posted 06-19-2001 02:02 AM            

"The Entrepreneur" by Dave Wink

Timmy Brown, age eight, usually didn't like the half hour following six. His father, Steve Brown, worked from 5:30 in the morning until 5:30 at night, so when he got home from work at about six, he wanted to rest, watch the 6:00 news, and eat his dinner in peace. Timmy could take his racket outside. Timmy, however, seemed neither able to stay outside nor stay his tongue. His father, generally during the weather report(the only part Steve truly cared about), was ever forced to cry, "Can't a man, after a hard day's work, have at least a moment's rest! I'm trying to watch the news here people!"

One night Timmy was unusually quiet during the news. His father, while noting the fact, said nothing of it. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth," his father had been fond of saying. Steve did not, however, notice when Timmy hid in the living room during the 10:00 report. Ten was well past the boy's bedtime of 8:00, but he needed certain verifications.

When Timmy woke with the next day's sun, he raced to his bedroom window. Outside, sprawled in all its Saturday morning glory, was the shining blanket of white promised by two reports on Channel 7, "Your Winter Weather Center," Timmy welcomed the sounds of the plows at work as he rushed into his clothes and downstairs.

Fifteen minutes later the boy was standing in the snow, decked out in full winter assault gear: a shirt, a sweater, two pairs of pants, a snowmobile suit, gloves, and a ski mask. Tramping the six inch cover of virgin snow, Timmy grabbed the small snow shovel his parents had given him and set about clearing the sidewalk and driveway. All said, it took Timmy half an hour, including a five-minute break. Not bad time, by the boy's approximation.

Charity work done, Timmy set upon his neighbors, an aging couple named Dubrowski. Upon answering the child's knock, Mrs. Dubrowski cried delightedly, "Who's this all bundled up?" She knew the answer, of course; she had seen this particular bundle of clothes on her stoop after every snow last year.

"It's me, Timothy Brown. You know, from next door."

"Why, Timmy, is that you? Suppose you want to shovel my walk, huh?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, why don't you go right ahead, sweetie. Don't forget, if you get cold, you come right on in and I'll get some hot cocoa for you, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I won't get cold. Work's hard, so you always stay warm."

Doubtfully she replied, "Well, okay, but make sure you stay warm, and come see me when you're done."

Timmy made short work of the Dubrowskis' walk and proceeded to do four more, two with drives, before lunch. When Timmy came home, stomping off snow and shedding layers of clothes, his father grinned with a certain pride.

"Get much done, son?" knowing he had.

Putting on a decidedly firm, adult-like face, he said, "A man's gotta work hard if he's gonna make any money, especially in this world."

Steve let out a laugh, and after deciding it wasn't directed at him, Timmy joined in, not sure what for, though.

Timmey moved to the kitchen table, saying, "I shoveled five places and made 13 dollars! Mr. Bentz even gave me an extra dollar 'cause he said the snow weighs more this year."

"That's great, son!" his father said. Meanwhile, Timmy's mom felt his forehead, complaining, "And like as not, catching a cold, too."

"Leave the poor boy alone. Rather nice havin' an entrepreneur for a child." Not quite sure of the meaning of this, but sensing its benevolence, Timmy smiled and hurriedly finished lunch. "Time is money," Timmy remembered his father saying.

After lunch the weight of the snow set more heavily on Timmy's back. Five-minute breaks lengthened to 10. Jobs that would have taken half an hour that morning now took a full hour. The cloth surrounding his mouth became increasingly soaked with itchy saliva and phlegm, and needed constant readjusting. Timmy was getting tired.

Throughout the early twilight hours Timmy carried on. Neighbors, the earlier to come home and those off on Saturday, saw him at his work and knew surely that winter was here and all was well. At 5:30 Timmy packed up his shovel and headed in.

Arriving home, Timmy went straight for the supper he had earned an undeniable appetite for. Heading, plate in hand, for the living room, he wore his weariness like a badge of honor. Silently, he sat down in front of the television. At 6:00, the news came on.

Throughout the news, Timmy spoke but once, silencing the noise his mother was making with some dishes in the kitchen. He had worked all day. A man needs peace, you know. Steve's constant grin was wry.

When they announced snow for tomorrow, Timmy stood. With slow, aching steps he went towards his room. His father called, "What's up, champ? Bed so soon?"

Never missing a step, "Yep, looks like work tomorrow," and he was gone.

Steve stared for some time at the bedroom doorway his son had disappeared into. And then he laughed. "Like father, like son," he had heard his own father say.

posted 06-20-2001 05:36 AM            

My intention with Punk Reading Excerpts was for us to transcribe the writings of others. This new topic would be for Vishnu and anyone else who would like to share their own writings.

Primarily, I just write memos and proposals. And, recently, the text for the up-coming First Avenue Beer can and related propaganda.

posted 06-21-2001 08:26 AM            

quote:

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Originally posted by vishnu666:
Count me out. The mere suggestion that I should do what you say suggests you are more boring and unimaginative than I dreamed possible. Write yer own crap. I'm through.

---

Damn. I lost the "when would vishnu post" bet.
You took longer than I thought.
Now don't go writing me any vicious emails, ok?
I enjoyed this story. But I tend to like you shorter stuff better. And that is probably more a reflection on my short attention span than on your writing.

