If Steven could throw his arms around the world and hug every human being alive he would.
He is not an extraordinary man, with extraordinary talents, or an extraordinary history.
He is a man, and just that.
His mother died giving birth to him; his father died six months earlier, storming the beaches of Normandy.
He was raised by his aunt and her live-in boyfriend, who sexually abused him until adolescence.
He suffered from a special but minor case of Autism. He never saw a doctor. It was never treated.
Having great difficulty making friends, he constructed a basketball hoop out of a plastic milk crate, tied it around a tree in the nearby forest, and shot baskets every day with a used soccer ball on the walk home from school.
Winter came hard in 1955 and he caught pneumonia. He recovered but would never breathe without discomfort again.
He taught himself how to write and throw a baseball. In fall tryouts, he struck out every batter he faced, but did not make the team.
He was black.
After high school he was drafted by the U.S. Army and deployed to Vietnam.
He served two tours, and came home to no parade, no applause. But he did bring with him a Purple Heart.
He has lived alone, ever since, in an understaffed, undersupplied, and poorly financed Veterans Home.
If Steven could throw his arms around the world and hug every human being alive he would.
But Steven has no arms.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
"With A Little Effort"--A Short Short Story
Charlie was a prominent businessman at a very young age. He had everything—cars, women, money, a condo in downtown Chicago.
When I met him, he stood in front of me at the corner shop—two brown paper bags of junk at his feet. He leaned down and removed a five dollar bill from the inside of his green wool sock, and paid for the pack of off-brand cigarettes.
Charlie was nearly sixty-years-old and homeless.
“Sorry kid,” he said, apologizing for the long wait.
“It’s okay, sir,” I replied.
“Sir? Look at me…I’m a dirtbag!”
Then he walked out of the store.
As I exited I saw him fishing through the trashcan for a food.
“My name is Stephen,” I said to him, holding my hand out to shake his.
“Charlie,” is all he said, without looking up.
“Can I buy you a sandwich or cup of soup?” I asked him.
“You can buy me a beer,” he responded.
“How’s Rick’s?” I asked.
“What do you want from me, kid?”
“Your company.”
A smile came across his face.
And I knew, I had succeeded for the day.
When I met him, he stood in front of me at the corner shop—two brown paper bags of junk at his feet. He leaned down and removed a five dollar bill from the inside of his green wool sock, and paid for the pack of off-brand cigarettes.
Charlie was nearly sixty-years-old and homeless.
“Sorry kid,” he said, apologizing for the long wait.
“It’s okay, sir,” I replied.
“Sir? Look at me…I’m a dirtbag!”
Then he walked out of the store.
As I exited I saw him fishing through the trashcan for a food.
“My name is Stephen,” I said to him, holding my hand out to shake his.
“Charlie,” is all he said, without looking up.
“Can I buy you a sandwich or cup of soup?” I asked him.
“You can buy me a beer,” he responded.
“How’s Rick’s?” I asked.
“What do you want from me, kid?”
“Your company.”
A smile came across his face.
And I knew, I had succeeded for the day.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Asleep in the Grass
Ernie was a very simple man, with a mountain of guilt on his shoulders, which he would never overcome.
He wiped the dish sink dry with a rubber squeegee, flipped the switch on the industrial dishwasher from ON to OFF, and carried the last bag of trash through the back door of the kitchen, to the dumpster in the parking lot. Then he nodded his head, and waved to the manager, who, in turn, closed and locked the large metal door. Behind the dumpster was his bicycle—his most treasured possession. He hid it back there, because he could not afford a lock, and he would always say a prayer that it would still be there when his shift was over. He slowly lifted his 67-year-old leg over the frame, and sat down. The ride home was short, but always some of the most enjoyable minutes of his day. The night air in Key West was usually cool and warm, at the same time. And on most nights, there were stars in the sky—if only a few, there were more than he had seen in prison, the past 48 years.
Ernie was the proud new resident of a small, bug-infested room, in a mildew-ridden crack house. After his release from the St. Thomas Correctional Facility, he had stayed at the YMCA for two months, saving every penny he made at the restaurant, to obtain his new home. He was very proud of his room, which was complete with an army cot, small bookshelf, a lawn chair, and a small table, made out of plastic milk crates and a cardboard box—all of which he had found inside dumpsters in the surrounding alleyways. The only book he owned was his Bible—a gift from the warden upon his departure of St. Thomas.
Every night when he would arrive home he would remove a Styrofoam box from his knapsack, and eat his dinner—edible portions of leftovers from the plates that were slid across the soapy dish sink toward him that evening. He would eat while reading Bible verses. Then, when he was finished, he would wrap his rosary as tightly around his right hand as comfortably possible, and he would lay down to sleep.
When Ernie woke up on Wednesday, October 29th, his day began and followed exactly how it had every day since becoming a free man again. It would not be until he left the restaurant that night that everything would change.
At 6 A.M. he brushed his teeth, combed his white hair with a part down the right side, dressed himself for the day, and grabbed his knapsack and Bible before locking the door behind him. He walked down the steps to the first floor, and onto the front porch. He hid his bicycle off of the left side of the house, behind a bush and several large trash cans. On this morning it was not there. Someone had found and stolen his most treasured possession.
“Ah bien. ¿Qué hace usted?” “Oh well. What do you do?” he said to himself, and started walking up the driveway toward the road.
He would run a little behind schedule on this day, because he walked significantly slower than he rode the bicycle. This would not deter him from accomplishing all of his tasks, though. He just continued down the road, dragging his right foot a bit—the consequence of an injury he endured while defending his cellmate in a fight 35 years previously. He saved his friend’s life, but his Achilles tendon was snapped like a rubber band by the makeshift shank. He had never walked the same since that day. He was proud of his limp. It reminded him of that day, and the friendship he had with Juan.
He arrived at the food bank around 7:10 A.M., which was fifteen minutes later than his usual time. Due to his tardiness, the only food left were a few pieces of toast. Before he took a bite he bowed his head and said, “Gracias Dios para este alimento. Gracias Dios por este día.” 2 “Thank you God for this food. Thank you God for this day.”
He ate slowly and quietly. He liked to be very mindful of every bite, to thank God thoroughly for his blessings. As he chewed, he would think about the wheat, flour, water, sunshine and human labor that all worked together to bring that piece of toast to his mouth.
When he finished, he gathered his Bible and knapsack, and began walking to his second destination of the day. When paced correctly, he could arrive at St. Mary’s with enough time to say his morning rosary and novena before 8:15 Mass. On this day, he walked in late, but was very appreciative to have made it in time for the Gospel—his favorite moment of every morning. Confession immediately followed the celebration of the Eucharist, and he was always the first one in line—usually the only one in line.
Every day he entered the confessional and said the same thing. “Please forgive me, father. I have let my wife down, and for this, I am greatly sorry.” They were the only sentences he had ever been able to put together in English. If ever asked to give a further explanation, he would respond, “No comprendo.” 3
Then he would say his penance at the feet of the Virgin Mary statue, light a candle, and continue on in his day.
He left St. Mary’s around 11 A.M., and he began his walk to the pier. On the way, he stopped at Sam’s, and purchased his lunch—the same lunch every day—an apple. When he got to the pier, he walked to the very end, and slowly sat down, so that his legs dangled off toward the pearly blue water. He took great pleasure in his two hours of ship watching. And just as he ate his breakfast, he would slowly chew each bite of the apple, thinking of the fertile soil, the strong tree roots that supported the trunk, the branches that supported the growing fruit, and everything that God provided to make that meal possible. One by one, he watched the ships come and go. Sometimes it was a cruiseliner; other times it was a fishing boat. No matter what the size or significance of the ship was, he would entertain himself, wondering what it must be like to be the captain. When the two hours were over, he would slowly rise to his feet and continue on his journey.
