Morning After

You never noticed how calming, refreshing and comforting it was to wake up with a back in front of you or a small body curled up under your armpit; a head resting against your naked nipple; the fabric of your oversized shirt or the small, cotton, always available tank top that girls of partying and modern days packed in their purses; as common as tampons, make-up, and cell phone chargers. When you woke up by yourself you were more spread, yes; but it was only so you could feel as if there was nothing you couldn’t touch or didn’t control in your domain; that you could stretch yourself thin as you did over your bed; occupying yourself with enough things to where you tricked your mind into thinking that you needed more space than you really did; that nothing of yours could be shared or understood by another human being. Only when you woke up with another person in sight; another body to occupy the space and take the burden off your stretching mind; you could sit there; smiling to yourself and tracing your hand over the upper back tattoo that you had not noticed the first time around; a rose bursting with leaf pads to its right and left; not colored in because of lack of money but, now, after years of procrastination; an expression of artistic integrity and old times. Only here could you say that it was easier this way; to have someone to share the space of life with you.

            Robert laid with both eyes open; as wide awake as he could be after a long session of passion, sweat, and careless love that could only be experienced when two souls, not looking forward to anything and delaying the questions to the next day, met and decided to lay down together. It had not been too careless though; as he had remembered pulling out and the whole ordeal; which, remembering in and of itself, was something to proud of when drinks were involved. She was still sleeping and, as he traced his hand back and forth along his back; not too rough so as not to wake her; he envied that she could sleep so soundly and cursed his working schedule for making nine o’clock seem like sleeping in.

            As if in a trance, Robert withdrew his hand; his bachelor mind coming back to him and yelling at him to slow down and remember that someone could still come off as a creep after sex; reminding him of the annoying, loud, call to pray mosque alarm clock that his father had gotten him after a trip to Kuwait. He wanted to ignore the voice but, as with many young, commitment drudging men of his generation, it was easier to have options and write off the settling habits of generations before him than actually give any of those opinions the proper time or analysis; to even think that it would be something he would want. As with anything there was too that prejudice of over thinking and analyzing that came with his profession. In this case, his want to remove himself from that prejudice, helped him to appreciate the night for the good time that it was; to remove his hand from her smooth back and wander to make coffee in the kitchen.

            The light clawed itself against the closed, beige shutters that Robert had not opened within the last week; trying to creep in and replace the artificial light that Robert had a bad habit of leaving on. Right now, though, he did not need or want any light; as his eyes were still adjusting and his head was resting; fearing that light would trigger the little neurons and dehydration cells that were stuck at grand central station; waiting to go to work and make themselves known.  The cool water from his refrigerator would keep them at bay for a little while; hitting his lips and reminding him of a morning summer jog on a boardwalk and the salty, steady breeze that one never got used to and always wanted if they lived in the desert. His decently cleaned plastic cup rested in his hand and prompted him to look up; exalted and reminiscent of his conquest last night; urging him to pick up his phone and post something obnoxious that his buddies would high five him for and his mom would scorn him for. A common consequence, though, of any memory laden night was that there was always a dead phone at the end of it and the black, addicting black square on his fake granite counter top next to unopened mail was no exception.

For a moment he felt disconnected and isolated; instinctively pressing the middle, on button; hoping for the screen to light up, his finger to slide across and to see something that pointed to someone caring about him. After plugging it in, though, he appreciated seeing the environment around him; wanting to take in the weekend morning that he so often looked forward too but did not appreciate. He wished for a second that the phone wouldn’t turn back on with text messages from Kevin, Derek or Ben; asking him where in Scottsdale they were going to meet up for the evening. He wished to be caught only in the past few hours; reliving the after morning feeling of conquest, sipping on freshly brewed coffee, enjoying conversation with an interesting woman, contemplating the thought of brunch in his head. It was all perfect because it was simple and he knew what to do; there was nothing open ended or foreign about it because that was never how it was when you were enjoying yourself. The cruel part about it was that you knew how perfect it was when it was going on and, unless you could pause the moment, it would go away as quickly as it had come. 

A Short Western

The town was small, crowded, and smelly. The smell carried back behind the general store to the dead grass and onto the road from Bisbee. Archer Jameson wanted to turn around right when the cow dung, old beer, sweating gallon hats and sun bathed out house scents reached his ears but he had heard of the poker games here and how he would make a killing. Bisbee hadn’t been good to him and he had not left on his own terms. He could handle a smell if it meant winning. Besides, he reckoned he didn’t smell princely either.

His velvet shirt was caked with dirt, his hair was tossed around under his straw tan hat and his month tasted of chewing tobacco and whores lipstick. At least he had gotten a kiss from her before being dragged out by the two largest men he had ever seen and told not to come back to the nice small mining town tucked away in the mountains of Southern Arizona.

            “Tombstone will have ya!” the two men had yelled. Fate, he thought, while walking his horse out of town.

Two rows of new wooden buildings lined the main street and the people strolled between each laughing, talking, and assimilating to the smell. Archer strolled his horse lightly through, envying the shade of the board walks on either side. Some boys were running between the crowds playing with poppers; a few ladies whispered and stared at him and an old timer rocking outside the barber’s leaned forward and gave him a nice toothless smile.

