A University Thesis Presented to the Faculty

Home , Between the Two of Them, I Never Had a Chance

MY MIND IS RUNNING:

A COLLECTION OF FICTION AND NON-FICTION WORKS

______

California State University, East Bay

______

In Partial Fulfillment

of the Requirements for the Degree

Master of Arts in English

______

Matthew Biundo

May 2020

MY MIND IS RUNNING:

A COLLECTION OF FICTION AND NON-FICTION WORKS

Matthew Biundo

Approved: Date:

ProfessorStephen D. Gutierrez

111 Acknowledgments

This thesis could not have been possible without the ongoing support of my parents, Laurie and John Biundo, who from an early age provided me with the opportunity to read a seemingly endless supply of books, and the encouragement to keep exploring my own creativity. Several friends have read drafts of these works and helped to shape them to the forms in which they are finally presented here. They are Blaine

Counter, Brendan Cleak, Caryn Sandoval, Jordan Rodriguez, and Emily Warner.

I’d be remiss if I did not acknowledge the invaluable support from the English

Department faculty at California State University, East Bay. Professors Stephen

Gutierrez, Jacqueline Doyle, and Susan Gubernat not only provided me the classroom opportunities, but the personal encouragement to give me confidence. I also owe a special debt of gratitude to Professor Eileen Barrett, who first encouraged me to consider graduate school in the first place.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Fiction ...... 1

Under the Moon ...... 2 Headache ...... 20 Undignified ...... 23 Snapshots ...... 27 Terse (100 Words) ...... 43 If It Leads, It Bleeds...... 44 Swimming in a Fish Bowl...... 48 Shocked ...... 60 A Slow Fracture ...... 61

Creative Nonfiction ...... 64

Decisions in 35mm ...... 65 Highway Robbery ...... 72 Missing the Cure ...... 74 My Mind is Running ...... 87 These Rights to Bear ...... 90 Stuff in the Morning...... 101

Fiction

Under the Moon

“On in 30.”

Great. The day has barely started, and it’s already ruined. How many times do I

have to tell these dipshits not to mess with the settings in my booth? It’s not that fucking

hard.

“15 seconds.”

This rundown is shit, too. Who cares what some dopey movie star has to say

about god damn climate change. What a joke.

I close my eyes, take a breath, and wait.

“Five seconds. And four, three, two…” I open my eyes back up, and my producer,

Brian, points at me from across the studio, just as the red “On Air” light turns on.

“Hello, Seattle! You’re listening to Under the Moon, I’m your host, Scott Moon,

glad you’re with us.” (I know. The pep in my voice surprises me, too.) “Today on the

show, we’ll talk about last night’s ‘Hawks game, because… Sports!. We’ll also talk with

the one and only Jason Sharp, star of the new movie Dear Earth, which hits theaters this

Friday. And of course, all you Hog Heads out there, don’t worry. The Hog is still alive.

His fatness made it in to work today, somehow.”

Brian clicks play on the audio file with The Hog’s signature sound bit—an

obnoxious squealing pig, whose four-second clip is three seconds too long. On cue, Paul

“The Hog” Cerdo leans into the microphone for his introduction. He puts on his normal huff-and-puff routine, acting out of breath. “Yeah, I’m here, Moon,” he says. Then between his faux heavy breathing, “The Hog is ready to eat.”

Begrudgingly, I plough forward. “But first, a word from the companies who haven’t yet figured out that marketing on our show may actually be bad for their business. You’re listening to Under the Moon. Back, after this.”

The red light goes out, and Brian tells us 60-seconds back. Not enough time for a smoke or a piss break, so I just raise my coffee mug up to signal to an intern that I need a refill. Kind of reminds me of when I got my start in radio, more than 25 years ago.

Harvey was a legend, and I sure learned a lot from him, but boy was he a prick to us kids those first few months. I still remember that first day as wet behind the ears intern, mere months after graduating college, and still naïve to the disheartening future of radio. Even then, Harvey was my idol. When he needed his coffee, but nobody told me how he liked it—and like hell I was going to ask the Harvey Branson himself—I was scared shitless I might fuck it up and not be invited back for a second day of work. Luckily, I guessed right—lots of cream, lots of sugar—and he joked, Hey kid, maybe you have a future in radio after all.

“Alright, Scott, 15 seconds back.”

Note to self: change the god damn locks in here. What’s the point of having my own private booth if anyone can have access? The next time an intern or cleaning crew member messes with my settings again, someone’s losing their head.

Brian points, and the red light switches back on.

“Alright, welcome back to Under the Moon. Hey Hog, how’s it goin’?”

“Oh you know, the usual. I’m still one hungry hog,” Paul says back.

“Well that’s no surprise. What’ve you got today?”

“Well Moon, I’ve got something really tasty today, I think even you might enjoy

it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Moon, let me ask you. Do you like pizza?”

“Of course I do, Hog.”

“Now, have you ever wondered, ‘how can I make pizza even better?’”

“No, Hog, can’t say that I have.”

“Well I have, Moon.”

“No surprise there.”

Brian gives a thumbs up, happy with how the segment is beginning. He plays a

quick sound bit of pigs eating slop, and signals for us to continue.

“Moon, one of our faithful listeners reached out to me last week, and let me tell

you, this man knows what The Hog likes. He asked me if I’d ever tried something called

Pizzabetes. Of course the named intrigued me, and I was almost embarrassed to say no.”

“Pizza…betes?”

“That’s right, Moon. It’s like a pizza-based diabetes. I guess it’s a popular challenge on the internet right now.”

“I’m afraid to ask what it is, but I already know you’re going to tell us anyway.”

“I’m glad you asked, Moon. Pizzabetes is similar to pizza, but instead of regular

old pizza dough, the base layer is a chocolate-chip Belgian waffle.”

“Oh boy.”

“That’s just the start, Moon. It gets its usual ingredients—lots of cheese, plenty of meat. NO vegetables.”

“Of course not.”

“Then—well, let’s see if you can guess what comes next, Moon.”

“Do I have to?”

“Moon, what’s the one thing that makes any food taste better?”

“Oh, no. Don’t say it…”

“That’s right, Moon. You deep fry it!”

Right on cue, Brian plays another sound effect, this time of oil sizzling. I’m not sure if the mic just caught my groan or not.

Paul continues. “So yesterday, I met with my new favorite listener, Sean, and we went ahead and made our own pizzabetes. Take a listen.”

Brian hits play, and the pre-recorded segment takes over. According to this rundown—if it’s even accurate—this tape will play for another five-minutes, fifteen- seconds, and then it immediately follows with a three-and-a-half-minute commercial break before we start our B-segment. Just enough time for a private, uninterrupted cigarette break.

Pizzabetes. Give me a break…

Standing on the 12th-floor balcony, I exhale a sweet cloud of American Spirit smoke, and watch the pigeons around me. I can’t help but envy their independence—their ability to fly off this rooftop with no consequences. And of course, their freedom to shit on everything below them.

After producing cheap segments for a few months at KTIL, Harvey took me under his wing. He liked that I laughed at his jokes—even, or especially, the crude and unfunny ones—and I liked that he gave it to me straight. Harvey pulled no punches; he let you know when your work sucked, and he was never shy about telling us newbies that producing radio was hard work and little glory. But I paid attention, and soon found myself earning Harvey’s trust, and taking on more responsibility.

The squeaky metal door opens, and a meek 20-year-old intern walks out. “Uh,

Mr. Moon? They’re asking for you back in the studio.”

I look at my watch. Yup, still Monday. “I’m smoking my cigarette,” I tell him.

“Uh, yeah, it’s just, they’re, uh…they’re saying back on air in two minutes.”

“Right. Two minutes.”

“Um. So, uh,” he stammers. I almost feel bad for him. But not really. “Uh, so, what should I tell them?”

“Are you fucking stupid or something?”

The kid recoils in horror.

“I’ll be back in two fucking minutes. Now get the fuck out of here!”

The intern looks visibly shaken, and he scurries back to the studio. Maybe that was too harsh, I don’t know. Whatever. I return my gaze to the panoramic cityscape and take another drag. I know I’ve got an earful from Brian coming. This is why it’s hard not to be jealous of the absent-minded flock of pigeons.

* * *

“Come on, I know you’ve got something good to share with us,” Paul begs the mic. Movie stars never want to talk about their sex lives on air—it takes a skilled interviewer to coax it out of them. Paul looks relieved when I step back into the studio, and I manage to avoid making eye contact with Brian.

“Uh, oh man, nothing really. Honest, I’m just a normal guy,” Jason Sharp replies softly, giving a fake laugh that all but screams ‘I don’t want to be here.’ Well, I’m not too thrilled either, buddy, but you’re in my studio, this is my show, and we’re live on air, so give me something funny you overrated, boring ham. What did he expect when his agent booked him on Under the Moon? That we’d talk about the fucking weather?

“I bet he gets more [beep] than he knows what to do with,” laughs Paul. He at least wants a laugh if he can’t get a good story.

“Come on, seriously,” I say, stepping in. “How many different actresses and models you bag a week, huh?” Paul laughs and Jason blushes.

“He’s probably got one for each day of the week. Each more famous than the last!” yells Paul. What does that even mean? He doesn’t even hear the desperation in his voice. It’s kind of pathetic, really. Paul manages to see the disdain in my face even when

I turn away. It’s probably why he stopped inviting me out for drinks with him and the crew at least five years ago. That, or because I always said no anyway. Hard to tell.

Jason finally gives an awkward laugh into the microphone. “No, really guys,” he insists. “I don’t have anybody at the moment. I—”

“Bull[beep]. Total bull[beep],” I cut in. “Don’t lie to us, Sharp. There is no way on god’s green earth that a 29-year-old multi-millionaire movie star with a face like yours doesn’t have a giant [beep]. And there’s just no [beep]ing way you don’t use it. Nope.

I’m not buying it.”

Paul is nearly in tears at the point. Even Brian cracks a smile—something he can do now, since we finally adopted a seven-second live delay and hired someone whose sole job is to bleep out our curse words, saving us from continued FCC fines. Jason doesn’t say anything right away, so Brian plays the squealing pig sound bit once again— the go-to clip when a guest is clearly nervous on air.

Finally, Jason musters a small laugh through his red cheeks. “Well, there is someone—”

“I knew it!” Paul says, unable to hide his real-life excitement.

“I’ve sorta been seeing this woman, but I can’t say her name on air. She’ll kill me.”

Dude, nobody cares. Fucking actors.

“That’s fine,” I say. “Let’s call her…Becky. You can tell us all the raunchy details about Becky.”

Jason gives another nervous laugh. “Uh, well…”

“Jason, our listeners are dying to know here.”

“Well, we met at a party.”

“Uh-huh…”

“My agent wanted me to meet this producer, and he was having this 4th of July

party on his yacht. And uh, Becky was there too.”

“Ok, now we’re talking.”

“What was she wearing?” Paul interrupts. “One-piece or two?”

“Uh, two,” Jason answers with a sheepish smile.

“Nice,” Paul says. I can’t tell sometimes if that’s his genuine creepiness, or if he’s

just playing to his Hog persona. Either way, I guess it works.

“Alright,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back. “So you’re on a yacht, 4th

of July, you got a few drinks in ya, hottie in a two-piece catches your eye. Then what?

You go up to her and say, ‘Hey baby. I’m Jason Sharp. Yes, that Jason Sharp. Wanna

have the best night of your life?’”

Finally, Jason gives an honest laugh, but it’s slightly overpowered by Paul.

“Well,” Jason says. “Not quite those words, but…”

“Come on, Moon. Jason’s got class,” says Paul. Brian plays the pig squeal again.

“Right, of course. Excuse me. Class.”

“Well, I brought her a glass of champagne and introduced myself,” Jason continues. “And I just told her she looked beautiful, and we talked for a while, and we really hit it off.”

“So, what, you guys wait like ten minutes before banging?” Jason laughs again, and I see my opportunity to press him on it. “Hey Hog, you see this? Jason Sharp is turning redder than the devil’s [beep].”

“Hey, my man has class, but he’s also got game, Moon,” Paul adds. “I bet it was more like five minutes.”

“It was… it was like fifteen,” Jason gives in, finally proud of his own prowess.

* * *

Harvey once told me, “Don’t think twice about who your audience is. That’s for the suits to worry about. Do your show, for you.” I wonder what he’d think of Under the

Moon now. When we first launched, the show was something special. There was no foul- mouthed fart-joke Hog cohost. We didn’t pander to whomever the marketing team told us, and we sure as shit didn’t think that saying something “shocking” was the same as saying something funny or important. I was proud of Under the Moon. Harvey was proud of me.

Part of me wonders when everything went wrong, but deep down, I know what got to me. We peaked too early. We became the most popular morning show in the country after only being on the air for a year. Hundreds of thousands of Washingtonians tuned in every morning, and millions more across the country when the show became syndicated. I once interviewed Joe Patella live—a conversation that went so well, many credit our show for launching his successful senate campaign.

Harvey also warned me of the money—that money meant power, but also ego. I don’t have an ego, but I can see how he worried about the former. As our audience grew, my contract became more lucrative. And the incentives to keep up that growth became

addictive. Advertisers don’t want to hear about your battle with depression or your history of drug use, the sales department would say. So we’d cut those segments. We have to do more to reach 18-35-year-olds, I’d hear—and next thing I knew, we were booking actors and pop-rock bands instead of politicians and journalists. But hey, who knew I could buy a penthouse condo downtown for less than a year’s salary? I’ve got these giant floor-to-ceiling windows on the west side, facing the water, and a balcony bigger than my bedroom looking out towards the Space Needle. The one thing I underestimated about radio fame was the privacy. Nobody recognizes me—at least not by face. I can sit for hours at the coffee shop two blocks down, and nobody but the barista will know who I am. That part is pretty great, I have to say.

* * *

After everyone’s gone home for the night, I call the first locksmith I find in the yellow pages. I can’t come in to work again and find my booth in disarray. What do they expect from me? Finally, an hour later, an overweight man in a jumpsuit carrying a grimy toolbox hobbles over to my office.

“Big fan of your show, by the way,” he beams.

“Oh, thanks,” I muster.

He continues to stare at me, hoping to actually engage in conversation further. “I just love when The Hog pranks those movie stars, playing fart sounds while they talk.”

He has to stop himself from laughing at his own story. “Oh, man, that guy is hilarious.”

“Yup,” I say. I figure enough one-word responses and he’ll get the hint.

“Say, is he around? I’d just love to get a picture with him.”

“Nope.”

“Oh, ok. Well tell me, does he really eat as much as he says on the show?”

“Yup.”

“Oh man, I knew it! My brother and I, man, we love to try and find some of the foods he talks about. He sure does love deep fryin’!”

“Yup.”

Is this what my show has become? Have we really descended this far? I knew we’ve been picking the low-hanging fruit lately, but when did the same routine of toilet humor and unhealthy eating binges become…interesting? It’s not. This has got to stop. I was an English major, for Christ’s sake. I wrote my god damn thesis on the allegorical significance in Dante’s Divine Comedy. But today, I helped promote some summer blockbuster that’s as mindless as my own show has become. I guess it’s a good thing

Harvey isn’t around to see this mess. I know he would degrade every aspect of the show and what we’ve become. But, I’m not sure he could have stopped it either. I can hear his voice in my head, clamoring on about how audiences these days are all dumbed down.

About how nobody cares about substance—they just want their repetitive slapstick jokes and hear about the latest gossip about how some minor-celebrity, who used to fuck some other barely famous person, is now having a kid with this other c-lister, and blah blah blah.

The locksmith finishes up, and hands me the new master keys. At least that’s done, and I can stop worrying about some scrub adjusting my shit. Now I just have to wash the greasy locksmith off my new door handle.

Now, what am I going to do about tomorrow’s show? I did my research on the guests we’re supposed to have—some mom-rock band called ColdStop. The lead singer could not be more of an airhead, and yet, he’ll sit in the same chair that the Nobel Prize- winning economist Walter Lefkowitz did for an interview a decade ago. Fuck that.

Fuck…THAT!

* * *

The best part about living so close to work is how I can get to the station early and slip in before anyone else arrives. It’s relaxing walking into an empty studio. This same building used to house the geniuses of radio—the pioneers of the industry—and host equally distinguished guests weekly. In my days of working with Harvey, I never thought

I’d come to revel in this silence.

It’s not especially hot outside today, but I crank up the air condition anyway. The lights aren’t too bright in the studio, and with any luck, the crew won’t arrive for another hour. The new key fits smoothly into the replaced lock, and I realize just how walled off

I’ve made myself. I can even smoke my cigarette in here. So I do.

