When Coffee and Tea are Interchangeable

CLEVELAND [December 30, 2005] -- The Holidays are a time when family and friends have an unnatural impact on everyday life. Most welcome such intrusions and seldom see the change that is clandestinely taking place. Eating in excess and surrendering to impulses of generosity are just the surface symptoms; many indicated by the tightening waistline on your jeans and the strain on the budget in the days and weeks to come. But that is merely technical and can be corrected in time and with a little discipline. It is the change in the person that is permanent and unyielding.

This end of the year reunion was marked by some severe peaks on the personal biometric scale. There were influences removed and some added. Many added both by design and by force. Either way there is a comfort in surrounding oneself with those who know most of the skeletons in the closet by name, and some who put many of them there in the first place.

Still, families do tend to break down along the line that separates people by what they drink. Wine verses pop (soda to you outside the Great Lakes States), beer verses bottled water, liquor verses fruit juice and coffee verses tea. Among those one can easily construct subsets, but basically these are the teams. And so goes the game.

In most houses there is not a prohibition on alcohol. For a long time there was such a restriction here for the simple reason that the head of household was (and is) a recovering alcoholic. After nearly two decades of sobriety this observer has no problem with others drinking, as long as they are not driving nor are known to have personality melt-downs after a drink or two. That is a reality we choose not to entertain. Yet barring the artificially fueled dynamics, there are always those tiny dramas that make a family gathering both interesting and unpredictable.

It is akin to mixing coffee and tea; something no sane person would knowingly attempt. If not for the gifts exchanged after a carb-heavy meal, the living room would become a training room for heavyweight sluggers. This is, of course, a gross exaggeration. Though crime stats conclude that the only day with more domestic disturbance calls than Christmas is Superbowl Sunday, the general impression is that peace on earth is genuinely attempted on the 25th of December. And the tea drinkers not only smell the coffee, they actually try some; with Monika’s fabulous Christmas cookies; French Roast, done in a French press. We may be tea drinkers, but we do have some class.

There were more young people this year than in the past, thanks to a surprise visit. It was one of those things where the anticipation was far worse than the reality. The gathering was different, but well mannered boys and a girl from an oddly detached side of the family made an otherwise aimless late morning an occasion to remember. Again, the tea drinkers smelled the sweet aftermath of fine sprits, but that was all. That was enough.

Now, upon reflection, as the bright ball settles beyond the bristles of trees, sturdy for the winter, and the days grow longer, and the challenge of living grows stronger, we cherish those coffee drinkers, those who prefer green long-necks over green tea, and those who just take it in like a fine wine. We need them all, because time has limits and one day their memory of us will become our last mansion.

2005: Putting a Challenging Year

in Perspective

CLEVELAND [December 27, 2005] -- 2005 was a very tough year. But since The Future is the subject of one of the five basic fears (just learned that in a sparkling display of leadership, more on that later) it is the good stuff that will fill this holiday space.

There are always mission figs and an interesting nut mixture in two covered bowls on the kitchen table. The table is decorated with the spirit of the season. Right now a hunter green tablecloth is topped with four vinyl poinsettia place mats.

When Monika gets out of the shower the whole house smells like Kauai, the Garden Island; like plumeria, hibiscus trees and warm Pacific Ocean breezes. We visited there in early 2002 and hope to go back soon. Part of it is Monika's special body lotion and part of it is just that it is Monika getting out of the shower.

Poppy is home for the holidays. She brings youth back to the place, even though the permanent residents are youthful in their own mid-fifties sort of way, she is real youth. Chamomile-Mint tea is poured into a favorite mug and we talk about almost everything.

Campy Christmas decorations are everywhere. No feng-shui this time of year; just colors and lights. It feels good.

Lost a few pounds, though the way it happened was very painful and a little scary. Not gaining them back is 2006’s challenge.

Barbara is a wonderful person. The kind to have around when things are good, or when things are tragically sad. You could not ask for a better sister.

A lady at Barbara’s university – Georgia Tech – wants to start a Radio Murders Book Club. This is partially because big sis is one of the best marketers of her baby brother’s work, and because Tonya really likes the stories. Mrs. G, the next door neighbor wants to introduce one of the books to her book club, too. There are mixed feeling about that. Though there is pride on every page, a professional editor has yet to put his or her mark of approval on the novels, so a book club might be premature. Keith is a new fan, too. He has one of the toughest jobs in radio and is excelling at a miraculous pace.

Michael, one of the most talented Radio guys in the country, is doing what he must to stay on top. He has all the support in the world!

A publisher thought enough of the book The Collectors to call the agent to tell him it had moved up a step toward consideration. There is much more to the story and it will lead to greater things. This is the time to remain confident. The work is good, maybe even very good. There are many friends among writers. Robin, Stephen and Ric add fuel to the fire just in time. Joyce, M.J. and new coorepondent Tess (yes, that Tess!) have made the way a little brighter. And recently Susan has joined the mutual admiration society. Even successful writers need support. It should surprise no one that they give as good as they get.

