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

Jack and Rosemary

Jack had been home from work for only a little while. It had been a long day and he was slumped in his old recliner staring at, but not really watching, Brian Williams read the day’s news. Jack had pulled the delivery menu for China Palace out of the drawer in the kitchen where he kept dozens of delivery menus but he hadn’t worked up the initiative to pick up the phone and order the house special.

Jack was roused from his ennui by the doorbell being buzzed over and over again. Frowning…he neither expected nor wanted visitors…Jack rose from the recliner and padded over to the door. He opened the door and, before he could say anything, Rosemary surged into his arms sobbing and babbling incoherently.

Rosemary was Jack’s girlfriend. They had been dating for almost 14 months. Rosemary was a short, wispy girl…her head came up to the middle of Jack’s chest…with long chestnut hair and deep brown, vaguely haunted eyes; she was kind of plain and kind of pretty at the same time…plain and pretty, the way librarians and meter maids and best friends of leading female characters always were in old movies.

Jack artfully guided Rosemary into the apartment and closed the door. Rosemary continued to sob and babble while Jack held her close and stared off waiting for her to take a breath. Jack was able to make out snatches of coherence out of Rosemary’s stream of words. “My father’s going to kill me” stuck out particularly clearly.

Rosemary’s father was the only person in the world that Jack was really afraid of. Her father was a brooding, ruddy hulk with bulbous cheeks and hooded black eyes; Jack always wondered how such an enormous man could have co-created a girl as petite and delicate as Rosemary. Rosemary’s father always regarded Jack with bored contempt and Jack quickly learned not to try to get to know the man better (Rosemary’s mother, on the other hand, was pleasant enough woman who treated Jack with kindness; Jack could tell that she had once been as willowy as her daughter. Rosemary’s mother had vaguely haunted eyes as well…though they were two or three shades lighter than Rosemary’s eyes…and she always smelled of rosewater and red wine.)

“What’s the matter, Rosemary?” Jack said when she finally took a breath.

Rosemary took a step back and looked up at Jack with her liquid, deep brown, vaguely haunted eyes. She took a deep breath and said, “I’m pregnant”. And then she buried her head in his chest and started sobbing again.

Jack put his arm around her and stared off profoundly puzzled. “I’m pregnant”…Jack let the words cascade about his synapses as he tried to make sense of them.

“What are we going to do?” Rosemary gasped out between sobs.

Jack weighed the implications of that question as well. “We?” he thought. “Hmph, that is the question, isn’t it?” In the 14 months that Jack and Rosemary had been dating he had never once seen her naked below the waist…they had kissed passionately on many occasions and he had stolen longing squeezes of her breasts through her sweaters and her cotton bras; Rosemary had on rarer occasions allowed fleeting egress to her bra and she had even once let Jack fondle her breast with his left hand while he masturbated with his right.

But she had never allowed his hand to venture down below her pert bellybutton. She was a good girl she explained…just like her father raised to her to be…and she would go to her wedding bed a virgin. Jack had found that to be enormously frustrating but eventually he decided that he could live with it (it was easier than finding another girlfriend, he reasoned, and one day she would change her mind or they would get married.)

And now she was pregnant.

Jack found his voice again. “Rosemary,” he said softly, “why are you telling me this?” He was, given the circumstances, keenly interested in her answer.

Rosemary stopped sobbing and looked up at him her eyes ablaze with withering indignation. “Because you’re my boyfriend,” she said as if Jack's question was the most idiotic thing she'd ever heard. And then she leaned against him and started sobbing again.

Strangely enough, Jack couldn’t think of a credible argument to her statement at that moment.

At some point, Rosemary stopped sobbing and went into the bathroom to wash her face. Jack called the China Palace and ordered 2 house specials. After the food came, Jack and Rosemary ate in silence and then fell asleep on top of his bed still wearing their street clothes.

Four days later, Rosemary told her father that she was pregnant. Rosemary’s father came to Jack’s apartment and slammed him against a wall and, reeking of bourbon and cigar smoke and disappointment, told Jack to make it right.

Seven days later, Jack and Rosemary were married by a disinterested civil servant in front of four witnesses: Rosemary’s parents (he scowling, she smiling opaquely), Rosemary’s sullen best friend Lily, and Jack’s incredulous best friend Art. That night, in a motel near Disneyland, Jack finally got to venture below Rosemary’s pert bellybutton (making love with Rosemary wasn’t quite as magical as Jack had always imagined it would be…but it was okay enough and Jack slept contentedly that night.)

