On my way to Chicago last weekend, we stopped to get some gas in Dixon, IL. The childhood home of Ronald Reagan. I pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot to snap this photo, thinking that it summed up our American war efforts perfectly. Defending the “American way.”
As I took the picture, one of the soldiers waved at me, erasing any of the artistry and irony in my mind. It humanized him. Made me feel shame for looking at him as a subject. A joke. That simple wave reminded me they were men. With children. Wives. Mothers they’d cry out for in the mountains and deserts.
I felt like a snarky, New York artist completely detached from the realities that these men face. But how can any of us know the realities of this war, when no one. NO ONE but these families are making any sort of sacrifice. For the average American, our lives have not changed.
I waved back at the soldier. Gave him a salute. Then drove my family to Chicago for a weekend of relaxation, while these men were on their way to months of unrest and brutality.
We’ve lost 5543 American soldiers, and 38661 have been wounded/paralyzed/dismembered/burned/maimed and broken. Not to mention the incalculable mental scars. Why are these wars now so acceptable with Obama in office? Do we now have a different definition of victory? It’s time to bring them home. It was time years ago.
Its the perfect days that are most painful. Those days I get up and make breakfast for the girls…bacon and eggs and waffles sweetened wiith strawberries from the garden. The days at the park, teaching them tennis or letting them pelt me with water balloons. A small lunch as I listen to their impromptu songs, with lyrics of love, simplicity and innocence. A lazy afternoon in the yard as they climb the apple trees and make sand sculptures that never seem to hold. Bedtime story. A song. Rehash our favorite parts of the day as they fall asleep. And plan for tomorrow.
As if there will always be a tomorrow.
Alone in the basement is when the dread comes in. I replay the day. Wondering if I showed enough attention to the middle child, or coddled the baby too much. Did I put too much pressure on the eldest? Did I hug them all? Did I scold them appropriately — to teach a lesson without giving them some weird daddy-complex that will turn them into pole-dancers? Did I make them feel loved? Did I overdo it? Its like a first date each and every day.
Like everyone else, I fear tomorrow, while trying to appreciate today. I think about the pains they will encounter. Broken hearts and boyfriends. Drunk drivers. Texting drivers. Cancer. Meth. Cigarettes and obesity.
And I think of the human acid eating our world.
I imagine social collapse. I picture them as adults, selling their bodies for bread. Fighting over potatoes or getting raped by revolutionaries. The world melting all around them…
Sometimes I think “How selfish to bring children into this world!” And I want to hold them, freeze them in this age and time and never let them see the ugliness that they will encounter. It makes me weep. Knowing these glory days could end at any moment…These perfect days that will never last.
I serviced over one hundred strangers in a matter of two days. Half-naked in that windowless room, cut off from family and friends, trapped and alone. Unable to leave or even piss when I wanted. It was the closest thing I’d experienced to prison. And when it was all over, I sped home, drank a bottle of wine and showered like a Chernobyl survivor.
My clients were chiropractic students seeking their national license. Essentially the bar exam for chiropractors. I was there as an actor, assigned some fake condition which students had to correctly diagnose to pass the test. Mine was middle-back pain from an imaginary football injury, the symptoms of which I had to recite verbatim to each student and they kneaded and twisted my limbs.
There were fifty fellow “patients” sharing the experience at our local chiropractic college. All of us sequestered like jurors, surrendering our cell phones and freedom for two days, lest anyone cheat and tweet their condition. There were no cigarettes, no booze, no communication with the outside world. Even our bathroom breaks were monitored. We were fed non-descript meats and soggy vegetables seemingly leftover from the last semester. Each of us was dressed in a little blue gown and our underwear, and relegated to individual rooms the size of a fat man’s coffin. No windows, one air vent, and a retired chiropractor sitting in the corner with pen and scoring sheet in hand.
Every five minutes a new student would appear in the room, smiling nervously, and ready to perform the examination. For me, it included three basic tests: Determine my range of motion, check the reflexes of my foot, and measure my chest expansion.
