On Death

This month at my church, First Unitarian Universalist Church of Nashville, we are focussing on the uncomfortable subject of death. The following poems are a part of my attempt to contribute to that conversation.

Awareness

Death to me, as perhaps to you,
upon first encounter
is a new fact
like gravity,
the heat of a long burning light bulb,
or the sounds of a dog outdoors in winter.

Wonder sets in before fear and sadness.
Emotions learned.  Acquired from adults.
The proper way to behave, they tell me,
is to sit still and be sad.
The proper way to behave, they show me,
is to speak softly in cautious grief.

Then an acceptance:
Everyone else, it seems, must die.

###

Understanding

I say Death must become unfair
because it isn't
intrinsically.
It fits the bill quite well though.
Plays its part.
The looming curtain, waiting,
waiting to drop and end the show
without concern, or without much concern,
as to the state of the players
or the scene
or the act.
Possibly without concern even for the playwright
but I can't speak to that.

Death is the stage hand, who, after having seen enough,
or maybe due to an urge for a cigarette or a coffee or a sandwich at the diner down the way
pulls the cord,
drops the heavy veil,
cutting the action.
Treating equally the most poetic of soliloquy,
the basest burlesque
and the brightest light-hearted farce.

###

Justification

Death is a metaphor for winter. For describing the cold and the harsh without having to fall to words
like 'cold' or 'harsh'
The closing of the eyes, like the quick darkening of the skies, brings fear.
With Death at least we speak of the unknown.We pretend and our pretending leads to some surprising ideas.
Ideas so varied, so diverse that we recognize how much we don't know.

(Even if we won't always admit to it)

Death is a softer, gentler stand-in for the burdens of life.
Burdens we know too well and will anticipate if, for even a moment, we leave our minds free to do so.

###

Reality

The nurse told us that toward the end
she would pull away,
and I was left with the image of me
as a boy on the playground and the friend,
who only just the day before had run with me to be the first on the swing,
was today telling me to go away
to take my cooties someplace else.
He'd found a better friend.
And, now, was our grandmother doing just the same?
Had she grown tired of us?  Found someone new to love?
Would she make them, from scratch, a banana pudding
with the meringue on top, just like I liked it?
And who was this nurse?  This woman sworn to heal!
Who was she to tell us this?  To surrender?  To tell us to surrender!
Was it not she who was pulling away?  On to other patients?
To better patients?  To find someone maybe a little less challenging?
And here we are, weak, helpless, practically begging her to stay.
Calling to her.  Calling to God.  We'll do better.  We'll be kinder.
We'll eat every last one of our vegetables.
All the while knowing, or at least coming to know, that it's no good
It's no good.
The movie is ending.  The evening is passing into night.  The light is...
Metaphors.
We have to look at this thing.  See it for what it is.  
There's no room now for wasted time.
We gather around the bed.  We hold each other.  We cry until we shake.
We cover one another in tears.
We practice, each in turn, saying goodbye.
We wait.
And, when finally it comes, we are not ready.

###

Mystery

Age can be measured
in funerals attended per year.
A better way, perhaps,
than years since birth.
Better for being not a line, straight on, but a curve.
Sloping upward, toward life's asymptote.
Logic ceases. Reason suspends.
And even sacred mathematics
fails to explain with any personal satisfaction.

It's mystery. Damned mystery.
And it's with no small shame that I admit
how much I truly, truly hate that word.

An Archetypical Mall Outing

I went to the mall the other day because my wife wanted to do some shopping.

Now I know we live in a time and a culture that is supposed to shun stereotypes, but what can I say? Sometimes they fit. My wife loves to shop. I hate it. But I like her and my coming along makes her happy, so sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes I go with her.

Anyway as usual on these shopping trips, I wound up sitting on a bench. You know one of those benches the mall provides for old people or kindhearted husbands who selflessly accompany their wives to the mall. They set them back to back in the center of the hall so anyone sitting on one is on display, giving the throngs of shoppers something to look at on their way to the next store. I think the idea is that once you sit there being stared at long enough, you'll be shamed into getting up and buying something. Doesn't work on me though. Not usually.

So I was sitting there on the bench, losing at a sudoku game on my phone when two older ladies sat on the bench behind me. I could tell they were old ladies by their perfume and their voices and because I turned around and had a look. You know, just to double-check that my sleuthing skills are still sharp.

Almost immediately these two biddies started chatting.

“It's funny to run into you, Dee. I thought you never came to the mall,” said one.

“Oh, come now, Lili, you must know I love to people watch,” said the other.

“It is just the place for that, isn't it?” said the one called Lili. “Nothing like the old days though, is it? Nothing like a good old fashioned bazaar.”

“Well you know you can still catch a good one of course? Why I was just in Pakistan last week. Great people watching over there in Pakistan.”

“Sure, sure. I know just what you mean. I'm in India practically all the time. But when you have the choice, you sure can't beat a comfortable bench like this, can you?”

They both giggled at that. Then Dee said, “And don't forget the air conditioning!”

“Oh, I know!” Lili said, “Can't forget that!” They both burst into laughter again. I say 'burst' but it was actually pretty modest old lady laughter. Still, I felt the bench shake a little from it.

By this time I had stopped playing with my phone altogether and sat listening. Who where these old lady world travelers? It was very strange, but it got stranger.

“Dee, how is your husband these days?”

“Oh, you know, he's off starting some kind of trouble. He's into wars these days, you know? Always has to be starting something new.”

“Men just can't be satisfied, can they? Mine's just gotten into all this fancy electronics business.”

“That electricity sure is something, isn't it?” Dee asked.

“Oh, yes, it certainly is. Since he came up with that one, it's been nothing but work, work, work. He's managed to use it for everything. Light, heat, factories. It's done wonders for medicine too. And of course that affects me quite a bit. More people means more babies and more work.”

“I know just want you mean, Lili. More work for you means more for me too, of course.”

They both began to giggle again.

“And,” Dee said once they'd regained themselves. “you know my husband surly does make use of all that fancy technology that yours is always coming up with. Seems like that man of yours can't come up with anything that mine can't use for something else. I tell you if I hear another word about how great that nuclear fission is again... Well I'm just gonna scream!”

“Oh, does he like that?” Lili asked. “Well I will have to tell mine about that. He was quite proud of that one. Of course, for him it's all about making more electricity. He just can't get enough.”

Now I don't want you to think I'm normally the type of person who listens in on other people's conversations. I realize that's just about all I've been talking about here – someone else's conversation, I mean – but you gotta admit this is a special case. Most conversations, particularly mall conversations, are duller than wall staring contest, but not this one. No sir. This one was just plain weird. Started out weird and just got weirder. I don't want to harp on this, I just don't want you to think, if you ever see me at a party or someplace, that I'm that guy who's always eavesdropping. I'm really not that guy.

But getting back to the old ladies... “Oh, I remember the really good old days,” Dee said. “When it was just disease and famine. And, of course, the occasional predator attack or flood or asteroid. He would set it going and I'd come scoop 'em up. And we were so young then, weren't we?”

“Oh yes, we were,” Lili said. “In those days work was so easy. So few of them around, I could just about name them all. You know I really felt connected with them. I'd bring them in and, well I just had time, you know what I mean? Time to really get to know them before I had to move on to the next. Isn't it funny how when we were young and full of energy we had so much less to do?”

“Yes it is. Funny like a hangover!” With that the both began really cackling. Loud this time. Even some of the shoppers passing by turned to look.

“Well,” Lili said at last, “I guess I'd better be off. Quintuplets in Vancouver.”

“Quintuplets? My stars, I still can't get over that. They're just having regular litters these days, aren't they?” Dee said.

“Yes, it would seem so.” Lili said. I felt the bench move as she stood. “And I know who to thank for that one too! I remember when he came home talking about that 'in vitro-' whatever it is. Sure has had me running ever since!”

“I bet. Like you said, those men just can't be satisfied. Well you take care now, girl. I've got to go myself. Suicide bomber.” I felt the bench shift again as Dee stood.

With that they were gone. That was it. I turned, but didn't see them. Must've been pretty fast for a couple of old ladies. I sat there thinking about what I'd just heard for a few minutes, though I can't say that I made very much progress. Then, after a few minutes my wife came by with so many packages I wondered where I'd sit on the car ride home.

