The hope of P90X

Nobody has ever completed P90X. I know this to be true. I know this because I have tried a few times. I started the program strong and motivated but a couple of weeks in I lose interest. Because I have failed to complete P90X I know for a fact that nobody else has either. I know this to be true. I know this because I can’t imagine a world where people make different decisions than me; I can’t imagine a world where people have different motivations from me. I realize people are different, but I attribute that to their failures. People with lower status failed to live up to their goals; I haven’t got higher status because I have failed to live up to my goals. Those who have great success have failed too, though they have failed less often or have tried so many times their failures haven’t cost them as much.

Nobody has ever completed P90X because we all fail. We don’t wake up early enough to complete the daily exercise and the following day skip the exercise out of personal shame at our previous failure. After a few days of failure we all just give up.

Nobody chooses to be poor. I know this to be true. I know this because I was poor. I knew that if I worked hard enough I could improve my situation. Because I have succeeded I know for a fact that anybody else can succeed. Nobody chooses to be poor. If they remain poor it is because of their failures. They have failed to work hard enough, or failed to work long enough. They don’t choose to be poor but they've remain there because of their failures.

Nobody chooses to be poor because they want to succeed. They work hard enough, they work long enough, to succeed. Through hard work we all overcome failure.

-

I met a couple on a recent flight across the Atlantic Ocean. United Airlines flight 3482. Man and wife in their mid-70s, they told me this was the first time they had ever left the country. They were heading to Paris. France. Land of romance. It was a lifelong dream of theirs; and a lifetime of savings. A few false starts in savings. A few do-overs. But now they would make it, for their 50th wedding anniversary, to the City of Light.

It was a long flight. We sat together, the three of us, in Row F. I occupied the window seat because I enjoyed watching the clouds roll by beneath the wings. The man - his name was Dick, his personality was bashful - sat beside me. We shared an armrest; the unwritten rules of shared use applied. His wife, Eunice, occupied the aisle seat, muttering something to Dick about having to get up and down so much as they arrived at Row F.

Eunice introduced the couple to me shortly before takeoff, extending her meek hand across the body of her travel-weary husband. “He’s a man of few words,” she said, sharing a knowing look at her betrothed. She told me they were from Arlington, Tennessee, “Just outside of Memphis,” where Dick worked renting temporary fences and she worked part-time for their church. They have three grown children scattered across the country, “Anywhere but Memphis” - one in California, another in Florida and the youngest in Missouri.

Our conversation covered the topics people usually talk about as strangers with several breaks where I stared out the window to spend some time with myself. Dick only offered a few words, filling in details he felt Eunice left out. Where I grew up. How they met. Our plans for Paris. Why Paris.

“We were hoping to spend our honeymoon in Paris,” Eunice said, “but the battery in our car died so we had to put our plans on hold.”

Batteries aren't that expensive, I wondered, how could that derail their big plans?

“We were pretty poor back then,” she answered. “When you’re that poor, a car battery is a big setback.”

And this is when my worldview foundations took a major impact. Not that some people have meager means, but that it took 50 years to come back from something as trivial as a car’s battery. But it was not just that: the somnolent Dick was quickened at this point, as if a slow burning fire in his soul just couldn't be contained anymore. I’m working from memory, so I can only hope I do him justice.

“Listen son,” he started, still looking forward in his tiny airline chair, “many people think they’re poor when they’re not. They’re not poor, they’re young. Young people think the world owes them. They deserve more for their efforts. They can do their boss’s job better than he can. They think they’re poor when they’re really just young.” He turned his head toward me, with bashful eyes straining to catch my own, “You don’t know what poor really is. Poor isn't a temporary situation you find yourself in when you’re trying to work yourself up the ladder. Poor isn't what you are at the beginning of your career. Poor is knowing no matter how hard you work you’re only going to end up poor. Poor is where you were and to whom you were born. Poor is saving every penny you earn only to end up in debt when something happens to you or your family - like a broken leg, or a run down car. Poor is not having the resources to even take advantage of the G.I. Bill. Poor is making decisions between buying food and buying medicine. Poor is living on hope! Hope alone!”

Hope. I used to scoff at the term. Overused. Abused. Hope was a slogan, not the foundations of family life. I think a smirk may have appeared on my face at that word: hope. Dick wasn’t so amused. Dick rubbed his hand back across his bald head as the passion within him increased. His voice rose half an octave.

“I’m sorry if that offends you,” he began, “but it’s the God’s honest truth. Hope is not what gets us through the day; hope is wringing our hands as we check the mail each day waiting for a check to arrive while the funds in the account creep closer and closer to zero. Hope is the agony of your young child home sick from school for three days while you don’t have any way to make up those three days removed from your paycheck at the end of the week. Hope is preparing your résumé while another round of layoffs approach!” Dick’s intensity continues to rise, and it’s me now seeking to avoid eye contact. “Hope is waiting for the test results from the specialist! We’re not hoping for something better, we’re hoping to hold onto what we have! Hope is everything!”

Dick shuffled in his chair a bit, collecting his thoughts. I was prepared for another onslaught. It never came. He settled back down into his chair. Eunice took hold of his arm like a princess at a ball.

