Fall has come and with it the dryness of north winds.
October can be a busy month for business men,
flying to Chicago, Calgary, LA and back again.
I walk the dog, while my wife prepares for bed.
“Did you pack your medicine,” last words she said.
“Yes.” I replied before walking out the door.
The air is cool and the moon bright above,
slow last moments before sleep comes,
and in the morning, a chaotic rush.
I love the chaos though, TSA and all;
like ships through Panama’s locks,
while carrying on cocky conversations over scotch.
But trips become tiring quickly, out there alone,
the chaos to return can never go fast enough
For the weary business man wanting for home
I look up to a roar, and the dog looks up too.
Close enough almost to touch, a plane flies over,
crashing the night’s silence, a banshee in silver and blue.
I think of my wife, whom I’ll miss tomorrow.
But you won’t see her sorrow or grieving,
Since she can’t stop forgiving me for leaving.
And I know someone on that plane is returning
from a business trip to Paris, New York or Rome,
and I speak to the plane as it’s turning out of sight
Don’t worry sir or madam, you’re almost home tonight
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
Time
April’s moonlit shores break on summer’s blistered beach
Crippled timelines shrivel; The city’s melded minds have bleached
Summer’s sweet lullaby shivers a breeze October
Falling leaves softly land giving green grass cover.
Careless knowing and naïve wanting
Lead forever to your own mind haunting
The corners of time’s sweet mystery;
Put you in front of endless history
The circles seem like lines
In the boring man’s mind
Dimensions deeper than the sea
Are how time flows for me
Welcome deathly chills met with the white light of snow
In timelines dead and gone, the city’s minds will grow
And tomorrow’s not today but spring was yesterday
Tortured teenage timelines whisper “please go my way”
Crippled timelines shrivel; The city’s melded minds have bleached
Summer’s sweet lullaby shivers a breeze October
Falling leaves softly land giving green grass cover.
Careless knowing and naïve wanting
Lead forever to your own mind haunting
The corners of time’s sweet mystery;
Put you in front of endless history
The circles seem like lines
In the boring man’s mind
Dimensions deeper than the sea
Are how time flows for me
Welcome deathly chills met with the white light of snow
In timelines dead and gone, the city’s minds will grow
And tomorrow’s not today but spring was yesterday
Tortured teenage timelines whisper “please go my way”
Monday, July 18, 2011
Toothpaste Man
A passionate man has an idea.
It swells inside him, filling him,
pushing out his thoughts,
like toothpaste from his ears.
He tosses and turns
unable to sleep
unable to think
of anything
but the idea.
A mosquito, true southern ninja,
phantom of the humidity, sneaks a bite on his leg.
A minute later he notices the itch,
and if it weren’t for the idea he’d probably be bothered.
Outside in the heat, a woman wanders the apartments.
She yammers with mean sarcasm into her phone.
Her free hand up in the air as if to show her phone partner
She’s confused.
The noise might’ve bothered the man if it weren’t
For the damned idea. Can’t it give him some peace?
The thumping bass line of bad R&B echoes from
A parking lot across the street. The driver lost his brother
And his father before he was in high school
and is confident he’ll sleep with the bartender tonight.
But the toothpaste man will not be sleeping in any way
because a sick rabbit can’t hear the snake rustle the grass nor can
a bored people remember their God as he cries for them.
It swells inside him, filling him,
pushing out his thoughts,
like toothpaste from his ears.
He tosses and turns
unable to sleep
unable to think
of anything
but the idea.
A mosquito, true southern ninja,
phantom of the humidity, sneaks a bite on his leg.
A minute later he notices the itch,
and if it weren’t for the idea he’d probably be bothered.
Outside in the heat, a woman wanders the apartments.
She yammers with mean sarcasm into her phone.
Her free hand up in the air as if to show her phone partner
She’s confused.
The noise might’ve bothered the man if it weren’t
For the damned idea. Can’t it give him some peace?
The thumping bass line of bad R&B echoes from
A parking lot across the street. The driver lost his brother
And his father before he was in high school
and is confident he’ll sleep with the bartender tonight.
But the toothpaste man will not be sleeping in any way
because a sick rabbit can’t hear the snake rustle the grass nor can
a bored people remember their God as he cries for them.
It's So Hot Outside
It’s so hot outside.
Things wouldn’t be so tough,
and I might not have lied,
if It wasn’t so damn hot outside.
Our team might have won,
we’d of probably had fun,
if only the clouds would’ve helped us
by covering the sun
It makes a fella want to run.
It makes a fella want to hide,
but it’s just too damn hot outside.
Things wouldn’t be so tough,
and I might not have lied,
if It wasn’t so damn hot outside.
Our team might have won,
we’d of probably had fun,
if only the clouds would’ve helped us
by covering the sun
It makes a fella want to run.
It makes a fella want to hide,
but it’s just too damn hot outside.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
The Battle
A breeze lifts some trash on a desolate downtown road.
It flops to a greasy slap against a thumping building,
the heart beating building of a body with no veins or arteries.
The windowless beating monolith stands proud and
the greasy trash pulls away, looks far down the road
and sees a door open where three men emerge.
The suited, sunglassed trio set their ties and step toward the monolith.
Their heels click the concrete like soft chalk, their gaze unwavering.
Their ears perk with each thump from the faceless stone beast.
Caring: “Id’s not going to be happy about this.”
Conscience: “It’s time to stop him”
Honor: “Whatever happens…don’t miss.”
The greasy flopping trash topples toward the trio,
and dodges right, earning the glance of Caring.
Then Conscience looks up into the sun,
deep into the yellow spinning a small black hole appears,
And setting his feet he stares harder.
The other two stop and watch him.
The blackness grows and color appears in the center,
slowly taking shape into something familiar,
a face,
the face,
of their God
standing in front of a mirror
sagging blue bags pull his bloodshot eyes
The God looks into his quivering eyes and prays he can change
The trio look back at the building and their calm clicks
quickly hurry to a pace of frenzied professors reciting theorems.
They throw open the door and meet blackness incarnate.
The room, forty stories high,
thick with the smell of sweat and booze,
stops silent. First time in five straight years.
They remove their sunglasses
and there in the center was the beast.
Id growled and threw three women off of him
They landed crashing into glass tables covered in drugs and booze
Id stood as the proud monolith, producing his silver pistol and fired
The three pulled their weapons and returned fire.
Caring crumpled to the ground in a pool of his own blood.
Honor stepped out of the blood and tried to flank Id
but quickly landed on the floor with a hole through his eye.
