“Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don’t you let it out then?”   –Walt Whitman

 Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the blogosphere—it turns out that there are more words in my head that are very close to coming out.  My regular readers (all 3 or so of you) are no doubt aware that it has been some time since my last post.

 The simple reason for this is that I ran out of things to say.  The more complicated reason is that I was running into deeply personal territory. (Yeah, I know, what that hell could Dave consider too personal to put into print?) 

 However, like that little ditch by the septic tank that just won’t dry up, my head has seepingly filled again.  Soon it will overflow and once again my words will seep across the land.   

I tend to start with a title and work from there.  They usually pop into my head as I’m drifting off to sleep.  Sometimes they turn into something good, sometimes they sink back into the ether.  Below are some pieces I’m considering.  They are working titles only, aren’t in any particular order and some may never see the light of day—but:

So I Went To Jail One Night

God Is Not Good—So What?

Stuck Inside My Head

I Do Like Porn

Hello, My Name Is

Wait! He Did What!?!

Growing Up Horney

And Then I Disappeared

Gotta Love Sumo

For reasons completely beyond my ken, I have started writing poetry.  This is perplexing because the only poetry I can stand, and only in tiny doses, is from Sherman Alexie and Walt Whitman.  I haven’t decided whether or not to inflict them on the rest of you, but here’s an early sample.

I don’t do rhymes,

        Scansion

                   is for sissies

I hate fucking metaphors

Word pictures are ok

Thoughts, concepts,

            maybe a feeling

 Wait! Is “word picture” a metaphor?

 SHIT

I’ll be back.

Three times in my life, a fellow human has felt is necessary to point a firearm at me. The first was completely understandable; the other two were simply downright rude.

The First Time

I was 12. My mother was in charge of the floral arrangements at church. Normally she put together a dried/silk arrangement that was suitable for a month or so. However, Easter was approaching and she had the funds authorized to produce a “real” display. It was a Saturday afternoon and we stopped at a flower shop on 7th Ave south of Camelback.

I enjoy the walk in refrigerators in florist shops. The cool air and the overwhelming sweet of the flowers is a pleasurably sensual experience to me. At age 12 my sensual experiences no matter how pleasurable tended to be rather brief. After 5 minutes or so I had enjoyed the cooler/flowers and was ready to leave.

My mother was deep in negotiations with the clerk. My father (poor schmuck) was dutifully at her side—I wandered out front. Almost immediately I was treated to a scene straight out of a television show. There were cops everywhere, blocking off the street with their cars, standing in small groups, and a few crouched outside the motorcycle dealership across the street with their guns drawn.

I went back inside to report the unfolding events to my folks and my Dad joined me out front to watch the show. In short order an officer ran by us with gun drawn and shouted at us to get back inside. My father being who he is, and I being his son, blithely ignored this “request” and continued watching from our front row seats.

A man from the business next door came over to gossip and informed us that the motorcycle shop was being held up and several hostages were inside. In a suitably short time, as TV had lead me to expect, the situation was resolved. The bad guys gave up and the hostages were led across the street to be interviewed/debriefed.

There were still plenty of police cars around but the main event was over. My father relaxed to the inevitable and went back inside to rejoin the flower negotiations. I watched as a K9 officer got ready to clear the motorcycle showroom and warehouse.

Directly across the street was a chiropractor’s office in a converted house. Someone tried to hop over the fence from inside the backyard and fell back. The second time he made it over. He stopped, looked around, seemed disoriented and then made eye contact with me. Only then did I process that he was wearing a ski mask and holding a sawed off shotgun.

Pointing the gun at me, he waved me over to join him. I stood still, too confused to properly interpret what was happening. At that point, a police officer drove northbound on 7th Ave. He stopped directly between me and ski mask guy, drew down on him while still in the vehicle and screamed, “Get on the ground motherfucker.”

At that stage in my social/spiritual development I was more shocked by the language than by the fact that a gun wielding criminal had tried to make me his hostage. The bad guy quickly complied and was promptly cuffed and stuffed. The first officer unloaded the shotgun and then handcuffed it to a stop sign.

Thus ended my first day of the gun.

The Second Time

I was an adult the next time I saw the business end of a gun. It was the early 90s and I was in my mid-twenties. We only had three kids and I was still ambitious enough to try and take some night classes at Phoenix College. I was on the bus that night and was waiting for a transfer at 19th Ave and Bethany Home.

This was way before the advent of MP3’s and Walkmen were both expensive and bulky. So I had no tunes to occupy my mind. I was trying to read a text book but the lighting was poor and I had to hold it right in front of my nose like a nearsighted old fogy who has misplaced his bifocals.

I heard the car before I saw it—loud music, shitty muffler. It was a stereotypical gang banger car of the time…low-rider, purple with generous primer and bondo spots. When I looked up the car was directly in front of me. I assumed it was stopped for the red light then realized all the other traffic was moving.

Someone shouted, “Hey Ese!” Initially, I mistook the passenger for a guy named Pedro. I had worked with him at Taco Bell during high school and we became pretty good friends. He taught me how to use a butterfly knife and regaled me with tales of his sexual exploits. He lived in a crappy apartment complex on 19th Ave and was scared to go home alone at night. I would follow him home at 2 a.m. and sit on the street in my car till he made it safely to his front door.

It wasn’t Pedro. It was several young Hispanic males in the banger (real and wannabe) de rigueur outfit of the day—bandannas, flannels and white t-shirts. The passenger produced a sawed off shotgun and leveled it at me out of the window. I looked at him briefly then raised the book back to my face. I wasn’t playing ostrich so much as simply confused as to the social protocol of the moment. I fully expected to be shot and wondered if it would hurt (I’m betting that it would).

It seemed like forever but was probably only a couple of seconds before he shouted, “Bang!” I heard a chorus of laughter and the car sped away.

That ended my second day of the gun.

The Third Time

My Other and I separated in July of 2005. Initially, she took the kids and headed to a family reunion in Colorado while I stayed home and brooded/felt sorry for myself. The first week of August it became apparent that she wasn’t coming back until I had moved out of the house. I did my internet research and found a low end hotel room with a kitchenette and weekly rates at 51st Ave/McDowell.

I didn’t have a vehicle so I packed my stuff into a wheeled suitcase, a gym bag and my backpack. They were heavy and awkward but transportable. I got on the 35th Ave bus and headed south. I had a long wait for my connecting bus at McDowell. It was mid-afternoon, well over 100 degrees, and not a chance of shade. I scored a spot on the bus bench and sat sweating, depressed and miserable surrounded by my worldly goods.

A guy in a beat up white Chevy Malibu stopped in front of me. Ignoring all the other folks at the stop he singled me out and offered to take me anywhere I wanted to go for $1. I had no cash and no inclination to pile my bags into the trunk of his car. I thanked him but indicated that I had a bus pass. He seemed frustrated, shook his head and started to pull away. I could see the broken tail light, Mexican plates and a faded bumper sticker.

Suddenly he threw it in reversed and squealed his tires backing up. Stopping again in front of me he picked up a black handgun from the passenger seat, pointed it at me and started yelling in English and Spanish. He questioned my ancestry, my sexual preferences and/or predilections and my overall machismo.

This time I wasn’t afraid, I wasn’t confused, and I wasn’t socially inhibited. I was angry, cranky, hopeless, and depressed. Frankly, I was half hoping to get shot. I stood up, spread my hands in a “come and get” manner, flipped him the bird and then stood staring at him. He stared at me for a second. Shook his head again, made a sound of disgust, dropped the gun back on the seat and drove away.

There were at least 8 other people waiting for that bus. No one said anything. No one seemed surprised. No one called the cops.

So ended my third day of the gun.

The moral to my tale? Shoot—I dunno.

Falling Asleep

Do I smell bad?

Are there really illegals that hold jobs “real” Americans want?—construction stuff maybe?

How come only Latinos hang out in front of Home Depot looking for work?

Where does one find the faith to have no faith?

I wonder what the baby did with my toothbrush.

What possibly inspired my Other to choose me to make 9 babies with?

Are there Mormons who actually converted after getting a college education?

Do Scott and Bob know how much I value their friendship?

Josh cut off all his hair when they made fun of his “bed head”; I hope no one ever giggles at his penis.

Dave Letterman is a freaking PR genius.

I just got comfortable. I don’t want to get up and pee.

I wish there was some way to tell people that Ron Jeremy and I have more in common than just great big bellies.

Does anyone who hates “Obamacare” actually have a better, workable idea?

If God is a DJ then Life is a Dance floor….I can’t get this damn song out of my head.

I really like the hat I stole from Caleb.

1000, 999, 998, 997, 996, 995, ah—screw it.

I’m sleepy why can’t I fall asleep?

Ok, fine. I’ll get up and pee.

Abba Father in heaven,
Hallowed be your Name.
May your kingdom come.
May your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Give me today my daily bread.
Forgive my debts as I forgive my debtors.
Deliver me from temptation.
Rescue me from the Evil One.
Yours is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory.
Amen

I am such an asshole.

I wish Micah would stop screaming like a wounded Rhesus monkey, just because he can.

If I start drinking, I’ll probably never stop.

Damn, I’ve got to get up at 0500.

I’ve really got to watch seasons 3 of Dexter and The Office.

If I unfriend all my Facebook friends—how many will notice?

I can’t imagine life without reading.

Who the fuck really cares?

