Life...One Sip at a Time

Interdependence Day (From Snapshots At St. Arbuck's Vol 3 ©2014 R.G. Ryan)

2014-07-04T07:06:00.003-07:00

6:24 AM.

86 degrees on its way to 104.

There's a 13 mph breeze blowing out of the Southwest.

Independence Day and St. Arbuck's is surprisingly busy yet missing the typical morning demographic of overly stressed and harried individuals on their way to someplace more important than here.

Today the clientele is mainly comprised of families getting an early and leisurely start on a day at the lake, the park or a day trip out of town in search of more moderate climes.

I, on the other hand, am content to just sit, sip and ponder.

I have been thinking about this whole "independence" thing.

Our local paper, the Review-Journal, printed the entire text of the Declaration Of Independence on its Op-Ed page today.

So I read it.

All of it.

I can't remember the last time I had done so.

It triggered a thread of thought, and when presented with such a distraction I will, in typical fashion, commence tugging for the simple curiosity of needing to know what will unravel...what is at the other end.

I gave that thread a little tug.

Dependence is when you can't live without the support of someone or something else.

Doesn't sound that great...I pulled some more.

Co-Dependence describes a relationship where one party is physically or psychologically addicted, and the other is psychologically dependent on the first.

Scary.

A few additional strands of thread unraveled.

Independence is when you are free from the control, influence, support or aid of another.

For some reason, that's not sounding all that great to me either, so I yanked a bit more.

Now, "Interdependence" (according to RG's paraphrase) is a reciprocal relationship between two or more individuals (or groups) wherein it is mutually agreed that life is better together.

I'm not sure how this plays out in your world, but as for me...I have tumbled down the days to arrive at the stark realization that I need people.

Plain and simple.

And...there are people who need me.

Wouldn't it be something if all of us, regardless of race, religion, political ideology or social status, somehow became...interdependent?

The conclusion of the matter is this: if you want to celebrate something today, celebrate Interdependence for it is the very means by which our country came into being, by which our "independence" is possible.

Sez Me (In which I manage to tick off everyone)

2012-12-16T10:02:00.000-08:00

On this crisp December morn—with clouds hovering just above the crest of the Spring Mountains taunting us desert dwellers with the possibility of rain—my mind is awash with many thoughts and emotions in the aftermath of this week’s tragedy in Sandy Hook, CT. It’s all there: anger, confusion, sorrow, righteous indignation; pronouncing curses upon the notorious “they” for what should have/could have been done to avoid such a senseless slaughter of innocents. And yet, doesn't it seem that as a people we seem to express outrage over events such as this only when it suits our political/theological purposes.

You have those ignorant, intolerant and unenlightened right-wingers railing, “Where is your outrage over the millions of innocent babies being slaughtered through abortion?” And on the other side those equally evil, progressive liberals are screaming for gun control and the abolition of the 2^nd amendment while each side ignores the other. What’s a body to do in the face of such impassioned debate?

Well, I for one have chosen to think for myself and not be led blindly down a progressively narrow stream of ideological or sociological thought, regurgitating sad, partisan canards and talking points. It’s not easy. You have to ask a lot of questions, read a lot of articles and listen to points of view that often run directly counter to your core beliefs.

It’s called developing a worldview.

Over the past several days I’ve ingested enough statistics—all of which are designed to support various points of view—to choke the proverbial horse! So I decided to find some statistics of my own just to demonstrate the absolute unreliability of Mark Twain’s least favorite political device:

According to the US Dept. of Health and Human Services there are approximately 700,000 physicians in the U.S. The average number of accidental deaths per year attributed to physicians is 120,000, which equals 0.171 deaths per physician.
There are approximately 80,000,000 gun owners in the US. The average number of accidental deaths per year attributed to gun use—factoring in ALL age groups—is 1500, which works out to 0.000188 deaths per gun owner.
So as you can see, statistically, doctors are approximately 9,000 times more dangerous than gun owners. The only conclusion one may draw is this: Guns don’t kill people...doctors do!

See what I mean? Ridiculous!

In spite of repeated (and immediately broken) resolves to avoid such useless pursuits, I’ve succumbed to the temptation to engage in several debates, none of which produced the barest scrap of satisfaction! However, while thusly engaged I did happen upon a thread of thought that I will briefly include herein.

As a culture, we love to hawk legislation as a panacea for preventing future recurrences of the Sandy Hook tragedy. We seem to think that if we change the political landscape, change will follow in the hearts and minds of people. We’ve got it backward! If you change the hearts and minds of people, change in the political/social landscape will follow. And dare I mention what I feel quite strongly to be the real problem, which is the inarguable presence of evil in our world?

I had an individual this week inform me quite bluntly that there is no such thing as evil. I respectfully disagree, for I have stared evil in the face and breathed in its sulphurous breath. You don’t have to look very far. Ask the twelve year-old girl who has been raped repeatedly by her father; or the toddler with cigarette burns on the inside of his thighs from his mother’s live-in boyfriend. Ask the families of the victims of the Mexican drug cartels whose loved ones were tortured to death and then mutilated or the approximately twenty-seven million victims of human trafficking. Shall I go on? The citizens of Uganda, Iraq, Stalinist Russia, Nazi Germany, Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge all of whom endured unspeakable atrocities and wholesale slaughter of their countrymen at the hands of evil despots. No such thing as evil?

You’re probably not going to like hearing this, but we have the America we deserve. The culture created it. Now, we have to live with our creation. Or do we? How about an intelligent, impassioned and yet civil debate on cause and effect?

As usual, I’ve gone on too long, but...sez me.

Conversations With Eddie

2012-12-06T09:47:00.000-08:00

Twelve months is a long time to go without seeing your best friend, and seeing Eddie Washington walk through the door of St. Arbuck’s was like, well, seeing Eddie Washington walk through the door...by which I mean that no one can pull it off quite like him.

It’s the entrance, followed by the dramatic pause to survey the landscape—more like surveying his domain, if you want to know the truth—then it’s the slow rhythmic stroll that most people would call a “walk.” However, what Eddie does is more like gliding to a subtle, slow groove that only he can hear.

The occasion of his return was to attend the wedding of a friend. Eddie, being Eddie, found a way to stretch it into a long weekend.

His eyes finally focused on me causing his handsome face to light up in a pure Eddie smile. Now, if you’ve never experienced the full force of an “Eddie smile,” well, let me tell you about it: Guileless, joyful, completely transparent and genuine that carries with it the sense that it’s a smile reserved only for a select few.

“RG,” said he in that deeply burnished urban brogue of his, which, for the record, he turns on and off as the occasion demands.

“Brother,” came my reply as I stood to embrace my friend.

We probably hugged longer than is socially acceptable for two straight males, but we don’t really care about stuff like that.

Let ‘em talk.

Heck, let ‘em eat cake, whatever that means.

“Good to see you, RG.”

“You too, man,” I replied as we sat down at our usual corner table. “It’s been way, way too long.”

“Indeed it has.”

“So,” I said. “What’s new?”

He laughed. “You mean since three days ago?”

It’s not like there was a lot to catch up on, for we talk several times a week, but there’s just something that happens face-to-face that can never happen over the phone or even through video chat.

“Well, yeah.”

A married couple we both knew came in, saw us and came over to offer hugs and greetings, which then led to several minutes of pleasant chatter.

After they left to order their coffee he said, “Dude, I got to tell you about something that happened a few weeks ago on the subway.”

“You get mugged, or something?”

“No, no, no...nothing like that.”

He lives in a really good part of the city, but still...it’s New York! I mean, come on.

He said, “Nah, man. I was taking the subway home after work; it was about two a.m. and, as usual, the train was full. We came to a scheduled stop, the doors opened and this homeless guy got on.”

“That’s unusual?” I inquired.

“By itself, no, because there are thousands of homeless people in the city. But this guy was huge! Like six-five and probably three hundred pounds. And old! Maybe, mid-sixties.”

While I didn’t say it, I thought to myself that someone in his mid-sixties just doesn’t sound that old to me anymore.

“And the strangest thing happened,” he continued. “All the people in his end of the car got up and moved down to the other end where I was sitting.”

“Why? Was he violent or something?”

“No, man. He just...he wasn’t doing anything offensive. All those people were acting like him being alive and breathing was offensive—like he didn’t belong in their world.”

“Man, that’s harsh.”

“Did I mention that it was snowing?”

“No.”

“Yeah, it was snowing. And whenever it rains or snows, homeless people get on the train and ride it out to Coney Island and back, staying on as long as they can until the cops kick them off.”

“And that’s what he was doing?”

He said, “That was my guess. But you have to picture the scene: Here’s this one old, huge homeless guy down at one end of the car and about forty people all crammed together down at the other end and all of them staring at him. It was surreal!”

“He stare back?

“Nah, man. He just kept to himself. Sort of staring at the floor. I looked down at his feet and, dude, he didn’t have any shoes on! Snowing outside and the boy didn’t have shoes!”

“So, he was barefoot?”

“No, he had newspapers wrapped around his feet. And his ankles...it looked like elephant skin; like, I don’t know, maybe something you’d see after frostbite, or something.”

All I could do was shake my head as I tried to picture this man’s condition while imagining all of the thousands of people in this country who would fall into the same category.

He continued, “Eventually everyone got off except me. So there I am at one end, and the dude at the other. So I got up and moved down to his end and sat across from him.”

“And you started up a conversation, didn’t you?”

“You know me well,” he chuckled. “Yeah, man. I just started asking him questions. He was almost, like, I don’t know, either he suffered from some mental handicap or had done a lot of drugs or something. I didn’t learn much about his history because he just wasn’t very conversant. But the more we talked I just couldn’t get past the fact that the man had newspapers wrapped around his feet...and there was snow on the ground! And it just broke my heart.”

“Pretty graphic witness to the strength of the human spirit when it comes to survival. Crazy what people will do.”

He was silent for a minute as if trying to control his emotions. “We were getting close to my stop and I looked at his feet; looked at my feet with my brand new Puma’s that I had looked all over New York City to find; felt my dress shoes in my backpack and asked him what size shoe he wore. He said that he wore a size thirteen. Same size as me.”

“So, you gave him your new shoes?” I said with a knowing smile.

He nodded his head in silence. “I mean, what else could I do? I took them off and told him to try them on. He kind of stared at me like, ‘Really?’ He put them on and they fit. I put my dress shoes on, stood, shook his hand and got off at my stop. When the train left he was kind of turned around staring out the window at me, gave me a little wave and then he was gone.”

“That was an extraordinary thing to do,” I said.

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had an extra pair of shoes in my backpack.”

“So?”

“What if I hadn’t had that extra pair? Would I have still given him my new shoes and walked home in my socks?”

“That doesn’t seem—“

“Relevant?” he said, completing my sentence. “I beg to differ. It is entirely relevant because it’s all about what we’re really willing to give up when faced with overwhelming need.”

I thought about that for a few seconds and realized he was right. Here in the land of plenty, where so many have so much, there are still people, just like this man on the subway, who have little or nothing with absolutely no way to better their situation; desperation and hopelessness their constant companions.

“Still,” I said. “There aren’t many people who would’ve done what you did. I mean, come on, there wasn’t even anyone willing to occupy the same space as the guy.”

