December Daily Writing Project: December 7

December 7-
“Let’s go, sugarbeet,” he said to her as he snapped on the light.  He was carrying two duffel bags, one very light, the other very heavy.

“Let’s go, sugarbeet,” he said to her as he snapped on the light.  He was carrying two duffel bags, one very light, the other very heavy.  She was startled but quickly focused her attention.

            “What’s in that bag?” she asked, waking up more with each second.

            “You know what this is.  Today’s the day.  Shake your tailfeathers.”  A smile crept across her face.  First she found her sunglasses.  Then she found some clothes to put on.  Then they were out the door.

            At the top of the settlement, they reached the woods.  She hadn’t said a word the entire trek up, but now erupted with questions and exclamations.

            “Is it finished for real, pastelito?  Do you think it will work?  I can’t believe it!  And it works, you’ve tried it?  Oh, this is marvelous!” she exalted, now finally within the cover of the trees.  She followed him over a small ridge and around another one, and stopped in front of a pile of boulders.  There, he dropped the bags, looked back at her just long enough for a wink, and then disappeared into the pile through a gap in the boulders.  For a second she stood there still.  And then pounced on the very heavy duffel bag.

            “Come on now, crocodile,” he said, already back outside.  “Don’t turn a baby bird into an omelet, you know what I mean?”  He was holding a dilapidated metal fan so large, he could barely be seen behind it.  She screamed, and immediately covered her mouth.

            “Ohh, I don’t know, Howzey Whose.  Have you tried it?  That thing just doesn’t look that lofty!”

            “It’s Howard Hughes.  And just you wait, swiss cheese.”  He braced himself under the weight of the fan and began climbing up the boulders.  She followed behind, holding the two duffel bags.  Above the pile they came to a clearing, and then to the base of a long cliff.  He put down the metal fan, and she put down the duffel bags.  With the flip of a quick smile, he watched her tear into the heavy duffel bag.  Inside was a massive sheet; a hundred-piece patchwork of old tshirts, plastic bags, duct tape, pizza boxes, and paper torn from novels.  Thread, tape, glue, Velcro, and origami all held the giant sheet together, and she pulled the whole thing out of the bag and onto the ground.

            “Oh, facey face, I don’t think so, mi amor.  This can’t fly,” she said to him as her eyes filled with tears.  He looked hard at her there, kneeling in front of his beloved wing. 

            “Don’t go burying your feet in cement just yet there, chicken little.  You haven’t even heard her sing.”  Out of the smaller duffel bag, he pulled bunches of strings and straps, and began fastening them to the sheet, the fan, and finally, himself.  He hoisted the fan on his back and tightened a series of straps around his shoulders.  She had been quietly holding the second duffel bag while he worked on all of the connections, and now that he appeared finished, he whistled and snapped at the bag in her hands.  She pulled out a pair of sunglasses.  Again, he whistled and snapped.  She threw him the sunglasses and he caught them with ease.

            “Amelia- I love you,” he called as he smiled and put on the sunglasses.  He yanked a cord that suddenly started the engine of the fan with a loud explosion followed by a beautiful whir of the blades.  Both of their ears quivered with excited recognition of the sound.  He took a few small steps forward and the parachute began lifting off the ground behind him.  Her eyebrows raised above her glasses and her jaw went slack.  With a few more steps, the parachute hovered directly overhead, the fan’s motor sounding strong and consistent.

            “Rockstardom, baby!  It’s beautiful!”  She could not believe how well he had built their dream.

            “So you gonna hitch a ride or what, kitty cat?”
            “YES!” and she ran over to him.  He spun her around and pulled her close to his chest, drawing another series of straps around her waist and shoulders.  When she was secure, he reached around and kissed her cheek.

            “To the end of the earth with you/contigo hasta el fin del mundo,” they said, looking out over the edge of the cliff.

December Daily Writing Project: December 6

December 6-

The oldest item in your possession.

