As You Can Imagine

I recently found out that I am someone else’s imaginary friend. As you can imagine, this was a bit of a shock to me.

For me, it all began one rainy afternoon, when Charles wasn’t allowed to play outside. This should have been the first sign I suppose. The only children who still want to play outside are the imagining types – the ones prone to thinking up people like me. Any other kid wouldn’t have even noticed it was raining unless it made the power go out. But Charles was a boy of an older kind of cut. He didn’t need much to be entertained, because he brought all the adventure with him wherever he went. Why, with him, I have seen an ordinary doctor’s office become the crow’s nest of the largest and most frightening pirate ship you have ever seen, only to transmogrify into the very desert island our ship had struck, complete with thousands of miles of thick, Caribbean jungle.

One of my fondest memories that we shared was digging for dinosaur bones in the Sahara desert. Past bottle caps and pieces of Solo cups, we dug and dug, bent on finding the bones of the mighty T-Rex. At one point, we stopped and wiped the sweat from our foreheads, parched from the heat and sand. It was just then that our assistant, Mom, came out to the dig site with a glass of ice cold water. Charles was thrilled, but immediately asked why she brought only one, when I had been working just as hard as he had, and was certainly just as thirsty. Mom was usually a meticulously careful person, and not prone to such oversights. But she made quick work, and soon enough, another glass of water (though not as cold as the first, I noticed) was procured.

We sat there, drinking in the rewards of our labor, when, with one last trowel turn, Charles uncovered the greatest find in our professional careers. Our assistant was quickly called to verify the find, which she classified as the bone of a “Stick-a-saurus.” Though neither of us were familiar with this particular classification, she assured us that it was a highly sought after artifact, and that she was sure there was a museum that would be interested in purchasing such a rare bone. In fact, after splitting the commission for the find, we each went home with a hefty twenty-five cents each – a sum that any professional archaeologist would have been proud to have, we were told.

But now, after all these years, it has become clear that I am nothing more than his imaginary friend. And you might think that this would disappoint or upset me. After all, I never existed. I am just the product of the imagination of a child. Some people might be upset if they realized that they don’t exist, but not for me at all.

You see, I was with him through every high seas adventure, every leap over the tallest building, and every fight with every henchman. I always had his back and came through when all hope seemed lost. I was thought of in his moments of greatest joy and greatest pain. There was no grounding severe enough to put us in separate rooms. When there were no other friends around, I was still there.

I was the cohort, the adventurer, and the best friend of someone in need, and this is something that is not true of many people, despite all their “realness.” At the end of the day, I have the greatest honor that can be bestowed on any creature – real or otherwise. I was seen as a hero in the mind of a child. And I wouldn’t trade that for all the Stick-a-sauraus bones in the world.

Playing Well With Others

      Regardless of any job you find yourself in, or any means of unemployment for that matter, you will most likely find that you need to work with other people.  If you are one of those individuals who hates working with incompetent people and actually dies a little bit every time you are forced to cooperate with people who you think are morons, congratulations, you are just like everyone else in the entire world.  Thinking that you are the victim is the most defining thread between everyone in the American workforce.  Like it or not, it is very advantageous for you to play well with your coworkers, so I, as a kindness to you, have created this cheatsheet for everything you need to know for making money while cooperating with morons.  By the way, believing that everyone else is a moron makes you just like everyone else.  A moron.

Number one: Gossip.  I never, ever make absolute statements about anything or anyone, but this one time, I’ll make an exception.  Never, ever gossip.  Honestly, the moment those nasty thoughts are in your brain there starts a countdown on a bomb – you can either throw it out as nonsense, or let it spew out your mouth.  And when I say “spew,” I don’t want you to imagine a garden hose, or a pretty waterfall.  I want you to imagine a fire hydrant of diarrhea coming out of your mouth, because that is exactly how useful and beautiful gossip is.  As soon as those thoughts enter your mind, throw them out as nonsense or take your problems to the person it concerns in a rational, adult manner.  The bottom line is that gossip is childish.  And since child labor was outlawed in 1938, you are probably not a child.  So don’t act like one.

Number two: Enjoy the Good Times.  Have you ever noticed that when you have a canker sore it is the only thing you can think about, but when you don’t have one, you never think:

“Gee, I sure am grateful to the cosmos that I don’t have a canker sore right now…see…I can run my tongue all around the inside of my lip and it feels right as rain!”  

It seems that at work, no matter what is going on, there is always someone unhappy.  If it’s slow, people are complaining.  If it’s busy, people are complaining.  If it’s a normal, manageable amount of business, people are complaining.  To counteract this, make it a point to look for the moments you can enjoy.  When you are busy, think “I will probably make a lot of money today.”  When it’s slow, think “it’s so nice that I’m not rushed right now…who can I help?”   If you are unhappy in every single circumstance you find yourself in, you should realize that the common denominator is you.  So you should probably focus on fixing that instead of everything else.  So go ahead - run your tongue around the inside of your lip now and then, and be grateful you don't have a canker sore. 

