Category: Creative Writing

What I Look Like

Tall. Dark. Handsome. Ken doll. Rico Suave. Fabio. No, I don’t have anything in common with any of those descriptors–especially not Fabio’s luscious locks.

When I write I want the word’s feeling to be the only thing that is measured. I don’t want to be stuck in the horrible situation where people only buy my books because they like the way my face looks. But some of you have been reading for a year now and I know the feeling of “I know it doesn’t matter, but I wouldn’t mind knowing what this person looks like.” So we’ll compromise.

Growing up around bodybuilding, the value of the mirror over the scale was ingrained in me. Rather than attempt to translate mirror-speak into English, however, I think it’ll prove more useful to share what others see. Have you ever noticed how some men just volunteer to the world what they see? Well, it happens to me frequently–especially on the rig. And as you’ll see, I think simply passing these descriptions on to you should give you what you want, while allowing me to retain a level of writing purity.

First up is, “Peter. You’re so innocent looking man.” That was my personal favorite until the more direct, “Peter, how’s it going tonight? Man, you just look like a virgin.” That guy even knew I had a child. Can you imagine how it feels to be complimented so highly, and yet not? Oh well, like I’ve always said, “Once a virgin, always a virgin.”

Still don’t have a clear picture? Try this one. Picture a small rectangular metal room with two doors, one on either end, that normally seal walk-in freezers. There is a loud air conditioner blasting a nearly cool, steady current of air from one end to the other. The four men standing in the room make it seem like adding one more would be impossible, yet it frequently houses a dozen or so. Next, you notice a sudden story-killing change to their mood. Faces start scrunching as searching eyes pull heads along a comprehensive scan pattern. Breaths are taken in through the nose in patterns that echo a hitman’s double-tap. Finally one of the men asks another, “Did you shit your pants?”

Shaking his head no, the accused man looks to the third man whose eyes are already wide as he, in turn, shakes he head in denial. They can’t even imagine I would do such a thing, so I don’t even get asked. That’s right. I have the face of a man who doesn’t fart. Now you know.

Schoen

The German word’s English meaning can be “nice one”, “beautiful”, “lovely”, even the simple, yet elegant, “good”. “Fish-hooker”, however, is nowhere on the Google Translate list of twenty-two words/concepts. Then again, he doesn’t go by Schoen these days. It’s too difficult to pronounce, he says.

I still prefer Schoen (pronounced “Shane”) though. You see, for me, Schoen was a senior in the fraternity that I was certain I’d never join. And Schoen ended up being my tag-team wrestling partner against a heavyweight Brent and lightweight Climer. Of course, while freshmen might be bold enough to challenge seniors, no senior would ever risk losing to a freshman, so despite the unpredictable nature of tag-team wrestling, I wrestled Climer and Schoen took on Brent. The match-up was more even than expected, Climer’s gangliness undoing much of my strength, and Brent’s weight putting to test much of Schoen’s.

The rectangular room had newer carpet, not plush, but fuller than the thin stuff commonly found in high traffic areas. Blue folding chairs lined the walls. The lighting was excellent. Anytime a wrestler’s energy or motivation began to fade his partner would tag in. Consequently, the other partner tagged in. My confidence in Schoen never faltered. One can imagine my surprise, then, as Brent managed (likely a surprise to himself) to maneuver Schoen into a nasty headlock. Wriggling like a python’s prey at first, Schoen quickly realized the futility of purposeless movement. Instead, he opted for a move that is illegal in every version of sanctioned combat across the globe: the fish hook.

For the ladies, the fish-hook is a tactic where one combatant curves his index finger into the shape of a “fish-hook” and places it into his enemies mouth. Obviously, this act alone would cause no advantage. What does cause an advantage is when this finger pulls against the cheek of the enemy. So picture the scene with me. Brent was standing a full head higher than Schoen, holding him in a head lock. They were spinning in circles. They were spinning in circles because Schoen, on his knees, was reaching up with one free hand and fish-hooking Brent’s right cheek. Eventually (moments like these do not last) I heard I tear. I guessed that Schoen had torn Brent’s cheek. Raising my guess to the level of certainty, Brent immediately tapped out, and as Schoen removed his finger, ran to the restroom.

