Tag Archives: daily

Pre-Internet

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“Look,” Brin said to the sulking Lara. “You kids are lucky. You just don’t realize it. I met your father ‘pre-Internet.’ Do you know what that means?”

Lara pulled the Seventeen magazine on the table to her and began flipping through the pages aggressively. It was a half-baked attempt to show she wasn’t listening, but Brin knew that if she really wasn’t listening, she would have left by now.

“Yes, pre-Internet. Clearly, when I met the man who was to become your father, I didn’t have access to all the information that you people have today. After I met him, I had to talk to him – in person – to get to know him and he was the only source of information I had. You can’t imagine that, because it’s not the world you grew up in.

Sure, he had friends, but they only told me what a ‘great guy he was.’

Had I been able to look him up on Facebook or pull together some kind of Google search, you know…I might have made some different decisions.”

“Ugh…Mom, are you serious?”

“Look, I love your father. I’m just saying pre-Internet people had a huge learning curve to overcome. There was no ‘wikipedia’ to tell me all about what kind of person he was, no electronic photo albums, no friends lists, no texts, no Skype, no unlimited minute phone calls, no Twitter to let me know where he was, what he was doing, what he thought about things…none of it. So all I can say is we did the best we could with the information we had.

You know, come to think of it, maybe I found out he got on the dean’s list once…maybe not, I’m not sure. I’ve blocked so much.

Anyhow, the point is, people today, once you meet each other, and sometimes you don’t even actually meet, you have access to a world of information in minutes that can help you figure out what you might like or not like before you get too invested.”

“You think Daddy feels the same way?”

“Look, pre-Internet or not, your father is very lucky the way things worked out for him. You should have seen him when I found him.”

Lara slid the magazine back across the table. Her phone uttered a short beep causing her to look down immediately. “It’s Phil.”

“You see? How long did that take? Eleven minutes? Don’t even get me started on how long it took to ‘resolve issues’ before the Internet. You kids don’t even know what a fight is anymore. What does he say?”

“He wants to meet…to talk.”

“Uh huh. Let me give you one more piece of advice. One thing we did learn pre-Internet is that when it came time to work things out, we were already pretty good at actual real live talking. Do yourself a favor. If you really want to work on things, put the phone down. Stop texting and go talk to him.

Then…you can text me and to let me know how things go!”

Forgiveness

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He stood there on the doorstep, soaking wet as if he conjured the storm just to appear more pathetic when she opened the door.

She stood in the crack she created by pulling the door open just enough to cover the distance of her shoulders, a gesture to signal an intent to listen, but not an invitation.

He stood in silence. He had a lot to say. Most of it he already said and his intent was to say it again and if there was a way to say it with greater meaning, with a greater sense of promise, he would do it. Still, when the door opened, the practiced words seemed to evaporate.

She looked at him with cautious and hesitant eyes. She bit ever so softly on the inside of her lip. It became a habit over the years that she apparently developed when she was deep in concentration or trying to figure things out. She first noticed it when frosting a cake some time ago.

“I…,” he started.

“Don’t,” she said. “I know.”

He forced his hands deeper into his pockets. “I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t sure how this all landed on her, but the ball, as they say, was clearly in her court. He did some really stupid things. Even now, there was a part of her who wanted to punch him in the face, and she wasn’t taking that off the table, but it was decision time. She was culpable in this too.

She stood in the doorway filling the space between the jam and the door thinking, considering, hoping, debating, cursing, resisting, deciding, redeciding and redeciding again. She took in a very deep breath and looked around him blinking away a tear before slowly opening the door to create an invitation.

As he moved to step inside and out of the rain, he stopped, turned to her and pulled her close.

She hugged him back. Even soaking wet, the greater apology came through.

Maybe she would punch him later.

Evidence

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Detective, Tripp Euclaire bent under the police tape and entered the apartment. As he stood, he surveyed the room. Average. Typical. Little to draw the attention.

“Right this way, sir. At the end of the hall.”

Tripp followed the officer to the far bedroom and stepped just inside the doorway.

“We found her about an hour ago. The M.E. said possible blunt force trauma put her down. It looks like she put up a…”

The officer’s voice trailed off as Euclaire silently raised his hand to stop him from talking. There would be plenty of time for the details. This time was for observance and respect. He stepped closer not realizing the growing clench of his jaw.

