Different from the Last Time (Angela's Refrain)

His kiss was warm and fragrant…perfectly-aged brandy and hand-rolled Cuban cigars…and as before it took my breath away. The masculine softness of his whiskers stroked my face gently as he kissed me a third time…his sweetly-urgent lips caressing mine with courtly passion…and, despite my well-founded misgivings, my head began to swim.

Last I remember, I walking out of the club…too tired of the mating game to want to play that night or any night to come…I was on my way back home to the solace of my quiet bed and my curious cat and my Norah Jones CDs. I was walking out of the club…away from the desperate din and casual come-ons…when a warm, massive hand lit on my shoulder and gently stopped me.

His dark brown eyes smiled at me…looked at me as though he had been waiting for me during all of those weeks and months that had passed since our incandescent relationship ended in acrimony…he mouthed my name…”Angela”…and I felt myself slipping under a warm ocean of passion and possibility. He said something else but the music was so loud that I couldn’t make it out. He bent forward and kissed me fleetingly and then he pulled back to gauge my reaction.

I think I nodded and smiled. “Not again, old man,” a voice inside pleaded feebly. I ignored it.

He stepped into me, resting his hands on my hips and then moving them up to my waist. I melted into him, my arms entwining him as my senses luxuriated in all of his wondrous scents and textures. We stood there…alone together in a bustling crowd of hedonistic revelers and earnest love seekers…for a short eternity before we pushed through the throng to the door.

In the cool night breeze, we spoke…shy, carnal hellos and self-conscious apologies for ages-old slights and time lost…and then we kissed again, less demure, tongues probing and hands exploring.

There was no reason to believe that this time would be different from the last time…but just the same, I believed this time would be different from the last time.

Back home in the solace of my humid bed, his touch was gentlemanly and proprietary at once…his mouth warm and comforting…his body sturdy and hirsute, sweetly fevered and anxiously yearning to please and be pleased…and I forgot about yesterday and left tomorrow to its own devices.

In the morning, his breathing as he slept gave me hopeful comfort…his ruggedly etched and weathered face gave me shivers of longing and belonging…but in one breath I vowed not to believe that this time would be different from the last time…and in the next I truly believed that this time would be different from the last time.

- for Angie and Alfred -

Robin

Robin is a contrarian and a snob. He is quite proud of this and never lets those few whom he counts as being worthy of his time and attention forget it. If it’s a TV show that everyone likes, Robin will be sure to hate it with a passion (this country’s fondness for the cheesy spectacle that is…and ever shall be…American Idol irks him to no end.) If it’s a movie that critics rave about, Robin will gleefully point out its many flaws (Robin fumes through the Oscars every year grumbling that all of the best films of the years are ALWAYS ignored in favor of soulless junk.)

And God help any band that manages to sell more than a few thousand CDs…Robin knows, without a doubt, that they have sold their artistic integrity to the false idol of popular acclaim (he has yet to forgive REM for having records…far inferior to their earlier stuff, of course…that went multi-platinum.)

Robin is…despite his intractable fussiness and snobbery…a good guy (especially when you’re feeling devilish and just to tweak somebody who’s wonderfully easy to wind up.) Those few who he counts as being worthy of his time and attention…those few who he calls his friends…accept his blowsy pretensions with a knowing wink and a smile because they know he’s a good guy…and because they know secrets…that Robin always cries at the end of Titanic and that he has a secret stash of Britney Spears CDs that he likes to workout to…that Robin doesn’t know that they know.

Letting Robin be the Robin he wants to project to the world is a simple enough thing for those few who count him as a friend (especially when they have the Britney Spears thing to hang over his head if ever the need arises.)

Total Raisin Bran

It was a hazy Saturday morning in San Diego and I was inside my local Ralphs. I’m balancing my calculator on top of the legal pad on which I’ve written my shopping list; my coupons are clipped to the top sheet of the pad with an oversized paperclip. It’s a weekly ritual and I am focused on getting through the store…the usual pattern starting in produce and ending up in frozen foods…and getting on with the rest of my day.

As I came around the corner of the cereal aisle…Cheerios are on sale…I hear a tiny, determined voice: “Mommy, I can get it.”

“No, Laurel,” a woman said irritably, “you cannot climb on those shelves. Just give me a second to get your sister settled.”

Mom, feeding her fussy baby formula from a small bottle, was harried and unsmiling; she was wearing a scarlet sweat suit and black running shoes; her chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was not wearing makeup. I had the distinct feeling it wasn’t a good morning her. Her basket, half full, was parked next to the shelves of coffee that was right across the aisle from the Cheerios section of the cereal shelves; there was an empty baby seat in the top section of the basket.

Near Mom’s feet was a tiny girl…maybe 3…wearing faded blue jeans and a pink Hello Kitty tee shirt, her hair also in a ponytail, and looking up at the cereal shelves. She looked frustrated and impatient. “Mommy, I see it up there,” she said, “the one you like.” I followed her gaze up to the boxes of Total Raisin Bran on the top shelf…two shelves above the Cheerios…and wondered how the impasse was going to be broken.

“In a minute, Laurel,” Mom snapped.

Laurel frowned and then glared up at her mother. “I just wanna help.”

Mom, still feeding the baby, looked down seemingly not knowing whether to laugh or to cry. I imagined that Dad…wherever he was…was in for an earful when he got home.

