Chapter 9 - Fun at Work

                                                 

                                                    12/27/13 - "Chapter 9 - Fun at Work"

     Blogger's Note:  I think I may have suffered my first writing injury.  Well, at least I hope that's what it is.
     I've been writing a lot.  I have written more in the last few days than I may have written in my entire life up to that point.  I have the bug.  And I can't shake it.  And I love it.  When I'm not writing, I'm walking around in a trance, dreaming up my next post, a future story, a way to connect plot points.  I think I'm fairly worthless.
     The past few days, the crooks of my elbows have been killing me.  It feels like maybe a torn muscle, but it's in both of my arms.  I thought at first that it was just another server injury.  As a waiter, aches and pains aren't at all uncommon.  Holding a tray in one hand and a pitcher in the other as I'm running around clearing off tables during high-volume days tends to spawn a plethora of aches and pains.  Co-workers have experienced anything from back pain to carpal tunnel (or car pool tunnel as my mom calls it - you can use the express lane in Nashville if you go through car pool tunnel, I do believe).
     I've anguished through many of these miserable afflictions over the years myself.  So, I know what they feel like.  And, what I have isn't that.  Both arms were hurting in similar places, and I started to get concerned that maybe I was having circulation problems which might be a symptom of something serious.
     I was getting so concerned, in fact, that I jumped over to the WebMD website and entered in my symptoms to see what kind of problem the experts say I have.  Apparently, I've somehow contracted the Zimbabwe Heart Parasite which exasperated my preexisting yeast infection and escalated my acute case of the Black Plague.  I'm going to need antibiotics, some weed, and a pap smear.
     Then, I started to think that maybe the prognosis that I'd come up with might not be right.  Maybe I didn't need a pap smear.  I started to go through some more likely possibilities.  I began considering what changes I had made in my normal routine lately that might have strained both arms.
     And then I had it!  It was so obvious!  I had been writing a lot.  As I'm writing right now, I realize that I've hit the nail on the proverbial head.  The localized pain in my arms is clearly noticeable at the places that have been hurting.  I have some form of carpal tunnel associated with typing a lot.  And, I'm not sure how to treat that.  Maybe I still need to see a doctor.  Maybe (oh!  Please God no!) I need to lay off writing for a little while.  We'll see...
     Anyway, on to today's post.
     We've reached Phase 3 of our journey.  If you hadn't already guessed it, this will be our "How We got Engaged" segment.
     As I was plotting out this phase, I started wondering if this chapter was even necessary.  I could have gone straight to the plot point without this little side step, but then I wouldn't have my nice, little OCD package of 4 phases of 4 chapters.  And, besides, I'm in the mood to have a little fun.  Don't writers sometimes stretch their stories to fill pages?  I've read a few books that sure seemed that way.
     Oh, quit your whining.  This'll be fun!  Grab a beer or a glass of wine and let loose for a bit!  And, if you don't drink, then.. if you don't drink, um.. er..    How in the hell do you read this shit if you don't drink??

     "Are you staying with me tonight?" Joanna asked.
     Three weeks had passed since we had "defined our relationship."  Most of those nights I had just stayed at the hotel with her.  It was right next to the casino so was a lot closer than my brother's house.  But location convenience wasn't the only reason that I preferred to stay with her.
     "Sure.  I picked up a couple of movies, and I thought we could order some pizza," I replied.
     We were on our breaks and sitting across from each other in the Employee Dining Room.  Much to the inconvenience of our co-workers, scheduling our lunches together was our daily objective.
     "Do you mind if I take my lunch at 2 with Joanna today?" I had asked our supervisor Karen.
     "Again?" she'd always respond.  But she'd always make it happen.  For thirty minutes of our work day, we could take a breath of each other.
     We had spent nearly all of our free time together during those early days.  We danced in that neutral field that exists between flirtation and love like two silly kids teasing the surf of a receding wave.  I can only compare it to finding a song that you really like and playing it over and over and over.
     Infatuation can be an electric and windy waltz.  Some days the world is just frozen, and the object of your affection is carved free from everything else to dance to a ballad so loud and heart-felt that you can't help but wonder why no one else can hear the damn thing.  And other days the world insists on being heard.  Thunderous responsibility asserts itself into the crevices of your dream and creeps in like tendrils of ivy.  You can wish it to Hell all you'd like, but wishing is all you'll be doing.
     Joanna and I were fighting the fight.  No one ever wins it, but everyone loves trying.
     "I need to run home and grab some clothes in the morning," I told her.  "Wanna come along?"
     "Sure," my Polish girlfriend replied.
     Our lunch break was coming to an end.  We scooted our chairs back into place and made our way downstairs to the buffet.
     Matt was talking to the new hostess Sheila when we arrived at the server station.
     "I have a customer that wants to know what the Dessert of the Day is today?"  Sheila was asking Matt.
     "It's a Frickle Frackle Cheesecake with some Rambo Bright Sprinkles," Matt explained with a straight face.
     We waited for Sheila to lament, "No, seriously..."  But she never did.  Instead, she turned around and confidently headed to the buffet where the inquiring customer was scooping a serving of mashed potatoes onto her plate.
     "Ma'am."  Sheila waited until she was certain that she had the customer's attention.  Once she ascertained that she did, she loudly and proudly proclaimed, "It's a Frickle Frackle Cheesecake with some Rambo Bright Sprinkles."
     Joanna, Matt, and I started snickering to ourselves.
     "What. in. the. hell. is. that?" the customer asked, playfully horrified.
     Sheila, suddenly aware that she'd been had, stormed back to where the three of us were huddled and laughing.  "Not funny guys.  Not funny," she spouted and marched back to the hostess station.
     I couldn't quit laughing long enough to voice an apology.  Karen happened to walk through our conference.  "Ok, ok.  Break it up, you guys.  I don't know what you're up to, but I bet it's no good."  Smiling, she shook her head and continued walking.
     Joanna yielded and made her way to the hostess station.  Matt idled to the buffet where he described a Tuxedo Brownie to the curious patron, and I went to work helping Calvin bus a table.
     "Umm.. like I said.. I got the Dragons of Neverpyre which is the third book in the Lords of Thornberry series.  And. um.. like I said.. the Thornberry Trolls are just about, er, excuse my language, the most bad ass Trolls in all of Lora'vale!" Calvin opened a channel of dialogue filled with his unusual passions.  Some days, I'd entertain his strange ramblings and even reciprocate conversation; lately, however, I had been smitten by the singular ambition of devising plans for me and Joanna on our days off.  Calvin didn't notice my disinterest.
     "Umm, like I said.. do you know the Mantra of the Thornberry Trolls?" Calvin asked me.
     I didn't hear the question.  I was watching Joanna lead a pair of customers through the tables in the back to one of the booths.  She placed their silverware and parted with, "thank you and enjoy your lunch."  Instead of returning to the hostess station, however, she appeared to be heading my way.
     "Like I said, the Mantra must be done open-palmed with your chin resting on your heart.  I can't get my chin all the way to my heart, because I'm not.. umm.. err.. like I said.. a Thornberry Troll.. but, to demonstrate, I'll get as close as I can.  It goes, 'Lora'vale hearts and Dragon spirits fly; pull out my tongue and poke out my eyes; Never rest until the Goblin hordes die; And free the bastard..."
     "Is that the Thornberry Trolls, Calvin?" Joanna interrupted the chant before he could finish.
     "Umm.. err.  like I said.. that is the Mantra of.."
     "The lady at the third booth overheard you.  She wants you to tell her about the Trolls," Joanna dismissed him with a wave of her hand.  Anxious to share his Troll knowledge, Calvin abruptly walked to what appeared to be a frail, elderly lady that was sitting by herself.
     "How do you know about Thornberry Trolls?" I asked Joanna in a confiding whisper.
     "I don't.  He's been talking about that shit all day," she clarified.  "Anyway, I want to see if you will go to Friday's after work.  Crystal, Stacey, and Chris are going; I thought maybe we join them."
     "Lora'vale hearts and Dragon spirits fly; pull out my tongue and poke out my eyes..."  From over Joanna's shoulder, I could see Calvin with his head tilted down and his arms outstretched as he began reciting his bizarre chant.  The poor lady in the booth had a spoonful of white beans paused just in front of her mouth; her expression tittered between fear and pity.
     "Sure, we can hit Friday's after work," I responded to Joanna as our oblivious busser continued ranting about Thornberry Trolls and Lora'vale Dragons.  Joanna shrugged an ok.
      "Boy, I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but ain't you got some work to do?" the elderly lady asked Calvin enigmatically.  He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat, and, seemingly unscathed, turned around to wipe off the table behind him.
     Joanna turned around to retrieve another guest when Karen intercepted her.  "Joanna, you have a phone call in the office," she said.  Joanna gave her a curious, well-that's-strange look before proceeding to the office.
     I made my way to the server station to get some stocking done for the dinner rush.  The steakhouse next to us was in a hustle, preparing to open in another hour.  Tara was urgently pushing trays of silverware into the restaurant; Kristin followed her with a cart of clean glasses.  Josh was performing a silly dance for someone obstructed from my vision by a divider wall that separated the bar from the entrance to the dining area; I recognized the laugh as belonging to Sheree.
     Sheree always offered words of encouragement and a smile.  I couldn't pass the bar without receiving a friendly greeting.  She was older than most of us and harbored a level of wisdom that may have exceeded her years.  When she spoke to me, it felt like the rest of the world fell away, and only the two of us existed.  After Josh finished the afternoon's entertainment, I poked my head around the corner to say 'hi'.
     "Why hello, Duane!!  How are you doing?  By the way you're glowing, I'd say ok."  Sheree was wiping out some glasses with a towel.
     When most people ask me how I'm doing, I usually give them the automated response, "great, thanks."  But there was something about the way Sheree would say it that would make me actually answer the question.  "I'm doing really well," I told her, but my conniving smirk and twinkling eyes probably told her more than my words did.
     "I'm happy for you.  You know, I have a good feeling about her," she paused from wiping out the glass she held and weighted me with a deep look that convinced me that she did indeed.  I nervously lightened the rumination with a nervous chuckle, but the entrancing notion captivated me like a dancing sparkler.
     "You know about me and Joanna?" I asked her.
     "Duane, buddy, you may not realize it, but it's written all over your face."  She went back to work on the glass she was holding like everything was just so simple.
     "Hey."  On cue, a familiar Polish accent jolted me from that place where Sheree and I had been talking; Joanna surprised me by unceremoniously announcing her presence.  Something in her voice wasn't right.  Troubled wrinkles and a somber demeanor cast a confusing shadow over the face I thought I knew.
     "They're sending me to Vegas," she resolved.
     A dramatic silence folded the air around me.  Joanna and I locked gazes.  I couldn't get the damn statement to sink in my brain enough to come up with a retort, and I knew that's what she was waiting for.
     A tense moment lapsed while I struggled to process the information.  Finally, she whittled some words from the stony air.  "I'm going up to the room now.  I have to get some paperwork done..."
     I think she had more to say, but whatever it might have been was netted by her steel resolve.  Stung and alone, she turned to walk away.  She might have been crying.  I needed to comfort and assure her.  But wordless, hopeless anxiety ensnared me.  I stood there like an idiot.
     "Duane," Sheree softly negotiated me out of my trance.  "I know it doesn't feel like it now; but, it'll work out.  It will."
     I looked at her politely before walking away.  "I believe that.  I really do," I heard her call after me. As much as I liked her, she was still just a bartender.  What did she know?
                                            (to be continued...)
   
