Excerpt from The Lost Child: July 4th, 1976 - Fireworks

July 4^th, 1976 – Fireworks

In the end he decided to go with option number three.

A day at the lake with Stevie, Leroy, Theo and some guy named John Timmons who had helped add a deck to the back of the cabin while only requiring a wage that consisted of cold beer and hot chicken and was therefore now Theo’s new best buddy.

He got a late start on the drive over and stopped for gas and a six-pack before he even left the city limits. Having already consumed a couple of coffees laced generously with Baileys while perusing the daily newspaper it hadn’t taken long for him to generate a low-level dandy-doodle buzz.

It wasn’t going to be that hot today after all. Highs in the upper 90s but beware of the ungodly humidity. So the cold water of the lake would really feel good around four in the afternoon despite that fact that Theo’s lake was little more than a big red mud bath. No natural spring source or winter snow runoff here, just a large manmade gash scooped into the red Okie clay and they hadn’t bothered with lining its bottom with rock or anything like that. And with all the boat activity expected today the water would be churning and that silty bottom would kick up a simmering tomato broth. Bobby knew they’d all have to take long showers afterwards to get that rusty sheen blasted off of them and you’d be surprised to see how much bloody grit was trickling down that shower drain.

Lately Theo had taken to collecting rocks which he found scattered along the shoreline and in the woods (and even gravel from his neighbor’s driveways) and then stacking them into the corner of his boat. Later, when he’d reached a proper spot, he’d take those rocks and gently place them into the water with a delicate plop in hopes of little by little, stone by precious stone, getting that lake bottom lined with something besides red dirt.

“If everybody around here would pitch in we could have this lake crystal clear within a couple of years,” he’d sermonize, and then they would all watch as a little whirlpool of red water came spinning back up to the surface announcing the arrival of Theo’s latest offering. Last summer Leroy had offered to bring an abandoned toilet next time he came and the thought of a big shiny chunk of porcelain sitting down there actually appealed to Theo. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more the idea of littering the lake bottom with a collection of discarded junk made perfect sense. Those items were in essence big damn rocks and would line that bottom forever. But then Stevie chimed in and quipped that it would be awesome to be able to relieve one’s bowels and improve the quality of the lake water at the same time.

“I only wish you would take a dump down there,” Theo said, “and then maybe a long nap afterwards.”

“Hey, we’re not here to drink it,” Leroy offered, but then he smiled, knowing that not even he could deny that the lake water was clogging their pores.

“We’re here to spelunk our way through it!”

A little after half past one Bobby pulled onto the gravel driveway that led to the cabin. He had promised to be there at least by noon so he wasn’t surprised to see that the boat and its occupants were no longer awaiting his arrival dockside. He parked next to Stevie’s car, got out, and walked to the back of the house to take a quick scan of the lake. He could only see a small portion of it from this particular vantage as the vast majority of the lake twisted around the eastern point which was lined with tall reeds and therefore lay unseen. That was the side where most of the partying happened, the water skiing and the general balls-to-the-wall hell-raising, and Theo was really fortunate to have the smaller quieter side right here with the best fishing just beyond his own back screen door.

At the moment there was just one small rowboat in his line of vision, a shadowy silhouette far across the lake, and he could barely make out two figures with their rods poking out over the calm water. But he could hear the familiar buzz of a speedboat slicing through the water just around the point and he felt certain that it was the old Chris-Craft with the boys coming back around, maybe conducting a quick drive-by to see if their old friend had finally shown up. As the sound grew louder he stepped back away from the shoreline and out of sight into the deep pools of shadow cast by shedding cottonwoods.

Sure enough the boat shot around the point and it was roaring now and casting off a splendid fan of spray, but instead of stepping forward and revealing himself Bobby retreated further and further until finally he was back inside his car and driving away.

Critter Removal

He got the call in the late afternoon, a last minute dispatch to one of the more wooded suburbs clinging to the fringe of the greater metropolitan area, and he knew only too well the lowly vermin that roamed the terrain out there behaving as if in fact they lorded over those wild hinterlands.
   It would be his pleasure to prove one of them gravely wrong, point out its trespasses, and then remove its filthy presence from this earthly existence.

His marketing material clearly boasted:

We rid you of all pests big & small, short & tall, two-clawed & four-pawed, bats rats & skrats, squirrels possums & birds. If God created it then we can eradicate it. No questions asked – Performance guaranteed!

He pulled up to the curb and approached the front porch confident and decked out in full regalia.

She was already there, waiting, exasperated with hands on hips.

“What kind of pestilence do we have here, mam?” he inquired in his practiced professional voice. 

“Go see for yourself... he’s upstairs in the corner bedroom.”

Good God, the man thought, it’s big enough for her to know its sex... I hope this aint mating season. 

As he approached the door he could sense the thing’s presence, an uncanny ability to innately feel such things an inevitable result of his seventeen months on the job, and he could certainly smell it. Cautiously he wrapped the goggles around his head and applied the oxygen mask. Thick gloves were already in place along with the steel-brush kneepads and the fang-proof vest. 