Observation

“The observations will continue until such time that those above us determine the operation is complete,” the High Officer said. “Don’t worry about taking notes on what you witness. Your senses and impressions are being gathered, real-time, by the System. As you experience something, the System also experiences it. Do not try to hide your reactions. You cannot hide from the System, and trying to do so only wastes time and System resources. You have been chosen because of your sensitivity. It is an asset here. You will not be punished for it. However, you will be punished for repeated attempts at hiding your reactions. Do you have any questions?”

Walter looked past the High Officer into the room beyond. They were separated from the room by a large glass window. On the other side of the glass - in the room - were three blond-haired children sitting before an old man in a rocking chair. The old man was telling a story.

“What happens,” Walter said, “to them once the operation is completed?”

“I cannot say for sure, but most likely they will be terminated.”

“Oh,” Walter said.

“Do not let it worry you. We have been in operation for a very long time now. Most, if not all, of them will have terminated by other, natural, means long before we are finished.”

“Oh, of course. They die.” Walter said.

“Yes. Now if there are no further questions, I have many other observers to initiate,” the High Officer said.

“Of course. No. I have no further questions.”

“Good.” The High Officer turned and left the observation room.

###

Walter sat in the observation chair and looked through the glass into the room. The room seemed so small to him. Tight. For a moment he imagined himself in there, surrounded by those four dimensions. Trapped. He could hardly bear the thought of it.

He knew, intellectually, it wasn’t the same for them. The people in the room. For them it was a wide open space full of fields, forests, oceans, mountains, cities, homes... Sitting there looking through the glass he could almost see it from their perspective. This, as the High Officer had made clear, was why he’d been chosen for the assignment. He was sensitive. He was more like them than most.

Beyond the glass the children were dancing in a circle begging the old man, their grandfather, for another story. The old man slowly rocked in his chair and said he was tired. “Go on and play, I told ya,” he said. “I’ll watch you from up here on the porch.” But they didn’t seem to hear him. They begged and danced. “Go on now,” he said again.

“GO PLAY!” screamed a voice from inside the house. Walter could see a large, middle-aged woman lying on a well-worn sofa. She was eating a bowl of beans and watching a television program in which contestants bet on whether or not they had fathered any of the various children on the stage. “LEAVE POPOP ALONE AND GO PLAY!” she yelled. The springs beneath her creaked loudly with each syllable.

The children stopped dancing and looked toward the door. “See, you done got your momma yelling at ya. Y’all go on and play now”, their grandfather said. “If you’re good, I’ll tell you a story later.”

“Okay” the children said and ran around the side of the house.

Walter kept his attention on the old man. He rocked in his chair, slowly, humming a tune. Finally he closed his eyes and after a while the chair came to a halt.

Walter turned his focus to the woman. She had finished the beans and now the bowl sat resting on her breasts. At first Walter thought she was asleep as well, but when the television switched to a commercial she sat up. On the screen was a young, attractive, well-dressed woman. The woman announced that she, too, had once been sad, directionless and unemployed, but after discovering that she could train to be a nurse’s assistant in only fourteen months she turned her life around. After completing the short program, she began a fulfilling career helping others and making good money too. The woman said if she could do it, then so could anyone. She said not to delay but call today. Walter saw the large woman lift the bowl and place it on the floor beside the sofa. He watched her crane her head to look out the front door. And when she saw the old man was asleep, she reached behind her for the phone on the end table and begin dialing.

“Hello, Trade School International, how may I help you?” a female voice on the other end of the line said. Walter could see this woman - an operator - had dark skin and was sitting in a room crowded with cubicles. Other dark-skinned people - mostly women - were taking calls all around her. They were in conversation about many different topics and with many different inflections and accents. Walter realized that for the people in the room there was a great distance between the large, light skinned woman on the sofa and the dark skinned people on the phones.

‘Yeah, I...uhm...I saw your t.v. commercial about the nursing school,” the large woman said.

“Oh, yes. It is a fine program,” the operator said. “Let me get your information and we will send out everything you need to apply.”

“Oh, okay, you mean you’ll send it to my house? In the mail?”

“Yes. Directly to your door.”

“Is there any way we can do something on the phone, though? Do you have to mail it?”

“There is quite a lot of information, ma’am. You will want to look at it. Perhaps discuss it with your family.”

“The lady on the commercial made it seem like all I had to do was call.”

“That is the first step, ma’am and you have done that.”

Walter saw the confused look on the operator’s face as the line disconnected. She looked across the aisle to her manager who’d been listening on the call. He removed his headset and began typing. Walter saw her squinting, but she could not read his computer’s screen. He knew she was worried. This was her first week on the job. Working nights was hard for her, but he could see how determined she was. He saw the slum where she lived. An aged father laying on a mat on a dusty floor. Her son erasing yesterday’s assignments to make room to write today’s. He wanted to tell her she need not worry. Her manager was simply typing an email to his mistress.

“She just hung up,” she said, “there was nothing I could do.”

“It happens,” her manager said looking up, “you have another call.”

Walter turned his attention back to the old man. He was awake now and standing at the screen door looking into the house. “Nursin’, school?” the old man said. “Did I hear that right? That’s the damned funniest thing I’ve heard in a while. Look at you fat as a cow thinking you’re gonna be a nurse! Hell, you can’t even hardly take care of these kids.”

The large woman sat the phone down into its cradle and look down. “Daddy, I was just thinking -”

“There you go, thinking again. How many times have I told you, girl, you ain’t got no more brains than a sack’a’shit. Nursin’ school! And who would look after these kids if you were at Nursin’ School? Huh? Sure ain’t gonna be their daddies...whoever they are. And it sure ain’t gonna be me.”

“Alright, Daddy, I’m sorry. I was just -- “

“You ought to stop thinking about school. It’s your kids that’s gotta go to school. At least they ain’t completely stupid, ‘specially that boy. Maybe they can make something, but you need to stop dreaming that you will. Ya hear, me?”

“Yes, Daddy. I know.”

“I’m going back to my chair. Run in the kitchen and bring me back my bottle.”

“Daddy, you said you’d tell the kids a story tonight. I don’t want you to be--”

“I know I did, and I will. I won’t be nothin’ too much to tell them kids a story. Now do as I say. Get on, girl.”

The old man walked back toward his chair and Walter rose from his and began pacing. Through the window he could hear the large woman grunting as she pushed herself off the sofa and trudged into the kitchen. She swore under her breath as she flung open the cabinet above the stove and reached for the bottle of brown liquor. The kitchen floor groaned as she turned back toward the front door. Before she could start toward it, though, she glanced out the window and saw her children playing around the clothes line. The were darting in and out between the bed sheets and clothes hanging from it. She leaped to the window and pushed it open. “YOU KIDS KEEP AWAY FROM THERE! YOU HEAR ME! I’LL WEAR YOU OUT IF YOU DIRTY UP MY CLEAN SHEETS AND THINGS! GET AWAY NOW!”

Walter turned to the window and looked upon her face. It was red and splotchy with lines under her eyes and along her forehead. A scar ran along the left side of her double chin. He saw her eyes water and watched her rub her face on the yellow curtain framing the window. Then she turned and carried the bottle to her father on the front porch.

Walter looked away from the window and began pacing once more. He was new at this and he knew he had to make a good impression, but this was harder than he’d thought. What was he supposed to be doing here? What was the point of all this? He didn’t know. He didn’t think the High Officer knew either. He looked at the control panel to the right of the window. There were very few controls on it. His job was to watch and not to interfere. Still, those above him and given him some power. Power he could use if he saw fit. He’d have to answer for it, of course - even at that moment the System knew what he was thinking - but by then what was done would be done.

He looked at the window as the old man grabbed the bottle from his daughter’s hand. He saw her, head lowered, walk over to a swing at the end of the porch and slowly settle into it. He saw the kids running around to the back of the house. The oldest girl was chasing the younger children, swinging a rotten board over her head. He watched them all and his hand moved over the control panel. It would be easy. He didn’t know if it was right, but it would be easy.

He paused, thinking for a moment. What did the System know anyway? But, then again, what did he? Was he a judge? His job was to watch. To feel. But that’s where it ended. Didn’t it? He didn’t know. It was only his first day. Maybe it would get easier after a while. He looked back at the window, exhaled, then shoved his hand into his pocket and returned to the observation chair, seated himself and resumed his work. He watched and hoped it would get easier.

###

The operator was now on the line with a man.