Most of the buildings sold clothes, food, feed, guns and entertainment of some sorts. There was a theater he wasn’t that all interested in, a deputy’s office he wanted to stay clear of and an ice cream parlor that sounded mighty good right now. If it hadn’t been for the sight of men stumbling out of one of the wood buildings he would have gotten himself a nice scoop of vanilla.

Caseys was the name of the place and the doors were still swaying that creaking noise that held a special place in Archer’s heart because it signified entering and leaving. Not a lot of things meant opposites. The stalls up front were all full and he knew his horse needed some nice water for putting up with him. He parked her a few stalls up from the saloon and walked up to the door with the piano sounds, the shrinks and laughter of women, and the pounding of glass on a wooden counter.

It was darker than the afternoon outside but the crowd inside was much more rambunctious than the crowd outside.  Two eager women laughed and exposed their thigh highs with an old man smoking a cigar off in a corner. In the other corner five gambling tables were full with shouts of joy, accusations, threats, sadness, drunkenness and boisterous comments.  The bar was full with a few spurs, business men with soft talking voices and Mexicans drinking tequila. There were other women prancing around to a few circular tables off to his right; gesturing the men upstairs to shouts, screams and whatever they wanted for a few coin.

            If only he had some money, Archer thought. There was nothing like laying next to a woman after a long ride. It made for a quick one usually but the long draw from the cigarette, your hand running through their hair and the raising of their head lying on your breathing chest made you feel calm and you wanted to stay there forever.

The bar tender was a tall, bald man with glasses and a toothpick in his month. He didn’t smile and looked like he had been cleaning the same beer glass his whole life. Archer couldn’t hear what the others were calling him when he leaned against the wood. He didn’t want to seem informal after seeing the last guys get thrown out.

            “Wha’ you havin’?” the bartender asked while setting his glass down and looking over his glasses at him.            

“Whiskey,” Archer said.

“Where you from boy?” a business man asked next to him.

“Jus’ rode in from that copper town south of here.’

“You mean Bisbee?”

“Wasn’t there long ‘nough to get the name.”

“I do business there. I’m into copper, of course. Do you know what you can do with a thing like copper boy?”

“Here you go,” the bartender said; giving him a glass of whiskey.

Archer smiled at the business man and took a long sip of the whiskey. The man scoffed under his white mustache and turned back around to his friend. The whiskey burned and Archer caught himself twitching his jaw back.

“Oooy wiiiii….That’s some mighty strong whiskey bartender. I’ll have another.”

“Put the coin down I’ll get ya.”

“You got credit? I’m lookin’ to do me some gamblin’ over at your tables.’

“Buy-in’s fifty.”

“Fifty?  What kine of place you runnin’ here? I got games in Kansas City for half that.”

“This is high end gamblin’ son. If you don’t want none take your drink and leave now before I kick ya out.’

Archer smiled again but the bartender didn’t budge. He only picked up another glass and kept rubbing.

“You lend me another drink and twenty five and I’ll make ya it all back in an hour or so.”

“You think I got money that grows on trees? You better be some hustler or what not to do that. We got a guy who’s been runnin’ that table for fifteen hours now and no one’s been taking him down.”

“What you got to lose than ‘tender?’

“People don’ talk like you round here.”

“Well, I ain’t from ‘round here. Hey copper man, where’s the other gamblin’ at in this town?”

“My name is Ben Stepford not copper man, mind you. I don’t know what is in town like I said…I do business in Bisbee,” he said; turning around.

“Listen boy what you…”

“I’ll give you the money,” Stepford said.

“Now, why’d you do that?” Archer asked.

“Just take the twenty five and give me back when it’s doubled. I’m in the copper business. Do you know what you can do with a thing like copper?” he said, handing him a twenty bill and a few coins.

“Sir…much obliged. I didn’t like you at first but the whiskey and money has changed my mind.”

Archer stepped away and Stepford nodded his hand and returned talking to another business man.  Archer grabbed the other twenty bill and five coins from his pocket and smiled on his way to the table. There was only one spot open at one of the tables and judging by the high chips and the man’s red eyes, this was the fifteen hour man’s table. Whoever had been in the chair before had been scared off and no one passing by had liked it enough to stop and sit down.

            The hands were five card poker with the dealer shuffling after each hand. The dealer didn’t look like the type to be tipping to anyone and Archer didn’t catch any signals. Everyone only looked down as the man with the red eyes dictated the raises and the pace. Even if he didn’t win the hand he made sure to make everyone else take each other out. He was very calculated when he played and sometimes he got away with a lying or at least Archer thought. Something in the way he rubbed his chin and eyes gave it away. Like a good player, though, he never showed his cards at the end of each hand.

“Anyone settlin’ in here?” Archer asked the dealer.

“It’s fifty to buy in, ten minimum bet,” the dealer said.

“That’s fine by me. How y’all doing today?” Archer asked the crowd.

A fat man huffed his breath in and nodded toward Archer. A dim looking farmer, red in the face and hands from long days, rolled his eyes and blew air to the bill of his hat. The other man had a decent stack of chips but his boy tie was loose and his suit was wrinkled like he had spent the night behind the bar. He was drinking a glass of milk but his eyes weren’t as red as the winner. The winner had a handle bar mustache with a little bit of stubble below his red, tired eyes. His sleeves were rolled up and he kept clicking his spur on the ground.

