Sympathy for the Devil

Wegman Stu is a man whose clear vision became suddenly impaired. Ironically enough, he worked in television.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when he saw things for what they were. In fact, until just recently, his pupils were dilated 24/7. Good things always seemed better. People were always stronger and more capable. And the world was always another opportunity for massive communion. Then he met the devil. And the devil changed Wegman’s life forever.

Now, contrary to popular opinion, the devil loves the feel of the earth beneath her feet. She likes to roam freely. Maybe you’ve seen her. (You’re probably asking yourself –based on my choice of pronouns – whether the devil really is a woman. Well…for Wegman she was. And that should be enough to scare the hell out of you. At least for the sake of this story.) So, the devil didn’t meet our soon-to-be optically impaired hero in some dank, dirty bar, or on the gnarly fringes of evil doing. In fact, the two had their first official encounter just beyond the starting line of the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer; although, the devil had been trying to dig her nails into Wegman’s psyche for years, unbeknownst to him.

Wegman was there producing a segment for an upcoming show. The devil crouched ready, in a pair of black Champion running shorts and bright white Nikes. Though Wegman was still wearing glasses at the time and was surrounded by a crew of cameramen, when the devil made her way towards him, a #6 taped to her custom enhanced bosoms, her intentions were anything but clear.

Did I mention Wegman worked in television? I’ll say it again. It was his job – his life even – to discern the truest vision for the people. Now we all know that television is likely the shittiest medium with which to convey the truth. The limitations are obvious. But Wegman believed in the potential of people. He wanted to see a change for the good in the general populace. So he tried his best – in all endeavors – to show humanity what they needed to see. To prescribe the not-too-apparent. And to change the world by overcoming evil. Digitally. Whatever the cost. Wegman was a beautiful, selfless prophet of the airwaves, but he was about to meet his match. And the showdown would be less than epic.

Channel 7 had no particular interest in contestant #6, but the devil had other plans. Wegman was giving directions, in his usually kind way, to the men with the Sony MPEG IMXs. The devil moved in and parted their lenses like the red sea. Wegman’s four eyes focused. Even before she opened her lips, he knew the devil was something special.

“I have a story to tell to the nations.” She stood in front of Wegman like the answer.

Now Wegman was not what anyone would call religious. It was apparent he believed in God, but that was pretty much the extent of things. His sincere and pure heart he chalked up to good genes rather then good God. Once, when he was interviewing a woman whose missing child had been returned to her miraculously unharmed after 7 long days, he was asked by the woman if he prayed on a regular basis. Implying his position as moderator of broadcasted content might benefit from talking to God. The thought never really crossed his mind. He found himself saying, “Well… it’s really irrelevant.” But for some strange reason, staring at this boldly attractive woman before him now, he was compelled to pray. Perhaps to compensate for the feeling of wanton lust that washed over him like greasy sex.

Fucking. That’s what he was thinking about. Fucking and praying. A combination that was driving him to his knees in embittered conflict. And the devil was taking off Wegman’s glasses. And the cameramen were scattering like ants under a magnifying glass. And the devil kept whispering, “Can you see me? Are you sure? Can you see me?” And the devil was leading Wegman around by his striped tie. And the devil had Neilson ratings. And devil wanted to talk about studio changes and content management and the savior of the world.

Some time passed and Wegman realized that the devil had no intention of raising money for breast cancer. She was there for him and him alone. The event was soon over and Wegman was in some dank, dirty bar, on the fringes of evil doing. He was soused with gimlets and the devil was feeding him programming ideas on the tips of olives. She packed his mouth with so much derision; he thought he would burst with emptiness.

Wegman couldn’t see straight. His glasses were somewhere on the finish line, smashed by the weight of a million women in pink. But his mind was lucid. A dream for the future was being birthed under a black velvet picture of a cat with a suitcase. A cat named JoJo. Lies were now truth. War was now peace. Shit was precious. The devil had given Wegman the burden of revelation. The future would come in beautiful, brilliant white lights. Processed information. The people could no longer be trusted as discerners of goodness and truth and justice. It had to be spelled out for them. Force fed 24/7 on giant silver screens. Talking heads. Quantity. Not quality. And they would eat it. And they would love it.

The pupils in Wegman’s eyes shrunk. He thought the dark of the bar had done the damage, but he would discover later that he was forever changed. There was no fucking that night. Nor was there any praying. The devil left Wegman full and contemplative. But then she was gone. There was a Habitat for Humanity event in the morning and she had to attend.

His head was dulled with the numbness of alcohol when he returned to channel 7 the next morning, but it was also brimming with ideas. If Wegman was ever going to make a difference in this world, he had a whole lot of changes to make. And time was no longer on his side.

Going Postal

I want to apologize in advance to any of you even remotely affiliated with the United States Postal Service. (These days it’s hard not to throw a rock and hit someone who is.) But this romantic tale of woe is in no way an indictment of our US of A, or its crackpot mail delivery system. It’s just that this particular portion of my life took place one early Saturday morning at a Chicago post office facility. The facts remain as is. Nothing has been changed.

I was going to be a postman (mail carrier, if you want to be pc about it). My latest brilliant idea, at the end of a long list of equally brilliant ideas – government and city options, including librarian’s assistant (book stacker) and transportation management associate (meter maid). There was definitely something oddly romantic about forced exercise as employment. On a beautiful day, my postal shorts and my Ipod, delivering the goods to everyone’s waiting box. Sun shining on my good fortune. You mean, someone would actually pay me to do this?! What a concept! I mean, I had conveniently blocked out the notion of rabid dogs, Chicago’s brutal winters, snow and flooding rain. None of that was considered. I’m not particularly sure if I believe that whole myth about ‘neither rain nor sleet nor…” anyways. I sometimes don’t get my mail on a good day. Maybe my mail man stopped off for a 2 margarita lunch at Garcia’s down the street. I don’t know. But my mail delivery was anything but consistent. If anything, my election to the prestigious position of mail carrier would be an improvement to the established system. But first, I had to take a test.

That’s right. Unlike other normal jobs where you merely send in a resume, have an interview and be done with it, if I truly wanted to deliver the mail, I would have to take a test to prove my worthiness. I was concerned. I haven’t had to prove anything in roughly 7 years. Now I was expected to do the whole ‘2 #2 pencils, no electronic devices and no large bags of any kind’ thing. (Not to get off the subject, but have you even seen a #3 pencil, or a #1 pencil? I never have understood that one.)

Anyway, this test was not your normal aptitude diagnosis. It involved matching labels, finding address errors in seconds and learning a hell of a lot of zip codes. (Do you realize how many zip codes there are just in Chicago?) But, there was a study guide, so…I studied. For the first time in 7 years. And I was prepared to take the postal exam #473.

It was 6:50 in the a.m. They checked my id. They checked it again. Four times. Can’t fault them for being thorough. A lot of crazy people come through the postal system – I imagine. Then they ushered me, via armed security guard, up eight floors (we took an elevator, of course), into a room of people I didn’t know. (Which is not completely true. It’s really just a set-up, so when I give you the big ‘except’…you’ll be sufficiently primed for the big revelation.)

Except Natasha. I knew Natasha. Though I had not seen her in 7 years. Grad school. My creative non-fiction writing class. With Jim Bruner. She’s a girl I went out with. Once. As a group. Some beers with her. And others. We went to see another classmate, who was doing a turn as Deborah in David Mamet’s “Sexual Perversity in Chicago” on a tiny stage in the back of Chico’s Pizza. We (Natasha and I) had exchanged a few looks that night. We also had a singular one-on-one conversation for about 5 minutes. Talked about our final class project between the play’s 2 acts and that was that. She intrigued me (as many do), and the fact of the matter is I should have made more of an effort with her. But I never did. The semester ended. We both graduated with liberal arts degrees. And here I was – 7 years later – taking the postal exam with her.

Of course, it was a piss-poor scenario to rediscover the woman who very well could have been the light of my life. There was to be no talking and no looking around. We received our two approved sheets of white scrap paper. The timer was set and we began.

She was sitting directly in front of me. I tried to get her to turn around, but it was kind of difficult in such a controlled environment. I utilized the whole ‘dropping my pencil’ bit, loud sneezing bouts - her name cleverly couched within the outburst - but to no avail. She wasn’t budging and one of the test monitors was looking at me cross-eyed. I was dangerously close to being disqualified and I couldn’t risk it. I decided to bear down, finish the exam and take my chances with Natasha later. Brilliant idea, I thought. But it was the last lucid thought that passed through my mind.

I was gone. The timer was tick-tick-ticking, but my focus on anything related to the postal arts had completely fallen out of my head onto the dirty faux carpet, and was being ground in by the pacing test monitors with their crooked eyes and crooked teeth. Agony. Natasha had consumed me in an instant and I just could not bring myself to match a single, damn address. Fuck these tricky zip codes. I would never be a postman.

I sat there – abiding my call to silence – pencils steady – a drone– until a final time was called. I turned in my exam. There was a serious of circles I had colored in with my #2 pencil. They had the design of a sad clown. I was that sad clown. At least I could drown my sorrows with Natasha. Maybe grab a couple of early afternoon drinks. Pick up where we left off 7 years ago. She started to rush off, but I caught her in the hallway before our descent back down to ground level.

“Natasha…hey…remember me? Professor Bruner’s class? It’s been a while. How have you been? This is crazy, right? The postal exam? You and me? Who could have thought it? You okay? Still writing and stuff? Thought we could…I don’t know… ”

I think that’s all I said. Might have been more. Who knows? My synapses were just beginning to fire again. She turned and looked at me. It was not the look she had given me in Chico’s 7 years ago. It was the look of confusion. The look of dismay. The look of a soon-to-be post-woman. And she was not happy.

“Do I know you?” She did, of course. But she made this little clipped sound at the end of her question. It was the sound of disgust. For me, it was the sound of failure. Supreme failure. She moved away from me slowly, and with skepticism, and proceeded down the hallway with the other post-exam revelers. There was no further acknowledgment. I had forfeited all hopes of government employment on a girl from grad school who wouldn’t even acknowledge the mere remembrance of me. And now it was all gone. I wasn’t fit to carry mail.

I reached into my breast pocket and grabbed my alternate #2 pencil – the one with the sharper point – and calmly stabbed myself in the neck. I think this is what they call ‘going postal’. Oh well, on to my next brilliant idea.

