Archive for the ‘2009 — 2.1 (Fall)’ Category

A Very Merry Christmas

05 Dec

“This present is for Gordon,” I said as I handed my nephew his loosely wrapped present. “Be careful. Don’t shake it, you don’t want to hurt it.”

Gordon’s eyes lit up as he took the present and put it down on the floor to open it. Everyone was curious; what had I purchased for Gordon this year? Last year, I bought him a BB gun and he promptly shot out my mother-in-laws bird feeder. This year would be different. Since they refused to give the gun back, I decided it was time to get even for Gordon.

I never liked my in-laws and Gordon’s parents weren’t much better. Cathy, my wife, was completely different from her family. She wasn’t pretentious like her mother and sister. After all, who names a kid Gordon?

As Gordon ripped at the paper, his mother and grandmother took turns shooting me dirty looks. Everyone leaned close to see what it was.

“What is it Gordon?” His grandmother asked.

“I don’t know, it’s an empty cage!” Gordon said, trying to act excited.

“Why would you give him an empty cage?” Michelle asked me.

“It wasn’t empty last night when I went to bed,” I told her, faking an incredulous look. “Let me see that Gord,” I said, reaching my hand out. Gordon handed me the plastic enclosure. I reached under it and pulled out a small book. I had taped it there to make sure nobody saw it first.

“I think we have an escape artist on our hands folks.” I said as I hid what was on the cover of the book.

“I hope it wasn’t a mouse,” his grandmother said, a look of disgust on her face. Cathy had to fight to suppress the smile from her face; she was in on it with me. Gordon was in on it too. I had given him a hundred dollar bill earlier and explained what was going to happen.

I bit my lip as I held up the book for everyone to see. Gordon’s grandmother fainted instantly. His mother wasn’t far behind.

“Oh my God!” she screamed and then fainted, just like her mother. Tarantulas for Dummies turned out to be my new favorite book.

Bleed the Line

05 Dec

“You know,” David said, “this is illegal in some states.”

“What, gay sex?” Devon asked.

“No,” David said, then kissed Devon, inching closer to him on the ambulance stretcher, “having sex in an ambulance. If I get caught, I’m fucked.”

“Like you wouldn’t like that,” Devon said, sliding his hand across David’s stomach.

Devon worked as a security guard at Fawcett Memorial Hospital in Port Charlotte, Florida. This is where he hooked up with David, a paramedic he routinely received blow-jobs from on Wednesday nights. Devon did not believe himself to be a fag. He was having sex with David because he needed something from him, and he was willing to sacrifice his masculinity (so he thought it to be). They had been having sex for almost one month. Devon, during this time, was able to emotionally detach himself from David. This is something I have to do, Devon continuously reassured himself, especially after ejaculating.

“Fuck off,” David said, standing up, almost hitting his head on the center dome light, “and why do we always have to have sex in the rig?”

“You know it turns me on. I’ve told you that already.”

“Whatever.” David began searching for his pants on the floor of the ambulance.

“Hey,” Devon said as he grabbed David’s forearm, “do me a favor.”

“What?” Devon slipped into his pants.

“Teach me how to give someone an IV?”

“Why in the hell would you want me to do that?” David said, buttoning his pants, and then picking up his shirt.

“It’s just something I’ve always wanted to know how to do. Besides, I’m a security guard. I should know how to do these things. Who knows when the next nine eleven is going to be, you know?”

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” David said, reaching

above Devon to open the IV supply cabinet.

“Because you love me.” Devon said. Do I love him?

“I wonder about that.” David began to prepare Devon’s arm for an IV, carefully explaining each step. It took almost thirty minutes for the IV to complete. Afterwards, Devon convinced David to give him enough supplies to initiate two IVs.

“Well, I’ll see you next Wednesday.” Devon kissed David.

“You’d better,” David said, holding Devon tightly, not wanting to let him go.

“You know you will,” Devon said “Goodnight babe.”

While driving home, Devon’s cell phone rang. After reaching into his pocket, he took out his cell phone, holding it in sight of his driving vision, and read the LCD display: MOM. I know Mom. I know what day tomorrow is.

“Hi Mom. You’re calling late.” It was ten-thirty.

“I know Dev, I know. I was just thinking about, I was just thinking that, well your father.”

“It’s been ten years, Mom.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Tell me about it.” Devon said as he pulled off the road. This familiar conversation would require his full attention.

“Devon,” his mother said, “I hope you’re not still trying to find that damn medic. You should let it go.”

