Tailgate Entry

This is my contribution to the "choose your ending" entries HC over at Upset Waitress and I are doing. Upset Waitress is quite entertaining and well written...you should check it out.
The bold is the part that is the same on each blog, and what follows is my ending...


One Christmas eve on the fourth of July, while Santa Clause cooked spare ribs, my uncle Sam delivered presents to all the good little waiters and waitresses. Then we opened for business.


The alarm on the fryer would not stop. I pushed the button over and over and over…

I sat up in bed, droplets of sweat turned into little streams, turned into torrents. The alarm clock was making the noise, not the fryer. Santa dissipated along with the ribs and my uncle. I did not want to wake up.

Last night had been my first shift at the restaurant. My first shift at any restaurant.

I pulled the covers up way over my head. Please don’t make me go back.

go to Upset Waitress to see her ending...
go to Waitress Stories to see her ending...
go to beginning-middle-end to see her ending...

New Look

I've gotten bored with the look of my blog, so I'm trying different looks. I'm sure I'll change it again, it's a great way to procrastinate...

Fictitious Monday V

Cold
By Tony

We are arguing. No surprise. For the last few months, we have been arguing pretty regularly. We don’t limit the topics either. They range from the petty to the important. Tonight it’s the cat.

“Why did you let her out?” my wife asks me. She is sitting sideways in the recliner chair, legs draped over the arm. Her painted toenails wiggle at me.

“Joanne, the cat was manic. Okay? The stupid thing was running around and driving me crazy,” I reply. I am not yelling, but my voice has a controlled quality that creeps into it when I start to get mad. The controlled tone usually precedes yelling, though.

“You do realize we have to leave early in the morning? What if Blinky doesn’t come back before then? Katherine isn’t coming for two days.”

Katherine is our friend, my wife’s friend really, who agreed to come over to feed Blinky and look after the house.

“I know,” I say. I stalk over to the front door and open it. A mass of freezing air rolls in through the opening. I stick my head out into the cold.

“Blinky,” I call, then make that kiss sound with my lips.

“Jesus it’s cold,” says Joanne. She’s absolutely right. It’s Christmas Eve, and it is supposed to be the coldest night of the year.

I call Blinky again.

“Christ,” my wife says. “She’s not coming. Close the door.”

With the door still open, I say, “Look, I’m trying to get her to come inside. Give me a break, will you?” My voice is starting to rise.

“That’s it, yell. I’m sure that’ll bring Blinky running right to you.”

Joanne can be such a snot.

I call one more time. No cat, so I close the door, walk to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of coffee. Trying to make up a little with Joanne, I ask her if she wants anything.

“The cat inside,” she says in a deadpan voice. Bitch.

I carry my coffee out into the living room, set the cup on the end table, myself on the couch.

“You should be wearing socks, you’ll catch cold,” I say to Joanne.

“I’ll be fine.”

I walk over to her and gently kiss her toe, then suck it into my mouth.

“It tickles,” she says, giggling. “Stop.”

She laughs and pulls her foot away.

I wedge myself onto the chair with her, and put my arm around her shoulders.

“Let’s not argue,” I say. “Let’s have one holiday this year that we get along.”

I kiss her.

“Okay,” she says.

“In fact, let’s make a deal not argue the whole time we’re visiting the parents.”

“Fat chance,” she says.

We laugh a little about that. We grew up in the same town, so it makes it easy to visit both sets of parents on the same trip. Only, my parents don’t especially like Joanne, and hers feel the same about me. It’s a struggle, but what isn’t?

“Go call Blinky, though, okay? It’s going to be so cold tonight. She really needs to be in,” Joanne says.

“Okay, honey.”

I open the door again, and feel the cold against my body. I start to call the cat, begin forming her name on my lips, when I am startled silent. Lying in the pile of leaves outside the door is a huge dog. It seems to be a Doberman, or maybe a Rottweiler or something – I’m no dog person.

I close the door some, leaving it open enough to see out, but closed enough so that the dog couldn’t get at me if it lunged or something.

It’s so cold; my breath feels like needles in my lungs. I look at the animal through the clouds of my exhaled air. The dog has it’s rear end towards me, and it’s head is turned back so it can look at me. The light from inside illuminates it’s eyes slightly.

I shut the door and turn to my wife.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“There’s a huge dog lying outside in the leaves.”

“So make it go. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “The sight of him just kind of weirded me out.”

Joanne gets up and walks to the door. Her feet must be freezing. I mean, she has no socks on, and the floor is like an iceberg.

“Let me see,” she says
.
She opens the door, cracked to about the same distance as I had. She peers out, and I look over her head. The dog is looking over his shoulder, craning his neck to see us.

