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Larger than Life

11/10/2001

Today, I felt old, real old. I was growing tired and getting smaller with each passing second. Soon, I would be an insignificant speck in the annals of human history. The long day at work was done and I was heading for home.

My car broke the cool October night as I sped along the highway. I was lost in the thoughts and dreams of yesterday. Drifting in and out of memory’s lane, my car wove its way home. My car seemed to know the way and I was along for the ride. Time was like a signpost on the highway, approaches slowly and then zooms past fading into the distance – into a memory. One day blended into another, which created one continuous blurred image in my mind.

The light of the oncoming traffic brought my concentration back into focus. I was unprepared for tonight but they waited for me. I was not getting any younger and life was not getting any easier. I wanted to get home and to climb into my flannel pajamas. Maybe the Celtics would be on TV and maybe I could watch part of the game. But not tonight! My wife had made other plans. Tonight they waited for me. I asked her not to make this day larger than life but she had other ideas. I consciously slowed my car and dreaded going home.

I reached down and turned up the stereo just in time to catch the chorus of Three Doors Down’s Kryptonite:

“If I go crazy then will you still
Call me Superman
If I'm alive and well, will you be
There holding my hand
I'll keep you by my side
With my superhuman might
Kryptonite”

The memories flew back into my head as Superman raced to Lois Lane’s rescue. These same memories saved me from the torridness of the daily grind and the pain of tonight. They brought me back to a simpler time, when anything was possible. I wanted to be a superhero. I wanted to save the world. I wanted to save Lois Lane. I wanted to be larger than life.

One day and one memory stuck out like a cold sore. I revolved around this like the Earth revolved around the sun. I wanted to escape but some mysterious force held me. This ‘gravity’ pushed me down and pinned me to the ground. Struggling as hard as I could, I could not escape. If I were Superman, I’d fly away. I would rule gravity and I would be its master. I became a black hole, a collapsing pit of ‘gravity’. This memory captured me and tortured me. This ‘gravity’ was stronger; it was larger than life. My entire life was summed up by the events of that single day.

Some memories are so faded they look like your favorite shirt that has been washed too many times, but not these vivid Technicolor memories. I drifted back to that autumn day and I still remembered the caress of the Indian summer breeze. I still felt the laziness of that late October day that had begun so beautifully. The last leaves of summer were being plucked from their branches by gravity and the sun’s embraces touched me like a lover. I was lost in the memories.

I woke early that day and looked out my bedroom window towards Randy’s house. His house was on the other side of Temple Lake and the gang was meeting there later. Anxiously, I prepared for the events that would change my life forever. I packed my duffle bag with the tools of my trade. I tried to dress quietly trying not to wake my pesky brother, Zeke. He usually slept through anything but I was not taking any chances. If he woke up; he would want to follow me. Today was too important. As far as brothers went, he was not bad but he was too young for the danger that lay ahead.

I slung the duffle bag over my shoulder, as I slid the bedroom window open. Taking a quick breath, I straddled the windowsill. I looked down at the ground below. I had to be careful, because this fall would be painful and would ruin today. I had to be at peak performance; I had to careful. I swung my right leg out the window and hung out the window from the waist down. My blue K-mart Trek sneakers searched for a crease in the siding that would support my weight. Finally, I rested my feet on a crack.

My neighbors had grown accustomed to my strange actions over the years but if they were watching they knew I had risen to a new level. They would have seen that strange ten-year-old kid with his blue jean clad ass hanging out the window and as tradition had it, blue jeans that were too short for his long legs exposing the white athletic sock with the two red stripes at the top. But luck was on my side and they did not spy my top-secret activities. Still, I had to be quiet because I didn’t want my father to catch me. I didn’t think that he would understand why his son would feel the need to use the window as a door when there was a perfectly good door downstairs. He was too pragmatic to understand. He had realized that his oldest son was a little queer and I think he was beginning to doubt my parentage. No son of his would ever climb out the window when there was a perfectly good door available and no fire.

I continued with my struggle, now hanging by my fingertips as I stretched for the deck below. It was off to my left and just out of reach. Stretching my entire body, Trek sneakers, white socks, blue jeans and my white Charlie’s Angel t-shirt and green duffle bag, I rested my foot on the edge of the deck. Shifting my weight, I made it down to the deck. I leapt from the deck to the ground landing in a crouch like spider waiting for a fly. I waited for detection, no father, no brother and no neighbors. I raced across the field to the edge of the woods. I entered the woods searching for a place to hide my duffle bag. I found a spot next to a giant rock that would be easy to find. Covering the green duffle bag with fallen leaves, I was confident that no one would find it or its contents.

I returned home where my arrival was marked by the appearance of Uncle Glenn. He was not really my uncle; he was my cousin but he was my mother’s age and everyone thought it was proper to show him respect. I had always liked him. He played football and basketball with me and the other kids in the neighborhood. He was fun. I was happy to see him.

As I ran into the house, he called to me, “Hey, buddy, pal, friend!” He grabbed me with his massive hairy arms, and he began to administer a series of nuggies and monkey bites.

As his hold tightened on me, I called out, “Lemme go!” I struggled to gain my freedom but his gorilla-like physique held me captive. My father and mother commanded me to stop brothering Glenn but I was the victim here. I was in his clutches. He held me off the ground with his left arm while his right hand attacked with the most vicious three-fingered monkey bite that was ever experienced in all of mankind. His patented monkey bite ripped into the fleshy part of my inner thigh nibbling its way towards my groin with its pinching contraction of his thumb, index finger and middle finger. Glenn’s signature move had always been fun but today for some reason it stopped being playful, there was something more.

The fun became painful and I struggled more, screaming for help. “Help me!” I cried out to my parents. They just stood by, chastising me as the monkey-biting gorilla was eating me. Out of desperation, I grabbed the hair on uncle Glenn’s massive shoulders. My tiny fingers sunk into the hairy carpet on his shoulders and I pulled with all the energies of a ten year old. The gorilla wailed and released me. As I fell to the ground, I could feel rage racing through Glenn’s body. I sprang to my feet and sprinted across the living room. In mid-stride, my father slapped the back of my head. I raced teary eyed to my room.

After the excitement died down, I began my training. Today was the big day and I had to be ready. Randy and David counted on me. I had just completed my sit ups when my brother, Zeke, crawled from underneath the covers of his bed. He could sleep through anything and he could sleep anywhere. I envied him for his special power.

Zeke watched me go through my training routine and his sense of awe was written all over his face. I stood in front of the mirror with my stomach tense, striking the taut muscles with clenched fist. He interrupted my routine with his annoyance, “Whatcha doing?”

“Training”, I said.

“Training for what?” he said puzzled.

“Training to be a superhero!”

“Oh! Can I? I wanna be a superhero!” he begged.

“No, you are too young.” I said focusing on my training.

“You’re no superhero,” he challenged.

