Three Down, One to Go.

Just today I received notification for the last of the letter grades and credits of my summer graduate course work. Straight "A"s. I'm so proud I made the notification my profile picture at my social website. Ahhh. It feels so good to be done with that. Now I can kinda reap the benefits of the work: a financial boost up the pay scale and a greater feeling of job security since I've earned the CLAD certificate. Well, most of it. I've only got one more class to finish before I can say I'm done. That starts in October and ends in December. Then I'll really be finished with the superfluous course work.
I remember when I started in the summer I was not enthralled to be there. I was sacrificing the earnings I could have made teaching summer school and sacrificing the summer time I would have had for vacation. Either way, this was work for work's sake, and it was going to cost me a pretty penny in tuition. On top of that resolve, I found out that the off campus location for this course was going to be in Carson. CARSON! If you've never been to Carson, let me assure you that you aren't missing much. It's a pretty run-down industrial suburb, north by northwest of Long Beach. Far enough inland to be boring, and close enough to Terminal Island to be commercially depressing.
It was fifty miles from my home, and if you know me, you know how I dread any commute that takes more than twenty minutes. These classes were going to be in Carson (still feeling my stomach groan at mere mention of the town), five days a week, starting at five o'clock. It was the perfect time for summer rush hour. I decided to take the subway trains and a bus just to save my nerves, the wear and tear on my car, and the gas money. Sure it took me two and half hours, but I could still read, study, or sleep on my ride. Little did I realize the exciting entertainment venues that were offered on the wild public transportation we call "the subway". I saw gambling, pole dancing, and one time I was witness to a knife fight that started at the platform on West Washington and continued onto the train and the platform for Vernon. Fun times. Still, it was better than a hot drive in July. At night a classmate friend asked me to drive with her back to L.A. so that saved me half the time on the way back.
The course work was intense, but after a while I got used to it being a heavy load for a condensed course. Still, while I could pace myself at home and break up the projects or the long reading, at the class it was five hours of perpetual sitting. Even if there was a motivated begining at five o'clock, it usually died in the first two hours. There was just no way the classload of fifty-something professional adults could sit-out the whole time without showing signs of boredom. Though most of us did manage to suppress it well, I'll confess that there were plenty of times I would bring one of the texts from the other class so I could silently begin the other assignment in my lap under the table, or text any number of friends I needed to respond to (still done under the table and out of sight) or pass notes to a classmate next to me. We tried to stay respectful, but who plans on keeping us for five hours beating the same dead subject we've all read, learned, and professed our knowledge over, day after day after day? I remember I wrote this blog entry earlier this month when I was finishing the last of the elaborate final projects:

What seemed like for ever is finally over. I've just completed the last project for the last class of my Crosscultural Language and Academic Development certificate (CLAD). Well, almost "last class". Certainly the last class of this summer. Lemmie tell ya, it wasn't easy. I can't say that the courses were an academic challenge. In fact, they seemed pretty easy considering the courses I took when I was an undergrad English Lit major. The challenge of these courses was finding the time to write all the minutia that was required of the assignments; and the reading, oeuf! I've read texts that were poorly written. These were just dry and long-winded without practical application to any current public school I've ever taught at in the last fifteen years. Seriously, while every one of us graduates was already a teacher it was difficult to read a text that tells us the ideal setting and approach to teaching, starting with a classroom of no more than twenty students. "Twenty students"? I'm sorry, but I'm in Los Angeles, California. Where is there a public school room assigned only twenty students? The current level is usually closer to thirty-seven or forty, and at that cramped capacity it is all one can do to get any meaningful instruction done. Still, we endure.

Almost a month since I had to be in that boring repressive room in Carson, and all fifty train trips to and fro, all that writing and all that reading, after all that I can say that as much as I felt the torture of it all, I do have the relief, the hard earned "A"s and some sense of esteem from it being finished.

The last time I saw my brother was at a funeral for a great aunt. It seems like these are the only events we don't miss. It was another hot, long, September day at Inglewood Park Cemetery. She was a good woman, and there were many people draped in mourning black, crammed into the chapel too small for the traditionally long and meditative Catholic sacrament. Stand up, sit down, call and response, kneel, stand, sing, pray and count the rosary. It's a perfunctory performance that, when you've been raised Catholic, becomes a routine you could do in your sleep. If you're smart, like my brother and I were, you choose a pew in the far back. It's usually cooler in the back with the ventilation from the vestibule. Also, you get to see a better view of everything in front of you and any late-comers that try to sneak in. Trust me, at a three hour service you'll watch anything to keep yourself from causing distractions or disrespect.

