Brash Blackberry #8

I had never seen a personal ad like it before. A ‘men seeking men’ ad in our paper:

SWM seeks SWM, 25-50
I’m 36, 5'10", 180lbs, brown hair/blue eyes, Leo, outgoing, down-to-earth, loves tennis, jogging, horseback riding.

I usually don't read the personals, but I had been single for a year and was beginning to feel desperate. I’m not into men, but the ad struck a chord with me. Why was this gay man living in our city? Does he have any friends?

I had an idea: I’ll write a story about this guy for my lifestyles section. I was an editor at the Scottsboro Herald in Scottsboro, Alabama and even if the guy wasn’t interesting enough for a story, this would still be an opportunity to meet the brave soul who dared to shake up our dull personals section.

I got his information from Sandy in classifieds and dialed his number. His name was Brian and he recently moved here from St. Louis to run his family’s business. Brian’s parents had just passed away in a car accident, so he finally came home after being away for 14 years. He was fine with being interviewed. We planned to meet at his house that evening.

***

I showed up a few minutes before 8. As I approached the door to his place, I noticed it was open slightly. The door knob was broken and much of the wood was splintered. Apparently, I hadn’t been the only one to see the ad.

Brian laid on the living room floor with his eyes closed. Most of his face was bruised badly and his clothes were torn. He could hardly speak. I helped him out of the house and into my ’94 Accord.

As we drove to the hospital, he told me how two men wearing ski masks broke into the house and beat him senseless, telling him to leave town. They didn’t want any “fags” there to pollute the minds of their children. They were family men.

After Brian had been checked out by a doctor, it was determined he had two broken fingers and a concussion. The staff fixed him the best they could. I gave Brian a ride to his place and after thanking me for treating him like a human being, I told him I’d call tomorrow to check on him.

I called in the morning just after I got up at 7:30. No answer. I decided to drive by his house on my way to work to see how he was holding up. As I pulled up to the residence, I knew something wasn’t right.

I walked in, pushing the broken door aside. Almost everything that had been there the day before was gone. Brian hadn’t moved all of his things down from St. Louis yet, but I couldn’t help but think it was all going to stay there.

***

I tried everything I could to contact Brian, but I couldn’t. Phone numbers got me nowhere. He sold the house through some independent realtor who fixed up houses and signed a confidentiality agreement with them so he couldn’t be tracked. To this day, I’m only left guessing what happened to him.

Everyday I read the personals, looking for anyone that might stick out of the crowd. If I ever see another ad like Brian’s, that man is getting a call from me. I’ll tell him a story about the ignorance and hate that permeates within too many people in this city.

At the newspaper, we’re supposed to be watchdogs for the people. I’m just taking the call a little more personal.

Tart Tangerine #8

Don Quixote seeks Dulcinea with whom to dream the impossible dream.

I’ll never know why I decided to answer the ad. Maybe it was the romantic imagery. Maybe it was the proper grammar. I’ll never forget how I saw it. My girlfriends and I were reading the personals, laughing about some of the ads we saw. Who would answer some of these? Karen saw it first. She said it was cute. I noted that, depending on how you read it, it might be insulting. After all, while Dulcinea was the perfect woman to Don Quixote, everyone else saw her as Aldonza the whore.

My girlfriends and I laughed and we joked about men trying to sound intelligent by making literary references, but choosing poor material from which to work. Still, something about the ad caught at me. It was simple, yet hopeful, and just a touch whimsical. And the plain Jane inside me luxuriated in the idea that someone might think of me as the ideal woman.

So I dragged my feet when it was time to go. I sipped my coffee slowly and then meandered over to the trash. I asked to keep the section of the paper on the excuse that I wanted to do the crossword. Knowing my love of crosswords, my girlfriends agreed. They wandered off and a few minutes later, I took off as well, paper in hand.

I e-mailed the address listed in the paper – phone numbers are so 1990. I bravely sallied forth with references to windmill giants and chivalry. He wrote back and proposed we meet at the castle. And this being New York, we happened to have one. I was so nervous when I wandered through the park. I had no idea what sort of person I was meeting. I only knew that he liked musical theater and had a romantic side.

We met, and I have to admit, he was more Sancho Panza than Alonso Quijana. But he was as chivalrous as his name sake. He brought me a flower and offered me his arm. We wandered through the park and talked about all the getting to know you things. I told him things even my girlfriends didn’t know – childhood dreams, and modern day fears. At the end of the day, he escorted me to the edge of the park and kissed my hand. From anyone else, it would have seemed cheesy. From him, it seemed appropriate. We promised to see each other again, and we did.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of our first date. We’ve been together seven years, married for five of them. In that time, we’ve fought to right the un-right-able wrongs, we’ve run where the brave dare not go, we’ve helped each other to try when our arms are too weary and stretched out to reach the unreachable star. And every day, we continue to dream the impossible dream.

Precious Pear #8

January 3, 2006
SWF seeks SM, 18-50
I am fun-loving and open-minded. Blond hair, blue eyes. I enjoy the finer things in life, but never take the simple things for granted either. Looking for someone from any background to teach me new things.

Results: Rookie mistake. In personal ad lingo, “open-minded” means “slut”. And looking to try “new things” means “kinky slut”. Roger showed up with claw marks on his forearms and what I swear was the outline of a woman’s corset under his polo shirt. I asked if we should look at the wine menu. He asked if I had picked out a safety word. I downed my pinot noir and told him (as I was walking out the door) that I didn’t think we had the same goals in life.


February 21, 2006
SWF seeks SM, 18-50
I am fun-loving, but realistic. Blond hair, blue eyes. I enjoy tennis, reading, and Eastern European cuisine. All backgrounds welcome, but foreign languages are a plus, as is world travel.

Results: I hadn’t wanted to limit the ages too much, but Miklos was a mechanic whose look at 50 had come and gone while I was still playing with slap bracelets and hyper-color t-shirts. He spoke in nothing but spittle-laden Czech and intermittent English profanity. When he showed up at French Laundry in torn jeans reeking of motor oil, I was embarrassed. And then embarrassed for being embarrassed. I ate quietly and did not ask for a second date. He didn’t either… I think.


April 04, 2006
SWF seeks SM, 21-40
I am intelligent and realistic, but still like to have fun. Blond hair, blue eyes. I enjoy tennis, reading, and Eastern European cuisine. You should have an ambitious and rewarding career and encourage me to have the same.

Results:
36- minutes late he was to dinner
3- times he corrected me, “It’s not STEVE-en, it’s STEPH-on”
90- number of “f”s that are apparently in STEPH-on
7- answered phone calls during dinner
1- time he asked me if I was serious about wanting a career, because he could, you know, totally pay for me to shop all day. As long as I didn’t tell his wife.


May 29, 2006
SWF seeks SM, 25-29
I am not as smart as I thought I was, but am still smarter than you. Brown hair, grey eyes. I enjoy biking, reality television, and Cherry Garcia. Ideally, you would be intelligent, witty, attractive, and charming, but you won’t be so I’ll settle for no felony convictions, fluent English, and no wife.

Results: An inbox full of emails saying I seemed uptight and offers to “loosen me up”, plus one coffee date with Alan. Alan must take 11 items through the express checkout or have dismembered human parts in his freezer, because everything else about him was perfect. Alan actually was intelligent, witty, attractive, and charming. But Alan was also moving next week to teach in Ireland (see, perfect). He had used personal ads for three years with only mild success and recognized a familiar tone of desperation and cynicism in mine that belied a good person in there somewhere. He told me not to give up and to keep an open mind (although do not, under any circumstances, say that in the ad- see Jan. 3). Put only the things that are vital in the ad. The things you could absolutely not live without. Let everything else take its course and see if life surprises you.
Okay, but if it doesn’t work, I swear I’m flying to Ireland this time next year.


July 1, 2006
SWF seeks SM.
Looking for someone who can satisfy me in bed and make me laugh.
Sometimes simultaneously.
Everything else is negotiable.

Results: pending

TKO Question #8 for Merged Group

What would be an interesting personal ad to read in the newspaper? Imagine who might send it and/or who might read it. Write about it.

**

Responses

Responses marked with an asterick were the most popular responses to this TKO.

Precious Pear
Lively Lime
* Mighty Mango
Playful Peach
Brash Blackberry
* Tart Tangerine
Killer Kiwi
Lucky Lemon
Plesant Plum
Classy Cherry

Players Removed as a Result of This Vote (Total of TKO 7 & 8)

Alert Apple
Tangy Tomato
Rare Raspberry
Gutsy Guava

Lively Lime #7

"He should have never been there in the first place," many whispered. But Joel knew better. This was exactly where he should have been. He wanted it, he earned it, and he deserved it. Tonight, he had won the spotlight.

Joel's messy mop of hair and grungy t-shirt was a sharp contrast to the sea of neatly groomed youths being fussed over by ambitious parents. He seemed so out of place, as if from a lower caste. A street hooligan dropped into the world of aristocrats. Music aristocrats. Competitive music aristocrats. Amidst the din, a giant velvet banner boldly proclaimed the occasion: The 28th annual Young Piano Masters Challenge. A yearly event where participants aged 10-16 battled with sonatas instead of swords, though with no less ferocity.