“Oh ya! Go ahead and hit me! Hit me hard! Hit me as hard as you can! You can’t hurt me.” I commanded him, raising my arms to give a clear target. He attacked striking my stomach over and over. I chided him, “You can’t hurt me. I am like steel. You can’t hurt me! Hit me harder! It won’t hurt. In fact, you could hit me with your whole body. I would just laugh.”

“Oh Yah!” he cried as he ran to the other end of the room. Like a fighter jet taking off from an aircraft carrier, he launched himself at me. Standing with my back to the wall bracing myself for the assault. Muscles taut and jaw tensed I waited from him to hit. I don’t know what possessed me but when Zeke threw his whole body at me and was an airborne missile directed at my stomach, I sidestepped away. Zeke crashed in the wall behind me, head first like Wylie E Coyote into an Arizona butte. After the impact, he slid down the wall into a crumpled ball of little brother.

I jumped to his aid immediately with laughter and tears and all I could say was “Don’t tell mom! You will be okay but don’t tell mom!” He was okay and just last month, some thirty years later, he finally told mom, but this time it was larger than life.

It was time to meet up with Randy and David. After I finished my training session, said my goodbyes to my parents, Uncle Glenn and a few other guests that had arrived. As I made my way to the woods, I felt watchful eyes tracing my every move. I turned and saw Uncle Glenn’s eyes focused on me.

As I entered the woods, I removed my shirt and made my way to my duffle bag. Scrambling to my hidden cache, I removed a long sleeved blue shirt. As I donned the shirt the hand painted lines of a spider web glistened in the forest-muted sun. The small mistakes in the hand painted webbing were barely noticeable. With urgency I removed my sneakers, socks, pants and underwear, and slipped into the blue tights with hand painted webbing. I jumped back into my sneakers, that was the only part of my costume that needed work but for today it would be fine. Grabbing the red ski mask and the red rubber gloves that my mother used in the kitchen, I completed the clothing of a modern day knight. With my coil of rope, I was ready to fight for Truth, Justice and the American way! At that age I wasn’t sure if I knew what that meant but it sounded important. I left my alter ego at the rock as I charged into the woods. I was Spiderman with a coiled rope and green duffle bag. I entered the clearing where Randy and David waited for me. Shouting at the top of my lungs, “Defender Assemble!” Batman and the Flash joined me in our call to arms, “Defender Assemble!”

Randy was not a great Batman; he would have been a better Hulk. He was a year older than me and very big for his age. Some people would say that he was overweight but I believed that he was just big. Poor Randy was sensitive to his size but he was the strongest of the group. He was clad all in black: black snow boots, black jeans, a black shirt with a hand painted Batman logo, a black ski mask, and a ragged black cloth for a cape.

David on the other hand was the perfect Flash. He was the fastest of the group; his small and lithe body made him hard to catch. He was the one with the least amount of conviction in the group. Randy and I were the true blue superheroes but David went along for the ride. What else was there to do at Lake Temple? His costume demonstrated his lack of commitment: regular sneakers, blue jeans, a red shirt with a hand painted yellow lighting bolt, a red ski mask, and red wool gloves that I think belonged to his sister, Susan.

Even thought I was the youngest member of the Defenders, I was the leader. I was larger than life. I had the vision, the courage and passion. They followed me. I called the assembly together, “Today we assemble to fight for truth, justice and the American way. In attendance are The Flash, Batman and Spiderman. The first order of business is to decide on a group name. And I, Spiderman, recommend ‘The Defenders’.”

“We can’t use ‘The Defenders’”, Batman said. Shocked, The Flash and I looked at him. “The Defenders are a Marvel Comics superhero group, and The Flash and Batman are DC Comics characters.” He explained.

“But Spiderman is a Marvel Comics hero”, The Flash said.

“It doesn’t matter!” I almost shouted. “We’re not matchin’ the comic books. We’re just pickin’ a name.” After several minutes of debate, we decided to stay with ‘The Defenders’. We concluded our meeting with a discussion of location of our secret headquarters and ‘The Defenders’ decided that we would use the old Harn Barn. Before ‘The Defenders’ were officially commissioned, we all had to pass the obstacle course. We had spent the entire summer building the course in this clearing. It was comprised of rope swings, trees to climb, rock walls to run across and jump over, trails to race over and an area for target practice. After two hours, all members passed the physical conditioning test.

As a final commemorative act, we issued ourselves membership cards. These cards were simple three by five white index cards, which read ‘Certified member of the Defenders’ on one side, and the other side read ‘Defender of Truth and Justice’ all written in red marker by my childish hand. We signed these emblems of honor and sealed it with our blood with a tiny pinprick to the thumb. We were ‘The Defenders’ – local superheroes. Batman and the Flash headed home as I finished packing my bag. I had to hurry, they would be waiting!

As I raced through the woods back to the giant rock where I left my clothes the woods grew darker. The brightness and the warmth of the day were fading fast. The shadowed woods become eerier with each passing moment, and as I approached the giant rock, my spider senses started to tingle.

“Good Day, Spiderman!” Uncle Glenn called down from his perch on the rock like a gargoyle. Hat sat there just like the Green Goblin. “Everybody’s waiting for you!” Not saying much, I opened the duffle bag and started packing my coiled rope, my red gloves, and my red ski mask. As I removed my Spiderman shirt, he watched me like The Vulture. I continued because they were waiting for me. When I removed my shoes and tights, he descended upon my naked body.

“Defenders Assemble!” I cried. He drank in my innocence against my protestation. “No, please don’t!” I whispered when I realized that my defenders weren’t coming to my rescue.

“Don’t worry Spiderman this is our little secret”, he assured in his soft uncle voice. “It is alright. I love you. You’re a good boy.”

Unable to sob, unable to cry, I finished dressing as the sun abandoned me. As we walked home together, he tried to convince me all Superheroes had secrets and that this was our secret. He shared with me how our secret spared my brother from the same fate. He told me that they were waiting.

The lights from an oncoming car brought me back to today and my drive home. They would be waiting for me. After a few minutes, I pulled into my driveway. A driveway normally populated by my car and my wife’s car, tonight was jammed packed with ten to twelve cars. They were waiting for me. In my car with the engine stopped and the lights off, I closed my eyes and rested my head on the steering wheel. Trying to remember where I left off.

Oh! Yes. They were waiting for me. Uncle Glenn and I entered the house, as friends and family started singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me. Unable to feel, I walked through the party unable to look at anyone, unable to cry out. The only thought in my head was the wide-open green duffle bag left at the giant rock in the woods. My membership card being blown about by the cool night air like a gravity plucked leaf. What happens when you discover the ones that you love hate you, when your heroes are human or when you discover that you’re not a superhero?

I climbed out of my car into the night as the cool breeze blew through the leaves. October’s breath scattered the leaves like it tossed my Defender membership card many years ago. I resigned myself to this evening like I resigned myself to my uncle. They were waiting for me. I hesitated at the door for a moment, hearing a muffled shuffling sound. They were waiting for me. I opened the door and they shouted surprise and started to sing ‘Happy Birthday!’ The only thought in my head was the wide-open green duffle bag!

