The Darkest Matinee

Tears flowed uncontrollably. It was not a good time to break down: the morning commute. A flat can be changed; out of gas, that’s your own damn fault, but a message over the hand-held computer was not supposed to rip a man’s heart from his chest and force him to wonder, aloud, what was so worrisome seconds before. Embarrassing is the only word that came to mind for feeling any pain at all before…before the bomb dropped in a simple and tender email.

You will have to forgive this effort at maintaining privacy for a very special person, but something happened and it is the most unthinkable sadness. It is the kind of thing that no one should go through. The utter helplessness of it all is confounding. The pain is crushing and the memory is unimaginable. Now you must have some idea. If not, then you are not yet parents.

There are some people who spot-weld your life in such a way that there is really no other role for them. You love them, respect them, are in awe of them and sometimes wish you were more like them. They usually maintain certain honesty and reveal a clarity that is freely given back. That gesture, that talent alone makes these few, but essential people as necessary as water. There is one in my life who has always opened the window of reason on a stuffy, self-indulgent room. A room that too often has only mirrors for walls and no exits. This man shows up at just the right time and pulls me through that wasteland.

It was not long ago that I met his family, all but one. It was as enlightening an experience as the all-too infrequent meetings with the man. There was a warmth of love in the big, old house that sealed against the Northeast Ohio winters and it was easily transmitted to a near stranger. There was calmness, too; the kind of atmosphere that feeds healthy children and stable adults. Though the pretence of this visit was business, the reality was friendship and a new connection with a brighter world.

Now this. It makes no sense. It will never make sense. And the story is too big for this public space and deficit of skill. It is just important for some small notation to reside here in a place where those varied and vulnerable sides of a writer come to hide.

I would tell you more, but he is too important. If you have imagined this pain, then you are probably correct. If you have felt this tragedy, then those tears were, and still are for you, too.

And to you, we grieve with you. Right now, there seems that no amount of time will pull you from this tempest. There may not be. But you must make time; find time for the precious left behind. There are no words, there are no moments free from this burden, but there must be.

The Monday Night Bookclub.

[Cleveland, February 25] --- Walking into the coffee shop was like surfing: people washed in making good on that too-often uncommitted commitment and raised the tide considerably. "This time we are going to stick to it! And bring a book." One could almost see the suburban echoes on cell phones and emails.

So they came; clutching volumes of soon forgotten lore. They grabbed coffee or tea and locked onto the big table. Smiles all around; relief from the big brunette that she was not going to do this alone – again. Her book remained in the canvass bag, no need to retrieve it, she had lived the pages for the past two weeks and was anxious to spill her profundity all over the varnished oak. Two others joined in, one sneaking a peek at the last few pages, clearly unprepared. The blond boy-mom had other things to talk about and was thankful for the tardiness of the other readers. It gave her nearly five minutes to vent. “I think my son is gay.” Blurted simple, but attractive blond. “How could you possibly know that?” Big brunette offered. “He told me.”

Funny thing about eavesdropping, it takes little head movement to focus from one table to the next. Here - directly in front - were two friends who began their reunion discussing the Vagina Chronicles, then the real meat of the meet: wrong at home for one, a direct marketing sales pitch for the other. Both are happier here in the company of a girlfriend than at home. Their's is a bookclub of comparative reality. By world standards these two are queens. Yet the deeper they mine long submerged feelings, the more pitiful they appear. Happiness is relative.

Some men gather now. Fathers and sons back from something done together. “I have him every other weekend. And on the weekends I don’t, I get one weeknight.” Dad-one says with a broad smile. The younger man looks embarrassed and climbs down from the tall stool to add more milk to his decaf. As he leaves his father’s expression changes. It was unmistakable: severe disappointment. In whom? In himself.

Back at big table three. Two thick hardcovers hold down the verbal rondo; soft pastel dust jackets with the scuff marks of a library possession reveal the true extent of their commitment. Buy the book, ladies, it’s the least you can do. They seem to enjoy complaining about the work as much as they like the characters, plot and prose. The title doesn't matter. But a sneak peek can't hurt. Good Grief by Lolly Winston. Not a bad choice. Publisher’s Weekly blurbs the book with a quote at the top - "The grief is up already. It is an early riser, waiting with its gummy arms wrapped around my neck, its hot, sour breath in my ear." And a glow at the bottom: There's nary a moment of triteness in this outstanding debut. We should all be so lucky. Never mind the cheapness of the Hudson Library borrowers (it is a very nice library) but readers are becoming rare. So we are told. Bookclubs in suburban coffee shops are in fact growing and Ms. Winston would burst with pride, even at the complaints.

