In a Used Book Shop

We met in that used book shop on Main street, the name of which is both inconsequential and easily forgotten.  Next door there was once a barber shop and on the other side a hardware store both stand empty these days.  I remember when I arrived the odors of mildew, mold, old leather, canvas and dust were the first things I noticed.  It smelled of history and memories, I felt almost as if I had entered the chapel of such things.

We met in the Fantasy section, which was only appropriate as we both seemed to need one.  We had both been abandoned, her when he passed and I when I had been tossed aside like a useless thing.  We both had scars where we had been mishandled, we were old and forgotten, our lives long, our journeys many, children had left their markings on us both as well. We weren't completely sad sacks, there was some joy in us both still, but it seemed buried in heavy burdens.

She brought me to the coffee shop across the street and I  opened up to her and told her stories of times long past or maybe they were of a future yet to be,  who can know such things. She touched me gently and let me tell my stories, I could hear the stories in her heart and so I pushed forward those tales that might most affect her. She shed a silent tear as she seemed to reminisce about him, but she bravely continued on.  When we were exhausted, she let me go with a promise to see me again soon.

She was true to her promise and soon she could not leave me be for very long. She wanted to be distracted, to forget pains new and old. I could not help but give myself fully to her, as she was always so gentle, always wary of my wounds, always wary of my sensitive nature. Then I made her weep, a memory too far I guess, it wasn't new to me, I often caused people to weep. I was stained with tears both of joy and sadness. She did not give up on me though and she actually seemed joyful of those tears she had let go.

However our time together was coming to an end, I could feel the anxiety of that moment fast approaching, that tension was noticeable in both of us. I did not want it to end and neither did she, I was certain of that.  All stories have endings, it is rare they are happily ever after either, more often than not someone is in pain when we touch that last page.

She avoided me more toward the end, she was putting off the inevitable and it was obvious to both of us. She always said there were just more pressing matters to attend to and I don't doubt there may have been, but we both knew she did not wish to reach that finality.

In the end, we parted with her smiling, something I was glad for. She closed my cover and held me to her breast, then put me high upon her shelf and touched me gently along the spine. I needed her to hear my tale, she needed my distraction.

A Thousand Little Scratches, Scrapes and Bruises

I am writing this on my phone with no idea if I will even post this. I am also texting tonight with my ex-wife about our daughter and her current teenage attitude issues. As I do I'm reminiscing about my own teenage years and how I felt during that time. How sure I was that every person hated me, or didn't know the true me.  So much anger and sadness filled me, I don't think could have seen the forest for the trees if I even tried.

I have heard of the frailty of the human condition and always thought it referred to our physical bodies and while I'm sure it does, maybe our psyches are our true points of fragility. Our wounded ego and id suffer for much longer than our flesh and bone injuries. 

I am remembering a particular slight that hurt my mushy ego when I was about 17, but I will write the events of the evening in reverse order. We had been drinking, Dan, myself and some girls, though I can't be sure which group of girls it was.  We were downtown and I needed to pee, but I couldn't find a restroom so I peed between two cars while my friends were a short distance off. As I urinated a flashlight beam found me and I quickly covered up. A voice bellowed out "what are you up to there? " I replied shakily "nothing". I can see the look on the security guard's face even now, he smirked (in a way that said 'here comes a penis joke') looked to the girls and said "yeah that's what it looked like to me too".
Now I can feel that wound even now, it seems minor and I shouldn't remember it so clearly, but here is why it is silly. We had driven there drunk, a highly dangerous activity that I didn't have the sense to understand back then, we really didn't understand that drinking itself was dangerous.

However before that we had been in the parking lot of the ice rink. I sat on the hood of my Mustang and drank, at some point Dan decided to drive the car with me on it and I unwisely stood up. All was going well until Dan turned the vehicle going 25 mph. Anyone who understands physics knows that the vehicle turned, but my body continued in motion in the same direction it had been traveling. I somehow did a tuck and roll and slid to a stop on the asphalt using my shoulder, butt and hands as brakes. You see I can't remember the pain of the road rash at all, but that guard, I can't forget.  I could have died that night, but I focus on a poorly made penis joke that didn't even really make sense.