CH-CHA. CH-CHA. CH-CHA his spurs went; rattling against the saw dusted wood.

He slouched low but straightened up when Archer spoke. For how tired the man looked he seemed focused; like he was saving all of his energy for every hand he intended to play.

“You don’ want to join this table, boy,” the farmer said.

“Well, at least I know I won’t have any trouble with you. You better get out before you lose another horse.”

“You’re goin’ lose more than those chips if you keep talking like that.  Back off that month now,” the famer told Archer.

“Are you two going to bet now or keep yelling at each other? I….I….intend to turn this around, chaps,” the fat man said.

“Let’s bet ten,” Archer said.

The winner stayed quiet and the dealer dealt the cards. Archer held them close to the table and only bent them up to see the indicating corner. The fat man held them to his chest while leaning back and the farmer bent the corners up. The winner tipped both up in front quickly and laid them back down just as quick.

“Don’ bend those corners now,” the dealer said.

“I wan’ to take more money out of your pocket,” Archer said.

“Jus’ shut up and play,” the farmer said.

Archer turned the cards up again: two sevens, red ace, black queen, and a five. It wasn’t the worse hand he had gotten but it was pretty close. The others facial expressions were steady from the long hours and Archer told himself to keep smiling so he would be consistent. The milk man had the first bet and then it came to the Archer.  

“I haven’t talked since this man came in,” he said; pointing to Archer. “Time to see what he’s made of then. Let’s raise it another ten.”

Archer slowly looked at his cards again. Whether it was worth the bet was besides the point now because he had a part to play and he needed to make himself believable. He could pull a two pair and the queen and ace weren’t bad. He knew the farmer next to him was done because he was setting his chin in his hand but he’d hate to have red eye’s raise.

“I’ll see it.”

“Ah shit…I’m out,” the farmer said.

The red eyes flipped his cards over and winked a couple of times. Archer saw the watery eyes forming just before he wiped at his eyes. He leaned forward and looked sideways at the rest of the players. The spurs kept tapping and Archer made sure to keep smiling.

“I’m glad you’re smiling,” he said. “It’s gonna be a fun hand. I’ll call it as is. Now ge me some real cards,” he said; throwing four down.

The cards flipped in everyone’s hands and the facial expressions of the fat man and the winner stayed the same. Archer had to hold back a scream of joy and kept smiling through his draw of two aces. A full house with the seven’s and aces made this hand a little more tempting but more dangerous because poker wasn’t a hand but a series of hands. It was about reeling people in to making them think they knew what you were thinking. These guys already figured he was full of shit so why not keep them thinking.

“Well. You didn’t do me right on that one Buddy,” the milk man told the dealer.

“I ain’t trying to help no one out any more than the other.”

“I’ll raise it ten,” the milk man said.

“I’m goin’ do you right now. Let’s go twenty,” Archer said; throwing his chips in.

“You’re going to spend it all in one hand, my boy. Not something to do at this table,” the fat man said.

“Don’ be givin’ him advice now. He’s stupid enough to figure it out, now,” the farmer said.

“You’re not even in this hand, red. I suggest you act accordingly,” Archer said.

“I’ll do whatever I damn please, boy. Don’t tell me how to “conduct” myself!”

“You two need a room or somethin’? Let us play the game farmer! I didn’ come here to listen to your bitchin’!” the winner said.

The farmer was redder than ever; biting his lip and rubbing his hat. Archer could have hardly cared and wasn’t listening all that much to the others. He loved playing a role. Hell, it was one of the advantages to gambling in places like these. You didn’t have to be you; you just had to be whoever could win.

“What’s your bet?” the dealer asked the winner.

“Oh ya. Sorry. I got caught up in shit that shouldn’t be happening at a poker table. How much you got left there?” the winner asked Archer.

“That twenty was my last,” Archer said.

“How ‘bout I loan you fifty just to play in? Cause I want to bet fifty and I need someone to play against. Fat man over there ain’t going to do it and you…well….you’ll jus’ owe what’s already in the pot anyhow. Wha’ you say?”

“No excuse me…” the fat man started to say.

“Listen, now! I’m talking to this man right now! I apologize but I don’t know your name and once I’m done here I can get it but, for now, you’re the fat man!” the winner yelled.

The fat man pulled back his head, shock it back and forth, and flipped his cards down. The winner smiled and looked back at Archer.

This was how he had been kicked out of the last place, Archer remembered. Getting in too deep was always a high risk, high reward scenario that gave Archer satisfaction. He’d rather get kicked in the butt and ruin a nice pair of jeans than go around thinking about what if. He had never attributed it to being young and stupid but he always used it as an excuse. Really, he thought he was the smartest guy in the room because he had the balls to make mistakes.

“Let’s do it,” Archer said.

“What is going on, boy?” Stepford said from behind him.

“He’s lookin’ to lose your money,” the farmer said.

“Now, now…I think the man here has the best hand,” the milk man said; setting his cards down.

“I trust the fifty at least. The good thing is I can afford to lose it,” Stepford said.

