Much More Than A Sandwich

MC, Janet, and the vic

Good luck finding Crestone on a map.  It’s a tiny town in southern Colorado at the base of mountains.  A very small town with dirt roads and no stoplights.  Depending on who you ask, you’ll also learn about conspiracies, UFO’s, and the drones.

Some say there’s a certain magic about the area.  The Crestone vicinity is sacred to American Indians  It is a spiritual and healing buffet ranging from over 20 monasteries, lithium hot springs, and energy vortexes.  I’m not going to pretend to know what a vortex is, but I read it’s similar to the rotation left by a moving object, like the wake of a speeding boat.

I pulled in front of the pizza place in town just after noon.  As if on cue, a half dozen people gathered, staring and pointing to the sky.  I asked and a man said, “We’re looking at the UFO up there.”  He went on the say that it’d been up there a while, changing shapes.  I didn’t see it right away, but then saw what looked like a large, bright star.  I wasn’t overly impressed, although I will say that it was way too early in the day for stars of any size.  I got more interested when another appeared, and moved up and down.  Someone showed me a close-up of the object taken by their big-lensed camera.  It was egg-shaped, no windows or lights.  Though certainly unidentified, I think they were of this earth.  Just have to do better than floating orbs to convince me otherwise. 

Someone pointed out airplane vapor trails very high in the sky.  “There they are again.”  To some people, everything is a conspiracy, even a Southwest flight from Denver to Dallas.  UFO’s and drones be damned, I got tired of watching after ten minutes.  I’m glad I did, because the real show was inside the pizza place.

“My name is Marilyn, but I’m now Monte Cristo because when I moved here that’s what the mountains named me.”  For the next few hours, when I went to the bathroom I made sure my seat at the bar was saved.

The two women sat on one side of the bar’s corner and I sat on the other.  Early 60’s, drinking white wine, I guessed they were retired, wannabe artsy types.  More money than knowledge of western art, their houses filled with paintings of rodeo cowboys, bronze eagle sculptures, and the obligatory wooden totem pole in the yard.  One wore a weathered and bent cowboy hat, probably exactly how she purchased it at Bob’s Cowboy Hat Emporium.

Oh, how wrong I was.

“Well, I’ll just call you MC,” I said.  Told them my name, didn’t mention I hadn‘t heard from the mountains.

Janet was MC’s drinking companion.  MC displayed her magic the minute she opened her mouth.  It took about five minutes of conversation for Janet to spill, “When my mother died, I went to Florida to sell her house and I was institutionalized.”  Only the UFO landing next to my car to offload Elvis atop a unicorn could pry me from my seat.  I never asked, but I’m pretty she wasn’t institutionalized for moving pencils with her mind, like the Travolta character in Phenomenon. 

Neither one was much for a single train of thought.  Like talking to a couple of five year olds.  No doubt the 60’s had its impact.  A wave of panic swept through me when I thought of these two enticing me into a three-way, then murdering me.  My dismembered remains would never be found.

Eventually, I knew someone would ask my sign.  Janet didn’t disappoint, but when I asked her to guess, she gave up after five tries.  “I’m Leo with Pisces rising,” I said.  Years ago, someone told me the rising part.  No idea what it meant.  Just said it to fit in.  When Janet disagreed, based on my birth time, Dave, sitting next to me, stepped in and did the math.  I was correct.

Dave was the town’s jack-of-all-trades.  Since Crestone didn’t have much in the way of industrial parks, I presume he wasn‘t the only one.  Though it sounded like he made a living at it  The longer we talked, I found that wasn’t necessarily so.

Dave could have made a few dollars as a Kevin Costner look-alike.  He was divorced with a daughter, for whom, like any parent, he said would do anything.  Unfortunately, during a tough financial time that “anything” turned out to be a federal crime.

He was arrested at a small airport by dozens of well-armed DEA agents as he tried to ship 20 lbs. of pot out of state.  Friends set Dave up.  He took a plea.  It’s his first offense of any kind and so he hopes for a sentence on the lighter side of the seven years maximum.  If there was ever someone in need of my buying them a beer.

I talked to Dave for quite a while and walked away knowing he was a decent guy who did something really, really stupid.  I’m hoping the judge sees it the same way.

