The Mad Dog Shack

                                       

                                                      1/24/14 - "The Mad Dog Shack"

     Blogger's Note:  First, some business.  I've been doing some planning and talking; and, as fate would have it, I think I just may have been talking to the right people.  I have been contemplating the future a lot lately.  I once read that a person who is anxious lives in the future; a person that is sad lives in the past; and, a person that is at peace lives in the present.  Makes sense to me.  So, today and the next post, I plan on sharing some of the goals and plans I have for myself and for my blog.  And after that, fuck it.  I'm going to do my best to take it one day at a time, one episode at a time.
     Today, I'm going to share with you some additions to the blog.  First, I'd like to give credit to my friend Amy who has a terrific blog of her own titled On a Journey Back to Her Wings (check it out).  She told me don't be afraid to post/share links to my blog more often.  People get online at different times of the day, and they may not see it the first time.  She also suggested some gadgets to add to the side panel of my blog.  I'll explain them now.
     "Join This Site" is a way to follow my blog via a Google account you may already have (such as Google +, gmail, or a blog you may be working on of your own).  If you don't have a Google account already, you can follow the easy steps to create one.  From there, you can add and follow as many blogs as you'd like, and get notifications when a new installment is available.
     "Follow by Email" is pretty self-explanatory.  An email will be sent to you when a new episode is published.  I haven't actually used this function, so I'm not sure if it literally sends you the blog or if it sends you a link to the blog (I should try it out, huh?)
     I'd like to remind everyone that Parenting with Lightsabers now has its very own Facebook page.  You can like it here.  I'd like to encourage anyone that hasn't already to please like my page.  I'm getting close to 100 Likes; I'd like to hit that milestone.  (please, however, don't encourage Joe Blow to "like" it just to get me 100 Likes.  I really just want people that either read it or think they might read it to "like" it.  That way, I don't feel like I'm bugging anyone if I post on there.  If you haven't noticed, I like having fun from that page).
     If you scroll to the very bottom of the page, you'll find a "Translate" function that is supposed to allow you to translate my blog to any language.  I did this for my Polish readers.  Most of them can probably read this in English, but I thought I'd throw that on there just in case.  I've tried it out, and it does appear to translate everything.  I'm afraid my Polish isn't good enough to say how well.
     I sometimes talk about Mason Jennings Radio on Pandora on here.  I always listen to this station when I'm writing.  It inspires me just right.  I've recently come to realize that if someone were to go to Pandora and choose to listen to a station seeded by Mason Jennings, it wouldn't sound anything like what I listen to.  I have "thumbs up'ed" and "thumbs down'ed" many songs, and I have seeded other artists.  So I have renamed this station "Parenting with Lightsabers Radio".  You can go to Pandora and listen to this station if you'd like.  It is a chill mix of folk rock and hipster music, exactly what I like.  If you think you might like it as well, check it out.
     Lastly, today you'll notice a new feature that will be a regular part of your favorite Parenting with Lightsabers episodes.  At one point, I said I'd never do this.  But, never say never, right?   Today, you'll notice a "Listening To:" feature.  Beside it, you'll find a link to either an audio source or a YouTube page where you'll be able to listen to the song that inspired me for this particular episode.  As I'm listening to Pandora, there's always one song that stands out.  One that encompasses the spirit of what I'm writing about.  Starting today, you can listen to it while you're reading, which is how I picture each episode being enjoyed.  And, of course, you can always choose to scroll right past it if that's not your thing.  No big deal...
     Today's episode may be the first that I created a new Pandora station to "inspire" me.  Parenting with Lightsabers Radio just wasn't doing it, so I turned it to Poison Radio.  And then I fell into a memory of those days like they were yesterday...
     So, finally, on to today's episode...
     If you haven't noticed, there's a rotation system that I use.  I rotate three types of blogs:  a Flashback episode, a new chapter in our "How We Got Engaged" story, and a random whatever's-on-my-mind post.  I like this technique because it usually gives me two-to-three weeks to brainstorm the next segment, and I generally do need this much time.  Today's episode is a Flashback episode.
     And not just any Flashback episode.  It's one that's been on my mind ever since the idea of doing a regular Flashback episode bubbled in my brain.  Today you will be introduced to my "hoodlum" days, and the friends that I had in those days.  I tried to tactfully introduce them in last week's "Approaching 40" episode.  Today, you will see them in action.
     This is the episode that really worried me to write.  I didn't want to feel "harnessed" while I was writing about those days.  I'm not sure how much I'd change even if I was.  But, I don't want to feel bridled.  I'm not sure if that makes any sense to you, but it does to me.  If there wasn't any doubt before now, then today will remove all doubt.  Parenting with Lightsabers is for mature readers only.
     Grab your favorite hair band tee-shirt, a pack of cigarettes, and a bottle of Strawberry Hill.  Where are we going?  Glad you asked.  Why, to the Mad Dog Shack, of course.  What's the Mad Dog Shack?  Oh, my.  Now that's a story...
     Listening to:  Poison "Nothin But a Good Time"

