A Love Effete

Pivotal moments that change who we are come along in every person’s life, sometimes

more than once. I could argue that my pivotal moment was the day I found my wife and later that

night told her I was going to marry her, and did. Or when I was sent to Japan to live for many

years, bringing my Michigander along for the ride. It could also be said that my life changing

moment occurred when my wife and I got pregnant for the first time on our first try or maybe

even when I was given orders to deploy to the Middle East for war. Well, it wasn’t any of these

moments, it came from a phone call after all of these other things had transpired.

The monkey on one’s back. The ghost who haunts those that wronged them in life.

Omitting one’s criminal record to gain a job interview only to have everything dug up and used

in judgement against them. These are the sensations and heavy weights sitting on the chest of the

mind of someone who has, or had, The Devil as their friend.

Maybe friend isn’t the right word to use here. Perhaps partner in crime? No, that suggests one

would be complicit or aware of the dastardly deeds and thoughts bubbling in the cauldron of The

Devil’s mind. For brevity’s sake let’s just say that The Devil was my friend.

Let me straighten one thing out before we go any further. The Devil I am referring to

isn’t the mythological beast of Hades, the fallen angel from the ephemera. He was a flesh and

blood man named Tim Johnson, born in Virginia, the son of a chimney sweep and a secretary.

From all the evidence I was able to gather, witness, and recollect, his life was nondescript and

filled with love. He experienced no great traumas in his life before meeting me that would

account for having become The Devil. There is a movie from the 50’s called The Bad Seed,

about an attractive young girl from a doting family, who inexplicably, is rotten to the core. She is

so vile in her thoughts and behavior that she murders someone trying to limit her play time. This

movie always reminds me of him, not that I have any evidence of him killing another but I

wouldn’t put it passed him.

I met The Devil in training school while I only have been in the Air Force a couple of

months and he remained a fixture of my life in the service for the 10 years I served and even

after I got out. It didn’t matter where I travelled in the world or how long it had been since last

we talked or wrote each other, I would round a corner and he would be standing there smiling his

evil smile. Already scheming his plan to terrorize me even though we had just encountered each

other seconds ago. I know this makes it sound like someone you don’t want to be around and the

opposite of the definition for “friend” but he had his moments. When you really think about it,

why do amusement parks with terrifying roller coasters exist? Well, to scare the crap out of you

of course, and do it within some limited boundaries of safety. He was the source of adventure,

uncertainty, insanity, and extreme intelligence and as long as he was on my side I could harness

that power.

The day when my world started falling apart I didn’t run to him and seek solace. Matter

of fact it was a day or two later when I ran in to him and decided to bare my breaking soul that

he reminded me of his purpose in my life with a short sentence, “Stop being a pussy and shut up

about that shit.” which almost made me react with violence until I realized that he wasn’t ever

meant to be my confidant and that the world didn’t give a damn about me, or any other

grievance. The world was neither good nor evil, it just was, and so was this moment in my life. A

struggle that seemed too great for my talents but yet no ways to avoid it so just live it. Be alive.

I was listening to music from all genres at this time in my life despite that it was pre-

DJ’ing, pre-mp3, and pre-internet. Access to music was still very easy since almost every solider

sent to the desert brought tons of music with them. Music, the universal escape and solace of

humanity. I would borrow CDs and tapes from everyone I encountered. What made it even better

is that the military is the great equalizer, all races and socio-economic backgrounds were present.

I could pick up some favorite artists of the guy down the hall he grew up in the Boston ghetto or

the girl at my shop who grew up on the reservation in Oklahoma. Everyone was from

everywhere and they brought the sounds of their world with them.

I would get “care packages” from people back in the states too: non-perishable food, candy,

notes, pictures, and of course, music. My wife, at the time, would send me all kinds of goodies,

and those were the ones I looked forward to the most.

“Tore open a package it was an empty box

No meaning to me just an empty box

Sender was a woman

She said she's sending me everything that I…I… I never gave her before

She said fill it up and send it back

Fill it up and send it back

So I send her back an empty box

A big mistake sent back an empty box”

It was in one those packages that I got what would be the greatest gift I could have asked for. In

with all the other items she packed was the ultrasound of our son. Three months along. We had

gotten pregnant on our first try and this was the literal fruits of our labor. He was going to be

born before I got back from the desert war and I couldn’t be more excited to get to know this

new human. One of the last things we had done together before I left overseas was to go

shopping for baby stuff. Just thinking about those little toys, plates and forks, and clothes just

made my eyes misty. My life was just beginning and I was going to miss some of it, but we

needed this deployment. The money a solider makes going to a war zone is pretty fantastic and

we knew this was our much needed nest egg to get a family started when I got back. Buy some

furniture, get a house, and be parents!

 “Well I guess I'll see you next lifetime

Maybe we'll be butterflies

I guess I'll see you next lifetime

That sounds so divine

I guess I'll see you next lifetime

I guess I will now

I guess I'll see you next lifetime

Wait

Wait a little while”

It was after dinner and The Devil had run all the humor out of me with his constant heckling and

elbowing. We had finished a walk around tent city and I called it a night and was lying on the cot

in my space staring at the tent roof while listening to Johnny Lang. I heard someone come in the

tent and ask something in a loud voice. I knew it wasn’t The Devil’s so the message wasn’t for

me, I continued staring off in to space as blues poured through the headphones.

“Davis.”

“Davis!”

Wait that is me! I pulled off my headphones and heard the third “Davis!” and yelled back

through the sheet, “Back here!”

A young solider pushed aside the sheet and stood on one of the wooden pallets we had cobbled

together to form a pathway down the middle of the tent to keep the sand from sticking to our feet

after coming back from the shower tent. “Davis, the First Sergeant wants to see you in his tent.”

Shivers went down my spine. It’s late at night and the big cheese wants to see me? Damn.  I

hadn’t done anything that I think he could have found out about and be mad enough to see me.

This is going to be bad. My heart was in my throat from the moment I slide off the cot and into

my shower slippers. Each step on the warm sand towards his tent was like a step closer to the

hangman. I didn’t cut the most direct route through tent city to reach the First Sergeant, it was

more of a ramble, as I tried to make sense of what was happening. I replayed the last few days of

activity keeping a focus on what The Devil had said and done just to make sure I wasn’t about to

walk in to a legal proceeding. After a few minutes of cataloging my days I knocked on the door

of my destiny. I heard steps coming from inside and the sound of a TV and then the door opened

and a smiling man asked me to come in. I was caught off guard as I had only a few encounters

with this man, and men of his stature, that usually revolved around my somewhat anarchist and

certainly rebellious nature. If I remembered correctly this very man not weeks ago had asked me

why I even joined the military if I had such a problem with authority. But here I was being

guided to a couch in the relative splendor of his Living Room.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked me, and of course I never turn down a cold

beverage. In short order he returned with a can of Mountain Dew for me and water for himself.

We made small talk for a minute or two but everything in his face told me a storm was coming.

His smile was painted on. He looked worried. Worried for me.

“I need to tell you something, and I don’t want you to get up and leave. I am going to tell you

something very important and then we are going to sit here and talk about it, ok?”

I think my heart stopped and the room began to spin like a carnie had somewhere pushed a

button to begin the ride now that everyone was onboard.

“Sure, sir, I’m listening.”