The firing stopped
Id: “You’re too late.” And pointed to the door.
Conscience ran to the street and stared into the sun.
God held the needle in his teeth as he tied the tourniquet
And as the God’s mind retreated he heard a single word repeating.
The flopping greasy trash looked back behind and saw the
suited man, bloodied and beaten screaming over and over.
Conscience: “Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”
Id ran out of the building and shielded his eyes from the sun
covered his ears from the screams
and a tear fell from his eye
quietly crashing on the chalky concrete
The sound of sobbing could be heard from the sun and the rain released.
The single suited man, holstered his weapon and walked back down the road.
The greasy trash flipped one last flop onto a wave bound for a gutter
and the streets were clean again.
It flops to a greasy slap against a thumping building,
the heart beating building of a body with no veins or arteries.
The windowless beating monolith stands proud and
the greasy trash pulls away, looks far down the road
and sees a door open where three men emerge.
The suited, sunglassed trio set their ties and step toward the monolith.
Their heels click the concrete like soft chalk, their gaze unwavering.
Their ears perk with each thump from the faceless stone beast.
Caring: “Id’s not going to be happy about this.”
Conscience: “It’s time to stop him”
Honor: “Whatever happens…don’t miss.”
The greasy flopping trash topples toward the trio,
and dodges right, earning the glance of Caring.
Then Conscience looks up into the sun,
deep into the yellow spinning a small black hole appears,
And setting his feet he stares harder.
The other two stop and watch him.
The blackness grows and color appears in the center,
slowly taking shape into something familiar,
a face,
the face,
of their God
standing in front of a mirror
sagging blue bags pull his bloodshot eyes
The God looks into his quivering eyes and prays he can change
The trio look back at the building and their calm clicks
quickly hurry to a pace of frenzied professors reciting theorems.
They throw open the door and meet blackness incarnate.
The room, forty stories high,
thick with the smell of sweat and booze,
stops silent. First time in five straight years.
They remove their sunglasses
and there in the center was the beast.
Id growled and threw three women off of him
They landed crashing into glass tables covered in drugs and booze
Id stood as the proud monolith, producing his silver pistol and fired
The three pulled their weapons and returned fire.
Caring crumpled to the ground in a pool of his own blood.
Honor stepped out of the blood and tried to flank Id
but quickly landed on the floor with a hole through his eye.
The firing stopped
Id: “You’re too late.” And pointed to the door.
Conscience ran to the street and stared into the sun.
God held the needle in his teeth as he tied the tourniquet
And as the God’s mind retreated he heard a single word repeating.
The flopping greasy trash looked back behind and saw the
suited man, bloodied and beaten screaming over and over.
Conscience: “Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”
Id ran out of the building and shielded his eyes from the sun
covered his ears from the screams
and a tear fell from his eye
quietly crashing on the chalky concrete
The sound of sobbing could be heard from the sun and the rain released.
The single suited man, holstered his weapon and walked back down the road.
The greasy trash flipped one last flop onto a wave bound for a gutter
and the streets were clean again.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Impossible Game
I walk across the field.
In the distance, across the cold dew
The green grass and the fog too
The grey shadowy, blurry rocks
Holding the top of the ancient and unused well.
A deep breath in, of cold.
I feel warm inside though
I need only my own soul.
The tree line in the distance
Carves out a circle around me
A green bull’s-eye in a dream.
I reach the center.
I reach into my pocket
The jeans try to tear my skin
At the bottom of the pocket are stones
and I feel the round round cold.
I press it between my thick fat fingers
Pull and look at it; my head on a swivel
I seem like a giant, a freak to this pebble
The well now feels small.
I must, drop the pebble in the well.
Blood pushing backwards through a syringe.
My sneakers crush the bull’s-eye park
I take a knee and close one eye.
Ready to release to the mark.
I see the hole and release the atom pebble.
No breath. Don’t screw this up.
Tiredness hits and I fall
The world seems bigger than me again , I exhale.
I crush the trees and forest and crash to my side.
I look across from where I lie.
I see the loose hatch of wood and weed.
Brown and green: the colors of life
fill my blue right eye.
I focus on a fallen wood log
splintered in large sections. The blackness
between planks is deepening.
I stare and fall in.
Smaller and smaller
I can feel it pulling me in. I must remember
to look out for foxes at this size.
“I don’t want to go in!”
I jump away from the black and sit under the log.
It’s hiding me now, as I sit next to the leaves.
I tuck up my knees and in come the clouds of fog.
I shouldn’t have been allowed to play this game.
I will just hide now. The sun streak hits my forehead.
And I finally release.
In the distance, across the cold dew
The green grass and the fog too
The grey shadowy, blurry rocks
Holding the top of the ancient and unused well.
A deep breath in, of cold.
I feel warm inside though
I need only my own soul.
The tree line in the distance
Carves out a circle around me
A green bull’s-eye in a dream.
I reach the center.
I reach into my pocket
The jeans try to tear my skin
At the bottom of the pocket are stones
and I feel the round round cold.
I press it between my thick fat fingers
Pull and look at it; my head on a swivel
I seem like a giant, a freak to this pebble
The well now feels small.
I must, drop the pebble in the well.
Blood pushing backwards through a syringe.
My sneakers crush the bull’s-eye park
I take a knee and close one eye.
Ready to release to the mark.
I see the hole and release the atom pebble.
No breath. Don’t screw this up.
Tiredness hits and I fall
The world seems bigger than me again , I exhale.
I crush the trees and forest and crash to my side.
I look across from where I lie.
I see the loose hatch of wood and weed.
Brown and green: the colors of life
fill my blue right eye.
I focus on a fallen wood log
splintered in large sections. The blackness
between planks is deepening.
I stare and fall in.
Smaller and smaller
I can feel it pulling me in. I must remember
to look out for foxes at this size.
“I don’t want to go in!”
I jump away from the black and sit under the log.
It’s hiding me now, as I sit next to the leaves.
I tuck up my knees and in come the clouds of fog.
I shouldn’t have been allowed to play this game.
I will just hide now. The sun streak hits my forehead.
And I finally release.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Walking the Dog
“It’s time to walk again” I tell him,
He leaps off the couch
and stretches his legs,
Forepaws extended in front of him
I see his grip expand and contract as he rights himself and
We go out into the night.
A slow walk is best on nights like this
Cool nights, but not cold, Houston cool.
Careful southern breeze slowly saturating.
The apartments are a maze here in the city.
They are a metaphor of escape, and of hiding.
