It’s a little before midnight as I walk up Lafayette Street in Salem, past Los Amigos Market and Harbor Street. The sound of a loud bang startles me, and I feel terribly unnerved as I try to keep cool and continue on my way. A second clap of violent noise follows, however it is accompanied by bright blue and red lights in the sky. I feel instantly relieved. I had forgotten that it was two days before the Fourth of July, and it was only natural for the neighborhood kids to test out a couple of their bootlegged fireworks in advance, if only to make sure they hadn’t been ripped off. Three nights ago there was a shooting on Ropes Street, right behind Major’s Pub, about a block from where I am when I see the fireworks. Tonight, the commotion in this neighborhood is celebratory in nature, but I wonder how many other people jumped when they heard the first bang tonight.
I always look out of place on my late night walks from the Hotel to my house on Linden Street. My tailored suits and designer ties get strange looks from the people who pass me on my journey. Most people have been out of work for hours by the time I begin my trek home from the office. Sometimes I’m curious what people think. In a town that is rarely innocent or normal, I doubt people draw the correct conclusions. A young man in a nice suit walking through a rough neighborhood at night could mean any number of things; an aspiring sports writer who is working a hotel job to make ends meet doesn’t seem as plausible in this neighborhood as a prominent drug dealer, a corrupt local politician, or a crooked used car salesman here to buy stolen parts from carjackers. Any of those things would fit in better here than I actually do, so sometimes, I pretend.
Often times I find myself thinking about the guests of my hotel on these walks. The people who stay with us are often here for their annual vacation, or for a wedding, or a graduation. They see the sides of Salem that they want to see: historic, intellectual, up and coming, “liberal” and “green”. The dozens of museums and gift shops and boutiques give a great image of a beautiful New England vacation destination, and as a transplanted local I have to admit these tricks sometimes fool me as well. However the real Salem is here, in the Point, and once you’ve seen it you are always aware of it’s presence. This town is not rich; in fact it is barely even middle class. The incidence of mental illness, drug addiction and alcoholism is startlingly high, and the longer you live here, the more visible it becomes. Spend even one day volunteering at the homeless shelter downtown and you will realize the sad reality that there aren’t enough beds there for those in need, even in the warm summers. The disparity between the perception and reality of Salem has become irreconciliable.
The Hotel, which sits on the edge of Pickering Wharf, the Point and Downtown, is a symbol of the duality of the city. A four-star, luxury facility, the Hotel is mandated by law to provide public bathrooms. The result of this law? The homeless come here to piss and shit. If you work the front desk, you get to know many of them by face, and the more amicable ones by name as well.
I never really know how to feel about these conflicting aspects of Salem. Living in a relatively safe and nice neighborhood allows me a certain amount of distance from the harsh realties of Life Bridge Shelter and Lafayette Park. Being a college student gives me the even greater luxury of belonging to a unique and united subgroup of the cities population. In many ways I admit that embracing these factors is a cop out; a way of ignoring how hippocritical it is for me to stand behind a desk and ask for $265 for one night of shelter while dozens lack money or food just a few blocks away.
Tonight, however, there are celebrations. There are fireworks in the Point, and there will be tomorrow as well. After Monday, the sources of sounds of the night are anyone’s guess.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
On Working and Karma
In our world, to work is to exist. At least that’s what I tell myself whenever I find myself lugging wheelbarrows full of crushed rock from one end of a yard to the other at 7am on a Tuesday morning. It seems like a strange job, when one examines the implications of putting down something as ordinary as rock in someone else’s garden so they can later show it off to others as a symbol of their own success and hard work. Such an analysis shows the hierarchy of the situation: that person is not only successful enough to have a wonderful garden, but to have the luxury of paying others to move their barrows of crushed rock for them. They’ve worked so hard that at this point, they’re beyond hard work. What a life.
Of course, in this whole scenario, the job of moving and then arranging glorified pebbles isn’t the strangest occupation imaginable. Consider, for a moment, the life of the man whose job it is to crush those rocks, or pluck those rocks from the earth to be crushed, or to choose which rocks would look lovely in a garden after being decimated into tiny remnants of their former selves. Such jobs seem to me like the work not of men but of minor deities, at least in terms of responsibility. I don’t think I could ever be comfortable with such an arrangement; I would just find myself feeling sorry for the rocks.
That’s not to say, however, that my capacity for weird jobs is limited to picking up small bits of stone from one place and moving them to another. I have had a whole plethora of odd experience. For a ten month stint a few years ago I was a butler for a very wealthy 104 year old woman living on the top floor of a rather upscale hotel just outside of Boston. My tenure with Mrs. Kirshner was not ended by her death, as one may expect, but by an argument I had with her rather confrontational daughter, June, after I had allegedly lost Mrs. Kirshner's slippers. They were later found in the backseat of June’s car.
Before beginning my tenure with Mrs. Kirshner, I held a temporary job at a prestigious University in Somerville. I was hired as a “Security Technician”, a job which required me to walk through each of the University’s twenty-six buildings while they were unoccupied and check the accuracy of the floor plans. The most important part was to make sure that every door in the floor plan would swing open in the way indicated on the chart I was given. The purpose of this endeavor was to ensure that, in the event of a hostage situation, a State Police sniper would know where to aim his weapon when dealing with any given door on the campus of this prestigious institution of higher learning. One would surely expect that I had some knowledge of architecture, or training in security planning to be selected for such a position. However I did not have any of that, and was hired solely on the basis that I didn’t mind spending the summer of 2006 walking through the empty buildings with endless floor charts, opening hundreds of doors to ensure that they did, in fact, swing open in the correct direction.
Over the course of that summer I found seven mistakes on the University’s floor plans, read fifteen books rented from the University’s library, and made exactly one friend. Alvin was a janitor on the North side of campus who would occasionally bring an extra donut to work for me and thought it was fascinating that people actually used GPS devices while driving. In the world Alvin grew up in, everyone just tried their best to make it to where they had to go, and if they needed directions, they asked at a local gas station or coffee shop. Him pointing out things like this contributed to my ever increasing cynicism towards the changing landscape of our society. The GPS itself represents a world where people care only about the destination and disregard the value of the journey. Such thoughts make my brain feel sore and tired, a feeling I truly detest.
