Wild Violet online literary magazine » Essays

The Wrong Kiiid Died

Raymond J. Barry — Sun, 21 Feb 2021 13:00:52 +0000

“Infinity” by Raymond J. Barry

Four o’clock in the morning before the world wakes up; freshness in the air, the light beginning to peek through the darkness of night, headlights on, radio off. Mumbling my lines, I drive reasonably fast. Sixty miles per hour is reasonably fast; no tickets for me. Wind tossing my hair, gray by now, slight elevation of spirit, a sense of purpose in the air, driving to work; not any kind of work. Film work, the movie business, so different from the usual notion of work, offers a certain degree of adventure that most jobs do not. Meanwhile, plenty of time; nerves aren’t frazzled, and that’s a good thing; no worries on that front, not a chance of caving in on this one. No, sir, when it comes to the movie business, I’m good under pressure; always come through in a pinch.

The drive a bit long, all the way to San Pedro, a drive to remember at four in the morning; a certain calm with being on time, an important part of the creative team; nice to belong. Never was one to rebel, except when it came to this acting thing; insisted upon a profession that guaranteed personal freedom. That took strength; lots of part-time jobs and bouts of self-doubt along the way; oh, yes, plenty of strength. Drilling these words early this morning just to be sure. Won’t be much to this day, just look John C. Reilly smack in the eye, as the character would, say the lines and smile once in a while; shoot the scene and go home, nothing out of the ordinary. A good time will be had by all.

“All right, I’ll bite. Whatchawanna talk about?”

Mumbling words as I drive with the rural accent of the character I’ll play. I know the words, but that’s my way, the endless drilling; useful to a point; always know my words.

How did this happen? How did I, of all people, become confident in the face of movie work? Patience with the world is the answer, patience with the world and forgetting about Marlon Brando. All actors imitated Brando when they were young, myself included. Would Marlon do this? Would Marlon do that? But no more Marlon Brando for me; living in my own skin is enough.

Zipping by cars, following trucks, watching for signs — the bridge, the bridge, must turn at the bridge, still hammering away at my lines, lines I’ll never forget, and finally arrive at the Los Angeles waterfront, where we’ll shoot. People greeting me warmly, nice people, including the director, Jake Kasdan, a nice guy. I respect him — nothing I wouldn’t do for this guy. We’ll make a great film, working as a team. It was different when I shot “Born on the Fourth of July.” Worry controlled me then, of not being up to the task, of not having the goods, too much doubt about pleasing Oliver Stone and wanting so damned much to do everything right. Probably the best work I ever did in a film, when I think about it, played Tom Cruise’s father and did a good job. What a miracle, considering the struggle I went through.

Today things have changed. My own man today, stable and balanced. I actually feel good about myself. Oliver Stone was tough. But Jake Kasdan is comfortable, and by luck, this waterfront reminds me of Manhattan’s Pier twenty-eight years ago, when for a day’s pay, I unloaded boxes of fruit off barges on the Hudson River; a longshoreman then and tough to the ways of New York City survival. Made it out of that situation, too, unloading fruit from boxcars with black men built strong as hell for the work. White guys, too, guys like me, hippies trying to find their way. I found my way. Here I am, playing a great role in a John C. Reilly film, “Walk Hard,” wind blowing my gray hair — made it out of the docks, raising four kids with money in the bank, money in my pocket. Two of them graduated from college so far with two more to go. Yeah, I’m my own man today, my own man. I was my own man when I worked on the docks, too, had a dream then that actually came true.

~~~

Sitting on a pillowed couch in my Winnebago next — about to act in a scene with John C. Reilly, just the two of us, tired but in pretty good shape, a day like any other. No, nothing different here. Simply do the work and have done with it. Yup, a working actor, well-prepared and fully balanced in a business riddled with insecurity, but nothing to fear today. I know the scene inside-out, having studied it with an acting coach. Confided everything in that kind woman, nervousness, fears and the whole nine yards; took a load off my mind. My wardrobe finally arrives, while chomping a delicious ham, cheese and egg sandwich on an English muffin, still going over lines by rote, loudly practicing the rural accent of the character with hints of emotion. Seems unnecessary to drill the lines when I know them so well, but no, drilling is my way, and my way works up to a point. I’m even skilled at times, not like the greats, of course, but fairly relaxed when I do a role, yup, absolute professionalism and always sure of my lines. The complexity of the characters I play is usually a crap shoot, but that’s all right with me. “Do the best I can” is my motto nowadays.

Biography Year

Margaret Montet — Sun, 04 Oct 2020 13:00:13 +0000

Twelve individuals were born in my mind last year. My project went like this: I read one biography each month—some from my pile of the unread, and some that I heard about during that year. The subjects of these biographies, living and dead, mingled in my mind and became defined by the people, places, and ideas that were important to them. They went from being two-dimensional faces with names attached, to characters with three-dimensional personalities. As I got to know them, they seemed to get to know each other, connecting on places and interests they shared. I mind-mapped each, and looked for trends and connections among them. The librarian part of me was hoping to put together a clever biography selection and reading guide, but mainly, I just wanted to explore the genre.