He turned the door knob very slowly and carefully pushed open the door. The jamb creaked like an old toad yodeling to a long lost lover sending a warning signal to the creature and the man cursed. 

Folks, is it too much to ask to keep your doors greased in the event services such as mine are required? Because they will be... eventually.

He didn’t see anything at first but spotted its tangled nest resting between two pillows placed upon an unmade bed. He looked up at the ceiling and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He scanned all four corners running his eyes along the floorboards and used a long metal prod to check underneath discarded clothing and mildewed towels. 
   Still, nothing.

“You see anything yet?” the woman asked from below.

“No, not yet, still looking,” he replied after yanking off the mask. He didn’t appreciate such intrusions while he worked.

“What’s wrong with you sonny, he’s right there in front of you! Open yer eyes fer cryin out loud!”

Out of the corner of his eye he detected movement. 

Toward the very end of the bed, beneath the covers. 

He saw it again... a pensive wiggling, the very slightest of palpitations. The sly varmint had slithered its way down to the foot of the bed in a futile attempt to escape both his attention and his resulting measured wrath.

“I do believe I’ve located your intruder,” he bellowed in self-satisfaction.

“It’s about time,” was all the insolent woman could manage. 

What to do next? 

He had a mental checklist that he always followed at such times and at the top of the list was use any available source of containment in an effort to take the creature alive. That was his moral obligation, he supposed, yet it was amazing how quickly he could slide down that list to number ten: kill the fucker! He wondered if he might simply use the available bed coverings like a sack at the end of a hobo’s pole and entrap the creature within said material. Surely its fangs and claws would be capable of ripping right through but of course that is where his gloves and vest entered the equation.

Before he could decide upon an appropriate course of action there came a loud burgeoning noise from beneath those sheets that rattled the tangled nest, that shook the four walls, followed by a diffusive foul stench that had the man reaching for his mask.

The nature of the cloistered beast had finally been revealed.

Man, lazy obese son, living off mother, sponging from society, indifferent contributor to the Greater Bad, sequestered in bed and resistant to all beseechings, pleadings and violent threats, unreachable, irremovable, and utterly devoid of conscience.

Spoiled.
Rotten.
Man. 

<  ooh, dat smell so bad says the little unnamed Asian man lurking inside your head  >

He descended the stairs but couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Mam, you don’t need me and you don’t need Animal Welfare. What you need is a priest well-versed in the rite of exorcism sporting one big-ass shiny cross.” 

Performance guarantee be damned.

White Out Published in New Mexico Magazine

White Out (my obscure paranormal fable) was published in the March 2013 online edition of New Mexico Magazine:

http://www.nmmagazine.com/article/?aid=80160


I'm very appreciative of the magazine's editor and crew for allowing me this wonderful opportunity!

Also, thanks to the folks at WordHarvest.

(the above photo was taken in early December 2008 by Yours Truly during a specific weather event that inspired White Out)

Girl in Plaid Scarf Smiling on a Winter Day

NOTE: I wrote this back in 2010 for the Stella Kupferberg Memorial Short Story contest. Originally titled Coffee Shop Blues I just this morning changed the title. Probably would have won with this more compelling artsy-fartsy moniker... right? Now slightly over the 750 maximum word count after recent editing but who's counting?

In case you haven’t noticed it’s a cold world out there.

Right now I’m dealing with Arctic depressions squeezed through the Rockies and sent tumbling down the plains by a determined wind as our little nodule on the map tilts away from an indifferent sun that’s running out of gas. Meanwhile I seek refuge inside this place where it stays warm, agreeably cheerful, and replete with hot coffee – today I indulge in the light roast and prepare to get down to the heavy thinking.

But there’s that shortbread cookie sitting right there that keeps distracting me. I keep picking at it, breaking it apart, making it disappear piece by piece into my mouth so soon I’ll have no excuse at all – just crumbs.

I call myself a writer and I have a deadline to meet but the words come slowly, begrudgingly – if at all. And there’s no local support group for those deprived of the creative impulse.

But I do have my local heroes, one being the notorious Leo Ritchey, a fellow writer who had one of his pieces (something about a calf, a blizzard and the heroic cowhand who saved it while losing three digits) published in a regional periodical of some repute.

In fact it is my understanding that Leo was recently asked to say a few words at my nephew’s school, a somewhat uppity Lutheran-based institution that promises to prepare their pupils for the important demands placed upon them by the country’s elite universities, while in fact most of their clients matriculate into local colleges with tuition that is half of what they paid the Lutheran-based institution; more specifically, my nephew’s honors English Lit class, and being asked while ensnared within a rare moment of agreeable magnanimity (between free drinks I’d reckon) Leo agreed.

As it was just this morning related to me Leo stumbled up to the front of the room, a twitching bag of nerves, apparently unbathed with wild uncombed hair and his unexercised body stuffed into a baby blue glossy sweat suit that was two sizes too small, dismissing with introductions, only clearing his throat with a growl as he spat out the previous night’s accumulation of alcohol-marinated phlegm into the teacher’s coffee cup. Tough way to acquire your flavored latte.

