Madness featured on fellow blog, Second Time Around Homestead!

Second Time Around Homestead is a blog that merge together a variety of talents from millwright and fabrication to freelance writing.

After one of the owners, Rachel Roy, and I connected online, she was happy to meet a comedy writer. An unfortunate rarity in her world. On May 25, 2022, I was thrilled to be interviewed.

Rachel and I discussed my writing process and my novellas, Help Wanted and Attack of the Mattress!

Read the full interview here:

https://secondtimearoundhomestead.com/2022/05/25/author-interview-with-bethany-gates/

Novellas

Help Wanted

Sometimes the only way to land a job is to obey your boss’s request to hit his face.

Attack of the Mattress!

Insomnia is a nightmare, but mattress shopping, while trying to collect a warranty, is a living hell.

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Madness hits YouTube!

Hella Vella is a new podcast that features Kindle Vella authors.

After the host, Azrielle Lawless, and I connected online, her response surprised me, "wait...you're the mattress lady?!?!?!"

Our discussion focuses on a variety of subjects including the pandemic, the Kindle Vella experience, my writing journey, and all the Madness in-between. Watch the full interview on YouTube!

Novellas

Help Wanted

Sometimes the only way to land a job is to obey your boss’s request to hit his face.

Attack of the Mattress!

Insomnia is a nightmare, but mattress shopping, while trying to collect a warranty, is a living hell.

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Sign up with your email address to receive news and updates.

What do you do if your boss orders you to hit him in the face?

As a starving artist, I needed to find a full-time job. With my foot in the door for a temp role, I had to get the attention of a eccentric boss to land a position. Even if that meant following all his requests, including hitting him in the face!

What is Kindle Vella?

Kindle Vella is Amazon's serialized storytelling platform. Read the first few episodes for free. Purchase tokens and redeem them to unlock the remaining episodes. Available on Kindle for iOS app and on Amazon.com.

How do I read the story?

1. Click here to read Help Wanted. Read the first 3 episodes for free. Purchase tokens to unlock the remaining episodes.

2. Like EACH episode.

3. Leave a review on the main page!

4. Fave it! Faving the story boosts its rating on Kindle Vella.

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“War is madness, please stop.” - Pope Francis

 When I first launched my website, I had a couple intentions.

1. Write. Write. Write. Unlike traditional websites that utilize marketing strategies, Madness is my personal comedy club where the material is tested. 

2. Connect during lockdown. Sharing my bizarre experience on this planet was my way of staying connected with friends and family while practicing social distance.  

On March 16, 2020, I returned home from work to begin lockdown. Almost two years ago to the day. 

Just as the country found light at the end of the tunnel, the prospect of nuclear war put us at a standstill. The modern-day version of the Cuban Missile Crisis. 

A comedy was intended for this week. The intention was to create a humorous distraction from the events in Ukraine. 

Unfortunately, it does not feel right. 

After 84 straight posts (this one included), Madness is taking a brief hiatus. Not forever.

A lot of good stuff is on the way. While I planned to share this in a few weeks, now is as good a time as any. 

• 15+ unpublished Madness stories are ready to go

• My second novella is slated to hit Amazon in two weeks

• My first podcast appearance is scheduled to launch in three weeks

The point is I am not going anywhere. Just taking a pause. 

Questions? Comments? Send a message.

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“I don’t need a ride. I need more ammunition.” - Volodymyr Zelensky

Vladimir Putin sent 100,000 Russian troops to Ukraine’s border after applying to the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO).

Established in 1949, the military alliance has 30 members, including the United States.  

On February 24, 2022, Putin invaded, claiming the purpose was the de-Nazification of Ukraine.

The only caveat with the Russian state TV talking point is Ukraine’s president, Volodymyr Zelensky, is Jewish, and his Jewish grandfather fought Hitler’s army. 

The world watched in horror as tanks rolled through neighborhoods. Apartment buildings were bombed, killing hundreds of Ukrainians, and forcing millions to flee.

Average citizens drew up arms to battle the occupants. Any weapon they could get their hands on, including AK-47s, rifles, Molotov cocktails, and sunflower seeds.

Like the Sunflower Seed Woman, Ukrainians are showing courage under fire.

They stood up to a Russian warship. They moved a landmine off the street. One man attempted to stop a tank himself.

The Ukrainian people are the definition of grit.

The neighboring country, Belarus, allowed Russia to utilize its territory and join forces with the adversary in the invasion. 

Several neighboring countries belong to NATO, including Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Romania, Poland, and Slovakia.

Each is fully aware that democracy is not something to take for granted. The military organization is obligated to respond should a NATO country be attacked.

That is an action that could spark WWIII.

Five days later, countries all over the world issued responses. The United States sent aid, posed sanctions, and cut off airspace to Russian planes.

The EU and England have also closed their airspace to Russia. Switzerland—the country known for remaining neutral—froze Russian assets. And the Taliban came out against the conflict. 

Georgia recently applied for membership into the EU. A strong message considering they were once part of the Soviet republic. Moldova also submitted an EU application. Another neighboring country, standing in unison with the rest of the world.

As the world continues to cancel Russia, China developed a case of buyer’s remorse. Regardless of how China feels about the rest of us, they have no interest in paying for Russia’s war.  

In addition to China, other Russian allies are not exactly cheering for the conflict. 

Israel is on a high wire striving to balance Putin and western allies.

India is trying to remain above the fray. Only time will tell if they side with their “best good friend” Putin or their treasuries. 

In addition, Russian citizens are livid at being unfairly targeted. Between air travel, a crippled economy, and the ruble quickly losing value, the effects of the sanctions are suffocating.

Russian citizens lined up at ATMs to collect as much cash as possible. The Moscow Stock Exchange was closed on March 1, 2022, but that did not stop stocks from crashing.

Not to mention the Russian oligarchs whose toys are getting seized, including but not limited to cash, yachts, jets, and luxury apartments.

Remember the kid who followed Elon Musk’s jet? He’s stalking the Russian oligarchs now!

Companies from all over the world are halting business in Russia. Artists and musicians are also suspending commerce.

Not to mention, North American companies boycotting Russian vodka.

As Russian and Ukrainian officials met for ceasefire discussions, news broke that Russia deployed 400 mercenaries to assassinate Zelensky.

A man who continues to demonstrate leadership more so than any other statesman in recent history. 

Despite the Russian military carrying out orders, there are reports of soldiers surrendering. The lack of food, supplies, and morale has caused them to abandon their posts.

They initially believed in their government propaganda. But after seeing the Ukrainian people, the fight lost its purpose.

After multiple attacks, the Zaporizhzhia nuclear power plant is on fire. According to the Ukrainian foreign minister’s tweet, it will be far worse than Chernobyl. 

A lot can happen in 7 days. 

In addition to senseless bloodshed, the prospect of WWIII continues to threaten the global supply chain. From shortages to price spikes. Just when the pandemic restrictions began to ease.

Freedom of speech certainly is not free. I’m devasted for Ukraine and concerned for anti-war Russian citizens. This war is far from over, but I remain hopeful.  

The silver lining to this conflict is the unity it inspired. Cities all over the world held vigils and protests against the war.

American politicians on both sides of the aisle came together in Ukrainian blue and yellow at the State of the Union address. 

The US division has gone on for too long. We were fortunate to take a pause and witness the horrifying war crimes from afar. An incredible reminder of how bad life can become in the face of conflict. 

Russia tried to sow division in the 2016 and 2020 US elections, pitting Americans against each other. The irony is that Russia inadvertently united the American red and blue.

This war is about autocracy vs. democracy. Considering how the world has responded, including Russian citizens, allies, and frenemies, democracy will prevail.

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Live and let die.

My friends think I am a nutty hypochondriac. Yet my germophobic ways were tapped when the pandemic began in 2020. 

Kumara called me a Covid19 Astrologist since I made several accurate predictions. Heavy lies the crown.

Amongst my predictions were: 

• Statewide lockdown. Called it on March 16, 2020, at work. The formal announcement for the state of California took place on March 19, 2020.

• Flights grounded for commercial transportation (at minimum) through June 2020. Called it during the first week of the stay-at-home order at a neighborhood, BYO-lawn chair-and-stay-six-feet-away, happy hour. A neighbor lost a bet to me when he failed to get a ticket to Mexico. 

• Vaccine unavailable until Q1-2021. Called it at a socially distant happy hour during summer 2020. While the vaccine was technically distributed then, it was delayed to the general public until Q2-2021. 

Last year, I predicted that 2021 would be getting caught in a nasty storm before the sun came out. Was I right?

Sorta. I had the right idea, but it happened in reverse. A summer rainbow was followed by a winter storm. 

The general public was eligible for the vaccine in Q2-2021. Many got vaccinated, and many did not. California restrictions lifted in June 2021. 

I got fully vaccinated and was all about the Hot Vax Summer. Guests came to my home on the Fourth of July. 

After the BBQ, we joined the rest of the city for fireworks at the beach. It was a moment of independence. A moment of relief. But like all moments, it quickly passed. 

While several variants made appearances in 2020, the infamous Omicron crashed the party in November 2021. 

11 people in my network caught Covid19 within 5 days. Mind you, these are the ones I know about. 

Amongst them was a woman whom I had had close contact with. A text message lit up my phone. 

“I tested positive. Please get yourself tested.” 

A message no one ever wants to receive, under ANY circumstances, EVER. 

The day before I saw her, I celebrated Winter Solstice with friends. There were 12 people, including me. We watched the sunset, ate, drank, and were merry. 

We shared what we hoped to achieve in 2022 and leave behind in 2021. While unsaid, Covid19 was amongst the latter.

I was tired when I saw her. I assumed it was from traveling late the night before. But her text made me question everything.  

‘Do I have Covid? Wait, did she give it to me? OR did I already have it and give it to her?’

In addition to the holiday party, I went to a concert over the weekend. Though I am vaccinated and boosted, breakthrough cases were possible.  

Since it was the day before Christmas Eve, the earliest appointment was Monday morning. My test was not for another four days.  

Apart from low energy, I did not have any other symptoms. Too much stress flatlines me. Like the pandemic, I experience a shutdown. I felt this way in 2020, but it was from exhaustion. Not the coronavirus. 

