Culture Club: Building Relationships and Fostering Multicultural Literacy at Work

Imagine running with a pack of careening bulls in Pamplona, celebrating the door-to-door enactment of the Posadas in Mexico, or standing thousands of miles above sea level near the stone walls of Machu Picchu--all from your office break room. With just a free, one-hour excursion over your lunch-break, you can learn a new language and experience the sights, traditions, and customs of a new culture by creating a culture club at your work place.

From August 2007 until I ended my employment at the Health District in Fort Collins, Colorado in January 2009, I helped facilitate the culture club, Almuerzo Con Sus Amigos, or Lunch With Your Friends. Our Spanish club paired native and fluent Spanish-speaking co-workers with staff who wanted to learn basic Spanish or practice using the Spanish they had learned in high school or college. The Health District, a non-profit organization, provides a variety low-cost health care services including dental care, mental health, and prescription assistance programs to many Spanish-speaking people in Northern Larimer County. The mission for our club was to create a fun learning environment where our employees could acquire Spanish to assist our Spanish-speaking clientele and to strengthen bonds between co-workers from different cultures. Many staff also joined the club to learn Spanish phrases and culture for their travel excursions.

A Spanish club, or any club which focuses on diversity is also a great way increase multicultural literacy in the workplace. Many of the activities that our club performed could easily be transferred to other non-profit agencies, schools, hospitals and businesses at a low cost. If you are interested in starting a multicultural club for your organization or place of work, the following information provides your passport to fun, friendship, and learning in the workplace. I collaborated with my Spanish speaking mentor, Norma Pomerleau, to generate this information. Ms. Pomerleau has taught Spanish in the Poudre School District in Fort Collins, Colorado for over twenty years.

Culturally Diverse Mentors and Interested Learners

Like preparing for a trip to Peru, you will need to make sure you have a few items packed before you embark on your club. First, the heart of the club includes dedicated fluent Spanish-speakers (you can substitute your language and culture of interest here), interested staff and at least one facilitator. Spanish-speaking mentors play a very important role in an effective Spanish Club because they provide conversation for beginners to hear, serve as examples of proper pronunciation and grammar, and provide excellent resources for vocabulary and cultural information. At least one mentor is needed per four learners. Staff members from beginning to intermediate levels are encouraged to attend as many meetings as possible; the only requirement is a desire to learn, to take chances, and to meet new people or to become more acquainted with other staff. Staff should be encouraged to "drop in" anytime, regardless of whether or not they have missed a few meetings. If they miss a meeting, staff is encouraged to meet with a mentor, other staff, or the facilitator to obtain new information. Usually three to ten staff would attend each meeting. At least one facilitator is needed to meet with mentors to prepare club lessons, create handouts, activities, and other class materials, and to relay important club information, such as meeting dates and times, to members.

Location, Meeting Dates and Times

Like mapping a location for a trip and setting flight dates and times, you will need to determine your club meeting locations, dates, and times. Our Spanish club met at least once a month, usually during Wednesday or Friday lunch hour from noon until one o'clock. For continuity and practice, a club should meet at least every other week, preferably every week. Since coordinating meeting space and time for several employees can be tricky, we took a poll from mentors and staff members to decide meeting times and locations. I would try to book workplace meeting rooms at least one month in advance to guarantee a workspace. A variety of locations and times can be offered to fit your group's schedule: you can meet before or after work, on campus or in a public place such as a library or restaurant. As your club advances, you may want to consider providing off-site field trips to places where learners can practice their new language skills. Places where learning can be reinforced include restaurants, museums, grocery stores, religious establishments, and community events and celebrations. Another element to consider is work coverage. Luckily, with enough notice, my supervisor was able to cover the front desk for me while I facilitated the club over my lunch break. About two weeks before the club would meet, I would send an email to members, which included meeting location, time, and date, along with an itinerary. I asked members to RSVP so that I would know how many handouts to prepare for each meeting.

Curriculum

Often travelers carry an itinerary during their trips; our club carried a curriculum. In your club, it is very important to know where you are going and what you are doing. Because this is a club and not a class, the curriculum should be informal, engaging, and flexible. Start the first meeting by conducting a survey (written or verbal), which will determine the needs of your learners; then, tailor the curriculum to meet their interests. By making activities relevant and personal for participants, they can gain ownership over the materials, become more engaged, and will be more willing to attend subsequent club meetings. Also, keep new language skills light; a long list of vocabulary words to memorize can especially intimidate beginning learners and is not conducive to retaining material. Instead, work on a few words and concepts at a time, in context, and add more words each time the club meets.

Repitition and listening are also very important in the beginning curriculum. Beginning learners should hear lots of spoken language provided by advanced participants using comprehensible vocabulary. Fun, hands-on activities, such as sharing and eating cultural foods, watching movies, listening to music, scheduling field trips, and sharing holiday celebrations should be incorporated into the curriculum to provide participants with opportunities to use and expand on their new skills. The mentors and I would usually meet during a break, the week before the club met, to brainstorm and to put our plans on paper. After our meetings, we would create activities, gather supplies, and make copies before and after work or during lunch hours.

Materials

Just as you would pack a suitcase with guidebooks, binoculars, skis, sunglasses, and other items, you will need to pack your club with useful tools which will aid the club on its journey of learning. Our club used a myriad of texts to prepare our lessons. These texts included Spanish textbooks, guidebooks, children's picture books, Spanish novels, music lyrics, Internet websites, playing cards in Spanish, movies and television shows, bilingual newspapers and magazines, and technological software such as the Rosetta Stone programs. Because our group was funded at low-cost by our members, we acquired our materials from the library, the grocery store (free bilingual newspapers), from the Internet, and among our personal collections (i.e. textbooks from prior Spanish classes and personal study guides). Our organization did provide the Rosetta Stone, and use of the copy machine and paper to make class handouts. Most of the materials that the mentors and I used to create activities came from home stashes of paper, magazines, glue, scissors, and writing utensils. We were able to borrow our dietitian's plastic fruit and vegetables for our lesson on those food items. Before our club meeting on the Navidad and the Posadas, mentor Andrea Loftus and I visited the Mexican grocery store to purchase special candies and sugar cane, which we distributed to members with our lesson. Also, depending upon where you meet, you may want to have a chalk or dry-erase board on hand for specific activities. With a larger group, an elevated place to write information can provide more visibility.

Lesson Ideas

As I stated earlier, lesson ideas were generated from members' interests. Some interests included vocabulary related to colors, clothing, food items, numbers, letters, family members, time, dates, and common expressions. Typically, members broke into small groups (one mentor per four learners) or pairs, for role playing activities. We used large groups led by all mentors for games such as bingo and Jeopardy. The following list provides some lesson ideas that you can use in your club:

* Playing games, such as Spanish bingo, Jeopardy, playing cards, and matching words with pictures
* Role-playing situations, such as conversations held in a restaurant, at a dance club, in the airport, or over the phone
* Identifying concrete objects using Spanish words (i.e. real or plastic fruits and vegetables)
* Identifying body parts, via kinesthetic activities, such as "Simon Says"
* Telling stories in Spanish regarding events happening in magazine photos
* Cutting out magazine photos of furniture and clothing to make flashcards
* Using a play clock to tell time
* Creating a life-size drawing of a person to pin body parts, written in Spanish
* Locating Spanish speaking countries and cities using large maps
* Going on field trips
* Listening to Spanish music or watching Spanish programs
* Celebrating birthdays and other holidays
* Using Spanish recipes to create snacks to bring to meetings
* Utilizing technology, such as Rosetta Stone or Internet websites



This list is by no means extensive; however, it can serve as a launching point for your club. Outside of the club, meeting activities can be reinforced through daily interactions with mentors and other club members. For example, throughout our work day, mentors would ask us questions (in Spanish) regarding the weather, date, time, or just about anything to promote practice of our new skills. Another suggestion for your club would be to create a mini library of Spanish-speaking materials, which could be circulated among members. The library could include music and movies in Spanish, vocabulary word flashcards hole-punched onto key chains and playing cards with Spanish phrases.

