April 28, 2005
To Whom It May Concern:
As I finish out my time this semester and my time at the University of Colorado I feel constant feelings of sentiment. I see myself telling friends I may never see again goodbye, reminiscing over memories of the past and figuring out what are the few things that still remain for me to do.
What has been a balancing force for me during this rough time of transition is the ability to write. I have no unique writing ability, but I still feel that I am able to produce a high quality level of work because of the emotion I put into it. As I wrote the stories of “A Month Later” and “The Regular” as well as the drama piece “The Boys of Summer”, I found myself using the characters as outlets of my own emotional issues.
The specific characters are not necessarily reflections of me, but their emotional responses are. Each character embodies feelings or things I have gone through emotionally and spiritually. As I seek out purpose, deal with turmoil in relationships, and lament over leaving the past behind, I use the characters of my stories as a vehicle to display my brokenness.
I consider myself a particularly happy and joyful person. I am an extrovert that everyone loves being around and I give life to those people. This seems so ironic in light of the tone of all my writing. Although my stories are not written just to be depressing, the majority of them have a dark light on them. There is nothing outright joyful about any of them. It is so weird that I find myself writing stories of pessimism when in reality I am a constant optimist.
I do not know what type of stories will be written in the future or where I will take these ones, but I do know that writing is great therapy for me. As I stated in my portfolio reflection letter, “although this assignment presents a formal ending to my required writing, I know that I will continue to write. Being able to convey emotion on paper is an incredibly useful tool. I do it not for an audience, but for myself”.
Sincerely,
Shaun William Davies
Thursday, October 9, 2008
1997-2001 - February 15, 2005
A summer night, driving down those vacant streets
Memories unfold and the feelings surface of the past
Where the intersection of Wadsworth and 104th meets
This is the world where my legacy will last
The halls are lined with lockers, silent and without hurry
I remember pushing through the mob to not be late
Life was simple then, I had no worry
Except for a tennis match or a prom date
I miss the girls, I miss the parties, I miss my friends
I miss the sports, I miss the dances, I miss those Friday nights
When we would commit mischief and debauchery without amends
Those glorious moments are now mere ghosts on these legendary sites
As I pull away and watch it fade in my rearview mirror
I lament that those days are no longer here
Memories unfold and the feelings surface of the past
Where the intersection of Wadsworth and 104th meets
This is the world where my legacy will last
The halls are lined with lockers, silent and without hurry
I remember pushing through the mob to not be late
Life was simple then, I had no worry
Except for a tennis match or a prom date
I miss the girls, I miss the parties, I miss my friends
I miss the sports, I miss the dances, I miss those Friday nights
When we would commit mischief and debauchery without amends
Those glorious moments are now mere ghosts on these legendary sites
As I pull away and watch it fade in my rearview mirror
I lament that those days are no longer here
Iraq - February 8, 2005
Dim room
Lit only by a flickering television
I droop on the couch
School hoodie and sweats hang on my body
Spring
Roommates asleep and snoring
Midnight break
Late evening drive-through snack
Homework due in the morning
Eyelids getting heavy as bricks
The oil bleeds through the paper bag making it transparent
Greasy cheeseburger dripping with mustard
Sits untouched and pristine for my hunger
Eyes bloodshot but straining to watch
Television a collage of rubble and ruins
One tank rumbles through, flying a solo American flag
Angered mobs covered in sweat, blood and filth surround it
Solidiers, Americans, men, husbands, brothers, sons, boys
I am 20
Watching for Brian or Jason
Textbooks open and unused at the desk
The day’s dead scroll by
Slow and steady like a funeral procession
18, 19, 18, 23, 19, 20, 20, 23, 20
Hands fumble for the sandwich
First bite of the burger
Mouth full, swallow, gag
This burger tastes like sand
Lit only by a flickering television
I droop on the couch
School hoodie and sweats hang on my body
Spring
Roommates asleep and snoring
Midnight break
Late evening drive-through snack
Homework due in the morning
Eyelids getting heavy as bricks
The oil bleeds through the paper bag making it transparent
Greasy cheeseburger dripping with mustard
Sits untouched and pristine for my hunger
Eyes bloodshot but straining to watch
Television a collage of rubble and ruins
One tank rumbles through, flying a solo American flag
Angered mobs covered in sweat, blood and filth surround it
Solidiers, Americans, men, husbands, brothers, sons, boys
I am 20
Watching for Brian or Jason
Textbooks open and unused at the desk
The day’s dead scroll by
Slow and steady like a funeral procession
18, 19, 18, 23, 19, 20, 20, 23, 20
Hands fumble for the sandwich
First bite of the burger
Mouth full, swallow, gag
This burger tastes like sand
Pepper and Eggs - February 1, 2005
The velvet blanket tickles my chin
The morning sunshine bleeds through the window
I hear coffee brewing and butter sizzling
My mouth begins to water in anticipation of breakfast
And the smell of scrambled eggs floats under my nose
As I rise from my slumber, I half-consciously stagger to the kitchen
Awaiting me on a pearly porcelain plate is a mountain of golden scrambled eggs
The white and yellow marbleize into a creamy stack covered with black specs
This AM present has been graced by delicious ground pepper
The morning sunshine bleeds through the window
I hear coffee brewing and butter sizzling
My mouth begins to water in anticipation of breakfast
And the smell of scrambled eggs floats under my nose
As I rise from my slumber, I half-consciously stagger to the kitchen
Awaiting me on a pearly porcelain plate is a mountain of golden scrambled eggs
The white and yellow marbleize into a creamy stack covered with black specs
This AM present has been graced by delicious ground pepper
the 2nd - january 25, 2005
dusk begins to slip beneath the horizon
pavement is damp and the drizzle continues
car sits idle in the coffee shop parking lot
through the fogged windows two motionless figures
the couple sits in the car and the radio is silent
his knuckles are white gripping the steering wheel
she brings her coffee cup to her lips but doesn’t sip
the leather seats are dank
he turns his gaze to her and catches her eyes
she quickly looks away
raindrops tap on the outside of the car
his stare is now fixed on her hair, that featherlike golden hair
she bites her lip because she can feel his eyes
the smell of her perfume mixed with the spring rain fills the car
he closes his eyes and faces the windshield letting out a sigh
she swallows and folds her arms in, curling herself in her lap
the breaths of two separate people is the only sound
outside those doors the world has stopped
streetlights reflect off the lone wet car
asphalt is soaked, puddles form
night brings a black sky and not a single star
pavement is damp and the drizzle continues
car sits idle in the coffee shop parking lot
through the fogged windows two motionless figures
the couple sits in the car and the radio is silent
his knuckles are white gripping the steering wheel
she brings her coffee cup to her lips but doesn’t sip
the leather seats are dank
he turns his gaze to her and catches her eyes
she quickly looks away
raindrops tap on the outside of the car
his stare is now fixed on her hair, that featherlike golden hair
she bites her lip because she can feel his eyes
the smell of her perfume mixed with the spring rain fills the car
he closes his eyes and faces the windshield letting out a sigh
she swallows and folds her arms in, curling herself in her lap
the breaths of two separate people is the only sound
outside those doors the world has stopped
streetlights reflect off the lone wet car
asphalt is soaked, puddles form
night brings a black sky and not a single star
The Boys of Summer - April 20, 2005
The Boys of Summer
Characters
Mitch Olsen
Patrick Burk
James Smith
Marlene McMurphy
Setting: The play takes place in an office, which is set up to reflect the current era. The stage is lit brightly with florescent lights. The backdrop is a white wall or canvas with little to it other than simple paintings of the outdoors, oceans, flowers and other mundane stereotypical office artwork. In the center of the stage are two desks, both of which face the theater, side by side, so that when the characters are seated, they have direct eye contact with the audience. To the left of the first desk is a copy machine and to the right of the second desk is a water cooler.
The desks each have on them a telephone, a cup of pens, a computer monitor and a keyboard. On the left desk sits a picture frame that’s image cannot be seen by the audience. On the right desk sits a large stack of computer paper.
