Saturday, April 18, 2015

Time

It is my personal belief that all of humanity, at least for a period of time in their lives, will suspend logical thinking and reasoning; trading it instead for fantasy. For the majority, this escape is a coping mechanism and fairly short in duration, but a select few will develop an affinity for make believe, often inventing a complex cast of characters and detailed scenarios that never existed or occurred. While the majority exhibit a vague level of awareness that they have detached from reality; the recognition of isolation and the desire to return are as disparate as night from day. Quite understandably, it seems that the severity of the traumatic event triggering the escape, as well as the amount of time spent separated from reality will impact the degree of entanglement and subsequently the prospect of rescue. Symbolically speaking the barrier is nothing more than a thin sheet of glass slipped between the subconscious and conscious regions of the brain, and thus quite easily broken. Even when confronted with substantial supporting evidence, I’ve discovered few are able to trust again. It is quite discouraging that the thin membrane of separation functions as a one-way portal. From the outside, no matter the degree of ferocity with I have attacked it; the barrier remains icy and impenetrable. Put quite simply, you cannot reach or rescue the unwilling.
        
It is not my intention to downplay individual scientific discovery or to denigrate the brilliant minds that comprise the broader scientific community, but it is my personal belief that man, in his current form, is incapable of fully comprehending the sophisticated beauty and marvelous complexity of the human mind. I have arrived at the disappointing conclusion that while rare, there are locking mechanisms for which no key exists. There is no one case study that exhibits more clearly these conclusions that that of Dianna Crenshaw.

She is an alluringly manipulative, brutally toxic, and fascinatingly complex piece of female machinery. Although my current assessment sounds harsh and uncaring, I assure you it is heartfelt and poignant. But as every coin has two sides, I must reluctantly recognize that over the span of twenty years our relationship has devolved significantly and my original impressions and feelings toward her were quite the opposite.

She was disarmingly beautiful and from head to toe physically pleasing to the eye. Her advances were unspoken and subtle, but so suggestively explicit that after our first encounter she left me with the impression that together she and I could become something profound. Not in a material, animalistic manner, but on a much higher plane—the way I believe a lonely piece of artwork loiters in obscurity on a muted wall; content to live for one splendid moment when the curator designates the perfect companion to hang next to it. This would prove to be only the first of many occasions when Dianna led me to believe my wait was over.

Looking back, I understand that was precisely the way she needed me to feel—another breadcrumb placed along the path. Dianna Crenshaw is truly a manipulator of the highest order. She is incapable of giving freely of herself without expectation of personal gain. Dianna is the center of her own universe and considers the existence of those surrounding her as random occurrences—more or less puppets designed purely for her amusement. Occasionally she will engage with them, but when the strings of emotion become tangled she casts them aside and reaches for another.
     
It was a week ago Thursday when Dianna glided into the room with an air of supreme confidence. Hidden layers deep beneath an unfamiliar grin, I identified the venomous undertones as that of a spider—the euphoric moment when an arachnid first feels the vibrations of prey caught in its web. Only seconds before her arrival the air in the small room had been circulating and plentiful, as if I were a young boy again, perched upon a fallen log at the edge of a lush and green meadow. Her mere presence ushered in a deadly frost; the air suddenly became stale and poisonous. The vision of a meadow melted away and the warbling of songbirds trailed off into nothingness. A feeling of impending finality swallowed me, and instantly I knew today would be our final meeting. Her minions would finally pin me to the floor and the ice-queen would use her razor-sharp talons to pluck the beating heart from my chest, or I would be granted the opportunity to begin putting distance between myself and this cyclical nightmare.
        
Dianna carried a worn leather binder overflowing with documents; the open end loosely secured with a thin piece of black cord. When she slapped the stack on the table the cord splintered into threads and the contents spilled out. A quick scan revealed legal documents, each of them bearing my name with her signature at the bottom. Dianna shrugged and flashed a grin, seemingly unconcerned about the premature unveiling of my fate.

She lit with the grace of a butterfly in the center chair on the opposing side of the table; always insistent upon distance, as if she feared I might physically harm her. The two males accompanying her made no sound at all. She commanded them with a nod and each folded into a chair flanking her. The three of them had descended upon the room with the stealth of wolves. Each of the males displayed a familiar, empty gaze. In some dark and hazy moment Dianna had penetrated their defenses—shells of men, waiting breathlessly for the opportunity to obey her next command.

I learned long ago that the conventional method of mentally preparing my defenses was useless against Dianna. I considered it a predictable game that neither had tired of playing—exposing my weaknesses and her prowess without having to speak a single word. I supposed repeated exposure had bred comfort enough that I dismissed the illusion that I possessed the will power to deprive myself the visual pleasure of the show, and Dianna refused to pretend that the attention was unintentional or unwanted.

She drew a deep breath, allowing her breasts to narrowly emerge from the obscurity of her jacket; the expanding of her diaphragm was like shifting tectonic plates beneath the ocean—each in their own right revealing previously hidden treasures.

Oddly, Dianna spared only a microsecond to absorb the attention of my gaze before exhaling quickly and pulling her jacket to.

“Life’s funny isn’t it, Walter? As much as you’d like us to believe differently the fact remains you’re still a very perverted man. The more things change the more they stay the same. You’re weaknesses, my position of power over you, the idea that you believe I’m the delusional one and as my counselor you’ve spent the last twenty years trying to rescue me, but for me personally, the most pleasurable of all is the indescribable futility you must feel when you file yet another appeal to be removed from death row and I cold-heartedly deny it!”

It does seem to me a travesty of epic proportions that a relationship, at least from an internal perspective, holding so much promise ended so abruptly, and amidst such venomous verbal daggers being hurled. Unfortunately those were the last words Dianna spoke to me.


In retrospect, I believe we both had valid points. Mine being that there are some locking mechanisms for which no key exists, and perhaps Dianna was right when she said the more things change the more they remain the same. Quite regrettably it would seem despite my best efforts I returned to old ways. The details of the event remain hazy in my own mind, but if the account of either of the two guards is to be reliable, and I have no reason to suspect otherwise, they say I was consumed by an uncontrollable and relentless fit of rage. That I lurched against the restraints and broke free and was able to finally sink my teeth into fair Dianna’s flesh. The guards were eventually able to forcibly remove me from atop her, but most notably not before I was able to separate poor Dianna Crenshaw from that awful tasting, viperous, tongue. 

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Good Company

The waitress and I laughed as we took turns lamenting over how pathetically inept the High School football coach was again this year. I did my best to feign surprise when she revealed the melee that broke out at the latest city board meeting had less to do with a re-zoning request than it did with accusations that the requestor, Suzette Simpson, had worked her way through the city councilmen exchanging sexual favors for votes. Each year was a carbon copy of the last. I supposed that was the hallmark of any small town, and precisely the reason why the younger generation couldn’t shake the dust of this place off their shoes quickly enough and those who set down roots couldn’t be dragged away with a fleet of jacked-up 4X4 pickups and log chains.   

When Marley forged forward to the next topic, memories of past began swirling in my head. As the intensity of my stare increased the words flowing from her sounded as if they were passing through a blender until I disconnected completely.      

“Do you know what I mean?” She asked a second time.

Marley’s smile ended awkwardly when she realized I had been staring at the calendar hanging over her shoulder. The truth of the matter was I hadn’t heard a word she’d uttered in the last several minutes and by avoiding admission of my inattention and moving forward, I fed the uncomfortable state of limbo. Although I said nothing, my mind was busy frantically shuffling through a stack of responses. Finally I settled on one, that had time allowed would have certainly been discarded. “Have you changed your hair style? The way the sun is dancing in it----“

“Stop with the cheap make-up lines, Mark. Just admit you were daydreaming. You always were a dreamer.”