“You should take the same advice Mom,” Devon said, placing his hand atop an IV bag, “and I’m not trying to find this medic because I want to kick his ass. I just want to know what happened. That’s all.”

“We know what happened, Dev,” she said, and paused, “Your father died of a heart attack—“

“Well maybe if that damn medic did his job better, Dad would still be alive.” Devon, after realizing he was squeezing the IV bag, released his grip.

“I want to come down and see you tomorrow.”

“No,” Devon said, “I mean, I would love to see you. I just, well, I have plans. I have a date.”

“Really,” she said, “What’s her name?”

“Da—Debra.” Did I almost say David?

After Devon successfully convinced his mother to postpone her visit, Devon returned to the road. Often, he wished his mother would stop calling him on the eve of his father’s death. Each time she called, he felt himself beginning to forgive the medic who took care of his father on the day he died. Ultimately, Devon thought his mothers’ annual call was a distraction, pulling him away from his mission.

Now at home, Devon showered. He believed, after having sex with David, the shower would cleanse the homosexuality from his body. Clean, gay free and dry, he grabbed the IV supplies. Once in his backyard he carefully navigated, in darkness, to his shed. His work often performed at night, required privacy. Inside the shed, Devon placed the IV supplies in the appropriate location, just like David’s ambulance. Perfect, Devon thought as he closed and locked the door.

Before going to bed, Devon logged-on to FACEBOOK. It was this electronic medium which provided Devon the location of the medic he believed to be responsible for his father’s death. This instant communication, and abundance of information had eased the difficulty of murder. Locating an enemy or a potential target was a click away. Often, when Devon first began his on-line search for the medic, he would sing: “It’s a Small World After All.”

Devon was able to begin his search for this medic, Gregory Walsh, because the image of his name badge had been permanently etched into his mind: GREGORY WALSH, US ARMY, EMT. This, of course, was not all Devon was able to recall from that day. He could still see the medic, Gregory, fumbling around the ambulance, desperately trying to establish IV access, which he was not able to do. Devon could still here Gregory’s voice

telling his father: “You’re going to be alright.” He also recalled the grayness that flooded his father’s face, and most of all he remembered his pain and ire.

Devon clicked on the link to Gregory’s profile.

“Tomorrow,” Devon said, deleting Gregory’s page, “This is over tomorrow.” He shut down his computer, and then retired for the night.

Devon had been up and ready to go since five am. At six am he called in sick. Today, his plan was going into action. After careful observation of Gregory’s life, during the previous month, he learned that Gregory was single, living alone with his mentally disabled nephew, Kevin. Kevin, Monday through Friday, attended a local Easter Seals day program. Devon also learned Kevin was able to walk unaccompanied, each morning, to his bus stop.

“Hey,” Devon said, slowing his car down, “Kevin, the bus broke down, I’m here to pick you up.”

“Cool, I hate the bus. It sucks.”

“I hear you bud,” Devon said, now outside of his Dodge Caravan, placing his arm upon Kevin’s back, “They suck.”

Inside the van, Devon grabbed a bottle of Coke and offered it to Kevin.

“Want a Coke?”

“Yeah man, I love Coke. I love it.” Kevin quickly untwisted the cap and gulped half the bottle of soda.

“I love Coke too.” Devon Said. Earlier, Devon injected 10 milligrams of ATIVAN to the Coke Bottle. It would not be long before Kevin was rendered into unconsciousness.

Devon pulled into his driveway along with Kevin, drooling by his side, fast asleep. The driveway extended to the back of Devon’s house. He parked in front of his shed. Devon quickly carried Kevin from the van and into the shed, which he left unlocked that morning, knowing he would need quick access during the daylight hours. Twenty minutes had lapsed before Devon exited the shed. Once he locked the door, he returned to his vehicle. While driving to the hospital, Devon’s cell phone rang. As he did with all calls, he scanned the LCD display. DAVID.

“Hey babe,” Devon said with surprising ease.

“Hey babe, I know you only like to hook up in the ambulance

but I really want to see you tonight. I want you to come over for dinner.”

“Tonight?” This is the first time he asked me to visit his house. Does he know something? “Um, I might be able to. Can I call you in a few hours?” Devon asked, while pulling into the rear parking lot of Fawcett Memorial Hospital.

“Please,” David said, “I really want you to come over.”

“Yeah, I know,” Devon exited his van, “I promise, I’ll call. Okay?”

“You better.”

“I will.” Devon closed his cell phone. Damn fags. I might just need a blow-job after this. Erasing the thought from his mind, he continued to the service entrance of the hospital. Once inside, Devon displayed his security badge to the first kitchen employee spotted.