At first, I was as nervous as they were. Afraid that a misplaced word, accidental cough or involuntary twitch might send them down the wrong path and ruin their future forever. But after the first hour, I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted to go home. To escape the strange hands poking and prodding me. These fit men and fat women, bending me forward and backward and rubbing my spine. Making me dress and undress, and twist my body in impossible positions.
I was ready to walk out. Jump on my bicycle and ride until my legs quit. I didn’t need the money. I didn’t need these egocentric wanna-be doctors treating me like a piece of origami.
And just when I decided to leave, she walked in. That beautiful Muslim girl. Her head framed in a blue silk hijab. Brown inviting eyes. Blouse buttoned to the top. Gift wrapped just for me.
She introduced herself and I instantly forgot her name. Forgot my lines. Every detail of my character. All I wanted to do was tell her my real name. Give her my number and let her convert me.
She smiled at my silence and untied my gown.
I was thankful it opened in the back. She moved her cool fingers down each vertebrae, asking me if it hurt. No. No. No. She paused in the middle when I finally answered yes. She kept her hand on my skin as explained the test to the examiner.
“I’m looking for humping.”
I grinned.
“If there is a curve or humping that means scoliosis…”
She kept talking, but all I could think about was her hand on my back. How her fingers could move down my side and creep to the front. Those smooth arms covered in black hair. A pubic preview. It was the first woman in fifteen years to touch my body this long.
Finally she moved her hand and I let out a stuttered, nervous breath.
I caught it again when she grabbed me by the hips.
“Bend forward please. It is hurting still?”
I gave a fake wince and nodded.
She wrote something on her clipboard and retied my gown. Then she walked in front of me and told me. I obeyed. I’d always obey. She could strap a bomb to my chest if she wanted.
She knelt down and took one foot in her hands. Using her fingernail, she slowly traced a line from toe to heel. I flinched in my foot and my loins.
Her bright-eyes and brown face between my knees. That blue scarf begging to be tied around her wrists. I wondered how some men in the Middle-East could cover such beauty in a burka. How they could segregate themselves at parties, schools and weddings. No wonder they had extremists. So violent and frustrated and engaging in shit like Bacha Bazi. Overlooking the gorgeous, intelligent women all around them…
Suddenly the alarm went off. Time was up. The shortest five minutes of my life.
She grabbed her clipboard and disappeared before I could even say a word. I felt like a dog at the pound. Abandoned by a cute little girl who ruffled my ears and scratched my belly, then slammed the cage and went on to the next dog.
The rest of the day was a blur. A series of mix-ups, misunderstandings and fantasy…the euphemisms spawned by my own frustrations and confinement.
“Does it feel stiff?”
“I’m going to stroke you.”
“Let me reach around you now.”
“Bend over please.”
“Hold this on your nipples.”
“Does that feel soft or hard?”
Student after student, blending into one another. Another face. Another stranger. Fatties, uglies, beauties and brains…
I felt sorry for some. Contempt for others. Based solely on their appearance. I became judge and jury for each student. With the cocky white guys, I’d clam up and hide my symptoms. With the fat girls, I’d practically tell them my condition. And with the beauties, I’d simply stare at their hips and tits, knowing they’d never see me again after five minutes.
I was tired of the uncertainty. Tired of the relentless handling. Not knowing who would be the next person to walk through that door. How they would touch me or handle me. Just knowing that I’d have five minutes with them, and I MUST do anything they say.
Mine was a taste. A safe, secure and simple taste of what some people, some children, experience for years…The carnal cravings that transcend our basic sense of humanity.
The only silver lining was that the students weren’t trying to pass their proctology exam. Then they would have had to pay a lot more than $400 for the weekend.
A few years back I snapped my flip-phone in half and tossed it into the Mississippi. It was one of the most liberating decisions I’d made, and felt so much more focused and content afterwards. Once my wife got pregnant though, I found myself with another cellular shackle.
“What if something happens?” was the main argument.