Jack and Rosemary moved into a two-bedroom apartment a few blocks away from Jack’s old apartment.

Rosemary never told Jack who the father of the baby…a bright-eyed girl she named Roberta…was. And, to be fair, Jack never asked. Jack would decide that it was probably the guy that Rosemary left with on a cool autumn day some 6 months after Roberta was born.

It was the most logical assumption to be made from the letter Rosemary left for him with Roberta’s babysitter. Jack read the letter three times, parsing every word, and then he paid the babysitter, collected Roberta, and went home to his apartment. Rosemary’s things were all gone but she had left the apartment in pristine condition.

Jack fixed a bottle for Roberta and called Chicken Delight and ordered the 3-piece meal. He sat in his recliner feeding the baby and waiting for his dinner to arrive.

Jack and Roberta moved into a small house in the suburbs. Art and Rosemary’s mother were the most frequent visitors and the housekeeper/nanny was a matronly widow, named Mrs. Agnes Stephenson, with smiling eyes that lived a few blocks down the road.

Jack met a quiet-spoken girl named Amy at the bookstore she worked at (Jack decided that Amy sort of looked like Drew Barrymore only a bit taller and a lot less worldly-wise) and they hit it off (they had magical sex at the end of their third date.)

Amy and Roberta took to each other almost immediately (which Jack found to be a good sign...and very cool to boot.)

Amy moved into the little house a little over five weeks after she had met Jack (Mrs. Stephenson was fine with that and she continued on as housekeeper/nanny…Lily, Rosemary’s sullen best friend, who occasionally accompanied Rosemary’s mother on visits to see Roberta, was not pleased but Jack saw no reason to give her displeasure any foothold in his life...Rosemary's mother, smelling of rosewater and red wine, said she was glad that Roberta would have a woman in her life after all.)

Rosemary sent Roberta plump greeting cards…always from a different part of the country…every year on her birthday and on Valentine’s Day and at Christmastime; Jack never opened them…he put them away in a cedar box for Roberta to have, if she wanted them, when she was older.

Jack and Rosemary never got officially divorced.

Jack and Amy never got officially married but 14 months after they met they had a son…Blue…which pleased them and Roberta to no end.

Press Your Luck

Last night I dreamt I was driving a bus over hills and dales while behind me they were taping an episode of Press Your Luck (the cheesy, kinda addictive game show from the 80's)...not sure how they got all of those people in the bus but it was a dream so I just went with it.

Ahead of me in another bus the ever-avuncular Gene Rayburn was hosting an episode of The Match Game (couldn't tell if Charles Nelson Reilly was there but odds are he was...)

At one point we crested a hill and Gene's bus took a hard right and disappeared around a curve...I kept going forward. And the road suddenly fell away and we were in free fall going down what seemed like a hundred miles towards a rather forbidding plain.

"Damn," I said, "this isn't good."

Behind me a cute, chubby redhead was bouncing up and down and screaming "No whammies! No whammies!" as I tried to figure how exactly to tell the Press Your Luck audience that we were all about to die.

And then I woke up.

What does it all mean? Hell if I know. I've found it's better not to overthink these things (they're just dreams after all, right? Right... )

Namaste, y'all.

Balancers

Years ago, I wrote a short-lived comic book called Stealth Squad (we had 3 issues published and distributed nationally.) The comic originated with the artist, my friend Philip C. Lane, who came up with some of the core characters and then asked me to flesh out the concept. It was a fun time...I'm a long-time comic book fan and having my own super-hero team to play with was cool.

After we stopped putting out the comic I continued to work on the backstory that I came up for the comic's "universe". Eventually I scrapped most of the super-hero trappings and used some supporting characters that I created to tell a different kind of story in a novel called Lives in the Balance.

