Sunday, November 23, 2008

Samantha

Jonathan waltzed lightly across the hard wood dance floor, dragging Samantha right along side him.

“Come on, Sam. You used to love dancing,” he said lovingly. “Seems like we just got married yesterday, doesn’t it? Twenty five years is a long time, Sam.”

He held her head close to his chest and nuzzled his face against her matted hair.

“I love you, Sam. You mean the world to me.”

Jonathan looked at the dirty dishes piled high in the sink. She had been gone for a long time.

“I’m just glad we got you home in time for our anniversary.”

Friday, November 21, 2008

The Great American Turkey

My father and I never talked much really. We had very little in common and rarely saw eye-to-eye on anything at all. It’s not like we ever hated each other, but as I got older this looming cloud of awkwardness seemed to settle down quietly between us. Hell, the last pleasant memory I have with the guy was from when I was eight years old. The barn down at the old Silverman’s Ranch had caught fire. My father walked me over to the fence and put me on his shoulders and together we watched it burn to the ground. But ever since then, it’s been all grades, mowing the lawn, and finding the god damn remote.

That is, until, my mother started intervening. She said it was good for a father and son to spend time together. That’s what families did. They spent time together doing things. It made them normal and healthy and families.

So, anytime mom got a new issue of Reader’s Digest, we’d find ourselves out on a fishing boat, or at a car show, standing around, looking at each other uncomfortably. He’d grunt. I’d roll my eyes. And then we both just kind of shrugged and left. It just didn’t look like we were cut out to be father and son. Eventually my mother’s subscription ran out and we were both very grateful.
So, while we couldn’t really talk, hug, or act like father and son, we did have one thing in common: A deep and passionate disgust for my mother’s family. They were awful, rude, and ate with their mouths open. While, my father never actually expressed his feelings, I think it was well understood. I, on the other hand, made no secret of my revulsion. I kicked and screamed and made myself vomit in the bathroom, but no matter the performance, I always found myself in the backseat headed towards hell.

There was one Thanksgiving, however, that I still look back and smile upon. I’ll never forget it. It was November 26th, 1992 and we are driving down a dirt road to my uncle’s house in Corona, California. My father’s 1984 Datsun 210 suddenly received a fatal blow to one of its rear tires. He slowed gently and pulled off the asphalt, onto a dirt shoulder.

Stepping out of the car, my father grumbled incoherently and slammed the door. I heard the trunk bounce open metal tools clank as he fumbled through the trunk. My mother, the brilliant magician, suggested I go out and assist him.

“Ah, mom, I don’t know a dang thing about cars.”

“Danny, you get your ass out there right now and help your father.” She turned back around. “Oh, and you better watch your mouth.”

There was no winning this one. I stepped out of the car and wandered to the rear.

“Danny, you seen the jack?”

“No, I haven’t seen any jack.”

“Look, we’re already late and I don’t need to hear your mouth. So, just keep quiet and help me find the damn thing.”

He tossed a few more items roughly around the trunk. He slapped both hands on the trunk and looked to the sky.

“Emma, you seen the jack?”

“Did you check inside the spare, Honey?”

My father lifted the particleboard covering the spare.

“Who the hell would put the jack in the goddamn spare? I mean the damn pegs are right here on the side.”

My father had put that jack there. I saw him do it. We had broke down on the way to an unsuccessful vacation in the mountains a few years back. After twenty minutes of listening to him swear at the “god damn tire iron,” holding greasy lug nuts, my father heedlessly threw the jack into the spare and we zoomed off.

Both these trying, unpleasant situation could have well been avoided if my father wasn’t the cheapest bastard in the whole world. Two years ago those tires needed attention. Gas station attendants all over Southern California had told him. One even offered some used tires he had in the back at nothing but a labor charge for changing them.

“Nah, I don’t think so. There’s still a thousand miles left on these babies. No sense in throwing away a perfectly good tire.”

“Okay mister, have it your way.”

Every time he got back in the car he felt as smart as Jesus Christ.

“Tell me I need new tires. Bastard’s just trying to squeeze a few more dollars out of my gut. New tires, my ass.”