Years later I’ve never used it for an emergency. Its always just to call home and see if we need 2% or skim, or what movie to get from the video store.
So I gave it up again. Inadvertently. It bounced out of the double-wide stroller one morning while taking the girls to school. That was over two months ago, and I’m feeling that beautiful liberation again.
I don’t have to read jokes via text. No spontaneous calls or chit-chat. Just direct calls to my home phone. Its nice because it deters people from phoning unless there is some substance or purpose for the call.
Some may call me a troglodyte, but I love it. I absolutely love it…
It comes back to patience. The unknown benefits of self-denial. We don’t need to reach whoever we want, whenever we want to. And how arrogant of us to think so! So many of us get upset when someone doesn’t answer our call or text within minutes.
Instant Gratification is just that. Instant. Unlasting. It teaches us nothing about patience and reward.
I remember growing up in the 1980’s — calling friends houses, leaving messages with their parents, hoping that they’d get the note and call me before they left for the night. I missed out on sleep-overs. Movies. Dates. It was excruciating and frustrating. “These darned kids today” don’t know what its like to miss out on a party because you weren’t home in time to get the call! Ha. It may sound petty and minuscule, but there were many lessons to be had.
And what about fathers being able to screen calls from young suitors? Perhaps being able to reach your daughter anytime of the night or monitor her location via GPS is a good trade-off. But then again, what about the freedom these teenagers lose out on? The tests and trials they would have to overcome through their own wit and resourcefulness?
So much safety, so much convenience, so much DISTRACTION.
Sure, cell phones are good for some people. But we need to be on our own sometimes.
The solitude can be so peaceful.
So maybe we just need to keep it in the glove compartment for awhile.
As usual, I was in the backyard watching the girls play on the swingset, practice on the circus barrels and climb the apple tree. I went inside for a glass of tea, and when I came back, Chelsea was sitting on the slide hugging something small and furry.
I went over.
What do you have honey?
Its my friend, she said.
I got closer. She was hugging a rabbit. A week old perhaps. Not much bigger than her hands.
I leaned over and inspected it. It was dead, all right. But there were no blood nor injuries.
Where did you find that sweetie?
Under there, she pointed to the slide. I sang them a lullaby and put them to sleep.
Them?
At the top of the slide there were four more lifeless rabbits. Lined up neatly in a row. I poked each one to be sure they were dead. Again, no blood and no wounds.
Oh, honey. Did you hurt them? I imagined her hugging the life out of them. Killing them with kindness, as they say.
No, she said. Beyla found them.
The dog was beneath the slide sniffing the upended nest of fur and dried grass. Usually she would eat the rabbits. A fresh kill! But this time she didn’t even touch them. Which meant she didn’t dispatch them herself…I wondered if they starved, or suffocated, or worse, succumbed to some disease!
This is how it begins, I thought. With five dead rabbits and a little girl. The entire world wiped out by an interspecies virus. Rabbit flu. Bunny-bola. Hopefully the first ones exposed would build an immunity.
A year ago, I found my toddler kissing a dead carp on the shore of Lake Michigan. “Don’t kiss dead fish!” I told her. Apparently, the lesson didn’t stick.
I told her not to kiss dead rabbits and went inside to get my camera. When I got back, my older daughter had joined in. They had chosen their favorites. Named them. And even planned on how to keep them.
We can put them in a cage in our room, my little one said.
- Nah, they’ll decompose and get really smelly.
We can do an experiment. We can put them in a dish with dirt and then dig up their bones and put them back together, the older one said.
- That would take a long, long time honey.
I watched as they played with the limp creatures. As I said, there was no blood or bile or bodily juices. Just five little rabbits that died a mysterious death.
I found it harmless. Educational, even. Had we been on a farm, this would be a normal occurrence. We’d find dead kittens or puppies or other animals all the time. But because we are in town, we’re supposed to avoid all dead things. To fear them. And that fear just leads to more fear. I think it is better to take away that mystery. As long as they keep their lips off the bunnies, I saw it as a good lesson.