While finishing that novel, I went back to source material with an eye towards creating a series of short stories to tell the comic book story we didn't get to continue. The series, which was going to be called Balancers, was going to tell the story of the world changed by the sudden appearance of people with superhuman abilities. This is, of course, the basic idea of the hit TV show Heroes...hey, it wasn't an original idea when I came up with my story either :-)

I only finished the first story before moving on to other projects...one day I may go back to it (I do love the characters and I have a wealth of background material created for this universe") but for now this is the first chapter of Balancers:

BALANCERS

(featuring some characters and concepts created by Michael K. Willis & Philip C. Lane for Petra Comics)
(c)1999, 2007 Neverending Rainbow Enterprises and Petra Comics

Part 1: “The End of the World as We Know It”

The world changed utterly in a flash of light and a clap of thunder. This event was witnessed by none save a small handful of people working in a secluded complex in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. All but two of those people died in the explosion that sundered the night and reduced the complex to strangely glowing rubble.

The two survivors…battered, bruised, and glowing golden in the crisp night air…struggled to their feet looking around at what they had wrought.

The man who looked older…Dr. Robert McKinley…felt tears well up in his eyes as he glanced in horror at the ruins of his dream, of his life. The complex was borne of his blood, sweat, intelligence, and hubris. The Laboratories of McKinley and Associates had been his pride and joy, the crucible in which his honor and glories were to flow. And now it was dust and ashes.

McKinley looked for other signs of life and one name came to his lips. “Maria?” He said forlornly. He had felt drawn to Maria, his brightest and most loyal young associate, in the past several months. But the pull of his work…and the bitter taste of rare defeat that had lingered since his wife had left him for some idiot accountant who “paid attention to her”…had led him to postpone giving voice to his growing feelings.

“Maria!” He called more urgently, mocking echoes of his plaintive cry filling the air.

The man who was indeed older…a man who called himself Anthony Reade…regarded McKinley with a measure of pity and an empathy he was loathe to give free reign to. Life was so short for them, he thought idly, and then he bent down to the prone body of the woman Maria. Reade had noted the unspoken attraction between McKinley and Maria…he had found it encouraging that the voluptuous curves of the raven-haired beauty had not been lost on his otherwise myopic associate. “She is here,” Reade said somberly.

McKinley, his clothes in jagged tatters, stumbled across the rubble as Reade cleared the broken mortar, wood, and bricks off Maria’s lifeless body. He knelt beside her, his mouth agape and mute, his eyes filled with tears. He took her into his arms and hugged her close. “…no…” he said, finding his voice. “She’s dead…”

Reade stood up, his dark eyes filled with tears of their own despite his best efforts to maintain his composure. He put his hand on McKinley’s shoulder and held it there while McKinley’s body convulsed with silent sobbing.

Reade looked around at the rubble…at the slowly dissipating glow that surrounded them and the ruins of the lab…and then he looked up into the night sky. “They’re all dead,” he said softly. He cursed himself for a fool and felt cold dread seize his heart as he contemplated the possible results of his actions. “They’re all dead,” he repeated with a gravity that made it certain that he wasn’t just talking about Maria and the others who had worked with them in the lab.

Reade stopped and listened intently. The insistent wail of sirens let him know that the explosion had indeed been noticed despite their remote location. The authorities were coming with their questions and their accusations and their inability to comprehend the magnitude of the crisis that had just been created. Indeed the magnitude of that crisis was only just beginning to sink him with Reade himself.

Reade shook off his dread and replaced it with a growing resolve to undo what they had done. If they could. To do that in a timely fashion, he knew that he had no time for bureaucracy…he had more time than he deserved but the rest of humankind did not.

Reade shook McKinley’s shoulder. “The authorities are coming, Robert,” he said urgently. “We have to go.”

McKinley, still consumed by his grief, looked up with uncomprehending eyes. Then he shook off Reade’s hand with an angry shrug. “I’m not going anywhere,” he sobbed. “Maria’s dead…everybody’s dead….it’s all my fault…”

Reade, knowing they had precious little time to wallow in grief or debate, lifted McKinley to his feet with surprising ease. “We don’t have time for this!” he said sharply.

McKinley, again startled by his associate’s remarkable physical abilities, was stunned into silence for a moment. Then he slapped away Reade’s arm. “We have all the time in the world, Reade!” he wailed angrily. “It’s dead…the dream is dead…all these bright young people are dead…everything’s dead!”

Reade narrowed his right eye and shook his head. “That statement may be more true than you know and we are the only ones who can do something about it.”

McKinley frowned quizzically but then put any questions he had aside and turned away. “Go away, Anthony,” he said looking down at Maria’s body, “it’s over.”

