A "Layla" rescue...

 As is true of most mornings, I pulled up to Planet Fitness at 6:15 today. But uncharacteristically, I was able to park right in front of the main door. Inside it was a ghost town, only two other people were there. I guess some had forgotten to change their clocks and Sunday mornings are light traffic anyway. Which was fine with me. So I picked an elliptical machine right in the front row under a bank of seven flat screen TVs hanging just above. With all those channels to choose from, I can almost always find something interesting to make 30 minutes go by quickly. But not this morning. Of the seven stations available, Chuck Norris was advertizing his Total Gym on one of them and I wasn't in the mood to look at his hair, that awful dye job, and listen to him jabber. Another fitness show ran on channel 3. That guru wanted me to buy little plastic containers that are color coded to help me learn how to eat correctly. All I have to do is put the protein in the red plastic, the veggies in the green one, and so on. It's portion control for idiots. Oh, and I have to follow the workout on the two CD's that come with it. (The CD's alone are a $195.00 value!) The price for a few colored plastic containers and two CD's? Only three easy payments of $19.95. The profit margin they make on each sale is huge. No thanks, I still had five other channels to pick from. Oh shit, it's Sunday morning and all five are church stuff. There's a black preacher dancing and shouting as he wipes the sweat from his face with the small white towel that seems to be permanently sewn to the palm of his right hand. No thanks. A white lady was yelling on channel 9. I wasn't listening to the sound on any of these, just watching her get red in the face and yell. I had to pass. The last one I looked at before turning it all off and the music on, was the best. A middle age white guy, way too heavy for the red light special Kmart suit he was bulging out of while pointing at me, angry and spitting. An obvious douche. But there were thousands of people in the audience wearing suits and dresses, paying rapt attention to the fat angry guy. They were getting to me. How lame must you be to sit and listen to this blowhard yell at you or to even assume that he has anything to say that had would make it worth the unpleasantness? Pretty fucking lame. I was disgusted with myself for being a member of the human race, preferring to emulate and learn from just about any dog I had ever met over that charlatan.

So I turned it all off and the radio on. The beginning notes of Derek and The Dominoes “Layla” started playing. It was nothing short of a true epiphany as I thought: “Now. Now I really am in church! Amen brother...”

Coal Country Shack

“We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout...” That was January 15, 1978. I turned 30 eight days later and Carla baked me a cake in our funky antique stove. She was 21 and I whisked her off to a remote shack in the woods near the huge metropolis that is Chauncey, Ohio. Population: no more than a handful of stragglers, left over from when coal money was mainlining into the veins of the local economy. Thirty years prior, the Mill field mine disaster had forced the shutdown of the Sunday Creek Coal Company and put a period at the end of the death sentence for coal mining in that area. Our shack had been built on stilts in a three day frenzy of alcohol and hallucinogenics, or so I'm told. No pluming, no problem. I like outhouses better anyway. You know, sitting among the trees, bird calls and fresh breezes while adding to the pile below, lightly dusting each new contribution with lye... powdered sugar on an inverted chocolate cone. Carla screamed from there one fine Spring day when it seems that a snake had managed to slither up to the top of the pile and get within ass striking range. Good thing she looked down before she sat down. I quickly went into waste removal mode, no problem. All in all, it was a great year. She did typing at home for The University of Ohio, I went to grad school to study Interpersonal Communications. Mostly though, I studied Carla, and the THC content of various strains of Columbia ganja that I got from my brother. Our dirt driveway was deeply rutted from the tire chains that were standard equipment in the winter. Most cars couldn't make it. Almost no visitors was fine with me, but when the Jehovah Witnesses made it all the way up to our house, their car lumbering and shaking with age and the demanding load of four, very large ladies, they were welcome. As the first Witness put her heavy leg out, planting a too tight shoe and badly swollen ankle on the ground, I went inside to roll them a doobie, just to be hospitable.

  

Knock if You Dare...

It's said that you can never go back again, but in dreams and memories, we do it all the time.