Number three: Realize that just because you don’t like someone does not mean that you have to be enemies.  Everyone is forced to work with people they don’t like – and if you don’t know who that person is, it’s probably you.  But just because you wouldn't go get a beer with that person or invite them to meet your family, does not mean that you cannot work well with them in a professional environment.  It’s called “work” for a reason – you don’t have to like everyone, but you do have to work with them. 

Number four: Pray for the people who drive you nuts at work.  It may seem like an old-fashioned idea, but it seems to me that certain ideas stick around that long because they have some merit.  This doesn't have to be a faith-based activity, though if you want it to be, it can.  The point is to choose to control your thoughts and hope for the best for the people who drive you crazy the most.  If you are invested in someone’s good, it’s very hard to resent them for being jerks.  You suddenly see that they are probably jerks because they've been treated like crap their entire lives and genuinely do not see their own worth as a person.  Angry people are almost always hurt people.  Just remember that what you think about affects your emotions – and your emotions feed back into your thought life.  Control your thoughts and you control your emotions.  Think well of people and you've just poured water on the fire.  Think badly of people and you are trying to put out a fire with a box of matches. 

Number five: Assume that whatever offense your coworker committed against you that has now gripped your mind was not done as a malicious attempt to offend you.  Have you ever noticed when you’re driving and someone cuts you off, you immediately think that they are ignorant, unaware, self-absorbed jerks with no consideration for anyone else – but when that person is in your blind spot and you accidentally change lanes without seeing them, well that was an honest mistake and they can’t possibly expect you to be perfect all the time, and how dare they lay on their horn like that.  Why are they so important?   The long and short of it is that if you give others the same amount of grace and forgiveness you give yourself, you will start to see other people in a new, less blood-pressure-raising way. 

Here is a time-proven recipe for success: Avoid getting involved in the affairs of fools, for they are tricky and will hurt your brain.  Help them, care for them, of course, but avoid trying to reason with them – the mind is a labyrinth of illogical justifications of one's own inherent rightness.  Just, stay away from that Wonderland of Weirdness.

A Book I'm Working On

So these are two chapters from a book I'm working on that details everything you need to know to survive a job working for The Olive Garden.  I thought I might put a couple of the chapters on here just to see how they fair.

The first chapter I'm putting on here talks about how to be weeded with style, and the second chapter talks about the survival kit that every server should have in order to survive the mayhem of work.  Enjoy!

16 - Being Weeded With Style

Being weeded, as you may recall, means that you are so busy you cannot provide good service to your tables.  It also means that you will be doing a lot of walking (or jogging, or running).  I've often wondered how much I've walked at my job.  If I got a pedometer and kept track of my steps, surly I've knocked off a few marathons worth of walking.  Plus, if I make up a fake charity, I can just apply all of that mileage to it and claim some kind of humanitarian superiority over everyone else. 

“You ran a 5k for education?  Huh, well I walked four marathons to support struggling college students pay rent and feed themselves.  I just feel so rewarded for my charity work, you know?  Like I’m giving…but I’m also receiving more than I could have ever thought.” 

Anyway, being weeded with style.  Here are some quick tips to help you stay out of the weeds as much as possible.

·         Ask for help.  Obviously, no one will help you, but asking for it is an important part of being weeded with style.  If the requests are small and easy to accomplish, this will increase your odds of getting a coworker to take 30 seconds on your behalf.  “Can you drop off this check at table 52” is far more likely to get a positive response than “can you pass out all the food for my party of teenagers in the back room?”

·         Ask people who like you.  If you have some clout, now is the time to use it.  After all, chances are you’re not actually going to need to move a body and have to call in “the big one” from any of your friends.  Cash in on your positive relationships in small ways and be sure to reciprocate when they are weeded. 

·         Prioritize your energy.  If you have two tables, one wants a refill on salad, and the other hasn't gotten salad yet, choose to give food to those who don’t have any, rather than expending your energy on giving more food to people who already had some.  Remember, people are at their worst when they are hungry and ignored.  Feed the hungriest people first.

·         When you get double sat, treat both tables as if they are one table.  This doesn't mean talk to them both at the same time – it means that you greet one, get their drink order, and then rather than going to get those drinks while the second table sits feeling unnoticed, greet one, get the order, greet two, get the order.  Then bring all the drinks at the same time.  Get everyone’s order for food, bring all the salad/soup/bread at the same time.  This will save you a ton of time and will help you if you ever get sat in the café and get six tables at the same time.  It’s doable.  Just pretend they’re all together.

·         If you do find yourself exceptionally busy, make a joke to your tables about how your managers must think you’re superman/superwoman, and that their faith might be misplaced.  This tells your tables many things.    1) You are extremely busy, but it’s not entirely your fault.  2) You have a sense of humor about it.  3) The management thinks you’re a capable person, but they don’t really understand your limits.  This one is important because everyone who has a job feels like they are capable and that their managers do not understand their limits.  You are both humanizing yourself while simultaneously allying yourself with your customer. 