Somewhere in the 1930’s, Albert was late for dinner at a friend’s house.  He rushed to put his coat on and fill his pockets with the necessary items before heading out for the evening.  Once he got to the house, the amount of people running around inside put his mind at ease.  “It’s ok that I’m a little late- it’s chaos in here and nobody even noticed,” he thought.  But in reaching into his pocket to pull out his handkerchief, Albert’s rosary fell out of his pocket.  The rosary was in a small pouch, though when the pouch dropped to the ground, the chained beads spilled out.  A keen eye of one of the daughters of the house, Rose, happened to notice this accident and smiled at young Albert.  “What a pious man!” she thought.  It was because of this accident with the rosary that my Grandfather Albert and Grandma Rose began courting each other and eventually married, having 4 daughters of their own.  Grandpa Al, or “Pop Pop” as was his preferred grandfather name, died in his 50’s, and his rosary was passed down to my Aunt Evelyn.  For a while, Aunt Ev kept the rosary in storage, along with a few other Pop Pop and Grandma Rose mementos.  And in 2007, when I decided to become Catholic, Aunt Ev gave me Pop Pop’s rosary and told me the story behind it.  It is a beautiful, black beaded rosary, long and heavy.  It’s still in same small pouch, and has now fallen out of my pocket a few times.  On those rare occasions, I’ll curiously pause before picking it up, taking a quick look around for any observant ladies.

December Daily Writing Project: December 5

December 5-

Your face is on the evening news.  Explain why.

The phone rang.  It was my buddy Bill.

            “Hey Bill, whatsup?”
            “Hey did you know your face is on the news?!”  I could tell from his tone that this wasn’t a joke.

            “What?!  Why?!  Are you sure it was me?”

            “Oh it was you alright.  But the segment switched before I could hear what it was about or could take a picture, but it was definitely you.  Wait- you have no idea why you’re on the news??”  Bill continued talking, but I could no longer hear him.  My mind was racing.

            “What channel was it on?” I asked.

            “Umm…5.  I think that’s the local CBS.”

I decided to check online first.  I Googled my name and only the usual came up- some hotel in South Dakota.  I refined my search to include “CBS Philadelphia”.  Still nothing.  I found the stations number and called them immediately.

            “Hi this is Alex Johnson.  I believe you just had a news segment about me, and I want to find out what it was about.”

            “Hmmm… Alex Johnson… Alex Johnson…  Oh!  Yes!  Let me transfer you to Programming- hold please.”

            “No wait!-“ the line was already playing the company hold music.

            “Hi this is Cheryl.”

            “Hi Cheryl, my name is Alex Johnson and I was told your station just ran a news segment on me and I want to find out what it was about.”
            “Oh- you want Programming.  I-“

            “Wait!  I was told I was being transferred to Programming but I got sent to you!”

            “Yeah, they’re ‘3006’, and I’m ‘3060’.  Happens at least once a day.”
            “Ok, ok.”

            “Ok, good luck.”

            “Wait!  Are you transferring me?”
            “Oh no- I’m sorry- you’ll have to call the main line again and make sure they connect you correctly.”

            “Ugh.  Ok.  Thanks.”  I hung up and immediately considered how important this mission was, or if it was even worth going through another call like the last.  Before I had the chance to come to a conclusion, my phone rang.  Bill again.

            “Looks like you were killed in a train tracks accident, man,”

            “WHAT?!”

            “Yeah… tough break.”

December Daily Writing Project: December 4

December 4-

Take a short interaction (ex. paying for coffee, talking to a phone operator) and extend it as long as possible.

            “Honey, would you please go get Mommy a soda from the concession stand?  Here is some money.”  The girl obediently took the bills and carefully folded them in her hand.  Behind the bleachers, a dilapidated shack sold hot dogs, fries, bags of chips, and sodas.  The smell of grease made the girl think about how much she loved mustard and hot dogs, but she knew better than to spoil her appetite before dinner.

            “Hello.”  The concession stand clerk was a big man with a moustache.

            “Just one soda please,” the girl replied, extending her hand with the folded bills.

