Ninety Shades of Green

For Janet.

“Oh God, yes!  I do, I do,” I confessed, closing my eyes tighter.

Opening my eyes, I could see disbelief in his baby blue eyes as they maneuvered to find my eyes through the tendrils that now covered them.  Never having the courage to broach the subject myself, I instantly affirmed his suggestion.  After so many years, I was still unable to resist his eyes–those intense, honest eyes.

Immediately, I regretted everything.  What if I was wrong?  What if this is all he was really after and after he got it he was going to leave me?  No.  He wasn’t like that.  Not this one.  At least that’s what I told myself in order to sustain the warmth that had come over me.

“You ready hon?  I don’t think I can wait any longer,” I half-heard him say.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I answered, trying to hide my excitement.  I wondered if he knew how excited I really was.  I felt like a volcano about to erupt.  Just think of it.  No, I couldn’t think of it.  Just the thought of it was too much.

“Michelle!  What are you doing up there?” I later heard him call from across the house.  I was so thrilled that I didn’t even realize I had stopped buttoning my blouse and taken a seat on the edge of our bed.  Flushed, I stood up, straightened my skirt, finished buttoning my blouse, looked at myself in the mirror, pulled the comforter back to perfect, and headed down the hall to the stair case.

“I’m here.  Sorry, I still can’t believe this is finally happening,” I burst.

“Geez.  If I would’ve known you were into this, we could have been doing this for years,” I heard him say with his decisive, genuine voice; a voice that reminded me why I loved him.

The way he was standing, so far below me, head tilted up, slightly turned–it was striking.

“You’re sure you meant it?” I couldn’t help but double check, feeling ashamed for infecting the moment with doubt.

“Yes.  Wow.  You really are something.  I’m just sorry it took me 35 years to ask.  Why didn’t you ever say anything all these years?” he inquired.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Dirty Car?

For Preston.

“Alrighty.  I’ve got the car towels, window towels, soap, vinyl cleaner, leather cleaner, leather conditioner, window cleaner, gloves, plastic belt, long sleeve shirt, hat, and comfortable shoes.  Most importantly, I’ve got a winning attitude,” he said aloud to no one.  What he wouldn’t utter, even to himself, was his plan.

The roar of the turbine-engine-sounding blowers startled him out of his daydream.  “It’s go time,” he thought to himself.

As soon as the car made its way from the tunnel to his side he went to work.  First the exterior, then the wheels, then the inside.  “Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am,” he proclaimed to himself, whip-cracking the ground with his damp towel.  “Ford, ready!” he called.

A gentleman walked his way.  Standing ready at the door, he surmised he’d get a decent tip.

“Thanks for coming in today.  Have a great day,” he said, his voice without expectation.

“Thank you,” the gentleman replied in kind.

Closing the door, he walked empty-handed around the back of the car.  Checking that the driver wasn’t looking, he ducked low.  He only had a moment to decide.  “Fuck it,” he said, the purr of the exhaust causing his heart to race.  He opened the back door and quickly slid across the back seat until he was directly behind the gentleman.

Noticing the intruder before the pain, the gentleman released a terrified gasp.  Struggling to get a word out, the gentleman realized the trespasser had thrust a knife into his right side and was now yelling, “Drive!  Drive you cheap, ungrateful, son of a whore!”

The tires smoked as the car launched forward.  Forgetting to follow the generally accepted “stay on the pavement” rule, the gentleman sent the car straight ahead.  The incision lengthened an inch as the car jumped the curb.  The assailant felt this unexpected delight and thought, “Serves him right.”  Filled with a boyish excitement, he maintained his grip on the ribbed knife handle and twisted frantically, as if he discovered suddenly that the door to the room in which he planned to hide from an approaching devil was locked.

“Now, here’s what’s going to happen.  You’re going to drive.  You’re going to drive until you’re dead.  You are dying today, and I am the man who is going to kill you.  There is no chance to change this course of events,” he dictated, calming at the sound of his own voice.

“Wh-what?  Why?” the gentleman asked.

“Don’t ask questions,” he said, pulling the knife and some entrails out of the gentleman’s side.