I start reading the morning newspaper, out of habit mostly. Brian has decided lately that we’re going to dedicate ten minutes to bizarre stories found in the news. I’ve

tried to tell him—nine times out of ten, these aren’t funny or interesting, but nevertheless,

it’s how I start my morning. A local journalist was nominated for a Pulitzer prize, but I’d

bet my left hand that the station would just laugh in my face if I tried to get her booked.

God forbid we return to some semblance of intellect and decorum.

After a while, people start to file in. One of the interns starts making coffee. Two

others are standing in the kitchen, complaining about me—unaware of my presence until

I turn the corner. Their embarrassed fear gives me enough joy, and I don’t need to yell at

them. Serves them right, though; they’re exactly the type of people my show now targets,

and I resent every last one of them.

As the rest of the crew arrives, we set up in the conference room for our daily

rundown meeting. Brian reminds us of today’s honorable guests—actual words he used,

no less—and we block out our segments. After our intro, he wants to spend our A-Block having Paul and I discuss The Hog’s upset stomach. Seriously. The B-Block will bring in the daily dolts, ColdStop, where presumably I’m supposed to ask them if the lyrics,

“Baby, let’s go back to your room,” from their latest single, “In Your Bed,” are supposed to represent the duality of modern man and his existential struggle in an increasingly non- conforming world. Ha!—just kidding. Brian says to ask them about how their tour is going, or some shit like that.

I tune out the rest of the meeting. It won’t really matter. We all pick up and clear out of the room, noting there’s half an hour until airtime. I head back to my office and practice my usual vocal exercises, and then read my book to settle the rest of my workplace frustrations.

“Five minutes ‘til live,” the soul-shattered intern from this morning tells me.

“Sure thing,” I say, giving him a wink to mock his anxiety. I gather my things and head for my booth in the studio. I’ve left it unlocked all morning so nobody would be suspicious of the changed locks, but it was risky on my part as well, considering the ruffians who have access in here. I settle down in my chair and glance at the soundboard around me. My seat is unadjusted, my levels are as I left them. So far, so good.

“Three minutes,” someone announces to the crew.

I close the door to my booth and lock it. I’m the only one with the keys, and they’re inside the pocket of my suit. I place the headphones over my head and reach for the mic to make sure it’s working. I close my eyes for a few moments.

“90 seconds.”

I reach for my book and stare at the cover while I wait. Melville wrote Moby-Dick over a century-and-a-half ago, and it’s still every bit as perplexing all these years later.

“On in 30.”

My script has the opening timed for 60-seconds, followed by a quick break before we launch right in.

“15 seconds.”

I close my eyes again, take a breath, and wait.

“Five seconds. And four, three, two…” My eyes open, and from across the studio,

Brian points to me as the red “On Air” light flicks on.

“Good morning, Seattle! You’re listening to Under the Moon, I’m your host Scott

Moon. Thanks for joining us, we’ve got a great show for you today. It’s Tuesday, so you

know that means we’ve got a prank call coming. We also have, live in the studio, the

platinum selling artist, ColdStop. We’ll talk to them and see if they’ll grace us with a few

songs from their new album, Window Soul, which has been number one on the charts for

the past two weeks. And, don’t worry—The Hog is here with an important update about

fried food. You won’t want to miss it. But first, some companies recorded themselves

talking about their products, and are paying us to play it on the station. You’re listening

to Under the Moon, we’ll be back, after this.”

“And we’re out. 60-seconds back,” announces Brian.

I return to my book for the remainder of the break. Brian and Paul exchange notes

in preparation for the next segment. I look over at the door to my booth, double-checking that it’s still locked. Good.

“Scott, back in 15,” I hear Brian in my headphones.

I take a deep breath. Yup, we’re doing this. I wait for my cue, and watch the red light switch on.

“Welcome back to Under the Moon.”

I pause, looking at my notes. Silence on the air moves twice as fast. Brian looks at me with some confusion. Five seconds becomes ten. Confusion becomes mild panic.

Brian, wired in to my headset, lets out an anxious, “Scott. You there?” I look over at him, locking eyes and staring straight-faced at him for another eight to ten seconds. At this point we’ve been quiet for almost half a minute, and Paul is scrambling to get set up to take over. The crew is genuinely baffled. He’s a professional, they’re probably saying.

He doesn’t just freeze up on-air. They’re right.

Finally, I lean into the mic. I open my mouth, and as the first few words spill out,

there’s a collective sigh of relief.

“Folks, I’ve been hosting this show for over 15 years now. When we first

launched, we made great radio.”

The shock returns to Brian’s face as quickly as it left. They have no idea where

I’m going with this.

“It was something to be proud of. The producers were intelligent, the guests were respectable. We didn’t play the easy games our competitors did—we had a vision of a smart show that would raise above the fray, while being both funny and informative.”

Brian’s had it. He makes a bee-line across the studio towards my private booth.

“I can’t remember exactly when we made the decision to stoop to the frat boy

low-grade attempts at humor. I don’t recall who made those directions, but I take

responsibility. This show has my name on it. I’m the executive producer. I’m the host.

And sometime over the past decade and a half, I’ve failed you. I’ve failed myself, and the

people who helped get Under the Moon on the air in the first place.”

I see the handle of my booth’s door start to shake. Brian’s outside, locked out,

pounding on the door, cursing my name and demanding I let him in. He’s calling for

other crew members to find the keys to my booth.

“Folks, I’m truly sorry. But we’re going to rectify that. I don’t know exactly how,

yet, but I promise you: no more fart jokes; no more missions for The Hog to find the most

disgusting foods around town; no more half-wit celebrities telling disingenuous, scripted

stories from their agents to promote their equally brainless movies or albums. I’m not

sure how, yet, but we’re going to restore some class to this show.”

I hear someone outside my booth trying to unlock the door. An old set of keys

that won’t work, getting jammed in the fresh lock. More jiggling of the stiff handle,

continued pounding on the door. Brian’s livid.

“But for now, for today, here’s what we’re going to do.”

Brian is not going to stand outside my booth much longer. To completely cut me

off, to go for the nuclear option, there’s a series of steps he will have to take. By my

count, it will take him at least five minutes to find the special set of keys, run down to the

breakers in the basement, enter in the passkey, and shut everything down. The longer he

stays outside this booth, the more time I get to ramble. So, I reach for my book again.

“Call me Ishmael,” I read aloud. I see through the window into the studio, Brian’s on the phone, likely talking to a station executive.

“Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in

my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a

little and see the watery part of the world.”

I love this book. Is there a better opening line in all of literature?

Brian’s now left the studio, likely executing the nuclear option. For the first time

in as long as I can remember, I feel peaceful. I continue aloud:

“It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation.”

Who writes like this anymore?

“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”

The answer is nobody. Nobody writes like this anymore.

I read to the mic. To my audience. “This is my substitute for pistol and ball.”

The lights in the studio suddenly shut off. Brian made it there sooner than I anticipated. They’re going to try and smoke me out of this booth as quickly as they can. I would be in deep trouble, but who cares? I quit. Instead, I can’t help but smile. I lean back in my chair, and put my feet up on the desk, and light up another cigarette.

Headache

Jeff gazed around the room. There was a strange silence against an overwhelming level of chaos. Bottles, glasses, shoes, and clothing littered the floors. Blood and vomit decorated the walls and furniture. Some other mystery fluids soaked into the couches, maybe spilled drinks, maybe worse. Jeff looked down at the gaudy glass tables, now covered in powder and crumbs and residue. His head throbbed, his stomach ached. This, he thought, is why he stopped partying.

The night before could charitably be called a blur. Devin was in town only for the night, and Jeff definitely wanted to see him, but could hardly have predicted a Vegas- level penthouse party. Jeff, with difficulty, stood up from the formerly all-white sofa and tried to find his friend. He nearly tripped on two people in the first three steps away from the couch. People he didn’t recognize were passed out all around him. Girls wearing little to no clothes, guys with dicks sharpied all over their faces. The smell of lukewarm beer and ungodly BO was not helping Jeff’s headache.

Across the room, Jeff found a man at least twice his age sitting at a table, rolling a joint. Jeff’s watch read 7:13 AM; he wondered why anyone would be up this early, or maybe this late. Was he somehow on the set of the next Hangover movie? Powering through his blurring vision, Jeff made his way around the rest of the apartment wreckage, finally into the only closed off room in the entire suite: the bathroom. Not at all surprised,

Jeff stepped over a guy who had clearly been puking all night. He splashed some water on his face and stared at the graffiti-tagged mirror. “Why…” he said to his reflection. He wanted nothing more than a time machine, or a do-over button. He needed to make last

night disappear. Jeff wished to replace the drinking, the drugs, the dancing, the fighting with the next episode of House of Cards on Netflix. He was almost done with the season, and lying in bed and petting his cat sounded like a much better alternative than whatever he could remember of the shit show the night before.

Leaving the bathroom, Jeff contemplated breakfast. Maybe that would help his hangover, but maybe it would make him sick. Either way, he had to find Devin, and they had to get the hell out of…wherever they were. Carefully avoiding the broken glass on the floor of the kitchen, Jeff helped himself to a cup of water. He remembered his buddy’s surefire rules for a hangover cure: water, coffee, food, shower, and time. Jeff always hated that last one.

Jeff stared off into the distance, thinking about what he was going to say to Devin.

He told his pal he didn’t want to do anything too crazy. He was ready to blame Devin for the whole night, good or bad—though mostly bad, he assumed. Jeff was startled when a hand grabbed his shoulder, shaking him out of his momentary daze.

“Duuude,” Devin said to Jeff, with squinted eyes and a childish grin. “What a night, man!”

“Come on, Bro, let’s get out of here.” From a few feet away, the foul odor emanating from Devin’s mouth seemed to smack Jeff in the face. Jeff looked down and realized Devin wasn’t even wearing any pants. Devin hadn’t changed a bit since college,

Jeff thought. He braced himself for whatever story Devin would tell him about the girl, or girls, that he slept with a few hours earlier. Or worse, Devin would probably try to give

him a hug. Jeff was always amazed at Devin’s stamina, and even now, at 31 years young,

Devin was still every bit the party hound he always was.

The two of them gathered their stuff—or at least what they could find, since Jeff

was somehow missing a sock, and Devin’s phone was MIA. They walked out of the

penthouse apartment and closed the door on the lunacy behind them. At this point in their

lives, Jeff didn’t know when the next time he would see Devin would be. His old college

roommate now lived three states away, with a wife and daughter and 6-figure salary. Jeff couldn’t decide if he envied or pitied his friend, or maybe a little of both. He didn’t care that Devin would tease him about how he’s mellowed out. You gotta live a little, bro!

Like old times! Jeff cringed a little at just that thought. The days of red solo cups and bottom-shelf booze six nights a week were far into Jeff’s rear-view mirror. Devin, meanwhile, had the same ego that turned him into a party legend a decade ago. It was remarkable, Jeff thought, how vastly different paths in life they took.

The two old friends stepped out into the bright early morning, squinting at the sun reflecting off the pavement. They didn’t say anything to each other as they walked to

Jeff’s car, surprised it had no ticket after finding it parked diagonally in a handicap spot.

It was quarter-to-eight, now, and Jeff decided he would take Devin to the airport a couple of hours early.

Undignified

Dave was leaning against the wall outside his bar, smoking a cigarette, when he watched Mickey’s beat up tan pickup pull into the parking lot. The truck door opened, and following Mickey’s equally worn-out boots were a half-dozen old scratchers and an empty tin of wintergreen Grizzly falling to the ground. Mickey’s arrival meant Dave would not have the chance to finish his freshly lit cigarette. As Mickey walked into the bar without even a glance in Dave’s direction, Dave couldn’t help but groan to himself.

Mickey’s long, disheveled hair seemed extra wiry today, and Dave felt safe assuming

Mickey was back to forgoing traditional bathing standards. Reluctantly, he headed back inside, rolling his eyes at the pathetic excuse of a smoke break.

“Jesus, Mick,” Dave said. “We’ve been over this. You can’t do that.” The rest of the patrons turned around to watch Mickey, standing behind the bar, finish pouring himself a tall whiskey, ignoring Dave’s chiding.

“Relax. I’ll pay.”

“Not the point, Mick. It’s my bar. You can’t just help yourself like that.”

“Yeah, well, with no one around to tend bar, you leave me no choice.”

Dave reached across the bar to where Mickey was now seated, and grabbed the damp, grimy bills his least favorite customer placed for him.

Fourteen years ago, Dave opened his eponymous bar under the false notion that he could actually make some money. His prior decade and a half of experience bartending should have given him pause, but the idea was too appealing—too romantic, too American

Dreamy. Instead, rather than attract a steady crowd of college kids and yuppies, eager to blow through cash, Dave put up with the same regulars night after night. The majority of the decrepit bunch had unpaid tabs that dated back weeks, or even months. Checks were typically only settled after threats of being permanently cut off, but even that was no guarantee. Once, a group of hipsters came in, excited about experiencing an authentic dive bar. Dave explained to them that they didn’t have “IPAs on tap”—that they could have a pint of Bud or Coors, or they could get the fuck out. Surprisingly, they all laughed, obliged, and even left a generous tip. They never came back, though.

These days, middle-aged, broke, and single, Dave spent most of every day in the building he came to resent. After his divorce several years earlier, Dave moved into the cramped apartment above the bar, cohabiting with extra kegs and dusty boxes of supplies for his barely floating business. Guys like Mickey, sure they had their own problems, but none of them cared about Dave’s situation. They complained that he should “invest” in a pool table, or at least a TV. Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice, Dave always responded. He could barely afford regular tables, let alone ones for this pack of dead beats to play games on.

“You know what’s wrong with kids these days?” Mickey announced to the rest of the bar. Nobody bothered to turn their heads, tired of hearing the career drunk’s wandering diatribe against the rest of the world. Mickey slammed his glass down, startling Dave and others seated at the bar. “They don’t give a shit,” he slurred, content with the half-eyed attention he now had. “They just want and take. No respect for their

elders. No clue what hard work is. They’re just entitled sons a bitches, all of ‘em,” he

whined, barely coherent.

“Hey Mick,” another regular, sitting at the table behind Mickey, chimed in. “What kind of job do you have again?” The rest of the customers laughed at Mickey’s expense, preparing themselves for whatever excuse he would soon offer to deflect from his willful lack of employment.

“Listen,” Mickey said, standing up and kicking the bar stool over as he yelled. He briefly stumbled, working to find his balance before continuing his argument. “I’ve done more for this country, than you could ever dream of.”

“Sit down, Mickey,” Dave finally cut in. “We all know you shot yourself in the leg in ‘Nam. You didn’t earn that Purple Heart, and you haven’t done shit since then, except collect those undeserved checks.”

In the eight or so years Mickey has frequented Dave’s bar, the only time he has

ever been thrown out is when he took a swing at Dave himself. That night, he passed out

in the grass in the vacant lot across the street, and sure as the sun came up the next

morning, Mickey was back 12 hours later with no remorse. Dave has never had the

energy or interest in forbidding Mickey from ever returning. Mickey always provided an

inebriated outburst about the government spying on everybody, or his latest theory on

chemtrails or fluoride in the water, but Dave and his customers learned to tune him out

most of the time. Not Mickey’s fists, fury or foul odor were enough to warrant a lifetime

ban.

Mickey moved to sit back down at the bar, but forgot he kicked his own stool away, and fell to the floor. Again the crowd laughed, and again Mickey was angry. But this time, instead of provoking the next belligerent confrontation, he lay down on the floor and passed out.

It took two hours before Dave finally called for an ambulance.

Snapshots

IMG_001.jpg

“He’s crying again,” Rose heard Blake yell from the living room sofa.

“Yeah, I can hear it too,” she responded. “Can you check on him? I’m trying to finish these dishes.”

“I’m busy,” Blake grunted.

Rose stepped back from the kitchen sink and peaked into the next room to see what Blake was so preoccupied with. Predictably, he sat there in his boxer shorts, Bud

Light can in hand, watching some type of car racing Rose never bothered to learn the name of. She sighed, placed the dish towel down on the counter, and walked into Jacob’s room.

“It’s OK, Mommy’s here,” she ooh-ed and aah-ed, gently rocking her 12-week old son in her arms, hoping he would stop crying. “I’m here, don’t worry.” Her soothing voice seemed to help. In Jacob’s young life, Rose had already managed to take dozens of photos of her baby, and all around his room they hung in frames and collages. They made her smile.

Rose’s face wrinkled as she took a whiff near his diaper. Blake’s excuses were getting old. Her doubt and frustration grew, as they did every time she changed Jacob, about her husband’s willingness to help with cleanup duty.

