Home: Part 5

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Do not expect anything, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

July 1974

There was rain. Outside the hotel, I watched Narcie hurry through the afternoon crowd, her shoulders hunched toward her ears. My luggage, a single leather Samsonite suitcase, rested against my leg as I stood beneath the hotel's awning and waited for my driver. I did what I could to stay dry, but the rain was warm and would stop soon enough.

"You will be back?" Narcie had asked as we left the room and started down the hotel's narrow staircase.

I did not want to lie to her, but I did. "In a month," I said. The lie, really, was not about my return, but about seeking her out if I did. I gave her most of the Pesos I had left. She hugged me before we stepped outside, and then she was gone.

A car stopped at the curb in front of me. "The airport?" the driver called through the open window. He helped me with the Samsonite, and then we were an anonymous part of the traffic. I was glad to be going home. In her previous letter, my mother had written that my father had been ill--nothing specific other than "not feeling especially well these days." I did not know if the affliction was mental or physical, for my father had spent much of his life depressed, and that depression often seemed to manifest itself in physical ailments. I was also somewhat weary of traveling. Though I'd been in the Philippines for nearly a month, I had been away from home for the better part of a year.

"Checkpoint," the driver said, and he pointed ahead where several Filipino soldiers stood beside a truck. "You legal?"

"I am," I said. I had my passport ready in case the soldiers asked to see it. But I also knew that the driver was making sure I had no drugs on me. The driver stopped the car.

While two soldiers leaned against the truck, their weapons resting against their hips, a third looked through the driver's window, looked me up and down, then grunted and waved us through. I knew that if my hair had been longer, I might have been questioned about where I was going, and why. I couldn't change my skin color to a shade of brown, but I could keep my hair short enough to appear like one of the sailors simply headed out of town.

"Easy one, today," the driver said as we continued on.

"Very easy."

"The rest of the ride, no problem."

I was glad. I wanted simply to get home.

Home: Part 4

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Do not expect anything, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

January 1958 

I was born with a flipper attached to my left knee. More precisely, I had no shin or ankle below my knee on that leg, just, as my father said, "a floppy little thing that wasn't good for much." So, just a couple of days after my birth, surgeons removed the flipper and I was then free to evolve in my own way.

Tiger tended to pull on the leash as we walked, and I had to be careful in the snow and on the slick concrete. I was stable, for the most part, but I was also cautious. "Slow down, Tiger." I pulled back on the leash several times before he finally got the point. We did a loop around the block, and half an hour later we sat in the basement and watched reruns of Superman.

Home: Part 3

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Do not expect anything, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

January 1958 

My mother's voice: "Steven."

Even from under the blankets I could tell it was cold outside, and dark. My parents were frugal, and even in winter they often kept the heat low at night. They believed that an extra comforter was just as effective as running the heater. One night, though, when my mother was gone, I found my father in a chair in the kitchen, the oven door open and the heating element glowing hot. He looked at me. "Go back to bed. Don't tell your mother." He smiled, and I was grateful for the secret.

"Steven."

"I'm awake, Mom."

"Your father and I are leaving now. Remember to take Tiger for a walk. We'll be home for dinner."

"Okay."

 She shut my bedroom door, and I listened as they left the house, as my father started the car and backed out of the driveway. I lay there and let myself fall back asleep until the gap between dawn and morning narrowed to a point that kept me awake. Breathing into my hands, I warmed my fingers enough so that when I got ready to stand up, I could strap my left leg on without missing a buckle. I stood slowly, a lifetime habit, to be sure I wouldn't topple over if one of the buckles was too loose. Dressed, I left my bedroom and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. "Tiger," I yelled. "Let's go walk in the snow."

Home: Part 2

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Do not expect anything, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

July 1974
(continued)

The room had a small window, and through it I could look out onto Subic City's early morning. Everything outside appeared quiet. When I lay on the bed again, I watched the ceiling fan rotate slowly above me. The room smelled stale, lived in, soaked in decades of sweat. I wasn't sure if Narcie would return, but I didn't want to wait all day. It was Friday, and I planned on getting out of town before a good portion of the Seventh Fleet was on liberty for the weekend. I had a flight scheduled from Manila to San Francisco via Honolulu on Sunday; being stuck in Subic City until then had no appeal.

Narcie did return. I must have dozed off while watching the fan blades turn above me. "I told you I'd come back." She was lying beside me and caressing my bare shoulder with her fingers.

"How was church?" I asked.

"I had to take my son," she said. "It is his birthday. He has friends there."

"You don't have to explain. How old is  your son?"

"He is five."

"His father?"

She shrugged the question away.

"I have to leave in a little while," I said. "Manila."

"We can eat first?"

"I think that is a fine idea," I said. "But not just yet." I smiled at her.

"You're like a sailor," she said. "Always ready to do something."

I laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment."

She stood up and slipped out of her clothes. Naked, she looked down at me. "What do I call you?" she asked.

"Call me?"

"Your name. I want to know your name."

I thought about it. "Call me Ishmael," I said.

Home: Part 1

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Do not expect anything, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

July 1974

There are things you should know.

In 1974 I was in the Philippines. The country was under Martial Law at the time, and for the most part nobody was allowed outside between midnight and six in the morning. You could be in a bar, or even in the front room of your house with your windows wide open. But you couldn't be outside. I wasn't. I was in a hotel room after a long night of drinking San Miguel. Narcie, the short Filipina I'd bought out of a bar a few hours earlier, was asleep and snoring beside me in the bed. I liked how her skin felt against mine. She'd fallen asleep as soon as she lay down, so feeling her skin like that was the culmination of our experience together.