Usually after this there's the recessional line past the coffin and the grieving family, the condolences, the long walk to the graveside where more prayers continue, and if you're really a glutton for prolonged and morose melancholy, you can go to the wake.

It was during the long walk to the graveside that my brother caught my sleeve and asked me "how have you been?" as an introduction to talking about himself, his wife, his children, and so many other details that I'd already heard a thousand times before today. My brother is kinda like that. He's the type that can sometimes take up all the valuable oxygen in a room. He knew he had my attention, although trying to get anyone else's was going to be another story. Sometimes he just can't help himself. I've known him longer, and I can handle it. In fact, it occurs to me that I've known him longer than any other living person in this cemetery. Good Lord, how much longer is he going to go on talking to me? The hearse left long ago and we're still walking over acres of lawn, passing row upon row of tombstones. It must be nervous prattle. He's either feeling guilty that we haven't spoken for a long time, or that he hasn't visited Aunt Eugenia since Easter, or maybe he's feeling some kind of affliction for not going to a mass in God-knows-how-long. I have no idea.

He looks pretty, though. Maybe he's feeling bad about that. No really, it affects him sometimes. Why does a handsome blond man in a black suit always look out of place at a funeral? He looks like he should be picking up his wife for an anniversary party. Me, I'm the darker one. I look suspiciously like I may have had something to do with the turn of events that brought us here. But that's the way it is and here we are now: two brothers walking side by side to an open grave.

I can't even hear him now; did he stop talking? Oh wait, no he's just getting his second wind. Well, we will soon be at the crowd gathered around the stone. He'll have to be quiet then.

Then there's more praying, more responses. It's funny , but outside here I can hear more people taking a deep breath before they begin to cry. In the chapel I could only tell someone was crying if I saw a handkerchief or the back of someone's shoulders shaking. We pass into another line releasing "dust to dust" into the grave. Some people have been tense and their clenched handful of dirt goes down in a clump, thud! Weaker hands let the pebbles and sand sift through their loose grip like an hourglass. After they pass, some people hug and some of the distant relatives tell others how to get back to the house and the wake. After I pass the line my brother comes up from behind me and asks me if I know the way.

"No, I don't" and I start to think of the long walk over the grass back to my car by the gates.
"How are you going to get there?" he asks me.
"I don't think I'm going to go" I tell him. I can feel the Mass cards I put in my jacket pocket earlier today and they're all I really want to keep from this day.
"What?! How can you not? It's family." Most of the family has wandered off to their various cars and we're standing in a graveyard next to an open grave. The last door of a black limousine slams shut. It turns and joins a long line of cars driving away in the same direction a few people are walking, over a small hill. I watch them all walking away and decide to hang back awhile to be unnoticed. Why doesn't my brother just follow them?

He changes his tone and says nicely, "I thought we could talk when we got there."

No way. Trapped in a house full of bereaved mourners, some crying, some drinking off their sadness, some in embarrassing stages of both, no. This isn't how I want to remember anyone. It certainly isn't the way I want to remember seeing my brother. "We can talk here, if you want to talk." I remember I meant it sincerely, and it came out right. Usually if I had to say those exact same words it would come out all wrong or sound sarcastic; and although he looked a little uncomfortable, my brother walked with me over to someone's granite vault. An old cypress had grown tall and provided the right amount of shade to keep the stonework cool. I dusted off some of the nettles and my brother did the same before we both sat down.

