End of the Road

            The dirty gray pickup truck lumbers along the highway. The day is almost over and the last hour of daylight forces the men inside to don their sunglasses and adjust the sun visor. The air is still as warm as summer but the wind howls and wails around them to signal that fall has arrived. Inside, Billy takes a big bite of beef jerky and continues to talk in spite of the food in his mouth.

            “Yeah, I figure that in the event of societal collapse the first people who are gonna get killed are the ones that panic, ya know? That’s why when the panic begins, ya gotta already be out of the city.” The pine trees whiz by the passenger window. The bed of the truck is an assortment of black plastic trunks, duffel bags, coolers, tarps and olive drab canvas. In the back seat sits a small boy appearing to be interested in the conversation. After a short silence Larry takes a long drink from the canteen in his hand and starts to respond.

            “It seems a little arrogant to think that on principle alone, you’re going to outrun the legions of people trying to flee the city. What makes you so special? You watch the news? You’ve read a book or two?”

            Billy scowls, “More than a book or two… What do you think then? Try to escape at the same time as everybody else?”

            “Of course not, the trick is to be prepared for the panic. Be prepared to fortify your own home with goods from the local hardware stores or neighbor’s houses that have been abandoned. Then, scatter clothing and useless possessions around the front yard to give the appearance that it has already been looted. Park the car facing out in the garage and start packing for the eventual time when you’ll have to abandon your own home.” Larry finishes talking and takes another swig from the canteen, for a moment the only sound that can be heard is the engine roaring along the asphalt.

            Billy asks, “How is that different from what I said?”

            “Because you think you’re somehow going to know information before everyone else.”

            “And you’re saying they won’t give us accurate information? That sounds like them.” Billy takes a bite from his beef jerky and shakes his head in disapproval.

            “No, what I’m saying Billy, is that they’re going to tell you to stay in your homes, to stay calm, and that everything will be taken care of for you. Then, when "the powers that be" realize the severity of the situation, they won’t be able to help anyone. Even if they try to evacuate, there won’t be enough time, and even the people who run will likely die trying to make it out. That’s why I say to stay home… at least until the panic is over.”

The boy finally speaks up, “Larry, Where are we?”

“We’re going to the forest, buddy! You wanted to see the forest, right?”

The boy squints to look out the window, “Yeah. How much longer until we get there?”

“We’re already here,” Larry gives a reassuring smile and the boy quiets down for a moment.

Billy nearly chokes as he swallows a large chunk of preserved cow flesh. Larry looks away and tries not to let on that it bothers him. Larry digs deep in his pocket and retrieves a pack of menthol cigarettes and a lighter. From the pack he pulls his last cigarette, places it in his mouth, and takes a long slow drag. He replaces the lighter in his pocket and opens the pack once more, as if to search for any cigarettes he may have missed.

Through a thick cloud of smoke he mumbles to himself, “Shoulda planned better.” He throws the empty pack to his feet and cracks the passenger window.

Larry takes the cigarette from his mouth and returns to his conversation with Billy, “So, where were you planning to go?”

Billy looks slightly surprised by the question but quickly has an answer, “Oh, um, my aunt. She’s got a cabin in Utah. I figured what I would do is pack up Isabella and my little girl and head up to stay with her. It’s kinda far out of town so I think it’s pretty safe.”

“Pretty safe? Does she have a generator?”

“I think so,” Billy scratches his head as he thinks over the question.

“You think so? How much land is it on? Can she see neighbors? Are there any gun stores in town? How does she get her water, from the city or a private well? How long would it take you to get there if the roads are closed? Are there any other routes you could take? Is the area prone to natural disasters like floods? Is it above the freeze line? You should make a list of questions for next time you’re up there.”

“Yeah… Yeah, that’s a good idea!” and a long silence passes between them.

Larry gives a proud self congratulatory smile and says, “That’s the only kind I have!”

Billy continues to think to himself for a moment before speaking again.

“What about you? Where are you going?”

The pickup leans around a mountain curve and they zoom past a vehicle broken down on the side of the road.

Larry says, “See that? No food, no water, they didn’t even have tools. Who goes out on the road with no tools? What if something happened?”

Billy feels bad for the family stranded on the side of the road now almost a mile behind them. “Maybe they just don’t have any use for tools. Maybe they wouldn’t know what to do with the tools even if they had brought them along. Not everyone knows how to fix a car, ya know.”

            “And whose fault is that? They brought their laptops, their DVDs, their footballs and Frisbees, they brought their bathing suits and night gowns and all their money, but they never learned how to turn a wrench or swing a hammer?”

