Random Acts of Prose (Part II)

I saw this pine cone sitting on a rock and immediately grabbed my camera. Julian has a large cemetery protected by towering pine trees. Walking through the grave yard, one can see the stories of people who have walked the steep hills and wrote the pages that make up history of the town. As you continue to read this story, I hope you can find a story in your surroundings that will tell whatever tale you would like the world to know. Continue to enjoy this random act of prose...

Julian (Part II)

When I met her I was overwhelmed and completely in awe. To describe her as beautiful would be an erroneous use of the word. She was incredibly stunning. I wanted nothing more than to be everything to her that she was to me the first day I saw her. I knew I wasn’t an ideal for any woman but I figured if I could find a way to make her love me I would be happy forever. Luckily, sometimes life gives you just enough to accomplish your goals.

Opportunities like Desiree rarely presented themselves to me. I met her in a grocery store and I knew that she was the key to my happiness. She wasn’t impressed with me from the beginning but I was persistent. My life was actually pretty drab until our first date. I was in the produce section when she smiled at me and it honestly took me off guard. As a matter of fact I was standing in a mountain of onions when first said hello. (It’s a long story.) She actually started the ball rolling to change my life forever. She suggested a few changes in my appearance that I reluctantly accepted. Who knew a haircut and new clothes could make a man feel so good. Not since I was awarded the “Innovator in Bio-Engineering” award at Cornell had I felt so complete. She even talked me into having lasik surgery on my eyes ridding me for good of those thick glasses I hated. I was so impressed with my new image in the mirror; I decided to give Desiree a few thousand dollars to start the clothing boutique she had been dreaming of. It really was the very least I could do for her.

I was a new man. I took a few trips up to Julian after meeting Desiree because it was my favorite place to think and I decided it would be the place that I would make one of the biggest decisions of my life. I made hotel reservations hoping that a nice, quaint place would ease both Desiree and me into this crazy phase of our relationship. I knew she wasn’t completely sold on the idea of being with me, which made my decision so urgent. I brought along everything I would need for the ultimate seduction. I brought a radio with a mix tape of slow songs, chocolates, champagne, and strawberries. I bought sexy lingerie that I was sure would fit the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. I left no stone unturned, I even arranged a limo for the drive home.

Desiree wasn’t exactly in awe of the Julian Hotel but it didn’t matter. I was focused. When I saw her that day in the grocery store, I knew she would be perfect in everyway. I needed her and I spent the last three months trying to convince her that she needed me. When we made it to the room I knew I had to act fast. I couldn’t waste any time. Luckily, Desiree dropped her bags and disappeared into the bathroom. I took her bags and placed them by the door. I opened the dresser drawer and placed a single red rose in the top drawer. I had written a note to Desiree well before the trip and sprayed a bit of Tea Rose perfume on it, hoping her favorite perfume would make it easier to read. I knocked on the bathroom door and told Desiree I needed to pick up a few things in town and would be back soon. She said okay and I grabbed her bags and sprinted down the stairs.

When I made the reservations, I instructed the limousine driver to meet me outside the hotel an hour after our calculated arrival time from San Diego. He was early which was perfect. I gave him an extra fifty dollars to wait and put Desiree’s bags in his trunk. I opened the cabin of the limousine and opened a bottle of champagne and poured a glass. Just as I finished I saw her approaching. I closed the door and felt the same sensation I did when I first laid eyes on Lacey. She smiled when she saw me and walked over to me looking confused.

We said our hellos and she took a step back to admire the new me. We hadn’t seen each other since my last trip to Julian, a few weeks before. I could tell she was impressed. I informed her that I had something special for her in my room and asked if she would join me upstairs. She hesitated but agreed and followed me to my room. My plan had been set in action.

I first met Lacey about two weeks before I met Desiree; she was working at the front desk of the Julian Hotel. Though I had been to Julian a few times, it was the first time I wondered into the hotel. I knew she was way out of my league but I was obsessed with the idea of being with her. The day I met Desiree, I knew she would be exactly what I needed to get Lacey to like me.

