Men's Room Etiquette

Disclaimer: if a frank discussion about what takes place in public restrooms is likely to offend you, please skip this piece and choose another selection.

Last chance!

You were warned.....

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At my place of employment, I work with a group that includes roughly 60-70 men, sharing 4 bathrooms.  The main restroom, most convenient to the largest number of people and nearest to the break room, contains a row of 5 urinals and 2 stalls.  The urinals, unfortunately, lack the dividing barriers found in most new construction these days.

Unlike many people, I've never had a problem defecating in public restrooms.  If nature calls, I can't comprehend not answering.  I sometimes have to heed the siren song while working, which is fine since toilet paper is normally plentiful and everything in good repair.   What makes using the toilets nearly unbearable, however, is the urine generously splashed all over the seats.

Yes, that's right.  Despite the presence of 5 perfectly good urinals, my coworkers choose to empty their bladders in the stalls.  Not content with merely taking up space in the stalls, which serve a purpose beyond  urination, it's almost as if they're purposely drenching the seats rather than making any effort to hit the water.

I'm old enough to remember having to piss in the most horrendous of all public facilities, the troughs common in large stadiums and sports arenas in the 1970s. The trough mocked all notions of modesty or privacy.  For the uninitiated, imagine sidling up to a long, low bathtub, with nothing keeping your neighbor from standing shoulder to shoulder with you, as was often the case at halftime of an NFL game or between innings of an MLB game.  Not only might you be physically touching another person while attempting to pee, often the layout of the trough would be designed for maximum efficiency and be OPEN ON BOTH SIDES.  No, you didn't misread that.  Men, often inebriated, would have to queue up directly across from one another to pee.  heaven help you if you were wearing a rival team's jersey or the gentleman across from you was impaired in any way.  The trough offered no protection from what was, in essence, a fire hose filled with piss pointed in your general direction.  The number of fistfights precipitated by the trough must have been staggering.

Back to present day, most public restrooms offer a row of urinals separated by dividers.  Those afflicted with homophobia, stage fright, micro-phallus or any combination of same have complete protection from prying eyes. The barriers are one of life's little pleasures that make western civilization bearable.

As I mentioned previously, the main restroom where I work affords no such luxury.  It does offer 5 neatly spaced urinals, with plenty of elbow room.

General men's room etiquette dictates that no man stand at a urinal adjacent to one already in use, should another be available.  A good rule, similar to the one banning talking to someone going to the bathroom.  These are conventions with which I was raised, and I assume I'm not alone.  You walk in, perform your reconnaissance, and select the appropriate urinal.  Approach, unzip, eliminate waste, zip up, flush and walk away, hopefully to the sink to wash your hands.

If all urinals are available,  the nearest to the door is my first choice.  If one is in use, I occupy one an appropriate distance away.

What I've noticed at work is troubling.  Perhaps it's a function of having been raised in the Midwest, or the difference in age between me and most of my coworkers, but I've observed time and again these heathens bypassing the urinals in favor of the stalls or walking past the first four urinals to get to the 5th one, by the wall, where they angle themselves so that their back is to the entrance to the men's room while they do their business.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking to watch any man urinate, but the exaggerated fashion in which they seem so desperate to hide themselves is bizarre.

The peculiar urinary habits aside, what really sticks in my craw is the piss-poor (no pun intended) aim so many of them seem to share.  Using the stall to pee is bad enough, but they go in there and seem to take great pleasure in rendering the toilets practically unusable.  Are they marking their territories like dogs?  Are they rebelling against their more well-endowed brethren by making some sort of angry statement at having been banished from the urinals?

I'm completely at a loss.

Not as much a loss, of course, as I suffered when entering a rest stop bathroom outside Yuma, AZ, on a hot summer day a few years ago.  I walked in to find a man, clad only in shorts, at the time pooled around his ankles, in a wide stance in front of a urinal, both hands high up, palms flat against the wall as if he'd been ordered to assume the frisking position by a police officer.  Given the option of urinating near that individual, I took the coward's way out and locked myself in a stall.  Where I proceeded to pee masterfully, every drop hitting the water with surgical precision, leaving the seat bone dry, as I'd found it.

