Short Story Sunday VII

IN MEMORY OF THE RECENTLY DEPARTED ALEXIS ARGUELLO, ARTURO GATTI & VERNON FORREST. HOPEFULLY IN THE AFTERLIFE THEY GET TO FLOAT LIKE BUTTERFLIES WITHOUT NEEDING TO STING LIKE BEES.

The Prizefighter By Roy L. Pickering Jr.

Copyright by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

Looking at him up close and personal for the first time, practically stubble to stubble with our most intimidating scowls presented as greeting, my strongest impression is that he’s just a kid. A kid who is packed solid with muscle, no doubt about that, and with several inches of height advantage over me, as if his youth and superior athleticism weren’t advantage enough. His eyes glimmer with confidence, as is to be expected. He is being touted as the next big thing in the boxing game. His father was a top contender back in the day, so the kid even has pedigree over me, my own father tops at nothing except being a louse. I actually sparred with the kid’s father a few times when I was about the age that his son is now. How’s that for irony? The kid’s father was a class act, but the heavyweight division was loaded with talent at that time, and he wasn’t quite good enough to win a title despite a handful of game efforts. What the father could not accomplish, most people in the know are predicting that the son will manage within a year or two. The path to the top laid out before him is made of gold, just like the Olympic medal he won for his country shortly before turning pro. Before that, he was a Golden Gloves champion. Tonight the kid is looking to go 20 – 0 as a professional fighter, at my expense.

For him this fight is just a tune-up. He’s being groomed for great things, his career carefully handled to make him as marketable as possible. The kid has everything going for him. He possesses rugged good looks that draw numerous female fans to his matches, squealing from seats so close that they earn the privilege of blood splatter on their designer cleavage showing attire. From the interviews I’ve seen him give on television, his charisma is plainly evident. Whether he’s a natural charmer or simply well schooled, the result is that he’s destined to be a star. My purpose on this night is to serve as little more than a speed bump to his ascendancy. The kid has looked flawless in his first nineteen pro fights, due in no small part to a well thought out selection of opponents. He’s won each of his fights by knockout, with nobody lasting past the sixth round against him. I am not considered a threat to this boxing legend in the making. My purpose is to provide a few more rounds for the exhibition of his prowess against mediocrity, before he takes the step up to tougher competition. Not to say that I’m considered chopped liver in this sport. I have a well-earned reputation for the sturdiness of my chin. My record may not be especially impressive, but I have proven that I can take debilitating punches and keep coming back for more. You won’t see me being counted out before the kid has even managed to work up a sweat. Although he’s supposed to beat me easy as a dog can lick himself, my job is to remain standing long enough to test his stamina. After this last small time fight, he’ll move on to opponents with name recognition, then a title shot in the foreseeable future, and if all goes according to plan, he’ll eventually be signing seven figure contracts for pay-per-view extravaganzas. As for me, tonight I’m earning the biggest paycheck of my career, a mere fraction of what the kid is being paid, for one last bout. Then I’ll hang up my mitts and figure out what next to do with myself.

Round One: We move about in circles within our square cage, studying each other’s movements to determine how best to proceed. The kid proves to be a quick study. I soon learn that he possesses a mighty stiff jab, quick as the lash of a whip. His focus is absolute as he watches me like a powerful and dangerous feline licking its chops over helpless prey. Any mistakes on my part will be instantly paid for. I hear the oohs and aahs of the crowd each time my head is snapped back by his gloved fists. This is the largest crowd ever to watch me fight, not that I am the reason they’re here. I am merely the sacrificial lamb. The words of warning earnestly issued by my trainer come to mind. He begged me not to take this fight, especially not on such short notice. Lou even threatened to not show up and be ringside for a massacre. But I know him better than that. At this late stage of my career I am as competitive as I have ever been, but championship aspirations no longer motivate me like during my first decade in the fight game. I understand that I lack what it takes to be great. Yet I can proudly claim that I’ve been making a living my entire adult life doing what I love. How many people can say that? If I had training for anything else more lucrative and less brutal, I could have been convinced to quit five or six years ago, when I first realized that I would never be on the cover of Sports Illustrated, would never raise a gaudy championship belt triumphantly in the air, would never be anything more than a footnote in the careers of men with vastly superior God given talent. With my options at a minimum however, it has simply made the most sense to keep climbing back into the ring. I’ve dished out the best I could night after night, and I’ve taken my beatings like a man. No shame in that.

Round Two: Sometimes there actually is truth in advertising. This kid appears to be the total package in the ring, not just out of it with his megawatt smile that sponsors will soon be waving huge checks at. He’s light on his feet, dancing about me like a cross between Fred Astaire and MC Hammer in those goofy pants he wore back in th day when I wore a younger man’s outlook. The kid’s management has seen to it that he’s learned every combination in the book, and now that he is done feeling me out, he executes each of them with expert precision. His punches slice through the air and thud off my skull with exceptional speed, exquisite timing, and impressive power. He throws and mostly lands three to four punches for every one I’m able to get off. I feel myself bruising less than six minutes into the contest. The kid is unmarked, deliberately choosing when to sidestep my punches and when to swat them away. As the round draws to a close, he connects with an uppercut that buckles my knees. I am not saved by the bell, but I am grateful for it.

Round Three: He takes up where he left off the previous round, unleashing a series of bombs that are mostly blocked by my gloves, elbows, and forearms as I curl up into a protective ball. Apparently the kid thinks he has me hurt and hopes to finish me off immediately, make a customary quick night of it. He has underestimated me though. I used to say the same thing about my ex-wife, Velma, even as I admitted that her disappointment in me was justified. When confronted by her accusations, there was no denying that I had not become the man I once promised to be. It was not a verbal promise, but one strongly implied by the set of my jaw and burning intensity in my eyes when more promising future lay ahead of me than bitter past lay behind. That fire has long since been doused, not all at once, but over the passing of hard years. My greatest failure is not giving the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen the life she deserves. When she settled for me, choosing passion and lust and love over wisdom, I silently vowed never to allow her to regret the decision. But over time it became obvious that my potential would remain mostly unrealized, both as an athlete and as a man. When she informed me that she wanted out of our marriage, I told her she was being shortsighted. I said I’d been put on this earth for one reason, to make her happier than any other man could. I believed this to be true, and I still do. Velma has since remarried. She is now wealthier, more secure in innumerable ways, more content than she ever was with me. But happier? I think not. A jolting straight right hand pushes back my nose with the force of a Louisville slugger against rawhide. Blood spurts out and I know instantly that it has been broken. This make the fourteenth time my profile has been altered in the pursuit of prize money. Each break makes me look a little less handsome, but also a little less like my father, so I have no complaints. I need to concentrate or else I’m going to have my head handed to me. Now is not the time to feel nostalgic over my days with Velma, daydreaming some scheme to win her back. And this is no analyst’s couch, so reflecting about dear old dad won’t do me much good either. I’m at work. I have a job to do. A left hook delivered to my ribcage makes me wince. Although I am loathe to do so, I hook my arms around his and hold on to buy myself a few seconds until the referee breaks up the clinch. This is my least favorite method of self-defense. I find little honor in it. But desperate times call for whatever trick I can most easily pull from my bag. After we’re separated, the kid unleashes nine straight punches that each catch me clean. Very impressive. The kid is quicker than I anticipated. Either that or else my rate of aging has sped up overnight, a fate which has befallen much better fighters than myself. Once a boxer’s reflexes have abandoned him, the ring is the last place in the world he should be. The bell mercifully rings and the kid gives me a smug look before returning to his corner. I’m starting to not like him.