Now excuse me while I reread Toby's story and touch myself fondly.

posted 06-24-2001 06:37 PM            

Lying wide eyed
earth quivering rythmically
beneath brittle foundation
slow count to ten
before another impact
muted thunder before lightning strike
whistle before explosion
Impact after impact
ten count after ten count
slowly shaken awake
to not yet the light of day

Rising
in darkness
Feeling for garments
plaid and cotton
Denim and wool
over squeaking floorboards
of dryrot and disrepair
Breathing hot tea and salty mist
Grim anticipation
draws a spear
an ancient weapon
a ship-a rocket
not yet three fourths a rod
ten feet in length
a blade, a tool
a fine museum piece
honed to perfection
sculpted
all balsa and glass
aged, waiting
drawn from dusty recesses
a vault of pine board and tar roof
Drawn from waiting
for duty, honor
in darkness grey
and shadows lent to dawn

Winding slowly
rough narrow roads
wind slowly downward
ever descending
through trees and brush
under branches
low mist twisting through grey fog
then standing solemnly
feet firm to the sandstone
damp air floating in and out
with each pounding surge
Wall after wall of blue green fury
power, energy in raw beauty
slowly, deliberately
shedding earthy linens
for black garb of knight errant
warrior, six feet and two
head to toe
slowly drawing blade from quiver
honing and tuning
walking slowly down to waters edge
ocean and man become one
love and hate and fear and peace
all blend as one
a communion of solitude
a rebirth of spirit

Drawing water in long strokes
pushing forward
against unsurmountable odds
tons against pounds
man against mountain
but oneness overcomes odds
pushing and drawing
a small body out into the large body
Patience
gauging and waiting
black within blue and green
ever on the brink
peering over the edge
seeking to see perfection in an imperfect world
slowly, firmly drawing water
pushing forward into a turmoil of seething perfection
peering over, pulling forward
point of no return
drawing up in an agile dance of power and energy
life and death
gliding noiselessly down, artful ballet
silence within the thunder
cool and calm
embracing raw power
pure power
speeding fast and straight
tuning and adjusting
seeking not the light at the end of the tunnel
but the tunnel itself
guided by reflex now
unfeeling, numb
sinking deeper, enveloped by perfection
shooting forward suddenly
a desperate effort at salvation
futile attempt to rectify
an abuse of skill and pleasure
a blasting fury of green and blue and white
an explosion of foam
subsiding to a steady turmoil
subsiding yet to a flat calm within the deep sanctuary of the channel

Dawn
I open my eyes to the familiar cracked plaster ceiling above my dingy twelve by twelve room in a futile effort to focus. Eyes blurred with the weariness of deep sleep, I make out grey black shadows that hold no familiarity to me. I feel the house shimmy a little every ten to fifteen seconds, the brittle foundation shaking with the earth. Even though I'm three quarters of a mile from the coast I can feel the dampness, the grey mist that floats inland when there's a big South swell. I strain to hear if there is any wind, but can't detect anything. I glance at the glowing hands of my bedside clock, which I undoubtedly forgot to wind. It reads four forty five. I sit up on the edge of my bed, wiping the sleep from my eyes. The earth beneath my nearly hundred year old home shakes a little stronger, and I begin to wonder just what the surf looks like this morning. The board floor creaks beneath my weight as I cross the room and draw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. With the morning chill as an indicator, I draw a flannel from the closet, pulling it on as I shuffle blindly through the darkness towards the kitchen.
The bare bulb in the kitchen emenates an unwelcome yellow glare, casting an unappetizing light on all it hits. I doze thoughtfully until I am jolted back to reality by the shrill whistle of the teapot. I pour myself a jug of tea, balancing it and my damp wetsuit in one hand and my seven six in the other, and push through the screen door into the darkness outside.
I set my board into the back of my rusted old pickup, laying my wetsuit on the floor in hopes of warming it up a bit on the way down. I pause, gazing through the darkness towards the end of the canyon, towards the coast. The thundering surf echoes up towards me like distant battle, followed moments later by what could be an imagined shimmy in the earth beneath my feet. I sip my tea and wait, mentally measuring and gauging. I never can really tell so I go with my gut feeling, taking the old seven six out of the pickup and over to the dilapidated shed that serves as my garage. I place the old board inside, and reach above me groping in the dark until I can feel the outline of my nine six dangling from the ceiling. I untangle it from the straps that bind it, carrying it delicately through the darkness and out the door. As an afterthough, I decide to grab the seven-six too and take them both, just in case.
The Nine-six is a work of art. It's a single fin pintail with a white deck and red rails and bottem, styled after the old late seventies pintail guns. I've yet to ride this particular board out of no sentimental reason but rather to the contrary because the surf has been relatively flat for almost the entire fall and winter. I had the board shaped last summer by a good freind and neighbor for the inevitable winter swell, and it's been collecting dust in the rafters of my back shed ever since. I have a habit of being over prepared, over gunned, and patiently waiting for surf. With this in mind I head back to the shed and grab the trusty seven six. Just in case.