Continue our "How We Got Engaged" story:
                                                   Chapter 10 - Meet the Family
   

   

            
     

A Series of Unfortunate Events

                                               

                                                12/20/13 - "A Series of Unfortunate Events"

     Blogger's Note:  I'll be busy next week.  Holiday plans and a heavy work schedule will have me running rampant.  The only day I have scheduled off is Christmas Eve, so our yuletide festivities will be then.  I don't foresee having any free time to write; which is unfortunate because I have a shipment of memories I need to unload.  I figure I'll pull a late night and get this story out of my head.
     I started brainstorming for my next Flashback episode right after I finished "Another Dimension", and I tentatively came up with the idea for this one.  I just wasn't for sure if I should share it.  I'm not especially proud of the events that I'll be writing about, and I wasn't sure if I should include some of my collaborators.  In fact, I sent a message to my long time friend Brad to ask him if it was ok if I told this story.  "Yeah, go for it.  It's funny in hindsight.  We sure were some scared little shits when that deputy showed up though," was his reply.  I'd have to agree.
     In 1986, my mother had a house built just walking distance from Unity Elementary School in rural Brookport, IL.  Today's story takes place a couple of years later, in 1988.  The neighborhood was filled with other boys my age, and we rarely complained about having nothing to do.
     I was worried when I started piecing this story together.  My brother and I had a discussion not long ago that we thought that our fellow neighbors and classmates' parents viewed us as "hoodlums" when we lived by Unity.  Shawn and I were always running around the neighborhood.  Our single mother didn't want to share the house with two rowdy, adolescent boys; so, often, she would tell us to scram.  Our radius for adventure was as far as we could walk, and we could walk far.  But we were good kids.  We really were.  I think we were misunderstood.  We didn't lie, cheat, or steal.  We didn't hang around people that did.  But we were ripe for a little mischief sometimes.
     Tonight, I'm going to step into the confessional and tell you of my twelve-year old sins.  Perhaps, after it's all out, you can forgive me and my friends.  We didn't mean any harm.  We were just trying to have fun.  If not for the vomit, the man that hung himself, and the locker room panties, no one would've been hurt.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  It's 1988, and the glorious days of land-line phones made prank calls a common occurrence.
     Let's start at the beginning.  My brother and I were hanging out next door at Brad and Kyle's house.  The night was still young, and their mom was at school that night...