     "I don't know when he'll be home, but you're welcome to wait..."
     I didn't know what afflicted Franklin's wife, but she always sat in her wheelchair with her head tilted at the neck and one elbow resting on a hand rest.  Her hand hung limp at the wrist, and she would look at me out of the corner of her eye when she spoke.  I didn't know her name, but I enjoyed talking to her.  What she lacked in physical dexterity, she made up for in mental clarity.
     "Ok, we'll wait," I decided.  "I'm going to tell my friends."
     In the driveway, my 1988 red Chevy Cavalier was sitting.  Bret was riding shotgun; his long, blonde hair, popular among the girls, was resting over his shoulders as he anxiously watched me approach.  He could see that I wasn't carrying any alcohol, and the prospect of showing up at tonight's party without beer was intolerable.  I walked behind my car, past the YODA 16 license plate, and to the open window on the passenger side.  In the back seat, I could see Damon massaging his arm.
     "Two for flinching, fat boy!" Dennis told him.
     "Me?  You're the fat boy, bitch!" Damon responded.  "And if you punch me again, I'm going to clock you in the fucking face, mother fucker!"
     "He's not here yet," I informed them, although Bret was the only one that seemed concerned.
     "We going to wait?" Bret asked me in a way that clearly said 'we have to wait; we're not leaving here without beer.'  I agreed.
     "Yeah, I don't see another choice," I professed.
     "Hey!"  I couldn't see through the screen door, but the voice clearly belonged to Franklin's wife.  "Hey!  Come here!"
     I immediately walked back to the house.  I walked onto the porch as she spoke.  "If one of you can push me up there, I'll buy for you.  Y'all can just give me that twenty dollars," she offered.
     We had learned quickly that Franklin's fee of twenty dollars was the same no matter how much we got.  We would combine our "orders" and split the twenty proportionally.  Each of us would order beer, as that was the cool thing to drink, but we'd also throw on there something else.  None of us cared to admit that we hadn't yet acquired a taste for beer, and we were certain that there was some delicious alcoholic nectar that would get us really fucked up if we only knew what to order.
     "Ok, let me tell my friends, I'll be right back," I told her.
     I walked back to my car and explained the situation.  "Man, I've done this much.  I'm not pushing her up there," I finished.
     "I'm not either!" Bret asserted.
     After a brief moment of silence, Dennis spoke.  "Fuck it.  I'll do it."
     "Yeah, the bitch will do it," Damon clarified as Bret lifted the seat so Dennis could climb out.  Dennis punched Damon in the arm and climbed out before he could retaliate.  "Oh, you got it comin', mother fucker!" Damon insisted.
     "Your mom's got it comin'!" Dennis nudged as he walked to the front porch; I joined him to introduce the two.
     "This is Dennis.  He's gonna push you.  Here's the list of what we want and the money.  There's an extra twenty in there," I told Mrs. Franklin.
     "All right.  Honey, just push me down that ramp to the alley," she pointed to the edge of the porch.
     Dennis raised an arm, lifted his fist, and extended his pinky and his index finger in a rock 'n' roll salute.  He was a stout boy with the sides of his head shaved and the top grown long so that it hung to one side.  He always seemed to have his head tilted the way that his hair hung, and I thought the effect made him look like a heavy metal, sumo wrestler.
     Dennis rolled her down the concrete sidewalk into the gravel alley.  Damon, Bret, and I hung back and followed from a good distance.  The drive-thru liquor store was only half a block away, but the distance was difficult thanks to the crater-filled road that Dennis was going to have to navigate.
     Mrs. Franklin bounced around in her seat as Dennis rolled her through the bumpy alley.  The rest of us were trying not to laugh as one particular jolt tossed her into the air a little.  "Sugar, you gonna have to stop and straighten me up," she politely told Dennis.  He walked around to the front of the wheelchair, straightened her up, and extended the palm of his hand and awaited Mrs. Franklin to "give him five".  When she did the three of us cheered with "WoooHoooo!", "Rock 'n' Roll, mother fuckers!", and "Fuckin' A!".  She used the hand that worked to suppress a grin.
     When at last they arrived at the drive-thru, the three of us waited anxiously beside the dumpster behind Chong's.  At the window, I could see Mrs. Franklin reading the order to the cashier.  Three cases of beer and a cardboard box filled with bottles started coming through the window and were piled onto Mrs. Franklin's lap.
     "We still have ten dollars!" Dennis yelled at us.
     Damon felt a sudden need to use his asthma inhaler; Bret took a keen interest in a cloud overhead; and, I discovered the rocks at my feet were great for kicking.
     "Did you guys hear me??  We still have ten dollars!  Do you want me to get anything else??"
     "Just get anything!" Bret responded in a loud whisper.  He was waving his hand as if swatting the question away, and he was still watching the interesting cloud.
     "What about this?  It's Mad Dog 20/20, and it's cheap.  We can get four bottles!" Dennis shouted at us.
     "Whatever!  Get whatever!  What the fuck, man?"  Bret shared an incredulous look with the rest of us.  Apparently, discretion wasn't in Dennis's repertoire.
     At last the transaction ended, and Dennis began pushing Mrs. Franklin into the alley.  A tower of boxes was haphazardly stacked on her lap, and Dennis was trying to balance it with one hand and push with the other.  After watching the attempt for a short span of time, I began to realize that the task wasn't possible.  We were going to have to help.
     Bookending the wheelchair, Damon and I steadied the tower as Dennis leaned into the effort of pushing her forward.  We were all too afraid to actually carry anything and be caught as minors in possession of alcohol.
     We got stuck in one particularly large crater, so Bret grabbed the wheelchair from the front as the four of us worked together to get out of the depression.  We successfully maneuvered through the rest of the alley and at last reached the sidewalk behind Mrs. Franklin's house.
     "Thanks cool lady!"  Dennis said goodbye to her after we'd gotten her up the ramp and into the house.
     "No problem.  Don't tell Franklin I did that.  I'm gonna use this to buy me some lottery tickets," she smiled as she held out the twenty she had just earned.
     "We won't!" I smiled as the screen door slammed shut and the four of us began loading the alcohol into my trunk.  We climbed back into the car; I shoved Poison into the tape deck; and we spun onto the road with the music cranked as loud as it would go and smiles on our faces.
     "Where to now?" I shouted over the music.
     "Dinger gave me directions," Bret answered.  "It's almost to Pope County.  Just head like you're going to the ridge and I'll show you.  He's getting the sleeping bags there now.  He's gonna cut across the forest on his dirt bike and meet us there."
     "Mother fucker!" Dennis shouted as Damon apparently knocked the fuck out of his arm.  "You just wait.  I'm gonna get you good!"
     "That's what your mom said last night!" Damon didn't hesitate a response.
     "Fuck you.  Your mom's so ugly that she tried to get in an ugly contest but they said 'sorry, no professionals.'"
     Damon quickly reciprocated.  "Your mom's so fat that her belly button gets home five minutes before she does!"
     Whenever Damon and Dennis started in on their "your mom" jokes, I always felt certain that it was going to end in fisticuffs in my backseat.  But it never did.  I slowly grew to realize that they were playing a game where the loser was the first person to actually get pissed.  I don't recall either of them losing that game.
     We flew across the Brookport bridge at a safe speed of 80 mph as Bret Michaels was crooning some "Unskinny Bop" and random yells and screams emitted from my various passengers.  My Cavalier skimmed over hills and around curves.  An old man in bib overalls was checking his mail as Bret shouted "Rock 'n' Roll MOTHER FUCKER!" out the passenger window.  Dennis and Damon continued their banter behind me, and I tried to distribute my laughs evenly on both sides so that neither of them ever felt like they had the lead.
     We called ourselves 8-Pak.  We did have a list of eight people that we considered part of the group; but, as time and distance constantly shifted and changed the roster, we decided that 8-Pak was more a state of mind than an actual group of people.  8-Pak was whoever we were partying with.
     And usually that was just other guys.  We weren't old enough or cool enough yet for pot or pussy, so we would gather at one of our various gathering places and hope that somebody would show up with a girl (or a few of them if we dared dream it), but that rarely happened that summer.  Adams' Gravel Pit, the Pines, Strawberry Hill, Beaver Dam, Over the Top, and Mill Springs were names of some the places that we would end up partying at.  Tonight, Dinger said he found a new place he wanted to show us.  And Bret knew how to get there.
     Dinger was definitely a member of 8-Pak.  He was one of the best people I've ever known.  He was good-natured and honest and just an all-around good guy.  His real name was Aaron, but everybody called him Dinger.  I'm not sure why.  I was probably the only person that called him Aaron because I always considered the nickname "Dinger" to be unflattering, and I liked him too much for that.  He didn't seem to mind either way.  He had long hair like most of my friends and was the group boy scout.  He was great to have around when we were camping as he was always the most capable at building a campfire or erecting a tent or whatever needed doing.  He also made sure everyone had sleeping bags.  For some reason, he always had plenty of sleeping bags.  He handed them out like candy on Halloween and collected them in the morning.  
     Bret was directing me by looking at a map that had been drawn for him.  Turn left, turn right, turn right again, two curves, and then right again.  A trail of dust suffixed our route and provided an omen of concern for the residents in this normally quiet stretch of countryside.  Hair band music screamed out our open windows and adulterated the peaceful back roads.
     We were actually pretty good kids compared to some that were our age.  Most of the time, we were just looking for a safe, secluded place to get drunk.  Occasionally, we would get bored and try our hands at some mailbox baseball; but, we didn't do that too often.  We looked a lot more "motley" than we actually were.
     At last, we pulled into a small, one-lane gravel road that left the county lane and disappeared into the arms of some gnarled trees.  I ejected Poison and stuck Great White in the deck.  "Once Bitten Twice Shy" was conveniently waiting to escort us down this new and strange road.
     "You sure this is the right way?" I yelled over the music.
     "As best as I can tell by this map that Dinger drew me!" Bret assured me.
     We followed the road for quite a ways.  It was a sturdy path and seemed to hold no danger of heavy ruts that might be too much for my little four-cylinder.  I had no idea when we turned onto this road that it would go back as far as it did.  We had already traveled at least two miles, and I didn't think a road this small could have possibly gone back this far.
     When the song finally ended, I turned the radio down.  The four of us sat in silence and watched the forest slowly drift by us.  At last, we idled up an incline; and, once we reached the top of the rise, we could turn left or right into open fields.  We could go straight, but the road was heavily rutted and my car wouldn't be capable of driving that way.
     "When you can't go any further, turn left," Bret read the last piece of direction to us.
     "Into that field?" I wanted to confirm before we continued.
     "I guess so," he said.
     I turned into the field.  Once we cleared the trees, our destination became apparent.  An old house sat on the edge of the open pasture.  A rusted, tin roof covered old wood that was thirsty for paint.  A humble, front porch was covered by an overhang.  Beside it, a dirt bike was parked.  Aaron stepped out of the house wearing his typical smile as he waved.
     "Shagnasty!" Dennis yelled from the back seat.  First Dinger and now Shagnasty.  I laughed at the name as I considered the probability that we'd be hearing it again.
     I turned the key off as Aaron ran up to the car.  "You made it!" he welcomed us.  "Did you get the beer?"
     I answered by popping my trunk and revealing the treasure inside.
     He reached into one of the paper sacks in the cardboard box.  He pulled something out.  He held up a bottle of the Mad Dog 20/20.  "What's this?" he asked through a chuckle.
     "I don't know," Dennis responded.  "We had some money left over, and the lady that bought it for us said that it was cheap and would fuck you up."
     Aaron opened it and took a swig.  He coughed as he handed it to me.  "Fuck man!  It tastes like cough syrup."
     I tried it.  Indeed, he was right.  Oh well.  At least it had alcohol in it.  I handed it to Damon as we began passing it around.
     "So what is this place?" I asked Aaron.
     "Come on!  I'll give you a tour."
     Aaron led us onto the front porch and through the front door.  Inside, three nice bunk beds lined the walls.  A sturdy, cast-iron wood stove had a chimney that disappeared into the wall behind it.
     "Holy shit!  This is awesome!" I couldn't contain my excitement.  "I call this bed!" I said as I tapped the top bed next to me.  I suspected that heaven might look something like this.
     Aaron led us into another room in the back.  A toilet seat had been situated above a five-gallon bucket.  The back door that led outside was partially open.
     "This rocks!" Bret confirmed.
     "Yeah.  I think it's a deer hunters cabin!" he speculated.  "Down the road a ways, there's another house that's similar to this one, except it's in really bad shape and it's hard to get to.  I bet these houses were built in the 1800's!"
     "Fucking A!" Dennis expressed our sentiment.
     "So who all's coming tonight?" Damon asked.
     "Well, I gave directions to Jeremy.  He said Ben is going to ride with him.  His friend David is going to follow him so that he can bring Boogie and Devan.  I asked him to pick up Neidermyer like you asked and he said he would." Aaron explained.  Neidermyer had moved north, near Chicago, but he was in town visiting his grandmother.  He was my friend, so I felt an obligation to invite him to the party.  Neidermyer was just fine when he was sober, but once he started drinking he was a total idiot.  Everyone liked to remind me that he was my responsibility, and I begrudgingly accepted the role.  We, unfortunately, all knew that he was going to do something really stupid tonight; so, everyone wanted to be double certain that I knew that I'd be babysitting.  I liked Neidermyer, but sometimes I wished that something would come up and he wouldn't be able to make it.
     "Is Jeremy going to bring the coolers?" I asked.
     "Yeah, he said he's bringing two big coolers with ice since you guys got the beer," Aaron resolved.
     "Cool.  Well, let's get this party started!"
     Aaron and Bret went to work putting the sleeping bags on the beds.  Damon, Dennis, and I started unloading the party supplies from the trunk.  I passed out the beers, and the popping sound of opening cans was followed by the distant sound of approaching vehicles
     Not long after, Jeremy's Fiero and David's Ford Tempo pulled into the field.  The cars were loaded with our friends.  Aaron ran out to greet them.  "You found it!!!" he was shouting.
     The crew of new-arrivals filed out of the cars excitedly.  Everyone was anxious to explore the cabin.
     After Aaron had taken them on a tour, we divvied the alcohol according to who paid for what.  We only had Bud Lite, so figuring out who got what beer wasn't too difficult.  Jeremy, Ben, and David each got Strawberry Hill; Boogie, Dennis, and Damon had Jack Daniels; Devan and Neidermyer had decided to split some vodka.  The rest of us were drinking beer and, apparently, Mad Dog 20/20.  Usually, after the first round, everybody was drinking everybody's anyway.
     Jeremy pulled out the coolers, and we started filling them.  The drive from Paducah in the summer heat had warmed up the drinks; now we needed to let them chill for a bit.  None of us felt like waiting long, so we just started drinking warm beer.
     The afternoon trudged into night.  A jam box had been placed on the porch and was playing somebody's mix tape.  Currently, Nazareth was lamenting that "Love Hurts".  I had a pretty good buzz going when Aaron and Bret walked out the front door.  "We're going to go find some wood for the stove," Aaron said.
     "Need some help?" I offered.
     "No thanks, we've almost got enough," Aaron explained.
     I went back to drinking my beer and listening to music when Boogie sat down beside me.  He was holding a duffle bag in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other.  Boogie was Native American; he had long, dark hair and a vicious temper when he was in a bad mood.  He pulled a can of black, spray paint from the bag.  "Let's name this place, man," he suggested.
     Sounded like a good idea to me.  "Ok.  What's a good name?" I responded.
     "I don't know, man," he smiled.  "What's a good idea?"
     I drunkenly spared a look at the dilapidated building.  "How about the Love Shack?" I suggested.  I could see Jeremy and Ben standing next to the Fiero listening to some Faith No More.  David was getting some blankets out of the trunk.  He accidentally stepped on a discarded bottle on the ground and nearly tripped.  He picked it up where we recognized it as a Mad Dog 20/20 bottle and tossed it further into the field.
     "How about the Mad Dog Shack?" Boogie countered.
     I smiled and nodded.  The Mad Dog Shack it would be.  Boogie took the cap off the spray paint and wrote Mad Dog Shack in big, bold letters on the front of the cabin.  Jeremy shouted "Kill-No-Save!" from where he was standing.  I recognized the unusual cheer as meaning, "Hell yeah!"  Apparently, he approved.
     Aaron and Bret walked up the steps carrying loads of sticks and wood to add to the pile already inside.  Most of the others were standing around Jeremy's car talking about skateboarding.  Neidermyer was sitting on the porch with his back against the wall; the vodka bottle he was working on was half-empty.  I knew that I would be called to duty soon.
     Aaron and Bret came back outside brushing the evidence of kindling from their arms.  They sat next to me and Boogie.  I could see in Aaron's eyes that he wasn't feeling any pain.
     "Man, that Mad Dog ain't too bad once you get used to it," Aaron proposed.
     "Fuck that, Dinger!" Bret disagreed.  "That shit's nasty.  Here, drink something else."  He handed him a Bud Lite.
     "Did you start the fire yet?" Boogie asked.  The question triggered my awareness that the sun had been eradicated by the night's whispering assurance.  A chilly dampness crept from the ground and shrouded our entourage.
     "Yeah, just now," Bret said as Devan shouted something and started laughing.
     "I'm gonna punch him tonight," Aaron revealed.
     "You're gonna what, Dinger?" Boogie pressed through a bewildered snicker.  We had never known Aaron to hit anything; my ears perked up at this unexpected revelation.
     "I'm gonna knock the fuck out of him one good time," Aaron reiterated.
     "What for?" I wanted to know.  I wasn't taking sides, but my curiosity over what might spark this peace-loving man to violence had been stroked.
     "Because he's got a bee bee stuck in his head," Bret answered for him.
     "Do what?" Boogie asked.
     We paused to listen to an uproar of cheering from the area where everyone was gathered around the Fiero.  "Dude, get that shit out of your hair!  What the fuck is that, anyway?" Damon was speaking to Dennis.  Dennis went to work combing his hair with his fingers when Damon continued.  "Oh, nevermind.  That's just your face..."
     Another cheer erupted from the huddle.  Those of us that were gathered on the porch laughed as well.  Neidermyer was still laughing long after everyone else had stopped.
     Aaron finally resumed our conversation.  "When we were ten, Devan shot me with a bee bee gun.  The bee bee got stuck in my head."
     "Why didn't you go to the hospital?  Get it taken out or something?" I asked.
     "I did," Aaron revealed.  "The doctors told my parents that they were afraid to remove it.  They said it would never hurt anything where it was, so they left it.  I still owe Devan one good punch for that shit!"
     "Where is it?" Boogie questioned.
     Aaron bent over and parted his hair with his hands.  He showed us where to feel by guiding our fingers until, sure enough, I could feel the small raised hump of a bee bee just below the scalp.  Amazing!
     "So he's gonna knock the fuck out of Devan tonight!" Bret surmised.  Neidermyer started laughing antagonistically, and I could feel everyone looking at me.  When he saw that everyone was staring, he took a swig from his bottle of vodka.
     I raised my beer to toast Aaron on his venture and decided that I would meander over to the group next to the Fiero.  I gauged my inebriation by the ebb and flow of the ground as I walked; I smiled to affirm that I, indeed, was "feeling good".
     When I arrived, David put me in a headlock.  "Come on, Great Dane!  Oooh, yeah!"  The Great Dane was my wrestling name.  We took wrestling seriously in those days.  We had regular, big events where we would get a camcorder and videotape ourselves trampoline wrestling.  We got pretty crazy with it.  Some of us did incur some pretty gnarly injuries; I'm surprised no one ever got hurt any worse than we did.
     I tripped him by placing my leg behind his and pushing him backwards.  Once on the ground, I was trying to free myself from the headlock while he tried to maintain the hold.  After a while, when neither of us could gain any leverage, I finally said, "All right, all right.  Let's get back to drinking.  I'm too fucked up for this shit."
     David let me go, and we both started laughing.  Damon was reaching into the cooler.  He pulled out a beer.  "Hey, Duane, need a beer?" he asked me.
     After I replied "sure", he tossed me one.  Droplets of icy water shimmered free and splattered my face as I caught the tossed can.  Ben and Jeremy were discussing an idea for a comic book that involved a masked vigilante by the name of Whiplash.  Devan was explaining to Dennis how he was going to put together a band.  Dialogue was being exchanged on every level; we were all so confident about the future.
     "Thanks man," I said to Damon.  "By the way, do you think we can film some more of Jacque Strapp next Saturday?  We've got some ideas on a sequel."  Damon was the only one of us that had a camcorder.  We used it to film our wrestling events, our spoof commercials, or the movie we'd been working on.  Jacque Strapp was a comedy about the misadventures of a goofy detective; it was actually pretty funny stuff.
     "Duane!!!"  Bret was calling me from the cabin.  The urgency in his voice suggested that I shouldn't waste any time.  Everyone got quiet as I strode towards the old house.  Bret was standing in the doorway and from inside I could hear Neidermyer moaning.  Neidermyer..  of course...
     As I climbed the front steps, Bret moved aside so I could enter the shack.  Neidermyer was sitting on the floor with his back against one of the beds.  He was moaning and trying to smile at the same time.  The effect was somewhat eerie.  "What happened?" I cringed as I braced for the explanation.
     "He hugged the stove!" Bret explained.
     "What happened?  Did he trip and land on the..."
     "No!  He hugged the stove!" Bret insisted.
     Aaron walked up to me, put his arms around me, and hugged me.  "Like this," he demonstrated.
     "Why??" I asked looking at Neidermyer to assess the damage.  His hands were laying with their palms up in his lap; I could see in the lantern light that his forearms were bright red.  Neidermyer shrugged and started laughing again.
     The others had congregated at the doorway; those in the back were looking over the shoulders of those in the front, trying to get a peek at the newest Neidermyer endeavor.
     "While you check on him, I'm gonna grab a beer," Aaron stated as he parted the crowd to get outside.  Bret followed after him; and, once outside, the rest of the crew left the scene.
     "Do you need to go to the hospital?" I asked Neidermyer once we were alone.
     He shook his head.  He spit his answer, "No, juth give me the vodka.  I dropped it."
     I looked around and saw the bottle of Smirnoff lying on the floor near the stove.  As I retrieved it, I could feel the heat from the stove and wondered how badly his arms must have been burnt.  I considered that maybe I shouldn't give him any more to drink; but, ultimately, I decided that he could probably use the pain suppressant.  Besides, maybe he'd get drunk enough to just pass out, so I handed him the bottle.
     "Why did you hug the stove?" I asked confidingly.
     "I don't know."  He started laughing that pathetic laugh again.  "It looked like it needed a hug."
     "Well..." I began when suddenly a loud commotion erupted outside.
     "Holy shit, Dinger!" I heard someone yell.  "Go Shagnasty!!" someone else cheered.  "Kill-No-Save!!"  a couple of others chanted.
     I immediately knew what had happened.  I left Neidermyer to his bottle of vodka and walked out to the front porch.  In the beam of the Fiero's headlight, Devan was picking himself up from the ground.  He was touching his lip with his fingers and checking to see if he was bleeding.  From where I was standing, I couldn't tell whether he was or not.
     "That's for the bee bee in my head, mother fucker!!!" Aaron shouted.  It would be the first and only time of his life that I had known Aaron to hit anybody.  I smiled to myself.
     Devan stood up, and I half-expected him to start swinging.  But, he didn't.  Ben handed him another beer and smiled.  Everyone was smiling.  Well, everyone but Devan.  He opened his beer and took a drink.  I came down to join them.
     So, the night went on.  We all stood around talking about beer and pussy.  Devan would occasionally feel his lip; but, he was otherwise fine.  None of us revisited the topic that night.
     When we finally retired inside, Neidermyer was passed out sitting in the same spot where I had left him.  I threw a blanket over him.  Six of us claimed beds; the rest made pallets on the floor.  We lay there listening to the wood crackling in the stove; periodically Aaron would add more kindling and stir the embers in its belly.  The energy in our slurred voices slowly faded as the night slipped into morning.
     Damon and I were two of the last remaining awake.  "Do you think we'll all stay friends?" I asked him.
     "Who knows," he said.  "I doubt it.  I mean, someday we'll all probably go different ways.  Who knows where we'll end up."
     And then I fell asleep.

