Spirit of Mountain Avenue

A story such as this usually begins: “It was a dark and stormy night.” To clichéd, and inherently untrue, this story begins on a typical late summer night somewhere in the San Gabriel Valley. Santa Ana winds led a choir of coyotes and hoot owls through a series of haunting melodies. The air was dry the night was hot. Open windows no sheets or blankets on the bed was the recipe for late night comfort.

Stephen was eight years old. Four feet tall in bare feet with shaggy blond hair covered by a Dodger cap. Hazel eyes and a mischievous grin accented by a gap waiting for a late blooming tooth; completed the portrait.

Today had not been one of his better days. No one blamed him for the afternoon’s emergency. He blamed himself though. It had to be his fault.

When his four-year-old sister Lara was born his mom sat him down placing his fragile sister in the care of his toddler-sized arms. All the while explaining the importance involved in being a big brother.

“A big brother,” she said, “looked out for his sister protecting her and keeping her from harm.”

Four years had passed since that fateful day. His sister had grabbed his heartstrings and tugged for all she was worth. She brought sunshine to his life while the very foundation his life was built upon was shaken to the core.

For reasons he would not understand for decades, his father was drowning in a sea of alcohol.

He remembered how his dad had taken him to Dodger games. How waited outside the clubhouse hoping to catch an autograph or two. Or how on weekends with chores completed they would share a catch on the front lawn just the two of them.

Now day’s dad spent more time in his workshop than anyplace else. Repairing a car or two in between cans of Bud. He never listened to baseball, never laughed, never sat with mom anymore. He yelled a lot, drank a lot and late at night alone in the dark he cried a lot.

His father’s dysfunctional state had become so serious that his mom had taken him to the park and explained that with his fathers “sickness” he was now the man of the house and she needed help with his sister. He took pride in how much his mother trusted him. He would always look out for Lara.

Today had been a bad one for his father one of the worst ever. He was painting the garage, drinking too much and growing noticeably bitterer. Finally throwing the paintbrush down in disgust he left everything scattered about the driveway and locked himself in the workshop.

Lara was in the house with our mom or so everyone thought. While mom was ironing she wondered out into the backyard exploring. Stephen was out front trading baseball cards with a friend when he froze at the sound of Lara’s shriek.

He sprang to his feet oblivious to the trail of Dodger’s scattered in his wake. Reaching the backyard faster than he believed possible he found Lara sitting on the driveway, screaming, covered from head to toe in beige paint. Screaming for his mother he banged on the backdoor, not knowing what else to do.

Lara loved water. She would have, if possible played with or in water 24/7. Her mistake was instinctual seeing a can she assumed it contained water, which she poured over her head just as she had a hundred times before. Except this time of course the water was really paint.

His mother ran out of the house scooping Lara up without breaking stride all the while running for the car. She screamed for his dad who somewhat drunkenly joined her in the front seat holding the screaming Lara while she sped to the ER.

Lara was a beautiful baby; a local artist entered her photograph in a contest taking first place and it was featured in a local ad campaign. Her most striking feature by far was her long golden blonde hair. Hair which was now covered in brown paint and clumping together as the paint dried. Of even graver concern was whether or not paint had infiltrated her eyes causing permanent damage.

At the hospital Stephen remained in the waiting room feeding coffee to his dad, while his mom was with Lara and the doctors.

Guilt was beginning to manifest within his conscience. “Why was I trading dumb old baseball cards, I should have been with Lara?”

Watching his father sober up it never occurred to him that it was his father was to blame for leaving the paint can for Lara to find. Self-blame kept running through his thoughts until his eyes filled with tears and his gut ached with worry.

After what seemed like hours his mom emerged from the ER. In tears he ran into her arms. “I’m sorry mom, I’m sorry,” he cried. “Its all my fault I should have been with Lara not trading dumb old baseball cards.”

His mom wrapped his trembling frame in her arms. Hugging him tight she began soothing his fragile nerves. “Honey no, no it’s not your fault. You were playing. You were being a child. Your father and I are responsible for watching her. I did not expect her to get out of the house, I most certainly did not expect you to watch her.”

“But mom you told me, ‘sob’ you told me I was a big brother. You told me it was my job to watch out for her to protect her.”

“Honey you are a big brother an excellent big brother and you do watch out for Lara when she is with you. Today was not your fault. You did the right thing. You heard her cry found the problem and called for me. You did good son, you did good, I could not me more proud of you.”

He failed to notice the look his mom shot his father while hugging him. If he had he would have known someone else was to blame and he was in serious trouble.

“Where’s Lara mom? Can we see her? Is she okay?”

“It appears that Lara will be fine. They flushed here eyes and she will have to wear patches for a few days. At first look there does not appear to be any damage. The biggest problem was her hair. There was too much paint; her hair was one big-knotted clump. The doctors could not get the paint out so they had to cut her hair. Her beautiful long hair, at least my baby will be okay. She will be fine that is all that matters.”

Before heading home his mom had taken them for a drive through the local foothills. Lara always found car rides soothing and mom wanted her calm before heading home. Stephen was lost in thought, holding his sisters hand and praying she would be okay.

Arriving home his mom set Lara up on the couch with a pillow and her favorite blanket. She asked Stephen to sit with his sister and watch television while doing his best to keep Lara calm.

“Your father and I will be out back if you need anything.”

Before sitting with Lara he turned on the television and found some recent sitcom to occupy their minds. With patches on her eyes he could not tell if his sister was asleep or awake. He held her hand and described the action she could not see.

Stephen must have dosed off for a while, because he was startled awake by the feeling of being watched. At first he thought his mom or dad were back in the room but as he came to his senses he realized that they were alone. He marked the feeling off as a bad dream and turned his attention back to the laugh track on TV.

Without warning goose bumps erupted across the back of his neck. Again he was sure he was being watched and this time he was awake. He walked around the living room, checked the kitchen and the hallway and found as he expected that Lara and him were the only ones in the house.

Returning to the couch, he felt the same sensation again, this time was different though, this time a voice accompanied the feeling.

“GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out,” the voice had a menacing, rasping quality to it.

His first thought was that one of the neighbors was pranking on them. Quietly, he crept to the front door, eased it open and peered out. No one was outside and the street appeared to be buttoned up for the night.

As soon as he sat down again, he heard the voice, repeating its message like an echo in time.

“GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out.”

He looked at Lara but she still appeared to be asleep. He sat there wondering what to do and then he had an idea. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight. Once again he eased open the front door. He searched the entire front yard especially the garden located beneath the living room windows. Having been watered earlier that day he could see no sign that the dirt had been disturbed. No muddy footprints. Nothing.

He went back inside expecting to hear the voice again but all appeared to have returned too normal. No goose bumps. No echoes. No sound effects, just the television and his beautiful sister.

Thirty Years Later.

Stephen now 38 years old was visiting Lara. Time had moved on but nothing had changed. They were not only siblings but also best friends. At least once a week found them sharing lunch or chatting the evening away at one of their homes.

This evening found them discussing their childhood.

“Stephen, do you remember when we lived on Mountain Avenue and I poured the paint over my head?”

“Of course I do. You scared the hell out of mom and boy was she pissed at dad.”

“Do you remember when we came home, sitting on the couch and watching television with me? Lara asked.

He began to wonder where all this was leading. They did not often walk down memory lane and this is one road they had never explored.

“Well,” Stephen hesitated. “I remember watching television, although as I recall it was more by myself than with you. Sleeping is what you were doing.”

“Can I ask you a question, Do Do?”