It was realizations such as this that led me back to my landscaping job. Here I can be sore of body, but rarely sore of mind. There is honesty in this work, and even when I don’t know where my next job site is, I never use a GPS to get there. I trust that the roads will lead me where they are supposed to, and take in all I see as I daydream about the day when I can pay someone else to make my yard look good enough to show off to the neighborhood. I don’t think I’ll ever have the heart to use crushed rocks though. No matter how much of a big shot I become, I refuse to take the role of someone who sentences something as indestructible as a rock to its demise. I believe in Karma.
Of course, in this whole scenario, the job of moving and then arranging glorified pebbles isn’t the strangest occupation imaginable. Consider, for a moment, the life of the man whose job it is to crush those rocks, or pluck those rocks from the earth to be crushed, or to choose which rocks would look lovely in a garden after being decimated into tiny remnants of their former selves. Such jobs seem to me like the work not of men but of minor deities, at least in terms of responsibility. I don’t think I could ever be comfortable with such an arrangement; I would just find myself feeling sorry for the rocks.
That’s not to say, however, that my capacity for weird jobs is limited to picking up small bits of stone from one place and moving them to another. I have had a whole plethora of odd experience. For a ten month stint a few years ago I was a butler for a very wealthy 104 year old woman living on the top floor of a rather upscale hotel just outside of Boston. My tenure with Mrs. Kirshner was not ended by her death, as one may expect, but by an argument I had with her rather confrontational daughter, June, after I had allegedly lost Mrs. Kirshner's slippers. They were later found in the backseat of June’s car.
Before beginning my tenure with Mrs. Kirshner, I held a temporary job at a prestigious University in Somerville. I was hired as a “Security Technician”, a job which required me to walk through each of the University’s twenty-six buildings while they were unoccupied and check the accuracy of the floor plans. The most important part was to make sure that every door in the floor plan would swing open in the way indicated on the chart I was given. The purpose of this endeavor was to ensure that, in the event of a hostage situation, a State Police sniper would know where to aim his weapon when dealing with any given door on the campus of this prestigious institution of higher learning. One would surely expect that I had some knowledge of architecture, or training in security planning to be selected for such a position. However I did not have any of that, and was hired solely on the basis that I didn’t mind spending the summer of 2006 walking through the empty buildings with endless floor charts, opening hundreds of doors to ensure that they did, in fact, swing open in the correct direction.
Over the course of that summer I found seven mistakes on the University’s floor plans, read fifteen books rented from the University’s library, and made exactly one friend. Alvin was a janitor on the North side of campus who would occasionally bring an extra donut to work for me and thought it was fascinating that people actually used GPS devices while driving. In the world Alvin grew up in, everyone just tried their best to make it to where they had to go, and if they needed directions, they asked at a local gas station or coffee shop. Him pointing out things like this contributed to my ever increasing cynicism towards the changing landscape of our society. The GPS itself represents a world where people care only about the destination and disregard the value of the journey. Such thoughts make my brain feel sore and tired, a feeling I truly detest.
It was realizations such as this that led me back to my landscaping job. Here I can be sore of body, but rarely sore of mind. There is honesty in this work, and even when I don’t know where my next job site is, I never use a GPS to get there. I trust that the roads will lead me where they are supposed to, and take in all I see as I daydream about the day when I can pay someone else to make my yard look good enough to show off to the neighborhood. I don’t think I’ll ever have the heart to use crushed rocks though. No matter how much of a big shot I become, I refuse to take the role of someone who sentences something as indestructible as a rock to its demise. I believe in Karma.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Her Sky
I took a walk the other day,
Down to this park that meets a beach
That I hadn’t seen before,
And there you were, but you didn’t see me.
You weren’t looking out or down or around,
But up, up at the sky above the water
That swirled with colors of purple and red
As the clouds danced around above you
In other worldly steps with the stars.
Now, I saw it too but I knew right away
That they were dancing for you.
And with every twitch of wonder in your eyes
The colors got brighter and the movements
Of the moons and stars more elegant.
I had no idea you were a choreographer.
Really though, part of me did know,
Because although you always denied being an artist
I’ve said from day one that
Every little move you make when we’re together
Is a chapter in a story I hope you never finish.
Down to this park that meets a beach
That I hadn’t seen before,
And there you were, but you didn’t see me.
You weren’t looking out or down or around,
But up, up at the sky above the water
That swirled with colors of purple and red
As the clouds danced around above you
In other worldly steps with the stars.
Now, I saw it too but I knew right away
That they were dancing for you.
And with every twitch of wonder in your eyes
The colors got brighter and the movements
Of the moons and stars more elegant.
I had no idea you were a choreographer.
Really though, part of me did know,
Because although you always denied being an artist
I’ve said from day one that
Every little move you make when we’re together
Is a chapter in a story I hope you never finish.
Monday, February 21, 2011
40 Ruthellen Way
It was December of 2007 when I decided to steal Kelley’s wife. This was before I knew that him and I would transform Sawyer Motors into the most successful Ford dealership in New Hampshire, and I was still just a salesman at the time. Marissa wore a red dress to our company Christmas party, and her short blonde curls showed off her classic beauty. When she approached me, I tried to act like I didn’t know who she was.
“Greg Bonner,” I said, reaching out my right hand, “And you are?”
She smiled coyly, looking down at her dry martini. “Two fish are in a tank, one turns to the other and says ‘Do you know how to drive this thing?’” She broke into a cat-like smile as she looked up at me. Forty-five minutes later we had talked about India, the Kansas City Royals, and ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’, and I was sure that we were in love.
Five months later, my phone rang at the office.
“Greg Bonner at Sawyer Motors,” I answered.
“Hey, Sparkleboy,” Marissa whispered, “Are we all set?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Remember, 34 Turtleback Road. There should still be a ‘Sold’ sign out front. The key is under the wooden sailboat on the front porch. Kelley’s still here, but you should probably leave soon. He’s been ducking out early lately.”
