To Tread or Not To Tread

He sits in front of the mirror, just like he has hundreds of times, perhaps thousands.  He, with great ritual, hides his face with an applicator sponge, just like in those hundreds of times, perhaps thousands.  With great solemn ceremony in those hundreds of times, perhaps thousands, he applies a mask of pancake and bakes it under the hot lights that surround a guilded mirror and look deeply into a face that looks right back out at him.  And then, a hundred times, perhaps thousands, he will make his entrance.  "All the worlds a stage, and all men and women merely players.  They have their entrances and exits..."  Today, however, the face in the mirror, something wrong, out of place.  "Is this a dagger I see before me?"  He thinks into a heavy sigh.  "And each man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages..."

He sees wrinkles under his eyes, dark bags, crevices and crags among the face.  Instead of water and wind, age has created this facade on the rock, the old king, the specialty of this evening.  A sad royal, a desperate ruler, trying so hard to beat the rush of time, the ravisher of mind and kingdom.  An old man, nay, fool, who wants so much to hear words long turned to dust, empty ghosts floating about his court. "I love you, Daddy," say three little girls, now powerful, lusting women, nay, harpies.  Alas, all that is left is a divided kingdom.  Nothing corporeal for the weary king to carry into oblivion.

A knock on the door beats, "Forty-five minutes."

Yes, the bright lights fade, make pale and flat a face undone, so makeup it is.  But makeup does not cover eyes, so at least, there is something to take into the abyss, old King, and yet, somewhere deep in those tired eyes, looking out from the reflection in that bright mirror, sits a boy, instead of three young girls.  

"Who looks back at me?  I am the boy, I recognize the blanket on which I sit.  I recognize the trees and open space; it's a faded picture from a photo book, my long-lost baby book.  And on the other part of that blanket, I recognize a hairdo and picnic basket.  A tiny baby, horned-rimmed glasses.  There is a blouse and skirt, a middle class attempt to appear as a woman who later became Jackie O.  A conservative approach to a time turning psychedelic, except for the Beetle Bug, the car with no heat.  I am that boy, but I was always "willing to school," and always afraid to "sigh like furnace," always running from Cupid's arrow.  So, alas no heirs in this kingdom.  But there is Mark Twain, Sherlock Holmes, someone named Pooh, a wind in the willows, and a whole cavalcade of Gods who labored over Greece who would visit my bed at night.  There would be my confidant, my safe boundaries holding a book over my prone body, me devouring, savoring every word , sharing my very spirit.  The empty space between us always filled with love, understanding, and silence, stillness.  Alas, no longer.  And no little one in a bed for me to share those words, those books.  I..."

He settles into a sigh of ennui, and a tear pops out of the corner of his eye, like a rodent seeking safety.  It runs down his cheeks.

"Yee-aaw!  Save it for the storm, save it for Act IV, save it for the audience...." Another tear.  "Stop it!  Too soon!"

He goes back to the bright mirror, hiding his face by applying the character.  He blinks and is now in robe and nightcap, Moliere, rather an attempt.  He can not remember the words, no matter how hard.  

"The script never sank in, did it?  Work, torment, angry words from fellow actors.  No one knew about how the words crawled all over the page; I stayed silent in embarrassment and shame.  Some one else should have pretended to be ill, a specific Junior, the rightful heir to the audition, should have been the hypochondriac.  But I was the Senior...and I sucked...what if I can't--  Stop it!  No time!  Too late!  Just shut up and do it.  Take the leap, God damn it.  Step off the top of the pole and go for the bell.  Fuck!"

"Thirty minutes."

"Where's the old man?  Shit!  I lost him.  No!  I must.  Back to makeup, finish the highlights and shadows.  Don't forget to line the eyes.  Ah, there you are.  Good!  Still there, eh, Monarch.  At least your face is ready, you ol' cartoon buffoon.  I only hope I can fill you with real emotions...and remember your words.  Not Moliere, please, no Moliere.  I never did attempt Moliere after that, did I?  Not once.  Not even after my first professional stage experience.  Christmas with Vic and Sade.  That was when my director pointed me in a direction that hinted my reading problems were not connected to my intelligence.  I never thanked him for that.  Paul Bragosian, something like that.  Thank you, sir.  He went back to Philadelphia if I remember.  Small part in "12 Monkeys," then disappeared from my life all together.  Fuck!  Costume!  Where is it?!  Okay, there it is.  Breathe.  The layers are here.  The weight and scratch ones are here...the colors."