Chatty mothers canvassed the lobby area with children in tow, hoping to snag some stats on potential rivals. Fathers tailed them with pep talks and tie adjustments. Some kids sat on the couches, staring at their sheet music for a final memorization boost, moving their fingers in the air as if playing imaginary keys. Other just sat and shivered as air conditioning and fear numbed their fingers. The veterans wore gloves. In the crowd, less tactful competitors pointed at Joel and giggled at each other. Who is this kid? Some newcomer…well, he won't get a high score. How long do you think he's been playing? 3 years, max. Whatever. Check out his shoes….weren't those in the window at Kmart?

Joel, age 14, saw the sneers, eyes on him as if he were a bug crawling on their arm. Something to be brushed away and scorned. He ignored it all. None of them mattered. Only the music mattered.

Unbeknownst to others, Joel had been a pianist for 10 years. A kid destined for life on the wrong side of the tracks, he had his first encounter with luck as a toddler, when a retired jazz musician trying to put his life back together "felt the talent" in this child living down the hall in a downtown boarding house. Louie taught Joel the magic in those ivory keys, and Joel gave Louie something to believe in once more. Filling a void left by a physically absent father and emotionally absent mother, the music kept Joel on the good side, filling him with a sense of confidence and hope that poverty and birthright could not crush.

When Joel heard about the Young Piano Masters, he knew this was the chance to prove himself to others, and more importantly, to show the world what Louie had taught him. He had no fancy clothes to wear to the competition, and expected the reaction he received, but that was fine. Just wait until they hear me play, he thought. Then they'll know.

When Joel won 1st place, everyone was stunned.

"That upstart, how dare he?? My Ethan has been practicing night and day for months with the best elite teachers!"

"Well, you think that's bad. My Samantha trained in Russia with the national European champion! My little girl's talent is unbeatable! How could this happen?"

"How's Bobby going to get into Carnegie Hall now? He's already 16, his music career is ruined!! That brat who won doesn't even have enough talent to comb his hair!"

One of the judges was kind enough to lend Joel something nice to wear. An old but respectable suit that her son had outgrown. When it came time for the winner's performance, he took a deep breath, walked onstage, and sat down on the piano bench. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, imagining Louie's raspy yet soothing voice telling him to "let the music be the guide." Then he put his fingers on the keys and started playing.

When Joel played the piano, his world stood still and the music became the world. At a certain point, it felt as if he wasn't controlling the playing anymore. He was floating, the movement of his fingers came automatically, and it was almost an out-of-body experience. The "pianist's high," Louie liked to call it. A high better than any drug or evil deed could ever bring. A high that could only come from dedication and love.

Joel didn't remember much after he finished his 23-minute long combination of baroque, romantic, and modern, spiced up with some improvised jazz accents. Maybe his audience changed their minds about him. Maybe they continued to scoff. But Joel didn't care. He looked up, closed his eyes again, and thought,

"I hope you heard me from Heaven, Louie, because I played all that for you."

Rare Raspberry #7

He should never have been there in the first place. He should have been snuggled into our bed, squeezed between me and my husband, breathing softly on the back of my neck. He always had nightmares, he hated sleeping alone.

It’s that damn Dr. Laura, the one who knows it all. Julie heard her say it was unhealthy for 6 ½ year olds to still be sleeping with their parents and Julie told Cindy, who told Grandma who informed my husband that we were going to be raising a sick and twisted child if we didn’t stop it quick. There you have it, one scared sobbing little boy locked out of my bedroom.

As a mother the grief of loosing a child is too much handle. The I should have’s and I could have’s consumed my life, leaving me a shell of the woman I once was. After that night I couldn’t put myself back together. Eventually my husband left me. I don’t blame him; I would have left me too.

That night the fire started in the kitchen and burnt through the hallway and up the stairs. By the time we woke up the flames had filled the entire stairwell. There was no way to reach the nursery or that blasted single trundle bed.

Firemen came, but it was too late. At that point nothing could be done but contain the fire and let it burn.

For years I was angry. At Dr. Laura, at my husband, God, myself, the list went on. This should have never happened I screamed, “You knew he hated to sleep alone!” Nowadays my anger has melted, I don’t blame anyone mostly I just feel hallow.

Sometimes at night when I’m in bed I roll to my side and imagine my little boy snoring softly. My bed has been oh so empty for years, but sometimes I can still feel him there. It’s like I can see the dent in the pillow his little blonde head would make, and I smile. My angle is in bed with, right where he belongs.

Mighty Mango #7

He should never have been there in the first place; there, behind the check-out counter, ringing up "NOW! That's What I Call Music 27" for a couple of fat, giggling 15-year-olds. He didn't even look at the merchandise. The "merch." Sweep it over the lasers, hear the beep, read the total. Credit card swiped; press button; give receipt to sign. Next in line, please.

It was the most boring, frustrating job Rick had ever, ever done. He woke up every morning dreading it. He was a 43-year-old man, for FUCK'S SAKE. And he was working with people half his age. He was working for a little prick half his age.

"Rick!"

And there he was. Mike. Mike, the 22-year-old manager. Mike, the kid with the bright future in Wal-Mart management. Mike, Mike. Mike. Rick hated Mike more than he hated almost anyone, and it wasn't even the kid's fault. He was pretty nice most of the time. But God. The idea. The idea that a 22-year-old kid could tell him what to do made his blood boil.

Rick lived in rural Virginia, and for most of his life had worked at a car factory, one of the few left in the town. But before you think this is a sad story about outsourcing, take heart. Rick's factory was still exactly where it always has been, producing cars. There are no overseas demons stealing American jobs in this story.

"Yeah, Mike, what's up?" said Rick.

"Can you go help unload one of the trucks? We're a little backed up, and I figured..."

Rick cut him off. "Sure." Anything to get away from the goddamned checkout laser. He was a little insulted, of course. Hey, you're a big brute. You used to work in a factory. Why don't you go move around something heavy? But whatever. There was no point complaining.

Rick's job used to be to weld in the seatbelts, a job he took great pride in. He really did. He knew that if he didn't do his job well every time, every weld, someone like him, some guy trying to raise his family somewhere, would die in a crash. Would they ever trace it back to Rick? No. But he'd knew. So he welded, carefully, every time.

"Hey Rick." It was Tommy, one of the other guys whose job was to move heavy stuff around. Also deli. Heavy stuff and deli.

"Tommy. What d'we got? Rice? Cartons of light bulbs?"

"Fertilizer!"

"Ah, shit." Mild chuckle.

He got fired 'cause he fell asleep. At the line. He fell asleep and a bunch of seatbelts didn't get welded in, and they had to stop the line and blah blah. Millions of dollars. Gone. Talked to the union boss; nothing they could do, he said. Nothing they could do.

He fell asleep on the line 'cause he was up all night the night before. And he was up all night the night before 'cause his boy had been in a car accident. He should have said something; gotten the day off work. But he didn't. Too proud. Besides, they needed the money for hospital bills. Rick was not a literary scholar, but he was pretty sure that qualified as ironic.

Rick's son, Sam, never really recovered. He still had to walk with a cane and probably always would. That meant no football team, and no football scholarship. But a funny thing happened. It turned out that Sam had a brain on his shoulders, not too shabby. He'd neglected it, ignored it his whole life because he was a fast runner and a good catcher. But lately his grades had been great.

"So, Sam's off to college soon, yeah?"

"Yeah," said Rick.

University of Virginia. Hell of a thing. Rick had never been to college; probably why he was stuck doing this shitty job. Never even applied. It just wasn't what boys his age did when they came from families like his. But even in-state tuition was a lot of money and he didn't really understand how college loans worked. Putting his son through college would be a tough job; a man's job. But Rick was going to do it. It never really occurred to him not to.

It took an hour, but Rick and Tommy finished up. The fertilizer went to the garden department, and Rick went back to scanning merch at check-out, and Tommy went back to the deli to make sandwiches. If anyone thought it was weird that a guy should unload cow shit and then make sandwiches, they didn't say anything.

At the end of his shift, Rick got ready to head home.

"Rick!"

Mike.

"Think you could stay another hour tonight? We're a little shorthanded." Unsaid, of course, was that there'd be no extra pay. Wal-mart didn't pay overtime. You stayed, but off the clock. If you didn't...

"Yeah. I'll hang around."

Credit card swiped. Push a button. Sign here. Seeya tomorrow!

Tangy Tomato #7

He should never have been there in the first place. He was supposed to be out with his new girlfriend. He paid more attention to her blonde hair, big boobs, and perfect white-toothed smile these days, anyhow. They were going to dinner and a show. He was so tied up with her. She was practically my age! I couldn’t believe he had fallen in love with her and seemingly fallen out of love with us, his own children. I had always been close with my dad, especially since my parents’ divorce. I was and always had been “daddy’s little girl,” and now this other woman had taken my place in his heart.

I had already planned everything. I had written the note. I decided knives were too messy. It was a foolproof plan. My mom was out of town; it was one of my dad’s weekends with me and my sisters, but, as usual, he was spending it with HER instead of us. My sisters were out with boys or with friends, having fun. I had recently had a falling out with my group of girl friends and was feeling very alone. I had no boyfriend, and had no prospects for one in the near or distant future. No one would care if I were gone anyhow. No one cared about me. I had stolen my mom’s bottle of sleeping pills before we left her house for the weekend.