“Bastard,” she said, “Okay, I’ll get going then.” She paused for a second. “Two hats are sitting on a hat rack, when one turns to the other and says ‘You stay here, I’ll go on a-head.’”
“Your delivery is getting better. I’ll see you soon, Mariss” I said, and as usual she hung up without saying any sort of a goodbye.
Kelley stood in my office just a few minutes later, hands in his Khaki pockets, his handsome face and short brown hair looking All-American as ever. He had played football at Delaware, which may not have been Notre Dame but still topped my spot on an intramural basketball team at Endicott.
“Got anything planned for this weekend?” the should-be Senator asked me.
“Not really,” I lied, while looking at my reflection in his shoes. “Just some wine and old movies. Yourself?”
“Oh you know, gotta clean the gutters and trim the hedges. Never a dull moment at 40 Ruthellen Way,” he said as he turned and walked out of my office, leaving the door open behind him.
He always referred to his home like that, flaunting his perfect address like he had invented it or something. Even so, there was no denying the purity of it. It was almost like it pardoned him of all his sins: his strip club visits, his fondness of reality television, even his inclination to end a converastion abruptly, which, judging by his wife, was a sexually transmitted affliction. I wondered how long it would be before I started sending e-mails that were half-finished or waltzing out of bars without finishing a story about the worst test drive I’d ever taken.
I got up, still pondering this question, and closed the door to my office. I had expected a wave of emotion, but much later, like three months down the road when I ran into Kelley at the grocery store and saw him buying a month’s worth of T.V. dinners. Somehow it had crept up on me, and as I sat back down at my desk, I began to cry. My sobs were short and silly, reminding me of Marissa’s jokes. The only difference was my tears had never resided at 40 Ruthellen Way.
“Greg Bonner,” I said, reaching out my right hand, “And you are?”
She smiled coyly, looking down at her dry martini. “Two fish are in a tank, one turns to the other and says ‘Do you know how to drive this thing?’” She broke into a cat-like smile as she looked up at me. Forty-five minutes later we had talked about India, the Kansas City Royals, and ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’, and I was sure that we were in love.
Five months later, my phone rang at the office.
“Greg Bonner at Sawyer Motors,” I answered.
“Hey, Sparkleboy,” Marissa whispered, “Are we all set?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Remember, 34 Turtleback Road. There should still be a ‘Sold’ sign out front. The key is under the wooden sailboat on the front porch. Kelley’s still here, but you should probably leave soon. He’s been ducking out early lately.”
“Bastard,” she said, “Okay, I’ll get going then.” She paused for a second. “Two hats are sitting on a hat rack, when one turns to the other and says ‘You stay here, I’ll go on a-head.’”
“Your delivery is getting better. I’ll see you soon, Mariss” I said, and as usual she hung up without saying any sort of a goodbye.
Kelley stood in my office just a few minutes later, hands in his Khaki pockets, his handsome face and short brown hair looking All-American as ever. He had played football at Delaware, which may not have been Notre Dame but still topped my spot on an intramural basketball team at Endicott.
“Got anything planned for this weekend?” the should-be Senator asked me.
“Not really,” I lied, while looking at my reflection in his shoes. “Just some wine and old movies. Yourself?”
“Oh you know, gotta clean the gutters and trim the hedges. Never a dull moment at 40 Ruthellen Way,” he said as he turned and walked out of my office, leaving the door open behind him.
He always referred to his home like that, flaunting his perfect address like he had invented it or something. Even so, there was no denying the purity of it. It was almost like it pardoned him of all his sins: his strip club visits, his fondness of reality television, even his inclination to end a converastion abruptly, which, judging by his wife, was a sexually transmitted affliction. I wondered how long it would be before I started sending e-mails that were half-finished or waltzing out of bars without finishing a story about the worst test drive I’d ever taken.
I got up, still pondering this question, and closed the door to my office. I had expected a wave of emotion, but much later, like three months down the road when I ran into Kelley at the grocery store and saw him buying a month’s worth of T.V. dinners. Somehow it had crept up on me, and as I sat back down at my desk, I began to cry. My sobs were short and silly, reminding me of Marissa’s jokes. The only difference was my tears had never resided at 40 Ruthellen Way.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Selected Poetry - A Collection
The American Dream
People say The Dream is changing.
Deal with it.
Sell your truck,
Downsize,
Spend smarter,
Eat less,
Read more,
Learn Spanish,
Love better,
Lower expectations
(Especially of our “icons”).
And most of all don’t complain,
It’s really, really not helping.
The Big Finish
This is the solution.
The necessary alternative
To years in a nursing home
And old age.
Six months before my 60th birthday
I reminisce 10,000 feet above the ground.
I had a good run, a great one mostly,
And the future offers little more than
Chronic health problems and
The steady disintegration of the body
That once popped jump shots into hoops
Over hot blacktop down at the city park
And once could hike mountains for days at a time
Just for the fun of it.
Now I can still climb the stairs,
But barely,
And living to see the day I can’t
Would just be too much for me.
This seems like the right way to go,
Skydiving with no parachute,
Naked,
Right into the middle of the Super Bowl.
The Catcher - A Poem for the memory of J.D. Salinger
Last night another big one fell.
There’s fewer left everyday.
Someday there might be none,
And then what?
Who will tell us when
To kill the rock stars now?
There are no more bananafish.
Sick Day
I woke up sick today.
I wasn’t positive at first,
But now I’m sure
Because all I wanna do
Is watch re-runs and take naps
With my gallon of water by my side
(I’m out of cups again).
I should be writing
Or working out
Or accomplishing
Any number of tasks
That need doing.
All that can wait, though,
Until my head stops feeling
Like it’s stuffed as full as a piñata.
I wonder if there’s candy in there?
That’s the fever talking.
Holden Caulfield has checked out.
How To Feel Alive
We showed up late to miss the opening act,
The kind of bold move you only make
When you’ve been drinking
And you have tickets to see your favorite band.