On the walk from the pier to the cemetery, he would stop at the flower shop on Simonton, and he would purchase one rose, for one dollar. Then he would continue to Olivia Street, where he always entered the graveyard from the southwest corner. When he arrived at the headstone, he knelt down, placed the rose on the weathered marble, and said the same thing, everyday.
“Perdóneme, mi amor. Yo le falla, y para este soy mucho arrepentido.” “Forgive me, my love. I have let you down, and for this, I am greatly sorry.”
Then he would remove a small pair of garden shears from his knapsack, and he would clip the grass around the headstone, so that it was level and short. Once he was done, he would kiss the stone, and rise to his feet, to continue on his way. He never spent much time at the gravesite; it hurt his heart too much.
So he walked up Olivia, to White, and then two blocks to Truman. Slowly but surely he made his way to work on time, and at 4 P.M. his apron was tied, and he stood behind the soapy dish sink, waiting for the dishes and cups and silverware to start sliding toward him.
No one at the restaurant talked to Ernie. Even though a great deal of the staff spoke Spanish, they made no attempts to hold a conversation with him. The extent of their exchanges would come when they made fun of his being 5 foot 4 in height. Also, Ernie could not speak English, but he could understand it when spoken by others. Openly, the others would talk about him. They would make fun of him, and call him a killer, or a psycho, or a jailbird.
When this happened he would close his eyes for a moment and say, “Deme por favor fuerza Dios.” “Please give me strength, God.”
Hour after hour, the dishes would stack up, and the silverware would slosh the medal pans of sanitizer water into the air, and all over him, and without a doubt, he would be covered up to his shoulders and neck in dirty water and half eaten food. He never complained, though. He just washed them all—one by one—until the final rack of glassware emerged from the industrial washer. And this night, October 29th going on the 30th after midnight, was a very special night for Ernie.
He wiped the dish sink dry with a rubber squeegee, flipped the switch on the industrial dishwasher from ON to OFF, and carried the last bag of trash through the back door of the kitchen, to the dumpster in the parking lot. Then he nodded his head, and waved to the manager, who, in turn, closed and locked the large metal door. When Ernie looked behind the dumpster, he remembered that his bicycle was not there. So, on he walked with his limp, ever so surely and slowly, back to the cemetery.
Although Ernie was a free man for just over two months, he had been imprisoned by this date, October 30th, for 48 years. He would remain imprisoned by this date until the day he died. So he did the only thing he thought would make him feel free; he lied down next to his wife—in the cold grass, without a pillow or blanket.
On this night, October 30th, forty-eight years ago, Ernie lied next to his wife in bed. It was just past midnight, when he arose in their small one room apartment. The shipment would be ashore very soon. So he dressed quietly as she slept, and locked the door behind him as he left. He met his business partner and co-smuggler at the pier, just as their ship rolled into harbor.
“Hola,” a man said to him as he walked off of the small boat.
“Hola, senor,” a very young Ernie responded, and then handed him every dollar he had to his name.
The man pointed him to a large bag, fifty pounds in weight, at the portside corner of the boat. Ernie and his friend walked over to the bag, opened it, grabbed a handful of the Cuban coffee beans, and held them just under their noses.
“Muy bien!” Ernie said to his friend.
“Si. Maravilloso!” his friend responded.
They each grabbed an end of the bag, and they carried it through the dark and quiet streets of Key West. When they arrived at his friend’s home, they put the bag inside of the small shed out back, and locked it.
Cuban coffee had become illegal, along with all other forms of Cuban goods, just ten days earlier. On October 19, 1960 the U.S. government posed an embargo on Cuban goods, to counter the new Cuban dictator’s expropriation of American landholdings in Cuba. Coffee was Ernie’s business. It was his way of life. And now that Cuban coffee, in particular, was illegal, he could sell it to his customers, under the table, at an exorbitant price. He and his friend were sure to make a fortune. So they said farewell to one another, and parted ways.
When Ernie arrived home, the door he had locked was wide open.
“Rosa?” he said as he walked in. “Rosa!” he screamed as he rushed to her bloodied body.
She had been savagely murdered. Stabbed and strangled to death. Sobbing, he held her, and cried out, “¿Por qué? ¿Dios, por qué?” “Why? God, why?”
Then the sirens came. The police rushed up the stairs, into his apartment, and without asking even one question, arrested Ernie. In such agony, despair, and feeling of worthlessness, he could not muster the words to defend himself. He just continued to cry as he was dragged away from his wife, and off to jail.
Ernie’s friend and business partner had set him up. While they were at the pier, smuggling the bag of coffee, he had sent an assassin to Ernie’s house, to murder his wife. Then, a few moments after they had hid the bag of coffee beans in the shed, Ernie’s friend called the police, and reported that his friend had just come to his house and confessed to murdering his wife. The testimony held up in court, because the judge was promised 20% of all earnings made from Cuban coffee from that point on.
Ernie went to prison. Rosa went to the graveyard.
Forty-eight years later, Ernie lied alongside of his wife, like he had wished he would have every day for those forty-eight years. As tears welled up in his eyes, he spoke to her.
English Translation:
“My dearest Rosa. My Love. It has been too long since we have lied next to one another. That is all my fault. I can never forgive myself for what happened. I do not expect you or God to, either, but I pray for it every day. I served 48 years in prison, and I would serve it again and again and again, if it meant you would have life. I let you down, my love. I should have never left your side. I should have been a good husband. I should have protected you. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I love you. I love you. I love you. I will never leave you again. I will never leave you again. I promise.”
Ernie fell asleep to tears streaming down his face, and images of his young bride in his mind. When he awoke, he returned home. At 6 A.M. he brushed his teeth, combed his white hair with a part down the right side, dressed himself for the day, and grabbed his knapsack and Bible before locking the door behind him. He started his day the same way as the day before. And he continued it the same way, as well. In fact, the only way he changed his day to day routine, was the way he ended it.
Every night, for the rest of his life, Ernie lied down in the grass, alongside his wife, and said the same thing, before closing his eyes, and falling asleep.
He wiped the dish sink dry with a rubber squeegee, flipped the switch on the industrial dishwasher from ON to OFF, and carried the last bag of trash through the back door of the kitchen, to the dumpster in the parking lot. Then he nodded his head, and waved to the manager, who, in turn, closed and locked the large metal door. Behind the dumpster was his bicycle—his most treasured possession. He hid it back there, because he could not afford a lock, and he would always say a prayer that it would still be there when his shift was over. He slowly lifted his 67-year-old leg over the frame, and sat down. The ride home was short, but always some of the most enjoyable minutes of his day. The night air in Key West was usually cool and warm, at the same time. And on most nights, there were stars in the sky—if only a few, there were more than he had seen in prison, the past 48 years.
Ernie was the proud new resident of a small, bug-infested room, in a mildew-ridden crack house. After his release from the St. Thomas Correctional Facility, he had stayed at the YMCA for two months, saving every penny he made at the restaurant, to obtain his new home. He was very proud of his room, which was complete with an army cot, small bookshelf, a lawn chair, and a small table, made out of plastic milk crates and a cardboard box—all of which he had found inside dumpsters in the surrounding alleyways. The only book he owned was his Bible—a gift from the warden upon his departure of St. Thomas.
Every night when he would arrive home he would remove a Styrofoam box from his knapsack, and eat his dinner—edible portions of leftovers from the plates that were slid across the soapy dish sink toward him that evening. He would eat while reading Bible verses. Then, when he was finished, he would wrap his rosary as tightly around his right hand as comfortably possible, and he would lay down to sleep.
When Ernie woke up on Wednesday, October 29th, his day began and followed exactly how it had every day since becoming a free man again. It would not be until he left the restaurant that night that everything would change.