IMG_002.jpg

Rose was only eight years old when her parents split up. She went on to live full- time with her mom and sister in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in what her parents previously labeled “the shitty part of town.” After the divorce, her father came around every few months for supervised visits only. Then, maybe once or twice a year. Then, from ages 14 through 20, not at all. Rose didn’t mind. She was old enough to remember what her father looked like drunk. But her sister, Sophie, was only four when their mom woke them up in the middle of the night and rushed them to the car explaining they were going to visit Grandma and that she didn’t have to cry and that everything would be OK, she promised.

Rose’s father would go through a predictable cycle: sober up and beg their mother for another chance, then fall off the wagon before she could even say no. Sophie was too young to recognize the discord, and Rose worked to keep it that way. Rose’s mother, after all, could never provide the same security blanket, and Rose saw the destruction from her father that she was determined to shield Sophie from.

When her small family downsized, Rose and Sophie took the bedroom, while their mother slept on a futon in the living room. That first night, even though the girls each had their own bed, Sophie insisted on sleeping with Rose. Rose was not blind to her role as Sophie’s protector, that night, or any other night.

IMG_003.jpg

“Here, try this,” Tony said. He passed Rose a mystery concoction in a red Solo cup.

Rose didn’t second guess it; she leaned back and downed the mixture in one big gulp. The group of nine sat in a circle on the floor in Tony’s dorm room—already more people than could comfortably fit—and each of them laughed with Rose’s fearless inhibitions. She smiled too, winking softly at Tony.

“I’m impressed,” Tony finally teased.

“I’ve been drinking since before you were born,” Rose joked back—a joke that the rest of the dorm laughed at too, as they all knew Tony’s birthday was only a week after Rose’s. Her confidence was in fifth gear, and she was ready to seduce Tony if he didn’t make a move first.

A few hours later, the dorm room party cleared out as everyone went their separate ways to go sleep, or eat, or have sex, or puke. Rose did all four, though not in that order. The door had barely closed after the last of their friends had finally left, and

Rose jumped into Tony’s arms. They kissed against the concrete wall, and slowly made their way into Tony’s bed, where the two of them would fuck like rabbits for the next three weeks.

IMG_004.jpg

“Mommy, I don’t like peanut butter,” Jacob whined.

“Honey, since when?”

“Since always.”

“Well we don’t have anything else for you to eat for lunch, and you’re gonna be late for school.”

“But I don’t want peanut butter!” Jacob yelled, ready to turn on the waterworks at any moment.

“Honey, what do you want then?”

“I don’t know.”

Rose turned around and put her face briefly into her hands. She was tired. Tired of this conversation, tired of being judged by the other kindergarten moms who felt Rose wasn’t doing enough to help out in the classroom. Like those Prozac bitches could survive raising a child on their own, she always muttered to herself.

The exhaustive schedule was taking a toll on Rose, and she worried about it affecting the quality of her work. Blake ignored all court-ordered child support payments—which was easy for him to do without a job. Rose was determined not to be an absentee parent, but options were limited, and expenses were high.

IMG_005.jpg

One day when Sophie was eight, the same age Rose was when her mom decided enough was enough, she didn’t come home from school. Their mother worked two jobs with unpredictable hours, and most days, the girls walked themselves home. It became harder when Rose went off to middle school, leaving her younger sister alone. Sophie finished school at 2:15 PM, 50 minutes before Rose did, so she usually walked the five

blocks home by herself, where she’d wait patiently for her protector to arrive an hour

later and make her a snack.

On this particular day, Rose turned they key to their apartment door, and was

surprised that all of the lights were turned off. She called out for her sister, but there was

nobody there to give her a big hug like any other day after class. Rose guessed that

perhaps Sophie was still at school, so she walked the same route that Rose took herself

only a couple of years earlier, hoping to retrace any of Sophie’s steps. The schoolyard

was empty. No kids played on the swings or monkey bars. No after-school games of

soccer or tag. The classroom lights were all off, and every door she tried to open was

locked. She yelled out for her sister’s name, but only the neighborhood dogs barked back.

Rose raced back to the apartment, hoping they somehow just missed each other,

and that Sophie was at home, on the sofa watching TV, as confused as Rose had been an

hour earlier. Still dark inside, though, Rose hurried to find her mother’s address book.

Trying not to sound panicked, she called the house of Sophie’s only friend, but she

wasn’t there either.

When their mother finally came home at 6:30 PM, Rose began crying, fearing the

worst.

IMG_006.jpg

“I guess it’s true, every Rose has its thorn,” Tony teased.

“Stop,” Rose said, rolling her eyes, tired of the terrible line. Tony began to rub her

shoulders and kiss her neck. “I’m serious,” she said. “I need to study, this is important.”

“Yeah, but even you need a break sometimes.” Tony began to move his hands,

touching Rose more sensuously than before. She tried to stay focused, but Tony was

pressing all the right buttons. Tony was an idiot, and Rose knew it would never last

between them. He had “F-U-C-K” tattooed on the knuckles of right hand—a decision he swore he’d never regret, even if it made girls hesitant to bring him home to meet their families. Rose figured that would never be an issue in their case, though. But, despite all his idiosyncrasies, he was fun. He could make Rose laugh, and knew how to make her wet, and considering the pool of inexperienced horny 18-year-olds, it was all she needed.

“Come on, Tony. Later. Tonight, I promise,” Rose offered.

“Yeah, whatever,” he said, straightening up. Tony turned around and left Rose’s room, slamming the door behind him.

Rose knew she shouldn’t have, but she gave in. She chased after Tony in the hall and pleaded with him to come back. He obliged, they fucked, then went to dinner. Rose woke up the next morning feeling vastly underprepared for her midterm. Six months later, Tony would drop out of college altogether.

IMG_007.jpg

Rose buried her feet in the soft sand. Now that she was finally here, she didn’t want to leave. She had told Blake several times that it was her dream to see the ocean one day—that she was embarrassed that the closest thing to a beach day she ever had was at the grimy pond the next town over that even the ducks knew to stay out of. Now, she wasn’t just sitting at a real beach, in real sand, but the ocean was all she could see in

almost every direction. Blake kept his promise from the night he proposed to Rose two

years earlier: he would find a way to take his bride to Hawaii for their honeymoon, no

matter the cost.

Rose of course brought her camera, a Nikon F5 SLR, and nearly a dozen rolls of

film. She needed to document as much as possible. This was possibly a once-in-a-lifetime trip, and she didn’t want to forget a single detail.

“Hey, careful,” she said to Blake. “I don’t want to get sand in this.”

“Well then why’d you bring it to the beach?”

“Because it’s beautiful here!”

“Yeah, well don’t blame me if you’re the one careless enough to bring a $2,000 camera to the ocean.”

He was mad, Rose assumed, that she might possibly work while they were on vacation. An expensive vacation, at that. Rose could somewhat sympathize, but Blake never did have much patience for her hobbies to begin with. And that’s all he saw her photography as anyway—a hobby. Not a job, not her work. There was that time they got in a fight because Rose had to decline a last-minute invite to Blake’s boss’ BBQ because she had booked a wedding gig months earlier. He’s resented that camera ever since, even on their honeymoon.

IMG_008.jpg

At 7:30 PM, Sophie had still not come home, so Rose’s mother called the police.

IMG_009.jpg

Eventually, Tony’s mood swings became more trouble than he was worth for

Rose, so she tried to end it. He didn’t take it very well. He didn’t hit Rose, but he

smashed enough else in her room, and he didn’t leave without unleashing a string of

insults and name-calling that Rose was sure the rest of the floor could hear. Rose cried that night and didn’t go to class the next day. Or the next three days either.

The pain didn’t subside for a while, but she was able to channel some of it into her school work. Her black-and-white series featuring neglected landscapes won her school’s annual photography contest, earning Rose her first publication, and a nice grant that would allow her to finally buy a camera of her own.

But these successes didn’t make her forget Tony. And the public persona she put on in honor of these accomplishments only made Tony angrier. His jealousy surprised— even scared—an already vulnerable Rose.

IMG_010.jpg

Rose walked to a park down the street from their apartment, hoping maybe Sophie was hiding out there. The late-autumn evening released its chilly air. The wind was howling, and the trees, with leaves already changed, swayed viciously. Rose worried that

Sophie, among other things, might not have a jacket.

When she reached the empty playground, Rose began calling Sophie’s name. She heard faint movements from a crawl-through tube at the top of the play-structure. Rose

climbed up, unsure if she would find her sister, or more mysteries of the night to confuse

her. The rustling subsided as she grew closer, but finally, she reached where the sound

was coming from. Inside, curled up in the fetal position, was Sophie, struggling to stay

warm.

IMG_011.jpg

“Mom, here, sign this.” Jacob slid a permission slip across the kitchen counter.

“A please would be nice,” Rose replied, rolling her eyes. “What’s this for?”

Jacob sighed, giving an eye roll of his own. “Mom, I already told you, it’s so our

art class can go to the Photographic Arts Museum.”

Rose gave a private smile and signed the form.

“Do you know any of the artists on display?” she asked.

“No, Mom.”

Rose was slightly disappointed in the 14-year-old’s indifferent attitude towards art. He’d loved drawing and painting when he was younger. You have so much talent,

Rose repeatedly told him. She suspected this encouragement wasn’t having its intended effect. He’s young. There’s still time, she hoped, humoring herself.

IMG_012.jpg

As soon as Rose saw that Sophie was alive and safe, emotion flooded her face.

The two of them embraced—Sophie for warmth, Rose for relief. Internally, Rose berated herself for failing to protect her sister.

“I was so worried about you,” she finally let out.

“I’m sorry…” Sophie said softly.

“What happened? Why didn’t you come home?”

“I just…” Now Sophie began to cry. “I thought…I’m…”

Rose hugged her sister again. “It’s alright. I’m not mad, just relieved you’re OK.”

“Rose?” Sophie finally managed between sobs. “What’s a ‘whore?’”

“What? Where did you hear that?”

“Kids at school. They all laughed at me today and said Mommy was a whore. Is it true?”

Rose sat stunned. “No, no, Sophie. Don’t ever think that.”

“But what does it mean?”

“It’s just a bad word, it doesn’t mean anything. Just ignore them if they say it again, OK?”

Although clearly unsatisfied with the answer, Sophie reluctantly let it go. The two of them climbed to the bottom of the playground, and Rose put her jacket around Sophie.

They walked home, hoping their mother wouldn’t be too mad about the chaos and panic of the night.

IMG_013.jpg

For Rose’s birthday, her friends convinced her to go out clubbing with them.

There were promises of cute guys and free drinks. They all hoped to help Rose take her

mind off the break-up with Tony. She finally agreed, and the group of four dressed up for

a night out.

The free drinks were easier than Rose expected. Wearing a tight dress and

sporting modest cleavage, everyone who found out it was her birthday delivered Rose

drinks that came with little umbrellas or pieces of fruit. Later, offers of pills with funny

names and lines of white powder.

Rose danced and drank and sang. The music boomed on the dance floor, and she could finally let loose. She was glad her girls took her out, happy to leave her stress back at the dorm. She needed these few hours out. Already drunk by the time they arrived at the third club of the evening, Rose knew she needed a brief break if the night was going to last. She stood against a wall to catch her breath momentarily, when she heard a familiar voice.

“Happy birthday,” it said. Rose’s friends were scattered and distracted, and none

were around to intercept Tony and his buddies when they walked in.

“Oh, thanks,” Rose said. She tried to maintain her recently re-found confidence.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Tony offered.

Before Rose could reply, he was off. Her friends still hadn’t noticed Tony’s

entourage. Tony returned a couple of minutes later, a beer in one hand, mai tai in the

other.

“Ah, my favorite. Of course you remembered,” she smiled, taking the colorful

cocktail.

“Cheers!” he replied. Then after a pause, “you look great tonight, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Rose blushed. With her friends off in different directions, Rose suddenly felt more comfortable in Tony’s presence. He was being sweet, and gentle. The conversation was easy, and natural. They talked for a while, and Tony listened, and smiled.

Rose slowly opened her eyes, the bright light coming through the window not doing her any favors. Her head reverberated with every movement. She was completely naked, alone in a bedroom she did not recognize. The previous night was at best a blur.

Fragments came through, but nothing was clear. She remembered dancing and she could hear the loud music replaying in her head. But she could not remember leaving and had no idea how she arrived in this bed.

With difficulty, Rose stood up and looked around for a clue. Her purse was nowhere to be seen, and the floor was littered with dirty clothes. She resisted the urge to throw up for as long as she could. The trashcan next to the bed, when she finally reached it, had at least three used condoms sitting near the top. The sight of this triggered pain all over the rest of her body. Any control she had over her vomit disappeared, and the garbage soon filled with puke and tears. Her hair was a mess, clumped and knotted with sticky residue. Mascara ran down her cheeks, lipstick gone awry.

Rose’s dress was missing, so she put on an anonymous dirty t-shirt and pair of shorts she found on the dirty floor of the dilapidated bedroom. Unsure of what would greet her on the other side of the bedroom door, Rose slowly gained the courage to venture onward. The dingy carpet in the hallway still did not look familiar, and neither

did the fist-sized hole in the wall. The living room was empty, with nothing except more articles of mismatched clothes draped across the couch.

Making her way down the stairs from the second-floor apartment, Rose battled the pain-inducing sun and echoing sounds of traffic to find her way to a payphone. The dial tone was obnoxious, and Rose felt nauseous. She placed a collect call to her roommate, and before any words made it out of her mouth, Rose broke down and began to sob uncontrollably.

IMG_014.jpg

The large circular table sat nine people including Rose, seven of whom she did not know. The rest of the ballroom was filled with a couple hundred men and women— almost all White, and most at least two decades her senior. They were dressed in fancy tuxedos and gowns that Rose guessed cost more than her college tuition.

“Thank god you’re here,” Rose whispered to her plus-one.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” said Sophie.

The sisters smiled at each other, silently acknowledging the strange spectacle around them. Society folks drank wines with unpronounceable names, and caterers in ironed white shirts and black bowties carried trays with what Sophie assured Rose were just fancy names for appetizers. Everything was tinted gold. Neither had ever experienced such extravagant displays of wealth in one room. Rose became an anthropologist on the scene, examining the curious behaviors of the unfamiliar upper-class.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the evening’s master of ceremonies said into the microphone on stage. “Thank you all for being here with us tonight, we’re so pleased you could make it.”

Rose groaned with anxiety.

“Relax, this is exciting!” Sophie whispered.

“We are so proud of all our finalists. We’ve received such fantastic work this year. Let’s hear it for all our nominees tonight!”

The crowd cheered loudly. The strangers at Rose’s table all watched her and smiled as she tried to avoid all eye contact, which only made her more nervous. Sophie, beaming with pride, reached for her sister’s hand.

“Without further ado,” the MC bellowed. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for.” His dramatic pauses increased the excitement. The tension in the room was palpable.

“The winner,” he continued. “Of this year’s Edward J. DeSaulnier Memorial Prize for Photography…” He was almost mocking the crowd now.

Sophie gripped Rose’s hand and squeezed.

“Goes to…”

IMG_015.jpg

Finally, at Sophie’s urging, Rose packed a handful of essentials into Jacob’s diaper bag. She didn’t want to make the comparisons to her own childhood, but these thoughts overwhelmed her subconscious. The feelings of potentially leaving everything

behind and never coming back; knowing her life would never be the same again; thankful

the young soul she protects will have no memory of violence or fear; self-doubt; feelings

of failure. It was all Rose could do to keep the tears away. She was strong—for herself,

for Jacob, for Sophie.

Rose had to be quick and quiet. Blake would surely wake up if she made too

much noise at the front door. She carefully put all of the bags in the car, and Jacob in his

car seat. Backing out of the driveway, Rose waited until they were down the street before

turning on her headlights and checking her rear-view mirror.

Across town, Sophie ushered them inside, where a pullout sofa was already made

up for Rose. She poured water into a tea kettle and turned on the stove. Finally free, Rose

sat on the bed, head in her hands. Sophie sat silently, letting Rose lean on her for support.

Here, in the safety of her younger sister’s home, Rose felt grateful. Their roles, after

twenty years, had reversed.

IMG_016.jpg

The late-night hike would be worth it, Rose promised Jacob.

“This is the best place in town to see the stars. There’s fewer lights around,” she

explained.

“What will it look like?” Jacob asked. It was well-passed the eight-year-old’s bedtime, but he didn’t complain.

“They’ll be fast, so keep your eyes open, but there will be a lot of them.”

They settled down on a spot they found on the hill where the grass was short and not too damp. Rose handed her son a bottle of water and pointed to the sky where they should watch.

“Are they big?” Jacob wondered.

“I don’t know. I think they just shoot by quickly and burn out.”

“Why?”