The Girl Who Couldn't Cry

When she first told me, I thought she was a liar. I mean, even I’m not afraid to admit that I cry. Where’s the shame in that? Life is overwhelming. And when it starts to suck you in, you can do one of two things: stuff it or cry. Yet here was a woman, standing at the plate, who claimed to have a fair amount of disconcertment in her life, but who swore, up and down, that she did not nor would not cry.

Her name was Chloe. She worked in a garage. (Which explains some of her proposed emotional deficiency.) On our first date, she showed up at my front door with a bouquet of assorted beers and cigars. She had on a pair of faded coveralls and a little smudge of brown grease on her cherubic left cheek. I almost asked her if she had forgotten that we were supposed to go dancing at the Have a Nice Day Café, but after I had accepted my generous gift of alcohol and nicotine, she asked, “Can I use your shower.” She walked past me as if she had been there a thousand times – unbuckling her dirty coveralls along the way. She stood in front of the bathroom door – wearing only a tiny pink tank and matching angel shorts – long enough to figure out where I kept the clean towels, and then she vanished into the water.

Damn. This girl was an original. Unorthodox. And hot. I cursed myself for being even remotely concerned about her lack of weeping. But I had to admit…it bothered me. Just a little. I’m the kind of guy who encouraged emotional vomiting from the women I dated. I thrived on the fragility of instability. Even welcomed a bit of friendly hostility. But this Chloe…she was more together than I was. What could be done with her?

On the dance floor, she was an animal. Rabid. Aggressive. Impulsive. Her movements during “Funky Town” were acrobatic and obscene. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that she performed a series of 3 consecutive back-flips during Prince’s song “Kiss”. And the room was anything but deserted. She almost took the painted face off of a big-chested husky blonde, who was dancing with an even huskier male companion. The blonde yelled out “Bitch” and Huskier’s muscles flexed through his tight t-shirt. I had to get us out of there quickly, to avoid the possibly devastating aftermath. Though I think Chloe could have taken them both.

We walked out into the cool A.M. of late May. Her post-shower ensemble of croqueted, pink knit halter top and flared, gem-studded disco jeans were soaked through with the sweaty rewards of her dance floor escapades. She was so hot. (I mean, she was definitely attractive, but when I say hot, what I mean is that her intense 80’s aerobics had rendered her unable to cool down sufficiently, even though I had begun to feel a bit of a chill coming on.)

We walked along the dock of the bay that ran between the club and my apartment. And, without warning, the girl who couldn’t cry, jumped into the water – fully clothed – removing only her deadly 3 inch clunky heals before doing so.

She was under the water for a solid minute, but it felt like 10. I was scared. Not only because I was just beginning to enjoy her company, but I was also realistic – I didn’t want to be blamed, in any way, for her watery death. But then something else kicked in, just about the time she finally surfaced. Something I wouldn’t be able to discern until much later. I helped her up the safety ladder and back onto the dock. She pulled up her now sagging halter to avoid flashing me, and wrung out her sopping brown hair. She leaned against me for leverage as she slipped her heels back on. Then she told me something I already knew” “I was hot.”

There wasn’t much talk on the way back to my apartment. She held onto me because the wetness had left her cold. When we arrived, she got the towel from earlier (already dry) and wrapped her head. But she didn’t put her coveralls back on. Instead, she helped herself to one of the flannels from the closet in my bedroom and cloaked her still damp halter top. It was around 3:30. She told me she had to go. A busy day at the garage tomorrow. Well...in a couple of hours, really.

I caught her at the door. She dropped her bag of things. I reached over to her cheek – the one that sported the grease smudge only 5 hours ago. There was a single drop of water that had escaped from under the towel, down her forehead, over the bridge of her nose, down the side, and was clearly rolling down the tear track of her left eye. At least where the tear track should be. I collected the drop and showed it to her. It balanced perfectly on the tip of my finger.

“I thought you never cried?”

She quickly ate it with her strawberry mouth. “No salt,” she said calmly.

I didn’t hesitate. “Let me taste,” I told her, and immediately kissed her mouth with forceful abandon. Her back was pressed against my apartment door.

I pulled my face away from hers after maybe 45 seconds. A shorter period of time than she had been under the water. Revealed was a Chloe that I had yet to meet. She looked terrified. She informed me – once again – of her need to leave. And then…she did. Taking my towel and flannel with her.

I never saw her again after that night. She wouldn’t return my phone calls and that was that. We had connected that night. I felt it. I was sure she had too. And when she jumped in the bay, I was never more attracted to a woman than I was in that moment. These things just do not happen every day.

Maybe I pushed too hard. Who can tell? I would never be able to know for sure whether Chloe’s tear ducts continued to stay dry. Or whether it was all just a sham in the first place. But I will tell you this. In the few hours of night that remained after she left, I opened up one of those imported beers and fired up a red-banded cigar. I sat in my window sill and a pair of synchronized tears began their trek down my saddened visage. The initial wet troops, for who would come plenty of reinforcements.

Hey Joe

The first time I tried to kill my wife, the justification was overwhelming. It was that old cliché. You know the one – caught her messing around with another man. Okay, well, I didn’t really ‘catch’ her…but I might as well.

She worked in construction, which, I know, sounds weird in and of itself. She was a larger woman – at least, she had grown to be – and man, could she handle some sheetrock. Evidently, she had been handling more than sheetrock, however. I received a panicked phone call from her boss’ wife one afternoon. My wife was sleeping with her husband. Did I want to meet?

HOLD UP…did I want to what? To meet? For what purpose? I mean, granted, it all became very clear in that moment: the unexplained late nights, the strange moods, the mysterious billings on our credit card looking conspicuously like Motel 6. Now I knew why I had been beating my head against a wall for the past few months. Trying to make something better, which really had no chance in hell. But please tell me why, oh why, would I want to meet? She seemed to be implying some sort of tactical revenge sex. Poor, sick lady. She was distraught with emotion. I really wished, on some level, that I could have obliged her, but her husband was 25 years older than my wife. Which made him…well, it made him a senior citizen. Which, no doubt, made his wife a candidate for the nursing home, as well. I heard the elderly quiver in her wounded voice. I responded with pure candor.

“Sorry, maam…thanks for the information, but…I really can’t meet you. Good day.”

Good day?! Good day?!! What was going on in my head? My wife had betrayed me with a big, fat, old, skinned-head, right-wing, red-neck, Rush Limbaugh championing, Republican Nationalist, brick-laying bastard, but I was perfectly calm. I think some might even call it cold. I was not about to stoop to her level, and I had no intention of sleeping with some geriatric just to level the playing field. Besides, I didn’t want her to have to live with any regrets. Mine or hers. That just seemed cruel. So, I decided that she wouldn’t live at all.

The idea of ‘turning the other cheek’ is such a foreign concept to me. Of course, I realize that not only did Jesus say it, he lived it. But while I try to be a good guy in this life, and to maintain some of these oft ignored commissions, that particular one always sticks in my craw. I mean, was I now supposed to invite this affair into my home? Maybe encourage her boss to sleep over once or twice a week? Killing her just seemed a whole lot less painful. For both of us.

I tried to get her to confess her illicit deeds, but she denied the allegations adamantly. I believe her exact words were, “BITE ME! BITE ME UP AND DOWN!!” We had begun to grow further and further apart. That’s when I decided on the whole ‘hair dryer in the tub’ thing. You’ve seen it a million times in movies and books. Electrify the bath water, killing the occupant instantly. Pass it off as an accident. As clumsy and as careless as my wife was, the authorities and all of our friends would have no problem believing such a tale. So, I drew a nice, hot bubble bath for my soon-to-be ex-wife.

It was a Thursday night. Friends had just gone off. This plan of mine was not thought out beyond actually getting the hair dryer into the tub. When I offered this luxury, (the bath – not the killing), my wife was strangely amused. We were practically estranged at this point, though we lived in the same house. But she could not resist my kindness. She conceded with a confused smile and settled her naked construction worker body into the sudsy catacomb.

She had already knocked back half a six-pack of Heineken with her high starch dinner of chicken pasta and mashed potatoes, so by the time she hit the water, she was out. This would be much easier than I had imagined. She never even saw me plug in the hair dryer. I stood there completely still. Staring at my wife. She was so vulnerable. No protection. No covering except for a handful of bubbles. I held the dryer like a gun and stared at her shuttered eye lids. She was even more beautiful in this moment than she had been on our wedding day. I was recaptured for a second. Suspended in time. And then I thought of her boss, climbing all over her. Ruining a thing that once was good. There must have been some look in my eyes – my weapon lifted up with one hand, the other wiping steamed sweat from off my brow. I never even heard him come in behind me.

“Blow me, daddy! Blow me!”

I lowered the hair dryer. My wife’s eyes popped open like Elsa Lanchester in Bride of Frankenstein, when she awakens for the first time. She was, in fact, alive. Very alive. And so was I. And so was our 2 year old, who I loved deeply.

In that momentary flash, my wife knew what had been averted. She knew it all. My ill-conceived and selfish plan. My intent. And my complete disregard for the family I had been graciously blessed with. Yes, things were fucked up. Things would always be fucked up. Such is life. But I had a lot more to consider then I had already.

I turned the hair dryer on and kneeled down. A cool, high blast tousled the curly, blonde mop of my beloved son. In whom I was well pleased. He was enthralled. And for those few moments, so was I.

Of course, my wife’s surprise death had been halted, and she would go on to divorce me, conceiving an illegitimate brat from the seed of her boss’ archaic loins. But I learned something that evening, while standing in that bathroom, seconds from becoming a full-fledged murderer: The love of your own child can not only change your heart. It can push you one step closer to a life of selflessness. What can I say? I’m a work in progress.

I'm Not Okay

I want to tell you that it’s all going to be okay. That when the night comes there will be one to retire beside you. One who understands you and can offer the comfort you will need. One to circumvent the pain of completion that must needs be rendered. One to lie to your face in pure and honest love. But alas, all of this is considerably more than I can insure.

What I can tell you is this: you pay for your sins. And not only for your sins, but for the sins of those around you. The sins of those you love. And the ones you might have loved. So, I am sorry, but I can offer very little consolation for the coming night. Only that sometimes, out of the fog, walks a last minute pardon. And she looks nothing like you imagined.

Winter returned to Chicago today and we were not prepared. Not one to rush the post-resurrection fashion stipulations, I had planned on waiting until Wednesday anyway, to don my Caucasian chinos from last year’s Old Navy clearance. Easter clearly in the past, I anxiously pulled a pair of stiff white cargo pants out of their dark hibernation in the back of the closet. I had to run a lint brush over them several times in order to remove all the hair my cat, Jason Hill, had freely contributed to the din. Little did I know that Jesus had seen his shadow upon exit from the tomb. There would be at least 3 more weeks of winter in store for us all. And just for icing, today he dropped 2 inches of the wet, cold fluffy stuff on the city’s unsuspecting citizens.

