Block That Kick

September in Albuquerque, New Mexico is quite different than September back home in the old country. Yes, there is a slightly different feel in the air these days, the ghastly summer is at long last over, but out here on the high desert the splendor of the autumn change is less pronounced. Now up in the mountains he was certain that the maples and the other leafy trees changed their color, that their leaves withered and blew away, and down there along the Rio Grande he could see for himself the change in the cottonwoods. But where he spent most of his time, uptown closer to the sloping foothills, his own apartment building was a concrete island surrounded by a sea of rock and the landscaping was sparse, bereft of color, and anything living was prone to die slowly unless tended to with an enthusiastic zeal. The only green things around there were the stubborn weeds that always seem to find a way, to squeeze through some crack, to bust on out and stretch toward the beckoning light.

It was a Saturday. Earlier he had taken a bus to Old Town where he enjoyed strolling among the tourists and sitting on a park bench in the plaza feeding the birds, whatever few that actually managed to wander by. On certain occasions he would hear that familiar sound, the thick daggered jolt of his native tongue, and he would straighten up and bend an ear. In fact, many times he’d fallen in line just behind those who spoke while trying to act inconspicuous but all the while eavesdropping and relishing the tasty crumbs of what they thought was a private conversation. But he never spoke it. It was better to be seen, not heard. In fact, it was better to not be seen either, and he was good at projecting a kind of innocuous invisibility, to no longer matter in this world, only living the sad life of a lonely old man who no one knew or cared about.

But not too sad, not too lonely.

Just sad and lonely enough to subsist but not officially exist.

For the most part he steered clear of crowds, kept his mouth shut, and wore the dark sunglasses that shielded his cold blue eyes, the color of ancient Arctic Sea ice, from all that intrusive light.

There weren’t many tourists milling about on this particular day, at least not for a typical Saturday. Odd that because the weather was wonderful, another deep turquoise sky yet not too hot, just about right. A nice breeze that kept the clouds moving and kept the sky interesting and ever-changing while soothing any burn from a waning sun. A whiskered man walked up and asked him for money, for any change he could spare, but he ignored the bum and didn’t even look up, he just kept digging into his coat pocket for seed and continued feeding his winged congregation, his faithful hungry flock. This angered the whiskered man and he screeched loudly and kicked his way across the circle of tossed seed sending the poor birds scattering.

“You got time and money for those stupid birds but not for me! Real human of you! Thanks, my man.”

The whiskered man steadied himself, thought about something, and then leaned back in.

“So what are you, deaf and dumb… or just plain dumb? You got bird shit for brains?” The man cursed loudly while shaking his head in mock befuddlement, then stormed away, highly agitated yet already scanning the environs for his next victim.

Directly across the sidewalk from him sat a couple of tired old Indians who up to this point had been minding their own business, which by the looks of it consisted primarily of simply continuing to breathe, but now one looked over at him and grinned with his four brown peg teeth.

“I guess you told him, huh?”

And now Wilhelm did choose to look up, to amiably respond out of a sense of geniality, out of deference to a member of an ancient, abused tribe. But he only offered the slightest of nods and a fleeting smile to the old Indian and went back to his returning birds and the last remnants of seed that were tucked away in the deepest crevices of his pockets. He respected these natives and in fact felt some kind of kinship toward them. They had been conquered, vanquished, marginalized and forgotten. And so had he but he could only hope that he was truly as forgotten.

~~~

When he first arrived here all those years ago he had immediately hated the culture but loved the dry air and sunshine. He had acquired an appropriate identity, a proper name and the mandatory nine-digit number, which understandably can be a tricky business. Not only the clandestine nature of the task but also the actual choice of picking the right name. A name like Sam Jones can actually be too mundane, too common, for a man such as he while the one he actually chose, Samuel Terwilliger, was (he later deduced) one that nobody in their right mind would ever choose by their own volition – it was the kind of name that had to be foisted upon the poor soul at birth. So in a way it was perfect – he had just become the odd man with the odd name who kept to himself.

       He had worked various small jobs earning small pay and yet even now he’d been retired for many years. A solitary life has its benefits, namely the lack of all those expenditures that a family man is required to make. Thus he’d had the opportunity to save aggressively which he had done but only by hoarding cash and hiding it in his tiny apartment – no interest earned, no dividends received, and no capital gains that might elicit outside scrutiny – no, he’d done just fine avoiding the American capital markets altogether while quietly pursuing his frugal existence.

       There had been few friends, mainly just acquaintances, and he’d grown accustomed to that. It felt comfortable to him now. But he had plenty of visitors, both familiar faces and total strangers, who came calling late at night once his eyes finally closed.

        And there had been one woman. Ten years younger, attractive, intelligent – a local native who had naturally altered his opinion of the region and its culture. But he had run her off with his paranoid fear that so easily turned to anger whenever the light shone too bright or her questions probed too deep. Although he had wanted to love her he couldn’t allow himself to ever be loved.