Thick. The anticipation was thick. Breathing heavy, but relieved to be out of the headlock, Schoen lowered his chin towards his chest while he raised his eyebrows and stared at me. It was a knowing nod, a victor’s nod.

The restroom door handle’s jiggle announced Brent’s reappearance.

“Dude, I just vomited,” said Brent.

Apparently, Schoen’s finger had touched a nerve, so to speak. I know I was hooked.

Wide Effing Open

Lance wore sunglasses inside. That was the first thing I noticed about him. Second, he had the ability to achieve perfect clarity in directions. He destroyed meetings. Management guru Peter Drucker would’ve been proud. Who hasn’t been in meetings whose end is marked by the sound of shuffling fabric accompanied by whispers containing sentiments like, “So, what are we doing now?” Lance was a meeting destroyer. It really was something to behold.

He was also a man who loved to laugh. I’m talking about joy here people! When the man wasn’t modeling the art of focusing a group of men on a singular action, behind those sunglasses Lance was just itching to break out in laughter. He embodied these qualities in a way that was generally reserved for the most likable characters in great novels.

Now, history is full of men who have tried to categorize men like Lance, their point being to take away or re-allocate the credit. Their efforts proceed to pigeonhole men like Lance into being nothing more than the result of their circumstances, but I refuse to believe it. There was only one source, one natural spring from whence flowed the strength and skill, the judgement and wisdom that Lance displayed day-in and day-out. That source, of course, was Lance. The casual observer had no claim on Lance. Lance was the one who had to wake up every morning. He was the one who sat for a moment on the edge of a bed and stared out at the same equal-parts-bleak-and-bright world as he pulled his pants on one leg at a time. He was the one who reached for his boots as he decided what kind of man he wanted to be; what kind of father, what kind of leader. He was the one who everyone looked to for direction during the meeting before work began, and rather than buckling under the pressure or taking the road more traveled, which is paved with pride and foolhardiness, he was the one who on cue said, “Guys, today we’re going to run waa’d effin’ op’n.” He was the one whose example ensured the work got done. He was Lance.

Some Say It Was A Miracle

So there he was. Like the eleven preceding days, he woke up at 5:05am, drank some V8 and a protein shake, and ate a cup of oatmeal. Grabbing his salami sandwich, he headed from camp to the change shack where he put on a pair of coveralls, which even after washing strained the definition of clean. After a brief safety meeting he grabbed a pair of gloves and headed outside. Taking in one last moment of stillness, he rolled one ear plug at a time between his left forefinger and thumb and then placed them into his ears. Finally, he picked up a case of bottled water and began the climb up the three flights of stairs which led to the rig floor. It was his thirty-third birthday.

The day proceeded no differently from any other. That’s the beauty of the work. Suddenly, however, in an act which some might label a miracle, he looked down to the ground and saw a co-worker carrying three familiarly brown and orange cardboard pizza boxes. It seemed someone up above was smiling down on him.

The hot-n-ready’s made their way up to where he was, and he happily indulged in a slice the first moment he could. What the reader doesn’t know was that sitting on the same table, brought up to the rig floor only moments earlier, was a bag of McDoubles. Remember, now, that he had his salami sandwich waiting. So while everyone who knew him knew that the McDouble was his favorite fast food burger in the whole wide world, he had vowed that he’d stick with his sandwich that day. But now, on his birthday of all days, he was staring at his favorite burger and pizza–free for the taking. The packaging alone had him salivating like a French mastiff. And now that he had committed to the pizza, he said the hell with it. Though it remained seated fairly high on his bucket list despite its nominal price, he had never before eaten a slice of Little C’s followed by a McDouble. Unable to stand there and stare for forever, he quickly grabbed the burger and headed back outside. Within a minute he found himself gasping for air and wondering if he really was going to die choking on a McDouble. Lucky for all of us, he stayed calm, swallowed hard, and smiled a smile that rivaled the Pacific’s width. And to think he was getting paid.

Teaser – Icarus and the Wing Builder, by Robert William Case

My mother (Djaynn-net) once read somewhere that you can tell within the first minute of a movie whether you’ll like the movie or not. Or maybe she just said that. In any case, thanks to her provocative idea, I am now unable to begin movies or read books without wondering if it will prove true–again. This is relevant because my friend, Robert Case, wrote a book. And I helped him edit it. We’re both very excited about it, and I told him I’d publish a bit of it, as a teaser of sorts, on here. He told me I could pick whatever section I wanted to. I’m going with the first minute of the book. Enjoy! Then click the link I provide below (and here) and buy it. My honest review will be tomorrow’s post.