A tense moment of silence sits still in the pickup truck as it zooms through the cool mountain air.

“I don’t want to live in a world where jewels are worth more than tools,” Larry says coldly. Billy takes his eyes off the road to look Larry in the face. Behind his sunglasses, Larry’s eyes are closed. He thinks of the multitude of hours he’d spent working on cars with his father on the side of his childhood home. He feels the heft of a flashlight in his hand as he searches for a 7/16” socket wrench or a nut which had gotten lost while along the way. In a flash, he’s returned.

“In any case, back to what you were saying. I’d head to this little cabin I know in Show Low. I’ve got forty acres up there and if I can, I’ll build a house on that land before the panic. Even if I can’t though, I know an old man with a little cabin of his own. He’s completely off the grid up there. Has his own well with fresh water, his own big generator that would power just about anything, and great big underground fuel tank from before there were roads in the area. To this day in fact, you can only get there if you can manage to follow the little signs he’s put up in the middle of the desert.”

“Wow. How did you meet that guy?” Billy suddenly looks away from the road at Larry many times, as if to see if he’s telling the truth.

The boy turns to look at Larry as he begins to speak. “He’s my neighbor. He owns the twenty acres next to mine. Says he was in the Army like me, except he fought in World War II. He told me that he and his brother graded the roads themselves back when they were young men. That man must be eighty years old but I swear Billy, that guy still carries an old revolver around everywhere he goes and still works full days to keep his lands working for him. I suppose if I ever end up on that land, the air and water might be really bad. People may start to turn on one another. I may not be able to count on his help.”

Billy grimly nods his head in agreement. The last sliver of sunlight slowly fades away and both men remove their sunglasses. Larry folds his visor up and Billy decides to do the same.

“When are we going to be in the forest?” the boy asked again.

“Don’t you see the trees,” Larry asked in response.

“Yeah?”

“That’s the forest!”

Billy impatiently returned to conversation, “So you were in the army, right? So you must know something about guns?”

“Yeah, of course I do. I was a rifleman.”

“Okay, so I don’t have a lot of money but I think I might need a weapon to protect my family when everything falls apart. What do you think I should try to get?”

“It really depends on what you think you’re going to need it for. For example, I chose an M4 carbine battle rifle- like what I carried in the service. The ammunition would be fairly common for that caliber of weapon and it’s the preferred choice for shooting zombies at medium range… plus parts are easy to find.”

Billy’s face was suddenly filled with surprise and concern, “Zombies? You did all this planning because you think it’s going to be zombies? Doesn’t it seem more likely that it’ll be governmental collapse, or famine, or some super disease, or nuclear war, or some kind of 9-11 style terrorist attack, or some chemical they’re putting in the food?”

“They? Who are they, Billy? What do you think it’s gonna be?”

Billy got a very serious look on his face and even slowed the truck slightly to add to the gravity of what he had to say, “The Illuminati.”

“The Illuminati? Like from that Dan Brown book? You’re saying that they are controlling everything and they’re going to cause a collapse anyway? Why would they do that?”

“They’re doing everything behind the scenes: the stock market crash, the housing market, you name it! They need to crash the system to regain control. The governments are becoming too big and powerful; the Illuminati need to crash the system to gain total control. You never know who might be working for the Illuminati and you never know what means they may use in order to enact their plans for control. The Illuminati utilize technological resources to control the world flow of information. They want you gone? You disappear. They put you on the most wanted list, the cops take you away, and you’re never heard from again… Zombies are just crazy.”

The Ranch

The car hits a bump and the kids wake up. The four weary travelers pull into a long semicircular driveway and the car stops in front of four stuccoed pillars. Behind the pillars is an illuminated chandelier shining its light upon a dark, wooden door with inlaid stained glass windows so large that it seems to have been made for a giant. The white sedan’s engine shuts off and all four doors lackadaisically pop open. The driver, his wife, and his two young children have returned home. They exit the vehicle and stretch their legs, now stiff from a long car ride. The air is warm and still and beyond the sounds of the driver removing suitcases from the trunk, the sounds of the Arizona desert paint vivid scenes in the darkness. 

The engine ticks with heat from the long trip. Crickets chirp loud and long and an unseen rabbit scurries into a nearby bush making just enough of a fuss to startle a dove that had been nesting in the tree. The dove coos angrily and perches itself on top of the clay tile roof two stories above the desert floor. In the distance, coyotes yip and howl at some fresh kill. The prey is probably no bigger than a rabbit or a pack rat, but the sounds reverberate to the very hearts of the entire family and without a single spoken word they all pause from unloading the car and try to gauge the distance from the pack of hungry snapping teeth to themselves.