·         Walk quickly.  This seems like it should be obvious, but some people, regardless of how urgent the task, seem to only have one speed.  Microturtle.  Pick up the pace man, I've got places to go. 

·         Don’t complain.  Alright, if you must, you can make one comment to one person about how busy you are, but the less complaining you do, the more positive you will stay, the better you can do your job.  Griping about how hard you have to work just makes you sound childish.  It goes something like this:

You: “Aah!  Those dumb hosts double sat me again!  I’m so weeded!  I can’t believe this!”

Me: “I know!  They should rename this place and call it “work” so that it adequately describes what is expected of us while we are paid money to be here!  Jeeze…”

*You now hate me.

·         If you have a high maintenance table (one that is slow about order, wants to ask a question about everything on the menu, needs refills of diet coke every two minutes, etc) don’t be afraid to politely let the hosts know that you might need a minute to catch up.  They don’t know if you don’t tell them.  So don’t expect them to know just because you are thinking it.  That would be stupid.

·         If you have a high maintenance table, here’s a trick to stop them.  Be more high maintenance than they are.  This sounds mean?  No, this goes far beyond being passive aggressive to express your displeasure – this delves deep into the human psyche.  *cue dramatic music.  Here’s what I mean.  If a table stops you every time you walk past to ask you for something, out do them.  Get what they need and then expressly check in with them every time you see them.  After a bit, they will get tired of asking you for things, and will realize that you volunteered rather than begrudgingly obliged them, and will feel gratitude to you.  Even if they are obviously content, go up and ask them if everything is alright every time you see them.  I say this, because when someone has a high maintenance table, the natural impulse is to avoid them.  Don’t.  Out do them and they will no longer be high maintenance. 

·         If, at the end of your table’s meal, you know that you did not give them the most impeccable service (or if you know that they think you did not give them the most impeccable service), tell your table that you usually prefer to spend more quality time at each table, but that you were so busy you couldn't.  The main thing this does is it tells your customers that your poor service was not personal.  When in doubt, people take any perceived offence as personally as it can possibly be taken – neutralize this and you will win.

3 - Survival Kit For Mayhem 

These are the things that you should always have with you so that you can meet every single crisis with poise and style.  These are, obviously, in addition to the clothes you are wearing.  If you needed to be told that, put this book down.  I mean it.

• Pens – Lots and lots of pens.  The more the better.  I still don’t know why, but for some reason, a lot of people like to steal pens.  I don’t know if it’s just a random surge of kleptomania, or if these people are genuinely living in a world of pencil shavings and chalk, and find that once the power of ink is in their hands, they will never relinquish it.  Either way, plan for thievery.  I will even encounter the brash soul who will inform me that they intend to steal my pen, simply because they like it.  I, of course, tell them that it is perfectly fine, but that I intend to steal their credit card until a mutual exchange can be arranged.  You can reduce the likelihood that someone will steal your pen if it came in a pack of twenty or more.  And don’t ever give out a clicky pen.  That’s just asking for trouble.  
• Money – Although this seems odd to those who do not work in a restaurant, the servers at Olive Garden carry their own money and make change for you out of their pockets.  So when you get that twenty dollar bill on a seven dollar ticket and are not told to keep the change, as much as you might hint, you have to make that change yourself.  Sure, you can go to the bartender and ask him to break it for you, but he is probably making himself his third cappuccino of the evening and can’t be bothered with your silly needs.  So bring a lot of singles to work.  Although this is not the only profession that involves a wad of single dollar bills, it is certainly the least exciting. 
• Jingle – I don’t exactly know who first started calling coins “jingle,” but I imagine that they lived in a tree house and called everything by the sound that it makes.  But at least in my store, quarters, dimes, nickels and the most useless currency of all, the penny, are fondly referred to as “jingle.”  Personally, I wouldn't mind a world where everything was rounded to the nearest quarter, but that might be asking too much of democracy.  Until my Utopian society emerges from the ashes of the filthy trio of pennies, nickels, and dimes, bring a pocket full of these forgotten remnants of past purchases you wished were thirty-seven cents cheaper.  I bring a pocket full of quarters and always round up for my tables.  This is just me though.
• Wine Key – This is part of your uniform, so don’t be caught without it.  It’s good for throwing up in the air and catching, opening cardboard boxes, fiddling with while you’re board, opening wine bottles in proper wine service fashion, and imagining that it could be used to stop a robbery, since this is the closest thing to a weapon you are allowed to have on your person.  My wine key occupies the latter purpose most frequently.  That little foil cutter could do some serious damage on a terrorist who happen to hate affordable and unlimited salad. 
• Key Card – This is what allows you to ring in food and close out checks.  It can also be used as a Frisbee, but not very well. 
• Cell Phone – Although you should never use, show, talk on, or text on, your cell phone while you are working, please have one with you.  Why?  So you will stop borrowing mine to call your daughter to come pick you up.  They are really affordable.  Please buy one.  Yvonne.
• Coasters – Although technically not part of your uniform, I thought I would mention them.  Mainly because they make better Frisbees than your key card.  But not by much.    
• Band-aids – Bring a couple just in case.  Plus, if you’re feeling like a smart aleck, you can peel one and stick it on your griping coworker and ask them if you should get their mommy to kiss their booboo and make the bad man say he’s sorry. 
• Don’t do that last one.  It’s a terrible idea and is only funny in your head.  You might get punched.  Twice.

