Toward the Light

 

When my teacher put her open palm on my shoulder, I spooked.  It was during quiet reading in the years before teachers put tennis balls on the bottom of their classroom’s chairs, so my reaction caused quite a stir.  My classmates put down their open books and stared at me with a collective yawn, not interested enough to care, but undeniably more interesting than EB White.

My teacher smiled down at me like Mrs. Butterworth. “Jeremy, dear- you’re wanted in the guidance counselor’s office.” I blinked back at her from beneath my bangs. “Do you know where that is?”

“Yes,” I mumbled, somewhat seriously. I could never forget where the guidance counselor's office was.  She was right next to the nurse’s office where I sat only a few months prior as the unwilling star of CSI: Sawdust Edition after vomiting all over the art room floor (which, to this day, I still blame on the rancid smell of tempera paint).   

“Good.  You can leave your things.”

When I stood, the chair jerked again and I shamefully tiptoed out of the room, longing for a ball of fire and a trap door. My first steps forward into the empty hallway were deliberate, just like Dorothy when she starts her journey on the Yellow Brick Road back where it’s still swirled with Red Brick. 

When I reached her door, I was too scared to knock so I pushed it open instead.  Sitting across from Mrs. Schwartz, to my surprise, was my mother.  At first I felt somewhat betrayed.  To my recollection, it was the first time I had ever seen my mother in the building and now she'd decided to call on Mrs. Schwartz without even a passing mention to me.  Did they even know each other?  When I had to be walked home after throwing up in art, my mother was at work and had to send the elderly neighbor man to come and get me who, despite my intestinal turmoil, offered me a hard candy that he had pilfered from the bank. 

I could hear blood rush to my ears as my mother patted an empty chair next to her without looking me in the eye.  There was a crumbled tissue in her hand.  She had been crying.  I knew that it was my fault. 

 

“First, I want you to know that you’re not in any trouble,” Mrs. Schwartz began. 

I looked at my mother for assurance but she didn’t say a word.  Her gaze was fixed across the room on a display of colorful pamphlets with cartoon covers. 

“Your mother came to me today to ask if you and I could talk.  You’re not in any trouble; I just want to have a conversation. How does that sound to you?”  I could tell from the look on my mother’s face that I didn’t have the authority to say no.  Then again, at seven years old, you’ve just recently retained the authority to wipe your own ass, so your opinion is not often the first considered. 

With a nod, my mother excused herself into the hall, looking at the bottom corner of the door as it creaked shut behind her. 

Unfortunately, I knew exactly why I was there.  Don’t get me wrong, I was still tempted to play dumb but the lump in my throat that arose whenever an adult questioned me was kryptonite.  After several minutes of invasive questioning, Mrs. Schwartz determined that I was, indeed, a remarkably sad young boy. Not your average run-of-the-mill sadness, but something more impenetrable. 

She eagerly tried to determine a way to urge me to be a happier child and to put an end to my destructive sad tantrums which had brought my mother to her today.  When my mother re-emerged, we mutually settled on allowing me retrieve the mail from the mailbox that afternoon so I would have something to look forward to. If you would ask me to this day I would still tell you that my unhappiness had little to do with postal service.  It was something inherent, something that plagued my genetic code that would leave me gazing up at my stucco ceiling every night and rolling from side to side while I alternated between “why?” and “why me?” 

It was a difficult bargain but I gave in to his terms; one more bite of peas and I could be excused from the table.  I didn’t know if my mother had spoken with him about what had happened at school that day.  If she did, my father didn’t bring it up, which seems par for the course when you consider his parenting.

I was still gagging on a mouthful of green mush as I pushed my plate an arm’s length away.  

This time I was careful to not let my chair scrape the floor, but I still felt his eyes on the back of my head as I approached the screen door. I slid my fingers down the smooth part of the rusted iron rail as I climbed the steps to the backyard. 

When I reached the bottom, I began to run in breathless circles with wild abandon, aiming to disorient the generations of problems that trailed me from beyond my years.  It was the most alive I had felt all day and a smile crept into the corners of my mouth as I danced haphazardly among the fireflies.  They were so alluring, twinkling their Morse code mystery light for me to envy and never understand.   They were designed by God to be able to ward away the dark.  We had nothing in common. 

The smile on my face turned to a look of sour determination as I studied their firefly ways.  I dreamed the grass to be ten feet high.  In that moment, I was welcome to fly among them.  The led me over bounding over the chain link fence, carried on their wings to go visit Mrs. Schwartz in her garden to show her that I wasn’t destined to be some reprehensible lost cause because now, at this very moment, I was learning how to glow.  

It was then that my feet fell out from under me and I hit the patio with a skid.  My knee had caught the gravel and my pants were torn, which was more upsetting to me than the blood that was beginning to congeal.  I most feared having to tell my parents about the pants. 