There are some drawbacks to consider before you embark on your journey to start a cultural club. For instance, preparing curriculum, creating lessons, and gathering supplies can be time-consuming for one or two individuals, especially on a weekly basis. In addition, gathering funds for more elaborate lessons may be difficult. These situations can be handled by on-going communication and collaboration by mentors and facilitators who rotate the roles of creating handouts and gathering materials. Also, participants can "pitch in" funds for more elaborate projects. Finally, the group could use the Internet and other sources to find and research prepared curriculum, which could be tailored and used for club lessons.

With hard work, organization, and an enthusiastic group of mentors and participants, a club such as Almuerzo Con Sus Amigos could be used at any workplace, which celebrates diversity. These clubs not only promote multicultural literacy, but also create meaningful relationships and understanding among co-workers from different cultural backgrounds. Cultural clubs are also a great way to visit a culture without leaving the country. These thoughts are reiterated in what former club members had to say about Almuerzo Con Sus Amigos:

"It was self-selected, not a work force requirement, done on its own time, included motivated learners who wanted to be there, and empowered people to know that they could take the initiative to learn." (Cherrilyn Wallace, Human Resources staff)

"[The club] facilitated a fun way that could be tailored to a work setting as far as convenient times and places where it could be offered, and even the focus of topics and activities. It builds camaraderie." (Cheri Nichols, Registered Nurse)

"Everyone would start asking questions, pretty soon, one question would lead to another. Often, new questions would lead to new learning opportunities [. . .] There are a variety of ways of saying something when you are around people from different places or people who have traveled to different places." (Andrea Loftus, Prescription Assistance Advocate and Mentor)

"The club went beyond just giving us some useful words and phrases in Spanish. We spent a lot of time discussing the cultures that our mentors came from and learning some history and customs. This was as important to me as the language training [. . .] An initiative, started by a staff member, that brought people together around something that would help us serve our clients is exactly the type of thing management would be encouraging." (Chris Sheafor, Human Resources Director)

Language Investigation #2: School, Language, and Friendship

Reading and writing became my struggle for approval and acceptance during my academic years. The struggles arose from boredom and distraction in class and from argument and loss at home and fused together like two cursive letters hooked by monkey tails.

The summer before kindergarten my grandma suffered a stroke; a year later my parents divorced. I can barely remember my Grandma Dorothy’s voice, except that her pitch was low and her tone was stern. After her stroke, I mostly heard a grunt when she was hoisted from wheelchair to toilet seat. While dangling my legs from her bed in the nursing home, I doodled in a variety of kindergarten prep workbooks--the ones that had the fancy stickers inside--or copied letters onto a tablet with ruled lines eight times the width of collage ruled notebook paper.

I credit my mother--the savior to her speechless mother-in-law--for putting aside her life to care for me and place chubby Crayolas in my doll size hands. I credit her for being strong and putting aside her own ambitions to serve her immigrant parents and her alcoholic husband. Mom brought Sesame Street into the living room, Dr. Seuss into my playroom, and maintained safety in our home.

My mother’s parents came to Wisconsin from Germany in the 1950s to start a barbershop. As young entrepreneurs and witnesses to WWII, my grandparents struggled financially and psychologically. Often, their children were subject to their sarcasm and emotional neglect. I remember my grandfather’s cruel humor as he imitated Quasimodo and my grandmother’s cold demeanor--she taught me how to count to ten in German and the sensation of a wooden spoon on one‘s bottom. My mother grew up able to understand spoken German but never how to speak it. Her parents disowned her when she left my father--in any language, that was their way of saying they disapproved of her choices.

Besides the silent language of my grandparents’, I was exposed to the common language of laborers. My father, a backhoe operator, was more interested in sports, socializing, and drinking than academics. Although he was held back in Catholic grade school, he often boasted his State championship in doubles tennis during high school. My step-father Dave, now a gifted wood worker, had a similar Catholic school upbringing, except his mother happened to be both his teacher and principal at St. Al’s. During Dave’s academic career, he struggled with dyslexia and neglect--he was the second youngest of eight children. Dave has always had a colorful vocabulary; in fact, I contribute my knowledge of all swear words known to man to Dave--not to the eighth graders who sat in the back of the bus. Both my father and Dave were children of alcoholics.

In grade school, my background filtered into my relationship with language. One of the first things we learned was the D'Nealian alphabet, displayed on the walls of my classrooms through 3rd grade. Luckily Mom had prepared me for the stringent art of handwriting. Memorizing addition and subtraction facts was a breeze, too, and I soon became champion of Around the World, challenging my peers one desk at a time. Spelling was a cinch, too--I beat out a good friend for the 3rd grade bee ribbon. At that point, memorizing stuff was a snap, but there were some areas of my brain where the dendrites weren’t making any connections.

For instance, I often bombed the listening section of the standardized tests, and my comprehension skills for science and social studies were poor. I could read well and enjoyed writing and performing, but when asked what I had just read, my mind was tabula rasa. My test anxiety grew--my eyes wandered to other desks; the clock’s turning hands pulsated in my ears. And when engaged in huge group activities, I completely shut down. My lack of participation often landed me a seat out in the hall, under the coat racks. In addition, the new Macintosh computers in the library terrified me with their glowing green screens. While my peers delighted in the opportunity to use them at school, I would quietly exit the lab and vanish to the stacks in search of Bunnicula.

Then one day, things started to change.

A new teacher named Ms. Weston was hired at Wheatland Center. She was urban, progressive, and added a little spice to our little country school. For a few hours a week, some of us met in her office. We performed projects which included creating our own fun parks and learning the ancient technique of making and using chocolate. Ms Weston left and was later replaced by Ms. Turk, who was just as innovative. With Ms. Turk, we explored the Indian art of puppet making and performances behind a silk screen. By junior high, I got to coach a group of young students in the production of Goldilocks Goes To Trial. By sixth grade, I developed a love of reading and writing. I would stay up super late scripting a play or writing a short story for class. On weekends, I would hide away with copies of the Baby Sitters Club series or horror novels by R.L. Stine and V.C. Andrews.

Our sixth grade teachers were pretty awesome, too. Mrs. Foat and Mrs. Schultz helped us learn about the Renaissance age by creating our own fair, complete with costumes, food, and entertainment, while Mr. Buddy made science fun by incorporating Skip-It tournaments and Pogo Ball competitions at recess to earn money for saving the Rain Forest. I remember a real sense of camaraderie amongst my classmates. We came together to write letters to troops in the Gulf War, and we gathered on the playground in a circle to support a fellow student who was contemplating suicide.

It was difficult separating from grade school pals who didn’t live in my district when it came time for high school (consequently, I have recently connected with one of my best grade school friends on Face book--I’ve even been invited to her wedding). I had to make many new friends in a freshman class several times larger than my eighth grade class. In this environment, my test anxiety heightened and competition increased. I spent fall of freshman year on the cheer leading squad, hoping to meet some new friends, but I felt even more isolated amidst my squad which was constantly fighting.

English class freshman year really cemented my academic career. Not only did I meet my best friends (who I have kept to this day) through our English teacher’s encouragement to join Forensics, but our team won Gold at State for the Group Interpretation of The Three Faces of Eve. Shortly after, I gained the confidence to work on the school newspaper, join the video club, and work part time at the Community Library. Although I struggled with biology labs and solving geometric proofs, I had discovered the language of literature and friendship. These friends would later become like family, filling in the lost and silent voices of blood relatives. Ironically, many of these friends are now respected members of their teaching communities and are a tremendous encouragement to me as I pursue a teaching degree.

