Worn down stairs reveal the path taken by so many great men and women before me. These black shoes from my days at Berkeley Law feel a little loose, but I checked the laces twice before walking up the white marble steps. My briefcase feels heavy, as if weighted with decades of hopes and dreams riding on my performance today. Who am I to bear such responsibility? It took me five minutes to brush my teeth this morning, and six times as long just to pick a suit. I’m no great man. I’m the man who would be more comfortable riding in the back of a rotting taxicab, just so long as it took me far from here. I’m the man now slumped against a column, too weak to carry this briefcase beyond the Supreme Court’s doors.
They made a mistake sending me here. I feel like a little boy, overwhelmed trying to figure out the world around him. My mind wanders to such a time and I remember my mother telling me stories from her childhood on our way to the Beach Boardwalk. I see her pointing out the car window. There’s not a single strand of gray hair on her head and the only wrinkles on her face are the ones at the sides of her eyes when she smiles at me. “You see that pole over there? That’s where your uncle used to climb up and switch back on the cable after they turned it off every couple of months!” Her chuckle was filled with nostalgia.
“Hey mom, wanna show me where you went to school?”
“We’ve been driving around for half an hour now! Don’t you want to see the Boardwalk?”
“Ah man! Why not?”
“Why don’t I tell you all about it instead?”
“Fine,” I drawled.
People always told me I was a silly kid, maybe they were right. Maybe they’re still right? Either way, my mind is lost in the past and I am not terribly concerned about the reporters and protestors crowding below me. I would consider watching and listening, but their signs and screams look and sound like blurred mumbling to me now.
I’m back in Santa Cruz. As she said she would, my mom tells me all about her classes and the different people she knew when she was young. As she recalls the events from her past, her voice gets drier and pursed lips rest where a smile once shined. We’ve been waiting for a spot in the parking lot for ten minutes now. It was to be expected though. It’s Saturday and the Boardwalk is appropriately busied with tourists.
It should have been obvious what was happening. The delay didn’t explain her scrunched face, her thin false smile or the red eyes. Something was wrong, but I was too ignorant to recognize that concentrated look people get when they’re trying not to burst into tears. My sights were focused on the happy people outside. All I really wanted was a corndog. I could probably go for one right now. I consider it, but there is no way I’d be able to keep it down.
My mind has given up on the corndog. I’m still in that car, waiting to get out and play at the Boardwalk. I can see the ticket booth from here. Its red and white striped awning shades the girls and boys as their parents read the similarly colorful wooden sign showing how many tickets each attraction costs. After the booth there are wooden planks, sand and an ocean that goes all the way to China. Before the booth there are some old train tracks, a sidewalk of cracked pavement and a giant parking lot. My mom shakes my shoulder to get my attention. “You see those tracks over there?”
“Yeah I see them. What are they for anyway?”
“Not anymore, but the trains used to go by carrying all sorts of food, products, people, whatever else needed to be moved I guess.”
I could see that she was sad. “What’s wrong mommy?”
“I have a story about those train tracks, from a long time ago.”
“I want to hear! Are you gonna tell me?”
“This isn’t a story like the other ones, Matthew. It’s a very sad story.”
She was right, but it wasn’t a sad story. It was the most terrible thing I had ever heard. Waiting to go to the boardwalk, my mom told me about a boy she knew when they were in high school. She told me that Nicky was different from the other kids, and that people would always bully him. When I asked why, she told me that it was because he was gay. I didn’t know that word.
“When a man is attracted to other men, that means he is gay.”
“Oh, okay.” I don’t really understand, but nod along anyways.
“It means that he was different from the other boys,” she explains. “And then one day, he was just gone. I didn’t see him at school or anywhere else. When I talked to his parents, they told me what happened.” I notice a tear on her cheek, but she focuses on finishing the story. “He came to the tracks early one morning and waited for a train to pass. Eventually one came, and when it did he jumped in front of it at the last second.” I look over to the tracks and try to picture a train hitting Nicky, but I couldn’t picture a train hitting anyone.
