Dead Winter
The view outside is shameful, to say the least.
Snow is sparse,
Thinning hair struggles over bald spots.
Is this really winter in the Rocky Mountains?
Is this really what we’ve been reduced to,
A fucking January that has no substance?
Has the sharp knife of the wind dulled the winter’s blade?
What happened to the days, when my spit
Would turn to ice,
Before it even hit the ground?
When you couldn’t leave the house
Without your arsenal of clothing.
Show me that “dead of winter,”
Not, a dead winter.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
A Mask
A Mask
It watches the world through
A mask, covers its face
Entirely. Either too much, or
Enough of life will kill one.
The blank monitor, It gazes
At a motionless glass,
Framed behind Its steel
Lifeless, faces it has acquired.
Means nothing tonight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He winces, with
Shivers covering the spine, producing
The audible pops of a pain;
Seldom known as grief.
As It shifts Its gaze upon him.
She tries to call from within
The air is thin and the lungs she has known,
Burning, as a forest is wont to do,
But she knows life will end.
She allowed It
Inside, within, without,
She had no choice.
It assumed a role;
The parent consuming the child.
She can’t restrain.
The cries die within the being.
Of nothing, nothing is created.
The flicker dies within the eyes
As It stares back toward the screen.
It watches the world through
A mask, covers its face
Entirely. Either too much, or
Enough of life will kill one.
The blank monitor, It gazes
At a motionless glass,
Framed behind Its steel
Lifeless, faces it has acquired.
Means nothing tonight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He winces, with
Shivers covering the spine, producing
The audible pops of a pain;
Seldom known as grief.
As It shifts Its gaze upon him.
She tries to call from within
The air is thin and the lungs she has known,
Burning, as a forest is wont to do,
But she knows life will end.
She allowed It
Inside, within, without,
She had no choice.
It assumed a role;
The parent consuming the child.
She can’t restrain.
The cries die within the being.
Of nothing, nothing is created.
The flicker dies within the eyes
As It stares back toward the screen.
Girl With the Pink Hair
Girl With the Pink Hair
I can see you sitting
In sinister cloth. You think
Nothing you do is acceptable
You.
Avoidance is key
Lackadaisical care of what others
Think. Of you the world
In sinister cloth. You think
Nothing you do is acceptable
You.
Avoidance is key
Lackadaisical care of what others
Think. Of you the world
Is
Devoid. Right?
I know you,
I’ve seen you.
Rebellious girl
In a plainclothes
World?
No, you’re just another
Fighting for something
Unreal.
The stalled fight strolls
On. And you, well,
You have
Become
stuck.
Devoid. Right?
I know you,
I’ve seen you.
Rebellious girl
In a plainclothes
World?
No, you’re just another
Fighting for something
Unreal.
The stalled fight strolls
On. And you, well,
You have
Become
stuck.
Irony?
Irony?
I still think about you from time to time. I know it’s been years since I’ve seen you, but you were one of the best friends I’ve ever had. It may seem weird, but the memory that always comes to mind is that day when you and I were walking around downtown talking. Not talking about anything in particular, just speech. Both of us bundled up against that wind. You know? It would come from the canyon and give you the sensation that your face had just been bitten by a black bear when it hit you. You remember that day right?
I remember how the smoke would be ripped from your mouth as we walked over the bridge and I would have to squint my eyes against the acrid stench as it hit my face. I didn’t really notice it all that much because our conversation was so lively. I remember that jacket that you used to wear, you know, the ratty one with all of the holes in it. You used to say, “it doesn’t matter how many holes I have in this fucking jacket, the only thing that matters is that your extremities are covered,” and then held up your gloved hands and gestured at the wool beanie on your head, “that’s all that it really takes for you to keep warm my man. Hell, if it weren’t for the wind I would wear a t-shirt.” Then you pitched your cigarette over the bridge where it landed on the frozen river smoldering. Then you turned back and we kept chatting. The topic of the day seemed to be how much you hated those who ran our city. Mainly the ones in the police force, but that was because you didn’t really know much about the ones behind the scenes. Besides, the ones behind the scenes weren’t the ones that kept giving you MIP’s. About once a month, it seemed, because you couldn’t seem to keep out of trouble when you would drink; and you were always drinking. So was I though.
I remember that, on that day in particular, you were complaining to me about your last MIP that you had received and how the only reason that you received it was because that was the only thing that any law enforcement officer was looking for. “When you get a national award for giving out a record number of MIP’s, the police force decides not to focus on anything else,” you said as you lit a new cigarette, “that’s the reason why our state’s DUIs and other crimes are so high. Hell, that’s why they still haven’t caught that homeless guy that raped that one girl; because he was probably over the drinking age.” I nodded my head vigorously and threw in my own comments on how inefficient our law enforcement was. I may have agreed a little too aggressively with what you said, but I was pissed about the recent MIP that I had received too. It was about this time that the Persian man stopped us and asked if we’d like to buy some jewelry.
“It would be a good for your girlfriends, eh boys,” he was a very common face in town and you could always tell him apart from others by his sunglasses, no matter how dark it was, and his greasy hair, “you know your girlfriends would really like some earrings!” I didn’t even look his way I just passed and kept giving you my opinion about the police force, it took me about half a block to realize that you had stopped and had purchased a bracelet. You were shaking his hand and thanking him when I got back to you.
“Who knows, I may have a girlfriend someday that may like this,” was your reply to my raised-eyebrow inquiry, “and at the very least, it might be some good karma down the way,” and then you slipped the jewelry into your jacket pocket and walked off with a half-grin and the cigarette protruding from your lips.
