demons, I couldn’t tell you just how I got here.

Yet, here I sit here at exactly 6:26 AM on the evening of my 20th day smoke free.

I would love nothing more than to have learned something that I can share with everyone. In reality, though, I don’t really believe that I have. I already knew how terrible smoking was - most smokers do. And, having attempted to quit several times (well over 20 by the most conservative of estimates), I knew how hard it would be - most smokers so. So, insomuch as we (smokers) have all been there, I’ve got nothing new to say.

The withdrawal symptoms are unbearable but they aren’t the worst thing by any stretch. Free time, above all, is my enemy. I’m learning to fill in those spaces once occupied by cigarettes with short walks, poker, good books, great food, phone calls, and exercise. By no means do these things make me forget that I want to smoke. They do, however, remind me, in part, of the little things I enjoy - the things that I’ll enjoy a bit longer by not smoking.

I’ve even thought about going back to smoking with my eyes wide open, knowing that I would likely die from it, knowing that it would sap cash from my wallet, knowing that I’d be a stinking, bleary-eyed, yellow-tooth, addict for the rest of my days. I enjoyed smoking. And I hadn’t really experienced any of the scary awful-bad consequences of smoking; cancer and emphysema being among the worst of them. So far as I was concerned, I’d done it for so long, it was much easier to continue on a known path than to crucify the unhealthy version of me for the sake of far away and future heath benefits.

What kept me from making a u-turn was something just as foolish and unrealistic - the notion of an ideal me. The idea that there was a me as yet unrealized, a me that stopped settling and complaining and compromising for things like a couple ounces of dried leaves.

Even more to the point (and, perhaps, closer to the truth), I had to ask myself why I kept smoking as long as I did. Sure, I enjoyed it. But when it came right down to it, I didn’t smoke because I wanted to. I smoked because I had to. I smoked because me addiction demanded to be fed. I smoked because of the gun my addiction held to my temple. All day. Everyday.

Withdrawl.

Now that I’ve proven to myself that I’m stronger than withdrawal, going back to smoking is worse than a bad idea, worse than even giving up. It’s sacrilege.

I didn’t quit smoking to prove a point or to see if I could. In the simplest terms, I quit smoking because it was unhealthy. In fact, it’s markedly unhealthy. And I wanted to be healthy. So I quit.

I’m nearly three weeks out and, still, everything in my body tells me that discipline alone is not enough, that will power will never be enough. Quitting is, in all ways, impossible.

The demons have become more subtle. They prophesy my inevitable doom and demise and offer me the keys to my own destruction. “At least you’ll have turned the key yourself”, they say.

And I’ll slip, sure. I’ll fall, certainly. But it remains my choice whether or not to stay the course. And, with all the impossible whatnots concerning my ability to quit, I retain the power to choose.

Something about order invites chaos. Organization inadvertently breeds trouble. And it comes eagerly, like a greedy wildfire, licking all your well laid plans to ashes. But even though my latent addiction looses unruly apes in the prim and proper parlor of my preparations, I remain vigilant.

Because I’m worth it. And that’s all the reason I need.

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part II: Lucky 13

2010-01-31T10:56:00.001-05:00

originally posted August 11, 2009

Learn and accept that smoking gives you NOTHING but death. Comfort from it is an illusion, as is stress relief, hunger mitigation, anger management, and all the other things attributed to the smokes. Learn to hate them, not "suffer" by giving them up and you'll learn not to crave them ever again. Know your enemy for what it is, and have no fear. Look your enemy in the eye and know him for death. He offers nothing in return.

-- Gervahlt, Quit.Net

Dear Mr. Norris,

My addiction lives without.

It's in my car and in my favorite seat on the couch. It's at the restaurant and outside the movie theater. It hides right behind food, sex, and television shows. It's walks with me to the grocery store and sits with me at the bar, daring me to try and have a beer without it. It sits in on every phone conversation and calls my name over and over. Drew. Drew. Drew. Drew. Smoke. Smoke. Smoke. Smoke.

My addiction lives within.

It holds my shaking hands and stares into my eyes and tells me what I want to hear. It understands. It's tell me that if I just have one cigarette, I'll see how bad they are. I'll remember. And I won't feel the need to smoke any more.

There is no break. My mind does not wander. I am not saved by eating food or chewing gum, or punishing myself with rubber bands. I am a mentally dedicated junkie. My addiction does not give a rat's ass about books or guitar or long walks or working out. It is there, patiently sitting cross-legged in the cup in my ear, telling me to smoke. Urging me to smoke. Begging me to smoke. Commanding me to smoke. Constantly.

I understand that this struggle will eventually be over. But the moment of victory (and consequently, the moment of relief) is seemingly so far away, it has become improbable with distance. And, in the mean time, giving in is all I ever think about. I know that if I smoke one, just one, I'll be back on the path to slow and silent death. But I also know that, if I smoke one (just one) all the insanity will end. I'll have my mind back. I'll have my body back. I'll become human again.

I want a cigarette. Or should I say, "I WANT A M@*%#*F!#&G CIGARETTE!"

And all I can do is say no.

Everything in my body tells me that discipline alone is not enough, that will power will never be enough. Quitting is, in all ways, impossible.

Yet, I sit here at exactly 6:00 AM on the morning of what will be my 12th day smoke free. And, if I can last until 6:00 AM tomorrow, I will have made it to lucky number 13.

That's my new morning ritual - counting the days gone by, pebbles in the bucket that remind me how far I've come, and how far I have yet to go. I'm learning to cherish the little victories, to examine and appreciate them as great successes unto themselves. I'm learning to love the little step. And every time a pebble clanks in the bottom of the bucket, I feel a little stronger. And I take another step.

My addiction is the devil. But if it wants my soul, it's going to have to wait until I'm dead. I'd rather be a healthy former smoker with an occasional desire to smoke, than a sickly smoker with a permanent desire to quit.

This is only the beginning. I am a quitter. It's what I do.

Your #1 fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit!

2010-01-30T10:55:00.001-05:00

*originally posted August 10, 2009*

His name is Chuck Norris. He is my phantom life coach, my absentee confidant, the rock upon which I dash the waves of my withdrawal. He delivers whistlingly quick roundhouse kicks to my whining and excuses.

And, with his help, maybe, just maybe, I'll learn to be a quitter.

“Nicotine is highly addictive, to a degree similar or in some respects exceeding addiction to 'hard' drugs such as heroin and cocaine"

-- "Nicotine Addiction In Britain"
Report by Royal College Of Physicians – London

Dear Mr. Norris,

Smoking sucks.

I’ve tried and failed to quit at least fifteen [15] times in the ten [10] years I’ve been smoking. For the record, this is the last time I'm going to quit. This time, I'm not going back to the glowing one-eyed pimp.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I enjoyed the hell out of smoking. It makes me look cool and guarantees I’ll die young. Both of which are very tough. It’s just that the hacking and the wheezing and the stinking and the spending have gotten to be a bit too much. There’s better ways of spending my time and money.

The thing that worries me most is definitely the roughly 5 day hell period of withdrawal. I'm terrified of the withdrawal symptoms [fatigue, lack of concentration, irritability, depression, anxiety, insomnia, an increased tendency to dream (when one can actually get to sleep), headaches, sleep disturbances, indigestion, nausea, diarrhea, sore throats, and increased appetite. All of which can kick in within a few hours after the last cigarette. That's right. All of them at the same time!] but hell, it's not like it'll get any easier if I put it off. And I've got to do something.

Because I don’t want to end up like THIS guy:

I was working at a gas station a few years ago and a man came up to the counter. He had the breath of a corpse and the skin of a sun-dried komodo dragon. One of the two of his yellowing eyes was split open a bit at the bottom and (:gag:) it was oozing thick yellowish… schtuff.

Oh but it gets better. He had SEVERAL holes in his neck and to talk to me he had to use one of those doohickeys that makes folk sound like Robot Jones. On top of all of this, he only had enough breath to utter one word at a time. He used what could have very well been the last of his breaths to say these three words…

"Skoal…"

"…Wintergreen…"

"…Longcut…"

Now THAT’S an addiction.

(note: Skoal is smokeless or ‘chewing’ tobacco – Wintergreen is a flavor they offer and longcut is one of two varieties of Skoal [the other being ‘fine cut’])

I’ve done some pretty terrible things in my lifetime but damn it if this wasn’t one of the absolute worst. I sold it to him. Every part of me knew that it was wrong to do so. I should have said “no” and let myself be fired or just quit on the spot or something - anything demonstrating a little moral backbone. But no, I sold it to him and got regret and nightmares in return.

After that, I started to notice more and more how many people come in for their fix of nicotine – people with sickly eyes yellowing fingernails and brown teeth, people breathing heavier than any pedophile or phone sex operator could ever dream, people carrying the sick stink of tobacco - the walking dead.

A third of the people I’ve sold that crap will die from it.

These are people who otherwise lead normal lives. These are people who started smoking to piss off their parents or because their brother did or to fit in with the cool kids or any other number of reasons. These are people, most of them, who didn’t want to be at a gas station standing in front of me and asking for death, people tired of being slaves to a few ounces of dried leaves.

These people don’t want to smoke.

I tried and failed shortly after meeting that man but I haven’t yet given up on quitting smoking. I’ll make it. Picking up smoking was a huge mistake that millions of people [including myself] have made. We had little to no idea what we were getting into and, what with social norms being what they are, smoking was and is mostly ok, even cool in the proper context. Honestly.

Imagine James Dean without a smoke

See what I mean?

But if all I had to do to quit smoking (thereby regaining my health) was to give up on being cool, I would have quit long ago. I stand zero chance of being accused of coolness on any level - cigarette or no.

I can already hear some of you saying "It's the nicotine, right? It's that damn drug!". But you're wrong.

Nicotine isn't the biggest problem. Habit and ritual are the biggest problem. To put it another way, my arch enemy is free time.

I filled in a great many odd hours and stray minutes smoking. Hell, there is NOTHING better than a drag from a cigarette to instigate a dramatic pause in conversation. I smoked after most meals, smoked as I waited for the bus to work and right after I got off the bus. I smoked during breaks at work. I smoked in between smokes because someone showed up and didn't want to smoke alone.

Smoking has bridged the gap between just about all the mundane and major events and happenings in my life for quite some time. Wake up [smoke] shower [smoke] get dressed [smoke] breakfast [smoke] coat [smoke] ride to work [smoke] blink [smoke] inhale [smoke] exhale... you get the picture. Smoking had become a reflex.

Then I took it away. And everything went to hell.

I can’t even being to describe the sensory Armageddon that overtook me. It began with the simple understanding that I wouldn’t be lighting up like I’d done thousands of times before. Nope. I’d be having a beer or watching TV or gnawing on a pork chop and wouldn’t have a smoke tucked between the first and second fingers of my right hand.

I found myself stuttering and hesitating at the places where a smoke would usually happen. My thoughts ran all over the place with almost 0 reason or purpose. I felt alternately fully wired and dead tired. Everything reminded me of smoking. I stood up and sat down constantly and paced in between. Emotions were all but meaningless. By the time I had a name for what I was feeling, it had changed. And my mind wasn’t in no condition to keep up. I went to bed so tense that I had to remind myself to breath in and out every few minutes.

Hell would have been a vacation from that night. And day two and three made day one seem like a trip to Disney.

Sure, I’m praying for death. Sure, I’m itching and twitching and climbing the walls BEGGING baby Jesus for the taste of the super-delicious smoke. Sure, I'd be more than willing to drink the blood of one million virgin nuns if it meant that I could get just one tiny taste of the precious sweet cigarette.

And I would, Chuck. I’d go back to smoking like a hooker to a pimp if it weren’t for one tiny truth. One fact that has made all the difference. The one thing I repeat to myself when the going gets tough.

I. Am. A. Quitter. And it's time I started acting like one.

Pray for me, Mr. Norris.

Your #1 fan,

Drew

The Jerk

2010-01-13T10:36:00.002-05:00

WARNING: The following includes frank and explicit descriptions of sex and sexuality as it relates to self-gratification. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

I think it's about time we had an honest discussion about masturbation. Just you and me. Right over here. It's ok. No one will hear us.

Oh c'mon, don't be shy. We NEED to have this conversation. Mostly because we never have. And according to the numbers, most of us are a part of this secret fraternity.

Most guys [over 90%] handle their handle on a regular basis and 2/3 of the women folk "do themselves a favor" just as frequently. And it isn't just for singles. Folk masturbate regardless of whether they have sexual partners or not.

It happens all over the world cutting across boundaries of sex, race, sexuality, age, and social class. It's as common as our need for love. Yet, despite our common enthusiasm, we've managed to remain fairly uptight on the subject. Rarely if ever do we engage in honest conversations about sex and sexuality and, even when we do, the brakes are usually put on when it comes to masturbation.

Even more than just being taboo, "going solo" has even been deemed evil by some groups. What's more, the subject matter has been buried under a mountain of myths and outright lies. Masturbation (self-gratification, if you please) - our favorite pass time, has been under attack for centuries.