In my best handwriting I had written:
“Dear Mom, Dad, Liz, and Sar,
I’m sorry. I love you. I hope your lives are better without me.
Love,
Me”

I swallowed a handful of the little blue pills, washed them down with a swig from my bottle of Poland Spring. I felt fine at first, then a little woozy and tired. I lay down on the bathroom floor . . . after a few minutes of going in and out of consciousness, I heard him. “Dad?” I croaked. “DAAAAD!!!” He ran to my side. “What have you done, Sweetie? What have you done?” He was almost in tears. He grabbed me and lifted me off the bathroom floor. I started gagging and he gently placed my cheek on the toilet seat then he ran to grab the phone to call 911. I started vomiting. Tears ran down my face. The panic in his eyes when he saw me lying there flashed back into my mind. He did care. They all did. And I was almost gone. Forever.

No, he should never have been there. But I will be forever thankful that he was.

Lucky Lemon #7

He should have never been there in the first place. When he walked in, I thought it was a childhood friend. I was about to jump from my place on the floor, when I heard his laugh from the foyer. He was not supposed to be there. Still crouched on my knees at the edge of the coffee table, I was stunned.

“It’s your turn.”

“Wha—oh!” I nabbed the die off the table as he walked into the room. He looked good, his whispy blond hair tousled just right and wearing that pale blue and green striped button up I loved. I moved my piece and sheepishly said, “Hey, thought you weren’t coming.”

“I’m not staying for long. Just waiting for Drew to call, we’re supposed to hang out. I told him to call your phone. ‘S that okay? I had to get out of my house.”

“Yeah, sure, uh, just join a team I guess.”

None of us were old enough to go out to a bar for New Years’, so we had a get together at my house. We played board games and drank while watching Dick Clark on the new television screen.

The whole night was awkward. I relegated myself to the opposite side of the room. I missed his laugh and the bright smile on his face. The way his blue eyes sparkled when he was truly happy. We finished with games and as 11:45 passed, we brought out a couple of bottles of champagne.

I tried to get it open. I used all the strength I had in my arm. I twisted, I pulled, I strained, and my face turned bright red as I huffed in and out. Embarrassed, I grabbed a bottle in either hand and waltzed into the living room. “Boys, a little help?” There were only two in the room, as one was indisposed, and as one of the two was gay (and equally as strong as I), he offered to help. Two seconds later, the bottle had been easily popped open and we all took a glass as we watched the taping of the ball falling and counted down together.

And then it is midnight. My plan to stay away has failed, and I am standing next to him. He, the man who broke my heart, is staring down at me at the stroke of midnight on New Years’. In the tension, the room disappears and there is only us, standing and staring. He’s reading my soul through my eyes and I am lost in desperation to know what is happening. I long for those lips, for the kiss so sweet from the year before. A simple sweet kiss at midnight followed by a “Happy New Year.”

But the moment ended. With a “I guess Drew’s not gonna call.”, he swigged the last of his champagne and went to put his glass away in the kitchen. I tried to hide my disappointment, but it’s harder to cover the heart on your sleeve when your best friends are there and can see through the glass sweatshirt you’re wearing. They knew.

After an hour, everyone was gone. Everyone but him. Having an excuse to stay out extra late, away from his over-controlling parents, we laid down and talked about life. I could hear it in my voice. All the pain, thick as molasses, weighing down my words. There was a lull in a conversation of which I don’t remember the words only the sounds. It happened. Lips brushed in a holy palmers kiss that would’ve made Shakespeare cry with joy. “Happy New Year. I figured at least someone should get kissed tonight.”

Precious Pear #7

He should have never been there in the first place.

The license for the car he never owned and the name he never answered to should have raised eyebrows, but the longer the fighting lasted, the less people wanted to ask questions.

He left a note on the counter and caught the first bus to California.

This is something I have to do. I love you. Be home soon.

The first month wasn’t bad. Running and training and waiting. Always waiting.

The other men carried around pictures of dark-haired sweethearts back home and passed the time by graphically describing the first thing they’d do to each one when this was all over. He pocketed a flier he found on the street and scratched out the drugstore logo on the corner, replacing it with a curvy signature and an endless string of x’s and o’s that wrapped around the back to the front again, creating an endless loop of indisputable love.

Susan’s car broke down in the rain outside his house.

Betty was a childhood friend who had always been there for him.

Catherine nursed him back to health three years ago.

Different loves.
Different names.
The same pinafore dress and perfect smile.

He imagined what her lips would taste like. More accurately, he imagined what the lips of any woman would taste like.

When he first got there, he looked at the calendar every day.

Each night he crossed off another date, counting the days until he could go home and prove everyone wrong. Prove he was responsible. Prove he wasn’t the fuck up they thought he was. They’d all cry and hug him and fight with each other over who was the most sorry for ever doubting him.

When Christmas came and went with no word from home, he stopped looking every day.

The war was harder than people made it look. There were no exotic beauties willing to thank him for his brave service. There were no throngs of thankful locals. No care packages from loved ones begging him to come back home.

When the protesters came, he stopped looking every week.

In April, he was given his first serious assignment: an important figure on the enemy’s side was coming out of hiding to get his daughter from the hospital. She had been sprayed by debris from an exploding car three months earlier. There were exactly 87 yards from the hospital exit to the main road. Six seconds to get off the perfect shot.

When his bullet hit the girl instead, he stopped looking at all.

Two days shy of his sixteenth birthday.
He should have never been there in the first place.

Playful Peach #7

He should have never been there in the first place. A 15-year-old boy should be in school, his greatest worry whether or not he would get a date to the dance on Friday. Instead, he went to the “unofficial” meeting place at the town gas station where all the day laborers went hoping to get work that day. He arrived around 7am hoping to get picked up by one of the farms, they worked you hard but you usually got off early because the heat became unbearable around 3. Plus, the farmers wife always cooked us lunch, which was a change from the usual treatment we received.

Three hours later his hands were sore from wrapping the vines around the wooden stakes that commanded them to move just right. His back was beginning to ache and he had already sweated through his shirt. Julio didn’t care though; as long as no one else noticed how young he was he didn’t care about anything. Just keep your head down and keep working he told himself. It was common knowledge that a local cop always tried to stop the “illegals” from working and Julio had a feeling he would cause the other men extra problems being that he was both an illegal and under aged.

Mercifully the bell rang that signaled to everyone it was time to go home. He walked to the place where everyone else went to collect his wages for the day. When he got the front of the line the farmer smiled at him and asked him to wait until he had paid everyone else. This made Julio suspicious, why were the other men getting paid first? But he didn’t want to give the farmer a reason to not pay him since he had no way to enforce that he pay him anyway. He just sat their quietly waiting for his check.

After everyone left the farmer looked at Julio with a sly smile and asked his age.

“18” he lied.

“No, you look much younger than that” the farmer replied maintaining his smile.

Julio admitted his actual age but then begged to still get paid claiming that he worked just as hard as everyone else. The farmer started to offer up excuses saying that he was a liability as a child worker and an illegal immigrant. Julio really needed the money, his mother’s salary as a housekeeper wasn’t cutting it and his dad left when he was born. He had two little sisters and a brother who all needed to stay in school. Julio felt responsible for taking care of them as the oldest boy and didn’t want them to have to bear the same hardship he did.

“I will do anything for you, I really need the work” Julio pleaded.

The farmer looked intrigued by his offer and it gave Julio a bit of hope.

“Anything?” the farmer asked, his expression suddenly turning serious.

Julio nodded in agreement expecting to have to do the worst job possible. The farmer never changed his serious gaze, but then started to look a little uncomfortable and awkward. He had to have been in his late 30’s, a strong athletic looking man with a stern jaw and skin browned from working in the fields. Julio never, in a million years, would have predicted what the farmer was about to ask him to do.

The farmer started by telling him how difficult it is to have your profession chosen for you so early in life. When he was Julio’s age he was planning on moving to Los Angeles to try and be a dancer. The son of a farmer didn’t just become dancers, but the son of a farmer also wasn’t supposed to be gay, as he knew in the depths of his soul that he was.

He tried to tell his parents his feelings, but they wouldn’t hear it. They sent him to a Christian camp for boys with his “problem” and told him that he would be “cured” there. It was an all-boys camp filled with boys that were “sick” just like him. It was at this camp that the farmer met his first (and only) love.

The farmer and his lover planned to escape the camp and run away together to start a new life away from their parent’s oppressive rule. On the night that they were to make their escape they were caught and his lover was sent home while the farmer was forced to stay at the camp. He found out that when his lover got home his father beat him to death and then passed it off as a suicide. No one ever investigated it.

The farmer told Julio that he needed his help. He would never be able to get his lover back, but he could avenge his memory. Now, the farmer couldn’t do it himself because he had to run the farm and he didn’t want anyone to get suspicious. If Julio did this he would be awarded handsomely with enough wages for a whole year. He would be able to go back to school, provide for his family and still be a kid for a while longer. Julio’s head was spinning with all the information, feeling extremely sad for the farmer and sorry for himself that he had to make this decision.

