May 11, 2002

Today’s BLOG is a tribute the greatest pair of shoes that I have ever owned – a pair of green suede Adidas. I have missed those shoes every day of my life since they died five years ago. Why, baby, why? Why do the good always have to die so young? Why does everything that I care about crumble before my eyes? God, why have you turned your back on me? Please, Lord, give me back my green suede Adidas. I am begging you.

A few things about the writing: I love second person. I love the name Chuck. I love writing about being married years before the actual event. I love putting thoughts that my wife never had in her head. I love it that I am such an egomaniac. I love it that I write like a sensitive girly man. I love the idea of the protest vomit and I love those shoes – the greatest pair of shoes that I have ever owned.

A Walk During the Springtime

You are walking down Lake Avenue towards Edgewater Park on a beautiful spring day in early April. It is warm. You can finally start to smell life in the air after a long cold dead winter. You are wearing your high school sweatshirt. It, combined with a healthy dose of sunshine, reminds you of what it is like to feel young and alive as most people but not truly alive. The sweatshirt is fading and becoming slightly warned but you are not - like most people. This is the best time of your fairly young life. You increase your pace in anticipation of seeing the great Lake Erie up close for the first since last October.

Chuck is with you. He put on a little weight over the holidays but you're sure that it will fall off if you walk as much as you did last summer. Every single night of the season, the two of you could be found strolling, hand in hand, along the beach to the peer. It was a fantastic summer. Brand new love and a huge body of water a half of a mile away. Who could ask for much more?

Chuck lights a cigarette. It is healthy to walk but bad to smoke. The two activities cancel each other out. It is nice to have him by your side though so that makes the trip to the lake one point in your favor. Not a waste at all. You wish he would stop smoking all together. Your mother told you that you can't change him over night but you are going to try. He smiles at you and takes a long drag on the Camel simultaneously - those two actions cancel each other out too. You are still one point ahead.

He stops suddenly. He turns toward one of the fanciest houses on Lake Avenue as if to admire the dream of what he hopes one day you will both be able to possess. He bends over completely and sticks his hand almost entirely in his mouth. He vomits on the front lawn of some poor rich person. He heaves for a few minutes then wipes his hand, covered in puke, on the lawn - trying his best to clean it. He stands up and takes another hit from the cigarette.

"I fucking hate rich people," Chuck says in a calmness that surprises you.

"I know honey. But you didn't have to vomit on their lawn. It looks nice. I bet they spend a lot of money keeping it up."

"Good. And they are going to have to spend a little more of their precious fortune to get my lunch out of their stinking grass. People who worry about the condition of a glorified collection of weeds are fucked up. When we finally get a house you're not going to see me spend one ounce of energy working on an ornamental patch of soil. Let the weeds grow. It is futile to try to contain nature. Rich people. Fuck every last one of them."

"I thought their lawn looked nice," you tell him. You have every right in the world to tell him that. You are justified. The lawn did look nice, especially for this time of year. You are not as afraid of Chuck as you used to be. It felt good telling him your opinion for a change. He certainly lets you know his thoughts frequently enough. You fell in love with him because he was not afraid to speak his mind. He took away the sting of other people when you were together. Nobody could touch you as long as he was around. You are safe with him. But you still wish you had a little more say in matters sometimes. It is not that important. Wives are supposed to respect their husbands. That is what the good book says.

You grab Chuck’s hand tightly in yours forgetting, for a second, that it still has traces of vomit on it. You put that quickly out your mind when you realize that he didn't try to pull his hand away from you. You haven't held hands since right before your marriage. Puking in public - bad. Holding hands - good. You are still one point up.

"You walk too damn slow."

"I know honey but I think you walk too fast, remember?"

"I don't want this to turn in too an all day event. I've got shit I've got to do today. I'm not like you who gets to sit on your ass every fucking day of the week. I have responsibilities, unlike you."

"Please don't swear at me."

"I'll swear if I want to. God damn it."

