Dove Season

Dove season begins in the late spring when the weather grows warm and the air holds a sweet smell and promise. We were energetic and drove off with a box of thirty Keystone Lights and a pair of twelve gauge shotguns, out to the country where their cousins live. 

Down a few miles of dirt road we met the kid and all his extended family. The kid was in his mid twenties, was burnt tan, and wore only tattered jeans with holes in the knees and boots.  Across his back in archaic font was tattooed “Dirty South”.  

 At first we would stand around and drink, taking aim at doves sitting on the telephone wires that were the only markers across the flat landscape of neatly plowed spring farms. Enough had been drunk for the men to flex their trigger fingers, talking trash and celebrating their prowess whenever a dove would spin off of a wire or clasp their wings shut mid flight and dive headlong into the ground. 

As the small mountain of empty silver cans was growing, so did my delusions of talent. But then I would shoot and nothing happened so my confidence quickly ebbed and I went out back to practice in solitude.  A bird sat on a bush twenty yards away.  I took aim and the gun and the bird jolted instantaneously and I walked over with renewed belief in my competence, but the kid had been watching and called to me “That ain’t no dove, man.  That’s a mockingbird.”  I stood over it and the bird looked back darkly at me wings open bearing its soft underside.  I thought to myself I would never shoot a mockingbird again.

“Lets get in the car and find some more,” he called as he jammed his thumb under the ribs of a limp dove and tore out the two breasts to keep for the grill. Four of us jumped into the car and swerved down the dirt roads, guns akimbo out every window taking aim at anything that quietly sat on the wires overhead.  One was felled and floated down to the ground and it struggled as it flapped in circles like one wing was nailed to the dirt.  The kid skipped out of the car, stepped on the crippled wing and pulled the head of with a small spurt of blood like a shook can of coke. He tossed the head into the bushes and threw the rest in the back of the car.

We took our downy pile of dead birds back to the house stood around the hill of empty cans, drinking quicker.  The kid started playing on an old motorcycle, trying to skid circles in the grass but he lost control and the bike fell down and he bruised and burned his leg underneath.  His father’s girlfriend with a sunken chin laughed and made a remark that maybe only he heard.

As quickly as he fell he leaped up.  We all heard the shuck of the loaded twelve-gauge but did not anticipate it to be leveled at her mouth from a foot away.  His eyes were dark with redness and rage and his neck flared and his hands trembled. He told her that she was inbred and swore to God that he would kill her.  The old men lowered their beers and quietly and shamefully called the name of their own kin.  Moments passed filled with what everyone did not want to happen and then he turned the gun away and his father glowered.

The kid walked off and then pulled me aside and asked for a ride home.  As we drove miles back to his trailer I wanted to speak with him about what he did, but he only spoke about the things he swore to do if it happened again.

Fast Food for a Thought

Fortunately, the hospital was within walking distance of Caleb's waking location. The fact that he ended up at Jason's party the previous night was a poor judgment call, but not one he had the right to sulk over. His genitals were burning as he came to, and panic swiftly washed over him. He was still terribly hung over, but sober enough to know what he needed to do.

His left hand felt the opposing side of the foreign air mattress, which was empty and icy. Rebecca was gone. He searched his pants with hopes he would find a phone number or at least some sort of note, but all he could muster out (aside from his wallet) was an open box of condoms and a crumpled receipt.

She wasn't just gone, she had left.

Rebecca felt it was necessary to “lose” her phone (this way, she had an excuse). She threw it in the trash as she passed the McDonald's around the corner from Jason's house. There wasn't a likely chance she'd see Caleb again, but she didn't want to take the risk of embarrassment. Her cell phone was very beat-up and the purple casing barely clung to it anyway, so the financial loss momentarily seemed a bit less significant.

For once, she actually felt something with him. Something just as terrifying as it was wonderful. Most people would be insane to pass up such an opportunity. Becca wasn't insane, she just always thought ahead...perhaps a little TOO far ahead. There was no way such incredible chemistry between two people could last. She recalled listening to her parents' sparkly-eyed conversation numerous times about how they first met at Fisherman's Wharf in the most perfect conditions imaginable, and the last time they told that story was 4 months before their bitter divorce.

Why put the effort in if that person is destined to find something better? If true love exists, it must only manifest in the most boring manner imaginable.

Caleb felt nothing of the sort for Rebecca. She was just “there”, but he was always open to new possibilities (despite being on his way to the hospital under suspicion that he may have gotten any variety of STDs – there was no implication that any condoms were actually used). As he randomly started cycling through the contact list on his phone during his stroll, he noticed that Rebecca's name showed up. What could it hurt? As he turned the corner and yellow arches appeared in the sky, he pressed the “Send” button.