~~~

The seed was all gone now but some of the birds still lingered, either those well-fed and contented to hang out for a spell or those extremely optimistic, and they hopped around and pecked at the ground, they fluttered their wings as if in bold threat. Go ahead he thought, fly away and be free, you are all too foolish to comprehend your own good fortune.

It was late afternoon by now, time for perhaps a cold refreshment, and both knees cracked as he pushed himself up and off of that bench and now all the birds took flight, they evacuated with not one more chirp, their loud flapping leaving behind only silence and the fresh modern artwork of oiseaux de merde sur le béton chaud, or as known to the locals, bird shit on hot concrete.

He strolled down a little side alley toward a favorite watering hole, a dark tavern where they actually offered stout European beers, not this lightweight American piss most others get away with peddling. The place was crowded but it was so dark that he paid the cramped conditions little mind, all he desired was one polished stool to slide his weary backside upon and an attentive barkeep who knew how to pour a decent draw. He was lucky, there was one seat still open at the far end of the bar, and he squeezed his way past the many boisterous revelers and announced his official short-term residency with a hard-earned plop and a relieved sigh.

He was old and tired but pleased to be right here right now.

What is all this fuss about he wondered now that he had settled in allowing other matters to garner his attention. Some of the patrons were yelling, hooting, carrying on like at Oktoberfest, and he saw that a great many of them were straining to get a view of the televisions scattered all about the place. In fact there was one just across from him and he could see that there was some kind of athletic contest being broadcasted upon it, one of those college football games that these Americans are so crazy about. Over the decades he’d learned a great deal about their game, about scoring touchdowns and gaining first downs and committing fumbles and such, but he still didn’t really get it. Where’s the grace, where’s the beauty? And all those pads and helmets – the players seem to want to perform in some kind of protected anonymity. Where he came from real men played their games wearing hardly anything at all beyond the scowl smeared across their face and openly boasted of their rugged reputation and identity. Oh well, it’s the modern world, let these modern men behave like sissies.

He quietly ordered a pint of Becks and now his cohabitants were almost worked into a frenzy – out of sheer curiosity, out of wondering what could possibly be so enthralling as to cause grown men to behave so foolishly, he squinted his eyes and looked at the television set. It appeared to be a contest pitting the Ohio State Buckeyes (whatever a buckeye is?) against the Oklahoma Sooners (again, and for the final time hopefully, whatever a sooner is?). The current score read the Ohio boys 28 and the gang from Oklahoma only 26.

Yet there was still some time left on the clock and, unlike the game he grew up loving and playing, he knew there could be no extra time.

The bartender slid over to the set and turned up the volume.

Block that kick! Block that kick! Block that kick!

The assembled crowd was chanting in the stadium with their arms in synchronized motion and their anthem tumbled out of the television reminding him of other long ago chants, of agitated crowds, of faraway pomp and ceremony.

Block that kick! Block that kick!

Yes, he understood, the Ohio supporters were chanting their demand, their ardent wish that somehow a buckeye might break through and bat away the upcoming kick goal attempt, but then he viewed the Oklahoma kicker and saw that he had a German name printed across the top of his jersey. His heart surged. And now that kicker was standing off to the side as the crowd continued to roar. Block that kick! Block that kick! And what is this? Now, and this even he could hardly believe, the young lad was actually orchestrating their chant with his own arms, he had become their spontaneous maestro, this sooner lad keeping their rhythmic beat to calm his own nerves.

