Tagged: friendship
A Jaw-Dropping Woman
“Welcome back George. How was it?” Pete asked, strictly observing the custom of not giving George time to settle in upon returning from his trip before beginning the questions.
George’s eyes had the look of a man searching for an appropriate opening to the story that he knows will be well worth telling. “It was good. Seattle has some good weather and good scenery,” he said.
“Yeah, but that’s just in the summer, right?” Pete asked.
“Right. The point is, I don’t think I could live there unless some company paid me a lot of money,” George said, repeating “a lot” for effect. “Oh, and Pete, I have to tell you about the girl,” he excitedly recalled.
“That’s right. You actually got to meet her. Though you had essentially made up your mind before the trip that she wasn’t the one for you, right?”
“Yeah, she’s definitely not for me. She was hot, but she kept reminding me of my ex-” said George.
“Probably never a good thing.”
“-and besides a bunch of little things, you should’ve seen the place she lived in!” George recalled, his animation for the story growing exponentially now. “I don’t know where they got the figure from, but it was a downtown apartment and everyone in it kept saying it cost six hundred thousand dollars,” George said, cutting himself off there with a stare that is usually followed by a stroke or heart attack. Thankfully a burst of laughter which most would categorize as the sound of a man going insane ended Pete’s concern and preceded, “Oh, and you won’t believe this. She had some nice bookshelves. So I took a look-”
“Bad books, right?” Pete guessed.
“-no,” George said, his eye-lids still completely out of sight. “No Pete. Not bad books, fake books.”
“Whaaat?!”
Now nodding, George continued, “Yeah, I saw a book that I didn’t recognize, so I pulled it off the shelf.” Then flipping the pages of an imaginary book, he said, “When I opened it, the pages were blank.”
“Get outta here!”
“She had decorative books Pete,” George concluded. “Pete, the woman had books on bookshelves purely for decoration.”
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“Of course, she did have a big TV though,” George said.
The two single men would have laughed themselves to death if it wasn’t for the eerie silence that accompanied each necessary breath. The silence that these two knew ought to be filled with the sound of crying babies, children’s laughter, lids rattling on a hot stove, the clothes dryer buzzing for the fourth time in as many hours, bad piano playing, lousy excuse giving, and sometimes–just sometimes–the sound of a loving wife’s voice as she mockingly whispers, “Isn’t this everything we hoped for and more?” with an inner strength and resolve that have, as of yet, avoided language’s shackle.
I’ve Been Reading Madame Bovary
The main room of the house that was built in 1950 was atypically adorned for the year 2014 in a comforting way. One sofa, a piano, two lamps, one antique globe, four chairs, a kitchen table, and four onyx pedestals–the mineral, not the gem–displaying the Russian Baron Peter Klodt von Jurgensburg’s “The Horse Tamer” miniatures made up the room’s vertical trimmings. Hanging on the bland tan plaster walls were three framed images. One was a black and white movie poster capturing the famous coffee scene in Heat, another was a black and white poster of 1990s Metallica, and the third was a commissioned word-art photo–also black and white–of a TH-1H Huey bordered by friends’ well-wishing farewell comments and signatures, which received attention each time the owner was heady with wine. And there was a white board.
As usual, George, who was sporting a clean shaven chin, was standing, Pete, wearing just-before-itchy length stubble, sitting. They had just returned from viewing TC’s most recent film at the local theater.
“So, Mr. I-Like-Blondes, what’d you think of her?” Pete asked, looking up from his laptop while it woke up.
“Pretty hot,” George said.
“As you know, I’m not into blondes, but there was one scene which made me long for a woman again,” Pete said.
Smiling bigger than after bowling a strike, George said, “Oh yeah. The one where she’s doing that iso-pushup.”
“The one from the preview? Na, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Pete interrupted, derailing his friend’s excitement in favor of his own.
“What are you talking about then?”
“I’m talking about when she’s focusing on memorizing the plan that will allow her and TC to stay alive long enough to win. When they were in the bunker room…..planning area…..with the holographic thing,” he said, trying to jar George’s memory.
“Oh. I remember.”
“It just reminded me that it has been a long time since I have seen a woman really try hard. As in apply effort. Real effort. Care about doing it right. It was hot,” Pete said. He paused for only a moment, but it was long enough for him to sift through a decade’s worth of memories. Beginning again, he said, “I can remember memorizing the helicopter operational limits while on my commercial flights to my next training base. There were like 220 numbers that had no pattern. That kind of effort. Or I think I’ve told you about my first memory of Greeny. From back in college? It was an intramural flag football game and he was on the ground, laid out, fully extended with the football in one hand–all to gain a few extra inches. I don’t think the game even counted for anything. But I remember having the specific thought, ‘I want to be his friend.'”