“Can I help you get something?” I asked, pulling my basket in behind her. Mom looked up at me as if she was trying to figure out my angle; Laurel took a step back towards her Mother.

Mom, apparently deciding that I didn’t have an angle, smiled weakly and said “I just need a box of Total…the Raisin Bran…”

“Mommy, I wanted to get it!” Laurel interjected petulantly as I started to reach for a box.

I suppressed the urge to laugh and got down on one knee. “We can get it together if you want.”

Laurel looked at me warily…I’m a large dark man and she’s a tiny pale girl…and then looked up at her mother.

Her mother looked at me and nodded gratefully and then she nodded at Laurel. Laurel and I crossed the aisle and I put my arm around her waist and lifted her up. She steadied herself my putting her left hand on my shoulder as she reached out for the purple box of cereal with her right. I took a step over and let her put the box…which she was she just barely controlling with both of her hands…into her mother’s cart and then I lowered her back down to the floor.

“Thank you,” Laurel said in small, shy voice as she pressed close to her mother.

“You’re welcome.” I stooped down and grabbed a box of Cheerios from the bottom shelf and tossed it into my cart.

I nodded to Mom as I passed her…she smiled and nodded back…and went on down the aisle towards the front of the store.

“I was up really high, Mommy,” Laurel said behind me before I was out of earshot.

I finished my shopping and got on with the rest of my Saturday.

Blind Date

Kathy’s fight or flight instincts kicked in hard as soon as she saw him…proud as a peacock in his gleaming cherry red Gremlin singing along to Supertramp’s Breakfast in America…pull into the parking lot. She reminded herself to never ever go another blind date…she also reminded herself to throttle Gayle (“he’s a fun guy…you’ll love him”) the next time she saw her.

He fairly danced out of the car…singing “The Logical Song” without once hitting a correct note…and ran up to greet her. Kathy shied back from his attempted hug and they shook hands instead.

Gary…that was his name…was a sight to behold in his three-piece bright white suit, black shirt open down to the middle of his chest (which was covered with a forest of thick black hair), bright white platform shoes (shining like a new dime), gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses (which must have made the world seem awfully gloomy seeing as how it was well past sunset), and enough gold chains to make Mr. T envious back in the day. Kathy wondered if perhaps they were going to a costume party and she hadn’t been given the memo.

Kathy tried to think of what it was she could have possibly done to Gayle to deserve this…and then she remembered that Gayle fancied herself a prankster and Kathy realized that she should have known better. She was glad at least that she’d agreed to meet in a neutral place as she was pretty sure she didn’t want Gary knowing where she lived.

Kathy’s head immediately filled with static after he said “Hey, foxy mama” so she only heard snatches of his chipper monologue as she allowed herself to be led to the passenger seat of the Gremlin (which was, she had to admit, amazingly immaculate.) Gary, chattering away while chewing his Doublemint gum, didn’t seem to notice.

Gary said something about “mood music” and switched the Supertramp cassette for a K.C. and the Sunshine Band cassette. Gary drove and bopped his head and sang (no closer to being on key with this song than he had been with the Supertramp tunes)…that’s the way…uh-huh…I like it…uh-huh, uh-huh…said words at Kathy; Kathy wondered idly if jumping out of the car at the speed it was going would hurt very much.

The club they ended up at was, Kathy imagined, just like Studio 54 back in the seventies…that is, if Studio 54 were a sweaty, dingy, murky hole in the wall dive in a neighborhood most people wouldn’t (or rather would very like be) caught dead in after dark. Lots of people in the club…dressed in enough bright rainbow shades of polyester and gold lame to almost (almost) cut through the haze…seemed to know Gary and he basked in their boozy adoration (Kathy thought that she heard him introduce her to a puffy guy in a lime green leisure suit as “my lady” but her mind refused to try to grasp onto that concept and the thought died a merciful death of denial and sanity preservation.)

Gary led her to “his table” and a waitress…a bored bleached blonde who apparently had put on her makeup with a shovel (and in the dark)…asked what they would have. Gary ordered a rum and coke with a Jose Jimenez accent that he thought was both hilarious and charming.

Kathy ordered beer. Lots and lots of beer.

It took almost two beers before Kathy acquiesced to Gary’s incessant offers to dance when his favorite Village People song thumped through the club’s speakers. Gary, almost as a matter of course, danced no better than he sang and Kathy spent most of the time on the dance floor making sure his white platform shoes didn’t crush down on her stylish but comfortable pumps while idly wondering why it was so much fun to stay at the YMCA.

The rest of the evening was a blur for Kathy. She drank beer, stared down leering disco dancers who had…surprise, surprise…come to the club without dates, and watched Gary’s lips move incessantly (at one point she thought she might have heard him introduce her to someone as his “new girlfriend” but that was too absurd a concept to dwell upon for longer than a nanosecond so she happily let it go.)

There had to be a time machine to take her back to the 21^st Century somewhere around there, Kathy thought as she glanced around the club.

Gary put on some chill out music…Barry White, of course…for the ride back to the mall where Kathy’s car was. The static in her head cleared just a bit too much and, much to her chagrin, she found that she could make out most of the song…I’ve got so much to give…to you my dear…as interpreted by Gary (who was emphasizing his passion by giving her what Kathy was sure he thought were his best, most seductive bedroom eyes.) Barry White was probably rolling over in his grave, she thought…and then the thought of graves made her think of Gayle and that made her smile.