Both characters of Mitch Olsen and Patrick Burk sit at their desks as the play opens. Mitch, seated on the left, is drumming a pen on the desk and reading his computer monitor. Patrick is thumbing through the stack of papers and occasionally stopping to underline something.
All male characters in this play wear business attire consisting of dress shirts, ties, slacks and nice shoes. Marlene wears a formal blouse and a skirt that is knee length.
Mitch, Patrick and Marlene are all portrayed as young, freshly out of college, professionals. The character of James is played by a man in his late forties.
The year: 2005
Patrick Burk (Puts stack of papers down and plops the pen down on top them, looks
over at Mitch): Hey Mitch, do you really think the rumors are true?
Mitch Olsen (Still drumming his pen he looks up from his monitor and at Patrick): The
ones about Smith and his wife?
Patrick: Yes. Those ones.
Mitch: I don’t know Patrick. I mean, I have never really thought of him to be one of
those guys. He never talks to girls around the office or anything. Hell, I’ve never even seen him hit on a waitress when we go out for drinks.
Patrick: But I heard his wife caught him at a hotel with some chick. I heard that she
had been suspicious for a long time and finally decided to follow him from the office one day.
Mitch: It doesn’t surprise me. Look at the guy. His life is pathetic.
Patrick: Hardly! The guy is a district manager, he’s easily pulling in six figures, he has
a huge house, he goes golfing every Saturday, and his son just landed the varsity quarterback position at Central. The guy is living the dream
Mitch: Patty, come on. You can’t be serious. The guy …(Stops as James walks into
the room from right stage side)…and that is why I can’t get this stupid thing to print.
James Smith (Carrying a stack of file folders in one hand and a document in the other
he walks through the room. He keeps his head down, reading the document but stops in front of the space between the two desks): Problems with the computer Mitch?
Mitch: No Mr. Smith (Begins typing on the keyboard), just had a printing problem
earlier, but I figured it out and took care of it.
James: Good to hear. (Takes one step and stops) I will be out of the office this
afternoon, but when you finish the report on the Westinghouse accounts email it to Marlene and tell her to make sure she looks it over before my meeting in the morning (Begins walking out towards left stage side).
Mitch: Will do sir! Have a great afternoon.
James: Hmm. (Exit)
Mitch: See what I mean? The guy is the walking dead.
Patrick: Fuck Mitch! What do you got that makes your life so much better?
Mitch: Nothing. I am as pathetic as he is. The highlight of my damn week is drinking
a 40 by myself and watching baseball on Wednesday nights. We are all pathetic. Every damn one of us in this office.
Patrick: Go to hell Mitch (Turns head back down and starts going through the stack of
papers again).
Mitch: It’s the truth. You can’t deny it. Look at yourself.
Patrick: I have a great life (Looks up. Begins listing things on his fingers). I am using
the degree I earned in college, I’m making decent money, I drive a nice car, I just put down the down payment on a condo, and … (Pauses).
Mitch: Hmmm (Begins mocking Patrick’s hand counting and speaking sarcastically).
Fucking worthless, fucking vain, fucking frivolous, fucking pathetic, you’re right Patty. You really got it going on!
Patrick: Dude, come on Mitch. You know it’s not much, but you got to learn to be
happy with what you got. We’re doing a hell of a lot better than those guys that change oil and shit like that.
Mitch: I didn’t mean it as a slam against you personally. I mean it for all of us. There
has to be something more. Don’t you wonder what the heck happened to the kid you once were?
Patrick: Bro, first you were talking trash about our lives and now you’re getting all
sentimental on me.
Mitch (Leaning back now in the chair with his hands behind his head): No Pat, I’m
serious. (Closes eyes and takes a deep breath in through his nose) I remember playing wiffle ball on my driveway as a kid and wanting to be a major leaguer. (Laughs) My neighbors and I would play every afternoon during our summer breaks (Opens eyes and leans forward, staring Patrick straight in the eyes). If you hit one from the garage door to the other side of the street it was a home run. But if you hit a pop fly and it landed before it got to the other side, it was an out. If you…(laughs to self) never mind. God those days were glorious though. What about you Pat? What did you want to do?
Patrick (Cracking a smile): Crap man. I don’t know. I…I never gave it much thought.
Mitch: Come on (Gets louder). Yes you did. What did you want be?
Patrick: (Stuttering) I…I…I dunno. I dunno.
Mitch: Come on. I know you had some sort of dream.
(Long Pause. Patrick looks about the room and into the air as if in deep thought. Mitch doesn’t take his stare from Patrick. Something comes to Patrick and he nods)
Patrick: Don’t laugh (His smile turns to a very stern and serious look, begins to
whisper), but I wanted to be a chef. I loved cooking as a kid. I was never good at it, but when I did it, I was…I was…I was happy.
Mitch: See man? (He begins to talk very quietly now and he is no longer smiling) We
all had our dreams. Big ones, little ones, it didn’t matter. But at some point, regardless of what caused it, we let them slip away into the past. (Begins shaking head) We settled for something else.
Patrick: (Speaking normally) God dude, you’re the worst fucking therapist ever
(Laughs). I was content with my life, but now I want to go kill myself.
Mitch: Sad but true bro. Isn’t that the truth? Do you have any dreams now though?
Patrick: I guess. Do you?
Mitch: Ya. I want to quit this job, buy season tickets to the Orioles, go to every home
game and spend my days doing freelance computer work from home.
Patrick: Well then why don’t you?
Mitch: Because reality makes me settle. I can’t financially afford to live like I want to
(Looks down at his desk with an expressionless face). This isn’t the first time either. Every time I have let one of my dreams slip away, it was because I couldn’t afford it. I’ve sold out because being a dreamer is just too expensive.
Patrick (Chuckling): Then why the heck did you just make me go through what I just
did? You make me feel guilty for being content with settling, but now you’re telling me that doing the opposite is out of reach. (Laughing) How did I get a desk next to you?
Mitch: Seriously though, what do you want Pat? What is it that would complete you?
Patrick: I don’t know. I’d like to think she would (Motions towards Marlene with a
nod as she walks in from the right side of the stage to the water cooler)
Mitch: You have liked her for a long time haven’t you? (Marlene, who cannot hear
what is being said, fills a glass with water)
Patrick: Yes. I have had a thing for her ever since she started here.
Mitch: Have you ever done anything about it? (Marlene finishes filling her glass and
begins walking towards the desks)
Patrick: (Quickly) I’ll tell you later…Hey Marlene! How’s your day been?
Marlene McMurphy (Smiling and taking a sip of her water she stands at Patrick’s desk
and stares at him): It’s going, you know? Busy day with Mr. Smith having that huge meeting tomorrow. Speaking of which, did you finish the report on the Westinghouse accounts Mitch? (She continues to smile at Patrick and does not even look over at Mitch)
Mitch: It’s coming. I’ll have it done by lunch. Speaking of lunch, Patrick, I can’t go
today. I have an appointment I got to go to. I don’t think Marlene will mind taking my place though (Jabs Patrick in the side and smiles). You wouldn’t mind that would you Marlene?
Marlene: Mind wh…Oh no. Not at all. I mean I have a ton to do, but I would love to
go to lunch with Patrick.
Patrick: Well if you have a ton to do, don’t worry about it. I can use the time to go run
some errands I need to do. (Mitch’s jaw drops and he shakes his head)
Marlene: Oh?
Patrick: It isn’t a big deal. I’ll be fine.
Marlene (Looking confused): Okay then? I guess I won’t go to lunch with you then
today. Well I better get back to work. Talk to you later boys! (Exit)
Mitch: What the hell was that? (Throws hands into the air)
Patrick: What was what?
Mitch: I just set you up on a date with the girl that you have desperately wanted for
almost two years now, and you lack the little bit of courage to go out for a simple lunch.
Patrick: (Looking down at his hands): She said she had a lot to do. I didn’t want to
keep her from getting done what she has.
Mitch: Come on man, that’s a lie.