In the 18th and 19th centuries, masturbation was blamed for 60% of what ailed us including; insanity, vision and hearing problems, epilepsy, and mental retardation. Most recently, in the secular arena, Surgeon General Joycelyn Elders got the boot after her December 1994 statement that “masturbation is part of human sexuality and a part of something that perhaps should be taught”.

Thank God some sane folk weren't willing to take that nonsense laying down. The Kinsey report [Jan 1948] not only debunked this madness but discovered that masturbation was actually beneficial! And in 1966, Masters and Johnson (tee hee!) proved that just about everyone does it. Joycelyn Elders was right on the money. Masturbation is a part of who we all are. Hurrah for Science!

What's more, masturbation can prevent cancer! - for men, at least (sorry ladies). According to a recent study, scientists found that, while sexual intercourse did not affect prostate cancer risk, frequent masturbation did -- specifically men in their 50s who masturbated frequently had decreased risk of prostate cancer.

More than that, masturbation also helps in the development of a healthy, responsible sex life - without hurting anyone. Masturbation, more than any other sexual act, allows us to be completely honest and open about what turns us on. We don't worry about performance because we know the score when it comes to our own bodies. That special alone time helps us become familiar with what turns us on which, in turn, makes it easier to articulate what we like [and don't like] to our partner.

So what have we learned so far? Masturbation, far from being evil, is actually pretty good for us in more ways than one. It's a natural, safe, and healthy expression of our sexuality and, more than that, it is a integral part of our collective biological heritage.

However, we're still in tacit agreement that talking about it is naughty, at best. Even the most progressive of us would suggest "Go on and do it but for God's sake don't talk about it!"

Even though we've been able to overcome our shy childish giggles and have thoughtful reasoned discussion about sexual intercourse, masturbation, though common place, has never really been a topic we've been comfortable with.

Which is exactly why we're sitting down and talking, you and I. To break the ice. Because someone needs to.

Our sexual health and heritage are at stake here. It's high time we acknowledge the full breadth and scope of our sexual identities and embraced this fundamental biological endowment with dignity. Who cares if your dead relatives are watching or if kittens are dropping off left and right? You'll be glad you spent all that time alone once you reach sexual dynamo status.

So go ahead. Share a bit of yourself with yourself. Who knows? The sex life you save may be your own.

Dear Me

2010-01-11T10:35:00.003-05:00

Dear Drew,

You know, the last thing I expected to feel when writing a letter to myself was 'awkward'. But I do. I feel awkward. And I think that's an important acknowledgment. No doubt, you likely feel the same way, being in receipt of a letter from an older and presumably wiser (and handsomer) you. So what say we give ourselves permission to rattle through this thing in whatever way we’re able.

Agreed?

I'm supposing I should toss some advice your way but, knowing you, I'd imagine you're much more interested in what it's like to be me. Or, rather, what it will be like to be you at 29. Which I guess amount to the same thing. So I'll start off by answering those simpler questions.

Just about everyone in your life is new including, as it turns out, a large part of your family. You won't have kids but you'll be an uncle several times over - 11 to be exact - and you'll own a Mustang. A red Mustang. A really fast and pretty red Mustang.

Cool, huh?

You get taller and gain about 80 pounds. You're still a little skinny but nowhere near as small as you are now. Your voice gets deeper - way deeper - and you'll finally, FINALLY, be able to grow a decent goatee. As irony would have it, you'll also be a victim of male pattern baldness. It doesn't suck nearly as much as it may sound like it does but I suggest growing an afro or two now while you still can.

Sorry about that.

On the plus side, despite how things look just now, you won't be a virgin all your life.

You're welcome.

College changes everything. You meet tons of new people and learn what it means to be a good person (albeit you end up having to learn the hard way but the lesson sticks). You'll meet most of your best friends here.

It bears repeating that just about everyone in your life is new. Which means you lose some fairly important people on the way to being 29. I know that's a little tough to process but it's not nearly as traumatic as it sounds. You also gain some fairly important people. And a Mustang. A red Mustang. Which, though previously mentioned, is nonetheless, still pretty cool.

I know how you feel about love and relationships and, frankly, I can't blame you. Nonetheless, you're going to fall in love. Big time. That sappy, over-the-moon, do-anything-for-you, die-without-you sort of love is very real despite your cynicism - very real and unspeakably wonderful. This is another lesson you'll have to learn the hard way. You're going to have your heart very badly broken. I'd ask you to consider that fair warning but I know you're going to follow your heart and ignore all the warning signs regardless of what I say.

Good.

Despite it all, good. Never give up on that sort of behavior.

You're a much better man than you figure you are. When in doubt, go with your gut. You'll be right most of the time.

Don't waste another minute being upset about being gay. It's not a demon or a curse or a disorder or anything of the sort. Don't dwell on what people may or may not think or say about who you are and just get on being who you are. The alternative is extremely painful and untenable at best.

Save your baby pictures by any means necessary. They come in handy.

Don't smoke. Not a moment of it is worth it.

Take it easy on the sugar.

Ok so about that smoking thing - a little pot is ok. You'll grow out of it fairly quickly but it's worth exploring. Anything more than pot will freak you out, you'll end up in the hospital, and you'll never hear the end of it. Ever.

Dance, damn you.

You’re easily a better writer than you are a trombonist. Keep at it. Share your work. And, whatever you do, don’t keep your journals in the basement!

(while I’m at it, don’t let mom throw away that word processor. You know why.)

Stick with church for as long as you possibly can. They’ll do a much better job of showing you exactly why such things aren’t for you than I ever can.

Never give anyone permission to make you feel bad about who you are.

And finally;

“This above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.” -- William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Take your time getting here. Ignore the brakes. Respect the rules. Don’t fear the reaper.

I would tell you that I love you but you’d never believe me.

xoxo

Drew

P.S. – Dance with Nuance before you leave high school. You won’t regret it.

Professional Correspondence

2010-01-06T14:16:00.002-05:00

Acme Technical Enterprises, Inc
c/o Douglas Fiscal - CEO
100-B Dry Gulch Alley
Lonesome Coyote AZ 85789
(602) 867-5309

January 5, 2010

Dear Douglas Fiscal -

It was with great enthusiasm and muted professional aplomb that I accepted your offer for the position of senior engineer at Acme Technical Enterprises, Inc. I trust that my knowledge, skills and experience will soon be among your most valuable assets.

Janice in HR and several of my new colleges went out of their way to make me feel most welcome with a bit of a party at the end of my first day - the apple pie, in particular, was a nice touch. For that, I am both touched and eternally grateful.

Now that I'm here, however, there are a few items that I'd like to bring to your attention - items I feel will ensure a more comfortable work environment and further secure a mutually beneficial relationship.

1. I'm not good with names.

In fact, I'm TERRIBLE with names. More than likely, it's going to take me a while before I get your name right and, even then, I’m almost guaranteed to call you by the wrong name occasionally. And it's not because I'm lazy or anything like that. It's just that I haven't known you long enough to care.

2. I'll see your dress code and raise you a "batman t-shirt". It's either that or a wife beater and biker shorts. Totally your call, dude but, in the end, I'm sure you'll see it my way.

3. No Red Bull, no Skittles, no service.

I'm not sure how we're going to work this out but I simply can't be expected to perform without my daily dose of Taurine and High Fructose Corn Syrup. I know Bev (or Barb... whatever) in accounting has access to office petty cash - a fact evidenced by the gobs of chicken and chocolate congealing around her pie-hole. If you're going to subsidize her quest to be a diabetic by age 29, it's only fair that I get a couple bucks for my balanced breakfast.

4. If I can't understand your email, it doesn't exist.

Your digital communiqués should not require a translator. I'm only going to try so hard to figure out what you were saying before I use The Power of Greyskull (read: the delete button) to banish your grammatical abortion into the ether.

5. Just because I'm here, doesn't mean I'm "In".

I'm a sensitive soul - a soul that must ease his way into the start of his day with copious amounts of Slayer and internet surfing. Without that early morning pretextual salve, I'll almost certainly short circuit and rampage like some modern day blood-thirsty Johnny Five. If it helps, you can think of me like a high performance vehicle. Or a trophy wife. Call on me to show me off. Other than that, just give me money and pretend I don't exist.

6. I will automatically translate the following words to mean "please punch me in the face"; interface, synergy, paradigm, deliverables, infrastructure, proactive, inappropriate, harassment, fired.

A bonus kick to the genitals will be included should the aforementioned words be misspelled in an email.

7. Don't harsh my buzz.

And by that I mean don’t give me any static when I stumble back in from lunch. I already know that the office is a “substance-free” environment. And, while I can appreciate the company’s stance on this matter, I don’t need you throwing policy in my face every time I bring a bottle of vodka to my desk. Seriously, dude, I’ve got enough on my plate without you flamenco-stomping my mojo with your pricey wing-tips.

8. I’m sort of a satan worshiper.

Procul midnight, atrum senior diabolus beatus mihi per munia of cruor quod pornography.

So like… I dunno… deal.

Once again, Mr. Fiscal, I am greatly enthused and excited to be a part of the Acme Tech Family. To be sure, there are great many other of my demands that I’ll forward to your attention as I become aware of them.

Sincerest Regards,

Drew Brathwaite, Senior Custodial Engineer

A Very Good Year

2009-12-31T12:17:00.002-05:00

If your year was terrible, I've got nothing for you save a partially sincere "I'm sorry". My year was awesome - exceptionally so - and I have a hard time listening your snivelings and whimperings.

Granted, some folk lost loved ones or suffered terrible losses and, for them, I have nothing but sympathy. For the rest of you, all I have is a shrug of my shoulders and a "better luck next time".

I was unemployed for most of this year (10 months), discovered some things about myself that I didn't like, and saw my immediate family scattered to the four winds.

My favorite bartender was fired, my bar was taken over by clay-chested cougars (and the men who love them), and I had a grand total of one [1] Sam Adam's Octoberfest all year.

I missed more UConn football home games than I ever have in a single season, had my iPod stolen (and then broken), broke my laptop within a few weeks of purchasing it,

I lost even MORE hair, developed a trick knee, and had the worst IBS year ever. I got at least 4 colds, had surgery for the first time, gained over 40 pounds, and my vision got worse. I lost a tooth, lost a toe nail, and allergies which I believed I'd outgrown came back with a vengeance.

And that ain't the half of it.

On the other hand, I finished my first book and made decent headway on my second. I wrote 40 or so new essays and found my voice as a writer. I found out that people actually enjoy my work and that maybe I'm not as mediocre as I thought.

In 2009, I was the best friend I know how to be.

I accepted the fact that my name is Drew, not "Perfect", and that it's ok to mess up every now and again. I learned that it's OK to dance, no matter what "they" say. And I learned that "they" are often wrong.

…and jealous.

I learned to swear sparingly and compliment frequently. I learned to be sincere without being discourteous. And I learned to believe people when they show me who they really are.

This year, I learned what love, hope, happiness, and family really mean.

All in all, I'm a better man for having gone through 2009. This year wasn't a trial. It was a blessing in every sense of the word - a miracle, even.

May your friends be many and your worries be few. May you get all that you deserve and more besides. And may the new year find you rested, blessed, seated among lovers, well fed, warm, and fitted with comfortable shoes.

Be well.

-Drew

Letters from Home - Part I: Soft Core Therapy

2009-12-11T18:42:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-05T05:54:00.001-05:00

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

2009-10-25T22:17:00.003-04:00

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

2009-10-25T22:05:00.000-04:00

"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?

2009-09-01T13:48:00.000-04:00

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

2009-08-16T16:46:00.005-04:00

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

2009-08-07T13:57:00.000-04:00

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

2009-08-06T08:59:00.001-04:00

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

2009-08-01T08:13:00.001-04:00

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

2009-07-31T15:34:00.003-04:00

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

A Tooth Telling

2009-07-23T14:59:00.004-04:00

In the past few days, a tooth which was very dear to me (it should be noted, I hold such affections for all my teeth) shattered during a most excellent meal of wings and beer. I cannot say precisely how this came to be given the relative density of my meal in comparison with my heretofore night indestructible wisdom tooth. Nonetheless, suffice it to say, it grieved me immensely as I had become quite fond of the aforementioned tooth. Moreover, the pain that followed was of such an exquisite variety as to force me to abandon my vittles - vittles for which, in the brief time I enjoyed them, I had also become quite fond of. The very tooth that I had loved (indeed, as I have said, I loved them all) had turned against me in a moment, leaving me to salves and surgeries without so much as a 'fare thee well'.