That stopped him in his tracks. She rarely called him Do Do any more. When she was four though that was his nickname. For some reason she was unable to pronounce Stephen then.
“Of course Lara!” Ask away.

“Well that night, this is going to sound really strange and you are going to think I have gone loopy on you. But that night did you hear like anything strange?”

Stephen flashed back thirty years to that night. He could still hear that voice. Though he had convinced himself it was only a bad dream.

“I am not sure I heard anything,” he hesitated a moment, “well I guess the truth is that I thought I heard something but convince myself it was a bad dream.”

“Was it a creepy voice telling us to get out of the house claiming it was not ours?"

“That was it exactly. I could have sworn you were sleeping. How come you never said anything? Why did you bring it up now?

“Well,” Lara began, “I thought I dreamt it. Last night however I did dream about it, I was four years old again. Lying on that old couch. My eyes were covered but I was wide-awake. I heard the voice again. It was so real I had to ask. I thought I was crazy but now I know I am not. We both heard whatever it was.”

“I always chalked it up to a dream myself, now you have my curiosity peaked. I am going to have to do some research.’

Conversation, as it often does with family blended into other topics leaving ghostly voices for another day.

Another Day.

Stephen was surrounded by stack of microfiche containing the early records of his hometown. He had visited City Hall first and found the names of original owners of his childhood home. They were one of the first families to have settled in the area. Now he was ensconced at the Historical Museum in what he felt would be a vain attempt to attach significance of some type to the events of thirty years ago.

He was reading an article from 1901 and those very same goose bumps were beginning to erupt on his neck.

Apparently the Bartlett family (husband, wife and three kids) had settled in the area building the house in 1901. They had lived in the new home a week or so when tragedy struck. The family at Mrs. Bartlett’s insistence went on an overnight trip into the local mountains. Everyone seemed to have a good time. Hiking, exploring and picking berries for homemade pie.

The morning after they returned home all three children plus Mr. Bartlett developed high fevers. Doing all she could for her family, Mrs. Bartlett walked a mile to the nearest neighbors and asked if they could fetch the nearest doctor.

When she returned home she found the fevers had increased and the two littlest ones were barely breathing.

The doctor arrived and after examining the family informed her that by all accounts it appeared that they had contracted typhoid fever. The look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. There was no hope. To punctuate that thought the two youngest passed almost simultaneously.

At this point Mrs. Bartlett they say appeared to snap.

She began screaming at the doctor, ““GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out,”

The doctor had even used the words menacing and rasping to describe her voice. He left, promising to send out the mortician and to return himself to check on the rest of her family the next day.

He never had the chance. Later that same afternoon when the mortician arrived he found the door open and the four occupants of the house to have all died from the fever. He found Mrs. Bartlett sobbing in the backyard.

According to his report when he tried to offer comfort she just screamed at him, ““GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out.”

Those were her last words. When the sheriff came to the house to assist the mortician in picking up the bodies they found her hanging from the hundred-year-old oak in front of the house.

Stephen sat back a chill running down his spine and the palms of his sands suddenly cold and clammy. Until today his policy had been to leave the supernatural to the superstitious, now he didn’t know what to think.

Desperately Seeking.....

No not that.

A friend of mine and I were discussing television commercial slogans and what not. Before he left he planted a seed that has now grown to a full blown obsession.

What hair product used the slogan "I just washed my hair and I cannot do a thing with it."

I will be indebted to the person who can get this nonsense flushed from my brain once and for all.

category five

a gale wind blew
a category five passed
he raised himself from the floor
brushing away imaginary debris
where was his pride
where was his backbone
when had he become
nothing more than a
living, breathing
doormat

too many moments
of being beat down
being told you are wrong
every decision questioned
every thought ridiculed
before long
the inside of a shell
begins to look good
a place of sanctuary
where sanity
can be preserved

problems lie
within the arguments
themselves
his ego never large
allowed for errs
within his judgment
cracks in his assumptions
when the being opposite
does not allow
for their own human failures
the argument becomes
a circle
never ending
a merry-go-round filled
with meaningless words
going nowhere fast
leaving casualties
in its wake

beyond each explosion
he was left
with a feeling
just this side
of helplessness
before long
silence was golden
boarding up his psyche
against the coming storm
this was assumed
to be capitulation
unconditional surrender
when reality was
love had been torn asunder
and he no longer cared

Doubt

How does one respond when receiving an incredulous look from medical personnel, a pharmacist, social security representative, or just people I meet through out the trials and tribulations of my daily life?

In two and a half years of illness I dealt with several health issues concurrently. Each with its own course of treatment and each with its own debilitating affect on my daily life. The one thread that connects each of these issues is that for the most part the illness has been detected but no one can understand why I have what I have. There is theory but no fact. For diagnosis I fall to the extreme side of people who have the illness for no apparent reason which makes treatment that much more difficult.

My social anxiety and panic disorder actually preceded the rest of my health issues by a few years. Despite treatment, medication and therapy it is far from being under control. In my case the presentation of symptoms was later in life than with most cases. Despite my and my doctors best efforts we have yet to determine the initial events that triggered the onset of symptoms. No events that should have led to the development of post-traumatic stress. No great tragedies that have haunted me for years. In short I have all the symptoms but can point to no event that justifies the severity of my illness.

Next on my illness menu is renal papillary necrosis. Which in layman’s terms means that my left kidney is dying one cell at a time for again no apparent reason. In 2002 I developed severe kidney pain, which I assumed was a kidney stone. After a visit to the ER failed to turn up any blockage I was referred to an urologist. He scoped my kidney and determined that my left kidney was in the beginning stages of necrosis. Symptoms, which mimic those of stones because the dying tissue sloughs off the kidney and can cause similar pain. Primary cause of necrosis diabetes, however even diabetics rarely develop the illness now days because of improved care from modern urology. My urologist has not seen a new case beside mine in near five years. We have yet to determine why I developed this illness.

In April 2003 I developed bronchitis, which I have had on several occasions through out my life. Treatment always took care of the problem. Not this time. I have been to the allergist and no allergies were detected. I was checked for various digestive diseases that can affect the lungs. None detected. Regular appointments and testing from the pulmonologist have only served to show my bronchial tubes are irritated and inflamed with no obvious reason for its staying power. Tissue samples have shown no serious illness. Mucus samples have shown low level bacteria but nothing that should be affecting my bronchial tubes and breathing to such a degree. The other issue with bronchitis is that the primary long-term treatment is steroids, which do not play well with anxiety. In my case they are not even on speaking terms, which makes treatment much more difficult.

And finally on the hit parade is the most recent cause of my discomfort diverticulitis. Still in the testing stage but I have been told by more than one doctor that from at least the initial exams they are not sure why someone in their mid forties has developed an illness that usually hits people nearer to sixty.
Bottom line is that I have several illnesses that I am dealing with on a regular basis. No big deal really and I do not bring all this up for the sake of hearing myself whine. Primarily I am discussing this because of the reactions I have begun to receive on several fronts.

What started me thinking was seeing the gastro-intestinal doctor this past week. While examining me he was considering another round of antibiotics and asked about my insurance. I told him that at the moment I have no insurance that covers meds because I have just switched over to Medicare. He gave me a look and than asked what is a guy in his mid forties doing on Medicare. We had just gone over my history and he knew about the debilitation caused by the various illnesses but obviously he had some doubts. He than went off on a tangent about my age and why did I believe I have these various illnesses.

This was not the first time nor I am sure it will be the last time I deal with the doubt of others. Hell, some mornings I wake up look in the mirror and doubt myself whether the illnesses exist or whether it is all psychosomatic. I have been assured by my primary doctor, my psychologist and psychiatrist that my illnesses are not in my head but exist in the real world.