At 6 A.M. he brushed his teeth, combed his white hair with a part down the right side, dressed himself for the day, and grabbed his knapsack and Bible before locking the door behind him. He walked down the steps to the first floor, and onto the front porch. He hid his bicycle off of the left side of the house, behind a bush and several large trash cans. On this morning it was not there. Someone had found and stolen his most treasured possession.
“Ah bien. ¿Qué hace usted?” “Oh well. What do you do?” he said to himself, and started walking up the driveway toward the road.
He would run a little behind schedule on this day, because he walked significantly slower than he rode the bicycle. This would not deter him from accomplishing all of his tasks, though. He just continued down the road, dragging his right foot a bit—the consequence of an injury he endured while defending his cellmate in a fight 35 years previously. He saved his friend’s life, but his Achilles tendon was snapped like a rubber band by the makeshift shank. He had never walked the same since that day. He was proud of his limp. It reminded him of that day, and the friendship he had with Juan.
He arrived at the food bank around 7:10 A.M., which was fifteen minutes later than his usual time. Due to his tardiness, the only food left were a few pieces of toast. Before he took a bite he bowed his head and said, “Gracias Dios para este alimento. Gracias Dios por este día.” 2 “Thank you God for this food. Thank you God for this day.”
He ate slowly and quietly. He liked to be very mindful of every bite, to thank God thoroughly for his blessings. As he chewed, he would think about the wheat, flour, water, sunshine and human labor that all worked together to bring that piece of toast to his mouth.
When he finished, he gathered his Bible and knapsack, and began walking to his second destination of the day. When paced correctly, he could arrive at St. Mary’s with enough time to say his morning rosary and novena before 8:15 Mass. On this day, he walked in late, but was very appreciative to have made it in time for the Gospel—his favorite moment of every morning. Confession immediately followed the celebration of the Eucharist, and he was always the first one in line—usually the only one in line.
Every day he entered the confessional and said the same thing. “Please forgive me, father. I have let my wife down, and for this, I am greatly sorry.” They were the only sentences he had ever been able to put together in English. If ever asked to give a further explanation, he would respond, “No comprendo.” 3
Then he would say his penance at the feet of the Virgin Mary statue, light a candle, and continue on in his day.
He left St. Mary’s around 11 A.M., and he began his walk to the pier. On the way, he stopped at Sam’s, and purchased his lunch—the same lunch every day—an apple. When he got to the pier, he walked to the very end, and slowly sat down, so that his legs dangled off toward the pearly blue water. He took great pleasure in his two hours of ship watching. And just as he ate his breakfast, he would slowly chew each bite of the apple, thinking of the fertile soil, the strong tree roots that supported the trunk, the branches that supported the growing fruit, and everything that God provided to make that meal possible. One by one, he watched the ships come and go. Sometimes it was a cruiseliner; other times it was a fishing boat. No matter what the size or significance of the ship was, he would entertain himself, wondering what it must be like to be the captain. When the two hours were over, he would slowly rise to his feet and continue on his journey.
On the walk from the pier to the cemetery, he would stop at the flower shop on Simonton, and he would purchase one rose, for one dollar. Then he would continue to Olivia Street, where he always entered the graveyard from the southwest corner. When he arrived at the headstone, he knelt down, placed the rose on the weathered marble, and said the same thing, everyday.
“Perdóneme, mi amor. Yo le falla, y para este soy mucho arrepentido.” “Forgive me, my love. I have let you down, and for this, I am greatly sorry.”
Then he would remove a small pair of garden shears from his knapsack, and he would clip the grass around the headstone, so that it was level and short. Once he was done, he would kiss the stone, and rise to his feet, to continue on his way. He never spent much time at the gravesite; it hurt his heart too much.
So he walked up Olivia, to White, and then two blocks to Truman. Slowly but surely he made his way to work on time, and at 4 P.M. his apron was tied, and he stood behind the soapy dish sink, waiting for the dishes and cups and silverware to start sliding toward him.
No one at the restaurant talked to Ernie. Even though a great deal of the staff spoke Spanish, they made no attempts to hold a conversation with him. The extent of their exchanges would come when they made fun of his being 5 foot 4 in height. Also, Ernie could not speak English, but he could understand it when spoken by others. Openly, the others would talk about him. They would make fun of him, and call him a killer, or a psycho, or a jailbird.
When this happened he would close his eyes for a moment and say, “Deme por favor fuerza Dios.” “Please give me strength, God.”
Hour after hour, the dishes would stack up, and the silverware would slosh the medal pans of sanitizer water into the air, and all over him, and without a doubt, he would be covered up to his shoulders and neck in dirty water and half eaten food. He never complained, though. He just washed them all—one by one—until the final rack of glassware emerged from the industrial washer. And this night, October 29th going on the 30th after midnight, was a very special night for Ernie.
He wiped the dish sink dry with a rubber squeegee, flipped the switch on the industrial dishwasher from ON to OFF, and carried the last bag of trash through the back door of the kitchen, to the dumpster in the parking lot. Then he nodded his head, and waved to the manager, who, in turn, closed and locked the large metal door. When Ernie looked behind the dumpster, he remembered that his bicycle was not there. So, on he walked with his limp, ever so surely and slowly, back to the cemetery.
Although Ernie was a free man for just over two months, he had been imprisoned by this date, October 30th, for 48 years. He would remain imprisoned by this date until the day he died. So he did the only thing he thought would make him feel free; he lied down next to his wife—in the cold grass, without a pillow or blanket.
On this night, October 30th, forty-eight years ago, Ernie lied next to his wife in bed. It was just past midnight, when he arose in their small one room apartment. The shipment would be ashore very soon. So he dressed quietly as she slept, and locked the door behind him as he left. He met his business partner and co-smuggler at the pier, just as their ship rolled into harbor.
“Hola,” a man said to him as he walked off of the small boat.
“Hola, senor,” a very young Ernie responded, and then handed him every dollar he had to his name.
The man pointed him to a large bag, fifty pounds in weight, at the portside corner of the boat. Ernie and his friend walked over to the bag, opened it, grabbed a handful of the Cuban coffee beans, and held them just under their noses.
“Muy bien!” Ernie said to his friend.
“Si. Maravilloso!” his friend responded.
They each grabbed an end of the bag, and they carried it through the dark and quiet streets of Key West. When they arrived at his friend’s home, they put the bag inside of the small shed out back, and locked it.
Cuban coffee had become illegal, along with all other forms of Cuban goods, just ten days earlier. On October 19, 1960 the U.S. government posed an embargo on Cuban goods, to counter the new Cuban dictator’s expropriation of American landholdings in Cuba. Coffee was Ernie’s business. It was his way of life. And now that Cuban coffee, in particular, was illegal, he could sell it to his customers, under the table, at an exorbitant price. He and his friend were sure to make a fortune. So they said farewell to one another, and parted ways.
When Ernie arrived home, the door he had locked was wide open.
“Rosa?” he said as he walked in. “Rosa!” he screamed as he rushed to her bloodied body.
She had been savagely murdered. Stabbed and strangled to death. Sobbing, he held her, and cried out, “¿Por qué? ¿Dios, por qué?” “Why? God, why?”
Then the sirens came. The police rushed up the stairs, into his apartment, and without asking even one question, arrested Ernie. In such agony, despair, and feeling of worthlessness, he could not muster the words to defend himself. He just continued to cry as he was dragged away from his wife, and off to jail.
Ernie’s friend and business partner had set him up. While they were at the pier, smuggling the bag of coffee, he had sent an assassin to Ernie’s house, to murder his wife. Then, a few moments after they had hid the bag of coffee beans in the shed, Ernie’s friend called the police, and reported that his friend had just come to his house and confessed to murdering his wife. The testimony held up in court, because the judge was promised 20% of all earnings made from Cuban coffee from that point on.