So, it was a pain in the ass getting up and out today. I really wanted to sit inside, make some soup and watch this documentary on Jimi Hendrix that I had picked up at the library. What I didn’t want, however, was the shitty feeling bound to overcome me if I freely donated one more day to my chronic incompletion of necessary and vital tasks. I put on a pair of legitimate blue jeans and my anti-Starbucks consumer whore t-shirt and made the trek to Panera Bread. I am such a blatant hypocrite.

I figured the least I could do on such an unexpectedly nasty day was get a little writing done. I sat down in a corner booth with my legal pad and a breakfast Panini. There was not a damn word on that page when I saw her sitting there. Reading a trashy novel. Hunched down at the two-top right next to me. A blue knit cap with protruding pigtails and a pair of frosty pink lips. Hands cupping her steaming coffee. A lover I hadn’t seen in over 10 years.

I didn’t want to get into it with her. Not that we had ended bad. It’s just one of those things. You let sleeping dogs lie. You leave the past alone. And definitely, if you were lucky enough to have had a fairly amicable parting, then that shit should stay sealed and buried. Otherwise, things get awkward. Well…

She said she was okay. Just okay. She wasn’t with anyone currently, but that could change any day now. (These were her words and not my gross assumptions, mind you) There had been many assholes in (and subsequently out) of her life since our breakup, but she assured me that I had could hardly be considered a part of that group. I caught her up on me, and the pathetic existence I was eking out as an actor/writer/rock star/chef. She didn’t seem to be too interested in it all. There were two burly, young commodities traders in $1000 suits having their lunch immediately diagonal to the two places we occupied and I think she was trying to elicit their stares. In fact, I know she was. She kept doing this thing with her frosty lips and pigtails. She was pretty successful. Four rich eyes were on us. Well…on her. But when she reached into her purse for a second, I kind of intimated that we were together and the two suits backed off. Damn those arrogant commodities traders. Who do they think they are? They have all the money and they want all the girls too. I’m sure they were frightened at the thought of my 150 pound frame forcing my size 9s into their collective ass. Oh yeah, they were scared.

We talked a while longer (my old lover) and then we were done. It wasn’t like that song by Dan Fogelberg – Same Old Lang Syne – I mean, we didn’t meet in a grocery store and drink a six-pack in her car, talking about our new loves and reminiscing about the old times, until we laughed and cried and stared regret in the face before passing into the sad night. And no – the snow did not turn into rain. This was Panera bread – as I stated before. The undigested pig on that breakfast Panini was beginning to weigh pretty heavy in my gut and I still had not accomplished one solitary thing.

It was strange when we ended it today. I remember it was the same 10 years ago. We both gave cordial “nice seeing ya”s and admitted we both had things we had to do. Pressing things. I leaned back over into the corner booth I had been straddling for the last hour and she stuck her head back down into the pages of her bustier ripping rot. But not before she laid a final statement on me. A statement I wont soon forget.

“I know you think you’re okay right now. And you very well may be. But when the night finally settles on you – and it will – you better remember to pray.”
This from a girl reading escapades of heroic oral pleasure and trying to land a pair of beefy downtown traders at the Panera bread.

I finished off my second cup of coffee and begin to pen what would eventually become this essay. She sat there reading as if we had never met.

Post script: Several more hours have passed now. I’ve finished my piece and she is long gone. Blew out like the wind with not another word spoken. No acknowledgement. No head nod. Just a blind exit. Even now the whole encounter strikes me as so odd. I don’t believe in coincidence so I just keep asking myself “why”.

The snow outside has become more sparse. It is no longer white, but gray. It is April. Our days are longer now, but somehow, I don’t trust that logic today. I must get back before dark.

Good Friday

Good Friday? What’s so good about it? A completely innocent man dies and we deem it good? I mean, I understand it from the point of religious necessity. It is, after all – coupled with the coming Easter – the crux of most westerner’s faith. The one act that validates it all. But what really makes it good?

We fucked up. I mean we fucked up big time. From the crunchy bite of that first questionable apple, to that grave ‘moral error’ you farted out in your private bedroom last night. So, collect all that shit. All the genocide, lies, sexual abuse, arrogance, wars, senseless taking of lives – from all ages: past, present and future – until time has made its last stroke. Collect all that and dump it on one man. A perfect man. Bathed in humility and exuding love in bushel baskets full. Make all the white turn black one bitter afternoon across the side of a rock two thousand years ago. A singular slaughter of a willing innocent. A horrific and brutal execution. And we call it Good Friday. Good for who? Certainly not good for him. Don’t get me wrong. I realize the significance. But it just looks like – from the outside – a pretty bad Friday to me.

I used to work in the retail world, where the Friday after Thanksgiving was called (is, in fact, still called) Black Friday. Having to be out in the midst of these rabid, frenzied consumers, hopped up on whoring advertisements and beating the shit our of one another for a chance at a $25 dvd player, was not my idea of fun. The bleakness of that day was overwhelming. I knew why it was Black Friday to me. Having to enter a Walmart at 4:30 in the a.m., after a day full of turkey, football and family, was enough to make me want to kill myself. But, evidently, retailers came up with the name Black Friday because it marked the official emergence from the ‘red’ (negative) of their annual operating budget into the ‘black’ (positive). From this dark day in November, until around January 2nd, they would make enough blood money to balance out the rest of the year’s losses. Aha. Mystery solved.

So what’s the secret behind the name given to the Friday before Easter? It’s clear what’s bad about it. Where does the good come in?

For starters, somebody else got killed for all the shit I’ve done and all the shit I am bound to do. Evidently I deserve the death penalty. Evidently I deserve worse. But I got out of that one. Which makes me feel pretty guilty, but pretty thankful all at the same time. That’s good, right?

Then this guy – the guy for whom the holiday’s named – he came and influenced people for the better when he didn’t even have to. He told the truth when he could have lied. He was a man of convictions when he could have wimped out. He explained to his friends that he had something to do, and then, what do you know, he did it. Not only was he true to his word, but look at what it cost. He was a martyr, but he didn’t just die for an idea. He died for all of us self-consumed bastards who find it difficult just getting out of bed in the morning. That’s definitely good.

Finally – and I guess all of these things are kind of inter-connected – he made the future brighter. Actually, he turned the lights on for the first time. All because of one selfless act. Before he suffered to the death, we were all, pretty much, fucked. First you get shit on for roughly 75 years down here. Then you get shit on for an eternity in the after life. You might think it easy for me to knock something I have yet to experience, but “no thank you”. I’ll take my chances with the free gift. The unknown is a bitch. I may have to slip on some shades on my journey to the beginning, but I’ll be singing a new song all the freaking way. Fuck all that “on my own” shit. He died so that I could live. You give me that! That’s good.

I wont pretend to understand that I know how all this works or why today is really good. Some sources say that Good Friday came as a mispronunciation from what used to be called God’s Friday. In any case, it’s easier just to accept the name as it is. To receive it. Just as I am. So while I spend my days obsessing about women, dwelling in my excesses and making an ass out of myself continually, today I consider myself pretty damn lucky. And grateful. And humble. And that’s good. Even if I’m not.

Samuel Clemmons Redux: Or This Visiting Kitty is a Little Bitch

Remember Mark Twain’s two prominent ‘heroes’? There was Tom Sawyer and there was Huck Finn. Huck was the one with the strong moral center. He wanted to live free, but he also wanted everyone else to live free – despite pre-emancipation standards. He protected old Jim – was even willing to risk his own life to save him – until the bitter end. Tom, on the other hand, had a semi-good heart, but he was misguided, mischievous and often, mental. You see Tom was, ultimately, only concerned with fun and adventure. Getting in trouble was a way of life, with the consequences expended to everyone but him. He was a selfish little bugger, but he was never satisfied remaining the sole proprietor of his evil ways. No – he had to get Huck Finn involved in the sticky messes again and again.

What does all this have to do with temptation? Let me explain. We have a cat named Jason Hill. He is black and he is fat, but it is not our fault. He receives the recommended daily allowance of urinary tract infection kitty food that comes by way of a $32 prescription. The largeness of Jason set in years ago, due to inactivity. He is large, primarily because his days consist of lying around on his fat, hairy ass, waiting for his next meal to be served. He is, however, a very obedient, very friendly feline, with the personality of a small dog, and we love him so. He is 3 times the size of a normal, healthy cat, but it is his only real flaw. I am convinced that if our apartment was engulfed in the flames of death, and I was trapped inside, Jason would save my life. For the sake of this essay, let’s call him, our proud fat kitty, Huck Finn.

A week ago, a very different cat came into our lives. He was much younger and smaller than Jason (a.k.a. Huck), therefore, he was also much more frisky. He is Asian, and his name is Stitch Chong. Luckily, we will only have Stitch for a few remaining days. His master, for whom we are cat-sitting, will be back from China, but it will not be soon enough. You see, Stitch (who we will call Tom Sawyer), is a bastard cat. I believe he was sent to this earth by Satan himself – his devious mission being to do the bidding of the dark lord.

When little Tom cat first arrived and instantly began his unbearable tirades of savagery, I believed it stemmed from a simple problem of adaptability. In a few days, I imagined, he would be fine. He just needed to settle in. How wrong I was. The bloody reign of terror continues to this very moment. And his realm of treacherous influence is spreading like an epidemic. None are immune. Especially poor Huck.

At first, the tiny declawed minion exerted his power through the sheer force of his jaw. Little Tom would bite, accompanied by vicious growls, anyone who attempted to pet, pick up, move or speak to him. Personally, this form of behavior I can manage. I just get out the water bottle or lock him in the bathroom for an hour or beat him senseless with the back of my hand. Problem solved. (Please PETA don’t hurt me – this is just some friendly satire) Unfortunately though, brutal little Tom cat produced several large gouges in the soft underbelly of our boy Huck, and has been removing clumps of hair by the mouthful. All of this, I would come to understand later, was merely initiation.

Although there was some pain involved in the process, part of me was pleased with this temporary addition to our family. For our fat Huck was exercising for the first time in his life. I guess it was that, or risk losing one of his nine lives to the visiting Asian warrior cat. The chase was on, but Huck was growing scrappy and was beginning to fight back. After the violence had begun to subside, however, and turned into mere sadistic play, I began to notice a slight change of tactics, by way of the devil cat.

