The most embarrassing day of my life

"What happened?!?"

My hand is bleeding out right in the center of my palm.  Looking up at Reed, all I manage to say is, "Uh."

"Uh??  Are you okay?"

Sitting on the soggy cement, I begin to pull myself together.  Snail slime seems to have completely enveloped my front and left sides, and I have to pick the gravel out of the gashes in my hand before I can try to wipe any of the slime away.  My brain needs to catch up, and I obviously need to explain myself.

"There was a deer.  A deer!  It jumped out and ran right in front of me!"

Immediately after the words escape my mouth, I realize how stupid they sound.  You'd think that after living here for a few years I would be able to remember that the largest wild animal you're ever going to see in the Netherlands is a squirrel.

With a completely justifiable amount of incredulity, Reed attempts to confirm what he's heard: "A deer?"

It's too late.  I can't turn back.  If I eat my words now, there's no way he'll ever believe anything else.  "Yep.  A deer.  Just popped out of the trees right in front of me."

Still eyeing me suspiciously, he says, "A deer?  I didn't see a deer."

"Well, how would you have?  You were way up there on your bike and the deer was way back here!"

"All right.  How's your hand?  Your pants and jacket are all torn up."

Standing up slowly, I examine my clothes.  My jacket is indeed torn under my left arm, and there are many small holes speckled along my left leg.

"My hand is fine.  Let's just go home."

As I lift my bike from the ground, I see that the front wheel is very seriously bent, and both brake cords have been completely ripped from their sockets.  I'll need at least a hammer before this is going anywhere again.  Turning back to Reed, I give my best guess as to how far it is to town. 

"Well, what do you think?  Four miles to Hengelo?"

"Maybe more.  I don't think we're even half way back yet.  What does it matter now?"

"What does it matter?  Obviously it matters!  It's getting cold, and I need a ride."

"A ride?  Where?  In my limo?"

He's making this difficult on purpose.  "No, on your bike!"

"Last time I checked, this is definitely not a tandem bike, bro."

"What, you expect me to walk five or so miles back to Hengelo?  C'mon!  You have that rack on the back for groceries!"

"But what about your bike?  Are you just going to leave it here?"

"No, I'll ghost ride it.  You pedal, and I'll hold it off to the side with one hand.  Duh!"

Sighing in frustration, Reed very audibly grumbles, "This is stupid."

With one hand resting very masculinely on Reed's shoulder, we make our way back to Hengelo.  After the third person to wave and whistle at us is out of view, I try to lean a bit further away from Reed in order to salvage some pride.

"Stop leaning back like that!  You're making it impossible to pedal this thing!"

"Oh, sorry," I say while leaning back forward.  "I guess I'll just start doing my princess wave for all the people who are honking at us.  Can we stop for a second so I can switch my bike around to my left hand?  My right arm is getting super tired."

"Are you kidding me?  I'm not stopping this thing!  We need to get off the side of the highway before the entire city decides never to talk to us again!"

"All right, well you had better pedal harder then!"

Reed's silence makes my bad joke evident.

After having run my jacket and pants through the wash for the third time, there's still a palpable film of slime covering them both. 

"I don't think this snail-and-worm-gut residue is ever going to come out!  Just my luck that we had to be biking home right after a rain storm."

"It rains like every day, dude."

"Yeah, but not usually that much."

"If you say so.  So, a deer, right?"

Jerking my head around to look at him, I see him smiling wryly in the corner.  "That's right."

Lying in bed, I think back on the events of the day.  The bike ride between Enschede and Hengelo had become unbearably dull until today, when legions of snails and worms had made their way onto the bike path after a few days of rain.  Trying to weave through and around as many as possible, I begin to guide my bike with only my left hand.  Success! How does it go with only my right hand?  Success again!  What about no hands?  Ahh, yeeeah, I'm awesome!  Maybe I can't swerve quite as well without any hands on the handlebar, but still not too shabby.

Hey, how well can I steer my bike with only my right hand on my left handlebar?

And that, in the words of this author, is a wild Dutch deer.

"What happened?!?"

My hand is bleeding out right in the center of my palm.  Looking up at Reed, all I manage to say is, "Uh."

"Uh??  Are you okay?"

About as okay as a person can be after deciding that an oh-such-a-ridiculously-terrible idea is in fact a good idea without any further thought.

State of the Blog

I know a few things about this blog.  First, I know that some people read it from time to time, and I know that I appreciate that fact. I also know why I write this blog: for wholly selfish reasons, which is why I don't mind when I know people are offended or put off by what they read.  I know that some people like this blog; I know that some people find the lack of pictures on this blog unbearable and unreadable, and I know that some other people despise this blog.
I know that this knowledge is based on the assumption that what people tell me about this blog is true.
I know that I like to write about what I see, what I feel, and what I want.  I know that there is nothing unique about this, because that's what everyone writes about in one way or another.  People just like to go about it in different ways.
I know that people often want to see pictures on this blog, and I know that I always assure them that they never will.  I hope to write in a way that makes pictures unnecessary, so when people request pictures I know that I still need to improve.  Or maybe I should just attach a link to facebook for them.
I know that every paragraph of this State of the Blog post begins with the words 'I know,' and I know that the reason for this is that these words are what feels right today.  Perhaps 'I know' is a way for me to remember and reassure myself as to why this blog exists.  Again, as stated earlier, the style and reason for this post are entirely selfish.
I know that this month is the anniversary of my blog's creation.  Happy birthday, blog, and always stay true to yourself, no matter what the future may bring.

The Fall of Men

I watch as the man takes one step over the cliff and plummets toward the water like a small rag doll. Falling, his face tips peacefully toward the impending surface until he is parallel to the horizon, and yet I barely flinch as his entire body hits the water with a sickening thud. High above his girlfriend lets forth a piercing scream as the white skin of his shoulders and neck reappears at the surface of the water, his face hidden beneath the small waves.
Should I do something? Probably. I really should. I should do something right now. Probably. Should I stop thinking about this and get in the water? Probably. Probably probably probable.
But with growing apathy, I continue watching from my spot in the canoe. Why his friends dragged him to the top of an 80 foot cliff when he couldn't even manage to move himself on all fours is beyond me. Standing on shore just a few minutes ago as they made their way toward the cliff's base in their red dinghy, I told them. I told them no. I told them what a poor decision it was. I told them that they should leave him in the boat. I told them that they were making a mistake. I told them once, twice, again and again. And yet there they were, telling me to mind my own damn business as they dragged his inebriated body up the rocks and toward the looming danger.
And now here I am, sitting quietly in a canoe large enough to accommodate his body, sitting here quietly questioning what it is to be him, what it is to be me. Questioning his right to be. Maybe I should do something. Maybe I should wait until they've all committed murder. Maybe I should wait, wait here to act as a righteous witness to the death of a perhaps already dead man floating lifelessly in the water. Or maybe I should stop thinking about it, because someone is swimming toward him. It looks like this is everyone's lucky day thanks to someone's sympathy. Standing now in silence, I watch as that someone grabs the man, turns his face out of the water, and struggles back toward the bottom of the cliff with his pallid cargo in tow.
Casting my gaze back up toward the wailing woman beside the only tree on the cliff's lip, its branches hang perilously over the water, like fingers just having released their grip. Images of the man falling just beneath its gangling branches replay over and over again in my mind as they all call for help. And now, with some remaining humanity and the call of duty at my back, I leap again into the water and swim back toward the cliff's base.

Clown Shop: Through the Cellardoor

I wish I didn't know who was here before me, but that's all I can really think about now that I'm here. The paint on the wall to my right is bulging out, as if the inner workings of the house were suffering from an aneurysm. It just needs time. Less time.

"Well, that's your bed there."

Naturally, I had figured that out before he mentioned anything, but I nod my head glumly while I continue gazing at it anyway. I've never seen a bed frame like this one before; it's like a sandbox, but in the place of sand is a sagging mattress.

"Thanks. Not much room under there for my suitcase, is there?"