I promptly started quarantining. It felt more like a time-out to think about my actions. 

‘Should I have done anything differently? Do I have any regrets?’ 

Honestly? No. 

After 22 months into this pandemic, I am convinced that people who want the vaccine are vaccinated, and the unvaccinated prefer to remain so.  

If given a chance, I would make the same choice. While events are risky, so is leaving the house for ANY reason.

Whether a person catches covid in a mosh pit or the frozen food aisle, the result is the same. 

Covid judgment is now on par with the AIDS epidemic. Judging people because they had unprotected sex instead of a blood transfusion.

Regardless of the vehicle, the destination is the same. 

Adults need to make their own decisions, for better or for worse. I do not need their judgment any more than they need mine.

The only thing I regretted was potentially passing covid to someone else.

I was in close contact with one person after the confirmed exposure. Contacted her immediately. Fortunately, she was in good health. 

The case-fatality ratio in the United States is 1.5%, and over 823K fatalities and counting. The former may be low but, the latter is jarring. 

Early in the pandemic, someone asked me what I would do if today was my last day. At the time, death seemed very plausible.

That was the moment I reconsidered my life. The moment I admitted to myself that tomorrow is a carrot, never to be caught.

How much longer was I going to put off my dreams?

I pondered that question all weekend. My answer was the same now as it was then. 

1. Be a professional storyteller 

2. Tell those whom I love that I do so

Everything else is fodder. 

2020 encouraged me to step off the hamster wheel and take action. I may never have pursued Madness had it not been for 2020.

The question is, how much longer will I be able to?

By Monday morning, I developed a runny nose and low temperature. My covid suspicion grew.

I arrived at my test appointment. I called the pharmacy to alert them I was outside. Tests were administered in the parking lot.

The attendant acknowledged me and got the paperwork order. While I waited in my car, I troubleshot other life challenges. 

I nearly missed the pharmacist outside my window. I assumed he was there to administer the test, but no. 

“Hello,” I rolled down my window. 

“Ma’am, I know you are upset…” he stated.  

“Huh?” I questioned. 

“Ma’am, I know you are upset. I am training a new girl. That is why it is taking so long.”

“Oh, I’m just sitting here reading,” I said softly. 

He gawked like he didn’t believe me. I am not entirely sure what led him to this conclusion.

He was in the pharmacy, and I was alone in my car. It is not as if I called to complain or asked for a status update.  

“Well, I wanted to give you an update,” he said.

“Okay, well, take all the time you need,” I assured him.  

He studied me as if I was a sample under a microscope. Except, the results did not match the hypothesis.

He continued to observe me. Perhaps, if he stood there long enough, the subject might get upset and prove him right?

It was so odd. 

Me being me, I seized the Madness opportunity. I removed my sunglasses to give him a front-row seat to my eyes. 

“Hey man, do you remember a little while ago, when you first got here and walked inside? I was already sitting here?” I asked. 

He nodded. 

“You walked right by my car. I waved hello to you. My way of saying good morning. Do you remember me waving hello?” 

“Yeah, you did…” he said. 

The friendly gesture sent a monkey wrench into the initial assessment. No matter. The pharmacist took a swing. 

“Huh…you’re really exhausted, aren’t you?” he threw like a dart. 

“I am,” I swallowed the bait. 

When a punch is thrown, it must connect to a hard target to create impact. If a jab hits a soft target, it counteracts the collision rendering it powerless. 

“Okay, well, I just wanted to give you an update,” he reiterated…again.  

“I appreciate that.” 

I thought it was over, but he continued the staring contest. Like he needed to be proven correct. Unfortunately, he knocked on the wrong car door. 

“You’re good. I promise.” I smiled.  

He went back inside, disappointed there was no scrap.

I snuck a peek in the rearview. I winced, but only for a moment. The comedian in me laughed. 

The man went out of his way to spy on me, tell me how I feel and why I feel that way. On top of his projection, he said that I looked like shit!

Sadly he was right about that last point. Exhaustion gave me a case of resting bitch face! 

Fifteen minutes later, the attendant came out with the PCR test. I took it and drove the specimen to the local lab.

To my surprise, the lab ran it immediately. I had my result before I got home. 

Negative. Apparently, colds are still a thing.

And THAT is my prediction for 2022! 

The Covid19 pandemic will eventually evolve into an endemic like influenza, likely by 2024. 

Meaning, it is going to be a minute before covid is caught.

This inconvenience will continue to be a part of life 24/7, 365 days a year. Since covid is here to stay, so is frustration, anger, and judgment. 

Covid19 has a way of taking all the oxygen out of the room, literally and figuratively.

It only aggravates the other problems in the United States, pre-pandemic.  

Healthcare. Climate change. Economic inequality. Illegal immigration. Racism. Political division. Violence…that last one in particular. 

I assume the pharmacist has dealt with his fair share of pandemic difficulty. So much so, he fought back. 

He kept telling me how upset I was, but when I said otherwise, he protested.

Sometimes I am an involuntary mirror. I sat there and held space for him. Acted as a reflection until he concluded that HE was upset.

By the time I drove away, there was a line of cars behind me. A dozen people waited for help. Likely many more to follow.

Too many for him to keep up with alone. Plus, his new employee still needed his guidance.

As someone in a profession with the sole purpose of helping people get resources to improve, that is tough.  

So, to blame the delay on the angry woman outside alleviates the pressure.

When that tactic failed, he was clueless. Especially when I kindly encouraged him to take all the time he needed. The pressure he felt was what he placed on himself.  

He is not alone. For the last 2 years and continuing on year 3, the world has been stuck inside a pressure cooker. Sadly, some people just want the fight. I pray 2022 is merciful.

If not, there is always Madness! 

Happy New Year, Madlings! 

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Bah humbug!

Christmas is a beautiful time of year. Decorated trees, blankets of snow, and presents.

That being said, I left the tree in storage, live in a warm climate, and observed a no-gift policy this year. 

My holiday spirit was curbed between the insanity of the Covid19 pandemic, a brewing Civil War in the United States, and other life stresses.

As a matter of fact, the only thing I want for Christmas is peace and quiet. 

However, while working from home, my concentration was interrupted by a horn.

Not the sound of a temporary alarm from an emergency vehicle whizzing by. This trumpet was unusually loud…and PERSISTENT. 

I also heard a clarinet and tuba. The wind section was complemented by drums, cymbals, and a violin.

The entire orchestra erupted a few feet from my door, with no intention of passing through. 

Irritation boiled inside of me. I felt like Jack Nicholson in As Good as it Gets after his concentration was broken by a knock at the door.  

I flipped on my porch light and opened the door. Sure enough, a traveling orchestra was sprawled out across my lawn. 

The moment the musicians saw me, they broke out into song. Happy to award me a front-row seat at their impromptu concert.

The moment should have sparked joy, but it flared annoyance. I forced a fake smile as I struggled to hold my last work thought. 

The juxtaposition of my growing irritation with their jolly fa-la-la-la-la made my head throb.

I slowly closed my door in a rather passive-aggressive manner.  

One singer was alerted to my lack of Christmas music appreciation and halted the band. I froze since my escape was made. 

“Good evening, would you like to donate—” she started to ask. 

“No…” I awkwardly said.

Ebenezer Scrooge felt that Christmas was a financial scam, using emotional tactics to lure away his hard-earned money.

With crooners randomly showing up unannounced on my front lawn, he may have had a point.  

After I closed the door, the band played next door. My neighbor’s dog, Rio, freaked out. Rio tried to scare them away, but they persisted.

Instead of an orchestra, it was now the battle of the bands. Charity’s Tune vs. The Howl. 

I get that many love Christmas music. I’m just not one of those people. Same with Christmas movies.

My family loves A Christmas Story and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Whereas my Christmas movie of choice is Die Hard. 

I sat back down at my computer. Stared at the screen in an attempt to regain my concentration.

Sometimes I get caught up in a shitstorm when I work too hard. A wildfire of endless brainstorming, faltering, and back to the drawing board.  

It’s easy to get caught in a cycle of inner turmoil. So much so that I forget an external world exists.

I suppose all work and no play make Bethany a dull girl. So, the proverb goes. 

I needed to break away. Fortunately, Scary Mary swooped in to save the day. 

“I’m going to a punk show with friends. Might have an extra ticket,” she offered. 

A flash of memories sparked in my mind. Baby doll dresses, wife beaters, flannel, baggy jeans, chain wallets, and Doc Martens. Long before today’s Doc Martens fad. Though truthfully, I never stopped wearing them. 

At that time, I listened to east coast hardcore music and was part of the underground scene. Generally performed at small, local venues.

I always jumped into the center of the mosh pit—one of the most dangerous places at a concert.

A violent space of kicks, punches, body slams, and headbanging. When I wasn’t moshing, I was stage diving or crowd surfing.  

My interest in hardcore music paved the way for punk. Reconnecting with this type of music was what the rebel in me needed.  

“So, if you’re interested, it’s The Vandals.” 

“Who?” I asked.  

“80s staple of the OC punk scene.” 

Since I was a child of the 80s, who grew up on the east coast, I had absolutely no idea who The Vandals were but down to join, regardless. 

My closet used to be stocked with punk gear. Chains. Studs. Pleather. Mesh. Fishnets.

Sadly, that inventory has depleted over the years. I settled for all black with Doc Marten boots, respectably. 

The show was at the House of Blues. Proof of vaccination was required. Or a negative rapid test, which was readily available by the security gate.

Scary Mary’s friends were already inside. Our friend Leo also joined. The crowd was a variety of black lipstick, mohawks, plaid, and rock tees. 

The concert-goers were what I remembered, except for one minor detail. Everyone was my age or older. The twenty-somethings were around but in the minority. 

While I recently explored my mid-life crisis ala stripper pole class, I was all set with revisiting moshing, stage diving, and crowd surfing.

While fun at the time, the thought of a million hands handling me now feels deeply unsettling for various reasons. #covid #metoo #concretefloor

Scary Mary’s friends landed a great spot. The stage was literally in arm’s reach, away from the crowd, and had a railing to place drinks and coats.