Marley tilted her head in the direction of the calendar, “Today is the day isn’t it?”

She remembered the significance of this day to me and I appreciated the fact she did. “Yep, but I’ll be fine. Marley, you do realize the Red Rooster wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Marley paused a moment before the remnants of her smile returned. I hoped the return of it indicated she discovered a trace of sincerity in my compliment, but I wasn’t convinced.    

“I’m serious. Don’t you dare say a word to Chip because he’s a great guy, but the food he puts out of that kitchen is barely average. Both of us know it’s that smile, those sculpted calves, and the way you twirl your skirt when you turn that keeps the boys buzzing around here.”

Marley blushed before offering her signature move. She winked in an exaggerated manner and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I’ll get your check, you big flirt!”
             
            Forty long years had passed since my first glimpse of the underside of that skirt. The ‘goods’ were still good—better than most women half her age. I was twelve the first time my grandfather brought me here; a freckled-faced and gangly tag-along. And Marlene Wilkins was a statuesque, stunningly, beautiful blonde who waitressed on weekends.

There were certain rules of engagement that governed a junior-high boy from paying undue attention to any high school girl. But in Marley’s case there were half a dozen football goons and a couple of buff twenty-somethings that hadn’t quite transitioned into adulthood, standing ready to squash your guts into jelly if you ogled in her general direction too long. Even the densest clod knew the kind of damage a stampede of size 16 football cleats would inflict on the torso, but the way I saw it, day to day middle-school existence was always about risk and reward. I’d just have to be wise enough to fly under the radar.   

Marley drove a black, older model Cadillac…too old and beat up to be cool if she weren’t behind the wheel. Thursday evenings she spent an hour at the library studying, except when volleyball games and practice trumped schoolwork. Generally she attended second mass at St. Mary’s Cathedral, sat in the third row from the back between her parents, and usually wore a pale blue dress with white lace around the neck and sleeves. Marley was an only child. Some said her mother suffered from female problems and wasn’t able to have any more children, but I supposed it just as likely that after the first child turned out that unbelievably perfect there wasn’t much use in disappointing yourself. A girl of Marley’s caliber could offer a guy a handful of rabbit droppings and make him believe it was caviar.    

Looking back, I don’t think it was anyone’s fault—more just a case of never seeing that first slice of life served stone cold coming down the pike. Marley didn’t pay any more or any less attention to me than any of the other starry-eyed suitors, but within the confines of my own mind it was another story altogether—and that’s where the trouble began. I read far too much into a touch, a glance, or a kind word. In doing so, six months into my eighth-grade year I decided the very day I graduated from high school I’d ask for her hand in marriage.   

It was the beginning of my freshman year when reality took on the form of a diesel-powered steam roller; the driver of which was hell-bent on exposing the fragile nature of my imaginary world. I heard the news second-hand, while sitting in the barber’s chair. I would have dismissed it as hear-say if only one of them said it, but when all three members perched on the ‘liars bench’ agreed on something, it was as certain as death itself. It seemed Jimmy Crawford had not only stepped in and wooed, but married my girl out from underneath me.

I barely recall paying for my haircut before swinging open the door to a world too bright. The light of truth was like a poisonous cocktail injected straight into my brain. I continued stumbling down the sidewalk and with each plodding step another brittle part of me broke and fell away. My insides continued to unravel until anyone with a set of eyes to see, witnessed a gelatinous pile of goo dragging itself up the front steps of my parents home.

I assure you that identifying a disease is far removed from discovering a cure, and an acute case of an over-exposed heart wasn’t the kind of affliction you discussed with anyone. The only thing I knew to do was withdraw into a state of hibernation and wait for one of two outcomes; either the skin would eventually grow back and provide protection or my heart would harden to the point it would no longer function. So I waited for fate to swoop in and rescue me or finish the work by pushing me over the cliff. For the better part of month I sat on the edge of my bed watching the world spinning around me. And spin it did—at warp speed. By the time a scarred and wary young man stepped on stage to receive his diploma, Marley had been married and divorced a third time and had four children to care for.
           
           As I waited on my check I fiddle with straightening and re-straightening the condiment holder; the same thing I had done on my first trip here. Most specifically after my grandfather asked me what kind of fool spends more time looking at the waitress than eating his breakfast? With an empty plate in front of him, Granddad grabbed a toothpick and placed it in the corner of his mouth; his eyes fixed hard on me. I thought he would chew that toothpick in two and every other one in the box before he spoke another word.  

In a gravely but gentle voice he continued, “There ain’t no harm in taking a gander once in awhile—kinda let’s a man know he’s alive. But let me give you a piece of advice. At yer age if you set your sights on a filly like that—well, yer just settin’ yourself up for a lifetime of disappointment, Son.”
                While I wouldn’t exactly describe my existence between that day and now as a disappointment, in general terms my grandfather was right. My mother’s father continued to offer bits of advice to me throughout my teenage years, but it was his saint-like patience that impressed me most. Over and over he stood in the distance and watched me stubbornly forge my own way until poor decisions stacked upon poor decision resulted in a hail-storm of boulders raining down on me. It was always his weathered hand reaching to pull me from the rubble, dusting me off instead of asking why I hadn’t listened. Back then I believed he protected me because of obligation, adherence to some type of unwritten code that all grandfathers abide by.  Granddad had the gift of reading all people and interjecting himself into their lives at just the right moment; an unofficial and unlicensed doctor of hope, injecting the sick with the proper dose of wisdom and truth. Over time I came to understand his loving and healing ways extended well beyond the bounds of family and plunged deep into the heart of a community.

October 17th 1978 marked the day of his passing, and although I’d moved a hundred miles away from this town, I returned each year to place a fresh spray of flowers at his grave. I’d linger by his stone until the sun had dipped beneath the horizon, wishing quietly at first, eventually praying out loud that the keeper of time might allow me to hear granddad’s voice one more time.      
              
             I scooped the check from the table and on the way to the counter I felt a tug at my sleeve.

“Is that you, snapper?”

It was more of a croak than a full-fledged voice that spoke to me. Only granddad’s cronies ever called me Snapper, and to the best of my knowledge they had all passed years ago. I studied the man closely. Ernie had to be in his late nineties; there was a walker sitting next to his chair. One of his eyes was black and swollen shut, and the bruised meat hanging from his fore-arms appeared to be losing the fight. The skin on his face gathered in folds and sagged to the extent his left eye was a mere slit. His field of vision was reduced so severely that he swiveled his head like a periscope on a submarine.  

I couldn’t decide if it was more of a shock seeing someone I thought to be dead, or witnessing the muted shades of someone who had skirted death too long. For a man reduced to viewing the world one horizontal slice at a time Ernie saw more than most. He read my thoughts like spoken words and before I could acknowledge him and confirm my identity the old man became visibly agitated, upsetting his coffee when he reached for it.

I turned to his son sitting next to him, “I’m awfully sorry for upsetting him, but it’s been so long and I didn’t recogni….. Here, let me pay for your breakfast.”

When I reached to set the cash on the table Ernie grabbed my wrist. His aggressiveness nature and display of strength caught me off guard. One quick jerk brought my face and his within a foot of each other.

