Monthly Archives: July 2013

Plan B

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Bits stopped listening the instant Jelly uttered the words, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” And the whole time Jelly extolled the benefits of his ‘Plan B,’ Bits wondered about the phrase.

Where did it come from? What could possibly require one to know how to skin a cat, say nothing about why they would need more than one way? How many ways were there? Did someone at some point change the problem from skinning the cat at the onset to actually working through a number of potential ways to determine which one worked best?

She imagined a small research team charting and plotting the goal of getting a cat skinned only to realize once they finished that there might be many more efficient ways to accomplish the task.

“We are going to need a lot more cats,” she heard one say in the back of her mind.

She was also convinced that Jelly’s ‘Plan B’ was doomed to fail. Just casually throwing out the cat skinning analogy without knowing spit about actual cat skinning implied to her that he really had no idea what he was talking about.

Muffin

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Muffin romped over the top of the hill down into Farrington Glenn.

Gimple’s sigh and following scowl drew Custer’s attention. “What worries you so,” he asked.

“She’s slight and reckless,” Gimple answered.

“She’s smarter than you give her credit for,” said Custer. “And she’s only doing what we all agreed needed to be done.”

Gimple tightened his grip on the wooden lever, the trigger of the trap. He watched as Muffin tumbled down the hill giggling. Nearly blissful, he thought. She should be more aware. The pangs of guilt made his stomach roll. “She doesn’t really realize, does she?”

Custer grabbed his shoulder with a comforting squeeze. “She knows.”

Gimple looked at Custer with a quick side glance, “She’s bait.”

Custer squinted out over the hill top letting a heavy breath ease its way from his chest. Another of Muffin’s giggles floated back to him. “She knows.”

Precocious

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At the age of seven and a half, Criss’s grandmother dubbed her as ‘precocious.’ Since then, it’s been a private goal of hers to live up to that.

She could not remember much about her grandmother or many of the things she might have said to her for as their visits to her stately home in Crendinmore were many, their direct interactions were few.

Their visits were routine. There would be hugs and hearty greetings at the door, then the adults would either step away to the sitting room or gather around a large table in the kitchen to talk. In the mornings they would sip coffee and nibble at coffeecakes. Visits later in the day involved simple drinks of alcohol and the sharing of a modest, yet adequate platter of cheese and crackers.

The children were to play. They were given all the freedom they could handle, but the expectation was that they would play, and play nicely, without raising a ruckus so as to disturb the adults. So they played simply, or flipped through old books and magazines to keep the noise to a minimum and the prospect of getting in trouble at bay.

Shame

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Shame. It was a sad thing.

Jinx did good work. The job proved to be hard and it stretched the end of his skills to a new level – a better development for future work. It was a relief to get it all done and done well. Then the compliments came in.

He would have been disappointed had he not received any, but when they came in, rather than accepting and enjoying, and absorbing a real sense of appreciation, he grew warm with embarrassment and discomfort. He knew others who bask in the glow of praise, still others who belittle any level of praise as inadequate, and insulting. But for Jinx, even a modicum of acclaim carried with it a heavy sense of unease.

The Page

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The page had possibilities.

The page had weight.

The page held within it a masterwork or a ruined scrap.

Much like a sculptor who stands before a block of granite or mound of clay, so eager, yet so hesitant to make that first cut, the writer stares into the depth of potential that lies beyond the surface at the page, waiting for the very right moment to write that very first and most important word. For every word that follows is a step down a path toward a new idea. Every word that follows is a decision that accepts some notions and rejects others. Every word that follows is a vessel that carries with it an intimate piece of the writer.

Aware or unaware, hidden in folly or stated boldly, the words place the writer on the page, bare and vulnerable.

People

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Burke felt great about everything for about the first 30 minutes.

He signed the volunteer sheet for the Ketchum County Volunteer Fire Department Family Fire Awareness Day two months before. Four days ago the call came in and his task was to distribute free hot dogs under the canopy tucked neatly between the face painter and the guy making balloon animals for the kids.

His set up was simple, the cooking team would bring him the hot dogs, each was placed in a bun and wrapped in a piece of aluminum foil. On the side of his table stood dispensers for ketchup, mustard, relish and napkins.

For the first 30 minutes, the guests were lovely and the exchange routine. Would you like a hot dog? Yes, thank you. There are condiments over right over there. Oh, very nice – thank you again. Have a lovely day.

After about 30 minutes, the people…changed.

Are these really free?
Do you have any hamburgers? Why not? I really like hamburgers better.
Do you have any onions?
Could I get some chili?
Aren’t you providing anything to drink?
Are these whole wheat buns?
How many calories are in one of these?
Can I have seven? My sister couldn’t come today?
Are these organic?
Were these made in America?
Are these all beef or made from other stuff?
This seems like it could be warmer. Can you have them warm this up for me?
Can I see how they are cooking them?
Do you know how they make hot dogs? If you did, you probably wouldn’t be giving the away.
Is this hot dog tied in any way to the blood diamond trade?
Hot dogs are not very healthy. You should be serving fruit.