Language Investigation #1: Diaries of a Desk Goddess

Every work place is a school in its own way. And like a school, the Health District of Northern Larimer County (or HD as most insiders refer to it) contained its own language, culture, and lessons. As its pupil, I studied the office lingo, abided by the dress code and gluttoned myself at several potlucks during my 2 1/2 year term as a Support Staff Specialist. What is a "Support Staff Specialist?" Well, the euphemism "Domestic Engineer" is to "Mother" as "Support Staff Specialist" is to "Glorified Secretary." Basically, I fielded calls for a payroll of 100+ employees who worked as dentists, mental health and smoking cessation counselors, dietitians, client advocates, and various other positions in finance, administration and more for our non-profit agency serving folks in the northern 2/3 of Larimer County.
But my fellow "desk goddess" and I did more than just answer phones--we mastered the language and minute details that kept the District flowing on a daily basis, Monday through Friday, 8a.m. to 5p.m. There were many departments to keep track of, and I metered and sorted mail for all of them. With rubber bands hooked to brightly colored name tags which listed abbreviations for a plethora of departments, I sent envelopes of all shapes and sizes through the humming Pitney Bowes machine: one for EVAL (Evaluations), one for PA (Prescription Assistance), one for MH/MC (Mental Health/Primary Care), one for CIT (Community Impact Team). . . .
However, our primary posse was the Health Promotions Team (HP). The HP team (not to be confused with that computer company based out of Fort Collins), could have walked off the ark with Noah because there was a pair of staff for each program: two Smoking Cessation (SC) counselors, two Registered Dietitians (RDs), and two Registered Nurses (RNs) for cholesterol screenings, all six led by one Coordinator. I soon became part of this dysfunctional (and loving!) family.
Shortly following my initial placement date with the temp agency, I was learning the secret code words of the many databases we worked in. One of the first databases I learned was Dentrix (also used by our dental clinic, one building over, or el proximo edificio--I used and learned basic Spanish to assist some of our clients). Dentrix was like a huge calendar where I could put in codes to schedule HP team provider appointments. For instance, I learned that by selecting the code SC (along with a tone of other codes I can't fit into this investigation), I could schedule a client to meet with a Smoking Cessation counselor. If I entered the code Nut, I could schedule a client for an appointment with a Nutritionist or Registered Dietitian, and so on. After a client ended a visit, we printed out a slip called a "Walk-Out" from Dentrix. If the client was going to make a payment, we would enter the payment on our ledger in Dentrix.
The other database the "desk goddesses" used was called HD (for Health District), a royal pain in the butt because it held thousands more clients than it was originally programmed to hold; the excess clients caused a glitch in the database so that I couldn't just look a client up by last name--I had to search by first name, date of birth, client chart number, or social security number, if I was lucky. For this database, we had special codes for entering client information and recording provider visits.
In addition to using HD and Dentrix, we used specific forms to document client information and services. For instance, when a client came to visit a provider, the "desk goddesses" would prepare "Route Slips" with client information, including name, chart number, counseling session number (some of our programs came in "six packs" and "four packs"), client's level (we used a "Sliding Fee" chart based on gross monthly income and household size to determine), and if the client came for the Smoking Cessation program, how many dispensions of NRT he had (NRT stood for Nicotine Replacement Treatment--free gum, lozenges, and patches we issued with the counseling).
Another form we used and data entered was the "Lipid Panel." The Lipid Panel was a carbon copied form that clients could take with them once interpreted by a Registered Nurse at our off-site, bi-weekly cholesterol screenings using our Cholestek machines and a finger stick. I had to familiarize myself with such terminology as Total Cholesterol, Triglycerides, HDL (good cholesterol), LDL (bad cholesterol), Glucose, and Systolic and Diastolic Blood Pressure. The "goddesses" kept a roster with the names of 14 to 50 (50--if the clinic was held at the CSU Wellness Zone) people who pre-registered for the clinic. I was lucky enough to call ALL of these individuals the day before the clinic was held to provide them, robot style, with the following script:

Hello, this is Erika from the Health District.
I am calling for Johnny Depp to remind him
that he has a cholesterol screening scheduled for 9:00 a.m.
on Thursday, February 12 at the Senior Center
located at 1200 Raintree Drive.
Here are some important instructions:
Do not eat for 12 hours before the test.
Drink plenty of water but nothing else.
You can take medications and vitamins,
but do not take cough drops, cough syrups, mints or gum.
Your charge will be $15 or the sliding fee, payable by cash or check only
because we have checked you before.
If you have questions regarding this message or need to reschedule,
please contact me at 224-++++.
We are open Mon-Fri, 8:00a.m. to 5:00p.m.

Needless to say, it was quite challenging leaving my entire spiel on an answering machine that cut out, like every 2 seconds.
The HD language also extended to agencies where we referred clients who needed services we didn't provide. For instance, if a client needed a doctor, we referred him to Salud clinic or Family Medicine Center. If the client needed testing for an STD or wanted to report a case of food poisoning from McDonald's, I gave him the number to the Health Department. If he needed to apply for Medicaid or CHP+ (Child Health Plan Plus), I would give him the number to Human Services, and so forth.
Finally, an introduction to the language of the Health District would not be complete without an explanation of some terms I learned from "Camp Bristlecone" (a fun, employee training put together by HR to boost morale and team building; Bristlecone is the street the HD is located on). One thing I learned was the definition of the DISC personality profile. Each letter stands for a different workplace personality type characteristic: D=Dominance, I=Influence, S=Steadiness, and C=Conscientious. We even took a test to determine which characteristic each one of us most embodied (I was an SC combination). Months before I took the test, most of the seasoned staff walked around saying some gobbledygook like, "Well, I feel like I need to be in control because I'm a D" or "I need to work as a team because I'm an I." I quickly discovered that my boss was a D. She often used her "D-ness" to excuse her behavior for calling in sick, coming in at noon everyday, taking three hour lunches and teaching us how to "Do as I say, not as I do." It's interesting how language is manipulated. . . .

Memory Vignette: Language of Wild Things & Teaching

Rose’s comment from our Memory Vignettes handout reminds me of a time when I was a novice Early Childhood Education teacher for the two year old room at a chain Early Childhood Learning Center. Rose wrote, “Error marks the place where education begins.” With my vignette, I would like to qualify Rose’s statement by stating, “[Humility] marks the place where education begins.”

Anais Nin wrote in Children of the Albatross (p. 175), “In art, in history, man fights his fears, he wants to live forever, he is afraid of death, he wants to work with other men, he wants to live forever. He is like a child afraid of death. . .” In my vignette, I connect fear with humility. I fear beginning new things for fear of being humiliated, for being a novice. Just now I am realizing how humility transforms into experience, into learning.

September, 2004
Brandon started the mayhem first. He was a two foot terror with the charm of Dennis the Menace. And now he was weaving over and under things--the sensory tub, the science center table, and plowing into tiny towers of blocks. He was doing all this barefoot, mind you. Just when I thought I had him in the Story Time Corner, a pair of his crumpled socks in my left hand, and his elf size Nikes in my right hand, his seven pint size peers loyally followed his folly. Like one domino knocking into another, the shoes and socks were plucked off one by one and were abandoned amidst the rubble of the classroom. The barefoot babes laughed and pranced about, leaving me to play warden to a live reenactment of Where the Wild Things Are, with the veteran teachers of the three and four year old room watching the performance, shaking their heads with pity.

Although these children were in the early stages of learning the alphabet, they could easily sound together the consonants and vowels tattooed to my forehead which formed the word GULLIBLE. And while the shoe and sock fiasco was not a recurring incident for me during my first months of teaching, the incident added to a long list of humiliating learning experiences as new teacher. I felt like an alien to the rules and language of teaching. What words could I use to set boundaries, to make these children who I loved so much and who I wanted acceptance from to listen? My nature was the opposite of the Center’s director and my teaching assistant, who came in late, hung over, and whose bi-polar, burnt out, and contradictory nature barked at the children as if they were West Point cadets and shot down every creative idea I wanted to bring to class.