Salvation

This one is a bit longer, but is a creative short story I've written.


"Salvation"

----------------------------

 “The usual?” 

Eyes down, I nod and push the bills across the counter. 

“Is that it for you sweety?  Sure I can’t get you anything else?”

“What?”

“Anything else for you this time?”

“Um…no.”  My eyes jump back and forth, not wanting to look at her—for her sake.  They dart back down to the counter. Back to safety.   

My corner seat is occupied by an old man with more grey hair than God.  He is reading a newspaper, so I force myself to glance around the room and find another chair.  I settle in an unfamiliar seat, closer than I wanted to be, but my laptop screen is a welcomed distraction.  I plug in my ear buds and the music of Frédéric Chopin flows up and covers the background noise. Just when I am just relaxing my shoulders and breathing deeply, I catch a motion on the edge of my view.  Before I can stop myself, I see a woman walking up to the door.  Unaware.  Happy to be so.  I shut my eyes quickly and squeeze the lids tightly so she won’t see the sneer written on me—I try to focus on nothing.  Turning the volume up, the wash of the music runs up and over my brain.  I close my eyes so that I, in ignorance, can let her walk past.  She swishes past my seat, unaware.  I open my eyes, hoping, wishing it is gone.  It never is.  Above her head is an illuminated sign.  Above everyone’s head is an illuminated sign.  I shouldn’t have looked up.  I know better than that.

 A police officer walks by the window from my right, one hand on his belt, the other shielding the sun from his eyes.  Over his head the same sign hangs—as wide as his shoulders, only a few inches above his head and neon words recounting things I wish I could un-see.  I shield my eyes from him and look back at my laptop, not wanting to know any more.  Focus!  On anything else, focus.  I pushed the ear buds further into my canals and they fire small bursts of pain, threatening to break through into the core of my mind.  If they did, at least it would go away.  I wish that just for one whole day I could let my eyes rest.  Let my mind rest.  When I first started seeing the signs, I read them all.  And why wouldn’t I?  Knowledge is power and mine was great.  A god in my mind, but a god with bones and blood—cracks in my hull.  Too much cargo for not enough ship, I sank to the oceans floor, held down by the knowledge of evil, gasping for a single bubble of air. 

The café is full now—fuller still for me.  Regrets.  Sins.  Failures.  Mistakes.  Darkness locked away inside their hearts so deep, even they acted like they were not there.  They’re all scattered around the room, crowding my senses.  It seems I can smell, even taste it all.  The putrid odor wafts around my head, threatening the thin walls of my skull.  I can hear the heavy pounding of judgment echo in this small room.  When I breathe through my mouth I can taste it—through my nose I can smell it—on my skin I can feel it—so heavy in the air I wade through it.  The overwhelming nausea makes me want to be alone again.  When I am alone, locked in my room, it is quieter, but still there.  Looming at the cracks of the door, the florescent light seeming to seep up through the floorboards like smoke.  I prefer it dark and quiet, but today is Tuesday, so I am here.  Tuesday is my day to breathe.

At that moment, within the chaos I have never grown accustomed to, I hear a stillness.  My eyes are closed, resting, and I can feel a soft, cool breath of wind pass across my face.  The air seems less thick and the smell subsides for one glorious moment.  Fresh.  Air.  My brow unknots itself and I suck in the fleeting wave of air.  I flutter my eyes open and look around the café.  She’s here earlier than usual--the girl, no more than 25.  She has a plain face, nothing remarkable that anyone else would see.  Anyone else.  Nothing remarkable, except that bubble of air.  I start in my seat, almost knocking my laptop to the ground.  Every Tuesday afternoon I wait for that bubble of air.  The only bubble I’ve ever found.  Her face does not sit under the sick fluorescent light.  Her face knows sunlight well and soaks it like a flower.  Above her head hangs no judgment.  I have watched her, envied her, hated her and wondered at her freedom.  Every week for the past nine months she has lunch with the same companion.  Six days I hold my breath.  One day I breathe.  Six.  Then one.  Glorious.  Breath. 