As I wind out of the driveway and down the steep canyon road that leads from my and a few other secluded homes down to the highway and the bay, I notice that the sky is beginning to lighten and wonder if I'll be the first one out. I always seem to leave the house thinking that I'm the first one up and find that when I get to the parking lot at the bay everyone I know is already out. I really love the solitude of checking the surf in the grey light of dawn before anyone else is around. You rarely get to see the place deserted, and it's kind of nice, like you have a persanol rapport with the spot that no one else knows about.
I just sit in the car and sip tea, checking how it's shaping up, and then get out and do some stretches before pulling on my wetsuit. I don't like to hurry to get out, as hurrying seems to spoil the atmosphere, and even if I take my time the first cars pull into the parking lot as I'm zipping up and walking down to the channel to paddle out. I love it when theres a good south going, and I know that there are ten bodies scrambling to get suited up and out as I take that first big drop.
It's not as big as I imagined it would be, but still it's a clean eight foot face. I stride down to the channel, unwrapping my leash from the tail of my 7'6 as I walked. Strapping it on I shuffle out to where the water is up to my hips and push out around the reef. The water feels cold at first, and I stroke hard to work up some body heat and get out on point. I dig deep, working my shoulders and back both to bring up my body heat as well as get out into the channel before I get caught on the inside. There's a little fog laying on the water, and in the grey light of pre-dawn it's hard to make out any swells or shadows in front of me, so I just paddle by sound and trust and hope. My heart leaps into my throat for a second as something appears out of the darkness, and I chuckle as I realise it's a good sized harbor seal. I figure every dark spot in the ocean for a shark- that's just the way my morbid imagination works. So I figure a harbor seal isnt half bad. I like to think that if there's a seal there, then there's no sharks, but I never really believe myself, cause I made that old wives-tale up myself when I was just a kid. She barks and scolds me a little, and I change course to avoid agitating her. I've yet to be bitten by a harbor seal- dont actually know if they're aggressive, and I'm not really anxious to find out. She submerges and disappears, and my heart slows back down to a normal rythem. It's starting to get a little bit light, but the grey overcast makes reading the swell difficult, and I watch the boil out on the reef for signs. I paddle past the boil about thirty feet and a little south, till I'm lined up with an old pine tree that grows on the cliff and the peak of a mountain in the distance behind it. I figure I'm in a pretty good position, though I wont really know til it's too late if I'm not. I turn and look shoreward towards the parking lot and see a couple pairs of headlights. I figure they cant quite see me yet, but they can see my pick-up and so I have one wave, maybe two before they come out. I see a swell way out on the horizon and kind of check it, check my position, check the boil, turn my board a little and get ready to flip around and go. As the swell gets closer, it jacks up a little on the outside and I see it's a little bigger than I figured, and the tide's maybe a little lower. I dig in and get a few deep strokes, launching myself up the dark face of the first wave of the set. I just pop over the top, penetrating through the feathering lip and sliding down the backside. I now see I could be a little more North, so I stroke out a little and over a little, swing around under the lip of the second wave and get one stroke in and I'm up. I freefall a little as I drop in, the fins of the 7-6 thruster grabbing and my board gets a little squirrely before I get my weight on it. I hit the trough at full speed, rocketing out in front of the black mass of water before laying into a frontside bottom turn at mach. I feel my fins slip a little but they just hang in there and grab as I pass the fulcrum and I use my speed to get back out in front a little, pull in and stall. I stand there suspended in time for a tenth of a second that feels like too long, and then I shift my weight forward, dragging my right hand in the water to insure I stay back where the action is. The lip throws out and pitches over my head as I regain my speed and race for the channel. It's just a beautiful blue-green chamber, all echoes and thunder but I can't hear the surf- I can't hear the hoots from the parking lot- I cant even hear any of that for the blood pounding in my ears, my heartbeat and adrenaline drowning out anything else around me. I'm in suspended animation for 1..2..3..4 seconds and then I push it a little harder and emerge from a spitting barrel in a cloud of foam and fly off the top and fifteen feet into the air, my board trailing behind me as I reach the end of my leash. I hit the water in a kind of a half sideways dive and then resurface in a sea of foam, pulling my leash to get my board back. As quick as I can I stroke back out to the peak, being careful to skirt the reef a little, in hopes of getting the tail end of the set before it's over.