Patrick: Bro it’s not as easy for me as is it is for you. Girls don’t just “fall” for me.
Mitch: She’s totally interested in you! She wouldn’t take her eyes off you!
Patrick: That’s not the point. You don’t know what it’s like to be a guy who has faced
rejection his whole life. You don’t know what it’s like to be into a girl, finally get the guts up to ask her out and then not only get shut down but also get embarrassed by her.
Mitch: I’ve been rejected before.
Patrick: When?
Mitch: That’s not important. The important thing is that it’s happened. You just have
to get back on the horse and go for it.
Patrick: You have no idea. Never mind.
Mitch (Stands up and walks over to Patrick’s desk): Will you at least tell her that you
want to go to lunch with her the next time I work my magic?
Patrick: We’ll see. (Sighs).
Mitch: Pat, (Reaches over and puts his hand on Patrick’s shoulder) don’t ever let
anything tell you that you shouldn’t have what you want. You’ve been settling your entire life, as have I, but its time that one of us does something about it. You deserve her. You’re a good guy. It’s time that one of our dreams becomes a reality.
Patrick: You really think so?
Mitch: I wouldn’t lie to you.
Patrick: Hmmm…(Pauses) You just told me exactly what I needed to hear. I’m going
to do it.
Mitch: Go right now. Don’t let the moment slip.
Patrick: I’m nervous man.
Mitch: Nothing worthwhile has ever been gained without taking a risk.
Patrick (Standing up): You’re right. I’m not going to go ask her just to lunch today,
I’m going to see if she wants to go to dinner with me on Friday. I’m going for it.
Mitch: That a boy.
Patrick: I can’t believe I’m doing this! (Smiles at Mitch and shakes head) This is so
unlike me. What have you done to me Mitch? (Laughs) Wish me luck! (Exit)
Mitch (To self): Way to go Patrick. Way to be a dreamer. (Sits back down at desk)
Maybe one day I’ll go for my dream too
The lights fade out as Mitch sits at his desk drumming a pen on it.
Characters
Mitch Olsen
Patrick Burk
James Smith
Marlene McMurphy
Setting: The play takes place in an office, which is set up to reflect the current era. The stage is lit brightly with florescent lights. The backdrop is a white wall or canvas with little to it other than simple paintings of the outdoors, oceans, flowers and other mundane stereotypical office artwork. In the center of the stage are two desks, both of which face the theater, side by side, so that when the characters are seated, they have direct eye contact with the audience. To the left of the first desk is a copy machine and to the right of the second desk is a water cooler.
The desks each have on them a telephone, a cup of pens, a computer monitor and a keyboard. On the left desk sits a picture frame that’s image cannot be seen by the audience. On the right desk sits a large stack of computer paper.
Both characters of Mitch Olsen and Patrick Burk sit at their desks as the play opens. Mitch, seated on the left, is drumming a pen on the desk and reading his computer monitor. Patrick is thumbing through the stack of papers and occasionally stopping to underline something.
All male characters in this play wear business attire consisting of dress shirts, ties, slacks and nice shoes. Marlene wears a formal blouse and a skirt that is knee length.
Mitch, Patrick and Marlene are all portrayed as young, freshly out of college, professionals. The character of James is played by a man in his late forties.
The year: 2005
Patrick Burk (Puts stack of papers down and plops the pen down on top them, looks
over at Mitch): Hey Mitch, do you really think the rumors are true?
Mitch Olsen (Still drumming his pen he looks up from his monitor and at Patrick): The
ones about Smith and his wife?
Patrick: Yes. Those ones.
Mitch: I don’t know Patrick. I mean, I have never really thought of him to be one of
those guys. He never talks to girls around the office or anything. Hell, I’ve never even seen him hit on a waitress when we go out for drinks.
Patrick: But I heard his wife caught him at a hotel with some chick. I heard that she
had been suspicious for a long time and finally decided to follow him from the office one day.
Mitch: It doesn’t surprise me. Look at the guy. His life is pathetic.
Patrick: Hardly! The guy is a district manager, he’s easily pulling in six figures, he has
a huge house, he goes golfing every Saturday, and his son just landed the varsity quarterback position at Central. The guy is living the dream
Mitch: Patty, come on. You can’t be serious. The guy …(Stops as James walks into
the room from right stage side)…and that is why I can’t get this stupid thing to print.
James Smith (Carrying a stack of file folders in one hand and a document in the other
he walks through the room. He keeps his head down, reading the document but stops in front of the space between the two desks): Problems with the computer Mitch?
Mitch: No Mr. Smith (Begins typing on the keyboard), just had a printing problem
earlier, but I figured it out and took care of it.
James: Good to hear. (Takes one step and stops) I will be out of the office this
afternoon, but when you finish the report on the Westinghouse accounts email it to Marlene and tell her to make sure she looks it over before my meeting in the morning (Begins walking out towards left stage side).
Mitch: Will do sir! Have a great afternoon.
James: Hmm. (Exit)
Mitch: See what I mean? The guy is the walking dead.
Patrick: Fuck Mitch! What do you got that makes your life so much better?
Mitch: Nothing. I am as pathetic as he is. The highlight of my damn week is drinking
a 40 by myself and watching baseball on Wednesday nights. We are all pathetic. Every damn one of us in this office.
Patrick: Go to hell Mitch (Turns head back down and starts going through the stack of
papers again).
Mitch: It’s the truth. You can’t deny it. Look at yourself.
Patrick: I have a great life (Looks up. Begins listing things on his fingers). I am using
the degree I earned in college, I’m making decent money, I drive a nice car, I just put down the down payment on a condo, and … (Pauses).
Mitch: Hmmm (Begins mocking Patrick’s hand counting and speaking sarcastically).
Fucking worthless, fucking vain, fucking frivolous, fucking pathetic, you’re right Patty. You really got it going on!
Patrick: Dude, come on Mitch. You know it’s not much, but you got to learn to be
happy with what you got. We’re doing a hell of a lot better than those guys that change oil and shit like that.
Mitch: I didn’t mean it as a slam against you personally. I mean it for all of us. There
has to be something more. Don’t you wonder what the heck happened to the kid you once were?
Patrick: Bro, first you were talking trash about our lives and now you’re getting all
sentimental on me.
Mitch (Leaning back now in the chair with his hands behind his head): No Pat, I’m
serious. (Closes eyes and takes a deep breath in through his nose) I remember playing wiffle ball on my driveway as a kid and wanting to be a major leaguer. (Laughs) My neighbors and I would play every afternoon during our summer breaks (Opens eyes and leans forward, staring Patrick straight in the eyes). If you hit one from the garage door to the other side of the street it was a home run. But if you hit a pop fly and it landed before it got to the other side, it was an out. If you…(laughs to self) never mind. God those days were glorious though. What about you Pat? What did you want to do?
Patrick (Cracking a smile): Crap man. I don’t know. I…I never gave it much thought.
Mitch: Come on (Gets louder). Yes you did. What did you want be?
Patrick: (Stuttering) I…I…I dunno. I dunno.
Mitch: Come on. I know you had some sort of dream.
(Long Pause. Patrick looks about the room and into the air as if in deep thought. Mitch doesn’t take his stare from Patrick. Something comes to Patrick and he nods)
Patrick: Don’t laugh (His smile turns to a very stern and serious look, begins to
whisper), but I wanted to be a chef. I loved cooking as a kid. I was never good at it, but when I did it, I was…I was…I was happy.
Mitch: See man? (He begins to talk very quietly now and he is no longer smiling) We
all had our dreams. Big ones, little ones, it didn’t matter. But at some point, regardless of what caused it, we let them slip away into the past. (Begins shaking head) We settled for something else.
Patrick: (Speaking normally) God dude, you’re the worst fucking therapist ever
(Laughs). I was content with my life, but now I want to go kill myself.
Mitch: Sad but true bro. Isn’t that the truth? Do you have any dreams now though?
Patrick: I guess. Do you?