-

In Paris I would run into Dick and Eunice occasionally as they took in the sights. They seemed to genuinely be in love still, after all these years. I couldn't help but think of this trip of theirs as a break from their reality into a dream world. Even at Bastille where so many angry men died in a struggle for for their nation’s hope, this was not only a vacation from their jobs but a realization of their own hope.

I can admit, timidly, that this encounter hasn’t changed the way I live my life, nor how I treat other people on a day-to-day basis, but this flash of lifelong passion from such a humble man does come to my mind time-to-time. When I’m up late at night watching the latest episode of Louis, or in the morning shower where internal conflict is dealt with daily. I may not have the same struggles that Dick or Eunice faced, but if I could live with as much conviction maybe I could one day truly hope.

As it turns out: Eunice finished P90X.

The Romance of the Undead

Sonia sat there uncomfortably waiting for David to return, going over in her head how things were going so far. It was her first blind date since the break up last spring. Her room mate Carol talked her into it. She said that David was a great guy, but didn’t know too much about him.

Carol and David worked together on the weekends at the yogurt shop. She said David was also fresh out of a bad relationship, which is how the subject was brought up. The suggestion that Carol would set them both up on a date was meant as a joke, but when David agreed, she had to follow through.

“I don’t like being called ‘Day-vid,’” he told Sonia when he arrive at her place to pick her up, “that’s just what everyone calls me at work. I prefer ‘Duh-beed’ because I’m proud of my heritage.”

“What do you have planned for tonight?” Sonia queried as they walked towards his Camry.

“I don’t know. What do you want to do?” David responded.

Sonia was baffled, and slightly annoyed. “I thought we’d go grab dinner someplace.”

“Alright. Where?” David asked as he opened his door and sat in the car. He motioned for her to go to the passenger side.

“Uh... Is there anywhere you had in mind?” Sonia walked around the car to get in.

“Not really,” David said.

“What?” Sonia couldn’t hear what he had said because the door was closed on her side.

“Not really,” he said louder.

“Do you like Thai food?” Sonia asked when she settled into the passenger seat, kicking a McDonald’s cup out of her floor space.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had it,” David said as he started the car’s engine. “Buckle your seat belt.”

“There’s a place just down the road here that -”

David cut her off, “Nah. I don’t think I want to try it.”

“What do you want then?” Sonia ask, adding irritation to her inflection.

“I don’t care.”

“Umm...” Sonia stared out the side window at the buildings whizzing past. He’s driving really fast, she thought. “There’s this new place I’ve heard about, L'heureux.”

David didn’t say anything for a few moments, looking intently at the road as he passed the car in front. “Too fancy,” he finally said. “We’d have to have reservations anyway.”

Which is why you should have prepared before you picked me up, she thought to her self with mounting frustration.

“I know!” David exclaimed, “There’s a noodle place a few miles from here.”

Great, she thought, ramen.

The few miles turned into a thirty-five minute drive, with two freeway changes. The drive was mostly in silence. Sonia held her purse on her lap, wincing every time David pulled up close behind another motorist before pulling around sharply. “Idiots,” he’d say under his breath. She wondered why he didn’t just change lanes sooner.

They pulled into a generic strip mall just off the freeway, lined with the same chain stores seen across the country in these suburban environments. The noodle place was called “Oodles of Noodles,” and had a line of patrons out the door - mostly college students, with the occasional impatient child.

“The wait won’t be too long,” David assured Sonia, “I come here all the time.”

They circled the parking lot two more times before finding a spot.

Waiting in line, David began sharing some of his philosophies on suburban life. He said these cookie-cutter strip malls reminded him of soviet-era construction. Repeatable, boring, familiar, cheap. The consumers who visit the shops: zombies, consuming what the cultural gatekeepers tell them to.

“Who listens to radio anymore? Even the mindless masses gave up on that monotony of vacuous series of interchangeable pop-stars.” Culture was consuming itself, in an endless cycle of gorging and purging, where even the most stiff of television personalities was in on the self-aware irony of the meaninglessness of their lives. “They make a living telling you who to like, but you already like these things, and that’s how it works. Nobody wants to hear about new artists, they just want their own interests confirmed in the eyes of others. But these ‘others’ are just people like themselves. Zombies.”

As the line slowly inched towards the counter, Sonia wondered if David has any interest in her, or if he just wanted to talk about himself. She became distracted with little things. The way the Yelp! sticker on the window was peeling off on the corners. The mismatched shoelaces on the girl in front of her. Is that peanut butter and prawns on those noodles? That could be good.

“What do you think?” David asked.

“I’m sorry ... about what?” her attention jerked back to David.

“What do you think about religion?”

“I’m pretty religious,” Sonia replied, surprised he finally asked her what she thought. “I go to church almost every week.”

“That’s stupid.”

Sonia was stunned. She made her displeasure known on her face.

“I mean, I get the social connections one gets from religion, but I don’t understand why it can’t just be about something else. Something of real value.” The line moved forward one step. “Sports fans are idiots, but at least their team has real, tangible attributes.”

