Re-Post: That Most Unusual Predicament.

So you may not believe me, but I'm actually working on a new story! First time in what seems like years, ha. But for now, I thought I'd re-post my favorite piece I've written. I don't know why I like it so much--maybe because it's probably the most honest thing I've ever written. It's about the tearing ambivalence we all fear when it comes to love. I hope you enjoy it. I know I enjoyed writing it.


"That Most Unusual Predicament", written November 10th, 2008.

It was his eyes—yes, it had to be. They drew me in. They captured me. They hurt me.

Have you ever noticed that our measurement of love is entirely in the loss? We sit and try to quantify this silly self-imposed emotion and it comes down to an equation of arithmetic: how long we spend together plus the good times and multiplied by the bad ones. We next factor in the special moments and begin to minimize the mundane ones. And from there, we take this number and put it up against every other fiasco we've endured with another lover, and try to compare, as if we can.

And we travel on, disillusioned, barreling effortlessly towards the exchange of the three most unoriginal words ever composed--"I love you". Have you ever realized how pathetic those words are? It's as if we've reduced ourselves to mindless boars on the hunt, and instead of searching for substance to secure our survival, we battle over the most banal, meaningless, forgetful, overused words ever to come across any human language.

But how arresting those words can be. How they can make your heart leap out of your chest. When they tickle your ears, it's like a warm sensation surrounding your body and silently cascading down your skin. Time will stop every time you hear them; and time will shatter when the words come no more. These three basic words have the power to heal, the power to embolden and even the power to destroy. There is no other feeling like it in the world.

And so I fell. Not a mere stumble but a direct and boundless dive into what I thought would be the most magnificent moment of my life. It was as if I were dancing and paid no attention to anyone else in the room. It was as if I were watching the sunrise and embraced the rays of light as they showered upon my face. I walked as if every destination was going to be next greatest encounter with the unexpected. My own smile radiated in a way that was harmfully contagious. When I woke up he was the first thing I thought of; when I went to bed I couldn't fall asleep dare I live a moment without him.

I don't remember him that well. But I remember the pain. I lied in bed for almost three days. The tears somehow felt soothing. I would find myself slamming the radio off for every song somehow brought me back to him. I disappeared from my friends. I watched three straight seasons of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. It was not that he completed me; it was that life knew no reason outside of him. I’d often have to pull the car over for I was fighting a losing battle between driving and crying. I was an abysmal, pathetic mess, utterly lost in this most unusual predicament called love.


He taught me how to slow-dance. He took me out to dinner. We would lie around for hours talking, staring into each other's eyes. We would walk through the park singing, holding hands. When we would gather with friends the energy would spread rampantly throughout the room. When it was just the two of us, I could feel the Earth slowing down just to give us a few extra minutes before the sun would set.


And yet today all I long for is the pain. I have to pause to think of his last name. I have no idea what he is even doing anymore. But yet that damned pain remains. After all these years the indelible agony still lingers over me reminding me of what I once had—not necessarily what I had shared with him, but what I had allowed myself to experience.
Sometimes I wonder what I would be like if I still lived today so free from inhibitions. I am so far removed from loving another that when I say goodbye to someone, it’s almost as if they were never there in the first place. I live with no concern but for my own. And yet sorrow over an ordinary love affair clings to me stronger than almost any other memory in my vast repertoire of experiences.

His eyes. Oh, it was his eyes for certain. I yearn for the time when eyes alone could love me, mold me, complete me…and destroy me. I yearn for just one more time when I would allow myself that most unusual predicament called love. Just one more time.

That Unforgettable Halloween.

It was 4 PM on the night of my fraternity's Halloween party, and I still did not have a costume. "So you're just not going to dress up?" My friend Jenny asked me.

"Well, I guess so. What else can I do?" I said.

"Isn't there anything you have?"

And then it hit me. There was something. A year prior I had stumbled across a deformed and undesirable Halloween costume at a thrift store. I was with my friend Daniel when we saw what was clearly a "naughty nurse" for the 6th grade schoolgirl with no friends. It was made of the cheapest pleather money could buy and fashioned with pink stitching featuring skulls scattered across it. There was an embroidered saying on the left side of the dress, 'Poison', with a girly skull and cross-bones stabbing through it. I'm sure every Avril Lavigne fan had their own personal seamstress to make it fit perfectly on them.

"Daniel, it's only $2!" I screeched.

"Oh, it's so ugly. If you don't buy it, I will."

And so I bought it. It then hung on a hanger in a dark closet for well over a year without me giving it the slightest thought. Until that moment. I looked at Jenny and said, "You know what, I do have something. It will be perfect."

Fishnets, high-heels, fake lashes, a pound of make-up and a neon pink wig later, I was ready to make my appearance at the Halloween party as a Hooker from the Moulin Rouge.

One's reaction to this heinous Halloween eyesore could only be described as spiking Hawaiian Punch with a pint of paprika. Every face was either shock, awe, horror or complete admiration--not because the costume was impressive, but because the audacity to be seen in public like that certainly deserved a pat on the back.

I headed straight for the bar, and kept my glass full all night. And like any night that involves a heavy amount of drinking, the party was a blast. But this story isn't about the party, nor the costume. It's about the morning after. And the moments in-between.

Face-down on the floor, I woke up in the middle of a completely vacant apartment. The sensation of crusted marinara on my fingertips immediately brought memories from a late-night trip to a Taco Bell/Pizza Hut, and the surrounding crumples of bean burrito bags was the further proof. (Fortunately Halloween is the only night a man can walk into a Taco Bell in a pleather dress and pink wig and not get looks from the patrons, otherwise this story would be about being a victim of a hatecrime.)

I managed to open my painfully drunken eyes to realize I was in my friend Greg's apartment. I had recently helped him move out and managed to still have the key, so during the night it appeared that breaking into his old apartment and staying on the empty floor was a grand idea. Naturally.

Before crashing on his carpet, I managed to finagle my way out of the dress and ball it up with the pink wig to use it as a pillow. Subsequently during the night the pleather caused my face to sweat and the make-up to bleed down my face, and if I hadn't looked like a Hooker the night before, I certainly looked like one now.

As I went to pick myself up, the pain of a cruel hangover shot throughout my body. It took me ten minutes to gather the strength--and the balance--to make it to my feet. And once I was up, the most nerve-wrenching thought hit me with the intense reality: I had to walk home like this.

My hair was in shambles. The fishnets were torn up and down my legs. I had streams of mascara and eyeliner running down my face. One of the heels was broken. And in my bloated condition, there was no way I could fit back into that damned pleather dress. As if there was some cruel trickster trying to make this predicament as humiliating as possible, remember that I woke up in a place where my friend had just moved out of. There wasn't as much as a can of tuna in that place, much less a jacket or a pair of jeans just lying around.

Except one thing. One hideous, miserable, terrifically embarrassing thing. In my friend's closet hung a bright fluorescent green robe with the texture of a towl and imprinted margaritas adorned all over it. Given to him as a gag gift, it was the one and only thing remaining in that apartment unit.

And so I began my quest. Without touching my hair, washing the marinara off my hands or attempting to fix the bleeding mascara, I swung the robe around me, put on my broken heels and started trudging through the utter humiliation to make it back home, all the while dragging the pink wig and pleather dress along with me. Cars slowed to catch a glimpse of me, and even a few honked their horns. While I could have hid my face or tried to run away, I lifted my chin high and took pride in this moment of surreal liberation. Because, on the morning after Halloween, I wasn't alone. Down the sidewalk, off in the distance, walked someone in just an equally embarrassing situation.

Thank you, humility.

The Gentleman.

He guides her up the stairs, lightly holding her hand as she takes each step. She's in her late 80's, hooked to a respirator. The gentleman carries it for her so she can focus all of her energy on making it to the door.

She slowly lifts each foot and trudges just a few inches. While only steps from the entrance, the gentleman reaches out to pull the door wide open for her. Her puts his arm around her and gently leads her into the restaurant. What would take a few second takes her a minute; yet she looks out into the world with the most poignant, devoted eyes.

