Reflections

You left me in the springtime when once again the world was teeming with blessed new life, amid vibrant flowers and a revitalized sun, the refreshing sweet afterbirth of mother earth, but our laws of physics simply do not allow for the continued earthly union of a beating heart and the untethered soul. It felt like a cruel joke, an unprovoked reprimand, but then again, what time of the year could possibly have been any more suitable than that time of year? You were just taken from me, pitilessly snatched away – that is all.

Oh the stunning aftermath of your departure – bewilderment, amazement, misery. The void you left behind was almost more than the space you had filled. That is my fault of course, because in the end a lack of appreciation is always felt severely by the foolish neglector – I see now that your presence was a precious taken-for-granted gift. And where you have gone now, what you must feel now, any remnants of your human senses and what they can still see, hear, feel, if anything – it hurts my brain to try to think of it, my comprehension so lacking, my humanity too feeble, and my own pitiless senses swell and then take over me and I raise these poor hands to these swollen eyes and wipe away the most human of things, the grief-stricken tear. I feel fear for you, I feel fear for myself, and no amount of spiritual counseling seems to lessen this burden.

I first came back to this place in the early summer, back to our little cottage by the lake, amidst the solitude of hushed woods and the reliable sunshine that spilled through bountiful branches and splashed across the water’s surface in late afternoons. The birds sang and the breeze whispered through the cottonwoods and I spent mornings walking along that shoreline, viewing views that you might have once viewed, thinking thoughts that you might have once thought, and there were times other women approached me from afar and I was crushed when they finally came into close proximity and did not materialize into you.

Afternoons were spent sitting on the dock where you once sat, lounging on the day bed where you once lounged, me attempting to read the pages of books that you once read. But it was of no use – I couldn’t seem to turn a single page, I stumbled over their words, my mind kept going back to the image in my mind, of you on this day bed reading this book, these same words rendering your face calm, pleasantly involved, and lost in a sweet peace.

It’s true, back then I envied your peacefulness – now I revere it.

Nighttime was sheer desperation and I was far too sad to even contemplate alcohol or pills. I didn’t feel the need to escape anything at all – I didn’t want to escape it – it was all I had, it was just me. I was absorbed by it, my stinging grief, and so I willingly surrendered, seeing absolutely no reason to fight it. I simply could not escape its awful gravity – it had become me.

I fled at the first sign of autumn, at the first hint of chill when the sun no longer bothered to splash the lake with its waning output. I had scavenged those shores and foraged those woods long enough, a purposeless phantom, and finally reached the point where I craved simple change. So I tried to lock the doors, shut down my heart, and abandoned this once happy place.

I returned to the crowded city streets, losing myself in their constant roar and endless bustle, forever wandering aimless footpaths, and I sat in absolute silence as I attended tedious gatherings and sat alone in the back of mostly empty movie houses, uncomfortably numbed, unresponsive, uncaring, something distant and unintelligible happening on a faraway screen. Truth be told I ignored my fellow man and for the most part they ignored me as well, as if I no longer existed – perhaps without your love I no longer do.

In mid October I returned to our cottage when the chill had properly settled and the trees had turned to splendid color. It was both beautiful and sad and I felt, if not exactly at peace, then perhaps at least somehow suitably satisfied. I lamented, I romanticized, I reflected upon you… upon all of our days together.

But again by early November I was drawn away, out of impatience or intolerable sadness I do not know, both I would suppose, and fled the sad tranquility of the cottage with its drifts of leaves and the wafting pastoral wood smoke and returned once more to my old bitter duties, wandering lonely streets and biding my abundance of wretched time. My late night footsteps were the echoes of forlorn dreams inside the heads of good men and my moans of pain drifted through the naked treetops like a noxious wind.

But now it is December 23rd and I find myself here once again, the snow layered deep, the evergreens preening tall, our solemn lake bitterly cold yet not quite frozen. Just like me, for I am not quite frozen, yet unrepentantly bitter, and I don’t know if a thaw shall ever my way come.