“True, true,” he replied slowly. “But I should’ve done more.”

“You did what you could.” Then, after a brief pause I added, “You most likely did more than you knew.”

A couple more friends dropped by to say hi and then Eddie had to go.

As we walked toward the parking lot, making plans to meet up for dinner later on that evening, I thought about what Eddie said about not having done enough. And what is enough? And when is too little? I must confess, I had no answers.

“See you about seven?” I said as we shook hands in parting. I mean, come on, we hugged once. Twice would’ve been pushing it.

“Yeah, man. Looking forward to hanging with you and that pretty lady you live with.”

And it started to rain.

I looked down at Eddie’s feet. He was sporting new Nikes.

I love Nikes.

“Forget it! I ain’t giving you my shoes,” he said with a smile as he turned to go.

“But—“

“No way, Jack!”

Sometimes the man can be downright selfish.

Interrupted Redux

2012-08-26T15:14:00.000-07:00

I'm rerunning this post from last year simply because I want to honor my wife on her birthday, and I really don't think I can top this. Hope you enjoy it!

A stippling of sunlight filtered down through the towering redwoods, their pungent scent saturating the intimate campus confines as a warm breeze stirred what was left of my recently shorn locks that early September morn. Seems my new college had a dress code, and long hair was forbidden...as was most everything else commonly enjoyed by those of my generation.

But, that’s another story.

I was already late for class—a reality that would, sadly haunt me throughout my collegiate career. College for me was, well, an interruption. I had things to do if I was going to achieve my goal of being a famous recording artist. And I wasn’t about to let something as trivial as education stand in the way of that!

With a student population of only seven hundred, I had already met many of my new classmates through the orientation process and waved or called out friendly greetings as I jogged past the student center. It seemed only proper to demonstrate a modicum of concern regarding my tardiness even though it was pure pretense.

Nearing the library, located just across from the administration building—which also housed the women’s dorm in its upper floors—my forward motion was suddenly arrested by a sight I will never forget. The term, “came to a screeching halt,” overused and hackneyed as it is, is the only way to truly describe what happened to me. For there, not ten feet away, stood the most beautiful creature my poor, tired eyes had ever seen.

Shoulder-length blonde hair; eyes of cerulean blue set above high cheekbones and made even more stunning by the golden tan dusting her face—a smile that seemed to light up everything around her. I might as well confess that with one glance all thoughts of attending class were waylaid, for I was, in a word...smitten!

I realized, to my horror that I had been staring, my face taking on an expression that fell somewhere in between deranged lunatic and simpleton. This alarming fact was brought to my attention by my brutally honest roommate who had the occasion to be passing by just at that moment—being, as a general rule even more tardy than I—thus, witnessing the entire incident.

Thanking my helpful, if tactless, friend I composed myself and...stood rooted in place! Paralyzed! Immobilized! In the grip of stunned stupefaction! In the meantime, this vision of loveliness was walking away. In the direction of...my class. Could that be?

I finally managed to regain forward mobility and proceeded to stalk her across the campus realizing in the process that she was, indeed, heading directly toward the arts and sciences building which my first period “introduction to philosophy” classroom.

I decided to close the gap so as not to lose sight of her once inside just in case it was not my class that was her final destination. When I say, “close the gap,” I’m talking about sprinting thirty yards to take up a position that was within arm’s reach of her quite lovely back.

I never said I was subtle!

Trailing her into the classroom, I mumbled greetings to a couple of students I knew, stopped by the professor’s desk and found my name on the seating chart, sensing myself nearing cardiac arrest as I realized that we were, as fate would have it, paired at the same table.

Given the perspective afforded by hindsight, I now recall the incident with a mixture of embarrassment and profound sense of awe at my good fortune. I mean, there I was seated right next to the prettiest girl in school. And I didn’t do anything to bring it about.

I was just on my way...to class? Certainly. But in a larger sense, I was on my way to the rest of my life when gracious providence beautifully, blissfully interrupted my progress, knowing that life, as planned, would be incomplete.

That pretty girl became my wife, and we have had many, many adventures over these long years. Her smile can still stop me in my tracks, cause my heart to flutter and render me speechless...no small feat, as my children and close friends will readily attest.

Happy Birthday, baby...my beloved, my bride, my lovely one; owner of my heart; sweetener of my days; wellspring of my joy...I love you today.

Siesta Interruptus

2012-07-24T13:28:00.000-07:00

Make it stop!

Please, someone, make that hideous noise stop!

I wake, startled to learn that I am the originator.

Snoring? Well, sort of. More like the plaintive cry of some dread beast in mortal agony.

I don’t get it. I just don’t get it! How is it possible for such a racket to be produced by the human vocal mechanism? And you want to know what the real kicker is? I was on the beach!

Yeah! Out there on the sand.

With the tanned and beautiful.

The young and nubile.

Snoring away in blissful oblivion!

So, I turn my head to the left, checking on a young family of six, sunning not three feet away. But I did it kind of stealth-like. You know what I’m talking about. Where you kind of let your head roll to one side like you have no control over your neck, hoping that should anyone be observing they’d think you were still asleep?

Like that.

Then I opened one eye just a crack to see if anyone was watching. Sound asleep—the whole lot of them.

So far, so good.

I do the same maneuver to the right adding, for the sake of variety, the one-arm-stretch-over-the-head move. I’m actually quite good at it, even if I do say so myself. To my right were two men and a woman of indeterminate age. To my surprise and utter delight the woman had her head tilted back and was emitting what can only be described as full on “snarks!”

If I have to explain that to you, maybe you should stop reading and visit another blog.

My relief was palpable.

It wasn’t me.

It was her!

I could have shouted for joy.

I could have...

“Hey, mister,” came a childish voice from behind me.

I sat up and turned around to identify the source.

A little kid stood there with beach pail and shovel in his hand.

“Yes?” said I.

The young interloper giggled and said, “Did you know you kind of sound like a goat when you snore?” before running off toward the water’s edge laughing hysterically.

And what could I say?

Plunged instantaneously from the heights of relief to the depths of crushing reality, there was nothing left for me to do but make an escape, and that as quickly as decorum would allow.

Just as I was slipping my feet into my battered but comfortable sandals, the snoring woman sat up, shook her mane of brown hair and fixed me with what I took for a baleful gaze.

“Hey!” said she.

“Hey yourself.”

”Did you know you—“

“Sound like a goat when I snore?” I interrupted. “Yes. I’ve already been told, thank-you very much.”

She laughed. “That’s not what I was going to say, but thanks for the warning.”

“You weren’t?”

“No. I was going to ask if you knew that you look a little like Bruce Willis.”

For a moment I was speechless.

“Uh, well, yeah, I’ve been told that a couple of times; I think it's the shaved head thing,” I finally managed.

With that she flopped over onto her stomach turning her head away from me.

I caught sight of the rude young man playing down by the water and watching me carefully.

I wondered how Bruce would handle this.

I stuck my tongue out at him and walked away, my ego temporarily salvaged.

The Spiderman Incident

2012-07-23T10:47:00.002-07:00

"And don't forget the flour. Last time you forgot the flour! Sometimes I think you'd forget your head if it wasn't attached."

The young boy listened only partially to his mother's voice which, when she was in a mood like this, took on the qualities of a fork scraped across a dinner plate. He hated that sound. It wasn’t that he disliked his mother—he, in fact, adored her. It was just that being the only child left at home out of a family of six kids, and the only boy at that, he had few options when it came to avoidance. Truthfully, even when his older sisters had been home he had always been the one singled out to run "errands" for his mother. She called them errands but in reality an “errand” was anything she didn't feel like doing. Anything.

"I didn't hear you, James Edward. What did you say?" she hollered from the screened-in porch.

Ten year-old James, or Jimmy to his friends, hadn't said anything. What she wanted was for him to say something like, "All right, mom." Or, "Yes, mother." Something like that just so she'd know he was listening.

"All right, mom. I won't forget."

He stood in the street outside their simple house under a summer sun that felt as if it were burning his skin through the long-sleeved shirt she always made him wear whenever he went outside.

"Now you hurry back. I don't want you dawdling."

He didn't really know what “dawdling” meant but he supposed it had something to do with him stopping at the pharmacy to look at comic books and eat candy. Jimmy loved candy and he especially loved Cherry-a-Let candy bars...but not as much as he loved comic books. He figured he could probably spend an entire day just looking at comics if Ralph, the pharmacy owner, would let him. And he probably would.

A southwest wind sent a flurry of dust devils racing past the wheels of his cart—okay, wagon, but he preferred to think of it as a cart—that he always pulled behind him when going to the market for his mother. It had become an every day thing lately. Sometimes two times a day and one day last week she had made him go three times. Of course that had been the day he had forgotten to get the flour so that third trip technically didn't count.

At the end of their little street he glanced behind him to see if she was still watching. She usually watched until he got out of sight. Today, however, the porch was empty. Jimmy thought that a bit strange that she wouldn't watch until he turned the corner like she always did. It actually made him feel kind of funny. In fact he almost turned around right there and went back to check up on her, but in the end he decided to just keep going.

His route took him past the old Wells Fargo Bank; the city water plant; the hardware store where you could buy hay for horses and corn meal for chickens (along with just about every other thing you could ever imagine needing for rural life); past the diner where they served the best root-beer floats he'd ever tasted; past the pharmacy and then the small grocery store where everybody knew his name, where he lived and everything else there was to know about him.

Some of them even claimed to know where his dad was, which was a sore subject with him because he hated his dad and hoped to never see him ever again. When he asked his mother what had happened to him three years earlier she just said that he'd, "Run off." Sometimes he wondered what a person did when they ran off. Whatever it was, though, he was pretty sure it wasn't good given the looks on the faces of the adults when they talked about it. And they talked about it. He figured small towns didn't get much news and when something like that happened it could keep people going for a while.

With his cart loaded down with everything on his mother's list—and you can bet he'd checked it twice, just like Santa Claus—he started the long trip home dreading the mile and a half walk through the hot sun.

Passing the pharmacy Jimmy slowed way down and looked through the window at the magazine rack. Right away he could tell that there were a lot of brand new comic books. Comics he hadn't seen. Looking up the street toward the clock tower that was easily the tallest structure in town he realized that if he spent fifteen minutes looking at comic books he could still get home before his mom started fretting.

He parked the cart where he could see it through the window and went inside, straight up the aisle to where the candy was tantalizingly arrayed and picked out a candy bar after squeezing and hefting a half-dozen or so. You had to be careful with candy; just because it said it was a certain size on the wrapper didn't necessarily mean it was really that size. He had actually proven this to be true with his old friend Bradley. But Bradley's family had moved away last year and there was no one left to corroborate his story. That was okay because he knew it was true.

Ralph, the pharmacy owner peered down at him from behind the counter smiling as if he were genuinely glad to see him. And he was. In fact he and the boy were good friends and Ralph tried to help Jimmy out wherever he could since he didn’t have a dad looking out for him. Like allowing him to read the comics for free. No one else got to do that. No one!

"So, you gonna squeeze in a few minutes at the rack, Jimmy-boy?" he said, winking conspiratorially.

"I thought I would, if that's okay with you," Jimmy said as he handed over the fifteen cents for the candy, which was highway robbery in his book because he could remember when it had only cost a nickel!