In a breath, he goes back to the mirror;  he preens, picking the last bits of non-character, everyday habits.  He sweeps off his shoulders and chest the gremlins of doubt.  He is pleased as the crumpled monarch gazes back at him.  The smile appropriately tired and grizzled.

He steps into the hallway and heads toward his court awaiting him in his throne room.  As he finds the edge of the stage, the actor hides in the thick, dust-filled curtains.  The lights have not gone to black, there are several stagehands working, solving, and preparing.  He sees several audience members milling about the house.  The curtains smell of old makeup and past performances.  His stomach moves and gurgles.  Movement helps; so, the actor paces.  His gentle footfalls quietly tick like an old grandfather clock.  Time, click, passing, clock.  Father in a bed with rails, 62 years of age, not quite 63.  Click.  "What do have I to show with my life?"  Clock.  "You're meant for this role," director with a smile.  Click.  "Who am I?"  Clock.  A single, external voice: "you were chosen, and you also chose."

"Places!" Whispers a cuckoo from a different clock.  So, silently, the actor floats on to the now darkened stage and takes his place.  He exhales slowly, meditates.

After, he will leave the redarkened stage and float into a dark makeup room.  With a sigh, he will exhale, leaving his body.  "Yes, I chose."  In the warm glow of candlelight applause and laughter remembered, the actor will then close his eyes.

Something in the Air

He was bored, so he looked out the window.  It was a big, single-paned window, a great bird watching window.  There were several pairs of binoculars sitting upon the window's ledge to allow everyone in the family a chance to peep off into the distance, maybe catch sight of a passing bird.  But there were no birds, not at the feeders, nor at the bird bath nor in any of the surrounding trees.  Somehow, there was no lack of robin voices singing out in the pre-dawn light, singing their "Good Morning" song, loudly.  He sat at the window.  The avian choir penetrated the single pane of glass, just as his staring passed through that same glass.  He was not really looking anywhere or at anything; he barely focused on the cherry tree in the yard that sat just past the feeding station for his feathery friends.  The cherry tree stood far enough away from the house and surrounding trees that it would catch any hint of morning sunshine, as soon as it was cast upon the land, but the sun was not quite ready to rise and shine.  With the stars still danced and taunted the soon-to-rise sun, the limbs and accompanying leaves of the cherry tree danced in the near-dawn light as a subtle morning breeze added beautiful music of the robin chorus.

He exhaled loudly; the world was ripe for adventure.  He could feel it in his bones; he could not sit still.  His body cried out for adventure.  He hoped a heavy sigh would awaken his still slumbering mother, not quite ready to rise and shine.  No response; so, he waited, pressing his face into the window, hoping adventure would push through the pane and touch him.  He had already eaten some cereal, which he was now demeaned old enough to do on his own, and he really did not want to turn on the television, as cartoons had become boring to him (though, a sneak of Cartoon Network did cheer him up occasionally).  He did not want to break out paper and pencil to draw.  He did not want to turn on a light.  No, the world outside called.  "Mother, adventure waits!" he said over his shoulder, while pirate tales and exploration tales went swimming in his head.  Still no response.  So, he stared out into the yard, just past the dancing cherry tree.

He had been staring out that gigantic, bird-watching window for a while, as a hint of color brush-stroked across the property.  Dawn was beginning to break, and it started to fill to the daydream dancing in his head, a cutting of tall grasses and trees, a slashing of vines.  The dawn became a simple swipe of a machete which revealed a great jungle temple with gigantic stone doors open to explore.  But as soon as the temple was revealed, the temple doors slammed shut, and also his daydream.  He jumped back from the window to hide in the shadows of the room's interior, revealing a greasy ghost left behind on the pane.  Something moved, something black on two legs in the yard, just past the cherry tree.  Danger had come.  It was so black, this danger, this unknown, that it felt as if all of the sunlight being cast into the yard, which was not much, was being sucked into the thing, a giant light vacuum.  The cherry tree quit dancing, the wind quit singing.

In spite of his parents' decree about leaving the house before they awoke, he leapt on to his feet.  He grabbed a flashlight from the junk drawer in the kitchen, in case, he needed something to throw at the dark intruder.  He left the living room and headed straight out the door with great speed.  He maneuvered through the yard like a white tailed deer, around trees, over bushes, and out into the part of the yard where the tall grass grew, the "natural" part of the property.  He saw nothing in the uncut grass, not even a trail, other than his own.

