Man’s First Chance

    Cost found it all the same way, every time. He belonged to a mindset and with it a following of active participants in this behavior. Because of the murder everyone was upset or gloating and the crops were neglected. Six calfs were stillborn that week and the geese went un-chased as they fled their cages. Dehydration claimed a number of children left alone. But Cost was above reproach. He was the only one with a right to gloat, for he had done the murder.

His brother Awe was dead within minutes. The first stone was thrown with incredible accuracy so those that followed needed no guidance to participate. Strangely though Cost was not happy with his results. He didn’t run to his brother and coddle him as he passed but neither was his reaction joyous nor led to satisfaction for a job completed. It had to be done. Those who watched were pleased. Not many loved Awe and even fewer sought him out, regardless of his wealth and impeccable grooming. Their father sat upon his usual bark and smoked a pipe he’d found in the hands of a fallen comrade.

Miles from the site Cost found a surprising item on the road. This road was only used by hunters and the shamed he thought. Who might have left a whip along the path so far from his home? Was it a whip at all or maybe something else entirely? The braids and precise pattern convinced him as did it’s definitive crack. The sound shook through this place of boulder and stone and within minutes Cost was approached by strange men. They believed him when he said his intention was peace. This gave him the advantage but they didn’t seem to desire his life or possessions. He thought it strange that not one of the men made mention of the whip or the garments he wore.

That night he was given lamb and broth until he was satiated. He was kept warm by the fire and instructed to take rest in the comfort of a lavish cave between boulders while many men chilled unprotected in the grasses. This is a great lie he thought. Cost fled the camp before morning leaving behind a confused and disappointed people who searched themselves for blame. He followed the rough path back to familiar sounds of anger and malice. Every step felt like a sharp pain in him. Cost pressed forward eager for his home and the things he’d accumulated during his long twenty year stay.

He walked into the place and saw a few faces hidden from him as they tucked quickly away into their tents. Cost was struck on his crown with a bone that splintered as it hit. He fell not ten paces from where his brother left them forever. Above him he saw his father who was unhappy with the attention and praise his son was receiving since his victorious sin.

Ol' Walt

Two teenagers vehemently splattered every puddle they saw as they walked to school. The rain had let up an hour ago, but their pant legs didn’t show the difference. The one with the hood nudged the one with the sunglasses.

“Look at that old dude. Wonder if he’s psycho or something.”

“What’s he doing?”

Walt Jacobsen knew exactly what he was doing. In fact, he’d done it many times before today. Ever so delicately, because of his hands trembling under the toll of old age, he picked slowly writhing worms from the watery sidewalk and placed them in his other hand, which he intended to deposit in the planter box on his front porch. 

This was not like the times when he and Donny Clifford would collect nightcrawlers in an old soup can and jam them on fish hooks every Saturday morning. No shoes, no worries, and usually no fish, but then again, it wasn’t really about the fish. He and Donny became like brothers, which was great, because both of them only had sisters. 

No, this had been his routine after every downpour that resulted in the worms being strewn out on the sidewalk where just anyone could step on or roll over them.

Walt knew it wasn’t his fault; it was just dumb luck that he’d taken a Nazi slug to his thigh and Sarge wouldn’t take him back to the 47th. Donny would understand. They had made a pact that they’d enlist together, fight together, and come home together. Walt worked like a dog to get back his strength, and eventually got back to the unit in June of ‘44. 

So, while he never saw any action there, he did make it Normandy, but it was all over by then. Walt made it up the hill much easier than the soldiers he came to replace. Looking back down at the beach, he could see red patches where the fallen had bled out in the sand, and the sea was still tinged red. A hand on his shoulder turned out to be Sarge, who told him that one of those red patches had been where Donny–

And that’s why Walt picked worms off the sidewalk after the rains: so that there wouldn’t be any red patches. 

Week 3 Summary

So with Dante & his wife busy with the move back to Europe, I've been asked to tally the votes and make some rulings on the Week 3 competition.

If you have any disagreements about my decisions please take it up with the commissioner (Dante).

Red Division:

Andrew wins 3-1 over Nathan but he did not vote on any other matches, so he also adds a loss to his record.

Dan wins 4-1 over Travis

Elijah vs. Alex draws a loss for both as Elijah posted late and Alex was a no show. But great effort to Elijah for still getting something out and also voting on all the matches.

Noah wins 3-0 over Jonathan's no show. *** For the record, Noah did not vote on all 4 matches, which technically adds a loss but I will not enforce this rule at this time. If you disagree, inquire with the commissioner. 

Remember to vote on ALL 4 matches from the opposite division, regardless if even one of the players is a no show. It is important to vote on all matches because someone could lose a match simply because not everyone voted.

White Division:

Aaron wins 4-0 over Christian's no show. *** Aaron also did not vote on all 4 matches but no enforcement of the rule at this time.

Charlie wins 3-1 over William.   *** Charlie also did not vote on all 4 matches but no enforcement of the rule at this time.  