You quicken your pace to match Chuck's and he walks that much faster. His legs are longer than yours so it only makes sense that he would have a quicker pace. The faster he walks the more pounds he will lose and if he keeps on purging he will be back down to his normal weight in no time. If he didn't drink so much beer he wouldn't have any weight problems at all. You don't tell him that, though. It is important to choose your battles wisely. Besides, he is very sensitive about his weight problem. You don't want to hurt his feelings.

You are walking over the grass towards the main cement trail that leads down the hill to the water. Chuck is moving faster still. He is wearing one of his thirty pairs of fancy tennis shoes. He does not want to get them muddy and the grass is still sloppy from all the snow that recently melted. He is cursing a blue streak. You look to see if any children are within earshot. There are two boys walking with their father several yards away. You hope that they don't hear your husband’s foul mouth. They look too young to use the words that Chuck spits out of his mouth at every spot of mud that lands on his immaculate green suede Adidas sneakers. You hope that Chuck will not use that kind of language in front of your kids.

When Chuck hits the concrete you are still a bit behind him. He stops on the trail and bends over. Why would he want to protest puke again? He doesn't stick his hand in his mouth right away. He picks up a handful of snow, packs it into a ball, and starts cleaning the mud off of his sneakers. You finally reach him as he starts to work on the other shoe.

"Will you look at this shit? I got mud all over my good shoes. This sucks. I didn't want to go walking in the first place."

"You shouldn't have worn those shoes if you were afraid of getting them muddy. You knew it was going to be messy down here. I wore my old tennis shoes." You lift your foot partially while speaking to show him that you did, in fact, have your worst pair of shoes on your feet.

"You don't have any good shoes. Didn't you learn anything from the black guys at Bedford? If you get one stain on your shoes they're as good as worthless. God damn it. We should have stayed on the concrete. This grass is like a fucking swamp. Son of a bitch. These shoes are ruined.”

“I could wash them when we get home,” you offer with the hopes of a simple solution.

“Honey! You can’t wash suede in a washing machine,” he snaps.

“I have a brush. I will wash them by hand.”

“Oh, shit. Let’s go. I want to get this over with.”

Chuck throws the muddy snowball at a tree and starts down the path to the water. You follow him. With a few steps you are next to him – hand in hand again.

(1995)



posted by Thea at 8:06 PM

May 10, 2002

I did not make the hey I am still alive phone call to the girl who quoted “Life in the Fast Lane” in the Geo Tracker so passionately today – her thirtieth birthday. I figured I have lived all of these years without her so I have probably proved my point. I am still alive. Can you see that? I am still alive. I should probably thank her. It was her continued rejection over the course of my shaky formative years that has inspired me to work myself into the ground to prove her wrong. I remember being seventeen and I remember crying. It was the girl in the Geo Tracker who vigorously quoted the Eagles who made me cry. I will never forget. I will also warn her that she is going to be running naked down Turney Road one day. Again, I will never forget.

Reject me and it is either a lifetime of bitterness or a Happy Friends Good Times Monday Morning Radio show. Take your pick.

Why poetry? I don’t know. I don’t know anything about poetry. It just seemed like fun to get some words on the paper and call it something. That is all that I think about poems and poetry. I used to write poems because I was too lazy to write anything longer. Now, I don’t write them so much. Record reviews are my current short form means of expression unless I am on the bus where I still do write the occasional non rhyming verse.

Here are a couple of quickies written on the Shoreway and then forgotten. Tomorrow – a tribute to the greatest pair of sneakers that I have ever owned.

Poison Monkey

I have a poison monkey in my pants.
I have a demon possessed nun in my head.
She is scolding me.
She is hitting me with a ruler.

(1995)

Drug Addict

I am a drug addict.
All of my cash
Goes to a chemical habit
That I would rather die
Than be without.
The reason
I wanted to see you
Was to give myself
The opportunity
To borrow money
From somebody new for a change.
You are lecherous and rotund.
Enough with the jokes.

