The Night's Noises

The light has fallen; the moon arises. A man snores, unaware of his surroundings. The animals of the night appear. Critters emerge. They crawl, creeping out of their hiding holes. Ants awaken. They leave their nest, in train-like procession. A spider, its gangly limbs wandering about, towers above these peons of the micro-world. The ants shuffle forth, knowing their place. The spider looms, ready to strike. He seizes the stragglers of the pack – they go screaming into the darkness. The ants march onward. They cannot stop to mourn the martyrs, for they will be massacred at the slightest pause. Slipping by slowly, and ever so quietly, the ants, sleepless for days, search for their meal. A breadcrumb here, a dust speck there, they scavenge, sweeping the floor. Their people are starving; their children are withering away back at the nest. Their cargo weighs heavily upon their backs, but they continue. They carry their freight in silent pain, struggling to walk, but still they must return home. However, they know the spider awaits his next meal, relishing the agony the ants feel. Clenching their jaws, the gatherers scurry home, hoping the spider has had its fill for the night. Into the darkness, they go. The spider decides to have dessert. The pack leader stops. He is furious. He signals his followers. The ants ready themselves for battle. They shall not endure this tyrant’s reign. The spider must die. They drop their cargo, and charge forth. The spider yells a battle cry, and the two forces collide. Two ants are killed instantly, ripped to shreds by piercing fangs. The survivors lunge for its legs. They clamp on, desperate to fell the murderer. They are blind with rage. He shakes and squirms but the ants hold strong. The spider may be powerful, too gargantuan for resistance, but there is power in numbers. The pack leader stands tall among the carnage, directing his men. One leg falls, then the second. Soon all eight legs have been torn apart, and the spider lies down, crippled. The leader strides forward, and gives the deathblow, hitting the small of his neck. The ant struggles, cursing in his last breath, then goes rigid. They have won the battle, but there will be more bloodshed to come. From the shadows, the spider’s family comes, their eyes red, glowing in the dark. They surround the troops, thirsty for vengeance. The spiders close in, and the ant’s leader closes his eyes, ready for the inevitable.

Drunken Escapades

Here’s a story I heard from a friend a while back.

His uncle was an alcoholic. Chubby, giant beer belly, balding and rosy cheeked. He lived in a small town, and his house was on the edge of city limits, in a quiet neighborhood. To get into town, he had to take a few unlit roads, through sparsely populated areas. One night, he was out celebrating a football victory with his friends at a local bar. Had a couple shots of tequila, chased with a pitcher of Guinness. Hammered by the end of it all. Of course, through his traditional buffoonery, everyone had forgotten about choosing a designated driver. With drunken logic, he decided the easiest course of action was to drive himself home. He had an old wreck of a car, rusty and smelly. Just like him. It was back from the 70’s, and somehow it still ran, albeit with the occasional hiccup. Anyways, he gets in the car, fumbles with his keys, and starts to head home, knocking over a trashcan on the way. Leaves town, gets to the part of his inebriated journey where the streetlights end. It’s pitch black except for his single working headlight. He’s half on the road, half driving through some farmer’s field. His car begins to make a chugging noise and the engine peters out. Son of a bitch car broke down again. He gets out of the car and kicks the tires, hoping it will miraculously come back to life. A pair of headlights blare behind him. It’s a police car. The officer steps out. He’s a young guy, probably in his early twenties, and most likely a rookie.

“Is there a problem here sir?”
“Damned car just died on me.” He slurs and stumbles on his words.
“Sir, have you been drinking tonight?”
“Nu – uh.”

He then pukes all over the policeman’s shoes. The officer steps back – it’s a particularly rancid vomit. He covers his nose, and turns around to get away from the stench. But as the officer is distracted, the uncle has a brilliant idea. He decides to run to his car and make a quick getaway. The tires screech as he slams on the accelerator. The officer is cussing, screaming at the top of his lungs. He can’t hear him, too concentrated on trying to get home. Somehow, he makes it the next five miles to his house. Wonders why the officer didn’t chase after him. The neighbors are all asleep. It’s three in the morning. He drives over his lawn, pulls into his garage, and closes the door. He attempts to make it to his bedroom, but he passes out on the floor. Four hours later, he wakes up to banging on the door. His head is pounding. He has bile in his mouth. A horrible hangover. Answers the intruder angrily. “What?!?” He opens the door, only to see the officer from last night. The officer’s eyes are bloodshot. He has a vague memory of last night. All he can recall is he bumped into a policeman, and drove home afterwards. The officer sheepishly asks the uncle to open his garage. He grumbles a few words, and opens the door. The police car is there. Apparently, this dumbass was too drunk to realize that he took the wrong car. The officer had somehow resuscitated the other car, and had been looking for his uncle all night. He didn’t press any charges. He was too embarrassed.