Taking a seat across from me on his own sagging bedbox, he replies, "Probably not, but there are a few drawers in the closet that slide under there without much problem. But only near the foot and head of the bed."

"Okay."

Some time passes as I consider what I'm going to do to clean this place up. The floor could use sweeping. Moving the beds to be parallel instead of perpendicular would create more floor space. 

Continuing my thoughts out loud, I turn to Joe, "Have you ever thought about moving the table toward the window?"

"No, but we can if you want to. I don't really care either way."

"And we have a broom?"

"Yeah, at the top of the staircase." 

"And it's in reasonable condition? Is there a dust pan?"

"Uh, yeah. I think so."

"Good."

As I turn back toward the window, Joe anxiously interjects before I can continue, "So, do you want to see the rest of the place?"

"Now, be careful whenever you go up or down the stairs in your socks. I've fallen a few more times than I want to admit."

All of the swirling stairs have been painted in a thick blue lacquer which must make them as slick as ice at the right angle.

"I can see why. It's amazing what kind of vertical tunnels can pass for staircases around here."
"Seriously, man. This is ridiculous."

As he steps into the narrow hallway below, Joe proudly announces, "Welcome to the infamous clown shop! Home sweet home!"
Crouching on the bottom step to avoid hitting my head, I try to look up and down the hall approvingly.
"By the way, if you lift the step that you're standing on, you'll find the entrance to the cellar."

"A cellar? Is there anything down there?" I ask while spotting the hinges hidden in a crease right behind my heels.

"I don't know. I've never gone down there."

"Really? Well let's check it out!"

Down on our knees right at the precipice of the stairway's entrance, we slowly pry open the cellar door.

Looking over hesitantly at me, Joe mentions how dark it is down there.

"Yeah, I can't see down there at all either. Hey, Joe, did you know that a famous linguist once said that 'cellardoor' is the most beautiful word in the English language?"

"Really? Who said that?"

"Just some linguist. I forget exactly who."

"But is cellardoor even one word? I thought it was two." 

"Eh, I don't really know. So are you going down there first or am I?"

"You still want to go down there?"

"Sure. I bet there's a light switch nearby."

Swinging my right foot over the threshold and into the darkness, I have to wonder about cellars in this country. I thought it was as good as impossible to have a cellar around here.

"You see a switch yet?"

"I don't see anything, and these walls are damp."

"Damp? Are the walls stone?"

"No. More like old brick from the feel of it, but I'm not really certain."

"Dallin, what about the cell phone? Just use that as a flashlight."

The screen of the cell phone illuminates the walls of the cellar before me. 

Joe's voice echoes down from the top of the stairs, "What do you see?"

"Nothing much. Just a few shelves with what looks like canned fruit."

"Canned fruit? Who does that anymore?"

"No one around here, I would have thought. There's a lot of dust on the jars."

Stepping onto the landing, my foot suddenly becomes soaked. Recoiling, I nearly fall over before grabbing the nearest shelf.

"Yuck! And there are a few inches of water down here too! Forget this, there's nothing down here anyway."

"Whatever you say, man. I'm not coming down there."

Climbing back out into the hallway, Joe asks me what I want to see next: the prop room, the costumes, the dressing room, or our kitchen and bathroom near the back.

"Let's go ahead and start with the props."

"A wise choice, my friend."

Table and Spoon Circles

If I kept a journal, there are a few things that I'd write in it. Perhaps I'd describe the contrast of my couch's pink flower decor in comparison to the dark skin of my roommate's legs as he told me about his country last night. Perhaps I'd write about the brilliant color of an old friend's hair in yesterday's sunlight as we were reunited months after I had to tell her that I couldn't give her what she wanted. Maybe I'd write about the insults that this same friend managed to subtly sling at me with frightening skill and finesse as I stood dumbfounded. Perhaps I'd write about how I smiled in relief as she walked away, knowing that she finally felt better after exacting her premeditated revenge. Maybe I'd write about none of these things, because blogging briefly about them is more than enough.
I drag my thumb along the smooth edge of the table at which I'm sitting. Whenever I'm tasked with choosing where to sit, I always choose the round tables. Maybe I appreciate how nonthreatening they are, but mostly they remind me of the regality of a fictional King Arthur's court. Sean Connery would be proud.
I look up from the table's edge. She's still complaining about work. I shouldn't mind, seeing as how I was the one to ask her how work is these days. And do I expect any true-blooded American to not complain about his or her job? I guess I dug my own grave this time.
At the next break in her story, I interrupt her with the first question that comes to my mind, which for some reason turns out to be: "Do you know what it means to believe in something?"
Taken aback slightly, she quickly says, "Of course I do." I watch as she looks up from the table, her black hair falling nicely beside either side of her face. Our conversation has taken a sudden turn for the more serious, and I'm not sure if I like where it's going with her; she doesn't really seem to know how to answer for herself as she continues, "But I don't see how that's important."
I wonder if she's ever really thought much about the question for herself, but instead I just say, "You're right. It's not that important. I'm not sure why I brought it up."
She eyes me as I innocently savor another bite of my burger. I can see a mark of frustration on her brow. "Okay, but what does it mean to you to believe in something?"
Chuckling, I set the burger back on the table. "To me? That's an ever-changing answer."
"Then give me your current answer."
"Well, if you really believe in something you should feel good about it, and you should trust it. And not because of what anyone else tells you. Be that what it may."
"I guess that makes sense. I've never really thought about it much," she says as if talking to someone else entirely, apparently herself, as we both lean back in our chairs.
Glancing down at the illuminated screen peeking out my pocket, I know that I have to go soon.
She must have noticed, because she makes one more request, "Before you go, have you ever managed to bend a plastic spoon into a complete circle without it breaking?"
"No! Can it actually be done?"
Smiling, she assures me that it can.
"All right, I'll give it a try," I tell her while grabbing the only spoon lying on the table.

Vagabonds and Vagrants

For some people the word security may conjure images of a large house, a yappy dog, well fed children, and a gassed up car in the garage. Or maybe security makes you think of the secret service. Either way, I definitely don't have either kind of security, but both sound pleasant. During the past five years I haven't been able to call any one place home for more than eight or nine months. So far these assorted dwelling places have consisted in no certain order of a school, a dorm room, a very moldy townhouse, a room in a stranger's house, the attic of a costume shop, my car for a few stints, another townhouse which smelled strongly of meth, and a few apartments, one of which sat directly above a ritzy bong shop.

Some of these places have been more secure than others, and at times I've had to be ready to move out at a moment's notice. I'm not endeavoring to say that I don't need some degree of security, because I do. It's been an evolving system, but security for some of us just can't be having somewhere stable to keep all your crap. Security for me comes by knowing that everything I own can fit in my car. After reading this statement you may not think much of it at first - until you realize that my car is a small Plymouth Neon. Yes, a Plymouth, not a Dodge, not that there's any difference. And when I say that it fits, I mean that it fits easily. No stacking or cramming required. If situation dictates that my current place of residence is no longer an option, then I'm secure knowing that I can pick everything up that I own, put it in my car, and find other accommodations.

This may not appeal to everyone out there, but for a select few of us it is the perfect security. Think about all the benefits. "Hey, this neighborhood is dangerous. I guess I'll move!" Or perhaps the classic, "Hey, I think I need a fresh start somewhere out of state. I guess I'll move today!" And these are just a few of the situations that can come in handy. If you hate your roommate, move. If the weather is bad, move. Getting too much junk mail? Move.

Some of you may be wondering what I would do in the case that I lost my car in one way or another. But don't worry, one of the things in my car is a tent.

Life Without Pizza

Looking into the mirror on my left, I can't help but wonder why anyone would ever install mirrors in an elevator. Something important must be afoot, because the girl next to me is texting more quickly than I can imagine her speaking. Her auburn hair is pulled into a ponytail and a stack of books is occupying her left arm entirely. When the elevator stops and the doors begin to pry themselves open, she steps out without so much as a glance toward anything or anyone but her illuminated screen of connection.

