It was a sound Morg was unfamiliar with and it startled him from sleep, leading his body to jolt upright well before his mind could begin to guess the cause. He looked around, straining his neck against the metal breast plate and cursing the armor he felt too vulnerable to take off while sleeping.
All around him the world gave an idyllic picture of serenity. The birds chirping and singing, the mist on the early morning grass threatening to turn wet and warm as the sunlight began to creep, slowly, over the hill. The pumping motion of some animal in a tree branch as it dug for insects or perhaps syrup. Morg turned and turned, looking for the sound that had awoken him and found it nowhere. He also found no other soldiers in camp.
At this he jumped up, grabbed his helmet and sheath, and ran to load his horse. The other animals were still there, tied to the same tree they had been we he slept, and there was no sign of the others having packed anything to depart. Morg scanned the scattered belongings for signs of struggle or a fight when he heard the sound again- a light clacking or something with a smoother surface hitting, bouncing and landing.
Morg ran toward it, drawing his sword as he did so, leaving the blade until he could find a stance to defend. Down the hill he clattered, his armor rumbling like a topple of pots and pans in some poorly organized kitchen. He jumped a large bounder and landed hard in a stone courtyard he hadn't seen and been aware of only a moment before.
"What in the gods anthems are you doing?" Lox yelled at him.
Morg straightened and looked up at the familiar forms of his fellows, sitting or kneeling or in Lox's case decidedly sprawling on the stone. Between them was a circle in the stone, a large flat space where the grass and moss hadn't overgrown the ruins, and in that circle were cubes of bone carved with patterns on the faces.
"Oh, ignore him- you're rolling or I'm slitting your throat and taking the coins the old fashioned way," Berks said, pushing Lox with his boot.
Lox, clearly having already tasted the wine that morning, grabbed up the cubes and cradled them in his hands, blowing and then seemingly talking to the small objects.
Morg observed this with puzzlement, his brain unable to define it and sorting through a list of options. Were these sacred objects being used to cast some circle of protection? No, certainly not with Lox wielding them, despite his ritualistic treatment of them at the moment.
"Get on with it!" Berks called, and lifted his foot for another push.
Lox drew his dagger from it's hidden sheath in the arm hole of his armor and held it Berks' shoe- the tip pressing into the bottom and threatening to penetrate if he pushed any further forward. He shot him the death stare, the one he swore he'd used to turn a man to stone once when the gods had still blessed him, and Berks withdrew.
Then, as if tossing aside a bone he'd cleared of me, he let the cubes fall from his hand. Morg heard the familiar clacking sound as they landed on the stone, and then a yell from Lox as he cheered the symbols appearing on the upturned faces of the cubes, and then an angry growl from Berks and an amused chuckle from Kindl who before now had sat quietly grinning at the whole thing.
"Yes, that's what happens when you test the gods will!" Lox cried, pointing a finger at Berks whose face was rapidly reddening.
"What are you doing?" Morg demanded, finally unable to ignore the obvious question any longer.
"Following the laws of the land," Lox said dismissively and grabbed up the cubes again.
Morg looked at him puzzled.
"What, hasn't anyone told you?" Berks asked, "Always gamble near a holy site in the morning."
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Sunday, May 22, 2016
Letting Go
It was a thought so long before it became a reality that to truly understand its path from the source one would have to go back an entire lifetime. The thought, in and of itself, was nothing revolutionary. It was, in fact, something so commonly espoused that it was found on bumper stickers, t-shirts, billboards and hit song lyrics. An yet the action it described was so revolutionary it was almost never seen.
Let go. That was all.
She'd said it herself a million times to people who were compulsively obsessing over issues now long past. Ended relationships, stupid mistakes, embarrassing moments, angry remembrances. She'd said it in the same flippant manner everyone said it, as if it were a simple, immediate thing. As if people didn't spend years in therapy, on religious retreats, consulting with gurus trying to understand how to do it, trying to actually bring the idea into action.
And yet now, in a situation that seemed to demand she ignore every single utterance of that word, she found it to be the easiest thing she'd ever done. Easier than breathing, easier than blinking, easier than a thousand other automatic, unconscious behaviors she'd done innumerable times.
So with a quiet, almost inaudible exhale she did. She let go.
Let go. That was all.
She'd said it herself a million times to people who were compulsively obsessing over issues now long past. Ended relationships, stupid mistakes, embarrassing moments, angry remembrances. She'd said it in the same flippant manner everyone said it, as if it were a simple, immediate thing. As if people didn't spend years in therapy, on religious retreats, consulting with gurus trying to understand how to do it, trying to actually bring the idea into action.
And yet now, in a situation that seemed to demand she ignore every single utterance of that word, she found it to be the easiest thing she'd ever done. Easier than breathing, easier than blinking, easier than a thousand other automatic, unconscious behaviors she'd done innumerable times.
So with a quiet, almost inaudible exhale she did. She let go.
Saturday, May 21, 2016
Fiona St.
The light was harsh and intrusive, even through his closed eyelids. And the truck backing up seemed to make the light pulse. Each beep was a red flash behind his eyelids, as if beating against his brain. He tried to assess the situation- but with the pain occupying his skull he was far beyond the task.
He became aware, in a sad, slow sort-of way, of pressure on his upper back. And underneath his left hip. He couldn't get a good feel of anything exactly, just vague and horrible sensations. Every investigation threatened to tear him further from the now blissful-seeming detachment he'd felt from his body before he started to awake.
He tried, briefly, to breathe deeper and fall back into the darkness. But the light and the sound and the pain kept at him, insistent and relentless. And with each beep, each engine turn, each yell from someone in an echo-ey alleyway he became more aware. Not only of the pounding in his head and the pressure against him as he leaned in some awkward position but also of the quickly developing nausea in his stomach and dizziness that seemed to revolve in his head.
Before he could think he felt a new sensation in his hand- a body-part he hadn't previously been aware of. As if something had been pushed into it, forced into his loose grip. His eyes shot open against his will and he saw what it was- a crumpled up bill. He heard rather than seeing the person who had bestowed it as turning his head to look threatened to topple him. It was the sound of footsteps made by nice shoes- black patent leather with heels. He knew the sound so well it registered instantly even without sight and his mind began to piece together the information.
He was slumped against the building in the early morning of city activity- like the bakery truck delivering flour across the street, and a business man en route to one of the high-rise office buildings had inserted a bill into his outstretched hand, thinking him a vagrant.
The scene blossomed in his mind, clear and concise. He was a bum, or at least, that's what everyone saw. How else to describe someone in his state- still somewhat drunk from the night before, slumped against a wall in an alleyway, probably reeking from sweat and god only knew what else, wearing clothes worn down by a hard night. It was a scene so instantaneously recognizable his mind couldn't reject it and it sunk in.
The full awareness hit him, washed over him, drowned him. And in the aftermath there was only one question left over: How the hell did he get this bad?
He became aware, in a sad, slow sort-of way, of pressure on his upper back. And underneath his left hip. He couldn't get a good feel of anything exactly, just vague and horrible sensations. Every investigation threatened to tear him further from the now blissful-seeming detachment he'd felt from his body before he started to awake.
He tried, briefly, to breathe deeper and fall back into the darkness. But the light and the sound and the pain kept at him, insistent and relentless. And with each beep, each engine turn, each yell from someone in an echo-ey alleyway he became more aware. Not only of the pounding in his head and the pressure against him as he leaned in some awkward position but also of the quickly developing nausea in his stomach and dizziness that seemed to revolve in his head.
Before he could think he felt a new sensation in his hand- a body-part he hadn't previously been aware of. As if something had been pushed into it, forced into his loose grip. His eyes shot open against his will and he saw what it was- a crumpled up bill. He heard rather than seeing the person who had bestowed it as turning his head to look threatened to topple him. It was the sound of footsteps made by nice shoes- black patent leather with heels. He knew the sound so well it registered instantly even without sight and his mind began to piece together the information.
He was slumped against the building in the early morning of city activity- like the bakery truck delivering flour across the street, and a business man en route to one of the high-rise office buildings had inserted a bill into his outstretched hand, thinking him a vagrant.
The scene blossomed in his mind, clear and concise. He was a bum, or at least, that's what everyone saw. How else to describe someone in his state- still somewhat drunk from the night before, slumped against a wall in an alleyway, probably reeking from sweat and god only knew what else, wearing clothes worn down by a hard night. It was a scene so instantaneously recognizable his mind couldn't reject it and it sunk in.
The full awareness hit him, washed over him, drowned him. And in the aftermath there was only one question left over: How the hell did he get this bad?
Friday, May 20, 2016
The Summer Porch
Stashed. That was the word. Hidden under a million objects, memories, pictures, emotions and scents. Easily dismissed when met with the realities of the day. Filed away in the safest, most treasured part of the mind.
Going there was an indulgence, certainly. It wasn't productive, it didn't help her get any work done or catch up on the mountain of papers sitting on her desk. But sometimes, just for a moment, when the sound of typing threatened to drive her mad or the endless ring of the phone up front started to drown out her own thoughts she would stop and allow herself to drift.
It began with the scent of saltwater. Or seaweed. Or sand. Whatever that smell was. She knew it better than anything else and it enveloped her completely, invading her nostrils as much as her memories even as she sat in that sterile office closed off from the world. It was a scent written on her soul, inextricably linked to a feeling of peace that nothing else could deliver. She followed it now, down the path of her own memory.
Next came the sounds of the street- lawnmowers, dogs barking, kids yelling at each other as they shot waterguns or chased the leader down the sidewalk. She heard her father's old dodge idling away in the driveway as he worked on the engine, telling her brother to "turn it off" for another adjustment. She heard her cat Missy mewing as he sprawled on the wooden railing of the porch.
She reached out a hand and felt the old wood- painted and re-painted so many times the wood underneath could never be recovered, and yet worn smooth by hands like hers grasping and sliding and sometimes holding on. Her grandmother's firm grasp as she slowly mounted the steps one at a time, smiling as she did as if the pain in her hip wasn't excruciating. Her brother's tapping fingers as he skipped up the way he always did. Her mother's smooth, fluid ascent earning a groan from each step she walked. The physical touches of her family etched onto the smooth surface.
And finally, blessedly, she opened her eyes and observed. The window always caught her eye first, the pane reflecting the nearly blinding light of the late sun as it drooped languidly in the sky and the orange glow that illuminated and bounced and spread like ivy. It always reminded her of a creamsicle, sometimes so much her mouth would water and she would strain for the sound of the ice cream truck.
She allowed her gaze to drift, her eyes touching upon each object and surface the same as her hand had caressed the banister. The swing- her mother's favorite part of the house, where she would curl up with a book and Missy and an icy glass of lemonade or tea that would collect condensation and soak the pages of whatever novel she pretended to read as she looked out at the street. Sometimes her father would join her with a beer in hand and she'd protest his dirty pants on her white wicker bench. He would put an arm around her, which she'd initially scream at him for before relenting and sinking into the cuddle.
The sand-dollar wind chimes they'd made together one summer, after carefully and meticulously combing the beach day after day looking for the perfect ones. For every one successfully connected by fishing wire there were at least a dozen broken, or stepped on, or found lacking upon the return home to consider the day's findings. She'd always loved it, perhaps because of the size of the endeavor and the devotion they'd given it.
The floor, oh the floor. Worn smooth in the main pathway by hundreds of feet scraping across the surface. Sandy shoes and dragged beach bags. Her father's heavy work boots. Her wet flip-flops. Her grandmother's cane. The wood had originally been a deep, chestnut brown but in the center of the porch where everyone walked it was worn back, obsidian and perfectly reflective of that brilliant orange light. As if the entryway itself were a path of lit fire. She would stare at that spot on the porch as she sat on the railing, losing longer moments than she ever intended.
A million and one memories. An endless list of stories and jokes and repeated dialogues. The tapestry of her family before her grandmother died and her parents broke up and they had to sell the house in Avalon. Before childhood stopped being magical. She indulged in them, allowing herself to feel.
A pile of manilla folders landed with an audible thud on the already tall pile of paperwork on her desk and she startled, jolting violently and bouncing in her office chair. Her boss didn't even look back at her as he continued his march to his office and she shot daggers at the now crumbling tower on her desk. She sighed, resigned herself to get back to work and leave the summer porch again to regain her seat in the firm, unforgiving confines of reality, and reached for the top of the stack.