I know how much you loved this place. All the year round, but especially the late summer when the loons congregated for one last celebration and then came the early autumn day when they all were gone and the silence was more abrasive than their haunted jabbering ever was. We never saw them leave but we always knew where they were, joining the flock and flying south in an impressive V formation and we felt reassured in the knowledge that they would return again one day, back to our lake, to this cottage, to nest once more in the welcoming warmth of our contented souls. We never fathomed that they would not return, or that we would not be here upon their arrival. For all intents and purposes we, or at least I, had imprudently considered the change of seasons some kind of guaranteed perpetuity despite all the evidence to the contrary and now find that my world stopped spinning on that sad spring day, the promise of new growth and fruition forever left unfulfilled.

It was here that you loved to walk barefoot upon the soft green grass, across the sandy smooth shore, up and down the old wood staircase – footprints! footprints! footprints! – your footprints were everywhere! Now they are all buried beneath the mounting snow which shimmers blue in the bright moonlight.

This is almost unbearable – the memory strikes me in the gut and I damn near clench over. There is the little holly we planted. Oh God yes, there it is. You bought it potted last year toward the end of the holiday season and could not simply toss it onto the heap, you said that it would be a waste, a crying shame, and you enlisted me to help plant the scrawny little shrub. I had smiled at your good intention but informed you that it could not possibly survive a winter planting, it could only be sired successfully in the spring, but secretly I admired your respect for its life and had willingly succumbed as an indifferent accomplice to your futile endeavor. In the end, we broke the hard ground and gave it a chance.

It’s still here.

If only you could see it now.

At dusk of this night I sit staring out at the lake, across the empty darkness that deepens throughout, and I approach the water’s edge. Across the silver surface the lights from the other side are now taking effect and I wonder about the souls who tend to each source. Are they simply fending off the night or inviting it to maybe lessen its burden? And I think of you somewhere out there, all alone, and I pray that you can remember and I pray that you can wait, that you will wait. In the gloaming I implore the Almighty to please somehow soothe my pain.

And I see a light.

A radiant orb just above the surface and it bounces for a moment and then it is gone. My brain is befuddled but my spirit is lifted – I had asked for a salve, would I not be a fool to denounce the vision and deny its existence?

Back inside where the assembled wood is in need of a lit match I wander through the rooms, bouncing off walls in the dark, searching for a suitable place that I can peacefully sit and rest. And I consider the heavy mirror we hung in the foyer, there at the foot of the stairs, and I know that you were once on that glass, smiling, primping, but mainly just smiling. Most times you walked right on past, and unsuspecting the mirror would grab your reflection as you blazed across, but you were assuredly all over that glass, your carefree visage glimmered and sparkled on those beautiful ordinary days. Now you are gone and there is no echo, no faded image – the glass only reflects the present light, the mirror only respects that moment’s truth, this man with the deep sorrow in his eyes. And yet I gaze into it now and see nothing! Oh how I wish that I could take it down and climb to the highest mountain and attach it to the highest pole and point it toward the brightest star in hopes of by chance capturing the return of your spirit, that rare comet of mercy sent to assuage my pain. Silly thought, I know, but if heart and soul and mind cannot conjure your return then all I’ve got are my poor legs and a rabid determination that can carry me to that highest point where the faint glow of heaven may, under the best of conditions I’m told, be detected by the naked eye.

What else to do but commence the climb?

For now there remains only this – the mirror still hangs on the wall where your lovely hands once tenderly placed it.

The next day is a lonely Christmas Eve and all I can do is wait, hope, believe that the orb of light will reappear and so when twilight finally approaches I return to the same spot near the lake and resume my act of faith. And my patience is tested yet I adhere to my pledge and suddenly there it is once more, and it is expanding, growing into an effervescent bubble and I can begin to make out the form of a human face, but then it shatters into a glittered dust and disappears in an instant and again I am left wondering if it was really ever there.

What can it mean, this tortuous visage, this strange apparition? The answer appears to be so tantalizingly close and yet so far – I am at a complete loss to explain its significance.