He scratched his head, almost forgetting about the heavy flashlight in his hand.  He spun around quickly in the yard, not really seeing anything in the act.  He knew danger lurked, and it hid itself well in the tall grass or behind a bush or tree.  He stumbled around looking for hints that would lead to the capture of the "unknown."  After a couple of minutes frantically seeking out the "danger," he stopped.  He took in a deep breath of dew-cooled air.  He smelled cow.  The neighbors down the road raised beef cattle; they were extremely noisy on this morning.  They sensed the "darkness" lingering nearby, but it was quite a distance to cover in such a short amount of time.  Still, he followed the voices of bellowing beasts deep into a spring-formed ravine.  But as he listened to the bovine, his eyes traced a strip of grass that divided the pasture from a hillside of woods and noticed a figure standing there.  He could barely ascertain the shape of a black dress and perhaps harvest wheat for hair.  An intense stab hit his eyes, so he tightly closed his eyelids to relieve the pain.  But when he opened his eyes, the figure had disappeared.  There was no trail of beaten grass to indicate anything was there, let alone a person in black.  He said nothing of the incident to anyone.  No one would believe.

For Coughing's Sake

So, on 26 April, I posted on to Facebook the question: "is it possible to cough so hard that you cough yourself out of "phase" with the rest of your world?"  I was curious.  I think that I also asked: "Have I slipped into a different timeline like I am a cast member from Star Trek?  Do I now live in an alternate universe?  I blame the Fake Flu.  It's just as bad as the Fake News."  As I had as an official diagnosis, Influenza Like Illness.  I know the doctor made that up on the spot.  Oh, and in spite of what anyone will tell you, Fake Flu is far worse than Fake News.

Anyway, on May 16th, I mentioned on Facebook that I had started a journey aimed at solving my "soul" dilemma.  I'm pretty sure that I began with the talking to folks and that one particular "spiritual leader" had a "shoe horn" of sorts that I could use to help me in my moment of need.  I ultimately decided to forgo that gentleman's kind assistance, and simply went with a tether approach, as I could easily hang on to my soul like a helium balloon.  

However, it was on that posting that a friend of mine suggested that I should use a birdcage.  The idea intrigued me, and so I gave a great deal of thought to the idea.  After all, it would alleviate the troubles I had the previous weeks.  You see, my tether got "caught up" in a lot of things, overhead electrical wires or bus doors.  All was fine, however, until we came to the company picnic about a couple of weeks ago.  You see, I got stuck in some low lying tree branches, which, by itself, was bad, but not a huge problem.  Suddenly, everyone decided to jump in to assist me.  Food went everywhere, and landed anywhere.  The ensuing tangle caused a huge embarrassment to the company when pictures of the scene made the local paper.  And then, there was the matter of pomegranate juice and ketchup.  The poor Human Resources gal won't ever be the same...and neither will her blouse, I'm afraid.

So, after that, I decided that a birdcage would be a good solution.  Trust me when I say, that there was huge amount of consideration put into the planning.  There was the matter of the correct material and manner of construction for the cage.  I also decided that it would be advantageous for me to have an assistant in the construction, so as to maintain the proper placement of material.  Of course, the biggest impediment to my project was finding the right person for the job.  It took at least three days for me to find a person who would not laugh directly into my face, let alone someone who could look me straight faced.

Currently, I am about half way through the build.  I have only singed my eyebrows once, and expect my eyelashes to grow back on to my eyelids within a week.  Will keep you informed.

School Bus Kids special edition: The Step That Ate The Shoes

There are days when things happened and they seem to say things like: "you should have stayed in bed, maybe today is not your day."  You take those things and roll them into just one thing and call it a sign, an omen.  On this one particular morning, it was as if the very gates of Hell were disguised as my bus doors.  I stepped on to the bus; all was fine.  Then, first intersection, the door swung wide open, all because a trigger was not...triggered.  A new student pick up note got sucked right out of the wide open, driver's window.  Oh, and have any of you ever tried to drive down the road while using a cup of coffee as an IV bag, and then see an animal on the road, only to realize that it is not a dog staring at you but...a large group...of deer?  It was nice to find out later that slow drip caffeine had become such a fashion statement.  And, then, there was the small matter of a foam cushion turned soppy sponge upon which you then must sit...the rest of the day.  Yep, all the signs were there; though I did miss the biggest one: "Abandon hope all ye who enter here."  It was there, right above the bus doors in clear, fairly large letters.  Okay, maybe everything was fine.  The sun could have pierced the clouds and washed all this "badness" right out into the ditches.  Maybe I was overreacting, but when the first student tried to get on to the bus and stumbled, I was not so convinced.