The farmer told him that he didn’t have to decide at that moment. He would arrange for a truck to pick him up at the corner that he had waited that morning for work the next morning and if he showed up then the farmer knew he would do it. He would give Julio a gun and the money in a bag and all he needed to do was carry out the task set before him. The farmer tried to avoid saying ‘murder’ and instead used words like ‘task’ or ‘work.’ Julio didn’t let that fool him and knew in his heart that once you murder a man that leaves an imprint on your soul forever. He didn’t know what he was going to do.

He didn’t talk much that night at dinner. His mother kept asking him questions about his day, but he rebuffed each one with a shrug or saying it was fine. She was used to her moody teenager so she just cleared his plate of tamales that he hadn’t touched and left him alone. He went to his room and tried to fall asleep but he just kept tossing and turning. He sat and thought all night, visions in his head of the farmer, his mother and the task he was asked to perform. Sometime around 3 am he decided what he was going to do.

The sun wasn’t out yet as Julio stood on the corner with a look of determination on his face waiting for the truck. And to think, he wasn’t even supposed to have been there in the first place.

Alert Apple #7

“He should never have been there in the first place.” Specialist Jack Jackson – JJ – took another slug from his beer before continuing. “ It was Czinski’s turn to be on point, but he had foot rot and was gimpin’. LT had just sent Arvak up ahead about a half a click to scope for booby traps and some idiot VC triggered the ambush on that one guy instead of waiting for the whole platoon to stumble into the kill sack. By the time we got there, we couldn’t even get some payback, Charlie was long gone.” He grimaced. “Of course, LT reported 2 VC KIA, gotta play the body count game for Westmoreland’s collection. Fuckin’ stupid-ass bureaucratic shit. Jeff dies and we pretend we won.”

“He should never have been there in the first place,” she complained. Jeff’s first letter home from basic training reported that his drill sergeants were abusive, the food awful, and the conditions sweltering. “His draft number was 153. They never took that many before.” Bitterness clouded her friendly and open Midwestern features, the anger of a mother wronged. “It’s those rich kids, with their college deferments. Did you know that the Junker boy got married just so he could dodge a 45? And Freddie Henderson went to Canada – what a disgrace.”

“He should never have been there in the first place.” Mourners snaked past the three caskets at the front of the chapel before congregating in small groups on the sides. Jennifer’s face was ashen as she described how word of the accident had reached the party just as it was really getting out of control. “Jeff was supposed to be in that very car, heading over to the Rockman farm for work, but he skipped out to be with me.” She fought to hold the tears back, lost. “He was just lucky.”

“He should never have been there in the first place,” the nurse whispered darkly. “The Doctor had ordered him isolated, on account of the measles outbreak in the maternity ward. But I don’t have enough isolation rooms for seventeen babies! We tried to keep the numbers per room down, but I still had to have two or three in each. It was just chaos trying to decide which to move where and when.” She paused, arguing with herself whether to admit what had happened. “I went into Iso-C – you know that room is like a broom closet – and saw that two of the identification cards had fallen off of the beds – Jeff Arvak and Matt Czinski. I’m pretty sure I got the right ones back on.” She paused, swallowed hard. “Yes. I’m pretty sure.”

Killer Kiwi #7

He should have never been there in the first place, but on Tuesday he was still there: Dr. Maximus Von Goldfischel, swimming in my downstairs toilet for going on three days now. I had made a rookie mother mistake: leaving Todd alone with his grandfather for a whole afternoon, without adequate instructions, while I took a pottery workshop at the park center. I didn’t tell my dad that Todd, who turned four next month, had been taking it upon himself to rearrange the house. Patio plants in the shower because they needed more water. Three bedrooms worth of pillows in his room because he “needed to relaaaax.” It’s taxing being three.

And then there was the fish. My dad had gamely played catch in the front yard for thirty minutes, trying to follow the Toddster’s ever-changing scoring rules. He then collapsed on the living room couch and dozed off on the job, in which time Todd came to an important understanding. “The bowl was TOO SMALL, Mommy,” he explained earnestly to me later, as I stood with my forehead against the bathroom wall, trying not to scream at him. “Max is a BIGBOYNOW. Like me.” Todd is very into the fact that he is a BIGBOYNOW. It’s why he can pick out his own clothes, won’t let me cut up his spaghetti, and can watch, according to him, as much TV as he wants.

And so Todd went about making Max a new, BIGBOY home.

“Oh GOD,” I said. “Are those my necklaces?”
“Max needed rocks,” said Todd. “Like on a beach!”
“Oh sh-shoot,” said his father. “My model car. I thought I had that up higher.”
“For him to play in!” said Todd.

After setting up a wonderland in the downstairs toilet, Todd had climbed onto a kitchen chair and taken Max’s small bowl off the counter. He marched into the bathroom and upended the bowl into the toilet. The small orange fish slipped happily into his new home. Todd shook some fish flakes into the bowl and watched for a minute. Satisfied, he grabbed the wet, empty bowl and headed back to the kitchen. And dropped it. The crash finally woke my father.

Three days later I still hadn’t been able to drive all the way out to the mall and get the fish a new bowl. If it goes on any longer he’s going to migrate to my biggest flower vase. But for now, Todd’s daddy and I stand in the downstairs bathroom, arms around each other, staring down at Dr. Maximus Von Goldfischel. The handle is taped up, and a giant DON'T FLUSH sign sits atop the tank.

“No one told me my life would come to this,” he says. “I’m not up to it.”
I lean my head against his shoulder. “You are, darling,” I say. “You’re a big boy now.”

Tart Tangerine #7

He should have never been there in the first place. I never knew why the old man jumped on Big Tony like he did. I mean yeah, he was hitting me. But I’m just a whore, and Big Tony’s my pimp. When I break the rules, like trying to hold out on him, he beats me for it, so I learn never to do it again.

It sounds rough, but walking the streets is a rough life. And I could have it worse. Tony, he just hits you. And never so hard it leaves a lasting mark. What good would that do? No one wants to go home with a girl who’s face looks like the ending scene in Rocky. Some girls…their pimps have been known to cut them. I heard about this one girl, Gloria, who works for that pimp Fastblack. They said he cut her so bad, she couldn’t work anymore. That’s a worry I don’t have. So yeah, it could be worse.

But I’ll never forget this day. I was working by the park, like I always do. You can pick up some rich white men out for a thrill. That’s what happened that night. I had done pretty well, managing to double, even triple my normal price with a couple of the guys. So I thought I could take a little extra home with me.

I’m still not sure how Big Tony figured out I was holding out on him. But somehow, he always can tell. So anyway, he had just smacked me and was really getting into his lecture. He talks kinda like my old high school vice principal used to talk when he caught me smoking behind the gym. Anyway, Big Tony’s just starting to hit his stride when all of a sudden, this old man, had to be sixty, leaps out of the night and jumps on his back.

I have no idea what was wrong with this guy. He was wearing a blanket tied around his neck, like some kinda superhero, and screaming things about chivalry and justice. At first, he was winning, because he took Big Tony by surprise, and I smiled inwardly as he got a lucky shot to Big Tony’s eye. But then Big Tony reacted.

It was that stupid “cape” that did the poor guy in. First, he tripped over it, then Big Tony grabbed it and used it to haul the old man in. It would almost have been humorous if not for what happened next. Big Tony clocked the old guy right in the side of the head. The old man spun around fast, and staggered. Big Tony went in to finish the job. He wasn’t as gentle with the old man as he usually was with me.

When Big Tony was done, he took my money and went home. I grabbed a quarter, ran to the nearest pay phone, and called 911. By the time the ambulance arrived, I was gone. But I read in the paper the next day that the old guy was in the hospital, in critical condition. Turned out Big Tony wasn’t his only encounter that night. Earlier, he had managed to stop a mugging and an attempted rape in the park. Witnesses said he’d come blundering in, making such a racket and spectacle that the would-be criminals ran off. Those he saved called him a hero. His family said he was crazy.

I read a week later that he died. The internal injuries were just too much for his old body to take. But in a related story, it seemed that ordinary citizens were starting to stand up for themselves. People began to help each other, if only in modest, yet important ways. People interviewed said they were just following the old man’s example. Heck, if some old man could try and make the world a better place, why couldn’t they? I know he made my world a little better, if only for that night.

I’ll never know why that old man jumped on Big Tony. But I’m glad he did.

Gutsy Guava #7

He never should have been there in the first place. But after a lifetime of crossing the line between safety and danger and then sitting down in the void so many had lost their lives to, “should haves” ceased to mean so much. So on that night, when he climbed into his car to head home, taking the back roads didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Less cops anyways, which always makes for a better trip. Narrow, windy roads were a hallmark in this county, but learning to drive on them since age 16 gives a person a pretty good sense of where safety is put at risk. But even a little bit of alcohol can mar a lifetime of perfect cornering skill, and toss a persons fate to the laws of physics. Laws that seem even worse than the ones the police you chose to avoid enforce on a daily basis. The car, moments before an extension of man and cool, smooth method of acceleration, suddenly became a loose, screeching mass of metal decidedly unfriendly. Even before the impact, he found himself cursing the so very generic accident he had just had. Before everything sort of faded away.

