A love letter I should have written...

I spend most of my time with my eyes shut, dreaming of you - lovely little cameos of you flitting past, and full-length feature films. I remember things you said, and sweet things you did. I can spend hours like this - eating lotuses, smelling poppies - hours I can hardly believe have passed.

I went to a concert tonight, but the music heightened my emotion to such a fever pitch that I had to leave, and go to a bar. A bad idea: everybody was there with their lover. Only I was alone, a solitary Adam before the creation of Eve. Except I wasn't in paradise. Far from it. I caught your reflection in the mirror. Even the beer bubbled with your humor, the way your face lights up when you laugh. The bar was haunted by you - I had to leave.

When I got home, I sat for a long time in the dark, wanting you, thinking hollow thoughts, containing only your absence. There must be more empty space in my head than I ever thought. I am going to bed now, so I can dream of you.

To make sure I do, the last thing I'll do is kiss your picture, and wrap my empty arms around the idea of you, and fall fast asleep. Holding onto my fantasy of you, I'll feel that with each breath something leaves me, and goes to you. And there I'll conjure up your face across a candlelit table, holding hands walking down a street in Barcelona at midnight, your wet skin pressing against mine on an abandoned beach in Haiti. In my dreams we are the lovers that others gaze on enviously.

Why are our pleasures so short and interrupted, and our absenses so long and unbroken?

Truckstop

The clock on the wall sneers 3:42 and there he sits on that old familiar diner stool, its red vinyl long since patched with duck tape. His eyes glance down at the tepid coffee and the half-eaten apple pie, which is by now less a la mode than a la flood.

"Can I get you anything else Finch?"

His real name was Charlie Greenbaum, but everyone knew him as Finch. That was his sobriquet on the CB radio, his trucking name. He chose that name because when he was a little boy he saw 'To Kill A Mockingbird' and wanted to be just like Atticus when he grew up. By the time he grew up, he had himself become a lawyer, and not a bad one. In the beginning he was consumed with the battle of right versus wrong and every litigious engagement took on the feel of a morality play. He started dating another lawyer. They even had their own practice. Then something changed. For years, he had quibbled over moral vagaries and technicalities with crooked judges and sleazy lawyers for the sake of clients who, even if not guilty, were anything but innocent. After so much of this, he realized he was selling his soul. He felt like a priest in the middle ages peddling indulgences,” Sin much, or grievously? Call the prayer offices of Hoffman and Greenbaum. We'll put in a good word for you with the powers that be, sparing you guilt and eternal damnation! Now isn't that worth forty percent?' Whatever happened to Atticus Finch? What had happened to the honorable southern lawyer sustained by his righteous convictions?

He began to hate his job. He began to hate the humanity that sustained his job. Worst of all, he began to hate himself for being party to it for so long. That is why one day ten years ago, after saving a client who had absconded with several thousand in ill-gotten gains from the company till on the meagerest of technical points, he cancelled all appointments and typed his letter of resignation. When he got home, he unplugged his telephones and drew the shades. For a week, his only contact with the outside world were the morning and late night talk shows and a brief visit from the sheriff to make sure he was alive and if so, serve him with papers. Turns out his partner was looking to legally acquire sole ownership of the firm. None of it offered much in the way of abating his newfound disillusionment.

One day he saw a commercial for a truck driving school serving as an interlude in the cable rebroadcast of ''Smoky and the Bandit'. How could he refuse such cunning strategic marketing? A month later his name was off the law firm, he had his class D operator's license and was heading a load of industrial fertilizer to Fresno, thinking of his ex-partner the whole time. To this day, he couldn't help but think of the name 'Hoffman' whenever he passed downwind of a feedlot.

He liked his new job. He was only required to drive a certain number of hours a day, which let him catch up with his reading. He even had a huge sleeper cabin all to himself. The clincher though, was that the only people that existed either worked in stops along the way, sent him his paychecks, or were fellow truckers, and all of which occurred with comfortable rarity. He even garnered a certain taste for country music on dull stretches of road where the same old hills roll for a hundred miles.