A group of diehards who know all their songs
And memorize set lists of every show they see,
We held our heads high and our spirits higher.
The mass of tie dye moved about anxiously
In anticipation. As the band emerged onto the stage
The chants and the pipes sparked up together at once.
“Umphrey’s! Umphrey’s!” we yelled,
And the scene could best be described
In their own words:
“The air felt different at the start of the show
As every breath resembled smoke”.
They began to play and those who had not
induced euphoria on themselves already
Were now forced into it and beyond.
Love in the Zombie Apocalypse
Love is learning how to use a twelve gauge
When the flesh eating monsters tear down your girlfriends door.
Love is sprinting out through the chaos and anarchy to the car defenseless,
Just to move it closer so she doesn’t have to risk her life
anymore than she has to.
Love is ignoring warnings to fend for yourself and forget all others
When you agree to her sobbing pleas to go back inside for the dog.
Love is holding her hand tight as you purposely ram your car
Into the stumbling masses who crowd the once civilized streets,
Hoping to god you inflicted enough damage to keep them down on the blood stained pavement.
Love is trying your best to make it out alive together,
And knowing that if they get her, you’re going down too
But you’re taking as many of those zombie fucks with you as possible.
That’s love.
Move
I want my words to move like you.
I want them to tell of beauty and pain and dreams and death.
I want my words to dance on the page like you dance on stage,
And to have the flexibility you have, and the stability, and the confidence.
I want my words to make you dance the way your dance has made me write,
And even though this poems for you I hope others feel like dancing too.
I want my words to be as soft and as smooth as your skin
And as full of wonder as your eyes.
I want my words to spring and kick and pirouette,
To shine and shock then fade to black.
I want my words to command the spotlight
And do with it what they will,
And I want my words to get your attention
And hold it like you hold your breath
As you wait for my next word.
People say The Dream is changing.
Deal with it.
Sell your truck,
Downsize,
Spend smarter,
Eat less,
Read more,
Learn Spanish,
Love better,
Lower expectations
(Especially of our “icons”).
And most of all don’t complain,
It’s really, really not helping.
The Big Finish
This is the solution.
The necessary alternative
To years in a nursing home
And old age.
Six months before my 60th birthday
I reminisce 10,000 feet above the ground.
I had a good run, a great one mostly,
And the future offers little more than
Chronic health problems and
The steady disintegration of the body
That once popped jump shots into hoops
Over hot blacktop down at the city park
And once could hike mountains for days at a time
Just for the fun of it.
Now I can still climb the stairs,
But barely,
And living to see the day I can’t
Would just be too much for me.
This seems like the right way to go,
Skydiving with no parachute,
Naked,
Right into the middle of the Super Bowl.
The Catcher - A Poem for the memory of J.D. Salinger
Last night another big one fell.
There’s fewer left everyday.
Someday there might be none,
And then what?
Who will tell us when
To kill the rock stars now?
There are no more bananafish.
Sick Day
I woke up sick today.
I wasn’t positive at first,
But now I’m sure
Because all I wanna do
Is watch re-runs and take naps
With my gallon of water by my side
(I’m out of cups again).
I should be writing
Or working out
Or accomplishing
Any number of tasks
That need doing.
All that can wait, though,
Until my head stops feeling
Like it’s stuffed as full as a piñata.
I wonder if there’s candy in there?
That’s the fever talking.
Holden Caulfield has checked out.
How To Feel Alive
We showed up late to miss the opening act,
The kind of bold move you only make
When you’ve been drinking
And you have tickets to see your favorite band.
A group of diehards who know all their songs
And memorize set lists of every show they see,
We held our heads high and our spirits higher.
The mass of tie dye moved about anxiously
In anticipation. As the band emerged onto the stage
The chants and the pipes sparked up together at once.
“Umphrey’s! Umphrey’s!” we yelled,
And the scene could best be described
In their own words:
“The air felt different at the start of the show
As every breath resembled smoke”.
They began to play and those who had not
induced euphoria on themselves already
Were now forced into it and beyond.
Love in the Zombie Apocalypse
Love is learning how to use a twelve gauge
When the flesh eating monsters tear down your girlfriends door.
Love is sprinting out through the chaos and anarchy to the car defenseless,
Just to move it closer so she doesn’t have to risk her life
anymore than she has to.
Love is ignoring warnings to fend for yourself and forget all others
When you agree to her sobbing pleas to go back inside for the dog.
Love is holding her hand tight as you purposely ram your car
Into the stumbling masses who crowd the once civilized streets,
Hoping to god you inflicted enough damage to keep them down on the blood stained pavement.
Love is trying your best to make it out alive together,
And knowing that if they get her, you’re going down too
But you’re taking as many of those zombie fucks with you as possible.
That’s love.
Move
I want my words to move like you.
I want them to tell of beauty and pain and dreams and death.
I want my words to dance on the page like you dance on stage,
And to have the flexibility you have, and the stability, and the confidence.
I want my words to make you dance the way your dance has made me write,
And even though this poems for you I hope others feel like dancing too.
I want my words to be as soft and as smooth as your skin
And as full of wonder as your eyes.
I want my words to spring and kick and pirouette,
To shine and shock then fade to black.
I want my words to command the spotlight
And do with it what they will,
And I want my words to get your attention
And hold it like you hold your breath
As you wait for my next word.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Pyromania!
