A Family Christmas

                                                     

               
                                                                     12/4/15
                                                          "A Family Christmas"

     Blogger's Note:  What a piss, poor-ass week!  The whole family's been sick:  strep throat, stomach bugs, and pink eye.  Every damn one of us got it, and mine just won't go away.  I've had pink eye in both eyes for over a week now with little to no improvement.  Not long after I switched departments at work, I have to call off.
     Speaking of work, my days and nights are really fucked up right now.  Or, I guess you'd say that they're right on track finally.  I'm sitting wide awake in the middle of the night while the rest of my family sleeps.  I feel like a vampire in a manner, but I've also found a solace in the wee hours of morning.  I have time to write or watch television or play a game or stare and think.  Sounds quite lonely I suppose, and sometimes it is.  But, sometimes, like tonight, I smell the sweet honey of inspiration breathing from the walls of my office where I'm stationed at my computer.  Much like the Kid Rock lyrics, I ain't seen the sunshine in three damn days.
     My Uncle Vernon passed away earlier this week.  He was quite a character.  Due to my ridiculously bad affliction with pink eye, I couldn't make it to his funeral; but, I very much wish that I could have been there.  Uncle Vernon was a lighthouse of personality.  He would call occasionally to see how everyone was doing; and, if I happened to run into him while I was out running errands, and if the missus wasn't with me, he'd tell me a really good, dirty joke that was always worth cataloguing.  I'll share one with you sometime if you'd like.  Only I'm not as classy as he was, so the missus will probably hear it, too.
     Uncle Vernon was my third uncle to pass away this year.  Uncle Jimmy, who I never heard say a bad word about anyone, and Uncle Darold preceded him.  Uncle Darold was my dad's twin brother.  I once worked with him at an over-the-road, truck driving job.  He was always just a phone call away to share some tips and tricks of the road with me (and a few dirty jokes of his own).
     And, lastly, also this past week, my Uncle Larry and his wife Ricky, celebrated their 50th Wedding Anniversary together.  I was invited and would have loved to have been there, but the fucking pink eye fucked that up, too.
     So, to make up for it (at least somewhat), I suppose I'll share a little story that involves Uncle Larry.  It's not a particularly funny story.  Certainly, it wasn't then.  But, in a sense, it's a story about family and bravery and, as seems to be appropriate for this time of year, Christmas.
     It was the first Christmas after my father had passed away, and that first year had been particularly hard on my mother.  But I'm afraid I'm framing this story all wrong.  In fact, let's turn out the lights.  Yeah, you can keep your Santa hats on if you want; and the intermittent rise and fall of the Christmas tree lights will probably make an appropriate backdrop.  Now, hand me a flashlight.  I'm gonna tuck it under my chin, so the light illuminates my face in that eerie way that one does before telling a scary story.
     Before we begin, let's be straight.  This is a scary story.
     Now, have you ever been really afraid?  I mean really afraid?
     Well, I have...
     Listening to:  Frank Sinatra "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas"

