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

Just Perfect

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

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…

The Vanity of Victory: Thoughts on Competition

           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.    

    

To Climb a Tree

A better look at the sky I’d like to see

So I’ve decided to climb a tree

And I’ve decided not to stop

Not to stop until the very top

So I shimmy up a trunk so wide

That inside a bear could surely hide

And grab the first branch that I see

The lowest branch on this tree

I pull myself up to the second one

Now I’m getting closer to the sun

And like climbing a ladder, up I go

Oh looky there! There’s a crow

Branch after branch, I hold on tight

So that’s what happened to my old kite

Holy cow! Now am I up high

Higher than some birds might even fly

Two more branches and I’m almost there

Almost there, so high up in the air

I can see the world so very clear

And my house is tiny from way up here

That’s the dinner bell! I can hear the sound

Now how will I ever get back down?

Bacon Cheeseburger Salad: An Essay inside a Recipe

Ingredients:

1 lb burger (I use ground beef with 20% fat)

6 slices of bacon

1 package (2 oz) of onion soup mix

2 cups shredded cheese (I like cheddar)

1 tsp Worcestershire sauce

Lettuce (I use spinach)

Tomatoes

Red Onion

Dill pickle chips

Dressing (I like blue cheese)

I’m turning 35 years old this year and I’m concerned. I know many older folks who will laugh at the last sentence. They will say: “35! That’s young!” I know they will say this, because they have. And they’re partially correct, 35 is “young”, but only if your older than 35. To a 12 year old, 35 might seem ancient. But regardless of whether you consider the age of 35 to be young or old, it is generally believed—and scientifically verified—that 35 is the age when the human body begins to go downhill. Think about it—how many professional athletes do you see over the age of 35? Not many. And there’s a good reason for that.

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Panfry the bacon until it’s good and crispy. Break into small pieces. In large bowl, combine meat, bacon, cheese, soup mix, egg, and Worcestershire sauce. Mix together with your hands. Form small balls out of mixture about the size of a golf ball. Place balls on pan and bake for 15 minutes.

35 is about the age (it does vary from person to person) when the human body’s metabolism begins to slow down. It is also the age when the human body begins to naturally lose muscle (1% per year, from the research I’ve read). To battle this latter issue, I have begun lifting weights for the first time since high school. As far as the slowing of metabolism, there’s really only one way to fight that: You must change your diet!

Instructions (cont.)

Chop up lettuce tomato, onion, pickle to desired sizes and form a salad. Place meatballs on top. Add dressing.

Now, you can ask a hundred different health professionals what the perfect diet is and get a hundred different answers. I believe that is because everyone is different. We have different bodies, different genetics, different ancestries. But I don’t think it’s too hard to figure out which foods you should and shouldn’t be putting in your body. It can be as simple as eating something and then deciding how you feel afterward. As for me, when I eat anything containing added sugar or flour, I suddenly want to take a nap. Since food is supposed to give your body energy, that’s enough “scientific research” to tell me I shouldn’t be consuming vast amounts of these ingredients. But the problem is that I love cheeseburgers. They are my favorite food. Unfortunately, the cheeseburger bun contains an unhealthy amount of flour, which makes me super tired. And that’s why I invented the Bacon Cheeseburger Salad—all the flavor of a cheeseburger without the crash afterward.

Bon appetit!  

The South of Michigan

        Detroit. James Jameson didn’t need a metaphor to describe how he felt about Detroit. The city’s name carried a connotation that said it all. That’s why he chose his latest novel to be set here. The city itself was a metaphor; for something that was happening on a grander scale across the nation. It was the perfect setting for his literary masterpiece. He just never thought that the citizens of Detroit would embrace such a novel. Didn’t they realize he was mocking them? And since when did people in Detroit read literature?

        Now, as he trampled through the sidewalk’s dirty snow, he felt trapped in this rust belt city. Where were the trains? The buses? The taxis? Any transportation to get him to the airport; to take him away from this godforsaken city? He regretted coming in the first place. But that was part of the job, wasn’t it? To travel to your audience, to read your words aloud for their simple ears, to convince them that your story is worth their hard earned pay? But why did he choose Detroit? Why not the South of France? And now, what the hell was this?

         James stared at the bar in disbelief. The Motown Tavern. But it couldn’t be. He was always meticulously careful not to use real establishments in his stories. But even the sign on the window was the same: “If the Doors Unlocked, we’re Open.” Son of a bitch, he thought, they stole this straight out of my book. This meant they were using his ideas for their profit, which surely meant a lawsuit. He pushed the door. It was unlocked.

            “Whatchya drink?” the bartender asked.

            “Excuse me?” James eyes widened.

            “This is a bar. People come here to drink booze. What kinda booze you want?”

            It couldn’t be. Could it? The bartender looked exactly like the main character in his novel, right down to the suspenders and sideburns. He even talked the same. “Is this a joke?” James asked.

            “Is what a joke?”

            James half laughed to himself. “Tell me, what’s your name?”

            “Names Martin, friends call me Chops. Who’s askin’?”

            “All right,” James said, so everyone in the room could hear. “Where are the cameras?”

            “Cameras? Watchya talkin’ ‘bout, cameras?”

            “Now, you listen here,” James pointed at the man behind the bar. “I don’t want to be on some idiotic reality television show…”

            “Television show? What da hell you talkin’ ‘bout?”

            “Listen, we both know who I am.”

            “Oh yeah. And who’s that?”

            “James Jameson. The Author. I created your character.”

            “My character?” The bartender yelled. “Now you better watch your…”

            “Hey!” A voice echoed from the end of the bar. “Both of you, quiet down.” The young, handsome man looked at James. “What did you say your name was?”

            “James Jameson.”

            “That’s impossible.”

            “And why is that?”

            “Because James Jameson is a character I created for a short story; an author, in Detroit for a book reading…”