I can’t get out, but why would I leave?
He pulls me around a corner and my eye catches
A glimpse of intense light over the next building
“Wait what was that?” I tell him. He lifts his leg.
“I know it was the moon”, I respond
But there’s just
There’s just no way
Once he’s done my pace increases
I must see this
Could it really be?
Every turn around the maze
Met with another building in the way
I wish I could just leap
Into the black sky above
And prove what I saw
Up just above the building line
City like jagged teeth silhouetted
In front of a Goddess Yellow Moon.
I can’t though, I can’t escape these confines
Turn after turn, a building blocking or
Trees like curtains cover the final bow in waiting
Then a break, ahead 20 paces
I see a soft glow
Does the dog know what I’m after?
I look at him and he nods.
We march forward and find it
Soft yellow light kisses our foreheads
His pupils dilate and I raise my hand
To cover my own and squint at
The rays of a Goddess Yellow Moon
We are adjusted now and soak
In the careful southern breeze and watch
Even though we can only see her
Through a crack between two distant buildings
We are high above the streets now
No leash to tie us down
And we shiver together in the cool,
Not cold, Houston night.
He leaps off the couch
and stretches his legs,
Forepaws extended in front of him
I see his grip expand and contract as he rights himself and
We go out into the night.
A slow walk is best on nights like this
Cool nights, but not cold, Houston cool.
Careful southern breeze slowly saturating.
The apartments are a maze here in the city.
They are a metaphor of escape, and of hiding.
I can’t get out, but why would I leave?
He pulls me around a corner and my eye catches
A glimpse of intense light over the next building
“Wait what was that?” I tell him. He lifts his leg.
“I know it was the moon”, I respond
But there’s just
There’s just no way
Once he’s done my pace increases
I must see this
Could it really be?
Every turn around the maze
Met with another building in the way
I wish I could just leap
Into the black sky above
And prove what I saw
Up just above the building line
City like jagged teeth silhouetted
In front of a Goddess Yellow Moon.
I can’t though, I can’t escape these confines
Turn after turn, a building blocking or
Trees like curtains cover the final bow in waiting
Then a break, ahead 20 paces
I see a soft glow
Does the dog know what I’m after?
I look at him and he nods.
We march forward and find it
Soft yellow light kisses our foreheads
His pupils dilate and I raise my hand
To cover my own and squint at
The rays of a Goddess Yellow Moon
We are adjusted now and soak
In the careful southern breeze and watch
Even though we can only see her
Through a crack between two distant buildings
We are high above the streets now
No leash to tie us down
And we shiver together in the cool,
Not cold, Houston night.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Float Like Me
Who will float like me?
The vastness of it all can seem depressing to those
who won’t reach inside and realize that what’s amazing is
the simple act of being proves the gift.
The gift is the size.
The beauty, the size.
Where is God you ask?
He simply is
He is in the vastness and the smallness.
In a universe where nothing really ever touches anything else, what is love?
Passion?
And what are their archenemies hate and apathy.
I sit at my computer,
tip tapping on my keyboard,
room lit only by the light of my monitor
slowly and imperceptibly getting dimmer with each black letter.
Above me and around me the world of illusion I’ve built for myself
to try and live by the rules set down by those gone before me.
Chief rule,
stop feeling,
and always apologize for it when it shows up.
Not anymore.
I am tired of acting like a dam.
Holding back the passion for perception. I fear only
because I was told to fear. I will only be. Release
the dam and float like a leaf,
dead and decaying, hopeless to
fight and eventually break apart into uncountable
nothing
and
everything.
Who will float like me?
The vastness of it all can seem depressing to those
who won’t reach inside and realize that what’s amazing is
the simple act of being proves the gift.
The gift is the size.
The beauty, the size.
Where is God you ask?
He simply is
He is in the vastness and the smallness.
In a universe where nothing really ever touches anything else, what is love?
Passion?
And what are their archenemies hate and apathy.
I sit at my computer,
tip tapping on my keyboard,
room lit only by the light of my monitor
slowly and imperceptibly getting dimmer with each black letter.
Above me and around me the world of illusion I’ve built for myself
to try and live by the rules set down by those gone before me.
Chief rule,
stop feeling,
and always apologize for it when it shows up.
Not anymore.
I am tired of acting like a dam.
Holding back the passion for perception. I fear only
because I was told to fear. I will only be. Release
the dam and float like a leaf,
dead and decaying, hopeless to
fight and eventually break apart into uncountable
nothing
and
everything.
Who will float like me?
Grow Up
Simply secluded softness of sorrow
Lame feeling really
Regret filled wrinkles of rage
Just immaturity
Ear slapping cries
Battery acid tears
Grow up
Lame feeling really
Regret filled wrinkles of rage
Just immaturity
Ear slapping cries
Battery acid tears
Grow up
Embers of Regret
Embers stoked by regret
Time doesn’t matter tonight
These eyes won’t close
I wish I could forget
The pain of losing that fight
Victory was so close
Something else won’t let
Me move on into the light
It’s not something
It’s someone
And no one’s here
But me
Time doesn’t matter tonight
These eyes won’t close
I wish I could forget
The pain of losing that fight
Victory was so close
Something else won’t let
Me move on into the light
It’s not something
It’s someone
And no one’s here
But me
Black Shadows
Black shadows swiftly sail across the carpet
Stand behind me quietly
I can feel them sometimes, not always
Their charcoal fingers touch lightly
Who are these lost souls I ask myself?
Why must they torment me?
They are me and he invited them.
Stand behind me quietly
I can feel them sometimes, not always
Their charcoal fingers touch lightly
Who are these lost souls I ask myself?
Why must they torment me?
They are me and he invited them.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Angel of Memories Lost
Innocence or not is on the chopping block today
The call is made and he starts his way down to the streets below.
They see her and feel frenzied
They hate her
She might have been aggressive, naïve, mean
But she doesn’t deserve what they intend.
He makes it on to the streets in time to see her taken away.
He checks his watch, nods and follows.
She’s worried, then terrified, she prays
At home, a young boy sits in class and asks
Why does God let bad things happen to good people?
I don’t know Son, I don’t know.
He finds her tied down crying and kneels next to her.
They don’t see him, he is sent from elsewhere.
Angel of mercy for the righteous.
Angel of sleep for frightened.
Angel of memories happily lost.
His hands cover her eyes.
She slips into shock.
Justice will be done he whispers.
The call is made and he starts his way down to the streets below.