"Got a new Spiderman in just this morning," Ralph said in a loud whisper as if it were a secret that only the two of them were supposed to know.

Jimmy's eyes lit up as he hurried toward the rack and immediately searched for the comic finding it in just a few seconds time. Spiderman. Good ol' Spidey. He wondered what sort of evil he'd save the world from this month. But when he opened the book, the first page was torn almost completely away which meant that a good portion of page one AND page two were missing. How in the world was he supposed to know what the story was about with the critical first two pages gone? He grabbed another one—same thing. And another, and another. They were all the same.

He looked around as if to spot a potential culprit, but besides Ralph, he was the only one in the store.

Jimmy was just about to go and tell Ralph the bad news when he heard a soft knocking coming from the direction of the big plate-glass window. Turning slowly he saw something that made his heart stand still. It was Leroy Marshall, the meanest kid in his school. He stood with his face pressed against the glass grinning from ear to ear, his long, jet-black hair looking as if it had been dipped in motor oil before being slicked back. And in his hand...the torn pages from all ten Spiderman comic books.

Jimmy got really mad. Madder than he'd ever been. All he wanted to do was to take one of the torn pages and stick it in his pocket for safe keeping while he stuffed the rest down Leroy Marshall's throat, which was probably a bit unlikely since Leroy was two years older, at least a foot taller and quite a bit meaner.

Later on he would wonder why he did what he did, but in that moment there was no room for logical thought, only action.

He got up and pushed through the front door which dinged pleasantly to let Ralph know that a customer had entered and shouted, "Give me those pages, you creep!"

"Why don't you come and get them," Leroy shouted as he took off running, laughing loudly as if it were just the funniest thing.

Jimmy hesitated, but only for a second and then was in full pursuit, the cart full of groceries and his promise to his mother temporarily forgotten. He surprised himself, and Leroy, by running him down in the space of two blocks, leaping on his back and immediately beginning to yank on his long hair as if pulling on the reins of a wild stallion.

“Ow! Ow, my hair. Le’go my hair, you little punk!” Leroy screamed in a voice drifting perilously and incrementally into a soprano range.

“Give me those pages!” Jimmy hollered in reply. “You should’n’a took those pages, Leroy!”

Jimmy rode him all the way to the ground where Leroy finally relinquished his grip on the precious pages in order to concentrate on beating the stuffing out of Jimmy, which he accomplished in short order.

“And that’s for pulling my hair, lambchop!” he said while delivering a final stinging slap to the back of Jimmy’s head before stalking off, the pages left lying scattered and forgotten on the ground.

Jimmy thought about asking Leroy what he found particularly insulting about the term, “lambchop” that would cause him to employ its usage so regularly, but decided that’d be pushing his luck. As it was he’d gotten off with only a knot on the back of his head, a slightly puffy lip and scraped knees—injuries that were well worth the effort if it meant having the Spiderman pages back.

Crawling in a rough semi-circle he gathered up the ones that hadn’t blown completely away, smoothing out the wrinkles before beginning the walk back toward the pharmacy. It was right about then that he discovered to his utter shock and dismay, that page one and two were not, in fact, related to the current story, but contained advertisements for two new comic books “coming soon.”

He started to get really mad, but decided in the end that the whole thing had been worth it just to hear Leroy Marshall scream like a girl.

Hollow Girl

2012-07-20T11:47:00.000-07:00

It was a rare, sun splashed morning in OB, the marine layer having retreated somewhere beyond the blue horizon.

And good riddance!

I mean coming from the desert I haven’t minded the cool, misty mornings, but when the misty mornings turn to misty, windy afternoons for days on end it eventually begins to wear on you.

A four-foot swell had the surfers out in force and the premium spots on the sand were filling rapidly with beachgoers out for a day of fanciful frolic: Families with enough gear to justify a week of camping; groups of young teenaged girls whose every movement was tracked with laser-like intensity by groups of teenaged boys; middle-aged couples lounging under the shade of artfully placed beach umbrellas taking in the unfolding drama with detached amusement.

St. Arbuck’s was packed with patrons, and while the demographic defied categorization there seemed to be an overarching and pervasive spirit of good humor and conviviality in the room.

Except, that is, for one couple.

They sat in stony silence, neither glancing at nor speaking to one another, their expressions reflective of people who didn’t really want to be together.

They were an odd pair.

She: Early thirties with ill-cut, shoulder length, drab, brown hair; large, blue eyes set off by a facial bone structure and clarity of complexion that could have easily been transformed into stunning beauty under the skilled hands of a makeover artist. A gray, below-the-knee shift, that seemed more suited to one forty years her senior, mostly obscured a trim, athletic figure.

He: Fifty, with graying hair that fell in greasy strands to just below his jaw line; overly large, metal-rimmed glasses; mismatched shirt and slacks; sallow, pitted complexion with thin lips that did little to offset his rheumy, gray eyes.

She took a slow sip of her coffee, peered at the ceiling over the rim of the cup, decided that there was nothing there of interest and then looked back at down at the table.

Returning the cup carefully to its saucer, she began to arrange the items on her side of the table—spoon, sugar, creamer, water glass—all placed just so, then rearranged in seeming random order as if desperate for something to occupy her attention.

The man held a flip-top cell phone in front of his face in the manner of one whose vision has deteriorated to the point that even with corrective lenses reading is a challenge, laboriously tapping out what I assumed to be a text message.

I suddenly found myself caught by the woman’s eyes—a gaze uncommonly stark and unwavering in its focus.

I quickly looked away only to glance back a few seconds later to find that she was still staring.

I looked down at my computer screen.

Glanced up again.

Still staring.

Just when I began to get really uncomfortable, I suddenly realized that there was no challenge in her eyes, no seduction, no humor, no interest...just...nothing.

She simply stared.

A bead of perspiration appeared on my forehead, succumbed to gravity and slowly moved downward, slipping past my nose and onto my cheek. I fought the urge to begin waving my hands in an effort to provoke a reaction.

Who were these people, anyway?

It didn’t seem plausible that they were man and wife, but neither was he old enough to be her father. Perhaps she was a younger sister, niece...personal assistant? For some reason I settled on the latter.

She flicked her eyes at the man briefly before returning to the object of her apparent fascination, i.e., me.

I mean, why me? Why not the guy seated at the table next to me? Was she trying to convey to me that I had something on my face, my head, my clothing that needed to be removed in order to save embarrassment? Did she find me attractive; hideous; enthralling?

In the end I dismissed all of the above as I realized that she was merely seeking some form of human contact, for it was abundantly obvious that, whatever their relationship, she had none from the man seated across from her.

Without preamble the man abruptly stood, brushed a few crumbs off of his protuberant belly, turned and headed for the door, pushing through it and walking purposefully toward a large, late model Mercedes leaving the young woman hastily scrambling to gather her things and hurry after.

Pausing just before exiting the store, she glanced briefly in my direction, the depth of despair in her eyes nearly palpable in its intensity.

Then, with head and eyes downcast, she trudged after the man as if walking through a field of quicksand, opened the driver’s door, climbed behind the wheel and drove away.

I stared after the car for a few seconds, pondering the significance of what I had just experienced, indeed, wondering if there was any significance at all or if the entire episode had been a mere random occurrence to be dismissed and quickly forgotten.

“Mate, do you know the password?” said a heavily accented voice off to my left.

Giving my head a quick shake I replied, “I’m sorry?”

“The Internet. Do you know the password to get on the store’s Wi-Fi?” said a twenty-something Australian Hipster.

I gave it to him and discussed briefly how amazing it was to have nearly universal Internet connection before returning to my musing.

Ultimately I decided that it wasn’t the girl’s stare that had left me in such a troubled state, but, rather, what I had seen in the depths of her eyes.

I may never see her again, I will doubtless see others who struggle against the same soul stripping despondency—even in the midst of a busy, bustling, bright and blithesome coffee shop; individuals deserving of my compassion and attention.

“That’s not it, mate!” said the Hipster.

“Excuse me?”

“The password. It’s not bloody working.”

I wrote it out for him on a slip of paper and handed it across the divide between our tables.

He laughed. “Well, then, that explains it. I heard you say something completely different.”

We talked for a few more minutes during which time I learned that he was visiting from Perth and was considering a move to San Diego to attend UCSD’s International House, home to approximately 260 students from more than 30 countries who live and learn together as a community.

Life was good. He, in fact, loved his life—loved everything about it. Wouldn’t trade with anyone.

He was filled with hope.

She was hollow.

The juxtaposition of two such disparate life trajectories was startling in its contrast.

And yet, it doesn’t require a great deal of effort to alter trajectory—ask any sharpshooter or archer.

I bid him a good day, closed my laptop and headed for my giant, red Kronan Swedish Army bike, which I’d left chained to a pole outside having lost all interest in novel writing for the moment.

Hollow girl.

The black Mercedes appeared in the periphery of my vision and then cruised slowly past; the driver’s side window rolled down and the girl gave me a funny little wave.

I waved back.

She smiled.

It transformed her face.

I pedaled slowly homeward.

Birth Control

2012-07-18T14:26:00.000-07:00

Honesty compels me to confess that rowdy children in a small, enclosed space like St. Arbuck’s is not one of my favorite things.

Actually, now that I think about it, unruly kids are off-putting regardless of the environment.

And don’t get me started on the topic of inattentive, permissive parental units!

So, there I sat in my favorite coffee bar, doing battle with the bloated monstrosity also known as my current novel when the erstwhile calm was shattered by the arrival of a single dad and three—count ‘em—three young daughters.

Redheads.

Not that hair color has any particular bearing on the propensity of a child toward disruptive behavior, just stating an observational fact.

No, seriously.

How did I know he was a single dad? I think it was his eyes, the way they cast about the room as if seeking rescue, or, perhaps, at the very least understanding and compassion.

The three little darlings—approximate ages 5, 7 and 9—stormed immediately toward the pastry counter shoving and elbowing each other while at the same time shrieking in that frequency of voice that, seemingly, only young girls are capable of emitting.

“I get to order first!”

(Shriek!) “Noooo! You ordered first last time!”

“Me first! MeeeeeeeeFiiiiiiirrrrrrrsssssstttttt!!!” (Shriek! Shriek! Shriek!)

You get the picture.

The littlest one, and obvious, at least to my ringing ears, vocal champ, planted herself squarely in front of the register and refused to be budged by either of her sisters although they had at least a foot in height and twenty pounds body weight on her.

“Daaaaaaaaaddddd!” wailed the eldest. “Mary won’t move out of the way! Daaaaaaaaaddddd!”

The beleaguered father staggered forward as if in a daze, his mouth working wordlessly, arms flapping helplessly at his sides, head pinioning atop his shoulders as he scanned the menu board.

“Mary,” he said softly. “Why don’t you let Siobhan order first this morning?”

“Nooooooooooooo!” Mary shrieked. “Nooooooo! Noooooo! Noooooooooooooooooo!”

This bombast was accompanied by much gesticulation and stomping of her tiny feet.

It became quickly and indisputably clear that wee Mary was the boss in this family.

The middle child chimed in. “Why does she always get what she wants? I never get anything!” Arms crossed; chin tucked against her thin chest; the corners of her cute little mouth turned down in an epic pout.

