Cool Story Mate

So I haven't written publicly by and large for some time now. As to why that is the case, I can merely say the lack of verbiage is due to my personal self-repugnance, or antipathy because I have not felt as though what I have to say is worth sharing. In fact this is the fifth paragraph out of the brood of ten that has survived. The others, sad to say have died off; slaughtered by the space bar.  But we can get into my own personal scourging later, for if writing was my religion then I'd truly be upon the pyre.
But I just wanted to share this song, like I normally do with any of you who are out there to experience it.

It has been a rather emotional experience since deciding to get a Masters degree in England. Not only have I found my self entangled with academic problems, but I have also led a life of debauchery. In the quiet moments of reflection  today, after Skyping with my parents (to tell them how broke I am) I hunted and pecked for a song to listen to as I sat there and decayed in front of my blank dissertation. As my fingers squirreled away, with my eyes scanning the endless fields of my music library I decided to hit shuffle on an old playlist that I had made for a girl. Her laugh was the greatest part of my day for a short period of time.

Ah yes, those playlists. I'm fairly positive that I have listened to, and adversely fallen in love with myself more times than any other female has...  That's because they probably never listened to them. And each time I realize that they probably never listened to any of my artisan mixes a new ulcer grows within my stomach, causing my heart to corrode just a little more. So why did I hit the shuffle button on the mix titled, "Is that you, Scully"? Because I am a self-destructive putz, that's why. I'm fairly positive that if sadness was an actual pill-like substance, I would have overdosed on it publicly on a commuter bus sporting some "L.A. Lights" and a Reel Big Fish shirt from the thrift store.

Also, for your information. I changed the name of that playlist just now. So, none of you will know which one it was if you so chose to follow me on Spotify. *game changer*
But yes, the song. The song that played was Happiness by Riceboy Sleeps. You know -- that side project of Sigur Ros? The side project that still manages to sound completely the same but you don't care because it still makes you cry the good cry. You know what that good cry is too. It feels like doves from the heavens are shitting warm pallets of butter on you while you're sat in a hot tub that some how manages to be a portal to every sentimental thing that had happened in you life.
Or maybe that's just me.
Either way, as I was listening to it, I recalled an interview with Louis C.K. on the Conan show. He went on as to why he won't give his children cellphones yet. It was a great interview and in it he said, "We don't know how to be alone anymore." Louis went on to tell a story of when he was driving his car on the highway and then suddenly felt the sadness of being alone start to intrude upon his thoughts. But instead of getting out his phone and looking for a fetishistic quick connection via text/facebook/whatever he just pulled over. Turned off his car, and let it happen. He had a good cry.

To make a dumb story short, as I sat there listening to this song that was dedicated to a lady as lovely as Dana Scully I started to feel that loneliness begin to waft into my rib cage. I even reflected on what Louis C.K. said!!!
And I did the exact opposite.
I messaged a girl that I liked.
One that now knows.
Oh, glory! Right?
You know that feeling when you've just exposed your self, and not in the flasher-in-the-park manner either? Well it feels like your stomach is a decaying cocoon for a heaping pile of old hefty pudding packs swirling around like hot liquid garbage set right out side the gates of an abandoned cathedral...
or you just feel lame. 
After I texted her, I let the phone lay there in my palm for a second.
About four seconds pasted when I realized.
I realized that I don't know how to be alone, and that is some tough shit.

I guess, to make a long story short. I'm going to start writing again. I'm going to write about the people I've seen. The places I've gone. The money I've wasted on train tickets, booze, films, books, printing papers, down payments, and alas... on a broken Xbox 360 (mother fucker). Why? Because when I write, I don't pick up my phone.

So yeah, check this song out. Maybe you'll think of some prodigious shit.

Keeping Track Of History: Dreaming With Intention.

Keeping Track Of History: Dreaming With Intention.

From my idyllic sub-cranial creations that harvest my real-time comprehension of existence to my consumeristic need and desire for affection, I am balancing between a world and a sylph of thought’s that might not even be real. Jean Baudrillard, a french philosopher and Christopher Smit, a communications professor at Calvin College would be having a field day with my mind at this very moment. Right now I am in the throws of finishing two books, applying for graduate school and experiencing “all the feels” for a particular woman. But that is neither here nor there, for Baudrillard and Smit, they’d be laughing at me because my instant need to process these experiences through both a consumeristic standpoint, but also a personalized prediction of a “what-if” simulation. Baudrillard states in Simulcra and Simulation that the simulation is positively more dangerous to those who believe in it because it manipulates their ability to distinguish between natural law and simulated law. For within simulation, there is no boundary or limit to what can and will be manipulated. And it is at this point that I can feel you, the reader slipping away into darkness. So therefore I must reassure you two things: This is about life and music (I promise), and there will eventually be a dick joke (hang in there).

I’ve been thinking a lot about dreams lately, but more importantly how I’ve been consuming them. Smit said once that end result of consumption is excrement. Smit went on to say that this consumption has become routine, “we love the puppy, hate the dog, buy now, think later…” and so on. I often feel as though my dreams, our dreams, become advertisements for what we desire to consume. One could make the joke that I think about dreams every night, but all jokes aside, I have experienced strong and realistic dreams in my past. These dreams fragment my emotional reality and tear a hole into what I believe to be “actual”. Or maybe this whole life is a dream, and what I’ve experience during “sleep” is just a reverberation of a some eternal echo. Or maybe I’m just really, really high. When I was doing these pieces in the past, Keeping Track of History, I often had a very real story to tell you. Some of you may  recall the one about the lost love from California and how I made her my very first ever mix cd. Or the one about the oriental beauty who stopped time in the middle of a Japanese subway. These memories, as real as they were, are now dreams of a tired heart. But the story I am about to tell you, well most of it never happened. But much like a simulation, or the hyperreality of what dreams become, it is and was very real. The dream was so real, that I in fact shared it recently with someone special, as if it was a testimonial as to how far gone my heart had stepped into the darkness of dedication.

Koda, an ambient artist that weaves electro beats, cathedral harmonies and spaced out pads is the perfect sonic companion as to what I have been thinking, feeling and also processing. It was about two or three months ago, when I was working on a web application project with a good friend of mine, that I first heard of Koda. He paused  in the middle of work and told me that I had to check out this picture/video released by NASA. It was titled, “Gigapixels of Andromeda”. In the video we start off with a gorgeous capture of the galaxy. Then over time, frame by frame the video takes pieces of the photo and zooms in. With each zoom the smallness of my being increased ten-fold. But as the video played there was this ambient angel that softly hummed. It was Koda’s song “The Last Stand”, and it was mesmerizing. I immediately looked the artist up and listened through all of his material that I could find that evening. I knew, within the depths of my soul that I was to use his music as an inspiration. About a month later, like tales of angels visiting, it came to me in my sleep.

Go ahead and press play if you want. And if that doesn't work. Here's a link to the song. 

https://soundcloud.com/kodachrome/koda-the-last-stand

Like the progression of the song, in this dream, my eyes slowly began to find their focus. First the barbed light of halogen bulbs crept into my gaze. Then the walls materialized into cream and charcoal, while the floor bled out in a dark maroon. Tables and chairs started to materialize with people in them like flower pots. I rubbed my face, I was a spirit looking out onto this room. Like an invisible camera I turned and pivoted, scanning the room, and then saw my self. I had small round glasses, a glorious beard, shorter hair and dressed like a champion of literature. Or perhaps to some people, an uber nerd in a sweater vest. In my right hand was a computer remote that I was using to progress through a power point that was being projected on the wall and in my left hand, there was nothing but pure passion and expression for what I was talking about. I could hear my self think. It was as if I had duplicated and had an extension of my body and soul hovering invisibly. My physical body knew of my spiritual one and vice versa, an odd cosmic harmony. At this point I knew I was dreaming, or at least the “third eye” did and was aware of these duplicated beings being created in another reality. I was consuming my dream, frame by frame and beat by beat. I had always wanted to be a teacher, lecturer or highly esteemed academic and now I was “living” that out that fantasy.

