1-2-3 Green Light

I've managed to purge a lot of my obsessions.

I do laundry as needed; the piles of dirty clothing in our bedroom are a testament to my progress. I dust only when the dustbunnies threaten to claim dominion of our space. I make the bed, but rarely.

I’ve realized that while I have scant recollection of my extensive Saturday cleaning sprees, I have wonderful memories of weekends spent at the ocean or in the mountains with my rara.

Make no mistake, I’m far from cured. I’m inclined to polish the Rolex at the mere hint of a blemish, and the phone is rubbed clean of prints with each handling. If compulsion is obsession’s shadow, then I’m now frightened of shadows.

None of my mania compares to my fixation on that tiny green light. I wish the Droid had multi-colored signals¬¬—yellow means proceed with caution, red the sign of certain rejection. The color I pray for is green.

Green is affirmation. Green means go. Green clears the path so that I can take my gaze off the ground and crook it toward the sky…

The Wish is Father to the Fear

"The wish is father to the fear," my therapist tells me.

I look at him quizzically knowing he'll wait patiently for me to ask outright, "What does that mean."

"That what you fear you secretly wish." he answers.

"So if I'm afraid of dying then I'm secretly wishing I'd die?" I ask, opting for the most extreme example, hoping to stump his little theory.

"Part of you, yes." He answers, flexing his unstumable brain.

"Interesting."

"Let's ally it to your example that you're afraid you'll get fired from your job. You repeatedly talk about not wanting to get fired, yet you keep getting in trouble. And if behavior reveals what a person really wants, then it stands to reason that deep down, your intention is to get fired."

"You don't seriously believe that I'm trying to get fired, do you?" I ask.

"Not consciously, no. But it's important to reiterate that 90% of all decisions are made on an unconscious level, and if that's true, then unconsciously yes, you want to get fired."

"But I don't want to get fired." I say.

"I disagree." He says.

"Dude, I'm telling you, I-don't-want-to-get-fired."

"I hear what your saying, but it's incongruent with how you act, and not wanting something to happen is different than being afraid it will happen. The wish is father to the fear."

"Stop saying that!"

"You want me to stop speaking the truth?"

"No, of course not, but...see...I'm afraid but...god damn it...you got me all fucked up." I bark.

"I'm quite sure I didn't fuck you up, someone did, but it wasn't me." he says.

"Smug prick." I mumble.

He smiles.

"OK, so I wish they'd fire me." I lie.

"Keep going." he says.

"Then I can be poor, lose my insurance, be thrown out on the street, and be a homeless loser."

"I think we've stumbled on something here." he interrupts.

"Wha?" I ask, slack jawed.

"That last part." he answers.

"Homeless loser?"

"That very last part." he says.

"Loser." I whisper.

"If you didn't unconsciously think you were a loser..." he's goading me to finish.

"Then I wouldn't wish to get fired."

He marinates me in his self righteous stare. I wonder if he can hear me berating him with every swear combination I know, and a few new ones.

MultiPlease

Please.

You could call it a prayer, but I'm not sure I believe in God.

You could call it a request, but it fails to telegraph the desperation.

You could call it politeness, but I'm beyond that.

Please.

It rolls around inside my head every time I dream of the possibilities. It preambles the mantra that there will be no harder worker, no more determined promoter, no more enthusiastic a marketer.

Please.

But it's also a plea to the universe for redemption. An affirmative answer allows me to transcend, like Phoenix, into the unknown. It permits me to sigh years of baited breath.

It gives me a chance to let go.

But there are times that defiance creeps in. Please is demanding, like I'm owed.

Please, I am owed.

And should the universe deny me, please is my excuse to refuse plan B, to give up on writing. Please is the anvil that collapses the parachute of gratitude, plunging me into self pity.

Then please will be the answer to looking on the bright side, Maybe it's all for the best...

Please.

For now, I'll use it to hush the myriad of thoughts, good and bad, that hurl at me everyday. I've never been this close...I'm almost there...But what if it doesn't work...What if they hate it...I'll be stuck in purgatory forever...

Please!

Bryan The Great?

I read presidential biographies hoping they'll reveal what makes men great.  

I go to church and watch men of faith profess God's greatness, but they all seem to ignore the fact that understanding greatness on God's level can only lead to an unabashedly prime example of how far we are from achieving it.

Yet I wonder what legacy I'll leave behind, if anyone will consider me a great man.

I guess it all depends on the yardstick. Measuring greatness depends on the scale. Great can be simply doing the right thing. So in that sense I've fallen short.

One could say I'm a great survivor. But surviving is merely the ability to wait out a struggle. Although overcoming adversity doesn't render one great, falling and getting back up does.

Sometimes I measure greatness by way of accomplishment, accumulation, and status, but using this scale leaves room for scoundrels.

Maybe it lies in simplicity, peace of mind, or morality. Not necessarily in a religious sense, but an ideological one. Perhaps greatness is merely self-actualization leading to an unshakable foundation of belief in oneself that leads others to admiration. Maybe it's being a husband, model employee, or responsible citizen.

Or maybe the genesis of greatness begins with the question; just like neither the chicken nor the egg could have preceded the idea of such, maybe defining greatness will help me achieve it.

So here goes...greatness is---

Trying to be better than I was yesterday.

God's House

I have a vivid memory of my hungover mother's voice demanding I get up and get ready for church. The Catholic Church frowns on denim and leaves the wearing of such heathen garb to inmates and atheists. That day Mom forced us to dress in our Sunday best. But it doesn't matter how nice the ribbon looks on a bowl of rotten fruit, it still stinks. Mom spent the entire hour of church refereeing our abominable behavior. She had to separate Kev and I, putting me near Jess, which wasn't any better. With no one to pester, Kev fell asleep, prompting mom to nudge him like a NHL player nudges an opponent.

During communion, just as she thought we settled down, I'd leaned over and asked, "Hey Mom, am I supposed to chew the cookie?"

To which she yelled, "It's not a god damn cookie."

After taking the Lord's name in vain, she ushered us out, screaming at us the whole ride home. We spent the remainder of Sunday morning in lock down. Kev escaped out his window, Jess nodded off, and I snuck down to watch the faithful sin box.

No institution has garnered more bad press recently than the Catholic Church.  The child abuse scandal of the last decade has publicized the secrecy and deception within the Church, tools the Catholic theocracy uses to conceal its shameful behavior.  Though the child abuse is responsible for enormous damage, the decline of the Church began long before this outrage.  The true failing of the Church lies in its refusal, or perhaps even inability, to evolve.  Like all living, breathing entities, it must adapt or die.  Some changes call for major revisions of doctrine.  Maybe priests should be allowed to marry, or women should be allowed entry to the priesthood, or gays, well, maybe gays should be allowed something, anything at all.  Even barring these major changes, the Church has not evolved in small ways--like a meaningful service or sermon, Sunday school for children, music that evokes emotion, liveliness, spirit...  Consequently, followers of this rigid faith are finding comfort, love, joy, community, and God in other places.

So, the stage was ripe for churches like The Vineyard to sprout with a new attitude, call it "no pressure sales."  Rachel and I went to The Vineyard this morning for Sunday service. We were greeted at the door with smiles, no wait, with ear to ear grins.  A friendly man interrupted us as we looked in awe at a sign that read, "Food and Drink Welcome. Lids are Appreciated." Wait, coffee in church?  In fact, free coffee and bagels were served in the cafe in the next room. Wait, a cafe in the next room?  Friendly, welcoming people, too? 

There was no ornate altar, just an unassuming stage with instruments. We were guided to padded, comfortable chairs. There were no petrified pews, no stuffy old fart priests, standing high above us in a pulpit condemning us unless we contributed 15% of our gross, not net, to the church.

Rachel and I sipped our delicious (french press) coffee while listening to the pastor, who sat gingerly behind an electric piano, asking us to open our hearts, and join him in praising the Lord. He burst into song, accompanied by guitar, bass, and soaring voices.  It might have been the most exhilarating experience I've ever encountered. Until the sermon...

Pastor Dave spoke of our expectations of love, how we assume love to be romantic, that love is more than that, and that in a nutshell, God loves us. Granted, he was funny, completely unlike any sermon I'd ever heard, but it smacked of the same old, repackaged homily.

Yet the parishioners and Pastor Dave exude peace. It's hard to picture them depressed, and if they ever are, they turn to God. Later this afternoon, riding bikes down Memorial Drive, I felt Him. He may not have been there at that moment, but He's been there.

God has to be the largest real estate owner in the universe. He has a house in every town, every city, in multiple zip codes, often on the same street, so we'll continue our search for Him. We're just not sure which house He's staying in at the moment, but we're hopeful just the same. 

Insanity Defined

Let's celebrate the individual who first looked at a plant and reasoned that it could be cultivated, then transformed into the fine white powder so sought after today. It takes ingenuity to look at vegetation and see a multi billion dollar industry. I wonder if she knew... Could she even have fathomed the power of that funny white powder?

Some believe it to be highly addictive while others claim the rush is psychological. When it hits my blood stream, I feel it instantly, and my heart races. What some call euphoria, I call elation. If you're not careful, you'll fall into a full fledged habit, using just to keep the edge off. In large doses it causes anxiety. Beware of the crash that leaves many listless, tired, and horribly depressed.

I use daily and can't stop. What's worse, I don't want to. I rapaciously crave it every minute.

Despite ample warnings of the dangers, it still permeates most every facet of my life. You won't find anyone that hasn't been affected, some with devastating consequences. You see it on the subway, droopy eyed sloths, just awaiting their next fix, and they'll get it because it's that easy to find...

I know the first step is to recognize I have a problem. OK. I am sugar's bitch...

