WILD TALES: A SIXTH GRADE REVIEW

Understanding that my writing skills are equivalent to a typical sixth grader, I am using a time honored grade school outline for the following book report.

I  Book Basics:  Wild Tales by Graham Nash, copyright 2013, published by Crown Publishing Group, 360 pages, autobiography, black and white photographs throughout.

II  Basic Theme:  Graham Nash is a good guy.

III Target Audience:  Old white people.

IV  Author Information:  Graham Nash was born in a poor area of northern England in 1942 to parents who were an odd lot (whose aren’t), he loved music and art from an early age, started played skiffle and primitive rock while in middle school, was a founding member of the Hollies (Bus Stop, Carrie Anne, King Midas in Reverse), loved America and became an American citizen, joined the supergroup Crosby, Stills, Nash and (sometimes) Young, did tons of blow, smoked tons of weed, shagged lots of birds, raised a family in Hawaii, started a second life as a photographer, activist and artist before writing this book. 

V  The Protagonist:  The hero and main character of the book is Graham Nash.  He is a good man.  His background was modest, his curiosity and balls were not.  The people in the section of England where he grew up tended to stay put and lead a life of quiet resignation.  Nash did not settle for that.  He loved singing and harmonizing and was never afraid to try something new.  This talent and curiosity culminated in receiving the Order of the British Empire from the Queen.  His shortcomings are difficult to discern; he is the author after all.  I would say that his songs tend to be more simple musically and lyrically than the others in his supergroup.  Even that “shortcoming” could be considered a strength as his most popular tunes “Our House”, “Teach Your Children” and “Just A Song Before I Go” stand out amongst the angst and politicism of his comrades. 

VI  The Antagonist:  The villain in the book ( if there is one), is the best friend of the author, David Crosby.  Nash is a star in England and visiting America in the late 60’s when they meet.  Croz (as he is called) turns him on to weed, shows him that his songs with The Hollies are kid stuff, introduces him to his first profound love in Joni Mitchell and makes millions of fans and dollars with him in CSN.  None of that is bad.  What is bad is that Crosby morphs into a freebasing, violent, jailbird covered in sores and killing his liver.  “Long Time Gone “ is a great song, but not great enough to atone for all the hurt this guy put his friends and family through.

VII  One Other Character:  The most interesting side character in the book is Neil Young.  He is an asshole.  He does not play well with others.  Nash once sent a heart- felt email to Young pouring out his feelings about the fractured relations within the band in hopes of reconciliation.  Young’s brief reply was, “What a load of shit.”  Please don’t make this brevity out to be cool.  It’s an example (one of millions) of his interest in Neil Young only.  What a pain.  Oh yeah, his guitar solos are often pointless and too fucking long (my opinion, not Graham’s).

VIII  The Conflict:  Everyone is familiar with the Behind the Music series.  This is not much different, just bigger names (John Lennon, Mama Cass Elliott, David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Neil Young, Jackson Browne, Joni Mitchell) and bigger places (Woodstock, Buckingham Palace, Fillmore East, Berlin Wall, White House).  Nash comes from less than humble beginnings (outdoor plumbing), becomes obsessed with music (stalking the Everly Brothers), earns his professional chops (Hollies), becomes a mega star (CSNY), falls apart (ego and drugs), makes a comeback (family and activism), lives happily ever after (full head of hair).

IX  Recommendation:  Confession:  I am a music snob.  If I don’t like it, its probably not worth a damn.  I used to turn up my nose at CSNY.  Nash got the brunt of my disrespect.  Stills and Young were guitar gods, Crosby was a bad ass who almost cut his hair.  Nash was the Brit along for the ride.  Wrong on all counts.  Separately, they are tremendous.  Together, legendary.  Their songwriting talent and harmonizing is undeniable.  Nash is at least one fourth of this.  His writing, singing and personality go a long way in making CSNY a supergroup and not just a cash grab.  The book is an easy read.  Of course, the stories about Woodstock and Crosby are great. You will also find stories like Nash turning down Cass Elliot’s sexual advances interesting as well.  What I found most profound was the process that allowed a skinny kid from humble beginnings to become a household name, fuck up along the way and come out the other side with his life intact.  Good man, good read.

X  Conclusion:  Dig this and ponder how two guys as obviously baked as Nash and Crosby could sound so fucking good.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4r_HWWQyCs

Cheers!  Jim

THURSTON AND LOVEY VS NORTON AND TRIXIE

Bigot:  A person intolerantly devoted to his own opinions and prejudices; especially one who treats members of a specific group with hatred or intolerance.

I am a bigot.

I am intolerant and prejudiced and feel a great deal of hatred toward the wealthy.

I mention this because I have recently returned from a family vacation Up North.  We rented a house in Northport, at the tip of the Leelanau Peninsula.  It was not the first time we rented a vacation spot in that area, having rented in Empire two of the last three years.  It was not even the first time we have spent time in Northport, having walked their shops and parks during vacations past.

