Serendipitousless

I passed on going to my high school reunion. Reasons for this, I reckon, were in the multiples including not having attended my convocation in the first place. So if I couldn't be moved to show up for my diploma, I convinced myself, why would I want to see people I barely remember?

It didn't help my entire gang of friends I still hang with weren't going. Who was I going to get wasted with while whistling and hollering at women?

In a manner of speaking of course. Need not worry mother.

It was with much surprise how I happened upon perhaps the real source of my absence.

Laura.

Waiting to buy batteries and radicchio, while watching slow witted sloths move about the check out line, she came into my field of vision. My heart skipped, stopped and rebooted in about five seconds. My entire life, well the part that involved Laura, whistled by me just like that. Snap!

If there were any doubts I never really moved past her this was it. Staring down at the fucking Mars bar selling for .58 cents, I couldn't believe she could still sway me in ways I could never explain.

My objective was to play keep away, pay and walk on into the sunset. Well, it was only 2 in the afternoon but the metaphor of a sunset felt artistic. It was really a mundane afternoon. Perfect for people wallowing in banal existence.

Hey, I'm happy though.

I got these batteries, you see.

My plan fell through just as I walked out the door. Thinking I was free, I put my head up and there were her eyes; looking straight into mine.

The little hamster running the circuit board in my brain must have been comatose for I could not eke out a sound, let alone a succinct, and distinct word she could decode.

"Hello, Jack."

Thank God her hamster was working.

It took my full concentration to not hold up the bag of goods in my hands with a "I bought batteries with my allowance money" gaze.

"Hello, Laura?"

Yes. Try and fake not knowing her. Sure, that will work. What a man!

"How have you been?"

Don't say, "I have been buying batteries."

"Good!"

How do you tell someone you adored to the ends of the Andes the truth in such a sudden and soon to be short encounter? Saying, "good" is about as safe and blah as can be. It reveals, a certain lack of achievement, shall we say? It tries to deceive the person while at the same time screams, "good, except..."

Whatever. I need toilet paper.

"And you?"

"Good. It's been such a long time..."

This is where my mind wanders. "It's been such a long time since I've seen you. Not a minute goes by I don't think of you; of us. What happened?"

"I know. Too long." I reply with a smile.

It was time to stand tall. One of the principle reasons why I lost her was because of my lack of confidence. She filled me with so much self-doubt it corroded any judgement I had.

Or she could have just not liked me. I forget. Memories tend to lie.

"You weren't at the reunion. I was looking for you."

It was with those final words a bolt of courage instantly surged through my body waking the hamster up.

"Any reason why?" she asked.

"Oh, shucks. I don't know. Maybe because I spent three years in agonized pain yearning to be with you? Just guessing."

It was now her turn to be speechless. Now she knows what it's like to have a deadbeat sot of a hamster.

Nonetheless, it wasn't bon methode. "I'm sorry for springing this on you. All these pent up feelings...for all this time...I..."

"I-I didn't realize..."

"See, that's the problem with us. All these feelings but no realization of anything," I replied.

A car pulls up.

"My husband."

And just like that she was out of my life again.

For E.F.

Closure

There comes a time in life where, I reckon for some anyway, you can't but help think about death.

I'm certain people are obsessed with it and certainly many have contemplated it at a young age. If they didn't we wouldn't have teenage suicide.

I've never been one to confront mortality but as I enter my 40s, it's finding its way into the back of my mind.

It's probably why the news today of her dying shocks me so. A mutual friend from years back informed me. I hadn't her in over 25 years, yet she never strayed far from my memory. Her hold on me reached deep into my existence it turned out.

I was sad. Profoundly sad. I felt as though a piece of my youth died an unexpected death. It was like losing someone close to my heart despite not uttering a single word to her in so long a time. A generation has passed when one wants to be technical about it.

I had to see her.

The decision was made to do so that morning. It wasn't going to be easy as I didn't want to intrude on the family. My plan was simple. Go to the hospital and wait right until visiting hours over. Even then, family members were likely to linger or sleep somewhere in the ward. I know not of her husband and made up my mind I shall take a chance. No harm in going. If my naive plan didn't unfold as calculated, and believe me I knew the probabilities were against me, all I had to do was recede and disappear into the night. After all, I may as well have been a ghost.

On the drive over, my sorrow only grew. My sense of personal mortality heightened. I thought of our brief love for one another once long ago. Teenagers but we were. I wished I had had kept that key chain she bought me for my birthday. She probably forgot what day that is.