“He killed himself.”
“Just because he was different? Why would he do that?” I shout at her critically.
She tries to reason with me. “I don’t know what he was thinking. All I know is that every single day he would be reminded of how much people didn’t want him around. They reminded him with their words and they reminded with their fists.”
I started to understand Nicky’s story, and I felt as my understanding of how things worked was crushed and mangled. I remember losing all faith in the world around me. The red and white paint no longer felt inviting and the Boardwalk started to feel too crowded.
“People are cruel.” I said, as resolutely as a young boy could.
“Some people are cruel, honey. But you know what? A lot of people aren’t. In fact, some people are more like angels, sent here to fight back and protect those who cruel people try to hurt.”
“Well, what am I?”
“I think that’s up to you, son.”
Thirty years later, I have chosen. I stand up and lift my briefcase with ease. I am the man who is marching bravely through the doors. I am the man watching nine Supreme Court Justices nod as I speak. I am the man who can’t even hear the crowd’s taunts as I step outside. I am the man who fought back to protect the rights of people like Nicky. I am an angel.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Left behind (from, “Do you?”)
I don’t know why my husband’s so cold.
I dreamed every night of us growing old.
I loved him since our first date at lunch.
He told me it was cute, the way that I munch.
Some how he always was in a good mood,
Even when I overcooked the food.
I felt lucky because I didn’t have to fear.
He never told lies and was always sincere.
I realize now, with all those pounds,
The things he tells me are but empty sounds.
I feel like being with me gives him no pleasure
He sees my life filled only with leisure.
I was joyful hearing he wouldn’t have to work.
If only I knew he’d become such a jerk.
I’d be sad too if I felt my routine had no purpose
Compared to his, mine is a circus.
People love having me in their life.
I don’t know why I still call myself his wife.
As things stand now, the love is all gone.
My friends tell me “hurry up” and “move on.”
I always respond, “you don’t know the real him.”
But with the way he is now, I can’t convince them.
Ever since he got all that money,
He stopped being sweet, stopped calling me honey.
I remember our conversation that day.
Telling him everything would turn out okay.
Drowning in a pool of fragile despair,
He told me he loved me, he seemed so scared.
Now all I have of him is a cut of his check.
Everything in our lives changed because of that wreck.
I dreamed every night of us growing old.
I loved him since our first date at lunch.
He told me it was cute, the way that I munch.
Some how he always was in a good mood,
Even when I overcooked the food.
I felt lucky because I didn’t have to fear.
He never told lies and was always sincere.
I realize now, with all those pounds,
The things he tells me are but empty sounds.
I feel like being with me gives him no pleasure
He sees my life filled only with leisure.
I was joyful hearing he wouldn’t have to work.
If only I knew he’d become such a jerk.
I’d be sad too if I felt my routine had no purpose
Compared to his, mine is a circus.
People love having me in their life.
I don’t know why I still call myself his wife.
As things stand now, the love is all gone.
My friends tell me “hurry up” and “move on.”
I always respond, “you don’t know the real him.”
But with the way he is now, I can’t convince them.
Ever since he got all that money,
He stopped being sweet, stopped calling me honey.
I remember our conversation that day.
Telling him everything would turn out okay.
Drowning in a pool of fragile despair,
He told me he loved me, he seemed so scared.
Now all I have of him is a cut of his check.
Everything in our lives changed because of that wreck.
Veggie Sounds Trochaic
Veggies often are gross when not warmed up.
Fire roasted treasures are more scrumptious.
Always attempt eating more than one cup
Until doing so’s in your subconscious.
Changing eating patterns calls for effort.
Buying products also gets more grueling.
Flavor might require procuring pepper.
Lucky people are already drooling
Seasoned, roasted veggies are not tragic.
Add some soy based fake meat into dinner.
Let the taste of veggies make some magic.
Feel yourself become a lifelong winner.