“Well, what we’ll see is hundreds of old meteors burning up as they enter the

Earth’s atmosphere. As soon as they get close enough, they burn up, and that’s what we’ll get to watch.”

“What if they don’t?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, what if they don’t burn up completely? Will they crash into Earth?”

Rose laughed softly and put her arm around Jacob.

“Don’t worry, that won’t happen.”

“Are you sure?”

“I promise,” Rose said, and kissed her son on the cheek. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Jacob smiled, and they sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Come on,” Rose finally said. She laid down on her back and motioned for Jacob to join her. “Let’s count the stars.”

Terse (100 Words)

For twenty years, we spoke in fragments. Dropping verbs for convenience, adjectives out of apathy. You feared the run-ons, preferred brevity. I just needed words, period. Instead, inadvertently, you taught me the value of space. That words have power, but less strength than silence. A blank page is a beautiful thing—a clean slate better left unbothered. And so the closed door became a blank page. And lonely dinners by the television. And in this time, I became your quiet magnum opus: a masterpiece of the uninvolved. But it’s my fault, too. I didn’t push back. I never asked why.

If It Leads, It Bleeds

Nope, Left. Left.

Ooh, right, Kristen thought, smiling.

No…no. Left.

Ah, she thought again. He’s cute. Definitely right.

Most of Kristen’s friends were taking a break from Blazr, the notorious swipe- based dating app. The recent scares, including Blazr’s lack of accountability, had tampered much of the app’s excitement. But Kristen plowed ahead anyway, undaunted by what she insisted was made-for-cable-news fear mongering.

“If it bleeds, it leads,” Kristen reminded her friends. A communications major in college, Kristen had a seemingly endless supply of industry aphorisms. She pretended to ignore it when her friends rolled their eyes.

“Just…be careful,” she’d hear.

“You know, Hail had a similar problem,” Kristen told her friends. It was true— the popular ride-sharing app did have a PR problem the year before when a serial killer used the app to lure potential victims into his car. “But we all still use that.”

“Yeah, but Hail made changes. They screen their drivers now, use background checks. Anybody can use Blazr.”

“Oh, please. You guys need to stop watching the news so much.”

So Kristen tried it alone. At home she would often lay in bed and swipe: right if she felt an attraction, but more often, left. Kristen knew an app like Blazr gave her the upper-hand—she was young and attractive, and she filled her profile with tantalizing

photos. One in a short towel as if she’d just stepped out of the shower; another at the club, wearing a low-cut dress, with full lips, drink in hand, every curve strategically on display. Kristen had her pick of the lot; she was in the driver’s seat, and all parties knew it.

In bed, Kristen checked the app for new matches. She scrolled through the list of boring Hey! messages, deciding which were worth responding to.

“You have the prettiest smile on all of Blazr.”

Hmm…, Kristen thought. She checked his name and profile. Ok, Scott, I’ll bite.

Her thumbs banged out a quick response and it didn’t take long for Scott to message back. Kristen slid down in her bed, at ease as they continued to chat for another hour.

“So, can I take you out for dinner tomorrow night?” Scott finally asked.

“That’d be lovely,” Kristen replied. She smiled. She was excited, even.

The next evening, Kristen began getting ready a few hours before her date. Music blared from her speakers as she applied her makeup, tied back her hair with a large hair pin, and touched up her nails with a fresh gloss finish. Finally, she slid into a cute, if revealing, new dress she bought the week before.

When Kristen arrived at the restaurant, she let out a sigh of relief. Scott sat at a small table for two with a rose lying flat in the middle. He was well-dressed and groomed, with a full shave and fresh haircut. Scott stood up as Kristen approached, extending his warm hand and a warmer smile.

“You’re even more beautiful in person,” Scott said, his voice slightly wavering.

Kristen smiled. He was cute, and he smelled nice, she thought. She glanced around the room, eyeing the fancy décor and rich patrons.

“I wonder how many couples here met on Blazr,” she said with a small laugh.

“You know, not many people want to use the app these days,” Scott said.

“Tell me about it. My friends warn me every time I open Blazr. So I just stopped checking it when they’re around.”

“Well, I’m glad you took a chance with me tonight.”

Kristen blushed and looked down at her menu. Scott suggested ordering a bottle of wine to share. Soon after, a second bottle. “You trying to get me drunk?” Kristen asked with a wink.

Dinner went well, so on his invitation, Kristen went back with Scott to his condo. “I’ll give you the tour,” Scott offered after their Hail ride dropped them off and he led Kristen to his front door. He wouldn’t have the chance—as soon as the door closed, Kristen grabbed Scott’s shirt and pulled him in. They kissed deeply at first, but it quickly turned sloppy. They stumbled around in the dark foyer, bumping blindly into walls and tables.

Kristen slid Scott’s jacket off and stroked his pecs through his soft, dark blue shirt.

Scott led the pair to his bedroom, both shedding more clothing along the way.

Lips still locked, they fell on his bed, Scott on his back with Kristen straddling. She unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his belt, removing his chinos with a sensual smile.

Kristen stood at the foot of the bed and danced and unzipped her way out of the dress.

Lying back on Scott, the pair’s breathing intensified.

Scott wrapped his arms around her, then moved his hands down the small of her back. He rubbed her smooth skin, kissed her wet lips. Scott’s left hand slowly made its way below her waist, and his right hand up to her exposed breast. Finally, they both removed the last of their clothing and warmly embraced once again.

Kristen stroked Scott’s chest as she let down her long, flowing hair. She teased him for a moment before finally settling in, feeling the full length of her date, adjusting to his size and his strength, leaning in and kissing him once again. She moaned quietly.

Both reveled in their pleasure.

They continued, rocking back and forth with increased speed and intensity.

Kristen opened her eyes and looked down at Scott’s chest. There was blood. Her hand sat in the amassed pool, suddenly soaked. Scott’s eyes widened. He glanced up at Kristen with panic, now wheezing. His hands fumbled around, searching for the source, the incision. He grabbed his chest to put pressure on the open wound, but he was weak.

Kristen took both of Scott’s hands and pinned him to the bed. She continued to ride her date, moaning louder and faster as she approached her climax.

And then, just like all her victims, Kristen was finished.

Swimming in a Fish Bowl

For my 30th birthday, I skipped the usual bar hopping with friends and old age

jokes, and jumped on a plane to New Hampshire to see my uncle Steve. He lives less than

100 feet from the lakeshore, the same lake he’s told me countless times that they used to

film On Golden Pond. I still have never seen the movie. His routine was quite different

from my own, but a change of pace I always looked forward to. The familiar floating on

the placid waters in my uncle’s backyard is a tradition I’ve cherished since childhood.

After a cross-country flight, a three-hour time zone change, and a jetlagged hour and a half bus ride from Boston Logan airport, I finally arrived at Squam Lake, New

Hampshire. I was beat, but I had no time to recover. My uncle woke me up at 5 A.M. sharp, in the same manner every morning. “Wake up, it’s getting late. Are you coming fishing or not?” I never knew how long he had already been up, but he always had his boots on and a large Dunkin Donuts coffee ready for me. Five in the morning in the

Granite State always has a different feel than the same time in California. The air was brisk, the local northeastern white pine trees soaked with dew. Maybe it was just being away from home that felt different; or maybe it was because I was back home.

My uncle never liked getting on the boat past 5:30, otherwise “all the good fish would be gone.” He wasn’t kidding. The locals were already on the water by then, didn’t matter what day of the week. We passed by a couple of men in a pontoon boat anchored near shore as we loaded up our gear, preparing to launch. A man with at least three gaps in his teeth made fun of my uncle for “sleeping in.” The other man, wearing a red and black plaid flannel, told us the water was already too warm, and we wouldn’t have any

luck out there. I always thought dressing like a lumberjack in New Hampshire was like wearing a Hawaiian shirt on the islands, but this guy didn’t seem to care.

We continued on, into the middle of the lake. I had my phone out, snapping pictures of the beautiful mountain landscape around me. I didn’t have any signal out there, so I couldn’t post anything to Instagram, although everyone I knew was sound asleep back west.

“Put that damn thing away,” my uncle said, rolling his eyes. He wears light pants, mostly to keep the mosquitos away, and a sweatshirt from a fishing competition he attended a few years back. My father’s younger brother is a few inches shorter than me, though not with his boots on, and he’s several shades tanner. His camo hat and sunglasses before dawn lets everyone know he’s a true outdoorsman. This is a man who un- ironically and apathetically refers to social media as MyFace and Snaptube. Naturally, the internet and technology were not his world.

“Want to try here?” I asked. The water was deep, so the amateur angler in me figured there might be something to catch if we dropped a long line.

“Nah,” he answered. “I know a better place. It’s a sure thing on days like this.”

I wondered if Toothless and the Logger were right, and we missed prime fishing time on my account. My uncle didn’t have too many hobbies; he fished in the morning and watched the Red Sox at night. It was a mystery how he survived the harsh winters. It was a mystery how he got by on fish-less mornings.

When I was a kid, my family lived about 15 minutes from his, just a few miles down Route 3. Uncle Steve’s son, my cousin Adam, was just a few months younger than

me. Until the age of nine, when my dad got a new job and moved my family to

California, Adam and I were best friends. My uncle used to take us sledding, and he

taught us how to ice skate and play hockey. In the summers, he’d take us on adventures,

like bike rides through the countless mountainous trails around us, or out to Fenway Park

for our first-ever Red Sox game. Adam would sleep over at my house most weekends,

and my dad would show us PG-13 movies until one time when we watched a horror movie and Adam had such a bad nightmare, he pissed his PJs in the night.

My uncle and I sat quietly on the boat, enjoying the serene morning. I stretched out on one of the benches, ready to go back to sleep, while he set up his rods and lures. A dragonfly landed on my leg, and I watched it crawl around, exploring my skin with no fear or hesitation. I was wearing a contradicting pair of shorts with my warm hoodie zipped all the way up. It was still cold, but the sun was starting to rise, peaking through the low clouds and early fog. The rays were beginning to reflect off the lake and the trees.

I knew I’d be shedding the heavy layers in an hour or so. A bald eagle soared above us, and around our still boat, local loons swam by, no more successful in their search for fish than we were thus far. It had been a couple years since I was last out here, even though I had pledged to come more often. Steve began to cast his lines, and I prayed to the gods of fishing that we’d catch something. I wanted to brag to my friends about the giant salmon or trout that “I” caught. The last time I was out here, we were cruising on the boat, when my uncle suddenly slowed down, reached into the water, and scooped up a 19-inch dead fish floating on the top of the lake.

“Grab a rod and put a hook in its mouth,” he said at the time. “I’ll take a picture, you can tell your friends what a great fisherman you are.” I couldn’t help but smile and agree. Now I had something to prove, only this time, I wanted it to be real.

The half-dozen rods were firmly planted into the holders mounted on all sides of the boat. This was one of my favorite parts of fishing—the relaxing, the waiting in anticipation. I didn’t get to see my uncle too often, and I valued every chance we had to do this. I always felt like I owed him some bonding.

“You see that house up there?” My uncle asked me, pointing north to a lonely wooden cabin on a hill, surrounded by tall pines, maybe 40 or 50 feet above the lake.

I put my sunglasses on and followed his finger. “Yeah, I see it.”

“Carl Yastrzemski built that house after he retired. Used to stay there in the summahs.”

I was glad his thick New England accent was still alive and strong, since my dad’s faded years ago. “Wow, that’s pretty cool. You ever meet him?”

“I saw him a few times at Chuck’s, but I didn’t want to bother him. Figured this was his vacation spot, I’m sure he wanted a break from being recognized.” I’m honestly surprised he’s never told me this story before. Chuck’s was the local town store, it only had four small aisles, and little more than essentials. Nobody expects to run into their favorite baseball player in the middle of nowhere. I can’t help but think of how my dad would have at least tried to shake Yaz’s hand, if not get his autograph, or a picture. But that’s my uncle Steve—a mirror image to my dad, but night and day in every other way.

We waited patiently for a while, chatting about this and that, catching each other

up on our lives on opposite coasts. I told him that I still remember when he bought his

first boat. It was 1994, the year before my family moved away. He was so excited to have

everyone over, to take our families out on the water. Soon after, he bought an inflatable

tube, and Adam and I took turns riding as the boat dragged us along, lightly throwing us

kids around as we bounced along the wake. The first time I ever tried eating fish was up

on this lake—a fish I caught (mostly) by myself aboard my favorite uncle’s new boat. My family spent many weekends on Squam Lake, and more than a few nights barbecuing food we didn’t actually catch. A lot of happy memories from those days. He traded that original boat in a decade later, and his current vessel prioritizes fishing over family

outings.

Over the years, I’ve lost track of the number of fishing mornings I’ve had with

Uncle Steve. A few every trip out here, a trip out here ever few years. I’m used to the

inherent boredom that comes with my uncle’s favorite hobby, and at times I certainly

enjoy it. What I’m never prepared for, though, is that first bite of the day. Sitting on the

boat, staring off into nostalgia, the end of the rod suddenly lunges forward, bending so far

I worry it will snap in half. I stare dumbfounded, slow to react, until my uncle yells to

me, “FISH!” That’s my queue, but I’m only a quarter of my way through my bitter black

coffee (he’ll ever so lovingly call me a pussy if I ask for cream or sugar in it), and I

somehow forget what to do. He darts to the end of the boat, taking over for my lack of

action. I grab the net in my left hand, still eager to help, and have the camera ready on my

phone in my right hand, ready to document the action. But, we were too late. We reel in the line, but the poor fish ripped right through the hook. Nothing.

“Sorry,” I offer.

“It was probably a largemouth bass, too,” he teases me, knowing it’s my favorite fish Squam Lake has to offer.

Still, our window to catch was quickly closing, so I was somewhat surprised when he handed the reeled in rod back to me. He scans the horizon, and points towards where he wants me to cast. “You want to toss it about 20 feet from the boat. Put your thumb here,” he says, placing my hand on the wound-up spool. “Flip this when you’re ready,” he continues, showing me how to use a rod as if I’ve never gone fishing with him before.

“Watch out behind you as you wind back to cast the line.” I feel like reminding him I’m not 12, but think better of it, realizing he’s telling me this as much for his own benefit as mine. I take his unsolicited advice and toss the hooked lure into the lake.

The process repeats as before, the idle waiting and casual conversation resuming.

Occasionally we reel an empty line in and re-cast, superstitiously hoping a spot five feet to the right will have better luck. I didn’t mind the redundancy; this peaceful lake experience was so foreign to my life back in California. City life in San Francisco has its rewards, but I missed the loud silence of being on a boat on a lake at the bottom of a mountain in the middle of the woods. Walking around in New Hampshire, I looked out for bears, not buses. Somehow, the breeze felt more authentic here. It didn’t reek of sewage stank, forced above ground at every BART train that passed by.

I was so mad at my dad the day he told us we were moving 3,000 miles away.

What was so good about California anyway? I told him I wasn’t going. He could go if he

wanted, I said, but I was staying right there. When we first got to California, it was the

beginning of summer, and school had just let out the week before. Not only did I miss my

cousin and friends and family, but what was I supposed to do all summer in a new town,

a new state, without knowing anybody? My dad knew I was upset and tried to help me adjust by buying me a new bike and telling me which of the houses on our street had kids my age. Eventually, of course, I socialized and made new friends. I fell off that bike, scraped my knees, made new memories. It wasn’t the terrible summer I thought it might be, but I still missed Adam, and I resented my parents for forcing us to relocate.

My uncle was eager to show me the latest addition to his boat—his XM radio.

Apparently the exception to his otherwise anti-technology rules. The mountains and hills around us blocked all frequencies of regular AM/FM radio, so he splurged on a Sirius subscription. If only we liked the same music. Before long, Kenny Chesney is rambling through the shoddy boat speakers. My dad always joked that New Hampshire, the proud

Live Free or Die libertarian utopia, was “the south of the north.”

“It’s my good luck charm,” my uncle claimed, half-embarrassingly defending his taste in music. It was hard to disagree, however, because just one nonsense song later, we hooked another fish (and of course, I got the “I told you so”). This time around, I was slightly more prepared. My uncle didn’t want to let this one get away, so he resumed his teaching role. I grabbed the fluttering rod and awaited his professional instructions.

“Slow down, you’re reeling too fast,” was followed closely with “You gotta reel a little

faster than that, he’s gonna get away,” after I overcompensated on the change in speed.

Finally, the 75-foot line was all the way in, and all we had was a 7-inch rainbow trout. A baby, and a good 10 or so inches from what we were allowed to keep.

“Here, toss ‘em back,” my uncle said to me, handing back the rod and fish. I hesitated, restraining my urge to complain about touching the slimy thing. I’m sure he only passed on this duty to watch me squirm.