(1995)


posted by Thea at 11:24 PM

May 9, 2002

I stopped smoking pot and pretty much doing any drugs in 1995. At first, it only made me increase my drinking, cigarette smoking and frequent inhalation of various different types of antihistamines and then, after awhile, I gave all that up too. I used to smoke plenty of dope. Higher highs we used to say and I think that I started to develop an image of myself that was based, in some part, on weed. I didn’t get so far into pot in that I listened to the jam rock even sporadically but I did and do own a pair of bongos. Maybe I saw a problem with that. It ended with a week of smoking a mixture of pot and opium every day. I was crazy high and then I started feeling sick. I found out from a Doug of Quazimodo that it was addictive, freaked out and then stopped. Cold. I don’t know if my life has been better since then but I will keep telling the kids that drugs is a killer

What follows is a pretty stupid bit of writing that is more than a little embarrassing but it is the only thing that I ever wrote about drugs while I thought of myself as a drug guy. What’s up William S. Burroughs?

Hitting Grandma

One

I am slowly losing grip on the not so tight grasp that I have on reality. My reality. Which has nothing to do with the reality that you call your own. Please do not expect me to relate to you in any fashion because I do not understand you. You are a myth to me. You are a story that my very drunk grandma told me while my parents were out digging the swingers' scene way back in the late 70s.

“You know, there are other people out there," my grandmother would gurgle in between long drags from her Kent filtered cigarette and deep chugs of whatever cocktail that was her drink of choice at the moment. "You know, you are going to be going to school soon. You will meet many types of people. Whites - like you. Blacks. Yellows. Browns. Every color of the big beautiful fucking rainbow. Don't tell you mother I said fucking. Some of these fucking shits will be so difficult to understand that you will wonder why in God’s holy name did He put these twisted bastards on the face of His earth. I don't know what this world is coming to. You are not alone in this world and there are more people than your grandma, although you would think your fucking mother wouldn't want you to know that with the amount of time that she leaves you alone with a couple of old shits like your Grandpa and me. It’s not that we don't love having you around but you should be with kids your own age. Are you at catching my drift? You know your mother dated a black once. She didn't have the guts to bring him into this house. You know, Maple Heights was entirely white then. The mall brought all of those people into the city. Oh, they love to shop. It used to be nice around here but now young punks would rip your head off just as soon as say hello. Are you following me boy?"

I sat there and shook my head with a dumb look on my face. I knew there were other people in the world. I saw them on television. I couldn't wait to meet some kids like the ones that I saw on TV. The Little Rascals were always having talent shows and homemade car races. I was a good and enthusiastic singer at the time and thought it would be fun to drive a wooden car down hill - punching people in the face. I could not wait to meet the kids of my dreams of television. It would be a pleasant switch from my parents and grand parents who acted nothing like Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham.

My grandmother continued after she was as close to sure as she was going to get that I actually understood her. Ever since I stained her wood table with lemonade, my grandmother had to make extra sure that I knew what she was saying.

"You have lived a very sheltered life. By the time I was your age I had traveled from England to Canada, back to England, down to Australia and back over to Canada, all by boat. You learn a lot about people when you travel. There as many different types of people as there are crayon colors in your pencil pouch. I don't want to alarm you but every one of those fucks - every fucking color, would kill you at the first opportunity that they got. It is an evil world. Evil. I should know. I have been out there.”

She was out in the world once but there is not much of a world in the liquor store. I was partially mystified by that, and all of my grandmother's soliloquies.

I am out of the loop. The loop of my own mental organization. No one in my soul or brains wants to communicate with me. My dreams are becoming increasingly non-informative, which I can only conclude is a result from direct orders from the rest of my psyche. They do not want to cooperate anymore. It is extremely frustrating watching my mental life go down the shitter while I stand there like a helpless hockey fan - unable to get in the action. I want to score a mental goal every now and again but my nerves won't pass me the puck. I am basically an innocent bystander as far as my mental affairs are concerned and it is pissing me off.