In the aftermath, my once beloved tooth, now anathema to the whole of my being, required that certain accommodations be made - accommodations which were, to say the least, most unpleasant. The offending tooth demanded that I hold my mouth just so, never smiling, never laughing, not even so much as a grin or a polite cocktail party chortling. Eating became a tortuous taxing endeavor and, what's more, I lacked the resolve to return to those most delectable comestibles which had so egregiously offended me - though only the once, to be sure. Let it be known, here and now, that I hold in my heart none but the highest regards for the culinary wizardry that occasioned such toothsome loveliness to pass my parted lips. Yet, the fear of a second offense is such that I find myself able only to look upon them with phantom fondness, as would a lover lost.

Herein with my electric pen, I set to purge the grief - grief delivered unto me with unyielding determination (even now, dear readers), grief that has reduced me to soups and sniveling, a pain that reaches beyond the ibuprofen, the Ambesol, the Vicoden, and all other manner of salves and concoctions that would abate it’s lustful stabbings.

The means by which I endeavor to release myself from the hold of my traitorous tooth are, as yet, unclear to me. However, as the Ambesol begins to fail and the Vicoden takes hold with subtle fingers, bidding to it’s phantom dreamland I am quite sure I shall come upon an answer.

That is to say, if I keep writing, perhaps the tooth shall make me free.

For Etcher: The Wizard

2009-07-23T00:11:00.003-04:00

Part VIII in a story entitled "For Etcher" feat. Ben and Topher. It's a bit lengthier than the others but, I promise, it'll be worth it in the end - comments welcome and encouraged.

To catch up on the entire story, visit http://foretcher.blogspot.com/

Be well,

-D

Angela extended her arm and wagged a finger at the road sign:

Food, Gas, Lodging, 1 ½ miles.

“An exit’s coming up on the right, hon. Get over.”

Topher gracelessly shifted lanes and slowed down a bit. They’d been driving for 41 hours, stopping only for gas and bathrooms breaks; simultaneously when they could help it. Angela was no good at long distance driving and, as her reflexes become less reliable, he drove longer and longer shifts - 6 hours, 8 hours, 10 hours. Now the both of them were running on empty and, like it or not, he knew they’d have to stop for the night.

He hadn’t intended to bring her along. Initially he had only given in to shut her up - arguing with her would only waste precious time. Now that she was here, however, he’d come to appreciate her company. The brief snatches of sleep he was able to grab without losing valuable hours were all thanks to her. What’s more, her company was a welcome distraction. Angela knew him well and kept his mind occupied with anything and everything that didn’t remind him of the purpose of their journey.

His journey.

She wasn’t a part of the plan. For the first few hours, he was worried about what the boys would say when he arrived with his wife in tow. But, in the end, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to make good time without a copilot. And driving had been the only option. Topher Beauregard Elliot, the master of self-discipline, had yet to overcome his fear of flying - a detail this lengthy trip served as a reminder that he had something to fix once he returned home.

They returned home.

He pulled off the exit and came to a gentle stop at the light at the end of the ramp. Neither of them had spoken since she’d suggested they pull off for a rest.

“You were saying, hon?”

She brushed the hair from her eyes and raised her eyebrows. “hmm?”

He turned and saw her, the late blushing light of the sun tinting her skin a golden rosey hue, her eyes the tender brown of warmed earth, and fell in love with her all over again. The feeling was all too familiar. It came over him in a gentle wave of subtle warmth. He cleared his throat, smiling before he continued.

“Debra. Angelo. Christmas party. Seven shots of -”

“Oh yeah, yeah. I remember. Ok. I mean, like I said, he’s not much of a drinker but he has no spine. Deb goaded him into it until he finally gave in. I guess she thought that would improve her chances or something.”

She shrugged and he glowed a little. “My Angela”, he thought. “How lucky am I?”

“I swear”, she continued, “she thinks she’s being flirty but she just seems desperate. That woman can be a real -”

Bully. 12 o’clock. Keep you’re cool, Toffee. Cool as a fan. Maybe he’ll pass you by today. Maybe.

But he knew it wasn’t true. Cleveland “The Cleaver” Geer, master of the playground, scourge of Mrs. Massey’s fourth grade class, and king of the dickheads, had noticed him. Cleaver made a beeline for Topher with a laugh that sounded more like a braying donkey.

He and Ben had been playing make-believe. They were wizards locked in a battle that would decide the date of all mankind. And then, The Cleaver arrived.

“Hey there, booger. What’d’ya got on my moon pie?”

Topher backed against the jungle gym and shrunk down to nothing. “Disappear”, he thought to himself. “I just want to disappear”.

“I said what’ve you got, shit-cock.”

The kids within earshot began to laugh. Topher stood silently, staring at his shoes.

“Whassa matta, baby. Jaw all worn out from sucking cock?”

In no time at all, a crowd began to gather. The Cleaver stooped over close enough for Topher to smell the stink of tobacco on his

breath. His teeth, now great yellowing things, sat like tombstones behind his parted lips. “Give it”, he said.

Within the first few days of school, The Cleaver had sniffed out Topher as one of the weaker students, an easy target. Topher had silently endured months of black eyes, bloody noses, wedgies, and stolen lunch money. But today, it would the end. Today, The Booger had had enough.

Topher balled his tiny fists at his waist, lifted his chin, and looked The Cleaver in the eyes. “Come and get it, you fucker.”

The first blow caught Topher on his right ear. Then blackness.

When Topher came to, he was on his back, dizzy and bloodied. Ben was knelt over him. He had removed his shirt and was using it to wipe away the blood and the dirt from Topher’s swollen face.

“Ben. Your shirt. Your mom is gonna kill you.” Topher’s voice sounded like it was coming from far off.

“Don’t you worry about that now”, Ben said firmly. “Are you alright?”

Before Topher could answer, a swarm of teachers arrived.

Topher, The Cleaver, and Ben were all suspended for three days.

The Cleaver, however, never returned.

It wasn’t until he saw The Cleaver on milk cartons some months later that it even occurred to Topher to speak about The Cleaver. He held the milk carton up for Ben to examine.

“Geeze… What’d’ya think happened to him?”

Ben smiled an eerie smile. “I banished him”.

"Topher?"

She was annoyed. That much he could tell."

"Honey go. The light's green."

He pressed on the gas with a bit more enthusiasm than he intended and they rocketed off toward the hotel.

"I banished him", he thought, and shivered.

For Etcher: Parts I - VII

2009-07-18T08:35:00.006-04:00

Note: For those who are a bit behind on the piece I've been posting in increments on Facebook, here are parts I through VII. I came across this story I began a number of years ago and, after a few touch-ups, decided I may as well share it. I'll be posting it in installments over the next few weeks. Drop a comment after you've had a good look at it - I'd love to know what you think.

Be well,

- D

For Etcher: Part I - Peter

Pete Cook sat in his basement with the phone to his ear. His eyes, heavy and wet in their sockets, were fixed on nothing in particular. His left hand rested on the top of his head, fingers stuffed in a mass of dark brown hair. Topher Elliot had been on the other end when he had finally picked up the phone. And the news he had was anything but pleasant.

Before the call, he had been reading something – something really good actually. It was a letter from Liz…. an “I want you back – I need you back”, letter. He’d been secretly hoping to hear from her – anything really – for 4 months now. They had damn near been engaged when she had ripped out his heart and wiped her ass with it. And, despite all his attempts to forget her, the memory of their love lingered in the back of his mind. As he read, he realized that he did miss her. Damn it, he missed everything about her.

The phone’s persistent ringing went unnoticed for some time before he was startled from his fantasy and lunged to answer the phone. Topher’s voice had come through on the other end and he’d jumped out of his seat. “Topher?! Jesus, how the hell are ya?”, he said, a smile pulling determinately at the corners of his mouth. Six years of silence dropped away and there had been laughing and jabbing and how-the-fuck-are-ya’s.

But, despite all this, Pete’s guts started going cold. And there was never any mistaking that feeling. Something was wrong. Something (Ben) had happened. Before he could even find a way to ask, Topher had started talking. Topher (the Terminator) talked and Pete slowly sat down. He suddenly wanted nothing to do with the phone or Topher. His tongue was a heavy wet thing that wouldn’t cooperate. Distantly, he was aware that he was going to (cry) need to sit down. Topher talked more and Pete listened more. After an eternity, he heard himself say goodbye and he hung up the phone, his mind flayed, his eyes locked in a flat stare. For a while, nothing seemed to happen – no thoughts, no words, no feeling, no time. And then, before he was even aware he had done it, he was on his feet… and packing.

Part II - Topher

Topher stood silently in the kitchen. His fingers were splayed on the countertop and he considered them for a while, his head cocked to one side. There had been a moment, when he was listening to the voice on the other end of the phone, that he thought he’d break down. With some effort, though, he’d made it through the entire conversation without incident. Now, he thought over what he had just heard. Ben was dead. He knew that much. Ben, impossibly young Ben, was gone.

He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. Part of him figured that he’d imagined the whole phone call. Another part of him kept him waiting in the kitchen, leaning over the kitchen counter, his arms like hollow tubes. That part of him expected the phone to ring again, an apologetic voice on the other line explaining it all away.

“I’m so sorry – see I had the wrong number…” “Good news! He’s back! Ben is back and he wants you to come down. He can have visitors in a few days and…”

He kept expecting to wake up. The idea of it all, the waking up, sounded stupid to him – weak.Ben was dead - dead as a doornail. He knew that. Ben, Benny S, Doctor BS, Ben… he was dead.

He stood there being careful to breathe, careful to keep control, and oh so careful not to think too much. His face was heavy with concentration, blinking only occasionally with slow deliberate sweeps of his eye-lids. He barely heard his wife come in the kitchen else he would have straightened up – straightened up and, by God, gotten himself together. But he was only vaguely aware of someone coming into the kitchen. She drifted in, silent as a summer mist, and wrapped her slender arms around his waist. The light scent of her settled in his nostrils as she pressed in close to him and set a feather weighted kiss on the back of his neck. “Hey Toffee-lover”.

That was all it took.

Somewhere inside him the dam broke and his arms, his legs, became useless. He turned into her as he felt himself collapsing and held onto her. He gave himself over to cold clotted sorrow and the tears spilled onto his cheeks.

“Ben!! Oh God – Ben’s gone… Ben!!!”

He wasn’t able to get up for sometime.

Part III - Robbie

Robbie Hanlon was tired. Hell he was fucking exhausted. Shlumping into his tiny apartment, he tossed his keys on a kitchen counter that had seen nothing more than frozen dinners, cheap wine, and the occasional backseat of some scandalous barfly. He surveyed his place with weary eyes. Damn we he ever dog-tired. He made his way over to the answering machine near his sagging recliner and punched play with a knotted knuckle.

“You have… FOUR new MESSAGES – beep!”

Trudging over to the fridge, he was not at all (not in the least baby) surprised to hear his mom’s voice coming through in metallic relief on the machine. He had long learned to ignore her seemingly sympathetic, always reprimanding, guilt trip of a voice. It made life much easier. He grabbed a beer and plodded back to the beat up chair while she droned on about his urgent need for

“… a change of scenery, sweetheart. It did a world of good for your sister. I mean, by god, it’s time you did something else with your life, hon. Do you know what it’s like for me? When people ask me what my son is up to? God forgive me but I lie… I have to lie, sweetie. What mother could ever be proud of a son that does what you do? It’s honest work, I know that, but you? Honey you weren’t meant for this. You did so well in high school honey – so well – and… well all I’m saying is that you should be farther along than you are now. Farther along... I mean in a completely different place, Robbie. Goodness knows your father and I did all we could to make sure…”

He did his best to ignore her and she talked until the machine mercifully cut her off. He collapsed into the chair and drained half of the beer. One hand went automatically to the remote control and the TV popped on and faded in. Mark’s voice came on the answering machine next and Robbie nearly choked on his beer. “Mark! Sonofabitch!” he said smiling. He leaned back and listened intently, suddenly caught in a tidal wave of memories. Then he heard the words. “Ben… he wants all of us to… Christ…”

Mark wept inside the answering machine and Robbie closed his eyes. “Shit”, he bleated, and chocked back inevitable tears. He would deal with it in the morning. Sure thing, in the morning. Right now, he just didn’t have time for this. Man was he ever tired of this shit.

Part IV - Mark

Saturdays were the best days and this one proved no different. Anna had something to show her daddy. Something wonderful!

She had been practicing how to cart-wheel forever and she finally did one – a good one this time. Her brother never got too excited when she learned a new trick – he was too little - but daddy always did and this trick was even better than anything she had ever tried. This one was really REALLY good.

Gathering herself up from a previous fall, she bang-ran-tumbled into the house. She knew running wasn’t allowed “…at all EVER in the house, little girl!” but this was important! She might forget and then she’d have to learn it all over again. That would take forever and she certainly didn’t have that kind of time on her hands. That established, she rocketed through the house leaving tacky hand prints in her wake.

“Daaaaddy! – Daddy come look! I have to show you something… DADDY!!”

She tore through the house breathing in great gulps of air, her face bright with panicked blush. Heading straight for the living room (Daddy almost always was in the living room) she let out another volley of excited screams.