"So how have you been?" he asks, cheerfully. Let me emphasize that, cheerfully. For a second I wonder if he forgot where we are. My brows furrow, my eyes roll a little, and I reach for my cigarettes. I reall don't smoke much anymore, but when my family's around so are all my worst habits.
"You mind if I smoke?" I half-ask, half-tell him. He looks a little startled. "I checked with everyone," gesturing to millions of engraved markers "they're all okay with it."
"You still smoke? I thought you quit."
"It happens sometimes. Maybe I'll quit again."
"Well you look good" he nods reassuringly. "How have you been? I haven't seen you in so long. Are you seeing anyone?"
I can tell he's nervous. It would have been easier for him to hide that in a crowded room. Each sentence he speaks is a little softer than the next and less cheerful.
"Are you married?" He looks up at me. "I heard you can be married now. Have you thought about it?"
"Yea" I exhale. "I've thought about it."
"Is there anyone significant you've thought about?" He almost wishes he hadn't asked when he says it because he didn't want to seem like he's prying.
"Not right now, but I've thought about it."
"Oh, well... that's good. Keep your options open."
"I think about some of the guys from the past and the recently past before I answer, "Yes, "open", but I think they closed their options. At least, they closed them to me."
"I'm sorry to hear that." He cast his eyes down for a moment and then asked, "Was he very important?"
"He was to me" I hesitate. "At least I thought he was."
"What was it about him that you liked?"
Now my eyes are really rolling because I don't know where to begin. Am I really telling him this? And for how long will he remember? A moment? An hour? Forever and until he sees me agin? And the question, "what was it about him that you liked?" -good grief! What was it about him that I didn't like? I liked everything about him, his looks, his height, his manners, his heart... I like the clumsy way he bumped into a heavy glass door when we first met, and gave himself a huge lump. I liked the way he texted every morning before I got up or heard the alarm clock. I like his accent and the way he mispronounced my last name for almost a month. When I was with him I was warmed by everything about him that I could hear, see, or absorb into my heart; and without him my time was spent tempering my own patience to see him again.
I broke away from my own distraction and saw my own bother looking at me surprised, but I'm not sure if he was surprised at the outpouring of so much raw emotion or the depth of a passion he had not seen experienced by anyone else.
"Wow!" was the only response he could gasp, and then after a long pause he said, "I'm sorry he lost you."
I took a second to ease up a bit, put my chin back up. "What's done 's done. We move on." In a few moments we should be walking away from this. So I give him a short warm smile, "It was good of you to ask." I was just getting up from the granite vault when he grabbed the end of my jacket and stopped me.
For the first time that afternoon he turned and looked me directly in the eyes with that sense of conviction and determination rarely seen or shared in our family. "Listen to me," he says "You're really smart and really nice, and finding a guy like that is not going to be easy."
I'm already giving him a look like I've heard this prelude a million times, usually right before I get dumped.
Unrelenting, he continues, "I mean, being really nice is easy to find all the time; but being smart... that's hard. Hard to find." He looks at me as if he isn't convinced I understand, so he reasserts, "and you are really smart."
I might have been a little angry when I replied, "I never said the guy had to be smarter than me; and being "really smart" hasn't been a problem for me."
"No" he agreed, "but you have to think: maybe it's a problem for them."
Pause. My own brother has me thinking. He has a point, and I hadn't thought of that first. Curse him and his moment of logic. Oh, and now he can see it on my face that it's the first time this clarity has occurred to me. Ugh, a moment of defeat! And he's smiling again. Oh, no. I snap back at him, "well, again I say: how is their problem a problem for me?" But it's too late, he's already on his feet and laughing at me. He knows I know he's right, and I've been bested. I'm not completely aggravated; in fact, I'm enlightened.
We both walk toward our cars and he continues talking and joking. "You know, you aren't always very nice. Maybe you can build on that. Find a guy that likes that about you."
"It's had to imagine what you say is true," I answer back "but on the other hand, there doesn't seem to be any shortage of those guys, either. Maybe I can settle for some guy to split the difference."
I don't remember very much of anything said after that. Nothing as serious or as funny, anyway. I just remember that it was a long drive home. It was a long time to think, a long time to forget, and enough time to remember that I was content with this day and the way it turned out. I think my brother was content, too.

How You Like Me Now?

By now most of you have seen it. He first made his premiere to me during the Superbowl commercials. Six months later every time I hear that song "How You Like Me Now?" I think of him and since then I've seen that one Kia commercial that keeps me thinking, "What the hell is that?" Ya know what I'm talking about? Take a good look at that picture above this post.

Yea. That first one. What the hell? It looks like Pokey with an STD. Gumby will be nervous until the tests come back. It looks like a giant sunburnt penis with fangs. Scary.

So I did a little investigating and found out it's actually a character from a toddler's show called "Yo Gabba Gabb" (-?-) Okay... not the venue I'd choose for a giant sunburned penis, but whatever. Seems like the fangs alone would scare my kids right outta any naturally developing sexual proclivities, but again I digress.