“Yes, sir, men are certainly allowed.” Walter saw her sorting through documents on her computer until she found what she was searching for. She began to read, “We have found that many patients, particularly elderly men, prefer to be tended to by male medical professionals.”

Walter did not follow the man’s side of the conversation.

“Yes, sir...Yes...We’ll get that right to you...Yes...Just let me get your address.” She began entering the man’s information into her computer. “Oh, yes, sir, you should receive it right away...Yes, it’s Karreen. Yes, sir....Smith....Thank you, very much, sir and good luck with your new career.”

When the call was complete Walter noticed the operator’s manager signal her not to take the next one. “That was not bad, but the name is pronounced, Karen”

“Oh,” she said. “What did I say?”

“Karreen.”

“Oh. I am so sorry. Karen. Karen. I’ve got it now.”

“Good.”

Walter turned his attention back to the porch. The youngest child was nestled on the swing with her mother. The boy leaned against the porch rail near his grandfather and bounced a small rubber ball against the house. The oldest was inside watching television.

“Boy,” the old man said with a slight slur. “you had you any of the good stuff yet?”

“What’s that granddaddy?” the boy said catching the ball.

“Boy if you don’t know, you ain’t had none. Ain’t there no girls at that school? Got to get some while its young, boy. That’s the good stuff.” The old man tipped his bottle and emptied it into his mouth.

“Daddy! That boy’s only eleven years old. Don’t be talking to him like that,” the large woman said.

“Shit, girl, don’t you tell me what to tell him. It’s my house ain’t it and you are a GUEST in it, don’t be tellin’ me how to talk.”

“He’s my boy, daddy, he’s too young for all that girl talk.”

“GIRL IF YOU DON’T HUSH YOUR DAMN MOUTH!” The old man yanked up his bottle and flung it across the porch toward the swing where it smashed against the wooden armrest.

“DADDY...!” the large woman yelled before being cut off by the screams of the little girl. Walter noticed the blood welling up from the gash in her leg. “OH, HONEY,” the woman shrieked, lifting her and cradling her as best she could. She used her own shirt to cover and apply pressure to the wound. “Daddy, you coulda killed her!” Tears rose up in her eyes as she looked down at her frightened child. “it’s ok, honey. it’s ok. Momma’s gonna take care of you. Don’t cry now. it’s ok.”

“Should’a kept your damn mouth shut,” the old man said grinning. “Bet she will next time, ain’t that right?” he said to the boy.

“Yeah, I guess so,” the boy said, but Walter could see the look of concern in his eyes as he watched his mother struggling to carry sobbing his sister into the house. “Sure was a lotta blood though.”

“Oh, hell, she’ll be fine. Don’t worry about her, now. Why don’t you go get me my cigar box from the shed. Might even give you one if you hurry up.”

Walter rose from the observation chair again. Is this how it was for them? So separate from one another? In space. In time. In mind. Such distance. How did they survive it? Again, he walked to the control panel. Maybe it wouldn’t get any easier. Maybe this was it. His hand reached forward. What would they do to him? What punishment would the System order? Did it matter? What punishment could be worse than this? Sitting here. In this chair. Watching. Moment after moment after moment.

“Nothing could be worse,” he said aloud as he reached down and pushed the button.

###

The phone rang.

“Hello. Trade School International. How may I help you?”

“Hello? Who’s that?”

“Hello? Yes, ma’am? Trade School International.”

“You called me back?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I received a call on my end. Did we speak before?”

“Rang on mine too. Yeah, I called a little while ago.”

“Oh, yes, of course, we were disconnected, I believe.”

“Uhm, yeah, must’ve been.”

“Well, ma’am, could I send you the information about our program, nursing wasn’t it? It is really a very fine program.”

“Hmm... You know, maybe you ought to.”

“Good. If I could just--”

“You know? Yeah. Yeah! I don’t care if it is his house. I don’t care what that old bastard says. I just don’t care anymore. I just gotta do something with my life, you know? Not just for me. I gotta do it for my kids.”

“Oh. Yes, ma’am. This is a fine opportunity. Very fine. If I could just--”

“Yeah. Fine opportunity. Yeah, that lady on the t.v. said so too. And it doesn’t take too long?”

“No, ma’am. Fourteen months for what is normally a two year degree.”

“That’s pretty good, I guess. Yeah, you know what? I’m gonna do it. You go ahead and send that stuff to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. Very good. If I could just get your name and address?”

###

Third Eye Rising

This is a sequel of sorts to Of the Third Eye. Hope you enjoy.


His coffee was cold.

“My coffee’s cold,” he said to his partner.

“Well ask the waitress for some more,” his partner said.

From their booth at the end of the row, he turned around in his seat and looked down the length of the diner. He spotted the young, dark-haired waitress immediately - she was filling salt shakers behind the counter - but he didn’t see the older, fat one he’d hoped for. “Eh, maybe I’ll wait a while,” he said.

“Suit, yourself, Sam,” his partner said. Then he too leaned to the side to look down the row of booths. Only one other table was occupied at this mid-afternoon hour. He saw he could speak without being overheard. “Alright. Here’s the drill. It’s simple. We knock on the door. Tell the old lady we’re there to check the gutters. If she asks, we say her kid sent us, but they hardly ever ask. Then we get the ladder, bang around on the gutters for twenty minutes or so, come down and tell her they’re in good shape and that’ll be a-hundred and twenty bucks. That’s it.”

Sam took a sip of his cold coffee and grimaced. “That’s it? We don’t tell her we cleaned them?”

“No, man, we’re only up there for twenty minutes. Have you ever actually cleaned gutters. Man, that’s a job. The chick may be old and gullible, but if she was that far gone she’d be in a home. Trust me.”

“Okay, George, okay,” Sam said.

"Good, now I've made a list of places to hit today and tomorrow," George said smiling, "Man, you gotta love cell phones, you know? These days you can just about guarantee if somebody's in the phone book, they're old and easy pickin's. Then just narrow it down to the old, rich - but not too rich, you know - neighborhoods and 90% of the leg work is done for you."

“Oh, yeah. Okay. I see what you mean," Sam said. "But, George, what if the gutters are pretty bad? I mean, maybe we should do a little bit if they are.”

“Dammit, Sam," George snapped, "do you want to do this or not? I thought you needed the money.”

“Yeah, I do. Okay.” Sam said. He looked past his partner out the diner’s window. He saw a teenage couple getting into an old Pontiac. The guy had greasy hair, bright red pimples along his forehead and down the left side of his face, and a thin mustache. The girl had gorgeous, shiny jet-black hair, smooth pale skin and a small sharp nose. He saw she wore a pendant on a silver chain around her neck. It slipped neatly between the mounds of her breasts. He couldn’t tell what it was, but he felt strangely attracted to it. When he glanced up from it he saw her looking at him through the glass - smiling at him - and felt a chill.

Sam looked away embarrassed, but his gaze was quickly drawn back to the car. This time he took another look at the guy - who wasn't likely to notice Sam's stare since he hadn’t taken his eyes off the girl. He sat there behind the wheel just staring at her, absorbed, with a look both far away and intense. Something that wasn't quite lust, but not far from it.

“Hey, you want some more coffee? Here comes the waitress,” George said taking a bite of his BLT.

It was the older one. “Can I get you boys anything else?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, another cup would be good,” Sam said, handing her his cup.

“I’ll bring the pot, honey,” she said turning away.

After she’d gone, George leaned in. “Listen, my cousin, Jimmy, has a van that we can use. We just can’t tell him anything about what we’re doing, okay? If he found out he’d want a cut and there just ain’t enough to go around. So don’t say nothing about anything. I told him we needed it for a couple of days to help your brother move. I figure that buys us enough time to hit most of those neighborhoods north of town. Okay? Okay? You listening to me, Sam?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. No problem,” Sam said, looking back out the windows. The Pontiac had pulled out and driven away. He cursed himself under his breath for not seeing which way it had gone.

George heard him swear, “What’s that -- “

“Coffee,” the waitress said and Sam turned toward her with his cup in hand. He saw the sharp small nose and pale skin, then the pendant. “Fu--” He said and dropped the cup onto the table covering the table and George’s plate in cold coffee.

