10:40 PM

An office visit

She was wearing jeans. Had glasses on. And she had her baby. Three things I’d never seen before.

She was at work. On her day off. Getting her check. I was passing through. On my way to a meeting.

"Hiya!" she said, all smiles with the little guy in her arms.

The kid was staring at the air. Seeing something I could not see. A good looking kid. Brown eyes. Dark hair. Smooth complexion. Like his mom.

"Hey there," I said to her. Locking eyes for a second. Just long enough, I suppose, for her to see how much different she looked to me.

"What do you think?"

She moved the little guy toward me. He was still staring. Lost somewhere in the place babies lose themselves.

"He’s great," I said, and I waved my hand in front of his face.

He perked up. Snapped from his daydream. Looked up at me and smiled.

"He is, isn’t he?"

She was glowing. I hadn’t seen her this happy. Ever. Not at work. Headset on, flirting with customers. Contractors, distributors - men in the material handling business - calling her for quotes, tracking numbers, or just to hear her talk. The southern bell transplanted in Michigan because she had followed her hubby north. For work. To be closer to his family. Nor had I seen her this happy at the bar. Her and hubby. Out for drinks and dancing. Several Saturday nights in a row. Long before the pregnancy. Her with a slightly entertained, go-with-the-flow look on her face. Hubby being cold. Not giving a shit when we were introduced. Not even caring to make eye contact. Ignoring my offered hand. And here was his kid, fresh out of the womb, already one up on his old man, locking eyes with a stranger.

"Beautiful, is what he is," I said, and I meant it.

I had seen plenty of kids. All of them amazing, but this one had really caught me.

Maybe it was that I was tired. Up all night. Writing. Reading. Trying to clear my head. Or fill it up. Just so I could get some sleep. Or maybe it was his grip. By now, he had taken hold of my finger with his hand and he was squeezing. Or, more likely, it was that his mother was standing there. Smelling like peaches. A warmth all around her. Taking me in.

"He likes you," she said, and she gave her lower lip a little bite, and suddenly I wanted to touch her face. To put my fingers to her cheek. Touch her hair. To pull her and the little guy near and hold them.

Another girl, one of three pregnant ones waddling around the office, came over and started fawning.

Soon, all the women in the office were crowding. Goo-goo talking. Tickling.  So I stepped back. And the little guy let go. 

8:01 PM

Rain’s coming. Somewhere. Out there. Building up in the sky. Filling clouds. It’ll come down. Tonight. Tomorrow morning. I can feel it in the dead air. Sense it, like a tree must sense the falling of leaves.

And that’s coming too. Won’t be long and we’ll be buried in leaves. Cool days. Sweaters. Sweatshirts. Chook hats. All bundled up and comfy in big warm clothes. Damn, I love the change of seasons.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There’s no sense going off. Getting carried away. When there’s plenty for us to have. Right here. Today.

Traffic.

Not much of it here in Alpena. People bitch about it. Talk about how much more if it there is now than there used to be, but it’s still not bad. What makes the traffic bad, what really puts the hidee-fucking-ho in my day are tail-gaters, and people with no sense of personal space.

Sons-a-bitches.

In the morning. At lunch. And driving home. People, for the most part, haven’t any sense of anyone else’s space, but their own. Not at the gas station. Not in line at the grocery store. And certainly not on the road.

What the hell happened to people that they haven’t any sense of place?

There’s my space. There’s your space. Take notice.

Don’t ride my ass on the road.

Don’t stand in the grocery store slobbering over cookies with your cart blocking half the fucking aisle.

Open your goddamn eyes. Look around.

Maybe if you did, and maybe if you started to see, you’d slow down.

Straighten out your cart.

Put the cookies back on the shelf.

Use your brakes.

Pretend there’s an invisible car between us.

For the love of Christ, people...we’re trying to have a civilization here.

But, I digress.

What’s the sense in getting all worked up? There are bigger fish to fry.

Like this night. This lamplight. Crickets. And sleep easing in. 