     The night had started off strangely.  Mom was acting peculiar.  She wasn't talking much, and when she pulled up to the post office, I wondered what she was going to do.  The sun had already sat, and the post office was closed.  I couldn't be for sure, but I thought that Pat's Market across the street was, too.   Not that it mattered.  If she were going to go there, she would've just parked there.  Something was amiss.
     "I want you to wait here," Mom had instructed.  I stared at her, wondering where she was going.  My three-year-old brother was standing in the backseat, watching us; in those days, seat belts and child restraints were for pussies.  I kept silent as Mom closed the door and said, "I'll be right back".
     Mom disappeared somewhere behind the post office.  The car was suddenly eerily quiet.  Even my toddler brother was being unusually silent.  Shawn was standing in the backseat, attentively watching everything.  I tried to ease my worried, six-year-old head with thoughts of what we'd be doing when we got back home.  It was Christmas Eve after all.  We'd probably string popcorn or set out milk and cookies or watch something on the Zenith.  Heck, I bet there was a Charlie Brown Christmas special on tonight or maybe (even the thought caught my breath with excitement) Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer!
     Just when I thought my anxiety was going to overtake me, Mom returned.  She probably hadn't been gone five minutes, but it felt like an eternity.  She had a paper sack in her hand which she sat in the back seat.  I didn't realize it then; but, now, as I look back on that night, I realize that she must have walked to the Bridge Inn, our small town's most popular tavern.  It was located just on the other side of the post office.  She was likely planning to drown her holiday blues in a fifth of vodka or bourbon or whatever it was that she had purchased.  The memories of her deceased husband, less than a year gone, had crept into the cheery wreath that hung on our front door. ivied in and out of the merry tree that we'd spent a fun night decorating, and snaked past the now-pointless mistletoe that hung above the kitchen's archway.  I don't have a recollection of my mother ever drinking before that night, so my ignorance to her intentions was understandable.
     When we got back home, my hopes of any Christmas Eve festivities were quickly doused.  Mom told us to get to bed.  Santa would be here tonight, and he wouldn't leave anything if we weren't asleep.  I didn't entirely believe in Santa, but I followed her instructions nonetheless.  Something in her empty eyes told me that I'd better.
     Now, the layout to our house is important to this story.  The front door opened into our living room.  Immediately to the left was an open doorway that lead into Mom's room.  Once in her room, a right turn past the two, soulless china dolls residing on her bed (more on those in a moment) led to two doors.  One was to our small bathroom, and the other was to mine and Shawn's step-down bedroom.
     Mom followed us to our room.  I climbed to the top bunk, which was my claimed perch.  As usual, Shawn slipped under the bed.  No, not on the bottom bunk.  Completely under the bed.  That's where he always slept.  We never thought this practice was weird; but, now, as I write about it, I wonder if maybe it was.  Shawn just always preferred to sleep down there.
     Mom told us good night before she turned off the light and closed the door.  I definitely knew something was wrong then.  Mom never told us good night.  I lay awake staring into the darkness and listening to an eerie silence before the magic of Christmas slumber worked its way into my head.
     The sound of something crashing in the living room awoke me with a start.  I hastily climbed from my bed.  Something told me that it wasn't Santa that was responsible for that noise.  I ran past Mom's bed and past the evil, wicked, demonic eyes of the two china dolls.  I hated those dolls.
     Every morning, Mom would make up her bed and then set these two dolls on her pillows.  They seemed to watch me no matter where I was in the room.  In the daytime, I could usually muster enough courage to run at a full sprint past their gaze and to the safety of my bedroom.  But in the darkness of night, I knew that their heads turned and followed my every movement with dark eyes that cast evil upon everything they could see.  I'm not sure what ultimately happened to those dolls, but I have no doubt that they are somewhere out there, still watching with their beady, expressionless faces and whispering to one another when no one's around.   Even as a man, now, writing this, I pray that they have forgotten the fun they had casting terror on my younger self; because, I fear they remember me.  And perhaps hunger for the dread that they once siphoned from my childhood innocence.
     When I rounded the corner to the living room, I beheld what I believed to be the product of their malevolence.
     The Christmas tree had been toppled.  Ornaments and decorations and scraps of wrapping paper were scattered throughout the living room.  Our presents lay disheveled on the living room floor; one particular one caught my attention.  A tear in the wrapping revealed a Star Wars AT-AT (the big, Imperial dinosaur transport) that I had so been longing for that year.  The room seemed hungry for illumination as the lights from the tree blinked ominously:  red, then green, then red again.
     Mom sat on the floor, her back against the couch.  She was staring right at me; her eyes, glazed, eerily twinkled from the holiday lighting.  "I know a little boy that won't be getting anything for Christmas if he doesn't get his ass to bed...  right now!!!"
     The way her words cackled and ascended into yelling reminded me, for some reason, of the wicked witch on the Wizard of Oz; and, I was quite afraid of that green-skinned villainess.  Hate resonated from her voice, and I knew that if I paused for more than an instant then she would have torn into me.  Mom wasn't opposed to corporal punishment.  She had a leather belt hanging in the closet that might as well have had my name on it; I usually felt its wrath on a daily basis.  Just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, she would let up and tell me to go to my room.  But something told me that the lady that was sitting on the floor, with her back against the couch, and resembling my mother but certainly not her, would not let up if she ever got started.  Somehow I knew, with every fiber of my being, that this was true.
     I ran back to my room and shut and locked the door behind me.  I turned on the light and sat on the step just inside my bedroom door.  I listened for her approach, almost expecting it, and dreading it.  After a couple of minutes, I decided that she wasn't coming.  I pressed my ear against the door and, carefully, listened.
     More strange sounds came from the living room; sounds that I didn't want to hear.  I considered waking up my brother, but decided against it.  The last thing I needed was for him to start crying and sway the attention of the evil lady that was in our living room.
     My contemplating stare rested on our record player that was on the floor.  It had a small disco ball that dangled above it, and we had a rather nice selection of fun children's songs.  I could softly play our Christmas record, the one that had dogs that merrily barked Jingle Bells, and drown out those sounds.
     But something pressed at me.  Something weighed on me like an anvil resting on my heart:  Mom was in trouble.
     Not the evil lady that sat on the floor in that living room.  That wasn't my mother.  My mother was possessed, perhaps by those evil, china dolls; and, I had to do something about it.  I needed to call for help.
     Just past the doorway from my mother's bedroom to the living room, our phone hung on the wall.  I could just reach it, and I knew my Uncle Larry's phone number.
     Uncle Larry was a police officer in Brookport then.  I saw him all the time cruising the streets of our town in his cop car.  I never verbally dared any of the town bullies to mess with me while my uncle was on patrol, but I must admit that I carried a badge of bravado when I saw him in uniform.  I knew that if anyone did mess with me, then he'd take care of 'em.
     In those days, I was at Uncle Larry's house every other night.  They just lived a block away; and his daughter, Vickie, was the same age as me.  We were in the same class; and, usually, I was either staying at her house or she was staying at mine.  We were more like brothers and sisters than cousins, so I knew that if I could just call him that he would come.  I just had to call him, and that was easier said than done...
     First, I'd have to crawl past the evil, china dolls.  I couldn't run lest the sound of my footfalls were to reach the Wicked Witch of the Living Room.  Then, I'd have to somehow get past the open doorway where I had just been told to get my ass to bed.  Lastly, I'd have to get the phone down and begin turning that rotary dial.  It was excruciatingly slow, and the clicks it made might be loud enough to catch her attention.
     I sat for a long time, trying to muster enough courage, and contemplating the woes of failure.  I pressed my ear against the door and decided that I hadn't heard anything for a long time.  So, I decided to venture out.
     I carefully creaked open the door and paused to listen for a second longer.  I didn't hear silence, rather the sound of something trying to be silent.  Like china dolls or evil witches.  My heart was pounding in my chest as I carefully dug my hands into the carpet and began to crawl.
     I crawled past the closet door where Mom had hidden our Christmas presents.  Shawn and I had found them and discovered what we'd be getting that year; so, yeah, I had known about the Star Wars AT-AT before I had seen it on the living room floor.  I crawled past the evil china dolls, and I tried to pretend that they weren't just above me, staring down at me with their blank expressions and filled with the satisfaction of my horror.  Just before the opening to the living room, I slowly and carefully peeked through the doorway.
     Mom was still sitting on the floor with her back against the couch.  Her head was tilted forward now, and her hair fell around her face, concealing it from my reconnaissance.  I decided that if I waited a second longer then I would chicken out.  So, I quickly but quietly crawled past the doorway into the shadowy corner where the phone was.  I carefully stood, pressing my back against the wall so as to make myself as narrow as possible, hoping that she couldn't somehow see me.
     I began dialing the numbers.  The ticks sounded impossibly loud, and my stomach churned as I imagined that evil, witch face appearing from around the corner and staring right into my soul.  "I know a little boy that won't be getting anything for Christmas if he doesn't get his ass to bed... right now!!!"
     At last, I heard the brrrrnnnggg of the phone ringing in the ear piece.  It rang and rang; it seemed to ring forever.  I'm not exactly sure what time it was, but I would guess in the wee hours of morning.  When Uncle Larry's groggy voice finally answered, my courage had completely dissipated.
     "Help me!!  Help me!!!  It's Duane!!  There's something wrong with Mom!!!  I don't know what's wrong, but something's wrong!!!"  I was crying uncontrollably, and I'm sure he had trouble understanding me.
     I heard a moment of silence as he was gathering his mentality from his recent-sleep.  "Ok, ok... Calm down.  I'll be right there..." he said.  And then I heard that busy signal that followed when someone hangs up.  I was alone again.
     I carefully stood and looked into the living room.  Mom was still in that same position.  I paused to take in the carnage of all of our Christmas decorations that had been trashed around the room.  Then, I decided to inch toward the front door and unlock it.
     Once it was unlocked, I ran back to my bedroom, closed the door, and waited.
     Perhaps fifteen minutes later, I heard the front door open.  Soon after, the door to my bedroom opened and Uncle Larry was standing there.  I had never been happier to see anyone in my entire life.  He picked me up and carried me to his car.  I waited there as he disappeared back inside; a few seconds later he was coming back with my little brother's head laying on his shoulder.  He opened the back door and lay Shawn on the seat.
     I lost track of time at that point, perhaps I was falling in and out of sleep.  I remember the flashing lights of an ambulance startling me before I blacked out.
   