Mitch: Ya. I want to quit this job, buy season tickets to the Orioles, go to every home
game and spend my days doing freelance computer work from home.
Patrick: Well then why don’t you?
Mitch: Because reality makes me settle. I can’t financially afford to live like I want to
(Looks down at his desk with an expressionless face). This isn’t the first time either. Every time I have let one of my dreams slip away, it was because I couldn’t afford it. I’ve sold out because being a dreamer is just too expensive.
Patrick (Chuckling): Then why the heck did you just make me go through what I just
did? You make me feel guilty for being content with settling, but now you’re telling me that doing the opposite is out of reach. (Laughing) How did I get a desk next to you?
Mitch: Seriously though, what do you want Pat? What is it that would complete you?
Patrick: I don’t know. I’d like to think she would (Motions towards Marlene with a
nod as she walks in from the right side of the stage to the water cooler)
Mitch: You have liked her for a long time haven’t you? (Marlene, who cannot hear
what is being said, fills a glass with water)
Patrick: Yes. I have had a thing for her ever since she started here.
Mitch: Have you ever done anything about it? (Marlene finishes filling her glass and
begins walking towards the desks)
Patrick: (Quickly) I’ll tell you later…Hey Marlene! How’s your day been?
Marlene McMurphy (Smiling and taking a sip of her water she stands at Patrick’s desk
and stares at him): It’s going, you know? Busy day with Mr. Smith having that huge meeting tomorrow. Speaking of which, did you finish the report on the Westinghouse accounts Mitch? (She continues to smile at Patrick and does not even look over at Mitch)
Mitch: It’s coming. I’ll have it done by lunch. Speaking of lunch, Patrick, I can’t go
today. I have an appointment I got to go to. I don’t think Marlene will mind taking my place though (Jabs Patrick in the side and smiles). You wouldn’t mind that would you Marlene?
Marlene: Mind wh…Oh no. Not at all. I mean I have a ton to do, but I would love to
go to lunch with Patrick.
Patrick: Well if you have a ton to do, don’t worry about it. I can use the time to go run
some errands I need to do. (Mitch’s jaw drops and he shakes his head)
Marlene: Oh?
Patrick: It isn’t a big deal. I’ll be fine.
Marlene (Looking confused): Okay then? I guess I won’t go to lunch with you then
today. Well I better get back to work. Talk to you later boys! (Exit)
Mitch: What the hell was that? (Throws hands into the air)
Patrick: What was what?
Mitch: I just set you up on a date with the girl that you have desperately wanted for
almost two years now, and you lack the little bit of courage to go out for a simple lunch.
Patrick: (Looking down at his hands): She said she had a lot to do. I didn’t want to
keep her from getting done what she has.
Mitch: Come on man, that’s a lie.
Patrick: Bro it’s not as easy for me as is it is for you. Girls don’t just “fall” for me.
Mitch: She’s totally interested in you! She wouldn’t take her eyes off you!
Patrick: That’s not the point. You don’t know what it’s like to be a guy who has faced
rejection his whole life. You don’t know what it’s like to be into a girl, finally get the guts up to ask her out and then not only get shut down but also get embarrassed by her.
Mitch: I’ve been rejected before.
Patrick: When?
Mitch: That’s not important. The important thing is that it’s happened. You just have
to get back on the horse and go for it.
Patrick: You have no idea. Never mind.
Mitch (Stands up and walks over to Patrick’s desk): Will you at least tell her that you
want to go to lunch with her the next time I work my magic?
Patrick: We’ll see. (Sighs).
Mitch: Pat, (Reaches over and puts his hand on Patrick’s shoulder) don’t ever let
anything tell you that you shouldn’t have what you want. You’ve been settling your entire life, as have I, but its time that one of us does something about it. You deserve her. You’re a good guy. It’s time that one of our dreams becomes a reality.
Patrick: You really think so?
Mitch: I wouldn’t lie to you.
Patrick: Hmmm…(Pauses) You just told me exactly what I needed to hear. I’m going
to do it.
Mitch: Go right now. Don’t let the moment slip.
Patrick: I’m nervous man.
Mitch: Nothing worthwhile has ever been gained without taking a risk.
Patrick (Standing up): You’re right. I’m not going to go ask her just to lunch today,
I’m going to see if she wants to go to dinner with me on Friday. I’m going for it.
Mitch: That a boy.
Patrick: I can’t believe I’m doing this! (Smiles at Mitch and shakes head) This is so
unlike me. What have you done to me Mitch? (Laughs) Wish me luck! (Exit)
Mitch (To self): Way to go Patrick. Way to be a dreamer. (Sits back down at desk)
Maybe one day I’ll go for my dream too
The lights fade out as Mitch sits at his desk drumming a pen on it.
the regular - April 5, 2005
It was a cold night. It felt like one of those spring evenings when the sun had beat down all day causing you to wear summer attire but as soon as the sun set you began shivering. It was the type of cold that wouldn’t make you numb, but would make you breakout in goose bumps on your arms and legs. But this was August. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. But the desert is funny like that. You can be burning up in 100 plus weather as long as there is daylight, but as soon as it gets dark…who knows? It’s that damn desert air. It is so dry that it scratches at your lungs and fossilizes your face but it can’t hold a lick of heat in just like it can’t capture any humidity. That’s what kind of night it was, one of cold thirsty air blowing against your skin enough to raise the goose bumps on your arms and legs.
And there she was, ten minutes later than usual. Arms clutched in, hugging herself through that tight black tube-top, as she pushed her way through the diner door. Her bleach blond dyed hair was not brushed and straightened as it usually was. You could tell that the dusty wind had had its way with it tonight, and now it sat strung about her head like an unraveled sweater. She was biting her blood-red glossed lower lip that matched her miniskirt. Her eyes scanned the diner quickly as the door slammed behind her and for a split second her eyes caught mine. I can’t exactly explain the look I saw on this girl’s face. It was a blank expression of disappointment. Not a look as if she had lost something, but one like she hadn’t got what she was expecting. Her face was like a child’s on Christmas day when they open a present expecting to find that special toy but instead find themselves unwrapping new socks.
Her eyes locked on an open booth in the back and she took a second to straighten her stance. With her shoulder blades thrust back, she ran her hands down the front of her tube-top and then her skirt to release their wrinkles. Then she quietly began stepping through the diner on her way to the rear, almost tiptoeing as if to not be noticed by the twenty pairs of eyes that were already locked on her. As she approached the booth, she swung her tiny black purse off her shoulder and plopped it onto the table and slipped onto the ratty old cushioned seat. She kept her eyes down and reached her hand into the purse. After fumbling around for what seemed like minutes, her fingers with that cherry red nail polish surfaced from the bag clutching a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Then, almost as if it was a mechanical process programmed into her, she tapped the pack three times on the table, pulled out a long white cigarette and lit it with a snap of her fingers on the lighter.
In a booth right behind her sat one of those families. You know the ones that you always see at the diners late at night, with the father that is on the break of wanting to end his pathetic life, the mother who ignores the screaming baby and instead focuses her attention on jabbing at her husband about who the hell knows what, and the two damn elementary kids who won’t shut up or sit down. I’ve always wondered what inspires a family to go out for dinner at midnight like this, kids and all. Don’t these children have a bedtime or a school to be at in the morning? But the commotion didn’t faze the girl in the least.
The waitress, one of those over fifty women that has spent her entire working life on her feet and it shows, walked over to her. The waitress plopped a menu down in front of her and walked away, never making eye contact. Still, there she sat, completely unaffected by the old waitress or the screaming children behind her, puffing on a cigarette with that same damn look of disappointment.
The waitress walked back up to her and said something. The girl’s trance broke and she looked down at the menu. Mumbling something, she put the small remainder of her cigarette in an ashtray and went to work on a second. The waitress nodded her head and walked towards the kitchen as she scribbled down the girl’s order. The waitress disappeared into the kitchen for a minute and then reappeared carrying a tray of food for the annoying family in the booth.