Dad Vs. Walt

What attracts me to shows like Breaking Bad? Rachel asks constantly about my infatuation with characters who tread the line between savior and wretch. I argue that it's the superb writing, or the depth of character that ensnares me, but it's more...

Following a diagnosis of advanced lung cancer, Walt starts a meth lab to stockpile cash for his family before he dies. What ensues is an exploration of a man who reaps all the rewards crime has to offer, without the consequence. It's the consequences that make the show so compelling.

I watch the show, and others like it, with a unique eye. I've been there. From this perspective, the show rings true. The writers must be ex-drug dealers to write with such realism.

I can write this, I tell myself.  

Where would I start? From experience. A show about a father and two sons robbing jewelry stores might make compelling television. Walt is desperate. Dad wasn't. Walt is virtuous and tainted by the trade. We were just tainted. Walt does what he does for his family, feels regret, and knows what he's doing is wrong. Dad would do it again. 

I watch Walt in hopes of understanding Dad. At sentencing, the judge said: This concludes a bizarre series of crimes that I am still unable to fully understand. It is really quite extraordinary, and very, very sad. How as a father you could have involved your sons in this is beyond my capacity as a father to comprehend. But we all have choices in this world. And you are going to live with yours for a long time. I wonder if my father thinks about his legacy and what he'll leave behind. A treasure map? Maybe I can write the next Indiana Jones.

Maybe the writers of Breaking Bad can weave some sympathy into Dad. It might take an overhaul, a sex change, and fifty one flashbacks to get there, but I'm willing to bend if they are.  

OCD

I can't leave the volume on a prime number and hate it when clients stop on prime numbered reps.

The shiny things I own must be constantly polished. Fingerprints and blemishs give rise to chaos. Peace  is only achieved with a fine, microfiber cloth. Anything even suspected of coarseness will be discarded.

All doors must be locked before bed. They must be checked and re-checked. Sleep cannot be achieved until a locked state is confirmed.

Dirt...enough said.

Side note: anyone can clean dirt. Visible dirt is three levels beyond dirty. Even unseen dirt is an affront and must be dealt with abrasively.

Dust effects the speed of technology, therefore, cable boxes, The WII, my computer, and cell phone must be free and clear of dust at all times.

Under no circumstances should one willingly go to where bugs congregate. To enter the realm of bugs invites malaria, West Nile, or at the very least, nasty welts. Heed my warning: Bugs will contribute to our downfall.

I almost died once, the day Rachel licked the Rolex. It was cleaned within seconds of the violation, then discussed at length.

"You must never lick the Rolex."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Have we met?"

"That stupid thing.  I can't even hold your hand on that side for fear I'll rub up against it!"

"Right.  Because then you smudge-y it."

"Mmm-Hmm."

But I have vine ripened and relaxed somewhat with age. No, Rachel never treats the Rolex like a lolli, but neither do I insist we spend Saturdays cleaning the entire apartment. (Now I just do it when she's not looking).

HX

Jurell is one of my maintenance staff at the Gold’s Gym in manage in Saugus, and yes, I hired him because he was named after Superman’s father. He’s twenty and reminds me of me at that age; all machismo, hoisting weights he has no business lifting in an attempt to put on the size that’s never coming. He works hard with supervision but if I get let my mind wander I’ll find him in the men’s locker room, reading the paper. Stuck one Friday night for desk staff, I ask him if he’s willing to help out.

During the shift, I ask him to retrieve a bag from a young woman who brought it up to the women’s only section. When he comes back he places the bag under the desk and says, “That girl wants me.”

“Really?” I chuckle.

“No doubt in my mind.” He answers.

“How can you tell?” I ask.

“Oh, I know,” he says, grinning.

“So, ask her out.”

“You think I should?” he blushes.

“Totally.”

“Isn’t there some rule against dating the members?”

“Only if you’re a chicken shit,” I goad.

“I’m no chicken shit, I just don’t want to harass her,” he says innocently.

“Tell you what, I’ll bet you ten bucks I can get a date with her first.”

“No offense, but aren’t you a little old for her?”

“I got ten bucks right here, just burning a hole in my pocket, you in?” I felt two ways, if Jurell won, I could stop liking her, and if I won, I won.

Jurell snatched up the ten and ran off to ask her. When he returned he handed over the ten, “She said no?” I asked.

“Nah, I’m just not ready. But I will, tomorrow.”

I folded the ten neatly and walked away, toward the women’s only but she wasn’t there. Perched above the gym, I spotted her on a stair climber, on the main deck. I tried to make it look like I just happened upon her. Forgetting every smooth line I’ve ever heard, I simply say hi.

“Hey there,” she answers.

“You just joined, right?”

“Sure did. Have we met? I have to admit, when I joined I just finished my fourth third-shift in a row so I was a little out of it.” She has long dark hair that falls in waves over her shoulders. I almost beg her not to tie it back but think better of it.

“No, I’m Bryan, the general manager.”

“I’m Rachel,” she says.

She’s wearing a tank top with thin spaghetti straps, shorts, and two extra elastic ties around her wrist. I can’t help but think of a Porsche when I look her over, marveling at the curves. I climb aboard the machine next to hers and notice Jurell watching from the desk, hoping his fumes don’t set of the fire alarm.

“What do you do?” I ask.

“I’m a nurse,” she answers, toweling off beads of sweat from her forehead.

“Wow, pretty intense.”

“It can be.”

“What kind of nurse?”

“ICU,” she answers.

“Wow, wicked intense.”

She chuckles, “Gotta love that accent.”

“Accent? Oh, yeah, sorry, been here all my life, it kind of stuck,” I say.

“Never lived anywhere else?” she asks.

Try to sound worldly, try to sound worldly, is all I can hear, “Oh, yeah, I lived in New Hampshire for a few years, and Florida.”

“Oh yeah, me too, well, I’m from NH and lived in Sarasota for a few months, hated it though, so I came back here to go to school.” She places her hands on hips that would make a renaissance painter cry. I try not to stare.

“I lived in Clearwater. Nice place to visit but not to live.”

I’m ignorant of any signs or symptoms of boredom. She stops the machine and wipes it down, walking over to a mat to stretch.

“So, what’s your favorite book?” I ask.

“Why, you like to read?” she asks, sounding surprised.

“Love it.”

“What’s your favorite book?” she asks.

“I always loved The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. It always comes across different every time I read it. I guess maybe because I’m different every time I read it.” I say, garnering the scoff of a few jealous meatheads within earshot.

“Oh my, I love that book. What else?”

I try not to watch her stretch but bask in the fact that she’s paying more attention to it than me, “Loved Sophie’s World.”

She ponders then says, “I think I started that but couldn’t get into it. What was it about?’

“It’s like a crash course in philosophy.” I say.

“Oh yeah, nah, couldn’t do it, too dry for me.”

“What about you?” I ask, trying not to get bagged looking down her shirt.

“I’m a total cheese ball. I read these fantasy books. I’m such a geek, they were by David Eddings, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“Oh please, I’m the king of cheeseballs.”

There’s a pang of disappointment when she gets up, indicating the stretch is over and her workout complete. “Will I see you tomorrow?” I ask.

“Thursday maybe,” she replies.

Back at the desk, Jurell renews his resolve after we watch her walk out, “When I see her next I’m gonna make my move and spend that ten on her.”

“Really? Want to make it double or nothing?” I ask.

Simultaneous with his agreement to the new terms his jaw drops to the sight of Rachel walking in.

“Hey there, I have a question for you.” She says before I cut her off.

“Let’s go outside.” I say, walking by Jurell, I whisper, “Close your mouth, you’re attracting flies.”

I follow her to her car, parked haphazardly near the dumpsters. “You said you’re free after 8 most nights. I’m taking you out for dinner tonight before I go to work at 11.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll pick you up here.”

“See you then.”

A moment of pity washes over me as I walk back in, but it vanishes when I remember Jurell’s comment about my age.

“Where’s my twenty?”

GTFO and the Temple of Doom

Rachel and I have learned so much from each other. I learned to recognize my disdain for close relationships as a self protecting mechanism. Rachel jokes that I come home from work, unable to speak, because I've run out of words. I small talk for a living, inbetween sets with clients, which is why I circuit train them, to leave them with little breath to converse with. But they are nefarious creatures who outsmart me with superior cardiovascular skills.

But ultimately I credit my success as a trainer to the intimate relationships I've built with clients after watching the care and nurturing Rachel puts into her friendships and her patients. 

It's not all one sided though. She's learned what I like to refer to as--Wrap It Up. Wrap It Up is an art form; a specific phrase or tone invoked at the right time that portrays, without rudeness, that any given conversation is seconds away from ending. It most likely begins with, "All Righty, well..." or is subtly brought on by an acute sense of purpose. It's important to get across that although the conversation is in fact important, there are more pressing things to do. Seeming annoyed is the best way to get this across. Not annoyance at the obstacle in front of you, keeping you from being elsewhere, but a general pissiness that shows hesitation is detrimental to future tasks.

There are times I have to swoop in on her conversations and institute an emergency Wrap It Up--- "Hun, we gotta go." Other times a simple glance from her tells me to shed my secret identity as mild mannered indifference boy and don the cape and cowl of GTFO, (Get The F$ck Outta Here), my alter ego; faster than a speeding conversation.

Lately she's been wielding her own brand of Wrap It Up, but still relies on the master. She'll inform me before going somewhere that I am to use my powers at will, which leads me to wonder why we didn't institute the "No Thanks, We Already Have Plans," scenario. Take last New Year's Eve. With my super interpretive powers I read between the lines of an email she received from an acquaintance inviting us to a New Year's Party. The email mentioned something about a pot luck dinner but added "bring your instruments for the ceremony afterwards." My instincts kicked in and I immediately called for the afore mentioned "previous plans" scenario but Rachel stayed open minded--Kryptonite to GTFO Man.