    Vickie was shaking me awake.  "Wake up!  Wake up!  It's Christmas!!!"  I sat up on the couch where I must have slept.  I could smell the familiar aromas of breakfast that I always smelled when I stayed with my cousin:  coffee and sausage and biscuits.  They had never felt more welcome than they did just then.
     "C'mon!  Breakfast is almost ready!!!" she encouraged.  Shawn winked open an eye from the other end of the couch; he sat up in confusion.  We all walked into the kitchen where Uncle Larry and Aunt Ricky were busy making breakfast.
     "Why hello!"  Uncle Larry looked as jolly as old St Nick when he saw me.  Aunt Ricky turned around and said, "Merry Christmas, sleepy-head!!!"
     I think that's when I knew that everything was going to be all right.
     "Where's Mom?" I asked.
     "Your mom's gonna be all right.  She's in the hospital right now, but she's gonna be all right," Uncle Larry tried to explain.
     "Can we go see her?" I asked.
     "Maybe tomorrow.  But you're gonna be spending Christmas with us this year," he said.
     So we ate breakfast and everyone was excited.  Anita and Jodie, Vickie's older sisters, were bickering over some socks as they walked into the kitchen.  They stopped when they saw me.  "Oh, hey Duane.  Hey, Shawn," they said cheerily.  Then they resumed bickering again.
     They always bickered.  One minute they'd be arguing about something, and the next minute they'd be best friends.  And that was ok, because, then I knew that I was home for Christmas.