“Daddy!! Daddy hurry up and look! I want to show you… I want to show you my car-wheels!!”

Rounding the corner, she met eyes with her father and slowed down dramatically moving toward him on little cat’s feet. She tried and failed to read the “why” in his face and finding no answer hurt her even more. He stared at her with sunken brown eyes in a face heavy with muscle and skin, a phone clutched absently in his right hand. “C’mere Princess”, he called. She picked up speed again and launched herself into her daddy’s lap. She was crying long before he could say anything. Daddy was sad. She could feel it. Her arms flung themselves around his neck and she kissed him behind his ear. “Don’t be sad, daddy”. Mark’s big arms pulled the little girl closer and his tears came slowly and silently. The Good Doctor was dead.

Something inside him felt cold and broken. The whole of him felt useless – suddenly he, BattleCat, felt useless – just like that. The little girl in his arms wriggled closer and he held onto her. She mattered more now than she ever had. He let himself cry a while longer and then held her back at arms length. She wriggled forward again and kissed him once enthusiastically on the nose. “I don’t want you to be sad”.

He considered her dirty tear-streaked face and smiled, sweeping her brown locks from her face. “Thank you for that kiss, Anna-Ray. I’m not sad anymore”. A tiny pink hand reached up and brushed away his tears. “I love you, poppa”

“Love you too, Sweet Pea”

With that, he set her down so she could show him her new trick.

Part V - Tyler

Tyler had spent most of the afternoon in shock. For him, that meant a sort of suspension of thought, a dazed sort of wandering. He could eat all right and had been able to carry on well enough after he’d received the news. Yet privately, he had dwindled to colorless bland confusion.

He was long past crying. That morning, after the phone call, he’d been a weeping dead man seated on the couch. There had been nothing left to do but cry at that point. But now hours had past, and he was again, seated by the phone. His mind spun maddeningly and it was all he could do to hold on. He had to call them, HAD too. Yet each reach toward the phone brought back the wretched hollow feeling. Ben was gone.

Blindly, he got up to do something – anything. He knew he was just stalling, that he should just go ahead and make the calls. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that just yet. He needed to think, damn it!

He shortly found himself walking toward the mailbox at the end of his driveway. The sun hit (Just right Ty, when it hits you like that you just know that it's...) him all over all at once and he started to feel somewhat better. By the time he’d reached the mailbox, he was almost sane again. He reached in, grabbed the pile of mail, and started toward the house, leafing through the letters. Suddenly, he was stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes were stuck on the letter, a letter from a ghost it now seemed, according to the postmarking. He stood there, ignoring the sun and the pavement beneath his feet.

“You know what it is without even opening it, don’tcha Tyler? – That’s right… it’s the plan, baby – one HELL of a plan…”

He’d never remember how he made it back into the house or how he found himself back at the couch by the phone… and smiling – almost smiling. He would remember, however, that after he’d seen that letter, he had no problem whatsoever picking up the phone.

Part VI - Rest in Peace

Tyler hung up the phone. Thin pink fingers drummed unconsciously across the wife beater t-shirt hanging on his lanky frame, his eyes still fixed on the cream colored phone. “One hell of a plan alright”, he thought to himself. Only a guy like

“Ben!” Tyler reached out into the semi-darkness and shook Ben by the hip. “Ben!”, he whispered fiercely. Ben remained the anonymous snoring mound. Giving up, Tyler sat wide-awake in the dark his head hung between his shoulders, his back bent in the “C” of bad posture. He had missed his moment – the window of opportunity for brave and foolish deeds was all but closed and his hanging head and worried face reflected this disappointment. He let himself get lost in thought for a bit – it was so much easier to deal that way. Tatters of memory floated to the surface and he found himself reliving a few. He twisted the ring on his thumb

(“I’ll never take this off! I swear to it. I’ll never forget you”
“Nor I, you. I cannot. And when our days are come to an end…”)

and frowned a little. His eyes went back to the lump of sheets and blankets that held Ben. His heart suddenly felt very full and tears stung at the back of his eyes yet never came. He had more or less expected the tears but never gave thought as to why. Looking at Ben sleeping so peacefully that night he realized now that -

“Well – I’m not falling back asleep. That much is guaranteed.”

The mound stirred and Ben appeared among the blankets. “You woke me up so now get to talking. What’s up? What’s going on? Talk to me.”

Ty shook himself from thought and swiped at his face quickly.

“Nothing – I mean I had something to say but changed my mind. It can wait, you know? I mean I wasn’t really thinking about what time it was or anything. I just wanted to talk is all. Heh – I really didn’t think you were asleep to be honest.”

Part of Ben knew exactly what Tyler had to say. Things were sometimes known that way between them.

“You’re wondering if it’ll actually work.”

“Ben, I don’t know. I was pretty sure earlier. It’s just that now that it’s set, everything is so… I don’t know. I don’t like thinking about all this.”

“Well I can’t guarantee anything, Ty. Any of us could die at any time. Fun to think about or not, that’s just how it is. I’m only trying to make sure that –“

“I know, Benny. I… I mean it just seems a little much. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to pull the trigger when the time comes. Some things… I just don’t want to screw things up. What if I do? I’d never be able to live with myself, Benny.”

“You’ll do fine. Ty, you’ve never let me down before – I trust you.”

Tyler swallowed hard. "I trust you too, Ben”

Ben smiled. “That the idea, Ty.”

Part VII - Snowmen

Peter drifted from task to task, a man in a dream. He packed his bags, showered, and forked down a neat and sensible breakfast in complete silence. His thoughts were a jumble of strange sadness and murky memories. At the door, he reached for his coat and suddenly remembered

The cold was brutal. Peter struggled to open his eyes and get to his feet. The tiny arms that were wrapped around him tightened with surprising strength.

“Almost there, Pete.”

The voice was husky with exhaustion but nontheless unmistakable. Somehow, little Ben Silver was carrying him. But from where? And why?

“Be still, Pete. I can’t do this with you struggling.”

Peter did is best to remain still, focusing on the crunch-crunch rhythm of Ben’s boots in the snow to calm himself. He became aware of something warm pooled around his middle. Something something a bit too viscous to be urine or sweat.

“Ben”, he called, surprised at the gritty ruined sound of his voice. “Benny, I’m hurt”.

The sound of Ben’s boots continued.

“Benny.”

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

“Ben! Benny please… I need help.”

Ben’s drew air in tattered gasps between phrases. “I’m… taking you… I’m taking you there. Just a few… just hold on, Pete. Please. I promise… I promise…”

Two things occurred to Peter in that moment.

The first was that Ben was crying. His voice came in phlegmy, huffing, snatches. From the sound of things, Ben wasn’t going to last much longer.

He also realized that whatever had happened was bad. The bright copper smell of blood was everywhere. Peter noticed that he felt the same wetness on the back of his head and his left arm that he did on his abdomen. Ben was carrying Peter in his arms like a bride over the threshold. Peter’s arms were crossed over his (bleeding) considerable belly. His knees were hooked over Ben’s tiny left arm, his feet dangling in the breeze.

“Where are we, Ben? What happened?” Again, he was surprised by the broken sound of his own voice.

“I’ll fix this”, gasped Ben in a voice not much bigger than a whisper. “I’ll save you. I swear. I swear, Pete. I swear to God. We’re almost - “

Ben stumbled over some unseen obstacle, sending Peter tumbling into the snow in the process. Pain flashed through his arm and guts like lightning.

“Oh God, Ben. PLEASE! Help! It hurts!”

“…almost there. Hang on, Pete. I won’t… I won’t leave you here.”

Pete managed to remain conscious long enough to see little Ben and a very large someone else approaching him before he closed his eyes and knew no more.

* * * * *

The remainder of the piece will be posted here and on Facebook - find me and friend me if you prefer reading it there. As always, comments are welcome and encouraged.

-D

Pride and Violence

2009-07-15T17:32:00.010-04:00

Note: I wrote this last summer, drunk, after reading a ton of Peter Straub and Ray Bradbury. I found it about 30 min ago while searching for notes on an entirely separate subject. Certainly, I'm making no apologies for what follows, I'm only attempting to deliver the piece in proper context. To be sure, this is a form of self-flagellation. But rather than explain the cost occasioned by my posting this piece, I'll just throw it up here and let you all decide the consequences for yourself.

Pride and Violence

“Quick are the mouths of earth, and quick the teeth that fed upon this loveliness”
-Thomas Wolfe

1989. Hartford, CT – North End. Saturday.

Saturday afternoon meant football. Always. Even in soul drenching, iron hard rain, we’d be there, sloshing and plowing, caked in mud, thundering like infant titans. Even in the thickest of summer heat, there we’d be, our gums boiling, our lips cracked and peelings, muscles trembling beneath our sacred skins, tireless and infinite. Even in the foulest winter frost, we stood shoulder, vibrating with anticipation, shaking the icicles from our earlobes, steaming like juvenile volcanoes.

We, armored in skin, scars, and foolishness - we were the first and last of our kind. It was our privilege, our happy destiny to endure this rite of passage, baptized in blood and sweat and animal shrieks. We welcome the purging pains, groping toward imagined heroics with smashed toes and broken fingers, gritting our teeth against surrender.

We weren’t heroes. And we damn sure weren’t holy. But on that field, we were redeemed, our truest brutal selves, at once noble and wretched, grunting and snorting like marvelous animals set free at long last.

Peace through conflict - this was the mantra of our youth, burning through the currency of our ignorance, hooding our eyes against the shimmering of our inevitably bright future. And, though, many of of were consumed by this violence, the spirit of conflict without resolution, the few of us that have survived to tell the tale sing loud and drink deep to their memories.

And when our time comes to suffer the consequences of our tumultuous pride, our backs bent and withered, our eyes milky and dim, our guts soured by the sins of our past, our hearts shall forever be preserved in those golden afternoons, those blessed battles in which we forgave, forgot, and discovered brotherhood.

Ruby

2009-07-08T12:55:00.003-04:00

It takes two when it used to take one
It takes two when it used to take only one

-- Ryan Adams, Two

My plan was to get out of there before he could make a scene. Morris slammed his hand on the bar and barked. “Who’s a guy gotta screw to get some service around here?”

I could see tears welling up in his eyes. I caught him by the wrist and pleaded with him a second time. “Morris… please. Let’s just go”.

He turned to look at me with red rheumy eyes, his bottom lip trembling. He reached over and gently took my hand from his wrist and held it in his enormous paw. I couldn’t help it. I started crying too. “Morris… I don’t know how to help you, buddy. Just tell me what you need right now.”

“Let me stay”, he said, his voice trembling and cracking. “I don’t wanna go home”.

“Ok. We’ll stay for a bit. But you’ve got to take it easy or we’ll get booted. And no more shots.”

Morris took both of my hands in his and nodded. My heart broke all over again.

Seven hours ago, he’d come home to find his beloved collie, Ruby, dead on the kitchen floor. He sat crying, holding him for over an hour before he called me. “Ruby” was all he would say. “Ruby! Ruby! Ruby!”

I raced over to his place to console him. By the time I arrived, however, he was already digging a grave. I stood a little ways off and watched him, unsure of what to say. When he finished, he threw the shovel off to the side and stood staring at the grave. I walked over and stood by him in silence. After a while, he reached over and grabbed my hand. And I let him. We stood there, holding hands in front of the grave in silence for a long time.

“He was my best friend”, he said.

I squeezed his hand. “I know”, I said. It was the only thing I could think to say.

Ruby had been a Christmas gift from Morris’s sister Carla. Morris hated dogs. And Morris was allergic to dogs. Carla had given him the pup as a not so subtle insult after Morris refused to attend her wedding a few months prior. The way he tells it, Morris begrudgingly accepted the dog in order to keep the peace. In reality, I suspect that it was love at first sight.

He named the pup after the infamous Jack Ruby. Why? “Because he’s my dog”, he said. I didn’t press the issue. Even though the dog was officialy named “Ruby”, he hardly ever called him by that name. He called him “Pup” instead.

When I told him that was the cutest thing I’d ever heard, he punched me.

His sister passed away the following March. He’d never thanked her for the puppy.

For the first few weeks, Morris and Ruby slept in the same bed. “He got lonely when I left him in the kitchen. I couldn’t take all that damn barking so I let him sleep with me.”

So it was for the entirety of their 17 year friendship.

The day that I met Morris, he was sitting in a bar wringing his hands over a chess board and staring out the window. At the time, I’d assumed he was waiting for a friend or a date. As it turns out, he was waiting for Ruby. Ruby was undergoing surgery to remove a tumor. Morris was at the bar worrying about his friend when I walked in and ruined his loneliness.

Ruby died a few months after the surgery. I never asked Morris about the cause of death - I didn’t have the heart to - but assumed it had something to do with the surgery and the cancer. Ruby was his last living relative of any sort.

In the weeks following Ruby’s death, I watched Morris retreat into himself. The once snarky, witty, smartass became a quiet old man. He stopped calling.