     "What?"
     "I said, 'This is Bethany!  Can I help you??'"
     "What?"
     "Sir!  This is Bethany!  You called 1-800-EAR-WELL!  Can I help you??"
     "What?"  I had to move the phone away from my mouth to let out a laugh that was about to disturb my "old man" voice.  Shawn and Kyle had their mouths covered, but coughs of laughter still escaped occasionally.
     "Sir, maybe you should get someone else on the phone so we can help you!"
     "What?"  I couldn't take it anymore.  I had to tag out.  I handed the phone to Kyle who knew what to do.  I tripped over the phone cord as I attempted to sprint out of the room to release a guffaw of hilarity.  My stumble nearly pulled the phone from Kyle's grasp and created a bout of premature snickering that nearly cost us a flawlessly hilarious prank call.
     1-800-EAR-WELL was the number we had called.  Frequent commercials on channel 23 promised hearing impaired people an exceptional solution for their disability if only they'd "just pick up the phone and call now.  Operators are standing by."
     "Sir!  Could you please put someone else on the phone!"
     "What?"  Kyle's "old man" voice sounded different from mine, but it wasn't half-bad.  A few dramatic seconds passed before we'd find out if "Bethany" was going to buy it.
     "Sir.. Please get someone else to call us back!  I'm sorry, but it doesn't appear that I can help you."
     Oh, this was delicious!  Unfortunately, though, we would have to change our tactic for "Bethany" was about to hang up.  Kyle shrugged at me as if to ask 'what should I do.'  I shrugged back; I was out of ideas.
     Shawn grabbed the phone from Kyle and saved us from any more deliberating.  "Show us your tits!" my ten-year-old brother screamed into the phone.  And that was it.  We were all on the floor rolling and laughing.  What a splendid way to punctuate one of the best prank calls we had ever perpetrated!
     "What're you all doing?"  Brad stepped into the room wearing a curious smirk.  "Did you guys call 1-800-EAR-WELL again??"
     Now we were really laughing which was affirmation to his question.  Brad had been in his room playing his electric guitar.  He was the most musically talented person I've ever known.  He played guitar, piano, trumpet, trombone, and saxophone and anything else that caught his fancy.  He'd been teaching me how to play some chords on the piano lately so that I could accompany some of his guitar solos.  We were actually starting to sound halfway decent together.
     "Let's go shoot some hoops," Brad suggested.
     Brad and Kyle lived right next to Unity Elementary School, so a basketball court was just a short stroll away.  I sucked at basketball, but the idea of going outside sounded appealing.  The night was warm and electric.  "Let's go," I acceded.
     The four of us ran downstairs, threw on our shoes, and walked in front of the school on our way to the "kiddie" court.  Of the two courts on the school grounds, we preferred the one near the playground where the little kids played; a couple of short basketball goals made it possible for us to dunk there.  On the way, we passed the new, brick sign that had just been put in earlier that day.  In limestone 'UNITY SCHOOL LIONS' had been etched beside the likeness of a lion's head.  A small mound of fresh dirt was piled beside it from where the hole had just been dug earlier that day.
     As we approached the court, Brad took off at a sprint and dunked impressively on the shorter goal.  We all ran after him, eager to get our turns with the ball.
     "You guys are assholes."
     We looked up, and Tim was approaching us from the direction of his house.  He was another one of the neighborhood boys.
     We were trying hard not to laugh.  We knew what he was talking about.
     "My mom was pissed," he continued.
     None of us wanted to admit to anything, so we just kept our mouths shut.  Last night, during another splendid round of prank phone calls, we had gotten the grand idea of calling the local cab service and having a taxi sent to Tim's house at three in the morning.
     "It sat out there blowing its horn for fifteen minutes!" Tim wasn't going to drop it.
     Kyle finally broke.  Once he snickered, we all just lost it.  Tim, fed up with our unsympathetic attitudes, turned around and strode back home.  "Fuck you guys!"  He was royally pissed!
     The four of us stood on the court, laughing and trying to regain our composure.  "Hey, Shawn.  Throw up!" Kyle suggested.
      My brother bent over and vomited.
     We roared with laughter.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, in the whole, wide world is as funny to a group of adolescent boys as the magnificent hilarity of random regurgitation.  I was proud to have a brother with the uncanny ability to throw-up on command.  Now, keep in mind, we had to play this card being mindful that he couldn't throw up all night long.  Hell, no one has that much food in their stomach.  Once or twice was the maximum times Shawn was capable of "firing", so employing a degree of arbitrary timing could escalate a nice chuckle into a thunderous clamor of merriment.  Shawn and Kyle had just federated an exquisitely timed bout of random puke.
     I didn't think I'd ever recover from laughing so hard.  I was breathless and wonderfully dizzy.  Tonight couldn't get any better.  We all sat on the asphalt and tried to regain our composure.
     After we did, I was the first to start conversation.  "You know what I heard?  I heard that someone fell for our hanging man prank."
     I was referring to the empty house over on Pell Cemetery Road.  A couple of nights ago we had succeeded in our mission of breaking in and hanging a scarecrow in the second story window.  Using a pair of pants I had supplied and one of Brad's shirts, we had created a "man" that we had stuffed with straw and strung up to appear to be a "suicide" victim.  We gained entry via an unlocked, second-story window that we had to climb to reach.
     Brad, Kyle, and Shawn all waited for me to continue.  "Yeah.  At church, this girl I know, said that one of her friends was driving by and thought she saw a man 'hanging' in the window.  She called the cops who came, and I guess they figured out it was a scarecrow."
     We all reverted into some more chuckling, but this time it wasn't quite as difficult to achieve some self-control.  A span of quiet time elapsed as we all imagined a squad of worried policemen clamoring their way up the steps of the abandoned house en route to encounter the "dead man".
     Kyle broke the silence.  "Hey, Shawn!  Throw up on that new sign!"
     We all looked to see what Shawn's reaction would be to what was obviously a terrific idea.  He cockily shrugged, stood, and clapped his hands to free the grime from his palms.  We followed suit, anxious to see Mr. Kettler's pride and joy covered in puke.
     Mr. Kettler was the school principal.  Few people in my life have I disliked more than this man.  He was an adult bully as well as my arch-nemesis.  Throwing up on the new sign wouldn't be a sign of disrespect to the school; hell, we liked the school.  It would be a symbolic gesture of our feelings toward Mr. Dipshit Kettler.
     Arriving at the new sign, we gathered around my younger brother.  Around us, intermittent fireflies speckled throughout the vigorous night and danced to an orchestra of chirping crickets.  Shawn's jeans were rolled up just above his ankles, and his sleeveless shirt appeared in need of a good washing.  Wasting no time, he spewed all over the new sign.  The youngest member of our posse wiped a strand of vomit from his lip like a champ.  We marveled over the vandal's artwork with conniving grins.  Hopefully, Mr. Kettler would see it before a good rain washed it away.
     As the excitement of our newest endeavor began to fade, our conversation began to migrate into penis size claims and condom discomfort.  By thirteen, we had all tried on rubbers by now, so each of us had some input on the matter.  We all agreed that they were too small for our packages which was a real shame.  Trojan was voted the best brand, and I didn't dare to admit that it was the only brand that I had managed to sample.  Ultimately, French ticklers won out as the best possible choice if the need for protection ever arose; we conceded that since they were "ribbed for her pleasure" that they would be the most considerate choice.  I fantasized about a girl being so ecstatically "pleasured" by the brilliant contraceptive that gleeful screams of lusty gratification would accompany her rapturous amazement.  In such an instance, I would try my best to act modest because, well, let's face it, who likes a cocky jerk?
     "Did you hear me?"  Brad's hand waving in front of my face snapped me out of the dream.  "I said, 'let's go play basketball again.'"
     "Yeah.. uh. sure..." I articulated.
     The underfoot chat crackled beneath our tennis shoes and echoed off the gymnasium as we meandered back to the playground side of the school.  My thoughts strayed to the night we discovered that the rear door by the music room could be opened by jiggling the handle and pulling at the same time.  We had all stared at each other in disbelief and traded dares on who would go inside.
     Kyle had finally come up with a compromise.  He said he would run into the school, down the hallway, across the basketball court, and out the gym door if we'd do it, too.  The gym door had one of those push bar mechanisms on the inside so that one could exit by simply depressing it and pushing the door open.
     And that's how it all had started.
     Kyle did as he said he would.  I agreed to go next.  The hollow reverberation of my footfalls echoing down the empty hallway roused my thrill-seeking spirit and counterbalanced my fear of being caught.  When I came out into the night air that first time, I was fueled with adrenalin and a stimulated sense of adventure.  Brad and Shawn followed shortly after, and the plunge into breaking and entering had begun.
     Only we didn't do it for any criminal reasons.  We had no desire to take anything; we didn't even have any desire to vandalize anything.  We simply enjoyed the thrill of getting away with something we shouldn't be doing.
     Our "dares" matured and eventually became unnecessary.  After a couple of weeks, we were just walking right in and going for a stroll.  We'd explore the classrooms while they were dark and unfamiliar.  We'd play basketball inside the gym.  We'd scout places that we had never seen before like the girls' bathroom or the kitchen.
     Once, we got the clever idea of taking a milk and leaving fifteen cents, the amount we were charged at school for an extra milk, on top of the cooler where they were kept.  I giddily imagined the dialogue that might have been exchanged by the cooks the next morning.
     "Doris, you ain't gonna believe this!"
     "What's wrong, Cindy?  You look like you just saw a ghost!"
     "I just did the milk inventory for the morning.  The chocolate milk checks out just fine.  But, the white milk...  well.. the white milk is off..."
     "What do you mean Cindy?  What's wrong??"
     "I counted the white milk last night, and I know I counted it right.  There were exactly 117 white milks when we left last night!  But now there's 116!"
     "Cindy, white milk can't just sprout wings and fly away!  You must've miscounted; that's all..."
     "That's not all, Doris.  There's something else..."
     "What is it Cindy?  Just say it dammit!  What's wrong??"
     "There was exactly fifteen cents on top of the cooler this morning..."
     ...
     "Cindy... that's.. that's.. crazy.  How can.. "
     "Fifteen cents, Doris!  The exact cost of a carton of milk!"
     "Cindy.  Listen to me.  I want you to put that money in the till.  That'll make the inventory right again.  And..."
     "And what, Doris?  AND WHAT!?!?!"
     "...and don't ever tell anyone about this, you hear me?  No one!  Not a soul."
     "I'm scared Doris.  I'm scared."
     "Me too, Cindy.  Just get to work and try not to think about it.  We've got a lot of applesauce to spoon out today.  Just try not to think about it.. and never tell anyone.  Ever."
     But all that fun and excitement was over now.  Someone had fixed the door handle a few days ago.  All the countless thrills and potential pranks halted by a simple door handle.  The fun was over.
     We could have pulled off so many clever jokes; we had access to the whole school.  Hell, we could have even gone into the girls' locker room and...
     "Hey!" I exclaimed as we arrived at the basketball court.  Brad, Kyle, and Shawn turned in unison at my sudden and unexpected utterance.
     "I know what we should have done while we could get inside the school," I said.  "We should have gone into the girls' locker room, found a pair of panties, and put it in some dweeb's locker in the boys' locker room!"
     My three associates looked at me with smirks of approval.  "Rad!" Brad proclaimed.
     The appealing revelation was short-lived once the realization that we could no longer get inside dawned on us.  One by one, our smiles began to fade.  We just stood there no longer interested in basketball.
     "I know how we can get inside," Brad offered.  We looked at him with anxious eyes, searching for a clue to his epiphany.  He shrugged and continued, "the skylight."
     "The skylight?" I inquired.
     "Sure, the skylight over the fifth and sixth grade classrooms," Brad maintained.
     I didn't start at Unity until the seventh grade, which was on the opposite end of the building from the fifth and sixth grade classrooms.  I had no idea about these "skylights" of which he spoke, but I trusted his judgement.  The idea sounded promising.  Getting on top of the school was child's play.  Between the music room and the boiler room, a narrow passage allowed one to climb onto a window sill and then crawl under the overhang to pull oneself on top of the music room.  One could leap from there to the main building, but not much was up there.  Once you'd accomplished the feat, you really didn't have a desire to do it again.  But, if we could gain access via this "skylight" to the inside, we could pull off one of the greatest pranks we'd ever imagined!
     We didn't hesitate and dispatched ourselves to the skylight above the fifth grade classroom in no time at all.  It was a square box covered by a bubbled piece of clear, hard plastic; and, it was attached to the roof by a handful of screws.  Brad had run home to get a couple of screwdrivers.  He promptly returned and tossed Shawn one of the tools upon his arrival.  Methodically, the two went to work removing screws from opposite sides.  Anxious for the access to be completed,  Kyle and I were cackling deviously.
     "Ok," Brad explained.  "Once these screws come out, the skylight is gonna be free to fall.  Kyle you grab one side; Duane, you grab the..."
     A loud CRASH boomed into the night air and suppressed the final words of Brad's instructions.  The skylight had broken free more quickly than expected and had fallen into the classroom below us.  We each claimed a side and peered into the opening.  A square moonbeam spotlighted just enough to ascertain that the plastic skylight was now busted and a good twelve feet below us.
     "Oh, shit," Brad muttered.
     Our glee and excitement disappeared immediately.  Pensive moonlight partially illuminated our faces as we exchanged stares of dire finality.  We were fucked.
     "What now?" Shawn broke the silence with the obvious question.
     "We have to get it," Brad surmised.
     "That's a long drop," I perceived.  "Who's gonna do it?"
     Shawn was obviously too small; so, Brad, Kyle, and I exchanged looks.  I was wearing my good pair of jams and didn't want to get them any dirtier than they already were.  Fortunately, Kyle offered, "I'll do it."
     Relieved, all of us turned to look at the brave eleven-year-old.  He climbed into the now-open hole in the roof and hung by his hands.  Dangling above the chaos of shattered skylight, Kyle dropped into obscurity.  I was concerned for him.  Landing would be difficult in the dark amid the broken pieces of skylight and the rows of desks.  We couldn't see him, so the sounds of splintering wood and crackling plastic worried us.
     "You ok?" I called down to him.
     "Yeah!" he called back as the report of an overturned chair punctuated his response.
     "Go around and open the door for us," Brad instructed.
     Brad, Shawn, and I climbed down from the roof to find Kyle already there holding the rear door open.  We didn't dally and headed straight to the classroom where the catastrophic evidence of our misfortune was waiting.
     We stood in a semicircle just inside the doorway of the classroom and silently appraised the damage.  The skylight was laying against an overturned desk, and a portion of the plastic was clearly broken beyond repair.  Toppled chairs and splintered wood scattered across the floor dissolved any hopes of covering up this debacle.  My heart sank into oblivion, and we just stood there with our mouths agape.
     "What now?"  I was the first to speak.  For a brief moment, I didn't think anyone was going to respond.  Suddenly, Brad geared into action.
     "Kyle, go find a broom.  Shawn, start picking up the desks and chairs.  Straighten them up as best you can; try and get them to look like they would have before this happened."  Brad's directions were welcomed.  No one questioned him or second-guessed him.  "Duane, help me pick up the skylight."
     Brad grabbed one end; I grabbed the other.  Together we lifted the heavy object and began carrying it out of the classroom and into the hallway.  "What're we gonna do with it?" I asked.
     Brad shrugged and looked at me.  "I don't know.  Any ideas?" he grimaced the question.
     "Not really..." I began.  "Well, we can't repair it; it's too broken to put it back.  I guess we should hide it; I don't know what else to do..."
     Brad nodded agreement.  "Where should we take it?"
     "In the field behind the school?" I suggested.
     He nodded; so, we began the long, cumbersome walk to "the field behind the school."
     After what miserably felt like hours, the four of us had reconvened back in the classroom.  The room itself was more or less back in its original shape.  The big, gaping hole overhead, however, was pretty noticeable.      "What're we gonna say if we get asked if we know anything about it?" Shawn asked the obvious question.
     "We have to swear we don't know anything about it," I dictated.  Everyone nodded agreement.
     We scanned the room one last time, decided everything was as good as we could get it, and lumbered to the exit where the door was propped open with a mop.  The sound of the door slamming shut sounded a little too much like the clap of a gavel.  No one was smiling as we dispersed and headed to our separate homes with demoralized spirits and forlorn expectations.  Sleep wouldn't come easily for any of us that night.