It is hard though. Sometimes I find myself wanting to lie when I talk to people and they ask the usual questions what are you doing with yourself. Well I am no longer working due to a virtual smorgasbord of illnesses. They give me a look and say something like you look great for someone who has been sick for over two years.

No I may not be the most ill person on the planet or even on my block. That does not reduce the effect the illnesses have had on my life. No more softball. No more bike riding. Swimming is a pain because the chlorine affects my lungs. BBQ’s are not the same because I can no longer handle being in front of the grill and I enjoy the grilling even more than the eating. Working now that’s a big one. It is difficult to work when you cannot breath well. Have panic attacks hiding under your desk waiting to surprise you and can not be sure when your kidney might decide that today is as good a day as any to give up the ghost.

So for you doubters out there, you know who you are. Whether you are supposedly family, friend, acquaintance, doctor or stranger. Until you have walked a day in my shoes please have the courtesy not to doubt my illnesses. It is either that or stay out of my life. I have enough stress dealing with my doubts, angst and anxiety I do not need your crap to.

Thank you and have a nice day.

quiet time

he watches her standing
on the end of the pier
eyes filled with laughter
wind in her hair
his mind questions
could this be real
unable to believe
how happy he feels
he never thought
he would live this day
with her by his side
him feeling this way
he never dreamt
he could trust again
he never believed
he could love again
still here they are
alone in the sand
a touch of the heart
a touch of the hand
softly kissing
its quiet time
no need for words
no need to rhyme
one deep breath
their spirits soar
no one could ever
pray for more
a quiet beach
a starlit night
holding each other
never felt so right

circumstance

she found herself to be
a victim of circumstance
lamenting an age
of mediocrity
an age in which
quantity mattered
more than quality
where reality
was scripted and sold
to the highest bidder
where taste and culture
had become nothing
more than a whore
spreading her legs
for Madison avenue

museums were her church
broadway her choir
confession held
beneath the smoky lights
of a beatnik bookstore
where poets engraved
the lining of her soul
with words of painful beauty
her bibles were many
knowledge her communion
hidden between the pages
of novels and travelogues
where her heart
found reasons to soar

in a world of plastic
face lifts and implants
where the uniqueness
of imperfections
was being swept away
by a society obsessed
with reflections
found in the funhouse
mirror of the corner boutique
she lived a simple life
a touch of makeup
simple, elegant clothing
designed to be practical
not for the runway lights
but for the office lights


on girls nights out
she meets various guys
in restaurants dance clubs
and the like
she has heard the same lines
over and over
I want a woman who is real
who can carry a conversation
who will fight me for
the Sunday crossword puzzle
none of these plastic
look at me Barbie dolls
a woman of substance
they take her number
but never call

often times
their paths will cross
she will hear them
chatting with the boys
eyes in their beer
tongues on the floor
watching the airhead parade
passing by
proving her right once again
most men want eye candy
a brainless lover
to satisfy their primal urges
not a woman
who would challenge them
not a woman
who would equal them
no they only wanted a woman
who would stroke they’re
ego all night long

it had taken many years
more broken hearts
than she could count
the lesson was learned
and filed away
destiny had placed
her on this shallow world
for reason only
fate would understand
never to be loved
only to be ignored
for being more
than eye candy
for the sweet tooth
of man

blink

twisted vines of despair
squeeze the brain stem
eyes fill with pain
scorched by fires of sorrow
weeds of futility
ride the adrenalin of fear
surfing the bloodstream
taking root within a naïve heart
crabgrass destroys
a garden well groomed
in the blink of an eye
without conscious thought
memories lie buried
beneath the sands of time
hidden in the rubble
of a fractured soul

Thoughts from the Throne

What is the difference between fall and autumn? If there is no difference why is their two words for fall but only one for winter, spring and summer?

Where did the old wives tale that elephants are afraid of mice originate?

If the polar caps melt completely where will Santa go? And who will pay for all of the elves to relocate?

Since when did Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm Street, Hellraiser and their ilk become Halloween classics? Halloween is a week away and I cannot find Frankenstein, Dracula, Wolfman or campy fifties Sci-Fi and Horror on any ones schedule.

Speaking of movies when will the next remotely original film make it to the silver screen?

On the same subject when going to the movies costs a couple close to thirty dollars what is the incentive when in three months you can buy the film at Wal-Mart for fifteen dollars?

How come consumers continue to purchase products packaged with the new and improved label when in most cases all they did was change the packaging and jack up the price?

How come I can buy a brand new Mr. Coffee Ice Tea Maker for $20.00 but if I want to by a replacement pitcher from the companies website it will cost close $30.00? Not once as the tea maker broken but when the pitcher does I buy the whole since it’s cheaper.

What happened to a singer or group having some legitimate staying power and/or talent before they put out a greatest hits package?

How many people actually reply to the various e-mail scams asking to use your good name to have funds released from some bank? And if a person is that gullible shouldn’t someone be providing around the clock care for them at this point?

If there is only one true religion what happens to the non-believers after death?

Finally if a woodchuck could chuck wood, how much wood would a woodchuck chuck?

damaged

a soul of
fragile porcelain
uncomfortably
wrapped in delicate
human skin
burning
with untamed
hunger
searching
half formed memories
of a more
perfect world
spiritual
darkness free
jealous free
anger free
drug induced
memories of
life before life
understanding
fails when
evolutions
ultimate quest
becomes
perfection
which in turn
leads to
stagnation
which leads
to extinction
of that
which claims
perfection
sowing
the seeds
for evolutions
journey
to begin
again
an endless quest
for understanding
a burning desire
to know
what is beyond
the next
galaxy

Nights

Night was the enemy, darkness its sword.

With the whispered arrival of midnight imagination takes over. Each sound amplified. Each shadow a boogeyman sprung whole from Stephen King's fertile imagination. Sleep, is but a memory, a dream of golden cities, ancient kings.

Fear waltzed with his subconscious. Twisted paranoia ravages his mind.

God exists.

God is dead.

The soul survives the bodies’ death.

There is no soul flesh is naught but worm food.

These debates eternal created sailor knots of lore within his intestinal tract. Knots the Great Houdini himself could never escape. Shallow, rapid breaths failed to expand his lungs while his tapped danced like Fred Astair.

Panic ensued.

Up off the bed he found himself pacing questing for solace. Upstairs, downstairs back again, roaming hallways of his existence searching for peace finding empty space.

Television beckons and he sits on the floor as if praying before some technological god. Legs crossed he is seven years old again watching cartoons on Saturday morning. Images tango across his vision random samples of a midnight world. Airwaves bloated by exercise videos, music collections and the latest greatest slicing and dicing tools. Nothing catches his eye. Nothing provides comfort for his tortured soul.

Hungrily he glances at the phone dialing is not an option no one understands his late night fears.

TV off he is roaming once again. Not unlike Scrooge waiting for 1:00 AM’s ghostly visitor. He stops before a shelf of classic novels, which once belonged to his father. His fingers trace along titles unseeingly tonight though even the written word fails to comfort.

Upstairs again he flops into an old cane rocker staring out into the night. Watching the wind create fractal patterns blowing leaves around the yard.

Chaos.

Maybe.

He opens a long ignored closet pulling a dusty box down from the top shelf. Removing the lid his tired mind struggles with the memories both sweet and bitter that the contents rekindle.

Photos of his parents.

Letters from old girlfriends.

His high school ring.

Bookmarks and diaries.

Dusty memories all.

