Rape and Irreverence.

 

Trump was just found guilty of rape, and then defamation of his rape victim.  And he also was just found guilty of massive fraud, and the two suits have brought hundreds of millions of dollars in fines against him.  And immediately afterwards, he launched his Trump Sneakers.  Boutique “collector’s edition”, Trump-branded, shiny, gold, athletic sneakers.  Unreal.  I was wondering if it would be possible to plant a seed of doubt in the sea of Trumpers using this as a turning point.  Do some of them think Trump’s antics become a little silly after a certain point?  Like, aren’t some of them actually supporting him in earnest for his positions on issues and not just hopping on the bachelorette cycle-bus belting out songs down Broadway in Nashville?  And the answer is no, I don’t think this would plant any seeds of doubt in their minds.  Because supporting Trump is like a highschool party when the parents are out of town.  People love the ride and the opportunity to belligerently yell “Fuck You!” in the face of anyone attempting to break it up.  Even the intelligent, level-headed Trumpers still appreciate/enjoy the ridiculousness of his position of power.  They worship his irreverence. 

The Value of Money

 

If money isn’t working for you, you’re fucked.  Last year my cousin’s sister-in-law Ruth strangled her kid and then tried (unsuccessfully) to kill herself because she was stressed about the family’s finances and didn’t want her son to have to grow up with money hardships.  The family had just sold their second house, so they weren’t going to be feeling much hardship at all for quite a while, but that was her head space that fateful night.  I just got off the phone with a rep from my managed Fidelity account and he couldn’t stress enough how quickly I’m headed for ruin if I keep transferring money out of the account.  And the first feeling after I hung up the phone was something shockingly empathetic to Ruth’s notion.  Super fucked up.  I don’t mean strangling kids, but how the feeling of life’s worth and the value of our purpose is tied up in the money you’re currently burning to stay warm at night.

These Are Wild Times

 A man just started a live stream and then set himself on fire as a form of protest against the USA’s involvement in the Israel’s genocide of the Palestinians.  Have we seen protest like this ever in the US?  Possibly in the sixties?  There’s a famous photograph of a monk who has set himself on fire, sitting peacefully while half of his body is ablaze with gasoline-fueled flames.  You can almost hear the sound of the fire through the photograph and you can definitely hear the sound of the fire on the live stream of Aaron Bushnell.  You can also hear his screams.  The video I saw blurred out the video of Aaron burning, and that’s fine.  I don’t think I need to see it 100% to understand.

It was wild.  These are crazy times.  Everybody says that: “these are crazy times”.  “These are crazy times we’re living in….”  But what does that mean for actual life?  It made me think about the game of basketball and the shiny, smooth court it gets played on.  Players run, and bounce the ball as they go.  But imagine if the floor was severely uneven.  City courts can often get cracks in them, divots, and even potholes.  If it’s all they got then I’m sure there will still be kids out there trying to play even though the ball frequently takes some wild bounces.  But imagine a court that’s severely uneven, wavey like skatepark moguls.  Or imagine the nice squares in Boston’s ‘Parque’ floorboards, but every single one is slanted at a different angle.  In either scenario it would very quickly cease to be a fun, or even possible game.  Every time you tried to bounce the ball, it would come back at a different angle then you want and it would make any type of dribbling in a straight line nearly impossible.  If we all learned how to play basketball on a nice, smooth court, and then were forced to only play on this hypothetical uneven court, who would even want to play?  It’s no longer a good game.  At some point a new game may be created using the uneven court, but its unlikely it would merit the name of “basketball”.  I’m picturing something closer to trampoline basketball or even ultimate frisbee.  Whatever comes of it, the point is that to try to continue playing the (traditional) game of basketball on such an uneven surface becomes a miserable and ultimately futile task. 

Well, maybe that’s an argument in favor of ‘God is Change’, like Earthseed.  Shape it, learn from it…  The way I feel like I’m being called is to a quiet house, maybe a cabin.  A bike to get to vendors and resources.  A radio to stay in touch.  And nature.  If it’s possible to just somehow get a small piece of land to live, starve, survive, write, be wild, sleep, learn, become a human…

I just don’t believe people know what is the best way to live life, and I guess I can see how I might become homeless one day. 