“Yeah. Women just don’t do that. Or at least the ones we ever come across don’t,” George said, staring through the wall, past the front yard, across the dimly lit street, and into the unending night.
“Doesn’t matter where the effort is being applied, I would chase after a woman like that,” Pete concluded. Rejoining, he attempted old white man voice and quoted another sci-fi favorite of his day, “Hope. It is the quintessential human delusion, simultaneously the source of your greatest strength, and your greatest weakness.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” George said. “See ya tomorrow man.”
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.
Needs
“I need things, you know?” he said, as his friend’s eyebrows raised and eyes widened. “I’m serious.”
“Oh, I know you’re serious.”
“One thing I need–I mean this is a prerequisite to life no different than air–is to be able to make mistakes,” he explained.
“I guess I can buy that. Don’t you have that?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I do. But then there are times when the pressure to not err is so great that it’s asphyxiating. Have you ever felt that?”
“Uhm…I don’t think I understand what you mean.”
“I mean that there is a feeling, something ethereal, maybe it’s not even real, but I feel it just the same. There is a peculiar feeling I get when I know what the right thing to do is, the right course of action, but at the same time I don’t really want to take that route. It’s like I can see a bunch of infographic style arrows pointing to the right decision, and yet another option, one that is not highlighted, holds greater appeal,” he continued.
“Okay, I think I can say I understand what you mean. If you’re simply trying to describe that you feel like always choosing the right thing makes you feel less than human, or that always choosing to do the right thing makes you feel not alive, then yes, I have felt that feeling. For me, I think I can relate on the patience virtue. I know when I need to be patient, but there are some times I can’t help but ask myself, “‘What am I even trying for here? Most perfect man ever?'”
“Exactly. That’s exactly it. Didn’t someone famous say, ‘To err is human?’ I feel like that sentiment was taught under the premise that erring is only something that happens by accident. What does it say about me if I err on purpose?”
“Uh…that you’re human.”
“Oh. Good point.”
Error In Yesterday’s Captain’s Log
Yesterday’s post, “White Hot Flame”, contained a copy of a back-and-forth between a fellow student and myself. The trouble, however, is that there was a typo. Where I wrote “Hey S-“, it should’ve simply read, “To Anyone Who Feels Like Reading At The Moment:”
Now, you might be wondering, “What’s the difference?” Well, I’m exceedingly happy to share the answer, the difference, with you here.
If I wrote that post to “S-“, who, like you and I, is a real live person struggling to find her way in this crazy, crazy world, it would have been an attack on her character. It would’ve have been an immature, undignified, and disrespectful personal attack. And I don’t do that. At least, I don’t do that to strangers. For someone to get me to deliberately and proudly sacrifice my character in an effort to attack theirs, well, that requires a special bond. To be specific, that requires the bond that only family can form.
But if the post was written “To Anyone Who Feels Like Reading At The Moment”, then it reveals itself for what it really was. It was a rant. And I’m allowed a rant.
See the difference?
So, a stranger wrote something that pissed me off, and I had a lot I wanted to say about it. Because I write a lot these days–because it was late and I didn’t have anyone to talk with about it–I wrote (typed up) what I had to say, and was quite pleased with how it turned out. So pleased in fact, that I wanted people to read it. I wrote something, and I wanted people to read it. At this point, no error has been committed–no attack. Posting what I wrote to the class discussion board, with S- as the addressee, is the mistake. That’s the moment my words transformed from “rant” to “attack”. I see that now.
Some of you who don’t know me personally might think this is all bullshit. That I’m backpedaling. You’d be mistaken. Just ask the people that do know me. To a man, they’ll confirm that my one true goal in life is to get you to love me as much as I love me. They’ll confirm that for a while I nurtured the goal by hoping that my smile would be enough to do the trick. When that didn’t work, I focused on my body. When that failed, I tried my voice. That I write to you now illustrates that while I’m 0-3 in my quest, I am not giving up.
Did I want S- to read my post? Yes. Because at least then I knew I had one reader. Did I want to attack S-? No.
So here I am, again writing. I’m exploring the feeling of remorse. Some of you might recognize these words as an apology. I can buy that. But for me, there is something more going on here. For me, this was a breakthrough. For me, this was growth.
Thanks Ma.
And thank You.
The only way to get there is together.
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.”
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.
Overrun The Runway
He hadn’t flown in a couple of years now, but it was time to renew his flight instructor certificate. The process involved reviewing a series of lessons and special interest items before taking quizzes to demonstrate mastery of the material.