When I look at this old door knocker, I become that six-year-old boy, looking up at the massive front door of my Grandparents cavernous Victorian home. I strain to get up on my toes high enough to lift that heavy clapper and let it fall. Again and again.

Their street was lined with mature Sycamore trees, the bark mottled, flaking off in irregular patches like the skin on the legs of my ancient Aunt Jeedie. Her bark was flaking and peeling too, made worse as she absent-mindedly reached down to scratch. Her room there at the old people's place, heavy with the dank smell of dirty laundry and human decay. But those trees were still youthful and strong, shading the street from all but the most persistent sunlight that managed to run the gauntlet from the canopy top, to the ground, once there, it would do a celebratory dance on the well-manicured lawns, like a thousand flashes of light from a brilliant mirror-ball suspended above.

Many years before that time, my Grandfather had worked in India for the Standard Oil Company. That's where my Mother was born and that's where the door knocker originated. It was more than just a way to announce visitors, it guarded the house with a grotesque grimace, daring people to knock. But I just liked to flip it and wait for Grandma to open the door to a house that felt like the setting of an old Basil Rathbone movie. A cornucopia of wonders spilled out from every room throughout that voluminous old place.

Just inside, guarding the front door, stretched out flat on the hallway floor, was the pelt of an adult Bengal Tiger that Grandpa had shot on a hunting expedition. The whispered backstory was that he hadn't actually shot it himself, one of the guides had, but in those days, the bragging rights were part of the package for the " Great White Hunter" to take home. The skull had been removed, cleaned, and inserted back into the head, forever threatening, caught in mid-attack, mouth open wide, deadly fangs ready to grab anything that moved. Bright glass eyes followed me in the door, waiting for just the right moment to pounce.

I immediately flopped down, pointing my Keds in the opposite direction and kissed his nose, rubbing the stiff bristle of whiskers that no longer moved on their own. “Hello Tiger” I cooed lovingly as if to my best buddy, Roxie, the fat beagle who was probably asleep right now on the living room couch she was forbidden to mount. She would be right there, defiantly waiting for me to return home.

Roxie was stuffed too, but it was with food scraps and dog treats, and she never even once tried to look scary.

St George Street

Shade from the eves cut a sharp line across his chest, allowing him respite to look out into the unrelenting sun that had been using his eyes like a pincushion all afternoon. He propped his shoulders up against the coarse coquina wall, enjoying the back scratch as he shifted his weight. The narrow St George street tourist promenade was packed with bodies, heaving, sweating, lumbering forward to the next Sweet Shoppe or Fudge Palace. Watching the parade of excess, middle America, he felt bad about his cruel judgments, and about himself for entertaining them. A lanky high school boy with severe acne offered a sampler plate of thin crust Pepperoni pizza, small squares. just outside the door of Pizzalley's. Only two pieces, mostly crust, were left. The Eagles, “Take It Easy”, drifted in and out above the buzz of the crowd, from the restaurant courtyard two doors down. A triumph of the singers will over his appalling lack of ability. Don't quit your day job, pal. Looking down to the far end of the pedestrian street, bodies became indistinct, blending into a sea of color, heat snakes rising above, heads bobbing like peaked waves, breaking just beyond the horizon.

Looking to the left, he saw her coming, hugging the wall on his side, gliding smoothly, faster than the crowd she was avoiding, as if it were a living thing, separate and unpleasant, which it was. She almost brushed him without notice. He was no more than a lamp post or another round trash receptacle, made of coquina to match the wall he supported. The slight breeze of her passing carried a hint of Lavender mixed with Ivory soap. A black tank top clutched small breasts, half oranges with nipples that apparently thought it was cold in that summer heat, held aloft by the Gods who vied for the honor to do so. Washboard abs spoke of beach time, ripping under a flawless tan. A perfect derriere, painted black in yoga pants, her second skin. She could crack walnuts, equipped with a vise disguised as a cherry tomato. He watched her go, a waterfall of shimmering russet flowing down her back, until she too was lost to the rise and fall of that human sea.