posted 06-24-2001 08:52 PM            

It comes down to a simple case of us against them
Pinned against a chain link fence force fed creme de la creme
Like a porno star caught out in the rain
An expensive barfing princess releasing her shame

Elephants trumpet trampling imprudent strumpets
And those tornadoes tossing us around
Earthquakes toppling over skyscrapers
When the tsunami hits where is the higher ground?

posted 07-19-2001 01:44 PM            

What day is it? It seems as if I've quit counting. Blinding sunlight. White sand. Aqua green ocean. Fresh air. Clear skies. Clear mind.
It's night time. Late. Early morning. I sit on a sixth story balcony overlooking a marina drenched in mist from the warm tropical rain. Wrapped in a blanket and enveloped in dim light I feel the warm and exotic breeze caressing my naked shoulders. I'm chain smoking Mexican cigarettes and ashing into the bottom of a shattered Corona bottle.
No time, no hours, no minutes, no seconds, only cigarettes. One after another. The only proof that time exists lies in the ashes at the bottom of a broken bottle.
Past the marina, across the bay lies downtown. Beyond that the jungle, mountains, and the sky. The mist disperses and distorts the twinkling lights of downtown into a purple haze.
In the distance I can hear the waves from the ocean lapping up onto the beach like two lovers exploring each others bodies for the first time. I watch the lights from the city dance amongst the jagged glass of my makeshift ashtray. I ask myself, "When was the last time I made love like that?"
Somewhere nearby I can hear a couple arguing in Spanish. The heavy mist disperses their words into echos that bear down on me from all directions. Although i cannot understand what they are saying, I can feel the distress of this global epidemic. It's fought in every country and in every language. Do most people "settle" rather than to continue exerting the strength fighting for what the myth of 'true love' is to be? Is it a myth?
For many years I worshipped that diety. I gave up my god, paradise, and my life for "true love". I made my sacrifices upon it's altar daily. I've thrown every molecule, every paticle of matter I own into chasing this hologram. Four years i sat upon my high horse, laughing into the faces of misery and sorrow. Spitting upon those not as fortunate as I. Perhaps I became too comfortable with the blessings bestowed upon me. Maybe in time I began to take it all for granted. At that time I believed in unconditional love. I thought he did too. But then Eros turned his back on me. On us. No more hope. No more trust. No more love. It vaporized like a river running out of a desert oasis. No more coddling something that felt so real, so delicate, so pure. Like a white dove. Virgin snow. My wedding dress I never got to wear. Red staining white, my true love forsake me. Fornicator. Adulterer. Cheater. Liar. But most of all thief. Something irreplacable was stolen. No more white. Only red. Hot burning ember red. Trusting, naive, young, innocent, faithful, sweet. Decieving, streetwise, old, guilty, pessimistic, mean, bitter. When I think of white it's like sucking on aspirin.
I was taught the discipline of pain. Pain that I had never felt before. Pain far beyond my years, or maybe it finally caught up to me. Like a cold, dirty knife tearing through delicate soft pink flesh. Dark red heart. The blood proves my mortality. Cast aside onto the dirt, impaled upon a serrated edge, it has long since turned black. Dead. No longer attatched to something alive. I had to leave it behind at the place I found it.
So here I sit in my sackcloth and ashes brandnamed Mexican Marlboro Lights. I mourn for all the lost hopes, dreams, aspiration, goals, love and especially the lost life. Everything that has been my environment, polluted, and vanished. All of the unexpected changes and courses of life that twist your perception of the world and how you percieve yourself. When that's gone, who have I become? It's something every person understands. It's called growing up. Getting older. Reality as it sets in like a water soaked blanket tossed over your head when all you want to do is breathe. Like learning you might not grow up to be a rock star. it's like a lack of oxygen. Leaving your dreams behind one by one. Learning to live without something you need. i've learned to accept that the hard way. My spirit broken and stolen, I've learned to accept this new life. So I mourn. I've lost my religion but in the process gained a new one. It's called survival. Trust no one but yourself. Everyone is imperfect. Everyone makes mistakes, including me. Somehow I've failed. Like a child finding a wild bird injured and trying to save it, I've crushed a heart I was entrusted to hold. I try to comprehend exactly what it was that I did wrong. I wanted to much to nurture it and keep it alive. i think in my anxiety i forgot just how small and delicate that trust was, and by accident, crushed it with a heavy hand.
Like a life taken, it's hard to realize the extent of your love until it's gone. Passed into the underworld through the portal of death, and left to lie in the graveyard. Grief and pain become me. This is my new reality. I'm so, so sorry.