I ran back into the house and galloped up the stairs avoiding all contact with my family.  Closing the door behind me, I carefully slid the pants down over the wound and found a sock to tie around my knee.  I hid the pants, the evidence, below my bed, which was destined to serve as my very own telltale heart. 

When I tugged the mini-blinds to spy the backyard, all the glowing had stopped.  My invitation from the fireflies seemed to have been rescinded and the stinging in my knee left me temporarily earthbound.  Slipping into the hallway I sat on the top of the stairs and began to cry politely to myself.  My sleeves soaked through as my sadness took on perpetual motion.

This was still during the bygone era of “I’ll give you something to cry about,” so I was startled when I heard my father’s voice take on a gentle tone.  He’d been standing at the bottom of the stairs watching me for some time, unsure of what to say. 

“Are you finished?”

While blinking tears, I gritted, “For now.”

What I’m glad I didn’t know then was that even if I’d been been accepted amongst the fireflies, it wouldn’t be until adulthood that I would have been granted the power of bioluminescence.  And, even then, I’d be dead in two weeks despite having achieved phosphorescent glory.  Scientists commend the firefly for being the most efficient lights in the world with 100% of their energy emitted in their glow.  And, unlike light bulbs, the light of a firefly produces no heat. 

I went back into my room and stared up at the stucco ceiling.  The bald light bulb in a fixture above my bed caused my vision to blur until I saw nothing.  When my father came in to make sure I was sleeping, I heard him turn off the light with a snap and go to close the door. 

“Leave it open a crack,” I said.  “And keep the hall light on.” 

Without saying a word, he agreed.  We both knew in an instant that it would be years before I could stop being afraid of the dark. 

People: Let Me Tell You 'Bout My Best Friend.

The moment I first met you, you looked me square in the eye and promptly shat on the floor.  It would have been rude of me to not notice that your efforts looked precisely like The Blob.  Honestly, Steve McQueen would have led dozens of teenagers shrieking in the opposite direction if they'd watched it spread and creep towards the wall as I did.  While the overwhelming stench of your accomplishment brought tears to my eyes, no one else in the room even seemed to notice.  Everyone’s tails just kept wagging, including mine I suppose.

Your fetid fecal triumph didn’t even register a look of relief across your adorable puppy face.  Your four tiny paws tracked through your own butt sick in a scramble to vault over the half door to greet me on the other side.  The other dogs in your litter were awarded shimmering brown clumps in their fur as you utilized them as a step stool, trying to reach far enough to kiss me on the lips.  That was when I knew you were mine: any dog that was willing to slap his sister across the face with his own shit was the kind of dog for me.

As soon as I could find a shelter volunteer in the maze of barking also-rans, I called her over to introduce me to you, my intended.  Leaning her mop against an indentation in the cinderblock wall, she wiped at her face with the back of her hand, which implied contamination.  After Jan Brady-ing her way to you holding pen, her ponytail a-sway, she asked which dog I was looking at.  “Crème Brulee,” I muttered.  Even she looked embarrassed that they’d named you that.  Obviously that would have to change immediately; I couldn’t have a dog that was named after dessert on a cruise ship.

She picked you up by your armpits to lift you over the gate; you looked like Aladdin on his magic carpet until your paws met the floor and a leash was looped around your neck.  We were dragged in tandem to an approved mulch pit surrounded by a high fence wall.   The volunteer palmed me a few puppy treats that smelled like the flame-broiled leftovers in a hotdog factory to assure that you would maintain some shred of interest in me before she quietly took her leave to allow us to get better acquainted.

Not knowing exactly what to say, I reached out a hand for you to sniff and took a seat on the overly warm cement stairs.  I could tell you were scared, your ears were pulled back to your skull and your little beagle tail was tucked between your little white sock feet.  You took two steps away as I tried to contort my frame to make myself appear smaller.

I offered you a treat to bribe you closer, which, tentatively, you came, leading with your cold nose snorting against my knuckles and your tongue probing at my clenched fist.

 “Sit,” I commanded.

You titled your head to the side before moving in still closer, your nose brushing against my cheek.

“Sit,” I laughed emphatically.

I don’t know if you remember this, but that’s when you pushed your way under my knee.  You used your head as a battering ram and pressed between my legs before planting your furry ass down on my foot. That’s the first time you ever let me pet you.  I gave you the treat and you swallowed it without chewing. 

In stillness, I inquired, “How do you like the name Zeke.” In fairness, I’d had that name picked out several months before you were even born.  By now, it had basically replaced the world “dog” in my vocabulary.  I, instead, was trying to find a pet “Zeke”.

I could tell that we might be moving a little too fast when the sound of my voice caused you to tilt your head all the way back until our eyes met. You looked at me as though you didn’t know this was an audition; your agent never sent you the sides and you maintained a proud air about you that read very “offer only”.

