Jasper and the Goldfish

My first serious job was working for the real estate loan center of a major bank. I worked in the records department, which housed the real estate loans for the entire state. Basically it was a small library and our customers were other bank employees who only stopped by our little whole in the wall when they needed to borrow a loan file.

We were the stepchildren no one wanted. No budget. Few supplies. My boss did not even qualify for a secretary so I had to teach myself how to type so we could produce timesheets and memos in a somewhat professional manner. In order to make our working conditions bearable we used to make after hour raids to other departments to "borrow" equipment. Unused office chairs, a typewriter, filing cabinets and our biggest "find" a section of new carpet.

However, no matter how much we improved our work area the other units still looked down their collective noses at us. So being nineteen years old and not knowing any better I made it my life's mission to crack the façade our customers insisted on maintaining when they visited our little corner of paradise.

I was always somewhat of a smart ass in those days, for that matter I probably still am. So slowly but surely I began to tweak the nose of the establishment.

I began by posting simple comic strips or jokes on the "For Business Uses Only" bulletin board just inside our office door. Just as soon as some bigwig would remove them I would repost the same ones. This went on for a quite a bit until I wore the person down and they gave up. At that point others began posting items and pretty soon no business could be found on the business only bulletin board.

Next step was introducing Hawaiian shirts to the white shirt black pant aliens who at some point in the past must have taken over the banking world. Normal people do not dress like bankers did at that time. Technically our department had to do a lot of lifting and boxing so we could get away with dressing down. Therefore I began wearing Hawaiian shirts, first at random intervals during the summer. Then as it became more accepted the shirts became my badge of honor and I was rarely seen without one. Now I am not claiming that everyone began dressing down but it became more commonplace to see shirts that were not plain, ordinary, garden-variety white.

The final step in well thought out plan of confusion was to mess with their heads. I began leaving one corner of our counter clear of clutter at all times. If someone began to set something down in that spot I would ask to move his or her files to another location. It took longer than I expected but someone finally asked me why?

I looked at them for a moment like they were nuts and than explained it would not do for their files to knock over my goldfish bowl. The questioner shook their head and walked away. More people began asking and I explained about my two goldfish that I kept on the counter for beautification purposes.

Surprisingly before long people began leaving that space clear of clutter without prompting. Some would even ask me how the goldfish were doing. They were taking baby steps but our customers were beginning to lighten up and realize that banking did not mean you had to leave your sense of humor at home.

Before long I grew bored of the goldfish so I had to change the rules again. One morning I placed a pile of files where the "fish bowl" had been located. Again it took awhile but one of my regulars asked me where I had moved the fish? Doing my best to remain somber I informed them that the janitorial crew, in a horrible accident, had knocked over the goldfish bowl and they had flopped their last before I had come in that morning. All day our customers were asking about the accident and when I would replace the fish. No more fish I would say, they are too hard to protect from random accidents.

About a month later we received some new equipment and a large shipment of loans from another bank. So I reached into my bag of tricks and messed with the masses one more time.

One morning I inquired of one my regulars if they had met Jasper. They told me they had not had the pleasure and asked if he was a new employee. In a sense, he was new, but not an employee. I told them that Jasper was my invisible monkey and I left him in the office after hours so no one would walk off with our new equipment. Again it took a while but pretty soon most everyone was talking about Jasper. If something was moved from its normal location, Jasper did it. If a file was missing he misfiled it. Just to keep the stuffed shirts guessing every once in awhile I would send Jasper on a trip to Africa to visit his relatives.

But alas all good things must come to an end. My immediate supervisor received a promotion and I was moved up into his position. I sent Jasper home to find himself a bride and I had to become a bit more of a conformist than I would have liked. Though I did manage to keep the masses on their toes and my Hawaiian shirts on my back.

scream

he roamed the outer fringes of sanity. preparing to protect his soul from the coming darkness. his weapons were few. aluminum foil, duct tape and a collection of barry manilow cd's.

he remembered nights spent at the copacabana with a blue-eyed beauty who had once shared a dance with him.

or had they shared matching straight jackets in the waiting room at Las Encinas. he did not know for his memory had been scrubbed clean with electric sandpaper in a room benignly labeled "utility closet" by a suit with a misguided sense of irony.

despite the wattage voices continued to call out "marco polo" as he blindly searched the emptiness for a moment's peace. beyond the horizon of what he once called reality little green gremlins chased away the sandman. leaving him to contemplate four white walls and a door less closet. where his sanity had been pressed and hung. useless armor against the sharpened needles; which promised a new tomorrow grasped in the gloved hands of doctors who promised sustenance. but he knew better. bitter experience had prepared him for the truth. behind the surgical masks were renaissance clowns laughing manically.

and he screamed

The Sock Monkey and The Robot

When I was three months old I received a Sock Monkey as a gift. Most likely it was my very first Christmas present. Some children have pacifiers. Some have security blankets. I had monkey. He went everywhere I went and he did everything I did. If I had to visit the doctor for a check up or vaccination monkey had to come along. When the doctor examined me I would insist that he examine monkey to. If I received a shot so did he.

As two turned into three and three into four my mother was sure some new toy would replace that monkey. She grew tired of washing him after a day or two of being drug threw the dirt by me. However, no matter what new gift I received monkey remained my one true love.

Then it happened, Christmas 1965, I stumbled sleepily into the living room wondering what magic Santa had performed the night before. The stockings were overflowing with knick-knacks but my young eyes had already zeroed in on the gift of all gifts.

Between the fireplace and the Christmas tree stood a three-foot tall robot. It was love at first sight. I was struck dumb. I slowly approached the robot with a mixture of awe and trepidation. I reached out a trembling hand and touched its arm. My mother reached behind the robots head and flipped a switch and it slowly began to roll forward. Its eyes flashed red and a rumble came from deep within its chest. At the push of another button its right arm raised and fired plastic missiles. Another button and the left arm raised and fired ping-pong balls.

I was so lost in playing with my robot that I do not to this day remember opening any other presents. I am sure I did but I have no idea what they were or what I did with them. That afternoon my best friend M. came over to compare gifts like kids are prone to do. When I saw him approaching, I took robot to greet him. The first thing M. saw when I opened the door was robots red flashing eyes as it rolled toward the door. He took one look at robot and ran screaming for his mother. From that day forward M. would not enter the house unless I assured him that robot was locked in the closet.