It was the veteran teacher Miss C, the one I met the first day I interviewed, the one who left the impression on me which made me want to work at the Center in the first place, who alleviated my worries. She said, “You’re doing a great job. Twos are hard to teach. Give yourself time and you’ll get there. I’ve been working in this field for over twenty years and I still have my crazy days.”

I guess if I could learn how to talk at age one, I could learn the language of teaching at age twenty five. And the language wasn't all about me, either. It was about those Wild Things, too.

The Right Answer

"Oh, Leslie--would you look at that? Reminds of something I used to wear back in the day when I worked here. Before I was confined to this hunk of metal crap. I would borrow these diamonds to sport at all the hoity toity parties in the foothills with all the rich hunks."
Leslie pushed the slim wheelchair closer to the glass cases, smudged with a day's worth of fingerprints. Candy scooted forward from her wheeled contraption, adjusted her rectangular glasses and leaned her frizzy brown head into the case with the diamond bracelets.
"Hi, ladies. How can I help you?"
The mall sales clerk with the name "Destiny" on her Bellus Jeweler's tag quickly approached the awkward pair. At first, the muscles on Destiny's tanned, young face appeared to lift as if preparing to provide a cheerful, cheap greeting, common among sales folk, but then the muscles back flipped into an open mouthed, wide eyed countenance of horror. Her gaze shifted instantly from the girls to someone standing behind them.
"Don't say a word." A harsh, young male's voice whispered into Leslie's right ear. She felt his warm, whisky scented breath on her neck and something round and cold prod the back of her head. She tightened her grip on Candy's wheelchair and slowly turned her neck to the left, far enough to see the slim figure, roughly her height, 5' 9" standing firmly behind her. The stranger's face was hidden under a rubber mask of Dick Cheney. His figure was clothed in torn military fatigues, covered in rusty stains.
Candy stiffened in her wheelchair and her eyes bulged from her porcelain face like a wild Chihuahua’s. "And who do you think you are, Mister? Can't you see that me and my caregiver are trying to shop here?"
Leslie lightly tapped Candy's hand. She spoke quietly to Candy from the side of her mouth. "Candy, I think we need to take this guy seriously, he is holding a gun to the back of my head."
Candy snorted as she looked at the stranger. "Puh-lease. This guy isn't for real. Not in this dinky little town--voted the best little city in the U.S. by Money magazine. I'll take him just about as seriously as my ex-husband--that bastard. Said he quit being an orthodontist to work as an assassin. Like I believe that for one minute."
The stranger's .357 caliber handgun moved from Leslie's head to her back. He grabbed the waist of her brown wool pea coat with his hand, heavy with cheap bubble gum machine rings and black, chipped fingernail polish. "Your friend's a little yappy. I think I need to show her how serious I am." He withdrew a wrinkled handkerchief from his cargo pants.
Candy waved her pointer finger at him. "Don't you even think about shutting me up."
The stranger waved the pistol in her face.
"Go ahead. I'm not afraid to die. Just ask my caregiver. I'm ready."
The stranger shook his head and quickly wrapped the handkerchief around Candy's mouth. "This chick's crazier than I am." He thrust the pistol into Leslie's back. "Ok. I want you to wheel your friend into that back storage room." He turned to Destiny. "Don't even think about calling security. " He produced a purple Crown Royal sack from his pant pocket. "I expect this sack to be filled with all the cash in your register and as many jewels as you can cram into it when I get back from the storage room--you got that?"
"Uh, yeah." Destiny's voice stammered and her hands tremored as she searched for the register keys. The keys rattled against the glass cases.
Leslie turned her head in both directions, as if looking for any sign of life in the mall, but not a click of a heel or rustle of a bag could be heard as she quickly wheeled Candy to the flickering light coming from a room at the back of the store. Wouldn't you know this has to happened on my last night, she thought.