That’s a smart boy he thought… a smart German boy.

Wilhelm’s interest was magnified.

The moment was almost at hand.

He took off his sunglasses for a better look as the boy named von Schamann studied the coming placement of the ball and his projected trajectory. The other team’s players were jumping up and down, waving their hands, trying to distract him as the chant grew even louder.

The ball was hiked back to the player who held it down in its proper place.

Wilhelm wiped his mouth.

The ball was pivoted, steadied, as the young, smart German boy approached it.

Wilhelm leaned toward the television set.

The ball was now airborne, twisting end over end, heading straight down the middle… and then Wilhelm sees him.

Over there on the other side of the bar.

Those eyes – he could never forget those big brown sad eyes – are staring right back into his own.

There were cheers in the tavern, a few groans and somewhere a fist banged into some flimsy wood partition, and everybody was bouncing all around him. Utter mayhem ensued – the world shook.

And there is a deeper quake down inside his soul.

With the rest of his family dead that young man, a much older man now, had stopped begging for mercy. So Wilhelm’s superior, field officer Schnauz, had decided to let him go, not as an act of mercy but one of endless torture.

 And yet... and yet...

A thousand miles away in Ohio the crowd falls silent, they are beyond help, they feel instant disappointment and what seems like infinite sorrow. While the Oklahoma Sooners and their brethren celebrate those poor Ohioans collapse into a heap of collected despair.

And right here not more than thirty feet away, the distance of one American football first down, the older man with the big brown eyes, but not so sad anymore, lifts his mug and nods as if in toast.

To survival.

To life.

To weeds fighting their way through tiny cracks in search of the light.

Back outside the world has changed. The sun now hides behind the church steeple and there is a sudden chill in the air. Winter is really not that far away, and once it comes, this time it will never leave. Far across the Atlantic there is a forest near Dachau where the leaves have already fallen, they collect in gold and crimson heaps covering the cold ground as if trying to conceal something buried not that deep beneath it.

But the wind blows, it knows, and the gash remains... and it is so obvious. Wilhelm understands that this man has spent his entire lifetime running toward the light whereas he’d spent that same time running away from it. And then... bang, the end times hit you, you are discovered, you are revealed, and once and for all you find yourself exposed in the most unlikely of places.

He takes off his sunglasses and gives them to the old Indian.

“Aw, just what I needed – thanks, my friend.”

Finally, a friend. And he has a sudden odd thought – those glasses never sat upon a more dignified nose as the one they rest upon now.

Then Wilhelm turns and walks away into the expanding shadows of the eternal winter.

Ducklings

Meg Simmons was running late. And the truth was that there was really no good reason for it – no late night celebrating this or that, no screaming baby waking the dead at the witching hour, not even a short bout with prolonged consciousness at some unknown juncture during the long night – it was nothing but a case of old-fashioned can’t-seem-to-crawl-outa-these-sheets laziness.

   And the gal had a spin class to lead at 7 a.m. – imagine that, a sluggish and occasionally lazy fitness instructor!

   Still, once she was present and suitably loosened up, please stand back and watch the girl go!

   One cup of coffee while she primped, another sucked down en route, and by 6:57 she’d managed to screech her way into the parking lot only to be met there with the unexpected sight of a brood of ducklings loitering across the most conveniently-located parking space. A quick toot of the horn, a polite warning, and yet the oblivious creatures hardly seemed to notice and barely moved. Mother duck was right there staring back at the rude interloper and with a coolish fluttering hopped up onto the curb and finally began to lead those ducklings safely away.

   But there were a couple of stragglers, be them defiant or only dumb it matters not, and an irked Meg leaned on that horn a little more purposely and then slowly inched forward in her vehicle. The little guys just stood there hugging the right side of the space so that Meg eventually found herself parking upon that left white-painted line, but no worries – there were plenty of other spaces available for all other arriving vehicles to park. The rest of the lot was still empty, at least for now.