I use mind maps to organize and remember information. I learned about this technique from a member of my book club, and for a very long time, this is where I practiced mind mapping. I mapped details of the books we read so that I could more easily enter into discussion. Soon I realized that mind maps helped me find connections, threads, and hierarchies as well. One step further, I sometimes make a meta map to summarize findings from multiple sources on a topic (books, articles, radio shows, interviews, etc.). I use mind maps to organize my writing and speaking, too.

Mind map of Molly Brown

By mind mapping my biographies as I read them, I was able to observe trends, and became intrigued by the art of biography writing. Over the course of the Biography Year, certain questions reappeared for almost every individual.

What surprises surfaced about the subject? Was the biographer surprised by these, too?

The musical theater and film character “The Unsinkable Molly Brown” was based upon a real person named Margaret Brown who actually did survive the Titanic disaster and never went by the name “Molly.” The first pandas brought to the United States were captured and transported by a socialite widow named Ruth Harkness and her Chinese partner and guide. Beethoven worried a lot.

What places are important to the subject’s life, and did the subject become more familiar to me if I visited these places?

I happened to be in Denver recently and visited Margaret “Molly” Brown’s House of Lions. Having read the biography, this was a delightful experience, except I was disappointed at how much of Brown’s amazing life the tour guide left out. I understand that most people are intrigued by her surviving the Titanic disaster and that, if he had described all of her Denver civic accomplishments, the tour would have been three times longer.

Who were the major characters in the subject’s life? Were they collaborators or muses? Was the subject a rugged individualist? Did the biographer research these people?

Beethoven was a loner. Samuel de Champlain, Marco Polo, Bruce Springsteen, and Ruth Harkness often worked collaboratively, understanding that multiple minds offer multiple perspectives for a creative solution. Duke Ellington got ideas from other musicians, but took most of the credit.

What were the connections to the other eleven subjects?

(continued on page 2)

Kindness

Carole Phillips — Sun, 29 Mar 2020 16:27:33 +0000

Met a lovely woman recently at Sunset Hill Park. Rosalind was seated facing west on one of two benches at a bend in the footpath overlooking the Shilshole Marina, Puget Sound and misty Olympic Mountain range beyond. I acknowledged her and took a seat on the empty bench in the shade of a Japanese Pine tree a few feet away. She commented, I commented on the remarkable weather. Typically a strong prevailing wind blows from the north down along the bluffs, but that afternoon was different. There was a palpable air of tranquility about the park, even the most raucous and territorial of resident crows sat subdued in their perches. Our conversation flowed effortlessly as we mused on the panorama and grandeur of it all.

I learned she lives in Michigan and was here in Seattle visiting her son, daughter-in-law and a newly-minted grandson. In turn she inquired whether I have children.

“Oh yes, I’ve raised a daughter,” I responded with a disarming smile.

So we’d established points of origin, Michigan – mine Southern California. She mentioned she’d been at a retreat in northern CA a few months earlier.

“What type of retreat?” I asked.

“Buddhist.”

“Are you a Buddhist?”

“It would seem so. It’s a long way from my liberal Presbyterian upbringing.” Rosalind smiled.

“Well it seems to me most everyone is beating a path to the godhead,” I quipped.

“Are you familiar with Buddhism?” she asked.

“To an extent, it’s such a vast subject,” I replied.

“That’s true; I’ve been a practicing Buddhist for 30 years and feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

I talked about how Buddhism had helped me the most when my mother was terminally ill. How I’d felt terrified when she told me it was “time” to come home and my great apprehension about the undertaking that lay ahead. How was I going to attend to her and my own needs during the last few months of her life? The Christian texts I’d been perusing sadly fell short for me in this respect. An acquaintance had given me a pocket version of The Tibetan Book of the Dead to bring home to CA. This ancient text spoke to me and proved to be invaluable while doing her hospice care. Rosalind nodded her head in agreement.

I continued, within a year or so of my mother’s passing I was asked to collaborate with a composer on a commissioned piece. I was given carte blanche. A further sojourn into Buddhism, I decided, and in particular the study of the White Tara deity, whose attributes include compassion, long life, healing and serenity. Once I’d conceptualized the piece, the composer began to arrange a multi-track soundscape of trance-inducing chants and percussive instruments, i.e. singing bowls, a dorje bell, etc. I worked on the choreography and performance aspects of the “Vajrasattva,” which in effect humanized the White Tara via mudras and sustained postures. The performance of the piece was well-received by the public and critics alike. It had been an enriching project, although when I look back the irreverent part of me, that part thinks of it as “The Gong Show” without the hook.

“So you’re an artist,” Rosalind commented.

“It would seem so,” I demurred.

I didn’t go on about my brushes with Buddhism, how I’d gone to hear the Dali Lama speak on campus at the UW 40 years ago or about being given a personal mantra and sacred scroll by a Tibetan monk back in the mid 1980’s, which I’d kept tucked away all these years.

We touched on the Buddhist belief of what causes human suffering; attachment and desire.

She said what Buddhism boiled down to for her is kindness, and it was easy to believe she lived by this truth. I knew I could trust her to tell her I’d suffered an unspeakable loss.

Looking down into her lap and with a level voice, she asked if I had lost my daughter.

“I did.”

All she was able to do was shake her head, no, no, no.

“There aren’t – words fail me. She was my only child.” I choked.

