What Dreams May Come

It’s been a harrowing experience, trying to live a dream. It all started with an unusual love of books. Perpetual anger toward my parents caused passive aggressive tendencies that prevented me from actually opening them. I expressed anger by reaching dizzying heights of ignorance, just to hurt then as much as they hurt me.

But I couldn’t fight the allure. I perused the book section of Caldoor, looking for that one that sent shivers up my spine. It was usually a heavy bound, thick papered, science fiction novel, something that would jive with my love of the genre. I was already a fan of Space 1999, Star Blazers, and DC Comics. But I never read a word of it. I just fell into that catatonic state in front of the TV while Mom shook her head at my grades, on the phone with Dad who, from his house an hour away, shook his too.

I have an old copy of a book I tried to write when I was ten. It reminds me that from a very early age I was enamored with books. Saturday I came as close as ever to the fire, the dream that burns if I get too close but fails to warm me when I stand too far away. For the past three years I’ve tried to put on paper what everyone says is a fascinating life. On Thursday of last week I finished my third attempt, the one with a voice, a cadence, a common thread. So I paid the fee to attend The Muse and the Marketplace, a two day writer’s conference held at the Omni Parker House in Boston. I went the extra mile and paid extra to have the first twenty pages of my memoir read by the agent of my choice.

At 4:10 the room cleared of the previous twenty minute appointments. Hopeful authors scampered off, excited or devastated; agents tend not to beat around the bush. I walked to my table, hoping to see a contract spread out, no words necessary. But instead I found a friendly faced man, the one I chose, sitting patiently. I sat down and introduced myself.

“Let me ask you, what are you doing now?” he asked in response to the twenty pages that chronicle my first day in prison.

“I’m a personal trainer at Boston Sports Club.” I answered, wondering if he was expecting to hear, ‘Robbing jewelry stores, didn’t you read?’

He looked impressed, then pulled out my manuscript and said, “Well, I read this and you’re a really good writer. Your descriptions are right on, not too detailed, just enough to put me there.”

I’d like to say I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed. But his compliment set off a frenzy of anxiety. He was supposed to tell me it needed a lot of work. He was supposed to tell me his agency wasn’t taking on new clients at this time. He was supposed to take out a tube of lighter fluid, saturate the pages, and set them ablaze.

Instead, I heard, “Feel free to send this to the agency.”

Last night I sent it. Now I wait for a rejection or worse, a positive response. I might have to revert to my old ways, lest my head explode. I’m not used to praise.

Ignorance truly is bliss.

Cataloging Crimes

The job marked the point where my brother and I started to wonder if Dad was out of control. He thought we that we could take down The Jewelers Building in Downtown Crossing, one jeweler at a time. If you've seen it, you know security's tighter than Fort Knox.

But we had inside info that an errand boy emerged every day and carried an armload of boxes three blocks, to the Fed Ex store.

A week before Christmas, the streets bustled with shoppers. Dad and I chatted back and forth on walkie-talkies, about to give up and go home when suddenly, the errand boy passed by. I signaled Dad and moved in behind him. I checked the gun secured in my waistband. Ahead, I saw Dad but not my brother. His blood sugar had dropped. Dad sent him to get food. Too late to abort, Dad lunged and shoved his gun into the kid’s side. The top boxes tumbled. I scooped them up as the kid squawked, Hey! Hey!

Dad snagged the remaining boxes and we ran to the car parked three blocks away. My brother continued to stuff hot dogs into his mouth after we picked him up. I tore open the box that was supposed to contain fifty grand in diamonds. Instead I pulled out a catalog. The chewing ceased. The car fell dead quiet.

Six boxes. Six catalogs.

We didn't know the jewelry store owner owned a police scanner. He heard our random transmissions, the catalogs were sent as a precaution.

Christmas was ruined for us, and possibly anyone expecting a catalog. Another job was planned and soon enough the catalog incident was forgotten. A few days ago while in Boston to take a class, I bumped into the Jeweler’s Building. It was like bumping into an old classmate whose friendship had turned sour. I reminisced quietly while the building continued to shun would-be robbers.

Which begs the question: If a crime falls in the middle of Boston, and no one profits, is it still a felony?

I am NOT Batman

I just finished Batman Begins for the umpteenth time. Possibly the best Batman to date. I speak as not only a fan of the genre, I've seen all the movies, hate all the actors after Michael Keaton, and own Knightfall in it's entirety, including The Vengeance of Bane #1. I can't wait for The Dark Knight with Heath and feel Hollywood has revived the character by returning to its grass roots and pulling plots from over fifty years of development.
At one point I traveled the same rocky road that made Bruce Wayne that venerable character so woven into our pop culture. My travels, unfortunately, lead me to a myriad of state run facilities.
My training, like Bruce's, started in the Martial Arts. Mom signed me up to the YMCA for their self defense classes. Uechi Ru is one of those arts that prefers you not fight. Should the occasion to defend yourself arise, well sure, rip out the offender's throat, but first try not to fight. For those of us who were tormented by bullies, you know how that goes. I quit after going for two years and only achieving a yellow belt.