Two months after Ruby’s death, I showed up at Morris’s home unannounced, determined to break him out of his funk. I knocked for 10 minutes without an answer before walking around to the back of his house. He’d erected a tent over Ruby’s grave. I walked over and peeked inside the flap to see him sleeping, curled up with Ruby’s “baby” - a beat up, chewed over teddy bear.

I left.

A few weeks later, I’d managed to get him out of the house and into our bar. He’d lost weight. And he didn’t want to be there. The first hour was filled with tragic, awkward silence. I ordered a sandwich and jabbed at him with my elbow. “You want anything?”

Before he could answer, Amanda the Bartender (never just “Amanda”) came out from the backroom with a box in her hands - a box that was wriggling and whining. I watched her put it on the bar in front of Morris. “This is for you, Sugar”, she said, smiling.

Morris not looking up only replied “No it isn’t”.

He left.

And I let him go.

I showed up at his home the next morning. He opened the door with a guilty look on his face, the new puppy wriggling in his arms. I couldn’t help it. I smiled. “Don’t say it”, he said. “I couldn’t take it just now if you said ‘I told you so’”.

I didn’t.

The puppy licked and nipped at Morris‘s ears. “His name is Early”, he said. “I’m only looking after him for a little while”.

“Liar”, I said. He stared at me for a moment.

“You’re a bastard”, he said.

“Yup”, I said.

Early sleeps in the kitchen, despite his barking and loneliness. At least that’s what Morris would have me believe. A few days ago, Morris and Early showed up to harass me. “Have you just crawled out of bed?”, Morris said with exaggerated annoyance.

“Two minutes ago”, I said. “Still looking after Early I see”, I said.

He blushed and cleared his throat. “For now”, he said.

Morris hasn’t given up Early and still refuses to admit that he never will. On Saturday, Morris left a dozen roses at the bar for Amanda with a card attached that read “Thanks Love”. He no longer sleeps in the backyard (he promises) and has buried Ruby’s “baby” right along side Ruby. And, for better or worse, he picks up the phone and calls me. Mostly for advice on Early.

Worst of all, since Ruby’s death, he’s stopped calling me “young man.”

Now he calls me “Pup”.

Pyramid

2009-05-19T13:21:00.007-04:00

I woke up in a small room wearing what I would later discover was a bio-mech suit - a patchwork of blue-green plastic and translucent 'windows' over my major organs. There were three other men in the room with me; a short man with wild brown hair and two cold dark stones for eyes, a green-eyed blond with a military haircut and a tiny pink scar of mouth, an a raven-haired athletic blued-eyed scarecrow.

There was a voice coming in from a speaker somewhere. And it was teaching us things...

As best as I can describe it (via stream of consciousness), this is the dream I had last night.

Redeemed: Toz

2009-04-14T14:58:00.003-04:00

The newly dead continue to breathe out of habit for a while. That's my first observation. My second was “So this is what it's like”, and I had no idea what I meant. Something is happening. Something has happened. I should tell someone. I know things.

I've been standing here for quite sometime. Days maybe. Longer? Pinning down specifics gets harder. I could have just gotten here. Could have just stood up, even. I know I should know this – how long I've been here, why I'm standing, but that doesn't matter. Right now, I'm not much interested in difficult questions.

The sun is warming a rectangular patch of wood floor where I'm standing. I wriggle my toes and nothing happens. Nothing is there. I refuse to believe it. I remember liking the feel of the sun warmed floor on the soles of my feet. It must be real. It happened. I remember so I stay where I am. I’m not sure if I can feel it at all but it feels important to stick with a pattern.

Something happens. Then I'm here again observing.

There's a pile on the table. I know that it’s mail and the memory immediately makes me proud of myself. If this is where I live, my name is probably on one of those letters. I reach out and am struck with an awkward feeling of disconnection. It doesn't feel good so I don't do it any more. I'll find another way. What if I don't live alone? There could be a couple names in that pile. Male, female, etc. Too much work. Who am I? My name's Toz. People will learn to know me like this until I remember myself.

Naming myself, I feel a bit stronger. I bit more there. I feel a smile stretching across a face that used to be there and wonder what happened to the muscles in my face. I remember liking what I looked like. Things get tough again. I decide I don't like thinking of me and make efforts to pull away from that train of thought.

Everything warms slightly for a brief moment and I pause.

I'm in a different place. This is frustrating. Someone has moved my things. Everything but the walls is different. The mail is gone. There's a baby and a television and a roll of paper towels on the counter. A mother is elbow deep in suds and dishes. I want to try something. I want to invite her over but I... miss the path somehow. I'm forgetting how to remember. I remind myself “Your name is Toz” and I immediately feel stronger. I bring myself near to the baby and look him over. He is beautiful. I used to be.

I’m going to stay. I will live here. And I will learn to be beautiful again.

Mr. Maker: Dreams

2009-04-07T09:10:00.013-04:00

sequel to The Letter

We were seated in a diner, forking mounds of greasy whatnots into our faces. Every now and again, he'd look up from his meal and smile at me. I wasn't sure how to begin. In fact, I'd forgotten why I was even there in the first place. I was frozen, which was more than a little reminiscent of how I felt after waking from an odd dream. And I'd been having a number of odd dreams lately.

"I've been having a number of odd dreams lately", I said. It was the only thing I could think of.

He smiled.

"In one, a friend and I were breaking into people's homes under cover of night with baseball bats", I said.

He sipped at his coffee and motioned for me to continue.

I squirmed a bit and continued. "We'd creep about their houses, looking for goldfish bowls. When we found them, we'd go berserk and destroy the bowls, shrieking at the top of our lungs. I couldn't tell you how many homes we invaded that night - certainly more than a few, though."

I swallowed and continued.

"In one of the houses, there was a stripper pole in the center of the living room right about where a coffee table should have been. A... well there was this emaciated, semi-anthropomorphized horse. He was sitting on the couch, watching television and smoking an enormous cigar. He had one hoof in his pants, Al Bundy style."

I paused.

"I... I'm pretty sure whatever he was watching..." I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how bizarre my story was.

"Porn", he said.

I blinked.

He put his fork down. "He was watching pornography. And you were afraid to look at the screen". He paused and leaned forward dramatically. "Because you were in it".

I was speechless.

"This isn't the first time we've met", he said.

I cocked my head to the left and blinked. He raised a hand and flagged down our waitress.

"I'm pretty sure I'd remember meeting you", I said.

The waitress arrived. "She doesn't", he said and winked at her. She dropped his coffee and screamed.

"Apparently she does", I said and started for the exit.

The waitress was still screaming when I reached the door.

In Which Drew Gets Bored and Improvises...

2009-04-03T16:05:00.005-04:00

I was (am) bored. So this happened.

(NSFW)

Digit Fluster (improvised)

and how
and who
or whom
or what why or where

is there a combination there
or square
that could perhaps foreclose and forswear
connecting here to there

communication singing and
growing and
talking and
living and
speaking

perhaps and though tips, tones, or screams
or pelvic thrusts of nightmare dreams
of silicone and baby Jesus
dancing on a rainbow
with a buttplug in the shape of
Oprah Winfrey's fist

is this
the call?

why not use the digit press a digit
and thereby connect
reflect
bring back
and resurrect

perhaps
and perhaps
and perhaps

as glass of mind's eye curls and swarms
distorts and deforms

shall we here and then now to be what once was
is born to play to be to price
and promise readily

shall this not be the first of last things first
the last of first things worst
the first of last things cursed

use the digit to touch the digit
use the digit to touch the digit
use the digit to touch the digit

get it
don't sweat it

make the call

Jesus is watching

(scene)

Neverland

2009-03-30T18:06:00.000-04:00

how come i end up where i started?
how come i end up where i went wrong?
won't take my eyes off the ball again
you reel me out then you cut the string

-15 Step, Radiohead

We were driving on the highway through the slanted flat light of a late autumn afternoon. The windows were down, the music was on, our cigarettes were lit. The sun hung lazily on the fringe of the horizon casting exaggerated reds and golds through the withering leaves of the trees about us.

There was nothing particularly unusual about that ride; however, it stands as one of the single greatest moments of my life. In that moment, I was genuinely happy.

And, as typical as it is for folk my age to wax poetic and nostalgic (particularly when it comes to love or lovers lost), it's a bit unusual for me. This moment is the sole survivor of a long list of aborted regrets and willfully aborted exchanges.

It is the only day between my old friend and me that I haven't questioned and subsequently dismissed as part of his long series of lies and manipulations. In the aftermath, after many wasted hours spent fretting and steaming, I've discovered that I can't bring myself to be angry about what happened. He is an out-and-out shitty person that conspired to cause me a fair amount of undue pain and suffering. But I simply don't have any desire to exact revenge or do much of anything, really, aside from moving on and attempting to grow and love again.

I suppose, in some respects, I should thank him. I am happy now by force of will. I have instigated a number of circumstances and aligned myself with people who contribute to the strength of that will. I no longer suffer those who would lie or otherwise obfuscate the truth for their own ends. I have separated myself from those who are anything less than 100% honest with me, including the "old me." And I've committed myself to being the friend to others that I'd like to have. None of this would have happened if he hadn't turned out to be a monster.

Through the myriad examples of weakness and selfishness my friend offered, I have found the ‘new’ me. The last of the tethers have dissolved like whispers. Like phantoms caught in the stone throat of regret they were swallowed whole and buried.

But a moment has survived. In my heart, there will always be the mark of that moment - he and I, suspended in the amber afternoon. And it remains despite all my other forgetting.

I’m much too young to have any of my happiest moments behind me. But this is one of them, one that will never be duplicated, replaced, or eradicated. I’ll never get that moment back. And something about that truth makes it a bit more special.

My mom has always said to me, “Forgiveness is something you do for yourself. It doesn’t free the person that wronged you from anything - it frees you from carrying the pain.”

So tonight, I’m packing my bags and moving on. And, as tough as it is, as much as I feel as though I need it, I’ll be leaving that afternoon on the side of the road in Neverland.

And I’m not looking back.

I've been trying to get down
To the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
And my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think its about forgiveness

- Don Henley, The Heart of the Matter

Mr. Maker: The Letter

2009-03-29T16:45:00.000-04:00

I sat on the porch sipping room temperature scotch, praying for the willpower to go indoors for ice. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Morris opening my front gate, staggering towards me with all the chubby gracelessness of an injured manatee.

He lurched forward, gasping. "So this... is where... you're... squatting". He looked away, coughing into a handkerchief.

I watched him climb the steps of my porch and painfully arrange himself in a pile beside me.

"It wasn't east finding you", he wheezed, shoving the soiled handkerchief into his front right pocket and cleared his throat dramatically. "I had a particularly difficult time getting past your roommate."

"So you're my new stalker now." I said. It wasn't a question.

"I couldn't very well leave you to your own devices. Besides, since you last arrived I haven't... " he shifted a bit. "There's no one else to play chess with".

I smiled and leaned toward him a bit. "You're lonely", I sang.

"I'm bored", he replied. "But I supposed they amount to the same thing".

"Color me sympathetic", I grumbled, a bit more coolly than I intended.

He ignored me and held out an envelope. "I'll be expecting fair value in return".

I stared at him in disbelief. "Is this what I think it is?"

"I haven't read it", he said. The envelope fluttered in his hand. "But, looking at the return address, one can assume it's for you. And there's no use in pretending you're not curious, young man. It's written all over your face."

I hated when he called me "young man". Still, I took the letter with as much grace as I could muster, turning it over and over in hands and holding it up to the diminishing afternoon light.

"Oh hell, open it already!", he barked.

Grinning, I tore the letter open and read.

***********

He leaned against a brick wall thoughtfully chewing a cheeseburger. I stood across the street, letter in hand, blinking against the harsh late-winter sunlight.

"Well, son, what are you waiting for?" Morris said.

I looked up at him half hoping he’d give me an excuse to walk away. Morris only smiled and indicated toward the man across the street with his paw.

He’s waiting”, Morris said.

"Crap." I said.

I betrayed the slightest hint of a glance in his direction. He smiled wickedly, showing off globs half chewed burger. I pretended not to notice and crossed the street, desperate for something to say.

“Andrew”, he said.

I smiled meekly. “You got it”.

“I haven’t responded to a letter like yours in nearly 30 years”, he said.

“Oh”, I said.

“Most of them are beyond my ability to help”, he said.

“I see”, I said.

“Do you believe in God?”, he asked.

I was caught off guard. My mouth hung open and empty for what seemed like forever. “I don’t know”, I said finally. “I can’t say for sure. Why?”

He smiled again, sending a chill down my spine. “I’ve got to know what I’m working with, kid”.

I looked back across the road toward Morris who had paused midway into climbing into his truck. He gave me a look that read, “Are you ok?”

I waved and nodded back, making the sign for a phone. “Sure - I’ll call you when I’m ready”.

The man with the cheeseburger held out his hand. “You can call me Oscar”.