Oh, and I guess for this to work, you need to have some idea of what you’re getting into to. So, as if a movie teaser, picture these images flash across the screen: a rocky beach landscape that can be nowhere other than Ancient Greece; an unfairly wronged man finding hope in a bird’s effortless flight against a cerulean sky; a young orphan boy answering, “Icarus,” when asked his name; a strong captain sailing a ship that’s carrying an unlikely pair across the Mediterranean; a tribal king leaning back on his over-sized throne with authority after having just pronounced a passionate, yet never uncontrolled, decree; willing courtesans listlessly walking by, hinting at nights filled with passionate love-making; the man concluding a fatherly wisdom spiel with a look which says, “Don’t you know I love you?”; the young man Icarus leaving on a walk-a-bout that he just might not return from; a back-lit image of the man standing on a cliff wearing giant clearly hand-made wings that somehow possess a they-just-might-work quality to them; the man wearing wings falling off a cliff out of sight then rising up as background music enhances his extraordinary success; then the words “Icarus and the Wing Builder” accompanied by a deep percussive sound and an authoritative voice saying, “Read it this weekend on your favorite couch.”  

Okay, that should do it–now read! 

Long ago, on a verdant island in the middle of an azure sea now called the Mediterranean, a man named Daedalus designed and built wings. Naturally, inevitably, he had to test them.

On that momentous sun-filled day he stood on a ledge of earth and stone beneath a cloudless sky, long cumbersome wings of his own design draped across his arms, shoulders, and back. The wind was steady and strong and blowing directly into his bearded face. It was a perfect day for flight. But he stood on the ledge of earth for a long while, anxious and uncertain, staring out at the distant gray fusion of water and sky.

The harness and wings carried an unnatural bulk and he constantly shifted his weight to compensate and keep his balance. If he slipped now or was knocked off his feet, the fall onto the rocks and dirt would likely damage the wings. He had labored too long, journeyed too far for that. So he leaned forward with bent knees, opposing the wind’s power and keeping his weight over his feet.

Far below and before him, as far as he could see, sparkling waves reflected the sun’s warmth and light. The majesty of the seascape called out its siren song, clear and serene. High on this remote perch he could not help but feel it. The attraction was irresistible, enticing him into the sky. As he stood on the shared boundary between the sea, sky, and land, it pulled on him as if his ears were at the center of his heart. But once again he was able to shake his head and look away, shifting his weight and keeping kept both feet firmly on the ground.

How long do I stand here, waiting?

In silence, Daedalus turned his gaze back toward the sea, compelled  to feel the power of the sky just one more time; that place where the wind  caught under the wings and the uplift began. He rotated his shoulders and held the wings fast. The steady breeze blew across the outstretched wings, its energy flowing through them into the muscles of his shoulders and back. It teased and taunted him, assuring him that now was the best of times–possibly the only time there would ever be–for making this essential leap of faith.

He leaned forward once again and braced against the force, testing the limits of his fragile equilibrium. Once more he opted for the safety of the rocky ledge. But this time, and before he could look back down to the earth beneath his sandaled feet, a burst of windblown sand struck his face and chest. Instantly he closed his eyes and shifted one foot back for balance, squaring his shoulders into the gust, the wings fully extended.

The wind did not relent. It tore across the surface of the wings. Uplift gripped at his shoulders and spine. And now, instead of struggling for balance the wingbuilder pushed hard against the earth, up and away from the rocky ledge. Heart pounding, he dove into the sky. At the apogee of the leap he hung suspended, balanced between time and the jagged rocks of the shoreline below. Gravity, it seemed, had released its hold. Filling his lungs with an intake of breath, he willed his chest forward into an awkward glide, arms and wings outstretched, reaching for the currents of air. Daedalus soared.

The moment was sublime, the splendor of flight on wings of his own design. The sky responded, greeting him with a mighty thermal, lifting him into its invisible spiral and carrying him into the cerulean heights far above the island. Sweat streaking down his face, he banked away like a great soaring bird. It was a dream realized. He felt so alive, his heart singing with joy, so loud and so strong. He never wanted it to end.