As the doors again begin to close, I see her rip her eyes from their entrancement up at the world around her before spinning back toward the closing elevator doors. A look of understanding passes over her eyes just as she becomes shut from my view. The wrong floor.

My destination, the top floor, is almost completely empty.

There was a time when I really enjoyed these meetings, but that was when there was pizza and single women. Now there's no more food and only a few chicks who complain to each other about their dismally inadequate boyfriends. Looking down to the floor below this one, I see a former coworker of mine. She chopped all of her hair off. Maybe I should yell something down to her, but maybe this is a library and maybe I shouldn't.

Standing just outside the cracked door, I can see a few people on the opposite side organizing their things. Sighing, I open the door slowly so as not to interrupt any integral thought processes revolving around the wrong doings of paramours former and current.

Before anyone can make an accusation, I say, "I know; I'm about five minutes late. I didn't expect you all to be here already."

Sitting on the opposite side of the table are two people I haven't seen here before. One of them endeavors to say something before I do, "Hi, I hope you don't mind that we came. We missed our group earlier today."

"That's fine. What's your name?"

Reaching across the table I grasp her hand as she answers, "Katie."

The guy next to her says, "Chris," as I in turn shake his hand. 

"Cool. I'm Dallin. It's nice to have you guys here."

Sitting down, I look around the room. "Well, does anyone have questions about anything in particular?"

People just shake their heads while I tell myself that this is the last time I ever take a tutoring position.

"Nothing? Okay, are there any areas you guys want to hit? The test is tomorrow."

Finally, the girl at the end of the table makes a suggestion, "I was thinking we could just do an overview of everything," to which everyone vocalizes their agreement.

Forcing a smile and a happy tone, I nod and tell them what a good idea that is. "No better place to start than at the beginning."

Reviewing everything without any direction or specifics will take at least 4 hours, but they don't know that yet. I hear Katie and Chris both eagerly pulling note paper from their bags. I lied. I know who Chris and Katie are: they've been on my list all semester but have never shown up until today. Unfortunately they will probably fail.

Instead of telling them of their fate, I choose to give them another day's hope and turn back toward the room. 

"Hey guys, before we get started, does anyone have a whiteboard marker that works?"

Losing to Fat Rats

Sometimes is an interesting word. It's as fleeting and frequent as its usage. Lives change sometimes, and the world will only sometimes notice. I grip the saw's handle tightly as I focus my strength on repeated strokes.
The solace is broken by a woman's voice, "Why are you cutting all the wood?"
I look up at Ashley; she seems honestly perplexed by what I'm doing. I take a moment to think about her question. Why have I been sawing log after log for at least half an hour? Boredom? Not exactly. Because I enjoy it? Sometimes, but not always, so also not a good answer. My father's instructions still ring clearly in my mind from when I was a young boy; "Be sure to stack it all nicely behind the shed. I don't want the weight of this winter's snow to topple the pile." Ten years later and I'm still capable of building a beautiful stack of wood. But this answer seems a bit too long winded to recite to a girl I barely know.
Finishing the cut on which I had been working, I grab the two fresh pieces of wood and walk over to my stack before turning to face Ashley. "Have you ever just felt like doing something?"
She knows that I'm dumbing down my answer for her. "No. Please explain."
"Well, the temperature is finally nice, and I can tell that the mosquitoes are going to be hitting us hard tomorrow, so now seems like the perfect time to prepare the wood."
Eyeing me while nodding her head, she takes a sip of her beer and turns back toward the fire. My answer must have seemed satisfactory.
By the time Chris returns from the throne, I'm cutting up the last log. I can hear his footsteps slow atop the millions of pine needles as he nears my glorious pile of wood. Before he chooses to say anything he settles by the fire as well. "Dallin, you're making us look bad."
As I finish the cut, I look up to say, "Nah, I figure we're even after you guys having to wake me up every morning."
Ash pulls a few pieces off the pile as I finally take my spot on the north side of the fire. We've had a difficult day on the mountain, and we happily allow the crackling fire to fill our void of conversation. The toenails peeking through the front ends of my flip flops are in need of a wash. Sighing in exasperation, I remove my right flip flop to examine the damage done today. It's been chewed to hell by those damn marmots. I can hear them squeaking in the distance, perhaps already planning tomorrow's raid.
"The marmots are coming for their revenge," Chris mumbles mostly to himself.
Some of our expensive equipment had been damaged the previous day by the giant rodents, and when they came a bit too close to our camp last night we chased them off with human ingenuity and big clubs. We haven't seen them since our reprisal, but more things were damaged today - including my sandals - and now we hear them squeaking incessantly just out of view. It's nerve wracking.
"If they were going to seek revenge they would have come for you while you were on the throne."
Glancing up at my unexpected reply, Chris grunts, "Yeah, I suppose you're right. No time more vulnerable than that."
"Or when we're sleeping," Ashley chimes in.
I tune in again to the crackling fire. I can still hear the marmots through the trees sometimes.

Reaching an Accord

"Utah, eh? What are you doing way out here in Tennessee?"
"That's a long story, man."
"Gotcha. Is this the car here?"
"Yeah, this is it."
Reaching into the back of his black Explorer, he says, "So, the total will come out at $189.95."
"How much?"
"$189.95"
"What! The guy on the phone said it was only 15 bucks!"
"Well, yeah, but that's only for the initial diagnosis."
Diagnosis? Where the hell does he think we are? An operating room?
"I won't pay it. No way."
"What do you mean you won't pay it?"
"What do you think I mean? I'll just open the damn door myself for free."
I watch as he feverishly writes down my license plate number - as if that actually matters.
"Fine, you don't have to pay me, but our company will just send you a bill instead."
"So what? I just won't pay your stupid bill. I didn't sign any contract with you people."
Sighing, he puts his hands on his hips and begins in a different tone, "Okay, I get it, we'll work with you. You can pay it in increments."
"Nope. Still not gonna pay."
"Okay, who's your insurance company? We can bill them instead if you want."
"My insurance company? I don't have full coverage on this POS, why would they pay?"
A look of utter bewilderment overcomes his face; I can see that his insurance suggestion wins over the majority of pissed off customers.
"Well, uh, they'll still pay for stuff like this."
"No, buddy, they will not. Trust me, I work for an insurance company. Even if I had that coverage I wouldn't claim something ridiculous like this."
Grumbling something about how he drove all the way out here, he picks up his notepad from off the trunk of my car and walks back to the rear of his own.
"Look, man, I'm sorry you came all the way out here, but you guys need to be a little more honest about your prices."
Turning toward me with a kit in his hand, he says, "I tell you what, you pay me the 15 in cash and I'll open your door, tell my boss that you refused to pay, and I'll tear up this sheet with your information so that you won't have to be bothered by us."
"Really?"
"Really."
"You call your boss right now so I can hear you tell him and you have a deal."
While feeding his boss a load of crap over the phone he shreds the paper and then hands me the pieces. "There you go, now the money."
"Open the door first."
"Fine."
I watch as he reaches into the car with what looks like a wire hanger and easily unlocks my door. Next time I'll just do it myself, even if the price is enticingly low.
"All right, here's your money."
Handling the cash lovingly in his hands, he smiles at me, "Thanks. Good doing business with you."
Laughing together, we shake hands before parting ways. "Yeah, you too."

Was this what we meant to do?