“Where’s the nearest phone?”

The employee pointed to her left at a door with a sign that read: KITCHEN MANAGER. Inside the office, alone, Devon picked up the phone and dialed Gregory’s cell phone number, which he obtained for an expensive on-line public record’s search.

“Mr. Walsh?”

“What’s wrong?” Gregory asked, after seeing Fawcett Memorial Hospital on his caller ID display.

“I’m afraid it’s your nephew, Kevin. We found your information in his wallet. He was involved in major bus accident.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. No, he’s being treated as we speak. You should come as soon as you can. His injuries are quite severe.”

“Perhaps you should have someone drive to the hospita—“

“I’m on the way.” Gregory said, cutting off the line.

Devon hung up the phone and exited the Kitchen Manager’s office. Once in his van, he drove to the emergency room parking lot. He calmly walked to the bench located adjacent to the ER entrance. Sitting, hoping his supervisor would not see him, he waited for Gregory’s Green Honda Accord to race into the parking lot.

The left side of Devon’s upper lip curled upward when he saw Gregory’s car. Gregory, not bothering to stop his engine, or close his door, leaped out of his car and ran for the entrance. Devon stopped him by placing his hand in the center of his chest.

“Mr. Walsh?”

“Yeah, my nephew, he’s hurt. Wait, why are you waiting for me. What the hell happened?” Gregory said, attempting to push his way forward into the emergency room.

“Mr. Walsh, please calm down. You nephew was just transferred to Tampa General Hospital. I was asked to meet you outside. Please, come with me.”

“Why?” Gregory asked as Devon placed his arm upon Gregory’s back, just like he did with Kevin.

“I was asked to drive you to Tampa.”

Inside Devon’s van, Gregory scrambled to find his seatbelt. As Devon drove out of the parking lot, Gregory turned toward Devon.

“Do I know you?” Gregory asked.

“No, I don’t think so, I just moved to Florida.”

“Since when do security guards drive people to hospitals? This is really fucking strange. I mean, what do you know? Was Kevin awake, did he say anything? Was he awake? Was he breathing on his own? Was he as—“

“Mr. Walsh, here,” Devon handed Gregory a bottle of water, “drink some of this, and please try to calm down.”

“Thanks.” Gregory sipped from the bottle.

“No problem.” Devon said as he continued to drive, hoping the increased dose of ATIVAN would take quick effect.

The ATIVAN succeeded in placing Gregory into a brief oblivion. Devon carried Gregory into his shed, like he did Kevin. This time he did not exit. This time he waited

inside, anticipating the opening of Gregory’s eyes.

“What the fuck, what happened? An accident?” Gregory asked, trying to move, but finding it difficult.

“No. Not an accident,” Devon said.

“Wait, why can’t I move?” Gregory asked, looking downward upon his body, taking notice of the duct tape, which bound him to the chair in which he sat. “What’s going on?” he asked again.

“It wasn’t an accident.” Devon said, walking closer to Gregory.

“There’s no windows, this isn’t an ambulance,” Gregory said.

“No, not a real ambulance. Pretty cool, yeah?” Devon asked, placing his hand upon an IV bag hanging from the ceiling, “It took almost a year to complete.”

Gregory then noticed that the IV bag Devon was holding was attached, via tubing, to a line connected to his bound nephews arm. Kevin, unconscious, was also bound, to an ambulance stretcher.

“Kevin! Kevin! I swear if you hurt him I’ll kill you!” Gregory said, while attempting to escape his confinement.

“You’ll kill me like you killed my father?” Devon asked.


“You heard me. Like you killed my father. Don’t remember me? Think hard asshole. You let me sit in the same chair you’re sitting now. I watched you run around like a stupid fuck trying to save my father from dying and you couldn’t do it. You didn’t do shit.”

“I remember, I remember,” Gregory said, beginning to breath more rapidly, “I do, I’m so sorry man, I really, really am. I was young, I was an army medic, not trained well enough, I did everything I could, I did, I really did, please don’t hurt Kevin, please—“

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Devon yelled, grabbing hold of the drip chamber attached to the IV tubing connected to Kevin’s arm.

“Please, man, don’t,” Gregory said.

“You know,” Devon said, while his hand traveled downward, embracing the IV tubing, “giving an IV is very safe. It’s very safe, as long you bleed the line of air.”

“Don’t,” Gregory said.

“Oh shit, I didn’t bleed the line,” Devon said, opening the line.