It’s wrong, she repeated several times, it’s wrong; and in doing so, validated my abiding sorrow.

She began to weep and express the most heartfelt sympathy. We wept together, apart.

Through tears I told her nothing makes sense, and I feel so restless in my soul.

“Who wouldn’t?” She said.

Then she asked, “How long has it been since you lost her?”

“It has been ten long years. I still resist it and nothing in me can or wants to say goodbye. There’s this misconception floating around that it gets better with time, but that isn’t true to my experience. I do need to release whatever pain I’m holding that interferes with her loving reach. Our love for each other matters more than anything else.”

Rosalind listened intently and, being wise, did not try to fix or change a thing. She stood with me in the fire and became an illuminated mirror of pure compassion wherein I might accept myself. In her presence it was safe to be naked, ugly and loved.

Before leaving the park she asked, “Can I hug you?” I stood up as she approached me – she held me for quite a while. Mid-embrace I took off my sunglasses, making eye contact. The benevolent gaze of her clear blue eyes continues to comfort me.

It was a mercy to have met Rosalind, and yet I felt saddened to see my White Tara go.

Having parted company, I returned to the seat on the bench beneath the Japanese Pine tree. The Puget Sound lay before me still as a painting; the atmosphere was replete with calm, soft as a whisper and mild as milk; much like Buddha’s heart.

Eight Days in Prison

Nicholas Chittick — Mon, 14 Jan 2019 00:51:10 +0000

This is just an experiment. Let’s be clear about that right up front. I don’t want you thinking this is going to be a regular thing. This is a one-time-only day-by-day account of my life (such as it is) in an Illinois prison, over the next few days. Maybe a couple of weeks. I’m not sure yet.

I should give you a background about myself. I was born on March 23, 1969, right before the Summer of Love. My name at birth was Nicky Joe Elliot. That’s what was on my original birth certificate. I know what you’re thinking: a totes legit name for a convict. It didn’t stick, though. Mom divorced Pop, remarried, and then — around the time I was five or so — allowed me to be adopted by my step-father. It was decided that not only would my last name be changed, but my first and middle name, too. I became Nicholas Joseph Chittick. Much less cool, but I wasn’t consulted in the decision. I have oft wondered whether my true destiny of fame and riches was unable to find me, because I lived most of my life under an assumed identity.

I’m locked up for murder. Nothing especially interesting: it was a drug deal gone bad that happened on Christmas night 1998. I was arrested on January 5, 1999. Been behind bars ever since. No need to go into details, but I will admit that I’m the reason the deal went south. I wanted crack but didn’t have any money. What I did have was access to a gun, an abundant intake of alcohol, and a great deal of pent-up holiday frustration. I confessed and pleaded guilty. No sense in denying it is how I saw it; they had me red-handed.

So why am I writing this? And just what is this, exactly? I guess technically it’s a journal. Not a diary. The word diary has too feminine connotations for me. Chronicle is a good, strong word. The Prison Chronicles. Well… whatever this is, the main question is why? A couple of reasons. One, I was egged on by the popularity of such reality shows as “60 Days In,” “Behind Bars: Rookie Year,” “Locked Up,” “Locked Up Abroad,” “The System” — the list goes on and on. There seems to be a fascination within our culture of life behind bars. Probably nothing new. They made plenty of black-and-white prison movies in the 1930s. Anyway, along the lines of incarceration curiosity, I figured I might provide a unique perspective. I’m a minority, after all… a white guy in prison. That’s the first reason.

The second is that I’m at a crossroads in my life. There’s a lot going on. I stand at the precipice of many changes. This is an anomaly in my experience. Here (not here in this prison specifically, but here, in prison in general… any prison) clocks tick differently. Long spans of time — years, decades — slip by almost without notice, much the same way ships on the ocean can travel great distances — thousands of miles — without seeming to go anywhere. The other day a C.O. (correctional officer) said to me, “Chittick, you’ll probably never leave this joint. You’ve got it made here.”

I replied, “Yeah, but you could ship me anywhere and, in three or four years, I’d have it made there, too.”

He couldn’t believe the casual way I’d said three or four years. To him, this was an excruciating length of time. To us (those who’ve endured long-term incarceration), we tend to view years the same way a free person might look at a couple of weeks. That’s the difference. So when I saw a lot is happening at once — and it is — that’s a big deal to me. I guess I feel a certain need to document it.

It’s Sunday night, September 11, 2016. The anniversary of 9-11. Hard to believe it’s already been fifteen years. I was in Menard in 2001, a maximum-security hellhole in southern Illinois. I’ve earned my way into a medium-security facility now. It’s not Shangri-La, but it’s tolerable.

If you’re hoping for stories of the ultra-violent American prison system, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. It happens, no question, but not on the daily basis that popular culture would have you believe. Certainly not in a level-three facility like this.