posted 07-24-2001 10:17 AM            

quote:

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Originally posted by cHaOsPuNKgIRL:
Hey Tobylifehater....I've been reading your story in segments....a little each day at work over my breaks....it's so sad. Is this story fiction?

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posted 07-24-2001 10:39 AM            

quote:

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Originally posted by cHaOsPuNKgIRL:
Yes, TLH, I understand...and if for some reason the main hero in the story is you, that's a hard, hard place to be. But anyway, again, the story was very well written.

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posted 07-24-2001 02:37 PM            

quote:

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Originally posted by Tobylifehater:
[BI guess I have a tendancy to look at things from only one frame of reference, a lot of the time.[/B]

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posted 08-15-2001 09:55 PM            

The weeks that followed were weeks of confusion and anguish as he experienced so many emotions that he felt were, in this instance, contrary to his values and beliefs. He had been married since he was 22, to his wife who he met when he was just 17. In hindsight, the marriage seemed to be one of obligation as well as a way for him to anchor himself to something constant. At 17 and even still at 22, he was painfully aware of the regular deaths of the crew he had run with since childhood, each one after another from violence, drugs, alcohol- anything extreme. They had run close to the margin, living an extreme lifestyle that was at most times outside of the law. After a few good friends had gone he knew that only if he changed his lifestyle dramatically would he stay above ground himself. So he got married, worked a regular job as a carpenter, and stayed clear of trouble and his bad old ways. Soon he was running the jobs, supervising, and not five years after he began he owned his own company, and twelve years after that he was still running that company, building homes and holding things together with gut instinct and determination.
Then along came Serina. After the birth of his only child he was ecstatic. He loved her more than anything, and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Named after a close friend of his mother, she was an even mixture of all of the good things from both parents. She had her mother’s brains and good looks, her fathers athletic ability and outgoing nature, but she was reserved like her mother, cautious where caution was prudent, yet able to make friends and hold her own in conversations with people of all ages. She was a wonderful child with a magical quality: she brought out a side of him he didn’t know was in him, and together they played and laughed as she grew and he grew along with her. Sometimes he had to wonder who was raising who.
At the same time his wife, succumbing to the stress of the business, the burden of raising a child and holding together a household, began to withdraw more and more into herself. He would try to make everything OK but most times there was just nothing he could do that would make her happy. She had always been a little bit antisocial and shy, and he had always been that buffer between she and the outside world. At parties he would talk and she would just enjoy the luxury of not having to. But more and more there was a certain tenderness missing from their relationship, and it soon grew into a chasm between them. It became more work just to keep going than to fix the ills between them, and eventually they grew apart. A fiercely independent man, he felt virtually cut off at the knees the day it dawned on him that over the last ten years his wife had grown tired of him, and he began to feel that she only kept him around to reap the benefits of the stolid security he provided. He had always kept on steadily on the face of adversity, and he did so now for the sake of his daughter and because he didn’t have it in him to break the hearts of those around him. But he had to ask himself what he had done wrong- why had it turned out the way it did? Hadn’t he always made everything work? Hadn’t he kept the wolves from the door? What more could she want, He had asked himself, and before he could form the words upon his lips, he already knew the answer. She didn’t want to grow with him, she wanted him to share in her unhappiness, to be an accessory, a confidant within the stress and unhappiness that she fabricated for herself out of her own fears and paranoia. He tried again and again to get her to change, but after years of this to no avail he accepted if not defeat, at least a resignation that she wasn’t willing to change, and that he would have to persevere or walk away. He stuck it out, for the sake of his beautiful daughter, now 10, and out of his own stubborn determination. Again and again when things came to an even keel, she could be counted on to fabricate some new crisis. And he knew it wasn’t her fault, she didn’t enjoy it, and she couldn’t help it. But with every new challenge he took on and overcame, she would find some new one to throw his way to see if he still came up with that grim determination that had become a source of jealousy. It was just a reality that he had to live with, and he chose to and that was that. His life wasn’t terrible. It was just that his life wasn’t what he had foreseen years earlier, and he had become accustomed to making things happen, to striving for his goals and achieving them, and this was one demon he had never been able to conquer. His feeling had always been that life is too short, and sharing in this self-imposed misery wasn’t a luxury he wanted to provide. So he kept on and worked at it, but things were never what they should have been, and maybe he should have left but he never did. And so it went that he met someone else. They knew each other for years, and he had seen how special she was, how gorgeous and fun she had been, and he had told himself that he could handle this, that he could be just friends with someone like that. And he believed it. Then a day came when it dawned on him that he was head over heels in love with her, and that shocked him and scared him He wondered at what he was thinking, and if he was going to screw everything up and if she even saw anything in him. He held out for a week, just becoming more restless and confused, They had always kept in touch, and had the odd lunch together now and again, but now despite his denial he was realizing that he felt a magnetism between them that was way beyond that between “just friends”. And so, after much agonizing and deliberation, he finally decided he had to talk to her about it before he drove himself mad. And he did. And she listened. And….
“You know I’ve never danced- at least not since I was 14.” “Do you like to dance?” She held her coffee in front of her, her elbows on the tabletop. “Yeah, I think I do. I don’t really know.” He drew a long breath. “I think I’d like to slow dance to Coltrane ballads, just holding you all night. I think I’d like that.” He looked up then, into her eyes, and wondered if his smile looked like he was wincing. She stood up then, setting the coffee cup on the table, took the step over to beside where he sat and took his hand. He stood, and they fell together softly, and just held each other, no music, barely a discernable movement, and just soaked each other up. “Hmm.” He smells the gardenia in her hair, and he holds her close, “I love you, you know?” “She rests her head on his shoulder. “I know.” That was two years back, and there was a lot of talk between then and now, and it took a lot of getting used to on his part. First he was frantic, thinking, my god, what have I done? Then he was depressed at the whole hopelessness of the situation, he going home to his family, she to hers. Eventually, though, he came to some realizations, the first being that in some situations there are no right answers. He was used to applying himself diligently to whatever problems arose and conquering them, but in this case there were just too many innocent bystanders, and so the two of them decided that they would be the closest friends, and have the most beautiful friendship the worlds has ever seen. It was a heartbreaking situation for both of them, as they were totally in love yet both were committed to doing the honorable thing and honoring their commitments as best they could. And so it came to pass that they would talk on the phone, and have lunch, and see each other whenever they could, but that was all it could be. They just filled the voids for each other that were yet unfulfilled, and if she was sad, he was sad also. And when he was down, she was down. On her birthday there was always something delivered to her office- on valentines too, especially on valentines. But the whole thing left him an introspective man, and although he tried to resume his life as it was before it was never quite the same for him- he just couldn’t stop knowing the feelings that he knew, and so he just did his best and continued on, holding it all together. Packing his bags and humming Miles Davis’ “I fall in love too easily” he doesn’t really pay attention to what he’s doing, just fold and stack, tuck some socks in here, Jocky shorts there, his mind is a million miles away. Serina walks in gracefully and plops onto the bed beside his luggage. “How’s the super-model?” He asks her, as she has just returned from her final class at an eight week modeling school. She requested going there as she has dreams of being a Super-model/actress/veterenarian/architect/ pop singer. He actually put a computer aided drafting program from his office computer on her personal computer, and at ten she’s become quite a designer. She’s a sharp one, Serina is. “Modeling school was cool. Some of the girls couldn’t walk right.” “But you did OK, I assume?” “Yeah, it was easy.” She layed back on the bed, placing her head on the pillows. “How come you have to leave today. Cant you stay and leave with us?” She didn’t like flying any more than he did, and it always felt better if they flew together. The Christmas before their plane had overshot the runway at Papaette, Tahiti, and they’d had to use the life vests and the slide. After that flying has always been a little different, but when you live on an Island in the middle of thePacific, you’re sort of stuck with air travel. “Cause I’ve got a meeting on Oahu Tomorrow, and I’ve got to get back to work.” He zipped his valise shut and buckled the buckles, set his carry on on top of that and asked “Where’s momma?” The young girl looked up, surprised, and said “She went to get a massage- didn’t she tell you?” This was standard for her, disappearing thirty minutes before he was supposed to leave, and Serina there alone. He quickly picked up his luggage. “Let’s go see if we can find her, and I’ll drop this off at the cab stand on the way by.” They exited the cottage and walked side by side across the lawn, taking a shortcut to the lobby. The two, father and daughter, similar faces, similar demeanors, he walking with short strides to help her keep up, she taking long strides to try and match her dads. In the dim light of the evening they were a serious pair, but they belonged together and indeed were a matched set.