I needed to learn the art of death. I was consumed with the idea of killing my brother. (Think of the worst bully you've ever known, square that, and multiply it by pi, that's my brother). So I found a studio in the town square that had Nun Chucks, butterfly knives, and pointed metal stars, hanging in the window. Fred Villari's School of Self Defense was the answer. They sold weapons. Surely they taught you how to use them. I didn't need the tour or the complimentary lesson, I just needed Mom to write a check.

I attended every class, climbed the ranks, yellow, orange, blue, green, green stripe, brown, brown stripe. I bought every book I could find on the arts and studied them all. My favorite was on Ninjitsu, the art of assassination. It even had an order form for an authentic Ninja uniform in the back. I filled it out and anxiously awaited its delivery.

It came riddled with pockets and drawstrings. The hood came in three separate pieces. It was so authentic I had to bring it to class and ask Sensei Cal to show me how to put it on. Clad in the uniform, facing my bad ass, assassin self in the mirror, I decided to take it out for a test run. I consulted the book one last time and memorized the more important points: Blend. Remain unseen. Never cast a human shadow. And leave no witnesses.

I took to the streets, draped myself in the shadows, calmed my lifelong fear of the dark, and headed to Grossman's to steal some wood. We thugs had every tradition every Halloween. After we spent the night searching for someone to buy us a pony keg, we mounted a cross atop the First Hill overlooing the school, and set it ablaze. I should note, we did this for attention, (no one pays much mind to a docile cross. But light it on fire...) Cops and fire trucks showed up. We grabbed the keg, ran away, and returned to a pile of smoldering, stolen two by fours.

I did pretty good moving through yards, ducking out of view, and getting there undetected. What I didn't plan for was the thirty foot high fence, cameras, and the fact that the wood was fifty shades brighter than my suit. I lost my motivation to remain concealed halfway home when I realized it was useless. A police cruiser caught me scurrying across Main Street, traditions fell by the wayside after my arrest. I quit Fred Villari's after I bought a quarter pound of weed with the money my mother gave me for private lessons. I tried to sell it but ended up fronting myself the majority.

I still owe myself seven hundred bucks.

Jack and the ProteinStalk

I heard him say it in his deep, booming, resounding tone that can be heard from anywhere in the gym. Tim talked to his doe eyed, perpetually happy, Asian client using that condescending, self righteous tone trainers are notorious for. "Now what are you gonna eat when you get home?" He asked, setting her up.

"Um, I don't know, I haven't gone shopping. Maybe just some cereal?" She asked instead of answered.

"Gotta get protein, and a high quality protein, whey is the highest quality protein." Tim bellowed.

"But I'm lactose intolerant." She replied. This threw Tim for a loop. His brow fell like a curtain after a play.

"They have lactose free whey protein now. Gotta get your high quality protein. It helps build muscle."

I'm surprised he didn't rub her head and swat her behind as he shoved her off with a head full of misinformation and the belief that she needed to ingest this whey or go catabolic on a grand scale.

I wanted so badly to remain neutral. I took this job to reinvent myself and shed my own self righteous ways. Tim and I were alone in the break room shortly after. My filter must have been down for repairs because I said, "You know, Tim, there's no scientific evidence that proves protein builds muscle."

"Yeah, it does, it's the highest quality protein." he reiterated.

"Actually, if you're referring to its bioavailability and essential amino acid profile, beef is the best. But none of it is proven to build muscle."

"Muscle is made of protein." Tim said, looking at me as if I was an idiot.

"True, but that doesn't mean that if I eat it I'll build muscle."

"Yeah it does. And whey is predigested." he added.

"What's that have to do with building muscle?" I asked.

This stumped Tim. "I don't know. But I like it," he said before striking a most muscular pose and scampering out of the room.

Protein, like all nutrients, provide calories. There's no way to prove whether or not strength gains come from a specific nutrient or overall calories. This is the problem with nutrition. Balance is the key. Suppose protein is solely responsible for building muscle. Vitamins and minerals (from fruits and veggies, NOT MULTIVITAMINS) are needed to help transport, and support the anabolic process.

The jury is still out on young Tim's declaration. Tim, with his magic protein beans, has fallen prey to genius marketing rather than solid science. Reputable sources don't recommend that more than 15% of overall calories come from protein (20% if you're an elite athlete). Maybe we should spend our money on basic whole foods instead of investing in the latest fad.

So far the fads are winning.