A Work of Fiction. Sort Of.

We turned in at a brightly colored sign that had been carefully crafted out of wood: Sunrise Hostel.

A short drive brought us into a clearing that had been carved out of the surrounding edge of forest. A small house that was probably quaint and charming at one time sat to the east of the clearing, surrounded by the carcasses of wood paneled VW wagons. They formed a line towards a large ungainly shop that was sealed off with large wooden boards set slipshod over the doorway.

We backed into the driveway and I checked my phone. No signal. Twenty-two miles from any sign of civilization and we were on our own.

I hopped out of the car and headed toward the house. My traveling companion insisted on remaining in the car, engine running. Just in case.

The path toward the house was covered in moss, like the trees bending in around us, like the roof of the old house, like everything that stood still long enough. Approaching the crooked doorway, I raised my fist, took a deep breath and knocked. Everybody in the town had warned us about the crazy man and his hostel. At least if he killed me my friend would get away and be able to report my murder.

Before I lowered my hand from knocking, the door swung open wide and a disheveled head appeared behind a tattered screen. Startled, I took a step back.

“Whaddya want?” asked a husky voice.

“I saw your sign," I said. "We're passing through and wanted to check out the hostel.”

The old man nodded and tossed his head toward the innards of the house. Taking that as an invitation, I opened the screen door and stepped inside.

The living room smelled of musty old books, wet dogs and urine. Bookshelves lined the walls on all sides, vomiting up books and magazines, newspapers, clippings and stacks and stacks of mixed up, dingy papers. Dilapidated cardboard boxes were piled floor to ceiling so that only a small mangled pathway existed around the perimeter of the room.

“This is the living room,” said the man. He looked at his stacks of boxes for a while in silence, then turned and walked through a doorway. I followed, trying to keep my breathing shallow.

“You can cook here,” he said, giving the same blank look to the kitchen as he had to the living room. There was more room to move in here, but it wore the same cramped character as the rest of the house. The cabinets lacked doors and spilled their contents out carelessly onto the floor. Pots and pans were piled on the counters and in the sink. I looked carefully for a knife collection but failed to find a single pointed object, much to my relief.

“That's my room,” he said, pointing to a closed doorway just off the kitchen. “And that's the women's dorm.”

The dorm room was directly across the hall from his and consisted of three bunk beds set against the walls. There were no tables, lamps, dressers or closets that I could see. One window, caked in dirt, sat sadly in the middle of the farthest wall.

“Do you have a men's dorm as well?” I asked.

He walked further down the hall, turned a corner and pointed through another doorway. I peered inside and saw the same lack of furnishings, the same sad window. Instead of bunk beds, a single bed sat in the middle of the bare room.

“How much do you charge?” I asked cheerfully.

“Ten if you do a chore. Otherwise, twenty.”

“Wow, that's really low.”

He looked at me now, for the first time since I'd entered his house, and didn't say a word.

“Well, thanks,” I said finally, walking back toward the living room. “We can't stay this trip, but maybe next time.”

- - -

“Well?” my friend asked, as I hopped in the car.

“Oh yeah, he's crazy,” I said. “Not like he's going to murder you in your sleep crazy, but more like...” I thought for a moment. “I get the idea he hasn't been out of his house in a really long time.”

Writing Assignment: Scary Story

This month's writing prompt was wide: Write a scary story. This has yet to be titled, but it's what I submitted:

Entry 9,987

I can't say how long it's been since my last entry. I'm no longer able to scroll backwards to read what's already been written and with our timepieces going past their limits, they are no longer reliable. By Blaine's estimates it's been more than sixty years since we saw the light of any distant sun. The perpetual darkness within and without makes time a distant memory, though how distant is another problem.

Sixty years seems impossible. There's really no way of telling and I continue to remind Blaine, which rubs him wrong, I can tell. My French is failing, which is frustrating for him. He tried using some broken English. I try to encourage him but it's impossible to understand and he won't think of letting me tutor him.