Going there was an indulgence, certainly. It wasn't productive, it didn't help her get any work done or catch up on the mountain of papers sitting on her desk. But sometimes, just for a moment, when the sound of typing threatened to drive her mad or the endless ring of the phone up front started to drown out her own thoughts she would stop and allow herself to drift.
It began with the scent of saltwater. Or seaweed. Or sand. Whatever that smell was. She knew it better than anything else and it enveloped her completely, invading her nostrils as much as her memories even as she sat in that sterile office closed off from the world. It was a scent written on her soul, inextricably linked to a feeling of peace that nothing else could deliver. She followed it now, down the path of her own memory.
Next came the sounds of the street- lawnmowers, dogs barking, kids yelling at each other as they shot waterguns or chased the leader down the sidewalk. She heard her father's old dodge idling away in the driveway as he worked on the engine, telling her brother to "turn it off" for another adjustment. She heard her cat Missy mewing as he sprawled on the wooden railing of the porch.
She reached out a hand and felt the old wood- painted and re-painted so many times the wood underneath could never be recovered, and yet worn smooth by hands like hers grasping and sliding and sometimes holding on. Her grandmother's firm grasp as she slowly mounted the steps one at a time, smiling as she did as if the pain in her hip wasn't excruciating. Her brother's tapping fingers as he skipped up the way he always did. Her mother's smooth, fluid ascent earning a groan from each step she walked. The physical touches of her family etched onto the smooth surface.
And finally, blessedly, she opened her eyes and observed. The window always caught her eye first, the pane reflecting the nearly blinding light of the late sun as it drooped languidly in the sky and the orange glow that illuminated and bounced and spread like ivy. It always reminded her of a creamsicle, sometimes so much her mouth would water and she would strain for the sound of the ice cream truck.
She allowed her gaze to drift, her eyes touching upon each object and surface the same as her hand had caressed the banister. The swing- her mother's favorite part of the house, where she would curl up with a book and Missy and an icy glass of lemonade or tea that would collect condensation and soak the pages of whatever novel she pretended to read as she looked out at the street. Sometimes her father would join her with a beer in hand and she'd protest his dirty pants on her white wicker bench. He would put an arm around her, which she'd initially scream at him for before relenting and sinking into the cuddle.
The sand-dollar wind chimes they'd made together one summer, after carefully and meticulously combing the beach day after day looking for the perfect ones. For every one successfully connected by fishing wire there were at least a dozen broken, or stepped on, or found lacking upon the return home to consider the day's findings. She'd always loved it, perhaps because of the size of the endeavor and the devotion they'd given it.
The floor, oh the floor. Worn smooth in the main pathway by hundreds of feet scraping across the surface. Sandy shoes and dragged beach bags. Her father's heavy work boots. Her wet flip-flops. Her grandmother's cane. The wood had originally been a deep, chestnut brown but in the center of the porch where everyone walked it was worn back, obsidian and perfectly reflective of that brilliant orange light. As if the entryway itself were a path of lit fire. She would stare at that spot on the porch as she sat on the railing, losing longer moments than she ever intended.
A million and one memories. An endless list of stories and jokes and repeated dialogues. The tapestry of her family before her grandmother died and her parents broke up and they had to sell the house in Avalon. Before childhood stopped being magical. She indulged in them, allowing herself to feel.
A pile of manilla folders landed with an audible thud on the already tall pile of paperwork on her desk and she startled, jolting violently and bouncing in her office chair. Her boss didn't even look back at her as he continued his march to his office and she shot daggers at the now crumbling tower on her desk. She sighed, resigned herself to get back to work and leave the summer porch again to regain her seat in the firm, unforgiving confines of reality, and reached for the top of the stack.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Interrogated
It wasn't my fault. I'm sure you hear that excuse all the time- like all the freakin' time. But in my case, it really wasn't. I mean, who the hell even uses getaway cars anymore? And who the hell would run into the back seat of Jetta if they were gonna use one? It's really just a simple case of mistaken identity. Wrong bank, wrong time, shouldn't have been sitting there with the engine on.
Why'd I drive? Well, that's simple- the guy had a gun. You see a ski-mask wearing man in your rear-view mirror screaming at you to drive while waving a semi-automatic around your cab and you freakin' drive. I didn't have time to think, I just had to gun it.
The cops? Yeah, I saw the lights and heard the sirens. Christ, did I hear those sirens- those things could make a whole damned neighborhood go deaf! But that just made the guy scream at me louder. "Turn right!" And "No- there! There!" And then he was cursing at me cause I didn't know where I was going. I couldn't think about anything other trying not to crash!
I thought I was havin' a heart attack! The guy screamin' at me, the car screechin'- Jettas aren't exactly known for their quiet rides, you know? And I was speedin' around corners and nearly t-boning a dozen cars while the guy in the back is up my ass with a freakin' machine gun and- huh?
Semi automatic, machine gun- what the hell difference does it make? Either way the thing'll shoot your face off! Besides, doesn't it say that in your report? Oh, right- you're the one askin' the questions, yeah.
What's that? Why was I waitin' there in the first place? Well, that's a longer story. What're you gonna tell me you got all the time in the world? Yeah, well- I don't. So unless you're gonna charge me with something I'm- huh? Aiding and abetting? What the- yeah?
Um... I'd like to call a lawyer.
Why'd I drive? Well, that's simple- the guy had a gun. You see a ski-mask wearing man in your rear-view mirror screaming at you to drive while waving a semi-automatic around your cab and you freakin' drive. I didn't have time to think, I just had to gun it.
The cops? Yeah, I saw the lights and heard the sirens. Christ, did I hear those sirens- those things could make a whole damned neighborhood go deaf! But that just made the guy scream at me louder. "Turn right!" And "No- there! There!" And then he was cursing at me cause I didn't know where I was going. I couldn't think about anything other trying not to crash!
I thought I was havin' a heart attack! The guy screamin' at me, the car screechin'- Jettas aren't exactly known for their quiet rides, you know? And I was speedin' around corners and nearly t-boning a dozen cars while the guy in the back is up my ass with a freakin' machine gun and- huh?
Semi automatic, machine gun- what the hell difference does it make? Either way the thing'll shoot your face off! Besides, doesn't it say that in your report? Oh, right- you're the one askin' the questions, yeah.
What's that? Why was I waitin' there in the first place? Well, that's a longer story. What're you gonna tell me you got all the time in the world? Yeah, well- I don't. So unless you're gonna charge me with something I'm- huh? Aiding and abetting? What the- yeah?
Um... I'd like to call a lawyer.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Fat Tuesday
"It used to mean something," he said, barely audible in the overt revelry of the bar exploding with people, sweat and stench.
One drunken bead-thrower noticed though, and leaned in. "What'd you say?" he screamed, overestimating the need to raise his voice in all the din and punishing the man's ear with the question.
He shrank back, and then slumped further over the bar, his hand grasping the thick glass as if his life depended on it. He hadn't been talking to the bead-thrower, a person whose gender couldn't safely be determined. Androgynous, they called the look. Some part of him appreciated the idea, but in the midst of such confusion he wished for simplicity and this person refused to deliver it.
"It used to mean something!" he yelled, because he too was drunk and feeling philosophical in his melancholy.
"What?" the bead-thrower asked, the same push of the voice in the explosive noise.
"All this-" he said, making a wide arch with his hand towards the general direction of everything. The sheer number of bodies packed so tightly inside the building made his skin moist with persperation.
It had undoubtedly surpassed maximum occupancy hours ago but remained so highly populated thanks to watered-down booze and specialty cocktails selling for cheap prices. The group was more than diverse- the young college students grinding each other to the horn-heavy music in a mad frenzy of desperation, the older tourists marveling at everything with wide eyes and furiously snapping cell phone cameras, the pup crawlers who made faces at the drinks in hand as if they were insulted by their inferiority even though they too were no less far along in the process of getting shit faced. It was all over-the-top debauchery. All pointless exertion. All blind excess.
"It used to be about reflection," he went on even though the one captive audience member he'd had was moving away from him, back into the the throbbing crowd. "It used to be about conscious prayer and identifying your wrongs for god to absolve and eating the things that you'd then give up for lent while you fasted and prayed and thought about how to live your life better," he yelled, lecturing no one in particular because no one was listening. "This isn't what this is supposed to be! This isn't right! It's not right!" he was screaming now, and flailing his arms widely and violently.
It was inevitable, really- what came next. The contents of his glass spilling onto the wrong party as he waved it through the air. That party violently fighting back with a shove that sent him flying into someone else. That someone else seeing the shover and launching a blow at him. The heightened yelling as friends of both sides rallied. The thrown punches, the heavy thuds and throws, the mosh-pit like eruption of raw physical energy as pent up emotions found permission to express themselves in unbridled, animalistic rage.
And as he was trampled and flattened by the throngs of people, as the dullness in his head began to pull back at the edges of his senses, as he felt his body losing its weak grasp on consciousness all he could do was repeat the sentiment: "This is not what it's supposed to be...".
One drunken bead-thrower noticed though, and leaned in. "What'd you say?" he screamed, overestimating the need to raise his voice in all the din and punishing the man's ear with the question.
He shrank back, and then slumped further over the bar, his hand grasping the thick glass as if his life depended on it. He hadn't been talking to the bead-thrower, a person whose gender couldn't safely be determined. Androgynous, they called the look. Some part of him appreciated the idea, but in the midst of such confusion he wished for simplicity and this person refused to deliver it.
"It used to mean something!" he yelled, because he too was drunk and feeling philosophical in his melancholy.
"What?" the bead-thrower asked, the same push of the voice in the explosive noise.
"All this-" he said, making a wide arch with his hand towards the general direction of everything. The sheer number of bodies packed so tightly inside the building made his skin moist with persperation.
It had undoubtedly surpassed maximum occupancy hours ago but remained so highly populated thanks to watered-down booze and specialty cocktails selling for cheap prices. The group was more than diverse- the young college students grinding each other to the horn-heavy music in a mad frenzy of desperation, the older tourists marveling at everything with wide eyes and furiously snapping cell phone cameras, the pup crawlers who made faces at the drinks in hand as if they were insulted by their inferiority even though they too were no less far along in the process of getting shit faced. It was all over-the-top debauchery. All pointless exertion. All blind excess.
"It used to be about reflection," he went on even though the one captive audience member he'd had was moving away from him, back into the the throbbing crowd. "It used to be about conscious prayer and identifying your wrongs for god to absolve and eating the things that you'd then give up for lent while you fasted and prayed and thought about how to live your life better," he yelled, lecturing no one in particular because no one was listening. "This isn't what this is supposed to be! This isn't right! It's not right!" he was screaming now, and flailing his arms widely and violently.
It was inevitable, really- what came next. The contents of his glass spilling onto the wrong party as he waved it through the air. That party violently fighting back with a shove that sent him flying into someone else. That someone else seeing the shover and launching a blow at him. The heightened yelling as friends of both sides rallied. The thrown punches, the heavy thuds and throws, the mosh-pit like eruption of raw physical energy as pent up emotions found permission to express themselves in unbridled, animalistic rage.
And as he was trampled and flattened by the throngs of people, as the dullness in his head began to pull back at the edges of his senses, as he felt his body losing its weak grasp on consciousness all he could do was repeat the sentiment: "This is not what it's supposed to be...".
Friday, January 8, 2016
Web Magic
Even
now she can feel them- their eight limbs picking their way across the
landscape of her body. That sudden movement at the base of her scalp.
It must be just a stray hair? The itchiness on of the surface of her
skin; her nails chasing the cause but always finding nothing. The sticky
strand across the face- strong but impossibly soft. Her eyes dart
looking for the unmistakable shape but though always present they remain
ever outside the periphery of her vision. Is this madness?
She'd
followed the ritual exactly: the words spoken from nervous lips in the
midnight hour, the candle evoking the goddess of creativity, the herbs
and incense piled atop as she bathed in the smoke of it. She knew this
was nothing to trifle with and she hadn't been trifling. But what had
she been inviting?
Her mind went back to the old woman
in the shop with her layers and layers of ribbons and jewelry. She'd
said that every symbol had a meaning and helped attune a specific
vibration. She'd listed the spells that could help her and warned
against diving in too deep.
But she was cocky, and
only half believing. Surely this must be a joke? Something that crazy
people do to make themselves feel better about not being in control of
their own lives. This woman with her incense and totems was a new age
fishmonger selling trinkets and kitch to people too stupid to know
better.