It’s been about three years since you were hit and killed by that drunk driver and you know what? They hired on about twenty new officers to the police force. Here’s the catch, though, they hired on the new officers to try and stop the underage drinking “problem” that our town has. In fact, they call it the “underage task force,” and they talk about them in the newspaper as if they’re some old group of Western gunslingers. Want to know something even funnier? The drinking and driving problem is just as bad as it’s ever been.
I still think about you from time to time. I know it’s been years since I’ve seen you, but you were one of the best friends I’ve ever had. It may seem weird, but the memory that always comes to mind is that day when you and I were walking around downtown talking. Not talking about anything in particular, just speech. Both of us bundled up against that wind. You know? It would come from the canyon and give you the sensation that your face had just been bitten by a black bear when it hit you. You remember that day right?
I remember how the smoke would be ripped from your mouth as we walked over the bridge and I would have to squint my eyes against the acrid stench as it hit my face. I didn’t really notice it all that much because our conversation was so lively. I remember that jacket that you used to wear, you know, the ratty one with all of the holes in it. You used to say, “it doesn’t matter how many holes I have in this fucking jacket, the only thing that matters is that your extremities are covered,” and then held up your gloved hands and gestured at the wool beanie on your head, “that’s all that it really takes for you to keep warm my man. Hell, if it weren’t for the wind I would wear a t-shirt.” Then you pitched your cigarette over the bridge where it landed on the frozen river smoldering. Then you turned back and we kept chatting. The topic of the day seemed to be how much you hated those who ran our city. Mainly the ones in the police force, but that was because you didn’t really know much about the ones behind the scenes. Besides, the ones behind the scenes weren’t the ones that kept giving you MIP’s. About once a month, it seemed, because you couldn’t seem to keep out of trouble when you would drink; and you were always drinking. So was I though.
I remember that, on that day in particular, you were complaining to me about your last MIP that you had received and how the only reason that you received it was because that was the only thing that any law enforcement officer was looking for. “When you get a national award for giving out a record number of MIP’s, the police force decides not to focus on anything else,” you said as you lit a new cigarette, “that’s the reason why our state’s DUIs and other crimes are so high. Hell, that’s why they still haven’t caught that homeless guy that raped that one girl; because he was probably over the drinking age.” I nodded my head vigorously and threw in my own comments on how inefficient our law enforcement was. I may have agreed a little too aggressively with what you said, but I was pissed about the recent MIP that I had received too. It was about this time that the Persian man stopped us and asked if we’d like to buy some jewelry.
“It would be a good for your girlfriends, eh boys,” he was a very common face in town and you could always tell him apart from others by his sunglasses, no matter how dark it was, and his greasy hair, “you know your girlfriends would really like some earrings!” I didn’t even look his way I just passed and kept giving you my opinion about the police force, it took me about half a block to realize that you had stopped and had purchased a bracelet. You were shaking his hand and thanking him when I got back to you.
“Who knows, I may have a girlfriend someday that may like this,” was your reply to my raised-eyebrow inquiry, “and at the very least, it might be some good karma down the way,” and then you slipped the jewelry into your jacket pocket and walked off with a half-grin and the cigarette protruding from your lips.
It’s been about three years since you were hit and killed by that drunk driver and you know what? They hired on about twenty new officers to the police force. Here’s the catch, though, they hired on the new officers to try and stop the underage drinking “problem” that our town has. In fact, they call it the “underage task force,” and they talk about them in the newspaper as if they’re some old group of Western gunslingers. Want to know something even funnier? The drinking and driving problem is just as bad as it’s ever been.
Monday, December 20, 2010
The Walk
The Walk
He woke with a start and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he looked around. What in the…? He couldn’t figure out how he had gotten here. The last he could remember he had been walking through the streets of downtown Missoula, Montana, trudging through the fallen leaves. He would like to say that it had been a plethora of beautiful colors, the leaves that is, but it wasn’t. It was one of those falls where the frost had come far too early and the leaves had all frozen to the trees. They were brown. Just brown. No different shades of brown either. Brown.
But now he was surrounded by snow in the middle of, well, somewhere. He stood up shivering and brushed the snow that clung to his overcoat. He scrambled through his memories but he couldn’t seem to remember why he could possibly be here. There was no sign that another human being had even been here. So he began to walk.
His boots were thin and holes had been worn through each one on the outside from years of use, causing each step to send a dull throb through his quickly numbing feet, ice chunks forming on the sweat that was being wicked from his exposed Smartwool socks.
He couldn’t help but glance around in awe as a couple of startled grouse burst forth from a bit of sagebrush. He found some deer tracks and decided to follow them, maybe they would cross a trail.
As the day wore on he started getting more and more sleepy and it had become difficult for him to stay on his feet. He began to tell himself riddles in order to keep his mind sharp but quickly discovered that he couldn’t remember any. In fact, he was finding it difficult to remember his own name, it rhymes with Scott? Steve… Sam… and his career. Had he even had a career? His mind was slipping, especially for one at such a young (?) age. The deer tracks had led him into a small copse of trees that had shielded him from the breeze and they were quickly bringing him back out the other side.
He pushed his way through a low-hanging aspen tree and what he saw almost made him drop to his knees with a cry of relief: another human. He, at least his stature looked like a male, was wearing snowshoes and slowly working his way up a ridge with the help of his ski-poles. He was wearing a bright red jacket with black windbreaker pants. His hat was a bright orange with red stripes rounding it in concentric circles from the bottom to the top. His breath streamed out through his black facemask in small puffs of mist.
He opened his mouth to shout to the stranger but no words came out; just a choked sigh of exhaustion. He cleared his throat and bellowed in the loudest shout that he could muster; Hey! Hey, please, help!