At the register, finally, David ordered for both of them over the objections of Sonia. “Don’t worry, you’ll like it,” he told her.

“Two orders of Hot and Spicy Lime Chicken Noodles.” The young man behind the register said. “Anything to drink?”

“No thanks.” David responded, not looking at the employee. “That’s a split ticket.”

Oh, is that how it’s going to be? Sonia gave David a cutting sideways glace. He didn’t notice.

After they both paid for their separate dinners, David lead to a high bar stool along the side wall and sat down.

“It’s loud in here,” Sonia observed.

“It’s always like this.” David’s cellphone rang in his pocket. “I’ve got to take this.”

He bolted out of the seat and went outside.

As Sonia recounted the evening’s events leading up to this moment, she became angry. This is a waste of time, she thought to herself. It’s been an hour-and-a-half, is it too soon to call it quits, or is it better to get out now? She looked around the room at the other people, mostly having a good time.

David returned a few minutes after their entrees had arrived. He smiled at a few girls as he walked across the dining room.

“You know, Duh-veed,” Sonia looked him right in the eye, “I’d rather be with the zombies than with a monster like you!”

Sonia picked up her plate and walked over to the table with the girl with the mismatched shoelaces. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Contengencies

It was quiet. The kind of quiet only the rain brings. On days like this, everyone talks in hushed tones as if the whole city was a library. Nobody wants to disrupt the calming sound of the rain outside or the fragrant smells of the moistened blossoms. It’s better to just sit by a window and let the clouds whisper secrets as they pass overhead. It was the first rain of the season; soon, what was once a pleasant experience will become a nuisance. What was liberating becomes a cage.

There was another reason for the silence. My crew and I were mentally preparing ourselves the way I imagine Evel Knievel walked through every aspect of a plan before he got on his motorcycle. The cadence of raindrops on the eaves rain provided a venue for inner contemplation.

Besides myself, I had employed two close friends I had worked with before. Brett was a skinny guy who kept to himself mostly. Jeremy was unassuming, and had one of those faces that reminds everyone of someone they know.

I’ve heard some criticism of television and movie crime dramas in the media. They always say it promotes crime by giving people like me ideas on how to pull off crimes. I think that’s ridiculous. As a professional, these dramatizations are overly complicated, and if anyone tried to pull off a heist like those, they would spend more money on the operation than they would get from the score. Keep it simple, stupid. Just a few guys on the team means there are less loose ends, and of course the keep is greater without having to share it. There is no need for specialized education on safes and alarm systems, you just have to be fast. And don’t go to the county clerk to get a copy of the target building’s floor plans. That’s just careless and unnecessary.

There is a romance about robbing banks. It seems like a big score, and that may have been true when John Dillinger did it, but today’s technology requires too much time to get not much more than what you could get from a common grocery store. Deposits are immediately placed in safes, and even cash withdrawals are mechanically handled. Plus, robbing a bank brings the FBI on the case because deposits are federally insured.

We prefer hitting check cashing businesses. They have cash on hand, they’re not federally insured, and I think they’re a drain on society. They’re one step above loan sharks. The only problem is they’re usually operated by the owner, who has a lot at stake, so they’re heavily fortified and the owner is usually armed.

So how do we get through their defenses? The same way a confused grandma drives through a nail salon while trying to park. Brett will jack a car from a nearby neighborhood and drive it through the store and right through the bulletproof Plexiglas, which is supported with the same building materials as any other wall. Meanwhile, Jeremy waits down the street in an idling car watching out for police, with an emergency-band scanner. I would be just outside the building, and would immediately run into the business after the car demolished the wall. Brett and I would use the confusion to our advantage to take our bounty and run right out into Jeremy’s waiting car.

That’s the plan, anyway. It’s basic. It’s simple.

“Alright guys, let’s go,” I said.

Brett got up and headed toward the car he jacked. He found a decent sized pick-up truck. Nothing too big, nothing too small. The key is having enough torque to push through the wall at a low speed. Jeremy had a compact sedan waiting for him. Something with a low profile that can get lost in traffic.

I walked to the nearest corner to cross the street. No need to draw attention to myself by jaywalking. The target was a storefront along a row of private shops; on one side was a convenience store, and the other side was a low-priced garment store. I casually walked along the sidewalk, pausing briefly to look in the shops as a window-shopper might do.

The rain made the regular foot traffic lighter than usual. This has both advantages and disadvantages. Less eyes on us and what we’re doing is good, but then the few eyes that remain have more time to focus on us; especially me, standing out here alone.

Here he comes. I take out my cell phone and call Jeremy. “Are you good?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he answers. Everyone is in place.

I signal Brett to go. He pulls into a parking spot facing the front entrance slowly. My heart starts racing. CRASH! Stepping hard on the accelerator, the truck lurches forward into the window. The steel beams groan under the pressure before giving way, the whole storefront wall lifting from the floor and laying on the roof of the truck.

This isn’t going to work. The tires spin on the linoleum floor, the truck wedged between the wreckage of the storefront and the ground. With momentum lost, the truck won’t be able to smash through the second wall in the back. Time to call it off.

