Hotel Christmas

The young lady at the front desk is in particularly high spirits.  Probably because in 43 minutes, she gets to go home.   To family.  Eggnog.  Presents.  Decorations.

She smiles so I smile back.  Christmas spirit is so contagious. 
So, I decide to hurry back to my room.   I've got 9 channels on my TV waiting for me.  Excluding fake news CNN, the 3 Spanish channels and PBS, of course.

Standing at the elevator, a middle aged couple push the button.  Are you going up?  They sternly ask. Considering, we are on the first floor, yes, I silently think to myself as I politely nod in the affirmative.

First thing, I do is look for TBS on my 36 inch TV with almost no good channels to watch.  THANK GOD, I'VE GOT TBS.  Any minute, the most overrated Christmas movie in history will begin its annual 24 hour marathon.... the one with the nerdy kid with no personality and Ward and June Cleaver are his parents... the movie where he gets super excited over a BB gun and gets his tongue stuck to a frosty pole.  THIS IS THE CHRISTMAS I FINALLY LEARN TO LIKE THIS MOVIE, I think silently to myself.

I had to work today.  And I don't work retail or Uber or even fast food.  Then again, even most fast food places are closed today.  But not my company.  Mr. Scrooge made me come into work. 

Finally, found TBS.  Weird that Friends is on.  IT'S ALWAYS ON.  I guess I'll just wait for A Christmas Story to start and leave Friends on for now.

Mom texts.  I'll be by later and I'll bring food.
Christmas food!  I wonder to myself if it will be turkey or ham.  Will she bring stuffing and an apple pie?  I'm hungry but my 17 pack of Hot Pockets from Costco can wait another day.

I'm feeling like a hobo minus the stick and attached sack.  Fun fact:  It's called a bindle.   It dawns on me that no one talks about hobos anymore.  Maybe, they went extinct when trains no longer were a viable means of transportation. 

I step outside my room to empty my trash.  The maid is pushing her hefty cart which is covered in towels and sheets down the long hallway.   Feliz Navidad, Senora, I almost say but then stop myself.  Everything is racist these days so I figured I better not assume she speaks Spanish just because she's Hispanic. 

Feeling a little cabin feverish, I head back downstairs to sit in the comfortable lobby.  They have Wi-FI so I'll just look on Twitter and play a game or two of Scrabble on my phone. 

A blind guy with his dog are at the front desk talking to the cheerful receptionist.  I see him every few days.  He lives here, I believe.  
A shirtless guy walks in and sits next to me.   Did you just go swimming?, I ask.  No, why?  he replies.  And I begin to wonder if he even knows hes wearing nothing but swim shorts. 

This hotel deserves a high rating on Yelp or one of those travel sites.  The staff is friendly.  The people staying here don't look like hobos or hookers.  My room has everything excluding good TV channels.  I couldn't ask for more.

Mom texts again.  I won't be by tonight.  Miss M isn't feeling well. 
She lives with a 94 year old woman and is also her caregiver.  Kind of a live-in job.   Mom likes the free housing and the pay she gets BUT she's exhausted from all of Miss M's nagging.  She's old enough to be YOUR mom, I remind her constantly.  The irony floats over her head.  I get tired of my mom's nagging and she gets tired of Miss M's nagging.   A generational thing, I suppose.

Miss M is a sweet church going lady.  She nags at mom for watching any TV show that has guns in it and loves fake news CNN.   If you say fake news and CNN in the same sentence to her, she will have a stroke.   So, mom just smiles and texts me about the nagging.  And then an exchange like this will happen:

Mom: What are you doing?
Me:  Watching Shark week.
Mom:  Whats with you and sharks?  You and animal shows?  Are you a marine biologist now?

Yup, she starts nagging me over MY choice of TV shows.  It's a generational thing, I suppose.
 
Well, since mom isn't bringing me Christmas food, I guess I'll head up to my room and break open my giant box of Hot Pockets.

The joyful receptionist loudly tells me to have a great evening.  Probably because it's her job.
 
A couple stands in front of the elevator with me, I smile and say Hello.  Neither of them reply.  I silently think, How rude.  No hello back or even a Merry Christmas?

Probably because it's only July.  


 

Home

I grew up in a few different houses.  Got older and lived with a few friends.  Had a roommate, a stranger, here and there.  Rented an apartment.   I've lived under many roofs. 