Round Four: The kid is showboating, doing his best imitation of the Ali shuffle, tossing in some Sugar Ray Leonard wind-up punches like those thrown at Duran in their no mas fight for good measure. He’s keeping his arms insultingly low, dangling them like showpiece jewelry, but either he is too quick or else I’m too slow to make him pay for it. Trying to humiliate me may earn him points with the fans, and maybe even with the judges. But I am not impressed, or embarrassed, or enraged, or irritated, or amused. The kid can do nothing that I haven’t seen before. I continue to stalk him, moving forward with bad intentions, searching for an opening that I fear I no longer have the ability to find. Along with my trainer Lou and everyone else who follows the sport, I considered myself overmatched against this kid right from the start. I had actually considered my previous fight to be my last, not that the occasion called for any press conferences, me being no more than an anonymous club fighter, a journeyman in the final stage of his journey. Yet I could not resist when his people contacted me a few days ago about being a late substitute for the opponent who had pulled out due to injury. They offered me more money that I’d ever been paid for a single night’s work, and I was sorely in need of quick cash, even more so than usual. My mother had passed away less than twenty four hours earlier. The kid’s handlers didn’t know this, otherwise they may have left me alone to grieve, not that I had much grieving in me. My mother and I never got along much, in truth, she was one of the most horrible people I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing, which is saying a lot considering my line of business. Still, she is the only mother I’ll ever have, and as her only kid, that makes me responsible for her final purchases – a casket and headstone. The few hundred dollars stuffed under my mattress would not have paid for much. So I took this fight, agreed to one more payday in order to do right by my mother, may she rest peacefully in Hell. A right cross catches me flush on the jaw and I drop to one knee. I pop up quickly and smack my gloves together a couple times while taking a standing eight count, letting the ref know that all is fine and dandy. It was just a flash knockdown from a punch I never saw coming. I’ve been in 118 pro fights, won forty-six of them, had twelve draws, and been on the losing end of the rest. That’s sixty times the other guy’s hand has been raised in victory over me, for those who don’t feel like doing the counting. I’ve been knocked to the canvas more times than I care to recollect, but I’ve gotten back up on every occasion. Ten times that I’m still pissed off about, referees decided I was taking too much punishment and wrapped their arms around me, declaring my opponents the winners by technical knockouts. I’m not a fan of technicalities. I know deep down that none of those guys would have been able to take me off my feet and keep me down for a count of ten. I’ve never been counted out in a fight, and I sure as hell don’t intend to let it happen my final time in the ring. Let the judges award this kid the decision for his efforts. I will be fine with that, just as I’ve been fine with decisions made in the other guy’s favor fifty times before. But if the referee tries to end this fight prematurely, that will make two guys in the ring I’ll be going after. I’m determined to make it to the final bell tonight. The kid lets loose a flurry of wild punches, once again thinking he has me right where he wants me, that one more solid connection will be my undoing, once again thinking wrong. Two seconds before the bell rings I catch him clean on the chin, causing him take a step back, easily my best punch of the night. He isn’t hurt, but I do see a flustered expression on the kid’s face, him no doubt wondering what’s keeping an old timer like me up. We’ve now both tasted a portion of what the other is capable of dishing out. A boxing match doesn’t truly start at the opening bell, but rather, at the point when both men have earned the respect of the other. This fight is now officially on.

Round Five: For the next three minutes the kid demonstrates his award winning talents to the delight of the crowd, peppering me with blows from every conceivable angle. Both of my eyes are swelling shut. I keep spitting blood to get the salty, nauseating taste out of my mouth. I feel my will fading, sense that the kid’s strength and prowess are growing by the minute along with his confidence. He didn’t appreciate the shot I landed at the end of the previous round, and he’s making me pay for it. This fight is being televised by a local cable station. I wonder if Velma is watching. Of course she isn’t. She never came to my fights when we were together, why would she watch now? To see me suffer? Perhaps. No, that’s my frustration talking. Velma was never cruel, only disappointed to the point of complete exhaustion that my undying love for her was all I ever had to offer, and perhaps a little saddened that this was not enough. The kid unloads a sweeping roundhouse punch that hits like a wrecking ball squarely on my jaw. I am unmoved, left in a debilitated daze, but one that my adversary fails to detect. Rather than moving in to finish me off, he hesitates in awe that his best punch has failed to lay me down. Planted in his mind is a new notion never before experienced in the ring – doubt. Neither of us throws a punch for the remaining few seconds of the round that I have miraculously survived. Another battle goes to the kid, yet I still hold slim hope that the war will be mine.

Round Six: He is growing arm weary, having thrown far more punches up to this point than he has ever thrown in a fight before. After easily controlling the pace for the first minute of the round, his punch output sharply decreases as he looks to rest. I can throw my own punches more freely now, most of which I direct towards his body, for they are far more difficult for him to elude than those aimed at his head. Many of them bounce off his biceps and triceps as he covers up. The judges will not award me enough points to win this round, because technically, my punches are not landing. You know how I feel about technicalities. I’m not concerned about getting credit for my labor. I know that if I persevere, operating methodically rather than with eye catching flair, the work I do now will pay dividends later on. Never in my life have I shied away from a hard day’s work. When I first laid eyes on Velma and fell instantly in love, I did not expect to make an overwhelming first impression on her, and this expectation was met. It took several months for me to wear her defenses down, earn a first date, show her that my heart was pure and intentions were true. I did not falter, kept my eyes glued to the prize until eventually, the sight of me began to make Velma smile. That’s when I knew I had her.

Round Seven: These are uncharted waters for the kid, being dragged out beyond six rounds. He’s now in the longest and toughest fight of his career. Again he dominates the first minute of the round, clowning around while punishing me to demonstrate his superiority. I’m having trouble seeing the punches that I could not avoid even when my vision was clear. Most of them land, yet they lack the pop and sting that characterized them earlier. After sixty seconds, his pace slows once more. Again I attack, starting to land with some consistency. Most of the scars on my body are older than this boy, yet he is the one with labored breathing while I’m just beginning to come on strong. He catches me with a wicked right cross. I counter with a left hook of equal emphasis. Our first legitimate two sided exchange. I’m starting to enjoy myself.

Round Eight: The kid initiates the action with a blur of firepower that makes it seem as if he is part spider, wailing away at me with eight arms while I hopelessly defend with only two. I finally respond by unloading an uppercut into his midsection, causing him to back away, not proud or smart enough to hide the fact that I’ve hurt him. I step forward and he continues to retreat. The kid is on the run. He’s not invincible after all. He is made of flesh and blood just like me, and he can be made to suffer just as I have suffered. I begged Velma for another chance, but my pleas were in vain. Just as they were whenever I pleaded with my mother to stop drinking and to stop letting random strangers into her bed, into our home. Just as they were when I pleaded with my father years earlier to stop hitting her. But I never begged or cried when he turned his fists on to me. I took the hits like a man, even though I had not yet reached my teenage years. I swore that one day when I was bigger and stronger, things would be different. I swore that I would kill him. But my wily father, who taught me nothing in life except that I was worthless, which I refused to believe and still do no matter how low I sometimes feel, stole the sweetness of revenge away by ending his own miserable existence. I have backed the kid into a corner. He is unaccustomed to fighting with his back against the ropes. Yet he surprises me with a flurry of accurate punches, proving that the most dangerous animal of all is a trapped one. The fourth punch of his combination is an uppercut that redirects my line of vision towards the building’s ceiling before my eyes fall shut. When they reopen, I see and hear that the referee is deep into his count. I realize that I am flat on my back. The ref has reached a count of six. What am I doing, lying around on the job? Without giving my brain a chance to protest, I scramble to my feet at the count of eight. I am asked if I’m okay and if I know where I am, and apparently the answers I give are satisfactory. The kid is immediately back on me like vultures over a carcass, putting every ounce of remaining energy into his punches. I understand that there is still much time left to go in the round. I also comprehend that one of two things is likely to happen. Either he will take me out, or else he will punch himself out. I do not clinch, I do not run, and of course there is no place for me to hide within the confines of these four posts with ropes stretched taut around them. I simply do what I’ve been doing my whole life, inside and outside of the ring. I take my licks and weather the storm. With ten seconds left to go, I see realization in the kid’s eyes. He will not be able to knock me out, not this round, not this fight, not this lifetime. He is far ahead on points. If he boxes cautiously and intelligently until the final bell, he will be awarded the decision in unanimous fashion. But I will remain standing, and I can see in his eyes that we both feel this will be a victory of sorts for me. I hit him with hooks to both sides of his ribs, then I nail him on the chin, and he grabs hold of me and hangs on for dear life as the round ends.