The party went off as planned. Everyone brought a meatless dish, clue one that we were headed for disaster. The conversation was stimulating, lulling us into a false sense of comfort. Before the promise of dessert, everyone was invited into the living room for the 'Ceremony.' The room was set up so that everyone could take a seat on the floor. I chose a seat. Accoutrements peppered the floor, including tambourines, maracas, drums, candles, and a huge pile of tobacco in front of the evening's master of ceremonies who I dubbed, Chief Arch Nemesis.

For three hours they chanted, prayed, and banged the drums. Three hours. As a recovering Catholic, the church never subjected me to three continuous hours, not even on Christmas. My powers were no match for the group, so I turned them on my side kick--Get Us Into Shitty Situations Girl.

My beams of resentment are still fixed on her...

So stay tuned because you'll never know what adventures we'll find ourselves in next...wait, what's that?Rachel inviting someone over for dinner? I must go...

Slippery Pete

J-1 has a row of phones fixed to the wall near the stairs. Three are in use. Inmates huddled close to the cradle press the receiver to their ears. I pick it up the only free phone and dial my grandmother. All I hear is the hollow sound of distant oceans. I dial zero, the operator ignores me. Busted? I shrug it off.

“You need a pin number,” my cellmate informs me as I pass him. “You need to fill out a request and get your numbers approved. What’d you think you could just pick up the phone and call whoever?” he asks.

I’d like to snap him in half.

“How do I get a pin number?” I ask him.

“Get a form.” He says, zipping off like a munchkin from Oz.

Rock is the day guard whose enormity causes me to wonder if he’s manufactured from the same raw material that helped erect the building. His tattoos are more like brandings, bright red lightning bolts that taper from his elbows, etched into his skin, warning he is not to be trifled with. He addresses inmates like a wolf in sheep’s clothing waiting for nightfall to shed his disguise and make a meal of us all.

The block’s tension is an unstable mixture. Rock’s gunslinger, twiddling fingers constantly threaten to activate the door controls. During my first week he lugs three people who fail to make it to their cells in time. The inmates segregate according to race with the occasional group of varietals considered untouchable, labeled sex offenders or rats.

Pete, one of the block’s Runners is part of the prison’s permanent work force. He's essentially, Rock’s gofer, running around all day, sweeping, mopping, and dusting.

Barren gums fail to dam Pete’s tongue so he slurs each syllable. Jailhouse tattoos resemble ink blots. A faded swastika on his right shoulder blade was haphazardly embedded with a sewing needle and pen ink. He killed a man point blank with a shotgun and claimed it was self defense.

Just after lockdown Pete and Rock exchange words. We scramble to the door. Our vantage point makes it difficult to see. Pete paces back and forth, into his cell and out. Rock is at attention, immovable.

Pete’s anger bounces off the concrete and reaches our door garbled. We fill in blanks where we can, something about a mop. Rock offers two options: to calm down or face the move team. Pete chooses the latter.

Rock turns his back. Pete disappears from sight.

Chaos ensues. The percussive rhythm of rolling thunder fills the block like a stampede. Anxious fists pound on doors and drum up tension as Pete emerges from his cell with a bottle of baby oil.

The anarchists fall silent with the echo of boots marching with clocked precision. The move team reaches the block in two single file lines. Clad in executioner’s black, each officer is synchronized with the collective. Singularity is set aside in the name of unity. The plastic face guards of their helmets gleam under the florescent light, flesh and bone are secure under layers of protective material.

Pete steps sinisterly backward and sprays baby oil. Once the move team is inside, a hush blankets the block. Rock manually unlocks the door with his key and holds it open. The move team’s tight formation is headed by clear shields that deliver a jolt that incapacitates on contact. The first two hit the baby oil and careen into the wall. The rest halt like the remnants of a decapitated body watching its head roll to the ground. The middle two, now in front, stand on the precipice of the slick and attempt to help their flailing counterparts. The team tightens their formation and takes shorter steps.

The commotion pours through the vents. Do not move! You’re only making this worse! Pete’s coffee cup hits the floor, gets kicked out of the way, and tumbles onto the block. Watch his other arm! Get it down! Cuffs, cuffs, get’em tight! They drag Pete out, cuffed, and slide him along the floor through the oil.

Back in formation, they lift Pete off the ground by his limbs. I can see the swastika veiled under his soaked cotton shirt, his muscles tense from the pressure.

My cellmate flops on his bunk, returning to business as usual. Rock cracks the cell of another runner and orders him to clean up the oil and pack Pete’s things up.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

Someone slides a newspaper under my cell door so I twist around to reach it without leaving the bunk. Dad's on the front page, elbows propped on the arms of a chair, fingers laced, supporting his chin. Handcuffs peek out from under his shirt. The headline reads: Mastermind of father-son jewel heist team jailed.

His face is softer than I remember, his head shaved bald. I look for signs of stress but find none.

The article jumps from the page. I focus on what the judge said to dad before sentencing him to twelve years:

This concludes a bizarre series of crimes that I am still unable to fully understand. It is really quite extraordinary, and very, very sad. How as a father you could have involved your sons in this is beyond my capacity as a father to comprehend. But we all have choices in this world. And you are going to live with yours for a long time.

The article concludes that during a robbery we threatened we'd kill the victim if he failed to report the robbery was committed by three black men.

I'm interrupted by the guards call over the loud speaker, “Canteen, A through M, pickup.”

The doors pop open. I’m sensitive to any and all stares, especially from the black inmates. Next door is Malakai and his cellmate Donovan. I argued with Donovan one night after he cut into my reserved phone time. He towers over me but is soft and perpetually sweating. A walk from his cell to the shower leaves him winded.

Malakai is surprisingly agile despite his gimp leg. He has no kneecap after his gun went off while he tried to pull it from his waistband. It missed his penis by inches before blowing a hole in the top of his knee. He’s the most boisterous voice on the block, pacing up and down the hall; spouting about the collective evils that make up the entity he calls “The Man.” The Man is racist and utterly corrupt. The Man is responsible for Malakai’s ability to procure a weapon and rob the convenience store that in turn robbed him of a normal gait. The Man is white.

He mills about the block, paying no particualr attention as I dart out the door.

I snatch up my canteen bags and hurry back to the block. I pass Donovan, sweating near the phones, the receiver pressed to his ear. Malakai emerges from his cell and limps toward me. I drift to the opposite side of the hallway to avoid him. He adjusts and meets me head-on.

“Excuse me.” I say and move to sidestep his intrusion.

“Where you going with my canteen, white boy?” he says.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“My canteen.” Malakai says.

“Our canteen.” Donovan reiterates over my shoulder.

“As a matter of fact you can drop that shit off every week from now on. White. Boy.” Malakai says, letting me know he read the article.

Other inmates take notice. My options disappear in thickets of dread. At the end of the hall is a door that connects the east and west sides of the building. A guard emerges, keys jingling from his belt.

I whisper, “I don’t want any trouble, you can have the bags. Just let me bring them to my cell so the sergeant doesn’t suspect anything.”

“Do that.” Malakai responds.

I rush to my cell and set the bags down. My hands shake. I pull a pair of socks from my locker and stuff one into the other then fill them with tuna cans pulled from the bags. With the socks wrapped tight around my wrist, I run out into the hall.

Donovan shouts out a warning, but it’s too late. I aim and take out Malakai first. The cans crash against the side of his head as he goes down.

Simultaneous with turning my sights on Donovan, the call goes out. The sergeant shouts into a receiver clipped to his shoulder, “Move team to east down, I repeat, move team to east down,” which means officers are suiting up in riot gear to take me by force to the hole.

The weight of the cans pulls my arm across my body. I wield the makeshift mace and aim for the porous flesh of Donovan’s shoulder but he turns expectantly and takes it in the chest. I swing them circular, gain momentum, and bring the cans down on his head.

I know the disciplinary committee will suspect this is a hate crime, perpetrated against a minority by a cold callous mind, so I turn the tuna cans on Ritchie, the closest Caucasian.

The ensuing quiet brings clarity. The shaking subsides. I kneel at the sergeant’s behest, interlace my fingers behind my head, and lay on my stomach per his demands.

Lack of Wits

 I considered some of the crowd friends, until they cheered for my opponent. Shawn Lachowitz, or ‘lack of wits’ as I called him when he was out of earshot, was a pipsqueak. I flipped him off after he called me a name, I couldn’t recall which, there were so many. It was something derogatory, Polak probably, that one always pissed me off.

The crowd cheered, hit him and knock him out, so succinctly it sounded rehearsed. Their faces blurred while I focused on Shawn and where the first punch might come from. It was left. My teeth clattered, one knocked loose. I covered my face. Shawn knocked the wind out of me. I gasped. He finished me off with a flurry of punches to the face and neck. I fell to the ground crying. The crowd dispersed in a shower of post fight commentary. He’s a pussy. Wasn’t much of a fight was it?

Someone helped me up. Blood trickled from my lip. I left the bulk of it in the grass. So much of my blood was spilled in the field behind the school it surprised me when dandelions didn’t spring up crimson.

I ran toward the woods, crossed the ramshackle bridge taking my hand off my jaw long enough to hop over the missing planks. I sighed at the top of the hill. Peace lay beyond, nestled in the rolling hills deep with vegetation. It was to me what the Fortress of Solitude was to Superman, my haven away from the tortures of life.

My brother saw me first. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked.

“Shawn,” sounded like Slawn with my fat lip.

“That little pissant? You can’t take that little bastard? Jesus Christ!”

Mom came into the room. “Oh my god not again.” She rushed over and examined my face. My eyes filled with tears. “We should go to the emergency room,” she said.

