Boudin, Wolves and fringe inspiration…

Buddy Guy was born here. Bonnie and Clyde died here. I just showed up looking for a job. South Louisiana, Lafayette to be exact. Like most folks all I knew of the area was that show about killing Gators. So far, the only Gator I’ve seen was in a Zoo, asleep. I came from where the South ends to where the West begins. The Mississippi is about 40 minutes east, just over the Basin Bridge. I’ve met Dick Dale, drank on the piss-lined street dubbed Bourbon, and ate Fried Gator and Boudin. That last word is ‘Boo-Dan’ with a slight dropping of the last syllable to sound Broken French instead of out-of-town. My hotel room was attacked by a nutjob cleaning his unregistered handgun, I wrecked a company vehicle on my 42nd birthday, and I bought my first home. I finally got to see the Gulf of Mexico and in a few weeks will be revisiting that area (Gulfport, MS) to see an old Army friend. Everything has its ups and downs, every place has its drawbacks. But I like the weather, most of the people are friendly enough to leave me alone, and my family is growing to enjoy the time here.
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I still write though will admit to falling prey to fear after one story was published. It was no big deal. I think about six people read the damn thing on the publishing website, but still. Something about it jolted me from the What If? into the What Now?

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I don’t really care that Hugo Chavez would vote for Obama given the chance. What bothers me is that most folks voting for Obama have no idea who Hugo Chavez is or what his support indicates…

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I’ve tried to order a case of ATLAS beer from the distributor in Panama. So far no luck. Even with the help of Google Translator I can’t seem to convince the Panamanians that such libations are necessary for serious work to continue on the novel, ROMEOS. One can’t simply write about talking monkeys and NyQuil addiction while drinking any old import.

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Nothing as informative as standing behind a 1,000 pound white guy who is buying Doritos with Food Stamps and realizing that your displeasure with such fraud and abuse is classified as Racism. It’s called transference. A Thief tells you everyone steals. I know not everyone on Welfare is Black or Hispanic. You know it as well. So why is it everytime someone talks about Welfare Reform it is twisted into “Racism”? Could it be that those who cry foul are the only ones assuming all Welfare Reform is designed to hurt Minorities because, “well, you know…who else is getting it?” The School System screws over Minorities, the Welfare System screws over Minorities but every attempt to correct the actions of those running those Systems (since their inception!) are declared Racist by the people running those Systems…Why? Could it be the Wolves in Sheep’s clothing are simply calling everyone else a Wolf?

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A muted midget and a retired fat lady from a circus. They bounced out of a story about a kid named Eugene. I never really liked the story but couldn’t get it out of my head until I wrote it out. Now, a year or so later, all I remember is the retired fat lady and the circus bills she had posted on her walls. The crowning achievement of her life was being a freak.

Isn’t that the story of every interesting person? The pinnacle of glory is acceptance of your fringe status.

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You ever move to the deep South and miss Cold Weather? Yep, me neither…I tickle me.

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Be your own Best Friend.

Anime Heart Attacks, Smoking Logic, and the perpetual search for an Emerald Sea.

Another call to Human Resources about your errant blogger.

Apparently telling your employees, “I’m deaf in one ear and don’t give a shit with the other.” is not a proper response when they ask for yet another day off to watch cartoons and get off to anime porn. Kids these days…

………….

I’ve listened to Paul Simon lately. Once you get past the fact he sounds like a 10-year-old boy who knows a few African singers, his music is groovy.

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A guy at work had a heart attack. They put in four stints, told him to quit smoking and cut back on the bacon cheeseburgers. We took up a collection to help buy him smokes and a gift card to McDonald’s. He’s not all that popular at work.

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In the War on Poverty, you don’t always get to choose the battlefield.

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I spent much of 2011 thinking about things that don’t matter. Funny how all the things don’t matter manage to convince us that they do matter. Worry is a snake oil salesman promising to cure our worries by selling us more worry.
Is a self-fulfilling Ouroborus redundancy a bit repetitive?

…………

It ended at Christmas. I was given a book entitled Quit your Job & Move to Key West . I’ve never been to Key West but as a fan of warm weather, Rum, and travel it’s always held a strong appeal to me. I received the book from an Aunt who visits there often and intends on retiring in the Conch Republic as soon as possible. How I got from reading that book to writing again is a mystery to me now. Perhaps it was a reminder of the world outside of my meeting the turn of the calendar. All that resolution jazz never sounded good to me. But I probably picked up some of the new year mojo while thinking about all the things I’ve yet to do. Back to the Bucket List and all…
Either way. I like the book, plan to visit The Rock, and found myself remembering that old Duffy likes to write fiction as a way of dealing with facts.

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The renewal of one’s self within the world is necessary because pushing to be ourselves is often overwhelmed by the pull to be someone else. Someone more responsible, more respectable, more efficient, more generous, move giving…or less of all those things. This may be why a million people will brave the cold to watch a stupid ball drop.
A collective, “LET ME BE ME THIS YEAR!”

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I had this idea once for a novel with a soundtrack. Every chapter he title is also a song that could/should be listened to while reading the chapter. A chapter titled, “Stairway to Heaven” for example in which the action builds slowly up to a loud climax descending into a moment of realization for the character. Movies have soundtracks, why not novels?

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TV commercials that encourage kids to turn off the TV and go outside are as silly as using tobacco taxes to pay for cancer treatment. If little Joey turns off the TV he might forget why and turn it back on for guidance. He misses the commercial and boom! he’s back to eating Doritos and wondering why Mommy doesn’t love Daddy. Tobacco Taxes. The number of people now smoking impacts future cancer treatment needs but only pays for current treatments.
As people quit smoking NOW, they’ll be less money NOW and in the Future to pay for cancer treatments. If I smoke for 20 years and then stop I stop paying the Sin Tax even though I’ll probably still have some cancer issues later…
So which does the government want?
Do they want people to keep smoking so they can collect Sin Taxes to pay for Sins?
Or do they want people to quit smoking and thus leave the system bankrupt so the “non-Sinner” can pay more “non-Sin Taxes” to cover treatment for the Born Again Sinner?