Exactly 75 words

I've started submitting my work to Paragraph Planet. The premise of the site is to write a piece that is exactly 75 words long.  Here are the two "stories" I've written so far, coincidentally similarly themed:

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Death Valley is beautiful this time of year, they said.  Spring has sprung, wildflowers are in bloom, and it's not too terribly hot yet. They were right, of course.  The stark desolation of the desert dotted with splashes of color is breathtaking.  I just wish they'd also told me to  make sure my tank was full. Or to bring along some food and water, maybe a blanket.  Help will come before the coyotes do, right?
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My time spent exploring the Mojave has yielded abandoned cars in canyons, flowers growing in the most unexpected and desolate places, lizards of all shapes and sizes and mountains of shell casings.  Such an unforgiving landscape is home to only the hardiest fauna and most resourceful members of the animal kingdom.  Rattlesnakes would prefer to be left alone, but occasionally a lummox like me will mistakenly invade the personal space of a diamondback. Quite painful!   

An Apiologists's Nightmare

Yet another entry in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge.  This week I was challenged by Jason Hughes.  His prompt to me will follow.  Enjoy...

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As the kind of person who will catch a spider in a glass and take it outside or rescue a drowning beetle in a swimming pool, the Great Bee Massacre of 1983 isn’t something that makes me proud.  It’s not an event I recall fondly.  It is, however, a true story, and the valiant winged warriors who lay piled at my feet once it was over deserve to be remembered. 

Thirteen is a tricky age.  Part of you feels grown up, wants so badly to drive, to somehow make money, to get out and experience the world.  The other part, however, is more than happy to spend hours playing Dungeons and Dragons, reading comic books, and riding bikes.

So it was for my best friend Jerome and me in that fateful summer of ’83.   His parents both worked, so his house, and especially his pool, became the place to hang out and while away those hot, muggy days.  I could hop on my bicycle and be there in 15 minutes, and most days I was.  I’m still not sure how Jerome’s mom managed to keep the fridge full for those three months, but food and drinks were always plentiful, we managed to scrape up enough quarters to keep the arcade at the nearby bowling alley in business, and we spent enough time practicing with his arsenal of martial arts weapons to feel like we were reasonably proficient (we weren’t).

Other than not having any girls willing to hang out with us (thank you very much, Donkey Kong and X-men), the only crisis facing us were the bees. 

At first, they were merely an annoyance.  One of us would emerge from the pool and be victimized by a solo drone flying a sortie.  We’d rarely suffer a sting, more often just a panic-inducing flyby that would send us leaping back to the safety of the water.  When the buzzing became more persistent, we decided to act.

The hive was inside a large woodpile at the edge of the property, with dozens of soldiers hovering menacingly all around it whenever the sun was up.  We set up a staging area in the carport one morning, gathering equipment.  We each donned swim goggles, Jerome covering his head with a ski mask, my face protected by a rubber Frankenstein mask from several Halloweens past.  I’d smuggled two pairs of gardening gloves from my house, which we wore beneath long sleeves duct taped to our wrists.  Sweatpants, likewise duct taped around the ankles, along with tennis shoes, completed our ensembles.  If these nasty critters could sting through our “armor,” so be it.  But they weren’t getting a crack at exposed flesh!

Our weapons for the siege included a hose with an adjustable pistol-like attachment, allowing for everything from a tight, powerful stream of water to a fine mist.  The hose wouldn’t reach all the way to Castle Honeybee , but close enough to do tremendous damage.  We had 2 ½ cans of Raid, an assortment of shovels, picks, axes and even a pitchfork at our disposal.  As we checked our gear one last time and got comfortable in our protective gear, Jerome went back in the house for what he promised was the ultimate “secret weapon.” He emerged carrying a lighter and two cans of WD-40.  I made the Sign of the Cross, invoking the protection of whatever Catholic saint handled brave warriors on the precipice of battle. 

Our initial attack would be with chemical weapons.  We inhaled deeply to calm our nerves and rushed the enemy stronghold, each with a full can of Raid in hand.  Dozens of our winged nemeses fell immediately to the ground, and with the perimeter patrol eliminated, we concentrated our fire into the woodpile itself. 