     I found out later that Mom was pretty much in an alcohol-induced coma for two days, and I blame her for nothing.  I believe she had been dangling just inches from the bottom that year - the year just after her husband had unwillingly left her with two young boys and a house to take care of.  I know she had never meant for things to go as far south as they did.
     Sometimes, when we get that close to the bottom, we quit trying for the surface.  The bottom is closer.  And, once there, who knows what we'll find.  At the very least, maybe we can push ourselves off the floor and get some momentum to spring back up.  In certain instances, rock bottom is a very welcome place.
     A couple of days later, Uncle Larry took us to visit her at the hospital.  She called me her "hero" when I walked into the room.  We talked for a while.  She said she was sorry for Christmas and that she'd make it up to us.  Of course, she did.  But she didn't need to.
     Because, strangely, I felt more love from my whole family that Christmas than, perhaps, I ever would again.  It's those time of need and distress that make the holidays warmer and families come closer.  Everyone was put to test that year, and everyone passed.  Love won.  And I come from a family of love.  Oh, sure.  We're all crazy fools sometimes; but, when the going gets tough, we come together.
     Uncle Larry said we had to leave, but Mom would be home in a couple of days.  As I began to pull away, Mom pulled me closer for a hug and she whispered something in my ear.  "I love you.  I promise that I'll never drink again."
     She never did.
     Merry Christmas!!!

--  If you liked this story, try more Flashback episodes like "Tales of the Unexplained".
-- Also, please "like" the Parenting with Lightsabers Facebook page found here.

Chapter 14 - The Plan

                                                  12/12/14 - "Chapter 14 - The Plan"

     Blogger's Note:  Gosh, this took some work.  I've laid off the "How We Got Married" story for so long now that I had forgotten where I was.  I had to go back and read the story from the start in order to maintain the "feel".  I didn't realize that this story, from then to now, is a bit of a novella.  I also really saw my growth as a writer.  The early chapters were ok, but I'm a bit more proud of the more recent chapters.
     Can I be honest with you?  I haven't been real excited to write this installment.  Here's why:
     The last two chapters, when I was outlining this story, were initially supposed to be in one installment.  If you'll notice, they're both in the same setting, at about the same time.  But, as I was writing, I found a really good start/stop point and ended up separating the two chapters.  What does that mean?  Well, it means that, officially, this chapter is the start of the next and last stage.  The "How We Got Married" stage.
     You may have noticed how I whine a little when I have to shift gears.  I have to start setting up the dominoes again, so that I get to knock them down in the final chapter(s).  So, I'll ask you to bear with me; I'm going to roll up my sleeves and get some of the work out of the way.
     Now, if you're new to my blog, please don't start here.  Go back and read "Chapter 1 - The Tea Monster" and follow the links to get caught up on the story of how I met my Polish wife and how we fell in love and got engaged.  I think you'll find some of the early chapters a little slow-moving.  I'd ask you to be patient.  The story gets better.  In fact, as I was rereading it, I started remembering things.  I started feeling that excitement again.
     Listening to:  Ingrid Michaelson "You and I"

     "Do you want any more children?"
     We were driving down Old Cairo Road in my brother's old, Chevy pickup headed to our new apartment when Joanna had unveiled the question.  Just that morning, we had forked out money for a deposit and, as required, the first month's rent.  We had found a quaint, two-bedroom residence with a meager bathroom and a small kitchen.  An aged, cedar fence girded the backyard; and, as soon as I had seen it, I imagined myself grilling and drinking and playing in that early-Summer grass.
     "Yeah, I want one more," I confided.  After DJ, I'd never had reason to entertain the prospect of having another child; but, admittedly, I had, given the opportunity, always wanted another child that I could raise myself, not through phone calls and negotiated visitations.
     Joanna waited for me to turn onto the street that we'd be living on before she continued the discussion.  My brother's old truck, or Big Red as he called it, was a rickety, old artifact.  Where rust or repair putty hadn't claimed the body, its dented, red armor, despite its moniker, had faded into more of an orange than a red.  Our doors rattled like they might fall off at any moment, and the road beneath us was visible through rust-holes that had formed in the dilapidated floorboard.  "Well, I want three more," she revealed as I tried to grace the accelerator into that sweet spot that wasn't too much but wasn't too little.
     "Three??  Hell, no!  Maybe two...  maybe..." I countered as I glided Big Red to a halt in front of the apartment complex.  I shifted into reverse and navigated as close as I could to our front door.
     "Two?  Ok.  Maybe two..." Joanna considered.  I shifted into park and turned off the rumbling engine.  Nothing else was said as we climbed out of the truck; we silently agreed to revisit the subject later.  For now, we were about to advance a step on the "plan".
     After the bliss of our momentous engagement had been dispatched by the criminal motives of reality, we had agreed to stand our ground and fight off its rapacious machinations with a simple "plan".  We would live together for three months before we pulled the trigger and got hitched.  We had already been dating four months.  More time would have been lovely, but our "plan" wasn't as easy to execute as it sounded.  Time, simply, wasn't on our side.
     When Joanna had refused to go to Vegas, she had, effectively, quit her job.  Her work visa had been revoked; so, during our "trial" period, she wouldn't be able to work.  For upwards of a thousand dollars, we could have applied for a fiancé visa; but, such a visa is only good for three months.  While the time frame worked, its price didn't.  Its value barely equaled its cost, so we decided to forego applying for the short-term solution.  We opted, instead, to live solely on my income until we were married and could apply for a work permit.  Not possessing a single lazy bone in her body, Joanna wanted to work.  We had considered finding her an "under-the-table" job that payed cash and would keep her off the radar of deportation, but stories relayed by Marcin and Wiola of students that had been caught and deported while trying to circumvent the process scared us away from anything shady.  We would just have to stay the course.
     I had eight hundred dollars in savings; she had just over a thousand.  We pooled our finances and came up with a budget.  We split the cost of the apartment.  Joanna would pay the cable and electric deposits; I would take the water and phone.  With the money left over, we bought a cheap mattress and box springs.  My brother gave us a small kitchen table and chairs.  And that was all we had to begin with...