             “They got something huh,” the driver mumbles to his son.

            “Yeah. Sounds like five or six of ‘em,” the boy says and picks up a big black duffel bag. He slams the door closes with his hip and waddles toward the door with the heavy piece of luggage. The family closes the car doors one at a time and they shuffle to the door behind the boy who stares at the lock until his father approaches with the keys. The lock clicks and the door swings open. The children trudge up the stairs and drop their bags in dark rooms. The bedroom ceiling fans of three separate rooms spin to life and the bulbs cast long beams of light into the dark hallway. The family undresses, turns out the warm incandescent lights and slip into bed. The house is dark and only the sound of a faint television set can be heard in the hallway accompanied by pale blue light that creeps out from under the master bedroom door.

            Hours later, sunlight invades the house and the children are woken by their mother.

            “Come on! You need to get to school! The bus will be here soon,” the mother gives the same message to both closed doors from the opposite end of the hall. Her shoes clack loudly on the hard wood floor as she walks. She knocks loudly on both doors and inside the quiet rooms the children stir from their beds. The girl is twelve years old and most of the room’s décor is functional. The closet is small but filled with clothing that lines the walls. A shoe rack has been fixed to the door and the remaining space is barely enough to constitute a child’s hiding place; a role which it took on at least once every time the siblings played “hide and go seek.” After her shower, she goes to the tight, fabric encased filing cabinet of a closet, removes a preselected matching outfit, gets dressed, and goes downstairs to pack her bag. Her brother is still upstairs.

“John, your son fell asleep in the shower again,” the mother bellows up the stairs.

Pounding on the door, John shouts through the crack.

 “You’re gonna miss the bus… and stop wasting water! Martha, I told him.”

John returns to the master bedroom which is filled with cigarette smoke and the incessant chatter of the finance channel. Talking heads gossip about the price of blue chips and triple Q’s. The boy snaps to life and stumbles out of the shower which sits in the corner of his own bedroom. He slips in a puddle of water and crashes to the floor. The thud is heard straight to the kitchen on the floor below.

Martha, who spends most of her morning shouting at various family members hardly even glances upward before asking, “Are you ok!?”

The shower has leaked ever since the boy and his father installed it the year before and early morning slips have become commonplace. No noise comes from the bedroom.

“Larry! Are you ok?” his mother shouts again.

“I’m okay,” the boy dazedly shouts from a cracked bedroom door.

“Good, then hurry up,” she scolds and returns to the business of the morning: breakfast, phone calls, get the kids ready for school, feed the dog, get to the office on time. The smell of scrambled eggs and ham has filled the house and does far more to hurry the fourteen year old boy than the shrill call of his mother. Larry’s room is filled with posters purchased from trendy novelty stores at the mall. Every inch of paint has been covered by brightly colored paper with bold print that reads, “Rage Against the Machine,” or “Fight Club,” or “Have a Nice Day,” complete with a yellow smiley face suffering from an apparent point blank gunshot wound between the eyes. Covering the wall opposite the messy queen size bed are more posters; these posters are all filled with scantily clad women in revealing poses. One poster reads, “Double scoop: $1” and underneath stands a woman covered in melting ice cream as she struggles to maintain control of the cone in her hand. Others show women sprawled on the hoods of sports cars from far off European countries. The television shows a blue super hero with green hair as he does battle to save the environment. Larry is easily distracted by the cartoon and joins the rest of his family downstairs with just enough time for a glass of juice that tastes bitter against the minty flavor of his toothpaste.

The huge door swings open and the children step into the warm fall air. Today is the first day of school and the younger child is excited at the prospect of starting a new year with her friends.

Martha shouts for the final time of the morning as the kids walk across the street to the bus stop, “Jezzette: have fun, make lots of friends. Larry: be good and take care of your sister!”

Across the street, the siblings stand alone. They wave as their father pulls his white service truck out from the far side of the house. Gripped in his teeth is a lit cigarette butt and his eye squints to keep the smoke out behind prescription glasses that he only uses to drive despite repeated requests from his doctor. He flashes his children a look that is half smile and half growl and waves as though he were Miss America being driven on the back of a red convertible in a parade. John makes the turn off of 59^th Place and speeds up considerably on Dynamite Road. As he passes, the sound of talk radio fills the air followed quickly by the scent of coffee and burning tobacco.