Next on the menu was a man and his two young daughters.  He wore what looked like a knit turban.  Dave told me that when unwrapped, his dreadlocks fell to the ground, something I imagine my back hair doing in another 10 years.  I spent the next hour or so talking to his girls, who took Janet and MC’s places at the bar.  Ice cream was their poison.  Their dad mingled around the bar with the other locals, keeping an eye on the stranger talking to his kids.  I went over and introduced myself, telling him that at least he’d know the creepy guy’s name.  We both laughed.  The girls were 10ish.  Bright, funny kids who seemed to be doing rather well without Facebook, cell phones, TV, and I’m guessing, Sunny-D (the fake orange juice drink that’s loaded with high fructose corn syrup).

It was time to wave good-bye after talking with Chris.  He was an EMT with a radio show on the local NPR station.  Way too normal.  Kind of creeped me out.  Probably didn’t even know his rising sign.

The Scar

Tom the intern knew his job
Watch the panel all night long
Should the red light start to blink
Call for help, no need to think

Hours into days
Was he being hazed?
Weeks into months
Not a blink, not even once.

Then one night, nearly his last
At a time best suited for a nap
Did he see a blink? Was he losing his mind?
Some kind of focus he had to find.

Blinking the light, a vivid red
He fixed his eye, focused ahead
Ear to the phone, he heard a ring
Someone picked up and said, “Oliver King.”

“Tom the intern…my last name is Fink
The red light before me just started to blink.”
The phone was hung up and an alarm sound
Strangers rushed in and circled around

Someone had a manual
Said his name was Samuel
Opened to a page that had a chart
Said, “Have to call Art.  He’s pretty smart.”

“Oliver King, my name is Art
I’m the one who made this chart.
It explains the red light
That stayed dark ‘til tonight.

This was a project some years ago
We used a device that was just so-so
It was the first and was oh so small
But truth be told, it didn’t work at all.

Was to look at the human brain
To understand the thoughts it contained
We‘d learn how they think, that‘s the place to begin
But all it really did was get under their skin

Most just itched and then they’d scratch
And we thought to send out another batch
We just agreed the project would go to waste
This species perhaps wasn’t really our taste

It was easy enough those aliens we’d abduct
Not much smarter than the chickens they plucked
Just snatch them up while they slept
Never believed, always told it was dreamt”

This day on earth a man first shaved his head
He noticed a scar and watched as it bled
Art watched a screen as the light kept a blink
He knew what the man was about to think

The implant was working, should they turn it off?
All this because a man had shaved his coif?
Before deciding, he needed to know
What was this thought, the man could not let go?

From this idea the human’s brain was so perplexed
So Art asked other Martians, “What is sex?”

The Kid

This round of NPR's Three Minute Fiction contest had the following challenge: Write a story in which a character finds an object that he or she has no intention of returning. It can be no more than 600 words.  My Entry is titled above:

................................................................................................................................................

“Pardon me, Sir…” was how it started.  It ended with him slipping a beautifully crafted piece of someone else’s writing into his briefcase.

Had he worn his ear buds, he’d have ignored the kid’s request for “an honest opinion.”  Instead he replied, “Sure, I’ll read it.”  He spent the next few minutes reading what he felt certain was the winning entry in NPR’s Three Minute Fiction contest.  Problem was he was entering the same contest.

He was Dr. Leo McKenna, the self-proclaimed Dr. Grammar, Winona Community College’s healer of the grammatically inept.  He also expanded students’ reading horizons from website blurbs, social networking dribble, and science textbooks, to the likes of Twain, Dickens, and Shakespeare.

He’d never seen the kid before, and he’d logged enough hours grading papers in that coffee shop, that he recognized everyone.  Just a typical high school kid.  Nothing noteworthy except he was the only one in the place without a book or laptop, opting for pen and loose leaf paper.

“Excuse me.  Do you know if someone is coming back for these?”  It wasn’t until an employee found it under some newspapers that he’d realized the kid had left, and without his story.  McKenna took the pages and laughed, “My damn friend.  He’s so forgetful.”  He put the competitor’s work in his briefcase, adding, “I’ll hang onto them.”  He laughed to himself about the baffling, still-developing, teenage brain.
 
“If not for me, the story would’ve been tossed,” he justified.  It wasn’t stealing.  He saved great writing from a landfill.  Besides, maybe next time the kid would learn to check around for his belongings.