     I let the tailgate fall open with a loud bang as Joanna opened the door to our new home.  I hopped onto the bed of the truck and began handing her the only thing that I had kept over the years.  "So, your keyboard first?" she smiled.

     "Yeah, I might want to play you a song later, so I don't want to hurt it while we're unloading everything else," I teased.

     She stood it against the wall just inside the door and returned to receive a kitchen chair that I was handing to her.  No sooner than it was out of my hand, my cell phone rang.  It was Mom.
     "Hello?" I answered after the chair was secured in Joanna's hands.
     "Hello?"  Mom shouted back.
     "Mom?" I continued the volley.
     "Hello?  Duane??  Can you hear me??"
     "Yeah, Mom..  I can hear you.  Can you hear me?" I controlled my agitation.
     "There's something going on with my phone... I don't know what it is!"
     "Hello... Mom??"
     "I can hear you fine; I don't know what's going on!"
     "Ok, ok.  So you can hear me fine?" I asked her.  I managed to stay calm which was a somewhat remarkable feat.
     "Yes!!!  I told you that!!!  I can hear you fine!!  My phone's been acting up all day!!" she continued.
     "So you can hear me fine, and I can hear you fine?" I tried to simplify the situation.
     "Yes, Duane!!!  I don't know what's going on!!!" she was growing frustrated.
     "Mom, if you can hear me fine and I can hear you fine, doesn't that mean that our phones are working like they're supposed to?"  I reflected on how well I had just done that and waited patiently for her acquiescence.
     A long silence followed as she must have paused to consider my proposal.  After a handful of heartbeats, she finally said, "I was just calling to let you know that I've got some blankets that you can have if you need them.  I can run them by later."
     I inhaled a deep breath and told her thank you.   Then, I said goodbye and hung up while our phones were "still working".
     Joanna had finished unloading the last couple of chairs while I had been conversing with my mother.  I found her in what would be our bedroom tossing our newly-purchased mattress onto the box springs and sliding it into a corner.  She fell back onto it once she was finished.  I fell beside her pretending to test the bed when in actuality I just needed a moment to breathe.
     We lay staring at the ceiling, through the razor-light slicing through the blinds.  Lazy dust particles were slowly whirring from my collapse onto the mattress.  We studied the dance, the two of us, silently assessing the room, the apartment, our lives.  A doubt shivered my resolve, and I felt a similar apprehension chilling my fiancé.  This room, these walls, were just so damn empty.
     "Are you sure about this?"  The question reverberated against the empty walls and eerily transformed my voice.  The effect captured our emotion a little too well.
     Joanna sighed.  I could peripherally see her head turn toward me.  "I will go crazy here," she finally responded.  "I do not like to sit at home and do nothing."
     I believed her; I had seen her in action.
     Unspoken whispers bombed us from the silence.  When the test of a relationship begins, it comes in cold and fast, like a storm front.  It pelts you with doubts and obligations and boredom.  It lies in frazzled pieces, scattered about like the littered ground of yesterday's fair. Eventually, the music begins to fade and the waltz ends; we return to our seats and wonder if there will even be another dance.
     Joanna scooted next to me and lay her head on my shoulder.  I caressed my arm around her and pulled her closer.  "I love you," she said.
     I let her Polish accent finish reverberating around our bedroom.  The sound of her voice reminded me of every promise made, of every feat accomplished, of every smile we had shared.  With little more than each other, I resolved myself to our plan.  "I love you, too," I said.
     Sometimes, our terms of endearment are shouted.  They echo off the clock towers in London, from the palaces in India, and blaze through Rio de Janeiro and into the welcoming arms of Christ the Redeemer.  They swing through the vines of the Amazon and stir the sands of the Sahara.
     But, sometimes, our love is meek.  It is soft and quiet, like Christmas Eve footfalls, like the weightless spiral of a floating dandelion, like the hush of a sleeping infant.  Like the quiet of an empty apartment.  After the romantic interlude ends, only this kind of love remains.  It appears brittle and weak against yesterday's shouts and promises.  And, if it is true, if it is forged from the bonds of devotion and relentlessly hammered on passion's anvil, then it is ready to be tested.
     And our test had just begun...
                                                      (to be continued...)

