Death is but a door, time but a window, I'll be back.
-Ghostbusters II
Hi everybody out there. I do beleive it's officially been more than two years since I last posted a real blog entry. I am out of the loop. So much so, it seems, that my blog (blogs really) has (have) been shanghaid. Don't ask me how, but a guy from my old office accidentally took control over my blog, and I can't get it back.
So here I am, starting anew. I guess this is actually kind of cool, because I'm in a cool new place in life right now. First and foremost of importance is that I am married now. Laura and I were married on May 17th and are settling into wedded bliss. With that has come a new home, new roommate (that's still Laura if you're slow), and new neighborhood. I also started a new job (with manager in the title - straighten my tie) back in March, and I am loving it.
It occurred to me yesterday to look back through my old blog posts and it reminded me how much I enjoyed doing it. I've got a decent amount of free time these days, so I think I might be able to do this with some semblance of consistency. If I am lucky enough to have any return readers at all, you are all probably rolling your eyes because I have told that lie before. Let me be the first to say that you could very well be the case. Let's just hope for the best, shall we?
I went back through the old roll call, and found that many of you old blogger buddies are still active. I'll have links to you on this blog as well. In that light, let me just give a hearty shoutout to:
Nathan
Marissa
Cheryl
and
CBake
Glad you guys are still fighting the good fight. I hope we can keep in touch again like we used to. if I somehow garner new readers here... well I won't eat my hat, but let's just say I'll be pleasantly surprised.
Looking forward to it, everybody.
Friday, August 8, 2008
I Write Stories Sometimes
On one of my old blogs, I planned to, and actually did for a while, post some short-story writing I've done over the years. I'd like to continue with that. As such I will post two things below. One is an updated version of a story I posted years ago called "Sampson," and the other is the tentative first chapter of a much longer story that I've had the idea for for years and that I for some reason wrote the first actual words of today. I'm calling it "James" for now (pardon the language on this one - I was trying to get into a character, and she curses). Please take a look and let me know what you think.
Best,
David
Best,
David
Sampson
When I took off my hat, she laughed at me. Not a girl giggle. A full-on, hand on the mouth, finger pointing, tears-in-the-eyes, belly laugh.
I knew she was looking at my hair. I’d had my hat on since early that morning, in lieu of actually grooming myself. I looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror as I drove. Admittedly, un-showered bedhead held beneath a cap for eleven hours isn’t un-funny.
A bit embarrassed, I scratched my head a little to loosen the tangles. "Thanks," I said sarcastically. Gina tousled my hair a bit more for me and then started scratching my head up and down and around in little circles, which she knew I love (as most guys do). Her tiny fingers were always cool on my scalp, and her touch sent shivers up my spine. When she stopped after a few seconds, I gave a little involuntary whine and looked at her with annoyance. “No, you need to drive,” she said.” “You always half-close your eyes when I do that and it makes me nervous.” When she didn't resume scratching, I put my cap back on and sunk a little in my seat, disappointed.
"Awww, you're just like a little whiney puppy," she said "Is your name Sampson, too?"
I looked at the little bobble-head dog on her dash that I'd bought her the week before and it nodded back in acknowledgement. "Nope," I pouted. “That’s his name. He can keep it.”
"But oo's a widdle puppy poo too, isn't oo?" she gushed, in the voice she knew I hated, as she put her knees under her in her seat and leaned across to scratch behind my ear..
"Stop it," I said I a swatted her hand away, trying my best to be annoyed.
"Es him is! 'E's a widdle biddy puppy pooo!" again she scratched behind my ears playfully.
"Please stop it."
"Awwwwwwwwwwww does da widdle biddy puppy poo not like it when Gina-weena talks wike dis?"
"Seriously! Stop it. I thought you said you wanted me to concentrate of driving.”
She settled back into her seat.
"Mmmmmmkay..." and after a long pause, "...puppy poo."
Looking infinitely pleased with herself, she smiled ahead at the road. God, she was beautiful just then. It was impossible to be mad with her.
So I smiled too, in spite of myself. I hate to admit it but I actually sort of liked it when she talked in that horrible little baby voice. Truth is, I liked the attention. Also, I knew she only did it because she knew it got under my skin, and I can actually appreciate that in a girl. You don’t find many who can give as good as they take.
