The Conversation

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair.  He knew this was coming and yet he still wasn’t ready for it.  He looked up into the eyes of the other one and, finding only wounding compassion and patience, he quickly looked back down.

If you could go back and change anything, what would you change?

Straight to the heart of the matter…he sighed the way he did when he wanted people to think that he was holding the weight of the world on his shoulders and measured his words carefully before allowing them to become his truth in the cool morning air.  “Everything,” he said in a tiny, self-conscious voice.

Everything?

“Well…almost everything…”  He waited for response until he realized that one was not yet forthcoming.  “It feels like every decision I made…every avenue I chose to turn onto…every choice…was wrong.  It would be a…blessing…to be able to go back…to know what I know now and let it inform my life in ways that would make it better…”

You think that would have made a difference?  You think that the person you think you would have been would be a happier person?

He grimaced, hot tears crowding the corners of his eyes.  “God, I hope so.”

What specifically would you change?

The question had so many answers he wasn’t exactly sure where to begin.  He looked up for guidance but all he found was patient attention.  “I would zig when before I zagged,” he said, allowing himself a mirthless laugh.  “I would keep my feet on the ground instead of letting myself drift among so many foolish, unrealistic dreams.  I would apply myself to making life what I needed it to be instead of just passively letting it happen to me.”

The words tumbled out with a will of their own and his breathing got tight but he didn’t stop.  “I would tell my mother I love her every day of my life and tell my father I forgive him even though he probably wouldn’t understand what I was forgiving him for.  I would hold my brother tight and do whatever I needed to do to save him from himself.”

He took a breath and the hot tears seized the moment and rolled down his face.  “I would tell the people I loved that I did and leave those I didn’t love by the side of the road.  I would kiss the people I wanted to but didn’t…and I wouldn’t kiss the ones I shouldn’t have but did.”

He closed his eyes and wiped his face.  “I would really be as strong as I always pretended to be…” He opened his eyes and looked up.  “I wouldn’t be so afraid.”

He sat back, spent, and waited.  The silence danced around them.

You know that it doesn’t work that way.

He laughed again, ruefully but with some mirth this time.  “Yes, sir, I know it doesn’t work that way.”  He felt a strong, warm hand rest on his shoulder.

Most things aren’t good or bad…black or white…they just are…and they are in innumerable shades of gray.  The same is true for your journey, of course.

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”  The other one laughed warmly and leaned over and kissed the man’s cheek.

It will when it’s supposed to. 

Somehow knowing it was time to move on, he stood up.  The other one pointed to one of the many doors in the room and he walked towards it.  He looked back and started to say something…

It will when it’s supposed to.

He nodded.  “Thank you.”  And he opened the door.

Red

Dreams can really mess with your head sometimes. 

I’m standing on a street in the community where I live (just outside the gates of a preschool I’ve walked past, in real life, more times than I could possibly count)…it’s bright, warm and blue, day and I’m talking and laughing with a friend (in the dream I couldn’t really see her face distinctly but we share an easy intimacy that lets me know we are, at very least, good friends…maybe more.)

Another guy comes up (in the sudden way people sometimes appear in dreams) and starts to talk to me.  The woman I was talking with says sometime about him interrupting our conversation.  The newcomer, someone I don’t recognize from my waking life but who I apparently knew in this dreamscape, tells her to shut up…tells her that men are talking.

I tell him to be cool and to apologize to her.

She calls him a rude asshole.

He hauls off and punches her in the face with all of his might and she sprawled to the sidewalk crying.

And I saw red.

I’ve always been a strong, imposing (some might say scary…large black men being constant objects of apprehension for some) guy and as a result I haven’t been drawn into many physical fights in my life…and I didn’t have a problem with that.  I never wanted to lose control.  I never wanted to really hurt anybody no matter how much I thought they might deserve it (my brother…the Universe bless and keep his troubled soul…was the only person who could, when he was of a mind, goad me into blind rage…and I never hit him even on those rare occasions.)

But, in this dream, I saw red.

And I hit the man.  The first punch seemed to startle him…he wasn’t expecting that I would hit him…but I grabbed his shirt with my left hand and held him up before he could fall and I punched him over and over with my right.  He put up no resistance but I didn’t stop until his face was a bloody pulp.  I let go and he slumped to the ground and curled up in a fetal position.

I was still seeing red.  I bent over him.  I screamed…”you don’t hit women!”…I grabbed his limp, cowering body and pulled him out of his fetal position…”you especially don’t hit THIS WOMAN!”

I seemed about to hit him again when my friend, her face bruised and streaked with tears, put her hand on my shoulder and told me to stop.

I didn’t seem to recognize her at first.  But the red went away.  I let the man drop from my grasp and I stood up.  The woman touched my face and told me it was okay. 