   6:58 – she slammed it into park and fled inside.

By the time April Fleming turned into the parking lot Meg had already disappeared. But there sat Meg’s green Forrester, for some odd reason parked slightly askew to the left and for all intents and purposes taking up two coveted parking spaces. Now how the hell could anybody pull in right there next to that Forrester and then expect Meg to clamber back inside without first depositing a righteous ding as delivered by her affronting car? Typical selfish entitled bullshit from good old Meg, April thought.

   But she let it go and parked smack dead center in her own chosen space. Because that’s good karma, bitches!

And so on it went with other gym enthusiasts coming and going all morning long, and it should be noted that parking at this new facility was at a premium, especially nearby parking on cool windy days such as this one, and so what unfolded was somewhat of a domino effect, all future parking being affected by that original and obviously self-interested wrongdoer. Everybody was blaming everybody else who in turn was actually wronged by someone else altogether. And if you thought that you were the victim then how you parked (because you had to, what other choice did you really have?) couldn’t help but victimize the very next guy or gal who thought you must be some kind of egocentric idiot. Oh the looks that were exchanged in that parking lot! By 10:37 when Meg sauntered back out into the blustery day she saw that she would need to suck it in and shimmy sideways into the driver side door, and she wasn’t happy, not one bit, because by now she was physically spent and emotionally drained (dealing with a handful of smartass slackers like April Fleming will do that to you). But suck it in and shimmy she did because there was nothing else she could do and she even took what she considered excessive care not to push her door into the black paint job of the vehicle squeezed in next to her (and btw, she did notice that the driver of this black Hummer, no friend of hers she assumed, had plenty of room to get out on his or her own driver’s side), and she landed in a heap with a sigh and it didn’t bother her too much that despite all efforts when she did so her left knee accidentally pushed her door in an outwardly direction where it came to rest firmly stuck into that offending shiny black symbol of mindless excess.

   Oh well, she had tried to play nice.

   Meg had already backed out and been absorbed into our paved tributarial world when the next vehicle in queue whipped around the corner already ogling for the coveted just-vacated spot. Could I really be that lucky thought Oliver Johnson, fiftyish local real estate guy with the shiny red Jag (you MUST play the part of successful dealer in this town), and he was royally pissed to see that black Hummer spilling over into his space!

   The nerve of that fucker!

   It hadn’t been a good day. It hadn’t been a good week. The month was almost over and he’d only sold one ratty little two bedroom dump on the other side of the tracks. He really wasn’t in the mood for this. With all that said, with all that felt deeply in his gut all the way down to his manly gonads, it wasn’t that difficult a decision to allow his own precious car door to swing wide permitting that pointed red corner to make contact with virgin black paint.

   Ding!

   Dong!

   Dang!

   Screw it!

   Fate only exists in retrospect and the rational man can’t blame God either. But the fact of the matter is that Billy Ray Thompson had completed his Wednesday mid-morning routine (consisting of thirty minutes on the treadmill plus a complete upper body weight-lifting regimen) and had just emerged from those swinging doors in perfect time to witness the just-described transgression perpetrated on his brand new Hummer. 

   Barbed words shouted loudly as launched by bursting adrenaline and pumped-up hormones escalated into two grown men circling one another only a couple of feet apart. One of them puffed out their chest, the other tried to push it back in, and what ensued was an unfortunate episode highlighted by Thompson whirling around and kicking the door of the little red sports car followed by an extremely short round of pathetic old-white-guy put-up-your-dukes fisticuffs exquisitely topped off with an even shorter round of some really weird wrestling.

   The result: two grown men left panting on the pavement as the amused crowd slowly began to disperse.

   Well lookee over there, here come those baby ducklings again. They are so cuddling cute, so doggone sweet, absolutely oblivious to the machinations of our foolish world, but one thing they are not my fellow car-parking brethren is innocent.

