Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I don’t mind sweating, but I’ll tell you, I intensely dislike it when the sweat makes my boxer shorts stick to my butt cheeks. Makes me want to swear off undies, but then I’d just end up with my shorts stuck to my butt. The only option seems to be to avoid sweating, unless someone makes undies that repel sweat…
Woof.
Going through the morning’s triple S activities – shit, shower, shave – he was thinking about his parents and their health. They’d divorced when he was a little boy. Each had contributed to that mess, he decided while conducting his retrospective. Mom forced issues and seemed to thrive on confrontation. Dad shunned conflict. Throwing himself into work, he’d held several jobs simultaneously. He did each well, and they paid well.
After their divorce, Mom had remarried six or seven times – he wasn’t sure – and Dad had several live-in girlfriends besides two other marriages. He thought it was remarkable that he’d married and managed to keep it together for over forty years.
Of course, he’d never been close to his parents. Splitting time between Mom and Dad’s households, he’d struck out on his own after graduating high school when he was seventeen, and then married at eighteen. Neither parent had made an effort to stay very close outside of birthday and holiday cards. Mom visited him and his wife one time, after he’d bought the round-trip airline ticket for her, after they’d been married thirty years. Dad had visited once, dropping by their first apartment for a grinning, goofy fifteen minute visit. Two visits between the two parents in more than forty years.
He sighed. Both parents, in their eighties, were in declining health. He knew he’d miss them once they passed away – everyone told him so – but it was hard for him to generate compassion for their situation.
He hated that he had that flaw and couldn’t seem to do anything about it.
Have you ever noticed..?
You’re trying to hurry. You’re eager to get started or — shudder — you’re running late. Perhaps you overslept or ignored the alarm clock, or kept playing with your pet (and that’s not a euphemism). Maybe you can blame it on your computer – “Did you see today’s headlines?” – “I was this close to a new high score.”
Whatever the reason, cause, or excuse, do you see how it seems to cause everything to automatically go against your efforts to be quick? Lines form, traffic jams, the computer takes it time applying a gajillion updates, and the people ahead of you can’t find their credit card — debit card — cash — checkbook.
Your mind gets in on it. Suddenly you remember, “Damn it, I forgot my list,” and you need to retrace your steps, or you can’t find your keys/glasses/shoes —
Or the toilet stops up, and the water rises —
Or a car’s blocking your vehicle in.
It’s enough to make one scream.
A beard and mustache like smudges on the face
long and thick brown hair pinned up to play baseball
faded bell-bottom blue jeans with a large hole in the rear
and no undies underneath
white high-top canvas shoes
hand-painted fluorescent orange
a worn white tee-shirt with a green marijuana leaf in the center of the chest
under by a torn military fatigue shirt signed by everyone met
worn open like a jacket
quoting Asimov, Clapton, Kirk, and Clemente
reading Leary, Chekov, Dumas, Tolkien, Heller, and Knowles
listening to the Stones, Humble Pie, Cream, Jimi, Janis, and Bob
dancing to Sly, Chicago, Three Dog Night, and EW&F
runnin’, walkin’ and bikin’ to go anywhere and everywhere
through any weather and across any terrain
That’s the fourteen-year-old that I remember.
Don’t you love it when you’re outside with a hat on, and a large spider starts running around on your hat brim’s underside, and then he drops down on a thread and swings onto your sunglasses like Tarzan, and then races onto your cheek and makes a dash over your mustache for your nostril?
Yes, yes, I really love it.
Really.
Ah, nature.
The thief isn’t death – we’re all going to die —
the thief is the decline that robs us of time.
The thief burgles memories
and steals our wit,
the thief is the disease that rots our bodies
and makes us sick.
The thief embezzles our energies and usurps our pride,
darkens our vision and makes hope a lie.
It takes our hearing and corrupts our senses,
builds up walls and creates new fences.
We look out from within and they look in from without,
both of us wondering,
does anyone know what life is about?
Oh, I remember the first time. Dad had taken us children out. It was just the four of us. Mom was working. When we reached home, we discovered that Dad didn’t have the key, and the door was locked. This was pre-cell phone days, back when phones were big, clumsy things a headset as large as a small child’s head, and a rotary dial.
Dad reconnoitered to find a way in and then started talking about going to one of the neighbors’ houses to call Mom. We hadn’t lived there long, and didn’t know the neighbors.
I had a more pressing issue; I had to pee. Dad pointed to a bush and said, “Just go behind a bush.”
I was shocked. Pee outside? What are we animals. But when a boy hasta go, a boy hasta go.
Yep, I remember the first time.
“There’s a Dairy Queen. Want to go there for dessert?”
“Okay.” She sounded pleased.
He’d been joking but he made the right turn, found parking, and they went inside. It’d been a long time since they’d been in a DQ, and the menu was different from those days, requiring a study of offering, ingredients, and calories. Finally choices were made. “Do most people take a long time like I did?” he asked the young cashier.
She smiled. “Yes, most do.”
His wife said, “We used to go to the Dairy Queen when we were dating. Not this one, but I mean, another Dairy Queen. It was the only place around.”
“That was literally almost fifty years ago,” he said. He and his wife laughed.
The cashier smiled. “Your orders will be up in a moment.”
Michael Seidel, writer 