An unusually specific pop song started sounding from the trash can. Caleb chuckled, out of equal parts disbelief and embarrassment. He pressed “End” and it went silent.

“What a slut”, he muttered to himself.

Crimson

The night Jimmy "The Stag" Silver played the last jazz concert of his career, there were twenty-five in the room.

Tipping his favorite crimson fedora, Jimmy blinked into the spotlight's dusty gaze and raised his tarnished trumpet to his lips.  Then he played.

Forty years ago, to the casual jazz music hepcat, Jimmy Silver was a trumpet genius, working his way into the heart of a corps of underground fans - the type of fans who championed Silver's '65 masterpiece, Sonnets After Seven, into a near Grammy nomination.

The nomination never came and Silver went from legendary jazz musician to legendary recluse, popping up in various neighborhood bars and back alley venues to croon his brassy lullabies, but never again enjoying the pinnacle seat in jazz lore.  He played a show on a street corner in Lyons to an elderly man in a pinstriped suit, then politely refused the man's tip.  Someone said they saw him join the throng of a high school marching band in St. Paul, Minnesota on New Year's Day.  Tonight, he was balanced on a rusty bar stool in a watering hole in Havana Cuba, in front of twenty-five bar customers who probably didn't know his name or his music.

The first notes of Jimmy's opening piece broke into a hushed angry argument between a middle-aged wife and husband.  The husband stuttered, his concentration broken, and he never found the time to return to his previous biting remark.  Something about the way his wife's hair got brighter in the reflection of Jimmy's trumpet bell shut him up for good.

Two Cuban businessmen paused from a frank discussion on ethics in global fiscal policy to listen to a specific tremolo.

Near the bar, a young man in a cotton dress shirt that sorely needed ironing found the courage to ask the girl next to him to dance and the two clasped arms in a melancholy slow dance.

An old man in the corner just closed his eyes and laughed for the first time in nineteen years, hee hee hee.  The bartender smiled and poured him another whisky, on the house.

In between songs, a disheveled loafer with matted hair and a matted suit asked the busboy in English if he could use the phone and the busboy, a native Spanish speaker, understood.

A group of five American tourists in the back of the room suddenly found new energy in their conversation.  The one with the rosiest cheeks slapped his friend's back and made a generic comment about that good New York music and no one disagreed.

And a single, sad-eyed young girl with an unfinished glass of wine in front of her simply sat and listened, as if she were the only person in the room.

all over again - Part 2

As I walked south on Michigan Avenue, the warm breeze of late summer crossed my path. I entered her building and rode up to the 33^rd floor. I wandered the hallway trying to find her door. Eventually I stood there and paused, unsure of my place in time. I knocked, hoping for everything. A dog barked… I'd forgotten she had a new friend. We’d driven sixteen hours with her beloved feline Chloe, who had chosen to piss in my friend Billy's truck en route to Chicago. I still felt bad that had happened but somehow months later Billy was still able to sell the pickup, despite the lingering odor. It turns out Chloe had recently moved to Florida to live with Rebecca's mother and now Maxine was her new companion. Maxine scratched at the door, while I waited.

This was actually my last night in Chicago. It was work that had brought me back to this city and an email had led to this moment at her doorstep. It opened and there she was smiling and radiant as always. Golden blonde hair and tan face with those dark eyes that always sparkled. Rebecca was jealous of my blue eyes. She told me when she was little, she’d always prayed for blue eyes like her friends but alas she was cursed for life with her cute brown ones. I gave her a hug and I missed her at that moment more than I ever had before.

Rebecca showed me the startling view of Chicago and Lake Michigan from her new apartment balcony. We opened the bottle of Shiraz and began to talk about the past four years of our lives. She hadn’t changed much at all. Rebecca was still the same lovely and beautiful woman that I’d remembered. We also discussed what had happened between us. She saw it as having been a chance for me to fight for a woman, as I’d tried to convince her months after I left Chicago that maybe we should consider a future. She had spent time thinking about my proposal but ultimately said no. That was the last time I spoke to her as I’d responded that I wasn’t able to be friends anymore.

As we sat together on her couch; Time was stopped. That’s how it always felt when I spent time with Rebecca. But eventually we realized it was 2:30am and she had to get up at 6am for work. I wanted to stay. I lingered a bit and took a moment to encourage her and thank her for being who she was. I eventually embraced Rebecca and said goodbye.