This is what happens when Government attempts to divide folks up into Sinners and Non-Sinners.

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A woman in Colorado died when she ran a stop light and T-boned another vehicle. When investigating the accident the police found she sent a text message about 30 seconds before the stoplight camera saw her cross the intersection. The text message said, “Kewl.” and was sent to her 13-year-old son.

If you’re not smart enough to realize a text message is not more important than staying alive, at least have the sense to make sure you hit spell check.
If only for the children’s sake.
Learn to spell.

………..

Well, I never cared much for money
And money never cared for me
I was more like a landlocked sailor
Searching for the emerald sea
Just searching for the emerald sea, boys
Searching for the sea

-That’s Me, Paul Simon

…………..

Emilio Jones.

Henry Blank followed a path so generalized it escapes a description. He stood before his bay window, gazing into his manicured backyard noticing nothing at all. No birds sang for Henry Blank. No clouds puffed by in the wake of a summer breeze. Today was the big day. The announcement to end all announcements. Henry Blank was running for Mayor of Mahalia. The members of the Upper Mahalia Bridge Society had worked their magic until even Henry believed he was Mahalia’s only shot at municipal redemption. The night before he had informed Renee.

–I’m running for Mayor.
–What?
–You never listen to me.
–You never say much.
Henry flipped the channel over to Leno.
–Mayor of Mahalia, if you wondered.
–I didn’t wonder. I knew. I heard from Linda.
–Linda talks too much.
–Yes, you do.
–The boys down at the club say I’m a shoe in.
–Dirty socks and feet wind up in shoes.

He got up and went to the bathroom. Renee hit mute on the remote and followed her daydream through the hallway and out into the street. Henry came back.

–Why can’t you support just one thing I do?
–I should’ve stopped at just one thing.

He stared at her and picked up the remote. He threw it back on the table, climbed into bed and flicked the lamp off. Linda sat in the bed staring at darkness.

Henry heard the percolator’s final gurgle. He poured his imported Jamaican coffee into his travel mug. The mug was an award from the Ruritans for perfect attendance, 2004. They bought the two-story Victorian from a friend in the Society. When they first walked in, Henry fell in love with the giant bay windows facing the back yard, front yard, and one facing each side yard. Many mornings and evenings, he stood before the windows. He never noticed much, but loved the idea of everyone seeing him standing there. A regal observer of the neighborhood and, through implication, nearly all Mahalia.

–Henry! You still here?
Renee called down the stairs.
Henry thought of ducking out the patio door and slipping around to his car.
–Henry! Answer me dammit.
–Just about to leave. What the hell you want?
Her words became muffled as she replied.
–What? Spent? Speak clearly.
He moved towards the front door, away from the stairs.
–What the hell is that tent?
Renee’s voice was higher than normal. Henry remembered that was how she sounded when worried.
–What tent?
–The yellow tent in the back yard. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it this morning.

Henry stopped mid-sip and walked back to the bay window facing the back yard. His gray, sagging eyes squinted as he surveyed the 3 acres of landscaped perfection. He scanned the cherry trees in the east, the gently used work shed to the west and then settled in on the offender.

A stained, yellow tent sat in the middle of the yard. Henry could make out the tip of a large, brown sleeping bag exiting the unzipped door. Makeshift clothes lines were on both sides of the entrance. From nearly a hundred feet away Henry thought he could smell the tent and its trespassing occupant. Henry went for the patio door and upon sliding it open yelled.

–Renee call 911. Tell them hurry the hell up!
He heard Renee run down the steps. Henry marched into his yard, dropping his punctual coffee mug.
–What the hell are you doing in there? Wake up you worthless bum! Get off my lawn. Get that damn…
Henry stopped as the sleeping bag began to move. His girth caused him to breathe heavy as long, dirty hands grip the sleeping bag’s feet.

A man emerged from the tent. His equine face, centered by a twice broken Roman nose, appeared covered in slimy dirt and flanked by depressed cheeks. Henry looked at the man. The man looked at Henry. The man grinned at Henry violently, as if waiting for a moment to pounce. Or run. Or speak. Henry couldn’t read anything in the man’s movements or posture displaying fear or courage. Softly the man’s clear green eyes twinkled. He opened his chapped lips.

–Henry Blank, I presume?
–Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? Get off my lawn, you, you, bum. Miscreant.
–Miscreant? Sort of a big word for you ain’t it Henry?
–How do you know my name? Are you some stalker? My wife has called the police already. You’ll be locked up…
–Renee.
–…as soon as they… What? How do you know her name?

The man moved quickly back into the tent and reemerged before Henry could move a step. The man held a stack of newspapers.

–See Henry Blank. In my line of work, a man has lots of time to read, but often not a plug nickel for which to buy a book. So I do what I can to keep abreast of all the comings and goings via newspapers. You read the papers Henry?
–Of course, every good citizen should read…wait…get the hell out of here!
–Well then Henry you’ll appreciate an avid fan of your editorial-type letters you send in on occasion.
–Thank you. Yes. I do on occasion write a piece for Clay down at the Harold. We’re old friends…

The man shuffled through the papers letting some fall to the ground.

–Ah!
His voice echoed. Henry became aware of his neighbors as the man’s voice died in the still morning air. He became aware of sirens in the distance.
–Ah! Here it is. July 13, 2002. Mahalia Herald. Page 4, letter 3, sentence 11. I’ve underlined it Henry Blank. Care to read your own words in your own yard as I stand here with this tent?