Something in the way he said it led me to believe that there was no way it was his real name. I shook his hand anyway and walked with him towards his car.

#29

2009-03-26T03:14:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday to me!

...send presents ;)

In the Flesh

2009-03-16T12:55:00.000-04:00

*tap, tap* is this thing on?

The Moon, Alone, Bears Witness

2009-03-15T11:17:00.012-04:00

I was falling asleep at the wheel on a road in the middle of nowhere. The Mustang and I hurtled through the night as the sky above, dusted with silver embers, frosted the landscape with eerie elven light. I had no idea where I was let alone how to get where I needed to go. The Mustang, indifferent to my condition, only whispered “faster” again and again with her raspy sputtering V6 and I was powerless to resist. The speed limit signs blurred to indecipherable smears on the side of the road as the lady and I, twins in addiction, rocketed recklessly into the starry night.

The night bore down on us, a shimmering carpet of ten thousand eyes eagerly marking my inevitable demise. Yet sleep beckoned like a velvety she-devil, luring me into her warm and waiting depths with throaty incantations. The Mustang soon became a strange vibrating thing. What was the wheel for again? What are all those numbers? Who's driving this thing? Oblivion thrummed diligently at the periphery of my consciousness. In time, I surrendered to the sand man's tender insistence without protest.

The rumble strip roused me from the ether just in time for me to avoid tumbling ass over axle into a shallow ravine on the side of the road. I swore under my breath and grip the wheel with white-knuckled passion, swerving hard enough to send a cold and congealing fillet-o-fish sandwich from the passenger seat into my lap. I saw that the speedometer was up somewhere around 75 and felt a strange pride at being able to maintain speed in my sleep. The road signs began promising gas and food just ahead and, this time, I would take them up on their offer. I bit my lip and stepped on the gas, sending the Mustang and I whistling across the silver-lit highway into the gaping black throat of evening.

Bright

2009-03-08T13:42:00.008-04:00

This morning, I rested in a patch of sunlight on a bench just outside the entrance to a subway station in Boston. My foot tapped obediently in time to music pipped directly into my brain via my iPod's waxy ear buds. To my right, statues of Irish immigrants posed in the light of the early afternoon, their faces contorted in fantastic expressions of unfathomable bronze agony. To my left, a thin river of traffic snored by belching clouds of musky carbon and ennui.

My coffee had long since gone tepid but I sipped at it anyway.

A lanky gentleman in sunglasses sat on the bench across from me and nodded. I watched him dip into his pocket and produce a thin silver flask. He checked to his left and his right with practiced ceremony before drinking deeply and offering a dramatic sigh, smiling and tipping the flask in my direction.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, giving in to the anonymous thrum of the city's concrete morals and electric everythings. A train rumbled somewhere beneath my feet, sending tremors up through my ankles and into my weather beaten innermost parts. I vibrated willingly for a moment before opening my eyes and smiling involuntarily.

I've been gone too long, Boston. I'm missing you. And it's high time I came home.

The Others

2009-02-23T09:34:00.006-05:00

Here's a short list of the latest blogs that have grabbed my attention in the last few weeks:

Stuff White People Like - http://www.stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/

The "Blog" of Unnecessary Quotes - http://www.unnecessaryquotes.com/

Passive Aggressive Notes - http://www.passiveaggressivenotes.com/

Apostrophe Abuse - http://www.apostropheabuse.com/

Bad Parking - http://badparking.wordpress.com/

I STRONGLY recommend "Stuff White People Like" - it's 100% my brand of humor.

Inertiatic Incongruence

2009-02-15T11:30:00.005-05:00

About six months ago, I wrote the following goobledygook after a somewhat boring night out. I wanted to see if I could make it sound interesting. It's a bit thin and awkward in places but, seeing as how I haven't posted a damn thing in (*checks watch*) three weeks, I figured I'd toss this up (with a bunch of self-depreciating caveats - 'cause that's how I roll).

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

September 2008

"In a world of rampant political spin in which constituents willingly submit their cognative authority to politicos and pundits, words quite literally mean whatever 'they' say they mean."

-- Orson Youngbear

I spent this past weekend in Albany, NY with my newish partner in crime, Danimal, and about 100 other fun-loving guys. After a weekend of debauchery and tasty food, we dragged ourselves back to CT. The weekend had mellowed me out considerably and, much to my surprise, it also got me rethinking a number of things with regards to the upcoming election that I believed I had firm if not altogether unmovable stances on.

These new doubts (running contrary to Obama's recent upward trend in the polls) began to creep in shortly after Danimal dropped me off at my apartment. I live directly across the road from a bar. Technically, it's not a biker bar, however, the owner, his wife, and a number of the regulars are all riders. In the warmer months, it's not at all unusual to see a number of machines (Harley's mostly) parked out front.

When I got out that morning, however, there were more like 60 of them.

The owner of the pub had sponsered a bike run to benefit research for a number of rare disease. Burly, grizzled, leather-clad, mustachioed men (and women) were everywhere. It was a bit surreal. I waded through the see of interlopers and plunked myself down at the bar. To my left sat Jake - a soft-spoken, gritty, war vet with an abundance of carefully formed opinions and snarky, smartass responses. Normally, we have very little to say to one another, however, in a bar filled with strangers, we instinctively anchored ourselves to the familiar. The only thing he and I have in common is breathing and the bar. So when Jake started in on the election, I braced myself for an argument.

"That Obama", he began without preamble. "The guy is pretty smart. Great speaker, man gives a hell of a speech."

"That he does", I said.

There was a lengthy pause. Then "Who're you votin' for?"

"That's a personal question - very personal, yeah?", I said.

"So you're not sayin'? You're not gonna tell me?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

Another pause. Then, under his breath "Pussy".

I looked him square in the eyes. "Jackass".

We went on to discuss the pros and cons of both McCain and Obama at some length. To my surpruise, I had more positive things to say about McCain than I thought I would. As the conversation progressed, I found myself being convinced by Jake that maybe, just maybe, I had sold McCain a bit short. As I sat there, wrestling with this strange new alignment, footage of Sarah Palin's interview with Katie Couric came on the television and removed all doubt.

We sat there and watched Palin wither in the face of basic questions, regurgitating bankrupt phrases and stammering in and out of responses with no dicernable point, possesing all the grace and poise of a drunk teenager.

It was embarassing. It was shameful. But, more than either of those, it was enlightening.

I pointed at the disaster and elbowed Jake in the side. "McCain is a 72 year old three time cancer survivor. If, God forbid, something happens to the man while he's in office, that Palin thing will be our president. I'll be honest with you, I'm not terribly impressed with McCain OR Obama. But when I cast my vote, I'll be doing so with my best interests in mind. McCain's aligned himself with a practical joke VP. By doing so, he's eliminated himself as a viable consideration for just about every reasonable person that's been paying attention for the last few weeks."

Jake shrugged "She seems like a nice enough gal".

"And that would be enough if I was looking for someone nice. Unfortunatly for her, I'm looking for someone Presidential - Vice Presidential, really - not an aw-shucks-oh-gosh-gee-golly stand-in for the same."

"But she's just like us. I'm much more comfortable with that than some unknown elitist".

"Hell are you talking about? We don't need someone just like us. We need a president. And yes, the two are mutually exclusive. Our expectations of the person in office are, along, enough to set the person apart. Their experience and competencies should be far superior to that of the average Joe. We don't respect and revere the office because it's occupied by our equal - we do so because he/she is our better. At least, that's the hope. The 'elitist' critique of Obama is utter nonsense. Of course he's elite - that's exactly what we want! He's the leader of the free f@!?&# world for #$** sake!"

Jake snorted once. "Dick".

"Asshole".

Jake took a deep sip from his gin and tonic and ordered some wings. I waited a few beats before draining my beer and tipping back to my apartment across the road.

I heard later that Jake took off before his wings arrived.

Sunday Morning Confession

2009-02-01T11:46:00.004-05:00

PB left early this morning leaving me by my lonesome in the living room with nothing but an iPod, a TV, an XBox 360, the dogs, a laptop, a rubber ball, some matches, and my swanky phone for entertainment. After 15 min of shameless lazy ball-scratching loafery, I got up and shuffled into the kitchen to find something nuke-worthy for breakfast. While I pawed through semi-thawed chicken breasts and half-devoured pasta dishes, my iPod was dutifully downloading music. I returned to the living room with a glass of OJ and a bowl of warm and mysterious leftovers to find that I'd downloaded the wrong song.

Nuts.

I didn't care enough to do much about it and, as I said, I was (am) in an unusually lazy mood. I forked some of whatever it was I was eating into my mouth and pressed play.

Beyonce was singing about Green Lights or whatever as my iPod glowed with cool electronic determination - or something like that. All of a sudden, I was possesed by an overwhelming urge to dance. Now, those of you in the know, know that me and dancing have had a sordid dicey relationship over the years. But this time, this moment, I gave in. Completely. And danced all over the house.

No kidding. I danced in the living room, the den, the kitchen, both bathrooms (including a sexy little jig in the tub) and the spare room. I danced in the dining room, the bed room, the little office where PB tucks away the bills and sends emails, the hall way, and both up and down the stairs.

I danced out the back door and into the garage. I danced back into the house and down the basement stairs. I danced by the washer and dryer. I danced back up the stairs and out the front door (much to the delight and surprise of my neighbors). By the time I was done dancing, I'd listened to Beyonce's shrill overly effected soulful voice for about 20 min. I was spent.

And I was crying.

Though I am a complete and total emotional basket case, I don't cry. At least, I try not to. But I did - I cried. I sat on the couch and let big girly tears roll down my cheeks while Michael Clark Duncan led a team of 20-something lesbians in a fight against terrorism (seriously). It was... well... oddly refreshing - the crying, not the lesbians. I'm totally used to those gals.

In the last year, I lost my aboslute best friend of all time. Completely lost. Gone. And never ever coming back. Ever. It crushed all the life and love and hope out of me. For months and months I was less than a shell of nothingness. A hopeless bad of sad excuses and terrible nightmares. I was a pathetic shunt, depressed beyond all imagining. I didn't even want to die - I wasn'ted to be unmade, unimagined, un-everythinged.

And then I danced.

For a few minutes, I was a fearless, ass-shaking, popping, locking, spinning, jumping, kicking, flying superstar. And I didn't care. I didn't care about hurting any more. I didn't care about being embarassed or being unfairly assesed. I didn't care about losses. I didn't care about unfulfilled anything. I disowned fear and hate and pain and shame and every other bitter stunting emotion or complex and danced my heart out. And maybe that was the only moment I'll ever have. Maybe that's how this whole game works - little pockets of happy in a suit of disappointing, disastifying whatnots. And maybe not. But I took a chance when opportunity knocked and freed myself, if only for a moment, from the muck of self-inflicted turmoil and dispair to coast about like I was always meant to - like I'd done for the vast majority of my life.

To be sure, this had nothing to do with dancing. Or crying. Or freedom, for that matter. In all this angsty nasty badness, I realized that my happiness isn't defined by the depth or existence of my problems or disappointments. That maybe, just maybe, I'm fine either way.

I thought of all the people I love, all the people that love me back (sans a binding contract, no less), I thought about everything I've crossed over, passed through, squeaked past, and bowled over to get here. To this moment. To a quiet Sunday morning with mysterious breakfasts and happy feet. And I realized how overwhelmingly greatful I am for each and every single moment I've been alive. Hell with the pain, bring it on. Hell with the happy, it doesn't last forever. I realize that maybe I should have danced a long time ago. Because I can. Because I've always wanted to. And because it's my immunity potion against the darkness.

Also I'm pretty sexy. Like, serious, check out my bum. See? I told you :)

[word]

And Now I'm Even, Older

2009-01-04T14:41:00.006-05:00

Me? I'm shuffling forward - most unwillingly, I might add - through these, my adult years.

And it sucks. I miss music.

In my mind, I'm still a somewhat confused 15 year old semi-cool badass nerd of the band room. In reality, I'm edging towards 30 with all the subtlety and grace of a tumbling boulder, kicking and screaming, biting at nothing, clawing at my past in desperation hoping for an anchor so I can have time to figure out some of this whole "life" thing.

No such luck.

Ever since I decided that I'm 'grown', I've had to trade in the tools of my youth for bland day-to-day whatnots [see: working full time - see also: paying bills]. And as entertaining and rewarding as my mother made adulthood seem during those blissful days of my childhood, I'm finding my own journey to be increasingly taxing what with all the responsibility and money and restrictions on freedom and so on. Not to mention the fact that I'm all but certain that I'm being persecuted [with an especially focused intensity, no less] by that "The Man" that everyone's been talking about. That is to say, I have officially been disabused of all my once-and-forever-Peter Pan illusions.

Good times.

I've explained this all to my mother in an attempt to return to those splendid days of quiet, rent-free maternal support and, if she hadn't burst out in a riot of uncontrollable laughter, I bet I could have made a solid case. Eventually.

