Archive for the Writing Category

The Great Emoji Puzzle from “Ill Will”

Posted in Writing with tags , , , , , , , on March 9, 2018 by Mike

ill will emojis_final-02-01If you read Dan Chaon’s “Ill Will” – which you should because it’s a fine piece of writing and suspenseful as hell – you will puzzle over many things. Great fiction challenges us, thankfully. One of the more interesting puzzles (to me) involves a series of emojis that are texted from one character to another.

What do they mean? I don’t want to spoil anything for a potential new reader so won’t get into the context of their initial (or subsequent) appearance, but there are many ways to interpret the symbols.

I could not find a good explanation online so will now offer my own theories. Mr. Chaon, please take a time out from your current project and let me know which interpretation is correct.

  1. Hey, Rusty! Your sad, crybaby, mouse of an adopted brother has a gun!
  2. Richard Gere cried when he put a gerbil up his butt and he wanted to kill the woman who sold him out.
  3. Please Hammer, don’t hurt ‘em.
  4. Modest Mouse has a killer discography.
  5. The name that can be named is not the real name, rather it’s a stage name suggested by Tao’s agent.
  6. Attention – when he was little, Dustin cried while you killed bunnies, now he’s gonna shoot your ass.
  7. Pistol Pete Maravich was overrated and likely would not start on a modern NBA team.
  8. Error message. You failed to properly save your file and the chapter about the lab rat cannot be recovered. Don’t kill yourself – all of those ideas are still in your head.
  9. This is how hip emoji-savvy people type out “watch your back.” You didn’t know that?
  10. The daily news is shocking. It will depress you. It will make you weep out of frustration. You are small and helpless. But the NRA will have the last word.

 

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Work Spider

Posted in Writing with tags , , , , , , on November 10, 2017 by Mike
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For the past few months, I’ve had company in the mostly unused shower at my workplace. I use the shower after squeezing in a run during my lunch hour, rinsing off the sweat and funk so as not to offend coworkers with my stank. In the shower, unexpectedly, there’s a spider that resides in the corner under the handicapped handrail. I’m not sure what kind of spider it is, but its thin gangly extremities are akin to those of a granddaddy longlegs. When I start the shower and step into the water, the spray off my body disturbs the spider’s web and it crawls out from under the handrail and clambers around its web, confused by the vibrations that must be coming from a thousand different locations. It doesn’t get too close and I never feel threatened by it, we just share the shower and I ponder its existence. How did a spider end up in a corporate office? Is it lonely or bored in its habitat? What does it find to eat? Does it dine on the dead skin cells of people who use the shower? Maybe there’s small prey that sustains the spider, unseen vermin that wander the tiny world that operates within and despite the bullshit meaningless white collar tasks that support the microcosm. But the spider clearly does not belong and perhaps it wonders how it got there, occupying that grimy, mildewed space in our office bathroom. Does it dream of the outdoors or is it just going day to day? I see it maybe seven or eight times during my workday rinse offs, and then one day it is gone. I step into the shower, let the spray hit my body, and wait for my little friend to appear. But it doesn’t show. I kneel down and inspect the corner of the shower where it resides, looking closely at the mildewed grout lines and around the rail, but the spider is not there. It’s body is not clogging a drain hole. It hasn’t changed locations to a drier and more suitable space near the ceiling. It’s just gone. I picture the morning it decides to leave. It crawls down from its web, steps onto the tile then the next tile, and makes the long trek across the shower to the main bathroom beyond. It waits at the bathroom door for it to open long enough to sprint out of there. It faces the Saharan expanse of carpet leading to the foyer and the main entrance to our building. Then eases under the front door and is gone, out of there. I like to think it’s lived long enough to create a new web in the nearby holly tree, munching aphids, completing its mysterious life cycle without stress or hunger. While pondering its new life and rinsing off the soap, I realize it could have – just as easily – inched across the handrail, scaled the wall, high-stepped through the shampoo bottles in the shower caddy, and is there waiting, perched on my soap, poised to jump on my face and sink its tiny sharp fangs into my quivering eyeball. I slowly, carefully, turn my head and brace for the next instant with anxious wonder, stalling the return to my desk for a few more precious moments.