            “Well that’s not how you greet a person,” said the man.  For the first time, the girl looked at the man’s face and couldn’t tell if he was sincere or teasing.  Without a word, she extended the money out further towards the clerk.  The man just looked at her without saying anything.  The girl grew uncomfortable.  She looked over her shoulder in hopes there was someone behind her in line.  There wasn’t.  In fact, there weren’t any of the people usually milling about behind the bleachers.  The girl looked back at the man who hadn’t stopped looking at her.  He seemed comfortable.  The girl felt how sweaty her hands had become around the bills, and the thought of crying crossed her mind.

            “Let’s try this again,” the big man’s voice was loud, but gentle.  “Hello.”
The girl pulled her handful of money back to her side and squinted at the man.

            “…Helloooo…” she barely whispered.  The man was overjoyed at her response.

            “Ah!  Yes!  Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?!”  The girl looked over her shoulder again.  Still, no one was there.

            “…Yesss…” she replied with extreme hesitation.

            “Yup.  Good day for a ball game.  So just a soda then?”  The girl was thoroughly confused.  It was like the man had been frozen, but was now bright and animated.

            “…Yesss…”  She brought the bills back out.  They were crumpled and damp with sweat.

            “Ok, out of $3…  here’s your soda, and 75cents is your change!”  The man handed the girl the bottle in one hand and her change in the other.  She took the items, still looking at the man with suspicion.  He stood there looking at her with a small, pleasant smile on his face.

            “…Thhaankk youu…”  It came out more like a question than a statement.

            “You are very welcome!  Have a good afternoon.”  The girl walked back around the bleachers, still trying to process her encounter with the man.  But once she rounded the corner, and could hear all the people talking and cheering, she snapped back to her usual energy.”
            “Hi Mom!”

            “Honey, did you bring me my change?” was the reply.  The small girl looked at her mother. 

            “Well that’s not how you greet someone.”

December Daily Writing Project: December 3

December 3-

You know when it comes to making the decision to choose a job that pays well versus the job that’s fun?  He made the colossal mistake of picking the fun one.

Backchannelmedia began as an internship during my junior year of college.  It was my first gig inside an office.  At the time, BCM was a 15-person Direct Response media buying agency.  It bought airtime on TV networks for commercials with 800 numbers.  The president/CEO was an inspiring leader for sure.  A few months after I started, the he surprised me before the building’s Christmas party by putting weed and papers on my desk and asking me to roll a joint.  I had already wrapped my head around the fact that EVERYONE SMOKES WEED, but had never seen it happen in a after-work office setting.   In hindsight, the muscle that the CEO used on me was actually a good indicator of how things would turn out. 

            My friends would say I was “coming home from the clown factory” when I’d get back to the house, drunk after work.  I came home drunk from Backchannelmedia about once a week or so.  Weed was actually barely was a thing that happened in work functions after that first instance, but a healthy “fuck the system” attitude kicked in around 4pm many days.  We worked hard, but as soon as the opportunity to knock off for the day arose, you could tell that things started tearing apart at the seams.  It was like the first kid that zips up his bag before the bell rings.  It’s a chain reaction.  Someone starts milling, someone might go down to the bar across the street, someone comes back from the corner store with beers and ice cream.  There were some characters there and, if nothing else, the place was interesting.

But oh yeah- after I graduated, I started working at BCM full time.  But by now the company had started to transition into a heavier advertising tech startup. 

The CEO would throw you bones, and we were allowed to do some pretty cool shit.  I went to a conference in Miami, and was given the opportunity of organizing the entire industry-wide after-party at a south beach club.  I went to a conference and ran a booth in Orlando.  I planned our company boat party.  I had some pretty memorable times there.  And it’s not like I didn’t get paid that well.  For a job right out of college, I got paid well enough and had some great stuff to put on my resume.  The kicker was that the CEO allocated equity shares to all of the employees, getting people to work with more of a vested interest, willing to sacrifice a bit in salary.  Towards the end, there were multiple instances where paychecks were delayed for multiple weeks.

December Daily Writing Project: December 2

December 2- 

Pick an ordinary object.  Make it somebody’s obsession.  Write a story about the obsession.