Buried beneath the dank and moldy past an old friend. Pickles the last remnant of his innocent child hood. A calico cat hand made for him by his great-grandmother, stained, faded and missing an eye Pickles was for him the definition of comfort.

Gently he removes Pickles from his bed of decades cradling him in his arms, the scents of yesterday a faint reminder clinging to the tattered fur.

He shuffles back to his rocking chair curling up into a childlike ball. With Pickles back on guard duty he soon drifts off no longer haunted by visions of darkness.

Original post July 2004

prologue

in the beginning
heart absolute
without malice
without prejudice
without pride
embracing
eternal flames
of love
unconditional
undying
unqualified
contemporaneous
passion
ascending upon
clouds
of jasmine
perspective lost
within the eye
of a harmonic
storm
building tomorrow
on promises
built from
the blocks of
a child
a future bright
in promise
in glory
for eternity
neglecting a foundation
built upon
the tides of time

epilogue

a heart
frozen in time
entangled in memories
lost in ether
spirits of
what was
what is
what can never be
haunting dreams
of willows
dandelions
poison ivy
bitter in taste
unleavened air
clutching earth
fearing sky
a moments
release
abandoned gravity
faith excogitated
without confabulation
acceptance
of fate
of destiny
ingesting fractals
a multidimensional
existence
infinite moments
entrapped
within a web
of hope

Dancing with Danger

Summer 1978: Mom was asleep on the couch, a not uncommon sight especially on Saturday nights when my stepfather was tending bar. Returning from work I was sprawled out on the living floor, watching Elvira host an evening of campy horror movies.

My attention wavered as my eyes grew heavy I was just about to head for bed when my stepfather walked in. It took all my resolve to swallow the scream I felt building to a crescendo. The entire front of his shirt was covered in blood, which at first glance appeared to be flowing from his mouth and/or chin. My primary concern was that there had been some type of altercation at the reception he was working. Despite the “joy” of these events fights were known to occur even a stabbing or two had occurred in alcohol fueled jealous rages. Mom always worried when he worked weddings. As I recovered from my initial shock I thought to myself mom had been right.

I woke up my mother, which is a task unto itself. She was and still is a heavy sleeper. When she became aware of something having happened to Jay (my step dad) she abandoned dream world in a flash.

In a Superwoman like moment she leapt from the couch and flew to his side. She took him in her arms searching his torso for a knife wound or something worse. Failing to find any obvious trauma gave him a questioning look.

“The wedding,” he explained, “was one of the most peaceful in recent memory.”

The problem it turned out was the drive home he fell asleep behind the wheel missing the final curve running into a hundred year old oak. He had walked the short distance home to call the police and have mom take him to the hospital. His lower lip was bitten clean through the copious amount of blood was a side effect of the coumadin, a blood thinner he was taking for his bad heart.

Taking charge mom hustled him to the car asking me to come along. She wanted to head straight to the hospital and my job was to wait with the car for the police to arrive.

Driving down our street we came across a patrol car, searchlight on checking bushes and the gutter. Obviously they were in the process of searching for the person or persons who had been involved in the accident. Pulling along aside mom explained the situation and requested that someone meet them at the hospital for the details and that I was going to wait with the car.

Jay’s car had been a brand new white Cadillac with red leather upholstery. No longer, the car had run into the tree front end first. Even my untrained eye could see that it was totaled. The oak tree though made it through the accident with nothing more than a small scar.

From the appearance of the car Jay was lucky to walk away under his own power. The police officers arrived and took down what little details I could provide. A tow truck was requested and we were informed that it would be a half hour or so before it arrived. Assuring them that I would be just fine they moved on to the hospital in order to complete their report.

Which left me sitting on the hood of the car waiting for the tow truck. The night was chilly not expecting to go back out I was only wearing a t-shirt. In order to create some body heat I began pacing the area around the car.

Being alone on a moonless night I found myself jumping at every creaking branch creak or hooting owl. My imagination began creating untold dangers hidden in the brush biding its time before devouring my soul.

As fate would have it I was facing more danger than even I could imagine.

Ten minutes after the police pulled away a rather plain sedan pulled up with a single man behind the wheel. I was never a big believer in the paranormal but my sixth sense began buzzing the moment I laid eyes on him. My mind was screaming trouble but my eyes saw normal, average everyday.

He was dressed in jeans, a long sleeve shirt and tennis shoes. His was clean-shaven. His eyes though appeared to be black holes, a bottomless abyss where even Stephen King’s imagination feared to tread. Before a word was exchanged I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that going anywhere with him would be my final trip.

Upon his approach I moved doing my utmost best to keep the Cadillac between us.

Eyeing me he expressed some sort of trumped up concern asking if I need assistance.

I explained that my stepfather was the driver that he was with my mother at the hospital. The police and a tow truck would arrive momentarily.

He commented on my appearing cold inviting me to wait with him in his car. Thinking fast I told him that I wasn't cold just worried about my step dads condition.

Yet again he offered the warmth of his car and once again I turned him down. By now I was wondering where in the hell was the tow truck, and hoping to God that he was not on a coffee break.

I tried kept on keeping the distance between us, which was becoming difficult as he made a slow approach without being obvious.

Abruptly changing tactic he mentioned that he was hungry asking me to join him for breakfast once the details were taken care of. Of course I told him the last thing on my mind was food worry about my step dad and his condition was all that was on my mind. Apparently no was not part of his vocabulary, he just would not take it for an answer. He persisted in attempting to convince me to join him, while I kept walking away and praying for someone, anyone to drive by.

The longer he hung around the more my senses buzzed warning me that my very existence was in danger. Time was running short it would not be much longer before he made a move. I needed to formulate a plan that involved more than walking around the car.

Just as panic began to ensue I was granted a miracle. The tow truck arrived driven by someone who appeared to spend all of his free time lifting weights. Even his muscles had muscles.

My stalker took one look at him and knew whatever small chance there may have been had just gone up in smoke. He made one final halfhearted effort to lure me away with him seeing my newfound resolve he climbed into his car and drove away.

Not knowing if he was gone or lurking around some dark and sinister corner I chatted up the driver asking him if he could provide me with a ride home. It was not a long walk but I was not about to make it alone.

My request proved unnecessary though just as he finished hooking up the car my parents returned from the ER.

I was never more thankful to see anyone in my life.

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

Original Post April 2004

What The WAMU?

I did something yesterday, which to my knowledge I have never done before. I withdrew money from my bank account and left my ATM card in the machine. Unfortunately I was about thirty miles from home and did not realize my card was missing until I returned to my part of town. I immediately visited the local Washington Mutual branch, as it was their North Hollywood branch where I hoped my card was waiting.

Well it was and it wasn’t.

I do not bank with WAMU but frequent their ATM’s because my credit union does not charge fees for withdrawals from WAMU branches.

The manager of the North Hollywood branch was contacted. According to her in banker speak my card was indeed captured. However, upon capture it was immediately put to sleep (shredded) apparently they have a policy that all non-WAMU cards are destroyed upon capture.

Needless to say I was flabbergasted. Upon returning home I immediately visited the WAMU site and sent the following E-Mail.

My account is with the Los Angeles Federal Credit Union. However, since the main branch is located in Glendale and I live in San Dimas I am a frequent user of WAMU ATM's. The no transaction fee for withdrawals is a big plus for me.

Yesterday I was in North Hollywood and I withdrew money from your ATM on the corner of Riverside and Lankershim in North Hollywood. Upon completing my transaction, I for the first time ever, forgot my ATM card in a machine.

I failed to realize this until I returned to San Dimas later that afternoon and I immediately went to the San Dimas branch on Via Verde. The branch manager was extremely cooperative, called the North Hollywood branch and spoke to the manager their.