They see her and feel frenzied
They hate her
She might have been aggressive, naïve, mean
But she doesn’t deserve what they intend.
He makes it on to the streets in time to see her taken away.
He checks his watch, nods and follows.
She’s worried, then terrified, she prays
At home, a young boy sits in class and asks
Why does God let bad things happen to good people?
I don’t know Son, I don’t know.
He finds her tied down crying and kneels next to her.
They don’t see him, he is sent from elsewhere.
Angel of mercy for the righteous.
Angel of sleep for frightened.
Angel of memories happily lost.
His hands cover her eyes.
She slips into shock.
Justice will be done he whispers.
Where are you?
Where are you?
A question asked always anticipating a story not a location.
Tell me a story.
What?
I said, “where are you?”
Gather around me, and I will tell you.
A question asked always anticipating a story not a location.
Tell me a story.
What?
I said, “where are you?”
Gather around me, and I will tell you.
Goodbye Drummer Boy
A drummer off stage, small and weak, crying
The stage erupts with syncopated symphonies of happiness
Outside in the snow, away from the sound
She feels his hand in hers, their speed increases
He loved her, with the full insanity you only get once
The trumpets join in flat and aggressive
They run into his car, hearts beating fast from
The thrill of being together…good bye drummer boy.
The stage erupts with syncopated symphonies of happiness
Outside in the snow, away from the sound
She feels his hand in hers, their speed increases
He loved her, with the full insanity you only get once
The trumpets join in flat and aggressive
They run into his car, hearts beating fast from
The thrill of being together…good bye drummer boy.
Tonight's Menu
Arthritic fingers slowly squeeze the thumb tack pencil
Shooting pain met and pushed back down by love and necessity
Pushed out through the fingers, strength and a tighter grip
The page in front of her…this last page she will fill
70 years prior the flow of thoughts gushed again
Ink poured from her fingers in a deluge on the page
The rain came down her arms, down her neck,
Its genesis in the cloud, thick and rich in her brain
The clouds now, wispy, cirrus high above
Ice crystals from another world as she sits on a hill
Looking up at them wondering of days gone by.
Will she have the strength to pull them down. Love
is what calls her, beats of the city streets ring,
the seams of the bridges, bouncing, the rhythm
the slow legato of Sunday and the heavy fast tap
that is the kitchen she loves in full swing.
Shooting pain met and pushed back down by love and necessity
Pushed out through the fingers, strength and a tighter grip
The page in front of her…this last page she will fill
70 years prior the flow of thoughts gushed again
Ink poured from her fingers in a deluge on the page
The rain came down her arms, down her neck,
Its genesis in the cloud, thick and rich in her brain
The clouds now, wispy, cirrus high above
Ice crystals from another world as she sits on a hill
Looking up at them wondering of days gone by.
Will she have the strength to pull them down. Love
is what calls her, beats of the city streets ring,
the seams of the bridges, bouncing, the rhythm
the slow legato of Sunday and the heavy fast tap
that is the kitchen she loves in full swing.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Life and Death
The Salesman finds himself wanting. He knows what it is that motivates him. Willie knew the world around him and his place in it. Giant mouths gulping down the goodness around us, we didn’t realize how sweet it all tasted at first bite…But the salesmen, they remember…they remember the sugary sweetness of youth and take it back. Every day aging years and every night getting the whole of it back; leaving contusions on their souls.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Lukewarm Hotdogs... (Part VI)
Time seemed to lose its form for Marc as he sat in the grass. The time and how long he had been there seemed to be anything from a few minutes to several days. As he drifted between wake and sleep he heard a bang from the concourse.
Marc shook himself and looked up.
Slap---wurrr
The lights in the stadium turned on dimly and began to brighten.
Slap, slap, slap.
One by one the dark rectangles at the top of the stairs disappeared like black curtains being lifted, revealing the dull grey concourse on the other side.
Someone was here! Marc saw a man walking behind one of the entrances.
Marc stood up, his ankle feeling better, and climbed into the stands where he had jumped down. He walked up the stairs and found the manager. After explaining the situation he asked to use the phone. Marc called Kim who was in hysterics. After his friends at work had called to see how he was doing and didn’t find him they feared the worst and Kim had called the police. Marc apologized and took his well deserved berating.
The manager walked him out and Marc sat down on a bench waiting for Kim to drive over and pick him up. The daylight felt strange today, he thought.
While he waited people began to show up for the day’s exhibition game and in no time a line had formed in front of him to get to the ticket stand. Folks tried not to stare at him but he knew he must’ve looked ridiculous.
Marc’s stomach growled and ached tremendously. He was so hungry, even warm water would’ve felt like a feast. Directly in front of him was a young boy, probably 7 or 8 years old and his father. The young boy had a hot dog that was too big for his small hands. After a couple of bites, which Marc watched agonizingly, the hot dog jumped from the bun and down to the concrete below.
It started rolling. Rolling towards Marc.
The boy and his father watched the hot dog as it rolled across the concrete, every 3 inches leaving a lighter shade of yellow where the line of mustard slowly wore down. It rolled and rolled until it landed next to Marc’s dress shoe. Marc looked down at it and up at the boy. The boy looked at Marc in terror and curiosity. Marc’s stomach growled loudly. Marc looked up at the father who, in the slightest of movements started to shake his head. His eyes wide with fear. The father, already in shock from the site of the one shoed man, wearing pink warm ups, a torn shirt, grass stains traversing his body and what was hopefully dried cheese sauce in his hair, knew the inevitability of the situation and put his hand in front of his son’s eyes.
The young man dipped down to look under his father’s pinky.
Marc looked down again at the pink hot dog round and smooth on one end and jagged from a small bit on the other. His stomach roared so loud the entire line stopped talking and looked at him. Marc reached down and picked up the finger sized treat.
Whispers of “no” came from the line and Marc squeezed the morsel slightly. Grease rose to the surface of the bitten end and Marc’s eyes glassed over with hunger. He had no shame anymore. He felt no conscience in the situation. Where had little Jiminy gone? I think I ate him, Marc thought.
His hand slowly rose to his mouth and Marc pushed the dog in and bit down. Screams and wailing went up from the line with each subsequent chew. Marc’s stomach bubbled and squeaked with delight and a woman near the front fainted into the arms of her husband. The young boy turned and hid his eyes in his Dad’s leg and the Dad, unknowing of his open mouth and wide eyes stared incomprehensibly.
An alarm sounded. A loud alarm. The cops maybe? It was so loud Marc swallowed and closed his eyes.