So my mother aided by Santa finally found a gift that came to mean as much to me as monkey. The battle wasn't over though. She kept insisting that now that my brother was two years old I should pass monkey on to him. Was she kidding if I gave monkey to my brother he would not last a month. I pleaded and I begged but my mother finally insisted and took monkey from me and gave him to my brother.

I was wrong about how long monkey would last in his hands, I predicted one month but monkey lasted three. One winter's day he left him outside and that night it rained cats and dogs. By morning monkey was no more.

For close to forty years I refused to let my mother forget her role in the destruction of sock monkey. Finally, she grew so sick of hearing me moan, groan and complain that she presented me with a new monkey for my fortieth birthday. One she made with her own two hands. Don't tell old monkey but I think like new monkey best.

As for robot his fate is unknown. I played with him for several years before he was relegated to the back of the closet with the other forgotten toys. For some reason to this day when I think of him I see cracked and tattered robot on top of a rubbish heap with single red tear glistening on a plastic cheek.

A Gift That Saved My Life

Final paragraph of "The Gift" posted on April 22, 2004

In the fourteen years since I have only removed it for x-rays and surgeries. Also I can honestly say that this gold chain once saved my life but that is a tale for another day.

It was Thanksgiving Eve and I was on disability from my then employer due to recent knee surgery. Nothing major, just a scope to clean out some old debris. However, it was my third surgery on the same knee and my rehab was taking longer than planned. My range of movement and flexibility resembled the movements of a mime doing the old trapped in the box routine. My doctor had me in physical therapy four days a week and he also recommended a daily bike ride.

At the time I was living in North Hollywood so there were plenty of place to explore on my rehab rides. I spent most of my time riding in and around Griffith Park. For those of you who are not familiar with the Los Angeles area, Griffith Park is a huge tract of land left to the city on the condition that the land be preserved as is for future generations. Which for the most part it has.

On this particular ride I changed my normal routine and rode to my favorite use bookstore: The Iliad. A great place to browse with several overstuffed couches and books to suit every readers taste. A quick aside The Iliad just happens to be located adjacent to The Odyssey Video Store.

Upon finishing my browsing I hobbled out to my bike and began the ride home. Now in hindsight the following incident would most probably have been avoided if it wasn't rush hour and if I had chosen to ride with the traffic instead of against it.

I had ridden maybe two blocks stopping at each side street before crossing without problem. I came to the third block stopped and saw a car waiting to turn into traffic. Since traffic was heavy I assumed she would be awhile and left the curb. Unfortunately the driver of the car decided that the very small gap she saw was large enough for her to force her way into traffic. She accelerated and never even saw me.

Her car hit me broad side. My bike and I slid under the car and my tender skull seemed to be destined for a rather painful introduction to her right front tire. I closed my eyes and did my best to prepare for what I assumed to be imminent impact. Suddenly instead of sliding my entire body was jerked to a stop. I opened my eyes and her tire was coming to a stop well short of my skull. For a moment or two I just kind of laid there in a daze. As I began to pull myself together I realized that I had never hit the ground. It seems that my gold chain and crucifix had caught on the bumper and prevented my head from becoming a pancake.

When it was all said and done I walked away without any major injuries, just a sprained shoulder, a burn on my neck from the chain and various bumps and bruises.

The next day when I arrived at my mom's for Thanksgiving dinner I gave her a big hug and a kiss and thanked her for helping to save my life.

Baseball Cards

In 1969 my family moved away from the neighborhood in which I had spent most of my young life. The move was accomplished rather quickly leaving us less than a day to say good-by to all of our friends.

My best friend was a few years older than me. Our age differences really did not matter because we had so much in common. Especially our undying devotion to baseball and the Los Angeles Dodgers. Not a day went by that didn't include baseball somewhere on our agenda.

When I visited his house for the last time he presented me with a cardboard box full of baseball cards. We both had been collecting baseball cards for several years but my collection was a mere shadow of his. At first I refused to believe him but soon enough he had me convinced that he sincerely wanted me to have them.

In today's market the cards he had given me were worth several thousand dollars. We had no idea that these pieces of cardboard, smelling like bubble gum would someday be valuable. In 1969 a baseball card was something you either swapped with your friends or stuck between the spokes on your bicycle.

The collection I inherited from him represented some of the best to play the game in the 50's and the 60's. Over the next few years I continued to add to the collection. As each new baseball season began I would take my allowance money and buy as many packages of cards as I could afford.

By 1974 my collection contained well over three thousand cards but my enthusiasm for my chosen hobby had begun to wane. I still followed the Dodger's but the cards were boxed up and put away in the garage.

Several months passed without me giving my collection a second thought. One afternoon my brother and I had an argument, just a sibling shouting match nothing more. To this day I do not remember what we were arguing about. Whatever it was really ticked him off and he promised that he would pay me back. I never gave it a second thought but he must have given it a third and fourth thought because he did get his revenge.

We had a small hill in our back yard covered in shrubs and trees. A few weeks after our argument I was hiking about the hill when I stumbled upon a familiar looking box, soaking wet and covered in mildew. I removed the lid and there was my baseball card collection. The cards were damaged beyond repair.

When confronted my brother had completely forgotten that he had hidden the cards. He had assumed that I would notice the next day that they were missing. He had no idea that they had become part of my past.

The Gift

My mother has gift buying down to a science. She asks me what I want for my birthday or Christmas and than she buys it. Even though I know what the gift is she insists on wrapping it and presenting it to me on the special day.

Only once in the past twenty-five years has she broken with tradition and the gift I received means more to me than all of the others combined.

To understand its value a little background is necessary. My mother is not a religious woman. She was baptized and raised a Catholic. She took her first communion and was confirmed when she was in eighth grade. My father and her were married in the church and she continued to attend mass on a regular basis. That is until she divorced my father and was told she was no longer allowed to take communion. She attempted to explain that my father was an alcoholic and an unfit parent. Her arguments fell on deaf ears. The church "graciously" allowed her to attend mass but she was banned from participation. My mother chose to no longer attend mass.