She got up out of the stairwell just fine, maybe with an embarrassed titter.  She staggered down the aisle to her seat.  Okay, one time incident, that's all.  At least, it had better be; I was starting to lose my good mood.  But, it happened to the next student, and then, the next.  Oh, oh.  A pattern was forming.  And then, another.  Then, for a touch of flavor, a murmur was added.  Another student got on to the bus.  The murmur grew into a light patter.  But now there was movement in the seats.  It got so bad that I had to pull the bus over to the shoulder; motion in the aisle is a big distraction.

The commotion, the murmur was this: shoes were missing, just one from each of the students who had gotten on the bus.  Fortunately, there were pairs of gym shoes waiting at school (I don't know what would have happened if there were no gym shoes).  But, now there was a mystery: what happened while boarding the bus?  I searched the length of the entire aisle; everyone searched the entire length of the aisle.  I searched under a seat or two; everyone searched under a seat or two.  No sign of any of the missing shoes.  I began to wonder if the troll had moved out of my old bus and on to the new one; though, I could not tell you why.  Trolls hate new things.  In spite of being armed with that troll knowledge, I looked and smelled for tell tale signs of troll, just in case.  I sought a nest of coarse hair or the distinct smell of troll (which is very much like moldy soil or feet, after wearing rubber boots too long, or maybe even a good Limburger, or other noteworthy, stinky cheese.  Though, I must confess...I do like stinky cheese.). But when I got to the front of the bus, I noticed no signs of troll or shoe.  

However, I did hear a sound.  It was hard to describe, except to say it could have been the sound of grinding teeth.  It was not the sound you would expect from a troll either; there would be far more lip smacking and "yum, yum" sounds.  No, this was something all together different from all the noises I had heard, so I sought out the source.  As I moved to the front of the bus, I thought the sound might have been coming from the heater by the door.  So, I moved in for a closer listen.  

As I got closer to the heater, I abruptly stopped at the top of the stairwell.  I sensed a movement on the stairs, about halfway down.  And as I leaned out over the steps to get a closer look from the top, I began to take stock in the fact that the movement was not on the steps, but actually was one of the steps.  It, the step, was chewing.  It chewed for a minute or so, paying no mind to the person, hovering from above, watching it masticate.  Then, without thought, it swallowed.  And to my surprise, this step suddenly, in deep baritone voice, belched out, "What?"

"Oh, nothing," scrambling to back into my driver's seat nearby.

"Then move on, man.  It's rude to watch a thing eat."

I plunked myself hard into the seat and sat puzzled, "Whatcha eatin?"

  

"A tasty morsel."

"I see."

"No you don't.  I swallowed it already.  And as it is rude, I never chew with my mouth open."

"Ah, good to know.  Uh, anything else you might need?"

"Yeh, keep everyone from stomping those big rubbery things on me."

"Um, okay....need anything else?  A drink maybe?"

"NO!" Rumbled the deep baritone voice, shaking the entire body of the bus. 

The bus was completely silent for the rest of the trip into school.  I myself was deep in thought.  I never once considered that I would need to feed the stairs, and judging from the conversation, it was not the time to ask what it favored.  Though I quietly accumulated a quick list of possible things.  As I am still tallying up the list of possibilities, I have reached item number 16, right after the shell of an old grandfather snail and puppy dog tails.  I did briefly consider rude and unruly children to be part of the feeding list, but removed them, as I could have gotten into a bit of trouble with the school administrations and the school board itself.  Oh, yeah, and parents who thought their children did absolutely nothing wrong.  As for the rest of that particular day, the sun finally came out after hiding behind clouds for almost a full week.  And hearing of our bus dilemma, the Ministry of Silly Walks traveled all the way from England to demonstrate some helpful ways the children could get on to the bus safely, shoes intact.  "Knees up, people!  Way up!"  I guess you could say that the signs wore off, or at the very least, the omens changed.  It turned out to be a beautiful day...and very entertaining to boot, as long as the Twits don't show up.  