Two

I hit my grandma today. Or I took hit off her. She really did not offer but I was jonesing. I dipped into her stash while she wasn't looking. She was technically asleep. I did not have the guts to take any of her skin or toenails, the kindest of her bud, but instead I opted for some of her shake left at the bottom of her bed. I crawled around her bedroom in the dark for a grand total of five minutes. So don't go accusing me of interrupting the old lady's sleep. I know how important sleep is to the Golden Buckeye set. By crawling around her bed, feeling the entire time with my eager fingers. Eager fingers sounds as if it should have been written in Hustler's forum. I was hoping to find a clipped fingernail or crusty booger that would have been mistakenly left on the bedroom floor. No such luck. I thought twice about clipping a nail myself but I did not have the guts. I was scared and excited by the prospect that grandma could have woken up any second and busted me real good. Conspiracy to smoke an elderly female relative is a prosecutable offense in the State of Ohio. I don't think I have the proper temperament for the joint. The thought of having to eat cafeteria style with a crew of blood thirsty degenerates, or my own family, does not appeal to me in the least. A good man knows himself.

Grandma's constant fidgeting was getting me real edgy so I made a quick bolt for the door, grabbing her wig and false teeth in the process. I crept down to the fruit cellar in my grandparent’s basement to look over the booty. What a smart move it was lifting her wig. It contained more than a few strands of her actual hair that fell out during use. I loaded all of the hair, rolled tightly in a little ball, into my bowl. I broke off one of her false teeth from the bridge of her dentures and stuck that into the pipe too. I figured a false tooth would be a slow burner, allowing me many hits of grandma.

Grandma burned smooth. She was mellow from old age with just a touch of gin. I hit her hard and she stayed lit after just one flick of my Bic. With each toke I felt myself drift out of your world into a sleepy dream world that freed my mind and let it run away. It wasn't doing me much good since this recent fit of non-cooperation. I sat in the basement fruit cellar on an old stool that used to help my grandpa out in situations just like this one. The stool became an extension of my ass. I was sympathetic towards the stool - well aware of the burden of my weight. I tried to float off the stool a bit to relieve some of the pressure but it did not work. After a few hits the hair was totally ash but the false tooth kept burning strong.

Too much grandma started to make me dizzy. I decided to go out to their back yard to get a little fresh air so I would not be so light headed. I make extra sure that the smoke wasn't too hard on any un-expecting nose. It didn't smell smoky. It just smelled like old lady. I tripped up the stairs, fumbled with the lock, and slowly opened the door without letting it creak. I shut it slowly and carefully. I did cartwheels into the back yard, finally sitting down underneath the old crab tree next to the garage. I was higher than shit from a half a bowl of grandma. I leaned up against the tree and drifted into a quiet dream state. Grandma was a mellow high. It agreed with me more than any high I had ever gotten from the weed.

Three

"I used to be quite a pot head in my day.” I will proclaim to my children loudly over Thanksgiving dinner. I can imagine that their dates will be very taken by this hip old fucker. My own offspring, on the other hand, should probably roll their eyes after hearing the old man tell the "pot story” one too many times.

"Please dad, we don't want to hear any more stories about you and your burnout friends. And please, for the love of God, don't get started about the time you mentally A-bombed all of the welfare offices in America the same day they accidentally put you on the dole."

"Isn't that ironic. I only got one fucking check. If I would have known that they were going to give me food stamps, I would have spared them. It only goes to show you that you can't be too hasty when it comes to dishing out nuclear explosions from your mind."

"Please dad, you are embarrassing us."

Marijuana does not agree with me any more. I was taken in by the image of the gentle Rasta, smoking his spliff and getting in touch with his inner child. I have always been a tense person so I thought that a little mellowing might do me some good. Pot of does not make you mellow; it only enhances the person that you already are. Most of my friends would smoke a joint and laugh the night away. I used to just sit their, after hitting the bong, and get so fucking tense that I could have killed any one of those jolly shits in a New York minute. My nerves would be so rattled that I thought my spine was going to wrap around my neck and choke me to death. There is no easy going me. The weed would let all of the fire and brimstone that was normally put in check my sense of social grace come to the surface. I would punch my fist into my hand with so much force that it would ache for weeks after I came down from my high

(1995)


posted by Thea at 7:52 PM

May 8, 2002

There were times at work today when my eyes were going fuzzy and I could not think because of boredom. I was getting sick to my stomach at the end of the day from sitting still because I did not drink so much water in the second half of the day that I had to get up and go to the can (can. Thea. can.) every fifteen minutes. That is one of my tricks for getting through the day. Frequent bathroom breaks. But I am too honest to fake it. My bad.

