This blog is a continuous work in progress, fluidly charting my diverse interests and reflecting the far reaching range of my tastes. Frequent subjects of discussion include literature, sports, politics, pop culture and artistic motivation. You will find thoughtful essays and stream of consciousness rants, reviews of books written by others and the presentation of my own fiction - novel excerpts as well as short stories. What it is today may not be the case tomorrow. Welcome to A Line A Day.
I will be brief, because the purpose of this post is not for you to read what I have written. It is primarily for you to listen. So rest your eyes if you so choose, but kindly indulge and lend me your ears.
War – What is it good for? Absolutely nothing in the real
world, but on page it can make for compelling reading. The fighting may be in
the foreground of the plot or may serve primarily as backdrop to the story. Central
characters may be soldiers, or veterans, or civilians going about the process
of living while others kill and are killed around them. Perhaps a truce has
already been called that ends the fighting, but not the impact on shattered
lives.
The following books are examples of such compelling reading material
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr – Set in
Europe during World War II, the narrative features
a German orphan boy who is handy at mechanical fidgeting, including the
self-taught ability to fix radios and finding which transmissions can reach
him. One is picked up from France, sent by the great uncle of a blind girl that
it is his destiny to one day meet.
Much takes place between Werner
hearing the broadcasts of Marie-Laure's great uncle and finally crossing paths
with her. Due to his talent, rather than being sent to work in the mines Werner
lands in an academy that trains German boys to become soldiers. Marie-Laure ends
up alone when her father is taken prisoner. Left behind by him is an invaluable
gift - a rare gem removed from the museum to be kept safe from treasure seeking
Nazis. Along with its monetary worth are rumored magical properties that can
heal disease. Marie-Laure is unaware that it is in her possession until
figuring out clues sent by her father. While we read on to see when and how fate
will lead Werner to Marie-Laure, the war that Hitler thrust the world into
rages on.
~~~~~
The Amazing Adventures
of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon –A novel
about the immigrant experience, particularly that of Jewish people who came to
American shores from Europe to escape Nazi persecution. Being set in wartime
means that violence and survival instinct are on display during the frozen
battlefield portion of the narrative. It also is about magic and illusion and
escapism and the earliest days of the comic book industry.
Last but not least, we are
presented with a love story. Two actually - one straight and one gay. Given the
time period, the latter is clandestine, forbidden, and ultimately
heartbreaking. If you are drawn to sprawling stories that take place over many
years in which spectacular events take place, pick this book up.
~~~~~
Freeman by Leonard Pitts Jr. - History buffs interested in a post-Civil War setting will be
enthralled. Those who take interest in this nation's troublesome history of
race relations will be drawn in and will shake their head at the realization
that centuries old truths stubbornly remain valid to this day. Those searching
for bittersweet love stories will find them here, and most importantly, readers
will empathize with the well-developed characters.
Sam, a runaway slave who once worked for the Union Army, is determined
to find his wife even though this means leaving the safety of Philadelphia
behind to return to the war-torn south. Tilda is being forced at gunpoint to
walk until finding a place that the man who enslaves her believes his rights as
a slave owner will still be honored, despite the result of the war. The third
primary character is Prudence, a white woman who goes from Boston to
Mississippi to start a school. While the events of this story take place after bloodshed
on the battlefield has officially ended, long lasting effects dominate the
lives of those in search of a new meaning for freedom.
~~~~~
Home by Toni Morrison – Frank Money is a veteran of the Korean War, haunted by blood-soaked memories
of his time there. Now back in America, returned to its unique brand of racism
against black people, he finds himself with a peacetime rescue mission. His
sister is in bad shape, and so he must return to the hometown in Georgia that
he loathes, taking a journey from one trauma inducing location to another. It
is the last thing he wants to do, and the only challenge capable of shaking him
from a crippling sense of apathy and PTSD.
Much has changed over the course
of the years since Frank last set foot in the town where they were raised.
Plenty remains basically the same. Home is there to provide familiar comforts,
even though our return to it is inevitably in the form of a different version
of ourselves. Even when it is a place that was run away from, home is what one
hopes remains when the war and the running is done.