But Darcy, her free-wheeling and boundless
friend had sworn this was the answer to her problem and desperate times
do call for desperate measures. So she'd swallowed her pride and bought
the spell kit, hating herself for being so weak that she'd seek out
something so hokey. But she'd felt empowered as she left the tiny,
cluttered shop. No longer close minded. No longer limited by a
construct that maybe didn't quite fit.
"This is what
you get" was the thought that came to her when she felt the thick weave
binding her. She startled out of bed with a panic and thrashed in the
sheets. Only a dream.
But then the itching started.
The scuttle of impossibly fast bodies. The strands of silk roping
across her. The breath catching in her through as she sensed them. But
her eyes showed her nothing and her hands always reached for invisible
culprits. She was losing her mind.
Monday, January 4, 2016
The Casket Reveler
I know what you're thinking- some sicko, right? Who the hell would want to sneak into a funeral? Must be crazy, call the cops, and the like. But here's the thing: funerals are self-contained explosions. It's often smaller, quieter than you think such a destructive thing would be- but no one gets out alive.
One of the side effects of such a setting in that no one is really paying any attention to who is there, especially not the family of the deceased. You get in the line, shake the hand and say a few sympathetic words and you're off. The nose blowers don't even look you in the face, the awkward youth never ask any questions and the blank-faced shock victims give robotic responses. No one remembers you, no one registers the intruder.
As for me and why I'm here- well... let's just say I got my reasons. If you believe in such things, it's not up to you to decide whether they're good or bad- someone else is in charge of passing judgement. Perhaps the reason it's never bothered me too much is because I don't believe in such things. I've never seen any reason to, and nothing's ever come out of the woodwork to convince me otherwise. So I come- viewing after viewing, suit after suit- and I sit. And I watch.
It's not exactly entertainment. I could be binge-watching Netflix like everyone else if I wanted that. This is better. It's an experience. The gauntlet of human emotions out on display with no commercials, no censors, no screen. The faces are only part of the play.
There's the tissue-talker muttering 'thanks you's and agreements to offered compliments through a wadded up paper. Small, hunched and held up by tall, awkward boys on both sides. They stand like pillars, doing their damndest not to move as the plump, round yet desperately fragile woman between them snivels and snorts at all the greeters. She smells like grapefruit as I pass and I can't help but think of the nursing home they stuck my uncle in before he went.
There's the statue standing there like a sentry at the end of the line. His hands clasped to each other so tightly his knuckles are white, his arms pressed so firmly in front of him he looks as if he might tip over if you knocked into him. And his gaze is locked straight ahead like he's trying to stare through the wall. It all gives the illusion of immobility and permanence. Like he's part of the scenery- cold, hard and inanimate. That is, until someone proffers a hand. Then he springs into action like a jack-in-the-box: grasping and shaking and smiling with a great act of real emotion. But you follow long enough and see the same dead expression wash over as soon as the person passes. Action, reaction. Like a reflex. No thought, just meaningless motion.
My favorite is always the drunk. There's always at least one, no matter what the crowd. There's a few different flavors of them, of course. But they always monopolize the action. The infamous loud, belligerent tornado who lobs accusations like a fountain- hitting anything near without aim or purpose. Or the quiet hiccuper whose glossy eyes can never quite focus and who needs to be pushed upright every so often lest they splay themselves across a neighbor's lap. Or the sobber- the ones crying with such abandon that only alcohol could explain the ceaseless noise. They're louder and scarier than the regular sobbers. And redder.
I don't know why they're my favorite, exactly. Maybe it's the way they demand everybody's attention while everyone around them pretends not to notice. Or maybe it's the way they put it all out there. While the mourners are acting and strutting around like show dogs before a panel of judges they spit and growl and bark with no regard for the audience. It seems more genuine somehow, more authentic. In a conference of actors they're the only real participants.
You can think whatever you want of me for liking it so much. You can judge and scorn and chastise in your own indignant fashion. Won't bother me. Because while you're doing all that I'll be watching you, forming my own judgements, my own labels, my own studious observations of character. It's all part of the experience.
And why not enjoy the experience? The one in the casket can't. So you might as well revel for them.
One of the side effects of such a setting in that no one is really paying any attention to who is there, especially not the family of the deceased. You get in the line, shake the hand and say a few sympathetic words and you're off. The nose blowers don't even look you in the face, the awkward youth never ask any questions and the blank-faced shock victims give robotic responses. No one remembers you, no one registers the intruder.
As for me and why I'm here- well... let's just say I got my reasons. If you believe in such things, it's not up to you to decide whether they're good or bad- someone else is in charge of passing judgement. Perhaps the reason it's never bothered me too much is because I don't believe in such things. I've never seen any reason to, and nothing's ever come out of the woodwork to convince me otherwise. So I come- viewing after viewing, suit after suit- and I sit. And I watch.
It's not exactly entertainment. I could be binge-watching Netflix like everyone else if I wanted that. This is better. It's an experience. The gauntlet of human emotions out on display with no commercials, no censors, no screen. The faces are only part of the play.
There's the tissue-talker muttering 'thanks you's and agreements to offered compliments through a wadded up paper. Small, hunched and held up by tall, awkward boys on both sides. They stand like pillars, doing their damndest not to move as the plump, round yet desperately fragile woman between them snivels and snorts at all the greeters. She smells like grapefruit as I pass and I can't help but think of the nursing home they stuck my uncle in before he went.
There's the statue standing there like a sentry at the end of the line. His hands clasped to each other so tightly his knuckles are white, his arms pressed so firmly in front of him he looks as if he might tip over if you knocked into him. And his gaze is locked straight ahead like he's trying to stare through the wall. It all gives the illusion of immobility and permanence. Like he's part of the scenery- cold, hard and inanimate. That is, until someone proffers a hand. Then he springs into action like a jack-in-the-box: grasping and shaking and smiling with a great act of real emotion. But you follow long enough and see the same dead expression wash over as soon as the person passes. Action, reaction. Like a reflex. No thought, just meaningless motion.
My favorite is always the drunk. There's always at least one, no matter what the crowd. There's a few different flavors of them, of course. But they always monopolize the action. The infamous loud, belligerent tornado who lobs accusations like a fountain- hitting anything near without aim or purpose. Or the quiet hiccuper whose glossy eyes can never quite focus and who needs to be pushed upright every so often lest they splay themselves across a neighbor's lap. Or the sobber- the ones crying with such abandon that only alcohol could explain the ceaseless noise. They're louder and scarier than the regular sobbers. And redder.
I don't know why they're my favorite, exactly. Maybe it's the way they demand everybody's attention while everyone around them pretends not to notice. Or maybe it's the way they put it all out there. While the mourners are acting and strutting around like show dogs before a panel of judges they spit and growl and bark with no regard for the audience. It seems more genuine somehow, more authentic. In a conference of actors they're the only real participants.
You can think whatever you want of me for liking it so much. You can judge and scorn and chastise in your own indignant fashion. Won't bother me. Because while you're doing all that I'll be watching you, forming my own judgements, my own labels, my own studious observations of character. It's all part of the experience.
And why not enjoy the experience? The one in the casket can't. So you might as well revel for them.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Echoes in the Cavern
Even after the screams stopped. After the cries and calls faded. After the fall... their voices still echoed in the cavern. In the small crevices, the hidden nooks, the forgotten places. She could hear them as soon as she entered.
One exhale in the stillness, and then a promise. She would find them all. She would tell their stories. She would seek them out of the dark places and bring them all- every one of them- into the light.
"And so it begins," she said to herself. And then, to the great expanse in front: "I'm here. I'm listening."
She exhaled- a single movement of air in the dense interior. And then, with no more than a lean of her body, she took her first step forward.
One exhale in the stillness, and then a promise. She would find them all. She would tell their stories. She would seek them out of the dark places and bring them all- every one of them- into the light.
"And so it begins," she said to herself. And then, to the great expanse in front: "I'm here. I'm listening."
She exhaled- a single movement of air in the dense interior. And then, with no more than a lean of her body, she took her first step forward.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Z is for Zeal
Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
Ted gripped the edge of the seat, literally white-knucking it. He reminded himself to play the tape all the way through and remember the self hatred and sickness and disgust that would inevitably follow the tumble back down the rabbit hole. But his body betrayed him. His stomach rumbled audibly with an all-too-familiar thirst. His taste buds watered so strongly that saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. And his had swam with the heady scent of that grainey brew. It was the worst craving he could remember and it was agonizing.
But they say that no door ever closes without a window opening and for the second time that day, god's timing was miraculous. No sooner had the calming, enticing thought entered his mind than Stew entered his sight- coming in through the same door that Cole had walked through not moments before.
He made his way over to the booth, sat down across from him and said "It went that well, huh?"
Ted didn't look at him, but kept his hands glued to the seat. "I want a drink."
"I know," Stew said simply.
"That really hurt," Ted said.
"I know," he said again. "Good news is, though- that's the worst of it. It gets easier from here."
"How so?" Ted mustered.
"First meeting is always the hardest, second one's easier, by the third he might actually start to tolerate you."
"What the hell makes you assume there's ever going to be another meeting?"
"He wouldn't have come otherwise," Stew said.
This made Ted look up and stare at his friend sideways. "That makes no sense at all. The kid comes in here, tells me he hates me, that nothing I can ever do can make up for the fact that I wasn't a father to him, and storms off. Does that sound like the start of a joyful reconciliation to you?"
"Did he tell you never to call him again?" Stew asked.
"What? No, he-"
"And did he tell you he would never speak to you again?"
"He said I haven't earned the right to be his father," Ted said, his tone as acrid as he could replicate.
"Ah-hah," Stew said, as if it proved a point.
"What the hell are you ah-hah-ing about?"
"That means you can earn the right- it's an opening," Stew said, and now he was smiling.
Ted just stared at him in disbelief, astounded at his complete and utter failure to understand the situation. The sudden buzz from his phone in his pocket startled him, jolting him upright.
"It's him," Stew said, folding his arms in confidence.
"You are truly delusional- it's Eric or Mike making sure I'm not standing on a bridge," Ted said as he fumbled in his pocket. He unlocked the screen and then froze.
The top of the screen had the word Cole in deceptively simple type, as if it were commonplace and the white space of the empty conversation was filled by a single line of text in green: "Congratulations on your coin, btw."
Ted stared at it as if at any moment the screen would blink and be replaced by something real, something that could actually exist.
"It is him, isn't it?" Stew was smiling now.
"Yuh- I" Ted stammered, unable to believe what he was seeing.
Stew snatched the phone out of his hand and read the message, then smiled and placed the phone back in Ted's frozen palm. "Like I said, second meeting will be easier."
It took a while, but Ted seemed to return to himself. "I'm so confused- what just happened?"
"You did what you had to do- you pursued redemption with zeal. You keep at it, you'll get it. That's how it works. All those promises? They're not lies."
Ted thumbed the big book on the bench next to him, flipping the pages with his finger. He noticed that sick feeling in his stomach was gone, replaced by an almost overwhelming desire for pancakes.
"I'm hungry," he said.
Stew waved to his favorite waitress who'd been hanging back out of an innate sense that the situation required as much.
"Hey sweetie," she said, and smiled a big toothy, grin. "What'll ya have?"
"I'll take a waffle on this lovely Sunday afternoon and I'm guessing my friend here'll have some pancakes," he asked with an eyebrow raise at Ted.
Ted nodded with a growing smile and observed the flirtatious wink Alice gave Stew in reply before she walked back to the kitchen, swaying her hips as she went.
"That's it- what the hell is going on here?" Ted asked, pointing an accusatory finger at Stew.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, doing a poor job of hiding his smile.
"Bullshit- you're dating!" Ted accused.
"Those promises aren't lies," Stew said. "You're starting to see that now."
Ted looked at him with a grin spreading from ear to ear and nodded.
If you're interested in the promises of the program please go here- it's amazing when you see this stuff in action. Thank you to everyone who read this story, any part of it. It's been a hell of a journey for me and I am grateful to everyone who shared in it.
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
Ted gripped the edge of the seat, literally white-knucking it. He reminded himself to play the tape all the way through and remember the self hatred and sickness and disgust that would inevitably follow the tumble back down the rabbit hole. But his body betrayed him. His stomach rumbled audibly with an all-too-familiar thirst. His taste buds watered so strongly that saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. And his had swam with the heady scent of that grainey brew. It was the worst craving he could remember and it was agonizing.