I wasted a half of an hour in the morning telling my co-workers that I thought that my office was haunted. I claimed that I was hearing a voice from nowhere telling me to kill myself but really the voice was coming from inside of me. I feel like it is a personal victory for me every day when I walk out of the office and I am still alive.

This is happy little poem reflects my triumphant mood.

Advice My Father Should Have Gave Me

There is some advice that my father should have gave me
If he ever would have set me on his knee
And looked at me with warm eyes
If he ever would have took me to the lake
To catch walleye and share some insight from
Forty years of living
There is at least one thing he should have
Said to me when I was upset from confusion all of those times
When I was trying to grow up
When I was forcing myself to be a man

You are never going to stop suffering, my boy
Dad should have said to me with a light chuckle
The pain is never going to go away and more than likely
You are going to die more miserable that you are right now.
Gee dad
For real
For real, son
Things are never going to get any better
You are always going to lie awake at night
Afraid
You are always going to get hurt by people
The people
The people
The people
Who do not give a shit about you
You are never going to get what you want
For Christmas
The lottery will always be
I repeat
Always be
At least one number away (often more)
You are rarely
Going to win
And if you do eventually win
Some motherfucker
Is going to be right there
To drag you back into the shit

And I would look at my dad
And guess he was speaking from experience
And suppose that there is something to be gained
From his knowledge
And dad would laugh

That is where you are wrong, son
You don’t ever learn anything from
Suffering
Suffering will make you sick in the stomach
Suffering will give you a headache
Suffering will make your back tight
Suffering will make you question God
But suffering will not teach you anything
If you are lucky
You will learn
To grin and bear it
Like a damn fool
Like everybody else

My father should have told me this
After I struck out instead of homering
He could have sat with me
After losing my first love
He could have hipped me
After my first day on the job

The problem is
Will I ever have the guts
To take the time
And let my son
In on
The big secret

(1995)


posted by Thea at 5:52 PM

May 7, 2002

This is the first poem I wrote in 1995. Again, it is what it is. I did not read this one through until I typed it out this morning and I was disappointed at what I did. Had I read it in advance, I probably would have not bothered typing it but since I did, there you go.

I am not in the correct frame of mind right now to start reminiscing about 1995 and I have to take out the garbage and go for a walk before NYPD Blue. Yes, I am a human being. Yes, I do more than work. Yes, I have to go.

I Sing to You, Middle America

I sing to you, Middle America
To your doughnut fed girlies
And your beer soaked boys
I call out to you
Citizens of the Heartland
Fuzzy eyed from gasoline fumes
Tired lungs from too much smoke
Hiding underneath the kitchen table
While a great wind blows through your ears
And the Six o’clock news
Flashes on your eyelids

Speak to me, son
Answer Me!
Do you see that steak
Burning on the white hot coals?
Eventually, it will be ready to eat
And if you leave it on the fire for
Too long
It will burn to a crisp
That is what hell is like
Except you never get crispy
Give your heart to God
Son
And stop lying to me
It is causing me to sin
I will not have you make a fool of me
Ask God into you heart
I want you to be with me when I am walking the streets of gold

I was elected king of Middle America
It was by default
Sort of
My most worthy opponent admitted on national television
That he preferred Chinese food
Over pork, over beans and over potato salad
It was a landslide victory
The people proclaimed me Dude
Heralded me as Homeboy
And greeted me on the streets of Middle America with shouts of “Otis, my man.”
I set out to rule Middle America with wisdom and grace
My noble decisions received accolades in all of the
Alternative media outlets
I touched the heart of the heartland because I was not afraid to do beer commercials
And belch in public
I was a god (of the non-creating not omnipotent variety)
Welcomed at any church or synagogue to address the crowd