~~~~~
The Light in the Ruins by Chris Bohjalian – This book
jumps back and forth between the years 1943 and
1955. The earlier setting takes place in an Italian countryside during World
War II. Mussolini's Italy became an ally to Hitler's Germany during the war,
but initially German soldiers treated Italy like an occupied nation rather than
viewing its citizens as brothers in arms. During this period of uneasy
alliance, the wealthy Rosati’s host parties for the Germans, the two adult sons
serve in the military, and their sister falls in love with a German soldier
whom she believes to be more humane than most of his comrades. Their cozy
relationship with Germans is a recipe for resentment from their less prosperous
neighbors who are distrustful of the Nazis and anyone who chooses to associate
with them.
In the 1950's, the second plot
revolves around a serial killer who for unknown reasons is targeting members of
the Rosati family. Two detectives try to hunt down the killer. This fast-paced
novel races along on a dual track. We learn the identity and motivation of the
killer in its final pages. If you enjoy whodunnits, or war novels, or
historical fiction with a dash of romance, or art history – you will be rewarded
with each of these elements.
~~~~~
The Nightingale by
Kristin Hannah –This novel is about
German occupation of France during the WW II that centers on the heroism of
French women- two in particular, sisters Isabelle and Vianne. Isabelle is the
more rebellious of the two, not content to sit at home and wait to be saved
when she can go out and do some saving of her own. She joins a group of
rebels that help the cause of defeating Germany any way they can, such as
escorting to safety various pilots who survive their planes being brought down
by the German military. Vianne has a young daughter in her care, so she is not
able to be as reckless as her sister.
Vianne’s husband joins the fighting
and is captured. A German soldier is billeted in their home. After he is killed
to protect the hiding Isabelle, a far less decent Nazi takes his place. The
narrative alternates between Isabelle's exploits and Vianne's struggle to
survive Nazi occupation of her town and home. A third thread takes us to 1995.
An elderly woman who recently moved into an assisted living complex has been
invited to an event in France. We understand that this woman must be one of the
sisters but must wait for her identity to be revealed.
~~~~~
Persepolis: The Story
of a Childhood by Marjane Satrapi –The
narrator of this graphic novel is a young girl growing up during the Islamic
revolution and the Iran-Iraq war who reveals impactful events to us in
matter-of-fact fashion, such as her one day being a student in a co-ed,
non-religious bilingual school - the next day a student in an all-girls school
with the wearing of veils now obligatory. The contrast between the
stylistically simple black and white illustrations and the brutal inhumanity of
what is taking place is startling - like a pre-school children's book and a
Rated R horror flick merged into one.
Loved ones are introduced on one
page, killed a page or two afterwards. Tragedy just keeps coming. Yet we also
can't help smiling in certain places as this stubborn, resilient girl puts
together a punk rock look, or goes shopping for music by acts some readers will
remember from the 1980's, scoring posters of Iron Maiden and Kim Wilde that her
parents sneak into the country, or when she takes a forbidden puff of a
cigarette in the basement and declares herself to have reached adulthood.
Regime changes are detailed at a dizzying pace. No matter who is in charge
during any given period, repression in one form or another is present, as is
danger. Permanence is a foreign concept to this Middle Eastern world. Her
immediate family is the only constant, but how long can it last when the only
reliable guarantees are sudden change and arbitrary violence?
~~~~~
The Plot Against
America by Philip Roth – This book asks
the hypothetical question - what if FDR had been defeated in his run for a
third term by the charismatic Charles Lindbergh whose main campaign promise was
to keep the US out of World War II while having a darker motive for acquiring
power? It is told in a macro way, as well as going micro and showing the impact
of Lindbergh's fictional presidency through the eyes of a boy in a Jewish
family in Newark, NJ. Instead of being about fighting against tyranny overseas,
it’s about hope of avoiding war being used as lure to spread antisemitism in
America.
Parallels between the 1940's of
Roth's imagination and our current political climate are striking. Simply
switch the idea of a man who ascends to the presidency aided by a foreign
government (Germany) with the idea of a man ascending to the presidency aided
by a foreign government (Russia). Switch a celebrity with no previous political
experience having an improbable, meteoric rise to the White House with a
celebrity who – actually, no theme switch is necessary here. Switch people
being thrown into concentration camps because they're Jewish with people being
thrown into detention centers because they crossed a border in hope for a
better way of life. The American way is something that can be taken for granted
until it is under assault.
~~~~~
The Sympathizer by
Viet Thanh Nguyen – The narrator is the
product of an absent French father and Vietnamese mother. He leaves Vietnam for
America and establishes a new life with other refugees in Los Angeles, secretly
reporting back to communist superiors in his homeland.As a spy he toes the line between identity as
a capitalist and as a communist who will never spiritually leave his native land.