On the other hand she baptized the three of us and sent us to Catholic school. She would drop us off at mass each Sunday and pick us up when the service was over. However the only time she would enter a church was on special occasions: baptisms, first communions, confirmations, weddings and funerals. Like I said by no means could you describe her as being religious.

As I grew older I began to question my beliefs and my spiritual journey has taken me down many different paths. I continued to attend mass with my grandmother more out of tradition than faith. I never disowned the church like my mother but I never developed the blind faith of my grandmother. For me religion was something to be explored not accepted at face value.

That being said, about fourteen years ago I began wearing a silver chain with an old crucifix on it. I no longer remember the reason. It may have been a gift from a girlfriend or just something I picked up. Over time the chain became tarnished and the crucifix began to look that it had survived the two millennia since Christ's birth.

The Christmas season arrived and I had presented my mother with my usual list.

Christmas day arrived and with it the usual family festivities. I gave my mom and stepfather their gifts and my mom presented me with a very small box. I was stumped, confused, bamboozled and speechless. My mother had broken with tradition. I knew that none of the gifts on my list would fit in such a small box consequently I had no idea what was in the box I was holding. I must have sat there for five minutes trying to unravel the mystery of what could be in the package.

My wits finally returned and I opened the present. The wrapping paper had been covering a box that resembled the type that rings come in. I knew it wasn't a ring so I was still confused. When I finally managed to get my fingers working again and opened the box I was stunned.

Inside was a fourteen caret gold crucifix and chain. My mother the affirmed agnostic had purchased a crucifix for me. My mother is not one to show emotions but when she saw the joy on my face I could swear I saw a tear or two in her eye. As I thanked her she tried to hide her feelings by explaining that she only bought it because she was tired of seeing the old one around my neck. I removed my old crucifix and chain and replaced it with the new one.

In the fourteen years since I have only removed it for x-rays and surgeries. Also, I can honestly say that this gold chain once saved my life but that is a tale for another day.

Dancing with Danger

Summer 1978: My mom was asleep on the couch she always fell asleep on the couch especially on Saturday nights when my stepfather was tending bar. I was watching the late movie. Knowing my taste it was probably a campy horror movie from the fifties.

I was lost in the movie when my stepfather walked into the room. It was all I could do to keep from screaming the whole front of his shirt and face were covered in blood. My first thought was that their had been trouble at the wedding he was working. Every once in awhile a fight would break out or someone would get stabbed. My mother always worried that something would happen to him while working a wedding. As I stared in shock at his appearance I thought to myself my mom was right to worry.

I scrambled to wake up my mother. She was always a heavy sleeper but when I explained that something had happened to Jay (my step dad) she snapped out of her dream world in a flash.

She jumped from the couch and ran to him, she grabbed him by the arms and searched his torso for some type of wound. It was than he explained to us that nothing had happened at the wedding. He had fallen asleep at the wheel driving home and missed the last turn before our street running into a tree. My mother than noticed the hole in his lip he had bit it right through. The amount of blood was due to the blood thinners he took for his bad heart.

The first order of business was to take him to the hospital but someone needed to stay with the car and talk to the police. That of course became my job. Just as we left our house we saw a patrol car slowly making its way up our street with a searchlight. It was fairly obvious that they were looking for the person or persons involved in the accident. My mom explained to them that she was taking Jay to the hospital and that he would answer all their questions there. She dropped me off at the accident scene and went on her way.

My step dad's car was a brand new white Cadillac with red leather upholstery. Not any more. The car had run head on into an old oak tree. It was totaled. The oak tree was barely damaged. From the cars appearance my stepfather was lucky to walk away with as few injuries as he did. The police officers remained at the scene with me for a few moments and asked my for Jay's basic info. They called a tow truck and informed me that it would probably be a half hour before one made it to my location. I thanked them and they headed to the hospital to complete their report.

As for me, I sat on the hood of the car and waited for the tow truck to arrive. It was chilly and I was only wearing a t-shirt. I began walking around the car to stay warm. Of course I would jump at every branch creak or owl hoot. Wondering what danger might be lurking around the corner. As it turned out I did not have long to wait.

After about ten minutes a car pulled up and a man got out. I had never believed in a sixth sense before but my senses began buzzing the moment I laid eyes on him. The weird part was that he did not look like trouble. He was dressed in jeans and a long sleeve shirt, tennis shoes and he was clean-shaven. His eyes though were like looking into an abyss. Before he spoke a word I knew that if I were to go off with him someplace I would never return.
As he approached the car I kept moving keeping my distance from him. He asked me if I was OK and I explained that my stepfather had been the driver and that he was at the hospital. I told the police and the tow truck driver would be here any minute to make their report and to tow the car.

He told me that I looked awfully cold and asked if I wanted to wait in his car. I explained that I wasn't cold just nervous and worried about my step dad. Yet again he offered me a seat in his car and again I turned him down. By now I was thinking to myself where in the hell is the tow truck, he better not be on a coffee break or something.

As much as I tried to keep a distance between us he kept slowly closing it without being obvious. He began talking about how hungry he was and asked me if I wanted to go with him to breakfast after the tow truck came. No, I don't think so I'm not hungry and I am to worried about my step dad. He would not take no for an answer. He kept on trying to convince me to go with him and I kept walking away and praying for someone, anyone to drive by.

The more he hung around the more my senses told me that my very existence was in danger. I knew I did not have much longer before he made a move and I began planning my response. Just than and not a moment to soon the tow truck driver arrived. Not just any driver but someone who was probably 220 pounds all muscle. My lurker took one look at him and knew that he had no chance. He made one last halfhearted effort to convince me to leave with him and when I turned him down he left.

Not knowing if he was really gone or lurking around the corner I chatted up the driver and asked him if he could give me a ride home. It was not far but I was not about to walk it alone. However, my request proved unnecessary just as he finished hooking up the car my parents returned from the ER. I was never more thankful to see them in my life.

To this day I have wondered about that guy. In the 70's no one really talked about serial killers and other horrors. Knowing what I know now I am convinced that he was one and that I was very lucky to get away with my life.