I reached out my hand as we walked up the hotel steps and she grasped it and smiled. I was so appreciative to Desiree for helping me blossom into the confident man that I had become. As we walked towards my room, I was confident that Lacey would take one look at how beautiful Desiree was and be impressed that we were together. My plan was to show Lacey what I was willing to give up for her and she would be so honored that she would fall madly in love with me. Since Desiree wasn’t that into me anyway, I figured she would be happy to head back to San Diego in a limousine with champagne after serving her purpose. I also assumed that she had read the note I left on her pillow explaining all that she had done for me and how she had helped me get closer to Lacey, my one true love. I approached the door and whispered to Lacey that she would love what was on the other side. I grasped the handle and turned…

The conclusion? You decide...

Random Acts of Prose (Part 1)

Julian is about an hour, beautiful drive from my home in northern San Diego. I've traveled to this sleepy, mining town a few times over the years and really enjoy it. I saw this hotel and just had to take a few snap shots of it. I thought the sign spoke volumes about the town and the people in it, a subtle contrast that couldn't be ignored. Hotels are intriguing and extremely provocative. Because of their large turnover there are several hundred stories in each room. This story is a lot like the town of Julian, a tale of perception. Enjoy this random act of prose...

Julian (Part 1)

The drive to the Julian seemed to take forever. I sat on the passenger side of Everett’s two-seater trying my best to appear that I was amused. I was actually fighting the nausea of the twist and turns of what seemed like the most winding road I have ever been on. I honestly still couldn’t believe I agreed to the trip in the first place. Everett promised me that I would have a blast and that he knew of the perfect little bed and breakfast for us to spend a romantic weekend. Unfortunately for Everett, we are well beyond bed and breakfasts and way beyond spending a romantic weekend together.

The whole relationship was absolutely stifling and I wanted nothing more than to be free. If it weren’t for the nature of our arrangement I would have left a long time ago. My fear was that Everett planned to “pop the question” while I was planning to finally break it off.

After what felt like a lifetime, I finally saw a sign for Julian. In the company of anyone else, I would have been excited about this little mining town that time forgot. I would be elated to walk in and out of little quaint, knick-knack shops, and feasting on the apple pie it was known for. Looking over at Everett, the only thing I could feel was my breakfast creeping up my throat.

The day Everett and I met, I was in a bad place. I had just caught my boyfriend of three years cheating and I was desperate to just forget about the pain of being deceived. Everett was doing a poor job of discreetly eyeing me in the grocery store as he perused the produce section. He was not the type of man I would notice but he became increasingly familiar because I had managed to see him on every aisle I walked down. Tall, lanky, and completely strange looking, I felt sorry for him more than anything. He was wearing these ridiculously thick glasses and his skin looked as if he were a thirty-year-old revisiting puberty. I was impressed with the Cornell t-shirt he was wearing but my admiration was short lived because he paired it with oversized, stained sweatpants. He was a mess and so was his hair. It was in that awkward phase that was too short to call long and too long to call short. It fell scrappily over his ears and looked as if he had dipped it in oil. At first glance, I wanted to look away. Maybe it was my broken heart or the fact that I needed the validation, but something made me smile at him. Now any other man would have taken this as a green light to come and say hello but not Everett. He just stood there with a pathetic grin on his face as if I were the first woman to offer a pleasant gesture to him. I realized I would have to take the lead and walked over to him and introduced myself. He sputtered and stuttered his name to me and managed to create an avalanche of onions to fall at his feet. Suddenly, Everett became a poor little puppy that I just couldn’t walk away from.

We arrived the bed and breakfast and I was immediately impressed. It looked inviting and for a moment I actually almost convinced myself that this would be slightly romantic. We walked inside and were greeted by a heavy-set woman that was almost cliché in her demeanor and speech. She checked us in and escorted us to a Victorian-style room that was equipped with an actual canopy bed and ornate vanity. Everett’s excitement irritated me and I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and hope that this was all a sick and twisted dream. As he unpacked I disappeared into the bathroom plotting for a way to let him down easy and without a scene. I decided that I would probably have to wait until Sunday considering he had already paid for the room. Besides, I figured what the hell, I needed a vacation. I stared at my reflection in the mirror and saw that time had started its hellish waltz on my face. Deep wrinkles around my mouth and eyes seemed to suddenly appear and the youthful gleam of my brown eyes began to fade. The clock was ticking and I was feeling every second. I would be lying if I claimed there wasn’t a part of me that appreciated Everett’s attraction to me. To be honest, it seemed at times that he was the only one that still lusted after me. I can remember being the object of many men’s desires but it seemed that attention was beginning to diminish. It may be remnants of vain youth, but I refused to believe that Everett was the pinnacle of my attraction to the opposite sex.