Then, one by one, they all burst. My father always acted surprised and then astounded at the lack of care our country has put in to maintaining their highways.
“God damn pothole. If the highways weren’t so damn awful. Whole damn country’s gone to hell. This new generation. Young smart ass punks concerned with nothing more than their pinko policies. The problem’s right in front of their god damn face. Roads. That’s how you know what kind of god damn shape the country is in.”

In the end, I’d say my father has spent more time and money on the side of the road than anyone else I ever knew.

“Danny! Pay attention, son! Help me off with this here tire.”

My father had jacked up the left-rear axle. I crouched down along side of him, and he looked up at me and raised his eyebrows. I was never very good at telepathy.

“You gonna do this with your jacket on!?” He hit my shoulder lightly. “Think son, think!”

“Oh yeah, sure. Forgot, Dad.”

The suit didn’t really matter. He just wanted to boss me over something. Hell, I’d had that god damn suit since I was eleven years old. The sleeves hard rode up past my wrist, the pant legs exposed too much sock, and I could barely get the damn thing around my shoulders. Sure, I knew how ridiculous I looked, but, one, I’ve never been much for fashion, and, two, going shopping with my mother at the cheap suit store was not exactly a night on the town.
I wadded up the jacket and handed it to my mother through the window.

“Danny, you know we could go shopping and—”

“Mom, not now. Okay. I’m busy.”

My father was too busy to correct my insolence; I have his temper.

We eventually replaced the incapacitated with the spare, which really wasn’t that much better off, and continued down the road toward my aunt Norma’s house.

The rest of the car ride was pretty normal. I sat quietly in the back, while my father listened to talk radio, “bahing” and “goddamn liberaling” whenever he got the chance, which left my mother to herself, starring out the window and uttering an occasional inane platitude about a tree, or a rock, or just whatever.

We finally arrived at my aunt Norma’s, late. The house itself was part of a tract, white stucco, red tile roof, and a modest plot of lawn. They had bout it a few months back, and my family had never seen it before.

The door opened, and we were inundated by a sudden flood of warm, familiar scents: turkey, mash potatoes, fresh baked bread, and my uncle Ralph. He had recently been promoted to some other middle-management position at the furniture store he worked for, which, incidentally, is how he found his way into his new, middle-management home.

I couldn’t help but notice he was wearing a conspicuously new outfit; all the creases stood sharp and his shirt still had that virgin sheen to it.

“Well, dang howdy! Look who it is! We were afraid you weren’t gonna make it.”

My father chuckled nervously and explained the flat tire.

“You’re not still driving that old Datsun are you?”

“Well, right now we can’t exactly aff—“

“Well, let me show you the new house!”

My uncle prompted us up the staircase and then followed. Slapping me way too hard on the shoulder he started in on his usual routine.

“Danny, how’s the team; they play you this year?”

“I didn’t try out.”

“Grade gotcha, huh?”

My uncle Ralph loved to believe all teenagers were drooling idiots because his was.

“No, actually I—“

“Well, don’t feel too bad. Your cousin Scoot is playing first instead of pitcher. Goddamn coach wouldn’t know talent if it bit him in the ass.”

Scott, a relative who I only see twice a year but hear about constantly, is possibly one of the stupidest individuals I have ever encountered. I actually feel a little dumber each time I talk to him. He is my age but prolific in every sport known to man, at least the ones important to fathers. My relatives, well, mostly my uncle, constantly portrayed us as competing.

The house was well furnished but obnoxious. Rooms were over decorated and cluttered with gaudy whatnots. The hallway shelves were filled with books the family had never read, nor ever would. It was generally the kind of house that had a cute little framed picture of a teddy bear holding a sign with a pukey little poem abut flushing the john written on it.

After my uncle received his expected compliments, we were led into the kitchen where everyone was gathered. I exchanged hugs and handshakes with a number of forgotten relatives I had forgotten about and made my way over to the stove.

My aunt Norma was busily attending to numerous culinary tasks. I took hold of a wooden spoon sitting inside a simmering pot of gravy and stirred violently.

“Danny! You made it. It’s so good to see you.”

My aunt Norma is a woman of moderate beauty by any standards. She had no fantastic or exotic features, just a simple, well-proportioned system of arms and legs that complemented the hell out of each other. She always made feel all right.