“Aww Mom, it’s just a few cuts and scrapes, he’ll be fine,” my brother interjected.

“He will not be fine. Look at him.” She stepped back. They both looked me over.

“What are we going to do about this? I need to speak with his teacher again.” she said.

My brother rolled his eyes, “What, so he can get creamed again tomorrow? I’ll take care of this.”

“How?” mom asked.

“Just don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it my own way.”

“How? By beating the kid up? That won’t solve a thing and you know it.”

“Well, it’s better than talking to his teacher. Hello, we’re trying to avoid a beating not cause one.” He had an airtight case and she knew it. Mom still remembered some schoolyard logic.

“I’m not going to let you go and smack some kid around. Figure out another way.” she said.

“Clean him up. I’ll take him to talk to Shawn’s brother. I have shop class with him.”

He walked through the woods, I traipsed behind. My face had not finished rebuking me for getting in the way of Shawn’s fists. My brother’s hands were clenched. I was afraid there would be another fight.

“Will you catch up!” he snapped.

I ran but stayed behind. “Whub are youb ghunna doob?” I asked with my bloated lip.

“Just keep quiet. I’m going to smooth it all out. Make you two friends again.”

“But we aren’t fwends!”

“And then I’m going to train you to kick Shawn’s ass.”

“But howb amb I ghunna doob thab?”

“Shut up, will you. I need to think.”

Shawn soaked his fist in ice water outside his rent controlled apartment building, his brother sat next to him, smirking. They stood when they saw us coming.

“Stay here.” My brother ordered. I obeyed.

Shawn’s brother, Stan, was tall and fierce looking with a scar that ran the length of his right cheek. I readied myself for a fatter lip when these two titans clashed. My brother’s hands unclenched, his shoulders slumped. He met Stan with a smile and a handshake and pointed me out with a thumb over his shoulder. Stan looked over and nodded. They shook hands again. My brother walked past me, I hurried behind.

“Whab you tell hib?” I asked.

“I told him you were sick and that beating you up was contagious.” he said sarcastically. “What does it matter, it’s all set. Shawn isn’t going to bother you anymore. Now I can teach you how to make his face look like yours.”

He seemed excited. The common ground we stood on was based principally on the fact that while he was interested in teaching me to inflict pain on Shawn, he wasn’t inflicting it on me.

“The Carnival will be here during April vacation, you’ll fight him then.” He said. It was one of those conversations I wasn’t sure if he was having with me or about me with himself. “Just walk right up to him and start swinging, and don’t stop!” he said forcefully, “there’s no way you can lose.”

I had doubts.

The next day he summoned me to the basement where his bench was set up. The floor was strewn with sand filled, plastic weights. “Lay down.” he commanded.

I complied. My rail thin arms reached up to grasp the bar. Two of the smaller disks were locked into place on each side. He helped lift it off and let go, it crashed into my chest. I kicked my feet and struggled to push it off.

“Come on! Push it up you pussy! Jeez, Mom can lift this much!” he chided.

He pulled it off just as I turned a light shade of blue. I sat up, gasping.

“Man, how can anyone be so weak?” he asked, “It’s all that crap you eat. You need to eat something that’ll put some meat on your bones.” he marched up the stairs barking at me to follow. “Sit!” he said, pointing to a chair at the kitchen table.

Mom sat opposite, reading the paper, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. My brother got a glass from the cupboard and a dozen eggs from the fridge, plunking them in front of me as he sat down.

He removed an egg and cracked it on the side of the glass. It oozed from shell and into the glass. He did it with another, and another. Three eggs clouded the glass.

“Drink it.” he demanded.

“No. Way.” I said.

“You want to get strong then you have to drink that.” He pointed to the glass.

“Never.” I reiterated.

“Drink it or forget about me helping you.” he threatened.

“Tell you what,” my mother said, “I’ll give you five bucks if you can do it without spitting them out.”

“Hell, I’ll do it for a fiver.” my brother said, reaching for the glass.

I snatched it away, “She was talking to me.”

A drop spilled over the rim and hit my thumb. It sat on my skin like mercury. There was no way the eggs would make it past the lump in my throat. I held my nose and closed my eyes. The stench of raw egg filled my lungs. My eyes opened wide, “Let me see the fiver,” I said to Mom.

She fished out a five from her pocket and smoothed it out on the table. I pinched my nose--three, two, one, gulp. The eggs slipped down my throat with ease. I gagged once before finishing them off. My mouth felt coated with ooze. I shot up and grabbed a Hostess Cupcake, tore at the plastic wrap, and shoved it in my mouth before collecting my five.

“Good, now let’s try that weight again.” my brother said.

For two weeks it caved in my chest. My brother gave up. I snuck down whenever he wasn’t home and just pushed the empty bar.

Trucks rolled into the field next to Eastman Gelatin. I watched the Carnies hop out and begin erecting the rides. The Skydiver was the first one to rise above the field. Even unassembled it looked ominous. Mistaken for a Ferris Wheel, the three story ride rotated at an alarming speed with each sealed compartment spinning on its own axis. The Bumper Car’s adjacent roof caught wallets, change, and lunches that fell freely. Carnies cleaned up all the unintended tips while the ride was running. A sign sanctioned the behavior—Not Responsible for Lost Items. It was the type of ride my brother and Shawn shouted obscenities from, and spit, hoping to hit someone like me.

They assembled the Tilt-A-Whirl, Round-Up, Haunted House, and The Flying-Bobs. Still the Skydiver cast a shadow over them all, over me. Smaller trucks hauled in the Mid-way. The ring toss awarded pink or blue stuffed teddy bears. The dart game gave out mirrors stenciled with clever clichés like, I’m so Happy I could just shit!

Opening night, I saw her, waiting to get on the Tilt-A-Whirl. I turned and met her gaze and quickly turned away. The surly Carnie took my ticket. Nick read like ick on his grease blotched nametag.

I dashed to the steel half shell in the back and looked for her. She was dressed like a tomboy in camouflage pants with lots of pockets, black hooded sweatshirt, and a black baseball cap. Her soft, round face, was accented with rosy cheeks. Hair spiraled from under the hat in long curly locks of chestnut. The ride was full, ick headed toward me with her in tow.

“She’s riding with you.” he grunted.

“Sorry, I guess the ride is pretty full.” she said.

I stiffened, suddenly aware that my breath smelled like corndogs. “Whatever,” I said, trying to act disinterested, like my brother when he talked to a girl, but came off sounding curt.

“I’ve never been on this ride before is it scary?” she asked with a soothing tweet. Her hands braced the handle that locked across our laps.

“No.” I answered, searching for something smooth to say, “But some kid puked on it last night.”

She made a face like she bit into a lemon, “Ewww, that’s gross.”

Something swelled in me. I felt like I could scale the Skydiver, stand atop its highest point, and sing. “Yeah, puke is gross,” I agreed, catching the tail end of her rolling her eyes. “You’ve never been to the carnival?”

“No, I just moved here with my Aunt.” she smiled again.

“Cool.”

The ride jerked forward. I pushed the heel of my left foot into the floor to prevent from sliding. It sped faster, my knuckles turned white. I peeked at her. She giggled as our cart swung around.

The ride slowed and reversed. Now she would have to fight centrifugal forces to keep from hurling into me. My heart sank. Her grip gave out and she slid into me. My mouth went dry, bits of corndog dried and crumbled. An actual girl was pressed against me. Her body was soft and smelled flowery fresh. We were pinned to the side of the cart as it spun.

When it slowed she didn’t scoot away, didn’t seem repulsed by being close. She moved away as the ride came to a stop. Our eyes met, I looked away.

“Thanks for letting me share.” she said, tucking a wavy strand of hair beneath her hat.

“Yeah, well, I usually ride alone, but it’s ok.”

We stepped off the ride. She was about to say something when raindrops pounded the brim of her hat. I was startled to see her behind me after I ran for the arcade tent.

“It looks like a passing shower.” she said, looking up at the sky. Raindrops pelted the tent like a drum roll.

Billowy clouds hovered on the horizon. A dark gray patch loomed directly above. “Yeah, but the rides will be all wet now. I have to go home.” I tried desperately to restrain the prepubescent crack of my voice.

“Hold on I’ll walk with you.” she said while zipping her sweatshirt.

The storm passed. The sky opened up, a breeze swept up a mixture of lilac and asphalt. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets, my feet dragged along the sidewalk.

“My name is Crissy by the way.” she said despite the gold medallion that dangled from her neck, her name spelled out in cursive.

“Cool.” I replied.

We reached her street. It wasn’t far from the school. The license plate of the car parked outside her house read Coco.

“Coco?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s my last name.”

“Crissy Coco? Your name is Crissy Coco?” I chuckled.

“Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.” She looked hurt so I stopped.

“Sorry,” I said still smirking.

“Are you going to the carnival tomorrow?” she asked once I wiped the grin off my face.

“I’m there everyday.” I replied.

“Maybe I’ll see you there?” she asked, avoiding eye contact.

“I don’t know. I have to lift weights tomorrow.”

“Oh, ok. If I don’t see you there I’ll see you at school.” she looked disappointed, and when she mentioned school, I joined her.

“Well, bye.” I said and ran away.

I don’t think my feet touched the ground on the way home. I burst through the front door and was deflated by the weight bench. Several of the larger weights were loaded on the bar from my brother’s last set. I stared it down. Bravado seeped from every pore.

I stripped it, slid on the tens, and lifted it off the cradle. My right arm shook uncontrollably, every muscle tightened. I unlocked my elbows and lowered the bar. There was no recourse if I failed. My brother would find me, choked to death by two meager weights and a long steel bar. My eyeball twitched as I pushed. It budged an inch before succumbing to gravity. Panic set in, I thought of Crissy, imagined her standing by my side, hanging on my chiseled arm. I pushed again, past that sticky one inch mark, and up to the top.