I stepped out of the bathroom completely over my pity party to find that Everett had completely unpacked and put away all of our clothes. I wasn’t sure what he did with my bags, but knowing him he probably put them in the car so they weren’t in the way. It sickened me to think he was so confident that I would stay long enough to gain any sense of comfort. He told me that he needed a few toiletry items and would look for a place to eat dinner. I relished the thought that I would be alone and have an opportunity to figure a way out of this mess.

Everett really wasn’t a horrible guy. In all actuality his major flaw was that he was painfully ordinary. After our encounter in the grocery store I agreed to go out with him and wasn’t surprised that he lacked the social graces and seductive qualities of most of the men I’ve dated. He was like an overgrown pussycat, afraid and seemingly incapable of boldness. He quickly became a project of my boredom and a challenge. I figured if I could take this raw piece of clay and sculpt a masterpiece, at the very least I would always have a means to entertain myself. I now know why artist sell their art; overtime your creation becomes the bane of your existence. Basically, I dressed him up and knocked of the ridiculous. I got his haircut and changed his wardrobe. Everett’s rawness made it easy to transform him into the appearance of my ideal. He needed only a few weeks in the gym to bring out a musculature stature that was hiding beneath a lackluster thin layer. I convinced him that it was time for laser surgery on his eyes and we got rid of his telescope glasses. I even taught him how to care for his skin revealing a smooth olive tone that tanned very well. In an Armani suit, Everett was quite the looker. If only the department stores sold personalities.

Over the course of three months, I learned that Everett had a small fortune saved up from his work in biogenetic engineering. I still have no idea what that means but it did offer us both a pretty comfortable lifestyle. Though we didn’t live together, Everett happily supplemented my income and even funded the opening of my clothing boutique. This, of course, is the tie that now binds us. I can’t help but to feel indebted to the man because he provided the seed money for my dream. The boutique isn’t doing as well as I hoped and I have no desire to go back to working retail for someone else. Regardless, I’m so unhappy with a man who sense of spontaneity is to carefully and meticulously plan a trip close enough for us to drive home “in the event of an emergency.”

I decided to use my time to take a long hot bath and formulate a plan to end the trip with the least amount of drama possible. I opened one of the drawers and noticed that Everett had placed a single red rose on top of my clothes. I smiled. I even noticed that he bought me new lingerie for the trip. That was one of things that irritated me about Everett; he really did have the ability to be very sweet. It made it hard to be mad at him and even harder to replace him. I’m not one of those women who want the “bad boy” I just want a man who takes control and displays a bit of authority in the relationship. Everett had the tendency to be a bit of a pushover, which drove me nuts.

I retrieved a pair of panties and passed on the sexy lingerie and opted for flannel pants and one of his t-shirts instead. I didn’t want Everett to get the wrong idea. I walked over to the bed hoping to catch a few minutes of sleep before Everett returned. On the pillow was a small note with my name on it. I was sure that when I opened it I would find some thoughtful note from Everett expressing his excitement for the weekend. I held the note close to my nose enjoying the scent of Tea Rose, my favorite perfume. Suddenly, something came over me that I wasn’t ready for. Suddenly, my eyes began to water because I realized that Everett was a good man and I was about to blow it.