The joint softball league championship series started today. Yes, we have a softball league. Basketball and soccer leagues, too. Anyway, I’m one of the umpires for the softball league. We went out to the field at 7:30 a.m., but it was a swamp. We’ve had a lot of rain lately. Our LTS (Leisure Time Services) Supervisor got us some rakes, shovels, brooms, and a wheelbarrow. We got to work pushing the excess water off the infield with brooms, slogging through the slop, then transferred sand from the volleyball pit via wheelbarrow and just pretty much bullied Mother Nature into giving us a dry field. It worked. By noon we were able to start game one of a seven-game series between Housing Unit One and Housing Unit Four. My team was in the semifinals last week, but we got beat by Housing Unit Four. They swept us three games straight in a five-game series. Losing sucks. I always cringe when I hear someone say, “C’mon, we’re just playing for fun.” Know what’s fun? Winning. Anyway, I live in Housing Unit Three. I’ve been here for five years, but they’re about to move me to Housing Unit Two. That’s one of the upcoming changes I was telling you about.

Housing Unit One won two in a row today. I umpired second base for game two. My homie (I won’t use any names, but I can tell you he’s the drummer for the prison band; I’m the guitar player) umpired second base for game one and only had to make a couple easy calls the entire time. I step onto the field for game two, and it was one close call after another at second base. I’m secretly rooting for Housing Unit Four to win, even though they’re the ones who beat my team, because Housing Unit One wins this thing every year. Even so, I called the calls as I saw them, even though guys were arguing with me, yelling at me. It’s not easy. You’ve got to be solid when you’re an umpire, even if you’re wrong. Especially if you’re wrong. I looked over at my homie (the drummer) after one particular dust-up (I called a guy out on a slide, but it was very close… he might’ve been safe) and he was laughing like a maniac, the jerk. You can always count on your friends to give you a hard time.

Coming in after the games I saw Blinky. Blinky is a rabbit. The grounds are full of ‘em. He’s got one eye and a big scar down his back. I and a few others call him Blinky, but he’s got a lot of different names. Pirate. Thug. Chief. More I don’t know. I didn’t see it happen, but a couple guys did, and the story spread like wildfire. Blinky got scooped up by a hawk one day. So he’s a good ten of fifteen feet in the air, on his way to certain death, when he starts kicking his legs like crazy at the hawk. He freed himself at a price: the hawk’s talons tore out one of his eyes and sliced up his back, but he hit the ground running and made it to safety. Now he shows up out on the walk, begging food like all the rabbits. I don’t have anything to give him, but I wish I had. All the convicts love Blinky. He’s a survivor.

They’re having a concert tomorrow in the gym, classical music from some outside people. The prison band has our own concert coming up Wednesday. Ours is “The Concert for Change.” It’s all original material, each song a chapter in a story. Our group is a mixture of different musicians from different musical backgrounds, of different ages, ethnicities and cultures. The music we wrote for this concert reflects that diversity.

It’s getting late. I have to be at work early tomorrow, at 8 a.m. I’m the clerk in the counselor’s offices, a.k.a. Clinical Services. I’ve held down that job assignment for going on three years now, but that’s about to change, too. I told you, I’m at a crossroads. A storm of changes lies on my horizon.

Past, Present, Popcorn

Brett Riley — Mon, 20 Nov 2017 03:29:05 +0000

As a child in the 1970s, I often felt out of place, as if I were a weight hung around the household’s neck. I loved sports, but I equally loved board games, comic books, literature above my reading level, and Star Wars memorabilia. My parents never discouraged these pursuits and, indeed, funded some, but they never really understood them, either. My father and I played football and baseball in our yard and hunted deer and squirrel in the local forests, but if I wanted to play Monopoly or talk in depth about Spider-Man, I was on my own. My mother seemed harried, always on the verge of some crisis, and I often felt like the cause. Like most children, I wanted my parents to love me, and I cherished our time together, but whether by necessity or choice—I did love playing by my own rules and creating narratives, long before I wrote any down—I spent much of my time alone.

We shared some things, though. My mother and I went to church every Sunday, sometimes with my father, sometimes not. We watched television together. And my father and I loved popcorn.

The 70s—deep-fried everything, indoor smoking, nonexistent seatbelt laws, Archie Bunker, Tricky Dick. In my earliest memories, we lived in a Monticello, Arkansas, apartment complex. Later, we moved to Crossett, where we stayed for most of my youth. We occupied a series of houses. Some, like the one near our rural Assembly of God church, were dilapidated and bug-infested. We had little money for upgrades. Some, like the one on West 12^th Street, were modest but clean and comfortable.

Through all the moves and the attendant culling of possessions, we kept a cooking pot that might have been old when my parents were kids. It had no lid and no handles. Dark brownish stains covered the bottom half. I called it Dad’s Popcorn Pot. He ate popcorn as if it constituted a food group, and because we had no popping machine, he made it on the stovetop. He would pour some oil in the pot, dump in loose kernels from a bag, and turn on the heat. He covered the pot with a dishtowel and shook it back and forth across the burner. Soon, a distinct sound filled the house—the tink of kernels smacking into metal, like coins in a vending machine. The scent of fresh-popped corn combined with his acrid, stale cigarette smoke that never seemed to dissipate, simultaneously whetting my appetite and turning my stomach.

When the popcorn was done, he dumped in some salt. Then he would shake it all again before pouring the finished product into a bowl. He salted it so heavily that I would not have been surprised to see a deer break into the house and lick the bowl clean, so I always needed a glass of soda or sweet tea. I sat next to him on the sofa, where we would watch Monday Night Football or a Movie of the Week. We scarfed popcorn like gluttons. We even ate the half-popped kernels. We seldom talked. Just a father and son hanging out, Mom joining us whenever she felt like it.