The hiker turned and stared at him for a time. He watched as this man came staggering out of the woods toward him, his face shrouded behind the mask and goggles that he wore. After about five minutes had passed he turned and kept hiking. He didn’t look back again.
The walker ran as fast as he could through the deep snow, but it made travel nearly impossible. Snow ran up the legs of his pants and packed deep into his boots, slowly increasing his risk of freezing. No, please, please, please… he had trouble shouting now because his breathing was so heavy, please, come back for me. He lost his balance and plunged into the snow. As he tried to get up he found that his arms wouldn’t support his weight and his vision slowly blurred as he lay back down in the snow.
Rick Johnson has been dead for ten years. He died of hypothermia after he became lost in a flash snowstorm while he was out looking for wood. He wakes up every morning disoriented and begins to walk. Every afternoon he sees the man with the snowshoes and chases him. Rick never catches the man with the snowshoes.
He woke with a start and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he looked around. What in the…? He couldn’t figure out how he had gotten here. The last he could remember he had been walking through the streets of downtown Missoula, Montana, trudging through the fallen leaves. He would like to say that it had been a plethora of beautiful colors, the leaves that is, but it wasn’t. It was one of those falls where the frost had come far too early and the leaves had all frozen to the trees. They were brown. Just brown. No different shades of brown either. Brown.
But now he was surrounded by snow in the middle of, well, somewhere. He stood up shivering and brushed the snow that clung to his overcoat. He scrambled through his memories but he couldn’t seem to remember why he could possibly be here. There was no sign that another human being had even been here. So he began to walk.
His boots were thin and holes had been worn through each one on the outside from years of use, causing each step to send a dull throb through his quickly numbing feet, ice chunks forming on the sweat that was being wicked from his exposed Smartwool socks.
He couldn’t help but glance around in awe as a couple of startled grouse burst forth from a bit of sagebrush. He found some deer tracks and decided to follow them, maybe they would cross a trail.
As the day wore on he started getting more and more sleepy and it had become difficult for him to stay on his feet. He began to tell himself riddles in order to keep his mind sharp but quickly discovered that he couldn’t remember any. In fact, he was finding it difficult to remember his own name, it rhymes with Scott? Steve… Sam… and his career. Had he even had a career? His mind was slipping, especially for one at such a young (?) age. The deer tracks had led him into a small copse of trees that had shielded him from the breeze and they were quickly bringing him back out the other side.
He pushed his way through a low-hanging aspen tree and what he saw almost made him drop to his knees with a cry of relief: another human. He, at least his stature looked like a male, was wearing snowshoes and slowly working his way up a ridge with the help of his ski-poles. He was wearing a bright red jacket with black windbreaker pants. His hat was a bright orange with red stripes rounding it in concentric circles from the bottom to the top. His breath streamed out through his black facemask in small puffs of mist.
He opened his mouth to shout to the stranger but no words came out; just a choked sigh of exhaustion. He cleared his throat and bellowed in the loudest shout that he could muster; Hey! Hey, please, help!
The hiker turned and stared at him for a time. He watched as this man came staggering out of the woods toward him, his face shrouded behind the mask and goggles that he wore. After about five minutes had passed he turned and kept hiking. He didn’t look back again.
The walker ran as fast as he could through the deep snow, but it made travel nearly impossible. Snow ran up the legs of his pants and packed deep into his boots, slowly increasing his risk of freezing. No, please, please, please… he had trouble shouting now because his breathing was so heavy, please, come back for me. He lost his balance and plunged into the snow. As he tried to get up he found that his arms wouldn’t support his weight and his vision slowly blurred as he lay back down in the snow.
Rick Johnson has been dead for ten years. He died of hypothermia after he became lost in a flash snowstorm while he was out looking for wood. He wakes up every morning disoriented and begins to walk. Every afternoon he sees the man with the snowshoes and chases him. Rick never catches the man with the snowshoes.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Thursday at the Park
Thursday at the Park
The last few notes of the guitar ring in our ears as we stand up and begin to stumble down the hill to mesh with all the people, each of us headed across the concrete pad to get to the stairs that lead up to the bridge. As we walk I can see two toe-headed youngsters running hand in hand together, still doing the occasional dance move. In the corner of the grassy area, you know, the one beneath the bridge, there stand the couple that is there every Thursday. They dance in jerky motions. Their eyes shimmer with the nostalgia of Woodstock and the years in between. The good Woodstock, the one with Jimi and Bob.
Colby, Ben and I have finally made it to the stairs and we proceed to shuffle our way up with short, jaunty steps. We each have a liter bottle of Coca-Cola that has been filled half-way with Black Velvet. I would like to think that Ben is the most sober because he’s going to be the one who drives us to wherever it is that he’s got in mind. Colby and I speak to each other in garish voices, we throw out obscenities and don’t care who may hear them.
As we get into Ben’s car I can’t help but notice that the half gallon of whiskey lay on it’s side and that it’s more than half gone. It’s almost a sick pride that overcomes one in a situation such as this. The thought that the three of us, but really just Colby and I, had managed to kill a quarter of a gallon of whiskey seemed like a feat, especially since we weren’t even ready to end our drinking for the night.
We arrived at the house, luckily only three blocks away, a few minutes later and we were greeted by the roommate of the house that nobody really liked. He greeted us in warmly enough and proceeded to seat each of us and pull out some beers.
So, uh, where’s Jeremy?
Ben sat and discussed the whereabouts of our friend while Colby and I wandered off and checked the place out. We took turns passing the bottle back and forth as we looked at the different posters on the wall and stared at the fish in their tank.