Cans empty and with no resistance apparent, we retreated to our “trench” for the hose and trident.  I returned to the fray, driving the forks into the woodpile, toppling several logs and exposing the nest, which Jerome doused with water.  Had we not been 13 and over-exuberant, we may have realized that spraying the pile would only rinse away the Raid from our first assault. The bees fought a much more disciplined campaign, waiting for the pungent chemical to be cleansed from their home before fairly erupting from their fortress.  They seemed to be everywhere at once, a swarm in the truest sense of the word.  I was enveloped in bees, despite Jerome’s best effort with the hose.

 I continued to dig at the hive with the pitchfork until the angry buzzing grew so loud as to disorient me.  I stumbled back, something primal telling me to run away, despite my impenetrable homemade beekeeper suit.  In my borderline panic, I slammed into Jerome, sending him sprawling, the hose dancing madly in the grass, water spraying every direction, and bees blotting out the sun.  Their attacks were mostly blunted, but the occasional stinger was getting through, first on the back of my neck, then an ear and on a thin strip of skin left vulnerable on the smell of my back.  The stings I received, while painful, weren’t as bad as what my brother-in-arms was enduring.  The bees had concentrated on his face, unable to find another opening.  One bee had even managed to get into his mouth, delivering a dose of venom to his tongue.

We scrambled back to our feet, and we must have looked preposterous.  A blazing hot summer day and here we were, a ski mask and a Frankenstein, both (almost) covered from head to toe, being pursued across the yard by what looked like every bee in Hamilton County. 

The damage done to me was superficial, but the sting to Jerome’s tongue was another matter, as the swelling threatened to block his airway.  He retreated into the house, leaving me to contend with the furious swarm alone. 

Armed with an axe, I charged headlong into the enemy phalanx, chopping wildly at the hive, bits of shredded honeycomb flying through the air.  The decibel level of the swarm seemed to diminish, as they realized most of their stingers were being left in my clothing rather than my flesh, and great masses of their best soldiers lay strewn across the yard, victims of Raid, water, blunt force trauma, or simply having ripped their own guts out when their syringe-tipped stingers were left behind and they attempted to fly away.

Kicking and digging at the remnants of the hive, I noticed movement to my right.  It was Jerome, ice cube on his tongue, ready to extinguish all hope for our adversary with his flamethrower. 

He was seething with rage and a fair bit of agony, and he attacked with reckless abandon.  Huge fireballs exploded from the can, incinerating chunks of the swarm before he arrived at the nest.  Whereas our water attack had blunted the effectiveness of the Raid, soggy logs were a lifesaver when he started blasting fire directly into the hive.  Burning down trees or the neighbor’s house in a puerile attack on a beehive would have drawn the wrath of even his ridiculously lenient parents.

What remained of the swarm dissipated at the apparent death of the queen and the complete and utter destruction of the hive.  The deafening buzz was gone, replaced by an eerie silence.  Jerome and I were grunting at the residual pain of the stings, the burning hive crackled softly before going out, and all around us was still. We collapsed onto the ground, victims of post-adrenaline-rush exhaustion.

The pool beckoned, and after stripping off our ridiculous protective gear, we melted into the cool water, celebrating our victory with laughter and raucous splashing. 

A pity neither of us noticed the wasp watching us from a nearby tree……      

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The prompt I was given was "The type of silence only complete and utter destruction can bring… But in a happy sort of way…"  I challenged Amy with the prompt "Fortune favors the bold."  Her reply is here.

Breakfast at McDonald's

It's Indie Ink Writing Challenge time again!  I was given a prompt, which will follow, by Tara Roberts.  Here's my reply:

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Centuries before the birth of Christ, man kept track of time.  The Bible informs us that the flood made famous by Noah and his floating menagerie lasted for precisely 40 days.  According to the same text, Methuselah lived for 969 years.

Solstices let farmers know when it’s time to plant and time to harvest.

Man has used all manner of devices to record time, from sundials to the most technologically advanced atomic clocks in use today, instruments so precise that they can claim to be accurate within a range of one second over 30 million years. 

A much less scientific way to measure the passing of time is to recall what the same thing meant to you at different times on your life.

“We’re going to McDonald’s!”

Until my teenage years, to hear such a proclamation from one of my parents was cause for celebration.  Burgers & fries, maybe a soda and the chance to run, play and climb were irresistible.  A trip to the land of the Golden Arches wasn’t on par with the holiday holy grail of childhood (Easter, Halloween, Christmas and birthday), but it wasn’t far off.  Finding out I could actually celebrate my birthday AT McDonald’s was like telling me I could open my Christmas presents at Kris Kringle’s house!