It is difficult to remain anonymous in such places. One of the two ladies directly in front –The Vagina Chronicles – attended the same meeting that this little exercise preceded. She later referred to the “the professional looking man in the corner,” in recalling our previous non-meeting meeting. “Did you hear my pitch?” she asked. “No. You just seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

A purchase of Ms. Winston’s debut novel is in order. Other than library tracking, she should know that there was some small appreciation on a Monday night in Hudson, Ohio.

Doing The Right Thing...Even if it Hurts

[Cleveland, February 22] --- Telling someone that they are killing themselves takes courage. No one is perfect and somehow we have gotten the message that in order to dispense advice we must first come down from On High. That is not a reasonable expectation. Even Jesus himself had enough humility to couch his direction in parable. We have a responsibility, perhaps even an imperative to say something.

Recently a senior partner of the New York Life office here decided to take a position down state. He was responsible for opening the door to a remarkable and – with time and work – a rewarding third career. There was a struggle and a decision made to say something before we parted. RG is a positive, energetic man with the spirit as wide as his waistline. In the course of determining if there is a good fit with this new agent and the best life insurance company in the country, a strong relationship was forged. It would be irresponsible to let him go without expressing genuine concern for his health. It was not easy, but the expression was taken well and in fact RG said the process had already begun.

Was it the right thing to do? Yes. Was it prudent, considerate and polite? Probably not. Will it save his life? No. But it might add a little fuel to the comments he gets from family and friends who also want this bright-spot of a human being around for as long as possible. It might just be the tipping point to a difficult decision and a more difficult and long process. He got his dig in, though (it would have been a disappointment had he not) Picking up a group portrait with a dozen or more men, he pointed out him in a former, svelter time. “You probably have one of these somewhere.” The only resemblance he held with the young man was the endearing smile and brush above his lip. But with a little careful scrutiny one could see the twinkle in his eye and the generous expression. Yes, there was a portrait of the accuser in a much slimmer suit of clothes, but the goal of 240 (at just over six feet) was where this junior member of the staff was at that moment (and at just about 6’2”). The point was made and rested: due diligence done for a friend. One day our paths will cross again. It would surprise no one if the roles - in life and, with a slight change in spelling, above the belt – might be reversed.

This is part of another day in Life, Part III; an odd place where suits and ties are fun and a living is made by talking to people, listening to people and learning all that is possible about the improbability of bulwarks against tragedy. As a group, Americans have little regard for death.

Our hypometropia might be regarded as necessary for the pioneers of the modern world, where destruction comes suddenly and with great precision: shock and awe. Yet when it comes to our own mortality, with celebrated exceptions, we still believe we are not only the home of the Man of Steel, but that he is us..

There are exceptions to the rule. Most recent immigrants come from places where death was as common as April rain. Speak to a second generation Vietnamese or Dominican or an Iraqi or Bosnian or Israeli. They will tell you to prepare, always prepare for the unexpected and ultimately tragic. African Americans also know the realities of families stranded on the foundering ship of death. It happens too often for even those filled with energy and life to ignore. I happened in recent history, if not memory, when suddenly the American Dream was pierced with the horror of bigotry and denial. So black folks are good clients. They look with questioning eyes while the insurance man lays out programs that will take care of their kids. “That’s all, just make sure they are all right,” the young woman said with soft words and a heart so heavy that it bent her back. By the time we parted she was smiling and one more burden her was off the table.

These are all wonderful stories. And while the writer waits, they are quietly added to the living collection of profound and moving art. One day, when the real work resumes, these Americans will find a little private piece of their story shimmering on the page. For this - and for a living - the writer/agent is very grateful.

The Wonderful Drama of Chaos

[Cleveland, February 17] --- The silent augment rages. It is one of many distractions used to give actuaries glee while hiking property insurance premiums; not so much the action in the SUV framed neatly in the rearview mirror, but the driver who can’t take his eyes off the couple. They are dramatic. With hands flying in front of angry faces and sunglasses barely concealing – in fact enhancing – flashes of bitter discourse, the scene is magnetic. It happens on a Sunday, during a rare venture out into the urban worker’s field on a fruitless mission, so the reverse drive-in performance is a relief and slight diversion.