“Snapper, you always was kind of a bastard. You coulda just said hello and went about your business like everyone else, instead of starin’ at me like I’m a freak!” I noticed a tear forming at the corner of his good eye, and in the time it took to traverse the rugged terrain, Ernie delivered another viperous strike. “Pop’s would be so disappointed in you!”

The mention of my grandfather and disappointed in the same sentence was a nauseous combination. A loaded omelet and side of bacon became cement churning in my belly, and my throat the delivery tube. I swallowed hard against the urge and jerked free of his grasp. As I made my way to the cash register Ernie’s son called after me, “He’s all mixed up…don’t know what he’s sayin’ half the time.”

In the tiny space of time between the jingle of a bell on the restaurant door and the slap of it closing behind me I heard the croak again, “Meant every last word of it, snapper. You ain’t half the man he was!”

I traveled the quarter mile outside of town where the pavement ended and the gravel began. Continuing along the crooked roads, I nudged the heater a notch higher. It wasn’t until the third adjustment that I realized the chill that had settled deep in the marrow of my bones wasn’t a physical cold but Ernie’s words gnawing at me.

Perhaps Ernie was as confused and disconnected as everyone believed him to be, but in a moment of clarity he spoke the hard truth. The truth of the light stung every bit as much as it had the day I stumbled from out the barber shop door. Somehow that hobbled man had intercepted my thoughts and he was absolutely right. Only a bastard would allow an errant thought like that to cross their mind’s threshold. And on the second count, guilty as charged; even if I made it my life’s pursuit, I’d draw my last ragged breath with the disappointment that I would cross the finish line less than half the man my grandfather had been. On some level I supposed that operating in the shadows would always haunt me to a certain degree, but I also believed that having a mentor like my grandfather motivated me to be a better person than I would otherwise hope to be.

After locating the row of stones belonging to my family I applied the brakes and popped the lever to release the trunk. I remember thinking that if the ominous slab of green clouds in the distance kept moving this direction that my visit might be cut short. When I moved the shifter from drive to park it was like a bolt of lightning pierced the right side of my chest and exploded on the opposing side, taking my breathe with it. What oxygen remained for intake was the heavy air of an approaching storm and each draw seemed to solidify into chunks too large to swallow. With the door already open there was little I could do to prevent myself from spilling out on the ground and striking my head.


In a panic I quickly searched my memory bank and recalled seeing no other vehicles in the cemetery. The feeling of complete helplessness sparked a surge of adrenaline. After a couple of shallow breathes the panic subsided as quickly as it arrived. Suddenly I was inexplicably thankful for the coolness of the earth against my cheek. From the onset, dark bands on either side had gobbled up my peripheral vision and I supposed they would continue marching toward the center of my eye until they had taken all they had come for. I lifted my head enough to get a glimpse of my grandfather’s stone. I stared at the marker intently until my neck could no longer support the weight of my head. There was a vague awareness that my left side was numb. My thoughts were coming in spurts now, colliding against one another, confused as to their destination. But there was absolutely no fear in any of it, just an eerie peacefulness that I was in good company.        

Saturday, August 2, 2014

Madam Butterfly

The mere thought of viewing the photo made my palms greasy. I supposed even a lion tamer beats back the fear of entering the cage through repetition so I vowed to study if often, until I either understood the intricacies contained within or it lost its power over me. My two older brothers stood on either side of me like bookends—much too well-groomed and handsome for lions. Both of them surely settled now with respectable wives, customary jobs, and promising offspring. One would think sufficient enough new memories to have crowed out the old. Cold as it seemed I would have preferred such an arrangement as expectations of others creates a heavy burden for a traveling man.  

My brothers were born better men than most — the type whom after all this time still couldn’t completely enjoy an after dinner drink without the liquor turning bitter against their tongues as an obligatory thought of their younger brother’s whereabouts and latest misadventures danced through their heads. I’m certain the marauding thought prompted a different set of questions as I believe the human mind is comprised of a unique labyrinth of dusty paths, but just as every winding river finds its way to a greater body of water I fear each in their own time arrived at the same destination, the corner of Misunderstanding Lane and Bewilderment Boulevard, completely perplexed and heartbroken as to how their younger brother continued to roam like a tumble-weed.       

Momma said from the onset of pregnancy she knew I was different—said she felt it rumbling in her belly like thunder. With each passing birthday I became more aware of this restless thing that churned inside of me—an insatiable appetite for adventure; a wolf that feasts and moves on quickly, afraid that if he  settles in one spot for more than a night the desire of pursuit might escape in a dream. He has glimpsed the nightmare before; another warrior too deflated and weak to stand. Even the arrival of dawn cannot stir him; instead she weeps bitterly knowing the power to revive and restore such things lies outside the realm of a rising sun. I fear the warmth of ten-thousand suns cannot loosen the icy grip of a crippling frost; descended under the cover of night, settling heavy on his coat, layer upon layer until it seeps into the marrow of his bones—poisoning from the inside out.  

For a man inexplicably drawn to the road the options seemed few; the answer deceptively simple. Unless a man carve out his insides completely or invite the deadly frost (either prospect more appalling than appealing); he must trudge onward, maintain a steady pace, and never look back.

If you consider such an illogical and poorly conceived manner of plotting a man’s course for life a philosophy, it served me well for nearly a decade. I suspect the freedom from being obliged to anyone for anything is what initially draws a man to a nomadic life-style, but it’s the acquired taste of adrenaline that keeps him chained there. Cast into a sea of drowning rats I learned to hold my breath and float to the top. I became skilled in the art of deception, playing the role of whatever would benefit me at the expense of those around me. In my travels I discovered North or South, city or burg; the world is overrun with liars and frauds. A full ninety-nine in one-hundred men would rather spend a week’s time apologizing for, rather than a minute embracing whom it is they truly are and will likely never be. And I have a sneaking suspicion the lone exception nothing more than a figment of an eternal optimist’s imagination. Conservatively I had re-created myself a hundred times over without anyone who could dispute even the smallest detail. Today would be no different.

Perhaps someday gambling would become an acceptable use of one’s spare time and earnings, but for now the God-fearing folks along the Mississippi would sooner invite Beelzebub himself to Sunday dinner. In such matters of deep disagreement and antiquated thinking it is commonplace to assume you are born belonging to one extreme or the other. One party believing that giving an inch to the opposition earns you a one-way ticket to a place of burning damnation, and the other side unable to conceive a haven of eternal rest worth the cost of such closed-minded company. For now the gambling houses peppering the hillsides were boarded up or had been burned to the ground forcing those struck with the ‘illness’ to open water where as of yet no restrictions existed.

The shadowy likeness of chandeliers hung above each table; the sparkle of crystal stifled by a layer of dust produced by a coal-burning engine; gangly fixtures producing enough light to distinguish the ball room from a root-cellar but not enough to discourage the gathering of rodents. Like paper dolls cut from the same flawed stock, each of them saddled with elongated faces; pasty and gaunt—too far removed from a good night’s rest. Their movements were slow and mechanical, feeding on the last fumes of alcohol boiling in their bellies. As I moved throughout the space I discovered a reoccurring theme; it appeared to me everything and everyone had given up the better parts of themselves to come here. Overall, an eclectic collection of zombies, but then I spotted a gentleman of substance with an attractive female dangling from his arm and I smelled opportunity.       

From the instant we locked eyes I believe we both recognized the danger in staring too long at another like us. I understood being the first to break the steely exchange constituted a perceived weakness, but I calculated it a better option than allowing him to prove it completely. He flashed a wry grin, pleased that I would surrender a first round so quickly. Despite his genteel disguise the man standing before me was as dangerous and poisonous a creature I’d encountered.