Sherman Alexie has vaulted into my Top 5 favorite authors.

C’mon, fall asleep already!

I’m never gonna be able to retire.

I’m so tired of it hurting.

I love it when Nate tells me about his day on the way home.

How am I supposed to survive without Diet Pepsi?

Being mobbed by little kids when I walk in the door is pretty damn awesome—even when I’m in full blown Asperger Mode.

I wish I had a play to do.

Jonathan Goldstein on NPR is an absolute comedy genius.

Organized religion blows.

Deeply devout, profoundly profane—yup, that’s me.

Why am I locked in my head when my heart cares so much?

Fuck, it’s almost 2200.

Dang, enough with the slamming doors already.

At least Lincoln died knowing he’d won.

Do my kids understand how real my faith is?

I love books.

I should really be writing this stuff down.

I can’t believe it’s after 10.

Three “I swear I’m not making this up” stories:

Story A

Nervously, I look around. No one seems to be paying any attention to me. There are crowds of people around–more than I’m comfortable with in fact, but they are absorbed in their own pursuits and oblivious to my pounding heart and sweaty palms. I’m a freshman in high school with all that entails. An older guy that I very much admire has talked me into stealing a car. He wants a very specific vehicle that he points out to me. Somehow, I don’t think to ask, he has actually gotten hold of the keys. Though I’m only 14 I’ve been driving since I was 10 years old (Thanks Dad!), but never alone and never in a car not owned by my parents. He gives me explicit instructions—how to act, how fast to drive away, where to stash the car, where to meet up with him later. Trembling hands and quavering breath I duck into the car and fire it up. Listening for the shout of alarm that never comes I carefully pull out of the packed parking lot and down the street. Giddy with relief, but keeping an anxious eye out for cops, I laugh out loud.

Story B

I’m sitting in a jail cell in Tucson, Arizona. “Luckily” I’m in a single cell. It’s an odd shape—about nine feet long by 5 feet wide, unique from all the other 6×6 squares in the place. I can easily touch bars and back wall with out stretched arms. This particular cell sits at the top of a “T” intersection of two corridors. It looks almost as if it was added as an afterthought to make full use of some unexpectedly “found” space. Last minute addition or not, it is just as secure as every other damn cell in this place. Thick iron bars span the front; everything else is poured concrete, even the bed. There is a stainless steel combo sink/toilet in one corner. An elaborate hand drawn pencil/ink mural covers most of the back wall. It’s a jungle scene overflowing with plant and animal life. The only human figure is a powerfully built naked man with strong African features. Perhaps it is supposed to be Eden or maybe a yearned for homeland. It’s not my work—I don’t have that kind of talent—but I can’t bring myself to wash it way. Someone invested long hours in this personal expression of meticulous detail.
If I lean against the bars and peer to the right I can see a dorm style cell. There are 12 beds and a steel cast shower with an actual shower curtain. There is a large hand lettered cardboard sign. I can’t read it from this angle, but I know from passing by it states in bold block letters “YOU MUST BATHE AT LEAST ONCE A DAY”.
I pound on the bars and shake the door but they are solid and immovable. I yell at the top of my voice but no one pays attention.
Pornographic images are prevalent, torn from magazines, taped to walls and ceilings in practically every cell. Mine is no exception. Today, I sit on the cement bed and hold a page which has captured my imagination. There are two images, one on each side. Both are of the same young woman, ingeniously though improbably twisted into a pose which manages to simultaneously reveal her boobs, butt and genitalia. The look on her face is pouty and sensuous—at least to my fairly inexperienced eyes. It’s obvious that she would like nothing better than to have gross carnal knowledge with whoever gazes on her naked flesh. On one side she is dressed as an angel with golden halo and gauzy white wings, on the reverse as a devil replete with trident and horns. The caption, rather predictably reads “Heaven and Hell”. There’s a tingle in my loins, but I am not about to whip it out and “whip it good” with all the lights on, visible to any and all gawkers.

Story C

There are five scars on my abdomen. I got them early one November morning when, stoned out of my mind, a woman I thought I could trust came at me with a knife. I can’t explain exactly the thought process that led me to that moment. Sometimes life gets so stressful—money, kids, marriage, work; nothing everyone doesn’t have to deal with but that morning I’d been dealing with it for a long time. I’d been up most of the night. Instead of being home in bed, with my wife, I was out in Scottsdale. I let an attractive young woman talk me out of my clothes and then into taking some pills. I was just beginning to enjoy the buzz when I man I’d never met before offered me a syringe filled with—I don’t know what. Oddly, as I drifted into unconsciousness I heard him demanding, “Where’s your favorite place in the whole world?” The last thing I remember is murmuring, “Montrose, Colorado”. The next thing I was aware of was waking in a hospital bed surrounded by bustling medical personnel. There were five holes in my gut.

*****************

These stories have a couple things in common. First, they are all absolutely true. Second, if you don’t know me and the details surrounding each incident, you may be tempted to draw some erroneous conclusions about my character and lifestyle.

Story A

The older guy I wanted to impress was my father. He enlisted my aid in playing an elaborate practical joke on one of the teachers who worked for him. I still can’t believe I managed to steal her car less than 15 feet from where Mrs. Koger (an awesome lady and perennial good sport) was standing.

Story B

I was 12. My father’s friend (and eventual employer) had the contract to tear down the old city jail. He had salvaged some items like desks and lockers that my Dad could use at his school. I rode down with him to Tucson and had run of the place for a day. It was a blast, until I accidentally locked myself into that damn cell. Fortunately, I had Ms. Heaven & Hell to keep me company while I pondered my fate. (The destructive force pornography turned out to be in my life is a topic for another blog.) Eventually, I realized that the lock had been cut out with a torch and the jagged edges had jammed the door shut. A well placed kick earned me my freedom.

Story C

I had gastric surgery that morning at a hospital in Scottsdale. The cutie who took my clothes was a pre-op nurse. The guy who shot me up with happy juice was the anesthesiologist (he hoped to ensure good dreams by asking about Montrose), and of course the woman I thought I could trust, was a nationally recognized surgeon who well deserved my faith in her.

******************

Context—so enlightening, yet so blasé.

’57 Chevy

a short story by
David Horney

I lead one of those Murphy’s Law kind of lives. When (not if) I drop the toast, it’s always jelly down—on the cat. The day the breeze catches my skirt and exposes me to the world is the day I forgot to start the washing machine and I’m wearing that damn thong that usually hides wadded up in the back corner of my underwear drawer. My last boyfriend dumped me for some Troll Princess he met on World of Warcraft—apparently she “got” his inner warrior. A figure I could never quite visualize hiding inside his size 42 duraflex khakis and Kmart Polo. I even have a cute little tattoo on my shoulder that says “Duddy’s Girl”. It’s a reminder of a Spring Break in Havasu. I intended it to be an ironic (albeit drunken) icon of my past. Why Mr. Tattoo Guy thought I wanted “Duddy” instead of “Daddy” is one of those mysteries lost to time and tequila.

The fact is, I don’t have a Daddy—that’s not self pity you hear, it’s just fact. I was born some 26 years ago to a strung out 14 year old girl—Nikki. Gramma Bev raised me for the first 10 years of my life. Nikki was in and out during that time—a few months here, a weekend there, but mostly she followed after whatever guy would keep her in drugs, sex, and rock ‘n roll. Pretty much in that order. Apparently, she took me once when I was about 2. Gramma got a call from some girl in Florida saying that someone needed come get the baby because Nikki was stoned and partying nonstop. Uncle Bob drove straight through from Detroit to come get me. He found me in the back room of some crappy drug house wearing only a filthy diaper and holding onto a headless baby doll. I don’t remember any of that.

By the time I was 8, Nikki had started to pull herself together. She was working as a secretary for an older guy who “took care” of her. I remember that he had a TV in his office and I got to watch it once when Nikki brought me to work with her. He and Nikki had a “meeting” in the conference room and she told me to stay put. When I needed to use the bathroom and tried to ask where it was, the conference room was locked, and Nikki did not sound friendly when she yelled out at me to get back and watch television. Later I heard her on the phone complaining to a friend about rug burns—“We couldn’t use the couch because Jules was here.”

My name is Julie; Nikki insisted that everyone call me Jules. She wanted to spell it like the gemstones—“Jewels”, but the aide in my first grade class wrote it out as “Jules” for me to copy on the day we learned how to write our names, and it just kinda stuck.

When I turned 10 and Nikki was 24 she decided it was time to “settle down”. She set her sites on Ron, a pudgy 19 year old kid down the street. Why she picked him I don’t know for certain, but she could easily control him and he did turn out to be a hard worker. Nikki and Ron bought a little produce market and did fairly well for themselves. When they wanted to expand they borrowed $5000 from Gramma Bev. The upgraded shelves and coolers looked great but business didn’t pick up enough to cover the difference. When Gramma started asking about repayment, Nikki stopped talking to her and three months later they sold the market and we moved to Texas. Nikki got work as a legal secretary and Ron got on with a local delivery service. Only 9 years older than me, Ron was much more like a big brother than a step-dad. He was nice enough—I still send him the occasional Christmas card. Nikki dumped him as soon as she found a new “mentor” at the law firm she worked at. I knew him as Mr. G. He was a widower who wasn’t looking for a wife. Sometimes he would bring his 5 year old granddaughter for me to entertain in the backyard while he and Nikki had a “meeting” in her room. I wasn’t dumb, even if I didn’t understand the “mechanics” of what was happening I understood what those “dictation” sessions were all about. However, Mr. G. always gave me $5 so I was content. I would walk my little friend to the car and she would always politely say, “Thank you for bringing me to play with Jules, Pop Pop.” To which his response was invariably, “It was my pleasure, Sweetie.”