Iffish Mackenzie

You could say that Iffish Mackenzie was a red-headed, freckle-faced, roundish boy of some 14 years.  You could say that Iffish wandered into Twidlesburg like a dry oak leaf on the autumn wind; at least that was the way he described it.  You could also say that Iffish enjoyed eating a great deal.  I believe the first person to speak of Iffish's magnificent appetite was Mrs. Jitters, the Twidlesburg school marm.  She would often claim that Iffish was related, by blood, to a goat; for Iffish ate everything in sight: glue, pencils, soap, paper...  It was only a couple of months after Iffish had arrived in town when Mrs. Jitters sent Iffish home after he had made lunch out of the school's only box of chalk.  When Dr. Johnson checked in on the boy later that afternoon, the doctor shook his head as he hovered over the boy’s body, and announced, “This boy’s stomach is made of cast iron!”  It was one week of punishment later when Iffish returned to the classroom and a replacement box of chalk was located.  After the chalk-eating episode, there was always more than one box stored in Mrs. Jitters' desk, and a lock on the desk drawer, all of which you would be correct in the repeating.  I swear.

At any event, I first met Iffish Mackenzie at a pie eating contest, a few months after the classroom incident with the chalk.  I was too shy to join in the fun of my new community, so I merely observed the annual "Twidlesburg Great Pie Eating Contest."  I had never seen so many recently emptied pan pans in my whole life, and when all was done, I had never seen such a magnificent sight.  There he sat, Iffish Mackenzie, the one-boy, pie-wrecking crew, right in the middle of a pile of empty pie tins on a long, pan-filled table, sitting there with his arms flexed in "I am the Champion" pose, berry stains from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, and fruit shard spotted teeth.  Iffish MacKenzie was magnificent in his achievement; he was an inspiration.  The dead pie tin stack looked so impressive (surely had to surpass the height of the old Oak tree standing behind the table) but wobbly, so contest organizers tried to everyone back for fear of spectators' and other contests' safety, just in case the stack fell over.  But the spectators didn't move.  They just stood there, stunned and motionless, frozen stiff with shock, mouths open just wide enough to allow travelling insects a place to rest. This new boy had out eaten Tommy Jorgenson, the town's own, home-grown sugar fiend and super mouth.

However, even with the large number of pies long vanquished, and calling into mind the future of this contest, Iffish was not finished that afternoon.  No sir, he walked over to the table which held seven 100-pound watermelons brought into town of the summer picnic by Mr. Samuelson, and before anyone could sneeze or bat an eye, no doubt, before anyone could shake their empathetic nausea, Iffish Mackenzie finished one of those 100-pound watermelons.  After finishing all seven watermelons in a digestive nightmare for the entire town, Iffish guzzled 1 gallon each of Mrs. Dinesen's lemonade and limeade.  When Iffish concluded his gastronomic, environmental disaster, the town elders assembled, then approached Iffish's parents to say that Iffish was no longer be allowed, or asked, to partake of anyone's communal lunch.  However, on that day, I knew that I was destined to share many "communal" lunches with this human food vacuum.

As I have said, I was new in town and stood out like a sore thumb.  Though, there was something worse than being new to Twidlesburg that made me very uncomfortable; for you see, I was not feeling myself.  I was told that everything was fine, that I was a normal, growing boy, but I hated my appearance.  During the spring before I had arrived in Twidlesburg, my entire body developed a "softness," an unshakable pudginess.  This could not be my body!  I was taken over by a very cunning alien who now had total control of my once slender body.  I was destined to wear a rain barrel around my body, for, nothing else would fit.  My name would be known from far and wide as "Husky” or "Splinter Butt" for all the chairs that would be destroyed under my girth.  I would be the world's clown, laughed at for my shear awkwardness and lack of grace.  I would soon find comfort at the confectionary in Frandsen's Mercantile.

It was several days after the community picnic when I saw him standing in the doorway of the candy store.  He was watching me as I perused the wide selection of candies and other confections.  It was hard for me to believe that here in this new town would be a boy, a wonderfully roly-poly companion, who would not make fun of my dumpiness, the great winner of the most awesome pie-eating contest I had ever witnessed.  We were two coins shoved into the same slot in the same piggy bank.  Slowly, as if coaxed by a gigantic, invisible hand, he made his way to my side with a multitude of stops and starts, still wearing that big pie-eating smile.

"The nonpareils aren't bad, but, if you ask me, I'd have to say the chocolate-covered cherries are the best," Iffish said in a pre-adolescent, squeak-free voice.