I sat up, elated. Was it the eggs? It had to be the eggs! I leapt up the stairs, two at a time. Three eggs cracked and ready---Three, two, one, gulp, Hostess Cupcake—one step closer to becoming an Adonis.

The next day there was a spring in my step. My arms flared out to the sides as if I were a gunslinger. The sleeves of my t-shirt were rolled to expose walnut sized muscles. I even shaved.

She was playing Ms. Pacman under the arcade tent wearing skin tight jeans, white high top sneakers, and white socks with the jeans tucked in. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, same black sweatshirt, Crissy glittered from her neck.

She saw me and abandoned the game, flung her arms around my neck and squeezed. I was surprised she got her arms around me, I was huge.

“Come on.” she said, wildly excited.

She clasped my hand in hers and led me through the crowd. I didn’t care where. She stopped at the foot of the ramp to the Skydiver, “Will you go on it with me?” she asked.

My arms took their rightful place back at my sides. A breeze rustled my hair as the carts roared by. “The Skydiver? It’s not really that good.” I whispered so it couldn’t hear my insolence.

“Are you kidding? It looks like a blast. Oh please? Normally I’d be afraid but now I have you to protect me.” Her arm interlocked in mine.

She stomped up the ramp, I tip-toed. ick stood at the controls, manhandling the levers. His five o’clock shadow read seven thirty. I wanted to protest, to block my ears from the gears that screamed warnings to turn back. I looked up and drank in its enormity. Long luminous tubes of neon fired sequentially, in clusters, then altogether. It may have looked festive but I knew it was Morse code for Come ride the handbasket to hell!

The gears screeched out a final decree, leeeeeavvvvve nnnnnowwwww! ick pulled the safety pin. The cart swung open to reveal two youths younger than me laughing hysterically, screeching, “Again, again!”

“Come on, come on, let’s go!” ick shouted over the snarl of the generator.

Crissy grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the cart. “Tickets!” he snapped and snatched them from her hand. He slammed the cage shut and sealed it with the pin. I watched him work the lever, a blast of air hissed from the compressor.

I grabbed the solid steel wheel to prevent us from spinning. Crissy wrapped her arm around mine, just like my vision, minus the chiseled arm. The cart climbed a few feet and stopped to load more people. The wind whistled through the grate and sent a chill up my spine. I held on with all my might. Another hiss and the cart climbed to the peak. I adjusted the wheel to stay upright. My arms ached.

“Wow! Look at the view.” Crissy shouted.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, the view.” The cart gained speed. No more stops.

I tried in vain to hold the cart still but gravity overpowered me. I cursed silently, then aloud. After five times around we stopped and reversed gears. Five more rotations, I counted. On the fifth it screeched to a halt, we were poised at the peak. ick was letting people off. I made it! No puking. No awkward high pitched screams.

The cart moved forward and pit us with the ground. I scanned the crowd. Adrenaline pumped freely. I was scared yet thankful to the twisted mind that engineered the ride’s solid steel construction. After this I would pet stray dogs, run with scissors, maybe even kiss Crissy on the lips.

My new found invincibility dwindled when I glimpsed my brother emerging between two trailers. I retraced his steps to the small crowd lurking in the shadows and knew one of them was Shawn. ick set us free. I scurried down the ramp and into the shadows between rides. It was too much to process, giant rides, soft scented girl, imminent danger. Crissy stood next to me, giddy from the ride.

“That was so fun, wasn’t it?” she asked before noticing I had gone pale. “Are you alright?” She touched my arm. I pulled away.

My brother strutted by in pursuit, stopped, then leaned back, “Gotcha!” he said, “Let’s go, its time.”

“Go where?” Crissy asked.

He looked her up and down dismissively, “They’re waiting, let’s go.”

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“My brother,” I whimpered.

“This is your brother?” She sounded surprised.

He grabbed my arm. I didn’t protest. It was either Shawn or my brother, maybe both in the end. We slipped between two trailers, shaking Crissy’s pursuit. I felt my eyes transition, light to dark. The festive sounds faded to a hodgepodge of background noise.

“Now remember, don’t even give him an opportunity. Just swing and don’t stop.” my brother repeated.

It echoed in my head. I heard it as a statement, a commandment, a mantra. I even heard as an answer to a logical question. How do you beat a bully? Just swing and don’t stop. It made sense. And in someone else’s hands, it might have worked.

We twisted through a maze of trailers to a clearing. The crowd parted to let us through. Shawn stood at the end, throwing punches at his brothers open hands. As we faced off my brother drifted away and stood in the middle of the crowd. Shawn’s brother joined him and I realized what my brother had done. This was a trial by fire. Like the time he tried to teach me to ride my bike by bending the training wheels up and forcing me down the neighborhoods tallest hill.

Just swing and don’t stop formed a beat in my head. There was no turning back. A loss ensured future beatings from anyone in the crowd. Just swing and don’t stop. Maybe the eggs would help.

I glanced at my brother. His patience was running thin. I thought of Crissy. Something other than fear coursed through me. It was the excitement of returning to school as the hero that beat Shawn Lack-of-Wits. One last glance at my brother heading toward me and I propelled myself forward. The element of surprise washed away Shawn’s snicker. He didn’t have time to put up his hands to block. I socked him right in the jaw.

The just swing and don’t stop offensive showed promise. I hit him a half dozen times until he readjusted and countered with swing and don’t stop’s only defense—bob and weave.

Bap bap bap, and it was over. My brother had to pull him off me before he knocked me unconscious. Something I’m quite sure he did so he wouldn’t have to explain to Mom why I was a vegetable.

Use, Abuse, and Dependence

Just like I’m not sure whey protein builds lean muscle or that steady state cardio burns fat most efficiently, I’ve never bought the disease concept of addiction. Twelve steppers will have a field day with this but the idea that I have an incurable disease whose symptoms will flare up at mere mention of using again doesn’t seem right.

I agree that AA is brainwashing and, let’s face it, we could all use a little brainwashing. First and foremost, the program gave me a place to be that was safe. Somewhere I could step outside my own thinking and be with people that are doing what I couldn’t do alone. Second, it gave me a plan, twelve steps, or commandments, that helped me put the pieces of the puzzle if not together, at least in order. It made me responsible for me.

But something struck me as odd about how adamant AA is about denying any religious affiliation. The word God is in six of the twelve steps. AA’s attempt to sidestep being tagged a religion is to follow the word God with, as you understand him, suggesting any power greater than oneself will suffice, like the power of the group, or electricity. Some skirt the issue by saying, “I don’t know anything about God, I just know I ain’t him.”

There are other inconsistencies that led me to seek other forms of recovery. In one of the chapters of the Big Book, AA’s Bible if you will, it states that if the recovering addict avoids social situations where alcohol will be served then that alcoholic still thinks alcoholically and is in need of greater perspective. This made a lot of sense to me since I’ve never really had an issue being around alcohol but slide a mirror full of coke in front of me…

So I left the hallowed halls of AA in search of a deeper understanding of addiction. The problem I found was differentiating between Addict and Non-addict. The issue wasn’t with how they differed as much as how each addict perceived what an addict was or, more importantly, wasn’t. I couldn’t admit I was an addict until I reconciled my criteria with reality. When I studied addiction in school, I found that clinicians didn’t use the term addict or alcoholic, but instead tried to place each patient along a continuum. Some use substances with no life consequences, some abuse with varying degrees of consequences, and some are dependent. In the latter, tolerance is measured as a means of determining severity. Each point along the line has a sub-category that measures functionality or how much one’s use, abuse, or dependence affects their ability to thrive.

With all this advanced understanding of addiction, I’ve come to realize that for me, addiction was only a symptom of a larger issue. For me the twelve steps were like pruning a rotten tree’s bad fruit while ignoring the roots. I needed replanting. I engaged in intense psychotherapy.

It’s hard some days not to feel gypped. I wouldn’t give up my life experience for anything, feeling as though it makes me unique and worthy of the brand. Mostly I feel robbed, now more than ever, of the tools needed to weather the storms of life.

The behaviorist would say that addiction is only a behavior that has physiological consequences and that cessation of said behavior will end any suffering. That behaviorist has never been on the receiving end of a smoking crack pipe, I can tell you that…

On occasion, a student will ask if I will ever drink again. As an ardent rejecter of the disease concept, I feel somewhat hypocritical in saying no. The truth of the matter is I still have all the isms. I’m hopelessly addicted to sugar, can’t relax in a mess, you could eat off any surface of my car (when I own one), and can be a moody, cranky SOB if things don’t go my way. This keeps me from experimenting again or using recreationally, if there is such a thing.

HUBRIS

I've long had the desire to pass on what limited wisdom I have to share. With babies on the back burner until I’m confident that I can both financially and psychologically handle one, I seek to espouse my vast life experience to anyone who’ll listen.

When I stand before a class of freshmen, all wide eyed and bushy tailed, and weave my tale of woe, it’s fascinating to watch. They look me over and ready themselves for another long winded talk about the dangers of whatever. They’ve heard it all before, seen movies, read books. About halfway through they perk up. I grab their attention and they’re glued to the end. I'm always sorry I don’t leave more time for questions.

The questions vary widely, from general inquiries about my age to ignorant questions about what kind of gun I used or if I ‘took care’ of the woman that ratted me out.  I know my message has fallen on deaf ears when a kid asks something like that.  Out of the whole crowd I'll entertain many, interest a few, and truly reach one. The one emails me or gets in touch through the blog to say I inspired them to seek help. It fuels my desire to publish my memoir and go global, or at least to Rhode Island.