What is still clear, however, is our agreement upon Parker. His mind is slipping terribly. He is at all times terrified and I fear he may soon become a danger to himself and Blaine and me. He keeps speaking of disciplinary action-- I can't imagine what he means, unless it's what we did with the last of our small crew. It feels like it happened quite awhile ago, if my memory serves correctly.

Entry 9,988

I remember writing things down. It's been so long, though. Parker says my hair has turned gray since I last sat down here. I think he's gone daffy-- I've never heard of such a thing as gray. He tried to explain it, but failed miserably.

On top of that, Parker insists Blaine and I are going mad. I asked him to explain but he was far too upset to make any sense. To prove my sanity I set to repeating the entire code of conduct we had signed when we were first made cadets. My purpose was twofold-- to show him pragmatically that my mind was as sharp as ever and to remind him of his own vows. I'm grateful now that I had thought of memorizing it when we were first knocked out of our orbit. I had done it then to preserve my sanity and only now do I realize how well it worked.

Parker was in no way pacified. He continuously tried to interrupt. I ignored him and continued reciting at the top of my voice, especially the bits about cleanliness and loyalty. I've noticed his own room as of late has been left in shambles. I am hesitant to discipline him, but Blaine is seething.

Entry 9,989

For all I've committed to memory, nothing stands out so much today as our graduation. Parker, Blaine and I. We have always been inseparable. This must be the first time since cadet school that one of us has gone missing. Blaine is deeply grieved and I am determined to be strong for him. I think he feels the sharp barb of what we've done, but I warned him that sort of thinking was what did Parker in. The fear in his face was something I'd never seen expressed on his features before. It reminded me of Parker's first upstart. I am grieved for Parker. I am afraid for Blaine.

Entry 9,990

Blaine asked today why I insist on writing this log at all. It began as a guard against madness. I used to read about the things I loved-- foods I can no longer recall, places I know were quite valuable to me, people outside of this small ship. That's the worst part. I remember things I've forgotten. Or, I remember forgetting... However, I can't say I'm worse off without them now. In fact, I think far more clearly without memories clouding my mind. There is no day, no night, no routine, but a straight line of clear order, sharply pressed uniforms and carefully cleaned rooms.

Entry 9,991

Blaine today recalled the stars. I didn't know what he meant. He insisted they were real, but even he couldn't describe them. I think he's concocting things out of his mind. I can't recall how we came here. Were we always together here? I have some sense of movement beneath our feet, but I don't know where that comes from. The front wall is made entirely of glass. For what reason, I can't recall. But Blaine is always staring at it. He claims to be staring through it-- what sort of a mad man stares through walls? He's looking for the stars. Idiot. The glass is as black as the floors, ceilings, other walls...

He says we've been traveling for a thousand years, and he keeps repeating it in terrible English. I don't think it's his first language. He sometimes mutters in some other tongue. I think he's making it up but seems to expect me to understand. Maybe he's losing his own language? Can that happen? I still talk fine.

Entry 9,992

Blaine looked over my shoulder while I was writing and yelled that eight comes after seven. I don't know what he's talking about. He also insists the captain's log resets at 10,000. I assure him nobody's ever reached 10,000 and tried to convince him to relax. I smile and try to be friendly and remind him it's all digital and will be fine. The man's mind scrambled a long time ago but I don't have the heart to tell him he's gone mad. Or going mad. He started counting this morning and hasn't stopped. He continues to emphasize every eight he comes across-- which he does over and over and over. His voice disgusts me. Every time he yells “Eight!” I think about how lovely it would be to take this blade and cut his tongue out. I see the message scrawled on the glass wall, though, and it reminds me that he's the weaker vessel. He needs me. Blaine doesn't have my control-- my exemplary, steadfast control.

Entry 9,993

There's a man on the ship. I don't think he's a normal man. He stares and doesn't move until I do. Then, when we move, he follows my motions carefully, watching closely and peering suspiciously. I see Blaine off to the side and warn him to stay back. His weak mind wouldn't be able to handle the sight of a new man suddenly appearing. I assure him in my softest voice but he fears anyhow. As for the new man, I refuse to show any fear. He has a cocky, disdainful look and a wild glare in his eye. I refuse to break his gaze when he dares to look me in the eye. But he hasn't budged from the one wall and seems to hide when I walk beyond its edges.