Lucky Strikes!

7/8/2001

“Shhhh,” said Grandfather.

“But, Grandfather, you said you would read me another story,” she said, almost in tears. It was hard to look into those hazel-colored eyes when water was beginning to form. A sniffle and a slight pout to her tiny lip was the deal clincher. Another story was on the way.

“Okay, Lindsay, but this is the last story for tonight.” He tried to say with some authority. But, Kim, his wife, was going to be upset; he’d been pushing himself all day long. He was tired, and he struggled to shake off his weariness for Lindsay's sake. “How’s this one, about the big bad wolf?” holding up a ragged, old book.

Lindsay looked at him with those eyes and said, “You know that I don’t like that one, Grandfather. Don’t you have any new stories for me?” He was now on the ropes. He’d read all of her favorite stories already.

Looking down on his granddaughter all tucked into her little Lindsay-bed, he wondered what he was going to do for the final go-to-bed story. When out of the blue, the idea of creating a story for her crept into his head. Now he must convince her that it was a good idea.

“Lindsay, we’ve read all of your favorite stories, and all we have left are the yucky stories that you don’t like. But I will tell a wonderful story about your grandmother and me. I know you will like this story because it is about a cute little mouse named Lucky.”

Lindsay looked at her grandfather with suspicious eyes. “That’s okay, Grandfather, but tomorrow we better get some new stories.” Grandfather almost burst out in laughter as the littlest boss spoke. ‘God, she was just like her grandmother.’

Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, he gathered his resolve. He said, “Yes, we’ll get some new stories.” He fumbled for a beginning. “Once upon a time,” he started.

She looked at him quizzically, “ Why do they all start with once upon a time?”

At a loss for words, he nodded at her and then said, “Well, that’s a good question. I guess that storytellers never know how to start a good story.”

“Oh, are you a storyteller?”

“A poor one, honey,” was his only reply. He knew this was going to be a long night.

“Anyway, it was a long time ago when I was younger. Kim and I went on a long trip far away from Rhode Island.”

Before he could get another word out she questioned, “Who’s Kim?”

With a chuckle he said, “Well, Lindsay, you know who Kim is; she is your grandmother. Your grandmother and I owned a little house in the woods in Maine. Our house in Maine was about four hundred miles from Rhode Island, a long, long way away. Our little place was magical, nestled in the middle of the woods, with no neighbors, except for the birds and bunny rabbits. We had to drive down a long dirt road to get to our cabin. Many times, we would see rabbits, squirrels, deer, and even moose as we drove down this dirt road.”

She exclaimed, “A moose!”

“Yes, big moose!” He exclaimed. He lowered his voice to a whisper; he should be putting her to sleep, not getting her worked up with fantastical stories. Kim would be angry with him anyway. He needed to take better care of himself and she had assigned herself as his mother and nurse. “Yes, Lindsay, big moose. Some of these moose were seven feet tall and weighed thousands of pounds. They can be as big as a truck.”

Barely breathing, Lindsay whispered, “Grandfather, were you scared?” There was no greater pleasure in the world than watching a four-year-old engrossed. There was a simplistic beauty in her innocence and wonder. She would not sleep until this story was finished. He ran his tired fingers through his thinning hair. The thinning got worse with each treatment. He would be bald soon. He was scared now.

“No, your grandmother and I loved the animals in our woods. Many animals came to greet us every time we came to visit. Nearing house in the woods, our friends the bunny rabbits would come to visit. They loved your grandmother very much. She was always feeding them slices of bread. Did you know that bunnies loved bread?”

Her big eyes shined with amazement, as she shook her head with an overstated, No!

"Did the rabbits live in your house?” she asked.

“No, dear. They lived in their own little rabbit homes in the woods, but they did like to visit. On this special day, our two bunny friends, Peter and Paula, were there to greet us as we pulled up to our house. Peter’s long ears twitched as he listened to us unload our truck, and Paula’s nose wiggled in anticipation as she tried to smell if we had brought her any bread.

Our house was very small. From the outside, our house looked like a very small, gray barn with windows, sitting in the middle of the woods. Not far from our cabin was a river that provided soft music to put us to sleep at night. When we opened the door, we entered our shelter from the weather but there was not much more. We had no electricity and no water, but our house had all the comforts of home”

“Did you have a TV?” She asked.

“No. You need electricity for TV to work.” He replied.

“What did you do with no TV?” She asked, puzzled.

"Your grandmother and I spent a lot of time talking. We spent lots of time reading stories. And we played games. Ssshhh” he said, leaning closer to her, “and never play backgammon with your grandmother, because she cheats!” he winked bringing his right index finger to his mouth to signal their shared secret. She laughed while bringing both hands to her face. She was getting sleepier. Watching her, he longed to be young again.

“Our house did not have much. Inside there was a wood stove that burned wood to keep us warm, and a stove to cook our meals. We had a table to eat our meals at and an old battered couch.”

“Grandfather, where did you sleep?”

“We slept in a very special place; we slept in the roof. We climbed up a ladder into the roof. In the roof we had a small bedroom. This room was very tiny. I could not stand up without banging my head on the ceiling. There was a window in our bedroom and from this window we could hear the birds sing their morning songs and the gentle rush of the river flowing past us. As we slept, we were surrounded by the forest and all of its' creatures.”

“Where would I sleep, Grandfather?” She wondered aloud.

“We have a special Lindsay-bedroom right next to our, and from that window you could watch the bunny rabbits play. But, this trip was different; it was very special. After we unloaded the truck of all our clothes and our food, a curious movement caught my eye.”

“Was it a bunny? Grandfather, was it a bunny?” She squealed as she pulled her blanket to her lips.

“No, not a bunny, but something even more special!" He replied.

“It must be the mouse!” She said in her most adult voice she could muster.

“Not exactly, Lindsay. It was something even more precious. It was a baby mouse, maybe a couple of days old. It was lying right next to the front wheel of my truck. I missed running over the baby mouse by mere inches.”

“A baby mouse?” Lindsay shrieked with joy.

“This mouse was very tiny, maybe as big as my thumb!” he said showing his thumb to her. She reached out and touched her grandfather's thumb in awe. “This baby mouse was struggling to move from its side to its feet, but it did not have the strength. I watched the mouse for several minutes; it was so young that its eyes were not opened yet. I ran into the house to get your grandmother. When your grandmother took one look at the baby mouse, she fell in love and began to cry.”

“Why was grandmother crying?” She asked.

“She was afraid for the baby mouse because she knew that the mouse would die if left alone. But we were afraid to touch it, because some animals will not help their babies if people have touched them. So your grandmother and I decided to let the mouse stay outside for a while, to see if the baby’s mother would rescue it.”

“Did the mommy come?” She asked almost in tears.