I've been musing on the state of our society lately, so don't read this if you hate hypothetical situations and purely unanswerable questions. Let me begin by saying that I like America; I don't necessarily love it, but I will say that I'm fairly attached, just not unconditionally so. I enjoy having a car to get wherever I feel like going, I like having running water and plumbing, and I don't mind having a phone with which I can contact whomever I need at the push of a button. I like these things, but what about the cost-to-benefit ratio?
What am I talking about? Bear with me and I'll tell you. Now let's speak hypothetically for a moment. How much does it cost to live? Let's say you're an American living in a relatively inexpensive region of the country, such as where I live. To keep things as cheap as possible, let's pose that you're single, have no children, have no mortgage, no car payment, no credit card bills, and no medical payments. Now let's say that you have found some VERY cheap rent somewhere for $200/mo, and you only spend $50 dollars on your cell phone bill and insurance each month (I know, that's about as cheap as can be fathomed, but this is hypothetical). Actually, drop the phone: you don't need that. Okay, so let's say you're in $200 for rent, $25 for insurance, and $50 for basic utilities. And tag on another $75 per month for gas and food. That's about as cheap as I can imagine anyone living in this country. $200 + $25 + $50 + $75 = $350. So, at the absolute minimum it will cost an American $350/month just to exist.
Now I'm not saying that the world sucks and is out to get us, I only think that occasionally. What I'm saying is that the $350 cost is the absolute minimum and almost everyone has expenses far higher than that. People get up each day, spend most of that day working at a job that they've hopefully learned to tolerate, and then go home to spend a few hours at the home they work so hard to pay for. Our society revolves around earning enough to exist. No one planned for our society to become this way, and there's no turning back now, but is this what we really want? Are we really better off than the pioneers of 200 years ago? Or the free-ranging tribes of a few millennia ago? Sure, the government we pay so much to exist supposedly protects us and our rights from oppression, and with enough money you can now pay to extend your life, but do the benefits really outweigh the costs?
If I could reduce my standard of living in order to radically reduce my cost of existence, you bet I would. I'm just not sure anymore if the trajectory our society has placed itself on is the right one. Buy a car, buy a home, buy health insurance so you can afford kids, buy a TV, buy internet, buy a phone, buy a nicer car than your neighbor's, buy a bigger home for the extra kids, buy more food, buy dental insurance, accrue some harmless debt, buy some more stuff, and then spend 25 years enjoying your assorted outdated items and trying to pay off your debts until you kick the bucket. Was all the work and worry worth it? I don't know because I don't own much, but it doesn't seem like it to me. It's a shame that the whole world is in such a hurry to follow our lead.

Vegas, baby

The ceiling here is painted to resemble the azure sky of a lazy French afternoon, and you know what? It doesn't look half bad.
"Hey, will you guys buy us some drinks?"
They both smile and start giggling. I consider their question for a moment; should I buy alcohol for two minors, both of whom appear to be idiots? My brain returns the unequivocal answer: NOPE.
"Sure, I'll buy you guys some drinks, but you have to give me the cash first."
I look over at Brian. Is he serious?? He smirks wryly at me, as if to say, "Just wait." Should I wait to see the effect of alcohol on these two chicks? Is that what he wants? If so, then I guess I'm all in. That's what friends do, right? Whatever, way too much thinking in one second. I do nothing and wait to see where this is going.
Brian dips under the fabric railing and soon finds a waitress. I watch as he pays her and returns with one huge margarita.
"Here you go, ladies. And your $1.50 change as well."
"Mmm, thank you!" The shorter one manages to say through pursed lips as she sucks on her straw.
The other one is a bit more tentative, but follows along with her more tenacious friend.
Within a few minutes both are becoming tipsy. You can't have a little fun without taking a risk every now and then, right? Still, I'm not implicating myself any further in this.
Brian turns to me and whispers, "Virgins."
"Uh, okay?"
"No, dude. I mean that was a virgin margarita! Hahahaha!"
Slowly, they both cling to each other as they clumsily enter the performance hall.
I turn to Brian, both of us grinning widely, "Brian, thanks to you, I'll never doubt the placebo effect again."
"You're welcome. Now where did Freshman get off to?"
"Who ever really knows?"
"True. I'm sure he's in a corner somewhere texting someone."
"Yeah, probably," I say, while the two pseudo-drunken chicks look back to wave us over their way.

Cool Heat

I can feel my feet. Actually, I can only really feel that I can't feel them. This is an odd sensation. I wake with a start and begin turning my body carefully so as to avoid the steering wheel. I stretch my blanket to its furthest, but it still can't manage to wrap entirely around my feet without slipping off my shoulders.
The rain pounding against the window next to my ear distracts me momentarily. It's cold in here, and my feet want socks desperately. Jordan is staring at the roof of the car as I sit up and stretch my legs.
"Yawwwwwwnn. Holy crap it got cold; my feet are freezing."
Jordan looks over just to say, "You sound like a wookiee when you yawn."
"Huh?"
"You know, like Chewbacca. From Star Wars."
"Oh, right. Good morning to you too."
Leaning onto the steering wheel, I can't see outside at all due to the fogged windows. The rain slapping on the roof sounds like a tropical torrent inside the cab of my tiny Neon, and I find myself immensely dreading anything involving an exit from the car.
Exhaling in frustration, I glance back at Jordan, "It sounds like it's raining pretty hard. I really don't want to get out."
Immediately he tells me with audible urgency, "Dude, I really have to piss."
"Yeah, me too. Let's go on the count of three, okay?"
"Sure, that sounds good," Jordan replies.
Gripping the handle of the door beside me with fervent concentration, I start counting; one, two, and then I remember.
"Wait!"
Jordan flinches away from the door, having expected to be rushing outward. "What??"
"Grab your toothbrush."
The doors flung open, we immediately discover that the downpour is little more than a drizzle, but we both hike up our shorts with one hand and begin bounding toward the restrooms anyway. The flannel clad trucker exiting through the door steps quickly out of my way as I rush through the opening. I'm careful not to slip on the tile floor in the lobby as I make my way to the men's bathroom.
"Hey, Jordan."
Looking over the partition between me and his urinal, he responds, "Yeah?"
While still examining my chin and neck in the mirror through downturned eyes, I describe my current revelation to him; "Ya know, Jordan, it's a sad day when the hair on your face is far thicker than the hair on top of your head."
Zipping up and approaching the sink next to mine, he begins to laugh. "Dude, just be happy that you can grow a respectable beard."
"Fine, but you be happy that you can grow a respectable head of hair."
"Yep, I am thankful for that on a daily basis," he says while running his fingers through his hair.
Refocusing on my hygiene, I have another revelation: I stink. While brushing my teeth I scan the walls of the restroom for any paper towel dispensers, but all I see are air dryers. This was our second straight night and fourth in the past ten days sleeping in my car, as well as the third day without a shower, and now it is really beginning to show. I had planned on using some paper towels to swab out my armpits and wash my face, but it looks like I'll have to wait. So instead I finish brushing my teeth and enjoy the warm air of the hand dryer on my skin.
Flinging the door open, we begin to run back to the car. I take a shortcut over the wet grass while keeping my heels flexed upward in an attempt to keep my flip flops from flipping water all over the back of my legs. Slamming the doors shut behind us, I hurriedly fumble for the keys and start the engine.
"Sheesh, who knew it could get so cold in May?"
"I know, it wasn't nearly this cold last night in Illinois."
The engine chokes to life as the heater begins to blow cold air through its ducts onto our legs and faces.
"Remind me never to come to Nebraska again."
"Well, maybe it won't be so bad if you bring a better blanket next time."
Thinking back to last night, I step on the gas and tell Jordan, "Good point. You should be glad that I told you to get your blanket out of the trunk before it really got cold."
"All right, D, you've got me there. Where do you want to eat, anyway?"
Looking at the gas gauge, I know that we should be able to make it past the border before we need to refuel. "Not in Nebraska. That much I know."
Leaning back and closing his eyes, Jordan says with a yawn, "Sure, man. I'm sure we'll find a place."