Entry 9,994

I see Blaine hiding behind walls with a weapon in his hand. What violence he feels toward me, I don't know. But I've taken to carrying my own weapon, unsheathed, when I make my rounds about the ship. I'm waiting for the day he thinks I'm not paying attention and rushes at me. So far he only cowers behind corners and watches me closely. I try to look un-intimidated. The truth is, I fear for my own life. At times, for my own sanity. I recite the alphabet numerous times, grasping at its fine order. Blaine whispers that I've got it wrong. I simply sharpen my knife and make sure he can see it.

Entry 9,995

I had to lock Blaine up today. I was afraid this day would come. He was in the control room twisting knobs and crying out to a piece of metal. When I pulled him away and tried to settle him down, he raved about hearing voices. I'm afraid he's finally become dangerous. To himself. I'm not afraid of him. The other man wasn't either, but he's dead now. Blaine killed him. Rushed at him and shattered him with one throw of his fists. The other man shattered to pieces. I don't remember death being like that. Blaine was a wreck after that and his hands were all torn up. He wouldn't let me touch them. I told him he needed to put something on them but he insisted on using the liquids from the metal box he sleeps with. I think he believes there are magical properties. He was horrified when I offered to remove the broken pieces. He actually thrashed at me, so I tied him up.

Blaine is unhappy. He wails and moans and the ship is full of the sound. He continues to open his lips and spit out these obtrusive sounds. I tried speaking to him but he just stares. He is entirely bewildered. If only he had my strength of mind.

Entry 9,996

He struggled a great deal but I could not have him making those sounds any longer. He continued to point to the small picture on his shirt, the rectangle with thee distinct patches of color. I just shook my head. It's better this way. The blood with stop soon-- I sprayed it with disinfectant.

Entry 9,997

He makes awful noises still, but can not form full words. There is dried blood caked around his mouth. Did he eat somebody? I don't know what to do with him. He whimpers and whines. Probably remorse for his crimes. I feel pity, but dare not go near him. What if he eats me?

Entry 9,998

He is silent. Finally. I found an apple today and offered it to the him. He wouldn't even lift his head. He's been sleeping a long time. I've slept many, many times since he last made any noise or moved. Does he wake up when I sleep?

Entry 1

The communications console is smashed. I haven't been in there in so long, I don't know why I have one. I can speak to myself without it. Must have been an old project, an experiment. The things that come from my mind are rather eccentric. I ought to be writing them down.

I remember writing things down before, but the computer says this is my first entry. I don't know why I would start a log, unless I could read it over once I've finished. There's nothing here. All is dark everywhere I look. There's some shattered glass. And pile of bones near the wall, but they don't move.

100

I lay my claim with the old guard. That staunch reserve of people who look out over a baseball field with an unreserved hatred for those pithy words: 'It's just a game.'

As Moneyball reminded us, how can you not be romantic about baseball? Yes, it's a game, but not just, not merely. Baseball is a unique relationship, a passion, a love affair with an ideal which, like all ideals, can never be reached but, unlike most hopes, can never be fully crushed either. Even Cubs fans, most of whom are far too young to know anybody who remembers anybody who remembers when the Cubbies won a championship, know there's always a chance. Every spring brings the childishly hopeful thought, "Maybe this year."

I know the pain, I know the relentless antics of those other teams who strut their rings like it's mating season. 

But I also know that dreams come true. A Red Sox fan always knows.

And as a Red Sox fan, I know the meaning of heartbreak. You don't root for the Sox because they bring home rings, because they have consistency, because they ever bother to finish a season without half your guys on the injured list. No. You love the Sox because they're yours, and win or lose, they'll be at bat again with that enthralling hope of “Maybe this year.”

