Permanent solution to a temporary problem

This my latest effort in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge. I challenged Kelly Garriott Waite  with the prompt "Nothing is as refreshing as a cold drink of water from a hose on a hot day."  Her excellent reply can be found here. I was challenged by Xtinabosco with the prompt "If I had a nickel for every time I..."  This is my take on her prompt.

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“Greggy, take out the garbages, then come see me, have to tell you something.”

I still don’t know why Tony always called me Greggy, but I took it as a term of endearment.  He and his wife had a daughter of whom they were very proud, the first college graduate in the family, but I always got the feeling he wished for a son and thought of me as the next best thing. 

As for the “garbages,” that’s what they were to him.  Not trash, garbage, rubbish or refuse, always “garbages.”  The translation from Serbian to English was imperfect, I suppose. 

I found my boss sitting at the tiny desk in his cramped storage closet-cum-office, puffing incessantly on his cigarette, shuffling papers. 

“Sit down, Greggy, sit down.”

I nodded and took a seat, leaning my head out into the hallway to take as deep a breath of what passed for fresh air as I could before turning to face Tony and the cloud I was sure would have him stirring the restaurant’s chili with the aid of an oxygen tank one day.

“You’re a good boy, Greggy?  Eh?” He replied to my nod with a half-hearted attempt at a smile, but I could tell something was troubling him. 

“It’s Shelly. Shelly mother call me just a little while ago. She tell me terrible, terrible news. Greggy, Shelly kill herself.”

Tony choked out the last few words, tears filling his eyes.  I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly, heck, whenever he was stressed his accent got so thick I’d start looking around for subtitles. 

“Wh-what?”

My grandfather had passed away of a massive heart attack when I was four, and I lost an elderly great-aunt to bone cancer at nine, but sixteen is too young to lose a peer, especially to a suicide.

“I…..no more, Greggy, start prepping the salad, please.  Close office door.  I’m sorry.”

Tony’s head was in his hands as finished his instructions, and I complied, a bewildered stare on my face as I wandered into the kitchen and began separating heads of lettuce.

I could hear sobs through the door I’d left closed, even over the traffic in the alley behind the restaurant.

Milinka arrived as I chopped carrots, rushing through the kitchen to console her father, who had yet to emerge from his office in the nearly 30 minutes since our brief conversation. 

A morose Tony dismissed me from salad prep with a wave of his hand, taking over so that I could check the dining room to make sure every table had ketchup, salt and pepper, menus, and so forth.

Milinka joined me, offering the first explanation of my co-worker’s shocking demise.

“Greg, I don’t know what my dad told you, but I spoke to Shelly’s mom earlier.  She came home from church yesterday afternoon and found Shelly hanging in the closet.  I guess she’d just broken up with her boyfriend and had some other personal stuff going on.  It’s so tragic.”

My confusion was amplified, as breaking up with her drug-dealing boyfriend should have been cause for celebration rather than suicide.  If I had a nickel for every time I watched Shelly get dropped off at work with makeup running down her cheeks in tearful rivulets, slamming the door of that scumbag’s Trans Am, I could retire before graduating from high school. 

There was beauty somewhere beneath the cheap clothes, badly bleached hair and hard-partying life Shelly led, but you had to look hard to see it. She butchered English almost as badly as Tony did, despite the benefit of having lived every day of her 17 years in Ohio, rather than Novi Sad.  Through it all, she seemed full of cheer.  A dirty, dingy caged bird singing, indeed. 

I thought back to the last time I’d seen her, Friday night, and I stopped in my tracks.

Rather than her boyfriend car, Shelly’s sister picked her up from work that night. I told her to have a nice weekend and that I’d see her on Monday. 

I remembered being confused by her reply, which included the first and last hug I’d ever received from her, but I didn’t linger too long on it.  The weekend had arrived and my friends were waiting for me and my paycheck.

“You have a good weekend, Greg.  As for Monday, I don’t know if you will, but I hope so.”

 

My Dad's Brain

This is my entry for the July 11-15, 2011 Indie Ink Writing Challenge.  I was challenged by Kiki Harshman with the prompt "you wake up and your father's brain has been transplanted into your head but you still have to write your blog entry...go."  I challenged Shiv with the prompt "On vacation, first time visiting a new place.  Nobody here should know you, yet at lunch you overhear your name in a conversation at the next table...."