WARNING!!! William was way over the allotted 500 words but since he lost, it was not enforced. Beware of the commissioner enforcing this in the future. The commissioner will not word count like a hawk but if you’re obviously way over, it will be enforced. If another competitor wants to contest a loss because they believe their opponent was over 500 words, please contact the commissioner.

Dante wins 3-2 over Glen.   *** Dante also did not vote on all 4 matches but no enforcement of the rule at this time.

Mitchell wins 2-0 over David's no show.  *** Mitchell also did not vote on all 4 matches but no enforcement of the rule at this time.

The Southwest Chief Line

 The train flew through the desert darkness and the whiskey was working. 

“Let me just tell you a story” he continued as he fumbled for a cigarette.

The student and the middle-aged man had met outside on the back of the last car of the train. The younger one took another sip and carried on, now with more momentum.

“So I heard it in boy scouts.  There’s two wolves, a love wolf and a hate wolf, and they are battling inside us—it’s like an Indian story or something.  Anyways, the young Indian says ‘Which wolf will win?’ and the grandfather chief says ‘Which ever one you feed’.”  He paused to drain the rest of the plastic cup and the ice clanked on his teeth.  “But I’m like, how do you really feed wolves? I dunno I liked the story though.”

He lit the cigarette and pulled and the red ember glowed and more inspiration filled him, and then the strong wind seemed to whip a disappointingly small trail of smoke out of his mouth. He was about to start talking about a business idea he had, or maybe a trip he wanted to plan, or why people actually tend to be racist, or possibly what the really important thing would be if he were to become a father.

And the rattling train that held him and a couple hundred other passengers hove through the night at breakneck velocity. 

As the young man waited a moment his thoughts congealed into annoyance and he flicked his cigarette off the end of the car and it burst into pieces of color on the tracks like so many drunken epiphanies and disappeared into the desert.

He went back inside, maybe to watch a movie.

The older man remained and poured some more whiskey.  He was a mechanic for Amtrak and was returning from a job at the Phoenix station.  Checking the time on his phone, he paused for a moment at the background image of his wife and dog.   His eyes were heavy and the hot blowing night air filled his lungs thickly and he imagined that he would be back in time to bring hot bagels and fresh orange juice for her before she got up for work. He let out a surprising burst of laughter when the young man quickly passed through his mind again.  Nice kid though, he thought to himself, and he enjoyed his whiskey in the warm night. 

He liked to travel on trains through the desert because he knows that there are few things to be disturbed.  No trees would sway with its passing and not many critters would turn a watchful head. No one would walk to the lighted windows of their homes to see something pass. The wake of the train would quickly settle.

The image of the dark worn-toothed mountains on the horizon and the pale and neatly swept sand and the carefully branching shrubs remained in his mind as he walked into the home where his family slept. He noticed the some unopened junk mail on the counter and then he filled a much-needed glass of water.  

Jade

Nilmath, the Elf Queen, was sprinting through the forest of Unger, her feet moving faster than the Boars of Azaroa.  The sack of coins in her pocket jingled in time with her fleet footsteps.  The forest heard her approach and shrank away.

Something stirred in the darkness of the wood.  Nilmath halted, her tigress eyes glinting as they scanned the formless shadows.  Nilmath was on a quest to capture the Elf Assassin Groot and she could sense that her prey was nearby.

Ahead, a spear of light pierced the trees, forming a luminescent halo around a clearing.  Inside the halo, surrounded by a smaller halo of sticky blod, lay Groot, dead, and, kneeling over him, was  a smaller, darker elf.  Nilmath recognized him instantly.

"Joel?" Nilmath sputtered, incredulously.

Joel the Elf didn't turn, but continued to loot his kill.

Nilmath corrected herself.  "Finrod?"

"What do you want?"  The elf Finrod spoke in a guttural whisper, keeping his back to Nilmath.

"What are you doing?"

"It's a free mission, open to anyone.  I got here first."

Nilmath approached the clearing cautiously.  "I KNOW that, but, I mean, what are you doing in the World?  I thought you said you weren't going to play any more?"

"We both said a lot of things we didn't mean, the last time..."

Finrod reached into his cloak and produced a jade and yellow strip of cloth, elegantly woven into a starburst pattern.  Nilmath could see that it was a teleportation cloak, but it needed three turns to be cast and, right now, it was Nilmath's turn.

"Look, since you're here..."  A step closer.

"Don't.  Seriously, Joy, I mean it."

The teleportation cloak had begun to glow, casting a sickly pall on the entire scene.

Nilmath, or Joy, took another step onto the mossy grass of the clearing.  "We tried to make it work, didn't we?  But, I mean, what was I supposed to do?"

Finrod's eyes flashed anger.  He was holding the still glowing teleportation cloak with one hand, but Nilmath could see his other hand sinking closer to his sheathed weapon  "I moved to Delaware, Joy, not Mars.  We could have made it work.  You didn't want to."