She shuts the door.

“Make it leave,” she says.

“It looks like it might be sick or something. Why don’t I call the animal shelter.”

“Who’s going to be there on Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake? No one.”

She’s right, of course.

“We have to get the dog to leave so the cat will come in,” Joanne says.

Again, of course, she is correct.

“Just yell at it. Maybe it’ll leave if you yell at it,” she says
.
I open the door, stare eye to eye with the dog. I can see gray fur on the back of its neck.

“Get out!” I yell. “Hey, hey, get out of here. Git! Go home -- get.”

The dog winces when I yell, like each decibel is a smack on the snout. It winces, but doesn’t move. I am starting to feel bad about this.

I close the door.

“He won’t go” I say.

“No?”

“Nope. Won’t budge.”

Joanne says, “We have to get him out of here. Get the broom and prod him a little with it.”

“I guess I could try that,” I say, and leave to find the broom.

I open the door again.

“Be careful,” my wife says. “Don’t let him bite you.”

She is sitting on the arm of the chair. It hits me for some reason that the chair really needs to be steam-cleaned. It’s filthy.

I lean out the door, and prod the dog lightly with the bristled end of the broom. At the same time, I yell.

“Go on. Go home.”

The dog doesn’t growl or anything, only raises itself shakily to it’s feet. I notice a sore on his leg. His back is hunched in that submissive way dogs have, and his ears are flat against his head. He looks like he’s shivering, but I can’t be sure.

“Go on,” I say, again, but my heart’s not in it.

The dog just stands. Stands and shivers. I tap him lightly with the broom. He starts to limp away, occasionally looking back at me. I feel like I’ve just mugged a homeless person.

“I think he’s gone,” I say.

I sit on the couch, strangely exhausted.

“Now we just need to find the cat,” Joanne says.

My wife walks over to the door so she can call the cat, coax it in.
“Shit,” she says, once the door is opened.

“What?”

“The dog’s back.”

“Just let it stay, the cat will be all right,” I say.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says angrily. “I’ll make the fucking thing leave.”

Eyes wild, Joanne grabs the broom. She flings open the door (apparently not worried about the dog biting her), raises the broom high above her head, and smacks the dog hard. I hear the thump of the broom, and the startled, pitiful yelp of the dog. She swings again, yelling shrilly as she does. I don’t know if she hit it with the second swing or not.

Joanne shuts the door and leans against it. She is breathing heavy and her face is flush. I really can’t believe what she just did. I had no idea she could do that.

“He’ll stay away now,” she says.

I sit -- stunned. I feel a little nauseated. The image of our packed bags sitting upstairs flits through my mind. All at once, I realize I won’t be unpacking mine. Not here, anyway. Not again, not with her.

Joanne goes upstairs without saying anything else. I remain sitting, slumped really, against the cushion. I have this calm feeling, this lack of tension.

About an hour has gone by, and I’m still sitting. But I hear this scratching at the door, then a meow. Well, Blinky is back. I guess that’s good. I guess that counts for something.

THE END

Go Sox!

I grew up in Massachusetts and lived through so many let downs with the Red Sox that I'm almost at a loss as to how to be rooting for the team that is the steamroller. I mean, I lived through Bucky Dent hitting his famous home run (I cried), and Bill Buckner kicking his famous ground ball (older then, I still cried). So, hurray for the Red Sox, World Series Champs!

Thinking Blogger Award!

I have been nominated for the Thinking Blogger award by the proprietor of the blog Waitress 4 Life I am very thankful, not only to Waitress 4 Life, but also for the fact that people actually read my blog. Honestly, I really thought my tree might fall in the forest and no one would hear it, or my tree might fall and people wouldn’t like the sound.

Anyway, as part of the award I’ve got to nominate 5 blogs, so hear they are in no particular order…
El Vermino Boulevard
I Serve Idiots
Army of Dude
Educated and Poor
Well Done Filet

Back to our regularly scheduled program...

Thanks to all of you for the kinds words regarding the previous post. I know it was a downer, and not entirely what you all have come to expect from this blog.

I worked a double shift last Saturday and made decent money. edited...sorry

Kids

I am sick of kids dying.

Life is intruding on my blog this week – my “professional” life as a teacher, not the fun smarmy life as a waiter. Over the weekend, a 14yr old at my school died of a drug overdose. So let me say again, I am sick of kids dying.

Back in the mid-nineties, I had my first student die. She was twelve. She was a girl I got along with well, although the last time I talked to her she was mad about some grade or something. In the days leading up to her death, she didn’t seem depressed, upset, or anything other than a typical 7th grade girl.