Entering the hospital it felt like going into a Cathedral. I felt a sense of calmness I never really felt in my nerve, wrecked life. I asked the front desk where I could find her. "Room 201" the nurse said.

Room 201 was where we met in junior high. I still remember the day well. God I really did love her that much!

I observed in quiet silence and watched her parents leave. Her husband left with them. I watched them go to into the elevator. This gave me a few moments to go in and see her.

For a moment, I questioned my decision. I was uncertain if this was a selfish move on my part. But something gently pushed me forward. Perhaps an angel.

Conscience of my small window of time, I approached the bed. Her eyes were closed. Sensing someone coming in she opened them.

Of course, you can imagine the shock. She didn't need to speak really. I saw it in her eyes.

"Top of the morning. I'm Alex."

Those were the exact words I said to her in Room 201.

She responded as she did that very same day. "Hello. I know."

"There's so much I want to say. Unfortunately, my mere presence will have to do."

"It's ok. I'm happy you came. You've been on my mind all these years."

My knees buckled under me.

I took her hand and caressed it.

"Not a day went by where I didn't think of you. I just wanted to see you."

"It's funny. I prayed for you to come."

"You were my girlfriend not so long ago."

"Reach over in that bag. In the side pocket..."

I wasn't sure what I was looking for, however, she let me continue as if she knew what I was going to find. There it was. My favorite handkerchief! I had given it to her one of those soft, lazy autumn days.  I was known around school for wearing 'chiefs as I called them.

It was engraved with the initials A.L.. As I stared at it, trying to contain my emotions, I noticed something else was embroidered on it.

She had added her own initials!

"I did only four years ago."

"I-I...This is..."

"I can't believe it too."

It was a revelation so great it created an inner chaos of magnificent disorder. I could only look at her. I took one last moment to remember the first time I saw her.

Then.

It was time to go.

I kissed her on the lips softly and whispered in her ear, "I love you."

The tears rushed down her cheek with the force of a mighty river. I reached for a tissue and wiped her tears.

"Please. Don't cry. It wasn't my intention."

"I have so much I want to tell you."

"Save your energy for your family. God bless you."

And with that, I reluctantly turned away.

"Alex?"

I stopped and looked back.

"Yes?"

"I love you too. I've been dying..."

She laughs.

"Dying to say that for a long time."

I gave a serene smile, turned and walked away.

It was the same angel giving me the strength to keep walking. Half way down the hall her husband walked past me.

I continued on.

Like a ghost.

For E.F.

No Closure

Just an imagine letter or conversation to a past loved. It's still unclear where I want it to go but it's a first draft, no editing. I plan to add and adjust to this ode of sorts moving forward.

***

What happened? Really. One minute we're mad in love with each other and the next thing I know 23 years have come and gone without you. Does the lack of closure bother you at all?

I've been reduced to intermittent abstract thoughts of you while wondering, perhaps even hoping, if you did the same.

Something tells me you did and still do.

Yet. Yet here we are. Married to other people with children. I don't doubt happiness is found. Fulfillment is another thing I reckon.

Why get into that? What's the point?

If it were meant to be, then somehow we would have found a way to fall into our respective arms; even with my bad shoulder. Fate, I presume, maintains its presence.

I don't expect anything to be discovered and been resolved to accept the fact there will be no closure to whatever the fuck it was we had.

All I know is my heart never ached like it did during the years I courted you. Never has so much personal energy been expunged into a girl for me. What makes it all the more absurd is it amounted to precious little. We exchanged, what, one kiss on the lips and four slow dances at each other's proms and two parties?

Those pitiful actions are completely disproportionate to how much I loved you.

Or was it love? I don't know.

Our relationship was one big fucking non-sequitur.

Remember that day in the alley at school?

Was it immaturity? Did I misread any signals? Was it already decided for you back then and I failed to compute or even accept it?

Me? How am I? I just went on to College and semi-conformed to social norms. I've been waging my own private war ever since. Life, she's a can of distortion.

Oh. I just found out, because it's a small town, you attended the same university. Imagine that. I saw, met and bumped into many people in four years (about 1400 days) of "education" but you weren't one of them.

Oddly, the impact you had on my soul suggests we spent every single day together.

Ghostly romance I would call it.

Please don't take my tone wrong. I'm just absolutely disoriented about it all as I cross the Rubicon into my 40s.