The last accusing words stung.

Nilmath extended her hand and took one more step forward.  She was almost there.  Looking at the gray elf's grave face, she could almost see a vague expression of regret and was almost positive that the more human visage behind the elf held the same expression.

"I'm saying I was wrong.  We shouldn't have broken up."

The teleportation cloak flashed red.  Three turns had elapsed.  Finrod's eyes widened.  His mouth started to form a syllable.  Then he was gone.

Death of a Love Story

   Everybody dreams and fantasizes about certain things, situations, people, anything really. Whatever  is heavy on your heart and mind at the time generally gets the most attention. It's any easy access to the things we only wish we had and makes us only more motivated to achieve them. The only thing is you never really think about the negative side of living "The Dream." Espesicaly when it comes to things as fateful and random as love. Now I know it's an amazing and wonderful thing if you're dreaming about love and it starts to come together as you had in visioned. But not every love story has a happy ending, especially today with all the dating websites, the Internet, long distance relationships. These days you never the old "We meet at the school dance and we've been happy ever after." There's just a different approach to love now. We try to manufacture it in my opinion. They think, I want a baby at a certain age, the right religion, the right race, the right family dynamics, the right looks, on and on and on. You just end up being more blind to the fact that love is all about fate and randomness, the unexpected. Two people brought together by fate not passing a vigorous checklist before you would even consider them. Because even if you find "the one", someone who fits all your criteria. You can still end up resenting them for not living up to your expectations you had for them. Or you can end up being unhappy just going along with it because you think it's the best situation for you. And the more comfterble you get with living unhappy, the harder it's going to be to change. It's never going to be easy but you have to decide if you can actually work it out and be happy together again or end it.
   The death of a love story is only the begining of a new one and you will have a more open mind and understanding of what really matters.

Let Me Know If You’re Ever In Los Feliz

He had two skills: being funny and sabotaging romance.

He was funny even back in middle school when the hormones began. Girls like funny guys.  But he was fat in middle school. The two cancelled each other out. Youngsters are superficial. And he didn’t like the fat girls. He was young and superficial.  

He dropped the weight in high school but had no idea how to open up a dialogue. A crush developed, but his only tactic was to call her and ask about the homework. A decent strategy if used sparingly, but he did this most nights and was third in his class at the time. He knew what the homework was. He did the homework. Better than 99% of his classmates. Including that girl.

He got his act together in college, but only partially. His personality bloomed to the point where he acquired a girlfriend. She pursued him, and he had wanted romance since his Kraft Macaroni and Cheese middle school days so he gladly changed his relationship status from “lost” to “found.” Here’s a little secret about people who pursue you, though. Find out “why”. Lust, laughter, an intangible attraction, all valid answers. But control? Not valid. He learned the hard way.

He broke free of that prison, moved 3,000 miles away, and was back to square one. Wiser now but still possessing zero ability. At a bar a girl wandered up, peered around aimlessly, and announced “I’m looking for someone...”. What an excellent prompt for what is known in literary and love circles as a “meet cute”. Instead of a simple, “You found me!” he concluded “I hope you find them” did the trick.

It might be hopeless. There was one truly great conversation with a girl. He felt confident about their repartee. At the end he handed her his card. Here’s a fun fact; handing your card to someone who interests you is the adult equivalent of calling for the homework.

After the handoff came his big closer: “Let me know if you’re ever in Los Feliz.”

It’s been six months now. He wouldn’t be surprised if she hasn’t gotten a chance to make that trek though, because you know, with all the horrible traffic these days...

George Gorson Tax Attorney

     George had six people to deal with at once. The mayor and his shore front property scandal, Mrs. Bennett's mounds of falsified receipts, the doctor who actually had only one son for the last six years and three other clients who were deemed inconsequential by the firm. But George wasn't a bastard. George gave not one, not two, but at least three shits about all of his clients even the poorest and most deserving of criminal punishment. The other partners would claim this sympathy of his was a weakness and one Dwight McMurphy used it as a reason to recommend his removal from the firm, or at least the door. Stein, McMurphy, Jackson, Newton, Gorson and Chang was the most powerful law firm in Newark according to Beach Body Illustrated and their weakest link was cut every quarter. George wasn't phased by this fact but McMurphy saw it as an opportunity to push Gorson out and bring in his nephew Bill Simpson. The problem with Simpson wasn't his tendency to lose sensitive case files or even his extreme addiction to smoking styrofoam, the real trouble laid in his misappropriation of funds at his last job with McHerman Trust and associates that landed him in Riker's for a six month term. McMurphy was determined to make sure his nephew had a place just as soon as he was up for parole next spring. 