“I just got a call from the hospital in Japan. Your wife had a miscarriage a few hours ago. She is

in good health but no in good spirits, as one would imagine. I have arranged for you to call her

directly from right here in my living room. We can call right now or we can take some time and

talk. What would you like to do?”

The carnival ride spun up to full speed and everything seemed blurry, my heart was racing, and

nothing made sense through the fish-eyed lens of tear stained eyes. I sobbed openly. I cried hard

like a six year old boy losing his golden retriever best friend. Through it all the First Sergeant

kept a hand on my back and spoke gentle words. After a few minutes I mumbled words that I

wanted to talk with Dawn now and he walked to the other side of the room where a phone set

was. He picked up the receiver, pressed a few buttons, spoke to someone at length and then

walked over to me and said, “The next person on the other end of this will be your wife, I’ll be in

my bedroom. You have ten minutes.”

When Dawn’s voice finally whispered its way through thousands of miles of phone line and a

dark valley of misery the size of the Grand Canyon it was only recognizable as her contextually.

My wife, my lover, the mother of my child was speaking to me from under the “peine forte et

dure” levied against her from Mother Nature.

“Come home.”

“I will, my love.”

“Now?”

“As soon as I hang up I will get to work on it.”

Sobbing…sobbing…oh the sound a heart makes when the love is being squeezed out of it.

“Misery, love's company and its lonely on the darker side

And when the party is over

And the music has died

You'll be dancin' to the music, baby

Somewhere on the darker side”

America had started building up forces in the Middle East after Saddam Hussein began

invading neighboring countries. The Desert War was supposed to have remedied this but here we

were again, bombing him on a daily basis. There were bases strung all over the desert and I was

on a small one still under development. All of the troops lived in tents, except the officers who

had real buildings and furniture. Our base was just a bunch of tents in the sand with a very large,

and heavily guarded, airfield. The only brick and mortar present were large and functional in

nature; hangars, fuel depots, armories, and so on. With no access to newspapers, news channels,

or internet we relied heavily on the security briefings we got every morning and the occasional

phone calls we got to make to folks back home. One name kept coming up over and over. This

man was threatening to attack all bases, kill any American troops, and wreak havoc on all US

convoys inside of Saudi Arabia.

Right where I was.

He was furious that infidels would be allowed in to the holiest location of Islam. What made him

even more made was that we had a base near Mecca. The place all Muslims have to visit before

death and the direction they have to direct all their prayers each day. The United States was

allowed to be in the center of the Islamic world and wage battles against Muslim people. This

man would not let that stand.

This man was named Usama Bin Ladin. At the time he was not very well known to America but

the military Intelligence agencies knew him quite well. The average solider had no idea who he

was or why he was so furious. I understood why he was mad but what I didn’t understand is why

he would attack us. Especially since every single building we encountered. Every fuel depot we

stopped at. Half the roads we traveled on and almost everything that was written in Arabic with

an English translation had one thing in common, Bin Ladin. Usama was from the same family

that built most of Saudi Arabia and much of the Middle East. This wealthy son of the second

most powerful family in Saudi Arabia, behind the family of Saud, who ruled Saudi Arabia and

gave it its name, was going to use his connections and money to get us. That was scary to me.

No one back home was talking about this guy besides a few news outlets carrying his badly

recorded death threats and fatwas. Only our morning intelligence briefings mentioned it.

The world had Saddam Hussein on their mind, and each one of our bombs had his name on them.

That would only last a few more years and then  the whole world would know who Usama Bin

Ladin was and how lucky we all were that he couldn’t convince his family and the ruling class of

Saudi Arabia to wage a holy war against American soldiers stationed in the Middle East.

I would like to say that I knew what was coming, but I didn’t. I was only concerned about getting

back home to my wife and baby in the oven.

Every day after the phone call from back home was half dream and half nightmare. I was

a somnambulist traversing the desert battlefields and military bureaucracy. My sole goal each

day was talk to the right amount of people in my chain of command to get a release from the tour

of duty in the Middle East back home to be with my wife. I would report to work each morning

and ask my supervisor if he had heard anything from command about my orders. He would say

he had other things to worry about and that someone would contact me. I knew he was just

blowing me off because there were so many other things to worry about and no one really

wanted to be stationed in the desert. To him there were so many problems waiting back home

and everyone had to deal with them somehow? Of course my wife had a miscarriage, shit

happens. Guys get Dear John letters every day and have to struggle with the dissolution of their

marriage and they don’t get orders home. Tough shit.

I would work all day and then when we got back to Tent City I would rush over to

command and see if there were any officers willing to hear my story and consider my plight. It

became a ritual to enter the headquarters and get tear-eyed while begging for mercy from

military officers who have probably heard so many other sob stories that mine was just another

annoyance. But, as I was taught from an early age, they don’t have to really care about me,

because I knew they didn’t, however the old axiom did matter “The squeaky wheel gets the

grease.”

Order of operations: wake up, feel my heartbreak, get in my uniform, ride the bus out to

bomb dump, meet my supervisor, beg him for help, get told off, ask to call my wife, get told to

shut up, go to work, finish for the day, look at the clouds swirling around my head, ride the bus

back to Tent City, race over to command, ask if there is anyone I could talk to, get turned down

or presented to an officer who was rolling his eyes at my parroted story, go back to Tent City,

beg to use the phone and call home, feel my heart break listening to the ruins that was my wife

and our life together, tell her it won’t be long, eat dinner, take a shower, go to sleep and have

nightmare, wake up, and repeat.

With enough badgering, visits to command, and calls back to my home base things were

worked out so I could exchange my remaining tour of duty with another person back home. They

would get to come and complete a full tour with only half remaining (a bonus for them) and I

would have to take another tour of duty within two years to make up for this debacle. The day I

called home and got to tell Dawn that I would be leaving soon was one of the greatest moments I

remember. The weight that was holding me down, the stifling air that I was struggling to breath

in, all seemed to be swept away knowing that I could head home and start fixing things. But isn’t

that just like the error of man? Always trying to “fix” things.

I really thought I was going to be able to fix her. To fix this loss. To fix everything.

“Sometimes, yeah

The black holes inside you

But if you can just lighten up yourself

It'll make you stronger

Been down, yeah"

Home for me was a steel cot two and a half feet of the desert floor. On the steel cot was a

government issue ultra-single mattress, wool blanket, white sheet, and white cover for the lumpy

pillow. My space was about four feet in width by seven feet in length and separated by sheets

previous soldiers had asked people to send from home. Those sheets hung from random cordage

zip lined across the top of the tent. Seven other men shared the tent with me. All of us with the

same amount of sparse privacy accorded by the hanging sheets, empty boxes piled up, and food

crates stolen from the cafeteria. There was one central light bulb some ten feet away and no

electrical sources available in our little cubbies. The heavy canvas of the surrounding tent kept

out most of the wind, dirt, sand, bugs, and sounds of the outside but not everything. It was

common practice to check your clothes and bed before use to ensure there was no scorpions,

camel spiders, and other pesky poisonous creatures building a nest in your space. If you wanted a

light to read by at night (which wasn’t recommended because the other guys in the tent would be

disturbed by the light) it had to be battery operated. If you wanted to listen to music it had better

be kept at a decent volume on headphones because not one, but all men would quickly descend

upon you.