His brief bio reads like this:

"Hailing from Summer Volcano Land, Muno the red cyclops is big and red with one eye, obviously. His high-pitched voice can be grating, but he is very friendly. Tall and lanky, he can also be a bit clumsy sometimes. Hence, he is the main singer in the 'I'm So Sorry' song. "

"Summer Volcano Land"? Is this an internationally recognized sovereign nation? 'Cause I've never heard of it. Or is it some kinda code word for "vagina"; 'cause on that idea I'm dead set against teaching kids nonsense words about sex and their bodies. It has a name. It deserves its name and there's nothing shameful about it. Muno doesn't look like he knows anything about shame or inhibition.

"...big and red with one eye, obviously." -yes, indeed. I'm familiar with his people.

"His high-pitched voice can be grating..." -"grating" like a whining, petulant five-year-old; or "grating" like the high-pitched squeals from the amorous bedroom of the next-door apartment?

"...he can also be a bit clumsy sometimes." -so this isn't his first time, and he still isn't good at it? (roll eyes, sigh with disgust, shake head.)

"Hence, he is the main singer in the 'I'm So Sorry' Song'." -yea, I'll just bet he is.

And if that isn't enough, clever marketing has exploited him everywhere. He's on television screens across the nation, driving cars, bowling, livin' the good life, ...just like the prick that he is. I'm willing to live with this. I've had a few exs in my past. This is nothing new, but then I saw this: (see bottom picture.)

Now it goes to a new level. All I can say is, "What the FUCK?!" Who do these people think they're kidding? A giant red Yo Gabba Gabba microphone? "Microphone"?! Like it lends itself to no other ideas? Do they think we want to see kids putting this thing close to their mouths, hands, or eeewwww! I just don't want to think about it. Again NO! NO to the very idea of going any farther with this, ...this, ..."MUNO"!

So I don't go on vacation this year, and I may not see New York for another year; it only inspires me to write. Here's a couple of NYC haiku I came up with (yes, they're really from me.)

one eighty six a night
window faces the neighbors
was that their toilet?

Lexington platform
rat dragging a dead pigeon
we should take a cab

I'm, really distracted today and among the things I promised I'd do this summer "starting a blog" was near the top. Here it is two weeks into the summer and I haven't really put that much focus on this project. Well, at least I reserved the space a couple of months ago. Yea, really not much of a strain, was it? Ok. How about if I post one of the popular stories I wrote a while back? Let's see how this flies. Comments are welcome.

Why They Should Have Bleacher at the Carwash

Being single in a position of authority over teenagers has sometimes been the butt of a few jokes from bawdy friends. I have no fear, no temptation; I don’t have any predilection for younger guys. Most of the time I can squelch the joke with a cold stare and a deadpan expression. I hate people assuming that I’d share their lechery. You'd think I'd be safe from those minds way out here in the suburban rural area away from the jaded view of the city, the tricks of Lolita and her ilk, but no.

Case in point:

It’s summer so I'm sleeping until the hours I damn well feel like getting up, especially on a Saturday; but for some darn reason there are car horns blaring more often than usual in the street out in front of my building. What is it? A fire? An accident? Was someone hit? This should be exciting!

I shuck off the covers and throw open the window blinds and see that it's nothing more than the car dealership across the street sponsoring a fundraiser carwash for the local high school volleyball teams (both boys and girls). Darn all that noise! I suppose since they practice year ‘round during school and summer they can raise funds whenever they choose. But ya see the difference in this case is that it's mid June in Southern California and it's terribly hot already at this hour in the morning. I mention this only so you'll understand why all the teens are wearing a wide array of bathing suits or battered khaki shorts.

Yup there they are: teenage girls and boys all clad in bathing suits workin' the suds over the cars; walking down the driveway entrance and leaning into car windows to collect cash; and standing in the middle of the street median waving big cardboard signs over their heads. Whenever a car passes by and honks, they're all jigglin' as they jump up and down. Did I mention they are wearing bathing suits? It seems to be pretty effective. Yea, teen sexual exploitation for breakfast. Ah, sigh! Man-oh-man, have I gotta get a streamin' cam. Who'd believe this? I could make money. Every window of my apartment is on the same side of the building so I get the same noisy view from the living room, the kitchen, everywhere. I eat my corn flakes and watch unaffected as two kids smile enthusiastically at the two college guys that pull up in a big dusty Buick. I wonder if it’s a mystery to any of them. I mean, since when do those guys go two at a time in the mom-mobile to a car wash? When I was a college kid I was broke most of the time, and I sure as hell didn’t blow twenty-five tax-deductible dollars for someone else to wash my car. This is so obvious: it’s the cheap dude’s show girl bar.