The Way to Escape Is Not By Playing the Game

 During the Abbot Elementary episode last night, Ava pushes Janine to “do whatever it takes” to get a ASL translator hired at their school.  Janine had taken a fellowship position at the school board in lieu of her teaching job at Abbot, and was heading up an initiative to get a deaf student a special translator to attend her classes.  Janine quickly learns how much red tape there is to go through to get something like this to be approved through the district.  She needs signatures, she needs something to be notarized, certain processes can take up to weeks to process… She realizes that even though she used to pride herself on going above and beyond, working special programs into the Philadelphia school district is beyond what she can achieve.  She sits in her office dejected when Ava appears, fabulous as ever.  She tells Janine about how she got “a field trip to Game Stop” approved, and one other crazy instance that shouldn’t have gotten approved, but “you do whatever it takes” for the kids.  Of course my first reaction was of bootstrappin’ inspiration!  Nice speech, Ava!  Man, she can be ridiculous but every now and then she’ll surprise you by being good at her job.  Later, it appeared the avenue Janine took to get the translator was to go to the child’s parents and recommend they threaten the school by saying they would go to the media and publicly call out the school district’s lack of support for special needs children if a translator wasn’t arranged.  The next scene, we see a translator helping the deaf student in her class and in the hallway.

As always, I absolutely adore Abbot Elementary.  Like Ted Lasso, I think its such a good thing that the most popular shows are characters that fight to remain positive in a very cynical environment.  It’s a lovely show.  At the end of the episode, I was a little hung up on the method that the Janine character choose to get what she thought was best for the student.  Threatening the school board with media and potentially legal action?  At first it seemed a little much.  But I quickly came around to the realization that no, of course not- we should definitely call as much attention to any program that is not keeping the standard of what our laws and resources require.  I guess.  I don’t know, I don’t know how to run a school district and how their money/resources are allocated.  But I think what stuck with me more is the message that the Ava character pushed.  “When the system fails you, you have to do whatever it takes”.  I guess this has the feeling of deviousness, that its condoning illegal methods.  Which I’m not against, but I just hate systems so much I get frustrated even by portrayals of injustice and have a difficult time moving forward with any constructive thoughts after I experience something unjust.  My mind hits a wall in a way.  “But wait- there’s obviously something wrong with the way the district is set up because the children aren't getting what they need.  Is it just a paperwork and processes issue?  Maybe someone is abusing power and allocations?  Something is not working properly and the owness shouldn’t be on the individual educators to make potentially devious workarounds.”  Rather than accept the situation for what it is, my brain desperately tries to go to the root of the problem and, through brute force, will it away so that we can all move on with our progressing society.  I think I do this with American society in general today.  So many things are broken or failing, corrupt and unjust.  It causes me to basically freeze.  “What’s the point?” is definitely close to the feeling, but I want to clarify that this feeling is contained in participating in “America”.  That sounds too vague, doesn’t it?  The corruption and abuse of power in American capitalism makes me question whether I want to participate in the work force, buy land, keep money in the stock market...  It does not make me question the point of life and living.  I know who I am more and more every day, and I know what I want out of my life.  The obstacles that challenge me from living that life will not go away if I just close my eyes, but I don’t believe the way to escape them is to play the game.  There it is.  And why is the American Dream basically to escape all of the things you needed to do to get there?  “Work my ass off and then have enough money to retire and lead my quiet life on a nice plot of land.”  Right off the bat it goes against the saying of “it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey” that we’re always told.  Why isn’t the Dream to lead a happy, healthy, balanced, natural life?  My soul does not feel any need or desire to produce imaginary currency for an imaginary system.  This all just feels backwards.  Why didn’t we learn how to survive first?  As children, we should be learning how to make food, how to clean water, how to build a shelter…  the basics!  Then, we can move up to responsibilities and specialties, and so on and so forth.  Of course some kids/people aren’t interested in cooking, farming, building a house and that’s ok.  Let them grow into their interests and strengths.  But I think it’s crazy to ask kids “what do you want to be when you grow up” at age 5, ask them “you’re going to a $70,000 per year university, now what do you want to major in and be for the rest of your life?” at age seventeen, and launch them into corporate America with 20yrs of debt a few years later.  When does one get to learn and understand what it means to be a human on planet Earth?