I was reminded on a couple of occasions how focused we become on those types of wounds and how they consume us. Years ago shortly after my ex-wife and I married, she was describing to me the Grandmother she hated. I prodded a bit, asking what was so wrong about her, was she cruel? Did she not love Amber? Did she say something horrible or racist?  "No, none of that" Amber said "she wouldn't peel my orange".  I laughed, years of anger and hatred, because of an orange peel? Yes, that minor affront had seemed so large at the time that she has forgotten everything her Grandmother had done that was sweet and loving.

In highschool I was so sure everyone hated me that when I first got Facebook, I couldn't understand how these people were sending me friend requests.  How dare they after all these years attempt to act like nothing had happened? Probably because as they saw it then and I see it now they never actually acted unkind to me.

So, I remember how I felt back then, I was overwhelmed with the pain of a thousand scratches, scrapes and bruises to my ego.  I focused so deeply on those minor injuries, but I left them open and they festered. Until I looked through the corrective lenses of time and distance and saw them for what they were and finally allowed them to heal.

My daughter is going through that period in her life where she can only see the bruised ego. A time that has her so focused on her own personal perceived injuries, she doesn't appear to notice that she is wounding her mother with words and looks in defense of something that has not occurred.  I know they love one another, but right now neither can see it in the other's heart.  I wish I could be with them to referee, but being here on the road doesn't make it possible,  it is less like being a referee and more like playing telephone where I must relay the messages as best I can between them without ever letting the other one know what I'm doing to help them.  I realize that is a horrible ending to all this, but I'm not sure what else I can say.

"The Storyteller"

Before people read this and start correcting me on dates, times, places and the actual Storyteller, please be advised that while based on a real event, I had fun with the story and made a few changes.

“The Storyteller”

I was working Renaissance Faire on the weekends, at the archery booth. Hawking the booth and helping the children and drunks to not kill themselves with a bow. Honestly, it was easier to teach the kids not to kill themselves, the drunks have a innate suicidal tendency which I never understood. I can't really complain because half the time I was drunk too, while teaching them, well maybe not drunk but certainly comfortable.

The hawkers would wander in front of the booth trying to get customers to come in, for the drunk men it was a matter of simply insulting them in front of their girls. I haven't remembered any of the actual insults, but insult their strength and ability to protect their women and men will pay anything to show you up. Yep, you taught me you big burly man you, you just paid $2 to shoot arrows at a target and win absolutely nothing but your pride back. Kids were easy too, you show a kid a dangerous weapon and they leap at the chance, you just have to convince the parent that you won't allow the children to hurt themselves. That isn't easy if you're wasted, but a few drinks and don't talk directly into their face and you got them. I hadn't thought of it at the time, but the one thing I considered embarassing was actually a great way to meet women.

We'd put an arrow in our pants and walk around yelling “come see the finest shafts in the shire, 3 feet of fine English wood guaranteed to always stay hard and always find the target.” In fact, several older drunk women in groups of other older drunk women would find this to be an invitation to touch my chest or attempt to reach in my pants. Young and dumb I was embarassed by this and didn't understand how much it had worked to my advantage.

This isn't the story about that though. It wasn't long after I started working those weekends I began hearing people talk about The Storyteller. “Is The Storyteller coming?” they'd say “When's The Storyteller coming?” they'd entreat. As I had never heard of The Storyteller, I would ask quietly “who is The Storyteller?” The answers were always vague, “I heard he might come”, “Maybe the last weekend of Faire”, “he's magic”. My interest was piqued, how could it not be, the vaguer the concept the higher the excitement.

Every weekend we the actors and actresses (aka the workers) of the Faire would have different themed parties after hours. The Faire would close, we would head to our tent to change into appropriate attire for the after hours event and then commence to getting drunk. The parties were fun and a way to let off steam after an exhausting day of pretending to like everyone. At each party, I heard mention of The Storyteller, whoever he was, he was mysterious and popular. It seemed the only person with no knowledge of the man was me.

Eventually, the rumors became more solid and we found out indeed The Storyteller was coming the last night of Faire. We could watch him on one of the many stages, though which I cannot recall now. My excitement grew with each passing week, The Storyteller was coming, I didn't know what it meant yet, but I was anxious to find out. Weekends came and went and finally the final weekend was upon us.