After about twenty-minutes of morbid discovery, I told them it was time to bury them so I dug a hole. The girls placed two dead bunnies inside. I tossed dirt and my eldest put a few dandelion flowers on top. I think she even whispered a prayer.
Then I sent them inside to wash up. Plenty of anti-bacterial soap.
While they were gone, I took the other three rabbits and placed them strategically in front of my lettuce patch. I would have crucified the dead little bastards if I could. Put their head on a stake to scare away any other invaders to my garden. But, the little girls came back outside and saw me. So I let them decorate around the body with pine cones, rocks and flowers.
A few weeks has passed, and the rabbit-memorials seem to be doing the job. Along with the fake snakes and owl decoy. I may just have to take the girls to the shelter and rescue one of the forgotten Easter rabbits. Bring this lesson full-circle. But I guess if the world ends from rabbit-fever, it will all be for naught anyway.
The girls painted my toenails one night. Anna on the right foot with a vial of pink polish, and Chelsea on the left with neon green. It was a stinking mess that made us light-headed. But the little girls were happy. And I could always wear socks.
The next day I decorated my left arm at the tattoo parlor. Two little sparrow skeletons with my daughter’s names spelled out in their ribs — The birds can fly if I flex right.
The tattoos encourage me to go to the gym. To build some muscle to maintain my semblance of toughness. I figure, a father needs more than tattoos to scare away the boys.
So I do my pull-ups. Free weights. A little blood seeps from the fresh ink. I suck in and puff up each time I think someone might be watching — but all the moms have already left. Its just the robo-queer, eyeing me from leg-press. He’s built like a bronze cyborg and cruises the gym for stay-at-home dads like myself; as if one of us might actually get bored enough to become curious.
I skip the last of my workout and head to the shower. The locker room is empty. I dry off and slip on my boxers. The cyborg comes in. His locker is close to mine. He strips and wraps himself in a towel.
I flex as I reach for my shirt, hoping he’ll notice the ink and the blood. Scare away the boys.
“Pink’s not your color,” he says.
I look down at my colorful toes.
He grabs his toiletry bag and saunters to the shower. If he had long hair he would have flipped it over his shoulder.
Ego leveled, I put on my socks and shoes and leave without combing my hair.
I didn’t bother with any nail polish remover. A form of penance for my prejudice.
And it took nearly six months for the color to grow out.
When my daughters had chicken-pox last year, I spent two sleepless nights dolloping them with calamine lotion and rubbing their backs.
It was a hard few days, but of course we all survived. And damn if we didn’t appreciate the first full night of sleep.
Looking back, it makes me think about how comfortable we have it.
Chicken pox vaccines, candy vitamins, melt-away cough medicines. The slightest pains, the slightest miseries, are all to be avoided.
Headaches are excuses to stay home, and the flu is something we look-upon with pandemic fear.
We should never feel any discomfort. Never feel any pain. Never know what its like to suffer the even most minute hardship.
But if we don’t let our children experience any of these simple hardships, like chicken pox or the flu, how can we expect them to handle the truly difficult ones?
Reality television has always been dubbed a “sideshow”, but not until recently has it become a description to be taken quite literally.
I’m not talking the blatantly exploitative programs like Jerry Springer. There are now several reality shows that feature little-people living, working and experiencing life in modern America. The problem is that none of their lives are exceptional, other than the fact that they are midgets…
There are several which star new parents, newlyweds, a couple of chocolatiers, and an established mixed-height family. With the exception of the Pit Boss (that guy’s a bad ass) these people are not leading lives that the average person would consider extraordinary.
The producers tout it as educational entertainment. But to me, each program is just a voyeuristic sideshow in disguise.
There’s nothing like reuniting with a cherished friend. You rehash old stories and share new ones. Laugh, hug and feel a sort of relief to be together again.
Last spring one of my best friends from St. Louis came to visit me. We gave each other a handshake, exchanged pleasantries, and then sat on my patio to chat and watch the birds.