The man I was dating when I met Everett was abusive both mentally and physically. Everett wouldn’t dream of saying or doing anything to hurt me. In an instant I decided that I was tired of sabotaging good relationships and believing that drama was equivalent to love. Everett was trying. He still went to the gym regularly and even bought designer clothes on his own. He actually made every effort he could to prove that he wanted to be with me. I, on the other hand, gave him very little credit for his efforts. I decided that I would give Everett and myself another chance at love. No more being impossible with Everett and no more treating him like a child. Maybe if I gave him the respect he deserved he would be the man I’ve always wanted. I ran to the dresser and changed into the lingerie. I sprayed Tea Rose on all the places I wanted Everett to kiss and put a little lip-gloss on, hoping to entice him to kiss me. I turned on the radio he brought and was impressed with his choice of music. I got under the covers and slipped off my panties. I held Everett’s note on my chest and decided I would have him read it to me when he got back to the room. When the doorknob turned, I was excited about a life with the man I was creating…

To be continued

Random Acts of Prose

I saw this woman walking along the beach alone and very deep in thought. Her thoughts didn't appear to be worries but more deep contemplation. She stopped once and sat down staring at the ocean. Though I captured that moment, her stroll seemed so much more powerful. It seemed almost as if she was accompanied by whatever had brought her to the beach and was consuming her mind. The story is my interpretation of what I saw through my lens. Enjoy this random act of prose...

The Beach

Gay? Evelyn repeated the word over and over again as she walked along the beach. The gritty sand occupied the space between her toes giving her the only source of pleasure she was capable of feeling. Gay? How could he be gay? How could that be possible?

Evelyn retraced the steps of her life in her mind hoping to find a clue that would explain or rationalize the events of that morning. The sound of the small waves creeping up the shore brought back memories of playing on the beach as a child. Her brother, Charlie daring their parents to rescue him, would stealthily creep deeper and deeper into the ocean. Her father would warn him in his most authoritative tone, “Charlie, that’s far enough!” Ever the rebellious child, Charlie would slip further and further away from their sight. The last day that Evelyn would step foot into the ocean was when Charlie went a half a step too far and was swept into the under current. Evelyn remembered how quickly her father moved from his beach chair to the ocean. In what seemed like a second, her father was holding the limp body of her brother in his strong, tanned arms. She remembered standing and watching her brother’s lifeless body and the tears between her mother and father soaking the sand beneath them. She remembered being completely incapable of feeling anything after Charlie’s death for what seemed like forever. The broad shoulders that held Charlie comforted her during her years of mourning. Her father allowed Evelyn to glean from his strength as she struggled with God’s decision to invite Charlie into heaven so soon. Had it not been for the strength of her father, Evelyn was sure she would have never made it and would have never allowed herself to feel or love again.

Gay? How was it possible?

Kevin never pushed her to return to the water. He was so patient that way. Even with their two boys, Kevin would persuade, rather than push. On the day before he proposed, Kevin sat her down and gave her what felt like a sales pitch on a life spent with him. It was unnecessary because since the very first day they met, she was completely sold. She was walking along the same stretch of beach when he went whizzing by on his first daily run. He had just bought a condo in the area and decided that it was the perfect place for him to get exercise. It took about two weeks of running before he finally stopped and initiated what would turn into a whirlwind courtship followed by a picture perfect wedding. She was so proud to introduce Kevin to her mother and father. The two men hit it off instantly because of their similar personalities and strengths. Kevin was everything her father hoped Charlie would have become.

Their two boys would follow shortly after and for sixteen years they worked diligently at keeping their vows. She told Kevin all about Charlie; she also begged him to not allow her fear of the water to affect their sons. He was so gentle but firm with them both. He always held their hand but allowed them to venture safely away from him to develop their own sense of independence. Now at fifteen and thirteen, they were becoming men. Much like her father's paternal instincts and expertise, Kevin now played the roll of "rock" in her life, giving her a safe and stable place to lean upon.

Evelyn thought of her sons as the word spun around in her head. She sat on the sand and thought of how she would feel had one of them associated the word with their lifestyle or their sense of identity. What does it mean? What would it mean to her? She never had to deal with the impact of homosexuality though she had friends who were openly gay. She was uncomfortable with the harshness that the world treated gay people but never thought for a moment she would have to confront her own feelings toward homosexuality. She feared becoming a bigot and feared even more that her experience would shape her feelings about people she didn’t know. During the elections, she voted against gay marriage only because her friends influenced her. In all honesty, she had no idea how she felt. She believed in God but also believed in people’s right to choose. She believed in the sanctity of marriage but also believed that it was hypocritical for a nation that has destroyed marriage to use it as a means of exclusion. So what would she do if one of her boys approached her and boldly said, “Mom, I’m gay.”