     Gorson could focus much better when his feet were propped up on his aluminum desk but it severely limited his ability to see a visitor standing in his doorway. This combined with a poor sense of hearing in his left ear due to experience as an artilleryman in the first Iraq war he often ignored visitors to his office. This was especially unfortunate one Friday morning when the mayor's aide (a very timid young man) arrived early and George only looked to the door ten minutes post appointment which meant the aid had left five minutes prior after waiting patiently in the doorway for twenty minutes. The failed appointment led to the loss of Mayor Patel as a client and brought Stein straight to George's door where he did not go unnoticed. 

     Stein was a man by the name Bernardo Alvarez but they called him Stein due to his hardened demeanor and muscular physique. He shouted at George with the wrath of a baboon scorned until his heart rate monitor out-shouted him and he left to "take a lap". George couldn't understand any of the Spanish Stein had shouted at him but he had the notion he should take action to alleviate stress around the workplace. George phoned his favorite spa Thai Message, ordered six cases of Chateau Merlot from the deli and hired Yacob the Yiddish fiddler he met outside his building last week to set the mood. Within 14 hours the entire firm loved George again including McMurphy who never really had a problem with him but simply thought he "wasn't cool". 

Rash Decision

    There were two people in the world that Eli hated: Hap and Jasmine. Both were high ranking officials in the C.I.A; one a Liaison to special operations, the other a public relations officer. Their illustrious titles were of no consequence to their devilish priorities.

     His most recent discussion with Lewis hap (the man he despised) had left him angry. He told Hap that if he didn’t stop the under the table dealings, Eli himself would go public with the information. He thought he had been fair: Hap gets to keep his image and position, Eli gets to rest with the knowledge that foreign countries were not receiving the latest intel about America’s high priority missions. The argument became heated. Hap threatened Eli with various fates ranging from death, to fates worse than death.

   Aside from Hap, recently Eli had been faced with the problem of a Jasmine who had been paid to cover up a serious crime within the agency. The problem was, Eli wasn’t sure what the crime was. All he had access to was a phone call that he had caught over the airways and analyzed: Talks of “being backed into a corner again”, and “prevented from getting rid of the evidence.” Elsa Jasmine had been on one end of the call. The  other caller had access to high enough security to block all traces and locks onto his location. He had to get out in the open with Hap, and he had to get to the bottom of this mysterious crime.

     The lies had pushed Eli to his limit. But he believed that it was his duty to try and resolve this unrest. It was a disgrace to the agency. He laughed for making such an old fashioned sentiment. There was hardly anyone who believed in the integrity of the C.I.A anymore. He had to come to terms with the fact that he was trapped. There was no way he could get out of this with clean hands. He had to do something rash. Something impossible. Something that bespeaks of a desperate soul.

     Eli had a knack for getting in trouble he couldn’t get out of. He had a knack for becoming an enemy. He decided that he had to use that knack right now. He strapped on his Glock 9mm pistol and took the elevator to the 8^th floor. He shot the man that he believed most deserved it, and walked away. He then took the elevator to the 2^nd floor and repeated the act on another despicable human being. He went back to his office, sat down, and pondered what he had just done. “A well done job,” he said. “A well done job.”

After Eight

“I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee”

1:04 a.m.

The clocks all seemed to agree, but something was awry.

The ever-present insinuation is that the passage of time is subjective to a person's conscious experiences, but Thomas knew that there was no conceivable way that less than a minute had passed since the last time he checked.

“Clouds in my coffee, and...”

The thin walls of his apartment subjected him to the 30-something widow's radio next door. Normally this would be just white noise, but this stuck feeling of being frozen in time would not let up, and the song, which he'd heard hundreds of times before, all of the sudden sounded like it was directed at him. Even if he had dreamed of an intimate encounter with Carly Simon, it wouldn't have felt more direct.

What was impeding his sleep? Well, having coffee after 8 p.m. couldn't have helped. The neighbor's radio seemed like it was just reminding him of a poor decision: a minor decision, one would assume, but a poor one nonetheless.
Why the hell would he drink coffee after 8? He hadn't slept in days, ever since Amanda left. Reality hadn't quite set in yet, and since Thomas was still in shock, he would rather prolong the numbness than have to face it freshly (...at least for a couple more days, please, God). He knew that one more night awake would begin to usher in delirium, and fogginess was currently the warmest blanket his mind could think of.

There HAD to be something wrong with the clocks. 1:04 a.m., still? Maybe time no longer exists, and he's just going to be stuck here in this moment until...until what?

This was it. He was going insane. Yet this was the relief he longed for...once reality crumbled, he could get what little enjoyment out of life he figured was still available.

His eyes berserkly wandered, and he felt like he was losing control. This was an ominous feeling: being stuck in time, and the song bleeding through the walls, prophesying his current state.

“You're so vain, I'll bet you think this song is about you”

He shut his eyes for 10 seconds, and then opened them to check the clock one more time...

Damn. 1:05.