“Did you finish the book I bought you last year? I hope so. I absolutely love it. Did you? I did.”
I told her I had and enjoyed it immensely. Amongst the massive mound of socks, ties, and ill-fitting clearance shirts I received each year, her small literary contributions were the only thing that really made Christmas anything for me. I still remember reading the first book she had given me, Stienbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath”, and thinking she’d given it to me because she was the mother in the book and she wanted to take care of me. Norma was sweet, caring, and generous yet somehow still an amazing woman. Hell, she would have let anyone sit at her table: bums, thieves, burglars, whoever. She’d take you anyway way you came, which, incidentally, would explain why she is with my uncle.

She first let me complain about my friends, school, and parents and then told me about a mute teenager she had been working with at the high school she taught at. I listened and snacked on warm, fresh rolls she had made earlier. After a few minutes were interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. My aunt Norma having her hands full and asked me if I could open the door.

Being in better spirits, I skipped down the hallway and flung the door open violently. My grandparents looked extremely startled, as if they expected a ravenous dog to leap out at their throats; but, fortunately for them, it was only me. We exchanged perfunctory hugs, and I relieved my grandfather of the gigantic platter of turkey my grandmother prepared. Walking down the corridor, my grandmother went on about how many pounds it weighed and how she got sucha lovely deal on the bird at Al Somebody’s Meats. I lifted the silver lid and inhaled audibly.

“Smells great, grandma.” She is very sensitive, you know.

I led them straight to the dinning room, set the platter as carefully as I could in the middle of the table, and removed the lid, leaving everyone to “ooh” and “ahh” over what a spectacular bird it was. I returned to the kitchen with the lid and assisted my aunt with the finishing touches in the kitchen.

Everything was ready. The potatoes had been mashed; the gravy had thickened; and the carrots, peas, and broccoli had been steamed. The kitchen smelled so goddamn good, I wish I could have stayed in it forever.

I gathered various platters, stuffed a roll into my mouth, and entered the dinning room. While placing the potatoes down, I heard Scott mumble something about how I should give up sports and take up home-making. Everyone had a good laugh as I roughly set the gravy boat down and mumbled through the roll in my mouth. Norma came in with the rest, and I reluctantly took my seat between Scott, who hadn’t had a chance to quit laughing at his own joke, and my five-year-old cousin, William.

The Bruno turkey carving process always took some time, so I had a few more rolls. William had been kicking my ankle since I had sat down and it was beginning to hurt.

“Knock it off, William.”

He looked to his corpulent mother in distress.

“Danny, he’s only five! Why don’t you try being nice for a change!?”

My father issued a quick cautionary raise of the eyebrow. He wanted me to shut up and apologize.

I grit my teeth, closed my eyes, and used all the energy left in me to sound as insincere as possible.

“Sorry, William”

As William’s mother tried to elicit a response from her sweet little demon, I watched her fat, quivering neck and imagined all the little kittens she ate for breakfast trying to escape through her massive throat.

William looked at me. “But his pants are too high...”

This had to be the goddamn funniest thing anyone at the table had heard since last Christmas when William spilled his milk on my lap and, as my uncle so readily pointed out, it looked as though I had wet my pants.

The laughter died down, and my family began their feast. They ate like jackals; they always did. It was nauseating. This in conjunction with my pre-dinner, bread binge took my appetite sailing out the window.

Brooding, I was tracing the awful pattern of my plate with a fork. Norma looked at me sympathetically and said nothing.

William had been manipulating the massive slab of mashed potatoes his mother had served him into a mountain that covered his vegetables. He then placed all his slices of turkey so the sat teepee-style against it. It was a pleasant diversion, and I watched with interest.

“William, quit playing with your food.” His mother meant business.

“I’m not hungry.”

“William, don’t you want to grow up big and strong like your cousin Scott here,” my uncle added with his mouth full. I had to take this personally.

William groaned and squirmed in his chair a while, poking at his food. His mother slammed her fork into her plate.

“William, eat!”

“I don’t wanna!,” he said flopping himself against the back of the chair and crossing his arms.