I've had three impassioned poems written for me by three different ladies. Plato was no fan of the "imitative tribe" as he called poets, but it proved my existence sufficiently. Imagine if I slept with any of them! Even more strange, I never physically met one of the three.

I was lucky to be in three meaningful relationships and still miss some of the girls that have passed through my arms. There was a cool, hipster chapter in my life. Of course, the amorous escapades culminated into my lovely, charismatic and brilliant wife who has put up with my antics. Nonetheless, I never got used to such a sedentary life. My daughter is rather prococious. I hope I can help her along her own path.

I spent the first 30 years of my life mocking and facing it with satirical indifference, it in turn giggled as it delivered a dash of devilish sinking knuckle balls my way.

I saved. I fucked. I partied. I played sports. I met rock stars. Got published. Started a business. Spent time and chatted with characters meant for Lou Reed and Tom Waits. Opportunities were missed and money lost in the market. Debts swelled. Money to be made once more.

You never strayed too far away. I accepted it wasn't to be. I think.

Just another night on the town as I stand here playing the saxophone on the corner of De Blois and Mallard streets wearing a Dodgers cap.

You know.

I saw you once. I know you saw me see you. I saw your face. That look. It suggested to me you haven't forgotten. Emotions, I want to believe, continue to stir.

Or maybe I'm mistaken and being a tad narcissistic. What with the poetry going to my head.

I can't tell! Time has dulled blurred my Bat-pragmatic senses. It's not like we gave each other a chance.

Either way, I couldn't bring myself to talk to you. All that "meet our spouses" crap. Not for me, man. Hey, just thought of something. I threw away the key chain you got me in junior high. I was an impulsive feller.

Truth is, if you have to know Emily, I still cling to that moment when I saw you at my surprise  sixteenth party.

An instant beginning and ending of a possible promise descending into a deep trench of what ifs.

I have no clue what's in the cards or if any of this has any rational explanation waiting.

I just know I don't know.

She Poses

She poses me a problem
Attached to another cemented by social customs
Oh my, to love, to be loved, or to think to be in love
She poses a crisis of the soul
Only to sense a mysterious energy to another!
How to navigate through such confusing waters but to move on as though it was not to ever be!
She presses me into acknowledging my own private anarchy in matters of the heart.

The Right To Bear An Arm

In the spirit of that old saying "it seemed a good idea at the time," Jerry looked down at the right side of his body where his arm once was a part of. Nodding his head he muttered to himself, "damn motherfuckers."

See, as the story was relayed to me Jerry, in an act of desperate depravity, gave away his right arm, literally, to go watch his favorite team play a live hockey game.

He scored a ticket off an Estonian scalper who happened to work for the 'Pig' mob in the market for body parts.

Spotting a dumb fucking idiot like Jerry, he made him an offer that Jerry wasn't likely to refuse. They went into the Estonian's van and proceeded to make the transaction. Jerry's right arm for a hockey ticket. "Deal of the century!" he giggled. Two people, a doctor and a female,  other than Jerry were in the van. The scalper stood outside looking out for, you know, cops.

Jerry noticed the doctor smoking and nervously inquired, "will second hand smoke kill me?" The doctor laughed mightily and slapped his thigh. "You! Funny!" as he took a massive puff. "It's medicinal."

All the while, his partner sat quietly looking at his watch. She soon broke his silence. "Rod. We're running behind." "Quit hounding me, Lolina." "What's taking so long? Just cut it already."

Rod was transfixed by Jerry's arm for some reason. "It's so soft. Yet, firm. I can't keep my hands off it." "We have a job to do!" Just as she said it, the Estonian scalper pounded the door. "You have arm? Yes?"

"Not yet, Vasily. Hang on." "Give me arm!" he shouted while sipping a cup of hot chocolate.

Jerry observed all that was going on and began to have doubts. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea. I mean, God gave us two arms for a reason, right?" "Yes, he did" replied the doctor. "For you to change hands each time you jack off." "I want out!" Jerry whimpered. "Now, now" Lolina interjected. "You came to us, remembered? Are you forgetting how badly you wanted to see your favorited team played? Imagine all those men...skating...and walking arounded naked at the ended of the game in the lockered roooooomed..."

Jerry said, "Fuck you're annoying how you talk."

"Lolina! Get a hold of yourself you whore!" Rod exclaimed.

"Jerry. A deal is a deal. You're not a squelcher, right?"