–I don’t know what you mean…I don’t recall.
–Oh you wrote it Henry Blank. Here, I’ll save you the trouble, but none of…well, the embarrassment.
–A good citizen is never embarrassed by their own opinion, particular one as well-conceived as my own. You know I’m running for Mayor because of my well-conceived…
–I know. I heard. People talk when nobody is listening. I’m nobody. I heard already. Ready for me to read aloud? Good, Ok.
–The police are almost here, you need to remove yourself or I’ll press…

–It is my considered opinion that the problem can be solved by an understanding by all good citizens that we must open up our borders to these people to display our compassion and generosity to our fellow-man. We must destroy that infernal fence! I dare say the only thing for a good citizen to believe is that one’s property is the property of all mankind and that our claim, as it is called by those simple-minded among us, to property is nothing more than a tool of the greedy and shameless.

The man stopped reading.

–You remember writing that Henry Blank?
–Vaguely. Yes.
–You hear those police sirens Henry?
–Of course I do.
–Running for Mayor are you Henry?
–Yes. The announcement is today.

The man’s eyes danced in their sockets.

–Well, we have an impasse don’t we Henry Blank?
–How so?
–Never very bright were you? To put it plain. Do you want the entire town to think of you as the Mayoral candidate who shunned a homeless Man in his time of need. The candidate who, despite his many well-received, and well-conceived editorial type letters, turned his back on his fellow Man out of sheer greed and shamelessness?

–I don’t think this is exactly as everyone will see it.
Henry felt his face go flush as the man smile even broader.
–Ok. Send in the bulls, kick me to the curb where scum like me belong and continue impressing folks down at the Upper Mahalia Bridge Society with your generosity.
–That’s some sort of blackmail, you bastard.
–Only if it works. And I suspect it’s working pretty damn good.
–Who are you?
–I’m you, ten years from now or me ten years ago. Not sure yet…
–What?
–Emilio. Emilio Jones, professional squatter and all around ladies’ man.

Been working on my rewrite, that’s right….

I’ve tried to write a Christmas story for twenty years now. I wrote one years back about Christmas in Panama and how one event, that passes so quickly, can linger for decades and impact aspects of your life you didn’t know would even exist. Like the stories you’d tell the children you never thought you have. Or the beer you drink during the Holidays out of some twisted attempt to stay loyal to people you’ll never see again.

It isn’t working out, this Christmas story. I lack the necessary hocus-pocus imagery to pull off a tale of redemption. So Charlotte and her dying mother and the family that burned to death remain locked in my lazy, balding head as prisoners awaiting hocus-pocus.

………

Writing it like dieting. Starting is easy…continuing, well….

………

Back when I wore a 7-11 smock and my friends called me “Hodgie”, I knew a teacher named Gary. He came in the store each day and got a coffee. During summer this educator drove a Blacksburg Transit Bus to make extra dough. He paid off his student loans 2 years earlier by driving a Bus Route. I guess some people Occupy a part-time job they don’t want to pay off their student loans and other people shit on cop cars to pay off their student loans.

……….

You represent your own lazy ass, not mine. I’d rather drive the part-time bus route, thanks anyway.

……….

You could put a Pot plant in one of those Topsy-Turvy tomato things and grow weed upside down on your back porch. Tell your friends it’s a Willow Tree seedling device. Like they’ll care…

……….

I’m beginning to believe I’m fearful of success. I’m scared I might be right about that…

………..

See Charlotte is riding down a road in Mahalia. Snow. Ice. A slide into ditch and she meets this family. They help her out of the ditch… see, lost interest already, I have… I can smell the hocus-pocus coming like a dog smells fear.

………..

This is the part when I admit I have no idea what to write about but have finally sickened myself enough with reminders about how I don’t write anymore. One short story makes it to an online magazine (ONLINE! Not even real…) and suddenly I’m thrown back down into a fear that hits like a speeding bobsled on the slalom of my life.

If you’re bad, you suck.
If you’re good, what then?

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You ever use Google Earth to check on places you read about or places you visited just to make sure they’re still there if you get a chance one day to go back? Me neither…

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A woman at Wal-Mart told me someone I knew many years ago had died of a stroke. He was about 42. He was her son. She began to tear up as she stocked the shelves and reminded me about his love of baseball and good jokes. I felt my eyes grow misty as I looked at the bacon and sausage and hot dogs and bullshit that is nothing more than death packaged to support life. I left. A mother crying over the death of her child. That’s too much hocus on Christmas Eve.

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Any man who has a prostate exam would realize that Homosexuals are possibly the toughest sons of bitches on planet Earth. The Gay Rights movement should just push for every Male to have a prostate exam. I mean, they go through THAT for fun….! That’s tough, I don’t care who you are.

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I’ve been working on my Rewrite, that’s right.
Gonna change the ending.
Gonna throw away the title.
Gonna toss it in the Trash.

I’ve been working on my Rewrite, that’s right.
All the time I’m spending.
Every minute after Midnight.
I’ve been working on my Rewrite,that’s right.
Gonna turn it into cash.

-Paul Simon

……………

This is the part where I mention how I’m going to write more often.

……………

–John.

Kerosene

-The smell of kerosene never really comes off.

Uncle Lou stood over Jonah, breathing heavy, lecturing the eleven-year-old on the virtues of fire safety.

-Don’t get too much of that stuff on you. All it’d take is one little spark and WHOOSH, you’re burned up like dinner.

His small, pale finger pressed the siphon pump a few times and then watched the red river flood the clear tube. Jonah thought of it as liquid fire rushing to burn away the cold of his room. He wondered if tasted like red kool-aid.

-I got this second-hand from a guy I know. Don’t how long the wick will last. When it burns out we ain’t gettin’ another one.

-Ok.

Uncle Lou smacked the back of Jonah’s head.

-I’m sorry. Yes sir.

The man left the tiny, windowless room. His feet sent vibration through the floor. Jonah hated those vibrations. He knew what they meant when he heard them late at night; when the old man stumbled about reeking of pond fishing and whiskey. Those moments before Jonah went inside his mind to escape what his body felt. Jonah focused on the heater’s wick as it became a crown of fire.