This time was different and I am fairly certain that it was the Peninsula in general and Northport specifically that changed.  This area has always straddled the line between courting regular families and wealthy ones. Glen Arbor and Leland have always leaned wealthy, Empire and Northport more middle class.  I am sorry to report that we have lost Northport.  

Welcome to Birmingham North.

This is how I know we have lost Northport:

The easiest way to spot these wealthy vacationers is their uniform.  The foundation is the leather tie shoe worn sans socks, known as the topsider ( I had to google “boating shoe” to discover this term).  Next comes the solid earth tone bermuda shorts worn  crisply with belt.  The top is a polo shirt tucked into the shorts, possibly worn in conjunction with a crested solid color sweater.  This goes for both sexes.

Identifying the rich horde through their actions is almost as easy as using their plumage.

I take you to Fisher’s Happy Hour Tavern, just outside Northport.  When you walk into this crowded eatery, there is a narrow porch running the width of the dining room where you wait for your table.  The hostess is replaced by a dry erase board, where you are instructed to write down your name and the amount of people in your party.  As the parties are called, the waitress quickly erases the name from the board and moves on. 

Because it is crowded and because a dry erase board is by nature messy, the board itself gets smeared.  Patrons will sometimes police the board, completing half hearted erasures or writing in partially erased letters.  I was not surprised to see my wife Andrea take her turn at tidying the board, as this kind of messiness and her love of penmanship made fussing with the board irresistible.

My son Jackson and I were sitting in a cramped two person booth watching the wealthy bossing around the waitstaff. I had just completed instructing him to “never take any crap from someone because they have money” when the fat fuck in the booth next to me bellowed out “Why did you erase our name?”  I was shocked to see that this was directed at Andrea, but she was more than up for it.

“I didn’t erase your name.”  Very controlled.

“Well, it’s not up there.”

“The waitress is erasing names.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but our name isn’t up there anymore.”

I had more than enough of his bullshit.

“She said she didn’t erase your name, now look elsewhere.”

If I had more time, I might have sprinkled in some cursing or got more puffy, but Mr. Rich got the idea and waddled into the dining room for answers.  When he came out, he stopped briefly and apologized.  It wasn’t exactly a Good Will Hunting showdown, but it felt good.

Once inside the dining area, we watched a large table of wealthies acting poorly.  Included in this behavior were two men talking about a “piece of ass” in front of their spouses, a whining/juice spilling child old enough to know better playing on the floor and a table full of adults old enough to know better excusing her poor behavior until her Mom got up and left in a huff.

Later in the week, after daughter Rachel had joined the vacation revelry, Jackson and I decided to go for a ride around the peninsula while the ladies shopped.  My son is a quality, but novice driver, and I worried about him pulling into the busy Suttons Bay traffic.  He saw his opening and started out into M-22.  The asshole behind him did the same thing at the same time and instead of letting The Kid ease out in front of him and be cool, he bum rushed our car and laid on the horn.  Jackson was a bit rattled, but I calmed him and told him he had done nothing wrong, that the guy in the little red BMW was at fault.

As we progressed through the bustling downtown, I heard a honk from behind and looked in my side view mirror in time to see this little shit pointing to his head and acting tough.  Fuck that.  I started to unbuckle and open the passenger side door until I heard a horrified Jackson say “Daddy, don’t”.  I was pleased to see the turd behind us react to my displeasure by taking evasive action and jetting down a side street.  Jack then reminded me that the first rule of stopping road rage is to stay in your car.  Good tip!

The remainder of our time in Northport was spent quietly.  I say quietly because not one person we came in contact with engaged us in conversation.  And, previous evidence aside, we are a very friendly family.  Really.

I might also point out that visions of grandeur in previously sleepy Northport has meant that the “downtown” area is always busy.  This means that driving, parking and getting a bite to eat are a chore. 

I compare Northport with two days spent in the sleepy, possibly stoned town of Empire.  I fucking love Empire.  It is rumpled, tie-dyed, impaired, casual, sandy, talkative, dread locked.  The uniform of the day is a wet bathing suit, flip-flops and a t-shirt.  I have lots of all of those items, and consider myself pretty sharp in this milieu.

We ate a late lunch at the appropriately named Friendly’s and were served by the most mild mannered waitress of all time.  She was young, wore dreads and could not have been more laid back.  After each of our beer and food choices, she would quietly comment “nice” or “good choice” or “perfect”.  It was the type of comment one might make if one had recently hit a fatty and someone was talking food.  Just guessing.

Once we left Friendly’s, it was on to Tiffany’s for an ice cream.  The floor inside had almost as much sand as the beach, it was manned by three kids who looked like they were here on a break from skateboarding, and the ice cream was fantastic and piled high. A quick note about daughter Rachel and Tiffany’s:  When we first walked in, Ray said she was too full from lunch for ice cream.  We walked two blocks in five minutes before she proclaimed she was now ready and sauntered back for a cup of Eskimo Kiss.  That’s my girl!