“Now Bonnie,” reasoned dad, who by now had recovered somewhat from his previous stupor. “You know that Mary doesn’t always get her way.”

“Whatever!” This from Siobhan, with a roll of her piercing blue eyes tossed in for emphasis.

As for what happened next, I couldn’t rightly say for at that moment I had a pressing matter that required my attention, to whit heeding the insistent call of a middle-aged bladder.

I had no sooner turned on the light in the men’s room than I heard a significant ruckus filtering through the wall of the adjoining women’s room.

It seemed that the tiny trio of sisters had all simultaneously sensed the selfsame need as I.

With dad temporarily out of earshot (although I’m convinced anyone within a hundred feet could’ve heard every word clearly) Bonnie and Siobhan seized the opportunity to let Mary have it!

Rather than provide blow-by-blow color commentary, suffice it to say that the tag team diatribe involved derogatory descriptions of their younger sibling shocking to hear spoken from such young and innocent lips.

All of which eventually provoked Mary to explore aural frequencies that I am quite sure were previously unknown to human kind.

Sheer morbid fascination caused me to linger over the sink, washing and rewashing my hands as I listened in rapt attention to the unfolding drama unfolding one wall away.

Suddenly I heard a pounding coming from the hallway: Dad had arrived on the scene, yanked finally and violently from his torpor.

“What. Is. Going. On. In. There?” Followed by more pounding and, “Open this door! Right! Now!”

Now I was stuck. I mean there was no way I was going to walk out and right into the middle of a, well, domestic dispute of some proportions.

So I did what any self-respecting person would’ve done in my spot. I pressed my ear to the wall and listened.

Sadly, the concurrent decibel-intensive and cacophonous mash-up of sound that followed the father’s entrance made it impossible to distinguish much beyond the occasional,

“But Daaaaaaaadddddd!”

“She said...”

“I did not!”

“SHE DID TOO!!!”

And so on, and so on.

Eventually the dad said—in his outside voice, I might add—“That’s it! We’re outta here!” to the apparent chagrin and collective displeasure of the sisterhood of the traveling shrieks.

“Out to the car! All of you! I can’t take you anywhere!” mumble, mumble; wail, wail; shriek, shriek.

And off they went.

When I felt it safe to emerge from my place of refuge, I did so just in time to spy the dad herding them all into the family minivan, wee Mary’s mouth seemingly locked open in perpetual, wailing complaint.

I didn’t envy him the ride home.

Glancing at the barista as I retook my seat she nodded her head slowly while saying, “Birth control!”

“As in, he should’ve practiced it, or that scene was effective birth control for you?”

“Yeah,” she said with a grin. “That’s it.”

In Which RG Sells His Soul

2012-07-08T08:07:00.000-07:00

6:00 AM Sunday morning.

It’s quiet here in the desert on this already sizzling Sunday—88º and if the local weather wags are to be believed we’re on our way to 111º today.

And, based on sixteen years experience here in Las Vegas, when it comes to predicting heat, I believe them.

I’m up early because...well, I don’t really know why.

Actually, that’s not entirely true.

When I woke up at 5:30 I immediately began thinking of all the things I had to accomplish today and realized with grudging clarity that my mind was, yet again, dictating my sleep schedule.

Don’t you just hate that? I mean the way your mind overrides your body’s need for sleep, jumping up and down, flapping its arms and screaming, “Up! Get up! We’ve got stuff to do! Come on, you slug-a-bed!”

So, I grabbed my computer, the Sunday fishwrap, aka the local paper, and headed out for my favorite St. Arbuck’s for some reading, writing and ruminating.

Pulling in to the parking lot I noticed a group of people seated in a rough semi-circle in front of the establishment’s front door—people who vaguely resembled the staff.

I parked my SUV, got out and walked toward the dour looking assemblage and realized with some consternation that it was, indeed, the Sunday morning staff.

Noticing that all the lights were off inside the store, I said, “Did I not get the memo?”

The manager just shook his head and smiled wearily. “Our water is turned off.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know,” replied a barista with a tired yawn. “I got here at 4:00 AM to open, went inside and there was no water.”

“And no water, no coffee!” said the manager bitterly.

I asked, “What are you going to do?”

“We’re waiting for a plumber to show up, and providing feeble excuses to our regular customers as to why they can’t have their morning coffee,” the manager said with a wry grin.

I was immediately torn between my pressing need for caffeine and the voyeuristic desire to pull up a chair to watch the drama that would undoubtedly unfold.

“Well,” I said. “As much as I’d love to stick around and watch you practice crowd control, I gotta go.”

“Bye, RG,” said the group in dreary unison as they turned their attention to the next staggering coffee enthusiast.

“Enthusiast” is a word I routinely substitute for “addict.” It sounds so much more palatable.

Back in my car, I sorted through a list of options, which included, but were not limited to, going home and actually making a pot of coffee; going next door to the bagel shop...okay, I was kidding about those two. I’m such a kidder sometimes. I often crack myself up I’m such a kidder.

I drove out of the parking lot and went up the street to my backup St. Arbuck’s; parked my car and walked toward the front entrance.

Much to my surprise and utter vexation, the front door was closed and locked!

I peeked in through the window and spied the craven staff huddling behind the counter—in the dark—casting furtive glances my way.

“We’re closed,” mouthed the lily-livered manager with an awkward grin.

I looked around the immediate area to see if I was on one of those “Gotcha!” videos or something.

I was not.

It was real.

They were closed.

The manager finally came out of hiding and walked toward the door.

“Our sewer...” something, something, “and we can’t open.”

I said, “You’re kidding!”

She stood on the other side of the glass and just shrugged her shoulders. “Well, it’s not the end of the world. You could just go over to...”

“They’re closed too!” I said, probably louder than necessary.

“What?”

I nodded my head vigorously in reply.

She turned and yelled the information to the rest of the staff, who, in turn slunk deeper into the darkness.

“Well,” she said with an attempt at an encouraging smile. “Good luck,” before turning and, with a little wave over her shoulder, joining her spineless, cowering staff.

I hollered, “At least the other guys had the courage...” they weren’t listening, so I just turned around and stomped back to my car.

I was in a tight spot!

I had to have coffee and I had to have it soon.

“Ah-ha!” said I, as a realization suddenly wormed its way into my consciousness.

I say, “Ah-ha!” a lot when encountering a brilliant thought.

While I hadn’t been there in a while, I knew of another St. Arbuck’s less than a mile away.

“Perfect!”

With a renewed sense of purpose I drove toward caffeine heaven, confident that my drowsiness would soon be addressed and eliminated.

You can imagine the sense of mind-numbing horror when I drove by my last bastion of hope and saw a sign in the darkened window proclaiming that a kabob restaurant was “coming soon.”

“What the heck is going on?” I said out loud to absolutely no one.

I panicked! Beads of cold sweat began to coat my brow as my mind cast desperately about for a solution to the situation at hand.

While it shames me to admit it, figurative tail between my legs I did what anyone in such a tenuous position would’ve done.

You know, the coffee at the golden arches isn’t really all that bad.

Marshmallows And Things That Go “Boom” In The Night

2012-07-06T12:26:00.001-07:00

Ocean Beach is quiet on this morning after Independence Day.

The thickening marine layer drizzles its excess, watering vegetation, slicking the roadways and rendering yesterday’s carwashes frustratingly futile.

Outside of St. Arbuck’s two TV trucks with distended satellite uplink towers are parked in proximity to the massive community cleanup effort being waged against the mountains of marshmallows littering the main beach.

Yes, I said, “marshmallows.”

While no one is entirely certain when the tradition began, each year following the Ocean Beach Pier fireworks show, a massive marshmallow war is waged between several thousand participants.

And in honor of OB’s 125^th Anniversary I decided to join in the festivities.

Well before the fireworks finale, the fight was on!

We started on the sand at the main beach by the pier with a crew of eight, including my daughter, her husband and several of their friends. But like an ever-growing amoeba we eventually spilled over onto the area around Abbot and Newport Avenues where those of us from the beach formed an ad hoc coalition to battle the guests of the Ocean Beach Hotel who were ensconced on the balconies mercilessly peppering all of us on the street.

They had the high ground...but we had—Tat, da, da, dah!!!—SUPER MARSHMALLOWS!

Those suckers were the size of my fist!

The ICBM’s of marshmallow fighting.

The Electromagnetic Pulse Weapon of sticky soldiering.

The Neutron Bomb of...okay, I’ll stop.

At some point I discovered that I had lost contact with our crew and there were only two of us left.

My aide-de-camp was a young, German tourist who had come along with another friend of my daughter’s.

We were a good team, scavenging the street for discarded ammo, passing it off to whoever was in the most strategic position at the time.

The most satisfying moment of the night came when I nailed a particularly arrogant and quite drunk bloke on the balcony right in the kisser. Knocked his head backward and dislodged his silly “gangsta” cap.

I may or may not have done a joy dance in the street.

Mein deutscher Freund was laying waste to any and everyone in his path. So effective were his throws that I eventually abandoned my own efforts entirely, turning my energies, instead, to the acquisition of ammunition for the rocket-armed foreigner.

So enamored was he with the experience, he vowed to take the tradition back to Germany with him.

At one point everything came to a dead stop as a massive “boom” filled the air and the sky to the south lit up with unusual intensity causing our surroundings to briefly take on the appearance of broad daylight.

We later learned the source of the illumination: San Diego’s famous Big Bay Boom, which was to be an eighteen minute fireworks extravaganza shot off from four strategically placed barges, went bust as all of the fireworks were triggered simultaneously through a technician’s glitch.

I wouldn’t want to be that technician.

The fifty thousand attendees were not amused. Not at all amused.

Back in OB, the "Battle Royale" resumed, enjoyed with good-natured civility by all.

We, however, had run out of ammo and, with arms hanging in limply by our sides, slogged through the tacky muck coating the streets and sidewalks and made our way back to my daughter’s house to await the return of our original crew.

I’m happy to report that we had no casualties save for the soles of our shoes, which had been rendered gummy, gooey horrors.

I’d do it again.

Only next time I’m bringing...a marshmallow shooter!

Oh yeah!

Coyote Brothers

2012-06-29T10:30:00.000-07:00

Classic cars of all shapes, colors and vintage lined the street outside of St. Arbuck’s along with hundreds of appreciative strollers drinking in the lines and shapes of automotive history.

The Beach Boys cover band across the way pounded out the hits as onions, sweet relish and chilidogs saturated the air with the scent of nostalgia.

We were in an east San Diego county city, known for its small town flavor, that was hosting the first of a summer series of classic car shows.

Inside St. Arbuck’s a sixty-something man wearing a Hawaii shirt and beige Ivy Hat, was tuning his guitar on a low stage in front of a small sound system.

It was a very nice guitar—custom by the looks of it.

With most of the action out on the street, the customers inside were few and far between, my wife and I, along with our friend, comprising more than half.

He didn’t seem to mind though, launching enthusiastically into a quite good version of Elvis’s, “In The Ghetto,” “The Impossible Dream,” and other songs from the sixties.

I have to hand it to him, in spite of his age, the guy could sing. And his guitar skills were remarkable!