My hands were shaking…the woman wiped my face (apparently I was crying) and hugged me.  I didn’t hug her back…my hands were shaking…my hands were bloody…I looked off into the distance while she tried to calm me with words I couldn’t hear.

And then, quite suddenly, I was awake.  I apparently wrenched myself out of the dream world and back into the darkness…it was just before 5 AM…of my bedroom.  My hands were shaking and I had a pounding headache.  “What the hell was that?” I said out loud to the emptiness of my room.

I got up.  I emptied my bladder, put on some tea, fed the cats, took some aspirin.  And then I sat here and wrote the dream down.  I wrote it down while it was still vivid.  I wrote it down because there’s no one here to tell the story to.

Red.  I saw red.  I saw myself out of control and, to be honest, relishing the violence I was indulging in. 

Maybe it was a manifestation of seething, unrecognized anger in me…anger at others, anger over losses and perceived betrayals…maybe it was anger at myself expressing itself in violence I have always stayed away from…maybe it was a way of tapping into the rage inside…or maybe it was tapping into the need to  be somebody’s “hero”… 

Or maybe a dream is just a dream…

Maybe. 

But man dreams can really mess with your head sometimes…

Hasten Down the Wind

…she’s so many women,

he can’t find the one who was his friend,

he’s hanging on to half her heart

but he can’t have the restless part,

so he tells her to hasten down the wind…

We sat in the swing laughing about the time I slipped into the pond and got my new jeans soaked. I was furious at the time…really more embarrassed than angry actually…but now the remembering made us both laugh until we were crying. We laughed about the songs we sang together…we laughed about the times we made faces at the animals in the zoo and walked along the shore playing tag with carefree surf…we laughed the loves we had that us happy and then made us cry…we laughed…

“We always had such good time together,” she said, catching her breath and wiping her eyes.

“Yeah, we did,” I agreed.

“How come we never…?”

It was a coy question, she knew the answer, and it kind of irked me. But I let it go. “That’s not who we are.”

“You’re my best friend, you know that don’t you?”

I took in a deep breath. I thought I knew that. But I wasn’t sure anymore. “I love you, too,” I said truthfully, dodging the question.

She winced, just a little, but didn’t call me on the evasion. “How come it feels like you’re pulling away from me?”

Yeah, I thought, how come? Because you keep me at arm’s length because you’re convinced that I love you in a way that you don’t love me….I don’t but you choose not to believe that because it’s convenient. Because my friendship seems to be of absolutely no value to you in your battles with your ghosts and your demons….because the sadness in your eyes always belies that smile on your lips…because I’m tired of watching you bang your head against the same wall and not being able to keep you from it…because I can’t keep up with all of the women you are as well as I could when I was young…because I’m just barely hanging on myself these days and, all notions to the contrary, my strength is not without its limits…because…

“I’m just tired,” I lied. “You can always count on me.” It was not untrue…but it was not as wholeheartedly true as it used to be.

She flashed her sad-eyed smile and nodded. “You remember that night at the beach…”

We nudged each other and laughed like little children. Soon the sun would rise behind us. Soon the world would fill with the symphony of a million people joining a new day. Soon the summer wind would come and sweep her one way and me another. Soon…

"Hasten Down the Wind"

words and music by Warren Zevon

The Dancer

The dancer swayed for her…danced for her…made her smile and let her cry…when she needed him to. She accepted his entertainments and his devotions happily. The dancer didn’t ask for much in return and she was happy to accept that too.

Taking the dancer for granted was something she could do because it was something she almost always did, something he almost always allowed her to do. When she needed him he danced for her. When she didn’t need him, she tended to her personal affairs and gave him no never mind.

It was, she thought to herself contentedly, the way of things.

One soft gray day, the dancer didn’t come when she called. He didn’t come the second or the third time she called either.

Eventually he showed up smiling a beatific smile that she hoped was for her but, in her heart of hearts, knew wasn’t for her at all.

She frowned, her eyes glistening. “What happened?”

He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. He was genuinely perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“I needed you…I called you…and you weren’t there.” She stared accusing daggers at him. “Where have you been?”

“Ah,” the dancer said, “I was dancing across town…dancing for myself…and dancing for someone who doesn’t take the dance for granted…it was gratifyingly cool actually…”

“But you love me…”

The dancer nodded. “Yeah, I said that…and I meant it…but that doesn’t mean I will always be at your beck and call…that’s not the way it works…”

She frowned again. “But that’s exactly the way it works,” she protested, “that’s the way of things.”

The dancer tipped his hat and gave a gallant bow. “Not anymore.”

“That’s not fair,” she pouted, “you can’t just change the rules…”

The dancer swayed a bit…twirled effortlessly a bit…and bowed again. “Apparently I can….actually it kinda surprised me too…” He did a slow slide and a gravity mocking soft shoe. “You can’t take the dance for granted, little one,” he said. “Not anymore. I will not allow it.”