“It’s all for the best,” he told himself.  His story might not be the winner, but when you’re already the second best entry coming out of the neighborhood coffee shop, things aren’t too promising.  Besides, he was so sick of the comments.  “It’s just NPR.  Since when does a radio station know anything about writing?”  But what really got him was when friends stated, ”Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”

Maybe this was his chance.

So he checked and rechecked his entry, a masterfully painted, visual picture sure to captivate the reader, while maintaining a style that would reduce Strunk and White to joyous sobs.  However, the simple fact remained.  The kid was a natural and he was not.  He had the gift the professor never had.  McKenna struggled putting together the words to describe such talent, proving his exact point.

He pondered his options for awhile, but there wasn’t much McKenna could do, so he just typed.  Without motive or purpose.  No filtering or editing of any sort.  Just putting fingers to keys, words to cyber-paper.  His tunnel-vision focus muting all noise and movement.

He stared at the Save File screen.  “Pardon me, Sir.” said the kid, having returned and pointing to his sheets beside McKenna, “Is that my story?”

McKenna stared at the handwritten sheets, then at the kid and replied, “No, that’s my story.”  The befuddled kid stared as McKenna showed him his laptop.  “You story is right here.  I entered it verbatim and I’ve been trying to figure out how I could submit it on behalf of a brilliant, albeit, absentminded, young author.  Now that you’ve returned, I’ll let you do the honors.”  He spun around the laptop and the kid sat.

McKenna smiled and placed the handwritten story in front of the kid.  He handed him a pen and continued, “But before you do, you’re signing my copy.  After your first Pulitzer Prize, it’ll be worth big bucks.”

A Very Covert Christmas

 Note: The challenge by writing coach was, someplace in the story, to include the phrase "she couldn't help herself from planting the seeds of doubt."


“When I was little, we’d leave cookies and milk out for a Santa, and on Christmas Day there’d be nothing but crumbs.”  Sitting across from her 9 year old niece, she couldn’t stop herself from planting a seed of doubt.   “Anyone can eat cookies and drink milk, Aunt Jane.” Fiona countered dismissively.  Though Jane never expected the kid to bite, it helped reinforce the career CIA operative’s belief in what she was up against.

Jane Davis accepted her situation and she really felt like she was growing into the role.  Guardian to her niece, Fiona Davis, daughter of her only sibling, Jeffrey.  She wasn’t able to make it back for the funeral, but knew the circumstances meant that her career would take a sudden turn.

At 40, she wasn’t holding her breath about marriage, but she never really saw herself as a mom.  Just not something those of her gender did in this line of work.

She’d spent the majority of the last 15 years on various overseas assignments, all where she served as an Operations Officer in the Clandestine Service of the Central Intelligence Agency.  Her official job description included “establish strong human relationships resulting in high-value intelligence.”  She recruited and ran sources, paying people to spy for the United States, and she excelled at it.

None of that meant much now.  With her brother and sister-in-law dying in a car accident, and their will naming Jane as Fiona’s guardian, Jane was on indefinite leave from The Company.  Money from life insurance policies allowed her to focus on Fiona.

In just under a year, she’d grown to adore the child.  It was why she was pretty sure her CIA career was over.  Fiona didn’t need to be uprooted from the only home she’d known, and Jane had little interest in working out of DC.

With their first Christmas less than two months away, Jane got a feel for Fiona’s beliefs, or in this case, disbeliefs, and Jane decided, “Operation Save SC” was on.  One of the great CIA spooks would leave no doubt as to the existence of Santa Claus.  “Besides,” she thought, “this kid is growing up too fast already.  She could use Santa in her life.”

With the cookie story failing to impress, she knew she needed to plant seeds of Santa in other ways.  She had about a month to pull this off.  As long as on 25 December, Fiona believed in the miracle of St. Nick, the Op would be a success.

She asked herself what things convince, or dispel, a child that Santa exists?  Where were her exposures?  So Jane started making her list, and she laughed, “Hell, yeah, she wouldn’t need to check it twice.”

So Jane created an employment application for the local mall, including the disclaimer that “the employee will respond as Santa Claus during all work hours”, and agrees to represent the true Santa Claus, listing specific traits of the man himself.

Santa getting down the chimney presented a few issues.  She could hear it, “Auntie, some people don’t even have a chimney.”  Fiona would also question anyone fitting down their’s.  Jane would simply point out that, in the old days chimney’s were bigger and everyone had one to heat their house.  Though Santa prefers a chimney, he can use a window or door.  Sometimes he has to use a door because the toys are so big.