I've only called two places Home. 

That house I grew up in had a ghost.  She waited at the end of the hall for me every night.  I would sprint from my room to moms'.   Some nights, I'd walk slowly just to make sure she hadn't abandoned me.  That house was haunted.  Neighbors, all of them, were drunks.  The one white family were busy bodies.  Calling CPS on my mom every time, I urinated in the front yard.   

That house in that trash strewn neighborhood surrounded by three specatcular lakes where I learned to fish without bait, was home.  
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Years later, I learned about family.   Had the amazing luxury to live in an upper class neighborhood with best friends and in between missionary trips, their nuclear two parent family.  We even had a foreign exchange student there.   It was glorious.  I never spoke at dinner when the parents were present.  I'm awkward in family settings.   Especially, around fathers.

That house was haunted by a living ghost.   2003, he found peace.  God in all His mercy.

That was home.
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This place is a hotel, apartment, halfway house and rehab center all in one.  My room is 68 degrees.  Cold, just how I like it.  I only get 12 channels on my 36 inch flat screen TV.  I'm spoiled.  I want more.   This is temporary.  God in all His mercy.  This is temporary.

Its a cliche in movies when writers isolate themselves so they can focus.  My window leads out to a Goodyear Tire Center and Costco.  Not exactly inspiring or scenic.

This isn't home.  It's lonely.  The inspiration to write flows like the emptiness in the dances of the Bacha Bazis.  But I dance anyway.
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The obese 18 year old girl at the front desk had me sign a form promising I wont drink or do drugs.  I'M A FREE MAN, I tell myself.   But since I do neither and have no vices, I happily signed my name.   And the judgmental cynic in me looks at her with resentment.  If you're pushing 400 pounds at 18, you're the mess. Not me.  God in all His mercy, this is temporary. 
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I want to feel sorry for myself.  I can't. 

A week ago, a friend contacts me to tell me her young chocolate lab dropped dead.  And she's devastated.  I don't spoon feed friends with cliches.  So, I just say I'm sorry.  Because I am.  God in all His mercy.   Time is linear.  Time is linear.  Time is linear.   And this is temporary.

And then tonight, I wanted to feel sorry for me.  Just once.  A woman I will always love contacts me.  She is haunted by those Bacha Bazis.  And the inspiration to do the one thing I do well enough, flows like the River Jordan.  

God in all His mercy.  Love is linear.  Love is linear.  Love is linear.  And permanent.

Like Home. 

Father's Day

"It's never gonna be how it was" she said.

My eyes glued to the obituary she found almost a decade ago.   "You know, honey, that void is real".  

She likes me better in the dark.  She loves me when the lights are turned on. 

I tell her how empty I feel.  Emptier than I ever have.  "It's a sign of the times" she explains.

If I could just go back and make that phone call.   Said goodbye like a gentleman.  Wished you the best.  Told you I pray to the God you don't believe in that He will bring you peace.  Maybe, joy.  And love from someone better than me.  If I could, I would. 

Fathers Day is for the daughters.  Ones like you. 

My eyes glued to the obituary you found almost a decade ago.  I'm not even mentioned.  That void is real.  Tangible.  Bottomless.  You'll never have to fuck your way to the top.  Happy Fathers Day, honey.

I'm never gonna drink again, he said.
I'm never gonna fuck again, she said.
I'll never be loved again like that, I said.
I'll never marry, he said.
I'll never be understood, she said.
I'll never learn, I said.
I'll never reach my potential, he said.
I'll never see that face again, she said.
I'll never make promises again, I said.

I can't stand seeing you with someone else.  I hate a man I've never met.  And he's not even my father.  Yet, I'm torn between wanting you happy and hoping you're alone so you come back to me.  

I'll never lie to you, she said.
I'll never give up, he said.
I'll never abandon you, I said.

That void is real, honey.  Tangible.  Bottomless.  Keep fucking your way to the top.

Happy Father Day, love. 

Elephant Tea Party

Anorexic beauty queen elephant's in the room.  Inauthentic royalty between elegance and gloom.   When your appetite gets serious, the curious will turn to you.  Wait for me I wait for you in our duplicitous cocoon.   Somebody feed the elephant starving in the room.

Take a hit, pass it on.  Elephant sees no wrong.  Kumbaya, sing along, Savior's coming soon.  Domestic goddess finds love in a vacuum.