“What the hell, man!” George yelled grabbing his napkin. Sam looked back up at the waitress. He saw her gorgeous, shiny black hair. He saw her slight smile. He looked into her eyes. They were dark and clear and deep. How clearly they must see. How much of this world. The hidden places. The cold, lonely places. She could see it all. She knew his --

“What’s all this?” The other waitress said brushing between Sam and the dark-haired waitress. She dropped a thin, dirty cloth onto the table and began sopping up the spilled coffee. “Go see to the other customers, dear,” she said, and, then, once she’d gone, “I’m sorry, boys, she’s new. I thought sure she could come over here and pour some coffee without any trouble. I tell you, I don't know what to do with her. She's a nice enough girl, quiet, and she means well... I just don't know. Folks do tip her, though, and we share those." She laid the towel down into another puddle and looked over her shoulder at the younger woman. "Oh, to be young," she said more to herself than to the two men and continued to pat the table. “And that sister of hers... I --”.

“Okay, that’s enough,” George said. “it’s clean. Thanks, ma’am.” He looked over at Sam. “And we don’t need no more coffee or nothing. Just bring us the check.”

When she had gone, George said. “Dammit, Sam, I can’t have you getting all stiff over some chick and causing a scene that’ll get us noticed. You here me?” Sam looked at him stone-faced and nodded. “Alright. Good. And you’re lucky none of that got on my shirt. I like this shirt and I don’t need no damn coffee stains on it. Now go pay the bill and let’s get outta here.”

"Okay," Sam said flatly, sliding out of the booth.

The cash register was at the far end of the diner and Sam quickly realized that the young, dark haired waitress was talking with some customers at a table between him and it. He approached her slowly. As he moved closer he could see the booth was occupied by two teenage boys both of whom seemed to be competing for the waitresses attention. He saw how they glowed when she laughed at something they'd said and how they softened when she gently touched one and then the other on the shoulder. Suddenly he envied the boys in a way he’d never envied anyone. To be there before her. To listen to her. To look upon her. Her eyes. They’d caught him. In the brief moment he’d looked into them he’s seen... Seen what? Depth? Stillness? A knowing? Something very much like... Power.

Then, as he approached, he knew. She was aware of him. He could see that her attention was focused on the boys in the booth, but at the same time... Something... Somehow... He felt her watching him. Like some part of her stood apart from everything else and was focused on him. Only on him. Like he was all that mattered. Like he was important.

He remembered a vacation his family had taken to the gulf coast years before. He was five or six. The youngest, much younger than his brothers. He’d been the surprise, the late gift, the accident. His parents were sleeping beneath their large, blue and white beech umbrella and his brothers had run off - looking for girls or weed - and he was left alone. A group of girls about his age were building a sand castle not far from where his parents slept and he’d wondered over to them only the be forced back by taunts and tossed globs of wet sand. He tried building his own after that, but with no bucket or shovel a squat wet mound was all his could manage. Finally with nothing left to do, he leaned against his “castle” and stared out into the water. Wave upon wave upon wave rushed ashore, occasionally depositing stringy, black seaweed upon the beach. Wave upon wave. Others, children and adults, played in the shallow, foamy wash. Wave upon wave. Heat beat down upon him and he imagined the coolness of the water. Wave upon wave. The endless crashing of the rolling water. Wave upon wave. In...Out. In...Out. The ocean breathed before him. Wave upon wave. Calling to him. Wave upon wave. Wave upon wave. The blue depths. The mysterious place of birth. Wave upon wave. A homecoming. Wave upon wave. Wave upon wave. Wave upon wave.

When he reached the booth the waitress stepped to the side to let him by and the boy on the bench slid over to make room. He sat and stared up at her feeling the smile rise on his face. This was it, he knew. Finally. He looked away from her for a moment at the faces of his two companions and could see his own joy reflected in their eyes. What had he been thinking? There was no competition here. No battling for attention. There was no need. Here there was plenty.

The pendant swayed as she leaned in and softly spoke. The three of them listened drawing themselves closer to her. There were things that needed doing. There was purpose. Life was set and never more would there be question or doubt.

He noticed only briefly the blue lights flashing out the window and the men that came for George. He heard George swearing and calling a name he almost recognized. But just as soon as it began it was over and things went back to normal.

For Ashley

This is for my friend, Ashley, as she begins what's sure to be a great adventure living in Wales


On the street, in the rain, a moment.
A reflection in the glass.
Form. Female. Distinct.
Familiar eyes shine back through the droplets
clinging to the surface of the window.

Not quite that girl,
who earlier, in some other time,
said the words, followed the script.

But not quite different either.

Refreshed, I suppose, or renewed
or, for the melodramatic amongst us, reborn.

Not by metaphor. No.
Not by words.
Nor by faith of friends.
Nor by gods nor hope nor fate.
And not by love alone.

No, this woman lives in the world.
Change builds upon action.
Action builds upon courage.
Courage builds upon...?

There was help, sure.
Kindness given of love.
And, in love, received.

Necessary. Powerful. Insufficient.

One step.
Then another,
Then the next and the next.
And she’s rounded the world.
Knowing that what got her here
Is still with her, for it is in her,
And it is her.

Our Family Summer

“And once we tame this hair, we’ll head over to the Roses and pick out a nice new set of clothes for you,” Aunt Sara said lifting our little brother up onto the kitchen stool she’d set on the front porch. Little brother squirmed, wiggled and whistled through the gap in his teeth, but Aunt Sara kept a hand on him and he didn’t go anywhere.

We giggled together at his misery. Having been there ourselves we could all the better enjoy little brother’s suffering.

“You run along now,” Aunt Sara called to us.

+++

Daddy was around the side of the house laying on an unfolded cardboard box beneath his 1966 Ford pick-up. A lit cigarette rested in the metal lid of a jelly jar near his feet. One of us poked little sister in the ribs and whispered a dare take a puff off Daddy’s cigarette, but she said no she wouldn’t. We all knew how serious Daddy was about his smokes. He wouldn’t want a puff wasted on one of us.

Just then, we heard a loud bang and Daddy yelled out a cuss word. One that Momma said he should never say around the children. Then we saw Daddy’s hands on the truck’s bumper and he pulled himself out from under. He sat up and took a puff off his cigarette. “What’re you over here doing?” he asked us. “Need to be careful. Got the truck up on this here jack. You see?” He pointed to a thin metal rod held in place by a half a concrete block on one side and an rusted iron anvil on the other. “Playing around here, you might hit it and send this whole truck down. You don’t want that do ya?” he asked.

We said, no, we didn’t want that.

“Well run along now,” he said. “Go play.”

+++

Momma had most of Daddy’s underpants hanging on the line and was just starting on little brother’s. She was whistling Pop Goes the Weasel and reaching into a bag her Momma had made from an old pair of blue jeans to pull out a clothespin. We joined in with her whistling as we ran around her in a circle, dancing beneath underclothes and when she reached the POP we dropped to the ground giggling.

Momma stopped whistling to scold us. “You see me doing the wash, dontcha?” she said. “Still you come round trying to get more grass stains as if I didn’t have plenty to deal with with your Daddy out there rolling around under that old truck.”

We stood up and danced around some more trying to get her to start up whistling again, but we could tell she was through.

+++

In the kitchen Granny was putting jars into a large pot of boiling water set atop the stove. She jumped when we threw the door open and came running inside.

"Lord!" she said, catching her breath, "you done shook me good. Be careful, now. Can't you see I'm canning? This water is HOT and a kitchen ain't no place for playing around, you hear?"

We said we were thirsty and came in for a drink. We said we'd behave and wouldn't be any trouble.

She said, "Well, listen, you get a drink'a'water and then get on back outside. Children ought to be outside on a day like today anyway. Here take this and drink it." She handed big sister a tall plastic cup filled with water.

Big sister took a big gulp and passed the cup around until we'd all had our share, then we set the cup on the kitchen table and headed back outside to find some place to play.

+++

Big brother said we should go up to the field. So we did.

The field was Mr. Snopes’ land. It sat behind our property past a row of trees and a rusted barb-wire fence. Snopes, Daddy said, was an old such’n’such who was as tight with his money as they come. Daddy said, he’d come into the AutoShop where Daddy worked all the time wanting one of them to fix his truck for free.

His field was a good place for playing, though. It was big and flat for the most part and had a big tree stump right in the middle that was wide and round and good for all kinds of pretending.

Big sister sat down behind the stump and said it was the check-out counter at her grocery store and the rest of us had better buy something or get out. There wasn’t any loitering in big sister’s store.