********************************************

"I hope you're ready for another gourmet meal," said Leslie. She set the pizza rolls, heavy on the bread, light on the pizza, in front of Candy. Leslie grabbed the hot tea and shortbread from the tray for herself.
Candy's hand wobbled for a luke warm roll. "At least it's better than that dog food I get from Meals on Wheels," she said, sticking her index finger in her mouth, producing a gag noise. "Salisbury slop and poop cocktail three times this week. I just give the stuff to my kitty, or give it to my mom. That loony blob with eat anything."
Leslie shook her head. "Candy, you've got to eat more than just pizza rolls and shortbread on Tuesday and Thursday nights. You're not getting any nutrients, and that's not cool with your MS."
"Beso mi culo!" Candy said and stuck out her tongue, exposing particles of pizza roll. "And what's your excuse for not eating? Your boyfriend again? When's he gonna learn to cook for himself? Duh, it's the Twenty-first Century!"
Leslie laughed. "It sounds like you've been practicing your Spanish again. I taught you all the right phrases."
"What else am I gonna do? I'm stuck in this wheelchair all day. Since I got canned from the University, I've been through that whole box of Jane Ann Krentz novels. By the way, I need you to take me to Book Lovers on Thursday to exchange them for another set," Candy paused, and then slumped into her wheelchair, her frizzy brown hair bobbing and glasses sliding down her small, freckled nose. "Hey, that's right--you won't be care giving for me anymore because this is your last night." Candy wiggled her slim body. "You're going to be spending more time with your booooy friend."
Wearing that child size sweat suit and speaking in that winy, high-pitched voice, she sounds like a four year old child, thought Leslie, but geez, I am going to miss our girl nights out. "Ouch!" Leslie retracted from her hot cup of tea. "I burnt my lip. . .and that's not all I'll be doing. I'm going back to school, to study writing."
"Well, you'll have plenty of material with me," Candy laughed and with a trembling hand, pulled out a slim orangish-yellow book with caricatures of unknown politicians and actors on the cover from a pouch on her wheelchair. Looks like a coloring book, thought Leslie.
"Damn tremors!" said Candy, slapping the book on the table. Crumbs flew to the floor. "Well, this will all be over in two years. I've tried everything from the latest meds to marijuana, and nothing has eased the pain of this MS. That's OK, though. My psychologist gave me two years to live after I lost my job--it was the only thing worth living for. I give twenty years to the University and what happens?" Candy looked up towards the ceiling and flung her arms from her lap. "God, just take me now! End my suffering! Let me die and be with my grandmother in Heaven, away from this pain and my mother--that self-centered, bipolar bitch!"
Leslie looked behind Candy at some of the folks who were watching Candy's theatrics--teens with tattoos and body piercings, mothers with mullet haircuts wearing tie dyed T-shirts and stonewashed jeans, and senior citizens power walking at a pace that looked foolishly abnormal. This place is a zoo, with all the animals staring back at animals, thought Leslie.
"Candy, you sound like you have a death wish. I wish you wouldn't talk like that."
Candy's fingers struggled to remove the plastic from a triangular piece of shortbread. Leslie said, "Here let me help you."
Candy pushed the shortbread in Leslie's direction. "See. At least you can open a simple piece of plastic. What can I do anymore? I have no hobbies--I can't work out, I can't decorate, I can't eat or use the toilet like a normal person. My poor dad--he still works like a dog at age sixty five, taking care of that woman and me--empties my colostomy bag. If I wasn't alive, his life would be a helluva a lot easier."
"So I should have left you in your SUV in the mall parking lot, unlocked? Come in to get your pizza rolls by myself, with you unattended, just waiting for a lunatic to come and kidnap you, to drive you into the foothills and wheel you down into the reservoir?" Leslie's speech became pressured as she sat up in her seat to deliver this diatribe.
Candy leaned forward, hands braced to the edge of the table, eyes nearly protruding from her gaunt face. "YES!"
Leslie sighed. "Whatever." She pointed at the orangish-yellow book. "Whaddya got there, Candy?"
Candy immediately brightened. "A book of trivia. I stumped my acupuncturist twice this week with some of these questions. You wanna read a few of them and then go over to the jewelry store before you take me home?"
"Sure, let me see that book of yours." Candy wobbled the book over to Leslie's end of the table. The edges scraped and dipped into the pizza roll sauce. "Mmm, tasty," said Leslie, wiping off a piece of sauce. She flipped through the pages. "Ok, let's see here--Art, Science, Politics. Take your pick, Candy, what topic?"
Candy rolled her eyes upward and placed her pointer finger under her chin. "Hmm, how about Art for 200, Alex?"
"Ok. I think I'll ask you this question because the answer happens to be one of my favorite artists, hint, hint."
"Like I'll ever get it."
Leslie shook her head and laughed. "Here goes: What painter was married to Mexican artist Diego Rivera? A: Leonora Carrington, B: Frida Kahlo, C: Clara Montalba, or D: Tina Modotti? I'll even give you another hint. Selma Hyak played in the movie about this artist."
"What do I care about Selma Hyak? Who played the guy--Richard Gere or Bruce Willis? I give up. Who is Diego Rivera, anyway? I only know Monet and Degas. Or Thomas Kinkade. I don't know--that Clara something or other."
"Nope. The answer is, Frida Kahlo."
"Well, isn't that special. Ask another one. Ask a movie or TV question."
"Ok. For 400 points, what TV show is credited for a massive surge of applications for courses in forensic science? These are your choices, Candy: A: X-Files, B: CSI, C: Law & Order, or D: Quincy."
Candy rolled her eyes. "Like, duh, everyone knows that it's CSI."
Leslie gave her a golf clap. "Good job, you are correct. How about you ask me a few?"
"Why not. Oh, here's a good one." With trembling hands, Candy lifted the book two inches from her face. Her voice was muffled through the paper and cardboard. "Every episode of "Seinfeld" contains an image or reference to what superhero? Is it A, Superman, B, Batman, C, Spiderman, or D, Plastic Man.
Now it was Leslie's turn to roll her eyes. "C'mon. That's too easy. My boyfriend's a Seinfield fan and my brother's a comic book freak. The answer is A: Superman."
Candy wagged her finger at Leslie. "I guess I'm being too easy on you. Let me find you a tough one. How about Miscellaneous?"
Leslie rubbed her hands together. "I'm ready."
"According to Japanese legend, a sick person will recover if they fold 1,000 of what type of origami? Is it A, a Dragon, B, a Fish, C, a Frog, or D, a Crane?"
"Well, I know a dragon is for good luck. I'm not sure what a fish or frog stands for. . .I've seen a lot of cranes in Japanese stories," Leslie deliberated on this question for a good two minutes. "I don't know. . .dragon?"
"Nope. Crane. This is what the answer reads: according to a Japanese legend, the crane lives for a thousand years, and a sick person who folds 1,000 origami cranes will become well again. A young girl, Sadako Sasaki from Hiroshima, set out to do just that when she developed leukemia as a result of her exposure to the atomic bomb dropped on her city."
"And?"
"And what?"
"And, did the girl live?"
"What do you think, Leslie?"
"You know Candy, did you ever stop to think that maybe there's a reason why the MS hasn't killed you yet?"
Candy talked over her, as if having a private conversation with herself. "She died at age 12, before her project was completed. . ." she said quietly.
"Let me see that." Leslie pried the book from Candy's spindly hands. "But it says her classmates folded the remaining cranes for her and placed them at the foot of a monument constructed in Sadako's memory in Hiroshima's National Peace Park. See Candy, they still had hope."
"Leslie, will you fold me a thousand cranes when I die? How will you remember me?"
"With a thousand paper cats. But I know that day won't come for many years. . . ."
"Oh, trivia, what's the use of it anyway. Except to sit around in mall food courts, passing the time until my caregiver leaves. . ."
Leslie pulled a folded up piece of paper from her coat pocket and placed it on the table.
"What's that, origami?" Candy asked.
"No. It's something a counselor I work with gave me." Leslie looked at her bright blue cell phone. "Good. We still have some time for this."
"For what? I thought we were going to the jewelry store."
"We are, mi amiga. This will just take a few minutes."
"What's on that crumpled piece of paper? A chant for eternal youth and good health, I hope."
"Well, Candy, I know you like reading about psychology and stuff. This is David Hawkin's Levels of Consciousness. According to this guy, we all function on different levels which determine why we behave the way we do," Leslie unfolded the paper. She pointed at a chart with over fifteen emotions with point values next to them ranging from 20 to 1000.
"So will this thing determine whether or not I'm crazy or what?"
Leslie laughed. "No, but I think it might help you find some purpose to your life. See it's divided up by positive energy giving levels and negative energy taking levels, or survival levels and levels of love. See, Shame is at the bottom rung of the ladder. The primary emotion is humiliation. It's the closest to death and most suicide victims are found at that level. On the opposite end, you find Enlightenment--it's like Christ, Buddha, or Krishna--becoming like God."
"Holy smokes--which level am I at? Shame? 'Cause I'm certainly not Godlike. If I was God, the first thing I'd do is go back to the University and fire my boss!"
"No, I think you're above that--you're not ready for death yet. I think you're in a level of Grief. You're in a state of remorse for the life and opportunities you could not fulfill. You can change that, you know. You could move up to Desire, Pride, even Courage."
"It's that easy, huh? Just read a piece of paper by some weird guy."
"It's not easy. It requires more than just reading. It requires making a conscience decision and taking action." An Asian ring tone interrupted the conversation.
"Preacher, I think your cell phone just went off."
Leslie pulled it out from her coat pocket. "Oh, it's just a text from my boyfriend. He wants to know what I want for dinner."
"Well, I guess we better check out the jewelry store so you can get home."