     The sound of a vehicle approaching woke us up.  In our groggy hangover states, we started gathering the sleeping bags and blankets and whatever else we could find.  We didn't have permission to be there, and we needed to get the fuck out of there.
     David was the first to open the door.  The sun was much higher than I expected it to be; cruel light stabbed our eyes as our hearts pounded in our chests.  I popped the trunk of my car, and everyone started shoving in the supplies.
     I looked up to see Neidermyer stepping carefully down the front steps and examining his forearms.  I wondered how badly he was injured, but I was in too much of a hurry to ask right now.  As everyone climbed into the car, the revelation that there was no where to go suddenly dawned.  There was only one way in or out of here, and it was the one-lane road that was now blocked by whatever was coming our way.  We were doomed.
     I looked at Jeremy sitting beside me in the driver's seat of his Fiero.  We shrugged at each other as if to say, 'what should we do?'  Neither of us had an answer.  I decided to get out of the car and stand beside it, waiting cavalierly (no pun intended) for whatever fate might befall us.
     The sound grew rather loud, and we could see through the trees that it was a tractor.  Perched on the seat was a gentleman in a straw hat wearing a friendly smile.  He turned the tractor into the field where we were congregated.  I felt sick to my stomach for more than one reason.  Looking around, I could see that everyone else felt the same as me.
     The old farmer pulled his tractor up beside us, fidgeted with the lever between his legs, and finally shut down the engine.  It sputtered a couple of times before the silence that followed somewhat eased the pounding in my head.
     "How you fellas doin'?" he asked with a big, friendly smile.  I considered the possibility that this was the calm before the storm.  He was about to let loose a scolding lecture about trespassing and underage drinking and not having permission.  I considered that maybe we should just make a run for it now; there was a space to get around him if we hurried.
     "Pretty good," I answered instead.
     "Did y'all stay in the cabin last night?" he asked me.
     "Yeah," I didn't see any point in lying.  Besides, my red eyes would probably betray any clever explanation that I might be able to conjure on the fly.
     "That's an a'ight little cabin there.  Some deer hunters turned that old house into a place that they can stay during hunting season.  Do you kids hunt?" he asked us.
     "Nah," I answered.
     "Oh, yeah?  Just camping?  Well that sounds fun.  As long as you kids take care of it, you can come as often as you like I suppose.  It could sure use a coat of paint."  He looked to where Boogie had spray-painted Mad Dog Shack in big, black letters across the front.  I suddenly felt very ashamed of the idea to paint the name across the front of it.
     "We could paint it sometime," I offered.  And I meant it.  Everyone around me muttered their agreement.
     He scanned us with one last visual assessment, nodded a final smile, and started his tractor.  My heart finally slowed as we climbed into our cars and drove away.
     Over the next few years, we would use that cabin many times.  I have many Mad Dog Shack stories.  Though we never painted it, everyone of us took care of it.  Any time we introduced someone new to that cabin, we instilled in them the respect for that place and for that old farmer that we had for it.  The creaking, wooden floors of that old house would hold us up many a drunken night and would be the setting for many a story from my youth.
     I haven't been there in many, many years.  I suppose I should go there and see what it looks like today.  Someone once told me that some vandals burnt it down a few years later.  I don't know if that's true or not.  If it is, I can only say one thing.  I know, without one morsel of doubt, that none of us that stayed there that night were responsible.  We took care of the Mad Dog Shack.  It was our home.

     -- if you'd like to read another Flashback episode, then check out "Bad Boys, Bad Boys"
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
     

Approaching 40

                                                 

                                                              1/21/14 - "Approaching 40"

     Blogger's Note:  I'll be 40 in just over a week.  I cannot believe that I will be 40.  I'm not sad or depressed, but I think I'm reflective.  I've been considering the possibility that maybe I could have made different choices.  If I could do it all again, would I?  Should I?
     My grandparents ranged between about 65-90 when they passed away and considering some of the life choices I've made and some of the shit I've done, I think 80 is a reasonable, if not optimistic, goal.  Which would make 40 the halfway point, if I'm healthy...  and lucky.  Over the hill, indeed.
     Compound the whole experience with the fact that I attended a funeral this past week, and I surface from this stagnant reminiscing only to discover a stark reminder that we are mortal.  I'm rolling the dice every day:  driving to work, walking outside, plugging up my phone.  What if it did suddenly unravel?  What if today was it?  Did I accomplish what I wanted to accomplish on this planet, in this life?
     I suppose if I died today, I could be happy with the life I've had.  I have tasted love and sadness; I have touched earth and sky; I have listened to songs and silence.  But, I could have done more.  I could have seen more.
     I have discovered a medium from which I can breathe.  I consider that maybe I should have opened this window sooner, but it was stuck.  It couldn't open yet.  It wasn't ready to open yet.  And I didn't even have the means to open it.
     The well of writing, or any art, is filled with knowledge, wisdom, love, and, especially, experiences.  Had I the skill to write before now, what would I have written about?  Only recently have I discovered enough life to draw from.  I have felt the shadow of loneliness; I have walked through the muck on the bottom.  And I have sang from mountains in the joyful arms of my friends and family.
     I don't want to walk away from this coffee shop today feeling sad or depressed.  I want to trudge into the second half of my life with a plan, with goals, with a fever.  I want to finish writing today and set my fire ablaze with a conviction to face tomorrow with my guns blazing.  I want to rip a silent-but-deadly one and blame it on the weird-looking lady sitting next to me.  I want to douse my passions with kerosene in front of anyone that dares to mock my conviction; I want to scream when I'm 40 and when I'm 50 and when I'm 60 "How about me now bitch?"
     And, some far, far, far away day, when my candle does indeed flicker and die, I want one sad hymnal to trance the audience with just 5 minutes of sadness.  It will be one last, indulgent prank on my friends and family.  After the last dying breath of languishing gospel fades into sniffling remembrance, I would like Chumbawamba's "Tub Thumping" to be turned up so loud that it vibrates the pews or the chairs or the earth.  Everyone will be looking at each other thinking for a brief moment of "can you believe that?".   Then, they will remember me.  And what will they remember about me?  Will they celebrate my life by remembering my good intentions or my mistakes?  What footprint have I left in my travels that will be heralded?  If any?  What should I have done differently?
     Is my inspiring reflection tugging my heart to write or is it a strained segue prefixing some silly prose?  Or maybe a little of both...