Kathy was opening the door before the Gremlin had drawn to a complete stop. Gary leaned over for a kiss and Kathy deftly offered him a fleeting taste of her cheek. Gary asked if he could call her and Kathy said “sure” and rattled off seven random numbers before she bolted out of the door.

Kathy waited in her car…her safe, reliable, conservatively painted 21^st Century Honda Civic…until she was sure Gary was far down the road before she was sure it was safe to drive home.

Happy Birthday

Today…March 13^th…is my birthday (and yes, I still enjoy my birthdays :-)

Once upon a time, I was young (see above)…I do not yearn for more youth (everything has its season…every life has its stages to experience and embrace) but I do still yearn for time…time to be awed by more sunsets…time to savor more laughter, to sing with more rainbows and dance with more raindrops…time to luxuriate in more sweet kisses and to nuzzle into more lingering hugs…time to see…time to sing…time to laugh…time to dance…time to learn and teach and discover…time to be.

Once upon a time, I was young…and the future was boundless. I am no longer young as I once was (see below)…but the future…the future is still as boundless as my wits and my imagination will allow…and that’s good enough for me.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Gravity

When I was 8 I spent much of my time defying the law of gravity. The white towel tied around my neck morphed into a flowing red cape and I, running faster than a speeding bullet, took off gracefully and soared high into the sky.

The people waved, glad to know I was watching over them, and I waved back as I patrolled the city. I would do all of the usual stuff…putting out fires, rescuing silly kittens from trees, smashing giant killer robots…until my mother made me come in for lunch.

“Where did you go?” she would ask after I glided down from the heavens and walked into the door from the backyard.

“Metropolis,” I’d answer, a bit miffed that I’d had to cut off my patrol in order to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“That’s nice, baby,” she would reply. “Just don’t get my towel dirty.”

I always just sighed and rolled my eyes…my mother was the smartest woman in the world but she just didn’t get it…and went to the bathroom to wash my hands.

After lunch my teammates…Wonder Woman (Renee) and Batman (Lloyd)…came over and we would spend the afternoon defying the law of gravity, saving silly kittens, keeping the world safe from giant killer robots…and making sure we didn’t get our mothers’ towels dirty.

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Other MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

The Tomorrow Girl

Everybody loved the tomorrow girl. She always walked like she was dancing on sunbeams…she always talked like she was singing songs only the four winds dared give voice to.

She always brought bountiful light to dourest of shadows…and sweet magic to even the most mundane of circumstances.

She melted hearts with her smile and moved mountains with naught but the force of her boundless optimism; sadness and cynicism and loneliness had no welcome place in her company.

And that’s why everybody…everybody…loved the tomorrow girl.

Everybody claimed they knew the tomorrow girl intimately. Some claimed to be her sisters and her brothers...her mothers, her fathers, her husbands, her most ardent and faithful lovers. Some claimed to be her most trusted confidants or her most devoted and unwavering supplicants.

Everybody claimed to have a place in the heart of the tomorrow girl…and, though none of them truly knew her as intimately as they imagined they did, every one of them was right.

And even when she was gone…for she never lingered long in one place…her spirit remained…dancing on sunbeams…singing with the mighty winds…opening hearts to light and peace, passion and joy…and that’s why everybody…everybody…loved the tomorrow girl.

And that’s why everybody…that’s why I…loved the tomorrow girl.

- for Magdalena -

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Other MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

the balcony

Vaguely, he heard the rustling from the bed….and the soft patter of feet behind him…but he didn’t turn…he didn’t speak out when his name was called in a curious, concerned whisper...he didn't rise from the weathered lounge chair.

The night was cool, the moon was warm and creamy and golden, and the sea in the near distance was languid and soothing and streaked with warm and creamy and golden highlights…the view from the balcony was peaceful and calming.

He felt the arms slip around his neck and the warm lips dance lightly on his neck. “What are you doing out here?”

He nuzzled back. “Watching the moonlight skip across the waves,” he replied.

“How very poetic…” There was a moment of silence. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep, old man? I figured you would have been worn out after…”

He smiled with some amount of self-satisfaction. “Not such an old man an hour ago was I?”

The arms squeezed him firmly, reassuringly. “Don’t flatter yourself too much, old-timer,” came the playfully taunting reply, “I took it easy on you…you would probably end up in a coma if I really cut loose…”

He laughed. “If you say so…”

The sea breeze wafted around them but the warmth from the place where they were touch was ample proof against any chill.

He felt another kiss tease the most sensitive spot on the nape of his neck and he shuddered involuntarily but oh so sweetly. “Come to bed.”

He closed his eyes. “I will,” he replied, “I just want to watch the moon for a few more minutes.” He opened his eyes and looked out at the lazy sea in the near distance.

The hand gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re a strange and wonderful man.”

“And that’s why you love me.”

The velvety chuckle that came in response encircled him like a hug. “If you say so…” The soft patter of feet retreated through the balcony door back into the bedroom.

He sat for a few moments watching the moonlight…feeling very old and very young at the same time…and then, with a respectful salute to the warm and creamy and golden moon, he rose and slipped into the bedroom...into the welcoming bed.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Amanda

I’ve always thought of my cousin Amanda as the little sister my mother refused to give me when I was boy. My brother and I lobbied hard for a little sister for years but my mother, divorced and out of the baby-making business forever, always just laughed and told us that it just wasn’t going to happen.