But they say that no door ever closes without a window opening and for the second time that day, god's timing was miraculous. No sooner had the calming, enticing thought entered his mind than Stew entered his sight- coming in through the same door that Cole had walked through not moments before.
He made his way over to the booth, sat down across from him and said "It went that well, huh?"
Ted didn't look at him, but kept his hands glued to the seat. "I want a drink."
"I know," Stew said simply.
"That really hurt," Ted said.
"I know," he said again. "Good news is, though- that's the worst of it. It gets easier from here."
"How so?" Ted mustered.
"First meeting is always the hardest, second one's easier, by the third he might actually start to tolerate you."
"What the hell makes you assume there's ever going to be another meeting?"
"He wouldn't have come otherwise," Stew said.
This made Ted look up and stare at his friend sideways. "That makes no sense at all. The kid comes in here, tells me he hates me, that nothing I can ever do can make up for the fact that I wasn't a father to him, and storms off. Does that sound like the start of a joyful reconciliation to you?"
"Did he tell you never to call him again?" Stew asked.
"What? No, he-"
"And did he tell you he would never speak to you again?"
"He said I haven't earned the right to be his father," Ted said, his tone as acrid as he could replicate.
"Ah-hah," Stew said, as if it proved a point.
"What the hell are you ah-hah-ing about?"
"That means you can earn the right- it's an opening," Stew said, and now he was smiling.
Ted just stared at him in disbelief, astounded at his complete and utter failure to understand the situation. The sudden buzz from his phone in his pocket startled him, jolting him upright.
"It's him," Stew said, folding his arms in confidence.
"You are truly delusional- it's Eric or Mike making sure I'm not standing on a bridge," Ted said as he fumbled in his pocket. He unlocked the screen and then froze.
The top of the screen had the word Cole in deceptively simple type, as if it were commonplace and the white space of the empty conversation was filled by a single line of text in green: "Congratulations on your coin, btw."
Ted stared at it as if at any moment the screen would blink and be replaced by something real, something that could actually exist.
"It is him, isn't it?" Stew was smiling now.
"Yuh- I" Ted stammered, unable to believe what he was seeing.
Stew snatched the phone out of his hand and read the message, then smiled and placed the phone back in Ted's frozen palm. "Like I said, second meeting will be easier."
It took a while, but Ted seemed to return to himself. "I'm so confused- what just happened?"
"You did what you had to do- you pursued redemption with zeal. You keep at it, you'll get it. That's how it works. All those promises? They're not lies."
Ted thumbed the big book on the bench next to him, flipping the pages with his finger. He noticed that sick feeling in his stomach was gone, replaced by an almost overwhelming desire for pancakes.
"I'm hungry," he said.
Stew waved to his favorite waitress who'd been hanging back out of an innate sense that the situation required as much.
"Hey sweetie," she said, and smiled a big toothy, grin. "What'll ya have?"
"I'll take a waffle on this lovely Sunday afternoon and I'm guessing my friend here'll have some pancakes," he asked with an eyebrow raise at Ted.
Ted nodded with a growing smile and observed the flirtatious wink Alice gave Stew in reply before she walked back to the kitchen, swaying her hips as she went.
"That's it- what the hell is going on here?" Ted asked, pointing an accusatory finger at Stew.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, doing a poor job of hiding his smile.
"Bullshit- you're dating!" Ted accused.
"Those promises aren't lies," Stew said. "You're starting to see that now."
Ted looked at him with a grin spreading from ear to ear and nodded.
If you're interested in the promises of the program please go here- it's amazing when you see this stuff in action. Thank you to everyone who read this story, any part of it. It's been a hell of a journey for me and I am grateful to everyone who shared in it.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Y is for Year
Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
Cole turned the coin over in his hand once more and stared at it, then with a flick of his wrist sent it flying onto the table where it landed with a loud clink. It bounced once, twice and on the third turned as if it would start spinning but then fell, finally landing on its side. Ted almost reached for it mid-bounce, a token so precious it hurt him to see it tossed aside so carelessly. But he kept his hands in his lap until it settled.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Cole asked. The gesture had been careless but the words held far more emotion.
Ted inhaled deeply and said "That's what I have to offer you." Now he picked up the coin and gave it a serious look. "You get this coin in the program when you've been sober one year- so that's what I'm offering. My sobriety, and everything that comes with it."
"And what's that?" He was nervous. Ted could hear it in his voice. He wouldn't let on on the outside- but it was clear in the question.
"Honesty, for one. Not being a miserable bastard, for another. Christ, Cole- I know what I did to you was... you know... would've put me up for the worst father in history award. But that's not who I am." He'd been holding it together alright until then but he couldn't fight it anymore. His eyes burned as the first tears crept out of them and he swallowed hard, his throat convulsing.
Cole just sat and watched him with his arms folded, as if the tears pleased him. But at the corner of his mouth a frown was forming.
"This isn't me tryng to get anything out of you- it's not a manipulation. I wanted to talk to you because I am sorry and because I do want to be your dad in whatever capacity you'd be willing to let me be-" he cried, but then his breath caught in his throat as he realized he'd done what he wasn't meant to do.
The request seemed to crack the facade and Cole finally let loose. "Let you? Let you? I was begging for you to be a father- for years I tried everything I could possibly think of to get you to look at me like something other than a cold beer delivery system! You think I liked driving at the age of 13 to pick you up from the bar? You think I liked working 30 hours a week when I was still in high school when you couldn't keep a job? And you think I killed myself in school for fun? No! I had to! I had to be perfect because you were such a screw up!" Now it was he whose eyes betrayed him with their moisture, it was his voice that attracted the attention of the lunch patrons.
Cole seemed to notice this at that moment as he shot a glance towards the onlookers. He angrily wiped his face with both hands and then pushed himself away from the table, moving towards the edge of the booth.
"You don't get to come in here with one stupid coin and wipe away everything you've done to me!" he said as he stood- pointing a threatening finger at Ted. Then he leaned in close as he growled out "And you haven't earned the right to be my father." And with that he turned and stormed out of the diner, side-stepping a waitress loaded down with trays and a small child by the door as he went.
Ted watched him with tears flowing freely from his eyes, unaware of the other people or their concerned faces. The sunlight on the door as it closed behind him hurt his eyes and he found himself wishing desperately for the cool, dark interior of a bar.
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
Cole turned the coin over in his hand once more and stared at it, then with a flick of his wrist sent it flying onto the table where it landed with a loud clink. It bounced once, twice and on the third turned as if it would start spinning but then fell, finally landing on its side. Ted almost reached for it mid-bounce, a token so precious it hurt him to see it tossed aside so carelessly. But he kept his hands in his lap until it settled.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Cole asked. The gesture had been careless but the words held far more emotion.
Ted inhaled deeply and said "That's what I have to offer you." Now he picked up the coin and gave it a serious look. "You get this coin in the program when you've been sober one year- so that's what I'm offering. My sobriety, and everything that comes with it."
"And what's that?" He was nervous. Ted could hear it in his voice. He wouldn't let on on the outside- but it was clear in the question.
"Honesty, for one. Not being a miserable bastard, for another. Christ, Cole- I know what I did to you was... you know... would've put me up for the worst father in history award. But that's not who I am." He'd been holding it together alright until then but he couldn't fight it anymore. His eyes burned as the first tears crept out of them and he swallowed hard, his throat convulsing.
Cole just sat and watched him with his arms folded, as if the tears pleased him. But at the corner of his mouth a frown was forming.
"This isn't me tryng to get anything out of you- it's not a manipulation. I wanted to talk to you because I am sorry and because I do want to be your dad in whatever capacity you'd be willing to let me be-" he cried, but then his breath caught in his throat as he realized he'd done what he wasn't meant to do.
The request seemed to crack the facade and Cole finally let loose. "Let you? Let you? I was begging for you to be a father- for years I tried everything I could possibly think of to get you to look at me like something other than a cold beer delivery system! You think I liked driving at the age of 13 to pick you up from the bar? You think I liked working 30 hours a week when I was still in high school when you couldn't keep a job? And you think I killed myself in school for fun? No! I had to! I had to be perfect because you were such a screw up!" Now it was he whose eyes betrayed him with their moisture, it was his voice that attracted the attention of the lunch patrons.
Cole seemed to notice this at that moment as he shot a glance towards the onlookers. He angrily wiped his face with both hands and then pushed himself away from the table, moving towards the edge of the booth.
"You don't get to come in here with one stupid coin and wipe away everything you've done to me!" he said as he stood- pointing a threatening finger at Ted. Then he leaned in close as he growled out "And you haven't earned the right to be my father." And with that he turned and stormed out of the diner, side-stepping a waitress loaded down with trays and a small child by the door as he went.
Ted watched him with tears flowing freely from his eyes, unaware of the other people or their concerned faces. The sunlight on the door as it closed behind him hurt his eyes and he found himself wishing desperately for the cool, dark interior of a bar.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
X is for xickovit
Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
Ted waved excitedly, he couldn't help it. He'd been so sure just a second ago that it would never happen. But then he caught the look on Cole's face and it chased the smile away, took the life out of his wave.
Cole spotted him and moved in his direction. It was a slow, deliberate pace and Ted half feared that any moment he would turn on a heel and walk out. He held his breath as he approached the table, as if afraid to spook him. But he looked less like a nervous woodland creature and more like a stalking predator, eying him as he weaved through the tables with a constant dark glare.
He seated himself across from Ted in the booth and Ted exhaled silently, trying to force his heart to slow. He watched his son with intense curiosity, but avoided meeting his gaze directly. Mentally he assigned sources to the physical landmarks of his face.
The high, slanted eyebrows were the trademark grace of his late wife. The large brow mirrored his. The jawline the firm, straight edge of his father's side. The slender ridge of the nose her mother's side. But it was the eyes that always got him, the same as hers. As if looking into him, beyond the surface, ignoring any attempt at covering or downplaying the harsh reality of his actions. He'd hated those eyes when they watched him and he wished nothing more than to avoid them now.
"We must not shrink from anything," his mind chastised. This was what he had wanted, this was what all the phone calls and letters and months of persistence were for. Just this moment. He pulled his head upwards and met his gaze.
"Thanks for meeting me," he said, and forced a smile. It felt uncomfortable and retreated from his lips almost as soon as he put it there. But he held Cole's gaze with the softest face he could muster and waited.
Cole stared him down, as if trying to break him, then suddenly looked away. "Didn't have much of a choice, was getting more letters from you than circulars. Wouldn't be much room left in the mailbox by the time you got done with it."
"Yeah, sorry about that," Ted said, sheepishly.
"So what the hell do you want?" he asked, turning to look at him with a snap of his head. This time he didn't look away but held the glare until Ted looked away, like a submissive animal.
He remembered what Stew had said- don't ask for anything, don't expect anything, just give him the space to talk. "I, uh, I'm in this program- uh... there's these steps you take to try to be better and I..." Now he wished he had prepared something, just an idea of some words. Something, anything more than 'uh'. Just keep going, he told himself.
"I have to make amends to the people I've wronged so I just wanted to ask you here to tell you that I'm sorry." There, he'd said it. The words had come out of his mouth and the sentence was logical and concrete. It had started.
But Cole said nothing and the silence intensified the sound of Ted's heart beating in his eardrums. Sorry- what a useless, insignificant word. As if that came close to the depths of his destruction. He imagined bitter, acrid words forming in Cole's mouth and waited for their impact, his muscles tensing involuntarily. But still he said nothing and he couldn't help but peak at his face to see what was causing the delay.
Cole had pursed his lips in slanted sort-of way, as if his apology were chewing tobacco and he were holding it between his cheek and teeth, letting it sink in. He wanted desperately to say something, to beg him to talk, but he waited. He kept reminding himself to breath.
"And what brought this on?" he finally asked.
Ted opened his mouth but closed it before making a sound. How to explain years of recklessness and waste? How to sum up a lifetime- Cole's lifetime- of hurtful living? How the hell to try to explain what his bottom looked like, let along to do it in a way that didn't sound like he was bucking for sob story of the year.
"In the program we call it being sick and tired of being sick and tired, if that makes any sense. Just... giving up." Again, he held his breath and then released it in one slow exhale.