“William!” His mother’s under chin was quivering with obese seriousness.

“Danny’s not!”

His mother stared at me with an eyebrow raised, as if she expected the food to jump right into my mouth.

The table momentarily paused to look at me. I felt like I was on the spot. Something needed to be said.

“Oh, well, I had quite a few—“

“Common, Danny boy! Have some of your grandma’s turkey.” My uncle had an unbelievable talent for talking with his mouth full.

I had the undivided attention of the entire goddamn table. Everyone sat staring, as if I was Jesus about to bless the dinner. I wasn’t sure what to do; I didn’t know what to say. Then, my father threw me another suggestive nod.

My grandmother had just now noticed the interruption; she knew something was amiss. She whispered quietly and followed the stream of attention down to me.

“What’s a matter with Danny?”

She meant well, and I was careful with my words.

“Well, you see I—“

“Danny doesn’t want any turkey this year,” my uncle said, shaking his head in disbelief. He reached across the table towards the turkey for emphasis.

“Oh, but I—,” my grandmother began mumbling as she burst into tears and buried her face in the cloth napkin. My grandfather immediately rose to comfort her. “For chrissake, son, just eat the damn turkey.”

My uncle, still chewing, nodded a see-I-told-you-so at me.

Scott was grinning at me like an idiot.

William had his teeth out at me.

My father said “Danny” slowly, like it took more energy than he had to say it.

Grandfather reminded me that I was still making my grandmother cry for Christ’s sake.

The table waited expectantly; no one stirred.

My uncle pointed his fork at me. “Danny, you know turkey has a lot of great—“

I stood up, slammed my hands on the table and screamed, “I just don’t want any goddamn turkey! Ok! That’s it! I just don’t feel like goddamn turkey. Ok!”

Everyone was shocked; they just stared. Scott slowly shook his head back and forth. Norma looked sorry for me and shifted her eyes from one family member to the next. My grandmother, astounded, ceased crying momentarily. She opened her mouth and was going to say something but instead began bawling once again. My father had his palm pressed against brow. Finally, someone dropped a fork on their plate.

I could hear myself breathing through my nostrils and fumbled past William towards the front door. I wasn’t embarrassed or anything like that. I was just angry and needed to get the hell out of there. I sat on the hood of the car throwing rocks until my parents came out. They looked sore as hell.

“You know, Danny, you have got a lot of nerve. Your grandmother—“

“Emma, let it be. After all,” my father said, “it was just a turkey.”

I couldn’t believe it. My father was actually defending me.

My mother, taken aback, mumbled, “Well, I just thought since—“

“Damn turkey.” He looked back at me grinning; then, turned back towards the road and chuckled.

My mind thrown into a fit of consternation was only to be further bewildered when his grin turned into laughter. “Damn turkey!”

I began chuckling; half amazed at my father’s amusement in something I was so sure I would get beat for.

“Danny!” My mother didn’t know who to yell at.

Soon, my father and I were now in tears, laughing wildly.

“Jack!” My mother scowled at the both us, but we couldn’t help it. We just went right on laughing our guts out. She directed her attention out the window in a tempered defeat.
My father slapped the steering wheel of the car and turned to me, laughing hysterically, “Gawd Damn Turkey!”

I’ll never forget that car ride home, a final period of unspoken understanding and friendship between my father and I.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Caroline

Caroline pulled the last cigarette out with her teeth and threw the box aside. A large flame leaped out of the marble lighter on the table in front of her and she collapsed back onto the plush couch. She lay prone with her head hanging off the side of the cushion. Thin streams of smoke blew from her red lips, spilling onto the shag carpet.

Keys jingled in the lock and she busied herself with a magazine on the floor. A perfume ad, featuring a mostly nude prepubescent girl on the beach, lay open in front of her.

Jackie entered, glanced at her curiously, and hung his brown jacket. He then carefully placed his wrist watch, keys, and wallet in a blue glass bowl sitting on the half-moon console below the coat rack and walked towards her.

“So,” he loosened his neck tie, “how was your day?”

She met his eyes with her own as he lay back onto the couch opposite her. Her mascara had run and been smeared around her bloodshot eyes.