Ernie went to prison. Rosa went to the graveyard.
Forty-eight years later, Ernie lied alongside of his wife, like he had wished he would have every day for those forty-eight years. As tears welled up in his eyes, he spoke to her.
English Translation:
“My dearest Rosa. My Love. It has been too long since we have lied next to one another. That is all my fault. I can never forgive myself for what happened. I do not expect you or God to, either, but I pray for it every day. I served 48 years in prison, and I would serve it again and again and again, if it meant you would have life. I let you down, my love. I should have never left your side. I should have been a good husband. I should have protected you. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I love you. I love you. I love you. I will never leave you again. I will never leave you again. I promise.”
Ernie fell asleep to tears streaming down his face, and images of his young bride in his mind. When he awoke, he returned home. At 6 A.M. he brushed his teeth, combed his white hair with a part down the right side, dressed himself for the day, and grabbed his knapsack and Bible before locking the door behind him. He started his day the same way as the day before. And he continued it the same way, as well. In fact, the only way he changed his day to day routine, was the way he ended it.
Every night, for the rest of his life, Ernie lied down in the grass, alongside his wife, and said the same thing, before closing his eyes, and falling asleep.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Good as Gold
Jimmy was a dreamer. He was born that way. When he looked into the sky as a child, and saw the stars, which shone brightly in the sky, he was sure he’d soon view them from the moon…and then Mars…and then Jupiter…and so on. Of course, he grew up a little bit, realized that a trip to outer space was not so easily obtained, and settled for being the greatest quarterback in the history of football. His body did not cooperate with his aspirations, however, and his growing ceased to continue when he was just 5 foot 10 and 170 pounds. At this point he settled for the less glorious occupation of being a movie star. His mother told him he had a knack for the spotlight—at the very ripe age of 6—he just kept believing it, all the way into his early 30’s. So he gathered all of his money and moved to Hollywood, sure as day that he would be the next big thing.
Within 3 months he was nearly penniless, worried about the eviction notice on his front door, and positive that his next paycheck from the corner gas station would not be enough to keep him from going homeless. So he packed everything he could in a backpack, and took the bus to the Greyhound station. A one way ticket back to Boston cost him everything he had, save for ten bucks, which he could hopefully stretch out for a couple meals on the long road home.
When he arrived, his mother greeted him with open arms. “My baby boy,” she said as he buried his head in her chest, sobbing and embarrassed. “Why are you crying? You should be proud of yourself for trying.”
The only words he could muster through his cries of pain were, “I’ve failed…I’ve failed at everything.”
“That’s not true,” she said. “You’ve been a daring explorer, and besides, you don’t want to be one of those movie stars…all of the good ones die young, and I need you to take care of me.”
Those words were a healing solution for his heart’s present troubles. She was older, indeed, and since his father had passed there was no one else to aid her. So he moved back into the room he had occupied as a boy for two decades. He was not the slightest bit surprised when it was exactly as he had left it, 14 years previously.
“Jimmy,” his mother said as she handed him a warm breakfast on his first morning back, “You’ve always been such a good story-teller. Why don’t you be a writer? You can inspire people, talking about the things you’ve done and the places you’ve been.”
He picked up a pen and began jotting down ideas that afternoon.
A few weeks later, his mother became ill. She was getting older, and her body’s resistance was weakening daily. Money became tight, due to the doctor visits and prescription drugs, and Jimmy was forced to put down the pen and pick up an apron. He was in his mid-thirties, waiting tables at a Martini bar near Harvard.
Every day was a challenge, both physically—having to attend to his mother nearly twenty hours a day, and mentally—having to serve over-priced drinks to well-off Ivy League academics, who condescended him by the very way they demanded round after round, rarely leaving less than a 40% tip. Of course he needed the money more than they did. Look how old he was, and what he was doing.
Jimmy’s lone friend was a woman, close to him in age, who also worked as a cocktail server. Sarah was every bit his fancy. She was pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and an optimistic approach to the tasks in front of her. She loved listening to his stories, and admired his youthful dreaming, despite the obstacles that always seemed to overcome it. She, too, had seen her share of troubles. When she was just 16 she lost all of her living family members in a plane crash, and had been on her own ever since. She refrained from telling him, because she preferred not to speak of it. Looking forward, for her, was always the more comfortable thing to do.
Evening after evening they would pass each other, back and forth, left and right, as they relayed orders and overflowing glasses of gin around the dimly lit bar. Night after night they would sit down and have their shift drink. She would have a vodka martini, up, with a couple olives; he would entertain a gin gimlet martini, with a twist of lemon. Most nights they would gripe and complain to one another about something that was said to them, by an intoxicated kid, in a derogatory way of putting them down—putting them in their place.
This night, the night before Christmas Eve, they talked about what they would like, if Santa Claus were to actually exist. Despite Jimmy’s nature, he asked for a time machine.
“Why a time machine?” she asked.
“So I could go back to when I was a young man, and do everything differently.”
He was worn down. He was out of dreams. He was a pessimistic realist of epic proportions. He needed to be relieved of the burden of failure that plagued him for so many years.
Sarah stroked his back lovingly and said, “If everything on Earth was perfect, we’d have no need to strive to be with God…in Heaven.”
“So how about you?” he asked.
“Me?”
“Yeah. What would you like if Santa Claus really existed?”
“I’d take a martini…just like this one—
“That’s all?”
“I wasn’t finished,” she continued. “I would take a martini just like this one…but instead of it being after a night of serving, it would be at my very own place.”
“So you would like to own a martini bar?”
“Exactly.”
“Why a martini bar? Don’t you hate this place, like I do? Putting up with crap from people ten years younger, who have ten times more money?”
“I don’t hate this place. It provides me a living. I can afford food and a home and money to buy the things I need. Besides, I’d be the owner. I wouldn’t have to serve anyone that I didn’t want to.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he began. “I’ll buy you a martini bar. I promise.”
In an instant, the dreamer side of Jimmy was ignited. He desired greatness again. But something was different. This time, he desired greatness, not for himself, but for someone else. And this time, what he desired felt like more of an obligation than a goal.
They closed the bar, and both Jimmy and Sarah went their separate ways. When Jimmy arrived home, he did as always and entered his mother’s room. The television set still beamed, illuminated by the pixels, which made up the moving images. This was not like his mother. She always managed to turn off the TV before going to bed. Worried, he walked down the hallway toward the bathroom.
“Mom?” he called out as he pushed open the door. “Mom!” he shouted, as she lay motionless on the floor.
He knelt down and lifted her body off of the cold tiles. She had no pulse. She had no life. He sobbed as he held her. And as he buried his head in her chest the only words he could muster through his cries of pain were, “I’ve failed…I’ve failed at everything. I should have been here. I’ve failed you!”
He stayed like that, embracing her until the paramedics came and took her away.
He did not sleep that night. Instead, he began drinking. He began drinking hard.
When he awakened it was mid-afternoon, and he was lying on the bathroom floor, aside the toilet, exactly where he had found his mother. He first looked down at the floor, where he had carved with a knife the words, “I have failed,” into the tile floor. Then he looked up, and saw the noose, tied tightly around a hook in the ceiling. He could not recall his suicide attempt.
So he pulled himself up—first to his knees, and then to his feet. He looked at the noose and thought, “I have failed at everything.” So he turned the footstool upright, and began climbing to the top of the three steps. “Alast,” he thought, “I will succeed.” As he turned on the top stool so that the noose would fit tightly around his neck, he caught a glimpse of a gold Crucifix, which hung next to the door.
Then he remembered the last time he saw a gold Crucifix. It dangled off of Sarah’s neck the night before when she said, “If everything on Earth was perfect, we’d have no need to strive to be with God…in Heaven.”