Okay, so it was more like three minutes. Sue me. If you like what you read, or you are simply up for something a little off the beaten path, purchase the book from Amazon by clicking here: Icarus and the Wing Builder

The Best Idea Fairy

“So R-, you’re officially a father now, how’s that going?” Pete asked R- as R- walked through the door to the trailer.

R- didn’t waste time setting down his cooler and slipping off his tennis shoes in favor of house shoes. The blue cooler with a white lid and handle was bigger than the lunch pails previous oil men likely brought to work, but, then again, so was the man.

“This place is a mess. Don’t worry, we’ll fix that,” R- noted. Then, ignoring Pete’s initial greeting and question in favor of following a just-launched pinball’s unexpected path, R- asked, “You get a girlfriend over days-off Pete?”

“Na,” said Pete with little effort. “I think I told you I was planning on bowling a lot. Well, one night there was a pretty good looking brunette, but she was with some guys. I couldn’t tell if one was her boyfriend. In any case, I was too much of a chicken to attempt to chat her up.”

“Bowling?” R- said, with no small confusion shaping his face. “You need to go to the clubs. There is nothing like chicks that want dick.”

“Man, that’s what I missed these last two weeks,” Pete began. “Hold that thought, let me get my phone. I need to write this down,” Pete said, smiling as he shuffled sideways past the deep freezer that took up most of the already narrow hallway that led to his room. Returning in a jiff, his movements were a little awkward as he attempted to walk and type on his phone. “Okay, I’m back. So how’d you say it? You said, ‘There’s nothing like chicks that want dick,’ is that right?”

“What? You’re going to blog this?” R- smirked.

“The people need to know. I don’t meet too many people who can surprise me every time they talk. You, my friend, are one of the lucky few,” Pete flattered.

“You know what your blog needs?” asked R-.

Despite his previous positive sentiment, Pete’s disdain for unsolicited advice regarding his blog, in addition to his being tired, caused his mood to take a turn for the worst. “No. What does my blog need?” he asked.

“Pictures,” R- pronounced.

“No. My blog is simply a writing blog. I think pictures are too easy,” Pete retorted.

“Like one of me holding heads–like Taliban style,” R- added, arms extended, hands clenching the imaginary hair of just beheaded infidels.

Shaking his head while attempting to look past R-‘s eyes and into his soul, Pete twisted his tongue between his teeth in a last ditch effort to resist the smile he knew would form no matter what. Fishing his phone out of his pocket once more, he could only say, “You are out of control.”

Slow To Anger

“Clap now H-!” he said, clapping his own hands in the process.

She began to clap and asked, “Why daddy, why?  What happened?”

“Our team did a good thing.  And you clap when that happens,” he explained.

“The purple team?” she asked.

“Yes, the purple team.  Remember, it’s like I said earlier.  Just watch the crowd.  When the people wearing purple clap, then you know it’s time to clap,” he reiterated, “but if you hear clapping and see people in red clapping–then don’t.  They are the enemy.”

“Clap when the purple people are clapping?” H- asked.

“That’s right.”

The father-daughter duo found themselves amidst an afternoon ballgame’s cheering crowd.  The team played in a city whose native residents prided themselves on their origins, and the nearly overwhelming amount of fans wearing red illustrated why.  Seated next to the pair was one such Cardinal fan who was unafraid to sport that day’s evil color.  And next to her sat a teenage daughter who was about to leave for college.  This was learned from the bits and pieces of their conversation that could be heard over the PA announcer, H-‘s incessant demand to know when there would be some shade and/or dessert, and the roar of the crowd.  This mother, then, was already nostalgic.

“How old is she-” she started to ask, addressing the man.  His face wore raised eyebrows and wide eyes which he hoped would express some mix of “Why are you asking me?’ and “She’s not deaf'”, so the woman turned to the little girl.  Re-starting, she asked, “How old are you?”

“Four,” H- answered politely.

“And what’s your name?”

“H-,” answered the girl who then had to clarify upon the mother needing help with the slightly uncommon name.  “What’s your name?” H- asked in kind.

“B-,” the woman answered.