The paramedics, when they got to the accident scene, had very little left to do. Ross, the eldest medic with five years service in this area, didn’t even bother quickening his pace as he walked towards the vehicle. “See how there are no skid marks here, save for the very apex of the turn?” he asked of the new trainee he had been stuck with. “Held on the throttle all the way through the turn. It isn’t pleasant, but we don’t have much of a job here, I would guess”. The young man, Mark turned and replied. “Sadistic view. Hold this while I go see if whoever was in there is at least barely holding on”. Ross shook his head. “No, don’t bother. The firemen have showed up anyway, and they’ll need to pry this mess apart as is. It’s unsafe right now, just get things ready”. Mark focused back on the accident in front of him. What he could only assume was once a car now looked more like something from a war. Pieces spread around, with the main body half folded around a tree. Taking a deep breath of night air, he wondered to himself if this was a job he wanted to continue holding for very long and turned to face Ross. “You seem pretty congenial about this whole thing”. Ross almost laughed. “No other way for me to deal with it. Most of the people I see have accidents; they never should have been there in the first place. You have to find some way to shake it off, I just prefer detachment”.

John O’Rourke had never liked people working with the police force, or the medical services much. They would hand him a sheet of paper, detailing the issue at hand in sterile, unforgiving terms, and then ask him to turn it into a reason, some kind of condolence for parents, spouses, friends. It wasn’t the job that bothered him, but the way that their work was passed off to him at the point when emotions became involved. He cleared his throat anyway, and began to speak into the microphone. “And, uh, in light of the recent driving accident out on pharaohs lane, a local boy was killed at about 11:54 pm, as most of you know”. Never could do introductions worth a damn, he thought to himself. But sometimes you make do. “He was traveling at about 70 miles per hour, when his car struck a tree after he lost control. Cause of death was ruled trauma, possibly internal bleeding. He was almost certainly dead on impact”. Quick, feverish glances up let John know that aside from the standard few reporters and suits taking notes, the boy’s parents were sitting towards the back of the room, holding each other for dear life. “Uh, yes, there is something called the severity index, which provides a means of measuring acceleration and length of time it is experienced, and the numbers produced in an estimate comparable situation showed that those experienced in this accident were more than sufficient to…” another glance up, and the parents were the only people left in the room. Rocking back and forth, they had invested more time and effort in their child’s life than anything else, and he had to sum it up in a statement for the news and concerned residents. “And yes, uh…. I’m sure he will be missed. A great deal, by all those who knew him. Thank you”. John rushed away from the microphone, cursing himself for taking this job.

Ben had seen hundreds of roadside alters, candles and flowers spread about for a lost loved one. And somehow, they had all seemed trivial and out of place along roads he drove regularly. But now, standing in front of the spot his best friend died, it all made sense to him, for the first time. The flowers and ornaments weren’t there as a means of marking the place, or to honor the fallen who had lost their lives there. They were there so those who loved the fallen had something to see, because without them a tree covered in scars seems somewhat anticlimactic. It still did, to him anyway, as he looked up and down what he could see of the road. Just another spot, where something sad happened. He had finished being sad about it, even had a stint of anger at his friends for their depressive reactions. Really he was just utterly lost, lost in the simple idiocy of it. It all seemed so hopelessly generic, that his friend would die in a drunk driving accident, and he would then stand on the spot, in the middle of god-awful nowhere reminiscing? It was all still somewhat hard to believe. He sighed, and aloud to nobody in particular said “god damn it. Why did you always have to speed? And drink? You could at least pick one dangerous thing to do at once!” shaking his head, he walked away. “you never should have been here in the first place”.

Pleasant Plum #7

He should have never been there in the first place. This was my place. My sanctuary and he was violating it with his presence and his baggage. I could recognize him by that dumb-ass popular hat. I needed to think, and here he was, a catalyst churning up memories I had tried so hard to suppress. Bastard.

I trudged up hill, hoping the sound of snow crunching under my boots would startle him away. I imagined him scuttling away like a terrified high school boy and I smiled. I had power now, he didn’t; and his presence belied a vulnerability that I had never thought possible. I tried to prevent the sharks in my mind from attacking with vicious retorts to his infiltration.

He was staring out in to the night at where the blanketed baseball field was. Those were glorious nights for him so long ago.

But it really wasn’t. It seems eons because I had so dramatically changed, and anything that significant must have taken along time. At least that’s what I felt.

He heard my footfall, and turned. All the anger that I was caring slid away as I saw his face. Older, with a well groomed beard that was meant to give him dignity, but only added to his age. Superficially, everything was fine, six years aged sense I last saw him. But his eyes and his presence, here, tonight, with a northeast wind. It hinted at something more.

Him: Hey.

Me: Hey.

Him: How ya’ been, alright I hope?

Me: Yeah. How about you?

Him: Okay, my sister’s having a baby, that’s why I’m back home.

Me: Gottcha, must be nice to be home for Christmas, I had gotten the impression you were never coming back.

Him: Yeah, well things change, don’t they. It’s not that nice. She’s not married, and my Mom doesn’t know whether to be happy or sad about it. The result is Mother’s just kinda mopey. Dealing with two hormonal women, with Dad at work is kinda ruff. But how about you? Shelia said you got a Master’s Degree.

Me: Yeah, I’m teaching now. My teachers were a lifeline for me, I just wanted to return the favor.

Him: Yeah, about high school, I kinda….

Me: Don’t worry about it, I’m over it.

He turned back to look at the field, after a while he said:

Him: K. Sheila and I are getting married.

Me. Yeah, I heard. Congratulations.

Him: Yeah, we are pretty excited about it. Ecstatic I mean. Listen, did you come here in high school?

Me: Yup, watched the games. Those were great games.

Him: South West League Champions my senior year. God that was great.

Me: Sure, sure. Why do you ask?

Him: I thought I saw you as I was playing sometimes.

Me: Yeah, it was safer here for me than in the bleachers.

Him: Yeah, that was probably true.

Me: Sorry, gotta go, I’m freezing my ass of here, and I need to help Mom bake yet tonight.

His presence had startled me-scared me in fact. The person on the hill I was leaving behind seemed quiet. Thoughtful. Something that was never him six years ago. I left him looking at the baseball field should be, the fences coated in ice, and the hard metal batting cages. He was seeking sanctuary, but found it hidden in a layer of snow.

Classy Cherry #7

He should have never been there in the first place. William was afraid that something would go wrong even though they’d planned carefully. But he knew like every other member of the union that it was worth trying. They’d been working so much that they hardly even knew their families anymore. A bunch of guys’ wives had left them already and William suspected his was considering it. He’d seen the sadness in her eyes when he told her he wasn’t getting the holidays off. She hadn’t even tried to fight with him about it this year. She’d accepted the defeat and only cried when she thought he couldn’t hear. For just this once he wanted to be home on Christmas to see his children open their presents. All the guys felt the same way too.

So when Richard proposed the resolution at last week’s union meeting, it was unanimous. There was squabbling, however, about who would actually do the plan. Everybody had some excuse about why he shouldn’t be the one to do it. Even though it wasn’t the most democratic way, they decided it was best to draw straws. William drew the shortest one so it was his job to infiltrate the Boss’s office.

The plan was simple. The others would keep the Boss busy. They’d distract him with a drink or two and tell him about new design ideas. The Boss was a fat man who loved to drink, even on the job, so it would be easy to distract him for a while. He’d never notice William missing from the large crowd of workers either. There’d be plenty of time for him to sneak down the hallway and into the office and back again.

William looked at the large storage boxes stacked along the office walls. He couldn’t find the one and he began to get nervous. He whispered the plan aloud to calm himself. Find the list. Erase some of the entries. Maybe 500? Boss will never know and I’ll be done workin’ two days early. He thought for an instant of everyone that’d be disappointed but then remembered his own children who sang carols alone and lit the tree without him every year. He thought of Richard missing his only sister’s funeral last year because Boss wouldn’t give him the day off. He was going to find it. It has to be here.

He took a deep breath and carefully examined the box labels. On Boss’s desk was a box marked “The List.” He grinned and quietly opened the box. Luckily, it was true. The Boss really did write in pencil so that when he checked the list, he could easily make corrections. So William erased. Hundred. Two hundred. Ten minutes passed. Three hundred. Four. He could hear his Boss’s laughter flitting from the other end of the hall. Good he’s still distracted. Probably on his third drink by now. This is easy! He had just finished erasing 500 names when he saw a pair of beady eyes peering at him through the glass office window.

“Ah!” William stifled a shout and dropped a paper. Who let that damned beast out again? He stood perfectly still because he’d heard that they had poor vision and if you didn’t move, they couldn’t see you.

Perhaps that was a myth or maybe William moved. But the animal curled his lips around his teeth in a sneer. Then it made a deafening screeching sound that echoed down the hall and made his stomach crawl. Boss heard it from three rooms down and jumped up so quickly he spilled his milk. William tried to scurry out the door but the reindeer had bowed his head into the doorway. His antlers caged the elf inside the office.