Slavery is peace of mind elephant froze in time.  Bravery is not the climb or leading from behind.  Fall down, get back up.  History will be unkind.   Nobody sees the elephant, the intelligent are blind.



Lonely in your company introverted to extreme.   Pour me a cup of tea light some nicotine.  Elephant needs a stimulant metaphorically obscene.  When dystopia seems heavenly and beauty queen intervenes chemically, whats a man to do? I turn around turn to you, what do I have to lose?  If quicksand didn't cling to shoes, I'd probably sink with you. 

Goodbye, sadistic soulmate, ego in distress.  My pugilistic surrogate, best friend and mistress.  Come on, taste my tears from our wasted years then tell me what to do.  Elephant out of its element and this experiment is through.  We cannot breathe yet we won't leave, whats a man to do? 

Somebody kill the elephant standing in the room.

The Adventure Dog

First dog I ever owned was a gray Australian Shepherd mixed breed named Smoky.  I named him after the Burt Reynolds movie.  

Smoky was my adventure dog.  Well, adventure in 2nd grade terms. 
I was living in small town, USA.  We had four seasons.  White Christmases.  A 4th of July parade down Main Street.  Two churches and one medical clinic in town.  It was an idyllic place for a young boy like me.

I spent my summer days hiking up to the Indian ruins where I searched for pottery and arrowheads.  Armed with a steak knife and the overly energetic Smoky by my side, I always felt safe during those treks deep into the forest. 

My memories of Smoky are dim.   I recall he enjoyed chasing cars, going on adventures with me and oddly, he preferred being kept in the yard as opposed to an inside dog.  Mostly, I remember my love for that dog and his loyalty towards me.
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When 5th grade was approaching, mom told me we were moving back to the city.  Back to the life I knew the first seven years of my life.   Mom needed a good paying job and another fresh start.  She needed to escape the drama and abuse she encountered in Small Town, USA.  

It's funny thinking of my mom when she was in her early thirties.  She partied a lot and dated so many men.  A LOT OF MEN.

Never good men, though.  

At the time, I didn't realize that every decision she made, she made them with my best interests at heart.   I viewed the constant chaos and ever changing life decisions as being irresponsible aimed at making me miserable.   I don't recall resenting her but I do remember using these constant life changes to manipulate her.  

You cant afford to buy me a new bike?   You just took me out of school away from all my friends to move to the big city so you could make more money?

And then mom would buy me that bike.  Just like that.  Years later, I learned it was her 3rd part time job that paid for that bike.
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We arrived back into the city, back into the house I grew up in.  It was relatively a modest house stuck in a HUD neighborhood with a nice backyard for Smoky.   The neighbors were just about all Native Americans living rent free and on welfare.  All I knew about them is they loved beer.   My only chore was early every morning going yard to yard and collecting aluminum cans.   That was our grocery money.

Eventually, mom lost the house.  It was valued at $28,000 at the time.  Nonetheless, she was proud of it.  

As was I.
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We moved into a mobile home temporarily.  It was at this time, we had to part ways with Smoky.  Smoky the adventure dog needed a yard.  He needed to roam.  He needed what we could not provide.

We were new members at a church.  Mom placed an announcement in the weekly bulletin letting other families know our dog was available.

Before too long, Smoky had a new home.  A 10 acre yard with horses and two other dogs.  Smoky was going to live the rest of his life as intended for adventure dogs.

I was heartbroken.   Smoky was a huge part of my childhood and my best friend during those years in Small Town, USA.

Mom did her best to allow me to visit him a couple times a month.  Over time, those bi-monthly visits became never.
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Years later, the summer before high school, mom said she had a surprise for me.   So, we took a 30  minute drive to the outskirts of town.   We pulled into a dusty driveway and as soon as I exited her banana colored Maverick without a muffler, an elderly overweight dog jumped on me.

IT WAS SMOKY!

I recognized that joy and he recognized my awkward disposition.  It was obvious he was near the end of his life but it was even more apparent, that he had lived a long and fulfilling one. 

I spent an hour with my adventure dog just walking the grounds of his new and last home, a dairy farm.   He stayed by my side every step of the way.   Just like those days in Small Town, USA.