A few things happen when you criss-cross the country enough times. You learn the roads and the best places to stop between your destinations. At that point, Charlie knew from personal experience practically every truck stop, greasy spoon or rest stop vending machine where you could grab a meal after 2am in sixteen states. Nevertheless, this one was his favorite. He stopped here at every opportunity, about twice a week, for the last seven years. The reason was Dotty.

"What? Oh, no thanks, I'm fine."

"You've barely touched your food. Something wrong?"

"Naw, I'm fine."

"Wasn't talking about you. I was thinking about having some pie later and if you can't stomach it, I might just have the cheesecake."

"Oh, really?"

"No, but if you're not going to be honest with me, I'm not going to be honest with you either. Now finish up, you don't look like you've been eating enough as it is."

"Yes Mom."

"That's right, and don' think you're too big or I'm too old for me to take you over my knee..." She walked away cackling. He just grinned.

He had kept to himself for much of the first few years when his company started shipping to a new client roughly twelve miles east of west bumfuck. He had been to the truck stop several times before but he had stuck to his business, ordered and left, usually in under twenty words. His friendship with Dotty came purely by accident. Really.

An over-excitable teenager in a red camaro had been running in his blind spot and tried passing him on the highway two miles from the stop. Either oncoming traffic was faster, or his acceleration was slower than the driver of the camaro had expected. In order to avoid it the red camaro had cut him off, misjudging the distance between Charlie's front and the back of the car ahead of him in the mean time. The lead car tapped on the brakes for whatever reason, the camaro was surprised and slammed on his, and there wasn't enough distance or time to stop an eighteen-wheeler with a full load. The camaro took it hard on the backside and lost control, veering off into the other lane. The driver overcorrected his steering and flipped a few times off the shoulder.

The closest paramedics were ten miles away and there wasn't much left of him by the time they got there. While he was cleared of any wrongdoing, the law and a man's emotion judge his actions by two different standards. Later he would find out from the insurance report that the kid was hyped on meth and had been driving cross-country almost non-stop. He would find out that the kid had a history of driving erratically. He would find out the kid had been ticketed twice and almost lost his license for wreckless endangerment. Almost.

That night he had no way of knowing any of it. It probably wouldn't have helped anyway. That night, it was another evil act he had been party to and exactly the type of thing that he had tried to get away from when he became a trucker.

In every small-town truck stop there are a lot of folks who are just passing through, but there are always regulars and 'Finch' was one of them. They had never spoken casually, but Dotty knew by heart what he would order -scrambled eggs and a coffee- and what song he would request on the little jukebox on the counter. -'Much too young (to feel this damn old)' off the Garth Live album- So customary was all of this that when Dotty saw his truck pulling in, she'd reflexively get the line-cook started on some runny eggs and have the cup of coffee waiting and the song playing for him when he entered. He'd never say so aloud, but he always appreciated the effort and always left a fifty percent tip for the courtesy.

The night of the accident, he decided to put into the truck stop to make the call to the agency telling them what happened. For insurance purposes, they made him recount the accident. It took all his resolve not to choke on the words. When he was finished he hobbled over to his usual spot, a red Vinyl barstool liberally patched with duck tape. (He never liked the noise it made when he sat on any of the other ones) All he could do was stare at his paper napkin.

"I'm sorry, but you took so long in there that your food got cold. I'll have Pete make you some more eggs and pour you a fresh cup."

She quickly returned and set the coffee in front of him. A heavy hand half-heartedly reached for it knocking the scalding brown liquid all over the counter and sending the small ceramic cup crashing to the ground. Perhaps it was the crash or maybe it was just the seething liquid in his fly, but whatever it was he became animate once again, if only for the moment.

"GOD, WHAT ELSE?!?" Charlie was usually a very quiet man, but his frustrations had found an outlet through the violence of the spill and his emotions would not be denied this one ostensible opportunity to vent. Charlie sunk into the stool next to his. He put his fists on the table and bore his forehead into them, stifling a war cry against the injustice of the world.

After Dotty had calmly cleaned up the mess, she called to the line cook.

"Hey, Pete! I'm on break."