What makes you feel alive?

What makes you feel alive? It’s a loaded question. I’m not talking about the cheesy, clichéd stuff: roasting marshmallows by a fireside, a lover’s touch, a child’s laugh, a beautiful, sublime sunset. These are all wonderful things. But what makes you, personally, feel alive?
For me, it’s the buzz after eating a two dollar chocolate bar, after a bad day.
It’s the tea in my favorite café.
It’s the feel of pruned hands.
It’s waking up in the winter, when the cold air numbs my lips, and I can just snuggle in my blankets and forget about everything.
It’s deciding to wake up in the morning to walk to the beach and start a bonfire with a couple close friends.
It’s the chill that rises up my spine when I’m around a stranger that fascinates me.
It’s the sound of bubble wrap popping.
It’s the moment when the thunderclap hits, when I count the seconds after a lightning flash.
It’s the smell of grass the day after a storm.
It’s the look of surprise I see at an impromptu visit to an old friend.
It’s the parting handshake with a close friend, knowing it’s not “farewell”, but “see you later”.
It’s when a child beams when they finally understand a tricky math problem.
It’s being alone and laughing to the empty air remembering an old inside joke.
It’s being together with family after a tragedy, realizing I’m not alone.
It’s the catharsis I feel when I figure out that I love someone.
It’s sweaty palms, tense shoulders and flickering eyes at the uncertainty of life.
What makes me realize the world is worth a damn.
What makes you feel alive?

Carried a dead man today.

Carried a dead man today. So fucked up. The experience was not profound – rather, it was altogether unpleasant. First, he was quite fat. His gut hung through his shirt. His shorts, too small for his sausage legs. Fat billowed out. He was a man unaware of his unsightly appearance. His face was still covered by leftover food stains. I’m still in pain from the burden of his weight.

When a man is fat, most of the time, they smell. And he stunk. His t-shirt had yellow pit stains, his crotch soaked in sweat. At death, people emit foul odors. His was especially bad. All his oils, fats and excrement bubbled to the surface. I carried a fat, dead, stinky toad.

I work as a paramedic. I have to deal with all sorts of nasty things. I usually prefer the dead to the living. The dead don’t speak. I hate mothers and children in accidents. They never shut up. Moms wail, always screaming, “Save my child!” Kids cry incessantly. Quite annoying. People in pain moan. That’s comedic. I always chuckle a bit; it’s a funny sound. I hate my job, but it’s good pay.

I usually prefer a stiff than a living, breathing pile of blood and guts – which is always accompanied by lots of noise. But this lardo ruined my day. I’m outside, dicking around on my shift, when I should be “saving lives” Whatever. Earlier in the day, I’m in my ambulance, drinking my coffee and eating a sandwich. My coworker sits next to me, not a care in the world. He’s a layabout. Doesn’t give a crap about his job, waiting to get his degree so he can get out and become a doctor. A real job. Perfect person to share a cab with.

Get the call, “Dispatch, multiple car pile up at 79th and Madison. All units report.” Finish my coffee. They can wait. Once I was done, I turn on the sirens. Only fun part of the day. I race down the streets, skipping every stoplight, cutting people off. Cars frantically change lanes, trying to get out of my way. Hell, this is half the reason I took this job. Never have to pay attention to any traffic laws.

I reach the scene. Late as usual. All the paramedics frantically scurry about, “saving lives.” Hero complex I say. I go to the to the most wrecked cars, with people that aren’t gonna make it. That means all I have to do is bag and tag. Never have to talk to anyone. I go to this smashed up car, front end caved in, a real mess. Look inside, see a bloody man. He’s dead meat. I wrench the door open, hoping that he’s not breathing. But I’m shocked when I see his face. This is the asshole that was sitting behind me during the ballgame yesterday.