I have a hard time remembering what my life was like
Before I met God
I wave been walking with him since I was a little boy
But I can tell you all here
As I stand here in the water
That I am ready to begin my adult journey with God
I will follow His will for my life
And I will try to win many souls for Him

My advisors told me it was not worth it – me trying to run for reelection
For your king
I was easily one of the most unpopular kings
That the land of milk and honey ever produced
The New Power was with the New Money
The snake oil salesmen of the low fat movement
It seemed as if a king who eats kielbasa in public
Has no regard for the public fight against clogged arteries
Also, some how the part of my agenda that dealt with utopia
Got leaked to the no new taxes crowd
I tried my hardest to rule you to the best of my abilities
But ultimately that was just not enough to overrule mass sentiment
So I withdraw my name from the upcoming general election
For king of Middle America
I wish you all well
And hope that the brighter day that we all seek
Is soon within our grasp

You are all doomed to eternal damnation
The lake of fire will swallow you all as sure I stand
Here at the pulpit today
Hell is forever
Brothers and sisters
But so is heaven
And I want to spend my eternity staring at God’s face
The devil lies and the devil’s lies cause you pain
I would gladly sacrifice my life
For all of you sitting here today
So that every single one of you my gain salvation
(The preacher pounds his chest and cries. The tears are visable.)
And I will have done my job

(1995)



posted by Thea at 8:31 PM

May 5, 2002

This is the last thing worth sharing from 1994. It is what it is. I love the name Chuck and always use it. Big ups to Chuck at work, the listener Chuck who said I was nervous when the Sinner, Scum and Jamie were guests on the show and the other guy Chuck who I used to see all the time at the courts. Big downs to anyone named Charles who does not call himself Chuck.

Sometimes, what was left on the cutting room floor is very telling about either the author or the work. In this case it was neither. It had a shorter thing about a young black boy teaching the other kids on his block how to do karate before Chuck got on the bus and a short conversation with a black guy on the bus who claimed to hate n-words. This was years before the Chris Rock bit. The guy on the bus was just crazy. Both of those parts of the bus thing are in the bathroom garbage can.

St. Paul did not Ask to be Knocked Off of the Horse

One

Chuck sat on the couch. His apartment was cold as usual. He wished that he had the guts to call the landlord and chew him out for the perpetual coldness and yell at him for the constantly stopped up sinks. Everything was clean. Chuck just finished cleaning everything again. “Change of the Century” by Ornette Coleman was on the turntable.

Chuck walked into the kitchen to check the progress on the clogged drain and the progress of the stopped clock. He listened to hear if the water was boiling. He knows that a watched pot never boils. He walked back to the living room, picked up a Billboard magazine and rapidly thumbed through article after article on the business of music. He read nothing – flipping the pages as purely an exercise of habit. It is much healthier than biting your nails. Flip pages or crack your knuckles. He noticed that one of the throw pillows on the couch is sitting too deliberately to be considered haphazard. He adjusted the pillow slightly and made sure that the large couch cushions were both sitting exactly on the couch. Ornette Coleman played on. The water should have been at the boiling point by now. He walked extra slow back to the kitchen to give the water a few more seconds. The water was just staring to boil so Chuck gave the gas some juice to get the whole procedure over with. He turns away from the stove, opens the cupboard door, grabs some Sleepy Time tea, carefully pulls out a package, readjusts all the remaining packages back in order in the box, refolds the wax paper, sets the tea box with the others – stacked like bricks in the cupboard.

The name Sleepy Time, the teddy bear packaging and illusions of a warm good night’s sleep always made Chuck wonder. He never had a good night sleep no matter how much Sleepy Time he drank. He would sometimes drink five or six cups in an evening – no sleep just indigestion. It is hard to sleep with a flaming stomach. Chuck worried about ulcers.