We left that place and of course, I knew it was the last time I would ever see that joyful and ever so curious once best friend. 
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It's always heartbreaking to lose someone or something you love.  Sometimes, it's just better for them that we do.  I suppose a true selfless love will always include wanting that other entity to be happy. 

I will always remember Smoky the adventure dog fondly for those years of love and loyalty he gave me; without pause.  I am proud that he was able to end his life full of joy and loved by someone....

Even if I was no longer the provider I had once been.

Fear of Elevators

I was reaching into my locker.  Ninth grade.  News of the Challenger being passed from kid to kid.   Human nature, humor as a defense mechanism kicked in for my boys my age.  Space shuttle jokes.  A school teacher and some astronauts.  1986.  Shock.  One girl three lockers away, crying. 

President Reagan gave a comforting speech that evening to a mourning nation with a special emphasis side note to the school children of this country.  One of his best.

Nine successful missions.  Tenth one didn't make it into space.

Seventeen years later, I just hung up my phone.  News of the Columbia breaking apart over Dallas on my television. I had no jokes that day.   First thing out of my mouth, "we still send space shuttles up to space?"  A 17 year gap that remains a blur to me.
 
Twenty seven successful missions.  Twenty eighth didn't make it home from space.
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Some point between the Challenger and the Columbia, I was sitting in my college classroom.  The psychology professor was discussing fear.  We went around the classroom; each person stating what they fear.  Typical answers:  Public speaking.  Failure.  Spiders.  Snakes.  Cancer.  Flying.  Dying alone.

It would have been easier for me to answer what I don't fear.   I had to narrow my answer down to the one thing I fear most.  So, I thought about it.  
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There were 135 space shuttle missions.  Two were not fully successful.

I suspect it takes someone uniquely wired to want to go to space. I wonder what astronauts fear.  My guess is spiders or snakes.  Something insignificant when compared to flying to space.

I suppose there's no such thing as having a silly fear.  If an astronaut can bravely go to space yet fear a spider, we are all okay. 
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Ten years ago, my greatest fear was I wouldn't be loved one day.  I was certain she would wake up one morning and realize she just didn't love me.  How could she not?  Look at her.  I convinced myself she was out of my league.

Ultimately, we did not work out.  For awhile, I felt my fear came true.  The I love yous had stopped.  Cold.  Stale.  Something was different.  It had to be me.  My fault.  I believed that.

I was wrong.  Nothing is more loving than kindness and what I had perceived as cold or mean was in reality, kindness.  Honesty.  Just wasn't meant to be.  I'll never hear those three words from her again.  And that's okay.    It has to be. 

Fear leads to paralysis.  It doesn't have to.

Seventeen years after the Challenger, NASA kept sending up space shuttles and astronauts were still signing up for space.   Eight years after Columbia, same exact scenario.
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I sat in that psychology class waiting my turn to answer the professor's question.  Each student had their answer ready.   Some feared insects.  Some, reptiles.  Some, dying alone.  Some, flying.  Some, cancer.  Some, losing a loved one. 

And me...

I fear elevators.

perpetually nostalgic

Five hours ago, your birthday ended
All I thought about was the scent of your hair
I know it's stupid

darkness ushers in nostalgia

Ducks floating on the water
picnics with her dead daughter
She thinks its stupid
so she tells no one

It seems so anticlimactic
from way over here
Something so careless
can't be this pedantic

pay phone ahead, I need a dime
I'm just calling to say we're out of time
I know this is stupid
I'll call you back in 30 years

It's been months, where'd you go
never mind, I already know
Longing can be so ironic
You and I, platonic
I can be so stupid

Drinking with an old war friend
He's talking about 1993
I remind him it's 2003
right about now, he'd ask is that when they buried me
I think he's stupid for leaving us all behind

She says I would have liked him
He was weird
He crossed the line into crazy
It's stupid how he disappeared

light exposes nostalgia for what it is

It's been five hours since your birthday ended
all I can think of is the scent of your hair
I know it's stupid

right about now, you'd say stop being so melodramatic
and I'd say but longing is so romantic

everyone is perpetually nostalgic


 

A Father's Love

His father was this 6'5 giant of a man.    He was a man of few words but commanded an audience when he spoke.  He was awkward.  Eccentric.  Really, eccentric IS the best word to describe him.  It's the adjective reserved for geniuses.  Quiet geniuses.  Misunderstood men.

