Adult Geography

“Hey, eeeeasy, mister!” the shrill voice of the boy child scraped across my eardrums, an icy spike into the throbbing mass of my head. Shirtless and buzzcut, the kid and his buddies half-glared, half-shrank away from the front of my car as I rolled forward an inch. Buzzcut was on a bike, one of those BMX types that look cool but are a total pain in the ass to ride anywhere for long. His peeps, two of them, were slightly ahead of him and walking fast like they actually cared to not be in the path of impatient people driving big hunks of metal.

Don’t wet yerself, Junior, I muttered to myself as I drove past the bike to make my turn, I wasn’t gonna hit you. Like I needed the complication of a tweenager sprawled across my hood. Oh, hell to the nahhh.

All I really wanted to do, I thought, was to give him notice. Notice that it is no proof of manhood to wait until the light is just about to turn and then decide to race across the street before the cars could start moving. Nor does it pay to play daredevil with a cheap bike or a skateboard.

Bike vs. car = epic failure for the bike.

I sighed, feeing grumpy and old beyond my years. Grumpy like the dwarf, but with a boil on his ass. Old like the Sphinx, and just as battered. Turning the corner, with the shouts of the neighborhood Evel Knievel and Co. fading fast, I wondered what had happened to me.

When did I get to be the Geezer?

It wasn’t until much later that I realized I was a teensy bit jealous, and lost. Those kids were me decades ago, doing much the same thing with my friends, bike and skateboards and attitude. They were getting about on a summer evening the only way they could. Which is to say, on foot or leg powered wheels. As such, they had a completely different perspective on where they were in the landscape, and a completely different view of the tyrannical freedom of the car.

A half-mile later I was thinking back to when the best way I had to get around was by bike, or by walking. The place I grew up in was very flat, almost no hills and no real steep grades to speak of. My world was circumscribed by the energy and time I could devote to getting somewhere. Of course, I didn’t have very far to go for most things. Most of my friends were within easy biking distance, and some were certainly close enough for walking visits. True to form, as a kid I had no appreciation of that luxury. Walking was anathema, unless unavoidable, and biking was a necessity in the absence of a car. But, gawdddd, all that pedaling! Mom, Dad, I wantneedgottahavecantlivewithoutmylicensepleaseletmedrivebymeacarpleasepleaseplease…well, you know the drill.

The place I grew up in was no small town, nor was it a big city by most measures. Flat, roads in a grid, convenience store around the corner (where I spent far too much money on pinball) and a park not far away. Getting around these places on a bike or on foot was always an investment of time (of which I now know I had plenty) and energy (also of which I had plenty); it always seemed a bit of an adventure. Will the chain pop off? Is it going to rain? How do I carry a pizza and an illicit six-pack on the handlebars without dropping them? You know all the shortcuts, the curves, the places where its cool to ride hell-for-leather and hope to not get flattened by a car. You get to know whose yards to cut through, and which ones have dogs to avoid (or smack the hell out of with a newspaper). Everything seemed potentially a LONG way away. And it seems a REALLY long way when you decide to leave a friend’s house at two o’clock in the morning after a party, where everyone is either asleep or (ahem) passed out, and walk home. Jay-zus, was that a long night. I discovered the meaning of “miles”. Given the dodgy nature of some of the places I had to traverse, it was the fear n’ beer that got me home. And, yes, Mom, I’ll never do that again…

Traveling this way gives an amazing, intimate knowledge and understanding of the terrain of one’s daily existence. It is a perspective hard to obtain while driving in car. Or maybe it is that the scale of things changes after years behind the wheel, pushing the gas instead of pedaling the wheels.

Thinking back to my childhood and adolescence spent hoofing it, or pedaling my chubby buns off in the heat of a sticky Tidewater summer, I realize now that the city of my birth was really a neighborhood. And to my kid-sized mind, the neighborhood was more than a city; it was a big country bounded only by the limits of my muscles and my ambition to explore. It was a kingdom of the strange and of the familiar, places outside my daily existence and the delights of a home to go to, safe and dry. I used to think it was big. Really BIG.

When I go there now, to visit my parents and my brother, I am always stunned by how small my hometown seems, how close everything is now that I drive. It weirds me out, even makes me a little sad, although I’m not sure exactly why. Maybe it’s the passage of time and the nostalgia that goes with it. Maybe it’s the realization that the scale of my existence has changed drastically from that of the kid I once was.