     I stared at my laptop screen for quite some time before I finally decided that I'd had enough.  I couldn't seem to find anything to write about, and I didn't feel like trying.  I grabbed my coat and packed up my equipment.  I loosed a silent-but-deadly one, gave the weird-looking lady next to me a disgusted look, and walked into the January afternoon with my hood pulled over my head and my coat zipped to my chin.  I decided to go for a downtown stroll before I went home.  Perhaps the open air would liberate some magical idea buried deep in my psyche.  I locked my valuables in my car and proceeded to saunter down Jefferson Street.
     An arctic chill carried on the north wind invaded my winter attire and persuaded me to take shelter.  The first place I happened across was Whaler's Catch.  The bar looked inviting; and, a nice, frosty mug of beer might be just what I needed.
     I found a comfortable spot at the bar and ordered a tall Foster's.  The lunch rush was dwindling, and the bartender was doubling as a busser.  He was trying to dutifully converse with me and help out his co-workers.  I tried to assure him that I was fine, that he didn't need to worry about me; but, he seemed genuinely concerned about my satisfaction.
     I stared at the prismatic light that spattered the wall through a whiskey bottle.  It would cheerfully bounce at each passing footfall which I found joyful.
     "Cold day, isn't it?" Mr. Polite spoke.
     "Sure is," I politely responded.
     "Good day for a cold one.  Wish I could join you," he continued as he wiped off a booth behind me.
     I smiled.  I didn't want to be rude and I wasn't questioning the man's conversational ability, but I was really just wanting to enjoy the silence.
     "I'm getting too old for this shit," he smiled as he returned to his post behind the bar.
     "Tell me about it.  I'll be 40 next week," I revealed.
     "Oh, yeah?" he said, "you got big plans?"
     "I don't know," I chuckled.  "My wife has big plans for me, but I don't know what they are..."
     "Oh, boy," he said as he took my empty mug.  "That could mean trouble.  If you want some advice, you'd better say you like it no matter what. You want another one?"
     "Sure, why not.  One more."  I leaned on my stool to retrieve my billfold from my back pocket.  "My wife's birthday is a couple of weeks after mine.  I like it that way, because I can gauge how much I should do for her by how much she does for me."
     He laughed and sat the now-full mug in front of me.  "Yeah, that is convenient."
     A quiet stretch of time elapsed then, and I considered my wife's birthday for a moment.  In all the excitement of my fortieth birthday approaching, I decided that I should focus a little on her celebration.  What should I get for her?  Where might we go?  When I left here, I might hit some of these downtown shops to see if I could find some unique gift that she'd never expect.
     I was feeling cheerful after two, large mugs, and I tipped Mr. Polite rather generously when I paid the tab.  I dreaded the cold chill that was about to sting me, so I decided to hit the first store I came across.
     The large, restaurant door thudded closed as I hurriedly strolled toward Broadway.  Just half a block into my journey, I noticed an open wrought-iron gate that proudly introduced "Brick Alley" to pedestrians.  "Brick Alley" appeared to be an inviting sidewalk nestled between two antiquated buildings.  A soft tendril of steam was escaping from a grate in the path.  I was compelled to go there, despite the fact that I knew the route to be off my plotted course.
     I looked both ways before entering, and no one was to be seen.
     Sunlight had been detoured by the buildings' substantial size, and I was in the heart of the alley's shadow before I noticed a grimy shop window and a seasoned, "WE'RE OPEN" sign hanging in the door.  I had never noticed this shop before, and I found the odd location intriguing.  A delightful jingle from an overhead bell accompanied the rusty, creak of the door hinges as I entered.
     Dusty antiques lined the shelves, and the first thought I had was that I wasn't going to find anything for my wife's birthday here.  No one was around, and I wondered for a moment if I was supposed to be here.  And that's when I heard it.
     Something was humming a charming little tune, and I wanted more than anything to find the source of this song.  I walked carefully through an aisle of shelving, scanning the odd collection for the origin of the sound.  I moped past Samurai swords and African masks and eerie skulls until, at last, I came to an unmanned counter in the back of the store.  A box with holes cut into it sat there; and, as I inched closer, I became certain that the sound was coming from there.
     I looked around to be sure that no one was in sight.  Unless someone was watching me through the beaded curtain that hung over a rear doorway, no one was around.
     I lifted the lid off the box.  Rising slowly from inside, a furry ear twitched.  A brown and white patched creature slowly rose out of the box, humming the song that had so entranced me.  I petted one of its pointed ears.  It seemed to smile as it cocked its head, gently swayed, and continued humming.  My wife had been wanting another dog as a companion to the crazy one we already owned; I wondered if she would like this thing just as much.
     I heard someone clearing their throat.  A hand parted the beaded curtain, and an elderly, oriental man slowly emerged.  He had a long, gray mustache; he tugged at the end of it with one hand.  "That is Mogwai," he said as he approached the counter.
     "I've never seen anything like it."  I stared at the creature.  The lapse of silence nudged my beer-filled bladder into urgency.  "Hey man, do you have a restroom here?" I asked.
     "No, you go outside by dumpster.  That's what I do," he suggested.
     "Ok.  I'll be right back," I told him as I quickly ran outside to relieve myself behind the dumpster there.  The bell jingled again as I ran back inside.
     "Whew," I said.  "So tell me about this thing..."
     "Mogwai does not like bright light; you must never get him wet; and, you must never, never, feed him after midnight.  Oh, and if you have a pet, he likes to open the door and let it outside," the mysterious man said.
     "Oh, fuck that," I said.  "We have this dog that will just keep running if he gets outside.  It takes me an hour to get that mother fucker when he gets loose.  I hate that shit."  I quickly replaced the lid to the box, much to the disgruntlement of the Mogwai.  It quit humming and gave me a dirty look as I shoved its head back inside.
     "What else you got?" I asked as I inspected a skull that was staring at me from its dusty perch.
     "That's bong.  Weed goes right here," he pointed at one of its eye sockets.
     "What's this?"  I picked up a mechanical-looking box that had one, red button on the top.
     "That is time machine," the sage man explained.  "Simply push button, and think of time and place you wish to go.  You can visit the past for ten minutes, so plan ahead wis..."
     His words began to fade after I pushed the button.  I could feel myself being pulled into a tunnel of energy.  The old man's words were vacuumed from me.  "When you get back, you will need to sh..." was all I caught before they faded completely.
     I was spinning uncontrollably into a vortex.  I felt certain I was going to be sick, so I decided to choose a place and time quickly.  Eleven Point River in Missouri during the summer of 1991 was the first thing that popped into my head.  I could feel myself being sucked into an opening in a whirlpool of energy.  Just when I thought I wasn't going to be able to take anymore, I was standing on the bank of the river where I would go canoeing every summer.
     "Oh shit!"  Someone behind me shouted out; he appeared to be taking a leak.  It was a young kid with a redneck mullet that reached down to the middle of his back.  He quickly pulled his shorts up and turned to see who was standing behind him.
     When our drunken eyes met, they widened at the dawning revelation that we were looking at ourselves.  "You're me!?!" Mullet-Head exclaimed.
     "Duane, you ok??" I heard someone call from beyond a wall of reeds and brush.  I took a step so that I could see through the weeds.  Damon, much younger than I ever remembered him being, was standing on the bank of the river.  Swimming in the water, Brett, Jeremy, Aaron, Boogie, and Dennis were floating on the pads that were supposed to be used to sit on.  Three canoes had been pulled onto the sandy bank.  Brett splashed Damon by hitting the surface of the water with the flat of his paddle.  "Fuck you, man!  You're getting water in my beer!" Damon complained.
     "Well, jump in!" Bret mocked.
     "You ok, Duane?" he shouted again.
     "Yeah!" I answered for Mullet-Head who was standing there in shock.
     Bret splashed him again and cackled deviously.  "Oh, fuck it," Damon said and then jumped into the water.
     I felt a hunger like none I had felt in a long, long time.  I wanted nothing more than to join them.  I remembered this day so well.  I was overdressed for the weather, so I started peeling off some of the clothes that I was wearing.  I stood there in my jeans and a white, tee-shirt, remembering the words of the old, Asian man.  I only had ten minutes.  I felt panicky for a moment, trying to decide what I was going to do with such a short amount of time.
     "I'm bald and fat!" Mullet-Head said.  "...and I wear glasses!"
     "Fuck you, Mullet-Head!  At least I don't have to jack off to the lingerie section of the JCPenny's catalog anymore, skinny boy."  I flicked the cigarette he was smoking out of his mouth and took the beer from his hand.  "Smoking will kill you and you're too young for that."
     "Fuck you man!" he complained, but wouldn't make eye contact.
     I took a drink from the Keystone Light.  It was mostly full and still cold, so he must have just taken it from the cooler.  I felt sick with nostalgia from the taste of that beer and the sounds of my friends' intermittent shouts of "Fuck you, man!" and "Your momma!"  The river lapping softly against the bank calmed me into mental clarity, as it always did.
     It felt just like home.
     "Are you from the future?" Mullet-Head finally produced a coherent statement.
     "Yeah," I said.  A couple of minutes had surely already elapsed.  I needed to get to business.  What was I going to tell him?
     The first thing that popped into my head was to tell him not to get married so young.  I opened my mouth to say just that, but then I thought about DJ, my oldest son.  I couldn't imagine a life without him in it.  I suddenly realized how careful I had to be.  I could fuck up a lot of shit if I wasn't.
     "Well, tell me something, man... who wins between Bret Hart and Mr. Perfect at SummerSlam?" Mullet-Head asked.
     "Seriously, man?  Of all the mysteries of the future, you want to know about fucking wrestling?  Wouldn't you want to know who wins the World Series or the SuperBowl?  Or what stocks to invest in??"  I wanted to tell him that he'd grow out of his love for professional wrestling in just a few years, but I figured what was the point?  I remembered how much I loved wrestling back in those days.
     "Ok, well, what stocks should I invest in?" he asked.
     I was about to give him a list of the successful companies that came to mind like Google or Starbucks or IBM, but I started to think about my wife.  What if he made so much money that he never worked in a buffet?  What kind of future could there possibly be without Joanna, Roman, or Amelia?  I held my tongue.
     "Well, what do you do for a living?" Mullet-Head asked me.
     I was stumped for words yet again.  I could tell him to stay in school, but wouldn't that be the same situation?  What if I had taken the perfect road?  What lessons would I have learned?  What kind of scumbag might I turn out to be if I had made all the right choices without learning any of the lessons that I've learned?
     Suddenly, I felt this overwhelming desire to not say a fucking thing.  Could my life be better?  Sure.  But it could also be a helluva lot worse.  I remember the punk that was staring at me.  I remember feeling like I knew everything.  And then feeling like I knew nothing.  And then finally coming to the realization that I was neither smart nor stupid.  I didn't know everything, but there were a couple of things that I knew pretty well.  He was going to have to go through those phases himself.  I wanted to cushion him from the pains he'd be feeling, but then he'd never the learn the lessons that came from them.
     I sighed and just focused on the river.  I listened to my old friends yelling and cursing and splashing.  If I could have explained who I was, I would have just jumped in there with them.  Jeans and all.
     "Go get me a beer, and I'll tell you everything you'll need to know," I told him.  He gave me a cautious look, but finally started down to the canoes where the coolers were.
     "What's wrong, fag?" Dennis shouted at my younger self as Mullet-Head opened one of the coolers.
     Mullet-Head stammered, grabbed a beer, and shouted back.  "Fuck you bitch!"
     "Where you going?" Jeremy shouted after Mullet-Head.  He paused, trying to think of an excuse.
     "I gotta shit," he responded.
     "Well, don't wipe with poison ivy!" Aaron offered.  The crew laughed, but Mullet-Head didn't seem to mind.  He was glad they were accepting his excuse.
     When Mullet-Head returned, he handed me a beer and sat beside me on the bank.  We watched our friends swimming in that cold, spring water.  Finally, Mullet-Head spoke, "well?"
     I popped the beer and just sat there, ignoring him.  I tuned him out and watched the world.  I wanted to stay longer.  I was sure that as soon as I got back, I'd think of a thousand things I should have said.  But all I wanted was to just enjoy the moment.  If Mullet-Head didn't continue doing stupid shit, then what would I write about when I was 40?  That dumb ass gave me all kinds of material.
     "Well??" he pressed.
     I grabbed my coat and my shirt.  I could feel a tug.  My time was almost up.  I wanted to cry.  I didn't want to go yet.  I wanted to taste that water, drink the rest of this beer, yell "Fuck you, bitch" at my friends.
     Finally, I thought of the one thing that I always wished I would have gotten done when I was younger.
     "Orthodontia!!!"  I yelled as I was being pulled back into that vortex, spinning out of control back to the present.  But the only thing he heard was "Ortho...", as I tumbled wildly.
     I stood on "Brick Alley" putting my shirt and coat back on and needing to shit so badly I wasn't sure if I was going to make it to the nearest restroom.  I felt my teeth with my tongue and thought, 'yeah, still crooked.'  I didn't have time to sulk; I needed a bathroom.
     As I started off toward Whaler's Catch, I looked up to where the store had been.  The door wasn't there.  A brick wall that supported one end of the building next to me held no hint that a store had ever been there.  As I started to jog away, I noticed something white in the clump of weeds next to me.  I bent over to pick it up.
     It was a roll of toilet paper.  "I tried to warn you" had been printed around it.  I thought about sprinting to Whaler's Catch.  I spotted the dumpster and looked at the roll of toilet paper in my hand.  Suddenly the decisions of my life seemed rather trivial.
   