An hour later we all sat around the empty handle of whiskey and an assortment of empty beers and roared conversation at each other. Jeremy had never arrived home, even though he was at the same outdoor concert as us. I quickly found that nobody in the house smoked cigarettes and decided that I would go pick myself up a pack from the gas station that was only a few blocks away.
As I staggered out of the front door I noticed that the world around me had developed a distinct waver and that each of the lights carried a trail behind it as it passed by my vision. There seemed to be far too many lights.
It’s only a few blocks.
The next morning I woke up four hours late for work laying naked on my floor in a puddle of urine. My bed sheets, the bed is raised off of the ground so it requires a ladder to get into it, were scattered about the floor and I couldn’t find my cell phone or my wallet.
A smashed pack of cigarettes lay where I normally kept my wallet.
The last few notes of the guitar ring in our ears as we stand up and begin to stumble down the hill to mesh with all the people, each of us headed across the concrete pad to get to the stairs that lead up to the bridge. As we walk I can see two toe-headed youngsters running hand in hand together, still doing the occasional dance move. In the corner of the grassy area, you know, the one beneath the bridge, there stand the couple that is there every Thursday. They dance in jerky motions. Their eyes shimmer with the nostalgia of Woodstock and the years in between. The good Woodstock, the one with Jimi and Bob.
Colby, Ben and I have finally made it to the stairs and we proceed to shuffle our way up with short, jaunty steps. We each have a liter bottle of Coca-Cola that has been filled half-way with Black Velvet. I would like to think that Ben is the most sober because he’s going to be the one who drives us to wherever it is that he’s got in mind. Colby and I speak to each other in garish voices, we throw out obscenities and don’t care who may hear them.
As we get into Ben’s car I can’t help but notice that the half gallon of whiskey lay on it’s side and that it’s more than half gone. It’s almost a sick pride that overcomes one in a situation such as this. The thought that the three of us, but really just Colby and I, had managed to kill a quarter of a gallon of whiskey seemed like a feat, especially since we weren’t even ready to end our drinking for the night.
We arrived at the house, luckily only three blocks away, a few minutes later and we were greeted by the roommate of the house that nobody really liked. He greeted us in warmly enough and proceeded to seat each of us and pull out some beers.
So, uh, where’s Jeremy?
Ben sat and discussed the whereabouts of our friend while Colby and I wandered off and checked the place out. We took turns passing the bottle back and forth as we looked at the different posters on the wall and stared at the fish in their tank.
An hour later we all sat around the empty handle of whiskey and an assortment of empty beers and roared conversation at each other. Jeremy had never arrived home, even though he was at the same outdoor concert as us. I quickly found that nobody in the house smoked cigarettes and decided that I would go pick myself up a pack from the gas station that was only a few blocks away.
As I staggered out of the front door I noticed that the world around me had developed a distinct waver and that each of the lights carried a trail behind it as it passed by my vision. There seemed to be far too many lights.
It’s only a few blocks.
The next morning I woke up four hours late for work laying naked on my floor in a puddle of urine. My bed sheets, the bed is raised off of the ground so it requires a ladder to get into it, were scattered about the floor and I couldn’t find my cell phone or my wallet.
A smashed pack of cigarettes lay where I normally kept my wallet.
Crows
Crows
We sit and watch as the crow circles over the high desert landscape and the grass sways in circles around the sagebrush below him, prodded along by the wind. We watch as the crow dips and loops, each move he makes is different yet each move he makes keeps him suspended over the same spot.
There’s something poetic about a lone crow circling, you say, I can’t put my finger on it. I suppose it’s just the eerie connotation to death that they carry with them. You shiver. Too much like death.
More crows have come in and begun to circle. One lands on the juniper tree and begins to cough in a loud, low voice.
Yeah, I say, I can see what you mean. Let’s go get some food.
Okay.
That night on the local news we watched as they said that the body of a young woman had been found mutilated in the desert. The investigators suspected a possibility of foul play.
And still the crows circle.
We sit and watch as the crow circles over the high desert landscape and the grass sways in circles around the sagebrush below him, prodded along by the wind. We watch as the crow dips and loops, each move he makes is different yet each move he makes keeps him suspended over the same spot.
There’s something poetic about a lone crow circling, you say, I can’t put my finger on it. I suppose it’s just the eerie connotation to death that they carry with them. You shiver. Too much like death.
More crows have come in and begun to circle. One lands on the juniper tree and begins to cough in a loud, low voice.
Yeah, I say, I can see what you mean. Let’s go get some food.
Okay.
That night on the local news we watched as they said that the body of a young woman had been found mutilated in the desert. The investigators suspected a possibility of foul play.
And still the crows circle.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Snow Day
Snow Day
The photograph is one that I don’t remember, but the memories from this time come flooding back to me as I look at it. I am a child in the photo, no more than two or three years old, sitting in front of my dad on an old snowmobile. He’s wearing a one piece snow-suit circa 1985. It’s bright blue, with patches of neon pink and green all over it. To be quite honest, he looks absurd. I have on a small, all white, coat and a pair of black cover-all snow pants. This photo brings back only a vague memory of snowmobiling with my dad, (we never went out riding all that often, he thought it was too dangerous. What else can you expect from an ER nurse?) and my grandpa. The engine kept me warm despite the wind which seemed to shred right through whatever warm clothing I wore, turning bone to ice. I had a little hand grip running parallel in to the main handle-bar set that had a padded cover on it stating that it was Polaris or some other famous snowmobile brand.
In the photo, we are at my grandparents’ cabin in Island Park, Idaho. I remember we used to try and get up there at least once every summer and once every winter to do all sorts of recreational things. The cabin is large, and identical to every one of the trees that grow around the cabin, tall skinny firs I believe. I can’t tell for sure, but it’s not relevant. The reason for the cabin being identical to the trees is because it is. My grandpa built it with his own hands.