I could not wait for the last day to end, even though I knew I would miss the Faire and the people I had met and the beer, I could not wait one more second to find out who The Storyteller was. I got rather inebriated that day and in fact met my now ex-wife at some point during it. I joined the end of Faire parade and made my way to the May pole, I danced like I had never danced before or since. The excitement of the moment overtook my body, I would soon see The Storyteller.

I quickly ate my meal and made a few quick goodbyes with those that couldn't stay, then made my way to the area where The Storyteller was going to be. I sat with my girlfriend (not the woman that would be my ex-wife) on the hay bales that were set up for seating around the stage. The audience was tense with anticipation and I could feel the electricity of the moment in the air. People in groups spoke about the years The Storyteller had come in the past and how wonderful it was, but again nothing specific. Then a hush fell over the audience and as if by magic there on the stage was a man.

The man was rather non-descript, I think he had a beard, his hair was dark I believe, he was of average height and build I am certain, but I just cannot describe what he looked like. Then the man began to speak, he wove a tale of a dragon and a lady, or maybe it was a dark knight and a lady. It's funny but, I cannot seem to remember what he said, or what he looked like as I search my memories.

I do remember one thing for sure, he arrived at a part in the story when he required the audience to participate. First he pointed to the cloudless moonlit sky and said “There is no rain tonight, so we will have to create some for the story” then he gave us our parts, we would become the wind and the rain and the thunder that night for the story. Our bodies were his sound effect machines for the tale. As he told more of the story he directed us to make the noises, first one section then another and another, eventually we were in a storm of sound. Then as if on cue rain began to actually fall from the sky and he kept telling the story. As the story wound down, The Storyteller said “and the winds stopped”, so we stopped making wind “and the thunder no longer rumbled” and again we stopped making thunder “and rains no longer fell from the sky” he said with finality and as we stopped tapping our fingers on our legs, I looked up to see a cloudless moonlit sky and not a drop fell upon me.

I looked back down to the stage to find it empty, I didn't ask where he had gone, I was sure noone knew, if they did, I certainly did not want to know. The moment was magic, The Storyteller was magic, and that is really all I can tell you.

The Art Lesson

This story is completely fictional, but it is my way of telling my real daughter why a boy may find beauty in a girl that is nothing like her, but still like her.

“The Art Lesson”

I enjoy days like today, walking through an art museum with my lovely daughter Ariel. Ariel's mother and I split a few months ago and now I try to find things that interest both of us and today was a great day to visit the art museum, it was a brisk winter day and well outdoor activities in the winter aren't really something either of us find fun. This isn't our first trip to the museum and we both like looking at the paintings and sculptures and just walking casually hand in hand. I joke about her boyfriends and she teases me about my age or retreating hairline, but the smiles on both our faces betrays that this is all part of the fun. Yes, I truly love spending days like this with my daughter.

Today though I found there was a lesson in art that I had not ever thought of before, something I had never seen. There is always the “is it really art” lesson, that one never fully ends, because when you point to a Piet Mondrian and discuss how lines can be art, you end up looking at “Piss Jesus” and wondering where the line really is. Today though, the lesson came to me from the question of an innocent 10 year old girl.

The last time we were at the museum they were doing an exhibit on the Renaissance period, which happens to be my favorite artistic period. However this month was they were doing an exhibit on the art of the Early 20^th Century. With works by Picasso, Matisse and Duchamp being the focal points. I was standing in front of Matisse's “The Dessert Harmony in Red” which was on loan from St Petersburg and I was describing how beautiful I thought the work was. Well, I must have impressed how much I loved the Renaissance upon Ariel because she interrupted me.

“Daddy, this doesn't seem your style” she said questioningly

“What do you mean sweetie?” I asked completely befuddled by her statement

“Well, you seemed to love Giorgone's 'The Tempest'” she paused considering her words “and this is nothing like that.”