My living area was Spartan to say the least. I, like most everyone else, spent most of our

waking moments outside. There weren’t a lot of things to do but if you were adventurous and

dumb enough you could find a veritable carnival of oddities out in the desert. But when I was in

my “room” it was to read one of the few books I had, look at several of the photos of my wife

and home, listen to music on my headphones while lying on the cot, or writing private letters in

the half gloom to my dearest.

At that time in my life there weren’t very many people to love and correspond with.

There was Dawn Lorraine Davis, my wife. Tim Johnson a.k.a. “The Devil”, my friend. Sarah

Brownstone, my coworker and sometimes kissing mate. Dawn lived in Government Issue

housing on the military base outside the small Japanese town Misawa. It was a nice condo style

unit on the second floor with three neighbors we never got to meet except when they were

complaining about noise, our cat shitting in their children’s sandbox, or me being passed out in

the communal stairwell. The condo was decorated with entry level furniture that 20 somethings

can afford on limited credit, most of the color and comfort coming from posters and art on the

wall and a fancy stereo, with a couch and clunky kitchen table thrown in for people to use in a

utilitarian manner. The Devil and Sarah lived in almost identical surroundings as I did, though I

never visited their domiciles personally. Like I said, we all were given four feet by seven feet.

Timothy McVeigh was sentenced to death and most of us in the military couldn’t be

happier. Any time the media mentioned he was a former solider it was a small cut to our sense of

self-respect. He was a monster. Nothing like us. Nothing like me. That’s what I thought and

believed at the time, anyway. This man planted a bomb to get back at the government and blew

up children. Babies! It just didn’t make sense to me. Meanwhile the comet Hale-Bopp was racing

towards Earth and wouldn’t come back until the year 4397. NASA had landed the Pathfinder on

Mars and for the first time in human history mankind was exploring another planet. Little did I

know at the time that there was another group just as interested in the comet as I and other

aspiring astronomers were, Heaven’s Gate.
There was some bad blood between my command in the desert and me. The guys I

worked with were envious and exhausted with my situation. It doesn’t mean they were heartless

to my plight or that a life was lost but this was war for godssake. We built bombs and shipped

bullets every hour of the day to be used against men, women, and children. I knew they were

saying things like “It’s not like his wife died.” and “It was a miscarriage, he didn’t lose a kid,

there was no kid yet.” which is hurtful but true. There are a lot of things worse in this world than

having a miscarriage, and some of them I had seen and lived through. Somehow, this was worse.

Dawn and I thought we were blessed. We had one of the best starts to a marriage and

everything seemed like a dream come true. When we wanted to get pregnant we did. It was as if

destiny was on our side. There was never a thought in our minds that anything was going to go

wrong, or that anything could go wrong. We were golden children living in halcyon days. So,

when the carpet was pulled out from underneath us it hurt all the more. The loss of our son was

something akin to the end of innocence I’d always heard about. I can’t say I was ever an

innocent boy, far from it, but there never seemed to be anything taken from me that I couldn’t

overcome, regenerate, deal with, isolate, or shake off. This time, the core of my being was

shaken. This time I didn’t know who I was, what I stood for, who to trust, where my love was

safe, or how to make sense of the tragedy. It was like knowing black holes really exist and will

eat everything. A meaningless and dystopic reality.

No one I worked with wanted to say goodbye, hell, they wanted to be going home too.

My command didn’t want me to show up and turn over any equipment and perform the normal

military rituals. Everyone wanted me to evaporate.

So, I did.

I woke up, packed the one bag I brought with me. Left the military issued items stacked

neatly on the bed for the next guy. Walked over to the airfield, since no one wanted to give me a

ride. Sat on a metal pallet outside the hangar where a C-141 was being unloaded and thought

about what was going to happen next. I didn’t know where this plane was going to land next or

how long this whole trip was going to last. I was given open ended orders. I could fly on any

plane, anywhere in the world. My goal was to find the least amount of connections and the

quickest route back to Japan. No frills. No hunger. Just the hope that everything would go as

planned and I would be home within 24 hours. I don’t remember sitting on planes, waiting in

airports, eating any food, or talking to a single soul. The whole trip was lost in the doubts and

fears of what lie ahead.

My wife wasn’t there to greet me at the airport. No one was. I walked outside and spoke

in Japanese asking the taxi driver if he would be willing to drive me over to Misawa and if his

cab was allowed on base. He said yes to both things and we drove in silence, which would be the

case no matter the situation as Japanese men aren’t chatty. When he dropped me off in front of

the condo my bag felt like it was filled with lead. I could barely carry it up the steps to my front

door. When I knocked on my own front door I felt like the stranger I was. This had changed me.

This loss had changed us both.

When I finally got back home to my wife it was like returning to a disaster zone. She was a mess,

the house was a mess, it felt like the only thing we could do was grab the family photos and

make a claim with the insurance company. She cried day and night. Inconsolable, her

heartbreaking was so loud it was making my broken heart shatter to fine powder. Lying in our

bed reminded us of what we lost. Going to the bathroom brought back the vivid and raw

memories of her miscarriage. I had to get us out of there and quick.

Road trip. I got us a flight to Hawaii and we weren’t coming back until smiling felt natural again.

As soon as we landed I hit the rental car lot and found the best convertible they had available,

which wasn’t that nice, but it was still a topless road tripper. We piled the luggage in the trunk

and started doing a loop around the island. We zipped right through Honolulu and headed for

Diamond Head Mountain and the famous beaches on the Northside. The views were spectacular,

the smells were mind boggling, and the freedom was palpable. We were young and ready for

adventure and I was desperate to reignite the passion in our marriage.

There was no doubt in my mind that Dawn loved me, but I wasn’t sure if the pain from losing

our son had extinguished the flame between us. I wanted to remind her that life was just

beginning for us and that there was still so much joy and wander to uncover and this trip was

going to be the swan song to do it.

We were driving for a little while and the city was far behind us. I decided to turn on the stereo

since conversation had died down between us and she was staring off dreamily at the ocean to

our right. Her big brimmed, while hat was tied on to her head and the ribbon was whipping

silently behind her. I watched as she almost smiled several times looking at fruit trees and

tropical birds passing us by. The radio announcer came on and was yelling something about a

local show taking place the weekend coming up and a female was chiming in about all the swag

that every should come and grab up. It was a little jarring at how excited they were and over the

top with the word exchange and then the jangle of the next song came on:

“I’ll go there seeking only what I need

La ti da we’ll stay there till we bleed

Let me keep you in this place

You’ll be better off this way"

When she opened the door I understood by how much.

After all the hugging and kissing, the tears and the talking, and even after we fled to

Hawaii to rebuild our spirits and our love the conclusion was the same. I had been back home

and with Dawn for three weeks, counting our time in Hawaii, and now back to work. I left one

morning as she slept headed for the munitions area. Worked a normal day and did things like I

did before my deployment to the desert, before we got pregnant, and before our son died in

utereo. I came home at 4:15pm and walked in to find Dawn sitting on the couch staring out the

sliding glass door in to the distance.

“Come here and sit down.” she said.

“Sure.” as I took off my hat and boots.

Sitting next to her, now cross legged, I could see she had been crying again. She cried every day

but now just not as much throughout the day.

“I’m leaving.”