“Pretty good, huh?” Jackie raised an eyebrow while loosening his necktie with a forefinger. Caroline turned back to her magazine and said nothing.

“Good. That’s what I like, productivity and good company. Yes, sir. I am one lucky fellow.” He laughed and threw his head back into his arms, gazing patiently at the ceiling. “You know, Caroline, I can see shapes up there now.” Jackie looked at his wife. “No. It’s true. Just yesterday I found a horse.”

She tapped her cigarette and shook her head. Ashes floated slowly to the carpet floor, exposing the red glow of fresh, burning tobacco.

“Say, you want a drink or something to loosen you up?” Jackie pushed himself from the couch and walked to the kitchen. “I’ll fix you up.”

He was doing his best to remain optimistic, hoping that he had been all wrong about her. Jackie removed a bottle of gin from the liquor cabinet and took a heavy drink. He grimaced. Alcohol had always been difficult for him to take straight, but it warmed his stomach and alleviated mounting tension.

Jackie considered his life. He had finished school, found a good job, and married a beautiful girl. The prerequisites had been met, yet still, underneath his sarcasm, he found himself longing for another life, a chance to start over with someone else.

He shuttered and turned to reach for the tonic water but stopped midway. Something large and metallic gleamed out the top of his wife's purse. He paused and looked back to see if Caroline was still lying out of sight. Jackie unbuckled the purse and removed a gun. It was the Colt .45 he had received as a wedding gift from his best friend Nathan. He kept the gun loaded, just in case, but had only actually fired it a couple of times out with his friends drunk and wild in the backwoods of Montana.

Half-mindedly, Jackie turned the revolver over and then back again, admiring the detailed craftsmanship and quality metals. It was a respectable weapon and he had always felt more masculine just holding it.

Jackie took another drink and left the kitchen. He walked with purpose and placed himself between the coffee table and Caroline. Tired of being taunted and made a fool, he thought he'd put a stop to it this instant.

He waved the gun in her face. “You think this is funny, don’t you? It’s fun to laugh at me, isn’t it?” Jackie pointed the gun at her head.

“Well, I got a real funny one for you. Why don’t you get the fuck out!? Yeah, that’s right. I know all about you and that little douche bag writer fellow in Georgia. So let's go already. Get out!”

Caroline propped herself up on her left arm and put her cigarette out in the carpet. Looking innocently into his angry face, she began crying. Down her cheek, and off her chin, tears collected into a small puddle on his shiny black shoe. In the reflection Caroline saw what looked like a misshaped horse on the ceiling. She laughed nervously.

“Yeah. Keep laughing. Let’s see how fucking funny I am now.” He smiled mockingly and pushed the handgun into her face. “Huh, how’s that for funny! Let’s see how far you get with Georgia boy without a fucking face!”

She could feel the heavy, cold steel bruising flesh against her cheek bone but did her best to feign a warm smile. She reached out to caress his arm.

“Knock it off, Caroline. It ain't going to work this time.” Her touch was always soothing to him. The worst day in the world could easily be corrected by some loving attention from her. She was, after all, his first and only lover. His heart warmed slightly and he lost his nerve. Jackie withdrew the gun slightly from her face, revealing a little “O” imprint on Caroline's otherwise perfect cheek.

“You know what you look like to me,” he laughed to himself.

Caroline, somewhat amused by the juvenile look on his face, turned her head slowly and put her lips around the end of the long barrel.

"You look like a," he stopped.

She proceeded to slide her tongue under the bottom of the shaft and drag upwards, removing the gun from her mouth. Strings of saliva dripped slowly from the piece.

Spellbound with nostalgia, Jackie placed both hands on the gun, trying his best to hold it steady. His eyes were transfixed greedily on her full lips. Caroline looked up at him and brazenly took the length of the gun into her mouth. Almost gagging, she could taste the residue from years ago.

She drew her head back and kissed the barrel lovingly. “You’ll miss me, Jackie.”

The trance was broken. He had done everything for her only to be repaid with five awful years of guessing, missing the mark, and feeling like a simple-minded fool trying to make sense of something purposely kept complex and mysterious. Always making a mockery of his feelings, it was clear to him now that she had no love left for him. A torrent of anger rose through him and sweat beaded on his brow. He shook nervously as his fingers swelled around the pistol. He’d rather they both be dead than to go on like this.