Reade reached his hand out and touched the back of McKinley’s head. Reade concentrated silently for an instant and McKinley stiffened, his eyes going blank, and slumped backwards.

Reade hefted McKinley effortlessly, cradling him in his arms. “No, my friend,” he muttered, “it is not over. Somebody has to save the world and since we’re the ones who put it in danger, we’re the ones elected to fix things.”

Reade walked off towards the nearby woods carrying McKinley’s comatose form. He glanced back at the bodies in the rubble and sighed heavily. “We have to make it right,” he said resolutely. He walked into the darkness of the forest as the sirens drew closer to the ruins of the laboratory. We will make it right, he thought, we have to. Then he drew his perceptions inside and searched for the One Thousand. The Balance is ever, he chanted to himself earnestly, the Balance is all.

Six Days Later

The pratfall wasn’t really a surprise…I lived inside my head so much that I often forgot that I was living in the world and bumping into and over people, places, and things was an everyday happenstance…that I awoke six days later in the hospital was, on the other hand, something of a surprise.

The doctors and nurses fussed and poked and prodded and waved lights in my eyes and, with a discernable (and, to my way of thinking, wholly unprofessional) amount of bemusement in their eyes and tones of voice, told me that I would be okay as I long as I remembered to watch where I was walking from then on. I thanked them and filled out the telephone book thick stack of insurance forms; I gathered up the get well cards (leaving the balloons and floral arrangements behind after noting down who sent them) and my iPod and wandered back into the world (from wheelchair to taxi seat to the cool solitude of the recliner my Dad had given me when I moved out of his house and into my so-called adult life.)

Carrie, my ex-girlfriend who had discovered she was a lesbian after we broke up (though she swears it wasn’t because of me…and I choose to believe that), had watered my plants and fed Giacomo (the haughty black cat who deigned to share living quarters with me) and collected the mail and the newspapers…in some ways, Carrie was a better girlfriend after we broke up than she was when we were together.

Giacomo sauntered over to the recliner in the aloof way that only cats can truly make work and, without ceremony, he jumped up into my lap and curled up in ball and went to sleep. As “welcome back” expressions went that was pretty good for an imperious cat like Giacomo and I put my hand across his jet-black back and smiled to myself.

Being in a coma had been pretty much like being awake…I had replayed the triumphs and tragedies and slights of my time on Earth…and I found myself laughing in the same places and crying in the same places and feeling sorry for myself in the same places over things days and weeks and years and decades past.

The theater in my head goes back over the same ground so often that it’s sometimes hard to separate the now from the then. And yet the show goes on…and the old tears and smiles and sighs and whispers become the new tears and smiles and sighs and whispers…and living inside my head stays a constant part of living in the world.

I went back to work a few days later (Carrie and Andi, Carrie’s girlfriend, picked me up because the doctors had said it would probably be best if I didn’t drive for a week or two and took me to the office.) Joan, my boss, spent a good twenty seconds (something of a record for her when it came to non-work related matters) inquiring about my health before she handed me a stack of work and left me to it.

My co-worker Deborah, who sometimes seemed to be positioning herself to be my future ex-girlfriend, took me to lunch and told me how she had spent a fair number of hours at the side of my hospital bed knitting and reading, drove me home and came up to make dinner (Giacomo acted like he liked her…more than he usually acted like he liked me…thus giving his approval for her to be my future ex-girlfriend; Carrie would be less enthused for some reason but Deborah would stick around just the same.)

The coma hadn’t completely shaken my habit of living inside my head…lifelong habits are not put to rest with six days of seemingly blissful unconsciousness…but it did seem to put it in more perspective (and the pratfalls, as a result, became easier to avoid…that’s something anyway, right? I chose to see it as a good thing and moved forward…though still often looking back…from there.)

in the new year...

in the new year...

may the wind always be at your back and the sun always shine brightest when you most need the light...

may you always have an abundance of love, laughter, and song to soothe and satiate your soul...

may you have quiet spaces and soft tears whenever your soul needs healing and your heart needs to surrender to the blues for a brief spell...

may the angels always know where to find you and may the devil frustrate himself to no end trying to intrude upon the everyday wonder of your journey...

in the new year...

may you know boundless joy and fleeting sorrow...may you never grow tired of the laughter of children or the colorful stories of those who have been here longer than you have...