A naïve moment longer and I would have fallen under his spell completely. Disengaged from this silent brand of warfare I observed my adversary in a completely different light. Suit, shoes, and top hat, white as driven snow; a telegraphing of innocence, designed to delay the discovery of a blackened-heart beating beneath. I determined the monocle over his left eye less an ocular necessity than an instrument of war as I could still feel the scorching effects of it like a noon-day sun. Although his movements seemed random, his repositioning about the table was efficient and purposeful designed purely to gain advantage over another; like a boa constrictor ratcheting his grip. A mere three feet separating us suddenly seemed risky.  

“I find it quite stuffy down here. Think I’ll go topside for a smoke.”

Over the years I learned self-preservation comes instinctively. I didn’t recall commanding the words that left my lips, only the actions that kept me a man of my word.    

I discovered a measure of peace nestled in the muted sounds of a river-boat’s paddle slapping against the current. Without demanding any sort of attention the sun drooped into the shadows of the hickories lining the shore. I toyed with aligning the lit end of my cigarette and drawing hard enough to match her hue. Burrowing deeper into the safety of branches she appeared to smile—perhaps at such foolishness that any man would dabble at reproducing nature. Along with an occasional chuckle was the din of several quiet private conversations melting together, proving to me this place and those who loitered here were in complete contrast of those below. The topsiders were like my brothers. Perhaps by month’s end I would return home. It was always with good conscience I made such plans, perhaps a dozen times or more, never to act upon them. I wondered quietly if I’d reached such a level of decay that my own thoughts could not be trusted.    

During a brief exchange with a topsider I ascertained the name of the well-dressed gambler. The stranger hinted that Mr. Cleary came from old money, enough that he felt comfortable wagering a good percentage of it nightly on cards. I had yet to inquire about the female accompanying Mr. Cleary when a disturbance sent the topsiders scattering like mice. I turned to my new acquaintance to find the space on the bench as barren as a winter’s field. I recognized the flashy female slinking across the deck as the very same hanging from the arm of Mr. Cleary only moments earlier. I supposed it under his direction and part of a bigger plan that she approached me now unescorted.

“Is the seat next to you taken?”

Her voice arrived much softer than expected. I wished to respond cleverly and normally weaving a web of words, whether a small smattering of the truth or a complete fabrication, flowed as freely from my lips as water welling from a spring, but it took every ounce of concentration I could summon to ignore the intoxicating aroma of butterflies. I supposed it a costly perfume but the essence rather completely captured what I imagined such an elegant creature of the sky to smell like. Despite the waning light of day the beauty of her classic facial features sparked an aura of radiance, but the manner in which the purple cloth clung to her exquisite frame was perhaps her most disarming feature.        

“Feel free to sit, Madam Butterfly.”

She stared at me as if I had two heads. Upon realizing my response I now wished for two—one that might be assigned to stay on point and responsibly carry on a civil and productive conversation, leaving the other glassy-eyed and drooling to shamelessly record her every detail. And when she had left and the three of us settled down for the night we would gladly allow the foolish head to talk us to sleep.

“My sincerest apologies for the foolish speech that follows the consumption of too many drinks. The seat is open and you are welcome to it.”

Unlike others where laughter erupts in choppy and awkward bursts, it flowed from her like a sonnet begging to be written down. Still standing she bent gracefully at the waist and drew within striking distance. No stranger to being slapped sharply across the cheek, I braced myself.    

“What would say if I told you that I had my eye on you from the moment you entered the ballroom and not once did I see you order a drink?”

“What if I told you, good lady, that I carry a flask of fine Irish Whisky and it is nearly empty?”

She folded like cotton on the bench next to me, much softer and nearer than expected, then in a sultry manner she drew her lower lip between her teeth and smiled.  

“If not for shattering your expectation of an innocent doe I might simply reach inside your jacket and check for myself. But to save us both the discomfort of gossiping mouths I will instead inform you that I’m well within proximity to smell alcohol on your breath, and the absence of such makes you a professional liar!”

I don’t imagine the look of surprise on my face significantly removed from that of Goliath’s expression when struck in the forehead with David’s stone. This woman was either an exceedingly good judge of character or a hound sent to flush a nervous quail from the brambles. I suspected and hoped the latter.

“At the risk of sounding pointed, did your husband send you out here?”

She laughed again, nearly as gracefully as before.

“Yes and no, I suppose. First, Mr. Cleary is definitely not my husband and yes, daddy sent me up to extend an invitation to you.”

Without warning and disclosing a single word more she twirled around on the bench, stretched out on her back, and laid her head in my lap.  

I nervously swiveled in both directions. “So much for the gossiping mouths”, I laughed.

“My name is Miranda Cleary. Question of the night—if the world caught fire and you could keep only one would you save the fabulously starry skies along the river or rescue Michael Angelo’s greatest works?”
The warmth of such an attractive woman’s head seeping through the fabric caused my mind to run in circles. The thought of using my fingers to smooth the fabric of her dress flashed through. Only after flushing it completely could I give sufficient answer.  

“I’m Henry Carter, pleased to meet you Miranda. Well, ma’am, I suppose that since I know the beauty of one first hand and have only heard tell of the other it would be improper that my vote should count at all. Perhaps you ought to sit upright again; I’d hate for your father to come up and jump to wrong conclusions seeing your head buried in my britches. You said something about extending an invitation did you?”

“What would say if I asked you to kiss me right now?” Miranda probed.

I did my best to brush the question aside.

“I’d inform you that I haven’t been that limber since I was a boy of twelve.”

Undeterred, she popped upright and asked again. Certainly the daughter of a gambler she upped the ante.

“No bending involved. I’m not telling you what daddy sent me for until you kiss me.”

The light of a harvest moon played with the river and then my mind. Striking the surface she then leapt into the abundance of Miranda’s chestnut hair until every strand appeared to emit a tiny stream of light. Miranda’s eye sparkled with anticipation and truth be known I could fill a notepad ten times over with shadier things I’d done or been an accomplice to than simply kissing a woman who asked. As I brushed back her hair to expose the apple of her cheek my breathing picked up pace. Leaning towards my target Miranda pivoted quickly and caught me full on the mouth. Before I could protest, her electric lips devoured mine, transmitting a jolt of energy that caused every hair on my body to stand at attention. I can only assume the tingle extended into the cortex of my brain when my field of vision filled with spindles of colored light splintering from a central point in all directions toward outer space.

Suddenly Miranda pulled away and blurted so quickly I felt the sweetness of her breath in my face.

“You definitely piqued my father’s interest and that occurs on very rare occasions. Daddy noticed your hesitation at the table earlier but would still like the opportunity to get acquainted. He’d be delighted if you’d come to his suite; dinner at 7:30pm sharp—and a private game of cards I’m certain to follow. Oh Henry, won’t you please, please say you’ll come. Don’t think it to forward of me, but already I’ve grown rather fond of your company.”