Both cats were exerting extra energy – previously used only for storing fat (in the case of Jason) – and seemed to develop more ravenous appetites. Feeding time was already strictly monitored. Huck can eat only hospital food, while Tom has his standard Kibbles and Bits. Unfortunately, they both exhibited a severe desire to indulge in each others meals, so they had to be sequestered during dinner time. What was left at the end of each shift would be taken away until the next serving – to prevent unnecessary hog-age. Of course, our Huck would always tend to bitch a little over meals that he believed the least bit unsubstantial, but that was always the extent of it.

Imagine my surprise this week, upon hearing a loud ruckus in the kitchen, and discovering this awful scene: Our boy – our baby –was on top of the refrigerator munching out on Tom Sawyer’s remaining bits from the previous feeding session, which had been hid away (I thought) for safe keeping. I truly believed the top of the refrigerator to have been a sufficient hiding place, considering the fact that it is 6 feet off the ground and Huck is pretty much grounded, due to obesity. Even more disturbing though, is the fact that this aberrant behavior was prompted and cajoled out of a normally mild-mannered, well behaved cat. The evil one, Tom, was just lounging there on the kitchen floor, staring up at the entire escapade. It was as if he was saying, “you stupid shit”. I didn’t know whether it was directed at me, or at Huck, the newly initiated bandit. I should have figured something was up earlier, when I saw my kitty gobble his meal time bowl down so quickly that he developed severe hiccups; then quickly padded to the dish of our visiting feline, before I had the chance to take it up. He sat there in kitty food lust, hoping to scarf down any remaining kibbles. And now, here in the dark of night, he had performed a feat of vertical wonder, under the duress of possible ‘starvation’ and the bad influence of Satan’s little furry spawn. Now I had to lock up Stitch Chong’s bowl in the cabinet, lest it be a temptation.

Last night…(before I describe this incredible incident, I must give a tiny bit of back story regarding our Huck. Other than his dry pee-pee food – and obviously the visiting feline’s $1.99 variety – our kitty has strange tastes. Vaseline intensive care, makeup and makeup remover, oily vitamins – these are the treats that Jason Hill longs for.) Now you will understand a little better what happened last night. For when I awoke and arrived in the kitchen (the place where most of this wrong doing has been occurring) for my morning pot of coffee, I discovered a terrible mess. About 200 or so flaxseed oil vitamins had been strewn across the floor. Many were chewed open and were oozing. Greasy patches of liquid dotted the hardwood. The vitamin bottle itself had been dragged out of a basket on top of a 3 foot high countertop - through the kitchen, dining room and hallway. It sat – in an upright position – at the guest room door. An offering, I guess, to appease my wrath at finding such a disaster. I was not appeased.

There is no logical reason that justifies the recent behavior of my pet – other than the presence of this fuzzy Beelzebub. But I do not want to try and figure it all out. I just want this Stitch Chong to leave. I want to shove him into his carrying cage and return him to his rightful owner. I…dammit! Sorry, but as much as I relish these stories about the nefarious seduction of our cat, I must cut this short. Looks like our little Huck is currently riding the nasty old Tom cat like a bull rider in a carnival show, and I think he may have bitten off his front paw, due to lack of sustenance. The games continue until Tuesday.

The Night of Donnie Brasco

I’m sure my life is not that exceptional. Everyone, unless you’re a complete recluse who hasn’t seen the light outside your apartment in the last 25 years, has had the kind of moment I’m about to describe. (And chances are, even those living in Hermitdom have had one of these magical exchanges at one time or another. Maybe it’s what propelled them into seclusion in the first place.) Do you smell it yet? The scent of which I speak?

Some people call it a connection or chemistry. Some say love or lust. Others, communication by osmosis. What it boils down to is a man and a woman speaking nothing, yet saying everything. The air between two bodies becomes thick – but not with words. With intentions. Bold intentions that meet and embrace in the space (thin, often oxygen-less space) between two hearts. It’s not scientific at all. It’s animal. It’s raw. It’s aggressive. But it can not be qualified or quantified beyond the wrecking of a soul. It is…the closest two people can get without physical touch (although touching sometimes comes immediately after. Though, not in my case.). Ring a bell?

The time was grad school. Somewhere in the middle of my pointless, additional education. I was dating Gina at the time. And it was good. You know? Nothing too hard. Everything pretty breezy. I wasn’t looking for anything. I definitely wasn’t looking for a storm like I was about to encounter.

Trish worked in the law library. Not that I ever needed to actually go in the law library – I was merely a hippie artist – barefoot and free – legality was the furthest thing from my mind. But I saw her filing a stack of heavy books one day – on my way to the bathroom – and, I must admit, she made me stop. You know how sometimes you’ll be watching a movie and you’ll see a certain actor you think you recognize? Only you don’t remember from where? You’re just convinced you’ve seen this person before. And it will plague you until you get up off your ass, go to your computer, and look them up on IMDB. (That’s Internet Movie Data Base for those who have yet to discover this worthwhile resource). After the reveal, you slap your forehead and go, “Oh yeah, that was the guy who was in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. The black officer at the police station who didn’t seem to care for the opera singing asshole joke. Also remade the song Wild Thing and a catchy little ditty called Funky Cold Medina”. Then you’re fine. You can finally rest, right? Tone Loc. Dammit. I knew that one.

That’s the way it was with Trish. Though I just saw her the once – in passing – she stayed in my mind. I guess she was moderately cute – winner of no beauty pageants or anything – but demurely lovely. But it wasn’t her looks that stopped me. It was that…knowing. Somehow. That couldn’t be settled with a mere trip to IMDB. After about a week, it started to make me a little crazy. I’d been to the library at least 6 times, just to catch a glimpse. Gina was beginning to ask me about my unusually studious behavior, but I just couldn’t shake this feeling.

I remember it was a Thursday, because that’s the day Gina went to Jazzercise. And we had a huge fight over the phone about some dinner plans I had failed to acknowledge. I wasn’t really that upset. But she was. I conveniently needed to stop by the library to grab a book for a paper that was due next week. Something on Kierkegaard.

I swear I had no intention on scoping out the law library that day. I started to feel a little guilty about my spat with Gina. I guess I can be a bit selfish and pig-headed at times. I was just going to pick up “Fear and Trembling” and step out into the smoking area to call her back. Thought I could catch her before she left for her class.

That’s when I saw her. Trish. In a plain, black, pleated skirt and white silk blouse. She was in General Collection – completely out of place. As was I. I didn’t intend to speak. (I realize now that my life has consisted of a series of events that I never intended to engage in. What does that say about me?) Anyway, she came closer and I opened my stupid mouth: “Hey.”

She took one look at me. She smiled. Then she responded, “Don’t I know you?”
She didn’t. Our conversation was short. But long enough to forget about angry Gina in her leotard. Trish smelled like all the best moments from high school. Go figure. I faltered, and invited her to come by the apartment later on that evening. My roommate would probably be home, but we could get some take out. A movie. I’m sure Netflix had a treasure waiting in my mail box.

From the time she arrived, there were few words spoken. Small talk only. Mostly, we ordered some food and sat down for motion picture intake. Donnie Brasco. I haven’t watched it since. I barely even remember Pacino and Depp. My roommate at the time, Matt, was home as I had suspected. I don’t know if things would have ended up differently otherwise. In hindsight, it was probably for the best.

Cardboard cartons of half-eaten Pad Thai sat around on the floor. A finished six-pack of Woodchuck Cider. Matt sat on the couch and watched the movie. I was in our worn-out papasan chair, and Trish had chosen the floor as her seat of choice. More accurately…the floor at my feet. Gina was far, far away. Could have been her that kept phoning during this all-important viewing. I don’t know – we never had caller id.

There was no real exact moment when it hit me. It was more like a steady wash that surged over me, went out like the blue tide, and then surged again. Undeniable, yet indescribable. I tend to balk at ESP, but Trish, her back to me, inches from my toes, was communing with me. And we weren’t even touching. We were together in such a potent and powerful way, that the guilt of that experience alone would eventually cause me to break things off with Gina.

The movie was over, and the words spoken in leaving were even fewer then those beforehand. Trish pulled her powder blue sweater down over her black stretch pants and the slight revelation of her tanned lower back. She excused herself to the bathroom – not even looking my way. When she came out, she thanked Matt and I, expressed a simple goodbye, and headed towards the door. I quickly dismissed the utter satisfaction of the unspoken affair and stopped her just before she escaped. She leaned into me. Touched her cheek to mine and whispered, “I do know you.” And she was gone.

Matt took the words out of my mouth the moment she had cleared the stairwell: “What the fuck was that?” To this day…I have no idea. But it doesn’t make me any less grateful.

150

There was a time when I ran. Not like Forrest. And not because I was afraid. But only because I believed it was a worthy thing to balance the many excesses in my life. Moderation wasn’t working for me, and I felt the tinniest tinge of guilt beginning to swell up in my gut, so I put on my Adidas and was off. At least there would be added a modicum of muscular shape to the body in question – mine. Aspiring to any higher elevation, however, was simply out of the question.

(I’m sorry, but I am sitting in Panera Bread having a coffee as I write this, and I am distracted. Seems the elderly couple behind me just made a temporary investment in the form of $25 worth of baked goods, and are currently scarfing down the assortment. Does one really need to eat a spinach and bacon soufflé AND a choco-nut bagel with hazelnut cream cheese all in one sitting? Wouldn’t the bagel alone be sufficient? I feel convicted just watching them.)

Anyway, during this running phase I stumbled into, I became pretty regular. And by regular, I mean that I was able to maintain a fairly consistent schedule of exercise. In fact, until my knees began to give out, I probably felt better than I ever had in my life. I wanted to share my new found love, so I tried to encourage my best friend. He was a new father at the time, and I thought he should know what a great feeling it was to sweat and exhaust yourself daily. To feel like you would vomit if you made another stride. Constantly pushing, even when it became so painful that you believed your body would fall off. No one should miss out on that kind of experience. He didn’t see it that way.

“I could give a rat’s ass about working out,” was what he told me. And I believed him.

Recently, after a viewing of the new film 300, and since the first buds of spring have popped, his tune has apparently changed. Now, a second kid on the way, he’s decided to take up running for the first time in his life. He’s purchased the Nike I-pod sensor, to embed in his sneakers, and keep track of the progress on his Nano, and he’s even considering joining a gym. I had to give it to him straight: “Look, there’s no way you’re ever going to look like Gerard Butler. You’d be lucky to look like Alfred the butler at this point. You’re too far gone.”