She then proceeded to cut two generous slices of apple pie, dalloping one with ice cream. She made her way over to the other side of the counter and over to him.

"With or without?"

His head grew heavier as the rage passed, but he managed to look up at her.

"What?"

"With or without ice cream. I didn't know if you liked your pie with or without, so I brought one of each."

"I'm not paying for this."

"That's right, now take a bite and tell me what's bothering you."

"Nothing." He felt like an ass for being so childish and for lying when he was so obviously sullen. Grown men didn't do such things, but right now, he wasn't too much of a mind to care.

"You know Finch, it is Finch right?"

"How did you know?"

"It's on your shirt, but never mind that. I've been here since this place opened up all those many years ago. In my time I've seen a lot of people passing through, and some of them pretty regular. Tonight when you came in here earlier, you were like Jacob and the Archangel. I wasn't going to say anything then because it wouldn't have been polite. Now after that little outburst I know you have something that needs talking about."

"I don't think I could."

"Then it's settled, you need the one with the ice cream." She pushed the plate towards him. "Have a bite. Its good pie, I made it myself only this afternoon. It might make you feel better." He just stared blankly at her for a moment. "Please, if nothing else do it to make this old woman happy."

Half sardonically he retorted "Oh you don't look a day over eighty-five."

"I'm sixty-eight and you're not going to get you off the hook by trying to hurt my feelings. Now, take a bite and let me know what you think."

She just wouldn't quit! He took a bite onto his fork and she was right. It was good pie. It did make him feel better. Most importantly, it helped him share the night's events. He just took a bite whenever the words seemed to be stuck in his throat. She listened intently and gasped when she heard about the camaro. Afterwards, she reached across the table and took his hand, relating to him a story that happened a few years back when someone tried to rob the truck stop. A trucker chased the would-be bandit off, but not before a stray bullet hit a server, a friend of hers. Dotty had tried to help, but she ended up dying in her arms. It was their third week on the job. Dotty related how she had felt helpless and angry, but mostly helpless. She reassured him that it was alright and sometimes there just wasn't anything you could do.

Her vocalization was everything his conscience had been trying to tell him all along, but she made it real. It was too much. His tears seemed to have a will of their own and would not be held back any longer. When he left that night he still felt bad for the kid, but part of him felt fresh, renewed. He hadn't felt that way in a long time.

He became a trucker so that he wouldn't have to make any permanent friends, but from that day forth he had come here. There was a strange feeling now when he entered this diner. It became his sanctuary. The cheap old clock, the squeaky vinyl, the lights that were always too bright and the stale of cigarette smoke, all of it became sacred to him. In short, it felt like home.

He visited Dotty when he was around, always ordering the same cup of coffee and runny eggs, and always there was a slice of apple pie waiting for him at the end. He still didn't talk much, but every occasionally, when she didn't have any other customers to attend to, Dotty talked to him. She liked to talk about the news of the day. On a slow day, she liked to talk about the truck stop or tell stories of her children. The whole time she would nag him intermittently -when he first found out she had children he just laughed to himself and thought Hey, at least she comes by it honestly All the while he'd just smile and listen intently, nodding his head. Over the years, he learned a lot about her and the truck stop.

He learned that her real name was Dorothy, but that when she started here they shortened it to 'Dotty' because it sounded friendlier. She said she didn't care because it suited her more anyway. The truck stop was partially funded by the state as a way to encourage commerce and help the local economy. He learned that it had switched owners and been renovated three times, but the faucets in the ladies' room continue to squeak to this day! A hand-full of women had given birth to their baby's in the diner when the closest hospital was twenty miles away. She herself had delivered two of them. There was a fire, a drought, and a flood in no particular order.

There was even a wedding! Hers, to be exact. She married the line cook before he was sent to Vietnam and went MIA. She had lived a whole lifetime in these walls, and there were pictures hanging on them to prove it. Mostly she just did what you could to 'give travelers a place to fill their belly and nurse their aching soles.' as she once put it. He was never quite sure whether 'soles' was meant to have a double meaning, but that's how he took it.

That brings him back to the moment, filling his belly and nursing his 'sole'.