“Ugh,” I sighed, under my breath. “Gross.” The fish flopped around in my hand, and I struggled to get the hook out.

“City boy!” he said, again teasing me with a smirk on his face. “I can’t believe your father never exposed you to these things.” His tone of voice indicated he was kidding, but in his eyes, I knew he meant it anyway. And it was true; the lion’s share of my outdoors learning experiences came on the East Coast, everything from fishing to camping. Still, these opportunities were few and far between, and in no way did I enjoy handling a live, scaly fish.

When we were kids, I remember Steve being tough at times with my cousin

Adam. Not physically abusive, but he certainly expected a lot from an 8-year-old. One time, Adam dropped a pop-up in his little-league game. My uncle made him stay late that

night, well after the game was over, hitting fly ball after fly ball to his son until he no

longer dropped them. Adam cried and whined, wanting to go home, but I’ll be damned if

he didn’t go the rest of the season without dropping a single baseball.

Oh-for-two, we re-cast and sat back down. The boat was still rocking slightly

from our sudden jumpy movements a few minutes earlier. I switched the radio station,

tired of country music, until we settled on a station playing Pink Floyd’s “Wish You

Were Here.” I wanted to catch something good, something to brag about back home. But

perhaps more so, I wanted to reel in an impressive beast for my uncle’s sake. He’ll

undoubtedly catch more fish this season than I will in my entire life, but these moments

were different. He wanted to prove to me that this was more than a hobby—that he was

good at it, damn good in fact. I already knew this, but his persistence was infectious. He

needed to share this passion. His life had a big void, and his dedication to fishing was the

closest he could come to filling it.

In January of 1996, I went back to school after the holiday break, and for the first

time felt comfortable. I had made new friends and felt like I finally adjusted to this new

future. I had stopped calling my cousin Adam every weekend, as we were both just kids,

trying to move on. It would take me several more winters before I became used to the

lack of snow days, black ice on the roads and sub-zero nights. I was even able to laugh at

my new friends for complaining about 50-degree mornings in the middle of January. I didn’t even bring a sweatshirt with me half the time, but that was probably more my own cockiness than anything.

One afternoon, I came home from school to see my dad home from work early, sitting with my mom on the living room couch.

“Come here for a minute,” my mom said to me. “We want to talk to you.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Come here, sit down,” my dad said, patting the cushion between the two of them.

Despite the warm California winter, I felt the coldest chill down my back. My mom was

holding bunched up tissues in her hand, clearly trying to hold back more tears for as long

as possible.

“There’s…” my mom started. “There’s been…”

“There’s been an accident,” my dad finished. “Your aunt and cousin…” he said,

before they both immediately resumed crying. They put their arms around me, and the

three of us sat there as time stood still, sobbing together.

I didn’t learn all of the details until later. My dad booked us a flight back east for

early the next morning. I was just a kid, and had never been to a funeral before, and I

didn’t know how to look for comfort. Eventually, my dad explained to me that my aunt

was driving with my cousin in the backseat, when her car hit a bad patch of ice, and they

slid off the road. She was on her way to the grocery store, to pick up a missing ingredient

for that night’s dinner. My uncle was completely engrossed in the football game, and

didn’t want to be bothered, so they went without him. An hour later, he received the

fateful phone call.

My uncle didn’t have anybody left, his soul was crushed. He was a proud husband

and father and loved his family. Everybody was worried about this macho man, a lifelong tough guy, trying not to breakdown in front of everyone he knew. My family stayed for a

few weeks, but eventually my dad had to go back to work, and I was missing too much

school. We made a habit of flying out there every summer, a tradition I continued to

observe into adulthood, albeit with less frequency. In my early 20’s, I began making my

summer pilgrimage without my parents, and my uncle and I enjoyed each other’s

company. I’ve always tried not to succumb to the pressure as his surrogate son. These fishing trips mean a lot to him, and I only regret not coming more often.

It was still only day one—morning one—and we’d have plenty more opportunities to catch fish the rest of this week. “It’s a bad omen if you head home empty handed on the first day out on the water,” my uncle tells me. “We’ll get something good this morning, don’t you worry.” I wasn’t worried. For dinner that night, I wanted nothing more than a freshly caught authentic New Hampshire lake fish. I watched the bobbers floating atop the rippling lake, in my mind willing one of them to sink underneath. Ten minutes later, my telekinesis kicked in. The bob weaved, the rod bent, and finally, instinctively, I sprang into action. Grabbing the rod, I slowly stopped the spool from spinning out further. I yanked hard to the right, and back to the left, trying to set the hook—this one wasn’t getting away. My uncle signaled to me, and I began to reel him in.

I kept my pole at a 45-degree angle, and little by little, the 75 feet of line shrank. Every so often, I pulled the tip of the rod up, and reeled slightly faster. With my angler guide advising every step, I was careful not to reel too hard and tear the hook right out of its mouth, or let up too loose, and give the fish enough slack to get away. The adrenaline my uncle lives for had spread into me. It was exhilarating and nerve-racking. “This guy’s big,” my uncle said, smiling. “Tire him out a bit.” I stepped back a little on the boat, preparing to bring this battle aboard. My uncle leaned over the edge of the boat, waiting for the fish to surface. This was one big, strong fish, but finally, it emerged from the depths, still fighting. Barely visible through the murky ripples forming around us, I kept cranking the reel, until at last, it broke the plane of the lake, and my uncle scooped it into

the net. It took me a moment to realize, but we were both breathing heavily, grinning ear to ear. After taking a celebratory photo, fish in hand, we carefully placed our nemesis in the boat’s built-in fish tank. Then, we exhaled.

“Oh, man!” I exclaimed.

“Salmon,” my uncle said, beaming. “Great job, bud!” he said, offering his hand to high-five.

“How big, you think?”

“At least 25 inches, maybe more.”

“Is that good?”

He laughed. “I don’t catch many salmon, and the ones I do find are usually low

20’s. This one’s gonna be tasty.”

“So we done good, eh?”

“Yeah, kid,” Uncle Steve said, turning away from me to wipe a single teardrop rolling down his left cheek. “Dinner’s gonna be real good tonight.”

Shocked

I stare out the rain-stained window towards the heavens above where any number of deities may be battling to reign supreme. Their war, my storm. Electric arrows, flung far above the Earth by giants, dancing on clouds. Paying no mind to the mere mortals below.

What happens up there? Zeus argues with Thor, Set challenges Xolotl. Violence is just a natural part of their world, too.

The flash, seconds later, the bang. Thunder used to terrify me. I’d call for my own mother, for comfort, support. But she didn’t come. Like opening the door to find nobody there. Like asking the gods to take pity, for a moment. As if they could, or would hear me.

When she was there, on a clear night, she would tell me to count the stars. Each one, home to its own set of immortals. With their own thunderstorms, their own children who just want to be heard.

She’s not there for the storm. And I’m shocked at how little I feel. A shock that never really dissipates.

A Slow Fracture

“It’s because you don’t listen to me,” Julia said. She leaned against the passenger

door, squeezed as far away from the driver’s seat as physically possible—even if that was

only a matter of inches.

“Of course I do,” Ryan answered monotonously, eyes locked on the moonlit

highway.

“Ryan, we’ve had this fight every day for the past week. You hear me, but you’re

not listening.”

Ryan sat with his hands firmly at 10-and-2. He neither smiled nor frowned, his stoic despondence seeming only to prove his girlfriend’s point. “Ok. What do you want me to do?” he finally mustered. He glanced over at Julia, watching her body language do all the talking.

Ryan shifted his gaze back to the road. There was a deer standing right in his lane.

He slammed on his brakes and quickly hit his turn signal to move left. Ryan’s argument

with Julia was distracting, even if he didn’t show it. He was watching the road but wasn’t

really seeing it.

The truck in the next lane had no time to stop either and barreled directly into the

back-left side of Ryan’s car, sending them careening forward into the darkness. The truck

slowed down and eventually stopped, but Ryan’s sedan continued to slide out of control.

After four seconds, the momentum of the car was too swift for the friction of the tires

against the cracked asphalt roadway, and the truck driver could only watch as Ryan and

Julia flipped end-over-end, only restrained by their seatbelts.

180 degrees. 360, a full flip. And suddenly, 720 degrees. Yellow and orange

sparks every time the metal frame met the ground. Glass, shattered. The deer scampered

away. Red paint and plastic littered the empty road.

Ryan watched through the front windshield—before it gave way completely—and saw the world spin counterclockwise. Each spin, flashing a different color, never in focus. Blurs of luminescent life. Every moment filled with a new beautiful hue until it was replaced with the next. Green, like the juniper trees that lined Mt. Hayden, where he and Julia went on their first camping trip together. Then bright red, her go-to nail polish color. A cool blue, like the collar he bought for Cooper, the Pitbull-mix they adopted together two years before. The colors flashed quickly across his face like in his favorite scene of 2001: A Space Odyssey. On a whim last summer, the couple decided to eat mushrooms together and re-watch their favorite film. Julia laughed at Ryan as he sat on the couch slack-jawed and singularly focused. Cooper had taken advantage of their collective inattention and stole most of the remaining pizza they had ordered.

And the air smelled like roasted marshmallows. On a separate trip, Ryan couldn’t believe Julia had never tried a s’more before. A little slice of heaven, he had joked. He held her hand as she moved the stick towards the fire, and Ryan guided them to a spot low in the fire pit, insisting she wanted the heat—not the flame—to properly cook her

marshmallow.

And all around them an inescapable sound of metal scraping, sparking. His beat-

up car that was still running, that he was still planning to drive into the ground. Why buy

a new car, he reasoned to Julia, when this one runs fine? She learned to ignore the rusted

metal and aesthetic inadequacies, especially if it meant saving money for their travels.

The car had plenty of room for the two of them plus Cooper and a couple of bags. They

could pack up and drive anywhere.

But in the chaos, Ryan wasn’t thinking about camping or dog walks or any part of

their decade-long relationship. In the middle of the second full flip, the roof began to

collapse, and an errant piece of metal struck Ryan’s head. As their car and his body began

to swirl, his brain was thrown around inside his skull. His eyes remained open. The car

finally came to a stop in the quiet evening air. Crickets chirped all around them, and only

the truck’s fractured headlights shone their way. Upside down, Ryan’s glassy eyes were

locked with Julia’s. The two sat motionless in a new kind of perpetual limbo. Their eyes met, but they could not see, as each looked directly through the other.

Creative Nonfiction

Decisions in 35mm

I can already feel the beads of sweat on my forehead. It’s 6:55 PM, and I have ten minutes until the next show begins. I head to the giant projector and decide I’ll thread the film through now and take advantage of this break to catch up on a few more tasks.

Theater Nine is my least favorite, and since this projector is at least ten years older than the rest our theater uses, it may take me an extra five minutes or so to queue it up. I bend down and grab the end of the film strip from the bottom platter and begin to weave it through the rollers and into the projector. Through a series of pulleys, rollers, gears, and switches, the film loops through the projector, passing in front of the $500 light bulb and the laser sound reader, flashing frames of still images to establish that movie magic for all those who forked over $10 tonight. Finally, the film strip feeds back into an empty platter that rotates at the same speed, winding up the film so it can be used again three and a half hours later. Rinse, repeat. This technology is more than a half-century old, and each projector’s entire setup takes up more space than my car. The aged machinery heats up quickly, and despite management’s best efforts, it’s warmer in here than it is outside. I should not have to wear a suit to do this.

Through all its redundancies and occasional frustrations, I actually enjoy this job.

There’s a certain Zen I feel when running the projection booth. If I do everything right, hundreds of people get to watch their movies on time with no interruptions. It’s my responsibility to organize a schedule and figure out how long I have at each projector, and when each film needs to start. My shift always begins with printing out the movie schedule, and I create my game plan by marking it up with notes in red pen like I’m a

newspaper editor. The strategy is to stay ahead, which, given the ancient analog equipment, is not always easy. It can take between two and five minutes to queue up a film in a projector, depending on a few variables—with nothing going wrong. After the lengthy process, I only need to press the big green START button and stand there for about twenty seconds to make sure everything runs correctly. The trouble is, my theater has fourteen auditoriums, split between two floors. Nobody keeps the projectionist in mind when determining the order of show times. This means I also have to factor in the two or three minutes it takes me to run from one projector to the booth’s exit, up or down the stairs—the elevator would take too long—weave through the traffic of absent-minded customers, then dig out my keys, open the other projection booth door, and sprint to the next film waiting to start. It’s exhausting, but also exhilarating when everything goes right.

I’ve had this job for almost two years, working nights four times per week. My enjoyment in the projection booth balances out my disdain for my other part-time job sitting at a desk in a Chase downtown. Working sixty-hour weeks was not completely what I envisioned when I dropped out of college four years ago, but nobody said it would be easy. I left school knowing it would be a tough grind to earn a steady enough income to support myself, but at the time it felt necessary. I was stuck in a rut. I had already exhausted all of my moves to different cities, my road trips, my vacations. I didn’t put my education on pause because I was lazy; with hindsight, it’s clear that I was tired, scared, confused, frustrated.

One of the perks of my job is I get to see as many free movies as I’d like. Not that I ever have time for it. When I have the occasional downtime between show starts, I can turn the volume on in the booth to one of the films playing and peek through the glass to watch the screen. I have no interest in the sold-out bloody vampire/werewolf rom-com playing in theaters four, seven and fourteen, but I listen in briefly out of morbid curiosity.

“But I love him,” says one pale, human-looking high school character to another. The gaggle of teenagers below seem to be eating this up.

“I knew you loved this shit, you couldn’t wait for this movie to come out, huh?” teases my manager, Nick, sneaking up behind me.

“Shit, you caught me,” I joke back. Nick and I were friends through high school, and he’s the one who got me this job when I moved back to the Bay Area. He’s a complete film aficionado and trained me on the complicated procedures involved in running a projection booth. Growing up, he and I used to make cheesy short films with our friends. I gave that up after we graduated high school, but for Nick, it was clearly his passion. A few months ago, he put the finishing touches on a twelve-minute short that he had spent nearly a year working on. He cast his friends and family to play the leads, but

Nick did the rest himself—writing, directing, editing, even composing the score. When the film was complete, he invited about fifty people to come watch it on the big screen, borrowing an empty auditorium at 2 AM, after all of the customers and employees had gone home. We used to laugh at how bad the movies were that we made at sixteen, seventeen years old, but this…this was impressive. I remember after that first screening was over, nobody wanted to look at Nick. The lights came on, and everyone, still in

shock and awe that our friend made something this professional, needed a minute to

compose themselves. Half an hour ago, I hit START on the projector for that same

auditorium, and instead the third movie in a series about car chases and guns or drugs or

something began playing.

“I’m getting Chipotle, you want something?” Nick asks me. I give him my order,

and he returns twenty minutes later. We take advantage of our general manager’s off day

and eat inside the projection booth. Our GM, Nick’s boss, works six days a week, for at

least ten hours most of those days. If I reach forty and still have to work sixty-plus hour weeks to scrape by miserably on his measly salary, I’ve clearly failed. No wonder the poor guy is always grumpy.

“So, when are you gonna start filming your next classic?” I ask Nick.

“I’m working on a script, but I feel like I’m hitting a wall. I don’t know where to take it. I’m just kind of procrastinating.”

“Want any help?” I offer.

Nick smiles. “Sure, if you’re interested. I’ll send you a copy of what I have, you can let me know what you think, add any ideas. Please, feel free to make some edits, it needs an outside voice. I’m almost ready to scrap this, so maybe you can save it.”

One of the goofy films we made years ago was a spoof of a Jason Statham action

movie. It was awful by any real standards, but we had a blast making it. I co-wrote the

script with Nick, even though half of the lines ended up being improvised by our friends.

In the two years I’ve been back here, I’ve lost count of the number of times Nick has

asked me to help him write something. But I’m not a writer, I always say, and besides, he’s the expert.

After high school, I couldn’t wait to move into my dorm at Sonoma State, a couple of hours away from everything else I knew. I loved my friends and family, but I needed a fresh start. I declared as a business major, deciding that this was only temporary, something I could switch at any time. And switch I did. Not only did I change majors, but after my freshman year, I transferred to a different school, again ready to try something new. I considered Film, Political Science, Accounting, and even Physics for some reason.

I never hated class, but soon grew impatient with my own uncertainty and indecision.

When I reached my wit’s end, I quit. So here I am.