Medal of Tears

My body was found today
Pulled from beneath the Golden Gate
By the coroner and a cop or two
They laid me out on a plastic sheet
Searched my body for some ID
Came across my old leather wallet
Empty, but for two pictures
Of people I never forgot
One was of my old platoon
Men who died in Vietnam
The other was of my girl
Who left before I came home
In another pocket, they found a rusty medal
Someone cried "My God, he was a hero"
I had won the medal of honor
But still I died alone

People gathered to watch the scene
Talking amongst themselves
Speculating on what might have been
What had brought me to this place
In Vietnam I was a man in charge
Of men and million dollar machines
Living through days of horror
Doing things I still can't believe
I did it all for my country
I did it all for God
When I came home there was no parade
I could not find a job
And no matter how I searched
Happiness could not be found
Even when I was stoned
No peace of mind could be found
Tormented my so many memories
Of children screaming in the dark
I keep seeing old men
Hanging in the park
I still remember the dying screams
Of both Americans and the Viet Cong
Somehow I knew even then
This war just had to be wrong

Stateside doctors tried to help me
Diagnosing me with post traumatic stress
They gave me lots of little colored pills
But nothing seemed to work
Finally the voices have grown to loud
My mind has found no peace
So many lives I have ended
Will this nightmare never cease
I know the Japanese understood
Their warriors died with honor

So the Golden Gate was my sword
And I died the death of a samurai

Drive In Memories

Three kids in feet pajamas. Bouncing with excitement in the back seat of the Rambler station wagon. The youngest has blue pajamas with yellow duckies. The middle child is wearing pink pajamas covered in Barbie dolls. The oldest, his nose buried in book about the Alamo, has pajamas with Cowboys and Indians chasing each other across the material.

A brown grocery store bag fails to contain the aroma of freshly popped popcorn, covered in real butter. The scent of the popcorn dances with the smell of freshly grilled burgers from the local mom and pop. Four wax cups, covered in moisture, hold the sweet taste of coke and a promise to wash down all of the good eats.

The car pulls up beneath the marquee. A large neon sign lights up the evening sky announcing to the local population that this is the Big Sky Drive-In. Four tickets are purchased. What movies are playing? It doesn't really matter it is Saturday and it is family night out.

A speaker is hung from the window of the families Rambler. An argument develops over which of the children gets to share the front seat with the mother. The oldest wins out and clambers over the seat. Elbows and chin on the dashboard he leans forward in anticipation waiting for the entertainment to begin. Before long the sound of previews and cartoon shorts can be heard through out the car. The movie begins and like magic the children fall into awed silence as they lose themselves in the action on the screen.

When the movie is over intermission begins which is every kid's favorite part of the evening. Car doors can be heard opening and slamming shut through out the drive in as kids of all age's race for the playground which stands beneath the big screen. Like the children in the Rambler most of the kids are in their pajamas. Soon the swings are full and a rowdy line has formed behind the slide. Not a parent can be found as the children enjoy a few moments of magic beneath the stars.

It seems that just a soon as the intermission began its over. The lights in the drive in blink off and on a few times and the kids abandon the playground in search of their family's car. Doors open and slam shut again and the sounds of the second feature begin.

In the Rambler everyone but the oldest boy falls asleep before the movie is half over. It happens every time the visit the drive in. He doesn't mind he is lost in the adventure on the screen. If the first movie was good enough he will sit through it again before he wakes up his mother to drive them home.

The Hidden Dangers of Ding-Dong Ditch

Fall 1974: I was attempting for what felt like the 13th time to fight my way through the second chapter of my high school algebra book. I was not then nor am I now a math person. I hate math. I am math phobic. You get the picture. So as I struggled to make sense out of algebra the doorbell rang. I put down my book and went to open the door. No one was there.

Great.

I returned to my studies and just as I was finding a little glimmer of understanding buried in my sub conscious the doorbell rang again. Bam, just like that my breakthrough disappeared. I went to the door and once again no one was there.

Just what a struggling math student needs, an uninvited practical joker. I thought about surprising my prankster but my math book was calling out to me and I really needed to get a handle on today's assignment.

My butt had barely touched the chair when the bell rang for a third time. I flew to the window and barely caught a glimpse of my neighbor SD running around the corner of the house. Mystery solved, I now knew who my joker was. SD was on of the more annoying kids on the block. Once he began a round of ding-dong ditch he rarely stopped until he had ramped the annoyance level to new highs.

Knowing his habits I decided that math could wait and that it was time to teach him a lesson. So I stood by the front door waiting for the next ring of the bell. I did not have to wait long. Not more than a minute had passed before the bell rang again. SD was so predictable. I flung open the door, SD through me a surprised glance and sprinted up the street toward his house. I flew out the door knowing I would have no problems catching him.

Big mistake.

Unbeknownst to me my little brother had left his skateboard on the front porch. I took one step out the door and my foot hit the skateboard and I flew up into the air like an extra from an old keystone kops movie. The flying was great it was my landing that was the problem.

There was a shrub next to our porch that had been planted by the previous owners. For support he had wire an iron bar to the plant. I fell into the plant and the bar went through my left armpit. I lay there in shock for a short moment then gently raised myself off of the bar. At this point my anger at SD dissipated and my concern turned towards my own well being. I was not bleeding to badly but it hurt like hell.

I called my mother at work and she came home to take me to the ER. After a tetanus shot and a few stitches I was as good as new. However the doctor did mention in passing that I was a very lucky young man. It seems that the bar basically scraped without damaging a main artery. If the artery had torn I would have bled out before the ambulance or my mother could have made it to the house.

So beware even a seemingly innocent game like ding-dong ditch can have insidious consequences.

Focus

As I sit here keyboard in hand, I am having difficulty keeping my imagination on its leash. For some reason every nook and cranny of the brain has become open game for exploration. While I am attempting to focus on one topic my mind is playing keep away with my creativity preventing me from putting together a coherent and readable piece.

It all began yesterday. I was anticipating spending all or at least part of the afternoon writing. As usual when it comes to the best-laid plans every time I attempted to sit and create the phone would ring or someone would come to the door. I found it impossible to keep my butt planted in the chair long enough to link two sentences together.