The branch had recovered my card but had immediately shredded it. Should a customer not at the very least have a grace period until the end of the business day to claim their lost card? This is a great inconvenience to me and I am sure to many other customers. Could someone please explain this policy to me?

Now upon reading this E-Mail is it not immediately clear that my account is with another company and not WAMU? Well apparently not so clear because this is the E-Mail I received from some non-thinking underpaid cubical dwelling customer service brain stem.

Thanks for contacting Washington Mutual.

Generally, when an ATM card is received by a Washington Mutual Financial center, they will hold on to the card for 24 hours. If no one claims the card, it is then shredded. I apologize that you were not able to get your card back, however, it is a security step some financial centers may take immediately.

To order a Visa* Check Card, Debit, you may do one of the following:

- If you have not changed your address within the most recent 30 days, you may:

* Log on to your accounts at wamu.com and select "My Message Center" under "Account Services."
-- Click "Send a Message," then select "Checking, Money Market and
Savings" from the available categories.
-- Click "Next" and complete the form, asking us to order you a new card including the card type (Visa* Check Card, Debit MasterCard* or ATM Card) and your current mailing address. Once received, we generally reply within twenty-four hours confirming the actions we've taken.

* Call us at the toll-free number listed below.

- If you have changed your address within the past 30 days, please visit a Washington Mutual financial center.

If your card was lost or stolen, please send a secure message, or call us as soon as possible at the toll-free number listed below so we may cancel your card.

Note: To ensure your account information is kept strictly confidential, we cannot order a Visa* Check Card within 30 days of an address change.
Instead, please visit a financial center.

Nowhere in their email does the brain stem mention the police for non-WAMU customers. Although I find it rather harsh that even WAMU customers have only a twenty-four window to claim their cards. I may be wrong but if they are WAMU customers is there not someone in the branch who can run the card, find the contact information and call the customer.

Of course not unlike most so called “caring” conglomerates they claim this is for the protection of the customer. Not believing this I went to an expert on banking matters.

My mother.

She was a branch manager and vice-president with B of A for a number of years. No sooner did I explain the situation before she answered my unasked question. She said that is bullshit. They shred the cards because it is cheaper than following the required procedures of locking each found card in a double custody cabinet and maintaining a log of each cards final outcome. Bottom line is that it saves money and most banks are guilty of card shredding these days.

1959 Revisited

Unbelievable as it may seem the trauma of my birth did not in fact lead to my mother swearing off sex and children forever.

In May of 1963 she gave birth to my sister. Easy as deliveries go. No trauma, no stiches and no giant head.

In August of 1964 my mother gave birth to my brother who she swears to this day was one of those unplanned accidents. If my sister's birth was easy than his was a walk in the park. The doctor was literally telling her to keep her legs crossed as they rushed her to the delivery room.

No more children after that. Before the end of 1965 my father's alcholism was so bad that mom was left with no choice but to leave him.

Anxiety: A Love Story

Anxiety disorder is never fun. For those who are blessed to have lived their lives without experiencing the sheer terror of a panic attack consider yourselves fortunate. Not only do the panic attacks themselves suck the bigger issue though is the scars left behind if they begin to occur on a regular basis.

My anxiety issues began innocently enough. An odd panic attack scattered over period comprising several years. When they are that random the signs are difficult to recognize and if not severe are often ignored.

Once they begin to flare up on a regular basis the whole process is turned on its ear. Every odd heartbeat, catch in the throat, stressful moment has to be examined. Which in and of itself can become a trigger as the mind is always focusing on the possible arrival of a panic filled situation.

The odd part at least for me is how the rational and irrational become two separate voices in my head during an attack. Similar to those old cartoons where an angel and a devil would appear on a characters shoulders offering conflicting advice.

The rational mind will stand back and tell you to chill out, we can deal with this, over active anxiety is all we are dealing with it to will pass.

The irrational on the other hand is running around screaming hitting every alarm. Blood pressure up, heart rate up, trembling limbs obvious and fear of death overwhelming. In severe cases the irrational always wins.

Personally I have been in the ER with an attack and found myself apologizing to the staff saying I know it is a panic attack and I am going to feel real stupid when it passes. Without exception I have been told you would feel even worse if it was a heart attack and you had not come in.

When, as in my case, they are severe enough, they can lead to agoraphobia. My fear of panicking in a public place keeps me away from certain activities. I stay away from big crowds. Eat dinner early if I am out. Go to matinees at the movie theater. The one place I have no problem visiting is a bookstore. I can ignore the crowds and lose myself in words.

Usually meditation is one of the key tools used in dealing with anxiety. In my case meditation has been a failure, primarily due to ongoing lung problems, which I have posted on many times.

On my worst days even words escape me though. I find that my mind is spinning so quickly I cannot even concentrate on the book in hand. I have gone from averaging a book a week to a book every two and a half weeks.

By far the medication that works best for me is Xanex, which is also the most addictive, and therefore the most dangerous. Especially for someone such as myself whose family tree is full of various addicts, therefore Xanex is my rainy day medicine taken only when all else fails. For most people .25 mg is enough. In my case a normal panic attack responds to .50 but a severe attack requires 1 mg., Which is enough to knock a normal person back for 24 hours.
As far as daily medicine I have tried most and Paxil CR seems to work best for me. A few months back it was recalled because the CR (controlled release) part was not working properly. At the time it was not a problem as its effectiveness in my case had begun to wane. I switched to Zoloft, which was a big mistake. So a month ago I switched back to Paxil CR. It is not perfect but better than anything else I have tried.

It was no problem at first but now it appears that the factory has not kept up with demand since reproduction began. No one has any. I do not want to revisit the old crew as none did the job. So basically I have to bite the bullet until the problem is solved. I have some semi generic stuff that does not work as well.

Which leaves me with Xanex as my best friend, on a desperate search for Xanex and considering where in the world I can go that is less stressful than LA.

Any suggestions?

darkness

lifetimes spent scouring
emotions
questing for
pieces
missing from a life’s
puzzle
hollowed out vessels
longing
for replenishment
failure of reason
led
to ground zero
accepting
once again
limitations of
emotion
a heart with no
strings
offered to one
malicious
untrue
unfaithful
having not
imagination enough
unseeingly grasping
for emotional clues
lacking the key of
understanding
possession of ego
bragging of conquest
love nothing more
than a booby prize
in a backwoods
carnival
comfort withheld
before salty pools
of desperate lonely
tears
blame distributed
on winds of fear
scattering
bitter remnants of
failures past
decaying memories
fade into infinite
darkness

Scare

He haunted the outer rim of sanity. Protecting his soul from silent darkness his mission. Weapons were archaic and few. Aluminum foil, duct tape and a long forgotten Barry Manilow cd.

Remembered nights in the Copacabana sipping whiskey with a blue-eyed beauty one dance and a lifetime of memories. (What was her name?)

If not the Copa maybe they had worn matching straight jackets shared panic in the patient lounge at Las Encinas.

Moments lost when his memory was scrubbed clean with electric sandpaper in a room benignly labeled "Utility Closet" by a suit with a misguided sense of irony.

Despite Tesla like wattage voices continued to mock him screeching "Marco Polo" while blindly he roamed the infinite emptiness in search of a moment's peace.

Beyond the horizon of what normals called reality little green gremlins chased the sandman into the abyss. Leaving him contemplating four white walls and a door less closet inhabited by mythic monsters.

Where his sanity had once been pressed and hung. Useless armor against sharpened needles, filled with chemicals promising better tomorrows, wielded by doctors claiming to offer hope.