Why not try to give up meat tomorrow?
Trust me, veggies will not cause you sorrow!
Fire roasted treasures are more scrumptious.
Always attempt eating more than one cup
Until doing so’s in your subconscious.
Changing eating patterns calls for effort.
Buying products also gets more grueling.
Flavor might require procuring pepper.
Lucky people are already drooling
Seasoned, roasted veggies are not tragic.
Add some soy based fake meat into dinner.
Let the taste of veggies make some magic.
Feel yourself become a lifelong winner.
Why not try to give up meat tomorrow?
Trust me, veggies will not cause you sorrow!
I decided to skip work today. Figured the world would get by just fine with one less telemarketer anyway. Leaving my apartment, I begin my walk. The drizzle bites my skin as hard as it freezes under my boots. I hate the winter. By the time I reach the cemetery my hair is soaked, probably frozen. I didn’t bother to put on a jacket – I wanted to feel the cold.
He would have been twenty-one today.
Before my boy died, I always thought the tombstones were unsightly nuisances. They were nothing but rocks with names on them taking up space. Now that one of those names belongs to my son though, I understand why these stones are so important. This damn piece of marble is all I have left of him. It’s all I have left of either of them.
I’ll never forget coming home to that inferno. Our beautiful Victorian house, just painted teal like my wife always wanted. I can still hear her screaming – helpless to save herself or our child. Even from the street, the air was dry and unbearably hot. I could only imagine what must have been happening to my family inside. Squinting my eyes and coughing from the smoke I ran toward the house. Feeling invincible, I was going to run through the front door and find a way to pull them out of there. I had to.
From then on all I remember is how the crackling sound turned into an all-consuming roar. It felt like an atomic bomb went off in front of my face. Next thing I knew I was in the hospital. When the nurse noticed I had woken up she ran over to my bed. The first thing anyone said to me was that I was lucky to be alive. It used to make me laugh, thinking about that. Now it makes me weep.
The doctor would later explain to me that our water heater exploded right above the gas line. She told me that the combination of natural gas in the air and my wife cooking dinner in the kitchen would have been enough to ignite the entire house. It didn’t matter. My wife and child were gone. Everything we owned, every picture, letter and piece of clothing was incinerated along with my family.
These memories run like a chill down my spine. The freezing rain doesn’t register in comparison. I can feel only my fingertips as I drag them over the smooth marble tombstone. Their names, carved delicately into the pearly stone, will be there forever. Some day I will join them there. Already on my knees beside the grave, I pray for this. It is the only thing I have ever prayed for.
Eventually the cold becomes too much and I know I need to go inside. I give the tombstone a firm squeeze between my arms. I don’t want to let go, but the shivers are becoming too much to handle. I begin to walk again. Down the street I see a bar, “Smokler and Son’s.” I walk through the door and take a seat. Feeling the urge to talk, I say to the bartender, “It’s my son’s birthday today. Twenty one.”
“That’s great man, bring him in and I’ll give him a round on the house!”
“Wish I could. Just going to be me today though.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he tells me as he changes the batteries in the remote.
“So am I. Believe me, so am I.” I exhale deeply and try to keep myself composed. He looks my way again. “I’ll take a whiskey.”
“Here you go pal.”
The amber in my glass warms my throat.
"Keep them coming."
I hear only the crackling of wood as I stare into the fireplace.
He would have been twenty-one today.
Before my boy died, I always thought the tombstones were unsightly nuisances. They were nothing but rocks with names on them taking up space. Now that one of those names belongs to my son though, I understand why these stones are so important. This damn piece of marble is all I have left of him. It’s all I have left of either of them.
I’ll never forget coming home to that inferno. Our beautiful Victorian house, just painted teal like my wife always wanted. I can still hear her screaming – helpless to save herself or our child. Even from the street, the air was dry and unbearably hot. I could only imagine what must have been happening to my family inside. Squinting my eyes and coughing from the smoke I ran toward the house. Feeling invincible, I was going to run through the front door and find a way to pull them out of there. I had to.