Between songs he kept up an easy banter with the, um, crowd, i.e. the three of us (the other two people were with him) and explained that he was going to do a few songs he had written. Before each, he gave a brief context from which he had derived the inspiration for writing the song, all quite interesting.

And the songs were good.

Very good.

That is, until his final song.

Even now as I write this I’m not sure if he was serious or massively pulling our collective legs, but he—with a totally serious face—talked about his love of...wait for it...coyotes. He loved them so much, in fact, that he had composed a special song in their, well, honor.

Strumming his guitar lightly, in a rhythm reminiscent of classic songs from the old west (think “Cool Water” by Sons Of The Pioneers. If you don’t know who they are, forget it!) he invited us to “sing along” when he got to a certain point.

Shooting him a puzzled look, he explained that we’d have no trouble, “Knowing when that was.”

So he starts singing.

It wasn't a bad melody, and the rhythmic chord progression was pleasing to the ear.

It was when he got to the chorus that things got a little weird. The words went something like, “So sing with me, coyote brothers; sumpn’ sumpn’ sumpn’ and the world will see a forest symphony.”

You’ll probably think I’m stretching literary license to the absolute limits, but I swear I’m not making this next part up: At that point in the song, he began to howl; his two friends howled, one of whom had joined him on stage; the baristas howled; my WIFE AND OUR FRIEND howled!

Me? I stared, mouth agape with, “Seriously?” forming on my lips.

A new batch of customers walked in, thus doubling the attendance.

The chorus came around again.

They howled as well.

I felt as if I were losing my mind.

My wife kept poking me in the ribs and giving me the look that said, “You’re just an old party pooper.” Now that I think about it, I’ve never known what that means, exactly. How does one go about “pooping” a party? I mean is it, God forbid, to be taken literally?

With a jaunty, “One more time,” he launched into the chorus again.

“So, sing with me, coyote brothers...”

This time around the patrons and employees hoisted their lattes and bellowed as if it were an Irish drinking song, only without the fighting—unless, of course, me "fighting" to keep a straight face counts!

The howling was nothing short of...inspirational.

And, yet, I remained silent and the guy still hadn’t cracked a smile, which led me to conclude that it was not, in fact a gag, but something near and dear to his heart.

“And the world will see a forest symphony...”

And I thought Ocean Beach was quirky!

Killer Ending

2012-06-27T11:24:00.002-07:00

So, my brother-in-law dropped me off at the airport yesterday morning to fly back to San Diego.

I got out of his car and started to walk across the pedestrian bridge that leads to the terminal (an odd choice of terms if you ask me for a place so fraught with terror for many) and I suddenly realized that I didn't have my phone.

So I thought, "Ok, I'll just call him...oh, wait...I don't have my phone. Duh!"

It was right about then I remembered a device from antiquity known as the "pay phone," and set out in search of one thinking, "I'll just call him on a pay...oh, wait...I don't have any change."

So I bought a useless pack of gum—I don't chew gum and haven't for quite some time—for the express purpose of having two quarters in my possession so I could place the call.

I found a pay phone.

It didn't work.

I found another one.

It didn't work either.

I found another one.

It worked.

It worked so well it ate my precious quarters and wouldn't allow me to make the call!!!!

(And, yes, I DID, in fact, just use FOUR exclamation points!)

Here’s a few more for good measure!!!!!!!!

A little notice appeared on the pay phone’s digital screen thanking me for using Century Link. Whadda ya’ know about that? Polite crooks!

So, I found another pay phone purely by chance that accepted credit cards and started to call him when I thought, "Oh, wait...I don't know his number!"

By now I was nearly in panic mode, thinking ridiculous thoughts like taking a taxi back home in order to retrieve my phone, when I realized that I could call my wife in San Diego and have her call my brother-in-law and have him bring the phone back.

So, I called her and said, "Hey, I think I..." and she cut me off with, "Yes. He knows and is trying to find you."

As I was just about to ask her to call him and tell him I'd meet him at the passenger pickup area, he tapped my on my shoulder and handed my phone to me.

I could've kissed him!

I'm telling you right now that when you are leaving town for several days and realize you are without your cell phone, it messes you up! I'm talking the big leagues of messed up! Helplessness assails your senses leaving you reeling with insecurity and isolation.

And, no, I'm not overstating the case!

Phone firmly in hand, I called my wife back to inform her that all was well and that I was headed for my gate.

Passed through security in five—that's FIVE minutes, people—and walked about a mile and a half.

Got to the gate area and couldn't find my flight!

Upon checking the departures screen—which, for the record, one should absolutely do upon arrival at the airport—I learned, to my utter dismay and consternation, that my flight was not, in fact, leaving from the C gates, but from the B GATES!!

No idea how to get to the B gates!

I asked an oh, so helpful TSA agent how to get there and he told me—barely hiding a smirk—that I had to go back the mile and a half I'd just walked, and then go a little further and I'd find them, "No problem."

Right.

So I walked.

And walked some more.

And...well...you get the picture.

Needless to say that by the time I got to my gate I was in a full sweat and ready to do substantial bodily harm to anybody foolish enough to give me any more trouble. Fortunately, I had a low number and was able to board in the first boarding group; got a great seat—on the aisle—with no one in the middle seat.

It was a full flight but after everyone was on the plane, the seat was still empty.

And then, HE came down the aisle.

All 5'6" and 350 lbs of him.

There were two seats left on the flight: The one next to me and another right across the aisle...both middle seats.

A woman was right behind him.

She did NOT weigh 350 and I really started hoping in earnest that she'd sit in the middle seat in our row.

The man looked them both over, and, for reasons known only to the gods of flying, chose to sit...you guessed it...by me.

There was no, “Hey, do you mind if I squeeze in there?” or, “Excuse me, but that looks like the only seat.” Noooooo...he just stepped over me without a word before I could even get up to allow him—ALL of him—to pass, brushing his quite enormous bottom against my face in the process, an experience that I am quite sure will leave me emotionally scarred for what’s left of my life!

Now, when I say, "sit," I use the term only in the most liberal of definitions. Mainly, what he did was sprawl! I had to spend the entire flight turned sideways in my seat with my back to the rude interloper to keep from being crushed!

His elbows didn't just occupy the armrests of the middle seat...they intruded into HALF the space of MY seat!

Lest you get the wrong idea, it wasn't his size that was the issue, for I've flown with people far larger than he with no problem whatsoever. I once flew from Las Vegas to Florida in the window seat with a man and his wife as seatmates, each of whom were north of 400. Had a great time.

The problem with this man was the way he exercised complete and utter disregard for me and the other poor unfortunate in the window seat who, to the best of my knowledge, didn't survive the flight but was assimilated into the molecules of the fuselage.

I may or may not have made that last part up.

I looked with naked longing at the row across the aisle where the three occupants were chatting amiably; sprightly laughter echoing throughout the cabin, each with plenty of room; enjoying themselves immensely.

It shames me to admit it, but I began to hate my seatmate! I mean, I was hanging so far out into the aisle that the flight attendants had to excuse themselves to get around me.

And then...he went to sleep! I’m fighting for survival, and he goes to sleep! Noisily.

Mercifully, after what seemed an eternity of days the flight ended and I thought my suffering was over...sadly, he had one more rude surprise left for me. As soon as the plane docked at the gate, he sprang up out of his seat and bulled his way past me—big bottom and all—without so much as a, "Beg your pardon," and stood in the aisle blocking my exit.

Now, those of you who know me know that I am often easily frustrated, and when frustrated have been known to ~~yell,~~ ~~punch things~~, ~~throw things~~, act in an inappropriate manner. However, I controlled myself and simply decided to let the situation play itself out.

I looked across the aisle...they were still laughing! Ha, ha, ha...laughing, and carrying on as if they didn't have a care in the world.

I began to hate them too...but only for a few minutes. Eventually, I figured, "Hey, I'm going to be in San Diego for three days. It's worth it."

And then, instead of "walking" up the jetway, he sort of, well, moseyed. You know what I'm talking about: That slower-than-molasses-in-winter-I've-got-the-rest-of-my-life-to-be-in-front of you walk?

Like that.

I don't have a killer ending to this story...because, I didn't kill him.

So, I've got that going for me.

Which is nice.

And, how was your day?

The Modern Family

2012-06-23T10:49:00.000-07:00

St. Arbuck’s is busy and typically noisy on this late Friday morning in mid-June. It’s a wonder I ever get anything done within that environment, but I do. It’s as if the ambient noise provides a cocoon within which I am freed up creatively.

I know, it makes no sense.

Not sure how this is going to go today, as I’m a bit fried from lack of sleep protracted over several nights complicated by depleted creatively due to the intensity of effort on the novel...you’re really excited to keep reading, right?

(Insert appropriate smiley-faced emoticon)

A family of four entered—mom, dad, teen son and preteen daughter—and sat in close proximity to my table.

And then they ordered.

And then they got their drinks.

And then they sat back down.

And then they pulled out their iPhones.

And...well...then that was pretty much it.

All four of them sat there pecking away on their virtual keyboards in silence except for the occasional giggle from the son and daughter resulting from something witty they had said to each other via text.

The dad leaned over to the mom to show her something on his screen; she smiled, showed him something on her iPhone, but neither said a word.

This went on for a good thirty minutes.

I wasn’t making any kind of judgment on what I was seeing; I just found the scene to be amusing and utterly fascinating.

Suddenly all four of them erupted into laughter—the mom had sent them a mass text containing a humorous picture.

The dad’s phone vibrated, he answered the call and stepped outside to talk.

A minute or two later, the mom did the same thing while the kids now sat there by themselves.

About ten minutes later, the daughter looked up from her phone, glanced around and seemed to notice for the first time that mom and dad were gone.

“Hey, where did mom and dad go?” she asked her brother.

He grudgingly roused himself from his reverie, looked around the room and shrugged his shoulders before going back to whatever it was that he had been doing.

The last I saw of them, the dad was pacing on the sidewalk in front of St. Arbuck’s, one hand holding his phone and the other gesturing broadly while carrying on a very serious conversation; the mom standing outside just to the right of the entrance, shoulder pressing the phone to her left ear while chatting amiably and worrying a hangnail on one of her fingers; the kids standing together directly in front of the door, phones held in both hands, heads bowed, eyes focused on their respective screens oblivious of arriving customers having to step around them to gain entrance.

I smiled, shook my head in wonder and went back to surveying the ebb and flow of life unfolding before me.

The modern family.

Interesting.

In Which RG Climbs Atop His Soapbox

2012-06-19T11:22:00.001-07:00

OB is quiet this morning.

A stippling of sun has managed to fight its way through the pervasive marine layer holding out the promise of an afternoon of tanning to those who are so inclined.

Even St. Arbuck’s is quiet.

The usual crush of boisterous customers has been replaced by a sedate and studious group, each of whom appears to be focused on terribly important things happening on their laptops.

Truthfully, the only audible conversation is happening at a table ten or fifteen feet away between two twenty-something young men and since both are basically loud-talkers, I cannot help but hear.

I keep hearing the word “church” a lot, followed by “youth,” so my assumption—call it an educated guess, if you will—is that one young man is interviewing for a position as youth leader at a church where the other young man is already on staff.

I find it interesting that there has been not one mention of “program,” save in the most derogatory of terms.