She looked like Emily.

Oddly enough, despite the condition of the ravaged room around them, she looked peaceful. Had it not been for the blood spatter across her face someone could believe she was sleeping. His hand gripped the handkerchief in his pocket. He had to consciously stop his arm from wanting to move instinctively to try and wipe the offensive smear from her cheek and forehead. He didn’t know her, but she didn’t deserve this. His hand tightened in his pocket around the cloth, fighting the urge to wipe her face clean. It was the least this poor girl deserved. Still, he knew better. The harsh reality was she wasn’t a poor girl at all now. At this point, to the system, she was coldly and unequivocally…evidence.

Petition

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He looked at her and hoped he wasn’t making a face.

She stood on his doorstep young and determined, maybe 19, maybe older, it was hard to tell at that age. She held tight to her clipboard as she quickly ran through her spiel – most of it memorized – before standing quietly and waiting for him to respond.

He hated opening his door for this exact reason.

Ninety-eight percent of the people who wanted him to sign something or join something rarely reflected his personal views. Instead of signing or buying he was often more inspired to give them a good piece of his mind – to help clarify the error of their ways. This time was no different, but he held himself to silence.

She spoke of outrage, but he didn’t see it. He read about the situation himself and at the time he found himself shaking his head, “This is what people are ‘outraged’ over?”

She was clearly moved to action, but it was an action that would result in disappointment for her. The ‘outrage’ was not going to change the magazine cover, or help keep prayer in school or whatever other trivial thing that seems to put a thorn in humanity’s paw for a hot second.

She was a clean cut suburban kid who may be having her first full taste of social outrage. There were so many more things more worthy of her efforts that should not only generate true rage, but make you physically ill once you really understood the depth of the problem. Yet here she was with her petition and her determination. The last true rage she felt was probably aimed at her parents. She’d likely have better luck with a petition about that.

Twins

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Passing himself off as twins was way easier than he thought. Of course he hadn’t planned on taking it to this extreme or doing it this long, but once he reconciled the inner ethical qualms of living in a world of blatant duplicity over relative honesty, it just felt right.

Really, what he was doing was just a more literal representation of how most people live their daily lives anyhow. Sometimes, they were worse. His friend Sal had at least four distinct personalities that she could switch to without a moment’s notice. Depending on her mood, you never knew which Sal you would get.

His circumstance required a bit more finesse. It was becoming art really. He knew at some point the game would be called and one twin would have to absorb the other, but until then, the individual lives of Kevin and Klark were in full bloom and the road ahead was filled with possibilities…two lives worth.

Duck

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Billington Quackmire enjoyed a regal existence in the pond outside of the Third Pentecostal Human Relief Church and Bank and Trust, Inc.

His presence, and that of his neighbors Jacques and Marie (who pretended to be French, but weren’t) lent a certain post-cardesque charm to the locale, especially on those sunny spring days when everything was in full bloom.

For as long as he could recall, the Quackmires have made this pond their home. The act of charm inducing visual support their job. He often saw folks taking his picture as they left the service. When he was younger, he had trouble with his timing and could be caught with his backside in the air as he searched for food in the subtle murk that lie beneath the water. The others pointed out to him that while practical, the timing was undignified.

With time, he worked it out so that his gallant glide across the water took place as most people were leaving the building. If he timed it just perfectly, he would get just below the beech trees as the sun broke through the leaves with bands of light. It was a hard sight to resist.

Return

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He flipped through the stacks. Each one sparked a glimmer of memory through sight and sound.

It had been years since the fire. Years since he touched vinyl. Years now since things seemed to go…sour.

It seemed trivial on the surface. Others might think it irrational to tie fate so closely to something possessed. Yet, while these material items were not his originals, there was still a kinship.

Oh…this one got him through his break up with Mary Ellen Newburgh, and this one was pretty much the root soundtrack to the summer after he graduated college. A consistent presence in a time of change and turmoil.

They were all his friends.

His mind raced to find a way to claim them all, but it was impossible. It just helped to know that they were here.

Then he found it, or it found him. The one he needed. He looked up as a tear welled in the corner of his eye. An embarrassed warmth hit his cheeks as he tired quickly to blink it away. He snapped it up and held it close to his chest as if he had just found a lump of gold. He would have it back now. It was the very first step that felt like the right step in a good long time.

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.

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.

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.