From then on all I remember is how the crackling sound turned into an all-consuming roar. It felt like an atomic bomb went off in front of my face. Next thing I knew I was in the hospital. When the nurse noticed I had woken up she ran over to my bed. The first thing anyone said to me was that I was lucky to be alive. It used to make me laugh, thinking about that. Now it makes me weep.
The doctor would later explain to me that our water heater exploded right above the gas line. She told me that the combination of natural gas in the air and my wife cooking dinner in the kitchen would have been enough to ignite the entire house. It didn’t matter. My wife and child were gone. Everything we owned, every picture, letter and piece of clothing was incinerated along with my family.
These memories run like a chill down my spine. The freezing rain doesn’t register in comparison. I can feel only my fingertips as I drag them over the smooth marble tombstone. Their names, carved delicately into the pearly stone, will be there forever. Some day I will join them there. Already on my knees beside the grave, I pray for this. It is the only thing I have ever prayed for.
Eventually the cold becomes too much and I know I need to go inside. I give the tombstone a firm squeeze between my arms. I don’t want to let go, but the shivers are becoming too much to handle. I begin to walk again. Down the street I see a bar, “Smokler and Son’s.” I walk through the door and take a seat. Feeling the urge to talk, I say to the bartender, “It’s my son’s birthday today. Twenty one.”
“That’s great man, bring him in and I’ll give him a round on the house!”
“Wish I could. Just going to be me today though.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he tells me as he changes the batteries in the remote.
“So am I. Believe me, so am I.” I exhale deeply and try to keep myself composed. He looks my way again. “I’ll take a whiskey.”
“Here you go pal.”
The amber in my glass warms my throat.
"Keep them coming."
I hear only the crackling of wood as I stare into the fireplace.
New apartment
It was February and Bakerloo could not wait for winter to be over. The air was dry and it crisped his skin as he walked home from work. He told Pablo, his friend, that he could not even remember the last time it was warm outside. “I feel as though more months here are cold than are warm.” Pablo shrugged. “Maybe,” he replied. “Seriously now, you have at the very least February, January, December, all the way through August. Right? August was a cold month.” Bakerloo spoke certainly with his eyes squinted into deep thought. “We ran in October, and it was cold in the morning but the heat was in full effect by the afternoon,” Pablo informed Bakerloo.
“Oh. Yes I do remember that actually. Good.” His memory often evaded him, he would say. The streets they ignored were dirty. They had been required to attend a meeting in a lesser part of town. “It’s a shame what happened to this place, you know? I can imagine the spirit here fifty years ago, people filled with hope in their newly constructed homes. Now what is it?” They continued walking. The wooden heals of their Italian leather shoes clacked with every step. The locals staring at them could not help but notice these strange passersby.
“You should come by my new apartment some time.” Pablo looked impressed. “Yep, I got a great deal from the building owners. I believe you know them, the Giordanos? They do a fair amount of business with us downtown. Anyway, the place is beautiful, truly. I’m planning on tearing down a few walls here and there to open things up. Probably will have to get rid of a lot of old wall decorations and such, but these things happen.” Bakerloo continued chatter boxing as they walked onto the metro platform. “Hey, we could go there now, what do you say?”
Pablo had to go home. He said that his wife prepared dinner and that as it stood he would already be twenty minutes late. “Well then, go have fun. Enjoy your meal!” Bakerloo smiled and waved good-bye as they boarded separate trains. His smile faded and he looked down at his hands folded between his knees. He shuddered and suddenly looked awake. Standing up slowly, he exited at the next station. No one was nearby, and the only sound was the fading screech of the train’s wheels. Looking around for a moment, Bakerloo then walked toward the metro map and began studying it.
Since he was a boy, subway systems have always intrigued him. Having lived in this city for the last five years he had every track and every station memorized by heart. At times he would stare at the map not to figure out how to get somewhere, but to take comfort in its familiarity. Seeing the colorful lines loop and cross, he thought, might show him what to do with his time.