When puberty struck, those halcyon days of being a child at McDonald’s were but a memory.  The House that Ronald Built became the place to hang out, see and be seen on Friday and Saturday nights after high school football or basketball games.  In lieu of anyone’s parents being out of town, facilitating a party, of course. 

College passed without many trips to McDonald’s, but the living-paycheck-to-paycheck 20’s inevitably dictated frequent raids of the Dollar Menu when Friday was still two days away, the fridge was empty and money was scarce.

As seasons changed again in my life, McDonald’s became a refuge from 110 degree summertime heat in the Mojave Desert for me and my enthusiastic, often hungry son.

Eventually, I’ll probably complete my metamorphosis into one of the lonely geriatrics who spends each morning sipping coffee and reading the newspaper under the Golden Arches in a desperate attempt to feel part of the world, to rub shoulders with living, breathing people instead of being cooped up inside a house empty but for memories and ghosts.

It’s said that in small towns in basketball-crazed Indiana, the past isn’t measured in years as much as by how long it’s been since the last great high school team or player graced the local hardwood.  One old man at the barbershop to another, for instance, remarking that “this could be the year we make it back to a semistate.”  Both men knowing, instantly, that it’s been 9, 20 or 43 years since the town’s schoolboy five last reached such lofty heights.  “We haven’t seen snow like this since the season Raymond was 5^th in the voting for Mr. Basketball.”  No reference to the Gregorian calendar required. 

A signpost on the timeline of my life has been the voice of my mother telling me to “wait until your father gets home.” 

When first I heard those words, they were framed by an angry, exasperated tone. My mom’s scolding and threats had failed to curtail my bad behavior, which had gotten progressively worse as the day dragged on. I was stopped instantly in my tracks.  While mommy grabbing and shaking me or spanking me might have been a mere annoyance to the rambunctious 5 year old I’d become, a paddling from daddy was guaranteed to bring tears to my eyes and make sitting down a challenge.  I definitely didn’t want to tempt his wrath!

The tone of “wait until your father gets home” at some point went from being a threat to being exciting and hopeful.  When dad got home I could share with him the “A” I’d gotten on the math test, the news that I’d made the team,  or that the school paper had published an article I’d submitted.  Dad getting home from work more often meant a time for celebration, not fear.  Or at the very least a time for guarded optimism that I’d be allowed to use the car, borrow some money, or be given permission to join my ne’er-do-well friends at the concert Saturday night.

Moving away after college meant that the days of “wait until your father gets home” were over, or so I thought. 

Now when I hear those words in my wizened mother’s raspy voice, the sound is best described as guarded optimism.  Of course he’ll come home again.  The inevitable return trip to the hospital may occur the next day or even hours after his wheelchair is pushed through the front door, but he’ll be home.  If it means Thanksgiving dinner isn’t eaten until December 4^th, we’ll wait for him to come home.  He has to. Because hearing those words for the last time will mean I’m closer than ever to the days when the girl working the counter at McDonald’s can put in my breakfast order merely by seeing my Buick pull into the parking lot, without having to wait for my stooped body to shuffle inside. 

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The prompt I was given was "wait until your father gets home."  I challenged Angie M .357 with the prompt "fortune favors the bold."

     

Douglass v. Brown

This is my latest effort in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge.  The prompt I was given will follow at the end of the piece. 

I've never attempted scriptwriting, so I apologize if my formatting is awkward. 

It seemed the best way to craft this piece, as it’s entirely a conversation between two men. Consider this work as designed for the stage.

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Late August, 1859

Chambersburg, PA

John Brown – a white man of nearly 60, with a thick white beard and a full head of salt and pepper hair

Frederick Douglass – a black man, roughly 40 years of age, sporting a closely cropped black beard

The meeting occurs in the home of Douglass, both men nattily attired in the fashion of the day. 

            FREDERICK

John, my dear friend, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?

            JOHN

Forgive me if I dispense with pleasantries, Frederick, but the matter is urgent. The plan we discussed in Rochester last year is nearing fruition, but I still lack that one man around whom Negroes will rally.  General Tubman has been tireless in her efforts to recruit on my behalf, but once hostilities begin, and we march southward, I’ll need you by my side.  I understand your reservations, but I must prevail upon you to reconsider.