Brash Blackberry #7

“He should have never been there in the first place,” I screamed in Scott’s face. “John knew he wasn’t supposed to be there. This is just too fucked up.”

I ran down the steps at the front of the building and took off for my car. I jumped in, started the engine, and began driving. I’m never coming back.

***

Everything had already been paid for. The service, the flowers, the programs and the Tribute Pembroke Mahogany casket – we only wanted the best for our mother. My older brother Scott and I waited in the cry room for another funeral to let out. Mom’s was supposed to start in two hours.

“If that fuck shows his face, I swear to God I will not restrain myself,” I said.

I was fuming with anger and had nowhere to place it, trying to keep my voice down to not disturb the people in the next room. Just two days before, our mother fell to her death from a cliff. She was hiking a trail alone at the state park. She went to the top of the mountain and never came back down.

“There’s no evidence. So shut up and stop assuming it was him. They hadn’t seen each other in two years,” Scott said stiffly, looking me in the eyes.

Mom divorced John almost four years ago and he was never the same after it. Scott and I visited him sometimes, but he always seemed detached and more violent than we had ever remembered. He hated us calling him John and not Dad, but Mom told us never to forget our actual father and to never call another man Dad. The last time we’d visited John, almost two months ago, he broke my nose.

“You know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like you don’t care that she’s dead,” I said. “It’s also starting to look like you can’t accept our stepfather to be a killer. You saw how he was. He’s not right.”

“You know what it sounds like to me? You can’t accept the fact that she probably jumped,” Scott said.

I could never imagine my mother being a jumper. She was always perky and happy, always quick to do anything within her power to please others. I couldn’t believe it – she was too good to go out like that.

***

The service had already started and Reverend Quinn began to speak about the “better place” where my mother supposedly was now. I stood up and walked to the back of the chapel for a moment alone. As I stood in the back, I saw John walk in the main doors of building.

I closed the chapel doors and asked John for a quick word outside. When I realized we were alone, I pulled my 9mm out of my pocket and put it on his temple.

“Beg forgiveness for your former wife,” I said as I hit the man across the face. “Just tell me the truth and you can keep your pathetic life.”

John spun around and went for the gun. I pulled the trigger. A bullet went through the front of his throat, and John laid on the ground holding his wound.

“I didn’t do it,” John sputtered with blood coming out of his mouth. “She was always sad when you boys weren’t around.”

Scott was the first person out the front doors of the funeral home. He had a look of horror and disgust on his face as I stood over John’s almost lifeless body. Scott grabbed the gun and stared in my face.

“James, how could you?”

TKO Question #7 for Merged Group

"He should have never been there in the first place."

Begin your post with that sentence.

(You don't have to have quote marks, I just put those to set off the clause :) You may or may not use that as a quotation.)

**

Responses

Responses marked with an asterick were the most popular responses to this TKO.

* Classy Cherry
Playful Peach
* Mighty Mango
Tart Tangerine
Lively Lime
Lucky Lemon
Precious Pear
Pleasant Plum
Brash Blackberry
* Killer Kiwi

Players Removed as a Result of This Vote (Total of TKO 7 & 8)

Tangy Tomato
Gutsy Guava
Rare Raspberry
Alert Apple

Crazy Clementine #6

There is something,
strange and surreal,
about shopping for Christmas presents in flip flops.

I have tried,
to get in the mood,
by buying candles smelling of cranberries and gingerbread.

Perhaps a trip,
to the ice rink,
would make me feel less grumpy.

Didn't work.


I wonder if,
the little kids,
imagine Santa riding a jet ski instead of a sleigh.

But I should relax,
and enjoy the sun,
and the sparkling waters and pure white sands.

And join the rest,
of the smiling faces,
with bright shining teeth and tanned tight bodies.

That's what my parents said to do.


I look at that photo,
with crumpled edges,
and a big straight crease running along the side.

I remember then,
that day last year,
where we ran around with mini-icicles hanging on our lashes.

Of course you know,
the way this ends,
I didn't mean for this to be such a cliche

He died the day after we took that photo.


I moved out west,
away from the town,
where every store and street and sign reminded me of lost love.

I was supposed,
to start again,
and find happiness in the shining sun.

But instead,
I'm left alone,
the hustle and bustle reminding me so.

Summer never was my favorite season.

Classy Cherry #6

Eskimos have fifteen different words and phrases to describe snow including pirta, navcaq, nutaryuk, aniu, and kanevcir. English is quite limited.

There’s no word for the first snow of the winter – snowflakes falling from a light sky to settle on grasses still green with summer.

Nothing to explain a snowstorm so fierce the snow doesn’t fall so much as fly in circles so that you aren’t sure if it’s snowing up or down.

There’s no words to describe the sky when it drops powdery weightless snow that disappears as soon as it kisses the dark pavement.

Nothing to capture the magic floating in fresh snowflakes you glimpse out the window falling on Christmas morning as if Jesus himself is smiling.

We still call the tiny flakes of white plastic in a snowglobe that spin around fake people when we shake it snow.

It’s still snow when it’s a thick white ocean sitting on a frozen opal lake.

The jagged icy flakes that sting when they slice your exposed hands and cheeks are still snow.

It’s still snow when I’m home alone watching the white cover everything and you’re still gone.

Tangy Tomato #6

I hate birthdays. Not really birthdays themselves, but the consequences.

It had happened again.

I dreaded being invited to birthday parties because I always knew what was to come at the end.

I told them, “no, no, it’s fine. She’ll be here any minute. Please go. It’s just how my mom is.” Her perpetual lateness hurt and embarrassed me time after time. I frequently sat with the birthday girl and her parents while she opened her gifts, packed up leftover cake and while they waited for me to be picked up. But this time it was different. It was not a close friend and our supervisor was not her parents, but instead her nanny and so, though I was only in third grade, my constant insistence that they leave finally convinced them. So now, I was alone. Who leaves a 9-year-old alone in Central Park? In the snow?

I sat down on a bench and my tears froze on my eyelashes as I wondered if my mom was just late again, as she always was, or if this time something had happened to her. I heard sirens. My mom had been hit by a car. I was sure of it. The ambulance was going to pick her up right now. How would I find her? How would anyone know where to find me? I cried harder.

I tried to calm myself down. I pulled out my party favor. It was a yellow disposable camera with my name written in black sharpie on top. My freezing, tiny fingers could barely press the camera’s little grey button, but I snapped a picture of the beautiful, fresh snowfall and tried to enjoy the scene. Unfortunately, I would never look back on that picture or the beauty within it with anything but bitterness and hatred, remembering how cold and alone I was in that moment.

It had been almost a half hour since the birthday girl with her heaping pile of presents and her nanny had left me, alone. I knew it had been a half an hour because I had watched almost every second tick by on my hot pink Swatch watch. Where was my mom? How could she do this to me? She must be dead. No, she better be dead. Or have a very good reason to be so late! I began to sob out loud. I was so alone and the sky was already darker than usual at this time because of all the snow. It was getting colder and my nose and cheeks were stinging. I had my arms pulled into the body of my coat and in between sobs I would huff warm air into my coat to warm up my body and arms. The ambulance was probably scraping up my bleeding mother from the pavement at this very moment. I was completely hysterical.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar face flying around the corner, Zabar’s bags in hand. “Oh, sweetie!” She reached out to hug me. I pushed her away. I had been so scared that something terrible had happened, yet somehow I hated her for being fine. “There was such a long line, and I was already there with my cart full of food. I’m so sorry.” Her apologies were never good enough; her lateness never acceptable. I hated her so much but I still loved her.

I hate birthday parties.

Pretty Papaya #6

John was just about done packing the last of his things from his bedroom in his parents’ house. His mother passed away a couple of years ago and his dad recently died of cancer. Being the only child, he inherited the house. Unfortunately he simply couldn’t afford to maintain it and keep his apartment in the city. He thought about moving into the house but he knew he couldn’t find a job there. So he had to sell it.

Although John regretted selling the house, two thoughts comforted him: first, that he was fortunate enough to even have a home, and second, that he was selling it to a non-profit organization that would turn it into a women’s shelter for women and children who needed a temporary home till they got on their feet.

“One last box,” John said out loud to himself as he picked up a very old cardboard box from the back of his closet.

He opened the box and to his surprise, it was a box full of his old toys. He pulled the toys out one by one and examined them. He found a red fire truck, an old toy microscope, a toy shovel, a race car, and many more toys.

John thought to himself as he was looking at the toys, “Wow, I was a really fortunate kid.”

When John was done pulling out the toys, he found an old notebook at the bottom of the box. It had his name written on the front of it in red crayon.

“Is this… no it can’t be,” he said, once again talking to himself.

He opened up the book and found pages filled with stories written in red crayon.

“It is. It’s my diary.”

He sat down on his bedroom floor and began to read.

“June 29, 1975

Dear Diary,

We are driving to Pop Pop’s new house in Arizona. We are going to visit for the summer. My mom says it is hot there. She says it does not snow much where Pop Pop lives, not even around Christmas time! I am happy that we will see Pop Pop.

John”

John suddenly remembered the trip he was reading about. He hadn’t thought about it in a while. He was about 10 and they took a trip down his grandfather’s new ranch in Arizona. He turned the page and kept on reading.