Speaking of success stories, Daniel is getting into the podcasting world at the cutting edge. There is no doubt that when this new media dominates the information landscape he will be right there in a leadership role. He says that avoiding personal pronouns is unnecessary in a blog, that in doing so a distance is created between the reader and the writer. These are not blogs, they are essays and though there is a subtle difference, just this once the line recedes. Daniel Steinberg is the smartest man I know under the age of 60. There.

More family talk: Vykki is starting at Delta Airlines at Atlanta’s massive Hartsfield-Jackson International. Brian’s dad has discovered that he has a terrific son. Yahni is still charming the world. Cecilia is working and holding it together one day at a time. And Lamont and Jennifer have perhaps the cutest baby in the history of babies. Jackson David!

The folks at Kensington Care lost a dear friend this month, but they showed her a good time. There aren’t enough words to express the gratitude we hold for every one of them.

The fireplace works just fine. So do the Toyotas. Some might have a problem with this car company replacing an American company for dominance, but there are too many Americans happily working for the company, including many in the Bluegrass Country where this little experiment got its start. We can’t afford to ignore quality just because someone of another nationality (read: race) is chairing the board. Sorry, but in 2006 that’s silly and counterproductive.

More media: books are still sold in grocery stores, although there are fewer authors than players on a post-season football team. Mysteries still sell well! The Phil Hendrie Show is the funniest thing on radio. If this theatre of the mind is not available in your area, for $6.95 a month anyone can stream or download his show from his website. That is cheap for the quality of entertainment. On TV House M.D. is a breath of fresh air. The three Law&Orders still leave the viewer feeling good about themselves. Look for an essay on that very thing, making others feel good about themselves. It is important and in this changing economy it may well be the only thing that survives. It can be applied to your stories, too. It must.

There are many things worth mentioning; many wonderful and exciting things. But someone has ordered my special oatmeal for breakfast. Better get to it.

Smoke on the Border

CLEVELAND [December 24, 2005] -- This is a first: an essay by request. An old Radio man cannot resist the parallel to the stand-by gadget of music formats. Who called in the subject? Just look one place above on the home page. That’s right word fans, the perennial leader of the Most Visited Sites, the terminally cute and scary-competent Susan Henderson! This one is for you, Sues, and your good friend the Forever Young Guitar Genius behind one of the most underrated Great Rock Bands in history. Get out your list of youth hostels , your EuroPass, and your backpack (these days the Maple Leaf will get you laid more. Back in the day the Stars and Stripes were a sure thing). Remembering the road.

It was Europe, 1972. The pockets were generally DM-less and Franc-less – certainly USD-less - but there was always a good time ahead. This day before Christmas was chilly, but not too bad. The gang decided to attend a Deep Purple concert just across the Rhine in a little French town. The name of the place, along with many memories of those days, has been washed away by rivers of wine and clouds of hash smoke. But what happened inside the school gym is as powerful as a Ritchie Blackmore killer riff. This was no small concert date. The band was already very hot in Europe and had hits on the charts in the U.S. It was amazing to see the venue. It was expected, seeing bands thought of as gods in hell-hole concert sites. It was like having them in your back yard. This was the early Seventies. In case you weren’t there, nothing seemed real.

Enough coin was scrapped together for a resin coated chunk of something and a little beer. There was no need for anything more. Streetcars connected to the border and a US passport made the transition easier than it was for the German kids. In what seemed like an instant we were leaning on the railing of a running-track balcony and double-taking each other at the promptness of the DJ announcer. A few announcements were made in French, laced with the international tone of arrogance, and then the announcer stated, matter-of-factly, “Deep Purple.” The crowd reacted according to his lack of enthusiasm. So he tried it again, this time with a little verve. “Deep Purple!”

The lights were down and the stage was bathed in a kind of pale blue; nothing like black light and certainly not purple. It was the Western European version of a light show, which made us choke with laughter on the harsh drags of Pakistani Camel shit. This was a big act. Machine Head had just come out and it was one of those albums that became an instant classic. The band was accustomed to French/German audiences and just started playing. “Highway Star” opened the show, which brought us to our feet screaming with excitement. The floor audience turned back to look at us! What! You’re staring at us with Deep Purple on a high school gym stage! The hitchhiking trip around Europe uncovered some strange things, but this was inter-dimensional. Where had these people come from? Where did they learn their concert etiquette?

It was easy to ignore the crowd once the music and the drugs took hold. It was an amazing show, just music. Not a lot of flash or show-boating of today’s “Rock Stars.” It was just a very good, very tight group of musicians playing their compositions as perfectly as possible.