“Your grandmother and I waited for many hours for the mother to show, but she never did. Every five minutes your grandmother would get up and stare out the window, waiting for the mother to rescue it. We waited and waited. The weather was getting bad; it got colder, and the wind was blowing hard. Every time the baby tried to get to its feet, along came the wind and knocked it to the ground. As the weather grew worse and the daylight started to fail, the mouse lay on a cold stone slowly dying.”

“No!” pleaded Lindsay.

“Finally, your grandmother threw on her coat and ran to the baby. She picked up the poor, smaller-than-a-thumb mouse; it struggled to find shelter in your her hands. In the center of her palms lay the little mouse, barely breathing and occasionally issuing a high-pitched squeak. Your grandmother looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, ‘We have to save Lucky’. She said, ‘He was lucky to be alive.’”

He thought back remembering how hard that year had been for Kim. She had spent the entire Thanksgiving and Christmas holiday season caring for her dying father. Every day began with new hope that he would survive but each night left her in tears. His death in January was her failure. She could not beat death. Lucky had become her second chance. She wanted to prove, once and for all, that her father's death was not her fault.

“We placed Lucky into a small plastic container with one of your grandmother’s socks for warmth and padding. We weren't prepared to care for a baby mouse. We got into the truck and drove to Farmington, the next big town. We needed supplies to save him. Farmington was less than hour from our camp. For the entire trip, your grandmother hovered over him with his eye still closed and she spoke soft, gentle words to him. We both knew that his time was running out.”

“Grandfather, Lucky didn’t die, did he? “ She cried. She was just like her Grandmother. How could he tell her that Lucky died and was buried behind the camp with pile of stones as his silent marker? Kim had failed to beat death; she failed to keep Lucky alive. He decided that he couldn’t tell her.

“No, little one, Lucky did not die” he reassured her. “ While your Grandmother spoke life into his weak body, she stroked his little head with her index finger. I returned for the store with some baby formula and an eyedropper, which we used to feed him. Without a mommy mouse to nurse him, we had to feed him from an eye dropper.”

“I remember when mommy had to nurse Samuel, and as he got bigger she gave him a baby’s bottle,” Lindsay said.

“That is right!” he said. “The eyedropper was like a baby’s bottle, but a lot smaller. Your grandmother held him in the palm of her left hand, while she used her right hand to feed him. On the drive, your grandmother attempted to feed him. It was hard to tell how much food he actually ate and how much was spilt on his face. But your grandmother would not give up; she was going to do everything in her power to keep him alive. With his eye still closed and his ears folded back to his head, he had become her little child. And she was going to save his life.”

“By the time we got home, your grandmother had fed Lucky enough food for him to sleep. He’d curled up into a tight little ball in grandmother’s hand. His cute little paws with their miniature fingernails were holding his slender tail, which was longer than his entire little body. We watched Lucky for hours marveling at his small features, his white nose, and white whiskers and looked for signs of life.”

"Then it was time to go to bed, because big people need their sleep, too,” he sighed “Your grandmother put Lucky into his plastic house." He could still remember the image of the lifeless mouse in Kim’s blue eyes. She was still battling for his life. She was not going down without a fight. That night she cried for Lucky and for her father.

He continued, “When the next day rose, your grandmother jumped out of bed and went to his container. She stood there waiting for his next breath, counting softly to herself: one one thousand, two one thousands, three one thousands. Finally, she saw the gentle motions of his chest as he took one breath after another. Your grandmother cried tears of joy, for she knew that he survived the hardest part.”

“Yay! Lucky lived!” exclaimed Lindsay.

“Sssshhh! We have to keep the noise down,” he said lowering his voice. "Grandmother is nice to little mouses but she is very mean to Grandfathers who keep little girls awake by telling them stories.”

“But, but, but what happened to Lucky?” she pleaded.

“He was touch and go for several days, but your grandmother nursed him back to perfect mouse health. She held him in one hand while he was on his back, and she held the eyedropper in the other hand. After a few moments, he would start nursing from the eyedropper. Both eyes still closed, he held on to the eyedropper for dear life with both tiny mouse paws. Once the nursing started, he would use both paws to force the milk from the eyedropper.

As Lucky grew stronger, he went with us everywhere. He would ride in the pocket of your Grandmother’s shirt. Every once in a while, he poked snow-white nose and white whiskers out of her pocket to smell the air around them. After a week, his eyes opened and looked at your Grandmother for the first time. His dark black pools for eyes looked deeply into your Grandmother’s soul. If your Grandmother did not love this furry creature before, she was in love with him now. Soon his ears stood from the top of his head, and twitched to every sound around him.”

Unfortunately, Lucky was not so lucky. He died on the fourth day. He did grow stronger with each passing day, but on the third night he became lethargic and would not eat. Kim saw the signs before I did. She once saw them in her dying father. She knew Lucky would not make it through the next day.

“You’re not telling that story again, are you Timothy?” Grandmother said in her most stern, motherly voice she could muster. “I thought you fell asleep while reading to Lindsay.”

"No, I am just finishing a story", he stammered.

“Grandmother, I want a mouse like Lucky!” Cried Lindsay. Leveling her stern gaze upon her granddaughter, she said, “Young lady, aren’t you supposed to be asleep by now?” Grandmother bit her lower lip as she held back the tears. “Now it is time for young girls and foolish old men to be in bed, sleeping.”

“But, Grandmother, what happened to Lucky?” Lindsay begged.

Looking at him, grandmother said, “Go ahead, finish your story, old man.” She leaned against the doorframe as she listened to him finish his yarn about Lucky. But he could tell that she was not listening to his words.

“You see, Lucky was a wild mouse, and he needed to be back in the wild. On the day we released him, your Grandmother was very sad. She knew that Lucky must be set free but she did not want to let go. As we placed him on the ground, he ran off a few feet from your Grandmother and smelled the air around. Tears streamed down your Grandmothers face. After a few minutes of crying and whispered goodbyes, your grandmother and I retired to our camp. Through the window, we watched him playing in the yard. Then he disappeared and we did not see him for the rest of our stay.”

“What happened to Lucky?” Lindsay inquired with child like innocence.

“Oh, get on with it, Timothy,” Grandmother said. “Your Grandfather has such a flair for the dramatic!”

He began to finish what he started, but it was not the flair for the dramatic that stopped him. It was hard to speak when his heart was in his throat. He knew that no matter how much Kim loved him, or how much she took care of him, or how many stories he told, he would die. The cancer was eating away at his insides. The doctors told him to expect no more than a year. He wanted to believe in Lucky but his luck was running out. He could, now and forever, change the mouse's luck. “As I said, we did not see Lucky again on that trip. But on our next trip to our camp he greeted us at the door, sitting on his hind legs playing with his long mouse-tail with his front paws, waiting for our arrival. Our mouse had grown up, but still he was not much bigger than my thumb. For the rest of the year, Lucky would stop and visit on our trips to our little house in the woods." Grandmother looked at him with those eyes that said thank you, you liar. We never made another trip back to Maine after Lucky died. We never spoke about it but we both knew it was more than a mouse that haunted her.