“Look, puppy- I have a big bed that has plenty of room for you and my neighborhood has a lot of acorn trees which means that there are a lot of squirrels.”  I quickly remembered that you were a baby and probably had no idea what a squirrel was having never seen one before. “I’m in tight with that community.  I can’t wait to introduce you.”

He sniffed at the air as the wind changed course and we sat together in silence for what felt like a season.

Eventually, the door opened a crack and the resident Jan Brady of the volunteer brigade stood, chompers gleaming.  “So?  How did you two get along?”

“Well, he’s a man of few words, but I think he’s going to be my best friend.”

She smiled so hard her eyes looked like she had spent her time away from us staring directly into the sun.  I wanted to walk out the door with you like a new pair of shoes, but I knew that I would need a day to get ready.  They were having an adoption the next day, which is why they had to separate you from all your brothers and sisters (I’m really super sorry about that, by the way) so no one else would try to stake claim.  When she took you from my arms, I could tell that we had both aimed to evoke Sophie’s Choice until your paw got caught in the crook of my elbow, which left us looking more like a parapalegic juggling a marinated turkey.

She carried you out of site and I went immediately to Target to buy you the finest of beddings, toys and shampoos.  I couldn’t sleep that night and stayed up reading the entirety of the canine equivalent of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”  I buried the wires around the apartment and set up your new crate.  I was ready for you, as I hoped you’d be ready for me.

When I arrived the next day, your eyes were a bit red as if you hadn’t slept either.  I led you out to the car and grabbed you by the scruff and placed you on a blanket in the passenger seat as my co-pilot.  You seemed blissfully unaware that this would be your responsibility from now on.  We made it about 4 blocks before the undulation of the car caused a rhythmic sound to emanate from your intestines.  By block 5, the entire car interior was covered with your lunch and you had permanently developed a fear of all automobiles.

I carried your back to the apartment, your mouth dripping with vomit residue and my shirt soaked in bits of kibbles and kibbles of bits.  Your warm puppy fur pressed against me so tight that I didn’t notice the smell.  You were shaking.  From that moment on, you robbed me of my ability to ever be completely mad at you.  In your moment of digestional compromise, I accepted my responsibility to love you unconditionally.

In the months that have followed, we’ve both grown considerably. Your teeth fell out and I kept them in a small wooden box so I could remember what you’d used to destroy my area rug. You learned not to pee in the house (often) and I’ve learned not to take it personally when you do.  I have developed a complete inability to watch more than 30 seconds of Animal Cops and I can now see both sides to the arguments in any given episode of Animal Hoarders.  Every song I've ever known has been rewritten as an ode to you.  But, most importantly, we have nursed each other back to health with little more than affection and sincere consideration for the creatures that nature intends us each to be.

Last night when I went to bed, I thought it might not be such a tragedy to sleep through the next few decades.  But, this morning when I woke up, you were tucked under my arm like a pocketbook.  You kissed my face and yawned a cloud of puppy breath deep into my nostrils that made my eyes water.  It was time to rise; to walk forward together, and to explore.

Personal Error 404

I am to be remembered as nothing more than wallpaper on your desktop. 

Initially, you were quite pleased with your selection.  My aesthetic was complimentary, perhaps; I seemed bold and iconic.  Nevertheless, I was far more defined than the factory settings, which ultimately led to the marriage of copy and paste.  That cemented my achievement in your world as a proclamation of who you saw yourself to be. 

Several thousand glances later, and I remain.  The chaos of cluttered icons have begun to dot our landscape.   Our shared experience becomes routine; eventually, altogether ignored.   Instead of looking to me or at me, you’re merely looking through. 

Inevitably, you will look up from your keyboard and minimize the world of distractions that have long since covered my image.  You’re bound to discover that my pixilation has begun to show. While all the other pictures in your life have changed, I have been hidden, but remained the same.  When the question of my existence arises, you will be unsure of whether you have comfort or complacency to blame.

It is undeniable that you will forget what you ever saw in the first place.  I won’t blame you.  It is impossible for one to observe the same image for every day in their life with the same regard to its brilliance and sheen. 

When you get around to it, the image will change.  It is our destiny that I will be neither observed nor ignored.  I will simply cease to be.  Until then, I remain; only one click away from a blank screen. 

 __________________________________________________

The first time I kissed you, I thought I’d never catch my breath.  I could taste the magic on your tongue and you graciously denied the taste of acid on mine. 

The last time I kissed you, you were already asleep.  I hoped that you might stir, but you let me walk out the room, gently mourning our collective loss.  

The Day The Laughter Divorced

March 2, 1960 marked the final day of filming for The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour, an occasionally produced version of I Love Lucy.  It would also mark the last time that the beloved couple would appear onscreen together. 