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A Decade of Memories

                                                        

                                                                        10/5/15
                                                            "A Decade of Memories"
 
     Blogger's Note:  Hello?  Hello?  Mic check.  Test one.  Test two.  Hello?
     Sorry.  The stage is so dusty that... *cough*.  Just a sec.  Let me sweep some of this mess, set the props back up, sure sounds empty in here right now.  Hollow almost.  Show's about to start and people will be filing in soon.  I don't know if it'll be a sold-out show, but I expect to recognize a few faces in the crowd.  No, don't open the doors yet.  Let me arrange things a bit.
     Hear that buzz?  Neon lights are warming up.  I love that sound.  Guess the sun is going down; time to get serious, time to focus.
     Sorry it took so long.  Almost a year, right?  I just seemed to have lost touch with writing for a bit.  I think maybe I'm feeling the tickle again.  I hope you'll be patient with me while I work it out.  I'd like to say that I just didn't have anything to write about.  But that's not necessarily true.  A lot has happened over the past year.  A lot has happened over the past month.  The problem, I believe, was that it was time to turn a page in my book; and, I just didn't realize it.
     Today is the ten year anniversary of the day that I started working at a buffet on a riverboat casino.  Since then, the riverboat has left; and, the casino has moved to land.  The barge upon which the buffet is situated was left slightly tilted, partially sitting on dry land and unsupported by the boat to which it was once anchored.  I'm forty-one now, and my knees aren't taking the declines and inclines as well as I once did.
     I loved that job for the longest time.  I actually enjoyed clocking in and going to work.  But somewhere around the eight-year mark, I just seemed to go on autopilot.  I didn't notice it at first, but one day I did.  I was just going through the motions.  Oh, it's still a great job with great people; but, the time was past due for me to do something else, something new.  And so I did.
     I have just completed dealer school.  Barring something crazy, I'll be dealing blackjack for the first time on Friday.  I'll be starting a new job with a whole new cast of characters.  I'm so very nervous.  And excited.
     I thought that leaving the buffet was going to be painless.  It would be fulfilling.  And, maybe, to an effect, it is.  But then, I thought back to the first day I started that job.  The day that I walked in and saw the line at the door, the commotion of business, the crazy people that worked there.  Let me not put the cart before the horse.  I'm getting a little excited now; it was all so very different then.  It was all so very new.  Nobody had heard the words Duane and Edwards used in tandem.  And I, much like I'll be on Friday, was a nervous wreck.
     Listening to:  "We Are Going To Be Friends" by The White Stripes