One Sunday, long before it all ended, Jonah was sitting in Sunday school. The room had tall windows that always revealed a blue sky, no matter the weather. He sat in a small chair, towards the back of the room, hoping no one would notice the holes in his pants. The air smelled of play-doh and from then on, whenever Jonah smelled play-doh, he thought of Jesus. Mrs. Hanson finished a lesson about Jesus and some fishy bread.
-Any questions?

Jonah raised his hand quickly.

-Yes Jonah.

-What does Jesus do to people who hurt kids? I mean if they get to heaven and stuff.

The teacher’s eyes dulled as the optimism of her salvation met the reality of her surroundings.

-You mean people who spank children for being bad or unsafe, or people, who actually, you know, hurt them, as in beat them up.

Jonah felt the rooms’ eyes on him. His face went flush with emotions he couldn’t indentify.

-Just hurt them. I guess.

Mrs. Hanson felt those same eyes now on her. She inhaled deeply.

-Well. When grown ups hurt children while they are here, once they die, they meet Jesus like everyone else. That’s when the judgment takes place. Either Jesus knows your name or he doesn’t. It’s pretty simple.

-What does he do to those people who hurt kids?

Jonah was now standing. His eyes locked on Mrs. Hanson’s mouth, waiting for the answer to come…

-He casts them in a lake of fire…

Jonah’s eyes widened.

…and they stay in that lake, burning and burning for all eternity. Never escaping the pain and sorrow they inflicted in life, they endure that same pain after death.

-He burns them.

-Yes Jonah. He does.

Jonah thought of that lesson as the crown of fire rose higher. He pictured Jesus standing there with his fishy loaves wearing a crown of fire. When a grown up came to him who hurt kids, Jesus would take some of the crown’s flame and use it to throw the adult into that lake of fire.

The sun’s light fell behind the horizon. Jonah watched it disappear slowly as the room took on the orange glow of the heater’s flame. He heard Uncle Lou leave mumbling some words under his breath. Jonah watched the flame. He drifted asleep an hour or so later, his mind lost in the dreams. He saw his mother again. She was standing at the stove stirring a red liquid that would become Jell-O. She smiled at him. Uncle Lou walked in. He grabber her spoon and tapped her on the head. She disappeared in a dusting of smoke and ash. Uncle Lou grinned. He stumbled toward Jonah.

-You’re gonna come with me now boy. I’m all you got left.

Jonah opened his mouth. Wooden matches came out. He tasted kerosene. Jonah bent over to vomit and began to fall in a black tunnel. Silence.

He awoke as he landed. The crown of fire seemed to consume the room making it as bright as morning. Jonah wiped the sweat from his nose.

Thump. Shhht. Thump. Shhht.

He recognized the drunken walk. The right foot went down hard, the left foot dragged.

-Oh, he’s cute.

A female’s bourbon lined voice…

-Told ya. You wanna have some fun?

-Let’s make the little bastard squeal!

Jonah opened his eyes wide enough to see Uncle Lou’s shadow with companion. She was tall and wide.

He used to fight it. Kick his feet. Scream. Bite. Hit. Cry. Each invasion was a lifetime discovered and destroyed with each assault. But now, lifetimes later, he just waited.

Uncle Lou held him down. She gave Jonah a crooked smile. Her face was orange from the flames.

-Aww. You’re a sweet boy. Be sweet to Mama…

She licked his face; then smacked it. Jonah didn’t make a noise. He bit his lips tight. Her fat fingers found the waist seam of his pajamas.

-He likes it. You like it. I can tell.

Jonah tried to make it go away. Tried to stop it from doing what it did. He couldn’t.

Uncle Lou kissed him hard on the mouth. She pulled at him gently, then rougher.

They flipped him over. His pajamas landed on the floor.

He woke up early the next morning. The room smelled of kerosene fumes released by the empty heater. Jonah limped slowly down the hall. The two of them were asleep in Uncle Lou’s bed. She was naked with only one leg under the cover. Uncle Lou was on his back, his hairy barrel chest rising and falling as he snored.

Jonah stared at them. He licked his lips and tasted the whiskey and the lipstick and the fluids they left. He wiped his mouth. The smell of kerosene was fading, but still there.

-The smell of kerosene never comes off.

Jonah continued to watch them. She rolled her head once to the left. Uncle Lou snorted then returned to his drunken slumber.

It came easily for Jonah. As if it was in his mind floating around waiting for his heart to finally catch up. He walked back to his room.

The can was still nearly full. It sloshed and splashed as he brought it down the hall. Jonah tried to control his huffing and puffing. But still. He noticed. He had no butterflies, no anxieties. For the first time in many lifetimes, Jonah felt no fear being in the house.

He made sure the two windows in Uncle Lou’s room were locked. Jonah set the 5 gallon jug on the floor near the wall. He started as far from the door as possible. He pressed the siphon pump quietly until the red liquid pouted from the tip of the tube. He sprayed the liquid on the wall, about two feet off the floor.

He moved to the left one foot and repeated the procedure.

Then another foot to the left.

Around the base of the window. Some for the glass and sill.

Carefully watching the liquid’s movement on the wall, Jonah ensured all the liquid touched.

Another foot to the left.

She began to roll over. Her flabby pale breasts spread around her ribs.

Uncle Lou snorted and turned away from the woman. His sleeping, bulbous head faced the door.

Jonah inhaled. The kerosene’s aroma began to fill the room.

He continued.

He worked his way around the second wall, leaving extra on the window and sill.

His mother used to make him Jell-O when he was sick. He was sick often back then. Their house was drafty. Their groceries were charity boxes and handouts. Jonah never blamed her. He once told Mrs. Hanson he wished he could leave also. Just take off. Disappear.

-That’s not the answer. Jesus has the answer.

Jonah skipped over the door. He sprayed a little kerosene on the wall next to the bed. Then let some pour from the tube underneath the bed.

He reached as high as he could on the back of the door. He coated the bottom half.

At the foot of Uncle Lou’s bed was a steamer trunk. Uncle Lou said it was from his navy days. Jonah struggled to turn it on its side, but failed. He lifted the 5 gallon jug up and set it on the trunk anyway.