…
Marc opened his eyes and was lying in bed; his pajamas on and his wife next to him. He leaned over and turned off his alarm which was making the noise he heard.
A dream? Was it all a dream?
He rolled to his wife and shook her. She shoved him off with a shoulder move and he insisted.
“What is it?” Kim asked.
“What day is it, Kim?”
“You’re going to work today, Marc. You’re already in enough trouble as it is, you know that. You can’t skip a day today.”
“What? You mean I didn’t quit?”
“Huh?”
“Nothing…nevermind.” Marc jumped out of bed. It had all been a dream. He ran to the study and saw the paper in the typewriter limped over with his notes on the Man with No Style. He had never woken up. He had never quit his job and walked to the stadium. No cheese sauce, no twisted ankle. No horrifying blackness or underground nightmare. And especially, there was no hotdog.
“Oh, my God! Thank you Jesus!” Marc exclaimed and ran downstairs to make some breakfast for his growling stomach.
~---------------~
Conclusion
As Marc ate his eggs and toast he flicked on the TV. He took a sip of his coffee and flipped to the morning news. He coughed when he turned to channel 8. On the screen was the fat man in the pink warm ups. Still chewing something as his lips curled under his nose. His Texas shirt still perfectly pressed and tucked in to his pink warm ups.
Marc’s mouth dropped.
News Woman: Hi, Maurice, thank you. I’m here at Houston Hobby International Airport with Evan Smith who has probably had the worst holiday traveling fiasco one can imagine. Evan, can you tell us what exactly happened?
Evan: Yes, thanks Claire, due to the weather closures in the north east I couldn’t make my connecting flight. In an act of shear idiocy I packed all my clothes and toiletries in my checked baggage which did make it to my final destination, Atlanta, Georgia, but I got stuck here in Houston for 3 days.
News Woman: So you’ve lived in the airport for 3 days?
Evan: That’s correct, Claire. I promise I don’t normally dress like this but because of the standby nature of things I couldn’t get a hotel. I could be called to leave at any time. I bought some close from a few of the local stores and tried to wash my face and hair in the men’s rooms. Some nice woman kid felt sorry for me and gave me his Jeff Foxworthy album and CD player. Southwest Airlines gave me these batteries from their lost and found in case mine died. That’s just about the only thing I’ve had to keep me going.
News Woman: Wow! And I notice you’re wearing one shoe?
Evan: Yes well, I was running to a gate because I thought I was being called for a standby flight to New York and then to Georgia but tripped and slid into the desert tray at the Chili’s Too which is also how I got this lovely looking chocolate stain down the side of my pants. I twisted my ankle so I’ve been trying to let the swelling go down.
News Woman: Well I hear Southwest feels so bad about the matter they’re flying the CEO out to visit you in Georgia.
Evan: That’s right, they want to talk to me about my experience.
News Woman: Someone else wants to talk to you to I hear.
Evan: Yes, actually Barbara Walters is doing a special on holiday travel and I’ll get to talk with her tonight.
News Woman: That’s right and you can watch Evan’s interview with Barbara airing tonight at 8:30. Thank you so much Evan and I hope you make it home safe and sound.
Evan: Thank you, Claire.
The End
Lukewarm Hotdogs and the Man with No Style
Marc shook himself and looked up.
Slap---wurrr
The lights in the stadium turned on dimly and began to brighten.
Slap, slap, slap.
One by one the dark rectangles at the top of the stairs disappeared like black curtains being lifted, revealing the dull grey concourse on the other side.
Someone was here! Marc saw a man walking behind one of the entrances.
Marc stood up, his ankle feeling better, and climbed into the stands where he had jumped down. He walked up the stairs and found the manager. After explaining the situation he asked to use the phone. Marc called Kim who was in hysterics. After his friends at work had called to see how he was doing and didn’t find him they feared the worst and Kim had called the police. Marc apologized and took his well deserved berating.
The manager walked him out and Marc sat down on a bench waiting for Kim to drive over and pick him up. The daylight felt strange today, he thought.
While he waited people began to show up for the day’s exhibition game and in no time a line had formed in front of him to get to the ticket stand. Folks tried not to stare at him but he knew he must’ve looked ridiculous.
Marc’s stomach growled and ached tremendously. He was so hungry, even warm water would’ve felt like a feast. Directly in front of him was a young boy, probably 7 or 8 years old and his father. The young boy had a hot dog that was too big for his small hands. After a couple of bites, which Marc watched agonizingly, the hot dog jumped from the bun and down to the concrete below.
It started rolling. Rolling towards Marc.
The boy and his father watched the hot dog as it rolled across the concrete, every 3 inches leaving a lighter shade of yellow where the line of mustard slowly wore down. It rolled and rolled until it landed next to Marc’s dress shoe. Marc looked down at it and up at the boy. The boy looked at Marc in terror and curiosity. Marc’s stomach growled loudly. Marc looked up at the father who, in the slightest of movements started to shake his head. His eyes wide with fear. The father, already in shock from the site of the one shoed man, wearing pink warm ups, a torn shirt, grass stains traversing his body and what was hopefully dried cheese sauce in his hair, knew the inevitability of the situation and put his hand in front of his son’s eyes.
The young man dipped down to look under his father’s pinky.
Marc looked down again at the pink hot dog round and smooth on one end and jagged from a small bit on the other. His stomach roared so loud the entire line stopped talking and looked at him. Marc reached down and picked up the finger sized treat.
Whispers of “no” came from the line and Marc squeezed the morsel slightly. Grease rose to the surface of the bitten end and Marc’s eyes glassed over with hunger. He had no shame anymore. He felt no conscience in the situation. Where had little Jiminy gone? I think I ate him, Marc thought.
His hand slowly rose to his mouth and Marc pushed the dog in and bit down. Screams and wailing went up from the line with each subsequent chew. Marc’s stomach bubbled and squeaked with delight and a woman near the front fainted into the arms of her husband. The young boy turned and hid his eyes in his Dad’s leg and the Dad, unknowing of his open mouth and wide eyes stared incomprehensibly.
An alarm sounded. A loud alarm. The cops maybe? It was so loud Marc swallowed and closed his eyes.
…
Marc opened his eyes and was lying in bed; his pajamas on and his wife next to him. He leaned over and turned off his alarm which was making the noise he heard.
A dream? Was it all a dream?
He rolled to his wife and shook her. She shoved him off with a shoulder move and he insisted.
“What is it?” Kim asked.
“What day is it, Kim?”
“You’re going to work today, Marc. You’re already in enough trouble as it is, you know that. You can’t skip a day today.”