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Waking up in someone else’s body is an unsettling experience, to say the least.  I suppose I should be grateful that the body in question belongs to my son, and not a cockroach, meaning that this isn’t some grand Kafkaesque nightmare. The fact that my son hasn’t abused his lungs with decades of Marlboro Lights means I’m enjoying my first deep breaths in a mighty long time, so maybe this isn’t such a bad deal after all, provided it’s temporary. 

Thank goodness for muscle memory or I’d be at a complete loss.  Typing is something that in my day was done by a secretary being dictated to.  When it comes to computers, I can plug them in and turn them on, but I still can’t locate the damn Google button I hear people discuss.  Yahoo, Facenet, Youbook, indeed.

I don’t know how long I’ll be experiencing this brain transplant, but I expect and hope it will end at some point.  In the meantime, if it doesn’t violate any laws of the time/space continuum or anything, maybe I can leave a message to my son and whoever might be reading this grandiose 21^st century version of a diary that he seems to think is so important.

Evidently it’s too late to tell you to take care of your knees, because they already feel shot to me.  How do you walk with these things?  Trading early 70s for early 40s should be like an economy to luxury upgrade at the rental car counter, but the Cadillac to which I’ve been given the keys has four flat tires!

Enough complaining about your various aches and pains, experiencing genuine fresh air is a more than equitable trade.

Without sounding too incredibly sappy, which should probably be forgiven a man in my peculiar circumstance, value family above all else.  My grandson is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given, and for that I thank you.  Spending time with him makes me regret not growing my own brood beyond you and your brother.  Don’t make that same mistake.  Even if it seems ridiculous, if the world seems too unpredictable to bring more children into it, have them.  I was born on the eve of World War II; you were born during the middle of the Vietnam War.  Believe it or not, I was terrified at what sort of country you were going to grow up in.  Remember, just 15 days after your birth, and within the same state, kids were being shot by national guardsmen on a college campus!

If ever you find yourself lying on a beach, put sunscreen on your ankles.  Nobody in the world but you, your brother and your mother know the story behind that particular piece of advice; let’s keep it that way.  You know how people say things will be funny someday?  Someday hasn’t happened yet.  Don’t let your own vacation be ruined by such an oversight. 

The Bengals will, inevitably, disappoint.  Don’t trust them, no matter what.  No brilliant insight there, of course, but worth repeating. 

Age gracefully.  If your hair turns gray or falls out, deal with it.  Plugs and rugs are equally unbecoming,    Wear clothes that make you comfortable.  Other people’s opinions carry only the weight you assign to them. 

Throw something away once in a while.  Seriously. 

The pursuit of “stuff” isn’t nearly as worthwhile an endeavor as the accumulation of memories.  Lunch with an old friend will stick with you longer and mean much more than whether your television set was 36” or 42”.

Your record collection is sorely in need of some Buddy Holly. 

In closing, although I may not say it, look inside and you’ll know I feel it.  Thanks for making your mother and I proud, although let’s be frank, I haven’t given up hope yet that you’ll be a Yankee one day.     

Do they think I'm stupid or something?

This is my post for the latest IndieInk Challenge. I was challenged by Amanda with the prompt "Do they think I'm stupid or something?"  My reply......

I’ve certainly been more comfortable, but I have everything I need to stay up in this tree at least until dark.  Nightfall will make escape and evasion much easier, if the search isn’t abandoned by then.

My phone is silenced, no worries there, and I have enough water to drink.  The bottle will even provide a makeshift toilet if and when the need arises.  My Kindle is somewhere shy of a full charge, but I probably ought to stay aware of my surroundings rather than getting lost in Kerouac or Twain at this point anyway.

Squad cars arrived quickly, too quickly, in fact.  I wonder if I may have been seen going in, but I was careful, I dismiss that theory.  “Suspicious man in the neighborhood” could have prompted a 911 call, but I’m white, clean-cut, and blend in with the residents of these multi-million dollar homes seamlessly, so strolling down the sidewalk carrying a small satchel shouldn’t have alarmed even the most paranoid pensioner.  I must have been sloppy and tripped an alarm.