Ever the dreamer, I wanted to be my little sister’s best friend and her favorite hero. I wanted to be there when she needed to cry and I wanted to be the one to glower at her perspective boyfriends and let them know that I knew what was on their minds (being a guy myself) and that they were wading into dangerous waters if they messed with my little sister that way.

My cousin Amanda, born almost 3 years after I was, kind of filled that void while we were growing up. She was sweet and self-effacing and a calming, guileless joy to be around (frankly most days I would have traded my troublesome brother…may he rest in peace…for Amanda in a heartbeat.) Amanda had two older brothers but my cousins never seemed to appreciate her as much as I thought they should.

She grew up, of course, and married a man she remains with to this day. Her firstborn daughter became, for a long tender season, the apple of my eye and found a place in my heart right next to her mother’s.

Time and distance separate me from Amanda but the feelings remain…warm and comforting and unlikely to ever fade away…my “little sister” has been a woman for a long while and still…and still…I hope that she knows she’s my little sister now and forever.

Gather.com First Chapters Writing Competition

FYI (and, yes, for your consideration :-): My entry is Gather.com's First Chapters Writing Competition went live today. In their words: The Gather.com First Chapters Writing Competition is a first-time author's gateway to publication. One novelist will win a publishing contract with Touchstone/Simon & Schuster, a $5,000 cash prize and promotion by Borders.

I’ve entered my novel Soul Deep.

If you want to check it out, the link to my entry is here.

My first chapter will be up and available for voting for the next 14 days. It will then be taken down and the votes tallied. The highest rated chapters will then move on to the next round with the second chapters from the novels being posted for another round of voting.

Only Gather.com members can vote (Gather is a free social network for adults who like things like books and music and current events and other everyday interests and concerns and passions and interacting with other like-minded adults who like those kind of things.) If you want to join Gather, the link to do so is here

Once you’re a member, you can vote in the competition if you wish to (again, my entry is here :-), enter your own novel (the deadline for entries is March 15^th I believe), or just enjoy the social networking (Gather is like MySpace…only with a lot fewer kids and no unsigned pop bands trying to sell you their music :-)

Namaste, y'all.

The Last Time I Saw Harry

The first time I saw Harry he was scampering over the fence into my backyard wearing nothing but a thin towel with the word “guest” stitched on it in flowery red script.

I was lying on my weathered but still comfortable lawn chair reading the latest Joseph Wambaugh in the warmth of a summer’s afternoon when a commotion from the house next door…Walt and Joy’s house…caught my attention. There was the sound of hushed murmuring and skulking feet and then Harry…lean and tanned and looking fearful and amused at the same time…scaled the fence and crouched low near to the rosebushes.

“Can I help you?” I asked, curious as to how he would explain his actions.

Harry, quite unperturbed by my presence, shook his head amiably. “No, I’m good, my friend,” he said in a stage whisper, “I’m just waiting for my clothes.”

And, on cue, jeans and a t-shirt and sneakers and socks and underwear came soaring gracelessly over the fence. “Call me,” a voice…Joy’s voice…whispered from the other side of the fence just before the sound of scrambling footsteps and the abrupt slamming of a backdoor could be heard.

Harry, chuckling and humming, gathered up his clothes and looked over at me. “I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about…”

Walt was a long haul trucker…a ruddy, mostly-affable brute of a man who spent long stretches of time out on the road…and Joy…well, Joy was not the kind of woman who could deal with being alone for long stretches of time. Joy was not very discreet so seeing strange men sneaking into and out of her house from time to time while Walt was away was no surprise to any of her neighbors.

“Walt’s coming home earlier than she expected,” I said knowingly, closing my book and sitting up.

Harry smiled brightly, impressed by my calm, casual grasp of the situation. “Just so, my friend, just so,” he said, “good thing he called her when he hit the city limits…”

“He does that to give her time to clear out any…unexpected visitors…” I replied. “Walt’s not as dumb as Joy thinks he is.”

Harry walked closer to me carrying his clothes. “That’s awfully sporting of him…I’ve seen his photo and he’s a big bruiser and I doubt that I would want to have him find me in his bed with his wife,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder ever so warily. “I’m Harry, by the way,” he said extending his hand, “pleased to meet you.”

I shook his hand. “Gregory,” I said, introducing myself, “and it’s…interesting…to meet you.”

“Look, Greg,” Harry said with a twinkle in his eye, “I don’t suppose you would let a new friend use your bathroom, would you? Ol’ Walt’s call came while me and his missus were…well, we were already pretty sweaty and I didn’t get a chance to shower off.”

I stifled the urge to chuckle. I could see where this guy’s rouge’s charm would have appealed to Joy. “Sure, why not?” I said going with the surreal flow of the situation. I heard the distinctive growl of Walt’s semi rumbling up the avenue and, in the next moment, I glanced up to see Joy, wearing nothing but a silk robe, looking down at us from her upstairs guest room.

“That would be Walt, I’m guessing,” Harry said, his face slightly clouded over.

I nodded. “Guess you’d better get inside…the sight of you wearing nothing but his guest towel is likely to upset the balance of the strange little game those two play…and likely to introduce you to a whole new world of hurt.”

Harry laughed and slapped me on the shoulder as I led him into the backdoor of my house. “Your concern for a new friend’s welfare is commendable, my son,” he said, “you’re one in a million.”