Round Nine: Once back in my corner, I realize that sitting was a huge mistake. The stool is far too comfortable. Lou asks me if I’m okay, if I wish to continue. I’ve never heard such concern in his voice before, and he’s been in my corner for many rounds, many years, countless devastating punches. I don’t say anything, but I do nod to acknowledge willingness to subject myself to further punishment, which keeps Lou from throwing in the towel. The bell rings and I am once again headed towards the kid, and he towards me. Immediately he takes a big, looping swing with intent to decapitate and end the proceedings. I duck the punch and dig a shot into his kidneys. The last words spoken in the corner by Lou still ring in my ears. “If he catches you clean again, don’t be a hero. Just take a knee, then go cash your check.” This triggers the memory of Velma’s words of departure to me. “I don’t love you anymore, Jack. I’ve been trying to get my love back for the past couple years. But I’m tired of trying. I’m tired of living a lie. I’m tired of being with you. So I won’t be any longer.” The big shot that Lou warned me about arrives. It’s a straight right that hammers me in the mouth, disorienting me, my legs turned to rubber. Although I’m virtually blind anyway from the swelling around both eyes, I amateurishly close them as I throw the final punch of my boxing career. It lands flush on what I instinctively know to be the kid’s temple. I open my eyes, then walk to my corner and look around at the incredulous cheering fans, paying little attention to what’s taking place in the middle of the ring. Next thing I know, my tired and aching body is being lifted to the heavens in congratulations. The referee has finished his count. Victory is mine.

* * *

Two days later I lie in the bed of a seedy (and for using this term, I do apologize to all seeds) motel room. My right arm, the one that recently delivered me to glory, is hung over the side of the bed. Just below the reach of my fingers is a pint bottle of tequila, the remainder of its contents spilling on to the floor. Velvet, the love interest I hired for tonight’s festivities, has one of her legs up on a chair, pulling up a fishnet stocking. She has very shapely legs and was an enthusiastic and flexible bedmate, three qualities I certainly admire. I place her age at roughly the same as my own. In her profession, just like mine, the aging process is a formidable foe that always wins out in the end. I could have chosen a younger girl, but youth does not always triumph over experience, as I just recently proved in the ring. Velvet and I have finished conducting the activities that I paid for, so she is preparing to leave. She is kind enough to tell me that she had a real nice time, a probable lie that I nonetheless appreciate. Yet I say not a word in response. I am not being rude, for I’m a firm believer in chivalry towards women, even those who have sex with strangers for money. After all, I do punch the living daylights out of strangers for a living. What Velvet does seems a considerably kinder contribution to mankind than my own. I do not speak to her because I have lapsed into a coma. At least, that’s what I’m guessing this state of body and mind to be. I am completely immobilized and incapable of speech. Ten seconds ago I was fine, having just experienced what will apparently be my final orgasm. As I lay basking in the proverbial glow, something inside of me turned off. I can see what I’m facing, which is the rather exquisite sight of Velvet getting dressed. I can hear and understand what she’s saying. But I’m as frozen in place as last night’s TV dinner, and I sense it’s only a matter of time until I’ll no longer be capable of seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling, or experiencing anything. This is the end. Too many punches snuck past my guard over the years. The damage has been increasing fight by fight, and it seems as if the kid finished up the job. In my left hand I clutch a fistful of dollars. Velvet has already been paid, so at least I have the comfort of knowing that I’ll meet my maker without debt. Better men than I could not say the same. Velvet has now left my path of vision. Staring at an empty chair is far less appealing, but I have no choice in the matter. I wonder if she noticed that at my peak of ecstasy, I called out someone else’s name. But Velma is pretty close to Velvet, so perhaps she didn’t notice. Anyway, I doubt that’s her real name. The chair has faded from view. I see only blackness, although it’s possible that my eyes are still open. There’s no way for me to know for sure. The room is silent, the deepest silence I have ever experienced. I may be alone, or perhaps Velvet is still putting herself together. I am unable to tell. But I do know that I haven’t lost all of my senses yet. I still have touch. Either that, or else I’m only imagining the feel of prizefight money in my hand. I try to remember how much cash I have left, but such complex brain functions are beyond me now. I do remember purchasing a nice casket and headstone for my mother yesterday. On the best of days I didn’t like her very much, even though I understood that she had good reason for shutting out love in order to anesthetize herself from any more pain than was necessary. She did give birth to me, so I suppose I owe her something for that. Now we’re even. No debts whatsoever for me. No regrets either. I gave my all in this life. The final result is beside the point. Last night my name was mentioned on ESPN. How do you like that? Maybe they can inscribe what the broadcaster said about me on my tombstone. I hope I have enough money left over to cover it. If not, I’m sure I can afford to have what the ring announcer said inscribed, since it was so concise and matter of fact, yet so eloquently put. And the winner is …

x x x x x

Artwork provided by Erin Rogers Pickering

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Michael Jackson Memorial Service

Following is a series of thoughts that I had while watching the Michael Jackson memorial service online, expressed via comments of 140 characters or less on Twitter.

Hopefully Michael Jackson will be the final black person buried in this country who spent most of his days wishing he was white.

One can at least hope. By far this was the saddest part of his legacy. Fame & fortune & adulation were no match for MJ's racial insecurity

MJ's racial insecurity may have led directly to his death since addiction to drugs was result of addiction to unnecessary surgeries

I've personally known 1 black person who wanted to switch races and wasn't shy about saying so. He was racist against black people. Bizarre

Ironically, had Michael Jackson been born a white person he probably would not have become the SUPERSTAR that he came to be

In terms of popularity & influence I'd put Jackson up there with Ali & Jordan & Elvis at the top of the list. Tiger Woods gaining ground. [Obviously that last sentence was written prior to Tiger's implosion]

Michael Jackson was an amazing performer who will be sorely missed. He revolutionized musical entertainment.

That was the framework of his legacy. Much of the rest was a confused mess of sexual & racial identity issues

Yet I must repeat that I will miss him and pray that his departure from this world ended his torment. And I appreciate that he longed to “heal the world” even though he couldn’t figure out how to heal himself.

This nation's struggle with racial relations and identity is what led me to write Patches of Grey in what I've coined the "pre Obama era"

Once upon a time we were treated to the trinity of James Brown, Michael Jackson & Prince. Only one of them left now.