It was over far too soon, and we naturally wanted more. We told them so, just like we did dozens of times before at concerts all over the states. We cheered The Stones back to the stage four times! Even the reluctant Led Zeppelin came back again and again less there be a riot at the Cleveland Stadium. But stopping the lack luster gathering from getting up and heading for the door without even one curtain call took a monumental effort. We hooted and hollered, screamed the band members by name. It did no good, the boys and girls, mostly boys, adjusted their disdain to fit the egress: the over the shoulder dismissal. This was getting serious; DP was not going to leave the building without playing what would become an anthem for a decade. Now it was personal.

“Bring ‘em back! Bring ‘em back!” Was the command, not to the stage, but to the limp backs inching toward the doors. Slowly they turned and came back, slapping their hands together and raising their voices as though they had just discovered them. It did not take much. Drummer Ian Paice was the first to notice, slamming his stick to the now famous opening run. The three notes are as famous as any ever recorded -Smoke on the Water - and the band played on.

It was as though someone had opened a window and let oxygen to the brains of the concert boys. But when the show let out, we discovered the real reason for the anxious exit. One German made a crack to one Frenchman and the fight was on. It was a bigger party than the show we had just left. We ducked and dodged the ice balls and flying fists. Looking back, just before climbing the streetcar, there were at least fifty guys locked in harmless combat. The girls were watching and cheering on their favorites; World War II in post-adolescent microcosm.

It was quite a night. How many people do you know who saw Deep Purple in a high school gym?

On Being Brown

CLEVELAND [December 22, 2005] -- Being brown means nothing is black nor white. It is a strange thought, but proven over the course of many decades of human experience. It is what Ralph Ellison termed, discovered: that he was an invisible man. In his groundbreaking novel the reader views the world of intolerance, bigotry and even hatred through the eyes of a black man. Unless you are a black man, it is a markedly different universe. This is not intended as a cry in the wilderness. There has been enough victimization on both sides of the Great American Racial Divide.

This is simply an observation.

Living in a generally integrated society and growing up in Radio, a draining of ethnicity has occurred. Some of it intentional: voice for instance. Most announcers developed what is perceived as a transparent dialect in the Great Lakes States. No farther east than Buffalo and no farther west than Chicago. Americans hear our language dance as no dance at all. Even in the Deep South, or Boston or New York, where dialects are thickest, a voice from Cleveland sounds normal, regionally inflective-free. So that is the first clue. You are removed from the club and either the guard goes up or – and this is the point of the piece – comes down.

A neighbor rents herself out as a diversity coach. She is perfectly suited for the job. A wonderful lady from India, she is both disarming and engaging. The job involves standing in front of city workers, fire fighters and bus drivers, police and school teachers, and showing them the futility of racism. Her gentle Indian accent and long black hair compliment the direct nature of her personality and the conviction she brings to the often mandatory courses. It is a tough job. The old-school attitude of these white male dominated occupations rubs off on the women and the non-white individuals who choose the professions. It is not bigotry; it is not sexism; it is not xenophobia; it is part of the fraternity. The teacher must break down those heavy walls and start the reluctant on a new path, a new way of thinking that is usually painful. Resistance is normal. But she is brown, and they soon find a common ground: neither is black. So they talk, and they soon reveal something that is seldom addressed in this expanding culture.

The easier one can forget another’s differences the sooner there is cooperation, understanding and perhaps even friendship. Being brown means being a border shade, a penumbra, a parcel of real estate on the moon where one can stand without freezing or vaporizing. And it means seeing the light and the dark sides of human nature - in equal proportions - from a near safe distance. This is where one learns that there is a collection of things that cultivates a bigot. The weak mind relies on our differences rather than working to find the commonality. The comfortable rests on notions handed down from obsolete generations rather than risk discomfort by asking about the experiences of another. And the easier it is to forget the obvious differences the easier it is to step into spectrum of visible light, to see the truth. That is when everyone becomes part of the world; when no one is so different, so removed, that he or she is invisible.

Morgan Freeman, in an interview aired Sunday night on 60 Minutes, said the best way to defeat racism is to, “stop talking about it.” There will come a time when this is the simple, straight answer. But for now, there remain too many invisible realities framed in desperation, too many invisible inequities steeped in faulty traditions and far too many visible differences that ignorance precludes from the evanescence.

Missing Mom

The sun and the moon are both in the afternoon sky; twin ushers making sure she finds her way. She smells of dinner rolls and maple syrup, strong, though it is not clear why. The peace in the room is shattered only by hearts breaking under the weight of loss. You would swear the sky hints turquoise, her favorite color, and the drops from the melting icicles seem in rhythm with her favorite song: Dinah Washington - What a Difference a Day Makes. She likes Billy Eckstein and Mel Torme, too.