Without letting go of his lady, he smiles and says to the hostess, “Table for two, preferably somewhere close.” He lets out a wink and a chuckle as he says it. He’s tall with a loud and commanding voice; yet he holds her with the care of the kindest soul.

When they arrive at their table, he lays down her respirator and begins to unbutton her jacket. Her eyes continue to dance around the restaurant, mesmerized by the flickering candles and variety of people. He takes his time to get every button out of its loop. “There’s no need to be hasty,” he explains to the hostess with a smirk.

Once unbuttoned the gentleman begins to slide her arms out of her jacket for her. She has no strength, and is visibly exhausted from making it this far. It is an effort just to move her hands. But she still continues to smile. A contagious smile. A smile that radiates and embraces the attention of everyone in the room.

He tenderly takes off her snow cap and does the same to his own. “Alright, ready to sit down my lady?”, he asks her with a grin. He then takes both of his hands and slowly helps her into her seat. Once she is taken care of, he then begins to think of himself. He quickly unbuttons his jacket and hangs it on a nearby hanger. He walks back, pulls out his seat and plops down into to it to look over the menu. She has yet to say anything at all.

The server walks up to them and welcomes them to the restaurant. "I'll have a Manhattan on the rocks, and the pretty lady over here is going to have a cola." Once the server departs he looks over the menu deciding what would be best for her. "Are you in the mood for fish today?", he asks her. She doesn't respond. Once the server returns, the gentleman says to him, "I think the two of us are ready to order. I'm gonna have the chef's Pasta Louise," pronouncing it 'lou-wheez-ee', "...and my lady is going to have the tilapia," pronouncing it 'til-ah-puh-ta'. The server walks away and suddenly it's just the two of them.

He extends one hand out towards her. She trembles for a moment and begins to lift her fingers and move in closer to him, inch-by-inch. Her entire body shakes as she draws near to him. And once she reaches him, they then sit, staring at one another, hands interlocked across the table, reminiscing of the good old times. The server is around the corner from them and overhears the gentleman say, "My lady, we've been one heck of a couple. You're my pal." He doesn't say, 'I love you' for one simple reason--he doesn't have to.

The server later stops by the table and the gentleman pipes in, "Did you know the two of us have been in Ohio for the past 50 years? We don't look it, do we!" She looks at the server and rocks her head back and forth. "Yup, me and this pretty lady met many, many years ago in Kentucky. We've had one heck of a journey."

When their food comes, before even looking at his own he reaches across the table and begins to cut her 'til-a-puh-ta' for her. He then patiently, effortlessly, wraps his fingers around her hand and guides her fork to her mouth, all the while not giving his own plate the slightest thought. When the server comes back and asks if there is anything he could give them, the gentleman answers, "Well, another 20 years sure would be nice."

They finish their meal and leave in the same way they arrived. The gentleman supports his lady in every way that she is immobile, and he does it all with such exuberant joy. The love the two of them share is so palpable that the entire restaurant is in tears. And as they walk towards the door, each slow step at a time, it becomes clear to those who saw them that every day is a gift, and what a gift it would be to spend a lifetime with a gentleman like him.

Mr. President Will Be Just Fine.

Have you ever heard someone say, “Everything happens for a reason”? Think about it for a second. What a blatantly vacuous and empty statement. Can you think of a grander non-sequitur? What an enormous effort to say absolutely nothing at all. The only emptier statement I have ever heard is, “It is what it is.” In both statements the orator is saying to essentially abdicate all rational thought and reaction to an event because one has no power over it. “It is what it is” essentially means to suck it up and stop thinking.

I’ll tell you something. Everything happens because you permit it to happen. It happens because you either make it happen or don’t allow it to happen. You get a job because you worked hard and have previous experience; you get a sweetheart because you went through the right channels to meet each other and you have the qualities that the other person is looking for you; you get in a car accident because you either weren’t paying attention or you were texting or you were driving too close or whatever the reason may be. However, all of these circumstances don’t just happen for some esoteric reason. They are the simply the product of existence.

So when I tell the story you’re about to read, the last thing I want to be told is that it happened for a reason. It did not. It happened because I refused to acknowledge the blatant red flags that waved in every direction. It happened because I wanted to believe I had hit the jackpot. In the end, it taught me to embrace the people I love and let them know how much I truly cherish their friendship. If that’s what I walked away with, that’s great. But the event did not occur simply for me to learn that. It happened because I allowed it to happen.

I was still living in Washington D.C. at the time. My friend Chris had just been hired to be the personal assistant of an executive at XM radio. His name was Zack Taylor, and he was the Director of Creative Media. Or something like that.

The three of us met up at JR’s, one of the bars along 17^th street. Zack was not necessarily the most beautiful thing I had ever encountered, but he was charming and had a certain charisma about him that was appealing. He and I kept locking eyes, and there was a palpable attraction between the two of us.

Within a week we were dating.

It was fast, but he had shown such devotion to me. He had taken me to some of the finest restaurants in DC, which we had been escorted in a limo to every single one. He took considerable amount of liberty to fit me into his busy schedule. As an exec at XM, he was traveling all the time. Chris, his new personal assistant, and him were flying all over the country. They had been to New York, Miami, and Las Vegas yet I still felt as if I was the number one priority.

Our conversations weren’t always magical. He was somewhat awkward, pretty shy and very quiet about his family. But the life of dinner cruises and constant limousine service seemed to make me look over that.

He’d tell me about how he was planning a new radio show with Ellen. He’d share with me the stock information about his company. He’d let me sit on web conferences between him and the senior executive staff at XM. He’d get a phone call from Ryan Seacrest and this was a normal day. Sure, I didn’t really like him that much, but this kind of life sure beat every other guy I had dated.

It was a forgetful statement, but I had once mentioned to him that I had never been to Orlando Studios. Two days later we were there. He bought us first-class plane tickets and reserved the largest suite at the Portofino, a luxury hotel right beside the park. A 12-seat stretch hummer picked us up at the airport. Instead of driving to the Orlando Studios like commoners, we had a private boat take us through one of the canals. We dined at the best restaurants between riding roller coasters and playing games.

Strangely, even to this point there had been no intimacy between us. But as I thought about this, I just let the thought slip away as I sipped on Jordan Cabernet. It’s funny how much the mind can hide if you really want it to.

We returned to DC and it was my mother’s birthday. Zack wanted to come to dinner with the family. I was concerned since I didn’t like the idea of introducing my family to someone I had been seeing for maybe two weeks. But he insisted, and I allowed him to come along.

We ate at the Capital Grill, one of those swanky DC steakhouses. There were 12 of us. Zack shared his stories of dining with Madonna and flying to London to meet up with Elton John. He was entertaining, charismatic and he fit in with the family just fine. The bill came to $600 before gratuity. Zack stepped away to use the restroom, and moments later the waiter came to the table announcing that the bill had been taken care of. My mother was stunned and to this day she describes her 56^th birthday as one of the most unforgettable dinners of her life.

The very next weekend he told me he wanted to take me somewhere. It was to be a surprise, but he told me to pack with summer clothes. We got to the airport and we suddenly were on our way to Miami. Everything was happening so fast and although there wasn’t an incredible connection between the two of us, I just let it keep going. Sitting under palm trees with someone you’re indifferent to seemed far better than laying next to a dumpster with someone you’re in love with.

We were picked up at the airport in a limo, as usual, but our driver greeted Zack as “Mr. President!”. Zack, who was hardly humble, thought he was called this because of his role with XM Radio. However, the man was referring to the 12^th President of the United States, President Zachary Taylor.

I thought it was odd that a man with a name like that wouldn’t pick up the reference. In all of his 29 years of life he had never realized he had the same name as a former President?

By this time, I was beginning to question things. I was curious why in three weeks he was able to spend so much time with me. A day hadn’t gone by where we hadn’t seen each other. We had been to Florida twice and been to dinner probably 10 times. Zack blew through money like it wasn’t even his. But yet again I forced these thoughts to go away and I just tried to live in the moment.