Dr. Frank Chesler hated taking the train to work.  Ideally, he would be able to fly his brand new Hover 3000 straight from his house to his office like all of the other doctors that he knew, but the roof of Frank’s office building hadn’t yet setup a landing pad for personal hover crafts.  Frank hated every minute of his hour long commute.  It was foul with disgusting people.  People yelling into their phones and laughing at their own jokes.  People opening junk food wrappers, chewing noisily, and coughing phlegmy coughs.  People sneezing without covering their mouths, and blowing their noses into insufficient tissues.  Frank cringed harder with every ugly specimen in the human hoi polloi.  He closed his eyes, put his headphones on and turned the music up, desperately trying to distance himself from his surroundings.  But there was one thing that could cut right through his attempts: the distinct click of someone trimming their nails. 

            Somehow, the course of history had not highlighted trimming one’s fingernails in public as an offense against the common good, and Frank could not abide.  In the rare occurrence where someone felt the need to do their personal grooming on the train, Frank would immediately snap into a near catatonic state, his muscles flexed to the max with hatred and disgust.  The quick click of the clippers as they chopped off a nail sent a jolt through his veins like an electric shock.  And if there was a 2^nd click of the discarded nail hitting the ground, Franks whole body would spasm.  His efforts to hide from his fellow commuters would be stripped away to the core, and it was all Frank could do to not bash this person’s head in.  Two months ago, a passenger began clipping their nails in the seat in front of him and somehow, a rogue clipping sailed between the seatbacks and landed on Frank’s knee.  If a red hot ember had touched his bare skin, it would not have caused as much of a reaction.  Frank’s entire body exploded, and he rocketed out of his seat.  Words from the darkest part of Frank’s soul were birthed in his stomach, but they immediately collected bile and vomit as stowaways.  While some of the other passengers on the train may have been uneasy with the nail clippers near them, no one was ready for the man who simultaneously jumped out of his seat, vomited over the seat in front of him, and screamed fiery words of malice at the passenger on the receiving end of his acidic eruption.  Despite a few gasps, the entire train car was frozen, their minds struggling to comprehend the last few seconds of reality.  Frank was too full of adrenaline to sit back down, let alone apologize to the shocked passengers.  He wiped his mouth staring down at the disheveled passenger in front of him and growled, “Stop clipping your nails in public.”  It was on this day, at this moment, that Frank Chesler decided to become a superhero.

            From an early age, Frank had known he was smarter than everyone else.  He excelled in school and his elders showered him with praise.  “You’re going to become a doctor one day!” they all said, clapping their hands with delight.  And Frank assumed that he would, in fact, become a doctor.  However, it wasn’t long before Frank realized that he didn’t have the stomach for the nastiness and gore that came with most medical professions.  Instead, he found Audiology to be both mentally stimulating and agreeable to his delicate nerves.  Frank became an expert in the intricate mechanics of the human ear, patenting multiple technologies assisting in sound receptors in the brain.  His research made him quite wealthy at an early age, reinforcing the belief that he stood in a class all his own.  On the day that Frank decided to dedicate his life to eradicating public nail clipping, he created a computer program able to detect the audible click specific to that of a nail being clipped.  It wasn’t hard.  Frank had done similar work his entire professional career, but had never focused his efforts on such an exact sound.   Within hours, his program was able to accurately differentiate the sound of a nail being clipped versus the click of a pen, a light switch being flipped, a computer keyboard, and countless other sounds.  He was happy to see that by the time he had completed his work, it was well into the evening and rush hour was long gone.  He took the train home that night with a smile on his face, knowing that this would be the last time he would ever ride the train to work.

            The next morning, Frank packed his audio receivers and computer into the back of the Hover 3000, and took off towards the main commuting artery into the city.  Hovering over the train tracks that usually took him to work, Frank turned on the audio detection program and pointed the receivers down into the floor of his vehicle.  The indicators flickered as trains passed underneath him, picking up sound frequencies similar to what he was looking for, but not exactly.  And then!!  The program caught something: the distinct clip of a nail on a train headed east.  He raced his hovercraft down towards the train and matched it’s speed, waiting for another click.  CLIP!  The program was erupting with lights and alarms, indicating the sound was coming from the car directly below them.  Frank swerved down next to the windows of the speeding train, dangerously avoiding a train racing the other way.  In the window, he could see a man in a suit, casually trimming his already manicured fingernails.  Frank felt his stomach churn, vomit threatening to move up through his body.  He fought the reaction, and steadied himself.  “This man is garbage, and I am the only one that can do something about it,” Frank thought to himself.  He pulled out his laser cannon and took aim.