“July 10, 1975

Dear Diary,

We are at Pop Pop’s new house. He lives on a lot of land. He took me on a walk to show me all the cool stuff he has.

On our trip around the ranch, Pop Pop and daddy stopped and started talking and pointing into the distance. I did not know what they were talking about. They were saying things I did not understand and I could not see anything but desert in the distance. I started walking to where they were pointing. It seemed important since Pop Pop and daddy were talking really loud about it. I did not walk very far when daddy grabbed my shoulder and brought me back to Pop Pop. They told me I could not walk passed where we were. I asked why. They said that we were at the border and I was not allowed to walk passed it without daddy or mommy. I asked them why and daddy said “Because I said so”.

My cousin Brian is here now. He is staying here for the summer too! I told him what happened today. He asked me what a border was. I told him I did not know.

John”

“July 12, 1975

Dear Diary,

Brian and I told Aunt Jan we were going exploring. We went to the border. Brian asked where it was. I said I did not know. We could not see it. We thought it might be underground so we started digging. We did not find it.

John”

“July 15, 1975

Dear Diary,

Brian and I went back to the border. We brought my magnifying glass with us. We thought that the border might be really small. We still could not find it.

Something scary happened at the border. We saw a woman running with a satchel towards us in the distance. Then we saw men with guns running towards the woman from very far away. We hid behind the stable. The woman dropped the satchel and started running away from it. I do not think the men with guns saw it because they left it there.

We ran back to the house. We told daddy about what happened. He got really mad. He asked us why we were at the border. We told him we were looking for it because we could not see it. We asked him what a border was. He told me it was like the fence in our backyard that separates our house from our next door neighbor’s house. I asked if a border was a fence. He said no, it could be a mountain or a river. I asked how people know what borders are if they can be a fence, a mountain or a river. He said that it is something you have to imagine. He said borders were imaginary lines and we just use fences or mountains to know where they are.

Later when mommy was tucking me in to bed, I asked her why we had borders. She said it was because we had to have a way to know what belongs to us and what belongs to others. I guess that makes sense.

John”

“July 16, 1975

Dear Diary,

Early this morning Brian and I went back to the border because I left my magnifying glass there.

The satchel was still in the desert. We wondered what was in it. No one was looking so we ran out to it to bring it back. It was a really big satchel. There was little boy in it! He looked scared. He could not move. We carried him to the stable and gave him some water.

Later on Brian and I brought him some toys and some of the food we did not eat at dinner. We did not tell anyone. We thought the men with guns would come take him away.

John”

“July 17, 1975

Dear Diary,

This morning at breakfast Pop Pop came in yelling that a little Mexican boy was in his stable. He said he scared him back over the border. I asked mommy why he was mad. She said that the little boy was trespassing on Pop Pop’s property. She said whatever the boy owned was on his side of the border and what Pop Pop owned was on our side and if we go across the border without permission, it is like stealing.

Brian and I went back to the border with some breakfast just in case the boy was there. He was there, but on the other side of the border, sitting in the desert. Brian and I wanted to help him but we could not because of the border. We came up with a great idea! The border was just an imaginary line. So we could imagine it somewhere else!

I got my notebook and a crayon and Brian got some sticks. We walked over to where the boy was sitting and drew a line in the desert behind him. We put some sticks along the line. I wrote “Border” on some papers and stuck them on the sticks. Since the boy was on our side of the border, he owned what we owned.

We brought the boy back to the stable. He ate his breakfast and we played.

Daddy, Mommy, Aunt Jan and Pop Pop came by to go for a horseback ride. They were really mad when they saw the little boy playing with us. They brought him back to the desert. We told them that he was on the right side of the border. We showed them our new border but they wouldn’t listen. They told us we could not go around changing the border. I asked why. Pop Pop said that we have to know what we own and they own. He said there wasn’t enough stuff for everyone so we have to make sure we know what is ours and what is theirs. Then I told Pop Pop there was enough stuff to share with the little boy. I told him I gave the little boy my second red fire truck. I told him Brian gave him one of his extra trucks. I told him wee gave him the extra food no one ate at dinner. He still would not listen to me.

Pop Pop called the men with guns to take the little boy away. I don’t understand. He did not do anything.

John”

John stopped reading there. “Fifty years later and I still don’t understand”, he thought.

He put his toys back in the box and took one last look around his room. He glanced briefly out his bedroom window. He took one last look at the fence that separated his yard from his neighbor’s yard.

“It’s funny”, he thought, “Mary and Suzie used to climb over that fence into our yard all the time. And I used to climb over it too into their yard. We used to share toys and food all the time. And my parents never got as mad as they did that summer we crossed the border to play and share with the Mexican boy. Why…. why is it that some borders mean so much more to us than others?”

“I guess men will find any justification to be cruel to other human beings, whether it is race, religion, war, or… a border.”

Alert Apple #6

Looks like 2 inches -- I need about 6 more to begin construction.

The best temperature for a snow fort is about 20 degrees. Colder than that and snow will be too powdery. Warmer and I'm soaking wet all the time.

Keep snowing, please. Another couple inches and they will declare a snow day.

It's really easy, see. You start by digging a big hole into the side of a drift or one of those piles where the snowplow dumped everything. Snowplow banks are the best, actually. Then you widen it out so you can sit in the hole and dig the tunnel.

The tunnel is pretty easy, really. But don't use a snow shovel, the blade is too wide. Use a dirt shovel. Dig a small hole all the way through the snow bank, then widen it out until you can crawl through it.

Use the snow from the tunnel to build a wall around the entrance. Use an ice cream bucket to pack the snow into bricks. If you can sneak it, use the garden hose to turn the snow bricks into ice bricks.

Oh, the hose works good for the next step too -- making ammunition. Can't have a fort without weaponry, you know? Snowballs are good but ice balls are better.

After the perimeter is secured, widen the tunnel. This part is hard. You have to crawl halfway into the tunnel and hollow the snow bank out from the inside without making the roof collapse. You gotta stuff the snow underneath your stomach until you can wiggle out and then dig it out to make room for the next try. This takes forever, but it's really cool if you can get a room big enough to sit in. Last year, I had one big enough for three people. I even had snacks in there. It was awesome.

Well, that was work on the phone, no snow day today. Adult duty calls.

But I'm only an adult when I'm inside.

Playful Peach #6

I was back where it all began and, although I never thought it possible, more lonely than I was before. It started and ended at the mountains.

Hitting the slopes alone is depressing at first. I couldn’t help but glance at the children struggling to make it down the mountain with patient parents right along side of them, or the groups of teenagers trying to show off, each boy jumping higher and almost, but not quite, hurting himself. It makes you feel lonely to realize that if you fall no one will be there to help you, or if you finally make it off the lift no one will cheer with you. But, I had gotten used to feeling alone being a single woman in your 30’s doesn’t welcome much company.

I had convinced myself in typical ‘Sex and the City’ fashion, that I was okay with being single. I had a great job as a lawyer, an apartment in Manhattan and a house in Vermont where I could go skiing whenever I wanted. Sure, it was lonely at times going away for the weekend by yourself, and I don’t think I will ever get my mother to stop nagging me to find a husband, but my ship had sailed. My dark hair now had streaks of gray and my face had deep smile lines from too many years of trying to be pleasant. So my life wasn’t perfect, no ones is, but at least I was content.

It was on one of those lonely mountain trips that things changed and at the time, I thought it was for the better. Riding the ski lift up after what I felt was a particularly good run I saw a man sitting at the top of the lift and I thought he might be waiting for me. Then I thought I was being delusional because this man looked attractive and normal which meant that he obviously wasn’t waiting for me. When I did get attention from men they were usually a little crazy and balding. This man appeared to be sane and have a full head of hair so he couldn’t have been waiting for me. But he was.

“Hi there,” he said as he waved me towards him.

I of course fell as soon as I got off the lift, (awesome) and he rushed over to help me up.

“Are you okay?” he asked looking concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said while blushing as red as a rose. He gracefully allowed me to recover looking away as I shook the snow off my butt. He then asked me if I wanted to take a break and get some coffee. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me; a normal, attractive man was talking to me. I was so shocked I stumbled over my words, but finally accepted.

What happened next was a blur it happened so fast. I found out that he lived in New York and was a Corporate Attorney. He and I had grown up a few neighborhoods apart which in a normal place would have made the two people think it was odd that they hadn’t met, but we were from New York and knew full well that someone who lived two houses down you probably would never meet. After that meeting on the mountain we spent every second that we weren’t working (which for two lawyers isn’t that much time) together. After a month we were engaged and after two we were married.

My mother was thrilled of course, and I felt like people treated me differently now, no one gave me the re-assuring pat and head nod that said, “don’t worry, you probably won’t die alone.” It was nice to know that you had someone to go away with on the weekends and someone to share a Netflix queue with. It was all nice, at first.

But soon I found myself just as alone as I was before, except this time it was worse. I quickly realized the reason why Mark was 43 and single: he was a workaholic. And not just a little bit, a lot. I know we are both lawyers, but I wasn’t married to my work like he was. On the nights that he did come home it wasn’t until 11 or later. He had a bed at his office, so he usually slept there during the week. Once again I found myself back to convincing myself that it was okay to be alone or even that I preferred it. Now I had time to go to the gym I would reassuringly tell myself.