The job was carried off with flawless, silent precision, or so I thought.  The lock on the back door was just as flimsy as expected, and the jewelry box in the bedroom filled with not only gaudy baubles but the pleasant surprise of a stash of pink, yellow and black Bellagio chips.  Upon finding the tokens I considered leaving the bracelets and necklaces behind,   but my guy is good at disassembling and rendering such things untraceable, so I grabbed everything.

My ninety seconds of work, figured at an hourly rate, would put me into an obscene income bracket shared by only the Buffets, Gates and sheiks of this world, although my tax liability (zero) would be considerably smaller.  The risk associated with my line of work, however, was crystallized by the sirens that began blaring when I was scarcely two streets away from the scene of my caper.

Running would draw unwanted attention, but I was too far from the wall I needed to scale to be free of the Spanish Trails development, so I needed cover, and fast.  Fortune smiled on me, leading me through two dog-free backyards, and to my arboreal haven.

The tree was tucked neatly between a house and a privacy screen, with low branches so high that it wouldn’t appear immediately climbable.  Aided by the same miniature grappling hook that got me into the gated community to begin with, I wasted no time disappearing into my leafy sanctuary, finding a perch that afforded both camouflage and a 360 degree view of my surroundings.

I’m almost sad that nobody thought to bring in a dog or two to aid in the search.  I’m dying to know if this scent smoke works as well on canines as all of the hunters giving testimonials on the company web site claim it works on deer.  I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t dissuade ants even a little bit.  They’ve been exploring me nonstop since I came to rest.

Nearly three hours have elapsed since I took refuge in the tree, and I’ve seen eleven cars driven by residents come and go.  Law enforcement has vanished – two black and whites and an unmarked detective’s vehicle all arrived, did their duty, and moved on.  What concerns me, however, is the pair of white security SUVs I’ve been watching make the same slow drives up and down the streets surrounding my location.  I’m positive neither they, nor the police, know my whereabouts, but these two rent-a-cops seem convinced that their missing burglar must be holed up somewhere nearby. 

Do they think I’m stupid or something? Are they really expecting me to come out of hiding and flag them down to turn myself in? 

By my fifth hour of residence in the tree, everything is stiff.  I’ve tried to continue stretching and moving a little, but my legs and back are tightening up and the bark is digging into my flesh enough that I’ve decided it’s time to make my move, despite the remaining sunlight.  The security patrol, once so vigilant, has returned to the luxury of the community’s entrance gate.

I plan my exit strategy, knowing I’ve got to return to my entry point in order to escape, lest I scale the wrong wall and be spotted by cars on the other side. A quick survey of my route and a text message to my driver sets me in motion.  At the very least, I’ll probably cross paths with a dog walker or two. 

Returning to the ground isn’t nearly as graceful a process as my adrenaline-fueled ascent.  Not wanting to potentially abandon my hook and cord, I hang from the lowest branch and release, landing with a painful, ankle-twisting thud.  I suppress the urge to scream as the damaged joint sends shockwaves to my brain, but I can’t dwell on the injury.  I rise and begin my walk, hoping against hope that no pursuit is forthcoming, at least none more swift than a desert tortoise. 

I look out of place now, drenched with sweat and hobbling along with a pronounced limp, but I traverse the distance to safety with nary a second look from the elderly couple walking their fat little beagle, the little girl learning to ride her bike under mom’s watchful eye, or the team of Mexican gardeners tending to one particularly sprawling lawn.  I worry that I may be seen dipping between houses and popping a gate to reach freedom, but I’m committed. 

Just in time, my phone buzzes with the news that my chariot awaits, a mere 9’ cinderblock hurdle keeping me from a 50 point drop in my blood pressure.

“Hey, what are you doing back there?!?”

The voice is stern, angry, and close.  I’ll have one shot at getting over this accursed wall, my less than stable ankle notwithstanding.  I quicken my pace, producing and throwing my grapping hook all in one motion. 

“Stop!”

It’s a command, not a request, and I can almost feel hot breath on the back of my neck as I yank the cord once to test it and mutter to myself “Fuck” as the entire contraption slides back over the wall and lands at my feet.