(editor's note: I really don't know where I should take this from here. Any comments or suggestions would be greatly appreciated.)

Their Day

It was their day.

Two years ago on July Fourth was the first time they made love.

They had been seeing each other exclusively for three weeks. She had wanted to do it well before that, but he had his hesitations. It wasn't that he was shy or prudish or unaffectionate. They knew each other as friends before they started going out. In the middle of their first date, he took a reprieve in the middle of cloud watching to draw her close and they kissed for literally an hour. He hesitated taking that next step because she never really seemed to open up to him. Even in their most private moments there was always that piece of her that was guarded and that wasn't how he wanted it to be between them. He was not the type of guy who would sacrifice his ideals for a quick roll in the hay.

So it was on the fourth of July that he sat there with her watching Ever After. Consumed with thoughts of how becoming her own pair of wings would be on her, he barely noticed when she stood up. Without undue preamble she took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. Once inside, she captured his eyes.

That night she had worn a comfortable pair of jeans and a pure cotton shirt. She was always wearing things like that. She told him once that she liked wearing t-shirts because they were always soft and comfortable, like she was dressing herself in white rose petals. At that moment she began plucking them one by one and allowed the petals to fall to the floor at her feet. In a short time she was standing bare before him, with only the gossamer glow of the moon gracing her skin. She was still, waiting for acceptance or rejection at his touch.

He was breathless. He had of course had a reasonable idea what she looked like under her clothes, but he refused to take that which could only be given. Until that moment she had always been ensconced in her own protections and insecurities. This was the first time she had truly surrendered herself to him. She had never looked so beautiful. No woman ever had.

Three hours later they lay there, bodies entangled. Neither one wanted to break the connection. He grinned and she cried.

"Gee, I hope I wasn't THAT bad!" He mused.

That got a chuckle out of her and she nestled herself more closely into him.


Two years later he found himself sitting sitting in another apartment, across town, relieving the humidor on his desk of another cohiba in his own ritualistic fashion. He admires the shape and luster of its wrapping. He draws the cigar beneath his nose and allows the smell to fill his nose. He rolls the cigar between his fingers and feels the smoothness of the wrapper. He listens for a crinkle, the sign of a poorly rolled cigar, but finds nothing unsatisfactory. He poors an ounce of rum from the faux-crystal decanter into a double-shot glass. In it he lightly dips the end of the cigar, only long enough to not spill the rum or soak the tobacco. He then clips the end of the cigar and lets it rest in his left hand. With his right hand, he passed the rum beneath his nose and knocks back the shot taking time to savor the warmth of the amber liquid dispersing like insatiable fire through his chest.

Now came the reason behind the ritual. He brought the cigar to rest between his teeth, never letting it touch his lips. He strikes a match, touches it to the end of the cigar and draws first breath. He watches as the fire dances on the end of his cigar. He watches the trail of smoke rising up to heaven as a declaration of the burnt offering. With this final sacred acknowlegement he draws the cigar to his lips. First contact was always barely a brush against the half-parted lips. Ah, but the second touch is magic.

It is on second contact that his lips commit to the draw and seem to fuse with the cigar. When the bitter shock of the rum meets the waiting suppleness of whetted lips in that first moment of realization, it almost seems too rough, too garish. As the touch lingers on his lips, what first seemed vulgar now becomes intoxicating. He is compelled to suck the marrow from it all the more desperately. He does so with a moan of satisfaction.

He had known her in the same fashion, and with the same intimacy as this cigar. He had admired her simple, unadorned beauty. He knew the fragrant blossom of her smell. His fingers had traced along her every curvature and drank of the suppleness of her skin. He knew the chime of her voice and had listened to her searching for some indication that she was too good to be true. He had found nothing. He had dressed, and undressed her and he had lain with her. He had tasted her. He had felt her warmth against the cold of night. In short, he had been inspired by her. Theirs was something unique, something special, and something sacred.

He had never smoked around her. She would have thought it was disgusting. She would have said he was killing himself. Now she probably wouldn't care. Now she'd probably save such worried entreaties for him. He pined for her, but all he had were these cigars and the ritual. Every time he smoked one he made love to her again. When his lips finally touched a new cigar it was their first kiss once more. She would have said he was killing himself, but what a sweet way to go.

