Category: Stories

I was out and about dealing with the whole marbete situation, listening to sick tunes about town. Everything went smooth, I needed to get a new hamper, and while at the store, an idea struck.

I should ask if they’re hiring.

Surely they need a young guy to do the heavy lifting. All the employees are ladies, so it could be helpful, I say to myself.

I don’t have a retail résumé on me though. But I do have a restaurant one. So, I remember I had to go hand in my sales card at the new pizza shop, but on my way there, there was a young woman wiping down the storefront of another joint. I stop, think about it, and then decide to ask the woman if they’re hiring.

The place looks like it caters to a younger crowd. So, maybe I can do good there since I’m still young myself, I continue to think. The woman looks younger than me, long, dark hair, and glasses.

She says they’re hiring; I ask what position.

“Waiter and kitchen,” she says.

“Ok, I’d like to apply for the waiter position. Can I leave you my résumé?”

“Sure, I’ll hand it to the manager.”

So, off I went hoping to get lucky because I’m critically low on funds.

Then I went around to take pictures to try and capture the magic of the raw nature of this town.

Old man says, “whaddaya you doing, buddy?” as I take pictures of the lake close to his house.

“I’m taking pictures for an American magazine. I’m doing an article about the town.”

“Really? Wanna interview me?”

“Well… sir,” I say. “The article is about the town itself, there’s no characters in this story, except the author, and what he experiences.”

“Oh… I see,” he says.

Ok, well that part didn’t really happen. I imagined it as I relayed this tale to the blonde while she had her lunch.

But I did drive around and took pictures while looking cool. Maybe the old guy really thought I was a journalist for a renowned American magazine.

Who knows…

The pictures I took do no justice to the real experience. Out on that bridge, especially. High above the bridge enjoying the breeze…

So, the car had been sitting there for months, man. Wasps had already made it their home –right above the front tires. I had let it sit there on purpose, because I was under some delusion that I was on my way back to the States to make it big. I did have a plane ticket waiting, but I was low on funds, and I didn’t want to spend a buck to get a car I wasn’t going to use running. I was hopeful the writing job I applied to was going to come through, and I’d be back in Louisville to enjoy the Fall –and get back on track. But the lady never wrote back. I applied, sent in my résumé, cover letter, and a clip. I thought I did a good job, especially on the cover letter, but maybe my clip scared her away. Who knows?

I followed up, but I didn’t get as much as a thanks, but no thanks. Old acquaintances went cold. The ticket sat just like the car (still does). So, I ultimately had no choice but to get up my ass and get that car running. See, you don’t want to be stranded up in these mountains for long –you’ll be dead meat.

“I’d start with the fuel pump, kid, seems like it ain’t sending gas up on through here,” said the mechanic. Now this guy works up to all hours of the night –he’s soft-spoken, short in stature, and seems correct. So the same night, I went to get the fuel pump, prior to Turkey Day. So, on Monday I gave him a call, and he told me to try and drive it to his house. I knew this wasn’t going to work because I had tried many times before, but the car would always die on me. But, of course, I tried regardless. And of course, the car died on the driveway. So, I called up my mother-in-law to see if she had a number to a towing service.

A female voice came on the line, and I thought it was her, but it turned out to be my sister-in-law. Similar voices. She gave me a number. I called. That number lead to another number. I called –then I got called once, then twice, different numbers. I directed the driver who asked for directions until he finally arrived. I started getting the car going before it died again while he pushed.

“Alright, now get out and help me push!” I did, but shit, as I was pushing…”

“Hey, you guys need help?” Now guess who said that…. Shit you not, it was the mechanic’s brother in a station wagon. Now mind you, the tow truck was in the middle of the road blocking traffic this whole time. But the old man wiggled his way pass the tow truck anyway. His offer of help was appreciated, but the five seconds he distracted me almost got me mangled.

“Get in! Get in! Get in!” cried the tow truck guy. Man… I tried, but the space was too narrow, and the car was moving too fast. The door was shut too. If I had followed through with his cries, I would’ve gotten messed up. The car smashed into a tree, but nothing happened to it. Just a little scratch.

Now the old Ford sits next to a derelict cantina waiting for the surgeon.

Out with the babe today again, boy was she in a bad mood this morning, even after our little stroll and breakfast. I wonder what upsets her.

We’re out shopping at the same old place, I quickly and luckily find a white Hello Kitty swivel chair and sit down to read my latest Bukowski acquisition. The darkness overcomes me again and I take a little trip to the head for a cinnamon “smoke” and some PMR –these are my medicine for the time being.