Glory, On High St., short story

Submitted to Vocal Media, circa 2021 

Glory, On High St., by Alex Johnson

Two bartenders floated between the bar and tables. The after-work crowd had just about cleared out, but the house was still buzzing with seekers of proper food and potent drinks. This was the place. Every patron was given priority and, without fail, a taste of something they had never known they’d wanted so bad.

“That sformato was incredible. I’ve never eaten anything like that before,” said a table of old friends having a night in the city.

“On a night like tonight, it’s just perfect. Let me clear these plates for you, ladies. What time does the show start?” The bartender held both the plates and the conversation without any noticeable effort.

“Doors open at seven, but we have reserved seating.”

“That’s probably not enough time for another round, so how about I bring us a few shots with the bill then?”

The bar was a gem in the middle of the city. Industrial lightbulbs accentuated warm colors of exposed brick and restored wood, while a turntable played records over state-of-the-art speakers.

“This amaro is phenomenal,” said a few bar flies.

“Yeah, how did you guys even get this? I’ve been looking for this one for years. It’s impossible to find.”

“Hey, quit being a nosy piece of shit,” the bartender said with a jovial wink, and there were roars of laughter. Before they could even ask, another round was placed in front of the friends, and they shuffled to make space. A soft scratch indicated that the record had come to an end, and both bartenders met behind the bar.

“How’s Table 14? It looks like they’re celebrating something”. He glided across the record collection, selecting a Talking Heads album, and replaced the records without smudging a single fingerprint on the vinyl. Around the house, ears lifted as they recognized the music.

“One of them put down a card for the whole group, so it’s gravy. What’s up with the crew at Table 60?” She lowered the house light’s dimmer switch and watched pupils grow into the mood.

“I’m about to drop their check. Want to go do some shots?” The bartenders poured a tray of whiskey and brought them to the table, cheersing “to good old grandad”.

And then James walked in through the front door.

“Ey, what’s up,” said one of the bartenders, quickly making her way back to the bar. It was James’ first time in the place, but she casually welcomed him like a regular. “You want to sit at the bar? A high top maybe?”

“Yeah, a high top would be good, I think.”

“Take any one you like.” She filled a glass of water and met James at the table.

“Just water for now, if that’s ok. I’m meeting someone.”

“No problem. Give me a nod if you need anything.”

With both bartenders now back behind the bar, they took note as James relaxed into the space; his head nodding to the familiar music, his mouth turning up as he saw the mural on the back wall, his eyebrows raising as he explored the menu.

“He’s awkward, but kinda cute,” said one of the bartenders while she burnt a sprig of rosemary for a cocktail.

“First date?” the other speculated while stacking clean glasses on a shelf.

“It’s got to be. Hey, can you help me make some mocktails for Table 23? They’re not boozin’, but are looking for something fancy.”

The bartenders pressed citrus, sliced ginger, and dashed syrups, pouring the non-alchoholic drinks into martini and coupe glasses just the same.

And then Amelia walked in through the front door.

Before anyone could greet her, Amelia surveyed the room and discerned that the guy at the high top must be her date, swiftly walking over to James. A bartender arrived just after the couple had introduced themselves.

“Hi, umm, a glass of merlot would be lovely. Wait- are you drinking?” Amelia looked at James.

“Yeah, uh, absolutely,” James stammered.

“Ok good, it’s been one of those days. A glass of merlot, please.” The bartender smiled and looked at James.

“Miller Light?” he probed.

“Bingo,” the bartender confirmed, and returned to the bar to begin pouring their drinks.

“Damn, she’s gorgeous,” the other bartender offered. “Good for him”. They both quietly analyzed the couple’s initial dynamic and energy. The record was coming to an end, and one of the bartenders used to the opportunity to set a new mood, selecting a Madonna album as the replacement.

“Ohmigod, I love this song!” Amelia exclaimed as the first round was delivered to their table. She inhaled a gulp of wine and James’ eyes widened.

“We were curious about the grilled octopus and the warm burrata salad,” Amelia continued, becoming more invested in the date.