Our limo driver took us to a restaurant in Miami called The Big Pink. Zack was talking about how the Grammy’s were coming up and how he wanted me to come along with him. He said we’d be sitting with either Pink or Christina Aguilera. But I wasn’t buying it. Although it was believable that Zack worked for XM, it was hard to fathom him actually being friends with celebrities. He looked like a paler, scrawnier, younger version of Steve Buscemi. All the money in the world couldn’t make him look good enough to sit at a table with two of the biggest names in music.

Zack was beginning to sense my disbelief. I hadn’t said anything, but it was just obvious that I did not believe we were going to the Grammy’s. So when our limo driver returned us to the hotel—the famous “W”, by the way—he told me he wanted to work in the business center of the hotel to show me the itinerary for the big awards show.

While he was down working on the computer, I was up in our hotel debating what to do. Suddenly my phone began to vibrate. It was my friend Chris, the personal assistant who introduced me to Zack. “Chris, what’s up?” I asked.
“Where are you?” He immediately asked me.
“I’m in Miami with Zack. Why?”
“You need to get out of there. Right now.”

I was silent.

“Zack Taylor is not who you think he is. I just stopped by one of XM’s office and they have no idea who he is. They have no record of my employment and there is no job title for Director of Creative Media.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to admit it, but I had my suspicions all along.
“Seriously, I have already talked to the police. There is absolutely nothing they can do for me. You need to get out of there, because you really don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

Suddenly Zack walked in the room. “I’ll call you back,” and then I hung up.
“Is everything ok?” He asked me. He stood by the door holding the papers confirming our trip to the Grammy’s.
“Yeah, everything is fine.” I said. I’m not a good liar, and he knew this.
“Who was that?”
“I just called my sister to say we checked in.” He didn’t buy it.
“Really? Didn’t you already call her?”
“Zack I have a question for you.”
“Umm, ok, what is it?”
I remembered he had once told me he had played piano for 15 years. Since I have played piano my whole life I knew exactly the right question to ask to see if he was telling the truth.
“What is the third note in an A-major scale?”
Zack just stared back at me dead-pan. “What kind of question is that?”
“It’s a simple question. What is the third note in an A-major scale?”
“Why are you asking me this?” He shot back.
“Why don’t you just answer it, Zack?”
“What a ridiculous question.”

I wasn’t going to let him off the hook.

“Fine. What are the three notes in a C chord?”
"Dude, you’re being absurd.”
“No, Zack, you are. How about you name ANY chord you’d like. I don’t care if it’s a major, minor, suspended, ninth, whatever. Just name three notes that make one chord. That’s all I want.”

He was silent.

“You don’t actually play piano, do you?”
“Of course I play piano, you’re—”
“You don’t work at XM Radio, do you?”
“What are you talking about?! That’s ridic—”
“You’re name isn’t even Zack Taylor, is it?” I yelled at him.

We both stood on opposite sides of the room staring right at each other’s eyes. It was completely silent. The tension was nearly scratching at our skin.

I reached for my luggage and began grabbing everything else I could. “Where are you going?” Zack demanded. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t leave, this is our vacation!”
“Zack, I don’t even know who the hell you are.”
Zack looked back at me, searching within himself for any bit of believable compassion, and said, “Yes you do. You’re just confused. Everything I have told you is the truth. It just seems too good to be true, doesn’t it?”

I walked around him, and when I reached for the door I stopped to say one last thing to him. I turned around, my hand still on the door knob, and noticed I left a few crumpled dollars and some spare change on the nightstand. “You can keep that.” I said as I nodded towards the money. “For everything you’ve done for me.”

And with that I walked out the door, terrified to turn around and look over my shoulder. My heart was pounding against my chest in a way I have never experienced. I didn’t know if he was going to pull a gun on me or come chasing after me. He did neither.

I took the elevator down and found his chauffeur still out front. To a certain degree I didn’t even know whether to trust the limo driver. I hopped in and told him to take me to the airport. “Are you sure Mr. President is ok with this?” He asked me. “Oh, I’m sure Mr. President will be just fine with it.”

And then we pulled off. I sat alone in the back of 10-person limo contemplating the bizarre experience that the past three weeks had brought me. I rolled down one of the windows and had one of those serene indelible moments that will forever be imprinted in my memory. The sunny Miami evening sky rained down on my face and I just stared longingly at the buildings off in the distance. You could have been killed, went through my mind. He could have seriously done something to you. He knows where you live. He’s met your family.

We reached the airport. As the son of US Airways employee, I was able to fly free. It was only a few minutes before I was listed on the next flight headed towards DC. I made it through security and immediately pulled out my laptop to begin writing about everything that had happened. I wanted to ensure that this story never was forgotten.

Suddenly a man walked right up to me. It was Zack Taylor.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Why are you doing this to me? I thought you and I had something real?” He said to me.
“REAL?” I distinctly said. I will never forget he had the audacity to say real to me after all the lies he had told me.
“You are going to try and say we had something REAL when everything you had ever told to me was a lie?”
“Stop being dramatic. You didn’t even let me show you our reservations at The Grammy’s. And how could everything have been a lie? I’ve taken you all over the country and you respond by calling me a liar? Wasn’t Orlando Studios real? Wasn’t our dinner cruise real? We’re even in Miami for Christ’s sake!”

I specifically remember the lady sitting next to me. She was the stereotypical Midwestern woman—overweight, 80s hair and an outfit that she found in a clearance bin at TJ Maxx. Boy was that awkward. I’m not sure whether it was more awkward for her or for me, but regardless this scene could have been in a comedy. She was sitting reading her People Magazine, and yet right in front of her was more drama than she had ever experienced in her life.

The next few seconds we just looked into each other’s eyes. Strangely, I felt nothing. No emotion in any direction. I wasn’t angry, sad, nor did I feel betrayed. Maybe it’s a human reaction in a place of fear to circumvent emotion. Maybe it’s just a survival instinct. But all I knew was that I had to get on that plane and I had to get away.

“Zack, it’s over. Chris knows. I know. Now just walk away before it gets worse. Walk away while you can.”

That was the last thing I had ever said to Zack Taylor. He took a breathe after I spoke, then he turned and walked away. To this day I don’t know if he made it on the plane or not. The suspense of that evening still terrifies me when I think of it.

Weeks later the police came back to Chris with the real story. His name was Stephen Dillinger and he was a con artist who had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars in fraudulent credit card schemes. He had been all over the country, been through numerous court battles and even had a website for people to share there stories of how he had ruined them. I read account after account of both men and women that he had led into the same kind escapade with. Most of the stories were worse though—he had generally convinced his flings to sell them their car or join his “insurance plan”, from which he’d steal their identity and open tons of credit cards.

Somehow I had escaped that. I walked away from the ordeal with my credit untouched and only the three week memory of living the glamorous life. And you know what I learned? I learned that it takes ten seconds to get used to luxury, but it takes years to realize just how important friends and family are. I learned that riding in limousines and flying all over the country are such ephemeral experiences in the grand scheme of life. And, unfortunately, I also learned that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is.

Things do not happen for a reason. This story was not crafted because some external observer was trying to use chicanery to teach me a valuable lesson. It simply was the product of my actions and decisions. Did good come from it? Of course. But it did not happen for a reason. It happened because I was too in love with materials and not in love with truth, value, reason or reality. And because of that, I walk away realizing the power of our decisions. Hopefully after reading this, you will too.

Resolution.

Remember how I used to write short stories? Well it's been awhile. And today, I resolve to write and post a new one...within a week!

However, I still have plenty on the right side bar if you ever want to read them. They're funny (usually).

The Ministry of Harbor House.

I literally said it. "What, I thought every family had strangers living in their house?"

It was the summer of 2003. A month prior my family had found out that I was gay, and their response was an ultimatum: either repent and become an ex-gay, or get out of the house, and I chose the latter.

With that one bold declaration I started a new life. One night I had Christian friends and a church family to support and love me; the next morning I stood with just one friend by my side. It was strange, bizarre, surreal; I was 18 years old and suddenly this new life brought many grand realizations--one being that, no, not every family allows foreigners who don't speak much English to live in the extra rooms of their house.