James Brown, Michael Jackson and Prince take turns on stage on a magical day in 1983.



As a writer I'm obviously a fan of well chosen words. There are a number of wicked lyrics spread throughout the body of MJ's work

“Deep In The Darkness Of Passion's Insanity -I Felt Taken By Lust's Strange Inhumanity - This Girl Was Persuasive - This Girl I Could Not Trust - The Girl Was Bad - The Girl Was Dangerous”

“I've learned that love's not possession & I've learned that love won't wait. I've learned that love needs expression but I learned too late”

Most if not all of those who believed MJ to be guilty of child molestation stopped supporting him regardless of their race

Retweet –“ I love when some Blacks speak for all Blacks about MJ. Black Telepathy Implant?” [Agreed. Only fried chicken luv covers all]

When I say all, I mean ALL. What the heck race must you belong to not to enjoy breaded, deep fried chicken? What is there not to love?

Even as Michael Jackson was having his skin bleached, dyed, peeled, whatever, I suspect he was munching on take-out from Popeyes. [This tweet and those preceding it were written prior to Magic Johnson’s KFC anecdote]

Berry Gordy got one thing very right. Lil MJ absolutely tore up Who's Loving You. That performance gets me every time I hear it

You will not make me weep at work, Stevie Wonder. Not going to happen. Time to close my door

Will Reverend Al inspire or agitate? We'll see. Probably the former on this occasion

Yep, Rev. Al was in the zone all right. "Wasn't nothing strange about your daddy. It was strange what he had to deal with. But he dealt with it."

I wish Miles Davis could return from dead right now to play Human Nature and do it true justice. John Mayer will have to do. Talk about mountain to molehill comparison

You can tell John is thinking of his next tweet as he plays. Just joking

Nice job by Mayer. You can't mess up a gem like human Nature if at all competent. Instrumental guitar was wise choice.

It's as if Michael Jackson wrote “Gone Too Soon” for his own funeral. Pretty common thought I'm assuming. Here’s another one. Nice job of performing it by Usher

Michael wisely advised us to 1st look at the man in the mirror b4 juding others. Sadly he thought man in his mirror was too tan & wide nosed

But today is not about his faults. It's about his legacy. You were magical, Michael

The Jackson brothers were boyhood idols of mine. Listening to Marlon now it's so clear that regardless of circumstances we're all just people

Michael Jackson's daughter just killed me

Paris' tribute to her dad http://tinyurl.com/mrohqd - a side of Michael that only she & her brothers knew

Cliché time - Unless you've walked mile in his shoes, if casting 1st stone from glass house - 2day u learned first and foremost that MJ was a man loved by his child

Brooke Shields gave a very touching testimony to "keeping it real" on behalf of her friend

MJ was an enigma, that's 4 sure. As Rev. Sharpton pointed out, he made it cool to be black, made Americans of other races comfortable about it

He also wrote Black or White, claiming it made no difference. Yet it sure seemed that he was very aware of & uncomfortable with his own skin

Smile people http://bit.ly/10Dgdm even if you aren't on Candid Camera

According to recent tweets 85% always idolized MJ, 10% mocked him, 5% were indifferent. In real life % of mockers was easily over 50%

Nothing like dying to bring fans back into the fold. I wonder if it will work for OJ if he's shanked in prison.

I suspect that 25% of anti-Michael Jackson tweets are coming from die-hard Farrah Fawcett fans. Just playing

Ok, Land of Short Attention Span. MJ memorial is over with, what's next to obsess over & tweet about? Better plan - go hug someone you love

- Roy

Short Story Sunday VI

Wade carried on a silent exchange with the boy. His eyes stated - I did this for you, son. Jeremiah's unblinkingly responded - Thanks, Dad.

THE SCORE

BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.

Copyright by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

Wade observed with indifference each feature of his old neighborhood that had changed, noticed without a trace of nostalgia that which remained the same. He walked with a slight limp on his left side, chewed a piece of gum exclusively in the right half of his mouth. Periodically he re-tucked his shirt into his jeans. This was a newly acquired habit, caused less by vanity than a need to get re-acquainted with his clothing.

Eight years had passed since the soles of his shoes last touched this pavement. The fact that he had counted each day served only to lengthen its duration. He was painfully aware that they could never be retrieved. But he could seek retribution. There were debts for him to re-pay, scores he had to settle. Such thoughts held Wade's spirit captive throughout his lost years, much like how the prison walls confined his body.

The shortness of Wade's temper had grown to legendary status in these parts. His existence was marked by a succession of attempted quick strikes. Why study when a classmate could be bullied for schoolwork? What was the point in toiling bitter hours when greater wealth could be obtained with less exertion? Why spend his ill gotten gains on what could be taken with little risk?

Wade's method of operating was to seek victims who had little chance of defending themselves. He feasted on the young and the old, handicapped and pregnant, blind, deaf or just plain stupid. Many considered this an indicator of a barbaric disposition, but in truth, Wade wished to shun violence whenever possible. By victimizing those least likely to fight back, he rarely found it necessary to harm them. He only hurt those who deserved it, those who had done him wrong. For them he felt no pity, and to the maliciousness of his retaliations there was no limit.

Calvin Morris was victim number one. An outgoing personality and seemingly kind demeanor were perfect masks for Calvin's predilection towards young boys. Wade decided on his fourteenth birthday that he was finally big enough to express disapproval of Calvin’s abhorrent behavior.

People were shocked by the brutality of the slaying. The corpse found three days later had been mutilated almost beyond recognition. There was no mistaking that the killing had been a personal matter, but the sadist responsible was never discovered.

The span of time between offense and vengeance was considerably more brief Wade's second go round at homicide. When Vinny Carbine thoroughly whipped him in a fistfight; took his money as he lay battered on the ground; then added insult to injury by spending it on a date with Wade's girlfriend; vengeance was publicly sworn. Three weeks later Vinny's prone body was found in an alley, right next to the pipe which brought about his demise.

Wade's reputation grew steadily from then on. The word was out that he was a man of his word, and his say on a matter would be the final one.

He paused before a familiar building, the first stop on his homecoming tour. Wade had never been inside, only done what he was doing now, looked up at the third floor window. The intensity of his glare seemed almost capable of setting the building ablaze. Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, the pigeons perched on the ledge chose to take flight.

The man spotted through the window was none other than his father. Luther Cole had abandoned his family shortly after Wade’s first steps. Unlike most deserters, he did not vanish from sight. Instead he moved only five blocks away, taking up with a woman who had three kids of her own to whom he became a loving, responsible step-father. Though their paths frequently crossed in the years to follow, Luther treated his first born as a stranger.

Wade ran a hand over the bulge in his back pocket where his knife was carried. Unlike his father, he did not possess the ability to ignore the ties of flesh and blood. But after a minute passed, he walked away. He was impotent to act upon the rage his father stirred. Being a long absent father himself, he had to be open to the notion of forgiveness. Otherwise he could not dare ask it of his own son.

A man with a ferret-like face spied Wade and swiftly abandoned his companions and the game of dominoes they were engaged in for the shelter of a bodega. He did not move quickly enough to escape Wade's notice.

Eight years earlier, Rico had supplied incomplete information that resulted in Wade's incarceration. It had been a reasonable oversight under the circumstances, but Rico knew of men killed for less malicious deeds by more forgiving souls.

Mrs. Wilkins was chosen by Rico, who received his usual fee for the tip, because she perfectly fit Wade's criteria. She was over seventy years old, lived alone, didn't have a dog, and had amassed a tidy sum over a frugal lifetime which she trusted no bank to hold.