“I was asked to say a few words to you today. Well mother-fuckin’ titty-suckin’ bullshit. There ya go, have a great life.”

And then he clambered away, knocking over a metal waste basket on his way out, and the buffed shiny floors of that institution at long last reflected a man who had said something that would echo within those hallowed halls for the ages.

It occurs to me now that his inspired message was in fact meant for me, because face it, I can’t write a mother-fuckin’ titty-suckin’ thing, I probably won’t even be capable of getting my reader to mutter under their breath where’s the creative impulse?, which would at least imply an infinitesimal amount of thoughtful repose directed toward my effort. Long ago I should have begun my quest for an MFA from one of those directional schools headed by a visionary who at one time accepted a genuine Ritchey manuscript for publication.

You see, it is my only wish to write something that is way big, important, beautiful, something that delivers a real wallop, but I’ve only got 750 words to work with and just one more day.

Hours, really.

Minutes.

Life goes on and I seem to wallow in complete futility.

Outside this coffee shop window a late February snow falls and all is quiet and I just sit back and watch a young woman in a red coat with matching cap and galoshes slowly pushing her way through this glittering landscape while walking her little black dog. Suddenly she spies me gazing at her from inside and although a plaid scarf hides her mouth I can tell from her brightening eyes that she is smiling back at me. It makes me feel that old fuzzy warmth deep down inside and while lost in a peaceful reverie I sit hypnotized by the unfolding scene. Huge floating snowflakes, steamy caffeine up the nose, (fleeting epiphany), dreamy white world and a pretty girl who at this precise moment recognizes my presence in it.

I am rendered touched.

If only I could somehow manage to write something that real, that simple, that magical. If only I could write some thing that might truly touch someone else, then I could save this story, shut down my computer, and venture back out into our beautiful cold world. 

Her Smile Goes On Forever

Susie was a boundless spiritual person. She was genuine, the real deal. She had countless friends and whoever she spoke to was one of them whether they knew it or not. She showed alot of grace in these last few years and was so postive and cheerful that like many others I got caught up in thinking that all was fine, aw heck, she'll probably outlive us all!

Wrong again.

There's a big hole in my life that won't be easily filled but for her husband, her son, and her parents the Grand Canyon patiently looms. Yet even in all that wide open empty space the tiny mysteries of life abound and its natural wonders can gift moments of beauty and solace at any time and Susie's sweet genuine spirit will be allowed to soar freely throughout forever.

Look everybody! She's her old self again, healthy, happy and truly set free...

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.


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



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.

Frank Hagney

I work in the creative department of a large cable communications conglomerate based on the east coast and, more specifically, my derriere can usually be located during normal working hours festooned upon a slick swivel chair that rolls on fresh unfurled plastic in one of the more roomier cubicles that just so happens to include a nice window view of the adjoining building’s gray sooty façade but only when exiting said cubicle when the time has finally come to make more coffee, drink more coffee, piss more coffee, which is quite often, or better yet, lunchtime, or even best, quitting time, when I slip out that big glass door and plunge down that mirrored elevator and then it’s back out into the real world where there are bars with spinning stools in front of them everywhere! Now of course we’re into everything – phone, TV, wired, wireless, any and all silicon chip-based gadgets – if there’s any bandwidth left out there that we can squeeze a bit more of our message into or onto then you can bet we’re already there – never mind what that message might be. Zipping, zapping, even through thin air, and that ringing in your ears that never goes away is usssss.

Sorry about that.


You might wonder what creative does at a company such as ours and if you can’t even imagine what that might be then that’s why you’re not a part of creative. It’s kind of a self-fulfilling thing and it’s best for you not to dwell upon it. Do not sweat it, don’t give it another thought, we’re here to take care of that kind of thinking so you can just sit back and relax. Leave all the creating biz-wax to us. Because believe me, we’ve got it all well under control. I guess that is our message and we do a not so surprisingly effective job of communicating it to the number-crunchers, the sales guys, the higher-ups who just kind of grin, exchange fist bumps, and proceed on their unencumbered ways.

But I don’t mind sharing one thing with you, not at all, in fact it’s the primary reason why I bring any of this up in the first place. You see, a big part of my responsibilities here is coming up with those succinct one line movie summaries that appear on your TV screen whenever you press the Info button pertaining to said movie. We call them zingers. Somebody has to write them, they don’t just magically appear, they certainly don’t come as part of some movie studio’s package deal with us, and what’s more, my boss doesn’t want me to copy some of the more long-in-the-tooth zingers that have been zinging around out there for quite awhile, quasi-intellectual property that was produced by some other unit’s creative brain trust and that now in effect constitutes copyrighted material. That’s got something to do with our legal department, our honchos in the ponchos, who are paid handsomely to anticipate incoming shit storms and take proper measures to avoid them, and sometimes those boys’ ingenuity put us creative types to absolute shame. Now that’s something I’m sure you can imagine! So the mandate from above is simple – keep it concise and original.

