Chris Sherron: Recent Episodes
Chris Sherron
The crowd followed behind the boy as he held his chin up and continued to walk the road rarely traveled by others. No one had a reason anymore to take the dirt path leading to the only church remaining in the small town. That trail continued beyond the abandoned house of worship to the coast and ended beneath an ancient cypress tree. Step after step, the followers thinned out, leaving only a handful mocking the young man for his misguided faith in a long-dead ghost.
The boy recalled his last conversation with his ill father as he approached the destination, "Dad, tell me again about God and how he once lived here and walked our streets."
The dying man forced a smile and spoke to his eager son, "Kid, he didn't just go around chatting it up with his barber or squeezing tomatoes at the market like you and me. But he was real and was as big a part of this community as anyone else. You could see him in the faces of friends, neighbors, and even strangers passing through."
Puzzled, the boy asked, "How can you see something that isn't there?"
His father sat up in bed and explained, "Even when our city faced hardships, there was a sense of calm, and that was God. When our loved ones passed on and we took the time to comfort each other, that was God. When strangers stopped to smile at one another, that was God. If someone needed help and half the town volunteered, that was God. He wasn't only present at church on Sunday; he lived here every day with each of us.
"What happened, Dad? Why did he leave?" The boy questioned.
"He didn't go anywhere. We left him," his father insisted.
The boy's chest swelled up as he asked his father, "How do I find him again? Where do I look?"
A half-rotten apple struck the boy in the ankle, and the culprits laughed, but the curious adventurer refused to look back. Never losing focus, he continued on his journey. His only thoughts were of his father telling him to look for God at the top of the cypress at the end of town. But the other kids did not make his trek an easy one. They continued to throw things and voiced their opinions from a distance.
"Look what I have in my pocket; it's God."
"The idiot thinks he can climb a tree and see God."
"If God were real, he'd let us know."
"Maybe he thinks that tree will get him closer to Heaven," the children laughed and continued to call the boy names and make fun of him for seeking God.
The boy paused an instant at the foot of the tree to look up and second-guess his decision. He could hear his father's voice rooting him on, so he began to climb. The remaining group insisted that the young man had lost his mind and he would eventually fall. The boy did indeed slip a couple of times and scraped his leg against the rough bark of the cypress, but he continued upward. It was as if some invisible force took control of the boy's arms and legs, propelling him toward the top. The harsh words below grew faint until, finally, the sounds vanished into the breeze.
Thoughts of how such a giant tree started as a single seed hundreds of years ago entertained his imagination. He clambered until it wasn't safe to go further and relaxed on the last sturdy limb. His peers had turned into tiny specs along the ascent and were no longer a bother. The boy sat patiently, waiting to see the face of God. Sunbeams shot through the foilage, kissing his sweaty face and revealing a cross carved above a hole wide enough for an inquisitive hand. The tired young man reached in and pulled out a small pocket-sized bible. Resting his back against the tree, he started at the beginning and read for hours.
With the bible tucked securely in his pocket, it was time to descend. Most of the crowd had gotten bored and found other things to do except for two children waiting patiently for the boy to come down from the cypress. One of them spoke up and asked the boy, "Did you find him? Did you find God at the top of that tree?" Desperate for an answer, both of the young people waited. The boy dug the tiny bible from his pocket, looked into the faces of the two who remained, and said, "Yeah, I found him just now." And he read from the pages to his audience.
Before discussing the honeymoon in great detail, it's essential to develop an understanding of our relationship. It's amazing how perspectives change after fifty birthdays. Our main goal this year after Lynette moved in over the summer was to be debt free going into the new year (except for the house.) We had a plan because, well, we're planners. And like any good plan, it all fell apart by fall. Unexpected circumstances never fail to pop up, and our water heater went out just like that. Even with the odds against us, we're still going to accomplish the number one goal by the end of December. Prayer and persistence go a long way, so the debt never stood a chance.
Now that you know our priorities, we can discuss the juicy stuff; the honeymoon. The following few paragraphs aren't for everyone, and it may be a good idea to stop reading now. I tend to write with a lot of detail, which may be more than most of you are ready to hear. Heck, the majority of you probably won't believe most of it anyway.
The day's main goal was to get married around noon, so we'd have the rest of the day too, well, you know, do stuff. Everything went as planned, and the handful of attendees was gone by 1:45. Lynette and I were definitely on track to experience a new level of ecstasy that would last all afternoon and possibly into the evening. We even went as far as to place a checklist on the fridge to ensure we hit every spot and didn't miss a single opportunity. We gave ourselves two days to make the magic happen, knowing we'd soak up every second.
Naturally, we threw our coats on and headed to the County Clerk's Office. We both had fanny packs full of snacks and HBO max on the phone, prepared for a long wait. Getting this stop off our list would give us a head start tomorrow because we'd attempt to knock out two more government offices in one swoop. That's a total of three government offices in two days. Unheard of, right?
We strolled in, still high off of newlywed bliss, took a number, and took a seat. We sat for a minute giggling like two school girls because even a long wait at the County Clerks couldn't spoil our day. Then they called our number. Wait, what? We weren't even sitting long enough to gaze into one another's eyeballs. And the lady at window 13 was charming. I know none of this makes sense, but it happened, I swear.
We were in and out in ten minutes and a day ahead of schedule, so we decided to press our luck and go to the next painful location, the Social Security Office. We knew this would be a long wait, and we didn't mind because we were ready for it anyway. And with it barely being a few minutes after 2:00, we felt optimistic that we could get it done and only have one stop tomorrow at the dreaded DMV.
We moseyed in, took a seat, and BAM! Our number echoed over the speaker, and we sat in the agent's cubicle longer than we hung out in the lobby. We were back on the road by about 2:40. This was unheard of because we knocked out two places we both had dreaded in less than one hour. You won't believe it, but the lady who helped us was super nice. Yeah, I know, but I swear this isn't fiction. I'm telling the truth.
We wondered if this was God's plan and not ours. That's the only explanation we have. Since we were already a day ahead of schedule, we decided to go ahead and take a trip to the DMV. If we could pull this off, we'd have the entire day on Wednesday to sleep in and do whatever we wanted. We knew it would be impossible, but we had to try.
We punched in the information at the kiosk, and before we could even have a seat, Lynette got a text saying our number was next. Okay, this had to be a glitch. No way we would get out of here that quick without at least a bribe. As soon as we sat down, we stood up and headed to the lady at window three. And guess what? She was delightful. Just like that, we were out the door by 3:05.
We swung by the bank, Farm Bureau, and the dry cleaners and returned home before dark. Now you know the story of how we knocked out three government offices in less than an hour and thirty minutes. You can believe it or not, I don't believe it myself, but it happened. The experience gave us the best honeymoon we could have wished for in our lifetime. Things may have gotten better, but that's none of your business.
The old folks have always said that love tends to hurt. Well, they were spot on when it came to Emie and me. I couldn't have been more than eleven when she moved into the neighborhood. Clarkstown is a quaint community, but that girl sure did liven things up. I caught her attention when I passed her house on my bike for the ninth time. The whole ordeal was my fault. She did warn me, after all.
Emily belted out, "Stop!" as soon as I zipped by her driveway. Her voice carried more authority than anticipated, so I complied and locked the brakes on my Huffy. Never judging a book by the cover finally made sense when I witnessed Emily throw her doll down in the dirt and crawl under the house to grab a weathered baseball. She didn't give a second thought to getting her Sunday best muddy.
Once the tiny giant stood up, she wiped her hands on her lacy dress and spoke again, "This is your one and only warning. You'll be sorry if I catch you riding by my house again." She pretended to throw the ball at me by the time she finished speaking. It startled me enough that I decided peddling could be better than hanging around to see if she was serious. My new neighbor stood at attention, ready to fire as I rode around the corner and out of sight.
Hours passed before I worked up the courage to soar past her yard again. After stopping up the street to check and see if the coast was clear, I decided to go for it. In one sweet motion, I relieved my kickstand and pushed off the pavement with my scruffy Converse. Luckily there was enough of a hill that I could build up plenty of momentum. All I had to do was pass her driveway, and I'd be safe. My confidence was over the top because there was no way anyone could hit me with a baseball at my supersonic speed. Like a runner winning a marathon, I passed her drive, flinging my arms into the air in triumph.
"I guess she knows who the boss is around here," I spoke into the wind right before I heard it. The sound was like a golfer smacking a ball on the course, except it was a baseball nailing the back of my head. Pain instantly followed, and my body flew over the handlebars onto the blacktop. Everything went dark until my eyes focused, divulging an angel. Emie crouched next to me with a look of concern blended into a precious innocence I'd never experienced. Her face was prettier than sunlight leaping from water drops before drying up on blades of grass.
"Water drops? Blades of grass?" She mumbled before continuing, "Why didn't you just listen to me? None of this had to happen, but you had to prove how big and bad you are. Now you're lying here talking nonsense and bleeding to death in the street." By the time I could lift my head, I had noticed grownups approaching in the distance. After stuffing the baseball into my pocket, I introduced myself to the girl who had tried to kill me, "I'm Jack." She said, "I'm Emie," right before the adults took me home. It was the first time I ever heard her say her name.
No one but Emie and me knew why I wrecked that Sunday afternoon. The doctor never questioned me as he stitched up my head. Mom and Dad figured I was being stupid and showing off. They were grateful Emie came to my rescue and even took me back to her house to say thanks for ensuring I was okay. When my folks left the room, the young baseball pro told me we'd be best friends from now on because she'd never trusted anyone as she did me. And that was precisely the moment we became the best of friends.
Life sure does move fast. Plans break, and situations get rearranged before we realize it most of the time. I began to grow and forget things that matter. Somewhere in there, girls became the culprit who kept me up at night instead of my fear of one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eaters. All females were aliens except for Emie. We'd often argue over small things like whose turn it was to swing from the rope to splash in the lake. Even when we fought, we grew closer, something I wouldn't experience with anyone else in my lifetime.
By the time I hit sixteen, I was driving my best friend to school and back home daily. It wasn't a long trip, but we'd often sit in front of her house talking for an extra hour or two. We discussed everything from the plans after graduation to the opposite sex. And it was all frightening.
"Whatever happens, we should always stick together, Jack."
"Gosh, Emie, I'm not even sure what I want to do yet. Everyone is pressuring me into college, but that's not what I'm passionate about."
"How often do I have to tell you to stop worrying about what others want you to do? Man up and make your own decisions. Besides, we still have a year to think about it."
"You don't even make sense. You're always telling me to be my own person, but you insist on us living in the same town forever. How am I supposed to make decisions for myself if they always have to include you?" Frustrated, Emie reaches for the door to get out of the car, but Jack changes his attitude and continues, "Wait. Don't go; I have something to tell you. It's about the Christmas dance coming up soon." Emie takes a deep breath and listens, "This isn't easy for me to say, but I've decided to take Beth."
"Beth! What is wrong with you? That girl has no personality, and she can't even rollerskate. Jack, listen, you can do so much better than her. She talks funny too. It's like she's a mix between Cher and Walter Cronkite."
"Do better? Like who? You? At least Beth doesn't confuse me. At least she doesn't contradict herself every five minutes!"
"You know what, mister, I will now exit this automobile and retire into my home. Please do not talk to me again until you come to your senses. Don't worry about picking me up tomorrow; I can walk to where I need to go just fine!" Emie slammed the door, marched up the sidewalk, and inside.
Anger got the best of me as I threw the car in reverse and screeched out, not paying attention. The car didn't get far because I backed right into Mr. Ken's Cadilliac. He's the local pharmacist and has a reputation for being a nice guy. Let's just say I saw a completely different side of Mr. Ken while I waited for my Dad to show up at the scene. Emie came back out to sit with me while I was getting yelled at by the infuriated gentlemen. Emie and I sat there, trying not to giggle at the choice of words directed through my window while she held a bag of frozen peas to the knot on my forehead. We walked to school together the next day. Later that year, we attended the Christmas dance with each other.
I'm sure by now you've guessed that we eventually got married. We had kids, and those kids had kids, and it felt like our home here in Clarkstown was never empty. None of the children needed the excuse of a holiday to stop by to see us; they simply dropped by unannounced, which was fine by us. One year Emie had me get a real tree for Christmas. I slipped on the ice in the driveway, and she was the first to come to my rescue. It was only a couple of stitches on that occasion. Through all the hardships and minor injuries, the old song by Louise Armstrong always stuck with me. We did indeed live in a wonderful world as long as we were together.
Our daughter Jessica, who turned forty last month, loves to keep the tradition alive, and I don't mind one bit. She'll drag her husband along with their three kids and spend the majority of the Christmas season here. They'll all help with the tree, and sweet smells always drift from the kitchen to fill the house. It's not just the scent of freshly baked cookies that makes me happy. The aroma, accompanied by love, is one fragrance I'll forever adore.
Jessica is her mother; whenever she glances at me, a look of concern blends into a precious innocence. She delicately questioned if I'd been speaking to Mom again. I explained a day doesn't pass without sharing a few words. Jessica then reminds me it's been almost twenty years since her mother died. After politely asking my daughter to shush, I closed my eyes and rested my head on the couch before supper. I'm sure she thinks I'm a senile old man, but the truth is I've never been sharper. Aside from losing my Emie, my biggest fear was getting used to her being gone. I'll never forget how hard she loved me and what it felt like to lose her. The pain reminds me of how wonderful this world is.
Years ago, Emie and me sat on the front porch watching the kids play. We knew it wouldn't be long before she moved on, but we laughed and joked anyway. "Hey Jack, remember that time you tripped over the garden hose in the front yard after I flashed you through the kitchen window? You walked funny for a whole week." I told her the old folks were right all along. Love certainly does hurt. But I wouldn't change a thing.
It all started around the Thanksgiving table at my parent's house in 2021. The big plan was to propose to Sally when it was my turn to tell everyone why I was thankful. It marked our fourth year together during the Holidays listening to Uncle Joe tell everyone he was saved from a horrible end when Aunt June left him for the Quickie-Mart attendant. And Mom shared how blessed she was to be around for another season after having that hairy mole removed, even though she's in perfect health. It was tradition to let all the ladies go first, and my brother would make the same lame joke each year directed at me, "Ladies first, looks like you're up, Walter." He'd then awkwardly cackle alone for ten whole seconds before we took turns around the table.
My older sister Kathleen kicked things off by talking about her newest addition to the family. It's not what you think; she's obsessed with cats even though her husband Phil is allergic. The poor guy sits around all day sneezing and rubbing his eyes, and Kathleen keeps bringing home more kittens. I stopped going to her house because you can imagine the chaos and mix of odors floating around. The place always smelled like gingerbread and urine every November and December. Each year she insists on dressing the felines up on special days. They all had tiny skeleton shirts for Halloween, and for Christmas, they'll be sporting ugly sweaters that Kathleen happened to bring on Thanksgiving to pass around for everyone to examine.
Dad finally cut off my sister about ten minutes into the fashion show to ask Sally to speak. My girlfriend stood up to address the audience as I fiddled with the engagement ring inside my pocket. Sally took a deep breath and said, "I've grown to adore all of you except Walter." The crowd laughed, and she continued, "Yeah, right, a joke. Except I'm not joking. I mean, it would be great if I was, I wish I were kidding around, but I'm not. You see, I was most in love with Walt the first month we were together. It's been downhill ever since. I've tried to work up enough courage to leave him the last two years because I convinced myself things would get better the first two years we were together. After drinking too much spiked eggnog this evening, the courage finally surfaced. Now is as good a time as any to break the news.
Trying my best to convince Sally that it was not the best time or place for this discussion was hopeless. She had something to say, and it all had to come out, so she went on, "You, Walter are a terrible person. It didn't take long to figure out you only care about yourself." Sally slammed her drink and had more to say, "I can't even count the number of times you stood me up so you could do your silly online gaming stuff with your buddies you've never even met. You embarrass me when we eat out because you upset the server on purpose every time so that you can justify not tipping. Your sister's house smells like a dead animal, but she is still your sister. It wouldn't kill you to visit her once a year. And your brother, well, I can't blame you for not going to see him; he's also a jerk. Remember the Black Friday sale two years ago, Walter? I do; I'll never forget it. You ended up in a fistfight with that poor old woman over a Nintendo she wanted for her grandson."
I spoke up and said, "Alright, let me stop you there. It was a Playstation, and..."
Sally cut me off and continued to throw verbal punches, "I don't care what it was! By the way, that old woman would have kicked you around real good if she hadn't tripped over the random car seat on the floor. She had you up until she fell. Having to work with you every day right next to your cubicle is excruciating. You never bring the donuts when it's your turn, and you are always so mean to Stuart around the corner. Is it because he has thick glasses? Are you still in the sixth grade? I'm simply amazed at how much of my life I have wasted on you—shame on me."
Sally's phone beeped; she looked at it and touched the screen as she struggled to push her chair under the table. "My Uber is here. Look, I guess I'm thankful it's over now, Walt." On her way out, she says, "You aren't very good-looking, you know. You think you are, but you're a little chunky." Sally paused to throw up on the potted Fiddle Leaf Fig Tree and yelled, "See you at work on Monday."
Immediately Uncle Joe asked Kathleen to pass the sweet potatoes as Dad said, "She's right, you know. You aren't very nice, Walt." I found myself alone on the deck after dinner in the cold. Phil joined me after a few minutes. It was a surprise because we'd never exchanged more than a couple of words once a year at Thanksgiving.
"You are an asshole, Walt."
"Thanks, Phil. I appreciate the positive reinforcement."
"I didn't step outside to sugarcoat things. I'm here to give you a little honesty."
"Right, Phil, because there is absolutely a shortage of honesty this evening," I said sarcastically.
"I know you make fun of me, Walter. I've overheard your remarks about your sister and her cat obsession. You think I'm crazy for putting up with her. The truth is, I deal with it because I love her. The idea is to give more in a relationship than we take. I'm always my happiest whenever Kathleen is happy. She can bring ten more cats home as long as it fills her with joy. I didn't always think that way, but once I figured it out, my whole life fell into place. It's like the central theme in all of those corny Holiday movies. 'Keep Christmas in your heart all year long,' or something like that. If you apply that principle to your life, you may discover happiness. You may or may not win the girl back, but you'll be a better person."
I listened to Phil talk on and on about being kind and embracing the joy of giving. He sounded more and more like a Hallmark movie with each sentence. Then it dawned on me. He was explaining what I had to do to win over Sally. I looked at Phil and said, "You are a genius. I'll start doing nice things at work in front of Sally. Once she realizes I've changed, she'll be back in my arms in no time."
"No, Walter, that's not what I'm saying. But if your plan makes you pleasant at work, at least that's a start. It's not always easy to do the right thing. Sometimes at home, I'll take a bottle of rum into the bathroom and take a few shots to clear my head."
"Why do you go to the bathroom?" I asked.
"The bathroom downstairs is the only room in the house the cats aren't allowed. I can knock back a few without sneezing liquor out of my nose." We both laughed. It was the first time I'd connected with anyone in years.
After taking everything, Phil said to heart; I decided to put my plan into motion at work first thing. On the way in, I stopped for donuts. I ordered two dozen daily ahead of time to make up for all the days I missed. Everyone was a little shocked at first, but soon I got high fives from my coworkers when I walked in the door. Stuart became my regular lunch date. He was hesitant at first because he figured I would ambush him over tacos with some joke about how he looked like Scrat from Ice Age. It turns out Stuart had some mad skills in Call Of Duty, so Wednesday night became our game night. He stood up for me when I volunteered to play Santa at the office party, and no one else wanted me to do it. I even convinced everyone to chip in and donate to the local soup kitchen instead of exchanging gifts. I was winning everyone over at work except for Sally. She barely looked at me.
My portrayal of the jolly fat man was on point. I have to say; I was feeling pretty good about everything for once. The party was going great until Sally showed up with her date. It was some guy she met in the elevator who worked two floors above us. They were holding hands and being overly flirtatious the entire time. It drove me nuts. As soon as Mr. Marvelous took a potty break, I confronted Sally.
"It didn't take you very long, did it?"
"Walter, I'm happy. I've been meaning to speak with you."
"You have more to say? I think you said enough over Thanksgiving."
"No, Walter, you need to stop."
"Stop what?" I asked.
"Stop trying to impress or win me back or whatever it is you are trying to do. I've moved on, and the best thing you can do is let me go." Sally walked away, and I felt emptier than ever.
A few days later, I found myself at Kathleen's house. After visiting with my sister, I decided to sneak off with Phil to his favorite spot, the downstairs bathroom. Once I grabbed the bottle of rum from the kitchen, I asked Phil to follow me. We were a little cramped. I sat on the sink, and Phil took a seat on the toilet. I shook my head and explained to Phil that his plan didn't work. He reminded me that he only planted a seed of direction and never told me to go after Sally.
"Walter, let me ask you a question."
"I'm all ears, Phil."
"Why did you come to our home today?"
"I missed my sister. I was a little depressed and wanted to be around family."
"That sounds nothing like the Walt, I know. Walter, how did it make you feel doing all those nice things at work?"
"Better than I've felt ever, I guess."
"Then stop pretending to be the good guy at work to impress Sally. Be that man everywhere." We took a drink...
*Read the rest at SomeOfItsTrue.net
The Mighty Cumberland backdrop materializes as the technicolored leaves drift to the earth, signaling transition. God performs an effortless miracle furnishing a stunning quilt to warm the ground during the months ahead. Autumn foliage frolics through the breeze, using the waft as its partner on the invisible dancefloor. Gifts from the limbs caress my face while promenading by. Some crunch beneath my sneakers, leaving a footprint only to be erased by more leaves and shuffled like cards by the wind. Images of pumpkins and Halloween candy infest my thoughts while dragging my rusty old rake over the sleeping grass.
Life in the '70s is pretty simple, especially for a kid. Now that Saturday morning cartoons are behind me, it's time for the day's quest. I aim to build the most gigantic pile of leaves known to man. I've often dreamed of escaping from the car as Mom drives down Riverside and scaling the fence to play in the enormous sand piles by the road. Constructing my own giant pile of leaves will have to do for now. The urge to throw down the rake before everything is perfect will be a formidable obstacle to overcome, but I'm up for the challenge. It will be a lot of work, maybe a day's worth, but I must remember to take my time and start small, just like when I build a snowman.
Puffy clouds hide the sun as my meticulous plan takes shape below. Tiny blisters form on my pudgy hands, but a little discomfort will not stand in the way of my creation. The sky grows darker, and the breeze coughs up a gust and then another, funneling much of my hard work into the air. Loud booms erupt from heaven while electric spiderwebs decorate the atmosphere advising me to call it a day. Mother Nature is no match for my ambition. Adrenalin pumps through my heart, sending shocks of inspiration through my veins as if it's copying the static light show overhead. "It's not raining yet," I mumble as I raked harder and faster. The entire scene reminded me of watching Frankenstein on television the night before.
Once the job was complete, I threw my tool to the earth. As soon as the wooden handle landed, thunder snapped as loudly as a gun, signaling runners to take off. As I jetted down the hill toward my man-made mountain, big drops of water smacked me in the face telling me that my last warning had arrived. But I was past the point of no return, and my determination forced me to finish the quest. Rain poured as I leaped higher and further than ever before in my life. The wind must have guided my ascent because I felt like I was flying for a brief moment. I vanished into the pile, like when I dropped a pebble into the pond. It was almost like I'd never existed at all.
The darkness kept me company, and the smells of autumn gave my senses a chance to feast on the season. No light managed to break through because outside of my fragile fortress, it was as black as night. The soft raindrops striking the leaves sound like my mother popping the last few popcorn kernels before pulling the pot from the stove. Whenever I'd move my arms around, I imagined I was on the beach, listening to the waves crash against the rocks. I still haven't seen the ocean, but I'm sure it's similar. The storm frightened me, but somehow I felt safe in the solitude.
Only one thing could pull me from my bliss. A single sound struck terror from one end of my soul to the other, and it wasn't the thunder. I'd already grown immune to that. The sound I'm talking about would bring any gladiator to his knees or any supervillain straight back to his lair. My mother's voice grew louder and louder, and this was terrible news. It meant she was out in the rain looking for me. I only had two options. I could stay put and hold my breath or face her wrath. It would be the same outcome either way, maybe worse if I hid, so I decided to give myself up. I emerged from the leaves like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. The water hit my face revealing a scared child while washing the mud into the collar of my shirt. "Chris, get your butt inside the house! Do you want to catch pneumonia and die in the rain?" My mother belted out as I made my way inside.
She laughed at me later that evening and told me she also enjoyed playing in the rain when she was a kid. She made popcorn, and we watched Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein together. She knew it was one of my favorite movies. I believe it was her way of saying she was glad I got to have an adventure, but she still had to be a parent.
If I wasn't at school, I was working, and if I wasn't working, I was at church. Time for sleep never came easy but then again, at sixteen, who needs rest? Unlike most kids, I didn't get my driver's license as soon as my birthday came around. Independence never felt like a big deal. Plenty of opportunities arose growing up on a farm that kept me busy and free to experience life without guidance. The bus took me to school, and I had several people who gave me rides to work and church. And, of course, I always had my trusty bicycle for quick trips around the neighborhood.
I'm embarrassed to say, but the day Mom surprised me with a car a couple of months after I turned sixteen left me a bit underwhelmed. First, I didn't see the need for my own transportation, and second, I was ashamed of the 1971 Volvo sitting in the yard. The car was ugly; the wipers didn't work, and when I started it up, the engine shook and felt like it would eventually fall right out from under the thing. My brother insisted it was a good car and said everything would be fine.
The bus was the best option while I debated driving to school for several weeks. Puttering into MCHS with black smoke rolling from my pristine automobile was not an appealing thought. Even worse, what if the car flat-out refused to start when I was ready to go home? I'd never hear the end of it from my classmates as they drove by, making fun of my situation. I knew I would have to go for it sooner or later and hope for the best. I'd keep my fingers crossed all the way to school while my asscheeks clenched tight enough to crack a walnut. I'd decided that I may as well give it a shot.
After tossing my books in the back, I sat in the driver's seat and said a little prayer. The engine cranked, and I felt a sigh of relief. My solace was short-lived once the motor chose to vibrate wildly, which quickly turned into a knock, and finally, silence after one last cough as if the machine had taken its final breath. Further investigation revealed a strange-looking radioactive mixture oozing from underneath. I grabbed my books and again waited on the bus. I was thankful it happened at home and not at school for sure, but it was pretty discouraging. I was becoming a man, and part of that process was driving a car. I remember being upset with my mother for buying me a piece of junk.
Two things come to mind whenever I think back on my first car. The first is how much I miss people giving me rides everywhere. It must have been a burden on them, but there was something special about it. We get to know each other pretty well when we're stuck in a car together for a few minutes. It's not often we find the time to sit and talk to friends and family. I missed hearing Uncle Neb tell me about how much money he won playing cards on the way home from work. The deep talks and insight I'd get from my church family were often more valuable than what I learned during the sermon. It gave me the chance to hear about Mom's day without distractions.
The second thing was the pride on my mother's face when she showed me the car. Today I know how important that moment was for her. We never had much money, so I'm sure it wasn't easy for her to scrape up enough to make the purchase. But she did it because that's what parents do. If I could go back in time, I'd thank her for the gift just like I did when she presented it so many years ago. Only this time around, I'd mean it. More importantly, I'd thank her for teaching me to be humble, even though it took me years to understand.
Looking for love in all the wrong places is nothing new for Phoebe. She's spent most of the '70s trying her best to connect the dots, but inevitably her number two pencil breaks or coffee stains the paper. It's not that she settles for the wrong guys, but somehow she pulls them in, and it's over before it begins. In every relationship, Phoebe leaps with the accuracy of an Olympic diver. And paddles with the grace of a synchronized swimmer. The mechanics are solid, but the show stops there because Phoebe can't fake emotion. She'd give everything she had in the world to experience love, anger, hurt, or at least once, feel inspired.
Phoebe is no stranger to a night out on the town independently. She'll begin the evening solo at least, but it's never difficult for a woman with Phoebe's natural gifts to take someone home. Most people would never dream of visiting the annual Clarkstown carnival without a companion, but it doesn't phase our Phoebe. The line isn't long for the fun house; she takes a spot. The music and crowd are noisy, so the remarks of half of the men strolling by go unnoticed. One gentleman briefly catches her eye with a Mona Lisa smile and a frosty stare. The subtle connection is lost to the twilight as the carny collects Phoebe's ticket and encourages her to enter.
The hoopla and occasional cry, any good fun house has to offer, dampens the outside racket. Frightened kids push and attempt to plow by Phoebe as she quickly loses her patience and turns to discipline each of the children. To her surprise, not a single soul is within eyesight. Exterior noise dissipates, and Phoebe finds herself alone inside. Shrugging the oddity off as part of the ride, she takes a few more steps deeper into the carnival attraction. Thick, odorless smoke creeps up from her ankles, impairing her already suffering vision in the darkness. A hum followed by a bizarre pastel glimmer catches her attention, pulling her closer.
Phoebe arrives to discover an open doorway with a neon sign that reads, "choose your ending." The curious thrill seeker wanders through to find a well-kept hard maple staircase seemingly suspended in the air, surrounded by a starless cosmos. Each step downward unveils unrecognizable yet familiar sounds resonating with background noise like speakers from an antique radio. Some of the static clears as Phoebe descends but is quickly interrupted by more interference. The soundwaves grow vicious and prove to be more than her ears can handle, forcing the lost wanderer to sprint toward the bottom. Phoebe slips as she approaches the end of her descent, bashing her head on the unbending surface.
Welcome silence abruptly takes the reigns as Phoebe focuses on a single door. Two words, "would of," are painted on the exterior. The disoriented young woman attempts to open it and finds that it is locked tight. After trying to force her way in for a few moments, she gives up. Then it happened; a slight creaking sound indicated an open exit. Pushing through, she finds an apartment no different than any other where she ends up any given night. It's like every man who has ever taken her home used the same interior decorator; the same two wine glasses, the same retro record player, and the same sofa complete with a chaise lounge. A couple clumsily walks into the apartment, startling Phoebe enough to hide behind the couch instinctively. The man speaks to his date, and she responds, uncovering an eerie truth.
Phoebe peeks over the couch to get a glimpse of the two intoxicated lovers, only to realize the gentleman is looking directly at her. In a frantic attempt to explain herself, Phoebe quickly realizes that the others cannot see her. The unknown woman turns to expose herself, revealing a familiar face. Phoebe struggles to understand what is happing and can't decide if she's looking into a mirror or watching herself like in some trippy sci-fi television show. Finally, she recognizes the guy from earlier in the evening; he's the one with the Mona Lisa smile. Unsure how to manage the situation, Phoebe collapses to the floor and watches the event unfold.
After a few minutes of chitchat, casanova picks up the empty wine glasses and stumbles to the kitchen, leaving his half-conscious date behind, while Phoebe follows. She witnesses the shifty scumbag dump white powder into his inebriated damsel's cup before filling it with cheap red wine. Phoebe watches as he returns to his lair and urges his companion to drink it all. Time wears on, and the look on the man's face evolves, revealing a cruel predator drooling over an unconscious prey. He throws the lifeless body over his shoulder, disappearing into the bedroom like a spider, ready to weave its web around a helpless bug. The creak from the mystical door signals that it's time for Phoebe to leave. She again stands outside in the darkness at the bottom of the staircase, facing a locked doorway.
The only difference this time is the words that read, "Could of," instead of the previous phrase. Experienced, Phoebe patiently waits at the entrance for her cue. Once the passage is clear, Phoebe storms through, ready to battle the demon on the other side. Everything is the same, except for one detail. This time Phoebe isn't watching herself. Instead, it's a complete stranger accompanying the manipulative beast. It doesn't take long before Phoebe realizes whatever is allowing her to watch the story has no intention of letting her interfere. She feels as vulnerable as the target, desperately wanting to lash out at the promiscuous pervert. Phoebe may as well be a ghost as she experiences a replay of the last show with a new unsuspecting cast member.
Again, Phoebe finds herself outside with a new sign that reads, "Should of." She impatiently waits for the signal before stepping through the third time. Tears soak Phoebe's face as she assumes she's damned to confront the scenario repeatedly, like some malicious supernatural loop. Despair influences Phoebe to slide down the wall embracing the helplessness but refusing to monitor the ritual. She can't help but take a glimpse after hearing her own voice, just as she did the first round. She watches herself make the same mistakes, except now something has changed. The would-be target follows the wicked coward into the kitchen, shoves her body against his backside while he pours the wine, and slashes his throat with a nearby serrated bread knife.
The blade rips through his skin as she saws with all of her strength. The bottle and glasses shatter at his bare feet, sticking deep into his heels and toes. Chunks of flesh tear from his neck, then dangle for a moment and fall to the floor, eventually disguised by a pool of blood and discount liquor store wine. Red specs build up on the checkered tile backsplash, ultimately leaving a pathway to the sink and down the drain. Gurgled screams give way to a silenced panic as cold steel mutilates his vocal cords. Phoebe spectates with no remorse because guilt does not coexist alongside vengeance. Adrenaline streamed through Phoebe's veins; this was an inspiring first. She watched as her clone dropped the knife to the floor, grabbed her jacket, and left the apartment. One last spasm and 'Mona Lisa Smiles' was gone.
Phoebe left the scene expecting to find herself at the bottom of a magical floating staircase. Instead, she stood outside in a crowded midway while the sounds of bells and whistles hijacked any chance to reflect. She remained still, waiting for the right moment to act, and then she saw him. Not one pretty girl walked by without tasting his frosty stare. He patiently waited for the right mix of vulnerability, shuffled into naiveness, and enclosed snuggly inside a flawless body. Phoebe meticulously surveyed until she noticed the young lady who was on the other side of door number two catch his attention. Phoebe hustled to make her way to the gentleman first because tonight he had a date with the girl behind door number three.
I've always lived in Clarksville. Like anyone else, I've moved around a few times. Still, I decided long ago that this city will always be my home, whether I reside on Memorial Drive, Bentree Court, or several other locations. It's a good town to grow up in, and I'm happy my kids made the same choice. During my walk at Liberty Park, I could not help but reflect on something that happened long ago; it sometimes feels like a bad dream when I think about it.
In 2001 I was a young parent, married with two young children. We were always on the move. If you have kids, you know what I'm referring to on any day of the week. Children grow up quickly, so we desperately try to squeeze everything in that we can. Slowing down never seems like an option, but it's what we all secretly want to do. Just one afternoon with the family and no plans would be sublime. Instead, we were off to the fairgrounds for another soccer practice.
I parked and watched as the kids finished their juice boxes and string cheese. Christian, my son, had to tie his shoes, and Ashlee, my daughter, looked like she had brushed her hair with a ceiling fan. It's the sort of stuff that happens when the dad is off and Moms caught up at work. My kids unbuckled in a flash and headed toward the coach, leaving two empty drink boxes behind in the back seat. I remember staring at the containers thinking how those juices meant everything to my kids, but once they finished them, they moved on, and the treats were forgotten.
The young athletes ran around and kicked the ball while all parents watched silently. We were chatterboxes most of the time, but something was different about this day. Not a single grown-up was on that field in spirit. All of our minds were in another place. Flashes of the world and how our babies would one day grow up to take on the leftover madness crept around our brains. Clarksville felt safe not long ago, but today there isn't a city in the entire country unaffected by despair. The goal is to leave a better community behind, a better world. We've failed.
Above was a spectacular cobalt Tennessee sky showing off its magnificence above Montgomery County. A few splashes of white reflected the warm glow of the setting sun. Then we saw it—something we hadn't seen in days since the tragedy. An airplane made its way overhead. Everyone stopped as if time had taken a break except for the object floating through the atmosphere.
We watched until it was nothing more than a tiny speck evaporating in space. The slowdown was all we needed, and smiles emerged for the first time since practice began. It was a sense of relief seeing that captivating airplane gliding across the sky and leaving behind some hope; hope that things would be okay, hope that our children may have a chance in the world even after September 11th.
"Hey Lynette, I just finished another story and posted it on Facebook. I haven't recorded it yet, so would you mind pulling it up on my page and reading it out loud?" I asked, pointing to the second paragraph showing her where to start and then having a seat next to her to listen.
Thirty-four years have passed since the night I first met Lynette. In a way, it feels like five lifetimes ago, and some days I can recall the encounter like it was yesterday. We've both been through plenty since we were teenagers. Kids, failed marriages, and mortgages can sure keep two people occupied for three decades. We grew older, lost touch, and moved on with our lives. But, a lot can happen over a few months. We managed to find one another again, and I'd like to share the rest of our story in a unique way. August 14, 1988, was our first kiss. Today is August 14, 2022, which will hopefully be a special day too.
Lynette and I had been friends on Facebook for a while, but we never commented on posts or acknowledged each other. One day out of the blue, I received a message from my first love on the popular platform. She'd seen where I publicly announced my divorce and wanted me to know she was also dealing with the same circumstances. I immediately felt better knowing someone out there was going through a tough time just like me and was willing to provide an ear whenever I needed it. There we were, both around fifty years old and all of a sudden, we're pen pals again. Thanks to technology, we didn't have to wait weeks for a letter.
After a few days of texting, we decided to have an actual phone conversation. I planned to tell Lynette my intentions when I drove to Gurnee three decades ago to see her. She'd finally know the trip wasn't just a friendly visit. She would hear me say that I had made the journey to reveal my feelings. I mean, what did I have to lose? The chance to finally get this off my chest was within reach, and I was not about to mess it up again. Nobody ever gets this chance, and I mean nobody, ever! The gesture was more about speaking it out into the universe and less about continuing a love story that was over so long ago.
I drove down Madison Street to the abandoned movie theater, where we shared our first kiss. This time I was no longer an unsure kid who had no idea how to communicate. After sitting in the parking lot reliving that special night in '88 for a few moments, I made the call. As the phone rang, I recalled the last time we'd ever spoken, well, until now. Maybe things would have been different had I known I'd never see Lynette again. Then she answered. Suddenly I was seventeen again, talking to the most beautiful girl in the world on the other end of the line. Who knows how many hours we spoke? I know that I watched the sun drop behind the horizon, and most of the conversation was in the dark while I sat in the front seat of my Jeep in that empty parking lot. It was nice to toss my teenage feelings into the atmosphere finally.
Days transformed into weeks, and weeks slid into months as we got to know each other again. We didn't miss a day on the phone or a chance to FaceTime. I learned about Lynette's family, and she listened while I chatted about mine. Our lives had certainly changed since our first encounter, but something special remained. Affection found its way back into two hearts that had lost all hope and decided to shine brighter than ever. We both agreed it was time to meet again, so the planning began. We booked the flight and counted down the days until I picked Lynette up at the airport. I recently expressed how I felt years ago over the phone. But I refused to tell her I was in love with her still today until we met in person. I knew I'd soon get my chance.
The drive home from the airport was forty-five minutes filled with giggling and hand holding. Once we made it into the house with her luggage, I decided not to waste a single minute. Music played, and we danced right in my living room. It was our first dance.
"Hey, Lynette," I said with a grin from ear to ear. She looked up into my eyes, waiting for me to continue. "I was wondering if you'd be my girlfriend?" After a short pause that lasted long enough to smile, she said yes. We danced a little more, and then I said, "I love you," for the first time in our lives. She said it back to me. We continued to dance. Life doesn't get any better than that.
For two weeks, we went on dates, spent time with family, and grew closer. We knew she'd eventually have to go back home, but we kept that thought pushed to the back of our brains. Nothing would ruin this occasion, this grand reunion. We'd even discussed the possibility of her moving in with me by October. It sounded like a good plan, but three months was a long time, especially considering how we felt. We convinced ourselves that ninety days was a drop in the bucket compared to the thirty years we've spent apart, and it would go by quickly. Returning to the airport allowed all those first-date feelings from 1988 to resurface. Once again, my heart felt like it was being ripped out, but at least this time, I knew I'd see my Lynette again.
She was barely back home in Illinois a day before we discussed the possibility of her moving in sooner than October. After a quick change of plans, we decided three weeks sounded better than three months. Lynette quit her job up north and found a new one here. She said goodbye to friends and her church family. She left her life there to start a new one with me in Clarksville.
That moment on Sunday, August 14, 1988, brings us to today, Sunday, August 14, 2022. Lynette told me in a conversation we'd had months ago that if I ever proposed, she'd like to wear my birthstone, a ruby. We'd already retraced all the places we went on our first date during the previous visit, so I chose the perfect spot to ask the question. Our next chapter will start in this living room, where I told Lynette I loved her for the first time. As Lynette reads this very sentence from a story that waited three decades to unfold on my keyboard, I'll reach in my pocket and pull out a ring.
My girl is trying to read as she watches me kneel with a pink ruby in my hand. I chose the particular color because I think it looks good on her, and I picked the vintage eternity white gold band because it reminds me of the number eight on both sides of the gem. Hopefully, Lynette will always see eighty-eight when she looks at it. And I had to have the date August 14, 1988, engraved on the inside. I only have one thing left to do now.
"Alright, Lynette, you can stop reading now," I said Before she went any further. Then I asked this question, "Lynette, will you marry me?" And she said yes.
It's not often I get the opportunity to dress up. Please understand that it's not something I look forward to no matter the occasion. Typically it means one of my cousins is getting married, and I have a lot of cousins. Putting on nice clothes is a lot of work for subpar non-chocolate cake. Those wedding mints are nice, but after two or three trips and a few handfuls, the grownups tend to catch on to my game. Plus, my pockets will only hold so many.
Weekends are more valuable than they were before I started going to school. Not long ago, every day was no different than Saturday or Sunday. With only two days a week to play outside, this wedding feels like a colossal waste of my time. I could be building a fort in the woods behind the house or skipping rocks across the creek. My feet could carry me down the hill to the river bottom as fast as The Flash. Maybe I could pretend to be Tarzan and swing on a couple of grapevines along the way.
Instead, I'm forced to wear this getup that clearly does not reflect my true nature whatsoever. It's tough to breathe, and everything itches. Hopefully, it's safe to lose the tie. They would have done it by now if they intended to take my picture. At least the suit is better than the outfit I had to wear when I was a ring bearer. It made me look like a cast member from The Love Boat.
"Chris! Where is your tie?" My mother asked impatiently, waiting for an answer. Looking around as if the tie would magically appear, I just shrugged my shoulders. Mom continued to speak, "Oh, never mind. Stand against the wall and smile so we can take your picture. Stop moving your hands, Chris."
"What am I supposed to do with them?" was my earnest response. She told me to lock my fingers in front of myself. My first instinct was to hold my hands in a prayer position and bow my head. Momma had no problem adjusting my pose, kind of like I do with my Lone Ranger sometimes. Then she urged me to be still and reminded me to smile again.
"Don't close your eyes, Chris. You always close your eyes. I'll count to three and take the picture. Make sure they're open until I say three. And stand up straight," Mom instructed.
"Man, taking pictures is complicated. Why can't she snap the darn thing so we can go home while I still have sunlight? I wonder if I can sneak undetected by the mint bowl one more time? Wait, Can I blink on three, or do I wait until after Mom says three?" I thought to myself.
"And three," my mother said, followed by the camera's flash. She asked, "Did you blink?"
"No, ma'am," I mumbled before stuffing a few more mints into my pocket and making my exit.