I was at the Yankees game. Fun year, we’re demolishing everyone. My favorite pitcher, Andy Petitte is playing. Having a great game. Yankees are up 8-1. I love baseball, it’s simple. There’s a bunch of roided up people whacking at a ball all day. Paid millions of dollars to play such a ridiculous sport. However its always fun to see them flummoxed by a good pitcher, swinging at air. Emasculated in front of a huge crowd. I love seeing them, muscles bulging, sheepishly walk back to their dugouts. Today is a good day, except for this jerk behind me. He’s a boisterous fellow, screaming chants, as if it will somehow help the team, not like they’re paying any attention. His wife is fat, just like him. Two oversized peas in a pod. She’s not interested in the game, just stuffs her face with food. I’m trying to watch the game, but this guy won’t shut up. Worst of all, he smells. Stupid fat people have no personal hygiene. He’s sweating profusely, stinking up the whole section. Inning after inning he’s shouting, blaring the same old chant over and over, like a goddamned P.E system. At first I was just annoyed, perturbed at this man, intruding on my only escape. But after the sixth inning of this nonsense, I was fuming. I tried to drink some beer, get hammered enough that this would all be a distant memory. But he had this loud reverberating voice that kept on and on. I don’t mind an iron lung, they usually fade out when the game is this lopsided. But despite the inevitable outcome of this game, he continued to scream, oblivious at the anger he evoked in me. I couldn’t help but think – if only he had a heart attack, that would shut him up. I wished he would die. I’ve never been so angry. In the end, the Yankees lost, a disgraceful collapse. Pettite gave up two grand slams before being pulled out of the game. I leave the stadium. We lost. What a shitty day.

And here I am, in front of a man I wished death upon. Wish granted. I frown. I had to lug his ass out of the car. His wife had been taken out of the wreckage and was already strapped to a gurney. I hear her cry, grieving for her husband. Usually I just ignore it. But today, that’s all I can hear. I lay the man down on the ground. Can’t take my eyes off his face. He lies there. Yesterday he was just another man. Today, he’s someone I know, dead.

I sit in my apartment, alone. Light up a joint. Today bothered me. I thought it would be just another day at the office. It’s different when you know the guy. Everyone else were just nameless faces, John and Jane Does. But this guy was fat man from the game. He ruined my day twice. But I remember his wife, unable to comprehend the loss of her husband. All I can think; if only I had gotten there sooner. His wife would have her husband. I’ve never really considered the consequences of my actions. Take a drag on the joint. Blow out plumes of smoke. I look around the apartment. I realize – I am alone. Lost. What the fuck am I doing with my life?

Get to work. Get in the ambulance. My coworker is taking a nap. We get a dispatch. He ignores it. I nudge him awake. I tell him, “Let’s go.” Slam on the accelerator. He’s stunned. This will be the first time I show up on time. But I won’t waste this chance. Never again.

Flying

Bound. Legs numb. Still numb. To touch, to every sensation. I sit here confined, trapped, imprisoned. My wheelchair, my jail cell. Locked up, keys thrown away. Life sentence.

It’s been six months since the crash. To this day, I am haunted by memories of the hospital. First – that awful, sterile smell. It lingered. I look back and I can see everyone else in the hospital: amputees, burn victims, the abused; I was surrounded by suffering. And I couldn’t escape. Paralyzed. But worst of all, I remember those terrible nights. When everyone went to bed, all was silent, and I was alone with my thoughts. My head would pound from the flood of rage, from the flood of sadness, from the flood of regret. I held my head in my hands and cradled my self in the fetal position, crying to the heavens, “Why?” over and over. Again and again. It took many weeks until I could sleep soundly, until my nights were not filled with torment.

I am home, sitting. I’m by my window watching the birds flutter about. This is my pastime, my sanctuary. I listen quietly as I always do for their chirping. I hum to their melody. I don’t notice the door creak as my sister enters the room. She gently places her hand on my shoulder. She gives me a tired smile, which I can only return halfheartedly.

“Breakfast is ready, will you eat with the family?” she says. Her hand is still on my shoulder, holding me, holding on to me.
“I’m feeling well today, I’ll be there in a sec, Abby.”
“Thanks bro, see you soon.”