Earlier that afternoon I'd found myself with a group of U.S. sailors and marines, which I thought odd not because they were there, but because they were together. The sailors generally got drunk and stupid, while the marines got drunk and edgy. The groups usually didn't mix well, but for some reason they'd put aside their differences and found commonality in the beer I was buying them. We'd started out in Olongapo, in a bar called the Brown Fox not far from the main gate that separated the U.S. Navy from the Philippines itself. At some point we'd all climbed into a jeepney and made our way to Subic City. That's where I met Narcie and decided that I'd rather spend the night with her than with the sailors and marines. I'd like to think that those men remained cordial after I stopped buying beer and led Narcie outside, where she took the lead and guided me to the hotel, but I couldn't guarantee that things worked out nicely.

Narcie woke up just before dawn. She rubbed her eyes and looked at me. "I need to go to church."

"Church?" At the time I found it odd that so many prostitutes could be so consistently religious. Maybe, like a lot of other people, they thought that God would forgive them if they just showed up and prayed on Sunday morning. In the decades since, though, I've come to think that those women were no worse than anyone else, and that when it comes to feeding the family, the table truly is full of options.

Narcie was getting dressed. "I'll come back, okay? Two hours."

"You don't need to," I told her.

"I'll come back," she said again.

Time for Endings: Interview #3 (The Final Cut)

It's good to see you again.
I'd bet you say that to everyone.

But I always mean it.
I'm sure you do. What's on your mind this time?

I thought we'd discuss your latest project.
That's it?

We'll see. You know I like to wander.
Fair enough.

It appears that you're finished with the project. Am I right?
I think you are. I always qualify that, though, since I've been known to change my mind.

Why are you ending it? You wrote only five "endings."
Well, how many endings does a person really need? They can't go on forever.

I couldn't help noticing that the final two pieces involve beds. Was that intentional?
Do you want it to be intentional?

I have no preference. I just thought it was an interesting prop.
Prop? Why a prop? It's more of a location. You ever experienced insomnia?

As a rule, no. Why?
If you ever do, the experts will tell you that the only things you should do is bed is sleep and have sex. Everything else should be done someplace else.

That makes sense, I suppose.
No, it doesn't. We can't dismiss how much time we spend in bed--not just for sleeping and sex, but for so much else. Most of us are born in a bed, and perhaps most of us will die in one, if we're lucky. Beds are great places for conversations. We generally feel safe there, and it's a fine place to ponder what we need to do on any particular day. And depending on when we're in bed, we can feel safe and protected, or we can be quite vulnerable.

I see. So, do you think using the bed as a location in two different stories was intentional?
You're often annoyingly persistent.

It's my job. It's what I do.
Then I'd say that, no, it was not intentional. I probably didn't even realize it until you brought it up.

You don't read them when you're done?
Generally, no. That's why you might find typos.

In "Ending #2" you have a family that seems to be in some kind of trouble. What prompted that story?
Nothing prompted it. I just typed the first line, and the rest took care of itself. These pieces are not long enough to require any planning.

The family--or the parents, at least--appear nervous about returning to their home.
They are.

Why?
I don't know. I wrote only the ending, not the rest of the story.

I think readers might need a bit more information, some background.
I told you before that I don't have any readers.

And the father in that one. He and his children have witnessed their cabin--or a cabin--burning. Yet you never say why it burned, or why the son has only one shoe.
No, I don't. You're more than welcome to fill in the rest of the story on your own. You've got an imagination, so you should write your own version of the story. Have some fun with it.

Also, I didn't find much happiness in any of the stories.
I think one of them has some happiness--the fourth one if I remember correctly.

Readers...
...which I don't have.

...might be put off by the sense of bleakness in the works.
Perhaps all of the happiness takes place before the endings. Besides, life isn't always peaches and cream, is it?

No. But I think if people are unhappy in their own lives, or even in parts of their lives, they're not going to want to read something that takes them even further down.
I'm not trying to take anyone anywhere. These are works of fiction. You know that, right? It's all pretend. The works are not about me or my experiences; they're just a bunch of words strung loosely together, and they have no meaning beyond what they are.

I think I understand what you're saying. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me, or to tell anyone.
Ummm... No. But you realize that you and I are just pretend, too, right?

So, this is fiction, as well?
Damned right it is.

Ending #5

In which we find the fifth (and probably final) installment of an ending for something that has not been written.

David says that he is comfortable, that this is a good way for things to end. "I was glad we got to go to London," he says as though we'd been there yesterday and not several months ago right before things turned bad. "Could you move the vase off of the windowsill?"

Annie, our older sister, had sent the flowers--a bouquet of bright blooms that she hoped would add some light to the room. I lift the vase and set it beside the picture of Mom and Dad. "You need anything to eat or drink?" I ask.

"Not now," he says. He struggles to get his arm untangled from the IV. He doesn't want me to help with such things, but we both know that in a few days he won't be able to do it alone. "Is Terri coming by today?"