******************************************************

"'How white their steel/how bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave, cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave. Yea, I will bless them as they bend and love them where they lie, when on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky. The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose, you never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes'--who wrote this?" The stranger in the Dick Cheney mask pinned Candy and Leslie in the back corner of the closet, imprisoned by boxes. He swung his .357 as he spoke, staggering a little.
"Sir Walter Scott?" Leslie asked, nerves forcing her erect. She tried to remember what she was taught in Crisis Intervention class. Keep a supportive stance, talk in a calm voice, repeat what he's saying. . .deescalate, deescalate. . . he appears to be intoxicated. Maybe I can trick him. Candy sat silently with the handkerchief in her mouth, gathering drool.
The stranger belched. "Wrong answer. 'Twas no other than G. K. Chesterton--'The Last Hero'."
"Really. . .I'm not too familiar with his works. Would you like to talk about them?"
"No. What I'd really like to talk about is that bitch, Stephanie."
"Stephanie?" Leslie was a little surprised by this response. "Let me guess--she's your girlfriend?"
The stranger in the Dick Cheney mask threw back his head. "Ex-girlfriend. In fact she used to work here, in this jewelry store. Before I left for Iraq I used to visit her here all the time. Oh, the times we would have in this back room."
"Oh--kaay. Well, that was a little more than I needed to know," Leslie whispered to herself. Candy made a gag noise.
"So you went to Iraq?"
"Hell yeah. Signed up five years ago. Was an infantry soldier in Mosul."
"I can't imagine what you experienced there. . .as a soldier."
"It's nothing civilian life could prepare you for. Bullets pinging off armored vehicles like rain drops shattering a bucket. Explosions--mushroom dust clouds, no sign of blue for weeks. Grenades everywhere--never knowing when one will go off. . . BOO!" He threw back his head and laughed like a mad scientist. "Hell, my buddies and I put our lives on the line for you ungrateful. . .I put my life on the line for that ungrateful bitch. . . ."
"I'm sorry, she must have broken your heart."
"That succubus was engaged to me before I left. We wrote each other daily for months. Two years went by and the letters slowly dwindled to one every few months or so. Soon there were none. I came back to an empty bed. I wasn't there to keep her warm, so she moved on to another."
"But you can move on, there's other women out there--"
"Like hell I can move on. Who wants a man with a broken head? Shit, I can't even go back to school under the G.I. Bill. That bastard recruiter assured me when I enrolled that I would be called to active duty only if WWIII broke out." He produced a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and threw it at Leslie. "Read that."
"This is from the Department of the Army. It's a deployment letter for Cody McNabb. Cody McNabb--is that you?"
"I wish I could say it wasn't, but it is."
All the while McNabb was talking to Leslie, Candy had managed to work her facial muscles to remove the handkerchief. It slid down her chin and into her lap. "So, Dick Cheney, are you gonna shoot me or what?" she asked.
McNabb shook his head. The gray of his eyes revealed the human behind the mask. "Lady, you are the only civilian I've ever known to ask to be killed. What's your deal?"
"Twenty years in a wheelchair is my deal, bubs. . .no job, no husband, no house, no life!"
"Looks like you gotta a pretty good life to me--you've got a good friend, here. All of my buddies have died or moved on, married with children. They've forgotten my name. As for that wheelchair--at least you can move your arms, still. You should of seen a buddy of mine over in Iraq. His limbs fried off like Anakin's right before he was found and transformed into Darth Vader."
Leslie's cell phone ring tone sounded. At this point, McNabb's gun was resting at his side. He turned to Leslie. "You got a phone call or something?"
"Uh no, really, it's nothing."
Candy scoffed. "Nothing? You bet it's something. It's her boyfriend, calling her home for dinner. So you better hurry and shoot me now so she can scurry on home."
McNabb scoffed back at Candy. "Oh, you think it's that easy. That I'll kill one of you and let the other one go? Well it doesn't work like that in combat. It's all or nothing. I'll tell you what. I'm gonna ask you a question. If you answer right, I let you both go, and I leave with my Crown Royal sack--you don't breathe a word of this to anyone."
"And if I answer wrong, you shoot me?"
"No, if you answer wrong. . .I shoot both of you."
Candy slumped into her chair.
Leslie slowly turned her head in Candy's direction. There were questions in her dark eyes. "Now's your chance, Candy," she whispered. "How do you think they'll remember us?"
"Candy," said McNabb. "You look like a smart woman. The kind who would never cheat on a man. The kind who just might know the right answer to a question. But is it a question she wants to answer correctly, even if she does know the answer?" Leslie's chest rose with every word he pronounced. She was wondering the same things as McNabb. My God, what question could this guy possibly ask?
"Candy," said McNabb. "In life, there are many forces, good and evil, wrong and right. And there are different levels to everything, different energies. In times of war, I experienced everything and nothing. There is such a thing as energy levels--Levels of Consciousness as David Hawkins calls them. . . ."
David Hawkins? A lump rose in Leslie's throat.
"Candy," said McNabb. "There were points in my service when I felt like I was at the level of Fear and paranoia, Desire for power, Anger for unfulfilled Desire, Courage to go on, and Pride for my country. At one point, I even felt Enlightenment--I felt so close to God, I can't describe the all-knowing sensation. But now, I realize these were all delusions. There's only one way I will be close to God and that is in death. And here lies my question to you, fellow beggar of death. Sister in suicide. What level is this on Hawkin's scale?"
"Is this a multiple choice question?" asked Candy. "Cause that's the only trivia I'm used to."
"Sorry, this is fill in the blank."
The answer was ready to pounce on McNabb from the tip of Leslie's tongue. Say it, Candy. C'mon. You just learned this tonight, you know it.
Candy glanced at Leslie. "I'm sorry Leslie, but you're not gonna like this."
Leslie took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
"McNabb," said Candy. "I doubt this answer is correct, my memory's really faulty. But I am going to guess that on David Hawkin's scale, you are at the very bottom. You are at the level of--Shame."
Leslie spat fear from her breath. McNabb hiccupped.
"You are correct, Madam," he said. Then he turned the gun to his forehead.
"McNabb, no!" Leslie leapt for the gun. McNabb pulled the trigger. Nothing. He pulled the trigger again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
"Shit! There's no bullets in this piece!" He said. Then he quoted Chesterton again: “'The gallows in my garden, people say, is new and neat and adequately tall. I tie the noose on in a knowing way, as one that knots his necktie for a ball. But just as all the neighbours--on the wall, are drawing a long breath to shout 'Hurray!,' the strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all think I will not hang myself to-day.'"
“And I thought I was the crazy one,” said Candy.

****************************************

About two minutes after Cody McNabb’s failed attempt at suicide, three mall security guards entered the storage room, along with Larry Matheson, McNabb’s caseworker at Mountain View Rehabilitation Center.

News reports in the local paper the next day would say that McNabb had escaped from the facility earlier that evening, broke into his mother’s home, grabbed a bottle of whiskey from her liquor cabinet and his father’s .357 from the lock box and headed for the mall. His mother had a suspicion he was headed for the mall--there was a 20% off coupon from Bellus Jeweler’s torn and left on the kitchen counter along with an envelope for a deployment letter postmarked three years ago, before McNabb landed himself in Mountain View for PTSD.

Leslie and Candy could hear McNabb still quoting Chesterton as he was being handcuffed:
“'He is a [sane] man who can have tragedy in his heart and comedy in his head.'"
Leslie and Candy heard a whisper from the girl at the counter as she spilled the contents of the Crown Royal sack back into the register: “And ‘A dead thing can go with the stream, but only a living thing can go against it.’"
Leslie and Candy looked at each other. Destiny? Who knew?

***********************************************
“Arms in?” asked Leslie. Candy slumped into the passenger side of her SUV. Leslie turned to the security guard who escorted them to the parking lot. “I think we’re OK from here, sir.”
He nodded. “Take care, gals. Here’s my number if you need anything else.”
Leslie slipped the number into her coat pocket and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Who’s gonna ask me if ‘I’m all in’ after tonight?” asked Candy.
“You’ll just have to train one of your new caregivers,” said Leslie. She braked fast as a car whizzed behind them, going the wrong direction.
“Asshole!” said Candy. “When are those kids gonna learn?” She shook her head. “See, my new caregiver won’t know that the high school kids fly through here in the wrong direction constantly.”
“Oh, Candy, I’m sure gonna miss you. Hell, who would have guessed our last night would end like this.”
“Have you checked your phone lately?”
“Holy cats--six new text messages! He’s never gonna believe this.”
“You better call him.”
“I will, as soon as I drop you off. Your dad’s waiting up for us.”
"I'm surprised your boyfriend hasn't showed up already, looking for his three course meal--that this wasn't all over the news and shit." Candy sighed and put her head against the seat. “Leslie, I think I’m gonna fire Inga.”
“Your Monday-Wednesday-Friday caregiver? Really?”
“Well, you’re leaving. And that old bat’s been bossing me around for the past three years. Telling me to buy her 'this rag to dust with' and 'those petunias to plant,' and flirting with my dad. You inspired me to start over, start fresh. I need new energy.”
“That’s great--what are you going to tell the agency?”
“I’m gonna tell them I want to trade in a forty for two twenties (well actually, your age and Inga’s combined equal about eighty). But I won’t be short changing myself. Hell, if my ex could do it, I can do it." They shared a giggle. Then Candy turned to Leslie for the last time (maybe). "And what about you? Now that you're retired from care giving for good?"
Leslie looked off into the twinkling lights of the parking lot. "Don't say for good, Candy. A person never stops caring. . . .besides, if I'm gonna be a writer, I need some juicy material."