The morning started with a predawn call. Even pain would not arouse her. Somehow it was expected. Active dreams and sudden wakefulness seemed to send a message: Goodbye. They say it happens, that a child can tell, that a parent never loses all contact. Some say they see the loved one in smoky shadows at or beyond the moment, even if they are far away.

We are not far apart. Holding her hand, forehead to forehead, kissing her smooth cheeks, the warmth of her body cools, but her personality remains vibrant in memory. The music plays and the breathing slows. Harder now, each gulp takes all the muscles left to summon. Finally a pause, then another, longer. Her face contracts for an instant, as though missing the labored breath. That is exactly what it is, but soon the notion disappears and she realizes that she no longer needs the burden.

A life well lived writes its final line.

Two parents lost inside of one difficult season. A couple clings to each other in sorrow, bound by love, waiting for the healing to begin.

When does the healing begin?

Cars in Snowville

She had to call and share the moment. “It is so beautiful here, Chuckie!” Equal parts heavy breath – puffs of personal steam almost visible through the phone – and excitement hiked her voice to an elated place. “The city is so white and so quiet and the cars are moving slower than me!” She was walking west on Chicago Avenue, heading for the bustop. Or home.

The city was covered and this was not unusual. Great Lakes cities are snow-towns, and we learn to live with it. Some of us can’t live without it! Hard to imagine for those in warmer places, but there is something about winter, a sort of morning shower for the year lasting two to four months. Bad stuff freezes and washes away in spring. The frosty spigot was turned on full blast last week and your choices are to curse it, wait it out or walk it. She chose to walk. “Your little girl is one tough cookie.” The smile was instant and shot through the phone like an electrical charge.

“She sure is, but we always knew that.”

The cars sat on the wide boulevard. Headlights and white exhaust adding to the ground cover, giving it a motion, a reference to the stillness. She smiled at the drivers and some – far too few passengers – from beneath carefully knitted hat and scarf. Now and then she would pull the lumpy fabric from her mouth to acknowledge a moment of shared appreciation. There weren’t many.

Silver car had a man on a cell phone. He alternately started and braked so that his front wheels would spin on every turn, glazing the snow into an icy quicksand trap. She had to chuckle knowing it was only a matter of time before his Lexus would need assistance. Being pissed at the snow is like swearing at the cop who stops you for speeding. It will not get you going any faster.

The dark car (a night like this bleeds dark colors into one shade of shiny black) contained a woman driving and a man in the passenger seat. He was very animated and even in the silence she could tell he was yelling. But not at the driver, who remained serene. It was the conversation he did not have with his boss, or a top client who is a pain in the ass. So now, with the safety of time and distance, he tells them how he really feels.

The small pick-up had a young man wearing a reversed baseball hat. The bed of this truck served as a massive diaphragm for the hip-hop he was bobbing to. She made it as 50 cent. He was a white guy and his head bobs were a quarter-beat off. She wondered if he could really relate to the urban condition of the struggling black man, as sung by a near billionaire through his car radio. It made her smile beneath the scarf.

The white Cadillac was driven, or at least occupied by an older woman in heavy makeup and thick-rimmed glasses. She looked like she sold something and was very good at it. Perhaps Loop office space or Mary Kay. Her gloved hands were on the wheel – 10 and 2 – and she bent slightly to catch the pedestrian’s eye. “Need a ride?” she mouthed. The young woman, who by now had passed three-dozen cars and was clearing her third block, waved in appreciation. As the walker sped by at 2.5 miles an hour, she wondered if the Cadillac lady would see the irony in her question.

The walk out W. Chicago Avenue took about an hour and she had to call again to say she was home and “felt great!” Sudden snow, tons of snow was deadly that night in Chicago. But for my girl it was a great excuse to take a long walk and be warmed by her thoughts and moving body. Snow cities are like that. They make you think and move forward if you let them.

3am-Looking for A Love,

Afterhours, Naked & Dead

Best read with J. Geils Band crashing on the couch in your brain...

CLEVELAND [Lost Near The Beginning] -- The news was good: a career in radio began, though the details were shaded by the excitement. One hundred-eighty-dollars a week, that was more than the young engineer, the new engineer had ever made. It was 1974.

The hidden, mumbled or neglected details included very odd hours and a temporary status that was certain to end in six months; not one day longer. Every effort was made by the new owners of the former NBC O&O radio stations to cut costs. It was the dawning of the new age of radio, a kind of second stage to the fading days of mandated live music and film technicians. The unions were hanging on by shredding fingernails. One strike at WERE had already ushered in the combo operation – where equipment directly involved with a live broadcast need not be operated by a union sanctioned engineer. And the terms of night differential, a provision designed to give off-shift workers a monetary advantage, were loophole’d out of existence. Thus the gravy shift of 7pm until 3am, night differential being anytime that encompasses four hours either side of midnight. Sounded good at first, but it was such a departure from the way the rest of the world lived that after a few weeks almost all human contact was reduced to hellos and goodbyes.

