In walked the hottest girl I’d ever seen. Not one of those girls who makes you turn your head to the side, as if you needed to get all of her in the picture; but one who really floored you – one of those girls who makes you feel like thanking God for being born male. I was in the usual A & P classroom, which also doubled as the practice hall for the school’s “prestigious” chess club. By “prestigious”, I mean it’s got a couple of trophies to its name, but—like all schools—it’s also the object of ridicule for most of the student body. I was sort of half-daydreaming and half-watching... [read more]            This is a true story. I know it’s true because it happened to me, and it’s something I will never forget. The visions, and the senses, and the feelings are mine. They snuck into me long ago (or maybe they were already there), and they have never left. The sleek, pearl-gray shimmer of a casket. The rough, blackened bark of a lonely tree in Virginia. The rumpled face of a kindly old man who eventually saved my life. The cool rain falling under moonlight. They are all there. And I will never let them go. Forty-two years ago, my father died. I was about ten, I guess – just a kid. I don’t quite remember what... [read more]            “My name is Arthur,” he said like a fox. Arthur was not his name. “I’m Jill,” replied the girl. Her eyes sparkled like moonlight rain, and her hair poured over her shoulders like smooth chocolate. She stood daintily on the crew section of the stage, her arms folded tightly across the clipboard she kept over her chest. With a clockwork smile, she continued. “Are you here for the auditions?” “Yeah.” He was there for the auditions – that much was true. “Which part are you reading for?” “McMurphy.” He smiled, and gave a little nod. Lucky fucking clipboard.... [read more]            The old man waves at me as I pass, hesitantly at first - like he doesn’t quite remember me - and then tenaciously, swinging his arm back and forth with familiarity and zeal. Such is our daily routine: in driving home from work, I inevitably pass his modest gray stone house which rests only three plots down from my home. I always wave first, initiating the ritual, and taking great care when lifting my eyes from the road ahead and toward the old man at my left as he lounges under his awning, beyond the small poplars and crumbling porch steps. And he returns my wave, fervently but never smiling. “He’s 80 years old,” my father tells me, beaming. “He still gets out there and works. Puts garage doors up. Been doing it for forty-something years.” *** The day before yesterday, the old man shuffled across our paved suburban street, wheezing and cursing the humidity ... [read more]            I turn the key back to myself, and the engine labors for a moment before shutting off. Stuffing my backpack rather lazily before grabbing it, I pour myself out of the driver’s door like ketchup – the kind in the glass bottles – and ooze my way through the desolate campus parking lot. Along the way, I pass a streamlined green Galant-- --I am a gallant wanderer, hugging a ragged green cloak tightly about myself, as the wind whips swiftly over the elevated hills. My skin is the color of rotten fruit, and my teeth are jagged and coarse – suitable for tearing meat. My stiff black mane runs in a zig-zag up each jaw before converging... [read more]

Copyright © 2006