For my 13th birthday, Nikki promised me a trip to Disneyland. This was a diversionary tactic on her part because I had been agitating to go back to Michigan and visit Gramma Bev. I hadn’t seen her in over three years. Hoping to make me forget Gramma, Nikki offered up Mouseville. There was no way Gramma would ever leave my mind, but as I said before, I’m not stupid; I took the best deal I could get.

Looking back, this is when Nikki’s bipolar disorder started to get really bad, but in the middle of it I just thought it was Nikki being Nikki. She had a friend in Phoenix who would let us stay overnight on our way to California. We got into town around dinner time. Nikki was entranced with all the Palm trees. She rhapsodized about the “wondrous” trees—“It’s just like Florida” she said over and over. I wanted to point out that Florida had an ocean, but I didn’t

Her friend Gloria had a husband who worked at a nuclear power plant in New Mexico. He would commute home on the weekends, “Unless he can pick up an overtime shift!” Gloria took care of 8 special needs foster kids. She was kind, harried, overweight and overwhelmingly blonde. She had a huge bouffant hairdo that glistened gold. Her house smelled overpoweringly like dirty diapers and boiled cabbage. It wasn’t dirty, just over run with children on specialized diets who couldn’t clean themselves. She often talked about her “dream home” on the coast of Oregon. Supposedly her husband was making huge bucks in New Mexico and they would soon be retiring. (I ran into Gloria about a year ago, she’s still taking care of “her” kids and her husband is working some high pay gig overseas.)

Anyway, when I woke up the next morning, Disneyland was now a distant memory to Nikki. She decided that we were moving to Phoenix. Against all odds she found a job that afternoon in the secretarial pool of a large downtown law firm. I was left in Gloria’s care while Nikki headed back to Houston and packed up our life. For three weeks I lived on the contents of the suitcase I had packed for our five day “vacation”.

The next four years are a whirled kaleidoscope of memory. Nikki went through endless phases and dragged me along with her—hand waving, tongues speaking Holly Roller; crystal gazing New Age mysticism; hardcore Veganism; urban Catholic Asceticism; Kabala; Scientology; Buddhism; yoga; and Lazy Q Dude Ranch cowgirl. Sometimes she was well employed, often not, and once we lived in the back room of a t-shirt shop on the main drag of the red light district.

I was Nikki’s keeper in those days and I did my best to keep her “normal”. I also knew that I had to get out of that life before she dragged me under. School was my way out and I graduated with honors at 17. I used Gloria’s address and managed to attend the same high school throughout all the crazy years. By 18, with a full academic scholarship to my credit, I was safely ensconced in the dorms at Grand Canyon University.

Nikki turned to men to deal with the hole my absence left in her life. There followed a string of losers: Mark the car thief, Neil the perpetually stoned hippie, Ramon the meth dealer, Jocko who brought handcuffs to their first date and offered to pay for a gigolo to “service” her any time she so desired—all he wanted was to watch, and then finally Rod who took her along on a home invasion (he was a romantic at heart). Her escapade with Rod turned out to be a blessing in disguise because she ended up in jail. They cleaned her up, medicated her, and got her into the “system”. Eventually, all charges were dropped and she was released. Social Security gave her a housing allowance and a small stipend. I was relieved that she had a place to stay and her basics taken care of.

Over the years I had asked Nikki, many times, about my father. She never gave the same answer twice. Sometimes I was the product of rape, at others I was the progeny of Bob Seger or well known local DJ. When I reconnected with Gramma Bev I asked her. “Honey, I don’t know. She was always so wild, if I had to guess I’d say it was the ’57 Chevy boy. He was around a lot in those days.”

After that, whenever I wondered about my father I pictured an old ’57 Chevy. I even put a picture of one on my screen saver. Hence, my drunken Spring Break tattoo of an old car and “Duddy’s Girl”. That car became my “What If”. My mind knew that a 16 year old boy, who knocked up a 14 year old girl, would most likely have been just as unfit a parent as Nikki, but my heart….

For my 26th birthday Gramma Bev sent me an open ended ticket to come see her. I had recently parted ways with my WOW Warrior and was facing a long summer break with few social prospects. I could have taught Summer school but my heart wasn’t in it. “Sweetheart, you come home for a few months” was music to my lonesome ears.

I made my weekly check on Nikki and told her I’d be gone for a couple months. “But you can call me on my cell just like always” I assured her. Sometimes she gets anxious when I’m out of town, but recently she has gotten into Facebook and has reconnected with “friends” from her childhood. I’m not sure how many real friends she had back then, but they are now her social group, farm neighbors, and Farkle buddies.

Nikki was suddenly, irrationally exuberant. “You can visit my friends!” Trying to redirect her I stressed how anxious Gramma Bev was to spend time with me. “Jules (cajoling tone) don’t be silly. You know she spends every weekend at the Farm (a local craft fair, Gramma Bev does in fact have a booth there during the summer). You’ll have plenty of time.” I muttered something about “seeing how it goes”.

*********************
The first couple weeks in Detroit are spent enjoying Gramma Bev and forgetting life as a community college adjunct math teacher. Gramma dismisses the Warrior with a disgusted snort and I suddenly realize I don’t even miss him. Nikki occasionally calls and I keep track of her latest adventures via Facebook. She is currently on a kick to “save the wild burros”. She claims to have bought a tract of desert land in the name of “Jewel’s Family Trust”. It is supposed to be a burro sanctuary. I’m not overly worried—she rarely even has enough cash to super size her fries.

After 2 weekends at the Farm I am in fact ready to stay home and kickback while Gramma Bev makes her weekly pilgrimage. I make the tactical error of letting this slip during a call to Nikki. “Jules, it’s perfect! Rita lives only 3 miles from Ma—I’ve been bragging about you—she wants to see my baby!” Nikki has the tendency to forget that she has absolutely no maternal instinct and brags about me as the crowning achievement of her life. “Nikki, hon, I don’t think it’s a good idea to just go barging in on someone”. She wheedles, begs and pleads and sounds to be on the verge of tears. I grudgingly concede, “Fine, don’t cry, OK, don’t cry!”

Three hours later I was slowing cruising down a shaded neighborhood street in Farmington Hills, on the outskirts of Detroit. I pulled up in front of the house, there was a shiny pickup in the drive way. I gave my make up a hurried glance in the mirror. I rolled my eyes, stuck out my tongue at myself and whispered, “Just get it over with kid.”

There was no bell so I knocked on the front door, then again a minute later when there was no answer. I was tempted to leave, but instead walked around back. The lack of fences after all the block walls of the desert southwest was still a novelty for me.

Bent over a halfway built red cedar picnic table was Bryan—at least that’s what the back of his softball jersey said. Giving me a friendly grin as he straightened up he said, “Hello, can I help you?” I know—not exactly the stuff great love stories are made of, but I’ll tell you that something in the back of my mind sat up and said, “Hmmmmm”.

“I’m Julie Stam; I’m looking for Rita Gallagher?” He looked puzzled, “Rita hasn’t lived here in years. I’m her brother Rick Bryan.” Placing his hammer on the table, he held out his hand and we briefly shook. No, there wasn’t “electricity” but the WOW Warrior hadn’t had me out of the dating pool for so long that I couldn’t read the signs. He was definitely interested.

**********************

“Rita is an old friend of my mother. I promised I’d stop by to say hello.” With a chagrined look he responded, “That’s weird Rita only gives this address to bill collectors and folks she’s trying to avoid……Oops.” He blushed. I laughed, “Please, don’t be embarrassed my mother has that effect on everyone.”

There was a moment of silence but not awkwardness as we stood and looked at each other. He was probably 40 or so (on the outside edge of my “range” but not unthinkable), 6 foot, broad shoulders, the beginnings of a potbelly. Dark curly hair with a touch of gray at the temples and that disarming grin added up to a nicely palatable package. I was glad I’d taken the time to check my makeup and run the brush through my hair before getting out of the car.

“I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.” I didn’t interrupt to explain that it was only three miles—his tone of voice sounded like he wanted to “make it up” to me somehow. “Can I make you a cup of coffee or grab you a soda?” I accepted a Diet Coke and we settled on his back porch.

Cliché as it sounds, the hours flew past. We were admiring the sunset when I heard his stomach rumble. “Sounds like you better order us a pizza.” With alacrity he said, “Sure, what kind do you like?” Daring to test our newfound bond I answered, “Surprise me.” I was hoping that by this point we were in tune enough that he’d order a thin crust pineapple ham. When the driver got there in 30 minutes or less, I discovered that Mr. Murphy still had a firm grip on my life—pepperoni and olives, yuck!

Watching me pick the olives off my piece, he sheepishly confessed that he’d ordered them to appear at least a bit “healthy”. “Just trying to make a good impression, you know?” “I’m duly impressed” said I then asked another question about his ex-wife. “She left me four years ago”, he explained, “said she needed to find herself. She’s still looking I guess.” He opined that his job as an engineer with the local water department for the last 17 years just wasn’t interesting enough. “It’s not tip of the toes excitement, but I enjoy what I do, and I’m good at it.”