Something about the way my father made popcorn seemed intimate, even artistic—the effort involved, so much different than ordering a box at the drive-in or buying a bag at a ballgame; the precision of pouring the oil without any formal measurement; the uniform but unconsciously determined number of salt pours; the hands-on distribution of heat. To my grade-school eyes, it seemed like earned, even sacred, knowledge. Perhaps I just wanted to emulate Dad—that familiar yet mysterious man who worked for much of the day and sent me to bed early on school nights—but I saw more wizardry in his popcorn-making than in my mother’s far more intricate and labor-intensive cooking. According to the gender roles that society was teaching me, the kitchen was, after all, where she was supposed to be, and her secrets were someone else’s to learn. But Dad standing over the stove, making something that he would share with me—that was special.

I learned about the connection between gender and food from my community, from television and movies, from certain books and magazines. (A copy of, say, The Feminine Mystique would have been as common in 1970s Crossett as photographic evidence of Bigfoot.) It was all bullshit, of course. Patriarchy and sexism have greatly damaged this world, and they can and should be resisted. Still, the reductive and sometimes dangerous idea that boys should emulate their fathers probably helped my Dad and me—an average athlete, a bookworm—be closer than we otherwise might have been.

But things change.

In the 80s, we bought a small hot-air popper, and, after a brief period when Dad used it, I took charge. I began by washing my hands and dumping the loose kernels into a reservoir. Then I put some stick butter in a metal tray that fit on top of the machine. As the air heated, the butter melted. I poured the butter and salt into a big bowl. Then I dumped the popcorn on top and mixed it all with my hands. We ate in our den in front of a new television. We watched ESPN, cable channels like USA and TBS, and movies on HBO. Alone, I devoured videos on MTV.

The Church of Los Corales

Julia Torres — Mon, 06 Nov 2017 01:46:39 +0000

The cold wind was unexpected. After all, it was the middle of July, and this was the Caribbean. The church of Los Corales was cemented into the side of a mango-covered mountain just west of Santiago. It was not nestled like most mountainside churches; rather, it was cemented. A new building for an old generation. White painted cement, a slate porch, and frosted white doors. Around the church, there were a few strikingly new houses owned by returning Americans, and a bodega that filled at eleven in the morning and was empty again soon after.

On that day it was raining. A heavy downpour that tinged on the new tin roof like angles playing marbles. The rain had brought the cold wind, and it swirled through the packed church through every open window. But no one seemed the notice. The abuelas continued to fan themselves. The teenage girls adjusted their white H&M dresses bought by their American cousins, and their American cousins were counting the days before they could go home and only go to church on Christmas. But abuela was watching now. The cousins exchanged glances and continued reciting prayers they only half-remembered.

The real action was not in the church, but on the porch. A group of primos were gathered, snapchatting and teasing each other. It was too crowded inside, they reasoned, so they might as well stay outside. An old uncle stood by the door and every once and awhile would send them a disapproving look, but it was only half-meant. The whole family had not come home for a long time.

The rain picked up, but there was no attempt to close the windows. No move to close the door. The priest remained at the altar, praying, the abuelas continued fanning, the girls checked their makeup in the window reflection, and the boys were now discussing quadding on the porch. The wind whirled around Los Corales, a church cemented into the mountainside.

Type-Setting Tunes

Terry Barr — Mon, 24 Aug 2015 01:10:21 +0000

The machine engulfed Travis, but he didn’t seem to mind. Travis chain-smoked unfiltered Camels; and one was always burning at his side as he pressed the buttoned keys for all the letters to appear, just as I had originally typed them. Sometimes, yes, he made mistakes but not often. And anyway, when the words appeared in print, I was the editor; I was the responsible party.

And so I never mentioned Travis or his work to anyone.

He was frail and hunch-backed. Stooped just in the form you’d expect from one who spent eight, maybe ten hours each day typesetting others’ words, making sure others’ ideas or suggested messages came out cleanly, appropriately, and of course, without error.

So Travis, naturally, knew all the secrets, the stories.

Yet I never wondered what he thought about the simple panty raids, the SGA proclamations striking down women’s curfew, or the “startling exposes” that exposed administrative corruption and the juggling of academic data to pacify and satisfy accrediting agencies and the US News and World Report. I wondered if Travis read what he typed at all, or did he simply concentrate on those little keys, putting each in its appointed place?

I visited Times Printing only on those occasions when I dropped off the copy and then, once Travis was finished, picked up the mock-ups. I was nineteen and didn’t much know how to make small talk with a man in his 70’s, a man who did not have the privilege or benefit of attending university. Still, I’d try sometimes: “Hi Travis. How does it look today?”

Most often he wouldn’t look up, and only rarely did he pause at all. But when he would, I think it was more due to his need to inhale the Camel again than to respond to me. So at best, I’d get: “Good. She’s good.” And then back to his work.

I knew back then that men of his age took work seriously; they didn’t live for their breaks and try to stretch fifteen minutes into thirty, as I did in my summer job.

But one day, when I came to pick up my copy, Travis stopped his work. He rose up from the cramped space and looked directly to me: “That band you wrote about that’s coming next Friday. It says they play bluegrass. Is that real bluegrass or just what they think is bluegrass?”

More words in one smoky breath than he had uttered in two years.