*******The End*******

Erika & Evelyn

Erika

My friend, Dana, boyfriend Garett, and I are walking down 16th Street in Denver on a cool Spring afternoon, looking for a place to eat lunch. Garett is bummed and cranky because he's really hungry and the place he wanted to try (some little sandwich place which serves Italian beefs--a Chicago favorite which is a rare gem in Colorado) is closed on weekends. All three of us German Midwesterners love the creamy taste of a fresh slice of cheesecake, so we decide to try the Cheesecake Factory for lunch.

The interior tempts us with its golden wallpaper, tropical fake plants, and thick furniture. The waitress brings us to our booth and we settle in with our menus. Garett orders a surprise--the navajo chicken, Dana orders a salad (minus the bacon bits--she's mostly a vegetarian who only eats chicken), and I order a garlic chicken pizza. Garett runs to the bathroom and Dana and I discuss how cranky he is the moment he leaves. We also talk about how he was criticizing my driving the whole way down to Wheatridge and Dana's driving on the way to Denver. Slowly, the woman in the booth to the right of me comes into view.

Immediately, the name Evelyn enters my head. A big pearl necklace ornaments her neck, a black and white floral print curtain covers her body, and her nails are chipped pink. At least three empty wine glasses lay on the table before her, while she sips on a fourth, laughing with her head back, eyes closed and mouth hugging the lip of the glass. The food arrives: Garett's navajo chicken is too bready, Dana's salad has bacon bits in it, and my pizza is too garlicky. I hear a voice to the right of me. Evelyn is talking to someone next to her. But there is no one there. "How are you today, ma'am?" I ask. She looks at me as though I've interrupted her conversation with an invisible man. She responds coldly, "Fine." Her eyes fall on the picture of Billie Holiday on my black t-shirt. Then she turns her gaze to a fresh cup of coffee. She leaves a ring of hot pink lip stick on the ceramic mug. Despite the meal, we decide to follow our main purpose for attending the Cheesecake Factory and order cheesecake. We each order a slice, not realizing that one slice is large enough to feed three. Between bites, I hear soft sobs from Evelyn. Her early laughter has turned to loneliness, as if a great love had been taken from her. We leave the Cheesecake Factory with a bad taste in our mouths, but at least I am inspired by Evelyn to write a story.

*************************************************************************************

Evelyn

The golden walls warm by body on this cool, Spring afternoon. I can hear the click of my heels on the marble as I enter the restaurant--Our place. I quickly pad my new 'do, recently permed for this special occasion, before Evan, Our waiter, promptly greets me. "Why Ms. Bordeaux, you look beautiful as ever," I catch his little wink. "You must have a very important date this afternoon. Shall I escort you to your favorite booth?" I look at the massive clock on the wall behind Evan--nearly one. He will be here any minute. My hand flies to the pearls around my neck, and I roll my fingers over their roundness (I always do this when I'm nervous). "Yes, dear," I say to Evan. "Charles will be arriving shortly to accompany me." Evan leads me to Our familar booth, which faces the giant clock. Good, I slip onto the soft, brown leather, there's no other customers in close proximity, no one to bother us with their rude conversation and table manners. And I sit and wait.

Charles arrives on the wing of an angel. His crisp, navy blue suit accentuates the sparkle in his eyes. His salt and pepper hair shines underneath his dark blue hat. My heart immediately flutters from its cage. God, it has been so long--so long since those soft, kind hands have encircled this body. So long since those soft, kind lips have embraced my own. Charles glides into the booth across from me with the grace of an airplane pilot landing a plane. His eyes capture mine, his smile captures my heart. All I feel is light. "Why Evelyn Bordeaux, you look wonderful. I'm surprised I'm the only man sitting in this booth with you," he says. I want to punch him for breaking my heart, for stringing me along, for leaving me and Our son behind, but all I can do is reach across the table and grab him with all my life--to eat up all the love that we hold inside for each other. Even when someone goes away for a really long time, that doesn't mean that Our love goes away, too.

We are sitting next to each other, like two doves in a nest, sipping our second glasses of Pinot Grigio. Charles is talking about how his flight nearly escaped from the earthquake in the exotic land he just returned from as he plays with the pearl beads around my neck--the pearls he gave me. It tickles and I giggle. It seems like Charles and I are the only ones here, as if we are suspended in time, in a world of our own, a world that cannot be penetrated. . .except for that girl who I just notice in the booth next to us. She has turned to me, completely overlooking Charles. "How are you today, ma'am?" she asks. She is wearing a black t-shirt with Billie Holiday on it--what does she know about Billie? What does she know about music? What does she know about love? How dare she interrupt us? "Fine," I say, then bring my lips to a warm cup of coffee that Charles has ordered. Charles is looking at the giant clock behind me. The hour hand stabs at the number four. Warmth dissipates as Charles slides from the booth. "Evelyn, my dear, I'm sorry, but I promised my wife and son that I would be home by five. . .can we meet again, tomorrow evening?" My heart returns to its cage. "What about our son, Charlie--he asks about you every day--he's never even met his own father. I thought you were going to leave Janice, what happened to that promise?" I ask. Charles gathers my hands in this own. "Give me two more years, Evelyn. Just until Daniel graduates from high school. Then we can be together. Then I can take you with me on my travels and Jacob will know his real father," he says. I tear my hands from his. "Just go, I say. This is how it will always be, I will always be waiting. . ." I put my mouth to the warm ceramic mug as I see the flash of navy turn the corner to leave. He has left me with nothing again, nothing but these sobs. . . .

To Katie (Who Loved James Taylor)

I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again

Over a decade's worth
of snowflakes have fallen and melted,
fertilizing the place where you sleep eternal
on Pete's Hill.

At random times during my day
I remember your voice--
that British accent which pronounced
all "th" words with an "F"
so when you said:
"I thought about it"
it came out:
"I fought about it."

You must have been born under
the Tarot the Lovers
for you always had your entourage of men,
young and old,
asking for your time.

And yet, you always had time for me.

Like the time we took
a wicked shot of espresso and
called in late to work,
lying and saying my car had broken down.

That night in January I received the call,
living at home in purgatory,
waiting for Redemption.

She said it happened instantly,
that you and your male friend
were dead on impact
the moment you hit that icy patch
and collided head-on with the fire truck,
sirens blaring and lights flashing,
Oh, the irony. . .

I fancy you were on your way home
from the Gallatin Gateway,
drunk and high as a kite,
having the time of your life
like when I last saw you,
as we shared a smoke in the campus parking lot
after watching The Last Days of Disco.

I just wanted to let you know
that you were right when you said,
"I'll never see you again."
I'm sorry. . .