But I digress.

Music hasn't exactly taken a back-seat but it's certainly doesn't occupy as much of my time as it once did. I play guitar now [sort of] and [regrettably] haven't touched my trombone in almost a year. I mean that quite literally. I have, however, been reading and writing a lot more and am finding them both to be comforting diversions from an otherwise flavorless existence. And, though I have a new found respect for all things "adult" [words like "rent", "debt", & "Roth IRA" have rapidly take on new meaning with shocking clarity], I much prefer the days of constant gigs and minimal personal responsibility.

I've gotten back into writing music - which is good. And I'm planning on going out with my guitar to play at a few open mics - which is also good. Sunday mornings have found me singing loudly and somewhat off-key in my bedroom. Musically, I'm in a rebuilding phase. Which is acceptable given that people my age are want to wax existential and introspective. Granted, the previous generation managed to parry all that nonsense into civil rights and semi-enlightenment while, conversely, all we've been able to muster is the Playstation 3 and a championship Red Sox team but give us time. My guitar and I may well change the world. Or something like that.

Despite a nigh unquenchable faith in the relatively eternal sustainability of my youth, my 20-something years are departing with the serpentine fluidity of a mongoose. They lie bed-ridden on the cot that is my ego making demands of the me that is yet to come. And the epitaph of my youth? - "Here lies the product of introspection to make much of time" which is, admittedly, a bit wordy. Future me will likely amend it to the more palatable "Much ado about growing up". It'll be cheaper that way. And, though my thirties trundle in effectively uninvited and unannounced with more baggage than a jet-setting debutant, I remain somewhat certain that the world won't end once I slam headlong and face first into a new decade of life, exchanging my "2" for a "3", if you will. And I will. Eventually.

Anywho...

I'm battling a mid-winter cold, the kind with teeth, and, as one man put it, " My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought, cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives." I suspect that the entire semi-cynical word circus above can be condensed into a fairly simple phrase:

"Life is good and moving fast. I hope I can keep up"

I would have deleted all the above and opted for more succinct summation but [shrug] I spent a bit of time writing it and want it to have counted for something. Also I kinda like to ramble - it's sort of my thing.

I hope the new year has found you all rested and blessed, seated among lovers, well fed, warm, and fitted with comfortable shoes.

Be well.

- D

Quotable Drunks

2008-12-28T12:14:00.005-05:00

Last night, the sky was grey, the streets were wet, and the air was just right for drinking. The gang and I, seeking shelter from the slow drizzle, holed up in a bar for a few hours. We got drunk. Fun things happened.

Here's a short list of my favorite quotes from last night.

MS: "My favorite color is football!"

MS: Drag Queens NEVER drink beer.
Drew: [laughing] What?
MS: Real drag queens drink something small and elegant - usually something that comes in a martini glass. Never beer, though. It makes their hands look huge.

SHS: The floor's all wet and gross!
Drew: Dude... zip up your pants.

Drew: [to random stranger] Is your friend ok?
"Friend": [pukes violently]
RS: Oh he's fine, he's fine... [pause] [to vomiting friend] Are you good to drive, man?
Drew: Not unless your want the inside of your car cover in greasy, viscous, chunky, half-digested, frothy, man-chum.
"Friend": [pukes violently]
Drew: Shouldn't someone call 911?
RS: Eh, I'm a nurse - he'll pass out eventually.
Drew: You're a shitty nurse.
RS: Heh - I have three "best costume" awards that say differently[scurries inside]

JM: If he asks to see your penis, show him.
Drew: Huh?
JC: Trust us. He's a magical being, a force of nature.
Drew: You guys are serious?
SHS: Completely. Only good things can come of it.
Drew: [checks zipper] Check please!

JC: You've never heard "In The Navy"?
Drew: This is my very first time hearing it... as in right now... as we speak
JC: [unintelligeble]
Drew: Wait, wait... that's by The Village People, right?
JM: I don't even know who you ARE anymore!

More as the final moments of 2008 play out.

[woot]

D

On a Clear Day

2008-12-23T22:05:00.006-05:00

I was sitting in a car, listening to music with a complete stranger, smoking a cigarette and bobbing my head when it occurred to me that my new friend was high on cocaine. Very high. And he had no intention of getting out of the car anytime soon. I took a chance and walked away in the middle of an "awesome jam that will change your fucking life!" hoping that my new "friend" (herein referred to as Cokehead or C.H.) would keep himself occupied long enough for me to scuttle off into the distance.

But it was not so.

He followed me into my bar talking 1000 miles an hour about interest rates and his best friend Todd. I took a seat at the bar between two guys (both drinking Bud) and ordered a beer. C.H. accosted the man to my right, accusing him of being racist (he hadn't said a word) and 'wasted' (ironic and completely untrue). The man eyed C.H. for a moment before moaning "the hell?!" and getting up to leave. For the nest 45 min, I endured random repetitive rambling and annoying rib-jabs. C.H. was picking up speed, determined to make the whole bar feel "alive". He ordered shots for the 8 of us that were at the bar and we all toasted some dead guy that may or may not have been a friend of C.H. I thanked him and told him it was time for me to hit the hay. Then... things got tricky.

He grabbed my arm.

I haven't been in an honest-to-God fight for a very long time. And the last time I ended up tussling with some douche bag, it had everything to do with uninvited touching. I, of little patience and much aggravation, hit him.

Well, pushed him. But still.

He took a few steps back and said "Bro!" - no more, no less. Every nerve in my body lit up - a fight was inevitable. And I wasn't going to run. I balled up my fists hoping that, win or lose, this would be over quickly. I just wanted to go to bed. He began snorting like a bull and shouting "Bro! Really Bro?" over and over with increasingly strained intonation. I stood there with my fists hanging by my hips, waiting.

"Bro! Really? Really Bro?"

Silence.

A large (f'n LARGE) red-headed man came up from behind me, grabbed me by the wrist, and put a beer in my hand. "Buddy, you never finished telling me about Kwanza."

I blinked. He winked at me. It took everything I had not to laugh.

"It's seven days long", I began. "Kinda like uh..."

C.H. looked from me to the Red Fella and back to me. He blinked furiously and threw his hands in the air. "Ok man... shit. See... this is something else (laughter). I gave you"

"Shut it, sweet cheeks", said Red Fella, never taking his eyes off me. His voice was calm yet unmistakably threatening. C.H. paused then, no doubt drawing on artificial bravery, he signed own death warrant.

"Fuck you, fat ass!"

As Red stood and began walking towards C.H. with bundled hams at the ends of his wrists, I raised my hand to order another beer.

The bartender wasn't quick enough to stop the war.

The Alternate Route

2008-12-16T03:40:00.002-05:00

I've been wasting my days
Good and reckless and true
I have danced in the dark at the edge of the water
Swinging my hips at the black and the blue

When you die will you be
Surrounded by friends?
Will they pray for a heaven out loud
A hope that somehow they will see you again?

And at the end of the day
Knowing not what it means
Will you stand in the ashes
Building a flame for the rest of your dreams?

Would you love
Could you love to be ordinary?
I know its hard but
I can see you trying

--Ordinary

The Up Date

2008-12-13T16:41:00.003-05:00

It's done. I've fired off my first couple whatnots to my agent who is dutifully shopping them around. I'm a nervous, quivering, antsy mess but damn it I'm excited. Very excited, even.

She offered some great advice about publishing and directed me to some great resources of info that I've been perusing whilst I wring my hands and wait for an answer. I desperately (desperately!) want to share more but the news will have to wait until it's fully birthed.

I appreciate the emails begging, pleading, and downright demanding that I "Post, post, post, damn your black heart!" (Claire - HI, USA). I'm flattered as all hell. Sincerely. As such, I'm going to throw up a few never-published-here pieces that I've posted elsewhere. Look for new bits on Sunday night. Until then, be strong, marshmallows.

That's about that. Life, otherwise, is just ducky. For now, I'm heading out for a few beers and a much needed steak. I hope the holiday season is treating you all well. And, as always, thanks for reading.

D

The Marvelous Animals of Armistice

2008-11-16T14:01:00.007-05:00

October held me captive with promises of election shenanigans and various personal obligations. I didn’t post anything. My bad.

Since my last post, I’ve been reading tons and tons of blogs, newspapers, and essays in an attempt to keep dutifully abreast of all things political. When I wasn’t tied up in the madness of the election, I was spending time with PB and/or writing. In addition to that, I’ve made a number of new friends in the Albany, NY area who are quite fond of Drew. I’ve been up there a few times since last I’ve posted and have had a blasty-blast each time. My email inbox is packed, my phone is jammed with texts, and I’ve got enough party invites to keep myself good and busy until well after the new year.

Things are a bit different... and in a good way.

I’ve not shopped the book around for a number of reasons but, as ‘luck’ would have it, it has made its way into the hands of a few people that I never intended to read it. People who edit and publish for a living. People who, apparently, like what they’ve read and want more from Drew. People who have the ability to pitch 6 digit numbers without blinking. People who are all about making my dreams a reality (or so it would seem). Is it, could it, can it be? We shall soon see.

Please remember that, though I may forget you on my meteoric rise to stardom, I will come crawling back to the comfort of your unconditional love and understanding when I inevitably crash and burn in a fiery smoldering ruin of bloated ego and last chances.

Yikes!

In other news, I was pawing though my notebooks attempting to consolidate some ideas and fish out some half-finished stories when I stumbled upon some scraps of paper stuffed in the folds of the notebooks and paper piles I’ve accumulated over the last year or so. They read as follows:

When you’ve nothing else, construct ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them. He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game, say the word and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in remembering has yet a reality, known or not.

Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try. Adieu.

Carried the wind and grasses East
Carried the sun and sands South
Carried the snow and clouds North
Carried the rains and seas West
One stayed the tend the mountains

It comes to this
Having been bled
And plucked
And hacked
And skinned
And boiled in oil
Dangling from your fingers
After all this It is not the bite we fear
But the swallow
Which banishes us into redemptiveless hell
--Confessions of A Country Fried Chicken

I've made a habit of saving all those bits and pieces of ideas for a while now. Believe it or not, these are the seeds of many of my viable full length stories. It's interesting (at least to me) to go back and attempt to trace the path from an ideas inception to the final product. More often than not, the end result is only vaguely reminiscent of what I started with.

Unfortunately, I won't be able to post any new material for the next little while. To be completely frank, I'd much rather be paid for my efforts and, as it seems that this may shortly be the case, I'd rather not risk dishing out 'the good stuff' for free. I'll drop in and babble about what I'm up to but, for now, there won't be much in the way of new pieces.

Things are looking up in a big way. More on all of this as more happens.

PS: God Bless my new Holy Trinity - Dino S. Youngbear, C.B. Peterson, & ''Dog Easy Charlie'' - you are my inspiration

The Next Morning...

2008-11-05T08:55:00.002-05:00

Hope. Won. Out.

I have a dream

2008-11-04T08:23:00.000-05:00

11.4.08

Meeting of the Mind

2008-09-30T19:49:00.001-04:00

[Fiction]

"You'll know lots more by now", I said hoping I'd answered his question. "It's still nothing compared to all there is to know but you'll get by. Trust me."

I could tell he was impressed though I wasn't sure if it was my answer that had done so. I stood and streched, cracking my back in the process. He looked me up and down a few times and I understood. "It's nice being tall. You won't have to wait much longer for that", I said grinning.

He smiled, wide-eyed for a moment. Then he was thoughtful, weighing the advantages and implications of a few more feet in height. I couldn't remember if I had ever been as small as he was. It was hard not to stare at him. I noticed him eyeballing my sandwich and pushed it towards him. He nibbled politely at first seemingly gauging my response. I laughed gently. "I definitely don't remember being that polite. Not around family, anyway, and CERTAINLY not by myself."

He frowned at that last part. "Eat", I said, still chuckling. The sandwich disappeared.

I waited for him to finish his milk before starting in with questions of my own. "How old are you?", I asked, somewhat afraid of the answer.

He swallowed the last of the milk. "You can't ask me that. Not here. Besides, it doesn't really matter now. Thundercats'll be on soon!"

He looked nervous. I blinked. "Where's here?"

He cocked his head to one side. "You're the grown-up. I thought YOU knew."

"I don't."

He shrugged. "Where ever this is, there's nothing to read in here. But Thundercats is on soon. There's always good stuff on TV in here.

"Always?" I shivered. "How long have you been in here?"

He furrowed his brow a little. "As long as you have. I can't get in without you. They won't let me."

"They?"

He'd been munching on a cookie. Slowly he put it down and placed his palms flat on the table. "You did it again", he said meekly.