     My feet were shuffling nervously as I stood next to the hostess station awaiting instructions.  I hired in as a busser; and, while cleaning tables didn't exactly require a three-day seminar of duty-explanation, I wasn't sure where to report.  The dining room floor was rather large, so I wasn't sure if I would have a section designation or not.
     "Hey!"  Behind me, a polite-looking, elderly lady motioned for me to come closer.  She was obviously wanting to offer some words of encouragement, and the bustling crowd was too vociferous for me to hear her unless at close proximity.  So, I moved in closer.
     "Put some eggs in your shoe and beat it!" she threw up a thumb, gesturing me away from the station.  I checked to see if she was going to crack a smile in jest.  It never came.  I laughed nervously and meandered away.
     "Jump in where you fit in!"  A server, her name tag read 'Lisa', shouted above the commotion.  I suppose I must have looked pitiful, because her face lightened a touch after she caught sight of me.  She handed me a tray and a towel.  "Just start clearing the empty tables," she advised as she pointed to one nearby.
     Anxious to get to work, I set about cleaning tables, carrying dishes to the bus cart in the station, filling ice, stocking cups, expediting the dirty dishes to the dish room, and trying to stay out of the servers' way.  Back then, finding an empty seat in the dining room was quite a task.  Business was booming.
     In the dish room, a man, apparently named 'Ralph' by his name tag, was talking about how great the Cubs were going to be next year.  "162-0!  They're gonna be 162-0, just you wait.  You'll see!"
     "I heard they're guaranteed to be in next year's World Series!" I offered my own brand of 'support'.
     "See?  I told you!"  Ralph paused from his work briefly to assess me.
     "Yeah, I heard they already bought tickets."  I smiled as I delivered the punchline.  Some of the workers around me cheered; others booed.
     "Man... get your ass outta here!"  he pointed back toward the dining area.  He laughed, but I knew that a Cubs'/Cardinals' war had just begun; who knew how long it might last?
     Back in the servers' station, some girl named Amber had beer mugs she was holding over her eyes like glasses.  She turned to assess the new employee; her eyes wobbling in the warped glass.  "Hi, I'm Amber," she said.  Without removing her 'glasses', she turned back to whatever it was that she was doing.
     "Mmmm... like I said, this is an Autobot.  You can see here on Hot Rod's left arm, clearly, the, umm, err, Autobot insignia is holographic so that..."
     "Calvin!  We're too busy for that shit!"  Lisa scolded the one apparently named Calvin.  By his uniform, I could see that he, too, must be a busser.  "Get out there and get to work!"
     I stepped out to clean some tables at that point.  These people were crazy; I could see that right away.  Two weeks.  Two weeks, I kept telling myself.  I had been driving a truck over-the-road for the last two years and had decided the time had come to find a job where I could have a life at home.  My friend Jeremy had been working at the casino for quite some time; he had told me about getting a job here.  He said to take whatever I was offered, get my foot in the door, and, then, after three months, I could transfer to another department if I didn't like what I was doing.
     Well, I was pretty sure I wasn't going to like what I was doing.  Within two weeks, I was pretty sure that I could get a job somewhere else; I just needed to get some paychecks flowing.  In fact, one of my old bosses had told me that he would hire me back.  I just had to bide my time.  Three months!?!  No way was I going to last three months with these crazy people!
     "Hey!"  Tending the bar behind me, a friendly-looking woman was motioning me closer.  "Hi, I'm Kristin," she said.  I smiled back. "Hi, I'm Duane."  I sighed from exhaustion.
     "Tired?" Kristin asked.  I sure was!  My slack body language must have been answer enough, because she continued.  "Don't worry!  I have a plan!"  She looked around deviously before continuing.  "First, I'm gonna take over the buffet; and, then, I'm gonna take over the world!  You can join me if you want..."  She was obviously trying to cheer me up, and it was working.  I think we've been friends ever since.
     As Kristin got pulled away by a customer arriving at the end of the bar, a distressed-looking guest approached me.  "Serioura?" she asked me.
     Serioura?  I felt a tinge of panic.  It was my first day!  Serioura?  What was that?
     "Cereal?" I guessed.  Maybe she wanted some cereal.
     "Serioura!" she repeated, beginning to sound distressed.
     "Your server?"  A girl's voice behind me offered help.  It was Amber.  I was relieved to have both an experienced accomplice and to have someone helping me understand the indecipherable request.
     "Serioura!"  She sounded quite agitated by now.  Serioura, serioura.  What in the hell was serioura?
     "Silverware!" Amber offered triumphantly.
     "Yes!  Serioura!"  Amber turned to me with a victorious smile; and, without premeditation, we high-fived.  We, too, have been friends ever since.
     I worked with a bit more air in my tires after those encounters.  At least these two weren't so bad.  Maybe these two liked to joke.  Hell, if there was anything I could do, it was joke.
     I walked back into the station carrying a tray of dirty dishes.  A middle-aged woman wearing 'Susan' on her name tag was about to walk out.  I addressed her.  "The man with the seeing-eye monkey wants to know if he can get some more Splenda," I told her.
     She gave me a strange look before grabbing a handful of Splenda and leaving the station.  Lisa, who was busy making drinks, looked over her shoulder wearing an incredulous expression that spoke volumes.  'Did you just say seeing-eye monkey?'  'Did Susan just fall for that?'  and, maybe even, 'oh, God, that's hilarious!'
     "Tell Emma I said, 'Happy Birthday!' when she gets here later.  I'm off today but wanted to bring her some cake for when she comes in later."  A girl just walked into the station carrying a birthday cake that read 'Happy Birthday Emma' on it.  It looked delicious.
     "Awww, that looks amazing!  Can we eat it now?" Lisa asked as she offered the one named Benita a hug.  Benita playfully scolded, "You'd better not!  Not until Emma gets here!"
     As Lisa turned to leave the station, Benita turned to me.  "Hi, I'm Benita.  I'll be working with you tomorrow."  And that was the first time I met her.  Over the years, she would make countless upon countless birthday cakes.  I'm pretty sure we've been friends ever since.
     Strange velociraptor clicks and screeches were coming from somewhere outside the station.  They sounded eerily real, so I reflexively looked up to see who was there.  One of the servers from the other side of the dining room was carrying a box of lemons into the small work area.  "Hey, Matt," Benita said to him.  "I brought some cake that everyone can have after Emma gets here."
      As he sat down the box of lemons, somebody hissed.  "Hey!  Hey!"