I wheel, bracing for confrontation, maybe an impact, and find myself face to face with something resembling a grizzly bear more than a man.  He tops my 5’9 by at least six inches, and he’s nearly as broad across the shoulders as he is tall.  Seeing an intruder enter his neighbor’s backyard, he decided to play the Good Samaritan. 

A physical resolution to our conflict appears inevitable, and unfortunately all manner of lower-body attacks have been removed from my arsenal, as kicking with or planting on my twisted left ankle would do more damage to me than to my opponent. 

“I don’t know what your game is, you little maggot, but you’re not going anywhere.  Sit down on the ground right there,” Grizzly instructs me, pointing to the grass beneath my feet and engaging his phone to call the cavalry. 

To the surprise of both me and my ursine captor, suddenly a voice comes from atop the wall.  “I have a better idea.  Put the phone back in your pocket and give my friend a boost over the wall.  Do it now.”

A man with a gun has a way of being very convincing, and my getaway driver, Alan, is just so equipped.  He’d seen my near-miss with the grappling hook, overheard my new friend, and backed his car between bushes and right up to the wall, giving him a look at the proceedings. 

Within seconds, I’m helped across the final obstacle in my path, and find myself speeding towards the interstate, finally able to relax enough to take stock of my loot.  The In-n-Out drive thru is on the horizon, and my brief life as a squirrel fades into memory.  I’ve been seen, and will have to avoid at least this part of town for a while, but this was a huge score and should finance me for long enough that the heat blows over. 

The only trees I hope to see for a while are those with palm fronds. 

 

    

Graduation Day

This was originally published on August 23, 2010, on my old blog.  I thought it was worth saving/sharing.  Enjoy.

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His first day of school starts in a few hours.  Brandon’s teacher, Mrs. Harrington, should be prepared to be bombarded with questions.  My son’s curiosity cannot be sated, his mission in life an interminable quest for new information to fill the sponge inside his 4 year old skull.   He’ll want to know all about his new classmates, want to know exactly what’s inside all those cabinets lining the walls, why the toilets in the bathroom are so small, ad infinitum.

The strange thing about all this is that I, his 40 year old father, the guy who usually has all the answers, is spending this night filled with more worry, doubt, and confusion than I’ve experienced since Brandon was taken away by the nurse for his first skull surgery at 9 months old (more on that in a later blog).

Some background -

When Brandon turned one month old, and his mom returned to work, I quit my full-time day job to become, in essence, “Mr. Mom.”  On the job training was the order of the day, a new dad learning to change diapers, decipher what each new sound and expression on his face meant, figure out at what age the little guy was ready to try new foods and which ones he could handle,   not to mention lots of laundry and chores around the house (I don’t claim to have been much good at the chores part, but in my defense I was also working a part-time job five nights a week).  I earned the equivalent of at least an associate’s degree in medicine, spending time with Brandon at most of the pediatric “-ologists” in town (for those keeping score at home: nephrologist, cardiologist, urologist, dermatologist, neurologist, and more), as well as countless visits to the pediatrician and several emergency room visits.

Now, however, all of that has come to an abrupt end.  Brandon will be in school from 8:00AM – 3:00PM, M-F.  Those hours and days that I spent teaching and learning are over.  He won’t be around to ask me any questions, and he likewise won’t be around to answer mine.

“What do you want to to do today?” Once we were both fully awake, too many mornings before 6:00 AM, that’s what I asked him,  and his answers never failed to lead us on an adventure.  Whether it was digging up long-lost army men in the dirt behind our house, searching every tree trunk on our street for cicada shells, spending more hours on a bike than I had since before I got my driver’s license, exploring every park and museum in Clark County, going to  a zoo I’d never once visited in my first 15 years living in Las Vegas, swimming in every public pool we could find, or scrambling up, over, and around rocks in some nearly inaccessible part of the desert, we did it.  Together.

And not just the exciting stuff, everything mundane was also done as a duo.  Grocery shopping, church, banking, visits to the dentist (his and mine), meeting visiting friends for lunch, always the two of us.