I kept looking at her face. I didn’t understand what she said. Or maybe I did understand what she

said, just not what she meant.

“I want to go back home and be with my mom. I’m leaving.”

“This is home.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m leaving.”

I turned to stone. I felt the broken pieces of my heart freeze and harden. Every fear I had in the

world had come true. At that moment I knew that all the bad words said to me, the hurtful

actions taken against me were all true. I deserved them all, I was worthless.

“It seems that you've changed

In these past few days

For when I try to kiss you

You just push me away

Now I don't know what's wrong"

I can't decide, you decide.

http://www.fox2detroit.com/news/local-news/85864595-story

My car needed some tires before Winter came as their treads were woefully thin. I was searching the websites of local establishments but all the new tires were going to cost an arm and a leg.

My perennially cheap bff Mo was my best bet at finding something cheap or used so I asked him where he went to get tires. He said there is a place in front of Briarwood mall that sells used tires real cheap and the guy was "a character". I asked him what he meant and got nothing but another generic statement about his odd personality. Needing something cheap and getting the green light from my buddy was all that I needed. I have to admit there was a little intrigue involved as I pondered what could make my absolutely unique buddy say someone else was out of the ordinary. With all that in mind I pulled up the company's phone number online and dialed. 

The phone was picked up almost immediately and the voice of a young man exited my phone receiver. A nondescript accent and professional tone stated "Whitney's Auto Service." and I replied "Hi, I was wondering if you had..."

Before I could finish what I was going to say he cut in "Hey buddy, don't be like all these other assholes and ask me if I sell used tires. It says it online and on the sign outside my building. Of course I sell fucking tires."

I chuckled and said "No, I was going to ask if you had my tire size."

"Man, you just don't know how many fucking idiots there are out there, right?"

"I can only imagine." was about all that I could muster as my head was spinning a bit from the instant immersion in this guy's mind.

"So, man, what are you lookin' for?"

I told him my tire size.

He said he had that tire and then asked me for my first name to enter in his database.

"Markus"

"You don't sound like no brother. Are you black?"

"Um, nope." was about the only thing I could get out before he went on.

"Yeah, Markus, the whitest black guy I ever talked to. So, Markus, what's your last name?"

"Davis"

"Yup. Got it. So, where do you plant your ass?"

I told him my address.

"Markus, blackest white guy I've never met. Do you drive on the same roads I do with all these fucking morons? Dude, it's the fucking apocalypse out there. No one has a brain in their empty heads. Just morons, everwhere. Like you wouldn't believe? Have you had to talk to any of these fucking idiots? The phone calls I get. I can't even explain to you. Ring ring. Whitney's Auto Care. Do you fix cars? No, asshole, I sell fruit, fuck you. Ring ring. Whitney's Auto Care. Hi, do you know how to fix a problem with a Ford? Sorry, I only work on fucking space ships. Click!"

silence

I am dumbstruck

"You still there not black Markus?"

"I am right here."

"You feel me, negro?"

"I hear ya."

"Alright, so, what are you lookin' for? Wait, you already told me. Shit, what the fuck is going on with me? Yeah, I got those tires, USED, in stock. How many you want?"

He emphasized "USED" with a drawn out tone like a brother mocking a sister.

I told him I wanted two tires and he clucked his tongue and began telling me that replacing only two tires will make the other two wear faster as all tires are made slightly different and the treads will be off and some other scientificy sounds things, all of which I said I understand but I was poor and that it was only going to be two tires this time.

He covers the phone for a moment and yells out to the garage "Stop fucking eating on my time you goddamn burrito eater! Get back to work or I will fire your ass!"

He uncovers the phone and says in a conspiratorial hush "He doesn't even understand English. Don't worry man. He won't cut your tires when you get here. So, when are you getting here?"

I tell him that I need to make sure I have the money and that I am going to ask my wife and he laughs long and loud right in to the phone.

"Oh man! Oh man! You poor pussy whipped bastard. You got to ask a woman for money?"

I tell him that the car in question is my wife's and I am taking care of it. But, yes, I have to ask her for the money as I am a college student.

Long and loud laughing.

"Gotta love that pussy."

I am struggling to keep it together. I want to laugh at this madman and yell all at the same time. The bigotry and racism drip from every word. I think about hanging up and finding some other avenue for cheap tires but really have no idea what to do.

"Yeah man, get her before two and I can hook you up with a good price. I'll have the Mexican put some used tires on your old lady's car. I can't wait to meet you Markus. I've never met a white black guy before."

"Yeah, I'm white. Just so you know."

"Dude. I'm not a dumbass."

"I was jok...."

Laughter.

"Man, I'm fuckin' with you. Get up here already asshole."

Click.

I sit in silence wondering what the hell happened to me.

I tell Amber as much as I can remember. She is in shock and asks me if I am still going to take her car up there.

I say I don't know.

I try to call my buddy Mo and ask him why on Earth he setup me up to call Whitney.

Two hours pass.

I get a text. From Whitney.

"Hey Fucker, where are you?"