I rambled on about life as a community college adjunct, freshman math students, and my slow trek to a Ph.D. When my cell phone rang, I was shocked to see it was almost 11:30 pm. “Hey Gramma.” “Jules, are you ok? Where are you?” I held the phone away from my ear and winced. She was using her cranky “you are a naughty little girl” voice. “Gram, it’s ok. I’m just visiting one of Nikki’s friends and lost track of time.” I didn’t feel like explaining that it was actually the very attractive big brother of Nikki’s friend.

Once assured that I was safe, she seemed mollified and asked when I would be home. Reluctantly, I promised to be there in half an hour. Rick was busy cleaning up our plates and cans. “I hope I didn’t get you in trouble.” I sighed, “It’s alright, she still thinks I’m 10 sometimes.” We exchanged cell phone numbers and he asked if he could call me the next day. I assured him I was looking forward to it. He strolled with me to my car and after the briefest hesitation, kissed me quickly on the cheek. “This has been a great day”, he murmured. Again not the stuff Hollywood romances are made of, but it warmed my heart. “See you soon”, I said as I drove off.

***************************

To Gramma Bev’s initial chagrin and eventual pleasure we were inseparable the rest of that summer. “He doesn’t play that goddamn Witches and Warlocks nonsense does he?” she demanded. “No Grams, no World of Warcraft.” She sniffed, “Then maybe he’ll work out.” I didn’t spend any more weekends at the Farm.

**************************

Five weeks later, it was time to start thinking about heading home. I was the first to broach the topic, “You know, I have to be back in the classroom in two weeks.” We were in a very green park in the heart of London, Ontario. We had taken the bridge to the Canadian side of the border. I’d wanted to do the tunnel, but acquiesced when he admitted to a mild case of claustrophobia. “I know”, he sighed. His curly haired head was in my lap, and the new mustache I’d suggested he try glinted red in the sunlight.

“I have a proposition to make about that.” I recoiled in mock horror, “Sir how dare you proposition me!” He grinned and my heart melted. “I have a side job delivering motorhomes”, he explained. “I pick them up at the factory and drive them wherever they need to go. I’m not allowed to use the toilet or cook inside, but I can spread a sleeping bag on the bed, so I don’t have any motel costs. I actually get paid to see the country.”

“So your proposition is….?” I prompted him. “I can get a run to Mesa, Arizona leaving anytime this week. How about you let me drive you home and then I would be honored to take you to Disneyland.” He was well acquainted with the abortive trip of my youth. I had told him much about the “Nikki years” though I’d glossed over some of the crazier stuff.

He looked at me pensively, “How does that sound?” I let him dangle for a moment, “That sounds……wonderful!” “Really?” he responded eagerly. “It’s the best idea you’ve had since you kissed me 10 minutes ago.” I vamped. “Um, I’m pretty sure you kissed me”, was his response. Rolling my eyes I attacked him again, “Leave it to an engineer to quibble over details.”

***********************
Gramma Bev was slightly scandalized by our travel arrangements. “Don’t worry Gramma; I’m a big girl now. Anyway, I saw him pack two sleeping bags.” “Goodbye, Jules, I love you so much”, she held me tight then stood waving till we turned out of sight. I sat in the back window watching long after we’d made the turn.

Walking up to the front of the RV seemed to take forever. I shook my head as I slid into the passenger seat, “This thing is so long I could jog across the country.” “Just don’t sweat on the upholstery”, he teased. I slugged his arm and said primly, “I glisten, I DON’T sweat.”

We drove long days and slept in Walmart parking lots. It wasn’t exactly romantic but it sure was fun. The final night of the trip, crossing New Mexico, in the middle of no where, we pulled off the highway onto an obviously little used road and found a turn out.

We’d picked up subs and a couple cans of beer at the last gas station. I dug them out of the cooler while Rick set up the folding table and chairs outside. After the noise of the road, it was deafeningly quiet. Slowly our hearing adjusted, the noise of the freeway in the distance, the sounds of the breeze in the bushes, bugs chirping and whirring and an occasional coyote could be heard, as the full moon came up.

We sat in companionable silence and watched the great orb climb the sky, changing from fiery orange, low on the horizon to an achingly beautiful glowing silver white up high. Rick cleared his throat, “It’s so peaceful that I almost don’t want to disturb it, but there’s something I’ve got to ask you Jules.” I watched in shocked amazement, my heart thudding as Rick slipped out of his chair and onto one knee. “Julie Stam, I love you with every fiber of my being. I know we’ve only just met, but I think we also both know it’s been forever. Will you marry me?” In his hand was an intricate silver and jade ring. (I had admired it at a roadside stand outside of Albuquerque this afternoon. I didn’t even know he saw me looking at it.) I didn’t keep him waiting, “Yes! Of course I’ll marry you.” Then we were in each other’s arms.

That night we carefully unzipped both sleeping bags and spread them over the bed. We carefully removed each other’s clothes and then made quiet, peaceful and very sweet love.

I called Gram the next morning with the happy news. To my surprise she already knew. “Your young man called me yesterday afternoon when he bought your ring. I hoped you’d say yes. He’ll make you very happy Jules.” My next call was to Nikki, I hadn’t even mentioned Rick to her yet so I had no idea how she would react. She has loved and hated my various boyfriends without any seeming rhyme or reason.

She picks up on the first ring, “Jules!” “Hi Nikki, How are you?” “Jules, before you say anything I have a surpriiiiiiisseee!” This last is said in a falsetto sing song voice. I have had a lifetimes worth of Nikki’s “surprises. “That’s great Nikki, me too.” Instantly her bubble bursts. “Oh”, she says, obviously disappointed. “Well, you go ahead Jules, what’s yours?” Her pouty attitude has put a damper on my enthusiasm. “I’ll wait Nikki, tell me your secret.” Frustratingly she decides to play coy, “Never mind, I’ll tell you when you get here tonight.” “Fine, Nikki, me too. It can wait.” I slap the phone shut.

Bryan looks at me with concern, “Hey Beautiful, what’s wrong?” I sigh, “It’s nothing, just the dance that we do. Better get used to it.” “As long as you’re wearing that I can get used to anything”, he leers at me and makes a grab. “Sorry Romeo, no shower, no loving.” I firmly pull up my jeans over the panties he’s playfully trying to remove. He doesn’t look offended, “Ah well, you’re worth the wait.” He stretches and walks down the length of the RV. Watching his bare butt, I’m pleased to note that there is no sign of that potbelly from this angle.

****************************
We pull into the RV dealership several hours later. It takes about 90 minutes for Rick to finalize the manifest and pick up his check. He has towed a tiny Ford Festiva behind the RV. We load up and head for Nikki’s house. I try to prepare him for what’s to come. He casually waves off my warning. “Don’t worry Jules; I put myself through college working nights as an orderly in the psych ward. There isn’t any kind of crazy I haven’t seen.”

We park on the street and approach Nikki’s door. It’s flung open before we get halfway up the walk. Nikki is dressed casually in sweats, but looks freshly bathed and well fed. (Thank God.) She stops for an instant then with a high pitched squeal launches herself towards us. To my surprise she passes me by and flings herself into Rick’s arms. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it! It’s really you!” She catches my eyes and draws herself up. “You sneaky girl. I can’t believe you found him!”

I’ve never really considered that Rick may know Nikki. He is her friend’s brother. Giving Rick a questioning glance I ask, “Nikki, you know each other?” “JULES!” she says in a condescending “Duh!!!” tone. “This is your father!”

******************************

Stunned beyond speech I stare gape mouthed at the two of them. Rick is the first to respond. Taking a step back he looks quizzically at Nikki. “Nicollet Earlton?” he asks tentatively. “Of course, silly! Who else?” she burbles back.

My mouth is moving but no words are forming. “You….you’re…you’re the ’57 Chevy?!?” I can scarcely comprehend as my world implodes around me. Mr. Murphy must be cackling with glee in his cursed grave. “I slept with you”, I whisper in horror. Then, before the convulsive tears can take me completely I bolt for my car. It’s in Nikki’s driveway—where I left it when she drove me to the airport a lifetime ago.

My phone is ringing before I reach my condo. Nikki and Rick are obviously trying time and again to get through, but there is no way in hell I’m going to answer. Inside the door, I rip the battery out and throw the pieces in two different directions. I strip off my clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor and fling myself into the shower—water so hot it turns me lobster red, until the tank finally gives out.

Once dried off and dressed in my flannel jammies I break open the only liquor in the house—a bottle of General Kalashnikov’s Premium Vodka—the last remnant of Warrior-boy….who at least is not my freaking FATHER. As the vodka takes effect I curl up in my achingly lonely bed and sob myself to sleep.

My dreams are dark and eerie. I’m scared and running. It’s cold and I’m being chased by evil. I hear a motor revving and looking over my shoulder I predictably see an oversized pitch black ’57 Chevy bearing down on me.

**************************

“Jules? Jules….Jules honey wake up.” Nikki is leaning over me. There is a vile smell in the air. Concern crinkles her forehead. “Jules, how much did you drink honey?” I don’t know but the bottle in her hand is 2/3 empty and it was full when I opened it. Gently she begins the process of separating me from the bedsheets. I’m dismayed and revolted to note that I am awash in vomit. Babying me in a way that I can never remember her behaving before, she guides me to the shower and helps me out of my trashed pajamas. I sink to the floor and let the steam hide me. I don’t know how long I was there. I have vague recollections of Nikki bringing me periodic cups of coffee and a handful of aspirin.