If you recall, the Ricardos had since relocated to suburban Connecticut where they'd spent the past three and a half seasons tending to chickens, plowing down their neighbor’s garden with a lawnmower, and haphazardly building a backyard barbeque.  This move kept Lucy and Ricky as an everyman ideal as their move worked to emulate the suburban migration of the late 1950’s.  And since there would be no hijinks without the Mertzes, Fred tucked his nipples under his belt and grabbed Ethel by the short curlies to drag her out for a reunion.

"You would have hit her too, Ricky.  You would have hit her too..."

In this specific episode, their series finale, Ricky is depressed because he has not been getting any TV offers, so the gang, along with the help of Special Guest Star Ernie Kovacs and his wife, the (then) popular (and now completely forgotten- and dead) singer, Edie Adams, try to cheer him up.  Ethel takes to the piano (one of the greatest suspensions of disbelief I have ever encountered- apparently, she couldn’t make chocolates on an assembly line if she’d had a gun to her head, but sit her down at the piano and she can tickle ivories like Liberace).  Edie Adams clings gingerly to the balustrade and delivers a song that she selected with no emotional delicacy whatsoever- “That’s All”, a tune popularized by Frank Sinatra.  The lyrics are as follows:

I can only give you love that lasts forever

And a promise to be near each time you call

And the only heart I own

For you and you alone

That's all

That's all

During the serenade, Lucy was seated with her back to Ricky, which only made it easier for them to ignore each other’s tears. At that time, their marital discourse had led to so much bickering that even the critics began to take notice. On the set, they had stopped speaking altogether and had begun to communicate through an exhausting series of “Would you tell Ms. Ball…” and “Kindly let Mr. Arnaz know…” The live studio audience that once used to roar with delight when Lucy didn't freeze to death in a meat locker had to be replaced by a laugh track.  That decision was entirely appropriate; only a machine would find their disintegration amusing. 

The next day, divorce proceedings began.  It was truly the end of an era. 

Regretfully, Lucy didn’t let the dissolution of her 20-year marriage stand in the way of getting some severely sub-par entertainment on the air.  In 1962, Arnaz was unable to determine a way for Desilu Studios to regain the traction it once had, so he offered Lucy the opportunity to return to television. The Lucy Show was born, wherein she would be reunited with former co-star Vivian Vance who demanded more pay and equal billing.  (Vance also demanded a more flattering wardrobe and for her character’s name to be changed to “Vivian” so assholes would stop calling her “Ethel” on the street.) 

She didn't seem to mind that as much.

The premise of the show was simple; Ball and Vance were, in fact, not a lesbian couple living together in a bungalow.  Rather, they portrayed a widow and a divorcee respectively.  While The Lucy Show even secured the same time-slot as I Love Lucy's original run (Mondays at 8:30 on CBS), it was clear to viewers that something was amiss.  Quality of the scripts was in decline and, without Desi around, Lucy generally had a lot less ‘splainin to do.   

Several seasons later, she bought Desi out of his shares in the company and ultimately went on to lead the studio in the production of Mission Impossible and Star Trek.  Because of her newly acquired power, she began to constantly worry what potential harm that role might bring to her comedic image.  It is said that if she would grant an interview about her position as President of Desilu, she would spend her time with the reporter dusting the table between them to be sure her press would invoke her “just a regular gal that bakes 25 foot bread loaves” image.  The eventual sale of Desilu Studios to Gulf-Western put the merciful nail in the coffin for The Lucy Show, then in its sixth season (Vance had already walked several seasons prior). 

In 1968, Ball made yet another attempt at paying the bills with her beloved character in Here’s Lucy.  It’s opening credits featured a terrifying marionette that will likely haunt your dreams, as well as the names of her actual children who would now serve as her co-stars. 

See?  I wasn't kidding.  Seriously, would Raid kill that thing?

The scripts went from bad to worse and in its sixth (and final) season, the show ranked #29 in the ratings (and if everything old people tell me is true about TV in those days, that would be a 29 out of a possible 30). 

In 1986, the chain-smoking wax figure formerly known as Lucille Ball dusted off her pearls once again to shoot 13 episodes of Life With Lucy, of which only 8 episodes were aired.  

The redheaded ashtray standing in the back is what's left of Lucy.  Not pictured: the Grim Reaper.

This final attempt at reviving her beloved character was quite unsettling to audiences.  At this point, she was a not-so-spry 75 year-old, yet the audience’s expectations were that she would perform with the same gusto as she had when stomping grapes in I Love Lucy some 34 years prior.  This effort essentially proved that it’s much harder to take a pratfall when you have osteoporosis.  The year that marked the unceremonious death of her career was also the very same year that Desi was taken to play Babalu on the big bongo drums in the sky.  

The two, who had remained in-touch, spoke on what would have been their 46th wedding anniversary.  He was dead two days later.  