But nothing is as humbling as a loved one you just can’t reach. When I finally got sober I entertained visions of converting my brother. I invited him to hear me speak at a meeting in the hopes he’d see where he was headed.

“Wow, you were bad.” He’d say.

“No worse than you.” I’d reply.

“I never stole from Dad.”

I left it alone. I stole to push Dad away, while he remained subserviant. What he couldn’t see was that we were serving the same master--self medicating to cope with the pain.

In the end we parted ways, seven years and counting since we’ve spoken.

So I adopted a surrogate brother, one who listened intently to the advice I doled out. He did more for me than I for him. He gave me faith that although change is optional--it’s not impossible.

But he stumbled along the way, got tripped up by transference. I recognized it for what it was but couldn’t get him to see the forest through the trees. I never imagined the cold, hard, whip of his anger would be turned on us. He left without saying a word.

But that is the punishment for my hubris. Another brother sacrificed on Anger’s Altar.

Foot in Mouth and Head Up Ass

I have no affinity for meatheads. Those Archie Bunker described as, "Dead from the neck up." Managing Gold’s Gym in Saugus, I dealt with them everyday, asking them not to drop the dumbbells and placing heavy sanctions on grunting. Monopolizing weights in an unconventional manner, one of the strict rules, took finesse to enforce. At first I approached them with the chip on my shoulder fully exposed. My brother was a meathead, brawn fueled by searing anger. Meatheads are generally irrational, demand respect they don't give, and interpret reprimands as invitations to a fight. One guy called me a faggot after I asked him for the fourth time to stop slamming the 100lb dumbbells on our brand new rubber floors.

I tried to discard the chip and approach them without anger, which only begets more anger. I was nice, made sure no one else was around when I talked to them, and gave more chances than was warranted. I realized my prejudice against men acting like inflated boys stemmed from the fact that I suffered from the same malady.

On Tuesday I left work and traveled to Planet Fitness to work out. I became a member because my neighbors wanted a trainer and joining was easier than paying their daily workout fee. Planet Fitness is a bare bones club. No dumbbells over 60 lbs. No group exercise classes. Barely any trainers and the ones they do have make $10 an hour. They are so strict that they have what's called a Lunk Alarm, a siren that sounds whenever someone disobeys the golden rule: Don't act like a meathead.

I was in a dogshit mood. When I sat up after a set of bench presses with the fifties and placed them on the ground, they made a thud. The Lunk Alarm reverberated through the building. Someone behind the desk beckoned a floor trainer to inform me that dropping weights is not allowed. I was shocked, but acquiesced, nodding in acknowledgment before walking away in disgust.

I noticed the other trainers congregating, whispering about the bad attitude on the floor and what to do about it. I kept my head down, turn up my ipod, and reminded myself that thuds are open to interpretation. I did another set of presses, over exaggerating the softness with which I put them down. Then I went to the seated row where I felt someone's presence over my shoulder, "Excuse me." he said.

"Yeah." I responded.

"Take your headphones off, please." he ordered. I took one off. "We're not set up for circuit training. I need you to go and clean up those dumbbells."

I considered the list of possible responses flying at me from all directions, most notably, Don’t worry pal, someday you'll make more than ten dollars an hour, but I abstained and said, "OK."

Before I could do my set, he interrupted again and barked, "I need you to do it now."

I paused. My temples flared. I bit down hard. "Right away." I answered, and did what he asked.

For the rest of the workout he hawked me from the desk, waiting for me to defy another unspoken gym etiquette rule. I behaved, frothing at the mouth.

Before I left I approached the desk and said, "Sorry about all that," and walked away, realizing that the universe gave me a glimpse of just how raw my anger still is, and how when it clashes with someone else's it's a recipe for disaster.

I guess two raws don't make a right.

The Kraken

I should've known he was a demigod. At sixteen, he drove my mother's Chevy Citation into a brick wall with such force; the engine block breached the dash and his chest cracked the steering wheel. He tried to hurl the case of beer he'd been swilling over a fence, but the ensuing rain saturated the cardboard and gave out mid swing. The cops burst onto the scene as Budweiser's rolled down the hill.

The Kraken, as he'll be called for the duration of this post, was sent from the depths to wreak havoc on commuters. His roar sounded like: "All this drunk driving is bullshit. What they should do is test you after one beer. If you can drive fine, then they should put a one on your license, two beers, then you get a two, and so on. I drive better drunk," meaning any spark of fear was extinguished with a dose of alcohol. Predicting incidents was as easy as predicting the sun's presence in the morning sky. It started when he stole a car from a neighbor, twice, and was caught doing donuts in a field.

Whenever an innocent driver needed to be harassed, or a brazen driver silenced, The Kraken was released to stalk the streets and highways. Three hours late picking me up from work one night, he followed a woman home that cut him off. He had no designs on her; it was her husband he sought. The poor woman drove around her apartment building with The Kraken in tow, screaming for her husband to intervene. When the husband came, he was swallowed whole.

Someone beeped at him after he cut them off. To scare us, they chased us, swerving as if to side-swipe our car. The Kraken called their bluff with a whip of the wheel and slammed into their port side. The tables turned and we chased them. But their vessel was faster and they escaped with only dented side panels.

During a simple trip to the store, we happened upon some innocents, angered by a flat tire on the side of the road. Their profanity in a school zone was too much for The Kraken, he swerved toward them to provoke the response that justified the beating they took. The Kraken's girlfriend shouted at me, "Go out there and help him!" I responded, "Help him do what," knowing the incident was over; The Kraken was already in the car, driving away.

While doing 50 in a 30, The Kraken gunned it when a police cruiser flashed his lights in pursuit. We would have made it if The Kraken's blind rage allowed him to think more than one move ahead. Turning right would have concealed us. We turned left. The cop arrested me for hindering his investigation after I lied when asked if The Kraken was trying to outrun the police.

After six DWI's and the threat of mandatory jail, The Kraken swam to Florida in a used, metallic maroon, Trans Am. During traffic stops, he adopted an alias, giving authorities my name and social security number. I'd routinely travel to his lair to turn myself in for warrants issued in my name. They'd drop the charges when the officer that wrote the citation failed to pick me out in a photo line up.

I recently found out that after decades of revocation, The Kraken got his license back. I will breathe a sigh of relief on the T tomorrow but will pray for safe passage over the Charles.



  

Ass Mode

Do you know someone? Sure you do, you're a superstar. But how many people do you really know? I'm talking about intimacy, tried and true. It's knowing when a person is about to burst with anxiety, and being the only one able to bring them back from the brink. Rachel does that for me. Friday, after a particularly long week, I came home to pizza, Kombucha, and two cupcakes from Whole Foods...all my favorites. She encouraged copious amounts of TV, and left me in peace as I saturated my brain with sugar, salt, fat, and mindless television. If that isn't love...

As cliché as it sounds, its a two way street. I am an expert at detecting the slightest hint of anxiety in Rachel's voice. With a mind running on warp speed, she can sometimes be forgetful, losing things like her keys. There are sign posts that she's going to the 'Bad place' and I step in as soon as I hear her starting to retrace her steps out loud. I find whatever she's looking for, usually somewhere obvious, and avert a crisis that would inevitably spill onto me eventually, (Like the time she chastised me when two horseflies stalked us all the way up a mountain and she screamed, "Bryan! Fix it!!!")

There's my brother-in-law, The Reverend Austin. Not always the most astute, he at least knows when to back off when I'm in Ass Mode. And I delight in his allowing my intrusions into his life since it reminds me that if I were able, I'd make a damn good therapist.

These are the people that stay with me in the face of my biting anger, when I feel capable of twisting both of their heads off because they take forty five minutes to pick out a pair of shoes. So who knows you?

That Familiar Ring

I find marriage preferable to dating. If I could pinpoint one experience that tipped the scales it would be the time I dated Sophie.

We met on a dating site. I had just about given up on whole internet dating after five dates with women who posted pics of themselves from high school, when they weren't seventy pounds overweight. Sophie emailed me and we set up a date for the following night. She was thin, pretty, with long curly locks of jet black hair. We hit it off so I decided to take her somewhere fancy for dinner. The conversation flowed, but with each successive wine, red flag number one (ultimately ignored) waved in my face. The more she drank, the more shifty eyed she became. By the end of dinner it looked as though she was watching a tennis match the way her eyes moved pendulous in their sockets.

The next red flag waved at me the first night we spent together. It was ten o'clock and she said, "If you want to have sex we better hurry, I just took my psych meds and they make me very sleepy." She nodded out in the middle of foreplay. I should have cut my loses then and there, but I'm male.

Rather than listen to the nagging voice in my head assuring me this could only get worse, I invited Sophie to my cousin's wedding. It was more about putting on airs since all my cousins were star athletes, married to pretty girls. Sophie was my trophy.

During the rehearsal dinner, Sophie ordered drinks as if Prohibition would be reinstated at midnight. By the end of dinner she was slouched in her seat, eyes darting to and fro so I feigned a stomach ache and got us out of there. Crisis averted? Crisis postponed.

Since no booze would be served at the church, I felt safe. Sophie looked amazing in the dress I bought her. She was sociable and impressed me to the point that I decided it might be ok if she had a drink or two at the reception. In all the grandeur, I lost track of how much she had. Walking out of the bathroom she ran up to me shouting, "The DJ said I could sing, I'm gonna sing!" and zipped off before I could catch her.

By the time I made it back into the hall the DJ was announcing her, "And now, to sing for the bride and groom, Sophie!"

The thump of It's Raining Men started. I scanned the room but found only the piercing stare of my 80 year old grandmother. I moved out of her direct line of fire and took a seat to wait it out.