Later on that same night that I played matador with Buzzcut and his buds, I pulled into a drive thru ATM to deposit a check. All thoughts of “Easy, Mister!” flew out the window when I realized that I had no pen or pencil to fill out the deposit envelope. Cursing and muttering, I started the car again and headed across the parking lot to a grocery store, looking to buy some pens so I could get back in the car and finish my errand.

I got out of the car, Grumpy the Dwarf in search of Bic love. As I shut the car door, I happened to look back towards the road. There on the sidewalk, in a group of three, was a mother and who I assume were her daughters. She was pushing a baby stroller, the girls were laughing and skipping as they headed across the road to the neighborhood on the other side. At that moment it became clear to me why I felt jealous of Buzzcut. He was reveling in the oblivious freedom of youth, exploring his country anew, learning the land for the first time.

Me, I was tired, having wasted too many sunny days taking graduate courses in Adult Geography.

And still trying to get that degree.

Lake Of Souls, Morning

The shrine is there, visible through open spaces between the trees, splendidly refulgent in shades of emerald, azure or silver depending on the mood of its cousins the sky and sun. The quicksilver surface is occasionally distorted by the splashing of waterfowl and fish, sensual ripples in a watery sheet.

The shrine is there, diffracted through the a million pinhole cameras created by the canopy of leaves and branches. A living shroud, perhaps, a green curtain concealing the mysteries within. The mysteries can be had, by those willing and patient enough to lift the edges of the shroud. Only in this way can one step through to the inner sanctum.

It was not always this way. Before, the lake was just a hole in the ground filled with water.

That was years ago and a persona away. Time has passed and the perceptions, the investments of feelings are different. The focus has changed. It used to be the lake was a pleasant novelty. A green loop to walk around, counting dogs and squirrels and marveling at the geese. Every so often a bike ride was in order, a welcome diversion on a comfortable spring weekend. At this lake, a pair of swans once lived, but the duet faded as one voice succumbed to the ravages of time and the other ceased singing, perhaps due to a broken heart.

The water was just water, green, wet, dotted with feathers, leaves and lily pads. Sometimes, in winter it acquired a crust of ice. Tempting to skaters, which are not allowed, and providing entertainment to onlookers watching ducks flop and skid on the slick surface. This ice was never majestic in an arctic sense, and never gave the impression that it covered anything more than a shallow lake, home to fish and frogs.

And later, souls.

The transformation was slow and subtle, from utilitarian feature of the landscape to a holy vessel akin to those containing the finger bones of saints or the teeth of prophets. It took years to happen, almost unnoticed on many hours of walks and quiet contemplation. The transformation may never have taken hold, too, if not for the beautiful and terrible pressures of time and life bearing down on the walker.

Awe inspiring joy and unspeakable tragedy. The psychic equivalent of plate tectonics acting on the soul and molding it into forms previously unknown and unseen. The walker talked to himself on his many trips around the lake. The lake began to listen to the prayers, the angry screeds, the quiet questions and simple joys discovered in the interior of the mind. There was transference of energy, and the lake stirred from a long, cold slumber.

And one day, the lake spoke back.

The walker realized this, one day in early summer. It was unusually cool and cloudy as he ambled down the path in the green stillness. The lake was there as always, waiting. Passing an opening in the trees and undergrowth, he could not escape the feeling that someone was waiting for him, watching, and whispering to him. There a path draped down a hill, leading into the trees. In the background, glints of silver and grey, almost as voices.

They were there, all of them, and had been for quite some time. Son, daughter, grandmother, family long passed and still of this earth: In his thoughts, in his words, his actions. All this walking and thinking and talking. It was no longer with him exclusively. It was with the lake.

The water now precious, bearing souls. They were with him, now and evermore. The walker climbed the hill, spreading his arms wide to embrace the water.

You are here, he said to the wind, come to me…I am home.

Room 201: A Grand Lunch, Two Beers and Kind Words

Well, a gorgeous day indeed here in Gumbostan, and I have been enjoying the luxury of a day off from work on this Fourth of July Eve, 2009. Out and about today for a walk around my favorite local park, then off to a tasty lunch at a local eatery. The results? See...