It is then that I hear a motorized vehicle driving up through the drifts, spinning its wheels, shifting down into a grinding four-wheel drive, and I can’t possibly fathom who would come calling on this night at this time? The last possible thing I desire is company, be it friends with good intentions or strangers lost in a storm. I curse their presence, their very nerve, to impose themselves like this, to actually believe that I can help them or that they can help me!

And so I choose to ignore the perpetrator and I sit and I wait. And I speculate about the expanding orb, I try to recall that faint familiar countenance, I attempt to figure out what it could all possibly mean.

And then a glowing light emanates from the cottage windows and a tiny light ignites within my own dimmed mind.

I feel as if I am stuck in time, my consciousness a series of photographic images aligned on a taut string, my motivation propelled by these palpable emotional impulses. I move quietly through the front door and down the hall. I notice the small puddles of melted snow on the bricked entryway, the wet footprints leading down the hall and into the living room where a great fire is now raging in the hearth.

And I see the back of a chair facing the fire, her hair hanging down below. She sits in that little wooden chair no one ever sat in, the one that rests in the dark corner – a place to stack books, the odd package, the unneeded frock tossed aside. She has summoned it for this one occasion and dragged it from its dark corner and now sits in it with her hands folded staring into the fire. As I float past her I see her beautiful sad face, I see her tears glistening in the firelight, but she doesn’t seem to notice me.

It is at that precise moment that the lake freezes over and so do I, I am stuck right there, reaching out for her with arms that cannot reach, crying out in a voice that cannot be heard, a helpless phantasm of heartache and desire, and it is then that I realize it is I who must walk alone through this raging fire, it is I who must enter into its eternal light, that I had not merely walked to the edge of our lake these past two evenings but had in fact floated above it, looked down, and seen my own confused reflection – that it is I who must fight to remember and who shall vow to forever wait.

And wait I will.

Merry Christmas, my dear, my love, wipe away your tears and please go tend to our precious little holly, with its tiny fragile branches and unseen clinging roots and the secret faithful fruit it shall one day bear when spring finally does come round once more.



Author’s Note:

This story was inspired by Vladimir Nabokov’s wonderful yet sad short story titled Christmas. It is my hope that, like Nabakov’s story, in the end it inspires hope.

Christmas Stories Volume 1

For the past five years or so I've made it a tradition to write at least one Christmas story during the holiday season. I really enjoy the process and find that it usually helps me ease into some sort of suitable spirit. A lot of times I'll end up writing another story right after Christmas as I suppose that sometimes it's hard for me to shake off that spirit once suitably absorbed.

I'm a clinger.

Anyway, on the heels of the Mercy Stone kindle publication I decided to put together a little ebook of Christmas stories. I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to get it together in time but just wrapped up my own editing and formatting last week. I'm sure that there will be something that I'll look back on and wish I had done better but I'm not a stickler for perfection. So here it is... what follows are some notes regarding the included stories.

The first story in the collection, Aquene, was written last year and is one of those stories written during the period just after Christmas. It felt strange to finish this story about two troubled men stuck in an airport right before a huge blizzard actually hit the east coast stranding real people. Then a week or so later came the tragic Gabrielle Giffords shootings in Tuscon and when I saw a photo of the little girl who died that day, Christina Taylor-Green, I was struck by the fact that her pretty face was so similar to the image of the little girl that I had in mind.Very chilling and very sad.

Christmas Eve Medicine Park 1907 was written way back in December of 2007 during the Oklahoma Centennial as I had the urge to try to write something historical about my home state in honor of its first 100 years. The late Senator Elmer Thomas is actually my great-grandfather and I trust he doesn't mind my dusting off of his persona for my own literary pursuit. From all accounts he appeared to be a little more serious than the fellow depicted in my story but heck, I had fun writing it so lets just go with it. As an aside, I recently completed a novella called The Mercy Stone about the life of Geronimo and had the idea to devote a chapter in that work to the telling of this same story but from Geronimo's perspective. That proved to be another fun exercise.

