Regret

Darkness blanketed us as we drove down the familiar road, quickly finding a space in a restaurant parking lot. We walked and talked with the clock ticking as she was due at work soon or so she said.

It was like old times, the relaxing feeling with her, talking of everything and desperately wanting her. The red hair sparkled as we passed each street light.

When the time to leave finally arrived, we stood in a dark hallway - I wanted to kiss her, but she kept walking. I could not reach her. Before finally departing, she turned to face me.

“Do you regret it?”

“The time spent with dad, no.” We had talked endlessly about our fathers.

“No, all of it.”

I stood motionless, stunned, as she turned and left. I would never see her again, but her words stayed with me forever - they were like a blow to the head - taunting me.

“Yes.” I finally mumbled after minutes of processing and debating, I decided she was right, I regretted every decision (or non-decision) that led to this very spot.

I finally sat down as my life tumbled through my mind. I wanted to change so many things, I wanted to bring her back, but it was impossible and the reality hit me like a punch. Was she ever really there?

I leaned forward, face in my hands and thought tears would flow, but rather a deep sigh escaped and I vigorously rubbed my eyes. I knew, everybody knows, there is nothing to do at this point. After all, what’s done is done.

I woke up and looked at the clock, I had more time to rest. I laid on my back, staring at the ceiling, thinking of all of my mistakes.

Missing

“Are we really going to do this?” She mumbled into his mouth.

“I think so.“ He pulled away and sat back. He had been on cruise control until that moment.

“No, I want to, it just seemed, I don’t know, we’ve been so close so many times,” she reached for his neck, pulling him closer.

“Yeah, there have been a lot of false starts,” he laughed.

“Say it first.”

“Say what?” He did not realize there was a script – when he was married, they just went at it, but this was all new. Was there a magic word? He immediately thought of saying please.

The room filled with silence and their faces inches apart – she squinted, seemingly willing him to read her mind. The hot breath on his face was disconcerting.

“I want you so much."

“I need to know it is more than that.”

“Oh, well, you know that.” 

“Do I?”

“Of course you do.” Her tone was annoying, but there was no reason to point out the forced conversation.

“Do I?”

“I love you?” He hoped it didn’t sound like a question. This seemed like what she wanted to hear, but it was weird to say it. He hadn't said it to anybody in years. An hour ago it may have been a true statement, but now?

“I love you too,” she beamed while reaching back and pulling the white polo over her head.

Their eyes met as he pulled his pants down and nearly tripped. Her right hand grabbed hold of him as he reached for her.

They fell to the couch. This always looked so much easier in movies. It had been so long, it was a strange. 

“Wait, do you have a condom?” She planted her left palm on his chest like a crossing guard saying stop. 

“What? No, shit, sorry, I didn’t think this would happen.” He rolled to the right and awkwardly tried to rest on an elbow. Pain shot through his arm, so he sat up.

“I think Dave bought some a while back. It was a big box, so one won’t be missed or maybe four!” She giggled and rolled off the couch while scrambling through a previously unseen door.

He surveyed the room and its jumbled contents. There was her husband’s stereo; his cd collection; Red Sox championship hat and there on the mantle was an actual picture of him alone along with another of the married couple.

“Here we go!” He jumped as the square package landed on his chest. 

“Give me a second,” he fumbled with it like he was holding a foreign object and the moment passed – he no longer wanted to be there. He felt the eyes of the husband squarely on him. He leaned back with a heavy sigh. He missed is wife.

“Ah, that feels good,” she had grabbed his hand and pushed it where she wanted it.

She sat up and pulled him toward her, but it was not going to happen. An uneasy hush filled the room as a clock loudly ticked.

“You okay?” She propped herself up on her elbows.

“Yeah, just nervous, didn’t want to disappoint you and now my mind has taken over.” It was better than saying he did not want her – ever.

“Disappoint me? I am so relaxed right now.” She laughed violently, throwing her head back. It seemed theatrical.

“Ah, I wasn’t sure.” He forced a laugh while realizing the huge mistake. He wanted to leave, run and never see her again. The couch was old, like him, and everything else in the room – the term ironic popped in his head. It was like some bad novel.

“You’re so silly, I can help,“ he stopped her with a gentle push. 