may you know the comfort of friends, the warmth of family, and the sweet passion of lovers...

in the new year...

may you know love...
may you know wisdom...
may you know magic...
may you know peace...

namaste, y'all...and happy new year.

a Christmas prayer

As reindeer fly into the dreams of children of all ages

and the faithful kneel remembering the Christ child’s birth,

may you know peace and joy and passion,

may your dreams have wings and your heart be ever true;

may you dance with golden butterflies and lazy breezes,

may you sing with rainbows and thunder and blues in the night…

may you know peace and love, joy and passion,

may ever you know the bittersweet song of the universe…

may you know peace…

may you know peace…

amen.

Tomorrow in Baghdad

Despite her name, Mary did not really believe in miracles. She believed in love and in hope. She believed in God and her family. She believed in her country and her husband. But she didn’t really believe in miracles.

Christmas had been warm and cozy…her parents and her sister and her friends had gone out of their way to make it so…to distract her with the joy of the holiday…and as she finished washing the last dish from the scrumptious meal everybody had contributed to, Mary couldn’t help but smile gratefully.

But even though she couldn’t completely shake off the melancholy she felt deep down. She had dared to hope that her David would be able call…he told her it was not at all a sure thing but, despite knowing better, she had dared to hope just the same.

The days and nights since he had left were terribly, terribly long and lonely but she knew that they would be…she’d been through it before. The holiday season had come before she knew it and, being who she was, she threw herself into it though it felt more bittersweet than she would have liked.

Mary’s heart jumped expectantly every time the phone rang that Christmas Day and though the expressions of love and friendship were welcome she found herself crestfallen…it was love but it wasn’t David.

The hours passed and she made peace with the fact that David would have called on that Christmas Day if he could have…she knew that with all of her heart. But the Christmas night had almost slipped away…it was quarter past 11 PM as she dried her hands and shut off the kitchen light. It was still Christmas in America but it was tomorrow in Baghdad.

Mary slipped into the warm nightgown David had somehow managed to send along with other treasured gifts…she hoped that her box had gotten to him…she prayed that he was safe and well as he patrolled that faraway desert land…she wished, despite herself, that he had been able to call on Christmas Day.

Mary slipped into her lonely bed and was just about to shut off the light when the phone rang. Despite the disappointments of the day, she still dared to hope. Mary picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Howdy, ma’am,” a deep, chipper, faraway voice said.

Mary smiled and fought back a tear. “Hey, sergeant,” she said in a small, creamy voice.

“Merry Christmas, pretty girl,” David said, “thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you?”

“No,” Mary said, “I knew you would call if you could…but it’s not really Christmas for you anymore…”

“Yes it is, sweetheart,” David replied warmly. “It’s still Christmas where you are….it’s still Christmas at home.”

Mary sighed softly. “Yes it is,” she said, “yes it certainly is.”

Mary, despite her name, still didn’t believe in miracles…but she still believed in hope…she believed in love…she believed in her husband…she believed in God and her country…and, on that night, she believed in Christmas magic.

The Dinosaur Boy (a Christmas Tale)

Suddenly, there was an awful roar. It was a roar that shook the entirety of the house. The dishes in the cupboard rattled and quaked. The windows of the house vibrated, threatening to shatter out of the most terrible fright. The big beautiful fragrant Christmas tree, with its sparkling lights, swayed ominously, seemingly ready to topple with a mighty crash at the very next terrifying roar.

The dog cowered in her corner and the cats scurried away to parts unknown.

And the man chuckled...trying to pretend to be afraid but unable to maintain the deception for very long.

And the woman smiled and snapped a photograph. Then she put the camera down and advanced with hugging and kissing in mind.

James the Dinosaur Boy sighed impatiently and rolled his eyes as his mother kissed his forehead and told him how very cute he was. “No, Mommy,” he complained, his blue-gray eyes flashing exasperation, “dinosaurs are NOT cute!”

He shrugged off her hug and tried to find himself again. “And they do not get hugged!” he added resolutely.

James’ father laughed heartily and sat back in his favorite chair. “He’s got you there, honey,” he said brightly.

Undaunted, James’ mother stole another lingering hug. “But my little dinosaur boy IS so cute!” she protested, her eyes a-twinkle with maternal pride.