            FREDERICK

I remain unconvinced that your course of action can have a positive outcome, John.  Attacking a federal armory and seizing weapons cannot be endorsed by President Buchanan.  He’ll be forced to send the military in pursuit, and assuming you survive the initial attack, you’ll surely be captured and hanged.  If, by some miracle, you manage to elude capture, your actions shall surely galvanize southern slaveholders against abolitionists everywhere.  Your devotion to the cause is unquestioned, but you’d be better served to let politicians make the sort of sweeping changes you seek.  I’d suggest you instead turn your focus back to your League of Gileadites.  Keeping those slaves lucky enough to escape the South beyond the reach of those who would seek to enforce the Fugitive Slave Act would accomplish more and keep you alive longer.

            JOHN

Rhetoric isn’t going to end this scourge, Frederick.  If you’d been in Kansas with me, if you’d seen to rage, the fury with which those men fought, you’d know that they understand nothing but force. Their cowardice will be revealed when they’re forced to face the same men they treat as livestock instead holding rifles and pikes!

            FREDERICK

You’re counting on men who have never in their lives so much as touched a firearm, unless it was used as a club to discipline them, to suddenly be expert with Beecher’s Bibles?  Isn’t that a bit optimistic?

            JOHN
Negroes arrived on these shores having never seen a cotton plant, yet their skill at harvest was so great that I believe some Southerners would transplant the entire population of the Dark Continent here, were they able. 

My concern isn’t acumen with a rifle, Frederick, it’s instead that these men can tell the difference between friend and foe and not start pulling the trigger every time they see a white face.  Not that I’d blame them if they felt that way.  

            FREDERICK

(Laughing softly)

 John, I sometimes wonder if your enthusiasm to reach emancipation doesn’t surpass my own.  I just can’t accept this course of action.  Freeing every slave in the Commonwealth of Virginia won’t garner you the ultimate change you seek. Give my way a chance. Let my words, the words of Sojourner, of Harriet, of William Garrison do their work.  My people need to be armed with books, with opportunity, not weapons.    

            JOHN

(Becoming visibly agitated)

If not now, when?  When will be the right time?  I seek to reunite families, to pull men out of the fields, out of the barns and into society.  Imagine an army of your brothers, armed and marching through Tennessee and into the heart of Alabama.  The size of our company growing as free men join with their benefactors, their brethren!  It will be glorious! This is the vision God gives me when I lay down my head at night.  I only worry that the 100,000 rifles I seek to liberate from the Armory won’t be enough to arm them all.

            FREDERICK

Your conviction is resolute.  I fear I’ll be unable to convince you to reconsider.  I must decline the invitation and ask you to send word on the eve of your attack on Harpers Ferry that I may relocate my family to protect them from those who would seek to punish us for guilt by association.  My prayers will be with you, your sons, and all who join your noble cause. 

            JOHN

My task would be far more likely to succeed with you as a member of our band.  Nevertheless, we will seize the armory and cut a swath through the South led by an army the likes of which the world has never seen.  Godspeed to you and yours, Frederick, and should I not survive the battles to come, I wish you all the best in rebuilding this once-great nation.  You’ll be needed by those who replace that doughface Buchanan.  Farewell, my friend.

(Both men rise, shake hands, and John Brown departs.  Frederick Douglass watches his friend leave and returns to his chair, hand on his chin in deep thought)

Two months hence, John Brown led a ragtag group that did capture the Federal Arsenal at Harpers Ferry, VA, only to have their insurrection put down by a military force under the command of Brevet Colonel Robert E. Lee.  Brown was executed on December 2, 1859.  On the morning of his hanging, Brown wrote “The crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood.”  His actions and death arguably sparked the American Civil War.           

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I was challenged by Tobie with the prompt "If not now, when?"  I challenged Tara Roberts with the prompt "You have a terrible case of writer's block.  Describe the steps you take to break the dam and get the words flowing."  Her masterful reply is here.

Persistence Over Pain

This is my weekly offering in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge.  I was given a prompt, which will appear at the end of the story, by Amanda Lynn.