At last I’m sound enough to climb slowly to my feet. I turn off the water and slowly dry myself. I lock the door so Nikki can’t come in. She has brought me fresh undies and soft cotton lounge outfit. I stare at myself in the mirror, seeing just the hazy shape obscured by the shower mist. Dully, I finally step out into the hall and see Nikki sitting at my dining room table. She stands and comes toward me.

I try to wave her off. “Jules, I need to talk to you.” “Not now Nikki.” “Sweetie, it’s important.” “Not NOW Nikki”, I scream at her. “Get out, get out, get OUT!” I’m on the verge of hysterics and I can see the mixture of fear and hurt puppy dog in her eyes. She’s the one who gets to do crazy in our relationship; she’s never seen me like this. Hesitantly, she turns and then with a sob rushes out the door, slamming it behind her.

I slump against the wall and want to cry but no tears will come. I hear the chug of the washing machine that Nikki has apparently loaded, and the gurgle of the coffee pot. Sighing, I realize that I’d better call her before she does something stupid.

Turing the corner into the living room, I gasp and pull up short. Rick…Dad, is standing there very soberly. There is resolve in his face. “Get out”, I start to say, but he cuts me off and the authority in his voice shushes me.

“Julie, I have something for you to look at and then something to say. After that, I’ll do whatever you ask.” Slowly I nod. I might as well get it over and done with. Seeming relieved he steps forward and hands me two photographs. “I had my sister email these to me last night.” The first is of a boy, maybe 11 or 12; his cheeks are swollen like chipmunks. The other is of an old pickup truck.

“If you’ll look closely at the first picture Jules, you’ll see that it’s me.” Examining the photo more carefully his youthful face is recognizable beneath the swelling. “I was about 12 when that was taken, although you can’t tell, I’d already hit puberty. That bout with the mumps left me sterile Jules. I can never father children.” Struggling to understand his words the import of what he is saying begins to sink in. Seeing my hopeful expression he continues. “The second photo is of a ’61 Ford pickup. My ’61 Ford pickup. Jules, the only car I’ve ever owned is that damn Ford Festiva we hauled across the county. And Sweetheart, I’ve never owned a Chevy in my life.”

Hope starts to well up inside but I fight it down, “But Nikki said…” Again he cuts me off. “Hon, Nikki is a nice lady and very sincere. She loves you more than you probably know, but she is also as nutty as a fruitcake—did you know that?”

I can’t resist smiling. “I might have noticed that,” I concede. He continues, “She’s been looking at old photos on Rita’s Facebook and is convinced that she knows me, but I swear to you that we never dated. I vaguely remember her hanging out with Rita sometimes. I lost my virginity at age 20 to a very friendly charge nurse who offered to show me the intern’s sleep lounge.”

Tears fighting with overwhelming laughter I look at him. “I….you….Do you still…” my voice breaks. “Yes, yes, yes. Jules, absolutely I still love you and I desperately want you to be my wife.” “But Nikki”, I start to say. “Honey, we’ll show Nikki photos of Big Jim Eubanks on Rita’s page, by this time tomorrow he’ll be your father.”

Unable to stand it anymore I fling myself at him and we end in a tangled, delighted, crying, laughing, rejoicing heap on the floor. “Just one more thing”, I gasp when I can talk again. “Anything”, he says firmly.

“How do you feel about the nickname “Duddy”?

Regrettably my alarm went off right on schedule this morning. I’ve been getting up at 0500 for almost 3 years now—it hasn’t gotten any easier. Embedded in the circadian rhythm portion of my DNA is a bit of code which insists 0500 is a good time to go to bed, NOT to get up.

The shower is warmish but just won’t heat up to that “Aaaahhhh” hot spot—my Other has been doing laundry all night. Fumbling in the dark I knock a jumbo size bottle of shampoo onto my little toe. Quietly cursing, I grope for the soap only to discover that there is none. Even though the water never quite got hot, I’m hit with a scrotum scrunching blast of cold air as I shove the shower curtain open.

Back in the bedroom, tiptoeing around for clothes, the Other shushes me and murmurs that Tabby (age 6) is in our bed. I wasn’t exactly stomping around but pointing that out is, well…..pointless. Downstairs, I examine the clothes I snagged. Shirt is ok, but the pants are missing the top button. I’m far enough behind schedule that they will just have to do. I’ll pull my belt a little tighter.

Flipping on the light switch in the living room reveals Micah (5yrs) asleep on the couch. This means he was out of control last night and my Other had to put him in “segregation”. Lockdown in our house looks like a fairly comfortable, battered, old red couch. I kiss his forehead and whisper, “Your Daddy loves you.” He doesn’t stir, but seems to smile.

Locking the front door, I turn and step down toward the street—right into a dirty, crunchy pile of yard detritus. Someone, we’ll call him “Joshua” (names have not been changed to protect the guilty) flat out refuses to sweep this mess up. I pick stray leaves out of my socks and dust off my shoes.

“My” van is the one with the open window that I toss my backpack through. Several weeks ago the electric opener died with the window in the down position, so there is a fine layer of dust and grit over all the interior surfaces.

Brushing off my seat, I slide in and fire it up. I’m greeted with a cacophony of noise. The electrical system is dying—all the idiot lights and warning bells sound continuously, one after the other. The gas gauge, speedometer, and temperature gauge all spin freely. The headlights blink randomly like an illiterate telegraph operator is trying to send a message. Today, in a new twist, the overhead light comes on and refuses to go out, even when all the switches are in the off position. There is a low electrical growl and from the undercarriage a loud metallic rattling. I ran over a curb one day and knocked the muffler housing loose. Feeling like Jethro Clampett chauffeuring all the rest of the Hillbillies down Rodeo Dr, I make my way out of the subdivision.

Driving eastbound on Thomas Rd I see in the distance, what I swear looks like a giant penis sticking up about 100 feet into the sky. I’m not talking “phallic-like”, I’m talking full on male appendage. My confused eyes try to make sense of the apparition, while my brain is thinking that if I have to see a ginormous body part first thing in the morning, I can think of several others that I would choose. I have just decided it was a really funky cloud formation when oncoming traffic finally reveals it to be a cluster of palm trees. The lack of dimension against the darkened sky had melded it into one really weird vision.

I make it to my bus stop simultaneous with the bus. The overhead light still refuses to be doused, even with the ignition turned off, so I’ll probably have a dead battery when I get back tonight. The bus door opens with a whoosh that almost gags me. The bus driver is flatulent—seriously flatulent…skid marks in his shorts flatulent. I get on at the first stop so there are no other bodies on the bus to dilute the smell.

I take a deep breath and head to the back of the bus—it doesn’t matter, he’s been at this for a while. There is one other lady riding with me. We make eye contact and both frantically look for a window to open—there aren’t any on the “plush” Express lines. Thankfully, at our second stop a woman with way too much perfume boards.

As normal breathing returns, my thoughts focus on my day ahead. It’s Monday, so I’ll have a string of employees wanting to touch base with me. The end of the month is near so my paperwork needs to be brought up to date. I need to pay some bills and I already know there isn’t enough cash on hand. I will need to slaughter a chicken and study its entrails or snag someone’s tea leaves to discern which utility company won’t shut me off if I ignore them for another two weeks. Someone has told Nate (14yrs) that he can’t graduate if he has outstanding school fees. He’s very stressed about his sports participation and swimsuit charges that I haven’t paid yet. I try to point out that graduation is four years away and promise that I will figure out how to pay up before then, but he remains unconvinced.

With a sigh, I lean back and stare out the window. The sun is rising. Damn, it is beautiful.

Another day has begun.

They tell us that our image of God is shaped by our relationship with our human father. This certainly held true for me. For most of my adult life I viewed God with respect—as a powerful entity that had an awesome public persona, yet who en famille was somewhat distant. Not unkind, simply indifferent. No question that He loved me and would be willing to answer an outright call for help, but not One who would be interested in firing up a couple stogies and shooting the breeze for a couple hours.

I’m a very black and white kind of guy. I take things very literally. If my Other tells me, “You always do x, y, and z.” I will promptly focus on the “always” rather than whatever “x, y, z” maneuver I’ve pulled off that has hurt her. If a dispatcher tells me that the MDTs (officer’s in-car computers) aren’t working—my immediate assumption is that the whole precinct has gone down, rather than the 1-2 cars they probably mean. When Goodwill announces that the store closes in 5 minutes I will head for the door even if my Other has 2 kids stripped to their underwear in the changing room and a cartful of “finds” to be paid for.

This leaves me at a disadvantage when trying to understand the parables of Jesus. I HATE freaking analogies, yet that’s what He chose as His primary medium. Fortunately, as I have aged I have managed to comprehend one thing (analogically speaking)—God reveals His love for us in our relationships with others.

My sexually aroused Other panting for me is a picture of His desire. The hormone ridden teen whispering on the phone to his new girlfriend, long after curfew, is a picture of how much He wants to know me. The old man who gallantly seats his wife first is a picture of His enduring love. The Mommy nursing the infant in the middle of the night shows His willingness to nurture us. The Daddy holding strong to his little girl’s hand as she learns how to cross the street is His protection. Are these “perfect” examples of God’s love? No, they are simply glimpses—parables if you will. We are made in His image.