     Brad and I were in the same class, and, as the first bell rang to start the day, we exchanged a hopeful glance of camaraderie.  A soul-shattering voice quickly came over the loudspeaker and doused any hopes we might have had.  "Could you please send Brad and Duane to the principal's office?"
     We started the long walk to the principal's office which was conveniently located right beside the fifth grade classroom.  We didn't say anything while we strode down the hallway, especially after we saw the police car sitting in front of the school.  My heart was about to beat out of my chest.
     In the office, Shawn and Kyle were already there.  A deputy sheriff, the school secretary, Mr. Kettler, and a familiar scarecrow were also there.
     "Have a seat," Mr. Kettler instructed us with that dire expression he always wore.  For the first and only time in my life, his expression was actually justified.  Brad and I took a seat next to our brothers.
     The deputy was leaning against a filing cabinet with his arms crossed.  "There was a break-in last night," our personality-lacking principal began.  "Would any of you know anything about that?"
     Each of us had the word GUILTY tattooed across our foreheads.  For a moment, no one spoke.  Finally we nodded.  I could hardly speak, much less assert my innocence.  Everyone else appeared to be in the same shape.
     "We already know what happened," Mr. Kettler began.  "We just want to hear it from you."
     Bullshit!  I wanted to say.  He didn't know what happened.  He was trying to play that 'we already know' card which sickened me, because he was about to get a confession anyway.  I hated that jackass.
     Mr. Kettler, with his pressed suit and dweeb haircut, decided he would rest his stare on me, his arch-nemesis.  I looked around at my fellow companions.  Shawn and Kyle slightly nodded encouragement, as if to say, 'go ahead.'
     "We accidentally broke the skylight last night as we tried to get inside the school," I confessed without looking up.
     "Why were you trying to get inside the school?" Principal Dipshit asked.
     "Just to see if we could.  We weren't going to take anything or hurt anything," I continued.  Brad, Shawn, and Kyle nodded their agreement.  Why wasn't the deputy asking these questions?  I hated this son of a bitch.
     "Do you know anything about this scarecrow?" Kettler interrogated.
     We all nodded.  "We made it as a joke to scare people and hung it in the empty, brick house on Pell Cemetery Road," I explained.
     "...and you broke a gutter getting inside Mr. Moler's house," Mr. Kettler finished for me.  We all looked at each other with inquisitive expressions.  None of us knew anything about that, but none of us dared dispute anything at this point.  "Where is the skylight?" Mr. Kettler continued.
     "We hid it in the field behind the school," I disclosed.
     Mr. Kettler looked at the deputy as if to say, 'see there?  I knew it.'  The police officer's face was unreadable.
     "And now, for the biggest question," our principal slammed his fist on the desk to emphasize the gravity of what he was about to ask.  "What did you do to our new sign??"
     For a moment we all just kept our heads down.  We couldn't believe that a little bit of throw-up, which had surely evaporated away overnight, would cause this level of outrage.  Of all the damage and turmoil that we had accomplished last night, I had nearly forgotten about the sign.  It seemed so trivial in comparison to everything else.
     Shawn meekly began raising his hand.  We all turned to look at my younger brother as he softly and somberly explained, "I threw up on it..."
     The deputy sheriff's chest shook from a muted snicker.  The secretary, who had been busy working on some paperwork, giggled.  Kyle outright laughed.
     "IT"S NOT FUNNY!!!" Mr. Kettler shouted as he again slammed his fist into his desk.  Everyone hushed.  "Do you know what's in vomit?  Or do you not pay attention to your lessons?  Hydrochloric acid!  And it ate away the limestone of our brand new sign!  Now there's a big, ugly blotch on one side!!!"  He paused and stood.  His face was redder than I had ever seen it before, and I had seen it pretty red.  "The first graders worked hard at bake sales and selling raffle tickets to raise enough money for that sign!  What am I supposed to tell them?  Do you want to tell them??"
     None of us spoke; we just kept our heads down.  I pictured a young boy wearing an Alf tee-shirt and holding a plate of brownies staring at Shawn's puke blotch and crying big, sad tears.
     The deputy finally straightened and spoke up.  "You boys need to show me where you hid the skylight.  Come with me."  We stood and followed him to his squad car outside.  When he opened the back door, my heart started pounding.  Were we going to jail?
     The four of us piled into the backseat, and the officer closed the door.  He walked around and climbed into the driver's seat.  "Ok, where is it?" he asked.
     "Go around by the playground, and there's a little, gravel road that goes back into the field," I answered.        The police officer drove to the side access road slowly.  As luck would have it, recess had just started.  The whole school was gathered at the playground right beside us.  The kids all stopped playing and stared at the delinquent boys in the backseat of a police car.  Brad, Shawn, and I hung our heads; I wanted to be invisible right then.  Kyle started waving.
     Brad elbowed him.  "Stop it!" he insisted.  Kyle started laughing   From my vantage point in the backseat, I could see the deputy's mouth in the rear view mirror; he was smiling.  I don't think I was supposed to see that smile; but, for the first time that day, I felt a glimmer of hope.  We just might make it home alive.
     After we arrived at the spot that Brad and I had hidden the skylight, the officer let us out.  We helped him load it into the trunk of the car; then, he drove us back to the school.
     We all reassembled in the principal's office.  Mr. Kettler started to speak, but the deputy interrupted him.  "I've got to get out of here.  I've already talked to your parents.  They're gonna split the cost for repairing the skylight and the gutter at Mr. Moler's house; we'll have to see about supplying them estimates.  I guess your mom," he paused to point at Shawn, "will be responsible for paying to have the sign fixed.  Since the damage was minimal, charges aren't going to be pressed.  We're going to leave punishment up to the school system and Mr. Kettler here.  And, I promise you boys, you do not want to see me again.  Do you hear me?"
     We all emphatically nodded, eager to be as far away from the law enforcement officer as possible.
     "Good.  Well, I'm out of here.  By the sound of it, your parents are going to be doing more to you than I ever could.  Good luck, fellas."  He tipped his hat and stepped out of the office.  We were left at the mercy of the dastardly Mr. Kettler.
     He had his head down, working on some papers.  When he looked up, I could see that the angry expression on his face didn't match the satisfied contentment in his eyes.  We were at his mercy.
     "We're suspending all of you for five days," he began.  "You'll be receiving straight zeroes on any schoolwork due during that time.  For those of you that care about your grades, you should be very upset.  I don't see how that won't drastically affect your report card.  Also, this will be going on your Permanent Record."  He busied himself with the papers on his desk as if he were filing our Permanent Record right then and there.
     Of all the bad news that we had gotten that day, I found the blemish on my Permanent Record to be the most disheartening.
     "Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the man you just elected.  I proudly introduce the newest President of the United States of America:  Mr. Harold Duane Ed...  What's that?  I'm sorry folks; I'm getting something from Central Control.  This can't be!  Oh my God!!  How could he???  Ladies and gentlemen, I'm very sorry to inform you that Mr. Edwards is not eligible to be the President.  Apparently, back in 1988, he broke into a school.  It's on his PERMANENT RECORD!"
     I felt sick.  But then, I stopped to consider what was going on my brother's Permanent Record:  Threw Up on School Sign.  I spared him a sympathetic glance; he would probably never even be able to get a job.  I vowed to let him live with me when we grew up; I mean I did have some responsibility for the whole ordeal.  He could stay with me so long as he understood that the television was mine during Saturday Night's Main Event and Parker Lewis Can't Lose.  I might even let him have the TV during his precious Star Trek as long as he helped me trim the hedge maze in the backyard.
     "Well, I've called your parents.  They're on their way to pick you up.  I suppose there's nothing more I can do; I'm sure you'll really be regretting your actions after your parents are finished with you.  And you can take that," he pointed to the scarecrow, "with you when you go."  Mr. Kettler sat smugly in his desk chair gauging our reactions.
     And we sat there.  Reflecting on bad decisions, our parents' ire, the future, the cost of the damages, and tits (at that age, we were always thinking of tits).  The next week was pretty ugly for all of us.  We were grounded for a month and had to work off the cost of the repairs.  Life was miserable, but it continued.  We learned a lot about respect, and the value of money that year.  We'd never pull a stunt quite like that again.
     But, we had never meant to hurt anything that night.  We didn't realize we had broken a gutter at Mr. Moler's house; we hadn't meant to break the skylight; and, we never stopped to think that throw-up would eat away limestone.
     You know, after our parents paid for the costs of repairs, Mr. Kettler never did have his beloved sign fixed.  Evidence of that night is still blotched on it to this day.  Sometimes, when I drive by it, I see it and reflect on that night.  Of all the people I've known in my life, few people exemplify respect and responsibility as do Shawn, Brad, and Kyle.  And, I like to think I'm not half-bad myself.  Some of life's lessons must have soaked in after all, despite what Kettler might have thought back then.
     And where are they now?  Well, I'm still not the President of the United States of America; Shawn ended up landing a job despite the blemish on his Permanent Record; and Cindy and Doris have still, to this day, never told anybody about the missing milk.
     And Mr. Kettler is still a dweeb.

     -- if you'd like to read another Flashback episode, then check out "Tales of the Unexplained"


   
   
   
   
       

Another Dimension

                                                      12/17/13 - "Another Dimension"

     Blogger's Note:  Christmas approaches.  I don't want to sing my financial blues when I know that there are so many people worse off than me in the world; but, damn, when it rains it pours.  Surprise!  You need a root canal!  Surprise!  You need to fix the brakes on the Camry!  Surprise!  Your mini-van needs new tires!  Surprise!  Property taxes are due!  Surprise!  Medical bills are still piling in from Amelia's arrival.  Surprise!  There's this little thing called Christmas coming up!  And on and on and on...
     I should be stressing really badly.  But, despite all my sensibilities... I'm not.  Don't know why.  I don't have any shaman advice on how I managed to pull that off either.  Not a clue.  But, I just don't care.  We're not going hungry.  And for Christmas, we'll do what we do.  We'll make it like we always do.  Wanna know something?  At the ripe, ol' age of almost 40, I have enough years tucked into my experience to apply a bit of pattern recognition.  You see, when I reflect back on my life and highlight those times that I was really struggling with money, I tended to be happier.  I'm not sure if happier is the right word; maybe the word I'm looking for is appreciative.  But I managed to make it with some imagination and ingenuity.  Measure not a man by how he falls, but by how he picks himself back up. No, I don't need any help up; I'm just gonna make some snow angels down here.  I'll get up when it's time...
     I'm writing this one in front of Starbuck's at the mall.  I ran into an old friend who asked me what I was up to.  When I said I had come here to get away and write, I think he must've thought I was crazy.  You came to the mall to get away??  Strangely, I find it easier to hide in a crowd.  Amid the Christmas shoppers too busy to notice me, I can stick some ear plugs in my ears and drown myself in thought.  I don't have a three year-old banging on the door screaming, "Lizard!  Lizard!  Lizard!" (which he actually pronounces Wizard), because he wants to watch "Oscar's Oasis" on Netflix.  He loves that shit.
     Here, I can glance up and find vulnerable people that spark my imagination.  People are vulnerable when they are shopping.  They may be trying to think of a gift to give someone, or if they can afford a certain item, or if that shirt might look nice on Uncle Charlie, or maybe something Porn-o-Graphic.  They aren't guarded against my imagination assigning dialogue to their expressions or mystery to their gestures or harmony to their strides.  Everyone is a character, and no one is safe.
     So, let me take a sip of the Chai Tea Latte that I bought with loose change I found underneath the back seat of my car before I get started.  Here, pull up a chair beside me and have a seat.  This post isn't really about Christmas or Christmas shoppers.  It's about children.  See how that's plural?  Well, maybe it shouldn't have been.  Maybe if it wasn't we wouldn't be knee-deep in medical bills, more Christmas gifts to buy, and diapers to shop for.  I wish there would have been a formula that I could've used to decide if I could really afford another screaming, needy child that drains away my free time and my sanity.  Sounds mean, you say?  Well, maybe it is.  Maybe I'm in a mean mood.  Just shut up and sit down.  Sip your damn Frappucino and lend me your ear...