I call Jeremy again and break the news: Brett will meet him and they need to go, I’ll just walk away.

Brett scrambles out of the truck and down the street to the waiting car, and they leave.

The sound a car makes on wet roads is like turning the dial on an analogue radio.

The dream job

“Hi, I’m Devin,” he said, blinking while his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the club. “I’m looking for Bill.”

The man that greeted Devin at the door was short, with long, gray hair that made him look older than he was. “You got him,” he answered shortly, without offering a hand shake. “You’re late.”

“Sorry about that,” Devin replied, moving further inside, “we ran out of gas.”

“You only have half-an-hour til sound check. Better be quick about it.”

Devin had been driving all night and all day with his rock band, The Fever Pitch, across two state lines. He had never heard of this town until he saw the tour schedule. It would be better to say the name of the metropolitan area from the stage, he thought to himself, just to be safe.

He was hungry. There wasn’t much to eat in the van besides a couple of generic Pop Tarts and a Cup Noodles. The band usually ate what the venues provided, using what little cash they earned on gasoline to get to the next stop.

After gathering a few more details from Bill, Devin joined the rest of the band who had already begun unloading the trailer.

The club was small, but it came recommended by the tour manager. Along the back wall was a brightly-colored bar, stocked with cheap liquor and domestic beer. A checkered linoleum floor gave the place a kitschy feel. The stage, if it could be called that, was just inside the front entry. Devin wondered if the whole band could even fit on the stage. A row of silver lights pointed down on the stage from the ceiling, nearly in the center of the room.

The band didn’t talk much to one another as they sat all their gear up on the stage. After two months on the road, not much could be said that hadn’t been said. Everyone knew what everyone else wanted, and stage real estate was claimed intuitively. The drums were always to the back, on stage right. Bass and keyboards aligned with the drums to stage left. Devin would be center stage, flanked on either side by guitarists who didn’t get along very well off stage, but complimented each other perfectly on stage.

As people began streaming into the club, Devin wondered how many were there to see him perform, and how many of them would be here regardless of who was on the bill. There was a sense of camaraderie amongst the patrons only seen in the smaller towns. It didn’t matter much to Devin why they were there, the whole point of touring was to play in front of people to develop the fan base.

Devin felt he had been lied to. He’d heard the stories of songwriters who were discovered by a record label and became a huge overnight success. Nobody told him audiences only wanted to hear other people’s songs, and that millions of other people were also trying to be “discovered.” This was no dream; this was work.

All the muscles in Devin’s body trembled. He hopped from foot to foot as his heart rate steadily rose. There really wasn’t a backstage area, so the band was preparing themselves in the restroom. It didn’t matter how many people they would play for, Devin always went through this nervous anticipation. He’d pace around the room to boost his confidence, and then hop in place to get his blood moving. In addition to helping his nerves, he felt it helped provide energy to the performance.

The lights were darkened in the main room as the band was introduced. A smattering of cheers were heard in the crowd as they took the stage.

“Come on, man,” Devin pleaded, “we need the money.”

“Sorry,” Bill said, again, “that’s all I’ve got for you.”

“You don’t understand; without our full guarantee, we can’t afford to get to our next gig.”

“That’s not my problem,” the club manager gestured with his palms forward, shoulders shrugged.

Devin was used to this by now. A lot of club owners would stiff the band out of pay if they didn’t think enough people came. He was upset, but he understood. They’re both in business for themselves, and times are tough. If the bands take too much, the club can’t stay open, and the bands wouldn’t have a place to play. But it is so hard to travel around the country when you’re paying for gas from the food budget.

It’s a tough job, but maybe one day it will pay off.

The Molting Process

Renée always wanted to live in Los Angeles, ever since visiting there one summer long ago. She went there with her roommates as a freshman in college on summer break. There was a romance and mystery about the city. So much glamour. So much history.

Unlike most of her friends, she didn’t dream of being an actress, she just seemed drawn to the Southern Californian lifestyle. She wasn’t naive enough to think that lifestyle was realistically achieved, but the thought of it was appealing.

She didn’t hate her hometown, she just didn’t understand why anyone ever decided to settle there. Renée couldn’t imagine an intrepid group of explorers travelling westward ever stopping in this place and deciding it was sufficiently flat, cold and barren - perfect for raising a family. She wondered if it was the effects industrialisation took on the local area that made it so unappealing to her. Maybe at one time it was a beautiful landscape, with fantastic rapids in the river, and blossoming flowers as far as the eye could see. She just decided it was a case of a caravan stopping here after their oxen had died, and they never left. Renée thought her imaginary story was probably more romantic than whatever the real story was, so she never made an effort to learn.

Renée never made it to Los Angeles. She didn’t even finish college. Instead, she met a boy. A boy named John.

John was tall. Renée barely rose to his shoulder when she wore her wedges. He had brown eyes that made Renée swoon. John was also squiriferous and romantic. He would spend hours meticulously planning dates for the two of them that took them all over the town, doing new and exciting things. One Friday evening, John arrived at Renée’s door promptly at 7:00 wearing a dark lounge suit with a white carnation in the lapel. Offering his arm to the lady, John walked her to the nearest bus stop. They rode around the town in the bus, all dressed up, taking in the city at night, and talking for hours.