     We all turned to see Crystal, the other server, peeking her head into the station.  She spoke in a loud and excited whisper.  "Ya'all ain't gonna believe this!  Susan's out there lookin' for a fuckin' monkey!"
     Lisa just lost it.  She had to sit her drinks down because she was laughing so hard.  Everyone chimed in even though they weren't clear on what exactly was happening.  One of the hostesses named 'Karen' walked in just as Lisa began the explanation of how I had told Susan that there was a man with a seeing-eye monkey in the buffet.  Karen and Matt were laughing even more heartily now.
     And that was basically my first day of work.  We all joked around, and Susan forgave me with a smile.  At the end of the night, we were finishing the last of the closing duties.  Almost everyone had left except for Matt and Lisa.  They helped me finish up before the three of us walked out together.
     "So you're a prankster?" Lisa asked rhetorically.  "We could use a few more laughs around here.  Where'd you work before here?"
     I told her that I had been driving a truck over-the-road for the past two years.  Before that, I had worked at Auto Zone.
     "Oh, yeah?  Did you pull many pranks there?" she jested.  I don't think she was expecting a response, but I told her my favorite story from there anyway.
     "Yeah... I was a Night Supervisor there.  One night, we were dead as hell.  Wasn't a single customer in the store, when an old man walked in..."
     I proceeded to tell her the story.  The only other person in the store was Bull.  His name was actually Chris, but he was a big, tall, eighteen-year-old brute with a shaved head that looked like that fella off the '80's sitcom Night Court (remember that one?).  So we called him Bull.  He was a naive kid, a tad cocky.  He usually wore a scowl.
     I watched the elderly customer, in his John Deere cap and bib overalls, casually stroll over to the back end cap where we had a modest display of lawn mower parts.  I dismissed myself from the counter where we were standing and went back to the office.  There, I grabbed the phone and called the parts line which would be the phone next to Bull.
     He picked it up after just a couple of rings.  "Auto Zone, this is Chris," he answered gruffly.
     Using a weak, "elderly" voice that could've won an Oscar, I spoke.  "Hi, Chris.  A fella wearing bib overalls is coming there to pick up some parts for his lawn mower.  If you see him..."
     "Yeah, he's here," Bull interrupted.  Interrupting people was one of his trademarks.
     "...well... could you tell him to pick up some Chinese food for Elmer?"
     "Yeah, sure."  Bull hung up the phone and strolled confidently over to the unsuspecting guest.
     I was peeking around the corner expectantly.  I could hardly contain my mirth as he stopped just short of Mr. John Deere.  Towering over him, he spoke brusquely.  "Sir, you're supposed to pick up some Chinese food for Elmer."
     The elderly gentleman paused to look up at the tall boy.  Bewilderment filled his eyes.  "Do what?" he asked.
     "I said, you're supposed to pick up some Chinese food for Elmer."  Bull repeated.  He bellowed the instructions, almost angrily, emphasizing some of the words in an attempt to relay instructions to a man that he must have perceived was hard-of-hearing.
     I had lost it.  From the office doorway, I was on my knees, laughing that breathless, hysterical laugh that doesn't go away easily.  Tears were running down my cheeks, as I tried, fruitlessly, to remain quiet.
     "Boy, what. in. the. hell. are. you. talking. about?" Mr. John Deere found his voice.  Bull flinched at each word.  He looked around, as the realization seemed to collapse in on him.  He heard me laughing at this point; and, in lieu of explaining how angry he was at me for the rest of the night, I'll explain to you something quite important.
     If, on my deathbed, you hear the clicks and rattles of the machinery straining to help me breathe, if my labored expression lightens considerably and my wheezing suddenly stops, and if my lips curl into a contorted, ridiculous smile, then you will know that I died thinking of this prank.  With a shit-eatin' grin on my face, I will almost certainly cough one last laugh as the electrocardiograph monitor flatlines.  I have told this story countless times, and I always laugh harder than anyone else.  So, I suspect that I must end that way.  Isn't that horribly terrific?
     Lisa and Matt laughed with me, too, as I finished the story.  I, of course, laughed the most.  "Well, see you tomorrow," Lisa dismissed herself.  "It's a warm night, so I'm just gonna walk home."
     "I can give you a ride if you want," I offered.  But she declined.  She said she liked walking.  So, Matt and I continued conversing under a starry, autumn sky that was unseasonably warm.
     "So you gonna stick around?" he asked.
     "I'm not sure," I confessed.  "I've got my eyes on a couple of other positions that I might shoot for."
     "I hear you.  You gotta do whatever's best for you.  But, there's some pro's to working in the buffet.  For one, you rarely work after nine at night; the money's not bad; and, everyone that works here is pretty tight-knit."
     I considered his words; and, feeling high from cresting that 'first-day' hill, I thought that I might, indeed, last those first three months.  Matt was pretty good with his words of advice; he's always been more mature than his age.  I'm pretty sure we've been friends ever since.
     But, somehow, three months turned into three years and three years turned into a decade.
     I became a server fairly quickly.  I've met some really fantastic people, some of whom are pretty much family to me now.  Some have come; some have gone.  I once read that we are around our co-workers more than we are our own families, when you factor out the amount of time you sleep and all that.  I believe that.  Because, I think of them like family.  We've loved, we've laughed, we've bickered, and we've made up.  We have seen each other through the best and through the worst.
     I'll, after a decade, be leaving my department this week.  I didn't realize, at first, that it was going to be so difficult, so emotional.  I once read that if you're friends with someone for ten years, then you will be friends forever.  I suppose I believe that, too.
     I once met a Polish girl in that buffet.  I fell in love and married her.  We had two kids together.  My co-workers have helped cover for me while I nursed them through sickness or threw them birthday parties.  And, when I was at work, we would pull pranks and tell jokes and confess fears.
     When I got married to my wife, the whole stinkin' crew came together to... well, wait.  Maybe I should save that story for another day.  It sounds like a story I should've finished by now...
     Maybe I should get to work on that.
     For now, I have to go.  The curtains are closing as I speak.  The spotlight is dimming.  Goodbye everyone; I've got to get to the dressing room and get changed for the next act.  I'm about to meet a whole new cast of characters that don't have a clue who I am.  What are they going to think of my crazy ass?  Will they like me?
     Stay tuned...
   
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