Rico failed to come across only a single detail, but it was a rather significant one. Mrs. Wilkins' steroid popping grandson was staying with her for a week while his apartment was being painted. Wade managed entrance into her home before she could close the door, only to find himself in an unmovable headlock. Although the bare minimum of his breaking and entry was accomplished, a good fright was put into Mrs. Wilkins, one which proved too much for her weak heart. This did little to evoke sympathy from the jury of peers who would later deliberate and condemn.

Wade walked past the bodega without interest. Fortunately for Rico, the anger he expected to face was tempered by the fact that less time than usual had been given to select a mark. Speed was more essential than caution at the time. Wade had been urgent to pay off Wallace Morgan, their neighborhood's resident loan shark. Ordinarily he would not have borrowed so heavily, but betting on Mike Tyson seemed a sure thing. Iron Mike turned out to be a great disappointment. Wallace however, would be true to form and zealously pursue the debt. Every dollar not promptly received would be taken out of Wade's hide.

The playground that Wade approached doubled as Wallace's base of operations. Up ahead was a familiar profile, topped off by an ever-present fedora. Wade patted his back pocket. If Wallace wasn't willing to be reasonable, he would have to be paid back the hard way.

When Wallace turned around, it was immediately obvious that the dilemma was resolved. The vacant stare in the former tyrant's eyes said as much, as did the drool that dribbled down his chin. The bullet that entered Wallace's skull three years earlier miraculously failed to kill him, but left nothing the same except for his extravagant wardrobe. Wade smiled, nodded to the former hooker who loved Wallace and now spent her days playing nurse for him, and moved on.

Upon arrival at the penitentiary eight years earlier, Wade ended up in the same cell block as another graduate of these streets. He and Ronnie Hastings had not much cared for each other back in the old days. The mutual dislike was not cured by their new circumstances. They mostly avoided each other, but men in confinement tend to find one another sooner or later.

The timing of their scuffle could not have been worse for Wade. He was up for early release, but any shot at it evaporated with the altercation. He spent another two years behind bars, and felt those seven hundred plus days were owed to him by Ronnie.

Wade knew precisely where their reunion would take place. This was going on the assumption that Ronnie had been able to reclaim the corner from which he did business, selling pot which was predominantly oregano and cocaine that was mostly flour. Wade was curious to see if in continuation of the theme, the blood in Ronnie's body would largely consist of cherry syrup.

The element of surprise should have been on Wade's side, but it was the lack of illicit activity on the corner that came unexpectedly. He didn't need to wonder why for long. The explanation was sung to him. He followed the sound of exuberant gospel music to its source, a store front church which had formerly been a hardware store. The revival was at full force, and Wade decided to take a peek.

It seemed his eyes must be deceiving him, but after a double and then triple take, the same sight remained before them. The man waving his bible from behind the pulpit, rousing the crowd to heights of religious ecstasy, was none other than Ronnie Hastings. He had moved less than thirty feet from his old spot, but had apparently converted from a small time dealer to one peddling the greatest narcotic of them all. Surely this was a con, but if so, Wade had to admit it was a convincing one. People were dancing in the aisles, praising God like there would be no tomorrow. Wade could almost feel a whiff of Holy Spirit creeping up on him, so quickly stepped outside before he felt inclined to throw money into the collection plate.

Though he held strong reservations about the sincerity of Ronnie's new vocation, until he knew for sure, he would put his payback on hold. He was willing to mess with many a dangerous thug, but drew the line when it came to stepping into the ring against the Almighty. If Ronnie's soul truly had been born again and was dedicated to saving others, then it was safe from Wade. For now, anyway.

Continuing on his journey, it wasn't long before Wade stood outside the home of his best friend. He and Larry had once been like brothers. They were always in the same classes at school, until Wade's troubled home life spilled over to his scholastic efforts, causing him to be repeatedly left back until he quit altogether in his freshman year of high school. By not getting regularly promoted, Wade became the biggest and toughest of his classmates. Once he decided to take advantage of this status, the role of bully came naturally to him. This proved to be the seed of activities which eventually blossomed into the criminal. As for Larry, he chose to take a more straight and narrow road than the sinewy fast lane Wade raced upon. But the bond between them was never entirely severed, for they shared a secret that would secure it for life. Larry was the only person to whom Wade had confessed his killing of Calvin Morris, and the motive for that act.

There was something else that they shared as well. Four years earlier, Larry had visited him in prison and confessed his love for the mother of Wade's child. His blessing of the union was requested and given. Wade gave the matter scarce thought at the time. Why ponder what one could do nothing about? As long as he was behind bars, they could be together whether he liked it or not. But he was no longer anesthetized by fate's cruel twists, nor in a position where his feelings must be kept on hold. He was now free to vent them any way he saw fit.

Wade was startled by the front door opening and crouched behind a bush to remain hidden from sight. Larry came out carrying a trash bag, which he deposited a few feet away from the shrubbery, completely unaware of how vulnerable he was to a strike.

But he was safe from harm, for Wade bore no ill will towards him. Larry was a good friend and a good man, the kind Sarah deserved to be with. Wade could only bring pain and hardship into her life. His ways were set, and they were not those of a steadfast husband. Larry and Sarah had been honest about the relationship that developed between them, dulling any sense of betrayal on Wade's part. His son could do far worse than to have a man like Larry for a live-in role model.

Wade moved steadily as a shark until he came upon the building he was raised in. There would be no open arms to welcome him if he ventured through the door of his mother's home. He wouldn't even be allowed to cross the threshold, for she had disowned him, just like his father years earlier.

Once Wade's livelihood became apparent to his mother, she attempted to correct the error of his ways. But he ridiculed her efforts as a born again mom. Her opinions no longer mattered to him. He did not feel he owed any apologies to the woman who had given him life but absolutely no reason to find pleasure in it. Not after she tainted it by filling the side of the bed vacated by her husband with a succession of men.

Wade's childhood was spent watching a constant stream of strangers pass through the whorehouse his mother made of their home. It was urgent desire to be anywhere the sounds from her bedroom could not be heard that made him such easy prey for Calvin Morris. Getting high was his mother's top priority during his formative years, and she did what she had to in order to fund her suicidal hobby. After a near fatal overdose, she finally straightened up. Then she performed a hypocritical 180 degree turn and became intent on rehabilitating, reprimanding, and sobering up all less than pious souls within a stone throw. But by then, Wade had hardened beyond redemption.

After he was arrested and the outcome of his trial was apparent, his mother could have opted to make peace. It may have been comforting to believe he was worthy of a mother's love, even if it was only a token gesture. Instead she saved her most condemning diatribes for last. She acknowledged no accountability, and expressed regret only for giving birth to him.

Wade's hands trembled at the thought of his mother's neck between them. For a woman to forsake the child she bore was the most unpardonable of acts. Hell most certainly had a special spot reserved for her. But Wade would not be the one to send his mother to her inevitable destination, for to harm the woman who delivered him into the world would be equally damning. Instead of going upstairs, he headed to a nearby motel. A matter of utmost importance was on tomorrow's agenda. Although he was leaving numerous loose ends untied for the time being, there was one appointment that absolutely nothing could prevent him from keeping.

The following morning Wade headed nervously towards P.S. 217. His prior night's sleep had been a restless one. Around the most reckless, fearless and lawless of men, he felt no qualms. But the thought of finally meeting the boy he had fathered was downright terrifying.