“Where’s the fun in gamblin’ without risk?” the winner said.

“Show your cards now!” the dealer said.

Archer turned his over first, heard the silence, and knew the farmer was steaming. The fat man probably didn’t care and the milk man felt a little reassured. Archer only looked at the winner and kept the same grin on his face.

“You damn sure weren’t bluffing,” he said; turning over two pair of aces and queens.

“Nothin’ to lose for you,” Archer said.

“I jus’ make back the fifty. I jus’ want someone to play with me instead these fairies,” the winner said.

The hands went on and Archer didn’t have to look back from the loan. He played smarter than the first because he knew he had the winner’s attention. Everyone else played about the same and it stayed pretty even for the next hour. The farmer kept glaring over at Archer and he didn’t like that. The milk man chatted enough to not seem awkward but the fat man seemed a little hurt and was only in long enough to make his money back and leave.

“This place doesn’t have any more milk, does it? The cows are all dry in this county, is that it?” the milk man asked.

“None of mine ain’t. You come to the farm and I’ll give ya the best milk in Arizona, by far,” the farmer said.

Archer wanted to say something smart but figured he’d checked the lay of the land before pissing the farmer off more as the farmer and the winner were carrying. The winner was more discreet than the other and Archer only guessed the gun was on his right because of the lean to his left. The farmer had a nice hunting rifle leaning against the table that he occasional stroked when he was thinking about bluffing. The milk man was here for the game and, if he was carrying, it was on his ankle.

Archer had a sidearm on his left because he was special. He wished he had a gun on both sides because he had always wanted to try to shot two at a time. Granted, anyone he’d seen who had tried went out with a few bullets in them and couldn’t even hit a barn door. If he tried with one gun he was much better off.

The farmer was down to his last chips and the winner had ordered his fifth whiskey since Archer had sat down. The saloon was thinning out as the whores did their jobs and the day past. Poker played tricks on men’s minds and, as long as they had the money, they could play for hours and it would seem like minutes.

The winner kept looking at the farmer; trying to force him out of the game with his eyes. Archer knew when a man was about to break and the farmer was one who had been close for a few hands.

“That there is a royal flush, red,” the winner told the farmer; setting down his cards. Now…” the winner said. “You got any daughters out on that farm? I’d like to drink their milk.”

“YOU MUTHA….,” the farmer said.

The farmer stood up quick and flung the gun up the same. Before Archer knew it the nozzle was pointing right in the winner’s face. The winner stood still as the milk man flung his chair back and fell on the ground. Archer stood still and set down the chip he had been playing with.

“TAKE THAT BACK NOW!” the farmer screamed.

“Take what?”

“You know damn well! I should blow your god damn head off righ’ now for wha’ you gone and said. I’ll give ya my money but you ain’t goin’ take nothin’ else from me,” he said.

“HEY! YOU TWO JUS’ CALM DOWN NOW!” Archer yelled; throwing his chair back and drawing his gun.

“This ain’t you boy. Sit back down!” the farmer said.

“You better oblige sir. I would lay down where I’m at,” the milk man said.

“SHUT UP! ALL OF YAS! PUT THE GUN DOWN HANK!” the bartender yelled.

Archer turned his head real quick and began to back up. The bartender was out in front of the stools and the rest of the place had cleared out all except for the bartender and Stepford under a chair. Archer heard a couple of doors creaking open up top and hushed whispers from the whores. The Mexicans had gone and Archer figured they didn’t speak enough English to tell anyone what had happened. He hoped the rest of the men were stuck up in the rooms or else the law would be strolling in soon.

“VIRGIL! YOU DIDN’T HEAR WHAT THIS MAN SAID! GOD….AIN’T ANYONE GOT RIGHTS NOW-A-DAYS? HE INSULTED MY KIN!”

“HEY BOY! STOP BACK ING UP TOWARD ME! I’M LIABLE TO CUT YOU DOWN. PAY YOUR BILL AND GET OUT! THIS IS MY MATTER!” the bartender yelled at Archer.

“NO, NO! I INTEND TO LEAVE WITH MY MONEY NOW! EVEN IF I HAVE TO STAND AND SEE SOME BRAINS FLY!” Archer yelled.

“Just leave boy! It’s not worth your life now,” Stepford said as Archer neared closer.

“Copper man. Leave it be. You got a horse in this,” Archer said.  

“WHAT WILL IT BE, FARMER? THAT MILK SURE DO SOUND GOOD RIGHT NOW. MAYBE BRING YOUR DAUGHTER OVER….”

BANG! The winner’s brains splattered out, his body fell on the table, and his red eyes rolled.

BANG! The farmers head went back, the gun cha-chugged to the ground, and he collapsed right next to his sit.

 BANG! Archer’s mind went blank, blood splattered out in front of him, and he fell to the ground.

“NO GOOD MOTHERS. COMIN’ INTO MY BAR AND…”

BANG! The bartender stared down at his chest, the adrenaline helping him stand. He looked up and saw the milk man with a small smoking pistol crouched down and flashing him a smile under his thin mustache. BA DON!

“Well, well….that was not what I expected. You over there? What is it….Stepford? GET UP!” the milk man yelled.