My mother called it "Harbor House", and it was a ministry of hers to introduce international students to what an American family is actually like. Her interest was to share with them the love of Christ; her benefit was that it paid the mortgage. They would eat breakfast with us, check in to make sure my sister and I were doing our studies and even came to family functions with us. We celebrated their birthdays as if they were just part of the family. We took them grocery shopping as if we were all brothers and sisters. My mother even wrote "Harbor Lights", a Harbor House newsletter welcoming the new students, printing up the weekly dinner menus and discussing house news. It was like an international dorm, and it was what we called home.

It'd be an understatement to say the array of people who came through that house were unique. Who could forget Joseph Arbiza, the Ecuadorian house painter who eventually ended up joining a cult? Or what about Zhui-Ping, the Chinese man whose name sounded like "Sweeping"? I'll always remember Mercedes, my Hungarian roommate-slash-science teacher during the years I was home-schooled. And of course there was Hiroko, the daughter of a Japanese Executive at Fuji Film who could outspend the GDP of Finland. The most traumatizing Harbor Housemate may have been Grace, the older African lady who was convinced I was possessed by demons and literally tried washing the little devils off of me...

I can remember great Thanksgiving feasts with food from all over the world. The day when Dawn, the architect from Guyana, became a US citizen is one of my proudest memories in The United States. My all-time favorite memory involves Nadagjeay, the student from Nigeria with the complicated name (we just started calling her "Nadi"). When Nadi was leaving after living with us for six months, the whole Harbor House Family got together to say goodbye. Just as Nadagjeay was getting into her car, my mother blurted out, "Wait, before you go--how do you say your name?!". It may or may not have been the most hilarious thing to say to someone you just lived with for half a year.

Altogether my sister and I probably lived with 30 different people during our lifetime. And this was normal. This was typical. This was usual. Or so I thought.

It was only about a month after moving out of my parents' home that I came to the realization that this was not normal. But, looking back, it certainly provided a strange initiation into other people's culture. And, if nothing else, at least I have bizarre bragging rights! I mean, how many children do you know that grew up eating Russian pancakes for breakfast, Hungarian Goulash for lunch and barbecued Japanese eel for dinner?

That Most Unusual Predicament.

It was his eyes—yes, it had to be. They drew me in. They captured me. They hurt me.

Have you ever noticed that our measurement of love is entirely in the loss? We sit and try to quantify this silly self-imposed emotion and it comes down to an equation of arithmetic: how long we spend together plus the good times and multiplied by the bad ones. We next factor in the special moments and begin to minimize the mundane ones. And from there, we take this number and put it up against every other fiasco we've endured with another lover, and try to compare, as if we can.

And we travel on, disillusioned, barreling effortlessly towards the exchange of the three most unoriginal words ever composed--"I love you". Have you ever realized how pathetic those words are? It's as if we've reduced ourselves to mindless boars on the hunt, and instead of searching for substance to secure our survival, we battle over the most banal, meaningless, forgetful, overused words ever to come across any human language.

But how arresting those words can be. How they can make your heart leap out of your chest. When they tickle your ears, it's like a warm sensation surrounding your body and silently cascading down your skin. Time will stop every time you hear them; and time will shatter when the words come no more. These three basic words have the power to heal, the power to embolden and even the power to destroy. There is no other feeling like it in the world.

And so I fell. Not a mere stumble but a direct and boundless dive into what I thought would be the most magnificent moment of my life. It was as if I were dancing and paid no attention to anyone else in the room. It was as if I were watching the sunrise and embraced the rays of light as they showered upon my face. I walked as if every destination was going to be next greatest encounter with the unexpected. My own smile radiated in a way that was harmfully contagious. When I woke up he was the first thing I thought of; when I went to bed I couldn't fall asleep dare I live a moment without him.

I don't remember him that well. But I remember the pain. I lied in bed for almost three days. The tears somehow felt soothing. I would find myself slamming the radio off for every song somehow brought me back to him. I disappeared from my friends. I watched three straight seasons of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. It was not that he completed me; it was that life knew no reason outside of him. I’d often have to pull the car over for I was fighting a losing battle between driving and crying. I was an abysmal, pathetic mess, utterly lost in this most unusual predicament called love.

He taught me how to slow-dance. He took me out to dinner. We would lie around for hours talking, staring into each other's eyes. We would walk through the park singing, holding hands. When we would gather with friends the energy would spread rampantly throughout the room. When it was just the two of us, I could feel the Earth slowing down just to give us a few extra minutes before the sun would set.

And yet today all I long for is the pain. I have to pause to think of his last name. I have no idea what he is even doing anymore. But yet that damned pain remains. After all these years the indelible agony still lingers over me reminding me of what I once had—not necessarily what I had shared with him, but what I had allowed myself to experience.

Sometimes I wonder what I would be like if I still lived today so free from inhibitions. I am so far removed from loving another that when I say goodbye to someone, it’s almost as if they were never there in the first place. I live with no concern but for my own. And yet sorrow over an ordinary love affair clings to me stronger than almost any other memory in my vast repertoire of experiences.

His eyes. Oh, it was his eyes for certain. I yearn for the time when eyes alone could love me, mold me, complete me…and destroy me. I yearn for just one more time when I would allow myself that most unusual predicament called love. Just one more time.

Never Sing on The First Date.

Dates should never include men wooing me over with their singing. Especially when they can't sing.

Dinner was forgettable, his name, negligible. I remember driving him home and suddenly he was messing with my iPod.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.
"Celine Dion."
It went through my head: "Oh what a queen", though it was on my iPod, so I was just as guilty.
"Why?"
"Well, I remember you said you liked to sing. I like to sing as well. Can I sing for you?"
"Oh, ok, that's cool..." Slightly incredulous since it was rare someone offered me a concert in my own car. (I won't even delve into how creepy it was that he asked to sing for me.)

Suddenly "All By Myself" begins playing. You know how it begins, right? With that soft, straight-forward piano note striking repeatedly on each beat. Then Celine slowly breaks out with the breathy vocals, the hushed, almost sexual approach. But this man? How did he sing it? Well, if Celine were a lamb, this fag was a linebacker. He began screaming in what seemed like an attempt to hit every note with a single breathe. He had the enunciation of a toddler, the tone of a deaf man and he was swinging his hands as if he were Taylor Hicks after a long night of blow. For days afterward I had the imprints of my steering wheel burned into my palms. Tears almost formed, all in the utter horror that was coming for the grand climax--the part where Celine belts out that impressive high note and holds it out in beautiful efficiency.

He took a deep breathe, held his trembling hands to his heart...and went for it.

I.
Almost.
Died.

Think of bunnies in a blender. Imagine, if you will, what a squealing hog sounds like when shoved face-first into a pile of mud. Now, throw in the sound of puppies being pulled limb-by-limb with a chorus of children watching in deplorable terror. The synergy of wailing children, drowning hogs, tortured puppies and twisted bunny cries would be far more preferable to the cacophony of this auditory torture. Screaming would be an understatement. Wailing would be a compliment. Ear-piercing crying in prolonged ululation may be the closest description words can muster. I think I was shaking when it was over.

And, at the end of this indefinite version of hell, he turned to me and asked, "So, how was that?"

True to form, I said exactly what came to mind. "I can't seem to remember, is your house this exit or the next?"

For some unknown reason, he never called again.

In Which I Get Arrested.

I would like to believe that when most people think of me, they don’t imagine a man who runs into problems with the law. (Right?) Well, for the most part, that's true. Except for this one thing...

It was a cold Sunday evening in February and I was on my way to a Christmas party. You see, for those of us in the restaurant industry, we don’t celebrate Christmas—we work it. And when it comes to any type of work function to celebrate the season, it’s not for weeks until after holidays are over that we actually get together to kick back our feet and drink a few too many beers.

So once arriving at my destination, a bar in the Arena District, I reached for my ID and realized I left my wallet at my house. Silly me! I fortunately only lived a few streetlights away, so I hopped back into my car and drove back to find it.

As I was dialing my best friend Tonia to let her know I was going to be late, I suddenly saw lights flashing in my rear view mirror. I hadn’t been speeding, I certainly hadn’t been drinking, and I could think of no reason I was being pulled over—well, except that I didn’t have a license on me.

“Tonia, shit, I’m getting pulled over.” And I hung up.