At first I stared blankly into the darkness seeking answer where there were none to be found. Then I paced about the deck aimlessly for nearly half an hour, attempting to reason with my unreasonable self, exhaling more cigarette smoke than the old vessel belched out the stacks running full-bore upstream. I couldn’t shake the feeling that an innocent nod of acceptance had sealed my fate. ‘Where was you head?’ I scolded audibly before taking notice of the crossways glances and outright glares I was garnering. I shifted to a whisper but kept moving, ‘How could you have put yourself in harm’s way simply to avoid disappointing a woman you barely knew? You used to have a beautifully crafty mind, is it suddenly rendered completely useless as quickly as some woman beyond your reach inadvertently brushes again your heart-strings? Have you forget how intuitive Mr. Cleary had been during your first encounter. Beyond a shadow of a doubt he will know you’ve kissed his daughter. Hell, he probably knows you briefly considered caressing her under the guise of smoothing her dress. You may as well avoid the issue entirely by throwing yourself overboard now. The odds of being fit enough to swim to shore are better than surviving the viper you’ll face below deck.’

I immediately regretted working myself into such a frenzy as a brief glance at my timepiece revealed only five full minutes remained. The only thing more frightening than facing Mr. Cleary in his own surroundings would be the insult of arriving late. I drew an extraordinarily deep breath of fresh air and before descending down the stairs prayed it would not be my last.   

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Instinct Part 1

I saw plenty of cops come and go, but none more interesting and engaging than Dexter Hanley. The grizzly veteran was the oldest guy on the force by a good decade and most of the surface dwellers in the precinct didn’t bother digging any further than a first impression. Based on first encounters Dexter was an odd bird, but I’ve always believed there is a certain percentage of genius even in those labeled bat-shit crazy. More than anything I suppose a bad left eye and a few ticks spooked most people off, but if you weren’t afraid to ask a few questions and took time to listen to the answers you’d discover a loving and dedicated husband, grandfather, and exemplary officer. I’m not saying Dexter couldn’t have done more to bolster his image among his peers, but he didn’t seem to care much about what others thought and said of him. Like water off a duck’s back most days with the exception of one occasion that’s as fresh in my mind as yesterday.

Dexter arrived back at headquarters and as he strolled past the break-room caught a glimpse of the new rookie doing a bad impression of him. The kid was pretty buff, but definitely full of himself; the kind that poses in front of a mirror and honestly believes he’s doing the mirror a favor. The boy’s whole demeanor changed the moment Dexter hoisted him up like an empty milk jug, pinning him against the wall, leaving his feet to dangle like a paper-doll on a windy day.

While I can only assume Dexter’s insides were on the brink of boiling in their own juices he never lost his composure; his voice as smooth and rich as any high-paid news anchor that ever lived.

“There’s a difference between gym-tough and street-tough.” Dexter began. “I’ve yet to have a criminal challenge me to a curlin’ or bench-press contest, so probably best if you save that shit for your puffy-chested cronies at the gym—you know, the one’s starin’ at your ass in the mirror when you ain’t lookin’!”

The room erupted into a chorus of laughter and jeers as Dexter dropped the boy like a hot-rock. The punk folded into a pile at the baseboard like a dirty pair of socks and boxers at a bachelor pad, and was still quiverin’ like a bowl of half-set Jello as Dexter leaned down to offer some parting advice.

“Two rounds from a .45 in a dark alley will change your life—one in the back and one in the skull, so all things considered I’m mighty blessed to walk away with just a lazy eye. Son, I was walkin’ a beat in the nastiest part of Philly when you was still nuzzlin’ your momma’s teet and fillin’ yer diapers with green puddin’. That don’t make me better than you…just smarter, more experience of knowin’ when to keep my yap shut!”   

Dexter’s outburst put an end to the jokes around the station and as I look back marked the beginning of our friendship. Neither of us were the type to make friends easily but I suppose we each saw something in the other we identified with. On the surface we were night and day. Dexter was African-American, thirty years my senior, and grew up in the projects of a large city. I couldn’t imagine quitting school in the fourth grade and going to work to help your mother support your seven brothers and sisters. Despite experiencing the harsh reality of a cold and cruel world at such a young age Dexter navigated the choppy waters and not only emerged on the other side, but arrived there a much tougher and smarter breed than most. Quite admirably he appeared to harbor no animosity towards anyone. On the flip-side I came from an upper-middle-class exclusively white neighborhood and breezed through private school on my parent’s dime. They wanted me to pursue a psychology degree, but all the money in the world can’t make a square peg fit a round hole and that’s how it had been for me socially since grade school.  Out of respect I began working towards a psychology degree but silently resigned myself to a life of misery. Midway through my sophomore year I was walking home drunk from a party and had the fortunate experience of getting mugged and severely beaten; fortunate because I used the recovery time to formulate a plan for escape. Eventually I convinced my parent’s the world would not suddenly quit spinning if one kid changed his degree to criminal justice.          

I likened Dexter and his beautiful brain to a tightly wound ball of yarn. Locating the loose end proved difficult, but once identified, tugging on the fray unraveled an avalanche of knowledge that often flooded my brain to the point of overload. I can honestly say I continued to absorb information right up until the night he was killed in the line of duty.

Dexter failed to respond to a radio call and the search began. We found his squad car in an empty parking lot, driver’s side door riddled with bullet holes, and the front seat drenched in blood. The only thing missing was Dexter, no body and not a trace of it being removed from the vehicle. I knew he had been working an angle on something, but despite my inquiries he remained tight-lipped about the details. Like an older brother to me, I took the loss personal and worked on the mystery for more than a month. With little evidence and no leads, the higher-ups ‘encouraged’ me to quit chasing ghosts and let the past pass. Threatened with the loss of my job the case went cold, but I could never quite shake the feeling I’d let my friend down. More than anything I hated it for his family. Navigating the grief process is nearly impossible when you can’t even lay your hands on a body to bury.    

Nothing about Dexter could be remotely classified as conventional. Some of his techniques fell a good distance outside the lines, but the damndest thing was they always worked. I remember laughing out loud when he suggested I could essentially train myself to have a photographic memory, turn it on and off like a light switch. At the time I wasn’t even sure such things existed, but certainly if they did I figured you were wired that way or you weren’t. Turns out the old man couldn’t have been more spot on.   

Despite the distraction of a world moving at full speed, I took a deep breath and forced my mind into a state where everything crept like cold molasses over a frozen rock. I focused hard on the cigarette, able to make out the Phillip Morris label during each revolution until it covered the length of the interrogation room table. I followed it up with a lighter skidding along the same path until it dropped into the suspect’s hands.

“You got the smoke you asked for, let’s get down to business.”

“Knock yourself out—it’s your story, you tell it.”

Right out of the gate I didn’t like the guy’s attitude, but I supposed he had his agenda and I had mine, so I forged forward with my rendition of what I believed took place that night.

“I’m guessing it was around midnight when a pretty, little, brunette rounded the corner and started up the alley. You were probably pretty stoked to see a working girl that either wasn’t afraid to take the shortcut, or maybe she was too high to care. Don’t suppose it mattered to you either way as long as she moved away from the streetlights and into the shadows. That’s kinda where guys like you do their best work, isn’t it Rodney, under the cover of dark?”

I didn’t expect an answer, but paused on the off chance he might tip his hand. Instead, Rodney leaned back in the chair, sparked the lighter, and took a long drag. Veiled by a cloud of smoke I could still see that smug expression. If this punk wanted to play games I was definitely willing to turn up the heat.  

“Some women run around in primer, best suited for tooling around town and running errands. Not this shiny vixen; she was built for speed and lived for the thrill of the open road. It was those stiletto heels that set everything in perfect motion; banana curls dancing against the apples of her cheeks, tender breasts licking against the delicate lace of a thin teddy. Each step sent them heaving against their restraint, flirting with the brink of spilling over. All that visual temptation put to the sweet music produced by the rhythmic swishing of a leather skirt rustling against her thighs. Suddenly it didn’t matter that she wouldn’t give you the time of day because with each delicious step she unknowingly moved closer to the lion’s den. Then she’d have no say in anything. You’d bring her down, satisfy your own desires, and take what you wanted. Isn’t that what you were thinkin’, Rodney!”