Next issue: time zones.  Santa makes time stand still on Christmas?  He’s so fast, he moves at the speed of light, and presents magically appear?  This was a tough sell.  She knew all the words in the world wouldn’t convince her of this one.

She needed to blow the kid’s mind.  Luckily, she had connections with the greatest deceivers in the world.

When the time came, no one noticed when two vans, of various disguise, parked on Jane’s street and two on the street behind, forming the corners of a large square perimeter around her house.  The technology inside so advanced that when operational, you’d never notice.  Gone where the days of antennae or satellite dishes.

So when Christmas Eve came, Jane was glad Fiona slept soundly.  Gifts were in place.  Santa’s cookies were eaten.  Feet wiped on the white rug, mimicking good manners the Christmas legend would certainly possess.  Remnants of devoured carrots strewn on the roof, appreciated by his flight crew.  Attention to detail.  Doubtful Fiona would want roof access, but if she did, Jane had her.

Show time.

Jane leaned into her sleeping marvel, “Fiona….Fiona, he was here.  Santa was here!”, she whispered with tempered elation as she rubbed her back, her adrenalin surge reminded her of when she infiltrated Hezbollah with a prized, high-level informant.

As they looked over the evidence and gifts, there was a clatter on the roof, that on any other night would make you think a repairmen where working overtime, but perfectly fitting for the night.  “What the…is he still here!” Jane said, crouching eye-to-eye, then taking Fiona’s hand and charging out the front door.

The roof agent lay flat on the roof, out of view.  When agents in the vans heard the Go word in their earpieces, they lit up the sky.  The four holographic beacons projected perfectly on the roof .

When Fiona and Jane turned to look at the roof, they saw a sight that baffled the child for years to come.  With a pull of the reins, a sled pulling by eight reindeer vaulted into the sky.  Santa Claus looked to the side, saw Fiona, smiled and blew the girl a kiss.  Jane, tears pooling in her eyes, smiled, then the agent in her kicked in.  “Please God, don’t let her ask about Rudolph.”  Noticing a certain red nose not guiding the sleigh tonight.

Teddy Bear and the Alaskan Bares

Note: This is dedicated to John Carlson: a travel companion, drinking buddy, and former co-worker.  He is a kind man, good friend, and simply a damn, good guy.  John, I can't believe we lived so close to each other in Atlanta and saw each other so little.  I know I speak for so many others---I just can't believe you're gone.  

Damn it, Carlson.


If you’ve never been to Alaska, you owe it to yourself to check it out. The raw beauty will blow your mukluks clean off your feet.  Glaciers, mountains, the Northern Lights, and for me…bares.

My Alaskan journey took place in February 1986, when some sunlight was returning to the area.  I was joined by Maureen, Mark, and John.  Maureen was a cool, easygoing chick who would’ve done well in the 60’s.  Mark, the burly, offensive lineman type who’s good to have on your side if there’s a rumble.  John’s a Long Islander who looks like an off-the-boat Irishman, forced to avoid the sun.  He’s also quite flappable and prudish, like any good Irish Catholic.

Here’s some news, Alaskans like their alcoholic beverages; great, something in common.  That weekend was Anchorage’s Fur Rendezvous (aka Fur Rondy), a festival featuring dogsled races, a parade, but from what I could tell, its purpose was to sell you a button and get the booze pouring.

During our first night on the town, I encountered two men that I’m pretty sure would’ve fought me for 1) Drinking a screwdriver, 2) Wearing a red shirt.  I think the second guy was part bull.  A learning experience for sure.

The population of Alaska is 99.4666% men and the remainder, some quite discerning ladies.  Men without women, living in winter darkness, simply put---want to fight.  Red shirt wearing, screwdriver drinking outsiders are evidently a prime target.

The morning’s hangover delayed our arrival at Portage glacier until early afternoon.  That’s one big piece of slippery ice.  A few miles down the road was the perfect thawing place called The Bird House Bar.  The t-shirt I purchased noted its address as 33rd and Bird.  32nd and 34th were nowhere in sight.

The Bird House was part cabin, part shoebox.  I’m not sure where its fame came from, but it’s a fair guess that freezing tourists from the glacier needed a place to recover.  Everything inside was in some stage of the log to lumber transition.  The bar was solid wood, bar stools were logs.  It’s a staple stuff on the walls and ceiling place.  Ceiling reserved for bras, of course.  We found a table away from the bar and hoping clear liquids didn’t promote violence, I decided on a gin and tonic.