The grim and painful look on his face turned into a smile, and then a tear. All he could think of was his promise to her. She was all that he had, and even though he did not know it, he was all that she had.
He loosened the rope from around his neck, and stepped down from the stool. His heart was beating with a burning desire to succeed for her.
So he washed up, changed clothes, and went to work. It was Christmas Eve, and he was happier to be there than ever before. Much to his delight, the owner of the bar had reserved the upstairs room for a family Christmas party. Although they had never even met before, Jimmy asked the owner to step aside. Then he told him everything—all of his dreams that were shattered—all of his attempts for success that were sidetracked—all of his previous failures in life. He told him of his mother’s death, and his subsequent attempt of suicide the night before. He told him of his awakening upon seeing the gold Crucifix. And finally, he told him of his promise to Sarah. When he was done with the story, he asked if he could buy the bar.
Without hesitation, the owner agreed. He said, “We close at midnight, and you re-open at midnight. I will sell you the bar for ten minutes, at a dollar per minute.”
Amazed and totally astounded by the graciousness of a near stranger, Jimmy had to ask, “Why? I mean, thank you! But why are you so eager to do this for me?”
“Because,” the owner said, as he removed a chain from around his neck, “It’s Christmas. And Christmas is about miracles.” Hanging from the chain was a gold Crucifix.
So, Jimmy and Sarah closed the bar down as they always had—flipping chairs and stocking glasses before turning the lights nearly all the way off. Jimmy waited anxiously as the minutes slowly ticked away. Finally, it was midnight.
“Care to have a drink?” she asked.
“It’s up to you,” he said. “You own the place.”
“Sure I do,” she laughed. “In my wildest dreams.”
“No, really,” he declared. “I bought it for you.”
“Have you been drinkin?” she asked.
Then the owner came down from his party upstairs. He walked over to Sarah, and handed her the key.
“Take care of the place, huh?” he said.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“You own the joint now. And you’ve got nine and a half minutes until it’s mine again. So enjoy the drinks while they’re free! And please, lock up behind you.” He turned and winked at Jimmy.
By the time it was said and done, the barkeep had fixed their drinks. She had a vodka martini, up, with a couple olives; he entertained a gin gimlet martini, with a twist of lemon.
My father did not propose to my mother that night. He told me it occurred some time shortly after. But a plaque still hangs in my bar, directly above the two stools they sat in that night, which reads:
“Jimmy was a dreamer! I’m living proof of his success!”
Within 3 months he was nearly penniless, worried about the eviction notice on his front door, and positive that his next paycheck from the corner gas station would not be enough to keep him from going homeless. So he packed everything he could in a backpack, and took the bus to the Greyhound station. A one way ticket back to Boston cost him everything he had, save for ten bucks, which he could hopefully stretch out for a couple meals on the long road home.
When he arrived, his mother greeted him with open arms. “My baby boy,” she said as he buried his head in her chest, sobbing and embarrassed. “Why are you crying? You should be proud of yourself for trying.”
The only words he could muster through his cries of pain were, “I’ve failed…I’ve failed at everything.”
“That’s not true,” she said. “You’ve been a daring explorer, and besides, you don’t want to be one of those movie stars…all of the good ones die young, and I need you to take care of me.”
Those words were a healing solution for his heart’s present troubles. She was older, indeed, and since his father had passed there was no one else to aid her. So he moved back into the room he had occupied as a boy for two decades. He was not the slightest bit surprised when it was exactly as he had left it, 14 years previously.
“Jimmy,” his mother said as she handed him a warm breakfast on his first morning back, “You’ve always been such a good story-teller. Why don’t you be a writer? You can inspire people, talking about the things you’ve done and the places you’ve been.”
He picked up a pen and began jotting down ideas that afternoon.
A few weeks later, his mother became ill. She was getting older, and her body’s resistance was weakening daily. Money became tight, due to the doctor visits and prescription drugs, and Jimmy was forced to put down the pen and pick up an apron. He was in his mid-thirties, waiting tables at a Martini bar near Harvard.
Every day was a challenge, both physically—having to attend to his mother nearly twenty hours a day, and mentally—having to serve over-priced drinks to well-off Ivy League academics, who condescended him by the very way they demanded round after round, rarely leaving less than a 40% tip. Of course he needed the money more than they did. Look how old he was, and what he was doing.
Jimmy’s lone friend was a woman, close to him in age, who also worked as a cocktail server. Sarah was every bit his fancy. She was pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and an optimistic approach to the tasks in front of her. She loved listening to his stories, and admired his youthful dreaming, despite the obstacles that always seemed to overcome it. She, too, had seen her share of troubles. When she was just 16 she lost all of her living family members in a plane crash, and had been on her own ever since. She refrained from telling him, because she preferred not to speak of it. Looking forward, for her, was always the more comfortable thing to do.
Evening after evening they would pass each other, back and forth, left and right, as they relayed orders and overflowing glasses of gin around the dimly lit bar. Night after night they would sit down and have their shift drink. She would have a vodka martini, up, with a couple olives; he would entertain a gin gimlet martini, with a twist of lemon. Most nights they would gripe and complain to one another about something that was said to them, by an intoxicated kid, in a derogatory way of putting them down—putting them in their place.
This night, the night before Christmas Eve, they talked about what they would like, if Santa Claus were to actually exist. Despite Jimmy’s nature, he asked for a time machine.
“Why a time machine?” she asked.
“So I could go back to when I was a young man, and do everything differently.”
He was worn down. He was out of dreams. He was a pessimistic realist of epic proportions. He needed to be relieved of the burden of failure that plagued him for so many years.
Sarah stroked his back lovingly and said, “If everything on Earth was perfect, we’d have no need to strive to be with God…in Heaven.”
“So how about you?” he asked.
“Me?”
“Yeah. What would you like if Santa Claus really existed?”
“I’d take a martini…just like this one—
“That’s all?”
“I wasn’t finished,” she continued. “I would take a martini just like this one…but instead of it being after a night of serving, it would be at my very own place.”
“So you would like to own a martini bar?”
“Exactly.”
“Why a martini bar? Don’t you hate this place, like I do? Putting up with crap from people ten years younger, who have ten times more money?”
“I don’t hate this place. It provides me a living. I can afford food and a home and money to buy the things I need. Besides, I’d be the owner. I wouldn’t have to serve anyone that I didn’t want to.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he began. “I’ll buy you a martini bar. I promise.”
In an instant, the dreamer side of Jimmy was ignited. He desired greatness again. But something was different. This time, he desired greatness, not for himself, but for someone else. And this time, what he desired felt like more of an obligation than a goal.
They closed the bar, and both Jimmy and Sarah went their separate ways. When Jimmy arrived home, he did as always and entered his mother’s room. The television set still beamed, illuminated by the pixels, which made up the moving images. This was not like his mother. She always managed to turn off the TV before going to bed. Worried, he walked down the hallway toward the bathroom.
“Mom?” he called out as he pushed open the door. “Mom!” he shouted, as she lay motionless on the floor.
He knelt down and lifted her body off of the cold tiles. She had no pulse. She had no life. He sobbed as he held her. And as he buried his head in her chest the only words he could muster through his cries of pain were, “I’ve failed…I’ve failed at everything. I should have been here. I’ve failed you!”
He stayed like that, embracing her until the paramedics came and took her away.
He did not sleep that night. Instead, he began drinking. He began drinking hard.
When he awakened it was mid-afternoon, and he was lying on the bathroom floor, aside the toilet, exactly where he had found his mother. He first looked down at the floor, where he had carved with a knife the words, “I have failed,” into the tile floor. Then he looked up, and saw the noose, tied tightly around a hook in the ceiling. He could not recall his suicide attempt.