The day she died is in my head as vivid little flashes of pain. I remember in the morning walking past some workers who were trying to fix an exit door. As I walked by, the door got away from them somehow and slammed shut making a huge noise. I jumped, startled, laughed a little over being jumpy over the noise.

The day went on like it always did. Kids laughed and fooled around. Lockers were banged shut. Kids forced their way through the halls trying to get to class. Later in the morning I was using a computer in the business teacher’s lab. Her students were spread out among the computers doing a typing tutor program I think. The room full of clicking keyboards made me think of a movie, you know, where the guy is trying to save the world and is typing furiously on his computer. As I typed, as the class made their typical noises, I heard a loud bang.

What was that? The class asked almost together. The business teacher said she wasn’t sure. I said, it’s probably the guys fixing the door – it made that noise before. I told them how it had scared me and they laughed – teased me a little.

I finished what I was doing and left the room. As I turned a corner and headed down a hallway, I saw paramedics rolling a stretcher out through the door at the end of the hall. Teachers and administrators blocked the area near the girl’s bathroom.

What happened, I asked.

A girl named Laura Ashley was in the bathroom and shot herself, a teacher told me.

Another teacher was walking back into the building having left Laura Ashley with the paramedics. He had blood all over the front of his shirt.

Who was the girl? I asked again.

Laura Ashley, do you teach her?

My mind confused itself, couldn’t or wouldn’t remember if she was a student of mine.

Laura Ashley? I asked.

Yes.

I teach a couple of Lauras, I think one might be Laura Ashley, I said.

It is so odd how at the time I couldn’t let myself know what I already knew. Laura Ashley, my student, perhaps the only girl named Laura Ashley in the school, had went to the rest room, put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. How odd it sounds to me now, that I could stand there and ask the name of the girl and not hear the answer.

I remember being dazed and walking down the hall towards my classroom. Kids were staying put until we got a handle on everything. And I saw the footprints. Little skeletal outlines of the shoes' soles. But they weren’t footprints made by dirt. They were red and drying into an unexpectedly dark shade. I hadn’t realized blood dried so darkly. I looked at these tracks, and figured they were either the footprints of the paramedics or of the teacher who had found her. A thought rushed into my head and I frantically tried to see the bottom of my own shoes, stared back at the way I had come from to see if the blood was following me.

I put my feet down, confident they were not stained, and thought, I am sick of kids dying.

The Marriage Bug...

The marriage bug seems to have bit some of my friends...
The other day I was talking on the phone with a friend of mine. I have worked many shifts with this guy, and drank many drinks after the shifts. He was a waiter's waiter. Such a hard worker and hard player that the cooks even made him an honorary kitchen dude. Until very recently, he had been a bachelor. Well, not just a bachelor, but a militant, never-gonna-get-married bachelor. Until, as I said, very recently. So I was talking to him, and he was saying how great marriage was so far -- you know, that newlywed babble stuff -- and then he asked me when I knew I wanted to get married. I thought for a second, then reflexively told him I didn’t know. I knew when I wanted to get divorced, but that is the subject of another essay. After we hung up, I put some thought into whole marriage thing and started to wonder just what made me do it (and possibly do it again).

I started with the definition. My dictionary calls marriage the legal union between a husband and wife. The definition seems simple enough, but once you’re actually in a marriage, the incompleteness of that simple statement becomes evident.

I think the word “union” is the key. Oh, it seems like a relatively harmless word. The “u” and the “o” give it a nice soft appearance. If it were an animal, it would probably make a nice pet. Like a cat, you can picture the word sitting serenely in your lap and purring. But this word “union,” although it is a soft-looking, cuddly word, it means what it says. It has claws.

Take finances. No longer can you just buy stuff. That drink you have with your coworkers after shift is suddenly quite extravagant. You are presented with a list that details the numerous, more practical items, that could have been purchased with the savings. Or perhaps it’s the credit card bills. You find they are dissected more thoroughly than any frog you’ve ever seen. In time, store clerks refuse to accept your card as payment, citing a letter that they, along with all of the other major stores in the area, received from your wife, telling them that you are not responsible enough to use your credit card. Eventually you are put on an allowance.

Okay, okay, there is a good side. Through your new-found thrift, you see the balance in your savings account inch towards the black. Your wife promises that with more good behavior, she may just consider getting a joint account with you. There are no longer any angry creditors mailing you nasty notes. You can once again look into the eyes of your landlord as you give him the rent check. On time.

This word “union” starts to affect you wardrobe also. New sweaters and salmon (pink!) colored shirts seem to materialize in your closet, while, strangely enough, your comfortable, broken-in clothes start to disappear. You start being encouraged not to buy any clothes. Instead, they will be furnished for you. The final heartbreak comes when you discover your favorite baseball hat, the one you’ve had since you were a kid, the one you still wear every weekend when you work on the lawn, in a box marked “for Salvation Army.”