A few months had passed since Daddy made his way into Heaven. The farm looked the same. The crab apple trees still sent a burst of fragrance up the hill and around the house into the front yard whenever a warm wind decided to wake up. My dog Ginger continued to find me when I wandered outside looking for strange bugs or mystical arrowheads. The woods surrounding our home never stopped speaking into the breeze, calling me to explore. Dad was gone, but sometimes I could hear his voice echoing over the ridge urging me to come in for supper.
I noticed a swing appeared a couple of days ago under one of the crab apple trees. It was the kind that you put one foot in and glide around upright. Susan, my older sister, must have tied it to one of the limbs earlier in the week. Checking it out is definitely on my mental list for the day. Hopefully, I'll have time to squeeze it into my busy schedule before the sun dips down behind the barn.
Time sure has a funny way of speeding up when you don't want it to and slowing down when you want it to hurry along. Maybe God got that whole thing backward. He absolutely knows what he's doing, but everyone is entitled to an oversight. When I make it to Heaven, I'll be sure to tell him that the clock should move fast during class and slow down during playtime. I'm sure plenty of other angels will back me up on that.
I felt a lot closer to God after Dad moved on. Maybe because I knew Daddy was with him, or perhaps because I needed help filling that void where a boy's father is supposed to reside. God and me have our moments, though; things aren't always pretty. Sometimes I'll pick a fight with him, but he tends just to listen. I guess disagreements will pop up when you're close to someone. Lucky for me, Jesus has unlimited patience.
A few words buzzed from my mouth like angry hornets assembling and taking flight, "I hope you know my mother's heart is broken. She didn't deserve this. None of us did. Why did you choose my dad? He worked hard every day, always doing his best to care for us all. I can't go two days without someone telling me how he was a good man or how he helped them once when they needed it."
My face grew red while tears filled my eyes after noticing my old bike leaning against the homemade wooden basketball goal. And I continued, "He just taught me how to ride that ya know. He was supposed to teach me other stuff, and you took him. None of this makes sense, and your decision was wrong. I hate you."
After wiping my face on my shirt, I marched toward the rope swing behind the house. The lasso made that tightening sound as I stepped into it and raised myself above the ground. Using my momentum, I swung back and forth as high as possible, pretending I was Spider-Man, who had also lost his Uncle Ben. The slight breeze from the swaying motions felt good, hitting my dirty face. My eyes closed for a few moments while I envisioned my body floating high over the earth, noticing how tiny everything looks from up here.
Like always, real life ascended to the surface, and I noticed I'd gotten into a predicament. Just below my feet, yellowjackets hoovered around the fallen apples like hot lava, ready to disintegrate me head to toe like I was beaming up on Star Trek once I stepped down. My tense body dangled overhead like an anticipated second course for hungry zombies. Again, God managed to slow down time at the worst possible moment. I must have hung there for an hour or longer before I heard it.
"Let go," the voice whispered. I'm unsure if it was Jesus or my dad, but I decided to listen and let go. My right leg slipped through the lasso while the rope tightened around my thigh, trapping me with the vicious flying insects. "Great advice," I belted as my back landed flat on the hard, unforgiving earth. The more I fought to get away, the tighter the cord squeezed. Any moment the angry yellowjackets would devour my flesh, leaving only a pile of bones, with one tibia left wobbling in the air a few feet over my final resting place.
A familiar voice broke the chaos, "Chris, what is wrong with you? Just get up." Mom must have seen me through the kitchen window and made her way to my resue.
"The yellowjackets are going to sting me, Mom! I'm trapped," would be the final words ever to escape my mouth.
Shaking her head, she spoke again, "Oh Chris, these aren't yellowjackets. They're corn flies, and they are harmless." She loosened the rope as my bruised leg fell to the ground. One of the bugs landed on my chest, looked at me like an idiot, and buzzed away. We walked back to the house together that afternoon. I guess God was trying to tell me to let go. Things may get a little worse sometimes when we do, but eventually, it gets better.
Picture day is perhaps the biggest day of the school year. Time will pass while images captured and carefully scattered throughout the annual burn a spot in our mental history book. We'll never see most of our classmates again, so they'll always be their first-grade selves with a 1978 haircut. We'll read about one another in the paper when we get married or have a baby. We'll bring up a random name in a random conversation and immediately flash back to Mrs. Jone's class on picture day. It could be thirty or forty years down the road, but all we will manage to see is a seven-year-old shadow of an innocent ghost pleasantly haunting our memories. None of us realize the significance of the photo, but we do as we're told and line up single file, then march to the gymnasium. It never occurs to the teacher what it'll mean to us to look back years later to remember who we were. The poor guy snapping the picture only thinks about the end of the day so he can go home to his family. It feels like a pretty insignificant gesture once we line up on the steps and struggle to smile simultaneously. It's easy to forget about the entire ceremony as soon as the camera clicks, especially with the playground only a few yards away. All we want to do is play. It's effortless to take each day one at a time. Our parents do all the planning, organizing, and worrying for us. So all that's left is to listen to the teacher and see who can swing the highest. Twenty-four hours is sort of a little lifetime; if we do something terrible like trip a kid during recess or break the pencil sharpener, it's no big deal. We get a fresh start the next day, and all is forgiven. None of us take a moment to ponder how we'll eventually become the parents who do all of the planning, organizing, and worrying. We're unaware of how clouded our minds will ultimately become and how life tends to dictate how we spend precious moments instead of us controlling our destiny. It's a good thing we have picture day. It'll be a welcomed escape somewhere in the future, I'm sure.
Two years shuffled by as quickly as the last day of summer break when I was a kid. The first and only time we ever kissed was back in '88, and I knew I was in love right then and there. The whole relationship was doomed from the beginning when Lynette left the next day for home in Illinois. We exchanged addresses before she headed out and promised to always keep in touch no matter what. And we did.
We slid into the friend zone right away because a long-distance relationship is challenging for anyone. With us being so young, it would have only caused pain. At least that's what I told myself in order to cope with the heartache. I'd send her letters, corny poems, pictures, and postcards from my beach vacations. We got to know each other one postage stamp at a time through the years. She learned everything about my failed attempts at courtship, and I sat back and watched her grow into a beautiful woman with each photograph I received.
I fought the urge to tell her how I truly felt countless times whenever I'd pick up a pen. Part of me didn't want to lose the stable friendship we'd molded, and the other half of my heart needed to express those three words. It was always a struggle for me and something I wish I'd spoken out into the universe at least once. Even rejection is better than never knowing. My heart constantly whispered her name with each beat, and the sound was deafening at times whenever I'd pull one of Lynette's letters from the mailbox. I had to figure out something. I needed to tell her my feelings.
Lynette came to Clarksville a handful of times to see family. We'd hang out and catch up over long drives or innocent strolls before she headed back up north. We went to see a play at Austin Peay during one of her visits. I'd always wished that could have been a date, but my courage was nonexistent, and my sentiments became buried deep beneath mounting anxiety. It was nice to see her face and experience her expressions when I'd say something funny. Meeting her never failed to stir up the sense of passion, lost as soon as we discovered it years ago.
We'd often talked about me visiting her in Gurnee for a change, so I decided to make the eight-hour drive to see Lynette. My journey would not end with a simple meeting between two acquaintances. No, this would be our final encounter as friends because I was ready to tell her everything. I'd look her in the eyes and explain that I've loved her since our very first date two years ago. She would know that I'd do whatever it took to make our relationship succeed by the time I left. It's obvious we have a deep connection, so this will work. It has to.
After saving tips for a couple of weeks of serving at the Catfish House, it was time to take my trip. Memories of our first date, the letters, pictures, and our latest encounters flashed through my head like a silent move the entire drive. Conviction bled from my body the closer I got to my destination. I envisioned finally getting the opportunity to hold Lynette again, and nothing could stop us from creating a life together. Our happily ever after was within reach and all I had to do was speak from my soul. She'd hear my remarks, and then we would wonder why it took so long to realize that what we had was unique. It would be that special kind of love that only existed in fiction until now.
I made great time and managed to arrive a little ahead of schedule. Lynette's whole family came out to greet me as soon as I pulled into the driveway, instantly making me feel at home. Following a firm handshake from her father and a warm hug from her mom, I made my way to the girl of my dreams. After a quick embrace, Lynette showed me to my room so I could unpack. Something felt a little off, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. My courage crept back into some unlit chamber, and I took a deep breath before determining to pause and see how things would play out.
Most of that first evening revolved around everyone sitting in the den and catching up. All I wanted to do was get Lynette alone for a few minutes so that I could push forward with my plan. Even though I could feel something was wrong, I had to tell her. I mean, it's why I came, so I owed it to myself to spill my guts. Eventually, the room thinned out, and I was alone with my hazel-eyed girl. There was no time to waste because I'd only planned on staying for a couple of days, and the sooner she knew, the sooner we could begin our love story. Lynette spoke before I could lay it all out.
"I wanted you to know I have a boyfriend, now."
The sentence felt like some giant hand with a razor claw reached through my ribcage and yanked out my heart. I was able to muster up a response. "Oh, um, that's fantastic news. How did you two meet?"
"We met at work; it just kind of happened suddenly."
All I wanted to do was cry, but I held it back and said, "Good for you. I mean, as long as you're happy, that is all that matters. I hope me being here doesn't cause a problem."
"Oh no. He knows we're just friends, and it'll never go beyond that."
My insides collapsed, and my head rang with some excruciating noise I couldn't shake. I told Lynette I was exhausted after the drive and excused myself. I stretched out in a strange bed far from home that night, feeling more alone than I can ever recall. All I wanted was to drive back to Clarksville and forget this had ever happened. I stayed for two days and witnessed her face light up whenever he'd call. The agony felt unbearable when she talked about him and their plans together, but I hid it the best I knew how. The images of Lynette and me together faded away and were replaced by some guy she met working at Six Flags.
I spent weeks replaying every moment of our relationship, desperately attempting to figure out what I could have done differently. Maybe I should have said something sooner in a letter or during one of Lynette's stops in town. Telling her, she's beautiful or expressing how my palms sweat just thinking about her could have changed everything. Even if I had crashed and burned by saying, "I love you," at least she would have heard it. If nothing else, she would know how I've always felt. The strength never surfaced, and now I'm hollow. My chest is empty, and my stomach aches because I've lost her.
Time does tend to mend the body and the spirit. It may take a while, but the boldness to move forward is in all of us if we live long enough to mark enough blocks off of the calendar. Falling out of love would never be an option, but easier days and romantic distractions kept me from going crazy until she wasn't the first thing I thought about when I woke up in the morning. Life sure can throw those curveballs when we least expect it. About the time I began to feel like myself again, it happened. All it took was to open the mailbox one day, and there it was—another letter from Lynette.
There's no timeline for Hannah. Knowing her, she's forgotten it's even 1972. A cross-country trip that could have easily taken a week or two to complete has her on the road bouncing from place to place for a few months now. She rarely thinks about the man she shot and killed back home, and when he does cross her mind, there's no inkling of remorse. She'd tell you the gentleman had it coming, and he should have kept his hands off the boy. Little Ricky does, however, appear in her thoughts, and Hannah wonders if she truly set him free. The recollections force the talkative red-headed wanderer to ponder her own sense of freedom. Hannah would stop off at every exit if she could because she's constantly afraid she'll miss out on some unusual sight or a good story from a local. Of course, her idea of a good story is listening for a few seconds and then taking over the conversation for several minutes outside of a laundromat or greasy spoon. Sometimes she'll find temporary work in a small town long enough to acquire enough cash to move on to the next and eventually make it to the West Coast. About the time she makes a couple of friends who don't mind her taking over the discussion, she packs up what few clothes she owns and disappears. One boy asked Hannah to marry him after about three days a few hundred miles back east. It's not her fault men get lost in those deep aqua eyes and decide that popping the question is reasonable. She politely told the young man she's only interested in older gents but neglected to mention she'd turned down a guy ten years her senior several weeks before. She left him thinking younger bucks were more her speed. Hannah knows exactly what she's after, and it has nothing to do with male hormones leading a charge down the aisle anytime soon. When the time is right, she figures that her ideal mate will take time to peel back her layers, and she doesn't mean clothing. Hannah has her share of demons hopping around inside of her skull. She tells everyone she left home to pursue her dreams, but the reality is she simply decided to run. Folks do it every day, and it never takes long to figure out that fleeing yourself is next to impossible. Old thoughts and lingering poison flowing in and out of the heart rarely dissipate until they're faced head-on. Hannah takes pride in labeling herself a problem solver, and she's assisted more than one lost soul in her lifetime. But a reflection is quick to remind Hannah her greatest asset is also her most significant obstacle. Helping herself isn't part of her agenda for now, and hopefully, that epiphany won't strike her too late. For now, Hannah is happy listening to her John Denver eight-track over and over as she coasts down the interstate scoping out each exit, wondering if the stop holds her next adventure. She finds peace in providing long-winded answers to any stranger who'll hear her words. The solutions to her own questions drift further away with each passing second her foot presses the accelerator. If Hannah knew what to ask herself, she would have stayed home where she was supposed to be. Instead, she's caught somewhere on a long road chasing invisible goals that'll lead her to a familiar place a little too late. Then again, sometimes opportunity has a way of offering up a second chance to lost spirits like Hannah. Maybe she'll have a long conversation with the mirror before it's too late to go home.
There's no timeline for Hannah. Knowing her, she's forgotten it's even 1972. A cross-country trip that could have easily taken a week or two to complete has her on the road bouncing from place to place for a few months now. She rarely thinks about the man she shot and killed back home, and when he does cross her mind, there's no inkling of remorse. She'd tell you the gentleman had it coming, and he should have kept his hands off the boy. Little Ricky does, however, appear in her thoughts, and Hannah wonders if she truly set him free. The recollections force the talkative red-headed wanderer to ponder her own sense of freedom. Hannah would stop off at every exit if she could because she's constantly afraid she'll miss out on some unusual sight or a good story from a local. Of course, her idea of a good story is listening for a few seconds and then taking over the conversation for several minutes outside of a laundromat or greasy spoon. Sometimes she'll find temporary work in a small town long enough to acquire enough cash to move on to the next and eventually make it to the West Coast. About the time she makes a couple of friends who don't mind her taking over the discussion, she packs up what few clothes she owns and disappears. One boy asked Hannah to marry him after about three days a few hundred miles back east. It's not her fault men get lost in those deep aqua eyes and decide that popping the question is reasonable. She politely told the young man she's only interested in older gents but neglected to mention she'd turned down a guy ten years her senior several weeks before. She left him thinking younger bucks were more her speed. Hannah knows exactly what she's after, and it has nothing to do with male hormones leading a charge down the aisle anytime soon. When the time is right, she figures that her ideal mate will take time to peel back her layers, and she doesn't mean clothing. Hannah has her share of demons hopping around inside of her skull. She tells everyone she left home to pursue her dreams, but the reality is she simply decided to run. Folks do it every day, and it never takes long to figure out that fleeing yourself is next to impossible. Old thoughts and lingering poison flowing in and out of the heart rarely dissipate until they're faced head-on. Hannah takes pride in labeling herself a problem solver, and she's assisted more than one lost soul in her lifetime. But a reflection is quick to remind Hannah her greatest asset is also her most significant obstacle. Helping herself isn't part of her agenda for now, and hopefully, that epiphany won't strike her too late. For now, Hannah is happy listening to her John Denver eight-track over and over as she coasts down the interstate scoping out each exit, wondering if the stop holds her next adventure. She finds peace in providing long-winded answers to any stranger who'll hear her words. The solutions to her own questions drift further away with each passing second her foot presses the accelerator. If Hannah knew what to ask herself, she would have stayed home where she was supposed to be. Instead, she's caught somewhere on a long road chasing invisible goals that'll lead her to a familiar place a little too late. Then again, sometimes opportunity has a way of offering up a second chance to lost spirits like Hannah. Maybe she'll have a long conversation with the mirror before it's too late to go home.
Maybe age is only a number, and perhaps it isn't. Ask me how I feel about it when I'm really old, like forty or fifty or something. All I know is that whenever a birthday rolls around, I get some fantastic chocolate cake my mother whipped up. Eventually, the seventies will become the eighties, and before I know it, the world will change, but one thing will forever remain constant. Chocolate cake will always be the most delicious cake ever devised. I've had some pretty outstanding desserts within my short life. The cake is the best reason to go to another kids' party, but there is never a guarantee it'll be the right kind. I can't figure out why someone would choose anything other than chocolate when they can pick whatever flavor they'd like. Forget about weddings because those are never good. They're kind of pretty, but every time that knife goes in, it's some white or yellow cake. It's supposed to be a special day, but I guess it isn't that special after all. The worst is when adults mess with your head. Anyone above the age of ten can not be trusted because they're ticky. Nothing is worse than salivating over a giant mound of goodness covered in dark frosting, only to discover that some dry yellow sponge hides beneath, ready to disappoint. Grown-ups can be monsters. Biting into an oatmeal raisin cookie, thinking its chocolate chip comes in at a close second. These tragic moments can easily turn into sleepless nights. Sometimes everything looks right. The frosting is nice and chocolaty, the cake is the perfect shade of mocha, and even the ice cream is delightfully fudgy. One bite quickly tells me that looks can indeed be deceiving. It's like my mother has some super-secret ingredient and no one else on earth is aware. I've never once witnessed her wave a magic wand or sprinkle any kind of magical dust all over the birthday cake. Why can't anyone else bake a cake as wonderful as my mother's? A giant table sits still and empty, but don't let the lifeless wooden structure fool you. If it could talk, the stories that old piece of furniture could paint would leave you with an art gallery full of portraits floating around inside your mind. All of the Christmas dinners, Thanksgivings, Easter egg paintings, homework, and occasional arguments would provide a book with more than a thousand chapters. And of course, we can't forget birthdays. First, Mom gently throws her signature white tablecloth into the air, and it bubbles up like a parachute before landing perfectly on the unique table. Next, the themed paper plates are stacked next to enough forks and spoons for all of my friends and cousins who will attend. She lines up balloons and Dum-Dums so each guest will have something to take home. My favorite green Kool-Aid chills in the refrigerator while the extra chocolaty chocolate chip ice cream stays frozen in the icebox. Then she places my cake in the center of the table she'd made the day before. Soon everyone will arrive with gifts, and they'll sing happy birthday before I fill my lungs with enough air to blow out each candle successfully. Mom will laugh and sing along with the rest of us on this special day. Afterward, she'll clean up, put everything back in its place and never complain once or even expect a thank you. Every year she proves love is way more powerful than a magic wand or enchanted fairy dust, and it makes the perfect secret ingredient.
Sunday evening was always more enjoyable than the morning at Pleasant View Baptist. A laid-back atmosphere of blue jeans and talk of the day's afternoon football game before the service is a better fit, and I don't even care for football. Brother Larry never failed to deliver some goofy greeting as soon as I stepped through the side door, and Brother Ben made me feel at ease with his generous smile. The church was my second home throughout the eighties, and I wouldn't have changed anything. I was familiar with every face behind those walls regardless of what day or night I showed up. However, one young woman managed to catch me off guard on an August night in '88. The instant the door shut behind me, Larry, my youth director, screamed from down the hall by his office, "Brother Chris, in the building!" He caught me off guard a little, but I'd think something was wrong if he didn't. We struck up a conversation, and I greeted Brother Clegg as he passed by to shake my hand along with a handful of others. On most occasions, I'd listen intently to whatever my youth director had to say, but distraction reared its beautiful face on this particular evening. She appeared out of nowhere from around the corner and walked right by me, pausing long enough to show her smile before vanishing into the auditorium. "Hey Chris, are you still with me, buddy?" Larry said before snapping his fingers to bring me out of my trance. I forgot I was speaking to anyone for an instant, and my chest filled with incandescent fireflies fluttering around, tossing me into a lightheaded frenzy. "Wait, what? What did you say, Larry?" I muttered while trying to recover. "You were looking at that girl, weren't you? It's Lynette. She's Aleta's sister from Illinois. I can introduce you?" "No. No, no. Absolutely not," frantically escaped my mouth, trying to avoid any embarrassment that would surely accompany the introduction. After excusing myself, I headed toward my usual spot, which happened to be a couple of rows down from and directly behind some girl who robbed me of every ounce of sense with a passing glance. It was only the back of her head, but I couldn't pull my eyes away the entire hour. I usually at least hear a couple of things during the sermon that hit home or give me something to think about but not this night. My brain refused to work at all. Any lingering thoughts zipped right through the ceiling out into space somewhere, leaving me mesmerized by the stranger. Toward the end of Brother Clegg's presentation, Lynette briefly looked to her left, giving me a glimpse of her profile. The fireflies in my chest swirled around as if they would eventually burst through my ribcage and fill the entire room. Her body turned to face me with no warning, while her brown eyes pulled me in, igniting an unfamiliar sensation. Our synchronized smiles signaled an undeniable connection between two kids who had no choice but to give in. A friendship began before a single word inched from our mouths, sculpted by a gaze and a grin. After the final prayer and without hesitation, we approached one another and introduced ourselves. We ended up outside and immediately began talking like we'd known each other for a lifetime. My interaction with any female until this point never failed to be riddled with awkwardness. Once she told me her family would be leaving Clarksville the next day, I knew there was no time to waste. "Would you like to go see a movie with me? I'd like to see Young Guns; it's playing over on Madison Street," I asked, hoping she'd say yes with every ounce of energy in my soul. "I'd love to see a movie with you, but we need to ask my parents first," she responded. Her mom and dad agreed to let us go on a date as long as we returned safely and promptly after the show. They reminded their daughter a long drive started early the following day before we left together. The two of us didn't hold hands on the way to the car, but the shoulder-to-shoulder stroll made me happy regardless. Being close to her filled me with joy, and I believe she felt the same. I made sure to open her door before walking around to the driver's seat. It was only a few steps, but it was longer than I wanted to be away from Lynette. Keeping my eyes on the road was next to impossible. The darkness hid Lynette's face, but each streetlamp provided me with enough light to catch a few minor details that would permanently etch themselves into my thoughts. And I didn't want to miss one opportunity to admire the subtle glow from her skin with each temporary flash. Our hands met for the first time on that drive to the cinema, and her touch sent electricity through my fingertips directly into my welcoming heart. We'd only met moments before, but neither of us could deny the allure. Before entering the building, I knew the movie was a mistake. The last thing I wanted to do was sit there in silence for two hours. Our time was precious, and I wanted to explore her thoughts, make her laugh, and leave with a memory of Lynette and not Billy The Kid. After walking through the lobby and taking a seat, the film began right away. Before the opening credits even finished, her head found a place on my shoulder, and it fit as well as two tiny puzzle pieces. Once I squeezed in as close as possible, she directed her attention away from the screen and back into my eyes. It wasn't long before every seat and bag of popcorn vanished around us, and we kissed. "I don't think I want to see this movie anymore," I whispered, hoping for the same response. "Let's go somewhere else," she said into my ear. We ended up at a nearby park with enough light to reveal her face, so I didn't have to settle for brief photographs. Euphoria tangled into a mixture of despair hovered above us and all around, sending surges of emotion through our bones rattling the earth beneath our feet. Neither of us wanted to be anywhere else in the world. But the pain of her departure in a few short hours slithered around our minds refusing to let us forget our fate even for a moment. Laughter could not hide the rivers of tears flowing down our faces, to each of our necks and finally meeting where our bodies touched under the moonlight of a celestial Tennesse summer twilight. I drove Lynette back that Sunday, knowing it could be the last time I saw her. The torture of saying goodbye overwhelmed my innocent seventeen-year-old body to the point of breaking me in half. But the happiness we found together in those few hours was worth the agony of a broken heart a million times over. Lynette and I fell in love, but the words went unspoken. It's not something two people have to say to understand when it's there to see and feel. We said goodbye, but we both held onto that gift of time and the hope of picking up where we left off someday.
Even at four years old, I've always prided myself in having quite the imagination. Thanks to The Twilight Zone, I can evaluate the possibilities of unusual circumstances surrounding regular people like me. Making a deal with the devil is never a good idea, and if I'm ever the last person alive in the world, I'd better take extra special care of my glasses so I can still read books during the apocalypse. It's my favorite show to watch, and it's right up there with The Three Stooges and The Little Rascals. The Twilight Zone, of course, is strictly for daytime consumption. Getting spooked at three in the afternoon is much easier to overcome than getting scared after dark.
After an eventful day pretending to be Astronaut George Taylor fighting off those darn dirty apes, I found myself relaxing on the couch in the living room. It's a rare occurrence to catch me hanging out with my much older siblings Larry and Susan. They both decided to join me after a few minutes of solo entertainment provided by my Spider-Man coloring book. It's a fun nighttime activity, and all on my own, I discovered that I could trace the pictures and color them as much as I wanted. Crayons and paper always piled up around me close to bedtime.
Before long, my brother and sister struck up an interesting conversation. They seemed pretty excited over a recent newspaper article, and even with my superpower of blocking out unwelcomed distractions, curiosity prevailed, and I abandoned my task. My interest peaked when I overheard them mention the word alien. Evidently, someone spotted an extraterrestrial in Salem, and the sighting made the paper. By now, the wind picked up outside, and I could hear branches scraping the side of our house, making the whole situation even creepier. Larry explained how a neighbor on Mellon Road admitted seeing one of the creatures just before sundown. That's about the time I heard Rod Serling's famous intro in my mind and felt a sharp jolt of terror streak from head to toe.
"What happened? Did the aliens hurt anyone?" I asked, anxiously awaiting an answer.
Susan said, "They shot at it, maybe wounded it, and it took off running toward our house."
Fear released its poison into my young body, transforming my sun-kissed skin into milky white as Larry handed over the newspaper and pointed at the sketch. Those dark black fishbowl eyes hung above two tiny holes for his nose and a small mouth that is undoubtedly hiding some sort of suction tongue and a set of fangs for eating my brains. The monster's enormous, strangely shaped head rested upon a spaghetti-sized neck and boney frame held together by leathery skin. The creature obviously would not think twice about snatching me up to take home as some sort of scientific experimentation offering.
Lightening crept across the sky, creating a web of electric veins decorating the atmosphere. During the brief flash, I noticed something through the window under the catawba tree. It could have been something tall and lanky with a giant head and enormous eyes, eyes that I could possibly see my own reflection in before the last breath ascends from my lungs. How could this be? No one else in the room saw anything! It must be how Captain Kirk felt when he looked out the airplane window into the storm on episode three, season five of The Twilight Zone.
After screaming, "What are we going to do? They are coming for us!" Larry and Susan agreed to go outside to investigate. As soon as I heard the screen door slam, I felt alone and more vulnerable than ever. Within moments I listened to my brother and sister cry in agony, unable to escape the impending doom that would more than likely be my fate as well. Once the shrieks faded, silence loomed. Quiet is never more resonant than when it's following the bluster of despair and torment. With my back to the window, I stared at the television, doing my best to ignore whatever lurked from behind through that thin glass.
"Tap, tap, tap," came from behind, and in an instant, I froze, wanting nothing more than to be somewhere else on the other side of the planet. Convincing myself that hearing the tap again would be more intense than facing the beast once and for all, I decided to peek. With a quick jerk, I swung my head around and peered out into the night. Before even having the chance to capture a single sigh of relief, two lights popped on out of nowhere through the glass. For a moment, the creature's diabolical eyes worked a bizarre spell but only for a moment. Like the Flash himself, I streaked to the safest area of the house, my bed, under the covers. Here I have outlasted many aberrations, and here this nightfall, I shall take my last stand. The early evening soon turned into midnight, and sleep became too much to fight any longer.
"Chris, come eat your eggs before they get cold," is the precious sound that snapped me out of my hex. Everything should be fine if Mom is up preparing food. Larry had already left for work, but Susan sat having breakfast at the kitchen table. At first, everything seemed normal, but I knew the truth. My sister had a look on her face as if she was hiding something. There's no doubt the strange visitors from last night took over the bodies of my siblings, and for all I know, they have possessed my mother as well. All there is left to do is act like I don't suspect anything. I only hope I have learned enough from television to survive this nightmare.
What fascinated me the most about my first day of school at Cumberland Heights was laying eyes on the playground. All I could do was stand there and soak it all in and try to figure out how things worked. I could already tell my most significant hurdle would be the slide. Standing at the base of the contraption, I stared straight up into the sky, attempting to see the top of the ladder. The last step is hidden somewhere above the clouds as far as I can tell, and I'm sure it's difficult to breathe at that altitude. Deciding to leave the beast for another time, I explored more.
The biggest obstacle in Mrs. Brown's kindergarten class is figuring out the whole nap time scenario. Never in my life have I slept in the middle of the day. We all have to go to the back of the room, grab one of those spongy mats, and sleep on the floor for about twenty years. It's not easy finding one without a few dried buggers or snot on it. The teacher drops a piece of hard candy beside any of us who can successfully catch some Z's. That slide keeps popping up in my head, so there is no way I'm getting any candy because all I can think about is how I want to conquer it. How is a man supposed to get any shuteye with such momentous visions?
The swing set doesn't look too intimidating. I've spent hours on grapevines, ropes, and tire swings. "This should be a cinch," I thought to myself. As soon as I decided to give it a go, I witnessed a sixth-grader launch into the solar system. He disregarded gravity somehow by hanging on until just before the swing made a complete circle like a Ferris wheel. Two other kids were using it to play a mad game of bumper cars, and it looked excruciatingly painful.
What the heck is nap time supposed to teach us aside from how to fake a snooze? Neil is the only legit kid because his eyes are puffy, and his back is sweaty when he wakes. I close my eyelids when I see Mrs. Brown get up with her bag of sweets, and just before she gets to me, I hold my breath, and my cheeks puff out. For some reason, I never score a treat. Thankfully Twila gave me some solid advice and let me know that we do, in fact, continue to breathe while hibernating.
The bright orange wooden seesaws looked safe enough until I saw that one kid jump off, forcing her playmate to fall like a sack of potatoes to the ground. She hit the dirt so hard that her body vibrated before tumbling over in agony. I'm pretty sure she lived because I saw her throwing grapes in the cafeteria later. Naptime is absolutely insufferable. If we don't get up soon, I will lose my marbles.
Ouch, Sabrina made a giant mistake. She asked to go to the bathroom. So much for her snagging a treat today. Why the heck do girls go to the john so much anyway? On top of that, I can't even imagine not being able to pee outside. The slide haunts me as I lay motionless on the oversized slobber-soaked sponge riddled with disease. Today must be my moment to overcome my most eminent fear. I will not leave these grounds without a piece of hard candy in my pocket and a feeling of victory after slaying the mighty monster that mocks my very soul.
Oh, for crying out loud! Now I have to pee. When with this madness stop? Just give us sugar and send us to recess already, please! I knew the merry-go-round was for advanced players only when I saw it in action. One big kid would lock his hand around the metal bar and run in circles as fast as he could before slinging himself halfway across the playground. In the meantime, smaller kids, probably unaware of what they'd walked into, held on for dear life. One by one, each child would get dizzy before flinging off and landing on the worn ground plastered with jagged rocks. It reminded me of my sister blowing a dandelion to watch the tiny parachutes land wherever fate led them.
Something has to give soon, and I hope it's Mrs. Brown and not my bladder. Wait, she's up! She is walking around with the bag in her hand. All I have to do is remember Twila's advice, keep my eyes shut, and play it cool. Neil got his reward, of course. Oh man, she skipped right over Barney, and he even had me fooled. It looks like Patricia scored. She's close, so it's time to close my eyes. I can feel it in my bones this time. There is no doubt I'll be heading to recess with my well-earned bounty. After hearing the candy drop, I waited a bit longer to ensure the coast was clear before opening my eyes. A tiny peek revealed butterscotch. Really? I despise butterscotch.
As we march outside, I remind myself of the day's primary goal to dominate the deadly mountain once and for all. Each step closer to the anomaly forces my stomach into my throat, making it hard to swallow. The line moves quickly, and I fight any impulse to bail on my mission of glory. While observing the kid's buttcrack in front of me climb its way toward the heavens, others insist I hurry. The metal from the handrail scorches my fingers with each advancement, but I do not give in to the discomfort. Glimpsing down could very well be my demise, so I fix my eyes on the skin-covered crevice peeking from the top of plaid pants ahead and move on.
Everything feels minuscule atop Mount Everest while looking out over the active playground. I would have sat there for hours if not for the white-hot heat piercing my corduroys and impatient risk-takers following my lead. Lunging myself forward over the lustrous metallic ramp, I slid downward. My face enjoyed a cool breeze drying the sweat from my forehead before coming to an abrupt stop at the bottom. A sense of relief led to a radiant smile to signal my time as a champion was now. It was like breaking through the tape after winning an Olympic race, at least before the sharp pain of sneakers in my back from the next kid on the slide. "Yep, pretty soon I'll master every device this playground can throw my way," I paused to think before my next climb into space.
It's been four years since I paid a visit to the principal's office. Mrs. Allen, my second-grade teacher, found cause every week to send me to see Mr. Mitler, but it usually ended with a smile and encouragement to do better. I'm pretty sure I'm not in trouble this time, but I don't enjoy coming here regardless. It feels like a cold dentist's office, and I'm the only patient in line for a ride in the chair of destruction.
The final year at Cumberland Heights has been a tough one for sure, and I never expected to end up here again. Mrs. Taylor is sending me home early today because I lost my mind on the way back from recess about the time we marched past the library. She's a good teacher, so she is only doing what she thinks is best. It's my first day back since the accident, and all in the world I want is to feel normal. A week is a long time to be gone, and I never asked for extra attention when I returned.
My classmates have done nothing but stare all day and whisper every time I enter a room. The adults continuously tell me they're sorry, but they had nothing to do with the mishap. A little attention is nice for the right reasons, but this is too much, and I only want it to stop. The thought of coming back was exciting, and I couldn't wait to get on the bus this morning, but I totally messed everything up earlier. It's too bad I can't take it all back and start over.
Mrs. Taylor lined us up to head back to class like she had a hundred other times. Hair pulling, nose picking, and tripping are everyday observations on the stroll, and none of it phases me because I've seen it all since kindergarten. But when Doug stepped on that grasshopper, I snapped. It wasn't a small scene either; when I say I snapped, I mean, you'd think Bizarro swooped down and started picking us all off one by one.
It wasn't even an accident because he saw the bug and paused long enough to ensure he had an audience before stepping on its head and squishing it right there on the sidewalk. After the popping noise, the kid belted out some sinister giggle and looked back at all of us as if to say it wasn't over. He then covered the insect entirely with his sneaker and rotated it like he'd thrown a cigarette butt onto the ground. Then he scraped his sole across the hot concrete, leaving a trail of discarded fragments, mangled and twisted before chuckling again to show pride in his achievement.
My friends ignored the incident and carried on, but I froze. It was involuntary, and if there had been a way to at least pretend none of it happened, I would have gladly walked to class like the others. The last thing I needed was to give another justification to gossip and gaze, but I couldn't help myself. It's like my body stopped working, and an uncontrollable gush of tears and snot flowed down my face. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground in front of that mutilated grasshopper doing my best to will it back into existence. Of course, my screams went unanswered because the universe is unfair and doesn't work that way.
It's not like I'd never stepped on a bug before or shot a squirrel with my BB gun. I've seen plenty of dead animals, but today I decided to have a complete meltdown in front of everyone. All of the boys and girls in line paused to watch me with wide eyes, mourn over a stupid cricket before my teacher pulled me away and brought me here. Facing my piers again isn't going to be easy, and the way I feel now, I'd rather never see them again because I'm embarrassed.
"Chris, your mother is here. You can go home, sweetie," said Mrs. Gaither, the school secretary. Mom escorted me to the car and never uttered a word. It was a long silent ride home, and I knew big trouble would be in my future. She had to be disappointed, and I'm sure having to pick me up like this must be a significant inconvenience. She's been through enough the past couple of weeks, and the last thing Mom needs is for me to lose it at school like some raving lunatic. We were only about five minutes from the house when we passed the spot on Bend Road where it happened. Mom slowed down a little as we drove by, almost like she was saying hello to my sister.
On February 17th, a car pulled up in our driveway late in the evening. I should have been sleeping, but the headlights made me curious, so I had to investigate. After I heard a knock at the door, I slid from my bed and crept as quietly as I could into the living room. I heard mom greet someone; it was a man, maybe my uncle, I don't know. They both went into the kitchen to talk, so I moved in closer to hear what was happening. The floors are creaky, so a few steps into the dining room had to suffice. The man mentioned Susan, my sister, and told Mom that she was in an accident. My mother asked if she was alright, and after that, all I could hear was momma cry.
I'd heard enough and went back to my room. It was a sleepless night for me, and I can imagine it was even worse for my mother. Not a single tear fell from my cheek as I sat in bed, wondering how the day would play out. Sunlight made its way through my window before the sound of footsteps broke the solitude of my space. I acted like I was asleep when Mom walked in, had a seat beside me, and placed her hand on my shoulder. She began sobbing.
"What's wrong, momma?" I asked, pretending to be unaware.
"Susan was in an accident last night," she forced out before breaking down again.
I didn't have to ask if she'd be alright because I already knew the answer. All I could do was sit up in bed and comfort her the best I could. She wept, and I sat there as cold as a frosty January morning, going through the motions of being upset. There was nothing in my heart at all, no sorrow, no anger, no confusion, nothing. It's like my emotions abandoned me on an island a thousand miles away from our farm in Salem. All I wanted to do was cry with my mother, but I didn't.
Susan was on her way back from the gas station that night and realized she had forgotten her purse. An ominous dense fog coated the hills and concealed the curves on Salem Road. My sister anxiously turned the car around and raced back toward town before losing control and crashing into a tree. Just like that, she made her last stop under an oak, took her final breath, and left us all behind without a goodbye.
Twenty-two years isn't adequate to capture enough fireflies or to enjoy the sweet scent of honeysuckles cascading along with a warm Tennesse breeze. Two decades of seasons barely establish a rough outline on an oversized canvas. Even a century of paintbrush strokes leaving traces of vibrant color couldn't fill the void before it's too late. There isn't much difference between two seconds and two hundred years when it comes down to it. We can only shuffle about splashing as many shades as possible before the paint runs out.
I never wept when I heard the news or when they buried my sister in the ground. My eyes never watered up when friends and family paid their respects. It took my feelings more than ten days to resurface and remind me that this life is as fragile as a tiny grasshopper under the sole of a sneaker. My mother and I finally cried that afternoon together for Susan. When she said, "It's okay that it took you a few days," I knew I wasn't broken.
I'm not overly excited about going to work on Sundays. It's our long day at the Catfish House, and I'm stuck there from eight in the morning until around ten at night. Between all of the prep, taking care of customers, and doing inventory, it's not my favorite day of the week. The afternoon typically goes quickly with the church crowd busting in, but the rest of the day drags until I go home. The good news is I'm off the next two days, and tomorrow I can sleep in without worrying about burning the white beans or running out of baked potatoes.
It's hard to believe it's already 1994, and January is almost over. It seems like I constantly second-guess my career choices on the drive to the restaurant each day. Sometimes I wonder if stepping up from serving to management was the best idea. My hours tripled, and I'm missing those big tips and the interaction with our customers. But the goal is to move out of Mom's house soon, so I feel like my decision is solid. Salary provides peace of mind, and I know I'll be able to pay those bills.
The kid in me still wants to follow my dreams to become a writer, an actor, or a radio personality. The adult side of me insists that my life is on the right course, practical, and safe. It's difficult determining who's correct, but the truth will come out someday, and hopefully, that day won't be too late. A visit from future me would be nice from time to time, but that's not going to happen, so I'm stuck here making educated guesses on my destiny like everyone else in the world.
Some disturbing news sounded through my speakers a minute from my destination when I turned the radio on. "Four employees inside a Taco Bell in Clarksville, Tennessee, were fatally shot. Three shot execution-style in the head, and the manager was shot in the leg and chest," said the announcer before the rest of his words faded away into background noise. My heart grew heavy after sitting in my Jeep for twenty minutes, processing the data. The weight of my thoughts amplified with every question leaving me oblivious as to why this had to happen.
My shaky hands did all they could to unlock the door after dropping my keys twice before successfully entering. Reflecting on the tragic news only led to how easily it could have been us the night before or how someone could be in the building now and waiting for me to arrive. After thoroughly checking the space, it's time to begin morning prep. Baking pies and mixing ingredients for crab cakes all felt like a slow-motion flashback scene from a movie. Luckily muscle memory took over, and I could at least function.
The magnitude of my responsibility became more than food cost or payroll. Ensuring the safety of everyone who worked behind our four walls rose to the surface and took priority over everything else. I'd never had any formal training as a manager, especially when it came to the safety and well-being of others. Keeping the back locked at all times, leaving in groups, and double-checking the doors every night would be my new way of life. Taco Bell is only a few miles down the road, and allowing that to happen to people I know and love would be devasting.
Each knock at the door made me jump before dropping what I was doing to let in a server or cook. Silence cloaked a kitchen normally bustling with the sounds of laughter, clattering dishes, and stories of the night before. We mourned for people none of us knew or ever met. Our only bond with the four who'd lost their lives a few hours ago is that we all make our living the same way. That connection was enough to visualize the shock and grief the families dealt with this morning. It was enough to remind each of us that life is transient, and it could have just as easily been the crew on Riverside Drive talking about the staff here on Salem Road today.
The business was slower than average on January 30th, 1994. Anyone could examine the dining room throughout the day and know what folks were talking about or thinking. Everyone in Clarksville felt the impact of that horrific instant when Kevin Campbell, Angela Wyatt, Patricia Price, and Marcia Klopp were selfishly executed. Most of them were in their twenties, but their end was unjust and terrifying for anyone regardless of age. A haunting ambiance swallowed our community, revealing dismay for the four souls and those who loved them. I sat in my driveway that evening and cried for strangers I knew very well.
Long johns, coveralls, ski mask, four heavy blankets, and I'm still cold. The worst part is initially crawling into bed. The mattress is as hard as a rock, and even with three pairs of socks, my feet are still freezing. Looking out at other apartments is incredibly frustrating because their lights shine directly through my window to remind me that they have power and I do not. It's already been two weeks of this, and I'm not sure how much more I can take. It's impossible to fall asleep, so my mind wanders until the bed warms up, if it does at all.
Finally, moving out of my mother's house on West Road on February eighth was a big deal. I'd listened to Billy Joel's 'Captain Jack' enough to know I had to take the leap at twenty-three because that was too long. My full-time management position at the Catfish House provided enough to handle rent and my Jeep payment, so there was no excuse. Luckily it was unseasonably warm for that early in the year, so my moving clothes were shorts and a T-shirt. Most of my belongings fit in the back of a borrowed truck, so the whole process only took about two trips.
Hauling my stuff up to the second floor at Hunter Chase apartments was quite a workout, but the thought of my newfound freedom was all the motivation I'd needed to finish the task. Thanks to the deposit and first month's rent, the checking account was empty until my next payday, but I wasn't worried. Working in a restaurant has benefits, so food isn't an issue. Moving is exhausting, but I wasn't about to stop until everything looked just as I wanted it.
My life as an independent bachelor was already off to a great start. My neighbors across the hall introduced themselves earlier and said they'd love to take a ride in my Wrangler with the top down this spring. I played it cool before shutting the door behind me and doing a happy dance. There's no cable yet, so I plopped on the couch to stare at a black tv screen and wonder why it took me so long to take the plunge. I'd be inviting friends over and entertaining dates at the new place in no time at all. "I may be broke, but life is good, and there's no stopping me now," I thought before taking a hot shower.