Ah, the things I appreciate in my forties. One friend brought earplugs. 

“I got them from him,” Jen gestured to the security guard in front of us. 

Nothing says street cred like asking for a pair of earplugs at a punk show.

Considering we were a few feet from a massive stage speaker designed to fill the entire venue, I practically begged. The security guard was kind enough to offer me a pair. 

The lead singer, Dave Quackenbush, opened the show. I recognized a few tunes from my Google search 6 hours earlier. My Girlfriend’s Dead. Ape Drape. Flowers are Pretty. 

They had a shocking amount of Christmas songs. Initially, I thought it was a punk show that happened to perform during Christmas time. Apparently, it was the 26th Annual Christmas Formal. 

The encore offered two cover songs. Don’t Stop Me Now and So Long, Farewell. But to my surprise, their hit song, Oi to the World, resonated with me. I blinked. 

“Hey, I know who these guys are!” I finally realized at the umpteenth hour. 

The guitar player, Warren Fitzgerald, busted open several pinatas. He threw all sorts of band paraphernalia into the crowd. 

He kicked up a rampage as he barreled towards our end of the stage. He tossed a bunch of goodies in the air, including a band t-shirt—which I caught!

After the show, Scary Mary and Leo waited in line to buy merchandise. 

“I’m gonna hang back if you ladies want to take off,” Leo said. “The drummer is supposed to come out, and I’m dying to meet him.” 

Leo has been a fan of The Vandals since the 90s. He was also lucky to land Josh Freese’s solo album. Apparently, Josh only brought 10 copies to the show. Or so, I heard from the artist himself.  

Both Josh and the bassist, Joe Escalante, greeted fans. Leo was thrilled to get his record signed. I presented my t-shirt (from the 25th-anniversary show) and got both signatures. When in Rome. 

Meaning, I received an invitation last minute to watch a show from the best spot in the house. And caught a free t-shirt, only to meet 2 out of the 4 band members, who both signed it. Not bad for a 6-hour fan. 

The night felt like a Christmas miracle. An unusual and happy event that took place close to Christmas Day. A divine intervention where I went from feeling “bah humbug” to “God bless us, everyone!” 

While I was not visited by three spirits per se, I was intrigued by three random moments that led up to the concert. Consequential details that may appear meaningless but were mini warnings to me.

1. I carry my vaccination card in my purse, but my bag got wet at home. After I dumped everything out, I forgot to grab the card on the way out. On the way, I worried about missing the show since the card was needed to get inside. Previously, other venues only accepted hard copies. Fortunately, they took a digital version. 

2. After I parked, my car door refused to close. I was fearful that it broke. I began to wonder how I’d drive home safely, plus the time and cost of the repair. Fortunately, the plastic part of the seatbelt got jammed and was easy to dislodge. 

3. At dinner, I grabbed a napkin from a dispenser, but the whole thing fell apart. I was concerned that I might be liable and wondered if I had to replace it. The manager laughed and reassembled it. 

No matter how insignificant, these little things were instances of breaking something one way or another.

Reacting to fear rather than seeing how the situation played out. A metaphor for my life. 

Little trivial nothings, if not heeded, may build into something much bigger, and unwanted, if I don’t change my ways.

Upon realization, I disappeared before the show started. I needed a moment to myself.

Like Ebenezer Scrooge, I had to let go of the past, keep perspective on the present, and embrace the future.

It’s so easy to lose perspective and forget where I stand in the present day. To acknowledge the moment, here and now.

A vital need to move forward into the future of my desire.

While I cannot control the outcome, the good news is it only takes a moment for me to turn it all around. 

Besides, I might just have an epic night.

Happy Holidays!

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Read all 8 episodes now—only on Kindle Vella!

After trying to cure my insomnia with sleep aids, I realized the problem was the bed. 

When the sneaky salesman, Mr. Mattress, dangled a warranty carrot, I got more than I bargained for in this nightmarish comedy, Attack of the Mattress!

What is Kindle Vella?

Kindle Vella is Amazon's serialized storytelling platform. Read the first few episodes for free. Purchase tokens and redeem them to unlock the remaining episodes. Available on Kindle for iOS app and on Amazon.com.

How do I read the story?

1. Click here to begin reading Attack of the Mattress!

2. Read the first 3 episodes for free. Purchase tokens to unlock the remaining episodes.

3. Like EACH episode. 1 like covers a single episode, not the whole novella.

4. Scroll to the bottom of the novella main page and leave a review.

5. Fave it! Faving the story boosts its rating on Kindle Vella. The more Faves, the more readers will find Attack of the Mattress!

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May the supply chain odds be ever in your favor.

Today is Thanksgiving. Compared to 2020, this year is more traditional.

While Covid19 variants are an ongoing threat, vaccines, masks, and optimal health aided with resuming in-person activity. Hallelujah!

Tomorrow is America’s favorite holiday, Black Friday. Though, the mayhem has already unleashed its wrath.

Last year, Black Friday shopping was threatened due to Covid19. This year Black Friday faces a new threat—the supply chain. Compliments of Covid19. 

Pre-pandemic, the Port of Long Beach processed approximately 15 cargo ships per day. Due to Covid19 sanitation practices, they are down to roughly 3 per day. 

While sanitation practices are necessary to fight the ongoing coronavirus, the supply chain is backed up with countless cargo ships waiting at sea.

As of November 10, 2021, there was a record-breaking 111 ships. 

The issue is wreaking havoc on the economy, causing numerous problems, from inflation to air pollution. Prices are rising on many consumer products, including fuel.

In an attempt to lower gas prices, the Department of Energy will release 50 million barrels of oil from the Strategic Petroleum Reserve. However, it may take weeks before the barrels pass into the market to effectively lower prices at the pump.

Store shelves may not be empty like they were in April 2020, but these problems are not going anywhere anytime soon. 

While it may take a million years for an online order to be delivered today, it’s a great reminder to be thankful for what truly matters. Not for what I wish I had, but for what I do have. 

My friend Riza recently had a birthday party. Friends and family from all of her networks came together to celebrate her presence in this world. 

The party theme was inspired by New Orleans, including the food, décor, and music. A live band played some of her favorite tunes, including original and cover songs.

After a challenging 18 months, attending a private party with live music was an incredible treat. The vibe was relaxed. A synchronistic combination of lively and chill. 

I knew many people but also got to meet a few new faces. Like Christine, my friend Monique’s plus one, aka her sister. 

“What is your best fart story?” Christine blurted out. 

Needless to say, she snagged the group’s attention. At first, I was at a loss. If I can “toot” my own horn, I have many great stories. However, flatulence wasn’t one of them.  

Each friend shared their harrowing tale. Christine. Monique. Leo. Mayra (though she slyly skipped.) As Ethan finished sharing his story, I remembered one from childhood. 

Sidebar!

The group turned their attention to me. It was my turn. Rather than share the “Free Brad” story, a joke registered in the chamber. 

“I got nothing,” I lied. 

“But you’re the queen of stories!” they exclaimed. 

“Well, while all you guys were talking, I farted,” I joked.  

The group erupted with laugher but broke up soon afterward. Likely fearful of a (false) silent but deadly threat. Ah, nothing like “shooting the shit” with friends.

As parties go, it was better than most. Likely because of how grateful everyone was to be there. The vibe. The smiles. The moments of levity. The pandemic robbed people of so much, including memories such as these. 

Depending on variants and vaccination rates, the World Health Organization (WHO) claims the pandemic will likely continue until the end of 2022.

Despite the health concerns, the economic challenges, and the supply chain woes, I’m hopeful the end will come sooner than later. Either way, like flatulence, this too shall pass. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

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I hope I made the right call.

In case you missed it, read “Part 1” and “Part 2” here. 

My heart practically stopped when I got the news. I hung up and took a moment to weigh the decision.

I never imagined losing Onyx. While it wasn’t the first time I lost a pet, it was the first time that I had to deal with it directly. Before this, that responsibility fell on my parents. 

An entire life flashed before my eyes. Relationships. Friendships. Homes. Jobs. Onyx was by my side through it all. The lion share of my early adult life.

Though Onyx had developed digestion issues a few months prior, I was in denial that anything was seriously wrong.

While he was never formally diagnosed, it was presumed to be cancer.  

I can understand why some owners keep their pets alive for as long as possible.

However, Onyx was in a lot of pain. As much as I loved him, I couldn’t keep him alive for my sake.

A part of me died when I scheduled an appointment for later that afternoon.

Took off work and spent the day with him. Kept him as comfortable as possible.

He just stared at me with glassy eyes. He was slipping away and no longer himself.

I tried to be strong, but that wasn’t easy since he was literally dying in my arms. 

I remembered that he asked to go outside earlier that morning.  

“Why did you want to go outside?” I wondered. 

I brought him to the backyard. Put him down and held up his back legs. He was able to direct where to go, but I carried him the whole way.

I suppose that was only fair since he carried me since I was 25 years old.

He guided me to the back gate, to the path that led between the neighbors' houses.

When cats are near death, they do not want to be a burden. So, they seek a hiding place where they can die alone.

“Sorry, bud. You’re stuck with me,” I said. 

He shivered in the sun. I scooped him up, wrapped him tight in a blanket, and brought him inside. 

Before it was time to leave, Olive came by to say hello…and goodbye…to his dear friend of over 10 years.

My friend and neighbor, Shelli, was kind enough to drive us to his final destination.

I held Onyx in my lap and watched him, watching the neighborhood pass by. 

The vet invited us into the exam room. I sat on a bench with him in my arms. The vet, Shelli, and I talked about our fondest memories for a few minutes. 

“It’s time,” the vet said.  

Tears streamed down my face, but before I stood up, Onyx gave a weak meow. More of a murmur. 

“What bud? What is it?” I asked. 

He lifted his head as best as he could towards mine and nuzzled my face. His way of saying goodbye.

I laid him down on the table, and he was gone a few moments later. 

His Godfather, Fred, was the first person I contacted. 

“That cat was on death’s doorstep when we found him. He had an incredible life because of you,” Fred offered.   

I was a crying zombie for weeks. It was the little things that made it so hard. 