“Mother!” the gentleman cried.  “I’m sorry kid.  Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

“Ha.  Arrogant to the end, eh?  Like anything you did deserves death at the hands of a car wash kid?  No.  Call for your mommy, call for your daddy.  Tell me to pass a message to your wife and kids.  But do not believe that this is about you.  This was never about you.  This is about me.  The only thing I want you to regret is your choice to get your car washed today,” he said, plunging the hunting knife into the gentleman over and over again until the vehicle crashed into a billboard which read, “Dirty Car?  Stop in Today for $10 Off Our Standard Wash’n’Vac Service.”

How To Make Blogging Thrilling

(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions).

Clicking away at the keyboard, he suddenly found himself grabbing the mouse, about to highlight and delete everything.  He couldn’t possibly publish it.  He was a good dude; what would people think?

He sometimes wanted to write some horror posts–he wanted to graphically describe the most gruesome paths out of this life.

He sometimes wanted to write some posts from a women’s perspective–he wanted to have some fun exploring how the female human navigates this world.

He wanted to write without abandon.  He wanted to swear, he wanted to be passionate.  More times than not he wanted to cause people who knew him to say, “I can’t believe he wrote that.”

But as soon as the words manifested themselves on the screen, he’d hesitate.  “What if they don’t like it?  What if they think I went too far?” he’d ask himself.  “Ah, fuck it,” he’d answer, clicking the publish button.  And then he’d feel it–a rush like no other.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”

He’d then laugh out loud thinking, “If people only knew how much energy I put into each post…they’d think I was nnnuts.”

And there was something more.  Behind all of this he would tell himself that his daughter might someday read his posts.  And if he guessed correctly, by that time she would be fascinated that he wasn’t quite the man she’d taken him for all those years.  He’d hope that if she wasn’t there yet, this realization would be the weight that would finally and forever tilt the scales of how she’d live the rest of her life towards courageously, without fear, without worry, and without anxiety.  Just the way he strove to.

Instructions for How To Make Blogging Thrilling

Step 1 — WRITE what you think.

Step 2 — DO NOT DELETE what you wrote.

Step 3 — PUBLISH what you wrote.

So You’re Dying To Hear What It’s Like, Eh?

Well, I’ll tell ya.  Working at a car wash–for me–is like listening to a broken record on which is recorded Mr. Miagi’s “Wax on, Wax off,” Improved-George McFly’s “Now, Biff, I want make sure that we get two coats of wax this time, not just one,” and Chris Rock’s “Scrape, scrape, scrape…surely two hours have passed…WHAT?!  Only 15 minutes!!  AHHHHHH!!!!!”

In other words, it’s kinda fun.  Thanks for asking.

Winning’s Shimmer

Before he knew it he noticed he only had one blue and one green ring left in his cereal bowl.  Looking towards her, he saw he was clearly going to win.  Coming at the rings from the side, he lifted them out of the milk with one experienced motion.  After removing the spoon from his mouth he shocked her with the news.

“Guess what?  Looks like I win.”

“Huh uh, daddy.  I’m gonna win.”

“Nope.  I already won.  Don’t you understand?  You can’t win.”

“Huh uh, daddy.  You don’t get the trophy.”

“I most certainly do get the trophy.  I do.  Don’t you see that I won?  You always tell me very clearly that when you win, I lose.  Well, today I won, and that means I get the trophy.”

Her tears really didn’t bother him until the sound of their creation became deafening.  And that only happened as he grabbed the trophy.  Not a total arse, he put the trophy back on the table.  After all, she was only three-and-a-half.  The roar softened to a whimper.

Taking his bowl to the counter, he kept up the banter, making sure she didn’t miss the lesson.  He came back and saw she was finally done.

“Can I have a little bit more?” she asked, making the universal sign for ‘liddle bit’ with her thumb and forefinger.

“You can, but you need to understand that this only further proves that I won.  Having more cereal after I’m already finished means that even if you had finished the first round before me, you still wouldn’t have won today.  Today, I won and you lost.  Don’t worry about it.  There’s always tomorrow.”

She nodded to placate him.

He watched her finish her second helping.   Now carrying her bowl, he made his way around the corner into the kitchen.  Upon returning to the table, he noticed she was gone.  Her bedroom was in direct line-of-sight only 15 feet further from him than the table.  Sensing movement, he peered into the darkness and recognized the little girl.  “Why the hell is she standing in her bedroom in the dark?” he thought to himself.  His eyes adapting, he saw a shimmer of gold–center mass.  Moving only his eyes, he looked down at the table.  The trophy was gone.