Finally around eleven PM I found myself free from obligations and distraction but to no avail. The muse had put on her best party dress and blew this dive for a night on the town with a few nouns and verbs. My reaction good for her and I spent an hour stubbornly planted in front of my keyboard pounding out one bland sentence after another. Realizing that I was only creating more stomach acid than witty prose I went to bed a somewhat frustrated artist. I figured tomorrow would be better.

Wrong. Here I sit in front of the same computer with no creative energy to be found. My muse is still hung over and the nouns and verbs found themselves in a fistfight over whom she liked better.

My only choice at this point is to refrain from pounding my head on my desk in frustration and hope tomorrow brings my writing world into crisper focus.

Pride

My maternal grandfather contracted emphysema after a lifetime of smoking. He was in his mid sixties and the doctors told him that while there was no cure, quitting smoking would without a doubt increase the length and quality of the time he had remaining.

Upon his return from the doctor he vowed to follow the doctors suggestion and attempt to eliminate smoking from his life. He boxed up his ashtrays and his lighter placing them in a far corner of the garage. Not knowing if he could resist temptation he asked my grandmother to go through the house and throw away any cigarettes she found. She had no problem with that as she had been after him to quit for years. Nana was nurse at the City of Hope and dealt with cigarette-damaged lungs on a daily basis.

Grandpa made good on his promise for almost a year. His lungs while still damaged began to function more efficiently. For him the biggest surprise was the return of his taste buds. For years he had been over seasoning his food because he could not longer taste it. After a few months away from tobacco he was able to once again distinguish flavors. His appetite improved and he actually put on a few pounds.

Than one evening disaster struck. While watching television some type of short circuit occurred and set caught fire. My grandfather's strength had yet to completely return and he could only manage one small pan filled with water at a time. While he was able to douse the flames before the fire departments arrival, he was not able to accept how weak he had become. His pride was shattered and that was the beginning of the end.

The next morning he went to the corner market and purchased a carton of cigarettes. When he returned home he sat at his workbench and contemplated his choices. In a short time his lighter and ashtrays were removed from the box and he began smoking again. Nothing anyone could say to him could get him to quit after that.

It was not long before he required oxygen just to get out of bed in the morning. He would sit in a chair in his room breathing from the tank until he was strong enough to dress. My grandmother then took the oxygen to the living room where he sat and breathed for a half hour or so. Once he felt up to it, he would sit out on the porch and have a smoke. Than it would be back on oxygen again until he could handle another cigarette.

This is how he finished his days, oxygen and tobacco, tobacco and oxygen. Until he fell into a coma which he never woke up from.

I often wonder how much more time he would have had with us if he had been able to keep away from the tobacco. He made the effort but his pride got in the way.

Summer Scare

Summer 1972: Near where I spent my formative years was an abandoned convalescent hospital. Upon discovery it quickly became the hang out of choice for my friends and I.

Most of the buildings were two stories high and were perfect stand ins for military installations when we chose to play army. Our games were somewhat similar to capture the flag. We would divide ourselves into two teams and each team chose a building for their headquarters. The object was simple sneak past the other team and steal their flag.

One afternoon while in the middle of a battle we stumbled across a stairway that led down rather than up. Electricity was no longer fed into the building so nothing could be seen but darkness. We had no flashlights and though none of us would say it out loud we were somewhat scared of what appeared to be the basement.

For a short while the stairs were ignored and our battles continued unabated. Of course it was not long before the inevitable happened and exploring the basement became the challenge of the team who lost one of our battles.

As it happened my team lost the battle that afternoon and the three of us had to take up the dare or sneak home with our tales between our legs. Knowing we would never live it down we took our flashlights and descended into the darkness.

We explored for ten or fifteen minutes without discovering anything of real interest. The basement consisted mostly of offices and laboratories. Some old equipment and furniture was scattered about but all in all it was rather dull.

Or so we thought.

Just when we were about to return to the sunlight we found a second set of stairs that continued down into the darkness. We descended the stairs and came upon a closed door. There was a sign on the door and when the dust and the cobwebs were removed we found that it was the entrance to the morgue.

Our first instinct was to turn around but we ended up goading each other into continuing. We passed through the door and found ourselves in a long hallway. We checked several rooms and found more offices and one room that appeared to resemble an operating theater.

A sign on the wall directed us to the morgue, which was of course, the last door at the end of the hall. As we slowly moved forward it appeared that the door to the morgue was propped open. Our flashlights played along the corridor and by unspoken agreement came to rest on the floor in front of the morgue. Our silence grew so deep that you could have heard a pin drop.

We were looking at what appeared to be a white shoe, but not an abandoned shoe; no it had a foot and leg still in it. Our hearts felt like they were going to explode from our chests. We turned in unison and ran screaming from the building.

No one believed us at first, than when we had them convinced they somehow talked us into returning to the morgue with them so they could see for themselves. We made our way back down into the darkness and found the door had remained as we had left it. They saw the shoe and its contents but that was not good enough. Dares began running around the room until someone took up the challenge and went to open the door the rest of the way.

Taking two flashlights with him he approached the door. Along the way he found a discarded cane and used that to prevent himself from getting to close, just in case. He reached the door and pushed it open. Standing still as a statue he just seemed to stare for a moment and than he released an earth-shattering scream. Needing no further encouragement we broke all existing land speed records in our escape. When we had safely returned to the sunshine we fell panting to the ground.

Just as we were about to congratulate ourselves on our escape we realized we had returned one person short. Our friend who had opened the door was nowhere in site. However before we went into full panic mode he appeared laughing like there was no tomorrow. In his hand he held our "leg" which it turns out was nothing more than a prosthetic leg that someone had been left behind.

Heartbreaker

The ghost of his heart haunted her. Especially on rainy nights, when the raindrops fell through the leaves of the maple tree outside her bedroom window. Each precious drop of rain reminded her of the teardrops that had fallen from his empty eyes.

It was a blind date that had brought them together. She was cynical and her heart was more scar tissue than flesh. Battle wounds from the broken relationships she had experienced over the years. He was naïve, surprisingly so, for someone his age. His heart was his prized possession and he worshiped it the way a miser worships his gold.

That first night together they spent sitting in the sand with the warm waters of the Pacific washing over their feet. They spoke of many things some serious some nonsense. They tried to count the stars and they watched quietly as the full moon danced with the crashing surf.