When I first decided to “take time off,” my parents reacted in a way fit for one of

Nick’s scripts. The same general pattern began to repeat itself. First, there was, You just need to finish—you’re so close! from my mom, who always meant well. Then, It’ll be so much easier to find a job if you have a degree, from my dad, the Cornell alumnus, who didn’t want to be disappointed in his firstborn. Finally, from either of them, If you are going to take time off, just make a plan to go back, otherwise you never will. Even back then I knew they were right. Four years later, I work two jobs that don’t pay nearly enough for me to move out of my mold-infested apartment that the landlord refuses to have cleaned. Returning to school still falls into the intentionally vague “eventually” category on my life’s to-do list.

I avoid thinking about it, or even discussing it with Nick, but in the coming months, my

theater will install its first digital projector. The company looks at it as an investment—

and why not? The picture quality is far superior, there’s less maintenance required, a

lower chance of costly incidents. And it’s easier, I mean not even close. No film to deal

with, no threading through old projectors. The real killer, though: scheduled movie starts,

controlled from an office building all the way in Dallas. Not much sympathy for the

projectionist’s plight. I hate my bank job, and I’m too stubborn to accept it, but if the

“digital experiment” goes well, I’ll have to go full-time at Chase.

We’ve known this was coming for some time. If someone can make a toaster that

connects to the Internet, why the hell are we using decades-old film tech? When I was

still in school, a professor once asked our class to imagine ten, twenty years into the

future. He said, imagine you go into work, and you find out that the company has laid off

all its employees, because machines can do your job now. What would you do? Would

you try to find another identical job? Or, would you consider an entire career change?

There’s no right or wrong answer to this thought experiment, but it stuck with me, and it

reminds me that long-term plans are for suckers. Obviously I wasn’t going to be a projectionist forever, so why mourn the inevitable? I just needed to figure out my next step.

Nick’s short film he showed us a few months ago was about a man named Tyler who wanted to hack the human brain in order to download knowledge. Tyler had lost his job to automation and didn’t want to take the time to go back to school, just to start his whole career over. He wanted to fight fire with fire; if a computer could take his job, he

needed to take it back the same way. It was hard not to sympathize with him. The world

was changing faster than Tyler could adjust, when all he wanted was a job he could excel

at, with a reliable income.

My parents came to the screening that night. They’ve always liked Nick and have

seen all of his movies. It shouldn’t have surprised me when the next day, they asked me if

I had any plans to go back to school. I should have seen it coming, but now, it seems as

relevant as ever. If I can’t continue working here, should I find another projectionist

opening? Should I worry that it’s a dying job? Should I just work full-time at the bank?

My parents can see me waffling, and I can see it too.

I finish my burrito bowl and check my watch. I still have fourteen more minutes

until the next show starts. Nick leaves the projection booth and goes back to work. I envy

his passion for his projects, but especially how clear this path has always been for him.

The road has never been straightforward for me, but as I get older, maybe it doesn’t need

to be. Maybe I just need to make a decision, any decision. I walk to the projector nearest

to me and look out the glass window, into the theater below. A kids’ movie about an

animated frog is playing, and I turn up the volume. The frog stands on a lily pad and tells

its frog friends, and the families watching in Theater Two, and me up in my dark booth,

that sometimes you have to hop back a step in order to get to where you want to go.

Highway Robbery

I was a witness, nothing more.

Only a scattering of the night’s yellow lights pass on my left. Fewer than the line of red that suddenly slow in front of me. On this chilly evening, my windows are up. My music plays softly, but I turn it down. The bright city lights, headlights obscure the night sky, blocking all but the most luminescent of stars. A subdued shine.

I apply my brakes and slow down. Within the sea of red emerges an intrusive flashing blue. Several, in fact. I approach the commotion, follow the other drivers’ lead, observe. A scene too often in the news. Supposed light exploiting the dark—afraid of the dark.

Beyond three black-and-white cruisers, a single man. He stands outside a dark

SUV, presumably his own. Tense shoulders, tired eyes, he’s done this before. A glimmer catches my attention, as I return my focus to the three policemen. Their nerves relying on three drawn, aimed guns. Then, a chill and a spasm, from me, the witness. I’m not religious, but I pray I won’t hear the sounds of irreparable mistakes. I’m a witness, but only briefly, helpless.

The man’s arms flail wildly in the air. He’s seemingly unfazed by the cold, lustrous metal aimed in his direction. A slip of a finger and his story ends, yet he’s not the one who stands shivering. His anger seems to override his fear. Somehow, I’m the one who’s concerned about the loaded guns.

I don’t know this man’s story, before this night or after. Perhaps he has kids, a

family. Perhaps he was drunk, or drove 66 in a 65. Perhaps he lives nearby, and we have

mutual friends. I don’t know him, but I could.

And before I know it, he’s invisible in my rear-view mirror. This is a highway,

and I was only a witness to the spectacle, moving slowly, but not stopping. My headlights

no longer shine in his direction. My own incomplete experience. It is too late now, and I

don’t know what happens next. My role as an extra has ended.

I obsess online, that night and the next few, searching for “shooting” and

“highway 238” and “San Leandro.” Still, “no results found” does not mean crisis averted.

Maybe he was arrested, booked, and spent the first of many nights incarcerated. Maybe

that was the right outcome. Maybe he was armed? Maybe he had warrants out for his arrest? Maybe he was innocent? Maybe a young cop saw a black man in an expensive vehicle, and automatically assumed the worst? Maybe it’s a story I’ve heard before.

Maybe this time there is a different ending. Maybe, beyond the smoke and fog and lights, stars somewhere align.

But it’s not my story to tell. I was, after all, just a witness, nothing more.

Missing the Cure

Aaron and I sat in the parking lot on the hood of my car, and watched as a beat-up

Geo Metro finally pulled in. Its paint was peeling, and the rear bumper had a dent along its entire left side. The driver’s door opened, and two empty Miller Lite tall cans rolled out, clanking along the pavement. Aaron and I laughed for a moment, until we realized it wasn’t actually funny. Jeremy stepped out, his long, skinny legs accentuated by his tight jeans. We held our breath, unsure of which Jeremy we were going to get today. Jeremy looked over at us and smiled. He removed his sunglasses, and to my relief, his eyes weren’t bloodshot or heavily dilated. I reached out for a handshake but was instead greeted with a bear hug that felt disproportionate to his emaciated body. He was in a good mood. Aaron and I could finally exhale.

When I was in eighth grade, my English teacher assigned us partners to work on a project for our reading of Tom Sawyer. I was paired with the new kid, Aaron, and we quickly bonded over a common taste in music and mutual disinterest in the Mark Twain novel.

The two of us, soon best friends, became acquainted with two other guys in our class,

Jeremy and Bryan. Our group of four was inseparable by the end of middle school. We spent many nights at each other’s houses, and even our mothers became friends.

As we grew closer, there became a slight concern for Jeremy nagging in the backs of our heads. His stepfather was cold and strict, demanding perfection from Jeremy. This was not the strive-to-be-your-best type of parenting, but instead these rules were an excuse for Steve to issue threats to Jeremy—threats of disownment, and eviction.

Jeremy’s relationship with his mother was usually fine, but occasionally strained. Slightly

timid, though mostly well-meaning, Mary feared being caught in the middle. Perhaps she

feared her husband, but I never knew, and I still don’t. Jeremy had nowhere else to

escape—he knew almost nothing about his biological father and wanted even less from

him. It wasn’t until I knew him for a few years that I understood exactly why.

Jeremy only told me his mother’s story one time. Mary grew up in a small Iowa

town of less than a thousand, in an everybody-knows-everybody close-knit and conservative community. She was 17 when she and a friend of hers went to a high school senior’s party. A stranger, a man who told Mary he was a cousin of the host and went to school a few towns over, complimented Mary on her dress and offered her a drink. Shy and naïve, Mary was flattered at the attention, and continued to talk to this man, despite her friend’s hesitance. Hours later, Mary found herself alone and cold, covered in tears and bruises. And unbeknownst to her, pregnant. Mary’s father, a pastor, pulled his daughter from school, and forbade her from leaving the house. Yet, an abortion was out of the question—and instead, Mary was blamed for allowing herself to be in that situation in the first place.

Jeremy was, since I first met him, an enigma—always complicated, never predictable. In middle school, this was hilarious. He’d spontaneously decide to jump off a rooftop into the bushes, just to make people laugh. Later, Jeremy would relish pain, and use it for attention. He tried to jump stair sets on his skateboard that he knew he’d never clear, and then wince in pain while looking around to make sure we all saw. Once, in the middle of

a teacher’s lecture, Jeremy inserted a safety pin into his unpierced ear as half the class looked on. The patterns in his erratic behavior in high school are, of course, easier to spot now. Still, it feels like we should have known where this path would lead.

The summer between our freshmen and sophomore years, Aaron’s dad got a job at the Pentagon, and moved his family to Virginia. It was obviously difficult to have my best friend move away, but I at least still had Jeremy and Bryan. Our group of four could easily transition to a trio, I thought. In anticipation of Aaron leaving, I tried to grow closer with Jeremy. And for a while, it worked. My parents liked Jeremy, and he started sleeping over at my house a lot. That summer, we learned that The Cure, his favorite band since before I met him, was coming to town. We were eager to go, but the $60 tickets were a bit steep. Jeremy tried to ask his mom for money when his stepfather wasn’t around, but when that didn’t work, Mary and Jeremy invited me to stay for dinner that night—maybe hoping an innocent witness would improve the chances of Steve’s approval.

“So, Steve,” Mary began. “Jeremy and Matt want to go to their first concert. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Oh,” Steve said, rather unimpressed. He cut a big piece of steak, and jumped right past the pleasantries, turning to Jeremy and asking, “How much are the tickets?”

“Only $60,” Mary cut in, hoping to redirect her husband’s attention away from her son. She placed an ill-fitting emphasis on ‘only’ that rest of us at the table saw right through.

Steve put his fork down, making a loud clang against the porcelain plate. It startled me, but everybody else seemed used to it. Steve looked back at Jeremy. “And how do you plan on paying for this ticket?” He chewed loudly, mouth agape, waiting for a response.

Mary again interjected. “Well, perhaps we could give Jeremy an advance on his allowance?”

“An advance? Mary, it’s 60 fucking dollars.”

“Well, I have some money…” Jeremy tried to finally add.

“Do you think you can go to your boss and ask for an advance in your pay?”

Steve said to Mary, ignoring Jeremy, ignoring the point.

Jeremy’s brothers sat there in silence. I followed their lead and slumped in my chair. I felt guilty for the escalating discussion, unsure of what to do. Jeremy stared at his plate, certainly more embarrassed and frustrated at his stepdad’s scene than the prospect of not attending the concert. Eventually, Mary did find the money for Jeremy, and we went to see The Cure. I never asked for more details than that.

Before she met Steve, Mary was a single mother, abandoned by her family. But when

Jeremy was four years old, his mother married a man nearly ten years her senior. Steve offered Mary a chance at a better life—a safer home for her and Jeremy, the security of consistent food on the table. Soon after they married, they moved to California, and when

Jeremy was six, Mary gave birth to a set of twins. These were Steve’s first children, his only children—a fact he never hid from anyone. From Jeremy, I heard countless stories

over the years of Steve’s contradictory attitudes in his treatment of the three kids. Jeremy faced threats of being sent to boarding school for the slightest of infractions, while his brothers seemed to get away with anything.

One Friday night in ninth grade, our group of four walked to Taco Bell to get ourselves dinner. Jeremy explained to us that his mother was out of town, and Steve had come home from work that night with a McDonalds bag. Inside were burgers and fries for Steve and the twins—nothing for Jeremy. “I didn’t know you’d be home,” was

Steve’s weak excuse, according to Jeremy.

During our sophomore year, Jeremy, Bryan and I sat together at lunch, and occasionally hung out after school. But a slow rift developed, with each of us branching out in other directions. Jeremy showed up one day with a small bag of weed and a glass pipe I never knew he had. He asked me to smoke with him after school, the first of many such invitations. But not even a year later, Jeremy had moved on to harder drugs. He showed up to school drunk half of the week, and the other half, under the influence of whatever prescription pill he found that morning. Bryan and I were both concerned but expressed it in different ways. Bryan spent less time with us, eventually finding other friends to eat with altogether. Jeremy and I remained friends, but I sometimes wondered why. He found another group that accepted him, one that I had trouble migrating to. Jeremy’s new friends not only embraced his drug habit but supplied him with new methods of inebriation.

With new friends came a new attitude for Jeremy. His new group—affectionately

calling themselves “the troubled kids”—displayed an abrasive I-don’t-care demeanor, which Jeremy had no trouble adapting to. This apathy extended to not only his schoolwork, but ultimately, our friendship. One day during lunch at school, one of the

Troubled Kids took a swig from a water bottle apparently filled with vodka. He offered me a turn, but before I could even answer, Jeremy interrupted. Laughing, he said, “Matt’s such a lightweight, be careful you don’t give him too much or he’ll be shitfaced in class!”

His new friends laughed. I wasn’t sure if I should take the bottle to prove him wrong or ignore it and leave. I wish I was surprised at Jeremy’s outburst, but these denigrations had been building up over time.

In hindsight, Jeremy was probably pushing me away. He resented my home life, which, in his mind, showed a semblance of normality that appeared infinitely better than his own. But nostalgia clouded my judgement, and I was loyal, perhaps to a fault.

Eventually, I got the message. Jeremy made it clear he preferred to skate and drink with the Troubled Kids. My junior year of high school, I walked away from Jeremy, literally and metaphorically, and from there, we continued down different paths altogether.

Aaron moved back to California for college, and though his school was a couple of hours away from me, we managed to get together every few months, especially around the holidays. My parents invited him to our house for Thanksgiving every year, and during these few days together, we always made a point to reach out to Jeremy. It was under the

guise of a reunion of sorts, but more so, we were concerned for our wayward friend, and wanted to check in on him.

Since high school, Jeremy had matured and mellowed out. He never apologized for the way our friendship ended, but I let that go. As an adult, he was friendly again, even cordial. But he was also troubled, and still impulsive. It became clear in our annual meetups that Jeremy had bigger distractions in his life. Aaron and I strategized; we didn’t want to imply that our only reason for seeing Jeremy was out of worry, even if it was our primary focus.

One year, just before Thanksgiving, Mary reached out to me on Facebook. She filled me in on what she knew about her son. He hadn’t been home in several months, and rarely returned her calls. She was pretty sure he was living in Concord, possibly with other addicts, but she admitted that was mostly speculation. Naturally, she was worried about him. She knew our annual tradition, and asked if Aaron and I could, at the very least, let her know how he was doing. This was a more gut-wrenching request than he and

I first realized.

The next day, we met at a park in Concord, where we used to spend time years earlier. Aaron and I got there first and sat on the roof of my car and watched Jeremy’s dilapidated hatchback pull into the lot. Jeremy was thinner than I remembered. He stepped out of the car, cigarette in hand, wearing what looked like the same pair of skinny jeans with holes in them that he’d worn the last several times I saw him. It was a cool day, in the low 50’s, but Jeremy only had on a t-shirt—which also had a few holes. In high school, his stepdad forbade him from having long hair—a loosely defined style for

Steve, who actually required Jeremy cut his hair about once per month. Now, out of

Steve’s jurisdiction, Jeremy’s hair was long, stringy, unkempt. It moved in clumps in the breeze. It was clear Jeremy wasn’t taking care of himself.

“Hey, dude,” Aaron and I said.

Jeremy surprised us with two oversized hugs, then whispered through his yellow teeth, “You guys want to get high?”

I looked at Aaron, and we exchanged a silent stare. Mary had warned us, though we knew it was coming—we just didn’t expect it so soon. In no position to enable him, we tried to power through the awkwardness.

“Um, we were thinking maybe we’d head to Berkeley?” Aaron proposed, deflecting.

“Yeah, OK,” Jeremy replied.

He finished his cigarette as we walked to my car, and for a few moments, I thought we had successfully avoided the issue. We hit the road, and tried to catch up with

Jeremy, hoping to extract something positive to relay back to Mary. Unfortunately, details remained elusive for most of the day. No, he wasn’t going to school; he lost his job a few months back, wasn’t working at the moment; yeah, he was still skating, some; no, he hadn’t talked to his mom recently, or any of our old friends from high school.

There was light traffic on our way there. I slowed as we approached the looming darkness of the Caldecott Tunnel, and I looked into the rear-view mirror at my apprehensive friend in the back seat. He pulled something out of his pocket. I was driving, and soon the headlights behind me obscured my view of Jeremy. The car became

silent as the tunnel blocked the radio’s signal. I nudged Aaron, hoping he could subtly intervene. Maybe Jeremy tried to be nonchalant, but there was no mistaking the distinct snorting sound. Whatever was in his pocket was now in his bloodstream. My eyes darted around the two-lane tunnel, afraid of any other witnesses. Aaron and I shared another look, but didn’t say anything to each other, or to Jeremy. We kept driving and eventually parked, and for the rest of the day, Jeremy seemed content to pretend he was sober.

