Throat Cutter

Kyle was stricken with an untimely flu during the winter of 94’. It hit him like a train at the beginning of our family vacation, but not before we’d already driven fifty miles on icy roads through falling snow – at a snails pace on account of my mother’s incessant backseat driving.

The trip to the cabin was long and hellish. I, the youngest brother, was forced to sit in the center-seat, crammed between Kyle and our overweight cousin. I felt like a pincushion for their jagged elbows. Trapped, often feeling suffocated.

Kyle reluctantly promised I’d have a window seat for the trip back home. But of course, I’d be forced to give up that seat on account of his sickness. Regardless, my cousin Curtis, that snake, would have a window seat for both trips. As my mother said, he’s family, which didn’t make much sense to me. Wasn’t I family too?

My parents, in what had become a rare agreement, decided to stay at our small rented cabin, instead of canceling the vacation. At first, I was overjoyed. I’d been looking forward to the trip all throughout fall. But it quickly became clear that Kyle’s illness would put a damper on the trip.

Instead of enjoying the snow and the mountain town, we never left the cabin. Every morning, I woke up hoping Kyle was better, but every morning I was disappointed. He showed little sign of recovery and my parents became increasingly concerned. All their time and energy was put into him. By mid-week, it was as if I wasn’t there at all.

My parents were separate in their care for my brother. They fought over opportunities to comfort him. They cooked separate meals and boasted when he chose their dish over the other. To this day, I’ve never seen a more heated argument over the privilege of cleansing a puke bucket.

Curtis stayed preoccupied with a book that apparently had no title. He kept it hidden from my parents and became flustered when asked about it. I think it was a book for adults, which meant, like most things only for adults, it drained your life force.

When I asked him to play, he made me feel small in the way only he knew how. He wasn’t always that brutish, that short. I remembered overhearing my mother speaking to her sister about him. She said that my cousin was, “of the age.” Which I guess meant that he was now an asshole.

Eventually, I decided to play outside on my own. I got ready in secret and reviled in the thought that my family would soon realize my absence only to find me having the best time of my life. They’d long for the unattainable joy of a free-willed seven-year-old, and feel sorry for their lost chance at happiness.

Putting on my winter clothes was more difficult than I anticipated. The pants weren’t a problem. Neither were my two sweaters. But when I put on my jacket, I found myself too constricted to zip it up.

My gloves were alligator gloves. They didn’t have individual fingers, but utilized my thumbs as the lower jaws and my unified fingers as the reptile’s head. After slipping on the first, it was impossible to put on the other with my gloved hand. Eventually, I used my teeth.

After triumphing over the gloves, I soon realized that tying my snowshoes were impossible without free fingers. Impatient as I was, I went outside with an unzipped jacket and untied shoes.

Once outside, I transformed into an ice-breathing dragon, but turned back into a boy when there were no villagers to chase. I threw a snowball at a tree, but lost interest when the tree didn’t fall down or even react to the blow. I began to build a snowman, but quickly lost confidence when I realized I couldn’t mimic my father’s proven technique. On top of my boredom, I was cold. Defeated, I went back inside; unaware of the chaos I was approaching.

As I entered the house, my dad was on the couch cradling my brother. He was unconscious and seemed like jelly in my father’s hands. Curtis was standing at the hall with a dumbfounded look on his face. My mother was on the phone talking in a panic.

“One-hundred and one, the last time we checked,” said my mother rapidly.

“Come’on, Kyle. Wake up,” said my father.

“Don’t shake him, Tom!” urged my mother

“Just get the ambulance!” he demanded

Upon realizing that the ambulance wouldn’t arrive for another twenty minutes to an hour, my father wrapped Kyle in layers of thick wool blankets, lifted him from the couch, and bolted towards the exit. He nearly knocked me down as he went. My mother followed him outside, but was halted when my father demanded that she stay.

I’d never seen her look more upset than when my father’s truck sunk deep into the forest, faster than any sane man would on icy roads. She came inside, visually shattered. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a cup from one of the bottles she’d put on top of the refrigerator. She had that look I’d seen often, as if she were closing the doors and drawing the blinds of her mind.

“Is Kyle going to be okay?” I asked. With shame, I admit, I didn’t ask to receive any kind of assurance of my brother’s health. I knew she couldn’t offer any. What I really wanted was for my mother to acknowledge me in that moment. I wanted her to see that I was there, experiencing everything with her.

She didn’t acknowledge me, but my cousin did. He fed me a grimaced look, as if to say I was the dumbest seven-year-old on the planet.

A taxi came half an hour later. When we arrived at the hospital, my brother was stable, on an I.V., but barely conscious.

Inside my brother’s hospital room, my mother incessantly petted my brother’s hand. My father stood by the door and harassed the doctors and nurses in passing who weren’t giving my brother enough attention. My cousin was reading in the corner. Admittedly, I was bored.

Everything seemed fine. The doctors were confident in my brother’s recovery. And since my parents had been incessantly measuring and comparing their worth, I could barely tell if their concerns were legitimate or just another dual of parental significance. All the while, neither of them took a moment to recognize me. I wanted to scream at them, get their attention in anyway.

After hours past, my brother awoke. He was pale everywhere except for around his eyes. He looked scared, but my parents ensured him everything would be fine. Visiting hours ended and we were asked to leave my brother to his rest.

We all said our goodbyes. My mother kissed my brother on the cheek. My father squeezed his shoulder and called him son. My cousin tried to leave his book with my brother, but my mother detested. I guess she knew what it was. And I, in a moment of absent sensitivity, raised my finger to my throat and slashed it across my skin, signaling death, or as if to be wishing it upon him.

Suddenly, a scorching pain fired into my shoulder blade and my father jettisoned me out of the hospital. Doctors, nurses, and patients watched the scene. My father was usually discreet in his discipline. When he went public, it meant I did something really bad. I knew I did.

Back at the cabin, my mother left my to father to discipline me. It was one of the few things she’d admit he could do with much more inventiveness. It was beyond their battle of parental supremacy. For once, I was the focus of the trip. It wasn’t like I wanted.

When the bulk of the discipline was over, I was left to wallow alone, but within sight of my angry family. When my parents left to visit my brother, Curtis watched over me. I wondered if they knew that they were leaving me with an unleashed beast? I didn’t matter. I deserved what I got.

We stayed an extra week at the cabin, waiting for my brother to recover. I spent most of time nervously hoping that he would. My mother eventually noticed my concern. She sat with me and said my brother would be fine. My cousin interrupted by saying, “No thanks to you,” but was quickly told to shove it by my father. It was nice family moment.

When my brother was let out of the hospital, I apologized. He didn’t say much, but I think he forgave me. On the way back home, I happily gave up the window seat.

Good Things

The sun had just set behind a distant cornfield. I was sitting alone in an old rustic dinner far from the city. I seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. Only a green-neon-vacant-sign-motel, one with an hourly rate, was in the visible distance.  The diner was one of those heaps that held the resemblance of an over sized aluminum motor home. Inside, burning florescent lights bounced off the red tile counter top where I’d found myself sitting. The smell of bleach stung my nostrils and my swivel seat screeched when I shifted my body. It all made me uncomfortable.

I was waiting for Claire. I wasn’t sure why she chose to meet me at that dump, but she’d accepted my proposal to see her, so what else could I have asked for? Recently, it was becoming more and more difficult for us to meet. I wasn’t sure of why. To my belief, our understanding was still strong and I was quite certain that no act of my own had taken away her incentive to give me her company. I knew she was a busy girl, but I’d hopped that she’d considered our time together as a breath of fresh air; at least, compared to the regular folk she associated with. That night, I was pleased to have the opportunity to insure our relationship was strong.

While I waited, I took the time to think about my past. Usually, my history would commonly flutter through the transient of my mind, but recently I’ve really been fully pondering my back life. I’d guess it was because my future wasn’t looking too bright and I was running out of things to do with my hands that held any kind of purpose.

In that diner, I recalled my childhood. To be more specific, I pondered the winter vacations my family took year.  We held them, or should I say my father held them, in an old and beaten time-shared cabin up north. To this day, I can’t fully explain why my father insisted upon it. He never seemed to have a good time. He always wallowed about, complaining about the cold while he smoked his cigarettes with a window cracked open for ventilation – a request certainly made by my mother. Though, it all makes me think; maybe the trips weren’t for him at all,maybe it was for an ideal, maybe he dreamed that we’d miraculously become one of the families in the time-share brochures; full of smiles, sipping cocoa in wool sweaters.

On the first night we stayed in the cabin, I’d found one of those brochures in the living room. “Let your family relax,” it read, “enjoy the mountain air, the trickling snow, and the warmth of a wood burning fire.” After reading those words I looked upon the fireplace and felt an instant disappointed. I quickly found that what was told to burn firewood, unmistakably was lit by gas. Above the fireplace, on a red plaque, it read, “No Wood,” in charcoal black. Naturally, I crumbled the glossed brochure and tossed it into the furnace and flipped the switch to light the flame. My disappointment grew further when I found the damn thing was broken.

The cabin was small and cramped. It didn’t smell like redwood, as I would have liked, but more like my grandpa’s feet. Most of the windows looked out to walls of snow my father was too lazy to shovel away.  Our trips were predictable. Common staples included: feigned family camaraderie, fights behind closed doors, and an uncle who drank too much spiked eggnog. However, I did find my solace.

Whenever possible, I’d vanish into the seclusion of the forest. I love the nature. Everything about it makes me feel as if I was meant to be born an animal. Some days, as I traveled out into the snowy abyss, I’d consider never coming back with the intent of being free forever.