Evelyn wanted to believe that she would understand. She wanted to believe that she would embrace her son and comfort him. She wanted to be assured in her mind that she could remove any feelings her boy may have of rejection or disappointment. Could she continue being a mother to a son who had, in effect, walked into the firing lines of bigotry, stereotyping, and hate? Could she accept her son and understand his lifestyle though she wasn’t sure she understood the lifestyle. She only hoped that her instincts of being a nurturing mother would supersede her confusion about being gay.

Secretly, she wished that it were one of her boys that had confessed his secret desires. She wished that it could be so easy. The man who admitted his past after so many years couldn’t be mothered. She couldn’t protect him from judgment because she was so tormented by her own. Did he not know how many people would suffer in the wake of a secret he kept for so many years? Did he not know how this secret would rock the very foundation she and her family stood upon? So many years, so many years of lying wouldn’t allow her to discover her feelings about what it meant to be evolutionarily different. Evelyn forced herself to believe that the hate she felt had nothing to do with the lifestyle he chose but the manner in which he revealed his decision. This was a man she respected and admired, a man who had been there for her in her time of vulnerability. Now she felt betrayed. She felt the world, as she knew it, was filled with untruths. Evelyn stared out into the blue ocean that had taken her brother. She closed her eyes and heard Charlie’s laughter harmoniously singing with the swaying tide. She prayed that God would give her the strength to once again accept what she could not control.

Random Acts of Prose

In attempt to display my love for all things creative I humbly submit the following:

A Coffee Shop on 5th & Vine displays my love for poetry, music, and photography. The picture was taken in Del Mar, California a small, posh beach town of San Diego. The music was created on my computer (my apologies to the instrumentalist) and the poem was inspired by the photo. Please enjoy this attempt at marrying my passions and as always your comments are very appreciated.

-TMass

Random Acts of Prose

When I took this picture my intent was to focus on the small creek. By chance, I was able to capture the road and the yellow lines that seem to suggest infinity. I love this picture because it reminds me of the beginning and middle of possibility. I created this story to illustrate that possibility the photo has captured. Enjoy this random act of prose...

The Road

Ten miles. It took Erving Wilson almost one year to reach the ten-mile goal. It only took six miles for him to experience the fabled runner’s high. It was intoxicating. He could feel adrenaline pulsating through every vessel in his body. He could hear the sound of his heartbeat pounding over the music in his headphones. The music became irrelevant. His breath suddenly became rhythmic and calm. His head was so clear and focused that he could literally visualize his thoughts. Sweat poured from his temple, cooling and soothing his entire body. For the next four miles Erving stayed in this perpetual consciousness of exercised induced bliss. It felt so good that as approached the last half-mile of his run he made a decision that he would impact the rest of his life.

Most of Erving’s life he was overweight; overweight and depressed. Running was never an option; it wasn’t even a consideration. It wasn’t until Erving found himself in a hospital bed resting after having been intubated and resuscitated that he realized that a life-style change was inevitable. At the young age of thirty-two, Erving Wilson suffered a heart attack. His doctor informed Erving that his five-foot nine-inch frame couldn’t handle the two hundred and ninety pounds that he had put on it over the years. His heart had doubled in size to compensate for the extra work that heavy drinking and excessive eating had caused. His arteries were clogged and his cholesterol was the same of an unhealthy man twice his age. Lying in the hospital bed, Erving became acutely aware of the fact that his life was not what he had dreamed of. He looked around the room and saw no flowers, no cards, and no remnants of any visitors. There was no one to wish him well and no lover to soothe the literal break of his feeble heart. Erving secretly wished that his heart attack were fatal.

Erving found himself staring into a mirror a week after being released from the hospital. He stared at glasses whose black frames could barely hold their thick concave lenses. Beneath his glasses were almond colored eyes that seemed to have a constant pink hue from enlarged veins. His mustache grew wildly out of control and seemed to seep into the corners of his mouth. His brown thinning hair was already sprinkled with grey. Despite, what he professed to himself, it did not look distinguished. Erving’s ears were simple and slightly protruded from his head and beneath layers of fat sat a jaw that should have been square. His father’s was square. His father’s face and life were immaculate. Erving was not the image he had of his father; he was far from it. As he stared at his reflection, Erving decided that he would have to make a decision. He decided there had to be a reason that he was given a second chance at life. He decided that he would follow the doctor’s orders, his new diet, and would start to exercise.