“Like they say, ‘If y’ain’t cheatin’, y’ain’t tryin’.’,” he thought to himself in a southern accent, smiling proudly.

Review of Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

In Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, Marlow’s apathetic voice is Conrad’s gift to readers.  Through this apathy readers have a defibrillator to use on their hearts, which have slowed to a stop after contemplating the full meaning of the tale.  Without this literary device, countless souls would be unable to return to their pleasant state of existence.

Conrad introduces Marlow as the novella opens.  Within two pages we discover Marlow has decided to tell an unrequested tale containing an uncommon bleakness that offers no immediate value to the audience.  By the end, we are left feeling despondent, depressed, and largely in a state of wonder.  We ask ourselves, “If this horror happened to a man such as Kurtz, it surely would happen to little ol’ me.  And that being the case, what’s the point of even trying?”

Add to these feelings the fact that the story is only 70-pages, and we find ourselves returning to page one with a singular goal.  We long to discover that we overlooked the hope.  Returning to page one with this new sense of purpose, we begin to notice that Marlow’s story is preempted by the notion that “the bond of sea…had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and even convictions.”  Likewise, Conrad demonstrates his value by creating this tolerance in those of us without this bond.

Marlow’s apathy is palpable throughout the tale—evidenced by his ability to remain a detached observer.  During this re-read we notice that this apathy, then, is Conrad’s gift to us.  This apathy lights the path which will lead us out of darkness.  Conrad doesn’t intend for us to remain in darkness.  He wants us to take Marlow’s journey; not believe that we’re Marlow.  The key to coming out whole is to remember this–remember that, unlike Marlow, we still care.

****

Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness. New York: Dover, 1990. Print.

Do Your Job, Come Home Safe

“Music?  Where we going to music, daddy?”  

He constantly worked to perfect how early to tell her that they would be doing something a little special.  If he shared the news too early, there would eventually be tears when he confessed, “No, not yet.  We’re not going for three more hours.”  If not early at all, he felt like he was robbing her of anticipation’s joy.

One of the churches downtown was putting on a musical tribute to veterans.  He liked hearing the songs, and not usually being one to indulge in veteran events, he felt that, of all days, Veterans Day was an appropriate day to reminisce.

Taking her already extended hand in his, they moved from their car towards the small bottleneck of people.

Reality hit and hit hard.  The pair of them, his daughter and him, were among the youngest attendees–by decades.  Guiding her to the general area he wanted to sit, he let her choose the exact pew.  Taking their seats, he didn’t want to look around.  In front, there was not a single younger person.  The enormous sanctuary was far from full.  The choir was smaller than expected.  The brass section, even smaller.  And he couldn’t help but notice the age of the participants.  Maybe five out of the 50-ish musicians were under the age of 40.

He knew that the greatest generation was basically gone.  As a veteran of the Iraq war, he knew that Iraq and Afghanistan veterans couldn’t compete with Vietnam veterans regarding duration and intensity.  This knowledge carried a bit of shame.  He really wanted his efforts to have been necessary and valuable.  All signs pointed to the opposite.

Regardless, he also knew something more.  He knew what every veteran knows–that he was lucky.  And tied inexorably to this knowledge was the fact that some…were unlucky.  Moreover, there was no escaping the inner turmoil captured by the persistent yet unanswerable question.  “Why?”

****

Support veterans.  They need it.

Thinking It Was Not Worth The Energy

Thinking it was not worth the energy it would take to say “bye”, he looked simply looked at the screen to confirm the call was over.

With an uncommon hunger for clarity, he mindlessly walked to the kitchen.  “Hah,” he chuckled, expelling a little air from his lungs, amused that there were always dishes in the sink.

Today should’ve been a good day.  He had accepted a new job.

But now?  Now he just wanted clarity.  He had to trust himself.  “Focus man.  Focus,” he lectured himself.  “Just like you, she’s hurting.  You know the truth of the situation.  You know what you value, and you know how you came to value it.  Look to the Truth.  The solution is living in the present.  Don’t let yourself get distracted.  You know how to filter out the chaff.  The conversation was just chaff.  Filter it.  Filter it.”

Before he knew it, he felt the stainless steel faucet handle, cool and sterile, giving in to his fingers request.  The pot, soiled by left-over spaghetti sauce, filled with warm water.