“Sorry, I’m just embarrassed, this was supposed to go differently.” He tried to explain it away as she recoiled. 

He raised and fumbled with his crumpled clothes. The half open condom remained on the floor as a reminder of failure and bad decisions. He thought of a line from a show where the character says they smell shame.

“Nothing to be so weird about, we'll have plenty of opportunities, you want a drink?” She hopped up and strolled to the kitchen. 

He quickly dressed as she disappeared, grimacing when seeing his reflection in the window. He sat on the couch trying to avert the husband’s eyes as she loudly filled a glass with water and ice, he pushed on his shoes.

“Here, sorry I could find only one clean glass,” she held out the half empty (or half full?) glass after taking a long drink. The phrase “long, tall drink of water” popped in his head and could not remember its origin. Then he wondered how there was only one clean glass before remembering the sloppiness of the surroundings.

“That’s okay.” He pushed it away – the thought of drinking from the same glass was gross.

“Quit acting so weird. Let’s see what is on the telly.” She plopped down on the sofa, covering herself with a blanket while stabbing at the remote with no response from the tv. He stared at the blanket, he could not remember seeing it before now. The fact she called it telly was irritating.

“Crap, Dave always handles this, you know how to work it? There may be another remote.” She absently gave him the remote while searching the floor. With one click the tv erupted with sound. 

“I have to go.” He stood quickly while checking for wallet, phone and keys – everything was in place.

“What? I thought you were staying all night; Dave is gone until Monday.”

“No, I have to work in the morning.” The husband’s eyes trailed his every move, knowing he was lying.

“I thought you said …”

“Is that the right time?” He pointed at the wall clock.

“Here, let me walk you out.” She shrugged at the question and then laughed as the blanket fell to the floor.

“Right, you better stay here.” He faked a laughed and turned for the door that seemed miles away. His bladder was full, but he wanted out - wincing while walking to the door. 

“Hold on, come here first,” she pulled him close and kissed him like something from a movie. He couldn't believe he had thought this was a good idea. 

“Later.” He felt the odd taste in his mouth as the door closed. He resisted the urge to run. The stickiness of his hands was a surprise and the smell of her filled the car. He had to find a bathroom.

Rain pelted the car as saw the familiar McDonald's sign. He pushed into the bathroom and coated his hands, arms and face with the gooey soap. The smell was still there after repeated washings. He sighed while finally relieving himself.

He ordered a large Coke at the counter and then added burger and fries. He sat in his car in the parking lot, eating as raindrops danced across the windshield. He missed his wife.

Wake Up

“Will you look at this? I bet you remember these.” She pulls a plastic bag with crumpled pieces of paper as we sift and sort her stuff for the upcoming move to a retirement home. I immediately recognize the papers as she holds them. I do not not touch them, but I remember, they have haunted me for years.

I wake and stare at the ceiling - the silence is noticeable, unusual for a Sunday. 

I get up and dress. I stop in the doorway - mom sitting at the kitchen table which is adjacent to the living room where my door opens. Nowadays, the salesperson would say the mobile home had an open floor plan.

Our eyes meet – her gaze tells me to go back to bed, run away and don’t look back. She waves her hand, beckoning me. I take the 12 steps from my doorway to the table and there is something in her hand. Clearly, she has been crying.

“He left these for us,” she glances back-and-forth between the tiny pieces of paper and me.

“Who? What?” I am confused. Did God leave us messages on Sunday morning? Had Dad finally showed up and left apologies? 

“Your brother,” she motions towards his room which is adjacent to mine.

“Oh, okay, what?”

She answers my question by handing me one of the papers – the one addressed to me. 

“You are a great kid. I am sorry I let you down, but I always loved you. Please don’t take this personally. You’ll be a great guy.” I read and reread and flip the paper before looking up, I am confused and really thirsty. She hands me another one of the notes addressed to her.

“Mom, don’t blame yourself. I just cannot take this life anymore. I love you.”

My face goes cold, as if the blood is gone (that’s how I always saw it described in books). I feel like I am shaking, but I notice my hands are perfectly still. My heart is racing, like it will explode. I want to walk out the door and never come back, but this is nothing new – at 15, I am counting the days.