Running my hand across the bedspread to pet him. Leaving the bedroom door cracked so he could get in and out.

Waking up in the middle of the night to feel him against my leg. Cleaning the litter box first thing. Making sure there was enough food and water before leaving for work. 

Habits accumulated from over 15 years. No more.

To make matters worse, Olive became ill and also passed away 22 days later. I guess he didn’t want to be without his friend.

Darkness fell over Pecan Place and the houses became shockingly still.

When Onyx’s ashes arrived, I opened the box. The bag was so tiny. Hard to imagine that my memories were all that remained.  

Unfortunately, not everyone in my workplace was an animal person. An unemphatic coworker looked at me, “just get another cat.”

While I understood the logic and some people who can get a new pet immediately, I’m not that person.

Had I got a new pet, I would resent that it wasn’t Onyx. To me, that bond was irreplaceable. Even if a new cat came along down the road, the connection is different. 

Fortunately, another coworker had a cat for over 20 years. She understood the loss and offered condolences.

In addition, to being empathetic, she randomly found an onyx stone. The timing and shape were oddly coincidental.

I struggled for the better part of a year after I lost Onyx. Never realized just how much he impacted my life until he was gone. 

When his first anniversary rolled around, I purposefully spent time alone. In no way did I expect anyone to remember, but to my surprise, someone did. 

I was working when a meow interrupted me. Butterflies filled my stomach. For a split second, I thought it was Onyx.

Turned around and saw Dexter sitting on my porch. I opened the door, but before I could walk outside, Dexter invited himself in. 

It was his first time inside my house. He roamed everywhere and stopped at all Onyx's places.

The welcome mat, under the coffee table, the side window sill, where his dish and litter box were kept. Everywhere.

As if he were Onyx, himself. 

After he fell asleep in one of Onyx’s favorite spots in the living room, I had no idea what to do. I just blinked and eventually resumed working.

Dexter began to snore. I smiled, remembering how Onyx used to do the same. I was so grateful.

It truly felt like Onyx was in the house.

When Dexter woke up, he left, and hasn’t returned since. Not even to say hello.

Such a peculiar visit on a sorrowful anniversary. Coincidence aside, I prefer to think that after 15 years together, my spirit animal was determined to connect. Even if it meant soliciting the help of his archenemy. 

RIP Sir Sardonyx “Onyx” of House Gates, April 30, 2004 (approx.) - September 30, 2019 

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Not entirely sure who owned who.

In case you missed it, read “Part 1” here.

I was still shocked that I received what I wanted—a black boy cat with green eyes named Onyx. I asked for him a month ago, and a month-old kitten found me!  

The synchronistic moment should have been magical but was curtailed after he disappeared inside my car engine.

He was so small that he could fit into one hand. I was absolutely terrified that he might get hurt or even worse. Some fur mama I turned out to be. 

I have no idea what happened to him in his first moments of life, but I suspect it wasn’t good. Finding himself in an office parking lot triggered fear.

I was borderline tears and clueless about how to get him out. 

Fortunately, his Godfather, Fred, was there to save the day. Fred was tall with long limbs. He managed to reach down into the engine and fished out Onyx. Onyx gripped Fred for safety before he was placed in the carrier.  

On the drive home, Onyx didn’t make a single sound. I hoped he was okay. That he would take to me. That I could give him a life, I dreamed of. 

When I got home, Kahlua smelled Onyx through the box. She wagged her tail, curious to make a new friend. I brought the box to my room and closed the door. I slowly opened the box. Onyx looked up at me.

“Hi Onyx, I’m your new mom. This is your home,” I said. 

Onyx pounced Monster Energy style. He ran across the bed and dove over the edge. He explored the space before he disappeared under the bed.

I left him alone and attended to his food. Meanwhile, Kahlua was jonesing outside the door. She was dying to meet him.  

After Onyx warmed up to me, I welcomed Kahlua inside. Onyx ran to the corner of my bed. The day had already been eventful. Let alone encountering a new and substantially bigger animal! 

Kahlua whimpered. Just like me, she was taken by Onyx. Fortunately, Onyx bonded with her. Kahlua became a sort of Nana and looked after Onyx while I worked.  

Less than a month of being a new fur mama, I developed a strange bruise the size of a half-dollar on my right forearm.

I assumed I bumped it, even though I didn’t remember hitting anything. At work, I discovered that Fred had the same bruise—on his EAR! 

“What happened to your ear?” I asked. 

“Your cat did this,” he said.  

“How?” I asked.

“You don’t know?! Well, you might want to take him to the vet. This is RINGWORM!” 

“WHAT?!?!? Is that what this is?!?!?” I showed him my forearm.

“YEP! That’s ringworm,” Fred confirmed. “One of my daughters, and both our cats, got it.”

In addition to half of Fred’s family, Kahlua was in the same boat. It was so bad that Onyx had to be quarantined!

He lost most of his black fur coat. When the fur finally grew back, his pigmentation turned white and gray. I was slightly bitter that my “black cat” was no more. Fortunately, the new fur faded back to black. #amywinehouse

After the ringworm incident and a treacherous flea outbreak, things began to fall in place. 

Night after night, I rushed home to be with him. Right when I’d hit the door, he started meowing. Anxious to play and tell me all about his day. 

When I pet him, he always purred. He followed me from room to room and always wanted to be where I was.

Kahlua and I trained him. I taught him how to use the litter box and how to communicate when hungry.

She taught him how to wag his tail when he was happy, which was odd since that’s typically a sign when a cat is annoyed. Not Onyx.

Kahlua and I both demonstrated how to come when called. Something I quickly ingrained when he was a kitten.

Like Kahlua, he came when called. It wasn’t until he became a teenager when he realized he had the element of choice.

He slept by my side each night and even snored on the regular. Everything was going well except for one point of contention—the great outdoors.  

I strongly preferred an indoor cat, whereas Onyx felt he was an indoor/outdoor cat. Between large cats, raccoons, and coyotes, the matter was off the table. 

Whereas Onyx argued that he “came from the streets.” We fought a lot about this. Every day, twice a day, in fact. Once in the morning before work and once after I came home.

He was moody, particular and fiercely independent. He was definitely mine.

He was also consistent. After several attempts, he broke free in the backyard. I chased after him, but he got past the gate, crossed the alley, and ran in between my neighbors’ houses. Needless to say, I couldn’t reach him. 

It was dark a few hours later. I stood at the front door and wondered if Onyx was okay. If he would make it back. If I’d ever see him again.

I started beating myself up for not being more careful when opening and closing the back door. 

To my surprise, he appeared at the front door and meowed to come inside. I gave him an earful.

That little rebel ignored me and went to his dish. As he ate, I informed him this would be a one-time thing. And, he told me otherwise the next morning. 

After a week of him escaping and showing back up each night, I conceded.

At this point, he was fixed and fully grown. However, I drew a hard line. I wasn’t going to stand at the screen door waiting for him every night. If he wanted back in, then he needed to knock. Another trick I taught him.

He agreed…only because I wouldn’t let him in until he did so. While I hated him going outside, he was thrilled. He even left me a dead mouse on the doorstep to express his gratitude. Gross.

I later learned that he didn’t just go outside. He was part of a crew. His boys were Martini and Costello, two older cats who lived next door.

The three of them used to play and hang out on my neighbor’s porch. Watching. Judging. 

After the neighbors lost Martini to illness and Costello to a coyote, Onyx was devastated.

I tried to keep him inside once more, but he was adamant. He even became known in the neighborhood as “the black cat.” 

His black coat made him hard to spot at night by predators. I’ll never forget the moment I learned this firsthand.

It was late, and he still hadn’t come home yet. I went outside and called him. From a distance, I saw him weaving in and out of cars. 

“Onyx!” I screamed. “Get over here.” 

He perked up from underneath a car.  

“NOW!” I ordered.  

Onyx ran across the street and popped up onto the sidewalk…only, it wasn’t Onyx. It was a RACCOON! 

I screamed for dear life, ran inside, and slammed my door shut. Before I could take a breath, I realized that Onyx was STILL outside! 

I opened the door and saw the raccoon run across the street. Onyx, as in the REAL Onyx, ran down the alley. The only reason I knew it was him was because of the bell on his collar. Otherwise, he was near invisible in the darkness. 

“Get over here right NOW!” I yelled.

To my surprise, the raccoon didn’t see Onyx. However, Onyx saw the raccoon and started to run towards him!

“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!” I ran into the street. 

Onyx yielded my warning. In turn, I listened to my optometrist and began wearing glasses at night. Apparently, I was a shoo-in for that Sears commercial. 

Years later, Onyx and I moved into a new home within the same complex, Pecan Place. Our new neighbors were a couple who owned a black poodle named Olive.

Olive and Onyx were small black boy animals whose names started with the letter O. Each a king in their respective house. 

My neighbors and I left our backdoors open so the animals could roam free. They were both too cool for one another but seemed to have an understanding.

Likely because Onyx was more like a dog and Olive was more like a cat.  

Olive liked to come in and jump on the couch—something Onyx was NOT allowed to do. This always irked Onyx.

Likely why Onyx always went next door to drink Olive's water. Sharing drove Olive nuts.

They drove each other crazy but kept one another young. They were also nice to one another when no one was looking.

Many years later, Onyx earned himself a few enemies, like Dexter. Dexter was a steel gray cat with bright green eyes.

The kind of cat who had a dozen homes in the neighborhood. Everyone knew Dexter. 

When Dexter introduced himself, Onyx didn’t take it too kindly. His tail got big and bushy.

He saw right through Dexter’s game and made it abundantly clear that this house was taken. 

Onyx growled through the screen door whenever Dexter stopped to say hello. I was happy to pet Dexter but never allowed him in. 

By the time Onyx hit double digits, he grew less and less interested in going outside.

Our fight went from fighting to stay inside to going outside, even for a few minutes. 

Onyx lost interest in the outdoors completely. His three speeds were eating, sleeping, and being held. No more. No less. 

Then on September 30, 2019, Onyx asked to go outside. I couldn’t believe he suddenly had an interest.

The only problem was he also lost the ability to use his two back legs and couldn’t walk. I rushed him to the vet. 