When I left, I’d be gone for hours. Usually no one would make a fuss. Hardly anyone would even say a word when I left  or when I returned. Only my mother seemed to bring any notice to my long disappearances. Whenever I arrived back to the cabin, she’d question me, and I’d quickly find myself becoming angry with her. I couldn’t stand that she didn’t believe that I could take care of myself. My rage would immeasurably build when she went as far as to request that I inform her whenever I departed the cabin. When this request was stated, my gut reaction, which I always followed, was to throw a fit and aggressively proclaim that life wasn’t fair. I’d recently read 1984 so I compared her tyranny to a police state.  Soon enough, we’d find ourselves in one of our family’s well known closed-door fights. It’d never end well, because I refused to break on anything. I don’t believe I even register many of her words. Not once did I consider the possibility that she simply wanted to join on of my adventures. I painfully question that now, just like how I now always question my gut reactions.

Sitting in that dinner, I recalled one of those vacations with optimal clarity; one that I hold with particular scrutiny, but also conflicted affection. During it, I couldn’t adhere to my natural animalistic qualities. I was painfully bedridden with the flu – a cold sweat, fever inducing sickness that maliciously swept through my entire family, but started with me. Though, undoubtedly, my drained body, debilitating headache, and twisted stomach were memorable; my flu symptoms were just a catalyst to my reoccurring recollection of that holiday. The true source of my stirred memory comes from my mother. Without her actions, I’d certainly force the whole memory down to insignificant torture.

While I was imprisoned in bed, I felt my winter break slipping through my mucus-encrusted fingers. All I wanted in the world was to be better and go outside to wilderness I beloved.  My mother knew this well. Before she became sick, which was soon after I’d recovered, she used the extent of her vacation to take after me. I paid her no credit for this. To my undying shame, while she took care of me, I used the remainder of my strength to complain and argue with her. I went as far as to blaming her for me being sick. I claimed that my sickness pleased her, because it meant I couldn’t adventure into the forest. She admitted that though the relieved prospect of me being eaten alive by a grizzly bear was a certain relief, she wasn’t at all happy that I was ill.

My mother took my callous swings with grace.  Eventually my attacks shifted into typical pathetic bellyaching. And now as I reflect upon it, it’s the kind of memory I hold with embarrassment. To bring myself back to my words of first world wallowing is to bring me grief, because now I fully realize my empty vat of self-realization. Though, I think about it often because what followed my sad display is what I ponder with warm amusement.

My mother listened to my sorrows with open ears.  When I finished my pouting, when my mouth was good and dry, she told me to think about the things I enjoyed in life. I resisted of course, because to think about positive things seemed as difficult as running a 5k in my condition. Though, my mother had this persuasive way about her, this kind of whimsical lightness that could take hold and make even the most mundane task seem enticing. Firstly, She drew me in by listing the things she loved. She only had to mention a few of her joys with joy before I found myself joining in.

As I told her what I loved, she wrote my words on post-it notes and stuck them on my bedroom walls. She approvingly commented upon everything I said and complimented me for my creativity. I coyly snuck subtle messages like, “When you take us camping” or “Dogs. Big ones that can hike.”  And when I couldn’t think of anything else, she encouraged me to focus on the little things that went unnoticed: the light switch in my room, the sound of a clap, the feeling of silk. She encouraged me so well that by the end of the game my room was covered in orange and green notes and my mind was no longer focused on how life could be better, but how good life was.

That was a long time ago. Fifteen years later, while sitting in that nearly empty dinner, I felt the usual mix of joy and sorrow I received from those memories. My location was perfect for that sort of wallowing. There was a terrible draft, because the entrance would insistently blow open and push through a chilling breeze. I was eating a steak I wasn’t enjoying because I’d ordered it to be cooked medium, but it came out too rare. The jukebox in the corner had been playing the same song over and over, some drab novelty ballad, because a few young punk kids came in a twenty minutes before and pumped their pocket change in the machine and punched in the numbers for a single song and that song alone. It wasn’t until the third time the same intro blared out did I get their prank. They sat in the corner booth, chuckling to themselves, while watching me. I sat their, acting unbothered, not wanting to give them the satisfaction.

I could’ve asked the bus boy to get the door to stay in its place, but he seemed too busy wiping down the tables to be bothered. I could’ve asked the waitress if she’d have the chef throw the meat on the grill for a little longer, but I didn’t want to offend the chef. I could’ve unplugged the jukebox, but the thought made nervous, because I felt like it wasn’t my place. So, I zipped my jacket up a little tighter. I ate my bloody steak, bloody. And I learned to tune out the song I was sure I’d never enjoy again.

Claire was running late. This seemed to be a reoccurring problem. Her secretary, or whoever the woman that made the arrangements title was, said to meet her at this dinner by 8:00.  So far, the only person to enter since I’ve arrived is a strange lady that sat two seats down from me, despite there being a long bar with ample seating to suit.

As I waited, I wondered what things I’d now write on post-it notes and spread about my bedroom. Would those things flow through me as they did in my youth? Would they be the innocent scrapes of life that I wrote then? Or could they be the mature standards of a well and civil structured man. I knew what was normal for a man of my age to say was his priorities. Though I do believe myself to embrace the moral and fulfilling fibers of life, I’d be lying if I didn’t also feel the pull to live as a wandering greedless thief, counting my blessing by the number of essentials I could place underneath my trench coat; off the grid, living for me and only me. Though, I knew, all the different lifestyles in the world couldn’t give me the satisfaction that Claire could give me.  As I fantasized about living this kind of lifestyle, with Claire by my side, I suddenly found myself disturbed by the woman two seats down from me.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where I could get a good glass of wine would you?” said the lone middle-aged woman. She was tapping upon a carton of cigarettes. She looked at me with dull brown eyes, with pupils as deep as the swell of an ocean’s cove during the peak of a moonless midnight. Her voice crackled like a campfire, but left none of the soothing sensations that a flame under a night sky could give.

“Sorry, I don’t have a clue,” I said while giving her a shrug to solidify my claim. I was actually impressed by my confidence. Maybe I wasn’t completely lost to human contact. But still, I turned away and brought my focus back to my fantasy. But soon I found myself looking back to the woman, because I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was looking at me. When I looked, I found she wasn’t looking at me at all, but simply looking forward with a strange grimace on her face.

For some reason, I began to stare. I never stare at people, but this woman was so unique, she captivated me. She was big, some would say bodacious. She wore a red dress with a mink scarf. Her dark hair was well kept, but not in a way that many would say looked well. Her cheeks were roused and her lips were set to match. But she looked tough, like she could break anyone and anything.

I found myself feeling sorry for her. She was alone, just her and her cigarettes she couldn’t smoke inside and her apple pie that had gone cold. Then I wondered if I should feel sorry for myself, but then I remembered that I liked it this way, unless I could have Claire. Everything was better when I had Claire.

As I stared at the woman, the strap of her dress coyly slipped down her shoulder blade and down to her elbow. She let it hang. It seemed to have been by practice that she further revealed her tan skin, which looked like sultry sandpaper, rough but somehow exotic.

She turned to me, and I turned away. But then to my surprise, I realized that I could see her through the long dirty mirror that extended along the counter ahead of us. Damn me, I thought, I’ve never been observant of my space. I was sure that she was watching me stare at her like she was some kind of zoo animal. I wanted to apologize, but I wouldn’t dare admit to my transgression. I glanced back at her through the mirror and she gave me a wink and a knowing smirk. She obviously enjoyed the attention. Her eyebrows bred flirtation and I knew that she believed herself to be rarer than my steak. I awkwardly sipped my water and picked up the newspaper that the man before me had left behind. But she wouldn’t let me off that easy.

“Well, Honey.” She said flirtatiously, “Do you know anything about wine?”

I considered the strategy of not answering at all, but I couldn’t commit to that. I don’t know why, but when I’m addressed, despite my social quips and insatiable desire for separation, I feel completely and utterly forced not to be rude. I think I got that from my mother.

“No. Not really,” I said, stuttering, without taking my eyes off my paper. I did know about wine. I knew a lot about wine, but I’d never tell her that. I didn’t want to talk.

“That’s a shame,” she said, “there’s something profound about a man who knows about good wine.”

I nodded, but I didn’t respond vocally. I just stared blankly into the newspaper, hoping she’d be content with my small interaction and leave me be.

“So, what do you know about?” she asked.

“Nothing special.” I respond.

“I bet that’s not true. A smart looking man like you. There’s got to be something.”

“No, not really.”

She nodded her head and I desperately hoped she’d leave it at that. Where the hell was Claire? I thought. The jukebox finished another round of its repetitious song, but it didn’t play again. The punk kids’ prank had ended. And there I was, sitting in silence with the strange lady, who seemed insistent on conversation. Funny thing, I actually found myself missing the song.

Then the conversation got strange. The flirtation suddenly stopped. It suddenly felt like a line of questioning.

“You have a girlfriend?”

I shake my head.

“You gay.”

“No.” I say abruptly.

“Where you from?”

I told her here.

“Your age?”

“What’s it to you?” I say, but not like a hard man of confidence. I kind of stutter it, let it slip out of me.

“You know, my grandson’s gay.” She said, changing the subject, as she cut into her pie, “My granddaughter told me. I knew before everyone else in the family. God that felt like something else.” She stabbed into her pie, searching for a good bite. “He’s been the talk of the family ever since the fourth of July.”

I nod.

“How do you feel about the gay community?”

“Its none of my business.”

“Do you have any gay friends?”

“No.”

“Could you?”

I think of the prospect of a friend. The idea sounds so foreign to me. I reflect on the thought, and I don’t respond to the question.

“If you thought someone was gay, would you want him or her to come out?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“I think so too. That’s exactly why I brought my grandson’s preference to everyone’s attention. Why are they so damn secretive, you know?”

In that moment, I realized that this woman was a monster and I felt the inseparable urge to tell her so, but I couldn’t possibly do it. I could have stood up and walked away, taken another seat elsewhere, but for some reason I felt the clinching anxiety that she would watch me from afar, filled with an offense caused by my divergence from her. In a way, this woman frightened me. So instead, to avoid such a conflict, I sincerely read the newspaper in the attempt to separate my mind and hopefully my ears from her.

“Where do you work?” she asked.

I reluctantly told her I was trail inspector, despite being recently been fired.