Down on the Interstate now, the couple continues, with heat rising from the cab enough to nearly illuminate the small space. The emotional tennis match goes, volley for volley, to the passenger: a small brunette (judging by her head barely reaching the top of the seat) with expensive amber shades, stylish cut and dynamic make-up. The man, the driver, is far more casual and that may have been the genesis of the dispute. Baseball cap and tee-shirt under a fleece parka, the pair appears as salt and pepper shakers from two entirely different sets.

Then the passenger door swings open! The movement sends the SUV into a violent jolt; the woman clutching for the door’s inside hardware for dear life. She manages to control the breech just as the driver steadies the momentarily lurching vehicle. The door opens again, this time under her power and with the leverage afforded her by fur-cloaked shoulders, she pulls it shut with a slam. This while continuing to make her point. When last seen the Bickersons are drifting back among the semi-tractors and Sunday drivers. One needs little imagination to see the passion continue all the way to their destination and beyond. Yet the scene communicated more than a momentary intrusion into the lives of strangers. This did not seem to be a fight on level ground. The driver, the husband, though clearly angry wanted to find some resolve. His expression was not so dismissive, not so disgusted as his companion. They were in the same vehicle, but traveling two very different roads.

The small story was a big exercise in mind reading. Malcolm Gladwell wrote about our inherent ability to divine the intensions, emotions and sometimes the thoughts of others through hundreds of thousands of tiny changes in faces. It is both science and part of the quiet ability we all have to fill in, translate beyond words exactly what another human wants, needs and if there is love, danger or partnership in the immediate future. If the observer is acutely aware, a person’s thoughts are broadcast in the 100 decibel range.

So why is there still so much conflict? We are human, and all living things strive for harmony. That statement alone implies that the nature of things is chaos, and that is where the most radical sciences begin. If we are totally honest chaos is where everything begins. From the jumble of thoughts in the morning, to the mess of a job that needs our attention for at least the majority of the day, to the nest of words and punctuation that will, with work, luck and blessings, become a coherent story before it is mailed to reluctant agents or – please don’t do this – directly to publishers.

As we leave our warring couple in the rearview mirror, it is no wonder that the sight was more interesting, more compelling that the calm road ahead; that witnessing their disharmony was worth rear-ending a dump truck. And then there would be even more drama on the road. Who wants to bet that that would not draw attention?

While We Were Apart

[Cleveland, February 14] --- A week without this exercise is like a month without air. The writer risks death. The observer flourishes and that might have been the only thing preventing blue baby syndrome and hypoxic rage. Fortunately there are no new bodies in the freezer and the weapons are still safely in their secured gun cases.

We had moments, though.

The best laid schemes of mice (the computer) and men (the creator) often go awry. And with apologies to a distant ancestor Robert Burns – no kidding – this experience has taught us one very important practice: back up your work! It is done, but not enough so that all the hours drained in graphic pursuits would have fed the void if not for a bit of luck. So armed with 50 giga bytes of DVD power, all the work that hides in the box beneath the desk will stay someplace else in time and space.

Fiction writers tend to be dramatic about things. Admittedly even requesting a Vendi Zen Green from a famous coffee spot can be a lyrical exchange. But when the very guts of the thing are threatened, we can sputter with rage and appear nearly dysfunctional. It is a wonder all the other aspects of life – making a living and maintaining a healthy attitude – it is amazing that these things did not fall away, leaving a shell of a man sinking in a sea of debt. Overly dramtic? Certainly.

Yet there are many new seeds of communication planted and sprouted in the time we have been apart. For one thing a major decision was made – forced, really – on where to stay during the March Sun Coast get away. This is usually balanced by visits with and helping out the old folks in St. Pete, with luxury beach-front accommodations. Nope. This time it’s La Quinta on a main drag in the drab smallish city. Yet there is something compelling about these alleyways and trailer parks, hacienda style shacks and broken automobiles. In each frame there is a story to tell; a real story about living on the tilt, fighting fears real and imagined. Between the motorcycle shops and the tiendas, the palm readers and the bars – lots of bars – there are faces that fill pages with a single glance. There is a cascade that races in the writer’s mind whenever an exchange is just angry enough to escape the lovers’ personal space.