I thought long and hard about the inclusion of Here We Come! understanding that its content might not be considered acceptable holiday fodder for some readers. But back in December of 2008 when I wrote the piece it sure seemed like a reasonable response to compose this angry tirade with its (hopefully) humorous edge directed toward our foolish and greedy (and still to this day unpunished!) leaders - hell, we were seemingly stuck in a fiscal death spiral at the time. So I pulled no punches then and offer no apologies now. In fact, it might serve us all well to remember that such industrious elves, gremlins, and Siberian ogres may still be lurking out there biding their time! And yet I believe that Two Hills And A Mountain, which came later that same December, serves as a karmic rebuttal to my more cynical inclinations. It's arrival seemed to balance out the scale for me at the time.

A couple of years ago I finally got around to reading A Christmas Carol and found the segment about the Ghost of Christmas Future taking Scrooge on a mystical journey which included the viewing of a solitary lighthouse as an interesting launching point. It seemed like such an arbitrary insertion into the story and to serve what purpose? Perhaps to spark a creative impulse in some future reader? So I asked myself what if there was someone in that lighthouse far below watching the seas and the heavens that night? I noted this idea in my calendar and in December of 2009 A Solitary Lighthouse was writ.

Naturally I've always wanted to write a story that somehow fed off of It's A Wonderful Life. I'd actually thought of the title George And The Bridge and was trying to come up with a compelling story line - maybe I still will one day. But then the idea of Frank Hagney came to me in December of 2010. I did a little research on the man and came up with all the facts that are revealed in the story. However, I truly know nothing of his personal family life including the dispositions of his descendants. My account is strictly from the point of view of a fictional character who I assume does not exist. I certainly intend no disrespect to the family of Frank Hagney or the man himself.

In October of this year, while I was thinking about putting this Christmas collection together, I decided to write a couple of stories to help fill it out. I wound up producing four stories within a two week period. Two of those stories, Merry Christmas and Levitation, were written simultaneously and share their brevity with a certain tone although their theme and sentiment are quite different. I wound up writing An Atheist Christmas right after those two and then finished the flurry with Beyond which is a semi-autobiographical piece.

I've always enjoyed the mystical aspect of the Christmas story. The star and the guiding light, angels from heaven, the benevolent magic of the season. I consider it all as a part of some greater cosmic scheme which, when you boil it all down, only wants us to be a little nicer to one another.The cover photo of the Christmas Tree Nebula seems to be a fitting symbol for this sentiment.

So I end with a heartfelt Merry Christmas (although not exactly like the one experienced by our man in the similarly-titled story) to one and all... I appreciate your support... so give it!

The Mercy Stone

I recently uploaded my first ebook to the Kindle store.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED... PROCEED WITH CAUTION!

The Mercy Stone is a short novella revolving around the much heralded and maligned terror of the Apaches, Geronimo. The story, divided into five parts (Memory of Smell / Daffodils / Meeting of the Spirits / Ascension / The Mercy Stone), is my attempt to contrast the man’s well-documented brutality with his code of honor while exploring the dual nature that resides in all men (and women, for that matter). Back in the day he was called the greatest mass murderer in history by a few Washington bureaucrats, still I can’t help but sympathize to a certain extent with the man’s plight given his circumstances. And my family has a strong connection to the Medicine Park area near Fort Sill, Oklahoma, where Geronimo lived out his last days and accordingly over the years I have been well-versed in some of the old lore.


I believe that The Mercy Stone is a good candidate for my first e-book endeavor because not only is it a recently completed story, it is also a relatively simple work to format and upload. There are a few small formatting issues that I’d like to improve upon before my next project is uploaded but for the most part I’m happy with the result. Priced at only 99 cents I’m obviously going for the volume end of the equation – actually (and thankfully), it’s not the money that matters, just the open-ended opportunity for exposure.


Should you choose to indulge I would be honored… I hope you like it.

Time Waits

Yesterday I was taking a long slow jog when Time Waits (album version) by Adrian Belew popped up on my IPOD. Always nice to hear something from Belew anytime anywhere. Then another song came on (which now I can't seem to recall) and then Time Waits (the acoustic version) came back on again. Whoah. Now I've got 6,784 songs on my IPOD so for that particular song to come on almost back to back gained my attention.