As the afternoon wore on, Burke’s smile was firmly in place, and he performed his task admirably. But…it took everything he had not to pelt people, hard, with foil-wrapped wieners. Not because he wanted to. More because…they really deserved it.

Stars

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The stars were…exquisite.

They gleamed and danced above him as he lay there staring at them through a strange irregular haze. His eyes wanted to close, but he wanted to watch the stars.

An ever present tone rang out. It might have been an array of notes, a chord maybe, but one tone clearly stood out from among the rest. Was that an A? Maybe a C sharp. Where was it coming from?

A warmth rose to his face that quickly boiled into an uncomfortable heat. His left eye started to close, not because he willed it, but because the heat on his face seemed to demand it. He could sense his cheek expanding.

For some reason, the memory of the day his Aunt Clare made those heavenly double chocolate macadamia nut cookies flashed through his head. He could see her smiling.

Cookies.

He tried to sit, but the gravity held fast as if he were strapped to the planet itself. He blinked slowly, once, and again. The image of Kitch standing over him faded into view. Kitch was yelling…something at him. He couldn’t tell what for the sake of the tone.

He moved his head back and forth a bit. His brain sloshed inside his skull like water in a bucket.

Cookies.

Did they have white chocolate chips?

He saw Kitch reach for him. In the moment, Kitch’s hand grabbed his lapel the stars cleared, his eyes focused and a realization shot through him like a bolt of lightning. He had never been hit so hard in his life.

Writing

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Criz dropped the pen.

Rubbing his hands together, he reviewed the page.

Pathetic.

What was supposed to be elegant and sharp on the whole, started out with a practiced neatness, but turned into a mosh of mismatched angles and strained lines by the third sentence.

His handwriting was never stellar, but there was a time there where at least had some consistency…some uniformity in construction. He had known people over the years who could write like their own font had been programmed directly into their hands. No matter the circumstance, they could tirelessly create smooth lines, clear turns and regimented spacing with a certain grace that could make even a grocery list a joy for the eyes to absorb.

He mostly typed his words now. And while his high school typing teacher would disagree with his perceived mastery of the skill, he got by. At least it was legible. There were sticky notes with important things handwritten on them that he had to ball up and toss out because he couldn’t make enough sense of the scratch to trigger the right memory of what he was supposed to do. Lost information. And now, even when trying to write something to add a more personal touch, something to share that shows a deeper more personal connection between the written word and the writer, his hand rebelled with fatigue leaving the letters, words and ultimately the message diminished in some way. Far less than what he intended.

Relationships

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With the echo of the slamming door still in his head, the door that placed a resounding exclamation point on the end of his two year association with Trix, Rand put pen to paper and churned through a new, more complete, and this time “definitive” list of “must haves” for the next time he gets involved with someone.

The investment of time, energy and emotion in what was becoming a string of pale, strained and ultimately failed relationships was taking a toll. He was not so bold to think he played no role in these various ends. Quite the contrary. He felt mostly to blame, primarily for his lack of preparation and research.

The women were who they were. He firmly believed you could not change another person. You can only try to learn as much about them as possible. Then each person has to decide how much they are willing to bend to meet the needs, the eccentricities, the exotic familial circus acts, the spending habits, any potential health concerns, unique food cravings, beauty and personal maintenance rituals, sleep habits, income potential, radio station presets, awkward body ticks, recycling habits, need and desire to procreate, potential parenting skills, ability to perform simple home maintenance tasks, possibility of an aggressive religious focus following a near death experience and a whole litany of traits of the other. And, how much of what you see as your true self you want retain in the process.

As he wrote, the list grew.

There was a test section that included both multiple choice and true/false questions. He also added a short answer essay section for some of the deeper issues. Brief and succinct answers were preferred. Finally, he ended the whole thing with a question that would help turn the magnifying glass back on him. What do you expect from me?

Sing your song

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Mary poked at the buttons one after the other.

No.

Nope.

Not right.

No.

She barely gave the sounds a fair measure before judging and moving on.

No. No. No.

It was simple. This day didn’t work out. A litany things, some in succession, some in globs came at her and her efforts to resolve them or at least bat them away were futile. In some cases, she might have even taken steps to ensure the rest of the week would follow suit. A week in the toilet. Great.

Poke.

No. No. No.

A scream sat in the back of her throat longing for release and ready to carry her frustrations out into the world sending a clear message that today was not the day to mess with her. But she held it back. Instead, she wanted a song.

She found little solace in aimless screaming and ranting, but a song…the right song could bring the catharsis she longed for. Sadly, every channel in the universe and beyond seemed to be addressing someone else’s emotional needs leaving her flat.

The futility stirred with the frustration and she punched the power button leaving her in a soft silence. She sat for a moment, breathing harder than she wanted, and hating the radio more than she should. Then she closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and began to sing her own song.

Changes

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Dart looked into the mirror.

The Dart that stared back at him seemed to already know what was coming, another deluge of self analysis.

It was practically a morning ritual by now. He didn’t even speak the parts out loud anymore, but mirror Dart knew the message well.

With the first swipe of his razor, Dart self confirmed that he had two primary skills. Yes, of course he could do a great many things at an average level, but the two things he did very well, the things that came most naturally to him – like muscle memory – were that he was a very good mimic of foreign accents, and he was an ass. At least that was the vibe he got from others around him.