Terri is the head hospice nurse. "Yeah. In a little while. It's still early." He trusts Terri more than he trusts anyone else, even me. I can't blame him for that. Terri is a short, thin brunette, characteristics my brother has always sought in women. I'm usually here all night while Terri and her crew take over in the morning until I can return about lunchtime. Someone called in sick this morning, though, so I'm covering for a few hours until Terri can get here.

"I've lived a good life, you know," he says. "I'm happy with how things turned out, overall." He laughs. "Well, not with this part, but everything before this."

I sit down again and stay silent. I'm never sure of when I should talk. Terri told me that I should let David guide how each day goes. Sometimes we nap at the same time, and when we do I remember how we had to share a bed for awhile when we were kids.

"One thing I would change," David says, "is not eating enough bagels."

"Bagels?" I ask. I'm sometimes not sure of it's him or the morphine drip talking.

"Yeah. Bagels. I always liked bagels. But when I was married to Cindy, she wouldn't buy them because she was so anti-carb, as though bread was the worst thing a person could eat. I let her win that fight because at the time I thought letting her win was important."

"You can eat bagels any time you want to, David."

"Like I said, I'm happy with how things turned out. I mean, I'd rather die with small regrets--like bagels--than die thinking I'd missed something major."

"That makes sense," I say, and I start mentally counting my regrets. Maybe that's what he wants me to do.

David has drifted off. He seems relaxed, and I walk to his side and wipe the moisture from the corners of his mouth. He looks so young, now--not my older brother, not someone who has suffered so much in the last year. I turn the lights off and shut the window blind most of the way so that only a bit of light shines through. Annie's flowers stay bright. I sit down again and listen to David's breathing, and I watch the regular drops of fluid that leave the IV bag and slide down the clear plastic tube.

In the notebook that Terri and I keep on the table beside the chair, I jot notes about how David was last night--if he ate anything, how he seems to be feeling. I know that things will get worse soon, that at some point David won't even know we're here. I hear mockingbirds in the trees outside. In the kitchen, ice cubes fall into the tray. I consider how things have gone these last 65 years, and I realize that, overall, and except for this, I'm happy with how things have turned out.

Ending #4

In which we find the fourth installment of an ending for something that has not been written.


I looked outside and saw that the rain had ended. The hotel room was still dark, and Sherrie was lying on the bed, the heavy blanket pulled up to her chin. The garbage truck that I'd heard earlier had just left the parking lot, the flashing orange light on its roof reflected in puddles. "It's going to be a good day," I said as I sat on the foot of the bed. "The rain has stopped."

Sherrie pushed against my back with her foot. "You say every day is going to be good."

"I'm an optimist," I told her.

"Since when?" I liked how her voice sounded in the morning: soft, a little raspy.

"Since I met you," I said. And I meant that, too. When we left Paducah, just before we crossed the river into Illinois, I realized that things had changed and were going to be different. It was a good realization.

"You're sappy, sometimes," Sherrie said. "Come back to bed."

I wanted to get on the road early. We were almost to St. Louis, and I didn't want our momentum to stop. "Only for a little while," I said. 

Under the covers, I lay on my back as Sherrie pushed up against me and rested her forearm on my chest. I felt protected, loved. "I'm going to drive into Missouri," she said. 

"Then I get Kansas," I said. "You can have all of Missouri."

She giggled. "This is exciting, isn't it?"

"It is," I said. 

We were quiet for awhile. Daylight had begun moving around the side of the window's drapes. I could tell from her breathing that Sherrie had drifted off. I shut my eyes and thought that maybe she had the right idea. Everything that had happened in Paducah had been left behind when we'd packed the car and driven out of town. So, I lay there and caressed Sherrie's forearm, letting my eyes shut to the morning, letting Sherrie hold me like that.

Ending #3

In which we find the third installment of an ending for something that has not been written.


When the movie ended, I sat in my seat for awhile longer and watched the credits fade in and out of view. The old couple that had been sitting a few rows in closer to the middle of the theater helped each other stand in a way that made me think they'd once been dancers. There was a certain grace between them. The man in the wheelchair wheeled smiled and nodded at me as he passed. 

I knew that the weather outside was cold; snow had been falling all day, and the wind was forecast to pick up throughout the night. When the credits were over, I sat alone in the middle seat in the middle row. The lights came on and a young man entered the theater with a broom and dustpan. He seemed surprised to see me. "I've got to clean up," he said. I smiled and nodded in the same way the man in the wheelchair had done to me. When I didn't move, he shrugged and started sweeping up the empty popcorn boxes and soda cups.

"Have you seen this movie?" I asked. 

He didn't stop working. "Nope. I just clean."

"You should watch it," I say.

"No time."

I didn't push it. I knew how time worked. "Can I just sit here through the next showing?" I asked. I knew it was a rude question, that I was putting him in a tough spot. He might have been sixteen. Scrawny and a little awkward in the way most kids are at that age.

He kept working. "I don't think so, Mister. Besides, it doesn't start again for another hour. You don't want to sit here for that long, do you?"

I did, actually. I didn't feel like going out into the cold, and I didn't want to drive home to where Ines was. We'd had a rough year, and now everything was at a point where balance was important. The scales could tip either way based on what we heard from the doctor in the next few days. 

"What's your name?" I asked the kid.

"Alan."

"I'm going to leave in a couple of minutes, okay, Alan? I won't get in your way, and I'll be out of here before you know it."

"Okay. That's fine. I'll clean the other rows first, and I'll get to yours last. When I get there, though, you have to leave. We have rules about people being in here."