Disembarking at Honolulu was always an ordeal. The flight was uneventful, but the landing was bumpy from the inevitable trade winds that buffet the islands at certain times of the year. The heat was oppressive, but he was used to that. The tourists were wandering around lost like blind water buffalo, stopping in the midst of the commuter crowd and causing chaos in the flow of foot traffic. He saw an opening in the crowd in front of him and capitalized on it, striding through the gap and past the pasty tourists, milling and circling in confusion. He had come home early specifically to meet with some clients in Honolulu, but at the last minute had a change of heart and called them to postpone the meeting to two weeks later on the Big Island. He didn’t really want to spend the weekend in Honolulu, and he headed instead to the inter-island terminal for the brief flight home. As he walked she again came to the forefront of his mind, just her gorgeous auburn hair, all tossled in a sort of a mane. Her eyes, her mouth, her beautiful skin, her delicate feminine gestures that often times made him feel so coarse. She was a special woman, that he was sure. The heartbreaking truth was that she would most likely never be his, nor he hers. “But that’s life, then, isn’t it?” He thought to himself grimly, as he pulled his phone from his pocket and speed dialed her number. “Hello.” She answered on the third ring. “Hello Beautiful.” He growled, “ I’m arriving at Keahole airport in about an hour- any chance we could get together?” “Ummmm…what time is it now?” She asked rhetorically. “I’ve got some people coming in to sign some documents at two- I can meet you at three thirty?” “Yeah, that’d be good. I missed you, you know that?” “You’d better have.” She replied playfully. “I missed you too.” “What are you wearing?” He asked, “Knock-out office lady outfit?” “No- Jeans and a top, regular old casual stuff.” She replied, “I didn’t know anyone was coming in today.” “That green top that shows off your midriff?” He grinned . “Yes, but you cant see my stomach when I wear this shirt. That’s your dirty mind at work.” “Un-huh.” Still grinning. “I’d better let you go before you get fired.” “I could only be so lucky.” She sounded stressed. “I’ve been swamped, but there’s no one in the office right now. We can talk.” “Okay- will you tell me what you think?” “About what?” She asked quietly. “About us, about the whole situation, what do you feel about me?” He grinned again, kind of wistfully this time. He knew the answer already. “I don’t want to talk about that." She said quietly, and he knew she didn't want to go there because it hurt too much to say it and not be able to do anything about it, and so he stopped smiling and left it alone. “I know that- I was just teasing. I’m sorry.” He drew another long breath as he stood before the vast bank of plate glass that faced the airstrip, looking off at the dingy gray concrete-scape of the airport. “So I’ll see you in Kona around three-thirty.” He paused, considering everything he wants to say to her. “ I do love you, you know. Can’t help it. Couldn’t stop it if I tried.” He paused again and waited for the response that never comes. “Do you hate it?” “No. I could never hate it. I just don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?” Her voice is so small over the phone, so feminine and he pictures her small, feminine frame and he wants to wrap his arms around her and hold her and he needs so badly to carry her off, to steal her away and keep her for his own forever. But that never can happen, he knows- he just cant give up hope, it’s not in his nature. "You know I'd love to tell the world how I feel about you." "You are a liability, Mr Walker." She replied,half kidding. " You'll get yourself in trouble someday." "I suppose that's what I do best."

After hanging up he looks across the tarmac at the gray haze of Honolulu- the windows of the inter-Island terminal makes it look even more bleak than it really is, and being travel weary he feels a little bleak himself. Sitting in one of the worn cushioned seats of the terminal he thinks back to a bleak day two years earlier.
He had been working on the jobsite when she pulled up to the curb and jumped out of the car, obviously agitated. “What’s the deal with your cel phone bill? There’s over sixty calls to this number.” She holds out the stack of papers in a bunch, in such a way that he cant see anything. He doesn’t look up at the papers anyway, but instead looks her in the eye and asks, “So what’s the problem?”
“Who is it?” His relaxed nature takes a little of the wind out of her sails, but she still wants a fight.
“It’s Beth.” He resumes fiddling with a broken tool he’s trying to repair. “I don’t see what the problem is.”
“ Why are you talking to her every day, sometimes twice and three times a day? Am I being stupid? Is there something going on that I need to know about?”
No. There’s nothing you need to know about.” He looks up at her with that winsome look that should tell her everything she needs to know- that it’s too late, the race is already run. The damage has been done. He’s long past worrying. She doesn’t read any of this, either on purpose or just out of the habit of denial.
“I can’t see any reason why you need to talk to her every day. You don’t even talk to me that much during the work day. There are some calls on there for over an hour.”
Exasperated, he stands up straight and faces her, setting his work down on the bench before him. “Listen- you’re not getting it. Who I talk to and when I talk to them are decisions I make on my own. If you spent half the time worrying about our relationship that you are about this phone bill, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He immediately regretted letting her get a rise out of him, but continued if just to clarify the matter. “ If you want to know who I’m talking to and when, you’re just going to have to pay better attention.”
“ So that’s it- I’m just shit out of luck? You have whatever you have going on the side, and I’m just supposed to just deal with it?”
He saw this getting ugly, so he just looked up and replied calmly, “How long did you think you could treat me like some kind of live in, in a weird platonic relationship where I’m just a great income and a shoulder to cry on? I mean, you did know that sooner or later that I’d lose interest or get frustrated. No man can last that long.” He looked into her eyes and sighed, tired of the whole ordeal already. “ I was in love with you once, but you were a girl who was in love with me. Now you’re a woman with a lot of distractions and I don’t seem to be one of them. I’ve hung in there and made thing’s work, but we’re like old friends, not lovers. You know that and I know that. I’ll continue to support my family but I’m not willing to be part of your self destructive habits that don’t do anything but destroy you and hurt those around you. That’s just not what I’m about, and I’m not willing to become that.” He looked back at the hardware on the bench. She turned her back on him and stalked to the car, slamming the door violently as she got in, and spun her tires until she got purchase on the pavement. He was left standing in a vacuum, only a cloud of dust from her departure and the dead silence let on that anything had happened at all.

There was a time when he was really in love with her. He was young, and he didn’t really know what love was, but nonetheless he did his best to assimilate, and he took care of her and made sure she had everything he could provide. Little by little he just learned to keep on.

“It’d be fun to have a real pile of money.” He stated in a matter of fact tone. They were sipping coffee at a book store, alone back in the corner, just talking about nothing and looking at all of the titles. “I’d make a good itinerant millionaire. I’d just read books and work out, play my guitar and mess around.”
She smiled at the thought and replied without looking at him, “Hmmmm… That’d be fun.”
He looked up at her from where he was sitting on the step-stool. She was browsing through the books, one by one, touching each one with her delicate fingers as she read the title on the binding.
“If I had a million dollars would you run away with me then?” He grinned up at her and took a sip of his coffee.
At this she looked up and into his eyes. “Of course.” She replied in a soft voice, “If I could run away with you, I’d do it for a dollar- I’d do it for nothing, If I could.”
“Really?” He stood up, smiling, surprised that she had volunteered anything like that. Of course he was really pleased that she felt this way, but he knew it almost certainly would never happen, not because she didn’t love him but because she loved her children so much. That was a reality he could understand. He stepped over to her side and
took her small hand in his, just for a couple seconds, and gave it a squeeze. She resumed looking at books, he resumed looking at her. They were, for the moment, happy and comfortable together.