"Did what? What do you mean I -"

You're not supposed to ask -"

On "ask" the walls exploded. The floor exploded. Everything blew apart, including me. I groped for purchase in the nothing, blind and queasy, desperate for equilibrium and gravity. I was bitten and torn and shredded. Now a moose. Now an angle. Now a bright white -

[silence]

It was over. What had it been? I could only remember that I'd fallen asleep. Now I was seated at the table in a room I knew I should recognize. Nothing came to me. A young boy sitting across from me stared at me with wide panicked eyes, and both hands clapped over his mouth. When he saw that he had my attention, he nodded towards me indicating that I cover my mouth. I did so. He took his hands away slowly and I recognized him immediately.

"Don't!", he shouted. I kept my mouth shut.

He walked over and touched my arm, surprised when nothing happened. "Don't talk", he said calming down. "You ask questions. They hate that."

My brain was buzzing with questions but I kept my mouth clamped. He sensed my frustration immediately. "You'll have to wait. I figured out all by myself. Once you figure it out too, we can go!"

I stared at the young man, nine years old if I had to guess, recognizing every scrape and scar. He was holding a bowl of oatmeal in his hands. "Watch TV with me?", he asked. "We've missed Voltron but Thundercats is on next."

With that, he held out a trembling hand. I grabbed his hand and let him lead me to the living room.

Once there, he pulled on my hand and I sat right where I stood. I watched him walk over to the television, oatmeal in hand. "I've probably seen this episode already", I said as he reached for the power button. He turned to me with a grave look on his face.

"Doubt that", he said.

The screen popped on.

Sound

2008-09-30T15:34:00.000-04:00

I was born in the spring of 1980 to artistic parents living in the northend of Hartford, CT. My birth caysed my already struggling parents to put their artistic careers aside somewhat and pick up day jobs with regular pay.

Before I was born, mom had been a pianist and playwright. She gave lesson in our living room Monday through Thursday on an old weathered upright piano we'd inherited from mom's parents. When she wasn't teaching, she worked on her plays. Her first work, Petition Granted, was a roaring success, selling out every night of it's eight week run and garnering rave reviews. She had been hard at work on a play called Once One just before I came into the world. It never ran.

My dad was a moderately successful local musician. He played all over New England, occasionallygoing on short tours with his bands. Mom says he always came back wild-eyed and restless. It would take weeks to settle him down. Dad loved to play.

When not touring, Dad wrote jingles for local businesses to be used in radio and TV spots. My favorite was a diddy he wrote for a company called Bueller Auto. The jingle was a corny parody of the theme from Thundercats - my favorite cartoon.

When I was born, Dad nabbed a job at IBM and was quickly promoted to Jr Executive. With the huge increase in pay, mom was able to spend more time with my older brother and me, and even return to writing and giving lessons. Dad still wrote jingles on the side.

By the time I was three, I was completely deaf. An ear infection robbed me of most of my hearing when I was thirteen months old and subsequent infections finished the job. My mother seemed mostly unaffected by the change. She spent a bit of extra time with me, teaching me sign language and making sure I didn't feel neglected or handicapped. My father, however, all but shunned me after my hearing loss. The once everpresent jovial father figure in my life became moody and distant. Before I went deaf, we'd spend Saturday mornings at the piano playing together. He even credited me with the melody for a few jingles he sold, thanking me with a Big Mac each time. As my hearing got worse and eventually disappeared, he began spending Saturday mornings fishing or rehearsing with the band. I never sat at the piano with my dad after I lost my hearing.

As my first day of school approached, my mother began taking me out to socialize more and more. I had come to rely on reading my older brother's lips to get by but in school that would be useless. Church was where we spent the majority of our free time, singing and clapping and socializing. Mom always made sure I spent each service with someone different. Everyone knew of my disability and mom instructed them to speak normally and to treat me like any other child. I became an expert at lip-reading very quickly and soon lost my social inhibitions. I felt normal again.

My favorite place to sit was with the musicians. When mom couldn't find anyone to watch me or if I was diligent enough with my begging, she'd shoo me over to the pew where they sat and I'd spend the service reading the hymnals and watching the musicians play.

After a time, I got bold enough to sit on the bench with our church organist, Ed Orlen. I'd watch his hands as he played the hymns, occasionally getting into trouble when I tried to play along. When it came time for the sermon, Ed would open his bible and trace the words with his fingers so I could read along. He was my favorite person to sit with.

In the summer before I was to begin school, an old friend of my dad's visited our church. I watched him and my dad embrace, slapping one another on the back.

"Who is that?", I signed to my mother.

"A friend of your father's from college. His name is Mr. Ackley." My dad and his friend say on either saide of me on our pew.

"This is my son... the special one... the one I told you about", I read on my dad's lips. I pivoted about to see Ackley's response.

"Well now isn't he a handsome little devil", he said with a smile. "I had no idea the mailmen in your neighborhood were so attractive!"

I didn't get the joke but I liked him immediately. I hoped mom would let me sit with Mr. Ackley. Before I had a chance to ask, Mr. Ackley picked me up and sat me on his lap, facing him. I began signing on reflex. "I can't sit with you until I ask my mom".

He smiled and signed back, "Ok".

I stared at him with my mouth hanging open and he laughed. "Surprise!", he signed. I forgot all about signing. It would take me another twenty years to realize that I'd not given my dad any credit for inviting him.

We sat for much of the service talking, my new grown-up friend teaching me more and more sign. He'd tell me stories about my dad and we'd both collapse in fits of secret giggles, burning under the diciplinary shushing noises and wagging fingers that followed.

As the service drew to a close, everyone stood for the parting prayer. Mr. Ackley stayed seated, holding me in his lap. "I have something for you", he signed, and placed his palms against me ears as the parting prayer was delivered. When the prayer was over, he removed his hands and lifted me off his lap, setting me on the ground beside him. "Let's go find your mom".

My mother had already eased her way into the main aisle and was chatting away with some friends of hers. Ackley walked me over to my mom, pulled her close, and said something into her ear that I couldn't see. My mom hit him playfully in the sholder and shooed him on. Before he left, he squatted in front of me and shook my hand.

"Don't go", I signed.

He smiled at me and I felt even worse. "You'll be just fine, Tiger", he said. It was the first time he'd spoked aloud to me since I met him. When I didn't respond, he winked comically. "Talk with you later", he said, and left.

The next morning, my hearing was completely restored.

The Goat

2008-09-11T17:40:00.019-04:00

I can't dance! --Genesis

I won't dance, don't ask me --F. Sinatra

I share a birthday with my younger cousin, Coryon. On my ninth birthday (his sixth), our parents decided to combine our parties into one huge bash. I wasn't terribly excited about the idea of sharing the birthday spotlight with someone else but at 9 years old, I didn't have much choice. The silver lining to the whole affair that would rob me f my sweet and singular birthday delights was that it was being held at my grandparents' house - my personal Shangri La. All of my uncles, aunts, and cousins were bound to be there. Good times were inevitable.

We arrived to the sound of loud music and the salty-sweet smells of junk food. Party favors covered the tables. Kids ran amok while parents sat in loose groups gossiping. Candy and commotion reigned supreme. And I was co-king for the day.

After the dogs and burgers had been munched and the tail was finally pinned on the donkey, it was time for cake and ice cream. I pushed my way through the crowd of eager children and took my place alongside my cousin in front of the cake. To my right, a knife sat gleaming with destiny on the multi-colored table cloth. I picked up the knife before anyone could light the candles or sing happy birthday. If I couldn't have my own birthday party, I was decided I was at least going to cut the cake. Besides, I was older and, therefore, had gotten here first. It was my divine right.

"Hold up! Hold up!"came a voice from the rear of the gathering crowd. One of my uncles moved toward us, parting the sea of cake-hungry children with his long arms. "It's not time for cake and ice cream yet. Not one of you little kids was dancing. What... are ya'll scared?"

We stared at our shoes then, momentarily distracted from the cake and ice cream.

"Not one of ya'll wants to dance? Ok. That's ok. NOBODY gets any cake or ice cream until they dance. There. How about that? It's up to you now."

I stood there for a moment considering the gauntlet he'd just thrown, trying to figure out if he was serious or not, the cake knife shimmering eagerly in my tiny hands. My uncle strode over and snatched the knife away. "Dance", he commanded. "It's YOUR birthday party - have fun!"

Someone turned up the music and a few of the more gregarious children began dancing. Over time, other joined in and, eventually, we had a full-on dance party on our hands. As soon as the first person began dancing, I retreated to a chair and plunked myself down. The cake and ice cream may as well have been priced at a million dollars. I couldn't dance to save my life.

A while later, my uncle found me in a chair, pouting as the first of the dancers were cleared to line up for cake and ice cream. "What's wrong with you?", he asked. "They're just about to cut the cake!"

"I can't dance", I said.

"Oh well", he said.

After a brief silence, he shrugged and walked away.

Maybe it was the sense of ownership fostered by my brief time with the cake that caused me to get up. I can't say for sure. I do know that at that moment I decided, come hell or high water, I was going to have some cake. And if that meant a little dancing, so be it. A little boogie-woogie never hurt anyone.

I walked over to the group of dancers with my hands in my pockets, unsure of how to begin. Once on the dance floor, I stood in place, swaying side to side, hoping that it would be enough. As various kids got the green light for cake and I remained in quasi-dancing cakeless limbo, my anxiety increased. The cake would be cut by someone else if I didn't get the show on the road. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. "You've made it this far", I thought to myself. "Go for it".

And go for it, I did.

What happened next can only be described as beautiful tragedy [read: awful].

I became a collage of horrible dancing clichés and malfunctions, twisting, kicking, gyrating, and yes, spinning on the ground. I was an avant garde whirlwind of shame.

And everyone was watching me.

At first, I thought that I had hit on something special. If I'd learned anything from 80's movies, it was that nerdy outsiders often start dance crazes unawares - especially at proms. But this was no prom nor was it a cheeky 80's catalogue of our awkward teenage years. This... this was just embarrassing.

Someone cut the music, revealing what I initially assumed was cheering and clapping. Turned out it was laughter - lots and lots of laughter.

The dancer in me died that day.

I stood in the center of a circle of children and adults who were all enjoying brutal gut-laughter at my expense. I'd made an enormous fool of myself. My clothes were torn and stained. I stood there panting and sweating as the laugher crescendoed without my permission.

It was the single most embarrassing moment of my entire life.

Eventually, I pushed my way through the crowd and went back to my chair, crying, alone at my own birthday party. No one would talk with me. No one was on my side. My uncle had decided that what I had done couldn't be considered "dancing" by any stretch.

Which meant no cake and ice cream for Drew.

"You never know who's looking on" -- Genesis

"And that's why I won't dance, I won't dance" -- F. Sinatra

One Down: Acknowledgments

2008-09-09T18:23:00.000-04:00

It is finished! The book is done!

[buys a round]

I laid the final jots and tittles down in the same place I'd begun - the pub. Having spent the last five months digging through my past, dredging up old stories and secrets and such, I'm at a bit of a loss as to how to proceed. All told, I banged out over half a million words. That's 500,000+ for those who prefer the literal number.

Where'd the time go? (The actual book is decidedly shorter than half a mil, by the way.)

After I hit "save" four or five times, I left my things at the table and grabbed a seat at the bar.

Drew: I finished!
Barkeep: You finished?
Drew: Yup. I am officially done. I finished my book.
Barkeep: That's great! That's awesome. [pause] What now?

So the first draft of my very first book is complete. I've had a few other book ideas that I wanted to jump on but have held back given that scope of the work this most recent book entailed. Now that it's (almost) over, I'm beginning work on the other three (count 'em three!) book ideas I've had in the mean time. I'm hoping to have the next one done around Christmas of this year. We'll see.

I've no plans to publish this first one as of yet. For that reason (and a few others) I wanted to drop some acknowledgments on the people who gave a shit.

Thanks to The Writer - it was a tough as I suggested it was. I'm glad you remembered and pointed it out.

Thanks to Gage and Orson who found me in the gutter and left me there to figure it out, to Peter who taught me the meaning of my time in hell, and Clay who laughed me up out of the grave (or should I say "Tha PEET of DEESPAIR!").

Thanks to my friends who, after hardly hearing from or seeing me for 5 months, still remember my name. I promise, no more bringing that damn machine with me to parties, no more notebooks in the bathroom, no more begging for proof reading, no more "I can't go out, I have writing to do", no more... maybe.

Thanks to Chris and Diane who guarded "my" table for 153 consecutive days - and yes, Chris, I wrote a "whole book all by myself". Jackass :-)

Thanks to Warren who fixed the hole in the whiskey bottle... and everywhere else.

And, of course, thanks to you folk. Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading.

Drew B.

For those in the know...

To the Assembly of Nephsymor and she who is now called Thorneater, Beloved of Silverwood - "Rit Santha Maiel!" The blessed end comes for us all. Forgive me - the pen is to blame.

To Ogmwa Ganabriel, "The Blind Eater of Orsik", anathema to the people of Therion, plague of the West Falls, daughter of the White Amber Wastes, defiler of the 8 and 80 Blades of True Rest - he has found you. Your days are numbered, gut-worm.

More on all that nonesense later,

D