The vet called me after I got to work. She informed me that his condition was fatal. I was given two choices. Either perform surgery that may give him a week or two to live or let him go today.

I was speechless and needed to make a decision. 

Stay tuned for the final installment, “Requiem for Onyx Part 3: One Year Later”

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He was everything I wanted and so much more.

After I landed in California, I moved to the beach. My roommate had a dog named Kahlua.

Kahlua was my roommate’s ride or die. They had a bond that was so in sync as if they belonged together.  

I grew up with family pets but never had one of my own. An experience I wanted to have. However, a dog felt like too much responsibility, especially for someone as independent as I am. A cat felt much more feasible. 

After a day at the beach, Kahlua, my roommate, and I walked home. I glanced at my roommate and said the magic words: 

While my heart was in it, my actions were not. I never went to a pet shop, inquired with local vets, or checked any animal shelters. 

My company had an open floor plan. Cubicles were in cube sets of four. The walls were only three feet high, so all the workers were in plain view. 

Three other coworkers sat about 3-4 feet from me. That meant when I looked up from my desk, they were all right there! 

Working near others is a feeding ground for distraction. Therefore, my coworkers and I were trained to “go under” to ensure optimal productivity.  

This militant Mr. Miyagi practice shifts the focus from an outward state to an inward one.

Invisible mental walls direct all attention to the task at hand. External stimuli that may affect sight or sound are blocked. This mindset may be practiced whether performing an analytical, creative, or even physical task. 

Sometimes I fall into this trance in the funniest of places, from dinner parties to my laundry room to the gym. I just disappear in concentration. 

So, when my neighboring coworker, Fred, got a phone call, it took several minutes before I realized he was in distress. 

Fred was anxiety-prone. Born a technology snob, a beer connoisseur, and an engineer on Dilbert, he was a high-strung man of reason. The littlest things, especially standard operating procedures NOT based on logic, made him nuts. Fred was also a fan of practical jokes. 

Sidebar!

I looked up from my work and saw Fred holding his head. This didn’t look like his usual “where is the logic” kind of stress, but something else. 

“Are you okay, Fred?” I asked. 

Our other coworker, Sarah, stopped working. Sarah was the rock in our group. She was grounded and intuitive yet carried the sweet spirit of Elle Woods. 

“Uuuugh, it’s my wife. She found a kitten at work. Apparently, this cat was abandoned in the parking lot.”  

At that moment, I knew two things. One, regardless of its gender or color, that cat was mine. No matter what. Two, knowing that I was committed sight unseen, I couldn’t share this with Fred. Where’s the fun in that? 

“You don’t want it?” I asked. 

Fred sat back and closed his eyes. He let out a deep breath that only a stress ball can produce.  

“NOOOOO! We already have two cats, two dogs, and two teenage girls. We are at FULL CAPACITY in that house!” Fred directed his panic to his computer screen. 

“Out of curiosity, is it a black boy cat with green eyes?” I asked.  

Sarah gave a warm smile. Her intuition already knew I was prepared to adopt the cat. 

“I don’t know!” Fred yelped as he continued to frown at his laptop. 

“Cause I’m looking for a black boy cat with green eyes.” 

Fred let out a loud sigh. As if to communicate he, heard me but lacked the necessary “data.” This was gonna be fun! 

An hour later, Fred found me in the service room. Fred’s disposition went from distress to one of hope. 

“Hey, Beth! I talked to my wife. That cat is black!”  

“No kidding,” I said pleasantly and focused on my clipboard. “Is it a boy?” 

“What?” the optimism vanished from Fred’s eyes. 

“And does it have green eyes?”  

“I DON’T KNOW!” 

“Ah, well. If it’s not a boy and doesn’t have green eyes,” I shook my head no. 

Fred stormed out of the service room. Sarah and I met for lunch.

“You’re planning to adopt that cat, aren’t you?” she asked. 

“Yes, but don’t tell Fred,” I smirked.  

“He’s ready to have a heart attack,” she said.  

“Well, let’s see him on the ground first,” I laughed.

“You’re so mean!” she shook her head in disgust. 

After lunch, Fred approached me once more at our cube desks. Sarah was readily alert.  

“OKAY! BETH! I talked to my wife again. The cat is black, and it’s definitely a BOY! Will you PUH-LEEEEASE TAKE HIM?”

“Where are we at with the eyes?” I asked as Fred practically fell to his knees. 

“WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?!?!?!” Fred gasped.  

“Have you ever seen a black cat with yellow eyes? They’re kinda scary looking. Green eyes are way cuter.” 

The color disappeared from Fred’s cheeks. 

“Tell him!” Sarah directed. 

“Oh, fine! Yes! Of course, I’ll take the cat.” 

“Ahhhh!” Fred’s head hit his desk with pure relief. Like it was the first time he breathed all day. 

It was a Friday. We agreed that his wife would drop off the cat on Monday evening, after work. 

Come Monday, Fred’s “Nervous Nelly” disposition was long gone and had been replaced “Melancholy Mindy.” 

“You’re lucky we made the agreement on Friday. Had you not agreed to take him, we would keep him. He’s a wonderful cat,” Fred said. 

“Thank you for letting me still have him. I’m excited to meet him.” 

“Well, don’t get too attached. I’m still his Godfather,” Fred drew a line in the sand.

“Fair enough,” I agreed. 

That afternoon, Fred’s wife and daughter brought a little black boy cat to the office. He looked up at me from the box carrier. I’ll never forget the first time I looked into those beautiful green eyes. I couldn’t believe it. He was what I wanted. My little spirit animal. 

“Hello, Onyx,” I whispered. 

I wish I could say the moment was beautiful. That he received me, in the same loving manner, I received him. Hardly. 

Onyx freaked like he had been drinking Monster Energy all morning. He leaped out of the box like an acrobat and sprinted underneath my SUV. The next thing I knew, he maneuvered his way inside the car engine! 

Stay tuned for the next installment, “Requiem for Onyx Part 2: The Great Outdoors”

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Happy Birthday Madness!

When an experience speaks to me, it begins with mental notes. Gravitates to pen to paper. Takes shape from keys to document. After about a thousand rewrites, it morphs into Black, White and, Gray.

Launching Madness was challenging for a magnitude of reasons, but I’m happy I did it. After reflecting back on the last year, below are 10 behind the scenes moments!

 10 Fun Facts 2020-2021

 Subscriber Shoutouts

While I have many to thank, none of this would be possible without the people who truly support Madness—YOU. The reader. The subscriber. Below are a few noteworthy subscribers from the past year.

First Subscriber

Teri H. encouraged me to pursue my writing for several years. After I made the decision to create my site, she was my first phone call. She jumped on it immediately.

Most Supportive Subscriber

When I thought my site wasn’t gaining traction, I debated pulling the plug. Literally, while I had this thought at the gym, Christine R. shouted, “I love your stories!” She continued cheering on a regular basis. 

Most Madness Subscriber Moment

“Beth! Your blog is hilarious,” Riza A. shouted while reading Madness on her laptop—NOT a cell phone—in the middle of a crowded movie theater, two rows away (after reading How to Buy a Mattress) #pandemicmovietheaterparty

Most Inspiring Subscribers

Best Subscriber Comments

Special Thanks To The Supporters

2021-2022 SNEAK PREVIEW & ANNOUNCEMENTS!

Stories for 2021-2022 are already underway. Below is a sneak peek at the titles slated to launch in 2021-2022:

• Party of One: 2003

• The Mercenary

• For Colored Eyes

• Ode to Death

• Nude Beach

From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for reading. Thank you for your encouragement, likes, hates, and comments of all varieties. It means more to me than you will ever know. 

Faithfully,

BWG

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What is that smell?

When my friend MJ invited me to join her and her husband, Mike, on their boat, I was thrilled.

Mike drove the boat across the harbor. I sat in the back on the left, and MJ sat on the right.  

It was a sunny day without a cloud in sight. The sky was royal blue. A lovely match to the dark blue ocean. The scenery was so calming and peaceful.

Seagulls and pelicans flew overhead. There was even a pack of seals all hunched together on a safe water buoy. It was wonderful. 

My serenity was quickly interrupted by MJ.

“Do you smell that?” she asked. 

“What?” 

“Something fishy…” she confirmed.  

“We’re on the ocean,” I rationalized. 

“It’s not the ocean.” 

“I don’t smell anything,” I offered. 

MJ was unconvinced but let it go.

We stopped off on the other side of the harbor. Mike tied the boat to the dock and hopped off to run to the convenience store.

MJ laid across the bench with her head on the right and legs outstretched to the right. She grew more suspicious. 

“Are you sure you don’t smell anything?” 

I wanted to help, but apart from the salty air and the light fish smell from the ocean, nothing struck me as out of the ordinary.

She checked the little alcoves on the sides of the boat, but there was nothing except life jackets, buoys, and boating supplies. 

“Is it you?” I joked.

“No! It’s not me, and it’s not Mike,” she grew weary.

I glared at her.

“It’s not you, either.” she continued.  

Still, I gave both my breath and armpits a quick check. Fortunately, all was well. 

Mike drove us to his friend’s boat and tied the two vessels together. He joined his friend on his boat, leaving MJ and me alone. 

MJ refused to let it go. She sniffed around the boat like a bloodhound. Determination filled her eyes, and she went on a feverish hunt, determined to track down the smell that taunted her. She was like Walter Matthau in Grumpy Old Men.

I left my seat on the bench to grab a sweatshirt. My backpack was in the cabin, which included a bedroom and bathroom.

The bathroom was on a platform and used an accordion door to close. Easily the second most fascinating place I’ve ever peed. 

As for the first? Sidebar! 

After I returned to the cockpit, MJ dismantled most of the backbench, including where I sat on the left. 

She clenched her teeth as she worked on taking off the last cushion on the right where she sat. She struggled because the cushion was designed to be removed in a certain way.

MJ was so annoyed that she couldn't be bothered to figure out the proper instruction. 

“Do you want help?” I tried. 

I prayed she would say no. Not because I didn’t want to help her, but because watching was far more entertaining. 

She was determined to yank that cushion off her own way. I leaned back and enjoyed the show.  