The pharmaceutical company said there was only a 0.3% chance of getting pregnant. But when you are pregnant, you’re 100% pregnant. To say, “John handled it much better than Renée” would be cliché. For him, it was an added responsibility; for her, it was an entire new life paradigm. John was very supportive, however. He promised her he would be there forever. He wanted this child. He was excited to be a father.

They made a deal: If the child was a boy, John would get to name him; if it was a girl, Renée would name her. John chose “Silas.” He said it was a good name. It was different enough to be unique, but not too different to stand out. Renée chose “Jolie,” after her maternal grandmother.

It was a boy.

When Silas was eighteen-months-old, John left. He didn’t say anything. He just left. He didn’t take his mobile phone, just a small bag of clothes and his car. Renée would spend the better part of two years trying to track him down, even enlisting the help of two private investigative services. He was discovered living just outside Austin, Texas.

Being a single-mother in her mid-twenties, Renée struggled to make ends meet. She was fortunate to have her family nearby, but she still had to work two jobs just to pay the bills. Even earning what she considered a decent wage, she was living paycheck to paycheck. Without the help from her parents and social services, she couldn’t imagine how she would make ends meet with only one worker in the home. But the worst part was being away from her son for seventy hours every week. It crushed her when Silas took his first steps while she was at her night job.

It wasn’t a glamorous life, but Renée loved her son. She resented John for what he did, but he did give her the only joy she now had in her life.

Silas grew up to be tall, just like his father. He was smart too. Smart enough, in fact, to get a scholarship to a technical high school for engineering. Renée felt that if she couldn’t have her dream, at least she could help her son find his.

Going Home

In the movies and on television, people have the incredible ability to verbalize their emotions and personal failings. People in real life don't talk like that. It's a device to allow the viewer the ability to see inside the characters' mind. It provides on-screen empathy. Perhaps we're so detached from our own emotions that we have to rely on verbal cues to understand what the characters are feeling.

There are reasons why I moved so far away; reasons I can’t fully explain. When I look back on my past, it’s all a blur. I don’t have a touchstone to my past, no fond memories, and no memento or treasure of my family. I don’t have bad memories either, but a historic malaise. All I have is the fog of my family behind me, and a bright future ahead.

I’m stuck here in the middle, in the twilight between past and future. It feels like no matter what I do to break from my past, it holds fast. I’m not even sure I want to get out of the haze; it is all I’ve ever known.

Now that you are older, it makes this all the more difficult. I am now forced to deal with this on a daily basis. I can’t just ignore you and move on, I have to live in the in between.

Returning home to visit with you is a fairly anxious time for me. I don’t really know how to relate to you, nor how you expect me to relate. I don't know if you have ever encouraged me. I mean encouraged me to be pleased with myself, instead of grateful to please you. Spending time with you doesn’t contribute to a close relationship, but to more anxiety. Am I a bad person for feeling burdened by our relationship?

Family is supposed to be this place where everyone has shared memories and fond feelings. At least that’s what I picture family to be. Maybe I just have to accept this different family dynamic and live with it. When I watch movies where families come together, I get emotional because it’s a beautiful thing. It’s just a fantasy. Real families have issues.

I don’t know when I first realized I was in this state of familial anomie. It probably built on me over the last several years. Recently I’ve tried to better myself as a human being emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Facing my weaknesses head on must have illuminated your shortcomings as well, because I am who I am because of you.

Now that I have self esteem it's very difficult to relate with you in any way. It’s like I”m meeting someone for the very first time and not knowing what to say or how to act. It’s like our relationship has lost all context; which is ironic because without you I am nobody.

I’m here. I know where I am, but not who I am.

The Getaway

“What do you think of the Mojito?” Michael asked as he brought his own glass to his lips. He had recommended the cocktail, saying the Colombo Hotel made the best one in town.

“It’s good,” answered Kate, looking around the patio. “I don’t think I like these people.

There’s something about them that really puts me off. What are they doing here?”

The two of them sat at a small table under a patio umbrella by the hotel pool. A weekend event was being held to attract young, hip people from out of town. Several handmade decorations were scattered throughout the pool area, and a DJ was playing reggae music through a portable PA system.

The promotion worked; dozens of twenty-somethings filled the patio this afternoon. The sun was hot, but the water was cool. Cocktails and ice cold beers were rushed to tables and lounge chairs by an equally hip waitstaff in cutoff jean shorts, and wrinkled v-neck t-shirts.

The amount of ironic facial hair exhibited by the males was only equaled by the number of cigarettes hanging loosely from the fingers of women who didn’t seem to ever smoke them; instead just juggle them in their fingers.

“They’re enjoying themselves,” Michael offered as an answer.

“It seems so vacuous. I don’t get this whole culture of theirs.” Kate paused to sip her drink, then wiped a piece of mint off her lip. “They seem so caught up in themselves. Look at all these girls, just laying around in bikinis all day. Don’t they have anything better to do with their lives?”