I looked at her sitting there with her smug little smile and I felt blood rush to my face. It made me feel warm to look at her and I loved it. We met outside of an English class, and we'd only been dating for a little while, and it was scary how much I was into her. She made me think these awful, gushy thoughts that I never thought would find themselves in my mind. After all, I thought I was sane.
But now I knew something that connected me to the rest the men in history: This is what men fight for. This is why men write and sing. This was why men spend, travel and just plain lose their minds... to make something like her all their own. I thought things like this, and I knew they were inexcusably lame. I knew they were worse than the worst bad poetry. I just didn't care.
I was in the kind of love that made everyone around me want to puke, and I was all the better for it. And to think that she felt the same way about me just made no sense. We were in our own little world and nobody could touch us. It was ridiculous. It was gross. I was falling hard.
I don't know what we hit in the road, if we hit anything, but just then my front left tire blew. It just blew.
We were on the interstate going seventy-five miles and hour and this thing doesn't just go flat, it pops. "POW!" and I can't steer for anthing. I felt the left side of the car drop a few inches up front and heard the whump whump whump of the tire before it completely shredded and came off. I was in the left lane and we were between two of those concrete barriers in a construction zone. Everything started moving in slow motion. Gina was screaming beside me. When the tire came off the rim dug into the newly paved asphalt below us and jerked the car violently to the left. The front end slammed into the concrete barricade and the back end spun out behind me so I was staring straight at the barrier now in front of me. I looked to my left and saw a white minivan barreling towards us. The minivan swerved to its right and took the back end off of our car. The impact whipped my head into the window and busted it out. I could hear the glass breaking but I don’t remember feeling the smack. When the minivan slammed into us it spun us 180 degrees in the road and we came to a stop, again perpendicular to oncoming traffic. I felt warm wetness on the side of my head and face. I couldn't see well at first. Everything sounded muffled and Gina was shaking me and saying something I couldn't hear or couldn't understand. She had tears in her eyes. Everything was still happening so slowly. I looked to my left and saw the minivan and the back of our car crumpled together ahead in the road. Maybe five seconds had passed since the tire blew.
Dull in my ears, I heard the sound of screeching tires again. I looked back to my right and behind Gina's tear streaked face I saw the chrome grill of a big black truck coming too fast. My eyes widened and I tried to yell but nothing came out. Gina had just started to turn her head to follow my gaze when I saw the glass behind her explode. Even over the screaming tires I could hear the pieces singing through the air around us. The headlights of the truck lit them from behind and gave her a halo made of a million tiny stars. I couldn't help but think that she looked beautiful.
...
Now I hold her hand, and she sleeps softly beside me. Monitors beep and machines hiss around us under the fluorescent hospital lights. She is still beautiful and I wish that I could give her a kiss and wake her up like in the fairy tales. But I've already tried a hundred times.
It's been almost three weeks since I woke up in a bed like the one she lays in now and my mother cried over me. They told me I'd been asleep for nine days.
Gina got the worst of it. The truck hit her side. But she is alive and stable and they tell me that's a miracle in itself. They say she could wake up tomorrow or not at all.
I can't be here all the time. I've got class and other stuff, but I am here otherwise. The sun has been up for about three hours now and I've got to leave soon for my 9:00. But when I go, in case she wakes up while I'm gone, I want her to know I've been here and that I will be back real soon.
I reach in my book bag and pull out Sampson. I put him on the table at the foot of her bed. As I walk out, I give him a little tap on the nose and I hope he'll still be nodding when she wakes.
I knew she was looking at my hair. I’d had my hat on since early that morning, in lieu of actually grooming myself. I looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror as I drove. Admittedly, un-showered bedhead held beneath a cap for eleven hours isn’t un-funny.
A bit embarrassed, I scratched my head a little to loosen the tangles. "Thanks," I said sarcastically. Gina tousled my hair a bit more for me and then started scratching my head up and down and around in little circles, which she knew I love (as most guys do). Her tiny fingers were always cool on my scalp, and her touch sent shivers up my spine. When she stopped after a few seconds, I gave a little involuntary whine and looked at her with annoyance. “No, you need to drive,” she said.” “You always half-close your eyes when I do that and it makes me nervous.” When she didn't resume scratching, I put my cap back on and sunk a little in my seat, disappointed.
"Awww, you're just like a little whiney puppy," she said "Is your name Sampson, too?"