8:44 PM

Going to get on with it. The best way I know how. For now. On my own. Made the decision to stay. To stick with what I started. To finish this task.

The only distractions I want are those that matter to me.

A good girl to share the days with.

Family.

Friends.

Fishing.

Barbecues.

Music. 

Cold drinks.

Books.

And let’s not forget this - these words - this writing.

A new book will be available for you by Christmas. More short stories. Untitled as of yet. But something that you’ll enjoy. I promise.

Damned fine evening here in the holy land. Crickets. Cool breeze. Stars waking. And here we are making it.

Another moment. Connecting through letters. Weaving together words. Arriving at awareness. Holding the unknown.

~ k.j.

7:16 AM

Finally. It’s nice. To have direction. I see a gaping hole behind me. One that I’ve climbed out of. And now it’s time to fill it in so there isn’t anybody else falling in. Make a path, but cover the tracks. Do all you can to repair what’s been broken.

We’re in a sad state these days. People distracted. Awash in so much that doesn’t matter. All of us drowning sorrows. Medicating ourselves. Counseling others. What we need to do is get to our center. Strip away all of the excess. Do away with the surface and get to the core.

The strange thing is that we spend most of our lives building up the shell. Amassing belongings, titles, symbols - all that is artificial - and when we fall, finally hit the ground, we forget the tree we came from. We’re so blinded by becoming that we forget what we are.

It’s fine to move through the levels (if there are any levels at all), and it’s okay to live comfortably, but comfort should not be a disguise, or an excuse, and it should not blind us from cultivating ourselves.

We spend our lives getting away. Moving. Separating ourselves. Even if we stay in the same place. Our culture has somehow turned us against ourselves. Every day, we do all we can to be what others want us to be. Prettier. Smarter. More chemically balanced. All of us so fucking lost that we’ll do whatever we can to please. To be accepted. To feel loved.

But where’s the love?

It’s not on the outside. It’s not in obeying rules. Burying yourself in meaningless tasks. Maintaining phony relationships. Putting trophies on the mantle. Awards framed on the wall. The love - the passion - is deeper than that. It’s in the soil. The air. It’s in the crow. The crooked steeple. The woodchuck. The dew on the grass. We need to come back home.

~ k.j.

9:10 AM

Up, but in a sleepy fog. Part of me, the part that counts, is still finishing up the business of dreams. Tying up loose ends. Fraying connections. Questions have been answered. Asked. And it’s time to lumber through another day. Make the most of it, they say. And so - I will.

And there’s no better way to start than sitting here. In front of you.

Fish Story

(revised 8-18-05)

I left at 3:45 in the morning. Stars. Satellites. Space dust. All of it illuminated. Just like my headlights. Down King Settlement Road. Tired eyes stretching. From white line to white line. Ditch to ditch. Searching for deer, coons, porcupine. I raced down M-32. Pushing 70 because I wanted to make it there by 4:45.

At the gas station. Rubbing my eyes. Feeling a bit weightless and out of sorts. The edges of everything around me sharp. Colors and light distinct. In the store I struggled a bit. How do you decide what food to buy based on future hunger?

Funyans. Mixed nuts. Beef Jerky. A gallon of water.

Necessities for six hours on Lake Huron.

And then I remembered the beer. A 12 pack sitting in my fridge. Fifteen miles away. Which I was supposed to bring. Which I needed to bring, because I knew how Jim and Shelly fished. On the boat by 5:30. Rigged up and trolling by 6:00. Drinks mixed and poured when we landed the first fish. Or, by 7:00 o’clock. Whichever came first.

At 6:15, I reeled in a salmon. Too quickly, and it got tangled up in another line. Shelly netted it. Jim put it in the cooler. I separated the lines. Rigged them. Then put them back into the water. The sky was losing dark. Stars faded. A ship moved like a shadow against orange light that eased over the horizon. Jim and Shelly mixed drinks. Nobody was driving the boat.