We nursed cocktails, wading back into the buzz pool.  A barrel-shaped man in his 40’s approached, introducing himself as Teddy Bear.  Let’s change that to a Teddy Bear-shaped man.  He’s apparently the welcoming committee.  I have to admit I didn’t listen too closely to him, not wanting to become too friendly with a local given my brief history.  “Do you folks know the history of the Birdhouse bar?” he asked with not his first beer of the day in hand.  Admittedly, I wasn’t versed in 33rd and Bird lore.  He goes on, sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher to me(wah wah woh wah wah), until I hear “naked.”  “Teddy Bear, could you repeat that last part?”  He told us this bar has a history of people getting naked.  About all he got out of us is a doubtful nod and Ok.  “And my goal today is to get everyone at this table naked.”  Awfully pie-in-the-sky, Mr. Bear.  We laughed and wished him luck with that.

The day went on and so did the drinks.  Teddy kept checking in on us, insisting naked was going to happen.  In all fairness, I should be clear that Teddy Bear couldn’t have given rat’s ass about seeing us three males naked.  Maureen was the obvious target.  We were collateral, naked damage.

Out of nowhere, Maureen started negotiating with him.  “If the guys take off all their clothes, I’ll strip down to my bra.”  Now, I have no problem with naked, it’s just that Maureen in her bra was not incentive, nothing against her bust.  Her ace-in-the-hole was John.  There were not enough bra-clad women in all of the Yukon to get him naked and she knew it.

Joining Teddy Bear was his sidekick, Darwin.  Seriously, a man who shares his name with the Father of the Theory of Evolution was using those much-evolved genetics to get strangers to disrobe.  I’m sure Teddy and Darwin have an impressive, naked resume.  They did show me a picture of some 20 naked patrons showing off their rear ends at that same bar, so there was precedence for naked at the Bird House.

Gin and tonics were my friend.  Not like beer or whiskey.  With the G&T, drunk gently slinks up on you, like a dog not allowed on the couch inching its way to your lap.

Drunk was definitely slinking.  Although, Mark and I plotted against John, there was no way naked would happen. But as long as John didn’t know that for certain, we could still get some decent panicked blushing out of him.  And did we ever.

Out of nowhere, Teddy Bear and Darwin delivered a whole bunch of naked to our table.  These guys play the game like it’s meant to be played, shrinkage be damned.  I almost feel obligated.  I’m held back by the notion someone might want to fight me because I’m circumcised.

I should note that there’s nothing quite like tourists’ facial expressions when they walk into a dark bar, their eyes adjusting from the bright outdoors, and they come face to face with two naked, middle-aged men.

Even with no intention of playing the game, it’s fun to mess with John.  Mark or I pretended to plot, then one of us would make a trip to the bathroom, causing John to blurt out, ”Oh my god, he’s going to do it!!!”

The look on John’s face when he emerged from the men’s room to see Mark and me in our tighty-whities was everything you’d expect it to be.  His entire body just wilted, like his last line of defense had crumbled and the enemy was taking his clothes prisoner. 

A small crowd gathered, in expectation of a very, very special moment.  The crowd: a husband, wife (Mary, the self-proclaimed millionaire, real estate tycoon), and son.  Yes, a son.  Seems Alaska has its own brand of Hill People.

Mary was a big fan of men getting into their undies.  She cheered as Maureen ordered John to his.  She even helped with the process.  All John could muster was, “There will be no pictures of this!”***

Maureen was a good sport, taking off her sweater to reveal a pretty sturdy bra, much to the chagrin of the undressed duo of Teddy and Darwin.  Mary, openly hot and bothered at the three of us men, could not get her top off fast enough.  Did she wear the sheer bra on purpose?  Something told me this wasn’t Mary’s first Bird House-undressing-rodeo.

She after demonstrating a unique way of checking us for tonsillitis, invited us to her hot tub.  Seemed we reached the intersection of 33rd and Weird.

John unveiled a seemingly brand new freak flag to fly as he announced he was all for the hot tub.  Mark maintained a sense of reason.  I found my limit was a hot tub event out of an Appalachian porno.

In the end, two bras were added to the ceiling, we got John dressed and back to Anchorage, and we all left knowing we had a real estate agent in the area ready to give us all she had.  Certainly, Teddy Bear and Darwin lived on, seeking out nudity where one would expect none, like a log cabin bar at 33rd and Bird.