"That's fine, Alan. That's fine. I won't get you into trouble. My wife and I usually come here together, but tonight she stayed home."

"Yeah," Alan said.

He was getting closer. The theater was small and I knew I didn't have much time left. When he got to the row in front of me, he stopped. "There's nothing to clean in this row, Mister."

"You need to clean my row, right?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

I stood. "That's okay, Alan. I'm leaving. Have a good night, okay? Thanks for letting me stay."

As I walked through the lobby, I avoided looking at anyone. I just wanted to get it over with, to be outside in the snow and wind.  As I drove out of the parking lot, I told myself to drive slowly so that I'd get home in one piece. Ines and I had some things to discuss as we waited.

Ending #2

In which we find the second installment of an ending for something that has not been written.


They walked down the middle of the dirt road and occasionally looked over their shoulders to see if smoke was still rising where the trees ended at the small clearing. Billy, nine years old, wore one shoe. His sister Beth didn't wear any. "Dad, how long will it burn?" Billy asked. The boy ended his question, as usual, with no upward inflection.

Andy loved his son but sometimes wished he wouldn't ask the same question more than once. "Till the wood's gone, I guess." Beth was different: She would ask a question, parse the answer, then move on. 

"And you called Mom, right?" Billy asked. 

"I did," Andy said. "She'll be waiting for us. Keep walking, okay? We don't want to keep her waiting." He looked at his children's feet and wished he'd been able to grab enough shoes for them. But when he'd realized things had gotten out of control, he simply shoved them out of the front door. They'd stood on the front lawn and watched everything burn, each of them sobbing at one point or another. It was a sick feeling, watching the cabin burn. 

"Mom's gonna be mad," Beth said.

"Yeah, she is," Andy said. "But not at you two. At me. At the whole idea of the cabin, really." As soon as the three of them had gotten outside, Andy knew he'd have to make the phone call. Irene had not believed him at first. "The cabin what?" she'd said. But he heard a bit of fear in her voice after she got things straight in her mind.

Billy had skipped far ahead until he seemed small and carefree in the dust he was kicking up. Andy wondered if his son's bare foot was sore. Irene might be as mad about the lack of shoes as anything else. Beth seemed to walk as though nothing at all was missing from her feet.

When they reached the 7-Eleven where Irene was already waiting, the children ran to her and hugged her waist. Andy could see her wipe tears from her cheekbones. He kissed her mouth when he got to her, and he thought it was the most passionate kiss they'd shared in a long time. Maybe fear makes that happen, he thought.

Irene looked around the parking lot. "We can't stay here."

"I know," Andy said. "We'll have to drive to the house."

"No. It's not safe there."

Andy shrugged. The kids had gone into the 7-Eleven to get a snack. "We have to. We'll have to risk it. We'll wait for awhile, for nighttime. Then we'll drive the long way. We'll be okay, Irene. I promise."

"You've promised lots of things, Andy. Now look at us. What about the kids?"

"The kids will be fine. We'll all be fine. Things are different now. I can feel it."

"You can feel it, Andy?"

"Yeah. They probably aren't even looking for us now."

Irene told Billy and Beth to get into the car when they came out with pretzels and Sprite. "We'll wait until dark, then. I'll drop you off at the park near the house, and you'll walk home to make sure nobody is there."

Andy pressed his chest into her back. He wrapped his arms around her belly and nuzzled her neck. He was still remembering the kiss. "We'll be okay."

Then they got into the car and waited for night to fall.

Ending #1

In which we find the first installment of an ending for something that has not been written.


I sat alone and watched the band end its night on stage. The bar itself was nearly empty now, the smart drinkers and the dedicated hook-up artists long since gone. I'd stopped in tonight with the intent of having a drink for each song the band played, but I'd lost my momentum before early, and then the songs got longer and I stopped caring as much or counting at all. My left ear, the one that had been turned toward the stage, was nearly deaf. In my other ear were sounds of the waitresses cleaning up and the bartenders restocking the glasses and bottles.

The walk home was going to be long and cold, neither of which bothered me. I persuaded the waitress who'd been helping me all night to bring me another Scotch, and I gave her my last five dollars on top of whatever the drink cost. She seemed grateful, but her eyes were tired and I knew she, too, just wanted to go home. I considered asking her to walk with me, but I sober enough to see that she was too blonde and too young--and probably too smart--to give me the time of day.

I watched the band tear down the equipment and pack things away. The bartender flashed the lights to let everyone know he was shutting things down, so I finished the Scotch and struggled to get my arms into the sleeves of my heavy Carhartt jacket. I was a bit off-balance when I stood. Outside, the heavy touch of cold December made my eyes water. A Buick Skylark was stuck in a snowdrift near the road, and a group of people giggled and laughed as they tried to get it free. I was happy that they saw no misery in the inconvenience.

Walking the path that ran along the river between the bar and my mobile home, I wondered what Becky was doing right then. The last time we'd talked she'd said something about Ensenada, that it might be a good, safe place to ride out the next few months. She was probably right about that. Or, at least she was right about finding a place to ride things out until the dust settled. If she were still around I'd quibble with her thought that Ensenada was "safe," however. I'm not sure that anyplace is safe after what had happened between us.