"Humidity is rising," she sang, "Barometer's getting low. According to all sources, the streets the place to go..."

Confined to the stage, it seemed that I'd only have to live down a modicum of embarrassment, until, "Tonight for the first time, just about half past ten, for the first time in history, it's gonna start raining men..." She left the stage and started slinking around the room provocatively. The wave of horror passed, the crowd clapped to the beat, and the wedding party was into it.

It was at, "God bless Mother Nature, she's a woman too. She took off to heaven and she did what she had to do," that she approached my uncle, the father of the groom, and proceeded to give him a lap dance during the chorus, "It's raining men, Hallelujah!"

My head had reached the table by then, my face seven different shades of red when I heard the youngest of my cousins yell, "Yo Bry."

I ignored him.

"Hey, Bry!" he called again.

I looked over.

"Why's your girlfriend so shy?"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CB3Gv4oZdWo

State of the Union

Rachel and I have regular talks, prompted by her, about the state of our lives together. Some of our knock down drag out brawls have stemmed from these chats, mostly due to my resistance to the change she'd like to impose. Most talks begin with a simple question that usually gets the hairs on the back of my neck to stand. She'll ask, "So, what do you see us doing with the rest of our lives?"

If my typical 'I don't know' fails to back her down, I'll try to placate her with an answer that disarms her, "We're going to try to be as healthy as possible so we can love each other longer." But this is a short term answer, providing little time to flee, or come up with something tangible. If I can't, the physicality of my depression surfaces, my shoulders slump, and my tone wanes. My one word answers are like spurts of gas on a fire. My hope is that if I piss her off enough I won't have to deal with the reality: I just don't know.

This answer worked in the past, but again, only temporarily, she'll give me my time, and space, with an assignment, "Why don't you think it over, because it's something I'd really like to discuss with you."

I've grown to hate this. Mostly because when the time she allots expires, it's talk-time cubed. This backs me further into a self imposed corner, I lash out, and we fight. It comes down to this--Because of my felonies, I find it hard to dream the way she would like us to. I feel inept because the choices I've made in the past dilute my hopes for the future. I don't want to dream for fear we'll hit the CORI roadblock and feel the pang I feel daily over the fact that I'll probably never return to being a therapist for addicts.

Our talks follow a pattern: Rachel brings up the future, I shut down, she pries me open, I admit that I feel like I'm holding us back, she comforts me, and I postpone yet another attempt to move forward. But with Rachel, it's sink or swim.

I do have a plan: I started this blog as an exercise in writing, so thank you if you're a follower. Second, it forces me to write and follow a deadline (I try hard to write every Sunday). After reading other blogs, I've realized that if you don't know me (and maybe even if you do), this is pretty boring shit. If you happened upon my blog without my prompting, please let me know, but I doubt you exist. Thirdly, I started Change is Optional because I'm rewriting my memoir. The last version garnered some attention from agents. I even signed with one last year, but let the contract run out after I realized it just wasn't good enough.

Perpetrators is almost finished. Aspiring authors write blogs because an agent's second question before offering representation is, "What's your platform for marketing this book?" Most writers mention their blog, which is a great platform if you have tons of followers who leave comments.

So please spread the word, join the blog as a follower, and leave a comment now and again to help me not only publish, but stand tall during State of the Union talks. Believe me, it helps.

PS...I told Rachel that after the book sells we'll buy a farm and I'll write about our adventures living off the land, unless we starve. I also plan to advocate for restructuring of the CORI laws, so that felons like me can spread this message, especially to kids: the consequences of your actions may reach further than you can ever imagine.

Thanks Again...

Housefit

They didn't die as much as they're in the process of decomposing. I'm talking about Rachel's Housefit, a designation more than a name for the clothes I don every time we return from 'Out.' The fact that 'In' has its own attire is due to the fact that 'In' is always preferable to 'Out' in my estimation and should be celebrated with clothing that reflects the mood. Housefits need to be relaxed, (Editor's note: The word relaxed here refers to the fabric. Relaxing would surely fit better, but in terms of fabric, the fibers must be in a constant relaxed state, either by design, or age, the latter being preferable).

The original Housefit started with pajama pants I picked up at TJ Maxx. We weren't shopping for them, but low and behold, on the sales rack, for just $10, was a pair of blue cotton jammie pants I just had to have. We discovered the reason they were a sale item after walking to the Salem Willows one summer night. The fly, held together by a single button, lent itself to random 'exposures.' We jokingly started calling them the Wenie pants (Wenie because I spelled weenie like genie in a text to Rachel). So unpredictable were these pants that we had to warn unsuspecting company that they might see more than they bargained for.

The Housefit caught on. Soon enough Rachel was wearing hers, a long sleeve T swiped from my closet and a pair of light blue pants with rubber duckies everywhere. They were the pants she wore on our first date, after she was canceled from a night shift at work (A shift I suspect to this day was orchestrated to bow out if the date was a bust). We went back to my place, changed into Housefits, and watched dumb comedies all night.

A few weeks ago she pointed out holes in the crotch, a looser, weakening waistband, and faded, pale ducks. Sewing was suggested as an option to prolong the iconic half of the legendary Housefit much the way stitching was proposed to keep Frankenstein together, but then yesterday, she sat down and tore a four inch hole in the ass. With the discovery of even more breaches, it was decided to lay them to rest.

Reverend Austin, now living with us, wears a pair of black sweats, long sleeved green T with regular T underneath, "For temperature control."

Do you have a Housefit? Please share...

When was the last time you received an apology that really hit home? A few weeks ago, I think I did. Dad was over for another session of foam rolling, still holding the title of tightest man alive. Surprised he hasn't imploded, I actually found myself enjoying the company, basking in an opportunity to stroke my inner child and show Dad how smart I am.

The topic changed to my brother and his recent employment issues working the front desk at a gym they both are belong to. He was reprimanded for the third time about his sugar going low, a constant issue for him, and in a preemptive strike, he quit.

I asked Dad, "What does he intend to do when he graduates?" To which he replied, "Go for a Master's degree, I think, although I think he'll have trouble getting a job with his insulin problems."

"Never mind that, he won't even get a second interview with his felonies."

"Yeah, you mentioned how hard it's been for you." His facial expression goes from blank to grimace as he rolls his IT band.

"Hard? Try damn near impossible. I can't even get in the door for a counseling job. They wouldn't even let me sweep the floors of a rehab. And he wants to work in healthcare? Good luck."

By now he's moved onto his thoracic and looks like an ironing board trying to balance on the roller, "Hold on, Dad, I need to modify this," I grab a towel, roll it up, and exchange it for the roller. All conversation ceases while the tries to bend his spine over the cushy towel.

"I'm getting nauseous," he says, rolling onto his side. Usually my clients go pale on me but Dad's Twilight complexion makes it hard to tell.

"Just take it slow."

He tries again with the same result, "Nope, I think I have to stop."

"Okay. I've never seen a thoracic so tight before. Next time we'll see how tight those rotator cuffs are. I'm betting they're like drums." I say, walking into the kitchen.

"Well, I appreciate you showing me this, son, got time for lunch?" he asks.

I check the clock, "Sure."

"Then I can drive you into work." he offers.

"Sounds great."

"You really think it's going to be that hard for him to find a job?" he asks somberly.

"Next to impossible, I'm afraid."

Like a thunderbolt hand delivered by Zeus, he says, "Geez, I'm sorry, Bry, this is all my fault."

"What is?" I ask, taken totally off guard while I fish through the cabinet for my keys.

"The robberies, they were all my fault."

I close the cabinet door as if to capture the reverberations and maybe play them later for Rachel. I pretend the admission doesn't knock the giant chip off my shoulder. I quell the desire to leap, jig, or otherwise break down, grab a rolling pin, and knock him senseless for taking twelve years to own up.

We go to lunch and talk, like a father and son.

Later, working out between clients, I text Rach, knowing she'll calculate the magnitude. I go to contacts in my cell and press the appropriate letter to bring up Damdams (One of many aliases I have for her including but not limited to: poodams, poodamacious knid, and our personal fav---rara). I texted: "Dad said sorry for the robberies and said it was all his fault," and sent it off.

A few seconds later, Darth Vader's labored breathing (Dad's ringtone) sings through my cell. Instantly, I realized my faux pas. My Freudian slip complete, I sent the text to the wrong contact. Instead of Damdams, my brain selected Dad. Panicked, I start pacing the gym floor. I couldn't recall the text, nor could I ignore the call. I dialed him back.

"Sent the text to the wrong person, ey son?" He asks.

"Dad, you have no idea how long I've waited for you to say that."

"Why?"

"Obvious reasons."

"Well, I'm glad I did the right thing."

"Me too."

Life Lessons

Few other jobs lend themselves to bouts of self righteousness the way personal training did to me. I'd been in gyms most of my adolescent and adult life and got certified as a trainer because it complimented my schedule as a full time student.

I started out at The Evil Empire: Bally's, in my hometown of Peabody, and like many newly certified trainers, I was stricken with an obnoxious self righteousness. I became unteachable, insufferable. In short, a fool who spoke more than listened. Unhappy with their policies and sub par trainers, I started looking for another job.

I applied to The Sports Club LA and during the initial interview, a sharply dressed woman led me to a walk-in closet and handed me a stack of paper. One was an application. The other, an anatomical map with lines pointing to the muscles they wanted me to name. I failed not only the test but also the chance to realize that wisdom doesn't come from what you know, it spawns from the humility of knowing that you don't know.

On my way home I read an ad in the paper for Gold's Gym and went straight from the train to drop off a resume. The woman at the desk interviewed me on the spot and said she'd like me to meet the owners.