Well the child had me alright, those two pieces were nothing alike, plus the fact she could remember our conversation from last time blew me out of the water. I had to think of how to respond, because I didn't want to give the typical “all art is beautiful” lecture because she'd know I was lying. We had discussed that before, all art isn't beautiful, some art is intentionally ugly, some art is unintentionally ugly to me and to her. How could I possibly then lie to her and say all art had intrinsic beauty? Then I kind of just decided to go with my gut and just let out what I was thinking instead of thinking about what I should say.

“Well Ariel, I do find this painting to be beautiful as well as I do 'The Tempest'” I began slowly considering only whether I was being clear “I can love the Renaissance period and particular artists from that period, but I can also appreciate the greatness of Modern Art or something even as old as a cave painting.”

I paused for a moment “Art is like loving a woman or in your case a boy” I teased “I can find blonde women to be the most attractive, but still appreciate the way a brunette or redhead looks” I didn't want to leave her thinking that it was about looks though, so I knew I had to go deeper.

“However, the paint isn't always what you're looking at, when you look at art, sometimes you're looking at the brush stroke, sometimes the meaning behind it, what was the artist feeling as he created it, or what type of paint was used.” I took a breath “you see what I find beautiful in art isn't what someone else finds beautiful.” I looked into my daughter's eyes and spoke once again “Ariel, art is like love, because every piece of art has someone that finds it fits them personally, some day a boy will see your outer beauty and want to know every brush stroke that created you” she giggled “he'll want to know the type of paint and the emotions of your creator, but most of all he'll want to know you”. Today because a young girl asked a good question, we both learned what art truly is.

I Dream

I swear I'm not a religious writer, but this is another true past influenced story.

“I Dream”

There I lay in tears once again, on my belly because my back, butt and neck were bruised from the beating with the belt. “Why God Why?” I cried, I closed my eyes. I heard footsteps as they walked gently across the room, but it wasn't anyone I knew, the steps were different, they were faint, I looked to the door and there was noone there. I closed my eyes again, partially in fear, but also to see if I could still hear the steps. The steps stopped at the end of my bed, then I felt the comforting feeling of someone you care for sit down on the edge of the bed. I had no reason to feel comfort, I should be afraid, but I knew this was the way I should feel, it was good. A hand that didn't exist in reality rested gently on my leg and I heard a voice I hadn't heard in 5 years since my Mother passed.

“Jeffy” it said in an almost whisper “Everything will be ok”

My fear passed, as did my anger, my pain, my tears. I felt nothing but the joy of knowing someone cared. It was after this the dreams started though. I would dream of my sister who also passed in that wreck 5 years now past, she would speak to me and the words would seem like nonsense.

“Jeff, listen carefully” she'd tell me “the cat is on the stove”

Then days later I'd hear the words in my wakened life “the cat is on the stove” and something big would happen, I'd find a dollar, or “the door fell on him” and I'd stop just before the car sped around the corner. I always just knew that when I heard in real life what I'd heard in those dreams I was meant to stop and take note.

These weren't the only dreams I had now though, no the first one of the other dreams happened around Christmas that year. In this dream I was at a funeral, an old man I knew vaguely sat next to me and he told me it was his funeral. It was ok he said to look in the coffin, he wouldn't bite me. He told me his name and we discussed his life, then he took me on a tour of his home. The next day, I was home alone when the phone rang.

“Jeff is your Dad home” my Aunt Tina said from the other end of the line.

“No he's out” I said

“Tell him to call me when he gets home” I could hear the tears in her voice now

“Ok I will”

When Dad returned I said “Dad call Aunt Tina, Great Grandpa died”

You see, nobody told me he died, I knew, because Great Grandpa told me he died. This happened several times throughout my life, always a week or two before they'd pass a family member visited my dreams and we sat through their funeral, we'd discuss their life and we'd smile, never tears, never fears. I tried once or twice to warn them, Grandpa Bonasse when he passed had just had a physical, he was fine I was told. I don't question the dreams, I don't attempt to stop the death, it's inevitable.

One other thing happened after my mother's visit. I no longer felt the sting of the belt, oh it left bruises and I wouldn't feel good if I sat afterward. I just didn't feel it as my stepmother beat me, the first time I made the mistake of laughing as it happened and she broke the belt on my back as she used more and more force. I learned though to pretend I felt the pain, to scream out, to flinch, but I no longer felt the pain in my flesh that I had before. I had won the battle of flesh, she could not inflict pain physically upon me. Now, when I dream, I dream of the love of a mother so strong she came back even in death to conquer her son's hurting heart.