Bakerloo, taking a moment from the map, turned around to find a young girl walking along the platform. He gave her a discerning look, as there was not a chance that her laced red dress could keep her warm in this cold. Her scarf, made of a light brown fur, hung to her side and swung with her arms as she glided past him. To Bakerloo, wearing fur was a sign of ignorance and his feelings of disgust were obviously written across his face. “I want to go home,” he caught himself saying out loud. There was an empty bench nearby. The sign on top informed him that the next train would arrive in twenty minutes. Bakerloo slumped onto the bench and leaned forward, letting his head hang down. A moment of panic stuck him as he looked around for his new, custom made, leather French briefcase. It was no where to be found. Bakerloo leaned back and sighed deeply. Shaking his head he mumbled, “whatever.”
“Oh. Yes I do remember that actually. Good.” His memory often evaded him, he would say. The streets they ignored were dirty. They had been required to attend a meeting in a lesser part of town. “It’s a shame what happened to this place, you know? I can imagine the spirit here fifty years ago, people filled with hope in their newly constructed homes. Now what is it?” They continued walking. The wooden heals of their Italian leather shoes clacked with every step. The locals staring at them could not help but notice these strange passersby.
“You should come by my new apartment some time.” Pablo looked impressed. “Yep, I got a great deal from the building owners. I believe you know them, the Giordanos? They do a fair amount of business with us downtown. Anyway, the place is beautiful, truly. I’m planning on tearing down a few walls here and there to open things up. Probably will have to get rid of a lot of old wall decorations and such, but these things happen.” Bakerloo continued chatter boxing as they walked onto the metro platform. “Hey, we could go there now, what do you say?”
Pablo had to go home. He said that his wife prepared dinner and that as it stood he would already be twenty minutes late. “Well then, go have fun. Enjoy your meal!” Bakerloo smiled and waved good-bye as they boarded separate trains. His smile faded and he looked down at his hands folded between his knees. He shuddered and suddenly looked awake. Standing up slowly, he exited at the next station. No one was nearby, and the only sound was the fading screech of the train’s wheels. Looking around for a moment, Bakerloo then walked toward the metro map and began studying it.
Since he was a boy, subway systems have always intrigued him. Having lived in this city for the last five years he had every track and every station memorized by heart. At times he would stare at the map not to figure out how to get somewhere, but to take comfort in its familiarity. Seeing the colorful lines loop and cross, he thought, might show him what to do with his time.
Bakerloo, taking a moment from the map, turned around to find a young girl walking along the platform. He gave her a discerning look, as there was not a chance that her laced red dress could keep her warm in this cold. Her scarf, made of a light brown fur, hung to her side and swung with her arms as she glided past him. To Bakerloo, wearing fur was a sign of ignorance and his feelings of disgust were obviously written across his face. “I want to go home,” he caught himself saying out loud. There was an empty bench nearby. The sign on top informed him that the next train would arrive in twenty minutes. Bakerloo slumped onto the bench and leaned forward, letting his head hang down. A moment of panic stuck him as he looked around for his new, custom made, leather French briefcase. It was no where to be found. Bakerloo leaned back and sighed deeply. Shaking his head he mumbled, “whatever.”
My father's garage
Jarred flipped a switch and the yellow light above him hummed. The ground, concrete, produced a thud with each step. Jarred walked straight to the work desk in the back corner. He turned on another light, which flickered at first, to illuminate blueprints and coffee stains from his father’s past. Blueprints for an engine he never built. Jarred scooted the chair out, and with it a cloud of dust.
Sitting for a moment, his eyes wondered aimlessly. Old family photos had faded and formerly exciting power tools sat rusted. The floor behind him still had that splotch of green from when he accidently dropped the paint can. Beyond the stain were his father’s shelves. They were simple, metal shelves holding piles of boxes. One rack displayed old trophies from car shows and county fairs.