"I can’t believe you forgot beer," Shelly said, and laughed. She had a nice laugh. Just enough lilt and not too much belly.

I watched the rod tips. Eight of them. Arced and trembling.

"I can’t either," I said.

And I couldn’t believe it. Not because I wanted to drink before the sun came up, but because sometimes when you’re with people who are drinking, it’s best to be drunk.

Shelly moved to the captain’s seat. Jim came over. Gave me a pat on the back.

"I’m glad you came."

"Thanks for asking me," I said. "I haven’t been on the big lake in years."

"Probably since the last time," Jim said.

He took a drink. Gazed into the sun as it crept higher in the sky.

"Jim!" Shelly snapped, "Why would you say something like that?"

A breeze came over us. Started small waves. Chilled the air. And there it was. The last time. Pulled up from the deep. Brought into the boat for us to consider.

I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. Put my hands into my pockets.

"It’s okay," I said.

Shelly came over to us. Stood between. Put her arm around me.

"I wasn’t sure we should ask you to come," she said, as she looked toward the sun.

"But look at it," she waved her drink across the horizon, over the lake. "It’s beautiful!"

Jim sipped his drink. Watched the rod tips. I could feel the boat turning.

Shelly put her other arm around me.

"Things happen, Aden," she said, as she hugged me. She smelled like wood smoke and whiskey. As usual, they had been up late the night before. Sitting together at the bonfire. Drinking. Discussing what lures to use. Glow-strips at forty-five feet for early morning. Hoochie-mammas two hours into sunrise. Cowbells running deep near Gull Island if we made it to noon.

And I’m sure they discussed me. Their friend gone recluse. Holed up in his old country house. Reading newspapers and books. Listening to music. Watching old movies. Eating macaroni and cheese, frozen pizzas, and take-out food. Staring out the window at birds and dragonflies, while dirty dishes and laundry pile up, grass grows knee-high, and weeds overrun the flower bed.

I wanted to wrap my arms around her. Bury my head into her shoulder. Hold her and breathe, but I couldn’t. Shelly held me until she realized she was spilling her drink.

"I’m sorry," she said.

And she let go and went back to the wheel.

I stared at one of the rod tips. Willed it to move. Wished a fish would nail the line, so that we could move on.

Jim moved close so that we stood shoulder to shoulder. He stared into the wake.

"When’s the last time you were on a date?" he asked.

I thought for a moment. Thumbed back through the days since Kali. Tried to remember one of the girls I’d met, taken to a movie, had dinner with, but always, I ended up here. On the big lake.

"August," I said.

Jim shook his head.

"It is August."

I was quiet. Rocking with the motion of the boat through the water. Hoping I’d lose balance and fall over.

"I think he means last year," Shelly said over her shoulder.

Jim turned to face me.

"Aden. I have someone I want you to meet. A pretty girl from the office. Her name’s Marie. She’s a good girl. Someone you would really like. She’s a creative type. An artist. Works in watercolors and..."

"Oils!" Shelly corrected.

Jim stopped a moment. Stared at his wife in the captain’s seat. Took a long drink.

"Okay," he said. "Oils. Whatever. But the point is she’s a nice girl, and I think you two would hit it off, so I invited her to come over for a barbecue. She gave me her phone number and..."

He pulled a yellow piece of paper out of his pocket. Shoved it into my hand. And he continued, but I was lost in the buzz of the trolling motor. The howl of the tight lines as they sliced the air.

The lines screamed. The wind blew from the east. We were in two foot waves. Bouncing along under a cloudy sky. The weather had gone sour. Jim and Shelly were snuggled together on the captain’s seat. Warm and rosy with drink. They had mixed one for me. And another. And another. And I was sitting on the edge of the boat. Watching another ship. Long, tall, and gray. White caps breaking against its side. And I wondered what it was like for the men on board. Hours. Days. Weeks. Spent alone on the great inland sea. All of them there, moving from port, to port, to port for different reasons. Bills to pay. Mouths to feed. Retirement to save. A nagging emptiness to fill, feel, or ignore.