And after-hours joints.

The secret little warts on every cityscape became more important than pretzels at lunch. There were two types of such places, destinations for those unwilling or unable to stop the party at 2am. Most were in private homes, or so it would seem, where an invite-only party commenced nearly every night. Some were in nondescript buildings that could just as well house rendering plants. In this year-long stretch of morgue hours the two favorites were at opposite ends of the social pyramid; a low slice of life that is fed by seduction. Sex, booze and violence intertwined in little dramas reenacted in dark corners and walk-through bedrooms. Sometimes there was a bar, but it was always stocked just enough to look like a middle-class rec room and there was never any money exchanged for a drink. It was all done indirectly, as though guests were asked to defray the cost of the party when entering and leaving.

This is where it gets a little fuzzy. Somewhere between four and four thirty the ménage à trois began. It was not the Penthouse Letter fantasy, rather a beautiful girl, Carrie, wanting to get her not-so-stunning friend laid, and if the price was for her to prime the pump, well, it ain’t nothing but a house party. The man in the middle was both overwhelmed and overworked. He was drunk, and barely in any condition to handle himself, so the event was less Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut and more Bowie’s Suffragette City (Slam-bam, thank you ma’am.)

After fumbling and failing and fumbling some more, the trio noticed one of the bouncers walking through the room with a case of Canadian Club. The beauty -- being an incurable flirt and having grown bored with the threesome -- put the moves on the lanky brother in the orange leather. He appeared ready to pop and had his clothes off in record time. The encounter turned into a live sex show with Carrie and the bouncer going at it and the other two watching and stroking. It would have ended there, with the sun peeking over the small factories and the day shift coming ‘round the light-industry neighborhood.

But it didn’t.

There could be some small recollection, some slight hint as to why the yard was filled with Cleveland Police black and whites, or why the man in the lopsided wig and the sequined dress was being hauled off in cuffs, alternately crying and swearing like a Ph.D in foul language. Or why the EMT's were taking the brother in the orange leather out on a litter. Or why Carrie had no shirt on under her jacket and a swipe of blood at the little dent at the base of her neck. She yanked her two friends away from the scene. It is a mystery to this day, but from what can be pieced together from a busted night in a broken time, it was one hell of a house party.

Hudson: A Place for the Kids

CLEVELAND [July 6, 2003] -- The turnpike is lonely, even in daytime. Thick summer trees and the backs of towns and suburbs add to the isolation. The quiet in the car is unnatural, except for the sobbing. It is his sound, the driver and father. He doesn’t realize that he is crying, or even that he is driving. These are autonomic responses to the anti-world created a few hours ago. He doesn’t even know how long ago it was; just that it happened. Of all the things a man can do, this is the most irreversible, the most despicable.

If he had the nerve, the courage he thought he had before, he would be silent, too.

But even for the hopeless there is the desire to live, however small. He would not have believed it. If someone told him that what he was going to do was only halfway possible, he would have killed her: someone like his ex wife. I should have taken her. It should be her in the back seat.

The day started out like most days: a corner of the fortified wine left in the bottle on the end-table; the smell of foul body odor and trash filled his lungs. There was a strong desire for a cigarette, but a persistent cough and a harsh warning from the clinic doctor made him stop buying the generics at the filling station. He still smoked when there was someone he could bum one from, perhaps a guy on the job or a stranger who looked friendly enough. None this morning, not even a butt. He was in his cousin's building, in the garden apartment. It was too depressing, unchanged by the euphemistic name for the dwelling. Manny stayed there until his cousin could rent the place, which is to say he could stay forever. Concord, New Hampshire had an ugly side and it was getting uglier by the year. This building is in a part of town not even considered when the Chamber of Commerce and others tout Concord’s return to vitality. It never was vital and never will be. Blacks and Hispanics, the walking wounded and walking dead populated the row houses, tenements and condemned structures. No one was going to save them. No one cared anymore. It was the Fourth of July.

Manny had hope, once. He worked as a mechanic’s assistant and was learning quickly. It was easy to stay off the booze when he had his hands in a transmission or six-cylinder engine. Sometimes he could hear the problem and beat the fancy computer diagnostics to the right part and repair. That was when his wife had their first child, a girl named Sarah. Manny was proud as a father could be, but the work was not enough to pay for a family, and Teri, his wife, could not work. He went back to the old habits of drinking too much and staying away from home. Teri felt him slipping away, and like so many other wives of desperation, she had another baby, a son and named him Phillip. They were her little saint and her little king. The children did not stop Manny from sinking into deeper depression and alcoholism, nor did it close the distance between husband and wife. I don’t blame her. I was no husband. I was no father.