Despite herself she could feel some of the scar tissue softening, healing. She wanted to believe but history made that difficult. They returned to their cars with the rising of the sun. She was sure he would ask her out for a second date and she was just as sure that she would say no. Not because she did not like him but because she was afraid of him and what he represented.

He asked and she surprised herself by saying yes. He took her number and promised to call. He drove away without even trying to kiss her good by. This had floored her. Goodnight kisses were part of the ritual, part of the dance. It also intrigued her, what kind of guy would sit and talk with you through out the night without making at least one pass.

They dated for more than a month before he had kissed her good night. He may have moved slowly but she thought to herself it was worth the wait. They spent many evenings at the beach just talking and getting to know one another.

He was falling for her hard and that scared her. She was afraid of commitment, afraid of having her heart broken one more time. She was afraid of the pain.

One summer evening found them sitting around a small campfire somewhere in the Sierra's. With the moon and the stars as witnesses he dropped to one knee and asked her to be his wife. She had know this moment was coming, had even expected it to be this weekend. In her dreams she had said yes over and over again. Now in the moment she found the word no had escaped her lips without conscious thought.

Once said a word like no in that situation cannot be taken back. She tried to explain herself but the words sounded hollow even to her. The look in his eyes scarred her heart more than any user ever could have. It was frightening because the look she saw was the same one she had seen in the mirror looking back at her every time her heart had been broken.

In unspoken agreement they packed their supplies and returned to the city. No words were exchanged for the entire three-hour drive. He left her in front of her apartment and she never heard from him again.

His heart though, his heart haunted her and spoke to her from the darkness each and every night. With each tear it cried it mocked her and reminded her that she had become what she most despised: a heartbreaker.

Tree House

When I was eleven years old my best friend and I began work on what we considered the greatest tree house in the world.

The tree we chose was oak and one of several that were located on a hill in my backyard. This particular tree had two sets of v-shaped branches one set about five feet above the other which provided a perfect foundation and perfect roof support.

At the bottom of our street was an old bridge that was being torn out and replaced. The wood from the old bridge was set aside waiting to be hauled to the dump. So we were able to "borrow" as many boards as we needed. We scrounged our nails from an old reservoir that had become a dumping ground for the neighborhoods cast offs.

Once we began building we realized that we had enough wood and the perfect branches for a two-story tree house. Each floor was about 15 foot by 10 foot. Both floors were entered via doorways near the ladder. My parents were replacing the carpet in the house so we took the scraps and had wall-to-wall carpet in our tree house. We ran extension cords from the garage for electricity and we were set with all of the comforts of home.

We hauled an old screen door up to the top of a neighboring tree and that became our look out station. From there we could see any cars approaching our little street and keep tabs on whose parents were coming home and shout a warning to them.

In another tree just up the hill we had an old board swing that allowed the rider to just clear the top of the tree house. If they were daring enough they could leap from the swing and land on the roof.

Many summer nights were spent sleeping in that tree. We would tune our old AM radio to KHJ turn down the lights and tell ghost stories until we drifted off to sleep.

When I needed to escape the real world for a while I would bring a book and lay on the roof of the house and read for hours. Usually until the sun went down or until my mother called me for supper whichever came first.

After I moved out my brother, who was five years younger, tore down the old tree house and planned on building a new one but he never got around to it. Sometimes even now I wish I could climb back in that old thing and escape for a while.

A Lock of her Hair

He sat on the steps of the church. Enjoying the solitude that only late summer can bring. He was wearing a black tuxedo, collar open, bow tie undone. His eyes looked off into the distance without really seeing.

In the chapel behind him just one short hour ago he had given away his baby girl. Dressed in white and owning more beauty than any angel in heaven could claim. He had escorted her toward her future. A single tear in his eye as he glanced to the heavens wondering if her mother was watching and if she was as proud of her as he was.

Being the only child of single father could not have been easy for her. She had never known her mother who passed away before her first birthday. He had done his best to be all things to her: father, mother, sister and brother. He had sacrificed all he could to make her life as perfect as possible.

They were both blessed to have her aunt, his sister, who guided him whenever his parental compass led him astray. He had spent many long hours on the phone with her questioning his ability to raise such a precious child. His sister had always known when to listen and when to step in and give him some firm advice.

To his daughter, his sister had been not only aunt, but also big sister and confidant. When she had reached puberty and needed that feminine guidance she had been there for her. Guiding her through the minefield of hormones and teenagers. At times he had found himself jealous of their relationship but he buried that feeling deep within. Instinctually he understood that sometimes a girl just needs her mommy or a close substitute.

He had always known the day was coming when she would come home with MR. Right on her arm. He had made the usual jokes about shotguns and what he would do to anyone who strayed to close to his daughter. Inside though he was not sure how he was going to deal with the inevitable. Sometimes late at night he would wake up in a cold sweat filled with worry. At times like this he would ask for his wife's guidance. Speaking her name in silent prayer he always felt the comfort of the love they had briefly shared. Once calmed he would tiptoe into her room and watch her sleep. Snuggled with the old ratty teddy bear that she had slept with since she was a baby. At moments like that his soul overflowed with his love for her.

The day finally came when she brought Ben home and he knew without asking that he was the one. The way she looked at him reminded him so much of how her mother had looked at him. He was resistant at first but as time passed he admitted to himself that if she had to marry Ben was the perfect one for her. She had found her soul mate.

So here he sat on the steps of the church. Gathering himself before joining the celebration at the reception. He reached into his pocket and removed a small plastic bad. Within the bag was a lock of his baby's hair from her first haircut so many years ago. As he held her hair twenty-five years of memories washed over him.

He must of closed his eyes for when he opened them his beautiful daughter was reaching out her hand to him.

"Come on Pops, the dancing is just about ready to begin and the first dance belongs to the best man I have ever known, you."

Overheard

I was drifting through our local farmers market this evening when I happened to overhear one of the officials that run the thing complaining to someone on her cellphone.

The gist of her point was that someone had without her permission set up a small table to collect signatures for a petition to improve the use of DNA in the solving of crimes. Her problem was that the issue was somewhat of a downer and should not be brought up where families gather.

The ironic part of this for me was that I had just past the petition table and they were set up next to a booth run by Forest Lawn designed to sell cemetary plots.