The children stand wordlessly and minutes later their mother can be seen locking the front door and getting into the white Cadillac in which they had ridden mere hours earlier. She pulls slowly to the corner and pauses to wave enthusiastically at her children who wave back somewhat apathetically. She turns in the opposite direction as her husband and the kids are alone. The children stand in a patch of desert by an old telephone pole and stare at their own home. The trees are manicured and the front yard has been filled with decorative red lava rock pebbles. The paint is white and fresh and in the backyard is a pool house complete with its own bathroom, changing room, shower, and media center. The water is cool and blue and the sod around the pool house is wet and green. Behind the backyard, in the final third of the property, sits an old barn which had previously been used to keep horses. Since then, the barn had been divided in two; one half has been converted to a shop room filled with exotic tools to fix a multitude of machines, the other half sat empty except for several rolls of roofing and a few buckets of tar to be one day laid on the flat roof of the pool house.

A long yellow bus with a jarringly loud engine comes to a stop in front of the telephone pole and the siblings, still tired from a long night and a busy morning, take their time to find separate, empty seats on the loud vehicle filled with loud children. The house is prominently located on the street and most of the kids on the bus know this home; they call it “The White House.” To the family that lived within its walls, however, the house became known as “The Ranch;” a throwback to a time when livestock lived in the barn and horses were a viable means of transportation.  The house is located prominently on a busy street in the small desert community and with a population just over 2,500 people most everyone recognized it. Many people use the house to tell when they were halfway between Tatum and Scottsdale Roads. The bus pulls away and Larry takes a final look to see his Rottweiler, Heidi jumping frantically in the backyard as if to give the children a full body wave goodbye.

Ten years have passed. Martha and Jezzette sit at the dining room table as Larry walks down the stairs. The smell of fresh bacon and eggs sit in the air but Jezzette has already cleaned the pan that was used during the cooking process. They casually converse over their breakfast as Larry pours himself a glass of orange juice.

“Hey honey, you want some breakfast?” Martha asked the man in the kitchen.

“No thanks, I’m running late,” Larry told his mother.

“What are you doing today,” Martha asked.

“I’ve gotta go to the ranch. I think there are some papers I need from before the Army.”

“Oh! In that case, take your father some half and half. We’re divorced and I’m still doing his shopping somehow,” Martha replied.

Jezzette spoke suddenly with a mouth full of ketchup and egg, “Be careful if you go over there, that place went to shit after you left.”

The car hits a bump and Larry knows he’s home. The white sedan’s engine shuts off and the door lackadaisically pops open. Larry takes a moment to survey the building in which he spent his formative years. The paint is peeling showing the tan color underneath that hasn’t been seen since there were cattle in the barn. The red lava rock is mostly gone and tree that once sat in the front yard has been blown over in some recent storm. The semicircular driveway has weeds that have sprouted from the cracks around each brick in the path creating a field of grass in which you could still play basketball.

The lock clicks and the door swings open. Crickets chirp loud and long and an unseen rabbit scurries out the doggy door making just enough of a fuss to startle Larry. He walks through the living room which is now filled with parts for every appliance from a garage door opener to a can opener. Larry walks along paths that have been cleared away just enough to allow passage to the other rooms on the ground floor. He makes his way to the kitchen and puts the small jug of half and half in the refrigerator. In the sink are over a dozen coffee mugs, some with coffee so old that it has formed a hard brown crust in the bottoms of each of the glasses.

Larry walks back through the maze of parts and old furniture and starts his trudge up the dark stairs. The house is dark except for the sunlight that creeps out from the cracks under the bedroom doors and only the sound of a television set can be heard from the master bedroom. Larry turns the knob and walks into the only room which appears to be inhabited. The bed is messy and piles of clothing are scattered around the room as though someone had been sorting them, though Larry can find no discernable order. The ashtray is teeming with butts and another half dozen coffee mugs are scattered throughout the room. The television is tuned to an infomercial with the volume uncomfortably high. Larry finds a note under the obnoxious man selling exercise equipment. It reads:

“Boy- put my half and half in the fridge and leave the TV on so people think someone’s home.”

            Larry exits the master bedroom, closes the door behind himself, and starts down the hall. The hardwood flooring is beginning to splinter and it has become so warped that the only sound Larry’s steps made was an eerie creaking. Larry pokes his head in the door where his sister used to sleep. The room is filled with clothing and shoes in big piles and against the wall is a stack of boxes marked, “Goodwill.”   

Larry returns to his old room to find that the walls are bare and white. The tiny thumb tack holes which used to litter the walls have been filled with some thick paint that was used to cover the matte blue walls that were once so ugly they needed to be covered by rock bands, movie posters, and lewd women. The room is empty except for a black filing cabinet. Larry opens the top drawer, removes the only remaining file from a cabinet which once held the birth certificates, medical records, speeding tickets, and bank statements for the entire family.