Shifting his weight, he closed his eyes, welcoming the cool dark as he put the chaos on pause, clearing his mind of everything...except for her.

Footprints...

Intentional or not, we all make a statement to the world about who we are. Our footprints on this planet may be similar, but each one is unique.

Certainly we learn a bit about a person by the car they drive. Is it a mom & pop mobile, indistinguishable from many others in the maddening crowd? Does it blend in, like the drivers themselves? Maybe it’s a truck with huge muddy tires, rims that come to the roof-line of everything else on the road? What about a convertible sports car, or a Hybrid? And who drives that Junker? Do they not have any money, or is it that they just don't give a shit about cars, happy with something cheap that gets them from here to there? Of course if a car has bumper-stickers, the guesswork gets pretty easy. Political stickers fade on rear bumpers, long after candidates have lost or won elections. Passions expressed with decals that support or condemn a myriad of causes, an unruly mob, disjointed. Profiles of a six-point buck flanked by hunting rifles. The traditional image of an Aryan Jesus, beatific with his upward stare and open palms, crowded to one side by the bright red decals of multiple Redskins helmets. Rebel flags and peace signs catch different rides. “My kid is an honor student at Knox Landing Middle School”. There is no shortage of “In Memorial” tributes to a loved one, peeling memories baked by the sun, seen in reverse by the driver looking in their rear view mirror. Will that be my legacy?

The same questions and judgments apply to us as individuals walking through this world. Is the guy in a badly rumpled suit wearing the uniform of an equally depressing job? Does the lady in massive, tight jeans, her fleshy muffin, super-sized with too many McMeals, stretch-marked and gravity drunk, hanging over her belt...does she see herself differently than we do? The big guy swaggering in his T-shirt with the arms cut off, ragged...does he mistake brawn for power? The older lady in heels so high they could double as the business end of ice axes, the kid with his patterned boxers tied off at the base by jeans so baggy they look like he's about to enter a sack race at Camp Waywayonda. What about the couple that just passed by, very tastefully dressed, not too showy, not too dull...just right, well, just right for them at least? They pose together in the lobby mirror before venturing out to their audience. Why do we feel such a strong need to be...seen? Can you judge a book by its cover after all? Are the packaging and the package indistinguishable from one another?

These days, aside from our dress and personal appearance, many people wear living bumper stickers as well. Older veterans sport dark blue amoeba like shapes on hairy forearms, unidentifiable wading pools mark hanging skin. A massive shoulder, covered in jet black spears, a tribal statement of social edginess that has become a mainstream mockery of itself, struts by in the crowd. Please God, no more dream-catchers hanging on heavy white thighs... In the check-out line, among the living dead of Walmart, a little old lady, late 70's early 80's stooped over, her housedress as faded and worn as she is herself. Someone's sweet Grandma. On the back of her neck a circle of freshly inked snakes, angrily entwined, fangs exposed, threatening. True artistic talent to restroom scrawls and prison tats, we want to make a statement about ourselves. Indelible ink screams out from an epidermis canvas.

Our nests themselves speak volumes, happy to gossip and dish. They rarely keep secrets. From the books on the shelf or the magazines thrown, half open, onto the coffee table or the steamer trunk that acts as one, to the food in the fridge. An unwrapped piece of petrified Cheddar, teeth-marks on one side, a puzzle piece. Is the bathroom tub clean, the shower curtain torn, do the stained outlines of sandpaper feet in the tub prevent a fall? How long have those sheets been crumpled into a ball on the naked mattress?

Even more telling is the path we choose to take while navigating in traffic on the electronic highway. We drop crumbs along the way, marking our path. What's in our “favorites” folder on the laptop or iPad? Would Aunt Bee be shocked or just shake her head in amusement? What about her own files? Does she have kinks under her plump roundness? The music on our iPhone, our call records, the TV we watch, the electronic signature of our credit card and buying habits, all documented, footprints.

Everywhere we go, we leave our scat, just like everyone else, but still one of a kind. Any dog with a proper sniffer would know.