My friend David calls to remind me we’ve got a tennis court reserved for four o’clock.

“You’re finally up?” he knows I have the summer off and he resents it.

“Yea, well the noise from the kids kinda made it happen.”

“What the hell,” he argues “you don’t have kids.”

“No, it’s from a car wash across the street.”

“Oh, really? They’re that noisy?”

“Not really; it’s all the traffic noise and the car horns.” Almost as soon as I say this I understand the inner workings of the heterosexual perv mind: teen car wash = wet teens; car honking + teen car wash = HOT wet teens. I roll my eyes as I predict what’s going to follow. Dave is just another guy out here, married with two kids and another on the way. His wife’s in her last trimester, and I suppose that and the heat have him a little worked up. I know he’d never cheat on Lauren, but he’s not going to pass up an opportunity to watch a live performance either. Thirteen minutes later, Dave’s at my door.

One of the teen guys has gone out on the road median to encourage more cars into the carwash. Another guy with a giant car washing suds mitten sneaks up and slaps him upside the head with the wet mitten. Hilarity busts out among the teenage car-washing crowd before they return to their work. But the roadway boy still has the sudsy wet mitten and he's now slathering it all over himself and the other guys chest! All this only some twenty-five yards from my own window. Yea, he's workin' it. You can see the guys have gotten savvy to the public response. They're laughing as they horse around but still they continue. Cars are now honking like crazy, the girls are jumping up and down, the guys are puckering and feigning ecstasy as they arch back and let suds run over themselves.

My phone rings again and I leave David in a chair by the window.

“Can you see this?” asks my neighbor Joey from upstairs. Joey’s gay and in his mid-twenties. It doesn’t take a mastermind to figure out what he’s talking about.

“You mean auto-porn? Yea, I can see it. I’ve got six windows that get nothing else except those sluts. My friend Dave is here takin’ lunch in front of one.”

“Damn it, I can only see a quarter of the lot.” Joey’s apartment is shaded by some old oak trees, remaining cooler but with an obstructed view. “I’m coming over.”

“Well, bring something to drink...” I start, but I can already hear that he’s opened the door and started down the hallway. One of the girls over by the car washing area is pressing her chest against the windshield while she washes; thank gawd no one is in the car. That would be a little too much. Dave looks like he’s watching live coverage of Viet Nam. When Joey knocks and enters the door I start to introduce Dave, but Joey’s already in the second armchair, turning it toward the window.

“Nice to meet you” he mumbles, eyes transfixed to the window. Dave mumbles something back. I could be naked and on fire in this room and neither one of them would turn away from the window. It seems like in some tawdry way I’ve fused together the most unlikely of drinking buddies to a medium they can both relate.

“How long has this been going on?” Dave asks.

“Since I got up this morning...noon?”

“I saw them setting up this morning around nine, but I didn’t know what it was all about until I heard all the cars” Joey explains with all the precision of Howie Long on Fox Football Friday. “OH NO! Don’t put on the hoodie-sweater! Damn!” he curses at the window. Most of the effect is lost on me. With the furniture all turned around I take the advantage to do a little vacuuming over the areas where they stood.

I had to leave the room to shower, shave, and get dressed for the day (afternoon? -whatever don’t bug me about it) but when I come back to the living room the whole thing has just ended. Joey and David are moving the furniture back talking about the play-by-play after game stuff. They give each other the courtesy of two sports fans exiting a stadium. Joey leaves and Dave and I go to play tennis.

Since I didn’t really watch much of it, I don’t miss talking about it, but it almost seems weird having seen but not talking about that event shared between Joey and David. It’s like watching two friends enjoy a sport that you have absolutely no interest in doing, but you feel kinda left out for not being included. Weird. Very weird. Or am I making too much of it? Was it just another day in Pleasantville? I wonder what Robert Young would have done on Father Knows Best.

Next weekend I've been asked to watch over my old friend Marcy's house. It's a giant old rambling ranch house on a good piece of land with gardens, garage, a stable, and all. There are chickens to feed, a horse to feed (and ride), and a reliable old dog.