“Did I tell you about dressing up as Elvis for the St. Patricks Day parade?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he smiled. “Well kind of, I read about it on MySpace.”
“Oh.”
We listened to the cardinals and sparrows.
“Did I tell you my wife got a new job?”
“You posted an update on Facebook.”
“Ah.”
I picked some wax from my ear. Flicked it in the yard.
“What about Ragbrai?”
“Saw it on Youtube.”
I was going to ask him how his dad was doing, but he’d already blogged about the old man’s cancer recovery.
We watched the sky grow overcast.
“Want to see a movie?”
“Sure.”
It was that day I realized, the more connected we are, the less connected we become. That we can be so tuned in and accessible, that we can lose the joys that make us human.
Of course this is not true in all cases. There are many people who get a lot out of social networking sites. But for me and many others, this digital world is detrimental to our interpersonal skills and the genuine quality of our friendships. It’s not just simple emails or blogs, its the constant updates of every minute detail throughout the day.
We can share so much, that we have nothing more to share…
Is it time to tune in, turn on and sign out?
I’ll continue the email. I’ll continue blogging. But there is a freedom that comes with Signing Out from the daily barrage.
Maybe by disconnecting, we can reconnect in ways that require us to be more human.
Its common knowledge that most products in a store are Made in China.
I understand the arguments for globalization, but I still want to consume goods made in the USA or Europe, where labor standards are considerably better.
Today I got a large check for some ghost writing, and decided to splurge on a few kitchen supplies at a local department store.
What was the only thing I purchased? The only thing I could find Made in the USA.
The Great Recession. Who is to blame? The socialist liberals or the imperialistic neo-cons? In politics, I suppose that answer depends on which team you belong. Its easy to blame the other party. But, the more you blame the ills of the country solely on the other party, the more your own party controls you.
Perhaps impatience is our greatest weakness. Impatience brings short term happiness, but leads to long term sadness. Look at our culture. Instant gratification for any want, any desire, any need. Fast food, fast sex, fast forward! Long, loving, stable marriages which result in more well-adjusted children, take extreme patience to succeed. Yet, 40% of children are born out of wedlock. 50% of marriages fail. And so many people want that honeymoon lust, but are too impatient to wait and work for it. Too selfish to make the sacrifices of themselves and make it work with a mate that may not be perfect. And yet, those in long-lasting marriages are shown to have better, more frequent sex, and have a longer-lasting, and better quality of life. But movies glamorize women and men who dash from the altar for their “true” love.
Impatience leads to obesity. Who has TIME to work out? Who has TIME to make their own fresh meals? Who has TIME to pack their own lunches instead of racing through the drive-thru every day? Well, with the average American watching 4 hours of television per day, I’d say we have a lot of time.
Impatience leads to disconnect and loneliness. We are too impatient to put things on layaway. We want it now. Put it on the credit card! Get it now. Instant gratification! Buy now, pay later! Where is the patience in saving. Where is the humility? The satisfaction. We are too impatient to work for what we want. Why do that if we can steal it? Make it easy by becoming an athelete an actress or country star? 9/11 happened and we wanted instantly to know who did it, why they did it, and why they weren’t in custody yet. We went to war impatiently. We want instant voting results. We want instant information. Who needs to learn critical thinking skills, or learn history, when we can just google it? And what about the peace and tranquility of a walk in the woods? Human for millennia have experienced that individual joy, but now, we worry if we don’t have our cell phone? Fuck Twitter. Fuck Facebook. We are instantly accessible. We have no time for our self. No time. No patience!
We want the cheapest, best products NOW. And we don’t want to pay too much. We’ve consumed ourselves out of jobs because the market sought the cheapest products, the things that make our lives easier, so we have more time, more time, more time. We want the biggest house now. Go deep into debt to get it! So what if the average garage nowadays is the same square footage as the average house in the 1950s.