~ ~ ~

(and now, for your listening pleasure, something not entirely different but actually in the same vein... Emperor of the Highway)

The Music of Christmasage

Suggested listening in chronological order available from your favorite online source or stream for free at Spotify (search: Christmasage)

Winter Garden – Eraldo Bernocchi, Harold Budd, Robin Guthrie

Monsters of the Id – Stan Ridgway

Dust My Broom – Todd Rundgren

Empty Hearted Town – Warren Zevon 

Time To Move On – Tom Petty

Lunar Symphony – Coyote Oldman

Starboy – Salvatore Baglio

What Am I Here For? – Lambert, Hendricks & Ross

Nature Boy – Jon Hassell

Never Let Go – Tom Waits

Psychedelic Shack – The Temptations

This Is Where I Get Off – Robbie Robertson

A Higher Place – Tom Petty

Neighborhood Dog – Salvatore Baglio

In Dulci Jublio – Michael Hedges

Santa Fe – Deuter  

Dog Door – Tom Waits

As With Gladness – The Players

It Came Upon a Midnight Clear – Carla Bley

Who Am I? – Lou Reed

Living – Todd Rundgren

Coming Home – Vincent Russo

Silent Night – Alexi Murdoch

landscape with snow – Takahiro Kido

Silent Nocturne – the DB’s

Click HERE for the exclusive Elgin Oliver interview.

Christmasage: the Elgin Oliver Interview

NOTE: Local scribe/philosopher Elgin Oliver recently cornered the author of Christmasage at a local Panera and tossed out a few questions...

First off, let’s get this out of the way... bear claw or pecan braid?

Did someone mention pecans? Then I’ll have to go with the braid.

What is the genesis of this Christmasage?

Travel stories have always intrigued me. Fun to read, fun to write, but probably not so much fun to actually do. One day I’d at least like to try to find out. On my own terms, of course. But just the idea of someone coming back home during that time of year when emotions are running high. There’s a sense of mystical grace and the kindness of charitable folks along the way. Plus this is a particular stretch of road that I’ve covered many a time. In automobile I should add.

The story evolves from a rather stolid beginning where sex, drugs and rock and roll are prevalent but then evolves into a tale of deeper spiritual awakening along with a dash of the metaphysical.

Well, the story certainly does start out that way and I hope readers are not put off by some of those earlier decadent moments and stick with it. You know, it’s funny. I actually sent a few queries off to some literary agents and they only wanted to see the first fifteen pages – in this case what they were reading in those fifteen pages is not really reflective of the larger vibe of the story. I guess they might be more interested in a short sample to judge the quality of the writing more than the trajectory of the story but I can’t help but wonder if that’s kind of a lousy way to judge the merits of an entire novel. Maybe the last fifteen pages would be better. Maybe the last page would be best.

The title Christmasage is a little difficult to grasp at first take.

No doubt about it, yes, it’s a little clunky. But the idea of a pilgrimage during the holiday season led me to that word, my very own sniglet if you will. And now I’ve become fond of it. At the very least it’s unique which might make it memorable.

What’s the deal with the Suggested Soundtrack listing?

As a music aficionado I find it motivational and fun to create a soundtrack that relates to a project which I can to listen to while in my car or when working out that keeps me on track. That keeps me inspired. The songs here are listed in chronological order and for the most part follow the text and can be pretty easily associated with specific scenes from the book. In fact, they may actually enhance the scene or add a different twist. For instance, Psychedelic Shack by the Temptations is my take on Matt’s perception of the Wayward Boys’ performance in that bowling alley bar after partaking in a little pre-show mind alteration and the somewhat comical intro to Carl Bley’s It Came Upon a Midnight Clear fits quite nicely with Matt’s memorable entrance into the Speckled Egg tavern on that icy west Texas evening. And Dog Door by Tom Waits is fairly self-explanatory. But really for me the one song that supplies the underlying theme for the entire story is landscape with snow by Japanese musician Takahiro Kido. In my mind I imagine the music advancing deeper into the song as Matt’s mystic dream similarly unwinds. But a song like Lou Reed’s Who Am I? - well, that’s more of a general idea tune included to further reveal the mood and Matt’s thoughts much like you’d hear in a movie.

Why self-publish?

I enjoy the writing. At my age I don’t want to waste time with all the marketing and promotion. It’s more important for me to just get it out there and then move on to the next thing. I know one thing, it sure aint for the money.