Do you remember the last car accident you were in or saw? More importantly do you remember the noise before impact? It’s as if a seismic charge had gone off, pulling in all sound through a giant straw to the epicenter of carnage. A most alerting silence. As my lecture started to progress the “seismic straw” began to suck all noise from the room. I didn’t realize it at first, much like one doesn’t realize they are being slowly cut, but the suction of sound grew. It was getting louder and louder as if a child was slowly turning up the static on an abandon TV channel. I frantically looked around the room and noticed that the physical me didn’t seem to hear or feel what I was feeling. I covered my ears and knelt down on the ground, then it stopped. I looked up and didn’t see anything. Everyone was still taking notes and I was still lecturing. But then, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a door in the back of the room start to open slowly. A woman was walking into the room.  As soon as I saw her face, my point of view and entire being collected its self into the physical body that was lecturing. I paused the power point with the remote and stared. 

Her hair was freshly cut, a shimmering dark hazel brown that had little flip right above her shoulders. It danced on her shoulder like the lace would between the bed and carpet. The eyes of this woman were uncommonly soft. Fixed between short dark lashes, they changed colors between light blue and a sea green as they rested like frame and picture on their cream pale wall. Her top was black, cut just below her neck and above her breast. It looked warm as wool but as soft as thin cotton. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and it snuggly fit around her torso. She was holding something though her left arm. It was wrapped in a blanket. But my eyes did not stop there, they traversed the rest of her body. The black top connected with a silk, shin-high dress at her waist. It was also black, but it had small dotted pearls sewn in like a tapestry. Her feet had small flats. Her gate, as she walked in, swayed allowing the dress to be caught in the wind that entered with her.

As I gazed upon her, she lifted her right hand and index finger to her lips, silencing me in my already stunned state. It was as if she wanted me to ignore her and allow her to watch me, unnoticed. But I looked again, I looked to what was in her left arm. She was cradling a baby. It’s bunny soft head peaked from behind the wrapping of the blanket, and shifted from side to side. He was awake. My dream told me — he was awake. She sat down in the back of the class room, holding the baby and looking at me. She looked at me in the way a mother looks upon her husband. She looked at the baby as one does when it’s theirs. She looked at me again as if to say he was ours. My students looked at me, pencils in hand, waiting for my next breath. How long was I out? How long was I lost and voiceless? I shook my head, apologized, clicked over to the next slide and then that’s when I awoke. My conscience rocketed back to my bed and I found my self awake and covered in sweat. 

Dreams, crazy right? The last time I had a dream that vivid was a little over a year ago. I won’t share the entirety of the dream, but I still could tell you to this day what people were wearing, saying and doing. And in that dream I had a year ago, I did nothing about it. I silenced it, shut it away in my journal and never talked about it. But as for this one, well that girl who was holding the baby. I told her about this dream. But after I told her this dream I felt guilty. Why was I really telling her this? To win her over, to guilt her or to inform her of some weird alternate universe? This dream was a simulation of a deep desire of mine, but does that mean that I should consume this dream, give it life and use it as a road-map? This dream actually has nothing to do with the reality of my life. Yes, I want to be a teacher. But I am no where near to that being a reality. Yes, I was a child. But I am no where near that reality. Yes, I am romantically inclined and desire this woman, but I am no where near that reality. After I told her this dream, she was rather speechless. Much as I expected. But I’m glad I did. When we share our dreams, I believe we no longer become consumers, but we become benefactors. We open our hearts and souls to others which allows us to fully comprehend the meaning of what we had experienced. So what do we do when we receive dreams that touch the core of your soul? Songs like “The Last Stand” by Koda give me inspiration to keep track of these dreams. Even though they may be unrealistic interpretations of life, they still birth creativity and need of expression. Dreams, simulations, hyperreality, they are just soft remainders that we live in a world where are not confined to this physical body, but we in fact can share in a different universe without being mindless consumers. How do you keep track of dreams? What’s a song that reminds you of something so vivd it becomes real? Are you afraid that you’ll just consume your dream instead of finding courage and wisdom in it?

P.S.

Damn, I forgot your dick joke...

It's A Match!: "Thank you Brady..."

Begin Part 3.

“I tell you this, because I think as an artist you’ll understand...” 

–Christopher Walken, “Annie Hall”

The moonlight had struck my face and the curtain over my third-eye had been lifted. I was now walking down Martin Luther King Boulevard with a ghost from my past. My mind was now no longer shouting names, comparing warm laughs or attempting to smooth out this blanket in the cold; it was all here, it was all in her face. I can’t recall if she didn’t stop talking or if I was loosing my cool, but there she was – my ex-fiancé, beautiful in the clumsiest of ways. “...And this bandana around my right boot”, Claire kicked up her foot and firmly pointed. As her right foot elevated past her knee, she lost her balance and let out an “Oop!” She grabbed my shoulder and then after a few heavy balancing stomps she steadied herself and grinned. Staring in my eyes she giggled, “Uh, umm it’s for a gang back in West Palm Beach, but nothing serious.” She paused, cleared her throat, “just for a group of people that love each other.” I didn’t have anything appropriate to say, I mean... how does one respond to the notion of being in a gang that’s “just for fun”. My heart was racing. All my mental energy was being wasted thinking of songs and moments that I had with my ex. My mouth could only occupy a few words at a time, such as: Oh, Yeah, Really and Uhh Huh. Like a little girl her thoughts were visibly electric, sharply jumping around her mind looking for an exit. The thoughts would eventually escape and manifest their personality via her hand gestures.  “Oh and here’s the shirt I designed...” Claire said pointing at her phone. “It’s called ‘Stoner Simpson’. Do you get it?” Is this okay? Should I be thinking that she is the cutest girl I’ve talked to in months or am I losing my touch?

We continued to walk towards our destination; the streetlights were getting thinner with each passing block. I needed a drink. I needed to refresh my mind. Like a game of pong my thoughts tossed between brittle ideas, “well she’s not your ex, right? There were reasons why you loved that girl. This one’s different, obviously, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Did Conner Oburst ever write anything on this? What about Elliott Smith? Maybe if I listen to Frightened Rabbit one more time I’ll be able to center my self...” My mind continued this barrage of thoughts until we entered the alleyway where the bar was quaintly located; in the back, behind a black steel door that looked like it needed a sliding peephole.

The Bitter Alibi normally occupied 10 to 15 people tops but tonight was different, tonight obviously had to be different. The chipped-brick lined the alleyway and echoed it’s vast amount of inhabitants. There were jeers, stories, the scraping of glass on pavement and varieties of laughter scratching my eardrums as we passed under a thin canopy of Christmas lights. Even though the walk to the steel door was only 20 feet, I looked back more times than necessary; as if I was Lots wife, afraid she'd dissolve into salt and spread like ashes amongst the crowd. Each time I looked back she gave me a reassured but privet smile and then went back to observing her feet as she followed. I grabbed the handle to the door and yanked it open. It was packed, from front to back and on either side with burnouts, college frat groupies and sneering locals. Standing room only in this burrowed tavern. As we entered the bar itself, the wooden room was filled with ten times over the reflection of what was outside. We approached the counter.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked her. She glanced around the room, pivoting from eye contact to scouting out exits. 