Chuck poured the boiling water into the cup with a bible verse on it. He remembered a story that his friend told him about scalding her hand while making peach tea. She claimed that the water just jumped out of the pot. The story did not make sense. What would make water just jump out of a pot like that? No matter how many times Chuck thought about the logic of that story and successfully made tea, he remembered that story and proceeded with caution. Maybe success is born out of a cautious heart.

It would be any minute until Chuck’s girlfriend arrived at his place from work. She worked at men’s clothing store. She worked there since high school. She had clients. She had a business card. She carried a briefcase. She could not pick a suit (or a tie for that matter) to save her life being completely deprived of any fashion sense. She was held in such high regards by her employers (she told Chuck) that she got the honor of closing up the store every night. She was important (she told Chuck).

It took the girlfriend almost a half of an hour to drive from her (she told Chuck) store at Randall Park Mall to Chuck’s apartment. Chuck sat on the couch counting the minutes. Everything was perfectly arranged in the proper place in the apartment. There should be no incidents.

She entered the apartment at exactly the time that she was supposed to be there. She did not take a breath before she commenced with recounting her day – every bad customer, every lazy coworker, every stupid boss, every big sale, every smart decision. She told Chuck.


Two

St. Paul did not ask to be knocked off of the horse. He did not put in a request with the powers that be to be the most famous evangelist until Jimmy Swaggart. He did not pay for the Revelation. He was chosen.

Chuck did not ask to be an instrument of God. He did not ask for the burden of the Holy White Rage. He wished that it would just go away but he knows that he has a job to do. God damn it.

It is a horrible business to have the voice. The burden of responsibility would be enough to cripple a lesser man. Somebody else would burry their face in their pillow and cry, “Dear God, please take away the burden of the Holy White Rage and leave me alone. I am not enough to handle what you have given me.”

Chuck stood firm. He screamed at God to bring it on. He was a bow in the hands of the Lord. Bend him, Motherfucker. Chuck would not break.

Chuck remembered when God revealed himself to him for the first time. It was funny the way that He did it. Ironic in the fact that Chuck spent the majority of his time as a young boy in various underground churches and hardcore Christian meeting houses. So much church. So much scripture. So little God. So little miracles. It was ironic that he spent so much time in church and God did not reveal himself in church at all. Chuck was lucky that God even revealed Himself to Chuck in the first place. Most Christians have nothing but faith to keep them going, relying on interpretations of everyday situations to hear God’s voice. Chuck was lucky that God just came out and told him directly to do his work.

Three

The bus came to a stop in front of Chuck. The breaks started squealing a couple of hundred feet away to signal alerting him to its arrival. The squeaking brake alert was necessary since he was not looking for the bus to ever arrive. Chuck adjusted the sunglasses on his face as he stood up from the bus stop bench. He approached the bus and climbed the steps to the driver. Was this God’s messenger? No.

Chuck was playing a game called “Scowl”. He scowled at the bus driver. Not God’s messenger. And scored points. He paid the bus. Turned and walked through the crowded seats. Chuck was operating under the belief that none of the people that he was passing were sent by God and hoping that his instincts were correct. He scowled and scored more points.

Chuck sat on one of the back benches – the one that faces another bench. Chuck examined the old man on the bench across from him. Was this God’s messenger? No.

Chuck played “Stare and Scowl” at the old man (not God's messenger) for extra bonus points. Chuck did not stop staring or scowling the entire trip downtown. He was going to win. Chuck showed no emotion on his face. His sunglasses covered his eyes. He kept his head facing directly at the old man. This usually freaked whoever was sitting across from Chuck out – sometimes to the point where they would change seats. But mostly they would look someplace else most of the time but keep checking on Chuck nervously to see if he was still staring at them through the sunglasses and scowling. The uncomfortable people were funny. It took all of Chuck’s strength not to laugh or even smile. The only thing that would cause Chuck a minor break in his game of “Scowl” would be when somebody else would get on the bus and he would have to check to see if that freak, drunk or degenerate was sent onto the bus to Chuck by God.

(1994)


posted by Thea at 6:24 PM