“A what?” she asked.

“A trail inspector.” I responded.

I think she heard me the first time, but expected me to elaborate. I preferred to act ignorant. Then she cleared her throat. Not in a way that seemed like she actually needed to clear her throat. She cleared her throat in a way that asked for attention.

“What’cha reading?” she said with an undertone of vile disdain.

I gave her a quick look and said the most vague thing that came to my mind, which was once again, “nothing special.” and returned to staring at white and black. She nodded again, and I was hopping she’d get the hint, but then she became direct.

“But it’s more special than a real conversation?”

Her words hit me in the gut and a hooked me in my lip. I set down the paper and turned to her. I found myself apologizing to her, which instantly felt wrong, but she interrupted me before I could fully feel the extent of the my disgust for giving this woman any sort apology.

“What’s wrong with people these days, always having their noses stuffed into something or other. Can’t anyone have a real goddamn talk anymore? What do people have to hide? What do you have to hide?”

“Look…I just…”

“You just like your little world the way it is. All men are the same, you know? Everyone one of ‘em. They’re all looking to get off. Even you. I’m sure, as God’s good earth is green; you’re no different than any of ‘em”

She took out of one her cigarettes, almost as an impulse, but then put it back in the container once the waitress came back. I was happy to see her return. My heart was racing. Who was this woman? I thought. Where the hell was Clair?

“You all need anything?” the waitress asked. I shook my head. The crazy lady waived her hand in front of her face. The waitress nodded and I went back into the back of the restaurant. Once she was gone, the mad woman pulled out another cigarette, but this time she didn’t put it back in the container. After seeing that the sight was clear, she lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. Then she pointed at me with a slowly drawn finger, as if she was lowering a gun upon me.

“What gets you off, Paul?”

At the sound of my name, I felt that hook in my lip tear out and the knot in my gut twist. How did she know my name? How the hell did she know my name?

“Look here. Claire’s my girl.” She says, “You get me? Do you get what I mean by that?”

My heart rumbled and realized that I was speaking with Claire’s procurer. Why was she here? Where was Claire? I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t hit Claire or do anything to cross the line. If anything, I stayed as far from the line as possible.

“Look, Paulie boy. Clair doesn’t want anymore of your late night hangouts anymore.”

“Why?” I asked in desperation.

“I don’t, therefore she doesn’t. That’s how it goes.”

“What did I do? I pay?”

“You do, but there’s something strange about a man who pays for nothing but conversation. What am I suppose to think about that?”

“Its just conversation.”

“Why don’t you go speak to your mother?”

She stood up, threw down a few bills on the counter and left the diner. The next day I went to the cemetery. I brought post it notes and flowers. I wouldn’t tell my mother about Claire. She wasn’t a good thing anymore.

On The Stairs

It was my greatest of secret hobbies; sneaking across the hallway to the top of the stairs to listen to my parents entertain the neighbors with drinks and board games. It was my favorite thing to do, but alas, how desperately I wished, at least, just for once, they’d allow me to stay awake and participate in their adulthood.

My parents would unfailingly send me to bed early when they had friends over. I always resisted. After the third or fourth soiree, it became all too expected that I’d leverage, what I believed to be, educated arguments as to why I, a ten-year-old boy, shouldn’t be made to go to bed but allowed to play charades and take part in adult evening discussions. Though, I believed my arguments to be sound, I guess, I was never very convincing. I’d spout obscure facts, such as the number the hours of sleep a person really needs, or try to connect to their ideals as parents. I’d explaining the kind of growth I could gain by associating myself with the company of adults.

“I could be a Harvard man,” I’d say to my mother, “just give me that chance.”

My words always fell upon deaf ears. My mom wouldn’t even argue back. She’d simply usher me up the stairs to my room, watch me put on my pajamas, turn on my nightlight, and finally close my door, and say, “You’ll grow in due time. Enjoy the mysteries of youth while you can.”

Still, I was confident that one day I’d be sipping martinis and commenting on my parent’s anecdotes. To prepare for that day, night after night, I’d sneak to the edge of the stairs and study their strange, but fascinating ways.

Since I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with understanding my parents. Through their stories, like little windows into their world, I tried to learn about their lives outside of house’s walls. I found great pleasure in hearing their complications, their tragedies, and their joys. They were so intelligent, so clear minded, and from my judgment, ready to face any challenge. They were fearless. If I could come to understand them, I thought, maybe I could be fearless as well. Maybe, I could expedite this whole being a kid, thing.

School was a daily reminder of my childhood. Frankly, It disturbed me. I refused to follow in its methodology. The expectation to follow the clichés and learn what’s cool and uncool never made sense to me.

It was a different world at my parent’s gatherings. My parents didn’t look anything like their friends, but despite their differences, they remained close. Their age, the kind of music they liked and disliked, the kind of styles they wore, all didn’t matter. They talked about real life, and connected through real life discussions.

I never talked much. Despite my understanding of, and opposition to, the way normal kids talked, I was damned to be looked upon as a child. It’s an irrefutable fact that half of the things children say, adults tune out. The content of my words don’t matter. Since children have been aloud to speak candidly, also known, to me anyway, as the time society began to crumble, they’ve been notorious ramblers. They just won’t stop talking; therefore, no one listens.

The common thread with most kids is their distant recollection of social graces. Kids can go on and on about a kickball game, a terrible movie, or a difficult but “exciting” level in a video game. Adults nod and act intrigued, but what they’re really thinking is, when is this kid going to shut up. It’s harsh, but true. Those kids are the problem. Those kids created a prejudice against children. Because that prejudice, I’m not taken seriously. Because of those kids, I’m forced to sit on the stairs.

All of my parent’s friends interested me, but one pair of friends intrigued me the most: The notorious Williams family. A year ago, they moved from Los Angeles to our small suburban town, outside of Portland. My mom liked them, or should I say, she was obsessed with them.

They were from a place that was completely foreign to her. She had lived in Oregon her whole life and always loved it. She found no flaw in her simple lifestyle, until the Williams spoke of their fabulous lives in Los Angeles. You’d think this would annoy her, but when they spoke of the ever-glowing sun, pressing through the untarnished sky, the charm of Glendale, the culture of Hollywood, the epicenter of entertainment, as they’d call it, she’d light up like a firework. From their first conversation about the city of angels, I witnessed my mother become increasingly more entranced by the glamour of Hollywood. I’d often catch her longingly staring out the kitchen window, as if she wished to see a city skyline.

When the Williams came over, my mother never needed to lead the conversation to the subject of Los Angeles. The Williams always seemed to have some kind of anecdote in their pocket. They talked about how they saw Tom Hanks eating a bagel at their favorite coffee joint. They talked about stumbling upon the production of a multi-million dollar film. They talked about the theaters, the museums, and the restaurants. It was a wonder why they left at all.

My father asked that question often. They talked about the city so fruitfully; it seemed as strange to him, as it did to me, that they’d up and leave the place they loved so much. This mutual realization made me feel close to my father. It made me feel like we could candidly discuss, over a good cup of coffee, the William’s hypocrisy. We’d concur that they were probably phonies, and we were too well of mind to spend any more of our time with liars. We’d knock mugs and he’d go off to work, I’d stay at home instead of going to school, and spend my day searching for a job that would hire a ten year old. Yes, that’d be the life, I thought.

But one night of eavesdropping changed everything. I crept to the edge of the stairs, as always. I could hear their conversation with pristine clarity. The night started slow. The Williams came over, and they brought wine.  The conversation began of talk of their day, work, and their children. As the night dwindled on, and their glasses were filled and refilled, their words became looser. They spoke openly and told stories not readily told. Mrs. Williams told a risqué story about her bachelorette party, in which a male stripper went home with one of her bridesmaids. The clincher was the pregnancy that followed. My mother laughed and replied, “dear lord,” and said, “you must be joking?” She wasn’t joking and it was like candy to my mother’s ears.

Then talk about Los Angeles began. Mr. Williams started. He spoke of old job as an editor. He talked about how thrilling it was to begin as a simple mail clerk and watch his career evolve. Then my father interrupted him with the same question he’d asked a hundred times before, but never got a straight answer. “Why did you move? Why did you come here?” he said it, this time, with utter, irrefutable, confidence. This time, my father wanted a confident and honest answer.

Mr. Williams answered the question the same way he always did, with a vague statement about life’s ever turning wheel and how it’s important to take the next step in life when the opportunity presents itself. Then, as always, he segued into a different topic, but my father wouldn’t let him off this time. He had a few too many drinks and was obviously feeling bold.

“No. No. You talk about Los Angeles like its goddamn heaven. Now tell me Williams. Why’d ya leave?”

There was a tense quality in the room. I could feel it all the way up the stairwell.

“John…” my mother said, but my father wouldn’t have it.

“No, Candice.” he said abruptly, “I want to know, and I won’t settle for anything less than the truth.”

“John. Why does it matter?” said Mrs. Williams.

“Because, you talk of Los Angeles as if it might as well be mars to us, like its untouchable to us lowly beings here on earth. But really, I don’t care about that. Maybe Hollywood isn’t for me, and I’d be thankful to know it isn’t. Because, I grew up here damnit, and I think it’s pretty damn special.”

“It is, John. Surely, it is.” said Mr. Williams.

“Please. You resent living here. I can see it your face and her face. So tell me, what brought you here and why don’t you leave if you hate it so much.”

There was a pause. A great silence as my father waited for a reply.

“The end of the world.” Said Mr. Williams

“Excuse me?” said my father.

“Bill.” Spouted out Mrs. Williams, urging Mr. Williams to stop.

“The end of the world. That’s why we left. We bought some land here, land with a bunker. We’re preparing for the end of the world.”

“What are you talking about?” said my father.

“The end of the world will happen this year. We don’t like to talk about it, but its true.”

“You’re crazy. You’re both crazy,” said my father.

“What makes you think the worlds going to end this year?” asked my mother.