“Greg, is that you?” Kevin, now awake, asked, “hey, this isn’t Easter Seals.”

“Yeah,” Devon said, “that’s Greg, Kevin, and I’m about to ease his pain.”

“Hey, this really hurts, Greg. Something really hurts.” Kevin spoke his last words to Gregory, followed by violent convulsions, and drool.

“You’re so fucking dead.” Gregory said.

“Me?” Devon asked, walking toward Gregory with a fresh roll of duct tape in his left hand, “not today.”

After Devon sealed Gregory’s mouth with five layers of duct tape, completely surrounding his head, opened the shed door and was about to shut off the light.

“You know what, I’m going to leave the light on. So you can watch Kevin rot before you die,” Devon closed and locked the door of the shed.

While walking back to his house all Devon could think about was a scene from “Gone With The Wind.” After Scarlett killed a Union soldier she said: “Well I guess I’ve done murder. Well I won’t think about that now. I’ll think about that tomorrow.” Why the hell am I thinking about Gone With The Wind, and Scarlett? Am I a fag or something?

Inside the house, Devon dialed David on his cell.

“Hey babe, what’s for dinner?”

Macro Dragonfly

05 Dec



Back to the Barre

05 Dec

Back to the Barre


Going Home

05 Dec

After endless miles of interstate, I have finally reached McMinnville, Tennessee. I immediately recognize the wagon wheels marking the entrance to a tree-lined lane. I follow the gravel stretch back to a semi-secluded cottage nestled in the heart of middle Tennessee. Exiting the car, I am greeted by a small black barking dog. I try to coax her to me. I even call her by name, but she stands back – barking. She follows me around to the rear of the house. Just past the wrap around deck – I see it – the rustic barn stocked with fishing rods, reels, and tackle for use at the bass-stocked pond. The air is filled with the sweet aroma of honeysuckle in full bloom. Rose bushes of every color are bursting with buds ready to blossom. The garden is a lush deep green. I spot large, juicy, green tomatoes and cucumbers that are almost ready for harvesting. Five acres of rolling green landscape display a sampling of the areas finest nursery stock from flowering shrubs to weeping willow and blue spruce pine trees. I wander through the back door of the small house. Everything is just as I remembered it. Approaching the front room, a lump forms in my throat. There is the bar. I run my hand across the smooth lacquered finish. Then I notice the t.v., resting on a shelf that is mounted from the ceiling in the corner. A replica of the Budweiser Clydesdale team and wagon are proudly displayed next to a Coor’s Light clock. It is a miniature version of my childhood home – the small town bar my parents owned for forty years. I try to hold back. I can’t stop the salty flood of tears streaming down my cheeks. My husband holds me tight and I cry longer and harder than I have ever cried before. This was the vacation destination I chose for my family that 4th of July. Instead of a relaxing week in the foothills of the Cumberland Plateau, I am here to bury my father.

Picture Spot

05 Dec

This isn’t over.

Vultures continue to roost on the turrets of Cinderella’s castle.

For one month—October—we didn’t mind, and we even added a few fake vultures for effect. Our imagineers even managed to overstate the qualities that make a vulture so offensive, eliciting praise from our guests. “So lifelike,” they would say, “so gruesome.” We caught all these comments on tape, and hence we thought we had the problem licked. We made it all look like design, and who could blame us for thinking that once we took down the fake birds, the real ones would go simply because, well, they’d just get the idea from our masterful simulations.

No, the vultures still roost there.

So we tried poison next. We called it “Project Apple.” We even propped bird feeders shaped like apples at strategic points along the turrets. From the ground, they looked like tiny hearts. We did this in February. All this by design.

Hence, our second mistake. The birds didn’t fly away to die. They dropped dead—literally tumbling from the turrets and striking the pavement below.

As if that wasn’t enough to horrify (imagine little Johnny walking along with his mouseketeer hat when something like that falls at his feet) what we learned next positively chilled us: vultures will feed upon their own. Our imagineers could never have foreseen such an abomination.

So we had no choice but to take out the guns.

And yes, we do have them.

Our imagineers make them look like muskets.

Then we found a coonskin cap that fit perfectly on the head of Bucky Johnson, who’d been asking for months for something to do other than operate the Dumbo ride.

He wanted to add chewing tobacco to his characterization. We approved bubble gum. We have certain images to uphold.

Bucky shrugged and started working on his Tennessee accent, and for inspiration, he watched Davy Crockett over and over again. By June, he had it down. He even added a little frontier swagger.