I wonder for a moment who just wrote me that message and then it dawns on me. Whitney used the callerID to message me from his phone.
I text back, "I was making up my mind whether or not to come."
"Oh yeah? Lady won't let you leave the house?"
"I meant whether or not I could spend the money."
"Hey asshole, you won't get tires cheaper anywhere. Bring that car up here now and I'll hook you up."
I resigned myself to the whole affair. He was right, the price was the best one I could find and the tires needed to be replaced before road conditions forced us in to a tighter spot so I begrudgingly said, "Yes, I will be there in about 20 minutes."
He didn't acknowledge my reply, he just hung up.
I blinked in surprise and put the phone down.
Ok, I guess. Here we go.
When I did my Michigan turn on State street I saw the gas station with new eyes. I had never given that place more than a cursory glance, what with the gas prices habitually 15-20 cents more per gallon than in my sweet home town. How nondescript it looked. Planted right in front of the mall on one of the busiest streets in Ann Arbor, prime location.
I pulled in but couldn't find a spot to park so I left the car by a gas pump and walked inside quickly.
The layout of the snack food on racks and fountain drinks was not logical and the only counter I was drawn to was behind glass where a bored woman ignored me by watching the traffic outside. I walked up and said I was looking to get tires for my car to which she motioned towards another counter at the other end of the small room that I had not noticed when I first came in. I walked over and stood there gazing through the plexiglass window in to the garage. There was a car up on the lift unattended. Then I noticed an older, Latino gentleman standing frozen at the far end. Dressed as one would imagine a mechanic would be.
Our eyes met.
It was magic.
The kind of magic that freezes you in place.
He stood there, like a New York City performance artist, unmoving.
I looked away after a few long seconds, after losing our staring contest.
He continued to not move.
I shuffled around and looked at items in the gas station.
About five minutes past and I found myself looking out the window in to the garage again at the man standing there. Was he dead?
I looked for a bell or buzzer to ring but was not successful.
I went back to the bored lady at the other counter and asked through the cutout in the glass if this is where I was supposed to come for car maintenance and tires.
She nodded.
I looked at her with some small amount of exasperation and nodded my headed in return. As one would when they finally get food at a company picnic after waiting in a long line only to have someone bump the food off your plate and on to the ant ridden ground.
Yes. I understand my futile place in this world.
Ten minutes pass.
I pull out my phone and text the unknown number (presuming it's Whitney's cell) and write "Hey, I'm at the gas station with my car, ready for those tires."
Some time lapses. I walk around the gas station interior, avoiding the cold. Every pass of the plexiglass window reveals the paralyzed mechanic standing in the same position.
"Who's this?" appears on my screen.
"Markus, I was supposed to get tires from you today."
"You're late man. I said by 2."
"Correct, but then I told you I was coming and it would be about 20 minutes."
"Well, I'm out picking up a car. I'll be back in 15."
"Ok, thanks."
I decide to walk around outside and not become afflicted with whatever malaise seemed to be floating in the air causing the two victims inside to be stricken helpless.
Fifteen minutes later I get a text, "My guy is in the garage, he can help you. I'm going to be a little longer."
"Yeah, I've been trying to get your guy's attention for some time now but he is just standing there looking at me."
"That goddamn cock muppet! Open the door and tell that assclown to come help you."
"Ummm...no."
"Nevermind, I'll be there soon."
Well, this is going to be something special when he arrives. Not that I want to see this guy humiliated in public but I am not pleased with being ignored for almost 30 minutes. If the man was busy working on a car or counting inventory I could understand but he is literally standing there mocking me with his somnambulist gaze.
Another amount of time passes.
In to the parking lot comes a tow truck with minivan attached.
Blocking at least part of the entrance the tow truck stops and out jumps Whitney.
He walks in all smiles and says "Hey there...Markus I presume?"
"Hi ya."
"What a sight for sore eyes. Glad to see what you look like after talking to you so long on the phone. Fuck yeah. Come over here ya bastard." walking towards the unmanned counter near the Plexiglas window.
"Fuck man, I just got that minivan outside for $400. What do you think of that shit, huh? Damn right. $400 and I can fix it up and sell it for $3000. I make money every goddamn day. Motherfucker. Money!"
He slaps the counter. Loud.
He talks to the monitor more than he talks to me but I know my purpose is to be his audience.
"So, what can I do for you, not black Markus?"
"Tires..." he cuts me off.
"Fuck. You want those two tires for your car, right? Right. I remember. I have em right out back, come on."
He stands up and starts walking out to the garage. I decide to follow since he didn't say anything else.
The mechanic who had been standing motionless was now nowhere to be seen. I want to ask about him but after waiting all this time decide that any interruptions will only extend my already long stay in this place with no chairs.
We exit the back of the garage and enter some shipping containers packed with tires. The whole time we are in the containers going through tires Whitney is cussing and carrying on about some lady who took up too much road near the private drive where he got the minivan. There were vivid and lurid descriptions of this woman that I Will not repeat. Things one would normally reserve for the battlefield as you lob hand-grenades in to the trees at people shooting in your direction.
Hurtful words to incite madness. His words made the containers hotter.
I was mostly silent.
Mind you, this wasn't a tirade. It was just a conversation about recent events.
Now with two tires in hand we exit the containers and pass back through the garage where the sleepy mechanic is now working on a car resting up on a lift.
We pass by him and I make eye contact. His expression says "Go ahead and tell him. I don't care."
We resume our positions back at the counter as he types in a bunch of information in to the computer about my make and model. He asks me odd questions about my lifestyle and points to the screen and says its a part of his computer system and he has to ask.
The phone rings and he picks it up, "Whitney Auto Care..."
A voice on the other end gets in a few words that I don't understand.
"Are you serious? You're an idiot."
Click.
He continues typing on the computer as if that was a normal end to a call about commerce.
I fight the urge to ask what that person wanted and why he didn't want to talk to them.
I notice he has some small gifts wrapped up (jewelry boxes or small chocolates) by the computer screen. I ask him about them, and quickly realize I shouldn't have.
"They're for my bitches. I got money, I got bitches. I get them little things and shit, keep em happy. They shut the fuck up and I get what I want."
He winks at me.
"I got money, I got this place and another down the road. I have nice cars. I got women. I live the fucking dream!"
I agree that it sounds like a dream. He nods.
Without standing up or looking away from the computer screen he yells "Hey you fucking ass, get in here!" He waits a moment and looks out the window at the guy working. "HEY YOU FUCKER, COME IN HERE!"
The man finally moves towards us. He comes in and Whitney throws my keys at him and gestures with his head out towards the gas pumps at my car.
The man walks out without a word. Whitney looks to me and says "Goddamn idiot doesn't understand English."
"Really?" I reply.
"No, but it seems like it. Fucking chili choker doesn't work at all. I need to fire his ass."
I look out the door towards my car at the man getting in and wonder what he has seen and heard in this place. What does he hear, or chose not to hear?
I ask him how business is these days, trying to probe a little bit more about this man that I couldn't even make up if I was a screen writer for prime time television.
"You know what? I've got my business, and I make the decisions. I decide what to do and when to do it. I don't have a boss. This is my life and my dream. I made shit come true by working hard. If I don't want to do something I don't do it. If some fucking moron comes in here and wants me to work on their piece of shit, I don't have to. I make the rules in this goddamn place. Me. That's all a man can ask for."
I had to admit. That was a impressive and made me a little envious. Not that I think there are morons every where trying to steal my happiness away, nor do I feel like unleashing Satan's tongue on every Tom, Dick, and Mary but I can appreciate his point of view.
He continues.
"So, I'm having this party on Friday night. I got lots of bitches coming over. You want to come? Man, it will be wild. You look like someone that really knows whats what and how to lay down some stank."
"Thanks, but I'm married. I brought my wife's car in."
His head goes hangdog. "Yeah, yeah."
A moment of reflection.
"You can still come though and not pound the punnani."
"Thanks again, but I'll have to pass."
He looks around for a moment like he is trying to come up with something to say and convince me to go then grabs one of the little gifts and extends it out to me and says, "Here, give this to your ol lady and tell her I said it was a gift. Then she will let you come out."
I see that he is really excited by the idea of not black Markus coming over.
I think my silence has allowed him to gain some amount of comfort. He is intrigued by me.
Just then the door to the gas station opens and in walks a middle aged lady dressed smartly. She comes right up to the counter and asks for assistance. Whitney stands up and says with amazing clarity and courtesy "Hello ma'am, welcome to Whitney's Auto Care. How may I help you?"
She begins explaining her situation as he comes around the counter to assist. They walk outside towards her vehicle together. He is nodding as she continues talking and walking.
The picture of understanding, manners, and accommodation.

Dark eyes

Never have I missed your face
  as much as I do now
Solitary I sit on top of a brick wall
  hoping for you to walk my way
Freedom to wander set me on this path
  gravity of your being pulled me to this perch
Turned my back to the brilliant morning
  so I could write of you, in the shade
The heat and blinding light of the sun
  hits my back like your body wrapped around me
Countless waves of eyes I have stared in to
  then I plunge in to seas behind your dark, warm eyes
You are a stranger, a mystery
  I ache for the adventure and discovery in you
Who are you to do this to me?
  words fail to describe and encompass you
There aren't enough days in my life left to learn
  all that I want to know...about you

When do you cry foul?

I seem to have a different definition for most things, than my peers, and culture in general. For instance, this little story I am about to relate here about how i perceived a past event will juxtapose my view with your comments.