The huge door swings open and Larry steps into the hot summer air. He lights a cigarette and walks to the bus stop at which he stood every morning for almost five years of his life. Larry turns around to face the Ranch. A neighbor driving a white pickup truck nods his head as he turns onto Dynamite Road and Larry waves back somewhat apathetically. The trees that have survived are over grown. The pool house has dirty windows which make it hard to tell that the pool had been drained some time ago and the sod is dry and brown. Heidi had long ago died of a cancerous tumor which slowly took her ability to walk. The barn had been divided in two; one half has been converted to a shop room which now sat empty, most of the tools having been sold during the divorce to pay bills, the other half was filled with old broken air conditioners, water heaters, stoves, washing machines, several rolls of roofing, and a couple buckets of tar which were never used to fix the roof of the pool house.

The house is prominently located on the street and most of the kids Larry went to school with know this home; they call it “The White House.” To Larry and the rest of his family, however, the house became known as “The Ranch;” since now it was filled with the wildlife that used to surround it. The house is located prominently on a busy street in a growing desert community and with a population of almost 4,000 people Larry feels embarrassed that people know it’s his house. Larry takes a final look at the house to see his old window. Larry holds up his hand and waves softly to give his childhood a silent wave goodbye.

Ordinary Day

Today was a day like any other. I told the people I love how much they mean to me and more importantly, I told them that I'm really happy with my life. The clouds showed up today and it started to rain. I found myself barreling down the freeway in the first serious thunderstorm in 6 months while light headed and blasting techno.

People in the desert drive funny when it rains. Some speed up, some slow down, and some are so amazed at the miracle of rain that they simply become dangerous. I once said that anything goes in the desert in the rain. You could see a man wearing the most insane outfit on the planet, and on any other day you would chalk it up to the propensity for homeless people to be schizophrenic.

But in the desert, the rain gives license to act a fool and go unjudged. People see others acting crazy and rather than blame them they say, "I hate driving in the rain."

Mood Ring

I once bought two friendship rings that changed color. I met a girl, gave one away and kept the other.
My ring didn't fit and it was in my pocket when you made me feel like I was insignificant.
Time passed and pain became anger. I stopped eating. Started exercising.
Now I'm slimmer. Now I'm more confident. Now the ring fits. Now I meet girls a lot.
And when they ask about it, I tell them it's my mood ring.
They say I'm adorable. They say it's cute and ask my mood.
So I tell them it's stuck on horny.

Goodbye Poem

yesterday was Saturday
and you called to say its all ok
and that you'll be back someday
but I would not play
I could not listen
and I would not stay

Frenemies

Friends are people with whom you share personal affection or high regard. I guess lately I’ve hit the update button in my life and a lot of old definitions are being rewritten. The old definitions were ok but they left a few questions unanswered.

1. If you rarely talk to someone (maybe once or twice a year) can you really call them a friend?

2. If you put your neck out for a friend, do they need to repay the favor?

3. Can you have sex with a friend without losing them?

4. If you don’t agree with the way a friend is living their life, is it ok to say something? Should you still be friends with them if they choose not to change?

5. If they hurt you in the past, should you accept their apology?

Lately the questions have been piling up. My old way of thinking? I’d run away. I would do nothing until my friend tried to say something about it. I like to react. When you act first there are a million possible answers; but when you react, there are usually only one or two possibilities. I would choose whichever broke my heart less.

Nowadays I’m doing things a bit differently. I still run away but when I come back I’ve usually got something to say. Things are not okay! I had to move twice because of you! You fucked me over! I’m not mad we didn’t hook up, I’m mad you were such a terrible friend! You don’t want it to be weird? Then why did you wait 6 months before you decided to not be a passive aggressive bitch?! NO! ITS NOT OKAY! I didn’t need a phone call. I don’t want a visit. You say you’re coming back and you’re seeing somebody new and we’re gonna see each other and you don’t want it to be weird? Stay 2000 miles away and it won’t be weird. You didn’t give us a second thought when you left and now it’s the dolled up, fake, pretentious Arizonans that you miss? Go fuck yourself. I hope I never see you again, our time apart has apparently only served to make you think I’m a fool… Worry not, it won’t be weird. If I’m out at a bar with 5 friends and a $200 tab when you walk through the door, worry not. I won’t be there for long. If I am unable to schedule time with mutual acquaintances separate from you, then I will simply not know those people anymore.

Of course, not everyone who gets my teeth deserves them. I have dismissed friends, girl friends, family members, and even myself as a threat at one point or another. The ones who last are the ones who have patience with me. It’s fair. I only ask as much patience from people as they demand from me. People should treat others the way they want to be treated right? Yet there are people who treat others like garbage and only karma is given the privilege of cutting these people down to size. Maybe it could work in reverse? Should we not treat people the way they treat us?