Typical girl answer in 3...2...1...

“I don’t know.”

“You like beer, right?”

“I love beer” Claire said dizzily.

“Awesome, well would you like a PBR, Fat Tire, Red Stripe, Rolling Rock....”

As I listed the beers I could see her mind working. She was getting her bearings and scooted closer to my side. If she were a kid I would have expected her to grab my belt loop. We inched closer to the countertop. The counter was up to my chest, and if you peered over you could see one of the bartenders trying to prepare at least ten sandwiches in a frenzy of confusion and anxiety. Claire tugged on my arm, “I’ll have a Fat Tire.” There was no wrong answer here, well except for Red Stripe. I didn’t know how to reassure her that her choice of beer wasn't going to be an issue. Claire then pulled out her wallet and it was all white with the Imperial logo on it from Star Wars. What a cutie.

I hastily held out my hand, “Oh no, I got you.”

Claire grinned, “Really?”

I placed my arm around her shoulder, “Of course.”

Like Frank Underwood from House of Cards I double tapped the counter and yelled, “Jason! I need my usual and a Fat Tire for the lady.”

Jason popped up from behind the counter, “You got it man.” Jason was a younger looking guy. He was clean cut, and had a neat dirty blond poof that bobbed on top of his head like a wad of tissue paper. His hands, still a little messy from the sandwich grease, slid open the cooler, snagged our beers (PBR for me, duh), popped the tabs and handed them over the counter. Jason gave me a little wink and nodded in Claire’s direction.  I wouldn't call myself a ladies man, per say, but every time I’ve been in Bitter Alibi it’s been with a different girl. I can only assume that Jason believes me to be a Mac Daddy, and I'll let him continue to think that.

She held her beer like a juice box. I leaned in close and shouted, because that’s what you do, “Would you like to go back outside?” Claire nodded as she took a sip of her beer. I pivoted and opened the door for her and lead us out back into the alleyway. When we were in the alleyway I ran into yet another person I know, my buddy Zach. Zach is generally an exciting human to be around. Everything is fantastic and new. We can laugh about as much as we can talk about, and for Zach and I, we can talk about the moon. We stood in the corner underneath porch by the black metal door. Smoke plumbed the air and not one shit was given. For a moment I forgot that Claire was there. Zach asked me what I have been doing with my time lately. As I was explaining to him about the job hunt I felt a jab in my ribs. Claire nudged me with her elbow, “Did Brady also mention that he has met his soul mate?” she said grinning at Zach. Zach’s eyes echoed with excitement, “Oh my, oh no, no he hasn’t. How long have you two been together?” I quickly replied with, “Oh you know, for a good... long while.” And Claire laughed and inched in closer to me.

 Zach and I talked about old times, including when we were in a fraternity together, to which Claire sharply said, “Oh! A frat boy, good to know what I’m getting myself into.” Zach shook his hands in the air, “Oh, it’s nothing like that. Trust me. It was the most musically nerdy fraternity you’ll experience. Has nothing to do with Pucca Shells.”         

      

As the three of us chatted Caitlin and Ashley showed up. Like mermaids in sea of broken sailors they dodged prying eyes and “hey girls”. They made their introductions, shook hands like gentlemen, smiled like long distance relatives and retreated to the inside of the bar to grab some beers. As we waited for them to return Claire started to shuffle her feet.

            “Are you feeling okay?”

            She brushed her hair from her face as if they were tentacles of anxiety, “Yeah, I'm fine” then let out a small sigh, “I just get a little claustrophobic.”         

  

“Why don't we sit down on this bench, would that be better for you?”

            “I'll do what you want.”

            “Then let’s sit on the bench.”

            We plopped down on the green bench in the alleyway that had just been abandoned a couple of college girls. When we sat down we started talking about her life to which immediately led into her asking me, “would you like to see a picture of my ex?” How could I say no to that? So I just nodded my head. Claire took out her phone, “Okay, here he is.” This dude looked straight up like he was juggalo. There were facial tattoos all over this unkempt rats nest of a boy. I immediately felt two distinct feelings. One, I am so much better than this guy and second, and what does this say about me? If she is coming from a member the dark family to wanting to spend time with me does that mean that I share similar qualities with this dude? I surely hope not.  Caitlin and Ashley came back outside and propped themselves up against the adjacent wall. We continued to drink, discuss what we were all “good” at. I'm assuming, in hopes to create some common ground, Ashley and Caitlin started talk about shopping, you know, like you do.

“Where do you like to go shopping Claire?” Ashley asked in her very sweet and innocent voice. Claire’s eyes lit up,  “Oh! Oh I love Target”. Caitlin nodded her head in agreement and also acknowledged that she as well loved Target. “Oh, no. You don't love Target as much as I love Target.” It was at this moment that Claire decided to take out her badass Star Wars wallet again. When she took it out I looked at Caitlin and mouthed, “Yeah, she’s awesome”, eyeing her now exposed nerdiness. Caitlin just gave me the “nod” and a thumbs up close to the chest, but then her brow began to furl. I turned to my right to see that Claire had taken out her Target card and was flicking it with the tip of her tongue like a snake. She was licking her Target card. 

I took a giant swig of my beer, “Yep, you certainly do love Target” hoping by stating the obvious I would break the awkwardness of her now molested credit card.

“Hey! I want to get a picture of us together,” Claire said handing her phone to Caitlin. 

“Could you take a picture of us?”

“Um, yeah sure. I'd love to.” Caitlin said rather reluctantly.

As Caitlin positioned the camera I felt Claire inching closer to me. She got so close I could feel her breath on my face and her eyelashes flickering. What was she doing? I couldn't turn to look at her either; it would be like trying to back a car out of a compact spot. I would have scraped her cheek with my own. Caitlin, being the keen observer that she is said nothing about it, but instead started the count down. “Are you guys, ready? Three...Two...One...” And on the count of three Claire opened her mouth. From the bottom of my jaw line to right below my glasses her pierced tongue slithered up my face. Caitlin’s face was horrified. Shai Hulud had broken ground and revealed it’s God-like wonder. This girl had just straight up tasted me. And without any thrill in her voice Caitlin said, “And there it is...”  Claire clapped her hands and squealed, “Did you get it?!” Eyes bulging, Caitlin passed Claire’s phone back to her as if she was feeding an unfamiliar dog.

“Oh, it looks great! Except it looks like a I have a bald spot.”

Shortly afterwards the licking Caitlin and Ashley graciously bowed out, leaving Claire and I to our own devices. She wanted to go somewhere where it wasn't as packed, so I elected for us to go to the Pickle Barrel, where we had originally planned on meeting. It was the typical crowd there. Crust punk kids, homeless men treasure hunting out front and then me. We sat down and ordered our drinks and my mind went blank. I mean she had already licked my face, shown me a photo of her ex and told my best buddy Zach that we were soul mates. So what else is there to cover? I pointed at her arm, “So how many tattoos do you have?”

            She brushed her hair back and folded her arms out on the table and said, “Hmmm I have about 26 tattoos. I started getting work done when I was 17 and just never really stopped.” And like typical tattoo stories she grazed over some of her more unique ones, such as to the initials of one of her exes to whom she dated when she was pregnant. The way Claire talked about "her" was awkward, but she summed it up by saying, “oh, it was just a phase.”