"No" he replied. "I do like hockey."

"Sure you do. I'm just gonna administer some "fun-feel-good" syrup in you, Rod will saw off your arm, and we can all move on with our lives."

"Some better than others" Rod said in a low, hush tones as they both snickered.

Soon, Jerry was sedated and only remembers sitting in the nosebleed section watching his team get pulverized by their opponents. "I don't like hockey so much anymore."

He waltzed out of the arena, looking every bit the chooch he is, dejected. He heard a kid crying, "I'd give my right arm" for a jersey.

He grabbed the kid and said while tearing as though he was cutting an onion, "don't do it, kid! It ain't worth it!"

"Let go of my kid, creep!" the father shouted.

"I will when you start being a father! See, see here? See this? I gave my right arm to the team! And what did I get for it?" The father and his son looked away in horror. One onlooker stood and laughed. He said, "Here's a hot-dog, guy."

Jerry took the hot-dog but it slipped through his left hand. He fell to his knees screaming, "Oh, I'm right handed! What have I become!"

He was taken home by the police that night and the rest was history. The team he so loved didn't even offer him a sock. Nothing.

Stirring a cup of tea in the morning, Jerry recognized the folly of his decision. He turned the TV on and so his beloved team on the news.

He raised his left arm and stared at it.

Chicago In Mind

*Takes bite out of cactus pear. Chokes.*

Growing up I had certain challenges.

Pop sez it wuz becuz I drank unfiltered orange juice infested with cockroaches when I was but a mere baby.

Bot I knows de reel troot.

Do you like my funny writing by the way?

I crack myself to sleep every fucking night.

No. Pop was an idiot. Cockroaches never hurt no one. Here's the real reason why.

My brain was invaded by animated cyborg-knights, who for no other reason except to impress a few slutty damsels, began hacking it. I can still hear the laughter and sweet eight syllable rhyming couplets of that old French Christian coot Chretien De Troyes in my head.

I know. Sounds "crazy." Who gets to define that anyway?

Perhaps because I was carefree, I was considered weird in the suburban Chicago school I attended in my dreams. I didn't make many friends, but I had a girlfriend. Oh, Lunetta and your cyrstal eyes peering through my creepy soul! "She was a bit surreal, she painted all her toes and on her face she wore dentures clamped tightly to her nose."

Why, I even brought her home for some good old style cooking. Flummery I think it was.

Mother, a committed Cubs fan, adored her. Everyday she read her stories about H.H. Holmes. We'd go for long canoe rides (Mr. Canoehead, where are you?) on Lake Michigan just to circumnavigate the cul-de-sac shouting, 'Du Sable est mon dieu!'

Pops never joined us because he was obsessed with that stupid, insipid goat. Incidentally, he coined the term 'bah.'

Eventually, I overcame all mental, physical (I was hunched and had two "left" feet) and geographical obstacles and got a job at a used diaper recycling company. I separated the shit from the diaper.

I never got any raises. People struggled with my floccinaucinihilipilification. They also found it disturbing that I kept listening to a recording of this ball game played back in 1932.

The psychologist could prove little.

Praise baseball for providing an escape. Feeling the Wrigley circus wind on my face filled me with much comfort and joy. Growing up, I would sit with my eyes closed, sucking in the Merion Bluegrass scent and absorbing it all. It's how I lost my front teeth thanks to a Johnny Kling liner.

Mother, me and Lunetta still get together to listen to the Cubs.

Although I'm not sure if they hear six feet under.

*Exits in Vaudeville dance*

Fin.

The Chapel In The School

It was 1989 in the school's Chapel. Let's call it St. Ambroise for the pointless sake of it. Back when chapel's in public institutions didn't cause a silly, freakish uproar among pseudo-rationalists, secularists or pain in the ass complaining atheist taking the state to court over trivial bull shit. You heard me. Fuck 'em.

Not that I'm religious. I just don't like people forcing their views on others is all.

Our insane - though it could never be proven on a piece of paper signed by those who know how to certify such things - Irish catholic priest was at his priceless, vulgar best.

His weekly diatribes were enough to rile a pack of psychotic boys (again, no proof) revving and itching to stir trouble. After swearing his way through a moral fable (I swear. I fucking swear Aesop wrote the Bible and no one is telling us the truth), he proceeded to go and sit in his quarters to listen to Confession.