Music and Time Travel – A Night With Susto

Posted in Music, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on January 21, 2017 by Mike

susto-with-fan_finalAs you get older, you move further and further away from your past selves. One of mine, as an example, is Wildman Mike. Though he still appears now and then, makes a headline, and disappears again like Bigfoot, Wildman Mike resides in the past and survives mostly in embarrassing photos and fuzzy group memories. Once in a while though, if you’re lucky, you get to reconnect with a past self and it’s like a reunion.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I were invited downtown by another couple to see Susto, a band out of Charleston, SC. None of us had any idea who Susto was so I spent a good week watching YouTube videos, reading snippets, and finding out what I could about these guys prior to the show. This is what’s it’s like to discover an unknown band through social media and word of mouth – something that is new to me, a guy who entrusts our local hip radio station to keep me current. But a band doesn’t need radio. They just need a genuine presence and a unique quality that gets people talking and buying tickets.

As it turns out, susto (the word) is a Spanish term that refers to when the soul gets separated from the body, connoting something akin to a panic attack due to trauma, and is treated with the ritualistic, plant-based hallucinogen ayahuasca. Susto (the band) is a five-piece group that can rock or skirt Americana with songs that are both introspective and visceral, and their personal themes elicit personal reactions. The songs conjure the emotions every lost 20-something experienced as he wandered between reckless youth and the vague frontier of What Comes Next. Front man Justin Osborne has a southern growl and backstory that involves anthropology studies, living in Cuba, and getting ACID BOYS tattooed onto his knuckles as a means to remove the mainstream path as a viable option, forcing him to pursue music do-or-die, music as the potential Promised Land for a talented misfit with an aversion for the middle of the road.

There’s drugs, alcohol, a party on every periphery, but the festivities have a dark undercurrent and these aren’t wide-eyed wannabes writing about their first acid trip – these are the guys the next morning. Tired, reflective, the ones at a table at the Waffle House. They’ve been up all night (up for years, even) having their circuits rewired and worlds spun like a bald, dirty basketball on God’s index finger. I’m the dad at a nearby table with the wife and kids in booster seats. I can tell by their eyes where they’ve been and what they’ve seen because I’ve seen it too, maybe 25 years ago but I had the same fleeting glimpse into the other place, the place without the veils, it’s just hard to remember what was behind them all these years later.

This isn’t about a specific song or album though Susto is currently touring in support of their new CD – “& I’m Fine Today” – and the opening one-two punch of Far Out Feeling (soaring and disco-tinged) and Hard Drugs (a dreamy introspective country ride) is a thrilling combination that sets the tone. But to just know the new record is to ignore the gold stuff from their first self-titled release – Dream Girl and County Line, and all the mysterious tunes you will hear at the live show that will simultaneously pull you in and spin you around amid the other listeners undergoing a similar transformation.

These songs are transformative for everyone – they were surely transformative to write and to play, but they also do work on the listener. At least this listener – a 45 year-old existing in two chronologies at one time. Wildman Mike came to the show but behaved – he’s grown up too, maybe. We reflected on our own good times, the ones flecked with blackness, feeling and refeeling what it meant then and what it means now. The music coursed through it all, the source and destination.

In another time I would’ve been right there on the porch of the Australian Country Music Hall of Fame, their renowned Charleston gathering spot, HQ, crash pad, and hub of revelry for this new generation of Merry Pranksters. Though I’m the old dude at the party, it feels good to be here. Nostalgic but nice. I raise my High Life and tell them that the good times change shape, but they do continue.

Ultimately Susto is not the condition – it’s the treatment.

The current lineup of Susto includes Justin Osborne, Corey Campbell, Jenna Desmond, Marshall Hudson, and Dries Vandenberg. A 6-song set from Audiotree will give you a preview but go see them live – they’re playing all around the US for the next few months. Visit their website here.

After the Disney Ride

Posted in Writing with tags , , , , , , on October 23, 2016 by Mike

Returning to normal life after a week at Disney World is disorienting. The long lines are gone and the magical details that were once everywhere are nowhere to be found. My kids and I were just lying on the hammock together on a perfectly cool late afternoon and my son eased up after about 20 seconds and said, “This is boring.”