But I wanted to think that Becky was okay no matter where she was. "I'd like to be able to tell people this story someday," she'd said. "My kids, maybe. If I have kids, I'd like them to hear the story." I'd told her that would be nice, but as I walked along that river and listened to the ice crackle,  I thought that maybe some stories shouldn't be told.

Time for Endings: Interview #2

It's good to see you again.
Why?

It just is.
Okay. I'll accept that.

When we left off last time, we were talking about why you write.
I've decided not to answer that. It's an unanswerable question.

I don't agree.
It doesn't matter.

Okay. I'll accept that.
Nobody likes a smartass.

Let's move on, then. What do you hope to accomplish with this project?
I believe that I told you before that I have no expectations. I also have no hope.

Perhaps you're simply trying to find a way to be creative.
That could very well be. I like that answer.

And if you don't have any readers, why even write?
That sounds suspiciously similar to asking why I write. You're clever!

But don't you want readers?
[sighs] I suppose I do. At some level, anyway. But when I go fishing, I don't have to catch a fish to be happy. Sometimes standing in the river is enough.

But catching a fish feels good, right?
It does. But the older I get, the more I identify with the fish. All they want to do is live, eat, procreate, and die in perfect water. That seems like a perfect way to live one's life.

I have to say that you seem especially morose this evening.
Morose? No. I like to describe myself as a practical realist.

Maybe that's why you're focusing on endings--they seem more real than beginnings.
So, it's an age-thing?

Could be. As we get older, we see fewer beginnings. Or, we've seen enough to...
...make us happy?

I was going to say "make us understand that how we end is as important as how we begin."
Where do you come up with this drivel?

You're mood is contagious.
You're wrong about my mood. Perhaps your the one who is feeling morose. And I don't like how this is going, by the way. I don't need therapy.

Do you think that's what this is?
You sound like a therapist. You don't have much time left; ask me relevant questions.

Okay. Do you like to write?
Mostly, yes. Mostly I feel as though I have no choice, however.

Like you're driven to write?
You could say... Oh! Wait! You circled right back to the question about why I write, didn't you! You're good!

Have you ever thought that you might have readers at some point, and that those readers will want to know your motivation?
I've thought no such thing.

Let's get back to your project. How would readers know they're reading fiction?
I'll tell them.

You'll tell them?
Yes. 

Oh--I remember you wrote something about that in your introduction to the project. You'll use "end" or something like that.
Yes. Somewhere at the start or the end of the piece.

So, it'll be obvious.
Yes.

What if the readers don't get the hint?
Frankly, in the end, what does it matter?

Time for Endings: Introduction and Interview #1

That is, it's time for fictional endings. If there were readers here, this is what they'd find out tonight.

The next fiction project here will be endings; maybe we'll even call them epilogues, which sounds more literary and sophisticated. The idea? Oh, it came to me on a bike ride, which is a good place for ideas to find me. They'll be labeled as fiction, of course, and I figure they'll be short enough endings to consume in one sitting. Somewhere in the start or the finish, the verb "end" will be conjugated in some form or another (or perhaps in its infinitive), or there'll be an adjective form of the word. Here's a short interview about the project that I recently took part in.

Why endings?  
Good question! Feel free to ask questions. I like it when you ask questions.

Why not write something profound?
At heart, I'm not a profound person; I've probably never had a profound thought. I blame this on all of the Top 40 music I listened to as a kid, before I discovered the serious stuff. Some things a person just can't go back and fix.

Have you ever written beginnings?
Oh, I've written many! Here's one of my favorites: "I knew the nature of my marriage had changed when I walked into the house and found that my wife had packed her clothes, killed the cat, and moved out of my life. " Ha ha! Isn't that a nice way to start a book? 

Did your wife really kill a cat?
No. It's a work of fiction, entitled The Golfer's Wife. It was a fun book to write. My wife would never kill a cat even if she packed her clothes and moved out of my life.

Have you written other books?
Yes. I have completed three novels, none of which is particularly good.

Do those books have endings?
Yes, they do. Didn't I just say that I've completed three novels? Your questions are starting to annoy me.

Will all of the endings be happy?
That's a trick question, isn't it! This isn't a massage parlor! Ha ha!

Why is that a trick question?
I'm not going to fall into that trap. 

Did The Golfer's Wife have a happy ending?
At some level, yes--the ending was happy.

That's an ambiguous answer. Would you care to expound?
It's the only answer I've got. I don't write to make people happy, if that's what you're looking for.

Why would people want to read endings that are not happy?
What is this--an inquisition?

Perhaps people want to escape their own misery and find joy in literature. 
Yes, perhaps they do.

Will your endings contain autobiographic information?
No. But they might.

That's not a clear answer.
Maybe everything, at some level, is autobiographical. Clear enough?

Let's move on. Can you expect people to figure out what happened before the ending?
I have no expectations.

But don't you think your readers need help connecting ideas?
I have no readers. You think anyone actually knows about this?

Still, the point is...
I know what the point is. You're wondering if people have to know the whole story before they can accept the ending, before they can comprehend it. Right?

Close enough. People have trouble with ambiguity.
Do you think I don't know that? Many people, they don't just have trouble with it; they start drooling uncontrollably if they can't come down solidly on one side or another. Let's face it: If we can be dogmatic, it's a lot easier to convince ourselves that we're right. That's why we hang out with people who agree with us, so we don't have to face ambiguity or the fact that our beliefs might be based on total bullshit. It's a lot harder to live--to function in life--if things are ambiguous.

