Friday, April 28, 2017

The First 600 Words

       
 


             I’ve never seen a train run through town. I’ve never heard the distant whistle of a locomotive or the roaring thunder of boxcars being dragged behind. For the longest time the tracks sat alone, forgotten, except for us kids who would play around them, walking on the steel strips, one foot after the other, seeing who could keep their balance the longest. Then the men from the railroad showed up with their machines and stripped the heavy lengths from their ties and trucked them to the scrap yard. The price of steel was just too high, they said, to let them sit there, doing nothing. Soon enough the ties disappeared too, one by one, stolen by scavengers, torn from the ground and used for who knows what. Now all that remains is the old-timers’ memories of the Western Atlantic Railroad and a narrow embankment that runs through the heart of town.
            I skipped school today. I skip school almost every Friday, but this Friday in particular, I wouldn’t be caught dead inside those brick walls. It’s Homecoming weekend. You know, that once-a-year celebration when everyone parades through the halls like they give two shits about the school, as if they take some sort of pride in being a Maple Lake Indian. They paint their faces. They dress in the school colors. And at the end of the day there’s a giant pep rally in the gym, where all the members of the football team are treated like heroes, called down to the floor one by one, their arms high in the air, grunting and yelling and giving each other high-fives as if they just won the National Championship or something. And the rest of the school cheers them on, ignoring the fact that they haven’t won a game in years. And what’s even worse is that the rest of the student athletes go along with the whole charade, sitting in the bleachers, cheering them on, without receiving a single bit of recognition themselves. I sat through that garbage three years in a row. I won’t do it again.
            So I slept in this morning. Then I drove about an hour, out into the country to have lunch at an old diner that serves their drinks out of mason jars. They claim to be the first place ever to do that, but I don’t know if that’s true or just something they advertise. It must work, because their food is lousy but the place is always crowded. I just need an excuse to get out of town every once in a while and I find a long drive out that way is much more relaxing than heading the other direction, towards the suburbs and the city.
After lunch I headed back here, not too far behind the school, close enough in fact that I can just make out the building, sitting in the distance like a piece from a board game. I come here to collect the railroad spikes that lay scattered off the sides of the embankment. I sell them to a local antique shop for five dollars a dozen. They turn around and sell them for two dollars apiece. It’s not a very effective way to make money, but it sure beats sitting in school. Plus I like the walk. I like to think that when the wind blows, it’s the ghost of an ancient train.
            “Hey! You! Don’t move!” A deep voice booms from over my shoulder. “You’re trespassing on government property. Drop the spikes and put your hands in the air.”


The Last Indians is currently available at         https://www.createspace.com/7026283






Friday, April 21, 2017

Just Perfect




I need every line to be just perfect
And I've already gone and fucked it up






























































Friday, April 14, 2017

Moonlighting


One would think that a college statistics professor would be good at gambling. And that was precisely what Professor Cory Roberts believed. It was just numbers. And the ability to find patterns in those numbers. How hard could it be?

Two-hundred thousand dollars hard, as it turned out. It began as a harmless hobby. A ballgame here. A horserace there. But before he knew it, Cory was betting on everything. The presidential election. The coin toss at the AFC Championship.

It was the Super Bowl that really did him in. Seriously. How does a team blow a twenty-five point lead in the third quarter? It was obviously rigged. It had to be. And that son-of-a-bitch Brady. He considered hunting him down. Cutting off his throwing hand. Isn’t that what gangsters did. But who was he kidding? He was no gangster. Hell, Brady would probably kick his ass.

And then there was Adele. Sure, her album sold a gazillion copies and produced five chart topping singles. But Beyonce’s album had meaning. The kind of thing Grammy voters would eat up. And at 2-1 odds, he would break even. Back to zero. No harm, no foul.

Now his house was gone. Along with his car, his wife, and his kids. But he had a plan. A plan that would fix everything. His cousin worked for PricewaterhouseCoopers. He had inside info on the Oscars. He only needed to bet it all on the Best Picture winner and he would be set. But there was just one problem. He had no money left to bet.

Vegas. That was the answer. There were people in Vegas who would loan you money. He saw it on a reality TV show, so it had to be true. So he flew there a week before the awards ceremony and began asking around. It took him a few days, but by Friday he found his guy. A high-roller who never stopped smiling. A few stiff drinks and they had a deal.

A two-hundred thousand dollar loan with twenty-five percent interest. Only a sucker would agree to that. But he could afford to be sucker this time. Because he couldn’t lose. His winning film was a 5-1 underdog. By Monday, his two-hundred thousand dollar wager would be worth a million. The fifty-thousand dollars in interest would be chump change.

He headed to Caesar’s Palace to make his bet. On his way to the lobby he was hassled by a homeless man. A filthy bum that smelled of booze. No! he didn’t have any change to spare. Get a job! Take a shower! Kill yourself! I don’t care!