When I was twelve, fire was awesome. I’m not sure how or when it happened but at some point, playing with fire surpassed basketball, kickball and tag on the streets of my neighborhood. My good friend Ben had a hobby of stealing lighters from the local convenience store, and we’d play “The Nose Game” to figure out who would steal the Lysol spray from their parents bathrooms to help create the torch. We’d take our homemade torches out to the neighborhood park and have a grand old time out there in the fields and the man made dunes behind the hill. Most of the people who walked through these dunes were either high or drunk, and many of them were homeless as well.In our town a bunch of kids playing with fire would have been met with several PTA meetings and mandatory fire safety classes in all public schools, so we committed our acts of minor arson and pyromania in seclusion, around people who at worst ignored us and at best crowded around to watch as we burned someone’s shoe while it was still on their foot or sprayed a soda bottle full of aerosol and lit it on fire to blow it up like a bottle rocket. Eventually we started getting bored with these simple tricks, so we’d switch it up: One day PJ would ride his bike through the flames created by double torches, the next day we’d light a stuffed animal on fire and play hot potato with it. Finally, our friend Mike got his hands on some black powder, the kind they use in shotgun shells or other minor explosives. These and CO2 cartridges became our new best friends, using them to blow up dollhouses and film it, that sort of thing. It was the most fun you can imagine at twelve years old, just a bunch of kids running around some old train tracks blowing up old toys and spraying fire at each other for fun after school. It was real, I think that’s what we all liked about it so much.
This obsession with all things hot and dangerous led to the production of our first short film, the appropriately titled Playing With Fire. Mainly it was a compilation of our favorite fire tricks and various other mischief around town, set to the music of The White Stripes and the theme from Peter Gunn. MTV’s Jackass was huge at the time, but that was only part of our inspiration. We were also influenced by Saturday Night Live, Led Zeppelin, George W. Bush, Nirvana, Lord of Illusions (an awful film we all had seen together at a sleepover), the 1960’s, our 7th grade math teacher and our parents disapproval. Some of these influences got references in the film’s credits, some did not.
I don’t know if it was the lack of recognition or the material in the film itself that my mother was upset about at first. She had come home from the gym one day and found the tape in our VCR, clearly labeled “DO NOT EVER FUCKING WATCH THIS, MOM.” She ignored the warning, and watched the tape in its entirety that afternoon, supposedly. I’ve never actually believed that she was able to make it to the end with all the vulgar language and physical violence. My mother never had a stomach for that sort of thing. Regardless, she read me the riot act and threatened to call the parents of all those involved in the production of The Monstrosity, as my household was now calling it.
I managed to talk her out of becoming the village crier, in return for me promising not to steal my father’s camcorder ever again and to immediately throw away all six of the lighters I owned. This was a good firm reaction on her part; strong enough to send a message, but weak enough to have loopholes. The six lighters she had found had only been my reserve stash; mere backups for the three I kept on my person at all times and the two I kept hidden behind the back fridge for emergency situations. As far as the camera situation, my father worked days, and my mother didn’t know a camcorder from a kumquat. That being said, our film crew was back in business 48 hours after the Firegate scandal broke, and we were out for blood this time. The critical and commercial response to our first film had been overwhelmingly positive, at least among our classmates, and Firegate had added an element of controversy that made it even sexier. We had to capitalize with a well-timed follow up that would shock and scare our captive audience.
The production was harder this time; this film had to be different. It had to be more deliberate and cruel, and it was right from the start. The opening scene involved one of our gang pouring a huge amount of salt right onto an unsuspecting slug, and we progressed from there. We staged an egg fight between all of us at the park and pelted each other so bad we had welts the next day. We covered our friend in potato chips and made him lay on the boardwalk while seagulls and pigeons picked them off his body. We glued quarters to the ground, and when old ladies bent down to pick them up, PJ would run up and perform humping motions in the air behind them while giving the camera a thumbs up. It was pure artistic genius. The White Stripes were replaced by Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith, trading new raw sound for old raw sound. It was our golden age, creatively speaking.
Salted debuted to a crowd of about sixteen after two solid months of hard production. The film was praised as “hilarious,” “side splitting,” and “fucking sick.” It was as proud as we ever were of our exploits, mainly because we actually had tangible evidence of our debauchery for once. Usually, it was just our stories. Actually, I guess that’s all the films really were, too. They were just a little harder to ignore.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Thank God
I hate business trips. I hate business trips and I hate television and the movies for convincing me that they would be paid vacations where I could goof off all the time and get my boss drunk. I hate the endless meetings that are followed by dinner with “colleagues” where small talk becomes the national pastime until some idiot has one too many Makers Mark’s and overshares about his personal life. I hate leaving the comforts of home only to work harder than usual and meet crooked, driven executives from other branches and regions that have no use for my Dallas charm. I hate business trips.
Now, I’m sure Seattle, Santa Barbara, Nashville, Myrtle Beach and Fort Lauderdale are all wonderful places. I can even admit that Buffalo, Atlanta, Newark and Minneapolis may have their charms. However between the car service, the hotel, and the conference centers there usually isn’t much room for interpretation or judgment. These are about all I ever see of a place on a business trip, so usually I don’t have much to say about a place once I’ve returned.
The sole exception to this was Los Angeles. As a God fearing Texan, I shudder when I remember that this place is actually called the City of Angels. Never in my life have I ever seen such an abomination. Everyone is jaded, no one is righteous or just, and everyones trying to get laid – or rather whore themselves out. After my second trip there – one which featured a stoned waiter, a bipolar bell hop and a transvestite cab driver – I vowed never to return to that unholy city. As it turned out, the choice would not be mine.
“Keller was a real shark in his day,” Jim told me, as if that was supposed to excite me about the prospect of traveling with a guy who had retired three years ago and had no real interest in the company anymore. For Keller, this probably was a vacation.
“I can’t wait,” I lied through my teeth. “Where are we going?”
“Los Angeles.”
Fuck. “Really?” I asked.
“I know, I know. I spoil you with these sunshine and palm trees trips, but I hope you remember to get some work done,” Jim said while I pictured myself beating him to a pulp with the lamp on his desk. “Keller will stay on top of you, I’m not worried.”
I drove home from work that day with my head in a fog. Los fuckin’ Angeles, with Keller, the retired shark. Chalk another one on to my losing streak. I stopped for a quick bite to eat; there was never any food in the house since Jane left in August. The pregnant waitress flirted with me shamelessly, unaware that I was the victim of a divorce and custody battle gone wrong. She might have been cute, but all I saw when I looked at her was sin and loss. I glanced at the T.V. At least the Mavs were winning.