She is tall, for a girl, and has dark brown hair, straight and long and pulled into a ponytail.  It’s almost always in a ponytail.  She is wearing her blue blouse today, though I usually prefer the brown one—it matches her eyes and brings out her dark arms, long and slender.  As mine was, her normal seat is occupied—why is the café so full today?  I pull out my notebook, slouch down in my chair, continuing my notes.  “The Clean One arrived first, again” I scribble.  “She usually arrives first, but she is a little early today.”  As she waits, she reads.  She always reads while she waits for The Other.  Ten minutes go by and I keep making additions to my notebook.  Her companion arrives.  She is not so tall as The Clean One, and hair darker than coal.  She is usually late, but today she walks in quickly and sits down across from The Clean One.  They both meet here, every week, one hour.  Our tables are closer than usual, but above the hum of the general babble, I can’t make out their words.  

The notes I’ve taken are meticulous, but I feel they are still incomplete and missing some grand revelation.  Like a scientist observing a creature’s eating habits, I note everything.  The sounds around me turn to background clatter--the feature presentation is beginning, and I have the only seat in the house.  Her face is like a crack of daylight that pierces the catacombs I wander through.  The darkness in the room bends in midair and is drawn into oblivion.   

Until today I’ve seen them, exchanging smiles and nods and gestures.  They always read, pointing to parts of the book and interjecting, flipping through it like recipe cards.  Their conversation is muffled, like an argument you can hear through a wall, but their faces never made me think they were angry at each other.  She always has such patience with The Other.  She seems to be teaching her something, but as an equal.  She has a certain look of humility, calm and caring.  I scribble notes and channel all my attention towards the pair discussing and reading only two tables away from me.  “Today, they are more passionate.  The Clean One speaks, The Other interrupts with a hand gesture like a lawyer, The Clean One retorts.”  

I sit there, eyes flicking up and down, from my notebook to their faces and back down again to my notes.  They carry on like this for the next ten minutes and my hand gets cramped from writing. 

“Their behavior is peculiar today.  Earlier, they seemed to be wrestling with each other with their words, but now they are calm and quiet.  Both their heads are down and they seem to be talking, but I can hear nothing.  The Other has her head on the table she is convulsing, quietly and rhythmically, almost like she’s cr—“

My mouth slipped open and the scream came from the core of my stomach—my eyebrows seemed to come unhinged from my face—my eyes, so wide they might have fallen out, but were held in by sheer friction.  The entire café is frozen and stares in abhorrent shock.  The scream was slipping out of my throat and into the open air.  My ears understood what my mouth was doing before my brain did.  It lasted longer than a breath should have—much longer.  Both girls looked at me.  One.  Long.  Pause.  My ears, hot and heavy, resound the pounding of my heart.  I have no moisture to swallow.  The edges of my eyes pulse white with the increased pressure in my face.  The girl who was unclean sat there, mouth open and face flush.  The fluorescent sign, the gallows that loomed above her head was wiped away in one instant.  In one dramatic pass of some cosmic hand, it has been thrown into oblivion.  Where her sick glow was, I can see the open, clean air.  The darkness in the room is bent inwards towards them both now, and they seem to give off more than double the radiance.  The two, now Clean Ones sit, staring at me, horrified.  The moment that seemed to last an hour, that rushed to its climax in just one sick second, was over as quickly as it began. 

“My God!  What is wrong with you?!” 

It was the old man who was occupying my usual table.  His face was contorted into a bulldog’s anger and he seemed to shake back and forth as he breathed his heavy gasps of air.  He slammed one hand on his chest in a theatrical gesture.

“Son, you gave me a start!  What the Hell was that?!” 

“I…I’m not…sure.” 

The engine of my being is stalling and sputtering for something to fuel it, something of substance to feed off.  I have no answer.  I can’t even form the question.  As I turn back towards the two Clean Ones, I say aloud

“But I need to know too.”

Poetry Time

These are two short poems I have written.

"Pawn"

To my flanks are those like me,

first to fight and first blood shed.

Uniformed we stand together.

Behind me skills I can’t imagine,

moves and slides beyond my grasp.

Bound we trod, our pattern set,

my brothers follow, strength in numbers.

Death to those who rush ahead.

“Stay by me!” I shout in protest,

the hand controls the fate of all.

I see the danger, cry aloud,

god has stopped his ears this time.

I can’t fall back, the turn is done.

Omniscience sees a bigger plan,

he justifies the end and means.

And next:

"Peace-Made Man"

Silent night,

The air was still

The fog suspended mid-air.

Thirty-forth battalion crept

Along the edge of target.

Sergeant Lane

Determined quickly

Tonight would see the bloodshed,

Of some unholy target

Hiding in a foxhole.

Sights are raised,

Target seen,

Crouching in the distance.

Steady hand will find the bull,

The eye of villain target.

Through the fog,

And through the sights,

Sergeant sees the target.

Writing down the thoughts in mind,

No doubt, the pain of bloodshed.

Quickly falls

Determined valor,

A writer’s heart can see another.

