The Job

            “I think there’s a monster under my bed,” said Rene, “I heard it last night just as I was trying to go to sleep. It started making this horrible buzzing noise, like it had a little muted chainsaw and it was going to use it to cut me up while I slept”. 

            Steve stopped stirring his coffee for a moment to confirm what he just heard.

            “A monster you said? Under your bed,” asked Steve.

           

            Rene nodded emphatically and stepped closer to Steve in the small break room. Rene grabbed Steve by his elbow and looked at him with wild, bloodshot eyes.

           

            “I think I’m going crazy Steve. I swear there was something, a monster, under my bed. I haven’t believed in monsters since I was a little boy, but now. I’m pretty sure of it,” said Rene.

            Steve pulled his elbow away from Rene. The last thing Steve wanted was for Rene to think they were actually friends. They were acquaintances, but not friends.

            “Of course there’s a monster under your bed Rene,” said Steve.

            “What…,” asked Rene.

            “Part of the conditions for working here was you had to let a monster live under your bed. Don’t you remember that from orientation,” said Steve.

            Steve added a little more sugar to the bland coffee he hated to drink but drank anyway because it was free. It tasted like mud. Steve was pretty sure it was made with actual mud or maybe something worse.

            “I have to be honest, I don’t remember the bosses telling me that,” said Rene.

            Steve rolled his eyes and sighed. He put down his spoon and stepped across the floor of broken glass to an impalement device that served as a chair in the break room.

            “They didn’t come right out and say that a monster would be living under your bed. That would be silly. They said, and if I remember right, ‘Employees are subject to quartering of management forthwith and to eternity’, or something like that,” said Steve.

            “I thought that meant they could cut us into fourths, you know, being quartered,” said Rene.

            “Nope. It meant as in your home is now their quarters, like headquarters. It’s fairly common in this industry,” said Steve.

            “Damn. Well, it was really scary. I mean this gnashing, grinding, buzzing noise from under the bed. I mean, it had me up almost all night,” said Rene.

            Rene crossed the broken glass floor and winced as a shard poked him in the heel. He moved to the other impalement device and hiked up his toga. He sat on the hard point of the impalement spike and cringed as it drove up into his body cavity.

            “Damn. I should have got a coffee before I sat down,” said Rene.

           

            Steve toasted Rene with his coffee mug and cringed as he slid a little further down on his own spike.

            “So what do I do about the monster,” asked Rene.

            “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do,” said Steve.

            “I just have to deal with it. Forever,” asked Rene.

            “Well, I mean, at least until you quit this job I suppose,” said Steve.

           

            Rene frowned and tried to adjust himself on the spike that was now seemingly poking him in the liver.

            “I can’t quit. I wasn’t really qualified for anything else. This was the best job I could find,” said Rene.

            “I know what you mean. I went to college to be a nutritionist. I’m not sure how I ever ended up here,” said Steve.

            “A nutritionist? That’s pretty cool,” said Rene.

            “Not really. Nobody cares what they put into their bodies,” said Steve.

            Steve finished his mud coffee and used the leather straps dangling above his head to pull himself up off the impalement spike.

            “Listen, don’t worry about the monster. Just leave a cup of piss out by the end of the bed every once in a while and the monster will leave you alone for the most part,” said Steve.

            Rene tried to pull himself up off his impaler, but his arms were too weak. He frowned again and sighed.

            “I hate this job,” said Rene.

            “Me too. But someone has to do it. Well, I guess I’ll see you around lunch. They’re serving goat placenta in the cafeteria today,” said Steve.

            “That’s okay. I brought something from home. I’ll probably just eat at my desk,” said Rene.

            Steve nodded and stepped across the broken glass on the floor leaving a few bloody footprints behind. Rene reached up to the leather straps and pulled again, freeing his rectum from the impaler.

            “Well, at least it isn’t Monday,” Rene mumbled. 

Ups and Downs

            “The Tilt-a-Whirl is a far more adequate description of life than the classic roller-coaster view,” said Franklin.

            “Why do you think that,” asked Marion.

           

            Frank sat up in his chair and leaned over the lunchroom table. Marion moved in closer to hear his response. She put down her protein drink and moved her salad off to the side. Franklin put his hot dog down.