We Sox fans had a decent decade as the century began. After 86 years as "God's most pathetic creatures." It was justification for loving the Sox despite, well, everything. Yes, we had the smug knowledge that we'd made the Yankees everything they are today. An alarming number of people are still ignorant of the fact that the Yankees couldn't win a game until we sold them half of our World Series champions in 1919 (not to mention Fenway Park), without any profit to the Sox. We made ourselves—baseball's first dynasty—and then we made the Yankees. Bah. Well, when 2004 hit and the impossible happened, the wonder of observing history in action was almost worth those 86 cursed years.

But what does it matter? Every game was sold out preseason before '04, and that trend continues. Loving the Sox isn't really about winning more marbles or bragging rites. It's the romance. And it's anchored in being able to return yearly to where it all happened. What would the Sox be without their ballpark? Everyone else, I guess.

Today is Fenway Park's 100th anniversary. Like the Red Sox themselves, its existence really makes no sense. Despite fire and flood, wind and rain, Yankees, greed and the lure of shiny new things, Fenway remains, its underbelly ringing with the phantoms of the past. You can sit in the seat where Teddy set the record for farthest home run inside the park, touch the pole called Fisk after Game Six and walk on a field where every giant of the game has played over the last 100 years. It's a city in itself, with a mythology that has gripped fans throughout that century.

Other parks have their history, other sports have their legends, other baseball teams have their moments. But does any other team have such a disproportionate share of the impossible? When the Red Sox stink, when it's high time to walk away, when your dignity's been shorn and you wonder why you stay, you wait, you stand breathlessly in the decidedly Boston rain, hoping for that tarp to come off the field and two shivering little fans on the field to shout, “Play ball!” And you pray for another miracle. Because God likes the Red Sox, and everyone knows that, and if you wait long enough, breathe through the pain, something legendary will take place if it takes 12 innings.

It is odd that the one park that remains in tact and in use belongs to the team with the greatest history. The Sox were the first dynasty of baseball, and the only team I know of in that history to literally scare its National League rivals so badly that there was no World Series in 1905. They were the first World Series champs, the beginning for Babe Ruth, the team graced with Teddy Williams and Cy Young, and they continue to bring in players that will rightfully fill the pages of history. I mean, this is the home of the Red Sox. Yes, rich, yes, talented, and still! somehow the underdog. What's more American than that?

America's greatest pastime, now considerably weakened (except in Boston) has served people of every class and background through war, depression, strikes and riots. She reflects the failings, the triumphs, the battered and bruised history of the country who created her. She perseveres, through no fault of her own, foiling plots that should have demolished her long ago.

Here's to the next 100 years.

--

"Genteel in its origins, proletarian in its development, egalitarian in its demands and appeal, effortless in its adaptation to nature, raucous, hard-nosed and glamorous as a profession, expanding with the country like fingers unfolding from a fist, images of lost past, ever-green reminder of America's promises, baseball fits America." —Giamatti

The Man Returns

3/20/2011

It's 3am in the city, and once again I can't sleep. No, that can't be right. Dawn has cracked and is starting to spill. Must be later.

As is custom, rather than lie in the dark and stare at a ceiling I can't see, I'm at the window, looking down into an empty street. Only it isn't entirely empty. He's there, just below, in trench coat and fedora, leaning against a...tram sign? There are no street lamps on our street, so he's been thwarted as far as his late night spotlight goes. But he appears nonplussed and the Man in the Street continues smoking his familiar cigar in the half light.

It's that rare time of morning when shadows start to bend and dissolve, but the streets are silent, still, unassaulted by the sound of trams or traffic. The Man, solitary, stands waiting, in the dying sighs of an insomniac's morning.

There is no woman at the door this time, no furtive glances or scurrying raccoons, no suspect meetings or hope of reprisal. Just him, standing and smoking and looking now and then at the sky.

Down the sidewalk, in the distance, comes a little round man with a white hat shielding his face from view, his pace slow, imposed upon by a limp. He approaches our Man, who I now see is not smoking a cigar, but a pipe. Odd. A good bit more than odd, really. Whatever may be his dress, stature, character and calling, it's always a cigar. Suspicions rise and I peer more carefully at the Man in the Street.