Grappling with Gangrene

The canvas of my cot smells like dirt. Throwing myself onto my back, I inhale and exhale methodically hoping for relief. My entire body aches for the second day in a row, and now it's getting worse. Every other hour or so someone climbs into my tent to ask how I am. This time it's him, the next time it's her. When someone else finally tosses back the flap of my tent, it's dark, and I haven't slept a wink.
"You look terrible."
"Thanks, I feel that way too."
"Y'know, Ben is coming to pick up Jake tomorrow morning. If you're not feeling better by then I say you head back into town to see a doctor."
Yesterday I would rather have stayed, but the realization is dawning on me that this isn't a simple flu from which I'll be recovering after a few hours' rest. "Yeah, that sounds good."
After turning back toward the dusk, he glances back at me, lifting an eyebrow in suspicion. "And you have NO idea what's making you sick? Are you absolutely positive you didn't eat something you shouldn't have?"
"No, no idea!" I declare.
But I do know.
During our first day here almost four days ago, I untied my shoe and turned to Steve, "I think I got a sliver in my foot when we were rock climbing earlier."
"A sliver? Where?"
Peeling off the sock, I twist my right foot up and over my other knee. "There. Do you see it?"
Grimacing in disgust, he replies, "Yeah. Does it hurt?"
"Yeah. It went straight in there, deep."
"Did you bring any tweezers?"
"No, but I did bring this."
Reaching for my Camelbak, I pull my Swiss Army knife out of its permanent home in a side pocket.
Steve asserts his suspicion with a face of skepticism, "You're just going to slice it out of your foot?"
Smiling like a confident fool, I nod.
The deed having been done the previous afternoon, I wake the next morning and begin to pull on some fresh socks. Setting my right foot on the ground, a surge of pain streaks through my leg. I flop down immediately on the cot and begin to examine the sole of my foot. Right in the center of the arch of my foot a grotesque green bubble is growing around the site of yesterday's excision. I sigh, thinking of the easy solution to problems of pus: drainage. Grabbing my handy knife again, I slice the bubble at its base and squeeze it until empty. Mopping up the mess with one of yesterday's dirty socks and clapping my hands together after a job well done, I take care to place a sterile band-aid over it and finish putting on my fresh socks.
On the morning of my premature departure, I can barely do anything. Glancing around to ensure that no one is looking, I pull my leg slowly toward my chest. As my throbbing knee bends, the sock encasing my infected foot comes into few. Its elastic fibers are straining visibly against the swollen skin. Rolling it down toward my ankle, delicately, softly, my ankle has disappeared. Where my ankle should be is a gray trunk of flesh. The dark skin of my foot reflects the ripples impressed into it by the just-removed sock as I cradle it in my hands. "Ah, crap. I'm an idiot," I grumble in frustration.
I lay my head despondently against the car window during the bumpy ride down. "You got all your stuff in the trunk, Dallin?" Ben asks.
"Yeah. I didn't really bring much."
My Camelbak bounces around on the floor between my feet with the should-have-been-disinfected Swiss Army knife in its pocket.
"Well, that was smart of you. We'll have you home soon."

Running Past 17th Street

The surf washes along the shore, just reaching my feet. The coolness enshrouds the sole of each foot, reminding me that it's getting too late to go running in.

"It's been a long day."

Glancing to my right, I ask what he means. 

"Oh, I dunno. Just after the drive and everything."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Still, it could have been worse."

"Uh huh." 

Standing in silence, he leans forward to grab a handful of small stones and begins tossing them into the waves. Picking up a few rocks for myself, I start chucking them out into the ocean too.

"You know, Port, you still throw like a girl."

Towering over me in stature, he moves his grizzled jaw only to laugh at me.

"Laugh all you want, I can still beat you up."

Finally he replies, "All right, see if you can throw a rock farther than this," and he hurls one out farther than I can hope to match.

Clutching a speckled stone in my hand, I nearly rip my arm out of place trying to get it past his mark.

Laughing again, he says, "What were you saying about being a girl?"

"You're blind, bro; mine must have gone at least twice as far as yours!"

"Haha, sure. Whatever makes you feel better."

While rubbing my sore shoulder, I look up and down the beach. To our left at least seven piers jut out into the ocean before the falling dusk blocks anything more from my view. 

"Is everyone already back at the hotel?"

Giving me an odd look while I remove my sandals and stretch, he curtly affirms my assumption and asks, "What are you doing?"

"I think I'm going to go for a run. Take off your shoes and come with."

Hesitating, he asks, "But won't our shoes get stolen?"

"Ha, maybe your shoes, but not my sandals. Come on."

The damp sand mercifully cushions each step that I take, giving me reason to run faster. Porter heaves beside me as we pass one pier after the next. We're forced to take a detour around a fisherman sitting on a cooler next to his fat hound. The sight of his fishing pole puts the nerves in my feet on alert for the next few minutes. Every grain of sand is suddenly palpable as my soles expect a painful hook with each succeeding step.

"Is this the eighth or ninth pier?" Porter manages to ask me through two wheezing breaths. Stopping next to a wooden pillar, I clutch my knees and shake my head. 

"No, gasp this is the gasp tenth pier."

"We've been running wheeze forever; let's wheeze head back."

Running back, I had no idea how far we had come. Now that the sun has gone down, I worry that I won't be able to recognize our section of this monotonous beach. With each step, my feet sink unmercifully into the damp sand; the arches of my feet searing with pain. Damn sand.

At last having passed, I think, nine piers, we stop. 

"Our shoes wheeze should be here wheeze, right?"

Scanning the dark beach from my stooped position, I can't focus on anything. 

"Yeah, gasp somewhere around here gasp. You keep looking."

Lying out on the sand, the waves glint menacingly at me in the moonlight. I just hope that I'm lying close enough for the surf to soak my feet.

All in a Fight's Vindication

Another day has come and not yet gone, and I'm wondering what to have for lunch. Some things never change. I latch my bike to the fence and walk toward the center of the main square. The sun is beating down on us today about as strongly as it ever has. A few people walk by without a word, and I couldn't be more pleased. I need some alone time before I leave.
Settling down on a bench, I watch a Moroccan man showing his son how to tear off bread and give it to the birds. He patiently guides his son's hand with his own to ensure that he doesn't throw the bread with too much force. In a language that I cannot understand, he tells the young boy what to do.
Hold the bread with your palm up. Toss it underhand so as not to frighten them. No, not AT the birds, toss it toward their feet.
Lounging out, I stretch my back across the back of the bench and remove my jacket. Reed is sitting against a tree nearby reading a book. He looks more content than usual today. The young boy is giggling hysterically as the birds jump over each other in order to get their beaks on a piece of bread. Hmm, bread. I want some bread, and some good bread at that. I grab my jacket and begin traversing the square. Visible at the southeast corner there's a grocery store. I'm enormously pleased thinking about lunch today; I'm going to dish out some cash and treat myself. Once inside, I snatch a fruit smoothie off the shelf, pull a full loaf of French bread out of a basket, and head to the meat section. I buy the nicest German sausage that I can find and head back out the door.
Good, my bench is still empty. The birds congregate around my feet as I toss them my crumbs. The bread is soft and the wurst is perfect. Lounging back and commanding my bird army with my any bread-tossing whim, I am king of the plaza. That's right, birdies, I deserve this.
An accented voice interrupts, "Good afternoon. Do you have any money for me?"
My tranquility shattered, I look to my right. Sitting next to me on the bench is a toothless refugee grinning all gums at me; someone is trespassing on my land. I'm in no mood for being hassled, so I offer him his small fee to scram.
"Sure, here's a euro."
Snatching it greedily, he tucks it in his pocket while saying thanks. Eying my wurst and bread, he goes further, "May I have some of your food?"
This is too much. He could buy a loaf of bread with the money I just gave him. "No. You may not."
"Please?"
"No, now please leave me alone."
"This is a public bench. I think I'll stay until you give me some of that sausage."
What a bastard. I lose my temper. I yell. He yells. Hell, we all yell.
Things having escalated within a minute or two, he lunges unexpectedly for my fancy German wurst, and manages to get his grubby hands on one end! I push him away and take it back. He pushes me hard, and I retaliate with a bird king's righteous fist of fury. The small man crashes to the ground and screams bloody murder. Cry, baby, cry, just don't mess with me.
"Webb, what are you doing??" It's Reed.
"He tried to steal my food, so I showed him what's up."
"Dude, you just beat up a bum!! This looks really bad."
I take a moment to stop clutching my hard-fought food and glance around. Sure enough, there's a fairly sized crowd gathering all around us. The look on Reed's face is one of absolute terror; heck, I may as well have kicked a puppy and slapped a hoe to elicit a response of this magnitude. But right now I just don't care. I did what I had to and any judgmental douche can suck it.
As the police arrive in their goofy helmets I begin tossing the bum-tainted bits of sausage to the birds. I suppose I can finish the bread while the cops lecture me.