He knew better. Vitriolic experiences prepared him for unseen truths. Behind innocent appearing surgical masks were renaissance clowns laughing manically.

And he screamed.

Another Blast From The Past. Specifically April 2004. Not sure what happened that month but for being six months from Halloween I had several dark posts.

Momdate: In Dr. God We No Longer Trust

Happens every time. Progress appears to be moving at slightly more than a snails pace when like a brick wall to the face you are hit by the sudden intense realization that your first instincts were right the man is a moron.

If you were present for the most recent episode of my mother's journey through what we laughingly call a health care system. dr. god had descended from on high and after nearly a year of providing my mothers cancer treatment he felt she was worthy of his full attention. No phone calls, no dictation, no nurse sitting on his lap you get the picture. He discussed her treatment, how well she was doing and the possibility of alternative pain management. He even refered her back to her bone doctor who also specializes in severe pain control.

Now it wasn't that I believed the leopard had changed his spots. Maybe moved a few around. Most importantly he seemed to actually be taking an interest in my mom and her health issues.

SURE.

Fast forward to last week. Mom and sister returned from Italy on Tuesday. Instead of heading for Bullhead and home on Wed. mom hung around for her pain management appointment on Friday.

She arrived for her appointment and so did the bone doctor with a rather puzzled air about him. They have a good doctor/patient relationship so for a few moments it was catching up time. He asked about her trip to Italy inquired as to how she was feeling than with politeness taken care of he got down to brass tacks and asked her what she was their to see him for.

Now it was moms turn to appear puzzled. She told him that dr. god had refered her to him for pain treatment.

Now the doctor was not only puzzled but frustrated. He asked and found that my mom had no records with her. dr. god had told her he would take care of everything.

Wrong.

No phone call or message informing the doctor of his referal. No records forwarded, nothing. The doctor was beside himself. I cannot even know if you qualify for the treatment without a bone scan and xrays. Mom informed him she just completed a bone scan and the records were at the hospital across the street. Doc had someone call and no one at the hospital would pull the records. So doc called himself and argued for twenty minutes but it was no good. Seems that Friday at four in the afternoon is not a good time in the records room at the hospital. What with the weekend starting and all who has the time to deal with something as bothersome as their job.

Hanging up in frustration he proceeded to contact dr. gods office for the records. Same problem to close to the weekend so no one could be bothered.

Doc did his best took some xrays but because the pain treatment involves needles in the spine his hands are tied without the scan. One wrong needle and moms in a wheelchair.

So bottomline is that dr. god still does not care. Mom has to drive back up from Bullhead in a week for another round of Wheel of Treatment.

Scared

Summer 1976: sixteen years old and much to my surprise my parents trusted me, trusted me enough to leave me alone for a long weekend.

Being rather staid and somewhat boring they in reality were not taking much of risk. Therefore I was not looking to test fate and lose my parents faith by staging my own “Risky Business” weekend. I followed the rulebook to a T. No friends over, no drinking, no sex, no drugs a quiet weekend alone at home. If I did borrow the car I was anal enough to have back in the garage before dark.

My time was spent watching a bit of television, eating a Swanson’s Turkey TV Dinner and did what I was most prone to doing, losing myself in a book. The main course this particular weekend was a novel based on The Omen written by David Seltzer. I had not seen the film, which allowed the book to completely capture my attention.

I shared a room with my brother, which meant for the first time since I was six the room mine.

Eleven o'clock Saturday night found me sprawled across my bed lost in the eternal battle between good and evil. Damian and his satanic forces had eliminated most of the forces of light allowing the antichrist’s mission to go forward.

The book left me a bit unsettled. I was tired and ready for a good nights sleep. Turning off the light I buried myself beneath the covers awaiting the sandman’s arrival.

Before sleep could claim me for no particular reason I felt a tickle in the back of my brain. Primordial in nature electrical signals were being sent preparing instinctively for fight or fright. Sense’s on overload I felt the psychic pressure of someone or something watching me.

Nervous laughter erupted from deep within my chest, surely it was nothing but the Omen messing with my imagination. The feeling was unignorable, growing stronger by the moment.

Wrapping myself in a cocoon of blankets I buried my head beneath several pillows. Repeating a silent mantra: nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong.

Failure scented the room my imagination had a faulty wire caught in a loop of illogic insisting fear was the order of the day. The sandman himself must have sensed something amiss, his appointed rounds passed with sleep but a distant memory.

With previously untested resolve I resolutely tossed off the covers back removing my head from beneath the pillows.

Turning my head towards the opposite wall and my brother's bed I paused eyes tightly clenched. With trepidation I opened on eye only to be confronted by a menacing red glow originating from beneath his bed climbing with malice toward the ceiling. Vivid imagination provided accompanying sound effects the otherworldly screech of the gates of hell as they opened.

My heart raced, lungs failed and I swear that might first gray hair sprang forth that evening. Collecting what little courage remained I flew from room to room lights on, radio on, television on. My parent's room became my refuge, for the simple reason that it occupied the furthest geographic point from my room. Ragged breaths chased each other around the room sounding more like a ninety year old with emphysema than the lungs of a sixteen year old. Collecting my thoughts was time consuming but a small particle of rational began to develop.

Once logical thinking returned I began to understand on some level that evil had in fact not conquered the dust bunnies residing beneath brother's bed. Convincing myself to check took nearly an hour of silent debate.

Finally wrapping myself in a coat of fractured wits my weak and weary legs carried me with little resistance to the room. With a yardstick for a sword I raised my brothers blanket from the floor quickly tossing it onto the bed. Lowering myself to hands and knees I took a quick peak beneath. To quick I failed to see anything.

Taking a deep breath, laying myself prone on the floor and opening my eyes I found…

A red t-shirt belonging to my brother covering a still lit flashlight, forgotten remnants of a ten year olds game.

Summer Scare

My formative years were spent exploring the back ways and by ways of the foothills which surrounded our cul-de-sac. Each day would find us heading off with lunch bags urged on by the thrill of discovery. Our greatest find was made in the summer of ’72 when we stumbled upon and overgrown piece of property. Which to our surprise hid a virtual treasure trove of abandoned buildings a preteen boys idea of the perfect playground. Within minutes we had by silent ascent chosen our summer hideaway.

The disheveled building, were in various stages of decomposition. Broken windows revealed little to the outside world. A pair of buildings listed towards each other, a pair of friendly drunks stumbling their way home on a Saturday night. Some stood with a quiet sense of dignity unwilling or unable to acknowledge how far they had fallen since their hey day. Most were gray and weathered reflecting their age and the sad state of their affairs.

When we stumbled across the main entrance we found the look to be apropos as the ruins we were exploring were the remains of a once thriving convalescent hospital.

Several buildings were two or three stories high perfect stand ins for military installations when war games were on the day’s agenda. Our skirmishes were similar to capture the flag. Dividing ourselves into two teams, each team would choose a building for their headquarters. Simply put the object was to sneak into the opposing teams building stealing their flag while simultaneously protecting your own.

One afternoon while enmeshed in the middle of a titanic struggle a stairway was discovered leading down rather than up. Electricity was but a distant memory and the stairs appeared to fade into nothing. Flashlights were not part of our regular inventory and though none of us said it aloud we were a bit intimidated by what appeared to be the entrance to the cellar.

For a several days stairs like most bad dreams were ignored and our battles continued unabated. Before long though the inevitable and exploring the basement became the price to be paid by the losing team.

As it turned out the skull team of which I was member lost and we were face with the prospect of exploring the unknown or sneaking home with our tales between our legs. Somewhat reluctantly, with our friends egging us on and knowing we would never live it down we accepted our fate flashlights in hand and descended into the waiting darkness.