“GRRRRR-AAAAARRRRRGH!!!!” MJ growled to get the extra oomph needed to rip it off. 

The cushion went flying through the boat. I looked underneath, and there it was—a decaying, bloody, lifeless fish that was being DEVOURED by a gazillion little maggots! 

“AAAAAAAAAAH!” MJ and I both screamed. 

Mike leaped back onto the boat to help. 

“What?” Mike asked.  

Neither MJ nor I spoke. I reverted from yelling to laughing my ass off. Whereas MJ flailed like a 3-year-old who frantically pointed at the rotted fish. 

“Oh…that must have been from fishing the other day,” Mike admitted.

“That was a week ago!” MJ freaked. 

“Yeah, must have missed one when we cleaned the boat,” Mike laughed as he threw the fish into the ocean. 

My laughing was temporarily interrupted. Several other fish fought to eat that nasty thing. I was suddenly ill and hunched over, praying I wouldn’t vomit over the edge. So gross!

After a few deep breaths, I was fine. The fish mess was mopped up, and the cushions were reset. I sat down and gazed at MJ. 

Regardless of her motivation, she was a woman on a mission. She didn’t give up, no matter what obstacle got in her way or what the nay-sayers said.

Her determination was humbling, and I was happy to witness the moment. The boat reached the open ocean, and I sat back and enjoyed the ride. 

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It doesn’t matter if you win or lose…

Athletic stature is coveted in sports. Basketball. Soccer. Swimming. Not kickball for grownups. In kickball, athletic ability is of no consequence. All you need to play is a heartbeat.

Hell, when I played, there was a keg at second base. Regardless of competition level, I still played to win.

Kickball is played with a big rubber ball. Due to the size and material, the ball bounces off the dirt and off the grass in the outfield. It’s only natural for it to bounce when anyone throws it. 

Yet, the Bowler, as I called him, had an ability like no other. Plainly put, the man defied gravity. For when he pitched, the rubbery, bouncing ball morphed into a newly-polished metal sphere. When it hit the ground, it stayed down. No bounce. Just a smooth drive past home plate.

I studied the Bowler’s pitch but could never replicate it. I’m fully convinced the Bowler’s stature was the key. Being one of the fattest men in the league, I suspect his body mass acted as some sort of stabilizer to ensure the ball stayed on the ground. 

In addition to being a shock absorber, the Bowler was quite skilled in speed. The ball FLEW from his hand to the catcher before the kicker even saw it leave his hand. The Bowler was the best pitcher in the league. 

The league held an afterparty at a local bar. I watched the Bowler from afar one night. As he feasted with friends on chili cheese fries and guzzled a pitcher of beer, it was hard to imagine how his diet might make me into a better player. Though, I certainly tried. 

My team was average. We had a couple good players, but most of the team played for fun. Kickball was not a sport to take seriously. Unfortunately, my childlike, competitive side failed to understand this.

The up-and-coming Millennials adopted an “everybody wins” attitude. Whereas I, being from Generation X was stuck on the old school mentality of “one team wins and one team loses.” 

My team was on the chopping block. If we lost this game, we were out of the playoffs. It was the final inning. We were up first and already had two outs. 

The score was tied and we—meaning me—were desperate to gain a point. If we brought home the runner on second, then we had a chance to hold them on defense.  

The Bowler took the mound. Like all his other tosses, his pitch was perfect. Our kicker ran towards it with all her might, but she kicked it out of bounds. 

Before the ball went out of bounds, our runner on second-base attempted to run to third. However, the third baseman scooped up the foul ball and nailed our second-base runner with it. 

If the third baseman caught the ball and then hit the second base runner, that would be considered fair play. However, since this was a foul ball, our runner was permitted safe harbor back to second base. 

Only the third baseman didn’t see it that way.

“I got you!” the third baseman shouted.

“Nooooo,” she protested. 

“Yeah, I got you. You’re out,” the third baseman feverishly fought. 

“Am I?” she questioned. 

The ref blankly stared and stood in silence. He didn’t call the play one way or the other, even though the play was clearly in our favor. When I realized that we may actually lose the play, I took matters into my own hands. 

“She’s IN!” I screamed from the dugout. 

“It was fair,” the third baseman yelled back.

I was shocked since it was clearly a foul ball. Everyone looked at the ref to make the call. 

I assumed the ref would call it in our favor since it certainly was. However! The Bowler’s team had far more passion and zest for the game than our team of super agreeable players.  

“This guy is gonna convince me,” the ref said as he shrugged and gulped his beer. 

I looked around. No one on my team of neutral players made a peep. Instead, everyone looked at one another, waiting for someone else to say something. Not on my watch! 

“Oh, hell no!” I yelled. I charged from the dugout and into the field. 

“Say what now?” the ref asked. 

The ref pretended to listen while he eyeballed the keg. I suspect he was comparing how much time it would take to jog to second base and refill his cup vs. the length of my bitch rant. 

‘The odds are in your favor, sir,’ I thought. 

I stepped up onto my soapbox. All eyes were on me. Ahem… 

“She kicked the ball. It went into foul territory BEFORE it passed third base. You did not touch it until it was already in foul territory. Therefore, according to the official rules, the play on the field STOPS and SHE. IS. INNNNN!!!!!!” screamed the Monica Gellar Fan Girl  

No one said a word. The ref blinked as he finished pouring his fresh beer. 

“Yeah, okay. Fine. That’s cool,” he said as he moseyed back behind home base. 

“YES!” I exclaimed. 

I jumped up and down before I ran back to my smiling teammates. We’re back, baby! Victory was near!

“Who’s up?! Gary! Come on, Gary! Bring us home!” I encouraged. 

Like I said, we only had a few good players. All of which were at the top of the lineup and we were at the bottom…the very bottom of the barrel to be exact. 

Gary was a good guy, but not exactly a star player or equipped with any athletic skill of any kind. Gary was lanky and pretty pale. I think he was an accountant or an actuary or something. Either way, Gary didn’t get out much. 

The Bowler struck poor Gary out in less than a minute. Not only did we lose the game, but we were out of the playoffs too. The Bowler’s teammates screamed and cheered. They rushed to the mound to congratulate him. 

I was disappointed, but was alone on that. My teammates were all indifferent as they all funneled out of the dugout. So much so, I wondered if I missed the point.

“It's just kickball,” my teammate Jen comforted me. 

When there are no real stakes to lose, then there’s no real pressure to win either.

For me, the bonding was in team spirit and friendly competition. Whereas my teammates were in the league purely for the afterparty. Something fun to do on a Monday night and a way to make friends. The game itself did not matter. That is a beautiful sentiment, but can’t we do both?!?!?

I looked back at the Bowler. At least my last kickball game was lost to a solid player who had the best of both worlds—the win and the camaraderie. 

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“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, well, you might find you get what you need.” - The Rolling Stones

After nearly a year of Covid19 lockdown and restrictions finally easing, I welcomed friends into my home on the 4th of July. The day was very relaxed. A much-needed gathering. 

As the BBQ winded down, two guests remained, including my friend Kennethia and her friend Casey. 

The conversation turned towards a subject I thought about in great detail during the pandemic—what is my purpose? A mysterious question which only I can answer. 

From my understanding, purpose is innate, especially in men. Purpose lies at their very core and is a crucial piece to their lives blueprint.

So, when Casey shared that he did not have a purpose in life, nor was he really passionate about anything, my radar went up.

While he was genuine, it didn’t feel like he was agreeable so much as he didn’t understand his point of view. 

I subtly asked a few probing questions on a variety of subjects, from hobbies to politics. True to his word, he had a neutral response to everything. However, I continued to poke the bear until he went off on a tangent. 

Kennethia and I were thoroughly captivated while we witnessed Casey transcend onto his soapbox. 

“You sound very passionate,” Kennethia smiled. 

Casey experienced a breakthrough and, the fire was lit. Like anyone terrified of putting himself out there, he immediately recoiled and diminished the flame before anyone else could. 

He argued that it was not a big deal. That it was small. That anyone who actively pursued his passion was considered a “quack.” 

Before I had a chance to point out that he wasn’t giving himself a chance our gathering was interrupted by a man at my door. 

The door was cracked open, but the screen was shut. A young man in his twenties stood on my walkway. 

“Do you have an iPhone charger?” he asked. 

Regardless of my charger status, I had absolutely no intention of letting a stranger, or his phone, into my house after dark. 

“Are you lost?” I asked. 

“I’m trying to find my car. It’s on Fig street.” 

“You’re on Fig. Where did you park?”

“225 Fig St. So, do you have a charger?”  

“What is the cross street?” I asked. 

“Um…Leaf…by the church.” 

I was wary that his words didn’t match his true intention. Especially since Fig and Leaf do not intersect; they run parallel. 

“Go to the corner,” I pointed. 

“I just need an iPhone charger,” he interrupted. 

“I’m telling you how to get to the church.”

“Shit. I just need a charger…” 

“Go to the corner. Turn right,” I continued.

He huffed like a three-year-old. Frustrated that he was denied a charger. 

“Do you even have an iPhone?” he interrupted again.  

“You’ll see a convenience store. Turn left. The church is on the next block.”  

Frustration boiled inside him as if he were entitled to come inside my home. 

“I just need to charge my phone!” 

“And I just told you how to get to the church, which is only two blocks away.” 

“This corner?” he dropped his head with his shoulders. 

“That corner,” I fired back. 

“And I turn right? Then I’ll see the convenience store? Then go left?” 

“You got it.” 

He marched away without a thank you. Not that I expected gratitude.

The seemingly irrelevant interruption gave me pause. The storyteller in me turned to Casey. 

“That was a metaphor for you,” I said.  

“How?” he asked.  

“He was lost. Needed directions but fought the solution because it wasn’t what he thought it should be. He was so consumed with his “one and only” approach that he pinched off alternative ideas. When he tried to control the situation, he made it harder on himself.” I observed.

Kennethia’s jaw dropped and she beamed at Casey. 

“When I offered him directions, he fought me. Me—as in a resident of this neighborhood with knowledge of the landmarks. He got all stressed out like it was some big, huge, near impossible thing to achieve. When in fact, he was only two blocks away,” I finished.  