Jonah closed the door quietly. He watched the liquid seep in and wondered if it would work at all. What if the liquid was absorbed too fast?

He went to the far end of the room, tiptoeing around the bed Uncle Lou and she still occupied.

He lit a match and touched it to the stain on the wall. Nothing happened. Jonah winced.

Back at the door, he lit another match. He watched the flame for a moment, letting it get as hot as possible. Then he touched it to the door.

The match’s flame became a river of fire spreading across the door. It touched the molding and ignited a line of kerosene on the door. Jonah jumped back, then, remembering his plan, pushed a kerosene-soaked towel against the bottom of the door.

He hurried to the steamer trunk and took up position next to the can. He pressed the siphon pump quickly. The red liquid poured on the bed as Uncle Lou jumped up.

-What the fuck? What the goddamn fuck?

She shrieked when she woke up. The room was filling with black smoke as the door was engulfed. The flame spread around the room. Jonah sat on the steamer trunk, his crown of fire growing higher around him. The windows now blazed.

She yelled for help.

Uncle Lou grabbed at Jonah but was met with spray of kerosene to the face.

Jonah laughed as the giant man fell back. He yelled over the noise.

-The smell of kerosene never comes off…the smell of kerosene never comes off…

Bisbee shame, furry love, and finding the Chicken House…

In November 2010 I posted a blog entitled “Boardwalk Furries”.

To date it is the most popular blog posting I’ve created. It relates our encounter with a group of folks who get their jollies dressing up like stuffed animals and hanging out. They also ‘yiff’, which is what furries do when bumping uglies.

Judging by the topic’s popularity, perhaps I should write about pseudo-sexual deviance on display at oceanfront locales more often. Think of the ratings.

>>>>>>>>>>

A couple of friends on Facebook have shamed me over my experiences in Arizona. It’s actually my lack of experiences that is the shameful part. While stationed in Ft. Huachuca, I failed to visit a town called Bisbee. I actually failed to visit most of Arizona although I made a day trip once to Tuscon. Through WordPress I met a person from Bisbee–Find an Outlet–who is an interesting representative of an intriguing place. Check out her blog.

But what all the shaming reminds me is that we should explore the world around us, regardless of where in the World we are. I’ve a paltry collection of photos, writings, and memorabilia from the places I traveled back in the day. I recall spending much of my time pissed with myself for winding up in places where I knew no one and no thing about my environment. Instead of learning like a grown up, I cowered like a child. I stayed in my room, listened to my cassettes from high school and wrote boring letters back home. Blech.

But what’s done is dinner and I refuse to play with my food.

I learned that lesson years ago. Funny how the reminder came back through a few pictures of a town I’ve never visited.

Explore your world, wherever you are.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

A man came in the office the other day asking for the manager. Sadly, that’s me. He sat in my office and requested a tour of the facility in addition to asking me many questions. He was an older man with scuffed boots and blue work pants with a red handkerchief peeping out of his back pocket.

I asked why he was interested.

“My family owned the land that this place is on. I grew up on this land.”

Over the years, he’d driven by many times.

“Just to look, ya know. See what was happening on the old homestead.”

I gave him a tour and told him as much about our company as legal. We were standing on the dock. I was rattling off bullshit a pound per minute, trying to convince the man how much good a milk company can do. The nutritious aspect of what we sell. The thousands of pounds of dairy products donated to local Food Banks. He smiled and looked around.

We walked around the back lot.

“I think this is where the chicken house was…I guess. Hard to tell.”

We made it back downstairs to the coffee pot. By now, he was rattling off and I was smiling. His Daddy was a dirt farmer who worked in Richmond at what was the Lucky Strike plant. He and his siblings worked the farm; mornings, evenings, summers, weekends, whenever. He said he couldn’t remember how many times they ate meat at a meal. Somewhere around once or twice a month. The rest of the time it was beans, cornbread, or whatever Mama could boil over the fire. There were Eleven brothers & sisters.
One brother died young. I could tell by the way he said it, he’d never talked much about it. The words just fell out of his mouth.

As he was leaving I explained the gate would open up automatically, as his car got near it.

“Mama never wanted to sell it. Developers just gave her too much money after Daddy died. Now she’s gone. Me and one sister up in Maryland is all that’s left.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He smiled. “Yep. Let me go see your fancy gate. Thanks for your time.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>

A television is a handy piece of furniture when your bookshelf is full and you need to put a book down someplace.

Other than that, it’s mostly useless.

>>>>>>>>>>>

Go Bears…

>>>>>>>>>>

Room of his own. (Final)

David Gray awoke three days later and weighed 636 pounds. The hospital had placed him on a borrowed cattle scale. They zeroed it based on the mattress’s weight. Administrators had come from varying departments to check in on David. He had become their first, and only, famous patient. News organization from around the state, then the country, then the world, wanted to learn about David. The media named him “The Growing Man”.
He had not eaten food during the six days it took him to gain 450 pounds.

Tests were conducted on his blood, his urine, his fat cells, his flesh, and his semen. Research was done on similar cases up to the point where it was discovered no similar cases existed. David Gray, the Growing Man, was an anomaly of modern medical science. Psychologists flooded the talk show circuits offering opinions on David’s mental state. The President took the opportunity to commission a study on obesity. Speeches were made, pundits shouted, water coolers boiled amid heated debates on the Growing Man. Vegas gave odds on David’s weight when he finally died. Odds were in favor of a heart attack by month’s end.

David looked around the room. A maintenance man had removed the television. He was a bent man with gray hair and white knuckles. He’d helped with the cattle scale while listening to the television clamor about the Growing Man’s sexual habits, his high school experiences, and how the Growing Man is making a political statement against hunger by exposing the nation’s gluttony. The bent man yanked the television out the next night.

He stood at the foot of David’s bed as David slept.