Manny tries to remember when he decided to take the children. It is all a fog, like events wrapped in some sterile plastic with white lights and smoke for a floor. He remembers Teri leaving him, remarrying and how her new husband was becoming a more important figure to his kids. The father I couldn’t be. The rage infected every drunk, and the drunks came sooner and hit him harder. One beer would render him a tightly wound bundle of anger and hatred. One of these nights, after one of those drunks, he showed up at his ex wife’s house. It was an awful scene. Teri’s husband had to knock Manny on his ass right in front of the kids. He had no choice. The humiliation sobered the estranged father, and in some ways set this trip in motion. If Teri’s husband had known what Manny was capable of, he never would have hit him.

If Manny had known what he was capable of, he never would have talked his daughter into the car after the fireworks show. Now they were quiet. The bruises around their necks were showing more than before. They looked so peaceful before. Now they looked like they were, like the way their father made them. He pounds his head with the heels of his hands, trying to jar their shocked little faces from his inner sight. It is impossible.

Almost three hours on the Ohio Turnpike now, going the speed limit. He sees a sign, the next exit. Sounds like a nice town, a nice place with plenty of woods and kids and dogs. Other kids. Living kids with good parents. He slows to exit the turnpike. Exit 180, then south on Route 8 to State Route 303: Hudson. Sounds like a place Sarah and Phillip would like.

(Member's Note: The above is a fictional interpretation of actual events. Manuel Gehring confessed to killing his children and hanged himself before his sentencing. The remains of Sarah and Phillip were found this week in a wooded area at the south western end of town. This horrible story ends here, in my town. Monika and I pray that Teri Knight and her family can now start the healing. We know some peace will come, but the pain will never end.)

Stories in Sparse Faces

CLEVELAND [December 4, 2005] --Dead malls and wide-net career calls are great places to study people. People is what we do, whether during interaction or quietly stalking their habits, speech patterns and aura. Most do this, even those not interested in transposing such information into a word-person in a word-world. Some have clear and calculating motives.

There was once a friend, an insurance man by trade, a sponsor in a Twelve-Step program by necessity, and a very nice man. Now and then we would have lunch or dinner before a meeting. He had the odd habit of diverting your attention just so he could study your face. It was a little eerie; there was this shift in his otherwise kind and empathetic eyes that seemed to race back from a normal look around the room or casual glance to his Chinese meal. Examining eyes, studying for small tells. One might suppose that this was just part of his training: many years of figuring out what someone won’t tell him directly, but a clear indication of exactly what products and services would ease the pain, mitigate the fear. With all the time spent together, this little expressive anomaly is the one thing remembered most, and that is a shame.

Writers begin by being hyper-observers. It is not a talent nor skill, it may well be a deformity, but it is there. Yet we don’t always know why we collect these human traits. Often the practice can interfere with life’s normal flow. When have you detected a certain small piece of a person, a tick or an over-used figure of speech, that is so compelling that it consumes your entire view of the person? Probably at least once within the last 24 hours.

The same is often true of writers and their habits in constructing a story. We tend to rely on the same conflict resolution: the hero talks his way to a tactical advantage; the villain falls in love (or develops familial love) with his victim so that he simply cannot do the final deed – at least doubts the action long enough for the cavalry to arrive. There are hundreds of variations, and the skilled and clever among us manage to disguise the limited outcomes in colorful, silk hankies and slight-of-hand. It is what makes writing commercial mysteries fun. No one expects us to re-invent the wheel.

Yet the habits of people become a constantly widening pool. And like series of interchangeable numbers, the possibilities are mathematically infinite. Getting back to the dead mall, here is a Petri dish that is manageable. Who goes there? Here is a place with space after space of unadorned fronts and lowered lights. There are the Clearance Centers for the big department stores holding on as anchors, an occasional retail jewelry, novelty or clothing boutique with prime locations almost rent free. There is the once celebrated lower-level food court with struggling proprietors; their family manning the counter in the last vestige of slave labor. But all else is the modern mall equivalent of boarded-up: decorative metal link drapes baring entry to the dark and deserted.

The Clearance Centers, once full retail showplaces, are reduced to poorly-lit rows of racks that hit just below eye level for the woman of average height. Generally these shoppers are women with an eye for bargains and who have little need for the color, themes and displays concocted by Art School graduates and veteran space designers. For most men it is comparable to a stay at the Hanoi Hilton, circa 1969. Yet for the writer, the reduced crowds and determined faces shout stories into the air, ready to pick, freeze-dry and file for later use.

Anyone who has put their resume on Monster.com or Careerbuilder.com knows of the dragnet. Usually a call for commissioned sales people, the group interview is a predictable reality in the new economy. Part multi-level marketing and part trolling, the gathering usually looks like a cross between the waiting room at the probation office and the docket at bankruptcy court. Levels of desperation are hidden beneath ill-fitting sport coats, seldom worn ties and black career attire probably bought at the aforementioned Clearance Center. There is no insult here, being among the crowd of hungry faces with critical mass finances and abandoned careers, this job seeker has nothing but admiration for those desiring a change and chasing improvement. It is just the writer, poor though he may be, who can’t help but fill in the blank stares and nearly audible disappointment.