After Aaron and I dropped Jeremy off that night, we couldn’t help but trade theories. We didn’t seek any real confirmation into what drugs Jeremy was using that day, but it was clear his life wasn’t headed down any particularly optimistic path. A few days later, I messaged Mary back. I lied. I don’t know exactly why, except maybe to bring her some relief. Jeremy was fine company that day. He was pleasant and nice. That felt easier than mentioning the tiny bruises on his arm, or his tendency to zone out. And so I cherry-picked the best parts of the day and from Jeremy’s stories to hopefully calm some of Mary’s understandable nerves about her estranged son.

I last saw Jeremy more than five years ago. We’ve swapped pleasantries online a few times since then, but mostly we go long stretches with complete radio silence. In these gaps, I thought of him often, hopeful that his story—his messy childhood and a string of dangerous and unhealthy decisions as an adult—had started a new chapter. But I also know that it takes work to change your own narrative. I wasn’t sure if Jeremy had that ability.

Last May, I logged onto Facebook to discover what I had feared for five years.

Mary had posted every mother’s greatest fear. She explained, Jeremy had just earned his

“one-year sober” chip from Narcotics Anonymous. He celebrated. His tolerance had dropped. He was 26.

I lied to Mary after the last time I saw Jeremy. It was all I could think about now.

His lanky body seemed to float on the skateboard in Berkeley that day. He drifted in on the air of unbridled enthusiasm and sank on a quest to quench an unattainable thirst.

I sat frozen in my chair after discovering the news. I tried to picture his life since

we last spoke, but I was stuck on the thought that all of my passive hopes for him were

worthless. My mind made up scenes, picturing him sleeping on damp cardboard underneath the overpass, breaking into his old house, stealing money from Steve because surely his withdrawals must have been worse than his stepfather’s wrath. I imagine he was alone.

This past Thanksgiving holiday weekend, my high school class had its ten-year reunion. I

considered going, but by then, the rest of my high school class had heard the news.

Everyone knew he and I were close. They would surely ask me questions, or worse, offer

sympathy I knew I didn’t deserve.

So, I didn’t attend. And for a while since then, I’ve been plagued by a dream. It’s

one that I’ve had dozens of times now, one that haunts me with whispers of what could

have been. It’s not a nightmare, but I wouldn’t call it happy, either. In this dream, I do go

to the reunion.

I’m anxious walking into the ballroom. My shoes are a half-size too small,

constricting the blood flow in my feet. My teal polo and jeans leave me underdressed for

the event. Across the room, I spot a tall, dark-haired man with glasses that looks familiar.

Jeremy cut his hair. It looks normal. It looks nice. I approach him, and to my relief, he

smiles.

“Matt! I was hoping I’d see you here tonight.”

“Hey, Jeremy. It’s been a while—great to see you.”

We catch up for a bit, exchange stories of jobs, girlfriends, new apartments. I try

to ignore the questions about drug use that tug at my focus. He is wearing long sleeves,

covering the possibility of any track marks. He has gained some weight since the last

time I saw him.

“Listen, I’m glad you’re here,” Jeremy says after a brief lull in our conversation.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Look,” he starts. “I’m in this program. It’s…it’s like a 12-step thing.”

I try to show a mix of concern, surprise, and interest. “Oh?” is all I can muster.

“Well, the thing is, one of the steps, step nine…”

“Yeah?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Step nine. I want to make amends.” That’s the hard part for him to get out. He then speeds up his speech. “I was such a dick to you in high school.”

“No, no you were—”

“Yeah, I was,” he cuts me off. “Look, I’m really sorry. It was fucked up of me. I was a fucking asshole, you didn’t deserve that.”

He rubs his cheek under his eye, wiping away what could be a tear. We don’t hug,

we don’t shake hands. Instead, we stand silently for an indefinite amount of time. We

don’t look at each other, but we’re calm.

The first few times I had this dream, I’d wake up and rush to jot down every detail

I could remember. Reunion. 12-step. Sorry. Now, it’s a film I know by heart.

The day after learning of Jeremy’s death, I finally wrote to Mary. I repeated clichés, told her that I was sorry for her loss, that I was thinking of her and her family, that they should reach out to me if there was anything I could do to help. She replied a few hours

later. She was kind. She thanked me, for being a friend to Jeremy. For trying to steer him

back on the right path. My heart tightened and stomach dropped all over again. That was

a lie—my lie. I didn’t do anything to help him, and now it was too late to try. I admitted

to her that I hadn’t talked to him in a few years. She replied back, “Jeremy lost track with

all of his old friends from school, drugs took over…”

In the year and a half since his passing, I’ve slowly learned more about my tormented

friend. He had been living in a halfway house, and he really did join a program. He had a

sponsor and found a part-time job not far from where he was staying. He was actually

trying.

In my dream, he apologizes to me. In the real world, though, I never apologized to

him.

For a while growing up, people told Jeremy and me that we looked alike. We were both

skinny kids with black hair and pale complexions. But Jeremy grew up not understanding

his own value. His stepdad tried to forget him, his father remained an invisible monster.

Our similarities were only skin deep.

I continue to watch for updates on Facebook. I like all of the old photos Mary

posts. There is one, from 8th grade, that I recognized right away when she put it up. The four of us—Jeremy, Bryan, Aaron and myself—are all there. Jeremy is on his skateboard, on the sidewalk in front of his house. Bryan is talking, and Aaron and I are listening, laughing. The early evening sun reflects off of Jeremy’s sunglasses, creating a warm glow. Behind the gleam, there are glimpses of a few pearl white charmers. Jeremy is smiling, too.

My Mind is Running

I can feel in my legs the urge to run. My feet miss the aching, my calves already forget the strain. My knees have not bounced around in some time. My thighs aren’t sore, my hip is not in pain. Maybe above all, my lungs feel relaxed; instead of gasping for every bit of air, training themselves to value each breath, my diaphragm rests, with no heavy use. My body isn’t used to remaining sedentary for prolonged periods, but today, this week, this month, it can’t seem to win the battle with my brain. Today, my head wins, and holds the rest of my body hostage under the safe covers of a wool blanket and lingering depression. Today, I stay in bed, and my body watches the world go by.

When I started my freshman year of high school, my best friend, Drew, conned me into joining the track team. He just wanted a friend there with him, no doubt.

Incidentally, shin splints, or so he claimed, left me to train without him. In these days, before the first iPods were ever released, it was a chore to even start a run. I was lazy— what 14-year-old isn’t?—and I had more excuses ready than reasons. Still, some way, somehow, I found myself up at ungodly hours, running from the light, from the warmth, from the comfort. Running from the fear, perhaps, of surfacing inner demons. The very act of exercising seemed to quell most dark thoughts or urges to “be a lazy kid,” as my mother always put it. Running was the prescription for symptoms I didn’t yet know how to describe.

Drew, leaving me high and dry, quit the track team after only three weeks. I had no idea why at the time, but I stayed on, stayed running. Probably jealous, Drew jokingly

called me Forrest Gump. “Now when Matt’s going somewhere, he is runn-ang,” he’d tease, in his less than impressive faux southern accent.

Heading into my sophomore year, I decided not to sign up for track, but it didn’t mean I was giving up the sport. In the decade and a half since I first began, I’ve lived in five different houses and apartments, across four cities, in two separate states. On the beach, in the snow, I’ve run. Of course, I’ve gone running up that hill, that trail, that park, that mental block. I’ve incorporated music—oh boy, the music was a great addition—and the best birthday present I’ve received in years was a pair of Bluetooth wireless headphones. My shoes are more expensive than they used to be, as are the injuries. Many days, running just got me out of the house, even if for just a little while.

But, not today. Not today, or yesterday, or the day before. Today, the blanket is pulled over my head, drowning out the voice from my TV reading a laundry list of side effects for some new pill. The trademark warning of four-hour boners can’t even muster up a half-smile in me. Forrest Gump has been on, but I’ve hardly paid attention in the past hour. Today, at least the TV is on, which is better than yesterday. Progress, maybe.

My legs, restless under the covers, kick at the sheets in an attempt to fight back against my brain. It doesn’t seem like they will win today, but maybe tomorrow, we’ll see.

Today, I ignore my phone buzzing beside my bed and I keep my blinds shut, hiding from the sun. The outdoors is calling, the trails wonder where I’ve been. My $140 Nikes are concerned with the dust they’ve accumulated. It’s 11:22 am, and I’m considering yet another nap. My pillow high-fives my mattress, hugs my comforter. They have my attention today, my devotion for too many hours for what could possibly be healthy.

Forrest Gump isn’t getting up today, much to my body’s chagrin. My body has lost this battle before, but it’s determined to win the war. Maybe tomorrow the light will shine through. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get back to work, to healing. But not today.

These Rights to Bear—Reflections in Reverse-Chronological Order

It takes me days, even weeks to write how I feel. In the middle of writing this, I wake up to a text message from a friend of mine, angry and confused about a shooting I had not yet heard about. She explains—how can one explain this anyway?—that 12 more are dead. This time, it’s at a bar when an ex-Marine opened fire. Her cousin was there, she tells me. This cousin, her life is saved by a stranger who pulls her and others behind a pool table for cover, and then when he gets a chance, smashes a window with a barstool, which later the media credits for saving upwards of 30 lives.

Two weekends earlier, I’m at this friend’s wedding, where I’m the couple’s best man. During the reception, this cousin of hers, nearly a decade younger than us, teaches us older folks a new dance, and we all have fun making fools of ourselves as the music blasts through the warm night.

I’m so glad, I text my friend, that your cousin is ok.

This time at a bar at a theater at a wedding, restaurant, office, at a school again. At Trader

Joe’s, at churches, synagogues, banks, newspaper offices and video game tournaments.

At concerts, at so many concerts and clubs. And why, why so many schools. Who can keep track. Who can feel safe.

My roommate and I sit on our couch, watching the news, and I notice him shaking his head. The President of the United States suggests the latest school shooting—in Florida?

Or was it Texas this time?—could have been prevented if more people had guns. The

president says we should arm the teachers. He appears to believe that somehow more

guns would make us less violent. That schools should start training their faculty to use

guns. That school budgets are not in crisis.

“Don’t give me a gun,” Brian blurts out. My roommate is a second-year science

teacher at a middle school he often defends as not that bad. “Or any of my colleagues,”

he continues. “We’d have probably used them by now. Those kids are crazy. We’re

crazy.” He uses a string of expletives to deride the president’s inane comments and his

obvious lack of experience and familiarity with the situation.

Brian laughs at what he’s just said. It’s a joke, but not really. He’s looking for an

outlet. There’s frustration, with the president, with the rhetoric. But more so, there’s fear.

Fear seems to be the emotion du jour these days for him—prescribed from politicians but

exacerbated by the second school lockdown in as many months from violent threats

against his campus. Two days later, he’ll tell me about the third—someone spray paints

on the bathroom walls a threat that they’ll shoot up the school. No learning accomplished

that day, just more fear.

“Sometimes I can’t remember,” he exhales. “Why I teach.”

Completely desensitized. I swallow the news that’s become a monthly, weekly, damn near daily occurrence. I used to feel numb, now immune from the power it once had.

Even aware of this change, it’s difficult to feel otherwise. The only constant is the fear of some future.

I want to teach. I don’t want to teach. I love the college campus. I’m afraid of being on any campus. My instinct in a new classroom: create an exit strategy. That desk, maybe I can flip it, hide behind it, maybe it’d protect me from one, two, three bullets.

Too many rooms with only one door. Can wood protect me? Can I protect others?

These kinds of things, they don’t happen to me, they won’t happen to me.

“That’s what I used to think,” says Shawn, a friend of my roommate’s, sitting on

the opposite couch as me. It’s the first time I’ve met him. I didn’t know his history before

this. He tells me he was less than half a football field away, sitting with his coworkers,

when a woman stormed into his YouTube office in San Bruno and shot and wounded

three of his colleagues before turning the gun on herself.

He was given three weeks off, and the company paid for therapy, Brian explains

to me later.

In a previous life, I mention, I worked just a block down from the YouTube

headquarters. I passed by your office every day, I say. I’m not sure why I’m telling him

this.

I knew the name Marjory Stoneman Douglas, but I had to look her up again. I read that

she lived to be 108 years old. I learned that until the day she died, she worked to defend

the vulnerable, to protect the defenseless. She was celebrated, championed for her efforts.

I learned this the first time from my cousin, who, as a freshman in high school

decided to research the person his high school was named after. Jason is only two months

younger than me, but twice as ambitious, and immeasurably more dedicated. He and I

were close growing up but saw each other rarely—once or twice per year, when my family made the trip to South Florida to visit. One particularly hot summer, our parents decided it was a good idea to visit the Florida Everglades. As I complained about visiting a swamp while already drowning in the muggy air, my cousin educated me on his high school’s namesake—how Marjory Stoneman Douglas insisted the Everglades weren’t just a swamp, but a treasured resource, a rare beauty that should be nurtured, appreciated.

In Florida, he explained, Douglas was a revered icon—her name synonymous with environmental protection.

I also first learned about 14 dead children and 3 dead faculty members from

Jason. By then he was far away, living and working in Brooklyn. In the days that followed, I watched closely his public reactions on Facebook, cycling between speechless and inspired. Watching with the rest of the country, we learned the names of Emma

González and David Hogg. We tweeted #NeverAgain and we marched for our lives.

Douglas’ name now associated with this new movement, one driven first by fear, then by hope.

I’m so proud, Jason wrote to me on Facebook, of these kids.

He and I only have a mental picture of a gunman walking onto that campus, lifting up a military instrument of war, aiming it at children there to learn, and deciding, yes, to become a mass murderer. Alive, afraid, then not. I try to imagine the shooter’s life—the depression, the hurt, the loneliness that lead him to this moment, this decision.

These feelings aren’t unique, and I realize, neither are his actions anymore.

But Jason’s image is more vivid than mine. His includes the real classrooms he

sat in and the hallways he walked down. The neighborhood and streets he grew up on.

The kids on TV become overnight icons. Household names. Somehow, polarizing

figures. They hope none of us will ever live their horror. But hoping for no violence at

school seems futile—as useful as hoping the rain will stop. When did schools become not

just a place for learning, but a target for evil? Now, I teach my own students about

rhetoric. This is a rhetorical question, I explain. One that we can’t answer.

Why do mass shootings always lead to a spike in gun sales?

“Well, after Columbine…” I begin to explain. I look around at the puzzled faces,

so I pause. “Do you guys…” I ask. “Know about Columbine?”

There’s silence, a few heads shake no. I’m stunned. The Colorado school shooting

was a monumental moment, not just in my life, but in the ethos of America. There’s an

age difference, over a decade, between my students and me. The massacre took place the

year most of them were born, so it could be one reason they aren’t familiar with the story.

“Well, Columbine was a high school in Colorado,” I begin to explain. “One of the worst mass shootings—”

“Worse than Sandy Hook?” one asks. Surprisingly, I feel somewhat relieved that they at least know this event. But then I realize that I don’t know the answer to her question. And it dawns on me that it’s not just their age to blame for never learning about

Columbine—it’s just the culture in which they were raised. The sheer volume of

incidents makes it hard to keep up. I grew up when Columbine was synonymous with

tragedy, with shock. By the time other high-profile massacres—Virginia Tech, Northern

Illinois, Sandy Hook, UC Santa Barbara, Umpqua College—I was out of high school. My

students had too many other school shootings to read about, too many to remember and

too many to be afraid of. The single-word Columbine once referenced an unforgettable

tragedy. An over-saturation of violence now lessens the impact of each event. The name

Columbine just doesn’t carry the same weight anymore.

Uncle Will, after more incidents than I can count, is finally arrested. He goes home that

night, but now, he must forfeit his guns. My dad tells me he knew his brother-in-law had guns, more than one, even, but nine? Why does this suburban father need nine guns?

Another question I never learn the answer to.

After idling away for a few years in community college, I finally transfer to a university, choosing San Francisco State from the small list of schools that would have me. The campus is drab, and the commuter community doesn’t engage the way I had hoped. An acquaintance, James, starts at the school the same time as me, and naturally we begin to spend more time together. We become better friends, and in the Spring semester, we try to plan similar schedules. James and I find our way into the same English class that term, and though our peers are slightly livelier than in other courses we are in, nobody is too outgoing. The two of us keep mostly to ourselves.