Take heart, there is a silver lining. Clean clothes are no longer creatures of myth. In fact, they start to appear regularly. Also, there is quite a decrease in the number of times you are stopped by strangers and told your shirt is on inside out. The biggest shock comes when someone actually compliments you on your clothes.

“Union” again rears its ugly head when it comes to housework. All of the sudden, everything has a place. Coats go on hangers, in closets, you are told. Shoes do not belong at the base of the stairs. A schedule is posted noting when you will clean the bathroom, unload the dishwasher, etc. Dust is suddenly a plague on mankind.

On the plus side, you realize that your house actually does have a floor. You weren’t sure because in the past it had always been covered with clothes, newspapers, books, and other miscellaneous items. Furthermore, you start to eat off of actual plates. The same ones that used to sit for months in a pile beside the sink, while you ate from paper plates and tried to guess what type of fungus was growing on your real ones (but this did accidentally lead you to discover how yogurt is made).

But the biggest area in which you notice a change as a result of this “union” is in your everyday habits. Burping for instance, is strictly taboo. You try to explain that burping is not something you usually plan, it just happens. But your argument is to no avail. The bathroom, a place you used to know quite well, becomes a distant memory, a foreign country that you once visited, and someday hope to return to. Sleeping, formerly a peaceful operation, becomes an exercise in domestic manifest destiny, a small war really, with the winner getting all of the blankets, or all of the bed. Frequently both. And your freedom is suddenly restricted too. You can no longer come and go as you please. You find you have to explain where you are going, why you are going, and when you plan to return. This inquisition is usually followed by a request for you to bring some milk home with you.

Ironically, this change in daily habits is where you find the most comfort -- although you don’t admit it. You get a warm, cozy feeling when you realize that the reason you never get to use the bathroom is because your wife is always in it. You feel a tingle inside when you tell your friends that you couldn’t watch the basketball game because your wife wanted to watch Project Runway (which it turns out you secretly learned to like). Somehow, it’s not so bad that the reason you woke up freezing to death is because you wife stole all the covers.

To be truthful, marriage, and the “union” it involves, isn’t such a bad deal. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go vacuum the den.

Fictitious Monday III

Although I didn't consciously have Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants" in mind when I wrote this story, it does have the same feel to it -- not in a parody kind of way, but in its feel and tone. Anyway, I like the story, hope you all do too...



The Whole Rest of My Life
By Tony


The neighbor’s loud music woke me. I stayed still and tried to ignore it, tried to fall back asleep. I couldn’t. The deep bass thumped in my chest like a second heartbeat. I turned and looked at the clock. It was five in the morning. Rolling over, I looked at Jackie. Her back was to me. Light from the street lights filtered through the partially opened venetian blinds and made prison-bar shadows on her. I put my hand on the outline of her hip.
“Can’t sleep either?” she asked, startling me.
“No, fucking neighbors.”
“I know,” she sighed, then rolled over.
“Maybe I’ll call the police,” I said. I threatened to do that every time their music woke me up.
“No, honey.”
I huffed and rolled onto my back.
“I can’t sleep anyway,” she said.
“Feeling sick again?”
“Yeah.”
“Nauseous?”
“Yeah, it’s weird.”
She rolled over, back onto her side. I slid behind her and put my arms around her.
“I don’t know, baby. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t, it’s probably just a virus.”
“Mmm.”
I held her until I fell asleep. The neighbor’s music was still trying to break into our room.

***

It was hard to see. We were driving directly into the sun, and I didn’t have my sunglasses.
“I threw up again this morning,” Jackie said.
“We agreed we weren’t going to talk about this until we bought a test.”
“You agreed, not me.”
“What’s the point? We’re not even sure what’s wrong. We...”
“Not sure what’s wrong! Wake up, dear. The question is: how many months wrong am I?”
“How can you be sure? Everything was on time last month, wasn’t it? I mean, your like three days late. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It doesn’t mean we’re safe.”
“Just ‘cause you’ve been sick doesn’t mean your knocked up.”
“Just shut up, will you?”
She was crying. I stopped the car and pulled her to me.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m just scared,” I said.
“I know,” she whispered.
Her back rose up and down under my hand, and occasionally jerked as she tried to catch her breath. Tears wet my shoulder.
“I’m just afraid you’ll hate me,” she said.
“Why, baby? Why would I hate you”
“If I got pregnant. You’d hate me. It’d be all my fault.”
“I wouldn’t hate you. It would be my fault too.”
“I love you so much.”
She had stopped crying, but now started again.
“Everything’s going to be all right,” I said, trying to soothe both of us.