The police officer, a tall, younger man with short shaved hair, strolled up to my car and lightly tapped on my window. “License, registration and proof of insurance, please.” He spoke nonchalantly, chomping on some gum and not even looking me in the eye. He had that slight twang in his voice; not a southern dipthong, but more along the lines of a boy who grew up in Grove City, Ohio.

“Sure, officer, but may I ask why I am being pulled over?”, meanwhile trying to figure out how I was going to explain to him why I didn’t have my license.

“Your tags. They’re expired.”

“But that’s impossible, I got them just over a year ago!”

“Yeah, exactly. They’re only good for one year.”

My eyes stared dumbfounded back at him. I had only been in Ohio for a year, and back home in Maryland you only had to register your tags every two years. In all sincerity I had no idea.

I explained to him the situation, which he understood. “Still, I need to see your license, registration and proof of insurance.”

“Ok, well, officer, that’s the thing—I’m on my way now to get my license. I left my entire wallet at home. But I only live up the street!”

“Sir, it’s no big deal. What about your insurance?”

“Officer, honestly, my Geico ID card is in my wallet.”

“God, it’s not your day, is it?” The officer said, smirking and finally looking me in the eye. “Let me just see your registration and I’ll let you be on your way.”

I reached into the glove compartment and found the registration, which I handed to him. He walked back to his car and sat for a few minutes. I rested there relatively smoothly, knowing that when he returned to my car I’d be allowed to get back on the road, grab my wallet and return to the party.

Distinctly, I remember the way he walked back to my car: the frivolity was gone; the smirk he wore had disappeared. Now, he walked stern, fast, angered. Instead of a light tap on my window, it was a pound.

“Sir, state to me your name and social security number.” The officer yelled, Grove City drawl gone.

“Chris Hooker! Nine-two-nine-seven…”

“Sir, step out of the car.”

“Excuse me?”

“IT WILL BE IN YOUR BEST INTEREST TO DO AS I SAY.”

I jumped out of the car, only to be thrown against the door I had just shut. “Sir, you are under arrest.”

“Officer, what did I do?”

“Operation of a stolen vehicle, false identity…”

“Stolen? What? I own this car!”

The officer said nothing further as he clamped the cuffs around my wrists. He had them so tight I felt a sharp sting against my skin. The blood was losing circulation to my hands. It was not just merely uncomfortable; it hurt enough to shut me up.

He roughly dragged me back to his cop car and threw me into the back seat. “Officer, what is going on?”

“Sir, this vehicle you are driving is not registered to a Chris Hooker, nor to the social security number you provided. You have expired tags, you do not have a license, nor do you have proof of insurance. And, though this is not as important, you’re missing a front headlight.”

I had no idea what to say, because everything he said was true—except that I owned the car. This was just a terrible misunderstanding, one that even I had not understood.

“Officer, what is the social security number?”

“Two-seven-four…”

I recognized the number, but I had no idea why. My parents had not co-signed my car, but for some reason I thought it could have been their social. I sat their in silence, maybe uttering a “umm” or two. “Officer, I think that is, umm, my step-father’s…”

“Huh? You think?”

“Well, it just sounds like it.”

“So what do you want me to do about it?”

“Call him. Ask him his social.”

The officer adjusted his mirror to look at me in the reflection. He let out a deep breathe and said, “Fine, kid, you get one call. If he doesn’t pick up, I’m driving off.”

Those few seconds were probably the most stressful moments of my life. I have never had so much staking on my step-father picking up his phone. And, considering my step-father is the kind that frequently turns off his cell-phone for no reason at all, I was thoroughly terrified.

He picked up.

“This is Stan.”

“Hi there Stan, this is Officer McBride. I have your son.”

“Oh Lord, what has he done?”

“Before I answer that, tell me your social.”

If I hadn’t been cuffed, I would have been biting my nails. The agony was culminating to this very second. If I was wrong, and that was not his social security number, it was off to jail for me.

“Two-seven-four…”

“Well, I’ll be damned…” The officer said. It was exactly my step-father’s social.

After a few more minutes of talk, we discovered what had happened. When I registered the tags, I presented my military ID, since my step-father was retired navy. That ID card presents two social security numbers—my step-father’s, since he was the actual retiree, and me, the dependent. When they registered my vehicle, they must have accidently misread the ID card and typed in the wrong social security number.

The officer got off the phone with my step-father and then turned around to speak to me, “So, son, you’re kind of lucky today. Except for one major problem—how can you prove any of this?”

Fuck. I wanted to scream it.

“I mean, kid, you have no proof of anything and then you give me some number to call in which some guy magically knows the right numbers…and you expect me to believe it?”

Fuck. I almost screamed it.

“On top of that, your license isn’t even coming up in Ohio. I found a 19-year-old Chris Hooker in Maryland, but that license was registered years ago. If that’s you, and you’ve been living here in Ohio for at least a year, that is another punishable offense. You are required by law to change IDs within three months of moving. In a court of law they can fine you $3000 and make you spend up to 3 months in prison.”

I didn’t know what to say. Everything he was saying was true—but it came from sheer ignorance, not from flippant indolence. I truthfully had insurance, a valid license (in my mind), valid tags (in my mind) and I certainly owned the car. From his perspective, though, things looked far worse.

“Kid, let me ask you something—where were you going?”

“A work Christmas party.”

He arched his neck back around and gave me a bewildering and confused look. “A Christmas party in February? You’ve got to be making this shit up.”

“No, no, really! It’s a restaurant thing.” I said, hoping that maybe if he got to know even a little about me he’d realize I wasn’t the type to steal a car—much less one that had invalid tags!

“So, where do you work then?”

“The Ocean Club at Easton. I also work at Cheesecake Factory.”

That’s when he slouched a bit and that smirk popped back onto his face.

“Oh, boy. I bet that’s a fun job.” He said, chuckling all the while. “Do a lot of those coloreds come in?”

If it were possible, I think my eyes would have fallen out of my head. I could not believe that a cop just asked me if “coloreds” ate at my restaurant.

“Umm…excuse me?”

“Yeah, you know, I’ve been there. Cheesecake Factory. They’re always there. They just love it. So loud and yelling and shit. Do they always ask for extra shit?”

I was at a loss for words. I had the most racist man I had seen in years just burping out some nonsense to me—yet at the same time, I had an opportunity. One that I knew I had to take. If it was $3000 in fines and 3 months in jail, or the loss of my dignity…well, my dignity was far easier to restore! Like they say, ‘it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission’.

My dignity was taken and sold at a low-low price, and that’s when I burped out the same drivel right back at him. “Oh, god, you know they love them some extra shit! Extra hot wings with extra blue cheese, extra ranch on their salad with extra bacon, extra bread with extra butter! And, do I get an extra tip for any of this extra shit? Hell no! I'm excited if I even get a tip!"

The cop could not stop snickering. I, on the other hand, could not have felt worse--but I continued on. "They always roll up into Cheesecake and they’ll be like, “Man…I want me a boof’!”

The officer just busted out laughing, even clapping his hand. “’Boof’…ha ha ha, is that for ‘booth’? That’s classic! Did no one teach them grammar when they went to school?”

“School?”, I interjected, “School? You know they never went to school!”

Oh I had him with that one. He just let out a howl as if I was the funniest person he had spoken to in years. “Oh, my…that’s…I can’t even breathe!”

I immediately piped in and told him the true story of when I waited on Lebron James and the fiasco that ensued. ‘The King’ and some other Cleveland Cavaliers went to Easton picking up random girls and decided the best way to woo them over was buying them a free dinner at Cheesecake Factory. There were 16 of them total and they ran me around for Strawberry Lemonade as if I were a homeless man at the last call of an all-you-can-eat buffet. The Cavs who were of drinking age opted out of ordering a bottle of wine—but instead ordered a bottle of Hennessey. No joke. And, I swear to God, they asked for Kool Aid with it.