This novel explores the nature of
being two sided.The narrator is both
unfeeling and remorseful, a sensitive soul and a cold-blooded killer, a loyal
friend and a lone wolf, the conqueror and the conquered, Western and Eastern,
Caucasian and Asian. These ideas are explored with beautiful command of
language. The closing section features the most vivid torture scene I can
recall since reading William Goldman's Marathon Man years ago. I suppose I
should provide a trigger warning for those who steer clear of graphic violence
on page. If you can look past that, you will find an astute book of compelling ideas.
~~~~~
The Things They
Carried by Tim O’Brien – This book is
written from the perspective of down-in-the dirt participants of the Vietnam
War. It’s about bonding with your fellow man and then watching him die before
your eyes. It's about surviving to tell a jungle tale, not so much the true
details of what did and didn't happen, but how it felt to know that the next
minute might be your last...or the last for the guy sitting next to you. It's
about being steeped in mud and surrounded by death, some of it brought about by
your own hands, most of it something that you're helpless to stop and so are
forced to grow familiar with. It is about the things soldiers carry, physically
as well as emotionally, to remind themselves that a world at peace awaits those
lucky enough to make it through hell and return to wherever they came from. Not
that home will be what it once was, because war permanently alters everything
that it does not destroy.
Billed as fiction but it feels
like a memoir so split the difference. O’Brien writes beautifully about
awful circumstances and tragic events rendered mundane by repetition. It is a
time capsule filled to the brim with things held on to, and things lost.
Some fascinating historical photos from around the world (A (thread) 🧵)
A woman tests a stroller intended to be resistant to gas attacks in Hextable, England in 1938, not long before the outbreak of World War II. pic.twitter.com/6r7ca2vHav
If you wish to read my short story RITE OF PASSAGE - head to this link where you'll find the text version in another post at A Line A Day.
Prefer to listen to it instead? Simply press the play button below and hear it read aloud / performed by Erin Rogers Pickering and yours truly. I plan to record readings of other short stories of mine in future posts. Perhaps I'll convince guest readers to help me out with some of them.
And here are some visuals to go along with the recording via TikTok.
James played back
phone messages received while he was out. The
first was from Sonya, confirming their date for later
that evening. He had met her a week earlier at a
friend’s party, drawn to her high cheekbones, black
hair that nearly reached down to her waist, and
large opal eyes. She came from a wealthy
Indonesian family, worked in corporate law, and
was not the most riveting conversationalist. Nor
did he relish the fact that she was a vegan. An ex-girlfriend of his had been committed to avoiding
meat and a number of other culinary categories at
all costs. The instructions she gave wait staff to
make certain her dish passed muster often took a
full five minutes to issue. This detracted from
James’ enjoyment of his own meal, which much to
Aisha’s dismay he preferred red blooded.
Sonya had as many minuses going for her as
pluses. Nevertheless, he elected to follow up on
what had been started when he crossed the room to
introduce himself to the exotic looking woman
bathing in moon beams shining through the patio
door.
Fantasizing about the best case scenario of his
upcoming date with Sonya was interrupted by the
second message. It was left by his brother Craig,
brief as usual, reminding him that he would be
dropping by at three o’clock. Glancing at his
watch, James saw that the appointed hour was
twenty minutes away. He knew why Craig had
16
invited himself over, for he had done it often
enough in the past, always with the same
motivation - to hit his little brother up for cash.
Craig was older by three years and less
responsible by as many decades. Refusing to suffer
the indignity of settling down at a stable job, he
opted to invest in one get rich quick scheme after
another. Whenever he was short of the necessary
capital, usually due to some team not covering the
spread, James was the preferred bank from which
he withdrew. Craig was good about paying him
back once his finances were back in the black. He
would promise that this would be the last time, for
his latest plan was foolproof and guaranteed to set
him up for life. When things failed to work out it
was disappointing, but to him, the risks he took
handily beat working nine to five for a living.
The final message was from his best friend who
had relocated to Santa Barbara about a year ago.
Their childhood was spent roaming the streets of
the Bronx together, and for almost as far back as he
could remember, Marcus had been talking about
heading out to California someday. His master plan
was to start his own hedge fund. Once it was up
and running and raking in serious money, he hoped
to bring James on board, reuniting the two
Musketeers.