***

The night was warm and muggy. We lay in bed with the blankets on the floor and the sheet halfway up our legs. The neighbor’s music played loud again. It didn’t wake us up though; neither of us could sleep.
“What are we going to do?” I asked Jackie.
“We’ll be okay.”
“How? I won’t be able to go back to school. I’ll be a fucking waiter my whole life.”
“You can still go back to school.”
“Yeah, right,” I said.
“Honey,” she pleaded.
“What, dammit? What?” I sat up on the edge of the bed with my back to her.
“Don’t do this,” she said, and tried to touch me. I flinched away.
“Don’t do what? Don’t have the life we planned? Don’t travel ‘till we’re old and gray and can’t even enjoy it? Don’t go to school and...”
“Stop, please...”
“...don’t have a decent life? What about you? What won’t you do?”
“Stop,” Jackie said, so quietly I knew I’d better.
“I’ll be back in awhile,” I said.
Outside it was dead calm. The doldrums. I saw a dog near our garbage can and threw a rock at him.

***

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” I asked.
“It’s fine.”
“I will. I want to if you need me to.”
“No you don’t. You don’t want to.”
“But I do if you want me to. I...”
“No. Just wait in the parking lot.”
“Yeah, sure. I love you, baby.”
I slid across the seat and kissed Jackie on the cheek. She got out of the car, looked at me as if she expected me to say something, then quickly shut the door. She turned on her heel, walked up the stone steps, entered through the door on the right. The door that had “clinic” stenciled on it.
I pulled away from the curb and into the parking lot. Sitting with the engine running and air conditioner on, the car overheated. I shut it off, got out, and sat on the back bumper. It was a hot day. Dust settled in the sweat on my arms and face. It wasn’t long before I could no longer stand the heat.
I got into the car, started it, and drove away. I drove aimlessly, ending up at a playground. Standing under a tree, I watched the kids. A frisbee sailed through the air and landed at me feet.
“Hey,” a little boy yelled, “could you throw that back please?”
I tossed it, watching as it floated over the boy’s head.
I left. I got in the car and drove away. I drove for a long time, losing track of the clock. I made my way back to the clinic.
Jackie was sitting on the steps.
“Where were you?” she asked, voice calm.
“I got so hot. I couldn’t take it. I took a drive to cool off.”
“I imagine it was pretty uncomfortable,” she said, and gazed out the window.

***

“Are you okay?” I asked Jackie. She was scrunched up in the fetal position, holding her stomach. Even in the dark I saw drops of sweat on her forehead.
“Yeah, the doctor said I might cramp a little bit. He said to expect it. You go ahead to sleep.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, go to sleep. The neighbor’s aren’t playing their music, so you should be able to sleep just fine.”
She was right, there was no music, in fact, you could literally hear a pin drop, that’s how silent it was.


THE END
© 2007

Table 15 wants to see you...

The most dreaded thing a server hears from a manager.

"Table whatever wants to see you."

In my case, it was table 15. It was Friday and we were packed. The floor manager caught me as I was filling some sodas.
"Table fifteen wants to talked to you," she said.
"That's not my table," I said. I looked over discreetly; nobody I knew.
"I know. They just saw you when they came in and want to see you. They don't seem mad."

I dropped off the sodas I had filled, took a deep breath, and made my way to table fifteen. I certainly didn't know the couple at the table, nor did they look familiar in any way.

"Hi," I said as friendly as possible. "I was told you wanted to see me."
"Oh, yes." said the woman. "The last time we were in here..."
I braced myself for the complaint I knew was coming and was already running through my head sarcastic replies I could use that wouldn't get me fired.
She continued, "...the last time we were in here we had such a great time. When we got home I realized I kept the wrong credit card receipt, so we didn't leave you a tip. We wanted to apologize."
My heart started to come down from its flight or fight acceleration. I vaguely remembered having an unsigned credit card ticket a few weeks ago, and at the time assumed I had been a dumb ass and lost the signature part.
"That's ok," I said.
"No, we felt terrible."
Her husband opened his wallet.
"And we wanted to make sure and remember to give you the money next time we came in. We felt soooo stupid."
They put the money on the table in front of me.
"That really isn't necessary," I said.
"No, it is. Please take it."
I told them they were embarrassing me with their kindness and that it was very kind of them to find me and give me the tip they had forgotten.

I walked away after thanking them some more and realized how much their act of consideration had meant. So many times at work, and in life, we focus on the bad feelings, the anger caused by people being inconsiderate. Being jerks. Being assholes.

It was nice to have a chance to savor the feeling of someone being nice for no reason other than they wanted to be nice. They had nothing to gain. They gave me the tip they had forgotten because of a sense of decency.