That can be tougher than you might think.



As the fates would allow, it just so happens that my great-grand uncle was a fairly successful actor who appeared in many films that require such informational descriptions and I’ll bet you don’t know his name but if you saw his mug in all likelihood you’d be taken aback, you’d swear that you’ve seen that face somewhere before, and it’s lingering glare might actually disturb you, you might in fact even want to punch it, but you probably wouldn’t be able to put your finger on exactly where you saw it if I gave you all the time until next spring’s coming thaw.

You see, my great-grand uncle had a role in a holiday classic, perhaps a relatively small one, one that required no speaking of any lines whatsoever and only the appropriate retention of a somber beaten-down scowl, but he’s right there in the credits, he sure is, and so I should be rightfully proud.

So… the size of my great-grand uncle’s little stitch upon the rich tapestry of artistic film in this country? In truth, not much. However, his impact on the emotional psyche of the American people from his performance in one single film?

You should be the judge of that yourself.



You know, it’s tough sometimes, being privy to this prime nugget of family accomplishment, yet not really being able to leverage it into a potentially more advantageous position, to garner some kind of tangible benefit. It’s like possessing a large shiny family jewel yet regrettably choosing to stick it away in a safety deposit box for no one else to ever see. Actually, it’s not even as good as that, because at some point, if it really comes to it, you can at least take that jewel out of storage and sell it for whatever the current market will bear. But our possession? Fleeting, fading away, frustratingly intangible, an empty box of staid air.

It doesn’t help that we look nothing alike. I’m green-eyed, sandy-haired, soft, while he was dark, angular, sinister – it’s little wonder that he landed so many old western roles playing poor defeated Indians or some downtrodden renegade as I bet he had a little aboriginal blood running through him due to his birth way down under. That’s right, he came on over from Australia and all by his lonesome so he’s a self-made man, everything he got on this soil he earned through his own ethic, by hook or crook or that god-awful look, and word has it that he could act any part required of him other than honest law-abiding man, a role he apparently never much fancied on-screen or off.



Well, as you might imagine I’ve tried to use this tiny thread of golden lineage many times over the years to my advantage. On the playground, in the classroom, whenever I found myself in a position of shaken confidence or bruised ego. I used it to impress teachers, to out-brag braggarts. I’ve even used it on girls. Not exactly a solid pick-up line but a damn sure icebreaker over martinis in a darkened lounge. Why, you don’t mean that old Monkey Face do you? a dazzling blonde brazenly responded and I couldn’t help but grin in embarrassment flashing my big chimpy teeth. Quickly I finished my drink and then knuckled my way out of the joint.

Maybe it’s a good thing that we don’t look too much alike after all.



Once I was at this holiday party and not too surprisingly the hostess put the DVD on. I was feeling a little insecure so despite my initial mild consternation and since I had already knocked down more than a few I scooted up to the front of the couch and leaned toward the screen pointing, smiling big, saying there’s my boy.

Just as I’d hoped I’d aroused the curiosity of the cute girl sitting next to me and she asked like, hey dude, what do you exactly mean? You got a man-crush on somebody? And I just leaned back and with coolish matter-of-fact pleasure explained precisely what I had meant, no man-crush, just Hollywood blood lines, and the room fell uncomfortably quiet as if some foolish scoundrel, that would be me, had loudly proclaimed his passing of at least one liter of a hot wicked gas. They all settled back into their seats, hands folded, jaws clenched, the TV dialogue now loud and almost scolding, and awaited with apprehensive twitching nostrils the stench that never came.

Talk about a tough audience.

Somehow I managed to excuse myself and wandered back into the kitchen where some semblance of a conversation between three individuals whom I’d never laid eyes upon was meekly continuing and I mercifully attempted to join right in and maybe even pick it up a bit. I fixed myself a stiff one, all the time smiling and nodding, clinking the ice in my glass while slowly sliding closer and closer to the freedom of the front door.



I mentioned that the official zinger mandate is to keep it concise and original. But then what of accuracy? What about making it a truthful summation of the crux of the flick? I mean, take fifty people, show them the same exact film, and then see what each one comes up with, what each viewer independently determines as the absolute bottom line meaning of the film. Maybe you wouldn’t be surprised at the wide range of such interpretations but you’d sure be entertained. And maybe that’s why we have such a hard time in this society with the truth. Because it aint universal, it’s often just a shifting point of light throwing sparks off into the dark, and it’s constantly evolving just like you and me.

But I really do give it my best. I’m absolutely serious about my duty, unless the film in question is a grand comedy, and then I’m serious in my attempt at delivering a cleverly non-serious zingerooski. And as for the flops, those horrific wastes of both time and money, the you can’t be serious endeavors that somehow still made it out of the can and onto the silver screen, I aim for both the succinctly obvious and verbally economical. I won’t waste any more of my time with them and neither should you!