A hammock doesn’t turn in circles or flash lights and is not surrounded by animatronic forest creatures singing and jerking in place. It just sits there and sways with the breeze or moves when you want it to. It encourages relaxation and what kid wants to relax when they’ve recently been on a hardcore Disneycrack binge.

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The whole Johnson crew – Day One

Disney World is fully immersive entertainment, not much different than a virtual reality headset. The sounds, sights, smells, and sensations all rocket into your nervous system simultaneously and without interruption. Not to mention the anticipation of the next sensation when your system starts to expect it and the crash when you finally make it onto a bus at the end of the day with the other shell-shocked families to ride back to your room and fall into bed.

Hauling your children down to Disney World is a blast but, do not underestimate this, it is also an exhausting trial. You will carry your daughter on your shoulders for 10 miles a day, for days in a row. You will be battered by relentless sunshine and will seek out taller visitors and try to stand in their shade for half second respites. Even if you think you are attending during the slow season, you will stand in endless lines and be herded like cattle wherever you go. If you purchase a meal plan to try and save some money and make eating more efficient, you will shovel 3000 calories into your facehole three times a day and choke down unwanted dessert so nothing is wasted. But a lot is wasted. The uneaten desserts in Disney bus-tubs could feed nations. You care on the first day; by day three you are walking away from nearly full plates because another bite would cause you to vomit and you have a Fast Pass expiring in 10 minutes and have to cross Main Street and elbow through thousands of people to get there and get in a new line.

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Foster absorbs sensations

Standing in lines does give you time to stop and sweat and think. Here are some realizations I made in Disney lines:

  • Remember when you waited tables and hated when your section filled up with kids? That’s Disney World but your section is miles long.
  • The poor saps in the character costumes must ponder suicide every day – the worst must be signing those little autograph books. Hey kids, Goofy’s hardly legible make-the-dude-write-in-a-puffy-mitten autograph will mean nothing to you in a few years. You will find that forgotten autograph book in a cabinet and resent your parents for enabling such a wasted youth.
  • It’s fun to test your own hidden prejudices by scanning the people around you and trying to figure out where they are from based on their fashion choices, mannerisms, and hair styles. You’ve been stereotyping more than you think!
  • When it rains, putting on a poncho after walking around for hours starts a chemical reaction under the plastic. BO2 + contained body heat3 + subtle methane emanations after all those meals = bigtime stank when you finally take the poncho off again, kinda like uncovering spoiled food.

A successful Disney adventure requires a ton of research and planning (thanks honey!), considerable logistical preparation, and up to the minute improvisation, all of which is compounded by a hurricane churning offshore. When we were there a few weeks ago, Hurricane Matthew was our constant companion.

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Magic bands and an emergency flashlight provided by housekeeping

As Matthew spun ominously closer to Florida, we got many concerned texts from family and friends encouraging us to evacuate and find refuge somewhere else.  Protecting the financial investment of a family vacation and trying to fully collect on time off from work can impact your decisions, and deferring to variables like those is questionable when your family’s safety is at stake. But we decided to bunker down in Orlando and ride it out, figuring those squat solid buildings in our resort were built for rough weather and it sure beat joining a traffic jam on I-95 to retreat to another location that was just as vulnerable as where we already were.

Disney parks closed down and officials ordered curfews for people that stayed, requesting that guests remain in their rooms until the storm passed.  To pass the time, we played an endless game of Monopoly, rationed our snacks and boxed meals, watched Matthew’s colorful radar representation twirl along the long finger of Florida, and occasionally went outside to watch the palms whip and the rain pour.  As a hugely profitable business that trades magic for money, Disney started opening back up quickly – first the food courts, then Disney Springs, then the parks. We missed a day, which we tacked back onto the end without much interruption to our original plans.  At the end of the week, as Hurricane Matthew closed in on our coastal NC community, friends and family back home helped prep our yard and house while we rode rides and took pictures with cartoon characters.

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Matthew tagging along

Driving home in the wake of the hurricane, after a long exciting week of fun, provided instant perspective. Trees were down everywhere, billboards were crushed, astonishing storm damage became the norm. We used porta-johns at rest areas that had no electricity or running water. Communities all around our part of the state were being flooded – floods that ended up lasting for weeks, taking lives and homes and dreams.