The boy didn’t have to say a word; his pasty white complexion and the line of sweat-beads across his brow told me my rendition hit dangerously close to home. Just when I was set to take another bite out of this punk the Lieutenant nearly busted the door off the hinges.

“You damn renegade! Just what the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

After leveling the accusation of wrong-doing in my direction, the Lieutenant addressed my suspect.

“Rodney, gather your things and get back out on your beat, your partner’s waiting on ya!”

With the arrival of unexpected company the pressure in the room skyrocketed. I felt like I was trapped in a sauna with a broken thermostat running wide open. Calculated risk was a part of the gig but I had determined getting to know Rodney outweighed the potential repercussions of getting caught doing it. Now that my plan had fallen apart I hoped a cool down period would benefit my cause. I attempted to sneak out of the room on Rodney’s heels when the Lieutenant caught me by the collar.

“You crazy, unethical, son-of-a-bitch, that’s a fellow officer you’re interrogating like he’s Charlie Manson’s brother. You do understand if he has an ounce of sense he’ll make a phone call and in a flash the D.A. will be so far up my ass I’ll have trouble breathin’. Thank you for brining a fresh pile of shit to my doorstep, Officer Tanner. It’s like a bad infomercial…but wait there’s more. As if this steamy pile wasn’t enough, you placed a bright, shiny turd on top. Not only is Rodney a fellow officer, but more importantly my wife’s nephew! Hand me your weapon and badge. You earned yourself a month off without pay, starting now!”

After a few moments of silence the idea of being suspended unjustly boiled in my gut until it spilled over into angry words.

“You’re making a big mistake, Lieutenant. I understand you’re worried about the bad press associated with exposing a rotten apple from within. But for my own curiosity—is there a particular number of mutilated, young girls before you start losing sleep? Obviously three isn’t enough. And just how brutal do you think the press is going to be when they suspect more blood was spilled by your attempt to protect your reputation and family instead of doing your job?”

I thought my bosses head was going to spin off before he sputtered his next words.

“That’s an extra week of suspension for gross disrespect!”

I moved into his personal space until I was certain I could feel the pulsing of the bulging vein in his forehead.   
“That’s a physical impossibility, Lieutenant. By its very nature disrespect would indicate a prior level of respect, and the only thing gross in this whole situation is your level of negligence!”

Perhaps the most important single lesson Dexter taught me was that the loneliness associated with operating and thinking outside the lines is not a bad thing. We were working together one night, sitting at a stop light when it turned green. As I pulled through the intersection Dexter said he was going to ask me a couple questions. He stated there may or may not be correct answers, but the most important thing was to refrain from analyzing my replies and just respond instinctively. I suspected it was another of his tests so I laughed and agreed. 

“What was the model and make of the car following us that turned North on Culvert Ave?”

“Rust colored 69 Impala, black hardtop, looked to have a good sized dent in the driver’s front quarter.”

“Damn, I missed the dent completely.” He exclaimed. “You’re warmed up now, boy. Let’s go for broke.”

 “How many steps across the cross-walk, one curb to the other?”

“Size ten and a half, six foot male, normal stride, sixteen steps”

Dexter giggled like a school girl at her first dance, completely unable to suppress the excitement in his voice.

“Ok…OK, how many LED’s were in that green stop lamp?

“283”

The old man slapped the dash, “Nice try, but I gotcha—there’s 285.” He exclaimed proudly.

I turned at the next block and we circled back the original intersection.

“Check it out, Dexter, third ring from the center on the left side two are burned out, so makes 283.”

“Damn, boy, you’re unbelievable! But that’s what I’m talking about—most people don’t see things in that kind of detail, and even if they did their minds don’t process quickly enough to make it useful. You and I, we got a special gift and an obligation.”

The tone of his voice changed decidedly, “Son, you gotta promise me you’ll never move to the dark side.”


It was those words that haunted me ever so slightly, but I hoped Dexter could see in this case there was a thick, murky band of gray rather than a distinct fine line separating the two. Dexter was right about the keen insight we shared. While the majority of the officers appreciated Rodney’s sense of humor, I’d always had the ability to read people and was certain a rotten core lurked beneath the goofy exterior of Rodney Allen Kelly, and I aimed to prove it, with or without the backing of a badge and a legal weapon.

Friday, December 27, 2013

Seven-Hundred-Twenty

I’ve always believed my D.N.A. to be comprised of one primary component—if someone probed the bowels of my anatomical structure they would soon discover a single strand connecting all others; a wide and sweeping streak of stubbornness. Blaming genetic predisposition seemed as good a reason as any for insisting upon a second opinion before digesting the first, but I assure you that even the most steadfast refusal to accept the truth will not make it less true.
    
“There’s nothing we can do, Mr. Langdon. I’m sorry.”

Under the right circumstance certain words have exponentially more power than was ever intended the stringing together of a few syllables. They will steal a man’s breath, freeze everything around him, and cast him into a world of isolation where what transpires between splintered seconds is an alter-reality known only to him. During that frozen slice of limbo a lightning bolt charged down through the ceiling. In a fiery show of wrath it struck the floor, ripping open a chasm that separated me from all other living creatures. Suddenly I was sitting alone in a forgotten corner, silently choking on the poisonous shades of reality.

It is unclear how long I lingered in this private desert of suffering before a sound or perhaps something more subtle drew my attention to the clock. The second-hand fluttered in a state of ambiguity, seemingly paralyzed by an equal dread of glancing back or the prospect of forging forward. For some the mention of coincidence explains a great many mysteries, but I could not convince myself the battle being waged by the keeper of time was not eerily my own. As entwined as I understood us to be, a wave of relief washed over me when the ticker began to sweep predictably again. As it marched onward the numbness of my mind subsided and once again I began to hear and process spoken words. 
     
“Due to the aggressive nature the cancer has gained an irreversible foothold on all vital organs. None of the treatments currently available will be effective. I truly am sorry, Mr. Langdon.”

The offering of a month seemed hardly enough time to complete the remodeling of a small room. Yet in the midst of awkward silence I came to realize that sometimes, suddenly and inexplicably, the road runs out. My lease on life was seven-hundred twenty hours and counting.

It was my grandfather’s belief that if a man is to be any man at all he must discover purpose for himself, especially during times when the world tries to convince him he has nothing to contribute. By all accounts it was late in the game, but I supposed recording my days in a journal might bare some semblance to purpose. And if boys were made of slugs, and snails, and puppy-dog tails I could relay an uplifting tale of how a man being assigned a number results in a spectacular transformation; how he dedicates himself to a great cause for humanity or even that he simply lives out his remaining days checking off items on a bucket list. The ugly truth of the matter is it was exceedingly easy to squander the first of my last hours floundering in a sea of self-pity.

Day1:
Upon arriving home from the hospital I voluntarily quarantined myself to the study as I was unfit company. After pouring a generous glass of cognac and lighting a fire I burrowed deeper into the recliner than I could ever recall. Surrounding myself with physical comforts seemed a subtle means of defense against the icy claws of reality scratching to get in.