Mr. Williams then went into a deep and in depth theory. They quoted facts and written text that all point to the end of the world. I listened to it all. My father tried to argue with their facts, and I rooted for him, but they didn’t budge on their belief and my father ran out of things to say. His confidence, and energy had been dwindled. My mother stayed silent throughout. Not a single word, after her initial question. My father, tired and frustrated, said it was time he went to sleep and then the Williams left.

After my father closed the front door, he stepped into the kitchen to meet with my mother, whom was cleaning dishes. I could still hear their discussion. My father kept saying, “they’re crazy, they’re crazy, Candice,” but my mother questioned and toyed with the idea of them being right.

I went to bed that night without sleep. The next day I held the fear of the end of the world in my mind. I couldn’t focus in class. I couldn’t do anything. I was completely stuck in my own head. At lunch, I sat at the bleachers and watched the kids play kickball. They were so happy, running around those bases and catching that big red ball. I wanted to be that happy. I wanted to be a kid. I hated adults.

 

Scripts

Six stories above the cackling streets of this perfectly plucked porcupine of patronage of which I set my scene, I can’t think of anything but you my dear. And as my housemate arrives, I do not dare converse for his eyes glare with the knowledge that I stole his shampoo. And as he wipes the counter space with a kind of haste that let’s bitterness ooze through his clutch, I dread that you’re here my dear to make things clean.

As hours pass and passive characters project with cathartic charismatic candor, I wonder if slug line enter action enter character enter dialog has the ability to make our wordless mouths speak honesty for once. If so, we’ll never speak again, and forever let characters speak our truth. Oh, what a relief to relieve the cancerous pregnant pauses by handing you ponderous deficient pages. Only then I can promise, I’ll never steal shampoo again. 

Pulse

Minutes before the sun set behind the city that never sleeps, a twenty-four hour diner fell completely silent. This was caused by a single and direct right hook that landed upon an unsuspecting waiter’s jaw. The event was so seemingly random that no one in the restaurant knew of the cause or what to do next. They all just stared in confused wonderment.

The attack had come from Jonathan Hobs, a tourist and businessman. Though all the diner’s patrons were completely stunned by the attack, no one looked more surprised than Jonathan himself. He stood over the waiter with a shame filled sympathy, as if he wasn’t the one who threw the punch at all, but the owner of a vicious dog that had broken free and attacked an innocent child.

The victim was a corkscrew headed twenty-one year old from Texas named Calvin. He had just moved to the city and was happily working his first job. The diner, where he worked, was one of those 1960’s throwback joints where all the waiters and waitresses dressed and acted like historical icons from that era. There was Marilynn Monroe, Elvis Presley, John Lennon, and even JFK. Calvin played Buddy Holly. He was thankful because he’d come to New York to be on broadway and he saw his job as his way ‘inside the circle’, as he liked to call it. Though he hadn’t been given a audtion, he saw every table and every customer as an opportunity. “Gold!” he’d say to his mother over the phone, “Everyday, mama. I’m tellin ya’. I just need to wait for the right honcho and bammo, I’ll be in the circle.” His optimism was infinite, though there was a bit of disappointment that lingered withing him of which he faced everyday. Something that he knew was petty, but he could never fully obstruct. He wanted to be Elvis. Ever since he was young, he wanted to be the king, but his manager never allowed it.

The night of the attack, as a favor to his manager, Calvin was working a double shift. He had made these favors often and with little reward. Moments before the attack, a Beatles song had come on the jukebox, Penny Lou had just picked up her tip on table twelve, and Calvin had just begun considering the possibility of taking an early second lunch. He thought how nice it’d be to take a nap before he pressed through the night, but he knew his manager wouldn’t have it. He thought of what his manger had said before, when he asked for an early lunch. “We break when there’s a break in the business. No other time, none” He’d say with his heavy Persian accent, “Welcome to the world of food service. Get used to it.” With these words rattling in his mind, Calvin was brought to the ground with a powerful right hook. He wasn’t knocked out. He wasn’t in terrible pain. He was simply stunned. After regaining his composure on the floor, Calvin caught eyes with his manager, who was standing completely still without action. And for the first time Calvin thought a poor thought of his manager and for the first time he considered if his working position was lower than his character.

Jonathon Hobbs, who was from Florida and visiting the city for business, was much more accustomed to slamming his fist upon office desks rather than twenty-one year old waiters. He was a determined and forthright , but never violent. He was known for being fair, but strong, kind but not easily swayed. He hadn’t been in a fistfight since he was in college, which still to this day he believes was merited through the notion of boys will be boys. Though he knew it be childish, he believed fistfights were the youthful, coming of age acts of aggression that made him the man is today. He never thought he could possibly revert back to the aggressor he was in his youth. Though as he stood over Calvin, he knew he had proven himself wrong.

It was the city that had changed him, he thought. It had made him full of madness. The Jekyle and hyde syndrome frightened him, because it was very possible that he’d be calling the city his home in the near future. This was reliant on the success of his business trip.

Jonathon Hobs began his week in the city dreaming of his future success within his company. He imagined his career as a ladder he’d never stop climbing. He knew that one day he would be in the position of controlling the ladder itself. He was his company’s spokesperson for an important merger with a competing firm in the city. His clear head and stern negotiation skills had led him to his position. It was those skills that his company was reliant upon. Jonathon would be single handedly speaking for his company throughout the coming talks of cooperation. If the merger went smoothly, he’d be promoted to a position of authority. If the merger failed, he’d never be trusted and surely let go.

The day of the attack was the day before the beginning of the strenuous negotiations. Jonathon was stressed to the thin layer of which all appropriated men find themselves during times of struggle. It was this stress, as well as the events that transpired throughout the week that brought him to the edge.

As he stood over Calvin, he could feel the city’s pulse, as if it had become his own. When the week started, he only sensed it, like an itch on the back of his neck. As he stormed out of the diner, filled with vinegar and shame, he wondered how that itch manifested into the monster he’d become and if that monster could be tamed.

Einstein’s Newton

Everything was painfully normal. I was sitting in Mr. Watson’s office, waiting for him to begin the ever-feared first of the month meeting. He held it individually with all his employees. It was always the same, always nerve wrecking. Month after month, salesmen and saleswomen alike would leave his office crying or filled with a red-hot rage. These bursts of emotion meant one thing; employees were on the cutting block. No one’s job was safe.

Mr. Watson was a numbers man. He’d often say that they never lie. Because of his scrutiny, no excuse could earn his understand when you didn’t reach your quota. I was nervous because my numbers, which Mr. Watson was brooding over – silently and methodically – showed that I’d missed my quota by a mile. It didn’t matter that for the first two weeks of the month I was struggling with a terrible flu, or that for second half of the month my elderly mother was in a critical condition at the hospital. She was sick with the same flu that bit me. I’m ashamed to say, I might have unintentionally transmitted to her. She always came over when I was sick. She’d always say, “When you’ve got no one else, you’ve got your mother.”

One can imagine the earnest stress I faced as I blamed myself for putting her in that hospital. Not to mention the anger I felt when Mr. Watson wouldn’t allow me to take a few days off to stay with her. She made it through, thank god, but I think its reasonable that during those stressed filled weeks the last thing on my mind was cold calling and how to connect, discover, recommend and close. It took everything I had not to break down crying when I got to my pitch about life insurance and how easy our lives and the lives of our loved ones can simply be swept right out from under us.

In Mr. Watson’s office, I sat nervously, tapping my foot, trying to keep the beat of the Newton’s cradle that sat on Mr. Watson’s desk. It was strange because I had difficult keeping the time. It was as if the swinging of the arms would sporadically delay or decrease in speed, but then suddenly return to their consistent pace. Then I noticed a fly that landed upon it. It moved quickly, landed and stayed dormant for only a few brief moments like all flies, but when it took off it was as if it hovered for a brief moment and then suddenly shot off like a bullet. I was so focused upon the strange occurrences,  I was caught off guard when Mr. Watson looked up from my numbers and asked me one simple question, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

I stuttered out an answer, but like I expected, he didn’t allow me to finish my response. Like a crack of a whip, he came at me with everything he had. I don’t know what came first, the pulsing veins in his neck, or the deteriorating sound of his voice caused by his strained larynx, but before I knew it, he was a ball of fire. He scolded me louder than he’d ever scolded me before, claiming incompetence and bottom line unprofessionalism.

It may have been my imagination caused by the stress of the moment, but at times I could swear his voice got unnaturally deep and then suddenly ramp back up to the razor sharp battle cry everyone in the office had heard through his walls. His voice always echoed over the cubicles as a cold reminder of what was to come if you didn’t reach your quota, or close a big sale. That fate had come to me.

As he screamed, I was sure he’d end his assault by telling me to clean out my desk, but when he suddenly lowered his voice, leaned back in his chair, and segued into what the rest of the staff coined as Mr. Watson’s anecdote portion of his meetings, I knew my job was safe. I had made it through. Miraculously, I still had a job.

There were three famous stories that Mr. Watson’s told, all of which were about his days as a salesman. They weren’t famous because of their content, but because they were told and retold by none other than Mr. Watson himself. At times, the boldest of us repeated them ironically over a beer. I wasn’t that bold. If word got out that Mr. Watson was the butt of a joke, he’d see to its swift, but destructive end. Someone, or a number of us, would most certainly be fired. I couldn’t take that chance. I could not lose my job.

No one ever told him he was repeating himself, but it soon became clear that Mr.Watson already knew.  One coworker typed and printed Mr. Watson’s stories and anonymously slipping them under his office door. It was suppose to get Mr. Watson to stop, to see that his stories were worn out and unappreciated. Unfortunately, they had the opposite effect. Mr. Watson had those stories framed and hung by his business degree.

As he told his stories, he always stared into the ceiling fan. He spoke with forthright whimsicality, like he and his words were the honey and milk of creation. He waved his hands as he spoke, expressively gesturing with every articulated word, pronouncing his Ts and Ps like fireworks. Occasionally, he’d spread the tips of his fingers through his thick black mustache, grooming it, without halting his speech. How proud he was of his facial hair, proud in the way a Good Samaritan is proud of their hard labor because they know its a gift to the world.