The bartender delighted in the opportunity to explain the dishes. With meticulous detail, he described the smokiness of the andouille aioli, the freshness of the ramp pesto, the juxtaposed textures of the grilled octopus. His hands painted the dishes in front of the couple’s eyes, and their chests slowly began to rise and fall in unison as they watched and listened. The herbed toast drizzled with Tuscan olive oil, the cloud-like burrata open and gooey, the bold, peppery romesco. “But I mean, it’s cheese inside of cheese, so what else do you need to hear?” he quipped. The couple snapped back to the present moment, laughed, and quickly agreed to both plates, reaching for their drinks to wash down the saliva that had collected inside their mouths.

The bartenders were pleased to notice the couple falling into a groove, and tended to the rest of the house.

“The gang at the end of the bar want to buy us some shots- you in?”

“With those guys, why not!”

Cheersing ”to more nights like these“, the bartenders succeeded in making the group feel extraordinary.

“It looks like that high top might need some more love,” one of the bartenders observed.

“And a little bit of this,” said the other, selecting a Prince album to drop onto the turntable.

Pouring a splash from three different taps into three glasses, one of the bartenders walked over to the high top with the glasses on a tray.

“If I may be a bit of a beer ambassador…”

“Yes, please!” Amelia and James looked upon the tasting tray before them.

“There’s a few rare beers on tap that I think would fit your tastes.” The couple looked at each other with devious smiles. “For the merlot drinker, try this Flemish ale. It’s deep and complex, slightly sour, and elegant.” The bartender placed the first glass in front of Amelia. “Also, check out this raspberry ale on nitro. The nitrogen bubbles have this super smooth feel, and it’s just fucking delicious.” Amelia took the glass straight from his hands, mesmerized by its swirling magenta. “For the light beer drinker, here’s an oak-aged pilsner. It’s crisp, but because it’s been aged in barrels, it has a depth to it that’s really interesting. I love it.” James took the glass and immediately drank the sample.

“Yes. That. Give me one of those,” he stated.

“Hey! I wanted to taste it too, ya jerk,” Amelia laughed.

“You can have first sips from the one that’s coming,” James replied, and he held her gaze, feeling unusually cool and confident.

Behind the bar, the bartenders watched as the couple leaned closer to each other, giggling and excited to hear what each other thought of the samples.

“Hey, check out Table 62,” one of them said, gesturing to the furthest table in the back corner of the room.

“I hate when couples sit side by side like that,” the bartender griped.

“Maybe she’s giving him a hand job.”

“She is not!”

“Yep, he’s definitely getting a handy back there.”

___

“Hey! Fast-forward through this! Why do we keep following the bartenders? This is supposed to be about my life, not theirs.”

“This Viewing Gateway only follows our intermediaries. It is used for surveillance, not as a tool for dead humans to replay scenes from their life.”

“Wait- so you’re telling me that those two bartenders… were frickin’ angels?”

“Not quite. These two “bartenders”, as they are presented, are facilitators of The Grand Design. Think of them as ushers guiding people onto a recommended path.”

“Ushers for a recommended path?! These drunk assholes with their stupid tattoos and their stupid lazy fashion, thinking that they’re better than everyone… You’re telling me that they altered the course of my life?”

“They simply presented a route that you may not have seen otherwise. You always had free will, and could’ve chosen to go your own way at any time.”

“Why are we even looking at this?”

“You wanted to understand why your life worked out the way it did. It was this night where you took your first step onto The Grand Design.”

Amelia looked down at her first date with James, her husband, playing out like a rerun of a forgotten episode. The only thing she had remembered of the date was good food, and enough of a buzz to initiate a kiss at the end of the night.

“You know, I always felt like my life was something… expected of me. Even when I met James and fell in love, it always felt like that was what I was supposed to do. And now you’re telling me that I was right! That I was fit into some mold.”

“A Grand Design, yes.”

“But…”

“Why are you upset? You lived a wonderful life. You happily married this man and had a beautiful family. Is this not, as you say, ‘the grass being greener on the other side’?”