The round man finally stops and stands near the same tram sign, staring over his shoulder. The options are endless and I imagine the Man in the Street is a messenger or a thief, a friend or a stranger. He could meet the other man, ignore him or pursue. He does nothing for awhile but smoke on his infernal pipe. At last he says something as he taps out the tabacco and sets to repacking. The shorter man laughs, answers and continues chattering on, very much at his ease. He barely notices his companion, but I can't peel my eyes from his every move, turning cold when I suddenly realize he's right-handed.

An imposter.

How? This is my imagination and yet there he is, blatantly, unapologetically right-handed. Maybe this isn't my imagination... Impossible. Reality won't kick in for another hour.

The rumble of an approaching tram signals the end of twilight and the round man finally faces the imposter, still chattering, blissfully ignorant. But now our pipe-packing friend catches a glimpse of his face and starts, yanking his hands from his pockets. His pipe falls from his mouth as he takes instantly to his heels.

I would never imagine an ending so simple and crane my neck to see what the imposter saw. My efforts are fruitless, however, and that face remains an enigma.

I keep watching our friend in the white hat as he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a cigar and lights it. After several puffs, without warning, he tilts his chin upward and looks directly into my face as the early tram cuts between us, leaving me with only the vague recollection of a sly grin and the punctuated pose of his cigar, waiting, lit, in his left hand.

Smooth and Creamy

8-9-10
Two in the morning:
I switch on a light and lock the door against the darkness, shivering a little bit in the stale, cold silence. Opening the ice box, I survey what's inside. It's milk I'm after and pull out my carton only to immediately put it back and choose instead my roommate's milk. Ah, two percent.

I pour myself a shot, literally, and sip it, feeling richer and creamier for the moment.

Pouring a second shot, I return the carton to the fridge. Can't overdo it. It's not my milk.

Those conversations that start late at night and meander into the wee hours of the morning vary widely, but in general something came to the surface. When your friend is pregnant, on bed rest and all ears, you talk. The dog is asleep on the floor. Comically, so is the husband.

You voice stuff you can't put into words, and your friend understands, explaining to you what you've been trying to say or trying to not say or not trying at all. But she knows. She knows she's not sure she knows and she knows you don't know but you know she knows. So it's all right.

And then you drive. You hop on deserted streets and look at your gas light, now burning with vengeance, all the while thinking 'I do not feel safe stopping for gas. I don't even know this city. I wonder how far I can go?" But you shove those thoughts far enough into the base of your skull to let everything else flow. You talk to Jesus about what you told your pregnant friend, all that stuff which, for some reason, tends to dam up before it breaks and spills all at once in a torrent, but there you have it.

You find a gas station, you give it a few gallons without getting mugged despite the darkness, and you make it home to your warm kitchen with the cool fridge.

It was a two percent kind of night. 

The Man in the Street

6/5/10
It's 2am. Again. How is this getting to be a theme? These late nights/early mornings, these sessions of insomnia?
Sleepless nights seem to preclude deep and brooding thoughts but, then, this blog imports to Facebook, far from anonymous and widely available. So I'll hamper and censor the deeper reflections in favor of the more approachable, like tater tots and why an empty street dabbled with the washes of street lamps isn't really lonely. I can picture a man standing under one of those street lamps. He is, of course, in a trench coat and fedora. Smoking a cigar. The Man in the Street.
Why is he there? Well, let's see. He has insomnia, and he comes outside to ponder why an empty street isn't lonely. Then he realizes, it is. It is lonely, but in a few hours dawn will break out over that little isolated street and it will become part of the bigger world. Connected... If only by light connected nonetheless.
Maybe some nights that's enough and he snuffs his cigar and goes inside and lays in bed until sleep takes him hostage.
But not tonight.
Tonight, of all nights, he remains and waits it out, watching. And he notices things he hasn't noted before. Like the person darting in and out of shadows. Never mind, it's just that lousy raccoon that keeps eating his garbage. He could chase it away, make it think twice next time, assuming it thought once in the first place.
And then a light comes on, a porch light but it's quickly snuffed out as a woman exits her house. Or is it her house? A low, whispered conversation in the doorway, a few furtive looks, and she's shuffling down the street, looking warily about her, not for fear but in readiness of being discovered.
Our Man in the Street has a few options. She's walking his way and it will only be moments before she notices him. Unless he slinks stealthily out of the light and back into shadows. She passes by and he can follow suspiciously or remain there or go back to his post and continue watching.
He could walk out to meet her. Ask what she's doing at 2 in the morning on a lonely street. Offer to see her home. I imagine our Man is a gentleman.
His next option is to remain where he is, let her see him and respond accordingly. Certainly she will respond with shock. It's clear she doesn't expect to meet a man in the street, just smoking off the insomnia. The way she keeps looking about her, though, makes him wonder if she would be shocked. Maybe she would stop and say hello. And they could exchange stories. She could tell his and he could tell hers. Or several versions of hers. Just like I'm telling you several versions of his.
In another version, he's the man at the door, whispering instructions like "avoid the man in the street," or "ignore the insomniac, he's there every night."
Tonight he is the Man in the Street. Maybe tomorrow night he can be the man in the doorway, but that's another version, another story.
Same theme. 