“Don't you? Don't You?”

all over again

Clickety clack, clickety clack, that all familiar sound of riding on the subway. Here I was back in the Windy City, exactly 4 years from the last time I'd seen her. I had decided to throw a hail mary and see what might happen. As I rode the L train south, a part of me hoped this might be a new beginning. Maybe she missed me as much as I'd missed her. I had tried to push her out of my memory. And I'd almost succeeded but here I was back in Chicago and I couldn't resist trying to contact her. To my surprise and delight, she said “I would love to see you!"

While I rode the train she texted, "What kind of wine or beer do you want?" I responded "Shiraz would be nice." She said "Done. :)" This made me smile and miss her even more. It had been a couple of years since I'd last spoken to her. 

I exited the Roosevelt stop and climbed the stairs feeling quite hopeful. I proceeded on a brisk pace toward Michigan Avenue unsure of what I might discover. It had been forever but the reflection in the rearview of her walking away was always etched in my memory. What if I'd stayed? I had to leave at some point but I hadn't wanted to...

A woman so sweet, gentle, and radiantly amazing but you’re separated by time and circumstance. It all began when my friends said, "There's this girl you need to meet because we think you two would be perfect for each other." And they were right; it was perfect. Possibly the best four weeks of my life but eventually things changed. She started to pull back and resist. I don't think she believed that she deserved to be loved. She knew I loved her but she couldn't receive it. I knew she wasn't in love with me anymore but I didn't want to believe it.

At that point, I'd already committed to help her move to Chicago. She needed help and I suppose I was her best option, so I followed through as always, loyal to the end even if it meant enduring pain. The drive from Boston to Chicago was tiring, surreal and bliss. The days of unpacking her boxes and helping her begin a new life were as if we'd been together for a lifetime. I remember walking down the street with her, arm in arm, totally in love with this woman of radiance yet deep down breaking within because I knew I'd be leaving her within hours. My heart couldn't believe it was over.

As I drove away that final day, I couldn't see her face as she walked away from the truck but I knew she was as heart broken and torn as I was. She may not have been in love anymore but I know she didn't want me to leave. I will always regret that day.

to be continued...

A Rather Piquant Development

Gabrielle Jarvis and Josephine Greenway would normally prefer tar and feathers to a walk through the grove on a blistering August morning, but on this day, there was news to be dispensed. Laden with a parasol each and two broad-brimmed hats, they braved the foul heat and retreated, arm in arm, to gossip away from prying ears.

“Edward Cornstock has been... uncomfortable in recent weeks. Have you noticed, Gabrielle?”

“Oh, he has been acting in a peculiar way. Is he the subject of your revelation?”

“Really, dearest, you catch on like a baited fish,” cooed Josephine. She coyly whispered, “It is a delicious secret. Are you ready?”

Gabrielle smiled giddily with anticipation, and nodded vigorously. The lad in question had been suggested by several as having inclinations toward Ms. Jarvis, which were secretly– save for Ms. Greenway– requited by Ms. Jarvis. Providence would have it that the elder Mr. Cornstock was in league with Mr. Jarvis in talks of a match between the two, but nothing had yet been set forth.

Even now, he and his brother Oscar were approaching on horseback, with rifles tucked in and a solitary pheasant dangling by rope. The girls giggled as Oscar pulled up and doffed his cap.

“Morning, ladies,”– and, turning to Edward– “Oh, brother, will you say good morning also?”

“I, er... Good morning,” fumbled Edward. Looking quite blue, the man kicked his spurs violently, nearly leaving his fowl behind.

“Clearly, his words are befuddled,” said Josephine as the boys rode away, “and it is because his attention is arrested by one Lucille Austen.”

“Her?” gaped Gabrielle.

An eyebrow arched on Josephine’s face.

“Edward dined with her family in Leeds, and word has it that he cannot release his mind from her. The poor girl, thought to die an old maid: flat as a board and pale as an invalid. I suppose this means you’re second in line for Edward. But pray, while I go on clucking like a hen, your wisdom is caged! Let it fly!”

“Let’s first sit down,” suggested Gabrielle. 

Blithely, they scurried to the base of an apple tree and sat down.

“Last night, I went down to the lake... for a moonlight swim... oh, I can’t say it! With Steven the porter! Oh, Josephine, stop it, we didn’t do anything... oh, but we did!”

Unexpectedly, a large object flashed in front of their eyes, causing both girls to shriek. A man’s leg had fallen before them, and only a leg, with no man accompanying it. Petrified and puzzled, the girls saw a grizzled man– a man they recognized to be in Mr. Cornstock’s employ– hop into their company and point a shaky sausage of a finger at them.

“That’s why... one never talks about one’s private affairs in open airs.”

He retrieved his wooden leg, latched it onto special stirrups under his trousers, and hobbled away. Gabrielle’s wretched countenance bore no illusion of her thoughts: “I’ve made a huge mistake.”