James the Dinosaur boy sighed again, a bit heavier than before, but resigned himself to the fact that his parents...for all their undeniable wisdom...would never understand the ways of dinosaurs like him.

He roared again and stamped his feet. But that was okay, he thought...he loved them both more than anything else in the whole wide world so if they didn’t really understand about dinosaurs (like him) well, that was okay.

James’ father got up from his favorite chair and came over and lifted his son up.

“Careful, Daddy,” James offered helpfully, “you really shouldn’t sneak up on dinosaurs like that...”

“Sorry about that, Dinosaur Boy,” his father replied seriously. “I’ll be sure to remember that next time. But right now it’s time for all good boys...” James rolled his eyes up and his father smiled and added, “...and all good dinosaurs...to be in bed.”

“Why?” James asked, struggling in his father’s gentle but relentless grasp.

“Because it’s Christmas Eve, silly,” his mother said with a warm smile. “And because Santa Claus won’t come if you’re still awake.”

James glanced at the collection of brightly-wrapped presents underneath the stately tree and shrugged. Santa Claus...James the Dinosaur Boy shook his head but didn’t bother to tell them that dinosaurs don’t believe in Santa Claus.

He gave up his struggle and allowed himself to be carried to his room. He was content in the knowledge that it was only because it was his parents...the only humans he would allow to treat him that way...that he had allowed himself to be captured. (Dinosaurs, of course, always ran free...except when it was cold outside and then they didn’t mind having their pajamas and hot cocoa and snuggly blankets and, truth to be told, even the occasional maternal hug.)

James the Dinosaur Boy endured being made to brush his fangs but declined the new “Star Wars” pajamas in favor of his favorite, well-worn “Jurassic Park” ones.

He endured the kisses from both his father and his mother...though, of course, that mushy stuff tried the patience of a respectable dinosaur like him...and watching the lights go out while wondering what sleep would bring.

Christmas Eve or not, dinosaurs had dinosaur dreams, of this much he was certain. Santa Claus? James seriously doubted that Santa Claus knew anything about dinosaurs.

And then, slowly but surely, he slipped into sleep.

The world fell away and James found himself floating. This most certainly surprised him because he was certainly not a winged dinosaur. But he was nothing if not a boy who dealt with things as they came along and so he floated along content to wait to see whatever this journey was going to bring.

Suddenly he heard sleigh bells and the rush of a cool northern wind and, sure enough, he fell into a sleigh beside a fat, white-bearded man dressed all in red.

James the Dinosaur Boy, ever polite, nodded and said, “Hello, Santa.”

The old man, completely unsurprised by James’ sudden arrival, glanced over.

“Hello, Dinosaur Boy,” he said in a bright, kindly voice. “How are you on this fine Christmas Eve, lad?”

“I’m fine, sir,” James replied. “Though I’m not sure why I’m here.”

“To see the world,” Santa said without hesitation. “Even dinosaurs have to know that they are part of the world, of course.”

James the Dinosaur Boy, impressed by the old man’s understanding of dinosaurs, smiled and nodded. He looked down at the world below. The lights of the cities and towns were sparkling bright and welcoming as the magical reindeer pulled the magical sleigh.

“Everybody is part of the world,” he said, “even us dinosaurs.”

The old man laughed heartily...sounding for all the world like James’ father when he did so...and spurred his reindeer on. “Just so, lad,” he said. “Just so.”

They rode in silence for a while and then James said, “I’m happy to know that you’re real, Santa, but I really should be on my way...”

Santa arched an eyebrow. “Oh really? Where are you off to?”

James the Dinosaur Boy had no answer for him. “I’m not sure.”

Santa reached over and patted his head. “Good answer, lad. Maybe you should stay with me. Being an elf is a very good thing. Maybe being an elf on Christmas Eve is what you’re supposed to be now.”

James had to admit that the offer had its merits but he shook his head. “Thank you, Santa, but I don’t think that dinosaurs make good elves.”

Santa laughed happily again. “Maybe not, lad,” he said merrily. “But the offer is always open...” And with that, Santa began to laugh merrily and the sleigh took a deep plunge and James floated up and out of it.

“Merry Christmas, Dinosaur Boy,” Santa cried out as his sleigh disappeared down into the bright city below.