One of the memories that sticks out to me the most from my winters up there, is what my grandpa used to do when the snow would build up too high on the roof. You see, if the snow collects too heavily on the top of the roof it will collapse, just like a gingerbread house under the weight of a child’s greedy hands, so he would have to get it off somehow.
He used to climb up with a shovel and, standing at the top of the roof where the two sides connect, start slashing at it with the shovel until it gave way. You would hear a loud cracking and a large chunk of ice and snow would go sliding down. He would ride it whooping and hollering, just like it was a large frozen bull. He would then land, laughing, in a large snowy heap. The matador stepping away from his kill. Then it would be up the ladder once more to repeat the routine.
He died a few years later of a case of lung cancer that had spread to his spine. He didn’t even smoke. The doctors say that it must have been some asbestos from when he was an independent handyman.
So it goes.
My grandmother got a brain tumor a few years after that, but she survived. She’s now in an assisted living home prematurely. They say that all of the chemo going straight to her brain caused her to develop dementia. She still claims that he visits her every night after everyone else is asleep.
I took the old photo out to show to my dad. He thought that I was my sister.
The photograph is one that I don’t remember, but the memories from this time come flooding back to me as I look at it. I am a child in the photo, no more than two or three years old, sitting in front of my dad on an old snowmobile. He’s wearing a one piece snow-suit circa 1985. It’s bright blue, with patches of neon pink and green all over it. To be quite honest, he looks absurd. I have on a small, all white, coat and a pair of black cover-all snow pants. This photo brings back only a vague memory of snowmobiling with my dad, (we never went out riding all that often, he thought it was too dangerous. What else can you expect from an ER nurse?) and my grandpa. The engine kept me warm despite the wind which seemed to shred right through whatever warm clothing I wore, turning bone to ice. I had a little hand grip running parallel in to the main handle-bar set that had a padded cover on it stating that it was Polaris or some other famous snowmobile brand.
In the photo, we are at my grandparents’ cabin in Island Park, Idaho. I remember we used to try and get up there at least once every summer and once every winter to do all sorts of recreational things. The cabin is large, and identical to every one of the trees that grow around the cabin, tall skinny firs I believe. I can’t tell for sure, but it’s not relevant. The reason for the cabin being identical to the trees is because it is. My grandpa built it with his own hands.
One of the memories that sticks out to me the most from my winters up there, is what my grandpa used to do when the snow would build up too high on the roof. You see, if the snow collects too heavily on the top of the roof it will collapse, just like a gingerbread house under the weight of a child’s greedy hands, so he would have to get it off somehow.
He used to climb up with a shovel and, standing at the top of the roof where the two sides connect, start slashing at it with the shovel until it gave way. You would hear a loud cracking and a large chunk of ice and snow would go sliding down. He would ride it whooping and hollering, just like it was a large frozen bull. He would then land, laughing, in a large snowy heap. The matador stepping away from his kill. Then it would be up the ladder once more to repeat the routine.
He died a few years later of a case of lung cancer that had spread to his spine. He didn’t even smoke. The doctors say that it must have been some asbestos from when he was an independent handyman.
So it goes.
My grandmother got a brain tumor a few years after that, but she survived. She’s now in an assisted living home prematurely. They say that all of the chemo going straight to her brain caused her to develop dementia. She still claims that he visits her every night after everyone else is asleep.
I took the old photo out to show to my dad. He thought that I was my sister.
Revision, expansion, final project. More to come.
Dog Park Summer
I walk out of my room scratching the side of my face and blinking into the sun as it rises over Hellgate High School. I stroll up to the decrepit railing that runs along the front of the deck and lean against it as I sip on my coffee.
It’s noon in Missoula, Montana and I’m happy that I was able to get up at such an early part of the day. The summers are nice in that way. You can walk out in your boxer-briefs and don’t have to worry about the high school kids catching sight of you. Not to mention, with it being noon on a Wednesday, I didn’t have to worry about much of anybody seeing me on account of it being a work day.
Isaac Noble is my name and I am officially unemployed as of three days ago on account of a false accusation of sexual harassment in the work place. I had made a couple of off-color comments to one of the men that I worked with and had been overheard by Katie, the female with whom I had worked. Well, she went to the boss that was in charge of the whole operation and claimed that she no longer felt safe working with me. It wasn’t even a comment regarding any sort of a threat; I just mentioned that women had smaller bladders than men (which, as it turns out, is false). After getting a full day’s work out of me, the boss called me in as I was going to clock out and fired me. “Isaac, I just can’t trust you not to say these types of things, you’re too unpredictable.” “I understand.” I didn’t.
“Hey, Isaac!” I turned from my basking place in the sun to see who had hailed. Marty Wagner was walking down the deck from his apartment with his signature bowlegged stride. He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth and one eye squeezed shut against the smoke. For some reason he never removed his cigarettes from his mouth so his eyes were always red and irritated. He was carrying a Mountain Dew in one hand and a book in the other. He was clad, as was typical, in nothing but a ratted pair of his high school basketball shorts stating that he had once been a Saginaw High Knight. He was from Saginaw, Michigan. “What happened to you last night man?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well one minute we were all hanging out at the ‘Rose, and the next, you had disappeared,” he stopped walking to ash his cigarette over the deck, “everybody figured that you had just been picked up by the cops or something.”
“Well, I don’t really remember much from last night, but I got home.”
“Yep, I guess that’s all that really matters in the end,” he held the book out to me. It was my copy of, Of Mice and Men, “thanks for lettin me borrow this man, it was great; let’s read some poems later,” that was our afternoon routine.
“Yep, anytime man; I’ll be over later.”