Ever since I was a young boy I was told that I should write. It’s natural for me and I’m most at peace in the world when I’m riding that creative wave. It’s therapeutic. I haven’t really had much published but I made the novelist T.C. Boyle crack up (see Contest #2 http://tcboyle.com/page2.html?9)... that’s gotta count for something, right?

This novel is self-edited as well. So there may be some minor goofs included but I hope I’ve kept them at a minimum. If you find something amiss please don’t send it to me. Just kidding – feel free to fire away. You know, I’ve read several works published by titans of literature that have missing words or typos so I’ve decided not to let that get me too down. I even recall reading a kindle version of a Stephen King novella and being amazed that there were a few problems in that text. If he can live with them then I guess I can as well.

In summary, if ten people were to read this book I figure that 3 or 4 of them won’t like it much at all. Then maybe 3 or 4 of them will think, hey, it’s no masterpiece but a few passages in there made me smile or think, and anyway that’s a cool soundtrack. Then maybe only 2 or 3 out of that original ten will end up really liking it. If so, then I’d be satisfied.

What’s your philosophy regarding the use of profanity?

Well, yes, I do use it but I try to not use bad words just for the hell of it. I believe it was Kurt Vonnegut who once said if you want to give your reader a reason not to read your book then use profanity in it which is generally good advice. To be honest there will be times when I’ll go back and re-read a passage and ask myself do I really need that particular word right there? And maybe I’ll try to soften it a little by using a less provocative synonym or maybe even tweak a particular scene. And then if I go back later I’ll think, no, that just doesn’t sound real, and I’ll change it right back. The bottom line is I don’t want to pull any punches. Besides, someone else might use perfectly good English and say something that is far more profane like there is no such thing as global warming so feel free to pursue profit at any cost. No bad words included there but to me unforgivably repugnant.

So what’s really going on here?

Well, of course I can’t spell it out for you or the reader, maybe it’s even possible that I don’t even know what’s going on here. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s some sort of spirit quest, an examination of a life, a cry for help, and a method to rid one’s self of excess poundage. Is Matt running away or is he facing the music? Like everything else in this world it comes down to how one chooses to spin it. I guess the bottom line is that in these days when folks so often feel helpless to affect positive change in their lives we can always just get up and walk, repent of our own volition, sweat a little bit and hopefully set ourselves free. It can be as easy as making your mind up and heading out that door.

Just don’t forget to visit the Arizona Meteor Crater when you do!

Anything upcoming?

I’ve just about completed the first draft of another novel. The working title is God Bless America (But Screw Jerry Sparks). About a guy around my age who played football at OU and the NFL. Now he’s got brain damage from all his concussions among other issues. Another black comedy I suppose. Toss in The Lost Child and I guess this completes my Oklahoma Trilogy.

How was that pecan braid?

What pecan braid? 

For more Information:    

utobya/blogspt.com    

amazon.com/author/noblethomas

Space + Time

I've always been intrigued by the change in perspective with the passing of time. Different vantage points in Space + Time offer their own unique beauty and atmospheres:

October 31, 2013

November 27, 2013

December 23, 2013

February 17, 2014

Easter 2014

Memorial Day 2014

4th of July 2014

Labor Day 2014

April 19th, 1995: 20 Years Ago #OKCStrong

Note: In the fall of 2008 I enrolled in a Writer's Studio workshop. The following is one of the assignments from that workshop. Reading it now for the first time in a number of years I recall this as a fairly accurate account of my experience that day. 

Assignment #6 – McCullers 3^rd 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.

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

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 heard 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 local 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 southward 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, with 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 old 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 just be 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 as they 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.