Confession. As in, forgive me Father for I have sinned. Now, it's a tough subjective game this confessing sins thing. I once asked a religion teacher for a play book so I can keep tabs of what human transgressions Catholicism deemed sinful. Without it, I felt aimless. I mean, is manipulation of stocks or a girl you want to bang a sin per se?


I get easily confused and when I'm messed up internally, I ask empty questions.

No one went into the Chapel. It's 1989 again, remember? We all sat in silence refusing to go. Then, we had the idea, and don't ask why, of doing a human pyramid...in the Chapel.

It was quite a bizarre endeavor. It's not everyday you get a rough and tough kid like Tommy Ferino seizing the artistic reigns for the sake of making trouble. He carefully selected which of us would be placed on the pyramid. Ponzi would soon beckon him in the future.

Just as they were getting to the top, the Priest, probably wondering what was going on, came out. My bad. Sorry. The priest had a name. I forget to formally introduce people sometimes. His name was Father Cox. No joke. He never had a chance.

My friend once told me a story of the time he went into the secretary's office and someone was behind the copying machine fiddling around trying to fix it. As he spoke to the lady, the man blurted as he was getting up, "somebody has been fucking around with the fucking wires."

It was the good Father.

Another story. Actually told by my brother-in-law who graduated, say, 12 years before me. He too had Father Cox. One year he took his class on one of those spiritual getaways in the woods to "find oneself." I forget what you call them but I'm sure some marketing asshole has. I think those things are bull shit. Wood, grass, ponds, pond scum, and frogs have nothing to say to you. They have their own shit to take care of.

While the kids were starving in the cold outside, a couple of them went walking around to find the old man. Turns out Father Spirit Guide was sitting down in a cabin eating steak and eggs by a warm fire.

Do as I say...

The pyramid was not a sound structure. A look of brief disbelief suspended in thin air as we stared at Father Cox waiting to see what this nutcase was going to do. I wasn't in the pyramid but I still remember watching the standoff with delicious contentment. Suddenly, he said just as our morals teacher walked in, "get these assholes out of here" and down came the pyramid crumblin' and tumblin' to sacred ground.

Next thing we know, it was Delta Tau Chi redux. Guys were scattering for safety trying to elude the teacher. Why, I'm not sure. The rebellelion spilled over into the hallways and soon the Principal and other teachers were in the hunt searching us.

Shows you how stupid we were. Instead of just sitting down we decided to scatter like brainless monkeys.

I found myself running with Eric who was eating a bag of carrots and celery.

It was an especially tough spot for me as I was in enough trouble that week. I had been kicked out of a significant amount of classes and it had become apparent to the professionals shaping the country's future perhaps I wasn't going to be all that productive for society. I hate the word "society." It screams "follow this blue print" and therein laid my biggest problem: Conformity.

I feared it. Still do. It has made my life a living hell because the basic premise of our "social" and economic and all other bull shit associations like political parties, is conformity.

Part of conforming is accepting orders from dipshit morons who have no business giving orders in the first place. Not for me, man.

I was afraid of getting expelled. Weird. I knew I wasn't taking school seriously and that my behavior was far from impressive. I never told a teacher to fuck off though. I just didn't find that had any comical value. Plus it just wasn't cool. Maybe I was afraid of trying...and failing.

I told Eric I couldn't get caught. So we returned back to the Chapel by that time existing in peaceful spirituality. In other words, it was empty.

I rattled off a few nervous questions. "What do we do? Where do we hide? Why do we need to hide? How did it end up like this? Maybe I should just quietly go back to class? Why can't I just be a god damn good student? What if..." Eric was quietly and calmly eating listening to me while examining a door. He opened it and said, "how about in here?" "Father Cox's private bathroom?" I asked.

"It's the safest place. Principal Mariano will not look in here." Sounded logical to me.

In we went.

While absurdedly standing in a cold, tight bathroom, all I heard was Eric biting into his vegetables. "Want a carrot?" he asked in the dark. We didn't even bother to turn the light on. "Sure." There we stood eating carrots for a few seconds when our logical plan broke. The principal swung the door open. He saw two students eating carrots in the Priest's bathroom. He was stunned and asked, "Wh-what are you doing in there?"

Now that I think of it, I hope he didn't think...

"Nothing, sir." Eric said. "Get to class this second."

Off we went.

"Not you!" he said to me. No, you go to room 1B right now!"

I was given a severe warning. I think they saw no point in giving anything more. It's called cutting your losses.

As I left the office, I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.