           

            “A roller-coaster always goes in a straight line. There may be loops and twists, but it is always moving in one direction along the rails and it never deviates. The Tilt-A-Whirl just seems to be all over the place, spinning and twirling over an undulating frame. It just seems, to me, that life is more like that,” said Franklin.    

            Franklin leaned back and picked up his hot dog and took a seemingly satisfying bite. Marion considered this statement about life. She’d never been a fan of either roller-coasters or the Tilt-A-Whirl. She was always more of a carnival game type, but not the rides. They made her feel nauseous.

            She liked eating her lunch with Franklin because he almost always had something interesting to say. He was a little weird though. Most of the rest of the store employees wouldn’t even really talk to him. He did often seem to smell of Limburger and his hair was the greasiest she’d ever seen. But he did have a kindness that Marion felt was lacking in the rest of the Mega-Copy employees. He was also older than most of the other employees and he seemed to have a little experience under his belt.

            “So, what do you think,” asked Franklin.

            “I don’t really know. I never really thought about it much. I mean, I guess I can see what you’re saying. I’m not much of a carnival ride girl. Maybe I’ll ride the Ferris Wheel every once in a while, but I never really think about it as a metaphor for life,” said Marion.

            “The Ferris Wheel, now there’s a metaphor. The highs and lows of staying in one place without ever really going anywhere but in a giant circle,” said Franklin.

            “Well, I never think about it like that. I just don’t think about life like that. I come to work here, I go home, I hang out with my girlfriends, I see my niece and I sleep. That’s about the extent of my life. So I don’t guess carnival rides are all that relatable to me as a way of explaining life,” said Marion.

           

            Franklin had finished his hot dog and was now jamming French fries into his mouth. He looked down at the table and the mess he’d made. Mustard had plopped off the first hot dog and splattered the front of his blue work polo shirt. He hoped Marion hadn’t noticed. He felt like she was someone who understood him.

            “My life is totally a Tilt-A-Whirl though. I mean, I have a lot going on in my life. I’m not going to be a tech with Mega-Copy forever you know. I got big plans,” said Franklin.

            “That’s good. I’m glad you have plans. I just don’t know what I want yet. I mean, I’m only 24 years old and I don’t think I really have to know yet,” said Marion.

            Franklin wiped his chin and Marion looked at him.

            “I like you Marion. I want to take you out on a date,” said Franklin.

           

            Marion stopped sipping the last of her protein drink through her straw. She almost coughed.

           

            “That’s so sweet, but I’m… I’m not really looking to date anyone right now. I’m just not really into that right now. I mean, you’re so nice and we’re friends and I wouldn’t want to mess that up with, you know, anything…weird,” said Marion.

            Franklin put his head down and considered his ever expanding beer gut.

            “I understand. I wouldn’t want to screw up our lunches together,” said Franklin.

            Marion nodded. The lunchroom door opened and Gary came in and went to the microwave.

            “Well, I should get back to my electronics counter,” said Marion.

            She stood up from the table and moved past Gary. She threw her remaining salad away and went out to the sales floor. Franklin slouched in his chair. Gary was pressing buttons on the microwave filling the small lunchroom with annoying beeps and boops. The microwave finally whirred to life and Gary started humming. He was humming a Queen song, Another One Bites the Dust.

            “Up yours Gary,” said Franklin.

            Franklin stood up from the table and hurried through the lunchroom door.

A Dreaming Memory

            I had a dream last night involving a woman whom I’m not sure existed. That is to say, I’m not sure if she was a real person that I once knew or if she existed only in the dream. I suppose I am getting to an age where memory, dreams and experiences might start to mingle a little bit. She was a sort of a petite woman with dark curly hair and was quite lovely with piercing blue eyes. It seemed that I had known her for only a short time and maybe I have forgotten that I might have spent a few nights with her. Or she was never real and only existed within the context of the dream.

            I am confused because part of the dream took place in my mother’s basement at her house, in my old bedroom. Affectionately called, “The Bunker”, by some fine women I’ve known. It was a dreary little bedroom and was probably a vortex to another ghostly dimension. This woman and I were in that bedroom, in bed, just being casual with each other. Talking, and just holding each other close. We were still clothed. It seemed that we had met at some post high school party, or maybe some very early college thing and she’d come back with me to my mother’s house to sleep. It seemed very normal. It seemed more like a memory than a dream.