Pain is equal on both sides.

Target is a man it seems.

War will make

A warrior-man,

But only peace can make a man.

Why destroy the peace-made man,

To make the man who targets man?

The Anatomy of Color

The Anatomy of Color

“Today?  Today, I am a pirate, Walter!  And there’s not one thing you can do about it!” 

With a bath towel hanging lengthwise around his neck and a broom handle sticking out in sword-like fashion from his belt, Sigmund waved his hands in exaggerated motions, mischievously drawing his weapon from its sheath and stabbing the absent foes surrounding him.  Eyebrows raised so high they might have leaped off of his face and into his curly blonde hair.  With wild, frantic leaps, around the brightly lit room his thin figure looked more comical than threatening.  His hair bounced and flopped with each bound and twist and excessive gesture he made.   

Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, the corner of his mouth slid upwards in amiable amusement.  With bright eyes he watched his brother leap around the room defending his marauding vessel from imaginary attack. 

“A pirate huh?  Why would I want to stop that?  That’s a great idea, Sigmund.  Just a great one!  And what will your pirate name be?  You know you need to have a clever pirate name!”

“I think I shall be Captain…Captain…”

The sunlight was shooting through the window panes like golden spears stuck in the ground.  Sigmund fell in a dizzy on the floor and was becoming preoccupied with the rays on the ground that now pierced his hands and face.  Running his arms along the angled axis of the sun, delight filling his eyes.  The room was bright now, as somewhere outside the clouds found themselves pushed along on their way.  Sigmund sighed a long, exaggerated gasp, rocked back and lay facing the ceiling.  Closing his eyes he smiled.

“I can see colors, Walter.  So many colors I can’t even tell you.  Should I paint them

Walter?  I don’t know if I can, but I would try.  Do you want me to?”

On the far end of the house the doorbell was being rung and Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood up straight and reached for the handle of Sigmund’s open door.

“I would love to see you try.  Go get your paints while I get the door.  You need to promise me that you will not make a mess while I am gone, alright Sig?”

“As you wish Brother!  But I will paint you such a masterpiece, you might fall over in shock!”

“Yes, I just might at that!”

Smiling, Sam (for that was actually Walter’s name) shut the door and made his way down the hallway and down the stairs towards the front of the house.  The large double doors stood twelve feet high and the thick mahogany made the doorbell reverberate in the large foyer.  The door opened and a middle-aged brunette stood in the sunlight, holding a piece of paper and a black portfolio open in her hand.  Behind her, a black SUV sat in the large gravel driveway.  She stood for a moment, looked Sam over in one sweeping glance and jotted down a note in her book.  Sam’s young, slender frame was not an imposing sight. 

“Good afternoon.  You are Sam Rhodes, yes?” she said, in a flat business tone without eye contact.  “I am Ruth Meadows from the Department of Children and Families.  You were told to expect us?”

“I was, yes.  Won’t you come in, Ms. Meadows?  Sig is painting in his room right now.  Do you want to speak to him now?”

“All in good time,” she said as she walked into the sunlit foyer, her high heels making a harsh knocking sound on the tile floor. 

“I have some paperwork to fill out and a few questions before we get too far along.  You have been taking care of Sigmund since your mother and father’s accident?”

“That’s right,” Sam replied and looked at his shoes.

“By yourself?”  Her tone lent itself to disbelief and suspicion rather than admiration or respect.  “Eighteen-year-old brothers do not often choose to take sole custody of their special needs siblings.”

“He’s my brother,” Sam stated more as defense than explanation.  “He also has special needs, but first he’s my brother.”

A moment of silence ensued as they both looked at each other – only broken when Ruth resumed scribbling in her notebook, which was still cradled in her arm. 

“I understand that finances will not be a problem, considering your parent’s estate was considerably large?  Do you have a financial advisor to…oversee…that…you…”

“To make sure I don’t spend it all in one place?” Sam quipped.

“I suppose you could say that.” 

“Yes, my Uncle David.”

“I see…”  More scribbling.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Ms. Meadows checked boxes and jotted down notes in her file.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, suddenly remembering that he was a host, “would you like something to drink?  I have water, juice, soda…”

Ms. Meadow’s eyes slowly raised and narrowed at Sam.

Knowing her suspicion, Sam answered “No, there’s no alcohol.  I’m eighteen, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” she said as she went back to her notes.  “Some tea would be nice.”

Sam started to head for the kitchen to boil some water for the tea.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly.  “That’s…very considerate of you.”