Anger rips the blissful thoughts away from my first day, and only good day, on my own so far. The satisfaction of tossing and turning isn't even practical because I'd have to start the whole warming process from the beginning. I'm sure my mom would let me come back home until this is over, but I'd promised myself that I would never go back once I was out on my own. Everyone else in my building must have skipped town because I haven't seen a soul since this started. I remember winters growing up on the farm years ago without heat in my bedroom, but at least I had an electric blanket then. I prefer a dark room to that damn light outside from the other apartments in my complex that had electricity a day after the ice storm. The manager even showed me a place on that side, but for some stupid reason, I picked this spot.
Who would have thought that the worst ice storm would tear through Clarksville since the fifties, leaving many without power for weeks? Tree limbs and power lines froze up, crippling the city that had just enjoyed springtime-like warmth the day before. Only a couple of us could make it to work, but we managed to open. All we needed to operate was gas, which worked fine, so we fired up the deep fryers and did our thing. We were pretty dead until I called Q-108 to let them know we were in business. Moments later, they announced that the Catfish House was open, and customers were beating down the doors for take-out within thirty minutes.
It's almost four in the morning, and I'm on the verge of losing my mind. Between watching that infuriating light and seeing my breath, my head will pop off. The power at the Catfish House was back on within forty-eight hours. "Screw it! I'll just go into work where it's warm and start prepping for the day," I yell out loud while gritting my teeth. Looking forward to sitting in the Jeep for thirty minutes warming up to the heater is common these days. If nothing else, the experience has taught me to enjoy the littlest of things like hot water from the faucet at the restaurant or breaking into a sweat while expediting food to a few hundred people.
As I swing my legs around to put my boots on, the most glorious thing happens. The sound of my heat kicking on and brilliant lights in each room signaled that everything would be okay. After mentally thanking God and the technicians who work at the electric company, I bumped up the heat and patiently waited for the water to warm so I could take a long bath. I sat in the tub for three hours that morning, once again thankful for my independence and planning new adventures.
Everybody is awkward at thirteen and unsure how to feel, think, or even comprehend what matters and why it counts. Some kids have issues talking to a cute classmate, while others have limited social skills altogether. No one ever explains there is no right or wrong way to approach life, and how we experience every breath should be up to each of us and no one else. Some people cry at a funeral while others may not shed a single tear, and there may even be that person who can't help but laugh in the middle of a miserable circumstance. None of those emotions are wrong or even correct; they're just real, and that's enough. My greatest struggle as a teenager is connecting. All of my old friends from Cumberland Heights found their circle, and I'm searching for something, anything. Who knows why everyone scatters when they slip into middle school, but they do, and there's no way to stop it. Montgomery Central is like a different planet, and I'm lost somewhere floating above the atmosphere, attempting to conserve my oxygen. Luckily I've managed to remain close to my buddy Scott. We became friends when my mom watched him and his sister after school for a while. It worked out in the first place because I was thrown into an unavoidable situation with him. We didn't exactly hit it off, but things ultimately worked out because I saw Scott each day. Making new friends is terrifying. Summer break is underway, and Scott invited me to a sleepover. It's fun going to his house because the air conditioning is excellent, and he has an Atari. Taking turns is supposed to work out under most conditions, but not so much for me regarding his game console. He'll play Frogger, Pitfall, and Asteroids for an eternity, and when it's finally my time, it's over in seconds. It could be the absolute most frustrating thing in the universe aside from meeting new people. More than likely, we'll sleep out in the camper tonight so we can sneak off somewhere and explore. Sometimes he'll stay at my house, and we'll throw a tent up behind the barn and camp. These little maneuvers keep us from getting caught when we're supposed to be sleeping. Our parents can't hear the sound of a door opening at midnight if we're already outside. Scott's house is only two or three miles away, so the bike ride doesn't take long at all. When I turn off Mellon Road onto Bend Road, I can coast the rest. Going back isn't as much fun, but I'll worry about that tomorrow. After zipping down the driveway, Scott greets me outside with some news. "Come on in, Chris. I want you to meet someone," he says as my excitement immediately morphs into fear. "Who am I meeting?" "You know Mike from school. He's staying the night with us." Is he kidding! He can't just spring this on me like that. I didn't even have time to psych myself up for this. I'm doomed. "Sounds good, Scott." After a brief introduction, the first thing we do is break out the Atari. Now I'm forced to take turns with two superior players; on top of that, I don't even know this guy. What a nightmare. This weekend has the potential to end tragically, and there is nothing I can do about it. My last friend all of a sudden has a new best pal, and I'll end up in a straight jacket confiding to myself about how I'm such a loser. I could go missing one day and won't even warrant a photo on the back of a milk carton because no one even knew I existed. We sat in the den for the remainder of the afternoon until supper. Both of them grow closer while I observe from a distance even though we're no more than a couple of feet apart. Scott's parents took over the room after we ate and his little sister was off doing little sister stuff. It was dark anyway and time to make camp outside. "Can we go yet?" I asked our group of three. "No, we can't go. My parents are still awake," Scott uttered for the third time because it wasn't the first attempt I'd made to convince them. Mike offered his views on an early escape as well, but I'd already mentally turned his volume down. "Let's go! It looks like all the lights are out," I insisted. "Dude, they have to have time to fall asleep," Scott replied. After a few more minutes of bickering, the coast looked clear, and we began our adventure on foot. A moonlit night offered to guide our path into the unfamiliar, and adrenaline started pumping. Anytime high beams popped up around a corner or from behind a hill to give us a warning, we'd yell, "Car!" and quickly retreat to a ditch or use a nearby tree for cover. No one in Salem is a stranger, so the last thing we need is to get busted by a neighbor who saw us wandering down the road at midnight. Not many automobiles whizzed by, but it was enough to keep us on our toes. We all bonded while pretending to be undercover spies or on the run from the law. Mike started to grow on me after discovering that he wasn't as dissimilar as I'd assumed. By the time we made it down Mellon Road to the river bottom, deep conversations had taken over our expedition and proved to be enlightening. Of course, we weren't solving world hunger or cancer, but they were good talks for three kids attempting to figure out the world. Nighttime air, along with the sounds of wildlife resonating from the Cumberland to the ridge, can be inspiring if you let it. My favorite discussions were always about who walked these paths before us. A bizarre feeling can take over when you consider strangers no different from Scott, Mike, or I probably did the same exact thing a hundred years before we came along. They had hopes, fears, and loves just like us three. And expectations of making a difference or maybe leaving a mark on the planet. None of them thought about tomorrow and felt immortal as they swung from grapevines over creeks and threw rocks into the muddy river water. Every generation has a shot at living forever, but that swift current is merciless and tends to scrub the banks before allowing reenergized feet to leave a print on the earth. There was a time that time belonged to those strangers, and we'll be the strangers soon enough. "Hey, Chris. Would you eat a lizard for a hundred dollars," Mike asked. I responded, "I'd eat anything for a hundred dollars." Scott joined the conversation, "I bet you wouldn't take a bite out of your hand." We all became close after that night. Realizing life is too short makes decisions a bit easier. The summer filled with new outdoor adventures, slinking into R-rated movies and wasting quarters at Funland. We never got caught sneaking out a single time, or at least none of our parents admitted to knowing. All I ever needed was a handful of buddies I could be real around, and that's enough. Now we can figure out the complicated stuff together because I don't think we are supposed to do that alone.
No more than five hours ago, I was warm and cozy next to my wife in the den. The glow of a brilliant fire lit up her soft face to remind me of the wisest decision I'd ever made. Dumb luck introduced us, but my hardheadedness won her over in the end. Occasionally she'd look up at me with her sleepy eyes and smile. Right then and there, I thought to myself, "Eddie, you could die today, and these few moments with your sweetheart would make life whole." Never in a thousand years did I believe I would indeed die this very day. Patricia, my wife, pleaded with me to stay home. She warned me over and over that trekking out into a blizzard is treacherous, and I should have my head inspected. She calmed down once I mentioned that I'd stay close to the house and come right back if I got too chilly. It wasn't a fib at all. There's no telling how far off I wandered, but I didn't mean to do it. It's almost like something was calling me. When I finally gave in to logic and turned around, I saw it through the trees and falling snow. A giant stag was looking in my direction and begging me to pack it tightly into my freezer for the winter. Maybe I was too enthusiastic to notice my hands were so numb I couldn't feel them. Heck, I didn't even acknowledge my trigger finger was already in position before I even aimed at the buck. Somehow I ended up shooting a big chunk out of the top of my leg. As soon as the shotgun went off, I pressed my back against a tree trunk and slid down it so I could prop myself up to make my body easier to find. More than likely, It'll be my corpse an old farmer will stumble on in a day or two after the winter storm blows by. I can't feel anything aside from the strain to keep my eyelids open. The blood slowed down but not before soaking into the powder all around, forming a bed of red ice. My last thought was the delicate glow of Patricia's face before darkness eclipsed the vision. "Good morning Eddie, It's nice to meet you. My name is Harvey." Talking is useless. It was like being caught in a nightmare surrounded by ogres and incapable of screaming or running away. All my body can do is witness the circumstance as if I watched a character in a play from the audience. "This is quite an exciting situation, Eddie. It looks like I have your undivided engagement, so I'll do all of the talking. There's no need to speak up because you can't." My body was no longer in the middle of the woods outside of Clarkstown. Vision is limited, but I'd swear I was in some cheap apartment in the center of the city if I didn't know better. Busy street sounds broke through wood panel walls, and the pungent odor of rust stifled any additional aroma. The slim gentleman's breath would exit his mouth and stop directly in front of his face until he made a gesture. Then the translucent bubbles of air shadows shattered like glass and drifted away, like fragments suspended in time, unaware of gravity. Oily hair rested just above the bottomless darkness in place of his eyeballs, and the skin on his face was no thicker than silk stretched tightly covering a skull. "I'm not who you think I am, by the way. My work is all freelance, so I have to take it when I can get it. Do you know what makes me want to curse Eddie? There always has to be a reaction to every action. Who knows who made that rule up, but we're all stuck with it. I'll have a target right there in my sights, unlike you a few moments ago, and before I can unload, the prey gets a little push, and it's game over. The real frustration comes into play when you realize the jerk who did the pushing has no idea they screwed me over, and it happens all the time. My mind is aware, and I know every step I'll take to meet my quota. Those freaks who give their naughty little nudge don't even know they ruined my day. So it's on to the next, and that brings me to you, Edward." Harvey props his feet up on my lifeless body. "I bet you are wondering about the metallic fragrance hovering around that noggin of yours. It would be blood. Not yours nor is it mine, but the pesky scent tends to stick with me over time. Most clients never pick up on it, but you, Mr. Edward, are aware. Interesting. Would you enjoy a cup of hot tea?" Harvey places a steaming mug in front of me before yanking it away and continues, "Bless your heart, y'all don't drink this here hot tea in the south, do you, partner? Not to mention you're a tad bit paralyzed, and that never helps." The bony man flicks my beak to prove a point before moving on. "Regrettably, I can't smell savory blood myself because the tantalizing bouquet of desperation dominates my senses. Maybe I'm wired that way, or perhaps misery brings me more joy. Picture a starving alcoholic strolling right by a platter full of fried chicken for the open bottle of whiskey. The poor slub is hungry but never caught a whiff of the chicken. An alluring oak perfume infringed on reason instead. I'm the alcoholic Edward. The room turned upside down and then inside out several times within a second. I never noticed Harvey exit, but I did see him re-entering with a dollar bill in his hand. "Let's cut to the chase, my paraplegic compadre! Everyone has a choice. You can freeze to death under a tree if you don't bleed out first, or you can shake my hand and live. It sounds like a no-brainer to me, bub, so how about it? Do you want to play snuggles with Pattycakes tonight, or do you want to be a tasty frozen treat for a Tasmanian Tiger? I know those beasts aren't in Tennessee, but I appreciate a decent alliteration. Contrary to popular belief, I have a conscience, so let's dissect the details. You will be giving me something in return, and generally, it would be an encounter with a descendant sometime in the future." Harvey grins before sipping on his tea. "Between us two, you and your wifey can't have children. It's tragic, I know, and to be honest, it's your fault, buddy." Harvey leans in closer, "The little guy is shooting blanks, oh well. If you haven't guessed already somewhere down the line, one of your ancestors made the same agreement, and bam! Here we are. The good news is it won't be your kid because, well, you know." The mysterious fellow makes a gun with his fingers and shoots at me. "It appears to be empty, Edward. Shake my hand today; you'll return like nothing ever happened; I'll meet up with a relative, probably distant, and offer him a choice. An extra fifty years or so sound good, Edward, or do you want to go ahead and let fortune kick that bucket in the ass? Oh, good, I can feel you're coming around. All you have to do is shake on it. Go ahead, buddy; you can move it now. A weight lifted from my arm, and the feeling returned to my fingers. Harvey reached out, and I shook on the deal. The dollar bill fell from his hand simultaneously and landed on my bloody leg. Afterward, my limb dropped like a chunk of lead, and once again, I was motionless. Harvey slid the currency into his front pocket and gazed at me for several minutes before finally speaking. "You'll know when your down to the final few years, Eddie. It'll eat at your gut like a ravenous piranha chewing its way out of there. You'll go to sleep thinking about death, and it'll be the first thing you envision when you awake. Oh, the rain, it'll mean you're down to the wire, my friend. Sorry, I can't simply give you a date. I'm supposed to be all vague and stuff; it's how this works, Ed." Harvey stands, and the last thing he says is, "Clifford will love his inheritance." The ghostly figure evaporates, and I somehow return home. Patricia greets me at the door and tells me she's pleased I was only gone for ten minutes. My clothing is clean, and my leg is perfectly fine. I tell myself it was the right decision, but something is different; something haunts me.
The beauty of autumn in Clarkstown depends on how hot and dry the summer is leading up to it. June and July were so wet in '71 that the river flooded every inch of bottomland in the county. Most of the folks on the bluff could skip rocks right from their backyards, and rain is all they talked about on WJKM for two months. It's mostly dirt roads, and they were too muddy to drive over, so half the town had to walk wherever they needed to go. Not much changed for Ricky, though, because he rode his bicycle everywhere anyway. Ricky got kicked out his first year of high school for fighting.....
"Ashlee, if you are attempting to kill your brother, you are doing a phenomenal job," I yelled as loudly as I could from under my pillow, endeavoring to pamper myself with ten extra minutes of sleep. Restaurant work is formidable, and the prospect of staying in bed on my day off tends to escape my fortune no matter how I try. "Kids will be kids," I ponder before screaming again, "Ashlee, Christian, come here!" The brother and sister duo whispered a few words of concern to one another before a mad dash to my bedroom. Ashlee comes to a screeching halt while her brother does his best before bumping into the short-tempered redhead. She gives him a look that reminds Christian he'll be paying for that later. Like two tiny well-rehearsed cast members from a sitcom, they immediately descend into character to depict their best blend of remorse and apology. "I sure can't stay mad at you two. It's too bad you can't say the same for each other," The kids look down to conceal their grins unsuccessfully. "Hop up here, and I'll tell you a story." Christian lays beside me with his piece of cloth that was an entire blanket at one time and sucks on it along with his fingers. Ashlee decides a little distance is best and sits up with her legs crossed toward the foot of the bed. Storytime is special because God knows the seventy-hour work weeks never allow me to take these moments for granted. There've been occasions where I've spoken to or performed in front of hundreds of people, maybe more. But I'd erase it all from my memory if I could hang on to the sensation of sharing my tall tales with my audience of two. They're at the age where they'll believe anything, and if I can make stuff up to get them away from the tv for a few minutes, I'll do it every time. "Dad, tell us about the time you saw the Bell Witch," Ashlee asked. "I wanna hear about you shootin' Franky with the BB gun," is Christian's request. "How about a new story?" I suggested. "It's one you'll never forget, but you'll both have to make me a promise before I share it with you. A remarkable friend gave me permission to tell the story to a couple of people I trust, and I trust my kids more than anyone else. If you can promise me that you'll keep the secret, I will tell you what happened." After a brief lull, they eagerly approved the conditions of my proposal. "If you have to go to the bathroom, go now," I suggested, but neither of them budged and urged me to continue. "Okay, this is what happened to me on my eleventh birthday." That July heat was no joke on the sixteenth in 1982. When you live in a house with no air conditioning, the best time to sleep is somewhere between midnight and an hour or so before the sun makes its way past the horizon. A fan in the window felt pretty good whenever I'd turn over on my stomach. When the wind hit the sweat on my back, it provided a fleeting moment of relief before I'd have to move around again for the same sensation on the opposite side. Sizzling summers and frigid winters were all I knew, so I didn't think much about it. The smell of chocolate cake invaded the house and took my mind off the discomfort anyway. I ran into the kitchen to get a good whiff and maybe a frosting sample before the days' adventure. "Get your finger outta there, Christopher," Mom demanded before grabbing the bowl of sticky excellence. "I think I'm gonna go exploring for a little while before my party, Mom." "That's fine but don't be gone long if you want to have cake and ice cream later." "I won't," is all I said before tearing through the screen door and escaping into the woods in the backyard. A peculiar chill caught me off guard as I pushed my way through the trees into the river bottom. It was especially strange because the sun was as radiant as ever, and the previous shade was several yards behind me by now. An eerie waft snuck up behind me and carried that cool sensation along for a ride, but I trekked on, making my way to the Cumberland River. The best thing about growing up on a farm is that you never have to plan an experience. Spectacular possibilities unfurl if you know where to search. It is, however, wise to let a little caution tag along because I'd seen more than a few water moccasins around the slough. A tame breeze transformed into a violent gust, followed by another squall, and the temperature steadily dropped. Something in my stomach recommended that I needed to run toward the river, so that's what I did. Sometimes instinct is all we have, and I decided to trust it wholeheartedly. The faster my legs moved, the more challenging it was to dodge the enormous hail hurled down at me by some fantastic phantom force. White clouds descended from the sky to the earth, forming an impossible fog making my sprint more perilous. The rough ground didn't help, and I found myself face-first in the dirt every few feet. The sun was too afraid to show her face and offered her stool to the darkest sky I'd ever encountered. If the hole in front of me had been a cottonmouth, it would've bitten me because I fell right in and decided to hunker down to try and outlive the bombardment. Fighting the impulse to peek, I sat in the pit with my face covered, waiting on the silence to signal a safe getaway. My mind eased as I remembered waking to the smell of a fresh birthday cake and the comforting sight of my mother. Even after the welcomed calm, my paralyzed body refused to cooperate until I sensed an icy kiss on the back of my neck. "It couldn't be," I thought before opening my eyes. A snowflake settled on my knee while more hovered around the space and ultimately decorated the crater. Climbing my way out, I had every intention of flying home as quickly as I could manage, but the universe had other plans. "What do you guys think about moving storytime to the front porch?" I asked my frustrated children. Christian's wide eyes fluttered, "You can't stop right there! What happened?" "I'll tell you outside on the porch. Get dressed and meet me out there." Ashlee encourages her brother, "Come on, Christian! The faster we get dressed, the faster we'll hear the rest." They scurry away while I slip some shorts over my boxers and head out to the porch swing my cousin Herb made for the new house. Within seconds the entranced spectators take a seat on the ground while I relaxingly glide back and forth. These moments are invaluable, and the older I get, the fact that my memory will wither inspires me to snap a picture. After talking them into posing on the steps at the front door, we decided that was enough. "Now that I've forced you both to wait an astonishing three minutes, it's time to resume," I said playfully before picking up where I'd left off. My eyes first settled on the top of the bluff overlooking the river bottom. It's typically where I'd see the only home I've known for the last decade, but to my wonderment, it was not there. For a flash, the only logic I could make out of my dilemma is that the storm took the old structure and body-slammed it while I hid away in a hole. Before I had time to trouble myself over the well-being of Mom, something else caught my eyes. The entire landscape morphed into a downright different portrait set in an entirely separate time. A village of miniature homes made of slender trees packed with mud adorned the hillside above the flat ground. The once-mighty Cumberland appeared to have shrunk and frozen solid enough to pass on foot. Snowfall enhanced my surroundings and etched an unforgettable panorama into my brain. While I'd never seen such splendor, my bare legs quickly reminded me I was freezing, and shelter was my only hope. As hysteria started to consume me from the inside, I heard a compassionate voice and turned. "I'm Minco. We knew you'd be here today," were the first words my new friend spoke before offering a warm blanket made from animal hide. "Follow me," he recommended, and I did without delay. As we walked closer to the hillside, I introduced myself, and a conversation sparked. "I'm Chris; it's a pleasure to meet you, Minco." "You are not very smart, Chris. You would have died out here dressed like that without my help." Before I could explain, the Native American carried on. "I know why you're here." "Do you mind telling me why I'm here then?" "I'll show you a few things, but it's up to you to figure out your reason for the visit, Chris." His words made little to no sense, but I smiled and consented before he invited me into his Choctaw winter home. The inside, warmed by a fire in the center of the room and insulated by various furs, looked cozy. Deerskins hung from the rafters to dry in the rising heat. The comfort level had my room beat by a long shot in frigid weather. Minco handed me a clay bowl full of dried meat and vegetables before we sat to talk. "Where's your mom and dad?" I asked. "They'll be back soon, but we have a few minutes before you leave." "Leave? I just got here, and I have a lot of questions." "Chris, my father said, 'most answers will surface naturally in time, and curiosity often leads down a path less attractive than where we started.' We have a short period. Maybe we should relish in good company and eat together before you go. It'll give you a chance to take something back more valuable than an explanation." "What's that? What's more valuable?".........
Clifford dresses like he's a broken-down automobile some mechanic fixed up using old parts from three or four dissimilar models. Like the misshaped porkpie hat and Hawaiian print golf shirt, most of his clothes came from thrift stores. Even his khaki trousers and vintage black and grey saddle shoes are preowned. Everything Clifford possesses accompanies him at the pub somewhere between Mesquite and Las Vegas. It's one of several pitstops along the way to a new life in California. He manages to find the cheapest motel every time, a bar, and sometimes a hooker to spend the night with before heading out again. What a shame our traveler never makes it to The Golden State.
Clifford lived with his uncle for as long as he can remember. The old-timer had a morbid sense of humor, but Clifford grew callous to the remarks. He always swore to his nephew that he'd leave him a fortune when the jigs up, and each new year he told Clifford, "This is the year you'll get your money." Of course, he was always wrong, well, until he wasn't. Clifford finally received his inheritance in 1973, and it was not exactly a whopping amount of cash. Maybe one thousand nine hundred and thirty-three dollars was a lot to his uncle, but Clifford knew it would never get him very far. "The old fella had to play one last stupid joke on me," Clifford thought to himself. All of the money sat in a glass Mason jar for six months until it was time to leave that life.
"Hey, bartender. I'll have another rusty nail," Clifford insists with a slight slur.
The barkeep stops drying out glasses long enough to utter, "I have a name, buddy."
"Well, if you'll tell me your name, I'll even say please this time."
"What name did you have in mind, Clifford?"
"Now I'm wondering how you know my name. You are a strange fellow."
"It was a lucky guess, Cliff. Let's see if you can guess mine?"
"Do not call me Cliff. My uncle used to call me that, and he's gone now."
"Sorry Clifford, I always did like your uncle, always full of surprises. So do you want to take a stab at my name?"
"I'm beginning to see why the place is empty. You are crazy."
"Give me a name, and I'll give you a drink, my friend."
Clifford looks around the poorly lit room at the classic Hollywood movie posters covering the walls set in cheap frames. He notices Jimmy Stewart from one of his favorite childhood films. "I've always enjoyed the name Harvey."
"What a coincidence, Clifford. My name happens to be Harvey. You are quite the guesser yourself."
"Yeah, whatever, Harvey, I'll have that drink now, please."
"Sure thing. A little scotch and a little Drambuie, lovely. Here you are," Harvey passes the cocktail to Clifford.
A hush blankets the atmosphere while Clifford takes a couple of sips from his cold glass. A quick stop in Vegas is part of his plan to at least double the money left by his uncle. Half of it's already gone, so things aren't off to a good start. "All the girls were probably a bad idea," flashes through the middle-aged man's mind before a final gulp—memories of his dead relative flow in and out like an angry tide. Wasted years waiting on pennies in hopes of a fresh start torment his heart and taunt him because there's no way back. Clifford abandoned better decisions years before the death and blamed every mistake on his uncle. Our drunken drifter stands to leave, knocking the empty glass from the bar into the floor, shattering it on the concrete.
"No worries, Clifford. I was going to break that glass myself tonight anyway. You should stay a little longer and sober up before you drive. I'd hate to see you get killed before you make it to California,"
"I never told you where I was going," Clifford says, blaming his concern on the alcohol. "Besides, I'm at the motel across the street."
"The last thing I want to see tonight is you getting hit by a bus when you cross the road. Stay put for a bit longer."
Clifford glances through the window to confirm that he hasn't seen a single car pass by in several hours. "Yeah, whatever, I'll stay for a few more minutes."
"Good choice, my inebriated nomad. How about a game of chance while you wait? You might win big before you even make it to Sin City." Harvey grabs playing cards from beneath the bar and places them in two stacks in front of Clifford. "All you have to do is shuffle each deck separately, shake my hand and give me that crumpled-up dollar bill you were probably going to leave as a tip anyway. How about it?"
"Why not," Clifford uses every ounce of concentration he can muster to shuffle both piles and then awaits instruction.
Harvey holds out his hand from across the bar; a firm squeeze completes the gesture. Clifford snatches his hand away, feeling a sharp prick, but not before a single drop of blood lands on the currency. The bartender swipes the bloodstained note and apologizes for the acridity of his ring. "I've been meaning to get that fixed. A tiny cut never hurt anyone." Harvey's words dart around in Clifford's skull like a racquetball shot from a cannon. The entire space shrinks and expands a hundred times within two seconds until Harvey snaps his fingers and makes a comment. "Looks like I lost you for a second there. Ready to play?"
"What am I supposed to do?"
"You've already completed your part. Now it's my turn." Harvey lifts a card from the first deck to reveal the queen of hearts. "Nice, it looks like a little love is around the corner. A card from the second stack will tell us when you'll find the special lady. Hmm, three days from now, Clifford. You may want to purchase a new suit before then."
"Look, pal, this is ridiculous. I thought we were gonna play blackjack or somethin'. I didn't know you were some kind of fortune-teller. I'm good enough to walk across the street now." Clifford attempts to exit, and the room swirls, forcing him to take his seat.
"Wonderful, you changed your mind. I assure you I am no fortune-teller. Clairvoyants don't exist, but I am very much real. I'm unique, a genuine one of a kind, and quite popular in every corner of the world. It looks like your next card is a king. Oh my. I have to say; this one is concerning. It's misfortunate he's holding a sword—the little booger. It looks like we have another three to go with it. It means the third man you see will kill you the third time you see him. Don't worry about that. These things can take years.
"Okay, wait!" I'm confused."
"Stop overthinking the game, Socrates. All you have to do is listen and watch. It looks like we have another king. Oh my. Good for you; there's no sword this time. We dodged that bullet, didn't we, friend? Your final card is a seven! Lucky number seven, Clifford. Concentration is essential now, so look at me." Harvey hands his inpatient guest the final card and speaks, "Do not lose this seven of diamonds. As long as you keep it in the pocket of your chic tropical shirt, you'll have good luck. I'd say that is pretty special for a man headed in your direction. Remember the part about the third fellow who's supposed to kill you the third time you see him? If you tear this card in half on the final encounter, it'll save your life. Of course, there is a downside, gosh, there is always a downside to these things. Once you rip it apart, your luck is gone as quickly as the last prostitute you slept with two days ago. Sound good?"
Clifford gives Harvey a nod and walks toward the exit. On the way out, he bumps into two tired truckers who impolitely tell him to watch where he's going. Clifford ignores the men and heads to his motel to sleep it off. Dropping his keys before entering his room, he reaches for them, stumbles, and knocks his head on the doorknob. Rubbing his noggin, he mumbles, "Yeah, my lucks really turned around. Thanks, Harv." After finally entering the small room, he checks the knot on his forehead in the mirror before passing out on the rickety bed.
Within a couple of hours, unwelcome sunshine invades through the inadequately hung blinds waking Clifford from his nap. He splashes water on his face, grabs the stick of jerky he picked up in Colorado, and steps outside. While placing his snack into his shirt pocket, he notices the card and carelessly throws it on the ground. "That's littering, you know," he hears from behind before entering the office to check out. A leathery complected potbellied little bald man offers to return the seven of diamonds; Clifford takes it from him then places it back into his pocket with the jerky.
"Haven't you seen that commercial with the sad American Indian? I'm guessing you don't care. Where are you headed? I'll be in Vegas by tonight. Where can a man get a drink around here?" The stranger says without taking a breath.
Forgetting the first two, Clifford answers the man's final question. "I doubt it's open this early, but I had a couple of drinks across the street last night at that pub."
"Sounds like you had more than a couple. I don't see a damn thing over there." The tiny overweight man chuckles and introduces himself. "My name is Bob; it's the same spelled backward too. B-o-b that's called a palindrome, ever heard of a palindrome? It's pretty obvious with my name, but most folks don't realize the words ' racecar, ' ' radar, ' or ' Hannah ' are all palindromes. Weird huh? Where did you say you were headed?
After looking across the road, Clifford realizes Bob is correct when he sees a rundown billboard in place of the tavern.......
"Things are not looking good for the mighty Musketeers with thirty seconds left in the game and fifty yards. It looks like they've called a time-out. I want to take this opportunity to remind all of the fine folks who listen to WJKM that you can get your film developed over at Mr. Ken's Pharmaceuticals. That's right! Ken guarantees those pictures in one hour or less. It's not 1970 anymore, so step into 1978 and enjoy faster, more convenient film developing at Ken's Pharmaceuticals on Second Street right beside Frank's Diner. Pick up Grammy's meds and grab your photos from tonight's game in one easy stop. WJKM is the voice of Clarkstown, and I'm Chuck 'The Duck' Williams."
"Small towns are notorious for their enthusiastic hometown football fans. Anyone interested in the game is at the game, and that's everyone except for the old codger, Huffy McWhorter, who lives alone out by Byers Creek and hands out shoestrings for Halloween. Duck is a fine commentator, but the reality is that the only folks listening to the broadcast are Duck and the three people sitting behind him. Ken first opened the pharmacy in 1937, and all he talks about these days is how he spent more on that one-hour photo lab than he did on the entire shop back in the day. It takes all kinds to make up a little community like Clarkstown," says Tommy from his steel-framed single bed as his friend Stuart listens intently.
Stuart sits comfortably in Tommy's second-hand wheelchair by the bed as our storyteller takes a brief break. "Tommy, dude, why did you stop? It was just getting good, man."
"You are not a surfer Stuart. And you're getting crumbs in my chair." Tommy swipes the Pringles from his friend and crunches on a couple of them."
"Yeah, well, you owe me two chips. You can't go and steal a fat kid's food without paying the consequences, ya know."
"Well, if you don't stop trying to do wheelies in my chair, you are gonna break it. Then you'll be carrying me to school." The two boys laugh at each other, and Tommy continues with his story.
"We're back, folks, and just in time. It looks like the quarterback is about to go down, which will end the game. No. Wait! He manages to release the ball, but unfortunately, the pass will be incomplete. I stand corrected! Little Tommy comes out of nowhere! Either I'm crazy, or that kid must have leaped seven feet into the air to make the catch! Boy, oh boy, this boy sure can run. Look at him go. Twenty, fifteen, ten, five, and TOUCHDOWN! The Musketeers win their homecoming game twenty-eight to twenty-four! What a catch, and man, no one even got close to that kid. I've never seen anyone run like that. The cheerleaders will line up to dance with the star of the game tonight."
Stuart leaps from his seat, "Wow, Tommy! That was the best story I've ever heard." He then reclaims his chips.
"Thanks, Stuart. I made it up just now."
"Dude, that's your superpower."
"Superpower? I've been in a wheelchair my whole life. Freaks like me do not have superpowers."
"Um, Tony Stark. He's in a wheelchair doofus. Oh, I forget, you don't like to read like us intelligents."
"I believe you are trying to say intellectuals doofus."
"I don't get it. You have the best imagination of anyone I know, but you always cheat your book reports. You'd make one hell of a writer. It's weird because you don't like to read. I just figured a good writer must be a good reader."
"Yeah, I don't know. Books are boring, to be honest. I have more fun making my own stuff up. I've never tried writing either. I doubt I'm that good anyway. You're the only slob that'll sit long enough with me to listen."
Stuart wipes the grease from his Pringles onto his shirt and says, "I may be a slob, but I have taste, and you are good. Those jerks who pick on us at school don't have your gift. Most of the guys who graduate class of 1979 will end up working at the factory by the summer. It would help if you got out of this town, Tommy. You need to forget everyone here and run away. For real. All of that extra detail about the radio guy and Ken. Who else thinks to do that crap?"
"How am I going to run anywhere, hotshot? Look at me."
"You can be so dumb for a smart kid. Okay then, you should write away. I mean, write far away from here."
"Wait, what? What did you say?"
"I know that sounded dumb, Tommy, so you don't have to pick on me about it."
"No, I kind of liked it, write far away. I like the way it sounds."
"Really? Cool! Anyway, all those jocks will have bad backs between getting hit so much and working on the assembly line. Their superpowers are gone as soon as they grab that diploma. But your powers will keep growing and improving forever, Tommy. All you need is a pen and notebook paper."
"I don't know, Stuart. Maybe."
"Well, whatever it is you are afraid of, you need to forget it. Tony was probably scared of the suit the first time he put it on, but he did it anyway, and BAM! Iron Man. I'm guessing he'd be more afraid of my mom, who will beat me if I'm late for supper, so I have to go. Think about it. Don't forget me when you build your fortress somewhere in the Alps. I can be your sidekick—later nerd face." Stuart lets himself out through the window and closes it behind him. Tommy sighs and ponders for a moment before reaching into his nightstand to pull out some paper and a pencil.
He stares at the crumb-covered wheelchair beside the bed. The contraption has felt like a prison his entire life. At this moment, he realized Stuart never saw the handicap. Instead, his friend only noticed the super-human abilities of his lifelong companion. Tommy's mind has always been free to explore and navigate far beyond the borders of his small town for as long as he can remember. He was the first man on Mars once, and the next day, he took advantage of an endless supply of oxygen as he rode dolphins beneath the sea. Recently he scored the winning touchdown and, before that, saved the prettiest girl in school from a burning building.
We're all trapped by something. Fear often holds each of us firmly and strongly suggests that routine is best. A pattern is safe, and we all deserve to live life stuck in some foreordained groove that's impossible to escape. Sometimes a pal like Stuart comes along to give us a slight nudge unknowingly. A push was all Tommy needed, after all, because he'd always known the intensity was there but ignored the feelings. "I guess Stuart is my radioactive spider," Tommy thinks to himself before laughing out loud.
The pencil rolls between Tommy's fingers as his vision builds velocity and vivid images assemble within his mind. A whole world materializes within his reflections like it has a myriad of times. Before, his expressions were seized by the cosmos and thrown into a cell for an audience of one. A lost story is a tragedy, so today, he'll step from his boundaries and escape along with his words. The pencil glides over the paper as if it takes on its own personality and forgets it's an instrument guided by Tommy. Sentences evolve, and paragraphs unfold while our hero uses his newfound ability to rework his perspective.
Tommy reads the first few lines aloud, "Write Far Away by Thomas Browning. The more my friend spoke, the further away my wheelchair appeared. It was almost like God's way of telling me that I didn't need it anymore. That piece of equipment has always defined me but not now because today, I learned that I have a superpower thanks to my best friend. My words will catapult me from Clarkstown one day, but until then, I'll use them to wander anywhere, and the only limitations are the ones I allow. Stuart breaks my concentration, 'I know that sounded dumb, Tommy, so you don't have to pick on me about it.' No, I kind of liked it; write far away. I like the way it sounds."
Nate has big plans to ring in the New Year, but he won't be seeing 1980. Like every December thirty-first, he'll thumb through the pictures around ten in the morning, eat his two eggs, and maybe go for a walk. Nate appreciates the scenery of an abandoned downtown, perhaps because there's a bond with the boarded-up buildings. Often he will ponder how a little love is all the empty spaces need, but no one has time to invest in the forgotten side of town. Sometimes it's easier to drive on by and look the other way. "Why folks are drawn to crowds never made sense to me," goes through his mind on most of the strolls. He'll end his celebration soaking in a hot tub that's too small for his body, but at least tiles are easy to clean. The only thing different about this thirty-first is that Nathaniel will send a bullet into his brain.
A beige rotary phone sits on top of the outdated phonebook that hasn't rung in over a year, and if you were to move it, you'd find a perfect outline etched in the dust. The thick yellow book rests on an Italian nightstand that's missing one brass toe cap that leaves it a bit wobbly. Nate's table is way too short for its purpose, but it's the best he could manage for something he never uses. His sink is full of dishes from last week, or maybe they're leftover from a month ago, who knows. Open cans of Van Camp's pork and beans decorate the tiny kitchen. Nate rents the basement from an older woman his mother's age. The only private area is the john, but it doesn't matter because no one ever visits anyway.
Each December, Nathaniel pulls out a stack of photos from his childhood. It's all that his mother, Maria, left him after drinking herself to death in 1942. That woman sure enjoyed her whiskey, and it all started on her fourteenth birthday, New Years Day, about a week or so after little Nate was born. His mother kept a bottle by her bed to start the day right. She was either passed out on the couch or drinking at the local blind tiger by noon. No one cared how old she was at the bar because she was a pretty girl and it's best Maria couldn't remember what happened while she was out on the town.
Nate's fondest memories of his mom occurred within sixty minutes each day at around ten in the morning. He knew all of the words to Old MacDonald Had a Farm by the time he turned three years old. It's the only song Maria knew, so that's what she sang while preparing a late breakfast. She attempted sunny side up, but the eggs were always scrambled by the time they hit his plate. Even though it was long ago, Nate remembers all of the details like yesterday. It isn't difficult to recall daily routines, especially when they're the best part and wrapped snuggly within an hour. His best friend was the shadow a lit candle provided before bedtime. Infinite conversations between Nathaniel and his silhouette furnished comfort before drifting away.
Nate presses the round rubber plug into the drain and allows the water to trickle while he reflects one more time before the evenings' climax. The Colt is loaded and strategically placed within arms reach on the toilet seat as he heads to the couch and plops down. A streetlight shines through the tiny mud-covered ground-level window to provide enough light for the aged photographs. Life began in a dark place for the poor guy, and it'll end the same way. Fifty years of solitude, fifty years of despair, and fifty years of anger will conclude shortly. An inevitable end is an unfailing outcome with no purpose, spark, or reason. A wave to his shadow and a wave back is all the reassurance needed before his bath.
An unfamiliar sound interrupts the somber ceremony and catches Nate off guard.
"RING!" Shocked, he sprints to the telephone knocking the receiver onto the floor.
"Um, hello, this is Nate."
"Hello Nate, my name is Jude, and I'm with a group called Restore. We're a nonprofit organization looking for volunteers."
"Wait, what? Why did you call me? How did you get my number?"
"Well, to be honest, I've been calling folks all day, and I was about to give up. Who'd of thought asking people to do hard labor for free would be so challenging? Anyway, I lost my temper and threw the phonebook onto the floor. It just so happens the darn thing opened up to 'N,' and I saw your name."
"Look, Jude, I'm busy right now."
"Hang on; I'm not finished with my story. My pop was a preacher, and he once told me that the name Nathaniel means 'gift from God,' which is precisely what I need right now. I know Christmas is over, but I could use a present from the big guy. Did you know that? You are a gift from God, Nate, so if you don't help me, no one will. Without support, the project is over before we even start."
"Project? What project."
We've spent years raising cash to fix up all those ancient buildings downtown. Our goal is to bring a little life back to the area, like a second chance, you know? Can you use a hammer, Nate?"
"Well, yeah. I do part-time maintenance over at the plant a couple of days a week."
"Before you jump at this offer of a lifetime, you'll need to know that it is strictly volunteer, and I'll pretty much be your shadow whenever you show up. It could be years before we're finished, and we'll be talking on the telephone most days. Sound good? Nate? You still with me?"
"I can start tomorrow."
"I think the phone messed up for a sec. It sounded like you said you'd start tomorrow. I was expecting you to hang up like everyone else."
"I'll be there. Downtown?"
"Yep, can you meet up with us at about eight?"
"I'll be there at seven-thirty."
"Perfect! We'll see you then. Oh, Nate, I knew I had a good feeling about you. Everyone can use a gift from God from time to time. See you later."
Nathanial's mother probably had no idea what the name meant when she gave it to her son. Someone with a plan likely chose it. She saw the boy as a curse instead of a gift. It makes sense if you think about it because it's problematic to see in the dark. Nate reaches under the sink for a garbage bag and begins to collect the cans that litter the kitchen. "I've got to get this place cleaned up before I go to bed. Tomorrow will be a busy day," Nate says to himself.
My sophomore year at MCHS gave me a gift I'd cherish for a lifetime. Prior to the tenth grade, I invested many waking hours in pursuit of coolness. The goal of acceptance seemed within reach many times but faded away before I could secure my grasp. It always felt like I had something to prove, but that something remained a mystery and with good reason. My epiphany struck me as hard as Rocky pounced on that Russian dude in the fourth film. There was no reason to establish any kind of reputation because I'd finally grown to accept my 'dorkhood.'
I embraced my newfound freedom as tightly as Mrs. Dinsmore gripped that paddle three years ago before my feet left the ground. Sure, many kids didn't appreciate my vision, but maybe they weren't supposed to be part of my energy. No one can afford to constantly pretend outside of a play because that lifestyle comes at a high price. The friendships I pursued were unique and authentic. No doubt other circles felt the same, but I was a square peg, and my secret motto became 'Dorks Unite.' It's possibly the silliest thing my mind ever cooked up, but it enabled me to sleep at night.
Tonight is the big night! We've rehearsed for 'Hey Teach' every day after school for more than a month, and we're as ready as we will ever be. Most of the cast has gathered in the art room for makeup before the big show. Mike and I can barely hold our composure as some of the girls apply our heavy eyeliner while Mrs. Todd oversees the whole ceremony. All year long, Michael and I made a competition out of every speech in class. The goal was to see who could be the most absurd and still get an A. English was one of the few courses where I could give him a run for his money.
The manly hug from Rob shook me a bit earlier, but I'd grown used to his overabundance of affection, and the injuries were only minor. It's kind of strange to see my buddy Scott in the play. I'm not sure if I convinced him to do it or if he got bored whenever the rest of us signed up for this stuff and decided to join in on his own. All the ladies seem smitten with Frank, the foreign exchange student. I've tried out a German accent, but it never got me anywhere with the females. We have a pretty good cast this year, and everyone knows their lines. I'll never forget all the fun we've had leading up to the special evening.
My biggest obstacle is pretending to be a bully. It's challenging to threaten Tammy because she is exceptionally friendly whenever I run into her. Each time I attempted to intimidate other cast members at rehearsal, I immediately felt the urge to apologize. The true thespian in me eventually managed to shine through in the end. Being the bad guy may not have been my ideal role, but I made the best of it like everyone else. It all reminded me of the lesson I'd learned months before and cemented my belief that we're all better off being ourselves.