But the words were like distant echoes as Amelia watched her younger self be carried away with the decadence of the bar and the bartender’s subtle persuasions. She felt betrayed. Naïve. Alone. The taste of the food and drinks had gone sour in her memory. Rusted. Moldy. Even the love she felt for her husband of sixty years now felt foreign. “What if our date hadn’t worked out so perfectly?” she wondered. “What would my life have been? Maybe I would’ve actually sewn a wedding dress, made love on a boat, volunteered in India…”. She glared down at the two bartenders and watched the rest of the scene with despair, hoping she had remembered it incorrectly, hoping her date would spill his drink on her, confess to a strange fetish, admit he was a Republican- anything! Anything that would ruin the night and allow her to see what life could have been.

___

“We’re going to share the elderflower ice cream sandwich,” she watched herself say while locked in James’ eyes.

“Yes! How about ‘The Nightcap’ cocktail to pair with it. It’s like drinking silk.”

The couple looked at each other, gauging. This was the final test to see if the other was fully on board with the date.

“Let’s do it.”

A late-night crowd had started to filter in, and the bartenders picked up their pace without anyone noticing.

“That first date is sharing a desert and a Nightcap? Ooo- they’re gonna fuck tonight!”

“No- they’re sweet.”

They watched as the couple savored their final course, proud that the date had gone so well. Neither James or Amelia seemed to notice when Black Sabbath burst from the speakers as the bartenders began to pivot for the changing demographic. They paid their bill and the bartenders watched them walk out, hoping to witness a first kiss or a shared ride home. But the couple stood outside chatting long enough for the bartenders to turn back to their work.

“Well, shots?” They poured a line of whiskey for themselves and anyone within earshot.

“Cheers. You’re doing God’s work,” one of them toasted to the other. And when they next remembered to look out the window, the couple had gone, illuminated somewhere under the light of the city.

In Defense of Dreams, short story

 Submitted to Vocal Media, circa 2021

In Defense of Dreams, by Alex Johnson

Every sidewalk hawker selling watches, records, flowers, and paintings of the city skyline were criminals according to the boy’s mother.

“They’re all bootleggers and thieves,” she would say, pulling the boy’s hand down the crowded sidewalk past the row of vendors. To the boy, however, these titles rang with wonder. Who were these people? How did they get all that stuff there? Was it really just a market for thieves and cons? Unanswered questions bounced around inside his imagination, inspiring creations of background stories for each merchant. That guy is the world’s best pickpocket and all of the watches he’s selling are from the wrists of people currently walking by. That woman sells flowers grown exclusively in a secret garden impossibly hidden in the city. That guy is actually a record label executive in disguise, selling albums on the street to research his target audiences. Any time the boy and his mother walked by, he added more to the stories, challenging himself to remember all their past details. Though after years of being pulled down the sidewalk, the boy eventually grew tired of adding to his stories. He learned to become a dutiful son, never causing his mother any stress or delay. Not long after that, he stopped noticing the sidewalk hawkers much at all. The sights and sounds of the city had blended into a noisy background mush, their walk a bland routine. And then one day, something interesting happened. The boy’s mother told him he was now old enough to walk on his own.

“You’re old enough to walk on your own now,” she said. “Don’t dawdle. Just check my numbers and come straight home. Be a good boy.” And she shushed him out the door.

With that, parts of the city that had previously fallen out of focus now rushed brilliantly into the foreground. The sun was out, reflected in puddles on the street, and the pigeons were swooping. A woman in an upstairs window sang high over her radio. Roast meats in the butcher’s window absolutely sizzled and beckoned the boy over for a closer inspection. The boy let himself be carried away with the current of pedestrians. His mother’s hand no longer there to guide him, it felt like the crowd picked him up and was ushering him to a destination unknown. When his feet finally touched back down, he found himself standing directly in front of the familiar line of sidewalk hawkers.

“Hey, you need a new watch? It’s time to replace that old thing. I got just the one. Come look. Brand new. Try it on!”

“How about some flowers for your mother, young man? Or maybe your girlfriend! What- no girlfriend? Give a lady some flowers and she’ll swoon! $6 for a half-dozen, $10 for a dozen.”

“All of the hits, right here. You like Billy Bo Washington? Of course you do. This one isn’t even out yet- can’t buy it in stores! Impress your friends!”