James decided to wait until after his brother’s
visit to return the call. Shooting the breeze with
Marcus would put him in a great mood entering his
date with Sonya.
After pouring a snifter of brandy, he stood by the
windows that wrapped around his apartment. His
17
vantage point from the 30th floor placed a generous
portion of the city within sight. Once the sun went
down, countless lights transformed Manhattan into
a gigantic Christmas tree.
James had done well for himself career wise, and
his magazine layout worthy apartment with
photogenic view was just one of the perks of
success. He had always been dissatisfied with any
grade less than an A, with any game that did not
result in victory, with any goal, regardless of size
and urgency that failed to be achieved. Lately his
professional ascendancy felt stalled, frustration
mounting due to others being rewarded for inferior
results while his were overlooked. He was
compelled to wonder if he had gone as far as a
black man would be allowed to by his current
employer. It wasn’t as if he was one of many
African Americans who worked there. He stood
out like a drop of ink floating in a bucket of milk.
He was not predisposed to cast blame on racism
or any other ism for what failed to go his way.
Instead of making excuses, he refused to come up
short. This mindset had been instilled by strong
willed parents. They planted the seed and then
fostered his passion to excel by enrolling him in
private schools rather than poorly funded public
ones where it was easier to drift into bad habits. He
grew accustomed at an early age to environments
where his smooth brown complexion was darker
than the vast majority of his peers. He did not feel
uncomfortable in such settings, for he recognized
them as the places he needed to be. Nevertheless,
there was a part of him which could not help but
feel like a stranger in a strange land. He managed
18
to forget the differences between him and
classmates and colleagues for long stretches of
time, but inevitably, something or someone would
remind him that they did exist.
In the pre-dawn hours of a brisk December Day, Harry walked the streets of Brooklyn, New York. He traveled light, for he owned nothing but the tattered clothes he wore, the eight cents in his pocket, and a package carried in a plastic bag. Ordinarily he would have been snoring in Grand Central Station at this hour, or on the 2 train if insomnia necessitated that he be rocked to sleep. But not today. Though quite weary, Harry chose to put sweet dreams off for a while longer. He wanted to behold the world with clarity, see beyond the veil that keeps truth hidden from all but the wisest of men before the next time his eyes were closed.
Alley cats hollered songs of love from the confines of a vacant lot that served in alternating shifts as a playground, bathroom, and brothel. Harry was familiar with its utilitarian layout, for his footsteps had led him to the neighborhood of his childhood.
Those long ago days had been spent fighting a half dozen siblings over the insufficient room, nutrition and love provided for them. Their fathers were each different men who were just passing through. In exchange for either drugs or money to purchase drugs with, their mother gave what she had to give, a body she was poisoning one high at a time.
By the age of thirteen, Harry had developed a taste of his own for altered states of mind. He needed to escape the wretchedness of his surroundings and nothing got him further away than crack cocaine. It transported him to a world filled with light and beauty, devoid of suffering.
The last time Harry saw his mother she lay huddled on the kitchen floor. For once her eyes did not reflect longing for the pipe of crystals she clutched onto, but for help. There was not enough time to get her that help had he tried. But Harry didn't try. It was plain that the drugs were finally accomplishing what they were meant to do. His mother’s anguish was coming to a merciless end. Harry simply waited to collect his inheritance from the palm of her hand.
A year later he met Julie. She was a battered angel, sexually abused by her stepfather, as hooked on heroin as on oxygen. Yet in some impossible to put a finger on way, a part of her remained untouched by the evil that men do. When she learned she was pregnant, Julie decided to cleanse her body for the sake of the new life within her. She begged Harry to do the same, but he vigilantly remained a lost cause.
Rather than hanging around until he wreaked havoc in their lives, Julie vanished. Perhaps she said goodbye the last time he saw her, but Harry was in no condition to take notice. For a long while he expected her return, but eventually realized that she was gone for good. He had blown what was likely his last chance at love. He would never meet his child. As usual, he was able to smoke his blues away.
Not long after Julie's departure, Harry became an official resident of the streets. Too weak of body and mild of disposition to take money from others, he was left little choice but to beg for it. The purest scores of smack failed to ease the crushing weight of his degradation. For each coin placed in Harry's palm, a chunk of his pride was handed over. He was pawning his soul piece by piece at bargain basement rates.