Fester

Those words from over a decade ago haunted me still: I never want to see you again.
What was behind that proverbial door, a lady or a tiger? A dark creature stirred in my intestines, slithered its way through my stomach and into my esophagus. Then it pounded on the wall of my skull. The email beckoned me, whispered my name. With a trembling hand, which formed perspiration on the mouse, I double-clicked on the images.
Who were the strangers in the downloaded photos, peering at me through glass eyes and wax smiles? Where was my dear cousin Jenna--my club house playmate with golden hair--now replaced with a faded version of her youth, eyeliner smeared into wrinkles and chest sagging under a matronly gown? And where was my cousin Jeremy? He was replaced by an aged stunt double with hair nearly receding to his ears and a belly bloated like a fish in the sun. Tears began to pool at the sight of sweet Aunt Becky, whose body was snatched by an old hag--the same one who took both her kidneys and forced her on dialysis.
But the creature rattled most on my cranium at the sight of Father. I never want to see you again. What was I expecting? A man with a thick, raven feathered mane, crystal blue eyes, and a body builder's physique? Who was this Thing with webs clouding his eyes, a brittle mop resting on his leathered face, and skin slipping off his bones? Surely this wasn't the man, who only a decade ago flirted with Heather Locklear's twin at the bakery and thwarted off stalking women down the market aisles.
***********************************
I still felt the chill of that January morning when I stuck that note between the blade of the wiper and the icy windshield of his yellow VW Rabbit. I never want to see you again. His fondness for spirits had created the distance. My note increased the distance. The family saw no problem with his habits, so the distance was expanded.
"But I'm seeing a psychologist now," Father told Mother and I via the telephone.
My stoic reply never wavered: "The damage has been done. I never want to see you again." I was only nineteen.
************************************
After a decade, I had my excuses for not making the Mulligan family reunion on the 13th, despite my cousin Daria's request--I lived four states away and worked full time. In the days that followed the opening of the email, I was amazed at the stranger who greeted me when I looked in my rear view mirror or passed by a department store window. Her flesh glistened with the kiss of the sun, her eyes shown bright as a lantern, and her hair shimmered with the sheen of a raven's wing. This woman of nearly thirty stones had the body of girl young enough to be carded as nineteen.
And yet, the dark sack of guilt and forgiveness grew inside me, like the swollen liver of an alcoholic. Each day after work, my stomach knotted and wretched as I moved the mouse, against my will, to Daria's email and double-clicked on that family portrait. And each day, they grew older and older, as if each passing moment was a decade. Their skin fit tight as drum leather against their translucent bones. Their hollowed eyes were fodder for crows. By the fifth day, the scenery of Echo Park was transparent through their paper thin bodies. The bones leaned into each other like the frame of a tepee. Father's index finger, once the size of a sausage, now the consistency of chicken bone, pointed in my direction. I never want to see you again.
On the seventh day, the pile of bones collapsed like a building under dynamite. The dust of their existences mixed with the playground sand. I gasped as I felt the creature around my throat, icy and tight like a wiper blade trapping a note.

Trick or Treat

Sometimes a playroom
isn't a playroom.
Sometimes a witch
isn't a witch.

Candycorn and half-eaten
cupcakes
A pinata with its guts spilled out:
spider rings, vampire fangs,
purple, orange and black
Thingamabobs.
And all the games have been played.

Except one remains: the Haunted House.

A clown
who isn't a clown
Leads a cloth pumpkin with legs,
stem bent and bobbing,
to the playroom door.

Inside: a woman screaming,
a chainsaw cutting through flesh,
and black cats clawing their eyes out.

Don't go in there! Don't open the door!
(And yet one does, following
the glowing back of the clown)

A bowl of mushy guts and eyeballs
A bloody finger in a box
Cobwebs above, spiders beneath
then
Boo!
The witch in the closet:
Beady eyes, warty nose,
long, mousey hair, and
Death in a locket.

She's suffered a fright!
Hit the lights!

The witch which
isn't a witch:
just a piece of cardboard,
body bending by brackets and strings.
(Aunt Kathy: the puppeteer,
laughing from behind)

Funny, how those fears never leave,
They just change form.

Sometimes a playroom
isn't a playroom.
Sometimes a witch
isn't a witch.

Going Ape Shit!

Laughing then suddenly
Lost
a four year old finds fear
under the rubber nostrils
of a six foot hominoid.

Prehensile, the knuckle walker
clutches an electric gee-tar,
shakes his chocolate shag carpeting,
and blows a cloud of breath that stinks
more of beer than bananas.

Every color of the canopy blurred into black,
Everything familar shaken off the tree,
lying with no connection to the understory.

Born helpless.

Eyes awaken to Charleton Heston,
No--Dad:
Prehensile, clutching a Pabst Blue Ribbon,
and swapping a banana for a bratwurst.

Lips curled, canines exposed,
the Neanderthal emits a primal whoop
with the young and bewildered kicking
and howling between his paws as
he totes the Lost back to the troop.

Two Minimalist Poems

German Class Girls

Blonde one, tall one,
one with frecks,
forging friendship;
shooting spitballs
at Fraulein Knutson:
that *alte Schweinhex!

*old Pigwitch



The Pup

Pig belly-
skunk breath-
tyrannosaurus teeth!
And who could resist
that De Niro mole
resting on his
left cheek?

On the Balcony

The villians vanish in the dusk
of Two Creeks Natural Area,
inciting howls from every neighborhood hound.
A cloud ship sails in on the horizon,
infused with angry beauty and menace.
Moisture, light, particles,
capture the color of a wound.

Suspended fifteen feet above the earth,
in a ten by eight foot square of concrete, metal and wood,
I wait for the magic to happen:
for the wall of water to fall.

The concrete cool beneath my feet now,
a still, clean wetness in the air
and we are on the edge---
of an explosion.
I hang my arm over the ledge, Eew! I felt one!
Then two, then three, then four,
then drops everywhere!
Splattering against the pavement,
cleaning the trees and feeding the grass.

Moths dry their wings above me,
finding warmth and shelter
near the heat of the lamp post.
Wings of every pattern and color
beating to stay afloat, to avoid the jaws
of Lucy, paws poised to leap,
tail flicking in anticipation,
eyes glowing with the hunt.

The world pervades her soft gray fur,
the color and smell of the rain
falling without fluctuation now,
coursing through the creek and inciting the glo-worms:
townsfolk in yellow raincoats and head lamps bobbing,
hanging their arms over the bridge,
level nearly tangible to the fingertips.

And so it goes with Garett grabbing the acoustic,
making tangible with fingertips Child of the Moon
and I grasping the pages of Ladder's to Fire,
dreaming of Lillian and Djuna outside a Parisian cafe,
sipping coffee and watching the rain fall.

The Matriarch

She lay like a mannequin,
rouge on her cheeks, sporting
the latest fashion of the morgue,
but wearing those shoes:
the faded brown leather ones with the bubble
at the end where her big toe pressed,
with the orthodic heals stolen
from Frankenstein's closet.

She wasn't wearing those beasts
years ago when she took that train trip
to Yellowstone with her sister,
back when she was still a Baumgartner,
before she became a mother of five
and her body changed forever.

She wasn't wearing them when he came home drunk
and rationed out beatings with the garden hose.

She wasn't wearing them
back when I remembered her voice,
speaking to me as I nibbled on
ring shaped butter cookies.

But she wore them with her chin up,
transported from her wheeled contraption
to the commode, with only a grunt
squeaking through her lips.

She lay like a doll as the cousins
pillaged her body for keepsakes:
a pin that said her nickname in loops and swirls
and spectacles with her crust on the nose piece.

What I wanted was those beasts--
to climb into that casket
and send them to the crematory.
Instead, I was given back a gift
I had given her: a gold necklace
of the Madonna and Child,
and I saw the water pooling
in Dad's eyes like a freshly dug grave
with the sprinklers turned on.

The Grave Robbers

It's so sad
what happens to these beasts.

Mountains of compressed metal glistened
from beneath fading sunlight.

Corpses rested on metal rims,
their remains spilled onto the dirt:
glass splinters, rusting bolts,
flakes of metallic flesh.

Grave robbers stumbled the grounds
in overalls and flannels,
knit caps and beards
and rolled squeaky Radio Flyers,
piled high with rubber.

A grave robber's legs dangled
from a '94 Buick Roadmaster,
while he performed an autopsy
with a wrench and a pliers
and picked through the dead
for something living.

Stale scent of a berry air freshener wafted
through a creaking door,
which opened and closed
by the spectral hands of its former owner,
searching for her prized Selena tape and
lip gloss left on the dusty seat.

Before the moist dusk could settle
upon metal, the grave robber departed
with the remains: a cigarette lighter
and a rear view mirror,
upon which the beast's reflection
faded away.

My First Blog

Here lies my first blog!