That’s when it occurred to me. I had forgotten completely about this weekend’s Western roadtrip: the Mavericks were in L.A. for a Sunday afternoon game with the Clippers. I loved going to basketball games live, but the success of our home team had driven ticket prices higher each year. Surely the lowly Clippers had tickets that were easier to get, I thought. No one could possibly be devoted to a team that horrible. I could see the team I loved, that I dedicated my passion to year in and year out, play for mere pennies on the dollar.
I paid the bill excitedly and drove home, eager to look up tickets online. I would buy one for Keller, I thought, as a gesture of respect and goodwill. Then he couldn’t possibly turn me down. The prospect was still percolating bliss through my being when I passed through my front door and walked right to my computer. As I logged onto the Clippers ticket site, I felt my Blackberry vibrated in my pocket. I ignored this for the time being, manuevering through the internet to eventually purchase two center court tickets for a grand total of $24, about $40 less than a single similar ticket at the American Airlines Center in Dallas.
Once I had confirmed the order, I took out my phone and saw an e-mail from Jim. Attached was my boarding pass for Los Angeles, and as I remembered how much I hated LAX, a horrible thought dawned on me. What if Keller was a horrible person? Not in the sense of being a bad tipper or an axe murderer, but in the sense of having poor taste. What if Keller hated basketball as much as I hated L.A.? Or worse, what if he loved the “City of Angels” so much that he relished in it and insisted on showing me around the sinners paradise one shithole strip club at at time? I panicked, he was my elder and my superior, so I was essentially at his disposal. Purchasing the tickets may have seemed courteous at first, but I was forcing my agenda on him which was unwise and impolite.
It was also clear that I wouldn't be seeing Keller before the trip. He was a seasoned vet being called in for duty; he had no reason to show up at the office for a briefing or anything like that. His assignment was easy: he was coming along to make sure that I didn't go crazy plaster the hotel walls with my brains. Now, that's not to say that Jim or anyone else at the office knew I was slowly climbing out of the crater left by a catastrophic few months... but damn near everyone could see that I hadn't been myself lately, in a worst case scenario kind of way. I ate alone at lunch. I drank after work, but avoided the bars where my friends would be intentionally. I was reading a lot of Nietzsche. These symptoms of psychosis, or at least depression, were visible to all. Was this intentional on my part?
Whatever the case, Keller wasn't along to help close the deal. He was keeping an eye on the talented young headcase who was taking on a job that was well within his normal capabilities. Misery may love company, but true and total destruction requires absolute solitude. Keller was my link to society for this trip into the horrid city that scared me more than even my own thoughts.
I still had no idea what to do about the tickets as I drifted through a week of bullshit and preperation. The flight was scheduled for early morning Thursday, and as I left work on Wednesday I felt sick to my stomach. I decided against getting dinner on the way home, resolving instead to heat up some frozen pizza back at the house. I was going to be away from my home for four days, and I could use a heavy dose of it before I left. It was all I had kept in the divorce.
About two minutes after I got in my door, the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Paul. It's Cap Keller. I just wanted to call and touch base."
"Oh, yeah, great. We take off in about twelve hours, huh?"
"That's right," Keller said. His voice lacked the predatory nature of the shark he had once been. "What are your thoughts?"
"Well, I actually read over the briefing again today and it looks like we're in good shape," I answered.
"Good," he paused. "Actually, I kind of wanted to see what you'd like to do on Sunday before our return flight. We should have the deal closed by mid day Saturday at the latest, you know? I lived in L.A. back when I was first married, so I know the scene pretty well."
Christ, I thought. I was right. This man had spent the first few years of marital life diving head first into the full contact strip clubs of L.A. county. He was probably planning on buying me a dozen prostitutes after Sunday brunch, just so he could watch and get some sick kick out of it. My silence prompted him to speak.
"To be honest, I'm not really into much of it out there," he admitted, sounding defeated. "I just figured a younger guy like you would want to see some of the City..."
"No," I said, trying to sound tired rather than relieved. "I'm not really much for L.A. really. It's too..."
"Dirty," he concluded. "And compromised. I know. I never liked it, but my wife fed off the life force there, I guess."
Wow, I had hit the jackpot with a travel companion. This guy actually seemed to be on my page, somehow. Suddenly I was seeing Jim as a genius rather than a cruel operator. If someone was going to look after me, this Keller, the upstanding, honest citizen who succumbs to the needs of others was clearly the best candidate for the job. Perhaps for any job in the history of the world. I would have nominated him for Senator based on our brief exchange.
"Well," Keller started, "what are you into, Paul?"
It was more wide open than a foul shot. "Well, basketball mostly."
"Basketball! That's right! The Mavericks are in L.A. this weekend! You a big fan?"
"Oh, yeah," I said, "Huge. Once I nail enough of these business trips for Jim I plan on getting season tickets."
Keller chuckled at this. "Well, what do you say? Want me to snag us some tickets?"
Shit. If I had just had faith in the higher being and waited for things to work out, I wouldn't have even had to pay... oh, well. Too late now.
"Funny thing Cap, I kind of jumped the gun on that and already ordered a pair."
He exploded with laughter at this, taking great pleasure in the fact that he'd found out about my secret agenda. "That's great, I'm glad we'll have something to talk about on the plane tomorrow. A fan like you must really know his stuff about the game. I'd love to pick your brain."
Too good to be true. The guy even wanted to listen to me talk about basketball. "Sounds great," I said, "I'll see you in the morning?"
"That's right, have a nice night, Paul."
"Have a good one, Cap." Cap. Fucking Cap. This guy was clearly my new best pal. I was so excited to spend time with the basketball loving Christian who had dominated my profession for twenty-five years once upon a time that I could barely fall asleep that night. It was like waiting for Santa to come.
My alarm was actually welcome that morning, despite the early hour. I got ready fairly quickly, and the cab came right on time at 5:45. I was ready to meet this Keller character and start our assault on Los Angeles, business trips and all things unholy.
I tipped the cab driver way more than usual that morning, aspiring to show the courtesy I expected others to show me on this long West Coast adventure. I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and slung my backpack over my left shoulder. When I found the security line for our terminal, I saw Cap Keller waiting for me.