Harry did not fare well as a beggar, for he sang no songs, told no jokes, nor had so much as a decent hard luck speech. Rather than attempting to entertain or to elicit sympathy, he would simply stand before subway passengers, hold out his coffee cup, and await donations. They came few and far between, barely sufficient to keep him alive, if not exactly living.
His current tour was not undertaken for nostalgia's sake, but to reaffirm that his decision was the right one. A single joyful memory may have shattered his resolution. None came. The years of his life blended in recall into a single interminable day spent wondering where his next high or meal, in that order of preference, would come from.
Harry picked up a piece of glass that was reflecting light from a nearby street lamp. He sat on a curb and held the makeshift dagger over his wrist. All was settled. He would dispatch of an existence no longer worth the effort to preserve. This was not the first time such a fatalistic decision had been reached by him. But unlike the other occasions when it was no more than a vague concept rolled around his mind like a pair of dice, Harry was now determined to act upon it.
Three months earlier his friend Rico was stabbed while negotiating a freebie from a prostitute on tainted acid. The murder gave Harry a permanent distaste for blood spill, and also for forming attachments. Other homeless people were three dimensional reflections of everything that had gone wrong. When his only companions were artificially enhanced thoughts, it was possible to imagine that his misfortunes were merely temporary. But the passage of time discarded rather than judiciously spent made this illusion increasingly difficult to conjure. Drugs could still elevate his consciousness, but no longer transported him high enough to reach the plane where hope resided.
Rather than hope, what Harry sought was an ultimate form of amnesia. He wanted to erase all knowledge of who he was, who he had been, and what would undoubtedly become of him.
He flung the glass away. Cutting his wrist would be painful, messy, and time consuming. He might be found and saved by someone who didn’t know better. There had to be a better way.
Harry rose and continued on his journey. He wanted to be dead before sunrise, for the birth of a new day would needlessly delay the execution of his decision. Daylight brought with it too many distractions. The instinct for survival overpowered self-pity when the sun’s rays were in effect. It was only natural that his desire for ultimate sleep bloomed under the cover of night.
A car roared past at well over the speed limit, inspiring a plan. The Brooklyn Bridge wasn't very far away. He would walk halfway across and jump in front of the first car to come by.
Pleased with this resolution, Harry picked up his pace and was at the bridge in ten minutes. He positioned himself and waited for the vehicle of his demise to arrive. The Subaru which came first left Harry safe and sound. It wasn't going fast enough, he reasoned. The same went for the Oldsmobile, wood paneled station wagon, and Volkswagen which drove by after. The Mercedes would certainly have done the job, but Harry missed out because he was tightening his shoelaces as it passed. Finally a truck came rumbling over the bridge like a stampede of elephants. There would be no valid excuse to let this one go. He waited until exactly the right moment, then jumped.
A second later, Harry landed in the same spot he had been standing. He couldn't do it. The thought of meeting a fender head on for a goodnight kiss gave him the creeps. His heart and mind were ready to go, but his body possessed its own opinion on the matter.
Harry beheld the twinkling Manhattan skyline and could not deny that the view was breathtakingly beautiful. But life was not nearly so pretty as it appeared from the Brooklyn Bridge at three in the morning. He peered at the jet black water beneath him and realized it could grant him a perfect suicide, almost an artistic way to go. Certainly more picturesque than being smashed to scattered pieces. Harry wanted his body in one place when he died. The bottom of the East River was as good a location as any.
He swung a leg over the railing. Hopefully the impact would at least knock him unconscious, if not kill him immediately. He had never learned to swim and couldn't think of a more horrifying way to perish than by drowning. The helplessness one must feel while sinking into murky depths had haunted him in nightmares since childhood. It still terrified him. This was the justification he gave himself for swinging his leg back to safe ground. The East River would have to do without him for a snack. It would not go completely unfed, for a nickel and three pennies fell from Harry's pants pocket and spiraled downwards like unanswered prayers.
Harry berated himself for his cowardice as he walked across the bridge. He hated the weakness of his body that made the allure of crack cocaine irresistible. He hated begging for survival. He hated the way he looked, and smelled, and felt. He abhorred when people viewed him with disgust, and even more when they looked through him as if he wasn't there. It infuriated Harry that so much of his misfortunes had been predestined, that he was given only one legitimate opportunity to change the fate allotted to him. Yet he knew that one chance is one more than some people get, so his anger was ultimately eclipsed by regret. He had begged for money and craved for drugs, but when the one thing which could have granted salvation was offered, Harry turned it down. Through the densest clouds of poisonous euphoria he had been able to see that he loved Julie. But love didn't seem all that important at the time. Now he knew better. He had learned that hate and anger could be enough to sustain someone, but regret did nothing but suck a person dry.