I nod to her, and she exits the room. I exhale. I look back out the window. The birds are gone. I can see my reflection in the glass pane. It mortifies me. My eyes are sunken, face pale, shoulders caved in. Everything looks so small and frail, not robust and vivacious – like it should be. I sigh and turn to the door.

I wheel myself into the hallway. It is a cold, long, lonely place. Reminds me of the hospital. With better decorations. It is also a difficult place for a handicapped person to navigate. Everything is precious and very breakable. Things I used to consider beautiful are now merely hazards, roadblocks and daily inconveniences. Continuing on my journey, I come to the staircase. I can smell the maple syrup and pancakes from here. My mouth begins to water. My sister seems to have cooked my favorite breakfast meal. I look down the steps, and see the deep brown hues of the mahogany, and the inlaid designs, which my feet will never caress again. I see the mountainous view this provides, my personal eavesdropping point for downstairs. I roll down the hallway and give one wistful glance back at the railing that I used to slide down as a child. I go to the elevator; there is no magic here. I can hear the machine grind and rumble as it brings me down a floor. The doors open, and my sister is there. She hugs me, and then wordlessly pushes me to the table.

Moments like these I cherish. Where speaking isn’t necessary and where bonds are sewn stronger than any word could be made. I look up to my sister’s face and smile. She has done so much for me. Sacrificed so much for me. She had just completed her bachelor’s degree when I had my accident. She immediately returned home to take care of me. Ended all job prospects. I can see by the bags under her eyes. I am nothing but a burden. She still continues to love me unconditionally, so all I can do is come to breakfast once in a while.

We wheel into the kitchen. My parents have anxious looks on their faces. They are standing. She places me at my spot at the table, and then goes to her seat. My parents take their seats. My sister passes me the pancakes and syrup and pours me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. We all begin to eat. No one speaks. Moments like these I abhor. Our forks and knives clang against the plates, resounding through the silence. My father slurps his coffee. My mother barely touches her food. Neither gives me eye contact, too afraid to speak first.

“This is ridiculous,” my sister states. I loved my sister’s bluntness. She could assert herself when necessary. “We are a family, not the Addam's Family.”

I chuckled. Both my parents had shocked expressions at her sudden remark. My sister had a satisfied one. Everyone relaxed.
I started to enjoy my meal. To delight in the rich maple syrup, letting the flavor fill my mouth. My sister put chocolate chips in the pancakes, as a personal touch. I remember when she first tried cooking pancakes. They came out looking like records; they were so burnt. I still ate some. These pancakes have the perfect fluffiness, just the right texture and sweetness. And they don’t taste like charcoal. This is breakfast, with family, loved.

“You look good today son,” my father says.
“Yeah George, you look healthy,” my sister adds. My mother sits there mute. She took the accident the hardest in the family, the closest to the heart. The wound has not healed. She still blames herself. I can see her carry that regret. She tries to hide it with a smile, but I have that same practiced halfhearted expression. Worst thing is, it’s not her fault. She didn’t make a mistake driving that night. I wish I had the courage to tell her that none of this was her fault. But I don’t.
I’ve lost my appetite and my good mood. My thoughts turn dark.

“I’m finished, I’ll be heading back to my room,” I state. My mother looks at me, concerned.
“But you’ve barely touched your plate.” my father inquires.
“Not hungry,” I assert.
“No, you are going to finish your plate, and eat with us,” my sister counters. Her voice strains.
“I don’t feel well,” I say.
“Don’t make excuses,” she argues.

“I’m not! Do you think it’s easy being like this? Crippled? Sick all the time? It’s a miserable life! You don’t have the slightest idea do you?” I shout. I pound my fist on the table. All the plates rattle. My parents jump. Their faces are as pale as mine, eyes wide and fearful.

“Please calm down George,” my father quickly says, “and Abby, if he’s not feeling well he should just go back and rest.”
“I know what he is trying to do. It isn’t healthy if he doesn’t eat. But he’s also just being antisocial, he feels fine,” she accuses. My mother looks helpless.

“I am not lying. Do you think this is an act? Do you think I can ever get better? No. There is no hope for me!” I rage in fury.
“The doctor said you have a chance, that he saw a twitch…” my father stutters.
“That was months ago, why are you holding on to such a false hope? Can’t you see it’s just hurting everyone, especially Mom?” I start to hear my mother’s muffled sobs as she cries into her hands. My words strike my father like a blow, deflating him like a balloon.