How many hours did I spend in that room, I wondered? How much of my life had I wasted listening to Mr. Watson’s stories? They say life goes by in a blink of an eye so cherish every moment, but ever since I left college, which seems like decades ago, life has gone past me, unseen and unloved. I used to want to see the world. I wanted to travel. I wanted to live, carelessly, and fruitfully, but there I was every month, frightened to lose my job with its 401k plan and aptly priced medical insurance. Was retirement to be my only escape, I wondered? Would I ever be able to retire?

The story he told me that day was the same story he told me during the last month’s meeting. It was entitled by the staff as “The Remarkable Deal.” It was about a deceptive sales trick he used proudly and often. In this story, his target was an elderly widow. The trick went like so: He kept the elderly woman on the line by promising her a huge discount that he shouldn’t be giving her. Then his co-worker, who’d act like his boss, would act as if he’d caught Mr. Watson in the act. Mr. Watson would then put the widow on hold, but not push the hold button. This was so she could listen to a fake argument, an argument that seemed to put his own job at risk only so he could give the customer a “remarkable deal”. He’d then end the argument and then conclude that he was losing his job, but he got the Widow her discount. This of course would lead to the sale. He thought the story was inspirational and funny as hell, but I found it to be pompous, unsettling, and even evil. I didn’t find entertainment in conniving salesmen tricks; the kind of stuff that makes people hate salesmen. It was the kind of stuff that made me hate salesmen.

Like the last month’s telling, Mr. Watson stopped to ask me a question before he reached the climax of the story. He asked, “can you guess what happened next?” Like last time, I told him I had no idea. Then suddenly, he motioned to hit fist on his desk, but this time it was different. While he was projecting his hand downward, it was as if his arm was steadily brought to slow motion. By the time his fist made impact with his desk, he was moving so slow, I didn’t expect a sound at all, but following the impact was a deep elongated booming sound. Following the roar of his fist,   Mr. Watson bellowed out, “S-h-e g-o-t f-u-l-l c-o-v-e-r-a-g-e!”

Something was wrong. There was no denying it anymore. Mr. Watson’s voice remained deep and robust, as if he was a vinyl record steadily brought to half speed. As he lifted his head back to the ceiling, his movements remained slow and sluggish. But it wasn’t only Mr. Watson. Everything seemed to decelerate. The ceiling fan went from a blurred circular mesh to a slow revolve. Mr. Watson’s prized vintage grandfather clock no longer ticked, but slowly shifted. And his novelty Newton’s cradle proved action reaction in one-tenth its normal speed.

My god, I thought, was I having a brain aneurism? Was this new perception of time a symptom of my coming death? What does one do in this moment, I thought? What promises does one make to themselves, or with God? Do I promise to live better, as long as I make it through? Do I promise to give more and take less? What terms do I need to grasp to escape this? I told myself to breath normally, to remain calm, and focus on the now. Instead of negotiating, I began to think of my life as I’d left it. Soon I came to the gripping thought that I’d left nothing, felt nothing, and done nothing. I’ve lived a normal, insignificant, unfruitful life. Until that very moment, nothing remarkable had happened to me.

I remained completely still. I stared straight ahead. I breathed slowly. Mr. Watson was quite. He seemed to be soaking in the reverie of his story’s conclusion. I saw everything as if it were picturesque. Though there was slight motion. There was the fly. It steadily flew towards Mr. Watson’s face and landed upon his mustache. Mr. Watson wiggled his lip and then swatted at the bug. I could see his hand stiffen as it projected towards the fly, but he only succeeded in slapping his own face. And I’ll tell you, there’s no greater sight than the slow shifting shades of embarrassment pass through Mr. Watson’s expression and turn into a red-hot anger. It was that expression that made me think to myself, if this were my final moments, I might as well take advantage of the circumstance. Forget the prospect of living. I had to start living now, as long as living could be had.

I instinctively brushed my hand through my hair and found myself moving at a slow speed, but I quickly realized that I wasn’t forced to move at that pace. I could brush my hair back and do any other motion at my normal speed. I wasn’t affected by the change. For once in my life, I was unique.

By the time I realized my power over the moment, Mr. Watson was getting up from his chair with a wound up newspaper in hand. He began to search the room for the fly. As he hunted, I found myself becoming entranced by the intricacies of motion. When Mr.Watson attacked, I watched his arm ream back then push forward in an uncoordinated, unbalanced and unsuccessful swing. I watched every jolt and muscle tension with refined clarity. As the fly dodged the attack by jettisoning towards me, I watched its little wings cut through the air and glide with grace. It was beautiful. Sublime.

Mr. Watson hunt became more and more determined. After his third failed attack, he slammed his window shut. He caught sight of the fly and swung again, but missed. He missed every time and I enjoyed every failed attempt. He pressed himself forward, towards the fly that was sailing to the other side of the room. With his eyes focused upon it, he tripped over his own chair and fell to the ground. I covered my mouth from my abrupt laughter. Still on the ground, Mr. Watson yelled at me with a deep and elongated tenor. “D-a-m-n-i-t,-H-e-l-p-M-e!”

I don’t know why his order was needed for me to get up from my chair, but as I stood to my feet, I realized it was the last order I’d ever take from Mr. Watson. I was ten times faster than him. For once, I felt supreme over that terrible man. How long would it last, I thought? Could it be forever? If not, would I ever get this opportunity to become extraordinary, fearsome, dare I say, god like, again? What could I do with this power?

It may have been wrong, but if you knew the extent of Mr. Watson’s cruelty, no judgment could be given for what I did next. First, with Mr. Watson’s back turned, I spat in his coffee. Once the saliva separated from my body and entered the vortex of the time shift, it traveled slowly through the air. So, I simply moved the mug to catch the mucus filled projectile. But this wasn’t enough. I needed to do something bigger.

I placed myself by the room’s bookshelf and out of Mr. Watson’s sight. My sudden disappearance confused him and he became disoriented. He turned his head toward me, so I slipped behind him. I followed the speed of his head’s motion so I could remain unseen. He turned again, searching the room, but I kept myself hidden. He pressed his intercom. “J-a-n, d-i-d M-a-r-k l-e-a-v-e m-y o-f-f-i-c-e?” he asked. His secretary, confused, told him that I hadn’t.

Then I created chaos. I picked up a pile of papers and tossed them into the air. I banged upon a metal filling cabinet. I ran to his window and opened it and then slammed it shut. I threw his framed stories on the ground and stomped on them. He reacted as I hoped, liked a scared child. I watched as he trembled at the sights and sounds that befell him. He quickly placed his hands over his head and ducked underneath his desk.

I stepped out of Mr. Watson’s office. When I looked out to the crowd of employees, they were all blankly staring at me. When I stepped toward the office’s exit they all watched me. The phenomenon had stopped. Then I began to wonder, did father time take a nap and dream of me? It was a stretch of the imagination, but an answer to why I, an unremarkable telemarketer, experienced such an event, so uniquely.

I stepped out of the office. I ran outside and saw everything anew. Birds flew majestically overhead. Tree’s waved in normal, but beautiful time. It was my time to enjoy and I knew I had a lot of it to make up.

Mama, Bird

I was in my footy pajamas when G.I Joe rescued a family of ninjas from a burning lego tenement. Underneath my mother’s dining room table, intergalactic spacemen exhausted the flames. Quickly after the terror subsided, a celebration of life began where certain death had once reigned. G.I Joe received a congressional medal of honor, as well as an unpleasant and unwanted kiss from my baby sister’s barbie. The ninjas celebrated and gave their dearest and truest gratitude to Joe and the spacemen. Everything was right in the world.

This is how life prevailed in my imagination, and because I had no reason to doubt it, I believed it would forever be the same in my reality. Unfortunately, that morning, because of the nature of life, and the nature of growing, I was forced to face a crippling truth of life.

The lesson came by the way of a bird that had mistakenly crashed into my mother’s dining room window. My mother had kept, what some would say a pristine home; clean carpets, clean sheets, and crystal clear windows. In that moment, her OCD like tidiness was to a fault. At least, to the fault of the poor bird. Though, as I watched the bird fold its tiny wings and fall upon the porch, it didn’t occur to me that the transparency of the glass was a factor in the incident. I honestly thought the bird did it on purpose. Maybe she wanted my attention. Maybe, she needed to be rescued from something more sinister than a window.

My mother was in the kitchen cooking breakfast. The sound of the impact, which echoed through the house, shook the life from her. She was so frightened by the sound she flung a bowl of my whisked eggs into the air, and she screamed in horror. After collecting herself, I’m sure the egg white mess on her kitchen’s linoleum, her tile counter, and her stainless steel refrigerator became her real terror.

In a havoc, she cried, “what in the heavens was that sound.” She said it in a way that really meant, Charlie, you better have a good reason to have ruined your father’s breakfast.

As I ran to the backdoor, I tried to make made it clear to my mother that sound did not come from me, but I only left her stupefied as she watched me paw at the lock above the handle. As I attempted to open the door, my father rushed down the stairs, half dressed and raving wildly.

“What’s going on?” he yelled, “What the hells the racket?!”

My father always wore a three-piece suit. At least, that’s how it always seemed to me. Always professional, and always stern. To see him with his shirt untucked, his collar popped, and his tie swaying as two pieces rather than one was a rare sight. Seeing him that way was like seeing a bear without its fur. He was stout and robust man; his gut, which protruded outwardly, truly tested his tailor’s needlework. When he stood beside my mother, who was frail, yet tall, you’d swear they’d met at one of those retail stores that solely sold clothing to people with elongated or condensed frames.