   
   
   
   
     

Chapter 10 - Meet the Family

                                               

                                                  1/9/14 - "Chapter 10 - Meet the Family"

     Blogger's Note:  "Duane, I like the Flashback episodes.  Those are definitely the best!"
     "The random ones are my favorite!  That one about Amelia was great!"
     "Oh my God, I can't wait for you to finish the 'How You Got Engaged' story!  Hurry up already!"
     I wish I could hear sentences like these every single day.  When I do, I'm smiling from ear-to-ear for quite a spell.  I'm always pining for a compliment.
     Everyone has a different opinion on which type of episode I should focus on.  I would write one of each everyday if I could.  I'd absolutely love to.  But, here's the thing.  I can't.
     After I finish a chapter in our "How We Got Engaged" story, my cup is empty.  It takes me several days of daydreaming to fill it back up.  As soon as I get done with a scene, I immediately rearrange the props to set up for the next installment.  I have the plot outlined, but I don't have the details worked out yet.  And the details are what turns "I drove to St Louis" into "a coffee-stained shirt, a scratched Fleetwood Mac CD, and a bitter memory tempered my first glimpse of the arch with an ache for conversation".
     I couldn't write this story from start to finish without sacrificing quality.
     Which brings me to my point.  I've been writing a lot.  I'm enjoying every second of it.  But I don't want to substitute quality for quantity ever.  That's my pledge to myself.  If the quality ever diminishes, then I plan on chilling until the cup refills.  I don't want to show up at a gun fight with only five bullets in my six-shooter.  I want to walk up at sunset, eyes shaded by the brim of my hat, dust clouds caressing my footfalls, and a gun on each hip to fire away at my black-clad villain, Blandness.
     Sometimes, however, I do show up with a bullet still missing from one gun.  If it's a particularly, engaging day and I'm just itching to write, I'll gamble that I'll find that last bullet before I "draw".  I did that during the last chapter.
     As I was writing "Fun at Work", I was moving along rather nicely.  The only plot point I needed to really communicate was that "Joanna was going to be relocated to Vegas".  Everything else was really just spice.
     So, Joanna got a call in the office.  All I needed was to distract my character until she resurfaced with the bad news.  I had 500 ideas.  I was just going to have a silly conversation with Matt in the server's station or another funny encounter with Calvin or maybe I'd run into Amber and we'd engage in some level of mischief.  I started typing and stopped.  I'd erase what I just wrote.  I started typing and stopped.  I'd erase what I just wrote.  And this went on until I decided that it was time to call it a day.
     A couple of days later, I returned to the story.  I've been in some plot pickles before; this wasn't one of those.  I just couldn't seem to find something I was happy with.  So, I thought of what I might have been doing back in those days.  Who might I have seen?
     And I thought of Sheree.  (I found out I misspelled her name, but I've since corrected it)  In case you didn't know Sheree, she was one of the sweetest, wisest people I have ever known.  I wasn't as close to her as some of my co-workers, but I had enough conversations with her to realize that she was solid gold.  I very sincerely mean that.  She was one of a kind.
     She passed away five years ago.
     At first, when she crossed my mind, I thought, 'no, I can't do that.'  I could never write anything that could do her beautiful soul  justice.  But, then, I just couldn't get her off my mind.  I didn't have a choice in the matter.  I had to talk to her.  Again.
     And that conversation was a very typical "Sheree" conversation.  She didn't waste a single word on herself.  She just never did.
     Suddenly, that chapter finished itself.
     I'm in a similar situation today.  I know the plot points that I need to reach in today's installment.  I even have some seasoning ready to sprinkle.  I just don't think I have quite enough.  Yet.  So, I'm sitting at a window-side, coffee shop table.  Outside, rain is drumming on a soulless sidewalk.  The mood is set, and so am I.  I'm going to pull the crank; I'm hoping this baby purrs.

     "Hey, Dad."  DJ climbed into the backseat with his usual vigor, but I could tell by his mannerisms that he was curious to know who the girl in the front seat was.  I usually got him every other weekend, but I had made arrangements to get him early this week.  Mother's Day was just four days away.  I had to work on Sunday, so I had made plans to celebrate early.  My brother Shawn had gone to pick up our mother, and we were going to meet at Chong's for a nice, family dinner.  Also, I thought it would be a good opportunity to introduce Joanna to everyone.
     "Joanna, this is my son DJ.  DJ, this is my girlfriend Joanna," I introduced them.
     "Hi," DJ said politely.
     "Hi," Joanna responded warmly.  Her phone rang before I could usher the dialogue into ice-breaker mode.  She pulled it out of her purse and looked at the screen.  "I'm sorry; I have to answer this," she apologized.
     While Joanna navigated through what sounded like business conversation, I turned to my son and began our usual preliminaries in a hushed tone.  "You been doin' all right, buddy?" I asked him.
     "Yeah, Dad... where's she from?  She sounds... different..."
     I was about to answer when something Joanna said caught my attention.  "At this point, I don't care, Thomas.  If there's anything you can do, just do it.  I don't care anymore.  I hate that asshole."  She laughed and then hit the button to end the call.
     I looked at her hopefully.  Three days had passed since she had received the bad news that she was being relocated to Vegas.  We had spent that time together, but the mood was somber.  We played with the yarn of possibility like kittens, swiping at a dangling idea without ever intending on snagging anything.  She would be catching a plane in two more days.  I couldn't leave my job or my son, and she was under contract.  It was just that tragically simple.  We had made plans to take my mother out for dinner before Joanna had received the bad news, and she was the kind of person to honor a contract.
     "What was that about?" I asked her.
     "Nothing," she responded as she stared out the window.
     "What do you mean nothing?  It sounded like you've got something in the works.  I'd really like to know," I nagged.
     For a moment, she didn't say anything.  Finally, she spoke.  "Would you just..  could you not..." she sighed; and, for a moment, I thought she was going to start crying.  She took a deep breath and continued, "I don't want to get any hopes up..."
     A nail in my heart drove in further with that hammering despair.  I felt like a thoughtless idiot.  I wanted to preserve the silence, but DJ was waiting on a response.  "She's from Poland," I smiled into the rear-view mirror where I caught DJ squirming nervously.  He had apparently noticed the tense mood, so I tried to lighten it.
     "Have you heard about that new Pokemon, Pikanose?  Pikanose!  I choose you!"  I said in my dramatic, narrative voice.
     "Dad!  I don't even care about Pokemon anymore!  I'm too old for that!" he asserted.
     "Oh.  Oh.  What was I thinking?  Pikanose return!  Pikanose don't do that!  Get back in your pokeball, Pikanose!  Oh, this ain't good!" I playfully animated the scenario by flailing an arm.
     "Dad!  Quit it!" DJ complained, but the ploy to curb his anxiety had worked.
     When we arrived at the restaurant, I parked the car and turned to Joanna.  "Listen, I need to warn you about something," I started.  After she met my gaze with a concerned expression, I continued, "my mother is, well, different..."
     "Oh, quit it!"  She waved me away and climbed out of the car.
     "You should listen to Dad."  DJ's encouragement seemed to catch Joanna's interest.  Fearing that she might be the butt of one of my jokes, she cautiously transferred her focus from me to DJ and back.
     "She's difficult to explain," I said as the three of us strolled across the parking lot.  "She's a nice person, and I wouldn't exactly call her crazy..."  I paused to assess Joanna.  She teetered between suspicion and angst.
     "She talks a lot!" DJ interjected.
     "Listen, everything will be fine.  It's not like that.  But, if you're ever confused as to what's going on, then just know that's it's not you, it's her.  I still don't know what she's talking about half the time!"  I punctuated as we filed inside.
     I spotted Shawn on the other side of the room.  He stood when he saw us, and DJ ran to him.  "Uncle Shawn!" he shouted as he playfully tackled him.  My brother laughed and caught my son in a headlock.  "What have you been up to, stinker?" he said.
     "Mom, this is Joanna, my girlfriend."  I didn't waste any time and introduced the two.
     "Oh, hi.  I'm Edna," Mom fidgeted with her hair as if she needed to look nicer since a girl was now there.
     "Hi, it's nice to meet you," Joanna responded.
     "She's from Poland!" DJ announced.
     "Poland, huh?" Shawn integrated into the conversation.  He extended his hand to shake Joanna's.  "Hi, I'm Shawn."
     "I can tell.  You two look just alike," Joanna shook his hand politely.
     "She's pretty," Mom told me.  "YOU'RE PRETTY!" she yelled at Joanna in case Polish people couldn't hear very well.
     "Thank you," Joanna, maintaining an admirable level of composure, responded with a smile.
     A fast-talking, Asian girl walked up with a pad of paper.  "Everyone having buffet?" she didn't waste any time with formalities.
     "Yes," Shawn answered for us.
     "You want won ton soup?" the expeditious girl continued.
     "No, I want wong tong soup," Mom replied.  She turned to Joanna, "THEY HAVE GOOD WONG TONG SOUP HERE!  Duane, tell her to try it."
     "Mom, we'll take care of the ordering.  Tell us what you want to drink, so you can head on up to the buffet," Shawn was attempting to gain some control over the situation.  I shot him a look of gratitude.
     "Ok, well, get me a.. do they have Dr. Pepper?  No, wait.  I've been drinking a lot of soft drinks lately.  Just get me a water.  Is the water good here?  Oh, nevermind, just get me a Dr. Pepper."
     "We'll take care of it, Mom.  The plates are right over there."  Shawn pointed to the stack of plates and breathed a sigh of relief when she headed in that direction.
     After everyone placed their drink orders and got their plates filled, we reassembled at the table.  Not surprisingly, Mom was the first to start conversation.   "Do they have cars in Poland?" Mom liked to ask the important questions first.
     "Mom, she rides a donkey to school," I toyed with her.
     "Are you serious??"  She looked from me to Joanna.  Joanna just maintained a blank expression.  "HOW DO YOU STAY ON IT??  I BET THAT'S COLD IN THE WINTER!  DOES IT HAVE A SADDLE?"
     "Do you really ride a donkey to school?" DJ asked Joanna.  She finally shook her head and spared me an impish grin.
     "Duane!"  Mom caught the exchange and admonished me.  The two seconds of silence that followed seemed to bother her.  "I saw something about Korea on the news this morning!" she resolved.
     "Korea, huh?" Shawn joined in.
     "Yeah, that's over there by Poland I think.  They've got something going on over there that's really bad.  I don't remember what it was, but I remember that it was bad.  You should try this stuff; it's really good!" she pointed her fork at the green pepper steak.
     "Yeah, Mom, Joanna has to sleep on hay.  They don't have beds at her house," I decided to have fun with the situation.  DJ looked from me to Joanna.  This time she nodded, playing along.
     "Oh, that's too bad.  I bet you're glad to be over here, then!  Did you try the wong tong soup?  It's good, isn't it?  Duane, you're not going to believe this.  The neighbors broke my oven again!"
     Our mother's poor neighbors were responsible for all sorts of mischief at her house.  They would break in while she was gone and break the light in the refrigerator, hide her car keys, and take some money out of her purse.  They'd never take all the money, just some of it.
     "Really, Grandma?" DJ voiced his concern.
     "Yeah!  Last week, they got my chicken and Sprite, too," she continued.
     "DJ, just finish your food," I encouraged him, but he was too interested to comply.
     "They broke in your house and took chicken and Sprite out of your refrigerator!?!  Why didn't they take more stuff while they were in there?" DJ asked the question that I had asked her a thousand times, but she always had an answer that she felt was perfectly reasonable.
     "Because they just like to mess with me," she deduced.
     Shawn and I sighed; I felt Joanna gently pat my knee.
     "Mom, can we change the subject?" I politely requested.
     Shawn herded the conversation by addressing Joanna.  "So, how's my brother treating you?"
     "Oh, he an idiot," she smiled and squeezed my hand under the table.
     "If you two got married, would you live here or in Poland?"  Mom broached.  The question caught DJ's attention, and he looked up from his plate to inspect the response.
     "Oh, Mom, it's a little early for talk like that," I laughed.
     "Well, what if your children didn't speak English?" she pondered aloud.  The rest of us couldn't muzzle our amusement, so we all just shared a laugh.  Mom seemed unaffected.
     "Grandma, babies learn whatever language they're taught!" DJ explained.
     I mentally stepped away from the table for a moment.  I wondered what Joanna thought of my family, so I studied her from the corner of my eye.  She appeared entertained; she seemed relieved.  Sometimes, introducing dates to my family was rather stressful for me; but, Joanna had the look of someone that just had a weight lifted from her chest.  I watched my family from her eyes.
     Mom was talking about how Mountain Dew can cause cancer; Shawn would switch the tracks of dialogue if she started to get too out there; and, DJ would listen to the banter with childlike interest.  Sometimes he would emphasize someone's point by quoting something he'd just learned at school.  I saw everyone in a new light.
     Everyone was in my corner.  In her own way, Mom was trying to make my girlfriend feel welcome.  DJ wanted to showcase his manners and intelligence by carefully choosing his participation; and, Shawn was corralling the momentum of our family's ardor as an attempt to cushion my girlfriend from our family's "enthusiasm".
     I could see in her expression that Joanna wasn't daunted by all the turmoil.  If anything, she seemed to enjoy the refreshingly unusual display of love that was staggering through our idiosyncratic interactions.  She could sharpen her wit against the tracks of our discussions with their deftly sudden turns and crazy, unexpected twists.  And yet, I had come to know her well enough to recognize a taxing burden she was harboring as well.
     Real love, I believe, has dimensions.  I saw in her at that peculiar moment a dimension I hadn't seen before.  Under the table, I laced my hand into hers and squeezed it gently.
     "I'll get the tip," Mom announced.
     Shawn waved her away.  "Mom, we've got it."
     "No, I'm going to..." she paused her insistence as she began rummaging through her purse.  "You're not going to believe this!  I had four dollars right here..." she indicated a pocket inside her purse, "...I know you don't believe me, but those sons of bitches..  oh, here it is."  She pulled some money out of the bottom of her purse.  Her neighbors were off the hook... this time.
     "Mom, put your money up," I said as I exchanged a smile with Joanna.  I pulled some money out of my billfold for a tip and threw it on the table.
     "Duane, if you want I can take DJ home; I'm headed that direction anyway," Shawn offered.
     "If you're sure you don't mind, I appreciate it, man," I said graciously.
     Shawn and I split the bill at the register.  Outside, Mom was telling Joanna that it was nice to meet her as we walked up.
     "Well, I hope we didn't scare you too badly," Shawn said to Joanna.
     She shook her head, smiled, and replied, "not at all... I am glad to meet you."
     Everyone exchanged their goodbye's; I hugged DJ and told him I'd see him soon; and, at last, Joanna and I climbed into my Oldsmobile.
     We both exhaled and, before I turned the key to start the car, we looked at each other and laughed.  Just as I was about to put the car in reverse, Joanna's phone rang.
     "Hello?" she answered.  I watched and listened intently.  "Yes, of course..."
     Silence followed as she listened to whomever was on the other end of the line.  I could feel my heart rate increasing as anxiety began tensing my grip on the steering wheel.  I forced myself to let it go and rested my hands in my lap.
     "Yes, I understand.  I don't care.  I'll do it anyway.  Yes, I understand..  thank you, Thomas.  Ok, goodbye.  Yes, of course.  Thank you again."  Joanna ended the call and looked at me.
     If she didn't say something soon, I decided that I would strangle her.  "Well?" I asked.
     She took a deep breath and explained.  "I've been working on a way to stay here.  I talk to Raul and to Thomas, the Director at the casino.  At first, they say there is no way.  But, Thomas come up with an idea, and he ask Raul to do it..."
     "Well, what is it?" I encouraged her to continue.
     "Raul say if I voluntarily step down from my supervisor position, I can continue working in the buffet.  The students will all be leaving, but I will stay.  I will be paid like the students, but I can keep hotel room."
     "Are you sure about this?  I mean, I really hope you'll stay; but, I want you to be sure about this," I told her.
     "Well, my contract ends in three months.  I already decide that I will not renew it.  I will be going back to Poland either way.  I will lose three months of better pay; I'm not too worried about that.  I am sick of this company anyway," she clarified.
     I reached my arms around her and brought her in for a hug.  I could feel a release of emotion in her embrace, and I reciprocated.  "This fucked up," she said.  "I beg not to leave Destin and come here.  And now, I beg to stay here.  There is one thing, though."  Her words fell softly into my ear as her chin rested on my shoulder.  I pulled her away from me to look into her eyes.
     "They cannot promise me how long this will last.  There is another contract between the company and the casino.  If that falls apart, then nothing can be done.  I could be sent to Vegas tomorrow regardless if that happens," she relayed.
     I didn't say anything.  I didn't want to taint the good news with worry.  I kissed her cheek and, at last, put the car in reverse.
     An hourglass had been turned on our relationship, and who knew when it would run out?
                                    (to be continued...)