These were not very marketable skills at all. Well, he hadn’t found a market for them yet. He thought there might be a chance to put the accent thing to work, maybe doing cartoon voices or something, but he never really looked into it. And the being an ass thing, well, he tried to change that…a lot.

He didn’t have a problem with how he was – at least not to the extent that everyone else did. Even when he tried really hard to change, when things happen to the point where a person drops to their base for survival purposes, the one that rears its ugly head in Dart’s world is apparently, Dart the ass.

As he finished shaving Dart pointed at himself with great resolve. Today will be a new day! Today I will make the change to be a better me!

Mirror Dart pointed back with same resolve, but with a hint of weakness in the stare he returned. Yup. See you tomorrow.

Lies

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Cart had a million things to do and time was short. He couldn’t even bring himself to make a list because he would either crumble with fear at the length or be disappointed at his lack of coping skills should the list reveal that he really didn’t have as many things to do as he felt.

Numbers aside, the pressure was immense. He told himself that he worked better under pressure, but that might have been a lie.

It was a lie.

There were three basic lies that he told himself with bold regularity. He knew they were lies, but he had convinced himself there was a stink of truth about them.

The first was that he worked better under pressure. The second was that he was getting enough exercise and fiber to remain healthy so it was ok to keep buying chips. The third was that despite multiple declarations of fact and clarity, he believed with his soul that Nell Porterand really did like him in the 6th grade. There we other lies of course, but these seemed to surface most frequently.

He looked at the clock and gasped. The clock kept moving, yet his list was not getting any shorter.

He turned on the TV – oh look! Fishing in the Outer Banks.

Lie number 4, he was not a procrastinator, he was instead thinking things through before jumping into them. He would be more efficient that way. The Outer Banks looked lovely. He wondered what it might take to get there.

Lie number 5: he was not easily distracted, rather he was…

Open Letter to Kelly Ripa

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Java typed with determination and focus as she was prone to do in these situations:

An open letter to Kelly Ripa –

Dear Kelly Ripa:
We don’t know each other and I doubt that the circumstances of our existences will ever allow our paths to cross.

I probably would not even be aware of you or your work had I not been down with the flu over the past few days. My couch is my refuge while fighting unpleasant germs. I keep the TV on for noise and after one light nap, I woke up and there you were Kelly Ripa, on my TV.

You appeared to be having a good time.

I watched for a while through my itchy, watery eyes and wondered what force of nature brought Kelly Ripa into my home? The content of your program seemed very close to what my grandmother called, “blather,” yet I was compelled to look you up on the Internet and was surprised to see that some, including the Hollywood Reporter, and your audience (Were they provided cocktails at some point?!), consider you to be kind of a big deal.

It’s probably the cold capsules talking, but I may admire what looks like your ability to turn a minimal amount of talent into some sort of industry. My friend Thurma would say, “You go girl!” I have a minimal amount of talent and I was able to parlay that into a mid-line desk job filled with the joys of a steady, but modest paycheck and the dangers of potential paper cuts.

I could not watch your entire program. It’s probably the cold capsules talking, but it hurt my head. I did better with the sound off for a little while, but the voice of my grandmother said something about, “visual blather” and I turned the channel to some show about how to protect the leather interior of my car. I don’t have a leather interior.

While I mentioned at the beginning that our paths may never cross, I feel now as though, in some small way, they have. I will be able to identify you, but I probably would not approach you. I see us as just nodding at each other to acknowledge what we both know and then moving on with our days.

Stay well Kelly Ripa. Your one day future acquaintance – Java.

Local News

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Six minutes into the broadcast reconfirmed everything Sal hated about watching local news.

The patronizing tones passed through a carousel of facial expressions used to help the viewer understand the meaning of the story performed on cue as if written into the script, and perhaps it was.

The woman was worse than the man. Her pout filled faux-sadness over the tragedy of the moment shifted unceremoniously to the cloying delivery of the feel good story “viewers won’t want to miss” at the end of the program. Sal feared it would be something akin to a cow overcoming the odds of nature and traveling 500 miles cross country to return home after being left behind on the family vacation to the Ozarks.

And really, who gets that excited about weather? He wanted to wipe the smile right off that guy’s face…with sandpaper. Then again, Sal thought, if he could go to work every day and be wrong as much as this guy – with no accountability – he would probably be as excited to do his job too.

Liar?

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“Are you lying?”

The words hit her like a smart, slight slap to the face as if someone was trying to revive her after fainting. The notion that she might be lying never occurred to her. At least she didn’t label it that way.

He was asking questions and she was distracted. She had other things on her mind, but he wanted answers. So, she gave him answers.

In her mind, the act of lying carried with it a measure of intent, a planted seed of plausibility and possibility that could grow into a wall of protection against the truth. It was flawed thinking of course. Lying was deceit and darkness and really, she had no interest in deceiving him. Still in the moment, as he kept coming at her with the questions, the truth was hard, the specifics were complex and she had little interest in or energy for additional debate or conversation.

Lying?

No.

All she really wanted was for him to shut up.