Gambler's Point (An excerpt from The Road and the River)

 

       

          Another eighteen miles of paddling and we call it a day. We settle in at a campsite called Gambler’s Point and its name seems to live up to its appearance—empty beer bottles and makeshift tables, no doubt a party site for locals looking to have a good time. But tonight is the Fourth of July and the party must be somewhere else, for we are alone, nested high above a sandy embankment, with pine trees towering over our pitched tents. When darkness falls we hear the blasts of fireworks echoing in the distance but that’s the only sign of our nation’s birthday that our senses collect. There are no flashing colors in the sky, mobs of children running around with sparklers, or the smell of gunpowder floating in the air. We go to bed having missed the celebration, but I wake in the middle of the night, as Mother Nature has decided to put on a show of her own. Rolling thunder barrels out of the sky with such ferocity that the ground shakes. Every few seconds the night becomes as bright as day and I count the seconds between the flashing light and the deafening noise. “One-one-thousand, two-one-thou…BOOM!” The storm is close and the wind is picking up and the trees above me are swaying violently, causing the branches to bend and creak. I can’t get the idea of a falling tree out of my mind. Wouldn’t that be something, I think to myself, to have made it across Winnie without a hitch, only to die in a tent, crushed by a giant piece of lumber. It happens more often than you’d think...

Getting High on Mount Tabor

           Of the many different ways a person can get high, my favorite way to get high would have to be running. My favorite place to get a runner’s high is on a dormant volcano near my house named Mount Tabor. The city park happens to be the highest place in my neighborhood, so in essence, when I run up Mount Tabor, I’m getting high in multiple ways.

            I hadn’t gotten high in a while, so after work on Monday I decided to get high. I strapped on my running shoes and headed for the top of Tabor. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until I reached the top. There were people everywhere, which is highly unusual this time of year. And not only were there people everywhere, but they were doing things that I don’t usually see people doing on top of Tabor. There were cyclists, skateboarders, hikers, and runners like myself, which were not at all out of the ordinary. But there were also jugglers, slack-liners, hoola-hoopers, dancers, and even a DJ spinning records. And a whole bunch of people just lounging around, doing nothing in particular. Why were all these people on top of Tabor?

            For the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out. I’ve run to the top of Tabor over a thousand times since I’ve lived in Oregon and not once had I ever seen anything like it. The park does get crowded sometimes in the summer, but this was spring. The park does get crowded sometimes on the weekends, but this was a Monday. What the hell was going on? What would posses so many people to visit the top of Tabor on a random Monday in April?

            When I got to the bottom of the mountain, it finally hit me. This wasn’t just any ordinary day in April. It was April 20^th. 4/20. 420. The unofficial marijuana smoking holiday. How did I not put two and two together? After all, I knew it was 420 when I woke up that morning. I knew it was 420 during my lunch break. I definitely knew it was 420 at 4:20 in the afternoon. And I even knew it was 420 just before I left for my run. So, how could it be that I didn’t realize 420 was the reason all those people were celebrating on top of Tabor? Perhaps my mind isn’t as sharp as it once was. Perhaps my memory is slipping. Perhaps I was just too high. It must be from all the running.

James Franco, Mr. President (fiction)

            In this story, James Franco becomes the President of the United States. The year is 2020 and the country is in absolute turmoil. The economy has collapsed. Crime is out of control. Terrorism is running rampant. And mostly because—four years prior—the good citizens of the United States decided to elect another Republican with the last name Bush to the White House. What did they think was going to happen?

At this point in our story, nobody wants to oppose the incumbent, not for fear of losing, but because nobody in their right mind would want to lead a country in such disorder. This is where James Franco comes in.

By this point in our story, James Franco has done it all. He’s acted. He’s written. He’s directed. He’s produced. He’s saved an entire family from a burning building. And their puppy. Why not try his hand at politics?

In this story, James creates his own political party, in which he calls “The Party.” At first, people are skeptical, but when Justin Timberlake signs on as his running mate, and citizens are allowed to cast their vote on their smartphones, Mr. Franco wins in a landslide.

In this story, President Franco quickly solves the crime problem by legalizing all drugs. He then fixes the economy by defunding the military and cutting all foreign aid. Unfortunately, this new isolationist policy causes terrorism to become even more widespread.

At this point in the story, James derives a plan to end terrorism once and for all. He invites all foreign terrorists to fight all of America’s homegrown terrorists in a hand to hand combat to the death. The match takes place in Dallas, Texas, at America’s Stadium, and is televised to the world via pay-per-view, which helps bolster the economy.