“Oh…oh…pa…pa…please don’ hurt….”

The milk man walked over and threw the chair Stepford was under to the side.

“I’m not going to hurt you. How much did that boy owe you?”

“Fif…fif….fifty.”

The milk man jumped over the bar. He rummaged around until he found the change box with all the bill and coin. There was rustling outside as he jumped back over the bar. The sheriff had to coming, he thought.

“Here’s your fifty. Me and you are straight. I suggest you follow me out the back before they think you killed all of these people.”

“There’s a…a…back to this place?” Stepford asked.

“There’s always a back to a whore house,” the milk man said walking toward the back rooms.

“Come on Stepford! It’s a pity you know.”

“What?”

“If only they’d had had another glass of that nice farmer’s milk all of this could have been avoided.”

A Reflection on Boston

I remembered where I was when Giffords was shot, when Auroa happened and when the two towers fell but….this was different. I was lying by the pool yesterday, tanning and listening to the wind run through the palm trees when my girlfriend told me about what was happening in Boston. As I often do, I had to tell myself what day it was because it was a weekend and all the day usually combine into one long, relaxing break from work. I thought the marathon had happened on a Sunday and I was surprised I was just now hearing about it. It made me think of how disconnected I got from the world on the weekends and I remembered the other day just talking about how I needed to stop my information overload. But, this made me think I should have paid more attention and at least checked Yahoo so I could have heard about this.

Almost as soon as I had thought it was Sunday, though, I realized it was Monday. I would find out later that kids in Boston had this day off from school and it was named Patriot Day. The Red Sox had an early afternoon game that everyone could go to and than walk down to the finish line to see the thousands of runners passing through. I remembered my brother had said Boston is a great walking city and I imagined how easy and surreal it would all be. Standing behind the green monster waiting for a Big Papi home run, eating a hot dog, walking out onto the streets, and then venturing over to the finish line to see someone with a story finish because everyone who ran a marathon had a story for why their doing it. There’s no way you could run one of those and not have a story.

I than remembered my mom running marathons when I was a kid. I couldn't have been more than 11 or 12 when I opened the window of our hotel room out to the downtown of San Francisco; smelled the smell of cities, heard the horns, and the ringing of the trolley. I remembered taking a cab with my dad to the finish line, my mom shaking from exhaustion with aluminum foil wrapped around her and a smile on her face when she saw us waving to her near the finish line. It was one of the most uplifting and motivational scenes you could be around. To this day whenever I don’t feel like going to the gym, finishing that last rep, or doing abs at the end of a workout I think of my mom running those marathons and I realize what I’m doing isn't that tough after all. That was the story for my mom; she wanted to do it to motivate us, to prove to herself that she could.

I remembered that a lot of people run marathons for charities. They do it for someone they lost or a charity that’s trying to save others. To go through that pain and hard work just to show your support to someone or honor a group of people is truly admirable. It’s tough to watch because it makes you feel a little worthless and you begin to wonder what the hell you’re doing with your life. I remembered all of these feelings before I brought myself back to the present; to what had happened at a scene devoid of selfishness and filled with inspiration. I felt all of this before I realized the selfish act that some person committed that afternoon and until this morning I didn't know what to think about it.

I told my girlfriend it felt like I was seeing some news from Israel or Pakistan. I wondered how those people handled it or if someone ever really handled something like this. Her and I couldn't comprehend it or understand it. I thought for a second, throwing away my idealism's  that this was just something that happened. I know that’s a very harsh thing to think but, at the time, it was the only way I could get it off my mind. With the Newtown shooting, Auroa Colorado and Giffords I had exhausted myself trying to explain any of it. Frankly, I still didn't understand it.

Driving into work I turned on Dan Patrick because, when I woke up, Boston had been on my mind again and I wasn't watching anything to distract me from it. Dan’s voice was somber; prompting me to almost change it after a few minute. I kept it on though because I remembered how angry I had been when Giffords had been shot. I had said it was a turning point in the cultural fabric of our society; when elected officials began to be shot. The system, however much better it was than others, was beginning to show signs of revolt. I was idealistic and angry that no one appreciated anything anymore. I wanted to see if I could feel that again because, when I had felt that with Giffords, it made me feel a little different from everyone else and that was good for me at the time. I couldn't relate to the scene of Giffords though so this was different because I could relate to standing at a finish line; to that scene of hope and joy.   

Dan talked about the eight year old kid that had died and how he had been waiting for his dad to finish. My eyes watered and I thought about myself when I was eight. I didn't know anything; all I had was happiness and the next minute, hour, and day. That was all I lived for when I was eight. All of these ideals, questions, responsibilities that have now consumed my thinking this child would never now experience. He had woken up to go see his father finish a race that he would never have the opportunity to run. I was that child; I was that innocence at the finish line that knew life was better and there was good things to be had after I saw my mom cross the finish line. I wondered if the kid had seen his dad cross? I hoped that he died with his innocence living.