During our walk, we stopped and looked at a home with a variety of gnomes and college football memorabilia dotting the landscape.  The homeowner and her friend chatted us up instantly, talking football rivalries, bar food and all things Empire.  We continued our walk and looked at the two houses we rented in years gone by, the vacant lot home to a score of Empire cats, and the hippie pad on Front Street selling homemade granola (I have a feeling you better be settled in when you nibble on that granola).

While piling back into the car for the ride back to Northport, we decided as a family that we could not possibly say good-bye to all that the Leelanau Peninsula has to offer.  We would, however, say good-bye to the uppity, self important, loathsome rich pricks in the cities to the north and stick with our people in Empire. 

Cheers! Jim

BROWN FURY

  I had just completed a long Monday evening bike ride through the mean streets of Allen Park and Southgate and was putting my bike away in the garage.  As can sometimes happen, the path leading to the back of the garage was crowded with chairs, rakes and games.  I remedied this situation by picking up a patio chair and hurling it across the ping pong table to the opposite side of the garage where it came to rest on a surprised lawn mower.

   I wasn’t mad at the chair.  I was mad at the world because of my upcoming colonoscopy.  The chair was just handy.

   I had been dodging this appointment for six years, since the age of fifty.  That is the magic number deemed by doctors when people should take a harsh laxative, shit their brains out, see a doctor, have a pipe blow air into their asshole and search for bad stuff  (what else would you expect to find back there anyway?).

   It all began with a trip to my family physician for my yearly physical, a misnomer since it had been two years since I had gone.  After fondling my balls and sticking a finger (fingers?) up my arse, I was proclaimed to be in good condition.  Better than two years ago, if you believe the numbers.  But this was not good enough for Dr. Dziobak.  I was ignoring my colonoscopy. 

   After his lecture and a tsk-tsk from the receptionist, I arrived home to find that my wife was in lock step with the two health care professionals.  Were these three in cahoots?  

   I cursed up a storm, but promised to call Dr. Puccio the following day to set up my appointment.  Based on what I knew about the health care industry, I was expecting to hear that the earliest appointment would be in the fall.  But the tricky bastards at Oakwood Hospital informed me that I could make an appointment for the middle of next week.  I have been lying for fifty-six years and consider myself highly skilled, but I could not come up with one reason why I shouldn’t take the 7 am appointment for Wednesday of the following week.

   For the next few days, I was an utter asshole to live with (more so than usual, a Herculean task).  I did not need a colonoscopy because:

 I have no symptoms of colon cancer.

 My family has no history of colon cancer.

 I live a healthy life.

 I am insanely regular.

 I have never received anesthesia and have a heart murmur, so something bad might happen.

 The doctor might nick something during the procedure and I will leave with a bag attached to my body (how could I go out boozing with such an attachment?  Who am I kidding, I’d decorate the bag and go).

 In five years, colonoscopies would go the way of tonsil removals; it is a gimmick to make money for the health industry. 

   I wore down Andrea throughout the week, and a couple of times she told me to “cancel the damn appointment”.  But, I didn’t and the Tuesday before the Wednesday appointment arrived.  I would go to work that day and endure all of the usual bullshit on a diet of green Jello and Gator-Aide.  Yummy!

   I hustled through the work day so that I could get home and begin the laxative drink- fest.  The ride home was spent listening to loud music and getting my mind right, a warrior going to battle.  Andrea was outside working in the yard when I exited my vehicle.

   “Let’s do this.” (I now recognize the eye rolling theatrics of such a remark). 

   Looking in the fridge, I was shocked to see the size of the laxative jug, bigger than the gallon of milk it sat next to.  I was to drink eight ounces every fifteen minutes.  I regarded the label.  Thank God it was lemon flavored.

   I decided to log (pun intended) my drinking and shitting times on a sheet (pun intended) of paper.  For the next five hours, I would chug each disgusting oily/salty high powered laxative dose in two or three gulps.  Lemon, no.  Lemon Pledge, maybe. 

   I regarded the enormous jug warily.  The thought of emptying it was daunting.  Then something on the label caught my eye.  If, during the process, my waste turned into clear water, I could stop drinking the noxious liquid.  Hope.

  WARNING:  GRAPHIC BOWEL MOVEMENT DESCRIPTION TO FOLLOW

   My first sit down contained a degree of solidity.  The remaining bouts were pure, evil liquid.  The force of the expelling is startling.  If you have ever used a garden hose with an adjustable nozzle, and opened the nozzle completely so that the water rushes out in its widest stream, you have some idea of what my Tuesday afternoon was all about.  During this time, I read a Sports Illustrated cover to cover, including an article on conservation. 

   Sadly, clear liquid never shot out of my ass.  It always maintained a certain sewer water quality forcing me to finish all of the laxative in the jug-o-fun.  