Seeing their food on the way, the children began squealing even louder than before. Excitedly, the two children went from standing on the seats of the booth to sitting behind their placemats. As the waitress began handing the meals to the family, the baby, sitting in a highchair at the end of the table, began another of its fits. The mother hushed it a few times and then gave it a French fry to suck on. The two older children went silent and began shoveling in bites of hamburger and onion rings to their mouths.
The girl was finishing off her second cigarette when the waitress brought her a cup of coffee. The girl, still without looking the waitress in the eyes, mouthed a thank you. Taking one sip, the girl stood up and slowly walked towards the bathroom leaving her newly lit cigarette hanging on the edge of the ashtray next to her coffee. I could not take my eyes off her. She had the face of just a girl, but she carried herself like a woman. It was as if she was a child held hostage in the body of a grownup. She pushed open the bathroom door and disappeared. I couldn’t help but wonder who she was. I had been coming to this very diner for nearly three years and almost every night she would walk in just about the same time. How could she come to a place like this so often, yet be such a stranger? I knew the moment she walked in that she would order coffee, she always did, but the waitress took her order like she would from any first time customer. She wasn’t considered a “regular” like me.
As she stepped outside the women’s restroom, I saw the younger of the two kids at the family booth staring at her. This little boy, who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, had eyes the size of the empty plates that sat in front of him.
“Why is that lady dressed up like Halloween daddy?” the child asked.
“Damn it Jake. She’s a goddamn hooker, quit staring!” the father grunted as he picked up his hamburger for another bite.
But the kid didn’t look away. I don’t think the word “hooker” was even in his vocabulary. He just kept his eyes fixed on her as she moved from the restroom back to her booth.
“She looks sad daddy.”
“Maybe it’s because she’s a whore.”
The girl didn’t even flinch, but I knew she had to have heard the father say those words. He had basically said it loudly enough for the entire restaurant to hear, but she moved right back into the booth and went to smoking her cigarette. The smoke flowed out of her mouth like water from a fountain. I noticed the little boy continue to steal glances at what was now the back of her head. He wasn’t grinning and he wasn’t frowning, he was just in a trance. It was as if something was irritating him, but he just couldn’t figure out what. With a grunt the boy’s father put down his fork on his plate and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and the waitress approached with the family’s bill. Still the kid’s fixation was on that girl. The father threw down a wad of crumpled up bills from his wallet and the mother stood, taking the baby into her arms. The rest of the family filtered out of the booth, but the boy remained locked on her.
“Get the hell over here Jake, we’re leaving!” the mother yelled as she tottered towards the front door.
But something was holding the boy back. His legs began to shuffle out of the booth, but his head remained stationary. I wanted to know what he was thinking. He was much to young to be pondering about the sexual acts they could commit together or the other things that I had toyed with in my own mind on just a few occasions. I had seen this hooker girl a thousand times before and even watched her a few of those, but although this boy’s intentions were much different than my own, he was just down right obsessed.
As I continued to watch the boy, I saw his mother charging in from where she had been waiting at the entrance. “What the hell is wrong with you Jake, we’re leaving”.
Something about his mom’s sharp tongue caused the kid’s spell to break. He looked down at his feet, shot up from the booth and bolted towards the door. But despite the scene that had just occurred, the girl remained in her isolated world of coffee and smoke.
As I watched the boy disappear into the darkness outside, something began bothering me as well. Something about the way that young kid had struggled to understand the pain of this girl got to me. I brought my coffee to my lips and held it there. Then the front door of the restaurant blew open and the boy came running through. As he sprinted past me I could see that he was holding something in his hand. He came to a halting stop at her table and her head jerked away from her coffee to looking at him. Her look of disappointment was now coupled with being dumbfounded. He slowly raised his right hand to her and held out a flower that he had picked from the shrubs that went around the perimeter of the diner. She didn’t move. She didn’t know how to respond, but he just continued to stand there with his little arm held out with a dinky flower in hand. Then the father burst through the door and began marching over to him, “Jake, you son-of-a-bitch, she’s a goddamn whore, get your ass outside right now!”
And as the father grabbed the young boy by the shoulder and pulled him away, she reached out and grabbed the shrub flower. She starred at it for a second and then looked back at the boy, as he was dragged out of the restaurant by his heels. Their eyes caught for just a second and she managed to let a grin creep across her face. As the diner door slammed, taking the boy out of her life forever, she went back to looking at the flower. She was frozen, stunned and now fully smiling. It was the first time I had ever seen this girl smile.
And there she was, ten minutes later than usual. Arms clutched in, hugging herself through that tight black tube-top, as she pushed her way through the diner door. Her bleach blond dyed hair was not brushed and straightened as it usually was. You could tell that the dusty wind had had its way with it tonight, and now it sat strung about her head like an unraveled sweater. She was biting her blood-red glossed lower lip that matched her miniskirt. Her eyes scanned the diner quickly as the door slammed behind her and for a split second her eyes caught mine. I can’t exactly explain the look I saw on this girl’s face. It was a blank expression of disappointment. Not a look as if she had lost something, but one like she hadn’t got what she was expecting. Her face was like a child’s on Christmas day when they open a present expecting to find that special toy but instead find themselves unwrapping new socks.
Her eyes locked on an open booth in the back and she took a second to straighten her stance. With her shoulder blades thrust back, she ran her hands down the front of her tube-top and then her skirt to release their wrinkles. Then she quietly began stepping through the diner on her way to the rear, almost tiptoeing as if to not be noticed by the twenty pairs of eyes that were already locked on her. As she approached the booth, she swung her tiny black purse off her shoulder and plopped it onto the table and slipped onto the ratty old cushioned seat. She kept her eyes down and reached her hand into the purse. After fumbling around for what seemed like minutes, her fingers with that cherry red nail polish surfaced from the bag clutching a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Then, almost as if it was a mechanical process programmed into her, she tapped the pack three times on the table, pulled out a long white cigarette and lit it with a snap of her fingers on the lighter.
In a booth right behind her sat one of those families. You know the ones that you always see at the diners late at night, with the father that is on the break of wanting to end his pathetic life, the mother who ignores the screaming baby and instead focuses her attention on jabbing at her husband about who the hell knows what, and the two damn elementary kids who won’t shut up or sit down. I’ve always wondered what inspires a family to go out for dinner at midnight like this, kids and all. Don’t these children have a bedtime or a school to be at in the morning? But the commotion didn’t faze the girl in the least.
The waitress, one of those over fifty women that has spent her entire working life on her feet and it shows, walked over to her. The waitress plopped a menu down in front of her and walked away, never making eye contact. Still, there she sat, completely unaffected by the old waitress or the screaming children behind her, puffing on a cigarette with that same damn look of disappointment.
The waitress walked back up to her and said something. The girl’s trance broke and she looked down at the menu. Mumbling something, she put the small remainder of her cigarette in an ashtray and went to work on a second. The waitress nodded her head and walked towards the kitchen as she scribbled down the girl’s order. The waitress disappeared into the kitchen for a minute and then reappeared carrying a tray of food for the annoying family in the booth.
Seeing their food on the way, the children began squealing even louder than before. Excitedly, the two children went from standing on the seats of the booth to sitting behind their placemats. As the waitress began handing the meals to the family, the baby, sitting in a highchair at the end of the table, began another of its fits. The mother hushed it a few times and then gave it a French fry to suck on. The two older children went silent and began shoveling in bites of hamburger and onion rings to their mouths.
The girl was finishing off her second cigarette when the waitress brought her a cup of coffee. The girl, still without looking the waitress in the eyes, mouthed a thank you. Taking one sip, the girl stood up and slowly walked towards the bathroom leaving her newly lit cigarette hanging on the edge of the ashtray next to her coffee. I could not take my eyes off her. She had the face of just a girl, but she carried herself like a woman. It was as if she was a child held hostage in the body of a grownup. She pushed open the bathroom door and disappeared. I couldn’t help but wonder who she was. I had been coming to this very diner for nearly three years and almost every night she would walk in just about the same time. How could she come to a place like this so often, yet be such a stranger? I knew the moment she walked in that she would order coffee, she always did, but the waitress took her order like she would from any first time customer. She wasn’t considered a “regular” like me.