“I’m having a good time.” Michael got up from his chair and headed toward the newly vacated ping pong table. “Come on, I bet you can’t beat me.”

“It is hot out here.”

“I haven’t played ping pong in ... I think it’s been almost a decade.”

Kate followed Michael and sat her Mojito on the ping pong table. She noticed these hip youth were drinking out of paper cups. “What are they drinking?”

“Oh, they’re making snow cones with rum, vodka, or Kahlua.” Michael picked up a paddle, “Are you any good?”

“I played at summer camp years ago.”

“It’s nice to get away from everything every once in a while; just relax by the pool, have a few drinks ...” Michael trailed off.

“I’m really glad to be away from it all and unwind.” Kate loosened up her shoulders, getting ready for the match. “I probably should have worn different shoes.”

“No worries. Nobody else to worry about. Just hanging out having a good time.”

“We should do this more often. I’m really enjoying myself.”

The measure of man

A lot of retirement homes today have a cafe in them with a 1950s style diner decor, reminiscent of when the occupants were teenagers. I wonder if, when I'm in one of these homes, the cafe will be decorated like The Max from Saved by the Bell. I wonder what cliché things we'll remember our generation's past by.

I am not sure why I agreed to this. Of all the things I could be doing right now, this wouldn't have been at the top of my list. Maybe it was just to try something different; get out of the rut my life has become. Whatever the case, I'm here hanging on this rock taking stock of life.

It started out alright - the climb that is, not my life. (I think I'm repressing my childhood because I don't remember a lot about growing up.) After putting on the uncomfortable, but lifesaving, harness, and clipping the rope on, I started up the face slowly. Above my head I found a crack in the rock for my hands, and then I found a place for my left foot. Up I went.

My legs shuddered. My chest heaved - in and out - as I struggled to breathe. I felt dizzy, like I had a few too many drinks. Forty feet off the ground, and I was thoroughly panicked.

I have never been afraid of heights. I enjoy the thrill of looking over the edge. This is different. I don't trust myself with my own life. I don't believe I have the ability to do this.

I should have thought of that before I got half way up this face.

Am I content with my life? Do I resent my father for never teaching me to shave? Why did Spider-Man 3 have to suck? The Internet gave me a better education than any class I've attended.

"Take your time. Relax," my brother calls to me from below. He is belaying for me. He taught me how to belay before the climb. The rope is kept just slack enough so if you fall the drop is only a few feet.

I take a few deep breaths. I have to trust in the equipment.

This would make for a very stunning vista - you know - if I wasn't worrying about dying. Light clouds moved slowly overhead providing moments of shade as they passed beneath the sun. The gentle breeze felt cool on my skin. Looking away from the stone wall I clung to, I saw green hills stretch away into the distance spotted with clumps of trees.

Summoning the energy I knew I had within me, I looked back up this stony face. I am determined not to be defeated. It’s just a rock, right? Or is it all of nature manifest into this one challenge? I must focus.

I reach out with my right hand and feel around for a hold. A bump or crack. Maybe an elevator button. My tired fingers find a round hold and I grab on. Next, I must find somewhere to step. I try a few tiny bumps hoping one will hold me. My legs continue to shake.

"You’re almost there," I hear my bother calling.

Almost where? I wonder. Am I happy with my career? Are my relationships fulfilling?

Perhaps my existential musings would be better handled with a cup of tea.

I doubt myself. There’s no way I can make it to the top. In spite of my brother’s encouraging shouts from below, the only way I can do this is if I can muster up my own self-confidence. On the rock, you're all alone.

The Wedding Toast

"I have never really done any sort of public speaking before, so color me nervous. When I was asked to be Jeffry's best man, I didn't even know this was part of my duties. If I knew, I may have declined. Where to begin?

"Jeff and I met when we were both in junior high school. You know how people segregate into their cliques? We were in the skateboard clique. I guess this isn't really important ... What I'm trying to say is, we have a long history, and this is why I feel I know Jeffry more than anyone else.

"Sorry, Sue. I know moms think they know their children best, but he is an adult now.

"Jeffry is the best man I have ever known. He is honest, courageous, and willing to take responsibility. He's smart - and not just book smart. He genuinely cares for other people, and longs to know who you really are. Some people don't get his humour, but I think he's really funny.

"I guess I'm supposed to tell an embarrassing story about him, but I want to feel like I'm above that. You know, because I'm a snob. But I will tell a story.

"About three years ago, Jeff and I were camping up in the mountains. We had hiked in six miles to our camp site. This was funny: I teased him because he cooked one of those ready-to-eat bags of pasta with a fork and spoon, twirling the noodles like a proper gentleman. But the next day I got stung by a bee on my foot - I'm allergic to bees - and my foot swelled up so much I couldn't get my boot on. Jeff packed up all of our gear, and helped me sort of hop all the way back to the car.

"He's a true friend.

"When Jeffry met Erin, he was immediately enamored. I, on the other hand, was jealous. I think most guys agree with me: girlfriends are bad for friendships. All of my time with Jeff disappeared; he was always too busy with Erin to be bothered with a schmuck like me.

"But I was happy for him. I think Erin has really helped form Jeff into an even better person.