“B-?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“What’s your last name?”  H- asked, never straying from the divinely ordained interrogation method.

“Watts,” B- answered.

As if used to having to repeat herself, or perhaps simply aware that it was a noisy environment, H- repeated herself calmy, saying, “I said, ‘What’s your last name?'”

B- chuckled at this unforeseen development while shrugging as she looked back at another similarly stationed mother who was seated one row up with her teen and was intently listening in on the interaction.  As B- answered H- again with “Watts”, her sunglasses did little to hide her sharpened determination to speak clearly.

It was only after the three of them–father, B-, and the mother from the row above–saw H-‘s perfect expression of almost-frustration as she was about to complete the question for the third time that the problem became clear to everyone but H-.

“H-,” the father asserted, now laughing and shaking his head.  (So focused was H- on learning B-‘s surname that this interrupting voice and calming touch on the shoulder could be seen to startle her.)  Nonetheless, the man continued, “She’s not asking ‘What?’  She’s saying her last name.  Her last name is the word ‘Watts’.  Watts.”

“Watts?” H- questioned.

“Yes.  Watts,” he answered.

“But we don’t clap when she claps, because she’s wearing red,” H- said.

“That’s right.  She’s the enemy,” he said, smiling proudly.

Part 5

I began a story that has had four parts now, and plan to continue it in order to see how it ends.  I’m just going to name the future parts “Part 5, 6, 7” etc.  The posts can be found under the “Creative Writing” category on the right, in the “Untitled Serial” sub-category.  If you’re just joining, so far, the story has been “I’ve Had More Fun”, “I’ve Had More Fun Part 2”, “Tara”, and “Waking up.”

Jason waited patiently for Jim to wake up.  While waiting, he flipped the channels on the television, pretended he was Jim and ordered a meal via the bedside radio connection to the nursing staff, and dozed off four times.  Finally, Jim opened his eyes.

“Hey bud.  How are you?”  Jason asked earnestly.  “Frank’s gone.  For good.”

“I’ve had more fun,” Jim answered.  It was an honest answer, but one whose sarcasm betrayed his sober awareness of the situation.  “I feel pretty dumb though.  Running in after Tara like that; not waiting for the rescue squad.  As if I could’ve done anything to save her even if she had still been alive.”

“I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself Jimbo,” Jason said, as he pushed the unfinished plate of food a little further from view.  He then reached for the nurses radio again and ordered Jim some food.

“Uh, I don’t think that’s a room service button Jason,” Jim offered.

“Hmm.  Worked last time,” Jason mumbled thoughtlessly.

“Last time?”

“Never mind.  Look, I’ve been talking with the doctors Jim.  There’s something you need to know.  I couldn’t believe it myself when I first heard it, so it’s a good thing you’re lying down.  It’s about your hands.”

Jim shifted in his bed, but was unable to use his arms to help adjust, so he ended up returning to the same position from which he began–flat on his back, head propped up by the pillow.

Jason continued, “Guys like me and you, guys who focus on only one area of life, we wouldn’t know these things, but apparently the world of amputation is quite advanced these days.”  He watched Jim’s eyes, waiting for him to bite.  “In the past, once a limb was gone, it was gone.  And if someone lost their hands like you did, then they’d probably be done for.”  He saw Jim look at his hand-less wrists with longing.  “But,” Jason resumed, “you, my friend, are in luck.  Because of the wonderful advancements in medical technology, cloning, and an ever increasing general attitude of compassion, the doctors say they think, (nothing is one hundred percent of course), but they think you will have the use of hands again.”

“Really?” Jim asked, finally displaying some hope.

“Really.  But these new hands will work a bit differently than your old ones.  Instead of just thinking what you want them to do, like you could before, like I’m doing right now, the best the doctors can offer is voice activated hands,” Jason said.

“Na, you’re just pulling my leg, I can tell,” Jim said, beginning to shake his head.  “You’re sick man.  Making fun of a man who lost his hands trying, in vain, to save his woman.”