I looked at the little bobble-head dog on her dash that I'd bought her the week before and it nodded back in acknowledgement. "Nope," I pouted. “That’s his name. He can keep it.”
"But oo's a widdle puppy poo too, isn't oo?" she gushed, in the voice she knew I hated, as she put her knees under her in her seat and leaned across to scratch behind my ear..
"Stop it," I said I a swatted her hand away, trying my best to be annoyed.
"Es him is! 'E's a widdle biddy puppy pooo!" again she scratched behind my ears playfully.
"Please stop it."
"Awwwwwwwwwwww does da widdle biddy puppy poo not like it when Gina-weena talks wike dis?"
"Seriously! Stop it. I thought you said you wanted me to concentrate of driving.”
She settled back into her seat.
"Mmmmmmkay..." and after a long pause, "...puppy poo."
Looking infinitely pleased with herself, she smiled ahead at the road. God, she was beautiful just then. It was impossible to be mad with her.
So I smiled too, in spite of myself. I hate to admit it but I actually sort of liked it when she talked in that horrible little baby voice. Truth is, I liked the attention. Also, I knew she only did it because she knew it got under my skin, and I can actually appreciate that in a girl. You don’t find many who can give as good as they take.
I looked at her sitting there with her smug little smile and I felt blood rush to my face. It made me feel warm to look at her and I loved it. We met outside of an English class, and we'd only been dating for a little while, and it was scary how much I was into her. She made me think these awful, gushy thoughts that I never thought would find themselves in my mind. After all, I thought I was sane.
But now I knew something that connected me to the rest the men in history: This is what men fight for. This is why men write and sing. This was why men spend, travel and just plain lose their minds... to make something like her all their own. I thought things like this, and I knew they were inexcusably lame. I knew they were worse than the worst bad poetry. I just didn't care.
I was in the kind of love that made everyone around me want to puke, and I was all the better for it. And to think that she felt the same way about me just made no sense. We were in our own little world and nobody could touch us. It was ridiculous. It was gross. I was falling hard.
I don't know what we hit in the road, if we hit anything, but just then my front left tire blew. It just blew.
We were on the interstate going seventy-five miles and hour and this thing doesn't just go flat, it pops. "POW!" and I can't steer for anthing. I felt the left side of the car drop a few inches up front and heard the whump whump whump of the tire before it completely shredded and came off. I was in the left lane and we were between two of those concrete barriers in a construction zone. Everything started moving in slow motion. Gina was screaming beside me. When the tire came off the rim dug into the newly paved asphalt below us and jerked the car violently to the left. The front end slammed into the concrete barricade and the back end spun out behind me so I was staring straight at the barrier now in front of me. I looked to my left and saw a white minivan barreling towards us. The minivan swerved to its right and took the back end off of our car. The impact whipped my head into the window and busted it out. I could hear the glass breaking but I don’t remember feeling the smack. When the minivan slammed into us it spun us 180 degrees in the road and we came to a stop, again perpendicular to oncoming traffic. I felt warm wetness on the side of my head and face. I couldn't see well at first. Everything sounded muffled and Gina was shaking me and saying something I couldn't hear or couldn't understand. She had tears in her eyes. Everything was still happening so slowly. I looked to my left and saw the minivan and the back of our car crumpled together ahead in the road. Maybe five seconds had passed since the tire blew.
Dull in my ears, I heard the sound of screeching tires again. I looked back to my right and behind Gina's tear streaked face I saw the chrome grill of a big black truck coming too fast. My eyes widened and I tried to yell but nothing came out. Gina had just started to turn her head to follow my gaze when I saw the glass behind her explode. Even over the screaming tires I could hear the pieces singing through the air around us. The headlights of the truck lit them from behind and gave her a halo made of a million tiny stars. I couldn't help but think that she looked beautiful.
...
Now I hold her hand, and she sleeps softly beside me. Monitors beep and machines hiss around us under the fluorescent hospital lights. She is still beautiful and I wish that I could give her a kiss and wake her up like in the fairy tales. But I've already tried a hundred times.
It's been almost three weeks since I woke up in a bed like the one she lays in now and my mother cried over me. They told me I'd been asleep for nine days.
Gina got the worst of it. The truck hit her side. But she is alive and stable and they tell me that's a miracle in itself. They say she could wake up tomorrow or not at all.