Water

10/6/09: Originally published alongside Earth, Air and Fire

Successful blending in is realized when somebody asks you for directions. This has become my goal while traveling. These few days we've been traveling to and through New Orleans.
I began writing a response to a message I'd received roughly a year ago from a friend. Then, realizing the absurdity of email, called him. When he discovered I was in New Orleans he must have jumped out of his seat, judging from his fire engine tone.

YouHAVEtogotoCafeDuMonde!!" he cried without breathing. This place is, apparently, one of his favourite places in the city. And on earth.

His fervor convinced me; I vowed not to leave New Orleans until I found it. Sunday morning was our last day in town and I determined for two things: church and the cafe.

With only my feet for transportation, I searched for something close and decided on St. Louis, the old cathedral in the French Quarter. Granted, I am not Catholic, but all I needed was people who love Jesus. I laughed at myself a lot during Mass, failing to make the sign of the cross at the right time, once simply making the wrong one (having forgotten there are two versions). But for sitting, standing and kneeling I was able to follow everyone else's lead.

Ironically, the last sermon at my home church had been about Mary, and my pastor, raised Catholic, stressed the point that she was a ordinary girl who said yes to God. These are the thoughts that went through my head as I glanced over the icons and statues of Our Lady of New Orleans.

The people in the church were genuine and friendly and the music was beautiful. It was good just to be in a house of worship on Sunday.

After church I wandered the River Walk in search of this legendary cafe and was surprised when I finally found it. When I think of a cafe, I picture something out of Seattle: a large room dominated by an espresso machine, a huge selection of breakfast foods and some very pronounced attempts at coziness. What I found in Du Monde
was a single counter, out in the open of the River Walk. The menu offered maybe four items, including black coffee and coffee with milk. And there was only one thing to eat: beignets.
Ah, beignets. These are small, square donuts, super light and fluffy, dusted with powdered sugar. I am not a donut fan, but for these I could certainly make an exception. And I did.

Cafe au lait and beignets in hand, I sat down. It was then that I understood what was so great about this unimposing cafe: the dining area. "Dining area" is much too formal a title for what it was, but the high ceilings capped an open area in the middle of the walkway crowded with small tables and high backed chairs. Mirrors lined the walls on two sides with floor to ceiling windows dominating the third. These windows opened directly on to a wooden walkway and the mighty Mississippi River.

Watching boats meander down the murky waters of the wide river and people sauntering past, it was easy to feel like time had stopped. In the warm, humid air of Louisiana, gazing at the river, chewing on biegnets, life was simple and slow. This cafe certainly wasn't even trying, but it beat any Seattle cafe I've been to yet.

The celebratory atmosphere of night life in the French Quarter is lively and entertaining, but given a choice between the two I think I prefer a quiet morning on the Mississippi.

Wandering back through the Quarter, I wondered if the morning could possibly be any more complete. And then, a truck slowed nearby and the driver poked his head out...to ask for directions.

Ah, sweet and savory success.