The cop could not get enough of it. He thought I was the funniest thing since Harold and Kumar. After finishing my story, he looked at me in his mirror, directly in my eye, and said, “You know, kid, you’ve got a lot against you. You have no ID, no real registration, no proof of insurance, you don’t have an Ohio license, your tags are expired and even your front headlight is out. On top of that, the registration you provided me has very conflicting information. Everything I know is saying your stole this car. However, for some odd reason…I believe you. Maybe it’s cause you’re funny as hell, I don’t know, but kid…I’m letting you go this time. You have one week to come to the station and prove to me everything that you are saying is true. If you don’t, I’ll come for you and put you away for a year.”

And just like that he hopped out the car, uncuffed me and let me go on my way. With my dignity diminished, my spirits low, and my mind disillusioned, I pulled myself back into my car. I drove home, shaking, and eventually found my ID. Then, not surprisingly, I took a deep breathe, put my jacket back on...and headed straight back to the bar. Because after a night like that, I think anyone would need a drink, and of course, an audience to listen to the tale.

A New Short Story!

So I posted a new short story, but it's a pretty long one. Therefore, instead of having a 5,000-word story take up the main page, it's posted under the "Favorite Stories" part, titled "Coffee with a Little Whipped Cream".

I almost never write fiction, but this was one piece that I actually liked enough to finish. It's completely different from how I usually write, so it was sort of fun.

Also, to RSS Subscribers...I don't know how it works, but if you ended up getting the whole thing in your feed...sorry! I was trying to avoid that from happening, so I posted the story at a earlier date, thus keeping it off the main page.

Anyway, hope you enjoy! :-)

Bitch, Sans The Red Bow.

If I were to die tonight, I'd die a fully complete man. I just witnessed perhaps the greatest show of my life.

I live on a one way street, and while walking along this narrow road, a crusty old van dashed by and ran a stop sign. The driver who was cut off, a rather large black woman with a red bow in her hair, didn't take well to this. I saw the expression on her face, and then watched in amazement as she proceeded to roll down her window to shout at the perpetrator. "YOU NO-GOOD #@^#%#@$!!! I OUTTA KILL YOU, YOU @*&^%$!!!"

Yeah. Something like that.

Suddenly the guilty driver, also a big black girl (sans the red bow), slammed on her breaks, rolled down her window and began shouting back at her.

That's when it got crazy.

Still sitting in the comfort of their own car, the two girls screamed every slanderous word you could imagine at each other. (I quickly learned that "fuck" can be used as any part of speech.) The two bitches were shouting so many obscenities that even I felt violated.

BUT THAT'S WHEN IT GOT REAL CRAZY.

The bitch sans the red bow who ran the stop sign put her van into reverse and began to spin the Dodge Caravan around IN THE MIDDLE OF A ONE WAY STREET. She was going back and fourth between drive and reverse every 4 seconds so she could pull her van RIGHT UP BESIDE THE BITCH SHE WAS SCREAMING AT. Nope, neither of them were going to get out of their cars. They were just fine verbally mutilating each other while the A/C blew on them and the radio lingered in the background.

I don't think I've ever been more proud to be an American.

Those Damned Dishes.

Standing over the faucet, scrubbing the dishes for the third time, iPod blaring in my ears. It's 3 AM, and I'm doing dishes. They need to be done. They've been here for a week, and they're still dirty. In my mind I hear his voice repeatedly. Chris, you complete me.

Just keep scrubbing. Those damned dishes are still dirty.

They're forming in my eyes, I just won't let them find fruition. Just keep scrubbing. How did I let this many dishes pile up? How silly of me. An image of us together pops in my mind. My eyes are wet, my cheeks are curling up, I can't go a fucking second without blinking. Don't do it, he's not worth it.

The smell of Palmolive is getting to me. My hands are wrinkled from having them under a faucet for an hour. I remember the sensation of his head laying on my chest, the smile he found when he looked me in the eye, the way his eyes would simmer when he'd laugh. Don't let your roommates hear you. I turn the faucet on louder. I'm not doing this.

And then I began doing it. Streaming out of my eyes, faucet blaring so my roommates won't hear me, iPod blasting so I can't hear myself. The sweet cacophony of anger and sorrow converging into one blissful and blatant turmoil of emotions. How did I get to this? I thought I was the one who said, "It's over"?

Eyes narrow, hands trembling. The tears effortlessly cascade down my cheeks. A chill caresses my entire body. I'm both warm and cold, shivering yet unshaken. You won't miss him, Chris.

No, I won't.

I May or May Not.

"Chris, I may or may not be in trouble."

That was the first thing Youssef said to me. I was at the Columbus Zoo with my niece, Gracie, checking out the flamingos. Children were frolicking all around me, and yet on the other end of a cell phone I had a friend who seemed to be caught in a terrible mess.

"What's going on, Youssef? Are you ok?"
"No. I may or may not be in trouble!!!"

That's a peculiar statement. You're either in trouble or you're not...right?
"Ok ok, what did you do?" I asked.
"Well...I may or may not have parked illegally."
"...that's it?"
"Yeah."

I stood there puzzled. Why would he call me about parking illegally? "Well, why don't you move the car?"
"I did."
"Ok...so, what's the problem?"
"Well Chris...I may or may not have gotten a parking ticket."

I was silent for a moment.
"...ok. Then pay it. Is that all?"
"No."
"Ok...so...?"
"Chris, I may or may not have been receiving the ticket as I was driving away."
"Oooohhh...yeah, that's a problem. You can't run away from a parking ticket."
"That's not the problem."
"So then, what's the problem?"

Youssef took a deep breathe, and then said, "Chris, I may or may not have run over the meter maid."
"WHAT?"
"She asked for it."
"No, Youssef, she didn't! Youssef you can't just run over Parking Enforcement Officers!
"METER MAIDS."
"Did you really do this?"
"I may or may not have."
"Where are you right now?"
"I'm driving."
"To where?"
"Washington D.C."
"ARE YOU ESCAPING FROM COLUMBUS?!"
"No, no. Not at all. I'm just...well, taking an unplanned vacation."

Shock. Awe. Jaw-dropping incredulity.
"Youssef, you have to turn around."
"I may or may not continue to live in Columbus."
"Don't tell me it gets worse..."
"I may or may not have yelled something out the window at her." (The way he said 'her' was so scathing!)
"Oh gosh, please don't tell me--"
"Whore."
"Youssef, you did not run over a meter maid and then call her a whore."
"I may or may not have."

Coffee with a Little Whipped Cream.

*This is a rare fiction piece I wrote a little over a year ago. It's the culmination of a few stories I've heard from talking to some homeless in Washington D.C. It's entirely fiction with just a sprinkle of real life situations.*

Dark, deep and daunting…that's the city for ya. I been here all my life, ya know, and it's one thing I know real well--this here city. I know the fastest way to get from Midtown to 42nd, the best route to get through Greenwhich village and, well, of course I know where they got the strongest drinks and all.

But one thing I don't know much about is those big buildings. Man, let me tell you, I ain't never stepped a foot in one of those buildings there. Yeah, it's probly cause they got those friggin' rent-a-cops guarding every door, and they see my raggy clothes and stuff, and they quickly tell me I better leave before they make me. Man, they always been doing that to me.

So like I was telling ya, I ain't never gotten one foot in them things! I've been in an elevator before, at a mall off the subway, but I always like bein' in the ones with all them fancy buttons. Like, you click the button that says "Floor 66" and then it takes you like 20 minutes to get up there. I mean, it'd have to take that long, right? I really dunno, but I know the elevators at the malls are like that. You click the button that says "Floor 3" and it takes like two whole minutes to get up there! Man, it's ridiculous if you ask me.

Oh, what I would give to just be able to go up one of those buildings there. I'd even kill, believe me I really mean that, to see all them city lights from so high up. Yeah, I seen the pictures and stuff…but it ain't the same. It's kind of like hearing some bum tryin' to sing a song you love. It just ain't the same. You know, like you know the words, and the bass line, and that part where the drums go all wild and stuff, but then you gotta hear this old crazy man doing your song all wrong. It just ain't right, ya hear?