Do you know what a firewall is? In a car it goes between the engine and the passengers. Everything under the hood is sacrificed to protect what’s really important; same with crumple zones. In a restaurant, it goes between the kitchen and the dining room. On your computer: between your harddrive and the internet. Like crumple zones, and those blocks of metal they clamp to boat engines, and those plants that distract bugs from crops. Parts designed to fail. Designated weaknesses. 

Introduction

On new years 2010, i told myself that this year would be different. I had returned from the army 4 years earlier but I still wasn't home. i had moved 10 or so times in my life and even though i own lots of things, all of them fit into boxes. All my possessions can be packed into 1 trailer or 3 truckloads and unpacked into a bedroom size space within 24 hours at all times.

I had struggled with a weight problem for most of my life, (even through the army). my weight never really hurt my dance card, but i always felt fat. I had a girlfriend for most of my life (though I was close with very few of them) but i knew, "i was what someone had settled for" (at least physically) and that subconscious message affected the way i thought about women ever since. my father had joked that i was the only man in Phoenix that refused to take his shirt off. The same held true in Iraq.

In Iraq my dad told me about the bar he'd bought. A swank jazz club full of cougars and the Arizona elite. At the time (2004) soldiers were treated like rock-stars. guys would make sure to flash their military id so the whole bar could buy them drinks all night long. and they were happy to do it. We were fucking war heroes and those were good times. After Iraq I had one more year in Germany.

Germany was like living in Saving Private Ryan except there's no war, everyone under 30 speaks English and the nightclubs are all open till 5. I loved it there; I had already reinvented myself once to make new friends- Great friends. But after 12 months in Iraq, some had died, some went home, some were transferred, some had been made into real heroes, others... demoted in disgrace. Shifting tides told me to go home. So i called the states and told my dad I’d help run his bar, which by this time was a total mess. My parents also decided it was time to tell me that they'd gotten divorced... And by the way, "you may have a step-brother."

I spent the subsequent 3 years desperately trying to save my father’s restaurant as it sank slowly into a dismal economy which had already taken my war money and my college fund. Every 3 months... things'll be better in 3 months... 3 months later, we would sit around and talk about how we would've been better off closed (but we can't due to contractual obligations). The restaurant was a money pit and took millions of dollars before my father called it quits. Some of the only good things to come out of that restaurant were a few good friends and tales of romance. Also, a happy accident of the recession was that someone had defaulted on a payment to my parents for a property they had sold. They took back the property and continued to run it in order to make ends meet.

With no bartending job, I tried being a private investigator but found the work tedious and time consuming. I got a job watching the door at a strip club and found the easiest work that this great land has to offer. I would spend my day watching naked women and taking palmed twenty dollar bills. Eventually they were tens, then fives. Before long the guys were fighting for hours and I wasn’t the biggest guy there. my mother and sister had convinced me to return to school and my new best friend had convinced me i was a writer. off i went, swinging my lunchbox as I skipped, back to community college.

School was less of an issue after the army. My English teacher told me i should look into a creative writing class and gave me a professors name. I took the class and enjoyed it very much. But I started to notice that my classmates at the community college were failing to challenge me.

As if to answer my prayers, the veterans affairs guy says, “hey, ya know there’s a new g.i. bill coming out. I think you qualify.” Next thing I know, all my bills are paid for. All I have to do is go to school. Any school. So I quit my job and transferred to asu. Once I got there, I started to notice the people. They were smarter… smarter than me? And they were gorgeous. Like trendy statues. The frat boys especially.. they all had muscles like athletes. That’s the difference. White collars can spot each other. The haves can differentiate themselves from the have nots. That’s why college is so important. I realized that if I wanted to be anything better than a doorman at a strip club I’d need to drop 70 pounds, get a degree, stop dressing like a goon, and develop some social skills. I would have to fit in. So I did.

for the first time in my life, a doctor can't tell me i'm obese, even though he may not agree with the way i got the weight off. i'm single for the first time in three years, and more importantly, i can flirt with girls and get them to flirt back. my confidence never needed a boost, but the new-found attention makes me feel unstoppable.

I spent some money on new clothes to fit the smaller me and they’re much nicer than my old ones. I have two years left before the military cuts my benefits. Hopefully I can get a bachelors by then and hopefully there’ll be a job to compete for.