Writers are also social animals, so the notion is unavoidable. Dead malls or dead-end casting calls, it all spells the same thing for a forgotten America: what happened to the promise? How can we rekindle the dream?

The Caper: Six of Twelve

Crashing Through the N-Box!

It is not clear – nor very important – when the nickname “Mouse” stuck to Monty “Q”. It just seemed natural for a little man who lived off the alcohol scraps of others and rarely had much presence; so they called him Mouse. The would-be heir to the largest heating and cooling company in Northeast Ohio did not mind. He was often and oddly rewarded for his inadequacies when some of the young women, blinded by addiction or boredom, would take him to the parking lot on a bet or a dare; adding to the humiliation by squeaking to their friends as they led him away. Monty was the fool in a fool’s court.

Caesar Grease was a different story. The polar opposite of Mouse, he strutted and spun like a dime store Jagger. His perfectly poof’d hair and his second-skin leather seemed to precede any entrance. As we revisit that time together, the early Seventies, it is impossible to remember the sound of Caesar’s voice. He never seemed to speak above the level of the jukebox, as if all his conversation was pointed, secret and dangerous. Caesar was a caricature by design.

And there was always some small felony in the background of these barroom nights. Whether just selling drugs, underage drinking or grand theft auto – the real crime, not the video game, which no one had heard of then – and Caesar and Mouse were working up the biggest of them all. The target was the Q mansion on South Park Boulevard. It was where Mouse had grown up and from which he was banished. It was guarded, but not as heavily as Caesar thought and the treasure he wanted – he needed – was secret money that Mouse’s father was hiding from the IRS as well as Mouse’s mother. The couple had divorced when Monty was nine, and even though his mom maintained a healthy 25 percent of the business, she was sure her ex was holding out on her. She was right.

Mouse had no idea how much money was in the foot locker in the old boiler room, the space once needed to steam heat the monstrosity. But he knew it was enough for the pilfered hundreds to escape notice of his father. Mouse would grab a handful of cash to buy drugs and friends while still in high school. After letting Caesar stoke the resentment he felt about his family, Mouse had no problem revisiting that footlocker, this time with a friend.

It was a Wednesday night. The “Q’s” were at the opera. Seriously. At the time The Cleveland Opera was a big deal among the wealthy and even more important to the newly moneyed. Monty knew this because when he was in the good graces of the family he was forced into a tuxedo and dragged to The Playhouse, a space the ensemble shared with the Great Lakes Shakespeare Festival. It was a wet night, but the rain had stopped. Monty showed Caesar the path up from the narrow lakes that weaved to the rear of the house. It was one of the few secrets he did keep and often his only solace from the loneliness of being a rich kid with no apparent gifts of his own. The plan was that Monty was to wait by the tree line as Caesar crept into the servant’s entrance. It was a door at the end of a ten-by-twelve foot white frame structure that jutted out from the brick. Mouse called the alcove the nigger box, something his dad made up when they became rich enough to hire domestic help. Caesar was not impressed, nor was he one to creep …anywhere. He strutted up to the door, whipped the tail of his leather jacket and pulled his revolver like a cop serving a warrant on an armed and dangerous suspect. He also ignored Mouse’s instruction about where to find a key and smashed the pane of glass nearest the doorknob with the barrel of the gun.

Mouse wet himself. He was sure that alarms would fire and the home would be surrounded by law enforcement from four different municipalities. Bouncing from tree to tree and mumbling, Mouse was blind with fear. He could not imagine going to jail, being raped every hour, on the hour, and beaten on the half. It was almost enough to stop his heart. Then, Caesar exited the door with a pillowcase sling over his shoulder. Mouse laughed at the sight, envisioning Santa's evil twin doing his thing and taking out the gifts. Caesar smiled at Monty Q and headed into the woods. He flipped him his gun, which Monty nearly dropped. “You ever use one of those?” he asked?

“No, and I don’t want to start now.”

“Too late, you killed your sister.”

“What?” Monty finished evacuating in his jeans.

“She surprised you. You had no choice.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Caesar?” It was then Monty noticed that Caesar was wearing gloves. It was far, far too late. Near the water’s edge, Caesar took Monty’s small fingers in his gloved hand, wrapped them around the butt of the pistol, pressed the weapon to the center of the shocked expression and pulled the trigger. Mouse fell, eyes wide, spalshing into the dirty water. Caesar stuffed about ten thousand dollars in Monty pockets and left with the rest.