      I remember the conversation well.  We were driving down Old Cairo Road heading home to the apartment we lived in at the time.  We weren't married yet.
     "Do you want any more children?" Joanna had asked me.  She knew I had a child from my previous marriage.
    "Yes.  I want one more.  I felt a little cheated with DJ.  I always had to share him, and I always felt like I got the short end of the stick when it came to the really important things like birthdays and Christmas's."
     "One more??  I want three more!" Joanna exclaimed.
     "Three!?!  You're crazy if you think I'm going to have three more kids!" I laughed and pretended to be joking; but, in truth I wasn't.  I was very serious.
     "Well, what about two more?" Joanna counter-offered.
     I had paused to consider the proposal.  I wanted to take this conversation seriously, because I would be quoting this discussion if that crazy Pollock decided to change her mind midstream.  I very much wanted another child - a son or a daughter, I didn't care.  But, I wasn't sure if I wanted two more children.
     "Two, huh?  Well... maybe I could do that..." I acquiesced as my reply softly fell away into reflection.  I would give the idea some thought; and, if I decided to change my stance later, I'd revisit the subject before we got married so that we were both perfectly clear on the details of our agreement.
     But we never revisited the topic.
     Somewhere along the way, two became the accepted number.  I'm not placing blame; I never objected.  But maybe I'm complaining.  Maybe I'm second-guessing that decision.
     When Roman was born, my excitement outweighed the responsibilities.  I could throw a cute hat on him, hit the mall, and let the girls fawn over him.  I could stick him in the stroller and go for a serene walk at the park or downtown.  As he got older, I could put him in the trailer I bought for my bike and throw his sippy cup beside him and breeze to wherever we felt like going.  He enjoyed these little adventures; he was my little buddy that shared wordlessly the experiences and musings that we so loved.
     Enter Amelia.
     What no one that has multiple children warned me about was that another child doesn't mean double the trouble.  It's another dimension.  It cubes the responsibilities.
     When I want to go somewhere, I have to make sure Roman has used the bathroom, has eaten, is dressed appropriately, has had his nap.  Then, I make sure Amelia is changed, is fed, is dressed appropriately, has an extra bottle for the trip, has a change of clothes, has some extra diapers.  Still sounds like double the trouble, right?  Wrong.  Because, once I get done with Amelia's preparation, then Roman needs to go to the bathroom again where he accidentally pees on his underwear so I have to take his shoes off so that I can take his pants off to get to his underwear and then redress him and get his shoes back on.  And now Amelia is crying because she's dropped her pacifier.  And a pacifier doesn't just fall down like one might think.  It falls into The Black Portal of Never Returns.  And it stays there until it decides to come back to our dimension.  And then you'll find it where it should have been all along.
     And once they're both ready to go... you have to get them buckled up in the car.  Have you ever done that?  Do you have children?  They make these fucking contraptions where you have to push the seat belt through a slot that is one quarter the size of your hand, just enough slack to get your child's arm strapped in, and then, if everything is perfectly, exactly correct, you over-lap two buckles that you have to hold together as you click it in.  And then you still have to lock in your other damn kid.
     You're sweating, and you haven't even gotten out of the fucking driveway yet.
     So, often, I just stay at home.  And, I'm not the stay-at-home kind of person.  I like the world.  I want to see things, do things, socialize.
     Amelia is to blame, right?  Yeah.  I'll blame her.  She makes my life and Roman's life miserable.  That's the truth of it.
     Roman has become a bit jealous of her I think.  She's a baby, so she's requires a little more attention.  Roman wants that attention.  I try to involve him, but sometimes it's just easier not to.  And that's not a good practice.  He doesn't want a lot to do with her.  It's as if he loves her, but he doesn't like her.  If she's crying, he runs to me insisting that I help her.  But he doesn't want to sit by her, or hug her, or play with her.
     Once, after we had gotten home from the store, I had put Amelia in her crib where she was sleeping.  Roman hadn't seen me put her there; he thought she was still in the car.  I rolled with it.
     "Baby Sister's in the car," Roman reminded me.  He calls her "Baby Sister" sometimes.
     "Yeah, I'm just gonna let her sleep there," I played.
     He fidgeted, couldn't relax, and finally said, "Get her."
     I picked him up, carried him to her crib, and showed him that she was sleeping.  "Love her, donchya?" I asked him.
     Relieved, he quickly hid his face in a hug.
     The first three months of her life all she did was cry.  And cry.  And cry.  And I was justified in my opinion of the situation.  I mean, I loved her; she's my daughter and all that; but, I didn't like this extra work.  And that's why I didn't write much about her.  I just didn't have anything nice to say.  Do you get that?  I'm selfish.  So whatever...
     And now it's even more complicated.
     She's developing a personality.  She's quit crying.  She almost never cries now.  And she smiles all the time.  All the damn time.  She's the smiling-est damn kid I've ever seen.  Neither DJ nor Roman ever smiled that much.  She even chuckles out of the blue sometimes.  I'll be struggling to put on my work shoes, and I'll hear this little, soundless chuckle.  I'll look up, and this little girl is laughing at me.
     So, I walk over to her and tickle her belly and ask her, "You laughing at me?"
     And she'll smile as if to say, "yeah... whatchya gonna do about it?"
     When Joanna's at work and she's my responsibility, I'll sit her little chair thing in the kitchen while I'm cooking.  I like to cook.  I like chopping vegetables.  I'm weird like that.  I'll play Mason Jennings Radio on Pandora through the speakers and try to find something to make.
     And she'll be watching me from her little chair.  And when I meet her stare, she'll smile.
     "What're you smiling about?" I'll ask her.
     She replies by smiling bigger.
     Then, she'll quietly sit there, because she doesn't really cry anymore.  Until she starts to get tired.  Then, she'll start rubbing her eyes and pouting ever-so-slightly.  I've learned how to handle that.
     I pick her up and rock her in my arms.   And then, I look around to make sure nobody's watching, because I realize that I'm no longer rocking her.  But dancing with my daughter.
     We waltz together, she and I, across kitchen tile, on a gray and dreary afternoon, to a song I'd never heard before.  Just father and daughter.
     And I start to get it.  Maybe having extra children does "cube" the responsibility.  But it also "cubes" the love.  It adds a whole new dimension.
     When at last she drifts into slumber, I sway her a little longer than necessary.  Because, I've some time to make up.  When I finally carry her to bed, I kiss her cheek, lay her down softly, and watch her for a moment.  I promise her all the love she'll ever need and check to see if she's too hot or too cold and adjust her blanket accordingly.  And then I whisper, "I love you".
     Sorry it took me so long, baby.  Daddy's a dumb ass...

     
   

Chapter 8 - Enrique's Last Stand

                                              12/12/13 - "Chapter 8 - Enrique's Last Stand"

     Blogger's Note:  In light of the recent "Flashback" posts that I've been producing, I have a quick memory I'd like to share with you.  When I was young, I would hang out at Brandon's house often.  His father was a farmer (as Brandon is now), and the neighborhood kids would often find all sorts of fun things to get into at his house.  We would build mazes out of hay bales; play flashlight tag in the rows of corn; or, we might play "haunted house".
     The large barn where Brandon's father stored his combine when it wasn't in use had this smooth, concrete floor.  Inside this barn, a large push-cart that was used to transport heavy items could be found.  We would use it to play "haunted house".  Let me explain.
     Someone would sit on the cart while someone else pushed it along an invisible "track" through work benches and tools and various farm equipment.  If you weren't doing the pushing or being pushed, your job was to hide somewhere in the barn and jump out to scare the "victim" as the cart passed by.  As children, each of us had our favorite roles.  Some of us liked to hide and be "monsters"; others preferred being the "victim".  Me?  I always preferred pushing the cart.
     I had an imaginary track that I would follow.  The responsive front wheels turned easily; so, I imagined that I could mimic the mechanical feel of the haunted house at Noble Park.  I was in control of someone's imaginary experience, and I took the job seriously.  By knowing where the "monsters" were hiding, by maintaining an automated speed, and by turning the cart at precise and unexpected turns, I could simulate an amusement park experience.  I loved doing that.
     I consider writing this story as my first, real writing experience.  Having readers that I can "push" through my "haunted house" has been like a drug for me.  I love how this feels.  I want to place "monsters" at the best possible spots; I want to create a sense of adventure, a portrait of romance, a sketch of comedy, and a monster timed so well that you'll pee yourself.  (I doubt I'll manage that, but if I can at least tickle you with a "start" then that'll suffice.)   So, BOOOO!  And thank you for riding on my "cart."
     The very first thought I had when I began brainstorming this story was of a scene in this installment.  In fact, when I started writing our story, I had planned on ending it with this chapter. However, each step of this journey seems to unveil a marker further in the distance, and I'm just not ready to stop yet.
     So, when does this ride end?  Worry not.  The end is in sight.  I'm a little bit OCD, so I like things ordered and sized.  This story is in four phases of four chapters, thus totaling sixteen chapters.  The first phase was "How We Met"; this phase is "How We Fell in Love".  After you read this chapter, you will have completed the second phase and the first half of this adventure.
     Writing "Spring" was tough for me.  For one thing, writing about Spring while I'm looking out a window that reveals a cold, November landscape doesn't exactly lend itself to inspiration.  Not to mention, I wanted to paint this beautifully, lovely landscape before I pushed you into the area of "monsters."   I'm just hoping I didn't bore the shit out of you.
     And, now, this one's for the self-indulgent part of me.  Writing in the first person has its pro's and con's.  I can narrate the world from my point of view which isn't too much of a stretch as I have a bit of insight on how I  view the world.  A con is when I put myself in a scene of conflict.  I have to be revealing if I'm to construct some believable narrative that showcases my fears, my madness, my vanity, or, even, my arrogance.  I don't want to be self-indulgent; I don't want people to see me that way.  But I suppose I am somewhat.  I suppose we all are to some degree.
     So, with just a few artistic changes for deliberated reasons, I shall proceed as honest and revealing as I can be.  I'll place my demons around the barn and ask that you climb aboard my cart.  Do you hear the faint squeak of the tittering cart wheel vibrating across concrete?  It's getting faster.  The barn is quiet, but you know that won't last.  A monster is going to jump out at any second.  And this monster's name is Enrique...