Marcy and her husband are off to Colorado for a weekend to meet the new significant woman in her son's life. Flying off for only two days just to meet your son's new girlfriend; there's an indulgence I may not know for a long time. Right now I'll be lucky to spring for enough gas to keep me in my car until next payday, especially if I'm driving all the way out to God's country to watch over the ranch. Marcy's a retired school teacher (as is her husband) and she was my mentor teacher some twenty years ago. She's become something of a maternal figure for me, and very welcome to it. I'm always glad to see her or do her a favor. Again though, this timing is always a crunch.

I'd promised some friends I'd drive with some of them in my car to Cemetery Screenings in the Hollywood Forever cemetery to see the old 1954 version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I love campy science fiction. However, looking at the distance it's going to be a hellova drive from the north end of L.A. County all the way to WeHo and Culver City. By the time I make it back to the ranch it'll probably be well into the a.m. hours. Then I'll have to wake early to pack up my belongings and make sure the house is straight and ready for Marcy's return. Oh, and then there's all the animals to make sure are fed and clean. Two days shouldn't be that much work at the house, maybe even no work at all. I think my apprehension comes from this odd little curse that has happened the last few times I watched over the ranch.

Last summer I was ambushed by her new house alarm system. I didn't have the new codes, the alarm was blaring, and between going in and out of the house, trying to quell the dog, the alarm, and the neighbors that did come to find out what caused the commotion, the cat escaped. I hadn't even noticed her disappearance until the next morning when I was making my rounds in the feeding line of all God's creatures (great and small.) A whole day passed before I became alarmed. When Marcy called I asked if she'd taken her cat with her, or if she'd sent it off to someone else. No? Gulp! So we lost a cat. In that high country a lost cat isn't ordinarily found... well, not by people.

The next time I house-sat was in November around Thanksgiving. It was a longer stay and although I had the alarm codes and more care about entering and exiting the house, I didn't have a lot of free time on my hands. I was grading papers for school and making up the finals that would be given in the next few weeks. One of the advantages of watching the house is taking the horse out for a long ride over at Hansen Dam Park, but this time I just couldn't get the hours necessary for a good ride. On the other hand, it worked a little to my advantage. A few days after my watch the horse contracted some terrible digestive disease that made her so sick she had to be put down. I have to admit, while my hands are clean, I couldn't shake the guilt I felt for having some indiscernible connection to her death.

A month ago Marcy asked me to watch the house again, only for about four days. I was a little apprehensive, but with Marcy's kind words and need for someone to watch over all the animals, I figured she'd never given the loss of a cat or the death of the horse any association to me. Now there's unconditional love! So I promised to come over and watch all the animals again.

Now I have to admit, during the week before I was a little preoccupied with some guy that seemed to be pretty enamored with me, and that kept my head in the clouds. I knew I would have tremendous responsibilities for the weekend, and I would never for a minute neglect the pets or the livestock. Marcy had a new horse and I was over protective of its care. Although I was thinking a lot about the new guy, most of my time would be occupied with the new horse, the housework, the gardens, and the stable; and when I wasn't doing that there wold be school work and the preparations for that. New guy and I had both promised we'd talk over the weekend, but it wasn't going to be easy. My hours would be filled. Besides, over the last couple of days I was starting to get the feeling that things were changing like an evening breeze. This guy seemed to be going through some kind of transition, and I got the feeling I might be on the way out. Hew was going off to his place in the desert while I was caring for Animal Farm of the damned. A few days apart might have been the best remedy for the both of us. Perhaps there'd be a renewed interest after the weekend.

If my mind wandered to thoughts about him, I refrained from making a pest of myself. He said he'd call, but again I didn't want to push it. Besides, I'd heard he was having trouble untangling himself from his ex and the emotional turmoil that must have created was probably more than the man needed. What good could an unsolicited call from me do?

I'd already spent a number of hours taking phone calls from him and listening to him whisper over the phone, or trying to hear him over the television he was using to drown the sound from his eavesdropping ex that still lived in the same house. No, this was not a situation to bother with a surprise phone call. He's better off getting a break and being away with his friends.