“He’s gone?” I ask her in my normal voice while being frightened at what I just said, the silence of the morning shatters. I cannot figure out why we are reading these notes and standing here if my brother is dead. Why has she not called the police? Where is the coroner? Will detectives ask me questions? Should we have touched the notes, are they not evidence? I watched too much tv.

“I don’t know.”

“What? The notes say … wait, what … wait, you haven’t checked? Is he in there?” I turn and look at his doorway I realize she he has done nothing since finding the notes, and now I wonder where the notes were found. Were they left on the table? More importantly, when did she find them?

“I think so.” 

I stand motionless and stare at his doorway. I want to go as far away from that room as possible, I don’t want to know what has happened, what he has done. My brother is gone and she is sitting here in her robe. I have never been this scared, but outwardly everything is fine.

“Can you go see … see … just check?” She points at his room. 

“What?”

“Go in there and see, check to see if he is … just check on him. I can’t do it.”

“Fuck.” Her face says it all.

I turn and walk – everything in super-slow motion. My feet drag like walking in quicksand. I turn and look back - mom is a mile away. I reach the doorway and stop – staring into the darkness. I do not want to do this.

The silence is deafening. No sounds from anywhere and nothing from the tiny room. The fan on his dresser is idle, this is alarming as he always sleeps with it in motion. My heart is pounding, blood pulsating in my ears. I wonder what a stroke feels like.

He is a snorer, I always hear it through the paper thin wall separating us. There is no snoring today, but is he breathing?

It seems like an hour passes before I take a step. Budweiser and Old Forester bottles on the dresser with a full ashtray on the nightstand. It take a few steps stumble over a pile of clothes. I catch myself on the dresser, not wanting to fall onto a dead body.

I stop and stand at the edge of the bed – complete darkness (a blanket covers the window) and silence. It reminds me of a game he and I play – we scare the hell out of each other by hiding and jumping out when the other least expects. 

The best way to do it is finding a hiding spot and remain there for a while – allowing everything to settle. One time I stood behind the bathroom door as he showered – stayed there probably 15 minutes before he stepped out and I got him. There were never any relaxing walks or moments when the other was home. Now that I think about it, it was quite a challenge to hide or sneak up on anybody in an 800 square foot house.

I think for a moment he will turn over and scare the crap out of me and we laugh. Of course, he is probably dead and not sleeping which makes me think of the phrase ‘dead asleep’.

I lean forward and listen – I hear nothing, it freaks me out. I mumble his name a few times with no response. The clock’s red eyes scream at me – 11:00. I think of the tv shows where they turn to another person and announce the official time of death.

I stand completely still for a few more minutes, dreading touching him. If I don’t touch him then he is still here and this never happened. I stare at his back, trying to pick up any movement indicating breathing.

At 11:05 I reach forward and nudge him, he slowly moves and opens his eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get out of here.” He grumbles and turns over.

I am stunned, I had convinced myself he was gone. I quickly retreat to the kitchen without saying a word since she heard it all. I want to scream or maybe cry.

“Well, I am keeping these notes, he needs to tell us what he was doing. Do you want to keep yours?” The trance is broken and she is moving back and forth in front of the sink. She extends her hand with my personal note.

“No.” I grab a glass, fill it with water and drink over and over. The tears retreat as I will them away. There is nowhere to go. I make toast and return to my room. I don’t know what I am supposed to feel, I am stunned.

“Yeah, I remember, why did you keep them?” I am back in the moment, and for the second time I refuse to take what she is offering.

“I don’t know, it seemed like something that needed to be saved.” She mumbles to herself while examining the paper. Her hands are shaking, so I grab them and give a reassuring squeeze. 

I stare at her. He has been gone four years, in the end he left no notes. I miss him every day. I suddenly do want to see the little notes, but not in front of her - I’ll get them later. He said I’d be a great guy, am I?

Presenting

He is a seasoned professional from the midwest (some would say the south but that has too many negative connotations) with a keen interest in human behavior, fixing things (not people) and Philly sports. In spite of everything, he loves his family. It took him 17 years to earn a college diploma, so persistence is character trait (or flaw in some situations). He is an avid reader of fiction, non-fiction and technical how-to's - he enjoys discussing them while fixing your computer. He loves trying new things and helping others until they start expecting it. His cynicism can be overwhelming, but the sarcastic quips make up for it. He lives by the harm principle which says says people should be free to act however they wish unless their actions cause harm to somebody else.