Standing around in my underwear

At once I snap awake. The same guy is sitting on the couch across from me, still lackadaisically reading his textbook while he spends the majority of his time texting someone; hopefully a beautiful girl worth the time and distraction. I've probably been asleep for awhile, and look at my watch. 2:56. Less than four minutes until class. I've been asleep for over an hour! Jamming my phone back into my pocket and cramming my book back into my pack, I throw on my jacket too with a backpack clenched between my teeth. An exit, right here. Wow, why haven't I used this exit before, instead of walking all the way around to the east side?
I run through the door at full speed as a screech accosts my ears. A fire alarm? Both of my hands are still placed firmly on the door handle as I halt in sickening realization. This is an emergency exit. Six inches from my face, written boldly on the glass, are the words Emergency Exit Only: Alarm Will Sound. Well, they weren't kidding, were they? My heart sinks. Shit.
An eternity turning around, I see everyone around the library looking around confusedly and packing up their things. Bigger shit. I need to go to class. I'll be late if I stay. Looking back at my watch, 2:57. One minute awake so far. Bad things happen when I've been awake for fewer than five minutes. People in my corner of the library are already beginning to spot me, still awkwardly holding the emergency exit open with two hands. No one points, but more and more are looking.
A deep breath before the plunge. Holding my head up high, I release the door and wave, saying loudly, "Hi. Yeah, that was me. My bad, everyone."
Still, no one says anything to me. Not even a chuckle. Pointing toward the front desk, where crowds from the rest of the library are already heading, I put up both arms reassuringly in Moses-style and declare, "I'll go take care of it."
The walk of shame is briefly elongated. Is there some kind of fine for setting off the fire alarm unnecessarily? If so, I am so leaving them with a false name. Hi, my name is Brian Weller, I think with a smirk. The employees at the front desk are packing their things too when I get there. With authority I place both of my palms on the counter. They both give me their attention.
"Hi. Yeah, that fire alarm is my bad. Don't evacuate or call the fire department. I totally just tried walking through the emergency exit."
"Oh," the blond one replies, her face betraying obvious thoughts of laughter.
"So, yeah, just shut that sucker off."
"Okay, we'll get on that."
"All right, well, bye."
"Bye."
I turn around and stride out the door quickly as a few bespectacled bookworms race by. No backward glances for me. I did what I had to do and I didn't even have to give them a name, and I'd rather keep it that way.

Marinating in Misdirection

I'm seventeen again for a moment. Trudging along somewhere between 14 and 25. Glancing around at the happy couples, I feel grossly misplaced. Looking over toward the pool, at the grinding crowd of single students, I feel grossly misplaced. Limbo in a hot tub time machine remembering that this year I'll be 23 as I'm offered a bucket of beer for the twentieth time today.
Any drinks from the bar?
No, thank you.
You sure? Buy four beers and you get one free.
No.
The more you spend the more you save. I pray that no one for no one's sake would fall for such a transparent marketing gimmick. I'm strung and stretched between carefree and maturity. Having to angle the bar so that it will support the heavy shower curtain. Drenched and collapsing just when your mind wanders to other things.
The sun beats down on us as I apply more sunscreen to my bald head. Maybe I'll be 30 this year. I don't want the peeling to be too severe. The same waiter walks by without so much as a glance in our direction. I see on his user-friendly name tag that he's from Zimbabwe. Hello, Mickel, how may you serve me today? As Mickel tears the name tag away from my groping eyes and throws it overboard. And so the revolution begins. I can only imagine what he's thinking while he traverses the deck. Does he think that this is a good job? Does he prefer Bud Light over Corona Light? Is he laughing secretly at them? At us? At me?
How much disdain can a Zimbabwean mask behind a grin?
My two twitterpated friends are getting into a tickle war. I laugh and watch as they embrace happiness. No longer seventeen and gagging again. Instead I am proud to have such happy friends. Moving away to the opposite side, I distract myself with the hair on my forearm. As the suds dry, the hair remains slicked down as if I used gel. If my arm hair were long enough, would I spike it or trim it? Or alternate the two?
The Zimbabwean waiter is watching us. Upon eye contact he turns away, back to his shadow.

Of Misery and Men

The wooden floor is matted with a thin layer of hair. His voice is strangely high pitched, and I can't help but picture a small child whining to his mother as I glance up at his round face. His eyes dart back and forth between me and Nate. If I purse my lips tightly enough and direct my breath downward I can create a hair-free space on the floor between my feet. His girlfriend stirs the pot of chili. The twisting sinews in her arm strain visibly against the underside of her paper-thin skin. Her hands are quivering. They usually do when she thinks no one is looking. I wish there were an equivalent of the nicotine patch for heroine addicts. Looking back at Mr. Tenhoeve, even his hands are shaking under the table today. He's asking us for money again. I wouldn't give him any if I had any to give; I know where it would really be spent. His two sons squeal with delight in the corner as they play in ignorant bliss with their miniature trucks. They're filthy.
"Are you listening?"
Looking up from the floor, I confidently say, "Yes."
"Well, what do you think?"
"I think you know that we can't help you in that regard. I've told you that before."
With hardly any pause, he continues reprimanding us for our callousness and insolence. His dialect of Dutch is so harsh on the ears; every time he rolls an R, I cringe.
"You guys are my last resort. If you won't help me, then I don't know what the point is anymore..."
Nate cuts in with advice. I know what he's implying. The first time he pulled the suicide card, I was genuinely worried for this man and his fledgling family, but this must be at least the fifteenth time he's made the threat. No longer does his trump card hold any water for me. Placing my attention elsewhere, I observe that all but two pieces of furniture in this room were placed here only an hour ago by Nate and myself. While contemplating our quickest exit strategy, I think back to how we ended up here in this all-too-familiar situation.
Before leaving, we had agreed that we wouldn't allow Mr. Tenhoeve to begin his normal spiel. Arriving, I notice that toys are littered across the front yard today. Grasping the gate, I hold it at a distance from myself as I pass through. Nate follows me into the yard. Leaning beside the door is the bike that I had put to use for a few weeks months before, plastic sack draped across the seat just as I had left it. Turning toward the door, I don't have to wait long before it creaks open and two young boys rush toward us howling with joy. As the first one to make it outside clutches my right knee, I reach down and pat his blonde curls. Nate picks up his brown-haired brother and greets him profusely. Mr. Tenhoeve, standing in the doorway, bids us welcome without looking me in the eye. I muster my courage for the emotional barrage that we will certainly have to try to avoid. His girlfriend emerges from a back room and offers me her hand. She at least attempts to look me in the eye, but her gaze is too glazed over to make any real eye contact.
Having laid our coats over the radiator, Nate and I head into the backyard to fetch some chairs.