The One Who Got Away

Memories of her had never quite left, they hid themselves in some dark quiet corner of his mind only to come bursting into the light when he least expected it.

Standing in a crowded elevator. Listening to office gossip when behind the voices his ears picked out a poorly recorded muzac version of "Desperado". He came close to tearing up when he realized that he had never come to his senses and let her love him.

Sitting in the stands at Chavez Ravine enjoying a Dodger game. When the seventh inning stretch begins and the first notes of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" are heard coming from the organ. The sound of 25,000 fans singing shoots him back to 1988 and game two of the world series against the A's. If he closes his eyes he can almost feel her hand in his, comfortable and warm. The music, the smells and his own memory almost convince him that when he opens his eyes she will be back at his side. His eyes open only to find a 65-year-old plumber from La Palma doing "the wave".

Lying on the couch one night using the remote to race around the dial. News, comedies, drama's nothing catches his eye. He stops suddenly sure that he recognizes the movie being shown. Two men, one in street clothes one in an old-fashioned baseball uniform are playing catch. He was right. It was one of his favorite scenes from "Field of Dreams". She had taken him to see it on the big screen for his birthday knowing how much he loved sports and movies. Sitting with her after the movie they had discussed the flood of memories the movie had brought out. Pick up games and little league. Baseball cards and Dodger games. For him the movie had captured his youth and preserved it for him. But now watching the ending he found himself crying not for the father and son on the screen but for himself and the mistakes he had made.

Now in the wisdom that only came with age and experience he could see what he had lost when he allowed his head to get in the way of his heart. She had loved him unconditionally and she made her choices based on that love and her belief that they would share forever together. She even accepted a scholarship to USC rather than Ohio State so she could be near him.

He on the other hand began to close doors as fast as she had opened them. He loved her but even though he was older he lacked her maturity. He was afraid. He was afraid of what he might miss if he settled down. He was afraid of the responsibility that she represented. Most of all he was afraid of that look in her eyes that said more than her words ever could.

So he ran. He hid. He cheated. And in the end he lost. While her love was strong and never ending her backbone prevented her from being a doormat. She took him to dinner at their favorite restaurant Ruby's at the end of the Balboa Pier. There they sat on the roof in the comfortable silence that only lover's seem to enjoy, sipping wine and watching the sunset into the Pacific.

He looked into her eyes and without her saying a word he knew he had stepped over the line one to many times. She took his face in her hands and gently kissed his lips one last time. She stood, turned and walked away without looking back. He would never see her again, the one who got away.

Baseball Memories

The first pitch of the baseball season never fails to transport me back to my youth. My memories are filled with evenings spent huddled under a blanket with my little transistor radio and an earplug. With Vin Scully calling the game one could close ones eyes and almost smell the peanuts and crackerjacks.

My parents were divorced and my father God love him was never much of a dad. He was not one for lazy days in the park or weekend visits to Disneyland. However I was always guaranteed several Saturday afternoons at the ballpark during the baseball season.

We would always arrive early for batting practice. Program in hand we would find our seats and I would begin to methodically enter the starting lineups for both teams. The one skill I learned from my father was keeping score. I could rattle off the current average for any Dodger including their most recent at bat.

If it was a good day my father would limit his beer intake and actually discuss the game with me. However his drinking at the game rarely bothered me as young as I was I still understood that his alcoholism was part of the package. If I wanted to see him I had to accept the drinking. Most nights it hardly bothered me. I was just ecstatic to be at Chavez Ravine.

The most memorable game I attended with my father was not even played in Los Angeles. One Saturday he picked me and instead of heading to the ballpark he took us to the airport. Once there we caught a flight to San Diego and a taxi to the stadium so we could enjoy a Dodger/Padre game. We had great seats and a great time. The dogs in San Diego did not match up to Dodger dogs but few do. It was just great to share the game with my dad.

Roommates from Hell

Not unlike most young adults there came a time when I began to chaff under, what my immature mind defined as, the yoke of parental domination. My rebellion occurred in the spring of 1980.

I was dating a girl who lived in Las Vegas, which posed the usual problems of distance, and longing. Because of our conflicting schedules we were only able to see each other once every three months or so. Hence we spent many hours on the phone. Since she was a full time student and I was employed full time the onus was on me to do the dialing. I did not mind being young and in love, but my mother flipped when she saw the phone bill. My portion was over two hundred dollars for one month. Needless to say despite my age my parents came down on me and came down hard. They banned me from making any long distance calls from home. To which I argued that since I was giving them the money for my share of the bill they were being completely unreasonable. My mother agreed with the point that I was willing to pay the bill but she felt it was ludicrous for me to waste what amounted to almost one quarter of my monthly salary on phone calls. She went to say that it would be cheaper for me to fly to Vegas twice a month rather than chat for hours on the phone. Of course being young, dumb and stubborn I would not see it her way. I informed her that she was the worse mother on the planet and that it was high time that I moved out on my own. I walked away from the argument and made my big plans for the move.

Most of my friends still lived at home and were neither ready nor willing to move away from their security blanket. I was the only foolish one. However, I did know to brothers who had recently moved to Monrovia from Washington to work for their brother. After discussing it with them they were willing to rent me their couch, as neither was willing to share their room. I readily agreed, as I was anxious to begin life on my own.

D and G were good guys and even better friends. Living with them was a party waiting to happen and I was always being exposed to something new. That being said they were the roommates from hell. If I had gone into this move with my eyes open I would have been on my knees before my mother begging for forgiveness and my room back. Instead I cut the cord and moved away.

My first tour of the apartment was a real eye opener. If the five rooms had been mysteriously transported to a war zone they would have fit right in. If a twister had blown through it could have only improved the place. Knowing that I was going to be living in the public portion of the apartment I realized that my work was cut out for me.

I began with the living room also known as my bedroom. There were what appeared to be a years worth of the Los Angeles Times scattered about in various piles. As I saw it I had two choices. I could leave the newspapers where they were by some shellac and pour it over the various piles creating a set of end tables and a coffee table. My second choice and the one I made was to spend several hours bagging the newsprint and hauling it down to the garbage.