My sister silently comes behind me and rolls me toward the elevator. She is crying.
“This was a mistake brother,” she states, “just go back to your room, please.”

Hurt the ones closest to your heart. I can’t feel. I return to my room, down the long, lonely hallway. I pass by the stairway, and I can hear my sister console my mother. My father just left for work; I heard the front door shut. I enter my room and go to the window. My sanctuary. I look to see if the birds are there to comfort me. But they are not. I punch and shatter one windowpane. Then I break all of them. My hands are bleeding, glass shards embedded in them. I am alone with my thoughts. And I hold my pounding head, thinking, “Why go on?”

I wheel into the hallway, knowing my destination. I come to the staircase and look down the peak. This is my departure from this suffering. My suicide spot. I brace myself and fling my whole body off the wheelchair, down the steps. I am flying.
I hear my sister rush to my side, screaming wildly. Everything turns dark.

I awake in a bed. I smell a sterile stench. People are moaning around me. I am in a hospital. But I cannot move my arms. Try to move my shoulders. Chest too. Can’t. Am I strapped in? I look to the left. A doctor is there. I mumble.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” he says.
“Why can’t I move my upper body?” I stammer.
“You’ve suffered major injuries from your fall, much more severe than your previous ones,” he says. I look at him with pleading eyes. “Before the fall, your spinal cord had suffered damage, but it was reversible. However, now you broke vertebrae in your neck.”

It was reversible.

“You are going to be a quadriplegic permanently. I know it’s a lot to take in. But we’ll have staff working with you on living situations,” he says.
“Where is my family?” I ask. He looks away. I repeat the question.
“They aren’t ready to see you,” he answers. I turn my head in shame and regret for my actions.
“Can I be alone for a while?” I ask.
“Of course. It’s a lot to take in at once,” he replies.

The doctor leaves the room quietly. I am alone with my thoughts. I look out the window. There are birds. Think back to when I threw myself down the staircase. For a brief instant, before gravity took effect, I was weightless. And in that fleeting moment, I joined my birds in the blue sky.

Drift Away

Wendy is sitting in her car, mentally exhausted. Between the two jobs, raising her children and this. This. She is drained, at her very limit. But she is still here, taking care of her father. Fate’s cruel twist, a father, kind, bright, loving, doting – now crippled with Alzheimer’s. She is still holding onto the steering wheel, as if she were holding onto that last bit of willpower to continue. She lets go of one hand, then the other, inhales, exhales. She is ready to see what is left of her father.

She enters the retirement home, and a familiar and foul odor floods her nostrils. She smells urine, rotten food and pine tree scent in the air. Her nostrils sting and flare at the stench. This is always an unpleasant experience. Wendy walks down the hall, ignoring the sounds, the wails, the pleads that come from passing rooms. An old lady blocks her path, mistaking Wendy for her estranged daughter. She talks with her, and listens to her sad tale. She excuses herself and continues on.

She reaches her father’s door. Breathes in, breathes out. Wendy enters and looks at her father sitting there, gazing into nothingness. She calls out to him. He doesn’t respond. She goes to his side and touches his shoulder, whispering, “I’m here, Daddy.” He gazes back blankly. She clasps her hands in grief. She still misses her father. Wendy then props him up, fixing his pillows, anything to make him more comfortable. She goes around the room and cleans up. Turns on the television to his favorite channel.

Once she has finished all her chores, she returns to her side and begins to talk to him, tell him about her week. No response. She is ready to leave and plants a gentle kiss on his cheek then looks at his face. There is no twinkle in his eye. A tear rolls down her cheek. She told herself she had stayed so strong for so long. But no more. Wendy sits down in the chair and breaks down sobbing. Wendy buries her face in her hands, and cries, for the first time in years. Not since her mother died. Not even when her husband left her. Not even when her family got evicted. She had stayed strong. But not now. This is the limit.

She feels a weak hand upon her back. She looks up, and sees her father staring intently at her. His eyes are sparkling with tears. Wendy gets up and embraces her father, a deep, longing hug. He returns the embrace. Then his grip weakens, and she can see him fading. He looks like he is merely falling asleep, resting in her arms. And so he drifts away, not in solitude, but comforted by his loving, doting daughter.