So I thought to really listen.

Time waits 
It waits for no one
I'd like to go on
But I'm out of time.

A message from the ghost in the machine, the spirit in the chip, the IPOD creator to me?

No, Steve Jobs didn't actually send it to little old me. All the same, I most certainly did receive it. 

Beach People

for Lou Ann


THIS is the place where the vast ocean finally meets the continental shelf, where the ceaseless waves lap foamy upon the endless shore, where white sand gets paved brown by lunar tidings, where the wet licks the dry – this is the place where woman and man come to frolic, relax, burn.


It is the beach and these are its people.


Nighttime wipes this canvas clean, the high tide delivers, the low tide reveals, and each dawn is a fresh revelation. Footprints erased, debris blown away, it is the beginning of yet one more beach day. The gulls gather to search for scraps, for strands of rubbish while the new sun gleams over the old water, and the clouds are few and threadbare, they appear timid and apologetic and quickly blow inland where they may not be wanted but are at least not deplored. Best to enjoy a quiet moment alone with the gentle breeze and the chattering gulls among driftwood and clumps of seaweed while such an opportunity still exists.


Beach people are bronzed, they are burned, they are toasted bags of crispy flesh and masthead bone that come in all shapes and sizes, but you can be sure that those with the most flesh will be the ones with the least shame when it comes to the sheer joy of sharing it all with you, with me, with the entire world. Beach people like to be loud, boisterous, they tend to kick up the sand and stir up the devil, they remain decidedly mindless in their quest for coastal supremacy and winner of today’s silliest hat. They are worshipers of the ancient star, a lost tribe of Egyptian cast-offs, merry wind-whipped castaways not caring to bear witness to sunrise or sunset from that place where gray sky melts into silver sea far across the mythical horizon. Alas, they prefer to materialize mid-morn with sleepy eyes hidden behind dark shades, beneath floppy straw hats, toting bags stuffed with necessities and so much more, awaiting the sun to reheat the goop of primordial life that congeals thick and dormant deep within each and every one of them.


Water, sweet enduring water, eternal and boundless, the seeping briny substance that saturates most of our planet. Beach people like to dip their toes into it, splash in it, kick and flail and churn in it, piss in it, dive into it, wade and swim and plunge all about it. And the briny substance gets into their mouths, their ears, their noses, it stings their eyes and fades their hair and pushes all those tiny grains of sand into places where they ought not be. Still, the beach people grin, they laugh, they wipe the sting from their eyes and yearn for the coming bleach of their seaweed hair. The seagulls gather to gawk, to laugh at the beach people, a chorus of rattling seagull jeers, a squadron of crafty shit-bombers circling the hazy shoreline skies.

The beach people pay those silly birds absolutely no mind at all.


Little boy with red plastic bucket, on a mission to create a new world in this sandbox by the sea, a sturdy castle that can surely hold back any bully tide, but by high noon he will have his lotion washed away by the conspiratorial waves and so by the time his forever creation is reduced to mere bump that hardly even suggests an earlier majestic existence his little body will be rendered as red as his bucket.


Little girl in polka dot bikini, she can be a real spoiled meanie, stands with hands on hips appraising the little boy’s creation, and she isn’t the least bit shy in pointing out to him the deficiencies, the obvious lack of closet space and where in the world am I supposed to park my Lexus? She giggles, she snorts, and then she just struts on by, she thinks she’s the sassy gal in a popular sit-com, or in a catchy hit song, she thinks the world is her own juicy oyster.


There are Frisbees to be tossed, salami sandwiches to be eaten, a little too heavy on the sand perhaps – there are unknown crannies to be uncovered and subsequently burned pink so the assemblers hastily stake their claim to a fine patch of beach – hey, this okay with you? Sure, it looks great to me – with the firm plunging of the umbrella pole into virgin white sand and from there they all fan out. Assorted beach towels, a tube of sunscreen and an almost empty brown bottle of coconut oil, an old transistor radio that still runs on three twenty-year old Ds, those batteries are rusted in there forever and their continued efficacy defies all logic, a rag ball and a purple Wham-O and a red plastic bucket with its small red shovel, a thermos filled with pop and water and dad’s cheap beach beer. So let the sun shine, hallelujah, let it blaze, and these are the days you will dream about when you are old and wrinkled and find it hard to get out of bed.