So, Saturday, Cyrus (21 months) decides that sleeping till 10:00 a.m. like he usually does is passé. Rather, he rises at 7:30 a.m. and wants to play. My Other tries to bring him into bed with us to snuggle and snooze—Nothing doing. She turns on Noggin and lays out a variety of toys—Nada. He wants to chat while using both of us as his personal climbing gym. My Other is a night owl who usually goes to bed about the time I normally get up—I’ve had my eight hours, she’s just starting on her six. It quickly becomes apparent that Cy and I are going to be spending some “quality time” together.

We make our way downstairs. I change his pants and pour the requisite bowl of cereal. Sleepily, I settle in front of the computer to run thought my usual morning internet ritual: AbeVigoda.com (yep, Abe still lives), Woot.com (dang, I wish I had disposable income), CNN.com (yup, the world is still more or less in one piece), AzCentral.com (no officers have been hurt bad enough overnight to make the local news), and finally Hotmail.com.
There a couple cranky letters and a few nice notes about my blog—I’ll read them in detail later. This initial perusal of the web takes about 5 minutes until I reach the mother lode…my daily email from Comics.com which contains the 100 or so comics I must consume before I can really start my day.

I make it past 9 Chickweed Lane (best serial storyline strip ever), Andy Capp (not bad for a fifty year old strip drawn by a “creative team”), Get Fuzzy (best stand alone strip ever), Arlo & Janis (unique combination of story arcs and stand alones) and am starting on Drabble (always my father’s favorite) when Cyrus appears at my elbow. “Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad.” This is accompanied by an earnest look and all five fingers waggling “come here” from his upturned hand.

I stand up and he grabs my hand to pull me over to the silver fridge—he’s very definite, whatever he wants isn’t in the white fridge. As I open the door he scrambles around me to grab a gallon of milk and demand, “Juice!” I snag the jug from him and turn to the cupboard. One by one I hold up the cups for his inspection. Vigorously shaking his head “No” he declines a blue cup, red plastic, Scooby Doo, Tigger, and the Flintstones. When I reach the small plastic sports bottle I get an enthusiastic, “That, that”.

I pour his “juice”; make sure the lid is on tight and head back to my comics. Almost immediately I hear my bedroom door upstairs fling open and a cheerful chant of, “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom…..” It astounds me how fast he can move. Retrieving him from upstairs I pause briefly at the TV to see if he’s interested. He’s not, and I can’t really complain about that.

Downstairs, I set him on a couch, make a swing into the bathroom and by the time I’ve dried my hands he’s back up stairs trying to engage, “Mom, Mom, Mom…”
This will happen three more times. Each time I build the barrier in front of the door a little bigger and sturdier with suitcases, storage boxes and a chair. The final time I find him on top of the chair, balanced on boxes, leaning over the suitcases trying to unlock the door that I finally locked in exasperation. He is not happy.

On the ground floor, yet again, he seems to be engrossed in playing with a toy piano—noisy, but no danger of waking the Other. It takes me a second to process that the music has stopped. When I find him he has the digital camera. The camera lives on a shelf high above his diminutive reach. How he has managed to levitate either himself or the expensive bit of electronic tomfoolery remains a mystery.

I convince him to reengage the piano and I settle once again in front of the computer. I make it all the way to Secret Asian Man (usually funny, focuses autobiographically on what it means to be Asian American) before the little guy shows up with a handful of photos. Obviously from one of my Other’s scrap booking projects but I can’t figure out where exactly they came from. I relegate them temporarily to the top of the white fridge.
Holding him in my lap I manage to read Soup to Nutz (dysfunctional family that loves each other, reminiscent of the early Simpsons, but not quite as edgy) and Scary Gary (newly syndicated, features a 700 year old vampire who retires to the suburbs) before he squirms down. At this point, I give up on the comics and settle on the couch to just watch. We play a long distance game of Peek a Boo. Little One hides under a chair then leans out far enough to make eye contact. Giggling maniacally every time I “see” him this will continue for about forty Peeks.

Eventually, he tires and sits down out of sight on the bottom stair. I’m daydreaming when I hear the unmistakable “splish, splash” of liquid hitting the tile floor. Bellowing, “No!” I launch myself off the couch and around the corner in time to see the Little Shite enthusiastically shaking all the milk out of his upended sports bottle. Twenty-one months has been ample time for him to comprehend what “No” means and that this in particular is a “No, NO!!!” He does look momentarily abashed then gleefully offers me the bottle.

After sopping up the mess, I lug him upstairs and sprawl on the floor by the toys. He promptly crawls over to me, lays his head briefly on my shoulder (Cy sign language for I love you), curls up into my armpit and goes to sleep. Laying there listening to his contented breathing I contemplate the whole “God as your father” thing. I briefly pray that my little ones will grow up with a view of God as one who is deeply interested in them as individuals, and who passionately loves, cares, and provides for them.

Suddenly, I have a flash of insight and realize that the relationship can be looked at from both ends. This morning Cy was a contrary, self absorbed, disobedient, destructive little pain in the ass. And I LOVED him every second of it, deeply, truly, and irrevocably. When I was wiping his butt, cleaning up the milk, building barriers to redirect him, refusing to give him medicine he thought was “CANDY!!!!!”, climbing up those damn stairs for the umpteenth time—I loved him and was absolutely committed to his well being. If I had needed to die, so he could live—it would have happened without regret or reservation.

I had to pray again, “Abba, how can you possibly love me, of all people, that much? How can You tolerate all my shit, arrogance and disobedience?”

The answer of course is: I’m His son.

In a flash of movement that briefly bares her left breast the hooker produces a spray painted gold crack pipe. She has it lit and has taken her first hit before I even recognize what it is. Tony chooses this moment to announce, “He works for the Police you know.” The glare she fixes me with over the hood of the !@#$% car gives me chills.

______________________________

I first met the !@#$% car late on a Friday summer night. A family friend, knowing that we could really use a second vehicle, offered it to me. He had “liberated” it from his drug addict son. “It’s not pretty but it runs and has a clear title”, was music to my ears. His girlfriend had a meeting in Phoenix so she followed him into town from Lake Havasu. He knocked on the door, handed me the keys and sprinted back to the girlfriend’s waiting Mustang. As they pealed out down the street I could have sworn I heard maniacal laughter trailing behind.

The !@#$% car was a early 1980’s something Toyota. Primer gray, lots of bondo. The backseat was missing as was most of the dashboard—no a/c, no radio, no speedometer. The two front seats lacked upholstery and had a variety of springs sticking out through the crumbling foam.

I was wearing nothing but a pair of baby blue shorts, that had last fit comfortably about 60 pounds ago, when I decided to take the !@#$% car for test drive. It fired up quickly. I and all my neighbors noticed that it had a muffler in name only. As I familiarized myself with the stick shift the !@#$% car jerked and heaved it weaved through the neighborhood.

Soon I was confident enough to cruise out onto the post-midnight streets of north Phoenix. It was loud, uncomfortable and hot, but it ran and seemed solid enough. A mile from home I sat at a stoplight waiting to make the turn that would lead me back to my subdivision. Sudden silence–I quickly became aware that the silence was emanating from the !@#$% car. Growing increasingly frustrated I tried to restart the damn thing, to no avail. Reluctantly I realized it wasn’t going to start and I was going to have to get out and push it off the street.

It was small and light enough to move easily, till I got to the built up entrance ramp at the gas station on the corner. I made three runs at it, only to have to dance out of the way as it rolled back down on me (Poor Sisyphus!). Profanity and sweat poured from me in equal measure. Two Hispanic guys making a late night beer run took pity on me. Setting down their 18-packs of Bud they pushed the !@#$% car up into the parking lot. They didn’t say a word to me but both eyed my (non) attire. One muttered something in Spanish to his buddy, both laughed–neither sounded sympathetic.

Gingerly, I picked my barefoot way home. I placed a late night call to my “friend”. He didn’t sound surprised, but did offer to come look at it in the morning. Later that day he diagnosed the problem as a bad thingy whatsit and graciously bought and installed a new one.

I spent most of the next year tooling around in the !@#$% car. It never ran great, but it usually started. The nights it chose to die were usually when I was making an after hours presentation to a citizen group. I received many jump starts from polite folks who obviously wondered what a police employee was doing driving around in a car that looked like it belonged to a drug addict.

The brakes began to fail and the expiration date on the tags loomed near. It was obvious to anyone within a ¼ mile of the idling !@#$% car that it didn’t have chance of passing emissions. I made arrangements to sell the thing to one of my father’s employees. I hoped that with that cash and my income tax refund I might be able to move up in the automotive world–maybe to a Yugo or something.

The last night I was to own the !@#$% car it ended up at my grandmother’s house. I don’t remember why, but I had made arrangements for a co-worker who lived in the neighborhood to drop me after we got off duty at 2 a.m. By 2:30 a.m. I was sitting at 35th Av/Bethany Home Rd fiddling with a small battery powered radio, trying to tune in Coast to Coast AM with Art Bell. A disheveled looking guy approached and asked for cash. I had no idea the last great !@#$% car adventure had begun.

I’m a soft touch for panhandlers and will usually give up whatever cash I have. This night I had no currency at all, so I told him that if he walked over to the Whataburger I would by him food with my credit card.