The best part about today is that all of us showed up. We arrived ready to do our best, and the experience of working together would last a lifetime. Who knows what the future will bring, but we all share a bond at this moment, and that's priceless. Now that Stacy, Jennifer, and Tammalyn have complimented me on my lipstick, it's time to terrorize my classmates under the lights on stage. Hopefully, they all recognize how much I care about each of them. Perhaps I'll write it all out one of these days when I have grey hair and back problems. I can't tell them now, well, because that's just weird. Dorks unite!
The machine rumbles and sputters as the last bit of clean oil escapes through the hose into the deep fryer at the Catfish House. After placing the handle securely onto the filter machine, I roll it out of the way and walk toward the back door to look outside before checking the dining room. A bizarre warm breeze touches my face while pushing against the metal door. "It doesn't feel like January," I think to myself as I head toward the front of the house to send the remaining servers home for the evening. We all advise one another to stay safe as I lock up the doors and head home myself.
If there is one thing you can depend on in Tennessee, it's that you can't depend on a weather forecast. Everyone is saying things could get sketchy tonight, but if I had a dime each time those rumors bounced around, well, I'd have a lot of dimes. We can have snow on the ground one day, and within twenty-four hours, it's sunny and eighty degrees. If the weatherman calls for snow, not one flake falls to the ground, but we get six inches if the forecast is clear. Go figure. I'm not nervous about the storms, and normally I sleep like a baby during a good rain, so bring it on. The rest will do me good before a busy Friday at the restaurant.
The wind picks up as my head hits the pillow, and several flashes of light beam across the sky through my bedroom window before I plunge into a deep sleep. My last thoughts were that I'd seen this a hundred times, and there would be nothing to worry about tonight. Snug and cozy underneath my covers, I'm unaware of Mother Natures' plan for my small community. Her intentions will change the face of our downtown forever and steal over a hundred years of history while I dream.
Eerie echos of sirens blared beneath the howling winds swirling down streets, around brick buildings, and through the ridges of Clarksville. Trees began to bend while cracking wood sounds encompassed hillsides leading to the river bottoms. Muddy water from the mighty Cumberland rises and falls as it crashes against its banks, leaving behind debris only to seize it once again to sacrifice to the current. Stoplights swing violently over Riverside's empty streets, signaling that more is in store for the early morning. Trash waltzes around barren parking lots up and down Madison Street shooting into the atmosphere before descending, never touching the earth. A hush interrupts the spectacle; bushes are static, and the river rests for only a wink while the whistling wind relaxes. He is here in the stillness.
Serenity soon reveals the ghostly whisper of an approaching locomotive descending from space in all directions. The last train to Clarksville extends as wide as nine football fields and hastens toward its mark at two hundred miles per hour. The earlier performance was a delicate ballet compared to the approaching terror preordained to take hundreds of passengers on their final pilgrimage. Roofs soar into the sky as if an invisible angry giant had nothing better to do before sunrise. Brick buildings crumbled as easily as a temperamental five-year-old could knock over a pile of Lincoln Logs. Objects rip across the ground, piercing, mangling, and disintegrating dreams and achievements. The roar of the phantom engine vibrates darkness itself, leaving behind mounds of rubbish in place of gorgeous architecture.
Loose rubble falls from broken church walls closing the curtain on the final act of havoc in the twilight. The spirit steam engine dissipates but not without proof of its descent onto five blocks. Like many others in our small city, I'd soon wake up to the news of chaos and devastation. I'd hear how an F-3 struck downtown, and the aftermath looked like photos straight out of World War Two bombings. "We were lucky that tornado hit at 4:15 in the morning," would be the popular notion. People would say, "Had that thing struck later in the day, hundreds could have died." That stillness before the annihilation was something more significant than Mother Nature. Not a single soul boarded the train on January 22nd, 1999, and it had nothing to do with chance. Miracles emerge from silence, and God does his best work before we even see the storm.
When I was small, Santa left all of my gifts unwrapped on Christmas morning. It was nothing short of extraordinary to walk into the living room to see my Lone Ranger or the Star Wars toys I scored one lucky year. A record player even sat under the tree once surrounded by Kenny Rogers and Beach Boys 45's. I'd never owned my own vinyl before that. All of the splendor leading up to that remarkable moment was impossible to contain the night before and made it difficult to sleep. Getting a solid eight doesn't seem that significant when you're a kid anyway.
Now I'm at the point in life that increasingly gets harder and harder. I've outgrown Santa presents, and I'm nowhere near old enough to be called an adult. The Sears Catalogue is still interesting to look at, but it's no longer the toy section that gets me revved up. When Mom isn't around, I immediately go to the lingerie, but I'm careful enough to keep one finger under another spot in case she pops in the room. I'm shocked she hasn't torn those pages out yet because they're obviously more worn than the rest of the book.
Don't even get me started on Vanna White. Watching her turn the letters is a dream for any boy my age. The best has to be The Price Is Right, but it's also the most uncomfortable to watch with my mother in the room. It gets extra awkward whenever the prize is a boat, and three or four women walk out in bikinis. My pocket knife comes in handy because I can always pretend to examine the blade instead of checking out the half-naked models. Mom insists they should put more clothes on, and all I can do is half-heartedly agree with her while trying to catch a peek before the commercial.
Being my age is nothing but complete agony, and being in middle school doesn't help. I don't see things getting better anytime soon. Most days, I can't even concentrate because my restless mind doesn't focus on anything but girls. Clouds used to form elephants and giraffes, and now it's primarily boobs and legs. All I ever hear adults talk about is how much they wish they were my age again. Grown-ups must be insane, but then again, I'd like to go back a few years myself so that I could concentrate on comics and green army men. All of these hormones are taking over, and it keeps my head buzzing so much it'll probably pop up off my shoulders.
The house is full on Christmas Eve night like it is every year. Since I'm caught somewhere in that in-between area of life, I'm stuck opening presents with the adults. There won't be a cool Darth Vader or Tonto waiting for me under the tree tomorrow, so I'll sleep in more than likely. I know I should be grateful for so many things. I have a home and a family that loves me even when I'm an idiot. It's not even about the toys, but more about the charm and how it wilted somewhere. The sensation is gone, but the precise moment it abandoned me is unclear. Losing Christmas isn't easy.
Our twenty-year-old couch, covered with a scratchy multi-colored checkered afghan, is crowded with whoever claimed a spot earlier. Mom is dressed in her fancy Holiday attire while I wear the new shirt she purchased a few days ago for the occasion. My brother Larry brought his girlfriend Shirley, and they squeezed in beside Mom and me. We all have to go to the bathroom, but no one wants to lose their seat, so everyone stays put. The sounds of paper ripping and soft music in the background fill the room. We're all sick from overeating at dinner, but that doesn't stop anyone from stealing from the generous pile of sweets.
Every so often, I'll throw in a comment or two during the grown-up conversations, but most will nod for the sake of nodding and have no idea what I said. My adolescent jokes rarely see a courtesy laugh, and when I do get a grin, it's for all of the wrong reasons. I can go over what I'm about to say in my mind a hundred times, and it still doesn't come out the way I want it to no matter how I try. Living in my body is like conducting an orchestra of blind musicians. Some sort of sound comes out, but it's never the melody I intended. My palms sweat furiously when I even think about chatting to females because I know the outcome will be identical.
No one talks much about it, but we all miss my father and sister. Mom's heart is especially heavy, and it's easy to see when I catch her sitting silently during the festivities. She often stares at nothing, but I never say anything because I know. They should both be here, and I'm sure I'll look back at the photos from today when I'm older and miss them all over again. If all of this death has taught me anything, it's to not take life for granted. None of it helps much, though, to regain my lost Christmas magic. Often I'll have to peek at a photo of Dad, so I can remember what he looks like, and my sister, Susan, is slowly withering away too. It hasn't even been that long since the wreck on Salem Road, but she slips from my memory regardless.
It feels like the closer I get to adulthood, the more terrifying it becomes. The uncertainty that goes along with the future, and seeing this big empty house overwhelm my mom, is a lot to handle. My biggest fear is that I'll let her down, and that is the last thing I'd ever want to do. How does a kid give enough to the one person that has given everything humanly conceivable? Shame takes over when I think about all of the silly arguments and all of the times I've ignored her advice. She never fails to repay my ignorance with love and understanding when I ask for her forgiveness. Some people don't believe in Jesus, but I see him when I look at Mom.
I guess I'm pleased with my new belt, the alarm clock, and Velcro wallet. These are the things I'll receive from now on, so I may as well suck it up. I'll always have the memories, and by the way, my uncle talks; it's what matters anyway. He and Mom can converse forever about how I've got it better than they ever did and how full of joy they were. They mean it too. I can tell when I see their faces light up. According to them, life happens fast, and it's riddled with tragedy, but the good times tend to surface to the top. I'm betting they know what they're talking about, so it does help. It's time for me to slip out of here and track down my old Six Million Dollar Man. I'm pretty sure I know where I tucked him away.
Kathleen is getting older but not old enough to call old. The Price Is Right has always been her claim to fame, but she didn't win back in 73' and now, in 78' she sits in Frank's Diner on Second Street. Some things seem like they happened yesterday, while others were surely two lifetimes ago. She fancies pretty dresses adorned with pink flowers and bows, but she's most comfortable in her worn bell-bottoms even though they're going out of style.
Donald is barely past his prime, but men tend to age well. His buddies all call him Donnie, even when he was the boss a few years back. Since they cut the ribbon, Frank's has been his early lunch break stop, at first because of the world's best coffee but now for another reason. Those worn hands have held many hammers, but not for several seasons now. You can still see the imperfection from the time the nail went all the way through. He was back to work the next day.
Kathleen takes her break at 10:30, and in the beginning, it was to avoid the crowd. Frank lets her sit in the corner booth by herself because he knows she'll be gone before the rush. Kathy brings along her worn copy of Reader's Digest every visit, but she never reads it. The magazine is only a prop, a part of the show. Sometimes she'll turn a page or two, but most words are impossible to read behind the world's best coffee stains covering the literature. She'll often spend time thinking about how her nature is to hide her own story. It's kind of like a self-imposed wound whose purpose is to conceal any beauty.
Donald brings his newspaper from home but rarely reads it at lunch. He saves the articles for bedtime because it helps him sleep most nights, but it doesn't always work. Most days, he'll catch himself daydreaming about running through the forest. He's never run a day in his life, but the thought of sprinting as quickly as he can through the woods and never losing his breath gives him peace. It's the sort of serenity we all accomplish in our fantasies, but it leaves us hollow when we wake up. Donnie's chest is like an auditorium filled with ghosts he isn't ready to let go of anytime soon. It's not as easy as you'd think. Apparitions linger longer than an old broken power drill we'd discard and replace.
Kathleen's tears cascade in reverse, washing down the inside of her cheeks, hidden from you and me. Houdini probably crafted her mask because all we're allowed to see is what Kathy is comfortable showing us. And it isn't much. She married the devil soon after her five minutes of fame. He spoke the perfect words and gave her the universe before confining her on a small island. The demon dictated every move and thought, and she did her best to comply. At sunset, he came home and rewarded her efforts with bruises and broken bones. She ran away to heal her body, but no distance ever repaired the destruction, picking and pinching and ripping inside her spirit.
Donald can hardly walk after the accident at work left him crippled perpetually. His broken back earned him enough money to get by, but currency is no better than a wet Band-Aid when it comes to repairing the true tragedy. His life is as charged as a brand new Duracell, but a battery is useless without something to power. Donnie has the impulse of a younger man but the body of an old-timer frittering away, waiting on fate. Memories of youth inspire most, but yesterday's photos leave Donald frustrated with the desire to live again. He'd love to climb a ladder to stand on a rooftop where he felt most at home.
Despair recognizes misery when it's hidden beneath a bed of roses like a trained eye senses the body under the lawn of a serial killer. Don caught Kat's eye the day she strolled into Frank's for the world's best coffee. She spent the first day spying on him, the second feeling his emotion, and every day since loving the man, she'd never approach. Kat knows why he brings the paper but never opens it and why he hardly drinks a drop from his mug. Sometimes, he'll order a muffin on Wednesday, and Kat knows if Don will add butter or eat it plain before he even decides. Like anyone else, she can see the physical torment in his face when he stands. Like no other, she discloses the overwhelming sorrow that haunts him.
Love burst through the diner door for Don the first time Kat walked in and had a seat. Her confidence fooled everyone, even Benny, who sits on a barstool every Friday complaining about his marriage. The masquerade failed within moments when Don took a more intimate gaze because he knows tragedy like the back of his scarred hand. Whenever he'd catch Kat scrolling the greasy menu, he knew it was because she felt the need to hide. Sometimes she'd drink a second cup with two lumps of sugar instead of one like the first round. "If we could only sweeten life as easily," he would contemplate as she stirred. He imagines she finds comfort in at least having control over her coffee.
The two meet six days a week, right on time on Second Street. Sundays must be unbearable for both of them. Then again, the separation undoubtedly intensifies the magnificence of the daily encounters. They've never shared a hello or a goodbye, but what they do share is something Benny has clearly never experienced. The comfort of being close to a person who understands and ensures you aren't alone is a gift many never find. Kat and Don depend on one another, and they never break the plans they never made together. Unfortunately, that's more than most obtain when they compromise.
Kat and Don's eyes have met a time or two, and it's enough when you aren't ready for anything more. Perhaps the world's best coffee isn't as great as the sign may suggest, but it gave our two misfits an excuse to find each other. Thirty minutes, six days a week turns into one hundred and fifty-six hours a year that these two forget and feel complete. If Benny gave that much time to his wife, he wouldn't plan on leaving her. Maybe the passion between Kat and Don is indeed unique, and it's doubtful it'll ever move any further than Second Street. Sometimes that kind of love is enough—a love that demands attention from across the room and is admired forever from a distance.
My house has two warm rooms, the living room, and the kitchen. Those enormous wood stoves certainly do the trick, and the sound of the wood crackling never gets old. It's about thirty minutes before bedtime, and I need to make sure I'm prepared to drift away quickly. It's a big night with Santa making a stop, so I have to do everything right. I've spent all year being a good boy, so I sure don't want to cause a ruckus at the last minute.
Opening the door leading to the foyer, I make a frantic dash zipping around the steps bursting through my bedroom door to flip the switch on my electric blanket. A tiny light appears to let me know it's working while I watch my frozen breath for a second before returning to the warmth of the living room. You're either too hot or too cold in an old house, and there is no in-between. Too long in the kitchen and sweat beads up on my forehead, but one step in the next room, and I'm ready for a heavy coat.
On school mornings, I'd abandon the luxury of my blanket and race to the bathroom to plop down on the floor. Our electric space heater was my only hope of survival. A red glow would gradually take over the coils while one-half of my body defrosted. Once I couldn't take it anymore, I'd switch sides and repeat before jumping into a hot shower. By the time I got out, the modest area was full of steam and warm enough to dry off and get dressed. It was my ritual, and I had it down to an art.
School should be the last thing on my mind because tomorrow is a momentous day, and I must remain centered. With fifteen minutes to kill, I crack open the worn copy of our Sears catalog and turn to the pages I delicately marked weeks ago. Instantly, my eyes are cemented to the Lone Ranger and Silver, his steed. I secretly wanted Tonto and Scout too, but each toy was almost ten dollars, and I do not want Santa to think I'm selfish. Grabbing a handful of silver tinsel icicles from the Christmas tree, I tossed them onto the television screen and watched them pop and bounce around when I touched them for a tiny shock.
Mom, in her robe, snuck up on me and said, "Christopher, get that stuff off of the tv and get to bed if you want Santa Clause to make a stop." It's all she had to say; I immediately followed her directions, told her I loved her, then scurried off. When decorating the television set, I overheard the newsman say the Air Force spotted Kris Kringle entering the USA. A friend of mine had the nerve to inform me that Santa isn't real on the last day of class before Christmas break. It'll be fun to tell him he's incorrect because the military has evidence.
Hardly anything is more satisfying than slipping into a heated blanket at bedtime. After pulling the covers over my head, I'd lay there until the last bit of chill left my nostrils. My nose is always the final thing to heat up and the first thing to freeze. Then I slip off my socks to enjoy the feeling of my bare feet cradled in pure coziness. Now that I'm officially safe from hypothermia, I can finally rest and dream about the joy I'll find under the evergreen in a few hours.
Of course, the desire to fall asleep and falling asleep on Christmas Eve are two separate matters. My imagination ran wild as I envisioned Saint Nick tiptoeing around and emptying his bag beneath our tree. "How is it even possible to visit every single house in the world in one night?" I thought to myself. He is mystical, so my best guess is that he suspends time and fulfills everyone's wishes in the blink of an eye. To him, it takes about three days which is much more reasonable, but for us mortals, it all happens while we slumber. I smile as I am sure I've discovered Santa's great mystery, but I'll keep this info to myself because I'd never want it to fall into evil hands.
Gosh, the night before Christmas has got to be the longest evening of the entire year. Although I'm not sure, so I'll try to look that up sometime in our World Book Encyclopedias. If you know the alphabet, you can find anything in those books. It probably has something to do with the big guy pausing time all night long. If that's the case, I doubt I'll have much luck researching, but I'll take a look anyway.
After hours of pondering questions like, "I wonder if he brushes his teeth after milk and cookies every time?" I can finally see daybreak. Full of adrenalin, I slip my socks back on and turn my blanket off. The moment I have waited for all year is finally here, and I can hardly contain myself. The bitterness doesn't phase me as I walk through the freezing foyer. Mom and Dad are awake; I hear the television, and all I have to do is wander straight into utter bliss. Before another step, I shut my eyes to thank God for the most incredible home a kid could ask for, and I close my prayer with, "Happy Birthday Jesus."
The door creeks as I lean into it just enough to see my parents relaxing on the couch, urging me to explore. Before Santa Clause moves on to the next family, he never forgets to leave a little magic behind. I know because I can sense the awe erupting within my chest. The enchantment of this extraordinary celebration propels me toward our spruce to expose all of the wonders a child could manage. It was as though some great power raised the toys from our catalog and meticulously placed them where they belonged. All that's left to do is to ride off into the sunset. Hi-Yo, Silver, and away!
Dad was one of a kind, and no one can argue that because it's a fact. If I'm being honest, I suppose we all are unique but maybe what I'm attempting to say is that our actions reflect how folks remember us. If you didn't know my Dad, Hank, well, you'd probably think he was crazy, and many did. My father's story is extraordinary, with a sprinkle of insanity thrown in, I guess. He loved people, he loved Christmas, and he especially loved my mother. Maybe it's not about who or what we love, but how strongly we love life.
Most days, he'd come home from working long shifts at Trane, where he was proud to say he played a hand in making America's best air conditioners. Dad would tell you that Mom wasn't much of a cook, so he'd heat up a couple of TV dinners for the both of them. He loved those Salisbury steaks and mashed potatoes. They'd watch Dallas and constantly debate over who shot J.R. Many nights; they'd stay up late and tune in to their favorite, Carson. He'd often let the phone ring and ring because no one was allowed to interrupt those special evenings they'd listen to old Sinatra albums and dance in the middle of the living room.
In December, Dad came home with some exceptional news to share with Mom after his important appointment. "Evie! Just wait until you read this letter," he told my mother.
"The words on this paper change everything. I don't want to be greedy, though, you know what I mean?" Evie shook her head and waited for him to continue.
"I believe it's time for me to quit work and do a few things I should have done a long time ago. Christmas is coming up, and I'm sure you know what I'm getting at. Life is just too darn short, and we are blessed, so I think this is an opportunity to spread some Christmas joy. Not having the time or money has always been the excuse, but now we don't have to worry about those things, Evie! What do you think?" The two of them spoke for hours and into the night.
You can imagine how surprised I was to see Dad at my door early the next day on Saturday. He handed me the letter, and we cried over the good news. He and mom came up with quite a to-do list, and in his words, "It's all code red, so let's get to work." Dad explained that Mom realized he had to do this alone, so she stayed home. Then I was ordered to break my plans for the weekend and assist him on the grand adventure. So I did.
Our first stop of all places was the party supply store. My father purchased the 'best Santa suit money could buy.' At least that's what the sales assistant told him. I think the old guy ended up spending about forty bucks on it, but it's the best one they had to offer. He came out of the dressing room with the fake beard swinging a solid inch from his chin. The hat was too large for his head, and his belt was clearly stitched into the cheap costume.
"How does Santa look?" My father asked.
"Santa looks spectacular," I told him and meant it.
"Alright! Let's get a move on; it's already after ten, and we have a lot to do, son."
On the way to our next location, Dad told me a story, "I don't remember much about elementary school except for a girl named Regina. She wore these thick Coke-bottle glasses and had a reputation for hugging the daylight out of everyone if she caught you on the playground. Like every other kid, my daily mission was to outrun 'Regina the retard,' because no one wanted to catch whatever it was she had. We were dumb, and I want to fix it."
"Um, Dad, how are you going to fix it?" I asked as politely as I could.
"I'm going to give her a hug, son, for Christmas."
"Dad, Regina probably doesn't even live in the same house anymore. Besides, how's it going to look when a strange Santa shows up trying to hug someone he hasn't seen in sixty years?
"I'll do the worrying, and you do the driving. That's the deal," he mumbled before telling me where to turn.
Dad told me to wait in the car, but I followed behind him anyway in case I needed to save his life or something. He pulled up his britches and knocked on the door. We heard cartoons on the television inside as we waited. A woman about my fathers' age answered and seemed a bit surprised.
"Can I help you?" she asked with the door half-open.
"I'm here to see Regina. Ask her if she remembers Hank from the playground."
"Well, Hank, that could be a problem because my sister passed away more than ten years ago."
Dad told her the story, and she mentioned how Regina did indeed like to hug the daylight out of folks. Once the lovely woman warmed up to us, she invited Santa and me in to sit a spell. They spent about an hour talking about his friend from long ago and how cruel kids can be. Regina's sister spoke on and on about how she was known all over for embracing perfect strangers. Many came to know her as an angel on earth in the neighborhood because of her kind heart.
"Well, Santa Hank, I'm not Regina, but I would like to hug you for my sister.
Dad wrapped his arms around the stranger and softly stated, "I'm sorry for all of the mean things I said, Regina."
"Hank, there is nothing to forgive. If there's one thing about Gina, she never held a grudge. She loved everybody. You two have a good day now. I have to tend to the grandkids."
We left after I hugged her myself and thanked her. Santa Hank taught me that it is never too late to tell someone you're sorry. The stupid things he did as a kid haunted him, and he was finally free of that 'demon,' as he called it. It's funny, but my father's face appeared to lose a few wrinkles after the encounter that morning. After taking a few moments to digest what had happened, he told me time was wasting and encouraged me to keep driving.
We stopped for lunch at a small diner downtown. Dad was probably the only person who kept them in business. He ate there or picked up food on the way home almost every day and insisted they served the best meatloaf in the state of Tennessee. I'd tried it myself once and considered it too bland for my taste, but he swore on it. The sweet tea was pleasant, though. We struck up a conversation.
"You know why I enjoy this place so much, little man?"
"Dad, I'll be forty-one next month."
"The food is pretty terrible, but it was delightful before Joann's husband died back in 74' I think it was. She's been struggling to keep the place afloat since then."
"So you were friends with her husband?"
"Nah, he was an asshole, but I owed it to Joann. You see, she asked me to dance with her at our homecoming, and I said no. It wouldn't have killed me to give her one song, but I was shy and concerned about what everyone would think. I'm here today to ask her to dance. Don't you worry, I've worked it out with your mother, and she understands."
I sat there and watched that small barren diner become a high school dance floor. Santa Hank slid a quarter into the jukebox and played Earth Angel. I'd like to think he chose that tune for Regina as well as Joann. I'm not sure how the old man did it, but within moments he was dancing with the girl he'd turned down years ago. Her greasy apron hung over one of the bar stools while they whirled around and left the world behind. Mom wasn't with us that day, but I knew she would have approved.
My father and I spent the rest of the day and Sunday correcting as many wrongs as possible. He had me drive fifty miles to repay an old debt to a gentleman he hadn't heard from in twenty years. Santa Hank gave the man a ten and said, "That's the five I owed you with interest. Merry Christmas." We stopped and spoke to an army buddy he'd fought in the war with who supposedly saved Dad's life one time. All I know is the guy seemed down in the dumps before my father wrote a check. Later, Dad told me that he could do whatever he wanted with his savings.
So today, I don't feel like I'm speaking at my dad's funeral. Instead, we are celebrating his deep love of life. He'd tell you that he didn't always feel that way, but circumstances changed his heart. Maybe it was the war, or perhaps it was guilt eating away at his soul. Whether or not you believe he was missing a few screws isn't the point. My mother passed a year before he did, but her essence was alive and well in his heart. He may have been dancing alone in the living room and watching Carson by himself, but I believe she never left him. The good news he bragged about to Mom's ghost while he stared at her photo would have been tragic for anyone but Dad. Finding out his days were numbered from the doc that afternoon only meant he'd see his Evie soon.
The final Christmas he spent with my family is one I'll never forget. It's because he brought Mom along one more time, and we got to spend the day together. It doesn't matter what anyone says because I saw her too with my own eyes through Dad's, and she was as beautiful as ever. I know it's January, but Santa Hank wanted to make sure I wished y'all a Merry Christmas.
The truth is, in the end, Kelly chose the man she loved. It's that simple.
Cans bounced around, smacking the pavement behind my bright red pickup truck. Kelly and I drove into Gatlinburg with "JUST MARRIED" painted on the back windshield and along the sides of my brand new 91' Sonoma. Shiny gold rings on each of our hands completed the perfect honeymoon portrait. We were barely in our twenties, and everything was falling into its place. The both of us were together at last.
Cars buzzed by and honked while fellow vacationers yelled, "Congratulations." We both waved back and thanked everyone as we made our way up the mountain road. If I had to guess, romance was probably born in places high up like the Smokies or on sandy beaches. We'd saved up enough money for a five-star hotel the first day, but the final two would be spent in a simple cabin at the KOA Campground in Cherokee, North Carolina...
I'm relatively confident God gives each of us the ability to love more than one person. Those feelings aren't like the numbers on a calculator that we can delete and start over. It's more like a beautiful painting we hide away in the attic because there's no room left on the wall. It's still around, it's still breathtaking, but it's out of sight and ignored except for the reverberations of joy that endure.
Yesterday I was five years old, running from Margret on the playground in kindergarten at Cumberland Heights. Now I've graduated from high school, and I'm trying to figure out how to keep my life from becoming a waste. Restaurant work isn't something I want to make a career of, and I know that. It's hard to let go of, though, because it's been one of the few consistent ingredients in my existence. Well, restaurant and my feelings for a particular blonde-headed girl.
Our first and only date came and went quickly my junior year at MCHS. I've long forgotten the name of the movie we sat halfway through that Friday night, but some memories will stick with me until the day I die. I'm not even sure if the moon was full that evening or if the glow was from her smile when she looked up at me. I felt like I towered over Kelly in her little denim skirt while we stood against the Cutlass.
The view of the Cumberland River and the stars above failed miserably, attempting to capture my attention while that girl was in my arms. The ideal mixtape played just loud enough to cover the gentle hum of the car motor. Bon Jovi set the mood while we carelessly swayed, fitting together like two perfectly tiny puzzle pieces. We kissed, we talked, and then we kissed a bit more. None of our responsibilities, fears, or regrets mattered outside on that hill beneath the April sky in 1988.
Kelly never broke up with me because we were never officially a couple. She never wore my class ring or my jacket around campus to signify I was her boyfriend. Maybe I didn't act quickly enough or maybe what I had to offer wasn't what she desired. Within a few days of our first date, her best friend Jennifer, who worked with me, told me that Kelly had started dating another guy, and it was intense. Her news broke my heart that afternoon. I'm unsure of how many days I went without eating, but I can say that I never got over her.
That summer vacation was interesting. The moments I spent with my friends and the dates I went on did me some good. It was the first time I'd felt grown, I guess. Lynette the brunette and I sat in the back row during Young Guns and made out, and I stole a kiss from a pretty platinum blonde named Carol after meeting her at a summer picnic. I couldn't stop listening to Red Red Wine by UB40. My friends and I still managed to find time to strike out all season, cruising up and down Riverside, and they were the best times. My senior year was off to a terrific start, but Kelly never left my thoughts.
My friendship with Jennifer grew over the course of our first semester. By the time late fall hit, we were an official couple and spent every minute of each day together. Of course, this meant Kelly would also be in my life, and I was okay with that. Her tagging along when I'd take my girlfriend home after school wasn't even awkward. We'd cram in the front seat of the Cutlass I finally purchased from my brother and blast Ton Loc through the speakers. Jennifer and Kelly were two of my favorite people, and life was good.
After sliding a quarter into Rampage at the arcade one evening, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Kelly's boyfriend wanted to talk. He could have at least waited until after I finished knocking down all of the buildings before he broke my concentration.
"Oh, hey Lee," I said with a grin.
"Hey Chris, I wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings between the two of us. I know you went out with Kelly before I started dating her, and I want to make sure we're good."
"That's ancient history, man. I'm with Jennifer now, and none of that even matters anymore."
"That's great. I figured you were probably over it all by now. It's been months, and I know you've moved on. We should all go on a double date sometime when you're free."
My stomach knotted up, and I did all I could do to smile and push out, "That's cool, buddy, we'll figure something out soon."
He walked away from the conversation, and I sat there, misplaced for a few minutes before I headed out to my car. Surprisingly some lost feelings resurfaced and caught me off guard. Time with Kelly and her guy is not an experience I want to knock off my bucket list anytime soon. Don't get me wrong, he seems nice enough, and I don't despise him or anything. No, I don't hate him, but the big problem here is that I wish I were him. Oh boy.
After the ridiculous Rampage predicament, I calmed down, and things were back to normal in my heart. Kelly's love life managed to hit a few ups and downs. She broke up with Lee, which meant she was hanging with Jennifer and me more than ever. I wasn't happy the two of them broke it off. It was, however, comforting to know the dreaded double date was off the table.
1989 snuck up on us quickly, and the three of us decided to drive up to Paoli, Indiana, for a ski trip on January sixteenth with friends from work. We stopped to eat in French Lick, and it wasn't hard to tell that's Larry Bird's hometown. They probably had twenty photos of him in the diner where we ate for breakfast. I recall sitting there with those two far from home and thinking I was a lucky guy to have friends I adore. We headed to the slopes after our meal and enjoyed the day together. Even when I wasn't Kelly's boyfriend, she was always there.
It had been over a year since my first and the last date with Kelly. I can remember fantasizing about taking her to prom back in 88,' but it never happened. I passed on a few opportunities to even go that year because the pain was too much, and no girl I had a shot with compared to the one who got away. It turns out we ended up going together my senior year. Well, kind of anyway. Jennifer was my date, and Kelly brought some guy I'd never met. Kelly introduced us, but his name went in one ear and out the other.
We all met at Jennifer's house for pictures before prom. Both of the ladies were gorgeous; I felt lucky to at least be in the same room with them. The story that led me to that moment took plenty of twists and turns. For a few brief seconds, I allowed my mind to drift, taking me to an alternate universe where I was Kelly's date instead of what's-his-name. A pink bow tie would have looked good on me, especially with Kelly hanging from my arm. On May sixth, I traveled back to my reality and escorted my girlfriend of six months to my final high school dance.
Jennifer and I broke up not long after prom. I went through the typical month-long ordeal of feeling sorry for myself and swearing off relationships for good. She ended up getting engaged to a guy I work with, and that was that. They're getting married today, and I opted out of going to the wedding. Working with the two of them is awkward enough, so I'll be skipping the event. You'll never guess who popped back into my head. It's too bad she got back with Lee, but it's what she wants, so I'll survive.
I've been through a lot since graduation. We moved from the house I grew up in, and not a day goes by where I don't miss it. The song Captain Jack continuously reminds me that I should move out soon anyway, so I've been saving up. At least we have air conditioning now, so that is a plus. My buddy Mike moved off to Knoxville for college, but most of my pals are still around, so there is never a shortage of stuff to do.
Well, too much reminiscing can get to a man, so I guess I'll head on out for some racquetball. I'll give my friend Brett a call to see if he's free. As I reach for the phone, "RING." Crap! That scared me. I hope this isn't one of my mom's friends who'll keep her on the line for an hour.
"Hello," I say, ready to let Mom know she has a phone call.
"Chris, this is Kelly," is the sweetest sound I've heard in a long, long time. After a short pause waiting on my heart to start beating again, I respond, and the next chapter begins.
Life can be jam-packed full of second chances. Sometimes we have to orchestrate our own melodies, and occasionally, the day plays an unplanned piece so sweet we're not even sure if we are supposed to hear it. Welcome the tragic tunes and the victorious versus all the same because seasons are short, so we'd better listen close while we can.
"Chris, I told you the car needs work, and it's not safe enough for you to drive. It died on me three times on the way to Montgomery Ward," Mom said for the final time, again.
"Mom, I need to borrow it today; it'll be fine. If it dies on me, I'll just restart it," I begged.
She countered with, "It's not going to happen, and if you keep asking, I'll never let you borrow it again.
"Mom, please! You don't understand. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."
"Leave me alone, Christopher! Maybe you can use your brother's car. He'll leave it with me today, so I'll have something to drive until mine gets fixed. I'll ask him before you get home."
Well, that never dawned on me at all. My brother, Larry, loves his ride. There's no way he's going to let me use it after school today. It's a sweet, bright white 85' Cutlass that I've admired since the first day he showed it off. Kelly would flip out if I picked her up in it. I'm not even sure if I am worthy enough to sit in the driver's seat of something that special. She's deserving, though, and maybe I'll come home to some good news.
Lucky me, this has to be the longest ride home ever. As soon as the bus was ready to leave MCHS, some kid in the back barfed, and it flowed as far as my seat before it stopped. He got to enjoy his fruit cocktail cup twice today, good for him. Who knows what the pink stuff is that the driver sprinkles on top. It smells almost as bad as the vomit. Between that and Todd's little brother asking me to join his birdwatching club, I've had about enough. I've had a little time to reflect on the day in between the excitement.
It made me feel pretty spectacular when Kelly's best friend, Jennifer, told me that her homeslice was excited to see me after school. The nagging feeling of my brother possibly saying no has been eating at me since first period. Telling Kelly, we may have to cancel wasn't an option because I at least want to project the illusion that I have everything together. So much for being in control of my fate. All I can do now is pray that things work out in my favor.
The giant yellow bus swings around our barn to reveal the stunning automobile I desperately hope to pilot. Everything feels like slow motion as I make my exit and walk toward the impeccable machine resting in front of our house. Gently placing my hand on the trunk, I let my fingers glide over the paint as I circle to the hood. Peering through the windshield, I imagine myself in control of this masterpiece.
"Chris!" blares through the screen door and snaps me from my daze. My stomach feels sick as I march toward the front entrance into the unknown. The smell of the pink stuff still lingers in my nostrils, and that isn't helping at all. One of two things is about to happen; I'll call my friend to cancel our encounter, or I'll pull up in her driveway in Larry's brilliant white beauty. Why do I feel like my life is over?
Tracy Chapman's, Fast Car plays on the radio, drowning any outside noise leaving me solely with my thoughts. The steering wheel of my brother's 1985 Cutlass feels right at home in my hands as I cruise down Salem road. If my smile were any bigger, it would have to sit in the backseat to make room for Kelly. Man, this day has certainly turned around, and I will not let it go to waste. My actual assignment isn't writing the play at all; it's asking her out on a date. My confidence level is through the roof, so this should be a cakewalk.
"Oh boy, I just want to turn around and go home," I said to myself as my spirit took a nose dive turning into her driveway. She's probably going to say no, so I should save face and treat her like she's Miller or something. I'll picture his head on her shoulders and maybe survive the whole trip without sounding like an idiot. Kelly comes strutting out and jumps in the front seat before I get the chance to walk to her door.
"Too bad Miller can't be here, huh?" Kelly expressed.
"Miller? Who?" I mumbled as the reality of her sitting in my front seat smacked me in the face like that softball the time the sun got in my eyes. "Yeah, it's um too bad he couldn't tag along," is all I could think to say after hearing her sweet voice glide along through the air. The scent of her perfume overtook any leftover odor from the pink stuff and sent my senses into a fabulous frenzy of joy.
"Chris!"
"Yeah!?" I shook my head and blurted as if someone rubbed smelling salt on my nose.
"We should probably leave before it's time to be back, don't ya think?"
I wholeheartedly agreed, put the car in reverse, and pulled out into the road. Maybe it's a self-esteem issue, but I never once pictured myself in a situation like this. A guy can spend his entire life thinking and dreaming of this very moment, but it always seems so out of reach. Well, until it finally happens. We're talking and joking like we do every day in speech and drama class in no time at all. It feels right.
"I love this car. Who's is it?"
"It's my brothers. I can't believe he let me borrow it." The one I drove yesterday finally gave out, and I'm glad it did because this is an improvement."
"I'd say so. It's nice, but the adventure was fun yesterday, not knowing if we'd stall in the middle of traffic. You kept me guessing for sure."
"Welp, I'm known all over Tennessee as an adventuresome man of mystery, you know," escapes my lips as I push up my glasses while realizing how lame that sounded.
"That was lame," Kelly snickers.
We go through the trouble of renting the library conference room at APSU for the second night and have a seat directly across from each other. Kelly asks where we should start, and I tell her that I have a confession to make. Honesty is always the best policy, and she should hear the truth.
"What is it, Chris? You're not an adventuresome man of mystery?"
"No, that's true, but there's something else, Kelly." Pulling out my folder, I place a finished script in front of her. "I stayed up late last night completing this so we could just hang out today. Being around you is remarkable, and I never feel like we have enough time, so I wanted to make some for us. Look, if this sounds creepy, I get it, so I don't blame you if you want me to take you home. I lied about only being available today because I wanted to be alone with you. I figured Miller would be okay with it, so yeah, that's everything," Exhaling, I wait on her reply.
"I know."
"You know? You know what?"
"Monday, you told me your schedule for the week, and I know you don't have to be at work until Saturday. I went along with it because I was hoping we could hang out together without any interruptions. I think you're sweet."
"Will you go on a date with me Friday?" Wow! did I just say that out loud! She's going to say no. I've pushed my luck way too far, and it'll be over before it starts. I can feel it."
"I would, Chris, but Miller asked me already at school today.
"Oh."
"I'm kidding; I'd love to go out with you. We don't even have to bring Miller along."
I fought the urge to tell her that I fell for her over a year ago. Who knows if it's love or not. I guess I'm not even sure what that means. It's best to let some things slip through the cracks of history. One shot at this may be all I have, so I'm sure not going to turn it into some complex mess. The only thing I'm one hundred percent positive of is that she said yes, so I'll enjoy that for now.
Kelly and I spent the rest of the evening discussing how complicated life can be and how uncertain the future is at our age. All of our differences surfaced along with anything we had in common. It's probably the most I'll ever learn in a library. Her laughter and the look in her eyes when she tells her own funny story will surely stick with me forever. When I dropped her off at her house that evening, we walked to her front door together. Our first kiss taunted the both of us, but we settled for a hug knowing Friday wasn't far away.
It's a good thing I excel in speech and drama; otherwise, I'd be screwed in Mrs. Todd's class this year. Kelly is by far the biggest distraction in my life right now, without a doubt. I called her at least three times over the summer and hung up as soon as she said hello. Thankfully fate gave me an hour each day right next to her in class. We've spent the entire time bonding while our teacher became nothing more than background noise. It's worth trading my A+ for an A- as long as I get a date by year's end.
It looks like Mrs. Todd has an announcement to make, "Alright, class, I'm going to assign you to groups of three. You will have two weeks to write a one-act play. I'll choose the best one, and we'll perform it in front of the school. You'll have plenty of time to work on it most days in class, so two weeks should be ample." There is a stellar chance this is not good news for me and my pending relationship. No way is she going to put Kelly and me in the same group.
After separating about half of us into teams, she finally says my name. On my trip to the front of the class to await my fate, I can't help but think of how my instructor will ruin my life. My progress, destined to fall apart if she doesn't match us up. Maybe I can will her to call Kelly's name with my mind. It's worth a shot, "Kelly, call Kelly! Mrs. Todd, call Kelly's name," is my thought that will hopefully make it to her brain somehow. Oh gosh, here she goes; my fingers crossed, and she says, "Miller." "Seriously! Miller? He is not who I sit at my desk thinking about all day. He doesn't make me dizzy, nor does he give me that 'Christmas morning' feeling in my stomach," I think to myself. The teacher speaks again, "and Kelly." Yes!
It took me a solid twenty minutes to get over my excitement, but my bliss didn't prevent me from coming up with a strategy. In all honesty, I could have knocked out a decent one-act play in a night by myself, but I convinced my group of three we should meet after school to work on the task. We planned on me picking them both up on Tuesday to rent a conference room at APSU. It would give me more time with Kelly and hopefully a chance to seal the deal on that date I desperately wanted. Thanks to my quick thinking, blinding sparks will fly, and our love will ignite the darkest Tennessee sky.
"Mom, I have to borrow the car. It's a mandatory assignment, and if I don't, then I could fail," she reluctantly rewarded me with the keys after my plea. Okay, so I didn't entirely tell the truth, but I didn't lie either. Her car is an ugly mammoth tank that enjoys stalling in the middle of traffic. I'd rather walk or ride my bike in most cases, but the brown beast is my only hope in this scenario. Sometimes a guy has to make a decision, and I'm determined to do whatever it takes.
Miller is practically my neighbor, so I have to pick him up first. It would look a little suspicious if I went to Kelly's house and then circled back for him. I'd have to think of something clever to get him in the back seat instead of shotgun. Before he could even open the door all the way, I said, "Hey buddy, it might be polite to let Kelly sit up front since she's a girl." He informed me that he tends to get car sick if he rides in the back and sits beside me. It wasn't the best excuse, but it's all I had, and it failed miserably. On the way to our next stop, he insisted on me taking him home by six for dinner, or his parents would get mad. That only gives me a couple of hours with Kelly at most. He's been in the car for one minute, and I already want to leave him on the side of the road.
As soon as I pull up, Kelly comes busting out; she hops in the back, and we head out on our adventure. Whenever I look up into my rearview mirror, her reflection catches my eye and puts me in some weird trance. "Dude, watch the road," Miller says with a bit of dread. We turned on Riverside Drive, and the car died, so I had to coast to the turning lane. It's a pretty good workout with no power steering, but I managed. We sat there for a second before I restarted it and merged back into traffic. My anxiety would have been manageable if Miller hadn't flipped out. More than anything, it's embarrassing because I'm doing my best to make a good impression on Kelly. After catching her giggling in the mirror, it made me feel better. There is no sign of panic in her eyes, so I should be good.
After acquiring our room, we worked on the script for ten minutes before more interesting topics took over the conversation. Knowing Miller had to be home by six, I suggested grabbing a Blizzard at Dairy Queen afterward. Kelly perked up and agreed that was a great idea. Miller told me he'd like that too but reminded me that he had to be on time for dinner. "Darn, Miller, I totally forgot about that. Well, crap, it looks like it'll just have to be me and you, Kelly. I'll take him home, and we'll come back to town for ice cream," I said, trying not to look overly excited.
We began discussing the play again, and Miller excused himself and went to the bathroom. A few minutes alone with Kelly is all I ever wanted, and now I have it for the first time. She has no clue that she seized my heart more than a year ago when I caught her beaming over one of my stupid jokes. It was a combination of laughter and sympathy because it wasn't funny at all. The situation was less about her reaction and more about having her full attention, even for a few seconds. There was no hope after that; she had me, and I fell hard. Hopefully, our unofficial date tonight will turn into an official date very soon.