            I’ll go ahead and be gracious and tell you that we talked for a long time. She shared with me why she had relocated from Florida to Georgia. We talked about what she was looking for in a partner and also about her aspirations for being a plastic surgeon. “I want to give girls boobies,” she’d say. “What a noble pursuit...” was my response to that. Either way, I feel like I've taken much of your time describing to you how unique Claire is, and I tried to make that point obvious. My reasoning for all of this is that even within the weirdest and most peculiar of people there are and can be the sweetest of moments. The internet dating game forces us to judge and assign value to people much faster than we do in “the real world.” If I would have been privy to several pieces of information about Claire before this date started I probably would have stayed at home playing Skyrim, but as bizarre as she was, she opened my eyes to what I've hid in my heart for a long time.

We started telling each other horrible pickup lines and stories about strange people that we've met. She'd listen deeply and I would find my self delighting in her desire to experience new things, people and her need to take life by the horns. At one point, during this particular part of the evening I told her a rather horrible pickup line, which in turn had also over exposed my supreme geekdom. I’m sorry to parents and those over the age of 48 in advance, but I compared her vagina to the Death Star from Star Wars: A New Hope. You know, like thermal exhaust ports, proton torpedoes and gunning down the trench.

After the punch line, she giggled with her whole body, but not after trying to fight it off first of course. I could see it in her stare, twisted into a mocking gaze. (Oh god, I hope somebody’s home... I’m trying to not to try too hard here!). Then Claire broke, it started with her lips as they tightened and the light shimmered off of the microscopic tremble. The quiver then started its wobble to the underside of her eyes. The longer she fought the more I began to understand, I'm hilarious. My deer-in-the-headlights eye sockets transferred me a grin like a dollar being passed under the table. My jaw was no longer propped open like P. Diddys, questioning if I had done something stupid. Upon seeing, what I'd call my “shit-eating-grin”, Claire’s hands slowly cupped her face, and her tiny brown eyes were squinting at me through the cracks. I could actively see that she was refusing to give me any credence or leeway to my retardation. Her will was strong but I could see it burn inside of her. I am all too familiar with this stage of cachinnation, a.k.a. girls fighting the moment, but not physical fighting me – just to make that clear. Once her hands had firmly curtained her mouth she stopped resisting and she let out a laugh as sweet and still as the rest of her voice. My heart was instantly inoculated. Her eyes lit up and they even shined under her eyelids as she closed them. Her hands dropped on to the table, face turned to the ceiling and projected the sonic nature of her laugh; laughter bounced off of the hanging barrel chandeliers. 

An orange light, smoked in tar and low in wattage, slumped out of these barreled wooden chandeliers and bathed the entire room. A linked chain connected this barrel to the over lacquered ceiling, mercilessly rigid and stiff like a streetlight hanging upside down blowing in the wind. Its dimness made my face burn and smothered us, privately, in a smoggy silhouette. Her face looked like it was burning too. My favorite moment of the night was creeping up on me like a tortoise hauling a load of fine white Columbian powder. It was talking to me like the wisdom in the etchings and carving on our table. These poets, from bar visits past wrote:  “Fuck what you know...” or “Rudy, die tryin’...” or “even a motha fucka can be a soft fucka...” alongside with the prototypical “Steven hearts Ally.” As she gathered her self I thought, I could be a ‘motha fucka’, but that soft and sweet motha fucka. I don't know what that entirely means; perhaps I'd be that motha fucka that steals your parking space. I'm sure that doesn't entirely constitute an ass beating, but maybe a hushed, under the breath snarl. Each engraving was timeless, now black and charred down in the wood; ready for you to read and sweetly feel with your fingernails as you sit next a pretty girl. Claire lowered her head, had smiles for leftovers as she turned to look at me.

“Are you back now?” I inquired.

“Yes, Yes I’m back...” She reached into her purse, digging through it like she didn't know what she was quite searching for yet, but then it dawned on her, her smokes were already on the table. She reached across, opened the pack up and slid a single Marlboro between her lips, catching my gaze from the corner of her eye. I was ready again, like I was before with my little blue lighter. She looked at me differently, it was weird but it was also... sexy. Her pupils dilated like a leaf wrapped around a stone. I struck the wheel, the flint grinded and it sparked as the flame shot up. Her pupils receded like a rabbit into the grass and she inhaled deeply.

Claire leaned back into her chair, as Audrey Hepburn would have, pivoting her head so her black hair swooped around her shoulder, crossing her legs and folded one arm under the other to support her hand as she took her first drag. Still displaying symptoms of a face wrought with laughter she hummed with a dim temperament,

“Thank you Brady”

“Claire...” I said, letting the a few syllables fade like the smoke from her cigarette.

“Yes?”

“I always,

                                    ...Light my bitches cigarette.”

Her face softened, she turned to me and held her palm close to her face, smoke blanketing our line of sight. “You, you're just cute you know that?”

            I had no time to respond, no time to be humble and politely repudiate my dainty wit. No time to even think. She kissed me.

            She leaned in close, and placed her palm under my chin; her fingers unfurled around my jaw. Like Magneto picking up change, or as to an asteroid being sucked into the planets atmosphere, or like the Millennium Falcon getting caught in the Death Star's tractor beam, or even light a 14 year old boy seeing tits for the first time... I was powerless, speechless and lost in the silence of the moment. When her lips parted from my body a trail of smoke followed, like the smell from a pie on the windowsill.

            She leaned back in her chair and smirked, a tender wicked smirk; the kind of smirk that we love to hate. I understood immediately what had just happened. The acknowledgement of yes, yes you have won. You have my attention, you have my voice tucked in the pocket of your eyes and I fold because every card you're about to draw in going to be an ace in the hole. I acknowledge that if I woke up now, this would be a most believable dream.

            Claire then stood up and leaned in once more. This time she bent over, examining me like a kindergarten teacher to her pupil. Our eyes locked like traffic lights. Were we going to kiss again? I mean if we were, I'm okay with that. Two thumbs ups, five stars, ready for duty, sir! Should I wait, or is it my turn to go 90 and she goes 10. That’s what Will Smith told me in Hitch. I could smell her perfume over the smoke and hear her think as she peered into my eyes. Then she curtsied and whispered...“I’m going to go the bathroom.”

“...k”

            The night continued on. We drank, we laughed and we kissed some more, a lot more. Claire went on about her tattoos, their stories and what she wants next in life. She talked about her daughter, and with a passion. She pulled out her phone and had me listen to videos of her little girl laughing, talking and playing games. She talked about her hair, her first steps, her little nose and most of all how much she loved her. If you ever want to measure the temperature of another’s heart, allow them to talk about those closest to them. They shall paint you the most accurate version of their heart to date, but be careful, because true love for another is the most attractive thing in the world. I kept asking myself, "Was this what it would be like? Would it be like this? Would we have been happy together? Would we have been a good family?" My mind was jogging between the present attraction before me and what had ended six years ago. 

            We walked back to her car holding hands. Then we sat, in her car, in a parking garage alone.