In this story, all the foreign terrorists—ISIS, Al-Qaeda, Manchester United, etc.—all show up, ready to fight. As do all the domestic terrorists—Ku Klux Klan, the Unabomber, Kanye West, etc. Taylor Swift sings the National Anthem and the whistle blows. But nothing happens. There is no fighting. All the terrorists suddenly realize that they have a common bond, which is the ability to hate for no good reason. This attracts them to one another. A giant homoerotic orgy ensues. The pay-per-view audience is appalled. What did they think was going to happen?

At this point in the story, God comes to Earth and reveals to the world that James Franco is in fact the second coming of Christ. Nobody is surprised. Who else but the Son of God could solve the problems of crime, poverty, and terrorism, all in their first year in the Office of the Presidency? The world rejoices in its new savior. Justin Timberlake does a song and dance.

At this point in the story, it ends.

Foul Ball (A Poem)

With two strikes and down by five

You'll swing at anything just to stay alive

So the batter swung when the ball was thrown

Even though the pitch was clear out of the zone

He hit a hard foul straight toward the seats

Where all of us fans stood cheering on our feet

Now I noticed a girl not watching the game

So I shouted aloud just as the ball came

But on this day she was shit out of luck

Because I said heads up when I should have said duck

The Best Day of the Year to Rob a Church (Fiction)

            “A bottle of your best wine!” Carl slapped a hundred dollar bill down on the bar.

            “You don’t drink wine,” said Jimbo as he eyed the large bill with suspicion.

            “Then a bottle of your best whiskey!”

            “A hundred dollars isn’t going to cover that.”

            “How about five hundred?” Carl tossed four more bills on the bar. “Keep the change.”

            “What is this?” Jimbo asked. “April Fools or something?”

            “No, that was a few days ago. It’s Easter.”

            “Is it?”

            “First Sunday in April. Easter always falls on the first Sunday in April.”

            “I don’t think that’s right.”

            “Don’t you want to know where I got the money?”

            “That’s the question I’ve been asking myself—Do I?”

            “I robbed a church!” Carl couldn’t help but smile.

            “You robbed a church. On Easter?”

            “The best day of the year to rob a church.”

            “How do you figure?”

            “Well, first of all, people who don’t regularly go to church still go to church on Easter.”

            “What about Christmas?”

            “Yes, the same holds true for Christmas, but by Christmas Eve people are broke from buying presents and what not. By the time Easter rolls around, people are feeling awfully generous. Spring is in the air. Tax returns are rolling in. That’s when they tip the most.”

            “I’m not sure that’s what they call it.”

            “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Check this out.” Carl pulled a bunny mask out of his back pocket and dropped it on the bar in front of Jimbo.

            “You robbed a church dressed as a rabbit?”

            “The Easter Bunny! Get it? Thought it would be a nice touch.”

            “Aren’t you worried about the repercussions?”

            “That’s what’s so genius about the entire thing—the church won’t even call the cops. It’s against their whole philosophy. They’re all into forgiveness and all that shit. The preacher went on and on about it during his sermon.”

            “Wait a second. You actually sat through the sermon?”

            “It would have been disrespectful if I didn’t. After all, it is Easter.”

            “So, let’s say for some reason they don’t call the police, which I find very unlikely, what about other repercussions, you know, from a higher power?”

            “You mean Jesus?”

            “Or God, or however you want to look at it. Don’t you think robbing a church might bring some bad karma?”

            “Bad karma? Have you looked at my life lately? I hate to break it to you buddy, but things haven’t been going so well on this side of the bar. That’s another reason this thing is so great—I’m testing God!”

            “Testing God?”

            “Yes. Testing God! I want to see if he actually exists. I figured that nothing is much worse than robbing a church, so if God is real, then he’ll punish me, won’t he?”

            “But if God was real, he might actually be disgusted by the idea of church in the first place. After all, doesn’t the first commandment say that you shall not have any other gods? It seems to me that most churches these days are more interested in the church itself than they are in the God in which they’re supposed to be worshipping. In some respect, the church has become their God.”

            “Well, in that case, by robbing the church, I’m actually doing God a favor!”

            Jimbo paused to think for a moment. “How much did you get anyway?”

            “Twenty-grand.”

            “Twenty-grand?”

            “It was a mega-church.”