Harry showered and dressed while I made some coffee. He came into the kitchen and handed me Joy’s guest towel. “Would you be a pal and see that Joy gets this back at some discreet moment?” he asked with a rakish, conspiratorial wink.

I took the towel and tossed it next to the door to my laundry room. “Sure,” I said. “Coffee?”

“That would be lovely, Greg,” he said sitting across the kitchen table from me.

We drank coffee while Harry, never at a loss for words it seemed, spun wild…and, I presumed, mostly untrue…tales of his adventures all over the world; I was charmed by his hubris and engaged by his colorful gift for gab. After a couple of hours, Harry said that he had places to go and people to see and so he thanked me for my assistance and hospitality and disappeared into the evening.

I slipped the towel back to Joy a couple of days later while Walt was out playing poker with some of his friends; Joy was quite undisturbed by the fact that I had become part of one of her extramarital dramas.

The next time I saw Harry he was sitting at the bar in a restaurant I liked chatting up a plump, buxom blonde. It was 6 months later and I was there on a blind date with Annabelle, a friend of my cousin Louise. I didn’t think that he had seen me but a few minutes after Annabelle and I were seated he came over to our table.

“Gregory!” he said boisterously. “It’s good to see you again, my friend!” Harry pulled up a chair between us and turned his attention on my date. “And in the company of such a stunning young lady,” he said with a bright smile in his voice. “Well done, lad, well done indeed.” Harry gallantly kissed Annabelle’s hand as I introduced them to each other and she looked at me both puzzled and charmed.

Harry leaned close to me. “I’m really trying to spend some…quality time…with that pretty young thing over there,” he said nodding towards the blonde at the bar, “but I’m a little short. I don’t suppose you could front me a hundred bucks…I’m good for it.”

I frowned and then shook my head and chuckled. I slipped him the money and he smiled brightly. “You are the salt of the earth, my friend,” he proclaimed as he stood up. “Hang on to this one, dear lady,” he said to Annabelle, “he’s a keeper.” And, with a bow, Harry hurried back to the plump blonde. A few moments later the two of them were heading out the door Harry favoring me with a jaunty wave as he exited the restaurant.

“What the hell was that?” Annabelle asked, still both puzzled and charmed by Harry.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

Eight days later, an envelope arrived in the mail containing two 50-dollar bills and a note that said “a wonderful time was had by all. Cheers, H.”

Over the course of the following year I received, at random intervals, strange and wonderful offerings from Harry: postcards from places both exotic and mundane, strange little curios (little figurines, colorful rocks, etc.), photos of women of all kinds (young and old and of various shapes, sizes, and races) with bawdy, but oddly respectful, recollections about the subjects scribbled on the back, and even a delicate pendant that he asked me to give to Joy with his best wishes (I did so the next time Walt went on the road and Joy smiled beatifically and kissed me on the cheek when she thanked me for bringing her Harry’s gift.) There was never a return address.

The last time I saw Harry began on the night he woke me up at 3 AM banging softly but insistently on my front door. When I opened the door Harry zipped in and quickly shut the door. He looked haggard…he had a scraggly beard and his clothes were disheveled…and the twinkle in his eyes was damped down. He glanced out of the front window as if making sure he hadn’t been followed.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

Harry looked at me and then shook his head. “You don’t want to know, Greg,” he said soberly. Then he glanced towards the stairs that led upstairs and frowned. “I’m not disturbing something here, am I?” he asked with genuine concern. “Is the lovely Annabelle sleeping upstairs?”

I was surprised that he remembered her. “No,” I said, “that didn’t work out.”

Harry nodded. “That’s a pity, you two looked like a good match.” He paused and then asked “Can I crash here tonight? I won’t be any trouble.”

It was all very perplexing but I nodded and said, “of course.”

Harry smiled weakly. “You’re a good man, Gregory.”

Harry spent the night in my guest room and in the morning I woke to the smell of coffee and toast and bacon. Harry was in the kitchen…freshly showered, shaved, and pressed and looking like I had remembered…cooking breakfast for us. “Good morning, my friend!” he exclaimed happily, the haunted look that had been in his eyes a few hours before replaced with that charming twinkle.

“Is everything okay?” I asked warily.

“No worries, Greg,” he said jauntily as he dished up plates of bacon and eggs for us, “made a few calls and everything’s jake again.”

I had no idea what he was talking about but somehow I knew that there was no chance of getting a straight answer out of him on the matter so I let it go. Harry regaled me with a new spate of tales…mostly true, I supposed now…of his latest adventures while we ate breakfast.

After breakfast, Harry thanked me for my hospitality and then, with an impish wink, asked me if Walt was on the road. “Excellent!” he said with gleeful gusto when I told him that Walt had left for a long, cross-state trip just a few days earlier. Harry shook my hand and then, quite suddenly, hugged me. “You’re one in a million, Gregory.”

I stood on my front stoop watching as Harry walked next door and knocked on the door. The last time I saw Harry he was winking at me as Joy’s arms and giggles encircled him and drew him through her front door.

I have no idea how long Harry stayed with Joy but I had the feeling that, when Walt arrived home a week or so later that he had long since moved on.