            I was once asked by a particular girl, a long time ago, “What are six things you couldn’t do without.” I remember this clearly. There was a fire pit, empty glass bottles and folk music in the background. When this girl asked me that question, the fire crackled and the wind around us shook the remaining leaves off the trees. The first thing I said to her was “Winter...” Winter, a time for us to keep warm and tuck-in our feelings while the world around us goes to sleep with its hand our body. As I sat in the car with Claire I remembered this moment. She stared at me with a gaze as sturdy as lumber, and with a voice that cracked like that winter fire she asked me, “Hey... would you like some gum?” I let out a soft laugh, “Of course. I'd love some gum.” She pulled out a thin piece and placed it in my palm. We sat there chewing for a moment, crackling like fire with deep sighs. I gazed out her window listening to the moment and then felt her hand as she rested it on my thigh. Claire’s gaze was stern and steady. My memory eternal echoed, What’s the second thing you could never do without... Claire rested her head on my shoulder; a memory familiar. My fingers became caught up in her hair, and for a moment our lips fell asleep upon each other's body.The candle in the dark of my mind whispered my response. A plea that was before the drugs, before the broken portraits and before I or my ex had even tasted the isolated dirt of a bathroom floor. The second thing I could never do without is, “...you.”

Fadeout:

We went down to New Orleans one weekend in the spring.
Looked hard for what we'd lost.
It was painful to admit it but we couldn't find a thing.
- The Mountain Goats

It's A Match!: "It's like collecting under my tits..."

Begin Act 2. 

            Okay, lets recap.

1. I’d describe myself as a persnickety individual with slapdash reasons as to why I might consider a girl attractive. 
2. Regardless of my pickiness, when it comes to women, and especially new ones, I pine for their company -- religiously. Therefore, I’ll continue in my Tindering until I’m “locked down" or I need to "jump ship." 
3. I'd consider dating these days to be a botched impersonal judgment call based off of "mutual interest."
4. I matched with what seems to be an attractive member of the opposite sex on Tinder. This specimen then proceeded with the desire to have us communicate more personally via text. (Oohhh!)
5. We are meeting tomorrow and I’m shaking like a toothpick in a toothless mouth.

That should be all the catch-up that you need.

Fade In: Love’s the key to the things that we see... (The War On Drugs)

On with the story!

            After reviewing Roberts’s congratulatory text message, I set my phone on my bedside table only to hear it vibrate once more. Could it be Claire again? (Oh those saucy minxes, staying up late to text me. Daddy like) I slung my body across my bed, dismembering a pillow in the process and snatched up the phone. It was not Claire. Instant mild disappointment, but then I noticed it from another female (playa, play!), my good friend Caitlin. For the past year Caitlin has been living in Paris, France as an au pair. We’ve kept in touch over the past year through text messages and face-timing ever since she left.  But now she’s back in the states and more importantly according to her text message, she is now in the Chattanooga area.  Caitlin has had to deal with my insane behavior, poorly timed inappropriate jokes and periodic advances for well over four years now (She is quite the bombshell). I can attest to this fact though, this woman has a lot of patience and when it came time to shoot me down (twice?) , she was the nicest girl ever about the process. But now we are steadfast friends and I simply cannot imagine my life without her. I responded to her text in a heartbeat by saying that we need to catch up; also inquiring when and where would be the best time to hang out. She tells me – tomorrow night! Without even thinking about it, I say, “Duh”. After I set my phone down a few minutes go by and I think about Claire again. What it will be like meeting this mysterious girl tomorrow, I wonder what she'll wear, then it clicks... shit. I double booked myself. How am I going to balance tomorrow night? I’m such an idiot.    

        

FADE TO THE NEXT MORNING: A Steady Riot – Big D and the Kids Table

It's A Match!

Begin Act 1.

Fade in: It's just dark. Like AFI back in 2003.

So life as we know it, it’s just weird and full of itty bitty coincidences that make me giggle, but also some that make me do a double take. Well, if I start out by stating that there is a coincidence then you’ll be hunting and pecking through this piece until you realize that, just like waiting on her to text you back, it may never come. * Cue John Williams * Dating in this day and age is awkward. It’s full of pixilated tension and electronic epistolary slumps. I’ll go ahead and say it, I’ll confess – I have a Tinder. If you don’t know what Tinder is then just imagine a dating application for your iPhone or Android that the insanely curious or desperate sign up for in order to meet new friends or the one nightstand of their life. It’s a rapid fire “Hot or Not” that can disappoint you as fast you can say, “nope.” Each time you are matched with a mate, the app allows you to then talk to them, and then stores them in a little column for your convenience. Kind of like an embarrassing little black book. Or better yet, watch this informational video!

 With that said, I am that guy who swipes right on gorgeous amounts of cleavage and left on “Roll Tides!”(Is it hockey season yet?) I’ll swipe right on the nerdy and left on the dirty and girthy (Showers are helpful before taking intentional glamour shots). Also, before you get peeved at me, I am an equal opportunity swiper. If you got “dat butt” or call your self a “Whovian” I’ll say yes too (Perhaps regrettably). I’ve been using the application since February of this year and I’ve felt ashamed ever since.

First of all, I’m convinced that men should not be privy to the notion that there are THAT many women out there; ready to mingle, ready to harpoon a single. It’s just mind-boggling. Every time I open it I feel like an instant dick. Here I am judging these girls based off of five to six pictures and their 500 character bio (which most of the time reads like a 5^th graders letter to Santa). I now know how many girls in the greater Chattanooga area need either a strong shoulder to cry on or a sexual experience as timely as a Woody Allen film. I have a hundred plus matches on this little application. Out of that hundred I’ve probably talked to 30 and out of that 30 there are only five that I’ve had an adult conversation with. If you’ve ever used Tinder you know that you only get matched with people who have also swiped right on you. So my hundred plus doesn’t even include the amount of women that I’ve “liked” and have not “liked” me. This pattern is addicting. Often, if I get matched within seconds of swiping right, I click the appropriately titled button that says, “Keep on playing?” “Oh why yes, yes I shall!” and I continue on my merry way. It’s this proverbial idea that the next girl could be hotter or the next dame could have Star Wars listed as one of her interests. Or even better, she is in the Princess Leia slave gear from Return of the Jedi! I better keep playing! And damn right, I keep on playing.

I’ve met a total of four girls off of Tinder and each time it was just... weird. First of all you have to get to the point where your electronic “icebreakers” lead her onto the next phase of, “Okay, well what do we do now?” I mean, when one is at this juncture it is established that both parties have already acknowledged that they are at least remotely interested. So you’d think that you don’t have to fight for their interest, because obviously they’ve noticed you, but you’re wrong. Now you have the hardest battle ahead of you, you have to fight for their attention.  To break the digital ice I’ve said a multitude of curious and/or embarrassing things. They range from, “We should get jerseys... because we would make a great team...”, or “How many tickles does it take to make an Octopus laugh?”. But then there is my favorite, “Hey, I bet I’d beat you in a fist fight.” The last one always makes me giggle. Oh, and by the way, it’s ten tickles. Each time I’ve either gotten responses that are equally as interesting or one that resonate like a dead pigeon hitting the pavement. You might also be surprised to find out that some girls block me on the spot.

Oh, do I hear your woes.

Woah!

Wait!

Girls block you?!

But you sound so charming and cute. I know, thank you. I know I do. * kiss kiss – call me *

But yes, they block me! I was under the impression that they were interested. It’s not like I’m actually going to fight them and no, I’m not shooting for a deep seeded sexual innuendo when it comes to aquatic life. Pfft girls are weird aren’t they? But if they don’t block me then I am stuck with their response, just as they were forced to deal with my witty charm. One girl responded to the “fist fight” statement with, “Oh yeah? Well who’s your trainer?” To which I responded with, “Yoda. Yoda’s my trainer. He told me size doesn’t matter.” (Yes I am that retarded) One could make a strong argument that I don’t take this seriously, I mean should I? On the other hand though, one girl responded to my octopus line with,

“You can’t hear an octopus laugh. They are... like really deep in the water. But just tell me anyways....”