In the mean time I get to enjoy the life I always wanted but never had time for. This year’s activities include: A camping trip, MC Chris live in concert, Electric Daisy Carnival, Disneyland, Burning Man. Among others. At the time of writing some have already taken place while others have yet to occur. It became obvious very early this year that things were about to be different and as the events unfolded, I realized that I could float through the nebulous void of space for eternity thinking back and trying to remember how it all happened. And that’s why I started to write here. Musings, stories, transformational revelations all laid bare for anyone who cares to read. Leave a comment if you like.

-L

Angry (loud) or Angry (quiet)?

today my arm was twisted and i was subjected to hours of child care followed by hours of computer repair. i hate watching children. i used to think it was because i hate responsibility but i'm not so sure anymore. i think i just fear the emotional responsibility of having a little black box following you around. you cuss, they cuss. you play with tools, they play with tools. its cute until your son watches you fix something and then takes a hammer to your laptop- not that that's happened to me mind you, i'm just saying thats how it happened with me.

Besides that, my public "tough guy" personae doesn't jive well with a loving caretaker. when i'm not in the mood for a kid to be around, it shows. part of me is really worried for my future kid. hes gonna have to put up with me as much as i put up with him. i think thats why i have such high hopes for my future "significant other". she would have to wear one of those silver suits i always see them put on around molten steele. or one of those bomb disarming suits. really she just needs to not be scared of me. and sometimes i have the tendency to be scary. fire and ice, i guess. because when i'm not angry (loud) i'm angry (quiet). i say nothing and walk away.

She would have to keep me from turning to stone on a daily basis. not an easy task, i'd say. when somethings bothering me and i can't yell or talk i tend to sit around and let it eat me from the inside out until i can process the information through a friend or meditation. talking to her would help but i've never had a girl i could talk to. needless to say, communication has been listed as one of my big dating problems. she asks: what's wrong? I say: nothing. we can play this game for hours. Why don't i just tell her?

most of the time i'm just reluctant to open up. i think, "if it takes a lot to get it out of me, she'll pay attention to what i have to say." assuming she has now asked enough times to get me to say anything at all, i need her to pay attention to what i have to say without interruption and respond in a way that at least shows that she has understood what i've said. I KNOW. i know. i ask too much. those requirements have kept me quiet for years. its easier to just say, "nothing."

Better Off Alone

Tonight I sat in the dark and closed my eyes and thought about all the times you let me die. But what about the dog? You scoffed in my face and said not my prob. i just need a ride you're the only one around. You said you didn't feel well and left me to find another way. You’ve been having parties at your house? You’d know if you cared more. I went to see a movie with my sister. And forgot to invite me. I can't do this anymore again. And again. and again. Enough.

I decided to get to know the man you love. So one night, I broke into your nest and stole your house plant. I gave him water and sunshine and turned off the TV. We sat for awhile and talked about you. He said he didn't get it but I knew the truth it was you that screwed up. So I washed off his roots and put him in the ground. I let him come and visit when he learned to walk and we went to the mall he got a new look and even learned to talk. We even started taking field trips to the jungle.

A year has gone by. One year of silence but not of celibacy. you siren me closer but my heart kept me far away but a casual party seems just like the place to come and gloat and show that things have changed. Years gone by what have you done? Same old? 9 to 5? Mortgage? Making a nest and then flying home? ME? Half the weight and three times the charm with a heavy suit of armor so you can't harm.

I never trusted you. You’re a liar and a cheater and narcissistic psychopath and hows your mom? As if i care! That woman hated me! The truth is that you're just as neurotic as she is. What she says she don't mean. Just like you. Every time we talk things have changed. Today you're different. This time you're the same. Well guess what? It’s a year later and I’m 2.0 I’m new and improved. A year ago you were weren't smarter than a fifth grader, now I’m in college. Is that your final answer? Is this your lifeline? Wrong! You guessed wrong! You look like a fool in front of your friends who all look like fools in front of me.

What am I doing? I’m Iron Man at the Special Olympics. I don't need to show off. And even if I did, you'd have to look up to get my jokes. Progress report: F minus. You failed. We needed time apart and instead you fell apart. So I’m leaving. Not that you'd notice through the haze, and the booze, and the vomit. I thought I needed to grow up for you so I spent a year to become the man you wanted and all you did was show me I was better off alone.

New Years 2010

On new years 2010, I told myself that this year would be different. I had returned from the army 4 years earlier but I still wasn't home. I had moved 10 or so times in my life and even though I own lots of things, all of them fit into boxes. All my possessions can be packed into 1 trailer or 3 truckloads and unpacked into a bedroom size space within 24 hours. At all times.