We tentatively explored for ten or fifteen minutes failing to discover anything more earth shattering than dust, dust and you guessed it more dust. The basement consisted for the most part of offices and laboratories. Also, ancient equipment used for reasons now lost to history and furniture broken and scattered about the floor becoming nothing more than clerical bones.

Or so we thought.

As these things tend to happen just as we were ready to throw in the towel and climb back into the glorious sunlight we had the misfortune to stumble across a second set of stairs continuing ever downward into the darkness. In silent agreement we descended the stairs until our passage was blocked by a closed door preventing further forward movement. There was a cracked and faded sign clinging with tenacity to the door. When with our shirtsleeves we managed to remove most of the dust and cobwebs we found that it read simply “Morgue Entrance.”

Our first instinct without a doubt was to turn run for fear of what we might find on the other side. Boys will be boys though and before fear could kick in we goaded each other into continuing. We passed through the door only to find ourselves in a long, mildew smelling hallway. Several doors opened off the hall and we found more empty offices and one room that resembled an operating theater.

A sign on the far wall directed us to the morgue, which of course, was behind the very last door at the end of the hall. We slowly moved forward with trepidation until we could see through the shadows that the door to the morgue was propped open. Our flashlights played along the corridor, leaving ghoulish shadow puppets to mark their passage until by unspoken agreement they came to rest on the floor in front of the morgue door.

Our silence grew so deep that you could have heard an angel sneeze on the head of a pin.

Before our unbelieving eyes was what appeared to be a white shoe, not an abandoned shoe mind you; no its owner seemed to have further use for it as it contained a foot and a white stockinged leg. Three hearts leapt into three throats leaving three boys feeling as if their chest were on the verge of exploding. In perfect unison we turned and ran screaming from the building.

Of course at first our friends did not believe us at first. When we finally convinced them they through super powers or hypnosis managed to convince us to show them the LEG. Together we with a great deal of hesitation made our way back down into the darkness. We found the door had remained as we left it. We pointed out the shoe and its contents but as you may have already guessed, well enough would never be left alone. Dares began flying fast and furious around the room until someone drew the short straw taking the challenge of opening the door.

Two flashlights like six shooters clutched in trembling hands he nervously but steadily approached his fate. Finding a discarded cane and using it to keep some distance between himself and the door, he reached out and shoved it open.

Standing still as a statue he seemed to lose himself in the moment than without warning he released an earth-shattering scream. Needing no further encouragement we broke ranks surpassing all existing land speed records in our escape. When we were firmly back in the suns embrace we fell panting to the ground.

As we continued to gather our wits and prepare for the usual round of bragging we realized one of our members had failed to escape. Our friend who was left with the task of opening the door was nowhere to be found.

However before we went could fall into full panic mode he appeared in the doorway laughing his ass off. In his hand he held our "leg" which as it turned out was nothing more than a prosthetic leg left behind by the dearly departed.


Summer scare is a repost from April 2004.

1959

1959, the evening of October 1st, somewhere around 10:00 PM. The young mother to be was sure that after nearly a month of false starts that the consistent, savage pain had to be the beginning of labor. She bit her lip to the point of drawing blood as another wave of pain crashed over her.

She knew the pain would be beyond description but this pain was almost beyond reason. Advice concerning both carrying and delivering a baby had come at her like raindrops in a summer squall. Even customer customers at the diner felt compelled beyond acceptable social norms to reach out and pat the belly tossing advice like tips her way.

“Your carrying high it will be a boy.”

“Your carrying high it will be a girl.”

“Your so big you must be carrying twins.”

“You shouldn’t be working deary, bed rest is the key to a healthy, happy baby.”

“Good for you sweetie, work is the best thing for expectant moms.”

Of course the most difficult of the unsolicited advice always came from dear sweet mom.

“Twenty is much to young to be a mother. You are still a baby yourself.”

“You and Wayne have been married near two years and you have had a miscarriage and now you’re close to being a mom. What’s the hurry? Why in my day…”

“You should have gone to college, met a nice professional man. Traveled had babies later. But no you never listen to me.”

She was startled back to the present by the horn of the Cadillac as Wayne pulled up to take her to the hospital. He said he had been working late; working on another hangover was closer to the truth. She could smell the beer on his breath, a smell he had tried to cover with the smell of several stick of gum. The mixture of scents brought her to the brink of nausea. Throwing up in the front seat was only prevented by another wave of pain, which nearly doubled her over.

The maternity ward at the hospital was rather quiet. Which in and of itself was not surprising since the grand opening of this wing had been two days ago. She had never expected to give birth here. Her due date had been the first week of September and arrangements had been made for her to deliver at the new hospital in the next town over. Despite the worry she was secretly glad she was late, she new the staff at this hospital and felt much more at home.

With I’s dotted and t’s crossed, Wayne ensconced in the waiting room the duty nurse escorted her to the labor room. She helped her to clumsily change out of the tent that was laughingly called a maternity dress, kept her from falling when the next wave hit and made her as comfortable as possible when she climbed into bed.

The pain was coming fast and furious and the young mother was sure that within hours she would be the proud new mother of a beautiful baby. Those hopes were dashed when the doctor informed her after an examination that she was barely two centimeters dilated and there was a ways to go before the actual birthing process began.

Hours passed with a slowness that only comes with a combination of anticipation and fear. Each visit from the doctor brought the anticipation of childbirth only to have her hopes dashed by the iceberg like slowness of her body’s response to task at hand.

October 2nd five o’clock in the afternoon and the faint glow of a light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel appeared on her horizon. Exhaustion wrapped her body in a cocoon of sweat combined with random tremors wracking muscles that before today she would have sworn were not part of her physiology.

Hope swelled within as she imagined in mere moments nuzzling the neck of her child.

The delivery room was cold, white and sterile. Dominated by a device that only the Marquis de Sade could have imagined. The nurse explained to her that it was a bed designed to assist in the delivery process. In her mind all she saw was a massive device of inhuman torture.

Several nurses assisted has she was moved from her bed to this remnant of the Spanish Inquisition. They took her legs, strapping them onto metal like arms, which left her spread-eagled for the world to see.

At this point she was beyond caring. Labor pains were mere minutes apart. Sweat was pouring from every pore. Her hair was stuck to her head in clumps and her face was white from the strain of contractions.

Finally the doctor made his grand appearance. Robed, masked and gloved a conductor prepared to lead the symphony. He directed the various nurses to their stations pulled up a stool and proceeded to perform a thorough examination. With new vigor he announced that the magic number of ten centimeters had been reached and that I was now allowed to push with controlled abandon.

One nurse held my hand with each painful push as another angel wiped my clammy feverish forehead with a cold cloth. One push followed another like clockwork. Hours seemed to pass in minutes yet no progress was made. The doctor could be heard cursing under his breath. Mumbling something about the baby’s head.

Ten o’clock and the new mother was close to exhaustion. Contractions on top of contraction had brought her to a new chasm from which she was not sure she could return.
She may have passed out for a moment, when she came to she was looking in to the concerned eyes of her doctor.

“We have a serious situation on our hands. Your child’s head seams to have become stuck in the canal. You have begun to bleed which is not a good sign. We are doing our best to keep the two you with us but it is touch and go. If we do not get this baby out soon he could suffocate and/or you could bleed to death. You need to stay with us, focus, lets get that baby out for both of your sakes.”

They gave her a brief respite from pushing. Allowing her some ice chips and some tortured breaths between contractions. The doctor took advantage of the diversion and went to the waiting room to speak to her husband.