Miller shuffled back into our private room and insisted he had great news. "Don't keep us in suspense; what's up?" I asked after being ripped from my deep conversation with the girl of my dreams. "I called my parents, and they said I could stay out until seven, so I can go to DQ with you guys after all," Miller said with great enthusiasm. My friend raised his hand for a high five from both of us. The fake smile I summoned was only to hide the feeling of disastrous disappointment. He has once again unknowingly thwarted my plan to sweep Kelly off her feet and drive off into the sunset in the brown beast. After concluding fate may not be on my side, after all, I decided to suck it up because Miller is my friend, and I'd never dream of hurting his feelings.
We left Dairy Queen and headed toward Kelly's home as the evening came to an end. I was determined to make my own destiny today because some things in life are worth the extra effort. The first date with Kelly isn't going to materialize by itself, so I have to take charge with another plan. My schedule is open all week, and if it weren't, I'd cancel whatever I had to if it meant another day with Kelly. Even if Miller had to tag along, it would be worth a few more moments with her. We're only a couple of minutes from the stop, so I'd have to make my move quickly.
I spoke up as we turned on to her road, "We should do this again this week; what works best for you two?"
"I'm good anytime," Kelly says from the backseat.
Miller jumps in, "I have tennis practice every day but Friday, so that's best for me."
My genius idea, "Aww man! The only day I'm available is tomorrow." That sucks, Miller. I guess Kelly and me will have to go without you. I don't mind pulling a little extra weight on the project so you can go to practice; I mean, what are friends for, right?"
They both agreed it was a good idea before Kelly hopped from the car and strolled inside. Miller talked about tennis the whole way back to his house. At least, I believe that's what he was rambling on about during the drive. I dropped Miller off and headed back to Mellon Road with a heart full of hope. Tomorrow is another day, and it looks promising. About the time I parked Mom's car Whitesnake came on the radio. Is This Love packed my chest with optimism while I looked up at my special moon from the front seat of the big brown beast.
Mrs. Phillips recognizes we aren't completing any work today, so she rolls the projector in to keep us engaged. Movie time never occurs in her class, so we all know there is a genuine chance we'll be going home early. The lights go out, and the gentle hum from the machine follows the click of the on/off switch. The film works its way through the maze, gaining steam until our movie appears like magic on the brick wall.
Word on the street is that there is an enormous snowstorm spiraling into Montgomery county. All of the students are delighted in anticipation of Mrs. Gaither saying the welcomed words over the intercom. The Love Bug may be fine entertainment, but almost everyone's attention is on the window. Each kid in the room wants to be the first to shout out snow when the flakes begin to make their way to earth.
No one has made a sighting, but we immediately notice bright yellow school busses stretching through the parking lot. The familiar pop from the loudspeaker signals an urgent message, "Teachers, please dismiss your students at this time." You'd of thought we were experiencing a home team touchdown by the cheers bursting throughout Cumberland Heights. Everyone lines up and heads to the front door, thrilled to leave three hours early.
I'm optimistic we'll get a good dose of the white wet stuff, but others on the bus insist it'll never happen, and we'll be back at it tomorrow. If the forecast is correct, a guaranteed three days off is in our future because today is already Thursday. God tends to get my most sincere prayers under these types of circumstances. Each time the door opens to let an eager child bust through, the polar gust attacks to ensure my prayers do not go unnoticed.
Finally, I'm home and ready for a bit of rest and relaxation. Mom has other plans for my early arrival as she points out the empty wood boxes inside and tells me I'm the perfect candidate to fill them up. Outdoor, we have a mountain of lumber up against the house covered with a tarp. We transfer it inside whenever the crates get empty. It's not how I had planned to spend my mini-vacation, but if we want to stay warm, I'd better get to work.
Once I finish the job, I take a moment to admire my significantly overstacked accomplishment. The containers aren't full unless the wood reaches the ceiling. This particular technique guarantees more free time in between chores. My mother invites me into the cozy kitchen for a hot bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese prepared with love. A string of gooey Velveeta stretches from my toasted bread to the thick red concoction when I tear some off to give it a dunk. Suddenly, my favorite weatherman, Bill Hall, delivers an unwelcome word.
It looks like the naysayers on the bus could have been correct. Bill just told me the storm would barely miss middle Tennessee, but we aren't in the clear. He's a good man because he always gives me hope. A chance is all I need to keep the dream alive until I hear from the Snowbird report in the morning. The sky through the kitchen window doesn't show a sign yet, but it smells like snow. My dad would always tell me he could smell it in the air, and he was always right.
After a solid night's sleep, I awake with a mission. There's no sign of snowfall outside, so my next source of information is the small black and white television in the kitchen. Ralph Emery is on, as usual, the Soap Sisters are singing, and nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. "Momma, have you heard anything yet?" I asked on the way to the bathroom. "Nope, you better get ready for school," she says in the distance as I close the door behind me. Disappointment stares back at me through the medicine cabinet mirror above the sink while I say another earnest prayer.
"Chris, it's Snowbird," Mom screams from the other side of the house. Ripping through rooms like the Dukes running from Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane, I join Mom in the den. My face lights up as Mr. Hall points at the map and presents the news I desperately need to hear. School is closed? School is closed! Yes! I love you, Bill, and I love you, Snowbird! My eyes shift to the window in anticipation, only to realize nothing has fallen. Grabbing up my heavy coat, I head outside.
A rush of arctic air slices through my shirt before I'm able to zip up tight. Beads of ice strike my face like a million tiny angel kisses flung from Heaven. I expose the camouflaged precipitation by looking away from the white sky to concentrate on a nearby Spruce. The deep green backdrop affords the perfect frame for Mother Nature's display. A solitary snowflake as large as my hand sways back and forth, drifting silently to the glaciated ground. Finally, an opaque quilt covers any imperfections and charges me with the thrill of a weekend of adventure.
It's not Thanksgiving until Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is on the television. The floats, the marching bands, and the entertainers are mesmerizing. It's an enormous spectacle, especially for a little boy in a small town. Mom's already busy in the kitchen, but my father hangs out with me for almost everything.
"Oh gosh! Oh gosh! Look, Dad, it's Spider-man! There's Superman Dad, look!" Dad smiles and reminds me that we have to watch until the very end because of the special guest. I know exactly what he's talking about because this isn't my first rodeo. They save Mr. Kringle himself for the very end.
Everyone knows the real Santa shows up for the big parade, so it's my chance to catch a glimpse. I've sure tried to see him in the act on Christmas Eve, but he's quick and sneaky. I feel like he's waving at me whenever the camera zooms in on his face. I've been to the mall before in town and sat with one of those wannabes. The beard is a dead giveaway every single time. It's how I know the Macey Santa is the real deal.
The announcer keeps saying that Kris Kringle is getting close, but that was three commercial breaks ago! I have to go to the bathroom, but I'll miss him as soon as I do, so it's in my best interest to hold tight. "Here he comes, son!" My fathers' eyes get as big as mine as we catch the first flash of the jolly old elf in his sleigh. We both tremble in excitement together as Santa is finally introduced and waves at Dad and me. We know Christmas is on the way, and Dad says, "It won't be long now, Chris."
"We are taking heavy fire! I repeat we are taking heavy fire! I need a medic over here now! Keep your head down, son, unless you want to lose it. Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes, men," I said in my best authoritative voice. My mind tends to get pretty noisy whenever bombers, tanks, and machine guns are involved.
"Chris, stop picking at the turkey," my mother demanded before kicking me out of the kitchen and sending me outside. There's no telling what time she got up this morning, but she's been in there all day cooking for what looks like an army. Don't get me wrong, she prepares giant meals pretty much every day, but on Thanksgiving, things get crazy. By the looks of it, we invited everyone on Bend Road.
"You better not be getting dirty, Christopher," I hear through the screen door as my knees embed into the soil beneath our oak. "Yes, ma'am," is my effort to avoid a lie and not tell the truth at the same time. Mom means business because she used my entire first name. Whenever she uses my first, middle, and last name, it means I'm already busted, and there will be consequences. It's wise to avoid those scenarios.
"RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TATAT! These bullets are flying everywhere. Quick! Take cover," were the last words some of my small green militia heard before meeting their maker. Once we finish burying those poor devils, the remaining troops will have to complete the fort. By now, I'm second-guessing the decision to wear my Sunday clothes outside to play before the celebration. Filth works its way deep under my fingernails as I lay flat on my stomach, digging six-inch graves.
Earlier I was standing by Mom as she cracked the oven to check on her stuffing. The smell escaped filling the room with the sweet aroma of a day that only comes around once a year. Mashed potatoes are my favorite, especially covered in her giblet gravy. I don't even know where to begin with all of the deserts. She makes a squash pie I'm not a giant fan of, but her coconut cake is enchanting. We'll have days of leftovers after the event, and that's fine by me.
"Sir, it would seem as though the enemy has blown up the dam. In a few seconds, the fort will be underwater," screams out my imaginary lieutenant. Before most of the men can make a run for it, I tip over my five-gallon bucket of water onto the frantic soldiers. Many ride the current to safety, but some meet an early demise caught between giant logs from unfinished structures. Alas, my heroic attempt to save a few of these battle-worn fighters was in vain.
Mom's number one rule at Thanksgiving is that guests aren't allowed to take food home. This rule suites me, but she invites everyone to come back the next day for more, and they do. By the fourth day, all that's left is turkey and cranberry sauce. There's nothing like a good turkey sandwich with a bit of Velveeta squished between white bread. I'm pretty sure everyone ends up at my house because Mama is the best cook in Salem.
"KABOOM!" The leftover firecracker I'd buried in the muck explodes, sending my lime-colored squadron flying. Specks of mud are all up and down my arm and cover my face like chickenpox. It's a good thing I wear glasses because that could have put an eye out. By the time the smoke clears, all that's left are the mangled remains of my warriors. Bowing my head, I say an earnest prayer for the brave who have fallen on this holiday.
Speaking of prayer, if I don't make it inside soon to clean up, I'll be needing plenty of help from Baby Jesus. The house is full of people, but I may be able to sneak past to grab some fresh clothes. Everyone is either watching television or helping Mom finish up, so it should be a cinch. Before I even manage to get one foot in the door, I hear, "Christopher Ray Sherron." I should have stayed on the battlefield.
I have made many trips to the chiropractor in my later years. The old back began going downhill at age 38. I'm guessing it has a lot to do with years of standing and lifting heavy things improperly. Restaurant work definitely has quite the impact on a spine. The biggest lesson my bad back taught me was always to wear nice underwear.
I was complaining to Scott about my back pain again. I'm sure he was getting tired of hearing me whine, so he recommended his chiropractor. I was never too big on taking any drug to kill the pain, and my rationale has always been pretty straightforward. If something hurts, I want to know it hurts so I can fix it. I realized I would be making many trips to the doc but figured it was the right decision. Adjusting my back and changing my lifestyle seemed like a better choice than masking the pain and hurting myself more later.
I had no idea what to expect when I walked into the little office. I was warmly greeted and asked to fill out several papers. The receptionist was charming and quite pleasant. I took a seat and began the paperwork. Occasionally I would look up to explore the waiting room, and each time an employee entered the area to call a patient or hand papers to the receptionist, I noticed a trend. Every single female in that office was gorgeous. I was beginning to think a requirement to work there included at least one appearance in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. I'm not kidding; each one of those women is destined to have remarkably beautiful children. It got to the point where it seemed as though they were all walking in slow motion preparing for a pillow fight. I kept expecting a bunch of college kids to rush in with plastic swimming pools full of jello. I even took a second to check for hidden cameras behind the potted plants.
As my thoughts and eyes were both wandering around the room desperately searching for one average woman so I could confirm I was not dreaming, it happened. "Mr. Sherron," I heard in the distance as if waking from a deep sleep. Enveloped in the atmosphere, she had to call my name a second time before I could react. Finally, I stood up and followed Kate Upton to the room. She asked me to have a seat and assured me the doctor would be in right away.
A few moments passed, and I heard a subtle knock at the door. To no surprise, a stunning tall blonde chiropractor made her entrance. She asked me several questions. I was so taken back by the whole experience; yes was my standard answer for everything. Who knows what she asked me. She could have said, "Mr. Sherron, do you find zombies remotely attractive and butt snort sniffle mulch," My response would have been yes, accompanied by a nervous grin. She then spoke four words I will never forget. This particular sentence broke through my cloudy little dreamy fantasy like an ice bath. She said, "take your pants off."
At that moment, I began to panic. My heart and mind began to race frantically. "I can't remove my pants." I thought to myself. The chiropractor is like the dentist. My good underwear is reserved for a physical in a regular docs office. No way I'm taking off my pants and revealing my shark attack boxers. What would James Bond do in this situation? Well, first of all, his boxers would have been silk, and secondly, they would've not been torn to shreds. The chiropractor would unsuccessfully kill him then they would have sex. None of that would remotely happen to me, ever.
The only thing left was my waistband. I was pretty much-going commando. Politely I asked why I had to take off my pants. The doc told me we needed an x-ray. "Damn it," I thought to myself, never saw the x-ray thing coming. She asked if I was alright, and I decided to let her know about my dilemma. In a business-type voice, she assured me she had seen it all in her lifetime, and it was no big deal. I removed my pants and immediately felt a cold draft surround my frank and beans. Between the arctic air and extreme humiliation, shrinkage was unavoidable.
She had me lying on a tiny table, lifting my legs, turning, and bending in all sorts of weird angles. A man can only take so much before he becomes numb to any circumstance. I finally stopped caring by the time she asked me to stand for my x-ray. I kept looking down at my chilly little bishop wishing the room was a tad warmer. She asked me to be still then started fiddling with the equipment. For one reason or another, the x-ray machine wasn't working. I was ready to get dressed when she told me to hold tight while she went to get help. I have to admit, making a run for it crossed my mind. Before I could make a move, she returned with two Victoria's Secret models.
They all tinkered with the x-ray machine while I stood there desperately wishing my fireman was in full uniform.
The device was finally working, and the x-ray Sports Illustrated shark attack boxer predicament had come to an end. I was allowed to leave with my pants shortly after.
Before going home to ponder what had just happened, I made one stop. I was not about to go another day without new undies. I immediately threw any damaged undergarments away and replaced them with briefs worthy of James Bond. Anytime your mother preaches the importance of always wearing nice underwear, please listen.
I didn't know Evelyn back in 1933 during the height of the depression, but I know she witnessed the Second World War unfold on the radio like most Americans. By the time she was twelve, the whole thing was over, so I doubt she would have paid it much mind if her brothers hadn't enlisted. Days were taken up with chores mostly, but she found time to play like most kids. Her family was poor, but if you asked Evelyn how much money they had, she'd tell you they were rich. She'd probably even tell you to mind your own business if you asked too many questions.
The smell of tobacco often penetrated the air in our small community. Sometimes you'd hear a car or two out on the road, but mostly things were placid aside from the sounds of lively animals. Folks conversed with each other and knew when someone was unwell or having a challenging time. People offered to help, but no one ever asked for it. It was a time when all anyone had was one another. No one ever went hungry because that wasn't allowed in Salem.
Like any little girl her age, she loved playing with her dolls and inviting friends over for make-believe tea. Evelyn wasn't afraid to get dirty while outrunning the boys through the woods and swinging from grapevines into a creek. She didn't care for The Shadow or Flash Gordon, but she did adore Little Orphan Annie. It's when the radio brought every American together at the same time in their living rooms, and it was special. On occasion, she'd have popcorn using the leftover grease on top of the stove.
Evelyn was aware of Glenn Miller and Frank Sinatra, but those weren't her favorites. This little girl was dazzled by Ernest Tubb, Hank Williams, and Eddy Arnold. Those country girl roots were apparent whenever she'd tune in to the Opry on Saturday night and thumb through ragged magazines with pictures of the performers who left her star-struck. It was a sensational escape from many of the hardships of growing up around Bend Road.
Most of her clothes were homemade, hand-me-downs, or both. She didn't mind because she didn't know any different. Everyone else did the same thing anyway. Cora, her mother, cut her hair and taught her how to cook and tend to the chickens. No one had it easy, but Evelyn refused to let it crush her spirit. Her struggles only managed to make her stronger by feeding her motivation.
Evelyn is full of hope, with countless seasons waiting for her arrival. She daydreams of places to investigate, hearts to break, and the man she will love someday. She fantasizes about a pretty dress and putting on makeup before the dance. Curiosity bubbles inside of her chest while her imagination creates whole worlds inside of her innocent mind. Behind her sweet sapphire eyes rests a warrior ready to challenge life's catastrophes and celebrate in its joy.
A Visit from St. Nicholas
By Clement Clarke Moore
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds; While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of midday to objects below, When what to my wondering eyes did appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer, With a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the housetop the coursers they flew With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too— And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight— “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
Seventy-eight dollars was a pretty good haul today. The promotion from busboy to a server is what I needed. Now I'm making more in one night than I did in a weekend of cleaning tables at the Catfish House. Luckily Mrs. Ellis gave me a shot because I always thought I was too clumsy to carry all of those dishes up my arm. Some of the regulars who request me when they stop by are pretty cool and good tippers. It's not a bad job, but I don't see myself here much longer.
"The floor needs to dry a little more, Chris," Mrs. Ellis tells me as I attempt to wrap up prematurely. At least the little dining room is finished. We knocked that out about an hour before we closed. Mr. Ellis always lets us get a head start on a few things because I don't think he likes to hang out very long either. For the longest time, I didn't feel like he enjoyed having me around.
I overheard him telling Dicky a story when I first got the job. I've always been a little hard of hearing, and when Mr. Ellis doesn't have his teeth in, he can be challenging to follow. Typically when I can't understand someone, I instinctively giggle, and it usually works out in the end, and everyone is happy; not this time. The story wrapped up, and my southern belly chortle kicked into high gear; then Mr. Ellis looked at Dicky and said, "I don't think that was funny, do you?" Dicky's eyes widened, and he said, "No sir, I do not," as our chief walked away and disappeared into the kitchen. It turns out Mr. Ellis was telling the tale of when some thief stole his class ring at school. Thankfully he forgave me, and we grew pretty close after the misunderstanding.
"Momma, this floor's dry," Mr. Ellis belts out across the empty dining room to his wife.
Mrs. Ellis smiles at me and says, "go ahead and finish up, sweetie." She continued closing out the register.
My friends are starting to accumulate outside. As soon as these chairs are down, I'm out the door. Luckily a couple of guys stuck around to help, so it'll go fast. My buddies and I will cruise Riverside for a couple of hours before we end up at someone's house. That's what we do most nights. There isn't much else going on in Clarksville by the time I get off work. The evening always begins with high aspirations that we'll meet a few girls, but despair sets in when things wind down, then we give up. It's a weekly cycle.
After changing my shirt and grabbing my coat, I head out to the parking lot to meet yet another Chris we'll call Chris G; then there's Kevin, Don, and Matt. I'm attempting to catch as many moments as possible with this group of guys because I know these adventures won't last forever. Sooner or later, we'll all drive around together for the last time, and none of us will even realize it's over. All Chris G and Kev talk about is moving to Alaska so they can get rich. They're planning on leaving as early as next year. Matt's obligations on the farm are his number one priority, so he'll be taking on more responsibility soon. Don's future is up in the air right now, but my best guess is that he'll follow in his parents' footsteps and join the military.
For now, we're all together, and the night is young. About the time my pals pile in the Cutlass, George Michael blasts through my speakers, encouraging us with his song Faith. Everyone sings along, and we make up our own words if we don't know the lyrics. Once the song cools down, the conversation fires up.
"Man, we need girls," Matt says from the backseat as we see a carload drive past.
"We wouldn't know what to do with them if we did meet any," Kevin announces.
"Don should clearly talk to them first," was my recommendation.
Chris G concurred, "Yeah, they'll love Don's eyes; they always do."
Matt perked up, "The problem with that is when they see Don, the bar is too high, and the rest of us are out of luck."
I suggested, "We should just stop bringing Don along then. It'll improve our chances."
"You guys really suck," was Don's comeback.
Every group has that one guy who is ridiculously good-looking. Don is that guy in our circle. The rest of us can pull every trick in the book to meet a girl, but Don doesn't even have to try. He flashes his ice-blue eyes, and it's game over for everybody else. Kevin is always too hard on himself; Chris G is currently heartbroken; Matt and I would appreciate a tiny bit of excitement, so hope lives within us two. We're an odd group, but we are the best of friends. High school has its share of clicks, but none of us ever quite fit into any of them. It's probably why we all get along.
The cruise route starts by turning in by Funland arcade, and then we drive past the movie theater and back onto Riverside Drive. We follow the Cumberland River to the last light and use Burger Kings' parking lot to redirect and repeat. Cars are bumper to bumper at least until around one in the morning. I'm good to go all night because my job doesn't start until three tomorrow afternoon. Some of the guys have to get up early, but most of us get to sleep in on Saturday.
Horns honk, and the sound of blaring music blends with squealing tires and powerful engines. The crisp air forces us to keep the windows up during the ride. Each red light gives us a chance to roll them down and hopefully make eye contact with a beautiful girl. Some magic moments materialize before being snuffed out by an annoyed look from an overbearing boyfriend in the driver's seat. Laughter takes over as we prepare for the next stop.
"That hot girl next to us just smiled at me; catch up to her," Matt sounded out.
"Pretty sure she was looking at Don," uttered Kevin.
Chris G chimed in, "Now she's rolling her eyes and speeding up."
"Guessing she's not into a car full of desperate boys," I proclaimed.
"It's a sausage party every night," Don added.
We smiled and decided to check out Buffalo Brady's and maybe play a game of pool. None of us are professionals, but again, it's more about meeting the opposite sex and less about showing off any game-related skills. We filed in, past the cigarette machine in the foyer, and took a table. Guns N' Roses filled the dining room with one of my favorite tunes, Paradise City. Matt and Don headed to the billiards while the rest of us ordered a couple of sodas.
I told Kevin that I thought that brunette we passed on the way in might be into me. Chris G told me I should forget about it because she's already talking to Don. We changed the conversation and moved on because she was a lost cause at that point. We slid into deep dialogue mode in no time because that's what happens around midnight. The crowd began to thin out as our two buddies returned to join in the discussion.
We sat around that table, looking at each other wrapped in the innocence of youthful bliss. The late hours made no difference because none of us thought too far past the moment. One of us would take the floor to speak while the rest would intently listen until it was our turn. Chuckling until we couldn't breathe or crying until our tear ducts were empty wasn't uncommon at all. We'd become friends long ago, but it was times like this that cemented our friendship for a lifetime.
On the way back to the Catfish House, the guys made me sing Chantilly Lace because I could make myself sound just like The Big Bopper. They'd all cackle out loud while I did my best to keep from cracking up. Everyone complained about how we were a bunch of failures every time we went out. Of course, that won't keep us from trying the next day all over again. Tomorrows are abundant for now, so our group of lovable losers will make the most of them.
I never liked flying. The one time I got a window seat, I ended up giving it to an elderly woman who insisted she could see her dead husband in the clouds and enjoyed long conversations with him. As far as I could tell, she slept the whole time. Isle seats are best anyway because these trips tend to make me sick. The tiniest bit of turbulence ends with my face in the toilet at thirty thousand feet. Being a member of the mile-high club isn't something I'll ever mark off my bucket list.
I've always read that a person can never go home. The saying is true even if you never leave in the first place. People die, then everyone fights over stuff until nobody wants any of it. Favorite childhood memories get replaced with mini-malls and automatic car washes. Going back or attempting to hang on is a lost cause. Once we break free of the cocoon, it's time to spread our wings and fly. Or if you're like me, you hop from branch to branch forever in search of a better launchpad. Maybe I'll find it.
Nothing was keeping me in Minnesota anyway. The only girl I ever loved perused me for years, but I was too dumb to see it until she married my best friend. Today, I'm flying home to watch them bury Patricia Van Pelt after losing a cancer fight. I observed the rest of my childhood pals either become alcoholics or settle well below their potential in our dying little community. Life insurance salesman sort of chose me. It's not the most glamorous career, but it was the catalyst for my escape. Well, my physical freedom anyway. Somehow my mind is still stuck in some never-ending groove.
My happiest moments came and went by the time I was thirteen. Life was a struggle, and things rarely worked out, but I had my family and my buddies. I felt complete in my pre-teen years, even though my childhood was far from perfect. My favorite person wasn't even a person at all. It was my stupid dog, which I still believe today thought he was human. Wherever I went, my four-legged companion tagged along.
I'd be lying to myself if I said I wasn't nervous about going back after thirty years. None of my old friends will want to see me, at least the ones still breathing. I've got a good mind to turn right around and buy another ticket as soon as the plane lands. They've all been better off without me anyway, even my kid sister. That's what I'll do; I'll text Frank to let him know I changed my mind as soon as we land.
After exiting the plane, the first thing I saw in the airport was a giant Christmas tree. It instantly brought back memories of the real tree I picked out one year when I was a kid. Man, that little evergreen was ugly, and that's being modest. Everyone made fun of me, but they did what friends do and helped me decorate it anyway. It's funny, but that's my most memorable holiday. Not one gift from the past sticks out in my mind; only the memories of friendships and hardships linger.
Alright, time for the text, "Hey Franklin, I've got some awful news. Hopefully, you haven't made it to the airport already," before I could finish, I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Charles! Charlie Brown!" screamed out my old companion, Franklin. He met me with a giant hug as I turned around. Looking over his shoulder during our embrace, I discovered a welcome surprise.
I instantly recognized my sister Sally; we still FaceTime every other week. She was standing alongside Linus, Schroeder, Lucy, and the rest of the gang. They would have all been easily recognizable even without Facebook. Sadly Peppermint Patty is the only one missing. We'll be saying our goodbyes to Patricia later in the week. By the looks of things, the loss is lying heavily on Linus. Even after thirty years, they all showed up to see me. Maybe going home isn't impossible after all. "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown," my childhood friends said in unison while tackling me with affection.
Sunshine shot through the rifts in the old tobacco barn in Salem, displaying millions of particles hustling around like minnows in a pond. Layers of deep green leaves linger overhead, perfectly placed until reaching their prime. A single delicate burley leaf escapes as if an elephant's ear could wilt and drop to the earth. Fallen plants blanket the ground but not for long.
"Chris, bring me an arm full of those leaves over there in the corner," my uncle belted out, urging me to be careful with them. Gathering as many as I could handle in one trip, I dropped them off at his feet and went back for more until he was satisfied. Uncle Neb patiently tied the stragglers together with his collection of rubber bands. Once we finished the chore, he offered to teach me a trick. I watched as he worked his magic.
Uncle Neb carefully placed one rubber band around his index and middle fingers. He then balled up his leather hand and invited me to watch closely. Like a true showman, he said, "Abra Kadabra," and quickly opened his fist. Somehow the band instantly traveled to his ring and pinky fingers. First, I was astonished and then honored when he showed me the secret and advised me to keep the mystery between the two of us. "Let's go have some lunch," he said eagerly.
The short ride gave me time to think while I sat next to my uncle in his old truck. Anyone who's ever spent time doing this sort of work will tell you it isn't easy. Earlier, a constant stream of sweat dripped from my nose as I lifted the enormous stalks to drive a spike through each one onto a wooden stick. "Boy, make sure you don't run that into your hand. I doubt Aunt Faith would be happy," was the sound advice from my cousin Billy and I wholeheartedly agreed.
Uncle Neb would visit the house a lot to see my mom, his sister. They loved playing rummy, and both were great at complaining whenever they'd lose. The tales they'd tell of their youth were fun to listen to during the heated matches. By the end of the game, I knew exactly how far a nickel would get you when they were kids. I recall thinking about how much the world had changed by the time the torch passed to my generation.
On occasion, his truck would pull up at MCHS to give my buddy Jeff and me a ride home after football practice. We'd pile up in the truck bed instead of squeezing into the front seat. The wind was a welcome relief after running several hills during training. We both launched grapes straight up into the air to watch them splatter on the blacktop during our ride. Sometimes my uncle had a watermelon or two in the back that may have disappeared before the final stop. Those ended up in our stomachs, not on the road.
Often I'd catch a glimpse of Uncle Neb sitting atop the tractor with a close eye on everyone working the field. I rarely saw him in anything aside from those denim bib overalls and trucker cap. He never once told me what he was thinking during those long hours in the heat, but I knew. Not long ago, he could have worked circles around any one of his sons or me. Growing old must be difficult, but it happens to everyone if we're lucky enough. He would have instantly traded his seat for a hatchet to swing away at those stalks if he was capable.
If I had to pick out one thing I enjoyed about working in tobacco, it would have to be the food ladies like my mother and cousins Donna and Terry prepared for us. It was a well-deserved feast in the middle of a busy day prepared with love. Each of us devoured as much as we could handle, and it was a lot. It made me feel like a king to sit around with my cousins and eat while listening to their stories like we were Vikings returning from a quest.
The meal would have been incomplete without my cousin Charlie picking on me. We'd often wrestle in the dirt before the day came to a close, and typically I was on the losing end. He started with a headlock that I managed to wiggle from before turning the tables and throwing my older cousin to the ground.
"Don't hurt him, Charlie," recommended Uncle Neb.
Charlie responded with, "Don't hurt him!?"
"Get 'em, boy," was all of the encouragement I needed from cousin Butch to pin down Charlie finally. I'm sure he let me win that one, but he never let on because that's what family does. Mom always said Charlie looked like Burt Reynolds, but to me, he was a bigger star. I'd never tell him that, but it's true. My uncle gave me a broad smile and told me Charle probably wouldn't be picking on me again.
My attention was fixated on the rearview mirror as we rode back to the field, and I secretly stared at my Uncle Neb's face. He drove slow anyway but took extra precautions on the rocky river bottom roads. His sun-dried complexion explained the story of a veteran, a farmer, a family man, and a mentor. Each wrinkle was forged from a lifetime of tears and laughter. Those bumpy rides were always too quick, and its misfortunate life has to be the same way.
Ninth grade has been a whirlwind. It's my first year as an official high schooler, and I've figured a few things out. I'm not even talking about history or science; it's the important stuff like, well, life. Many of my old friends from elementary school vanished into the halls of my memory while new companions surfaced to the top of the pond surrounding MCHS. It's no one's fault; it's how life works, and that's alright.
Playing football was never my dream, but I made the most of it for two years. Coach Horsey managed to convince me to stick it out with these wise words, "You have enormous shoulders, son, you need to play football." He may have been right about the width of my frame, but my heart wasn't in it at all. Some of those guys like Matt, Fred, Curtie, Russell, and David played the game since they were in diapers. My passion belonged somewhere else, and thankfully the sport at least taught me that.
Mrs. Brown gave me my first small part last year in a play called Arsenic And Old Lace. In eighth grade, I was happy to get whatever I could and did my best working with the older high school kids. After giving it one hundred percent throughout the year, tryouts for Harvey were just around the corner, and I wanted that lead part. Of course, doubt was easy due to my lack of experience, but I had hope, which was more valuable than skepticism any day.
Jimmy Stewart was always a hero of mine, from his personal life to his roles in cinema. He portrayed the main character, Elwood P. Dowd, in Harvey on Broadway and the silver screen. My goal was not to be James Stewart but to honor the man who'd entertained me for as long as I can remember. He was sincere and warm in every role he portrayed on screen and off, and that inspires me.
My nerves were on edge all day, wondering when Mrs. Brown would announce the cast. Each time I'd see my buddy Deb around campus, I'd ask if she'd heard anything. Neither one of us was patient, and we both constantly checked for the list in between classes. She auditioned for the character of Myrtle and was equally as excited. Silently I prayed the director wouldn't award the part to a junior or senior in place of my freshman inexperience.
Finally, the news was out, and I couldn't contain myself as I rushed to the little theater to check the results. A crowd huddled around the tiny sheet of paper taped to the wall, but I succeeded in breaking through for a look. Placing my finger at the top, I began to scroll down intently, reading the names, "Myrtle Mae Simmons - Debby, Veta Louise Simmons - Teresa, Elwood P. Dowd - Chris Sherron!" Jumping around and yelling was never my thing, but I did read the list three more times before stepping away from the wall to make sure. Plopping down in a chair, stage left, a genuine feeling of accomplishment forced my chest to swell with pride as I watched the cast form before my eyes. "Now the work begins," I thought as a smile emerged on my face.
Each day for the next five, I devoted about six hours to studying lines at home. A three-act play is no joke, especially with speaking parts every time I turn the page. The thirty-plus hours of memorizing were plenty, along with the rehearsals after school five days a week. Getting the words down early on was vital so that I could focus on character development over the next thirty days. My peers deserved my best, and there was no way I'd let them down.
While most students couldn't wait for the sixth period bell to sound so they could escape, I was hype for an entirely different reason. It meant that it was time to rehearse with people I'd grown to love. A week into practice, it didn't matter what grade we were in or what click we may have been part of because we were family. Guys like Rick and Chip were undoubtedly cooler than me, but all of that stuff faded away like the end of an act. Deb had me on experience, but she never hesitated to help out when I needed her for anything, and that's something special. What a team.
The two Teresas, I'd have to say, were a bit intimidating in the beginning. They were both seniors and on the extreme side of bodacious. I recall reading through the script for the first time to discover a kissing scene with Nurse Kelly played by one of the Teresas. I'd be lying if I told you I didn't look forward to rehearsing that each day. Okay, it doesn't technically count as my first kiss, but it sure gave me lots of experience before the magic moment happened more than a year later. Maybe more football players would have switched over to drama had they known about the benefits.
We had a packed house both nights. The audience was full of folks from all over the community, family, friends, and fellow students. Everyone knew what to do, and we were ready to put on a show no one would forget. The stage glowed as each character who'd evolved from the pages of a script came to life. We were spectacular.
Several weeks earlier, my friend, Billy asked me why I put so much effort into performing. Aside from telling him that I loved doing it, there was no clear answer. It was something inside I couldn't shake, but beyond that, I didn't have a clue. Once the crew was on stage and we took our final bows, I knew why I'd worked so hard.
I will never forget the enchanting sensation of gazing out into an audience as they rise to applaud. Hand in hand, we occupied the stage soaking up every ounce of energy thrown from the patrons. Roaring claps echoed all around as we stood under the bright lights from the catwalk overhead. Only one thing can top that exhilaration, and it happened simultaneously. A look to my left and then to my right exposed my people. The message behind Harvey is the value of friendship and loyalty. I understood that message working with my friends after school each day for a few weeks.
It's almost a little cruel going from the top of the food chain as a sixth-grader into a school occupied by grades seventh through twelfth. Montgomery Central is a giant swimming pool occupied by hormone-driven adolescents pushed in with the option to sink or swim. Some students look like they could still be breastfeeding, while others have full-on Grizzly Adams beards. Seventh grade was a blur trying to find my way around and making new friends. Somehow I survived, and I can only hope eighth grade will be more manageable.
The first bus ride of the year is always a little exciting. I get to see all of my old friends, and it's fun meeting the kids who are new to the neighborhood. This particular year started right up with the hope of romance in my future. The driver took us down an unfamiliar road and stopped at a house I'd never seen before. It was the first time I made eye contact with Carol. She walked up the steps, and before sitting across the aisle from me, she smiled. "Wait, did she grin at me? She probably saw the sleeping drooly-faced kid next to me and thought it was funny. Gosh, he's going to cramp my style. Maybe she did smile at me," I thought while frantically trying to avoid eye contact for the remainder of the journey.
The whole scenario played out the same for two full months. Carol would get on the bus, we'd both smile, and then I'd ignore her because I panicked and had no idea of how to seize the day. I should have never stopped reading comics because that's when all of my girl problems started. Graduating to stuff like "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may" has me constantly thinking about love and time. Time is on my side right now, but it'll be lost one day soon, and what if I never love? All adults ever do, is complain about how hard life can be and how lucky fourteen-year-olds like myself have it. Did they forget what it's like to be afraid and how paralyzing situations can be, or is it all a giant lie they tell kids to prepare us for adulthood? Maybe I'll figure that out one day.
"Gosh, it's getting cold," escapes my mouth to be carried away by the frozen air for a moment before mixing with the heavy fog of a November morning. My footprints take the place of our first frost of the season while I hop to stay warm at the bus stop. Today is the day. I'm planning on asking Carol on a date. My brother already told me he'd be our chauffeur if I ever worked up enough nerve, so that's covered. We'll strike up a deep conversation, and before arriving at MCHS, I will have secured my very first date.
Carol's stop came and went, and she didn't get on as luck would have it. Today was supposed to be my time to shine, so hopefully, I'll have enough nerve when I see her again. My heart was a little broken because I didn't get to sit across from her. We never spoke, but I'd gotten used to being near my brown-eyed companion. The empty seat is a reminder that I must act soon.
Janet, Carol's good friend, stopped me on the way to first-period PE to talk. She informed me that Carol likes me and would like to be my girlfriend if I'd ever ask. After exiting the conversation, I was more worried than ever. What if she is only caught up in the idea of being my girlfriend? She hardly knows me, after all. Our first conversation could quite possibly be our last if I say the wrong thing. Those rosebuds are already beginning to wilt.
After getting dressed for gym class, I got lost in conversation with my buddies, Brian and Wade, before roll call. "Did someone fart?" I inquired while my two pals wondered the same thing. Billy turned around to assure us no one farted this time, and it was actually Wayne. He'd spent the morning cleaning out the chicken coops before school, and a few souvenirs hitchhiked on the bottom of his sneakers. We were all thankful it wasn't us and changed the topic.
My friends encouraged me to ask Carol out finally because they were probably tired of me talking about it. Caught up in our discussion, I'd missed my name, and Coach Cron gave me twenty push-ups. Wayne was on the bottom row of the bleachers, so I made sure to distance myself before the workout. The smell of a gymnasium is terrible enough without subtle hints of chicken poop swirling around my nostrils as I take deep breaths.
Later in the day, I noticed Carol in the hallway. "Carpe diem," I thought over and over as I approached her with shaky knees and an accelerated heartbeat. After greeting one another, I asked her why she wasn't on the school bus. Before she could finish her explanation, I blurted out, "Would you like to go on a date?" Her flawless smile chased away the brief pause with welcomed relief before the bell signaled our tardiness. Being late to my sixth period didn't phase me in the least. We held hands on the way to the bus that afternoon after class.
My birthday was back in July, and somehow I managed to save most of the cash for a special occasion. A first date qualifies, so I went all out and spared no expense. During our weekly trip to Montgomery Ward, I found a great deal on a necklace in the jewelry section. After dropping half of my money on it, the other half was for the movies. We both love to laugh, so we decided on Spies Like Us with Chevy Chase and Dan Aykroyd.
We arrived at my date's house; I hopped from the car and rushed up the sidewalk to the front door. Knock, knock, knock. Carol's mother answered and invited me inside to have a seat. She told me her daughter would only be a minute and was super friendly. All I could think about while I sat on the couch was how excited I was about the big night. I imagined how thrilled she'd be after I gave her the gift and how we'd get to hold hands during the entire movie. Maybe I'd even be able to swing my first kiss at the end of our evening. Carol walked into the room, and I couldn't help but believe she was way out of my league.
The ride to the theater lasted forever. There was so much to say but not while my big brother was in the front seat driving. The experience was awkward enough without him becoming part of the conversation. He drove off as we walked to the box office and paid for the two tickets. We had a few minutes before the show started, so I suggested we take a stroll. A few flurries began to fall, and I figured it would be romantic if I presented her gift before we went inside. The half-moon was peeking at us through the clouds, and everything could not have been more sublime.
We stopped under a street lamp long enough for me to reach into my pocket to pull out her surprise. "Chris, this is beautiful," she told me before wrapping her arms around my neck to give me a tight squeeze. That embrace was worth every dime I spent earlier at the store for my new girlfriend. She asked me to put it on her, and I was successful after fumbling around for a minute or so. It was off to the concession stand for a couple of sodas before the movie.
I couldn't tell you anything about the comedy except that it was rather magical sitting beside a pretty girl with her hand in mine. Occasionally we'd glance at each other and giggle. Sometimes I'd give her a tiny squeeze, and she'd return the favor. My fingers had fallen asleep about halfway in, but I wasn't about to waste a second neglecting her touch. This moment took two months to materialize, and every ounce of it would secure a spot in my heart forever.
We whispered and laughed all the way back to her house after leaving the cinema. The only time Carol took her head off my shoulder was to briefly admire her new necklace. Soon I would be face to face with her at the front door. Hopefully, we would end with the kiss that's been in the making for fourteen years. Nervousness began to rear its ugly face, but I was confident enough to seize the day. It's too bad the climax would also indicate the end of our enchanting evening under the moonlight.
Not a single word broke through the silence as I escorted her toward the house. All I wanted was a peck on the cheek, and I'd drown in complete fulfillment. Tonight everything will change, and I will officially be on my way to adulthood. We stopped at the front door, and she thanked me for a fantastic time. Her mesmerizing copper eyes drew me in like a tractor beam straight out of Star Wars. My heart was screaming through my chest the closer I got to her lips. Just before we connected and ultimately sealed the deal, she asked me to wait. "I don't like to French kiss," she uttered before I pulled away. Alright, I had no clue what a French kiss was, and I was not about to ruin everything, so I settled for another hug and told her goodbye.
Carol and I held hands at school for a couple of more weeks before going our separate ways. Things didn't work out how I wanted them to, but my first date was in the books, and I officially had a girlfriend for a little while. My first kiss came along just before my sixteenth birthday with a girl named Jeannie, unless we count Teresa. I know it's confusing, but I'll explain that another day.
"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying." - Robert Herrick
There's nothing like cracking open a brand new yearbook and getting a whiff of that adhesive and ink. Each section holds a treasure chest full of memories frozen in time. We quickly skim over some pages while others are studied and admired. Sometimes we skip the photos and quotes altogether and go straight to the signatures.
I've always had a personal tradition of waiting until I get home to read what my friends say in the annual. It gives me something to look forward to, plus I can sit back and soak everything in without distractions. I'm busy signing everyone else's at school, so waiting a few extra hours isn't that difficult.
After arriving home from MCHS, I say hi to Mom and rush upstairs to my room. With a couple of fluffy pillows behind my back in bed, I'm ready to see what my peers have to say. It's especially fun to see what the cute girls write because a guy never knows what sparks may be swirling around in the universe. "Alrighty, let's get started," I say out loud to myself as I crack open the book and begin to read.
"Chris, Well, I don't know you very well, but you seem to be an O.K. guy. You are a lot of laughs. The double dates we have went on haven't been the worst. Hope you have a lotta luck with everything. Teresa"
"Wait, what? An 'O.K. guy.' You don't know me well? What does that even mean? We went on double dates together. I'm thrilled they weren't the 'worst' experiences of your life. Gosh! I hate it when people write, 'I don't know you well, but...' That drives me nuts. Well, I'm happy to know I've left a mediocre impression on your life. Maybe one day in the future we can get together for some extra fun mediocre times, really paint the town."