Not all beach people appear so crass, there are those who simply come in peace, to comb the beach in search of shells and other delightful surprises, to ride the wild waves by board or belly, to simply dwell within its sandcastle cathedral and bother not a soul. These are the beach people we should all aspire to be, the serene and satisfied, those well-oiled and smiling into the golden halo cast by their chum the perky sun. They are quiet, they are humble, and they never get burned.


A lone egret stands tall, rigid, rod-legged and absurdly self-assured, but when the beach people draw too close, when their greasy stink grows too strong, the persnickety thing spreads its wings and takes to the open sea in search of a more holy spot to simply strut and peck.

To peacefully strut and peck – what’s so wrong with that?


Daybreak once more and all is calm.


Be quiet now, for here the beach people come.

The Writer's Studio - Assignment #6

Assignment #6 – McCullers 3rd Person – Noble K. Thomas


Preamble: Recall an event from my life when the world really seemed changed afterwards. Then create a Third Person PN who has great sympathy for the changed character and is passionate about the character’s emotional and mental states. Use accurate and colorful language and stay with the character not telling us anything the character does not know. Keep the tone matter-of-fact, elegant but not showy, colored by the character’s emotion but not out of control. The mood is uneasy.

4/19/11 NOTE: Wrote this in the Fall of 2008 as an excercise for the Writer's Studio.


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It was the one day different from all the other days he had ever known. It began as an April morning like any other, the day after his birthday, warm and breezy. After a quick yoga routine he had taken a shower where he typically loosely plotted the rest of his day and that was when it happened. He could hear it, despite the steady hiss from the shower spout and the sheer distance between here and there. Something had happened that wasn’t natural, that wasn’t normal.

With a towel draped around him he turned on the television expecting to see a live news report of a plane crash. It had been that loud, that disturbing. Already news helicopters hovered above the scene with their reporters aroused and confused. Just what the hell had happened? Did a gas line break and somehow erupt?

A short while later he drove south down the Broadway Extension and there were a few cars that whipped around him and sped off towards the faraway downtown, towards a wounded skyline that fashioned a fresh halo, but now bent, flattened and dissipating to the west. He couldn’t help but wonder about those poor souls speeding past – were they husbands, fathers, sons who had forgotten to thank their mothers for buttering their toast just a few hours earlier?

He listened to a song on a new CD.

“Water water everywhere and not a place to stand,

My foundation rests on bedrock but the bedrock rests on shifting sand.”

Suddenly a pick-up truck came from out of nowhere, lights on and horn honking, and it was amazing how quickly that vehicle just disappeared in front of him. He looked down at his own speedometer: seventy miles per hour and compared to that guy he was nothing but a concrete-sucking snail. The overwhelming sense of desperation was contagious and, although not truly shared, he sure felt something turning in the pit of his stomach. He loosened his tight grip on the steering wheel and turned off the music. Tuned the radio to a local news talk station where the details, although still sketchy, were starting to come together.

He was meeting his father for lunch but they would eat no lunch this day. Instead they drove together toward the downtown, toward the location of the building that had crumbled to earth, women and men and children inside. Out of a morbid curiosity or a need to pay respect they drove. Or maybe they just couldn’t believe it until they saw it with their very own eyes. They found a place to pull over a couple of miles north and west of it, at an angle where the view that sliced through a gaggle of trees and homes was surprisingly good.

“It looks like some kind of giant monster took a huge bite out of it.” The smoke had all blown away now and the silence was affronting.

“Yep – a couple of bites out of it. God – I can’t believe it.”