Little sister jumped right in and starting picking dandelions, she said, to make poke salad with for supper. Little sister hopped around the tree stump from dandelion to dandelion looking for only the very, very best - even passing up some the rest of us thought were perfectly good. She said, though, that she had the most wonderful family and only the best would do for them. With every one she picked big sister took a note with her finger on a flat piece of bark that was her ledger. She took care to count each and every one. After nine or ten, she said, whew, little sister must have a big family to feed or else she must be made’a money. To that little sister said, no, she just loved ‘em that much that she wanted them to be happy.

Just then big brother came running in holding a bent stick in his hand hollering that this was a stick-up and everybody needed to hand over their cash. We all yelled and threw our hands up in the air. Big brother had taken off his shirt and tied it into a money sack. He went around to each of us and we pulled up a hand full of grass and put it in his sack. He was nice about it though and said, thank you for your generosity in these hard times.

After that we all went to hunt butterflies in the flower bushes growing at the edge of the field by the treeline. We'd watch, being very still, as a butterfly would float down onto a flower bud, then one of us would holler and jump toward it. The butterfly, knowing nothing of us, would just flutter away without even thinking anything happened. Then we'd setup to do it again. Once in a while we caught one too.

+++

We were sitting high up in our tree when we saw little brother running across the Snopes’ field toward us, his shortened hair stuck to his head with sweat. Things seemed normal enough at first. We all thought he’d finally gotten away from Aunt Sara and was on the run for it. One of us kidded that Aunt Sara would give him a switchin' when she finally caught him. We all laughed a little at that. We knew it was true.

But when little brother got close we heard him yelling, Granny! Granny! and could tell something was wrong about the way he did it, so we jumped down from the tree and ran to meet him.

+++

Daddy said in Granny’s day they’d have the body set up in the house for folks to come by and pay their respects, but in today’s world we had to go to the funeral home. Momma said she wouldn’t have a dead body in her living room for nothing, but then she told us not to tell Daddy that since Granny was his Momma and she didn’t want to upset him any more than he already was.

+++

The next day we all dressed up in our Sunday clothes and squeezed into the back seat as best we could. Momma and Daddy were still in the house. Momma was helping Daddy with his tie. The younger of us took to asking questions about Granny. What happened to her? Where was she? When was she coming back? The older of us tried to explain things. Granny wasn't coming back. She was with Jesus in heaven. She had a big, golden house with many rooms and was singing with the angels, praising God, all the time. It was her reward.

+++

We could all see how sad Daddy was and we worked hard to behave every day at the funeral home. We sat still and didn’t run around too much. Even when our cousins came and wanted to go play hide-and-seek we said, no, we’d better not, Daddy didn’t like it when we got too loud. Little sister did spill some grape juice on her dress, but Daddy never pays much attention to things like that, so it was okay. Momma even told us later how good we’d been. She sounded a little surprised when she said it.

+++

At the funeral it was us who were surprised when we saw Daddy crying. The preacher was talking about the wicked and the blessed and how Granny had surely been one of the blessed when all of a sudden we turned and saw Daddy. His face was all twisted up and redder than usual and wet. His crying made a sound big brother said was like an old dog. We'd never seen anything like it and we all remembered how mad he got when we cried, so for a while we didn't know what to think. But then little sister and brother started crying too and before long we all joined in and forgot all about Daddy.

+++

That was the last summer we all slept in the same bed. That fall Momma decided we needed to have separate bedrooms for the boys and the girls so she made Daddy finish panelling and carpeting the back half of the garage and put up some doors for privacy so the boys could move in there. But that night, after seeing Granny put in the ground, we were all still together in our big double bed with the iron frame and we stayed awake longer than usual.

Big sister told us how she’d never want to be put in a box like Granny, but big brother said that was silly because when you’re dead, you don’t mind much where you’re put. He told us that he’d touched Granny’s hand when they’d her set up for people to say goodbye and it had felt really strange, like a stone pulled out of a creek bottom. Little brother told how he’d seen Granny in his dream the night before and little sister said she had too. They both said Granny had been swinging in her old porch swing and singing old songs. Big sister said it was going to be very different now that Granny was gone and we wouldn’t get to see her any more. We agreed it would be.

After that we took turns saying our prayers. We prayed for Momma and Daddy and for Aunt Sara and, even though big brother said we didn't need to any more, we prayed for Granny. Then we said our good nights and our sweet dreams and settled in to get comfortable. Some of us went to sleep quicker than others, but it wasn't long before we were all out for the night.

An Ordinary Ostrich

Marty was an ordinary ostrich. An ordinary ostrich with an extraordinary dream. A dream that kept him from eating. A dream that kept him awake at night even as the other ostriches stood, sleeping around him. A dream so intense that he could hardly concentrate on chasing children who happened by and stealing the buttons off their jeans.

His dream? A hat.

Madness, he knew. How could he, an ostrich with no job and no trust fund, ever get a hat?

For a while he tried standing under a low tree branch and letting a leaf rest atop his head, but that only made things worse. The longing wasn't simply for anything to be up there. The yearning he felt was for a hat.

Then, finally, after days of dreaming, it happened. A hat, carried by the wind, perhaps a gift of some new god, literally landed at his feet.

It was a red baseball cap and it was beautiful. The hat was such an amazing sight that for a while Marty just stared at it in awe and disbelief. Then he reached down and grabbed it with his beak. He held it there and stood erect in triumph. A hat. Finally, a hat. It was really happening.

It was then he realized he had no way to get it from his mouth to his head.

Hospice

The old woman points to the box and I oblige, wondering if we have anything to talk about.

She takes a tissue and lays the box upon a fold in the blanket just below her breasts.

She says she goes through so many boxes. She says they should buy in bulk. But, that’s not, she says, really her business.

The television flashes behind me. A basketball game. Muted. Vague movement in maroon and white flitter and dance, reflect in my glasses’ lens.

She coughs and spits into the tissue.

She asks why I come and I go through the story. The same story seems to never grow old. Talking about myself, I’ve found, is easy. Up to a point.

Louis should be here soon, she says.

Louis, I gather, is her son.

I say the flowers by the window are beautiful. Pink. Yes, she says, they are.

I point out the pictures tapped to the wall above her bed. Young, smiling people mostly. Grandchildren or great-grandchildren. I don’t ask.

She looks toward the pictures, but says nothing about them.

Beautiful day, I say, looking out the window into the courtyard beyond. A short, middle-aged woman in pink, loose-fitting pants and a white, collared shirt is pacing in a small circle talking on a cell phone.

Yes, she says, it is.

Do you need anything, I ask.

No, we’re doing alright, she says.

That’s good, I say. Good.

A commercial on television now. A young family enjoying themselves at a theme park. They all laugh and point as dad gets splashed with water.

She’s still holding the used tissue, so I offer and she hands it over. I look around for a trashcan to toss it in.

Voices from the hall seep into the room. Female. A friendly argument over which singer was the best the other night. That one’s cute, but that other one sure could sing, couldn’t he? Yes, it’s agreed. I wonder if it bothers the families to hear this kind of easy talk. I’ve never noticed it trouble the patients. Ordinariness, I think, can be comforting. Also, difficulty hearing is common.

Louis is coming soon, she says.

I should go on now, I say. Is there anything I can do before I go? Would you like me to turn the sound back on the television?

Oh, no, she says. We’re fine. We’re doing fine.

Okay, I say as I rise, lift the chair, and carry it back to the small table where I’d found it.

Thank you for visiting with me, I say, and turn toward the door.

Thank you, she calls. Thank you. Come back again.

Okay, I say. I’ll try. I usually come on Sundays.

I stop at the dispenser for a pump of sanitizer and, rubbing my hands together, walk into the hall.

Estate

When the Great King knew his time was nearing an end he called his three sons to his bedside.

“Sons, as I love each of you deeply I have chosen to divide my kingdom amongst you all.”

“First, “ he began, “to you, my eldest, as you are strong and brave, I grant to you control of my military. The troops, the great ships and the armaments are now yours to command.”

With that the eldest son bowed and left well pleased with what he had been given.

“Next, to you, my youngest, as you have shown both wisdom and compassion, I grant to you the rule of the people.”

And, with that the youngest son bowed and left well pleased with what he had been given.

“And now, to you, my middle son. To you I grant the management of my wealth. The purse of the kingdom is yours.”