"Chris, Hey, I didn't get to know you as well as I would have liked to, but I really think you're great. It was really fun being with you on the Spanish trip to Rivergate. You're just a WILD & CRAZY GUY. Hope I see ya this summer. Love, Jacinda 326----- Don't be a stranger. PARTY ANIMAL"
"Hmm, I'm getting some significant mixed signals with this one. She doesn't know me well, but she thinks I'm great. I think she wants to hang out with me this summer. I mean, obviously, she wants to hang out because she wrote her phone number. Should I call her now? No. No. No. That looks desperate. I'll wait a few days and maybe ask her if she wants to party? I mean, I have no idea of how to party, but I am absolutely willing to learn. She did ask me not to be a stranger after all.
"Chris, Well, if it weren't for you, all of us girls in chemistry would fail! You're a great guy! Stay out of trouble & have a great summer. Love ya, Sandra"
"Okay, 'Love ya,' is the exact opposite of 'Love you,' it means I'm in the friend zone in this situation. That's okay because she probably won't even like me at all after the grades come back from that last chemistry test. Everyone thinks I'm smart because all of my buddies are intelligent. I keep trying to tell them, but they don't listen."
"Chris, You are a funny and crazy person. You have a way of making people laugh. I think you have a career in comedy. 4th English Karen"
" Funny and crazy are good. That's not a bad legacy to leave behind. At least she didn't call me the stinky kid or something like that. I do remember making her snort more than once in class, so she's probably being sincere. I've never thought about a comedy career, but I'm leaving my options open. Should I give Jacinda a call? She did give me her number."
"Chris, I'm glad that I got to share Gov. School of the Arts with you. Since then, you have become a special friend. Maybe we don't talk all the time, but you're still special. I will never forget you. Go after your dream. You are a wonderful actor and friend and guy and good-looking! Have a great last year. Your friend, love Melanie P.S. Keep God in your life too!"
"Good looking? Wow, I didn't see that one coming. Crap! I should have told her she's beautiful or hot or something like that. Damn! Why didn't I read what Melanie wrote at school so I would have known how to respond? It may be time to forget my tradition. She didn't leave her number, though, and she called me friend, so I should let that one go. Wait, she called me a 'special friend,' so this could be a definite maybe sort of situation. "
"Chris, You have been a fun person to be around. Putting up with your stupid jokes was pretty hard to do. Hope you get everything out of life you want. Bobby"
"Alright, so maybe a comedy career isn't in my future. Was I fun to be around, or were my jokes stupid? Why does life have to be this difficult to figure out? Was he being sarcastic, and he thinks I'm funny, or was he being serious? That settles it; I'm going to have to unleash some next-level jokes at school tomorrow. Bobby won't know what hit him."
"Chris, Well, let's see, I have known you for 12 yrs. Now. And maybe, hopefully, I'll get to know you one more year. You have been a great friend & I appreciate that. I hope you have a GREAT summer! Kim 89"
"I hope I have a great summer too, Kim. What did she mean by 'Hopefully, I'll get to know you one more year?' Does she know something I don't? I'm going to have to teach Kim the power of positive thinking. She has been a good friend my entire time in school. I have a couple of Kims in my life since the beginning, and I'm grateful for them both."
"Chris, What's going on? This has been a killer year. Your pal, Wade -The Kid"
"Wade, for one reason or another, loves to sign my annual with 'the kid.' He's done it every year I've known him. I'm pretty sure he has some infatuation with Billy The Kid. It would make more sense if his name were William or Billy, but it's Wade, and it just doesn't flow. I accept Wade, though, and love him just the same. Some days I greet him with a little finger gun and make the 'pow pow' sound. I'm not sure he gets what I'm referring to, but maybe he will one day."
"Chris 'Billy Bob Jo Dean,' That's what you said your name was HA HA. 2nd period has really been a trip with you. You think of more off-the-wall stuff than anyone I know. Killer, stay sweet & make something of yourself. You really have potential but just party every now & then. Love, Twila"
"Twila knows me. I guess I should party more often. I'd probably be a little more popular if I did. I think she believed me at first when I lied about my name. At least until roll call, but we got a good laugh out of it. It's sweet she believes I have potential. I need more positive reinforcement like that in my life. I hope we keep in touch. Hmm, she said, 'Love Twila,' Okay, I need to stop doing that."
"Chris, I still don't think you're sane, but you're a great guy anyway. Work on the jokes and good luck. See ya on t.v. James"
"Alright, this is starting to give me a complex. James is like the fifteenth person to tell me I need to work on my jokes. What the hell is wrong with these people! Oh, maybe it isn't them. He's always told me that I should be an anchorman or weatherman or something like that. I would consider that career, but I have a difficult time keeping a straight face. I could imagine bursting out in laughter for no reason during the forecast or a serious news story."
"Chris, Even though your stupid jokes caused my parent's divorce and my grandfather's ulcer, and me getting kicked out of the house into the cold, harsh world at the age of 15, we're still friends. Jeff"
"I give up on the jokes."
"Chris, It has been of utmost pleasure working with you in the play. Stay cool, and life shall treat you well. God Bless! Robby"
"Rob, 'Stay cool?' For real? When have I ever been cool? I wonder if Jacinda is home now?
The next day at MCHS, I happened to bump into Scott before the first period. He approached me with an overabundance of enthusiasm and wanted to talk before class. "Dude, you won't believe what I'm about to tell you," he said, smiling ear to ear. " Please don't leave me in suspense; what's up?" I asked. "Jacinda wrote her phone number down in my yearbook. Can you believe that! I think I'm going to call her," came from Scott's mouth. "Dude, you should totally call her," crept from my lips as I shook my head and walked away from the conversation.
A breeze swirls and spins through the technicolored leaves on the giant oak. The wooden sculpture stands firm, but his limbs move to the melody as if conducting mother nature's orchestra. Gentle nudges encourage some to go and glide carelessly through the atmosphere. Leaflets perform a Japanese Kabuki dance in their final act before returning to the Tennessee soil.
The best part about fall isn't even trick-or-treating. Every kid on my side of the Cumberland River gets excited about the annual Halloween carnival. The entire community shows up, and it's the only time I can't wait to burst through the doors of Cumberland Heights. The whole school is transformed into a spectacularly spooky spectacle for a day. Classrooms become a midway, as colorful as the oak leaves, painted with cornhole, fortune tellers, and duck ponds. Balloons popping and screams from the haunted house invade the halls as folks shuffle through admiring costumes.
My favorite attraction is the cakewalk. I've managed to bring a cake home every year except for second grade. That was a challenging time with Mrs. Allen. She could have quite possibly sucked all of the luck out of me with those watchful piercing eyes. Mom is pretty happy when I bring home the prize. I mean, who doesn't appreciate a delightfully delicious sweet treat.
This particular year is bitter-sweet because I'm a sixth-grader, and I'll be moving on to Montgomery Central soon. I probably get along with Mrs. Taylor better than any other teacher I've had so far. A few weeks earlier, I mentioned how I was concerned about leaving and how I'd miss my school. Most adults pretend to care and nod most of the time without even listening. Not Mrs. Taylor; she pays attention and lets me know that things will be alright. I'm still worried, but she inspires me to do my best, and I suppose that is all I can do.
Making my way toward the gym for the cakewalk is no easy task with all of the distractions. My buddy Leon is in line for the haunted house. We've been close since kindergarten after meeting for the first time on the bus. I've spent the night a couple of times. Man, his dad makes the best bacon ever for breakfast. I'd never tell Mom that, though. It looks like Kim is on her way to the gymnasium too. She got most dependable this year, and her smile is incredibly contagious. I've always had a soft spot for her, but she will not stand in my way. I will do whatever it takes to win my final year.
Everyone I know is in line for tickets. I see Stephen, Sabrina, Tammalyn, oh and Susie. Susie was voted best personality along with me. I'm sure the picture we took together will look awkward because I'm not used to standing that close to girls. It's not because they have cooties; it has more to do with how different they are. Take Melanie, for instance. One time I asked her if she thought Spider-Man could beat up Mighty Mouse. Can you believe she said no!? For real? Girls.
A giant circle of paper plates, all numbered and taped to the floor, decorate the giant hall. I'll be starting on lucky number seven just like every other year. Well, except for second grade. Mrs. Tue, the librarian, carefully watches over the table full of goodness covered in frosting. The moment of truth is finally here, and I will be taking my trophy home this evening. Mrs. Mills drops the needle on the forty-five, and it's game on.
Monster Mash begins to play as the contestants stroll from number to number. Tension builds while each lyric escapes the speakers infecting the auditorium. We all pay close attention anticipating the silence that will reveal a winner. FRIIP! The tune comes to an abrupt end, and everyone freezes in place, awaiting the announcement. "I'm standing on twenty-seven; please let Mrs. Phillips call out my number," I mumble under my breath. "Twenty-eight is the winner," screams our announcer. Luckily the spot in front of me is empty, so we keep going. The song plays again; I take a deep breath and start walking. The stress becomes overwhelming as I take each stride, hoping I land on the winning spot. Once again, the Halloween anthem is interrupted, and a new number is unveiled. The teacher calls out my lucky seven, and that happens to be where I stand!
The contestants shower me with pats on the back and an overabundance of congratulations. Mom meets me at the table to admire the giant horseshoe cake we'll be enjoying soon. It turns out she is more excited than me, and I'm proud I could give that to her. My last Halloween carnival at CHES is a success. I'm sure going to miss this place.
A light drizzle coats the windshield on our drive home. Wet leaves blow around and stick to the hood of the car, desperately trying to hang on. Eventually, they're pushed away by the unforgiving wind and carried off into the darkness without a sound. I took time to appreciate them before they vanished and stored their memory somewhere in my thoughts. Next year more will sprout, and the cycle will start all over again. It's how life works.
No Name returns to the Dark Web after months of absence. His boss, Dickens, has been hacked by the host of a former radio program and the intense strangeness of the city’s past continues to come to light.
Cast: Written by Ali Top Co-written and produced by Chris Top Art by Amanda Dudley No Name: Chris Top Dickens: Chris Top John Reed: Chris Top
Once a week, Mom drags me along for a trip into town. The usual stops are Montgomery Ward, Hilltop Market, and either Bonanza or Captain D's. She clips coupons for both places, and we pick the best deal. I end up eating for free almost every time. I don't mind going unless she has a doctor's appointment because those waiting rooms are dull, especially for a kid who wants to run around outside. The best part of our weekly supply run is when she lets me choose a couple of comics. Spider-Man, Captain America, and Batman are my all-time favorites and in that order. She doesn't mind purchasing them for me as long as I'm reading something.
I noticed some Sea Monkeys in the toy section on one of our excursions and pleaded with my mother. It wasn't easy, but I convinced her to buy them after explaining how rare these animals are. They'd first come to my attention in the back of a Tarzan comic, and I was captivated by the picture of the underwater family hanging out by the castle. Now that I've dumped the packet into the aquarium, it's a matter of time before I introduce myself to the cute creatures.
Each day after returning from Cumberland Heights Elementary school, I check on my miniature friends. I'd learned about a week in that they weren't going to look anything like the picture. Regardless their lives rested in my hands, and I was not about to let them down. The food ran out, so I had to get creative. The freshwater springs in the river bottom provided an all-you-can-eat algae buffet, so we are good to go. They're getting pretty large after several weeks, but I'm still waiting for them to hop in their aquatic automobiles and drive around the tiny town they'll eventually build.
Most days, a Spidey comic stows away in my Trapper Keeper during school. Mrs. Allen doesn't like to see me reading them during class, and she's kept a close eye on me ever since I licked all of those erasers and stuck them to my face. It looked like I had some weird intergalactic chickenpox outbreak right out of Star Trek when I removed them. We paid a visit to Mr. Mitler, the principal, and he told her the circles on my forehead were punishment enough this time around. It probably wouldn't have been a big deal if most of the class hadn't copied me. At least no one made fun because they were all dealing with the same predicament.
Most Friday's Mrs. Andrews, the PE teacher, lets us play battle ball the first half, and then we hit the playground afterward. It's the greatest game ever invented, without a doubt, and any wounds give the survivors bragging rights for a solid day or two. One time, I wound up, ready to release my wrath on Kent. He was like a sitting duck in my scope, and just before shots were fired, I was blindsided right in the face by James. PHOONTKK! The round rubber sphere smashes my mug in and shoots upward toward the gym ceiling. You could have heard a pin drop while the onlookers waited to see if I was still breathing. By the time the dodgeball fell back to earth, I had shown signs of life, and the game continued.
I'd scheduled some light reading on the swingset for the second half of PE class. My copy of Amazing Spider-Man was rolled up in my back pocket, ready to be explored. The cover had a picture of one of my favorite supervillains, the Lizard. Some of the other kids gathered around to check out my literature of the day, and a conversation broke out. The slippery green creature reminded Kent of a story he'd heard about an alligator in the sewers of New York.
With a sincere look, Kent said, "Yeah, somebody flushed the reptile down the toilet when it was a baby. Now it comes up through people's floors and eats them." Barney followed with, "It ate something radioactive and grew into a giant monster." And finally, James gave a little insight, "You won't catch me using the bathroom if I ever go to New York." A heated discussion evolved when Patricia and Kim walked by and told us we shouldn't believe everything we hear. James argued that girls were not experts on radioactive sewer creatures, so there was no need to take them seriously. While this made sense, I was skeptical because I figured the guys were getting me back for that last Cub Scout meeting at Kent's house.
All of the guys were in the bathroom trying to summon the Bell Witch. Being the sneaky practical jokester that I am, I banged on the door and ran off. They screamed and made a speedy exit, almost breaking the doorway. They would have probably beaten me if my dad hadn't already arrived to pick me up. So I'm guessing Kent's accusations are his attempt at trying to frighten me. James and Barney are probably both in on it, so there is no way I'm falling for his tall tale of giant underground sewage-dwelling demons.
The conversation switched gears as we moved to the monkey bars. Kiss was always the hot topic, and the true fans wore t-shirts emblazoned with the epic rock band at least once a week. You'd often find us standing around to see who had a tongue most like Gene Simmons. It got crazier than ever after Kiss Meets The Phantom Of The Park came out on television. Some guys dressed like their favorite band members for Halloween, but I usually stick with Spidey.
After a long day of ball dodging and trying to stay on Mrs. Allens' good side, I was eager to get home to check on my Sea Monkeys. All of the time and effort were beginning to pay off. If you look close enough, you can see their miniature arms and legs swaying in the water. It's fun to spy on them as they swim to the top for a bite of food. I often wonder what they're thinking and if I'm disturbing the daily routine with my giant eavesdropping eyeballs.
Busting through the front door, I plop my books down on the kitchen table and check the window seal for my aquarium. It's not there! Maybe I moved it to my bedroom and forgot? The cold truth punched me in the face as hard as that stupid ball James threw at me.
"Mom, have you seen my Sea Monkeys?" I asked as she gave me 'the look.' "Yep, you left them in the kitchen, and they were stinking up the whole house," she confessed. "Where are they now?" I demanded. "I flushed them." "You WHAT!" "They had to go, Chris; I flushed them down the toilet." Pulling the comic from my back pocket, I throw it on the floor in front of her and say, "Look! Momma, you have no idea what you've done. We are all doomed." She sent me to my room.
Muffin jumps on my dresser and runs across, almost knocking all of my cologne into the floor. That cat is nearly as old as me, and she's had it out for me ever since elementary school. One morning, I slid my arm into my coat sleeve in a mad dash to catch the bus, and something felt strange. A prompt investigation revealed that my kitty plopped a number two in the pit area, and my hand pushed her surprise all the way up my arm. With the school bus approaching quickly, the entire house declared code red. Dad ran outside to stall the bus driver while Mom hunted down another jacket, cleaned my arm, and replaced my shirt. She rushed me out the door, I boarded, and no one had a clue. Nobody wants to be the stinky kid, and I barely dodged that bullet.
I think about my old buddy Jeff a lot when I get ready for church every Sunday morning. Idaho, he up and moved to Idaho of all places. We lost touch quickly because those long-distance bills are expensive, and writing takes a lot of time and effort. He introduced me to comics, ping pong, and Pleasant View Baptist. Jeff was a good friend, and I'm glad I knew him, even if it was for just a little while.
The van swings by to pick me up every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday for church. The white van doesn't go in reverse, so whoever is driving that day has to be careful and a little creative sometimes. It hardly gets used. Thankfully we have the blue van we take on long trips to baseball games, mission trips, and picnics.
This morning I woke up earlier than usual, so I've got a little time to kill. Television isn't much fun, so that's no option. It's a good thing every morning isn't like Saturday because I'd never get anything accomplished. No one could drag me away from Super Friends or Tom and Jerry. Hmm, maybe that's why cartoons aren't on during church because kids would never show up for service.
Lately, my niece Jaime has been tagging along with me on Sundays. She lives with Mom and me, and I'm more like her big brother, I guess. She's only seven, and I'm twice her age, so surely that qualifies me to keep an eye out on her behalf. We have had our share of disagreements, though. She almost bit my big toe off once, and I threw a rock and hit her in the head, so I guess that makes us even. I don't always show it, but I love her even when she drives me nuts.
I've carefully aligned my various colognes across my dresser from my favorite to my least favorite. Most would call me a Brut man because it's my go-to scent of choice. Way past the Old Spice and English Leather, you'll find a mysterious odor locked away in a bottle shaped like an old car. It gets the coolest container award, but it smells like the pet store section in Kmart. It comes in handy as a mosquito repellent when I'm outside all day.
Today is an excellent day to experiment. Like a mad scientist, I begin with a little Brut behind the ears, a bit of Aqua Velva on one wrist, and a dash of Old Spice on the other. Working my way down the row, I find a different location for every bottle except for the Pontiac pesticide perfume. I'll be the manliest-smelling fourteen-year-old at PVBC today. All that's left is to grab a clean shirt from the closet and meet Jaime outside.
"What's that smell?" was the first comment to slip from my niece's mouth as we sat under the Oak waiting on our ride. Oblivious about what she was referring to, I told her that the van was coming down the road and it was time to go. The giant metal doors slid open, and Mr. Jimmy said good morning as usual. Chrissy was sitting in the front seat and delivered a little deja vu when she busted out with, "what is that terrible smell?" I ignored the comment as Jaime and I took a seat.
Each time Chrissy turned around to face me, I noticed her gradually getting red, and her eyes began to water. Her reactions gave rise to suspicion. We stopped to pick up Mike and his brother Paul. As soon as the door opened, they were both smacked in the face by a disgusting aroma that couldn't wait to escape the poorly ventilated van. In sync, they both shouted, "Something in here stinks," as we left their driveway. Folks piled in after every stop, and each reaction was similar to the two brothers before. Poor Chrissy was about to flatline from the fragrance, and I was about to faint in fear of being exposed.
Once we arrived, everyone escaped the vehicle as if we were running from a burning building. After pushing Jaime in the right direction, I made a break to the bathroom and locked the door behind me. Flinging my shirt off, I frantically pumped the soap dispenser only to find it was empty. Brother James knocked on the door, asking if I was alright. Sighing, I looked up to the ceiling and asked God why. Jesus refused to answer me this time, so I could only assume it was my turn to be the stinky kid.
**I thought I'd lighten things up a little this time after the last story. Thank you all for reading my stuff! I enjoy the comments and connections. A good story can bring us all together, no matter how we lean in this crazy world. I had a good discussion about that with a close friend today during lunch. If you get the chance, try listening to my stories instead of reading them on the ChrisTopProgram.com
Who knows whose house is older. Mine sits at the end of Mellon Road, and it's all I've ever known in my eight years of existence. Apparently, my mom and dad purchased it from the Mellons who were there before them. In an old residence similar to ours, Miss Della lives up the street with her two children Billy and Binky. It's nice having friends around my age in the neighborhood. I'm a lucky kid.
"Mom! Chris broke something again," Binky yells out to Della as Billy shakes his head and chuckles. It was the lamp this time. God gives everyone certain gifts from birth, and I swear he gave me an overabundance of clumsiness as a practical joke. I can't take more than three steps without something falling around me, which proves Jesus has a sense of humor. Thankfully Miss Della has a good sense of humor, too, as she laughs off my awkwardness and ensures that I'll grow out of it eventually.
These last couple of days have been the best. Sleepovers up until now have only happened once in a blue moon, so the chance to hang out with Billy two days in a row makes me happy. He and Binky fight all the time, but I guess that's what brothers and sisters do. Larry, my brother, is sixteen years older than me and my sister Susan is ten years my senior. When we get into arguments, it's no competition at all; they win every time. It's a pretty even match between Billy and Binky, so it's anyone's game.
A perfect bologna sandwich is an art form. After watching my dad build his own, I've learned a thing or two. Once I've laid out my fluffy white Bunny Bread on the plate, next comes the mustard. I smash the slices together after painting a smiley face on one side. BAM! Now both pieces have the exact same expression, and I won't have to worry about drippage. One thick bright yellow cut of Velveeta should do it. The most crucial part, of course, is the bologna that more than likely came from Hilltop Market. Every masterpiece needs a little crunch, so instead of filling the side of my plate with delightful Lay's BAR-B-Q chips, they're carefully placed side by side onto the canvas. Now that everything is in place, I carefully align all sides before placing my hand on top to give it a good smoosh. Hearing the crackle from the pressure and seeing my signature handprint in the bread means it's time for lunch.
Billy mentions a bike ride after we finish our feast. I'm all on board for another mid-day escapade with my buddy. We sit around the table laughing and talking with our mouths full about the lamp mishap earlier. "Chris, your mom will be here in about five minutes to pick you up. It's time to get your stuff together," Miss Della said after poking her head into the kitchen. Well, this is some misfortunate news. I guess our next grand exploit will have to wait for another day.
There must have been 25 vehicles driving by while I sat on the porch with my bag waiting on my ride. It's unusual because most days, you may see one or two. Something strange is going on for sure, and it's a little scary. A car arrives that I don't recognize, and Mom is sitting in the back seat. The window rolls down, and she tells me to get in the truck behind her with Uncle Neb. She looks exhausted, and I can tell she has been crying. "What's wrong, Momma?" I'm able to blurt out before my uncle urges me to get into the truck as she sobs uncontrollably. On the trip home, I ask Uncle Neb what's bothering my mother. He's upset too and gives me the silent treatment.
We drive over the cattle gap, and I see cars lined up and down around the barn. The truck goes into park, and I take off in a sprint toward my home with a bad feeling bubbling around in my stomach. Before I could sling the screen door, open Larry stopped me. "What's going on? Why are all of these people here? Wheres Daddy?" flooded out of my mouth before my brother asked me to walk with him. He stood over me like a titan with his hand on my shoulder, holding me tightly as we walked toward an open field. For one reason or another, all eyes were on us as he guided me through the mob. Blank stares from family members and strangers penetrated my soul as I prepared myself for the unfortunate news.
I sat in my brother's lap on the ground staring at the basketball goal; Daddy and I used just three days ago. He locked his arms around me and laid his head atop mine. "I have some terrible news, little brother," and before he could finish, I belted out, "Daddy? It's Daddy. He's gone?" He confirmed my suspicion and squeezed me tight. Everything else around us melted away while we cried together. Just like that, I'll never see my father again.
My mind strays back to the time when Momma had to have surgery at Memorial. Kids my age weren't allowed to visit, but that didn't stop my dad. He held out his hand; I took it as he led the way through the doors and around corners. "Shh, be as quiet as you can; we don't want to get arrested," he explained as we snuck around the hospital. He'd double-check every hallway and told me to be still until the coast was clear. We had a few close calls, but we made it safely to her room because my guide had some immaculate ninja skills. Momma said, "Bud, how on earth did you get Chris up here? It's a wonder you didn't get caught." We giggled, and I knew I wanted to be just like him after that.
High school is tough. There's so much to learn, and on top of that, I'm trying to figure out life. On the one hand, everything I want to do seems far-fetched and out of reach. On the other hand, none of the usual career paths remotely interest me. Fantasizing over being a writer or an actor may be unrealistic, but I have hope, and maybe that's enough. If it weren't for my friends, I'm not sure I'd stand a chance my junior year.
Rhonda and Kim give me a reason to smile in my least favorite class, geometry. I love Miss Smithson, and she is probably one of the sweetest people on the planet. Surely she knows the left side of my brain has a permanent out-of-order sign attached, but thankfully, she never judges and shows me nothing but respect. Rhonda and Kim are the only reason I have a shot at squeaking by this year. It pays to surround myself with peers who know the difference between a right triangle and a triangle that's wrong.
Then we have Sheila, who is my rock in Coach Cron's geography class. Sometimes for fun, she'll call me Crest, mimicking the coach's pronunciation of my name. Each day during roll call, I have an overwhelming urge to stand up and scream, "C-H-R-I-S, it's Chris, a pretty common name," but I refrain. Sheila and I discuss the logic behind coloring maps and then rubbing them with Kleenex. It was part of the routine when Coach gave an assignment, and if you didn't follow directions, life could get tricky. Sheila is kind and makes me laugh; it's all I could ask for from a good friend. I never hang out with Rhonda, Kim, or Sheila much outside of school, but we love each other just the same. Thankfully we work together to survive the madness.
Like any other day, I sit at my desk in Mrs. Dinsmore's class, finishing my work. Somehow she's managed to get stuck with me the majority of my middle and high school career. Luckily she likes me because we didn't get off to a great start that first year with the whole bubble gum debacle. Our improved relationship probably started with a short story assignment she gave the class a while back. After staying up the entire night writing the day before it was due, I turned it in without high expectations. The next day Steven and Miller stopped me in the hall and said, "great story," without offering any explanation. It went on all day in between classes and left me more and more confused. Everything made sense when I made it to English, and Mrs. Dinsmore read my work to everyone; she'd been doing it all day. She even submitted it to the Young Tennessee Writers Contest. I can't remember ever feeling that special before.
Class wraps up, and Mike looks back from his seat and gives me the nod. We've perfected operation pizza-break over the past several months. It didn't take long to realize the short time we had for lunch wasn't enough to drive to Pizza Inn. We figured out the perfect plan and executed it flawlessly each Friday. Here is how it works. At the end of the period, we have an extra thirty minutes to play catch up or study. Mike and I would approach Mrs. Dinsmore to request time in the library before lunch. She always said yes, and we'd bypass the library and head straight to the car instead. Everyone assumed we left study hall and went directly to the lunchroom, when in fact, we were enjoying a delicious buffet. It doubled our lunchtime, and we'd easily make it back without getting busted. Genius!
Once we got the okay from our unsuspecting teacher, we walked right out the front door. We sprinted to Mike's car after making it past the gate to the parking lot. As soon as the campus was in the rearview mirror, it was time. The sacred cassette case I hold in my hand contains some of the most glorious music ever created. Carefully I pry open the treasure and slide the gem into the player. The sound of plastic sliding over metal and clicking into place is as comforting as my mother's pot roast. After a few short seconds, Slash's guitar riffs invade the cabin just before Axel warmly welcomes us to the jungle. Life is good.
The wooden door swings open, and we drown in the delightful smell of deliciousness as the pew-pew sounds of Galaga penetrate the noise of a busy Pizza Inn. It's nice getting a warm hug from my favorite server before she leads us to our regular booth. She takes our paper VIP customer cards, gives me a sly grin, and then punches an extra three holes, playfully saying, "Oh, look, that's five visits! You get a free meal today, congratulations." Mike and I are both in love with this woman. We fill our plates and bellies with way too much food before deciding it's time to return to reality.
Upon arriving back at Montgomery Central, we sense a disturbance in the force. Within two seconds, multiple people approach us with horrifying news. It would seem Mike's mother called the school requesting to speak with her son while we were on our mini-vacation. Over and over, his name echoed through the halls across the intercom, but there was no Mike insight. As luck would have it, Mrs. Dinsmore caught us out of the corner of her eyes and shook her head before saying, "You almost got away with it, fellas. Follow me." We marched to the principal's office to reveal our fate.
My buddy and I were both sentenced to five days of hard labor in ISS. I managed to get off a bit easier than my fellow inmate for one reason, my lack of left-sided brainpower. It turns out the in-school suspension instructor wasn't gifted in the art of geometry either. The help I needed was unavailable in the damp dungeon, so a swift resolution was in order. I was free after two days while Mike sat and rotted in the basement without me. I mean, it was kind of his fault we got busted anyway.
THWACK! "Ah holy hell, that hurt," I blurted out after the surprise attack courtesy of Fred in the seat in front of me. I can't even begin to describe how much assigned seats suck. If you're surrounded by kids who sleep the entire time, it's a pretty sweet setup. As luck would have it, I'm stuck with a chronic puncher five days a week. Most of my trip consisted of staring at the back of Fred's head, awaiting the attack. Billy, who sat beside me, knew better than to chuckle because Hulk would say, "What you laughing at," then smash him too. At least my daily abuse is over early in the morning before school, so the rest of the day is smooth sailing.
The school bus makes the familiar "phhsst" sound and comes to a halt in front of MCHS. A cluster of students filters through giant doors while half of us break to the right up the steps toward lockers around the gym. Sneaker squeaks and the echoes of a large crowd signal the day has begun. After grabbing my English book, I bump into Chastity, who offers me a piece of Freshen-up. Gladly I accept the gift and head toward class.
All the early birds mingle for a bit before the bell rings. Jennifer makes eye contact and stops to talk. It's an awkward situation because cheerleaders are a species I have yet to figure out. It's not that I don't want to have a conversation with a gorgeous girl in a sweater and short skirt, but my experience is limited, and as far as I can tell, the library has zero self-help books on the subject; I've looked.
"You smell good; what are you wearing?" Jennifer asked, waiting on a reply. My mind went blank as I tried desperately to decipher the 'popular girl code.' "Should I tell her my shirt is a Kmart Hawaiin print or thank her first for telling me I smell good?" I thought. "The cologne, what kind is it?" she insisted as she threw a smile my way. "Oh, oh that, it's Drakkar," I spurted out two octaves higher than usual. She told me she liked it and took her seat. After thanking her, I made a mental note to remind Mike to ask his mom for more free samples. She works at the PX at Fort Campbell and gets them all day long.
The bell rings, and Mrs. Dinsmore uses her desk as a seat while she addresses the students, "Alright, class, you know how I feel about gum." Oh crap, she despises chewing gum, and here I sit trying to figure out if she's talking to me or not. There was no look my way, so I should be safe. About half of the room walked by, throwing the contents of their mouth into the trash can held by Mrs. Dinsmore herself. Yeah, she never saw me, so I'll tuck it away to the side of my cheek until class is over, and she'll never know.
Halfway through the pop quiz, she says once again, "This is your final warning, throw the gum away now, or there will be consequences." Not a soul budged, "Was she addressing me?" Impossible, I thought as I used my tongue to secure my hidden cargo. Obviously, someone in here is careless because I've exercised a great deal of caution, so she has no reason to suspect me. Her glasses slid down the bridge of her nose as she scanned the class waiting for the guilty party to approach. I should be in the clear; I'll continue to work like nothing is wrong.
As the first period wrapped up, it was time for our irritated teacher to confront the bubble gum bandit. I felt sick as she cleared her throat, ready to unmask the fugitive. "Brian, I need to see you after class," she demanded as I took a giant sigh of relief. Evidently, Brian needs to work on his stealth skills, and maybe he'll luck out like me next time. Thankfully the bell sounded, and I heard, "Mr.Sherron, I need to see you as well," as I attempted to make my exit. It looks like the jig is up; I'm busted.
We passed Coach Cron in the hall as Mrs. Dinsmore marched us to the principal's office. "What's up, Crest? You in trouble?" he said, knowing good and well Brian and I were about to get the paddle. Wondering why he calls me Crest instead of Chris has been a mystery since the first time he made me do push-ups. Brian and I both gave him a half-smile and nodded as we got closer to our demise. She gave us instructions to wait outside for a moment while she had a word with her boss. My fellow delinquent and I discussed how Mrs. Dinsmore could have possibly known we were guilty. Neither of us gave any indication that we were smuggling illegal contraband, so we concluded she must have some sort of superpower. Then the door opened.
Brian went in first, and within moments I heard it. The sound was deafening, and I could feel the vibrations under my feet. My friend stepped from the office, shaking his head, and mumbled, "she hits a lot harder than you'd think." My superiors never asked me to come in or anything; they only stared through me as if to say, "it's your turn." The instrument of pain was almost as big as Mrs. Dinsmore, but she handled it as though it was as light as a feather. I assumed the position, and without warning, I heard a SWISH and then a THWACK! "Ah holy hell, that hurt!" I cried out for the second time today.
I'm not sure who was the first to say life is a roller coaster, but they were accurate. All of the tragedies and triumphs are hills and dips that we have minimal authority over, but it keeps things entertaining without a doubt. The voyage begins the day we are born and doesn't slow down until the end, and all we can hope for is a long ride.
After a quick stop at Hilltop Florist, I headed over to my girl's house with some fresh-cut flowers. It wasn't a special occasion, but I wanted to surprise her before going to school. Since I was sixteen, we'd dated off and on, and things had gotten serious about two months prior. It was a big kick in the face when I saw her ex-boyfriend's car in her driveway. If I was going to be honest with myself, I should have seen it coming.
I've always thought closure was a bunch of bs. Once it's over, it's over, and the best we can do is move on. Finally, I got it; I understood why it's crucial. One last look in her eyes should set me free, and if I didn't do it, then I'd surely regret it later. After sitting in the road for a solid twenty minutes, I stepped from my bright red Sonoma. My stomach was in knots as I passed his car in the driveway and approached the front porch. She opened the door, and her new boyfriend was standing beside her. After telling her goodbye, I walked away, doing everything I could to fight off any emotion.
Closure can go to hell. Seeing her one last time was a mistake, and I felt nothing but pain after the final encounter. My class didn't seem important anymore, so I drove right past campus and headed to Dunbar Cave. After parking, I looked down at the bouquet in my front seat and stared at it for a while. Throwing them in the lake sounded like a good idea, so that was my new plan. After grabbing the doomed daisies, I hopped from the truck and headed toward the water.
Before even strolling twenty yards, I noticed an attractive blonde woman headed my way. She smiled and said, "those are beautiful." Thinking quickly, I handed the arrangement over and replied with, "It's good you like them because they're for you." She laughed, knowing I was full of crap but decided to walk with me anyway.
"I'm Tami." "Nice to meet you, Tami; I'm Chris." "You need closure." "Wait, what?" "I could tell you were on a mission with those daises; you should finish." "You're observant." "Damn right I am, now take them and do what you came here to do; you have to."
She pushed the plants forcibly into my chest and gave me a look of reassurance. We stood at the mouth of the cave for a couple of hours, discussing loves, hates, hopes, and fears. I took my time tossing the flowers over the fence into the water. Each time a petal landed, it caused tiny ripples, and I couldn't help but think of the circumstances that brought me to the park that day to meet Tami. My friend explained how she was in town for about five more days visiting family and how she'd love a little company because she was bored out of her mind. I told her that I was serving at the Catfish House that evening and would like to see her.
Tami did stop by to see me that evening, had diner, and met me after work. We got along just fine and saw each other every day before she left. We said our goodbyes, and I was thankful she was around to make my circumstances tolerable. It felt good to have a temporary connection with no strings. We weren't even planning a long-distance thing because neither of us wanted to spend the time and energy after a five-day whirlwind romance.
Several months passed, and I'd all but forgotten about Tami. My buddy Natalie stopped by to pick me up for an evening of stealing pumpkins and drinking afterward. As soon as she walked in the door my phone rang. Tami was on the other end with some shocking information. The conversation lasted about three minutes before I hung up and took a seat. Concerned, Nat asked me what was wrong. "She's pregnant," spewed from my mouth with no explanation as I fell over on the couch. After a couple of minutes, I let her know that my life was over. Luckily Nat talked some sense into me and convinced me to go forward with our evening plans.
On the way to meet our buddy Matt she told me to relax, and things would work out because they always do. After our talk, I felt better and was thankful to have a small group of close friends who I knew cared about me. She laughed and told me I'd better start saving my money because I was going to need it. I chuckled along with her but took every word seriously.
Soon after my phone call with Tami, I received an order to get a paternity test. I'd already come to terms with my ordeal and had plans to drive out west to visit the blonde hair blue eyed baby girl. Tami and I had spoken several times on the phone about my expectations, and we had everything worked out. Marriage would have been insane, but I was determined to be part of my daughter's life.
After saving money for months, my trip was about a week away. It felt good having all of that cash in my savings account. Of course, it wouldn't be around for long, and I'd have to get used to part of my weekly check going to Tami. It never bothered me because it was the right thing to do, and I was getting excited to meet my child. Life was changing for me in a big way.
Like any other day, I walked out to grab the mail around two in the afternoon. Most of the pile was junk except for the official-looking letter addressed to me. I wasn't sure how to feel after reading the note. Finding out I was not a father was as much of a shock as discovering I would have a baby. Tami let every call go to her answering machine and never got in touch with me again. I never knew I could be relieved and disappointed at the same time. After that strange twist on my roller coaster, I decided Florida would be a terrific use of my week-long vacation. I needed a break from those ripples, and some time in the sun did me good.
**I hope those of you who read my stories get something out of them. My goal is to remind everyone none of us are really that different. It was important to share this particular story to illustrate how one thing can lead to another. Those tiny ripples are no joke! Also, when I write about old relationships or ancient conflicts, none of that stuff even phases me anymore. It's part of my story, and if I don't tell it, no one will. Of course, there are two sides to every tale, so no one is the bad guy here. Again, thank you for reading a little about my life. As always, you can hear me tell every story I publish in my own words at the ChrisTopProgram.com.
The old barn never let me down. It's easy to find materials for any project my mind can dream up. Today I'm searching for a wide board and a couple of blocks for my big stunt. The Price Is Right comes to mind as I pass the old dust-covered corn sheller and give the wheel a spin. It's always fun to see how long the hoop rotates because it's a sign I'm getting stronger. A stopwatch would come in handy, but I trust my ability to count each second out load until the oversized metal ring comes to a halt. I smiled with pride as I beat my last record by two full seconds.
While dragging a wooden plank outside, I recalled a conversation between the adults during our Independence Day celebration a few months ago. I overheard my cousin Bonnie telling her brother Butch and a few others something that shook me to the bones. She mentioned how Clarksville would be one of the first cities to burn if a nuclear war broke out because we're close to Fort Campbell. The discussion turned to politics, so I quickly lost interest and prepared for the firework show. Her words stuck with me and weighed on my heart the rest of the summer. Conversations with myself and replaying old scenarios are my favorite past time.
One last trip into the outbuilding should do it. All I need is that big block over in the corner under a wooden box full of rusty tools. It took every ounce of energy I could muster up, but I managed to free the final prize. After dragging it outside, I constructed my official Evel Knievel ramp. I set everything up where the road split so once I hit maximum velocity, I'd safely land in the tall grass after making the jump. The field would create a safety cushion in case my mission did not go as planned.
A good stunt man checks his bike before any miraculous feat of wonder. The duct-taped seat tended to pop off easily, so it was essential to ensure she was good and tight. After kicking the tires, I hopped on my Huffy and peddled to the top of the hill. Looking down the dirt road, I forced myself to think of happy thoughts to relax.
For some reason, Star Wars flashed through my mind from a couple of summers ago. Memories of the movie aren't what stuck with me, though. My sister took me and some of her friends to get ice cream before the show. By the time we got in line, it had stretched from the theater to Riverside Drive. One of the girls in our group dropped her cone, and I watched it melt while we inched closer to the giant doors. It wasn't long before the scoop of Rocky Road disappeared, leaving a sticky stream of gooey mess in the parking lot. My heart was pounding in anticipation for the epic story, and George Lucas did not let me down.
Again, my pulse is racing as I stare over my handlebars, digging for every ounce of courage my eight-year-old body has to offer. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and push off. The crunch of the gravel under my rubber tires somehow urges me to go forth. All I have to do is coast while keeping my bicycle steady as I move closer to the jump. Every bit of common sense in my soul tells me to stop, but I refuse to listen. During these few seconds, any worries or concerns that existed in my young mind evaporated like that ice cream, and it was only me and that approaching incline. The sound of the rocks underneath stopped abruptly to be replaced with a creaking board and then silence. I floated so high into the air I could almost see the top of the barn. My chest filled with air as time stopped, and I froze for a moment. Suspended high above the ground, I smiled with overwhelming joy and pride in myself for overcoming my fear.
What goes up must come down. Like a heavy chunk of lead, I dropped from the sky and hit the ground hard. The impact threw my body over my Huffy, and I landed on my back. Evidently, the tall green grass was not as soft as I'd anticipated. As I gasped for air, I looked up into the clouds, imagining I was still drifting along. Once I caught my breath and found my bicycle seat, I picked my bent bike up and walked toward the house. I grabbed my back in pain and thought, "Well, if I can live through that, I'm not too worried about a bomb."
Dust emerged and swirled around like a dirty cloud that wasn't lovely enough for the azure sky. That car sped by, throwing gravel everywhere. We don't see many automobiles at the end of Mellon road. Most turn around at the barn well before getting to my house because they're either sightseeing or lost. "He must've been in a hurry," I thought as I tried to brush the dirt from my hair. All of that wind sure wasn't helping much either. If I'd stood in one place long enough, my older sister, Susan, would eventually write, "wash me," on the back of my neck.
Rain is all the old folks ever talk about in the country. Often, I'd overhear the grownups saying, "We sure could use some rain." It was the standard greeting when we'd make a trip to Hilltop Market. Mom would ask Mr. Wayne how he was, and he'd respond by saying, "We sure could use some rain, Mrs. Faith." Uncle Neb dropped by yesterday to see us and said, "I sure wish it would rain." It's a slightly different variation, but it means the same thing.
Zina, my cousin, stopped by to visit with Susan. I learned to stay out of their way a long time ago if I knew what was good for me. Either of them standing next to me looked like André The Giant beside Gary Coleman. Often I would end up pinned to the ground while one would rub something disgusting in my face. They weren't picky as long as it smelled rancid or at least looked gross. It was the hand I was dealt, so I lived my best life.
"We're leaving, and don't follow us," Susan yelled as she and Zina headed up the road on foot. Of course, this is an invitation to any kid looking to walk on the wild side. Once they made it as far as the cattle gap, I could follow safely behind without detection. The shed provided good cover as I made my way up the road, trying to keep enough distance between us. Getting caught wasn't an option because that would surely end badly for me. They'd walk a few yards, and I would move like a calm wind blowing helicopter seeds quietly through the atmosphere.
My suspicions were on high alert when they stopped to say hi to our neighbor, Franky, on the way to their destination. They kept looking back in my direction and laughing about something. Impossible, no way did they notice me! They'd have to have bionic ears to catch me making any noise at that distance. Sure enough, the girls began screaming, and I had a decision to make. I could turn around now or trudge forward into inevitable discomfort. Life is short, and little brothers only live once, so, I would create my destiny today. My decision is final, and nothing will stop my adventure.
The two ended up at my aunt's, where my mom was born in 1933. It was strange to think about birth in a regular old house. But that's what she told me, and it happened over forty years ago when everything was weird anyway. Before I could cross the road and crash the party, Susan's voice in the distance yelled out, "you're in trouble now, boy." It was bad enough to be in trouble, but when followed by the word 'boy,' it meant extreme conditions were approaching. An example would be when Mom caught me eating the chocolate icing leaving only cake behind, and said, "boy, you are in trouble." A minor offense like not going to bed right away only justified her saying, "get to bed before you get in trouble." Yeah, 'boy' at the beginning or end is never a good sign.