Unable to suppress his contagious smile, Jason concluded, “I’m serious Jim.  Voice activated.  You simply say what you want, and hands will do it.  Here, try it.  Ask for a drink,” Jason said, not going to be deterred from finishing.  Not in the mood, Jim just laid back, curious to see where his friend’s joke would end.  Imitating Jim’s voice horribly, Jason said, “I think I’d like a drink.”  Then Jason picked up a glass of water and began to attempt to place the straw in between Jim’s smiling, though wriggling with all their might to deny insertion, lips.  Open-mouthed laughter between the two men concluded the earnest battle and clinched the win for Jason, whose victory speech was simply, “See?  Voice activated hands.”

Jim realized he was actually kind of thirsty, so despite not wanting Jason to feel too good, he took a drink.

Short Brush

“What are they calling you?” he asked, both because everything was loud and also because the words seemed so close to that other slightly politically incorrect phrase.

Looking up from the task, Short Brush shouted, “What?  Oh.  Short brush.”

“Short bus?” he guessed, yelling in attempt to inch closer to a conclusion.

“No.  Short brush.”

“I don’t get it.”

The two men silently went about their work for awhile before Pete began again.  He asked, “Is it a some kind of play on short bus?  They didn’t seem to use it to flatter you.”

Exhaling in an only slightly annoyed fashion, Short Brush began a practiced recitation.  “It’s short brush.  When we clean the rig, there is a normal sized deck brush type brush, and then there is a shorter brush.  Everyone thinks I’m a little slow, so they call me short brush.”

“Oh,” he said, pausing for the same reason one does when securing his footing in order to prepare to handle a heavy load.  Attempting to not betray his thoughts, he quickly continued, “I see.”

“But I’m not slow.  You married, Pete?  My wife had divorce papers written up on my last ‘days off.’  We’re going to counseling now and it seems to be helping, but when she told me, I kinda felt like a failure.”

“Nope.  Divorced.”

“Yeah, she says I’m not the man she married.  She says that when I’m home, I never want to do anything anymore, and that I have no friends.   I just don’t like people.  I don’t like to hang out with her friends and their husbands.”

“Yeah.  I hate when you’re supposed to enjoy yourself.  I don’t go out much either.  Never really have.”

“Sounds like you may be like me then.  You’re alright Pete.”

“Thanks Short Brush.”

They Earn More Than You And They Don’t Even Know What LinkedIn Is

The restaurant doors might as well have been ripped off the hinges if they were pulled open at all.  The culprits were four men who had just finished a long day of hard work.  They were hungry and ready to sit down.  One of them, the newbie, knew he was under the microscope.  The other three would be watching his every move.  They would be silently analyzing his table manners, how he addressed the server, what meal he chose, and most importantly what beverage.  Beyond the age of caring about such things, our man was just looking to make people laugh.  The workday was over; everyone still had all their fingers and toes.  He couldn’t help but want to promote a light mood.

Asking the server to keep the chips and salsa coming, he sarcastically inquired of the men, “So, hey.  On your LinkedIn profiles, do you put your position or just ‘roughneck’?”

The driller, one might say leader of the bunch, had the most steely, unflinching eye-contact one could imagine, and after letting it linger long enough to determine the question was not rhetorical, he asked, “What?”

“You know.  On your LinkedIn profile.  Do you put ‘driller’ or the more generic ‘roughneck’?” the newbie pressed, unwilling to lose the staring contest.

“Linked-what?”

“No way.  What about you two?  It’s not surprising that this neanderthal doesn’t keep his LinkedIn profile updated, but surely you two do,” he continued, purposefully.

“Pete, what are you saying?  Linked…in?”

“Oh my god,” Pete said, unable to not connect the dots.  With an unabashed enthusiasm, he continued, “On top of you guys doing the most impressive work I’ve ever seen, you’re now going to tell me that you don’t even know what LinkedIn is?”  He almost let the “L” word slip out, but the men’s unrelenting eye contact allowed his rational side to win that battle quickly.  “And that’s why I like you guys so much.  You don’t even know what LinkedIn is.  You’re so pure and good.  LinkedIn is like facebook for people with office jobs.  It’s ridiculous.  And you just helped prove my theory.  I only use it to publish my blog posts in the hopes of getting someone to read what I write.  But I’d rather have never heard of it–like you guys.  Nice work.”

“You done?  The server’s waiting on you to order.”

“Oh.  Apologies.  I’ll do the chimichanga.”

“And to drink?”

“Do you have root beer?”