            I think it would be terribly weird if I started dreaming up memories while I was sleeping. Imagine the confusion that would breed, hence the confusion I’m in now. I remember other experiences with this curly hair girl. I remember what she was wearing, or maybe I simply dreamed what she was wearing. A lilac colored sweater with some minor embellishments along the front and jeans. Very 1990’s blue jeans at that, none of this tight jeans stuff. So the details of it seemed to make it seem more like a memory than a dream.

            I remember or dreamed that she had to get up in the morning and that was why she had stayed with me so I could take her somewhere maybe. I remember, or dreamed I remembered, that we hung out a few more times. We laughed and smiled and enjoyed each other, but drifted away for some reason and eventually to be erased from my memory by time, or imagined in a long dream creating some waking confusion about my own past.

            I was up early due to the violent stormy weather Chicago is experiencing today. I woke around 4:30 a.m. to the sound of thunder rattling the very walls of my apartment building and I could have sworn I said this woman’s name. Then I wasn’t sure about her existence at all. There was something very real about her and then, there was something that wasn’t. I started to wonder if I might have early Alzheimer’s and this woman did exist and we spent some wonderful together, but she’s been lost to a failing mind. Part of me could have sworn she was real and we loved passionately for a very short time before being parted for some dreamed or forgotten reason. 

            I have no way to be sure really, unless some of my long time friends who read this blog might refresh my memory. I there was such a woman or not. Although as this day goes on I am more and more convinced she was never real and only existed in my dreams. I can’t see her face anymore whereas with the real people I know I can at least see their faces in my mind. There are some good looking faces in that bunch actually, but none seem to match the vague impression of this pretty, dark curly haired woman with the piercing eyes and mischievous smile.

            I got out of bed for a little bit at 4:30 a.m. to watch the lightening show and I had a cigarette. I racked my brain trying to remember if this woman was real or not. I felt like she was an important person to me that I had let get away, but then, I couldn’t be sure. The rain pelted the windows and I decided to check for any leaks or puddles in my apartment. There were none. I went back to bed hoping that maybe another dream might point me in the right direction as to the existence or non-existence of this woman.

            Unfortunately I ended up dreaming about heavy water. I’m not sure if that’s what it is called but it was recently discovered in the Ocean that even in deep water there are pools of even more dense water. The two are separated like Guinness and Harps in a Half and Half.  When I woke up again I remembered I had this dream memory of this young woman and it was still very confusing. I had to get up and going though since the rains were still pouring down and I didn’t want to be late for work, which I was anyway because the rains flooded too much of the city and the trains were late and all kinds of nonsense.

            I wish my memory was better, or my dreams were real.

            

Stepping Back

I fret.

I worry.

I am concerned.

I pace the floor.

I consider.

I frown.

I mumble.

I remember it all.

I push it away.

I well up.

I decline.

I refuse.

I doubt.

I curse.

I moan.

I am solitary.

I hear my own voice.

I want another voice.

I dream.

I type.

I think of perspective.

I regret.

I rue.

I ache.

I wait.

I step back.

I disconnect.

I think of the now.

I worry about the worries.

I cover it up.

I find a laugh in a drawer.

I find a smile in a photo.

I put them on like a mask.

I brave it as best as I can.

I hate it.

I breathe.

I sigh.

I step through the door.

I find the rain.

I go forward.  

The Finish Line

            World history is rife with tragedy and sadness. In fact, if you look at the real underbelly of history it is usually written in blood and borne on the backs of the downtrodden. American History is no different and yesterday in Boston was another example of the horrors that human beings can inflict on one another. The thing that bothers most Americans, I think, is the mystery surrounding the attack at the Boston Marathon. We want to know why this happened. We want to know who was responsible and what their motivations were. We want then to see justice prevail.

            Justice, however, is difficult to express when the scale is so high. If the individuals or individual is captured, they will stand trial and be given the opportunity to defend themselves. A jury will likely hear evidence and make a decision based on the facts, if they can, and then decide an appropriate punishment, which by most people’s standards; won’t be severe enough. But this is justice. It may not be perfect, but as a collective society, it’s the best we’ve got. It is only the beginning of healing, not the end result.