Usually he paid little attention to the clock on his desk, but as he cast his glance downward he was charmed by it. It seemed to linger in that moment with him, desperately holding on to eleven fifty-nine. It held that moment for what seemed like hours. Eventually the clock surrendered to the greater will of destiny and the silly little red sticks arranged themselves to signal midnight.

It was no longer their day.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...

I'm going through a very dark period right now. What brought this on was a discussion I was having with another friend regarding transcendental meditation and the different levels and planes of existence. He said that of the material, astral, and causal planes, we tend to draw either the good or the bad out of the universe, depending entirely on what we project outward.

Through what little study I've done in comparative religion, I know that Christianity considers man inherently sinful and says we can only achieve righteousness through god. I know that Islam says that man is inherently good, but is despoiled by outside influences and must therefore reject the evil in the world. I know that Judeaism says that man is neither good nor evil, but must choose righteousness consciously. I've always held closest to that last perception.

I've always had a lot of friends who've brought out either the best or the worst in me. Lately I've been remembering the second type.

I had a friend once who was a lot like me. He loved his family very deeply. His loyalty was unfaltering. His sense of humor was unflappable. He was a big ole redneck with a strong sense of justice. He liked women and whiskey and he was tough as nails. In fact, he was the last guy to hand me my ass in a fight. Needless to say we got along famously.

One day we were sitting in a take out place waiting for our pizzas to get ready and he asked me if I had ever killed somebody. I answered him honestly and told him,"Not directly." Something really seemed to be bothering him, so I told him to spill it.

"Can you keep a secret?" I told him I could. He then went on to relate to me how two years ago his mom was seeing this one guy. He was a real prince too, he beat her and got drunk a lot. His mom kept telling him not ot do anything, but one time he beat her to within an inch of her life. He couldn't let that pass.

So one day he walked up to the ass-hole's car with his 9mm at his side. Without pause or precursor he put two into the side of his head. The cops thought it was an attempted carjacking and closed the case. He told me what it felt like. He told me what it looked like and how it smelled when certain flecks hits the hot upholstery and started to bake. I was not there when it happened, but I knew exactly how he felt. He told me how it got to him at times, but that he'd do it again if he had to.

I couldn't blame him. I know that there have been times where I've wanted to kill and could justify doing it. Its not as difficult as some people might think. When someone is so vile to your loved one they cease being human. They are beasts walking upright. No different than shooting a rabid wolf.

Like him, I have had both the inclination and the opportunity. Unlike him, I have simply chosen not to. I can't say exactly what has held me back. but then I've always been perhaps too sympatico.

During a darker period of my life I had a room-mate who was both a gang-member and a satanist. This made for some interesting night-time discussions. He decribed organizing the death of some enemies and seemed like he was always for his own violent demise to come. I once tore another (usually docile) friend off him just before he would've killed the satanist. The satanist didn't even put up the pretense of a fight. He just stared into his attacker's eyes. I knew immediately why he did it and it was my first clue to understanding him. He didn't care if he died or not, but if he was going to, he wanted his eyes to haunt and torment his killer.

I asked him once why he believed as he did. For an hour and a half he described to me what his life was like. He said his life was cursed. He described to me the constant pain that afflicted him since he was young and how every time he fell asleep it felt like dying. He described to me how he saw disembodied spirits arise and torment the living when he slept. He described the ghosts of the men he killed stalking him, waiting for his turn to fall. He told me how he could wrap himself in seven blankets and still be chilled to the bone. Throughout all this I listened. I didn't say a word. Though I had never experienced these things for myself, I knew exactly how he felt.

In the end it always comes down to a choice between hate or love, lonliness or syncronisity, fear or faith. I was friends with both of them because I recognized myself in them. I know when faced with the same decisions I would be tempted and would be quite capable of making the same decisions. I am just as dark a beast as those two. I've just chosen the high road more often than not. What scares me is that I'm not strong enough to say I always will when it counts. That's what scares me.