I don’t know why they do that…hell with ‘em…

David watched his hands as they rose. His fingers were pale sausages, his hand the size of Cornish hen. He felt hungry. He felt disgusted. The wish for sleep came upon him. Though his dreams escaped him, he knew he was still thin within them. He gasped for air as fat continued to surround his lungs. A nurse came in.

You’re awake. She said.

She closed the door softly. Coming close to the bed she said,

This is my first shift with you. You have your own shift now.

David nodded. Can I get some water?

Of course. Whatever you want. She poured some water in small cup; put the straw to his mouth.

You’re famous, you know.

Thank you.

After I check your vitals…could I get an autograph?

What’s wrong with me? Why is this happening?

The nurse ran her hand across David’s chest. All the hair had fallen out.

Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re famous.

The door opened.

Nurse Watson. Oh, he’s awake. Wonderful. How are you doing Mr. Grow…Gray?

The doctor moved to the foot of David’s bed. He checked the chart then looked at the scale’s readout.

Six Thirty-Six. Holding steady.

I weigh six hundred thirty-six pounds? David said.

For the last…looks like the last two hours. Yes. Holding steady.

David closed his eyes.

Where’s my wife? David said.

You’re married? The doctor blurted. Of course, it says so here. She must be at lunch or something. I’m sure…

David looked at his left hand. The bloated skin of his third finger was scarred.

We had to cut it off, Mr. Gray. I’m sure it’s in your personal effects.

David kept his eyes closed and pictured an easel. A prairie of rolling hills with a warm breeze causing trees to sway surrounded him. He wasn’t thin, or fat. He was… The brush in his hand, the paint splotched on his shirt joined to stop time. Tomorrow was unseen canvas. Yesterday faded with a dab of paint thinner. He had no deadlines, no job, nothing to grasp. He was… Guilt crashed upon the rocks of his dream. David had no desire for home. No desire for Rachel. He knew she was gone from him. David sensed no feeling of loss at the knowledge. Something must exist in him. Anything that would show all he worked for, all he produced, was worthy of the effort. The voice he’d heard that night a few weeks back. The voice that reminded him of painting, of his love for Sinatra; it came to him now. It was his voice, but not his words. He felt the words permeate every part of his bloated self. You need room of your own.

The doctor spoke up.

Mr. Gray. We’ve tested you every way possible and have found no logical reason for your sudden weight gain. You’ve consumed no calories beyond sustainment. Surprisingly, your cholesterol, sugar, blood pressure…all normal. It’s as if, well, your body doesn’t realize it’s gotten larger. Your heart rate is normal, although your breathing is a bit irregular at times. Strictly speaking, except for your weight gain, you’re as healthy as any man your age.

David opened his eyes as the doctor was speaking. He kept the images, the calm, before him as he watched the man’s mouth move. This is real. He thought. Room of his own. A man must make room of his own. David chuckled.

Yes, the doctor said. It is odd isn’t it? We simply have no idea what has happened to you.

The doctor looked down.

Six thirty-six, he said. Holding steady. If there’s any change, let me know.

She moved towards the bed after the doctor left.

Don’t touch me, David said. Just don’t. And no I won’t give you an autograph. Just go.
She looked stunned and walked from the room.

David felt the sun’s warmth coming in the window. It rested on his arm. He tried to remember what his arm had looked like a week ago. It was lost to him. The memory of his body was gone.

Rachel was gone. She’d left him. He knew that as intimately as he knew the feel of the sun’s heat. His house was empty, waiting for his return. He breathed deep and held it. The exhalation lasted a full minute. David felt dizzy when it finished. For reasons David only glimpsed, The Growing Man had stopped growing. He was holding steady.

636.

David Gray looked at the mountain of flesh that hid his feet. It rose and fell with his breathing, but David observed it as if it were separate from him. It was more than an easel, he thought. It was more than paint. He knew it by experience, not definition.
The sun gave the room a golden hue. David smiled softly. He fell asleep.
The scale’s readout changed.

632.

629.

Room of his own. (3)

David fell asleep in the ambulance. When he woke up in the hospital, David recalled someone asking his age and then sudden blackness. He was on a bed in what he assumed was the Emergency Room. The area was bright with a blue curtain separating him from other patients. From behind him, a machine beeped rhythmically. He heard a person moan as another whispered. A baby cried down the unseen hallway.

A nurse brushed the curtain aside.

You’re awake. How’re you feeling?

Confused, David said. His voice deep, foggy.

My voice is funny, he said.

He lifted his hand up and felt the rolls of fat around his neck. He pushed as hard as he could stand but couldn’t reach his Adam’s apple. His hand shot around his face. Puffy flesh greeted his fingers. David could felt the flesh around his eyes. He knew his eyes appeared to be squinting now.

Might be the weather, she said. She turned to a computer screen. I need to get some info that we couldn’t get while you were asleep. Height?

Six foot one.

Weight?

One Eighty Six.

Sir?

I weigh–Last time I checked it was actually about two-oh-seven.

The nurse looked at David. She recalled cutting his sweatpants off. His thighs meshing against one another as the material finally released his skin. His navel was nearly four inches deep when they sliced off his shirt. The BP cuff barely made it around his arm. This man was 500 pounds if he was an ounce.

Sir? She said.

David looked at the floor in front of the nurse.

I’m not sure anymore. What I…I’m not sure anymore, that’s all.

She typed, ‘350?’

Can you loosen this band? David said.

The nurse looked at his patient ID band.

Is it too tight? It was loose an hour ago, when I put it on…

The band snapped and fell to the floor.

What, how did that happen? She said.

David breathed heavily.

I’m gaining weight by the minute.

The nurse ignored him. She fastened another band. It broke off as soon as she turned her head.

Go get a doctor. David said.

The nurse looked at him. I don’t understand why the band broke off.

Go get a doctor, please. And call my wife…
David looked up at the fluorescent light and inhaled deeply.

He passed out.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Rachel avoided the TV. She didn’t want to see the news about her husband being stuck inside a car. She didn’t want to see herself crying on the screen describing the horror she felt. She meant, the horror they both felt.