St. Peter Had Those Sleeves Waiting for Him. 

Edie Adams, the aforementioned songstress-with-seriously-bad-timing, recounted seeing Lucy appear a few years later at a charity event.  She stood at the podium and took her introduction. “My name is Lucille Ball,” she said, “and I used to be on television.”

------------------------------------------------

The real reason that I’m writing this is that, for the past week, I’ve have had one or fifteen thousand reasons to cry but had to keep consistently smiling throughout.  That frustrating emotion (known as life) kept leading me back to a picture I saw as a kid of Lucille Ball.  She was all done up as a Geisha for the filming of the penultimate episode of The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour titled “The Ricardos Go To Japan”.  But, in this photo, it was clear that she had been crying, and not that fake squinched-face cry that made her famous.  No, these were real, honest-to-God tears that had cracked her foundation makeup and left rolling streaks drawn down her face that looked like fault lines.  Her bright blue eyes were puffed out and swollen and her mouth soured in a frown that would have made Canio proud.

Because You Didn't Understand That Reference

What struck me about this particular image of Lucy was what my recollection of that very episode had always been- nothing more than your average romp with Lucy and Desi, as blissfully in love as they had always been.  I remember her cutting through a shoji screen to spy on some movie star of yesteryear whose career went the way of the dodo. It was, as always, hilarious.  

But upon returning to that episode in a recent youtube binge, it’s quite clear what unhappy goings-on were truly afoot.  In the first scene, we see Ricky, Ethel and Fred walking with suitcases, as was typical in those later years where the couples spent all of their time traveling (presumably to other soundstages within the same lot).  But here, when Ricky asks, “Where is Lucy?” Ethel makes an excuse for her by saying that “She went with her mother to buy Little Ricky an ice cream bar.”  Lucy makes an entrance and sits in the airport until Ethel and Fred approach her; again, Ricky appears to be elsewhere.  When Ricky and Lucy finally do play a scene together, the warmest components onscreen seem to be their throats, which had been fried from emotionally chain-smoking countless cigarettes.  They seem to barely make eye contact and, when physical interaction is called for, they turn away from each other altogether. 

I mean, I guess the moral of all of this is that I’m not the first person who has ever had to suck it up and play make-believe with my emotions.  Everyone does it to some degree every day, some to monumental proportion as Lucy did here.  Sometimes the clown gets sad, and that’s okay, as long as the clown knows when it’s okay to laugh again.  And, thankfully, it appears that when I learn to laugh again, the network just might offer me a spin-off.

"Oh, You Write?" He Asked.

This piece is dedicated 

to every man that has ever looked me in the eye, 

asked “how was your day?” 

and meant it.

He couldn’t have been more handsome.  Spikey hair, sharp glasses, chiseled jaw; my date had angles that would be a cubist’s dream.  However, his features must have been sculpted by the great masters in pale marble with the most deliberate hand.  When he smiled at me, my knees pulsed a rhythmic, "I'm not worthy. I'm not worthy"  The only motivation I could find to take another step towards him was by accepting the fact that I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of being this guy's type.   But that didn't matter because he was stuck with me.  First we were going to eat and then we were going to the theater.  This man was completely mine until just past curtain call, which was still hours away.

We hugged me hello so compactly that the fuzz of our cheeks scruffed against each other.  When we took our seats, he reached for the wine list and I pushed a candle closer so he didn’t have to strain his eyes.  “Feh,” I thought.  “Let him get drunk.  If his eyes cross, you'll look svelte.” Meanwhile, he was so poised and well-structured.  Being with him made me feel as large as a grand prize at a carnival.

I ordered myself a vodka and what-the-fuck-ever to get over it and keep up. After a few sips, I was prepared to dazzle.  Frankly, my conversation that evening was epic. I spoke about bullshit with such authority, you would have thought I’d been competing in a middle school mock trial.  The more I would coo and cluck, the more the wattage of his smile would flicker and surge.  Just knowing that I was the cause of that visage was the definition of a good day.  His teeth shined so bright that I could see them glimmer even as he put his hand to his mouth whenever he needed to laugh or chew.   

Dinner ended at five minutes to curtain, so we had to make a dash for the theater.  We would have never had the problem of dodging the throngs if he hadn’t left his Pegasus at home. 

The theater tickets were a favor from a friend that likes to know she helped get me laid, so, naturally, we were spitting distance from the stage.  It was one of those evenings in the theater that you enjoy for no real reason besides being in the right place at the right time.  That night, I let my nose stay parallel to the floor instead of holding it high in the air.  

We had a marvelous time.  His hand was on my knee and my palm was on his neck.  As the music swelled, we were transfixed by the lights and colors of musical comedy.  We swooned when the hunky hero got his glamour girl.  I was elated as he clutched at my hand to watch other lovers’ dreams come true.  When they lived so happily ever after and the actors bowed, so we stood and smiled and clapped and cheered. 