Blind Date

Henry is looking at the mirror frustrated. He has had a cowlick all day that has been bothering him. He has tried everything. Water, gel, wax, hair product. Nothing works. It sticks up and sneers at him. Today, of all days, when he has a blind date. Henry has never been suave or smooth with the ladies, or anyone for that matter. Henry is a weird man. There is nothing wrong with him; he is a nice guy. But he can’t talk to most people. A friend from college decided set him up on his first blind date eight years ago. That was a nightmare. It began and ended like a Kafka novel: poorly and then horribly. Today, a friend from work set him up with a successful businesswoman, so he cannot screw it up. But his first priority is not being late. He had learned from experience.

He is tall, thickly built, but he doesn’t carry himself like a large man. He is handsome. Some men need to maintain themselves with beauty products. Henry is ignorant of all these things. He goes to his closet to get his clothes. He lays his dress shirt, slacks, belt and tie on his bed. His chosen outfit for tonight. He looks at it and cannot believe the trouble he went through to find these clothes. He isn’t fashionable, and a very frustrated salesperson had to assist him. But the final product does look quite nice. He puts on everything except the tie. However, now he has to figure out how to tie a Windsor knot. This is quite intimidating. He looks back at the mirror. The cowlick is still there. He tries to coax it down. Nope. He looks at the clock. He has ten minutes. More than enough time. He has the instructions in front of him. Hangs aroung his neck, crosses it, then makes the knot too long. Then too short. Then too thick. Then to the right. Then to the left. Henry cannot believe how difficult tying a tie is. He looks at the clock again, realizes he is about to be late and rushes out the door.

Doris looks into the mirror. She shakes her head. Sighs. Returns to her routine. However, tonight is special. Doris has a blind date. The first time was exhilarating. Afterwards, it became frustrating. She was simply terrible at dating. At the entire process. First of all, she was never on time. Getting ready is a challenge. Understatement of the century. Second, she was just awkward with strangers. Doris never inherited the business of carrying a conversation. She was a kind woman. Just very awkward. Unfortunately, her job took up the rest of her time. A colleague set her up with a good friend. She had ended many a blind date disastrously. She would not end tonight the same way.

She looks at the clock. Plenty of time before the date. There is no way she will be late. She begins to apply her makeup. Doesn’t need much. She has delicate features and a small bone structure. She looks at her outfit then looks back on painful memories. On an aside, putting Doris in a Sak’s Fifth Avenue is absolutely sinister and should outlawed. It is cruel and unusual punishment. She was completely bewildered, lost – Doris did not inherit the shopping intuition that most women have. She ended up finding a beautiful dress for tonight: a perfect fit.

Her outfit and makeup are ready. Last but definitely not least, Doris must face her biggest mountain. She must somehow transform her genetically granted frizzy hair into a beautiful, manageable hairdo. Good luck. She begins to take a comb to it. Patience is key. However, it jams; the beast has awoken. She tries to put some hair product in it. Chemicals only worsen the situation. Back to the comb. But the beast will not let go. She tugs, and it predictably snaps, like three of her other combs this past year. Her hair a complete wreck, she attempts to take a new, stronger comb to it, but to no avail. Flustered, Doris gives in to the beast and finally decides to just take a random hat from her closet. She says to herself that she just cannot be late again.

Henry drives into the parking lot, late as per the usual. He looks into his side mirror and sighs. His cowlick still will not go down. In a last ditch maneuver, he takes a swab of spit, and attempts to pat it down. It comes right back up, like a little middle finger. Sighs. Henry slaps his thighs to calm his shaky nerves. He has screwed so many of these dates up by being this nervous. He gets out of the car, does some shakes and stretches, and walks into the restaurant.

Doris pulls into the parking lot, five minutes late, of course. She looks in the car mirror and adjusts her hat so her blind date will not be able to see her monstrosity of a “hairdo”. She does some last minute breathing exercises to calm herself down, exits the car and walks into the restaurant.

Henry looks at Doris’ charming dress, non-matching hat and bashful eyes and smiles. Doris looks at Henry’s off-center tie, cow-licked hair and shy gaze and chuckles approvingly.

They are two kindred souls, bonded instantly. They leave, arm in arm.