Satan's Soul

I need to start this blog by stating the following story is based on something that did happen to me, it is not necessarily true.

“Satan's Soul”

Once again I was grounded, tired of the constant punishment, I went to bed in tears. How dare she ground me again? I had been grounded for not finishing my meal in a timely manner, coming home with dirt on my clothes, stepping in the stream in the field by our house and looking at her with anger. At least one of these was what I was currently grounded for, but who knows what the real reason was, it just wasn't fair and I knew it. I had already been hit with the belt too and now I couldn't go play with my friends outside my yard.

I heard the hag's voice from the other room telling me to say my prayers and it was the intention of my 8 year old mind to do so. Oh yes, I'd say my prayers, I'd ask for just retribution, I'd ask God to smite her evil soul. Sniveling, snot dripping from my nose, cheeks wet with tears and anger in my heart, I knelt to pray.

“Dear God, I hate her, why can't you take her away? Please God, I'll do anything, I'll be yours forever if you just take away my grounding. If my Dad says I'm not grounded in the morning, I know I'll be your soul forever and if he doesn't well then I'm not. Amen”

I climbed into my bed, but I couldn't sleep, it wasn't finished and I knew it. I had done the good side of things, now I had to do the bad side too. In my mind I opened the conversation again, but now I was talking to Satan.

“Satan, if you can fix this give me a sign tonight at midnight shake my bed, if you do I'll be your soul forever.”

I could now sleep because I had completed both halves of the spell. I drifted off to sleep and my dreams were fitful, I was burning in a pit of lava, I was in pain and afraid and I wanted my Dad to save me. Then I felt the bed shake a little, I woke in fear, looked to the old digital alarm clock on the nightstand. The numbers were like fire in my belly 12:00 the backlit pieces of cardboard read mocking my fear, I shook my head, maybe I just imagined the bed shaking. The bed shook violently as if in response to my thoughts. I pulled myself into the safe corner of the bed, the one against the wall toward the head of the bed. My legs to my chest my body rocking back and forth, I began to chant.

“No I won't be yours Satan, No I won't be yours”

The bed stopped shaking and I prayed again, but this time from the safety of my bed.

“Dear God, please don't let Satan take me. Amen”

It was a while later when I heard them come home from bowling league, I'm sure they had a few drinks after with their friends. They tried to be quiet, but adults had a way of speaking in a hushed tone that just made it worse. I heard their laughter, I felt my tears, I rolled over and pretended to sleep as the door opened slightly and then closed again. I don't know when I finally slept again, but eventually I dreamt, but this time it wasn't nightmares, it was a dream of nothing.

I awoke the next morning to the smell of breakfast and coffee brewing as I did most weekends. My father greeted me in the hallway to the kitchen.

“Morning son, hey we wanted to tell you last night, but you were asleep. You aren't grounded.”

Never again did I ask God for a sign and never again did I speak to Satan.

The Hunter

The Hunter

I’m going to hunt today. I’m skipping out of work, avoiding my wife and going for a hunt. I’ve had this planned for quite a while, months really. Once I found the maintenance tunnel in the boiler room that lead out to the street, I knew I had to use it for something big. Today is that something big.

I woke early this morning as I always do on work “days” because I work the graveyard shift as the maintenance man down at the McGinty chicken rendering plant. Its light work and I can usually hide for most of the night in some corner of the plant that nobody knows but the maintenance staff, I can’t stand the smell of the place and often find I need a break from it. I hopped in the shower, but no soap, no shampoo, just cold water to prepare myself for my hunting ritual. I kissed my wife goodbye, then whispered in her ear “goodnight deer”, (my term of endearment is my joke about our anniversary being the last night of deer season) and left for work.