I can't be here all the time. I've got class and other stuff, but I am here otherwise. The sun has been up for about three hours now and I've got to leave soon for my 9:00. But when I go, in case she wakes up while I'm gone, I want her to know I've been here and that I will be back real soon.
I reach in my book bag and pull out Sampson. I put him on the table at the foot of her bed. As I walk out, I give him a little tap on the nose and I hope he'll still be nodding when she wakes.
James
I saw James. He was standing in a small plowed field. A road ran by the end, and an old barn with sides covered with tin flashing stood nearby. He stood squinting in the sunlight, looking all around him. He seemed surprised, but not alarmed to find himself there. He was wearing the clothes I’d seen him in when he came home from work yesterday – grey dress slacks and a blue oxford, a striped tie – but his feet were bare and sunk into the soft brown soil.
It had been day, but suddenly now it was night, and the sound of crickets chirping in cadence was filling the air, unnaturally loud. I saw an older man approach from the far end of the field. He wore work clothes – brown khakis, a plaid shirt with snap buttons, sneakers with Velcro straps, a dirty cap. He walked with a slight limp, and struggled a bit as he crossed to face James.
“Hello,” James said with a smile. He seemed to know the man. It was a pleasant greeting, but unnatural somehow.
“James,” the older man said, looking down on him. “You’re wrong.”
“Wrong? Wrong about what?” James seemed confused and concerned.
“No, that ain’t what I mean.” The old man spoke slowly, a deep southern drawl. He now stared past James, over his head. “I mean you’re at fault – guilty of wrong.”
“Why? What have I done?” I could tell the old man’s words had upset him.
“You are a good man, James. Raised to be one. But you ain’t living that way.”
James paused for a moment, thinking. His eyes began to well with tears.
“I know,” he was quiet now, with his head down. “I’m sorry.”
“You ain’t where you belong, James, and you’re worse for it. You were meant for more than this. You trust me on that.”
He placed a hand on James’ shoulder. They stood in silence. Finally, James spoke again.
“I’m so sorry,” is all he could say. He put his face in his hands and sobbed.
The old man withdrew his hand and turned to walk away. His feet were bare now, too.
“I’m so sorry.”
***
I woke with a start, and sat up in bed. I was in my apartment, eleven stories up. My heart was racing. From the window I could see the city was still.
James was beside me, still sleeping. I slid out of bed and threw on my robe – it’s always cold in my apartment. I shuffled quickly across the bedroom and into the bathroom, closing the door before I turned on the light. My hands were shaking. What a crazy fucking dream. I sat down on the toilet lid and ran my hands through my hair. Why was I crying? I stood up to the sink and splashed water on my face.
“Just a dream, Jules,” I told myself.
I looked at my puffy eyes, my thin frame, my small boobs. 3am is the perfect time to get critical. Instead, I turned my thoughts back to the dream. Seriously, what the fuck was that all about? It didn’t even make any sense. I mean, if dreams are supposed to come from somewhere in our subconscious, then where the hell did that come from?
To tell the truth, I didn’t even think all that much of James. He’s a good guy, sure, but honestly I was thinking about dumping him. He was too much of a boy scout – too boring. I mean don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have been dating him if he was a stick in the mud, and the southern charm was cute at first, but I guess what was bothering me was that there was nothing special about him. Nothing exciting or different.
He was just James – pretty good at his job, pretty funny, pretty good in bed… pretty good at everything, not great at anything. When I met him I was just glad he was decent-looking and sane, as opposed to freakishly good looking and totally batshit-fucking-loco like Brad, the guy before him. But now I was bored. “I deserve someone exceptional, not acceptable,” I would tell my friends.
So why this dream? Why the field? Why the bare feet? Why the calling to something “more.”
I stood for a few minutes more, blinking at myself in the mirror, examining my bloodshot eyes.
“That must be it.” I thought. “I wish James was something special, something more, and it manifested itself in this crazy dream, where some old man is telling him to be more.” But could that really be it? Seemed kind of simple.
Maybe it was. I came to a decision then – was going to end things with James in the morning. I felt justified in that. After all, it had come to me in a dream, hadn’t it?
I hesitated. “But what about the part about him being guilty of wrong – of not living like a ‘good man’?” I thought again. “That’s not true, James is a good man. He’s one of the best men I know.”
I dismissed the thought. Dreams don’t have to make perfect sense. It’s the general message that matters, I told myself. I flicked off the light and shuffled back to bed. As I was about to climb in I noticed something: James was shaking. His back was to me, and he was curled into a ball – not the way he usually sleeps – and his whole body was moving with small, rhythmic jerks.