That, and so I wouldn’t spit in their food for stiffing me.

Fictitious Monday II

This week's story is one I wrote during the break up of Yugoslavia. I've always been proud of this story, especially since the themes stay fresh, even if the location changes from Bosnia to Iraq.

All I Had
By Tony

We were driving up to what I figured would be the last roadblock. Although, like most of the other ones, this wasn’t really an organized roadblock. It was just three guys with guns, sitting in a jeep, parked in the road. They probably weren’t even soldiers.
But in that war, I guess, everyone was a soldier.
The woman with me I did not even know. She was from the last village I had visited. This was a village off the beaten path. Somehow she found out I was leaving the country, and she begged me to let her come. She pleaded with me to take her to the refugee camp. Her and her teenage son -- they had no other way to get there. She said she could get me through the roadblocks, since she spoke the language. At first, I had refused. It was much safer for me to travel alone, I told her, with her along, we were both in more danger. I told her that traveling with a Western journalist, especially an American one, was not one of the wisest things she could do. What was her choice? she asked me. She had a point.
So she was in the car, sitting next to me, and we were approaching the roadblock. Her son, who hadn’t said a word since we left, was in the back seat. The sun was blinding as it reflected off of the snow and puddles of slushy water. I had to squint behind my sunglasses.
I downshifted as we approached the roadblock. A scraggly, unkempt man stood beside a jeep. He had a lean look, a hard look I had seen in almost all of these people. His clothes were a combination of uniforms (probably taken off the dead), and civilian garments. No doubt, these items were also taken from the dead. His face was covered with a full beard.
Two more just like him, one with a full beard, the other with stubble, were sitting in the jeep. All three wore dirty scarves that blew like flags in the wind.
I pulled slowly to a stop, unrolled the window, felt the burst of cold air as it filled the car.
The one who was standing walked over to my side. Up close, I saw his gaunt face was covered with sores and scabs, his beard had patches where no hair grew. One of his buddies got out of the jeep and walked to the passenger’s side. Both had rifles, Russian AK-47’s, and they were pointed in our direction.
“Get out,” the one said to me in pigeon English. He motioned to the woman also.
The woman and I got out of the car. The boy stayed in the back seat, but they motioned for him to get out too, and he slinked over to his mother. He looked scared, I didn’t blame him. His skinny frame was hunched, like he was bracing himself for a strong wind. The poor kid’s eyes were huge, and his dark skin poured sweat. He grabbed his mother’s hand.
The man who was still in the jeep, the one with the stubble, stood, stretched, slowly walked towards us. He was so much taller than the other two.
“You are American,” he said to me in the same broken English his friend had used.
It was crazy how they always knew I was an American. I mean, we had been through maybe half a dozen roadblocks, and they always pegged me right off. They never thought I was British, or German, or anything. American, always American.
I looked up at him and shook my head yes.
It did not feel good. We should have already been bartering with them -- some money, a couple cartons of cigarettes and some food or something for safe passage. That had not happened.
This tall guy said something to his friends. I couldn’t understand what they were saying. They had backed away from me a little, but after the tall guy spoke, one started for me. Sweat puddled on my skin, trickled down my back, despite the cold.
The woman moved quickly in front of me, spoke to the tall man in their confusing language. The wind came up and whipped her dirty threadbare clothes. Some dirt flew into my eyes. I tried to blink it out while the man with the rifle took one more step towards me.
But then the tall man motioned for his buddy to stop.
“Get your money, get everything, take all the bags out of the car,” she said to me.
I did as she said.
She spoke rapidly again to the leader. Her face looked tight, kind of twisted and weird. I tried to pick up some of what they were saying, but I couldn’t. Her son started talking too. He was almost yelling. Suddenly, he dove at one of the men, and the man smashed the boy in the head with the rifle butt. The boy slumped to the ground and didn’t move.
She erupted in a scream of tears and tried to go over to the boy. They pushed her away.
I moved towards her, slowly, not wanting to get these guys upset.
“What’s going on?” I said to her.
“They want more,” she said.
“But they got everything we have.”
Tears were washing some of the dirt off her face.
Two of the men grabbed her, started to drag her over to the jeep. She wrenched away and pressed herself against me.
“Don’t let them,” she screamed.
I stood and they pulled her away. I didn’t even try to hold onto her. I thought, I don’t really know this woman, I’m not going to die for her.
They dragged her behind the jeep. The tall one, the leader, stayed behind with the unconscious boy and me. I looked around at the beautiful mountains, for some reason, noticed the purple tops and the snow, noticed how even with the war, the mountains still seemed clean, you know, kind of pristine.
The tall man smiled at me with his incredibly white teeth. I heard the woman start to scream and involuntarily lunged towards the sound. The man with me pulled his pistol from its holster.
I thought to pray, but I hadn’t believed in God in so long that it seemed dumb to start then.
The man put the barrel of the gun against my forehead. He cocked the hammer. His stinking breath was in my face, and I thought that disgusting smell would be the last thing I’d experience.
From the jeep came more screams.
He lowered the pistol to my stomach.
“I shoot you here and you die slow,” he said.
The sweat, as you can imagine, was pouring from me.
He lowered the pistol to my crotch, and held it there, and stared directly into my eyes. He put the hammer back to the safe position. Laughing, he waived the pistol in front of me. Then he walked over to the unconscious boy. His boots crunched on the rocks and dirt.
Still, more screams, shrieks really, came from the other side of the jeep.
The tall man kneeled next to the boy, whose feet were facing me. He looked at me again as he raised the boy’s head up by the hair. He put the gun in the child's mouth, and once more, he pulled back the hammer.
I noticed that the boy’s shoe was untied.
Then there was a huge boom, then the back of the boy’s head was gone. It was on the snow, my pants legs, my shirt. I kneeled down and started to puke. My hand rested on a piece of the kids head, and I wretched some more. The man kicked me in the ribs and laughed like it was a great joke.
From the other side of the jeep, there was also a boom.
The tall man pulled me up by the back of my shirt and thrust me towards the car.
“Go,” he said.
I slid into the driver’s seat and sat there.
“Go.”
I started the car and brushed at my legs and stomach, trying to get the parts of the boy off of me.
The man kicked the door.
“Go.”
And I did. I put the car in gear and drove around the jeep. The woman was on the other side of it, prostrate and half naked. The snow, like a sponge, was soaking up her blood. Where there was no snow the blood puddled on the hard black ground.
I sped up. I floored it. The window was still open and I knew the cold air was blasting me, but I didn’t feel it. I reached the crest of the hill and began to cry. My body was covered with sweat and blood, and I was shivering.
I rolled up the window and turned the heater on.
For hours, I drove along the mountain road. The scorched hulls of destroyed trucks dotted the side of the road. Occasionally there were bodies, bloated and tearing out of their clothes.
The sun was going down when I turned a last corner and saw it. Ahead of me was the refugee camp. The buildings were there with the fences around them, bright red crosses painted on their sides. I saw people milling around outside, saw the blue helmets of the U.N. soldiers.
I tried to go faster, I gripped the wheel tighter. I rumbled along in my speeding car, and I gave it all I had.