He found him on the sidewalk in front of the hospital nervously pacing the sidewalk with a Camel clenched between his thumb and index finger. Upon seeing the doctor his face grew pale and he ground his half smoked cigarette into the sidewalk. The doctor explained the situation with the added caveat that at some point a choice may have to be made as who to save the unborn child or his wife. In his heart he selfishly wanted to say his wife but he knew that without blinking she would of said their child so that was what he told the doctor save the child.

Returning to the delivery room the doctor soon found the delivery going from bad to worse. The baby was still in the canal. The mother was bleeding and her blood pressure was dangerously low. At this point he was not sure he could save either.

Stepping to the head of the table he gripped her hand for one final pep talk. “I know you are beyond exhaustion and that you just want to sleep. Most would have given up by now. Your will to live is strong and I refuse to lose either of you. So what I want you to do is dig deep and find some reserve of energy buried deep within. Use that energy to give me one last series of strong pushes. It will hurt like hell but we will save you and your baby”

Weakly she squeezed his hand in agreement and geared herself for one last try.

With hands and medical tools at the ready he gave the nurses the signal for her to begin. She screamed with the effort and pushed with every last ounce of reserve. Flesh tore but by some miracle the doctor was finally able to see the crown of the child’s head. Another push more screaming and tearing and better than half of the head was through the canal. A final scream and prolonged push and like a cork the baby shot out into the doctors waiting arms. He handed the baby to the nurses who informed the exhausted mother that she had a baby boy.

The doctor was more concerned about the damage done to the woman’s body. In the background he could here the angry cry of the newborn as his airway was cleaned and he was wrapped in warm blankets. For his part needle and thread in hand he began the long process of sewing the torn pieces of her body back together.
In the end close to two hundred stitches were needed to repair the damage to her young body. Her boy’s head had been too big for the canal due to the lateness of the delivery. In 1959 the technology did not exist to identify these problems in vitro. By the grace of God and the skill of the hospital staff both mother and son survived.

And by the way the mother in question was my very own who I love honor and cherish to this day. Before you ask yes the bigheaded baby was me.

On this my 46th birthday I wanted to take a moment to publicly acknowledge and thank my mom for all she went through to bring me into this world.

THANKS MOM!!!

Halloween 1980

Halloween 1980. It was my first Halloween as manager of the records department and at 21 the youngest manager in the building, all eight floors of it. Insecure is an understatement when it comes to how I felt dealing with all of the incrusted dinosaurs that had been with the institution for years and for that matter should have been institutionalized. Close to one hundred percent of them had issues with my running my own department without having kissed all of the ass they had to in order to get their positions.

Protecting my flank was my number one priority and dealing with a staff that desired to work costumed on Halloween was not one I wanted to run by my boss. Much to my surprise I received a flier announcing that costumes wearing and a costume contest were part of the days design.

Somewhat reluctantly I informed the staff that costuming was in though in the back of my worried mind I expected dire consequences to erupt from Hallows Eve. Of course with about fifty sets of eyes on me there was no way I was going to risk costuming myself.

With the arrival of the big day my mind was fortunately more occupied by business matters allowing me to ignore the inner tension a bit of bubbling lava bubbling below the surface which, if history had taught me anything it had taught me that before five I would be apologizing for the inappropriate dress and/or behavior exhibited by a member of my crack staff.

The business at hand was the orientation and training of a new employee. She was a transfer from another office and I had yet to meet her. With my morning agenda at the forefront of my mind I opened the vault and did my best to prepare for the arrival of my costumed mob. To be fair my staff for the most part was dependable. However they were young, inexperienced and tended to test my patience on a regular basis.

Which as fate would have it the first two arrivals did. They arrived dressed as a male/female Siamese twin. Quite a bit of work went into the costume and I was for the most part impressed by the effect. That being said their job was similar to that of a library assistant. Rather than books they pulled and returned loan files. I could not see how they were going to get anything accomplished dressed in such a manner. Not wanting to remove their zeal for the holiday I agreed that they could stay clothed in that manner as long as it passed mustard with my boss.

The Siamese twins were the calm before the storm they were rapidly followed by a witch, a gangster moll, a Cyclops (don’t ask), Cinderella, a soldier, a pregnant nun (who happened to be a guy) and the best non-professional Groucho Marx I have ever seen.

Dispatching the crew to a mixed bag of tasks I returned to my desk to find notes informing me that two employees were ill and sitting in my visitor’s chair the welcome appearance of the new kid, because despite the costume party atmosphere it was going to be a busy day.
Sitting down with a sigh I introduced myself to Tawny Stevens she appeared surprised that I knew who she was (I snuck a peek at her personnel file cover as I sat) as her transfer was a last minute deal. Point in fact I was not expecting her until the first so to a degree I was just as surprised.

I found out almost immediately that Tawny was rather shy and not much for small talk. As I read through her file she kept her eyes on the floor in front of her. Only offering a clipped yes or no to my questions.

She appeared to be a bit more than ten years older than myself. Which would have made her around 32. Her hair was short, ash blonde in color and rather simply in style. Her make up to was simple. A little blush, a bit of lipstick and if she wore any fragrance it was undetectable to my nose. Her dress was a simple plaid, knee length with sensible black shoes on her feet. My first impression was that she was a no nonsense person who would probably be good at her job. As I introduced her around I considered asking if she could type, as I had to do all my own typing. No secretary in my budget.

I left Tawny in the very capable hands of my assistant and returned to the drudgery of paperwork. It was performance evaluation time, which could take awhile. Considering I had twelve employees all performing the exact same tasks but required to create twelve separate but equal reviews. In other words say the same thing twelve times while creatively finding a way to twist the words to say the same thing without being obvious.

With little effort the morning flew by. Few questions from my staff, even fewer interruptions from the phone I was not getting my hopes up but maybe just maybe the entire day would be this smooth.

About 12:30 Tom reminded me about lunch and we left for an all you could eat buffet within spitting distance of our building. Eating lunch there sometimes felt like eating in the employee cafeteria as more often than not more than half the employees could be found dining there. Tom and I exchanged greeting with a few people, grazed for some food and found a table where we could relax.

I was just about to dig in when I noticed the new girl Tawny in line. She came our way and before I could Tom offered her a seat. Apparently she was just as wordless outside of the office as in. Both Tom and I tried but we could not draw her into any conversation.

So we chatted quietly, nibbled at our food doing our best not to make our new coworker nervous. Before long I noticed that one of my softball buddies was sitting behind me at the next table. Turning in my seat I asked him about this weeks game schedule and post game beer and pizza fest. His response was almost immediately interrupted by the sound of someone calling my name. I recognized the voice and wondered what the hell he was doing here, as he was one of the employees who had called in sick.

Turning I received the biggest shock of my rather young and naïve life. It was Tawny who was calling me, except she was not Tawny he was Tony. My new employee was my old employee and one of my closest friends.

My jaw if it had been physically possible would have found itself floating in a bowl of cold (now congealing) chicken soup. I was speechless. Tom was red in the face from laughing so hard.

It was than that I flashed back to six months ago. Tony and I were eating lunch outside the building and he had mentioned a past Halloween where he had dressed in drag for a costume party and made it through half the party before someone figured out who he was. I had called him in on it. Telling him that it must have been people he did not know, someone like me who knew him would not be so easily fooled.

He had gotten this impish twinkle in his eye and swore that someday he would show up to work in drag and fool everybody. I laughed it off. Never expecting that he could fool me.

Well someday arrived on October 31, 1980 and just as Tony promised I was the fool.