I walked around to his side of the bed. I froze.
He was lying there, still asleep, sobbing with his face in his hands.
“I’m so sorry,” he cried quietly. Not to me, but into his palms.
“I’m so sorry.”
***
It had been day, but suddenly now it was night, and the sound of crickets chirping in cadence was filling the air, unnaturally loud. I saw an older man approach from the far end of the field. He wore work clothes – brown khakis, a plaid shirt with snap buttons, sneakers with Velcro straps, a dirty cap. He walked with a slight limp, and struggled a bit as he crossed to face James.
“Hello,” James said with a smile. He seemed to know the man. It was a pleasant greeting, but unnatural somehow.
“James,” the older man said, looking down on him. “You’re wrong.”
“Wrong? Wrong about what?” James seemed confused and concerned.
“No, that ain’t what I mean.” The old man spoke slowly, a deep southern drawl. He now stared past James, over his head. “I mean you’re at fault – guilty of wrong.”
“Why? What have I done?” I could tell the old man’s words had upset him.
“You are a good man, James. Raised to be one. But you ain’t living that way.”
James paused for a moment, thinking. His eyes began to well with tears.
“I know,” he was quiet now, with his head down. “I’m sorry.”
“You ain’t where you belong, James, and you’re worse for it. You were meant for more than this. You trust me on that.”
He placed a hand on James’ shoulder. They stood in silence. Finally, James spoke again.
“I’m so sorry,” is all he could say. He put his face in his hands and sobbed.
The old man withdrew his hand and turned to walk away. His feet were bare now, too.
“I’m so sorry.”
***
I woke with a start, and sat up in bed. I was in my apartment, eleven stories up. My heart was racing. From the window I could see the city was still.
James was beside me, still sleeping. I slid out of bed and threw on my robe – it’s always cold in my apartment. I shuffled quickly across the bedroom and into the bathroom, closing the door before I turned on the light. My hands were shaking. What a crazy fucking dream. I sat down on the toilet lid and ran my hands through my hair. Why was I crying? I stood up to the sink and splashed water on my face.
“Just a dream, Jules,” I told myself.
I looked at my puffy eyes, my thin frame, my small boobs. 3am is the perfect time to get critical. Instead, I turned my thoughts back to the dream. Seriously, what the fuck was that all about? It didn’t even make any sense. I mean, if dreams are supposed to come from somewhere in our subconscious, then where the hell did that come from?
To tell the truth, I didn’t even think all that much of James. He’s a good guy, sure, but honestly I was thinking about dumping him. He was too much of a boy scout – too boring. I mean don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have been dating him if he was a stick in the mud, and the southern charm was cute at first, but I guess what was bothering me was that there was nothing special about him. Nothing exciting or different.
He was just James – pretty good at his job, pretty funny, pretty good in bed… pretty good at everything, not great at anything. When I met him I was just glad he was decent-looking and sane, as opposed to freakishly good looking and totally batshit-fucking-loco like Brad, the guy before him. But now I was bored. “I deserve someone exceptional, not acceptable,” I would tell my friends.
So why this dream? Why the field? Why the bare feet? Why the calling to something “more.”
I stood for a few minutes more, blinking at myself in the mirror, examining my bloodshot eyes.
“That must be it.” I thought. “I wish James was something special, something more, and it manifested itself in this crazy dream, where some old man is telling him to be more.” But could that really be it? Seemed kind of simple.
Maybe it was. I came to a decision then – was going to end things with James in the morning. I felt justified in that. After all, it had come to me in a dream, hadn’t it?
I hesitated. “But what about the part about him being guilty of wrong – of not living like a ‘good man’?” I thought again. “That’s not true, James is a good man. He’s one of the best men I know.”
I dismissed the thought. Dreams don’t have to make perfect sense. It’s the general message that matters, I told myself. I flicked off the light and shuffled back to bed. As I was about to climb in I noticed something: James was shaking. His back was to me, and he was curled into a ball – not the way he usually sleeps – and his whole body was moving with small, rhythmic jerks.
I walked around to his side of the bed. I froze.
He was lying there, still asleep, sobbing with his face in his hands.
“I’m so sorry,” he cried quietly. Not to me, but into his palms.
“I’m so sorry.”
***
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