I had struggled with a weight problem for most of my life, (even through the army). my weight never really hurt my dance card, but I always felt fat. I had a girlfriend for most of my life but I knew, "I was what someone had settled for" (at least physically) and that subconscious message affected the way I thought about women ever since. My father had joked that I was the only man in Arizona that refused to take his shirt off. The same held true in Iraq. 

In Iraq my dad told me about the bar he'd bought. A swank jazz club full of cougars and the Arizona elite. At the time (2004) soldiers were treated like rock-stars. Guys would make sure to flash their military id so the whole bar could buy those drinks all night long. And they were happy to do it. We were fucking war heroes and those were good times. After Iraq I had one more year in Germany.

Germany was like living in Saving Private Ryan except there's no war, everyone under 30 speaks English and the nightclubs are open till 5. I loved it there; I had already reinvented myself once to make new friends. Great friends. But after 12 months in Iraq, some had died, some went home, some were transferred, some had been made into real heroes, others... demoted in disgrace. Shifting tides told me to go home. So I called home and told my dad I’d help run his bar, which by this time was a total mess. My parents also decided it was time to tell me that they'd gotten divorced... And by the way, "you may have a step-brother."

I spent the subsequent 3 years desperately trying to save my father’s restaurant as it sank slowly into a dismal economy which had already taken my war money and my college fund. Every 3 months... things'll be better in 3 months... 3 months later, we would sit around and talk about how we would've been better off closed (but we can't due to contractual obligations). The restaurant was a money pit and took millions of dollars before my father called it quits. A happy accident of the recession was that someone defaulted on a payment to my parents for a property they had sold. They took back the property and continued to run it in order to make ends meet.

My mother and sister had convinced me to return to school and my new best friend had convinced me I was a writer. Off I went, back to community college. School was less difficult than I remembered and my newfound self discipline made it easier to get by.

For the first time in my life, a doctor can't tell me I’m obese, even though he may not agree with the way I got the weight off. I’m single for the first time in three years, and more importantly, I can flirt with girls and get them to flirt back. My confidence never needed a boost, but the new-found attention makes me feel unstoppable. 

Christmas 2009

today the bittersweet taste of morning was bubble gum flavored, realizing that I had to escape the quaking ruins of my own home, I bought a coffee and a newspaper and circled the mall looking for a mail box for my urine sample. once inside, I drank my coffee and read the paper and watched people worry about "the most wonderful time of the year."

Mike the Musician

I look at pictures of myself at various stages in life, and I don't even know that person anymore. Bright eyed and optimistic, eager to launch himself into some high paying career with a big office, sports car, and trophy girlfriend. I was supposed to be head of General Motors by now... looking back, I feel so silly staying home on sunny days when I could have been out with friends, or guilting my parents in to taking me to the mall. I was so proud of the hours I’d logged on my Playstation... now, I can't even remember which games were fun. I was socially inept for years. I don't think I asked a girl out until I was 19. In my whole life I could count the parties I’ve been to on one hand... the fun ones anyway.

For anyone who knows me, I moved recently. The house is coming along nicely and I think I’m about ready for the first party. Try to keep in mind; the parties are important to me. For me they say, "Hey look! I’m still young enough to enjoy a party; and old enough that it’s not at my mom's house anymore." last week the bar was delivered and the basement was repainted. I guess "mike" may be my new subterranean roommate. Mike will be the fourth person in the house. He seems like a good enough guy, but he's awfully quiet. This is a shame, because when he does speak, it’s usually very insightful or funny.

The way we met was... my roommate had put a "roommate wanted" ad on Craigslist. Mike was one of the first to respond, and we arranged a time for him to come over and "peep the crib". By pure happen stance, all the roommates were able to be at the same place at the same (relative) time. I show up late, of course. I will give no explanation for my tardiness; I will only say that I was fun to be around once I arrived. We all were, in fact. We drank and told stories and ate pizza and went out for coffee and listened to poetry and read pornography and told jokes. I had an unusually good time, and mike was a pleasure to be around.

I feel like the used car salesman. The guy comes in, you can see him staring at the Toyota, but instead, he stays near the Mazda. You ask if he needs any help and he gives you a non committal shrug. He saunters past the Toyota and asks a couple non-committal questions as far as the price. You know he wants the Toyota but he doesn't want to seem too interested, otherwise he may come off as a sucker. So the guy leaves his card with the salesman and says he'll "be back". This customer? That’s the way mike acts when I show him the basement. Apparently he's gonna call this weekend after he looks at a few other places. What other places? I’ve been to lots of other places and they all sucked.

I almost feel bad for the guy, having to put up with the three of us. And yet I hate being told that he'll "get back to me"