The temperature had dropped considerably since his venture got underway and a light snow now fell. By the time he reached the city it was howling about him, transforming the night from black to white. Harry didn't bother to head towards a subway station, for his legs felt as leaden as his spirits. Instead he entered the corpse of what had long ago been a small but lovingly maintained park, and lay in the first place not already claimed by a rat. He used the bag he had been lugging about as a pillow, its contents providing a fair cushion for his head.
Inside of the bag was a rag doll found in a dumpster about nine months earlier. One of her glass eyes was missing and nearly half of the stuffing had escaped from a rip that was now taped shut. The doll was intended as a present for his daughter, in case he managed to find her. His search had not been an active one, but one never knew who might be bumped into on the streets of New York City.
Earlier that day, he had scribbled Julie’s name onto a piece of paper and placed it in the bag along with the doll. In the event of the death he was resolved to bring about, Harry hoped his gift might somehow find the way to its intended recipient.
As he always did before going to sleep, Harry tried to envision Julie and their child. Once again he failed, for his daughter he had never seen and Julie's face he could scarcely remember.
Instead he saw his mother, her body and soul ravaged beyond repair, her eyes containing only a spark of humanity. But sometimes a mere spark can initiate a conflagration. After years of mercilessly pushing herself to a point inches away from death, in his mother’s last moments it was apparent that she wanted to redeem herself, to turn around and face the painful familiar rather than risk the unknown. But she didn't have the strength to turn around. More often than not, a spark ignites no more than a millisecond of illumination.
“I hate her, Julie,” Harry had once said, back during a time when he had not yet abandoned the desire to make something of his life. “We were nothing more to her than the amount of government assistance she got for each of us. She kept getting pregnant so she could keep getting high. She popped us out and then we had to fend for ourselves.”
“You’ve got to let your anger go, baby.”
“Why should I?”
“You’re going to be a parent yourself soon. If you don’t forgive your mother, you won’t be able to care for your child.”
“I won’t have any trouble taking care of our kid. I love our baby already, because the baby is coming from you.”
“I still say you have to clear the hate from your heart to make room for some love.”
“I love you and our baby plenty.”
“I know you do, Harry. But you must also love yourself. You got to at least try.”
“Shit, Julie. Ever since you quit getting high you been talking like a shrink. A shrink who keeps changing the subject. I was talking about my mother, and nothing can fix the way I feel about her.”
“But look at all she gave you, honey.”
“All she gave me? Are you out of your friggin’ mind? Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”
“I’ve heard you, Harry. But nothing you said, nothing she did changes the fact that she gave you life.”
“So?”
“So that means she gave you a chance.”
“So?”
“So use it.”
Harry had proven to be a failure at both living and dying. His sole consolation lay in the fact that at least there was always tomorrow. He would have to find either the courage to kill himself, or a reason not to. As long as the sun rose each morning, both remained distinct possibilities. This thought made his sleep a peaceful one as the snow lay a natural blanket over him and he dreamt of days stitched with promise, devoid of pain.
The sun did indeed rise that morning. Birds sang, cocks crew, alarm clocks sounded and rush hour officially began. None of this disturbed Harry's slumber, for the frost had made his dream come true. And though in life he wore the guise of a beggar, in death he was as stately as a king.
THE END
On a cheerier note, happy NBA retirement to Carmelo Anthony. It was a pleasure to watch you hoop brilliantly for my beloved New York Knicks.
Packing is thirsty business, even when
gathering up nothing but the bare essentials, so I stand in the light supplied
by my refrigerator and take a swig of soda from the bottle.This is a childhood habit that I did not or
would not outgrow no matter how frequently my wife nagged me to get a cup, to
set a better example for our children.She never has understood that when drinking, I am making no attempt to
be a role model.I’m simply quenching my
thirst.
It is a few minutes past midnight and my
house is silent and near pitch dark.I
am frequently awake at this hour, usually not by choice, but due to my body’s
frustrating rebellion against sleep.This situation has worsened considerably in the past few months,
probably because I’ve had much on my mind, and troubles do not give respite
just because eyes have been closed.Tonight however, I fully intended to be awake at this late hour.There is a purpose to my current night
crawling.