"How them rods doing?" Jim asked.

"Still there," I said.

"Memorize that phone number yet?" he asked. "This Marie is the real deal! You’ll love her!"

He gave Shelly a big squeeze, spilled some of her drink.

"If I wasn’t married to a honey like this, I’d call her!"

Shelly gave him a playful sock in the arm. Then she kissed his cheek.

"More to drink?" she asked.

I stood. Struggled for a moment on drunken sea legs. Then walked over and handed her my empty cup.

"Maybe one more," I said.

"Me too!" Jim shouted.

Shelly went to the cutty to mix drinks. Jim turned around in the captain’s seat. Looked up at the sky.

"It’ll clear up soon. These things don’t last. Once it passes, you’ll see. We’ll get into a mess of fish. A mess of them!"

The sun broke through the clouds. Light flooded the lake. Jim steered us toward Gull Island.

I picked up the sketch pad. She had drawn the book cover. Addy and Ally, it said. A story written by Kali M. Johnson.

Shelly brought our drinks. Jim had taken us to the drop off near Gull Island. He was steering with his drinking hand. Had his other around Shelly.

"We’re marking lots of fish," Shelly said. Tapping the depth finder screen.

"How deep?" Jim asked.

"Forty-seven feet."

The weather had calmed again, so I had taken off my sweatshirt, and was enjoying the warmth of the sun, as it pushed the clouds from the sky. Gulls and terns were blurry, white dots. Streaking through the sky. Bobbing in the water. I turned to the rod tips. Silver arches of light against the green water. And there was a dragonfly. Not green, but silky-blue with big yellow eyes. Flying above the rods. Back and forth, until it settled onto the line of the rod farthest from me. All balance and symmetry.

I took the phone number from my pocket and stared at the numbers. I tried to put them into my memory. Force them deep into a new place. Beyond. Behind. Apart from the day I found my wife floating in the water. Cold and white. Only a few feet from the edge of the boat. All of the life washed out of her. But I couldn’t.

"Fish on!" Jim hollered, as he stumbled past me, and pulled the rod from its holder.

I looked, but the dragonfly was gone. If it had ever been there at all. So I crumpled up the paper and threw it over the side, and I watched it slip away into our wake.

Jim shoved the rod into my hands.

"You fight this one!" he cheered. "Just fight, and bring her in!"

~ k.j.

7:58 PM

A friend once asked me:

"What is it that you like about writing so much?"

And I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have an answer. Actually, I’d never thought about it much. Writing has always been something I’ve done. A form of friendship. A tool for growth. A way to learn, think, and feel. Writing and I have been married for some time. And when you’re involved in a relationship, bound by commitment, you often take yourself for granted. You forget who you are because you’ve sacrificed yourself. And suddenly, you forget why you’ve loved at all.

I was standing in the pub. Knocking back a vodka tonic. Decompressing from the work day. And then I began to listen. To the fishermen beside me. Discussing the day’s catch. To the couple at the table behind me. Planning a trip. Waitresses talking. Kids running by. Giggling. Little hands jingling change for video games. Their feet scuffing the floor. Ice into glasses. Air through a straw. Silverware onto plates. Song through the speakers. Ball game on the tube.

The music of the world all around me. And that’s when I knew. When I remembered why I loved writing so much. It’s the sound. The melody words make when they are put together and read. Especially when read out loud.

Go ahead. Tap into it. Feel it. Read it out loud.

~ k.j.

8:22 PM

The woodchuck was out tonight. Lounging on the steps of the shed. Not steps really. It is a wide sheet of particle board, rotting, but still holding up. Serving as a ramp. To walk in and walk out. I haven’t been into or out of the shed much lately, so Chuck’s been lounging. He flops over onto his side. Stretches out. Gazes over the yard.

"I gotta nice place, here."

That’s what he’s thinking. I can see it.