We both looked up as Shawn Borgman’s door opened and he came out clad in the same outfit as Mark except his shorts were from Vermont. He was twisting a lock of hair with his finger and stretching, “hey, Isaac, what the fuck happened to you last night?”
---
A couple of hours later I was stretched out in one of the many foldable chairs that we have scattered about the apartment complex, the only inanimate objects that there are more abundant are crushed beer cans, reading The Sun Also Rises and wondering just how hot it could get. It said on the news earlier that we were scheduled to peak out in the high 90’s for the day, which signified a trip to the river.
I glanced off to my left at the sound of a thud as Shawn dropped one of the dumbbells that he had been lifting with. He stood up and slathered himself with tanning oil, or man-tan as he called it, and stood flexing to the street and bobbing his head to the Lil Wayne that was blasting in his ears. That was what he listened to, well, that or Johnny Cash. He had a makeshift weight bench set up that consisted of a stained Igloo cooler and a stool for propping his legs on as he did “L-sits” against the railing. At one time he had a membership at a gym, but the money had dried up and his unemployment checks weren’t coming as frequently as they had been. All, living in our complex, were watching our bank accounts diminish as the summer dragged on and each of us tested the limits of our drinking problems on a nightly basis.
I looked up as I heard the tell-tale thud, drag, thud of Mike Shelton clomping up the stairs in his army issue boots. He, as is the same with Shawn and his brother Nick, is an army veteran and he still continues to wear his tall black boots everywhere. I glance down at my watch, 2:00, it’s about time he decided to get up.
“How’s it going man?”
“Michael!” Boom! A dropping dumbbell.
“Hey, gents, how’s it going?” He walked by, clad in his ARMY brand sweatshirt and black slacks holding a Chelada in his left hand. A Chelada is something that the beer company put out that is a mixture between tomato juice and beer. I find it mortifying, but Mike comes up with one in hand every morning, “are we still going out to the dog park today?”
“Does the pope shit in the woods?” We all chuckle at Shawn’s new saying that he has been using; it’ll still be a couple of months before everyone agrees that he needs to come up with a new catchphrase. He steps into his room and comes out with two sixteen ounce Hamm’s and tosses one to my outstretched hand. It’s been decided that no one will buy anything but this to drink until some money gets into circulation around the complex. It really is hard to find anything cheaper than a six-pack of “pounders” for four dollars.
---
An hour or so passed and we finally saw Chance, one of our downstairs neighbors, come riding up on his bike. He was one of two of the people from our complex that was employed and our day really didn’t start until he got home from work. He’s a fairly tall guy with black hair that always curves up and slightly to the left from the top of his head. I don’t even think that he styles it, I think it just stretches upward on it’s own. Like a flower toward the sun.
Shawn and I rushed down to his apartment to help him get ready and we almost ran right into him. He was sitting at his patio table and sprinkling a small amount of ground marijuana over a “rollie” cigarette that he had laid out on the table-top.
“Whoa, suckas, take it easy,” He cracked open his Hamm’s, he was the one that first discovered the wonderful deal, and finished rolling his cigarette, “are we ready to head to the park?”
“Yeah, now get your swimsuit on, grab some cash, and let’s go.”
“Alright, let me see your phone so I can call Kristy and let her know,” Kristy was his girlfriend, she worked too now that I think about it. I tossed him my cell phone and trotted up the stairs to get myself ready to go.
I turned and said hello to Marty, he was sitting down and letting Kaleigh, his girlfriend who was also from Michigan, rub sunscreen on his back. They’ll be gone in a couple of months and it will break every one of our hearts.
I pop my head in on Nick, Shawn’s brother, on my way to see if he’s ready to go. The air smells thick with sunscreen and he sits draped across the couch with a chew in his mouth watching the news.
“You ready to go?”
He gestures down to his swim trunks, “‘course I’m ready to go, you fuck, you and Shawn have been screaming about it all morning.” Nick loves to “bust your balls;” apparently it’s a New England thing. The brothers are more proud of their home state than anything.
---
About fifteen minutes later we are all on our bikes, save for Mike he doesn’t have a bike so he drives, and heading down the river trail. There are about five backpacks between us, every one of them filled to the brim with beer. I glanced around at all of the people sunbathing and swimming in the river and feel a pride for the town that I live in.
Marty raced by me trailing a bit of smoke from his cigarette and laughing, ski poles strapped to his back pack swing precariously toward any passerby, and Shawn races behind him with a inter-tube held under his arm and two Frisbees poking out of the large pocket of his backpack.
The clank of the gate to the entrance of the dog park announces the beginning to a very strange experience.
I walk out of my room scratching the side of my face and blinking into the sun as it rises over Hellgate High School. I stroll up to the decrepit railing that runs along the front of the deck and lean against it as I sip on my coffee.
It’s noon in Missoula, Montana and I’m happy that I was able to get up at such an early part of the day. The summers are nice in that way. You can walk out in your boxer-briefs and don’t have to worry about the high school kids catching sight of you. Not to mention, with it being noon on a Wednesday, I didn’t have to worry about much of anybody seeing me on account of it being a work day.
Isaac Noble is my name and I am officially unemployed as of three days ago on account of a false accusation of sexual harassment in the work place. I had made a couple of off-color comments to one of the men that I worked with and had been overheard by Katie, the female with whom I had worked. Well, she went to the boss that was in charge of the whole operation and claimed that she no longer felt safe working with me. It wasn’t even a comment regarding any sort of a threat; I just mentioned that women had smaller bladders than men (which, as it turns out, is false). After getting a full day’s work out of me, the boss called me in as I was going to clock out and fired me. “Isaac, I just can’t trust you not to say these types of things, you’re too unpredictable.” “I understand.” I didn’t.