By this time, the vultures numbered in the hundreds.

So we started Bucky from Frontier Land to help him get into character. On the way to the castle, he stopped and took pictures with the guests. “How ya’ll enjoying your stay?” he would say. “Well, I’m off to do a little hunting, if you know what I mean.”

Actually, few people did. Few even stopped him. Our DVD release of Davy Crockett did not sell well.

But, let’s face it, we did not pay Bucky to talk to guests, and besides, we have it on good authority that, just before arriving in front of the castle, Bucky spit something suspiciously brown and acrid onto the ground.

And if only chew could make Bucky a better shot.

I know what you might be thinking: All that time on the accent, and no time on the firing range?

To maintain fairness, we should note that Bucky did wound a few birds. Unfortunately, the loud report of the gun, slightly muffled to sound like a fake gun, still drew a crowd of onlookers.

Once again, vultures do not practice discrimination in their feeding practices. And worse, some of the birds managed to survive both their wounds and the fall. I do not need to tell you that we had to become quite savvy with customer relations after that.

And even worse, the vultures have spread beyond the castle.

In some cases, we have taken drastic measures. The roof covering the haunted mansion now maintains a steady flow of electricity. The guns on the Jungle Cruise now fire real bullets.

But mostly, we just try to adapt. When a vulture crosses Donald’s path, he jumps up and down and shakes his fist. When Minnie sees one, she puts her hands on her cheeks and runs away. Snow White, who possesses the power of speech, groans and asks if anyone has seen the Wicked Witch.

And then we deliver her. We started bringing out lots of villains: Captain Hook, Millicifent, Ursula, the Headless Horseman. Wherever the vultures went, that’s where we sent the villains.

Until people stopped paying attention to them and started taking pictures with the birds instead.

And vultures will do something else amazing besides eat their own. They will stay surprisingly still for a picture.


05 Dec

An old man clings to his cup, his fingers stretching from his thin glove. People walk by as the cup begs, ‘Alms! Alms!’


05 Dec

Closing class but no bell to tell of knowledge ending.

Too late to absorb even the most free of substances.

Justin playing his part directed by the one who believes

That the best possible way to get a-

Head down striving not to be a part

Of this reality not called life.

Waiting is a funny game where everyone else laughs

The fun is being had by everyone but you.

To be or not to be is not our question.

We sit still in silence, but making a great wave.

What tsunami are we learning about?

Does it matter? Both are killing heavenly created beings.

At this point what does it matter? Who matters to you?

Do I matter?

Let the sun brighten my past so I might slip unseen into a darker tomorrow.

Stop worrying about what is and what will be, because I am and always will be.

Picture it, surfing down the very division of day and night,

And we say,

“Let there be light”

“Let there be light”

“Let there be light”

The blood stains being erased by the murderer himself.

Who will tell me I am or am not? Who will I listen to?

Were you the conductor of that midnight train?

And if not, will life itself play its own refrain?

Put a basket on my head and what do I see

But the woven ancestry of fallen angels.

The god of sun and moon could not save them.

What will you perceive as truth when this all is done?

Life ends when I put down this pen and this all is done.

Goodnight moon

Goodnight earth

Goodnight sun…

Our Generation

05 Dec

Our generation will never amount to more than the sins of our fathers.

And every so often a ray of light shall be bred from the evil that is this world,

Only to be crushed under the heel of darkness, that plagues this earth.

And yet no one will remember the great man that once was,

But only the dramatic fall of the hero who was consumed by fire.

Still we’ve seen empires fall and still we join in their failures,

Rather than learn from them.

But why do we do the things we do?

To cope with such a foul hand that God has dealt us,

While a newly conceived baby will never see the light of day?

Because everyone else is doing it,

And we have this dire need to fit in that has been instilled in us since birth?

Or is it because that we are weak and succumb to the vices

That have constricted this world like a venomous serpent

since the beginning of time, when all we must do is

Rise above it and take charge by the horns of hell

And drive it back to the depths of which it once came.

For all people who still hold a torch of hope for this world,

Nothing has changed,

Nothing will change,

As long as sons and daughters disappoint their parents,

Then there is no chance of returning from the abyss.

And as bleak as that is, it’s true

For the History of man has repeated itself

Time and time again.


05 Dec

The longer one holds on to a memory of something lost,

The longer we attempt to fulfill the past.

The longer we cherish it,

The more glorious the past becomes.

However holding it too long can lead to hate.

Make us stray from the path ahead.

We forget how to walk.

The past can too easily consume us

And turn our beauty into sorrow.