     

Levitation - a story for Christmas Eve

  

  

I recall sitting in front of the blank canvas, my oils mixed and ready but not my muse. The gods of inspiration were eluding me that night. It was Christmas Eve and I had been looking forward to a quiet night of reflection and creation but for some reason it was not to be. I was feeling not right so I set my brush down and knocked about the kitchen for a few minutes then wandered down to the Bowery where I enjoyed several pints with a roomful of strangers. A bum stumbled through the door and in a nod toward the season of giving I bought him a drink but of course one drink is never enough – he demanded more and as far as I was concerned I’d given quite enough so I abandoned the place but not before I’d heard him yell out so much for you ya stinkin’ bum! Despite the irony I didn’t laugh, I trembled. Outside in the cold I stumbled through dark alleys kicking over cans, scaring one innocent cat, having another scare the holy dickens out of me, and wound up at the foot of an old stone abbey.

From narrow side windows an orange-yellow glow emanated out and I yearned for the promise of its warmth. I scampered up the stone stairs and pulled open the heavy oaken door. Inside a candlelight service was in progress and so very quietly I slid into a back pew. The sanctuary was more empty than full and so was my heart. From the altar there came virtuous singing. I was slightly drunk and it made me cry. An old gentleman sitting across from me gained my attention. He sat alone, still bundled in his coat and scarf, his mostly bald head springing a few wild hairs presumably left by the unceremonious removal of his winter cap. The stubble upon his face revealed a man unmoved by the demand for public approval, his appearance quite frankly that of an unshaven unrepentant sinner, that or a man too old to safely guide the razor, too poor to acquire the proper blade. And yet he did seem cheerful and quite immersed into the proceedings. He possessed an odd look of both solemnity and joy. Excepting me he was the only other person who had entered the abbey alone. I took note. At service end he donned his cap and pulled himself out of the pew with great effort. Slowly he exited through the heavy oaken door and carefully descended the steps one by one with a hand on the side brass rail.

I found myself following him out.

Most of the spiritually-restored churchgoers went one way, toward the outer city with its glowing lights and the safety of their comfortable homes. He went the other direction, back into the tawdry ancient city with its countless varieties of expanding shadows and all of that which expanded within them. I followed at a respectful distance desiring not to be detected, wishing to eschew any contact, there only for my observation. My sole purpose was to bear witness. He treaded so lightly that I heard none of his footsteps on the cobblestoned street and yet my very own steps seemed to echo loudly despite my every effort to minimize such clatter. He appeared not to hear or possibly care. At every street corner turn he seemed to gain distance from me and disappear, then once again back within my vision he seemed to barely be moving at all. Soon enough there came one last turn, then two long brick walls on either side leading straight into another brick wall.

The proverbial dead end.

He was nowhere to be seen.

I looked for a door, a hidden passage, some kind of rattle bone ladder offering a way up and out.

I found nothing.

There was nowhere else to look but up.

I saw one star there glowing.  

There was nothing else.

****

 I returned to my studio and painted past dawn.

 I stored it in a hall closet but hung it from my heart.

--- from Christmas Stories, Volume 1, by Noble K Thomas

The Second Saturday in October

It’s not much of a river.

Nothing like that of the typical image one freely conjures in the fertile creative mind, nothing like those full and clear waterways you see gushing wildly way up north, heaven knows it’s nothing like the mighty Mississippi. It’s more of a tree-infested coming together of two slanted slimy banks, a muddy passage where meager waters trickle and stagnate and eventually twist their way on east, and if all the snowmelt from the Rockies fell only this way instead of also toward the west then the river might actually be capable of generating a little consistent flow. But as it appears now it serves primarily as a steadfast delineation, a solid boundary between one American state and another, and to pronounce which side is better depends solely on your lineage or your personal taste regarding just what exactly is cool.

Big-ass money or smart-ass money?

Don’t Mess With Texas or That Arrogant Slogan Implies That You Already Messed on Yourself?

Stevie Ray Vaughn or Michael Hedges?

Tex-Mex or smoky Okie barbecue?

Keep Austin Weird or Keep Norman Normal (truth is Austin aint that weird and Norman’s not that normal).

Devon Energy or Conoco-Phillips?

Wheat or cotton?

Old slow longhorns or young giddy ponies?

Native American or Hispanic?

Hook ‘em Horns or Boomer Sooner?

Matthew McConaughey or Ed Harris? (caution: the answer to this question may reveal a lot about you regardless of whether you are a man or a woman)

Pinto beans or mungbeans? (Ehh… feel free to pass on this one)

J.R. Ewing or Eddie Gaylord?