Honestly, I don’t know who he’s even trying to impress. He’s got a wife and 2 kids now. Shit. What’s he want? Maybe there’s a streak of envy in me that suspects he’s picking up where I dropped the ball many years ago. These days, I can’t even get off my ass long enough to land a job.

I mean, I saw 300. It just made me tired. Essentially a 10 minute battle, forcefully extended into 2 full hours. And the good guys all die in the end anyway. I couldn’t help but imagine my best friend. Face down on brutal, black, scalding asphalt. No arrows through his chest. Just skint knees and shattered dreams. Halfway through his first mile. Done in. His Nikes still pristine. Tube socks still dryer fresh. Xerxes still reigning as the god king.

I failed to mention that besides the hefty, elderly couple packing their gullets with starch, I’m completely surrounded by contestants in Chicago’s Shamrock Shuffle – an 8K. (Just about 5 miles – which I wish they’d just say. I don’t know who the hell even knows the damn metric system.) The people who have entered this particular race seem to be made up of various shapes, sizes and vintages, which gives me some hope. Although their choice of pre-competition food is odd. Some snack on fruit – an apple here, some melons and such. This seems reasonable. It’s the guy over in the corner, packing away cinnamon rolls and chugging coffee, that has me worried. Another girl has those single serving size packages of Ranch Doritos – only she has about 10 of them. I mean, I know this is only 5 miles and everything, but come on people! Can you really be prepared to run after sticking all that shit in your body. It made me nauseous, and I’m not even running.

I had to get all of my hypocritical, venomous rhetoric out of the way first, so I could address my own issues. Because if I must be completely honest, (which is important for me to do), my best friend is trying to better himself. Those people in that Shamrock Shuffle today, though not the wisest eaters, are trying to better themselves. (I overheard one of the numbered ones say that following the race, there is an after party. Beer tents were set up around the perimeter of the finished line, so people can immediately begin to feel bad about themselves once again. Maybe this is to encourage them to enter the next damn K-ish event. But I digress.) What I really wanted to say is:

“Way to go, people. Way to go. You’ve taken your first steps – many of you. Baby steps – some of you. But steps nonetheless. Congratulations, you’re on your way. To what, I don’t know. Maybe the beer tent, or back to Panera Bread for some more cherry streudel…but, I’m getting off track again.”

Let me tell you that I have been inspired. Maybe by the people in the Shamrock Shuffle, but most significantly by my best friend – who sleeps on stacks of books because he heard it can help foster a six-pack. The point is, I will run again. One day. One day soon. Possibly soon. Sooner than later. And I have purchased 20 lb dumbbells. They sit by my door. I will work the lifting of them into my daily routine. But these minor details do not strike appropriately at the core of what has happened in me. On one hand, I have reached the point where I truly want to be a better man. On another hand altogether, I realize that THIS…(long dramatic pause)…is NOT Sparta, and I could give a rat’s ass about working out.

All Eyez on Me

This was long before I knew anything about women. A year of firsts. My first drink. My first kiss. My first girlfriend. And my first glimpse at a naked woman in a dirty magazine.

The culprit was Jack Jagger – the school principal’s delinquent son. He used to give me rides to class in his cobalt Chevy Corvair – the ‘Blue Wiz’ according to his vanity plates. (When he wasn’t out destroying mailboxes with baseball bats or brain cells with pot, he was actually a very responsible guy.) All I knew was, he kept me from riding the bus between the ages of 14 and16, and that was a good thing – whatever the cost to my burgeoning code of ethics.

Jack was the wise old age of 16 ½, and this particular evening, his astute acumen had led us to a game of jackass softball. (We were merely spectators, but, ‘yes’, it’s exactly what you may think – a game of softball between people riding donkeys). It was mildly entertaining, I guess, but it’s what happened on the way home that really marks this tale.

We had pulled over to gas up the Blue Wiz. But before leaving, Jack leaned over and grabbed a brown paper bag under my side of the worn, bucket seats. “I’ve got to show you something pretty amazing…” His words lingered in the air as he pulled out a beautiful, glossy magazine called Hustler. I was not at all familiar with Mr. Larry Flynt’s publication, but what I surveyed between those pages was life altering. (Of course, I was much too young to have formed an opinion about the objectification of women, sexism and misogyny. This would develop in me much later.) What I can tell you about that moment is this: What I saw, I liked.

There were pictures of naked couples (men and women), (women and women) engaged in a number of compromising scenarios. Many of which I didn’t fully understand, but they stirred me in ways yet uncharted. It was what I saw in the center of that magazine, however, that really sent me over the edge.

Jack lay out the centerfold of a playful, red-headed vixen named Veronica. She posed and pranced and spread across those vibrant, stapled pages without a stitch of clothing or inhibition. I was mesmerized. There is no question. But Jack made it all seem like an anatomy class on the knowledge of good and evil. He pointed at Veronica’s most vulnerable areas – the ones that seemed strangely dream-like – and gave me directives:

That is what you want to go for.
This is what she wants.
That is what you need to touch.
This is what will make her happy.

He emphasized each instruction with a gliding, lingering index finger. The pages were smudged with grease from the fries he had eaten at the jackass softball game. It was all so much to take in, but I knew in an instant, I was changed somehow.

My first kiss had come several months prior. Jennifer Hardaway was her name. She was no Veronica, but who is? My best friend, David, was her brother, so everything was very convenient. I had noticed her when I was over at David’s, and she always made me tingle. Helplessly. So, I told David to write her a note expressing my undying love. (As a joke, of course, he thought, and was all for it.) But that love note is what launched us as an official couple. An undeniable twosome. David was pissed initially, but he got over it. And here we were, 4 months later, with a hell of a lot of kissing under our belts. But little else.

So…it was a Sunday night. After a long and belabored church service. A Pro-teens event (don’t ask, because I have no idea), and the plan was to enjoy a little pizza and “fellowship”, with the other youth, at the Greek pizzeria down the street. There were only 9 of us – including the youth pastor Tommy Bates – so the restaurant staff set us down at a fairly secluded, giant round-topped booth. I quickly maneuvered in next to Jennifer, so as not to cause a scene later on, but I had one half of the Pike twins – little Stevie – on my other side. I prayed we’d get through the evening without one of his epileptic seizures, as he was known to have. Completely ruined the church carnival from the year before – that one.

It was around the time Mr. Bates was blessing the food that I noticed Jennifer’s leg. Her cute little gingham skirt had inched way up beyond knee length appropriateness, and she was revealing a significant amount of pink thigh. My mind flew away, like a fire-winged dove, from our prayer of thanksgiving, and crash-landed into the waiting pages of Veronica’s Hustler profile. Jack’s enthusiastic teaching was ringing in my ears: “This is what she wants. That is what you need to touch…”

I made the decision in an instant. Before either of us could make a consideration, my hand had found its way onto Jennifer. Just above her naked knee. Her eyes flashed demure surprise directly into mine. Then subtle embarrassment, as she cast them back to the slice of pepperoni in front of her. Jack had warned me about this look. It was not a deterrent. It was, in fact, an encouragement. I treated it as such.

Did Jennifer like this? Was she enjoying the warmth of my hand on her leg? The discussion at the table had turned to the planning of the next teen activity – a trip to Six Flags – which, normally, would have perked me right up. But in this moment, I was a million miles away, and moving towards the Holy Land, one millimeter at a time. Jennifer had stopped eating her pizza completely. She stared at my traveling hand as it roughly pushed at the fabric of her skirt. This is it, I remember thinking. I am actually going there. Some place magical and amazing. A foreign and unseen place I knew not of, save the education of Jack and Veronica. Then the question popped into my head: What will I do when I get to this great place?

I didn’t even get a chance to find out. Jennifer lifted her head, looked into my downcast eyes, and in a voice that was hardly discreet, she issued her command:

“Take your hand off my leg”.

The talks concerning who would survive a ride on The Great American Scream Machine came to a halt. I suddenly felt like that 2Pac song, “All Eyez on Me”. Mr. Bates asked me to come with him, and you can figure the rest. Conditions were disheartening at best. My hopes of becoming a true ‘hustler’ were quickly stifled. Jennifer didn’t talk to me for about a week, but by the time we went out again, she was all over me. Weird. Maybe there was some validity to all that Jack had taught me that night after the jackass softball game, but I guess I’ll never really know.

There is one thing I am absolutely sure of…There are some ways that seem right unto a man, but in the end…they’re just going to get you in trouble and you’ll probably be disgustingly embarrassed and you’ll probably be tempted to do a lot of other things you’ll have insane regrets about, because, let’s face it, guys are horny, (especially 16 year old guys), and everything is filtered though that, so, they’re going to encourage you to do a lot of stupid shit. Don’t do it. (Especially underneath a pile of pizza and the scrutiny of the church youth pastor.)

Putt Putt

Want to hear some really crazy shit? I think I’ve discovered the secret to life. Really. Truly. Bear with me a little here…

Waiting. What comes to mind? If you live in Chicago like me, or any other large metropolitan area, traffic maybe? That madness that changes us into fire-breathing, cursing demons from hell. Maybe it’s that excruciatingly long 2 hour difference between you and a platter of popcorn shrimp at the end of a very long Friday, when you haven’t eaten all day, and everyone at work was riding your ass and you’re knocking back Hurricanes every 10 minutes in the Red Lobster bar, non-flashing sonofabitch food pager under the ashtray beside you not moving a damn bit. That’s a rough one. Whatever comes to mind, I’ll assume waiting is never a pleasant experience.

Sure we have to take into account our varied temperaments. Some are more patient than others. More tolerant. But it’s our contemporary Western society that is to blame for much of our aversion to waiting. Our fathers and mothers deemed it so. And we will do the same for our children. We want shit the way we want it. We want shit in multiple quantities. And we want shit now. The core problem could be boiled down to the simple fact that we want shit, but I will save that tirade for another essay. For now, lets confine this talk to the fine art of waiting. An invaluable, yet rarely practiced, practice.

There was a girl. (As there always is). Let’s call her Samantha. Not to protect her identity, but because I actually cannot remember her real name. Is that bad? Let me finish the story before you judge me.