Beneath the scattered papers were shoes, shirts, and dishes that had been lost in the clutter. Those were distributed to their proper location. In one corner I found an old planter with what once may have been a miniature palm. Amazingly enough though the leaves were brown and faded the stalk appeared to be clinging to life. The soil in the pot was covered by three inches of cigarette butts, beer caps and golf tees. I am happy to report that once the debris was removed, new soil added and regular waterings begun that palm actually returned to life. Now came the living rooms most difficult task. Cleaning the carpet. D and G worked at a tile factory and came home from work covered in clay. It appeared that the carpet had never been cleaned since they had moved in. It took me seven hours and five vacuum cleaner bags to remove all of the debris, but at least the room was now livable.

If the living room was bad the kitchen cried out for white suited toxic waste specialist to do their stuff. Apparently the brother owned silver ware and dinnerware plus a pan set but they did not own a sponge. Every dish, utensil and pan was dirty and pile in the sink. I felt like an archeologist as I worked my way through layers of debris. Colonies of life were disturbed and various bacteria's became homeless. Eventually, after hours of labor the sink was conquered and once again their plates were a location safe enough to eat off of. The freezer, one that required defrosting, was so frosted over one ice tray would fill all usable space. The refrigerator held several plastic bags containing what appeared to have once been lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers. Of course without scientific testing anyone could have sworn to that fact. There was also one Tupperware container that seemed to be seeing how many different colored molds could be cultivated in one dish. In actuality cleaning the refrigerator and freezer was the easiest task. Everything was thrown away. A blow dryer was used to melt the ice build up. The unit was unplugged fumigated, aired out and returned to service.

Tales from their bathroom have been know to bring the cleaning staff from local bars to their knees in fear of facing what once existed in that small but toxic room. In consideration for those with weak stomachs and vivid imaginations I will refrain from describing that room in any detail.

Living with D and G was a great learning experience for me even if I did feel somewhat Felix Ungerish by the time I moved on. Beginning my time away from home with the roommates from hell prepared me for life on my own and for that I will always be thankful.

Death, Without a Tear

The broken body lay there
Silhouetted upon the paper
Trying to survive the torturous pain
Trying to escape the driving rain
No pity, No one cared
Looking back, they could only stare
They give it a thought
But no, love cannot be bought
So they quickly turn away
Nothing left to say

The rain stopped
The war was fought
One casualty
Dying from brutality
A lonely boy
Destroyed the wing
Now the bee
Would never fly or sing
Just death
Without a tear

d.s. brueckner
2004

Buyer Beware

Why do people insist on entering into less than perfect situations with the expectation that things will improve for the better down the road? For example:

I don't like the color you chose for the living room but maybe it will grow on me.
He isn't perfect but if I stick with him perhaps he will change.
She is not happy now but if I buy her this ring maybe she will be.
I really don't like that restaurant but maybe if I keep eating there the food will improve.

Or the one that set me off on this rant. People who buy knowingly buy a house in a neighborhood that is less than perfect. Such as a family who buys property near a large airport than complains because the planes are too loud.

In today's San Gabriel Valley Tribune there is an article concerning such a situation. On the border between the cities of Azusa and Duarte (both are located about twenty-five miles east of Los Angeles) is a private gun club. The San Gabriel Valley Gun Club has been in its present location since 1946, about 48 years.

Over the past twenty or so years the city of Azusa has been slowly making its way into the Foothills growing ever closer to the gun club. The newest housing tract, Mountain Cove, is located just across the canyon from the range.

When the new homes were purchased each resident was informed in writing of the gun clubs existence and its hours of operation, which are from 8:30 AM to 4:45 PM seven days a week. Each and every owner purchased his or her property knowing this.

Now the owners led by a Mr. C. are petitioning the city council to have the gun club moved. According to Mr. C. "he saw the warnings but times have changed and the gun club should get out because so many homes are within earshot."

Personally I am not a gun owner nor do I ever plan to be one. However I am sick and tired of a small group of people, the homeowners in this case, whining and crying because they want to be coddled to. The gun club members have minded their own business for 48 years, but I am sure that once people like Mr. C. complain enough the city council will cave and force the gun club to move.

What ever happened to the old saying buyer beware.

Scared

Summer 1976: I was sixteen and my parents trusted me enough to leave me home alone for the weekend.

Being a fairly boring teenager I did not want to test fate and lose the faith my parents had placed in me. So I followed the rulebook to a T. No friends over, no drinking, nothing just a quiet weekend at home. If I took the car out I was to make sure I was back before dark.

I watched a little television, brought a pizza home and did what I always do, lost myself in a book. This particular weekend it was the novelization of the movie The Omen written by David Seltzer. I had yet to see the film so the book had captured my attention and I could not put it down.

My brother and I shared a room and for the first time I had the room to myself. So eleven o'clock on Saturday night found me lying in my bed finishing the story. Damian and the evil satanic forces had eliminated everyone and the antichrist was free to continue growing. The book had somewhat creeped me out but I was tired and ready for a good nights sleep. I turned out the light buried myself beneath the covers and attempted to lose myself in dreamland.

Something was bothering me though. For some reason I began to feel I was being watched. I ignored the feeling assigning blame to The Omen.

I could not ignore it though. The feeling became stronger and stronger. I tightly wrapped myself in my blankets and buried my head beneath the pillow. Nothing worked sleep would not come and I just knew something was wrong.

I slowly pulled the covers back and raised my head off of the pillow. I turned towards my brother's bed and then I saw it. An evil red glow was coming from beneath the bed and projecting itself upon the ceiling. In my imagination I could almost hear the gates of hell opening.

My heart began pounding and I must have turned whiter than new fallen snow. I sprang from my bed and ran through the house turning on every light, radio and television. I went to my parent's room, which was the farthest point possible I could reach from mine. I sat on their bed and collected my thoughts. Once I could think logically I knew that nothing evil was under my brother's bed. But convincing myself to go check took nearly an hour of silent debate.

Finally I gathered my wits and slowly returned to my room. With a yardstick I found in the closet I lifted my brothers blanket from the floor and tossed it onto the bed. I lowered myself to my hands and knees and took a quick peak underneath. To quick I did not see anything.

So I took a deep breath laid myself flat on the floor and found…

My brothers red t-shirt covering a flashlight that he had been playing with and forgot to turn off.