"You know I hate you, right? Cole asked.
It wasn't what Ted had expected. He hadn't spat the words at him and he wasn't staring him down now- his expression looked as if he asked a far more innocuous question, like "Can you pass the ktechup" or "Do they have pancakes here?" And he realized it wasn't meant to hurt him, not really- it was just a statement of fact.
"I know that," Ted said. "And I earned that. And I know there's nothing I can do to make the past not happen- I can't give you your childhood back, I can't make it right. But I just wanted you to know that I know that- I am aware of my actions. And anything, whatever I can do to-"
"To what?" Cole interrupted. This time his eyes were wide and angry. "You weren't a father back then so you want to be a father now? Now that I don't need you anymore? Is that it?"
Ted watched his son's face and the pain he saw there nearly tore him apart. It ached in his chest with a heaviness he thought he'd never be able to lift, especially not with a few broken words. But he was sick of feeling that way every time he thought of his son, and that unwillingness to continue living like this is what drove his next move.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin he'd been turning around in his fingers the whole time and placed it face up on the table. It was his one year anniversary coin and the triangle carved into the mold caught the glint of the light. Cole grabbed it as if it were a bug, slapping his hand down on it and pulling it off the table. He looked at it, turned it over in his hands. Ted couldn't read his expression, which he took as a promising sign.
"So what, you're a coin collector now?" he asked, a wry smirk hinted at through words rather than by mouth.
"Sort of," Ted said, and smiled.
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
Ted waved excitedly, he couldn't help it. He'd been so sure just a second ago that it would never happen. But then he caught the look on Cole's face and it chased the smile away, took the life out of his wave.
Cole spotted him and moved in his direction. It was a slow, deliberate pace and Ted half feared that any moment he would turn on a heel and walk out. He held his breath as he approached the table, as if afraid to spook him. But he looked less like a nervous woodland creature and more like a stalking predator, eying him as he weaved through the tables with a constant dark glare.
He seated himself across from Ted in the booth and Ted exhaled silently, trying to force his heart to slow. He watched his son with intense curiosity, but avoided meeting his gaze directly. Mentally he assigned sources to the physical landmarks of his face.
The high, slanted eyebrows were the trademark grace of his late wife. The large brow mirrored his. The jawline the firm, straight edge of his father's side. The slender ridge of the nose her mother's side. But it was the eyes that always got him, the same as hers. As if looking into him, beyond the surface, ignoring any attempt at covering or downplaying the harsh reality of his actions. He'd hated those eyes when they watched him and he wished nothing more than to avoid them now.
"We must not shrink from anything," his mind chastised. This was what he had wanted, this was what all the phone calls and letters and months of persistence were for. Just this moment. He pulled his head upwards and met his gaze.
"Thanks for meeting me," he said, and forced a smile. It felt uncomfortable and retreated from his lips almost as soon as he put it there. But he held Cole's gaze with the softest face he could muster and waited.
Cole stared him down, as if trying to break him, then suddenly looked away. "Didn't have much of a choice, was getting more letters from you than circulars. Wouldn't be much room left in the mailbox by the time you got done with it."
"Yeah, sorry about that," Ted said, sheepishly.
"So what the hell do you want?" he asked, turning to look at him with a snap of his head. This time he didn't look away but held the glare until Ted looked away, like a submissive animal.
He remembered what Stew had said- don't ask for anything, don't expect anything, just give him the space to talk. "I, uh, I'm in this program- uh... there's these steps you take to try to be better and I..." Now he wished he had prepared something, just an idea of some words. Something, anything more than 'uh'. Just keep going, he told himself.
"I have to make amends to the people I've wronged so I just wanted to ask you here to tell you that I'm sorry." There, he'd said it. The words had come out of his mouth and the sentence was logical and concrete. It had started.
But Cole said nothing and the silence intensified the sound of Ted's heart beating in his eardrums. Sorry- what a useless, insignificant word. As if that came close to the depths of his destruction. He imagined bitter, acrid words forming in Cole's mouth and waited for their impact, his muscles tensing involuntarily. But still he said nothing and he couldn't help but peak at his face to see what was causing the delay.
Cole had pursed his lips in slanted sort-of way, as if his apology were chewing tobacco and he were holding it between his cheek and teeth, letting it sink in. He wanted desperately to say something, to beg him to talk, but he waited. He kept reminding himself to breath.
"And what brought this on?" he finally asked.
Ted opened his mouth but closed it before making a sound. How to explain years of recklessness and waste? How to sum up a lifetime- Cole's lifetime- of hurtful living? How the hell to try to explain what his bottom looked like, let along to do it in a way that didn't sound like he was bucking for sob story of the year.
"In the program we call it being sick and tired of being sick and tired, if that makes any sense. Just... giving up." Again, he held his breath and then released it in one slow exhale.
"You know I hate you, right? Cole asked.
It wasn't what Ted had expected. He hadn't spat the words at him and he wasn't staring him down now- his expression looked as if he asked a far more innocuous question, like "Can you pass the ktechup" or "Do they have pancakes here?" And he realized it wasn't meant to hurt him, not really- it was just a statement of fact.
"I know that," Ted said. "And I earned that. And I know there's nothing I can do to make the past not happen- I can't give you your childhood back, I can't make it right. But I just wanted you to know that I know that- I am aware of my actions. And anything, whatever I can do to-"
"To what?" Cole interrupted. This time his eyes were wide and angry. "You weren't a father back then so you want to be a father now? Now that I don't need you anymore? Is that it?"
Ted watched his son's face and the pain he saw there nearly tore him apart. It ached in his chest with a heaviness he thought he'd never be able to lift, especially not with a few broken words. But he was sick of feeling that way every time he thought of his son, and that unwillingness to continue living like this is what drove his next move.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin he'd been turning around in his fingers the whole time and placed it face up on the table. It was his one year anniversary coin and the triangle carved into the mold caught the glint of the light. Cole grabbed it as if it were a bug, slapping his hand down on it and pulling it off the table. He looked at it, turned it over in his hands. Ted couldn't read his expression, which he took as a promising sign.
"So what, you're a coin collector now?" he asked, a wry smirk hinted at through words rather than by mouth.
"Sort of," Ted said, and smiled.
Monday, April 27, 2015
W is for the Wait
Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
As the early morning light crept in through the blinds across the window they bathed the booth in a warm glow. Ted tried to breathe it in, to be present and calm. But his mind would have none of it and continued on with its relentless cascade of images and words not yet spoken but seemingly inevitable.
He'd tried to distract himself with food but the knot in his stomach prevented any real chance of ingestion and confined him to taking small sips of coffee. The table was already littered with the tell-tale shredded sugar packets and tiny cups of creamer which had been stacked and re-stacked multiple times already, even though he'd only been there for an hour.
"Get a hold of yourself, man!" he chastised himself and almost reminded himself of how long he'd be waiting there before Cole came, assuming he came, but then dismissed the thought before it could take hold and instill panic yet again.
He grabbed for his big book and turned to the bookmark- a folded up receipt from the very establishment he was in. He started reading, latching onto the reassuring guidance. He read for a long time, blissfully unaware of the clock ticking past the proposed time of their meeting and the change of customers and waitresses ending their shifts. The words kept him sane.
He stuck on something, a line. "We must not shrink at anything." He repeated it to himself and it soon became a mantra. "We must not shrink at anything. We must not shrink at anything."
It was the first word, 'we', that really grounded him. He wasn't in this alone. Had not Stew sat across from a table like this collapsing under the glare of his ex-wife? Didn't Eric endure countless nights of his wife reminding him, again and again, of his failures? And wasn't Greg still in the thick of things with him, trying to track down all the people he'd wronged while fighting off his own demons?
And Scott- sitting there in that large room, surrounded by other weak and decrepit forms, trying to conceive of starting again. And in that moment he took note of another wise phrase from the book- not to pray for himself. So he prayed for Scott. He asked god to give him the strength to get through the day and to be stronger for having gotten through yesterday.
He prayed for Stew, for so many things that he deserved in his life, even if he couldn't innumerate them. He prayed for Eric and for Greg and for Jim and for all the others he'd met along his journey. He prayed for his poor wife, as he often did, but his desperation in the moment lent fervor to his words in his mind. And finally, he prayed for Cole. He asked god to guide him to where he needed to be and expressed willingness to believe, however much he did not want to, that he might not need to be there with him. "I will accept that, if that is what he needs. I will," he told himself.
And again the words repeated: "We must not shrink from anything."
It had happened to him before, and if fact was largely why he still toiled to make progress day after day in spite of seemingly insurmountable shortcomings, that he saw god. Not as a booming voice that electrifies the eardrums and shakes the core. Not as a face in the heavens that shines holy light down upon the penitent- but in the simple things. The road closure en route to the liquor store. The exact words you need to hear from the mouth of someone in the rooms. The phone call when you've concluded that you're alone.
And so it wasn't necessarily that surprising that Cole would walk in right then, right when he was preparing to give him up forever.
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
As the early morning light crept in through the blinds across the window they bathed the booth in a warm glow. Ted tried to breathe it in, to be present and calm. But his mind would have none of it and continued on with its relentless cascade of images and words not yet spoken but seemingly inevitable.
He'd tried to distract himself with food but the knot in his stomach prevented any real chance of ingestion and confined him to taking small sips of coffee. The table was already littered with the tell-tale shredded sugar packets and tiny cups of creamer which had been stacked and re-stacked multiple times already, even though he'd only been there for an hour.
"Get a hold of yourself, man!" he chastised himself and almost reminded himself of how long he'd be waiting there before Cole came, assuming he came, but then dismissed the thought before it could take hold and instill panic yet again.
He grabbed for his big book and turned to the bookmark- a folded up receipt from the very establishment he was in. He started reading, latching onto the reassuring guidance. He read for a long time, blissfully unaware of the clock ticking past the proposed time of their meeting and the change of customers and waitresses ending their shifts. The words kept him sane.
He stuck on something, a line. "We must not shrink at anything." He repeated it to himself and it soon became a mantra. "We must not shrink at anything. We must not shrink at anything."
It was the first word, 'we', that really grounded him. He wasn't in this alone. Had not Stew sat across from a table like this collapsing under the glare of his ex-wife? Didn't Eric endure countless nights of his wife reminding him, again and again, of his failures? And wasn't Greg still in the thick of things with him, trying to track down all the people he'd wronged while fighting off his own demons?
And Scott- sitting there in that large room, surrounded by other weak and decrepit forms, trying to conceive of starting again. And in that moment he took note of another wise phrase from the book- not to pray for himself. So he prayed for Scott. He asked god to give him the strength to get through the day and to be stronger for having gotten through yesterday.
He prayed for Stew, for so many things that he deserved in his life, even if he couldn't innumerate them. He prayed for Eric and for Greg and for Jim and for all the others he'd met along his journey. He prayed for his poor wife, as he often did, but his desperation in the moment lent fervor to his words in his mind. And finally, he prayed for Cole. He asked god to guide him to where he needed to be and expressed willingness to believe, however much he did not want to, that he might not need to be there with him. "I will accept that, if that is what he needs. I will," he told himself.
And again the words repeated: "We must not shrink from anything."
It had happened to him before, and if fact was largely why he still toiled to make progress day after day in spite of seemingly insurmountable shortcomings, that he saw god. Not as a booming voice that electrifies the eardrums and shakes the core. Not as a face in the heavens that shines holy light down upon the penitent- but in the simple things. The road closure en route to the liquor store. The exact words you need to hear from the mouth of someone in the rooms. The phone call when you've concluded that you're alone.
And so it wasn't necessarily that surprising that Cole would walk in right then, right when he was preparing to give him up forever.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
V is for Visit
Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
"That was rough," Stew said as they sat down at their new usual table. " I can't remember the last time I saw somebody beat up on themselves that much. Honestly, if he wasn't in the hospital already I'd be concerned for his well being."
Ted nodded consent. "Important thing is that he made it there- could've been so much worse. You heard from anybody else?"
"Yeah, Jim went to see him yesterday- I worry about that kid but he's in the meetings everyday so as long as he sticks to it he'll get through. Jared was saying something about going tomorrow- I get the feeling he's gonna recommend a change of sponsor when he gets out which I think it the best plan. I talked to Ethan about him and expressed my concerns and he talked to him, I think he recommended he take a little break until things get a little more settled with work and he has the time to devote to it."