   Thirteen shits later, the jug and I were both empty. I threw away my Sports Illustrated, asked Andrea to hit the sofa I had been resting on with a mega dose of Fabreeze and fell asleep.

GRAPHIC SHIT RENDERING OVER:  WEAK STOMACHS MAY CONTINUE READING

   Wednesday morning:  No eating, no drinking, no daily med. Once in my tastefully decorated private room complete with cable television and remote, I was instructed to strip to my socks and put on the open assed hospital gown.  I declined the use of the television (first time I ever said no to the remote).  I also declined polite conversation with my wife and stared straight ahead.     

   It was not easy to be this way, as everyone I came in contact with was professional and pleasant.  Almost too pleasant.  I could hear the workaday chit chat between nurses   and doctors, songs being idly sung by those walking from room to room.  Business as usual, a Wednesday.  Didn’t they know I was tight as hell?

   Yes, they knew.  Each of them reminded me that yesterday was the tough part and that today was going to be a breeze.  Everyone introduced themselves, explained what they were doing and spoke highly of Dr. Puccio.  Relaxing was not an option, but I did not feel worse, and that made me feel better.

   In a short period of time, they came to wheel me into the operating room.  It was dark and cold in the room.  I was instructed to lie on my side and open up the back of my gown by the only young and attractive nurse I would see all morning ( I personally debunked the “older guys are hot” theory for her).  I saw Dr. Puccio walk into the room with a styrofoam cup of coffee and was told by the anesthesiologist that he would begin administering the anesthesia.  For the briefest second a chill surge traveled up my arm.

   I woke up in my private room. One minute or one day could have passed for all I knew.  A nurse that I had not met earlier was by my side asking how I felt.  Taking a moment to consider, I replied that I felt great.  She asked if I wanted something to eat and drink.  I settled on black coffee and four Lorna Doones.  Fucking Lorna Doones rule!

   Soon, Dr. Puccio entered the room.  For the first time I noticed how young and handsome he was.  Probably rich as hell too.  Dick!  He told me that everything went well, looked fine and that there were no polyps that needed removal.  My hero!

   Two hours after I left home scared as hell, I was back in the cozy confines of my kitchen with Andrea making me breakfast.  My relief and happiness was deep.

   A week later while watching television with my wife, a public service announcement blasting my arguments against the colonoscopy was aired.  Andrea’s relief and happiness was deep.

Cheers, Jim 

PS  On the bright side, it did open up a whole avenue of crap talk for a week!

INFLUENCE

 DWAYNE

   Last night was not the first time Dwayne had been on the wrong side of the law.  In his neighborhood, if you didn’t take, you were a punk.  Dwayne was no punk.  He had been stealing and selling, little and big since grade school.  

   He took some shit from his Mom.  What else could you expect from a woman who went to church not once, but twice a week, giving away paper money she really didn’t have.  Still, she was the only person Dwayne cared about.  She knew he was dirty.  He knew that she knew he was dirty.  The paper money they both knew Dwayne put in her oversized purse every week kept their mouths shut.  It wasn’t perfect.  It was how they lived.

   Last night was different.  Dwayne had walked by the well kept bungalow almost every day for two weeks, never stopping, never calling attention.  Just a kid on the way to the bus stop.  A kid who watched a heavy set woman in hospital gear get into her shit car every afternoon at 4:30.  Knowing that winter darkness sets in about one hour later, Dwayne made plans to get into her house through the rickety bedroom window off the back yard.   

   Didn’t matter that Christmas was right around the corner, business was business. It would be easy.

   It was easy.  In a matter of minutes, he found himself in the dimly lit back bedroom, getting the feel of the house.  When he felt comfortable and no dog was tearing up his ass, he flicked on the bedroom light.  The wigs lining the dresser top directly in front of Dwayne scared the shit out of him.  He was surprised by the high pitched gasp that escaped.  

   “ Fuck me.”

   Sitting in the middle of the dresser, nestled amongst the wigs, was a highly polished wood box emblazoned with “Jesus Saves...Save for Jesus.”  Dwayne didn’t know this woman, but he knew her.  She believed that there was no need to hide money because Jesus would take care of her.  Just like my Mom, he thought as he caught sight of himself in the dresser mirror.

   He licked his lips and looked around the room, saw the crucifix with the wilted palms hanging over the bed.  “Like my Mom”.  This time aloud.

   Dwayne turned back to the dresser and opened the glossy box.  Paper money, not a lot, but enough.  He grabbed the cash, fanned out the bills and nodded appreciatively at the wise face of Benjamin Franklin peering out from among the Washingtons and Lincolns.

   He spent the rest of the evening and the gray early morning that followed, driving around by himself, sipping beer, smoking one cigarette after another.  He never got drunk, never counted the money, never enjoyed himself either and was surprised when he saw the sky lightening. 

   Jelly Donut.  He pulled into the parking lot, looked around, poured out the rest of his warm beer, and went inside for a coffee, three sugar, two cream.  