When I was 19 and fresh into the Air Force I put on my list of duty assignments "Worldwide Volunteer" in order to take the last ticket out of banality. I wanted a small "me" sized piece of excitement. So, when our last week at training came and the instructor came in with a handful of assignments I knew finally my time had come. I was out the box and into something new.
"Davis!" he called. I marched right up and took my manilla envelope and smiled as I tore off the seal to my destiny and pulled out the orders stating my first duty assignment! Oh yeah..."Airmen Mark Davis you are hereby ordered to report to duty station Minot, North Dakota by 3 January."
What the FUCK!
North Dakota...that's worse then plain old America. That's where they send criminals and Indians to wallow away into madness. Damn.
Well, I have never been there before, that at least, is something new.
Off I went. I will save the story of what happened to me when I arrived for another day.
For now we need to fast forward to month four in my strange new world.
I started going to the gym with a red-headed extrovert named Zack. He was rather interesting and charismatic and so I toke to him right away. The girls liked him and so I decided that I should follow in his footsteps to learn a few things.
The gym was step one.
The gym on base was rather average with all the normal acuterments you would expect in a medium sized gym. The only thing to state here is that the base in Minot is a homestead base. This means that military people that normally have to take new assignments every three to four years can elect to stay at this base (since it is so unfavorable) for as long as they want. This means that certain things become familiar to the average denizen of this military base like odd people, criminal activity, boring locations. But, for people like me...everything was new and unexpected.
Wednesday, a normal day and Zack wasn't in his room. So, I assumed he was already at the gym, and so I headed on over to get started. I hit the locker room to start changing. A teenager that I had seen in the gym numerous times before, but never talked to, was already there and drying off from his after shower workout. I noticed he had an atrophied arm and must have suffered from some birth defect or whatnot. He looked over at me and smiled and I replied easily "How ya doin?" which he said "Good." and that was it. I got the last of my clothes off, wrapped a towel around my waist, and headed for the steam room (I like to loosen up before I workout). After a few minutes in walks this kid with the same towel used a few moments before to dry off.
He sits just within eyesight as the steam began to fill the room. I can see his form in the midst. No sound but the "phsshhh" of steam for five minutes. Right before the steam turned off I noticed an underlying sound. Like feet slapping against the floor. I ignored it and got up to leave.
As I was exiting I noticed that the form was mirroring me so I decided to try and shake him by going immediately into the sauna.
I walked right in suppressing my bodies urge to go into heatstroke. After winning that small battle I laid down against the wall. Seconds later in walks the teenager. He is searching my face, but I had already hung my head to avoid conversation.
He sat closer this time.
After about four minutes I heard that noise again...a little different, but a pattern nonetheless. I didn't want to awknowledge him or look around the room so I just got up and left.
I stood out in the anteroom between the sauna and the steamroom trying not to faint with all the spinning my head was doing and out walks the teenager. He starts to make small talk and I oblige for a few minutes. But, I feel creeped out by this guy. He wasn't handicapped or suffering from Down's Syndrome he just had this crippled arm.
He started smiling at me all super joy-joy...and that didn't make me feel happy or joyous...I wanted to get the fuck out of Dodge.
I started to walk towards the steam room for another attempt at shaking him only to be intercepted by this kid going in first.
I stand there for a second and realize that this kid is definately following me. I beeline for the locker room to get my gym clothes on so I could get out into the public domain. Once at my locker I realize that I am soaked top to bottom with steam and sweat. It would gross even me out to try and use equipment dripping from ear to ear so I make for the showers.
A minute later in walks the teenager and he starts to shower... again!
One showerhead away from me.
I slouch forward a little to get water in my face and down my neck to make it look like I am in relax-mode. I stay that way for a few minutes until I hear that familar sound again (feet slapping against a wet floor).
I peek to my right to see what is happening with strange boy and there it is. Horror of horrors...he is masturbating with the shower soap. He wasn't looking completely at me just up at me and then back to the wall to get whatever image he wanted refreshed.
In my terror I noticed that he was not only masturbating next to me, and most likely to me, but he had one of the largest dicks I had ever seen on screen or in real life.
The soap bubbles were getting thicker and he was starting to make more sounds. That's when I broke.
I took off out of the shower running to my locker. I put on all my stuff wet.
I ran out of the locker room and out of the gym altogether.
I at first wasn't sure if it was by accident that all that happened and it all became clear when I told Zack the story.
He said he had a strange conversation with this kid a month before and had dismissed it as plain unusual.
Now as I sit here I wonder. How many young bucks encountered this fellow before someone

took it seriously?