The first day was the toughest. With every step he took Erving could feel the weight of his body being tossed around like a rag doll. His breathing was audible and labored. Every few steps he would stop running to nurse an aching back and throbbing knees. Erving looked down at his shoes and couldn’t help but laugh. They were the best that money could buy and the guy at the sporting goods store assured him that they were perfect for “heavy runners.” One mile; that was his goal. He just wanted to complete a mile without stopping and without feeling as if his heart was going to explode. He walked. It was the international sign of defeat for any runner, the realization that running was more of a challenge than he prepared himself for.

It took thirty days to achieve his goal of finishing a mile. It was the best feeling in the world to cross the threshold of one mile from where he started without stopping. The image he saw in the mirror slowly began to change and so did his outlook on life. Erving stuck to his diet and sought every opportunity he could to exercise. At work he opted for the stairs rather than the elevator and he even managed to get his hands on a few dumbbells. Things were finally looking up for Erving and he was committed to slowly and carefully changing his life for the better.
Five miles down. Five miles, no stopping and no heavy breathing. Running became more than a hobby, it became a lifestyle. Erving identified himself as a runner and pursued it at all cost. He would not allow the rain or anything to stop him from his daily run. Food was no longer an indulgence it became fuel for running, a necessary component of the bigger picture of a new life lived on the road.

At mile six he saw her. Over the course of the previous six months Erving would increase his route by one mile in the same direction. He loved the familiarity of knowing the distance of each step. Every time he added a mile it was like the world had revealed itself five thousand, two hundred and eighty feet at a time. She was approximately thirty yards in front of him and she was moving quickly. Her legs were as graceful as a gazelle but not as long. Her body were muscular but agile; her frame was compact and efficient. She wore a ponytail in her hair, the tip tossing back and forth with each length of her perfect stride. Everyday he saw her in the same spot. She became his motivation. Just the thought of seeing her pushed him past milestones that usually took weeks to accomplish.

Erving was on the top of the world. His whole life had changed since his brush with death. His body had transformed into a sleek and muscular frame. Erving’s life’s centered on his passion for running. He was able to transfer the tenacity he approached each mile with to every facet of his life but one - The woman who had unknowingly helped him to break through the plateau of eight miles in record time. Her route was slightly longer than his and he could tell that she was very much an advanced athlete. Erving didn’t care. A healthy heart and a long life was no longer the motivation for exercise, she was. She, a woman he knew nothing about brought him to that road every single day without fail. The very first time he reached the halfway point for his first ten-mile run, he noticed a small creek about a half a mile away. As he turned to head back he noticed her stretching.

She was only a half a mile away. Erving hesitated. His priority was to always finish the distance of the goal he set for himself. He realized that the only way he would be able to speak to his motivation was to increase his run, one more mile. He finished the ten mile run and planned to complete it at least two more times before setting a new goal and finally introducing himself to his running muse.

The runner’s high. Erving was feeling it. It was only the second time he completed the ten-mile course but the first time he had been so deeply intoxicated by the joy of running. He reached his turn around point and made a decision. It was time for him to tell her everything. He would tell her about the first time he saw her and how he would lace up his shoes with anticipation that he would see her again. He saw the creek and as he approached it he could feel the anticipation growing. With every step he knew that this would be the final chapter in what would prove to be the ultimate transformation. By tapping this woman on the shoulder and introducing himself, he would completely leave the overweight, self-conscious and depressed Erving in the past forever. He would see the culmination of his hard work and perseverance transform every facet of his life. There she was standing by the creek stretching, her body was as magnificent as the very first time he saw her. She was no more than twelve hundred yards away.