When it comes to my family I’m actually the one who “low keys” the whole “we had a relative in the movies” thing. I mean, the guy is my mother’s mother’s uncle so we don’t even share the same last name, not by a long shot. And she only remembers actually being with him a few times back when she was mere toddler and years later when he was invited to her wedding he sure didn’t show. No RSVP, no nothing. The guy kept his distance and family recollections are both somber and few.

Not to mention the fact that the guy’s been dead for about as long as I’ve been alive. But you know human nature, what is deemed as potentially valuable but currently unusable is eventually decomposed and later reinvented and then you can reassess its usefulness once again. You should hear my sister, eighteen months my junior and orbiting way out there in zany land, speaking of him as if they used to take afternoon tea together on the gently lapping shore of a summer lake, and she loves to make reference to her inheriting his steely gray eyes and sharp jutting cheekbones – well good for her, I guess.

Sometimes I wonder if the guy even knew my family existed. He obviously didn’t care. And yet still my mother hangs his portrait in our living room at the same spot that it’s claimed for years. Other pictures and paintings have come and gone, wallpaper has been peeled and reapplied, furniture bought and rearranged, and yet his gaze still reigns supreme, watching, overseeing, and over time that beginning of a smile that I have always detected but never seen fulfilled persists, seemingly awaiting the pay-off of a joke, and he never was able to just come right on out with it and grin. When I die and enter that white light I wonder if his beaming countenance, at long last consummated with an overdue laugh, will be there to greet me?

I seriously doubt it but then again, maybe I’m a part of that pay-off.





My modus operandi is usually to come up with three zingers per film. I’ve found that it helps to build from a good foundation. The first one, the brick and the mortar, is the easy one, the one for the simple-minded and those who really only want to be entertained or perhaps distracted from the reality of their own lives. Most of these folks would just as soon go to a cock fight or a demolition derby but somehow they learned to operate the remote control and found themselves running through the TV listings, pressing the INFO button, hoping to locate some good action shit or at least a little harmless T &A. So here’s an example of one that I whipped up for these folks:



A young American male born on Independence Day is sent off to Vietnam to kill some gooks.



Now the second one allows me to jump up the evolution ladder a couple of rungs leaving the smelly Neanderthals far below scratching their bellies and laughing at just about anything. I can now conjure the proper alignment of words that will ultimately speak to the masses, to those of average intellect and insight, in other words 92.76% of America, and hopefully produce a more popular choice. I submit for your approval:



An innocent young man goes to war and comes back a changed man.



And then there’s the last one, there’s my truth, the least obvious and yet the eternally redeeming gist of the film. It’s heart, the true spirit. Oh, I know, this is really just a matter of opinion and opinions are like assholes, everybody’s got at least one, but can we at least agree that some stink more than others? So this is where I allow my ego to seep on in and I succumb to the urge to sermonize:



War is fucking hell.



Nobody will ever see that one. It’s just for me. But I’m thinking that there are quite a few folks out there that would likely concur.



Or how about this trifecta?



A couple of lonely cowpokes get all homo up in them wooded hills.



Two men struggle with their identities in this poignant tale based on the Annie Proulx short story.



Regret.



And finally…



Some really cool 3-D animation but where’s the ass-kickin’?



A disabled soldier is sent on a mission to another world and becomes caught in a philosophical battle between this new society and the one from which he came.



Too much butter and not enough salt!



Okay – it’s probably time to stop beating around the bush and get real with you. Get down to the true reason for my little soliloquy. As a start let me just give you the old zinger that’s been making the rounds out there forever – you’ve probably even seen it yourself.



Frank Capra’s heartwarming holiday account of small-town Americana.



Now I’m sure having just read the above you’ve already begun to form a mental picture in your head. You’d have to be a deaf, dumb and blind member of al Qaida to not have something stirring inside there, the pursuit of a Jolly Jihad notwithstanding. Is the proper image starting to come together yet? Well, if not, here’s more. A few years ago I actually read the following eye-popping zinger and the swiftness of its creator’s dismissal is still much discussed among our ranks.



A small town banker contemplates suicide on Christmas Eve.



Wonderful. Make sure the entire family tunes in. Pop some corn, melt some butter. Make sure grandma gets real comfortable. Sit back and enjoy!



And now, just for the hell of it, I humbly present to you a couple of my very own created for personal reasons mind you:



A loveable blubbering drunk crosses the dunce line once too often.



It was just another role, a paycheck, don’t blame old monkey face.



Listen, the guy had a wonderful career. Over 350 films spanning a fifty year period. He had a slew of uncredited movie roles where he played with stunning believability town drunks, despondent Indian chiefs, gun-slinging rascals and could always be counted on to provide a memorable face in a hostile crowd. Bartender, Bartendee, and my personal all-time favorite, overly-excited lemonade vendor, which begs the question, what sane parent would allow their child to purchase some freshly squeezed from a man who looks (and probably sings) a lot like Tom Waits?

But that’s not all. Towards the end of his fine career he enjoyed success in the dazzling new world of television with roles on Daniel Boone and Perry Mason. The man even appeared in Bob Hope’s Paleface and John Wayne’s Ride Em Cowboy and received proper credit in both.