“It’s real bluegrass, Travis. It’s The Dillards. You know, the band that’s ‘The Darlin’ Family’ on Andy Griffith.”

“You say it’s real? Maybe I’ll go.”

“I’ll get you tickets, Travis.”

I dropped the tickets off for him the next day, though he was at lunch, and so I left it with his boss.

“Travis asked for these?” he asked.

“Sort of,” I said. “Anyway, he wants to go.”

“Hhhm.”

When I got to the auditorium that Friday night, not only was Travis there, he was on the third row aisle seat, all alone.

“Hey Travis! Can I sit next to you?”

“That’s all right,” he said.

The Dillards put on a lively show for the crowd of 500 students and one old man.

It took about two songs before Travis was dancing in his place, clapping his hands in the air, and singing along to “Rocky Top” and “Dooley.” After the fourth song, he smiled at me: “They’re all right!”

I remember so little about that night, really, at least what was happening on stage. But what I do remember, and what I can still see so clearly now, forty years later, as I set my own type, is Travis, with his old-timey horn-rimmed glasses, his stooped shoulders, and still in his uniform. And especially his fingers, the ones that were his trade, the ones stamped equally with black ink and yellow cigarette burns.

The ones he held so high as he clapped his way into my life.

Halloween Hell

Marguerite Elisofon — Mon, 27 Oct 2014 00:58:17 +0000

When my twins are almost six, they appear delightfully normal in our Halloween photos. Samantha, an impish Raggedy Ann, wears a red yarn wig; her lips are cherry red, and there are matching red spots on each of her round cheeks. She smiles exuberantly, showing off her missing front tooth. Her hazel eyes sparkle in anticipation of Tootsie Pops, Starbursts, and all of the candy she will bring home and beg to eat immediately. In contrast, Matthew is dressed as the Grim Reaper, holding a plastic scythe menacingly in one hand. His other hand grasps the death mask he removed because he was too hot. He wears white pancake makeup, thick black eyebrows, and grins through black lips. His pale eyes are wide and neon blue inside a circle of black.

“Do you understand who the Grim Reaper is?” I had tried to discourage him from choosing this costume.

“Yeah, he decides who’s gonna die and he gets them.”

“So you want to play Death? Are you sure? You might scare the other children.” Actually, it scared me that out of all the superheroes and cartoon characters, my little boy had chosen the Grim Reaper. Maybe he was trying to take control of his fears, after losing both grandfathers.

“Why can’t I be scary on Halloween? You said I could pick any costume I wanted.”

“Okay, you’re right.” Scary was cool for boys. Matt was just taking it a step further than his friends who were skeletons and ghosts.

As for Samantha, she had no interest in dolls and knew nothing about Raggedy Ann. What caught her eye about the costume were the bright colors, especially the wig. I was just happy she’d picked a costume that could be slipped on easily.

It would be hard enough going trick-or-treating with Samantha. She had already received a variety of autistic spectrum labels, and we never knew how she was going to behave. I worried that she would embarrass us at our neighbors’ doors, or that she would melt down and I’d have to take her home. Samantha was capable of erupting in an ear-shattering tantrum if overstimulated. Of course, we could have gone trick-or-treating without her, but that seemed impossibly sad. Halloween made Samantha’s eyes light up with joy, and her excitement kept her enthusiastically present with us instead of lost in her own world

Each year Halloween would improve, I told myself. Samantha would become more appropriate. Experience would teach me how to anticipate her upsets and avoid them. I would carefully explain the rules of trick-or-treating and make her understand that Halloween would be over if she broke them. Unfortunately, her punishment often became ours. At almost six, Matt was old enough to feel embarrassed by Samantha, and even if she went home in the middle and he continued collecting candy, all the fun went out of it.

“Let’s take pictures of everyone before we start,” Howard suggested. He knew it was always best to take pictures while our family was happy and excited. After snapping a few shots, the kids were anxious to start ringing doorbells.

“Dad, can we PLEASE go now?” Matt asked.

“Just one more of you together. Come on, Sammy, look at me and smile.”

“I AM looking at you,” she insisted irritably as she stared over his left shoulder.

“I think she’s really sensitive to the flash in her eyes, Howard,” I explained.

He looked annoyed at me for giving Samantha an excuse. “Just look at Daddy’s nose and pretend it’s a lollipop… Great,” he snapped twice. “Now we can go.”

“I only want to take my favorite elevator,” Samantha insisted.

“Samantha, it’s Halloween and the elevators are going to be crowded and slow. If we wait for your favorite, it will be too late to trick-or-treat,” I explained.

“Mommy, what about if we take the stairs?” Matt suggested.

“Honey, your dad and I can’t walk up from 9 to 21, but I suppose we can take the stairs on the way down.”

I pushed the button and prayed. The first elevator to arrive was not her favorite, but it was filled to capacity with parents and children. Finally her “favorite” arrived and we were able to go up. She only shrieked “my favorite” once, and then we were mercifully distracted by another family complimenting Samantha on her adorable costume and telling Matt he was really scary.

“Please remember — both of you — to just take whatever candy people offer you and don’t try to grab as many handfuls as you can. If you’re not sure, I’ll say, ‘That’s enough, thank you,’ and then you’ll say, ‘Thank you.’”