Experiencing a natural disaster in parallel with a Disney vacation is like being on another ride – and the ride continues. Nearby rivers have just crested while our first credit card bills arrive. People are burying drowned loved ones while we put suitcases back into closets. We look online at photos from our Disney Memory Maker plan; a Lumberton grandmother tries to salvage a photo album that has been underwater for days. We are thankful for the magic yet appreciate the contrast between the engineered fantasy and the vulnerable reality that exists just beyond the gates. Meanwhile, we relax and rest up for next time.

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Playing games and climbing walls

 

 

 

 

The Untold Story

Posted in Writing with tags , , , , , , , , on August 28, 2016 by Mike

Empty_bookWhen a loved one dies, you’re left with photographs and whatever recollections your mind is able to drag out to inspect. But my memory is far from a dependable archive and a 2-D image in a photo album can only do so much. It’s easy to start flipping pages or wander down mental side roads that lead you far from where you meant to be. Not a bad thing, really, any introspection is a golden nugget when most days are marked by the hollow, fleeting ding of accomplished tasks.

People with home movies are lucky. Old family videos let you hear your aunt’s voice again and be reminded of the particular way her attention could go from person to person in a room, landing on each face. Or the way your cousin walked—never in a hurry, no reason to suspect that he would die young and only live on in memories and a few precious minutes of video. These are reflections that no still image could elicit.

My grandmother died a few years ago and I’m still adjusting to her complete silence. We used to talk on the phone a lot and we visited her and my grandfather often; the entire family is lucky that we got Nanny for 86 years. Now that she’s gone, I’m stuck with my own remembrances of her long biography and saddened that she will never be able to fill in one of the many blanks in the record.

So I’ve started to record my grandfather’s voice on trips back to Hot Springs, a town that always centered around them and now centers around him, the survivor. If the first time I recorded him made him uncomfortable, it didn’t show. I took out my iPhone, readied the Voice Memos feature, pressed record, and asked him to tell me again about where he grew up. Now I will forever have that detail told through his real voice and inimitable flair. That anecdote and the time when he worked on the boats in Michigan and when he met Nanny and all of these other momentous points in his story, told casually while he cooked breakfast or thumbed through the USA Today. One day, when we return to an empty house in Hot Springs and the cemetery on the hill holds both grandparents, we may play these soundbites again and be able, almost, to share space and time with our beloved grandfather.

***

We drop in to see my wife’s Uncle Norman after having lunch in Sneads Ferry. While we are all together, Mema, my wife’s grandmother, thinks it would be a good time for us to go see him. Uncle Norman is Mema’s uncle, so he is up there in age, maybe 92-93 years old. He lives in a little house overlooking a finger of marsh and it is a beautiful, sunny, cloudless day.

When we enter his house, Uncle Norman is sitting on his favorite recliner, alone in his quiet and dark home, just waiting and sitting. He has diabetes and cardiac issues, with wrecked and swollen feet, numerous stents and a pacemaker—he doesn’t get around much anymore—he confesses during our visit that he basically sits there and wonders why God hasn’t brought him home yet. He’s ready to die. But as we look around and visit with him and talk about his life and look at his pictures, he starts to open up and play host. There are framed pictures around, old black and whites from his years in the service; he mentions that he was there on Normandy, storming the beach in the face of grim odds. It’s hard for me to imagine that a memory of the beach could be so sinister. Despite his poor physical condition, his mind is incredibly sharp and lucid. He sits there with these stories and no one to tell them to—like an album that never gets played or a book that never gets read. It’s a chronicle of a life that just sits and molders, and you’re not quite sure what’s there until you press play or open the cover.

As he talks about those wartime memories from over 75 years ago, I begin to think that this needs to be recorded. His small audience—including my children who are too young to appreciate it and his family who may’ve heard it before, maybe ad nauseum during every pervious drop in—isn’t worthy. He is, or was, more than the deteriorating old man before us. Surely some historian or military buff on nearby Camp Lejeune would love to hear this. Granted, the history is well documented in books and movies, but this man’s unique perspective has a shelf life and WWII veterans like him are getting rarer by the day.