            These acts of terror, cowardice and blatant villainy need to be fixed and I believe they can. Throughout History mankind has basically been at each other’s throats for one thing or another. Be it land, titles, religion, ideology, or just the two biggest kids on the block, we’ve always been after each other. But I do see a different side of it all for the sake of peace and growth as earthbound neighbors. As much there are violent men, there are equally men of peace. It is those men and women of peace that will eventually triumph in the end.  

            I do not believe in an “eye for an eye” because eventually everyone will wind up blind. My Catholic up-bringing encourages me to turn the other cheek and I take comfort knowing that evil never lasts. It is weak and short lived. So I can risk my other cheek understanding that no matter how great an evil, it cannot sustain itself. It simply doesn’t have the stamina. So I might have sore cheeks for a bit, but I will prevail.  I like to think of myself as a man of peace.

            Believing in peace and wanting justice is not mutually exclusive. The ideologists of terror can bang their heads against the walls of the United States of American for as long as they want, they can never, ever, break our spirit or our desire for peace and justice. It is that balance we strive for at home and abroad. We want to cheer for the oppressed and help them rise above the things that are keeping them down.

            We want to believe that a world that is educated, self sustaining, free and just will only help propel us forward as a collective species into the next stage of our planetary existence. It is counterproductive to hold onto 16^th century ideals and outmoded bigotry for hates sake. It was Captain Ahab’s hateful obsession of Moby Dick that led to his demise. His hate got him and his men killed for nothing. Hate sake and nothing more.

            It is the peacemakers, the caretakers, the people dedicated to the idea that there is no horror that can’t be overcome, there’s no evil that can’t be overthrown, that help lead us to becoming a constructive and more learned people. War mongers don’t have a plan for peace.

            I hope we as a people can overcome this tragedy and learn from it. I hope we can honor the injured and the dead by working toward peace. I hope we as a people can all cross the finish line together.

Dusted

The fine particulate that

covered Miss Havisham’s

wedding feast table.

The microscopic remains

of skin, hair and the

remnants of a forming

cosmos.

A light layer of us and

others floating through

the air and settling on

dressers and end tables,

desks and TV screens,

on the unused items

of our lives.

It covers everything and

reminds me that everything

is everything, and everything is

made of the same basic

materials.   

The dust is me.

The dust is you.

There’s always more of

it than you realize. A day

spent dusting and cleaning

is so quickly forgotten as new

levels of dust immediately

start to settle over the contents

of our lives.

It’s grit, it’s dirt, it’s grime,

it’s all the same and will

rapidly build on inactivity and

idleness.

It builds on memories.

It builds on lost hopes.

It builds on me,

collecting ever so slightly,

over time,

until the weight is colossal

and pushes me down.

I need a good and

proper dusting from

caring hands and

adoring eyes to find

the luster under the

ever finer particles

of everyone. 

Ipanema Coffee and Heartburn

I woke this morning with

the taste of acid in my

mouth and The Girl

From Ipanema on my

mind.

I know why I have heartburn,

that’s all about poor eating

choices and feeling a little stomach

disheveled throughout the day

but I don’t know why

the girl from Ipanema

was in on my mind.

I couldn’t recall the last time

I heard the song but there

it was, playing over and over

in my head as I bemoaned

my burning esophagus.

I figured when I got

to work a cup of

coffee would help to

sooth the constant

burning (I don’t know

why I thought it would help,

I just did) but the coffee

was worse. Bad, burned,

long standing coffee,

not tall and lovely at all.

I would gladly give the girl

from Ipanema

my heart, as the lyrics go,

if it would take this

heartburn and bad

coffee away.

I’d rather be relaxing with her

in a hammock on a beach

with a soothing ocean breeze

blowing over us as a phone rings

in the distance that neither of

us has to answer.   

That’s the cure for my

kind of heartburn.

The coffee, that can

be fixed with a more

fruity and alcohol

based mix. With an

umbrella.

Coffee never comes with

a little umbrella. It’s just

a cup of sludge, with cream and

sugar and it won’t cure

heartburn.

The Girl From Ipanema

and I, in a hammock

swaying in the tropical

breeze, the roaring ocean

crashing gently along the beach

lined coast of the fringes

of my imagination.

Where I don’t have

heartburn, or the need

for coffee. Just her soft

hands running over my

forehead and hair,

swinging in the silent

relaxation.

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