Erving could feel his body and mind become a ball of harmonious anxiety. Suddenly he noticed he was no longer sweating. His fingertips began to tingle; his left arm suddenly grew numb. His legs trembled and refused to obey his brain. He ignored his belligerent body and focused instead on her. Six hundred yards separated him from the woman who he had been secretly leaning on for almost a year. His vision was blurry, even though he had gotten lasix surgery after losing his first twenty pounds. Erving wasn’t sure if he was moving. He could no longer hear the rhythmic sound of his heart. Darkness began to engulf him; he was determined to see her face. Two hundred yards, one hundred yards, fifty yards, she turned towards him. For a moment, a moment that seemed to last the entire course of his life he saw her face.

Eyes as blue and deep as the ocean were the focal point of a face that flaunted its perfection. Her smile was full and luminescent, it was the first time he had ever seen her blonde hair resting gently on her muscular and elegant shoulders. As he collapsed and surrendered to a heart that would fail for the last time, Erving was able to speak the words that he had desperately wanted to say to her for miles… thank you.

Random Acts of Prose

The picture is real, the story isn't. I see this house everyday on the way to work and decided to stop and photograph it one morning. As I stared at the developed photo, this is the story I imagined took place within its pink walls. Enjoy this random act of prose...

The Pink House

Damn that house! Damn that pink house!

I see it from time to time when I decide to drive the coast to work and there it is, a pink nightmare! I haven’t stepped foot in the house for over twenty years but I can still remember every nuisance of its pink existence. My stepmother, Barbara-Jo, (who insisted that she be called Barbara-Jo) begged my father to paint the house pink. Not just pink but an eerie, iridescent pink. I hated and still hate Barbara-Jo. I hate her for her false opulence, I hate her for her over-the-top extravagance and most of all I hate her for what she put me through during the fourteen years I lived in that damn house.

My mother passed away when I was the young age of three. Passed away. The terminology seems so inappropriate for the death of my mother. I understand the concept completely, but my mother was not one to just pass away from anything. She was the quintessential busybody and over reactor. All of this I learned from her sister but I can imagine her scurrying around our home fawning over every little detail. The house wasn’t pink then. It looked like a normal house.

Images of my mother exist only in my head because I have no actual memories of her. My father kept no pictures and he refused to say her name much less allow himself to remember her. I only know of one picture of my mother and my Aunt Rose keeps it in a teak, wooden dresser drawer given to her by my grandmother (another matriarchal figure of my family I do not remember.) The picture is of a woman with auburn hair and over sized dark-rimmed glasses. She had a slight overbite that caused her lips to jut ever so slightly upward. Her smile seemed unfinished and her nose crinkled right below the bridge. Beneath her thick lenses sat eyes that were an unfinished blue like a pale amethyst. Her face was slightly freckled and she appeared no older than twenty-five. My Aunt Rose swore she was only eighteen when the picture was taken. That would have meant I would not come into the world for at least four years. Whenever my aunt allowed me to look at my mother’s picture I would compare her face to mine. The only semblance we shared was red hair and the crinkle, which I have grown to adore.

Aunt Rose informed me that my mother’s interloping was a direct result of my father. She insists that before my father came along, my mother was quite reserved and would never dream of meddling in other people’s affairs. My father, a man who shows loyalty to absolutely nothing, would disappear for days on end with no excuse or explanation. Again, my memory of my childhood with my parents is both blurred and unreadable. Aunt Rose contributes all of my mother’s bad attributes to my father. It is no secret that she despises my father and his second wife, Barbara-Jo.

Barbara-Jo. What a character. If you were to close your eyes and imagine the most ridiculous woman in the world, you would have a snapshot into the life and lifestyle of Barbara-Jo. She is living proof that my father had to have taken my mother's death very badly. Everything about her is excessive; her hair, her make-up, her perfume, everything. I learned that my father was having an affair with Barbara-Jo shortly after my mother became pregnant with me. It never mattered because to me she has always been Barbara-Jo. It seems odd that I would completely block the first three years of my life. Most people I know remember snapshots of their youth but I don’t. I only remember the time I spent with Barbara-Jo.