“Hey, Isaac!” I turned from my basking place in the sun to see who had hailed. Marty Wagner was walking down the deck from his apartment with his signature bowlegged stride. He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth and one eye squeezed shut against the smoke. For some reason he never removed his cigarettes from his mouth so his eyes were always red and irritated. He was carrying a Mountain Dew in one hand and a book in the other. He was clad, as was typical, in nothing but a ratted pair of his high school basketball shorts stating that he had once been a Saginaw High Knight. He was from Saginaw, Michigan. “What happened to you last night man?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well one minute we were all hanging out at the ‘Rose, and the next, you had disappeared,” he stopped walking to ash his cigarette over the deck, “everybody figured that you had just been picked up by the cops or something.”
“Well, I don’t really remember much from last night, but I got home.”
“Yep, I guess that’s all that really matters in the end,” he held the book out to me. It was my copy of, Of Mice and Men, “thanks for lettin me borrow this man, it was great; let’s read some poems later,” that was our afternoon routine.
“Yep, anytime man; I’ll be over later.”
We both looked up as Shawn Borgman’s door opened and he came out clad in the same outfit as Mark except his shorts were from Vermont. He was twisting a lock of hair with his finger and stretching, “hey, Isaac, what the fuck happened to you last night?”
---
A couple of hours later I was stretched out in one of the many foldable chairs that we have scattered about the apartment complex, the only inanimate objects that there are more abundant are crushed beer cans, reading The Sun Also Rises and wondering just how hot it could get. It said on the news earlier that we were scheduled to peak out in the high 90’s for the day, which signified a trip to the river.
I glanced off to my left at the sound of a thud as Shawn dropped one of the dumbbells that he had been lifting with. He stood up and slathered himself with tanning oil, or man-tan as he called it, and stood flexing to the street and bobbing his head to the Lil Wayne that was blasting in his ears. That was what he listened to, well, that or Johnny Cash. He had a makeshift weight bench set up that consisted of a stained Igloo cooler and a stool for propping his legs on as he did “L-sits” against the railing. At one time he had a membership at a gym, but the money had dried up and his unemployment checks weren’t coming as frequently as they had been. All, living in our complex, were watching our bank accounts diminish as the summer dragged on and each of us tested the limits of our drinking problems on a nightly basis.
I looked up as I heard the tell-tale thud, drag, thud of Mike Shelton clomping up the stairs in his army issue boots. He, as is the same with Shawn and his brother Nick, is an army veteran and he still continues to wear his tall black boots everywhere. I glance down at my watch, 2:00, it’s about time he decided to get up.
“How’s it going man?”
“Michael!” Boom! A dropping dumbbell.
“Hey, gents, how’s it going?” He walked by, clad in his ARMY brand sweatshirt and black slacks holding a Chelada in his left hand. A Chelada is something that the beer company put out that is a mixture between tomato juice and beer. I find it mortifying, but Mike comes up with one in hand every morning, “are we still going out to the dog park today?”
“Does the pope shit in the woods?” We all chuckle at Shawn’s new saying that he has been using; it’ll still be a couple of months before everyone agrees that he needs to come up with a new catchphrase. He steps into his room and comes out with two sixteen ounce Hamm’s and tosses one to my outstretched hand. It’s been decided that no one will buy anything but this to drink until some money gets into circulation around the complex. It really is hard to find anything cheaper than a six-pack of “pounders” for four dollars.
---
An hour or so passed and we finally saw Chance, one of our downstairs neighbors, come riding up on his bike. He was one of two of the people from our complex that was employed and our day really didn’t start until he got home from work. He’s a fairly tall guy with black hair that always curves up and slightly to the left from the top of his head. I don’t even think that he styles it, I think it just stretches upward on it’s own. Like a flower toward the sun.
Shawn and I rushed down to his apartment to help him get ready and we almost ran right into him. He was sitting at his patio table and sprinkling a small amount of ground marijuana over a “rollie” cigarette that he had laid out on the table-top.
“Whoa, suckas, take it easy,” He cracked open his Hamm’s, he was the one that first discovered the wonderful deal, and finished rolling his cigarette, “are we ready to head to the park?”
“Yeah, now get your swimsuit on, grab some cash, and let’s go.”
“Alright, let me see your phone so I can call Kristy and let her know,” Kristy was his girlfriend, she worked too now that I think about it. I tossed him my cell phone and trotted up the stairs to get myself ready to go.
I turned and said hello to Marty, he was sitting down and letting Kaleigh, his girlfriend who was also from Michigan, rub sunscreen on his back. They’ll be gone in a couple of months and it will break every one of our hearts.
I pop my head in on Nick, Shawn’s brother, on my way to see if he’s ready to go. The air smells thick with sunscreen and he sits draped across the couch with a chew in his mouth watching the news.
“You ready to go?”
He gestures down to his swim trunks, “‘course I’m ready to go, you fuck, you and Shawn have been screaming about it all morning.” Nick loves to “bust your balls;” apparently it’s a New England thing. The brothers are more proud of their home state than anything.
---
About fifteen minutes later we are all on our bikes, save for Mike he doesn’t have a bike so he drives, and heading down the river trail. There are about five backpacks between us, every one of them filled to the brim with beer. I glanced around at all of the people sunbathing and swimming in the river and feel a pride for the town that I live in.
Marty raced by me trailing a bit of smoke from his cigarette and laughing, ski poles strapped to his back pack swing precariously toward any passerby, and Shawn races behind him with a inter-tube held under his arm and two Frisbees poking out of the large pocket of his backpack.