And, with that the middle son smiled, grasped the old man's hand and asked, “Oh, Father, why did you bother giving my brothers anything at all?”

Koan Prayer

Life found God sitting quietly beneath a large tree by the side of the water.

“What are you doing?” asked Life.

“Praying,” replied God.

Life was surprised, and said, “But you are God. Unto whom do you pray?”

“Unto Humanity,” replied God.

“Humanity.“ Life repeated solemnly. “And for what do you pray?” asked Life.

“I pray, “ replied God, “for Humanity to allow that the world turn from what it is to what it ought to be.”

Then God turned from Life and looked out across the water. “Sometimes, “ God said, “I find it a hard prayer. Sometimes, I wonder if Humanity is even there.”

With that Life sat beside God and together they prayed.

Fair Weather Could Be Better Than This

Mother always said, keep your enemies close but your friends closer. She was a big believer in friendship though I don’t think she ever had very many of her own, not for very long anyway. She always said that if I had a true friend, I would want for nothing.

I had a few friends in grade school. I remember them. But we sort of drifted apart as we got older and moved into junior-high and high schools where the competition for good friends was tougher. Mother was there for me though. Maybe we were friends, but I don’t like to think of it that way.

Mother was in her mid forties when I was born and started drawing social security by the time I was grown. She always said that our time together on this old world might be short, but we’d sure make of it what there was to make. And we had some good times. We did our best.

When I was 12 mother took up with a truck driver named Rufus. He was a long-haul trucker in his sixties and was only in town for four or five days a month. Mother would leave me with a tv dinner and go off with him for the evening. She said they went dancing, but I remember seeing mother dance at her niece’s wedding once, and I hate to say it, but I don’t think dancing was her thing.

Rufus kept coming by for seven months then stopped. The brakes failed on his truck late one night while taking a turn outside Silver Plume, Colorado. Mother said he never had a chance. Those weeks after Rufus were a dark time for mother. That’s when she started saying that line about keeping friends close. I never knew my father, so Rufus was the first man I ever saw her lose. Dark time.

But mother bounced back. Being so young, I didn’t realize right away that once she’d had a taste of the company of a man, she wouldn’t want to go back to the way things had been before. But I learned pretty quickly. It was only a few months later that Carl started coming around.

Carl was a retired elementary school teacher and didn’t know how to talk to me at all. He only seemed to understand little kids. I was 13, but he treated me like I was eight. One time he bought me a coloring book.

Carl’s heart gave out one night when mother was staying over at his house. She called me after midnight to tell me she’d be coming home and I should unlock the padlock on the front door.

Kevin didn’t last long. A week was all. Mother never did say what happened to him, but she did make me dress nice for his funeral.

After that there was a long spell where it was just the two of us again. Those were good times, but I know mother wasn’t happy. She loved me, no doubt, but part of her really needed a friend.

Roderick was a surprise. He was the first black person I’d ever spent much time with and I think he was my favorite of all mother’s friends. Once he took me to a minor league baseball game. Just the two of us. I really didn’t think it would be my kind of thing, but it turned out we had a great time. He bought me a hot dog and even let me take a sip of his beer. Later, I made the mistake of telling mother about the beer and she yelled at both of us. When mother sent me into the back room, I heard her tell him how our family had a bad history with drinking. He said he was sorry and they made up.

Roderick was killed a few weeks later by a police officer in a mixup over a gas station robbery. Mother said he was just standing there and wasn’t robbing anybody, and I believed her. I still do.

Chester was nearly 70 but in good shape. He had a granddaughter about my age. She went to my school, so I’d seen her around. She was one of the popular girls and I remember thinking that this was a good friendship opportunity for me. But, sadly, it didn’t work out that way. Before mother and her grandfather got together she didn’t know who I was. After, she ignored me on purpose.

I think mother blamed herself when Chester was eaten by that lion. This was on an outing to the zoo. I’d never been and was very excited to see the monkeys, but mother wanted to see the big cats right away, so I never did get my chance. I remember thinking, as the police took us home, that I could try again when we went back for the car, but mother said she’d never set foot in that zoo again. And she was, as usual, true to her word.

I think it’s fair to say mother went into a real funk after that. She spent the next week in her room with the lights off and the drapes drawn. It was a dark time. She only came out to use the john. I made chicken soup for her every day, but she only ever ate the crackers.

After a while she did come out and try to get on with her life, but I don’t think she ever got over what happened.

I graduated with my G.E.D. at 19 and mother told me that very day I should move out. Luckily I’d been working. Summers at the car wash, plus sweeping up at the beauty salon all year round. Having no one or nothing to spend my money on I’d put away enough to rent a room in one of the neighborhoods near the mall. I know mother hadn’t meant to be mean when she kicked me out, but I couldn’t help but feel bad anyway. Like I said before mother was pretty much all I had and I was pretty much all she had. I think now that might be why she wanted me to move out.

About a month after I left home, mother was hit by a drunk driver. She was walking across the road and I guess the guy didn’t see her. They said he was just over the legal limit for driving, but just over was enough to put him away for a few years. It’s hard to blame him too much though. In her day mother had driven much drunker than that.

Somehow making friends got a little bit easier for me after mother was gone. I’ve had a few that I can look back on and really smile.

The first, Leslie, I met in the mall parking lot. I didn’t really know how to act at first, but after a while we got along pretty well. Leslie fell from the roof of an apartment building.

Next came Morgan, who was truly a wonderful person, and choked on a fish bone.

Then, Pat. Drown when swimming in the public pool.

The last is Jamie. We’ve known each other for three months now and are still good friends.

Like I said the main thing mother taught me was to keep my friends close. She said that thing about enemies too, but I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those, so it never stuck with me too much. Honestly, and I never did ask mother about this, but I don’t think I ever understood why I’d want to have an enemy around at all.

Calling All Heroes

The little man sat in a folding chair that had been brought in from the back room. He was in his late 40s with slightly thinning, gray-brown hair, and wore a pink and white vertically striped - worn, but clean - collared shirt, brown cotton pants and a pair of high-top sneakers with the name “Voit” stitched across the tongue. The blue and red rotating lights of the police cruisers parked by the gas pumps shown through the store windows and reflected off his glasses as they spoke.

“Okay, tell me, Mr. Jenkins, what happened,” the female officer asked him.

Jenkins looked up at her, his lip began to quiver and he looked away. “The gun,” he said. “It- it didn’t go off. I watched him. I tell ya, he pointed the gun right at Burt’s face and he pulled that trigger.... I heard the click. But it didn’t go off.”

The officer stood by him taking notes. “Did you see the suspect enter the store?”

“Huh?” Jenkins stuttered. “Oh, no. I was in the back. Burt was behind the counter when he came in. I came out when I heard Burt-” He broke off and wiped his brow with the moist tissue clutched in his hand.

“Was anyone else in the store, sir?” the officer asked.

“No- no, it’s been a slow night,” he said, lowering the tissue and looked up at her. “Some kids were in a little while ago, but they’d gone.” Jenkins shook his head. “I’m glad they weren’t in here when all this happened.”

“Yes, sir. Please continue.”

“Okay. Well I was- I was in the back, like I said, and I heard Burt yell...and...uh... Hey, where is Burt?”

“Mr. Perry was taken to St. Louise,” the office said still jotting in her notepad. When Jenkins was silent for a moment, she looked over to him. “His jaw got a little banged up, but he should be fine.”

“Oh, that’s good.... Yes, I remember that now,” Jenkins said.

“Now, Mr Jenkins, can you tell me what you were doing in the back?”

Jenkins fidgeted in the chair for a moment, then looked at the officer’s belt. “Oh, I was- I was using the facilities, ma’am. I had just... I had just finished when I heard Burt shout.”

“Do you recall what Mr Perry said?”

“Uh, yes, I do. It’s a little- See Burt tends to use...colorful language.”

Once again the office stopped writing and looked down at Jenkins. “It’s quite alright, sir, if there ever was a time for colorful language this is it.”

“Oh... I suppose so. I suppose so,” Jenkins said. “Yes. Well he said, fu-. He said, ‘F you, buddy. You get outta here before I call the cops.’”

“Go on.”

“Well that’s when I came out.” He pointed behind the officer to a short hall beside the drink coolers in the back of the store. “I could see the guy’s back and Burt over his shoulder. I guess I must’ve made a sound or something, ‘cause the guy turned and saw me. That’s when he- Ahh...gosh...I tell ya... Do you have to deal with this stuff every day?”