Road rage – impatient drivers. Drunk driving – too impatient to call a cab. Get where you want NOW. Robberies – too impatient to work for school and get a job. Drop outs – too impatient to get that diploma.
We don’t want patient answers. We don’t want solutions that will take fifty years to implement, but give centuries of prosperity. We want our economy reversed in weeks, not years. We want our wars won in months, our marriages fixed in days, our children perfected by pills. Epiphanies! Miracles! We fill our kids with medication, rather than putting in the time to understand and change their behavior. We placate them with television and video games. We want our packages delivered yesterday. Our kids in designer clothes before we can afford them. We want a flat stomach with a fast, fancy machine. Its all impatience.
The greatest art. The greatest loves. The greatest friendships. ALL come from patience.
We can blame this Recession on conspiracies and con artists. We can blame our enemies for any of our ills. We can blame everyone for everything. But in the end, we are to blame. You. Me. Your mother and your son. We are impatient. We don’t want to wait. And we all know, that the impatient hare didn’t win, it was the humble turtle that won the race.
When I was about fifteen years old, I read Larry Bird’s biography. I forget the name, but I remember it said that he started “hitting his shots” when he was fourteen…As a bench-ridden basketball player, that made me start practicing alone in a neighbors driveway everyday for the next year.
But I never did master the jumpshot.
I realized though, that we read biographies of people we admire to find similarities in our own lives. To find some parallels, no matter how small, to give us confidence to keep going. To keep pursuing those dreams. To find that our heroes were humans.
On the recommendation of a friend, I’ve been reading Savage Art – the biography of Jim Thompson. Like me, he supported his family by writing whatever he can, whenever he can, for whoever he can. A man who became a literary whore to put food on the table. His fiction, while incredibly brilliant, never sold enough to pay the bankers and the grocers — until he was dead of course.
We pay our bills by tapping that keyboard. And in our spare time we escape to a hotel room or garage to work on the fiction and novels and artistry that sustain us. Our mental soul. Capturing those fleeting moments of inspiration whenever we can.
I thought about that tonight. Sitting there in my recliner as my two older girls danced around the room after dinner. Pretending they were ice skating across the hardwood in their pink plush slippers. Ignorant to my turmoil and trials – how I didn’t know if a check would be in the mail next week. If someone might want an article or press release or story written. If I might actually get paid for the work. Argh, the uncertainty and anxiety!
I’ve borrowed from family. I’ve eaten from restaurant trash. I’ve washed and pawned and pulled weeds for a jug of milk.
Yet I’ve also splurged after a payday. Bought imported cheese and fresh flanks of salmon. Pretty pink dolls and new crayons for the girls…a refreshing change from the second-hand store.
Its foreign to have money. So maybe that’s why I blow it so fast.
Reading Thompon’s biography was not a validation, or even inspiration. It was a realization that many artists go through the same thing. That we all find our ways to provide. We all take our chances. We all figure out a way to make it work!
And its good to read about Jim selling his dry and drab non-fiction. Like an impressionist who slaps coats of latex on kitchens and living rooms so he can buy new oils. Thompson utilized his talent to make money, rather than some damn warehouse job or teaching gig.
At the same time, who are we to put a dream ahead of our children’s security? How selfish…How selfish!!!!!!
But its all I know how to do. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane. Its hard. I could easily sit in a cubicle all day writing commercials. I could teach high-school kids how to frame a god-damned story. But this is what I’m doing. Like so many others have. And hopefully, hopefully! It will pay off.
I’ll keep on going, even though the odds are against me…Cause I’m no Jim Thompson.
A few years ago my best friend Odin died. He had a heart attack at ten years of age. The morning it happened, I raced him to the fire station at 60mph through the residential streets. The paramedics couldn’t revive him.
I took his fat, furry body home and cried over it. Not wanting to let him go.
I contemplated a taxidermist. A cremation and bronze urn. A seamstress weaving his fur into a nice winter hat.
I gathered a party to go check out the vagrant camp this past weekend. My dog, along with an old friend and his wolf-hybrid.