Their focus is on people...not programs.

And I find that extraordinarily admirable.

Far too often those involved in ministry blindly follow a marketplace mentality that seems to dictate that all people, regardless of demographic, must be managed.

Perhaps I’m just getting cranky (I can hear my dulcet-voiced beloved intoning, “Getting cranky?”) but I profoundly resent the idea of “people management.”

I even question the whole idea of “human resources,” because the moment you concede that people are “resources,” you have conceded that they are expendable.

“But, they require management!” goes the argument.

My opinion—and this is my opinion—is that you manage resources and develop people; nurture people; speak into the frozen wasteland of their hearts and stand in amazement as treasure rises out of the rubble of broken dreams and failed expectations.

What if—and this is a “what if” of massive proportions—but, what if corporations, churches included, began hiring people not on the basis of what they could do for their company, but what the company could do to fan their spark of potential into flame and thereby reap exponentially higher returns.

Some would label me as being hopelessly naïve, and perhaps rightly so.

But I can’t help believing that there are better ways of doing things than what is already being done, because what is already being done isn’t producing exactly stellar returns.

By the way...he got the job.

A Day In The Life

2012-06-14T09:19:00.000-07:00

The locals call it “June gloom.”

I call it heaven!

Mornings here in the OB are shrouded in a thick, ensorcelled, vaporous canopy of fog compelling in its ability to cause one to slow down; to regard one’s surroundings, and the people who dwell therein, with a more comprehending and compassionate eye.

I had leisurely pedaled my Kronan Swedish Army bike (which I’ve dubbed “Kronan the Destroyer” for its sixty pound frame) through the mist on my way to a favorite beachside St. Arbuck’s for a cuppa Joe and morning writing session.

Across the street the swell was building and surfers were out in force, clad head to toe in wetsuits that fit like a second skin.

Truthfully, they fit some better than others.

Way better!

There is much I could write on that topic, but will spare you for now and save it for another time.

St. Arbuck’s was vibrant with local color and I collected my medium coffee, with room for cream, found a table out of the general flow and sat down to observe the drama.

There is always drama...you just have to be willing to watch for it.

In the corner, a poorly dressed, unkempt hearing-impaired man signed prolifically and energetically, leaning forward in his seat to be more clearly captured by his iPhone’s facetime feature. His smile and glowing countenance suggested that there was possibly woman on the other end of the call—a very special woman, by the looks of it. It occurred to me that the iPhone technology had opened up a whole new world of communication possibilities to hearing-impaired people the world over. Thank-you Steve Jobs!

A young man dressed-out in the dark blue uniform of the US Coast Guard entered hurriedly, ordered quickly and departed hastily, the carry tray and four cups of coffee indicating that he was on “special assignment.”

A group of three preteen girls—actually, now that I think about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a preteen girl by herself as they tend to run in packs—entered with mom in tow jabbering excitedly. It seemed they were about to have their very first coffee experience. Mom caught my gaze, rolled her eyes conspiratorially and shook her head. The eye roll is a universal symbol of parental expression. Transcendent of language, color or creed, it is a way of saying, “We’re in this together.”

The young man sitting at an adjacent table, dressed in an ill-fitting shirt, slacks and mismatched tie, sweated his way through a job interview. His nervous fiddling with said tie seemed to indicate that the interviewer’s rapid-fire questions were having an unsettling and frustrating effect. Obviously in a role-playing situation, the interviewer finally said, “Okay, suppose I were to tell you that your product isn’t something I’m interested in purchasing. How would you respond to that?” The young job seeker’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly for a few seconds. “I...guess...I...I would thank you for your time and wish you a good day,” was all he said before hanging his head and shaking it slowly, his lips compressed into a tight line. “Blew it again!” the unspoken pronouncement of his heart.

A pretty young woman with freckles, strawberry blonde hair and bright blue eyes sat down at the table right in front of me. One by one she placed a ceramic mug, a container of hot water, with the string from a tea bag dangling over the side, and an iPad onto the tabletop in precise order. Just as she sat down, her phone buzzed and she carried on a brief conversation in a heavy Scottish accent all the while arranging and rearranging her items. The mug was moved forward and then back; now juxtaposed with the hot water container, now in front of it; the iPad lined up with the near edge of the table, now the far edge; back and forth, back and forth, her hands in constant motion. Looking up from her call she saw me grinning, smiled, blushed charmingly and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “Can’t be helped. It’s what I do.”

One of the baristas, with elaborate neck tattoos creeping inexorably toward a flawless face, walked outside carrying a tin of water for a homeless man’s dog. The scruffy creature sat forlornly, tied to a table and awaiting its master’s return. It wasn’t a handsome animal, equal parts this and that, but she treated it with tenderness and respect the effects of which were immediate. With a bounce in her step the barista came back inside, and as she passed my table said, “I love dogs.”

A sip of coffee and a sigh.

Just another day in the life.

Midnight Marauder

2012-06-12T16:48:00.001-07:00

As a result of fairly miraculous financial circumstances, we are staying in Ocean Beach this summer.

Well, Cheri is "staying," while I commute back and forth to Las Vegas on the weekends.

We're not on vacation (see previous post regarding, "Getting It Right").

But it's an outright blessing.

The house we're renting is a classic, 1921 Southern California beach bungalow complete with all of the original windows, doorknobs and hardwood flooring.

It's a jewel.

All five hundred and twenty-one feet of it.

I've told you before about the marvelous, eclectic ambiance of Ocean Beach so I'll not repeat myself.

What I haven't told you is that Ocean Beach has a rather infamous skunk!

I'm not kidding.

Whether it's one skunk, or an entire litter is open for discussion.

The reality is that said skunk makes an appearance at the most inopportune moments.

Like last night.

One-thirty AM.

I awoke from a most pleasant dream to a most unpleasant odor.

It was fetid, rank, and not a little bit nauseating!

The skunk was on the prowl.

The skulking OB skunk is notorious for filling the community resident's olfactory senses with a scent so foul as to make one believe that the portals of hell have opened and one is poised on the precipice between the living and the dead...and the dead are winning!

Hurrying to close each and every portal to the outside world, I collapsed back into bed hoping against hope that the midnight marauder would veer from its plotted course and savage someone else's nostrils.

Alas...it was not to be.

Seemingly, the dread creature camped out just below our bedroom window, savagely intruding upon our nocturnal slumber.

In the face of such blatant intrusion, I did what any rational, cognitive adult would've done in similar circumstances: I closed the window in fondest hopes that by ignoring the repulsive creature...it would go away.

I am nothing if not resourceful!

Life In The OB

2012-06-11T08:05:00.001-07:00

Ocean Beach is, in my experience anyway, unlike any other southern California beach city. You see things here—things readily accepted as being a part of normal life—that would cause alarm or, at the very least, arouse interest elsewhere.

Take, for example, my experience a few mornings ago.

The beloved and myself were out for a morning stroll—an early morning stroll...too early for my taste—when we spied something that, even by the bohemian, counter-culture, über tolerant standards of Ocean Beach, caused me to do not a double, but a full triple-take.

Now that I think about it, it could be the first one I’ve ever executed in my lifetime.

For there on the sidewalk in front of us, not twenty feet away, was a man with a pet on a leash.

The pet was a cat.

A cat!

You might as well know that I’m not overly fond of the species, although as a child I once owned an exceptional feline of whom I was quite fond. He lived to be seventeen. The rental house where we are summering—is that even a word?—is host to an ancient twenty year-old kitty. I like that cat as well.

Anyway...

It was upon spying the unusual sight that the aforementioned triple-take was executed. I mean, come on now, walking a cat on a leash? Cats? The same creatures notorious for ignoring even the simplest ~~commands~~ requests of their ~~masters~~, ~~owners~~, staff?

You know, as I write this, it occurs to me that perhaps I’ve got the scenario all wrong: Perhaps it was the cat who was walking the man.

That’s it.

It has to be.

There’s simply no other explanation.

Of course I did once observe two women here in Ocean Beach pulling a duck...wait for it...in a stroller.

Saturday Morning Musings: Resonance

2012-06-09T09:05:00.000-07:00

He’s there every day.

Heck, I even see him in the afternoons and evenings; always with a different group of people; always with a few recent creations tucked under his arm.

I won’t tell you his name, because I know he treasures anonymity.

He was a Gunnery Sergeant in the Marine Corps; so, I’ll just call him, “Gunny.”

Gunny’s an artist by trade, although he didn’t start until he retired from Corps at the age of fifty.

He’s good.

Very good.

Although to look at him you’d never expect it.

Creeping up on seventy, his longish white hair mostly hidden under a New York Yankees cap; always wearing a Harley-Davidson leather vest, jeans and motorcycle boots.

I was just noticing this morning that his face sort of matches the leather vest in that both have seen more than a few miles; hard miles; miles that leave their mark.

But his smile, ah, now that’s something to talk about.

It’s a smile that says of all the hardscrabble landscape over which life’s journey has taken him, “You will never beat me, so you might as well stop trying!”

It’s a smile that is so very evident in his art—art that depicts a world in which there is a settled peace won through battles dark and bloody.

Colorful, bursting with passion and realism, I’ve seen Gunny sell quite a few pieces to interested customers over the years.

I even saw him do a presentation to a gallery owner once.

She loved his work, and while I didn’t get to hear the end of the conversation, I’d be shocked if she didn’t agree to an exhibit.

He’s that good.

And, unlike many in his age group, he’s very tech savvy.

He will quite typically have his iPhone and iPad on the table in front of him and be busily engaged in the utilization of both devices.

Today he convinced a man far older than himself to purchase an iPad.

Apple should be paying this guy a commission!

People of his generation should be paying attention, because as George Burns so poignantly observed once, “You can't help getting older, but you don't have to get old.”

Gunny is mostly alone these days.

His wife left him for another man when he was still on active duty, and it just never made sense to him to remarry.

His two children, and six grandchildren are all on the east coast, and even though they exchange visits regularly, it doesn’t really help to fill the holes loneliness has gouged into his day-to-day life.

I asked him once what fueled his art, and he said, “Hope.”

When asked to elaborate, he simply replied, “I fought in two wars and trained Marines to fight in two more. As a result, I’ve seen enough despair to last me the rest of my life. If my art can give people hope, then I will have served my purpose.”

I feel the same way about my writing.

I’m sure there are those who wish these stories that fill the pages of Snapshots At St. Arbuck’s had more of an edge; that there would be a “realistic ending” every once in a while.

But life is filled with bad endings; life is filled with “edgy” realism...why add to it?

I just choose to focus on the indefatigable hope that seems grafted into our DNA.

And even if it seems life has kicked the hope right out of you, it’s still there; and in response to the right resonance...it will rise up.

I feel that’s my role in life...to release a “sound” into the universe; a sound that will penetrate to the core of the most tragically broken heart and see it resonate with hope once again.

I’m pretty sure that Gunny feels the same way.

Getting It Right

2012-06-08T08:42:00.001-07:00

It's another soft, misty morning here in Ocean Beach, where I'll be spending much of my summer--three days a week here and four in Vegas.

This trip, however, is for ten days, the express purpose of which is to provide uninterrupted time to complete editing on the first draft of, "Ring Of Roses," a novel that I and my co-writer have been working on for quite some time.