The officer glanced out the window. The suspect was in the patrol car and she could see another officer interviewing a group of kids out in the parking lot. “Some days are better than others, sir. Please continue.”

“Ah... Well, I had made a sound and this guy noticed me. That’s when he pulled the gun on Burt. He yelled that I’d better get up there or he’d shoot. So, what else could I do? I walked up there. He told me to stand over there by the beef jerky.” Jenkins pointed to a red cardboard display near the small opening that led to the back of the counter. “I did what he said. Then he turned back to Burt. I tell ya, he had the gun right in Burt’s face. He said, ‘Open-’ He said all this really slow. I don’t know if that matters, but it was real slow. He said, ‘Open the register and give me the money.’ Just like that. And Burt... Burt just said, ‘F you,’ again. That’s when-” Jenkins swallowed and shook his head from side to side. “That’s when he pulled the trigger.”

Jenkins sat quietly as the officer wrote. After a few seconds of silence his leg began to shake. He rested his hand on his knee to still it, but was unsuccessful.

When the officer was finished writing, Jenkins continued. “Well, like I said before, the gun didn’t go off, and Burt- Burt didn’t miss a beat, I tell ya. He just reached over the counter and grabbed the guy. I thought he was about to drag him over, but he just held onto him and called for me.” Jenkins nodded his head. “You know, I tell ya, I never thought anything like this would happen. I mean, I know gas stations get robbed sometimes, but this is a pretty good neighborhood and there’s always two of us in the store. Henry - he's the owner - Henry may not be the best boss I ever had, but he’s always been set on having two people at all times. I’ll give him that.

“So when Burt called my name, I came over. I tell ya, I didn’t know quite what to do, but I could see the guy kinda squirming and it looked like Burt might be losing him. So I sorta grabbed him from behind. I reached around him and kinda locked my hands together.” Jenkins demonstrated by forming a loop with his arms and gripping his left wrist with his right hand. “So I had him like this and Burt came around and we both pulled him back up-right.

“And he was cussing and yelling at us and saying I don’t know what, but mostly he was trying to get loose from me. But I wouldn't let him go. I had a real good hold on him. I tell ya, it wasn't easy with him wiggling and moving like he was, but I kept on him. It was something. I'll tell ya, I never thought I'd be in a situation like that. No, si- No, ma'am. I never thought I would. I wasn't exactly a jock in high school, you know. I guess I can tell ya I'd never even been in a fight until tonight. I mean, I got into scuffs with my cousin, Barry. when we were kids, but nothing like a real fight... I never thought I'd be in a situation like that."

The officer had ceased writing in her notebook and was looking around the store. A few moments after Jenkins stopped talking, she looked down at him. His leg had stopped shaking. He sat there, expectantly, still, staring up at her, a slight smile on his face. "You did very well, sir," she said. "You were very brave."

"Oh, well," Jenkins said, his face turning a bright red. "I guess it wasn't much, but it sure was something. I tell ya-" Jenkins paused to cough quickly into is open hand. "Anyway, I had ahold of this guy - the robber - and he was trying to get loose. He swung his arms around and... That was when he got Burt, I think. Must've got him pretty good, too, but I guess it just made Burt mad, and he rared back and punched the guy right in the face.” Jenkins’ smile was large now. He laughed. “Yeah, I tell ya, Burt hit him so hard that his head came back and almost got me. But I dodged it just in time.”

The officer had resumed writing. "And at that point the suspect became unconscious. Is that correct, Mr. Jenkins?" she asked.

"Uhm, yeah," Jenkins said. "Yeah, he went limp and kinda fell outta my arms. You know, just occurred to me- I'm glad he wasn't faking, you know? That would've been pretty clever. Would'a worked too," he said, looking down. His smile fading. He looked out the window to the parking lot and the man in back of the police cruiser. His leg began to shake again.

“Did anyone call Henry,” he asked, suddenly jerking his head away from the window.

The officer stopped writing and flipped back a page in her notepad. “Yes, sir, Mr. Fletcher has been notified. I believe he’s on his way.”

“Good. I bet. Yeah. He’ll want to check the store.” Jenkins looked around him, biting his lower lip. Except for a few packs of gum strewn across the counter, the police woman standing over him and the others in the parking lot there was no sign of the evening’s excitement.

“Ma’am,” he said. He twisted himself around in the folding chair, gripped the backrest and pushed himself up to a standing position. "I mean, Officer. That’s pretty much all I have to say. Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No,” she said taking a last look over her notes, “I believe we have everything. We’ll be calling you downtown tomorrow for a line-up.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess- Okay. Sure. So I can go home now?” he asked. “I’m pretty tired all of a sudden.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like someone to take you?”

“Oh, no. No. I don’t live far,” he said. He stepped past the officer to the door. He stood by for a moment without opening it, then turned for another look around the store, then to the window and out into the parking lot, and, finally, back to the officer. “Ma’am, could you do something for me?”

The officer, having completed her interview, was surveying the scene. At his question, she stiffened slightly and turned toward him. “Yes, sir. What do you need?”

“When Henry gets here,” Jenkins said opening the door, “would you please tell him I quit?”

Chain of Thought

The road outside the house where I grew up was long and nearly empty of anything but woods and farmland. The only houses were ours and Stewie Anderson’s a half-mile away. The Andersons lived on the corner of our road and a larger highway. I remember when I was very young the school bus stopped at Stewie’s house then came down our road and stopped at my driveway. Since there was no good way for a bus to turn around after that, it would have to travel another 2 miles or so before the road curved back to the highway again. The was not the most efficient way to go so when I started the fifth grade, it was agreed - not by me, of course, but by my mother and Skinny Willie, the bus driver - that I’d walk up to Stewie’s house and catch the bus on the corner with him. I’m sure Skinny Willie enjoyed the extra few minutes he saved, but for us kids, it meant we spent more “quiet” time in the bus room. It also meant I had to walk that half mile.

In the winter months that walk up to Stewie’s house was pitch black. We had one light at our driveway and there was another at the intersection. The road was wooded and made a wide turn such that even with the leaves off the trees I could see neither light for much of the walk.

My mother always reminded me to be careful of cars as she sat perched on a kitchen stool in her nightgown, coffee in hand. But I don’t think I ever saw a car on the road at that time of morning. I was more afraid of what might be out there in the woods, in the dark, lurking.

I was raised in the country, but I am not, and have never been, a country boy. It’s just never been “me”, I suppose you could say. It’s true I’ve done all the chores - there was no avoiding that under my father’s roof whether it was “you” or not. It’s true that I have more of a farmer’s notion of life and death than that of the city people I surround myself with today. There’s a respect that comes from directly taking a life in order to sustain your own. It’s also true that I was raised with a farmer’s practicality and a farmer’s skepticism. I was taught the foolishness of ghost and ghoul stories and even Santa Claus. I was taught that all you can trust in is the good Lord up above, and the concrete - the substantial - that which you can see with your eyes and hold in your hand.

Still that early morning walk in the dark, that was spooky.

At the beginning of fifth grade I was 10 years old. Despite my down-to-earth upbringing I was an imaginative child. I’d lay in bed at night dreaming up stories of epic space battles between the evil slob-people of Poopion VI, and the handsome and brilliant Captain Xander Hooper of the United Earth League. These battles waged on each night and I’ve only recently realized it was a way of keeping myself awake in an attempt to postpone the next morning’s walk.

While my imagination might have been fun at night, the stories I dreamed up in the morning were much less so. Still I found myself unable to stop. Deep in the woods lived an evil old mad woodsman. He had long patchy gray hair and walked with a hunch, his weight resting on a large gnarled staff. He’d roam the woods at night looking for some kid to drag down into his cave to do...well whatever evil old mad woodsmen do. Or sometimes rustling heard off the side of the road would become the scraping claws of a demon-possessed opossum who was stalking me along my way, just waiting for the right time to pounce. On moonlit mornings, the extra light hardly soothed me. The pale moonlight cast eerie shadows turning leafless trees into gruesome skeletal hands reaching onto the road or dead logs into sleeping beasts ready to be roused by the sound of my passing. A howl in the distance was a wolf-man raging with fury and hunger.