So he pulled himself up—first to his knees, and then to his feet. He looked at the noose and thought, “I have failed at everything.” So he turned the footstool upright, and began climbing to the top of the three steps. “Alast,” he thought, “I will succeed.” As he turned on the top stool so that the noose would fit tightly around his neck, he caught a glimpse of a gold Crucifix, which hung next to the door.
Then he remembered the last time he saw a gold Crucifix. It dangled off of Sarah’s neck the night before when she said, “If everything on Earth was perfect, we’d have no need to strive to be with God…in Heaven.”
The grim and painful look on his face turned into a smile, and then a tear. All he could think of was his promise to her. She was all that he had, and even though he did not know it, he was all that she had.
He loosened the rope from around his neck, and stepped down from the stool. His heart was beating with a burning desire to succeed for her.
So he washed up, changed clothes, and went to work. It was Christmas Eve, and he was happier to be there than ever before. Much to his delight, the owner of the bar had reserved the upstairs room for a family Christmas party. Although they had never even met before, Jimmy asked the owner to step aside. Then he told him everything—all of his dreams that were shattered—all of his attempts for success that were sidetracked—all of his previous failures in life. He told him of his mother’s death, and his subsequent attempt of suicide the night before. He told him of his awakening upon seeing the gold Crucifix. And finally, he told him of his promise to Sarah. When he was done with the story, he asked if he could buy the bar.
Without hesitation, the owner agreed. He said, “We close at midnight, and you re-open at midnight. I will sell you the bar for ten minutes, at a dollar per minute.”
Amazed and totally astounded by the graciousness of a near stranger, Jimmy had to ask, “Why? I mean, thank you! But why are you so eager to do this for me?”
“Because,” the owner said, as he removed a chain from around his neck, “It’s Christmas. And Christmas is about miracles.” Hanging from the chain was a gold Crucifix.
So, Jimmy and Sarah closed the bar down as they always had—flipping chairs and stocking glasses before turning the lights nearly all the way off. Jimmy waited anxiously as the minutes slowly ticked away. Finally, it was midnight.
“Care to have a drink?” she asked.
“It’s up to you,” he said. “You own the place.”
“Sure I do,” she laughed. “In my wildest dreams.”
“No, really,” he declared. “I bought it for you.”
“Have you been drinkin?” she asked.
Then the owner came down from his party upstairs. He walked over to Sarah, and handed her the key.
“Take care of the place, huh?” he said.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“You own the joint now. And you’ve got nine and a half minutes until it’s mine again. So enjoy the drinks while they’re free! And please, lock up behind you.” He turned and winked at Jimmy.
By the time it was said and done, the barkeep had fixed their drinks. She had a vodka martini, up, with a couple olives; he entertained a gin gimlet martini, with a twist of lemon.
My father did not propose to my mother that night. He told me it occurred some time shortly after. But a plaque still hangs in my bar, directly above the two stools they sat in that night, which reads:
“Jimmy was a dreamer! I’m living proof of his success!”
Thursday, October 30, 2008
An Enduring Truth
Flowers are my favorite miracle of nature. They are like the inner-beauty that every human possesses but rarely can show. We all have a direction in society—a job, an education, a family—but these are all man-made goals and accomplishments during our time on Earth. What is most real and authentic and natural is that which God has made. Our beating hearts, our breathing lungs, our mindful sympathy and love for people, not things. What I find to be one of the biggest ironies in this world of ours is that which appears concrete and real is, in fact, the most expendable and perishable—the most non-existent. And that which one cannot see with his or her eyes, but must feel with his or her heart is what God promises will be with us for eternity. I heard a very admirable and humble priest once end his homily by saying, “For the Christian, love is all encompassing. It is the ONLY reality.” My heart leapt with joy. However, God has not only made Christians with this quality. Instead, every soul He has ever created has been created the same, and must be treated the same. Force does not defeat force. Nor does hate defeat hate. In the end it is LOVE which will conquer ALL. Because God is LOVE!
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
In My Opinion
In my opinion, it does not really matter who is voted in as president of the United States in one week. It’s hard to pick the lesser of the two evils. The common misconception among the American people is that there are core differences between the Democratic and Republican parties. The sad and discouraging truth is that politicians are…well, politicians. I will not go as far as generalizing and saying that every politician is a liar and completely self-obsessed. But I will admit that a great deal of them are in the profession for the same reason that people are in many other professions—to make money—as much of it as possible.
Take for instance, the recent $850 billion bailout proposed and granted by the U.S. Congress, which did nothing to improve or benefit anyone but the criminals that caused it, and the criminals that passed it. Although we, as a people, are definitely guilty of living above our means, there should still be a great deal of blame to be placed on the shoulders of individuals who should have foresaw the ultimate crash, but for personal financial gain, did nothing but encourage it. Let’s practice some common sense right now—many people saw a loophole, a chance to benefit greatly off of a great number of people’s misfortunes, and they grasped the opportunity—causing an enormous economic downfall, which has affected everyone in the country but the extremely wealthy. Then, when those companies began to implode due to their own follies, they begged for help to Congress, which then decided to grant them the money (our money, via taxes) to get them back on their feet. So, if I am correct, the man or woman who could not afford to pay for the house they were approved financing for, and subsequently lost, still has to pay for it, and on top of that, must additionally pay money to stabilize the very company that swindled them out of that home. I could be wrong, but I do not think any one single member of Congress lost their home because of this scam. However, each member of Congress who approved the astronomically high (with no statistical basis of how high it should be) bailout, will in turn, benefit from it. That, I guarantee!
CONGRESSMAN: Hi, Mr. Banker who promised a family of five that they could afford that four bedroom, two and a half bathroom, home in the suburbs for $300,000, even though they bring in $50,000 a year in salary.
MR. BANKER: Hi, Mr. Congressman, who has embezzled thousands, if not millions, of dollars from taxpayers on various government projects which were granted to companies with higher bidding prices, because the CEO of that company is a “close friend” of yours.
CONGRESSMAN: How’s that housing scam going for you?
MR. BANKER: Great! We’ve suckered hundreds of people into thinking they can afford these houses. You should see the look on their faces when they’re told that they’re approved for the house of their dreams.
CONGRESSMAN: But they’ll eventually be foreclosed on…it’s only a matter of time.
MR. BANKER: Not my problem. They’ll pay for the house whether they live in it or not.
CONGRESSMAN: But won’t all of those foreclosed houses eventually cripple you when no one can afford to pay for them?
MR. BANKER: Like I said, they’ll pay for the house either way. I’ve got a suitcase full of cash, or a big check—Pay to the Order of: Mr. Congressman’s re-election campaign—that says you’ll pass an $850 billion bailout to save our ass.
CONGRESSMAN: Not only that, but when the Stock Market hits near rock bottom, we can buy up all of the stocks at unbelievable discount rates. Eventually they’re bound to go up, so long as my colleagues and I keep approving taxpayer bailouts to keep the companies from going under.
MR. BANKER: Now we’re on the same page! We should take a trip to my yacht in Martinique during one of your 6 weeks of vacation time this year.
CONGRESSMAN: Sounds good. I’ll see you there.
Sometimes you have to put things into fictional dialogue to get your point across. I hope you understand now. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. The country that we live in is not very different from Rome. Corporate America is the savage and brutal captor and possessor of all of our freedoms. We are merely slaves to that captor. We work ourselves to death to serve the most evil of forces, but make ourselves feel better by claiming we only do it to house and feed our families. That is true, and it is also very admirable and honorable. However, it is still assisting the monster. There is nothing wrong with crunching numbers as an accountant, or proofreading text for company pamphlets, or hammering nails to build the frame of a house. Like I said, those are very necessary and important things to be done. What I have a problem with is the people on top. The leaders of these companies are held to different standards than the average person on the street. On top of that, the lawmakers who are supposed to enforce and penalize these people, are often close companions of the crooks.