I get home and reach out to a local history writer, David Allen Norris, to brainstorm and see if there is a Story Corps on a local or state level or any organization that may be collecting stories of area servicemen.  Sure enough, there is.

The State Archives of North Carolina maintains a Military Collection that gathers photographs, maps, letters, personal belongings and other artifacts from our veterans, and also manages an Oral History Program that collects their personal narratives. Military Collection Archivist Matthew Peek travels all around NC to interview veterans for the Oral History program, recording and curating them for posterity.

I speak to Matthew Peek on the phone and tell him about Uncle Norman. I get the impression that he hears it a lot, the tale of an aging veteran with stories to share. My job is to lay the groundwork—getting permission from the family, finding out the dates and details of his military service—before he drives down from Raleigh to interview Uncle Norman in his Sneads Ferry home.

Uncle Norman dies before we are able to schedule an interview.

A Tough Lesson This Father’s Day

Posted in Family, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 27, 2016 by Mike
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Alice Wren’s floaties.

No one expects to jump into a swimming pool to rescue his young daughter on Father’s Day, but that’s what happened to me just a few short days ago. And let me make it clear right out of the gate: I wasn’t the hero.

We were enjoying a beautiful Sunday afternoon at the community pool with some of our neighbors. We’d ordered food, had a couple of beers, and passed a few idle hours between the water and the shade of the umbrellas. Three families, each with young children between the ages of four and eight. Our daughter, Alice Wren, is the youngest. She’s not a fan of going underwater so Alice wears floaties on her arms when she’s at the beach or pool. The swim class she took at UNCW last year helped some but she’s a long way from swimming independently and cannot tread water or keep herself afloat without inflatable assistance. She adores the older kids who live nearby, especially the girls – Veronica and Audrey – who are fun and smart and good swimmers.

The pool was pretty crowded—families everywhere, people swimming all around the pool, throwing balls, lounging on noodles, diving for coins and trinkets, dads launching their kids from their shoulders. The shallow end was crammed with the little ones, with babies held tight by their new moms and toddlers bouncing tirelessly on waterlogged feet.

I was at the table with the adults. Ted Johnson, our neighbor and friend, was facing the pool and said the words that changed everything, “Hey guys, is everything ok with Alice?” I turned around and looked into the pool and saw her instantly. She was right near the rope separating the kiddie pool from the deeper swimming lanes—it’s where the bottom of the pool begins to slope downward and the water level was at Alice’s mouth and nose, and rising. She wasn’t waving or making any noise at all, but she was certainly in trouble.

In an instant I was running towards the pool. For some unknown reason, in the small gap between the table and the edge of the pool, I shed my shirt and tossed it over my shoulder while in mid-air over the water so it wouldn’t get wet—a detail that is symbolic in ways that I don’t fully understand yet. I landed a few feet from Alice, slogged a few steps through the waist-deep water, and scooped her up in my arms. I told her she was OK, told all of the shocked faces around us that she was OK, and patted her back hard as she expelled water down my back between hard sobs. I vaguely recall turning back to the poolside table I had just left so dramatically and pointing to Ted and mouthing Thank You. We walked to the edge of the pool where Carrie, my wife, leaned down and said, “Give her to me.” So I passed my child up to her frantic mother and stood there in the shallow end like a man cut loose from his old reality, stricken and alone.

Alice ended up vomiting up more water onto her worried mother as they paced around the periphery and I returned to the table with our friends and tried to make sense of what had just happened. As we discussed and watched her condition—she seemed healthy though she was quiet and visibly shaken, understandably—the prevailing fear was the thought of potential secondary drowning. For those of you that missed that piece on your local news affiliate, secondary drowning (which we actually confused with dry drowning, as it turns out – click here for how they differ) is somewhat rare but could happen if a person takes in water, it gets in the lungs, the victim appears to be good though lethargic, the lurking danger sloshes around, undetected, the individual goes to sleep later, has an pulmonary edema in his or her sleep, and never wakes up. So, though we considered secondary drowning a remote possibility, our own crushing guilt and raw fear led us to the car and a frantic ride to the Emergency Department in Scotts Hill.