Before I could even plan my escape, the cards had already fallen, and I was doomed. Mom's ginormous Lincoln pulled up and parked behind me; she was mad. Sucking it up, I approached the passenger door, ready to take my punishment like a man. To my surprise, the door didn't open, and she never intended to let me in. Through the crack in the window, she explained, "I had no idea where you ran off to, and I was worried sick. You don't know how to listen, so I'll let you think about your mistake on the long walk home in front of the car, boy." Yep, there it was, those three letters that haunt my very soul. My instructions were to start moving while she turned the car around.
I figured she'd let me have a ride when we got out of the sight of Susan and Zina, nope. When I'd look back for a bit of mercy, Mom would only frown and strongly encourage me to keep walking. So I did. About halfway home, we ran into Uncle Neb. My advice was to wait while the adults finished talking. My uncle first said, "Looks like rain today," and when Mom explained the situation, he followed up with a resounding, "boy!" My mother drove while I walked some more.
Once we arrived home, I found out the hike would be my only punishment for running off. Relieved, I sat on the porch and gave my dog Ginger a good pat on the head. The old girl and I both jumped when thunderstruck and lightning streaked across the Tennessee sky. A raindrop splashed on my knee, revealing the only clean spot on my body. I saw more drops begin to fall in the dirt causing tiny puffs to explode into the air. Smiling, I looked at Ginger and said, "good, we sure can use the rain."
In the eighties, everything was extravagant. Big hair and makeup to shoulder pads; it was all INXS (see what I did there.) Ninth grade was an uncomfortable in-between sort of a stage. I'd left the cradle of middle school and hopelessly needed to establish myself as a grown-up high school parachute pants-wearing mullet-promoting kind of guy.
Somehow I had gotten elected class president that year. I'll never understand how that happened to this day. Halfway through my campaign speech, I forgot what to say. During the eternal pause, I contemplated exiting the spotlight and fleeing the country. I managed to conclude the address and figured I'd at least wait to drop out of high school at the end of the day.
Once the results were in and I'd learned triumph was mine, everything would change. I must have won over my fellow students with my immense charm and rugged good looks. From this day on, I would be one of the popular guys in school. Hallway romance and bro respect would never be an obstacle again.
One of the various responsibilities of the class president is organizing the ninth-grade dance. Making certain all of the balloons are inflated and securely knotted is no laughing matter. Amid my civic commitments, I still managed time to daydream. This event would surely catapult me into the MCHS popularity hall of fame, unlike any righteous dude before me. I imagined hundreds of Madonnas, Olivia Newton Johns, and a sprinkle of Cindy Lauper's all lined up to dance with the number one gnarly most bitchin' class president ever.
Nada, There was no eye contact, no connection, no slow-motion moment between two star-crossed lovers, nothing. The first hour into the dance, I knew it would be a long night. I awkwardly stood around attempting to act all presidential but once a dork, always a dork.
Finally, the evening was concluding, and in ten minutes, the lights would pop on, and I'd lead an expeditious clean-up so all of the volunteers could go home. Halfway through Endless Love, I would start picking up chairs so I could forget about this night. Then I felt the tap on my shoulder. I turned around without delay, thoroughly anticipating seeing Mrs. Dinsmore ready to discuss the custodial plan for a speedy exit. To my wonderment, it was Brittany, and she wanted to dance. She envisioned connecting in slow motion over Lionel Richie like two star-crossed sweethearts. Brittany was no Madonna. She certainly was not an Olivia. Not even a scanty reflection of Cindy Lauper; she wasn't popular at all. If I danced with her, I would lose any ground I had earned this year, desperately attempting to obtain immortality amongst my peers. I stared dead into her eyes and said no. I wandered off and commenced folding chairs.
This past Thanksgiving, after dinner, I sat around with family and friends. We played a game called what would you change. It's been thirty-five years, and the ninth-grade dance still disturbs me. I'd give anything to convince my teenage self to accept that last dance of the evening with Brittany. At the moment, I believed it would wreck some hollow reputation. Now I regret not simply saying yes. I had no idea if my dismissal even phased her. Regardless, I should have danced with you, Brittany, and if I could change my error, I would. Regretfully this is a lesson I've had to learn multiple times throughout my life. Sure, my mistakes have led me to my place in this world, but what I did to Brittany was cruel. I was a mean boy—shame on me for being selfish when life is too short for that nonsense.
Tonto sails through the air, landing in a Buckeye tree before it could plummet back to earth. "Dang it," I yelled out loud while looking over at The Lone Ranger. The poor guy was already missing his mask because I couldn't wait to reveal his identity when Mom brought him home. Now thanks to me, he also lacks a sidekick. "I guess we'll have to wait for him to fall out, Kemosabe," I said before escorting my trusty ranger out of the woods. His foot was a bit deformed thanks to our fluffy calico, Muffin. I learned to put my valuables safely away in a drawer following the terrible incident.
Whenever wind whistled through the trees and up the hill, it sounded like something was attempting to speak to me. My imagination allowed me to believe it was the voice of Indians who once set up camp in the area. I could hear them laughing and dancing in the breeze as it swirled over blades of grass, providing welcome relief from the Tennessee heat.
After returning home, I placed my Lone Ranger next to my Spidey comic and Stretch Armstrong before sliding the drawer shut. I caught a whiff of the fried chicken cooking in the kitchen before stepping outside to smell the freshly cut lawn. It's odd, but I'm not sure which odor is more pleasing. With a few minutes left, before dinner, I decided to play a little more. The bus ride from school gave me plenty of time to do my homework and the weekend is ahead of me, so I have to make the most of it. One of my brother's old golf balls was partially buried in the ground under a hedge in the front yard. It's where I kept my arrowhead stash, so I knew it was there waiting for me. I plucked it from the hiding spot tossing it into the air as I approached the house. After winding up, I pitched the ball onto the roof and watched it drop to the next level, enter the gutter, and roll from the spout back into my hand. "Chris, you are going to break a window," came from inside as I returned the golf ball and headed in for dinner.
After we ate, I took my bath as fast as possible because I didn't want to miss The ABC Friday Night Movie. I dried off and hurried to my bedroom just in time to watch Curse Of The Black Widow. The only light in my room came from the tiny black and white television set on top of my chest of drawers. I got up to use the bathroom, relieved that a commercial gave me a break from the suspense. I'd left my pants lying around and decided it was best to pick them up before getting lectured. An arrowhead slipped from my pocket and fell to the floor. I must have picked it up earlier when I was outside. I dropped the relic on my dresser and continued watching tv.
By the end of the movie, I was frightened to death. The television would stay on tonight because there was no way I'd drift off otherwise. Pretty strange sounds come from an old house when it's quiet, and everyone is sleeping. Dad always told me it was nothing to worry about because older buildings settle and make noise. His words didn't help much as I made sure every inch of my body was entirely under the covers. Even with the sound of voices coming from the television, I could hear knocking and banging upstairs while faint rattling emerged from the hallway outside my door. It was difficult reminding myself it was only the house settling. "It'll be okay if I can fall asleep," I thought as the bumps and pops grew faint, and I nodded off.
Jumping from my bed in confusion, I frantically looked around while gathering my senses. My dreams were interrupted by white noise when the station signed off for the evening. Relieved, I got up to turn the volume down so I could get some rest. The soft glow from my RCA guided my steps back to the safety of my makeshift cocoon. Before reaching my destination, a strange vibration rung from the floor entered through my feet and made its way to my ears. Frozen in complete silence, I did my best to catch a breath while the worst-case scenarios flashed in my head. I heard it again! This time the unwelcomed jangle weakened my knees and forced me to sit on the edge of my mattress. Light crept halfway up the wall exposing the doorknob. With my insides shaking, I stared into the darkness waiting for the horrible racket to reemerge. My pulse finally began to return to normal right before I saw it.
At first, the doorknob shook a bit; then, it began to turn. The sound reminded me of two stones rubbing together underwater. My muscles stopped working like I'd looked into the eyes of Medusa and turned to granite. Again the knob moved but with more force this time. All I could do was wait for whatever was on the other side to enter and show me its face. Some time passed before I worked up enough courage to stand and approach the monster. "Okay, on three, one-two," and before I could say three, it turned again! Without hesitation, I grabbed it and flung the door open. Raising my arm to cover my face, I peered into the dark hallway, revealing nothing. Peeking out to look around the corner, I could see the steps leading upstairs with no one in sight. Slamming the door shut, I leaped back into bed and wrapped myself up in the blanket once again.
Somehow I managed to get a little sleep, and I was thankful to be still alive to complain about how tired I was. After brushing my teeth, I noticed Muffin standing in front of my bedroom entrance. She stood on her hind legs and used her paws to rattle my doorknob. The cat ran off when she saw me approach. Shaking my head in embarrassment, I realized I had discovered the terror that haunted me a few hours earlier. Now that life made sense again, I decided to grab my arrowhead and return it to my collection outside. As I strolled toward my dresser, hairs raised on the back of my neck, and I noticed the antique was missing. The Tonto I'd gotten stuck in the tree yesterday was sitting in its place. Something came into my room last night to return my toy and to take what belonged to them.
It was one year before the big graduation day. A gallon of gas was .91 cents, and I couldn't stop listening to Guns N' Roses. Big hair was in; speaking of big hair, I could afford to see Big twice at the movies because tickets were $3.50. Welcome to the summer of 1988.
My first car was a 1971 Volvo. My brother, Larry, tried his best to make me believe it was a cool car. "Looks a lot like a Mercedes," he told me. I think it lasted about a week before falling apart on the way to work one day. I ended up buying Larry's 1985 white Cutlass with a vinyl roof. I'm guessing he gave me a good deal because he felt terrible about the "Mercedes." That Cutlass was Sweeeet! The first thing I did was purchase some shiny rims and install a decent radio. Summertime here I come!
My group of friends was the best. We may not have been the most popular kids around, but we had swag. I surrounded myself with a pretty smart bunch of guys. They say if you hang out with the wrong crowd, people automatically assume you're some sort of a hoodlum. I'm not sure if there is any truth to that. I can, however, tell you that when you hang with the smart kids, everyone believes you are a genius. It put me in some awkward situations because I spent a ton of time trying to convince my peers to cheat off someone else, or they were going to fail. So I was classified as one of the nerds. I was alright with this. Let's be honest, I could have been called much worse, so I wore it as a badge of honor. Looking back, the title of dork would have fit me much better anyway.
A young man can only sit around with his buddies talking about girls so long before finally working up the nerve to make an actual move. Trust me; we talked about the opposite sex all of the time. Sure we hung out, went to Funland arcade, and went bowling. We were teenage boys, so we were terrific at multitasking. I could pick up a spare easily while talking about Keli. I could break my old Galaga record while describing how perfect we would be together. The whole group knew it was all talk. Each one of us was guilty. None of us could ever work up the nerve to ask a girl out.
I guess when a guy beats himself down so much, it can have the opposite effect. We get to the point of totally giving up then something miraculous happens. Inspiration hits us like a fat kid hits the candy store, and we finally grow a pair. I had made up my mind to make the call. I was not going to wait for the new school year to start. I was prepared to begin my summer romance with her, with Keli.
I could read a phone book. I knew what street she lived on! We had entered the friend zone my junior year, so I had a few details. It was way before Facebook, so I had to do things the hard way. I dialed the first digit with confidence. By the time I was on the last couple of numbers, my spirit was barely strong enough to hold the receiver to my ear. I recall how mortified I was when the ring sounded off. I can remember saying to myself, "she must not be home," and prepared to hang up. With each ring, I relaxed a little more, thinking she wouldn't answer. Out of nowhere, I hear the sweetest sound on the other end "hello," she said. Immediately I slammed the phone down. That was enough! That was it! My heart was pounding, and my hands wouldn't stop shaking! Damn it! I was such a loser.
Looking back at the summer of 1988, I realize how wonderful it truly was. I had my friends; I had the car; I was invincible. Maybe I didn't have the nerve to call Keli, but that gave me another summer with my buddies to build memories I'll never forget. It's a shame we can't recognize the good old days while we are living them. I wouldn't change a thing about that year. I finally worked up the nerve to ask the girl out, by the way, but that's a story for another time.
Ker-Snap! A giant Catawba leaf shoots toward the sky and gently floats downward, just missing my dusty tennis shoes. My trusty red bandana is always the weapon of choice whenever fighting off giants or trolls in the backyard. I'm sure I would have been a match for Zorro, considering all of my practice. After stuffing my well-worn cotton cloth into my pocket, I ran into the house straight to my bedroom.
The clock is ticking, with only an hour left until dark, so I must take advantage of every moment. Cautiously removing my Elvis record from its cardboard sleeve, I placed it onto the turntable, careful to avoid scratch noises. Sweet clicks and static emerged from my JBLs as the album began to spin. I hurried to raise the window as the King's voice penetrated my room. It was all the inspiration I needed to push forward on today's final journey. The speaker was as big as me, but I managed to rest it on the window stool before locking the wonderful wooden artwork into place by shutting the window. Flamming Star played less than a minute, but I thought it was best to restart the album before running outside again.
The enchanting melody of my King's voice cascades through the air as gracefully as the falling leaf did earlier. His lyrics pound through my veins, pumping my blood more perfectly than my own beating heart while explosive words ring through my ears, igniting an untamed imagination. This day belongs to Elvis and me; together, we are unstoppable.
The sweet smell of the crabapple tree made its way through my senses and demanded some attention. Luckily she was just down the hill and still in range of the sounds from my speaker. A pit stop is in order on the way to my destination because I need a tool to carry out my plans. My intentions are not to eat those apples because they are way too sour, and the delightful odor will not fool me a second time. I rocked a tree branch back and forth while twisting it simultaneously, finally freeing it from the limb. The end of my long stick is perfectly pointy and ready to serve its purpose.
A couple of yellow fruit flies had already claimed some of the fallen apples. I guess they must be a fan of the tartness inside of those little round jewels, so I'll let them enjoy their feast. Standing on my toes, I used my fingers to grab a low-hanging branch. Once I had a good grip, I pulled the limb down with one hand and plucked the tiny nuggets with the other. Using my shirt as a pouch, much like a mother kangaroo, I loaded up all of the crabapples and strolled over to a nearby open field, being careful not to leave my friend Elvis behind.
The miniature bounty fell to the ground and bounced around a bit after releasing the hold on my shirt. It sounded like a distant stampede from an old episode of The Lone Ranger as my harvest landed. Quickly, I grabbed an apple and forced it onto the end of my new makeshift sword. Juices streamed down my weapon as I worked my projectile in place. Elvis sent me words of encouragement while I lifted my instrument into the air as if I were about to throw a football. Swish! I flung the stick forward, releasing the microscopic missile into the atmosphere. It must have traveled at least a country mile before vanishing from sight. I spent the rest of the evening flinging crabapples with my buddy Mr. Presley only stopping to run back in the house to restart the record.
Feeling fresh from my evening shower, I decided to sit in front of the fan that sucked cool air through the window screen to watch a little television. Mom isn't a fan of me watching Three's Company, but I'll be sure to keep the volume down, so she's none the wiser. "Why the heck is the news on right now?" I thought to myself as I flipped through all three channels. Something strange is going on because it's barely 8:00 p.m., this doesn't seem right. I froze before turning the knob once again to see a familiar face on the monitor.
"Elvis Presley was pronounced dead," rang from my tv as I collapsed on the hard wooden floor in the living room. The anchorman's voice faded in and out while I desperately tried to understand what was happening. Most of the words aren't making sense, but the dates under the King's picture behind the newsman told me everything I needed to know. My friend is gone.
Mom and Dad came to check on me once or twice before they went to bed. They usually make sure I'm fast asleep before retiring, but they gave me tonight. I watched television until the stations finally played the National Anthem and signed off. Devastated, I made my way to the bedroom and placed my record on the turntable. Elvis reminded me that I had a lot of living to do, and he instructed me to chase my dreams. I slept listening to my friend and drifted off thinking about how he paid me one last visit before going to Graceland.
I was never a big fan of fishing, and I can shoot a gun, but hunting never did interest me. Working on cars, driving a tractor, and woodshop was never my thing either. People expect a person to excel at these things when they're from the South. The song Free Bird is incredibly too long and honestly dull. Of course, I could never bring myself to admit that around anyone with a mullet or gun rack in their Ford F-150. I spent a few summers working in tobacco, and it was enough to know I never wanted to do it again.
You won't find too many people more proud of their hometown than me. I've remained in Clarksville because it keeps me close to Norman Rockwell. It's easy for people to pick the city apart and focus on what went wrong, and that's human nature. Folks tend to do it to other people all of the time, so why not do it to a whole area full of people at once. It's easy to open The Leaf-Chronicle and get depressed. Most would say the fantasy Norman Rockwell lived in must have died with him, and it sure doesn't exist in this town. Luckily I understood something early in life.
Rockwell could have easily opened his newspaper and told some pretty bleak stories with his paintbrush. He never once pulled his pictures out of thin air; instead, he illustrated the innocence that surrounded him. Norman Rockwell reminds us of the simple choices we have. I can see the good in today, or I can see the bad. It's my choice. It's our choice to see the good in everyone who is in the city of Clarksville. I may not be a fan of Lynyrd Skynyrd, but some of my favorite people rock out to Sweet Home Alabama. I hated working in hot tobacco fields, but it taught me the value of money. Fishing bored me, but it gave me time with my mother and eventually my own children. Often when tragedies happen, it brings us closer together.
All of us fall short at times, and we experience dark moments that haunt us. The tragedy is real and alive in this world, thriving every second of the day in crevices and corners. Ignorance was never bliss; it was just laziness but, hope and faith give us the power to understand horrible truths. Seeing the ugly is easy, while seeing beauty takes work. God never promised to make this simple.
I sat in traffic on Riverside Drive, and I was getting impatient, waiting for the light to change and worrying about bills. I couldn't help but think about how expensive gas has gotten. Earlier I had read something on my phone about how some children had to be removed from their home because it was full of drugs and garbage. Then it happened. A blue Jeep pulled up beside me and in the back seat were two small children. I immediately thought of my son and daughter. Instantly my mind reached back 20 years showing me a glimpse of my kids in the back seat of our Jeep with the top down on a beautiful sunny day.
The paintings of Norman Rockwell were never fiction. His work is a picture of hope taken from tiny magical moments in the lives of everyday people like you and me. Maybe we can never live a life without tragedy, illness, or pain. We can, however, appreciate the little moments by bringing life's snapshots into focus.
Long before iPhones, Playstations, and Facebook, we had no choice but to play outside. I had this old rusty sled passed down from my brother and sister or maybe one of my cousins. It was a cast-iron beast attached to stained wood that I remember pulling out of the barn every winter. Part of the adventure was locating this metal monster from within the structure surrounded by other relics. Either I couldn't remember where I put it from the year before, or my dad tried to hide it in fear of me killing myself racing down a hill. The barn was a massive spectacle built a hundred years before I arrived on the earth. Anyone who explored the loft had to be extra careful and watch their step closely. One year my leg fell through the rotted floor; I thought I was a goner. Once I safely removed my Flyer from the catacombs of the Great Pyramid, the dangerous stuff was soon to follow.
The cord was the only thing on the sled in decent shape. I know I tied a new one on myself once or twice. I borrowed the rope my mother used to secure tomatoes to wooden sticks. I spent a great deal of time tying several strands together to make a worthy tool for pulling my chariot. My journey began across the Tennessee arctic, pulling my sled behind me. The only protection against harsh elements was warm clothes handed down from an unknown relative and thin socks to keep my hands dry; this never works for very long. Occasionally thoughts of how I would be impossible to find until the spring if I lost my way in the wilderness flashed in my head. The falling snow covered any trace of existence. Of course, we are all invincible at that age, so any worries vanished as quickly as my footprints.
Once I made it to the mountain peak, a quick pause followed by a deep breath was all I needed before making my descent. The slope in itself was an experience, but the real roller coaster began as I entered the woods. Please understand something; I didn't pull my sled through the woods. I never got off; I would only build momentum. My Flexible Flyer approached light speed before I even entered the forest. It was a lot like the speeder chase on Endor from Return Of The Jedi minus the Storm Troopers. Trees would zip and wiz by as if they were running toward me as my knuckles grew white from holding on with every ounce of energy. If I was lucky enough to make it past the trees and boulders, the cliff required some fancy maneuvering.
Once the final obstacles were behind me, I'd take a moment to breathe in the crisp, clean air using my Flyer as a bed. Steam rose like it was adrenaline escaping from my veins at the end of my courageous battle to the bottom. Snowflakes danced from Heaven, landing on my exposed cheeks before vanishing down the side of my face into my clothing. Chunks of snow fell from the towering trees and disappeared onto the ground, making no sound at all. My heartbeat was the only noise allowed to invade the silence of my surroundings. A cold wind blew over my body while wood and iron protected me from the frozen ground. God commanded the bitter breeze to leave me alone as I absorbed this perfect scene from a Rockwell painting.
Everything was just as it should be; within this small snapshot of my life, I learned that tiny moments are often better than grand adventures. I'm glad God taught me that lesson early because I eventually grew up.
The Summer of 1987 is one I will never forget. The Simpsons made its television debut, and every girl on the planet was talking about Dirty Dancing. My favorite movie that year was Good Morning, Vietnam. In one month and three days, I would be old enough to drive. It wasn't movies, TV, or Michael Jackson's Bad that made my summer special. It wasn't even the fact I would gain a tiny bit of independence with my driver's license. I'll remember the summer of 87 because I fell in love for the very first time.
Let's get something straight. I never claimed to be the sharpest tool in the shed. I may have left for MTSU on a month-long, fully paid scholarship to study with the brightest kids on the planet, but do not be misled. I had two things going for me. I was incredibly charming. My charm paid off big time when it came to getting letters of recommendation for the program. Secondly, I could act. I mean, I could memorize a two-hour script in two days and pretend to be someone else like nobody's business. I missed the boat when it came to math or science. The large-brain kids went somewhere different. I believe sixty of us were chosen out of several thousand to study theater.
On the drive to the university, I thought about dodging Coach Horsey on the last day of school. He used to bug the heck out of me to play football. I had some pretty massive shoulders, but looking like a football player did not make me a football player. I did play in middle school, but that was the extent of my sports career. I ducked down in the hallway and used a few tactics I learned on the field to dodge the conversation bullet. Of course, I ran into my buddy Scott who lectured me as we made our exit for the final time that school year. "You are leaving school today, and then you are turning around and going back to school in a week," he said. He then looked at me with a concerned and confused stare. I'm not sure I was ever able to explain how important this opportunity was to him or any of my friends. They felt I was giving up my summer with them, and I would regret the lost time. I guess it was nice they tried to convince me to stick around, but I'd made up my mind.
We arrived on campus; I said goodbye to my brother and made my way to the dorm room. I was the second to arrive. Chuck had already claimed the bunk by the window, so I made do. Chuck was a painter who spent most of his time in the room. The art kids painted 4 hours a day, while theater students like me built a set, studied lines, took classes, did improve, and studied mime, yeah, mime. Chuck pretty much had the room to himself.
A realization hit me the second day like a moon pie and RC Cola-induced heart attack. Dorks surrounded me. I was never the most popular kid back at school, but everyone was just like me in this new world! It was the strangest, most beautiful situation. I took a seat on stage on the first day of class, and the room mysteriously froze. My body was floating in a warm pool while sounds were muffled by the water filling my ear canals. It was as if a beam of light shot from my eyes and landed directly on Jeannie's face when she smiled and had a seat beside me. I was smitten with her big brown eyes that matched her hair. It was like waking from a dream when she spoke; her voice was faint at first, then began to build with each syllable. I assumed it was an introduction because her hand-stretched, waiting for contact. As soon as the tips of our fingers met, I felt an extraordinary rush; Imagine an orchestra playing Sweet Child O' Mine. Instead of the melody flowing through my ears into my brain, the music took on a different form. Cold and hot infused with the lyrics forcing their way through my skin, into my bloodstream, and finally into my very being. "Hello," I said. We were inseparable after that.
After several long hours of training and rehearsals, I walked Jeannie to her dorm. It was one of those sticky June summer nights. She was strikingly beautiful, so the glow of the street lamps enhanced her petite outline and bounced from her soft skin as we strolled. I remember so many details of that first evening with her. The half-moon filled any surface the lights chose to ignore, but somehow Jeannie still managed to stumble as we turned a corner, and she stepped from the sidewalk. It was an excellent opportunity to hold her tightly while heroically saving her from a fall. We kissed. I told her goodnight and made my way back to my room. The whole way, I thought about how I was in the perfect place, doing my favorite thing, and I thought about that kiss.
We rehearsed, studied lines, and ate with each other. We walked to classes together, and I took long strolls with her each night. We both had the same interest, the same hopes, and dreams. I was her leading man, and she was my leading lady. Fate must have brought us together. The conversations we had while doing laundry were remarkable. She spilled all of her secrets, and I unlocked mine.
The curtains closed on our final performance. We all took in the applause and felt like kings for those few seconds. We had rehearsed, learned our lines, built our set, and made sure the show went off without a flaw. That's what happens when you gather the best in one place and give them a purpose. For those few moments, I had forgotten what was lying heavily on my heart. I would have to tell Jeannie goodbye soon.
I walked Jeannie to her room one last time on July 9th, 1987. We both snuck out and met at the laundromat later that evening. The rain came down hard as we sat under the ledge outside. We were both drenched, doing our best to convince morning to hold off a bit longer. The sun began to rise, and we knew it was time to leave. We promised never to lose touch. I kissed her goodbye for the final time.
The last letter I ever got from Jeannie was two summers later. She had moved out and went straight to New York. She landed her first part in a paying gig in the Big Apple. I remember being very proud of my friend. I can even remember being a little envious. She was going after her dream while most of us settled and did whatever we were "supposed" to do. Life is full of so many "what ifs."
I'm not sure if I ever really loved Jeannie. I kissed a couple of girls over the course of the next two summers. Each one gave me a strange tiny magical feeling for sure, but I can tell you none of them had the same glow as the light bounced from their soft skin. My first kiss will always be a part of who I am. Thanks for that, Jeannie.
I always kid around with people about how I've never been cool for one second of my life. Popularity wasn't something I placed much importance on, but it would have been nice to see how the other half lived. My superlative was most courteous in school, so I got thanked a lot for opening doors, but "life of the party" was never a title placed upon me by my peers. Except for this one time at a beach house on Spyglass Drive.
We all have that vacation we continuously revisit in our minds. The adventure that comes up every time we get together with old friends to reminisce. My nostalgia-packed memory happened in the summer of 1990. I had graduated the year before, and I was still desperate to figure out what I would do with my life. Often I put aside deep thoughts in exchange for more important things like saving for a trip to Panama City Beach, Florida. My work buddies were always planning getaways that would provide a welcomed escape from the tortures of restaurant life at the Catfish House. Our group left Clarksville behind many times to conquer ski slopes in West Virginia, fight white water rapids in North Carolina, or simply head to the sand. We worked hard, and we always managed to make time to play hard.
My boss and friend Danny explained to me that trips like this are an essential part of life. We always have to give ourselves something to look forward to so our existence never becomes stale. As always, we headed out after a tough Sunday at work and drove all night. Our gang arrived on the beach sometime early Monday morning, and we crashed in the sun until our beach house was ready for us to take over. This special little house sat right on the beach off of Spyglass Drive. I ended up making it my temporary home several more times until a hurricane tore it down years later.
I remember stepping through the front door into a large entertainment area that I hardly noticed next to the view of the Gulf just beyond our deck. The smell of Coppertone suntan lotion and alcohol was the perfect match with the sound of crashing waves and the feel of a warm Panama City breeze. My gaze quickly changed from seagulls to bikinis, and there was no shortage of either on that trip.
When guys drink together on vacation, ridiculous conversations are bound to pop up. I remember Danny asking me what I'd do if I ever got an erection during a physical. I told him I'd tell the doctor not to take it personally. While it may not have been the most thought-provoking discussion, it didn't matter because we were all free for a few days, and life was good.
I was a giant baby when it came to holding my liquor. Of course, it stands to reason my bottle of choice would be Bacardi 151. Luckily this stuff was discontinued in 2016, so I'm confident many lives were saved or at least spared embarrassing circumstances. One of my misfortunate moments with 151 happened when I strayed away from the pack with my buddy Ed. I'm sure he saved my life that day or at least a ticket to the emergency room. After a bit too much, I lost the grip on my bottle, and it shattered on the hot sandy concrete sidewalk. Like a drunken fool, I scurried in to grab a towel with the intention of soaking it up so I could squeeze the liquid into my mouth. This level of stupidy is probably the reason folks should never drink alone. Ed grabbed the towel and politely asked me to let it go. So I did. I refrained from drinking the rest of the trip because I didn't trust myself.
After sobering up, I decided to take a walk with my camera in hand. Nope, this didn't scream tourist at all. Ed decided to tag along for some reason, so we took off, leaving our friends behind. I always enjoyed hanging with Ed. We'd often meet for lunch, hit the pawn shops out toward Fort Campbell for deals on cassette tapes, or meet up for a game of cards. We've managed to remain friends, our entire lives.
We strolled down the beach and laughed about how dumb I was earlier and how we were glad to be away from work for a change. We'd passed tons of beautiful girls, and I fell into my default each time and buried my head because I had no idea of how to strike up a conversation. Something unusual happened as the next female approached, and I can't explain it. It could have been the heat or possibly alcohol poising, but I went with it regardless. I found my courage. "You're gorgeous," I blurted out before even taking a moment to think. I followed up with, "I'd love to take your picture," as I raised my camera and exposed my goofy grin. It was long before everyone had a phone attached at the hip, so photos were still special. We'd take rolls and rolls of pictures and drop them off at Walmart to get them developed a week later. I thought one-hour photos were genius at the time, and now everything is instant. Anyway, to my surprise she said that she'd love for me to take her picture.
Before I knew it, she was posing for us on the beach while I gave her directions. Amid our makeshift photoshoot, I calmy mentioned we would be throwing a party that evening if she would like to stop by our place. The problem with that statement is there was no party at all in the works. I didn't let it worry me, though, because I was incredibly caught up in the moment. Soon other beach bunnies began to crowd around to watch us work. One after another, we'd take a few pictures and invite them to the party. Groups of people watched us for hours and clapped as women stopped by to get a picture and an invitation. I'm not even sure when my camera ran out of film, but no one had to know that minor detail.
I never officially learned to dance. The stiff shuffle of feet moving side to side at my prom doesn't count. So when I heard the song Boardwalk off in the distance and asked a random young lady for a dance, it surprised me as much as the next person. She giggled and asked me what I was doing as we held hands and my feet awkwardly moved about, trying to keep some sort of rhythm. Earlier I'd noticed crabs seemingly float across the ground on our walk, so I immediately told her it was called the Crab Dodge. She joined in, and bam! The Crab Dodge was a hit all up and down the white beaches. The meet and greet went on for quite some time until we finally decided to head back to the beach house.
The rest of our group was already planning a trip to Club La Vela, so when I told them a few people might be stopping by for a get-together, they didn't take me seriously. I believe they hung around as long as they did so they could make fun of us when no one showed for our little party. Ed and I had no idea what the fruit of our labors would bear that evening. I went ahead and cleaned up, hoping for a positive outcome.
I stood on the deck, fresh from my shower, as the sun began to creep toward the horizon. Ed stepped out, and I commented on how the beach is unusually empty. We joked about it and figured our celebration would probably never happen. I was content because I was still on vacation after all, and the day was epic compared to any typical day for sure. "Look, somebody is coming," Ed said with a bit of excitement. It wasn't just one or two people.
Vacationers began piling in as if Kip Winger was throwing a live concert by the water. Groups who had cheered us on earlier arrived, along with all of our new friends. The rest of our crew decided to hang out instead of heading off to the strip. Beer runs were made, and mixtapes were played while the crowd grew and grew. Our little beach house on Spyglass Drive was the place to be this particular evening.
None of my friends could walk more than five feet without acknowledgment from our guests. At least ten different dance partners at a time were fighting for the chance to join hands and move around ridiculously like we were trying to dodge crabs. Then I had my epiphany. The day before no longer mattered, and tomorrow made no difference because there was not a single person in the crowd living outside of the moment. We took that day and made it our bitch.
I spent the remainder of my time in Panama City, relaxing in the sun and taking in the view like I would on any other vacation. The only difference is I couldn't step outside without hearing, "Hey Chris," from a new friend or an occasional high five as I passed others on the beach. Spyglass taught me that it's okay to be spontaneous, and that changed my life.
I can remember three things about 1980. Some guy named John Lennon was shot to death, and Mom took me to see The Empire Strikes Back. The third memory was seeing Dad for the last time. He had passed away the year before.
The Southern sunlight peeked through my window, calling me like the sound of a banjo bouncing from the East Tennessee mountain tops. Each day would bring a brand new adventure. All I had to do was experience it, soak it up, and bask in the beauty of freedom only rewarded to a kid my age. "I Love you, Mom" was the first and only recognition she received most mornings. Before she could even turn around to acknowledge me, the sound of the screen door slamming was her indication I'd be back home before dark.
I began my journey on a well-worn path through the woods I had blazed many times before. While the course was familiar, the spectacles along the way never ceased to amaze me. The curiosity of a nine-year-old is easily ignited, but I choose to believe magical moments materialized with each stride I took. Several trees had been cut down the prior week and left lying in the woods. These were GIANT works of art tangled, stacked, and intertwining. What an incredible fort! Maybe it was a wrecked pirate ship. I could be Tarzan swinging from limb to limb and climbing within the fallen timbers. Foliage cracked under my feet as I looked up into the sky. The wind whispered and gave me kisses through the mangled labyrinth as I caught subtle glimpses of passing clouds.
I'd probably spent more time in my imaginary castle than I realized. Time slips so quickly for a child. As far as I was concerned, I was still in the early stages of my quest. So much more to explore, and the day was mine! I continued further into the woods witch eventually led me out of the woods into the river bottom. I could see my oasis shine through the last few bushes I trekked past. A beautiful cold water spring awaited a thirsty traveler. An old tree stood beside the calm welcomed body of water. A single nail had been driven through the bark, and hanging from it was a shiny dented tin cup. I had always assumed the chalice was for well-deserving adventures like myself. I would envision the cup giving me special powers or the spring granting me eternal life like the fountain of youth. To this very day, I can not think of a time I enjoyed the taste of water as much as I did from that old tin cup by the spring.
I looked out over the Cumberland River and noticed a little darkness creeping in. Was the sun already beginning to set? Impossible, my day had only just begun. Dinner time has to be hours away. I still have way too much exploring on my agenda to turn back now. Revitalized by the mysterious goblet of life, I took off in a full-fledged sprint deeper into untapped territory. To my surprise, the sun was defiantly calling it a day. I was in trouble because I had missed supper. It was time to run unlike I ever had before. Branches slapping me in the face, roots emerging from the ground with each stride, and rocks appearing from nowhere made my return treacherous. I was lost.
There I sat, a terrified nine-year-old in the middle of the forest all alone. I was covered from head to toe with bruises, cuts, and dirt. Tears filled my eyes and made tiny trails down my cheeks, parting the dust on my face. My head dropped, I wrapped my hands around the back of my neck as if to protect myself from danger. As I rocked back and forth, I noticed a small burst of light off in the distance. I forced myself to stand and used every bit of energy I had left to make my way toward the beacon.
I second-guessed myself and was unsure if the sparkle had even come from in front of me. Maybe my mind was playing tricks. Then another slight twinkle caught my attention. I moved quickly toward the illuminations. The radiant bursts were happening more frequently, giving me a clear path to a small opening in the woods. It was almost like someone had cleared everything away and provided me with a single stump to sit on so I could enjoy the show.
Millions of fireflies surrounded me. I felt like my body was floating in outer space while I eavesdropped on neon stars echoing amid the florescent moonbeams shooting in each direction. The cool glow of each candescent light calmed me as time wore on. I was no longer alone. My panic had vanished. The spot I had been led to was familiar, and I knew it was time to go home.
Luckily my mother had fallen asleep on the couch watching television. She had no clue I had been out so late. The radiant beauty of the painting my mind sketched out that night is still one of the most awe-inspiring memories I hold. The night offered me a final moment with Dad I will never forget because I knew he was guiding my steps.
Months after Tammy and Sadie were killed and revealed not to be human, but a product of the future called "Icons" No Name has tapped into a darker side of himself, while Tracy has begun to heal and find peace under the guidance of John Reed, her new guardian. John Reed takes No Name's new revelation that not all is as it seems as an opportunity to make good on a promise he made in Episode 7. Under His Eye; to pursue the dark web serial killer, show him a better way of life, and reveal to him all the secrets Dicken has been hiding.
Creator and Writer: Ali Top Co-Writer/producer: Chris Top Artwork: Amanda Dudley No Name: Chris Top Dickens: Chris Top John Reed: Chris Top Tracy Paige: Ali Top Claudia: Ali Top
It’s a new year, and No Name is fully embracing his role as the dark web’s biggest star. Meanwhile, John Reed’s daughter holds a giant celebration for the city of Clarksville, which provides the serial killer with a perfect opportunity to snatch his next victim in plain sight.
Created and Written by - Ali Top
Co-Written and Produced by-Chris Top
No Name - Chris Top
Dickens - Chris Top
John Reed-Chris Top
Abigail Reed-Ashlee Sherron
Random Stoner Man-Ashlee Sherron
Art by- Amanda Dudley
I've always enjoyed keeping my room dark. On occasion a beam of sunlight would penetrate my blinds if they had been moved for one reason or another. It's not that I have anything against daylight but the burst of sunshine brought the spots on the carpet and dust in the air to life. Julianna would have never stood for that. She always made sure I cleaned and picked up after myself. I heard a very loud knock on my door. It didn't surprise me. It was my very determined neighbor who uses the Holidays as an excuse to drive me crazy. “Old guy... hey OLD GUY! It's me again. I'm having friends over tomorrow to celebrate the new year. You're invited but I know you wont show up. Hell, I'd be surprised if you even answered the door. I know I've said this the past three years but THIS is the absolute last time I will bother you on New Years Eve. I just figured you might, ahhh ya know what, never mind!” she said. She was acting like a child who was being forced by her mother to be nice to the uncle no one cared for. “Later Scrooge,” She mumbled from the other side of the door. “I heard that,” I replied. It's not the first time I overheard people walking up and down the hallways at night comparing me to pre-ghost Ebeneezer. I invited my neighbor in and offered her a seat. She reluctantly sat down and was obviously in some form of shock. “Look man, if you plan on murdering me or something my boyfriend knows I'm here,” She told me. I had seen her boyfriend on occasion in passing. He was always on his phone and never really paid her any attention. If I did happen to murder her I honestly don't believe he'd even notice, at least for a few days. “Your days are mixed up,” I said as I was trying to keep a cough under control while my eyes watered a bit. “You don't sound too good,” My neighbor mentioned. She seemed confused by my statement. I went on to explain how tomorrow is not New Years Day at all, it's actually December 32nd, the last day of Christmas. Her eyes opened very wide as she began to rise from the old west cowhide club chair to make a speedy exit. Before walking out the door she stopped to look back at me. My hand was covering my face as I was clutching my side coughing uncontrollably with my mouth shut. “You! Sit down and I'll get you a glass of water while you explain to me how tomorrow isn't January first,” She said in a demanding voice while storming toward my tiny kitchen. I thanked her for the glass of water and began to tell my story. The year was 1971. I had just returned from Vietnam in the middle of December. I was in my twenties, stronger, healthy, and arguably better looking. I was happy to be home for many reasons but none compared to Julianna. I was going to ask her to marry me. We met a week before I had shipped out. I bet we wrote each other a thousand letters while I was gone and she was finishing college. We got to know each other through the mail. Each note uncovered something new. Each sentence and every letter was the beginning of our love story. We were married in December. Neither of our families had much money so it was a small ceremony in a little church just outside of Clarksville. Her dad was the preacher so we got a pretty great deal. I forgot to mention both of our birthdays were in December and I proposed to her the day before Christmas the previous year. Seeing as how this was a very special month we decided one day of Christmas just wasn't enough. Our first December as a married couple was the beginning of a very special tradition. Each year the tree was up before midnight on November 30th. December first we celebrated Christmas, December second we celebrated Christmas, December third we celebrated Christmas, and this went on all the way through the 31st. We exchanged gifts each day, nothing too extravagant. It was mostly handmade cards and sometimes a new pair of shoes or something. One year I did manage to save up and get her a new ring for our ten year anniversary on Christmas the 13th. She went all out and made me my favorite, Rum Cake for Christmas the 14th. Our life together was special. Our life together was perfect. Around the time the 70's were coming to an end we found out children weren't going to be possible. It was pretty devastating news for the both of us but we managed. The 80's were a struggle because I messed my back up pretty badly at work and had to change career directions. We had talked about adoption before our income shrunk. The 90's happened and we finally decided children just weren't meant to be. It probably took us a solid twenty years to let that dream go but we were at peace with it. Through all of the struggles, the tragedies, the blindsides life tends to throw we always managed to keep our Christmas tradition strong. We celebrated Christmas for 31 days straight each year for over 30 years. In 2005 we found out Julianna was sick, really sick. We spent most of that year in and out of hospitals, mostly in. November the doctor told me my wife would not make it through December. This simply meant we had to make adjustments. We lost the house over the course of her illness but it didn't matter. I managed to get a Christmas tree up in her room by midnight, November 30th. It was quite small but a beautiful tree. Her smile lit up the room when she woke and saw it. On Christmas 1st we exchanged gifts, on Christmas 2nd we exchanged gifts, and on Christmas 3rd we exchanged gifts. Early in December she managed to glue, cut, and paint some of the most beautiful presents I have ever seen. The cards I gave her weren't near as detailed or colorful but were made with just as much love. By the middle of the month her Christmas gifts were hugs at first then soft kisses before she nodded off each day. Eventually her gifts became a tired little smile she was able to force before all of the medication sent her to sleep. A staff member came into the room to reassure me, my Julianna was not in any pain. I ignored him because we were in the middle of celebrating Christmas 31st. The ring I had given her for our anniversary so many years ago had fallen off of her finger because she had lost so much weight. I wrapped some yarn around the ring and slid it back on her hand. This was my simple gift to her this Christmas. She held my hand in return. Knowing she would not make it through the night I gave her a final kiss and said goodbye before falling asleep with her hand in mine. I guess I must have turned over in my chair during the night. I woke up early the next morning refusing to open my eyes because I was content in the dark imagining my wife next to me forcing a tired smile in my direction. I had finally worked up enough nerve to peek at her next to me in the bed. She was still breathing. My stubborn wife had managed to live longer than anyone had expected. Right then and there I decided this must be December 32nd. My wife decided to give me the most amazing, awesome gift anyone could ever receive. She gave me the gift of an extra day. I laid beside her and talked about our life together. The memories flooded in and and each moment, each Christmas was alive again. I wanted her to know I did not take her final gift for granted. I wanted her to know I never took a single Christmas or a single day with her for granted, ever. I looked at her and saw the beautiful woman I had met almost 40 years ago. I could see her hazel eyes full of joy, her perfect little crooked smile that was sometimes a mask whenever I did something stupid. I could smell her favorite perfume while I ran my finger over the bridge of her nose. We talked into the night. She passed late that evening. That's why December 32nd is the most important day of the year. My young neighbors eyes were full of tears. She hugged my neck and left the room. I sat in my old chair that night holding my wife's ring. I needed to feel close to her. Once again memories flooded in and I was able to sleep on this special Christmas eve. First thing in the morning on December 32nd a very loud knock shook my apartment. My neighbor began speaking through the door, “I broke up with my boyfriend last night. I told him your story. All he had to say is that is was silly to waste all of that time and effort every year. I kicked him out because I want what you had! I want that kind of love. I have a gift for you. It's Christmas the 32nd and I want to clean your apartment for you. Hey old guy... OLD GUY!” She continued to talk but I never responded. I had passed sometime in my sleep that night. I spent over one thousand Christmases with Julianna and that still wasn't enough. I was ready to hold her hand again.