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Parents often describe a feeling of terrible dread the first time they lose their young child in a public place.  Reach for something on a grocery store shelf, turn your head for a moment and off a toddler will go, scurrying around the corner back to where she saw a shelf filled with Oreos.  Get distracted by a buzzing phone for mere seconds and a game of hide and seek in the mall is afoot. 

It’s a feeling with which I can certainly empathize, as I’ve been the victim of my own wandering son enough times that I’ve started to think that parents who keep their kids on leashes might be onto something.

What I’ve come to find, however, is that as scary as Brandon being out of sight and earshot for a short while may be, it doesn’t compare with watching him, from behind and too far away to help, ride his bike off the edge of a rooftop and into oblivion.

Ok, let me explain, it wasn’t really quite that dramatic.  It was just a trip to the skate park on an unseasonably cool early summer morning.  For a physically precocious little boy who began walking at 7 ½ months of age and who abandoned training wheels not long after giving up diapers, riding up and down ramps for an hour or two would be more fun than a visit to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory followed by a trip to Jurassic Park. When we pulled up to the fence on our bikes and he got his first  look at the older kids skating, scooting, and riding all manner of vehicles up and down the sides of the bowls and over and around all manner of impediments, he giggled with delight. 

“Brandon, this side is for big kids.  ONLY for the older kids, ok?”

I explained to him that the huge bowls, resembling empty swimming pools, were not for the Kindergarten set, no matter how much fun they appeared to be.  He could have a blast with his peers in the smaller section, where nobody was trying to escape gravity by more than an inch or two. 

He nodded his head in agreement.  There exists, evidently, a difference between fearlessness and foolhardiness, even in the mind of a sometimes borderline-feral 4 year old.    

We rode carefully around the deepest section, heading towards the section set aside for novices and the squeamish when it happened; an abrupt right turn and some ferocious pedaling, and he was heading directly for certain doom.  I screamed his name and tried to will my arms to stretch the dozen or so feet to reach him, but he was undeterred.

Over the edge he went, vaulting over the handlebars, face first into the abyss. 

I heard him before I got close enough to see him.  For a child who routinely shows up with bruises, cuts and scrapes that would make a military medic weep, with no recollection as to how they happened; screaming was totally out of character.  But scream he did, a howl that got the attention of everyone within earshot. 

A scrawny skateboarder reached him first, and despite all efforts to maintain his tough veneer, I could see panic on his face.  He handed Brandon up to me the way he’d found him, backside first, so it wasn’t until I turned him around in my arms that I got a look at his mangled face. 

His forehead and nose may as well have been rubbed raw with steel wool, his top lip looked more like a duck’s bill, and inside his shrieking mouth were teeth pointing in directions that would make an orthodontist cringe. 

His bike came up next, undamaged, and a t-shirt pulled from the body of a teenager on a scooter was offered to help wipe the blood from my son’s chin. 

Between spitting out blood and shards of a broken tooth, he seemed more angry than hurt.  “Why? What happened? Arrrrrggghhhhhh! Why it did that?” he pleaded with me.

Despite what could have potentially been a horrific injury, he was less concerned with whatever damage he may have suffered and more with the audacity of his bike for having thrown him and the concrete floor of the bowl for having smacked him so hard in the face.

A full battery of scans and x-rays at the emergency room revealed how lucky he’d truly been.  His two top front teeth were lost, and two bottom teeth were damaged, but they were all baby teeth anyway.  No facial or skull fractures were found and as gruesome as the scrapes and bruises were, they’d all heal eventually.  A vigilant guardian angel was deserving of gratitude, in my opinion.

We had an uncommonly low-key night, pudding for him, pizza for me, movies for all, and sleep came easily, to the soundtrack of rumbling, distant thunder.

Our usual morning routine was canceled by Brandon.  “I don’t think I want to ride bikes for a long time, Daddy.”

“OK, buddy, we don’t have to ride again until you’re ready.  We can chill and do some coloring books or build Lego’s or whatever you want to do,” I replied.

“Daddy, I want to go back to that park and see those cool guys doing skateboard tricks.  But no bikes, just to watch.  We’ll sit on the side”

I was surprised that he’d want to return so soon to the scene of his accident, but I figured in the end it was healthier than being terrified of bikes and parks altogether.  We drove to the park, this time sans bicycles, and settled in on a bench. Before long, several regulars approached to offer my son encouragement.  Normally shy, he was all too proud to show off his battle scars and cracked teeth to the small gathering. 