My father was a judge. Therefore, when he asked questions, it was crucial that you delivered clear and precise answers. My mother tried her best to reiterate the explanation I’d given her, but she was so flustered, stumbling back into the kitchen. She drowned in half-sentences and muttered ramblings, as she simultaneously cleaned the yoke off the floor. My father’s confusion sent him into an instant rage, which quickly became all too unstable. He continued to yell incoherently. My mother continued to explain unsuccessfully.

Then finally, I yelled, “Open the door. She needs our help.”

Without a word, my father shoved me to the side and flung open the door. I followed him outside, and I pointed to the yellow bird. She was twitching. Her wings were twisted. Her feathers were bent upward. And from the look in its poor blood shot eye, staring hopelessly at me, I knew she was scared.

“It’s just a damn bird,” said my father, “The damn thing could’ve cracked the damn window.”

My mother stepped outside, while wiping her hands of the kitchen’s mess.

“It doesn’t look well,” she said.

And she was right. It didn’t look well at all.

“Can we take her, mom?” I cried, “Can you take her to where you take Tiger?”

Tiger was my pet mouse. He was always getting sick. When he did, my mother took him to the pet hospital. When she got home, Tiger would be as good as new. Sometimes he’d even look younger, or slightly more spotted. The miracle of modern medicine, I thought. If the pet hospital could help Tiger, surely they could help the poor bird.

My parents didn’t saying anything; they just stood still like statues, frozen with blank constitutions. My mother looked at my father, whom kept his eyes sternly fixated upon the bird. It wasn’t until I slipped out, “dad?” with choked hesitance, did he make a move towards the shed.

I shot a look to my mother. “What’s he doing?” I asked, not with words, but with a look of sheer terror. She told me to go inside, but I told her I wouldn’t. Then she looked back to the bird, and then back to me, but turned away when she said, “Maybe this’ll be good for you.”

My father returned with a shovel in hand. He stepped towards the feeble animal and I knew what he was intending to do. I stepped in his way, and he shot me a look of bafflement. This was my first act of defiance to the man I later found so cold. My mother said my name faintly, pleading me to let the coming event pass. But my father had another strategy. After his initial hesitance, he grabbed my shoulder and forced me to the side.

I tripped over myself, and fell backwards upon the porch. On the ground, looking up, I saw a nest sitting upon a low branch. Inside that nest sat a few eggs and one baby bird, chirping, maybe even crying. I yelled she’s a mom, as I hopelessly watched my father swing with measured force upon the bird. He’d say it was to put the bird out of her misery. I’d go on to have a different opinion.

My father flung the remains into a bush. Then I felt a heavy pressure upon my chest, and I knew it wasn’t only my heart, but also the dirty handle of the shovel. I heard my father’s callous voice demand that I put it back into the shed.

After my father stepped inside the house, I cried. Not heavy tears, not wild uncontrolled spasms. I cried softly. I didn’t cry because of the bird’s death, even though at the time, its the only thing that made sense. After further reflection, I know now, I cried because for the first time, I’d realized human’s power over life and our all too usual inability to contain it.

The Bottle

While standing on my bow, I fixate upon rippling mirrors that reflect my dismayed face. They shatter against my recently deflowered sailboat whose name has yet to be inscribed upon its hull. I fear that Catherine, as my darling Catherine requested, will never be transcribed upon it. In truth, I fear much worse than that.

I’ve just discovered that the anchor I threw overboard was unsuccessful in hitting the ocean’s floor. Its rope was fastened tightly to the ship in a way that left little length for it to sink. I was simply too drunk with love and wine to notice. As my new fiancé and I slept peacefully within the cabin the sea swallowed us wholly into desperation. Now we float aimlessly with no sign of life.

Catherine is still asleep, thank goodness. I can’t bear the shame of facing her. I need a solution to the problem before she wakes. But what solution is there? All I see before me is an endless sea, and all that I know within me is a hopeless amateur sailor. I have as much chance of getting us to land, as I do to getting us to the moon. As

As these thoughts of pity pass through my mind, my heart suddenly takes hold. It snaps at me like a rusted surly pirate, one who detests my pathetic angst, “Abandon ye pity and embrace thee desire to watch the sun crack through the cityscape,” the voice echoes through me, “Survival must to be strewn upon the mast. Before your fiancé awakes to see what you’ve done!”

In a panic, I pull upon a random rope; one I believe raises the mainsail. But suddenly, the boom attacks me. I duck quickly, but not elegantly. I cause a loud ruckus while I dodge its impact. On the ground, I realize that I’ve already proven myself right. I am no sailor. My concern I’ve awaken Catherine takes over my wallowing. I stare at the cabin door, and listen for her call, but there is no sign of her.

With time still barely on my side, I begin to recall the introductory classes I took without Catherine’s knowledge. She always had an ill-conceived belief that I’d simply know how to sail. I’ve studied hard during the days that lead to the boat’s purchase. But so far, I’ve only put the terminology to practice. All I prepared for was one nights stay near the dock, where I simply used the small motor to bring us out to seclusion. I planed to use that same motor to bring us home, but that would no be the case. I could no longer be a fraud, because my life, and Catherine’s life, is depending on the captain that’s within me.

I get to work. I find the crank to lift the mainsail. I make a few mistakes along the way, but I find success. For a moment, I consider myself to be a worthy of the sea. Maybe Catherine had me pegged. Maybe this is the life for me. But then my confidence violently crashes. Once the sail is up, I realize there’s no wind to blow us home. I then discover that I have no idea which direction would guide us towards land. I don’t have radar or GPS. I’d invested so much money in the boat itself; I couldn’t afford the extras. Or, I was just too stupid to not do so. Certainly I could have brought aboard a compass, but then I’m sure still, I wouldn’t use it properly.

I’ve been beat, but hope was still alive, or some sort of denial was still alive. Time was dwindled. I could hear Catherine rummaging downstairs. I consider locking Catherine below deck. I’d act as if it were a game. I could tell her I have a surprise, but she’d have to wait to receive it. Though with no real surprise to give, she’d surely be furious to learn that she was stowed away for hours for nothing. I could come up with some surprise along the way, but it’d have to be big, and big means expensive. I didn’t have the means for that. I couldn’t promise something and then let her down. I couldn’t possibly let her know my financial situation.

Suddenly, I remember she’d brought her sleeping pills onboard. Also, I know that she always leaves a glass of water beside her bed before she goes to sleep. I could grind the pills into the water and have her drink it.  Then maybe she could sleep through this whole ordeal.              Then suddenly, right before I was to bring action to my plan, Catherine’s voice cracks through the salty air. “Moses, we’re out of water,” Catherine calls out as she walks up the stairs from the cabin. Her dark black hair’s wet and she’s wearing a revealing silky robe, “I had to finish my shower with the rest of our bottled water.”

I restrain myself from panicking, despite that all the liquid that remains is wine and saltwater. Catherine steps on the deck and looks out to the vast sea, but says nothing. She steps towards me, wraps her arms around my neck, and kisses me on the mouth.

“I assume we’re skipping brunch with your mother?” she says jubilantly, obviously ignorant of our situation. I don’t make a point to reveal it to her.  Instead, we make love below the deck. I know its wrong, but we’d just become engaged; It’d be unordinary if we didn’t begin each day passionately. Besides, I do all the work. I break quite the sweat. By its end, I’m thirsty and tired. I get up and go into the bathroom. I turn on the faucet and indeed there is no water. Then I see, sitting on the basin, Catherine’s sleeping pills. I look back and I see, sitting beside her, a lone glass of water – The last of our water.

I grind the pills and hide the powder in my palm. I sit on Catherine’s side of the bed and coyly grab the water and dust the powder inside. When she opens her eyes to me, I hand her the drink and I watch her drink it down. When she finishes, she snaps her lips with satisfaction. “Lets go to shore. Get a cocktail,” She says.

“Lets relax for a bit and feel the movement of the ocean.”

She smiles and I take her in an embrace. After a few minute she falls asleep and I go on the deck to think of a plan. But I come up with nothing. After two hours, Catherine wakes once again. She’s furious to see we were still out at sea, but the severity of the situation still hadn’t hit her. She repeats, “Sail us home, Moses. It’s getting late.” I told her I would and I began to pull upon cranks and levers with no purpose, but eventually I need to explain.

“Stranded,” She says blankly, “What do you mean, we’re stranded?”

I don’t know how else to put it, so I don’t say anything.

“Don’t you have a radio or something?”

I begin to ease her worries, “We’ll be fine, darling,” but she won’t hear it.

“Don’t darling me, Moses,” she screams, her eyes fierce and rabid. “Find a solution. Now.”

We drift for days. I stay on the deck searching for a lifeboat as the burning sun blisters and the ocean sucks the life from me. My tongue shrivels and sticks to my sap filled mouth. All the while, Catherine remains below deck, eating the last of our food and waving a fan upon her face. But one day, she comes on deck with an empty bottle. She sneers at me, stuffs a note inside, throws it out to sea, and then she returns below deck.

An hour later, the bottle brushes against the ship and I bring it aboard. I pull out the note. It reads: I’m a beautiful woman lost at sea. My body is yours if you come to my rescue. I look up from the note. I see a something fast approaching in the distance. It’s a ship. It rings out its horn with majestic liberation.

When we get aboard, I slip the note to an old rusted sea captain. My hero. Catherine’s hero. I guide the man’s eyes to my fiancé. He furls his brow, smiles and steps towards the woman who will not have a ship named after her; At least, not my ship.

He’s Coming Around

Inside a large mansion sitting upon a hill, towering over humble Tennessee homes, Victor was spending his workday as a diligent supporter of the next day’s productivity. He’d written only a few words that morning, but found himself troubled by lack of inspiration. Rather than writing the few pages he assured himself he would write, he rested on the living room couch and drank beer, while watching television. He justified his activity with his belief that watching television was research in the art of story telling. Television has been getting so good recently, thought Victor, who needs to read to know how to write a story. Victor, of course, was overcome by the tragedy of procrastination justified by a delusion. Alcohol may have dulled his senses to see the truth, but in a way, Victor was simply dull.