Waiting at the Keahole airport he amused himself reading magazines at the newsstand
in the inter-island arrivals terminal. Kim and Serina were supposed to arrive at 11:15, but had slipped onto an earlier flight by upgrading to first class. They were due to land within ten minutes, so he busied himself looking at magazines and avoided the packs of travel weary tourists that milled about aimless and lost in every Hawaiian Airport.

“My doctor told me I’m reticent.” She looks at the ground and I wonder how anyone could ever be so beautiful. “Not really my doctor,” She’s quick to correct. “The doctor they made me go see. I didn’t really tell him anything, and so he said I was reticent. Do you know what that means?” She looks up at me inquisitively, and I nod yes, that I understand. She smiles a sad little smile and leans back in her chair.
“It means that you’re a tough nut to crack. A tough cookie.” I can’t help but to smile at the irony of this frail, feminine beauty and that last statement. “You don’t look much like a tough cookie.”
Leaning towards me across the table she looks into my eyes seriously and smiles, “Oh, but I can be. You just don’t know me.” She pauses, fiddling with the ring on her left hand. “If you knew me better you’d understand. I just internalize everything. If I tell you anything important I agonize over it for a long time prior, and I worry about it for weeks after. That’s just the way I am- I cant help it.”
“Well it’s no wonder I’ve been so upside down and backwards, what with me feeling the way I do about you, having the feelings I do for you, and you just being tight lipped about the whole thing and how you feel about it.” I say this gently, as I don’t want it to sound harsh, I’m only trying to explain why I’m such a basket-case myself. “If you told me how you feel maybe it would help make things better.”
She looks away, at the sky, the trees, the traffic passing in front of the café we’re sitting in. “Maybe it could make things harder, too, though.” She looks up at me and into my eyes intently. “I love you- you know that. But I know in my heart that there’s just no way it can ever work with us. You have your family, and I’d never want to be the one that comes between you and your family. I have two beautiful children which I adore, and I cant put them through all of that. I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you something to make it better, but I’ve made up my mind.” She reaches across the table and takes my rough hand in hers, all small and soft and delicate. “I know it seems so important to you now, but in time you’ll look back and be happy you did the right thing. You’re a sweet man, and a handsome man, and an honorable one too. That’s one of the things I love so much about you, is your strength, and you just wouldn’t be you without that. For now you just have to trust and wait, and know that there’s a special place in my heart that belongs to you and that’s where we have to leave it.”
Looking into her eyes I see the hurt and the warmth, and I just love her more for it. “Ummm… at this point I’m afraid I’ll look back twenty years from now and regret that I was foolish enough to let you go.” I pause, taking a breath that keeps the lump out of my throat a little. “I adore you; you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I feel the mutual attraction- the magnetism between us, and it’s like a magical thing I’ve never felt before in my life- it makes me feel fantastic.” She reaches across the table and touches my cheek softly.
“But that’s OK. That’s a good thing. But that’s all we get to have, and we just have to live with that.” Her voice quivers just a little as she says this and it pains me terribly to know I’ve made her sad.
I take a long moment to hold it together and then exhale. “I know. I’ve known from the beginning. But I’ve always got this optimism that everything will somehow magically work out. I’m a hopeless romantic and a stubborn Irishman. I really do love you, and it just seems like a terrible tragedy to walk away from that.”
“I love you too, Bid Walker.” Visibly worried about me, she furrows her brow a bit. I figure I’d better finish this up before I break down, and so I stand up and put on a game-face. “Well, don’t worry about me. I’ll make out. I wish you’d change your mind. You know where to find me if you do.” I smile weakly at her and hope it doesn’t look too wistful. She stands up and comes around the table to where I am, taking me in her arms, and I wrap my arms around her.
“I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through.” I whispered.
“I’m not sorry at all.” She whispered back.

posted 10-13-2001 10:54 AM            

She drives to work thinking of him, her small car racing along the winding roads through rolling hills. Telephone poles flash by, flick-flick-flick yet she scarcely seems to notice, she’s so absorbed in her thoughts. How nice it would be if he were waiting there for her when she got to work, maybe flowers in hand, though that wouldn’t be necessary. Maybe he’d tell her that he missed her- that he was sorry, that he cares for her very much. She daydreams that she’d fall against him and tell him she loves him, that she too was sad and lonely, that she too was sorry. They’d pull back a bit and look into each others eyes and then laugh at how foolish they’d been, and then everything would be OK. She can just see his shoulders and his beautiful face as it is when she looks up at him, framed by the bright blue sky, clouds building above him. She arrives at work hopeful but he’s not there, and it only makes her more sad and frustrated and angry with him for not knowing how to be. She carries her papers into the office and thinks to herself that maybe he’ll call later… maybe.

Eyes open in the night he looks at the ceiling but can’t really make out much more than shapes in the dark. The streetlamp outside casts shadows on his wall through the open window, yet he can’t make anything out in the eerie glow. He lies there wondering what it would be like to awaken and find her there next to him, just to lie there gazing at her, amazed by her beauty, feigning sleep so as not to wake her. He used to sleep so soundly- he had had a girl once that had called it the sleep of the dead, as if the whole house could come crashing down around him but onward he would sleep and dream. He used to like to call it the ‘sleep of the just’, but lately that gentle euphemism didn’t seem so gentle, and he certainly wasn’t sleeping in that fashion.
After nearly an hour of lying there awake, wondering, he arose and padded down the hall through the living room and sat on the top step of his front stairs. The moon was more than half obscured by clouds but he could see the stars here and there. The streetlight on the corner lent shadows to everything, giving the night an eerie nature. Often times he’d find himself on this very step, wondering what he had done to deserve such an awful loneliness, and wishing and hoping and praying that somehow things would work out. Tonight he just gazed at the stars above him and thought sadly about hopelessness and soon he layed his head on his arms and cried.