I figured two men and two dogs were enough to guarantee we wouldn’t be roped and raped by some drunken snowman.
We walked a mile through the woods to the camp, through the dead, toppled trees and over the massive broken shards of river ice, melting on the shore.
The camp was set in the middle of a crescent of downed trees, which opened up to the river, facing an island, filled with eagles dipping into the water for catfish.
We made our way through the trees and looked for footprints around the tent. There were none. Just a tiny path from the river to a pond, packed hard by a busy muskrat.
The wooden bench was covered in snow, as was the black coffee cup.
I wondered for a minute if he might still be inside. Frozen blue under that tarp…But probably not, as the dogs weren’t interested — they were off snacking on eagle shit.
My friend opened the flap. Inside were some socks. Cigarette butts. A bent soda can.
As I watched the State of the Union last night, my six year old was at my feet drawing in her sketchbook.
The President said: “It’s because of this spirit — this great decency and great strength — that I have never been more hopeful about America’s future than I am tonight.”
The audience applauded.
My little girl chimed in: “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
I grinned. Not knowing she was listening. Let alone paying attention.
“Despite our hardships, our union is strong. We do not give up. We do not quit. We do not allow fear or division to break our spirit. In this new decade, it’s time the American people get a government that matches their decency; that embodies their strength.”
I trailblazed through the woods today, looking for the bald eagles that migrate here each Winter. There was only one bird so far, and he flew away before I could snap a picture. So I decide to investigate the campsite I stumbled upon a few weeks ago. At that time, I had determined it to be either A) S&M playground B) Serial killer hideout. C) Drunken vagrants home. Or D) All of the above.
Needless to say, any of these answers was scary to me, but my curiosity nearly always trumps my judgment.
So my dog and I maneuvered through the woods — over, under and around fallen trees. There were tracks in the snow. Boots about the size of mine. This morning’s snow had dusted the prints, however, so whoever it was hadn’t been here in a while. Maybe he was asleep, dead, or retreated someplace warmer.
The camp was hidden behind a crescent of fallen trees on a strip of land between the river and a pond. I let the dog go ahead and sniff about, figuring she’d take the brunt of any attack. Or at least start barking.
There was an old blue tarp, set up like a pup tent, suspended by a rope stretching between two trees and tall enough for a man to stand up in.
I shouted “Hello?!”
No answer.
I stayed back from the camp. Just close enough to see a coffee cup on the bench in the snow. It wasn’t steaming.
I half-expected some haggard river rat to attack me Guerilla-style from the trees. Or some crazy old drunk to come flying out of the tent and stab me with a piece of drift wood.
“Hello?” I shouted again.
Still no answer. So I turned and left. I didn’t want to have him catch me going through his stuff. And, he could have been hiding in some brush watching me.
I’m not scared of vagrants. But I am scared of men who live in the woods during Winter. Its the type of scenario horror movies are based on.
I hurried out of the woods, unsure if I should tell someone, or just let the man go on living? The father in me says tell the authorities. The writer in me wants to document his story. The scofflaw in me wants to just leave him alone. I just don’t know.
Above – Vagrant camp in December. Below – Vagrant camp in October.
Walking my dog in the woods is therapeutic. Especially when we’re trailblazing along the river. I find something new each trip. A beaver slapping the water with his tail. A dead duck laying in an angelic pose. Baby dolls hanging from nooses in the trees. Or a lone flower, colored a shade of purple I’ve never seen.
And sometimes, though rarely, I come across another human being.
One day I found a rowboat anchored cockeyed on the shore. I shrugged it off. A few steps later I saw a man carrying a shovel and black duffle bag. I held my breath as he neared and tried not to think of what he buried.
“Norwegian Elkhound,” he said.
“Huh?” I stopped.
“Nice dog.”
“Oh, thanks,” I smiled. My dog sniffed him and then ran ahead. A hundred yards later I looked back to see him rowing away. I convinced myself he was probably just a mushroom hunter.