No Name-The Dark Web Serial Killer relishes in his desires and mercilessly murders a man lacking in morals. In the aftermath, he’s still left with questions after the deaths of Tammy and Sadie Page. What is his real purpose?
Written and Created by Ali Top Co-Written and Produced by Chris Top Cover Art by Amanda Dudley No Name-Chris Top Dickens-Chris Top
Season 2 Premiere, Episode 10 - CHILLS
Local teen Tracy Page is armed with knowledge and a few choice weapons as the threat of her father, Silas Henry, Clarksville’s roughest Bounty Hunter, approaches. Meanwhile, No Name The Dark Web Serial Killer mentally prepares himself to be the one who actually kills Tracy’s family. What happens next is unexpected, and as No Name soon realizes, life isn’t as normal, or even as stable as he once believed. What if humans aren’t the only thing living on this earth?
Written and created by Ali Top Co-Written By Alex Voss and Chris Top Cover Art by Amanda Dudley No Name-Chris Top Dickens-Chris Top John Reed-Chris Top Bob Lorry-Chris Top Tracy Page-Ali Top Tammy Page-Ericka Arcadia Sadie Page- Ericka Arcadia Opal Pain-Alex Voss Silas Henry-James Farmer Abigail Reed-Ashlee Farmer The Elementals: Eartha-Alex Voss Pyra-Ashlee Farmer Aqua-Ali Top
It's funny what I can remember from forty years ago. I can recall my home phone number, my address, and my decapitation. My neighbor had just finished putting up a new barbed wire fence. Cruising down Mellon Road on a borrowed three-wheeler, the curve came up to fast, and I lost control. I headed straight through that new neck-high fence and ended up playing basketball with my dead father and sister.
What kid wouldn't enjoy a game of hoops with his dad and big sis in the front yard? They both towered over my eleven-year-old body like a couple of giants. Whenever either of them would deliver a shot, the swish noise is all we'd hear. A sound of a ball bouncing from our homemade wooden backboard when I took my turn was the best I could do.
After a quick game of HORSE, we took it inside for a discussion. Dad explained how I wouldn't be around too long because someone pretty high up had made a grave mistake. Susan, my sister, argued with him, describing how angels didn't mess up; they just reverse. Dad went on to say I would be getting a do-over, and I'd soon be back home with Mom. Evidently, God never puts more on folks than they can handle, and taking me away would have been too devastating. She'd already lost Dad and Susan, so losing me would be too much. They let me talk them into one more round of basketball before my rewind; I'm betting they let me win this time. A few extra moments felt nice before saying goodbye.
The next thing I knew, I was back on the machine that had ended my life earlier that same day. Freedom was in front of me, and it took the shape of blue Tennessee skies, sunshine, and wind. Clouds of dust invaded the atmosphere in the rearview mirror while massive rubber wheels spun on the gravel road, trapping the pain I desperately tried to outrun. No matter how much pressure I put on the gas, torment always followed. All I could do was try my hardest to outrun the agony of an eleven-year-old child who'd lost both his father and sister. Power from the three-wheeler shook my bones while whisking down the road. Excitement morphed into fear as I failed to take the final turn where a new fence was patiently waiting. Losing control, I panicked and hit the accelerator instead of pressing the brakes as jagged wire approached me like a stop motion animation film. One second it was in the distance, and the next, it was twisted around my neck and affixed to my face like a python. I could feel my lips tear away and my body surrender before darkness plucked me from tragedy a second time.
Light began to focus; I didn't see my Dad and sister waiting for me in the front yard like before. A reflection of my distorted face in the bright red paint of the wreckage stared back at me. Angels carefully lifted my empty shell from the ground to escort me home. Fragments of life jumped around in my thoughts, mixing reality with fantasy until both were indistinguishable. That's when I heard the whisper.
The voice was unclear, fading in and out. The muffled noise seemingly drew closer and more apparent until I heard, "You were lucky, Chris." My bloody, bruised body, being wheeled through a hallway full of people on a cold hospital bed, was a good indication I was still alive. My brother, Larry, told me to squeeze his hand as the docs began to stitch up my distorted face. Afterward, I remember lying half-conscious in my room while overhearing Larry explain to another adult that someone must have watched over me that day. Our neighbor had put off securing his new fence because something came up, and he needed to leave the job undone. My brother said, "Chris would have been decapitated if the fence had been nailed in."
We were at the end of the road, the last of a dying breed. Nine had come before us, but none would go after. We closed the chapter on a decade of big hair, neon, and mullets. We knew every single word to Livin On A Prayer and had multiple shades of acid wash jeans. We are the class of 1989. The entire 80s was a free fall. We made up everything as we went along, held our breath, and just jumped. I mean, we might as well jump. It beats getting thrown from the back of the pickup truck, all of us piled into any given day.
Now that I've managed to paint a picture of Friday Night Videos and Fantasy Island, I'd like to talk about one night. Funland was my Saturday evening destination. I'd spend the week collecting quarters so I could blow them all on Galaga or Centipede. When the change ran out, my buddies and I would spend the rest of the evening driving up and down Riverside Drive, hoping to catch the latest crush's attention. We'd usually end up broke and out of gas, discussing future fame and fortune. I parked outside of the arcade and made my way into the crowded room to meet up with my pals. It's super important to look as cool as possible whenever entering a social gathering. Those first impressions are everything, and I had to make the most of my entrance. Sharp Dressed Man was echoing through my mind like a mantra to guide my footsteps safely. I couldn't have made it three feet into the building before I tripped over a pool stick someone had left on the floor. Who the hell leaves a pool stick on the floor! I quickly stood up and took a bow letting everyone know to go about their business, and there was nothing to see here. I could hear Pac-Man dying in the background as I failed to win over the audience. "So much for a grand first impression," I thought to myself as I tried to disappear from existence in a game of Donkey Kong. I felt a tap on my shoulder, then I heard the words, "You're going to have to teach me how to fall like that sometime." Before turning around, I mentioned how I'd be around all night and was only getting warmed up. She giggled as I moved to face her for the first time. This is where I'd love to say our eyes locked, and the room slowed down around us as we knew then and there we were meant for each other. That's not what happened at all. My knees must have locked up or something because I stumbled forward, giving her a massive forehead to her nose's bridge. She covered her face in pain as her eyes began to water. "Are you okay!?" I told her I was sorry a few hundred times before she finally told me to shut up and that she'd be fine.
It was pretty noisy in the game room, and she had a headache all of a sudden and asked if we could go outside. I walked her out, and we took a seat on the hood of my car. It was the first moment I'd had the chance to really see her. She was insanely gorgeous. I mean, she was The Bangles lead singer hot. "I'm Kim," she said as she rubbed her nose, trying to shake off the pain from our close encounter. I nervously smiled and told her it was nice to meet her. After a short pause, she gave me a puzzled look and said, "Do you have a name, or should I call you Mr, Awkward?" I told her that my name is Chris, but awkward would work as well. We joked around for a while, and Kim explained she was only in town for a few days visiting because she was considering attending Austin Peay in the fall. After a few minutes of small talk, we decided to hop in the car and drive downtown for a walk to get away from everyone.
The more we strolled and spoke to each other, the more relaxed I became. We ended up climbing to the roof of a downtown building to get a better view of the world. The night sky was full of stars, and we even had a private concert courtesy of the El Camino parked below us in the street, blaring a homemade mixtape. We talked about the pains of growing up and the uncertainty of everything ahead of us. She asked me if I'd had any regrets in life so far. It seemed like an incredibly important question. I needed a little time to put some thought into it, so I asked her if she'd go first. Kim spoke about how she'd had a chance to live with her grandparents her senior year in Florida but turned them down to spend time with people she grew up around. She told me that she would go back in time if she could and get far away from her father. Kim never gave me very many details of how her dad abused her, but it happened a lot, and it wasn't something she could express without a sadness I'd never seen before. Kim cried for a few minutes as I stood shoulder to shoulder next to her, leaning over the building's edge. She finally took a pause and asked me what my regret was. I smiled and told her that I still have time to avoid my tragedy. She asked me not to keep her in suspense any longer. "My biggest regret would be not asking you to dance with me right now." I know how cheesy that sounded, but the truth is I meant every word of it at that moment. Kim smiled and rested her head on my chest as we danced for an hour on a rooftop to some guys mixtape in an El Camino. We never did kiss, but it felt like we did when I held her, which was enough for both of us.
I took her back to her car late that night, and she drove off. I got a letter from Kim a few weeks later telling me that she wouldn't be attending APSU in the fall and had decided to move to Florida close to her grandparents. She said she had a few good college choices and may as well be close to the beach. Kim closed the letter with three words, "no more regrets."
I think about her sometimes, and I wonder how she's doing. I'm glad she got away from her father. I'm happy I got my dance too.
Synopsis: For the first time, Dickens orders No Name to murder people who, on the surface, seem innocent. Meanwhile, Tracy Page discovers the Dark Web and plots the death of the man coming after her family.
Written and created by Ali Top Cover Art by Amanda Dudley No Name-Chris Top Opal Pain-Alex Voss Tracy Page-Ali Top Produced and co-written by-Chris Top
No Name, everyone’s favorite Dark Web Serial Killer, takes a break from murdering people to answer everyone’s most burning question; What does it take to be the perfect serial killer?
Written and created by Ali Top Cover Art by Amanda Dudley No Name-Chris Top Produced and co-written by-Chris Top
One day I asked 20 people who won the Revolutionary War. No one had any idea. I felt like this broadcast was important. I would like to thank Henry Wadsworth Longfellow & Charlie Chaplin for amazing work. You both still inspire me even today. God bless everyone and have a terrific Independence Day. https://www.christopprogram.com/ https://www.facebook.com/christopprogram/
Synopsis: Dickens hatches a plan to put No Name in his place after the accidental death of his employee, Elsa.
Credits: Creator and Writer-Ali Top Co-Writer and Producer-Chris Top Artwork- Amanda Dudley No Name-Chris Top Dickens-Chris Top Roboto-Chris Top Eartha-Alex Voss Tammy Page-Ericka Arcadia Sadie Page-Ericka Arcadia
The drama intensifies as Elsa aids No Name in killing her husband. Credits: Creator and Writer: Ali Top Co-Writer and Producer: Chris Top Artwork: Amanda Dudley No Name: Chris Top Elsa: Eileen Bew Richard: Chris Top
No Name is assigned to kill a man who's tried and failed to maintain sobriety. Dickens does this as a favor to the man’s wife, who has been working in the murder cleanup crew. Credits: Creator and Writer: Ali Top Co Writer and Producer: Chris Top Artwork: Amanda Dudley No Name: Chris Top Dickens: Chris Top
Dickens reveals he has more people under his thumb than the dark web serial killer, but a plot formed by a bitter ally could mean trouble for Dickens, No Name, and the Annihilation Chamber.
Credits: Creator and Writer: Ali Top Co Writer and Producer: Chris Top Artwork: Amanda Dudley No Name: Chris Top Dickens: Chris Top John Reed: Chris Top Woman on Commercial: Ali Top
Hey Kevin. If your reading this, I just wanted to let you know something. I probably should have spoken up sooner, but we only had 20 short fleeting minutes together. You may have been drunk and passed out the entire time I gave you a Lyft home, but that never stopped you from resting your head gently on my shoulder each time I made a right turn. The way the bubbles formed in the corner of your mouth and popped while you snored was certainly magical. Before this goes any further, it's only fair; I tell you I am a married man. I know I should have spoken up sooner, but I just didn't have the heart when you politely offered me your half-empty bottled water. I could have watched you sleep for hours, but regretfully you awoke when I "accidentally" slammed my breaks... sorry sleeping beauty. I guess every ride must come to an end. Thanks for stopping by to #WOBA with me. #ridesharestories The great local businesses that make this podcast possible are Deb Wilson, Realtor 931.206.8551, & Pbody's - Clarksville Country Club.
No Name recalls his past; what life was like before becoming a serial killer and what drove him to the streets before he met Dickens. Creator and Writer: Ali Top Co Writer and Producer: Chris Top Artwork: Amanda Dudley No Name: Chris Top https://www.christopprogram.com/no-name
Vincent proved to me everyone from New York isn't loud and obnoxious like I had assumed. He needed an Uber for a check-up today, and I happened to be close. He complimented my oldies playlist and started talking about his two sons. They both have a deep love of music, and the oldest has even made a career out of it. He's a successful producer in Nashville. Vincent said his son had done really well. He has a beautiful wife; he lives in a great neighborhood and has already paid his home off. He's proud of his kids, and it sure was evident in the way he smiled when he talked about them. He had gotten his oldest a guitar for Christmas one year when he was little. I mentioned how cool it was this one gift had changed the course of his son's life. We both agreed it was pretty neat to think about how different things could have been without the instrument. I hope to run into Vincent again sometime. I enjoyed my 28 minutes with him. Thanks for stopping by to #WOBA with me. #ridesharestories The great local businesses who make this podcast possible are Deb Wilson, Realtor 931.206.8551, Pbody's - Clarksville Country Club, & EXIT One Real Estate MetroNet-Clarksville TN
Jeffrey Dahmer didn’t eat people with tattoos because he said the ink made the flesh taste weird. https://www.christopprogram.com/
Due to the CoronaVirus, No Name is forced into completing a different task than Dickens had originally assigned him. Furious by the change, the dark web serial killer refuses to show any excitement during his next kill. Meanwhile, all is not as it seems and No Name starts to question what his actual purpose might be. Credits: Creator and Writer: Ali Top Co Writer and Producer: Chris Top Artwork: Amanda Dudley No Name: Chris Top John Reed: Chris Top Dickens: Chris Top https://www.christopprogram.com/no-name
Enraged over the lack of communication on No Name’s part, Tammy’s daughter Tracy Page calls the serial killer to insure him that there will be hell to pay. Written and created by Ali Top Cover Art by Amanda Dudley Voices: No Name-Chris Top Tammy Page- Ericka Arcadia Sadie Page - Ericka Arcadia Tracy Page-Ali Top Produced by-Chris Top https://www.christopprogram.com/no-name
"She was abandoned right in front of the grocery store." Mary is a 25-year-old with plans to become a commercial real estate agent. She's also a creative who has a passion for painting. Her visit here from Nashville didn't go quite the way she'd hoped. Her boyfriend of four years left her stranded in front of a grocery store after he broke it off with Mary. Luckily she had her phone, so she was able to catch an Uber with me. When she first got into the car, everything seemed normal. We greeted each other and exchanged a few words. Out of nowhere, she broke down and explained what happened. She was crying uncontrollably. She mentioned how she never cries, and she was embarrassed and felt foolish. I told her this, "Two of the greatest tragedies I've faced in life are the death of a loved one and a broken heart. It's always been my experience broken hearts are more difficult to get past because that person is still out there somewhere. It's okay to cry and be angry, but you don't need to feel embarrassed." We've all been there and experienced the pain of losing someone who we assumed we'd be with forever. It's a terrible and consuming pain that feels like it will never end, but it does. Mary said she planned on going to Goodwill when she gets home to purchase some plates. Then she plans on smashing them all. I encouraged her and let her know that I agreed that it could be an excellent way to begin the process. I also mentioned how cool it would be to take those smashed up pieces of glass and create some beautiful artwork. Mary thought that was a good idea. This experience was a good reminder for me. Life breaks all of the time, but living through the destruction is beautiful. I'm happy I could be Mary's friend for 17 minutes.
Thanks for stopping by to #WOBA with me. #ridesharestories The great local businesses who make this podcast possible are Deb Wilson, Realtor 931.206.8551, Pbody's - Clarksville Country Club, & EXIT One Real Estate MetroNet-Clarksville TN
What The Fact! I had no idea! Do you have your alien abduction insurance? Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
No Name learns that his victim who he previously assumed to be under age is actually an adult, and for him, this means no mercy. No Name reveals the true reason he hates arsonists.
Created and Written by - Ali Top No Name - Chris Top Dickens - Chris Top Art - Amanda Dudley Produced and Co-Written - Chris Top
What The Fact! I had no idea! Dorks Of The World g e e k OUT! My spidey senses are tingling! Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
I've never been a fan of standardized testing. The rules were, we had to bring two number 2 pencils, no cheating, and lay your pencil down when the time is up. These tests always mortified me. I was not good at taking them and did poorly 100% of the time. My story is how I fought the system and won as a kid in the 80s. Maybe I wasn't the best child. Sometimes I didn't feel like going to school. Many mornings I'd force a cough or complain about feeling a bit warm so I could stay home and watch The Price Is Right. I'd sit on the couch and drink Sprite while I watched the pretty girls expose the hidden numbers on the tv screen. I'm not sure if my mother fell for it, maybe she didn't feel like arguing, so she let me miss a day. Either way, the result was I got to stay home and hang with Bob Barker. As luck would have it, I was actually sick on an important test day. Maybe it was the CAT, or it could have been the SAT or perhaps the SUCK, I don't even know. Why the hell did I have to take a test called the California Achievement Test anyway? I mean, I LIVE in Tennessee, hello! They never even told us why we had to take the test. Was it to see if we could read, write, and do math stuff? Isn't that sort of the purpose of school? I'm pretty sure my teacher could tell you everything you need to know Mr. CAT, so please let me play on the monkey bars instead of coloring bubbles for three hours. Like many other times, I explained to Mom how I was not feeling well. It worked before, so it should be a cakewalk convincing her I was sick when I was honestly sick. She calmly yet forcefully informed me I would not be missing CAT day. Wait; what? It's an actual day now! Would I get thrown in a California jail for life because I missed the bubble test? My sarcasm did not help my plea. I got dressed, caught the bus, and arrived at Cumberland Heights Elementary School. As the morning wore on, I could feel myself getting worse. While the teacher explained proper techniques for coloring the tiny circles, I began to feel hot and cold at the same time. It felt like my stomach was swinging from the monkey bars without me while I sat at my desk. As the dreadful timer started, I reluctantly rose from my seat and approached the teacher. The closer I got to her, the sharper her scowl became. I worked up enough nerve to continue with my walk as the other children watched me closely. The look on my teacher's face was the same expression, Samuel L Jackson contributes to every movie in which he's had a role. I was at the point of no return, so I nervously let her know I was not feeling well. She informed me it was CAT day, and I needed to have a seat and finish the section before the timmer ran out. What's up with the whole CAT day thing, did I miss something? Do all of the bad boys and girls get sent away to some mysterious underground camp to run on a giant wheel, so California has electricity? Why was it such an enormous deal that I missed this stupid test? I lost that battle, but I would not lose the war. Just like George Washington at Valley Forge, I would continue to fight until victorious. "Okay, you did this to yourself" was the thought in my head as I returned to my desk. I began to carefully color in the small rings on my paper with the sharp number two pencil as instructed. After answering about ten questions, I let out an uncontrollable cough, followed by a dry-heave. The teacher looked at me as if to say nice try now get back to work. I felt better, but it didn't last long. Seven or eight more questions later, it happened again. The cough, the gag, and the stares from everyone, this time, wondering if this was the real deal. Even the teacher began to look a little concerned but not enough to excuse me from class. I was answering fewer and fewer questions before the subtle warnings would occur. I knew how this was going to end. By the time I was down to answering two questions before my body's natural alert system had kicked in again, I knew the time was near. I calmly laid my writing utensil down and waited for the inevitable. A kaleidoscope of colors mixed into sour-smelling chunks of chaos spewed from my mouth on to my thin, frail unexpecting C A T. The vomit hit the top of the desk like a fire hose unleashed with full force. I hurled uncontrollably as the mess piled up, covering any progress I had made on my task. I was excused form class as the rejected breakfast I'd had earlier cascaded into the floor after taking over the top of my work surface. I left school that day with a feeling of accomplishment. I could have quite possibly been the first child ever to escape CAT day successfully. I may not have completed the test, but I did color my bubble into history. Upon arriving home, I sat on the couch and once again said hello to my old friend Bob.
https://www.christopprogram.com/
"She was counting on him getting killed in combat, so she spent all of his money." The conversation I had with James today during his Lyft ride wasn't exactly what I'd expected. He spent over forty years in the furniture business, so he's heard a lot. James is a chatterbox but always has an interesting story for me. Before we get started, I want you to know this stuff chooses me; it's not the other way around. Clarksville is a military town, so it's not unusual to hear tragic stories of loved ones never returning home. In this particular instance, the guy's wife was counting on it. The soldier was deployed in a particularly dangerous place, and his wife knew he'd never return, or maybe she was hoping he'd never return, I'm not sure. She ended up spending thousands and thousands of dollars the guy had put away for retirement. She was back home living the good life thinking she'd be able to cash in his fat life insurance check and carry on even after the account was empty. Well, he did come home and found out he was broke. I'm not exactly clear on the details or course of action the returning soldier implemented. I'm sure he was angry. An angry soldier and his deceitful wife isn't the story here. The biggest question I had for James when he finished was, "Did they get divorced?" He said, "Nah, he loved her." He loved her. Forgiveness is the story here. I've held grudges in my life for far less. Maybe it's time to let a few things go. Thanks for stopping by to #WOBA with me. #ridesharestories The great local businesses who make this podcast possible are Deb Wilson, Realtor 931.206.8551, Pbody's - Clarksville Country Club, & EXIT One Real Estate MetroNet-Clarksville TN
What The Fact! I had no idea! Dorks Of The World g e e k OUT! Up up and away... Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
On a dark and stormy night, No Name gets called in to take out a young man belonging to a satanic cult. No Name’s victim is also an arsonist with a deadly past, and the serial killer has his own personal reason for his distaste in the crime. A dark secret about No Name’s past will later come to light, and the slaughter will begin.
What The Fact! When we are in the beginning stages of falling in love (known as ‘limerence’), our brains are flooded with the same chemicals as the ones associated with cocaine use. Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
What The Fact! I had no idea! Half of everything you never wanted to know about Valentine's Day. The rest of everything you never wanted to know will be on part 2. Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
What The Fact! I had no idea! During the entire run of Gilligan’s Island, it was never revealed if “Gilligan” was his first or last name.
Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
Murder is in the air at the charity ball hosted by the Clarksville Chive. When site moderator James Boone gets his secret life of internet trolling and racism exposed by Dickens, No Name is forced to dawn a mask and play the part of a smooth charmer at the masquerade ball with his “date” Tammy Page. How will No Name, the dark web serial killer fair when his next kill involves being undercover on the surface web? Written and created by Ali Top Cover Art by Amanda Dudley Voices: No Name-Chris Top Tammy Page- Ericka Arcadia Dickens- Chris Top Bob Lorry-Chris Top Tracy Page-Ali Top Eartha-Alex Voss Produced by-Chris Top https://www.christopprogram.com/no-name
What The Fact! It's Black History Month! Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
What The Fact! I had no idea my body could do that! Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
What The Fact! I had no idea! Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
Shotgun
My playlist is always on whenever I'm taking Uber & Lyft rides. I'm partial to oldies, and it seems like the majority of my passengers are too. Once Sue got into my Jeep, she immediately noticed Junior Walker And The All-Stars coming through my speakers. She smiled and told her story.
Clarksville in the sixties was a little different than it is today. One of the car lots on College Street in front of Austin Peay was instead a small empty brick building. Sue was thirteen at the time, and like many kids that age, she snuck out with a friend. As they strolled down College Street, they gossiped and admitted to what boys they were fascinated with that particular week.
During the late-night adventure, they noticed a faint noise in the distance. Curiosity got the best of the girls, and they decided to investigate. As their steps brought them closer to the sound, it was apparent someone was playing some loud music for this time of the night. They recognized the popular song; it was Shotgun by Junior Walker And The All-Stars.
Once they were close enough to peek into the small brick building, they could see a band playing through the window. Two teenage hearts began to race once it became evident Junior Walker and his group were on the other side of the wall. After a quick discussion, the two decided to enter the small structure that was sheltering some of Motown's best.
Before the band chased off the two teenagers for being out way past their bedtime, Sue managed a couple of questions. The musicians explained how it was much cheaper to rent a building in Clarksville to practice than in Nashville. Sue and her friend hid outside for a while longer and enjoyed the free concert of a lifetime. Sue went home that evening with a story she'd never forget.
I loved this bite of history because it's something I would have never heard had I not picked up Sue that afternoon. I'm happy the right song was playing at the right time. The people who live in this town all have a story. You should visit Clarksville soon for a great story yourself. While you're here say hello to Pbody's - Clarksville Country Club, EXIT One Real Estate MetroNet-Clarksville TN, & my good friend Deb Wilson, Realtor 931.206.8551. They're all sponsors of The Chris Top Program. Come #WOBA with us sometime!
ridesharestories ChrisTopProgram.com
What The Fact! I had no idea! Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
No Name faces an obstacle he never thought he’d have to endure; fame. Former victim Jackal Hinders is exposed for his crimes against children, but during the kill, there were witnesses. Now, all of Clarksville Tennessee celebrates the hero known only as “The Angel of Death,” as dubbed in The Leaf-Chronicle. Of course, murderers never want to get caught, how will No Name deal with his newfound fame?
Written and created by Ali Top Cover Art by Amanda Dudley Voices: No Name-Chris Top ROBOTO-Chris Top Produced by-Chris Top https://www.christopprogram.com/no-name
What The Fact! I had no idea! Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
“One day something pretty miraculous happened”
Isabella left Puerto Rico in the 1970s bound for Louisiana. She had pretty big dreams, just like anyone else graduating college and looking for a better life. I believe she found a better life, but it didn't happen right away.
Isabella had requested a lyft from Publix to her home. As I was loading her groceries into the back of my Jeep, I noticed a bottle of wine. I asked her what the occasion was. She responded by telling me it was her birthday. On the way home, she mentioned that she is a cardiovascular nurse. She also spoke about how she missed New York and the ease of being able to get from one place to another. She's not a giant fan of our transit system here in Clarksville, and this isn't the first time I've heard that from a passenger.
Isabella's first job in the US was at a hospital in Louisiana. The facility was in need of staff who could speak Spanish. Isabella was in the right place at the right time. The good news didn't stay good, very long, though. I can imagine a lot has changed in fifty years, but I can also imagine some things still seem like they happened yesterday. Isabella was not met with open arms or given any number to call in case she was harassed in any way. Instead, Isabella came home to graffiti painted on her walls and co-workers who made it obvious, "her kind" were not welcome. She packed her belongings and moved again.
This time Isabella found herself in New York, where she stayed several years before coming to Clarksville. The Big Apple provided her with a new job and others from Puerto Rico who made her feel more at home. When Isabella first arrived in Louisiana, she was undoubtedly exposed to hate right away. Eventually, the hate had found its way into her own heart. She had a difficult time trusting any group who reminded her of the people who first introduced her to the new life she'd sought out. She could have quickly become even more bitter as time wore on and possibly allowed these dark feelings to overcome her. One day something pretty miraculous happened.
Isabella was assisting a surgeon and had an opportunity to hold a beating heart in her own hands. At that moment, an undeniable love hit her like a moving train. Isabella realized the heart she held in her hand looked like every other heart she'd ever seen. If the patient weren't lying directly in front of her, she wouldn't know who this heart belonged. Isabella held life in her hand, and that life had no color, or race, or religion. Isabella told me from that moment on, she stopped judging people by groups or skin color and only saw the character in individuals.
I believe Isabella was indeed the right person in the right place this time. She experienced two life-changing moments, and luckily she let the second one define her. I helped Isabella take her groceries in, and I wished her a happy birthday. I also told her I'd be glad to give her a ride again sometime, at least until our transit system has improved.
What The Fact! I had no idea! Listen to other podcasts like No Name & Rideshare Stories on https://www.christopprogram.com/
“I was strangled and left for dead.”
I gave Jackie a Lyft from the bus station to the Salvation Army. Jackie had a lot to talk about. She was working a fundraiser in Birmingham a few years ago when her life changed.
The organization had just received a large donation, and everyone was super excited. Jackie was the money handler that particular evening. As she was turning a corner with the cash, she was assaulted. The man gripped his hands around her throat intending to take her life. The guy was eventually captured, and Jackie was moved here to Clarksville.
Later, authorities found out the guy had previously murdered two people before ever encountering Jackie. She was left with permanent brain damage. Today Jackie happily carries on with an undying love for people.
Later, authorities found out the guy had previously murdered two people before ever encountering Jackie. She was left with permanent brain damage. Today Jackie happily carries on with an undying love for people.
Jackie is a Hero
WOBA #RideShareStories
B I G thanks for the support from EXIT One Real Estate MetroNet-Clarksville TN, Pbody's - Clarksville Country Club, & Deb Wilson, Realtor 931.206.8551
After a brutal murder committed by our favorite serial killer, No Name travels with his now-dead companion to see what Christmas is like for “normal families.” Will this hardened killer wish he had hung up his sword for the chance at having a family?
Written and created by Ali Top Cover Art by Amanda Dudley Voices: No Name-Chris Top Tammy Page- Ericka Arcadia Sadie Page - Ericka Arcadia Dickens- Chris Top Bob Lorry-Chris Top John Reed-Chris Top Tracy Page-Ali Top Produced by-Chris Top https://www.christopprogram.com/no-name
“I could have killed someone on my birthday.”
I was Johnathan’s Lyft to his probation appointment at the courthouse today. He sat on the passenger side in the backseat. His English was pretty broken, he hasn’t been in this country very long, but that didn’t stop him from telling his story. “I started drinking when I was fourteen. I’ve been praying to God for a gift,” he told me. God delivered, but it probably wasn’t what Jonathan was expecting at the time. Evidently, the guy started drinking pretty heavy on his birthday four months ago. His plans where to hang around his house and celebrate. The next thing Jonathan remembers is waking up naked and being given an orange jumpsuit. The police said they found him passed out in his car after running into a mailbox. Over and over, he explained how he could have just as easily run over someone instead of something. I could tell, by the tone of his voice, this was an absolute changing point in his life. Jonathan expressed how he may never get the job he wants because of his police record and how he can’t save money because of court costs and fees. He goes on to tell me he wouldn’t change anything that happened. This guy is just thankful; no one was hurt. I truly believe God had his hand on the wheel the day Jonathan got into his car. Oh, he hasn’t had a drink since.
What The Fact! I had no idea! Listen to other podcast like No Name & Rideshare Stories on ChrisTopProgram.com
“I was a Daddy’s Girl. I’d always pictured him walking me down the aisle.”
Michelle pierces people’s body parts for a living. I gave her a Lyft to Lasater's Coffee & Tea - Riverside and then off to work. She’s a fantastic representative for No Egrets Tattoo Studio. Her personality is outstanding and it was so kind when she offered to buy me a coffee on the way.
I have no intention of ever getting anything pierced but if I did I’d go to Michelle without a second thought. She’s been at it for around six years so I’m pretty sure she’s a bad azz.
She mentioned how her father had passed away from cancer at the end of May. I’d asked how she was holding up and she said, “It eventually happens to everyone, I’m doing okay.” I’m pretty good at reading between the lines and could tell she has some hurt lingering around. I mean it’s barely been over a month so it’s totally understandable.
Her only wish is that her father could be around to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day. I had to turn away from her for a second after she said that because it got to me a little.
All I can say is this...Michelle is a 28-year-old with her whole life ahead of her. She’s already found her passion and that’s unusual for anyone, especially at her age. Every day she’ll get stronger and has the spirit to conquer any curveball life will throw her way.
I know all of that because she told me her daddy prepared her for life. The cool thing about this story... I feel like I know her dad. He is part of who she is without a doubt.
He will be there to walk her down the aisle.
Each episode of #RideShareStories is made possible by Pbody's - Clarksville Country Club, EXIT One Real Estate MetroNet-Clarksville TN, & Deb Wilson! I appreciate each of them more than I could ever describe. Go #WOBA with these wonderful sponsors.
What The Fact! Random facts can be addictive. Listen to No Name & Rideshare stories on ChrisTopProgram.com
Tis the season to be murdered! This episode of No Name The Dark Web Serial Killer will bring new challenges for our favorite serial killer. Will he be able to face his fears and get the job done? https://www.christopprogram.com/no-name
“ Your backpack is on fire”
I guess Nik is short for Nikki or maybe Nikole? Anyway, I was notified by Lyft and drove over to the Marathon gas station on Riverside Drive to pick up Nik. I could tell she was relieved when I arrived. She told me about a man who had offered her a ride three different times. Her plan was to walk to McDonald's for coffee and then take a Lyft home. The determined stranger offering his service made Nik feel pretty uncomfortable so she felt safer getting a ride to both stops. “The man was driving down Riverside drive, trying to convince me to get in his car while everyone behind him was honking,” Nik told me. On the way to McDonald's we talked about how she probably made a great decision turning the man down all three times. I parked and waited for her to come back with her coffee so I could take her home. She had offered to grab me a cup too but I already had some I'd made at home. I rarely drive without coffee by my side. I cracked the windows while I was waiting and noticed a pretty overwhelming burning smell. It was strong like incense and my eyes actually started to water a little. I kept looking outside trying to figure out where the smell was coming from. The odor was so strong! It was almost like it was coming from the inside of my Jeep. The funny thing, it was coming from inside of my Jeep. I happened to look down at the backpack Nik had left in the floorboard. It was on fire. I calmly got out and noticed my passenger exiting with her warm cup of coffee in hand. “Is something wrong,” Nik asked me. I said, “Well, your backpack is on fire.” I continued around the vehicle, opened the passenger door, and pulled out the burning object. I shook the backpack until a cigar fell from what was left of the side pocket. She frantically apologized and seemed incredibly embarrassed. I told her this was a first, no one had ever tried to set my Jeep on fire. We laughed about it on the way to her house. She mentioned how this was probably a sign she should quit smoking. This is how I look at the whole experience. I got to save Nik two times in one day. Once from a crazy stalker and once from an exploding backpack. It's a little bit of an exaggeration but hey, it's my #ridesharestory
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Trip To Walgreens
I had just dropped a guy off on Dunlop and immediately got an Uber alert to pick up a retired couple from Premier. After arriving, I jumped out of the Jeep and helped the gentleman with his walker while his wife sat in the backseat. I went around and opened the door so he could keep her company. As soon as I pulled out, the little old lady said, “Quite the haircut you have there, are you a wrestler or something?” I told her I was actually not a good enough actor for that. They went on to tell me how much they missed living in Florida but ended up here to be near family. As we got closer to exit one I was asked if I minded going through the Walgreen drive thru before taking them home. I explained how I would make the special stop because she loved my hair so much. They suggested I pull up to the window so her husband could speak to the employee. After the polite, “welcome to Walgreens”, things went downhill. My passenger said he had an order called in. The team member asked him to repeat the name and the old fellow screamed out his name and said, ARE YOU DEAF!” I shrunk down in my seat and acted like I was interested in something in the next parking lot. My passenger had trouble reaching the window to give them his credit card and I was unable to back up because of the car behind me. His wife ended up getting out of the jeep and waiting outside by the window. When the employee appeared again with the prescription he politely asked her how she was doing. Her response, “Can you smell that food cooking out here?” The man behind the window mentioned how he wished he could smell it from inside. The old woman then said, “No you don't because it STINKS.” By this time I was practically under my seat. The little old lady made her way back to the rear passenger seat and told her husband he was embarrassing and had no patience. I'm grateful she keeps him in check. I love old people.
Whats your Rideshare story? Share it with The ChrisTopProgram.com or Clarksville Rideshare Stories on Facebook. We may use it on the podcast!
No Name begins to realize that working for Dickens is not all it seemed at first, but when he gets the chance to kill a man who has secretly assaulted children for years, No Name puts any complaints he has to the side and focuses on his potential second kill.
Turning on the camera and streaming to the Dark Web for the first time, how will people react to his twisted ways? https://www.christopprogram.com/no-name
Alvin “I woke up this morning and found my roommate dead.” Typically, when I ask a passenger how the day is so far, I don’t get that kind of response. Alvin is staying at the Salvation Army for a while. Alvin said, “When we turned the lights on he was blue,” The poor guy passed away in his sleep. He was only 59 and his kids would never come see him. I can remember thinking 59 was old when I was in my twenties. As I approach 48 it seems terribly young and tragic to me. The poor guy had evidently lost everything and passed on in his bed with no goodbyes or an I love you. I’m not entirely sure what the take away from this story would be. Maybe it’s a sign to just be nice to people and smile when I get a chance. Could be the last thing that stranger sees. It’s something I can do without spending a dime and it could make a small impact. I guess it’s easy to take love for granted sometimes... well until people stop saying it. Here’s to Working On Being Awesome! Oh, I took Alvin apartment hunting. I hope he finds a nice place.
WOBA #ridesharestories
Disposable Cameras
I can remember buying disposable cameras, taking 50 pictures, and waiting a week or two to see the outcome. Opening the envelope of freshly developed photos was always a special occasion. I’d share the tiny glimpses with my friends and family and we’d be wrapped in an extraordinary moment together.
Today I scroll through Facebook & Instagram. My phone has access to more pictures than anyone has in a basement full of photo albums collecting dust. I click like and move on to the next one.
I certainly miss the connection and seeing the expression on faces as I guide fellow explorers through a thick book of pages. I long for telling and hearing the stories each snapshot holds behind the glossy surface.
I had the honor of giving Jerry with K1NG Photography a Lyft last week. He happened to be in town shooting a wedding. He reminded me, through his passion and love of snapping a picture, how important film is. He explained lenses, lighting, and a handful of other things over my head.
I’m happy we have people like Jerry in the world who care and don’t let the power of technology dampen his love of his craft. His talent shines in all of his photos and it’s obvious he knows what he’s talking about.
I guess my most valuable pictures are the ones from my lowest points. These photos are priceless because they remind me of how far I’ve come. They all have a bit of a tragic story behind them and that’s okay. It’s good because the hard lessons forced me to make life changing decisions. 📸 #WOBA #ridesharestories
Deborah - The Rockstar
“What do you do at Ahava Healthcare of Clarksville?” I asked Deborah. “I clean the rooms,” she told me. The conversation could of moved on to the next subject quickly after her answer because we had 15 minutes to fill. I mentioned how important I felt her job is at AHAVA. This is when I noticed without a doubt Deborah takes pride in what she does each day. She worked in Nashville for 8 years until an opening was available here in Clarksville. They needed the help and she was the right fit for the job. She likes it here because cost of living is so much better. Her employer also paid for her moving expenses. The way Deborah talked about her job I find it highly unlikely dirt or grime has a chance whenever she’s on the lookout. The patients love her because they know things will get cleaned when this lady is working. Of course her own house is just as clean and she makes her bed every morning. Her job is part of who she is and she holds her head high knowing she does her part in taking good care of anyone who stays in the facility. “Sometimes they call me in on my day off and I go on in,” Deborah explained. I mentioned they should pay for her Lyft when they make her come on her days off. She said they do sometimes. She went on to tell me the administrator has a gift waiting for her. I’m happy Ahava recognizes what they have in Deborah. She’s given them 10 years of loyalty and hard work. She goes in on her days off and really cares about giving those patients a clean room. She may have the most important job of anyone I know. Glad I got to meet you Deborah 🙂 I just hope I pick her up again sometime. I want to know what the administrator got her!
WOBA #ridesharestories
Kara And Her Character
Hanging out in my super clean 2014 Jeep Compass waiting for Lyft or Uber to set me up with a passenger.
Toward the end of my 200 mile day yesterday I gave Kara a drive to her job at Walmart. She was only working a three or four hour shift. I can tell Kara takes pride in her job because she’s in uniform and likes to get there early.
This is our third ride together. Kara has been relatively quite on previous trips, but we managed to finally break the ice. I said, “It must be frustrating to get bombarded by customers as soon as you walk in.” Last trip, I'd noticed she was stopped as soon as the door slid open entering Walmart. She explained how the customer was complaining he’d lost a dollar in the machine. She further told me she handed a buck to the young man without hesitation. He walked away without a hint of gratitude.
This story isn’t about manners or ungrateful customers. This is a story about Kara and her character. She could have easily told the guy she wasn’t on the clock, sent him to a department halfway across the store, or simply ignored him. Kara lost a dollar before she ever clocked in to work. Her gift, however, is worth more than anything Walmart could ever pay her. This simple act of kindness is a testimony to humanity. No one can put a price on that. Kara will make a great leader one day... Lucky Walmart. It is my hope this short but true story will remind us all of the importance of kindness. Give those hard working retail and restaurant employees a break. Maybe they all aren’t as kind as Kara, but they all deserve to be treated like human beings. The same way we all expect to get our dollar back from a broken machine or a new salad because we got the wrong dressing.
WOBA #ridesharestories
Surrounded By A Lot Of Good “I’d die for my country without a second thought.” “I was at my lowest right before I was arrested for trespassing while high on meth.” “When I was a crossing guard I’d help kids with homework because we usually had an extra 15 minutes.” I’ve been driving for Uber & Lyft lately for extra money. As many of you now know it’s my main source of income. I feel like I meet hero’s at least once a day. It’s amazing how others will open up when trapped for 5 minutes to an hour with a seasoned interviewer. I said it jokingly but it’s true. Being behind the wheel is a lot like being behind my mic. It’s an adventure each time I give someone a ride. I never know what sort of stories I’ll have the opportunity to explore. A few weeks ago I picked up a Green Beret. I could see the passion in his eyes and hear it in his voice. He wholeheartedly feels dying for our country is the greatest possible honor. He told me all of his men feel the same way and explained to me how they keep him young and motivated.. seriously... dude looked like Captain America. One of my first rides was a lovely young girl who needed a Lyft to her job at Burger King. I had the pleasure of also taking her home after a shift once as well. She talked about how she was so high once while she was working as a server she fell asleep standing up. Later she was found passed out in her car at work. Eventually she was arrested and explained to me that’s the best thing that ever happened to her. Last we spoke she had 1 week to go in a local rehab. This particular rehab has a 60% success rate. “This is a lot better than the average,” she told me. Her optimism was unbelievable and she inspired me. This morning I took a kind lady to work who honestly cares about kids. “The daycare I work at sold the vans because none of the teachers wanted to take kids on field trips at the time.” She went on to tell me it’s tragic because some of these children never get a chance to go to the park or roller skating. She continues to help them with homework even though it isn’t in her job description. I’m surrounded by a lot of good here in Clarksville and it makes me want to be a better man. I’m proud to call these people my neighbors.
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Subscribe to see who I kill next. https://www.christopprogram.com/no-name * Make sure you listen to Episode 1 first.
I have always been drawn to the art of taking someone’s life. There are so many ways one can do it, just as there are options on a restaurant menu. You are hungry for pizza? I’m hungry for the kill. One day, a man who calls himself Mr. Dickens found me, knowing the things I was hungry for, and hired me to kill a terrible man who should have never been born in the first place. I work for him now, doing the same thing’s I’ve always done, just for money and a place to lay my head and a dark web platform to perform on. I don’t ask questions. I don’t fail. I just kill. If I don’t, he promises the entirety of the dark web will witness my execution. This may seem like a little much to you, that someone like me would actually exist, but that’s just how I do business. Subscribe to see who I kill next. https://www.christopprogram.com/no-name