As she stepped outside the women’s restroom, I saw the younger of the two kids at the family booth staring at her. This little boy, who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, had eyes the size of the empty plates that sat in front of him.
“Why is that lady dressed up like Halloween daddy?” the child asked.
“Damn it Jake. She’s a goddamn hooker, quit staring!” the father grunted as he picked up his hamburger for another bite.
But the kid didn’t look away. I don’t think the word “hooker” was even in his vocabulary. He just kept his eyes fixed on her as she moved from the restroom back to her booth.
“She looks sad daddy.”
“Maybe it’s because she’s a whore.”
The girl didn’t even flinch, but I knew she had to have heard the father say those words. He had basically said it loudly enough for the entire restaurant to hear, but she moved right back into the booth and went to smoking her cigarette. The smoke flowed out of her mouth like water from a fountain. I noticed the little boy continue to steal glances at what was now the back of her head. He wasn’t grinning and he wasn’t frowning, he was just in a trance. It was as if something was irritating him, but he just couldn’t figure out what. With a grunt the boy’s father put down his fork on his plate and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and the waitress approached with the family’s bill. Still the kid’s fixation was on that girl. The father threw down a wad of crumpled up bills from his wallet and the mother stood, taking the baby into her arms. The rest of the family filtered out of the booth, but the boy remained locked on her.
“Get the hell over here Jake, we’re leaving!” the mother yelled as she tottered towards the front door.
But something was holding the boy back. His legs began to shuffle out of the booth, but his head remained stationary. I wanted to know what he was thinking. He was much to young to be pondering about the sexual acts they could commit together or the other things that I had toyed with in my own mind on just a few occasions. I had seen this hooker girl a thousand times before and even watched her a few of those, but although this boy’s intentions were much different than my own, he was just down right obsessed.
As I continued to watch the boy, I saw his mother charging in from where she had been waiting at the entrance. “What the hell is wrong with you Jake, we’re leaving”.
Something about his mom’s sharp tongue caused the kid’s spell to break. He looked down at his feet, shot up from the booth and bolted towards the door. But despite the scene that had just occurred, the girl remained in her isolated world of coffee and smoke.
As I watched the boy disappear into the darkness outside, something began bothering me as well. Something about the way that young kid had struggled to understand the pain of this girl got to me. I brought my coffee to my lips and held it there. Then the front door of the restaurant blew open and the boy came running through. As he sprinted past me I could see that he was holding something in his hand. He came to a halting stop at her table and her head jerked away from her coffee to looking at him. Her look of disappointment was now coupled with being dumbfounded. He slowly raised his right hand to her and held out a flower that he had picked from the shrubs that went around the perimeter of the diner. She didn’t move. She didn’t know how to respond, but he just continued to stand there with his little arm held out with a dinky flower in hand. Then the father burst through the door and began marching over to him, “Jake, you son-of-a-bitch, she’s a goddamn whore, get your ass outside right now!”
And as the father grabbed the young boy by the shoulder and pulled him away, she reached out and grabbed the shrub flower. She starred at it for a second and then looked back at the boy, as he was dragged out of the restaurant by his heels. Their eyes caught for just a second and she managed to let a grin creep across her face. As the diner door slammed, taking the boy out of her life forever, she went back to looking at the flower. She was frozen, stunned and now fully smiling. It was the first time I had ever seen this girl smile.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
the bus - March 31, 2005
June 22
The same girl boarded my bus for the 4th day in a row. Waiting at the corner of Merchant and 13th street, she’s always there. Every morning, standing there at the stop with her cup of coffee and wearing her work uniform that is perfectly pressed without a wrinkle. Her nametag says “Erika”. That’s a pretty name. She always sits midway in the back of the bus and stares out the window. I watched her in the mirror today for a while and she never glanced up. I am certain she’s thinking about something. At the end of the line, where the mall is, she gets up and walks off the bus briskly, as if in a hurry to get to work as quickly as possible.
July 3
Five days a week, without fail, she is waiting for me. I cordially say good morning to her as she steps onto the bus with her coffee. She only smiles. She is wearing red, white and blue ribbons in her hair today and is wearing makeup for the first time since she started riding my bus. She must be trying to impress somebody at work. She must have really fallen for her co-worker. She gets off the bus, quickly as usual. She must be expecting to see him this morning.
August 1
She is really head-over-heels about this guy. I think it is silly how perfectly she dresses and how much makeup she wears. I would think she’s beautiful without any of that. He is so shallow that he only admires her when she dresses like that. Today when she got on the bus her makeup was covering dark circles under her eyes. It must have been a late night. I wonder where they went to dinner. He probably made her pay for her own meal. He’s selfish like that. She is writing something in her journal today. She’s probably wondering if it is love. I think she could do much better.
September 13
They broke up. I can tell because when I greeted her this morning she did not even smile. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and she had on sunglasses. I bet she had been crying. She is carrying a bag with her to work. It must be all his belongings. She is doing the right thing. I wonder if he cheated on her.
September 15
He’s a sly one. They’re back together now. You can tell. She was back in perfect form, and she has fallen again for one of his little tricks. You can’t trust a man like him. Today she is wearing a new jacket. It’s been a bit colder today. He bought her that jacket to smooth over the tension of his infidelity. I expected Erika to be smarter than to cave in so easily.
November 19
She has quit bringing coffee on the bus in the morning. He doesn’t like the way that she spends money on coffee and on new clothes. I wonder where he lives that he’s never been on my bus. I am sure he is sharp looking fellow. Erika wouldn’t settle for anything less. Today she said “good morning” when she got on the bus. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard her voice. When she talks alone with him, he can’t shut her up, but in public she’s so shy. I think he’s cheating on her again though. She is so intoxicated by the gifts he gives her and the way he woos her with his words that she doesn’t even see it. I can’t believe she’s not catching on.
November 26
She’s not on the bus today. First time I haven’t seen her on the corner.
December 24
Christmas Eve and she’s still gone.
The same girl boarded my bus for the 4th day in a row. Waiting at the corner of Merchant and 13th street, she’s always there. Every morning, standing there at the stop with her cup of coffee and wearing her work uniform that is perfectly pressed without a wrinkle. Her nametag says “Erika”. That’s a pretty name. She always sits midway in the back of the bus and stares out the window. I watched her in the mirror today for a while and she never glanced up. I am certain she’s thinking about something. At the end of the line, where the mall is, she gets up and walks off the bus briskly, as if in a hurry to get to work as quickly as possible.
July 3
Five days a week, without fail, she is waiting for me. I cordially say good morning to her as she steps onto the bus with her coffee. She only smiles. She is wearing red, white and blue ribbons in her hair today and is wearing makeup for the first time since she started riding my bus. She must be trying to impress somebody at work. She must have really fallen for her co-worker. She gets off the bus, quickly as usual. She must be expecting to see him this morning.
August 1
She is really head-over-heels about this guy. I think it is silly how perfectly she dresses and how much makeup she wears. I would think she’s beautiful without any of that. He is so shallow that he only admires her when she dresses like that. Today when she got on the bus her makeup was covering dark circles under her eyes. It must have been a late night. I wonder where they went to dinner. He probably made her pay for her own meal. He’s selfish like that. She is writing something in her journal today. She’s probably wondering if it is love. I think she could do much better.
September 13
They broke up. I can tell because when I greeted her this morning she did not even smile. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and she had on sunglasses. I bet she had been crying. She is carrying a bag with her to work. It must be all his belongings. She is doing the right thing. I wonder if he cheated on her.
September 15
He’s a sly one. They’re back together now. You can tell. She was back in perfect form, and she has fallen again for one of his little tricks. You can’t trust a man like him. Today she is wearing a new jacket. It’s been a bit colder today. He bought her that jacket to smooth over the tension of his infidelity. I expected Erika to be smarter than to cave in so easily.