I See Father Jim and He See Me Too

So I’m at the joint, and I’m walking out of the place minding my own business when who do I see? The ol’ black and white himself! Father Jim. And this is the part that really got me going nuts inside, cause I see him smoking a Tom and Jerry. The priest! I know, right! Anyhows, this gets me thinking that I just can’t pass up an opportunity like this. When do guys like us get to see stuff like this, right? So, I gotta say something, I gotta move my lips somehow. But I ain’t got no sunny idea what I should do at a time like this. So, I think to myself, I think, “Yo Joe, ask him something that he’d answer differently if he was wearing his priest gear like normal times.” This don’t help much, but it’s the only thing I got, so I walk up to him and I says, “Yo Father, I gotta question you: why you a Catholic?” He drops his Tom and Jerry, all suave like, you see, and then he answers. He says something like this, he says:

I’m Italian. My grandparents grew up in Bologna. That’s in Italy. They ate pasta, drank wine, and confessed all their sins to their Father. They did that because their fathers did that. And the fathers of their fathers did that too. It’s always been like this. And before we called ourselves Italian, we were Roman. God knows everything, right? (I say to this, I say, “Yessir!”) He knows your story, he knows my story. He knows everybody’s story. But that’s not all he knows. He knows all the stories that could have been. He also knows what could have never been. When he sent Jesus down into our streets, into our stories, he could have put Jesus with the yellows, the blacks, the reds, whomever. And whenever. But he chose to put himself in the middle of the Roman Empire, at the height of the Caesars.  All this he planned. He chose. He picked my people, my Fathers, to nail him to that dead tree. You ask me why I’m a Catholic. I don’t believe I have a choice in the matter.

Next day, I was walking out the joint, same as always, chomping down on some fries I was taking with me to Wilma, and I see a bum half lying there, half sitting. He asked me for some change. I gave him a ten and the rest of my fries. His feet looked real bad like, so I took off my shoes and gave ‘em up to him too. That’s when they started calling me Shoeless Joe. I figure I don’t have a choice in the matter.

Admin: Week Two Summary

Alright Gents, two weeks down, five more to go.

So far, folks are falling into four categories:

• The Never-posters. --- Gentlemen, remember the faces of your fathers, man up, and fight!
• The Sometimers --- Consistency, Gents, is a virtue of much value. Be Alwaystimers. It's a better life. Also, I haven't been docking people for not voting, because so many of you don't vote when you don't post. BAD. You're giving power to a very small few. 
• The School of Hard Knocks --- Some posters just don't get the smiles of fate upon their brows. Keep motivated, you down on your luckers. There's still time. Be bold. Fight hard.
• The Tops of the Kingdom --- Being at the top is nice, but there's plenty of time for the mighty to fall. 

A special shout-out to Dan for posting the most encouraging votes in the league. Speaking of which...

VOTE. Vote every Monday or Tuesday. 

And now, let Week 3 begin. 

a meeting at the cantina

The ocean seemed so distant from the dance floor and the sound of tapping of rubber soles on the wood trampled the heeding and receeding waves on the shore. The summer moon had elevated over the pavillion with half a dozen clouds and a few stars. The moon illuminated the beach and guided flirtatious youthful meetings. Women felt safer in the light, and the men felt romantic.

     Rose crossed her legs and felt for the Virginia Slim lying next to a small box in her skirt pocket. She very delicately placeed one on her lips as the man in the grey suit sitting at the bar stood up and began to walk towards her. She paused lighting her cigarette, and the man noticed it. She did not hesitate more than a moment so as to give. She watched his purposeful and driven stride out of the corner of her eye and tried with difficulty to remain focused on the light at the end of her Virginia Slim.