Then this weekend I came across a campsite. Or something like that. Its not unusual to find remnants of a small fire, littered with beer cans. But this was different. It had something extra. The site had a bench or a bed, I couldn’t tell which at first. It was fashioned out of two rotting logs and a wooden plank. I could have dismissed this as a fisherman’s bench, but it was slightly too low to be both functional and comfortable. And it was set at a height to avoid snakes and spiders, and low enough that it would not be painful to roll off.
There was also a rope hanging from the tree.
A poorly fashioned, but sharp spear on the ground.
A discarded, soiled t-shirt.
And a romantic river view…
As with the mushroom hunter, there’s probably an innocent explanation, but I’m still thankful no one was home.
The evolution of the modern bookstore – Borders. I took my three-year old there today to spend a giftcard. A children’s book for her, and a novel for me.I had a shortlist in my mind: “Belly of the Beast” by Jack Henry Abbott; “The Brotherhood of the Grape” by John Fante; or anything by Jim Thompson. Most were titles/authors a friend had loaned me, and now I wanted copies of my own. As we walked in, I had to stop and check the sign on the door again…
Yep, Borders Bookstore — So why is the damn lobby filled with toys?
We passed by islands of books by comedians and reality stars. Rows of adolescent vampire novels, celebrity memoirs, and kid’s books with little toys packaged on the front.
We made it to the Literature section. It had all the name-brands. The classics and the commercial. Everything you were supposed to read.
My daughter sat in one of the big leather chairs and flipped through a copy of “The Story of Ferdinand.” I sang the alphabet song in my head as I scanned the shelves — T for Thompson, F for Fante, A for Abbott.
Nothing.
So I went to a computer. I typed my own name in first of course, Devin Hansen. The screen showed all the titles I wrote, each accompanied with the line “Not in Stock.” Of course. I didn’t expect differently.
Then I typed in the other author’s names. Famous writers that were far more talented than I’d ever hope to be.
“Not in stock.”
I asked a clerk. She clicked away on the same keyboard and said: “Well, we can order them for you…”
“Nevermind.”
I sat in the brown chair next to my daughter. Next to a kiosk of bookmarks and journals. Next to a stack of David Sedaris books. Three stacks, in fact. Three shit piles of smug, saccharine satire. Three stacks by the poster-child for commercialized intellectualism. A pretentious, megaphone for self-important intellectuals that need constant affirmation to bury their own insecurities.
He was there, this darling of the publishing industry, among the toys, DVDs, music, and anything else you wanted to numb yourself. You could even sip a coffee while you decided. Maybe a Kenyan roast. All while surrounded by hunched-over students, attention-seeking writers, and tattooed girls talking anarchy over a plate of biscotti.
I paid for “The Story of Ferdinand.” Then gave the gift-card, still with a large balance, to some old lady walking into the store. She smiled and patted my daughter on the head.
“Sponsored By…” was my first full-length novel, and took nearly three years to write. The idea had been in my head for years, and I finally put it on paper while I was supposed to be working in my cubicle. I quit that job after it was published, and have been working for myself ever since. I am very happy with this book, despite some clunky dialogue. I made it very over-the-top, with outlandish characters and situations, to mock the entire advertising industry.
One thing that people have complained about is the fact that the main character takes little action. That he is carried away with the twists and turns in the book. This was done intentionally. It signifies the average person’s lack of control of their own life – be in conscious or unconscious – that they are motivated by outside forces to purchase this, buy that, and put their entire life on credit. We are swept up in the consumer culture, and Maene is no different.
I also titled each chapter with a well-known advertising slogan, hoping to get sued and get some promotion for the book, but that never happened. The central theme is an attack on unbridled American consumption, underlined with a love story. I think had I written this book after my children were born, it would be better. But, I am still pleased with the writing, the plot, and the story-line. Its as relevant today as it ever was. Actually, at least one of my ideas came to life. The “Flogo”. Clouds bearing corporate logos. We’ll see what other ad ideas in this dystopian novel come true.