He ventures out into the middle of the yard some evenings. Sits in the tall grass. Looks up at the evergreens, toward the sky. When I come outside to join him, he ambles off toward the shed. Stops in front of it and watches me from the steps. Or he scrambles underneath and watches me from the hollow he’s made.

I watched him from the kitchen window tonight. He was nosing around the garden hose I left snaked across the lawn. Since it’s hot, I figured maybe he needed a drink, so I found an empty cottage cheese carton, filled it to the brim with ice cold water, and headed for the door. Chuck rumbled away. Looked over his shoulder at me as he slipped into the hollow.

I walked over to the shed steps. Set the carton at the bottom. I could see whiskers poking out from the dark place beneath the shed.

"Here ya go, buddy" I said. And I waited. As if he would come out and take a casual sip with me standing there.

The water’s out there now. Waiting for him at the foot of the shed, but suddenly it’s started to rain. Still sun in the sky. Plenty of blue. But the drops are coming anyway. Showering down from the few gray clouds that drift across the sky. And I bet he’s out there now. Stretched out on the steps. Lounging. Cooling off in the rain.

...just a snippet from life out here in the holy land.

~ k.j.

11:03 PM

Links have been updated. Writing all over the site. Have put up whole stories again. Since I'm on a tear lately, feeling it through and through, there should be plenty to read in the days to come.  Here's tonight's bit:

August 2, 2005

9:46 PM

It’s hard to say what we’ll remember. Where the days will take us. Who we’ll love. Who we’ll lose. But I think it’ll be of substance. Not necessarily what we’ve touched. Or what we’ve held. It might not be the kiss of her lips. The sound of her voice. The nights we shared Two bodies awash in sweet scent. Sharing the late summer night electricity of careful caress.

Instead - it might be this.

Sand between the toes. Sun hidden in a hazy sky. Water dark, but calming. A white heron in the shallows. Searching. For food. For a place to rest. For nothing at all. And children splashing. And men and women bouncing a volleyball. Everyone reveling in parts to be played. Sticking close to home. Responsible in their positions. Close to the net. Near the back line. Spiking. Serving. Or watching from a picnic table nearby.

Everyone alone in themselves, but together near the shore. Moving from person to person. Tan torsos. White legs. Sweat pouring out. Beer. Water. Gatorade. Going in. Everyone drinking up another night of color. Smell. Sound. Filling up for the ride home.

And halfway there, after singing all the air out of my lungs, all I want to do is shut off the radio, open the window, and breathe.

Fields just cut. Rain in the breeze. Frogs and crickets serenading birds to sleep in the quiet trees. All of it seeping in. Nourishing the deep so that we can continue. Keep on. Make it home. Connected. Aware. Full of growing.

So what are you feeling? And how do you grow?

What can I do when I have so much, and I feel the words tugging? Pulling me up from the inside out. Making me shudder. Shake. Sleep and wake. Head into pillow. Hands clenching sheets. Dreams running through. Pumping. Like lifeblood. And I walk into another day. Aware of the present. Dazed by the past. Moving toward a future of memories.

~ k.j.

7:34 PM

Have been writing well these past few days. Inspired. Restless. Fighting the good fight. Vignettes. Bits of the day. Slices of night. All of it coming out and coming together a little at a time. I haven't had this sort of run in a while. Feels good. A man with purpose. Direction. Nothing in my way. 

Putting these little ditties out. For you. To read. To see. To feel. So - let's have another helping, shall we? A fictional appetizer.  Another short that will grow long. I'll just leave it here to breathe for a few days... 

***

I was watching her from my place at the bar. Pretending to watch the baseball game. She was at the big silver-topped table under the television. Rolling silverware in burgundy napkins. Stacking the rolls in a big mound.

Jake came back from the bathroom. Sat down on the stool next to me.

"What’s the score?" he asked.

The frost of my mug had melted, but the beer was still cold. Water dripped down onto my shirt.

"Three to one. Tigers."

"Bullshit," Jake said. "It’s four to three. Twins. I was listening to it in the bathroom."