That One Pitch

John C. Williams — Tue, 04 Mar 2014 23:12:11 +0000

The author’s father is in the top row, to the right of the man in the hat

In late August of 1957, my father took me on a trip to visit his home town of Nanaimo in British Columbia. We stayed in the Plaza Hotel, where, almost a half century earlier, he’d been a bellhop, before going to work in the coal mines.

On our first morning, just after breakfast, my father took me on a walking tour of Nanaimo Harbor. We stopped at the Bastion, a fortress constructed in 1853 by the Hudson Bay Company to protect their coal mining interests on Vancouver Island. My father pointed out that there were no nails used, and the lumber was hand hewn with broad axes and adzes.

Too much work, I thought.

About a half block past the Bastion, an old man in a tan windbreaker, worn, black Frisco jeans, and a ball cap sat hunched on a rickety wooden bench with his back to the harbor, staring blankly at the building across the street. As we approached, he turned his face toward us, and the first thing I noticed was a broad tobacco stain on the gray stubble of his pointy chin.

Withered, age-spotted hands rested atop the brass handle of a mahogany cane planted on the sidewalk between his ratty sneakers. Large, hairy ears supported the temples of his heavy framed glasses, but behind the thick lenses were keen, pale blue eyes. My father slowed, his back stiffened, and I could tell there was an instant recognition.

The man’s eyes tapered into a squint, as he stretched his neck toward us, straining to get a closer look. His upper lip quivered, finally forming a snarl. He sat back and said, “I still remember that catch, you sonofabitch.”

My father smiled. “How’ve you been? It’s been a long time.”

The man nodded, turned toward me, and spat a long stream of brown juice onto the already heavily stained sidewalk that circled his feet.

“That your son?” he asked.

“Yes. My boy, Johnny.”

“He’s a nice-looking kid.” His snarling lip eased into a flat line. “Well, take care,” he said and dismissed us with a flick of his wrist, turning his attention back to the building across the street.

I hesitated, feeling awkward about such an abrupt dismissal by that gruff old geezer. I thought that after calling my father an S.O.B., more needed to be said, but my father gave me a wink and a quick jerk of his head, so we walked away.

After we got out of earshot, I asked, “Who was that? And why’d he call you an S.O.B.?”

Dad smiled and began telling a tale of his youth when he’d played baseball for a team with the unimaginative name of the Nanaimo Miners — young coal miners from the town of Nanaimo.

He explained how much the pride of the coal mining communities rode on the won-lost record of the previous season. If the town of Duncan had a better record than Ladysmith, it was a victory for all Duncanites, even if they didn’t win the island championship. After the season, the cry of “wait till next year” would echo up and down the island.

But even with the fierce competition, the play on the field was always fun and friendly, except when it came to the Victoria Vipers. Beating them had become an obsession, too often ending in failure.

My father said, “We hated playing them, because they’d laugh and taunt, all the while knocking the crap out of us. It happened every time we played ‘em.”

The Victoria Vipers was always the top team. Most players were barrel-chested, bearded men with arms big as tree trunks. Their roster consisted of the best players on the island laced with some players from the US. The average age of the team was 26.

Their sponsor, Timber Management of British Columbia Ltd, had plenty of money and hired the best players to work at good paying, menial jobs in their sawmill. The players had to be physically in the employment of their sponsor. This was part of the league rules.

Their manager, Adolph Bronco, was a swarthy, round, little, cigar-smoking, loudmouth prick, whose claim to fame was that he had been called up to play for the Cincinnati Red Legs. He was a third-string catcher but acted as if he were the legendary catcher Roger “The Duke of Tralee” Bresnhan.

The joke around the league was that Adolph was more of a horse’s arse than a bronco. But the underhanded tactics and style of play which he employed allowed him to keep his job year in and year out. And he did know how to win. His strong suit was intimidation. He argued, red-faced, every call that went against his team and chided other managers if they did the same.

At the end of each season, Bronco would go to the other teams and approach their star players, offering them good paying jobs with Timber Management and positions with the Vipers. On the island, playing for the Vipers was like playing for the Yankees.

But those who traded their hometown loyalty for the prestige of playing for the Vipers would be soundly booed when they returned to play against their previous team and would often be forced to leave their hometown and take up residence in Victoria, just to avoid the off-season harassing.

Attitude was a major ingredient if a player was to become a Viper. They had to be physically better and know how to psychologically get and maintain an edge on the opposing players. They employed a style of play that was beyond hardnosed, it was dirty — cheap shot dirty. Injuring a rival player brought a cheer from their bench. The opposing infielders knew if a Viper came in sliding, he’d try to rip your hand open with sharpened steel spikes.

On the other hand, if the Vipers were on defense, they would use the ball as a weapon, slamming it to your head or whacking you in the nuts. Then stand laughing at the man rolling in the dirt, while pointing to the rival dugout, trying to bait their opponents into a fight by mouthing, “You’re next.”

But generally no fight occurred. While the other team sent out a couple of players to carry their injured teammate back to the safety of the dugout, the umpires would stand clear waiting and watching for something to happen.

However, loyalty was not a trait among the Vipers management. With the Vipers, winning was everything. There was no room for batting slumps or errors. If a player had a bad season and a replacement could be pirated from another team, he would be dropped unceremoniously from the team, pulled from his cushy job and sent to the woods to be a choke setter or lumberjack.