“Time to do the dishes,” he breathed, his energy building.

Shocking GOP Confession: New AR Underwear Political Tactic Gone Wrong

On Wednesday, in what can only be described as a stunning and devastating admission, GOP leaders took full responsibility for the recent controversy last weekend’s release of “Anti-Rape” underwear caused.  The party, clearly in no position to risk alienating women voters, is yet again doing an about-face after choosing the wrong side of an issue.  This time, however, the demand for an explanation has elicited an even more shocking revelation than simply owning up to having created the controversial AR underwear itself.

Speaking under anonymity, one leader shared, “Times are tough.  The rules seem to be disappearing.  We just care so much about America that we were willing to try anything.  We made a mistake.”

Karen, a local feminist leader, went so far as to claim, “The creation of AR underwear is the single largest setback in the struggle for gender equality.  Ever.  Rape is not a woman’s fault.  Period.  Historians will record this as the straw that broke the GOP’s back.”

The details are still sketchy, but we now know that the GOP is, in fact, the creator and sole financial backer of the AR underwear.  Constructed out of blade-resistant materials, the AR underwear is nearly impossible to remove without knowing the combination to a special locking mechanism in the waistband.  Had the public blindly accepted them at face value the story might have ended there.  Unfortunately for Republicans everywhere, the public didn’t accept the underwear.  Public pressure mounting, one of the creators finally came forward with an explanation yesterday.

A high-ranking party member confessed, “You want to know the truth?  The truth is we need liberals to stop breeding.  That’s it.  It’s a numbers game.  To achieve this, we created a ridiculous pair of underwear that can’t be removed.  Everyone involved loved it–until we realized we still needed to give liberal women a reason to wear them.”  Clearly agitated, the informant then bemoaned, “Liberals are so damned captivated by the infantile desire for a life without consequences that we thought this “Anti-Rape” marketing campaign might be a winner.  Boy were we wrong.”

The informant further lamented, “Everyone knows we’re desperate.  We were thinking of our children.  We had to try something to put them back in the majority.  Regrettably, it looks as though this will be the final nail in our great party’s coffin.”

In what seems little more than a swan song, the informant assured this writer that all remaining GOP congressional and senate salaries will be donated to organizations dedicated to reducing sexual assault in America.

Why I Hate Blogging

“No, ‘hate’ is not too strong,” he said, raising his voice.  “I think it is perfectly descriptive.  I.  Hate.  Blogging.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause it gives me hope,” he lamented.  “I hate that I sit there, typing away on those loud keys, pouring out myself in words, and afterward I discover a few other humans ‘like’ or ‘follow’ the blog.”

“Not makin’ sense friend.”

“Okay, let me put it this way,” he continued laboriously.  “I feel alone in the world sometimes.  You know, the whole ‘misunderstood’ crap people talk about?  Yeah, that’s how I feel sometimes-”

“We all do, dude.”

“-Right.  But there is a difference.  I can write.  I can communicate myself to others.  I can waive a flag letting people know ‘I’m alive.  If you are, too, let me know.’  Not everyone can do that.  So I started writing.  I started putting myself out there–no holding back.  I even wrote a post which taught some of my senior-citizen followers a new curse-word, which I have since made private because it was so shameful.”

“The ol’ ‘fucktard’.  I remember that one.”

“Yeah.  Anyhow, every once in a while people respond favorably.  I was shocked that people responded at all.  So, you can imagine how it feels when people respond favorably.  More than favorably, sometimes people will comment in a way that shows they got it.  And in getting it they get me.”

“I see, Pete.  I see.  You hate blogging because it gives evidence that there are people out there who get you.  But, you think this doesn’t really count, because you only know this via the computer.  And this digital evidence, as it were, downgrades it to little more than hope.”

“Exactly.  See, that’s why I’m telling you this.  You get me.  I get you.  But I don’t feel like there’s many others out there.  And so this blog, then, is little more than the force that propels the emotional pendulum which swings from ‘Hey, life’s great.  It’s filled with people who live on this planet’ to ‘how is this world even self-sustaining?'”

“Well, as you know, I don’t know what to tell you.  Cheer up.  I like reading your stuff.  It makes me laugh.”

“Yeah, yeah.  I know.  Thanks.”