Paradise is for Dreamers

We've barricaded the doors and the windows, but still our defenses continue to crumble. I run frantically to and fro about the bottom floor looking for anything that can be used as a weapon, but find nothing. Finally, in the darkness under the staircase, my hands palpate and grasp a wooden plank. It's pliable and ready for battle. People are huddling in corners. Some of them I remember from high school, but haven't seen in years until tonight. Others, classmates and neighbors, obviously arrived here with me.
The ruddy brown walls remind me of cellars into which I've only wandered briefly, but never lingered. Sections of wallpaper peel off in self defeat. Board in hand, I arrive in the main room. I can hear the others trampling around on the floor above, and I know that it's only a matter of time before they'll be here. I need to rest, but every upholstered chair and threaded couch has been piled against each possible entrance. Instead I plop down on the dusty floor, cross my legs, and place my head in my palms in quiet frustration. Bitter weeping, sobs of fear, and polarized bickering reach my ears. After what seems like only moments, someone is calling my name frantically from down the hall. I recognize the voice as Jake's, but am still reluctant to raise my head.
The screeching scrape of a couch's wooden pegs against the hard floor sends a shock wave coursing through my body. Instantly, I know, they are here. Grabbing my sole weapon mid-leap, I'm furiously running down the hall toward the screaming breach. Jake and his brother are valiantly attempting to push the barricade back into place, but they are only stalling the coming onslaught. The buzzing hum is clearly audible behind the strained door. As I begin pushing back, the gray hands reach for me just around the door's edge. Cautiously I hammer back at them to the full extent of the plank's power. The hands withdraw, the door is shut, and the humming begins to die down.
Jake, smiling at me, rests his back against the jumbled furniture and slinks toward the ground.
"Thanks, man. Nice club." His teeth are spattered in blood. Every crease between his teeth is darkening with crimson blood. Sitting there with his teeth dripping red, Jake seems to have lost a degree of humanity, like the cannibals of exotic lore.
Lowering my club, I slowly say, "Yeah, no problem." Jake begins to chuckle, turning toward his speechless brother. His brother's gaze catches my own, but I don't hold it long enough to discern any meaning before I force myself to turn away.
Walking away from our scene of narrow victory, I stroll back toward the main room. Once inside, I immediately notice the glass scattered across the floor and the red stains streaking toward the hallways. So, it is a lost cause after all. Upon crossing the threshold into an adjoining room, the silence is violently broken. Friends and family fight in futility against their flying attackers. Bounding forward, I swing the board through the air, striking several of them down. They are surprisingly strong and don't succumb quickly to my blows. More enter the room as I run back to the hallways. At every exit, several of them stand guard rebuilding the barricades we had built to keep them out. They are keeping the last few of us in. Back again under the stairs, I put my back to the wall and strike out at the encroaching hands.
Sitting up in my bed, my eyes ache as they adjust to the bright moonlight filling the room. My hand on the wall beside me firmly solidifies reality. Lying back down, I stare at the ceiling. For once, I don't have to grasp onto the fleeting remnants of this dream, for every detail is ingrained in my mind. A hum emanating from the hall causes me to hold my breath and listen. The washer is running.

Friend and Foe

I watch silently as she crosses the street. A corner of white paper sticks out of the back pocket of her jeans; the second letter that I've delivered to her. Her direct and mechanized gait reminds me of her stubborn refusal to believe me. If only she would accept my explanation. But she's too hurt. After months more of my own denial this damage will prove to be irreparable.

She grabs the handle of the door, yanks it open with surprising ease, and walks into the building without looking back. For weeks I had been lost in the dark as to what happened. Something frivolous, I had assumed. Something that time undoubtedly would heal. At long last the rumor reached me about what I had supposedly said. Shocked at how ridiculous it was, I had dismissed it as bizarre and irrelevant. As the weeks piled up, so did the questions. By the time the seriousness of the situation dawned on me it was already far too late. Stubbornly I refrained from delving into why I couldn't understand how anyone believed it.

Sitting on the steps, I can hardly believe it myself. Placing my palms on either side of myself, my hands begin to absorb the lingering heat of the summer still radiating off the concrete. Her words circulate over and over in my mind, but they're still difficult to grasp. The name of her source. At long last I understand why everyone has believed without any reservations. At one time we would have called each other best friend, but that time is long past. We both know it, but we've cloaked the widening chasm between us well enough that no one questions our broken friendship. Until now I've never doubted this decision to cling to the shell of a hollow friend. At some point in the future I had hoped that our friendship would somehow become genuine again, but now I know that it never will. This time he has struck me as no one else could have, and he knows it. His motives are unnaturally sinister. 

The pen with which I had written my second apology is still resting in my pocket. Twirling it around my thumb, I consider everything lost and each possible course of action. 

"Hey."

Looking up, I see him standing behind me. The friend who has started so many rumors about me but whom I have continually forgiven until today. "Yeah?"

He smiles at me skeptically, "You just finishing lunch?"

Standing up, hands void of any evidence of food, I look him in the eye. His eyes long to search my face for the source of my uncharacteristically delayed response, but I hold his gaze. The sunlight reflects off his scalp through spiked hair. In the bright light of midday his ears always take on a transparently reddish hue. Those ears were once entrusted with my every thought, but can never again be trusted. "Oh, yeah."

Taking a step toward me, he looks up and down the empty street. "You just ate out here by yourself?"

My stomach lurches emptily as I sit back down on the warm steps. Nodding my head, I say, "Yeah. Sit down. It's a nice day."

Walking down the steps, he turns to look at me. "Nah, I have to go." After walking a few more feet, he glances back innocently and asks, "I'll see you later, yeah?"

I force a smirk and say, "You bet. Buddy."

The Stairway Away

The man struggles against his captors as they drag him up the stairs. I can't help but cringe as his body thumps like a sack of potatoes against each step. I do nothing just like everyone else. As soon as his feet disappear around the marble corner the world regains its natural motion. The bearded man next to me buries his nose back in a newspaper as a woman ushers her children back through the sliding doors. I instinctively follow, stepping in just moments before the doors slam shut. I look back at the now-occupied bench where the man had lain only minutes before.
Stepping onto the metro 15 minutes ago I hadn't immediately noticed the shoddily dressed man lying on one of the benches. The metro hasn't been as crowded today as I've seen it in the past. Everyone to my right is looking in one direction with palpable contempt etched onto their pale faces. I step closer to two men, both donning similar styles of mullet. I see the target of everyone's brooding; there's a man taking up an entire bench to himself. His beard is thin and graying. The brown beanie atop his head is a few shades darker than his muddy coat. He's cradling his head in the crook of his right arm while his left arm is dangling toward the floor. It's easy to visualize the empty vodka bottle beneath his fingertips that has since rolled away.
I wonder why no one has said anything to him as I silently retain my distance. The whine of the wheels drops an octave, signifying an approaching stop. When the doors slowly pry themselves open the sound of a whistle immediately draws everyone's eyes out into the underground hall. Those of us by the gaping doors rush outward in tandem like a rehearsed flock of birds. Running past me in a camouflage blur, the policemen stomp onto the train as those still aboard back away. Without a word, one of the policemen begins kicking the slumbering man furiously. Sitting up slowly in shocked inebriation, the man is grabbed from behind by the second policeman and pulled brutally off the bench and out of the train.
Watching the one-sided scuffle taking place only a few feet away, I backed away toward the old man and his newspaper. The complete silence of the metro is broken by Travis' voice, "That was weird."
I glance over my shoulder to face him. Keeping my voice down to avoid unwanted attention, I reply, "Yeah, it was."
Turning away, another train flies swiftly by. The others' faceless images stream along like colorful shadows inside the light of the other train. I'm sure that we appear the same to all of them.

Finding Fruit in Philadelphia

The spongy padding of the stroller's handle feels awkwardly foreign in my hands. A girl wearing a green sweater and a long ponytail smiles gently at me while I handle a few tangerines across the aisle from her. I can read the underlying traces of friendliness in her smile, but I avert my eyes with a feeling of alienation. I do not belong in this world of strollers and cheery toddlers. My brother and his wife had asked me if I could handle Evey for a few minutes on my own, and without a second thought I had lavished them with my assuring response. 

I bow in front of the stroller in order to talk a bit with Evey as her parents walk off. She smiles silently in return. I'm glad that we're both confident in my skills. Standing back up, I begin to think about the fact that I've never so much as babysat, let alone tended a child in public. Not to say that I can't handle a few minutes with a three year old, but I feel oddly as if I'm treading onto our rival's football field back during a high school game. I know that I've been invited, but I still don't feel at home.

Having finished with the tangerine, I push the stroller along the aisle. I love big cities and their big open-air markets. Well, at least open-air in name. This market stretches out across the entire bottom story of this skyscraper. It's much cleaner than a similar one that I wandered into last year in Los Angeles with my younger brother. The right wheel of the stroller scrapes smoothly along the wooden crates containing vast quantities of fruit. Its axel somehow manages to avoid getting jammed in any gaps. The signs attached to the crates advertise some remarkably good prices. Mandarin oranges, ten for a dollar? I consider grabbing a few handfuls, but the distance between myself and the plastic sacks on the far wall is enough to dissuade me. 