Sam smiled and left the room.  Ms. Meadows found a chair in the foyer and continued her notes.  A few moments passed in silent writing, when from the hallway she could hear someone humming and singing quietly.  She stood, closed her portfolio and walked cautiously down the wooden hallway.  At the doorway she stopped and listened for the music to continue.  She quietly opened the door and the rays of sunlight caught her off guard.  In the far corner of the room, a blonde haired figure was bent sideways, staring at a canvas.  A bath towel was in a pile on the floor next to him.  His entire torso was cocked to the side while one hand jaggedly slung paint on the cloth.  She stood in the doorway and tilted her head to the side along with the painter.  The color wheel, with bursts of designs and swirls seemed to played tricks with her mind.  The extremities with the tails and waves decorating the circular center appeared to move and sway.  They seemed to wave at her and change color under the yellow sunlight.  An optical illusion like she had never seen.  Mesmerized, Ruth straightened up and slowly made her way to the back side of the couch and leaned forward on her arms, cautious not to make a sound.  It was a hologram.  On the canvas were layers of colors that danced with depth in her mind.  There were only a dozen or so colors the child was working with, but the layers and motions and force of the patterns gave dimension and colors, more colors than her mind could take in.  Her thoughts were interrupted by a single sound.

“Hello.”

The word was so casual and melodic; it hardly brought her out of the trance at all.  It was when she realized that the painter had not turned around or sounded startled that she saw it as an anomaly.  She smiled.

“How did you know I was here?  I hardly made a sound.”

She took a deep breath.  Now realizing it was the first real breath she had taken since she entered the room.  She felt as if she had just taken a nap in the sun, and was awakened by a pleasant aroma.  As she breathed, she could almost smell the flower that had woken her up.

“I saw it was different in here.  I can see it you know.  Most people can just talk about it or feel it, but I can see it.  Walter says it’s special, but I don’t see how.  It’s just what I see.”

He never stopped his movements at the canvas, fixed on his task, but willing to engage as a courtesy to Ruth.  At this point, he slowly turned around and studied her face quizzically.  His eyebrows narrowed and eyes zeroed into lasers.

“Can you see it?”

“See what?”

At this, his face shrugged and he whipped back to his painting, tilted sideways again and continued.

“Neither can Walter.  But he loves when I talk about it.  I don’t see why though.  It’s as plain as daylight.”

“What does it look like?”

He said nothing for a moment as his hand made two more marks with the brush.  He straightened up and took a step back. 

“Like this.”

Ruth stared at the hologram Sigmund had painted and tilted her head in confusion.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?”

Startled, she straightened up and snapped her head to see Sam standing next to her with a cup of tea steaming in his hand.

“I’m sorry, the door—“ she stammered.

“You wanted to meet Sigmund?  You’ve met him.  I see you’re both getting along.”  Sam handed the cup to Ms. Meadows and smiled at Sigmund.

“She likes my painting, Walter!  Do you?  Do you like it?”

“Oh Sig!” Sam bounded around the couch to get a closer look and tilted his head to the side.  “This one is amazing!  I think I like this one the best.  I still have no idea how you do that!”

He stared at it for a few moments more and Sigmund gave Ruth a wide smile, bursting with joy and pride.

“Run and put it with the others Sig.  You are amazing!”

Sigmund made his way over and gathered the easel and canvas in his arms and took them across the room to an oversized filing cabinet. 

“I’m sorry” Ruth said; as she flipped open her files again. “Is your name Sam or Walter?  My files have you down as…”

“It’s Sam…legally.”

“Then why does Sigmund call you Walter?”

Sam put his hands in his pockets and sat down on the back of the couch and smiled. 

“If you have a question about why Sig does something, I guess you should ask him, huh?”

There was a moment of silence as Ruth pondered.  She walked over to Sigmund and knelt down.

“Sigmund, why do you call Sam, Walter?”

He set the canvas in one of the drawers and upon hearing her question burst out:

“Because it’s his name!”

Ruth jumped at the sudden volume that he produced and quickly looked back at Sam.  He was chuckling under his breath, hands still in his pockets, relaxed and casual.  Sigmund continued like a flight attendant giving instructions.

“Everything has energies and they all have colors and his colors are a Walter, not a Sam.  I can see the energies in colors, but no one else can because they are stupid!  Why do you even like the name Sam?” he shot at his brother.  “It’s not your name!  It’s terrible and it doesn’t even match anything.  You can’t see anything.  I can see it plain as day.”

There was a moment of silence and then Sam burst out into laughter, filling the room with his bellowing noise.  Ruth was next, and then Sigmund.  It was contagious.  As the mirth subsided and tears were wiped away from corners of eyes, Ruth asked, through the tail of a laugh,

“What about me?  Is my name Ruth?”

“Your name?  Your name is…is…”

He smiled and looked around, up in the air and in every corner of the room.  He fixed his eyes on the top part of the window and said,

“There!  There is your name!”

Ruth looked up and saw only the top of the window, sunlight still pouring through.   Sigmund grunted.

“You can’t even see it, can you?”

“No Sig, I can’t.  What does it look like?”

“I will paint it for you.”  