No reason to be crude. Or mean.
I apologize. I've got a lot of my mind, so I'm taking things a bit personally.

I think we're getting away from the point of this interview.
You're asking the questions. If you don't like the answers, ask better questions.

That sounds like something Don Draper says in Mad Men.
Yeah? Well, he's a smart guy.

He's fictional, you know.
Look: I'm often more impressed by the intelligence of fictional characters than I am by real people.

Just a couple more questions...
Good. I'm getting sleepy.

Has anyone asked you why you write in the first place?
Not that I can remember. Maybe a better question is, Why doesn't everyone write?

You're not asking the questions.
I should be. 

Let me ask, then: Why do you write?
In the first place?

In any place.
That's a good question; I can see that now. We'll start there the next time we meet.


-->

Portland: A couple Weeks of Not Being There

It's a great city....

Checked out of the hotel a night early and checked in with generous family for that night. Hospitality is always welcomed.

Spent much of the last day walking and taking photographs. I'm not much of a photographer. Can't really play guitar, either, but I enjoy doing both. The two photos below involved steam, which in truth is a moving object, kind of like a cat. The first one was easy--nobody around, shooting through a fence. The second was involved a little trespassing and hoping nobody minded that I was creeping around the driveway.

The photo below is of (I assume) a homeless woman just up the sidewalk from Voodoo Doughnuts, where 50 or so people were lined up for their tourists doughnuts. I had to squat between two parked cars in the street, and I like how the dog seems attentive while the woman seems to be nodding off. I also like the juxtaposition of the woman with the painting above her.

The final photo is of a young man who said his name is Spike. This was a fun encounter. Walking along the waterfront, I saw him sitting on the bench. "Happy new year," he said as I got close. "Greatest hat ever," I said. "Everyone likes it," he says. "They want to take pictures of it." With that, I asked him if he'd mind if I did such a thing.

We talked a bit. His girlfriend Rachel, he said, had broken up with him at a New Year's Eve party, and he suspects it had something to do with the woman's ex-husband. Spike has been in Portland for seven years, he said, after living in Southern California. "Why'd you leave?" I asked, and he said it had something to do with...a woman who'd broken up with him. Poor guy. At one point a half-full bottle of vodka slipped from out of his jacket--vodka mean to be mixed with the tomato juice in the bottle between his feet.

He said he's had the hat for a long time. "What's it made of?" I asked. He didn't know, but he thought it was made out of wolf. In one of his ears was a long bone-like thing. The lobe of his other year looked like it had been split--as in, an earring ripped out of it. Ouch! I thought.

Here's the kicker: He wanted me to send one of the photos to the woman who'd broken up with him on New Year's Eve. Specifically, the second photo. "I want her to see what she's losing," he said. I felt bad for him then. If you've ever been dumped like that, you know that all you want to do is sit on a park bench and drink vodka and tomato juice. But it was cold outside, and I felt sorry for him.

He wanted to send a note to Rachel along with the photograph. He even gave me her phone number. Here's what he wrote in my notebook:

I'm sorry. Yu knew yu always had my heart yu dumb ass. I'm here for you. xoxoxo.

I asked him if he really wanted to say "dumb ass." He said he did, that they often teased each other in such a way.

And I'm not sure if it needs saying, but I never send the note. I couldn't. If I were Rachel, I might be a bit nervous that a stranger had my phone number. But I hope Spike is okay.

Dispatch: Portland, Oregon #3

We always return to the familiar, even after struggling to find and explore new places and ideas. And once again today I'm in the common experience of Starbucks, a common fleece-wearing man with a Apple laptop set in front of me as though I have something to scribble about. This particular Starbucks seems to be a gathering place for many people who are either (or both) slightly imbalanced and at least temporarily between residences. Even the crazy and the lost need an anchor.

There is a grand, lighted Christmas tree outside the window I'm looking through; it's a healthy looking conifer. The other trees in the area--leafless and deciduous--are also decorated with lights. I perhaps mistakenly find it ironic that the conifer will soon be mulch, and in the near future the deciduous group will be green again.

I woke up this morning and remembered something: today is the anniversary of my first day on the job at my first professional job. A cubicle seemed exciting then, though that it was in San Francisco certainly helped with that excitement. I actually think of that job often--something familiar. It was a good time, those four years in San Francisco, and I worked with some good, creative people. The cubicle I work in now, on the third floor of an office building in a dull suburb, is much less exciting. Or, I'll concede, the problem is that I am less exciting. 

Yesterday afternoon I saw Birdman, a movie that surprised me because I'd forgotten that it incorporates pieces of a Raymond Carver story ("What We Talk About When We Talk About Love") in both plot and theme. I first read that story when I worked in San Francisco, when smart and generous coworkers introduced me to writers of many types. I often return to Carver's stories, and references to him have appeared more than once in this blog. I've seen other movies based on Carver's works, including Everything Must Go and Shortcuts; both are worth watching. 

In a few days I'll have to return to my familiar suburban cubicle just as imbalanced though still not homeless. The stay here has been good.

Dispatch: Portland, Oregon #2

Happy new year. It's an odd-numbered year, so perhaps odd things will happen. I know some of the things scheduled and waiting just over the horizon, but the more new years I encounter, the less apt I am to either predict or count on such things actually taking place. It's a product of age, I suppose.