Victor wad dodging a scorching heat wave that drifted west and settled its tide upon his small town. He relaxed in his preferred position, with his feet up and the air conditioner pressing upon his scalp and wafting through his thinning hair. He seemed to have too little of hair for a man with a seemingly perfect life condition. The little stress stemmed from his self induced employment of writing a book with no interested publishers, no strong premise, as well as its rarity of receiving the attention it was promised, wasn’t an adequate excuse for the brown strands of hair consistently found in his comb every morning. This was because Victor’s stress didn’t come from his work; his stress came from a responsibility imposed upon him and was about to interrupt his relaxation.

Victor’s cell phone abruptly rang and he was startled from it. He was so shaken that he splashed beer all over his face. His remiss method of arching the bottle from his chest towards his stagnant mouth was mostly to blame for the mishap. After quickly drying himself, he answered the phone to hear his wife’s secretary deliver the unwelcome news that his stepson was once again incarcerated for public drunkenness.

This was the third time that year Victor was asked to pick up Kevin from jail. Still, Victor maintained the belief that his stepson was a decent young man, or at least had the capacity to be one. It was with this delusion, that after he was insured that his wife would wire him the funds for the bail, Victor turned off the television and called a cab.

The first time Victor visited the police station he was overwhelmed by fear and nervousness. While forced to breathe the stale air of the waiting room and sit on the hard oak bench, which he’d become familiar, he wondered what was the appropriate measures a ‘good’ father would take in such a situation. But now, since this was his third unrequited visit, he was only embarrassed and looking forward to the days end.

Though, a stint of optimism stirred within Victor. He’d hoped that this would be the final straw for Kevin. He hoped that Kevin would finally be apologetic for once again sullying his family’s name rather than his usual guiltless, proud dignity he wore like a badge of courage. Victor would soon learn that he, nor Kevin, would be so lucky.

When Victor had checked in at the front desk, Victor found that the officer on duty was frustratedly working on the same crossword puzzle that Victor had finished that morning. The officer was adamantly focused and seemed to have made some progress, but Victor could tell that his progress was nothing more than obvious mistakes. It was good thing he was using a pencil with a thick eraser, thought Victor.

The officer didn’t give Victor his attention until Victor spoke. When Victor did speak, the officer dropped his pencil, lifted his eye line slowly up to Victor, gave a contemptuous, knowing smirk, pushed the intercom to inform the lieutenant of Victor’s presence. He then requested that Victor take a seat and wait.

Victor’s appearance in the police station was beginning to become a pathetic routine. He was a known fixture. A feeble shell doomed to remain brittle and displaced as a stepfather who’s authority had been unwillingly vested into his kin by association.

As officers passed him by, they only glanced and continued on their way without a hello, or even a nod. During his first visit, Victor promised to make changes in his house. He promised to delve out punishment. He promised to be a strong father who set ground rules. The police officers applauded Victor’s forthright authority. But soon after when nothing changed, Victor’s promises seemed feigned and pathetic.

After Victor sat down, another sort of routine was beginning to take place in the waiting room. While shifting his rigid body, and longing for his couch, he felt as if the puzzled officer at the front desk was glaring daggers at him. He felt it tingling on the back of his neck, a twinge that was unmistakable and unable to be ignored. When Victor looked up to confirm his suspicion, the officer quickly lowered his head to his desk and continued his crossword as to avoid any sort of eye contact.

Victor then curiously observed the officer’s peculiar method in dealing with the crossword. The officer wrinkled his brow, tapped his pencil on his desk, exhaled heavily, as if he were exhausting all of his mental vigor for that day, and then finally, he wrote a word. The officer would then stare at the word with a strained discernment, until frustratedly, he turned over his pencil and aggressively erased what he’d just written. After blowing away the flakes of his eraser, the officer started the process over. This happened three times. Each time the officer dismantled his progress. When the officer suddenly broke the monotony by bringing his attention back to Victor, it was then Victor, with a sudden jolt, who averted his eyes elsewhere.

While counting the ceiling tiles, Victor once again felt the burning glare of the officer, as well as the burning desire to discern the officer’s look. He wanted to know what was the measure of contempt on the man’s face. After counting thirty-five tiles, Victor became bold and submitted to the urge by slightly glancing at the officer. But, once again, the officer instantaneously reverted his attention back to his puzzle, not allowing Victor to get a good look. Then Victor, once again, observed the officer’s peculiar method, until like clockwork, the officer broke his monotony and looked at Victor, whom frustratedly looked away once again, cursing himself for not being more bold.

This occurrence happened again and again. It was a dance between Victor and the office, which was vexing. Victor eventually concluded, without ever analyzing the officer’s stare, that the officer felt a deep disdain for him. Why shouldn’t he? Thought Victor, most of the officer’s in the precinct must feel the same disdain.

Victor hated being disliked, especially in the place he was sure to return. He considered giving the officer a clue to what was an eight-letter word for a southbound river in South Africa, with the hope of softening the officer’s contempt, but concerned that he’d come off rude or off-putting, he refrained from making any sort of comment. Eventually, he decided he’d be better to think about Kevin in the boy’s time of need. Though, while staring at the ceiling, Victor’s attention was forced back to the officer by a mischievous fly that swooped down from a ventilation duct and landed on the officer’s morning cake. It took small bites with its filth-ridden mouth while shifting its garbage-encrusted feet from one position to another. Victor watched as the officer then gripped the cake with his pudgy hand and brought it to his mouth without noticing the insect. The fly then retreated back to ventilation duct for a few seconds, before returning to the dessert that was once again placed on the paper plate. This occurrence repeated throughout Victor’s waiting. Each time the fly returned, Victor wondered if he should tell the officer, but he decided he was better off not knowing that the delicious dessert was tainted.

Suddenly, Victor’s attention was broken.

“Victor,” said a female officer that was standing at the mouth of a long hall, “Come this way.” Victor followed her, and while passing the front desk, he wasn’t surprised to see that the puzzled officer had moved on to a Soduku. Victor was led into an office with walls that were half dry wall and half glass. Kevin was seated in one of two chairs facing the desk of a lieutenant who couldn’t have been more familiar to Victor.

Kevin turned and greeted Victor with a smile. “Victor! Always a pleasure to see you,” exclaimed Kevin, while raising his arms, which were much like him, long and lanky. Though Victor had noticed that Kevin’s gut did seem to be growing exponentially. It was beginning to look like a popcorn bowl was protruding under his shirt. When he stood up, it sagged low and swayed lazily, much like his character.

“Hello, Kevin,” said Victor, while restraining a stint of spite, which he was surprised he possessed. Victor quickly restrained it, but wanted to remain stern.

The lieutenant will be here any minute, said the female officer.

“Thank you, Marcy,” said Victor. The officer winced her face disapprovingly and closed the door, leaving Victor with his stepson. Victor sat down and suddenly felt the strong urge to smoke a cigarette. He wished he lived in the fifties when he could smoke indoors. It was a time he believed kids had manners like kids had contempt today. Little did know, he’d only been tricked by black and white sitcoms and censored writers.

“How’s the book coming along?” asked Kevin, while keeping his eyes centered upon his stepfather. Victor kept his head forward and didn’t respond. He thought the silent treatment would show how disappointed he was, plus he knew that Kevin didn’t take Victor’s profession seriously. Unfortunately, Victor was beginning to wonder if he himself took it seriously anymore. His latest work in progress, which was sure to not progress to a resolve, was a mystery novel. Within it’s pages a teenager’s been murdered and it’s up to the protagonist to solve the case. Victor could never think of the ending, or much of a beginning for that matter. He was much better at writing its back-story, before the protagonist even gets involved and when the murderous incident took place.

Kevin shook Victors arm, urging for attention. “Victor? Victor?” pressed Kevin with a child-like persistence, pushing and pushing without acknowledging the signs of annoyance that Victor clearly displayed. “I asked how’s your books coming along? Ya crack the case yet?” Victor was successfully ignoring Kevin, until a strong punch landed on Victor’s shoulder from his perturbed stepson.

“What!?” shouted out Victor, unleashing his spite, but then quickly harnessing it once again.

Kevin glared at Victor with a demonic kind of stoicism. “Don’t ignore me, Victor,” he said coolly with stern calculated poise. Victor looked down and recollected himself.

“I’m sorry Kev. Its just that this is your third strike.”

“Will it would be if…”

“It won’t even be my first. I’m free as a bird. Can’t chain this goose down.”

Victor suddenly smelled the pungent scent of bourbon on Kevin’s breath.

“You smell like a ditch.”

That’s your ditch, Vic” Kevin said, while cracking a wide and unrestrained clown like smile. “And may i say, your selection is really going down hill.”

Victor sighed and thought of his wife. “If Kevin wants to drink,” She’d say, “he’s going to drink. I just prefer he drink at home, where he’s safe.” That’s why Victor never got a lock for his liquor cabinet. His wife felt like it sent the wrong message.

The lieutenant entered his office. He exhaled and gave an ill-tempered look to both men. Victor found it difficult to even look at the lieutenant, or speak any sort of welcome. Instead, he gave the lieutenant a shame filled nod.

“Hello, lieutenant sir,” said Kevin, ripe with impersonated salutation.

The lieutenant stepped to his chair and sat down with a heavy thud. He cleared a place on his cluttered desk for his coffee and then clasped his fingers together while resting his forearms on his desk. There was a glint of confidence in the man’s eyes that Victor knew he himself didn’t posses. The lieutenant was large man with big shoulders and hands that could easily squeeze the life out of him, and because of that, as well as the amount of trouble his stepson had given the lawman, Victor believed he was on borrowed time.

“Victor I’m going to cut to the chase. Has she given it any more thought?” asked the lieutenant, like he was a perturbed game show host asking the million-dollar question for the hundredth time.

“I wish I could say yes,” replied Victor while covering his embarrassment with his hand as if he was rubbing away frustration.

“Let me speak with her. I can convince her that this really is our best option.”

“I’ve told her, but she works late and I..”