Part of me sometimes wondered if I was just being played for an incredible fool. I mean, a guy with a live-in ex? Suppose that was just a line he uses while he plays around with other guys? It happens with some guys, ya know? What if he's in one of those open relationships? I'd never been to his place, and I'd never been anything but completely honest. It's true, I can't lie. I'm no good at it. I stammer and divert eye contact at the slightest hint of accusations. No, it's always been better and easier for me to tell truth as I know it. besides, as I always say, it's easier to tell the truth and remember it because it's the truth. Lies, however, those aren't so easy; and that's why I'm pretty good at knowing when someone's lying. I've got an incredibly good memory for details and word-for-word verbatim. This guy I was seeing, he wasn't telling contradicting stories. So I figure he's either telling the truth or he's really good at lying. There's always that third element: I could have wanted him so badly that I was deaf to the contradictions in his stories. But that doesn't seem likely. Over our time apart I'd been pretty rational and reviewed most of what I remembered. I hadn't been making any excuses for him or rationalizing with my heart instead of my head. He's just overwhelmed; too much to deal with, too many irons in the fire, too many things going on. Maybe I was just an attractive distraction. While we had a few moments of great attraction, there was no way he could sustain attention for another person/situation/guy while he was so busy.

True. That's what I thought. He has a hostile situation at home that seemed to be growing more intense and emotional, a lease on a home that was ending very soon; parents that seemed to know he wasn't himself and not altogether very happy lately; the advice of so many friends that were also trying to look out for his best interests; and he has a very demanding job (and a volcano that really interrupted his international schedule -yea, I almost laughed at that one, too! I mean, how often does that interrupt your day?) How the hell did I even get swept into his attention for even a moment? Well, whatever. Easy come, easy go. If he's lost attention, we move on.

I should have known watching Marcy's house last month was going to be a hassle when I lost my way there. I'd driven the route a million times, but never at night. I'd gotten a late start after work, I was exhausted, and the canyon roads weren't well lighted. Out there in the rural suburbs why would anything be well lighted?

When I arrived I completely spaced out and forgot the pass code for the alarm. I just stood outside the front door with my overnight bag in one hand and the key in the other, frozen. It took me a few seconds to breathe and think, "I know this. I can do this. Just remember the numbers, damn it!" And soon enough I did.

The next day when I went for a quick ride downhill to get some groceries and additional pet food I lost my car keys. Well, actually I didn't loose them. It took me half a minute to realize that when I'd set the bags down into the trunk I'd also left the keys in there. Hence, when I slammed the lid I'd locked the keys in too. Being my car is an old classic '65, there was no trunk release to save me. Hence, two hours and sixty dollars later, triple A came and rescued me from the stranded humiliation that I'd suffered in the parking lot among the gawking locals.

On the last morning I woke early to feed the livestock, the dog, pack up my car, and double check the house. About the time I went to the chicken coop I noticed that the one and only rooster was not looking right. He seemed to be nesting in the corner and leaning against one wall. Usually he's all over the place trying to scare me away from the hens. This didn't seem good. I made a note to check in again later.

After locking down the house I went back to the coop and saw that the rooster was now slumped down on the floor of the coop looking like he'd done four rounds with some bruiser in a cockfight. I got my phone out and called Marcy while I stood near the rooster keeping the other chickens away I left her a message and immediately followed it with a text.

"the rooster is not well. I think I'd better call the vet."

Marcy responded with a message a few minutes later. "What's wrong? The vet's number is in the stable on the wall by the tack room door."

"He looks sleepy and almost lifeless. Calling vet now." I responded.

I called the vet and got his wife. She said that it doesn't sound like the rooster is well. She told me to keep him dry and warm. She'd page her husband and call me back. I took a clean tea towel from the kitchen and ran back to the coop. I wrapped it around the body of the rooster and picked up his limp body like a small baby doll. I could see his eyes half open and look at me as his little beak opened partly. He only made a half attempt to resist before he went limp again. The vet's wife called me back and told me she had paged the vet and he'd be over as quickly as he could. He was already on calls to visit three other patients and a dairy, but he should be able to get to us before two o'clock.

"Two o'clock?!" I thought, "that's hours from now." Although I wasn't sure what was wrong, I was sure that this bird was not going to look better. Still, that was the fastest medical help I could get. Marcy might be home sooner than the doctor. I texted her again. "I'm staying with the rooster. I've called out of work until you get home. Vet has been called."

She texted back. "Okay, I've seen this before. I'll be home before two."

Thank heavens! If she gets here before the vet I'll know that we get the vet's diagnosis at the same time. If I had to tell her after the fact, I'd feel like I owned it; like I'd been responsible for the death of the one rooster she had; I'd feel like I killed. The hours passed. During the time the rooster's body grew colder and stiffer. His talons curled tighter and cloer to his body. He never opened his eyes again and the russet color of his eyelids and comb grew yellowish and shriveled. At eleven I knew I was holding a dead bird, but I didn't want to accept it as a reality. It couldn't be true until Marcy was here. I won't believe it. I can't.