     My phone rang as we drifted off the interstate and onto the exit ramp.  I fished it out of my coat pocket, glanced at it, and handed it to Joanna.  "Can you answer it?  It's Stacey," I requested of Joanna as I handed her the phone.
     She took it from me and pushed the green button.  "What up, bitch?"
      I braked the Oldsmobile to a creaking halt at the stoplight and patiently listened to one-half of the conversation between Stacey and my Polish passenger.
     "We almost there now.  Chris is already there."
     The light turned green, so I meekly turned onto the road.
     "He said they will be by the pool tables, so I guess there."
     The low-gas light indicator lit up just as we passed the gas station.  I should have fueled up before I picked up Joanna.  I considered turning around and doing it now, but decided it would be easier to just grab some later, when we left Ernie's.
     "Ok, we'll have a beer waiting for you."  Joanna handed the phone back to me, and I shoved it back into my pocket.
     I parked the car in front of our favorite bar, and we walked across the parking lot to the entrance.  I held the door for Joanna and followed her inside.  We recognized most of the people there from the casino.  Josh was on stage doing a rather commendable version of Stevie Wonder's "Superstitious".  Randy and Jason had their backs to us, but I could discern the subject of video games from the brief sound bite I got as we passed them.  I found an open slot at the bar and patiently waited until Jennifer, the bartender, could get to me.
     Joanna and I got our beers and made our way to the back room where our friends were supposed to already be.
     Sure enough, we rounded the corner and saw several recognizable faces.  Kristin was laughing at Chris and some girl I didn't know as they were "sword-fighting" with a couple of pool sticks.  Crystal pumped a celebratory fist in the air as a beep from the dart board announced that she had hit her mark.  The girl that was "sword-fighting" with Chris put down her pool stick and ran over to Crystal.  "Chest bump!" she insisted as she ran in front of the dart "champion."
     Crystal and Kristin started laughing.
     "Duane, have you met my sister?" Kristin asked me as she motioned to the girl that was chasing Crystal and insisting on a "chest bump".
     "I don't think so," I cautiously replied.
     "Well, this is Amanda," she introduced the swashbuckling girl.  I extended my hand for a handshake.  "Chest bump?" she suggested.  Joanna and I joined in the chorus of laughter that erupted.      "Where's Stacey?" Kristin asked as she took a sip from the drink in her hand.
     "She's on the way," Joanna answered.
     "You suck."  At the pool table beside us, Amber was commenting on Rhonda's scratched eight ball.
     "Did you win?" Amanda asked Amber hopefully.
     "Heck yeah!" Amber played arrogance.
     "Chest bump," Amanda suggested.  To my surprise, the two met in a sumo-style "chest bump" that jolted the rest of us into an eruption of teary-eyed laughter.
     I glanced at Joanna to see how she was faring.  She appeared to be just another member of the group, red-faced and giddy.
     "Shots anyone?"  Chris rounded the corner carrying a round of shots on a tray.
     "Oh, damn..." Crystal commented as Chris handed her one of the shot glasses.  "What is it?"
     "So-Co."  Chris answered as he continued passing the round of glasses around.
     "I don't think I've ever had that.  What's So-Co?" Joanna asked as Chris handed her a shot.
     "Southern Comfort," he explained with a coy expression.
     "Oh, damn..." Crystal reiterated.
     "I like your accent," Amanda put her face right next to Joanna's.  Joanna met her stare, and they both just started laughing.
     "She's from Poland," Kristin explained to her sister.
     Amanda raised her glass, and we all followed suit.  "To Poland," she cheered.
     "To Poland," we chorused and choked down the whiskey.
     I pulled up a chair for Joanna as Kristin was taking her turn at the dart board.  A rumble of billiard balls being released from their display coop was followed by an announcement from the karaoke D.J.  "Up next we have Thomas.  After Thomas will be Charlie.  And then after Charlie, Chris is up."
     We all cheered when Chris's name was recognized.  I took a sip from my beer and smiled.  I was surrounded by a cool circle of friends that took turns playing in the spotlight.  Chris was talking through his nose as he suggested I bring him "...some ice cream.  And put a little bit of strawberries on that."  Amber and Amanda were taking turns punching each other in the stomach, and Kristin was trying to distract Crystal from throwing her dart.
     I was usually more of a participant; but, tonight I was playing host to a new girl.  I felt a need to "hang back" and wade into this group with my new Polish friend.  Joanna didn't seem like she needed much integrating, however.  She resourcefully laughed and quipped and fought back.  Something in the air had me buzzed before the beer and the So-Co even had a chance to go to work.  A euphoria resides somewhere between the exciting plot of "Something New" and the comforting familiarity of "Something Old", and I was snugly roosting there.
     "Ready for another beer?" I asked Joanna when I noticed that her bottle was empty.
     "Sure..."  I took her empty beer and tossed it in the trash.  "Be right back."
     "We'll take care of her," Amber said in a carnivorous tone.  Joanna fabricated a worried expression which provoked me to laughter.
     "Chris, if Amber does anything to Joanna..." I paused for the dramatic effect, "...please take pictures."
     Chris gave me a smile and a thumbs up.
     I ordered two beers at the bar, mingled in some local conversation, and decided to make a detour at the restroom on the way back to the table.
     I chose the back restroom which was usually less busy, washed up, and headed out with a beer in each hand.  Waiting just outside the door, Enrique stood, wearing a stoic countenance.
     "Hey," he said.
     "Hey."  I tried to edge around him, but he didn't move.
     "How you doin'?" he continued.
     "Doin' all right, man," I tried to answer dismissively.   He didn't dismiss me.  Intentionally or otherwise, the large man was blocking my route.    
     "You and Joanna are hanging out a lot.  You dating her?"  The interrogative remark whistled through the loud room like an arrow.  I didn't like it and felt no need to answer it.  I wasn't sure how I might have answered it even if I had wanted to, so I shrugged and stepped as if to excuse myself.  He moved to block my path.  My heart rate increased.
     "So you two dating?"  His mouth smiled.  I didn't care to look at him.
     "Excuse me," I said as I stepped to get around him.
     This time he made it clear that he intended to block my passage until I answered him.  The diplomatic smile that I had been wearing left.  I met his gaze.
     "Yeah."  I stated coldly.
     "It's ok," Enrique said.  "I already had that."
     A beer bottle shattered against the wall beside Enrique's head.  He flinched from the liquid that splashed his face.  His lips started to move as he began to speak.
     A second beer bottle shattered against the same spot.  The loud music masked the sound, but I didn't care about that.  I stood there, empty-handed and shaking uncontrollably.  My fists were balled, and my eyes were wide.  Enrique stood there, at least a head taller than me.
     "Fuck.  You." I heard myself say.
     Enrique raised his hand.  I pulled back.  I didn't feel like a bad ass.  I didn't feel brave.  Frankly, I just felt...  fueled.  I wasn't weighing the odds of the outcome; I didn't consider the obvious size difference.  I was just shaking... I really don't have a better way to describe it.  My head was tilted back so that I could make eye contact, and our eyes were locked.  I took a step closer.
     And then I saw something that I didn't expect to see.
     Fear.
     Enrique stared into my eyes, and I don't think he liked what he saw there.  He saw a story unfolding there - one that included a little bit of madness, more than a touch of passion, and, at least at that moment, a lot of fight.
     He hadn't intended to go this far.  I certainly don't think that he was looking for a "fight."  But he had found one.  Or, more accurately, I had found one.
      "Duane, man, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
     "Fuck you."
     "Just calm down, man..."
     I had a window to walk away, but I didn't want to.  Enrique raised his hands, open-palmed, as if to say just chill out.  Just calm down.
     "I can't fucking stand you, you piece of shit.  Stay the fuck away from me.  Stay the fuck away from Joanna."  I don't know how loud I said that.  I might have yelled it.  Enrique took a step back, and I took a step forward.  What was I doing?
     I had my fists clenched so tight that they hurt.  He was about to say something else, and I had already heard all I wanted to hear.  I moved to close the gap when...
     "You need to just go that way."  Stacey suddenly appeared between us.  She was talking to Enrique.
     "I was just trying to apologize.  I was trying to tell him..."
     "Enrique, just walk.  that.  way."  She pointed in the opposite direction of where I was standing.  To her credit, she realized that any kind of rationalization wasn't possible.  Certainly not at that moment.  Enrique started to protest.
     "Enrique...   NOW! Go that way!"  Stacey insisted as she encouraged him with a push in the "right" direction.  I was still shaking, but I just stood there.  Admittedly, I was relieved that Stacey was there.  Before she was there, I hadn't seen a resolution.  Enrique hadn't been smart enough to walk away, and I wasn't willing to.
     Finally, Enrique turned and walked in the other direction.
     Stacey turned to look at me.  I couldn't read her expression, but I could tell that she was on "high alert."  We stood looking at each other for a moment.  An ant was shouting from a deep valley in my mind that I should tell her thank you, but I couldn't hear it.  I looked at her; and maybe she understood that I didn't have the capacity at that moment.  I walked past her, to Joanna.
    Fortunately, everyone was too busy watching the game of darts that was being played to notice me grab Joanna's hand and pull her out of her seat.  "Come on.  We're leaving," was all I said.
     She looked at me with astonished concern; she understood that something serious was happening.  She just didn't know what it was.  She grabbed her jacket and walked quickly to keep up.  As we passed Stacey, she and Joanna shared an austere look; but, nothing was said.
     At the bar, Randy and Enrique were having an animated discussion.  They saw us walk out the door.  Randy dashed to intercept us.  I pushed the door open, and we walked outside.
     "Duane!"  Randy was shouting as we continued to the car.  I yanked the passenger-side door open and waited for Joanna to climb in before shutting it.
     "Duane, you need to know something.  That's an inside joke between us.  We're always saying that."
     I didn't know what Randy was talking about.  At that moment, I didn't care.
     "Seriously, man.  When we see a hot girl or something, we say 'I've already had that.'  It's a running joke we've got.  You should just know that Enrique didn't mean that like you took it."
     I closed my door, started the car, and stuck it in reverse.  I drove out of the parking lot without looking back.  I could feel Joanna looking at me, and I knew that she didn't know what was going on.  I knew I should tell her something; I knew I should explain.  But I just didn't have anything to say right then.
     The "low-gas" light was still on.  I should have stopped to get gas earlier.  I pulled into the nearest gas station and shoved the transmission in "park".  I went to open the door, and it got stuck mid-way.  I took a breath.  I didn't want to, but I had to.
     A pick-up truck revved to life at the pump next to us;  its engine quietened as its driver shifted into gear and drove away.  I placed my hands on the steering wheel and stared ahead.  A gas station parking lot whispers to anyone willing to listen.  I could hear it, but I wasn't listening.  My heart was still pounding, and I didn't trust my voice.  Joanna sat quietly, respecting the silence.
    After seconds or minutes or years passed, I turned to her.  Her eyes met mine.  Her face, illuminated by the glow of green dash lights, seemed soft, concerned, and lost.  I hated how much I loved her face right then.
     I spoke as much as I could.
     "We have to define our relationship," was all I said.  I stared deeply at her, and she stared back.  She didn't say anything.  I don't think either of us said anything else that night.  Her lips softened into the hint of a smile.  And that's all.  That was it.  It was all that was needed.
     I leaned into her, reared my leg, and kicked the fuck out of my door.  It slammed open...
     ...and never got stuck again.
                                      (...to be continued.)