“Is that the end of the story, Grandfather?” Lindsay asked through a small yawn. She raised her arm and brought the back of her hand to her mouth as she closed her eyes, falling to sleep.

“For now, little one, for now.” Whispered Grandfather. He climbed from his chair and rose to meet his wife. As they embraced, tears streamed down her face, and she whispered, “Let’s go to Rangeley next weekend.” His gentle kiss on her cheek was his silent confirmation.

A Hike in the Woods

10/12/2001

Snap! Crunch! Oomph! God dammit! I heard as I lay close the earth. Hugging it like a newborn baby clings to its mother. I can’t breathe, the early morning frigid air will give me away. Stay low, stay quite, stay smart, and I will stay alive, I tell myself.

My ears strain to hear every twig that is broken and every leaf that is overturned. I listen for what seems to be an eternity – I hear only an eerie silence. The stillness of two unseen warriors waiting; echoes through the chambers of my mind. I know that one of us may not survive the day.

I’ve got to breathe. My lungs hunger for life as they burn to expel the used breath. Air escapes from my nostrils in moist tendrils of steam. On any other day this would be beautiful, but today it could be my death. These tendrils rise as large signs, saying, “Here he is!” As the mist of escaped air rises and begins to dissipate, I pray that I will see home tonight. Please don’t let him see it.

Wait! Was that him or an acorn falling for a tree? An acorn – I think. Is he still there? I detect a faint trace of his sweat-ridden body on the morning breeze. I look for his breath in the cool October morning air. He must have moved on. Rising slowly from my hidden shelter, I scan my surroundings. These woods, once a place of peace and tranquility, are a battlefield with two savages struggling for supremacy. If I can retrace my steps and make it over the ridge, I should elude my nemesis.

Crack-Boom! Echoes the rifle, as the bullet splinters the tree beside me. My heart skips a beat and then momentarily stops. With no weapons, I have no choice but to run, weaving through the densely populated forest. No trees offer protection. The feral beast is behind me, chasing me. Occasionally, he fires a shot. So far, I have been lucky.

Fear makes me run like the wind, I have outdistanced him for the moment. I must move on. Cresting the ridge, I see him on all fours like an animal. If I can make it down the hill and to the north, I should lose him. It is a high-stakes game between two skillful players. Crack-Boom! Repeats the rifle, reminding me that he is still there and still coming. Charging and stumbling down the knoll, I veer to the north. I need to make the dense patch of pines before he reaches the top of knoll. I must push on, heart racing and muscles aching.

Pouring myself through the pines trees, I have a moment to catch my breath. Why is this happening again? How did I get here? I must continue. My mind drifts back to when Ernie and I started our hike. Where was Ernie? What started as a hike from Eustis to Rangeley has turned into this fight for survival. Ernie and I had been on the southwest trail for twenty minutes when the shooting had started. The crack-boom of rifles cut through the morning air. At first we were frozen, the realization of fear penetrated our minds. As Ernie and I searched for the source of gunfire, as small yellow birch tree shattered in time with around shot from the rifle. Our natural instinct for flight was triggered and without logic or reason Ernie and I ran. Ernie immediately headed north on the southwest trail and began racing for home. I found shelter behind a fallen pine tree. I witnessed two of the three men pursuing Ernie and then decided to take my chances and head southwest. I could lose this assailant in the deep woods of Rangeley, if I could reach them. I found myself wondering if Ernie made it home. Hell, would I make it home?

As the noonday sun peaked, I need water. I can’t go on without water! Slightly changing directions, I head northeast. If memory serves me well, there should be a clearing on the other side of these pine trees. That opening will allow me to make Sandy River in good time. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! I count in my head, four shots far to the north. There was enough time! I can easily make Sandy River. I can use the river to hide my tracks and quench my thirst. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! …. BOOM! Eight shots. I hope that Ernie made it. Behind the up-ended roots of a pine tree, I search the woods for the savage that is chasing me. Where is he? Where the hell is he?

Urging my sweat drenched and tired body forward, I reach the clearing, coated with the fallen leaves of the white birch trees. These trees offer no defense. I lie motionless at the clearing’s edge, wondering if he can see me. I know he is out there, but where? Damn falling leaves! Casting a sound of muffled footsteps, the falling leaves create the illusion of being stalked through the woods. The coast appears clear. Surging forward at a dead run, hoping and praying that I make it. Three hundred yards left. Legs turning, heart pounding and lungs burning; another hundred yards to go. Fifty yards. Twenty-five yards. Fifty feet. I made it!

Turning to see my success, I freeze in terror. He is at the edge of the clearing, panting for breath. He raises his gun. We are looking eye to eye through the scope of his rifle. “Please don’t pull that trigger”, I want to cry. Slowly, I back away from him. I plummet down the hill towards the river. I am not going to shake him. He is crafty, he is ferocious, and he is still coming. If I can it make to sunset, I will be free. The darkness will protect me. The sun is falling and smiling at the wildness of these woods.

I reach Sandy River and plunge in without a thought to the icy temperature of the early fall waters. Up to my chest in water, I bend down to quench my thirst. How I long for home! The cold-water flows over my tongue, down my throat, and into my stomach, replenishing my empty determination. Using the river, I wade upstream, still heading northeast. The river hides the tracks that someone of my size would make. “Take that, you animal!” I think, while looking for a place to head back into the woods. Spying a large outcropping of rock, I race forward like a crazed lunatic. Nimbly, I climb out of the frosty waters, thanks to the stone staircase. As I enter the darkening woods, I hear a loud splash as my pursuer falls into the water of Sandy River. Growling and grunting like a wild bear in captivity, he continues after me. Holding his rifle above his head with both hands, he tries to move against the strong current of the river.

Time is running out, and the end is near. He makes slow progress through the dense, chest high fir trees, the savage’s gun accidentally fires, and I am off like a lightening bolt racing the earth. His growling fades as I put more distance between us. I have to make it home. It’s getting dark, and Ernie and I should have been home a few hours ago. The sun has almost finished its goodbyes to the day. I can almost taste freedom. This beast can’t follow me into these in woods under the shadow of the night.

I break free of the last stands of fir trees and enter a lightly wooded knoll. Once past this hill, there is a clearing where many people park their trucks when hiking these woods. At a frantic pace - I want to be out of these woods - I head for the crest. Darkness creeps around me like a hunter waiting for a clear shot. At the summit, I stop dead in my tracks. There is Ernie lying in the back of a dirty red truck. His large body fills the truck to its capacity. His once majestic head and antlers lie motionless on the tailgate of the truck. Eyes wide open and purple tongue protruding from his opened mouth. His dewlap lies soaking in his own blood. Two overweight hunters swigging Miller Lite take pictures of the dead moose and of each other. Basking in their glory, the third hunter finally joins his pack of wolves. Shouts of congratulations and celebration echo through the night woods as my hunter puts his gun next to the truck and open a can of beer. He tilts his head to the night sky as he drinks a gratuitous swallow.