November 19
She has quit bringing coffee on the bus in the morning. He doesn’t like the way that she spends money on coffee and on new clothes. I wonder where he lives that he’s never been on my bus. I am sure he is sharp looking fellow. Erika wouldn’t settle for anything less. Today she said “good morning” when she got on the bus. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard her voice. When she talks alone with him, he can’t shut her up, but in public she’s so shy. I think he’s cheating on her again though. She is so intoxicated by the gifts he gives her and the way he woos her with his words that she doesn’t even see it. I can’t believe she’s not catching on.
November 26
She’s not on the bus today. First time I haven’t seen her on the corner.
December 24
Christmas Eve and she’s still gone.
A Month Later - March 3, 2005
The first rays of sunlight began to sneak through the metal blinds and pour into the small apartment. As darkness retreated from the kitchen table, covered with mountains of old “Get Well Soon” cards and unpaid bills, he began stirring on the nearby couch. Agitated and frustrated he buried his head facedown into the pillow and let out a groan. He remained motionless on his stomach for several moments, aside from a couple of coughs. But as the entire room continued to fill with light, he let out a defeated grunt and sat up.
Rolling his neck about his shoulders, he sleepily reached for his watch on the floor. Opening his eyes and then squinting again he read the time. “6:30,” he mumbled hoarsely, “only four hours again.”
As he sat on the edge of the couch he took a slow look about the room. It was messier than yesterday. She would have scolded him for sure. As he pulled himself off his seat and into a standing position he could feel the stiffness in his back from spending too many nights on the couch. Maybe tonight he’d actually be able to fall asleep in the bedroom and stay there the whole night.
Stepping over empty beer bottles and dirty plates he made his way to the bathroom with his eyes half shut. He reached for the light switch and stood stunned and blinking as the bathroom flooded with florescent beams. After adjusting to the brightness he made his way over to the sink. He opened the medicine cabinet and took out a bottle of pills, “tomorrow, no pills,” he grumbled.
Twisting the lid off the orange bottle he shook two multi-colored capsules into his right palm and turned on the sink with his left hand, which had a permanent indention on the ring finger from the wedding band that he had taken off yesterday. He had mulled over that decision to remove the band or not, but decided that it would only be only for a couple days while the jeweler engraved a new message on it. He then placed the medicine on the tip of his tongue and bent over to take a sip of the streaming cold water from the faucet. As he rose back up from the sink he shut the medicine cabinet and stood motionless. His eyes were fixed on the image in front of him. In the mirror he saw the evidence of insomnia in those red, puffy, bloodshot eyes. He could also see whiskers on the very same face that she had loved to touch after his morning shave. She hated it when it wasn’t smooth and he used to detest it when she nagged him about things like that.
He gripped the bathroom counter with both hands and leaned closer towards the mirror and continued to gaze. She would be mad that he hadn’t cut his hair. But going to the barber just wasn’t the same as when she would do it for him and a barber couldn’t mess up his sideburns like she always did. She would get so discouraged by that, but he would laugh and tell her they’d even out in a week. She would blush and he would kiss her cheek and stroke her curly brown hair that always smelled like mint.
It all seemed like an eternity ago, but it had only been only month since he last felt the tingle of mint in his nostrils.
Rolling his neck about his shoulders, he sleepily reached for his watch on the floor. Opening his eyes and then squinting again he read the time. “6:30,” he mumbled hoarsely, “only four hours again.”
As he sat on the edge of the couch he took a slow look about the room. It was messier than yesterday. She would have scolded him for sure. As he pulled himself off his seat and into a standing position he could feel the stiffness in his back from spending too many nights on the couch. Maybe tonight he’d actually be able to fall asleep in the bedroom and stay there the whole night.
Stepping over empty beer bottles and dirty plates he made his way to the bathroom with his eyes half shut. He reached for the light switch and stood stunned and blinking as the bathroom flooded with florescent beams. After adjusting to the brightness he made his way over to the sink. He opened the medicine cabinet and took out a bottle of pills, “tomorrow, no pills,” he grumbled.
Twisting the lid off the orange bottle he shook two multi-colored capsules into his right palm and turned on the sink with his left hand, which had a permanent indention on the ring finger from the wedding band that he had taken off yesterday. He had mulled over that decision to remove the band or not, but decided that it would only be only for a couple days while the jeweler engraved a new message on it. He then placed the medicine on the tip of his tongue and bent over to take a sip of the streaming cold water from the faucet. As he rose back up from the sink he shut the medicine cabinet and stood motionless. His eyes were fixed on the image in front of him. In the mirror he saw the evidence of insomnia in those red, puffy, bloodshot eyes. He could also see whiskers on the very same face that she had loved to touch after his morning shave. She hated it when it wasn’t smooth and he used to detest it when she nagged him about things like that.
He gripped the bathroom counter with both hands and leaned closer towards the mirror and continued to gaze. She would be mad that he hadn’t cut his hair. But going to the barber just wasn’t the same as when she would do it for him and a barber couldn’t mess up his sideburns like she always did. She would get so discouraged by that, but he would laugh and tell her they’d even out in a week. She would blush and he would kiss her cheek and stroke her curly brown hair that always smelled like mint.
It all seemed like an eternity ago, but it had only been only month since he last felt the tingle of mint in his nostrils.
Old Stories
I figured I'd post a bunch of my old short stories on here. Haven't read though any of them recently.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Confessions of a Chip & Salsa Addict
I don't recall the first time I experimented with chips and salsa, but I know I was young. Perhaps I was home alone and stumbled across my parents' and decided, "hey, why not? I've seen mom and dad enjoy this". Regardless, I was a full blown addict by the age of 12.
I remember some crazy experimentation in junior high. While most of my peers were worried about 8th grade geography, I was busy mixing ranch and salsa. Those were dark days for sure. What is sad is that I never admitted that I had a problem. I would find reasons in high school to get everyone to go to Chili's rather than a movie. Then, subtly as I sat in the restaurant booth, I would ask for one of those "bottomless baskets of chips and salsa" with my Old Timer burger.
Nobody asked, but everyone knew. I was able to keep the habit in check throughout my teen years and even through college. It was probably due to the fact that I was operating on a limited income and could not afford to regularly "kiss the tortilla and tomato".
Everything changed when I got a real job. Suddenly I had disposable income that I could use on anything I wanted. Most people fancy new clothes or a sporty car. Not me. With my first paycheck I went to Kroger and stood paralyzed with awe at all the choices. Doritos and Tostitos, Pace and Ortega, Regular and Baked.
I have had some dark nights. Nights I am shamed to mention. I would be lying if I said there had not been numerous times where the urge has driven me to open a bag and crack a can and before I knew it, I'd cleaned both out completely.
I didn't think I could go any lower. That is, until last week. I found myself watching the AFC championship game on television and that familiar, haunting desire overwhelmed me. I tried to fight it, but my lips desired that thrilling saltiness. As I rose from my arm chair and stumbled into the kitchen I opened my cupboards and refrigerator to find no chips and no salsa.
I was torn. I did not know what to do, and that was when I took the addiction too far. I saw left over pita bread on the bottom shelf of my refrigerator and chunky marinara spaghetti sauce right above it. In an insane move, I actually stripped the pita bread into pieces and used them as chips in a bottle of spaghetti sauce. It gave me my fix, but I was sickened at myself. What kind of monster have I become?
I remember some crazy experimentation in junior high. While most of my peers were worried about 8th grade geography, I was busy mixing ranch and salsa. Those were dark days for sure. What is sad is that I never admitted that I had a problem. I would find reasons in high school to get everyone to go to Chili's rather than a movie. Then, subtly as I sat in the restaurant booth, I would ask for one of those "bottomless baskets of chips and salsa" with my Old Timer burger.
Nobody asked, but everyone knew. I was able to keep the habit in check throughout my teen years and even through college. It was probably due to the fact that I was operating on a limited income and could not afford to regularly "kiss the tortilla and tomato".