And that was indeed the last I saw Harry though I have no doubt that he will turn up again and indeed I look forward to it…to the next time I see Harry.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

that boy

I remember that boy…he was a favorite of mine. That boy who lost himself in words and pictures and ideas…in comic books and Greek mythology, in the words of Dr. Seuss and Mark Twain and Robert Heinlein and Ralph Ellison, in images on the boob tube and the movie screen and in the halls of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art…that boy…that inquisitive, imaginative boy…he was a favorite of mine.

I remember that boy…he danced to his favorite 45’s and he danced out in the autumn rain late at night…he soared in the clouds and kept his feet on the ground…he fell in love gracelessly but earnestly and he had secret, improbable crushes on friends of his mother and others too old to take him seriously…he loved his mother and tried to understand his father and see all the good that he could in his brother...that boy…that odd, fanciful boy…I remember that boy very well.

Yeah, I remember that boy…he was often a best friend when he wanted to be a boyfriend…a dreamer when he wanted to be doer…he was often a shoulder to lean on when he wanted to be a heart that was longed for…he knew all the words to the theme from Gilligan’s Island and the real names of all of the members of the Legion of Super-Heroes and all of the lyrics to the long version of “American Pie”…that boy…that strange, mundane, amazing boy…yeah, he was a favorite of mine.

I remember that boy…that shy, arrogant, easygoing, stubborn, illogical, utterly practical boy…he was a favorite of mine…he is a favorite of mine still. That boy…hopefully I will never lose sight of that boy no matter how far back down the road he seems. Yes, that boy…that simple, complicated boy…he is, now and forever, a real favorite of mine.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Remember Me (Eli's Song)

Remember me…when the moonlight dances languidly along the suburban avenues…when the Pacific wind blows in softly from the west and tickles the stoic fancies of the palms and the lemon trees.

Remember me…when the tears you cry take away your pain and the smiles you share are heartfelt and freely shared with a laconic, grey world…when your body wants to waltz even where there is no music and when your heart shudders like it did the first time you fell in love.

Remember me…when the sun turns the near horizon a dozen dazzling shades of gold and orange…when the night folds around you the way your mother’s arms did when you were young and there was no safer place in the whole wide world to be than in her strong, gentle, soothing arms.

Remember me…when the clouds paint fanciful pictures across warm azure skies…when the laughter of the children and the sighs of the young girls and the remembrances of the old men reveal themselves as music as heartbreakingly evocative as you could ever want or hope to be swept up into…when the tender kisses of gallant young men and the gentle embraces of beautiful old women soothe and keep you even in your darkest moments.

Remember me…as I am…as I wish to be…as you wish me to be. Remember me as I, my dear parents…my dear friends…my dear teachers…my dear lovers…my dear children…my dear world…will always remember and keep you.

Presidents' Day (or President's Day)

Susan loved Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day…she wasn’t really sure which one was correct.) She loved all of the hoopla…all of the pomp and circumstance. She loved the long moments of silence and reflection given to each and every President. She loved that thundering booms of the fireworks that would slash colorfully across the nighttime sky that evening. She loved gathering together with all of her loved ones for the Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) feast of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and cherry pie.

But most of all, Susan loved the parade. She always got up early to stake out a place right up front on the avenue for the gala Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) Parade…Susan knew that everyone loved a parade but nobody, she thought just a bit proudly, could possibly love a parade…especially the unimaginably dazzling Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) Parade.

The crowd had swollen to thousands of excited Americans waiting to hoop and holler as they celebrate the wit and wisdom of their elected leaders. At 8 AM sharp…the parade was ever a model of American efficiency…the Parade started with relatively-reasonable facsimiles of Uncle Sam, Lady Liberty, Benjamin Franklin, a Native American woman (Pocahontas?), and some black guy in overalls (John Henry?) leading the way.

The reasonable facsimiles were shaking hands with men, giving red, white, and blue candy to the kids, and kissing the women. Uncle Sam, who was coming down Susan’s side of the street, was going above and beyond the call of duty by drawing every pretty girl he could get his hands on into lingering embraces. Susan thought to take step back but the wildly cheering crowd behind her kept her front and center.

Sure enough, Uncle Sam seized her and hugged her tightly. Uncle Sam smelled of Scotch and cigarettes and Susan was sure that he was looking at her bosom when he slurred “God bless America”. Susan chose to believe that he his hands cupping her buttocks was an accidental thing. She also chose to believe that he had a firecracker in his front pocket.

The Native American woman (Sacagawea?) pulled Uncle Sam away and Susan took a deep breath and turned her attention to the Washington drill team…20 tall white men wearing white wigs and Revolutionary uniforms performing precision movements with their gleaming, razor-sharp axes…and the wonder of the day flooded back into her.

The grand parade went by her in a grand, celebratory, patriotic blur. Susan was still wondering how long it had taken to blow up the William Howard Taft balloon when, suddenly, the parade was over.

Susan sighed happily as the throng…many of whom had spontaneously starting humming “Hail to the Chief”…drifted away to go enjoy their private Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) celebrations at their homes.

Susan hugged herself and smiled. “God bless America indeed,” she said as she headed home towards the feast her mother was cooking. She hoped the Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) meat loaf wasn’t dry this year.

Mrs. Vickie

Mrs. Vickie felt like she was floating…on a cloud…no, like she was part of a billowing, lazy, majestic cloud tracking without a care across the summer sky. She was reluctant to open her eyes because she was enjoying the sensation far more than anything else she could remember. But open her eyes she did.