Their fast-talk buzzed. Old creations of fictitious backgrounds returned and mixed with current reality, causing the boy to feel like his head was spinning. Rows of watches shined in his eyes, dozens of fresh flowers intoxicated his nose, jazz music disrupted thoughts between his ears. The boy stumbled across someone’s foot. He reached out but found nothing to grab, and crashed onto a soft lump on the ground.

“Oof!” a voice cried from underneath. He jumped up and readied himself to apologize. But... The light had changed somehow. And there weren’t people rushing by. And the sounds of the city had faded into a low hum.

“I must have fallen around a corner and into an alley,” the boy thought. A woman sat on the ground, rearranging her display after the boy had knocked her items out of place. A shawl hung low over her face, and the boy wondered how he had never noticed her before.

“Lucky for me, you’re just a little mouse,” she offered. “I barely noticed when you bounced off my back.”

“I-I’m sorry,” the boy stammered. Glancing at the items in front of the woman, he noticed that this was the most unusual display. While every other hawker seemed to specialize in one type of item, the woman’s display was an odd assortment with no apparent correlation between the items; two porcelain tea cups, a miniature brass telescope, a notebook, a pile of polished rocks, a wooden statue.

A bell of danger knolled from inside the boy, but as he turned to leave, the woman’s hand shot out and neatly caught him at the wrist.

“For you, the Stones of Octavius,” she cooed, gesturing to the pile of rocks. The air around the pile vibrated like a drum beat from within it. “Anyone who throws one of these Stones will understand the depths to which it drops.” The woman then directed the boy’s attention to the thin telescope, loosening her grip on his wrist. “Or maybe… this telegon. Telegons are like windows into the lives of fairies. Ever wonder what goes on inside a treehouse of elves? These were conceived so that people could watch and learn where sprites hid their treasures. This may be the last one in existence.” Overcome with wonder, a force drew the boy’s gaze to the rest of the display. The notebook. It was different than the other items somehow. It looked ordinary enough, but the boy could feel an energy emanating from it that shot to the back of his head. The woman sensed it immediately.

“Ah yes, how did I not see it at first? You’re a dreamer, boy. Here.” She pushed the small book into the boy’s hands. “You’re right to be curious. This is The Book of Endless Design. Inside this book all of your dreams will come to life.” As she spoke, the woman lifted her face for the first time. Hidden underneath scores of wrinkles on top of mountainous cheek bones, her tiny eyes were endless galaxies; yellow stars and blue planets, moons orbiting and comets shooting across retinas, and swallowing black holes for pupils.

“But be forewarned,” she chanted. “To keep, in essence, this singularity, light-footed must the shepherd be.” The boy was locked in her gaze, hearing her words like echoes through a canyon. And just as he started to drift off into the void, a taxi cab blast its horn behind him. The boy spun around. A group of pedestrians rushed across the street and hailed the #47 bus. A pigeon flew down to peck at food scraps in the street, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the boy inhaled a lungful of the loud, city air. He turned back to the woman but found nothing except a blanket and a small pile of rubble where she had just been. The notebook, however, was still resting in his hands.

“Hey kid, nice diary. Where’d ya get it?” growled one of the hawkers in the row. He had tattoos on his forearms, a devious smirk on his face, and sat next to a display of resurrected electronics.

Keep, in essence, this singularity.

“I- I found it. I mean, it was a gift, I mean,” the boy managed to respond.

“Hmm, it sounds like you stole it. Give it here.”

“I didn’t steal it!” Scared, the boy turned to run. The sidewalk was full of people and it seemed that everyone was walking in the opposite direction.

“Whoa there, son,” said a police officer, catching the boy’s shoulder. The officer walked backwards through the crowd, blindly dodging pedestrians with a confident smirk. “Do you know what you have there? I can assure you it isn’t your typical ledger. I’ll keep it safe for you, and I’m even willing to pay for the privilege.” The man opened a leather bag just enough for the boy to see inside. “There’s twenty thousand dollars. It’s more than you and your mother will ever see in your lifetime.”

The boy looked down at the bag of money.

All of your dreams will come to life.

And he laughed.

“I don’t believe you- that’s not even real money!” the boy cawed. The officer’s face dropped.

“Son, you stand to be in a lot of trouble-“

The boy didn’t let the officer finish and darted around a hot dog stand. He ducked behind a row of parked cars, and circled back at the beginning of the block, losing the officer in the crowd.