As I drain the bottle of ginger ale, I am
reminded of anevening in the distant
past.I was in my first year of high
school at the time, and the occasion was my school’s freshman dance.The cafeteria was serving as dance hall, and
the majority of my classmates were exhibiting their best moves in rhythm with
the blaring music.As for me, I was
stationed by the punch bowl, snacking on potato chips and downing one glass of
punch after another.Throughout my
mindless snacking my gaze remained steady. The object of my observation,
admiration, dedication and desperation was Erica Murphy.I was absolutely crazy about her, had been
since the first time I laid eyes on her, and had no idea what to do about
it.
She was dancing with her boyfriend, a guy
who I would have disliked on general principle based on his personality, but
the fact that he had claimed the girl who had claimed my heart cemented the
deal.A slow song came on and Mark got
to pull Erica closer and hold her swaying body in his arms.This was more than I was willing to
take.I would not allow my solitude to
be taunted any longer.I would not allow
my passion to be made a mockery of.Plus, I had to pee.
I headed to the bathroom.Once my business there was taken care of, I
took a long hard look at myself in the mirror.I wasn't bad looking.A few
pimples, but no major damage.If only I
wasn't so shy.If only I had met Erica
before Mark.But "if only" was
too depressing a concept for me to deal with."If only" never got you anywhere.It never got anything done.You either accepted what you were and where
you were at, or else you went and changed it.I chose the former and decided to go home.
As I was leaving, who should come walking
my way but Erica.
"Hi, Denis."
"Hi, Erica.What are you doing out here?"
"Going to the bathroom."
"Of course.So, uh, are you enjoying the dance?"
"Yeah, it's okay."
I was quickly running out of small
talk.My heart was beating
furiously.I sensed an opportunity, but
for what I wasn’t quite sure."The
music's pretty good."
"Yeah, it's okay," she
responded.A few more seconds of
torturous silence passed.I couldn't
think of anything else menial to say."Well, see you later," Erica said as she headed towards the
girls room.
"Wait a minute."I noticed that I had grabbed hold of her arm,
but I had no idea why I was stopping her.Then suddenly I did.I took a
step forward, closed my eyes, and kissed her.
No dictionary contains the right words to
define the sensation of that moment.Never before had I felt so alive.My imagination had failed to warn me that her lips would be so soft and
sweet.
"Denis, I ..."
"Yeah, I know," I said, cutting
her off.I didn't want the magic to be
tainted by an "I like you, but as a friend" speech.I was perfectly content with my initiation
into manhood.And though I had not been
transformed into an expert on the ways of women, something about that kiss told
me she had wanted it as much as I.
Time
has a way of sneaking by at a pace that would make you nauseous if you were
conscious of the speed.Somehow, some
way, twelve years have passed between then and now.Yet it's crystal clear in my mind, no detail
forgotten.I've gained much since that
night when I lost a little of my innocence with Erica Murphy. A diploma, a
marriage certificate, kids, career, house. Sometimes I wonder if it was a fair
trade.
I guess I'm done packing now.Strolling down memory lane has made me
hungry, as has the open refrigerator door.Maybe I should make myself a sandwich for the road.No, I'm just delaying the inevitable.I've spent too much time thinking this
over.I thought of every possible reason
not to do it, and none were good enough.
I leave the kitchen and quietly enter the
bedroom of my two children, Krystal and Tyler.It's hard to believe sometimes that I'm half responsible for creating
anything this precious.I fear they will
hate me.If they don't on instinct, my
wife will make certain they learn.Not
that I'll blame her.I'm going to have
to take the heat on this one.No way I
squeeze out smelling like a rose.
I grew up on westerns, so am no stranger to
the good guy/bad guy motif.Every story
has to have one of each, and nobody has any problem telling them apart, on
account of their hats.The good guy has
it all.The townspeople adore him, for
he's come to save their little world.He
has no guilt complex to contend with, no inner demons to fight, because he has
strength of conviction.That is, he's
always sure he's right because right is all he knows.With such dedication to justice, not to
mention a perfect profile, of course he always gets the glory and the
girl.Not a bad job.But you have to wonder how difficult it is to
keep that hat so white.How much does he
have to sacrifice?
After eight years of playing the role;
loving husband, dutiful father, church going - tax paying - hard working
community pillar, I decided to switch hats.I'm giving up my good guy perks for the piece of my soul I pawned away,
and a hat much easier to keep clean.