This guy was no three-role flunky pining for Actors Guild benefits. He may not have been a so-called movie star but I’ll tell you this - the guy could act.

But I won’t mention his name, I’m tired of the name-dropping, I’m tired of what it never really got me. I hope you at least find my honesty refreshing. Just google a few of the facts that I have already related to you: Bob Hope, Pale Face, John Wayne, Ride Em Cowboy, drunken Indian chief. See if you can figure it out on your own.



And still the bells jingle and the pretty paper wraps gifts. For the wee-folk Christmas approaches so slowly but for so many of us aged children now entering into this twilight of sweet remembrance it passes far too soon. If you’re lucky along the way you may get caught up inside one heartfelt carol, one moment of real gratitude and bliss, zing, but it can never last and for it to mean what it needs to mean why should it? Better for it to come, go, and leave a void that reminds.

It’s a late Saturday afternoon and as a gray gentle dusk quickly descends I can’t decide if these sudden shadows are comforting or alarming. I’ve got my Beaujolais chilled and my cheese sliced and my crackers are all lined up and so by the time the credits roll at the end of the broadcast I’ll be adequately fortified to admit this real hum-dinger of a zinger:



My great-uncle once removed etcetera etcetera knew the truth and didn’t do a goddamn thing.

November 25th, 1971 – An Immovable Object Meets an Irresistible Force

                            (an excerpt from my unpublished novel The Lost Child)

Somehow Theo’s old man found it within himself to give the boys his four tickets. Maybe because it was Turkey Day, maybe because it was cold – or maybe because he drank way too much the night before at the bank office party. It would take a couple of hours to drive to Norman for the game and there was no earthly way the man could ply himself out of that bed nearly in time to grab a shower and gobble a bottle of aspirin in hopes of soothing the throbbing ache. With each beat of his heart that was painfully obvious. In fact, it would be all he could manage to somehow rise above his foolish misdeed and find himself positioned honorably at the head of the table come 2 pm, jolly-faced with bow tie in proper place, prepared to heartily disseminate the carved tom.

This Theo’s mother had discerned by ten o’clock the eve before, and when the call came late that night the boys were more than ready and willing. Hell yes! This was the Nebraska Cornhuskers versus the Oklahoma Sooners, Number One versus Number Two, the widely-proclaimed Game of the Century – an immovable object was about to meet an irresistible force or so proclaimed the cover of Sports Illustrated.

Something had to give and these boys were ready to go see just what that might be.


Bright and early Theo pulled up in his daddy’s crimson and cream Cadillac and shortly thereafter the party was most definitely rolling on down the road! Leroy up front with Stevie and Bobby in the back and the boys were excited and ready for just about anything.

“So what time did you roll in last night?” Bobby asked Stevie, knowing that he left the bar just after midnight while his friend remained behind swallowing hot wieners and knocking down shots.

Stevie coughed and rubbed his eyes. “Not exactly sure,” he mumbled, “but you know me – all I need is a good shit, a shave and a shower and I’m good to go.” They’d all heard that one before, many times, in fact it might provide a fitting epitaph on the man’s rock some day but with a few minor alterations – he definitely didn’t shower, not sure if he shaved, but he damn well just shitted – so the remark elicited not even one small guffaw.

“What you got there in the sack?” Leroy asked Bobby.

“You know my mom – she packed us a bunch of turkey sandwiches. Some with mayonnaise, some with Durkee sauce. Wanted us to at least have a little taste of Thanksgiving I guess.”

Now Leroy was smiling and he whispered “God bless your sweet mother” and reached back for the sack but Stevie slapped his hand away. “Already big fella? My God, give us a chance to at least clear the city limits.”

“But I’m hungry,” he answered matter-of-factly and although Leroy didn’t reach again, he didn’t exactly withdraw his huge mitt either. “I’ll bet you had a big breakfast, huh?”

“Well I had what I always have – a pop tart and a banana. You can’t beat that.”

Now Bobby chimed in. “A pop tart and a banana? You eat that every damn morning?”

“Hell yes. Cinnamon tart, slightly toasted, and I don’t mind a bruising fruit. And of course a glass of chilled juice, orange, apple or prune – it don’t make no difference to me.”

“Pruuuuune?” Leroy inquired and Stevie just sat back and smiled, quite pleased with himself and obviously well-lubricated. “P-ruuuuune,” he confirmed. “Freshly squeeeeezed.”

“You can’t squeeze a prune,” Leroy observed.

“You can squeeze anything,” Stevie replied with a grin, and Leroy wasn’t really in the mood to continue this particular line of thought.

“Well I don’t know about you guys but I’m getting my Thanksgiving treat from over yonder,” Theo remarked and nodded toward the glove box. Leroy obligingly opened it and pulled out the bottle wrapped in plain brown paper. Theo continued, “Now that’s the kind of turkey I’m interested in – the wild variety,” and Leroy removed the wrapper and there it surely was, a full bottle of the amber spirit, and before you could say “Garfield county line” the boys were passing it around and gobbling turkey sandwiches.