Continue our "How We Got Engaged" story:
                                                    Chapter 9 - Fun at Work
   
   
   
   

                                                    

The Simplest Lessons

                                               

                                                        12/4/13 - "The Simplest Lessons"

     Blogger's Note:     Amy is that person that you've always known.  She was born just mere days from me.  Our mothers share stories of their times in the hospital together.
     She was my girlfriend from Kindergarten through the Sixth Grade.  I had a pretty committed relationship with her.  She moved to Joliet, IL for three of those years.  We maintained correspondence through well-crafted stationary by volleying letters regularly.  I had written some rather endearing post-scripts that included such works as "I love you more and more than anybody."
     We split paths for two years.
     In high school, we became re-acquainted.  This time as friends.  Oh, and  Competitive Humorous Duet Acting Teammates (yeah, you heard it right here, bitches!)  And through high school our friendship would endure.  After graduation, when many classmates were ensorcelled by the lure of a giant party, we took a detour among a smaller camaraderie to celebrate.
     I was an usher in her wedding later.  Feeling the responsibility and the charm was refreshingly pleasant during a candidly bothersome time I was going through.
     And beyond, when we found each other and stayed in touch despite the obstacles and the distances.
     And, so tonight we meet.  A short bit of communion, with many beers and many stories.  And we did the best we could with the time we had.
     We never missed a beat.  Not a one.  And that is such a rare jewel.  To know that despite any of the practical variables that apply in a given relationship between any two people, two constants remain.  And while there may be present a part of that person that is strange and unfamiliar; there also exists another part.  Equal in every measure save that it is filled with used toys and memories half-broken and a child's play at love.  And should we meet again, we recognize only the latter.  And we repair memories.
     And so I have described my night.  Fair as it was to compose some writing inspired.