The Heidelberg Project

I used to work at a university doing IT work and hung out with most of the IT guys on campus whether we just went to lunch, walked campus, or went out after work. As most of you can imagine IT work takes a special kind of person and they usually are nerds. Nerdy looking people with anachronistic haircuts and t-shirts emblazoned with esoteric references. It's a gross generalization that is usually correct.
IT guys are smart and funny, but a different kind of funny, like a joke you have to read twice before you get it and laugh.
I'm not your usual IT guy, in look or behavior. That's important to the story, not just me being vain (which I can be).
I hung out with a particular IT guy quite a bit while I worked at the university because he was similar to me in that he was quite different from the computer geek norm. Oh sure he had the look but it was his attitude and personality that set him apart. Even from me. This guy had charm like a silver screen character. When he turned it on there was no avoiding how attractive and disarming its effect was. I'd marvel at him every time he became the charmer and never even tried to take notes because it was just magic and there was no imitating it. We'll call him Gable.
So, as per usual I would bug Gable during the day with whatever (IT stuff, jokes, stories, really...whatever) and he stopped me with a request. He had received an offer from an exchange student to go have drinks with him later that night and he wanted to offset the "date" with me and maybe another person so everything go more along the lines of hanging out instead of dating. I didn't really ask whether it was for her sake or his but it was an unsuspecting way of getting an escape hatch. I agreed to accompany them out to Ann Arbor and hang after work around 6:30.
I didn't bother to change clothes or anything and just hung around the office until it was time to drive out to the bar he had chosen, The Heidelberg. About the only fancy thing about this place was the name. It was a local hangout/dive bar for college students in our neighboring town Ann Arbor located on the main strip of eateries in the downtown. I wasn't excited about the choice mainly because parking in that town, especially in that part of town is near impossible and costly. I was going to make Gable buy me a drink to offset the cost of parking...which kind of got me excited. I was going to get an expensive drink after I convinced him to buy me something.
Anyway, 6:30 arrived and so did I. On time. At the Heidelberg. I even got to park on the street just a block away!
Gable and his lady friend were standing outside enjoying some small talk when I walked up and he introduced me in his very suave way, even I blushed.
Dispensing with the formalities we entered the nearly dead bar and walked towards the back discussing where we should position ourselves. Consensus was we get to the dart board before the crowds showed up and start drinking and playing a little lite game of darts.
I hatched my plan for a free drink and Gable bit. I got a double shot of bourbon.
We played darts, talked, drank, and had a good time. I tried to stay out of the way of their conversations but being the extrovert that I am it wasn't long before I was talking as much as Gable if not more. I could tell it wasn't sitting well with him and he wanted to change the scenery to minimize my presence. An hour and a half had passed since we first arrived and starting hanging out and by that time the bar had increased in occupancy by at least 50 so the noise level had risen. Especially from upstairs.
I asked the waiter what was happening upstairs and he said karaoke. I was a little surprised that it was already so raucous just a little after 8 pm on a Tuesday night but it did intrigue me so I entreated Gable and the exchange student to visit the scene above.
As we walked up the dirty stairs to the second floor of the bar the noise level magnified exponentially. A blend of laughter, cackling, singing, music, yelling, and loud conversations made it seem more like a brothel than a bar. As we crested the stairs and surveyed the room shock hit us all. We had been transported to a completely different place, in mood, in space, in time.
There was a youngish woman with short hair singing Nine Inch Nails "Closer" like it was a chant. Her mouth was engulfing the mic and most of her words were muddled by the effect. Leaning on to the mic and almost toppling over with it several times like it was a lover that she was trying to grind against on the dance floor. People caterwauled along with her seemingly driving her deeper in to the sexy song and losing all sense of what she was doing. By the end of the song the short haired woman was rubbing the mic and swaying like it was a drunken and desperate kiss. The crowd was going wild with it all!
We stood there blinking and stunned. I was smiling like a Jack-o-lantern and looking back and forth to Gable and the exchange student. They weren't pleased but they weren't leaving either.
I moved in to the room and took a seat at one of the many long tables (think picnic tables) hoping that would be the momentum needed to get the other two to join this crowd. It worked.
We sat down and grabbed a big tome sitting further down the table and looked it over. The Karaoke song listing. Now the conversation got excited as we started talking about songs we could sing, ones the other person should sing, and daring each other to sing this that or the other thing.
I picked the first song from our little group. You Sexy Thing by Hot Chocolate.
While they talked over their choices I went to the bar (upstairs, there were two at the Heidelberg) and ordered a Long Island Ice Tea. The crowd up here was thick and drinking heavily and I didn't want to be without something if the lines got long so this drink should cover me for a while. The bartender looked more like a butcher from New York with a dirty white apron and maybe was the cook working double shifts. When I ordered he nodded turned around grabbed a red plastic cup like you would see at a picnic (yes, I think it was a theme for the upstairs) and set it down on the bar and proceeded to dump liquor in to it. There as no measuring. There was nothing but abandon.
He filled a 16 ounce cup with booze, almost to the brim. Then dropped a scrapping of ice from the bottom of an almost empty cooler and sprinkled it on the top like a garnish.
The drink was $6 and I gave him a $10 and walked away smiling.
I was going to be toast!
I practically danced back to the table and sat down to display my drink to the two who were still in hot debate about what to sing and who should sing it.
They didn't care about the booze and I was ready to get to work on it so I turned away from the two chatty Kathies and watched the show up on stage while sipping away.
Each "artist" that took to stage bent the meaning of performing and singing further and further from center. Three songs later it was my turn and over half of my drink was gone. The warmth inside me was strong enough that it felt like a force field.
I was powerful. Driven. Meant to sing my song to the masses.
Once I was up on stage and looking down in to the smokey room it struck me how much everything looked like an old Dutch painting of commoners at a festival replete with love making, urination, and debauchery.
I was among my people. The bass line kicked off and the drum beat brought me up to "I believe in miracles. Where you from? You sexy thang. You Sexy thing you."
I swayed my hips.
I pointed to people in the crowd.
I sang off key.
I stumbled and laughed along with the carnival.
Who knows if it ended well as I don't even remember singing the whole song, but when I sat down Gable was laughing at me and you couldn't slide a piece of paper between him and the exchange student.
They were drinking now and the noise in the room pretty much eliminated conversation. Now it was a yelling match.
A few minutes later a young man, with drink in hand, sat on the other side of the exchange student and began trying to muscle in on his date-not date. She wasn't happy about it. He wasn't happy about it. Only the dude, oblivious to the situation, seemed to think it was a going well. I thought to myself "This guy has to go and I'm just the guy to take care of it."
I got up and moved to their side of the table, sitting down next to the interloper.
I leaned over, tapping him on the shoulder, and waited for him to acknowledge me.
When he looked over at me I leaned in real close and talked in a normal voice, almost in to his ear "That girl you are talking to...yeah, she is with me and my buddy."
"Oh yeah?", he answered.
"Yup. We came here just to get warmed up. Then we are going back to his place and having a threesome. There are already three of us."
...
He stared at me. Trying to read me. Maybe trying to process what I said.
Then he got up. So did I.
He walked away and I went back to my side of the table and sat down smiling.
She leaned over and said "Thank you! What did you say to him to make him leave?"
Without thinking I told the truth.
Gable's face was one of displeasure and confusion, her's was one of horror.
Gratitude for my act was only have granted as they huddled closer to gather and shutting me out, understandably.
I finished my drink and went and got another. I don't remember why I did that or where I went with the drink but it wasn't back to the table with Gable and the student. After some time and more of my second Long Island down the gullet I ran in to some guys wearing letter jackets and took offense to it. I made some disparaging remarks about sports, jocks, and jerseys and they took offense that I wasn't a bigger dude trying to start a fight. I assured them that I was fighting material and pushed one on to a table and that began a nice fight. It was only one or two swings later and I was missing a part of my shirt, had my bell rang, my drink was long gone, and a bouncer was pulling me down the stairs towards the main entrance. My head cleared up a little once I was outside in the cold.
The letter jacket wearing guys came out next and the fight began anew this time with the bouncer included. I was not doing well against the strength and coordination of these sportsmen. Thankfully, the fight ended just as abruptly as it began and there I was sitting on my butt from the last punch I collected. On the sidewalk. In Ann Arbor. Tuesday night. Winter. Some time after 10 pm.
I sat there for a while wondering what to do since my coat was still inside with all my stuff in it as well as my two friends.
I was stuck.
I sat there for an undetermined amount of time pondering how I did singing "You Sexy Thing" when all of a sudden a very angry voice was demanding to know what the hell I was doing. I stared off down the street ignoring the person who was not treating me nice as I had just about enough of bad things when the person jerked me to my feet. I spun around and was either going to block them from hitting me or punch them but I can't be sure as I realized it was Gable. He was holding my coat and demanding to know what the hell I was doing. Why fight in a bar? Why drink so much? Why....why...w...
I stopped paying attention as he was holding my coat and I was thinking "Get your keys and drive home." and grabbed my coat from his hands. I slipped the keys out of the pocket as he grabbed the coat back and continued to ask me questions that I had no answers to. The exchange student asked me if I was cold without my coat on and I declared that I was hot, as a matter of fact!
With that I ripped off my shirt and stood there in my pants and shoes.
Gable tried to put my coat on over me now that he saw that I was becoming unreasonable and I was having none of it so I took a step back and then spun around pulling my pants off simultaneously. Now I was buck naked. On the street. In downtown Ann Arbor. In Winter.
I started to run away from Gable and co.
They stood there shocked and didn't attempt pursuit for a few seconds which allowed me time to run towards my car.
By the time I got to my car Gable was right behind me and trying to push me away from the car door. It was a real good scuffle. He was determined to keep me from getting inside and I was determined to drive away.
In the end I was able to get inside my car, with keys, and lock it. He was holding my clothes against the window and yelling. Now the exchange student was pounding on the windows too. With them standing next to my car I started it up and took off down the road with a posted 25 mile per hour limit going about 60. I ran two red lights.
Darkness over took me.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Knocking on glass.
I wake up as I am laying down on my belly. I look over and there is a man standing on the passenger side of my car knocking on the window. When he sees me look over at him he asks with supreme incredulity "Are you ok?".
I am confused as to why there is a man talking to me in my room.
Then I realize that I am not in my room. I am laying down in the grass on the side of the freeway. I'm coated in morning dew. I jump up and back in to my car and slam the driver's side door. I look over at the man as he backs away from the passenger door like I pulled a gun on him. My car is still running and its pointed the wrong way down the highway. I am off the shoulder and in the grass on the side. I step on the gas and shut off and do a quick U turn over the two lanes and pass the man walking back to his Courtesy Patrol Van shaking his head.
Just a few hundred feet down the highway, going the right direction, was the exit for my neighborhood. I sped off the highway thanking all the lucky stars that a cop didn't come by before the courtesy van. That I didn't wreck and hurt someone. That this wasn't a DUI story.
It was a terrible ending to a crazy night.
I've never done anything like that again.