A large woman floated in the crowd ahead, creating an eddy that shielded the boy from the current of pedestrians. She smelled sweet, but looked at the boy with a familiar, and unwelcome, smirk.

“It’s ok, baby, don’t panic. It’s just rush hour so everyone’s in a big hurry. Isn’t that a lovely notebook you have there? My niece is looking for one just like it, how about that! Here’s a picture of her. Isn’t she pretty? If you were willing to give it to me, I’m sure she would love to meet you, such a generous and handsome boy.” The woman loomed over the boy, threatening to suffocate him with her potent perfume.

Light-footed must the shepherd be.

“She is very pretty, but I’m sorry- I’m late!”

The boy pushed back into the river of pedestrians, and hurried away from the woman.

Passing the park, a dog got away from its owner and tried to bite the notebook from the boy’s hands.

“It might be best to just give it to him,” the owner said. “Looks like a piece of junk anyway.”

Passing the restaurants, a man in an apron beckoned to the boy with a tray of hot food.

“Hey, you look hungry! ‘Chef Special’, on the house! Just let me take a look at what you have there.”

Passing the big business skyscrapers, a woman in a suit tried to distract the boy with a clipboard of charts and graphs while her free hand fished for the notebook.

“Kid, look at the numbers. It’s a sure thing, and I’ll let you in on it, but you gotta give me something in return. How about a peek at that book, huh? It’s the deal of a lifetime.”

“It’s mine! I didn’t steal it! It was a gift! It’s not for sale!” the boy yelled as he ran past each set of smirks and snatching hands.

Clutching the notebook, the boy ran and ran until he finally saw his front door. He nearly kicked it open, but quickly paused to hide the book under his shirt. His mother heard the door from the back room.

“Well, that was quick,” she called. “Did you run the entire way? And my numbers?”

Completely out of breath, the boy managed but a jumble of wordsounds in response. He waited to see if it had been sufficient.

“Go clean yourself up before dinner!”

The boy skirted into his room and closed the door, pulling the notebook from his shirt.

Inside this book, all of your dreams will come to life.

He imagined talking frogs, heroic conquests, and flying over fields of technicolored trees. For a moment, he even recalled his nightmares of falling from rooftops. The corners of the book protruded against his fingers, requesting to be opened.

They’re all bootleggers and thieves.

He winced as his mother’s voice invaded his thoughts, and shook his head to clear his mind.

This is The Book of Endless Design.

He pulled on a corner and immediately a small pen rolled into his hand. It was warm and alive between his fingers. But to his surprise, the pages were blank.

“Where are all my dreams?” the boy wondered. And then, a single word at the top of the page. Had it been there the whole time? The letters shined like the ink had just been written…

Begin

The Love to Leave Me Alone, essay

 Submitted to Vocal Media, July 2022.  Placed 'runner up' in the "Dads Are No Joke" contest.

The Love to Leave Me Alone

 

In every game of chess we’ve played, my father has beaten me.  Except once.  When I was very young, he taught me the complex rules of the game, and I always enjoyed playing against him despite my countless losses.  But one day, he gasped. 

“You have me,” he said smiling.  “With your next move, you can put me in check-mate.”  His disclosure caught me completely off-guard, however.  Still too young to apply foresight and strategy into my chess game, I certainly had not anticipated the position of enormous potential which my father claimed I presently occupied.  I scoured the board, analyzing my every possible move, searching for my first victory.  Yet I simply could not conceive any move that fit my father’s description; one that would win me the game.  He patiently sat across from me while I struggled to discover the decisive maneuver.  Eventually, however, he stood up so that I could continue studying the board without the added pressure of his presence.  “You’ll figure it out,” he told me before walking out of the room.  His encouragement filled me with spirit and I stared even harder at that chess board, imploring the secret move to reveal itself.  But it wasn’t long before I fell into despair.  For the life of me, I just could not figure out how to accomplish a check-mate.  My eyes filled with tears and it became impossible to study the board any longer.  Defeated and ashamed, I left the table to find my father. 