“-don’t work at all,” interrupted Kevin while finding it hard to control his hysterical laughter.

“You shut your trap,” demanded the lieutenant.

Victor let Kevin’s ridicule slide off of him. He’d only been in one yelling match with his stepson, but one was good enough. After their first and only fight, Victor felt like he’d only made things worse. He stayed up late wondering how he could possibly be a good father to this disturbed boy. He came to decide that he’d try to be his friend.

“Did you give her the pamphlet?” asked the lieutenant.

“Yes, Steve. She doesn’t want her child to be a war monger.”

“Victor, it’s not a military, it’s a disciplinary school.” The lieutenant then brandished a pamphlet for a school for troubled boys. He handed it to Victor, even though he’d seen it many times before, “It teaches respect and..”

“-How to be a slave,” blurted out Kevin.

“You open your mouth again, and I’ll make you shut it, ” said the Lieutenant without restraint. He pointed his thick finger at Kevin and a deep silence over came the room as he set it down. Until.

“You going to let this rind talk to me like that, Victor?”

The lieutenant then shot up from his chair and pointed his finger at Kevin. A rage that had been building inside of him was suddenly released. It was a rage that the lieutenant believed that Victor should have possessed. The lieutenant suddenly felt the need to posses enough for the both of them.

“You little snot nosed brat..”

“-Hold on now, Steve.” Said Victor.

“No, you hold on Victor,” demanded the Lieutenant. Victor obliged without dispute. He sunk into his chair and decided to remain an onlooker.

The lieutenant searched Kevin up and down like he was searching for some kind of decency in the young man, but then came up dry. “I know because your mother has a million dollar lawyer and you have a trust fund, you feel like you have the entitlement to treat me and your stepfather with disrespect.” Kevin was smiling with a devilish kind of grin, and shifting his body and turning his head away from the lieutenant. Victor was a statue, emotionless, but taking in the moment. “But I’m going to tell you something. You’re going grow up to be nothing more than a human pen writing checks for things you don’t need with money you didn’t earn. You’ll grow up to be unloved, constantly drunk, and either so depressed you won’t know what to do, or so filled with drugs you won’t know who you are” The lieutenant then brought his attention to Victor. “You have anything to say about this?”

“Steve. He’s just a kid.” Victor sputtered out. The lieutenant took a moment and sneered the contemptuous look that Victor must have been receiving in the waiting room. It was fire filled look. It was a look worse than the one the lieutenant had given to Kevin.

“You’re just as bad as him,” pressed the lieutenant with a calm and collected nature. “You’re too afraid to be desperate for a pay check, and too afraid of what it feels like to succeed, which is exactly why you’ll never finish that book you’ve been working on since you left that college, which gave you nothing more than a wife that disrespects you and a step son that uses you.“

“You’re a dick,” said Kevin. “Victor’s a better man than you’ll ever be. Tell’em Victor.” The lieutenant gave Kevin a glare of disdain. Victor stared forward, lost in thought.

“Victor,” Said the lieutenant, “the next time my step-nephew graces my path, I’ll think of him as nothing more than a punk kid sucking on the tit of his momma. And I won’t think of you as nothing more than a pathetic stepfather with a life that’s not his own. Get the hell out here.”

The lieutenant sat down and began organizing things on his desk, while Kevin rambled on with foul words here and foul words there. Victor knew that Kevin was standing up for him for the first time, but it was too little too late.

Victor suddenly stood up. He told his brother he loved him, and exited the office. He stepped into the waiting room and threw out the remains of the puzzled officers cake. He checked into a hotel, and then called his wife, urging her to start family counseling without him.

The Bathroom

Peter didn’t say a word to me at the funeral. Neither was he speaking to me at the wake. His arrogance was too strong. I guess he thought our differences were too strong.
He sat on the porch with his fiancé, whose first words to my wife were, “I love coming to the country. It’s like going back in time, when no ones heard of the internet, or pop culture.” And whose last words to me were, “You think you know your son, you don’t know him at all.” She had no right to be at my wife’s funeral. I wanted her to take her big city bred attitude, her upper knee level skirt and nightclub heels, and get the hell out of my town. My wife, Sarah, had never admitted to disliking her. I wondered if I should’ve held my tongue on that matter.

No one seemed to be talking to me. Sarah’s coworkers shed me their condolences, but I wasn’t sure if they even knew my name. Still, it was nice of them to come. I sat alone on my wicker chair, staring at the only bathroom in the house. I was thinking about Sarah’s only wish, which I regarded as a bit of whimsicality and lot of foolishness. I believed that she thought the same.

Nestled behind Sarah’s charitable nature was a small sliver of self-indulgence. So small, I swear you’d never know it was there. But, at times she did speak of the blue marble counter top, the chestnut yellow walls, the bathtub for two, and the dimmer switch for those romantic nights I’d usually be to tired to perform. Though, she’d always say an extra bathroom was unnecessary. She preferred we invest in our son’s future instead.

Life insurance is a curse and a blessing. When I received the payout by mail, I wanted to tear the envelope apart. It made me sick to replace love with six digits, but there were a lot of things that needed to be settled financially. Her death paid for the funeral, our mortgage, and our son’s college tuition. I couldn’t make a payment without feeling the overwhelming dread of loss. I wanted to get rid of every penny.

After all of the essentials were covered, a substantial amount of cash still remained. So, I bought a book on bathroom construction, new tools, and all the materials. I even rented a truck to transfer everything to my house. I knew I wouldn’t use the bathroom, but after spending two weeks of my three-month paid grievance time locked in my bedroom, I thought doing something with my hands would take my mind off things.

I knew I had my work cut for me. I hadn’t used my hands for anything but paper pushing for fifteen years. I used to watch my father install and fix appliances. He used to say, “A husband’s job is to fix what’s broken, and improve what can be improved,” After three years into my marriage, I accept that I wasn’t like my father. He never caused electrical fires, or dissembles any appliances that he didn’t know if he could reassemble. If I were more like him, maybe we could have saved more money. Maybe, Sarah wouldn’t of felt it appropriate to work, and maybe she wouldn’t have taken that business trip that caused this whole mess.

I spent as much time as I could as a slave to that new bathroom. All the way up to winter, when I was reminded just how cold a room of linoleum and tile could get. I went into the attic to find my winter’s clothes. I found a cardboard box filled with sweaters and coats, and underneath that box, I stumbled upon family photos that Sarah didn’t find worthy for our photo albums. I could see why too. We weren’t happy in those photos. They were from the family vacations that the arguments were more memorable than the sights.

I went down stairs with the box of clothing and found my son standing in the living room. He seemed as surprised to see me, as I was to see him. He was holding a wrapped gift. I guess it was nearing Christmas, and I hadn’t even known it. He asked me whose truck was in the front, and I realized that I’d forgotten to return it. I probably should have just bought the damn thing. I asked him if he brought his fiancée, and he said they split up. He seemed genuinely broken up about it, but I had a hard time concealing my relief. I didn’t ask him any questions about how it happened, who said what, or any of that. I knew if I did, it’d start a fight.

I showed him the bathroom, but he didn’t have much to say about it. He just nodded and turned on the faucet, but when the water didn’t come out, because the water was off, he gave me a look that said, ‘you can’t do anything right.’ That set me off. I just went into it. I told him I wished he’d call more. I told him I hated he was so distant. I told him he should have talked to me at the funeral. I said he was being childish, all for a woman that wasn’t worth the dirt on my shoe. Then he exploded. He called me a stubborn, lonely, crazy man, bent on fixing a marriage that I’ll never be able to fix. Then he stormed out, before I had the opportunity to tell him to leave.

I finished the bathroom in January. It was perfect. Every aspect of it was exactly as she would have wanted it. The molding, the towel rack, the adjustable shower head, everything was right. I couldn’t improve a thing. Then I was in my bedroom again. Alone, bored and somewhat scared. I had two weeks until I was to go back to work, and I felt just about the same as I did sitting on that wicker chair, staring at my single bathroom, hoping my son would talk to me.

I needed someone in my house. I needed to hear someone enter the front door. I needed to hear the television in the other room and know someone was watching it. I didn’t need conversation. I just needed a presence. Maybe that’s what Sarah always provided. When I thought about it, our conversations died a few years into our marriage. Right about the time I gave up being like my father. In a way, maybe I just gave up. Maybe if we talked more, I would have built that bathroom when she was still alive. Maybe it was because I didn’t she worked. Maybe she wanted to pay for the bathroom herself. Or maybe, she was just bored and sick of me.

I enlisted my son’s bedroom for rent. I didn’t care who’d apply for it. They could have been my age, or some college kid. I even made the rent cheap enough that anyone with a part time job could afford it.

Then a housing inspector came over to make sure the house was up to ‘code’ for to eligible for rent. I wasn’t worried. My house was immaculate. It was clean. There were no sharp edges. No rusty piping. No bad electrical.

But when passed the bathroom he stared at it for a good minute and searched through his paperwork. He told me I didn’t have an extra bathroom listed. I told him I’d just built it, and he said that in our neighborhood every addition must be permitted with the housing boards. It was my house, I argued, I could do whatever I damn pleased. He said I could try to get it approved, but since an unlicensed contractor built it, my chances were slim to nonexistent. He said if I wanted to rent out my house, I’d have to remove the bathroom.

I don’t think I could of pushed that man out of my house fast enough. After, I spent a week alone, until I really realized I couldn’t take it anymore. It took me two hours of staring at the crown molding, at the oval shaped linoleum sink, the stainless steel everything, before I could make a single dent in the marble counter. After I built up the strength, I didn’t go lightly. I didn’t want to recycle any piece of that bathroom. I didn’t want any part of it set inside someone else’s home.

As I swung away, something suddenly came over me. I thought of my mistakes as a father, and as a husband, the rejection my son must be feeling, the pain that must be encompassing him, the way my mother treated me when my father died, the way I’ve treated Peter now, the argument we’ve had, and the call I’d hopped he was waiting for from me.