“Um, ten tickles.”

“OH! That’s cute.”

“Yep...”

And that is where I awkwardly stare at my phone screen for about two calendar days wondering what the fuck happened to saying hi in public. Oh to be bck in middle school where my hands would shake before I called her house. I’d pray to the Lord above, “please don’t let her father answer. Please oh Lord, let her be home and bored enough to enjoy my candor." But that’s beside the point because we are no longer living in that age. The point I am going to make is that sometimes the universe allows you to have what you want, and once it’s there you must stand quietly before making a most ridiculous choice. I met a girl off of Tinder this weekend and it wasn’t crazy, but it caused me to seriously examine my personal growth over the years and how my love life ended up here, on an application for the casually desperate or curious.

            It all began when I was at my fathers 60^th birthday party out by Harrison Bay on Thursday evening. The sun was chill, just bobbing and weaving around the mountaintops shinning on the water. It was as still as the breeze and the ducks would paddle their way across the waves and land for bits of hot dog buns (after I stopped chasing them of course). It was cozy. My mother had worked hard on this party all week. She set up camp under a wooden veranda. Everyone wore Hawaiian shirts; the bubble machines were pummeling the park bench tables with suds and there was a palm tree raft filled with ice, drinks and h’ordeurves. If most of the people there were my age I would have opted to buy three or four cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon and let my wild side rip, but I didn’t. Besides the presence of my lovely sisters I had two friends with me that might as well be brothers, Robert and Geoff.

Robert has a rather large ego and I probably don’t need to bolster it any farther, but he is a good-looking fellow. Robert is tall with dark brown scruff and has features that I’d picture that most women within the ages of 25-30 would want in a reliable partner. We’ve been all over the globe together and have a plethora of rated-R stories that have bound us for life. Geoff is about Roberts’s height except clean. Geoff is a clean-cut dude and you should expect that from him since he is in the National Guard. He rides a motorcycle, has a nerdy chuckle and enjoys old 8-bit games on his Wal-Mart laptop. So standing in the middle of these guys I’d often feel a tad inferior. Geoff and I have also traveled the globe together. If you ever get us together, as us about Japan and we'll never stop laughing.
Geoff’s built, Roberts the good neighbor next door and then there’s me; I am short, tattooed, socially awkward and most of the time inappropriate. My friends have often joked about the “Brady Test”, as if I am a litmus exam for future prospects. Not many have passed. Either way, we were sitting on a bench by the lake as the party was winding down when we began to discuss Tinder.

            Robert was giving Geoff some pointers about the Tinder world, and as he should have – he has over 300 matches. In the distance my sisters giggled and my father told stories of old over a plate full of hot dog remains. It was the perfect silence of a moment. Geoff joined Tinder earlier that week and was already going on a date the next week. I guess when you’re muscular the system works fast for you. “What you need to do is put a picture of you on your bike man. You’ll be flooded with requests... if you know what I mean.” Robert said with a sly grin while giving him a quick click of the cheek. Geoff chuckled but then took a serious mental note. He’ll probably call me next week in hopes that i’ll snap a few shots of him on his crotch rocket. While Robert was educating Geoff about the “dos and don’ts” I was scrolling through the potential girls I could match with, like you do.

Blonde, brunette, Black, Asian, Southern, power lifter, hunter, nursing student, mother of three and so on. I’d periodically swipe right on ones that were cute or I presumed would be a decent human being to share a drink with. I wasn’t really paying attention when a girl named Claire came upon my screen. My first impression was: tattoos – okay, swipe right. Next girl please. Oh wait! It’s a match! I opened up Claire’s profile and the first thing I noticed was that we had a common interest that was pivotal -- we both liked Star Wars. In my mind I was doing a booty shake twerk dance thing, but then continued on. She was covered in gorgeous ink, from her chest to the tips of her wrists. Her hair was long, a roasted toffee color that complimented her cream complexion and matched her small but soft eyes. From what I gathered from her photos was that she was small, cutely petite and ready to mingle! Booyah! But there was something about her that I couldn’t quite place... If I were a Jedi I would have said that the dark side is clouding my thoughts, but something is amiss (Bum Bum Bummm foreshadowing!). Oh well! I sat there for a second before I alerted the boys to my most recent catch.

            I nudged Robert, “Hey, check this girl out.” He snatched the phone from my hand and began to assess the situation. He’d let out murmurs as he scrolled through her photos, “Yeah...MmmHmm... Okay... Okay. Yeah man, she’s a cutie.” Geoff then took my phone, “Hey wait! Let me see.” He did the same thing and passed me back the phone in a congratulatory nod. I could tell by the look on his face that he wouldn't mind matching with her either (Haha sucka!). Then Geoff asked me, “Well what are you going to say to her?” I froze. I honestly didn’t know what to say. Opening lines are so pivotal; they might as well mirror peace talks between two awkwardly aggressive countries. “Okay, ‘Country A’, do you agree not to be an asshole to ‘Country B’ anymore? Come onnnnn. Shake hands. Please?”

            After a few terrible suggestions I decided to go with, “Hey, where do you get your work done?” I landed on this choice because I didn’t want to sound creepy by asking how many tattoos she had or where they are placed. I didn’t want to give off the rapey vibe and tell her that she was stunning or be lame and just say, hi. I mean when you tell a girl she's beautiful she either loves it or stamps you with the "creepazoid" mark, and dudes, that shit is hard to wash off. And there was no way I would risk the Octopus joke; I needed certainty.  Like any good woman, she waited.

About 30 minutes had passed and had to leave the party to drive Geoff back home so he could be at work. Third shift at the city jail -- woof! After I dropped him off and I was cruising home with the wind in my face my phone bleeped, it notified me that I had a message from Claire. Oh, sweet joy! She responded with, “West Palm Beach, Florida.” And that was it. Nothing else. I was left hanging with a big large, “uhhhh” hanging from my jowls. I had to act fast and strike hard, I quickly said, “Oh yeah. Florida’s as hot at Tatooine. I get mine done in Atlanta.” (Nice! You like that Star Wars nod? Yes... no?) 

As quick as my mind could work she responded again and told me that she had just moved to Georgia and didn’t where to go for future tattoos. Being the gentlemen that I am, I fired off into the night sky with a list of places to go and my readiness to be her helpful tour guide. In retrospect I’ve learned that if you ever let a female know that you are “ready to be their immediate friend/whatever” it doesn’t work. I don’t know why, but that’s just the way the universe conducts their behavior. But Claire didn’t run, and from what I understand now, she is no runner, Stella is a diver. Claire went on to say that she didn’t have any friends, to which I opted to be a new one for her and that I’d show her around, drinks on me. She then hit me with the best message that you can get off of Tinder, “Text me??” (The double question mark must mean that she is excited, right??)

Mentally I thought, Oh yes, yes I will text you. (EvenThoughIHateTextingBecauseICantStandWaiting)

            We began texting that evening. I introduced her to Fanboys, which is a comedy that every Star Wars fan needs to see. We talked about stand up comedy and even body fat content, which resulted in her sending me a picture of her belly. Weird -- but sure, why not. So far so good I guess. I felt like I was winning this digital haze of hormones. Throughout our texts she told me that she was coming to Chattanooga then next evening and that she would take me up on my offer for a drink. It took me a second to really process the fact that a complete stranger, who is exceedingly attractive, hasn’t blocked me due to poorly timed social cues and then insisted that we meet up. And I didn’t even use my octopus joke! Huzzah! So there it was. Tomorrow evening we would go to a free concert together in downtown Chattanooga and follow that up with a drink among friends. After we were done texting, a.k.a. she stopped responding, I shot Robert a message. “Pookie! I am meeting that chick tomorrow” to which he immediately responded with, “That was fast! Huzzah!” 