As he didn’t really plan on flying again, he was doing this strictly to “be prepared.” He had worked hard to get the certification, and didn’t want to lose it if he didn’t have to. Who knew? Maybe he’d change his mind in the future. Regardless, the point is that he reviewed the data with curiosity, rather than practical application. The thing about aviation, the thing which he loved–and missed–the most, was the dedication of all involved to “doing it right.”
The noteworthy finding this time was the conclusion that overrunning the end of the runway on a botched takeoff is safer than trying to force an aircraft to fly. He loved it. What a metaphor! You see, he knew that a major reason pilots would choose to force an aircraft to fly was to save face. That’s it. Overrunning the runway on takeoff will inevitably lead to embarrassment–though likely not much else. And if there has ever been a group of individuals who would rather die than suffer embarrassment, it is pilots.
As he knew, as the reader knows, forcing the metaphorical aircraft to fly in grounded-life won’t cause death. But it does cause drama. And who among us doesn’t know someone who would rather create drama, than suffer embarrassment? He tallied how many times in recent memory he tried to “force the aircraft to fly.” How many times had he crashed and burned in life because he didn’t want to suffer the embarrassment that would have followed if he would’ve just put on the brakes and let his momentum peter out?
He’s asking us, “How many relationships could be deepened–or healed–if we made the decision to “overrun the runway” every once in a while?”
How To Ruin Food
(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions.)
“I really shouldn’t eat this, what with it containing 12 grams of saturated fat. Oh well, I’ll put in extra time at the gym tonight,” he said scarfing down the burger.
“I know. I really went overboard last weekend on the late night snacking. I think I ate two entire bags of chips and salsa,” she replied in kind.
They continued this way for the duration of the time it took for them to wolf down other foods they shouldn’t eat because of words and numbers on the packaging. I know because I was eating with them. You see, they were my friends. I hadn’t seen them in such a long time, and I had finally made time to grab a bite to catch up with them. By the time the food–if we can even call it that anymore–was finished, I was able to ask, “So how’s life? What have you been up to?”
“It’s good. Really good. Oh, but look at the time. I really need to get going if I’m going to make it to the restaurant on time after work tonight. I really need to stop eating out so much,” she said.
Instruction for How To Ruin Food
Step 1 – Believe that there is any relationship between nutritional facts and self-discipline.
Step 2 – State the relationship.
Step 3 – Repeat Step 2 until time runs out.
All Good
Pete couldn’t remember meeting her. He thought that was weird. Then again, a big sister would’ve always been there, wouldn’t she have? I guess he did have some early memories of her. There was the often told bike incident with little Steven. Oh, and for some reason he could remember her displaying shyness whenever it was clear she liked a certain boy. And he’d never forget his favorite memory of their childhood. It was the day he, ahem, stumbled upon a certain diary entry which contained a baggie of gum that she saved after she was given it–handed–directly from the mouth of a crush of hers. (Not having much time for fear of being caught, he only found it because it prevented the book from closing properly).
He was so selfish that he always took credit for initiating his own desire to live with integrity. Today, however, Pete finally took a minute and realized she necessarily would have been a founding influence, even if just subconsciously. She did the ‘right things’ as a child, and not only stayed out of trouble, but was rewarded for it. Rewarded with high grades at school, with being well-liked by everyone who knew her, and with achieving success in her passions. Those were only a few of the things he unwittingly observed growing up with her.
She also never questioned or interfered with his dreams and pursuits.
Their only moments of tension came when he was too evangelical about the need for everyone to be like him. Oh, and the morning when she criticized the smell of the slightly burnt scrambled egg-whites. He was pretty upset at her for that. What could he say? Egg-whites were one of his only meals whose flavor he enjoyed some 60 days into the restrictive pre-contest diet, and she just had to say something, didn’t she? Oh well. On this day he is in no mood to hold grudges–he’s just sayin’.
These days he sees how she raises her family. There is a lot of stress, there is a lot of yelling, there is a lot of frustration. But what her children will remember is that there was a loving mom. Always. And that constancy, Pete and his sister (and their brother for that matter) knew from experience, was priceless. In this moment of contemplation, he realized that her continuing to live with the values she demonstrated as a child should have never surprised him. Either way, for him at least, the story only gets better.
There came a time when he needed help. He needed someone he could rely on no matter what. He needed a partner who wouldn’t judge him and who would hold him accountable. His mind raced through the names of everyone he knew. There was one name with which he couldn’t find fault, one name which he couldn’t dismiss, one name he knew he wouldn’t lie to out of respect, one name he knew would not let him off easy, and one name who would respect him through the journey. There was one name whose unfailing love blinded her to weakness leaving only strength.
That name was Kate. Thank you Kate. And “Happy Birthday!” All Good.
Captain’s Log 