***-Maureen - scan and post to your heart’s content!

How France Got A Disneyland

Note: National Public Radio's All Things Considered's contest has a simple premise: Write an original short story that can be read in three minutes or less (no more than 600 words).  For this round, the judge, author Brad Meltzer required original fiction that revolves around a U.S. president, real or fictional.

This is my entry:

“Finally,” thought Bronco, Secret Service name for President Alexander Halsey, “the French Summit was over.”  He didn’t have to talk about that crap for the rest of the day.  It’s not unusual for someone to hate his job.  It’s just a surprise when one is the President of the United States.

“Bronco is secure.”  The newest member of Halsey’s detail listened in his earpiece, stationed in the guest wing of the Elysee Palace, home of the 1985 Summit.  A senior agent approached, reminding him, “Even though it’s their guy’s house, they’ll leave us alone down here. Just us and our guy.  Although, don’t be surprised should you meet ‘Busted’.”

The newbie just shook his head, still outside of this inside joke.

“You’ll know it when you see it.” he smirked, having witnessed plenty of first family foibles in his career.

“I really don’t mind these summits,” Bronco said to his wife, Candice as they relaxed in private.  “I thought it went well, a meeting of two great nations.”

“Oh, spare me, darling.  It’s just us.  You’ve got the world fooled, but I know how much you hate this.”

“It wasn’t all bad,’ he persuaded them both , wishing to ring out decades of stressful expectations through his clinched hands.  The only son of a billionaire father whose failed political aspirations anointed him the obligated, and reluctant, chosen one.

“Andre’s a sharp kid,” the French president’s 10 year old son, who spent a good 30 minutes at dinner insisting the leader of the free world put a Disneyland in Paris.

“He knows more about the Star Wars movies than you, that’s a rarity.  Although, I doubt he’s been on as many roller coasters the last two years as my husband,” she added.  Their laughter skirted the issues of a man whose childhood showed all the signs of a political candidate testing the waters.  Although in his case, being thrown in it. “Alex, a president doesn’t do that,” echoed in his mind.  Words he’d heard way more than “I love you.”

Those who knew him, knew he fought it.

The itch.

It came at night, like this night.  A bug bite he couldn’t pinpoint.  A nerve in him lit without fire.  Only he could reach it, his way.

“It’s my one thing,” he pleaded to his parents growing up, and confided to his wife on their wedding night.

With Candice long asleep, he strolled the guest wing, Secret Service at a distance.  Along with carte blanche at amusement parks, the job had other perks.  He marveled at the places he stayed.  This palace, a museum.  His guests let him walk around at night, but they didn’t know of his itch.

So he meandered alone in his presidential bath robe.  He was careful.  He didn’t touch everything.  Some things just scratched it though.

The first one slipped into his robe pocket so cleanly.  An ashtray.  His itch releasing with a sizzle, like molten lava into water.

One helps, another helps more.

So many ashtrays in this place.  He salivated as he grabbed another.  So consumed, he didn’t hear the commotion.

“Mister Alex, you took that.”  He turned to see Andre at the table where previously sat the worthless ashtray.  Did the kid not notice he left the table-sized Matisse sculpture?  “I’m telling.”

Bronco, embarrassed like many times before, knelt down to the boy, leaning in his offer, “So Andre, let’s talk about this Disneyland thing.”

The new agent nodded as he watched from the doorway, whispering in his microphone, “Bronco’s busted.”

The Reality of Losing Someone

I entertained this reality in my mind many times.  When I saw it happen to others, I thought maybe I understood.  However, no matter how much you try to imagine it, or prepare yourself, no amount of mental rehearsal comes close to the reality of losing someone you love.

First off, I’m incredibly lucky.  My dad passed at age 84, after a decade of roller-coaster health and hospital stays.  His old self was an expectation adjusted with each episode.  The first time a doctor truly pronounced him as mortal, my mind projected forward to the voyage of a life without him.

It was hard to watch him deteriorate over the years, but we got to do just that.  Enjoy his company.  His two lung cancer surgeries flipped the egg timer on his mortality.  Sand running from the full end, filling the empty lower half.  That’s when I truly realized his time would eventually run out.  Until then death was a nebulous concept, one that occurred in others’ lives.