Carrie drove and I rode in the back beside Alice’s car seat, anxious to keep her awake and engaged. Our fuzzy understanding of secondary drowning led us to the conclusion that if she fell asleep, she may never wake up so it was my job to keep her awake. It was like she’d been drugged; she could barely keep her eyes open and it was all I could do to keep her from falling asleep. I sang to her, asked her endless questions, squeezed her cheeks and made farting noises, pointed out a hundred things in the passing scenery, and told Carrie to hurry. She had put on the hazards and was keeping it together remarkably well despite the fragile state of her young daughter in the backseat.

At the clinic, she was evaluated and given a chest X-ray, which came out with negative findings of fluid in her lungs. The prognosis was good and the PA said that she was going to be fine. Our pediatrician’s office had been called and their protocol for these situations was conservative, erring on the side of caution. They wanted Alice to spend the night in the hospital for observation, figuring if something did arise it would be most prudent to have her near a medical team in those crucial moments. So Carrie and Alice Wren took an ambulance to the downtown hospital—which Alice voted the coolest ride she had ever taken—and Foster and I checked off items from an unending list of things they would require during their sleepover. We drove down to the hospital to visit and resupply the girls.

To Alice, her stay in the Betty Cameron Women’s and Children’s Hospital was like a resort vacation. She had a doting team of wonderful nurses, a suitcase full of toys and books and games and Wonder Woman pajamas from home, her sure and steady mother, and a kid’s recreation room that was expertly designed to distract young people from the pains, fears, and boredom of protracted hospital stays. We were very fortunate. This is an indisputable fact. And there was no greater reminder of that than walking down that long hospital corridor and wondering who was behind the other room doors. What horrors had brought those other children there? Car accidents? Cancer? How long would they have to stay? Who was getting the worst possible news? Even more, who was leaving without the gravely hurt child they had brought in? These thoughts haunt me still and I can’t help but feel that we merely stepped into that terrible place, had a peek, and were fortunate to back out of it without a scratch.

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Alice cooks in the hospital’s recreation room.

Horrible stories in the news have a way of numbing us. The observer stands at a safe distance where he can make judgements and recreate the scenario in his own imagination, reacting more admirably, making better decisions, and acing the parent test the other parent flunked. Those stories make us feel comparatively safe but simultaneously vulnerable. Most parents, me included, think we’re on the ball. We’re all over it, completely tuned in to every moment. We are vigilant and the threats are kept away by the triple sentinels of laser focus, foresight, and a weird animal intuition that develops when you bear young. But we had a lapse of attention. There’s no other way to look at it. And believe me, any criticism issued from another parent pales in comparison to the criticism we’re raining down on ourselves. Any real or perceived cries of How could they let that happen? are background noise to our own defeaning, pulsating, shrieks of guilt and self-accusation. Not to each other, thankfully, since the complete lapse of attention happened on a shared watch. We co-own it and return to our combo-guilt whenever we look at her.

When seeing those same horrible stories on Facebook or the news, it’s hard to imagine that there’s a little person behind the picture that is eventually posted—the picture that was taken at school or during a candid childish moment that caught her essence, and now, in death, has to tell her whole life story in one simple image. There was a little life force behind the headlines—you lose sense of that when you read the story. It’s impossible to fully imagine what the child was like. What his little personality was like, how he or she touched and impacted the lives of friends and loved ones and classmates. And you think of the moment in those stories when you realize it’s never going to be the same—you can almost pause the scene and look at the frame of time when everything changes. The moment when the alligator explodes out of the seemingly benign Disney lagoon, when the dad closes and locks the car door while the toddler snoozes in his car seat.

When I pause that day’s events in my mind’s DVD player, I often stop at my jump into the pool—when I stripped out of my shirt. Why was my stupid shirt so important in those frantic seconds and where was that quick thinking and attention a few minutes earlier when Alice was making her way down the steps of the swimming pool without her floaties? She told us later that she was going out to be with Audrey and Veronica. She must’ve felt like a big girl at that moment and didn’t stop to think about her floaties. Once she was down the pool stairs she maybe thought she could walk all the way to them, and when she was suddenly on her tiptoes and swallowing water she couldn’t process the issue or comprehend the danger. I try not to think about what she was thinking because I can’t bear to think that she was wondering why daddy wasn’t helping her yet.