He placed his bet and then booked a room on the highest floor. It was expensive but that didn’t matter. In a few hours he would be rich. With his ticket in hand, he took the elevator to his room and ordered a bottle of bourbon. Might as well start celebrating.

The show dragged on forever. It always does. Who the hell cares about art direction anyway? By the time Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway took the stage, the bottle of bourbon was empty. And the winner is…Why is he pausing? This isn’t funny Warren! This isn’t the time to joke around! Faye grabbed the envelope. Good old, beautiful Faye. And the winner is La La Land.

The bourbon bottle went through the TV screen. How could this happen? How could his own cousin throw him under the bus? When you borrow two-hundred grand from a loan shark and don’t pay him back, they don’t just kill you. They torture you. He saw it once on a reality TV show, so it had to be true.

With his ticket in hand, Professor Cory Roberts walked out onto the balcony of his hotel room. On the highest floor of Caesar’s Palace. Not a cloud in sight. The moon lit up the sky. Wasn’t that fitting?

The bum heard the sound before he saw the body. And the blood. He stumbled over to the stiff. What was that in its hand? A ticket. A ticket that said Moonlight. He slid the piece of paper from the corpse’s fingers. I suppose he won’t be needing this…




Friday, April 7, 2017

The Vanity of Victory: Thoughts on Competition

Image result for trail running

           This Sunday I will attempt to run 40 miles. I use the word “attempt” because I’m not sure if I’m going to succeed. But I’m sure as hell going to try. I mean, it’s really just one step in front of another for an extended period of time. It’s technically a race, but I won’t be racing. I’m just there to finish, to prove to myself that I can do it. Then why not just go run 40 miles, you might be thinking, why pay to enter a competition? I suppose I could, but I really like the aid stations (I won’t have to carry my own water or food); and the idea that if something does go wrong, somebody will come looking for me. When you get into the big miles, that’s what you’re really paying for. But why even do it in the first place? I mean, who in their right mind would even consider running forty consecutive miles? I’ve been asking myself that same question lately, and I suppose that’s why I’m writing this essay to begin with: to find the answer.
           I’ve always been a competitive person. I’m pretty sure I was born that way. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a curse. I truly envy people who are content with simply engaging in an activity without caring about the outcome. Myself, I want to win. And I want to win badly. I don’t know why. I’m not sure any competitive person really does. It’s just something engrained in our psyche. And it can certainly have its benefits. But unfortunately, for the vast majority of us, there will always be much more heartbreak than triumph. As I grow older (and wiser?) I’ve begun to think more about my life as a competitor and whether there is a way to find comfort in a contest without the desire to win.  
            I can’t really remember a time in my life when I haven’t felt the need to compete. As a young child, I played baseball. In middle school and high school, I was on the wrestling team. In college, and for a few years after, I played rugby. I remember my last game—I said I was done competing for good. After twenty years of organized sports, I had had enough. I bought a bicycle and rode it from New York to Oregon, hoping that the journey would somehow destroy whatever gene in my body that was causing this urge to compete. But it wasn’t long before I was settled into Oregon that I started competing again. This time it was bicycle racing, and “obsessed” would be a fair word to describe my approach to the sport. But after several years of competing, I eventually realized that I was nowhere near the head of the pack. And never would be. There’s nothing worse for a competitor than to admit that you just don’t have what it takes to win.
            I slowly faded bicycle racing out of my life and returned to one of my earliest loves—running. Which brings us to October of 2016. It was my birthday and I was competing in a 10k. I wanted to win badly. I had never won a 10k before and thought it would be a nice birthday present to myself. So I ran hard. Too hard. I thought someone was nipping at my heels during the finish and ran the last mile faster than I had ever run a mile before. I was the first across the finish line, but I injured myself in the process. My back went out and I would be out of commission for about a month afterwards. The first two weeks it was a struggle just to move. And all I could think was: Why? Why did I need to win that stupid race so badly? What was I trying to prove and to who? Nobody would have cared if I took second, or third, or even if I came in last. What was the point?
             I still don’t have a definitive answer. I’m sure it has something to do with evolution and that whole “survival of the fittest” bullshit. But I do know that I need to lose this ultracompetitive trait before I do something really stupid. Before I injure myself beyond repair. And so, I’ve started running really long distances. I still like the idea of competing, but I also like knowing that I won’t ever win. At least not on the results page. At this point in my life, winning is simply finishing. This weekend it’s forty miles. Later this summer, I hope to make it fifty, and then sixty by the end of the year. I’m not concerned with what place I finish, or my time, or my pace. I just want to run further than I’ve ever run before. I suppose it’s really just a different way of competing, but at least now I’m only competing with myself. I really like the idea of that, because after all, it’s just one foot in front of the other for an extended period of time.