“I can’t see it,” I muttered to the floor between us.  He urged me to keep trying, but I refused, requesting that he reveal the mysterious move, and effectively end the game.  He finally obliged, and dragged my Queen on a diagonal path across the board, through all of his defenses, delivering a fatal blow to his own King.  I remember being devastated after realizing how simple was the solution that I had surrendered. 

Many years later, I again stood ashamed in front of my father, and now without a passport.  Earlier in the day, I had flown from Boston to my parents’ house in New Jersey so that the three of us could travel to Honduras the following morning.  At the time, my brother was serving a difficult assignment with the Peace Corps in Honduras, and we were excited for the chance to give him a much-needed break from his new life of poverty.  I arrived at my parents’ house that afternoon and the three of us caught up, had dinner, and finally reviewed our trip itinerary before closing up for an early night.  Bags were packed, alarms were set, connecting international flights were confirmed.  And then, in an offhand and presumptive tone, my father floated a question towards me.

“You have your passport, right?”  My body went rigid, my brain racing through the memory of packing my bag in Boston.  It took only a second to come to the dreadful realization that I had, in fact, forgotten my passport.  I recalled setting the booklet on top of my desk by the door, but somehow had still forgotten to take it with me when I left my apartment. 

“I’m so sorry,” I uttered.  “I forgot it.”  A thousand tons of shame pulled my head towards the floor.  Without my passport, I would be unable to travel outside the country, unable to see my brother for the first time in over a year.  I could’ve forgotten everything else, literally everything besides that document, and still been able to manage the trip.  To overlook such a simple, crucial, and obvious component was beyond mortifying, and I braced with anticipation of my father’s seething disappointment.  But to my surprise, he received my confession without much of a reaction at all.  He was calm, in fact.  Pleasant, even. 

“It’s ok,” he said. “There’s a way you can still make the flight.”  Astonished, I looked up and saw an expression of gentle confidence on his face.  No trace of sarcasm or malice to be found.  “You can figure this out,” he softly reassured me, and walked upstairs to get ready for bed.  Juxtaposed against my father’s cool confidence, the panic I felt was tremendous.  I hurried after him with a series of wild guesses on how to rectify the calamity. 

“Maybe I could ask one of my roommates to grab my passport and FedEx it to us?” I blurted.

“It wouldn’t arrive before our flight in the morning,” he replied while brushing his teeth.

“Could one of them take a picture of it and text or email it to me?” It was another stab in the dark.

“Airport security won’t accept a picture,” he responded while laying out his clothes for the next day.

I was overwhelmed, and hot tears started to collect around my eyes.  It seemed impossible to imagine a scenario worthy of my father’s hope and confidence.  The memory of that devastating childhood chess game arose in my mind, and I became desperate to prove my determination and perseverance.  The significance of the moment felt monumental.  Yet I was failing.  All of my energy and focus still could not comprehend a solution that would enable me to board an international flight in my current state.  I was beaten.  My vision was a kaleidoscope of tears.  About to resign, and grovel for my father’s wisdom and mercy, I offered one final guess.

“The only thing I can think of,” I stammered, “is if I take your car right now and drive all the way up to Boston and back overnight.”  His response was quick and emphatic.

“Bingo!  You got it!”  my father exclaimed.  From out of nowhere, he produced a set of car keys and tossed them to me.  “See you in the morning,” he said with a glimmer in his eyes, and got into bed.

I drove all night, energized by a deep appreciation for the way my father allowed and encouraged me to think through my problems.  The mischievous pleasure he took in rewarding my triumphant efforts with the toss of his keys was profoundly endearing.  To this day, it is among my fondest memories of him.  Throughout my life, my father has guided me towards countless opportunities for success, yet always respectfully backed away when the moment became mine for the taking.  Some of those moments I was able to seize, while others I was not.  But it was through his guidance and calculated moments of separation that my father gifted me with an independence for which I had always yearned, but never knew how to claim for myself.  He refused to win my battles for me, expecting that I not only to try my best, but take pride in my efforts so that, win or lose, each experience could rest on a foundation of self-worth.  Occasionally, this supervision would feel stern, but I’ve always known it to be rooted in his supportive and unconditional love. 

The next morning, I arrived at my parent’s house with my passport in hand, and returned the keys to my father.  And as he drove us to the airport, like a child under the watch of its devoted parents, I fell asleep in the backseat.