     "Senora," the man said. With this proper address, Rose took the opportunity to fully examine the speaker. He had dark hair neatly combed to one side. His eyes had a distinct saturated grey color. They were cloudy and empty, but strong and resolute like the moon overhead. His lips did not smile but sort of were burried under  from any expression. His face was shaded by a few days passed unshaven. So noticiable was the density of his facial hair, Rose was a little surprised at misjudging his age. He was not an elder or a gentleman, but he was no youth either. "Señora, if you please, I would rather speak to you in English as I understand it is your native tongue." He had fluency and diction in his use of English and a light, flavored accent. Rose placed her thumb and index finger on her chin, "ANd how do you know this?" Rose had not heard English spoken in several weeks. "I am a very observant individual" he replied. His lips were still flat and his eyes expressionless. He spoke as if he were reading to himself. "I haven't spoken a word of English nor have I given any indication that I am a foreigner." "Only a native can make that judgment." he interupted. She used the pause to take a drag from her cigarette. She placed her hand back in her pocket and felt the box. She released her grip on it and said, "What can I do for you?" To her surprise, the man smiled and sat down on the chair across from her. "What brought you here tonight?" he asked. "I'm meeting someone." "Are you? How do you know that someone is not me?" "What makes you think I haven't meet this person already?" "This is a man, correct?" "...Yes" The dance floor emptied half of its participants after the song. The one that followed was slow and melodic, and the youths made their way towards the ocean. "Karina! Dos cervesas!" said the man as he waved an arm. "Do you come here often?" "Yes, but only out of obligation." The waitress arrived with two chilled and dressed bottles of beer. As he answered he rested an elbow on the table and leaned back in his chair. "You see, I own this place. This and a few others. I make it a point to visit my cattle to ensure they are well fed and grazing in the right pastures. Which is how I know you have not met this man. A foreigner would not arrive here alone to meet a man she already knows. This is not that sort of place. I assume he was the one who planned the meeting." He leaned forward and lowered his voice just a fraction to infer his meaning, "You are not the first he has met here, I promise you." "You harbor quite a number of assumptions, Señor..." "Miguel, just Miguel." "Miguel," she strained her voice to control a deep subtle quiver at the bottom of her throat, "is there something you would like to ask me?" Expression again depleted from his face. "Miss...?" "Rose" "Miss Rose," his voice turned jovial and light, "what do you know about decency?" "I suppose as much as anyone." she said after a brief moment. "There is no need to be anything but honest now, Rose. The question I asked was, what do you know about decency?" She studied his face, his direct gaze into her eyes. Without a flinch, she answered, "I don't believe it exists. His eyes emptied out and became transparent. He didn't leave a moment untouched, "Well of course it exists! After all, the most moral men swear by it." "It is real, but it is man made. It was made to avert our eyes from the..." "The what?" The music had built a great deal of tension like to struggle of a panting of a lamenting widow, but Rose could hear none of it. "The filth it is." "...filth to you?" "like a plague of lies." Miguel finished his beer. "You have given me no reason to extend it to you." "Live behind it." A few moments passed. Then Miguel reached into his pocket and drew a jade stone. "Do you recognize this? The slow song began again to swell in volume and harmony with compound melodies with additional stringed instruments and thundering drums, yet an unphased steady shake of a tambourine still remained. Rose felt the ocean breeze grip her neck and thigh. Again she felt for the small cardboard box in her skirt pocket. She ashed her cigarette in the tray and covered her mouth with her hand and whispered something to herself. From behind him, Miguel could hear the escalation of spirits being poured and the hopes of youth rising. At the end of the song, to the cheers of his clinets, Miguel heard a steady strong rhythm revive the cantina. The pulse was steady and real. He felt his chest swell and the soft linen stretch across it. He was searching in her eyes, searching for a hidden room. Rose finally spoke, "Yes. That belongs to Quinn." "Yes it did. Do you understand what this means?" Their eyes from the stone to the eyes of her new owner, "Yes." "Now, I believe you have something to give me."

Once Again...

He was getting rather forgetful in his old age. Maybe it was all the long days and little hours of sleep... He'd spend hours working on little projects in the basment and then forget to ever go back and finish what he'd started. Margaret never would have let him get away with that but she was no longer there. Oh, How much he did miss her. Maybe that's why he was so forgetful? Perhaps she was the missing piece that kept him from being whole and when he wasn't whole, then he simply wasn't himself. He hadn't been himself for awhile.

But then Charlie, his wife's favorite Tabby cat, jumped up on the desk and reminded him of what he had forgotten. Maybe Charlie was the key to curing all this memory loss...

Socio/Economic Footnotes

Dear Mom and Dad,

I wanted to thank you, first of all, for being the unwavering support you've always been to me all of these years.

(Wait, didn't I write the exact same thing to you last year?

Fuck...I guess so.)

It's been cold down here. I hope it's been nicer up there (snore).

You know how expensive my full-spectrum omega vitamins are, right? (probably not as much as I'm leading you to believe.) This week my supply is pretty scarce. Since I already call you and ask for so much so often, I thought I'd write a letter this time. (You know, snail mail...just like you guys were always so fond of me doing in the past. Does my nostalgic creativity earn me any points?)

Don't feel obligated to send me money, though (I know you will anyway). If anything, what I really need is some new(er) shoes. Shoe sizes are weird, so a gift card will be easiest (though plain money is, of course, always better).

Mom, you always made me write thank you cards for my holiday and birthday presents. (Why? Because it's less personal and obligatory than a phone call. I get it now.) I imagine it was to bridge the gap between traditional courtesy and modern flippancy. I feel bad that I haven't made more of an effort in my adult life (not really).

I've been thinking a lot about college recently, and possibly going back (how else am I supposed to meet women? Online dating has been a joke). What do you think? I'd probably major in education (and minor in late night Taco Bell runs).

There's no structure to this letter, I apologize (actually, I don't regret it one bit, but I still need you to send me money without feeling like I'm being an ungrateful asshole. Perhaps if I act more scatter-brained you'll be more willing to upgrade me to a better therapist, which will in turn help me construct a more distinctive yet palatable personality. That way I can get laid more.).