It was worse because now I longed for someone else. Before I would dream up what a man would be like but it was never tangible to me. Now I did have a man but I didn’t at the same time. He didn’t have time to come to Vermont with me or to hit the slopes with me or do anything with me. I was alone again.

And that was all I thought about as I looked at our snow covered backyard. I was back in Vermont, this time at our house. He didn’t come up, not that it would have mattered if he was here he would have shut himself up in the study to do his work anyway. The white powder glistened fresh and clean, perfectly untouched. I would never have kids to go back there and make forts or have snowball fights. Mark didn’t want to have kids and even if he did, we never had sex so it didn’t matter. As I looked out over the cold snow I wondered what I ever did to deserve to be so alone.

Mighty Mango #6

If it snows in May, is it the last snow of the year or the first snow of the year?

It's a stupid question. But it's a stupid storm. Looking outside without consulting a calendar would make you think it was December, just before New Year's. But it's May 23rd, and it snowed last night.

This is not a normal thing in Nebraska. By May, it's usually warming up and farmers have planted their crops already. Well, that last part is true still: crops have been planted. And this freak storm that came out of nowhere to surprise every weatherman, almanac, and armchair forecaster is going to kill every single one of them.

There will not be much of a harvest this year. That which has already sprouted will die under the thick layer of powdery white; that which hasn't will never sprout. Some farms will survive this. The rich, corporate farms; the huge farms with huge insurance policies. But the "family farm," always romanticized even as people buy bread from Wal-Mart, is not going to survive.

Anyone left in Nebraska living in a farmhouse is very cold today. They've taken the insulation down and put the big blankets into storage; no one has their winter clothes handy. It's drafty, and cold, and the kids still need to get to school. No one has their snow tires on, and so there are going to be car accidents this morning. This snow is going to be a death sentence for more than just soybean crops.

Omaha's homeless population will be hit worst of all. Hundreds of them froze to death in their sleep, or before they could get warm again. Hypothermia is going to hit the rest, or already has. When you don't have a home, there's nowhere to keep the winter clothes when summer comes--so to avoid heat stroke, most of them just throw them away. There's always more rags to be picked up from dumps, but this is such short notice many of them won't make it. Dead Vietnam vets are littering the worst parts of town, victims of a midyear My Lai, with the cold front cast in the role of the ruthless conqueror.

It will melt. Soon. And for some, this will be nothing but a convenient excuse to throw snowballs and take goofy pictures. In five years, ten years, twenty years, this will be a yarn told around cozy fireplaces at family Christmas gatherings--remember the time it snowed this much, but in May? And everyone will laugh a little bit, and Grandpa will fall asleep in his chair, and someone will suggest playing Monopoly. The top hat is still missing, at least from the game.

Everything will be fine then.

Benign Boysenberry #6

Posted by Happy Skies: November 16, 7:16 AM CST

flights today: MSP/OMA, OMA/DEN, DEN/OMA, OMA/MSP

Mood: cheerful

There are big fat flakes falling in my suburban backyard. Today is the first snow of the year and work is going to be a hassle, late flights, grumpy people and delays for de-icing. Everyone will have a heavy coat they expect to fit magically into the overhead bin, along with their luggage and the kitchen sink they couldn’t bear to check. I hope to God I don’t get stuck in Omaha tonight….. if I am, I’ll call you “bertie” – we’ll have a drink or something ). It is great to have Blog buddies!

When I was a kid, the first snow would have me and my sister tuned to WCCO “the Voice of the Great Midwest” for the school closing announcements. They were in alphabetical order and Charlie Anderson had been reading them on the radio for about a hundred years. My school started with an O – so if he was saying “Albertville” I knew I had time to brush my teeth before I’d risk missing my school being called. Right now my kids are glued to the internet postings waiting for “Burnsville, public and private” to be posted. I still listen to the radio.

Now, the first snow of the year makes me think about OB (old boyfriend). He loved the first snow, he called it ‘virginal’ and ‘pure. He wouldn’t let me make snow angles because I would “sully” the snow. OB classified things that way and didn’t want things to change after he put them in a category. I’d try to tell him that things were more complicated than it seemed, but he wouldn’t listen.

I dated OB my junior year in college. We broke-up when I told him I was more complicated than I seemed. He couldn’t handle that. He wanted someone like the snow, and I wasn’t that. He couldn’t take me home to his Mormon family that way. Last I knew OB was living in California. That was a looooong time ago.

Oops… time is short, I’d better kiss hubby goodbye and head to the airport. The traffic today is going to suck because of the snow. I’ll let you know how it goes…


_________________________________________________________________________
Posted by Happy Skies: November 16, 12:42 PM CST

Location: DEN
Mood: strange/relieved

God, I love free wireless in airports. I can eat my lunch and blog at the same time.

Y’all won’t even begin to guess what happened today…

Come on, guess

No – really, guess



Ok.. here’s the story, my flight to OMA was going just like normal. People were crabby and had too many coats etc. I’m pushing the drink cart down the aisle when I see him in the back row. He’s reading a magazine and is wearing glasses, but I think that is him, OB!!

I immediately start to panic. It has been 16 years since I saw him last. I’ve had a couple of “careers”, I got married and had a couple of kids. I look good, but I don’t look like I’m 20 anymore.

I was flying with GF today (girlfriend) and gave her the emergency signal… not the “plane is gong to crash signal” the “oh crap, I need you signal” – she took over on the drink cart and I went to check my make-up in the galley area.

All the way up the aisle all I could think about the fight we had the night we broke up..... we were walking in Temple Square.

OB and I went to BYU together. When we wanted to have a really romantic night we’d go to Salt Lake City for dinner and a walk in Temple Square. There are paths and gardens around the Temple and the setting is very romantic. My girlfriends and I dream of a proposal in Temple Square at night.

All week OB had been dropping hints that he was going to propose to me and sitting in Temple Square near the statue of Joesph Smith, I knew I needed to tell him before he popped the question.

I had to tell him about “Anna”.

Background: for those of you who weren’t reading back in July on Anna’s 20th birthday… here’s the scoop: “Anna” is what I call the daughter I gave up for adoption when I was 17. Go : here, here, here, and here for the posts…

Suffice it to say he didn’t take the news well. He couldn’t handle the fact that I’d had a baby, even the fact that I had sex bothered him a lot. It was worse because I didn’t tell him, and actually lied to him when he asked me about having sex.

I didn’t think it was fair. That happened before I was baptized at age 18, and if God has forgiven me that sin, I thought OB could too. I was wrong.

He said his family wouldn’t understand, that they wanted him to marry someone from “a good family” and I wasn’t it.

I asked him if it would have been better if I’d aborted Anna… thinking that at least I’d get credit for not killing a baby.

He called me a “slut” and a “whore” and told me he couldn’t spend his life knowing that I had a child ‘with someone else’.

I tried to tell him that I had no contact with “Anna”, that I didn’t even know her actual name and that there was no “with” that someone else. OB wouldn’t listen when I told him Anna’s father was someone I dated for a little while in high school and was broken up with by the time I had Anna. When I told him about her, he told me to abort Anna and I refused. He never spoke to me again.

OB didn’t care, I’d slept with him and got pregnant, that was all he could hear.

That was just before finals week. After finals OB started his mission to Japan and I never saw him again….

Soooo…. Back to today…

With my fresh make-up and newly primped uniform I took over for GF and begin to be miss-cheerful as I worked the beverage cart. People are responding, making jokes and being nice.

As I worked, I glanceed at him. He looks good, like he’s been in the sun too much, but good. He’s reading a Wall Street Journal, wearing a suit and he seems relaxed and content. He doesn’t seem to recognize me. Surely, by the time I get to his row and he can read my nametag that says “Happy” on it, he’ll figure out it’s me.

Finally, I get to his row – I say “OB”?

He looks at me funny. I say, “It’s me, Happy”.

Again, a funny look… and, as I look at him again I realize it isn’t OB. I say, “sorry, you look like an old friend from College”.

He smiled, and with a strong Austrailian accent said, “that’s ok love, it happens all the time. I’ll have an orange juice, if you don’t mind.” Relieved, I gave him his juice.

Oops… time to get my ass to OMA…





___________________________________________________________
Posted by Happy Skies: November 17, 6:22 AM CST

Location: home,
Flights today: none
Mood: cozy

It snowed about a foot in MSP since yesterday. My backyard residents now include a snowman and his family. The kids had a snow day yesterday and hubby stayed home with them.

They didn’t close the airport, so I wasn’t stuck in OMA last night and when I got home hubby had made a pot of chili and some cornbread, the kids were happy and exhausted and I was ready to put my feet up by the fire with a glass of wine, which is exactly what I did.

When I told hubby about the OB scare, he snorted and said “that ass? – damm, I got lucky when he thought he was too good for you. It’s a good thing it wasn’t him, I’d have to beat him up just for you..”

Once again, you see why I love hubby. I think I’ll bake him some cookies or something…

Domestic bliss, just one more reason to love the snow....