     I love mazes.  I always have.  As a child, I loved to try to solve them; I loved to make them; and, I dreamed that someday I would actually be able to navigate a real one.  They were so beautifully linear and random at the same time.  If done properly, anyone had an equal chance to successfully maneuver through a maze.  As I saw it, to do a maze properly, one finds the Starting point and then travels until there's a directional choice to be made.  Then, he or she randomly chooses a direction (without cheating and looking ahead) and continues in this manner until the Exit is found.
     Mrs. Donaldson had just finished teaching us how to make Z's in cursive.  She told us to write two rows of them and then sit quietly until everyone had finished.  I did mine as quickly as I could and then went back to work on the maze I had been drawing.  This one was gonna be good!
     I put the finishing touches on it and surveyed my neighboring classmates for a good candidate to traverse my newest creation.  Angie was sitting next to me; and, she, too, had finished her two rows of Z's.
     "Here..." I whispered excitedly as I handed her the masterpiece and the instructions, "...go through this."
     Angie put her pencil at the word Start and drew a straight line through the maze to the word Finish.  She handed the paper back to me and said, "there... I went through it."
     One important thing about mazes that I forgot to mention is that they're only good for one trip.  Sure, pencil marks could be erased, but let's be serious.  No line is ever really erased as if it never existed.  The evidence of its existence, no matter how faded, is apparent if one looks hard enough.
     I had spent at least ten minutes on that particular puzzle, and Angie had ruined it in two seconds.
     Proud of her clever "solution", she was smiling from ear to ear.  She opened her notebook and ripped a corner of paper from one of the sheets inside.  Quickly, she wrote something on it.  She handed the note to Belinda and motioned for Belinda to hand it to Heather.
     Upon reading it, Heather looked over her shoulder at Angie, grinning.  Angie squinted a bigger smile at Heather as if to say, 'isn't that funny??'  Heather's cheeks dimpled as she beamed agreement and nodded as if to say, 'Yes!  That is funny!!'
     I stared at my irreparable work, red-faced and angry.  I envied grown-ups.  They lived in a world free of Angie's and Heather's!  They could do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted to do it!  I couldn't wait to grow up and not have to worry about anything.  When I got my own place, I'd build a maze.  A real maze.  It would be a hundred miles long and take probably seven minutes to get through!  Maybe even eight!  Just for that, I wasn't going to talk to Angie or Heather during Lunch.  Maybe even all of recess.
     Brandon, wise to the fact that something interesting was going on, turned around to see what it was.  Mrs. Donaldson chose that moment to resume class.
     "Ok.  Everyone finished?  Now, turn your books to..."
     "DAVID!!!"  It was Joanne.  She was sitting on the other side of the room.  Unfortunately for her, David, always doing something he shouldn't, sat behind her.  I looked up as Joanne was brushing something out of her hair, and David was snickering.
     "David, stop it right now or you can go and sit in the back of class."  Mrs. Donaldson didn't bother getting both sides of the story.  She knew who the culprit was.  Hell, we all did.
     Before resuming, our teacher looked at the clock and paused.  "Ok, we're running out of time.  Everyone sit quietly until lunch time.  And that means quietly David."
     I stared out the window.  Beyond the external hallway, an empty playground slept beneath an overcast, February sky.  A wooden bench boxed in the seasoned oak tree that typically became my focal point when I got lost in a daydream.  Through grimy windows, I watched chain swings gently sway against a cold, winter wind.  Kamikaze acorns lie smashed and scattered across the asphalt.
     Today was my birthday.  I was seven now.  I was getting older.  After school this afternoon, all of my classmates were invited to my house for a birthday party that my mom was throwing me, and I couldn't wait.  I was trying to come up with some ingenious plan to un-invite Angie and Heather when the lunch bell rang.
     We jumped out of our seats and formed a single-file line at the door.  Mrs. Donaldson led us across the street, which was protected from traffic by metal sawhorses while school was in session.  We stood in the lunch line excited to be out of the weary classroom and prepared to make the most important decision of the entire day:  white milk or chocolate?
     During cold or rainy weather, recess was in the gym.  Thunderous echoes of a thousand running feet reverberated from the wooden bleachers to the laminated floor.  Shrill laughter and playful screams amplified by the acoustics impelled me to believe that silence would never resurface.  Sometimes, when I had to walk through the gym while no one else was in there, I felt this spooky, unsettling feeling that something wasn't quite right.
     Amy and I were singing our favorite song:  "I Love a Rainy Night."  I didn't know any of the verses, so we sang the chorus over and over.  I think Amy knew the whole song, but since I didn't we just stuck with the chorus.  She was cool like that.
     Ginger ran up to join us.  "Let's play Star Wars!" I suggested.  "I'll be Luke Skywalker.  Amy, you're Princess Leia and, Ginger, you're Princess Leia 2!"
     We always assigned our parts even though, by now, we were seasoned veterans.  I recall the first time that Ginger suggested being Princess Leia 2.  I watched Amy's reaction with a sense of impending doom.  Had someone offered to be Luke Skywalker 2, I would've responded with, "are you crazy!!!  there's no such thing as Luke Skywalker 2!!!"  But, Amy just shrugged and said ok.  That was way back in the First Grade; and, by now, we had grown accustomed to the idea.  Not to mention, having two Leia's gave me twice the princesses to save.  I could live with that.
     The bell signifying the end of recess rang, and we filtered out of the gym, across the street, and back to class.
     The afternoon rolled along rather typically for a stretch of time.  Mrs. Donaldson started teaching us how to read the hands on a clock when Joanne suddenly shouted out.  "David!!!  Stop!!!  I mean it!!!"
     We all turned to see what the trouble-maker was up to this time.  Joanne was (once again) brushing something from her hair.  David was snickering.
     "Ok.  That's it, David.  To the back of the room.  When you figure out how to act like a gentleman, you can join the rest of us."  Mrs. Donaldson was this frail-looking, gray-haired lady; I pictured her baking cookies and reading fireside fairy tales.  When she was mad, however, her face would distort, and her complexion would turn beet-red.  I had felt her wrath myself on a few occasions; but, most of the time, her ire was focused toward David.
     David, appearing unaffected by his current plight, grabbed his books and a package that was sitting under his chair and relocated to a lone desk that was resting in the back of the room.  As he made the lonely walk through an aisle of classmates, I caught a glimpse of that package.  I knew what it was, because I had one at home.  It was a Stetson gift pack.  It contained a bottle of baby powder, some lotion, and some Stetson cologne.  I noticed that Mrs. Donaldson, perhaps in a moment of distraction, didn't confiscate the contraband.  She would live to regret that oversight.
     "Now, get out your math books and turn to page 119," Mrs. Donaldson instructed.
     Suddenly, I perked up.  I just remembered something.
     When text books are assigned at the beginning of the year, sometimes, if you were lucky, you'd get one that had some "bonus" material inside.  For example, sometimes at the bottom of the page, the book's previous owner might have written "turn to page 72"; and, if you went to page 72, you'd find another instruction like "turn to page 19"; and, if you went to page 19, you'd find another instruction like "turn to page 101"; and, so on, and so forth.  If you followed the pattern long enough, eventually you'd get to some clever piece of script that might read, "CONGRATULATIONS!!!  YOU HAVE JUST COMPLETED A WILD GOOSE CHASE!!!"  Or, if you were really lucky, you'd find some really juicy word like asshole or dipshit.
     My Second Grade Math book was solid gold.  Someone that had used it before me had come up with all kinds of fun things and all kinds of "interesting" words.  One particular game was overwhelmingly fascinating.  It was somewhat like a maze... but not.  I thought it was an artistic work of sheer genius.
     At the top of one of the pages, the word START had been written.  From there, a line had been drawn.  This line twisted and tangled between words and numbers, around the edges of the page, and twisted through paragraphs until, at last, it ended where the word FINISH had been written at the bottom.  If I followed the line, ever-so-carefully, around its twirling knots and splendid corkscrews, I discovered that I could, indeed, trace it from START to FINISH.
     Yesterday, Mrs. Donaldson handed out these arithmetic worksheets that we had to complete and turn in.  They were simple addition and subtraction problems that I could do with my eyes closed.  After droning through a couple of mundane problems, I decided that I would treat our hard-working teacher to a piece of masterful ingenuity that was so artfully crafted, that our loving educator would find it impossible to do anything less than praise her star pupil.  I wrote START at the top and began drawing a line.  Twirling through the problems, tangling through each number, and circling around the page, I finally wrote FINISH where the line ended.  Now, I couldn't wait to get the paper back and see how pleased she had been with the fun game I had produced.
      "On page 119, work on problems 1-17 while I hand out yesterday's worksheets, " Mrs. Donaldson instructed.
     Expeditiously I put my pencil to paper and began solving the arithmetic problems.  The room grew quiet as we focused on adding and subtracting.  Fueled with excitement, I completed the problems with...
     "DAVID!!!!!!!!!!!"
     Mrs. Donaldson's piercing exclamation screeched through my daydream like a train whistle. Everyone looked up in unison to find our disheveled teacher running through the middle row of desks toward the back of the room.  As though choreographed, our heads jerked to where David had been sitting.
     But David wasn't there.  At least I didn't think so at first.  A large, white cloud had somehow taken up residence in the back of our classroom.  It was so thick and impenetrable that the troublemaker had been shrouded from our view.  Slowly, as the pearly dust began to dissipate, David began to reveal himself  covered from head to toe in...
     ...baby powder!  I suddenly realized what it was.  That Stetson gift pack had indeed come back to haunt Mrs. Donaldson's Second Grade classroom.
     David was smiling from ear-to-ear.  I couldn't believe it!  That kid was about to be in so much trouble; and, yet, he was smiling!  That kid had gall.   I'd give him that.
     Mrs. Donaldson grabbed David by his upper arm and led him down the aisle of desks toward the door; a dust cloud of baby powder trailed behind him.  "Heather, hand out the graded papers on my desk," our teacher instructed as she led the coughing and hacking Baby Powder Bandit into the hall.
     After the sounds of the struggling "delinquent" faded into quiet, Heather began handing out the papers.  When the teacher was out of the class, we turned into a monstrous eruption of excitement.  Kids began to turn in their seats to speak with their neighboring classmates or launch paper airplanes into flight.
     I was just about to tap Brandon on the shoulder and comment on the preposterous event when Heather laid in front of me the graded math worksheet from yesterday.  At the top, standing out like an angry priest, was a big, red 'F'.
     My heart dropped.  I struggled to breath.  I looked closely at the work I had done, unsure how I could have done so poorly on something so simple.  Apparently, I had been so caught up in making the perfect "Follow This Line" game that I had forgotten to do the math problems.  I stared at the paper in disbelief.
     I was sick with humility and disgust at my mistake.  I had never gotten an 'F' before.  I wanted to wad the paper up; I wanted to crawl into a ball and disappear.  Never mind the fact that I had enough 'A's in this subject that this one 'F' didn't really matter to my average.  I had an 'F'.
     I couldn't control my lips anymore.  They quivered and puckered.  Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I was trapped at school amid everyone.
     Brandon, sensing something was wrong, turned around.  His eyes widened when he saw what I was upset about, but he didn't say anything.  He appeared sympathetic.  To my right, Angie, too, seemed to understand my distress.  Feeling certain that she was going to jab me with something sarcastic, I dramatically turned my paper over and slammed it on my desk.  No one said anything though.  I laid my head on my desk and hid my face as best I could.
     After a few silent moments, Angie finally spoke.  "I know something that will cheer you up."
     Why was she talking to me?  She ruined my maze.  What did she care?
     "My uncle was washing his hair in the shower when his water got turned off.  He still had shampoo in his hair and no way to wash it out," Angie shared.
     My sniffles stumbled as I coughed something that was somewhere in the middle of a cry and a laugh.  Brandon, Heather, and Belinda were outright laughing.  I peeked out for a quick glance to find Angie encouraging me to smile with her expression.  I quickly recovered and ducked my face into my arms again.  I didn't want to smile.  But that was funny...
     I mean, I could picture this man with a lathered wig of shampoo riding up the escalator at JCPenny's.  Or maybe riding the Tilt-a-Whirl at Noble Park.  Or while browsing through a magazine at Readmore's.  You couldn't just walk up to a stranger's house and rinse shampoo from your hair, could you?  I mean, you'd just be stuck with it!  That was so frustratingly funny.
     Suddenly I couldn't hold it any longer.  I laughed.  And once you get to that point, when frowning just isn't possible anymore, you sort of just give up.  I raised my head and wiped the tears from my cheeks.
     "What did he do?" I finally asked her.  Angie just shrugged.  Either she didn't know, or she was content that we were so intrigued that she didn't want to ruin the mystery.
      Suddenly, the final bell rang.  It surprised us amid all the chaos, so we scrambled to find our book bags and coats.
     "See you in a little while, Duane."  "You're going to like what I got you."  "It's at 4 o'clock, right?"  My classmates were aflutter with excitement, and I industriously tried to address each of them.
     Mom was parked outside, ready to drive me home.  My brother, three years younger than me, was standing in the back seat, anxious for the excitement that a birthday party would be bringing to our house.  I told them about my day at school on our drive home, minus the 'F' of course.
     When 4 o'clock rolled around, the kids started showing up.  They all brought presents; I couldn't believe the jackpot of gifts that were piling on the kitchen table.  Mom handed out pizza, and we all talked about important things like "The Superfriends" and "The Dukes of Hazard" and  "BJ and the Bear".
     Finally, Mom brought out the birthday cake.  It was R2-freakin'-D2!!!  My favorite droid had just been re-created out of cake and icing.  Seven candles flickered softly as Mom sat it in front of me.  All of my friends started singing "Happy Birthday" to me.
     "Make a wish and blow 'em out!!!"  My cousin Vickie shouted.
     I closed my eyes and wished.  And I wished for something really great.  And I knew the rule about not telling anyone, so I never did.
     Mom, holding a knife, started removing the spent candles from the blue and white droid.  I felt my heart drop.  I looked around to see if anyone else shared my anxiety.  Mom was about to cut into the greatest work of art since the Mona Lisa.  Didn't anyone care?
     Shawn, my brother, was sitting on the table so that he could see over all the "big" kids.  He shared a look with me, aware of his brother's concern.  As Mom raised a knife, preparing to cut into R2's left leg, Martin shouted from somewhere, "Ooooh!  I want that piece!!"  Damn him!  And, like that, Mom amputated R2's leg.  *sniffle*
     "OK, now open your presents!!!" Ginger, rambunctious as ever, shouted.  My friends circled around me as I started ripping and tearing at the colorful wrapping paper.  I opened the cards that were attached to each gift.  Superman, C3PO, Buck Rogers, and Bugs Bunny took turns wishing me the "Greatest Birthday Ever."  And their wishes worked.
     I got a Criss Cross Crash which was a Hot Wheels track designed so that your favorite die-cast cars would "crash" wonderfully into each other at break-neck speed.  Heather got me the game "Cooties" which was great because I had seen it on the shelf at K-Mart, and I always wondered what it was.  It looked like a toy insect, but I knew that it was some kind of board game.  How could a plastic bug be a game?  I would find out tonight!
     The next present was Darth Vader's head!  "Look Mom!" I shouted for my mother ,who was busy cleaning the kitchen, to look at this.
     "Yeah... that's great.."  but she didn't look.
     "Look Mom!  It's Darth Vader's head!" I encouraged.
     "Open it," Amy suggested from somewhere in the crowd of kids.  Inquisitively, I opened evil, Lord Vader's head, and... oh my goodness!  It was a carrying case for my Star Wars action figures designed to look like Darth Vader's head.  I jumped up and down.  Even my brother's eyes opened wider in awe.
     "Look Mom!  I can put my Star Wars figures in here.  Look Mom!!!"  Mom casually looked up.  "Wow.  That's great," she tried to sound enthused.  Whatever, I was moving on...
     I got a Rubick's Cube and a Lite Brite thing and a Stretch Armstrong and an Etch-a-Sketch and Hungry, Hungry Hippo (I was going make my Hippo eat sooo many marbles!)  Angie had gotten me this cool Magic Marker set, so I decided I would let her off the hook for now.  And somebody had even gotten me the Kraken from Clash of the Titans!
     And, so it went.  My seventh birthday faded into memory that night.  Mom had to carry me to bed, because I had fallen asleep between Darth Vader and Stretch Armstrong.  I'm pretty sure I smiled all night long.

          Funny, isn't it?  The simple lessons are the toughest to learn.  My friends have been helping me learn them even way back then.
     Angie taught me not to take things so seriously.  David taught me that, even when you're covered in it, don't quit smiling.  And Amy?  Amy taught me to make room for anyone that wants to join in at funtime.  If you sing the parts that everyone knows, then everyone can sing and smile.
     Time moves differently for the young.  As children, we would take a moment like a borrowed toy and play with it and learn from it and then return it with gratitude.  Every day was an adventure, a discovery, a new friend, a new game.  Sometimes, I wish I could go back to my Second Grade classroom and wave my arm and say, "Pick me!  Pick me!  I get it now!"  But I guess we all get it now.
     So I look instead to the future.  To a seventy-year old Duane who travels back in time to see forty-year old Duane.  To smile and grin at all the silly things I do everyday.  At all the nonsense that I worry about for no good reason.  And I write this with my seventy-year old self looking over my shoulder patting me and chuckling and saying, "these are the simple lessons.  You learned them way back then.  And they are still true today.  Take them out and dust them off.  And smile, you fool."

     -- if you'd like to read another Flashback episode, then check out "A Series of Unfortunate Events"