After filling a small bag with the suggestion of my fellow sugar connoisseur, we exchanged names, and after paying for the wondrous trophies, we exchanged sugary delights.  I would no longer feel so different, so incapable, so hideous, nor so alone.

Our days, on that hot, but glorious summer, were filled with the business of young explorers and old philosophers.  When we were not eating, Iffish and I hiked, at a snail's pace, along Sorrow’s Creek which cut the edge of Twidlesburg as a child would cut bread.  We meandered next to the erosion gully which sliced Cutter's Ridge perfectly in half.  Then, we circled around Teepee Hill, the only place within a few hundred miles where cactus actually grew, and all the other sights that comprised Twidlesburg.  All the while, sharing details of who we were, what we thought, where we had been, and what we wanted to do in the future.  When we were eating, Iffish and I were always together, much to the chagrin of my mother; for, we always ate at my house.  I, too, was not sure of the arrangement.  Oh, don't get me wrong, I greatly liked the company, but I wanted something different than my mother's shoe-leather roast and the ever-present orange menace, carrots.  There must have been something hypnotic in the orange coloring of the carrots that kept my mother from trying any of the multitudes of vegetables the world had to offer.  When it came time for dinner, I felt trapped in my house.  I wanted to see the magnificent, Gothic castle that my friend claimed to occupy, look inside those thick, block walls.  I wanted to see its high peaks, massive turrets, and secret passages.  But most of all, I simply wanted to pierce the dark veil of secrecy, which held me always distant from Iffish's life.

After several weeks and a great deal of arm twisting, I managed to convince Iffish to take me to his "castle," and I soon found myself at the door of Uther Pendragon's fortress, a magnificent work of art and masonry.  My great grandfather could have done no less than the skilled hands who forced this mighty stack of stones into being.  It all looked so dark, heavy, and ancient; there could have been no wind in the entire world strong enough to tear down this potent citadel.  If you were to press your ear against the door, you surely would have heard great kings and mighty wizards casting war and dividing lands.  Though once inside the fortress with its door closed tightly, the place was a vast tomb which breathed the scent of mold, dampness, and stillness.  But with a good lamp in hand, it all became harmless.

With a tug on my shirt sleeve, the games began.  The two young banshees, Iffish and I, began screaming and running down the halls with the echoes of our voices bouncing off the highest vaulting in the ceilings and hurtling back at us.  For hours, we played, never seeing a soul, nor did we care, certainly not I who was happy to be deep in the heart of Camelot, tucked neatly in that dark veil of Iffish MacKenzie's life.  And then, in the middle of the tallest and darkest hall, we stopped.  All was quiet, except the sounds of our thin, painful exhaling and rapidly beating hearts.  There in the middle of the darkness, in the midst of a great pool of light, was a massive feast.  We smiled at one another, then pounced into the table like vultures to a feast.  We invited ourselves, and like expectant kings on a campaign, we shoveled in the food as fast as we could.

It was halfway through the feeding frenzy before a word was spoken.  I might not have been heard over the grinding of food and gnashing of teeth, if Iffish had not thrown a grape at me.  It was a simple word, but it took me by surprise.

"Leaving," said Iffish, inhaling a chicken leg.

"Excuse me?" I questioned, listening to the grape bounce on the floor.

"Leaving," said Iffish, plainly.

I thought for a moment.  The sneak!  He was trying to catch me off-guard, trying to foul my eating, so he could have more share of the food for himself.  It was word association.  We would play this game for hours.  So, to protect my plate, I tossed a word back to him.

"Voyage."

"Yes, very soon.  I'm told at the end of the week."

The words danced off his tongue so matter of fact, so mundanely that I did not catch the impact right away.

"End of the week?"

"Yes.  I'm no longer needed here."

"What?!"

A knife had found its way into my stomach; I stopped eating and stared.

"It's my parents, you see.  My father has work elsewhere, and we are to locate in our new town very soon."

The drumstick, which had been firmly gripped by my hand, bounced off the plate in an attempt for freedom, splashing dots of gravy all over my shirt.  Embarrassed by the freedom march of the food and betrayed by my only friend who I was sure would never leave me, I blindly bolted from the table, followed closely by the voice of my betrayer.  Tears welled up in my eyes, I could not see, and in the whir of emotion, I became lost.  Soon, after running like a chicken without my head, a dry, thin, painful rasp of my lungs wrenching any oxygen from the miserably damp air, ripped my chest open.  I collapsed in a heap in the middle of the dank hall way.  I did not notice the insidious, wet cold seep into my bones, as began to cry.