She looked at the dancer, feeling abandoned, betrayed. “This is unacceptable,” she huffed, “completely unacceptable.”

“I wasn’t asking for your permission,” the dancer replied, not unkindly. “There are other dancers…mayhap another one who might better suit your fancy…it’s cool with me if you do, I won’t stand in your way…”

“But you’re my dancer,” she said earnestly.

“Actually,” he said, kissing her cheek fleetingly and swaying towards the door, “I’m my own dancer.” He winked impishly and danced through the door. “I probably won’t take me for granted anyway…”

The dancer gave one more gallant bow and slipped out into the world. “I’ll be around,” he promised.

The dancer closed the door and waltzed up the road before she could give a reply.

150 Words: Neighbors

“The gray skies have left early today,” I said.

My neighbor nodded. “It’s a beautiful day.”

Our driveways, side by side, glowed a soft gold in the sunshine that was chasing away the clouds.

We’d lived next door to each other for nearly 30 years but we still talked to each other in clichés and unintended inanities. Spouses came and went. Children came and went. And we still just talked about the weather.

“Are you okay?”

My neighbor winced and then nodded. “Uh-huh.”

It was a lie. “Are you sure?”

My neighbor sighed. “No.”

I looked at the side of my neighbor’s face. “What do you need to be okay?”

My neighbor looked over with liquid eyes. “A hug?”

I held out my hand. “I can do that.”

My neighbor closed the gap and stepped into me. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” I said, smiling. “It’s a beautiful day for it.”

The Sergeant

The sergeant didn’t smile…he just didn’t have it in him…he just sat, folding his long, sturdy frame into my favorite chair barely able to contain him. He wanted his eyes to be steely…he was a Marine after all and that’s the way they were "supposed" to be…but they were liquid and wounded despite his best efforts to the contrary.

I sat quietly on the sofa. He would talk when he could. I would not invade his emotional space until when…or if…he was ready.

“I’m not a pussy,” he said, apropos of nothing. He was fit and square-jawed, his hair was cut high and tight, he was all masculine presence and military bearing…nobody would mistake him for a pussy.

I sat quietly. I knew he had come because a mutual friend…a woman, a Marine, we were both friends with...had told him that I was a good listener, a trustworthy confidant. I had no idea what he wanted to talk about…and we were not really friends… but I would listen if he wanted to talk.

The sergeant bolted his feet. “This was a mistake. Look, man, I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” He looked at me but made no move to leave.

“It’s cool.” I stood up and closed the space between us. “If you need to go, then go.” I paused and, tentatively, I reached over and patted his arm. “But if you need to stay, then…please…stay, I’ve got plenty of time…”

The sergeant stared at me…I wasn’t sure if he wanted to run…to laugh…to hit me…to burst into tears…and then, very subtly, he nodded. It was as close to “thank you” as he could muster in the moment.

I stepped back across the room…shooing the curious cat out of the room as I did so…and sat back on the couch.

The sergeant still didn’t smile…there was no laughter in his eyes…but he sat down in my favorite chair…and, hesitantly, he began to talk...

The Old Man in the Coffee Aisle

I noticed the humming first. It was a soft, beguiling, masculine sound that was warm and welcoming; it effortlessly cut through the vapid drone of the emotionless music coming from the supermarket’s sound system.

As I came around the corner I saw him…a little old man with silvery white hair and twinkling gray eyes shining from behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses. The little old man…he couldn’t have been more than 5’2 tall…was staring intently at the very top row of cans and bags of coffee while patiently humming his lovely little song.

He glanced up at me…I was a foot taller than he…and smiled. “Can you spare a moment, son?” he asked after he stopped humming. “It appears that the good folks who run this establishment have conspired to keep an old man with arthritis from easily obtaining his favorite coffee,” he said with a bright smile in his voice, “and I was wondering if you would help me out.”

“Sure,” I said, pushing my shopping cart to the side so that other shoppers who might come down the aisle could get by, “I’d be happy to. What do you need?”

“There’s a good fellow.” The old man patted my arm and then pointed up to rows of blue cans on the top shelf. “The Maxwell House dark roast,” he said.

“Ah,” I smiled as reached up and retrieved a can, “like your coffee strong, huh?”

The old man chuckled as he accepted the can and put it in his own cart. “That’s the only way to drink coffee, lad,” he replied. “Thank you for your help.”

“No problem, sir,” I said getting back behind my cart and moving down the aisle. “Have a good day.”

“I shall, young man,” he said, pushing his own cart slowly towards the dairy cases at the other end of the aisle, “you do the same.”

He began to hum again, a melody at once familiar and so very hard to place; I smiled again and went on to gather the rest of my groceries with that song echoing sweetly in my head from that point through the rest of my day.

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.