Tiny, I know, but I took it with my phone camera. On the plate are a slice of roasted sweet potato (plate right) and the peel from a slice of roasted sweet potato (plate left). The little dish in the middle left had some roasted garlic mashed with olive oil and herbs. The little basket in the middle held some breadsticks and slices of bread, the designated "dunkees" to be dunked in the garlic mash. And it was quite tasty, I must say. A perfect complement to the fresh mozzareela and tomato sandwich with pesto spread, which you don't see because it's in ma belly! The glass to the left held some iced tea with lemon. But not just any iced tea, as the receipt says:

In case you can't make that out, it says "The Iced Tea". Hmm. Is that like The Big Dog, or The Big Kahuna? So I must be special, 'cause I get The Iced Tea.

The sky was somewhat cloudy, but the breeze was blowing and the humidity was low and the temperature was just right for sitting outside and eatin' stuff. As I leaned back in the chair, full belly, drooping eyelids and fighting off the distraction of an impossibly cute hostess, I got to thinking about food. Specifically, about what I was going to eat, possibly, on Sunday. I was meditating on gumbo, thinking I might make a batch because I haven't had the opportunity in a while. I became sad. I missed my gumbo.

But then I brightened up. Gumbo! That reminded me of a recent bloggy acquaintance I had the good fortune to make. The scrumptious and busy! Angie Ledbetter at Gumbo Writer and I finally crossed paths when she dropped by Irish Gumbo and I stumbled onto her Haiku Hoopla contest this past week. Just on a lark, I gave the haiku a shot. Lo and behold, I WON! along with another lucky contestant.

Well, beyond the name, what does this have to do with food? you ask.

Ahh, see, this is the beauty of it. As a winner in the contest, Angie promised to send me a prize...and that prize may contain coffee, pralines and quite possibly GRITS. Hehheh, life is good, my friends, life is good...

Angie is also a co-managing editor of The Rose And Thorn literary e-zine. So please stop by Gumbo Writer and/or The Rose and Thorn, say hello, and tell Angie I sent you!

Epilogue: The two beers I had while making dinner and writing this post. Yum. And the Room 201 reference? Well, folks, last Thursday marked my 200th post since joining this here blogosphere. 200! Wow. I didn't think I would make it that far in a year! So that means that this is my 201st. See? (grin)

Leaving Burma

The real problem was not that he had been sent to Burma, it was that he had never come back. That his body was currently in the driver’s seat of a car in Houston, Texas meant little; his mind was singing the Yangon blues.

Bobby Sack sat in the front seat of the stolen car, a dark blue Honda Accord, and stared across the parking lot, eyes fixed on a certain door. It was warm in the car, and Bobby barely noticed. The sunlight and the heat were old friends to him. Three tours in southeast Asia had given him a new perspective on what it meant to be hot and humid. Bobby smiled faintly, thinking of the heat and the damp and figured that Houston was just a wannabe, the third prize in the hot and sticky sweepstakes.

In the passenger seat lay a road map and a small black nylon duffel bag. The greasy-looking snout of a silencer poked out of the half-zippered bag, the snout of a particularly lethal turtle. Absent mindedly, as if he were patting a well-meaning but insistent nephew on the head, Bobby put his hand on the bag while smoothing out the cloth. The hard outlines of the pistol butt pressed into his palm. Bobby grunted softly at the touch, two old hounds greeting one another.

He flicked his eyes briefly to the clock on the dashboard. 12:58 in the afternoon. A brief stab of impatience which Bobby quickly squelched, wondering when the sonofabitch was going to take his lunch break. Soon, he thought, soon…

The radio was playing softly, a low murmur of music drifting through the car, waves on a distant beach. A small chunk of memory moved in Bobby’s head; he focused his hearing on the song without taking his eyes off the door across the way. Burma? Did I just hear that? Bobby wondered. Burma…

“…Once I had my heroes
Once I had my dreams
But all of that is changed now
They've turned things inside out…”
…a hot breeze wafted through the window and Bobby jerked wide awake. The smell of burning trash and human waste sat thick and acrid in his nostrils. He gagged slightly while trying to adjust his body armor. Goddamnit, he cursed, all that money spent and the fuckin’ lab techs still couldn’t make it comfortable. There was a rapid pop-pop-pop off to his left, the chunky sound of leftover Russian firearms. Must be government forces, Bobby thought, not the lighter sound of good old American firepower. He darted his eyes left and right over the street. No sign of the insurgents or rebels or whatever the press was calling them these days. Fuckin’ criminals, is what I say, muttered Bobby. Sulky teenagers with guns. He spat into the dust and shattered glass coating the floor under his boots. Sulky teenagers, and we have to spank them…

Bobby sighed as his heart slowed down. No one had really seen it coming. Uncle Sam had his eyes locked so long on the festering mess that had been Iraq, and the subsequent ass-hattedness of Iran, he failed to noticed the rot setting in down in Southeast Asia. Except this time, it wasn’t Vietnam. The Vietnamese had done a good job of putting the meddling of France and then the United States behind them. These days there wasn’t much difference between Ho Chi Minh City and Shanghai, if you set aside the language. Lots of shiny buildings, shiny young things on their cell phones, all looking for the latest that overseas investment dollars could buy.