Everything changed when I got a real job. Suddenly I had disposable income that I could use on anything I wanted. Most people fancy new clothes or a sporty car. Not me. With my first paycheck I went to Kroger and stood paralyzed with awe at all the choices. Doritos and Tostitos, Pace and Ortega, Regular and Baked.
I have had some dark nights. Nights I am shamed to mention. I would be lying if I said there had not been numerous times where the urge has driven me to open a bag and crack a can and before I knew it, I'd cleaned both out completely.
I didn't think I could go any lower. That is, until last week. I found myself watching the AFC championship game on television and that familiar, haunting desire overwhelmed me. I tried to fight it, but my lips desired that thrilling saltiness. As I rose from my arm chair and stumbled into the kitchen I opened my cupboards and refrigerator to find no chips and no salsa.
I was torn. I did not know what to do, and that was when I took the addiction too far. I saw left over pita bread on the bottom shelf of my refrigerator and chunky marinara spaghetti sauce right above it. In an insane move, I actually stripped the pita bread into pieces and used them as chips in a bottle of spaghetti sauce. It gave me my fix, but I was sickened at myself. What kind of monster have I become?
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Short Story #1
This is not a story of romance. This is not a story of spiritual things. Yes, all things fundamentally come down to spirituality, but this story is not about that. This is a story of truncation, a story of precision.
He sat in his chair, his back straight, perfect posture. An article he had read in Men’s Health stressed the importance of a strong core. It was thirteen past the hour and he had been working diligently at his desk since eight. Vincent’s light brown hair sat upon his head combed to the side. His black-rimmed glasses hung across his long, slender face. Today he wore a blue tie with his white, starched shirt. His mother had given him the tie for Christmas. It had been on sale at Macy’s and she had a coupon. It was a bargain to say the least.
Vincent double-checked his work. No remainder. Everything tied out perfectly. The statement was complete and now he could justify getting his second cup of coffee. It would be his last of the day, because he did not want to chance having too much caffeine. As Vincent stood up from his desk he looked out the window at the St. Louis skyline. He was not sure what to think of the falling snow. It certainly was not beautiful. Snow meant traffic jams, tardiness and disorganization. Vincent hated snow.
It was twenty-seven past the hour when Vincent returned to his desk. He filtered through the emails on his computer, looking for the next task to tackle. Over his shoulder hung an accounting degree from the University of Wisconsin. Carefully hung around the diploma were family pictures. 1998 in Mexico with his brother, 2004 in Maine with his mother and father, and a family portrait from last year’s Christmas. The glass in each of the frames was shinny and streak free.
Vincent continued to work throughout the afternoon and stood to grab his jacket at exactly six. The daylight had already slipped beneath the horizon and darkness remained as the only thing outside his window.
As he gathered his keys, wallet and jacket his thoughts went to the chicken breast marinating in his refrigerator at home. He’d need to check how long it should cook to guard against the possibility of salmonella. Vincent shut his computer down, turned off the light in his office and headed to the exit.
As he let his car’s engine warm, he turned on the radio. The first station was not playing a song to his liking so he continued to toggle between the preprogrammed stations. Content with an evening NPR program, he put his car into drive and headed towards the highway.
Forty-five minutes. The drive normally took twenty-five. He parked his car in his assigned spot and headed to the apartment mailboxes. A credit card statement, a letter from his brother in Europe, and a penny-saver ad laid in his box. He took the penny-saver and discarded it in a waste bin. Vincent disdained junk mail.
Vincent opened his apartment door and hung his winter jacket in the closet. Carefully he folded his scarf and placed it on the end table next to the door. His apartment smelled of air freshener and Pine-Sol. Vincent prized himself on the cleanliness of his apartment. It was sterile and organized.
Records. Records were a terrible inconvenience. What was his sister thinking when she dropped off a box of them last week? Vincent had no desire for clutter, especially clutter that was obsolete. He would make a point to drop them off at Goodwill on Saturday. Perhaps some poor soul would find them useful or get some utility from them. For Vincent it meant a tax write-off.
Vincent pulled the chicken out of the oven and placed it on a white plate from the cupboard. As he sat down at his kitchen table his mind returned to the records. It made him itch. CDs and MP3s were clean and digital. Records were analog. He ate a few bites of his chicken and decided he was no longer hungry. Who would collect records? Why would anyone collect anything for that matter? Collecting was an inefficiency. Unless one is collecting things with an expectation of them having value at a later date, it did not make sense. Vincent took his leftovers and placed them in a Ziploc baggy.
After writing a check for his credit card bill, Vincent put on a sweater and grabbed the box of records. He walked out to the apartment trash compactor and dropped the albums in. The tax write-off would have been minimal he told himself as he walked back to his apartment.
He sat in his chair, his back straight, perfect posture. An article he had read in Men’s Health stressed the importance of a strong core. It was thirteen past the hour and he had been working diligently at his desk since eight. Vincent’s light brown hair sat upon his head combed to the side. His black-rimmed glasses hung across his long, slender face. Today he wore a blue tie with his white, starched shirt. His mother had given him the tie for Christmas. It had been on sale at Macy’s and she had a coupon. It was a bargain to say the least.
Vincent double-checked his work. No remainder. Everything tied out perfectly. The statement was complete and now he could justify getting his second cup of coffee. It would be his last of the day, because he did not want to chance having too much caffeine. As Vincent stood up from his desk he looked out the window at the St. Louis skyline. He was not sure what to think of the falling snow. It certainly was not beautiful. Snow meant traffic jams, tardiness and disorganization. Vincent hated snow.
It was twenty-seven past the hour when Vincent returned to his desk. He filtered through the emails on his computer, looking for the next task to tackle. Over his shoulder hung an accounting degree from the University of Wisconsin. Carefully hung around the diploma were family pictures. 1998 in Mexico with his brother, 2004 in Maine with his mother and father, and a family portrait from last year’s Christmas. The glass in each of the frames was shinny and streak free.
Vincent continued to work throughout the afternoon and stood to grab his jacket at exactly six. The daylight had already slipped beneath the horizon and darkness remained as the only thing outside his window.
As he gathered his keys, wallet and jacket his thoughts went to the chicken breast marinating in his refrigerator at home. He’d need to check how long it should cook to guard against the possibility of salmonella. Vincent shut his computer down, turned off the light in his office and headed to the exit.
As he let his car’s engine warm, he turned on the radio. The first station was not playing a song to his liking so he continued to toggle between the preprogrammed stations. Content with an evening NPR program, he put his car into drive and headed towards the highway.
Forty-five minutes. The drive normally took twenty-five. He parked his car in his assigned spot and headed to the apartment mailboxes. A credit card statement, a letter from his brother in Europe, and a penny-saver ad laid in his box. He took the penny-saver and discarded it in a waste bin. Vincent disdained junk mail.
Vincent opened his apartment door and hung his winter jacket in the closet. Carefully he folded his scarf and placed it on the end table next to the door. His apartment smelled of air freshener and Pine-Sol. Vincent prized himself on the cleanliness of his apartment. It was sterile and organized.
Records. Records were a terrible inconvenience. What was his sister thinking when she dropped off a box of them last week? Vincent had no desire for clutter, especially clutter that was obsolete. He would make a point to drop them off at Goodwill on Saturday. Perhaps some poor soul would find them useful or get some utility from them. For Vincent it meant a tax write-off.
Vincent pulled the chicken out of the oven and placed it on a white plate from the cupboard. As he sat down at his kitchen table his mind returned to the records. It made him itch. CDs and MP3s were clean and digital. Records were analog. He ate a few bites of his chicken and decided he was no longer hungry. Who would collect records? Why would anyone collect anything for that matter? Collecting was an inefficiency. Unless one is collecting things with an expectation of them having value at a later date, it did not make sense. Vincent took his leftovers and placed them in a Ziploc baggy.
After writing a check for his credit card bill, Vincent put on a sweater and grabbed the box of records. He walked out to the apartment trash compactor and dropped the albums in. The tax write-off would have been minimal he told himself as he walked back to his apartment.
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