Wade had been arrested and convicted during Sarah's pregnancy. When she used to visit him in prison, back while they were still playacting the facade of being a couple, Sarah offered to bring their child to meet him. Wade vehemently refused. He didn't want his son's first memory of him to be that of a prisoner, a number recycled by the state.

Wade had committed many a calculated, unnatural act. But of one sin he could not be accused. From the moment Sarah told him she was pregnant, Wade strove for nothing less than the best for his child. Though he did not love Sarah, he decided to act as if he did. His kid deserved a nurturing environment. Wade intended to buy a house, marry Sarah, and create the family he had always fantasized about being a part of. The first goal would be the most difficult to accomplish, for up till then he had spent money as fast as he stole it. One lost bet and botched robbery later, his big plan was swapped for a prison term.

Wade lost eight years of being a father, nearly a decade of his dream. Once it came to be reality, his life would turn around. He would become the man that his son needed him to be. He would not leave Jeremiah with bitterness and questions in place of love and guidance, for he knew too well what that could do to someone. He had created a life, so had no choice but to be responsible for it, to protect his legacy from an often hostile, always indifferent world.

Wade entered the schoolyard which was teeming with raucous grade school children. The natural exhilaration of youth was heightened by the fact that this was the last day of school before summer vacation. He scanned their joyous faces, searching for a younger version of his own. His name was called out. Wade turned towards the voice and his gaze fell upon Sarah. He lowered it, and there beside her stood his son.

As he walked towards them, two questions loomed in his mind. What would he say to the boy? How does one begin to be a father? Wade crouched down, held his fingers out, and caressed the child's beautiful face. He looked a good deal like Sarah, especially around the mouth. But those eyes. Wade had seen them thousands of times before in the mirror. Nevertheless, it was something else altogether which confirmed that this was indeed his flesh and blood. Something else that caused a tidal wave of love to pour from Wade's heart. Like his father, Jeremiah was chewing a piece of gum exclusively in the right side of his mouth.

And yet no words came to Wade. It was Jeremiah who initiated the conversation, which he did wordlessly, with a smile.

"Jerry, is this your father?"

"Yes, Mrs. Cornwell."

Wade looked up from his son to the person who had walked over and interrupted their first meeting. He knew the name from Sarah's letters. Though her visits had ceased after she took up with Larry, they maintained a regular correspondence to keep Wade up to date on Jeremiah's progress. Mrs. Cornwell was his son's teacher. She would be his teacher again once classes resumed, for Jeremiah had been kept back a grade.

In one fluid motion, Wade removed the knife from his pocket and plunged it into Mrs. Cornwell's abdomen. A subtle twist made certain that the damage inflicted would be permanent. Making a child feel inferior to his peers due to arbitrary scholastic measures could cause major psychological damage. Such actions should never be taken lightly, if at all. This woman had chosen to play God over his son's life, an unmerciful and unforgiving one at that. Someone needed to safeguard children from people like her. Wade was a father, duty bound to keep his child out of harm’s way.

He turned his attention back to Jeremiah, peered deeply into the twins of his own eyes. Oblivious to the screaming, and chaos, and spilling of blood around him, Wade carried on a silent exchange with the boy. His eyes stated - I did this for you, son. Jeremiah's unblinkingly responded - Thanks, Dad.

x x x x x

Artwork provided by Erin Rogers Pickering

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Interview with Urban Reviews

Urban Reviews: Tell our readers about Patches of Grey.

Roy L. Pickering, Jr.: Patches of Grey tells the story of a struggling African-American family. It is set in the Bronx, NY in a time not too long ago, but pre-dating the “rise of Obama”. Its narrative focus alternates among members of the Johnson family with primary focus on the eldest child Tony, a high school senior embarking on the first great love affair of his life. Tony has a contentious relationship with his father in part because the girl he has fallen for is white, in part due to collegiate ambitions and a color blind mindset that do not mesh with his father’s prejudiced outlook, and largely because their many differences in perspective are accompanied by similarly willful temperaments. Over the course of a tumultuous year Tony's brother is entangled in gang culture; the chastity of their sister is tested; and their mother shoulders the load of marriage to a man drowning his disappointment one drink at a time. When things fall apart, their last hope is that the blood they share will be strong enough to hold them together.

Urban Reviews: How did you come up with the story for this novel?

Roy L. Pickering, Jr.: Inspiration by definition is basically a mystery. My goal writing a first novel was to write what I knew, and as a young man who was not especially well traveled, I can’t say I knew all that much. But I knew about family. I knew about love. I knew about struggling to define yourself in a manner that contradicted what many others expected of you. I knew about being judged at a glance rather than by the content of my character. I knew how people spoke to each other and what they communicated through silences. These were my experiences, so I concocted a story that allowed me to utilize my awareness of the ways of the world along with my self-awareness rather than attempting to re-invent the wheel. The remainder of the process was manufacturing inventions and lies to reveal my tale. What is fiction after all if not the telling of lies to uncover truths?

Urban Reviews: When did you know you wanted to be a writer?

Roy L. Pickering, Jr.: I’ve been a voracious reader since first learning as a grade school boy how to decipher the patterns of letters that make up words. The first full blown novels I read were “Journey to the Center of the Earth” and “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea” by Jules Verne. I was amazed by the affect words on page could have, the places they could take me, and decided that I would attempt to one day dazzle and delight readers with my own words. Somewhat surprisingly the Verne books did not make me a genre specific fan. I did not proceed to strictly devour fantastical sci-fi stories. Instead I became a devotee to the power of books in general, and over the following years my preference for literary fiction developed.

Click here to find remainder of interview at Urban-Reviews.com

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Short Story Sunday - Part V

It so happens that one of my short stories shares its title with a hit Michael Jackson song, making it a most appropriate selection for this week's installment of Short Story Sunday.

SMOOTH CRIMINAL

BY ROY L. PICKERING JR. Copyright by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

A.J. stepped out of the biting cold and into the brownstone where he resided with his wife Nicki. He inspected the flowers he bought on his way home from work to make sure they had all survived the trip. As he climbed the stairs towards his second floor apartment, A.J. crossed his heart in hopes that the landlord had gotten around to fixing the radiator in his bedroom. The temperature had fallen so low that the body warmth and three comforters he and Nicki had been relying on might not be enough tonight.

Hopefully Nicki would not be in the middle of a painting. It wasn't often that his boss let him out a couple of hours early. The old man must have gotten some really good news, for he was rarely so generous. If Nicki wasn't glued to her easel, A.J. hoped to catch a movie. There were a couple of pictures out that he wanted to see, but had no intention of waiting on those inevitable weekend lines. Not in this weather.

A.J. fiddled with his keys until he finally got the right one into the lock on his front door. He had never been adept at handling things with gloves on. A.J. couldn't even make a decent snowball without using his bare hands. Nicki accused him of being a spaz on account of this the night of their very first date. That was the moment which convinced him that he was in love with her.

As he stepped into the living room, A.J. simultaneously became aware of two things. The first was that his apartment now had no heat at all. But the sounds coming from his bedroom immediately replaced his annoyance with curiosity. It couldn't be what it sounded like. A.J. pushed open the bedroom door and was hit with verification. The woman he cherished making passionate love with another man.

A.J's response was consummated in slightly more time than it took the bouquet which had fallen from his hand to hit the floor. Despite being fixated on the sight before him, he noticed the pair of scissors on the bureau. Without being conscious of willing his body to any particular actions, A.J. picked it up, walked forward, and plunged it repeatedly into the naked flesh on his bed. The man took the brunt of the attack from behind, never seeing the person responsible for taking his life. But Nicki was able to get a clear look at the deranged mask her husband's face had become, before he drove the blades into her eyes.