Here is a short one, just for practice. The lady is so thin that her blond hair, weighing much less than the hot wind, might have been enough to bend her neck toward the butt strewn ground. No sidewalks here, though walkers were regular. The Bermuda blades and weeds gave way to the dusty trail no wider than a broomstick and cut equally by youthful skips and weary treads. She watched the school across the street: gleaming monolithic stacks of white stone and black glass. It is the new middle school and the one place her daughter is safe. At her feet are an old satchel and two plastic bags filled with all the belongings she could retrieve through the tears in her huge blue eyes. Hers are no longer pretty big eyes, like her daddy used to say, they are fearful and sad, just as they were the day her daddy died of an exploding heart. He tried to lift an engine block just to show the younger men that he was not too old. He was too old, even at 45.

She wishes that he was around to chase off the man who showed up at her trailer with a cigarette, a tall-boy and not much else; maybe scare the suitor into moving on to some other lonely girl; to tell his baby that the smooth-talker was no good and that it would all lead to this. And this is all there is.

She took the keys to the Tahoe that afternoon and left him a stack of twenties, enough for one months rent and a couple of day’s worth of beer and Basic cigarettes. Kept two for herself after filling up the truck. It is as good as nothing for her and her beautiful daughter. But staying one more day is worse than nothing.

She straightens as the doors burst open and the kids stream out. Her lips crack as she digs deep to find a smile.

It's good to be back.

Seven Habits of Highly Paranoid People

Self Derailing ought to be an Olympic event. The problem might be that the field is so large as to make the eliminations last all year.

In the spirit of the Games at Torino, here is the training manual for becoming your own worst enemy. It happens that after stripping away all the excuses and moral indignation, the greatest obstacle to success is planted firmly between ones ears. Here now are the culprits to watch for and to arm against on the road to Gold.

One: I’m Not Smart Enough. There are little cards strategically mounted here and there. Printed upon them are the words, “I am smart enough to write fiction.” Parsing the sentence one finds the affirmation rather contradictory. Writing fiction takes skill, passion, imagination and, yes, a degree of intelligence. But the true meaning of the declaration is that somewhere along the line someone has placed an IQ limit - or at least a prerequisite - on the practice of good story-telling. Habit one is not just a ball-gap for following through on the dream of becoming a published writer, it applies to almost anything. Someone once cried with total conviction that she was, “not smart enough to go on the radio!” The rest of the meeting involved explaining the difference between intelligence and skill, intelligence and aptitude, and intelligence and desire. The same holds true for almost anything, even crafting a commercially viable story.

Two: I Never Have Any Luck. It is often added that, “what luck I do have is all bad.” In the publishing world most advice has been shrouded in a thick dust of good fortune. “There are so many manuscripts, so many good writers, even great writers who never get a break because, well, the cards just didn’t fall right.” Those were the words of a well-known editor who with all sincerity wished a struggling mystery writer, “good luck.” Of all the habits, this one might indeed be a genuine stopper. But luck is often what you make it, and the last thing you want to do is deal yourself out of the game.

Three: Who Has Time? For some, that’s all that remains in the bank. Make the time, figure out what is valuable and what is not and do less of the latter and more of the former. No one can stretch a day beyond 24 hours, but we can all make better use of the minutes.

Four: They Just Don’t Get It. Get what?

Five: They Had a Rich Daddy to Help Them Get Started. One thing clearly learned by talking to people about their most intimate needs and dreams is to assume nothing! Those who appear to have it made, more often than not make it with little or no help from anyone else. They seem to stick to their convictions and make things happen. They may have learned perseverance at home, but they went out and hustled the seed money like most everyone else.

Six: They Don’t Like Me Because I’m (two, three, four) Black, Asian, Jewish, White, short, tall, redhead, blond, bald, fat, thin, speak with an accent, wear glasses, have over-active sweat glands or walk with a limp. Do we really need to drag our lives down that alley? Get the hell over it and get to work!

Seven: I’ve Tried and Tried and Nothing Came of it. All it takes is one moment of acceptance to start the ball rolling. But the number of tries is not so finite. Keep trying. There is no guarantee to success, but certain failure comes with quitting.

Eat your heart out Stevie Covey.