The clank of the gate to the entrance of the dog park announces the beginning to a very strange experience.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Snowshoe
Snowshoe
Screeeeeeaatchh, Screeeaatch, Scree-eeatch! Eyes flickering open. Sitting up, I have to rub them, trying to shoo away the grogginess. What the hell was th- Screeeeatch! Swinging out of bed, I amble over to the window to see what the commotion is, but everything’s gone white. For a moment I assumed the light was playing tricks on me; the world doesn’t just “white-out.” Except for one thing: the snow has come, and my step-dad has begun shoveling off the walk.
As a child, snow usually signified very limited periods of fun. Snow meant wet clothes, possibilities of sickness, etc. But not today. Today is December twenty-seventh, two thousand seven. Two days ago, I received a brand new pair of snow-shoes, and I intended to use them.
To suit up gave me a feeling that I wouldn’t have even been able to describe. So many layers: windbreaker pants, wool socks and hat, wool gloves, poly-pro long sleeve, sunglasses, hiking boots, jacket. Strapping the shoes on, and running out the back door, the cold hits me like a giant, frozen, fist.
The snow, about three feet deep already, winked at me from all across its surface, revealing a million suns winking. Tramping out my foot sunk down to just under my knee. With a jerk, and a flip, I had pulled my shoe free and flung off the excess snow, like a dog shaking water from its coat, and plunged my other foot through. This made travel slow.
As I trek up the hillside, I can feel every cigarette I have consumed over the last year or so, hitching my lungs and tying sailor’s knots in my sides. About forty-five minutes later (keeping track of time really is next to impossible when working out I believe,) I looked back to see that I was only half-way up the mountain. Fuck.
Sweat was pouring down my nose from the rain gutter that used to be my eyebrows, my breathing, so ragged I have developed a wheeze, and my legs are starting to freeze from the sweat. I put down my head and plow on through the snow; creating a trail that I will later claim exclusively as my own.
After a long, and grueling, hour (or two, or three) I finally break up and onto the ridgeline that signifies the peak of my ascent. It has been such an arduous trek, full of sink holes, and ragged breathing. But I had the greatest view in the town.
I don’t think that enough people really appreciate the simple beauties that can occur in their town, especially a town with as many hidden views as Pocatello. Looking down and seeing a town, my town, that normally had the hazy look of a polluted, on-the-verge of apocalypse, view to it, blanketed in a soft, heavy snow.
I turn left, a little way up the ridgeline and see a little clearing, with a circle of trees dancing around it in the breeze; the perfect place for a turn-around.
I know that there have been people here before me, the slashed out areas of trees for a controlled burn are sign enough of that, but as far as I’m concerned, I may be the first, and last, person who will ever see this untouched, white world. As I trudge along, I mull over the thought of the snow. Something that can be both heavy and light at the same time, like a one ton feather. The idea of it seems comically mundane.
I stop to turn around at the copse and try to chuckle; but I can only sigh, because I’m so fucking tired.
Screeeeeeaatchh, Screeeaatch, Scree-eeatch! Eyes flickering open. Sitting up, I have to rub them, trying to shoo away the grogginess. What the hell was th- Screeeeatch! Swinging out of bed, I amble over to the window to see what the commotion is, but everything’s gone white. For a moment I assumed the light was playing tricks on me; the world doesn’t just “white-out.” Except for one thing: the snow has come, and my step-dad has begun shoveling off the walk.
As a child, snow usually signified very limited periods of fun. Snow meant wet clothes, possibilities of sickness, etc. But not today. Today is December twenty-seventh, two thousand seven. Two days ago, I received a brand new pair of snow-shoes, and I intended to use them.
To suit up gave me a feeling that I wouldn’t have even been able to describe. So many layers: windbreaker pants, wool socks and hat, wool gloves, poly-pro long sleeve, sunglasses, hiking boots, jacket. Strapping the shoes on, and running out the back door, the cold hits me like a giant, frozen, fist.
The snow, about three feet deep already, winked at me from all across its surface, revealing a million suns winking. Tramping out my foot sunk down to just under my knee. With a jerk, and a flip, I had pulled my shoe free and flung off the excess snow, like a dog shaking water from its coat, and plunged my other foot through. This made travel slow.
As I trek up the hillside, I can feel every cigarette I have consumed over the last year or so, hitching my lungs and tying sailor’s knots in my sides. About forty-five minutes later (keeping track of time really is next to impossible when working out I believe,) I looked back to see that I was only half-way up the mountain. Fuck.
Sweat was pouring down my nose from the rain gutter that used to be my eyebrows, my breathing, so ragged I have developed a wheeze, and my legs are starting to freeze from the sweat. I put down my head and plow on through the snow; creating a trail that I will later claim exclusively as my own.
After a long, and grueling, hour (or two, or three) I finally break up and onto the ridgeline that signifies the peak of my ascent. It has been such an arduous trek, full of sink holes, and ragged breathing. But I had the greatest view in the town.
I don’t think that enough people really appreciate the simple beauties that can occur in their town, especially a town with as many hidden views as Pocatello. Looking down and seeing a town, my town, that normally had the hazy look of a polluted, on-the-verge of apocalypse, view to it, blanketed in a soft, heavy snow.
I turn left, a little way up the ridgeline and see a little clearing, with a circle of trees dancing around it in the breeze; the perfect place for a turn-around.
I know that there have been people here before me, the slashed out areas of trees for a controlled burn are sign enough of that, but as far as I’m concerned, I may be the first, and last, person who will ever see this untouched, white world. As I trudge along, I mull over the thought of the snow. Something that can be both heavy and light at the same time, like a one ton feather. The idea of it seems comically mundane.
I stop to turn around at the copse and try to chuckle; but I can only sigh, because I’m so fucking tired.
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