My friend’s dead eyes stare at me, screaming at me to run! Ernie and I will never walk these woods again. We will never rut for females under there protective covers. I can’t run. I am frozen with loss. All I can do is lift my head to the rising moon and call out Ernie’s name. MMMMMOOOOOOoooooooHHHHHooooo!

Docked to Hunter’s Cove

10/10/2001


Neil walked through the parking lot, and he headed down the cement walkway that led to the dock at the end of the Marina. He had been coming here daily for almost twenty years. He came here each day waiting for his parent’s lobster boat to arrive with their daily catch. He would watch them work unloading their captured treasure. When he was older, he would help them when they returned from the sea with their holds full. He was enthralled with the marina but at the same time he feared the ocean. Neil still came to this dock even though his parents failed to return two years ago. No one knew exactly what happened but one day his parents just did not return. Neil waited until well after the sun went down. Staring out across the harbor, he searched and waited for his parents. The Coast Guard search missions began the next day but after weeks of searching, the Coast Guard pronounced that they were missing at sea. Every day he returned to these docks waiting and watching for their return but they never did. He built his life around this routine. He liked routine.

He was born in Hunter’s Cove during the year of Hurricane Jason, and he had lived there his whole life. He never once left the confines of this small, coastal town of Maine. During his birth, he was spewed forth into Hunter’s Cove like flotsam and jetsam that accumulates beneath the docks. The storm raged outside while his mother delivered him into the world in a small bedroom on Cottage Street. The stormy days of his life passed at Hunter’s Cove, as his family struggled to make ends meet. He was born here; he feared he would die here, but he was afraid to leave. Neil was tethered to Hunter’s Cove, just as his parents would strap down precious items during the frequent hurricanes and storms. Outside of Hunter’s Cove there would be no tether and no thin protection from the storm. After they had disappeared, the storm that surrounded him receded. He was in the eye of the storm now. Neil was in the exact center of his hurricane. Ever since his parents were lost, he waited; he waited for the eeriness of his life to be destroyed by the storm’s return.

While he waited, he loved Hunter’s Cove for its warmth and protection. It was a place that everyone loved. Each summer tourists from Boston trekked here like the migrating Canadian geese. They wanted to be here and when they left they wanted to remember Hunter’s Cove. They purchased their mementos, the artifacts of a never-aging town. And during the long New England winters they would see their Hunter Cove trinkets and remember; they would then plan their return. Most of all, he loved this marina with its docks jutting into the bay like a small child’s hand playing in the water. He understood why the people flocked here but its charm was lost long ago. After all these years, he was vacant here. He wandered aimlessly through the town ending at this marina for his daily exodus. He had forgotten how to experience. He lost his ability to notice the details. He went through the perfunctory motion. He was here every day, drawn by its siren call. He stumbled through the routine; he hated Hunter’s Cove.

Comfortable, secure, and safe, he sat at the end of the dock. His feet dangled into the rising water, and he thought of nothing. His head was filled with complete emptiness. When a thought dropped into his head, it fell like a stone plummeting into a deep well. He waited and waited for it to hit the water filled bottom. Absently reaching for his lunch bag, he removed the book he was reading and a sandwich. Automatically, he unwrapped the sandwich without a thought. He placed the plastic baggie underneath his book and returned to nothingness.

Soon, it would be high tide and fishing boats would return. He watched the lobster boats come and unload their daily catch. It reminded him of his parents and there was something cathartic about watching them work. He looked down at his half eaten sandwich as he wondered whose boat would be the first to arrive. Peeling a piece of crust from his sandwich, he threw it into the murky waters. A family of ducks sensed the vibration of the bread striking the water and maneuvered towards the discarded morsel. The smallest duck attacked the water logged crust. Neil continued feeding these ducks, just as he had been all summer, always the same way everyday. He came here to find the connection that eluded him. His umbilical cord had been severed with the loss of his parents, and now he was trapped within its harbors. He no longer belonged here but he could not escape. He was not like these ducks, which were at home beneath this pier.

A sailboat entered the cove and glided towards the dock. Fascinated, Neil watched. Not many boats –other than fishing and lobster boats- drifted in and out of the marina. Behind the wheel of the sailboat stood a man slightly older than Neil. His tan body reflected the waning light of the day. His sun bleached hair hung to his shoulders. The pilot’s strong hands gripped the steering wheel as he guided his vessel towards the dock. As the ship drew near, Neil was amazed at the symphony of muscles that worked in concert to command this boat towards him. His eyes locked on the approaching vessel, and Neil felt the vibration of confidence echoing from its captain. Each ripple of assurance resonated through him like a hammer on a drum, reminding him of what he was missing. His vacuous longing skipped across the water, as a stone propelled from a child’s hand.

As the ship slowed its approach, Neil noticed a woman. She was tall - much taller than Neil. He had seen women like this before, but never in person - he usually saw them in the pages of some catalog that were still sent to his mother. She jumped from those catalogs into his solitude. In her white Capri pants that exposed her tight, shapely calves and her pink camisole shirt, which clung to her hard body, she prepared the ropes that would connect their world to his. Neil wanted these people. He wanted to be them. He wanted to be anything.

As the captain steered the boat towards the dock, the young woman held the coiled rope in one hand while running the other hand through her long brown hair. Directed through some hidden command, Neil rose. With a friendly smile, she tossed him the ship’s line. Neil caught the cord in mid air, and he linked the travelers to his pier.
Neil had helped boats dock before, but none had captured him so completely. As he ensured that the boat bumpers were secure, he felt the storm returning. The calmness that the eye of the storm brought started to vanish. His perfect world, perfect routine was disrupted. He was tossed around in a sea of emotion. Fearing he was lost, he knew he would never be the same. He gazed at the molded and worn planks of his pier and bit his lower lip. He was embarrassed to look directly at this couple. He felt his incompleteness.

The captain and his mate began discussing their next destination. He overheard them discussing going to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, or maybe Boston. He wondered how far away those destinations were. Having never left Hunter’s Cove, he had no idea of distance. His world consisted of an eight-mile coastal town in Maine. He loved this place but what kept him here, day after day, year after year?

The captain and his beautiful first mate left the ship and stood next to him as he began gathering the remains of his lunch. Always the same lunch, a ham sandwich with French’s yellow mustard on both pieces of dark wheat bread. The ham folded in half and placed squarely between the two slices of bread. He always drank Coke to choke down the semi-chewed mouthful of lunch. Like a vicious circle, that he was terrified to break or not to break.