Ironic such news be delivered in the dead of winter; the brutality of which was both symbolic and tangible as a Canadian cold front stalled over our region. As I poured a second glass of spirits I indentified the sound of icy claws to be the bare limbs of an overgrown Elm brushing against the bay window. One of a bushel-basket full of things I had yet found time for, but now I supposed the weight of such burdens would fall to someone else. I wondered aloud what he might look like—this mysterious trimmer of trees. How long before he drove my car, dined regularly at the dinner table, and eventually lay on my side of the bed loving my wife better and more completely. A respectable man should want that for his wife—for his children, but the images were too bitter.

Drink after drink one hour rolled into another as I wrestled with answerless questions and faceless demons, pursuing each doubt vigorously and without remorse. A young hound cut loose on a fresh trail for the first time, naiveté would carry him deep into the woods before discovering the illusive and intangible are always faster and more cunning than you imagine, multiplying and melting into the creases of shadows until such time as you pass too closely. Then in an irreversible moment hunter becomes hunted and like a band of thirsty demons they descend upon you, ripping flesh from bone, smiling as they dissect, never retreating fully, providing only enough separation that you might relive the terror of their approach over and over. Fangs designed for grizzly deeds, blackened hearts fueled by the notion that work is unfinished until they have dismantled everything that defines you. Finally, the distinct smell of death settles heavy in the nostrils of the alpha male and on his lead they pour back into the shadows each of them carrying a sliver of your soul in their steely-jowls. 
         
Deep in my bones I felt the steady plodding of pursuit, as if I had escaped from the gallows and the hooves of steeds ridden by heartless henchman were bearing down upon me. I anticipate the lead man’s fingers gripping my collar, sweeping me off my feet, and the defining moment when he holds my face to the dim flicker of a lantern. I expend my final breath on the last laugh as the case of mistaken identity is revealed to all. Henchmen, reduced to fools, having wasted such resources on the pursuit of a hollow man. 
      
The whirling in my head slowed to a waltz as I dove headlong into a deep and penetrating stare. Just beyond the frosty panes of glass a north-eastern gale sweeps up the fallen snow into a blinding fury, blocking out what remains of the sun. Subtle shades of evening gobble up the last remnants of day and for the first time in my life I experienced a reverent fear of what lays on the other side of a sunset.

Dealing with my own thoughts had become too cumbersome. With vision grown cloudy and head bobbing I welcomed the steely approach of a blissful state of unconsciousness. Just as I moved toward the threshold I heard a voice that rattled me.

“Congratulations, you’ve spent decades in the relentless pursuit of nothingness. How does it feel to be like me?”

I recognized the gravelly voice as that of my estranged brother—always the renegade, even now in the afterlife. A portion of me questioned whether I possessed the coordination to turn and face him and the remainder was too defiant to grant him the courtesy. Headstrong, my words dribbled into the empty corner in front of the chair.
   
“For the love of God, can’t an ailing man simply die in peace?”

“Is that what you think you’ll find—peace? You always fancied yourself so different than me—better somehow. Tell me dear brother, am I the only one that finds amusement that in a single drunken sitting you’ve reached the end of you?”

After a concerted effort I managed to turn and face him. He needed to see the fire in my eyes.

“You selfish little bastard! Running around trying to find yourself; tattooed from head to foot, hopping on your motorcycle coming and going as you pleased. The only thing you left behind was your share of the chores and a young boy searching for the words to comfort our mother! Died at nineteen, bottle of whiskey in one hand, throttle rolled back with the other. Don’t you lecture me about reaching the end of myself when you never bore an ounce of responsibility for anything. You took the coward’s way out—too scared to even scratch the surface of what you might have become!”

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Thought of the Day

All days are not created equal. While considering the trappings of the day, decent is the best I can come up with. I pause to glance over my shoulder at the setting sun, awed by the way it nestles into place among the bank of clouds on the horizon. Taking a deep breath, I tuck decent in the hip pocket of my jeans and walk steadily and confidently toward tomorrow.

Sunday, August 4, 2013

Thought of the Day

Time is a curious thing—referred to as marching on, slipping away, or standing still. How can something as omnipresent do any of the above without our notice? I am convinced more today than yesterday that the deciding factor is perceptually based. Good or bad circumstances tend to deliver us to opposing states. During bad circumstances we become aware of an ugly excess and during joyful times we cannot grasp a single fleeting second for preservation. It is my observation we cannot fully comprehend and appreciate the expanse of such things as time, and my supposition that we are broken internally, whereby naturally we only have the capacity to operate within the outside bands of the spectrum, whittling away at a daunting pile of unwanted measures or wistfully pining for those blurry moments past. Perhaps true living begins when we become resistant to the corrosive outside influence of circumstance, i.e. the world spinning around us. That we neither wish away nor ask for a single moment back, that no matter how they bend or break us that we remain resolute in diligently searching until we find value and purpose in all of them.

Friday, August 2, 2013

Thought of the Day

Neglect is neither purposeful nor rooted in malice when it comes to pursuing your own course in life, but also there exists no lesser degree of negligence for when old friendships get left behind.   

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Second Thought of the Day

A rainbow is perfectly bent with just enough arc that each color finds a voice and the hues travel harmoniously from one side of the sky to the other. A feeling of awe washes over me…that I will never comprehend the breaking point of something as precise as the bending a rainbow. That despite an artist’s abilities he or she will never create an exact replica of the sky. That the capabilities of our creator are endless and questioning his means of accomplishing things should always be something I run from.

Thought of the Day

So is the beauty of dreams...more than choosing a destination, the destination chooses us.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Thought of the Day

At night when the air is still and sound carries further than it should, I hear the cry of hope drowning and the empty thud of crumbled dreams. HE reminds me, apart from Him, this world knows nothing of faith, hope, and love, and without those there is nothing to separate birth from death.  

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Thought of the Day

Every moment in our lives appears only once, never to return. Those spent lamenting the past will only consume the present

Saturday, July 13, 2013

Creed's Cave (Part 1)


As a kid certain things are just about impossible to remember, like math homework or taking trash to the curb on Wednesdays. At the opposite end of the spectrum are the things you can never completely forget. I’m not talking about the night you decide to investigate the strange sounds coming from your parent’s bedroom. Those kinds of natural disasters may set a new free-style record on the ‘gross-out meter’ and speaking from experience you’ll feel a mild discomfort as you explain to your literature teacher that you need an alternate assignment when the rest of the class has no problem with the title, Call of the Wild, but in most cases no permanent damage is done.


I’m talking about the serious stuff—the kind that changes the way you think and who you are forever. It’s like something weird happens where every last detail gets permanently etched in your brain. I supposed it was like that for Rodney and Clutch too, but never bothered asking. We swore under oath to never breathe a word about what happened that day to anyone. The pinky-swear didn’t specifically prohibit talking about it amongst ourselves. I figure we were too busy trying to sort things out in our own heads. I don’t know, maybe some things are just too traumatic to relive.

I sensed we were about to embark on a journey that would take us places no neighborhood kid had ever seen and lived to tell about it. The two-story tree house we built in Clutch’s backyard three summers ago was impressive, but I had a gut feeling we were on the precipice of something way cooler. Precipice—edge, steep cliff, or drop off. I remembered the word from a spelling-bee. From that point forward I was into new words and their meanings. This thirst for knowledge certainly wasn’t anything I could share with Clutch and Rodney—couldn’t needlessly risk the loss of ‘cool points’. Good friends are hard to find and even harder to hold on to.