Continue our "How We Got Engaged" story:
                                                           Chapter 11 - Perceptions
   
   
   
   
   

   
     

Tales of the Unexplained

                                                   1/5/14 - "Tales of the Unexplained"

     Blogger's Note:  **SPOILER ALERT**  If you haven't read "Alanaka", do not proceed.  Go read it right now!  And, then join us for discussion time.
     I am torn between pride and disappointment right now.  I am very happy that everyone enjoyed the girl that bombarded my mind for over a week, but I'm just a touch disappointed that I may have failed to deliver the message that I was shooting for.  I think the problem lies in the fact that I didn't exactly share what inspired our eleven-year-old great-great-great-great granddaughter (I think that's the right number of great's).
     The advice I had been given that inspired last week's episode was simply to preserve my writings.  I was told that even if I'm never published that someday my children or my children's children might someday find joy and comfort reading some of my "works".  It was suggested that I print all my stories and keep them "nice and neat" in a binder, because "you just can't trust computers".  So, I did.  It was also suggested that I write some things in my own handwriting, because it's nice to see and feel the words that I have actually touched.  To see the changes of words by reading through the marked-out phrases opens a window to the creative process.
     I followed that advice.  I printed everything.  I bought a big, red binder, and I stored them all "nice and neat".
    And, then, I got to fantasizing.  About my grandchildren that might read this.  And their children.  And maybe even their children.  And I followed that line until I discovered Alanaka.
     So, you see, the point of the story was simply, in the end, that Alanaka read my words.  She validated me.  Of course, I tried to deliver this message in a clever, fun, futuristic setting.  But, I had no plans for Alanaka once I finished that one-shot.  Keep in mind that she read "Parenting with Lightsabers" in its entirety.  I was trying to wrap a mystery within a mystery.  Anything that was left unresolved in the story will surely be explained eventually.
     Now, before you start rioting, let me finish by saying that once I left her sitting in that blue halo of PIB light in a lonely attic during a feisty Tantrum, I knew I hadn't seen the last of her.  You see, Alanaka isn't the type of girl to make "regular" appearances.  She's the type of girl that pokes her head into an attic hatch when no one is expecting her.  She likes to snap her head around when someone calls to her so that her hair flares out and falls across he face dramatically as she looks at you.  She's a ball of kinetic energy making every conscious effort to appear calm, because she doesn't let people know that she's nervous.  And, when it's time, she won't wait to be invited.  She'll tiptoe into our world like a Christmas mouse searching for a scrap of food in the soft glow of pastel light.  And, maybe, just maybe, she will find something.  But don't worry.  She's safe in a future where no one can even be hurt.  Right?    
     Ok, on to business.  I created a "fan" page on Facebook today.  I was really excited at all the support I got immediately upon launch.  If you'd like to join us, you can like it here.  I have some plans coming in a week or two for that page, but, first, I want to make sure that everybody that wants to be in there is.  So, please "like" it if you haven't already.  Also, please feel free to use that page to discuss features/ask questions/offer ideas/offer CONSTRUCTIVE criticism.  I usually get my feedback from my co-workers, because that's who I see everday.  I'd love to hear from everyone else as well.
     And, finally, on to today's episode.
     It's another Flashback episode.  Only this time, I decided to keep it simple for some reasons I'll share with you.  First, I needed a break from some heavy thinking; today's feature is pretty straight-forward.  My brain muscles flexed a little too much during "Alanaka", but I promise to give them another good workout next week.  Second, I haven't really been enjoying the Flashback episodes.  I liked writing "A Series of Unfortunate Events", but I felt pressured a little.  I've had two messages from people that felt like I should have included them in some of my stories.  I suppose I should be flattered.  But I'm not.  I write what's on my mind.  If that doesn't include you, I'm sorry.  I'm not a bad person.  I just wasn't thinking about you.  Shit like that sure takes the fun out of it for me.  Now I'm over-thinking these Flashback episodes and wondering what kind of feedback I might get if I include this person or if I don't include that person.  That's just stressful to me, especially considering the Flashback episode I've had brewing in my brain for some time now.
     So, I called up a couple of my old school friends.  Jeremy told me to just write what I felt like writing, don't worry about offending people.  You'll never make everyone happy.  He had just about tipped the scales enough for me to proceed, but I still couldn't "throttle down" like I wanted to.  So, I called my other old school friend, Damon.  He told me about a Snoopy cartoon he had seen once.
     Snoopy was going around helping old ladies cross the street, giving food to the homeless, and performing all sorts of good Samaritan deeds.  But, when he got home, he was scolded for being "a bad dog" (perhaps for being gone for so long, or for getting dirty, or who-knows-what).  The point was that "you'll never please everyone".
     I'm ready and willing to touch on some of my high school years in these Flashback episodes.  But, to do so, I'm going to have to be real.  These were some of the best years of my life, and I have a river of stories that are worth telling.  If you are easily offended, please, do us both a favor, and quit reading this blog.  It's only going to get worse.  In a couple of weeks, I'm gonna open this bitch up.  You are being warned right now.
     One last thing and then we'll get started.  I had planned on making this a Halloween special.  But as I started brainstorming the next Flashback episode, I realized that it might be easier if I introduced a couple of characters and places in increments.  I'd like you to meet one of my friends today.  He'll have some future cameo appearances, so it's better if you just go ahead and get introduced properly.
     This episode is three stories spread across my youth of the strangest and most unexplained things that I have seen in my lifetime.  Unlike most episodes, I promise that I will not exaggerate or embellish anything in any way whatsoever.  I am going to explain these events exactly as I remember them.  And I hope you'll believe me, because these are true stories.  They are ordered from the least strange to the strangest (although I really had to decide between the second and third one which was the strangest).  But, please note that these are not in chronological order.  I will try to approximate my age, but I don't remember exactly how old I was in a couple of these... 

     I landed my first "regular paycheck" job just after I had turned sixteen.  I was making $3.35 an hour (minimum wage at the time) working at a Chinese restaurant by the name of Chong's on Jackson Street in Paducah, KY.  I don't think I'll ever forget my first real job.
     I washed dishes along with a motley crew of punk, long-haired teenagers that would take regular breaks out the back door for a cool cigarette.  Franklin, an elderly black man that lived in one of the houses on the other side of the alley, would often see us standing out there.  He'd stagger up to us smelling like whiskey and never making eye contact.  I would come to know Franklin quite well; and, in the time that we became acquainted, I don't think he ever once made eye contact with me - which was fine, because he was always so drunk that he made me nervous.
     He would always begin with a loud whisper, "hey."  Usually, at first, we'd be too caught up in conversation to acknowledge him.
     "Hey."  He'd say it slightly louder and with a tad more emphasis.  When he'd at last have our attention, he'd wave us over to him.  Most of the dishwashers would just ignore him, but I couldn't be rude, no matter how drunk he might be.  I was usually the one that would nervously amble over to him, uncertain if I should act respectful to an elder or posture some fabricated confidence lest he suggest I owe him something.
     Franklin would always start off by throwing his arm over my shoulder.  He'd sway me as I tried to turn away from the choking smell of heavy whisky and menthol cigarettes.
     "You want some beer, boy?" he'd always ask me.   "I'll buy you some beer if you want some."
     I had just turned sixteen.  I think I may have tasted beer, but I had certainly never drank a whole one.  I struggled for a way to tell him 'no thank you' without upsetting him.  Ironically, in just a few months, I'd be struggling for a way to communicate my "order" so that he'd get it right.
     "Give me twenty dollars, and I'll get you some beer," Franklin would propose.  Occasionally, some of the dishwashers would take him up on the offer; eventually, I would as well.  But not in this story.
     I was the youngest employee, so I was usually tasked with the job that no one else wanted to do.  That job was usually to restock the washed dishes.  I'd jet from one side of the restaurant to the other with a stack of bowls or a rack of glasses or a giant wok.  The expeditious nature of this duty got me quite acquainted with all the various people that worked there, from the servers to the cooks.
     One particular cook was quite friendly.  He was a middle-aged, Asian fella that always smiled and talked to me.  One night, he asked me what my name was.
     "Duane," I responded.
     He turned to the choir of cooks behind him and started laughing.  He said something in Chinese that sounded something like, "winx chi un yun ti ji Duane!"  And, then everyone of them just started laughing hysterically.
     After that, every time he saw me, he'd say "Duane!" and nudge one of his co-workers, and they'd both just burst into laughter.
     I'd work three nights a week.  I'd go in around four in the afternoon and get off around midnight.  And that's when this story unfolds.
     You see, as I already stated, I had just turned sixteen.  I was still a little new to driving and maybe even a little wet behind the ears.  We lived out in the country, and the quickest way home was going down Pell Cemetery Road where, of course, there was a cemetery.  Actually, this was the same cemetery where my father was buried, but that's beside the point.
     The point is, sometimes, driving by the cemetery at my young age and that late at night was, well, scary.  Sometimes, I'd even take the longer route and head down the highway and up Unity School Road just to avoid that creepy, late-night cemetery.
     But, on one particular night, I didn't take the long way home.
     And, right about the time that I started to pass Pell Cemetery, I looked up in the sky to find the strangest triangle of lights that seemed to be hovering there.  So, I did what any scared, sixteen-year-old would do in such a situation.  I floored it.
     And the lights seemed to follow me.  They seemed to stay just above the tree tops, and they seemed to keep pace with me.  At last, when I had gotten to the stop sign at Unity School Road, they drifted over Moler's Woods and out of sight.
     At home, I ran inside.  Panicky and excited, I told my mom what I had seen.  I must admit I was a touch surprised that she believed every word.  And, now, she wanted me to drive her back to the cemetery to see if we could rediscover these lights.  She instructed my thirteen-year-old brother to keep an eye on our four-year-old sister Amanda while we drove out there.
     So, she climbed in the passenger seat and away we went.
     Sure enough, no sooner than we arrived at the cemetery, the lights returned.  "What is that?" Mom asked.  To which I replied that I, of course, didn't know.  Without asking permission, I turned the car around and quickly drove back home.
     And, again, the lights seemed to follow us.  And, again, they drifted out of sight just over Moler's Woods.
     To this day, I don't know if it was airplane lights that maybe just had a trick of perspective or if it was a helicopter pilot that was just fucking with us or if it was, indeed, a visitor from Planet X...