I thought about the people who had done this and about evil. It is such a foreign thing to us; evil. It’s easier to quantify good and to explain what good is. Evil we have a tougher time explaining because it is unique among humans. It is unique in the sense that very few do it. When evil is done our emotions cloud everything that can be used to explain it. We don’t want to explain it or confront it because it is easier to be angry at it; yell, scream, and curse at it. Now I was angry because I wanted to find whoever had done this and show them pictures of the boy; show them his life and what they took from a family. I wondered if they would even care, though. I couldn't see how some ideal could be worth a little boys life. It should be easier to evil because we know so much about good, I thought.

I couldn't figure out why and, right now, I can’t find myself thinking about it anymore. It makes me angry to think about it and nobody wants to do anything that makes them angry. I can only hope that the justice is swift to whoever did this. But, I can’t allow myself to think this is what the world is now because evil is unique. Unique problems require unique solutions and that is something the world is forgetting.

From here, I will remember that hope and joy that existed at the finish line before all of this. We’re all in a race against people like this and we need to strive to make this situation unique. We need to strive to keep that hope and joy. 

A Journey

Jose opened his eyes. The moon was as big as he had ever seen and the sun was starting to show itself. His left arm was asleep as he sat up and his legs felt too tense and sore to stand. Dust was littered throughout his hair and flung out as he rubbed. The stars were on their last leg. Oh, what he would give to be able to walk to them. He’d jump from one to the other making his way to the smiling moon like in the America cartoons. The moon would comfort him and make him forget about his sore legs. It would remind him of his home back to the south.

           

The last day there had been hot and smoggy. His uncle had told him how sore he would be. He told him it would be nothing compared to a day in the fields. Sweet would eek its way into crevices of the body he didn’t even know he had, his uncle had said. Jose’s hands would be scared from the veins and dry from the swirling sands and rocky soil. It sounded horrible now but, at the time, his uncle had convinced him otherwise.

           

Away from the congestion of where Jose lived in Mexico City his uncle owned a plot of land with an adobe house, goats, cows and pigs. His grandkids, Jose’s cousins, played in the plot with a futbol. They pretended to be Pele, Messi, or one of the Ronaldos. Through the smoke from his pipe and over the laughter of the children, Jose’s uncle told him about his journey north.

           

It had been fifteen years, many seasons, bus rides back and forth, envelops home, sleepless nights and hundreds of hours baking under the sun before the chair and the pipe. Now, it was all worth it, his uncle had said. His uncle had found pain in America. With pain in America came richness in Mexico.

           

“You are young, my nephew. This is when you do this.”

           

The voice had played in his head the next morning. Nothing had ever seemed so right to Jose and it all made sense; everyone would support him. His girlfriend knew it was the order of things. His mother would be thankful for the extra money and his younger brothers would be thankful for the nights he’d come home on the bus with tales of America. Their eyes would light up and they would not sleep for hours. The tall buildings, the food, the lights would keep them dragging at Jose’s pants as he left for another trip. Whether or not that first trip back home would be with Dominic and Escobar, he did not know.       

           

Dominic had been across many times. He was ten years older and had told Jose the stories of America during hot summer days of soccer and cola. Dominic had embraced Jose and gotten a nice bottle of tequila when he heard Jose would be joining him. He said the journey was better with more people and he would not be lonely this time around. Dominic joked he would miss talking to himself. Jose did not know Escobar but he was young. Dominic had said he had done the journey many times and would be a good man.

           

Both Dominic and Escobar snored as the sun came up. It wasn’t as beautiful without the smog but he could see more because there were no buildings. The fire from last night smoldered and his jacket smelled like ashes. A howl came from the distance and Jose saw a skinny coyote scampering off. Its ribs shown and it had been a tough summer for the animal. Jose felt his ribs to make sure he wasn’t like the coyote. He had been feeling weaker but the fat there reassured him.

           

More refried beans would keep him honest. He had rarely eaten breakfast back home but here he needed to pass the time. Besides, the beans gave him energy for the day. Before Dominic and Escobar woke up he would always get his full and they let him because he was smaller than them. Dominic rolled over to face him as he ate the beans; stretching his arms out of the sleeping bag.

           

“Why are you up, brother?” Dominic asked.

           

“I was too sore to sleep.”

           

“Soon you’ll be proud of the soreness. You’ll respect nights under the stars and in the cool air. You’ll respect it when you don’t have to move and you can just lay.”

           

“I’ve always needed to move.”

           

“Soon you will need to rest.”

           

“I rested enough. Besides, I wanted to see the sunrise.”

           

“The smog makes it prettier in Mexico,” Dominic said.

           

“You are right.”

           

“I do not miss it, though.”

           

“Yes. I probably miss it more than you, though,” Jose said.

           

“It is your first trip so it is only natural.”

           

“Puntas! Let me sleep,” Escobar yelled.

           

“No, no Escobar. It is cool now and we need to walk.”

           

“Ahhh….but they never patrol here.”

           

“The last time I came they weren’t here. The time before we hid from the helicopter and that time before the cars came and took us back to Mexico. We’re due,” Dominic said.

           

“Since we’re due we should just sleep,” Escobar said; turning to face them.

            “Sleep will be far away once the sun begins to bake your neck. That is the truth. I only said the patrol would come to scare you and make you get up.”

           

“You should know nothing scars me, Dominic,” Escobar said.

           

“It will be cooler,” Jose said.

           

“You’re lucky I am a man of the majority,” Escobar said.