“What? You mean I didn’t quit?”
“Huh?”
“Nothing…nevermind.” Marc jumped out of bed. It had all been a dream. He ran to the study and saw the paper in the typewriter limped over with his notes on the Man with No Style. He had never woken up. He had never quit his job and walked to the stadium. No cheese sauce, no twisted ankle. No horrifying blackness or underground nightmare. And especially, there was no hotdog.
“Oh, my God! Thank you Jesus!” Marc exclaimed and ran downstairs to make some breakfast for his growling stomach.
Conclusion
As Marc ate his eggs and toast he flicked on the TV. He took a sip of his coffee and flipped to the morning news. He coughed when he turned to channel 8. On the screen was the fat man in the pink warm ups. Still chewing something as his lips curled under his nose. His Texas shirt still perfectly pressed and tucked in to his pink warm ups.
Marc’s mouth dropped.
News Woman: Hi, Maurice, thank you. I’m here at Houston Hobby International Airport with Evan Smith who has probably had the worst holiday traveling fiasco one can imagine. Evan, can you tell us what exactly happened?
Evan: Yes, thanks Claire, due to the weather closures in the north east I couldn’t make my connecting flight. In an act of shear idiocy I packed all my clothes and toiletries in my checked baggage which did make it to my final destination, Atlanta, Georgia, but I got stuck here in Houston for 3 days.
News Woman: So you’ve lived in the airport for 3 days?
Evan: That’s correct, Claire. I promise I don’t normally dress like this but because of the standby nature of things I couldn’t get a hotel. I could be called to leave at any time. I bought some close from a few of the local stores and tried to wash my face and hair in the men’s rooms. Some nice woman kid felt sorry for me and gave me his Jeff Foxworthy album and CD player. Southwest Airlines gave me these batteries from their lost and found in case mine died. That’s just about the only thing I’ve had to keep me going.
News Woman: Wow! And I notice you’re wearing one shoe?
Evan: Yes well, I was running to a gate because I thought I was being called for a standby flight to New York and then to Georgia but tripped and slid into the desert tray at the Chili’s Too which is also how I got this lovely looking chocolate stain down the side of my pants. I twisted my ankle so I’ve been trying to let the swelling go down.
News Woman: Well I hear Southwest feels so bad about the matter they’re flying the CEO out to visit you in Georgia.
Evan: That’s right, they want to talk to me about my experience.
News Woman: Someone else wants to talk to you to I hear.
Evan: Yes, actually Barbara Walters is doing a special on holiday travel and I’ll get to talk with her tonight.
News Woman: That’s right and you can watch Evan’s interview with Barbara airing tonight at 8:30. Thank you so much Evan and I hope you make it home safe and sound.
Evan: Thank you, Claire.
Lukewarm Hotdogs and the Man with No Style
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Lukewarm Hotdogs... (Part V)
Marc hobbled down the concrete steps of the arena to a seat where he planned to rest for the night. It’s kind of funny having to pick one seat from thousands because the mind actually has some preference in the matter, Marc noted. He stopped about 20 rows up from the field and walked in a few seats from the aisle. The seat came down and he sat and sighed. The sigh disappeared into the silence. The white noise of the air conditioner was the only thing running.
Marc’s eyes looked across the darkened arena at the seats opposite him and the stairs separating the sections rising up from the field and disappearing into the blackness of the concourse.
Marc felt that feeling again. The feeling he had to stare. Something wasn’t right. He would once again regret this feeling.
He looked across and into the blackness. He looked deeply into one of the black rectangles and the stairs rising up into it. He felt blood rush up to his head and heart pick up a bit.
It was so dark.
“Just don’t worry about it, Marc. Don’t dwell on it. Get some rest you’ll get home in the morning.”
Marc closed his eyes and felt the beaming cold presence of the black rectangles. He opened his eyes again and whether it was a trick of his imagination or something else he thought he saw a shadow move in the blackness of the rectangle. Something somewhat darker than its surroundings and it was gone.
His heart beat faster and he didn’t notice his hunger anymore. His vision widened and he noticed all the black concourse entrances at the tops of the stairs. And a shiver went up his spine as he remembered there was one right behind him.
His hair stood on his arms. He was well aware that there was such a thing as the opposite of claustrophobia. He felt all the air around him as one massive space. It was huge and horrifying and black. He had too much room. Some ancient instinct to avoid open places and hide in caves was rising in him.
“Alright, this is fucking ridiculous!” Marc stood up and walked up the stairs into the concourse, which wasn’t as dark as it looked from inside the arena.
“Is anyone here?”
He looked the other direction.
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
He felt a little calmer, but he didn’t think it would last. A cave is what he needed if he wanted to get some sleep. He saw the dull glow of a light illuminating a black menu with white plastic letters and a big red Coca-Cola square next to it. His stomach rumbled. Hot dogs did sounds pretty good right about now.
Around the corner from the concession stand was a doorway market AUTHORIZED PERSONELL ONLY. He thought there might have been something useful in there or perhaps a cozy place to sleep. The door was open, surprisingly, but Marc made sure it didn’t close behind him as he stepped in.
The room was dark and he found a light switch next to the entrance. He flicked it and the stairs down in front of him illuminated. He looked down into the black hallway one story down. He walked down.
Above him was a spider web of rusty pipes running down the length of the hallway occasionally cutting left or right and into the wall. The steady dripping of water could be heard and even in the dull shadowy yellow light of the stairs he could see the puddle were reddish brown with rust, like a steampunk nightmare. Far ahead of him was another staircase. But it was pitch black. He could see the stairs but to the side of the stairs was a wall of blackness.
Marc’s heart began to pound again as he stared at the blackness.
“Don’t look at it Marc, just look away.”
He couldn’t, of course and stared harder at it.
“Get some guts you ninny!” His voice shivered.
He slowly stepped forward, his footsteps echoing quickly off all the walls around him. Tingles went up his back and his arms again and he took a breath in and in a loud voice yelled, “Alright! Get out of there whoever you are!”
At first just his voice scared him. It was so loud. Then in an instant something shifted in the black behind the stairs.
“Shit!” Terror grappled Marc’s brain as he ran on his busted ankle, flying up the stairs with the feeling something was right behind him. Don’t turn around, don’t look, he thought to himself. He flew out the door, slamming the door behind him.
“Shit, shit, shit!” his frustration with each step on his busted ankle.