   It took him two tries to understand what he owed the woman behind the counter.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his earnings, more than a little pissed at having to ask “What” twice. 

    When Dwayne left, walking around the working stiff waiting in line wearing a nylon Flanagan Moving jacket, he didn’t notice Ben Franklin looking wisely up at him from the worn tan and brown speckled tile floor.  

   

JIM

   Jim regarded his shabby work coat and frowned.  Working the day before Christmas, no Christmas bonus (for me anyway), nothing in the house for breakfast, he found himself in line at the local donut shop.  

  Jelly Donut. Not Tim Horton’s or Dunkin Donut.  Jelly Donut.

  He shifted from foot to foot, checking out the worn formica and the coffee skinned couple taking orders (probably from India, damn heathens don’t even know that tomorrow is Christmas), and felt his mood darken.

   The fat pink sweat pants in front of him was taking forever putting together her dozen donuts (after the fourth donut, while the tears streaked her round cheeks, what difference would it really make).

   He resisted the urge to yell “Hurry the fuck up”, but needed to let out some anger the way a child lets air out of a balloon.  Jim lowered his head and almost inaudibly said, “Hurry the fuck...”

   Looking at him from the worn tan and brown speckled tile floor was the wise face of Benjamin Franklin.

   “Up” he finished, bending over and pocketing the bill.

   My Christmas bonus found me, Jim thought.  He started to recall a short story by O Henry, but the details of the plot were long washed away by drink.  Jim knew it had something to do with making sacrifices so that others could have a happy holiday.  Not this guy, he thought, stuffing Franklin into the pocket of his nasty work coat.  

   It was almost time to place his order.  Pink sweat pants was pointing out donut eleven or twelve, he had lost count in the excitement.  Jim surveyed the room, surprised to hear his ragged breathing.  There was pink pants, a young mom and her two kids sitting quietly at the counter, an old man with a red pickle of a nose stirring a steady stream of sugar into his coffee, a young couple not dressed for the cold talking intimately and waiting patiently, and a sharp nosed businessman standing a little too close checking out the greasy donuts in the glass case.

   “Did anyone drop some money on the floor?”

   Who the hell said that, Jim thought.  Was it me?  It couldn’t be.  Why would I?  It’s mine, I found it.  Finders keepers (he heard that one in a sing song tone).  Everyone turned and was looking at him.

   It was me.

CLARK

   Clark was not happy about being in Jelly Donut.  He had pulled his Audi off the freeway because he was nervous about the morning audit and needed a jelly donut to calm his nerves.  He did not want it from Jelly Donut, but there was not a lot to pick from in this part of town.  So Clark stood impatiently in line behind a man about his age wearing a frayed nylon work jacket.  He looked at his overcoat and wondered what made him a success and this working class stiff a loser.

   About my age, a little taller, a lot thicker, he thought, instinctively sucking in his gut.  Clark took in the worn boots, dark jeans and nylon jacket.  Was that beer?  He shifted a  bit closer to the man to get a whiff, being careful not to get too close.  You know how short tempered these people are he thought.  Besides, I haven’t done anything physical in years and I am not about to start by rolling around in Jelly Donut.

   Yes, it was beer.  At 7:30 in the morning.

   Clark’s attention was diverted by a black man walking away from the counter.  Their eyes locked for one second.  “Fuck you Whitey.”  Clark never saw the man’s lips move, but he heard what he heard.  He looked away, studying the “to go” menu intently.  When he was sure the spade (his late father’s word) was gone, he looked back at nylon jacket.

   Clark was surprised by the swiftness of nylon jacket’s next move.  He bent down with the ease of an athlete and picked up a bill from the floor.  Now it was Clark’s turn to move.  Sliding forward as if to inspect the greasy offerings in the glass counter, he shifted his eyes just in time to see Ben Franklin’s face being pushed into nylon jacket’s pocket.

   Clark was instantly irritated.  That’s my money.  Clark felt that all money should be his money.  He felt particularly strong about this Ben Franklin, sure that nylon jacket would piss it away on beer or weed or pussy.  It’s not that I need the money, he thought fingering the wallet in his breast pocket, it’s just that I know what to do with it.

   He watched nylon jacket scour the room.  What the hell was this fool doing?  He wouldn’t, would he?

   “I did, oh my God I did.”  Clark moved toward nylon jacket patting both his pants and coat pockets.  “I dropped a $100 bill, must have happened when I was looking for change to get a newspaper, please tell me that you have it.”  Nylon jacket had turned to face him, only two feet away now, taking him in, hoping for any sign of bullshit, any reason to kick the shit out of this bloated suit.  

   Clark waited an eternity.  Nylon jacket looked around the quiet room, the gloomy headlines from news radio the only sound.  Every face was turned toward the odd couple.  Nobody moved, nobody protested.   Clark was practiced at waiting to get his way.  Eventually nylon coat produced the now limp bill from his pocket and looked Clark in the eyes.  