Time for bed.

Time to rethink over every little thing I said and panic because it just seems like this is going to happen. *gulp* 

            End Act 1.

Fade out: I’ll laugh until my head comes off... (Radiohead)

Sometimes you just have to vent.

So I’ve been sitting in this coffee shop for about two hours. I mean, as far as I’m concerned I’ve been in this damn place for all of purgatory, i.e. the past year. Today though in particular I’ve downed one French press, which is about three cups of coffee and then I decided to follow that with one “regular” cup of joe. It’s rocketing through my veins. Needless to say, I have the jitters. It’s a toss up from the sensation of falling ten stories down and insomnia. I’ve been listening to Wilco, The War On Drugs and Slyvan Esso. So it’s been a fine mixture of folk and electro pop, basically the most common type of music that I’ve been blasting as of late. It’s been a year since I fractured my pelvis jumping a rain soaked fence at Skyridge hospital in Cleveland Tennessee after the birth of Bonnie Leigh Cotton. Since that day I’ve heard in multiple ways, “Brady, thank God you’re a dumb ass... I’m so glad you’re retarded... being stupid just saved your life...” and so on. But I’m currently at a stale mate, how do I look back upon the last year? Should I still be thanking my stupidity or start reflecting on my victories? If my stupidity is truly the unsung hero, then was it in fact a dumb move or a divine act of God that I ignored my typical statement, “I don’t do dangerous things.” And as for my victories, are they really my victories? Being a cancer patient I’ve been at the whim of blood tests and doctoral prognosis’, I never once leaned over during a procedure and said, “You should do this differently” or told them the proper medication to give. I was a mouse in a laboratory and now everyone hails my courage and stubbornness as if I had saved my self. The most courageous act that I’ve done is lean on others who are much stronger than I.

Bone marrow biopsy.

I’ve been through heavy radiation, blood and steroid treatments. I’ve had chemotherapy, bone marrow biopsies, skeletal surveys, radiated scans and stem cell transfusions. I’ve survived it all. Each time I’ve “gone under” I’ve made sure to make my nurses laugh, my doctors smile and have even tried to wipe away the tears of family and friends. Some nurses would tell me, “Even though I hope you never have to come back, I hope to see you again... You’re a great man” while others would scoff at my candor, tattooed body or sailors mouth. I once even got one of my oncologists to “cut up” with me after a series of hesitated laughter about how long I have to live. He said to me, “Ha ha, yeah... you did get knocked on your fucking ass.” We laughed; he shook my hand and told me to be back next week. But there have also been other doctors who’ve brushed me off. One in particular, during the first week of my battle walked into my hospital room, put his hands into his hair as if he just watched a child fall from a high chair and exclaimed, “I...I can’t do this...” But at least he was nicer than the one who scolded me and angrily said, “what you have is not life compatible...” as if this were my fault.

Even after all of this my little sister Kelly still hugs me, loves me and sometimes even purposefully annoys me like nothing has happened. My closest of friends still continuously rip me apart; get me drunk and debate the ridiculous nature of women -- like nothing has happened. We’ve kept our game faces and held our heads high. When I reflect on these memories I am reminded that I am truly blessed, cancer or no cancer.

When I was released from the hospital back in July I grabbed my computer one evening and tried to accurately describe how “it all went down.” The end result isn’t completely factual but it reflects inner turmoil that I had experienced. I ended up writing a weird short story where I inhabit two different forms of my self. The first “self” is the young and reckless buffoon that only cares for the shimmer of the moon, the size of a girl’s rack and beer in his gullet; I named him Matthew. As for the other, the narrator, me -- well I’m just a kid that looking for the sincerity in love, the open ticket to move forward and move on. I was searching for any sunrise that would brush my windshield and paint a smile on my face.

Before the accident, well I guess we can call it that; I was researching jobs on the west coast while passing the time as a key holder at the GameStop in Cleveland. I was considering Los Angeles, Seattle and even my old stomping grounds of Oakdale California. In Los Angeles I had my old roommate and co-conspirator Jordan Duke who at the time had been begging me to move out there with him. Then there was Scott, another old roommate of mine who would always say, “Bro! Seattle was made for someone like you” and after much research I found him to be right. There was even a moment where I asked my boss at GameStop what it would look like to transfer out there and he told me one drunk night at a bachelor party, “oh, very doable.”

Jimmy & I.

I was living in a two-bedroom apartment with my friend Jimmy. That apartment was my favorite that I’ve ever had. We had a tiny kitchen with large wooden cabinets and in the adjacent trash room lurked a stolen portrait from Lee University with two young girls smiling brightly at the camera, it was ill fitting for Jimmy. He would often grimace each time he went to dispose of an empty Miller Lite box. But our living room was my favorite part of the apartment. It was neatly decorated. It looked like the poor hipsters version of a Crate and Barrel add; old paintings and aged knick-knacks from Michigan were nailed to the wall. The best part of the living room though was the “dad chair” that sat next to the record player. Between the two of us we had a probably 70 records. Jimmy and I, after a long day would put on a record, open the balcony windows and let the sound carry outside out on to porch. We’d enjoy the cool Tennessee air; a smoke and a chilled can of Miller Lite. We were living simply and took everything a day at the time. If there was ever any drama it was the simple and good kind, the sort of drama that breaks a dark comedy with a touch of light. 

If I told you that at that moment there was no girl in my life, I’d be lying. There’s always a girl and her name was Maggie. We “met” in April even though at this juncture I had never seen her face-to-face. Everything about Maggie was stunningly loud. I knew she was something special when she told me my “Mustafar joke was hilarious...” Her very voice was eye-catching and alluring. It was as if Ross from friends was screaming “Pivot! Pivot! Pivot!” 

I called her the “unicorn” to co-workers and friends because how else could you explain a girl like her? Eventually people became accustom to asking, “How’s the unicorn?” then I'd weave a tale out of our most recent two-plus hour conversation and how important it was. We never had a dull conversation.  We’d talk on the phone for hours and even Skype for the same amount of time. Maggie would go on and on about life in Florida, skateboarding, Super Smash Bros, Star Wars and or Star Trek. In fact the very first conversation we had on the phone was right after I saw the latest Star Trek installment. Maggie called late that evening with a nerdy intensity that I’ve never experience before. She explained the nuances of that sci-fi series for what seemed like days. To this day I have never let anyone ever talk to me about Star Trek that long. Every time someone mentioned her name it was as if it was a password to my heart. I’d open like a locket and read aloud a memoire written in red.  To this day I’ve never met a girl like Maggie and I’m afraid that I never will again. Eventually we met, face-to-face. All my premonitions and forecasts of what she was like in real life were true. And on that day, the day I got discharged from the hospital, it was the happiest that I had been in years... but that’s another story for later.