Approaching the end of the aisle, a round-faced Latino man sees me coming and sidesteps in order to give me room to pass. I take a lot of pleasure in this sense of empowerment. I've assumed a new identity, and now I command a new respect. I begin walking down on the opposite side of the aisle, inspecting the same fruit but from a different angle. 

Having discovered for myself that these fruit are still not interesting, even from another side, I start skating along the ice-cold concrete toward the pastry and candy section with stroller still in hand. These prices are much less reasonable; although the fudge is still particularly tantalizing. 

"Ah, she's adorable," says an elderly woman who catches me in one spot still eying the fudge.

Caught off guard, all I manage to utter is, "Oh, thanks," while thinking, "Yeah, damn right she is."

The old woman is still grinning at Evey as her husband drags her off toward the baker. I suddenly remember that Evey and I will be difficult to find unless we return to the fruit section, so I hang up my imaginary skates and push the stroller responsibly back to my spot near the tangerines just as Jenny arrives.

"No problems?"

"Nope, none at all."

So far and yet so close

The energy of this event is surprisingly dynamic. People are clinging to the oak on my left like flies on a discarded corndog. More are trying in futility to mount the lowest overcrowded branch. Of course. The crowd at the base of the stage is going nuts and trying to create some semblance of a mosh pit. Why must every concert have a mosh pit in order to be a success in the fans' eyes? This phenomenon baffles me all the more when the band is of a thoroughly non-mosh-pit-inducing genre, such as tonight. The moshers are yelling to other members of the crowd in order to perpetuate their ardor, but we in the estranged outer rim keep our eyes averted toward the stage. 

Someone tugs on my shoulder. Expecting to see Jordan standing behind me in his brown hat, I instead come face-to-face with a diminutive red-headed giggling girl and her rotund friend. 

"Can I sit on your shoulders?"

"What?"

"I can't see from here, so can I sit on your shoulders?"

Considering telling her that she should be using "may" instead of "can," I figure that I'll just agree instead. I highly doubt that anything will come of it, even after I say yes.

"Sure."

"Really?"

"Yeah, sure."

I turn back toward the stage, not expecting to hear another word from my ginger friend. And I don't. Well, at least no more words directed toward me. I still hear her talking ecstatically with her portly partner, but she seems to be completely content with having had the guts to have asked me, regardless of follow up. I can't help but be pleasantly pleased with myself as I smirk another few minutes away. 

A few more songs and I find myself shifting my weight from one foot to the other more and more frequently. I'm trying to enjoy this, but three songs of this an hour ago had me satisfied. The rest of my friends, apart from Jordan, seem to be having a ball. I used to have my eyes fixed on the back of their heads, but it's a lost cause now. I'll just have to find them afterward. 

Again, someone is pulling at my shoulder, but this time on my left. I turn my head to find puckered lips perilously close to my own and closing in quickly. 

"Whoa! What are you doing?"

I can smell the alcohol on her breath as she protests to my rejection, "I was just trying to obey your shirt..."

My Kiss Me I'm Irish t-shirt wasn't supposed to be quite this potent. Sure, I had hoped for some potency, but not from the drunken chick now staggering away toward the oak. 

Jordan luckily hasn't noticed my less-than-venerable encounter as he yells at me over the head of a stoner and his girlfriend. "Dude, I found the others!"

I don't really care at this point, but I cast him a questioning shrug anyway, as if to ask where. He waves me over. I tell him I'd rather stay put. I see the others now through the crowd. They're trying to convince me through their gestures that I should reconvene as well. I really don't want to go over there, so I scream to them that it's too far. The stoner's girlfriend swings around to ask me if I know them. 

"Yeah, I do."

"They want you to get over there!"

I insist that it's not important, but she insists that it is.

"No, I'm fine here..." But she's already abandoned her stoned boyfriend and is guiding me by the hand through the crowd. Her grip is surprisingly firm - probably from escorting her boyfriend safely across streets. I have no choice but to follow like a good boy. I should be grateful; the crowd is parting as easily as the Red Sea for my beautiful tour guide. Getting through on my own would have resembled a trout swimming upstream. 

Finally, when only three girls stand between me and my cohorts, she relinquishes her grip, smiles at me genuinely, and commences her return journey. 

Being so close to my forcefully designated destination, I try to make the final few steps. 

"Stop."

"Huh?"

There's a curly-haired girl glaring at me in the face from behind her thick glasses. Her freckles show through even in this dim light. "Stop. I'm sick of assholes like you cutting."

I'm surprised to have finally found such resistance in so unexpected a form. Naturally, I ignore her and press onward. She pushes me back violently, "I will kick your ass if you try to cut through again."

This is obviously a hollow threat, but I'm still taken aback. I pity this girl; she's a die-hard fan of this band and is finally fed up with getting pushed farther and farther back from her pathetic idols up on stage. 

I throw my hands up in mock surrender and say, "Relax. I really don't care that much." 

And really, I don't.

Follow the Ringleader

The loud screech of tires on the runway persuades me to lift my eyes from the book in my lap. I hadn't noticed that we were descending so quickly. But a few minutes ago I was viewing the white expanse below through the window. The woman next to me shuts her book with a thud and whispers something in her daughter's ear. The Girl Who Played with Fire. I haven't read that one yet. Pretending to look out the aerial porthole again, I shift my eyes toward my neighbor and her daughter. The daughter is fairly young; no older than 25, and her ringless finger attests to her general lack of spouse. Her mother, by contrast, is wearing a rather wide and fully diamond-adorned ring. It's no wonder that she's lugging around the jacketed hardcover edition of Stieg Larsson's novel. I disallow my eyes to loiter too long in their direction and look away. The image of her daughter, still curled up against the plane's walls, lingers in my mind. She has been sitting like that for at least four hours. Awake, I'm sure she's feeling cramped.
The spinning of the wheels reverberates through the cabin. The sound reminds me of when I would ride the old red wagon down the hill in front of my house. Every rotation of the wheels seems to be audible, right now and back then. Finally having found time, I lower my gaze back down to my book. I turn the page, seeing that the end of the chapter lies there. I turn it back determined to reach this chapter's end before the seatbelt light loses its orange glow.
Ping, and everyone stands up reaching for their luggage. I'm over 15 rows back and have no hope of exiting within the next five minutes, but the temptation to stand is too great. People begin hurriedly pulling their bags from the overhead compartments. As if they'll be able to escape any more quickly. I watch them carefully as I pull my backpack from under the seat and place each strap over a shoulder.
"Excuse me?"
My frame of thought broken, I glance toward the speaker and find the ringed woman next to whom I had been sitting for hours. "Yeah?"
"Do you see a black jacket there in the overhead?"
"Let me see," I casually tell her while glancing upward. I don't see it, but I hadn't expected to see it immediately. Having boarded first, I had watched where she laid it in the overhead. There's a camouflage bag where it had originally lain. I shove the bag aside and see her black jacket behind, crumpled against the rear of the compartment.
Yanking it out, I hand it to her. "Yeah. Here you go."
"Thank you."
"Yep."
She slides each arm into its sleeve and turns back toward her daughter. She has been sick, so her mother is inquiring as to her health. Her purse now rests in my former seat, so I lean into the chair in front of me.
As expected, each man and woman walks out as the narrow corridor vacates before them. Grabbing my black leather bag, I hold it perpendicularly before myself as I walk down the aisle; it knocking against my knees with each waddling step.
Out in the concourse, my brother fails to answer his phone. Preoccupying myself at the airport's Burger King, I stand behind its fabric railing determining whether or not I'm hungry enough to pay for a meal. While contemplating #3 I feel a tap on my left shoulder.
Turning, a middle-aged man is handing me something telling me that it's free. He walks off before I can request clarification, and looking into my hand I see a voucher of sorts. It's good for one free meal.
"It will work. Any restaurant here in the airport will accept it."
Turning back around, a jumpsuit-clad janitor is casting me a reassuring smile. "Really."