I met with them the next day and they offered me a position as an assistant manager. One Saturday after closing I took one last walk on the floor. To my surprise, I found a member standing on the cardio deck, between machines, walking in place while staring at her feet.

I asked, "Did you know that we closed about fifteen minutes ago?"

No answer.

I moved closer and spoke louder, "Excuse me, Miss, are you okay?"

She looked at me and said, "Yes, I'm fine."

I asked her again if she knew we were closed. She said, "Oh, no I didn't."

I wanted to run and call an ambulance but was worried she'd pass out, so I asked, "Do you know where you are?"

She pondered, then said, "No."

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Monday?" she replied.

"Close. Do you know what year it is?" I asked.

"No."

"How about the president, do you know who the president is?" I asked, trying to keep her talking.

"Johnson?"

I ran for the phone, called 911, and dropped the receiver knowing they'd come. I made a beeline for the vending machine that spit out my sugary selection. Still conscious, she took the drink and sipped hesitantly.

"How do you feel?" I asked.

"Funny."

"Do you know what city you're in?"

"No."

The ambulance showed. She started answering some of the questions correctly but still got obvious ones wrong. They took her to the hospital and kept her for observation, discovering that her electrolytes were dangerously low. Life presented a chance to familiarize me with its fragility, but instead I walked away thinking the woman was an idiot.

Not long afterward, I received a call from an elderly man looking for a personal trainer who could come to his apartment. He wanted me to train his wife, who was experiencing periodic losses of balance and consequently had suffered devastating falls. When I met her, she had a shiner that covered half of her face.

She was 95, frail, and could barely walk without a walker. He had suffered his second heart attack and was worried that he wouldn't be able to help her if she fell again. We used the equipment in the apartment building's basement.

She admitted to me while looking out the window into the courtyard, "I'm ready."

"To be done?" I asked, thinking I worked her too hard.

Her eyes glossed over, "To go," she said, "I've lived a full life. I've traveled, raised a wonderful daughter, had a successful marriage. Look at me. I can barely walk. I've become a burden. It's time for me to go. If it wasn't for Joe, I'd go now," she said, as if she could flick a switch. It was an example of how to face death with integrity, but instead I still obsess over death's inevitability.

I walked into Equinox last summer, humbled not by the prospect of working with the cream of the crop, but more by its location, knowing what passed for excellence in Boston far exceeded anything in the suburbs. In the classes Equinox paid me to attend, I faded, listening to less than half of what some of the greatest minds in fitness were trying to teach.

With lagging sales and dismal paychecks, I started looking for a different job, thinking yet again of a geographical cure for ignorance. Instead, I laid down my arms, picked up a foam roller, then bought a few sessions from the best selling trainer in the company, hoping to learn from his knowledge and experience. Maybe after forty years I'm learning to listen, instead of lusting after the sound of my own voice.

German Potato Bread

4 cups of flour
4 cups of potato
1 tablespoon of salt
2 tablespoons of dry yeast
1 egg
1/2 cup of hot water

Peel and slice potatoes and place in a heavy saucepan covered with salted water. Bring to a boil and simmer for ten minutes or until the potatoes are soft. Set aside to cool. Combine flour, salt, and yeast in a bowl. (You can activate the yeast by putting it in a half cup of heated water 115-125 degrees. I tried this and think my yeast was bad, but the bread still came out awesome).

Place potatoes in a ricer. (It makes them more blendable than mashing). Mix potatoes, flour, and egg and let sit for 30 minutes. On a well floured surface, mix the dough one more time by hand, shape onto a baking sheet. Preheat oven to 450. Place bread on center rack and spray oven with water before closing (this gives the bread a nice crunchy crust). Move bread to bottom rack for another 30 minutes. Enjoy...

Supah Soakah

Mom mounted bird feeders along the rail just outside the French doors so she could watch them feed. With each passerby, seeds fell to the ground, "They do that on purpose, for the ground feeders, so they can eat too."

"Why can't they just go to the feeder?" I asked. The question revealed my feelings on bird feeders, they were stupid, so I resumed watching MTV's Real World.

Another time she screeched, "Oh my god, there's one right there, Bryan look!" waking me from a midday nap.

Pissed the house wasn't ablaze, I snapped, "What is it?!"

"Its an Icterus galbula, a Baltimore Oriole, they only come around once a year and its extremely hard to get them to come to feed." She was beaming, fishing through the basket next to her barcalounger for the binoculars. She could sit reclined for hours, sipping Folgers and smoking while leafing through The Audubon Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Eastern North America.

"Yeah, Ma, that's great, let me know if any pterodactyls show up to feed, I'll let the cat in," I said, rolling over.

She spent countless hours in the yard, tending to the ducks, feeding the bunnies, and weeding the herb garden our cat Dizzy spent most of his time in because of the fresh catnip. At any given time neighborhood felines could be seen lounging there, pie eyed.

Mom wanted me to share in what her new home allowed her that our city home didn't. Plus, drunk half the time, she had little time to enjoy these trivial luxuries. Squirrels were the bane of her existence. They'd climb down from their perch, high in the trees, enact a move known only to gymnasts and contortionists, and feed, upside down, on birdseed. This made Mom furious, and me giggle, for it was then her anger would spew in an array of profanity the likes I've never heard.

"You God damn, mother fucking, shit bag, diseased vermin, get the fuck off my porch!" she'd scream as she marched toward the porch, sending the rodents scattering, along with anything else within earshot.

One day she noticed my super soaker, one of the few things left after I sold all my possessions to coke dealers. "Does that thing shoot far?" she asked. I knew instantly her intentions. "Mum, seriously, you're starting to scare me," I said.

My brother and I stole the super soaker from Toys-R-Us and used it to soak the unsuspecting drivers we sat next to at traffic lights. Kev pulled up, I soaked them, and we'd watch as they stuck their hand out to see if it was raining.

Her search for better pest protection came after she wrote multiple letters to the bird feeder company that claimed their product was Squirrel Proof. In response, they sent her the: VARI-CRAFTS VCSBF1 Bouncer, a feeder that resembled a tiny Fort Knox, designed to shake off squirrels so that lighter, winged creatures could feast without interruption. It failed. The VCSBF1 bouncer was no match for hungry squirrels. To his credit, Dizzy tried to catch them but ultimately failed. His depth perception may have been impaired--the squirrels easily traversed the frail branches, but Dizzy went plummeting toward the ground.

Mom used the soaker to scare off rodents. Our screen door was constantly soaked where she'd blast "those God damn squirrels" with hot water. It wasn't long before an air pumped BB gun showed up, the origin of which I chose not to ask about. But lest she fancy BB sized holes in her screen, she had to open it before firing. The noise alerted the squirrels, who were always faster than she. So, as with any creature hell bent on survival, she learned to live with them.

One day, as I sat watching Danger Mouse on Nickelodeon, something caught my eye. It looked like a dragonfly buzzing around one of Mom's feeders...until I realized it was a hummingbird. (dragonflies don't move like harrier jets). It zigged left, rose high above the feeder, then zagged like, 'A bat outta hell,' as Mom would say. I scrambled for the binoculars and waited with baited breath. A few minutes later it returned. I froze, scared to move for fear it would spell out 'haha' in jagged movements and blast off. But it stayed and fed and was beautiful.

From that point on, one of us called to the other, "Come quick! There's a Red-winged Blackbird outside on the feeder." The overpriced $80 feeder we'd been suckered into buying had worked, magnifying our excitement.

She instilled in me a greater appreciation for the finer things in life that don't necessarily sparkle, but that leave an indelible mark nonetheless.

Word Jumble

In high school, when I wasn't being admonished for my deplorable behavior, a teacher would actually try to reach out to me. Sophomore year, an English teacher pulled me aside and used the gentle approach, to which I responded favorably. He said, "You know, they say English is one of the hardest languages to learn." To which I responded, "What do I care, I'm never going to England."

He was right, of course. There are inconsistencies in the language that are maddening, redundant, and sometimes just plain stupid. Case and point---Oxymorons. A short list of my favorites include:

Free Gift
Business Ethics
Military Intelligence
Civil Disobedience
Daily Special
Female Gunman
Spendthrift
Prison Life
Freezer Burn
Gun Safety

But my absolute favorite is Passive Aggressive. It attempts to join complete polar opposites, and it's just so fabulous at explaining what I do so perfectly.

Last week I had lunch with Dad. In an attempt to keep the conversation flowing, thereby avoiding awkward pauses, I asked about his knees, both of which have been replaced because of the damage caused by decades of masonry (please note that he wasn't employed as a mason, it was just a hobby).

He denies pain, but admits he still has trouble with stiffness and feels like Frankenstein when he walks, which is noteworthy because I always picture him as Darth Vader, whose ominous breathing plays whenever Dad calls my cell. I extoll the virtues of foam rolling, which helped my lower back pain, and is currently helping me regain my thoracic mobility. The idea resonates, and he asks me to show him.

Keep in mind that my motives are purely rooted in helping the man I share such a volatile history with. Deep down I admit that if it works, it would send a giant fuck you to my brother, who is seeking a degree in exercise science from UMass. I ask, "Doesn't Kev assess your tightness or suggest foam rolling?" Like a lawyer, I know the answer to my own question. If Kev had learned about foam rolling in school, he wouldn't agree with it. Hell, I didn't until I experienced it firsthand. Now I think that foam rolling could single handedly achieve piece in the Middle East. I believe that our anger is caused by the fact that we're all tight as drums. Women don't suffer as we do, Rachel foam rolls comfortably, never grimacing once.

So, today I showed Dad how to roll those pains away. When I told Rachel about it, I commented that foam rolling wouldn't work on Dad, as pure evil lubricates. I was wrong. Pure evil binds.

I killed two birds with one stone, I guess.