Burma was a different story with the same plot. Military government rotting out, putting on a good face to keep the superpowers interested, but thugs are thugs. At which point, Bobby wearily noted, his employer could not keep its fingers out of the pie and there they were, history repeating itself. Another American bailout, in another country on the other side of the world. Lots of blood and bad feeling, Bobby thought, and he could not make up his mind which was worse: street fighting or mountain jungles. Of course the point was moot if you were dead…

Bobby was just about to fire up a cigarette when some motion at the end of the street caught his eye. Bobby tapped the sergeant on his grimy shoulder, and pointed; the sergeant nodded and whispered for the rest of the platoon to ready themselves. No telling who or what they were, the shadows on the street were a little too heavy. Bobby eased the safety off his assault rifle, peering over the windowsill. A small beetle crawled over the shattered glass and splintered wood, tracing a crazy zigzag path. Bobby found himself staring, transfixed, as the figures down the street drew closer. He curled his finger around the trigger. It seemed too quiet, and just as the lead figure stepped into a slanting sunbeam angling over the road, one of the troopers to Bobby’s right tried to stand up quietly. He lost his balance, slipping in the layer of dust, and fell. He landed awkwardly on a chunk of shattered concrete and groaned, the sound of his rifle shockingly loud as it accidently discharged.

Fuck me, Bobby thought, as there was a sudden rush of activity inside the ruined building and in the street outside. A rapid stream of voices shouting commands, in English and a language Bobby still couldn’t speak, but could understand, and the street erupted in a white hot blur of automatic weapons fire. Bobby squinted against a hot spatter of grit, as bullets whacked into the concrete and stucco in front of him. Bobby raised his rifle just in time to see the figure across the way raise his arm, a grenade clutched in his hand. A young hand. Bobby had just enough time to realize the figure was a kid, a teenager maybe, decked out in the ragged kit the insurgents called a uniform. The kid’s eyes locked on Bobby, seeing the barrel of the assault rifle pointed straight at his thin, dirty body. Bobby saw the sun on the dull green of the grenade, and squeezed the trigger, saying to himself Bless me father, for I have sinned…

“…That's when I reach for my revolver
That's when it all gets blown away
That's when I reach for my revolver
The spirit fights to find its way…”
The hot stickiness of the syrupy Houston air roiled through the window, causing Bobby to jerk awake. His left hand curled around the steering wheel in a spasm. Fuck, fuck, fuck he cursed himself, I hope I didn’t miss him. Bobby looked at the clock and eased a sigh as it read 1:02. Still time, he thought, and his car is still there. The song was still on the radio, Bobby thought it was on its coda. The lyrics drilled into his head, as he prayed that his target would come through the door and into the parking lot.

Motion at the door. Bobby’s pupils dilated and his hand tightened around the butt of the pistol. The door opened, and a man in a light grey suit stepped out, adjusting his sunglasses. For a split second Bobby thought the man was staring at him; a brief moment of a teenager’s dying eyes in the dusty Burma sunlight. Fumbling with his keys, the man stepped down the walk and headed for his car. His path, Bobby thought, would come right next to the Honda. Bobby clutched the pistol in his lap, holding the map over it with his left hand and pretending to study it as the man walked past the car. One second, two seconds…Bobby stepped out of the carrion heat of a Yangon alley, opening the door and planting his feet quietly on a Houston sidewalk. He eased off the safety and took a few languid steps up behind the grey suit. Behind him, the radio buzzed faintly, and Bobby smiled at the words…

“Tonight the sky is empty
But that is nothing new
Its dead eyes look upon us
And they tell us we're nothing but slaves…
That's when I reach for my revolver…”
Bobby Sack raised the pistol, finger tightening on the trigger, and wondered when he would get home from Burma.

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Italicized lyrics – “That’s When I Reach For My Revolver” by Mission Of Burma.