   Is he moving closer to me?

   “Thanks, man, you saved my ass,” Clark said hoping that “man” and “ass” would allow nylon jacket to relate to him.  He saw instantly that it failed, felt that everyone in the room hated him, felt the urge to get the money and flee.  “Can I offer you a reward?”  he asked knowing that there was no way nylon jacket could take it.

   “No”.

   Clark took the money.  “Thank you, thank you so much”  Backing toward the door now, like a thief making his getaway.  “Merry Christmas”.

   At the door now, his silver Audi twenty yards away.

   “You forgot your fucking paper.”

   He was out.

DWAYNE

   Dwayne didn’t think things could get any worse.

   Inexplicably lose a Ben Franklin of his hard earned money: Check.

   Be woken up at the crack of dawn by his Mother demanding he attend Christmas Mass:  Check.

   Be informed that he would not be attending Mass dressed like a “hoodlum”:  Check.

   And now that all of the praying, endless singing and thunderous sermonizing had ended,  Dwayne was informed that he would be attending a luncheon for “those less fortunate” at the Parish Center.

   Dwayne had already put more money than he would have liked into the green felt lined basket passed around during services.  What more would be required at the luncheon?

   “Who’s less fortunate than we are?  This lunch better be something special”, Dwayne grumbled to his Mom during the short walk across the church parking lot to the Center.

   “Coffee and pound cake,” his Mom answered holding her hat to her head in the strong winter winds.  

   “That ain’t no...”

   He stopped when he noticed the look his Mom was giving, the same one she had been using on him for twenty-two years.  The one that said, “ I will put up with only so much bullshit.”

   His Mom was pleased that the look still worked.  Dwayne allowed a small smile.  

   “That’s better son,” she offered.  “We’re going to get something to eat and see about helping others less fortunate than ourselves.”

   Dwayne put his arm tightly around his Mom’s rounded shoulders and pretended to help with the chore of keeping hat on head.  His mom laughed and playfully pushed his hands away.

   Once inside the Parish Center, Dwayne helped his mom find two seats next to her church friends and went to get coffee and cake.  He shook hands and chatted with two of the ushers and was almost back to the table when he caught sight of the blonde tipped wig talking with his Mother.

   It had to be her.  Too late to walk away.  Too late to do anything but set the coffee and cake down and act like nothing was the matter.  

   ‘Cause nothing was the matter, Dwayne reasoned.

   “Selma, Mrs. Givens, I mean, this is my son, Dwayne.”

   She took Dwayne in, made no effort to hide her up and down once over. “I think we’ve met.”

   “No, I don’t think so,” Dwayne began, “I’m sure I would have remembered.”  He forced a smile.

   Dwayne’s mom laughed a little too loud.  Ms. Selma Givens did not.  She continued looking Dwayne over.  Like I’m in a police lineup Dwayne thought holding her stare.

  “ Maybe you’re right, but you do look familiar,” a long finger bobbing up and down in the air between them. Quiet for a moment.  “Well, I better make the rounds.  I’ll see you before you leave.  Nice meeting you Dwayne.”

   He was shaken up, even more so when his Mom whispered to him that poor Mrs. Givens house had been broken into.  While she was at work no less.  Took all of her church money.  From her Jesus Saves box. 

   Mother and Son looked at each other a beat longer than usual before Dwayne turned his attention to the pound cake.

   “Not as good as yours.” 

   Dwayne spent the next twenty minutes avoiding Ms. Selma Givens and keeping tabs on her at the same time.  He thought he saw her checking him out on a couple of occasions, but was not sure.

   When his Mom was finally ready to go, it was Dwayne who delayed.  The church coffee and Ms. Selma Givens had unnerved him.  He would need relief before the ten minute drive home.  

   The piss took forever.  And, as Dwayne washed his hands and regarded himself in the mirror, he knew that Ms. Selma Givens would be waiting on him.

   He was right.  She was talking intimately with his Mom.  Both ladies turned their heads his way.  Dwayne walked right over, nothing wrong.

   “You do look familiar Dwayne.  I live at Ogden and Pence.  You work that way?  Catch the Ogden Street bus?”

  “No Ma’am.  I don’t get to the east side much, I’m...”

   “Dwayne doesn’t have a steady job,” his mom interrupted.  “He does this and that to make ends meet, ain’t that right Dwayne?”

   Mother and Son looking at each other.

   “That’s right Mama, I do this and that to help make ends meet.”

   “Dwayne.”

   “Dwayne.”

    He turned to face Ms. Selma Givens.

   “Dwayne, I supervise the afternoon shift at Centennial Rehab.  Been there for fifteen years and got a little pull.  If a strong young man such as yourself was interested, I could probably get you a job working afternoons. Hard work.  But you get treated fair, get a paycheck every two weeks.”

   It was the last thing that Dwayne wanted.  Working with a bunch of old people, facing Selma Givens every day.  A list of all the reasons a steady job was bullshit began to pile up in his head. He was still compiling his list when he felt the tug of his mother at his sleeve. 