Mighty sweet tomatoes

Living in Vegas was a hard thing to do, with all the constant action and strangeness to be had at any moment. Finding good places to hang out with friends, low key, and healthy places to eat far from the strip can be even harder to come by.
Be that as it may I was lucky in that I bought a condo right on the edge of the good part of town. That meant I didn't have to pay the terribly high taxes but still roll in the heavenly trough of the rich and famous.
Enter Sweet Tomatoes, an all-you-can-eat salad bar in the "good part of town". This place was so fantastic that we (me, ex, friends, etc) went there all the time. I would use this spot especially when guests would come to visit from out of town. Going there would be my version of patronizing a four star restaurant. Obviously, I held this eatery in high regard, but I digress.
This story really starts when my friend from Japan moved back to the states and stayed with me on her way to Arizona.
It was another sunny day in fabulous Las Vegas and we went out to ST for an early dinner. There was much planned for the evening so we had to get eating out of the way. Having already picked our selections of salads, soups, baked goods, pasta, and desserts we seated ourselves and got to work eating. Laughing, sharing stories and munching away the time passed rather quickly. We had been eating and enjoying ourselves for an hour or so when the urge to hit the boy's room came upon me. Casually, I excused myself and meandered through the establishment to the cubby nestled in the back where restrooms are normally hidden.
Pushing open the door I immediately encountered a middle-aged man dressed casually standing by the sink almost blocking the entrance. The bathroom wasn't a tight fit but the entrance and egress was a close shave if anyone was washing their hands or standing by the door, like this gentlemen. I excused myself squeezing by him trying not to make eye contact on my way to the urinal, as is the male custom. The sink was close enough for me to kick my leg backwards and touch it while standing at the sole urinal. The walled-in toilet stall was in arm's reach from where I stood as well, and this guy was quietly standing not two and a half feet behind me. Standing at the sink, looking in to the mirror. Not fixing his shirt or messing with his hair. Just standing there with hands down at his sides.
As I got my feet positioned for the proper peeing distance and distanced from the porcelain to avoid splash I started to unzip my pants when, from behind me I heard the man speak up.
"You need any help?"
I froze.
I was already looking straightforward in the traditional manly position with my one hand holding the side of my jean opening and the other forming a claw clinched on the zipper itself. As he uttered those words.
My mind started racing through the aisles and aisles of responses: No thank you, Shut the Fuck Up!, I will kill you!, Ahh, it's not that heavy..., etc.
Nothing seemed to match my situation. He didn't seem like the laughing sort of guy. This didn't seem like the confrontation kind of place.
A battle didn't seem appropriate in this holy place (to me) and my reactions seemed far to crazy for what was asked of me.
I'm not attracted to men...wait, I do find a lot of men attractive but I don't want to have intercourse with them is what I should say...so why am I starting to freak out right now?!
Just stay silent should be what I do. It wasn't a pushy question. Just a question. I can't be rude and not answer. What should I say? (all of this took place in the silence after he uttered those words...about two-three seconds)
My mouth started to open to utter a response that I wasn't even sure of, and for a second the thought of just whipping around and doing some Kung-fu kicking shit might be the solution to the problem that I was facing...when...

A tiny, little voice came from the toilet
"no dad, i got it."

I shut my eyes in shame and relief.
I hadn't see anyone in the stall when I first walked in because the boy was so short his legs didn't touch the floor.
This was his dad, standing there waiting for him.
I was just an intruder in this small moment. Their dinner out and his requirement to use the bathroom and have help.
I was able to actually finish what I went in there to do and then got the hell out of there. I wanted to wash my hands but I couldn't look at the guy in the face after all I put him through, in my mind. I was embarrassed to have accused him silently.
I just walked out.
Thank goodness my friends were already standing by the door and ready to leave.
I walked out of that place a battle weary solider having fought a war against fear...in a bathroom stall.

The magic in my yard

Have any of you been drawn in to the fantasy of living vicariously? Drawn in to a world rendered by your imagination and populated by a few facts, some conjecture, and a smattering of memory?
Maybe it was because of a friend or coworker who regaled you with stories of trips, scenes from an Italian restaurant, lovers, or daring do.
Perhaps it's a neighbor who has amazing toys on display. Nice cars. Fancy lawn chairs. Rare garden gnomes.
Far be it from me to presume to know any of you, my darling neighbors, enough to proclaim that you do get lost in dreams such as I've described. I merely pose the question as...
I, on the other hand, do.
As a matter of fact I've been imagining what kind of life the person lives who walks passed my house twice a week.
This cad, I take liberties here, seems to live a life free of the restraints that bind many of us. He comes on different days, which tells me there are no corporations bossing him around. This outlaw passes my house at different times of the day, the sea may bring the tide in and out predictively but a pirate's ship sails whenever!
This rebel is unfettered by social mores, he drinks whenever he wants and whatever he wants. Tradition does not chain him, he eats when he walks since there is no table big or warm enough to greet him.
How do I know these things about a stranger I have not met and talked to you ask?
Sherlock Holmes taught me well.
Over the past year I have picked up the clues left by this stranger in a strange land:
Pint of Crown Royal (Tues, 3pm)
Taco Bell bean burrito (Mon, 7:50am)
Two airplane mini bottles of 1800 and Beefeaters (Sat 1pm)
One bag from McD's containing fries and fish fillet, one drink (Tues, 5pm)
Baby Ruth (Thu, 7pm)
Cigar wrapper, can of ice tea, and Funyuns (Sun, 10am)
The list goes on and on...

All of these clues were left on the sidewalk in front of my house. I was once sure the person was trying to leave me a trail, breadcrumb style, to follow them to whatever promised land awaits people who enjoy fast food, snacks, caffeinated drinks, tobacco, and booze but I was wrong.
There was no trail, just the wind blowing his clues for me down to a neighbor.
One day we will meet, this outlaw and I.
We shall break bread with a Taco Bell Party Pack, and I'll watch him smoke a celebratory Swisher Sweet.
We'll throw the garbage in my yard or near the sidewalk together, maybe even wink knowingly.
I think on that day many things will be won, but one thing will be lost, his freedom. He'll have to move on to another yard as I will know him and the glory of a pirate is in the unknown and unpredictable.
Go on, littering bird, fly away. I've lost you before I could even catch you.