All of a sudden it felt like a great sin to be just sitting there, gawking at it, wondering and speculating. Human beings had been crushed right over there, really just beyond the tip of your nose, a mere hop – skip – and a jump away, inside a building that just last night he had driven past while on the way home from a birthday celebration in Bricktown. Jesus Christ. People might be suffering in there right now while he simply sat and gawked. People at the bottom of the pile, a sudden pressing midnight, as airless as the surface of the moon.

Just right over there – just beyond the tip of your nose.

“Let’s get out of here.”

They slowly drove away and spoke not a word. The radio was still on, more details coming in, apparently an explosion outside the building a little after nine. A child’s care center was located on the first floor. His teeth clenched and a breath caught in the musty cavern of his dry throat.

He dropped his dad off and headed back up the Broadway Extension, dark springtime clouds gathering above, all cars now with their headlights on creating some kind of solemn citywide funeral procession. His sons would be coming home from school soon and what did they know? What should he tell them?

That night it rained and rained.

T.C. Boyle - When The Killing's Done

Warning: Spoilers Abound!

I just finished reading Boyle's latest novel and enjoyed it quite a bit. The story centers around the tussle between Alma, a National Park Servive biologist, and the out-of-control egotistical shard of flesh and bone known as Dave LaJoy, he the successful local peddler of hi-fi equipment created to render your inner ear a puddle of pounded membrane and soundwave-battered bone. And why is he at odds with Alma, this poor gal who only desires to rid the Channel Islands of the invasive rats and feral pigs thus restoring the isles to their more natural state? Because by chance our boy LaJoy happened upon a PETA-like flyer left behind by a customer at one his stores and for some reason the dang thing stuck, he instantly assimilated its decidedly militant cause, most likely because it was filled with anger and intolerance and yet exalted a purpose, and since he was already angry and intolerant (born that way it would seem) but in need of some kind of grand purpose - a way to vent, a method to work out his own madness - hence, his full unwavering support was all theirs whether they wanted it or not.

Midway through the novel we learn that by chance the forthright yet ultimately boring Alma (sorry but that's my final verdict) had actually hooked-up with the very non-boring Angry Dave on an innocent first date before the killing had really even started and the resulting affront to polite wine sippers (and especially their hosts) everywhere made me actually both cringe and giggle thereby generating the exceedingly rare yet always welcomed criggle. 

I think that my favorite part of the novel is the way Boyle depicts both characters back in their own natural environs and then exposes the flaws in their own thinking, Alma in a small yet deadly encounter with a poor squirrel on an onramp to the freeway, Dave in a larger (it would take something larger for a man like LaJoy) encounter with pesky raccoons digging up his new lawn and the resulting voyages he makes back out to the isles, the first to humanely allow these trapped troublesome critters to run absolutely free and the second with a group of like-minded thinkers (but is anyone here really thinking?) in hopes of cutting wire and liberating the wild pigs before they can be gunned down by Crocodile Dundee. The remains of Alma's dead squirrel and her conscientious objections fade away soon enough but the deep stains provided by LaJoy's fiasco remain forever plastered in the hearts and souls of mothers, fathers, siblings and friends.

TC must be mourning the loss of poor old Dave LaJoy who, in fact, met a very grave ahoy. When a writer creates a character as colorful and dreadlocked-dreadful as this guy it must be tough to toss him to the winds as the choppy waters froth below and then just watch him float forever away.

As the story worked towards its final conclusion I couldn't help but wonder where this might all end up. And then it appeared in my mind - how about a Steinbeck-ish closure to the tale as poor Alma, despite her obvious reservation, bends over our stricken Dave and commences to suck the rattlesnake venom from the small wound that rests just above his right ringed nipple in an effort to, at least momentarily, turn her back on her own precious cause in order to save the life of this last scandalous invader, her very own albatross and demented tormentor. I can see her now with a mouthful of the rancid venom as she watches the escaped snakes slithering off toward island destinations unknown, turning to Dave and spitting it back into his face, saying "that's a very piss-poor vintage Dave, spent engine oil - one might even say, VINEGAR!"

Well, TC had a different ending in mind, one that delivered unto Dave and his gang a more karmic wet ending, but at least the raccoons and snakes made out okay.

FWIW, my money's on those god-awful snakes.