At the drive thru speakers I had to turn off the !@#$% car in order to hear the poor schmuck who was manning a deep fryer at 2:30 in the morning. After placing the order–the !@#$$% car flat out refused to start. It was yet another replay of our first night together. Mr. Disheveled Guy became quite irate. He started banging on the roof of my car and shouting me down when I tried to explain that the !@#$% car was dead and they don’t take walkups at drive thru windows. This continued until I got out of the !@#$% car and he realized I was much bigger than I looked when crammed into a shitty subcompact.

I pushed the !@#$% car into a parking place and contemplated wreaking mechanical mayhem and my place in the Cosmos. After watching a few cars move through the line I noticed that the parking lot was on a slight incline. Perhaps I could push start the vehicle. Dressed in office attire and weighing closer to 300 than 250 I was drenched in sweat by the time I had managed to maneuver the !@#$% car into position at the top of the hill.

Taking a deep breath I shoved off and headed down. At what I judged to be top speed I jumped in and promptly stomped on the brakes–Shit! Push it back up the hill, relaunch, jump in, clutch, gas, key–Nada. Damn. Once more–shoulder to the hood, push it back up the incline, aim, push, run, jump, clutch–Nothing.
By this point I looked as if I had showered with my clothes on, was gasping so hard for breath I must have sound like a Kentucky Derby winner, and my heart was pounding so hard I assumed it would freeze up simply for the sheer principle of the thing.

When my breathing returned to normal, but with my heart still pounding I walked to the payphone to call my Other–collect of course, I had no change. No answer–Dang, of all the nights for her to skip the late night rerun of Oprah. I called my father–no answer, he’s smarter than to answer the phone at 3 a.m. I wracked my brain for anyone else who might conceivably accept a collect call from me in the middle of the night–Zilch.

Disgustedly, I plopped back into the !@#$% car. That was when I first noticed him–shuffling my way. Short, filthy clothes, pronounced limp. As he drew closer I could see that his ankle was completely bent inwards and he walked on the side of his foot. Closer still and I could tell that his eyes were completely clouded with cataracts.

I have a soft spot for transients but I was NOT in the mood. Surprising me, instead of asking for money he said, “Having trouble?” Reluctantly, I acknowledged that the !@#$% car wouldn’t start. He asked if he could take a look. Pondering the engine like any man would–studiously, nodding thoughtfully like he completely comprehended what he was looking at, he said, “You probably have a bad thingy whatsit .” .Wondering how he could possibly see anything with those cataracts I responded, “Yeah, but it’s not that old, my buddy just replaced it a few months ago.”

“Have you tried pushing it?” At this point, I poured out the whole story, including the cranky hungry guy pounding on the roof. “Ah, that’d be Dale. I’m surprised you got him to eat anything. Usually the only thing he’ll put in his mouth is the business end of a bottle.” “Well, I didn’t exactly feed him….”

In his opinion that parking lot was too short. “Let’s get it out in the street where we have some room.” Astonishing me again, he glanced at my ID badge with his clouded eyes, “Phoenix PD..You’re a cop?” This was NOT information I wanted to share. “No, I’m a 911 operator. Civilian position.”

“I’m Tony”, he stuck out his hand. Cringing inwardly I grasped his hand–he had an unexpectedly firm grip with nothing “icky” about it. I offered to push while he sat in the drivers seat. “Nah, I can’t work the pedals with this foot.” Sheepishly, I settled in behind the wheel and we started westbound on the side street. Three times I kicked the clutch, stomped the gas and twisted the key. The !@#$% car didn’t even have the good grace to pretend like it was considering turning over.

After the third time, I hopped out and started pushing by the steering wheel. Twice more I jumped in but nothing happened. Finally, 1/8 mile from the Whataburger, Tony and I stood panting on the dark street in front of a run down apartment complex. Casually, he pointed across the street, “That’s a crack house.” Great, it’s 3:15 in the morning, my car is dead, no one knows where I am and I’m hanging out with a transient in front of a known drug house. At least it can’t get any worse…..

“Thump, Thump, Thump”. A low rider from Casting 101 from every low budget gangbanger movie I’ve ever seen pulls up. Two unfriendly looking dudes in front, then movement from the back seat.

“Fuck! Move over would’ya?” An obvious member in good standing of the oldest profession in the world clambers out of the back seat. The choirboy in the front passenger side grabs her skirt, proving to any onlooker that she prefers the “commando” style of under garb. “Bye guys! We’ll do it again.” I shudder to think about what “it” is.

Without a glance at us the hooker starts walking away. Tony calls out, “Hey Mary, c’mere and push this man’s car.” Amazingly, she turns and saunters back. “Why the fuck should I do that?” Tony responds, “Because he’s a nice man and he needs your help.” I’m flattered by Tony’s assessment of my character, but dubious about her intentions to get involved.

She heaves a deep sigh and then says, “Ok, but I gotta load up first.” In a flash of movement that briefly bares her left breast the hooker produces a spray painted gold crack pipe. She has it lit and has taken her first hit before I even recognize what it is. Tony chooses this moment to announce, “He works for the Police you know.” The glare she fixes me with over the hood of the !@#$% car gives me chills.

“So are you gonna arrest me or not?” Stammering, “No, I’m not a cop, I just talk on the phone, I’m just trying to get home (a fleeting image of Dorothy pleading her case to the Wizard flashes through my mind).
So now my !@#$% car is broken down, I’m in a crappy neighborhood, no one knows where I am and I’m hanging out with a crippled transient and a stoned hooker. Alan Funt is dead, so I start looking for the Live at 5 cameras or an Internal Affairs plain wrap to roll up.

She watches while Tony and I push the !@#$% car in a wide half circle and end up facing back toward Whataburger. Taking one last deep hit from the pipe she says, “Ok, let’s do this.” (She also vanishes the pipe–the thing has just been cooked in an open flame, it’s gotta be hot. Where the hell is she putting it?)

Tony and the hooker line up behind the !@#$% car and I end up back in the driver’s seat. After two abortive attempts the hooker announce she wants to trade place. Only then do I realize that she is wearing 5 inch heels. As she settles in behind the wheel I have a brief image of the car starting and her driving off in a cloud of smoke. At that point I was so disgusted with the whole thing I probably wouldn’t have minded.

The car never starts and by the time we make it back to Whataburger , Tony and I are exhausted and the hooker has lost interest. “Sorry guys” , she gets out and strolls away. I wander back over to the payphone and this time manage to connect with my Other. She is pregnant and will have to wake and dress 4 kids in order to rescue me. She is kind, but NOT happy. When I walk back to the !@#$% car, Tony has disappeared.

During the hour that I have to wait for my Other I try to doze in the car. I’m wakened by one of the largest white men I have ever seen. He is drunk and staggering. He proclaims that he is a mechanic and wants to look at the engine. After he does the whole stare studiously and nod knowingly thing he proclaims that it’s a bad thingy whatsit. I agree that he is probably right. Thankfully he doesn’t want to push the !@#$% car, though frankly he probably could have put the whole damn thing on his back and carried me home.

Closing in on 5 a.m. my Other arrives. I’ve neglected to tell her to get the towrope from the storage room. As I contemplate tying the cars together with a set of cheap jumper cables, Tony reappears. “Don’t do that”, he warns. I introduce him to my Other. He is polite and suggests we push the car across the street to Denny’s. “This is a really bad neighborhood”, he explains. So, with my Other steering, Tony and I take our now familiar places behind the !@#$% car and make the trip across the street.

As we are walking together back to Whataburger my Other thanks Tony for “watching out” for me. He smiles and tells her that he’s taken care of me more than I will ever know. He then reiterates what a bad neighborhood it is. As I climb into my Other’s car I see Tony walking into a dimly lit alley.

Turns out the !@#$% car really did have yet another bad thingy whatsit. I sold it at auction and scored $300. A couple months later the guy who gave it to me got a call from a police department in southern Arizona. The !@#$% car had been used in an armed robbery. Fortunately , I didn’t match the suspect description of a 5’4 , 120 pound Homeboy with a knockoff Tec-9.

I looked for Tony many times over the next couple weeks. I cruised his neighborhood at all hours of the day and night. I never did see him again.

“You know what causes that right!?!”

Depending on my mood and tolerance for inane questions I will either chuckle politely and mumble about something in the water or I’ll respond, “Well, in our case it’s lots of vigorous sex.” This will cause my Other’s eyes to roll, her cheeks to redden slightly and evoke a sigh which says, “I just can’t take you anywhere can I?”

The question of course is, “You have NINE kids?” If my body language indicates a willingness to talk, or the person is casually oblivious to the personal nature of the inquiry, the following questions are likely to be:

Q Any twins?

A Nope.

Q Are they all yours?

A Do you think I would borrow this many?

Q Oh, you know what I mean…

A Each was lovingly handcrafted by me and my Other.

Q Are you Mormon/Catholic?

A No, just weird.

Q Have you seen that TV show….

A No, I haven’t but lots of people have told me about it.

Q Person often proceeds to tell me about it some more.

A Blank look, polite-ish nod.

(SIDEBAR: I’ve not seen John and Kate Plus 8, but I don’t live in a bubble and I’ve heard the scuttlebutt. Apparently the show is edited to make Kate appear to be a controlling bitch. Perhaps she is, perhaps she isn’t; but hey, it’s showbiz and conflict sells–there always has to be a villain. As I see it, the facts are that John made a promise to her on their wedding day, and then he made 8 babies. This means that he has no business looking for “happiness” in another woman’s loins, um, I mean arms. His responsibilities are bigger than himself and he needs to man up and figure out how to make it work.)