The official account was that the disowned member of the Q family tragically turned to armed robbery. He was the only fatality. The sister who was likely among his last thoughts was the only one to cry at his funeral; very much alive. The father had to account for the ten thousand dollars as donations he had raised for various charities. The actual amount was never known. He could not admit to more, though word was Caesar made off with at least half a million dollars.

This was the story Caesar told, just before downing a Jack Daniel's, setting a hundred dollar bill on the bar and strutting off like he had just finished a set with a solo/acoustic version of Sympathy for the Devil - what's puzzling you is the nature of my game. Caesar was never heard from again. Not to this day. But it would probably surprise no one if he not only orchestrated Six of Twelve, but ended up Seven of Twelve as well.

Joe Grease and The Mouse:

6/12=Q

CLEVELAND [November 28, 2005] -- The big, blue “Q” was everywhere; on the vans, panel trucks, billboards, TV and in driveways all over Cleveland and its suburbs. It was the first and last name in heating and cooling. The family seemed to have it all. The Q home was one of the larger mansions on Cleveland Height’s South Park Blvd. This was no lean neighborhood. The very founders of Cleveland and its gelded past still had family homes on this rolling and gated expanse. The famous Van Sweringen Tudor castle could be spotted if one were to make a lucky turn. Loren Mazel, the famous Maestro lived in one of the smaller homes. It is rumored that basketball’s next legend La Bron James bought his mother one of the fifteen-room bungalows and presidents and kings all visited one or more of the influential residents when in town to raise money or get their hearts fixed at The Cleveland Clinic. The heating and cooling family was there, too.

The Q will stay a monogram for the purposes of this recounting. It is not the violence of Six of Twelve that requires the insulation, but the likely innocence of the name and others with the same name and affiliation who had nothing to do with Monty. That would probably include all those still earning a paycheck or filling trusts with the proceeds from the family business. Monty was not among them. He was cut off, disowned and carried only the famous family name to his discredit. Monty had not been openly welcomed into that mansion or any family home for many years.

He was always welcomed at the bars. It was a point of pride that the three or four locations on the Heights Crawl loved the fallen, the incompetent and the undisciplined. Most held jobs, but it seemed they were always in a red-zone of uncertainty; one screw-up away from the streets. Yet the streets were not so inhospitable, especially in summer. There was always a place to crash, another drink or drug, a sympathetic partner. Even among the needy Monty was a little more deficient, a little closer to the edge. He was small; as if fetal alcohol syndrome were retroactive. Barely casting a shadow, the wisp of sandy hair and nearly inaudible mummer squeezed under a frequent bar patron’s arm to ask for a freebee. Monty drank whatever was available, often downing loosely watched shots or back-washed bottoms from green or amber bottles. He was the closest thing to a rodent on two legs. Yet he was harmless and seen in at least two of the establishments as sort of a pet with common owners: everyone and no one. He was a twelve-year-old with a moustache, and if one really found him annoying all it took was a mention of his famous family name to send Monty slinking back to the shadows.

Caesar was not so dismissive. Here was a hip-length leather wearing (no matter the season), high pompadour sporting greaser who was so proud of the designation that he took the epithet for a last name. Caesar Grease was all anybody every knew of the man, except that he was a fine pool shooter and carried a Smith and Wesson Model 15 revolver somewhere beneath the tail of the aromatic jacket. Caesar seemed to like Monty. It was perhaps his guardianship that kept the little man from being harmed at least once a night and three times on the weekends. They would huddle at the corner of the Alibi Room and whisper important communiqués about underworld crimes and hidden history. Every now and then Monty would pull away, roll his eyes and down one in a line of shots assured by Caesar’s generosity.

One night the pair seemed especially agitated. More accurately Monty seemed agitated. To the casual viewer Caesar was as cool as a frozen pizza, which made those who knew him aware that something was up. It was time. The anger and resentment toward the Big Q was stoked to white-hot hatred in the little Q. Monty owed his estranged family nothing and so what if a little larceny befell them, “serves 'em right, the way they treat me!” Caesar was a one man B&E crew, ready to take off the mansion for the stash of cash hidden from the IRS that he knew was there. Monty told him exactly where to find it and how to defeat the alarms. He knew this because his sister, the only one of the family who stilled cared, provided shelter in the huge structure on many winter nights. Monty kept that secret until Caesar poured it out of him – chased by small glasses of Windsor - some weeks before.

There was no turning back. The only question was whether Monty would come along, just to make sure Caesar got the instructions right. It was a debate privately held inside the criminal mind of Caesar Grease. That was until he came up with the end game. It was perfect!

Next week will be a busy one. Most of us will gear up the holiday season -- first, second, third, overdrive! – and many of us will try to hit those lagging goals for the year. So pace yourself, and for a little guilty pleasure check back here on Tuesday (11/29) for the conclusion of Joe Grease and the Mouse - Six of Twelve Equals "Q"