Accepted

Thank you so much for submitting to our publication. We instantly fell in love with your piece. We would love to publish it in an upcoming issue with a few tweaks that can be worked with our editorial staff. We look forward to your reply.

Respectfully No

Dear Sir:

Your submission arrived with great fanfare at our spacious Manhattan office. It was immediately placed at the top of the 'to be read' stack presented to our army of editors who repeatedly lifted it to retrieve others. We finally made one of our junior interns process it and they could not have been more confused. They immediately made notes and sought the counsel of a more seasoned editor who, in turn, read it and was just as confused. At this point, your creation was stuffed into the trash can, but the intern remembered it was an outside submission so they retrieved and smoothed the copy to gather your contact information. Subsequently, this rejection letter was created. While we will not publish this piece and cannot think of any outlet that would, we suggest you seek professional help and guidance. I really wanted to add some notes here to improve your creation, but I just cannot find any positive feedback to share. We have discarded our copy and suggest you do the same with yours.

Respectfully yours,

Ed I Tor

Keep pushing

I really cannot remember any endings that I love, usually I hate when a good book ends. I remember the Great Gatsby ending, well I remember it being discussed at great length in a class long ago. Here is the last line of the book - "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." I read it as we cannot escape our past, as much as we may try. I find that in my writing, especially in this class, as I revisit and examine the past, in turn making me reflect on how it has and continues to affect my life. 

Weekends with Dad

The stories dive into the many ups and downs of being a child in a broken home - more broken than I first realized. When the parents split, the child (usually) pays a steep price as their time with with both parents is gone and now their lives are compartmentalized with weekends with one parent - in this case, it is most weekends spent with dad. While the child craves the time with dad, the Saturday's and Sunday's are less than stellar and many times providing cringeworthy glimpses at life with a less-than-perfect father as harsh life lessons play out. However, all time together is not so bad as they find humor and some fun while one of the pair grows up.

Love makes the world go around

Love makes the world go around, gives us all a purpose whether love of your work (don't we all love writing?) or romantic love which keeps us rolling. I often laugh at the songs and story of love - they either are full of the pursuit, thrills and chills of new love or the simmering ashes of past/lost love. In reality, romantic love is a marathon that will settle into a rhythm where you share a life/purpose with another. I recently told that to some younger folks who just rolled their eyes, but that is another story. I like a line from an older move "Seeing Other People" whereas Jay Mohr's character reflects on what he misses as he has lost his love/wife, and he answers that he misses doing laundry with her on Saturday night. That is what comes down to after the initial flames, dinners, movies and long discussions, fast forward years and it is doing the laundry; taking care of the house; yard work on the weekends; taking care of the other when sick and on and on. There are plenty of bad times to go with the good. In all of that, the good and the bad, grows love that is deep and lasting. Or, I am completely wrong. Anyway, I always liked the love is more thicker than forget poem by EE Cummings:

love is more thicker than forget 

more thinner than recall

more seldom than a wave is wet 

more frequent than to fail

You can't outrun the past

It is clear that my dad looms large from my writing during this course. It surprises me as I did not know it was occupying so much space in my mind. There are plenty of these stories, so I guess they could theoretically be pieced together for a longer piece. Another theme in a lot of my writing is the absurdity of the work environment/interactions, which seems to be a bigger topic these days with the effects of covid on work arrangements. Also, the daily prompt responses have been so different, interesting and entertaining. It reminds me of the book Seven Types of Ambiguity by Elliot Perlman where the same story is presented by seven different characters - it is amazing how differently people experience or remember an event. It is fiction, but it pushes the point that memory is subjective, so often what we write as nonfiction is the truth according to us, but then resource/interviews can be utilized. The old saying says the truth will set you free, and I have felt that via a lot of the writings during this course and the feedback has been excellent. 

RE: Missing

It was an interesting evening as he showed up disheveled and revved up. Truthfully, I was up for it. My husband took a weekend trip with his buddies, so I was single. The weekend was ours. I thought it would give us lot of time together to move forward. 