So let me tell you my story. It's about a building, the really big one, it's called "The Empire State Building". Always thought it was funny name, since we don't have an empire here in America. Anyway, I said to myself, "Gregory, you been in this city here for like 35 years and you isn't never gonna go up in that building there." And I didn't like that. Now, one thing you gotta know about me, ya hear now--if I don't like something, I do something about it. If I don't like how I'm hungry, I go find me some food and dig right in. Like a hoagie! God I love me some hoagies. Or if I don't like how I'm feeling, I find me a real nice pretty girl to talk to, and she'll raise my spirits better then a beer would any day. So when I realized that I could never make it up in the building, ya know, cause of those damned rent-a-cops, I decided I was just gonna do something about it.

I already knew that I ain't so good at fitting in. My teeth aren't always sparkling shiny clean, my hair can be kind of messy sometimes…but there wasn't anything I could do 'bout that. But, I knew if I could find myself a good outfit, man I'd be set. Those rent-a-cops wouldn't even look at me, ya know? But, well, I never got money lying around, so how was I gonna get me a good outfit so I could see the city from all the way up? I get tired of begging, talking to those old gold baggers who won't even drop me a buck or two, so I wasn't gonna do it like that. Not my style, no way.

A song though. Yeah, that would do it. There was this one place, it's off of 36th, and they got some nice clothes that they sell for real cheap. They got bright colors, man I love me the color blue, and they had lots of it there. And, let me tell you, there is this girl who works there. Man, she a beauty. She like, needs to go on TV or something, cause I have never seen a prettier girl! But hey now, don't be thinking I am some, ya know…yeah. I respect pretty girls. I just like talking them, seeing them smile, make them laugh. Which, just so you know, is my specialty. Girls always laugh when they talk to Gregory Prowell!

My plan was so good, and I knew it. Write a song for that girl so once she heard the song, she'd give me a shirt and maybe a pair of pants. I had a little money, but not enough. The song would totally do it for her.

I wish you could hear this song! Man, it was so good. I spent all day and night on it, in the park, and when I finished it I had never been so proud. I had written some songs before, but nothing like this. I wrote it about that girl, and I called it, "Coffee with a Little Whipped Cream". Now, don't be laughing at me! I was serious here. Nothing is better then coffee with a little whipped cream, don't even try to deny that one, so I wrote that song for her so she would know that she was the only thing better then coffee with a little whipped cream.

There was just no way she couldn't hear it. It was too damn good of a song for her to miss it, so I found my way to her little shop and told her I had a present for her. I walked right up to her, the girl with the pretty brown locks, and I said, "Now young lady, what is your name?" She didn't really respond at first, she just kind of stared back at me, like I was crazy or something. I got kind of scared, seeing how she wasn't saying anything and just blankly staring at me with those big brown eyes. I was feeling really nervous, but then I remembered my favorite line from the song. "If there ever was a gorgeous morning, it was the day that my eyes laid…such fancy on you, my baby, where beauty was truly made." I thought of that line, and I thought of how God had to have made her as proof. You know what I mean? Proof that He knows what he's doin'. Cause if God wasn't showing off with this girl, then I don't know if He could.

So I didn't hold back. No, no. I said, "Young lady, you don't even need to tell me your name. But I'll tell you mine. It's Gregory--Gregory Prowell." She kind of lowered her head for a bit, the kind of thing girls do when they try to hide their beautiful smiles, and then she lifted her eyes, just her eyes, so she was giving me that look, and then said, "Hi Gregory. I'm Alicia." Oh, baby! Hot dog was I going nuts! Her smile was just like a taxi cab running me over at 90 miles an hour. I was floored just by hearing her talk! I tried to remain cool, tried to be like I always am, but then I just sort of fell...under her spell or something. I couldn't move or nothin'. But then, ya know, I thought of another line I just loved, and that was, "So many things in my life, I have tried to understand…but what you do to me, baby, I'll never comprehend." I was proud of that line, I used a big word. Com-pre-hend.

As I was saying, though, I thought about that line and realized I still hadn't told her about my gift. "Well my friend Alicia, I have a very special present for you." She smiled at that. "Now don't think I'm crazy, but here is your present." And right there and then I sang it for her. No introductions, nothing. And oh baby did I sing it for her! I don't think I ever belted out a tune as pretty as I did that day. I was doing such a good job that people's heads were turning around, their ears were all listening good on what I had to sing. It was almost as if I were a big politician. You know those big wigs who get on TV and everbody will stop what they're doing to watch them? Well, for the first time in my life, I was like one of them. I didn't have a pretty outfit on, or some speech someone else wrote for me...but I had my song, and this song was a tune that got every boy and girl in that clothes shop to pay me some respect.

Finishing up that song was a feeling I ain't never gone through before. My heart was all banging against my chest, my forehead was kind of sticky since I was nervous and all, but even worse was the feeling of silence after my last note of the song. It was only two, maybe three seconds, but it had to have been the longest silence I had ever gone through. But ya see, after those few seconds, this one girl began clapping. And not just a few claps here and there, no this was a really fast, hand pumping clapping. The kind I'd hear in church, back when Momma used to take me. Man, you ever think about how hard they clap their hands in church? I used to ask Momma if their hands would hurt, but she'd always yell at me saying I was being disrespectful.

But it was crazy! All of the sudden, all of the people in the store are clapping their hands for me! And there she stood, my beautiful Alicia, with those round brown eyes, looking back into my eyes with a gorgeous smile. That smile. Man, she didn't even need to say anything. I just knew she was so damn happy. "Gregory," she said, "that was a really pretty song. And...you wrote that? As a present to me?"

"Why yes I did my ma'am!" I responded, high on something from all that clapping.

"But why? I think I've seen you...maybe two times before? And I never even got your name those times!"

"Yeah, maybe...but those times were the nicest times I think I ever had." I got her with that one, I know I did.

"Well...thank you Gregory. I'm not even sure what to say. That was just...really sweet of you."

"Now Alicia, you don't got to worry about what to say. Leave that to me. I like to talk, ya know. And that's what I want to do with you. Talk. I wanted to tell you about a very special dream I got. It's a dream that I ain't never thought of before. Why I haven't thought of this dream...well, I'm just not too sure...but it came to me the other day and I wanted to tell you all about it."

"What is that dream? Do you want a job here?" Oh she got me with that one! I busted out a big, full laugh, cause there would be no way I'd wanna work in a clothing shop like hers. I mean, don't get me wrong, it'd be a great job...but I like my life now. It's simple.

"Nah, baby, I don't want a job here. But, I do want some clothes from here. And I just don't got the money. I know you get people from all over the world here in this store of yours, but I'm coming to you from New York. This is my home, just as it is yours. And that dream I was telling you about, it's about this city we live in. I want to see this city from that big building just down the way there...ya know The Empire State Building? I been in livin' here for 35 years now, and I think it's time I get to the top. Only thing is, I need me an outfit that won't get those stupid rent-a-cops all up in my face."

Alicia sure did laugh when I called them "rent-a-cops". You would'd thought she'd never heard them called that before!

"Well Gregory, you want to go up to The Empire State Building? And they won't let you because of your attire?"

"Yes ma'am, that would be correct." I was all proud of myself, I sounded like a professor or someone smart.

"I'd love to help Gregory, but I-"

"Oh don't give me that, sugar! I have $15.42! There gots to be something, I don't care what it looks like, but SOMETHING you can help me out with. I don't care if it is bright pink and says "Hot Momma" on it. Actually, if you had that I would like that please." Oh boy did she laugh at that! I'm just too damn good with the ladies, ain't I?

"Ok...for $15.42 I think I could find you a T-shirt. And maybe some shorts. It won't be the prettiest-"

"Baby, only you could be the prettiest." I said, even giving her a little wink. Boy did she smile at that one.

"Give me a second and I'll go see what I can do."

Alicia walked back to the part of the store where nobody else but employees can go. I always wanted to walk back in those parts of stores and see what was so special that normal people couldn't go back there. I bet they had jelly doughnuts just sitting around for everybody, 'cept all them people already had their fill, so a few extra just sat there with no one to eat them. That surely would be a tragedy.

It wasn't but a minute or two until my baby Alicia came walking back through those doors. And in her hands, she had a special present even for me. The shorts were those khaki colored things, and she also had in her hand a bright blue shirt! How did she know I just loved the color blue?