She called him once just to see that he was OK, and he pretended that he was, hoping she wouldn’t think him desperate or find him pitiful, heartbroken as he was. He tried to take on a carefree tone as if to say, “well, yeah- I was pretty hurt but I’m over it now, water under the bridge, life goes on, no hard feelings.” When all the while he just wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he wanted to be with her, that she was in his every thought from the time he awoke until he finally fell asleep at night. And she pretended to accept that, wondering if he was really that good, and wishing he was just a little sad, and a little lonely, and hoping he’d call her later and say “well- maybe we could just go out, friends, for old times sake.”

He squints into the afternoon sunlight, scanning the horizon as if looking for something, but really just looking- any spot will do. The wind has blown the haze away, and the edge of the world is crisp and defined, ocean against sky without a cloud in sight to diffuse it. He yawns and stretches, stripping his shirt off of his lean frame and over his head as he does. He folds his shirt and absentmindedly drops it on the grass, not worried about where it goes because he won’t be back to retrieve it. Suddenly he gains purpose, striding past the empty lifeguard tower, the skeletal remains of summer abandoned for the off season, and down to the waters edge. He stops momentarily in thought and then strips off his shorts, now wearing only a pair of dark gray Jockey briefs, and he wades into the churning surf, picking his way through half gingerly avoiding stubbing his toes on the sharp coral and lava. Once the water is nearly waist deep he dives through an oncoming wave and begins stroking towards the horizon, his course perfectly perpendicular to the shore. He doesn’t think about anything as he cuts through the small afternoon chop, for if he thinks he only feels pain, and so he just continues on mechanically. Inhale, stroke, exhale, kicking and pulling himself along making hardly a splash, seemingly one with the salt and the spray. He’s a strong swimmer and so covers a lot of space in a short amount of time, and the steady rhythm of his breathing and his strong strokes fast leave the shore far behind. He thinks about stopping and looking back, just to see how far out he’s gone, but knows that there’s no point in that as however far he’s traveled if he’s looking back it hasn’t been far enough.

She sits at her desk pretending to fool herself, feigning efficiency when all the while she keeps finding him on her mind. She’ll answer the phone and be taking a message and in her mind he’ll be tickling her or popping in the door bringing flowers. Or she’ll be talking to someone in the office but in her mind he’ll be whispering that she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever encountered through the phone held to her ear. In a quiet moment between tasks she picks up the receiver and dials his number. It rings twice and she quickly sticks the phone back in its cradle, severing the connection. What would she say to him, without sounding desperate? How would he react? Indifferent? He may not even be there. And so the day passes slowly, and he doesn’t call, for he’s waiting for her, while she’s waiting for him.

On the shore a small child is playing in the sand and beach pebbles, singing a child’s rhyme and making castles in the sand. Her mother is five yards behind her, reading a book and paying scant attention to the little girl playing make believe. The girl squints into the afternoon sun, making out the shape of a man emerging from the waters edge. He trudges up the beach dripping, his arms and shoulders taut from his swim and stops before her, silhouetted as he’s blocking the glare of the sun. The girl smiles into his handsome face, and he raises his eyebrows, unsmiling, wistful- surprising himself that the sight of a small child building castles in the sand could bring a man such happiness. He retrieves his clothes and looks back, waving goodbye to the girl, still unsmiling. She waves back and smiles again, then returns to her life, and he returns to his.

posted 10-13-2001 11:07 AM            

I awoke with a start, a car horn blasting me out of my reverie. I wasn’t sitting on the grass in the median, eating my lunch. I had dozed off at a stoplight, and the light was green. I took my foot off the brake and accelerated out of the intersection, my beat up Mercedes smoking a bit as I rambled on down the road. I hadn’t been sleeping well the last few nights, and it really hurt to be woken from such a good, sound sleep. I pulled into my carport and shut off the car, locked the doors as I got out and headed up the cobblestone path to my flat. I fumbled with my key ring, looking for the front door key in the dim light of the streetlamp- my front porch light had been out for weeks, but for some reason I never remembered to replace it until I was in the dark, fumbling for my keys. I let myself in, all the while thinking about the horse girl from my dream. Her face had a familiarity about it, as if we’d seen one another before, or known each other in another time and place, perhaps another life. She had an honest beauty about her that made me want to protect her and hold her, to never tell her an untruth. I was never much of a ladies man- and that’s an understatement- so these feelings were perplexing and vexing and interesting, yet I found myself liking them and wondering where they’d come from and what does one do with feelings like these. I’d had plenty of empty relationships, nice enough girls and mutual friendships but really there wasn’t a lot to keep me there, if you know what I mean. A lot of relationships were good for both parties while they lasted, and I suppose good for both parties when they ended, no tears or fighting, just a time to begin and a time to end, mutually agreeable for all involved. There was one right when I got out of school that left an indelible impression on my heart, but at the time I didn’t know what it meant, having never been in love before, and I let her get away like all of the others and it was a while before I figured out my error. By then it was too late, as she was long gone and I hadn’t even an inkling of where to begin looking for her, and so I spent my free time walking aimlessly, anywhere but the places we had gone together, just walking and not thinking, trying to see some reason why I kept on like I did without her. As time passed I did get kind of a feel for living again, but it never felt as good as those days with her- I never could get that feeling back.