   “Dwayne, Ms. Givens is talking to you.”

   He looked not at Ms. Givens, but at his Mom and answered.

   “Thank you Ms. Givens.  It might be nice to have steady work for a change.  I’ll stop in early next week and look you up. ” 

   Ms. Givens said no more, nodded her head slightly and walked away.

   The ride home was quiet.  Dwayne saw his Mom glance his way on more than one occasion, heard a sound die on her lips a couple of times.

   When they entered their home, Dwayne announced that he was tired and was going to lie down before dinner. 

   As he started to walk away, he heard his Mother say,  “It was a nice service, wasn’t it son?”

   Dwayne turned and faced his Mom.

   “Yes it was.”

JIM

Christmas morning for Jim and his girlfriend of two years Patricia got underway at one in the afternoon.  They both looked like early morning, hair piled on top of tired faces, rumpled sweat pants and t-shirts under old fashioned terry robes.  Jim carried a large mug of coffee into the living room, Patricia sipped at the remains of her bed side Coke Zero.

   Jim reached behind the artificial Christmas tree and produced a poorly wrapped gift box and held it out in front of him.  Patricia feigned surprise and theatrically asked, “For me?”

   “It ain’t much babe, but I saw you checking it out the other day at the mall, and I thought it might help keep you warm while you’re standing on the corner turning tricks.”

   “You are so fucking funny”, scrunching up her face and taking the box from his hands.

   Patricia tore the paper from the box like a little kid, opened the top, and took in a deep breath.  She held out a matching beret, scarf and mittens.  Green, with orange and white trim, small shamrocks here and there. 

   “I love it.”

   “It’ll go good with your red dyed hair.”

   “I’m wearing it tonight, when we go over to your Mom’s for dinner.  Let her know she’s not the only Irish woman in this world.”

   Patricia modeled the outfit for Jim.  It really did look good on her.  He could not understand how a woman could match him drink for drink, go straight from snoring to the living room, plop a beret on her head and look so damn fine.

   “I wish I could have afforded more,” Jim started, “but you know how tight the Flanagan’s are.  The Scots are supposed to be the cheap bastards, but the Irish can’t be far behind.”

   Patricia was barely listening.  She was busy checking herself out in the large hall mirror, turning her head from side to side, pulling in her cheeks slightly.

   “If I hadn’t had a moment of conscience yesterday, I could have bought you that cameo you were eyeing.  I let a hundred bucks slip through my hands,” Jim said his voice trailing off.  “Still not sure how that happened...”

   Patricia was back in the living room now.

   “You did get a bonus didn’t you.  What pub did you blow it at?  Or did it go to that no good brother of yours?  Wait, I’ll bet you spent it on an expensive gift for your Mom.  Fucking cliched Irish Momma’s boy.”

   Jim stood and took Patricia by the shoulders, guiding her gently onto the sofa.  He recounted the scene at Jelly Donut from yesterday morning.  His voice was monotone, no drama, a man reciting facts.  He looked out the window at the gray afternoon all the while, looking back at Patricia only when he was finished.

   She said nothing, gave no clue as to her thoughts.

   Looking back out the window now.

   “I’m not sure the money even belonged to the suit behind me.  I hoped I would give it to the Mom with the two kids at the counter.  I could see her hugging me, feel the slaps on the back and the looks of admiration from everyone around, including Mr. Suit.  I just knew the money wasn’t mine.  That if I took it, I would spend it on some bullshit that I thought would make me happy, but would make me more drunk, more ashamed, more useless.”

   Patricia was on her feet now, the suddenness of her rising causing a sofa cushion to fall to the floor.

   “What is wrong with you.  Getting shystered by some fat ass businessman.  That money was yours, not his.  Not the bitch with the two kids she can’t support.  Yours.  Mine.  Ours.  What is wrong with you anyway?  Do you like being poor?  Don’t I deserve the cameo?”

   Pulling off the beret, scarf and mittens.

   “You used to be fun.  The booze never made you sad.  It made you flirt with my girlfriends or threaten any guy who looked my way.  Now you’re so damn quiet.  What’s there to think about so much?  Asshole.”

   The beret, scarf and mittens were in the air now, missing their intended target still sitting on the sofa, and landing in and around the small artificial Christmas tree.  Jim turned to look at where they landed, then back to Patricia.

   “Patricia, you may throw like a girl, but you are no lady.”

   She turned, marched loudly into the bedroom, emerged after making a tremendous amount of racket,  screeched “Merry Fucking Christmas” and slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind her.

   Jim remained on the sofa, said nothing and did not move for ten minutes.  When he did finally move, it was to carefully remove Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks from his record collection.  He and Van locked eyes for a solid minute, before the album was carefully pulled from the jacket.  Jim dropped the needle with the touch of a surgeon before falling into the crook of the worn sofa.