Editing--and more specifically self editing--is a huge part of the novel writing process. And, yes, I am fully aware of the tendency some writers have to over-edit, but I assure you that is not the case here. This is all about getting it right. If the foundation is crooked, the entire structure will be unsound.

When this draft is completed, I'll go back to the beginning and start anew with the goal of creating a final draft. And hopefully by summer's end we'll have a manuscript worthy of publication.

For those of you who don't know, "Ring Of Roses" is essentially a love story about two people caught up in a domestic terrorism plot. Both tender and taut, it details the resiliency of the human spirit when faced with insurmountable odds and indescribable evil.

Back to work!

Of Trombones And Trajectories

2012-06-06T10:26:00.000-07:00

The early morning sun danced over the ocean's surface as blithely as a bride at her wedding reception.

Scents of lavender, mixed with a myriad of unrecognizable, exotic tropical smells, filled the air with a potpourri of fragrance enlivening my senses and refreshing my soul.

St. Arbuck's in Ka'anapali, on Maui's north shore, was filled with the pleasant buzz of conversation typically found among those who have nothing better to do than enjoy a perfect day in paradise.

It was definitely what Kenny Chesney would call the "coast of somewhere beautiful."

So far Maui was definitely living up to its billing.

I sat there with my beloved who, true to form, was navigating her way, quite successfully I might say, through the morning Sudoku while I perused the local news.

Have I mentioned that she has now graduated, at long last, to real coffee?

Well, 'tis true.

I feel so triumphant.

My eye happened to fall upon an article about a high school band in the south that had been bilked out of several hundred thousand dollars by a nefarious travel agency in Fiji. The money was to have paid for a year-end trip to the islands.

Turns out the money, instead, paid for a rather lavish lifestyle for the travel agency owner.

I love bands.

I may have mentioned this before, so stop me if you've heard this (actually there's nothing you can do to stop me—others have tried), but I grew up in a small town.

Like 10,000 residents small.

At the age of sixteen I joined the local community band—the Watsonville Community Band to be precise.

The band's musical prowess was the stuff of legend among those of us inclined toward wind-driven instruments.

Which compels me to ask: What do you call a wind-driven pitch approximator?

Give up?

A trombone.

(Cue groaning)

Since you didn't know that, you most likely don't know the range of a tuba—about thirty yards if you've got a good arm.

I'll stop now.

The band had an aggressive concert and marching schedule and an ambitious young manager.

We triumphed over most of our competition in parades up and down the state of California and, as a result, were invited to march in the International Lion's Club Parade in Chicago, IL, which, as it so happened, was scheduled during the World's Fair in Montreal, Canada.

We decided to do both.

It was pretty heady stuff for a generationally and socially diverse bunch of amateur musicians from a tiny agricultural community.

Chartering a United Airlines flight, we headed for Chicago.

I’ll never forget that flight!

A spontaneous jam session broke out at thirty-seven thousand feet as the majorettes danced in the aisles with older men whose inhibitions had been sent packing by a seemingly unlimited supply of free booze.

I had just graduated from high school and was far too lacking in confidence to join in the festivities, although seeing Darlene moving fluidly up and down the aisle wrapped up in the arms of one drunken dancing fool after another was sheer torture.

Darlene!

She of the ten thousand-watt smile, dancing eyes, perfect body and personality that seemed to brighten any space she occupied.

Oh, yeah, I had an adolescent-sized crush on Darlene.

What?

Of course she didn’t know it!

What, do you think I was crazy?

You didn’t go around telling major babes like Darlene stuff like that!

I mean she was the love/lust object of every guy in the band.

Old, young...it mattered not.

Panting from all the exertion of having just danced with fifteen or twenty men, she plopped down in the empty seat next to me.

My heart nearly stopped!

She sort of stared at me for a few seconds, her lips stretching into that crazy smile. “So, you going to dance with me, or what?”

I can’t remember exactly what I said but in some form or fashion I indicated that while I would have loved to accommodate her request, I was, sadly, forced to decline on the basis that my dancing resembled an octopus on crack!

She pouted for a minute before saying, “Nope! Not buying it. Come on.” And with that she pulled me to my feet—which suddenly felt like the size of beer kegs—hauled me into the aisle and, well, she danced like a whirling dervish while I held on for dear life at once both terrified and enraptured by being that close to the one and only Darlene.

When we were done, we returned to our seats and she looked at me in silent appraisal long enough for me to be quite uncomfortable.

Finally she said, “You’re pretty cute.”

Once again, I can’t remember exactly how I responded to her compliment, but I’m certain it had something to do with blushing and babbling something profoundly incoherent.

We talked for the rest of the flight, the dirty old men casting frequent resentful and envious glances my way as they tottered down the aisle toward the restroom.

We talked about life, plans for college—she had none, I was going away—a guy in the drum line she kind of liked and whom I instantly hated; music, dancing and whether Taylor’s Hot Dogs were, in fact, the best hot dogs on the planet.

They were and still are.

She finally fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.

I fell asleep feeling like the luckiest guy on the flight.

At one point she woke up a little, looked at me, smiled a little and then promptly fell back asleep.

Wow! I’ll say it backwards...woW!

When we got to Chicago we marched down the same street that in a year and one month would be filled with thousands of war protestors battling the Chicago police and chanting, “The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!”

In eight months, Martin Luther King would be assassinated, followed two months and two days later by the death of Bobby Kennedy.

Of course, we knew nothing about those tragedies then; tragedies that would forever change the trajectory of our nation.

We played on the grand staircase of the Conrad Hilton hotel; ate a lot of good food; the adults drank, and drank and drank; Darlene danced, and danced and danced; my obsession grew and...well, you get the picture.

The night before we were to leave for Montreal, we had a party.

A real blowout!

The afternoon of the party, I was out by the pool when Darlene—clad in a bikini that did things to my hormonally charged eighteen-year old system that should’ve been criminalized—sat down on the lounge next to me.

She did that silent appraisal thing again and then said quite matter-of-factly, “You’re my date tonight.”

And I was.

Gladly.

We had a blast.

At the end of the evening when I walked her to her room, she unlocked the door and then turned suddenly and kissed me full on the lips.

“You’re such a sweetheart,” she said a bit breathlessly, while cupping my face in both of her hands. “You are kind and caring...and cute. Don’t ever change.”

And without another word, she went into her room and shut the door.

I stood there reveling in that kiss—a kiss that I would remember for years to come—breathing in the warm, velvety summer air and, although I didn’t know it at the time, making a decision that I would, indeed, attempt to be a caring and kind person for the rest of my days.

Darlene and I remained friends for the rest of that trip and very good friends thereafter, at least until I went away to college.

“What are you thinking about, baby?” My beloved said softly, jolting me out of my reverie.

“Oh,” I said. “Just thinking about how random moments in time can completely change the trajectory of a person’s life.”

“Do I sense the genesis of a new story?” she asked with that dazzling smile of hers.

“Oh, who can say?”

Conversations With Eddie

2011-12-22T07:05:00.000-08:00

Mid-morning at St. Arbuck’s.

It had been a rough week, what with having said a final goodbye to Miss Alice, my mother-in-law.

She had fought bravely against the stroke that had come without warning, stripping away everything that had made her, well...her, and in the end, as so often happens when the very elderly are so stricken, it took her life.

My trip to St. Arbuck’s was an attempt to find solace in the routine, the mundane, the common and predictable ebb and flow of life in my favorite coffee shop.

I sat there slowly sipping my medium coffee, with room for cream, and enjoying the randomness of passing customers.

The Artist—no idea what his real name is, but that’s what I call him—was hard at work on a pen and ink drawing at the next table that was so dense with detail and brimming over with life that you’d swear the image was photographic.

Two young women were hunched over a computer puzzling about what to do with their fledgling company’s website and discussing the need for a more “robust” presence on the web.

A bored businessman patiently awaited the delivery of his beverage, his eyes betraying a more than passing interest in the young woman standing next to him—a twenty-something beauty so busy texting that the barista had to call her name three times before she collected her latte.

The collegian in the corner stared in studied concentration at absolutely nothing while listening to his iPod; fingers drumming out a crazy rhythm on the tabletop.

An aggressive, thirty-something salesman paced obsessively while talking to a potential customer on the phone.

In the midst of this fascinating human tableau, my phone rang.

I checked the caller ID.

It was Eddie.

That would be Eddie Washington, my disgustingly good-looking, African-American best friend, at present on indefinite assignment in New York City.

I answered the call.

“So, like I was saying—“

“What?” he replied, puzzlement coloring his deeply burnished voice.

“I was going to tell you what.”

“Tell me what, about what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Dude,” he said in that tone of longsuffering patience for which he is known far and wide. “You can’t answer the phone like you’ve been in the middle of a conversation.”

“Says who?”

He sighed and then chuckled. “I miss you too, sugar.”

“We were in the middle of a conversation when you had to go. Remember?”

“Man, that was, what, three weeks ago?”

“’Bout that.”

“And you expect me to remember what we were talking about?”

I said, “This from the man who remembers minutia of arguments from years gone by?”

“Can’t help it if I’m in touch with my feminine side,” he replied huffily.

“Right. Anyway...like I was saying, why did you feel it necessary to move to the east coast when you had a perfectly good life here in Vegas, not to mention a perfectly good best friend whose life is now but a sad, hollow shell since you left!”

“Oh,” he said. “That.”

“Yes, that!”

“It’s like I told you, RG, the boy just wasn’t making enough money in Vegas and there are more opportunities for jazz musicians in New York.”

“But everyone who cares about you is here. Your life is here...not in New York!”

I could tell by the long silence that I had struck a nerve.

“I know all that,” he said quietly.

I’ve only seen the man cry twice in all the years I’ve known him, but I could tell he was close to doing so now.

He continued, “I’m so sad I wasn’t there to see Miss Alice off.”

“Yeah, it happened kind of suddenly,” I said.

“I always loved that old woman.”

“She loved you too.”

“I know she did. You guys actually in the room when she passed?”

“No. After ten days of my wife and her sister literally being there around the clock we decided that maybe she didn’t want to die while we were there. Turns out we were right.” I paused for a moment before saying, “I’ve gotta’ tell you, Eddie, I don’t understand the whole death thing, which is quite odd given my theological background. I mean, one minute you’re there, breathing, thinking, dreaming, planning; and the next...you’re gone.”

“It’s definitely a mystery.” He seemed to consider something before continuing. “Let me ask you something...do you think people fear death?”

“Without question,” came my immediate reply. “I think everyone fears death, and the ones who don’t are either lying through their teeth or are completely self-deceived.”

“So, you actually saw the body?”

I said, “We did. Everything was so still. Even the air in the room seemed still. Especially her. We’d been watching her breathe for so long all of us had moments where we swore she was still breathing.”

“Must’ve been a little spooky.”

“No, not spooky. It was, I don’t know, kind of sacred, I suppose.”

“How is your beloved taking the loss?”

I said, “Well, she’s obviously sad, but the stroke had left her mom so diminished, and with no chance of recovery, that when she finally died it was kind of a relief.”

“Everyone coming in for the memorial?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of like the gathering of the clan. People coming in from all over and—“

“Staying at your house,” he said, completing my sentence.