“Do you want to go down where you fell, little man?” asked the boy who, it turns out, had offered his shirt the day before to sop up the blood gushing from Brandon’s nose and mouth. 

Initially hesitant, my son agreed, and clutching my hand in a death-grip, we approached the edge and he was helped down into the bowl.  Fortunately, the rain of the previous night had washed away the blood spatter left by his crash, and he was more curious than freaked out by having his accident explained to him.

We spent an hour or so at the park before he demanded a Slurpee, so bidding his fan club adieu, we set out for the nearest 7-11.

From the backseat of my car came a voice that could belong only to my son.  “Daddy, tomorrow we should come back with our bikes.”

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The prompt I was given was "fortunately the rain washed it away."  My prompt, "write from the perspective of a high school student of the opposite gender" was answered brilliantly by Sunshine here. 

Watermelon Tears

This is my latest effort in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge.  I was given a writing prompt by Amy LaBonte which will follow. 

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“I think we ought to find somewhere to put my dad.  I’m so happy we’ve been able to have him here with us, I know it hasn’t been easy for you, but we have to focus on Toby now.”

“Jess, Toby loves his grandpa.  Probably more than he loves either of us.  Isn’t the next few months going to be tough enough for him without taking away the person he loves most?  None of this is easy and none of it is going to be easy.  It all sucks.  I don’t know what we’re going to do except everything we can to make our son as happy and comfortable as we can, pray a lot and thank God for my insurance.”

With tears in her eyes, Jessica Schmidt hugged her husband Tim’s neck, so hard she feared he’d be the next one to spend time in the hospital.  The past year had been filled with hospitals and hospices, as Jessica first lost her mother to pancreatic cancer and then watched her proud, strong father, be reduced by bone cancer to life in a wheelchair. 

At 79, and faced with life minus his wife of fifty-seven years, he’d refused chemo or radiation to help him in his fight.  The constant pain left him cranky, while the devastating loss of his best friend only fueled his bitterness, anger, and confusion.  Despite his protestations that he was perfectly capable of staying in the house he and Esther had shared in Kansas, Jessica had convinced her father to move in with her family in Boise. Troy, Jessica’s older son, was rarely home.  High school, sports and friends kept him away unless he was hungry or needed a place to sleep.  Tim’s job required long hours, so Grandpa Frank’s most frequent companions were Jessica and 6 year old Toby. 

When Frank moved in, Toby was his parents’ primary concern.  He was as wild and rambunctious as a 6 year boy could be, not the best match for an elderly man of poor health and even more fragile psyche. 

To the surprise of everyone, however, rather than being upset by having to share time and attention with his grandpa, the situation was the catalyst for an amazing transformation.  Never one to sit still for very long or to behave himself at mealtime or in church, Toby seemed to mature overnight.  He’d sit for hours with his grandfather, reading to him from his Dr. Seuss books, watching television with him, and insisting that he be the one to help with grandpa’s dishes, newspaper, books and whatever else he required.  When the Schmidt family arrived at church on Sunday mornings, it was Toby who pushed his grandpa’s wheelchair, held doors, anything and everything he could do to help.

When the news came that Toby had relapsed, it hit the family like a runaway locomotive.  As a baby, the chubby little blonde-haired boy had developed tumors in his abdomen.  An aggressive treatment plan was implemented by his doctors, surgeries were performed, and the crisis seemed to have been averted.  Nearly five years after Toby’s bill of health had been declared clean, however, the unthinkable happened. A tummy ache wasn’t food poisoning and it wasn’t the flu. The tumors had returned, this time spreading much more quickly and aggressively, attacking organs that had survived the initial illness unscathed.  The prognosis wasn’t good.  If Toby survived to see his 7^th birthday, doctors would consider it a minor miracle. 

Tim and Jessica met with their pastor to best determine a course of action.  School would be starting soon.  At this point, Toby was healthy enough to attend, but that wouldn’t last.  Should he start school at all, or should the family treat the last few months of his life like one long Make-A-Wish Foundation weekend?  Disneyland, ballgames, camping and whatever else he wanted to do made sense to Tim, but when they sat down and had the talk with their son, he shrugged and said he really just wanted to be in school with his friends.  He’d been looking forward to 1^st grade so much.  He wanted to be big like Troy, he wanted to play high school football like his older brother, and those things couldn’t happen without finishing 1^st grade!  Like climbing a ladder, grandpa had told him.  Take one rung at a time and you’ll get to the top. 