            Maggie was absentmindedly playing a game on her phone, impatiently riding the train to work like she did every morning.  It wasn’t until she heard the distinct click of someone nearby trimming their fingernails that she remembered the story one of her coworker had told yesterday.  Apparently someone on the train had puked all over a person who was clipping their nails!  And now, upon hearing that sound, Maggie’s attention left her game and searched for the nail clipper inside her train’s car, secretly hoping that this vile person might be puked on as well.  Instead, Maggie only saw a flash of a red light coming through the window of one of the seats across the aisle.  The flash, although silent, was followed by an explosion of skull and brain matter sprayed across the entire train car.  Screams of terror and disgust rocketed out of passenger’s lungs, and in the chaos that ensued, Maggie only saw a glimpse of a hover craft as it flew away from the scene.  Yet in that one instant, she thought she was able to notice a symbol roughly painted on the side of the vehicle.  She later told police that it sounded crazy and she couldn’t be sure, but the symbol looked like a red line crossing out a pair of nail clippers.

December Daily Writing Project: December 1

December 1-

Things you should throw away but can’t.

I’ve kept my old high school lacrosse tank tops, my old lacrosse pads, and even an old football jersey.  Keeping the football jersey is especially ridiculous because I didn’t even like playing football.  I may have even hated it!  So to hold on to a memento from those times seems dumb, but it still sits in that one small duffel bag with the rest of my old sports junk.  The football jersey still smells like teenage body odor that 100 washes couldn’t ever rid, but ironically I think the only reason I keep it is the fantasy that one day a wife or girlfriend goes through my junk and decides that she likes wearing it around the house!  Ha!  That thing is a smelly, stained, ripped old rag, and I really don’t even believe I’ll find a partner that long-term-enough to be digging through my old stored bags in the basement in the first place, but there’s a part of me that is tickled by the potential scenario.  We weren’t even that good of a football team, but it was as close as I’ve even gotten to war.  Football was scary, especially for a scrawny guy like me.  To go out there against guys that were nearly 100lbs heavier, some of them on steroids even in high school, required a tremendous amount of courage.  Hitting someone so hard that they had to leave the game was at times more of the point than to score the most touchdowns.  I think my girlfriend/wife fantasy is fueled by the hope that someone is able to recognize the warrior in a younger version of myself; that she would appreciate the guts that it takes to put on that armor and walk onto the field, and enjoy representing me in that way.

            I’ve kept all the old lacrosse jerseys and pads for different reasons; that I believe I may actually play again some day.  About 5 years after college, I joined an adult lacrosse league in Charlestown.  Though I was in decent shape and on the younger end of the demographic of guys in the league, I was one of the worst out there.  In high school, I was a decent player on a fantastic team.  In this older men’s league, I was terrible!  Before this league, I hadn’t played in over 10 years, and it felt like most of these guys had played in college and then continued in these leagues afterwards, running circles around me.  Here I am 10 years after that men’s league, and I still move my small duffel bag full of jerseys and pads from apartment to apartment, convincing myself that there’s still a chance I may join another old man’s league one day.  As opposed to football, I actually loved playing lacrosse in high school.  Not only were we a great team, but I don’t remember it being that difficult.  We had fun.  I was hanging out with a bunch of my friends.  Although the rational part of my brain knows that I’ll probably never play again, I still am able to look at those pads and reminisce on some enjoyable memories.  They smell just as bad as the football pads (they’ve been sharing the same bag for nearly 20 years), but are received in a drastically different way.

            I’m afraid to throw away these jerseys and pads because they represent a past that I don’t want to forget, and an unlikely future that I don’t want to give up hope on.