He took a quick sip. Eyed me over the top of the mug.

I looked up at the screen. Indeed. Four to three. Twins.

"You can’t keep your eyes off her," Jake said.

I turned away from the screen, from her at the table rolling napkins, and I watched the television at the other end of the bar. Sammy, the owner, was eating a bloody steak, drinking whiskey and water, watching Letterman.

"I’m not coming in here anymore," I said, and I drank to the bottom of the glass.

Jake motioned to the bartender. She came over.

"What can I get you, honey?"

"Two shots," he said.

"Bombs?" she asked.

Sammy looked away from Letterman, pounded his steak knife on the bar.

"On the house!" he said, wiping his mouth with one of the burgundy napkins.

I looked at the clock. Midnight. On a Tuesday. Work was only seven hours away. Jake and I had been at it since quarter after five. We’d already spent too much, were already feeling too good, but it was midnight and Sammy was eating steak and getting lubed up, so he would buy shots for whomever was standing or sitting at the bar. Lately, it was only Jake and me.

"Here you go," the bartender said. "Two Jager Bombs! On the boss’s tab!"

Sammy chuckled, sopped up the bloody juice with a big piece of buttered bread, and stuffed it in his mouth.

Me and Jake poured the shots down.

Like it always did, it reminded me of when I was a kid, sitting on the steps with Dad and Grandpa. Them drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. Me drinking Faygo Rock N’ Rye. I was lost a moment. Stuck somewhere in time that had gone, wondering how I had got from there on the steps to my place at the bar, when Jake brought me back to reality.

"Here she comes," he said, and he stood up and walked over to Sammy. Left me standing there with her. The lovely napkin roller. By my side.

"Hi," she said, smiling that wide white smile.

Into her eyes. Gone. Sucked in. Flipped around. Warmed from the inside out. Holy hell. Those eyes.

"How are you?" I asked, forcing myself to look up toward the Tiger’s game again.

"Just getting off work!" she said, settling onto the stool next to me. I couldn’t help looking at her again. The tan skin. Low cut, sleeveless shirt. The skirt. Dear God, that skirt. And the way she smelled. Like a green garden in summer. Fresh and clean after the rain.

The bartender brought her a drink.

"Put it on my tab," I said.

What the hell, I figured. It’s Tuesday night. I’m feeling good. Jake’s schmoozing with the owner, and beside me is the only woman in the world I’ve ever met that I would run away with. Drop everything. Forget everything. And go with her. To wherever. That’s how I felt. Especially when our eyes locked, and she smiled, and I’d get to feeling like I was about to boil over.

"Thanks!" she said. And at the same time, the back door opened. A loud clunk-thunking noise that let everyone know someone was coming in.

Jake turned to look. Sammy turned to look. The bartender looked at the clock. I stared into the mirror. Over green and blue bottle tops. Into the dimly lit, distorted reflections. And I saw her getting up to meet him. A hug. A kiss. My drink for her left at the bar. She turned on the way out, smiled to flip my insides over once more, and they left together, out the clunk-thunking door.

"Shots!" Jake shouted, as he came over and gave me a slap on the back.

"On my tab!" Sammy bellowed.

I settled down onto the stool. Stared at the mound of burgundy napkins. Pretended to watch the game. And I knew I’d be back the very next day.

~ k.j.

Tommy fished off the bow. Slinging his line toward a cluster of dark stumps. I fished from the stern. Throwing my line along a weed bed. We’d been at it for two hours. Now, night was coming on and black flies were swarming.

"Need some bug juice?" Tommy asked, dousing his huge arms and legs with repellant. It was obvious he hadn’t eased off the weights since college.

"I’m good," I said.

Flies buzzed all around me. But they did not land and they did not bite. Before I’d left the house, Sarah lathered me up with some of her moisturizer.

***

"Wear this and bugs will leave you alone."

"But I’ll smell like a girl."

"Which is better than what you’ll smell like when you get back. Beer. Worms. Fish guts."