James the Dinosaur Boy waved. “Merry Christmas, Santa Claus,” he said to the wind, somehow knowing for sure that his words would reach the old man.

James floated higher and higher but he knew no fear (dinosaurs know many things but fear is not among them, of course.)

“Good evening, James,” a pleasant voice said suddenly and James turned to see a proud and beautiful eagle soaring alongside him.

“Good evening, Mrs. Eagle,” James said, recognizing his old friend. “I’m a dinosaur.”

“Of course you are, dear,” she replied pleasantly. “But where are you going on this fine Christmas night?”

“I’m not sure,” James admitted, “but I’m sure I’ll know when I get there. Where are you going, Mrs. Eagle?’

“Home to my family,” Mrs. Eagle replied, “Christmas is a time for families.”

“Even for eagles?”

“Of course, James,” Mrs. Eagle said patiently, “for eagles...and human beings...and even dinosaurs...up here you can see the world and know, for sure, that we’re all just a part of it...all of us important but no more important than any other part.” James nodded but said nothing.

“This is where I go down, James,” Mrs. Eagle said as they crested the mountains and headed over a lush forest. “Would you like to come home with me for Christmas. Being an eagle is a very good thing indeed. Maybe being an eagle on Christmas Eve is what you’re supposed to be now.”

James had to admit that the offer had its merits but he shook his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Eagle, but I don’t think that dinosaurs make good eagles.”

“Maybe not,” Mrs. Eagle said warmly, “but the offer is always open, of course.” And with that she turned and soared down towards the forest. “Merry Christmas, Dinosaur Boy,” she called behind her as she disappeared into the lush living forest.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Eagle,” James called out on the moonlight, knowing that his words would reach the beautiful bird.

James the Dinosaur Boy floated up higher and higher, the world becoming smaller beneath him.

“Hello, James,” a musical voice said. James turned to see a golden angel sailing down from the heavens towards him.

James, ever polite, nodded and said, “Good evening, Miss Angel.”

“Do you know why you’re here?” the angel asked.

“To see the world?” James offered.

The angel smiled. “You’ve already seen the world, Dinosaur Boy,” she said softly. “You’re here to see the universe,” she said pointing up to the star-flecked expanse of the endless sky. “We’re all a part of the universe...and the universe is a part of us...it’s all part of the grand design.”

James the Dinosaur Boy nodded...he understood, but he didn’t really understand. But somehow he knew it wasn’t important that he understand it all just then.

“Are you going to invite me to go with you?” James asked the angel. “Do dinosaurs make good angels?”

The angel smiled brightly. “Of course they do,” she said. “But no, it’s not time for you to become an angel...it’s time for you to head home, it’s almost morning and Christmas cannot begin until you are back there.”

And with that, James began to slowly descend back to Earth.

“Merry Christmas, Dinosaur Boy,” the angel called down as she began to rise back up towards the sky.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Angel,” James called out to a shaft of starlight, knowing that his words would reach up to the very heavens themselves.

James the Dinosaur Boy fell softly down...passing mountains and trees...cities and towns...countless souls waking to countless Christmas mornings...ending up, finally, right back where he started...in his house, in his room, in his bed...a dinosaur in snuggly blankets and “Jurassic Park” pajamas.

And then there was morning’s light and he was awakened by his parents on a clear Christmas morning.

“Hey, kiddo, gonna sleep all day?” James’ father said warmly.

“No, Daddy,” James said, rubbing his head and throwing off his blankets. He stretched and stifled an urge to roar.

James’ mother fussed with his hair and knelt down and kissed him. “And what is my little man going to be, today?” she asked.

James thought about it for a minute...sorting through all the things he could be and was...an elf, an eagle, an angel, an important part of the world, and a vital part of the universe, a little boy loved by his parents...and then he stretched again and smiled a shy, sly smile. “I’m going to be what I am, Mommy...” he said impishly. “...a dinosaur!”

James’ mother smiled and shook her head. “How silly of me,” she said, tickling his belly and making him giggle despite himself (dinosaurs usually don’t giggle, of course, but he could make an exception for Mommy.)

They all laughed and James’ father lifted him up off the floor and carried him out to the Christmas tree.

- for Jamie (always and forever my favorite dinosaur boy) -

More Christmas stories can be found here: Christmas Annex

A blog entry on Christmas music can be found here: Neverending Rainbow