            Jimbo grabbed the five hundred dollars and slipped it in his front pocket. “One bottle of our finest whiskey, coming up!”

Byrds in Boots

            Sometimes professional basketball players make it look easy. Too easy. So easy that the unsuspecting fan might forget just how difficult it can be to shoot a ball through a hoop.

            I was watching a lot of basketball. Too much basketball. So much basketball that I somehow convinced myself that I too could play the game with as much finesse as the men I watched on television.

            I bought a ball. I laced up my tennis shoes. I convinced my friend Charlie to go to the park with me.

            We dribbled. We passed. We attempted layups and foul shots and three-pointers. Some of our shots even went in. We played HORSE. One game lasted almost an hour. By the end of it, we felt like pros.

            And then we were challenged. Two on two. Half court. Make it, take it. A game to twenty-one. Win by two.

Our opponents weren’t even old enough to drink. Teenagers. Short chubby teenage brothers. They looked like real-life versions of Chris Griffin from Family Guy, but shorter and fatter and whiter.

And they were wearing boots. Work boots. Steel toed. With no laces. And no socks. And they challenged me and Charlie to a game of pickup basketball.

We gladly accepted. We laughed at the idea.

The game started. They made a quick three-pointer. No big deal. Make it, take it.

Another three pointer. Six-zero. Beginner’s luck. And then another.

We began pressing. They began passing. Through their legs. Behind their backs. Over their shoulders. They shot on the fly. Jumpers. Fade-aways. Sky-hooks.

They looked like short obese versions of Eminem but played ball like Larry Byrd. One bucket after another. Charlie and I had no answers.

It was over fast. Twenty-one, nothing. Game over. Skunked. By two fat kids wearing work boots. Another game? Not today.

I still watch the sport on a regular basis. But I haven’t touched a basketball since.

Bottom of the Ninth (Fiction)

Bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded, down by three, Jimmy’s up to bat. And here’s the pitch. And the swing. Strike one! Jimmy steps out of the batter’s box, wipes the sweat off his brow, and checks the signs from the third base coach. He nods his head and steps back in the box. And here’s the pitch. And the swing. Strike two! The Philadelphia Phillies are one strike away from winning the World Series. Jimmy steps back in the batter’s box. What’s this? He’s raising his arm. He’s pointing to center field. He’s calling his shot! I don’t believe it. And here’s the pitch. And the swing. And it looks like he got all of that one. It’s going, going, gone! A grand slam to center field! Jimmy has done the impossible. The crowd goes wild. The Cleveland Indians have won game seven of the World Series. Jimmy rounds the bases. He takes off his hat and waves it towards the fans. They have waited a long time for this. The fireworks start to explode. Boom! Bang! Pow! But wait. Those aren’t fireworks—they’re bombs! We’re under attack!

It’s the Russians. They have infiltrated the stadium. They’re parachuting in. They have guns—lots of guns. Quick, get me to the locker room. There it is, in my locker. I always keep my machine gun in my locker. Bang! Bang! Bang! Three shots, three dead Russians. Let’s go! There’s no time. We need to get out of the stadium. Oh my god! The streets are on fire. World War Three has broken out in the streets of Cleveland. Hand me a grenade. Boom! Another. Boom! Two tanks down. Kapow! I’ve been hit. Run for your life! No, leave me behind. I can fend for myself. Bang! Bang! Bang! Stay low, army crawl. Hurry, behind that car. I need another grenade. Boom! Watch out! From above. They’re attacking us from above. Wait, what is that? Those aren’t Russians. Those are aliens!

Screw you alien scum! Bang! Bang! Bang! We need more fire power. My machine gun bullets won’t penetrate their force field. I need an intergalactic bazooka. Thanks. Kabloowee! I’ve hit it. Oh no, it’s coming down right on top of us. Hurry. Run, jump, dive, summersault. Boom! Crash landing just missed us. But here come the aliens, dozens of them, small and green, with tentacles and claws. Bang! Got one. Bang! Got another. Green splatter everywhere. Don’t touch it, it’s poison. It will melt through anything it comes in contact with. We need to find the crystal. It’s the only way to destroy the mother ship. There it is. I see it—on top of that skyscraper. Let’s go. Watch out for the dinosaur. Run!!!!

“Jimmy!”

It’s a t-rex and it’s coming right for us!

“Jimmy!!”

Oh my god, it’s going to eat us. Run!

“Jimmy!!!”

“Yes, Mom?”

“It’s dinner time. Get inside and make sure you wash your hands.”