We started with Chinese food, we fed each other with lots of sexual innuendos and promises. Honestly, it seemed forced - nothing proceeded naturally. Really, I would not have minded to be naked with him since it had been a few days. The dinner went well, great conversation was our connection. 

He was all over me once we get inside the house, but I stopped him as the dogs were spazzing - I fed and let them out. I returned to the couch - kissing and his hands all over me - his fingers are magic and I quickly decided that is enough. My mom would've called it 'heavy petting'. He clearly had a different plan. At this point, I am ready and track down a condom. 

We were in the flow and he was talking, lots of talking with deep questions. I did, do love him in spite of Dave. We both finally said it - him like reading a prepared statement. His excitement faded while tried to resuscitate - pronounced dead at 11:00. I watched him scramble, embarrassed and I felt bad. I offered some assistance, quickly rebuked. I reminded  him there was no rush, we had all weekend or longer. He did things for me with his hands, so not a total loss. I grabbed water and returned to him fully dressed and scrambling for the door. He was gone before I could say much. - I was shocked. I showered, watched a movie and went to sleep. I expected to hear from him, but no. We talked only one time after that night, ten days later at work and it was awkward. He basically said he was still screwed up over his wife - not a surprise. I miss him a lot.

Let your mind go

I was going to say I dunno since I'm not a writer, but I guess anybody that puts pen to paper or finger to keyboard is a writer regardless of whether anybody sees it, but I always think of a writer as someone that is published. If somebody asks what you do and you answer "I'm a writer", they are going to want to see the results and will probably expect a book. However, there is so much writing going on - emails, texts, cards, reports, presentations and then there is technical writing, articles, instructions, warnings, screen plays, advertisements and the big dogs - books, so many books and so little time. I would lay out the following list for those that want to be a writer - however they see it materializing ...

1. Read, no really, read a lot.
2. Write
3. Write some more
4. Relax and think, think about what you read, think about life, as Aretha said "Let your mind go, let yourself be free."
5. Review others, provide feedback - tell them how it makes you feel, what you liked, ask questions and always .. be kind.
6. Keep writing, even when the well is dry.

If you insist

Before this online adventure, I attended one other writing class outside of freshman courses. Years ago, I enrolled in a writing course offered through a local university's continuing studies program. My girlfriend at the time decided to enroll as well, all the while saying she had no interest in it even though I never asked her to do it. I really had no clue what to expect sitting in the first meeting. The mix of people was a pleasant surprise along with the teacher - a local author who was actually upbeat and engaged. I had read a lot about writing classes which involved sharing and critiquing sessions with lively discussions that could be brutal. I wanted the brutality, or rather I wanted honesty. We left with a writing assignment. I threw myself into it while the girlfriend expressed no interest and dismissed it. During the next class, one by one creations were read with light discussions and then everybody looked in our direction, waiting and encouraging with their eyes - the girlfriend feigned embarrassment and kept saying no while waving her hands. The same thing she did she didn't want to do something and then did it. Meanwhile, I unfolded my masterpiece, preparing to read. She glances at me before standing, giggling and then reading an essay about a past Paris vacation. From what I can remember, the gist of the story was her boasting, or trying, about the trip. The story was just over five pages and she read every word, talking louder as the instructor tried to interrupt. The reading exhausted the remaining time. I folded my paper and pushed it into my pocket. She talked endlessly about the experience as we left the class. There were six more classes and this happened a few times, I never actually read anything and ended up skipping the last few as I was traveling. The relationship ended a few months later. 

Keep pushing

Steven King is quoted as saying "Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work."

I am not a big Steven King fan, nothing personal, just not a fan of horror - life is scary enough. Anyway, I love his quote for life not just writing. I have known plenty of smart and talented people along the way, but a good portion of them never pushed themselves and developed that or any talent. I don't care if it is writing, landscaping, carpentry, programming, cooking, sports or whatever else. You have to dig in and put in the work, the work nobody sees as you fail, learn and develop. You want to learn how to do something right?  Do it wrong for a while and you will appreciate it so much more when you do have some success. On the other hand, maybe the talent does not exist and you finally learn that and move on to something else that better suits your talents. The key is to keep pushing, keep challenging yourself and keep trying. Hopefully you find something that brings you joy and sustenance. If not, lie down on the couch and watch some tv.