   

     I think I must have been about eight.  At the time, Paducah had two drive-in theaters.  One stood on the Southside; I don't remember its name.  The other one stood just past K-Mart in Lone Oak and was called the Paducah Drive-In.  It was my favorite.
     I'm not sure what the large structure that the screen was mounted to was made of.  I had always assumed that it was concrete (it may have been, I still don't know).  What I do know is that, from the road, it appeared proud and enchanting.  At the ticket booth, our open windows invited the sounds of humming neon and engines idling and popping gravel beneath our tires.  My favorite part of the whole experience was how the worn road twisted this way and that way until it filed into the rows of cars waiting to watch the feature presentation.  I don't know if there were people that could resist the wafting smell of popcorn that would always greet us, but if there were, I don't think I could respect them.  I think I'd feel sorry for them.
     We went there often in those days.  We would pull up beside one of the poles that the speakers were attached to.  The audio was always so wonderfully horrible.  Mom sat in the driver's seat; I sat in the passenger seat; and, my brother would stand between us in the back seat.  We would tilt our heads and quietly listen to the magic that was being transmitted.  We didn't have pause or rewind in those days, so listening was a fragile parcel that we'd handle with care.
     In the middle of the lot, a small, brick building housed the projector.  I always preferred to park between this building and the screen so that I could see the ray of projector light beam its illusions.  Sometimes, if I'd lose my interest in the movie's plot, I'd stare at that flickering light.  Unlike many people, I liked it when someone would interrupt the light's current and cast the shadow of a bobbing head on to the screen.  I felt like it somehow divulged the science to the whole process.
     On this particular night, the last breath of daylight had just retreated, giving even more cadence to the neon's buzzing radiance.  "What are they doing?" Mom had said.  It broke the trance that the movie had on me; I'll admit that I don't remember what it was we had been watching that night.  I turned to look at the projector light; it was the only thing that I could think of that might captivate her.
     "I think your dad told me what that was once," Mom ruminated.  I remember thinking, 'C'mon, Mom, it's the light from the projector.  You should know that!'
     But, then, I noticed that something was catching the interest of a couple of others around us.  In fact, a handful of people were getting out of their cars and looking up in the air.  I began to realize that it wasn't the projector light that had caught my mother's attention.  I wanted to know what was going on; so, I, too, poked my head out the window and looked straight up into the cloudless, night sky.
     Directly overhead, the object of everyone's attention seemed to be the stars. Why was everyone... wait!
     Then, I saw it.  Three stars were dancing in the sky.  I don't mean three lights.  I mean stars.  They looked exactly like stars.  I mean exactly.  And they were spinning randomly this way and that way at dizzying speeds.  We watched them for quite a while, until we finally just grew bored of watching them and returned our attention to the movie.
     To this day, I don't know what those "dancing stars" could have been.

     From about ages 12-14, my best friend was Neidermyer.
     Maybe we always called him by his last name because it was such an interesting last name.  Or maybe because he was such an interesting character that he deserved to be called by his last name.
     He lived just on the other side of Unity School from me in the creepiest house that I have ever been in.  I spent the night there all the time, and we'd stay up late playing video games or talking about the secrets to the universe or blending together all kinds of random ingredients in the kitchen in the hopes of making something extraordinarily delicious.  I have a book of Neidermyer stories that I'll have to share with you sometime.
     If I have ever been in a haunted house, then it would have to be his house.  He had a room in the basement that you couldn't even get to.  With a flashlight and a mirror, you could peek over the existing wall into this empty room that had a couple of crushed beer cans and a flattened cigarette pack in it.  I thought it was creepy just to see into that room; I was always afraid when I looked into the mirror that I was going to see something in there that I didn't want to see.
     If you climbed the center steps that led upstairs, you could turn left to go to his older brother's room, or you could go right to go to his room.  That's where we stayed most of the time.  He had a Commodore 64 and all kinds of cool games to go with it.  His computer desk sat in a little alcove by the upstairs window.  We would both sit in chairs in front of his closet.  The closet door was only waist high, and it had a latch on it that would make it impossible to open without turning the knob.  You could go through this closet to the garage via a small, crawl space in the back.  We actually did this once to see if you, indeed, could.  I couldn't tell you how many times that closet door would open by itself and stop on the back of my chair.  We'd always freak out and run downstairs.  Then, after we'd settle down and muster some courage, we'd return.  We'd close the door, making triple sure that it had latched, and resume our night of video games.  And, then, an hour or so later, sure enough, that door would, again, open.
     Neidermyer would tell me scary stories of hearing a loud crash and the sound of shattered glass from his brother's room while he was home alone.  Upon inspection, he would find a picture on the opposite side of the room from where it had been hanging, now broken and shattered.  I never witnessed this particular event myself, but Neidermyer wasn't one that I had caught in a lie very often.  Maybe never.
     He had an older tape deck that could play cassette tapes backwards.  I couldn't tell you how many times he'd play a cassette backwards trying to discern a Satanic message from some unfamiliar audio.  Neidermyer was an avid church-goer, as was I; but, we had a fascination with proving the existence of the unknown during our preteen years.  The thing about playing something backwards is that, no matter what it is, it sounds creepy.  You could throw in Big Bird's Funtime Merry Songs; and, the moment you play it backwards, it takes on an unusual and ominous peculiarity.  And, once, we did find something rather strange.
     It was Prince.  I think it was the same album that "Purple Rain" was on, and it was near the end of the track.  A creepy-as-hell voice sounded very much like it was saying 'I am Satan' and laughing.  He played it over and over; and even his brother was impressed at the freakish sound.  I was, simply put, scared shitless.  I wanted to go home, but you had to walk across this field in the middle of the night to get to my house from his house.  And I sure as hell wasn't going to do that.
     We'd also play this game that we'd play all the time.  We would try to test our psychic ability.  We would get a pencil and some paper, and I would write a number between 1-100 on it.  Then, he would try to guess it.  Then, it was my turn.  He'd write a number down, and I'd try to guess it.  Sometimes, when we would go exploring in a field or along a forgotten stretch of railroad track or down a simple, country road, we'd play this game.  Even if we didn't have paper.  We trusted each other.  To tell you the truth, we rarely guessed the number correctly.
     Except once.
     One night, Neidermyer's parents had gone out.  They had gone out with the parents of some other friends of ours, Matthew and Jessica.  Also, another neighborhood friend of ours had decided to join us in a household filled with kids of a similar age.  His name was Andy.  So, to be clear, gathered in Neidermyer's house at roughly 9pm this particular night was myself, Andy, Matthew, his sister Jessica, and, of course, Neidermyer himself.
     We sat around most of the night trading stories or jokes, but mostly we were just trying to impress Jessica.  She was a couple of years younger than me, very sweet, not unattractive, and the only girl in the room.
     Neidermyer decided that it would be fun to test our psychic ability as a group.
     At first, Jessica didn't want to.  She was a sweet girl that went to church every Sunday.  The proposal sounded spooky.  But, Andy and Matthew had never played this game before, and they were interested in trying it out.  They, at last, convinced her to give it a try.
     Neidermyer grabbed enough pencils and scraps of paper for everyone.  After passing them out, he explained to the newcomers how the "game" was played.  Simply guess a number between 1-100 and write it down on your paper.  He would think of a number, and, on the count of three, we would all reveal our numbers at the same time.
     After several rounds, nobody even got lucky, and the game was starting to get boring.
     "Let's try a number between one and a thousand," I suggested.
     "We can't even get a number between one and a hundred, and you want to try a thousand," Andy protested.
     "Oh, come on, let's try it just once," I encouraged.
     "Yeah, let's try it," Neidermyer agreed.
     "Nah, let's just stick with one to a hundred," Jessica politely declined.
     "Maybe we could do it once," Matthew proposed.
     "We'll go back to the way we'd been doing it," Neidermyer stated.
     And, that's where I got confused.  I thought he meant that we were about to try to guess a number between one and a thousand, but we would go back to revealing our numbers on the count of three.  What he meant, and what everyone besides me understood, was that we were going to go back to guessing numbers between one and a hundred.
     "Ok, I've got a number," Neidermyer informed.  We all nodded and readied our pencils.  "Ok, write it down and on the count of three reveal it."
     "One..."
     "Two..."
     "Three..."
     We each turned over our papers.  We all looked around at each other's numbers.  Neidermyer revealed his number, which was 72.  Jessica had 72.  Matthew had 72.  Andy had 72.  I was the only person that had it slightly wrong, because I thought we were trying a number between one and a thousand.  I had 742.
     The lights in the whole house flickered four distinct times.
     We jumped out of our chairs and got outside as quickly as we possibly could, scrambling over one another.  We stayed out there for nearly three hours until the parents got home.  We didn't tell them what happened., because we didn't want them to think that we were delving into the occult.  We told them that we were just outside talking.
     But we never played that game again.

     -- if you'd like to read another Flashback episode, then check out "The Mad Dog Shack"
   
 
   
     

Alanaka

                                                          1/3/14 - "Alanaka"

     Blogger's Note:  In high school, I took three years of art classes.  I was never really all that great at drawing, but I enjoyed it.  I'm always doodling a superhero or a spacecraft or an alien.  I dreamed of being a comic book artist in my youth.  I've since grown to realize that I'm no where near that good.
     Except once.
     One project in high school was to draw a still life of this plant that was sitting in front of us.  We had been tasked with similar assignments before and since, but something snapped in my brain this particular time.  I remember the bell ringing to start class and the bell ringing to end class.  Not much else.  I didn't draw that plant; it drew itself.  And it was, by far, the best drawing I have ever done in my life.
     I think anyone that creates anything, be it writing or songs or sculptures or photography or anything, will tell you that the best work isn't created.  It creates itself.  We're just vessels delivering the message.
     "Brookport" was like that for me.  Once the seed got planted in my brain, it took on a life of its own.  I was biting at the bit from conception until I could sit in front of my computer.
     The same is true for today's post.  Now, I sure hope I'm not building this up too much.  This idea is admittedly a little corny.  And maybe a little egocentric.  But, as I've already stated, I didn't create Alanaka.  She created herself.  Even her silly name.  But once I met her, I fell in love with her.  If today's feature does nothing more than massage my ego, then it will certainly do that.
     Lastly, before we get started, I'd like to share the perfect storm of things that inspired Alanaka.
     I had been talking to a customer that regularly visits us at the buffet where I work.  He's an accomplished song writer; he also enjoys writing stories and poems as well; so, we had a lot in common (minus the "accomplished" part, of course).  I had asked him to read some of my blog, and he did.  He told me that he really enjoyed reading it, and he praised my "talent."  Then, he gave me advice.  I sometimes cringe when I get advice.  I subscribe to the philosophy that I'd rather swim in my own mistake than celebrate someone else's victory.  But, I respected him; and, as it would turn out, I really liked his advice.  I decided to follow it.  Unfortunately, I can't share it yet, because I'm afraid it will tip my hand on the subject of today's post, but I'll try to share his recommendation in a near-future post.
     I'm approaching 40.  I top the big hill in about a month.  Don't think for one second that that hasn't been on my mind a lot.  And enough on that subject.
     The last ingredient was a song that I just discovered.  It was written by Gillian Welch, but I think I prefer Dylan Platt's version.  It's called "Song Left to Sing".  You can find it here.  I think it would make a good soundtrack for this episode.  Just click on the link and scroll down until you find, "Song Left to Sing", and you can listen to the message that inspired me.  Then, come back here and meet Alanaka.