He ran out into the arena, down the stairs and reached the railing. He climbed over the railing and caught his new shirt on the pole as he climbed down the 8 feet to the field below, tearing it. He hobbled out onto the grass and straight to the middle of the 50 yard line.
He sat down and grabbed the grass between his fingers. He stretched out his legs and rubbed his sore ankle. He looked around and didn’t feel anymore fear with the black rectangles at the top of the stairs. He’d seen much worse than them. The grass felt good and he felt better.
Part VI coming soon…
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Lukewarm Hotdogs... (Part IV)
Marc’s stomach growled and he remembered the hotdogs the “Man with no style” in his story was so fond of. Those hot pink sausages, rolling next to each other on the hot-dog treadmill as Marc liked to call it; spinning and sweating like so many porcine gym rats. He walked up to the concession stand and watched them jog off their fat. He imagined one of them wearing a hotdog shaped sweatshirt with Weiner U across his chest. “I bet he got his Masters in Deliciousness.”
“Sir?”
“Oh did I say that out loud?” Marc looked at the pimply kid behind the counter. School must not be in session yet, this kid couldn’t have been more than 16.
“I’m sorry sir, we’re closed.” His voice cracked as he reached up for the gate and pulled it down in front of Marc.
“Oh but! Just one sec… I…”
Mr. Pimples pulled the jogging hot dogs from their treadmills and shoved them in a drawer below the gym and walked through the side door.
“Oh well, probably shouldn’t eat that crap anyway.”
Marc wandered down the concourse and out to the stands. The teams had left the field and a few maintenance workers were cleaning the seats. Marc sat down and looked around the expansive stadium. Its patchwork of rows and stairways looked like concrete-plaid. The tough plastic seat was painful but Marc was so proud of himself for allowing this tiny moment of insanity into his life he didn’t mind stretching back and letting out a sigh. The sigh of a man who felt freedom.
Marc’s stomach growled loudly again.
“I better get going, I’ll grab lunch then head on home and … “ He remembered he had to tell his family he quit his job. “… Maybe I’ll stay here a little longer; there might still be a concession stand open.”
Marc walked back out onto the concourse and looked around. He heard Mr. Pimples and some similarly cracking voices laughing around the next corner.
“Dude, you gotta check out my new Xbox. That shit is so sick!”
“Ah man you poser, I bet your Mom only let’s you play Mario. You know Medal of Honor is where it’s at.”
Marc saw them up ahead and Pimples was eating some nachos.
“Dude I totally will school you on Medal of Honor. Let’s go right now.”
“Yeah screw cleaning up, let’s go.”
Pimples laughed and set down his nachos and headed for the exit and walked out with his friend. Marc ran up but didn’t catch them. The stadium sounded very quiet now.
“Shit, I better go.” Marc walked for the door and pushed.
Locked!
“Well, shit, okay.” He tried another door, and another. Locked still. He ran around the concourse trying all the exits. Every one locked. He ran and ran until the panic left him.
“Son of a…I’m locked in!”
Marc’s stomach growled and he looked over to the ledge where Pimples left his nachos.
“That’ll work.”
Marc grabbed the nachos and headed for the stands. He got to the top of the stairs when the air-conditioner clicked off and the silence of the stadium filled his ears. Distracted he looked up as he hit the top step and missing it completely slipped, throwing his nachos in the air above him. He spun as he fell trying to catch them, but choose to cover his face when he saw them out of their basket coming down in a web of hot cheesiness. His body hit the stairs, which hurt, but it was quickly followed by a solid drenching in yellow cheese and stale chips.
“Son of a!” Marc groaned and tried to stand up but when he leaned on his right ankle he fell again into the seats to his side.
“God! Argh!” He reached down to grab his ankle and saw all the cheese on his hands and arms. He flicked the cheese off, and it flew like yellow snot across the seats around him. He grabbed his ankle, which was already starting to swell. Marc untied his shoe and massaged his ankle grunting and moaning from the pain.
Finally when the shock subsided he looked at his clothes and decided to look around for the men’s room to clean up. As he limped down the concourse he saw the gifts stand was still open with clean clothes. “That’s what I need right there.”
Unfortunately, the stand was only for women and children but he managed to find a pair of South Dakota All-Stars pink warm ups in a women’s XXL that fit him. As he looked down at his pink warm ups he remembered the walking anomaly at the airport and chuckled to himself, “Pardon me sir, can I borrow a pen, and if you happen to have some Grey Poupon…”
He also found a shirt and a hat and left 50 dollars at the register to ease his conscience.
Marc folded up his clothes and stuffed them in an All-Stars duffle bag and with only one shoe on he hobbled over to a chair to sit down and rub his ankle and come up with a plan to get out.
As he sat, he heard large metallic slapping sounds running around the concourse and in the stadium. He stood up and looked out through the stadium entrance and saw the lights had been turned off, except for emergency lights which left the stadium a dull green-grey color.
Slap-Slap-Slap.
He turned around and the lights in the concourse had gone off.
“Hello!”
“Hello!”
“Is someone here? Hello!” Marc hobbled around and didn’t see anyone.
~--------------------~
Part V – Living at the Stadium? How long will Marc last?
“Sir?”
“Oh did I say that out loud?” Marc looked at the pimply kid behind the counter. School must not be in session yet, this kid couldn’t have been more than 16.
“I’m sorry sir, we’re closed.” His voice cracked as he reached up for the gate and pulled it down in front of Marc.
“Oh but! Just one sec… I…”
Mr. Pimples pulled the jogging hot dogs from their treadmills and shoved them in a drawer below the gym and walked through the side door.
“Oh well, probably shouldn’t eat that crap anyway.”
Marc wandered down the concourse and out to the stands. The teams had left the field and a few maintenance workers were cleaning the seats. Marc sat down and looked around the expansive stadium. Its patchwork of rows and stairways looked like concrete-plaid. The tough plastic seat was painful but Marc was so proud of himself for allowing this tiny moment of insanity into his life he didn’t mind stretching back and letting out a sigh. The sigh of a man who felt freedom.
Marc’s stomach growled loudly again.
“I better get going, I’ll grab lunch then head on home and … “ He remembered he had to tell his family he quit his job. “… Maybe I’ll stay here a little longer; there might still be a concession stand open.”
Marc walked back out onto the concourse and looked around. He heard Mr. Pimples and some similarly cracking voices laughing around the next corner.
“Dude, you gotta check out my new Xbox. That shit is so sick!”
“Ah man you poser, I bet your Mom only let’s you play Mario. You know Medal of Honor is where it’s at.”