So, here I a still am. Sitting on the stool at Mean Mug, the coffee shop off of Market St., reflecting on everything. I am brimming with anger, but I’m also thankful for what has happened to me. I have become separated from my old life and have had to let those old dreams die. Over the next several weeks I am going to make it a point to document and write down what I’ve been going through this year and share them with you. I have had a head start on the source material because one of my best friends, Robert or better known as “Pookie”, gave me a journal in July when I was still in the hospital. It’s full now. Every page is soaked with prayers, unsent letters, anger as thick as pavement, sadness as permanent as the scar on my chest from open heart surgery and lists upon lists of what to do next; distracting tomes of stories of old that still makes me chuckle. I am a stronger person today than I was a year ago. But to quote a close friend of mine, “Brady, this is a man maker... at the end of this, you’ll be a man.”

I think the best way for me to process this is to share with you the short story/narrative that I penned. We’ll start with the beginning of it all. But I’d rather let a professional have the last word...

“Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

I saw Matthew in the reflection of the puddle on the pavement, that blonde bearded bastard. The night was a cool whisper on my face and the moon wore a skimpy layer of white-laced clouds. “I can see her legs.” Matthew said looking up at the moon giving me a naughty wink. It was late July, tomorrow is my older sisters birthday. I feel terrible; I haven’t bought her a thing yet. So many things on my mind, the rents due soon and I had barely gathered enough cash to afford a road trip to Florida. My apartments so dirty too. My roommate will be pissed if I don’t clean the apartment before I leave.

I looked up to see Matthew skipping along on the glimmering pavement waving my keys around. He looked a drunken penguin with an old police baton and it’s a safe bet that his “Look Mexico” shirt was still a little wet from the beer he had spilled earlier.

“Look Mexico...*burp* they’re just like, like Built to Spill but... but then again, they are so not. No one’s like Doug Martsh.” That’s something Matthew would say defending his shirt and why no one has heard of the band. I was at the town bar; a watering hole that housed cave trolls for patrons when I got the call. “She’s having the baby!” then John hung up as fast as he said the words. Matthew spilt his brew and I grabbed the keys and we bolted for the hospital. After an awkward and tipsy conversation with John’s relatives by the vending machine John’s baby girl was born. I only got to see her for a second before the nurses whisked her off to the intensive care unit for infants. “You don’t have to stay man,” John said as he placed his sweaty palm on my back.

Johns face was glowing. He was now a daddy and you tell by the wholeness in his voice. We were keen to get home and drink some celebratory beers in due honor of John’s baby girl, Bonnie Lee. John and I had been looking forward to her birth for months now, obviously. I was to be an “uncle” and John, finally a daddy. Ms. Lee had some of the biggest cheeks I had ever seen on a baby, and oddly when I looked into her eyes I felt… paternal. As we walked, the hospital was at my back, the heavy grey car garage looming straight ahead in the horizon and a tiny fence on my left that forced people leaving the hospital this late to walk through that creepy grey box.

But right now that beer had my name on it, it had Bonnies name on it, Johns name on it and if I didn’t beat Matthew to the car he’d beat me to the beer. If I didn’t beat him to the beer then he’d beat me to “drunk” and last time Matthew beat me to drunk I ended up having to talk his ex girlfriend out of from coming over to stab him. If you’ve ever met Maddie, the ex, then you’ve seen the reason why the biker bar stopped doing “ladies night”. 

Matthews blonde fo-hawk bobbed up and down like the arm of an old teddy bear as we neared the entrance to the car garage. I could see my car; it was below us parked all alone in the lot. As I investigated the lay out of how to get to my car it dawned on me how pointless it was to have walk all the way through this dungeon.  I heard Matthew, as if he was in my head “You know man, I kind of want to be a da…” but his sentence suddenly became unintelligible due to sound of branches breaking and bushes wobbling. He was poking around where the fence had connected to garage in the bushes.

"Wha...what did you say? Mathew?” I couldn’t see him anywhere. The bushes were moving to the flow of the night breeze and apparently Matthew trudging around at their roots.

Matthew poked his head from behind the fence; apparently he had the same idea as me, just jump the fence. “I saaaaaid! It kind of made me want to be a Dad,” he sang in his “jazz” voice as he plucked twigs and leafs from his perfectly disheveled hawk. I couldn’t disagree with him; I kind of wanted to be a Dad too. “What are you doing back there man? You know we could just walk along through the car garage?”

He just shook his finger at me. “You’re such a lame-ass Brady.”
We were now walking side by side, separated by a two foot thick, three foot high and twelve-foot long “ego” walk to the chain link fence ahead of me. I leaned over and punched him in the shoulder. “You can’t do that! Stay on your side,” he scoffed, “If you don’t jump that fence, the Wild Things and Max are going to cry alone tonight... jerking it.”

I had to laugh at that one, but still…way to far.
That’s totally my favorite ‘pretend’ childhood book.

"Ok!, what do you want me to do now, stroke face?" I retorted. He hated that name. I didn’t even have to look at him to feel his vile and strikingly similar Steven Seagal angry face pungently thinking of comebacks. Matthew pointed at the fence and mouthed at me, “Global Guts!” then sprinted off past the fence towards the car. He was always so impatient. I never understood it either; he was like a child with ADHD that got bored after “AD…”

"Hey man!" I screamed, "Wait up dude. It’s not like we are in a hurry…" But his only response was "Mike O’Malley here introducing the lime pink pussssssssys!!!" and it was on repeat. Fuck it.

I started to climb the fence. As I got higher I couldn’t see him anywhere. I saw my car, but no Matthew. It was silent, narrator was gone and I was all-alone at the top of the fence. I tried yelling his name again, but still nothing.

"Matthew?"

He must have gotten distract by some bird or a puddle. So I started to climb down. I was never meant to be an urban ninja. I sucked at climbing. I placed one foot on what felt like a open link on the fence but it was still wet from the rain. My sneaker slipped and it let out a rubbery squeak. For a spilt second I lost my footing and my whole body went numb I was probably only four feet off the ground, but it felt like a mile.
My rubber sneakers skirted over the metal rung like wet jellyfish over an even wetter jellyfish. My fingers wrapped between two chain rungs and pop, my shoe caught on the fence.
I caught my self about three feet before I hit the bottom. 

"Matthew!!"

"Matthew! Did you see tha…"

But before my words had finished their meal my foot slipped again and I fell. My right heel slipped into a hole in the dirt with what seemed to be full of twigs and mud. Something cracked as my foot entered the hole and my side went fuzzy like a freshly shaved head. My body flopped onto the wet dirt; palms in the mud, ass wet and leaves were in the folded cuffs of my jeans. As I looked down at the hole, there should have been twigs that snapped or branches that would have cracked, but there were none and my side was still numb. I leaned back, just a few inches further and saw the moon. I saw my friends’ faces and I cried out in pain...

"John?"

"Blake?"

"Ryan?"

"Rob?"

            “Dad...?”

The next day the doctor came into my room. I was lying on a sterile bed with several needles imbedded into my flesh, two in the forearms and one deep torn in the neck that was gurgling morphine into my system. She asked sternly what I was doing leaping over a fence. I told her I got bored chasing my shadow, that I was kind of tipsy and just wanted to get home after a long day. “Well Mr Effler, there’s no real easy way to tell you this...” She closed the curtain behind her, peered over her glasses and held my hand. “Can I call you Brady, is that okay?” My hand had never been held like this before. She shook like the change in my pocket on a roller coaster.

“You... You fractured your pelvis...

And there’s a growth... about the size of a soft ball that has been eating away at the bone...

You have cancer Brady"

My thoughts clipped like an old reel of film.

I called all their names one by one. Hours later each name that I called looked at me through damp eyes and held my hand.