We place entirely too much faith and trust in who will be the next President and Vice President. We are fools for thinking that either one will make a drastic difference. If anything, nothing will change at all. I laugh at the idea that there are two parties. In reality, there is one party, with two subdivisions. Every single time a third party has tried to rise in power and notoriety, the Republicans and Democrats have immediately began working together to crush that party. That does not sound very American to me. A man or woman who is truly devoted to the American dream and ideals set up by the founders, would welcome and encourage as many different political parties as possible. Our current leaders are not leaders at all. They are not free-thinkers, whether Democrat or Republican. They are puppets and followers, working together to ensure themselves employment every 2 to 4 to 6 years. There are over 20 former U.S. Congressmen and Congresswomen who are convicted felons, but still receive federal pensions. Most notably Senator Stevens from Alaska who has been recently convicted but will receive $122,000 annually. Think about that. If you are a member of Congress you can commit a federal crime and, despite spending time in jail, you will still receive annual compensation (taxpayer based) for time spent conducting criminal activity.
I hope and pray that a drastic change will take place in our country, but to be completely honest, I consider myself a child of God first and foremost. I do not think God prefers one man-made nation over another. I believe we are obnoxious and foolish for thinking so. There are a great number of good people in this country, and there is a great number of daily works that these people do, which makes God proud. But if we do not begin to rise as the people, in revolutionary form, against our oppressors—to create a multi party system, we will all suffer from it. That, I guarantee.
Take for instance, the recent $850 billion bailout proposed and granted by the U.S. Congress, which did nothing to improve or benefit anyone but the criminals that caused it, and the criminals that passed it. Although we, as a people, are definitely guilty of living above our means, there should still be a great deal of blame to be placed on the shoulders of individuals who should have foresaw the ultimate crash, but for personal financial gain, did nothing but encourage it. Let’s practice some common sense right now—many people saw a loophole, a chance to benefit greatly off of a great number of people’s misfortunes, and they grasped the opportunity—causing an enormous economic downfall, which has affected everyone in the country but the extremely wealthy. Then, when those companies began to implode due to their own follies, they begged for help to Congress, which then decided to grant them the money (our money, via taxes) to get them back on their feet. So, if I am correct, the man or woman who could not afford to pay for the house they were approved financing for, and subsequently lost, still has to pay for it, and on top of that, must additionally pay money to stabilize the very company that swindled them out of that home. I could be wrong, but I do not think any one single member of Congress lost their home because of this scam. However, each member of Congress who approved the astronomically high (with no statistical basis of how high it should be) bailout, will in turn, benefit from it. That, I guarantee!
CONGRESSMAN: Hi, Mr. Banker who promised a family of five that they could afford that four bedroom, two and a half bathroom, home in the suburbs for $300,000, even though they bring in $50,000 a year in salary.
MR. BANKER: Hi, Mr. Congressman, who has embezzled thousands, if not millions, of dollars from taxpayers on various government projects which were granted to companies with higher bidding prices, because the CEO of that company is a “close friend” of yours.
CONGRESSMAN: How’s that housing scam going for you?
MR. BANKER: Great! We’ve suckered hundreds of people into thinking they can afford these houses. You should see the look on their faces when they’re told that they’re approved for the house of their dreams.
CONGRESSMAN: But they’ll eventually be foreclosed on…it’s only a matter of time.
MR. BANKER: Not my problem. They’ll pay for the house whether they live in it or not.
CONGRESSMAN: But won’t all of those foreclosed houses eventually cripple you when no one can afford to pay for them?
MR. BANKER: Like I said, they’ll pay for the house either way. I’ve got a suitcase full of cash, or a big check—Pay to the Order of: Mr. Congressman’s re-election campaign—that says you’ll pass an $850 billion bailout to save our ass.
CONGRESSMAN: Not only that, but when the Stock Market hits near rock bottom, we can buy up all of the stocks at unbelievable discount rates. Eventually they’re bound to go up, so long as my colleagues and I keep approving taxpayer bailouts to keep the companies from going under.
MR. BANKER: Now we’re on the same page! We should take a trip to my yacht in Martinique during one of your 6 weeks of vacation time this year.
CONGRESSMAN: Sounds good. I’ll see you there.
Sometimes you have to put things into fictional dialogue to get your point across. I hope you understand now. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. The country that we live in is not very different from Rome. Corporate America is the savage and brutal captor and possessor of all of our freedoms. We are merely slaves to that captor. We work ourselves to death to serve the most evil of forces, but make ourselves feel better by claiming we only do it to house and feed our families. That is true, and it is also very admirable and honorable. However, it is still assisting the monster. There is nothing wrong with crunching numbers as an accountant, or proofreading text for company pamphlets, or hammering nails to build the frame of a house. Like I said, those are very necessary and important things to be done. What I have a problem with is the people on top. The leaders of these companies are held to different standards than the average person on the street. On top of that, the lawmakers who are supposed to enforce and penalize these people, are often close companions of the crooks.
We place entirely too much faith and trust in who will be the next President and Vice President. We are fools for thinking that either one will make a drastic difference. If anything, nothing will change at all. I laugh at the idea that there are two parties. In reality, there is one party, with two subdivisions. Every single time a third party has tried to rise in power and notoriety, the Republicans and Democrats have immediately began working together to crush that party. That does not sound very American to me. A man or woman who is truly devoted to the American dream and ideals set up by the founders, would welcome and encourage as many different political parties as possible. Our current leaders are not leaders at all. They are not free-thinkers, whether Democrat or Republican. They are puppets and followers, working together to ensure themselves employment every 2 to 4 to 6 years. There are over 20 former U.S. Congressmen and Congresswomen who are convicted felons, but still receive federal pensions. Most notably Senator Stevens from Alaska who has been recently convicted but will receive $122,000 annually. Think about that. If you are a member of Congress you can commit a federal crime and, despite spending time in jail, you will still receive annual compensation (taxpayer based) for time spent conducting criminal activity.
I hope and pray that a drastic change will take place in our country, but to be completely honest, I consider myself a child of God first and foremost. I do not think God prefers one man-made nation over another. I believe we are obnoxious and foolish for thinking so. There are a great number of good people in this country, and there is a great number of daily works that these people do, which makes God proud. But if we do not begin to rise as the people, in revolutionary form, against our oppressors—to create a multi party system, we will all suffer from it. That, I guarantee.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
THE FIRST AND LAST PAINTING I EVER COMPLETED
My days in California were numbered to roughly over a week. I was thrilled about my opportunity to finally begin college, and even more jacked about the cross-country road trip I was never able to make. I was a little bit nervous, however, and a certain piece of me was disappointed about not sticking it out on the west coast. I knew it was best for me, but in an uncanny, and most characteristic way, I managed to grow extremely fond feelings for Rachelle.
We had been rather close friends since meeting each other at the surf shop in October, but somewhere through the course of those six months, our friendship began to progress. We never so much as kissed, and I think the closest we came was one night in January when we watched her favorite movie of all-time, Funny Face, with Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire. We sprawled out on the couch, pulled the coffee table close enough to kick our feet up, and we shared a blanket and a bowl of popcorn. At the end of the night she asked me if I wanted to stay over, but I declined, worried that things might go beyond a kiss or two. Most guys will cringe when they read this, but I am still glad that I made the decision to go home. It reassures me, even now, of my respect for her.
Anyway, like the rest of my new friends in L.A., she had no idea that I was returning to Ohio for college. I intentionally refrained from telling anyone, similar to when I left Youngstown, for two reasons: I don’t like endings, I never have, and so I would rather see an ending to one situation as a beginning to a new one, and the second reason is because I hate how people begin to act when they find out you’ll be leaving—it’s unnatural. Every time you hang out with certain people it is inevitable that by some point in the night everything will turn to Oh, this is so sad…This could be the last time we do this or that.