She, Samantha, was a friend of a friend who knew I was currently hurting. Some random pain, probably attributed to the recent absence of yet another woman. Samantha and I were formally introduced at a dinner party, and I must say, she seemed like a very warm, very attractive candidate for a first date. So we planned one. Samantha and I. Miniature golf. There was an old Putt-Putt golf course in the woods beyond my house. They were only open during select hours for summer, spring, and for special tournaments. But the rest of the year, they never took the time or energy to shutter the place. No locks. No gates. No nothing. People would take their putters and balls and play free most days. Primarily fall, since most weren’t insane enough to wipe the greens clear of snow, but it was October when I met Samantha, so…

I wrapped up a picnic basket full of gourmet goodies. A bottle of good wine. A couple of hoodies and blankets. My only putter and some balls. I packed my car and drove to her spot – with the directions she had written on the back of my hand at the dinner party. I pulled up in the Pinto and made a dead stop. Her place. The street number – 1000. She was the only house in the cul de sac, and a very interesting (read Adams Family) house it was indeed. I got real spooked, real fast. She had seemed normal enough at the party. I just wasn’t looking for another rendezvous with a woman who desired me to eat her flesh and drink her blood. This was purely about hitting some balls and making quick friends. But the duck pate wouldn’t hold up much longer and we were losing daylight, so I had no time to fear. I got out of the car and headed to the gargoyle studded doorway.

Now, the part that happened next has happened a thousand times. I pound the heavy door. Samantha sticks her pretty head out and asks me for a few minutes. No problem, right? I’m used to this. I should have been thanking my lucky stars it was her instead of Lurch, right? Well…I did…and…I was…until a few minutes turned into 15 Then 15 turned into half an hour. Meanwhile, I was still on this gothic, rotting porch with nothing to do but look stupid.

More waiting. I hit the door a couple more times. No response. I decided to go and check on the food. Once I got there, I decided to hang out in the car. Maybe listen to some tunes, at least. Help things go down easier. She didn’t really expect me to remain on the porch all this time, did she?

The Fall was playing on the radio – how appropriate – daylight was forever lost, and I was over 1 hour into my wait. Could she have forgotten? Impossible. She came out and spoke to me. Told me to wait. The thought to knock again crossed my mind, but if she hadn’t come out by this point, did I really want her to now? I gave her 15 more minutes.

Our date was over before it started. I knew this now. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Maybe she would be out…soon…or…I know, I know. I was a pretty ignorant ass. But you know what I was doing? I was growing. Learning. And I didn’t even know it.

The pate had started to smell pretty iffy, but I was into everything else. Spread it all out on the dashboard and dined on purple grapes, club crackers, smoked cheese and Pinot Noir. After a couple more hours, WTRX was into 2 hour blocks of uninterrupted New Wave. The contents of my belly were sloshing around, I was playing air keyboard, and all thoughts of Samantha were far, far away. (If you didn’t count the fact that I was still sitting in front of her house)

It was cool out, but not too cool. After a while I put on one of the hoodies, grabbed a blanket, and rolled down all the Pinto’s windows. Sat on the hood with a yellow legal pad I had stuffed under the passenger seat, and just wrote. A solid, non-coherent rant. My thoughts flooded the page. It was great. I didn’t need another person in my life right now. I just needed to be alone. And wait. Not even for Samantha so much. Just wait. In general. I sat out there – Adam Ant blaring – until the sun rose right over the top of 1000 Epicurious Court. Samantha never came out that door. Far as I noticed. Maybe she snuck out the back, trying to avoid me, but that was okay. I had learned a huge lesson about myself.

I could have tried to knock on her door one more time that morning, but I failed to see the point. On the way back to my place, I stopped off at the Putt Putt. My evening’s cumulative reward couldn’t have been more satisfying. And I didn’t want to spoil what had grown to be a perfect date. In the early morning light, on those worn out greens, I stood there and realized…I love myself. Then I hit me some balls.

Looking in the Mirror

I hesitate to share with you the bitter frailties I have succumbed to. The fire hose of isolation that has extinguished me. These things that have robbed me of much sleep and much trust, and have forced me to be alone. Honesty makes me vulnerable, you see. Anybody is susceptible. But I am not one of those men so filled up with testosterone that I must hide behind my machismo. And besides, man cannot become fully man until he has completely divulged himself.

I speak on behalf of no one but myself, so this is but a solitary, relative opinion. It is neither right nor wrong. It is just I. Plain and simple. But believe me when I tell you that deep inside the heart of every crippled man…is a woman.

A very close friend of mine once described loneliness as the most violent act perpetrated on all of humanity. Though I consider myself a poet of sorts, that thought had never crossed my mind. As a victim of the act myself, I always imagined being in the corner of an empty house drinking orange juice. Or crying myself to sleep. Or watching consecutive Hollywood movies to numb my pain. Not being stabbed to death under a stark white street light and left for dead – the neighborhood dogs eating my remains. But, I guess that really is a more accurate picture of what loneliness does to a person. Isn’t it?

So, I said all that to say this…Ginger. I’ve been thinking a lot about her the past few days. Ah, Ginger. Light of my life. Fire of my loins. My sin. My soul. Ginger. (And before anyone accuses me of base plagiarism…thank you Mr. Nabokov. His words just feel so sweetly apropos.) The part I remember about Ginger the most is the vacancy she left behind. And then, of course, there was the mall*

*As a way of explaining myself: it was still the eighties. Indoor shopping malls were still a relatively recent novelty. Besides, I was young and impressionable. The image of malls as capitalist cancer and consumer whoredom was not yet clear to me.

We had come for Ghostbusters at the Cineplex Odium – located at the Southeast end of the newly christened Gatebriar Mall, in lovely, suburban Gatebriar. It was 1984. Bill Murray and Rick Moranis were ridding high at the box office. It was my fourth viewing, so I was a little more interested in Ginger’s bare summer shoulders. She wanted to watch the movie, which we did, and then do a little shopping, which we also did. I was just so happy to be with her.

The Limited, Deb, B. Dalton Booksellers, K&K Toys and Spencer’s Gifts. We perused their wares and I bought her a pair of sterling silver shark tooth earrings from Spencer’s. She put them on right away and I felt like all man. As man as a man could be - because I had Ginger by my side.

Her shoulders, the ones I mentioned earlier, were guarded only by the thin straps of her fiery-red sun dress. It was just a shade off from her hair, and was covered with big, black polka dots. She was breathtaking. And she clutched my hand like I really mattered. Through all the cycles of sweat. I was so proud. Not a hint of loneliness anywhere.

Every guy in that mall stared at her with deep, deep longing, but they didn’t dare speak. How could they? Her beauty was painful. But she was with me. And we were at the mall. And there was nothing or nobody that could touch that.

I don’t really know why I dwell on that time specifically. Maybe because of the rarity. One of the few times we actually went out. We usually just stayed at her house. Her mom was always working. We’d study. Or read. But mostly we’d kiss. For hours. Stopping only because our lips hurt or our tongues were cramped. Then we’d kiss some more. Why do we grow out of that stage? Or is it just me? Seems like it was completely satisfying at 16.

Anyway, that’s all we ever really did. Kiss. One day her mom came home early and Ginger looked a beautiful mess. She rolled off me, and the bed, and went into the bathroom to change her clothes; but she left the door ajar. That’s when I saw her. All of her. The first time I had seen a completely real, completely naked girl. I saw her full, voluptuous figure in the vanity mirror. And then her eyes. A knowing smile. Coy. She liked me seeing her. She wanted me to see her. I can’t tell you what that did to my insides. Ultimately, it ruined me. And that was as far as things went between Ginger and I.

If I was really honest, I didn’t believe such beauty could abide me for long, and I was right. She dumped me for Matt Zachary – star quarterback for the Gatebriar Soldiers. Rumor has it, she did a little more with him than just let him see her naked, but it didn’t really matter. The paralysis had already set in from the time of goodbye. And ever since, that’s what I’ve had to live with: the violence of her absence. Every single day. Filtering. Insinuating. Forcing itself into every relationship since.

They say the first step to healing is admittance of the problem, but I don’t really believe them. But, what the hell…Ginger, you took my heart. The least you could do now is let me live with the hole.

New Math

“The women are coming.” He leaned in discreetly and whispered this seemingly pleasant warning for my ears only. His two very robust secretaries were giggling. I thought maybe at me. I waited for the punch line in somber silence. What choice did I have?

Here was a man holding my social and financial well being in his tight little fist. A big, fat ballpoint - like the kind they give you after 25 solid years of company service – the universal symbol for contract negotiation – poised agonizingly over the line that was dotted. A hair away from funding a deal – this amazing deal that I had sniffed out on my own – a multi-media entertainment deal worth roughly 10 million dollars. (1 million of which was mine for securing the match) If he would just write his name…

It’s always difficult to concentrate on much else when you’re on the verge of such a rich reward. About the only thing in the world that might be considered the least bit distracting is probably women. And this was a wise man before me. Worth about 970 million. I thought…he wants to tell me something about women…so be it. I will be the patient grasshopper. There could even be some value in this very painful pause he was making me endure. The anticipation could be good for my character. I waited. Suspended. My mind running like a mad man.

The women are coming…the women are coming…okay…got that…where are they? Are they stashed in a closet somewhere? In a cab down the street? Some special gift to commemorate our business partnership? The women are coming?! What next?! For God’s sake, man…spit it out!

Between the deal itself and the thought of the women coming, the tension was palpable. I wiped a single bead of sweat from my upper lip as he opened his mouth, ever so slightly, and prepared to speak again: “And when they come…”

Yes?! Yes?!

“Don’t take the ten. Take the one, and treat her like the ten.”

What the hell? I must confess, for a minute, my mind became fixated on the mention of the ten. Ten women? Coming for me? I like the way this guy does business. Immediately following this cryptic challenge, it was as if time sped up. He signed off on the deal. Signature. Notary. Copies. Contracts to folders. Folders to portfolios. Follow up handshakes. All the while my mind was banging out sexy chords from some Motley Crue song. I kept diverting my eyes. I couldn’t look anyone in the face. I didn’t want to miss the official entrance of the women. But we were quickly down to the final handshakes. Well wishes. Corporate pleasantries. And the two robust secretaries were whisking me quickly away. I could not interfere with the next scheduled meeting – where the man who had just given me 1 million dollars was set to meet with Jamie Foxx, Forest Whitaker, and Denzel Washington. (Which, no disrespect, I love those guys. Seen all of their films, but…where were these women?)

In the cab, I rode, in disappointment, back to my hotel. I was rich beyond my wildest dreams, but yet, something was missing. Guess you’ve figured out what. But then…it hit me. The mystery revealed as the cabbie pulled up to the Plaza’s lobby: THEY’RE HERE! At the hotel. Probably waiting for me in my room. In big fluffy robes and various body lotions. Ingenious. I should definitely spend more time in L.A.