Looking at my kids is almost enough to do
it.I'm just about willing to slip back
into my marital bed and continue with the facade.This won't be easy for them.They won't understand.From their point of view, hell from
everybody's viewpoint, what we had seemed fine.People have spouses who cheat on them, or abuse them, or commit any
number of matrimonial atrocities.Not so
in our case.Our lives were a Norman
Rockwell painting with one invisible flaw.Somewhere along the line I fell out of love with my wife, and she
responded in kind.
How did it happen?If I could, I would make a concise
declaration illuminating beyond the shadow of a doubt the specific reason for
the downfall of our marriage.No can do.There was no climactic episode, but rather, a
steady progression of moments, infinitesimal on their own, each serving to
further widen the rift that had formed between us.
I fell in love with my wife in one fell
swoop.I fell out of it slowly,
steadily, by degrees.I realized it had
happened when I couldn't smile for a picture.You choose to spend your life with someone because that person makes you
happy.I was all out of happy.And after trying for a few years to figure
out where it had gone and how to get it back, I reached the conclusion I had suspected
all along.It wasn't coming back, and I
didn't want to live this way anymore.
I cautiously enter the other occupied bedroom in my
house.There she goes, my wife of eight
years.On insomniac nights I have spent
countless hours watching her sleep.But
never like this.Never standing in the
doorway with a knapsack wrapped around my shoulder, saying goodbye in
secret.It feels cowardly, but what good
would a big teary scene do?Like any
sane man, when I die I want to go in my sleep.I'm a firm believer in silent exits.
I walk to my wife's side of the bed and
memorize her expression in slumber.If
it's going to haunt me, I might as well get it right.She's still so beautiful.As beautiful as when I first kissed her.I had been right.She did want it as much as I. It took all of
a fourteen year old boy's courage to snatch that first kiss, and another two
years romantic labor to earn a second. A long time by some people's
standards.But to me it seemed a
worthwhile venture, and time was a commodity I possessed in abundance.
Without hardly being conscious of doing it,
I lean over and kiss her softly.Her
eyes flutter, then snap open.Her gaze
locks onto mine for a moment.Then her
eyes wander over me until something makes them come to a stop.She has spotted my knapsack."Erica,
I ..."
"Yes, I know", she says, giving
me grace to skip the speech I don't have it in me to utter, and she can do
without hearing.What can we say in one
night that we haven't said in eight years? We've run out of words, out of
steam, out of time.It's almost funny
that I had worried about a tumultuous farewell.The air has been leaking out of our balloon for years, so how could we
possibly go out with a bang?
Erica can afford to be silent.Everyone will automatically take her
side.Nobody roots for a deserter.It will be apparent who the bad guy is, so
she knows she can save her breath.In my
defense I could explain that I did not terminate our marriage by running away,
because you can't kill what's already dead. But what would be the point?Once you've been seen wearing that black hat,
it's yours forever.
Life seemed perfect on that once upon a
time night, standing outside the boys bathroom with my body on fire and heart
on a string.My first kiss almost lasted
forever, but not quite.I guess
sometimes not even your destiny is the one.
There is nothing left to do but turn and
leave.It ended a long time ago.It just took me a while to follow our love out
the door.No one will believe me, but
this is the most necessary thing I've ever done.
Still,
I am torn apart inside.She was after
all, my first love.This woman provided
the two most potent memories of my life. The first time I ever kissed her...and
the last.
NOW ACCEPTING REVIEW REQUESTS FROM INDIE AUTHORS ---
I plan to review independently published novels (with perhaps a sprinkle of non fiction thrown in) on a regular basis when the calendar turns to 2017. No genres barred, which is not to say that I will read anything/everything suggested to me. I may take a pass on most for I intend to be picky, my selection criteria based strictly on what sounds like "my kind of book". DIVERSITY welcomed, PRINT preferred. In addition to a synopsis I'll want to see a brief excerpt from your book to help me decide. For a taste of my style, type "book reviews" into the Search bar. Or you can peruse my collection of reviews at goodreads. Send queries to mudhousebooks@gmail.com -------------------------------------------------------------------
Roy Pickering is the author of the novels Matters of Convenience & Patches of Grey, as well as the novella Feeding the Squirrels which you can find presented here in serialized form. A sampling of his prose is showcased at RoyPickering.net. Roy once blogged here in tandem with his wife. Erin's presence is still felt through her artwork in many of the postings.
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