Everything was light…gold and white and silver…and music…soulful, ethereal, and magical. Mrs. Vickie felt herself being lifted up by a gentle but powerful hand.

“Hello, sister,” a voice…soulful, ethereal, magical…said. The woman was radiant and, for some reason, utterly familiar to Mrs. Vickie.

“Is this heaven?” Mrs. Vickie asked.

The radiant woman smiled impishly. “No, it’s Iowa.”

Mrs. Vickie frowned quizzically.

The radiant woman hugged Mrs. Vickie and chuckled. “I’m sorry…but that joke never gets old. That Kevin Costner is a genius.”

Mrs. Vickie smiled patiently. She felt light…free of all of the cares and worries and everything else that makes up a workaday life. “So, I’m…”

The radiant woman nodded. “Yep,” she said brightly, “it’s all smooth sailing from here.”

Mrs. Vickie glanced down. “What about my family…my friends…they need…”

The radiant woman put a hand on Mrs. Vickie’s shoulder. “They’re sad that you’re gone…but happy that you were there for as long as you were. You left a legacy of love and caring. You did a good job.”

Mrs. Vickie nodded, a new wave of contentment sweeping through her. “So, now what happens?”

The radiant woman put her arm around Mrs. Vickie’s shoulders and led her off towards a golden horizon. “You like pie?” she asked, “We’ve got some amazing bakers here…”

“Do I get wings?”

“We don’t do wings anymore…the feathers kept getting all over the place…”

Mrs. Vickie raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, okay,” she said finally.

They walked into the light on the golden horizon. “You’re gonna love it here,” the radiant woman said.

“I already do,” Mrs. Vickie said, “I already do.”

- for Mrs. Vickie and for Eddie -

cherry vanilla

The massive bear looked down on me with no expression on his face. This, I was afraid, was not a good sign.

I looked up at the bear who loomed over me the way I, at 6’2, loomed over a fairly large percentage of people I met. This, I knew, was also not a good sign.

The bear, his face seemingly made up of nothing but thick black hair and foreboding black sunglasses, looked down on me…apparently sizing up the best way to wrench my head from my shoulders. The bear smelled of beer and cheap cigars and Old Spice…a wholly masculine mixture that didn’t make me feel any better about my chances of escaping the next few seconds without experiencing enormous amounts of pain.

Oddly enough, the chill on my hand felt kind of good in the hot August sun but I didn’t dwell on that sensation long. I looked down at my hand holding the mostly empty ice cream cone and then let my eyes trace the river of cherry vanilla ice cream from my hand and down the denim-clad leg of the bear down to his dusty black boot. The swiftly-melting scoop of ice cream…and all pink and white and flecked with ruby-red bits of artificially colored fruit…was, needless to say, incongruous sitting on top of the well-worn black boot.

I looked back up. I started to ask the bear why he was wearing so many clothes on such a hot day but my more prudent angel stayed that question before it could escape.

“You gonna get that?” the bear finally spoke, his voice deep and, I thought, purposefully dispassionate.

I stood stock still for a second as I processed his question. “Oh yeah…sorry, man,” I stammered. I threw the mostly-empty cone aside (my prudent angel again coming to the fore and stopping me from tasting some of the soupy ice cream in the cone before I tossed it into the nearby trash can.)

I shoved my sticky hand into my back pocket and pulled out the handkerchief I always carried but rarely used. I stooped down and scraped as much of the scoop of cherry vanilla off his boot as I could.

I wondered if he wanted me to wipe off the river of ice cream on his leg but I decided that he probably did not.

I stood up hearing Don McLean singing “American Pie” in my head…this’ll be the day that I die…this’ll be the day that I die…

“Sorry,” I said in a small voice as my life flashed before my eyes, “didn’t mean to bump into you…” I had an impulse to flee but my legs refused to cooperate.

The bear looked down and all I could see was my terrified face reflected in his dark glasses. The bear nodded. “Shit happens, son,” he said softly, a slow Southern drawl coloring his voice. And then he turned and walked off…presumably to find a men’s room to clean the rest of the ice cream off his jeans.

I stood there…on the avenue in the hot August sun…motionless. Amazed to be alive, I wondered what I should do next. I shrugged and, as soon as my legs would work again, I turned around and headed back towards the ice cream stand. I was hoping that they hadn’t run out of cherry vanilla yet.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

April

The first time I fell in love, I was 10, a shy 5th grader attending Menlo Avenue Elementary in Southeast Los Angeles (not too very far from the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum.)

The object of my affection was named April…she was, in the golden-hued halls of memory, an amazing goddess with golden-brown skin and dark, twinkling, utterly beguiling eyes.

I was smitten at first sight.

As far as I know, she never knew I was alive.

I watched her talk with the other girls during recess and I imagined what it would be like if she would talk so easily with me. I listened to her give answers to Mr. Daniels’ questions in class and knew that no music could ever possibly sound as sweet as her voice.

I never, except in the feverish realms of wishful imagining, worked up the courage to speak to her.

And then she was gone.

She left, without warning, in the middle of the semester (I believe we were told something about her father…who apparently was in the military…being transferred elsewhere but I was in a fog at the time so I might be misremembering that part.)

That evening, I was sullen and uncommunicative unto the point where my mother demanded to know what was wrong with me. “April’s gone,” I said plaintively, a tear tracking slowly down my cheek.

My mother didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry…so she hugged me instead.