“Focus on the destination, not the iPhone charger,” Kennethia smiled. 

Casey nodded as he took in the comparison.

It was late so Casey pulled out his phone to order him and Kennethia a ride home. 

“Um…do you actually have an iPhone charger, though? My battery is pretty low.”

I nodded. He handed me his phone, which was substantially lighter than mine. It was because there was no case. 

I plugged it in and took a moment to inspect the phone. There was no screen protector. Even more shocking was the body itself. The phone was in impeccable shape, from top to bottom. No cracks, scratches, or scuffs.  

“How?!” my voice shot up a few octaves. 

“Huh?” Casey responded. 

“Your phone looks brand new. How is this possible?”

“It’s only a cell phone,” he shrugged. 

My head was about to explode.

Sidebar!

So, to see an unprotected iPhone still in virgin condition came as quite a shock. 

“Just a phone?!?!?! No! No! No! The difference is that you aren’t putting any VALUE on this. Which is insane, considering how expensive these damn things are,” I hypocritically said since my phone takes a beating on the regular. “Whereas you’re putting way too much value on the specifics behind your purpose.” 

“The phone is only material. It doesn’t matter,” Casey shrugged.

“Excuse me! This is no longer “just a phone,” I said with air quotes. “This is a display of CONFIDENCE,” I stomped and held up his phone like The Holy Grail. 

Casey was terrified to connect to his purpose because he couldn’t see the forest from the trees. Completely reasonable. It’s absolutely terrifying to leap into the unknown. Not knowing what something looks like. How it works, who you’ll become, or looking foolish. 

I, on the other hand, saw something brewing inside of him. A man with a lot to offer himself, his family, friends, community, and the world at large. It was all there. He just needed the courage to explore it.  

And, if he approaches his new venture the way he treats his pristine iPhone, then he’s already victorious. 

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Fool me twice…

In case you missed it, read “Part 1” here.

After an unsettling stare down with Athena, she exerted herself. Determined to be the alpha. Before I knew what happened, her large mouth of teeth struck my face. 

“AAAAAAAAAAH!” I screamed like Chrissy from Jaws. 

Fear threw me backward. The Windex bottle was thrown from my grip. My hands hit the floor to catch myself, leaving my face completely exposed. 

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” I begged for my life. 

But it was too late. Athena had the upper hand. Before I rose my arms in self-defense, she already got in several vicious licks. 

Not “licks” as in strikes. Literal licks. Kisses to be exact. Satisfied with our make-out session, she fled the scene and ran to hide in the backroom. 

I hyperventilated as I sat on the floor wondering what the hell just happened. I did my best to compose myself, but one of my worst childhood fears just reared its ugly head. 

That was sooooo NOT okay! I picked myself up off the floor, determined to face my “attacker” head-on. 

I stormed into the office. Athena knew EXACTLY what just went down. Already prepared for the counterattack, she waited with her head poked out from underneath Jerry’s desk. 

“You BITCH!” I exclaimed in a huff.

Rather confused, Jerry lifted his head from his paperwork. 

“Excuse me?” he asked. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry, Jerry. Not you—wait—you didn’t hear me scream?” I was suddenly annoyed. 

“Huh?” he asked. 

I realized when Jerry took Athena out for a pee break, he may or may not have taken a few hits off a joint. 

“HER!” I pointed at Athena. “She attacked me!” 

“What?” Jerry pushed away from his desk and looked at Athena who innocently tilted her head at him. “She bit you?”

“Well, not exactly. She…kissed me, a lot. Like a lot, and without permission.” 

High as a kite, Jerry laughed his ass off. I felt so stupid that I laughed too. A smile crossed Athena’s face.

She got up to greet me and wagged her tail. Just like that, Athena’s true love’s kiss broke the “German Shepherd fear” spell.

I continued working at Two Moon Traders throughout high school and even took occasional shifts in college.

Jerry, Athena, and Jerry’s girlfriend, Maria, and I became good friends. The four of us hung out after work, at their apartment, which was on the top floor of the building. 

One night, Maria and I enjoyed wine at her place. Jerry and Athena came home late and joined us. After a while, Athena asked to go outside.  

Jerry typically played fetch with Athena before she took a potty break. This took anywhere from 10-20 minutes. Jerry asked us to join him outside, but we declined. 

Jerry grabbed the ball. Athena perked up her ears but didn’t run at Jerry like she normally did. Instead, she paused and turned to me, where I sat on the couch. 

“Don’t you want to go outside?” I asked her. 

Athena just stared at me for a few moments. She came over, put her paws on the couch, and stepped up to kiss my face. 

“Awww! Thanks, honey,” I said gratefully.

Athena followed Jerry outside and Maria and I continued our conversation.

Ten minutes later, Jerry screamed at the top of his lungs. 

“Maria! Beth! COME DOWN!”

“Jerry, we want to stay up—” Maria tried to say. 

“STOP!” Jerry burst through the door. “Athena is dead.”  

Shock hit Maria and I like a ton of bricks. 

Jerry threw the ball for Athena like he always did. Only this time, when she ran for the ball, she yelped and collapsed to the ground. Athena suffered a heart attack and was gone before Jerry reached her. 

Tears welled in Jerry’s eyes. “She’s too heavy. I need you to help me carry her upstairs.” 

The three of us brought Athena into the apartment. Jerry was a wreck and gripped her like a child. Athena was family, not just to Jerry and Maria, but to me as well. 

“She kissed you,” Maria said with glassy eyes. 

The statement pierced my heart and I cried my eyes out. It felt like Athena knew her time was up and she wanted to say goodbye.

Dogs have a sixth sense and Athena was no different. This incredibly loving creature saw right through me from day one. She knew I was a good person. Just scared because of childhood trauma. 

Regardless, Athena befriended me and gave me a new experience. An experience greater and more profound than the bad memory before it. Her loving nature helped me heal old wounds and be open to ALL dogs.

As a result, I found myself mourning a German Shepherd, the very animal I once feared. While I’m not a religious woman, Athena was certainly “The Good Shepherd.” 

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Throw to the wolves.

When I was about 8 years old, I used to play in a field next to my house. The field was home to a couple of rental properties.

The renter next door was a young bachelor named Steve. Steve owned a couple of dogs that were kept behind a chain-link fence around his porch. One dog was a Labrador and the other was a German Shepherd. 

I stood on the farthest edge of the field, the furthest point from my house. It was next to the road that led to Steve’s driveway. Steve turned onto the road and stopped. 

“Hi Bethany, I found a super ball. Do you want it?”  

“YES!” I jumped. 

“Okay! I’ll meet you at the house,” he smiled.  

A free bouncy ball to an 8-year-old is on par with winning the lottery. Major score! I ran through the grass as fast as I could. Exciting bouncy ball thoughts filled my mind. 

What color was the ball? Did it have sparkle? Was it one of those teeny tiny superpower ones or one of those cool big ones? Where, oh, where would I bounce it? The driveway? The stone stairs? The school brick wall? The possibilities were endless. 

Steve let his dogs out to play in the field. I went from a jog to a sprint. Happiness was less than ten feet away.

“Steve!!!!!” I screamed as if he forgot.

Between my speed, screaming and, arms flailing, Steve’s German Shepherd perceived me as a threat.

The dog charged at me. Using his front paws, he leaped up and knocked me to the ground, scratching my backside up with his paws. He drove his jaws into my ass and pierced me with numerous bites. 

My blood-curdling scream alerted my mother, who flew out of the house. Steve nabbed the dog to restrain him while my mother ran to my aid.

Steve threw both dogs in the house before receiving an earful from my mother. 

My bloody body was imprinted with countless teeth marks and deep cuts. The horror continued to escalate after a stinging antiseptic was applied to every single wound. 

The police were called and the dog was put down. Steve moved away not too long after that. It was a bad situation for everyone. 

To make matters worse, it left me scarred and I developed a gigantic fear of dogs. German Shepherds in particular. 

When my father heard about the attack, he assumed my mother was being melodramatic.

That was until he and my future stepmom asked to see the “so-called” cuts since my face had already begun to heal. I stripped off my clothes. 

“HOLY SHIT!” my father yelled. “Oh honey, he REALLY got you.” 

Yes, Dad…I KNOW. I was there.  

I was so terrified of dogs that I shook if one was present. Since my father was a dog person, this was a problem.

One that my father was determined to solve. He went to the extreme and brought home a pup named Sadie.

Sadie was half Siberian Husky and half TIMBER WOLF! 

My father’s rationale was a wolf was totally fine to have as a pet because she’s “not a dog!” If I were an adult, I’d argue otherwise, but as a child, this felt oddly reasonable. 

Sadie took to me immediately. I suspect Sadie sensed my fear because she made it her mission to protect me. She always wanted to be around me whenever I visited my father. 

When I rode my bike up and down the driveway, she ran alongside me. When I practiced archery, she supervised. If I ventured out to play in the forest, she stayed close, keeping an ear out for any danger lurking nearby. 

Sadie was a game-changer in my world. My street cred as a weird loner kid only skyrocketed after news broke that my pet was a wolf. As crazy as it sounds, my old man was right.

While it took a wolf to cure my fear of dogs, I was still wary of German Shepherds. Fortunately, no one I knew owned a German Shepherd.

It wasn’t a problem until I became a teenager. I landed a job working retail at a little hippie shop called Two Moon Traders. 

The owner’s name was Jerry. Jerry was a chill hippie dude with a mustache and long hair down his back. The only problem was that Jerry owned a German Shepherd named Athena. The two were practically attached at the hip.  

I shared the story about my childhood attack. Jerry was empathetic and assured me that Athena was incredibly gentle and docile.

Athena tilted her head at me, but I was incredibly skeptical and skittish. Jerry promised to keep her in his office during my shifts so I took the job. 

The first few shifts were great, because Jerry wasn’t working, which meant Athena wasn’t in the store. However, my first shift with Jerry onsite was one I’ll never forget. 

Athena trailed Jerry to the back office. I stood behind the cash wrap. My eyes followed Athena’s every step. Athena felt my less than subtle gaze. She stopped at the cash wrap entrance and starred me down. I scowled at her like the tough guy I was. 