I just wanted to say that I love you guys, but sometimes I get sidetracked (and I'm too much of a pussy to tell you genuinely with my own voice).
You guys tell me this so much, and I'm sorry if I sometimes seem distant and have stunted affection

(I don't know if I really love you anyways, since the two of you encapsulate an ironic hybrid between a crippling obstacle to my unattainable goals and an ego-boosting encouragement to my weak self-esteem...the deadliest combination imaginable. This “love” is most accurately allegorized as a vaulted wonderland of unhealthy comfort that I refuse to depart from).
I'm working on that, please understand (don't give up hope on me, sweet parents, for the final advantages have not yet been taken of you).

Hope to see you guys soon! (a white lie, but how else am I supposed to end this damn letter?)

Love (doesn't exist),

-Your Son

PS:  I am not your son.  You can call me the demon of sobriety.

The Emotionalist

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‘How’s it going?’

‘Fine, you?’

‘I’m single again.’

‘I’m sorry, hon.’

‘Want to go on a drive tonight?’

‘Will it last longer than a night?’

… ‘Probably not.’

… ‘When will you pick me up?’

‘I’m already on my way.’

And so the cycle continues.  He has been playing it this way for years, not going more than five minutes alone, perhaps making up for lost time in his simultaneous dating of several women.  He’s committed to all of them, only not exclusively to any single one. He shows affection only to Elisabeth.  She’s not one for conversation.  The rest are an occasional trip to the cinema, a casual lay and an awkward goodbye, usually only lasting the thirty seconds it takes him to put on his trousers and walk out the door to his car to go to work.

He drives incessantly.  He has eight different places in this county alone to take a woman and treat her as if she is all that matters in his world.  And for those brief moments, he makes the particular woman just that.

He considers his biggest relational problem the fact that he cannot find a woman who fits with him.  He could never see himself spending a lifetime with any one of the women he is seeing.  He is an unusual magnet for insecure women and is very aware of this.  Yet these women represent the broadest extremes, from the most passive deadbeat to the most aggressive feminist.  He thinks he wants someone in the middle, but in his mind he’s already passed through seven of them, while at the time not knowing that they were the right ones for him.  He discovered this while passionately kissing Agnes.

He sees himself as some sort of Phil Connors.  He can work his routine ten times without a repeat.  He can sharpen it up and try new things the next time around.  He knows that he is failing at life, but has such low expectations for himself that his conscience is expiring.

He is the product of seventeen years of incessant emotional manipulation, and all forms of abuse.  He has no trust for the government as a result of the numerous cries for help, an extremely brief investigation, followed by an eventual grand maternal manipulation, the likes of which Katherine Hepburn had never reached.  As soon as they had come, Social Services had left, four times over.

A mixture of his own narcissism and insecurity have fueled him his full time pursuit of  women since the age of fourteen.  He is a man of no special talents or abilities.  He has many books, most of which have never been opened except upon arriving home after a purchase when they were to be stamped, ‘From the Library of…’

But for a moment, once, he was in love.  21 November 1999.  She's married now.  Now he searches evermore for that same feeling, fleetingly.

The Café

The Café never closes and he likes to be the first to arrive before the breakfast crowd because he enjoys the early morning stillness and his coffee and the music from the aging speakers.

Earlier, he had stirred in the predawn black because he heard snoring in the adjacent apartment. It must have been very loud, but through the dampening walls it sounded like the softness of one man’s true and indecipherable and earnest claim and it steeled him to rise and comb his thinning grey hair before leaving. 

Eggs and toast, he said to the waitress. And, will you sit and join me again?

No I have to stay working today.

I think everyone is set now, he said looking around at the empty room.  Let me buy you breakfast.

Smiling, she said, I’ll join you for a cup of coffee. She poured another and the eggs came out, and she brought them to the small cracked leather booth where he sat.

It is really good to see you.

Always.

They both sipped their coffee and looked out the window at the dark fog that made her think of even darker mornings more fondly than she thought she would.  His inadvertently good company seemed to bring a steady glow.

He took another sip and began, I don’t remember where I learned this, but did you know that great white sharks generally live near the coast where they have enough food?

That’s what I always thought, scary.

But then, sometimes, and scientists don’t know why, but they’ve tracked their patterns and the noticed that a large portion of these sharks will make a long journey to the middle of the Pacific Ocean and will dive hundreds of feet down and then return back to the coast to live out the rest of their lives. This is a mystery to them and they call this area in the middle of the ocean The Café.

She smiled.  Really?

Yes, why do you think they do this?

Well, there must be something really important out there for the sharks I suppose. 

Yes. Do you know what I think? I think some of them don’t make it back. I think some must swim too far or dive too deep, and I wonder what it might be like for a sinking shark trying to make it back.

We might have to go out to the Café to find out. 

And dive down deep to find them?

And dive down deep to find them. But there might not be anything there, I don’t want you to get your hopes up.

That might be just as well.

The bell above the door jangled and a young family with an overstuffed van outside poured in.  She turned her head and looked back at the family and then straightened upright towards him with a heaving smile and squeezed his bent fingers as she got up.