           

The beans were sticky and cold. The jerky was dry and rough on the teeth but was easy to swallow with the cool water from the evening. The beans would have been better heated but the time was not right for a fire. Enough warmth came from the sun and Jose already found himself sweating. He felt tired immediately after eating and missed his coffee. He would have even gone with the grounds at the bottom of the cup. The sun brought enough energy for his first steps forward but nothing like what coffee used to do for him in the early mornings laying bricks. It was better, though, because Jose had time to pay attention to the sun rise.

           

He noticed when the orange had gone and his neck felt the first hints of a cool breeze bringing far distant clouds from the west over to meet the sun. Jose hoped for cover throughout the afternoon. Until then they would wrap bandannas around their necks to dim the burn.

           

“Why haven’t we seen snakes yet?” Jose asked.

           

“They only come out when it’s cold. Maybe tonight one will slither by you. Hisssss….,” Escobar said.

           

“It gives me the chills. I’ve never liked their skin,” Jose said.

           

“One time I saw one curled up five feet away from me in the desert. Its tail was shaking back and forth and I had to move slowly so I didn’t startle it. Its slanted eyes disturbed me more and I was scared. I was even more scared than when the helicopter came,” Dominic said.

           

“Helicopters do not care about weather. They will come whenever,” Jose said.

           

The desert rolled for miles and Jose saw rabbits ducking in and out of the dying bushes and behind the tall cactuses. Jose’s pants rubbed against the low hanging branches of mesquite trees and his nose and hands dried up. He wanted to lick his hands but had tried that yesterday and knew it would only lead to more cracks.

           

Escobar took the lead and made sure not to hit any of the plants. Jose noticed a glint of silver from his butt and he thought back to the cartel back home. The men who hung around the café he cleaned at and who stared at his girlfriend every time she came by to say hello. When he had stared at them they had lifted their shirts and the same glint of silver had come out. It was the only time he had seen a gun. It was the only time he ever looked at them, as well.

           

Jose looked at Dominic and saw he was in another world. Maybe Escobar had it for snakes, Jose thought. The road was going to be tough and bring many challenges. If they starved or got off track they needed a way to find food. Dominic had said Escobar was a seasoned border traveler.

           

“There is water up here,” Escobar said.

           

“Who left it there?” Jose asked.

           

“Some Americans who like us,” Dominic said.

           

Jose filled his bottle up, drank half, and then filled again.  You could never have enough water, his uncle had said. Some did not plan ahead and that was what led to their defeat in the desert. They had seen empty bottles next to trees along the way. Dominic had proclaimed these past travelers idiots for leaving bottles. Jose did not plan on being one of these idiots.

           

“This water is warm but thank god for Americans,” Dominic said.

           

“Yes. Why do some want us and others don’t want anything to do with us?” Jose asked.

           

“Because they can choose either way,” Escobar said.

           

“Cartels don’t rule there?”  

           

“Only in different ways,” Escobar said.

           

“As long as you don’t bother them you will get by,” Dominic said.

           

“Ya just keep telling yourself that,” Escobar said.

           

Jose started walking and drinking more. He wanted to get in front of Escobar so he would not see the glint of silver. It had made him uneasy when he had seen it.

Jose thought he heard Escobar talking about him from behind. Escobar spoke a quicker, more southern dialect than he was used to and Jose did not sometimes catch all of it. Jose did not look back and kept to himself in case Escobar was talking about him. He had to make it across in one piece and thought it would be stupid to come all this way only to be beat up and killed by one of your traveling companions.  Jose walked more and heard the sounds of desert. He had almost escaped and gotten away from his thoughts when he heard the rumbles.

           

Clouds of dust in front of Jose moved closer and closer. He knew they came from cars but he could not see them. As the dust came closer he saw the green and white cars and heard the low hum of the engine. They were quieter and larger than the diesels back home that would wake up his neighborhood in the morning. He had ridden those cars many times out for weekend work and these cars were not like them; they were big and silent.  

           

Just when he thought the engines would whine and speed toward them the cars stopped. A hundred yards away the dust swooshed in front of them and Jose heard the banging of doors.  He ducked behind the bush in front of him before he could think more about it. Jose looked to his left and right to see Dominic and Escobar doing the same. He tucked his legs and felt sweat tripping down his brow. Dominic was sweating as well and holding a finger up to his month. Escobar looked at Jose and struck a small grin. Both of them were flipped around and looking at the cars. Jose followed suit.

           

The dust was gone and two green uniforms were starting to walk around and away from the cars. One was taller and the other shorter. They both had hats on and the distance made it tough to see their eyes. They walked casually and Jose did not know if they had any guns. Jose saw Escobar getting up into a lunge to catch a better glimpse. Escobar looked more comfortable there but Jose did not want to try because he knew he would slip.

           

Jose began to hear gibberish that he assumed was the American language. He noticed the shorter one was brown like him and the taller one was white. Jose looked down and saw a puddle of sweat in the brown dirt. Escobar’s back lag was twitching and Dominic was as still as a statue.

           

“HELLO! WELCOME TO AMERICA!” the Spanish words rang from one of the green uniforms.