Midnight Drive

A short story:

The wind was colder than he thought it would be. The lights came on when he opened the car door, and he was caught off guard by how quickly the cold penetrated through his jacket. Clumsily, he closed the door and zipped up his jacket to his neck, even though it was a short walk to vending machines. He had only been driving for an hour or so, but at 1:00am, with the heater on full blast, he was starting to fight with sleep and this was the first rest stop he saw. Pete stared vacantly at the options in front of him. Typically, he would never go to a vending machine to buy water, but he knew he needed to this time. $1.25 and he didn’t have a quarter, so he inserted two single bills and retrieved his change. He glanced around at the other machines, wondering how far 75 cents would go. Gum. Spearmint. 50 cents. That would have to do. He put the last quarter in his coat pocket and fumbled for the keys again. He wanted to see a friendly face, so he could remark on the peculiarly cold weather this week, but friendly faces are rare that late at night. What is it about faces that look friendly or not? He concluded it was something in the eyes and turned back up the heat. He struggled with the gum package, his fingers too cold to do anything intelligent and ended up opening it from the bottom. No matter. At least it was open. All he had to do was stay awake for another hour and he would be home free. This mid-week trip home was more business than pleasure. His car needed some work done on it and honest mechanics are hard to find. Besides, two hours isn’t so bad, especially when he had been meaning to get back home for some time anyway.

5 miles down the interstate, a woman was driving the opposite direction. The headlights she saw were distorted as she tried to wipe the tears from her bloodshot eyes. The only time she had been yelled at like that was when she was a child. Why did he have to say those things? It was like he could see into her heart and knew what things would hurt the most. As waves of emotions swept over her, again and again, she tried to keep strong. She didn’t know why she felt she had to be strong; there was no one who would hear her cry. Maybe she had to be strong for herself; as if she could fool the one person who knew her. She didn’t know where she was driving to, she just needed to get away. Why did he have to drink so much? She never understood the impulse to drink. As a semi passed her in the left lane, the tall headlights illuminated a fresh bruise on her left temple. The lights hurt her eyes.

Pete drove another 3 miles, feeling more awake now. Between the cold water and the gum, he had jump-started his brain back into cutting-edge clarity. Nothing good was on the radio this late at night, so he chose silence over negative sound. Besides, he could think better when there were no sounds around him. He looked at the cars passing him in the other lane, noting the different states they were from, wondering about each of their stories, why they were on this road, who they were going to see. Pete liked people watching. He liked imagining what kind of people they all were. He wondered what the situations were that made each person who they are. He squinted his eyes to keep his night vision. He hated it when people left their brights on. He avoided looking directly at the light and flashed his lights to remind the forgetful driver to be more courteous. The driver got the message and returned their lights to normal. Pete tried to recover his train of thought, but it was gone.

She was just two exits from where she started, but she could feel the oppressive darkness right behind her head. As if everything that was behind her was everything she had known. Samantha hated everything she had known. Why couldn’t she just keep driving? Why not drive until she ran out of money and make a new life there? She caught her breath at the thought. She was standing on the threshold of freedom and all she had to do was keep going.
She felt the dark cloud of that evening’s events slowly lifting like a mist. Up ahead she saw freedom. In her rear-view mirror she saw darkness. She felt like an animal, wriggling free from a trap and running for the safety of anything else. He would never be able to find her, even if he wanted to; though she was pretty sure he would not. Why had it taken her so long to even want to break free from all of this? Tonight was the last straw. One by one, she disconnected the emotional strings that attached her to everything behind her. As each one flew off like elastic and disappeared into the darkness behind her, she felt one step closer to freedom. Her breathing quickened as releasing the strings came easier and easier. Finally, a fresh idea had come. Something wholly different that anything she had done before. She would leave and she would never look back. This was the greatest moment of freedom she had ever felt! She had two-thirds of a tank of gas and thirty-eight dollars in her purse. With those two, combining forces with her new sense of adventure, she would start a new life wherever she happened to land. As she sighed in satisfaction for the excitement ahead of her, something caught her attention out of the left corner of her eye. Someone had flashed their brights at her. Of course, she flipped her brights off and settled in for the adventure she had just given birth to.

Failed Goals

So my goal to write a book before the end of this year was a bust. Not a total bust, but if you can only cross of goals once they're finished, then it was just as much a bust as if I had never even tried. The truth is that, without any goals, I wouldn't have even tried. So this year, my goals will be to attempt goals...then I can cross off as many things as I attempt.

I like setting high goals for myself, with the full knowledge that I probably won't make it. That's not discouraging to me, it's idealistic. If I set goals I know I can achieve, they're not really goals; they're just declarations of activities before the fact. There has to be something wagered. A goal, to me, is me betting against myself, and betting that I'll come through. Even if (or rather, when) I don't, I probably got closer to the goal by setting it, than I ever would have just thinking about it.

So I set goals, and I don't make it. But I tried. Again. So this year? I'll keep working on this book. I'm also experimenting in short stories. I'm just writing paragraphs at a time, trying to get back into descriptions and scene writing, rather than essay writing.