What had he done? A foolish question. Insanity is what had certainly overcome him, and though it was apparently temporary, the results definitely were not. His biggest fault was his jealous nature. How many times had Nicki said that to him? But how could he not be envious? His love for her was so enormous that the slightest hint of betrayal was too much to bear. He had received considerably more than a slight hint today. How could she throw it all away? Their love had been perfect, the only pure thing he knew of.

None of it made sense. This had to be a nightmare. When would he awaken? When would he find out that Nicki had been as true to him as he to her? Surely she was sitting at her easel, or perhaps outside enjoying the gentle snowfall. Not lying in a pool of blood, that of her own mixed with an anonymous stranger's, done in by the hands that wanted only to hold her.

A.J. walked back into the living room. He was exhausted. Murder took a lot out of a person. He knew now that it was no dream. It was too cold. That was his first clue. The sheet of paper on the sofa was his second.

A piece of tape was stuck to the top. Apparently the paper had been held to the wall, but fallen off. A.J. flipped it over to the side where a message was scribbled.

A.J., MY SISTER AND HER BOYFRIEND ASKED IF THEY COULD BORROW THE APARTMENT FOR A FEW HOURS. THEY SHOULD BE GONE BY THE TIME YOU GET HOME, BUT IN CASE NOT, DON'T GO BARGING INTO THE BEDROOM. IF THIS NOTE IS STILL UP, THEY MUST HAVE GONE INTO OVERTIME. I'LL BE AT THE COFFEE SHOP ON THE CORNER. NOT TOO BAD A DEAL, CONSIDERING THAT THE APARTMENT IS FREEZING ANYWAY. MICKEY SAID HE WOULD COME BY TO FIX THE RADIATORS BETWEEN 5:30 and 6:00. GUESS THAT MEANS WE'LL SEE HIM AROUND EIGHT. I TOLD YOU WE SHOULD HAVE TIPPED HIM THE OTHER TIMES. SEE YA WHEN I SEE YA. LOVE YOU. - NICKI -

A.J. had not killed his wife after all. He had killed Nicki's twin sister, Sheri, and her latest boyfriend.

Despite being a novice at such activities, A.J. found himself acting quickly and decisively. A moment ago his wife had cheated on him and was dead on account of it. Nothing mattered beyond those two facts. But they were no longer true, so now the consequences of his actions mattered very much. Somehow, A.J. had to get out of the mess he had created. There was plenty of time for guilt later on. Now, there was only time to fix things.

He would make it look like a botched robbery, or that someone who had it in for either Sheri or her boyfriend had followed them and done this. It could be done, it had to be. A.J. took off his blood drenched clothing and put them into a garbage bag along with a few "stolen" valuables. Tomorrow was trash day. The evidence would be taken away by the city. A.J. took a quick shower. He could do this if he remained calm. What else was there? He couldn't have left fingerprints because he had never taken off his gloves. Turns out there was something he could do well with them on. A.J. inspected his body for any wounds he may somehow have suffered, mixing his own blood with that of his victims. There were none to be found. He would tell his wife that he had noticed her through the window of the diner on his way home. This was plausible. Nicki had been asleep when he dressed and left for work, as she always was. The different set of clothing he had on would not arouse her curiosity. She would have no reason to suspect that he had already been to the apartment.

A.J. stepped cautiously into the hallway. The coast was clear. He needed to make it appear that someone had forced the door open, crossed his fingers in hope that it would open in one solid kick and the noise would not alert any neighbors. The door cooperated. His luck was holding out. Garbage bag in hand, he sprinted down the stairs. If he passed by anybody on the way out, he was screwed. But he didn't.

"Hi, baby."

"Hi, honey."

This would be his first test and the most crucial. Nicki had always been able to see into his heart. Somehow, he would have to wipe all memory of the last hour from his mind. Who was he kidding? How could what he had just done not show?

"What are you doing here? You have painter's block?"

"Didn't you get my note?", Nicki asked in return.

"I haven't been home yet. I saw you through the window while I was walking by."

"Good eyes. Sheri needed to borrow the place for awhile. Her and her new man."

"Your sister really needs to get a place of her own."

"Or start dating guys who don't still live with their parents."

"Exactly."

He was pulling it off. Things were going to work out okay. His plan to make it appear that he was innocent of all wrong doing was transpiring without a hitch. He would suggest that they go to a movie. By the time he and Nicki arrived home to the gaggle of policemen which would undoubtedly be waiting, his reaction would be as close to genuine shock as could be. Once the initial hubbub was over, he would comfort Nicki over the loss of her sister. They would grow closer than ever.

As perverse as it seemed, A.J. was proud of himself. More proud than guilty. He had made an honest mistake. His reaction, as unfortunate as it had been, was instinctual and based on love. When he believed his wife was being unfaithful, he became a different person. The real A.J. was a charming, happy-go-lucky guy who never lacked for friends. He wasn't the monster who had briefly wreaked havoc in the bedroom of apartment 2G. As long as A.J. knew this in his heart, he would be able to sleep at night. His conscience was not exactly clean, but A.J. had never been much of a neat freak anyway.

He regretted the hurt that Nicki would feel. A.J. was sorry that he had taken two lives, one of whom he genuinely cared for, though Sheri did tend to annoy him. In the end however, two facts outshone all others. Nicki was alive and well. And A.J. would not be separated from her for the rest of his days by iron bars.

"I almost forgot. These are for you."

A.J. handed the bouquet to his beautiful wife. If petals could talk. But fortunately for A.J., they could not. Nicki smiled and A.J. soaked in the radiance of her beauty. He felt so happy, so alive, so ... Free. That's the word he was looking for. Instead of everything coming to an end, A.J. felt as if his life was beginning anew.

"Read the card."

A.J. prided himself on his note writing ability. He had once fancied himself a writer, but turned out not to have the patience to pen an entire novel or even a decent short story. But when confined to fifty words or less, he could give Shakespeare a run for his money. A.J. was quite pleased with the romantic ditty he had composed. Nicki inspired the best in him.

"What card, A.J.? I don't see anything."

A wail of police sirens shattered the silence. A.J. turned to watch shiny blue vehicles race to the scene of the crime. The cops would find two mutilated corpses in the bedroom of apartment 2G, and not a shred of evidence to guide them.

Except of course, for the killer's calling card.

One Glove-One Love: Michael Jackson tribute

This flood of tender memories set forth by the sudden passing of Michael Jackson has taken me somewhat by surprise, setting my fingertips twittering away. Many things have been said about him by many people, but no truer words have been stated on the subject of the king of pop than these. He was like no one the world had ever seen before him. Below is a running commentary taken mostly from my statements on Twitter over the past couple days about a most amazing performer and fascinating individual. Whether you were a fan or not, surely you recognized that stars who shine so brightly come along very few and far between.

* Just turned my computer on and learned about death of Michael Jackson. My youth is officially done. One glove - One love.

* Two well known people in history, for better or worse, never gave up grasp on childhood. Michael Jackson was Peter Pan personified.

* He was rightfully considered by many to be a freak, but Tinseltown & Motown are both full of those. MJ's freaky side was simply more publicized than most. As for the horrendous criminal charges that were brought against him, innocent until guilt proven is the rule of our land. He was convicted of nothing. MJ probably was asexual, not a molester. As bizarre as he came to be seen, it was a strangeness accompanied by the aura of innocence.