"I don’t think we’ll be keeping any."

"Why not?"

"I don’t want to clean them."

"I’m sure the brute will clean them."

"He’s not a brute, Sarah."

She frowned. Turned away from me. Went to the kitchen and came back with the cooler.

"Six beers. That’s all. Okay?"

"We probably won’t even drink that many," I said.

"I don’t understand how you can be friends with him."

"He’s not a bad guy, Sarah."

"He’s not a good guy, either," she said. "He’s all testosterone and machismo."

"And you like the soft feminine type?"

"I love them," she said, and she kissed me.

***

I reeled and watched the shoreline. A Blue Heron stalked the shallows. Squirrels scampered through the trees. Birds chattered and flew. Swallows skimmed the water and filled up on bugs.

I heard a splash and turned just in time to see a large bass slip into the water behind my lure.

"Slow on the draw," I said.

Tommy reached into the cooler. Took out a beer and tossed it to me.

"Drink up. It’ll help your reflexes."

Another bass jumped. Near the stumps. Tommy cast his Jitterbug into the ripples it left behind.

***

About half an hour before the cabin, I opened a beer, and I wondered how it would be, seeing Tommy after all these years.

The last time we saw each other was our senior year of college. At a party after the game. Tommy, our defensive captain, had forced a fumble, recovered the ball, and won us the game.

"Where’s Tommy?" I asked everybody I bumped into. "Where’s the hero?"

Nobody knew where he was. The last anybody saw of him he was headed down the basement stairs with a fresh keg on his shoulder.

My cup was empty, so I headed downstairs the best I could. Holding the wall. Stopping every few steps to gain my balance and clear my vision.

***

Tommy kept casting.

I reeled in. Sat down. Opened the beer and sipped. My eyes were drawn to a place on the shoreline where something was moving through the trees.

"I’m glad you came," Tommy said. "I didn’t think you would."

He reeled in. Sat down. Gestured a toast.

I winked. Nodded. Raised my beer.

"To friends, "I said.

"Goddamn right," Tommy said. "To friends."

***

There were two doors at the bottom of the stairs. One was open, and the room was filled with people hovering around the keg. Talking. Laughing. Dancing to the music. Tommy wasn’t among them. I moved to the other door. Someone had put one of those DO NOT DISTURB signs on the doorknob.

"Tommy! You in there?"

I pounded on the door.

There was no answer.

"Tommy! You sonofabitch! Open the door!"

I thought I heard a girl laughing. Hysterically.

"Tommy! You goddamned hero! You better not be..."

I stumbled forward. Fell into the door. And it opened.

The girl’s hands were tied awkwardly behind her back. She was on her belly. Her skirt and panties around her knees. Tommy was over her. Hand over her mouth. Red faced.

"Get out!!" he  shouted. "Get out!"

She tried to get up. Tommy pushed her down.

***

The sun was nearly gone. Dropping down orange, behind the treetops. Tommy had closed his eyes and was resting. He took a deep breath. Savored it. Exhaled slowly, as if it was the best breath he’d ever taken.

I closed my eyes. Listened to his breathing, and to the sound of bass breaking the surface of the black water, and beyond it, near the shoreline, I could hear something else. A struggle. A splash. Something heavy in the water.

Tommy was up, pointing toward the shore.

"Do you see that?"

There was a large gray dog at the shoreline. Pacing back and forth. And there was a deer in the water. Swimming out from the land. Toward Grand Island. A quarter mile away.

"She’s not gonna make it," Tommy said, and he grabbed an oar. 

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Gonna make sure she makes it."

"Why don’t we use the motor?" I asked.

"She’s already panicking," he said. "The sound of the motor will make it worse."

He pulled a rope out from under his seat, and he threw it to me.

"Make a big loop,"he said. "If it looks like she’s going under, throw it around her neck and we’ll pull her toward shore."

I tied the loop and held tight to the rope. Tommy rowed us. We moved quietly across the water. Into the coming darkness. Following her.