We wrap ourselves in comforters of our own making to insulate us from the rest of the world and show the face we paint for public consideration. From Owl butterflies with their huge eye spots that stare menacingly from outstretched wings, to stick insects, indistinguishable from any of the twigs they hang with, we pose, hide, posture and rage, celebratory in our unique aura. With every breath we take in this millisecond of life we're given, we leave footprints in the sand that can only be ours, unique to us only.

And then, when the inevitable tides of time wash our footprints away, we, and all of our decorated guises, manifestations of our desperate attempts to strut our uniqueness on stage, are gone forever, as if we had never existed. 

At that moment, and for all of eternity, we are everyman.

hmh

Clouds

Slowly pulled from his nightly coma, blinking, he lay still, identifying familiar shapes in the dark. The dresser piled with clothes, no longer a misshapen horse after all, the curtains pulled across the French doors that go out to the deck, just curtains, not sails. Bright numbers on the clock clicked from 3:20 to 3:21 as it all came flooding back. Throwing his legs over the side of the high four poster, pausing to consider the commitment it would take to actually stand and walk, he did. As he leaned deeply over the bed, recovering his glasses from under her pillow, he knew from the sound of the Geographic channel coming from the other room, that she was still up. Shuffling at first, slowly more mobile, he maneuvered down the three red concrete stairs, right foot, right foot, right foot, into the great room. She was lying on the couch buried under both Afghans, a cocoon of brown and light tan with two wide eyes exposed. As soon as he entered, he knew. When she said nothing, his suspicions were confirmed. She didn't snuggle up to him, showing no indication that he was even there. Better not to question, certainly not verbally, it was still too early for talk. After so many years together, the unpredictable clouds were nothing new, just a weather pattern that would eventually clear on its own.

Sitting back, sleep quickly came knocking once again like a roofie slipped into his water bottle. He reversed his trek in slow motion, enjoying the free fall back into the bed and the luxurious last moment of self awareness as he shifted to one side, welcoming the ether of sleep. After an interval, unmeasured, she crawled onto her side of he bed, inching slowly up to him, a warm puzzle piece, fitting perfectly into his mirror image, sharing unspoken warmth.

Breakfast With Brian

Breakfast with Brian this morning at Georgies Diner. Crispy hash-browns, real orange juice. The Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon was perfect, the black coffee kept coming from the trim waitress. Straight black hair, liquid Obsidian, a shiny waterfall like the coffee itself with each pour

White breasts, confined, pushing out above her stained red apron. Brian was there with young Michael, his special needs Grandson who shares his life, a handsome boy, happy to concentrate on large bites of Feta and spinach omelet. It was when we first moved to St Augustine some 23 years back that I found myself at Brian's place one late afternoon, a rural setting on the outskirts of town. The house was filled with people milling about in an intoxicating aroma of fresh spaghetti sauce and dream clouds of ganja, drifting lazily from the back room. Bonnie Raitt sang familiar tunes from speakers that flanked an overstuffed couch. Spontaneous live music sparked with approval. I felt right at home. Over the years, I've know Brian to be a guy who lived the change he wanted to see in the world. Grounded, spiritual, philosophical in his approach to life. He's one of the good guys who actually cares about people and the planet we live on together. He spends the lions share of his time now as guardian and caretaker to his grandson. That's the best possible scenario for Michael, but it becomes quickly apparent that Brian is the one who benefits the most from their relationship. One could say that Brian has “given up” his life in his dedication to Michael, but the fact is, Brian has truly found his life, his raison d'etre. He and I always have fun discussions about the meaning of...well, everything. We speak of god and men. We entertain ideas and smile at the folly of our need to use time as a yardstick, knowing that no such thing exists. Endless possibilities served back and forth over a net of salt and pepper shakers that hug a colorful selection of stacked jellies. Both of us would readily agree that ultimately, we “know” nothing. I love talk like that.

This world would be a vastly better place with more people like Brian in it, but since he's too big to run through the copy machine, I'll just have to be satisfied with our shared moments over breakfast at Georgies Diner. Same time, same place, next month. Great to see you, Brian.