It probably no more than 15 minutes, but felt like hours, before Iffish found me, a soggy miserable pile of shaking bones.  He knelt beside me.

"If it were up to me, I would hang around, but it's not, you know?  It's just the way things are for me and my family.  We kinda end up in places; some times, I don't know where we're going until we get there.  Parents will do that to ya; they blame it on work or money to keep a roof over your head, food on the table.  My dad always says that it's our fate, to travel like circus people or gypsies.  We continue on a certain path until we find some lost traveler.  Something about guiding them back to their path."

With those words, he handed me a chocolate-covered cherry.

"What the heck's that s'pose ta mean?" I said, with a heavy, wet sniff.

"I don't know, my dad's kinda nuts.  The townsfolk think that anyway.  Hey, I got an idea.  Our secret code will be chocolate-covered cherries; so, any time you taste chocolate and cherry for no reason that will be me.  And you can use nonpareils, but if you ask me, the chocolate-covered cherries are the best."

"But what am I going to do without you?" I asked weakly.

"You don't need me.  Hell, you don't need anyone.  People, like us, we find ourselves in things, like the act of helping someone...or eating."

We giggled, just a bit.  And then, I nodded in agreement and popped the gooey mess that once a chocolate-covered cherry into my mouth.

It has been some time since Iffish Mackenzie and his family left Twidlesburg, and yes, I am happy to report that the pudginess, that alien softness, has officially left my body.  But before it did, a few friends came my way, all too happy to be a part of my life.

One day, I sat, thinking about stuff, splatters of happy times, aimless wanderings though memory.  Along the way, I stopped to remember that monstrous feast in Sir MacKenzie's castle, that silly pie-eating smile, lord of all...food.  I sat in that little oasis of faded time long enough to notice an itchy wetness developing in the corner of my eyes, which I fiercely rubbed away.  I was not able to dam up a salty little stream trickling down my cheek, so I went to my grandfather's desk and pieced together a small paper boat.  This was something my grandfather taught me to do when I needed chase away the sadness of time.  I checked the small paper boat a few times to make sure the craftsmanship was good and solid, just like Grandfather taught me.  I, then, opened the door and made my way to the meandering edge of Sorrow’s Creek which cut the edge of Twidlesburg like a child cuts bread.

Before setting the boat into the water, I placed into the tiny hull a few meager crumbs of a variety of food items, along with a handful of symbolic tokens, pictures, hand-carved things.  Then, with great ceremony, I placed that vessel of cares and worries, insecurities, fears, and expectations into the rippling water, and gently nudged the tiny craft on its merry way.  I watched after the boat for a while, watching it bob down the dancing creek, as if I was an Egyptian watching a dead relative, making sure that the boat at least made the trip beyond the town and my family's farm.  The little boat never once left the creek's main current.  Wishing it a safe voyage, I turned and walked away.  I decided I never "needed" anything again, not even my best friend, food.

Very infrequently, I hear from Iffish and his wondrous travels, but often, I get this craving for chocolate covered cherries.

Written -- 5 September 1996
edited – 13 December 2010
Re edited - 7 March 2017

The Sidekick

I do not know how much of this story has been told.  I do not know how much of the not-so-secret secret has remained.,.well, secret.  I had been given a title, a purpose; I was important.  I was chosen to accompany two knights, two great hunters on their quest.  But now...

You see, a couple months back, Sienna, Destroyer of Sticks and Jinxie, Retriever of Wayward Leaves, decided that it was not enough to go on a walk around the neighborhood.  Oh no, they needed a mission, a purpose; so, they decided, quite out of the blue, while enjoying a view of a giant Maple tree on a beautiful late summer day, that they would remove the Grey Menace, a scourge upon the land.  This would be a quest to serve all village-kind.  And I was the one person chosen to join them, maybe I could hone my writing skills in the process.

During the quest, on one particular day, Sienna, Destroyer of Sticks, and Jinxie, Retriever of Wayward Leaves, decided it was not enough that one person would be immediately aware of the accomplishments; no, all villagers needed to notice their good deeds.  So, fanfare was added to the activity.  That's right, very loud squeaks and high-pitched yelps were used when the Grey Menace appeared.