   

   After listening to both sides (“I kissed you on the lips once more, and we said goodbye  just adoring the night time, yeah that’s the right time, to feel the way young lover’s do”)  he stood and gathered up the beret, scarf and mittens from around and on the artificial tree, straightened out the box and gift wrapped them to the best of his limited ability.  

   He showered, shaved and slipped on his sports coat for the ten minute walk to his Mom’s house for dinner, the gift wrapped box under his arm.  Half way there, he bound up the steps of St. Martha’s knowing that the doors would be open for some service or another.  He walked inside, paused briefly to take in the familiar smell, and placed the box under the huge Christmas tree in the back of church.

   The outside of the box simply said, “For anybody who needs warmth.”

   Without being noticed, without a word to anyone, Jim was back outside thinking only of dinner with his Mom in the house he grew up in.

CLARK

It had been a typical Christmas for Clark and his family.  His two children and wife cooed appropriately over gifts, watched television together and ate dinner talking about past holidays before retiring to their rooms tired from a day of too much.

   As Christmas started to fade along with the winter’s sunlight, Clark appeared in the family room to let his wife know that he was going to his Mom’s for a visit.  She offered to go with, both laughed at the lameness of the attempt, and then turned her attention back to the computer and after holiday savings.  “Be careful,” she offered.

   Twenty minutes and two neighborhoods later, Clark pulled into the driveway of the modest bungalow he had grown up in, pleased to see no other cars, no family or friends to complicate the visit.  He pushed open the the dented steel entry door, unlocked of course, and walked all the way to the back of the house, before he heard the familiar voice coming from the kitchen.

   “Merry Christmas, who is it?”

   “It’s me Mom, don’t you ever lock that front door?  Do you know what kind of people live in this neighborhood?”

   “Clark?”

   His Mom came shuffling quickly into the hall.  She had always moved fast, and at eighty two years of age, she still did.  Her arms reached up and around his neck and she hugged him tighter than he thought possible.

   “I knew you would make it.”  Clark was delighted to be smothered in his Mother’s love, but the thought that others, his brothers and sister no doubt, had speculated on whether  he would even stop by gnawed at him.

   “Of course, I made it.”  Irritated. 

   His Mom pushed him slightly away.  “Oh Clark, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

   “I know you didn’t Mom.”  He could not bear to upset her, never could.  “I came here to take the only woman in my life to Christoff’s for lemon meringue pie, like always.”

   “I’ll get my coat.”

   “Wait a minute, what do you say to me every Christmas when I offer to take you to Christoff’s?”

   Clark’s Mom, already flying toward the hall coat closet, stopped on a dime and turned around and said, “Let’s go to Christoff’s, I’m sure they’re open, those Greeks don’t give a damn that it’s Christmas.”  

   Satisfied by this response, Clark helped his Mom on with her coat, made a big show out of locking the front door, walked arm in arm with her to the Audi and drove five minutes to Christoff’s.

   It was open, of course.  The lemon meringue pie was nearly flavorless, of course.  Clark’s Mom went down her motherly checklist of topics, of course.

   The wife and kids are fine, I am not working too many hours, I am watching my weight, this lemon meringue pie is not helping, I am stopping to enjoy the little things.

   “Like eating lemon meringue pie with my best girl.”

   Mother and Son sat at the brightly lit booth long after the pie disappeared and the crew began cleaning up around them.  “I guess even the Greeks close shop some time,” Clark offered.  He helped his Mom on with her coat and they walked slowly to the counter.  When they got to the register, he looked down at this Mom, still clutching tightly to his arm.

   “You never walk this slow, Mom.”  Nothing.  “I need my arm Mom. I have to pay.”   She  squeezed his arm fiercely before letting go.

   Clark opened his wallet, saw a couple of ones, a five and the learned face of Ben Franklin staring at him.  The ones and five would not clear the bill, Clark fingered the Franklin, looked at his Mother.  He flipped the wallet to the credit cards and pulled out his American Express.

   “This younger generation and their credit cards,” his Mom said to the cashier and got a knowing nod in return.

   “C’mon Mom,” hugging her, noticing how small she was.  Clark motioned to the large glass windows and said quietly, “It’s starting to snow, and these nice people want to go home.” 

   His voice trailed off, as the three looked at the huge flakes floating lazily by the bright neon Christoff’s sign.

   “I almost forgot the tip.”  He made his way back to the booth, produced his leather wallet and left Ben Franklin on the black and white formica tabletop, face down.  

   Mother and son listened to Christmas music and talked about nothing on the way home.  Once there, Clark made a big deal out of demonstrating the lock on the front door, about lecturing his Mom to always lock up.  He made their good-bye kiss a quick one, could feel the tightness in his throat that he always felt when saying good bye to his Mom.

   “Merry Christmas, Mom.  I love you.”  

   The drive home would be difficult, and take twice as long as the drive there.  Wet conditions inside and outside the car were to blame.