“’ Thena!” Jerry hollered from the back office.  

Her ears perked up. She broke eye contact and answered his call. I breathed and focused on the customers.  

One of the closing tasks was cleaning the floor jewelry cases with Windex. There were about three or five of these big cases. The glass had to be cleaned on top and in front of each of them. 

With my back to the office door, I crouched down to clean the front of each glass case. The feeling of being watched came over me. I swear, I heard the Jaws soundtrack in my head. 

A chill went down my spine. I suddenly felt vulnerable, as if I was being hunted. The Jaws theme song escalated to the note that signifies “the kill.”

I blinked and snapped my head to the right. All I saw was an open jaw and SHARP TEETH less than an inch from my face!  

Stay tuned for the next installment, “The Good Shepherd Part 2: Kiss Goodbye”

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Never judge a book by its cover.

After college, I moved cross country to California. I learned many valuable aspects about professional writing and communications during my tenure.

Shakespeare. Communication Theory. Chicago vs. AP. Never in a million years did I guess that horoscopes was the “go to.”

“Goddess Beth Knows All” landed my first writing gig, post-college, for a local LGBT magazine. I will never forget the editor’s incessant blinking upon hearing the column’s title. 

“Uh-huh…well, we’re just gonna call them horoscopes, okay?” he tried to say as professionally as possible. 

“Good call,” I responded.  

This was long before Modern Family, Prop 8, and the United States vs. Windsor. A.k.a. the case that overturned the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA).

Unlike a general acceptance now, there was still a stigma towards the gay community. Homosexuals never phased me. I attribute my acceptance to one of my father’s best friends, Uncle Al. 

Uncle Al was kind and openly gay. He was not flamboyant or stereotypical. He enjoyed Star Trek, chess, and restoration projects. He loved to travel and his favorite destination was Paris. Just a regular man whose sexual preference was men.  

He never concerned himself with what others thought. I suppose being gay in the 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s built his hater tolerance. Uncle Al taught me a lot about what it is to be yourself. I adored him. 

I volunteered to represent the magazine during Gay Pride to show my support for the LGBT community. Talk about an education. I never realized how black and white my existence was until I saw the rainbow! 

After an afternoon of assless chaps, banana hammocks, and leather…SOOOOO much leather…I politely excused myself. Even my editor was impressed by my stamina. 

“It’s even a little too much for me!” he laughed.  

The magazine scheduled a launch party at a gay club. Like any other opportunity, I represented my column and connected with readers. 

LGBT dance parties are the intersection of lights, sequins, and glitter. Never realized how little I danced until that night. I networked with fans when asked a question I hoped to avoid. 

The question itself didn’t bother me. There are far worse things in this world to be called than a lesbian. While I was only a mere ally, I dragged my feet because LGBT rights were being fought. Gay voices needed to be heard, especially in a gay publication.

“What woman hasn’t had experiences?” I shrugged as the fantasy disappeared from her eyes. “You’re still gonna read though, right? Ma’am? Dammit.” 

I sighed. Sadly, that wasn’t the first time I lost a “fan” due to that question. Sidebar!

After the question debacle, I focused on gay men. But, to my surprise, I connected with the only straight man there.  

He was a fellow magazine contributor. Good looking guy. Articulate. Mysterious. Something was intriguing about him. I enjoyed our conversation, so I properly introduced myself. 

“Jake,” he responded. 

“Jake…” I paused. “As in…“Ask Jake?”

He nodded. 

Apart from checking my print work, I never read the magazine. However, “Ask Jake” was frequently printed next to the horoscopes. “Ask Jake,” was the transgender column. 

This was long before celebrities like Chaz Bono, Lavern Cox, and Caitlyn Jenner took the limelight. At that time, I only knew “LBG,” but had yet to knowingly encounter a “T”.  

My understanding of the transgender journey was limited. I couldn’t imagine what he went through. Let alone be so well adjusted that he publicly published weekly stories on the topic. My eyes widened and my heart pounded as if I encountered a rock star. 

“OMG! OMG! OMG! I have SOOOOO MANY questions. Do you mind?” I asked. 

“I’m used to it. What do you want to know?” 

Jake welcomed my intrusion like the trailblazer he was. I bombarded this poor man about everything. Top surgery. Hormone therapy. Sexual preference. You name it—I asked. Interestingly enough, Jake mistook my inquisitiveness as flirting. 

“I’d love to take you out sometime,” he said as he handed me his card. 

“Oh! Um…” I blushed. I accepted his card, but not his invitation. 

“Well, you’re very beautiful. If you change your mind, you have my number.” 

Jake smiled and excused himself to address fans, eagerly waiting for his attention. The experience fueled my appreciation and advocacy for the LGBT community. Jake unabashedly answered all my questions with poise and grace. He was comfortable in his skin and a wonderful first-time teacher. Knowledgeable. Patient. Understanding. Just like my Uncle Al. 

In loving memory of Alan Gagnon, 1951-2008.

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Never bring a knife to a gun fight.

In case you missed it, read Part 1 and Part 2, and Part 3 here.

The state was still fresh off the Colebrook incident in 1997. A mass shooting started at a supermarket, continued at a local newspaper, and ended at the New Hampshire/Canada border in a shootout with the state and border police. The gunman killed four people. A fifth officer got shot, but the bullet hit his badge and saved his life. 

Chief Clark was a seasoned officer, who previously worked as an EMT, and trained officers in special tactics and crisis intervention. Moving into a liberal arts university system, sans guns, was an interesting transition; to say the least. 

Chief Clark invited me into his office. He wearily examined my curly afro, costume jewelry, wide bell-bottoms, and keychain that hung from a purple carabiner on my belt loop. 

“Your reputation precedes you,” he said. 

“Big fan?” I smirked.

“I’ve read your stuff, Gates,” he said in a monotone voice. 

“I’ll remember that.” 

He rolled his eyes as I opened my notebook.  

“Listen, Gates, I’m not going to tell you what to write—” 

“Good, cause I’m not gonna be told,” I cut him off. 

Chief Clark spared with the politically correct student senate and took hard-ball questions from the liberal-leaning news team. 

Not entirely sure he was prepared to speak with a writer without a filter. While I had no power over the vote itself, I was certainly in a position to make his life more difficult. 

Like police to citizens, it was the same for campus authority to students—it’s all about the relationship. 

Campus police held a town hall meeting to debate the issue. The debate was an opportunity to listen to the community's concerns. However, the event was poorly advertised.  

Only 30 students showed. In no way did I feel it was a lack of engagement, but a lack of awareness, to control the narrative; a serious misstep by the campus police.  

Hell, I worked for the newspaper, was in the middle of developing a response piece on the subject, in direct communication with ALL the major heads, and even I did NOT know! 

If it weren’t for DJ, I would have missed the meeting. The lack of community dialogue was a poor move when claiming to build trust. A crucial detail I was all too keen to point out. 

For a minuscule moment, I felt like I had the upper hand. A few other questions were directed to the town police chief.  

Chief Clark dialed the number on his office line and passed me the receiver. The conversation with the town police chief took one minute.  

I was about to hang up when Chief Clark zeroed-in, on my keychain. He reached over and unclipped the carabiner right off my belt loop!  

Uuuuuh…

My keys were now in his hands, but more specifically, my KNIFE. I completely spaced and forgot to take my pocket knife off the keychain before the interview. 

That’s right. I brought a knife to a gunfight.

New Hampshire is an outdoorsy state. There are countless uses for a pocket knife. Camping. Hiking. Fishing. Hunting. First Aid. 

Carrying a pocket knife in New Hampshire is as common as carrying a gun in Texas. It’s almost weird if you don’t. Owning a knife was legal. But I was unaware of the legality of the knife TYPE. 

Sidebar! 

Chief Clark examined the engraving and smirked before he slid the blade out. When he snapped the blade in place, his eyes WIDENED. He transformed into a stone-faced regulator as he dragged the jagged edge across his thumb.  

Uh-oh. 

Chief Clark eyeballed the hell outta me while I “continued my conversation.” I had absolutely NO IDEA what to say and stalled to brainstorm. My heart pounded as time quickly ran out. 

When a call on a cell phone ends, the operating software hangs up the phone. When a call on a landline ends, it is a little more invasive because the receiver has to be manually placed back on the hook. Failure to do so results in a gnarly Velociraptor dinosaur sound heard for miles. 

“EH-EH-EH-EH-EH,” the landline went off. 

Busted! 

“Yeah, this all very helpful information. Thank you,” I said as I hung up the receiver. 

Chief Clark deadpanned me. 

“He hung up,” I confirmed. “So, this was great. I’m all set. Thank you SOOOOO much for your time…SIR!”

“Do you know what serrated edges are used for?” 

“Cutting…stuff,” I tried. 

“Like what, Gates?”

“Um…cheese. To cut…the cheese…” 

“It’s for cutting flesh,” he stated for the record. 

It felt like a Mexican standoff. He had the “sword”, but I had the pen. I wanted my knife back and he wanted a fair shake. Confiscation or no, I felt strong about freedom of speech. My voice was far more valuable so, I drew a line. 

“The column is mine, Chief. I’m gonna write it my way.”  

Truly mightier indeed. He folded my knife and set my keys down on the desk. 

He nodded, “get outta here, Gates.”

As it turned out, a serrated-edge pocket knife was LEGAL in the State of New Hampshire. Information that would have been useful to me BEFORE the meeting. Ah well, Live Free or Die, as the state motto says. 

After much consideration of both sides of the gun debate, I landed in the middle. 

As a hippie and idealist at heart, I did not want guns on campus any more than the next tree-hugger. At the same time, though not intended for self-defense, I was a knife owner. Similar to guns, knives are considered arms, protected under the Second Amendment. Though a knife and a gun are substantially different, the ownership felt pertinent. 

I focused on my experience at the town hall meeting. Supported both sides and highlighted the pro and anti-arguments, including questions for voters to consider. 

I did my best to inspire others to think for themselves. For an opinionated writer commenting on a divided issue, that felt like the rebel thing to do. 

The campus police lost the vote in 2000 but won the following year after the attacks on September 11, 2001. 

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