           

Jose couldn’t tell where it came from but assumed the shorter one had said it. They were laughing as they walked closer to them. This laughter did not sooth Jose as laughter usually did.

More gibberish hit his ears and he could feel them very close now. Jose did not want to look at Escobar because it would only disturb him more so he looked at Dominic. Dominic looked more resolved and nodded his head toward Jose while smiling.

           

Jose looked back where they had come from. Light grey clouds traveled across the horizon teasing the plants calling for rain. Jose saw another skittish coyote trotting toward them. The desert had been harsh on him but he was still trotting around. Jose felt a breeze against his face and saw the mesquites struggling to sway. Those plants never went away and Jose imagined their roots were long in this desert.

           

BANG! BANG!

            Jose swung his neck toward the sounds and saw Escobar crouched with the glint of silver in his hands.

           

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

           

Escobar’s arms swung down and his body moved back and forward with each bang. Little puffs of smoke jumped up from his chest and his arms swung back and forth. It wasn’t till a little after the last bang that Escobar fell over and his blood flowed on the rough, tan sand.

           

The last bang reverberated in Jose’s ears and his eyes became finely tuned into the eyes of Escobar. Wide open, still, green, and hanging on to the last light of life. His month was not grinning as it had been the whole trip. Instead his lips were flat and normal and dull purple. He saw the blood settling under his face and smearing one end of lips.

           

“COME OUT NOW! HANDS UP!”

           

Jose was sweating and saw through the glistening drops that Dominic was standing up with his arms shaking.

           

Jose moved slow. His whole body twitched and his vision glazed over. He saw the men in uniforms moving their lips but he heard no talking. He didn’t hear anything until he felt the crushing of his nose, the dirt in his eyes and a foot on his lower back. After the foot his vision came back with the sensation of pain and he heard the yelling of the green uniform he figured was on top of him now. He saw Escobar again. This time his eyes were rolled back and as white as pearls. His blood was dark and thick; a red Jose had never seen. It was like thick, dark batter with a sprinkling of desert dirt in it.

           

Jose was pulled up quick and he only had his memories of Escobar now. He looked down and saw blood drops. He figured it came from his nose but could not find out now. They walked back to the cars and Dominic was slammed up against the car with him. The taller green uniform picked up a black box and started talking into it. Jose tried to look at Dominic but his head was down and he could not feel Jose’s eyes.

           

“Did you know this man?” the short one asked in Spanish.

           

Dominic stared up at this and nodded his head to the man.

           

“My friend did not. I only knew him as a traveler,” Dominic said.

           

The short one stared at them both for awhile, smiled, and then took their bags from them. Jose noticed he had Escobar’s already.

           

He dumped everything onto the ground but made sure to make piles for them. He saved Escobar’s for last and threw out two bricks. Jose had seen these bricks before coming out of trucks in the neighborhood, on the back of motorcycles, and in dark alleys when you wanted to make sure no one saw you looking. Jose knew the reward that came with carrying them across the border but also knew the danger.

           

“You didn’t know he was carrying these?” the short one asked.

           

“No. We’re just trying to get across,” Dominic said.

           

The man kept his glasses on and shoved the bricks back into the bag. He lifted his head and stared at Jose for a good while. Jose did not look up but felt the man’s eyes prying on him. From then on, Dominic and Jose both looked down and there was no more talk.

           

More vehicles came, dust settled and Dominic and Jose sat on the ground.  People walked through, around and in some cases over them. All of these people moved their lips after hitting them and Jose thought they were apologizing. Jose saw a large black sack put into a red and white van that had been very nosy when it had come up. It reminded him of the late hours before the sun came up back home. If you were in the right part of Mexico City you didn’t even need a roster or alarm clock because you had the sirens.

           

Other green uniforms looked at them and made them stand up to take a picture, turn and take another and turn and take one last one. The two that had caught them talked to many people and received many pats on the back. Jose tried to talk to Dominic but could never find any words. Eventually they were loaded into the back of a truck with only their thoughts and themselves to occupy them.

           

“What happens now?” Jose finally asked.

           

Dominic taped his hat a couple of times and looked straight ahead, He didn’t smile or nod. He was thinking of a time in the future.

            “We try again.”

A Day on the Web

James Franco wrote a poem about Obama
Kobe blamed himself
Ninety died in Algeria, according to reports
Te'o broke his ankles, figuratively and literally
Funny, the news you see in a day

Beyonce lip synced the whole thing
Dwight wants more shots
Thirty-seven died in Algeria, according to reports
What's everyone talking about today?

I didn't know the inauguration even happened for the second term
People always find an excuse to party
The Lakers were wreaked before anyone wrote about it
When did the French start fighting in Algeria?

Short clips are better for people
Unless you have Kevin Bacon to follow
Than you'll get the best hour of any Monday night
Monday nights must not be that fun if that's the best

You know Harrison died of a cold or something?
Giving the same speech back in the day
I bet some people wish Washington had bad weather yesterday
Shame on them

What does anyone write about anymore?
It's just talking, talking, and talking
And opinions, opinions, opinions
At the end of the day it all happened

Obama got inaugurated
The French kept fighting in Algeria
The Lakers still suck
Why do I keep surfing the internet and finding the same stuff?

It's been awhile.