Most ex-Vipers quit but had a hard time readjusting to life post-Vipers. They would humbly crawl back to their hometown, hoping that people would forgive, and maybe they could get their old job back.

Necessary Things

Eileen Cunniffe — Mon, 02 Dec 2013 22:38:29 +0000

Gray Bunny

Before Grace names it, the small stuffed bunny is pale pink with purple dots and wears a lavender bow around his neck. A cherished playmate for my littlest niece, he is clutched close at bedtime and in the car seat. Eventually she learns to introduce him, dangling him by an ear and announcing “Bunny,” giggling at her own ability to speak.

With so much affection and milk lavished on him, the bunny makes regular trips through the washing machine. Soon the pink fur fades and the original ribbon frays and then falls off, only to be replaced with a rapid succession of other-colored ribbons, as Grace gets better and better at undoing the knots.

Meanwhile Grace’s vocabulary grows, as does her collection of inanimate friends. She names them all, but the one she loves best is the one she calls “Gray Bunny.” For by now he truly is gray, with only the palest of dots flecking his thinning fur.

Everyone in Grace’s world learns to take note of Gray Bunny’s whereabouts. In addition to Mommy and Daddy, her grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and neighborhood babysitters all learn to do Gray Bunny checks on a regular basis. Gray Bunny has to be in the car, beside the pillow, close to the bathtub, or near the kitchen table. On the day Grace meets her baby brother, Gray Bunny goes along for moral support. Once when she visits cousins in another state, Gray Bunny inadvertently stays home, making bedtime nearly unbearable for the entire household.

Sometimes Grace goes for an hour without mentioning Gray Bunny. Then she remembers, and her need is urgent. Whenever he re-appears, Grace greets him with “Oh, there you are,” as if they’d been playing hide-and-seek.

Life without Gray Bunny is unimaginable, or so we all think, until he goes missing for good, left behind who-knows-where on an otherwise ordinary day. Grace’s mommy phones every place they have been on that day, but Gray Bunny is nowhere to be found. Grace is heartbroken at first, although once the initial shock wears off, she handles her loss stoically. For months she speaks wistfully of Gray Bunny, sometimes consoling herself and those around her by saying, “He’ll come back later.” A doll she has named “Fairy Princess Ballerina” steps in to fill the void. A revisionist at three, Grace fondly begins to recall her old friend as “White Bunny,” a hue he never achieved.

Pink Cleats

One hot-pink soccer cleat, its scuffed toe poking out from under the rumpled bedclothes — all that remains after three satisfying but exhausting days of having my 16-year-old niece as a house guest. I’m left wondering what inspired Erin to bring her cleats on this trip, a visit from her home in California to look at East Coast colleges. It took both of us to wrestle her overstuffed suitcase up the stairs and into my guest room. For all I know she had a soccer ball and goal in there, too. What other clues to her growing-up self were tucked into that lumpy bag?

When Erin was little we were together often, even though we sometimes lived on opposite sides of the country; I traveled a lot for work in those days, and any time I could stretch a business trip into a visit, I did. We shared family times and invented our own adventures, too — window shopping, tea at a café, stringing beads into jewelry. But then my brother and his family moved to Japan for three years. I’d seen Erin only twice since she became a teenager. Her life was so much bigger now, on the brink of expanding yet again as she made plans for college. How would we be with each other, I wondered before her visit. What would we talk about? I felt almost shy about seeing her again, having her stay in my house.

Within minutes of her arrival, I discover that soccer offers a window into her world. Erin’s sentences are peppered with references to camps, coaches, yellow cards and teammates. In my upstairs hallway, she dangles the bright pink cleats by their gray laces so I can admire them. “These are my favorites,” she announces. Are they talismans for her journey, I wonder, or the opening line to a story she wants to tell? Did she pick them up on her travels to Singapore, or perhaps Hong Kong? She doesn’t explain, she just goes back to the guest room and adds the cleats to the impressive assortment of belongings that has exploded out of her suitcase onto the bed and floor. I’m left to decipher the meaning behind the cleats, while Erin deftly swaps text messages with friends in other time zones.

At the end of our first full day together, Erin sprawls across my sofa, twisting and twirling her long, auburn hair as she describes school projects she’s led. Confidently, she tells me she’s the one her classmates rely on to write, re-write or otherwise polish team presentations. “Good for you,” I say. (“Be careful,” I want to say, “there’s a price to pay for being that girl.”) I tell her about my recent decision to leave the company where I’ve worked since before she was born. We talk about finding meaning in work, and in school. She’s eager for us to watch her favorite movie, Newsies; she just happens to have the DVD in her suitcase. We compare our different ways of being in the world: Erin feels lucky to have lived in many places, but doesn’t really belong to any of them; I have always lived in the same place, give or take a few miles, but relish the opportunities I’ve had to travel for work and for pleasure. We talk until we’re both half-asleep.

For three days, we look at college campuses, explore Philadelphia, window shop, share meals and visit with the nearby members of our clan. And then she’s gone, as suddenly as she appeared. I call California to let her know she left one of her favorite cleats behind, and to assure her that it’s already on its way to her in the mail. She hasn’t even missed it.