He bent down to retrieve the crinkled lunch bag, as the captain’s worldly eyes pierced him. The captain said, “Thanks, mate, good book!” Neil stared back blankly at him. “I remember reading that book when I was college”, he said to no one in particular. Neil looked down at his worn copy of “On the Road” and the shadow of the captain blackened out the cover photographs of places on the road. Neil remarked that he enjoyed the book as well. He stood on the dock with his lunch bag and watched the couple venture to shore. As they disappeared from his view, he turned his attention back to the sailboat. Strong and sleek, this vessel told many tales to the unsuspected listener. He was caught in the enchanter’s tale like a lobster in a fisherman’s trap – like him here in Hunter’s Cove.

He dropped the bag to the dock, spilling its half-eaten sandwich and empty can of Coke to the weathered boards. The wind gently blew the emptied lunch bag towards the shore. Neil slowly followed the bag leaving his book with its pages fluttering in the breeze at the end of the dock. Removing his olive green t-shirt and dropping it to the pier, he continued on. In the parking lot of the marina, he kicked off his worn boat shoes, and he walked barefoot towards West Shore Drive. Heading east he abandoned his faded blue jeans in the middle of the road. Clad only in his underwear, he walked with purpose to the edge of town. The sign for Addison loomed in front of him; he had never been this far before. Standing taller at the town line, he hesitated, but the enchanter’s song echoed in his head, calling to him. “Come to me,” she sang, begging him to take one more step. He took off his underwear and placed them on the adjacent sign - Welcome to Hunter’s Cove. Neil, naked and freed, continued east, never looking back and never to be seen again.

Fly Away!

10/06/2001

Matt exploded through the screen door of his house at a dead run. His father raced through the door; hot on his heels. As he ran across the deck, tears streamed from his eyes. He only wanted to fly away, far, far away from here! He launched himself from the top step of the porch, and, for a brief moment, he was airborne. The fear in his eye faded ever so slightly. One way or another, the years of abuse would end. With a jarring jolt, gravity caught hold and brought him back to earth. There would be no flying today!

He raced across the graveled driveway headed for the field across the street. His bull-like father charged on after him. Seething with red rage the Minotaur’s fury burnt into the back of his neck. Faster and faster, he ran trying to outdistance himself from the monster at his heels. Across the labyrinth of fields that led to Bowles Road, he charged on. His mind raced back to those dreams of flying across these fields intermixed with the reality of the broken bones and a damaged soul. Each stride was a call to the friendly skies.

Matt crested the hill that led to Bowles Road. The gap between him and father had grown. The obscenities and curses chased after him. Faster and faster, he felt he was running close to the speed of sound. With a warm autumn wind in his face, he could not hear his father’s rants. Across the hot tarmac of Bowles Road, he ran like a warrior in retreat. Trying to break free of the maze that his life had become, he could not continue this daily fight for his dignity. Tears dried on his face and today’s bruise on his hip, were the newest injuries to this warrior.

As he ran up the dirt road that led to the local baseball field, he stumbled face first into the dusty road. Struggling to rise, he saw the raging bull charging. Ignoring the dust attached to his sweat-drenched chest and face, he threw himself to his feet and ran for his life. This battle was not going to end like this; he would escape to anywhere. It did not matter where he went, anywhere was better than here. His sleek body flowed fluidly across the baseball diamond. Looking down at the blur of his legs, he prayed for his feet to leave the ground. Just for one moment, just for once in his life - Fly!

Unaware to Matt, he had beaten his father. For the first time in his life, he had beaten his father but never noticed. The monster would not capture him. He ran and ran, not looking back. The demon of his home was becoming smaller and smaller. Standing at the edge of the baseball field, his father ranted like Rumplestiltskin, a caricature of himself. Matt rode on the sound waves of the verbal onslaught. He charged into the woods, through the low-lying shrubs, through the briars of the raspberry bushes. His bare arms and chest were excoriated with thin lines of crimson as he exited the thorny briar patch. Plummeting deeper into the woods as the sun descended on the unexpected horizon, he slowed his pace.

His worn blue jeans were soaked as he waded across Gordon’s River. On the other side of the river, he stopped and listened. No sounds of pursuit. Would he ever be safe? The solitude of the woods echoed the memories of the conflicts - all of them. He submerged himself in the cold water of Gordon’s River, washing away the dirt and tears from his face. He scrubbed the grime from his chest with vicious strokes trying more to absolve his damaged heart. He fell to his knees in the stream. His tears attempting to purify the unseen taint and transgression from his tiny body, he cried. For the first time in his life, he cried not in pain but in relief. The deluge of tears was diluted in the gentle current of Gordon’s River flushing away the hurt, the fear, and the love. As he rose from the river cleansed; he still could not fly away. He began to tug at the thorns in his side, carefully removing them.

With darkness pulling its blanket to its chin, he tried to find a place to rest for the night. In a clearing surrounded by ancient pine trees, he found the center of the Labyrinth. No trail of breadcrumbs or string to follow back, he could not return. Would not return! As the chill of darkness settled, he realized how unprepared he was for his flight and tonight he needed a place to sleep. He made a bed of dried pine needles, which he softened by stepping on over and over again. Once satisfied by his handiwork, he created a small pile of dried leaves, broken twigs, and pinecones. Removing a penknife from his pocket, he stripped the bark from a couple of weathered branches. Using those branches to rub together to start a fire, he tried and tried but after many unsuccessful attempts he threw the sticks to the ground. After the frustration wore off, he picked up pieces of wood and tried again. He rubbed those sticks together for hours but not a spark flew to the pile of kindling. In anger, he snapped the sticks in two and crashed into his pine needle cradle. How he longed to fly. One day, one night he would fly away.

As he lay in his crude bed, he dreamt of flying, flying across his yard, across Bowles Road, across the baseball field, over the woods and beyond. But even as he flew, he was touched, every time by the hand that hurt him, and words still echoed off him like radar. He remembered every hurt, every taunt and every touch. But he learned how to fly. He had learned how to fly. Running across the field, flapping his long arms like the loons of Brettun’s Pond, he became free. As the sun sneaked in upon Matt, he lay on the ground like Icarus after his fall, melted wings and broken body.

Nobody Takes Me Seriously

11/04/2001

Tuesday, July 2:

Today has been unbearable. I am stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in this three-ring circus on I-95 in Providence, Rhode Island. I can’t tell if the traffic is a result of shoppers going to the Providence Place Mall or vacationers trying to get away from here. Days like today bring out the worst in people. I have been cut-off twice, flipped off a number of times and verbally accosted by complete strangers. It is hot and I am late.

I need the next exit but no one is giving an inch. Driving in this congestion is like walking on stilts for the first time. One wrong move, one improper shift in weight and you tumble down. I make my move. The asshole in the right hand lane is pissed. He flips me off while calling me a fucking bozo. I smile and wave. I am so goddamn late. They won’t understand, and they won’t listen to reason because nobody takes me seriously.

This has been the story of my life. Always the funny one. Always the class clown. I have been the butt of jokes since the day I was born. Rumor has it, that I was born butt first in a very difficult breach birth. My mother has said, when the doctor slapped my ass after delivery that I didn’t cry, but I laughed like some crazy Harlequin.