* How will I remember Michael Jackson out of all his legendary images? That amazingly talented boy & young man who every black kid idolized.

* As a lover of music and musical performance I remember life before the video for Thriller, and then, the way we SAW music forever changed.

* The ultimate icons of my lifetime to date - Muhammad Ali, Michael Jordan, and Michael Jackson. Unlike the first two, the third one didn't get to fulfill his comeback.

* I will ALWAYS remember tribute show for Berry Gordy when the Jackson brothers performed & then gave way to breathtaking Michael Jackson solo performance.

* Have Friday off and finally getting to watch some Wimbeldon action on TV. More gray skies and raindrops outside. TV on mute with Thriller 25 on IPOD. Not a bad way to spend a day at all.

* http://bit.ly/XehtP Young Michael Jackson singing Ben live in Japan. So talented at such a young age. What a gift he was given, one that he certainly didn't squander.

* Did Michael Jackson set himself up to be the butt of jokes? Certainly. The skin lightening, cosmetic surgeries, feminine quality, eccentric behavior, and most damning, the child molestation accusations (which if he was guilty I say good riddance, but like I said before, I don't believe he was). I understand the urge by some to make jokes at his expense, particularly those who aren't huge fans of his music. But bottom line is that a single father of 3 kids died at 50. There simply is nothing funny about that. Feel free not to praise him, feel free not to miss him, but for at least a day or two, don't mock. Is that so much to ask for? Would you not want and expect the same courtesy?

* http://bit.ly/uljuz - Lisa Marie Presley speaks about MJ on her MySpace page. She has interesting, poignant things to say about the man she was once married to.

* Cranked MJ compilation this morning. Great way to get started on sunny day along with cup of coffee. No cuss words to guard my daughter's ears from. Then I went running with his music coming through headphones and although I'm not much of a runner, today I felt like I could keep my legs pumping forever, or at least until the last note.

* Favorite Michael Jackson memory: My first job was as a summer camp counselor. For final day ceremony we put on a show for parents. I was a counselor for kids 7-9. Boys & girls did separate routines. The girls adorably performed Stop in the Name of Love and the boys performed Dancing Machine. Those kids were great. The lead on Dancing Machine was a really talented little guy who did an amazing job of channeling Michael. Rehearsals were a blast and they came through like pros at the show.

* Yes, I once owned a replica of a Michael Jackson jacket received as a Christmas gift. I certainly wasn't the only one.

* Trip to visit family this weekend supposed to be an hour drive but time doubled due to heavy traffic. We found a radio station playing a Michael Jackson marathon so all was good. Easy to lose track of how much great music he produced in his lifetime of arrested boyhood and immeasurable talent.

Michael Jackson did not get to live in much peace but I sure hopes he gets to RIP.

Short Story Sunday IV

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY

"My father, despite his many failings, was a man of his word."

Fish Dinner Short Story by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

Copyright by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

My wife beams with pride over her creation. Computer technology proved far more fascinating during her formative years than emulating Betty Crocker. Yet every so often Grace will don an apron, crack open a recipe book, and take to the kitchen.

Laid out on our dining table is a feast to behold. The main dish of this unexpected banquet is a grilled red snapper topped with tropical fruit salsa.

“Dig in, honey.” When Grace told me that she intended to take the day off from work, little did I know she would spend it in such a manner.

“Wow. What did I do to deserve this?”

“You showed up and swept me off my feet.”

I smile, then load up my plate as a surge of remembrance brings me back to the last time I was served red snapper. An astonishing count of sixteen years has passed between that meal and the one before me now. I suspect this dish has been avoided in the interim not by conscious choice, but rather, due to a mental connection made between the fish and that distant day.

“You haven’t touched your food yet,” Grace observes. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Just thinking about something.”

When I returned home after several hours spent with my friends, talking about those things that preoccupy the minds of fourteen year old boys, I was surprised to find a grilled red snapper soaked in lemon garlic sauce awaiting me for dinner. My mother rarely prepared fish for us, even though we both loved seafood, because my father adamantly did not. This had always struck me as odd since he was born in the West Indies, the grandson of fishermen on both sides of the family. But not everything is passed down the genealogical line by tradition and heredity. Some choices we make for ourselves in spite of who we are supposed to be. The preferences of my father, dietary and otherwise, were noted and accepted as the way of our world. My mother was an excellent cook and the meal she had prepared looked scrumptious, but it also seemed to be premeditated defiance. Why had she cooked what she knew my father would not eat?

“Is Dad home?” I asked, for he was nowhere in sight. Typically he would be seated on the sofa watching whatever ball game he could find on TV when I traipsed into our apartment shortly before the assigned dinnertime of 7:00. We were a family of routine, of well respected rituals, but on this day evidence pointed to a disturbance in the balance of our lives.

“Wash up for dinner, Jimmy. I need to talk to you. And no, your father won’t be joining us for dinner tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Please do as I say.”

Her voice was calm, yet clearly fragile, moments away from shattering unless events unfolded in the precise manner she had planned. I washed my face and hands, then returned to the dinner table. My mother and I silently said a prayer of gratitude for the food. The first bite taken of the red snapper was exquisite, and the second somehow surpassed its predecessor. Next I consumed a forkful of saffron rice followed by a sip of pineapple juice. As my fork headed back towards the fish, my mother spoke.

My food would grow cold and unsavory as her words tumbled out. I sat frozen while learning that my father had left us that morning and would not be returning. I did not doubt what he said to my mother in the note left behind as legacy. My father, despite his many failings, was a man of his word.

I did not hear from him again until I was twenty-four, a married man with far more debt than my meager paychecks could significantly dent, about to start a family of my own. Grace was three months pregnant. My father had somehow learned that he was going to become a grandfather, not that he expressed pleasure over this development. He did not bother to claim regret either. He had sent money to my mother and I sporadically, the envelopes always postmarked with a new location. These payoffs alleviated any guilt that might otherwise have disturbed his sleep. I did not mask my bitterness, but it was voiced without passion. Over time I had decided he was not worth the effort necessary to actively hate him. I simply maintained a passive state of disapproval. As for my mother, her second husband is a great guy who aided amnesia about the first.

Ten years after his departure, my father did not invite himself back into my life. Actually, there didn’t seem to be much reason for the call. We exchanged unpleasantries, hung up after a few tense minutes, and that was that.

There were complications with her pregnancy and Grace miscarried a month later. On top of the misery of losing our child, we learned that Grace would probably never be able to conceive again. But these were to be future concerns, as far more immediate matters needed to be dealt with. I came close to losing Grace as the surgeons toiled to keep her alive. My world nearly collapsed as the agonizing hours crawled by and I helplessly awaited fate’s verdict. But my wife is a strong woman and she pulled through. Her life was saved. Hers and mine.

I will not allow the red snapper to grow cold this time. The efforts of my wife, the impossibly beautiful woman whom I love beyond comprehension, will not be in vain. I place a tender morsel into my mouth. As expected, it is delicious.

“This is wonderful”, I say, referencing a great deal more than the food. I do not have all that I want, nor even all that I need. What I do have is the love of a good woman, and what could be a simpler or greater miracle than that?

“Jimmy.”

I raise the fork for another tantalizing bite of this fish whose journey has led to my appreciative stomach. I inherited my father’s wavy hair, wide feet, thick eyebrows, and the shape of his nose. But I do not share his distaste for seafood. I am a vastly different man than him. It is my life’s purpose to be so.

I stop eating long enough to say, “Yes, baby” to which Grace replies -

“I’m pregnant.”