My heart is racing as I pull up to the road next to the plant and mix in with everyone else as they come in from the parking lot, filing past the guard. Tonight I made the extra little effort and spoke to Jerry the guard as I passed through the gate. I punch in, put my cell phone in my locker and walk quickly to my “office”, really just a desk in the corner near the tool locker. Mr. Rodriguez the floor supervisor came by as he always does right after the start of my shift and gave me a rundown of all the equipment needing attention. Of course boiler 2 was on that list and I told him I’d be working on that immediately. I say of course because I broke it last night, so I could fix it tonight, knowing that Billy Rowe the day guy couldn’t. Billy was an idiot and if he even tried to work on that boiler he would probably make it worse, fortunately I told him to leave it for me to take care of.

Mr. Rodriguez trusted me and would never even bother to look for me unless there was an emergency and in the rare circumstance that would occur I’d tell him I was out getting a wrench from my car or make up some other excuse. When he left, I move swiftly to the boiler room and in to the tunnel, out to the street and finally in to my car.

I drive as quickly as I dare to my hunting spot, which was on my land. I put on my camouflage; grab my bow and the arrows I made specifically for this trip. Moving through the woods silently to my hide, I catch my first glimpse of the buck as he ambles up the path. I wasn’t in position yet and so I had to pass up this opportunity. Everything has to be perfect for this hunt.

I sit back in my hide, and wait for the next chance. The moon is full and there is a gentle breeze coming up from the path I saw the buck on. I smell the smoke from my chimney. This concerns me only for a moment as I see movement. It’s not much, but I still see it in the corner of my eye. As I look I recognize it’s just a tree moving in the breeze and I focus on that path again. He should be moving out of shelter soon, he’s a creature of habit and I have his habits down to a science. The young male has been courting a female for some time now and all males know that we will follow tail to the ends of the earth. The female is bedded down on that path just ahead. He can’t resist the female and neither can I.

Time is running out, I need to be back to get the time stamp on my timecard. I force myself to relax, if the time runs out this was never meant to be. My hunt must be perfect, every detail has been accounted for. Then off in the distance I hear a snap, I look up, I see him. I see he has found his female, but she wanders back in to shelter. I draw back on my bow, a few more steps just enough to make sure he doesn’t make a dash. A breath, another and let it all out, then release. My arrow flies true, through the throat of the beast. He takes a step, then another and then falls. Not quite dead, but life slowly releasing its hold on him.

I move quickly to the buck’s side, silently so as to not spook any other wildlife. I cut his throat to end his misery, and then because I don’t have time to string him and gut him, I make quick preparations. I dig a shallow grave I’ll be back soon to finish, hopefully no other animals will be aroused by the smell. I want the carcass whole, but I take my knife and remove his ear, an old trick so that a hunter can claim his prize in case another hunter decides to also claim the kill as his. I pocket the ear and move to my staging area, where I toss the camouflage and arrows in to a pre-dug hole, once again so other hunters don’t steal. I put the ear in the trunk with my bow and boots, hiding the ear in the toe of the boot so as not to upset my wife if she decides to go shopping. I shower using a set of wet wipes.

I drive quickly once again to the plant where I slip in through the tunnel, just in time to hear the whistle. I turn a valve on the boiler and it is once again working as it should. I wipe dirt on my face and hands from the boiler room floor, don’t want to look clean and cause Mr. Rodriguez to suspect I was screwing off.

I grab my phone from my locker, clock out and head through the gate. My hunt was a success, my absence from work unnoticed, I walk to my car and drive home. This time I take my normal pace, blend in with the crowd. As I pull up on the dirt road to my house, I see red and blue flashing lights. My heart leaps in to my throat and I worry that somehow my hunt has been spoiled. A state trooper has me pull off to the side of my driveway and as I step from the car I ask “Is everything okay? My wife is she..?” The officer is quick to reply “sir your wife is fine, but do you know a fellow by the name of William Rowe?”

Damn it, I think to myself, I know that name, my mind races confused by the question. “Um sure Billy, from the plant.” I finally say. I laugh “What’s he done?”

The officer coughs slightly “sir, Mr. Rowe has been killed, he was shot with an arrow, his throat cut and then the sick bastard cut off his ear” and as if he just remembered “where have you been sir?”.

The hunt was complete, perfect and I knew it. I want to tell him the young buck wouldn’t be seen rutting with my doe in my woods again, I want to scream it to the world instead I hear myself say. “I….I was at work, had to fix the boiler tonight.”