"They didn't start dating right away though, in fact it was over a year before Jeff even admitted to Erin that he was in love with her.

"When I did get to spend some time with Jeff recently, he told me stories of the turmoil he put himself through. He told me of when she was leaving for summer vacation a couple years ago, he took her shopping. He explained to me that he followed her around the racks in the store, and he was just filled with emotion. When her back was to him, he would mouth the words, 'I love you.' I don't think she caught him doing that.

"Anyway ... I think I've rambled on long enough. I guess I'm supposed to just toast the couple and get back to my seat, and maybe hit on the maid of honor. That's what I learned from watching the movies anyway. She is cute, so I might ...

"So, here's to the happy couple: Jeffry, I'm proud of you. I'll miss you, but I'm so happy for you anyway. Erin, you have got the last great man. Don't take that for granted. I wish you both the best of luck."

The Door

That door. Growing up, I had never gone through that door. "Off limits," my mother would say. Still, I would try to peak under that door.

My family lived some hours from my grandparents, so we didn't visit very often. When we did visit, my siblings and I would run about; kids our age live for the momentary joys, so these long-lasting relationships didn't mean much apart from a change in scenery.

I was so curious about that door. That door must have led to a whole new world. That must be why grandpa wouldn't let us through.

Now much older and more mature, I stood in front of that door. It was a very plain door with no distinguishing features at all. Plain brown with a simple brass colored handle. With my grown-up mind, I knew there wasn't a fantasy land behind that door, but it still captivated me in mystery.

For the last decade, I had not seen my grandparents at all. Right out of high school, I went out of state to university. I never made time to visit when I came home on vacation. But now I stood here in front of that door, the most tangible connection to my grandfather I have.

Last week, I received a phone call from my mother. Through tears, she explained "grandpa died."

I didn't know how to react. I felt like I should be feeling something, but then I was distressed because I didn't feel a thing. Am I really that cold? I thought to myself. Am I that ambivalent?

Being here in his home, I casually walked around, dragging my feet on the carpet, trying to drum up memories of my grandfather. I remembered the time my sister and I were chasing each other and I jumped over the sofa. I was scolded for my recklessness, and told to grow up.

I took some time to contemplate the threshold between the dining room and kitchen. What a bane that was to me. I would constantly trip on that wooden step. Once, I spilled a glass of apple juice tripping on it.

But when I got to that door, I stopped in place. I was usually shooed away from that door by now, but then I was young and didn't have a concept of what things cost when I would break them.

My mother and grandmother were sitting in the dining room chatting, avoiding any topic that would bring to mind grandpa - there will be plenty of time for that at the wake. After what seemed like minutes, I opened that door.

All I knew about this room before was that it was grandpa's room. I stood in the doorway for a moment taking it all in. Two walls were covered with bookshelves loaded with old volumes with hunter green and navy covers. A desk sat beneath a window, with trinkets spread about. Above the window was a shelf with a model train displayed. The chair at the desk was an ancient leather office chair with a lot of wear, patched up with duct tape.

Entering the room gave me a view of the final wall, which was covered in pictures of the family. Pictures of my cousins and their weddings. Pictures of my aunt and uncles. Professional family portraits, and very unprofessional candid shots of family trips. Pictures of my parents, and my siblings. And then pictures of me.

I didn't even remember when some of these pictures were taken. There I was as a toddler with chocolate ice cream on my face. Another picture of me at about 11 in a foot race. A couple graduation pictures. But one picture really captured my attention.

The picture was of my grandfather sitting in a chair, the same one I was sitting in just minutes ago in the front room. A smile was on his face, and expression of pure joy. And there I was, sitting on his lap, looking off to the side with a look of impatience. I looked like I just wanted to get out of his lap to enjoy myself in whatever pursuit I was into when I was 5-years-old.

It struck me as I looked at this picture: Even though I have held my grandfather at a distance throughout my life, he still loved me, and still cherished his time with me. This picture proved that he cared about me so much that he would even have fond memories of a time I was clearly not interested in him.

If there's anything I regret in my life, it is not investing myself in my family.

The Traveler

First came the popcorn-like sound of gravel beneath automobile tires. Darren turned to the source of the sound, only catching the glint of sun on the front windshield in the distance. He didn't look because he was expecting anyone, rather it was because for the past several hours the only sounds he heard came from his own feet on the gravel, and the wind flapping his canvas backpack. Every few miles he would take a rest, with the wind rustling the grasses, and the muted rushing air past his ears providing a sense of being alone. He would lay in the grass, eat a ration of food from his bag, and rest his legs for his next hours long hike.

A burst of dust billowed, like white waves crashing upon wading rocks, as the truck came to a stop alongside Darren. Aged with wear, the faded blue fenders betrayed the scars of hard labor.

"Hello there," the man behind the wheel called, "where are you going?"

Darren took one hesitant step towards the vehicle and peered in the open window. The driver had a friendly face, with a baseball cap covered dark hair cut trim on the sides. A colorful plaid tartan shirt collar was visible beneath a navy jacket. He couldn't have been much older than Darren's own father. "Uh, I was just headed down to Grover Springs," Darren answered.
The driver leaned closer to the passenger window, hand on the steering wheel. "Listen, I'm headed that direction, and it looks like we're going to get some rain later. I can take you as far as Mullen Creek."