We both laughed.

“You know my family well.”

“Yeah, man. What you get for having a big ‘ol five bedroom house!”

“Well, needless to say, they’ll all be full.”

After a few seconds silence he said, “Wish I could be there, man. “

“I know. And, for the record, given your present circumstances no one expects you to make the trip. But the thought is definitely appreciated.”

His voice broke a little when he said, “Las Vegas will always be home, and you guys will always be my family.”

Since my throat seemed to be momentarily constricted, I said nothing.

He apparently suffered from the same affliction.

“So,” he said finally. “I’ve gotta run. Got an audition in ‘bout an hour. Could be a really good opportunity for me. One of those things that could launch me into a whole new stream of exposure.”

“Exposure is good.”

He was silent again before saying, “RG, I...”

“You don’t have to say it. I know...I know.”

“This won’t be forever.”

“And we’ll be here when you get back,” I said. “Might even come and see you in the spring.”

“That’d be cool. That’d definitely be cool.”

After a few more casual comments the call was over, and I was left feeling utterly bereft, beggared and bereaved, my emotions threatening to spin out of control.

I slugged down the remains of my rapidly cooling brew and quickly headed for the parking lot and the asylum offered by my car.

It just felt like so much loss—a reality of life with which I have always struggled.

A few deep breaths; a casual wave to a recently divorced friend who pulled their car into the spot right next to me; a glimpse of young mother holding tightly to a newborn; a frantic text from another friend who seemed to be in crisis; the elderly couple who arrive at the same time every morning, holding hands as if they were still in high school...and I realized that I was experiencing the cycles of life.

The thing about cycles is that...well, you have to let them run their course.

If you don’t, you short-circuit the process and never experience what you were meant to experience.

After wiping away that pesky leakage around my eyes I started my car and drove home.

Gonna miss you, mom.

La Petite Princess

2011-12-17T16:57:00.001-08:00

I sat there at my usual place in St. Arbuck’s experiencing the same empty-headed stupor that had assailed me most of the week, sipping coffee while watching busy people come and go in a kind of spontaneously synchronized rhythm.

But even they seemed dull.

Nothing was interesting.

Perhaps it was the holiday.

With Christmas a little more than one week away, the proximity seemed to have everyone rushing about under the relentless prod of “Christmas Spirit.”

Peace on earth could wait for another day.

There were presents to buy!

Pies to bake.

Stockings to fill.

I had just closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands when I heard a small, almost angelic voice say, “I have a dress.”

I looked up and found that the dulcet tones belonged to a little blonde-haired girl of perhaps four or five.

She stood by my table, doing that swinging-your-torso-back- and-forth-with-hands-clasped-behind-your-back little girl thing and gazing innocently at me as if awaiting a response to her pronouncement.

“Why, yes you do,” said I as a smile crawled its way onto my previously dour countenance.

She kind of tilted her head to one side and said, “My daddy says I look like a princess.”

My smile grew broader.

“Is that right?”

She nodded her head as a shy smile appeared.

She wasn’t a particularly pretty child and her handmade dress seemed poorly sewn.

Someone had made a valiant effort to tame her mane of unruly hair—painfully evident was the fact that the hair had eventually won.

And yet, there was a sweetness in her that was compelling.

Glancing past her I noticed a thirty-something man waiting in line to place his order.

By the frequent looks cast my way, I assumed that he was the little girl’s father.

The vanquished hair warrior, no doubt.

After a minute or two, he seemed to decide that I was a decent sort and presented no threat to his child.

“Is that your daddy over there?” I asked, pointing to the man.

She nodded quickly after a brief glance in his direction.

I said, “Are you two buying something to take home to your mommy?”

She stared blankly at me for what seemed like an eternity and then with her lower lip trembling slightly she said, “My mommy is in heaven.”

Dear God!

“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,” I said.

Yes, I know my response was woefully insufficient, but what could I say, indeed, what could anyone say?

Fanning out the sides of the dress she said, “Mommy made it for me to wear in our church’s Christmas program.”

In an effort to avoid further clichéd and hackneyed drivel, I simply nodded my head in silent understanding.

“She wanted to be here for Christmas, but God took her to heaven last week.”

My heart felt ready to burst.

I wanted to pick that precious child up, cradle her in my arms and tell her whatever she needed to hear that would bring comfort and hope.

She said, “Why did God take my mommy?”

A sniveling voice somewhere inside my mind hissed, Come on, Mr. big-shot writer. You’re so clever, say something to the kid that’ll make the pain go away.

“Well, sweetheart,” I said, struggling for composure, “sometimes God gets lonely for his special children—so lonely He just can’t stand to be away from them so He...He brings them home.”

She nodded silently as if, along with me, weighing the truth of my statement.

After a moment or two, she said softly, “Mister?”

“Yes?” said I, my voice choked with emotion.

“Do you really think I look like a princess?”

Her gaze was piercingly direct.

I blinked my eyes rapidly, hoping by doing so the river of tears pressing against its levy could be held in check.

“Honey,” I said. “You are the prettiest little princess I have ever seen.” And I meant every word.

I sensed her father’s presence before I saw him.

“Megan, come on. You don’t want to be late for your program, do you?”

Pointing my direction she said proudly, “Daddy, this man thinks I’m the prettiest little princess he’s ever seen.”

As he stood just behind her, holding a coffee in one hand and hot chocolate in the other, our eyes met, this brave father’s and mine.

And while no words were spoken, understanding passed between us.

That and something more—gratitude.

Then with his lips pressed together in a tight smile, he said, “And did you say thank-you?”

Megan looked at me and said bashfully, “Thank-you.”

They turned to go and almost made it out the door when suddenly Megan ran back and threw her arms about my neck hugging me tightly.

And then she was gone.

Me, I was left breathless with the wonder of what had just transpired.

I sat there not knowing what to do.

And then suddenly I knew exactly what to do.

I quickly threw my things into my trendy European man-purse and ran out the door.

I had a Christmas program to see, and if I hurried, I could probably catch the little princess and her father in the parking lot and get directions.

All at once, Christmas had taken on a whole new meaning.

A Place In The Sun

2011-11-17T10:49:00.000-08:00

The morning hadn’t started well.

After the fact, my beloved and I blamed it on the stress that accompanied the situation we’d been dealing with for the past ten days.

She’s in hospice, you know.

“She,” being Miss Alice, my mother-in-law.

Palliative care.

It sounds so cold and clinical; but hospice is anything but cold, and it most certainly is not clinical.

It is kind, caring and staffed with people possessed by a passion to ease the suffering of those who can no longer do so for themselves.

Insomnia had left us thrashing about in the thick sludge of exhaustion, the effects of which had been compounded by digestive systems that apparently had, unannounced, determined to go on extended leave.

In short, no nutrition and no sleep conspired together to produce an early morning phone conversation that had been less than, well, beneficial.

You might as well know that I’m not the sort to simply leave things alone—a reality that works, at times, to my beloved’s profound vexation.

I’ve tried to change.

No, really, I have!

But I just can’t walk away when I know there is something that remains to be said, an action that needs to be taken or, at times—more often than I care to admit—an apology that begs to be delivered.

This was one such time...the apology thing.

So, I showered and shaved; put on some pretty snappy duds, even if I do say so myself, and headed for the hospice facility.

On the way, I decided to stop in at a nearby St. Arbuck’s to collect a couple of coffees and a wedge of sumptuously moist cinnamon swirl coffee cake.

Yes, I know...blatant bribery!

Go ahead and call it for what it is, I don’t mind.

I’ve learned to go with what works.

And that definitely works.

Most of the time.

The neighborhood in which the hospice is located is, um, different than my neighborhood.

I believe the current PC description would be, “economically distressed,” a designator that could be, sadly, applied to many Las Vegas neighborhoods that previously enjoyed an entirely different distinction.

The people were different as well, at least when compared to my St. Arbuck’s.

They too seemed “distressed.”

But there, as in virtually every coffee shop I’ve ever patronized—both in the States and abroad—there was a collegial camaraderie that pervaded the atmosphere; a sense that those who gathered were involved in a shared experience; that, sink or swim, they would do so together.

And isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?

British poet John Donne said it best, “No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main...”

With these thoughts rattling around in my head, (a head that, for the record, seems to grow ever more empty as the years roll by, a reality for which I have no explanation whatsoever) I got into my car and prepared to drive the remaining four blocks to hospice.

But at that moment something caught my eye.

Something so startling; something so stunning; something so unexpectedly out of the ordinary that I simply had to stop and stare.

For how long I know not...but stare I did.

The morning sun had just crested the top of Sunrise Mountain; its rays like drops of liquid gold saturating and transforming the valley below.

A wheelchair-bound man of some years, homeless by the looks of him, sat in the empty parking lot, cup of coffee in his hand, face upturned toward the shimmering light, a smile of consummate pleasure transforming his craggy countenance.

He sat there, bathed in the warm, uncommon ochre radiance .

And sat.

And smiled.

And sat some more.

Finally, he sipped his coffee...slowly, languidly, pleasurably.

What I found so stunning about this scene was the fact that this man who was more distressed by far than anyone else I had seen that morning, had, as Bernard von Bülow coined, found his “place in the sun.”

Literally.

Engaging my often overly romantic, artiste’s imagination it wasn’t much of a stretch at all to picture him in that exact spot, each and every morning awaiting that moment when night turned to day; the cold was sent packing and he could experience a moment of private joy.

And it didn’t cost him a thing.

The coffee? From a gas station on the corner that gave it away for free.

It made me think of Miss Alice and this present journey upon which she has unwillingly embarked.

The days grow cold.

The night is upon her.

The light of life grows ever dim.

But step, by step—breath, by ragged breath—she moves inexorably toward a different kind of light.

Toward her place in the sun.

Journey's End

2011-11-16T11:59:00.000-08:00

Skin, like parchment

Translucent

Sagging now as if there is too much to cover

Although there isn’t much left at all

Mouth gaping

Brow furrowed as if in concentration

Breathing has become the most important thing in her life

Slip, slip, slipping away

And yet...she lingers

Ben Johnson said that time is an “old, bald cheater”

And I say that death is a relentless, gray stalker

Shadowing our footsteps

Dogging us down the days

It is not her nature to “go gentle into that good night”

Not because of fear, or lack of faith

She fights

She fights because even now, she isn’t really ready to go

And so, she lingers, because I just know she’d love...

One more game of Skip-Bo with her best friend

One more opportunity to see Jeopardy

One more trip “downtown”

One more bouquet of pink carnations

One more trip to Dallas, or Spokane

One more chance to laugh and scream with her girls

One more hug from her grand and great-grandchildren

One more meal at Taco Bell

Still, she lingers

Loved by most

Adored by many

Treasured by her family

Our lives enriched incalculably

Softly now

Peace, sweet peace

Only steps away

From journey’s end

Occupy America. Or- The Ideological Ruminations of a “Jinglebrained Ninnyhammer”

2011-10-27T09:38:00.000-07:00

By nature I am not a political animal.

However, in response to a challenge by my good friend, Patricia Volonakis Davis, I wrote an article for Harlot's Sauce Magazine (A non-partisan Internet publication), which can be read HERE.

I'd appreciate hearing your views.

rg