More time passed and the noon sun was overhead making it hot outside. The rooster in the small towel was not warm, and I couldn't feel any heat or perspiration from carrying his body in the one arm I had him cradled. I know what it meant, but I couldn't think it.

When Marcy got home she came back to the coop and saw us both there. She said, "He's dead, isn't he?"

"The doctor isn't here yet; he said he'd be here by two" I answered.

"Dan, he's not going to be able to help that poor rooster. That rooster is dead." she looked at me as if she were trying to break bad news for me to accept. "He may have been bitten by an insect, or been scratched on something, but he's dead." She put one arm around me and took the bundled towel with the other hand. She lead me back to the house.

I drove home in the hot afternoon in my car with the top down. I wish I'd remembered to put it up before I started. The sun was still beating down on my head. I was getting hot, my face felt wet, and my stomach was sick with guilt for a dead bird I didn't even hurt. When I got home I just dragged my stuff inside and collapsed into bed for the rest of the day.

When I woke up the next day I got ready for work and tried not to think of the past weekend. I went through four days on remote, shifting through work thoughtlessly processing the work in front of me, issuing reading and writing assignments, explaining vocabulary, but pretty much working from a mental block. On Thursday when I woke up I saw a text from that guy I liked.

"PS was sunny and beautiful. 2 friends came down to visit so good company. Off to gym then looking at condos after that. Call ya later"

I thought about it. It had been a week since we'd last talked. I hadn't called him. I hadn't even thought about him. Some how all that seemed important about him was no longer. It hurt, but not because he was gone and had been forgotten, but because I hadn't felt the change happening in me. I'd felt more empathy over the dying rooster than I did about a guy that was dumping me. He never called.

Now it's Saturday, June 19th. I've just tended all the animals. They're all well. I got here safely last night, and knew the code easily the minute I slid the key into the lock. When I came into the kitchen I read a note that Marcy had left:

"Dan-

Again, our deepest appreciation! Check the yard now, we have rabbits! Five girls in the hutch.

Cinnamon [the horse] is getting beefy so feed him just one thin flake twice a day. Carrots and apples are optional if you want to give them.

And Max [the German Shepherd] is still just Max. Twice a day dry mix and one or two treats a day.

Now remember, I already have great confidence in your care and so should you. Max already loves you and so do we. Nothing has ever failed by any part from your care. Sometimes animals just die and we have to accept that. The cat had her own ideas and I suspect she'd been planning her escape for years.

You've already proven you are attentive and show more concern and patience than anyone else we've trusted with the house and all our animals. Please be strong and confident, because I know you are.

Be home seven-ish in the evening on Sunday

Love,

Marcy"

So tomorrow I'm supposed to go to a brunch at my old friend Brendan's. He and Christopher have one every year for Pride. The guests arrive, we eat a breakfast and kibitz, and then we all walk down the street to watch the parade. It's no challenge. The only challenge is driving over the canyons and finding parking. Truly, parking is terrible -not as terrible as it is on Halloween, but still a pain.

If anyone is reading this post from Connexion, you probably know I had my status expressing my current stress, "WHY do my finals, closing out classes, and Pride all have to happen at the same time?! DAMN IT!" So far I've managed to live through my students finals. Up next, my working on all my late final projects for a supplementary credential course I'm taking through CSULB, studying for the final on Tuesday, and that little Pride brunch I promised to attend. I have to admit, the invitations to various Pride events have been kind, but there's no way in hell I can do all this work, do that kind of socializing, and breathe at the same time. I don't "multi-task". In fact, I think some people who multi-task are not giving one hundred percent of their effort to some of their work; and I take great pride in doing a good job.

Anyway, I'm going to make it to the brunch tomorrow and call it a year. I'll probably have a lot more time to visit WeHo during the summer as I'm not going to teach summer school. Money might be tighter, but at least my nerves won't be. My principal wasn't so thrilled about finding a replacement for me during the vacation, but I think she'll survive. The students may be in for more of a challenge. I've heard that my replacement is a veteran for the form and rules of the district, and I'm not sure ow she's going to adjust to the less than orderly compliance of the students at a continuation high school (not to mention that termagant that runs the attendance office, Mrs. O.)

Just a few hours of distraction tomorrow is all I need before the last week of school finals and the new beginning of a summer off.