Marc saw them up ahead and Pimples was eating some nachos.
“Dude I totally will school you on Medal of Honor. Let’s go right now.”
“Yeah screw cleaning up, let’s go.”
Pimples laughed and set down his nachos and headed for the exit and walked out with his friend. Marc ran up but didn’t catch them. The stadium sounded very quiet now.
“Shit, I better go.” Marc walked for the door and pushed.
Locked!
“Well, shit, okay.” He tried another door, and another. Locked still. He ran around the concourse trying all the exits. Every one locked. He ran and ran until the panic left him.
“Son of a…I’m locked in!”
Marc’s stomach growled and he looked over to the ledge where Pimples left his nachos.
“That’ll work.”
Marc grabbed the nachos and headed for the stands. He got to the top of the stairs when the air-conditioner clicked off and the silence of the stadium filled his ears. Distracted he looked up as he hit the top step and missing it completely slipped, throwing his nachos in the air above him. He spun as he fell trying to catch them, but choose to cover his face when he saw them out of their basket coming down in a web of hot cheesiness. His body hit the stairs, which hurt, but it was quickly followed by a solid drenching in yellow cheese and stale chips.
“Son of a!” Marc groaned and tried to stand up but when he leaned on his right ankle he fell again into the seats to his side.
“God! Argh!” He reached down to grab his ankle and saw all the cheese on his hands and arms. He flicked the cheese off, and it flew like yellow snot across the seats around him. He grabbed his ankle, which was already starting to swell. Marc untied his shoe and massaged his ankle grunting and moaning from the pain.
Finally when the shock subsided he looked at his clothes and decided to look around for the men’s room to clean up. As he limped down the concourse he saw the gifts stand was still open with clean clothes. “That’s what I need right there.”
Unfortunately, the stand was only for women and children but he managed to find a pair of South Dakota All-Stars pink warm ups in a women’s XXL that fit him. As he looked down at his pink warm ups he remembered the walking anomaly at the airport and chuckled to himself, “Pardon me sir, can I borrow a pen, and if you happen to have some Grey Poupon…”
He also found a shirt and a hat and left 50 dollars at the register to ease his conscience.
Marc folded up his clothes and stuffed them in an All-Stars duffle bag and with only one shoe on he hobbled over to a chair to sit down and rub his ankle and come up with a plan to get out.
As he sat, he heard large metallic slapping sounds running around the concourse and in the stadium. He stood up and looked out through the stadium entrance and saw the lights had been turned off, except for emergency lights which left the stadium a dull green-grey color.
Slap-Slap-Slap.
He turned around and the lights in the concourse had gone off.
“Hello!”
“Hello!”
“Is someone here? Hello!” Marc hobbled around and didn’t see anyone.
Part V – Living at the Stadium? How long will Marc last?
Monday, January 3, 2011
Lukewarm Hotdogs... (part III)
Marc stepped back from his typewriter. Kim and Jeanette had already gone to bed and he walked to his room in the dark. His mind continued to focus on the Man with No Style. What was this man’s motivation? The more Marc thought about it, the more he became distressed.
He lied down in bed next to Kim and tried to close his eyes. As they shut he saw the image of the man standing with his hands on his tiny hips looking out through the airport window, staring at the jet way.
Startled, Marc opened his eyes and he swore he could hear the alternating crunch-flop as the one shoed man walked towards him. It could’ve been his heart beat in his ears he told himself but he hadn’t felt like he was losing his mind his entire life until now. With all his might he couldn’t stop thinking about this man and the sounds continued.
Crunch-flop
Crunch-flop
Crunch-flop
It stopped and Marc closed his eyes. Sitting in front of him in his minds eye was the man, jaw jutted out, and upper lip curled to his nose,
“Excuse me sir?”
“Sir, Excuse me.”
“Can I borrow a pen, sir?”
Over and over, Marc shook his head trying to look away trying to think of something else.
“Excuse me, sir.”
..Excuse me!
Excuse me, Sir
Sir!
Excuse me, sir,
“MARCUS TRENTWORTHY! Excuse me!”
Marc opened his eyes, and his heart jumped, he was sitting in the board room at work, his boss, standing at the front of the room and everyone at the table staring at him.
“Marc, excuse me but are we interrupting your busy day of day dreaming?
Chuckles floated around the room. He must’ve fallen asleep and day-dreamed all during his morning and ride to work. Marc patted himself down and started sweating. He was fully dressed. How’d this happen? How’d I get here? Am I really losing my mind?
“Marc! I’m talking to you!” His boss’s face was turning red.
“Sorry, I uh…”
“Sorry’s just not going to cut it this time, Marc. Your performance has really fallen behind lately. I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Folks are saying they are walking by your desk and you’re just staring into space. And don’t think we haven’t noticed how you seem to have had time to write these ‘stories’ of yours. Listen here, mister, in all my…”
He continued on and Marc stood up out of his chair, turned and walked towards the door.
“…where do you think you’re going? You come back here right now, Mister. If you leave, Marc… If you leave right now don’t bother coming back.”
Marc stopped at the door way and turned to look back at his boss, “Don’t worry about it, I quit!”
Marc walked out grinning and left the stunned silence of the room behind him.
…..
“Oh my God what have I done?!” Marc walked out of the building and down to the street. He couldn’t go home, not yet. He didn’t want to tell Kim what he had done. It felt good though. It felt good to get out of there. Maybe he was trying to be like the man in the airport. Maybe he was beginning to beat to his own drummer. He could do anything he wanted today. He could be free to day dream and write all he wanted.
“Maybe I’ll work on that story about the man with no style.” He smiled to himself as he strutted down the road, hands in his pockets. It was a little chilly out but the sun was shining. As he crossed the intersection of Dakota and 5th he saw the football arena off in the distance, about a quarter of a mile down the way. He thought about his main character James Bailey, the night manager at the football stadium and thought this would be the perfect time to do a little research for the story.
Marc walked up to the stadium and was surprised to find a good number of cars in the parking lot. The local minor league team was holding a mid day exhibition game. Marc looked on the marquee and saw the game must be ending soon and decided to see if he could sneak in.
With a grin and new found confidence he walked up to the stadium and found an unmanned entrance where he hopped the turnstile, looked around from side to side, stuck his hands in his pockets and started strutting around the concourse, grinning his satisfied grin and with a soft giggle and elite British accent he whispered to himself, “Excuse me, sir. Can I borrow a pen?”
~--------------~
Next time find out what adventures befall Marc as he begins to march to the beat of this new drummer!
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