So I was sitting around the apartment one night with nothing to do. I didn’t want to watch TV, and I didn’t have any desire to go out, so I decided to paint. I had a couple of canvases that I obtained at some point in high school, but I never made any attempt to use them. So I rummaged through Bennie’s closet where he kept his artwork, and I found an unused brush set, and a set of oil paints. I didn’t think twice about it; I just painted.
I started on the top, doing my best to re-create a Van Gogh like sky. It was a rather lame attempt to say the least. But there’s something funny about painting. Even when you set out to do one thing, and it miserably fails, you somehow end up with something else that completely works.
After the sky, I started on the horizon of the ocean, and then the beach. I had no idea where I was going with it, but I kept going anyway. I worked fervently for five days straight, but at the end, something was missing. I thought about it, and within moments I knew what it was. So I painted a little girl, with red hair, right where the tide came rolling into the sand, holding up her white dress just enough so that the water wouldn’t touch it.
I finally finished the painting around 2 AM, and I only had about twelve hours left in California. I didn’t think twice about it, I just got into my car and drove immediately to the grocery store. I bought a bouquet of flowers, and continued to Rachelle’s place in Venice. When I got there she happened to be up, watching a movie.
I knocked, and she peaked out of the side window to see who it was. Then she opened the door.
“G.C. what are you doin?”
“First off, here you go,” I said as I handed her the flowers.
She smiled bashfully and said, “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”
“It’s not all that I have. Come on,” I said as I motioned her outside.
“Hold on, let me put on some slippers.”
Then we walked out to my car on the street. I didn’t even realize it when I began the painting, but her birthday was less than a week away, which was ironically the day before mine.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Just be patient, and close your eyes.”
She closed them, and I opened the door, reached in, and grabbed the painting. I turned it around so that it was right side up and facing her.
“You can open your eyes now.”
As soon as she did, they lit up, and I felt like a million bucks.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
She took the painting, held it up, and I watched her as a single tear escaped the eye and began to run down her cheek. She set it on top of the car roof, and then reached in and bear hugged me.
“I love it! It is, by far, the best present anyone has ever given me.”
I just stood there and held her as close to me as I could. I smelled her hair; I smelled her skin; I ran my fingers across her back, but she didn’t know I was leaving in the morning. I remember not wanting the moment to end. I remember thinking, while she was still in my embrace, that maybe I could stay in California. Once we pulled apart, the magic that is intimacy, ceased.
“Hey,” I began, not so eloquently, “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“What?”
I tried, but at first I couldn’t get any words out of my mouth. All that I wanted to do was hug her again, close my eyes, and pretend that anywhere I was going she was going, too.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“What? For where?”
“Back to Ohio. I got into Ohio State about a month ago, but I didn’t tell anyone.”
She didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything more. I just grabbed her and hugged her again.
“Well,” she began through a sniffle, “You gotta do what’s best for you.”
Once again, I didn’t have a response. I just led her down the street, to where the beach began, and I took the blanket she had been wrapped in, and I spread it across the cool March sand. Then we just laid there, not speaking much at all, until the sun came up.
When I realized I had better get home, I knew it was over. I walked her home, kissed her on the cheek, and I left. It was the first time in my life that I left someone.
Every now and then I wonder what my life would be like had I stayed in California. But when I do, I remember the first and last painting I ever completed, and I realize that a piece of me never really has.
We had been rather close friends since meeting each other at the surf shop in October, but somewhere through the course of those six months, our friendship began to progress. We never so much as kissed, and I think the closest we came was one night in January when we watched her favorite movie of all-time, Funny Face, with Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire. We sprawled out on the couch, pulled the coffee table close enough to kick our feet up, and we shared a blanket and a bowl of popcorn. At the end of the night she asked me if I wanted to stay over, but I declined, worried that things might go beyond a kiss or two. Most guys will cringe when they read this, but I am still glad that I made the decision to go home. It reassures me, even now, of my respect for her.
Anyway, like the rest of my new friends in L.A., she had no idea that I was returning to Ohio for college. I intentionally refrained from telling anyone, similar to when I left Youngstown, for two reasons: I don’t like endings, I never have, and so I would rather see an ending to one situation as a beginning to a new one, and the second reason is because I hate how people begin to act when they find out you’ll be leaving—it’s unnatural. Every time you hang out with certain people it is inevitable that by some point in the night everything will turn to Oh, this is so sad…This could be the last time we do this or that.
So I was sitting around the apartment one night with nothing to do. I didn’t want to watch TV, and I didn’t have any desire to go out, so I decided to paint. I had a couple of canvases that I obtained at some point in high school, but I never made any attempt to use them. So I rummaged through Bennie’s closet where he kept his artwork, and I found an unused brush set, and a set of oil paints. I didn’t think twice about it; I just painted.
I started on the top, doing my best to re-create a Van Gogh like sky. It was a rather lame attempt to say the least. But there’s something funny about painting. Even when you set out to do one thing, and it miserably fails, you somehow end up with something else that completely works.
After the sky, I started on the horizon of the ocean, and then the beach. I had no idea where I was going with it, but I kept going anyway. I worked fervently for five days straight, but at the end, something was missing. I thought about it, and within moments I knew what it was. So I painted a little girl, with red hair, right where the tide came rolling into the sand, holding up her white dress just enough so that the water wouldn’t touch it.
I finally finished the painting around 2 AM, and I only had about twelve hours left in California. I didn’t think twice about it, I just got into my car and drove immediately to the grocery store. I bought a bouquet of flowers, and continued to Rachelle’s place in Venice. When I got there she happened to be up, watching a movie.
I knocked, and she peaked out of the side window to see who it was. Then she opened the door.
“G.C. what are you doin?”
“First off, here you go,” I said as I handed her the flowers.
She smiled bashfully and said, “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”
“It’s not all that I have. Come on,” I said as I motioned her outside.
“Hold on, let me put on some slippers.”
Then we walked out to my car on the street. I didn’t even realize it when I began the painting, but her birthday was less than a week away, which was ironically the day before mine.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Just be patient, and close your eyes.”
She closed them, and I opened the door, reached in, and grabbed the painting. I turned it around so that it was right side up and facing her.
“You can open your eyes now.”
As soon as she did, they lit up, and I felt like a million bucks.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
She took the painting, held it up, and I watched her as a single tear escaped the eye and began to run down her cheek. She set it on top of the car roof, and then reached in and bear hugged me.
“I love it! It is, by far, the best present anyone has ever given me.”
I just stood there and held her as close to me as I could. I smelled her hair; I smelled her skin; I ran my fingers across her back, but she didn’t know I was leaving in the morning. I remember not wanting the moment to end. I remember thinking, while she was still in my embrace, that maybe I could stay in California. Once we pulled apart, the magic that is intimacy, ceased.
“Hey,” I began, not so eloquently, “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“What?”
I tried, but at first I couldn’t get any words out of my mouth. All that I wanted to do was hug her again, close my eyes, and pretend that anywhere I was going she was going, too.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“What? For where?”
“Back to Ohio. I got into Ohio State about a month ago, but I didn’t tell anyone.”
She didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything more. I just grabbed her and hugged her again.
“Well,” she began through a sniffle, “You gotta do what’s best for you.”
Once again, I didn’t have a response. I just led her down the street, to where the beach began, and I took the blanket she had been wrapped in, and I spread it across the cool March sand. Then we just laid there, not speaking much at all, until the sun came up.
When I realized I had better get home, I knew it was over. I walked her home, kissed her on the cheek, and I left. It was the first time in my life that I left someone.
Every now and then I wonder what my life would be like had I stayed in California. But when I do, I remember the first and last painting I ever completed, and I realize that a piece of me never really has.
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