Then…the big let down. I think I must have checked the Jacuzzi about 5 times. No women. I couldn’t believe it. A completely empty suite. Not at all living up to its maximum potential.

I watched pay-per-view and emptied the contents of the mini-bar until a great slumber overtook me. I had neglected to secure a wakeup call for the next morning, and barely made my plane at LAX. Yesterday’s troubling events wore on me as I sat in first class for the first time in my life. I should have been ecstatic, but I felt like shit. I couldn’t enjoy a thing. Not even my fresh million. I tried to tell the guy next to me about my great windfall, but he wasn’t impressed. Seemed he was the CEO of Starbucks International or something. This life was really beginning to suck.

I tried to go over the mogul’s words in my head: The women are coming. Treat the one like the ten. Despite my lengthy hibernation the night before, I was exhausted. And these words were bringing me no comfort. I reclined my luxury airline chair in preparation for more rest of the wicked. My eyes never even shuttered. She knelt by me. That quiet, peaceful, soothingly sweet voice: “Sir, I just thought you might want a fresh cup of coffee. I also brought you a blanket and an extra-soft pillow, in case you wanted to take a nap. And I want you to know that if you need anything…anything at all…you just ring me. My name is Chantel.” She didn’t just pass off these items. She wasn’t some machine. She put them in my hands. The coffee. The blanket. The extra-soft pillow. She took her time with me. Each one with warmth. And, I believed, with love.

I looked into her soft green eyes as she leaned in further to secure the pillow behind my neck, and I realized something. My little epiphany, you could say. This lady…this kind, beautiful lady works a thankless job – day after day – miles up in the sky. Who’s going to treat her right? Who? Certainly not this cocky, arrogant bastard from Starbucks. I clutched her hand firmly, before she could remove it. I looked at her, and I spoke: “You know what Chantel…you are a precious child. You are appreciated and loved, and I thank you today. I thank you and commend you for adjusting my pillow.”

She looked scared. She quickly regained control of her hand and scurried over to her other little flight attendant friends. She spoke in very quickened and excited tones and they were looking in my direction. They all seemed very scared, but I knew in my heart – right then – I had made a difference in that young lady’s life. And the mogul’s mysterious challenge finally became clear: The women may indeed be coming, but right now, Chantel was the one.

The Colonel

She got her directions from a KFC billboard. She would journey into a stark wilderness of abstinence. She would care for the needy with unfettered love, compassion and kindness. She would lay bare her will before the cutting, holy blade of a righteous God. And, oh yeah, there would be chicken. Lots and lots of chicken.

Even more bizarre than that moment of transcendent lucidity and beauty – standing among dozens of the colonel’s greasy buckets – flanked on all sides by the city’s diseased and dismissed – was the occasion of our first meeting. A moment both hard to imagine, and painfully hard to forget.

My buddy David, a burgeoning indie film maker had undertaken the impossible task of raising $150,000 for the purpose of making a cinematic masterpiece not unlike Lawrence of Arabia. Only David’s story was about a Catholic priest from New Jersey, on sabbatical in Italy, where he gets mistaken for a mob hit-man. Wanted to call it The Good Father. Sounds rife with dramatic potential, right? A celluloid gold mine he would later call it. Well…David never made that picture. He went on to raise $16,000 – which severely challenged his creative wherewithal. He ended up shooting a very different film – you know the one – misunderstood indie youth having random, witty indie conversations in their local indie coffee shop – probably someplace in the pacific northwest – girls and guys discussing God and sex and politics with no cause, no outcome and no change, except for the pacification of indieness – remember it now? If not, you can rent it at our local Blockbuster. Might be hard to find it elsewhere. He kept the name the same. It didn’t really fit, but it’s probably the best thing about the damn movie.

Anyway, this fundraiser – the one for The Good Father - is where I first saw Dawn. She was the evening’s entertainment. Now, before you get the wrong idea, let me clarify: she was David’s creative ploy, solicited to pry – in an ingenious and innovative new way – money from the greedy little hands of his father’s rich friends. (Her and all the free booze.) It was Dawn’s job to present a compelling, powerhouse mime/interpretive dance, encapsulating all the movie’s major plot points, in an effort to cajole these potential investors.

In my opinion, David should have taken a little wiser initiative. Maybe worked up a flashy promotional video, or had the actors play an actual scene from the script or something. These are things that seem, to me, more palatable, for the purpose of encouraging financial support. An abstract art form, like interpretive dance, did not seem a logical choice. At least not for a bunch of thick-necked, over-stimulated, under-sexed, wealthy meatheads, knocking back Jameson like it was water. Although I don’t condone the sexual exploitation of women in any way, shape or form, maybe a stripper would have secured him the $150,000. Instead, he hired Dawn from the Salvation Army Corp downtown, and paid her a measly $30 to act the fool.

Her normal duties at the Corp had her working with at-risk youth and the homeless, teaching them health education and self respect through the use of creative arts. This evening, she got to prance around in a tight black leotard and white face, trying her best to display the “essence” of David’s inane screenplay. He prepped her in the hallway about 20 minutes before she began her enactment. And then…

Let’s just say, I didn’t catch much of David’s feeble plot line in all that frenetic energy that shot out of her body during that very long, very mortifying, 11 minute theatrical assault. I mean, I felt bad. Really bad. For her. For me. Granted, I wasn’t as verbal as some of the “what the fucks” coming out of the meatheads surrounding me. But still…

In the midst of that “epic” display – probably somewhere towards the end of it – even in all the shame and embarrassment, there was something – I admit – that intrigued me. Who was this pail painted-face girl? And why – though she looked oddly like John Lithgow – was I drawn to her?

She was standing next to the bar – clutching the faux pine paneling like a drunkard, but she was only drinking apple juice. Much apple juice. From shot glasses. There were around 20 stacked up on the table beside her. No one was talking to her. That hurt me. I figured the least I could do was attempt to encourage her with something positive about her…”performance”. She seemed like a sad clown. All tall and gangly with a blonde sheepdog mop that hung in her white painted face.

I didn’t even get a chance to speak. She looked at me, and I was sucked in. Two eyes were like a million. Hurting and caring simultaneously. She spoke. Her voice betrayed the pain behind the pale:

“I know you.”

It was confusing. I was overwhelmingly emotional all at once. A power drawing me in. Further and further. I couldn’t even question her. Her words were life itself. In this completely absurd and fucked up Fellini film going on around me. All these drunken meatheads belching and belaboring, short of breath. And her. All this social sodomy. This animal circus with billowing cigar smoke. And her.

The die seemed cast for me already. I answered the only way I could:

“I know.”

She told me to follow her outside. Next thing I know, we are standing alongside her station wagon, under the viaduct, passing out legs and breasts to the city’s hungry masses. Minutes quickly became hours and David’s stupid fundraising episode was soon just a painful means to a beautiful end.

All the chicken was gone and I licked the greasy residuals of our labors off my fingers. “Damn, this is good.” As I made this bold statement, I actually meant the secret recipe of 11 herbs and spices. But then she looked at me again – holding one last piece of extra crispy, in her slender hands – and I knew my sentiment covered so much more ground.

It was a night like no other. An ineffable paradise of denying self. Granted, there would come a time several months later when I would become so frustrated with Dawn that I would offer up the completely selfish ultimatum: “I would gladly give up all this shit, for a simple, uncomplicated conversation, a cup of coffee and a cigarette!”
But that night…that night, I was happy to serve in the presence of one of God’s most faithful and humble servants. What the fuck did I know?

Communion

Jessica was a vampire. I met her at church. (And by church, I mean the gutted cathedral turned swank, over-priced nightclub that rests - not so quietly - at the bottom of the south loop.) She whispered this claim into my Pete Townsend ear - the one deadened with the ringing of Tinnitus after years of moving my guitar amps to 11. It didn’t help that DJ Kid Lofty was spinning an echo of ambient noise in my one clear ear. What I actually heard Jessica say was not, in fact, that she was one of the undead, but instead, the more palatable admission, “I’m a liar”.

And I believed her. I really did. I mean, if man and woman are going to make any progress at all in this primal, broken world, it is absolutely essential that every potentially significant relationship began with a foundation of trust. I don’t know…I guess most people might find such blatantly shameless truth telling a little off-putting. Maybe if it hadn’t been preceded by Jessica’s sparkling olive skinned body, clad only in a tiny gray cocktail dress decoupaged with images of Versailles. Instead, I commended her:

“Listen Jessica…that is okay with me, girl. I, in fact, appreciate your nakedness. It’s bold. It’s sexy. What can I say…I’m captivated. And if that is the complete extent of your flaws…I’d say you’re doing okay. In fact, I can’t help but think there’s something amazing hiding behind that palace of French kings…just waiting to get out.”

She smiled. Wryly. Black lipstick. Nice. Finished off her drink. A Bloody Mary - something I found unusual for this hour. Slapped her smudged glass down on the neon crossed bar top and spoke directly to my face:

“It’s no flaw. Trust me. But you’re right about one thing…there is something amazing just waiting to get out.”

Pastor Jimmy brought her another hair of the dog and she clutched it with one of her porcelain hands - violently pointed, her nails tipped with ash. But she didn’t drink up immediately. She just stared at me. Into my eyes. And I couldn’t move. I had this one ice cube left over from my $15 rum and coke. I kept swirling it around in my mouth, and it was freezing my ass off. Actually, the cold had begun to spread. Like a strangely spiritual cancer. Seeping into my very soul. But I could not open my mouth.

“Maggots…”

What? An almost indistinguishable brogue. Pastor Jimmy was pointing at my jaw. I was held to my spot through the seductive paralysis of Jessica’s deep blue pools. Pastor Jimmy spoke again: “You’re eating maggots.”

Jessica began to laugh – ever so slightly – as I regained control of my faculties – namely my mouth – and felt that stomach-churning squirm for the first time. My mouth was alive with larva. Gag reflex propelled my lips apart, sending the contents of my oral cavity across Pastor Jimmy’s bar. The revelation…a single rounded ice cube.

I felt around my tongue. Underneath. Everywhere. For the truth. But it was all numb. I stared into the bar mirror – hand stuffed in my beak. Clean. The sleek glisten of cold, steely Bacardi and pink flesh. What just happened?