As I rode back on the subway toward my hotel, I realized that I was still in love with Rebecca. And I'd lost her all over again.

It's Who You Know

“You gotta network. You don’t network enough. It’s who you know, you know?”

It is my least favorite business model ever. I know enough people in LA. I like working hard more than knowing many. You line up 10 people in this town and there is a good chance I will not enjoy 9 of them.

Take the “Yoga Mentor” I met the other day. Didn’t even know those existed! I hope she doesn’t have industry connections, because you know it’s who you know, and then I’d have to be friends with a Yoga Mentor and when I talk about her people will think I have an imaginary friend.

Another guy revealed he is “in recovery.” But not for drugs and alcohol; he is in Underachievers Anonymous. First of all, if you have trouble being productive, taking time out of every day to meet up with other unproductive people doesn’t exactly sound like a solution. But who am I to judge? I am mostly curious about how this program works. What is a Underachievers Anonymous emergency? You call up your sponsor, "Larry, I'm so confused right now. I have this sudden urge to just sit on the couch". DO NOT SIT ON THE COUCH! I'm coming over there, we'll surf LinkedIn all night if we have to!   

Who you know can kill you too. This is why I haven’t introduced myself to my upstairs neighbor who is probably a serial killer as evident by her daily furniture rearrangement and nightly marathons of X-Files episodes.

I also want nothing to do with her hipster boyfriend, who takes that subculture to a sci-fi level that you can only see to believe. He pulled up on his bike the other day with - get this - A SECOND BIKE strapped to his back.

Is knowing weirdos the price of making it? Is it worth it? All I know is that all the people I would want to know aren’t good for the all important “network” file. I walked by a homeless gentleman last week. I wore earbuds, but the music was low enough for me to hear him say “Sup gangsta” as I passed by. Best moment of my life to date, hands down. I was this close to stopping, getting him the help he needed to end his homelessness and paying for an education to pursue a career in film and television. Because of all the people I’ve met, he’s the one I wanted to network with the most!

And So Lenin Went Underground

Let me assure you, beyond any doubt, businesses are people. 

How else can you explain the wars? 

 –Norman Kingston

Panic became them. As lawsuit after lawsuit trickled in and pounded from the bottom up, desperate times had come.

It was explained to me once that the situation for the cigarette industry was that of a coon on a coon-dog in the middle of a lake. And that coon is drowning him… “JUST DROWNING HIM!”

The question of who was the coon dog was still a question left to be determined. It couldn’t be the thousands of people dying from their product. They were customers. The government was sure ready to act like an agent of punishment, but toppling the men in black would send the economy into a tornado, possibly rerouting the American public into poverty. Poverty does not beget revitalized sales.

The eye of this dying person, this colossal business, looked then to alcohol for its redemption.

If alcohol could become Public Enemy #1, then maybe Marlboro Man could ride into Jerusalem on Joe Camel himself.

This war was not the first of its kind. The first war went through congress. On paper, for many years, it was a raging success. Prohibition meant no man was allowed to even sniff of spirits. Somehow, alcohol still won that round. Moonshine, liquor sneaks in bowling balls… the embargo renaissanced the sin of imbibing as cool and countercultural.

The new war began with generous donations to A.A. This led to the traditional fair: billboards, newspaper ads, general old school marketing. They followed this up with New Found Films Company. NFF, over the course of nine years, released seventeen wide-spread released flicks featuring heroes who said no to alcohol, and villains who were bitterly controlled by it.

Alcohol fought back. They fed the government into their hands. Besides getting mandatory “SMOKING KILLS” stickers on every pack sold, they banned its use under almost every public roof in America. They also bribed the MPAA to slap “Rated R” tags on any flick that even thought about smoking.

But the deathblow came in the form of football. That’s where the tremendous foresight was had. Alcohol linked its fate to that of football usurping all other means of entertainment as America’s beloved addiction. Where went football, so went alcohol.

Cigarettes were a dying breed. The war was over.

…Or so we thought.

A dying coon is a dangerous animal. If alcohol was to be the good ol’ boy of America, there was a chance yet to be the villain.

And so they took it away. No more Wal-Mart. No more grocery stores. No chain market would get their greedy fingers on man’s most precious stick anymore. It was time for Mom & Pop industries, in every seedy corner of every town, to rise. Cigarettes were to become the beacon light of hipsters, environmentalists, independent farmers, anti-government paranoids, druggies, gang members, the unemployed, the unemployable, street rats, down-on-their-luckers. The 99%.

It’s your play now.

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.