We pushed up the aisle and I tugged his sleeve to lead him through a door that deposited us in a breezy alleyway to the side of the theater.  I wrapped his hand in mine and suggested dessert.  The night was young and I refused to let him go.

We ducked into some diner on Ninth Avenue that was likely owned by Greeks.  It had a display of pies spinning behind glass. I pointed at my selection and signaled for two spoons.   The owner pushed us into a small table in the front that was so close to the table next to it, they could have shared a straw.

Still, he stayed connected to me in a strange little world that had an atmosphere made of booze and showtunes.  He stared at me from across the table with eyes so direct they almost never focused.  It was impossible to tell if he was looking at me, in me or through me.

“Oh, you write?” he asked.

“Sometimes, yeah.  I usually keep it pretty quiet.  I mean, it’s not like… a blog or anything.”

“Well,” he says,  “I would love to read it.”

That was out of the question.    

“Maybe one of these days,’ I nodded.

“You know, you can use me in one of your stories if you want.  But if you ever make a penny off it, you’re gonna owe me big!”

I knew in that instant that this was not going to work.  Requesting to be my subject is like feeding my creativity a curry.  Instead of my work coming out nicely formed, I get a spray that I have to scrub up after.  You would think his mother would have taught him: to act as a muse, you simply must be. 

“I write too,” he motioned. 

Dear God, no. 

“Actually, I may have something here with me.”  Without searching to the count of ten he says, “yeah, I do.  It’s a poem.  I suppose it’s a little personal.”

He produced a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket.  I started getting nervous that he was going to want me to read it.  Reading in front of people is a lot of pressure.  My eyes would be forced to gloss over his words until enough time had passed before I was allowed to look up and nod.  

And then he cleared his throat.

“It’s called ‘Grandmother’s Garden’.”

Dear Lord, I’m ready.  Please take me now. 

I wish I could tell you exactly what happened next, but I think I went into a K-hole.   He began to speak in such a booming voice that it was as if he imagined himself a shepherd competing with the bleat of sheep in the distance.  He read to me with such emphatic diction that the other patrons started to shift in their seats.  The room needed to find a better vantage to simultaneously plant their eyes in the back of my skull, which had already begun to throb.  I came in and out of consciousness over the next few stanzas. 

His wild gesticulations manipulated the flow of air as I heard in a whoosh:

 “Soft flower that I must water, 

 Now that you’re not here. 

My drops of salt will wilt your petals,  

But you’ve left us yet to grow.”

It was the most ashamed I had ever felt.  He paused triumphantly to wait for praise.  I barely had time to finish mumbling my response before he announced that he had a companion piece to read as well. 

At that moment, you could have held a gun to my head and I wouldn’t have been able to tell you how many toes there are on my left.  He finished reading poem number two and I trembled as I pushed away the plate of pie.  For the first time in 6 months, I had lost my appetite.   

“Check please.”

Naturally, I was surprised when I offered to walk him to his train. Perhaps it's because I was a lot less of a cunt back then (although doubtful).  Maybe there was still time back then for such acts of propriety.  Also, being Jewish, it was far better to leave him nothing negative to say about me to strangers despite the fact that I was never going to see him again.  And yet, perhaps I offered to walk him to his train because I needed the closure of seeing him encased in a jagged metal can as it screeched toward the center of the Earth. 

During our walk to his stop, I made a note to keep my body language tense and disinterested.  Sensing that something was wrong, he grabbed my hand to stop me from rushing so far ahead.  We were outside of the Snapple Theater.  There were giant bottles of iced tea spinning on a billboard several stories above our heads.

That’s when he kissed me.  Yes, honestly.  If he'd bothered to observe any of the context clues, he would have known I would rather push his face into dirt.  

That’s when my body recoiled.  I put my hands up like I was catching myself from a fall and I shoved him so hard he had to take a few steps back to regain his balance.  Mind you, I'm not enthusiastic about whatever thought process led me to that reaction.  But, as far as I am concerned, that kiss was rape.  Therefore, he had it coming. 

When I looked at him now, something had changed.  Our pupils locked like he was trying to eat my thoughts.  I finally had his attention.

He ambled down the stairs and faded away beyond the turnstiles.  It wasn’t until he faded out of sight that I was able to see him for exactly what he is: a spec among specs, so insignificant that even a Hoover would suck the other way.

Tonight on my walk home from the train, the city had been kissed by rain like it looks in the movies.  The sun had set and the humidity had cut.  The back of my neck had finally stopped weeping.  

As I looked up into the night sky, I fixed my gaze on the only sparkling dot I could see.

“Starlight, Starbright…”

Who knows?  It probably wasn’t even a star- it was probably a planet, like Venus, or some shit like that.  But I made my wish anyway.  Even Venus should know I had fucking earned it.