He built a suitcase rack on top of his horse trailer one Saturday afternoon.   Boredom, I suppose. 

In the 15 years I saw this man on a daily basis, he never spoke to me.   In the back of his mind, he had his mind set that I was a bad influence on his son.  I was a best friend.  One of many.  Influence is earned.  We all earned his son's influence.   We were good people.  We loved.  We cared.  We were all best friends.

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Stuck in a Sunday malaise, blood pressure rising to the point where I could hear my own heart beat.  Any minute, I expected my left arm to go numb and then I'd drop to the floor; looking up at the half full mug of coffee wishing I had two more minutes to finish my morning vice. 

I leaned back in my padded chair; waiting.   I guess God wasn't quite ready to take me home.

Something divine, maybe random placed two documentaries into my queue.  Chris Farley was first, followed by Andre the Giant.

Farley's dad was 650 pounds.  A lovely man, by all accounts.  All that resonated with me during the 90-minute Farley documentary was his love for his father.   One man carrying the shame of his out of control weight and the son who idolized him.  When love is pure, it is the most beautiful sight and sound on earth.






Andre the Giant lived on a farm in his final years; surrounded by farm animals and pets.  Dozens of them.   When asked why he had so many, he stated, "They never look twice at me".   I imagine being Andre wasn't easy.  He couldn't hide.  Judgment waited around every corner.  A 7'4, 500 pound man will always be the center of unwanted attention.   Andre's friends all referred to him as a gentle giant.  A lovely man, by all accounts.
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His father was hard to figure out.   We would come stumbling into the house drunk late at night and he would be standing in front of the television; watching soft core porn on Cinemax.  When he heard us laugh, he would turn off the TV and hide in the dark until we were gone.   That man was an OB/GYN.  Why would he need porn?   He sees that shit all day long.   We pondered that question on many drunken nights.

In the 15 years, I saw that man on a daily basis, he yelled at me once.  I never had a father so I enjoyed the negative attention. 

His relationship with his two sons and two daughters seemed odd from my perspective.   He seemed distant.   There was a quiet resentment from his oldest son.  A resentment that seemed to bear the blame for his drinking.

We spent a Saturday afternoon in the smoky club house of the rehab center he checked himself into.  We openly discussed his drinking and his relationship with his father.  I couldn't relate.  I could only listen.  The excuses were palpable.  Genetics.  Dad was always working.  Depression. 

Buddy, genetics control the disease but YOU control your genes.   That was all I really said that day.

Two months later, he was gone.

We all lost a best friend. 

It was a fitting gray Thursday when he was buried.   I stood in the foyer alone of the church as the other best friends were huddled together yards away.  I was just observing.  Taking deep breaths.  Observing, some more.  Trying to process my thoughts.   Searching for my lost emotions.  Looking for answers.

His father slowly walked over to me.  His face had aged remarkably that week.  He grabbed me.  And he wept.  Sobbed.   He was broken, I guess.

He didn't say a word to me.   He didn't need to. 

Tears from a stoic man, a misunderstood father, a gentle giant... those tears are contagious.

I suppose this was the only time in my life where I witnessed a father's love firsthand. 

And it remains as the most beautiful sight and sound I have ever witnessed.

Shameville

Took a guilt trip to Shameville.  Hoped to forget Us. 
Spent too much time there
I feel the same, still. 
I broke down in Hopeless.   Lost direction and focus. 
I hope you're happy now.
It's very seldom
we don't overstay our welcome
I overstayed mine
I hope you're happy now

Strangers can be comforting. 
The indifference is palpable
Seeking deliverance from the suffering
seems rational
Nobody is happy in Shameville

Hypothetical futures become regrettable pasts. 
Sunny days ahead are rainy forecasts. 
Only the weatherman profits from bad news. 
Everyone wants to trade skin.  I want to trade shoes. 
Kindness happens behind closed doors.   And so, does abuse. 

I hope you're happy now. 
No one deserves it more. 
Life ain't fair says the entitled one.  
I refuse to keep score.

Scheduled a flight to heaven.  Hope to wait on the other side for you.
Excuse me if I ignore you...

Valor is the better part of discretion.
Hell is the road to good intention
Kill one stone with two birds
Wise is the man of few words
Better never than late
Good luck is a leg break
Getting on in years
Pity parties and crocodile tears
Every silver lining has a cloud.
I hope you're happy now.