I hide at one of the stalls; I’m lucky again, there’s no one there. I stay for a bit and walk out to wash my hands, and I remember my old warehouse job, where the bathroom breaks were a respite for many of us who worked there. Some guys would watch whole TV series in the stalls — full episodes maybe, at full volume. I cared more, I had rent to pay and a woman counting on me, so I took a breath and got back to work.

Years before I didn’t understand how to control the darkness or understood what was happening; I still don’t, but it’s a little easier to catch. Docs, nurses, social workers, they don’t care if one jumps out of a moving vehicle going over 70/mph — maybe some do, but finding even one is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. The TV is full of talk concerning suicide prevention, but the reality is a joke –most people just don’t give a crap.

I walk back to the floor and remind myself that it is good to be around people, even strangers. Isolation is the enemy of movement. I find the babe; she’s got my pen and notebook. I find Hello Kitty again and I sit to write — writing is my medicine; writing is my job. And I don’t feel so useless again.

Some fourteen years ago I used to walk down this road carrying my school and sports bags, determined and driven to reach my physical and athletic potential. I had arrived late in the semester because I was out on some wild adventure in Montana, where I saw no mountains, just a barren, cold landscape. Barren, yet still beautiful; Billings I thought was nice. There was a farmers market going on that one time in the streets, and there was a lady dressed in ancient clothing.

Every afternoon without complaint I walked to the track. I liked what I was doing, I looked forward to it. At the track I met a lot of my friends. We trained hard and shared a lot of laughs. The track and the baseball park, although not state of the art, were great places. And the gym — can’t forget about the gym. It seemed we all loved going there.

I was fifteen.

Whenever I think about the passage of time like that, I get a little dizzy and sentimental. I’m one of those sentimental types.

For that year or nine months, I trained under Mr. P, old Mr. P. He spotted me in the office one day and it might have been the same day mom was enrolling me for classes. The principal almost didn’t accept me, because it was so late in after school started. But one look at my grades changed his mind.

Old Mr. P was sitting there, and I don’t much remember the conversation, but he asked me if I had any interest in coming by the track and train for running and tennis. Mr. P loved tennis and chess. He would give me books to read on chess. I still haven’t read them, but I still have them somewhere in my home library.

Old Mr. P was a good man, he’s been dead for years now. I still want to see his tombstone, I never got a chance to actually see his name carved into stone, nor was I at his funeral. I was out on some other wild adventure, I suppose. Maybe I was walking the streets of Louisville, Kentucky when he passed. He taught me a lot of things, he respected me and always sought to bring out the best in me. He believed in me. He was my mentor. Like my own personal Mr. Miyagi. He was a living book of wisdom, and when I heeded his guidance, things always went well for me.

I always wished I’d cross paths with more people like him and maybe my life would have turned out better. But in my meditations, I realized how fortunate I was to have met him at such an early age.

That was a really good year for me, training in front of a beautiful mountain view. Walking the track brought me memories of the thoughts I used to have during those times and the drills old Mr. P had me do. Under his tutelage, I performed my best. I felt good and I had the right person guiding me. It wasn’t just the physical training I was undergoing; it was also things he would say to slow my roll. He taught me about patience and about progress plans. He taught me that those who quickly rise to the peak fall just as fast.

Old Mr. P was like a second father to me, but he’s dead now just like my old man. I remember these things because I owe these people a debt of gratitude and a chance to look at me from the heavens as I manifest all the good they saw in me. I owe it to the dead I love and the living I love, but I also owe it to myself.

I retrace my steps, as I revisit those old important places. I go back to where it all began before I can move forward. My friends and a lot of people I loved are no longer here, but there is still some hope as long as I have some life left in me. Some ember, some spark.

I was a sprinter and a karate man once. Was I any good? Only others may say, but I could have been better if my dark mind never got in the way. The gym is closed now, pigeons fly everywhere, the mosquitoes try to get me and a woman does a strange dance close by to old Mr. P’s beloved tennis court. There is a girl from here, a world class table tennis player. I trained next to her maybe a few times at the gym long ago. She puts this old, abandoned town on the map. How remarkable. I wish her well and I wish her continued success.

My other old trainer walks by, he says hello and tells me to go for a sprint again as I look at the lanes and stand on six, remembering the good old days. I admire that he’s stuck to this place, this track, for so many years and he hasn’t aged a minute. He was a good trainer too, but none could replace old Mr. P to me.

I walk towards the tennis court, and I place my hand on the cyclone fence. I stare at it for a long time and think: How many years did old Mr. P spend here teaching? And I remember the drills, the crouch, the hand positions, the running from side to side and the bouncing tennis balls. I smell the guava trees next to the track and it is surreal, like it all happened yesterday.

There are no nets on the court — who coaches now? And what happened to the guys that played handball?

 

Why am I going to ask you this if I already know what you’re going to say? I think to myself. I’ll ask you anyway.