He was wearing a brown suit, jacket and all. I had ditched the blazer for this flight for the sake of comfort, but I now felt underdressed. He was almost bald, but short white hairs were visible above his wrinkled forehead and green eyes. He formed a close mouthed smile when he saw me approaching and realized that I was the boy wonder he was here to accompany.
"Pleased to meet you Paul," he said, thrusting his hand out towards me. I set my backpack down and shook his hand. He didn't have the commanding grip I expected, but no one's perfect.
"You too, Cap. You ready for this trip?"
"Ha, I'm never 'ready' for a work trip," he said, "but hey, weekend warriors, right? Oh, by the way, I've got to show you something." He unzipped him suitcase and pulled out a red baseball cap, hiding what was on it from my view.
I was curious; was this an expression of company pride? I had never seen a Oasis Education Corp. hat, but maybe it was from his day as a sales rep. Maybe it was a ritual: a lucky sales hat that he always wore on flights. I stood there waiting for an explanation.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Sure," I shrugged, confused by his excitement over a silly hat.
"Alright!" he exclaimed as he put the cap on his head. I was speechless.
It was a Los Angeles Clippers hat. A representation of the most unsuccessful franchise in the history of American professional sport... an emblem of loss. Yet he wore it with a smile... was it a joke?
"You're Mav's are goin down, buddy!" he said.
Nope. No joke here. This man was an honest-to-goodness Clippers fan. The personification of sorrow and dissapointment. Every season that began was like the start of a funeral for a fan like him, a slow procession towards a burial that most of the world was entirely unaware of and unconcerned with.
I was surely a miserable person all the way through my being at that point in my life, but I felt lucky at this moment. I hadn't been born into the tradition of unconditionally supporting a perennial loser. I had the constant comfort of knowing that the team I supported at least wasn't cursed. Things could be worse for me, I realized at that moment. My facial expression must have gave these thoughts away, because his smile dissapeared and he looked down with a defeated nod.
"Yeah," he said, "I know. It's rough."
Now, I’m sure Seattle, Santa Barbara, Nashville, Myrtle Beach and Fort Lauderdale are all wonderful places. I can even admit that Buffalo, Atlanta, Newark and Minneapolis may have their charms. However between the car service, the hotel, and the conference centers there usually isn’t much room for interpretation or judgment. These are about all I ever see of a place on a business trip, so usually I don’t have much to say about a place once I’ve returned.
The sole exception to this was Los Angeles. As a God fearing Texan, I shudder when I remember that this place is actually called the City of Angels. Never in my life have I ever seen such an abomination. Everyone is jaded, no one is righteous or just, and everyones trying to get laid – or rather whore themselves out. After my second trip there – one which featured a stoned waiter, a bipolar bell hop and a transvestite cab driver – I vowed never to return to that unholy city. As it turned out, the choice would not be mine.
“Keller was a real shark in his day,” Jim told me, as if that was supposed to excite me about the prospect of traveling with a guy who had retired three years ago and had no real interest in the company anymore. For Keller, this probably was a vacation.
“I can’t wait,” I lied through my teeth. “Where are we going?”
“Los Angeles.”
Fuck. “Really?” I asked.
“I know, I know. I spoil you with these sunshine and palm trees trips, but I hope you remember to get some work done,” Jim said while I pictured myself beating him to a pulp with the lamp on his desk. “Keller will stay on top of you, I’m not worried.”
I drove home from work that day with my head in a fog. Los fuckin’ Angeles, with Keller, the retired shark. Chalk another one on to my losing streak. I stopped for a quick bite to eat; there was never any food in the house since Jane left in August. The pregnant waitress flirted with me shamelessly, unaware that I was the victim of a divorce and custody battle gone wrong. She might have been cute, but all I saw when I looked at her was sin and loss. I glanced at the T.V. At least the Mavs were winning.
That’s when it occurred to me. I had forgotten completely about this weekend’s Western roadtrip: the Mavericks were in L.A. for a Sunday afternoon game with the Clippers. I loved going to basketball games live, but the success of our home team had driven ticket prices higher each year. Surely the lowly Clippers had tickets that were easier to get, I thought. No one could possibly be devoted to a team that horrible. I could see the team I loved, that I dedicated my passion to year in and year out, play for mere pennies on the dollar.
I paid the bill excitedly and drove home, eager to look up tickets online. I would buy one for Keller, I thought, as a gesture of respect and goodwill. Then he couldn’t possibly turn me down. The prospect was still percolating bliss through my being when I passed through my front door and walked right to my computer. As I logged onto the Clippers ticket site, I felt my Blackberry vibrated in my pocket. I ignored this for the time being, manuevering through the internet to eventually purchase two center court tickets for a grand total of $24, about $40 less than a single similar ticket at the American Airlines Center in Dallas.
Once I had confirmed the order, I took out my phone and saw an e-mail from Jim. Attached was my boarding pass for Los Angeles, and as I remembered how much I hated LAX, a horrible thought dawned on me. What if Keller was a horrible person? Not in the sense of being a bad tipper or an axe murderer, but in the sense of having poor taste. What if Keller hated basketball as much as I hated L.A.? Or worse, what if he loved the “City of Angels” so much that he relished in it and insisted on showing me around the sinners paradise one shithole strip club at at time? I panicked, he was my elder and my superior, so I was essentially at his disposal. Purchasing the tickets may have seemed courteous at first, but I was forcing my agenda on him which was unwise and impolite.
It was also clear that I wouldn't be seeing Keller before the trip. He was a seasoned vet being called in for duty; he had no reason to show up at the office for a briefing or anything like that. His assignment was easy: he was coming along to make sure that I didn't go crazy plaster the hotel walls with my brains. Now, that's not to say that Jim or anyone else at the office knew I was slowly climbing out of the crater left by a catastrophic few months... but damn near everyone could see that I hadn't been myself lately, in a worst case scenario kind of way. I ate alone at lunch. I drank after work, but avoided the bars where my friends would be intentionally. I was reading a lot of Nietzsche. These symptoms of psychosis, or at least depression, were visible to all. Was this intentional on my part?