Darren studied the man's features before accepting the invitation. It wasn't the first time he's accepted a ride from a stranger; he had been hitching rides for a couple months now. He introduced himself as he opened the truck's door and climbed inside.

The driver's name was Tom Harding, so Darren would learn as the truck pulled down the gravel road. They sat in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes, looking straight ahead. On this trip, Darren learned how to open up to people, but he still felt awkward with small talk.

"So why Grover Springs?" Tom offered, breaking the silence.

Darren fumbled around a few words on his tongue before committing to a sentence. "It's really more of a starting point for me."

"Oh, really?" Tom seemed genuinely surprised. "It doesn't seem like too many people go to a small town like that to start a new life. Seems like most folks leave for bigger and better places."

"That's not what I meant." Darren fumbled with the straps on his backpack, now sitting in his lap.

"I'm sorry. I was just trying to be funny." After a brief pause, Tom continued, "What's your goal?"

"My goal? I'm not sure I have a goal. I think I'm just waiting to see what happens."

"What do you hope will happen?"

Darren was getting a little uncomfortable with these prosecutorial questions, and it began to show. Tom backed off. More silence.

"I've lived here my whole life," Tom began again, "... well, in these parts anyway."

"It's beautiful," Darren offered.

"Life is beautiful. When I was your age, I was offered a job down in Texas managing a ranch. The salary was double what I'm making now." Tom's tone was that of a fatherly figure. "I couldn't take the job. You know why?"

Darren didn't expect Tom to wait for an answer, but after after a brief silence he said, "Um ... I don't know. Why?"

"I can't buy a new family. It doesn't matter how much money I have, it doesn't replace being close to family."

The two set silently in the cab of the truck for most of the ride. Dark clouds moved in over the rolling plains, bringing with it a light drizzle. When they came to a state route, the pair gave their farewells and Tom drove away leaving the hitchhiker directions to Grover Springs. Darren shouldered his pack and began walking. He thought to himself, Where am I going?

Brotherhood

Driving late at night down these rural city streets was a lonely affair made even more lonely with melancholy thoughts going through my head. Every few hundred feet, the oppression of the darkness was beaten back by the amber street lights hanging overhead. Grey shadows sprinted across the dashboard. The only signs of life were the occasional lights beaming from windows of homes set back from the street.

I did not have the radio on. This promoted the isolation I felt, though I was in no mood to have music accompany me on this journey. The tires rolling on the asphalt beneath me and the rumble of the engine were the only sounds I heard. The rhythmic duet giving me a measure of comfort.

Everything around me was familiar, but it seemed like I saw it all with a brand new perspective. It's as if I had been viewing the world through a veil. That veil was my own self-interest. That veil has been torn in two.

Not long after we met, we became close friends. We practically did everything together, but what we did best was work on that old truck. To tell the honest truth, we didn't really work on it so much as we sat in the garage talking; glasses of 15-year-old Scotch whiskey in hand. He was as close as a brother - I wish I was as close to my brothers as I was to him.

On some evenings we would drive to the local auto shop to pick up some parts - mirrors, belts, gauges - and we would just drive along in silence, kind of like I was doing now. Just being together was calming. Upon returning home, those parts would sit on a counter in their bags for a couple weeks while we wasted time. Sitting.

One day he told me he was moving to the big city. That was a bad day. I was happy for him, and encouraged him to find what he sought, but I didn't want him to go. Adventure hasn't seized me yet, I have been here for decades, and I'll be here decades still. He needed to find a new life.

After fourteen months he came back home, and we got right back in the rhythm where we left off. Those old, beat up chairs bought at a thrift shop, and that bottle of single-malt Scotch. One day he told me he felt alone in a city of millions, and the comfort he felt here called him home.

There it was. I slowed the vehicle as I approached. The front of the house was dark. A lone oak tree stood in the yard with a halo of moon light. I pulled to a stop at the curb and shut the engine off.

The house was a mid-century ranch style home, with a sagging roof line. Two windows were adjacent to the front door with dark shutters. I could see a lamp on in the living room. My emotions were a mess. I sat there in the darkness looking at the door. He had to have heard me pull up, I thought.

As I gathered the fortitude to get out of the truck, I evaluated what went wrong. I'm so callous, I began, I've been a leech on this friendship. If there was any consolation it was the thought that I did care for him enough to be in such a wretched state of mind.

The thoughts going through my mind formed themselves into a monologue I would deliver to him when I finally walked to the door and knocked. An apology wasn't enough, this wasn't something I did that can simply be forgiven, it was months of small things that ate away at our bond. "I've taken you for granted," I would say. "I don't expect you to forgive me. Please, help me change."

A thump on my window startled me. I had gotten lost in my thoughts and didn't see what happened. Turning to the source of the noise, I saw him standing there at my window. He looked down through the glass with his brown eyes, framed with those thick eyebrows and square chin.

"I'm sorry."