April looms in my heart…shy, unrequited, illogical first “love”…and the memory of her, however faulty or foolish, warms me still.

Happy Valentine’s Day, April…wherever you are.

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Other MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

a life (in 500 words or less)

My son likes baseball better than football and he dances like a girl…but then so does his mother so I guess it all balances out.

My oldest daughter thinks I’m strange but lovable…while my youngest daughter thinks I’m just strange…I guess that balances out as well.

My wife thinks her ass is too big…I think her big ass is sexy but I’ve learned better than to make that observation out loud.

My dog likes to wait until I’m comfortably settled in my recliner before he starts jumping around like he’s gonna whiz all over the carpet in the family room…I get up grumbling and open the back door and he stands in the middle of the patio smirking at me. Dogs do indeed have senses of humor.

My cat ignores me except when I’m putting food in her dish or I have the residue of Vicks VapoRub on my hand…my cat likes to lick Vicks VapoRub residue. I think she’s a strange creature and I’m sure that, on those odd occasions that she considers me at all, she thinks the same of me.

My house is 50 years old and it sits in a pastel suburb of a dull gray city…there are rosebushes in the back garden and a “no solicitors” sign on the front door to ward off Jehovah’s Witnesses, teenage magazine subscription sales persons, and Girl Scouts with cookie order forms (Jehovah’s Witnesses, teenage magazine subscription sales persons, and Girl Scouts all apparently believe that my sign doesn’t pertain to them as they ring my doorbell anyway…I’m not sure when I’m ever going to get caught up on the Watchtower pamphlets, Sports Illustrated issues, and boxes of Thin Mints I’ve somehow accumulated…)

My car is 10 years old and has apparently decided to put my mechanic’s children through medical school.

My doctor says that I’m reasonably healthy for a man my age but that I should run more and eat less red meat (we both know that neither of those things is gonna happen but I think he’s obligated to put them on the table at least once a year.)

My job consists of moving papers from one side of the desk to the other (and sometimes back again)…I’m not really intellectually challenged but it pays enough to keep collection agents from having to know my number so I’m okay with that. My boss is, of course, an idiot…any monkey (including and especially me) could do his job better than him…but I don’t begrudge him (seems like a lot more B.S. for not that much more money…I don’t really think that’s a good trade off.)

I go bowling on Tuesday nights and play golf every other Saturday morning. I go to church every Sunday (except during the football season.)

I like Letterman better than Leno…beer better than white wine…rib-eyes better than boneless/skinless chicken breasts…and gardeners better than owning a lawn mower.

My name is Bob and that is my life. Thank you for your kind attention.

The Love You Save

As I edit my novel Soul Deep (the story of the 12th year of a Black boy living in Los Angeles in 1968 that is sorta but not really semi-autobiographical...any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental...that's my story and I'm sticking to it ) I am reminded of the times...so very long ago (when I was a Black boy living in Los Angeles)...when my brother, my cousins, and I provided ragged but heartfelt entertainment when our parents would get together for impromptu parties.

At one point we were the Temptations (lipsynching to "My Girl" and "Ball of Confusion" while putting on dance moves so smooth that Eddie Kendricks and David Ruffin would have turned a deep shade of green with envy if they ever saw us perform...in the fertile realm of childhood imagination and hubris we were fierce!) but come 1970 we gave that up and we became the Jackson 5.

My youngest cousin sang lead (he kinda looked like Michael Jackson...Michael Jackson in the pre-surgery, pre-wacko years) and my cousin Vernon, then and now the ladies' man, was Jermaine. Me, I was a Marlon...never singing lead but dancing so sweet that I inspired sighs and casually broke hearts (a legend in my own mind...)

Still makes me smile...stop the love you save may be your own/darlin' take it slow or someday you'll be all alone...even all these years later

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More MKW blog stuff: Neverending Rainbow

Mike Willis' 115th Dream

It was a beautiful, very blue and very sunny, day and we…an eclectic group of people of varying ages…were being marched (three by three) down a winding country road. The landscape was quite lovely indeed, we all had very comfortable walking shoes on, and the men and women with the guns were seemingly very relaxed and relatively easygoing (maybe the fact that they had guns and we didn’t had something to with that…)

We were led into sprawling pens filled with weathered wooden picnic tables topped with large wicker baskets filled with fruit and cold bottles of water (each of which containing a thin slice of lemon.)

I took an especially juicy green pear after the companions who had marched by my side…a bright-eyed Japanese woman with long, straight black hair cascading down to the small of her back and a strapping, stoic young man of indeterminate ethnicity…had chosen a shiny Granny Smith apple and a bunch of ruby red grapes respectively.

Across the table from us, not eating any fruit but puffing on a fat, expertly rolled joint, was Leonardo DiCaprio bloviating about world peace (which seemed strange since we were prisoners of some kind…albeit with delicious fruit, cool sparkling water, comfortable walking shoes, and, for some it seemed, access to marijuana.)

Leo wouldn’t stop gassing on…and he wouldn’t pass the joint.

We decided he was a pompous, selfish bastard but we listened patiently just the same and smiled to ourselves because we knew that when DiCaprio did get the munchies all of the fruit would be gone. Apparently we took our victories where we could get them.

I woke up before I found out where we going to sleep (hopefully Leo would have shut up by the time the sun went down…)

(Thanks and apologies, Bob :-)

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More MKW blog stuff: Neverending Rainbow