Okie from Muskogee or The Yellow Rose of Texas?

The Black Mesa or Texas Hill Country?

Thomas Lott or James Street?

Earl Campbell or Billy Sims? Texas fans like to tease about the Sooner’s penchant to cherry pick Native Texans, and both Earl and Billy hail from Texas and won Heisman Trophies, yet the last two Sooner Heisman winners were born and raised within fifty miles of the Norman campus while the last Longhorn winner was some fruit out of California.

October is the one month out of the year around these parts that pretty much justifies sticking around for the other eleven. Blizzards may be rare but ice storms are not and they may in fact be ten times worse, the roads impassably slick and the overhead power lines sagging with a good inch or so of frozen H2O accreted all around them, and if the trees haven’t had enough time to shed their leaves then those branches can crack and there goes twenty years of forested growth. The spring can come early and if it does then be advised that the requisite wind will surely accompany it along with the swirling skies and as the sirens wail you may wonder why oh why didn’t I put in that storm shelter when I had the chance? And the summer… good Lord, the summer can radiate and percolate and oddly mutate all that which lies beneath the brilliant bleached heat dome and naturally there’s no breeze now and it may not rain for days, for weeks, maybe even months.

And when it finally does it never stops.

So yes, please God, bless October with its golden warmth and true blue sky and the comforting fragrance that emanates from the recuperating earth after a busy spring and a trying summer and now, in these cool shaded moments that randomly happen upon us when peace at long last appears at hand, we pronounce our happiness and understand why we could never leave this place, not for too long, not while the green turns to gold and fat pumpkins await the carving knife.

It is finally at this time, at this glorious culmination of fruition and harvest, of warming bonfires and heaping leaves, when a man can taste the earth and drink the air and chant silently to himself we sure as hell better beat Texas.

  

There’s nothing like enjoying a foot long corn dog with a long stripe of mustard running down it while Big Tex hovers above you welcoming one and all to the Great State Fair of Texas. Or gnawing on a turkey leg by Dickel on the grassy knoll just between the crowded midway food booths and the pond where swan boats serenely glide past. And atop the sprawling Ferris Wheel where by chance stopped at the very top you are offered a glimpse of just a small patch of green Cotton Bowl turf with white yard line chalk expertly applied and where you know it will all unfold in only a matter of hours. And after consuming three or four beers and absorbing all that pregame hoopla and basking in unrepented hope the time finally comes for entry into the grand old stadium, and it’s surreal, all that burnt orange and crimson red shoulder to shoulder cramming up those long steps and squeezing yet again into familiar confines.

Three hours later you won’t be feeling the same way as when you entered, you’ll either be loquacious in victory or silently bummed in defeat (or worse). There’s always next year for the losers (yes, eventually they’ll come to realize it) but for the others there’s tonight!

So the Bootlegger’s Boy or Coach Royal?

The north nondescript bank of the Red River or the equally nondescript south?

If and when the Savior returns to claim us all maybe the Almighty can first deliver him into the middle of these narrow clotted waters and we can all just sit back and wait and see which slippery side he decides to clamber up and onto. Until then, feel free to choose for yourself, although for most of us the choice was made a long, long time ago. 

Summer

When summer fades and autumn beckons

And your days on earth pass the tipping point,

Joints may stiffen while inspiration wanes.

Just think back to carefree days, 

Those with no nagging memories 

And the future a boundless wide-open thing.

Nestled on a day bed 

With a breeze humming through cottonwood branches,

A soothing lullaby,

Conducted by a warming sun.

At the beach or by the pool,

Endless days capped with deep sleep,

Not a care in the world.

Only time, a surplus commodity.

That was untainted joy.

Now supply has  buckled under demand,

And you've lost your perspective,

You dwell too much on what happened so long ago.

Unreachable, left behind, a receding past.

But the secret is that life gives us

A new summer each and every year,

No matter your age no matter your purpose,

Come Memorial Day it's time to tweak your attitude.

Step aside, close your eyes, and remember

Or

Step outside, open your eyes,

And do it again.

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.