I spent some time last night trying to recall memorable New Year's Eve parties, but I couldn't come up with much. As a kid I probably stayed up as late as I could; when my children were small I assuredly wanted nothing more than to go to sleep as early as possible. I woke up to a new year in Pensacola, Florida, once, most likely after standing a main gate watch at the U.S. Navy's Corry Station, where I spent half a year getting trained to do what I did for a couple of years afterward. I do not recall if I was an especially good main-gate watcher, though nobody ever told me I wasn't.

And I started a couple of new years aboard an aircraft carrier or at least close by. One year I think I, along with other young men who were allowed to drink, spent a good amount of time in a club in Yokosuka, Japan, trying to name all of the Seven Dwarfs.

Last night my hotel was filled with drinking and over-drinking people who were there for some type of party that I was not invited to. You spend that much money for a hotel room, and you'd think you'd get invited to the parties. The party must have ended just after midnight because hordes of revelers were packed in the small lobby waiting for an elevator just as I was trying to my room for a good night's slumber. And with proper hotel efficiency, only one of the four elevators dropped to the lobby. The seemed to be stuck on the twenty-third floor, and the others seemed to go to the basement and stay there for awhile before rising to floors above the lobby. Based on my own experience, I imagine that many of the loud, happy people who were in the elevator car with me are less loud and happy this morning.

Good for those people! It's okay to let loose every now and then, even if it's only on the final day of the year. After all, for the first time in many years, I ate beef, lamb, and pork yesterday--by choice and not influenced by alcohol. And who could have predicted that?

Dispatch: Portland, Oregon

On a year-end journey north, I find the air a bit colder than I'd expected. Arrived at PDX yesterday morning, took the light rail train into the city, dropped my bag off at the hotel, then wandered around the city for nearly six hours before I could check into my room. Time well spent, of course--urban hiking on par with Chicago and, almost, London. Oddly enough, I think I know my way around London more than I do Portland, which I've visited more times. Or, maybe not.

Oh: the "cold" thing. I own everything I need for such weather, and most of it is still at home. Maybe it's a sign that I have too much stuff, that when preparing my mental packing list for the trip I simply didn't dig deeply enough. That lightweight down coat would've fit the bill yesterday as the the wind found its way through my heavy sweater and two underwear shirts of different weights. The layering system works well as long as there's something to keep the wind out.

I know I've said it more than once in this long-running and long-winded blog, but I woke up to a light snow after my first night at a terrible B&B in London. I'd spent hours the day before walking from Victoria Station, across Hyde Park, and then into the Paddington area in search of that B&B. It was one of the best days of my life now that I think about it, but I remember being sleep deprived, frustrated, hungry, and even somewhat regretful about going there in the first place. But the snow that morning? I was more prepared for it than I am for a little wind and cold only a 90-minute plane ride from home.

***

Today is the last day of the year, one that saw a wonderful trip to Ireland (of which I've written nothing about), no backpacking, and very little writing. These last four months have been especially void of anything other than working during the day, teaching at night, and grading papers over the weekend. Writing creatively seems like something I did a long time ago, and all of those characters and conversations in my head haven't had a way out. Bully for them that they stick around, patient and hopeful.

Next year, things will be different on a variety of fronts. Teaching only one course at night will be a nice change: four hours a week in the classroom rather than eight, 30 students to work with rather than 60. Even the daytime job might see some changes as new avenues are explored and new opportunities embraced.

What Kills You Today Might Not Be What Kills You Tomorrow

Several years ago I found a new doctor, someone recommended by a a couple of former co-workers. I'd returned the favor and recommended a massage therapist, who was originally recommended to me by my sister. My sister no longer visits the massage therapist, and my co-worker no longer visits the doctor. The massage therapists has some heavy duty personal stuff going on now, so she isn't working much. I don't know if I'll see her again for a long time. 

But all of that is history. I want to talk about my doctor who, for the most part, isn't too bad. He seems to care. When we first met, I told him all I know about my family's medical history, and he took lots of notes, which he still has because his office hasn't gone digital so everything about me is in a folder that grows large each year. I told him that I was worried that one day I'd wake up and have what eventually killed my mother, but he said not to worry because odds are that what killed my father and grandfather would probably be what killed me. They spent less time dying than my mother did, an approach that has good on one hand and not so good on the other.

But back to the doctor. Not long ago I got to enjoy a somewhat lengthy diagnostic procedure that led to the discovery of one thing but no evidence of another, previously suspected thing. Not long after that during a follow-up visit with my doctor, I told him of the procedure's results (different doctor), and he became suddenly concerned. "Did your mother have this or this?" he asked. I told him that I have no way of knowing, that I don't come from a family in which people share such things but also don't think my mother had what he wanted to know if she had. "Well, there's some evidence of a link between what your diagnoses is and what your mother did have, what she died of." So, there's that. "I thought you said that I don't have to worry about that, that I'll probably die the way my dad did," I said.

He didn't seem interested in that statement. Instead, he pulled out a form and asked me to fill it out, to gather as much medical history of my family that I can. "What about such-and-such tests to see if I'm likely to have what my dad had," I ask. "Those tests might miss something," he said. "They're not 100% accurate."  Okay, well, I knew that; it's the nature of nearly all such tests. But, apparently, there's no test to check if I have (or will have) what killed Mom.