Although he refused to acknowledge it, his real name was Reginald Clemons. We called him Clutch because no matter the odds he always came through. The last person to call him by his real name was Rocky Ford and ain’t no one seen him since. Some kids say he changed schools—reckon he had to after the beatdown Clutch gave him. Clutch was outgunned by close to a hundred pounds and gave up at least two feet in height. Witnesses said it was funny to see Clutch eye-level with the waistband of Rocky’s jock-strap, but I think my buddy saw it as a challenge. Clutch chased him out of the locker room and took him down at center-court, right in the middle of the jump circle. Before it was done Clutch blacked both his eyes and during the melee removed and was using Rocky’s own jock-strap for leverage in a rear-naked choke. That’s when Mr. Livingston broke things up and sent the gathering on their way. I would have died on the spot from embarrassment, but rumor had it that the whimpering coming from the janitor’s broom closet a half-hour after last bell was the broken spirit of a 275lb nose guard. And ain’t nobody even thought of calling him Reginald since.

I figured Clutch was born tougher than most. Kind of like dogs I guess, some are named FeFe or Felix—made of fluff, perfect size for your lap, and perform tricks for miniature treats. Others command names like Moses or Zeus—shoulders wide as a wheelbarrow, go for the jugular every time, and for fun kicks they hunt dogs named FeFe or Felix. Maybe he was born regular, but livin’ on the wrong side of the tracks changed that. Rodney and I couldn’t imagine walking to school every day with thugs hidin’ around every corner—looking to take something from you. I suppose Clutch’s dad took the most from him though. Seemed like he was always beating him with a belt for no reason at all other than he drank too much and he could. If Clutch liked ya he was the kind of guy you wanted to have around and he like me and Rodney plenty. Probably ‘cause we were different from everyone else—me and Rodney tried not to ask him much about what went on at home. A couple punk kids couldn’t do nothin’ to change it and it seemed altogether easier to image the bruises, cuts, and welts came from thugs on the street than a guy he called dad.

Rodney was just plain old Rodney except when he ate fried food. I personally think he had some kind of undiagnosed enzyme imbalance. If he so much as looked at a French fry, within an hour he became a walking, talking, bag of flatulence. That’s when we called him ‘Rotney’, which didn’t seem to bother him much at all. Rodney was the kind of kid that played the smallest detail up—forever coming up with a story to embellish his ‘rare talent’. He told us the Army had secret agents posted outside of his house. Said they were trying to bottle his funk to be used as a chemical weapon in Afghanistan. Every kid’s gotta find something he’s good at—sometimes it don’t matter what it is.

Like Clutch I was saddled with a name that was useless. Why do parents insist on giving kids names that only get used on birth certificates, school registration, and other useless stuff? So Sydney Lyle II became Sid. A three letter name saves on school-supply outlay when you factor in the cost of pencils and writer’s cramp as well. Alphabetically speaking it moved me up a couple of notches in lunch line. There were two other kids in my class with the last name of Smith. Tyler going by Ty didn’t really buy him anything. And Sidon—well, he wasn’t really smart enough to play the game. Sidon was the kind of kid you suspected ate too much play-dough in Kindergarten, or maybe fell off the monkey-bars at a bad angle.

We found the boat weeks earlier, but waited that long to make sure it didn’t belong to anyone, or if it did they wouldn’t miss it for a day. If my calculations were correct and the legend was true we could reach Creed’s Cave, camp for the night, and make the return trip within a twenty-four hour window.

The evening prior to our departure the three of us met for a final inspection. Rodney had a mind for detail so I trusted him when he said the number of cobwebs, in the corners of the boat and from the craft to the surrounding weeds had increased. I verified the lack of footprints in the flour we sprinkled on top of the mud around the bow of the boat. Clutch was busy doing a visual inspection of the craft. Maybe he was testing the side of the boat for integrity, but I think Clutch just bored. That happened on a pretty regular basis. Anyhow, Rodney and I were too busy with our own assignments to see Clutch draw back his right foot and kick the side of boat. Hard enough that echo reached the trees and came back in a matter of milliseconds. Rodney and I both hit the deck and rolled into the weeds. I thought we’d been shot at and was thankful the owner had the decency to fire a warning lob.



I scanned the weeds until I found a monster-set of eyes staring at me. Rodney had worn thick glasses since first grade, but when he got scared the gap between his eyes and the frame got swallowed up completely.

“Sounded like a 12 guage, Sid. You see Clutch anywhere?”

If I didn’t know better I’d have thought Clutch was auditioning for the role of a mad scientist. The scene was that creepy moment when he’s combining test tubes and finally gets the formula right. The laughter rolling from him came in volleys.

Sometimes Clutch played too much. I hadn’t decided whether I was pissed off enough to scold him or not, but trying to wipe away the muck from my tee-shirt was pushing me in that direction.

“You should have seen you two duffus’ hit the deck—it was like a fire drill, stop, drop, and roll. Hey Rodney, look it’s the Army, they’re here to capture that funk of yours, bend over and take one for your country!”

Good sense left me completely, as I walked straight over to Clutch and chest-bumped him.

“Look, Clutch, I know you like to goof on us, and that’s OK most of the time, but we got serious business to tend to. Come tomorrow morning the three of us are going to be starring into the steely jaws of the unknown. If we can’t stick together and know without a doubt each of us has the other’s back—well, well, maybe we all just get swallowed whole!”

Only after I’d acted in frustration did I think about Clutch deciding to use his fist on the top of my head to pound me into the soft marshy ground, and the silence screaming from him did nothing but bolster the vision. I turned to Rodney for support and got a nod of agreement and an almost inaudible accompaniment.

“ Yeah—what Sid said.”

The anger in Clutch’s eyes faded and his facial expressions rolled back in time.

“Sorry guys, you know you can count on me. Some jaggedy, old tooth monster grabs one of you, he better be ready to have his tonsils removed—the hard way. You know I ain’t afraid of nothin’!”

Clutch grabbed a handful of me and Rodney’s shirts, and after bumping us together like bookends, he called for the secret handshake.

The sun had almost vanished by the time we reached the edge of town and split up to head to our respective homes.

“OK, meet back here at 6:30am sharp and we’re doin’ this thing. Rodney, you got the tent, sleeping bags, and lanterns covered, right? I’m bringing cooking stuff, matches, flashlights, canteens, a hatchet, and a bag full of dad’s camping stuff.”

I glanced at Clutch. He had his head down. The shadows were getting long, but not enough that I couldn’t make out an expression I’d never seen before. I searched quickly for the right words.

“And Clutch, you’re bringing a big set of hairy balls and enough ass to steam-roll anything that gets in our way, right?”

Clutch grinned and our fists met.

“Yep…already got it covered”, Clutch giggled.

“Alright, let’s get some sleep men. 6:30am…set your alarms, and don’t forget to tell your parents you’re spending the night with someone other than one of us. We don’t want them checking up.”

As I finished my walk home I sorted through my thoughts. The three of us had always been tight, but tonight the dynamics changed a bit. Two things happened I thought I’d never see. For the first time in his life Clutch backed down. I think I represented the first person in his life he could trust completely and therefore respect. I never considered myself a leader at all. That was a risky proposition; screw up and you got a coop on your hands. But it felt pretty good having stepped up tonight. I’d never be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but half of the battle is recognizing and admitting that. I was however savvy enough to know the leadership road was rocky and filled with potholes. A quality leader needed to be measured and careful in their approach. Those that weren’t became dictators. My decisions had to be for the betterment of the group as a whole. I had a gut feeling that the swirling, ugly water leading up to entrance of Creed’s Cave would demand everything we had—if not more. We needed a competent leader to guide. These weren’t subordinates at work, they were life-long friends and I wouldn’t let anything jeopardize that.