"Well I know it isn't much, but I found these on clearance and I think-"

"Alicia, these gots to be the nicest clothes I have ever seen!" Ok, so I lied, but you gotta do that to the ladies. You tell them the truth about their weight and then they smack you! Then they eat a jelly doughnut. I love women.

"I don't know if they're the nicest clothes" she said, "but they're all yours. Don't even worry about the $15.42. You'll need that to get to the top of The Empire State Building."

"Hold up, they charge to go up into that thing?" I asked her.

"Yeah, I'm not sure how much, but it's something." She said, now talking all serious and not smiling like she was before.

"Well I'll just have to make them change that for Gregory Prowell!" And of course that got a little smile outta my baby girl Alicia!

Alicia handed me the clothes, them nice shorts and cool blue shirt, and then said, "I'm still not too sure what to say...your song...it was just beautiful."

"That's all that matters, sugar. A beautiful song for a beautiful girl." And with that I walked away from her.

Wasn't but a minute after I walked out of the store that I already missed that girl. I mean, there wasn't no way she'd ever like a bum like me, but I don't think in all my years I had ever met a beautiful woman as nice as she. Like, think about it, I sit on the streets all day asking for money. I don't even stand up or anything. But with what I do, I run into a whole lotta bitches. I'm sorry to call them that, but it's what they are. They all walk by with their nice suits and crap, holding a cup of Starbucks they just paid $20 for, then say they don't have money to give me for food. Or beer. Bitches, I say. Bitches.

Anyway, I had to go find me a place to change. I was so excited I didn't even care where I did it! I ran into a back alley and threw off my old clothes, not even giving a damn that they landed in a pool of nasty water, and put on my new blue shirt so fast it'd make your head spin twice. And boy did I look good! Now it was a bit big and all, only giving Gregory Prowell more room to grow a belly, but that shirt sure was a beauty.

You ever read about that stuff in books and magazines called "Symbolism"? Well, I have once before. They say that people will see things or stuff, and it'll like...remind them of a time in their life, or it will be like a symbolism of something changing. Well, if there ever was a symbolism in my life, it was putting on these new clothes. Let me tell you, I don't think I ever felt that so damn good 'bout myself! Like I just looked so friggin' good.

Walking out of that alley had to be some kind of a symbolism too, cause I saw that big building off in the distance and starting marching after it. Man, I was moving so fast, I got there in like 5 minutes--which in New York is pretty damn fast. I hustled through all them people, all in with their Starbucks in one hand and a cell phone in another, and stood before one of the biggest buildings in the city. I looked straight up at it, almost hurting my neck in doing so, and felt just so nice. Nicer then I had felt in a long time.

My outfit was on. My smile was kickin'. I was so ready to do this, you would just not believe.

The doors opened, and in I walked into The Empire State Building. And GOD DAMN was this place beautiful! The entire place was marble, like a dark color of sorts, and it was packed with people. Thousands of people were in this building to do the same thing I was--get to the top. All these people here, and I doubt any of them had as big of a dream as I did.

Off on the left was the security people. I had to walk through this machine, I guess it sensed for guns or something, and when I walked through those rent-a-cops didn't even look at me! I showed them, didn't I now? I just looked so damn good, so I made my way through and hopped myself into line. And boy was that a long line! You had to stand in line for like 15 minutes for each floor, cause all of these people had to see this city from the top. And it got me thinking, why is it so special to see the city from so high up? Why not just go to the city, to central park, to the statue of liberty...instead of just looking at it from a distance. But then it hit me...I think that's how people really are. You know what I mean? People like to stay far away. Like, when I'm sitting down and begging for some money to get me some food, some will drop me a buck or two, but they never stay and talk with me. I have had that happen maybe three times in all my years, ya know? But that's what people are like. They like to see you from a distance, but not get too close. Well, I'll tell you one thing--that ain't Gregory Prowell! Ya hear me now, I ain't like that!

Speaking of getting close, I was almost to the top. I had been in line for like two hours now, thinking of how every floor I was going up was a symbolism for me. Man, I felt all out smart for once, doing all this symbolism thinking now.

But at the top, of the line that is, there was a man. Yeah, and this man, he was all short and Chinese or something, he was collecting money. China man didn't really smile or anything, he didn't even look at the people as he took their money, and he had this hat on. It looked like the kind a pilot should wear or something, but it was pretty cool if ya ask me. So when I stepped up to him, I told him. I said, "Sir, I just think you got the nicest hat." And when he looked back at me, he had this face. It almost scared me. It was a mix of fear and disgust, as if why in the world I was talking to him. It hurt.

"It's fifteen dollars to get in. Do you even have that?" Oh when he said that I just wanted to punch him in the face. That'd show him!

"Of course I got that! And I was kidding 'bout your hat. I think it reminds me of a drunken skunks behind!"

Momma always used to say that. I'm not really sure why, cause if there ever was a drunken skunk I'd like to know how he got his booze, but she meant it as a bad thing. And when I said it, I meant it as a bad thing too. He didn't even care though. He just took my fifteen bucks, thank God for Alicia being some damn sweet and not taking what I had, and he said I could step into the elevator. I was finally going into the top.

There they were. All them damn fancy buttons I always dreamed about. They were all shiny, almost as if everytime somebody pressed one of them, a man came running in and shined them again, just to make sure they looked just perfect. And boy did they! There was all these buttons, for like all these different floors, and I just got so damn excited I couldn't keep it in. I had to do something. So what did I do?

I sang my song.

Not quietly, now. No, no. I belted out that tune again. I had to, anyway, cause the music in the elevator just plain sucked.

Every neck in that elevator turned and stared at me as if I was crazy or drunk or both. And maybe I was! Drunk and crazy on being so damn happy. You see, here I was, in a nice outfit, in a nice elevator, on a nice day, and I was living out my dream. I was going to the top of The Empire State Building. So there was no way I wouldn't be singin' on such a nice day.

I sang 'til those elevator doors opened up, and when they did I just had to stop. The light was so damn bright, cause all the way up on top there ain't no buildings to block it, and I was just speechless. Couldn't think of a word to say--and that never happens to Gregory Prowell. But I walked to the window, really slowly now, and just stared down at this city that I grew up in. And everything hit me at once, like a double shot of 151 rum. It was just friggin' crazy. Right before me was every memory I had ever gone through. Like, I saw off in the distance 102nd street, and I remembered how I ran away from Momma and she began yelling at me, "Get your tiny little black ass back here or I'm gonna whoop it so hard the black will jump right outta you!" Then I looked at 89th Street, and I remembered how Momma saw my Dad in a bar there, and she all rushed me outta there, and I had no clue why. And he came out after us, all drunk and stuff, and he called my mom the "C" word. I don't even say that word, it's just that bad. But boy did she flip out! She put him in his place in two seconds flat, faster then any Fighter Jet could fly, if you ask me.

Then I looked at Central Park, and I thought of all memories I had there. Playing chess with Mob-Al, a friend of mine who begs by the Mobil gas station so he calls himself Mob-Al, or petting all the dogs and just watching how happy they are. Or seeing the families with all their kids! People playing with frisbees, or couples walking around holding hands. I just love happy people. Truly I do.

And, boy, then I looked at all the other big buildings! They were everywhere, I couldn't find a single place in that city without a big building, and I was getting so friggin' excited at everything that was before me.

And then I saw 49th Street, way off in the distance now, and I remembered the pretty girl who worked at the coffee shop, and how she always knew I liked my coffee with whipped cream. I'd walk in, with my $1.50, and she'd just start pouring that coffee. Didn't even need to ask me. And she never charged me for the whipped cream. There was a sign saying it was an extra 50 cents, but she never put on my bill. And then I began thinking. There are some crazy people in this world, people who get mad if you tell them you like their hat, people who drink too much and embarrass ya, and people who hurt your feelings so bad you don't even want to wake up the next day. But, once you get through all of that...there are some good people. People who will listen to your song. People who will love you no matter what you look like. People who will remember the way you like your coffee. And when I thought of that, of all the good people in this world, all the people I was staring down upon from this big building...I realized something. Life just ain't that bad.