Which is not to say I’ve raised him “my byself” (that’s Brandonese, for the uninitiated).  Alison, my sweet girlfriend, has played a HUGE role in the past year and a half, all four of his grandparents have been amazing, and his mom has always been there.   But Mondays through Fridays, during the day, Brandon has been under my nearly exclusive providence.

- background over, back to the present

For once in my life, I think I can match my son question for question.

Now that Brandon’s days will be spent in school, with whom do I ride bikes?  Who’s going to  find every last beetle, spider, and pillbug in and around the house?  If I’m willing to pay the $7, can I still go to BounceU sans child and play/wrestle/slide/jump with all the kids there?  Can I safely traverse the aisles at the grocery store without a navigator perched at the end of my cart?

I certainly have enough around here to keep me busy.  The garage is 12 years overdue for a cleaning.  My office would inspire terror in all but the most stalwart professional organizer.  I’ve been juggling ideas for several books.  Eventually, a day job that makes sense will come along.  All too soon it will sadly feel like the norm to spend days without him.  Pages in the book of life can be recalled, fondly or otherwise, they can be ripped from their binding, they can be laminated and kept safe forevermore, but they must, inevitably, be turned.

To the graduates of the class of 2010, both of Dad University and Toddler College, congratulations.

Enjoy it, but not too long.  Grad school is calling…..

What Color is your world?

I'm taking part in the Indieink writing challenge (http://indieink.org).  This is my first effort.  I was given a prompt by Barb Black (http://blackinkpad.blogspot.com): "What color is your world?"

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The punch was perfect. 

I noticed his charge just in time, my peripheral vision catching just a flicker of movement, and all the torque my 19 year old body could muster drove my left fist into his right cheek, to devastating consequence.

Had it taken place in a professional prizefighting ring, the announcers would have gushed over my technique and power. Under those circumstances, the victim of my blow would have landed on a relatively soft mat, medical attention would have been immediate, and a full recovery would be expected.

Our confrontation, however, took place on an unforgiving concrete slab, a public park’s basketball court.  The odd angle of his descent meant that his skull hit the pavement first, making a sound that produced nausea in all present. 

The next sound I can recall with such unerring clarity is the voice of the jury foreman, a middle-aged Korean man:  “We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of the charge of involuntary manslaughter.”

My attorney hoped I’d be acquitted on grounds of self-defense. After all, I had been attacked, hadn’t I?  Harsh words and shoves had been exchanged following a hard foul, tempers were rising to match the triple digit temperatures, and I swung only because I felt I was in danger.

The D.A. didn’t get the manslaughter charge she was seeking, but she was convincing enough that I’d do time in prison. Involuntary manslaughter, even for a defendant like me with no prior criminal record, meant I’d be a guest of the state of Nevada for the next 36-96 months.

I was forewarned to expect a smell unlike any I’d experienced before, something like a combination of a high school football team’s locker room after August two-a-days and the elephant house at the zoo.  The putrid aroma hadn’t been exaggerated. 

Fortunately, the human body has ways of adapting to extreme conditions, and my sense of smell went into hibernation after a few days.  A vase filled with fresh flowers would smell the same to me as a ripe durian for the duration of my stay.  What I hadn’t expected was that the rest of my senses would follow suit.  All the food began to taste bland, despite all attempts to season it, my ears no longer registered the howls of the mad, and the color of my world became a rainbow of grays.

The sky never seems blue these days, just a drab amalgam of the most gloomy, cloudy, rainy days I can recall. 

The faces of people from your past, no matter how close or familiar, absent photographs, begin to fade over time.  The odd thing is, if you bump into an old friend or classmate, recognition can be instant, as if seeing them unlocks access to memories long forgotten.  I’m hoping the same holds true for colors.  When first I see a male cardinal, the red will be as bold as it ever was, the ocean as deep a blue as the days I spent splashing in it as a child, and when next I’m fortunate enough to stroll through a forest, I pray the leaves of the trees will fairly burst with green.

Cons with parole on the horizon all talk about what they’ll have for their first meal upon release, which food they crave above all others.  While I certainly look forward to all of my senses reawakening, it isn’t food, music, a scent (the smell of an old, dusty book, unopened for years, is a personal favorite), or even the soft skin of a woman.  It’s my eyes I miss most of all.  Vivid colors have abandoned me, and I want them back!