By the time the boys hit Norman the bottle was empty and the drab November sky was spinning directly above their every maladroit step. Plenty of sunshine but plenty cold, downright chilly in fact, and they didn’t feel a thing. They burst into the swinging double doors of the Jockey Strap Saloon a good two hours before kick-off and lucked into a table in the outer back beer garden where the pre-game celebration was most definitely hitting its stride and there were a couple of good-looking Nebraska gals standing alone off to the side, a couple of strong-jawed corn-fed blonde beauties that Stevie took an immediate fancy to – he was never one to let silly schoolboy loyalty get in the way of a good screwing or, let’s be more realistic here, maybe a quick peck on the cheek – and he grabbed a full pitcher and sauntered on over to let them know all about it much to poor Leroy’s consternation, he who had just settled down after waiting in line to acquire that first full pitcher, and now the big man just sighed and pushed his way back up to his feet and fell back into that long beer line once again.

“Here comes trouble,” Theo said and he pointed towards three big old Cornhusker boys that were ambling their way through the crowd and back toward those still-smiling gals, and if those gals were corn-fed then these were the fellas doing all the feeding. Bobby raised an eyebrow in agreement and added, “I suppose we’ll find out if he’s in a sharing mood today.”

Turns out Stevie was in a sharing mood, with plenty of back-patting and good cheer and cold beer for everybody, and after a moment of discussion he led his new friends back to the table and the next thing you knew they were all sitting together, sipping suds, grinning into each other’s eyes and wondering who was going to be crying in their beer at the end of the day.

“I’m Bob Olsen and this is my brother Dave, and that’s my friend Billy Simpson,” said a pink-faced giant with peach-fuzz sideburns and the huge beaten hands of a dirt farmer, and when Bobby shook one of them there was a slight uncalled-for pressure applied that seemed to suggest that you’d better keep an eye on your boy over there. “And that’s my wife Kathy and Dave’s wife, Odella.”

Stevie perked up and scooted in closer. “Odella Odella – can I get a smella, I wanna be your fella,” and when Bobby caught the flash of her widening eyes he couldn’t be sure if she was appalled or enchanted or, more likely, an intoxicating mixture of both. But he had a good idea what the Brothers Olsen might be feeling.

“Hey Leroy, why don’t you grab a couple of extra pitchers?” Stevie cried out, oblivious to just about everybody, merrily on the road to his own obliteration one way or the other.



Stevie and Bobby never did make it to the game. Stevie was having far too good of a time pontificating right there, drinking and flirting and being an all-around chummy guy, and when he asked Bobby to stay with him Bobby really didn’t need to think too long about it. Because he was rather hammered himself, and although not really serious about sniffing out the pussy and subsequently waiting to get his ass kicked like his foolish friend, he understood that this was after all just a game, a stupid football game, and besides, the only way to avoid the inevitable plunge into the vise of hangover despair was to just keep on drinking. Keep on drinking! And naturally Theo was royally pissed off at the pair because these tickets weren’t cheap, this was one hell of an opportunity, and his family’s generosity was in effect being trashed.

“So sell ‘em,” Stevie sighed, and Theo knew he could score a nice profit from an easy sell, but still Stevie’s unappreciative attitude annoyed the hell out of him. As usual. But deep down he might honestly be relieved to avoid Stevie for the next three hours but he wouldn’t let on to any of that.

“Screw you asshole,” Theo snarled and he shot a glare at Bobby that clearly implied that he wasn’t exactly happy with him either, I would have expected as much from Stevie, but you? Then Theo turned and marched away and Leroy took a deep breath, gave those remaining behind a peace sign and a weary grin, and then followed his agitated leader into the heaving mob.

The Husker fans had bid farewell a few minutes earlier and the place was thinning out, the scattered few left behind either without tickets or unwilling to end the party, but at least now Bobby and Stevie could move on inside where it was warm and a few booths were becoming available.

“Now this is the life my man,” Stevie announced as he pushed his way back into the corner of a booth and stretched out, his legs laying atop the wood bench. “We even got a television tuned to the game over there,” and sure enough right behind the bar sat one small black and white television, rabbit ears sticking up into the smoky air, a pack of loud men settled around it.

Bobby eased back into the booth. The only thing to do now was obvious – keep your fingers crossed and just keep on drinking.



Dusk descended all at once late that afternoon. Looking at it now it would be surprising to realize that a week or so earlier a few of the trees had clung to their last summer leaves like tearful mothers holding on to letters from sons still at war. Tentatively, hopefully, but eventually you must set them down and trust that all will be fine, nature has its ways, no matter what life will most definitely go on. But in the last light of this particular day, if one should even care to notice, these trees were all barren, cleanly plucked and denuded, their last hope released and the promise of spring seemed so sad and far away.

The game was over and the Sooners had lost. Life would go on, the citizens of this state would pick one another up by the seat of their britches and somehow find a method to wait out the lingering sting of this hangover, but Theo’s father would need to buy a new television set to replace the one he had destroyed with an impressive end-over-end fling of a half-full bottle of not-so-cheap Cabernet through the glass picture as time ran out and Cornhusker players hoisted that fat asshole Bob Devaney atop their shoulders carrying him to midfield.