He must have a disease, she’d told the camera. Some sort of problem, like toxemia, you know, what pregnant women get?

She sat at the computer desk and opened her laptop. Was toxemia even the right word?
What if she got it wrong and now, now it would all get worse. First David’s disease and now she looked like a moron on TV. She typed the word in. It was Ok. The analogy fit, sort of… over to Facebook.

A friend of a friend of a friend tagged, re-tagged and finally tagged her in the pictures Shawn had taken.
Shawn provided a caption:

WHY I DRINK DIET COKE AND YOU SHOULD TOO! LMFAO. FAT BASTARD FROM WORK GETS STUCK IN HIS CAR TRYING TO GET TO CANDY MACHINE!

“Is that David?”
“Is he in a clown car Rachel?”
“Looks like you need to give him a ‘workout’ Rach…”
“Please tell me that’s photo shopped…”

And other comments she tried to ignore littered her page. She found the picture on the pages of ten different friends. Comment after comment. Joke after joke…

She untagged herself quickly. But saved the picture. She stared at it. His bulging cheeks, his fat legs jammed against the bottom of the steering wheel. She remembered what she told him the night before.
I don’t want to be married to a fatty.

Now she was. Everyone knew it. Everyone knew they were an undisciplined couple. Her husband didn’t love her enough to stay thin for her. People would talk about their sex life.
How do they?
I bet they…
Surely they must do…
I’d buy batteries by the case if it were me…

She looked at his thin lips and squinted eyes. They had never been happy, she thought. Not really. He wanted kids, she knew. He always talked about it, especially on holidays.
Christmas is for kids, he’d say.
David would ask her during summer,
You think a baby would like the fireworks? I mean after they got over the sound and all.

She ignored him. No children. That was the deal when they got married.
No babies. No orphans. Not even the lousy price of a cup of coffee for a fat-bellied African kid. That was the deal.

That’s why he’s doing this. To get even, embarrass me because he can’t be a Daddy.
I mean, I won’t let him be one… she said. Bastard.

She looked at the laptop and closed it. The house seemed the same but different. The silence seemed an indictment. She heard the hum of the refrigerator and could detect, just below the surface of the monotonous droning, a giggle.

Coward, she said. You’ve always been a damn coward.

She thought back to that day a few weeks ago. She came home from book club and David was drunk. He had an easel in the living room. Sinatra was playing and she could smell oil paints. An empty bottle of wine was on the coffee table.

What are you doing? She asked.

David looked from behind the easel.

I wanted-ed to be a painter. Member? I tote chu when, when we were met…

But we agreed it was a waste of productive time, honey.

BAH! David said. I bought this stuff and I’m painting stuff and I’m gonna be a painter. Of stuff… He smiled.

The next morning she discarded the easel, the paints, the brushes, and the empty Merlot bottles.
David called in sick.
Rachel went to work on time.
David made Thai for dinner. Neither spoke of the missing stuff.

She looked at the spot where the easel had stood. Her mind pushed a negative thought back down where it belonged. Nothing was wrong. He wanted children. He’s got some disease, toxemia or something. He hates her for some reason and wants to embarrass her.

Why me? Rachel said.

Room of his own. (1)

This is a story I wrote back during Christmas. I haven’t gotten around to posting it out of laziness and the ease at which I’m distracted by work. It is in three parts due to the length.

David Gray looked down between his pedicured feet and saw the number 187 for the first time in his adult life. He’d gained a pound. Just one.

Skip the Snickers at work today, he thought. The idea fell beneath the barrage of his normal thoughts. Shave, shower, dress, kiss Rachel, pick up coffee, twenty-two minute commute (depending on E. Main’s traffic) and then work. As he began to lather just enough shaving cream to start his day, he continued. Work, answer calls, pay bills, file that report, check email, but this time no break. Just lunch. Salad from up the street. Fat free dressing this go ’round.

In the fashion David Gray knew like elephants know their grave sites, his day went exactly as planned.

Upon request, Rachel made a light dinner.
One pound is one pound, David said.
Of course. Rachel replied.
I don’t want to be married to a fatty.
I don’t want you married to a fatty.
She smiled.
He smiled.
The boneless chicken and simple salad were perfectly prepared.

They read the paper and worked the crossword puzzle together. Somewhere they got an answer wrong because number 36 down was “NMT” which meant nothing as far as they could tell. Rachel threw the crossword away and tidied up the couch pillows. David rose to wipe the coffee table clean. Everything remained controlled in the Gray household.

The next morning, while Rachel slept, David slide the scale from out of the bathroom closet with his right foot. He stepped on it.
195.
David lifted his left leg.
Reset it. He said to no one.
He set his leg down careful to keep his foot flat.
195.

Rachel entered as David stared at the digits between his feet.
186? She said.
The scale is messed up, he said.
Rachel stopped and looked at David’s waist.
Still 187?
195. David was unable to look in her direction.
195?
That’s what the damn thing says. Yes. 195.
Please don’t yell. Rachel said.
Sorry.
Ok.
Can you get us a new scale today?
Yes. Of course.
Thanks.
Ok.

David sat in traffic on east Main wondering how much a gym membership costs. In the six years of their marriage, the Grays had never discussed gym memberships or dietary issues much. It was assumed that both would remain the same. They loathed the carelessness that dominates the unhealthy lifestyle of average Americans. Whenever one of the Grays said, “average American” their voices dropped an octave as if discussing retarded children who were standing nearby. Even when alone they spoke this way about average Americans. He reached into his cup holder and retrieved the same travel mug he’d used for two years. He sipped his coffee.

David thought of asking friends at work but reasoned that the trim workers wouldn’t know and the fat ones wouldn’t care to know. He checked online as his stomach growled through lunch time. David avoided lunch altogether.

I paid for it out of my checking account. Rachel said.
David looked at the scale. It was lined with chrome and guaranteed accuracy, without fail, for the next two years.
Thank you. David said. His stomach twisted around its day-long emptiness.