The trophies were covered in dust, just like the cars they recognized. Jarred’s favorite was by far the blue Mustang with the white racing stripe. It was a convertible, and whenever he imagined himself driving it was always in the soft leather seat of that car. Now, the black leather looked white and crisp. He feared that sitting on it would cause the material to dissolve under his weight.
The cars were never covered inside the garage. The place was a paradise, all those years ago. When Jarred’s father passed away, he couldn’t bare the thought of seeing this place again. The tools, each one held with precision and expertise by his father, only reminded him of his failure to achieve greatness.
Like his father, Jarred too found his past in this garage. The scraps in the back were proof of that. Twisted fenders and bent metal sat in a pile, left to rot. Faded on a door was the number 28. Jarred remembered choosing that number, painting the black numbers over his green hot rod. Somehow, the glass remained unbroken and unscratched, and perfectly reflected Jarred’s subdued expression.
The garage felt empty. There were cars, papers, and pictures, but mostly there was a sense of loss. That blue Mustang won so many races. It brought pride to the family for years. Maybe if Jarred had a chance to drive it, he thought, maybe he could have been great too. Instead, his mark on history would forever be that green puddle of paint – a stain on the Mustang’s floor.
The grease had built up on Jarred’s palms from handling the old parts. He decided to leave the garage and wash up outside. Stepping out, the sunlight rendered him blind. Turning around to see the garage, the whole place suddenly felt small. The stucco walls revealed nothing of what was inside. A muted brown door, faded over time, left no feeling of pride.
Taking in these sights, Jarred skipped washing up and got on his motorcycle. The engine roared and he fled the scene as quickly as he could. It no longer mattered what the garage meant. It was just a stucco building with a concrete floor. Nothing on the floor had to matter any more. That humming light would burn out soon enough.
Sitting for a moment, his eyes wondered aimlessly. Old family photos had faded and formerly exciting power tools sat rusted. The floor behind him still had that splotch of green from when he accidently dropped the paint can. Beyond the stain were his father’s shelves. They were simple, metal shelves holding piles of boxes. One rack displayed old trophies from car shows and county fairs.
The trophies were covered in dust, just like the cars they recognized. Jarred’s favorite was by far the blue Mustang with the white racing stripe. It was a convertible, and whenever he imagined himself driving it was always in the soft leather seat of that car. Now, the black leather looked white and crisp. He feared that sitting on it would cause the material to dissolve under his weight.
The cars were never covered inside the garage. The place was a paradise, all those years ago. When Jarred’s father passed away, he couldn’t bare the thought of seeing this place again. The tools, each one held with precision and expertise by his father, only reminded him of his failure to achieve greatness.
Like his father, Jarred too found his past in this garage. The scraps in the back were proof of that. Twisted fenders and bent metal sat in a pile, left to rot. Faded on a door was the number 28. Jarred remembered choosing that number, painting the black numbers over his green hot rod. Somehow, the glass remained unbroken and unscratched, and perfectly reflected Jarred’s subdued expression.
The garage felt empty. There were cars, papers, and pictures, but mostly there was a sense of loss. That blue Mustang won so many races. It brought pride to the family for years. Maybe if Jarred had a chance to drive it, he thought, maybe he could have been great too. Instead, his mark on history would forever be that green puddle of paint – a stain on the Mustang’s floor.
The grease had built up on Jarred’s palms from handling the old parts. He decided to leave the garage and wash up outside. Stepping out, the sunlight rendered him blind. Turning around to see the garage, the whole place suddenly felt small. The stucco walls revealed nothing of what was inside. A muted brown door, faded over time, left no feeling of pride.
Taking in these sights, Jarred skipped washing up and got on his motorcycle. The engine roared and he fled the scene as quickly as he could. It no longer mattered what the garage meant. It was just a stucco building with a concrete floor. Nothing on the floor had to matter any more. That humming light would burn out soon enough.
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