At 10 I found myself still young enough to believe in the monsters of horror comics and late-night movies my father sometimes allowed me to watch, but too old to admit it to anyone. I know now that my mother - had she understood the utter terror I faced each morning - wouldn’t have made her deal with Skinny Willie or at least would have given me a ride up the road. But to her - and to my father if he took the time to notice - the whole thing was character building. Part of becoming a man. And, as I said, being the kind of people they were, neither of my parents would’ve considered that I might be afraid of spooks hiding in the woods. It just wouldn’t have occurred to them. Had I come to them worried about bobcats or snakes, then they likely would have understood, and we could have had a conversation about it. But old mad men and demon opossums - that's just silly talk.

Once I made the mistake of mentioning something about how creepy the road was to Stewie. He, of course, immediately pounced on this weakness. He told our fellow bus riders that I was afraid of the dark, and for the next several weeks, I received a lot of “Baby need a night light?” And, “Sissy’s scared of shadows!” Not being a country boy in the country already meant I was at the bottom of the social order, and I certainly didn’t need any more trouble. That was my last attempt to elicit any sympathy from my classmates.

So I carried the fear all alone. And I walked that road, alone, for the next seven years. Right up until I convinced my father to lend me the money for a car. I remember the first day driving to school. I zipped right past Stewie Anderson as he waited for the bus and I didn’t look back.

But before the car, I had the walk. I had the walk and the fear of that dark road. As I grew older the stories my imagination produced changed. For the most part monsters were replaced with men. Biker gangs camping in the woods looking for a plaything. Religious cults practicing human sacrifice. A band of convicts, escaped from prison, hiding out waiting for just the right victim to kick-off yet another bloody rampage. Drug-crazed lunatics, high on marijuana, jonesing for an innocent youth. I’d scan the forest for the glimmer of a camp fire. I’d listen closely for the rumble of a harley-davidson. I’d smell the air for incense or drugs.

Even at 16, while I can’t say I was actively terrified of the road any longer - I had a lot on my mind in those days, school, basketball, the soft warmth of Michelle Bonney - I can’t say I wasn’t afraid either. Maybe it was habit by then. Maybe I just wished it was. But walking that road, looking into those deep woods, I still found myself wandering to the darker places of my imagination. And, I always - from the very first walk at 10 years old - tried to tread very, very quietly.

You know, if I’m to be honest, thinking about those morning walks usually makes me feel a bit silly and embarrassed. In the two and a half decades since I got that first car I’ve driven that road more times that I can count. Driving it - even in the dark - takes maybe a minute and carries absolutely none of the terror walking did. Not even a hint of fear. I think the act of driving isolates you from the world outside the windshield. For me it makes the anxiety of those dark mornings on the road hard to remember. Until today.

This afternoon driving the road with my wife sitting beside me I was once again filled with a sense of dread, though dread of a different sort, I suppose. The time for monsters and maniacs has - mostly - passed. See after dad died we offered to let mom move in with us, but she wouldn't hear it. She wanted to stay at home. We argued but eventually her country stubbornness wore us down and we agreed. Now, though, there can be no arguments. Last night mom called me in a panic saying someone was breaking into the house through the upstairs window. This wasn’t the first call of it’s kind. She's gotten progressively more moody and paranoid over the past year. It’s a change my wife and I have noted with concern. So I had my doubts about the intruder, but still I called the sheriff's office and they sent someone to take a look. Not surprisingly they found nothing.

We spent the morning clearing out some of the clutter that had piled up in our daughter's room since she moved out on her own. I think mom will be comfortable there. It's a big room on the ground floor with a southern exposure. There are trees in the back yard and come spring there will be plenty of green outside the bedroom window. Our's is a nice neighborhood. Safe and quiet - by city standards - and there's a cozy park just down the street.

I know it will be a change for her - a big change - and I worry about that. I worry about the effect it will have on her. Actually, I worry about a lot more than just that. Worst case scenarios have been competing for my attention since I hung up with the sheriff's office last night. It kept me awake late into the night.

And now I'm here in my old bedroom squeezed into my childhood bed with my sleeping wife. It’s amazing how little this house has changed in 25 years - the changes were all saved for it’s inhabitants, I suppose - but after tomorrow this old place will have to move on too. In the morning we'll pack mom into the car and head to the city. I’ll come out in the next week or two with movers to clear out the place. Some of her favorite things will come back with me - to make our house as much like home as possible - and the rest will go to storage for the time being. We'll keep her with us for as long as we can, but I know that eventually - too soon I fear - we won’t be able to take care of her alone. I guess we'll make those arrangements when the time comes. We’ll do what has to be done.

Before all that, though, I believe I'll get up early. I’ve got a mind to take a walk. There’s a nearly-full moon that ought to be shining bright the hour before dawn, illuminating the woods that line the road. I expect the cold morning air will do me good. Might help calm my nerves and clear my head of some of these dark fantasies. Yes, I think that old familiar path is just what I need. At least, I know it won’t hurt.

The Squirrel Hole

He said it was a squirrel hole. I wouldn’t’ve guessed that - I’d say I’m pretty sure squirrels live in trees - but that’s what he said it was and I wasn’t about to tell him different.

He told me if I ever wanted to know the Truth - he said Truth with a capital T - I could stick my hand down into that hole and pull out the answer. He said the squirrels hid it away in there and anyone who came upon one of their holes could just reach right in and find it. Easy as that.

The first note I pulled from the hole told me that my mother was having sweet whoopie with Mr Hooper down the street. I didn’t want to believe it, but it was written out plain as day. I asked him about the writing and he told me squirrels practiced for years and years to have such good pen-man-ship. Not being men, it didn’t come easy to them.

I told mother about the squirrel hole and she told me he was crazy as a crack-house cat and I should never believe a word out of his mouth. I didn’t tell her about the note after that. After that I didn’t tell her about any of them Truth notes.

The next note said Christmas had flown the coop this year. That was another bad one, but turned out to be the Truth.

He told me that I should never check the squirrel hole without telling him about it first. He told me it was dangerous for a body to be the only one to know about some Truths. He said something like Truth with a capital T ought to be shared. It had to be carried with care and co-operation.

Later on I pulled out the note that told me to make plans for a big, joyous, most wonderful trip to a rare sort of place and just the next day he and I went to the mall for hotdogs and a cartoon movie.

Another time the squirrel note said I’d have to spin and spin around and redo the fourth grade. That, turned out, was True too.

It was just like that. The Truth kept on a-coming. Truths about me. Truths about my mother. Truths about people on the street. Truths about school. Truths about all sorts of things. Sometimes it was good. Sometimes it was bad. Sometimes it was neither one - only some no-matter kinda thing. I’d say it was fun though. For a while it got so I wanted to go by that squirrel hole all the time, but he warned me against it. He said there’s some Things that it’s best not to know and every time I stuck my hand in I was taking a risk of finding out one of those Things I wouldn’t want to know. I’d say that disappointed me some, but I remembered that first Truth about my mother and thought he might be right about that one and I’d better believe him.

So then it was only once in a great while that I went by that squirrel hole. I’m going to be truthful - with a lowercase t this time, but you can believe it - after hearing his words, I’d say it got so I was scared of going a little bit. I never told him that, of course, but it got to the point that most of the time it was him that suggested we go down there and not me.

But every time we did go it was some Truth in there just waiting to be pulled out. Them squirrels sure did have a lot of it to spread around.

I’d say all went as normal as could be until he got sick and had to go to the hospital. He went in and I just had to know. I mean I was worried about him and I thought them squirrels might have some sort of Truth that’d help in some kinda way. Well it was the only time I ever went to that squirrel hole without telling him about it. I didn’t want to worry him none since he couldn’t go with me anyway. They wouldn’t let him out of the hospital for anything at all - even for Truth-finding. So I went to that squirrel hole by myself and stuck my hand in and...

I’d say it seems like this is the time for the story to take a little break so you wonder what it was I found. Tension is what I mean. With a capital T.

Well, ok, I’ll tell you now. I found nothing. Not a thing at all was in that squirrel hole. And I didn’t know what to think about that one. I’d say it made me pretty nervous. I thought maybe the squirrels had figured out that we’d found their hole and had moved on to some other place. I thought at last the Truth had run out. But wouldn’t you know it? I was wrong about that one. Lo and behold, turned out that there’s not always a need for a piece of paper in these matters. Turned out that Nothing can be a Truth too.

And that’s just how it was.