The finality of his situation hadn’t, couldn’t sink into Toby’s young mind.  He was sick, sure.  He hurt all the time, just like grandpa, but despite watching grandma and his mom’s cat, Harpo be buried, he was much too young to actually die.  That didn’t happen to kids!

Tim and Jessica both flirted with nervous breakdowns, Troy started drinking whenever he had the opportunity, and Frank, impossibly, got progressively grumpier.  It was only Toby’s interminable exuberance, happiness and curiosity that made life bearable for any of them.  He’d been given a death sentence, yet he couldn’t be happier. 

A week before the start of school, on a sunny afternoon that found grandpa and little grandson both relatively pain-free, they shared a slab of watermelon on the back porch, Toby peppering his grandpa with the usual barrage of unpredictable questions.

“Grandpa, why is watermelon so sweet?”

“It has sugar in it, champ.”

“Like a cookie?”

“No, not like in a cookie, that’s a different kind of sugar.  The sugar in a watermelon is like in a strawberry, not like in a candy bar or cookie.”

Toby didn’t seem entirely satisfied with the answer, but there were too many questions to be asked to dwell on fruit.

“Why do I get wet when I go swimming?”

Concealing his annoyance and popping a chunk of watermelon into his mouth, Frank spit a seed at the little boy’s head and laughed.

“Because you’re in water, silly goose! And don’t ask me why water is wet, I already told you only your father can answer questions like that!”

Rubbing the spot where the seed had hit him, feigning injury, Toby took two huge bites and looked up at Frank.

“Do you miss grandma?”

Inhaling deeply through his nostrils and exhaling through puffed cheeks, Frank reached down and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Oh, Toby, you have no idea.  I miss her very, very much.  I loved her so much.  And she loved you so much.  I bet you miss her too, don’t you?”

“Mommy told me that grandma is in heaven now, so she gets to sit on a cloud and play music and sing and she must be really happy.  I miss her, but not too much, because I’ll be with her soon.”

Frank felt a lump form in his throat and the all too familiar sting of tears as he struggled to speak.

“W-what?  Why do you say soon?”

Looking down at the ground, kicking a rock, Toby thought for a moment before answering his grandfather.

“Troy told me that I’m really sick, I mean I know I’m really sick, and I try not to be sad about it because everybody is sad enough already about grandma and Harpo and your legs not working so good and I just want everybody to be happy for a change.  I figure grandma might be lonely, and maybe God made me sick so I can go to heaven to be with her.”

No longer able to stifle his emotions, Frank wept openly now, head in his hands.  He hadn’t allowed himself to dwell too much on Toby’s illness, on the prospect of having to bury his own grandson, but it seemed the boy had already come to terms with the future in a way only a child can.

Standing up to give his grandpa a hug, Toby asked another question that had been bugging him.

“Is heaven really like that?  Do you just sit on a cloud?  Or do they have games there and toys and stuff?  I mean I’ll be happy to be with grandma and everything, but I know she likes to take naps and I won’t have any friends there but her, so what will I do?”

Composing himself as best he could, Frank returned Toby’s hug and pulled the boy up onto his lap.

“The way I figure it, heaven is like a one-way trip to your favorite place.  Whatever that might be, whether it’s going to the zoo or a Jazz game with your dad or going swimming, think of that one thing or that one day that when you were doing it, you wished it would never, ever end.  I think, well I hope, that’s what heaven will be like.  Think of a day like that, but it really never does end.  How does that sound?”

Toby took a big bite of the watermelon, right down to the rind, chewed slowly and thoughtfully, a puzzled look on his face.

“What’s the matter, champ?”

“Well, if grandma is in heaven, and heaven is like you say, my favorite place or day that lasts forever, then why isn’t grandma with us here, right now?”

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My prompt was "a one-way trip to your favorite place."  I challenged Wendryn with the prompt "Your dream concert.  Any artist/band, any venue, any time.  Tell me all about it."  Her response is here.