It smiled back a prophesy:

Lie to yourself until it is true. 

You will be loved again, 

and more sincerely than ever.

That Time I F*cked a Sooth-Sayer

A few years ago, some putz I was sleeping with inadvertently changed my life forever.  Please; allow me to explain.

There was something sort of magnetic about this guy from the moment I met him.  Granted, I was drunk at the time, however he still seemed to have the most infectious personality I had ever been exposed to.  He possessed a superpower: was able to immediately transform any passerby into his best friend, willing to take a bullet for him.  That power resides within the confines of his seductive, know-it-all smile and crystal blue eyes. 

Our time together was brief and harried with his merciless commitment to mirth making and merriment. It was an attractive quality to me at the time, now it seems relentless. It was always an unnatural fit, me being an apprehensive, social-climbing nebbish and him being the Prom King.  

Still buried deep in my journals from years past, I have pages upon pages of stilted prose about the size of his hands as compared to my torso and the way his cigarette smoke danced around our bodies intertwined.  He brought out an ethereal quality in my writing that has been somewhat lacking since.  The day I met him, I stole his ring that was made from a bent spoon that I pawed at mindlessly throughout the two months that I devoted entirely to him.  I liked to think that by wearing his ring, I would be inhabited with his magical powers of congeniality.

We had met on New Year’s Eve a million years ago at Don’t Tell Mama’s, which is this faggoty tourist trap of a piano bar on West 46th Street and named after a lyric in the musical “Cabaret”.  Moments before the ball dropped, the bedeviled charmer flashed me that hypnotic smile and I could instantly feel the butterfly chrysalides form on the lining of my stomach. He sweetly begged to be my New Years’ kiss and I was more than happy/drunk to oblige.  We had just the right amount of champagne to pretend to know all the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne and caterwauled gibberish along with the crowd as the ball dropped just a few blocks away.  He then sweetly begged for me to go back to his his apartment and, again, I was more than happy/drunk to oblige. 

The next morning when I woke up in his arms, I could feel the caterpillar pupa in my gut as it began to push through its chrysalis casing and emerge as a butterfly, taking flight through my digestive system. The creature, having learned to flutter its wings amidst the sour remnants of champagne and vodka cocktails was likely dealt an irreversible shortening its already brief life expectancy.  Regardless, I wasn’t entirely sure of what to blame for my nausea, so I quickly coated the bile with a fine layer of brunch.  As I sopped up my runny eggs with burnt toast, he took the opportunity to stare across the table and into my soul with his remarkable crystal blue eyes.   

In the two months that we carried on (that is, before I sent him off to join the rest of my misbegotten ex-lovers on the boulevard of broken dreams), we went back to that same shitty piano bar where we met to relive some nostalgia for the day-and-a-half gone by. He walked into the bar like the pied piper about to buy a new fife.  He hurriedly set to work endearing himself to all those people he would never see again, which to me still sounds like a lot of misspent effort and anxiety.   

If you’ve never been to this joint I’m talking about (and who could blame you), there is a long row of tables that heap on top of one another running along the wall to the right of the entrance and a piano on a platform.  The drinks are watered down and the wait staff is often violently rude. 

This one particular night we went, we were ushered to a cramped but prime position in the middle of the long banquette.  It wasn’t a few minutes before the people sitting to our right and left were transfixed by the swinging pendulum that lay behind my boyfriend’s eyes.  He tired of this group and, still basking in the glow of his recent converts, broke his gaze as he set his sights on more challenging prey. There was a table of unsuspecting middle-aged ladies sitting in the back corner singing the “bah, bah, bah” part of Sweet Caroline. He desired to make them his. Forever. 

He excused himself and climbed around the mountain of people that now surrounded him and stealthily approached his bridge and tunnel specimens. I was left to swirl the ice that was melting at the bottom of my glass.  I eventually excused myself from the polite conversation I got stuck with to find out where the hell my date was hiding.  As I reached the back of the bar, I heard my name as a shrill exclamatory cry, 8 voices in perfect unison.  He’d had his way; the women were already his. 

They quickly regurgitated all of the information they had been taught about me, their leader’s betrothed.  They clamored with glee and celebrated their celebration.  It was girl’s night in the big city!  I made pleasantries and they told me how lucky I was to be going home with the most popular guy at the bar and precisely which aspects made them drool with envy. This is when things started to go from “Twilight Zone” to “X-Files” on the barometer of crazy. 

As I mentioned, there were 8 women sitting at the table.  My arrival at their table prompted the attention of 7 but the dude, let’s call him “Rasputin”, was looming over the woman sitting at the head.  Periodically throughout juggling the advances of the 7, I would steal glances at the sequestered one and her new overlord.  The two of them looked so deeply connected that it felt as though they could levitate above the crowd.  His hands were on her shoulders as she stared back at him, doe-eyed.    But then the next time I looked over, she was crying.