Rachel laid the scale before him.
But I’m dressed, he said.
An extra pound or two at most, she said. Probably around 188 is all.
He stepped on the scale.
200.
Take off your shirt, Rachel said.
David removed his shirt.
Rachel circled him as he lifted his feet up and set them back down slowly.
Still says 200, David said.
He heard Rachel gasp as she touched the skin above his left kidney.
What? David said.
I think it’s a stretch mark. Rachel said. Her voice sounded as if she’d repeated the phrase average American.

David ran from the scale, down the hall and into the bathroom. He pulled back the shower curtain. His twisted frame reflected in the shower’s wall-sized mirror. David saw the faint pink mark above his left kidney.
Rachel was walking down the hall.
We need to go see a doctor, she said.
David slammed the door quickly. Looking down at his waist he saw skin hanging over his belt. Not much.
Just a slither of excess tissue resting on the top of his belt.

Call the Reynold’s gym down the street. Ask them what it costs and tell them I’ll be there tonight! David said.
Have you been eating junk food? Rachel said through the door.
I’m starving to death right now. Call the gym. David said.
Don’t yell at me. And I didn’t deserve the door being slammed at me.
David pinched the fat around his waist and felt a mania come across him.
This isn’t me, he thought.
I apologize Rachel. I’m a bit stressed I guess but no, it wasn’t fair. David leaned against the closed door.
Open the door David, Rachel said.
Please just call the gym. Bring me some comfortable clothes and leave them outside on the floor. I can’t…not like this. This is…
He heard her feet move away from the door.
David sensed her agreement.
She didn’t want to see him like this.

This isn’t me, he thought. He pulled the old scale out of the closet. He stripped off his clothes as if they were on fire.

He stepped on the scale.

David Gray felt hunger pangs rip through his gut as he watched the number form between his pedicured feet.

205.

He stared at the numbers. David’s mind was numb. Filled with noises he’d never experienced. He saw his hands begin to tremble.

The numbers changed.

207.

Everything I needed to know I learned from Dead Frogs.

It was this time last year when I took account of my life and found some things lacking. About twenty years and 150 pounds ago, I had an inkling of how my life would go. I wanted to wake up in distant lands, see the known & hidden places of the world, and somehow make a mark that lasted more than my expected life cycle. Little did I realize that every 18 year-old full of piss & vinegar has such grandiose notions and few really make it. But off you go anyway…You see some sites, visit some places, meet some people, and then wake up on a 9-5 commute before you settle your hangover. As Frost said, way leads to way…

Back to last year.
I realized that of all the things I’d wanted to do, one was still with me after 20+ years like a rash without ointment. Writing. I sat down last year and wrote this sentence on my computer screen.

John Duffy, Writer.

Yeah, I was drunk…but I got the message buried in the bottle. If I was going to be a writer then it was time to make me a writer. You can’t make me one, neither can a publisher, agent, critic, reader, or a thousand plastic compliments. I have to make me one.

Over the past year I’ve picked up a few lessons that I thought worth sharing.

1.) Writing is tedious difficult work. Hemingway once quipped, “Write drunk; edit sober.” The former is easy, the latter…not so much. Taking a critical eye to your work is as important as letting your critical eye sleep while you bang out a rough draft.

2.) Writing is predominantly an inside job. The TV show “Castle” offers a glamorous spin on writing that gives a schmo the impression that a laptop and good hair a Writer do make. I tried what I call the “Latte Literati” gig of sitting in a coffee house and playing Writer for the world to see. Trouble was, I couldn’t see it, even if all the caffeine junkies could… Writing is tough enough for me without an audience. Hell, the reason I can fly through this blog most of the time is because I have trouble believing the “Ego Counter”.

3.) Inspiration can’t be found, it must arrive of its own accord. I go places and work hard at keeping my eyes & ears open. It’s tight to pay attention to the world around you when you sometimes feel the world inside you is a dumpster fire. But I try. Sometimes inspiration arrives. Sometimes it doesn’t. I’ve learned to have faith that it will always show up…when it wants to.

4.) Reading is fundamental to Writing. I glance over my blog and other writings and notice a stagnation buried within. Thinking back to when I wrote whatever piece is stagnated I realize that at that time, I wasn’t reading much and I wasn’t “moving around” much. Reading is a simple way to see the world. If you can’t see the world, who cares what you have to say about it…?

5.) Thorns have their place. I appreciate the compliments people feed me, but after that, I enjoy a cup of strong critique to complete the meal. Only I can make me a Writer, but others can help make me a better writer.

6.) Grammar matters.

7.) Keep the story moving with action & words. Perhaps I feel that way because I’m too lazy to wrestle adjectives or hold down an adverb for three seconds. I don’t know. Show, don’t tell…

8.) I need to meet more Writers. Networking seems incredibly important. I need to work on my “networking” skills more.

9.) A Writer will write. Whether it’s a comedy skit, jokes, a restaurant review, or a newsletter for work; a Writer writes. If I’m not actively pursuing “Writing Gigs” then I’m not living a Writer’s life. For me, it is that simple.

10.) This may seem harsh, and contradictory to #8, but a Writer has to clear the clutter from their mind, their desk, and their life. That last one is the toughest.

11.) I’m not the Story. When I enlisted the assistance of a pro editor I was stoked. I felt as if I were doing the hard work…shelling out money, staying up late to do rewrites, discussing the why, when, & what of my work. Then I got my first edits back. Cut this, slash that, add here, delete this, rework this piece, why? Why? WHy? WHY?….I remember sitting in that office listening to my stories being dissected and feeling a sudden kinship with dead frogs found in the high schools of America. I had to remind myself, “I’m not the story, I’m not the story, I’m not the story…”

12.) Writing is tedious difficult work. I know I’m repeating #1…but if you knew how many times I rewrote #11, you’d understand.

13.) Biggest thing I learned this year: John Duffy, Writer. I like it.

-John.