A college acquaintance of mine’s parents were killed in a car accident.  I didn’t know the guy well; probably didn’t offer condolences.  I do remember thinking it was a colossal tragedy, and was baffled that he made it back to school.  He looked normal, just as I remembered him before.  I couldn’t imagine having the strength for that, yet I held my denial, my belief in my own parents’ immortality in an iron grip.

My dad isn’t immortal though.  He’s deceased.  Not of this earth.  I will never see his face or hear his voice again. 

I had tons of I Love Yous with my dad.  No regrets.  Nothing unspoken.  He had ZERO doubt of how I felt about him and a MASSIVE vice versa.  I also know he was proud of me, of the man I’d become.  He was proud of all of his kids.  He and our mom turned out honest, kind, decent people; qualities that mean a parent has done a good job.  None of this changes the simple fact.  Loss is still loss.

He’s just gone.  No matter how hard I try, or where I look.  Gone.

I think its human nature to prepare for these things.  I know I played it out in my mind.  Prior to his death, there were times when I’d look at him and sort of erase him from the moment.  Him not saying grace before dinner.  Him not sitting in his spot in the den.  Not strong enough to think about holidays though.

So there’s nothing more.  No more birthday phone calls, holidays, hugs, or kisses goodnight.  No more anything, everything.

I remember being in 8th grade, getting up one morning and my dad in the living room.  Just sitting, doing nothing.  He just stared.  “Did Mom talk to you?”  No.  “Papa died last night.”  His dad died.

I know that stare now.  I catch myself in it every day.  At first, the stare is you thinking about the reality of what’s happened.  Reliving the words in your head that someone you love is gone.  Over time, it changes.  Different for everyone, I’m sure.  It’s approaching six months for me and the stare now is when my brain goes into a cloud.  A cloud of perpetual wonder that death is something that affects everyone in the world, and happens every second of every day.

However, we continue.

Do people notice any difference in me?  Do I look normal?  When I stare, does anyone wonder what’s up with me?  What about people who know what’s happened?  Do they see a change in me?

Life goes on.  There’s a reason for the cliché.  Aside from a handful of people, the world won’t skip a beat when someone dies.

Though my dad is irreplaceable to me, there’s no great cavity in humanity.  No streets of wailing citizens.  No candlelight vigils.  Even for some people who knew him, tomorrow was just another day.  They paid their respects in whatever way they wished, and moved on.  That doesn’t make them bad people.  It’s just how things are.

Yet for some of us, there’s a hole in our lives.  It is different.  My family and I got a lot of extra years with him.  Not to prepare--as much as I might have thought that possible--but to appreciate him.  I know we appreciated the hell out of him.  Still, there’s loss.

I feel different.  I function fine.  I’m sleeping ok.  I eat.  I exercise…well, as much as I did a year ago.  However, I’m not the same.  It’s like my emotions were in a car wreck.  Like a body wracked with broken bones, a serious injury that requires rehabilitation.  So I cry a little every day.  I’ve always been a sucker for a tearjerker or homeless animal commercial, but this is extreme.  You name it, it’ll make me cry.  Songs.  Sitcoms.  Commercials.  I well up.  If I fight it, it’ll stop there.  Sometimes, I don’t fight.

I find myself staring off into space.  Not at anyone.  At nothing.  I’m not thinking about anything in particular.  Just feeling how different things are.

How did I react when someone, an acquaintance really, told me that he or she has lost a loved one, especially a parent?  In all honesty, looking back, I see myself as pretty indifferent and oblivious.  Kind of an asshole.  Maybe that’s harsh.  Maybe the reality hit too close to home and I tried not to think about being in that person’s shoes.

I’d offer condolences, of course.  I might ask for a detail or two, but once our conversation was over, I’d pretty much moved on too, not noticing the hole the person’s life, their stare.  Even with friends, real friends, I didn’t have much of a follow-up.  I never really kept tabs on how that person was doing.  He or she seemed ok, and that was good enough for me.  I never asked.  I cannot believe I never asked.  Having been on both sides now, I’m ashamed of myself.

The next time someone tells me about their loss, I won’t say, “I know how you feel.”  I’ll never know how anyone feels.  Our realities are different.  Our relationships were different.  However, I will have an understanding.  I’ll ask, and above all, I’ll follow up.  I’ll hope that they appreciated their loved one like I did mine. While I won’t know exactly what they are dealing with, I will know--absolutely know--that their loss is different, and much more than they imagined.