THE END
© 2007

Prometheus Unbound

I have moved a fair amount in my life. I’ve changed jobs a fair amount more. One thing that I wonder about is my lack of connections to people from whom I’ve moved on. I am strangely unbound. I had good friends in high school yet I had no desire to keep those friendships alive once I left, no desire to rekindle them when the opportunity arose. I made very close friends in the Marine Corps, but again, once I moved on, either to a new duty station or when my service was done, nothing pulled at me to keep friendships going.

I bring this up because as we servers know, turnover at a job is expected and frequent. Just a few days ago a server I got to know pretty well left the restaurant. We weren’t bffs, but we got along both professionally and personally. Often getting along on both fronts is a challenge. How many times have you liked a person but hated working with him or her? Or thought someone was great to work with but an ass in the real world?

So anyway, this server has left. Sadly, I know it will be only months before I no longer meet her and her friends out occasionally for a drink. Only months before I stop wondering how she’s doing. And not too log before I avoid eye contact when running into her because I don’t want to go through the hassle of a reunion.

I know not everyone is like this. I have friends who travel hundreds of miles to stay in touch with people from their pasts. Others I know at least exchange the occasional call, letter, or email -- even if it’s just a funny email forward or a yearly Christmas card. Why does this not have any attraction for me? What defect in me keeps me from caring when I’ve lost touch with yet another individual in my life?

I’ll write more on this later. I guess for now, the question is where I’m stuck.

Three's Not Company Redux

How do you convince someone that a situation that seems bad is really innocent? Short answer is generally you don’t.

Here’s the story...


Some of you may be remember the original entry of "Three's Not Company." Due to certain circumstances, I’ve removed it. I am still feeling my way here in the world of blog publishing, and am not always sure what is ok and not ok as it pertains to the feelings of others.

I welcome any advice and/or comments on the subject of self-censorship.


Tony

Army of Dude...

My blog isn't really political, but I wanted to link to this site that caught my attention... Army of Dude

Fictitious Monday

I've decided each Monday I'll post a piece of my fiction writing. This first story is one of my favorites...love to hear what people think of it.