Then will follow two or three comments from an assortment of:

**I don’t know how you do it. (Neither do I most days.)

**You sure are blessed. (Damn right I am.)

**My grandmother/aunt/cousin had 6/8/10 kids. (Yeah, mine too.)

**Well, you have teenagers, so at least you have help. (Sometimes–it depends on their mood. I will say that my teen boys have probably changed more diapers that your basic one child parent.)

**You must like kids. (Nope, not really. God just has a sense of humour. {c’mon–they are loud, smelly, sticky, needy and horrendously expensive} In the movie Family Man, I enjoyed Nick Cage’s response when asked if he liked children: hesitantly…”on a case by case basis”. I steadfastly love my brood and am passionately committed to their mother. That covers a lot.)

Lest you think I’m snide or resentful about folk’s interest, please understand that I am not. But (there’s always a “but” isn’t there?) there is so much more to the story.

I never expected to have 9 kids. If I thought about it at all, I assumed we would do the standard 1.75 kids and a dog routine. My Other was in a serious accident during her teen years and was told that likely she would never conceive. (Fortunately, during our dating days she never let things go far enough to test that theory. There were certainly nights I would have been willing to risk it.)

We planned our first baby—there was a two month window in which to conceive which would correspond nicely on the other end with my Other’s college schedule. I cheerfully agreed to “try”—hey I was 21, married to a hottie just barely out of her teens and able to live on 4 hours sleep a night. I was always up for a “try”. Approximately, 9 months and 1 week later, Josh came squalling into our tidy little world.

By the time I was 26 I had 3 kids, an accidental career, a mortgage, and a perpetually exhausted wife. It was time for a break. My Other obtained information about “natural” family planning. Most likely it would have worked well if we hadn’t inadvertently juxtaposed the fertile/infertile times. So—by the time I was 28 I had 4 kids, an accidental career, etc.

Thereafter, we experimented with a variety of family planning options, but were unable to settle on one that: a) we both liked, b) didn’t wreak hormonal havoc  on my Other, and c) met our unrelentingly high pro-life standards. Turns out such a product does not exist….after a lot of soul searching, prayer and discussion we decided that other than a casual use of the “natural” method we would not be using birth control.

Yes, I hear the gasps, tsks, and murmurs. I see the rolling eyes and shaking heads. You know what? I agree with you. Our life is weird, strange and unique. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone (nor would I castigate any who had the personal conviction that it was for them). It’s hard. It’s dirty. It’s nothing like you’ve seen on TV.

So, now I’m 41 with six boys and three girls.  The amount of work it takes to produce 4 teenagers and 5 kids, eight and younger, at a church service, family dinner or school function is staggering. The sighs and jokes about the Horneys always being late stopped being funny a decade ago. Laundry loads run into the dozens (yes dozens with an “S”) every week. We spend $350 a week at Sam’s Club, not to stock up by buying in bulk, but for essentials. There are times we hope the meat box from the food bank will cover us till payday. Milk disappears at just under 2 gallons a day. Clothing and furniture are 2^nd hand or hand me downs. One minivan was a gift (Thank you Ed!) the other is falling apart.  The “waiting list” for new shoes can run a couple months.

We don’t have any credit cards or “consumer debt” but owe close to a $1000 to various medical facilities for co-pays on broken arms, stitches, cardiac tests and a variety of other emergency room kind of stuff. The last 5 days of the pay cycle is always hold your breath, don’t invite any friends that might possibly eat something and please don’t drink so much milk…..

Don’t misinterpret this as complaining. Life is hard, but God is good—so easy to write, so difficult to live. I have been taught faith, patience, humility, resilience, persistence, love. I have been drawn out of myself. My inward focused autistic tendencies have been stretched wide, far beyond where I would have guessed the breaking point was. I have the joy of returning to 9 kids and my Other every night. Most of them are even glad to see me….

The baby, Cyrus (21 months), is beginning to speak. However, his absolute favorite expression is “he’s a bum”. In Cy-speak this means, “I like it, I love it, I want some more of it” (with apologies to Mr. McCoy.). It is his expression of pure joy. Last night as I was playing with him, growling like a monster, he was shivering with delight and laughing hysterically. Suddenly, he was desperate for his mother’s attention. “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, he’s a bum bum bum bum.” That’s right; I got a quadruple bum  from the little guy.

It doesn’t get much better than that.

Age 8 or so, Beloved Teacher sees me step into a puddle of water that’s much deeper than I had imagined.  Her whistle blows, and I’m summoned across the playground. I’m reprimanded for deliberately getting all wet and informed that my recess privileges for the rest of the day are suspended.  I try to protest and explain that I had no idea how deep it was yet I am promptly overruled and sent to the classroom.  ZAP!!!.  A memory forms that I know I will never forget.

 

Our childhoods are made up of ZAP moments.  The chemicals which form memories somehow have a momentary acidic flow and it’s etched forever into your brain.  (No I’m not a scientist, it’s a word picture.  I’d say, “It’s a metaphor” but I used “metaphor” in my last post and I don’t like to repeat myself.}

 

Age 9. Despised Teacher sees me freeing a kickball, stuck in some brambles, by poking a long metal pole through a chain link fence.  I am a hero to the younger kids who were befuddled as to how to get it back.  The Despised One immediately starts berating me in front of my admiring audience, telling me I’m going to damage the fence and that I should “know better”.  I try to explain that Beloved Teacher actually taught me how to do this.  Despised One promptly tells me I’m a liar (she actually uses the word liar) and banishes me to the classroom.  I feel so friggin’ powerless.  ZAP!!!

 

I run into Beloved Teacher on the way.  In a rush to justify myself to a friendly face I trip over my words trying to explain.  I’m so pissed I’m almost crying.  She misinterprets my tears as hurt feelings.  She is kind and tells me it’s ok.  She tells me she knows I’m not a liar.  I see Despised Teacher across the way.  I beg Beloved Teacher to go explain that I am not a liar but in fact, a paragon of virtue.  She gently declines.  ZAP!!!  Damn, two in one day. 

 

These moments are unique to us and no one else.  I’d be shocked to find out that Beloved Teacher recalls the incident or that Despised Teacher remembers my name.  Yet they are formative moments which linger with us long.  I learned that even your best intentions can be misconstrued and those who should protect you often won’t. 

 

I’m a small child, certainly in single digits.  It’s Christmas time and relatives from Albuquerque and Indiana have converged on Phoenix.  I’m in the basement of my grandparent’s house playing with cousins I see once every couple years.  It’s a large group and somehow I become the butt of the joke.  It’s me vs. them and I don’t like it.  When I start to complain they mock me, put a pillow on my head and call me “puppy dog”.  Why that was such an insult to me is lost in some un-acid drenched memory. 

 

I go upstairs to complain to Poppy (my grandfather).  He is my favorite person in the whole world.  I get him to myself most of the year.  They usually see him for a couple weeks during the summer and every third Christmas or so.  There is no way he will side with them against me.  He listens to my story and then summons everyone.  I smugly wait for their comeuppance.  To my utter shock he specifically includes me in the reprimand.   Everyone is chewed out and threatened with a spanking.  Me! My gentle, cherished Grandfather is threatening to spank me! He’s even making eye contact. ZAP ZAP ZAP. 

 

These moments teach us life lessons that we will carry with us even if we aren’t exactly sure where we got them. Noted: Grandpas have lots of favorites. You can never count on someone doing/reacting how you expect them to.

 

It’s summer.  I’m probably 10’ish.  Certainly preadolescent.  My father is working on the back porch.  I’m supposed to be his gofer, but mostly I’m just slacking off.  My sister and I like to play the “funny game” wherein I stack assorted couch like cushions into a chair and then one or the other of us sits on the unstable contraption and it collapses under us.  I do this a couple times and then place one of the cushions onto the exercise bike and use it as a seat.  I demand his attention to “look” and for some reason it hits a nerve and he says, “Dave, don’t be such a stupid jackass.”  ZAP!!! 

 

(Now you have to understand that my father doesn’t get angry at children, not even at teenagers–not even when I smashed a window to get into the house rather that wait literally 10 minutes for him to arrive home with a key.)

 

So, I was crushed and immediately left in tears.  Why was I hurt?  He called me “stupid”.  Why did he think I was upset?  He called me “jackass”.  Later that evening he insisted that I accompany him on a trip to pick up a tool.  He asked if he had hurt my feelings and of course I denied it.  He told me that he knew he did and apologized for calling me “jackass”.  I never had the gumption to explain it was the “stupid” part that got me.   

 

Life lesson: even predictable people can turn on you and words can hurt like hell.

 

What haunts me now is: “How many ZAPS!!! have I given to my children?”  What unknowing lessons and attitudes have I etched into their beings?  Will Josh remember the day I lost it and screamed at him for pooping his diaper instead of using the potty?  Does Caleb remember when he was a hugely affectionate little boy and I refused to hold his hand because he kept wiping his nose with it?  Is the day I laughingly told Bethany she was my “favorite daughter” (for rubbing my head) right as Lyssa walked into the room seared in there somewhere?  (She looked at me like I had stabbed her.)

Or more likely, are the ZAPS! completely unknown to me?  Would I even know what they were talking about if they dredged one up.  What life lessons have I taught, completely unknowingly?

 

I guess I have some asking to do.