“How about we quit our jobs, get married and start a business together?”

I hope you say yes, so my spirit becomes high. We once set upon a wild crazy adventure and we succeeded, but we became afraid of our success. Foolish thoughts raided our minds when we were doing quite alright. We didn’t have much of a plan, but yet we succeeded.

Could we do it again? With a plan this time?

“Hell, no!” She says.

“Why not?”

“You crazy, men.” And she’s right. I agree, but I’m also on to something.

“Ok, my love. Do you want some pancakes?”

“Sure,” she grins.

Spoiled brat…

 

I was driving down the Misty Mountains as the sun was coming down. I got a glimpse of an unusually beautiful sunset. A dark cloud filled sky with red hues. My head felt altered, like I was impaired about to be sucked through another dimension. Truly, things looked different.

I was on my way to grab a drink, just one, down by the supermarket. When I got there, there was no parking spot, so I quickly parked behind a car and went in. I grabbed my usual, a pink lemonade Smirnoff — sweet alcohol is the best.

When I got to stand in line, I noticed a beautiful little girl. She was blonde with blue eyes, wore a white shirt with flowers and blue shorts. She looked so happy and had a radiant smile with expressive eyes.

As I looked to my left, I saw a little boy with curly golden locks and dark skin. I couldn’t help but smile.

I thought about being a father for a moment, and how my lady could give me a daughter like the lovely little, happy girl from the supermarket. But I have come to doubt it.

We are the Childless generation…

$3.91 for the Smirnoff — damn edibles are cheaper and the effects last longer, I thought. I didn’t drink it immediately. I went down by my old school and looked at it in the dark. Pizza shop was closed.

When I turned around, old tia’s house was occupied by its new occupants — a big white pickup sat in the driveway. I came back to 111 and turned left on 603. I drove by a house where a bunch of children were outside singing. I waved at them, and they roared in a happy excitement at the acknowledgement. Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” played.

I laughed a happy laugh. It was nice to see kids out having fun instead of being glued to tiny mass surveillance devices crafted by technocrats.

I got home and before I got off mom’s SUV, Reel 2 Real’s “I Like to Move It” started playing on the radio. The radio can surprise you with some great beats. You never know what could come on. Anticipation and surprise are great things. I listened to it in its entirety and danced my little dance.

I got out and picked up Post Office, flipped to the page where the picture of my new friend who has been dead for over 30 years was, and “Cheers!” This round is for you, and I gulped the Smirnoff down in one shot.

“What do you want to know?” he said.

“I want to know why you haven’t come visit me in my dreams every night like you were supposed to. It’s been eleven long and difficult years and you’ve only made a handful of visits upon me during that time. What gives? Death didn’t free you from being my father, you know?”

There was no one there, the poor kid was talking to four empty white walls.

“Where’d you go?” the kid cried out to the emptiness again.

“I’m here, kid. I just don’t have any answer I can give you now. The Supreme Judge has me under a gag order. I will tell you this, though. Get out of this place. This place ain’t for you even if it’s part of your journey. I have to go now.”

“No, wait!” a look of resignation and a rough sigh was expelled from the boy when he saw his father wasn’t there anymore.

Doctor Hell took her notes regarding patient A-227. She didn’t look at him or seemed to take an interest in his questions. She only offered vague answers. The same attitude he’d seen in his previous drug dispensing havoc harbingers with a fancy title. An air of superiority in their eyes and in their tone. Hell was no different. I could see that the boy understood that she would never take an interest in healing him. She, like him, was too busy caring for herself, and not at all concerned with doing her job.

What a shame … damn what a shame I can’t do anything to help, I thought.

“Rod, get out of here, it’s past your 15.”

“What’s going to happen to A-227?” I asked Phil, my supervisor.

“They’re releasing him tomorrow. Hell’s orders.

“But, why? He’s ….”

“Don’t question it, kid. New government wants all the crazies out on the street. Talking bout it’s more ‘humane.’ But you know how it goes, there’s just no money to help these people. Now go take your 15.”

Yeah, but we’re complicit in all this, Phil. 

I didn’t say it, but the thought would stay with me for a long time. I took my 15, drank, and wrote something down on an old receipt I had in my pocket.

After my shift, I sat on my desk at home not being able to shake away my complicity in a most inhumane action to come. A-227’s name was Daniel … Daniel Suarez. He saw his dad die in a hospital bed. The power went out, as it often did, interrupting the life support. His legs turned blue, and he died. Daniel could never move on from it after years of trying, and he slowly lost his mind. So, they locked him up, and now they were throwing him to the streets. Daniel’s father was the only family he had.

Another sad story, I bear witness to. I drank myself to sleep dreading the coming of the next day.