"Yeah, screw-ups like us are a full time job all on our own," Ted laughed.
"You're not so bad- but the young ones like Scott, they're a bit of a challenge."
"You trying to say I'm not challenging? Because I take offense to that," Ted smiled at him.
"Like that right there, the fact that you can joke around with me when your son is coming to see you- to actually physically lay eyes on you and speak words to you, in person in- what? Two days? That's what makes you easier."
"Give it two days," Ted said, his smile gone.
"You never showed me the letter that got him to respond," Stew probed.
"I don't think it was that letter, per say- I think it was just writing so many that finally led to him relenting. I just talked, like you said. I stopped asking for things."
"That's gonna be a big thing when you talk to him- don't ask him anything. Don't ask him to forgive you, don't ask if you can see him regularly, don't expect him to let you into his life in anyway outside of that meeting," Stew said. "And I want you at no less than 3 meetings that day- you go that morning before you come here, you hit one right after- and I mean right after, and you go that night."
The waitress- the young girl with the name tag that read "Sally" and red streaks in her otherwise dirty-blond hair came by and dropped off menus. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Sure, I'll just take a coke," Ted said absentmindedly.
"And you?" she asked turning to Stew.
"Coffee- Alice working tonight?"
"Um, I don't know- I can check," she said.
"Thanks," Stew said and smiled at her.
"Why do you care?" Ted asked, noticing the strange smile.
"Huh? She's just nice is all. Anyway, even if you're hearing the same thing over and over again I want you hearing it."
"And what if he makes me wait all day?" Ted asked, making a mental note to come back to his fixation on the loud-mouthed waitress later.
"Then we'll make the meetings come to you," Stew said. "You know we won't leave you here alone."
Ted nodded, looking down at his hands and frowning. Something about the sight made he feel uncomfortable so he reverted to his favorite activity of people watching. The late afternoon crowd was a different kind-of animal and gave the diner a completely different look. He reflected on how changing customers was sort-of like changing clothes- casual for the afternoon, dressy in the evenings, disheveled and worn at night. He found himself wondering what it looked like in here on Halloween and thought for a moment that he should make it a point to find out. "So what do I say?"
"I don't think you should prepare too much- you make up a script for yourself and you're gonna stick to it and he might not talk. He said he'd meet you, so just give him the space to talk. Don't be inpatient, don't ask too many questions, just give him the room to say what he came to say."
"And what if that's 'I hate you, I never want to see you again, stop writing me letters and go off and die somewhere' or something like that?"
"Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Stew said.
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
"That was rough," Stew said as they sat down at their new usual table. " I can't remember the last time I saw somebody beat up on themselves that much. Honestly, if he wasn't in the hospital already I'd be concerned for his well being."
Ted nodded consent. "Important thing is that he made it there- could've been so much worse. You heard from anybody else?"
"Yeah, Jim went to see him yesterday- I worry about that kid but he's in the meetings everyday so as long as he sticks to it he'll get through. Jared was saying something about going tomorrow- I get the feeling he's gonna recommend a change of sponsor when he gets out which I think it the best plan. I talked to Ethan about him and expressed my concerns and he talked to him, I think he recommended he take a little break until things get a little more settled with work and he has the time to devote to it."
"Yeah, screw-ups like us are a full time job all on our own," Ted laughed.
"You're not so bad- but the young ones like Scott, they're a bit of a challenge."
"You trying to say I'm not challenging? Because I take offense to that," Ted smiled at him.
"Like that right there, the fact that you can joke around with me when your son is coming to see you- to actually physically lay eyes on you and speak words to you, in person in- what? Two days? That's what makes you easier."
"Give it two days," Ted said, his smile gone.
"You never showed me the letter that got him to respond," Stew probed.
"I don't think it was that letter, per say- I think it was just writing so many that finally led to him relenting. I just talked, like you said. I stopped asking for things."
"That's gonna be a big thing when you talk to him- don't ask him anything. Don't ask him to forgive you, don't ask if you can see him regularly, don't expect him to let you into his life in anyway outside of that meeting," Stew said. "And I want you at no less than 3 meetings that day- you go that morning before you come here, you hit one right after- and I mean right after, and you go that night."
The waitress- the young girl with the name tag that read "Sally" and red streaks in her otherwise dirty-blond hair came by and dropped off menus. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Sure, I'll just take a coke," Ted said absentmindedly.
"And you?" she asked turning to Stew.
"Coffee- Alice working tonight?"
"Um, I don't know- I can check," she said.
"Thanks," Stew said and smiled at her.
"Why do you care?" Ted asked, noticing the strange smile.
"Huh? She's just nice is all. Anyway, even if you're hearing the same thing over and over again I want you hearing it."
"And what if he makes me wait all day?" Ted asked, making a mental note to come back to his fixation on the loud-mouthed waitress later.
"Then we'll make the meetings come to you," Stew said. "You know we won't leave you here alone."
Ted nodded, looking down at his hands and frowning. Something about the sight made he feel uncomfortable so he reverted to his favorite activity of people watching. The late afternoon crowd was a different kind-of animal and gave the diner a completely different look. He reflected on how changing customers was sort-of like changing clothes- casual for the afternoon, dressy in the evenings, disheveled and worn at night. He found himself wondering what it looked like in here on Halloween and thought for a moment that he should make it a point to find out. "So what do I say?"
"I don't think you should prepare too much- you make up a script for yourself and you're gonna stick to it and he might not talk. He said he'd meet you, so just give him the space to talk. Don't be inpatient, don't ask too many questions, just give him the room to say what he came to say."
"And what if that's 'I hate you, I never want to see you again, stop writing me letters and go off and die somewhere' or something like that?"
"Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Stew said.
Friday, April 24, 2015
U is for Unexpected
Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
On the outside, it seemed like any other piece of mail- folded paper with smudged ink. The lettering was the familiar tilt he'd seen on the last post. He felt the shape of it in his hands, running his fingers along the edge trying to detect the presence of something other than paper. He hadn't sent any more pictures, but part of his mind was paranoid and had developed a whole list of worse things he might find inside.
He debated calling Stew again, or just leaving it for a time when he would have more strength. But neither of those options seemed reasonable after the night he'd had.
They all made their way to the meeting and found enough solace there to be able to move on with their days. Jared, young and clearly workaholic had simply gone into his job. Jim had stayed behind, reassuring them that he just needed to keep to the clubhouse until he went home and slept. Stew had consigned himself to bed, promising to call later and relay info about visiting hours and other relevant details. And Ted himself had come home to find the missive mixed in with his regular mail, almost hiding amoung the more ordinary bills and circulars.
He didn't feel serene, or zen or even courageous. He just felt tired. Not only physically but mentally as well. Scott's tumble back into the darkness that was always waiting to swallow them all made him think that life really was too damned short and there really were too many important things to say not to use time for that purpose. So he took a breath, and opened it.
He read the few brief sentences in a state of disbelief- his eyes reading the words without really comprehending them. It took him three tries before his brain finally accepted what he read as reality: Cole was coming to visit.
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
On the outside, it seemed like any other piece of mail- folded paper with smudged ink. The lettering was the familiar tilt he'd seen on the last post. He felt the shape of it in his hands, running his fingers along the edge trying to detect the presence of something other than paper. He hadn't sent any more pictures, but part of his mind was paranoid and had developed a whole list of worse things he might find inside.
He debated calling Stew again, or just leaving it for a time when he would have more strength. But neither of those options seemed reasonable after the night he'd had.
They all made their way to the meeting and found enough solace there to be able to move on with their days. Jared, young and clearly workaholic had simply gone into his job. Jim had stayed behind, reassuring them that he just needed to keep to the clubhouse until he went home and slept. Stew had consigned himself to bed, promising to call later and relay info about visiting hours and other relevant details. And Ted himself had come home to find the missive mixed in with his regular mail, almost hiding amoung the more ordinary bills and circulars.
He didn't feel serene, or zen or even courageous. He just felt tired. Not only physically but mentally as well. Scott's tumble back into the darkness that was always waiting to swallow them all made him think that life really was too damned short and there really were too many important things to say not to use time for that purpose. So he took a breath, and opened it.
He read the few brief sentences in a state of disbelief- his eyes reading the words without really comprehending them. It took him three tries before his brain finally accepted what he read as reality: Cole was coming to visit.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
T is for Theory
Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
"What do you mean? I thought serenity was, like, happiness," Jim asked.
Stew sighed. If he had realized he was starting a theoretical argument he wouldn't have said anything. Better to just let it flow, he figured.
"Not exactly. Serenity isn't the absence of chaos but rather one's own stillness in the presence of chaos." He was met by a table full of blank stares, even from Jared, which disturbed him as he was expecting him to chip in. But he persevered. "It's like, we say life on life's terms, right?" This time he got some head nods. "That's because we realize that shit's gonna happen no matter how well or not well we may be doing in our recovery and we're gonna have to deal with it."
"Right," Ted offered.
"So this is the same general idea- stuff's gonna happen. Good, bad, ugly and in-between. And it's how we respond to that stuff happening that's makes or breaks our recovery. So serenity is just being calm despite whatever may be going on. So you not freaking out in the midst of all this stuff happening is, by very definition, serenity," he concluded, and let out a breath. It's had taken more mental energy than he thought he had to get that out and now he was spent.
"Huh," Ted said, looking out into nothing the way he often did. "I never really thought about it that way."
"Yeah, I always thought that it... almost like a place, you know? Like a state of being you reached after- I don't know- communing with god or something," Jim said.
"Not really. It's more like... like the opposite of a trigger almost- you wait it out and it will pass. But instead of wanting it to pass you wish you could hold onto it."
"So this isn't how i'm gonna handle everything from now on?" Ted asked, deflated.
"Nope, 'fraid not. Give it a minute and you'll start freaking out about something else," Stew smiled at him.
"Damn," Ted said, snapping his fingers in 'aw, shucks' manner.
"Don't get too caught up in it, though- you do what you gotta do and it'll come back."
"And what's that?"
"You know, stay sober, keep working the steps, talk to your son."
"Knew you were gonna say that," Ted said, sounding tired again.
"And just like that, it's gone," Stew teased.
The table went quiet again as the men waited for the waitress that never seemed to come, or for the hour to arrive when they could head to the clubhouse for the first meeting of the day.
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
"What do you mean? I thought serenity was, like, happiness," Jim asked.
Stew sighed. If he had realized he was starting a theoretical argument he wouldn't have said anything. Better to just let it flow, he figured.
"Not exactly. Serenity isn't the absence of chaos but rather one's own stillness in the presence of chaos." He was met by a table full of blank stares, even from Jared, which disturbed him as he was expecting him to chip in. But he persevered. "It's like, we say life on life's terms, right?" This time he got some head nods. "That's because we realize that shit's gonna happen no matter how well or not well we may be doing in our recovery and we're gonna have to deal with it."
"Right," Ted offered.
"So this is the same general idea- stuff's gonna happen. Good, bad, ugly and in-between. And it's how we respond to that stuff happening that's makes or breaks our recovery. So serenity is just being calm despite whatever may be going on. So you not freaking out in the midst of all this stuff happening is, by very definition, serenity," he concluded, and let out a breath. It's had taken more mental energy than he thought he had to get that out and now he was spent.
"Huh," Ted said, looking out into nothing the way he often did. "I never really thought about it that way."
"Yeah, I always thought that it... almost like a place, you know? Like a state of being you reached after- I don't know- communing with god or something," Jim said.
"Not really. It's more like... like the opposite of a trigger almost- you wait it out and it will pass. But instead of wanting it to pass you wish you could hold onto it."
"So this isn't how i'm gonna handle everything from now on?" Ted asked, deflated.
"Nope, 'fraid not. Give it a minute and you'll start freaking out about something else," Stew smiled at him.
"Damn," Ted said, snapping his fingers in 'aw, shucks' manner.
"Don't get too caught up in it, though- you do what you gotta do and it'll come back."
"And what's that?"
"You know, stay sober, keep working the steps, talk to your son."
"Knew you were gonna say that," Ted said, sounding tired again.
"And just like that, it's gone," Stew teased.
The table went quiet again as the men waited for the waitress that never seemed to come, or for the hour to arrive when they could head to the clubhouse for the first meeting of the day.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
S is for Serenity
Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
When they arrived in the diner the sounds were startling. The distinct din of conversation, clinking dinnerware and the general bustle of people was absent and had been replaced by the sound of a vacuum cleaner being run. It drowned out the noise of the jukebox, still recycling old songs even though clearly no one could hear it above the mechanical whir.