     A razor of light sliced through the darkness. As the hatch edged open, a screeching hinge cut the silence momentarily before it abruptly stilled.  Movement could just be discerned through the crack.
     "It's stuck!"  A girl's voice complained.
     "Push harder!"  A boy answered.
     Thud, thud, thud.
     "I can't open it.  Here, you try...  wait..  there!"  The hatch door swung open with a loud shrill and a crashing bang.
     When Alanaka's head emerged, a rumble of thunder ominously announced her arrival, but she didn't mind.  Unlike most people, she liked Tantrums.  She pulled a stray whisper of hair from her sight and scanned the attic.
     "Alanaka!  Are you going or not!?!"  The boy's voice complained.
     "She's probably afraid.  Climb down and let us go first!"  Another boy's voice suggested.
     "I'm not afraid, Mason!" she insisted, "ivory light level 5."  Her PIB - Personal Interface Bracelet - lit up with a warm, white light and illuminated the room.  A maze of dusty antiques, sheet-covered stands, and stacks of old crates littered the floor.
     "Alanaka Pridilee Montgomery, I swear if you don't go, I'm going to..."
     "Quit pushing me, Boston!" the eleven-year old girl exclaimed as she at last climbed into the attic.  She stepped out of the way to allow space for her older brother Boston and his friend Mason to join her.
     "Wow," Mason whispered.  "Look at all of these old things!  Ivory light level 5."
     "Ivory light level 5," Boston echoed.  The room brightened considerably.
     "Mason, don't you break anything!  Mom would kill us!" Alanaka ordered.  Mason was thirteen and the oldest, but he didn't always act like the oldest.  He was always getting in trouble for something, and Boston seemed to drop fifty IQ points when he hung out with his mischievous friend.
     "Who me?" Mason asserted.  Alanaka just ignored him.  She pulled a length of ribbon from one of her pockets and tied her auburn hair back in a ponytail.  When she at last took her first step, another groan of thunder shook the air.
     "Was it scheduled to rain today?" Boston asked.
     "If you'd learn the schedule, you wouldn't have to ask.  One of these days, you're going to get caught without a jacket in a rain shower, and I, for one, am going to laugh my butt off!" his sister quipped.
     "So this is a Tantrum?" Boston ignored her scolding.
     "Well, if it's not scheduled, what do you think, you Vlusian Binker Rat??" Alanaka prodded.  Weather patterns were strictly scheduled by the Climate Authority; but, sometimes, on rare occasions, Mother Nature ignored the schedule and showed the Authority who was really in control.  These tempests didn't happen often; but, when they did, most people hated them.  They interrupted so many well-planned events.  But Alanaka loved them.  They were a glimmer of hope that the world couldn't be completely controlled, that the future was still a mystery.  Plus, the sound of Tantrum thunder was different than regulated thunder.  It was ominous and dangerous and magical.
     "Look!" Mason interrupted.  "A set of New Israel daggers!  I bet these are worth at least a thousand credits!"  He picked up one of the weighted knives and threw it at Alanaka.  Her PIB's protection bubble responded, as always.  She didn't even flinch when the dagger bounced off her force shield and clanged to the floor beside her.
     "Quit it, Mason!  You'll break it!" she scolded.
     "You can't break New Israel steel!" he corrected with a smirk.
     "Look, our old Skip Rope," Boston pulled free a braid of steel from a pile of forgotten artifacts.  He held the handle and depressed the button.  A red laser formed a perimeter around him.  "It still works!  You guys wanna play?"
     Tempted, but not enough to halt the exploration of their attic's treasures, Alanaka shook her head.  She used to love playing Skip Rope; she'd almost forgotten about it.
     "What's that?"  On the far side of the room, a large, wooden crate was engraved with what appeared to be a labyrinth on the front.  It caught her eye, because she loved mazes.  Even the boys seemed to be intrigued by the mysterious box.  The three of them walked to the wooden chest wearing expressions of wonder.
     Boston and Mason bookended Alanaka as she knelt in front of the chest.  Ever so carefully, she lifted the lid off it.  A boom of thunder, the loudest yet, startled the three of them as the mysterious contents were revealed by the light of her PIB.
     Stacks of binders and folders and crisp papers were stacked inside.  The stationary was brown with age, and Alanaka liked the way it smelled.  Some of the papers were covered in print; others were filled with handwritten manuscript.  A holo-disc sat on top.
     "Just use your PIB on the holo-disc.  I bet all of this stuff has been recorded on that," Boston suggested.  But Alanaka didn't want to read this stuff on a holo-disc.  She wanted to see and feel the pages herself.  She sat the holo-disc aside and carefully lifted some of the pages out of the chest.  She skimmed through some of the writing.  Boston picked up a folder and started reading to himself.
     "It's just a bunch of stories like you write, Alanaka," he mused.  The sound of a paper being ripped caused Boston and his sister to jerk their attention Mason's way.
     "Whoops," he said.
     "Mason!  Put that stuff down now!" Alanaka lectured.  Apparently he had just ripped the corner of one of the pages, and she didn't like the anxiety she felt when he was handling this stuff.
     "Whatever.  Doesn't interest me anyway," he said dismissively as he sat the papers down and turned to explore more interesting things.
     "Here's some pictures."  Alanaka freed a stack of two-dimensional photographs from a folder.
     "What is that can that the man is holding?" she asked her older brother.
     "That's alcohol.  They drank it back then.  Wanna know something funny?  Back then, alcohol was legal, and marijuana was illegal!" Boston explained.
     "Well, that's backwards," Mason interjected.
     "Look at this picture!  They're surrounded by so many people!" Alanaka speculated.
     "You mean cyber friends?" Mason inquired.
     "No, I think these are real people!  I think these are their friends!"
     She noticed that a man and a woman were in most of the pictures.  She held up one to the light of her PIB.  In it, the man and the woman were posing in front of a Christmas tree with a young boy and a baby girl.  The boy was pouting in the picture.  She turned the aged photograph over and read aloud the handwriting, "Duane, Joanna, Roman, and Amelia.  Christmas 2013."
     "2013!"  Mason exclaimed from behind a stack of old Variable Imaging Emitters.  "Is that your Last Generation?"
     The three children pondered silently what it must have been like... to die.  In the early 22nd Century, genetic science had stopped aging at the age of 25.  The creation and implementation of PIBs made dying impossible.  A force shield that constantly guarded its wearer cushioned crash victims.  It protected them from blunt trauma and deflected hostile projectiles.  It could supply nutrients and oxygen.  Nothing could kill someone wearing a PIB, and cellular regeneration eliminated diseases and cancers.  Suicide wasn't even possible.  PIB removal was only possible when three people were present:  the acting physician, a legal guardian, and a PIB Ambassador.  Removal was only authorized at certain growth intervals or if a Voluntary Fade's application had been approved.
     The only way to die was a long, drawn-out legal process that considered any underlying psychological disorders.  If a person went through the five-year procedure and no mental irregularities were discovered, then they could undergo euthanasia.  These people that just didn't want to live anymore were called Voluntary Fades.  Most people didn't even try to understand what would make someone want to be a Voluntary Fade.
     As a method of population control, child-bearing was only allowed if one applied and was granted a license to birth, and a license was only given after a Voluntary Fade passed away.  Boston's and Alanaka's mother had waited fourteen years to accumulate two licenses so that she could have children raised together.
     "I think Amelia was part of our Last Generation," Boston finally responded.  No one said anything for a period.
     "There sure are a lot of stories in here," Boston mused as he sifted through the pile of stationary.
     "Yeah..." his sister agreed as she lifted another binder out of the box.  It unveiled a smaller box underneath.  Alanaka lifted the package out of the chest and sat it on the floor.
     "What's that?" her brother asked as a loud clang from the other side of the attic prefixed another 'whoops' from Mason.  Alanaka and Boston ignored him.
     She lifted the cover from the box.  On top, a large, velvet-covered book concealed something underneath.  She took the book out to reveal a pair of ladies' shoes that had been carefully stored below it.  They were like no shoes she had ever seen before.  A rosy flower adorned the ankle strap; and, by the look of the heel, something told her that these shoes had been hand-crafted.  She couldn't even imagine how old they might be.  She wanted to wear them, but she knew her mother would never allow that!
     "There's something engraved on the book!" Boston informed.  A layer of dust concealed the lettering, so he inhaled a deep breath and blew it off.
     Another boom of thunder grumbled outside as the words became readable.  "PARENTING WITH LIGHTSABERS" was written across the center.  In the bottom corner, someone had written a smaller bit of script.  He gusted another quick breath to better unveil the message.  "As preserved by Roman Alan Edwards.  I will always diddily-diddily love you, Dad."  Boston read it aloud.
     "What's a 'diddily'?" Mason called from across the room.
     Boston and Alanaka looked at each other and shrugged.  "Must be an inside thing," Boston pondered aloud.
     "And what's a lightsaber for that matter?" Mason continued the barrage of questions.
     "Actually, I think I know," Boston admitted.  "They were things used in Star Wars."
     "What's Star Wars?" Alanaka asked.
     "It was a movie.  Or a bunch of movies.  Our class watched one of them at the Historical Museum once.  It was one of those old-fashioned, two-dimensional videos.  The plot was really cool, but I had a hard time paying attention to a flat screen.  Star Wars is what started the Theater Riots in 2020," her brother explained.  "Apparently, the film industry, which was absolutely booming at the time, decided to remake these Star Wars videos.  The riots started after they cast this girl named Smiley Ryus, or something like that, to play the princess.  The people went crazy.  They rioted and destroyed most of the theaters in the world.  The industry never recovered."
     "He sure uses this word fucking a lot.  What does it mean?" Alanaka asked as she read some passages from one of his stories.
     "I'm not sure; they had a lot of weird slang back then," Boston speculated.
     "What are you kids doing?"
     Alanaka, Boston, and Mason were startled by Mrs. Montgomery's surprising arrival.  Her head surfaced through the attic's hatch door.  "Alanaka!  That stuff belonged to Amelia!  You be extra careful with that stuff!"
     "Who was Amelia?" Alanaka asked.
     "She was my great-great-great grandmother," Mrs. Montgomery explained as she climbed into the attic.  "She was part of our Last Generation.  She kept this box of stuff that was most important to her."
     "What are those shoes, Mom?"
     Mrs. Montgomery smiled slyly.  She didn't answer right away.  "Maybe you should read that and find out," her mother nodded toward the book in her hands.  "Anyway, dinner's ready.  We're having pierogies."
     "Mrs. Montgomery, did you make that name up?  My mom says she's never heard of pierogies before," Mason asked.
     "My great-great grandmother taught me how to make them.  She'll be here tomorrow.  You can ask her," she smiled at her son's friend.
     "Well, all I know is I can't wait to fucking eat them!  I'm starving!" Mason declared.
     "Me, too!" Boston agreed.
     "What does fucking mean?" Mrs. Montgomery asked with a silly grin.
     "I don't know," Mason conceded, "but I'm going to be fucking you all day, so you'd better get used to it!"
     "Yeah, we're going to revive some of the old slang, Mom," Boston announced as he began descending the step ladder.
     Mason followed right after him.  "Oh, man, those pierogies smell so fucking good!"
     "You coming?"  Mrs. Montgomery asked her daughter as she stepped onto the ladder herself.
     "I don't think so," Alanaka said thoughtfully.  She looked down at the book in her hands and back at her mother.  "I think I want to read a little of this."
     Mrs. Montgomery recognized the starry look in her daughter's eyes.  She had been about the same age when she had read about those ancient misadventures.  She smiled to herself as she descended the steps.  "Ok, well, I'll save you some when you're ready to eat."
     Alanaka considered the fact that she was alone in the attic for a brief moment.  She glanced at her PIB and then at the beautiful shoes.  She pulled out a picture from the stack and looked at the man and the woman from which she had descended.  They were standing in front of the Great Pyramids, so it was obviously taken before the Great War.  They were laughing and holding up their middle fingers which must have been how they waved back then.
     The woman had blue eyes just like hers.  Her captivating smile entranced the girl; for a moment, she couldn't look away.
     "Aqua blue level 3."  Her PIB softened to the color that Alanaka liked to use while she was reading.  Her eyes twinkled softly in the new glow.  She paused to look at the shoes one last time and resolved to find out about them before she slept that night.
     Alanaka opened the book.  A frightening clap of thunder startled her.  The sound of a hard rain baptizing her home pacified her back into calm; and, at last, she began to read...

Continue Alanaka's adventure:
                                     Alanaka Episode II - An Adventure Begins