The cold walk back to the car took on the appearance of one long procession of crushed and extremely distraught crimson-clad refugees, complete with aching unseen wounds and a diversified chorus of deep heartfelt sighs stamped by bitter exasperation, who for the most part did their damnedest to remain quiet and level-headed as they mingled with the handful of Nebraska fans who were understandably ecstatic and attempting to maintain their own dignified composure. But of course as the reality set in and the fresh loss cemented into another forever fact a simmering rage poked through some blown gaskets and a few angry voices did ring out from time to time.

“Hey, how much did you Corn-holers pay off the refs on that punt return? That no-call on the obvious clip?” The voice was high-pitched, hoarse, desperate – and of course very anonymous.

A sprinkling of Huskers was walking briskly up ahead. The biggest one slowed a bit and tilted his head back toward the source of the high-pitched anonymous voice. “Stop your crying Sooner boy – calls went both ways and we came down here and won it fair and square on your own damn field.”

“There sure as hell was a clip… a couple of them!” Stevie responded, sobered up by his flaming anger and obviously looking for trouble, for some kind of release, even if it wound up being a painful one.

“Wah wah wah,” the big fellow continued, and then he whispered something over to his friend and they both laughed and flashed knowing grins back towards Stevie as they marched away.

Oh my God Bobby thought. That’s Bob Olsen up there. As drunk as he was he knew that this wasn’t good, not if Stevie found out, and he stole a quick look at his friend. And it was obvious by the flicker in Stevie’s eyes and then the following look of deep concentration that he already knew.

“Hey Olsen, big Bob Olsen, is that you up there?”

“Shut up, Stevie,” Theo said. He was as upset about the game as anybody and was absolutely in no mood to accommodate any additional shenanigans from him.

“Big Bob, is that little Davey up there with you? And I do mean little in every sense, especially the anatomical one.”

Now Bobby was looking to Leroy. He knew that Leroy would try to pinch the poison out of Stevie before the telling bite could be administered, but only if he could get his hands on him first. If not, and if it came to it, then Bobby knew that Leroy would surely end up watching Stevie’s back. Whichever way it went, he knew that Leroy wouldn’t be happy about it.

The Olsen brothers had stopped dead in their tracks along with their friend Billy Simpson – but those two corn-fed beauties just kept walking ahead. A small crowd had gathered and any textbook psychologist worth his monocle would point out that the assembled crowd, although not exactly a mob, not yet anyway, was certainly in the mood to vent.

“Hey Dave, why don’t you ask Odella where she was during half time?” Suddenly the assembled crowd oohed.

Oh my God Bobby thought once again. Stevie had been gone quite some time during that aforementioned time period – he had assumed that the bathroom line was endless or he’d stopped off to harass some other poor waitress – so he hadn’t bothered to question him about it. But come to think about it Stevie did seem to possess a wider grin and that special twinkle upon his return midway through the third quarter. Now Leroy rushed up from behind and grabbed Stevie by the shoulders. “That’s just about enough out of you, friend,” and he applied an urgent death squeeze.

“Ouch! Goddamit Leroy, why do you always got to be the voice of reason? Just once I’d like to see you cut loose and knock somebody silly.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Leroy quickly answered with crooked teeth clenched, “because it would probably be you. Hey, they won the game and that is that, so let it go,” and Leroy punctuated this with a half-assed grin directed towards the Olsen brothers and Billy Simpson.

For a moment all fell silent and motionless, Theo standing off to the side with both hands in his pockets looking more bored than anything else. And then he said quite seriously, “Leroy, as far as I’m concerned you ought to let the little bastard go and allow him to seek his immediate fortune.”

“”Yeah, let him go!” another familiar voice cried out, high-pitched and hoarse, still quite anonymous, followed by a quick series of likewise urgent pleads.

But just then Dave Olsen broke free from the group and took off in a panting jog towards the quickly fleeing shadow of his sweet Odella, who might have truly sat on Stevie’s little fella, because come to think of it, she was gone quite some time, off to the ladies room and then the concessions, and when she finally returned empty-handed she had nervously explained to Dave she had eaten a hot dog somewhere else.

“Hey, where you going?” Bob Olsen asked but Dave wouldn’t answer or maybe didn’t even hear, his mind so suddenly drowning in the churning sea of his own questions. Bob and Billy Simpson had little choice but to turn and take off after him.

And now the crowd aahed.

“That’s right Husker, run, run away, but please send Odella back to play,” and now Stevie was beaming like the ornery pup that he was.



Ten minutes later they finally reached the Cadillac. Theo and Leroy lumbered into the front seat and as the other two waited for the car to unlock Bobby looked Stevie square in the eye.

“You didn’t really, did you?”

With a mischievous grin Stevie replied, “I’ll never tell.” Then he walked over to a truck bearing a Nebraska license plate, opened the lid to the gas tank, and with unrepented pleasure completely relieved himself.