However, that proved to not be enough; so, I was pulled into the equation, literally.  When the beast was sighted and the fanfare would commence, I would be "pulled" into the trunk of the harboring tree.  Sienna and Jinxie would be the heroes in the midst of their duty; I would be full of bruises, head to toe.  I was now a visual effect.

This was the way of the quest until it was noticed, by the two hunters, that a neighbor was watching from a big picture window in their house.  Ah, confirmation of an audience.  So with fanfare and pulling, the hunt began.  Then, suddenly, there was a leaping into the tree.  That's right, there were earnest attempts to physically be in the tree, snapping for the beast's tail, dogs that actually climbed trees!  And perhaps a bite at the harboring tree to give up the gray beast.  Jinxie loved to perform.

Well, it all played to great effect as the villager did his part and told everyone he knew, which, in this case, was virtually everyone in the little hamlet.  So, when the fanfare of squeaks and high-pitched yelps commenced, the villagers now all came to their windows and saw the amazing sight.  "Good dogs!" They all shouted, and "Thank you!"  As for me?  Well, The sight of two forty-pound mongrels bouncing and yelping, pulling a fifty-year-old, nearly two-hundred-pound man into a tree trunk got me: "Out for a drag?" or "Who's walking who?"

And now, Sienna and Jinxie, roam the whole village, attacking the entire evil conspiracy...and receive applause.  The Grey Menace has become more than just tree climbers; it is tunnel makers and ground hoppers and garden eaters.  Sienna, Destroyer of Sticks, and Jinxie, Retriever of Wayward Leaves, will not rest until they have destroyed them all, the entire evil, including its mastermind.

All I wanted was to be something.  I was supposed to be important.  Now, I am just a punchline, or maybe, I'm simply a giant bruise.  I have become a sidekick.  I don't care what anyone says, I do not look good in tights.

Trying to Understand

I am truly trying to understand, but I don't know why things have come to this.  I don't know how we got here.  Did we not try?  Did we push too hard?  Are we relying on too many "other" people and not enough on ourselves?  Do we know what research is?  Or are we not thinking about the world around us, not trying to empathize, standing our ground too much?  I am trying to understand.

I have to admit that I hate Capitalism, everything is for sale, everything has a price, even love, survival, and yes, happiness.  I have never had the luck, understanding, or whatever it takes to stay on the good side of the Capitalistic cycle.  I have a certain skill set that makes me who I am, I have not been able to find the magic mixture that makes me stand out from the crowd.  And once you slip off the sweet spot, you get pushed further away.  It's all based on a need of humans to rank and sort and conquer through division.  Wealth is, by its nature, an abstract concept.  It is a thought exercise that we tried to make real.  How long can we go before the balloon goes BANG!?

I don't like guns, because I am incapable of picking up the metal thing and pose in a way as to demonstrate my willingness, if necessary, to erase....even a deer, or any vermin trying to eat my garden or dig into my home.  Again, I am INCAPABLE.  If you can do this, have at it.

I am not mechanical in mind.  I am unwilling to become adult if it means to become tired and worried and thus wrinkled.  I don't see things in black and white, male and female, democrat and republican, us versus them.  In short, there is no ONE side that I "fit" into.  And it's not for my lack of trying.

I look through Facebook and other social media.  I see anger, I hear fear, and I feel pain.  I see two sides hunkered down in deep, wet, cold trenches.  Each side feels wronged by the other side; each side feels right and righteous in their stand/their fight.

I look through in my small tidbit of history.  I feel that I am back in an emerald green bedroom, a time before 1984.  Each side in Facebook is now one of two voices from the bedroom across the hall.  Each side feel wronged; each side hanging on to resentments, trying too hard to do the right thing, but paying no attention to themselves.

In Facebook, how do we know when we win?   Is this truly a fight?  If someone does win, does someone lose?  From my bedroom, I would hear acquiescence, a giving in.  From my bedroom, I hear two people fighting for their will, pushing.  They entered into something they really should have not, but they gave into what society asks, nay demands.

In Facebook, I am talking two sides of the same coin, two sides of America.  From a dark, green bedroom, I listened to two sides of the same coin as well, my family, my parents.  My parents got divorced.  Is our country headed for a divorce?  The last time that was attempted we ended up in a Civil War.  The pockets still hang on to the "rebel" flag.  Today, would there be a North/South?  We are not debating anything; we are only shouting.  Let's debate; let's listen, so we can move forward instead of backward.  There is no empathy, only self.  Now what?