10:07 AM

Ted, the cat, takes a long pause in front of me on the desk. He stands there. Chattering. Looking up at the window. Baby blue sky. Birds sailing by. Finally, he steps forward. Makes the small leap to the window sill. Wind breezes in. He sniffs the air. A noisy plane ambles over. He leaps down. Comes to me on my hand-me-down chair. Sits and stares at my face. Chatters. Touches me with his paw. He’s seen something. Wants to see something. Feels something. Wants to feel something. But I don’t know what it is.

Two living creatures. Living together in this house. Unable to truly communicate, so we do the best we can. Chatter. Paw. Pet.

I wonder if he ever watches me. Thinks about my path across the living room. How sometimes I stand and stare out the window. Birds in flight. Deer in the field. Crow on the crooked steeple. The long reach of the leafy branches on the maple tree.

A living creature. Together, but apart. Trying to communicate as truly as I can, so that we all make it to the end feeling alive.

Ah yes...the simple life.

Today - I’ll mow the lawn.

I like mowing the lawn. Using the old GAMBLES green push mower that came with the church. A solid machine that rips through thick grass with fury. Powered by a good ol’ Briggs and Stratton engine. All it needed was a clean spark plug, a bit of oil, some new gas, and it was ready to roar.

Every time I mow, I think of my Dad bringing an old Briggs and Stratton to the side door of Thunder Bay Junior High. For me to disassemble and reassemble for a project in my Power and Energy class. Third hour with a bunch of burnouts and jocks. Led by Mr. Lefevre. A short man with Pop-eye forearms who was filled with stifled frustrations, but guided by good intentions. His goal: To show these kids something that they could use in this life. How to follow directions. Take things apart. To rebuild. Again. And again. Because he knew how it would turn out. And he knew that most of them would never stray far from home. Those that would could never reach much higher than their parents did. There would be no climbing of the social ladder. No corporate executives. Genetic scientists. Or astronauts. These boys would grow into men’s bodies, but they would never change. They’d become bigger boys. Obsessed with Power and Energy, but never having enough drive, ambition, or heart to know how to truly use it. The best he could do was prepare them for a life of fixing things that would be broken.

I think Dad knew this when he brought me that small engine. Covered with an oily rag. In a heavy duty cardboard box. His small, frail son, trying to wrestle it into the school all by himself.

"I got it," I said.

"I know you do," he said.

And Dad drove away. And I went to a workshop table. And I learned how to take it apart and put it back together again. A little cleaner. A bit of shine. But just the way I found it.

There’s nothing else a man can do, but live his life, mow his grass, and stop every once in a while to make repairs.

We do what’s necessary to finish the job. Pushing along the old Briggs and Stratton until the lawn’s tidy and even, so people can visit or pass by and say, He really keeps the place up. And the man can go inside, smelling like fresh cut grass and gas, and he can shower and go to bed thinking he has really done something today. But when he’s there, at the edge of dark and sleep, he knows - and he feels deep - that he has not.

And in the morning he’ll wake. Refreshed, or haunted by dreams, and he’ll go downstairs. Pass by in front of the cat who’s curled up in the wooden rocking chair. Go to the coffee pot. Pour in the water. Put in the grounds. Turn it on. And he’ll stand in the kitchen. Lean on the sink. Stare at the lawn, the trees, the old crooked steeple, and he’ll be a little happy because here he is with another day to get things done.

***

That’s all for now. Keep on keepin’ on.

~ k.j.

People will come to visit the dead and they’ll wonder where the pretty bows went. Where the flags have gone. They’ll want to water the blooming buds, but they won’t be able to find and fill their jug.

Some of it found my yard, and I took time to put bows, flowers, and flags where I felt they belonged. An American flag for the baby with the lamb-shaped headstone. A bow for the teenage boy that committed suicide. Flowers for Veteran of Foreign War..

It’s fine to mix and match.

To think about what the dead have and what we do not.

~ k.j.