“I ain’t your fool no more, Caroline.” Jackie closed his eyes and pulled quickly on the trigger.

“Click!”

The hammer fell on an empty chamber. He opened his eyes and Caroline held his dumbfounded stare for some time. The realization of what he attempted and subsequently failed to do was instantaneously sobering and left him holding this heavy, useless weapon. An overwhelming feeling of impotence and shame washed away any traces of heated, lingering passion.

Caroline stood gingerly and placed a small, cylindrical brass object in the center of the table and walked towards the door. She paused to turn back. Unmoved, Jackie was still facing the couch, arms hanging limply at his sides and revolver still in hand. She proceeded out, shutting the door softly behind her. Avoiding the elevator, she began a long descent down four flights of stairs.

The expected shot reported loudly throughout the concrete stairwell, but Caroline was already back into the busy streets of New York hailing a cab.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Charlie

“Charlie!” Anne wrapped her thin pale arms around him and squeezed. She cried, kissing him frantically. “How was your trip, baby? Where did you go? Do you feel better? Are the shakes gone? Are you better?”

Charlie looked at her for a few seconds and then stared off, into the distance.

“Uh huh”, he nodded his head mechanically. “I had an ok time.” He looked down at his broken watch, “Can we get a drink? I hate airplanes.”

Anne nodded and wiped her nose with a tissue. "Anything you want, Charlie."

He looked at his watch again. “Let’s get going. I'm thirsty for a drink.”

Anne led Charlie through the parking lot to her blue pickup. An airplane roared overhead.

Charlie looked up to watch it pass. Anne eased the suitcases from his hands.

“Where do they keep all the damned smog on days like this?”

Anne glanced up, shading her eyes with her hand.

“I dunno, Charlie.”

He shrugged and entered the vehicle through the passenger door.

Anne drove and hummed nervously, all the while stealing glances at Charlie. He wasn’t what most women would describe as handsome, but she loved his strong jaw and furrowed brow.

Charlie kept his eyes fixed out the side window, watching the tall buildings, cars, and people blur past.

“Baby,” Anne was still a little shaken, “I know that sometimes you have to go like this, but I really wish you could at least call, just to let me know you’re alright.

Charlie looked down at his feet and reached into his jacket pocket.

“Charlie?” Anne stifled a cry. "Can you do that for me?"

“Here, I got you this.” He held out a small wooden figurine shaped into the likeness of a little boy, holding a fishing pole with one hand and a big fish with the other.

“Thank you.” Anne took it from his rough palm and pulled over to examine it carefully.

“It’s wonderful, Charlie.” It was rough, obviously carved with blunt tools, but beautiful and somehow oddly charming.

“I got that for you.” He looked at her for a few seconds and turned back to the window.

Anne held the figurine tightly. The sharp edges of the square bottom dug into her flesh. She began crying again.

When they finally arrived home, Charlie immediately dropped his bags and went out on the balcony. He draped his arms over the banister and observed the busy traffic of East Los Angeles.

Hoping for the big blast of an air horn, Charlie gestured at the truck drivers passing beneath him. Anne watched him through the screen door for a few minutes and then snuck into the bedroom.

She removed the figurine from her coat pocket and carefully placed it next to nine other very similar statues in her bottom, dresser drawer.

Sanjay

It was a two in the morning and I was in the health section of Hollywood Vons fighting with myself over what kind of toothbrush would be best for my receding gum line. It had to be sturdy enough to clean but not hard enough to further erode the precious material holding my teeth in place. I had already brushed away quite a bit and was afraid of loosing another tooth.

My cell phone rang. I didn’t know the number.

"It’s Nate," I answered.

"Hello, my friend, it is Sanjay. I am not waking you am I?"

“It’s ok. What’s up, Sanjay?”

“My friend, you must come and see what I have made.”

“Uh, sure,” I said cautiously. “You’re at the end of Westerly Terrace, right?”

“Yes, my friend. Just knock and I answer.”