Waiting for Maria
By Tony

Maria is late. She works at the Gap store in the mall and was supposed to get out a half an hour ago. I am near the mall exit waiting for her. Arms folded, I lean against the black, imitation granite pillar. It is cold. The chill jumps through my T-shirt and lands on my spine. Above me the neon lights hum. There is one down the hall that flickers and strobes -- going out for a minute then coming back on.
I watch the people, bleached out by the merciless, mean lights -- I hate those lights -- and I move my feet. I notice a spilled Coke on the floor. The ice cubes sparkle and twinkle. And melt. They’ll be gone soon -- they’ll be little puddles. I kick one of the cubes, and I wait for Maria.
So I am standing against the pillar, hating those lights, and a bleached-face woman is walking out of the store across from me. Well, she doesn’t really walk, she hobbles. She hobbles because she is on crutches. The padding on the hand grips is taped, and the tops are wedged under her armpits. She has black, wavy hair that stops at her shoulders. Her profile is sharp, but pretty. I notice her breasts (they are nice but unremarkable), and I follow the line down to her legs. The uninjured one is nicely shaped and proportioned. The thigh is muscular and sculpted, as is her calf. Her other leg is nice too, but it is bandaged from the knee down. And her foot is gone -- amputated. Gauze covers the stump where her ankle should start.
So I an standing, arms still crossed, cold still climbing my spine. I try not to stare at this woman. I look at my shoes, clear my throat. I cross and uncross my arms. Put my hands in my pockets. I try to occupy my eyes, but my gaze keeps resting on this woman, or more correctly, her stump. For a moment I think I see a blood stain on her bandage, but I realize it is just a shadow. Probably.
The woman’s back is to me; she is looking in the store window. In my mind flashes the face of Jerry. Jerry is a friend of mine who used to be a big, likeable jock. He used to be, until he was paralyzed playing football. He’s small and fragile now, and in a wheelchair. When I think of Jerry, I think of the time I had to help him drain his catheter bag. I think of how I had to hold the bottle because his hands were too weak. I think of how warm the fluid felt as it filled the bottle, and how I was afraid the urine might spill. And that smell. That’s what I think of when I think of Jerry, or when I see him. And now when I see him, which isn’t often, I don’t look into his eyes.
Anyway, this woman is across from me looking in the store window. I see her turn slightly in my direction. She twists her crutches around and her body follows. Her eyes, which have dark circles under them, catch mine. I look away. She turns around totally, and starts to hobble to the exit. Her footless leg swings rhythmically, like some kind of strange pendulum.
She hobbles along and comes even with me. She looks at me, not at where she is going. I squirm, I think about Jerry and his urine bottle. This woman, this woman with the wrapped stump that may have blood on it, continues to look at me as she hobbles. Suddenly, her crutch slips out. It probably slipped on the spilled drink I have forgotten about. Anyway, she falls. She falls hard; I hear the breath grunt out of her.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I am kneeling next to her.
She sits. For a moment I worry she’ll get her pants stained by the spilled Coke.
“Yes,” she says. “I think so.”
She rubs her shoulder, brushes her black hair from her face. I retrieve her crutches and help her to her feet.
“I guess you slipped in that Coke,” I say, pointing.
“I guess.”
“Look, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” she says. She brushes her pant leg and says, “I saw you looking at me. I saw your reflection in the window.”
What can I say? I want to say “You’re still pretty.” I want to say “You’re beautiful.” I want to hug her like a baby and protect her. I want to give her her foot back. But I can’t say or do any of these things.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I can think of only that.
She looks at me. She looks at me while those neon lights bleach out her face. Mine too, I guess.
“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry too.”
She makes her way towards the door, steady now on her crutches. I’m motionless, watching her. I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Maria.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says.
“It’s okay,” I say.
We walk outside into the parking lot. The bright sun makes me squint until my eyes finally adjust.
Maria says, “Look, look honey.” She is pointing by moving her head, jerking it. “That woman came into the store today.” She is talking about the woman who just fell. The woman without the foot.
“I saw her too,” I say.
“It’s sad, you know? She’s so pretty otherwise. It’s sad, but it’s kind of gross too. I thought I saw blood on her bandage.”
As I talk, I watch the woman go down the sidewalk. Her hair glistens in the sunlight, like pieces of those ice cubes from the floor are caught in the strands. Her face, what I can see of it anyway, looks healthy in the natural light. I watch her, and in my mind I see Jerry, only it’s the Jerry who could pee by himself.
“Come on,” says Maria. “let’s go home.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me along.
So I go along, stumble behind her. I squeeze her hand and feel her strength in response. I crave her warmness, and I go along. I go along because I don’t know what else to do. And if I did, I probably wouldn’t do it anyway.

THE END