And then Jessica was on me fast, like flies on shit. (Probably not the best analogy for the moment). But it became very evident, very soon, that she was hot for me. In an instant, that very rational, very thought out consideration, that Jessica might have just a few more hang-ups, other than being a liar, escaped me. She had her hand inside my shirt collar, twisting my chest hair, and was rambling about finding a place to be together. Quiet. Alone.

“You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want.” Her hand was moving like a snake. Traveling south. I made this stupid, feeble grin – full of cautious arousal. The kind prompted by devils. I snorted out a, “Where would I go?” My grin became a faux confident smile.

Pastor Jimmy wiped my ice cube off his holy altar. I caught a quick profile of Jessica as she turned to lead me out. Gothic. Beautiful. I loved her. There was a vine-covered cross tattooed to her back. I hadn’t noticed it before. It quickly disappeared, with us, into a labyrinth of shadowed corridors.

I don’t even remember entering the room. We were alone. But it wasn’t quiet. Johnette Napolitano was screaming out some anthem about the sky being a poisonous garden. I was still reeling from everything when Jessica bent me back across a heart-shaped, red velour love seat. My shirt was ripped. This is it. My libido was revving like a panther’s motor. I readied my heightened self. And then…she spoke those words:

“Eat my body. Drink my blood.”

Now, I’d like to think I’m an open-minded guy, but this was a bit much. I looked at her sheepishly. I was at a loss for words for the first time in my life. I mustered up a, “I kind of thought we’d get to know each other a little better first.” I think she was okay with that response. Her eyes glazed over and we started to kiss. There would be no bloodletting that night at church. At least for the time being.

Almost Cut My Hair

Delilah had her blades pressed up against my livelihood when the contemplation hit me…

The currency of hair is a funny thing. The perceived value, strange. But in a country glut with the swollen belly of consumer guilt, it’s nice to know that the balance of things can be levied with a weight gifted us all at birth. Granted, some are bestowed a more generous birthright than others - only truly evident with the toll of age. Genetics steals some, cancer others. Many are betrayed by the shears of fate. But one thing is certain: hair is good. And if you have it, you can do anything.

People do not get haircuts any more. It’s passé. When we want a change - even a tiny one - we go to a “salon”. Where, in the midst of an aesthetically pleasing environment, a “stylist” will perform his or her “artistry” on the area of your body you choose to sacrifice to the gods of “makeover”. Now while this might cover everything from a manicure to a colonic, for the sake of this essay, let’s focus on that region about the skull, known as the mane area.

Delilah, (actually Kellie), had me splayed out in some back room. The lighting was dim and moody while the mini-sound system alternated between Enya and Portishead. She was massaging my temples - running her silken hands through my hair with trails of wild blueberry calming tonic - my choice. Burning candles encircled the reclining chair which contained me, while some kind of aromatherapy machine rolled out the faint redolence of a forest. But even with the competing fragrances, the bouquet of Kellie’s hands pushed through it all - a wonderful hint of nicotine blended with citrus. Or was it lemongrass? (You hang around a salon long enough, you learn these things. I had been there only 15 minutes and I was practically a metrosexual.)

Anyway, my scintillating moment with Kellie in the reclining chair was soon over. She hosed me down and ushered me across the equivalent of the Green Mile to my final destination - the “styling chair”. It didn’t look very stylish. Kellie and I were no longer alone. I sat in the midst of a sea of women - all equally as put together and provoking as Kellie - all furiously performing their beautification artistry on a bevy of fashion-challenged losers - all in their own styling chairs. I was one of them now.

My long black hair - heavily tousled and damp - hung in my eyes. A giant bib around my neck. “Strapped in”, so to speak. With Kellie’s larger than life, double-edged scissors held oh-so-threateningly to the back of my mangy locks. She had just asked, with questionable doubt, how I wanted it to be cut when that contemplation hit me. Not the one about the currency of hair. That came much, much later after a series of overly analytical sessions (while seriously inebriated, mind you) evaluating the validity of the process of hair recycling and whether it could actually save our lives. No, in that moment, the only thought that raced through my mind, screaming with terror, was: How the hell did I come to be here and how the hell can I cut this Delilah to the quick?

Ah yes, it all comes back now. That crushing moment. On I-90. Summer. A scorching hot day. About 100. Windows down. My hair blowing back for miles. Radiohead’s Kid A cranked to 11. Cruising. 75 mph. My girl beside me in a hot-pink halter-top, daisy-dukes and nothing to do but drive and drink ice cold lemonade through bendy straws. Beautiful. Then, like a blur, some passing juvie in a pick-up from Wisconsin yells out a verbal assault like no other. It didn’t register immediately, of course. My ears were filled with Tom Yorke’s melancholy melodies. But then my girl touches my arm and carefully asks me, “Did you hear what that kid said?” Actually, I hadn’t, so she told me. In an instant, the entire 2 seconds replayed itself in my brain, and I saw clearly what my fragility had blocked the first time… This little bastard. This smarmy, little, illiterate, good for nothing little shit from some dairy farm in Wisconsin. Pudgy little fucker with his portly, heifer-like parents - incapable of putting a muzzle on their ignorant, smart ass spawn. Was going to tell me - in a very cowardly manner, mind you - to “get a haircut”. Well, needless to say, I chased them and their cattle wagon for miles - to the dismay of my frantic girlfriend. I was determined to corner this devil child in a rest stop bathroom, where blood would most definitely be spilled. Fortunately, before I caught the fat little mother scratcher, they exited the freeway enroute to their motherland, and I didn’t want to spend my Sunday afternoon staking out some feed store. So, I let it go. I thought. Yet… here I was about to make a deposit to Locks of Love. Because of some adolescent little milk boy’s disregard for human decency. My subconscious was fucking with me. This just could not be.

Well, even though I thought Kellie was a real nice girl, and I really enjoyed being slathered up with that wild blueberry calming tonic, I did the thing any self respecting hippie would do in a moment like that…I pulled the pony tail scrunchy off of my wrist - gathered my hair up, out of harms way, and pulled it back behind my head. Where it belonged. Then, I bid the proper adieus to all my lovely company, leaving them shaking in admiration and affection through the crosshairs of my fingers - formed into a peace symbol. But only after, of course, tipping my stylist.

Just Like Heaven

She comes to me in my dreams. Those almost lucid dreams that caress you just before 5:00 a.m. A tickle of feather-wielding vividity on your very vulnerable nether regions. A pulse of concentrated and focused pleasure just begging to be true. But alas….the painful reality of waking. And no amount of artful re-creation, or fate, or hand of God, outside of the dream world, is capable of birthing these potent, palpable, perpetual pauses of paradise. Sound like a fairy tale? You’re closer than you know. Try, if you must, to coax these visions into something tangible, but your efforts are in vain. Open your eyes - it’s over.

I’d much rather be mauled and eaten by a bear. Or endlessly fall towards certain concrete death. But no - the dream over-lords were particularly spiteful in their design of my slumbering fate. One no man - regardless of the magnitude of his sins - should have to endure…Rapunzel.
It wouldn’t be so bad if Rapunzel didn’t really exist. A mere by-product of some half-forgotten story from childhood. A tender, noble creature with looks and locks and bad taste in men. I could cruise through my days with ease, peacefully knowing that night was on its way - a wildly beautiful gift box under the covers, to rip apart with the perfect satiation of R.E.M. *Not the kind fronted by Micheal Stipe - although “Nightswimming” is a particularly great song to slumber under the influence of. No, the only thing ripped apart in this scenario is my heart. Suffering under the knowing of her only in the puzzle of my subconscious.

I try not to go to Black Heart Vinyl. It’s the used record store down the street from my apartment. It’s also where she works. The Vinylist, who runs the shop there, hired her about 2 months ago and I hate him for it. When I first saw her, I thought she was just a customer. Just a ship passing in the night. An epic, ornate ship bursting with green sea foam and the fragrance of freedom, but a ship passing in the night nonetheless. She was arguing with Jared about who would endure: The Smiths or Robert Smith? Jared - the consummate Cure fan - his face burning with frustration - tears of indignation smearing his Soot eyeliner from Urban Decay - seemed to be losing his objectivity. And she - with calm precision and perfect city mouth delivered a rupturing eulogy on Mr. Smith. Laying him to rest respectfully while carefully lifting up the high priest of Manchester, England and the world - Father Morrissey. She was so…perfect in her torn fishnets and mismatched plaids. Her hair of pitch - short and choppy - nothing like I would have imagined from a Rapunzel. I wanted to clutch her peach face and kiss her generous black and burgundy lips. I had never been so captivatingly tortured in a single moment. I had never…

Jared was almost weeping from defeat when she lifted her flawless head ever so slightly and invited me to pound the final nail into the macabre casket of gothic rock. I thought I had been discreet - hiding behind a Black Flag 7”. When she spoke to me - her eyes on my unworthiness - I wanted to die. All my bones disintegrated. I slumped to the floor - a mass of useless gelatin. I bolstered enough momentary strength to pull myself up by a stack of unsorted cut-out lps - just in time to hear that angelic voice give me one more chance: “What do you think?” The simple words rolled out like spun gold.

An opportunity to redeem myself. To justify my existence as a existential media consumer and lover of all good tunes. I would choose my words carefully. Precisely. So as not to offend Jared any further, but to completely and overwhelmingly ingratiate myself to her and all her desires. To endear myself. To indebt myself. To maybe persuade her to clutch me to her bosom and scream a banshee cry of regret for the wasted time spent before my magical appearance into her life. Mind. Can’t. Stop. Wandering. Have. To. Think. Quickly…

I opened my quivering pie-hole of predestined defeat: ”’Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me‘” saved my life during my freshman year at Stanford”

Noooooooooo! What did I do?! Rapunzel’s face made this crestfallen crinkle I will never forget. It was as if this beautiful moon - shining into so much darkness - fell out of the sky - crushing everything for miles in the wake of its collapse. Jared’s face - on the other hand - rose up - strident, as I slumped back down into a puddle of unwanted vinyl.

The next thing I saw was a white frilly cuff. Jared extended his silver ringed hand and picked me up out of the pile of records. There was not a shred of hope in sight.
“Hey man…thanks for the support. Classic. That new girl…she’s kind of harsh.”

I gazed beyond him to the smirking look of the Vinylst. Grinding my teeth. Damn you, Vinylst! Damn you to hell! Rapunzel was in the back unloading some new product, but I knew it was finished with her. Finished before it started - like always. Relegated to my weary dreams of Sisyphusian proportions. “Big Mouth Strikes Again” ringing in my head for eternity.