The fact that this happened on Father’s Day intensifies it all. My young daughter spent the night in the hospital on Father’s Day due to, at least in part, a momentary lapse of my attention. But another dad stepped up huge. Ted Johnson – what made him notice? There was another grown man, likely a father himself, standing practically night next to her in the pool as she inched into ever deepening water. How did he not notice? It’s not his job to see her, assess her swimming skill level, and scoop her up just in case—but he was right there? Ted had to identify her from 50 feet away and recognize the signs of an emergency situation, of a potential drowning, words that are painful to fathom or say when it’s your own kid in the water.

There’s an alternate scene that I visit sometimes. When I rewind the action to the moment where Ted is about to sit down at the table and he sits in another chair instead, one facing away from the pool. And no one notices Alice walking across the shallow end. Not one notices she’s in trouble and I can’t watch the alternate scene beyond that part. Forever, it will be Ted noticing and me not noticing and the gratitude and guilt will bubble together endlessly in a stew of memory. But I thank Ted, I cherish my friend and neighbor for having my back like no one has had it before. My love and appreciation and awe for the magic he pulled that day will endure long, long after Alice Wren has hung up her floaties. And on each Father’s Day, I hope he feels that profound gratitude.

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Getting back on the horse.

 

 

People Everywhere

Posted in Writing with tags , , , , , , , , on June 16, 2016 by Mike

people_final-01My wife is a “People person” but I’m not talking about the bipeds all around us, I’m talking about the magazine. My wife wants the latest issue of People with us on any kind of trip. It’s a must, as much a sure thing as underwear or a near empty tube of toothpaste. She sometimes forgets and I will buy her one and place it with her pile of stuff to take and she will always be happy and surprised by my thoughtfulness. “Aw, honey,” she says, “a new People! Thanks!” This is a lay-up for any guy that needs points.

But even if you like to read People, a subscription is a horrible idea. I encouraged my parents to get her a 6-month subscription for Christmas last year. We are now months into the subscription and any gift would’ve been a better option. Anthrax, socks, anything.

They do not stop. A weekly circulation seems way too frequent at this point and maybe they should add words to the covers as the subscription goes on:

Month 1 – People

Month 2 – More People

Month 3 – Even More People, Wow

Month 4 – The Few Remaining People Not Yet Written About

Month 5 – People We’re Covering Again Since It’s Been Four Months Since We Last Talked About Them

Month 6 – Good Lord, What’s With All the People

So we have stacks of unread Peoples on our living room coffee table. Once in a while I will thumb through some issues, feeling awful that money from my parents and countless trees were sacrificed for the pile of fluff before me. If I stick to the stories that actually interest me, I can read a whole issue of People in 35 seconds, counting the page turns. I will read them while we are watching something on TV and offer up small criticisms as I go, surely depressing and annoying my wife. During one flip-through I may say any or all of the following: Why? Who cares? I don’t even know who any of these people are!

When you think about it, the subject matter is a well that will never run dry. We’re talking about People. People! Billions of them. There will always be billions of them. Granted, there’s a celebrity thrust to the magazine, but many of the pages are devoted to regular old people. So you’re always going to have celebrities, that’s a revolving door, and you’re always going to have people doing regular old extraordinary things. Barring a nuclear event, they will always have people to talk about. And even if there is a nuclear event, the publishers would probably unveil Mutant People just to keep the subscriptions going.

And the departments! I don’t give a shit Who Wore It Better. I don’t care how the dress looked on Taylor, nor do I care how it looked on Kimmy K – line them up side by side, each wearing the same dress that I don’t care about, and my boredom is near crippling. I don’t care what they think about current events, and I don’t need to see them selecting an apple at a fruit stand to remind me that they’re people that shop. I know they’re people that shop. And the asinine crossword puzzle that is designed for the mentally impaired? There is at least one hilarious clue in every puzzle – if you are currently bored with an issue of People, go directly to the crossword and find it! It’s there! Clue: 1980’s TV show starring Mr. T , The _ -Team (1 letter)

I am not sure what People could do to make me happier with them. I think it’s me – maybe I’m just not good with People. But I do know what we will not be getting for the last six months of the year. Good thing People has a website.