I know the guy is trying to be thorough an honest, even proactive. I appreciate that. As I said, he seems to care. Now, though, he's got me at least a little concerned about things maybe I shouldn't worry about. As of yet, I've not completed the form he gave me, and in fact I found it on the workbench in my garage just the other day. He also points out on every visit that I am, to pull no punches, too fat--as though I need him to tell me that. When I see him again next spring, I'm sure he'll have a few things to discuss. Maybe there'll be something new to worry about then, something else that might kill me.

SWA from SMF to PDX

I had just taken a break from grading papers--an in-flight ritual, it seems--when she begins talking. And smiling. She is a pleasant woman, a bit heavy, glasses, reading a book titled Transitions: Making Sense of Life's Changes. I'd noticed the book's title, I imagine, about the same time she'd noticed me with my papers. I'm not a fan of self-help books, though I suppose I haven't read enough of them. But if anyone needs help, I'm the guy, I think.

"I didn't want to disturb you," Kimberly says. "I waited until it looked like you were taking a break." I assure her it's no problem, that I need to be disturbed when I'm grading papers. "Are you a teacher?" I tell her I am, at least part-time. "I'm Kimberly," she says as she reaches her thick hand across the empty middle seat. I tell her my name. "Nice to meet you," she says. "I always loved school, but I didn't start college until late in life. I tell her that I think it's wonderful that she started at all. "I participate in this health-thing at work," she says. "I get an email every morning that gives me a goal for the day. Today's goal was to introduce myself to someone I do not know." I smile. "I guess I'm that someone!" We talk some more about where she works, what she does. I don't remember now if I told her what I do, where I work. Maybe she thinks I'm a full-time teacher. "Oh," she says. "I've already forgotten your name." I laugh, and I tell her my name again. "I should remember that," she says. "That was my husband's name."

Uh-oh.

The flight is short, but I learn a lot from her. She tells me she loves college, and she has 5 associate degrees. She has two daughters. One daughter went to college, graduated, and got a job in the travel industry; she has traveled all over the world. Kimberly and her daughter go on cruises together because they can get such great deals. Her other daughter has some type of unspecified (to me) learning disability but is a wonderful photographer. Kimberly has two dogs. She met the man would be her husband online. "He knew he was dying when we met," Kimberly says. "I didn't care. It gave him a certain presence." 

Kimberly is on her way to Eugene, Oregon, to spend a few days with some of her husband's friends. "I still feel so comfortable with them," she says, and she starts to tear up. "How long has it been since he died?" I ask. She says that it has been a couple of years. "You miss him," I say, because I am an expert at nothing if not the obvious. "Yeah," she says, "I do." And she says they used to go on grand hikes together until he could no longer walk. She mentions a couple more times that she is really looking forward to seeing her husband's friends. I'm reminded of on a flight home from England, the woman next to me told me how her daughter had died just a year earlier. She said she still didn't know how to respond when people asked her how many children she has. I wrote about that experience somewhere in this blog. I liked writing it. There was a cat and a snake in that story if I remember correctly.

Kimberly says that when her dead husband died, she and all of their friends wrote messages on the man's skin, just as people might sign a plaster cast that hold someone's bones in place. "The hospice nurse said she'd never seen anything like that."

Kimberly looks out the window, and I put the students' papers in a folder. The plan will be landing soon, and I want to be ready. As we leave the plane, I tell Kimberly that I hope she has a wonderful time, that I hope she thinks about her husband the entire time. She says she will, and she says she is glad to have spoken with me.

Then, I'm out of the plane and walking through PDX, wondering if the extra weight I feel is weight that Kimberly didn't need.

The Change

I stopped being able to write decent poetry a long time ago. Something happened, I guess. Perhaps I did not feed the Muse, did not make it known that I was available. Some people lose other things in the same way: love, opportunities, careers. I've lost some of those too. But the ability to write decent poetry hurts the most.

But, that's the time of day and the glass of wine talking. The poem here is almost decent, I think--simple in language and theme, a bit too similar of things I've written before. But it's nice to have written something, isn't it? Anyway, this one floated around my brain for several weeks before, once again, a writer-friend gave me the little push I needed to put it down somewhere. "Change" works on a couple of levels here, and it's the idea that I started with. In fact, the last line is how the whole poem began. The idea of having a sister in the poem appeared early on, too, as did Coltrane.
-->

The Change

During our summer walks my sister and I learned

to whisper the names of landmarks so that when

the day came we could find our own way home.

Our father, always several paces ahead of us, knew

each alleyway, knew who was on the other side of

each closed apartment  door and each opened window.

We learned the names, too: Johnson, Kominski, at least

three Smiths. During one summer’s evening humidity

the old man stopped, so we stopped. He tilted his head

upwind toward something new. “He’s trying to play Coltrane,”

our father said. “Listen.” So we listened: not the Top 40 we

spun in the basement after school while the humidifier worked,

but to indefinable rhythms we could not yet catch. “He needs

a new reed,” our father said. “But he’s getting it. Hear that? 

Hear how he held that note for almost long enough?”

My sister and I shifted our stance, ready to move on as he

tapped  his foot just enough so that a passerby might notice.  

The sun was nearly gone, and its light revealed the hidden

grayness deep in our father’s hair. He looked down at us,  

gauged that light against our bedtime. “Another minute,”  

he said. “A few more  measures. Just give me those and we’ll

all go home.” He turned his good ear back toward  the window

and the failing reed. “Get ready,” he said. “Listen for the change.”