I worked to shrug off the heebie-jeebies that were then attacking my spinal column after I saw that.  Seemingly, I was the only person in the room that noticed; perhaps in our time together I had become immune to his particular brand of conjury while all the others drank the Kool-Aid.  As she wiped the tears from her chin, I wiped the furrow from my brow.  I kept on jabbering with the gals, pleasure as usual.  Soon, he hugged her, paid our tab and led me by the hand into the bitter winter winds of Restaurant Row. 

As soon as we got outside, I was able to call into question his patented blend of shameless and creepy.

“What the hell happened back there?” I demanded. 

He played dumb at first and eventually offering a dismissive, “Oh, THAT!”  He went on to explain, “It’s something that I don’t like to discuss, but, well, I am gifted.  With communication.  You know.  Like, with the dead.”

Buh?  “And what exactly did you say to that woman to make her cry?”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me over to a parking meter at the curb.  “That woman’s husband spoke into my ear when I walked back to that table.  He told me what she needed to know.  She should have been enjoying this night with her friends instead of fretting over all that’s come and gone.  This is her only now.”

I went on to treat him as if he were a guest on my brand new talk show that was filming on the curb on Eighth Avenue. I was inherently eager with my questions.  “So, you can communicate with the dead and that woman’s husband spoke to you?  Does this type of event- and we can call it an event- happen often?”

“Not too often. No,” he assuaged me, hoping that I wouldn’t label him as some kind of freak. “But I can identify people’s guardian angels and sometimes I can be contacted by someone that just wants to deliver a message, like tonight.  Honestly, I didn’t want to tell that woman what her husband had to say, but he insisted.  And I’m glad that I did.  Afterwards, she seemed so relieved.”

This is when I realized that any favors I had paid him in the past few weeks now indebted him to me in the form of a public private reading.  I began to call his powers into question: 

“If you think you’re so gifted, what can you tell me about me?  Is there some phantom that watches over me; that makes sure I leave the house at the right time and I find my keys at the exact moment I needed them?” 

“Yes,” he said. “More or less.”

“Wait.  I have a guardian angel?”  He nodded.  “And you’ve seen this person appear as some ghost that floats around me?”  He nodded.  “Well, you’re going to have to be a little more specific.  Like a name.  Tell me its name.”

Without so much as blinking, he replied.  “Ida.”

That was when I had to pucker my ass cheeks to make sure I didn’t soil my manties.  The hair on my arm would have been easy to braid if I had a moment; it was standing straight up and fully exposed as my skin had regressed due to the gooseflesh.  

Ida was the name of my great grandmother.  She was my mother’s father’s mother. To my knowledge, I had never engaged anyone in a conversation about Ida seeing as I had never met her.  My grandfather never said much about his mother and she died many years before I was born. 

Oh, and she was an artist.

My footsteps stuttered.  “What is it that she wants me to know?”

“That you’re not living up to your potential.  Great things will come from you if you choose your way correctly.  You picked the wrong path at a fork in the road some time ago.  You’ve been walking away from your capability and soon will lose your way completely.  You need to turn around.  Now.  You need to head back.” 

I gulped cold air back in.    “What is the most powerful image in my family’s past that influences my present and future?”

“Jeremy,” he said, “there are things you cannot unlearn.  Make sure you truly desire the answers to the questions before I continue.” 

I clicked my tongue. “Go on, Zoltar.” 

“Fine,” he guffed. He touched his ring on my hand.  “The gates of Auschwitz.”

(At this stage in my writing career, most of the people reading my work know the precise time of my last bowel movement and how much the water splashed in the bowl.  However, if you for some reason have stumbled upon this without knowing me from Adam, allow me tell you a crucial moment in my family’s history.  My grandfather’s entire immediate family was murdered at Auschwitz.  There.  Now you’re all up-to-speed.  And stupefied.)

He and I had never discussed these details. 

Still, he went on.  “I don’t know if you can feel it, but there is an entire army of the fallen that marches behind you.  They perished while you have been chosen.  You are the chosen one.  You are the one that will have his name in history books because theirs have been forgotten.  You are now their voice, so you must speak.”

This news sent me into a complete tailspin.  I mean, he should have known better to say something so severe to a stupid 23-year-old that couldn’t make artistic vomit if he stuck his finger down his throat.  Now it’s my responsibility to vindicate the dead.  No pressure.  Apparently they want me to know that there is so much work to be done.  It took weeks for me find solace in the words atop the gates of Auschwitz. “Work Sets You Free”.

Two weeks later, that same boyfriend told me saw a dead girl floating around my bedroom.  He was right, there are some things you cannot unlearn.  I slept the night sleeping in a ball and then dumped him the next morning. 

The great work had begun.