No one bothered to check if the usual table was empty but rather collapsed into the first booth closest to the door. The benches squeaked and groaned underneath the bulky, clumsy movement as Ted made his way in, lifting himself and sliding with the grace of an arthritic octogenarian. Stew slid in to sit next to him and laid his hands on the table, feeling the solid structure and being grateful for its consistency- nothing else tonight had been.
The waitress came by and dropped off menus without stopping to ask for a drink order and she moved the way one would expect a waitress in a 24hour diner to move- with sloth-like enthusiasm. No one said anything, or made any move to pick up a menu. It seemed for the moment that it was enough just to be there, and no one wanted to disturb the solace with talk.
Finally, as if speaking to himself, Jim said "What the hell happened?"
"It was that Ryan kid," Jared argued, still carrying the tone of anger from his heated conversation with Scott's dad. "He never should have been hanging out with him."
"Shouldn't you have, oh, I don't know- told him that?" Ted asked, and he didn't bother to keep the derision out of his voice.
"You think I didn't? I told him not to hang out with him, I told him he was too green, I told him to stick to the old timers- what? You think I caused this? You think this is my fault?" His eyes were wide and a vein in his temple was beginning to throb visibly.
Ted went to speak but a hand on his arm made him stop. He shot his head around to glare at Stew who just looked at him with the same tired expression he'd had since the hospital and shook his head. Ted stifled the comment but looked away in bitterness.
"He's safe now, ok? Let's just focus on that. No matter how he got here he's safe now- and we all know that wasn't a guarantee."
Nobody argued with that and once again the table fell into a dense holding pattern.
Jim looked around for the waitress who had disappeared despite the lack of other patrons. He craned his neck but finding no signs of her leaned back against the bench seat again and sank into slumped defeat.
"How you doing on waiting for the next response?' Stew asked Ted, more to change the subject than anything else.
"Huh?" Ted asked, coming out of a dazed stare. He saw Stew's expectant face and shook himself. "Oh, uh- good, good."
Stew continued to look at him, begging a longer respnse to distract the men from the night's events.
Ted sighed, but then took a long inhale. It steadied him, made him feel more real. "I, uh- I haven't really had time to think about it."
"Well, what do you think, now that do?"
Ted thought. On the surface he felt sheer exhaustion. It wasn't physical, even though that was there, it was more emotional, mental. The feeling of just being done. He had the stark realization that it was exactly the kind of feeling he'd avoided for years by drinking. Now, in the midst of chaos and anger and fear it hadn't even occurred to him- not once.
"Huh," he exhaled.
"What?" Jim asked.
"I was just thinking- all this shit is exactly the kind of thing I used to think I couldn't deal with. The chaos and the... just the stuff. I used to say "I can't", you know? And I just realized I did. I got through all of it, the whole thing, and never once thought about taking a drink. It's weird, you know?"
"I don't know about that," Stew said after a beat. "I think there's a word for that."
"What's that?" Ted asked, genuinely intrigued.
"They call it serenity," he announced.
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
When they arrived in the diner the sounds were startling. The distinct din of conversation, clinking dinnerware and the general bustle of people was absent and had been replaced by the sound of a vacuum cleaner being run. It drowned out the noise of the jukebox, still recycling old songs even though clearly no one could hear it above the mechanical whir.
No one bothered to check if the usual table was empty but rather collapsed into the first booth closest to the door. The benches squeaked and groaned underneath the bulky, clumsy movement as Ted made his way in, lifting himself and sliding with the grace of an arthritic octogenarian. Stew slid in to sit next to him and laid his hands on the table, feeling the solid structure and being grateful for its consistency- nothing else tonight had been.
The waitress came by and dropped off menus without stopping to ask for a drink order and she moved the way one would expect a waitress in a 24hour diner to move- with sloth-like enthusiasm. No one said anything, or made any move to pick up a menu. It seemed for the moment that it was enough just to be there, and no one wanted to disturb the solace with talk.
Finally, as if speaking to himself, Jim said "What the hell happened?"
"It was that Ryan kid," Jared argued, still carrying the tone of anger from his heated conversation with Scott's dad. "He never should have been hanging out with him."
"Shouldn't you have, oh, I don't know- told him that?" Ted asked, and he didn't bother to keep the derision out of his voice.
"You think I didn't? I told him not to hang out with him, I told him he was too green, I told him to stick to the old timers- what? You think I caused this? You think this is my fault?" His eyes were wide and a vein in his temple was beginning to throb visibly.
Ted went to speak but a hand on his arm made him stop. He shot his head around to glare at Stew who just looked at him with the same tired expression he'd had since the hospital and shook his head. Ted stifled the comment but looked away in bitterness.
"He's safe now, ok? Let's just focus on that. No matter how he got here he's safe now- and we all know that wasn't a guarantee."
Nobody argued with that and once again the table fell into a dense holding pattern.
Jim looked around for the waitress who had disappeared despite the lack of other patrons. He craned his neck but finding no signs of her leaned back against the bench seat again and sank into slumped defeat.
"How you doing on waiting for the next response?' Stew asked Ted, more to change the subject than anything else.
"Huh?" Ted asked, coming out of a dazed stare. He saw Stew's expectant face and shook himself. "Oh, uh- good, good."
Stew continued to look at him, begging a longer respnse to distract the men from the night's events.
Ted sighed, but then took a long inhale. It steadied him, made him feel more real. "I, uh- I haven't really had time to think about it."
"Well, what do you think, now that do?"
Ted thought. On the surface he felt sheer exhaustion. It wasn't physical, even though that was there, it was more emotional, mental. The feeling of just being done. He had the stark realization that it was exactly the kind of feeling he'd avoided for years by drinking. Now, in the midst of chaos and anger and fear it hadn't even occurred to him- not once.
"Huh," he exhaled.
"What?" Jim asked.
"I was just thinking- all this shit is exactly the kind of thing I used to think I couldn't deal with. The chaos and the... just the stuff. I used to say "I can't", you know? And I just realized I did. I got through all of it, the whole thing, and never once thought about taking a drink. It's weird, you know?"
"I don't know about that," Stew said after a beat. "I think there's a word for that."
"What's that?" Ted asked, genuinely intrigued.
"They call it serenity," he announced.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
R is for Relapse
Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
"Where'd you find him?"
"What happened?"
"What the hell was he thinking?"
And other questions, none of of which had good answers, if any at all. The few answers that were provided were met with curses and exclamations of anger, confusion and hurt. It had been a concerted effort- coordinated phone calls and text messages and searches of places where people in recovery shouldn't be. And in the end they found their friend in an apartment in a part of the city where newspaper headlines were born and politicians never went to.
They'd expected a fight, protests against the inevitable. But in the end he was too tired, too worn and too beaten to argue. He let them carry him out, load him into the backseat of the car and be driven away. They took him to the ER, the first stop in a series of institutions- one of the holy trilogy of invariable consequence of addiction, but certainly better than jail or death. It was the phone call to his parents that stole the little life left in his eyes.
The four of them stayed there until his parents came, and Jared took the reigns in telling them what had happened, or at least what he knew. Scott's father had been angry, and thrown harsh accusations at Jared which were unwarranted and misplaced. He didn't take it well and responded by shutting down. Standing with the imposing man screaming at him he looked all too child-like and Ted had found himself thinking bad thoughts about him. Perhaps it was easier to be angry at him for failing as a sponsor than it was to ackowledge the reality of Scott's actions and the long line of events that would follow them.
Stew tried his best to calm the yelling man, taking him outside and speaking in even, almost quiet tones. Ted was inside, sitting next to the boy's mother who for her part sat sobbing, unable to make any sounds of speech. Ted said whatever reassuring things he could think of, which all sounded flat to his ears. Jim, who had found him, just sat in the uniform chair and stared out at nothing. He had a haunted expression on his face and Ted worried that he might collapse from the sheer weight of everything.
When the doctor came out, Ted sensed Scott's mother hold her breath and instinctively placed a hand on hers. He started talking as his dad rushed in and made eye contact directly with the man, demanding his attention and implying that any interruption would result in missed information. He used words like "stable" and "strong heartbeat" which sounded good but inserted the word "watch" too often and too passively to really allay the fears of the group. But his parents were permitted to go in and see him before they moved him upstairs and they all took it as a good sign.
"Lets get out of here, ain't nothing more we can do," Stew had said, and pulled Jim off the chair. The others followed, retreating from the waiting room like wounded soldiers limping back towards base.
None of them wanted to go home and Ted doubted that Jim was really safe to, anyway. So they clung to the familiar the same way goldfish swim in circles and returned to the diner to wait for the first meeting of the morning.
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
"Where'd you find him?"
"What happened?"
"What the hell was he thinking?"
And other questions, none of of which had good answers, if any at all. The few answers that were provided were met with curses and exclamations of anger, confusion and hurt. It had been a concerted effort- coordinated phone calls and text messages and searches of places where people in recovery shouldn't be. And in the end they found their friend in an apartment in a part of the city where newspaper headlines were born and politicians never went to.
They'd expected a fight, protests against the inevitable. But in the end he was too tired, too worn and too beaten to argue. He let them carry him out, load him into the backseat of the car and be driven away. They took him to the ER, the first stop in a series of institutions- one of the holy trilogy of invariable consequence of addiction, but certainly better than jail or death. It was the phone call to his parents that stole the little life left in his eyes.
The four of them stayed there until his parents came, and Jared took the reigns in telling them what had happened, or at least what he knew. Scott's father had been angry, and thrown harsh accusations at Jared which were unwarranted and misplaced. He didn't take it well and responded by shutting down. Standing with the imposing man screaming at him he looked all too child-like and Ted had found himself thinking bad thoughts about him. Perhaps it was easier to be angry at him for failing as a sponsor than it was to ackowledge the reality of Scott's actions and the long line of events that would follow them.
Stew tried his best to calm the yelling man, taking him outside and speaking in even, almost quiet tones. Ted was inside, sitting next to the boy's mother who for her part sat sobbing, unable to make any sounds of speech. Ted said whatever reassuring things he could think of, which all sounded flat to his ears. Jim, who had found him, just sat in the uniform chair and stared out at nothing. He had a haunted expression on his face and Ted worried that he might collapse from the sheer weight of everything.
When the doctor came out, Ted sensed Scott's mother hold her breath and instinctively placed a hand on hers. He started talking as his dad rushed in and made eye contact directly with the man, demanding his attention and implying that any interruption would result in missed information. He used words like "stable" and "strong heartbeat" which sounded good but inserted the word "watch" too often and too passively to really allay the fears of the group. But his parents were permitted to go in and see him before they moved him upstairs and they all took it as a good sign.
"Lets get out of here, ain't nothing more we can do," Stew had said, and pulled Jim off the chair. The others followed, retreating from the waiting room like wounded soldiers limping back towards base.
None of them wanted to go home and Ted doubted that Jim was really safe to, anyway. So they clung to the familiar the same way goldfish swim in circles and returned to the diner to wait for the first meeting of the morning.
Monday, April 20, 2015
Q is for Quiet
Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
Ted sat at the booth in the corner, his new favorite spot he'd found, and thought. His hands were once again tearing up sugar packets and his mind raced over the details of the last few days. The last meeting he saw him at was Thursday when they'd all hit the pizza place afterwards and he'd disappeared after his phone rang. Nothing Friday. Nothing Saturday, and he'd texted. Sunday he'd called twice. Yesterday must have been... he looked through his phone- seven times. And countless texts. He looked through the sent messages again, scanning for a response he somehow missed, even though he knew nothing was there from having scanned it roughly every half hour today.
Stew came in looking downtrodden and tired and made his way across the room, nearly colliding with Alice due to lack of attention.
"Whoopsy-daisy," she said as she masterfully tilted the tray to prevent everything from sliding off. "Watch it there, sweetie."
Stew tried to apologize but she was off to her table before he could make the sound come out. He sighed and hung his shoulders, then made his way to the table. He sat down across from Ted and laid his phone on the table.
"Still quiet?" Ted asked him.
"Still quiet. No word from Eric?"
"Nope- spoke to Greg a little while ago, he said he's been putttin' feelers out in some of the meetings out near Middletown but hasn't heard anything. And I talked to Jared- he says he can't get in touch with him, either. He should have been more on top of that kid."