Whatever the case, Keller wasn't along to help close the deal. He was keeping an eye on the talented young headcase who was taking on a job that was well within his normal capabilities. Misery may love company, but true and total destruction requires absolute solitude. Keller was my link to society for this trip into the horrid city that scared me more than even my own thoughts.
I still had no idea what to do about the tickets as I drifted through a week of bullshit and preperation. The flight was scheduled for early morning Thursday, and as I left work on Wednesday I felt sick to my stomach. I decided against getting dinner on the way home, resolving instead to heat up some frozen pizza back at the house. I was going to be away from my home for four days, and I could use a heavy dose of it before I left. It was all I had kept in the divorce.
About two minutes after I got in my door, the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Paul. It's Cap Keller. I just wanted to call and touch base."
"Oh, yeah, great. We take off in about twelve hours, huh?"
"That's right," Keller said. His voice lacked the predatory nature of the shark he had once been. "What are your thoughts?"
"Well, I actually read over the briefing again today and it looks like we're in good shape," I answered.
"Good," he paused. "Actually, I kind of wanted to see what you'd like to do on Sunday before our return flight. We should have the deal closed by mid day Saturday at the latest, you know? I lived in L.A. back when I was first married, so I know the scene pretty well."
Christ, I thought. I was right. This man had spent the first few years of marital life diving head first into the full contact strip clubs of L.A. county. He was probably planning on buying me a dozen prostitutes after Sunday brunch, just so he could watch and get some sick kick out of it. My silence prompted him to speak.
"To be honest, I'm not really into much of it out there," he admitted, sounding defeated. "I just figured a younger guy like you would want to see some of the City..."
"No," I said, trying to sound tired rather than relieved. "I'm not really much for L.A. really. It's too..."
"Dirty," he concluded. "And compromised. I know. I never liked it, but my wife fed off the life force there, I guess."
Wow, I had hit the jackpot with a travel companion. This guy actually seemed to be on my page, somehow. Suddenly I was seeing Jim as a genius rather than a cruel operator. If someone was going to look after me, this Keller, the upstanding, honest citizen who succumbs to the needs of others was clearly the best candidate for the job. Perhaps for any job in the history of the world. I would have nominated him for Senator based on our brief exchange.
"Well," Keller started, "what are you into, Paul?"
It was more wide open than a foul shot. "Well, basketball mostly."
"Basketball! That's right! The Mavericks are in L.A. this weekend! You a big fan?"
"Oh, yeah," I said, "Huge. Once I nail enough of these business trips for Jim I plan on getting season tickets."
Keller chuckled at this. "Well, what do you say? Want me to snag us some tickets?"
Shit. If I had just had faith in the higher being and waited for things to work out, I wouldn't have even had to pay... oh, well. Too late now.
"Funny thing Cap, I kind of jumped the gun on that and already ordered a pair."
He exploded with laughter at this, taking great pleasure in the fact that he'd found out about my secret agenda. "That's great, I'm glad we'll have something to talk about on the plane tomorrow. A fan like you must really know his stuff about the game. I'd love to pick your brain."
Too good to be true. The guy even wanted to listen to me talk about basketball. "Sounds great," I said, "I'll see you in the morning?"
"That's right, have a nice night, Paul."
"Have a good one, Cap." Cap. Fucking Cap. This guy was clearly my new best pal. I was so excited to spend time with the basketball loving Christian who had dominated my profession for twenty-five years once upon a time that I could barely fall asleep that night. It was like waiting for Santa to come.
My alarm was actually welcome that morning, despite the early hour. I got ready fairly quickly, and the cab came right on time at 5:45. I was ready to meet this Keller character and start our assault on Los Angeles, business trips and all things unholy.
I tipped the cab driver way more than usual that morning, aspiring to show the courtesy I expected others to show me on this long West Coast adventure. I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and slung my backpack over my left shoulder. When I found the security line for our terminal, I saw Cap Keller waiting for me.
He was wearing a brown suit, jacket and all. I had ditched the blazer for this flight for the sake of comfort, but I now felt underdressed. He was almost bald, but short white hairs were visible above his wrinkled forehead and green eyes. He formed a close mouthed smile when he saw me approaching and realized that I was the boy wonder he was here to accompany.
"Pleased to meet you Paul," he said, thrusting his hand out towards me. I set my backpack down and shook his hand. He didn't have the commanding grip I expected, but no one's perfect.
"You too, Cap. You ready for this trip?"
"Ha, I'm never 'ready' for a work trip," he said, "but hey, weekend warriors, right? Oh, by the way, I've got to show you something." He unzipped him suitcase and pulled out a red baseball cap, hiding what was on it from my view.
I was curious; was this an expression of company pride? I had never seen a Oasis Education Corp. hat, but maybe it was from his day as a sales rep. Maybe it was a ritual: a lucky sales hat that he always wore on flights. I stood there waiting for an explanation.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Sure," I shrugged, confused by his excitement over a silly hat.
"Alright!" he exclaimed as he put the cap on his head. I was speechless.
It was a Los Angeles Clippers hat. A representation of the most unsuccessful franchise in the history of American professional sport... an emblem of loss. Yet he wore it with a smile... was it a joke?
"You're Mav's are goin down, buddy!" he said.
Nope. No joke here. This man was an honest-to-goodness Clippers fan. The personification of sorrow and dissapointment. Every season that began was like the start of a funeral for a fan like him, a slow procession towards a burial that most of the world was entirely unaware of and unconcerned with.
I was surely a miserable person all the way through my being at that point in my life, but I felt lucky at this moment. I hadn't been born into the tradition of unconditionally supporting a perennial loser. I had the constant comfort of knowing that the team I supported at least wasn't cursed. Things could be worse for me, I realized at that moment. My facial expression must have gave these thoughts away, because his smile dissapeared and he looked down with a defeated nod.
"Yeah," he said, "I know. It's rough."
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