A Dodge Caravan pulls next to my small car, with its horn blasting like Harpo Marx. A van loaded with teenagers with nothing better to do than moon an old broken down man in a 75’ VW Beetle. I make everyone laugh but why can’t I laugh myself.

Once again, my poor wife will be disappointed, when she finds out that today’s interview was bad. He laughed all right but he would not take me seriously. He said that he would call me but that is what they all say. I even had Verizon test my phone but they just laughed. I need to get a job, a real job and then maybe someone, anyone, will take me seriously.

Once I got off the highway, I made good time to the Swartz’s home. I would be five minutes late. Not bad but the Swartz’s would laugh. I pulled into the driveway of their grand home, bringing my car to a complete stop. Quickly, I checked my face in the mirror. The white grease make-up was perfectly applied and the bright red eye shadow sweated in the heat. I was ready. Ready to make them laugh.

Confidential

10/27/2001

We stood in the center of the break area, like Robin Hood’s gang of merry men plotting against the Sheriff of Nottingham, when Jonathan entered. For a moment there was silence, all eyes watched him without actually looking at him. Coyly, Frank attempted to change the subject to this weeks Patriots and Broncos game while shuffling yesterday’s paper in his hands. Jonathan fumbled with the package under his arm, as he left the break area and the door swung shut. The impromptu session of the Avanti gossip club resumed.

“It’s just not right!” Shirley exclaimed. “How can he just walk back in here?” She was the high priestess of the rumor mill. She knew everyone. She knew everyone’s dirty little secrets. When she learned of these hidden treasures of juicy knowledge, she would broadcast them out to her network of friends just like the six o’clock news. Looking at Jennifer for support, she repeated herself “you know what I mean, it’s just not right!”

Jennifer the ever-pleasant lookout noted, “he’s watching us.” And in one fluid motion all heads turned and stared at Jonathan with that ‘I know what you did’ stare. Frank brought us back into focus as he unfolded the crinkled paper. He read, “At 10:56 on October 27, Jonathan Kempler and Donald Mitchell were arrested for lewd conduct, sodomy and immoral behavior in the parking lot of Newport’s second beach. The arresting officer indicated that Kempler and Mitchell were engaging in inappropriate sexual acts at the time of arrest. Both men were released on bail.”

“I knew there was something wrong with him all along. He never had me fooled.” Carol was saying with the conviction of a puritan. Earlier in the year, Carol was a major topic of conversation at the company, when her and Dave from shipping were having an affair and got caught by their spouses. Carol was a very attractive woman and we enjoyed tearing her to shreds. Now, she was this group’s most virulent member. “You remember when we tried to fix Amy up with him? Poor Amy she never knew that she was in love with a fag.” We giggled. “Poor Amy. Has anyone told her?”

Shirley piped in, “Amy is on vacation this week but I sent her an e-mail last night.” Her smug little face pinched with satisfaction at her efficiency. Despite her small ‘Weeble’ like stature, she ruled over us. She presided over this court like she governed over her family. We had heard that both of her children will be out of therapy soon. And her poor husband - God rest his soul. They say it was an accident but we know better. She continued, “I can’t believe it is true. He seemed like such a nice guy.”

“Here he comes!” whispered Jennifer through her rose colored chubby cheeks. We all said that Jennifer would be a striking woman if she would lose fifty pounds. We were quiet. Conspicuously, we sipped at our coffee. The tension was building, as Jonathan entered the break area carrying the package under his arm. He placed the package on the counter next to the coffee machine and he made himself a cup of tea. No one talked; no one made eye contact; no one breathed. We all noticed the manila package staring at us from the counter but the red word ‘Confidential’ indelibly stamped on the top cover intrigued us. As he left the room, we all suppressed our laughter, the laughter of teenagers that almost get caught smoking pot. Suddenly, seriousness set in as Carol wailed, “I wonder what is in that package?”

“Look at how he walks. He is definitely a Homo.” Frank blurted out. Frank, the oldest member of our cadre, was the emotional one of the group. It would take him the longest to come to terms with the situation. Frank had a rumor swapping old maid quality that made him annoyingly loveable. “I just don’t understand why they exist…” Frank was perplexed like the time he tried to explain to his wife about the massive amount of pornography that he downloaded from the Internet.

Then Jack came riding in like Paul Revere, “Did you hear?” he almost shouted. With one concert voice, we responded, “Yes. It all over the newspaper.”
“Well what are we going to do?” Jack anxiously asked. Jack was twenty years removed from being the star quarterback of his High School football team. He was ready for action. “My brother, Jeremy, is a cop in Newport and he told me that they were parking like a couple of kids after the prom. My brother always catches couples parking at that beach; he usually messes with them and then lets them go. But he has never caught a couple of queers. How perverted! What are we going to do?”

“It’s just not right!” we said.

“He is leaving his office.” Jennifer whispered. As Jonathan and his parcel headed towards the warehouse, we crowded to the window of the break area door. When we were sure he had entered the warehouse, we raced to Carol’s desk so that we could continue watching him. Carol commanded her phone like an intelligence agent collecting information from her field operatives. We tracked his every move with the precision of a guided missile. He had fooled us once, but we were on to him.

As he headed back to his office, Carol reported, “He had Dave in shipping make him a J12 box”. We looked at each other and wondered what Dave saw in the little slut. As he walked past our little committee carrying a small brown box, Jack spoke “Hi Jon, did you have a good weekend?” We lost it! We rumbled with laughter. We cried. He ignored us and continued to his office. “That was a good one, Jack. I almost pissed my pants!” cried Frank. “Did you see his face? He almost cried like a little faggot.” We erupted.

In his office, he looked at the bare walls. No family pictures made this office homey or warm. The sparse desk was not cluttered with pictures of his loved ones; no lovers, no kids, no dogs, no one. Jonathan removed his confidential package from the empty container he had the shipping department make. Placing the parcel on his desk; he packed his personal belongs: the Pride in Avanti award that he won last month, his two employee of year awards, a couple of books that he had been reading and the Cross pen his grandmother gave him for Christmas. Closing the box, he looked at his watch. He laid the confidential package on top of the brown J12 box. He lifted the memories of six years of work from his desk and placed them under his arm. He walked out of his office, through our gauntlet, through the break area, to the time clock by the break area door, he punched out at 8:47. Without saying a word, he walked over to the lunchroom table and placed his package on it. Turning he left the break area and finally disappeared out the front door.

It stared at us! The red word ‘Confidential’ beckoned us. Like vultures we descended on the package, ripping open the outer cover that protected the closely guarded contents. Nothing was safe; nothing was sacred from us. We would uncover every hidden action! Ferret out every disguised truth and then fabricate what was missing! We attacked. To our horror, we recoiled. As a manuscript titled CONFIDENTIAL: THE SECRET LIVES OF MY FELLOW EMPLOYEES, fell into our hands.