"It's not his fault. If you relapsed do you think it'd be right to blame me?"
"If you were never around! If I never saw you at a meeting and whenever I called you you were busy and you didn't have the time of day for me and-"
"You don't know that, Ted- slow down."
"I know he should have been there," he said, and threw the sugar packet he'd been destroying towards the corner in disgust.
"Hey, don't make a mess of my booth, now," Alice said as she came over. "More coffee?"
"Nah, I'm good," Ted said. "Sorry."
"And you?" she asked, raising the pot she wielded towards Stew.
"Sure," he said, and pushed the mug towards her.
"You two ordering anything today or just taking up space?" she teased as she poured.
"The latter," Ted said, dryly.
"Can I at least interest you in a piece of pie or some cream cake? It'll help," she smiled.
"No thanks, Alice," Stew said, softly.
"What's got you two looking so damned morbid, anyway?"
"Scott's missing," Ted said, and that lost look came into eyes again.
"That sweet boy that's always followin' you two around? What happened?"
"Don't know. No one' seen or heard from him since Thursday."
"Well, have you called the police?" she asked, her wide eyes worried.
"Not that kind of missing," Stew said, taking her hand and giving it a quick squeeze.
Her gaze softened as she noticed the look in his eyes. "Oh," she said. She shot a glance at Ted and then back at Stew who just shook his head.
"Well, I'll come back in a bit to check on you," she said as she walked away.
Ted, who had been staring off into nothing and missed the interlude spoke as if he'd been having a conversation with Stew the whole time. "I should have noticed something was off- he's never that quiet. Me rambling on about some damned picture and him sitting there silent- I should have known."
"How are you supposed to know what's going on inside somebody else's head? What're you, God?"
"No, don't be an ass."
"I'm not being anything- I'm just saying that you didn't do this. Ok? Whatever he's up to, wherever he is- you didn't put him there. You can't blame yourself for somebody's else's problems. Remember what we say every meeting- God, grant me the serenity to accept the-"
"Please, I'm begging you- if I hear that thing one more time-" Ted interrupted.
"Accept the things I cannot change," he raised his voice, talking over him, "courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. This is the difference, Ted."
"I really hate you, you know that?" Ted said, glaring at him.
"Well, that's the first sane thing you've said," Stew said, and smiled at him. At first it was a grin, wide and mean. But as he looked at his friend it faded into something softer, more genuine. "We'll find him."
"And if we don't?"
But Stew didn't have time to answer because just at that moment his phone rang. He checked the screen briefly and then shoved it to his ear with a frantic "Hello?"
Ted watched his face change and it was all he could do not to grab the phone away from him. He nodded at Stew frantically and made wild hand gestures trying to ask what the hell the other person was telling him.
Stew held up a hand bidding him to wait and said "Where?" He nodded, said "be right there," and hung up.
"Well?" Ted asked.
"They found him, " Stew said.
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
Ted sat at the booth in the corner, his new favorite spot he'd found, and thought. His hands were once again tearing up sugar packets and his mind raced over the details of the last few days. The last meeting he saw him at was Thursday when they'd all hit the pizza place afterwards and he'd disappeared after his phone rang. Nothing Friday. Nothing Saturday, and he'd texted. Sunday he'd called twice. Yesterday must have been... he looked through his phone- seven times. And countless texts. He looked through the sent messages again, scanning for a response he somehow missed, even though he knew nothing was there from having scanned it roughly every half hour today.
Stew came in looking downtrodden and tired and made his way across the room, nearly colliding with Alice due to lack of attention.
"Whoopsy-daisy," she said as she masterfully tilted the tray to prevent everything from sliding off. "Watch it there, sweetie."
Stew tried to apologize but she was off to her table before he could make the sound come out. He sighed and hung his shoulders, then made his way to the table. He sat down across from Ted and laid his phone on the table.
"Still quiet?" Ted asked him.
"Still quiet. No word from Eric?"
"Nope- spoke to Greg a little while ago, he said he's been putttin' feelers out in some of the meetings out near Middletown but hasn't heard anything. And I talked to Jared- he says he can't get in touch with him, either. He should have been more on top of that kid."
"It's not his fault. If you relapsed do you think it'd be right to blame me?"
"If you were never around! If I never saw you at a meeting and whenever I called you you were busy and you didn't have the time of day for me and-"
"You don't know that, Ted- slow down."
"I know he should have been there," he said, and threw the sugar packet he'd been destroying towards the corner in disgust.
"Hey, don't make a mess of my booth, now," Alice said as she came over. "More coffee?"
"Nah, I'm good," Ted said. "Sorry."
"And you?" she asked, raising the pot she wielded towards Stew.
"Sure," he said, and pushed the mug towards her.
"You two ordering anything today or just taking up space?" she teased as she poured.
"The latter," Ted said, dryly.
"Can I at least interest you in a piece of pie or some cream cake? It'll help," she smiled.
"No thanks, Alice," Stew said, softly.
"What's got you two looking so damned morbid, anyway?"
"Scott's missing," Ted said, and that lost look came into eyes again.
"That sweet boy that's always followin' you two around? What happened?"
"Don't know. No one' seen or heard from him since Thursday."
"Well, have you called the police?" she asked, her wide eyes worried.
"Not that kind of missing," Stew said, taking her hand and giving it a quick squeeze.
Her gaze softened as she noticed the look in his eyes. "Oh," she said. She shot a glance at Ted and then back at Stew who just shook his head.
"Well, I'll come back in a bit to check on you," she said as she walked away.
Ted, who had been staring off into nothing and missed the interlude spoke as if he'd been having a conversation with Stew the whole time. "I should have noticed something was off- he's never that quiet. Me rambling on about some damned picture and him sitting there silent- I should have known."
"How are you supposed to know what's going on inside somebody else's head? What're you, God?"
"No, don't be an ass."
"I'm not being anything- I'm just saying that you didn't do this. Ok? Whatever he's up to, wherever he is- you didn't put him there. You can't blame yourself for somebody's else's problems. Remember what we say every meeting- God, grant me the serenity to accept the-"
"Please, I'm begging you- if I hear that thing one more time-" Ted interrupted.
"Accept the things I cannot change," he raised his voice, talking over him, "courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. This is the difference, Ted."
"I really hate you, you know that?" Ted said, glaring at him.
"Well, that's the first sane thing you've said," Stew said, and smiled at him. At first it was a grin, wide and mean. But as he looked at his friend it faded into something softer, more genuine. "We'll find him."
"And if we don't?"
But Stew didn't have time to answer because just at that moment his phone rang. He checked the screen briefly and then shoved it to his ear with a frantic "Hello?"
Ted watched his face change and it was all he could do not to grab the phone away from him. He nodded at Stew frantically and made wild hand gestures trying to ask what the hell the other person was telling him.
Stew held up a hand bidding him to wait and said "Where?" He nodded, said "be right there," and hung up.
"Well?" Ted asked.
"They found him, " Stew said.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
P is for the Picture
Scenes from an American Diner: A Story in 26 Parts
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
"What the heck is that?" Stew asked, looking over the pile as if it were a living thing that might attack if spooked.
Eric took the flat end of his fork and poked it, forcing some of the pieces to tumble. As they spread further across the table he start to make out an image in the shards.
"It looks like-" he started.
"A photo," Ted completed the sentence. "Of me and Cole, fishing. When he was 6."
Everyone went silent for a long, awkward moment. Stew watched Ted's face, concern and fear painted onto his. Scott just stared at the pieces and waited for someone to break the silence. Eric started pulling out shards and piecing them together as if suddenly realizing the whole thing were a puzzle and that was the most logical thing to do.
"I think I've got the boat, anyone wanna work on the water?" he asked.
No one moved or responded but instead of noticing that the joke failed Eric got preoccupied with a genuine interest in the activity. His shoulders hunched forward as he lowered his head to more closely examine the tiny pieces and his tongue crept out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated.
Stew slapped Eric's hand away and gave him a warning look. Eric opened his mouth to protest but stopped as Ted spoke again.
"You know French Creek? Used to be you could fish down there. I remember opening day there'd be a crowd like anything. It was a big deal first time I took him. You know, going and getting the license and all that- he was so excited. We made a big to-do of the whole thing- his mom got him this whole fishing outfit and made him stand for photos," he laughed, "by the time we finally got out on the water there wasn't a fish left in the whole damned creek, I felt terrible about it. But I don't think he even remembered."
Stew watched Ted's expression change as the memory progressed and had to resit the urge to reach across the table and snap his fingers in front of his face before his mind could go back to those dark places again.
"We were gonna do it every weekend- big plans, you know? But then Sue died and... that was the end of it. He tried a few times to get me to take him again, but I was never up for it. Weekend came and I'd be passed out in bed all day. Piece of shit."
"Hey now, that's my friend you're talkin' about there," Eric said, and smiled at him. But Ted didn't see it, his eyes were still staring off into the memory. "Well, you gotta give him this- he's committed."
"He get this stubbornness from you?" Stew asked , but Ted still didn't respond. He banged the table lightly and the jolt startled Ted who shook his head and looked at him. "Don't stay in the past, remember? You're here now, be here."
Ted rose in his seat as the anger fueled him, "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"
"Well, for starters, we get you some food- cause that always helps," Eric said, waiving to the waitress who was placing sodas at another table.
"And then?" Ted asked, bitterness in his voice.
"And then we'll work on the next draft together," Stew offered.
Ted narrowed his eyes at him but Stew stared him down again. Eventually Ted's face softened and he sighed in surrender. "I'm gonna need some fries," he said.
All of us have had our lives touched in some way by the disease of addiction. Be it a loved one, friend, family member or even ourselves no one is immune to the impact of this devastating illness. This story is dedicated to all of those people, especially the ones who have found recovery through the 12 step fellowship.
"What the heck is that?" Stew asked, looking over the pile as if it were a living thing that might attack if spooked.
Eric took the flat end of his fork and poked it, forcing some of the pieces to tumble. As they spread further across the table he start to make out an image in the shards.
"It looks like-" he started.
"A photo," Ted completed the sentence. "Of me and Cole, fishing. When he was 6."
Everyone went silent for a long, awkward moment. Stew watched Ted's face, concern and fear painted onto his. Scott just stared at the pieces and waited for someone to break the silence. Eric started pulling out shards and piecing them together as if suddenly realizing the whole thing were a puzzle and that was the most logical thing to do.
"I think I've got the boat, anyone wanna work on the water?" he asked.
No one moved or responded but instead of noticing that the joke failed Eric got preoccupied with a genuine interest in the activity. His shoulders hunched forward as he lowered his head to more closely examine the tiny pieces and his tongue crept out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated.
Stew slapped Eric's hand away and gave him a warning look. Eric opened his mouth to protest but stopped as Ted spoke again.
"You know French Creek? Used to be you could fish down there. I remember opening day there'd be a crowd like anything. It was a big deal first time I took him. You know, going and getting the license and all that- he was so excited. We made a big to-do of the whole thing- his mom got him this whole fishing outfit and made him stand for photos," he laughed, "by the time we finally got out on the water there wasn't a fish left in the whole damned creek, I felt terrible about it. But I don't think he even remembered."
Stew watched Ted's expression change as the memory progressed and had to resit the urge to reach across the table and snap his fingers in front of his face before his mind could go back to those dark places again.
"We were gonna do it every weekend- big plans, you know? But then Sue died and... that was the end of it. He tried a few times to get me to take him again, but I was never up for it. Weekend came and I'd be passed out in bed all day. Piece of shit."
"Hey now, that's my friend you're talkin' about there," Eric said, and smiled at him. But Ted didn't see it, his eyes were still staring off into the memory. "Well, you gotta give him this- he's committed."
"He get this stubbornness from you?" Stew asked , but Ted still didn't respond. He banged the table lightly and the jolt startled Ted who shook his head and looked at him. "Don't stay in the past, remember? You're here now, be here."
Ted rose in his seat as the anger fueled him, "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"
"Well, for starters, we get you some food- cause that always helps," Eric said, waiving to the waitress who was placing sodas at another table.
"And then?" Ted asked, bitterness in his voice.
"And then we'll work on the next draft together," Stew offered.
Ted narrowed his eyes at him but Stew stared him down again. Eventually Ted's face softened and he sighed in surrender. "I'm gonna need some fries," he said.
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