Every morning Barbara-Jo would make breakfast for me. Every morning I sat before a plate of eggs, bacon or sausage, and toast. Every morning except Sunday morning, when she had to nerve to make pancakes in the shape of my choice. Every day I came home from school and there she was... Barbara-Jo. She would be sitting on the porch of that hideous pink house with an ignorant grin on her face. She would ask me meaningless questions about my day as if she really cared. I hated Barbara-Jo. I hated her because she would never allow me to complete my school projects with out going overboard as she did with everything else. The solar system had to rotate around the sun. The volcano had to erupt bright red food coloring. The poster couldn’t simply read, “Vote for Candace,” it had t be ornately decorated like everything in her life. This was Barbara-Jo. I hated her. I hated everything she stood for and I hated my father for marrying her.

My seventeenth birthday was the night my disdain for Barbara-Jo grew out of control. It was night that my father, a man who drowned his failures and doused his triumphs in alcohol, stumbled into my room. He was holding a large box wrapped in red paper with a large gold bow flanked by little silver stars. I could see that it was Barbara-Jo’s handiwork. My father, a man who stood six feet, three inches when he was sober and able to stand, fell on the edge of my bed as I lay pretending to sleep. He was unshaven and his salt and pepper beard displayed more salt than pepper. His breath was both audible and pungent. I could smell the alcohol fermented on his tongue. His brown eyes were surrounded by a yellow haze and were glazed over as if he was unaware that he was even in my room. He mumbled something and shoved the box in my direction. I half-heartedly smiled and began to peel back the wrapper.

I’ve read stories that wild animals in captivity can be triggered by almost anything and violently revert back to their primitive instincts. I’m not sure what I did or said but my father went from drunken stupor to violent rage in seconds. Before I could say a word he was on top of me swinging his arms wildly, slapping my face. “Why did you leave me?” he garbled. He tore open my nightclothes and began raping me as if he had never seen my face. For what seemed like an eternity my father violated me while muffling my screams with his calloused dirty hands.

The ordeal was horrific and to this day I still shiver at the thought that my father could have violated me. Immediately after my father fell asleep, I ran into Barbara-Jo’s room and locked the door behind me. I crawled into her bed and wrapped my arms around her. I sobbed in her bosom refusing to reply to her constant inquisition, “What’s wrong?”

Finally, I mustered the courage to tell her what happened. Her face was stoic. She didn’t reply. Instead she stroked my hair, kissed my cheek and took my hand leading me back into my bedroom. She wrestled my father to his feet and drug him back to their room. She came back to my room and stood at the door smiling. It had to be at least ten o’clock at night, but I distinctly remember Barbara-Jo still wearing an absurd amount of make-up as she did everyday. The mixture of her Red Door perfume and my father’s drunken must created a malodorous stench throughout my room.

She kissed the palm of her hand and blew the imaginary kiss towards me. She turned off my light and turned and walked away. I must have cried myself to sleep because I remember waking up to the sound of sirens. Red and blue lights chased each other around on the walls of my room. I peered out my window and saw police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck. I ran into the living room to witness two men in uniform zip up a large white bag. I recognized my father’s red nose as the zipper barely traced its tip.

Sitting on the coach was Barbara-Jo, shaking but not hysterical. I listened as she told the police about a man who had broken into our house that night as I slept. She told the police that the man entered their bedroom and demanded their belongings. She reported that she screamed and the masked man fired his weapon through a pillow at my father three times and then turned and ran out of the house. She described the man with great details and paused as she thought of the terrible act he perpetuated against my father. The police officer wrote vigorously in his little notebook and once placed his hand on Barbara-Jo’s knee to comfort her. He turned towards me and Barbara-Jo stood, walked towards me, and placed her hands on my shoulder. She informed the police officer that I was a heavy sleeper and probably didn’t hear a thing. The police officer was satisfied and promised that his crew would finish up as quickly as they could.

I didn’t attend my father’s funeral, but Barbara-Jo did. She tried to convince me that my attendance would be appropriate but I refused. Three months after he was in the ground, I moved out of the pink house and vowed to never return. I’ve never questioned the validity or the details of my seventeenth birthday with Barbara-Jo. All I know is that I hate her. I hate her for not sharing with me the vengeance I believe she exacted upon my father that night. If she was telling the truth about the masked man, I hate her for allowing him to carry out a punishment that should have been reserved for us.