Sanjay and I had met only briefly a week ago at a party in Silver Lake. While I didn’t know Sanjay very well and certainly never expected him to call, he was a popular local and I didn’t want to pass on his invitation.

I parked my car in an empty drive way and walked through a thick grove of jasmine to a well lit doorway. I checked the address again and knocked.

Sanjay answered the door. He had sweated through his linen shirt and tufts of dark chest hair showed through. I was taken by his raw, pungent body odor.

“Oh, my friend, you made it. Good.” He hugged me and led me through the door. “Look!”

Hundreds of shiny, golden bells tied to foot long strands of red cord hung from the ceiling. I gazed in awe at a perfectly planned sea of red stripes and gilded brass.

“Did you just do this?”

“Oh, yes. I arrived home today from my trip and have been working for hours.”

I reached up towards a bell but Sanjay quickly stopped my hand.

“Not yet, my friend. You must wait.”

Sanjay led me over to a short, black coffee table located in the center of the room and asked me to sit. An elephant-shaped tin incense burner sat on the table, slowly expelling curled ribbons of white smoke towards the heavenly facade above.
“Wait for what?”

“You will see, my friend,” he said pointing a finger at me, “you will see.”

He waltzed over to his kitchen and returned with a ceramic tea kettle and matching dishware. I could smell the spices in the chai rising past me as he served us.

“First, we drink to friendship.”

I lifted my small ceramic cup in the air.

“To friendship,” I said and carefully sipped.

We finished our tea and Sanjay took the tray back into the kitchen to exchange it with another. He scurried back and set the new one down.

“And now, my friend, we smoke.”
On the tray sat a small bowl filled with a dark red jelly and a smooth glass pipe.

“Behold, charas, pure from my home in the Hindu Kush mountains."

Sanjay carefully packed the very sticky resin into the pipe and put it down before me.
"You first, my friend.”

I picked up the pipe. The glass felt smooth and cold in my nervous hands. I sat anxiously, wondering what charas was and whether or not it could kill me. Sanjay was probably more weird than he was Indian, but he didn’t seem like the kind of guy to push the envelope of death.

He handed me a lighter and the charas crackled as I drew flame into the pipe. Thick, harsh smoke rushed through the glass and into my throat. It burned like fire and I coughed most of it out. I handed the pipe back to Sanjay but he refused.

“Not so much, my friend. Please try again.”

This time, I lit the charas only for a few seconds and inhaled half as much, holding it deep inside my lungs. Instantly, I felt lighter, like I was floating in a warm bath. Exhaling, my spine pulsed and I felt a numbing euphoria through my back, shoulders and arms.

Sanjay and I passed the pipe back and forth three or four times, and my journey had begun. The world around me spun fast, and I felt out of control. I collapsed backwards onto an ocean of velvety pillows on the hard wood floor and wondered when I would stop falling.

“My friend, it is time.” Sanjay extended a hand down and pulled me off of the floor. My body felt limp, but I managed to stand on my own.

Without hesitation Sanjay raised his brown hands to the sky and ran from one side of the room to the other, screaming and yelling in his native tongue.

Swinging back and forth, smashing into each other, the bells sounded in a beautiful chorus of chaotic unison. I heard the perky chime of individual bells and then the cacophony of all them together. Dissonant harmonies echoed through me. Then, suddenly I had an overwhelming desire to reach my hands up into the choppy, gold crested sea. I hit one, then two, then with both hands I hit as many as I could. The ruckus of bells increased and I called out to them in fits of ecstasy for understanding, clarity, and peace.

Out of breath and wet with sweat I let myself fall to the ground. Sanjay came and lay next to me.
“Now do you see, my friend.”

“Yes, Sanjay. Now I see.”

Saturday, January 1, 2000

Aaron Taramet

I was born with one red arm. Due to complications at birth, my entire left arm turned a firey blood color. My mother screamed and cried, wanting to know what was wrong with her baby. The doctors looked at one another and quietly informed my mother that her baby would be fine but the arm would never grow. She cried and close relatives comforted her, assuring her that I would probably lead a perfectly normal life anyways.

Fortunately, they were all wrong and while my left arm grew, my life was shaped by a prescription love affair with psychotropic medication and turned out to be anything but normal.