Halfway through the semester, we sign up for group presentations, and James and

I soon find another student to join our mandatory minimum group of three. Our professor

schedules presentations to take up an entire week of our Monday/Wednesday class. My

group is slotted for Monday, but the day of, James never shows up. I text him a couple

times in class, and a few more after. The professor is nice enough to let us delay our

presentation until Wednesday, when our whole group would be together. But Wednesday

comes and I still have received no word back from James. I am more annoyed than

concerned, as our group sans James has no choice but to present without him.

I give up calling James, deciding it is now on him to reach out to me. He’d better

have a damn good excuse, I reason. At home that night, I casually scroll through my

Facebook feed. I see a post, telling me that James has been tagged in a photo by his sister.

I look at the toddler grinning in the sepia-toned scanned photo, with his two siblings flanked on each side, showing slightly less enthusiasm.

“I still can’t believe you were taken from us so early,” his sister writes.

“I’ll miss you every day,” his brother follows.

I’m not quite sure what I’m reading. I quickly click on his page, look for answers.

More posts, more photos, James smiling in them all. Each post sharing a memory of their friend, their son, their brother. Condolences from names I don’t recognize, friends and family of his I’ve never met. Rest in peace, each one says, followed by, we love you.

After my initial shock, I want clarification. I don’t yet know the how or why or when or where. I type his name into Google, looking for recent stories or anything that could provide some semblance of understanding.

“Suspect Arrested in Fatal Oakley Park Shooting,” reads the first headline. I

nervously read the article out of sequence, my eyes darting around the page, scanning for the key passages. Suspect, 19-year-old, homicide, criminal gang activity, death of 21- year-old. The story explains that James was walking through a park at night with 3 friends. A kid, trying to prove himself to an area gang, police speculate. No known connection between suspect and victim, they say. Just wrong place, wrong time, they reason.

Later, I see more headlines as I followed the story of my friend, who is suddenly the unluckiest person I’ve ever known. A few years later, I read “Man sentenced to 15 years to life for killing S.F. State student,” but by then, James is as much a statistic as a memory.

A movie theater, a train station, a park. Colorado, Texas, Utah. Kids, adults, seniors.

I’m 19, and it’s the third time my dad has flown to the opposite coast on a moment’s notice to be there for his sister. My dad is tired of holding interventions for his brother-in-

law. The third time, my aunt strongly objects when my dad suggests removing the guns

from the house. She’s never held any of the several they own, let alone fire any. Her

defense is upsetting. Her and her kids are victims to Will’s volatility, we keep reminding

each other. Her and her kids are family. Will is drunk—drunk again—and hasn’t been

home in a week, so my dad stays in their extra bedroom, trying to hold his family

together.

A few months after he gets back, my dad tells me a story. He says, a man sits in his car in a quiet, snowy suburb, and it makes a neighbor nervous. This neighbor, she notices a car pulled over, idling for several minutes outside her house. As her suspicion grows, as she starts to walk outside, this neighbor realizes she knows the driver. Then, she realizes the driver is sitting, pointing a gun to his own head. The man is trembling.

The neighbor, she calls the police before the armed man notices her, and they arrive quietly, unsure of what he will do.

The girl sitting next to me in 7th grade pre-algebra, Chelsea, nervously taps my desk to get my attention. She whispers to me, trying to remain inconspicuous. She needs my help, she tells me, though what for I’m not sure. She slides me a note when the teacher has his back to us, and I open it underneath my desk, away from other eyes.

Nick has a gun, it reads.

My eyes widen, eyebrows raise. What?, I mouth back to her, more incredulous than questioning. She motions with her eyes back to the note. I quickly write back.

Without anything better to say, I jot down the same word I tried to whisper. Chelsea snatches the note from me and quickly scribbles on the scrap of paper, while I wait in anticipation. My chair feels colder than it had a moment before. My hand wavers. Nick and I are not friends.

Chelsea slides her accusation back to me, and I read her words carefully. She saw the gun in his backpack. She is too scared to tell a teacher, since she sits next to him in three different classes and is sure Nick will suspect it is her who rats him out. I gripped

her note, it crumpled in my tight fist. I was nervous. A fear ran through me—of Nick, for

Nick, of tattling on him. I’m not sure how me telling a teacher instead of Chelsea will exonerate her in Nick’s eyes, but her eyes are begging me to take some kind of action, more so than even her note.

When class ends, I stay behind and tell our teacher privately. His eyes show shock, then undoubtedly, fear. This is 2001. Columbine must cross his mind. He assures me he will take care of it. He thanks me for letting him know, but I don’t feel any relief.

I have three more classes with Nick that day, and he attends every one of them.

Nobody questions or confronts him. Chelsea doesn’t believe me that I had told anyone, and I don’t really blame her. Both of our words feel meaningless.

Later, in high school, Chelsea, Nick and I are again in the same history class together. For a week straight, Nick doesn’t show up for class. The next week, when he still isn’t there, people notice. A rumor starts that Nick had been expelled, caught with a gun in his backpack on campus. According to the rumor, he was in a fight with another student, and after security broke it up, they searched each of their backpacks. I’m never able to confirm if the rumor is true, but several weeks later, Chelsea approaches me in the hall, asks if I’ve heard word about Nick. Yeah, I say. A beat goes by. Yeah, she says back, and continues on her way.

My idiot drunk uncle aims his shotgun at my aunt. She claims it wasn’t loaded, he wasn’t serious, that none of this is a big deal. She says that the first time, second time, the times

100

we know about. We know of these times because these are the occasions where one of

their kids, my cousins, has to intervene.

When I’m 8, 9, 10, Uncle Will is just the crazy guy in the family who loves to talk

about hunting and how he’ll take me one day when I’m older, even though I always say

I’m not interested. I’m too young to know that someone should count his drinks. My

parents keep their distance from Will, and never let me alone in their house.

When I’m 12, my dad gives me no warning or reason as to why he abruptly packs a small suitcase and has my mom drive him to the airport. He comes back a week later, but all I know is he was visiting his family on the East Coast. How is everyone, I ask.

Good, he says.

When I’m 14, my dad again jumps on a plane with no advanced planning. This time, my mom tells me he has to take care of my aunt and uncle. She tells me, Will is drinking again. I’m surprised to hear again, it’s the first I’ve heard about this. My mom has never liked Will, so this time, she’s ready to share more details.

Will is the kind of alcoholic who always thinks he has everything under control, she explains. The kind that thinks it is ok to keep alcohol in the house because he is handling his situation—it’s not an addiction, Will always insists—and if he wanted to, he could have just one drink and be fine, not spiral out of control, not have another, not threaten his family, not lose his job, not scare his neighbor into calling the police.

But it was never under control, so my dad has to pick up the pieces.

I’m 9 years old the first time I shoot a gun.

101

Stuff in the Morning

“It’s a tomato sauce base,” my father says.

“Right,” I say back, writing down ingredients as he remembers them.

“We definitely sauté garlic.”

“Obviously,” I say. We’re trying to recall an old family recipe—a dish my dad

used to eat often as a kid, but not once in the more than 20 years since his father passed

away.

My grandfather, Sal, was the third born of six to poor Sicilian immigrants. His

parents came to America just before he was born, along with six of their relatives. In a

predominantly-immigrant community in Boston, where English was not the primary

language, my great-grandparents used what little money they had to open a bakery. The

large family helped it get going, and my grandfather and his brothers and sisters grew up

working here.

My dad tells me Sal was the hardest working man he’s ever known, but he refused

to cook or bake professionally. This only meant, however, that he’d save his energy for

the food to make at home, and as I understand it, he cooked often. Despite working 70-

hour weeks, and much to my grandmother’s delight, Sal did the lion’s share of the

cooking in their house. According to my grandmother, they never ate out; she claims, for example, they only visited their first Chinese restaurant after their kids had all moved out.

Home cooking was a nightly event, and everyone participated. My dad didn’t grow up directly in a bakery like his father before him, but from an early age, he knew food.

102

“We’ll need eggs,” my dad tells me. I add it to the list. “Pepperoni, too, I think.”

“That it?” I ask.

“No, no. There’s more.” He wants to remember as much of this as he can without asking his siblings or my grandmother for help.

The dish we’re trying to recreate was affectionately named “stuff in the morning,” though nobody knows exactly when or how that originated. I always laugh when my dad says it, as if the name is intended to be comical. Likely, I’ve learned, its origins begin back in this bakery in Boston many decades ago. Trying to feed six children on the budget my great-grandparents had must not have been easy. My dad remembers hearing about how Sal’s breakfast most mornings—if at all—consisted of leftover food they didn’t sell the day before. They would throw that day’s random set of ingredients into a pan, and voilà: stuff in the morning—or, more likely, roba di mattina. My dad always rolls his eyes at me when I try to repeat it, hand motions, fake accent and all.

I have cooked countless meals with my dad over the years, with my responsibilities increasing roughly proportionate to my age. He’s taught me how to pick out vegetables at the grocery store, and eventually, the proper way to use a knife to cut them up. I learned how to trim the fat off fresh chicken or steak, and more importantly, the careful attention to sanitization after handling raw meat. I’ve never asked, but I can picture my dad learning the same kitchen trades from Sal, in a similar manner as he’s passed on to me. The idea that food is the great unifier through the generations in my

103

family is as intimidating as it is interesting. I’m unfortunately aware that my enthusiasm

for cooking lacks the passion that consumed my elder ancestors.

“Bread, of course,” my father says. Living in a bakery, this had to be the base to

most of their meals.

“Any kind in particular?” I ask innocently. He gives me a sly look.

“Italian,” he says, surprised I even had to ask.

My dad has mentioned “stuff in the morning” many times over the years, usually

spurred by reminiscing with his siblings on our annual trip back east. Yet, we’ve never

actually made it, much to my chagrin. It became a common meal in their house in the

60’s and 70’s, though likely in a different form than seen during Sal’s childhood.

Important modifications were made through the years to make it less of a kitchen-sink mystery platter, and more of a consistently appetizing meal. My dad doesn’t remember all of the ingredients, or the recipe’s step-by-step instructions, which I hope will instead give us the opportunity to put our own generational spin on it.

I never had a chance to know my grandfather very well. He died when I was only six years old, and from the countless stories I’ve heard, he’s become a mythical, larger- than-life character in the center of my family history. I’ve been told often that, as his first grandkid, he spoiled me in a manner fit for a prince. I have pictures of him taking me out for ice cream, and to see the horses he owned. In one photo, we’re building a snowman together, and in another, he’s teaching me to play baseball. I cherish these photos, but they aren’t real memories, and so they never make me feel any closer to him. Especially

104

as a kid, I asked for new stories whenever I could. The most common theme to the memories my father, aunts and uncles share is related to food. Growing up, I’ve tried many of Sal’s recipes, from homemade tomato sauce, to hand-crafted cannolis—all delicious. But the meal with the most interesting name has eluded me all my life.

“Cheese—did we add that yet?”

“No, what kind?” I ask.

“Cheddar. Cracker Barrel, extra sharp.”

I’m surprised to hear cheddar, but I also realize this means we’d be shredding the cheese ourselves. It’s authentic Italian cooking we’re trying to replicate, so we won’t cut corners. My dad jokes around a lot, but he’s serious about his food. It used to frustrate me growing up, but he’d gladly take two or three hours to cook a meal the right way, rather than the fast way. This is particularly true with Italian food—and especially his father’s recipes. Once, in high school, I brought a girl over to meet my parents. When my father asked us what we were doing for dinner, she smiled and told him we were going out to an

Italian restaurant. I should have seen it coming, but I was too slow: my dad asked what restaurant, and Olive Garden was barely out of my date’s mouth when he snapped back,

“That’s not Italian food.” She and I didn’t go out too much longer after that.

In my dad’s defense, he grew up a witness to true Italian cuisine. Kitchens like the one in his childhood home are often stereotyped—or parodied—in movies. Packed in an undersized kitchen with sticky linoleum floors, every member of the family contributed

105

with whatever counter space they could carve out. But despite their tired caricatures,

Hollywood does capture the same true trait: an unparalleled dedication to the craft. It’s

true with my father, it was definitely the case with my grandfather, and I have no doubt

that my great-grandparents felt the same way. I may not have the same chops, but I

appreciate this heritage, and the impact it has had on my father. When we watch

Goodfellas, my dad chuckles at the scene where the characters cut garlic using a razor

blade. “Nobody does that,” he says, before listing off a half-dozen better methods.

Some of my own early memories include “helping” Sal cook dinner. He would

give me simple tasks, like to stir some concoction in a bowl, or melt butter in the

microwave. Usually I needed help for these jobs, so undoubtedly I was more in the way

than a real assistant. Not that it mattered; I worshiped my grandfather, and he loved

having me over. In 1995, a few months after my 6th birthday, my family moved across the country from Massachusetts, and settled in the Bay Area. Saying goodbye to all of my cousins, aunts and uncles was tough, but my grandparents were special. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the last time I would ever see my grandfather.

“Onio—no, shallots. Can’t believe I forgot that,” my dad remembers. I cringe,

because, though I love shallots, I know I’m about to hear, for the hundred-something-th

time, about how the trick to good restaurant-style cooking is using shallots, not onions.

“You know, an old Italian secret…” he always begins. My uncle tells an identical story, beginning with same phrase, so I know this surely comes directly from my grandfather.

106

Sal wasn’t only a mythical figure for me, but even for those who knew him well.

Combining all the stories I’ve heard about him over the years, he spoke three languages, fought in Korea, started and owned two companies, and began a small family in a Boston suburb. He was a legendary golfer, fisherman, sailor, and chef—only the last of which I believe to be true through all its hyperbole. He owned racehorses, dogs, cats, and supposedly on two separate occasions, captured an injured crow, nursed it back to health, and trained it to fly back and land on his shoulder on command. In one infamous story, he allegedly flew to the Bahamas one morning, and returned that night, without my grandmother ever finding out until years later. He claimed to have met famous figures such as Ronald Reagan, Frank Sinatra, and Ted Williams. Perhaps my favorite story is how he became banned from Disney World for life after an argument with a Disney

Hotel employee in 1987. (My uncle is especially proud of this one; he keeps the official letter, complete with embossed Disney logo, framed in his office.)

A few months after we settled in our new house in California, my dad got a call I’ll never forget. Sal had had a stroke, and before I knew it, we were on a flight back to Boston. For the next few days, my parents shuttled me off to various friends, deciding against me going to the hospital with them. After a week back east, my parents sat me down, and amidst tears, told me my grandfather had passed away. I wasn’t quite seven years old yet, and he was the first person I knew who died. I barley grasped the concept of death, and now, the icon of our family was gone.

107

As I grew up, I learned more about Sal—stories both funny and sad, but always

memorable. I learned that the day he died was exactly two weeks after his 60th birthday. I

learned that he regularly smoked cigars, and though not an alcoholic, had at least a few

beers every day. I learned that his father, my great-grandfather, passed away at the same age after an equally unhealthy life. I also learned to cherish the memories I do have and embrace the mementos he left behind. I’m not sure why it’s taken two decades, but we’re finally attempting the most mysterious recipe of his I could find.

“Ok, read it back to me,” my dad says, gesturing to the list. He listens, hoping to think of something obvious we’re missing. “Peppers, some spices,” he adds. “And I think we’re good!”

As we finally begin to make the long-lost dish, I suddenly realize I’m nervous about this famous food not matching my anticipation. This was a meal invented more out of necessity than taste, and though it has been augmented through the years, it’s still, well, weird. It’s not just tomato sauce, eggs, garlic, cheese, shallots, peppers, and spices—there’s four generations of expectations in that first bite.

Standing in the kitchen, I stare at my dad’s off-white apron, at the mystery stains forming a map of meals cooked. I don’t remember if the apron, when we bought it for him several years ago for Christmas, was originally white, or if the failed attempts to wash off tomato sauce, grease, mustard, oil, and an assortment of other unknown spills, have simply transformed it into the faded palette it currently resembles. We often joke about how an art critic, or perhaps a blood-splatter analyst, may interpret his dark, food-

108

filled canvas. It’s getting ragged in its age, and my dad now puts it on only when cooking something special.

My dad looks comfortable here, in his familiar, natural terrain. As he places our fresh ingredients on the counter, I notice he has a peculiar smile on his face, one I don’t often see. Suddenly I realize, despite his silly grin, his eyes are slightly watery.

“I’m glad we’re finally making this,” I say, hoping to ease our separate tensions.

“Yeah,” he says, without looking up. “Me too.” There’s a pause, and I look at him as he tries to find the words. “Here,” he says, passing me a knife and cutting board. “Cut up these peppers.”

“Peppers?” I ask. “Those weren’t on the list.”

“Neither were these,” he tells me, sliding two large russet potatoes my way. “But, could be good, right?”

I smile. “It’s stuff in the morning. Of course it’s worth trying something new.”