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Non-Fiction

The Great Salt Lake, the Mecca of the west. The sun is melting my flesh. All the strays are smartly staying in the shade. Only stupid humans are outside on a day like this.

            Ben, a friend of mine is standing beside me holding a sign with simple meaning and instruction, “West.” Ben is a man of the earth, honestly poor and spiritually rich. His few possessions, gifts from God and his smile are a blessing to all he meets.

            After being dropped of at the west bound on-ramp facing California we wait, and wait, and wait.

            The practice of hitch-hiking is really a practice in patience. Spending hours or even days in one location creates many problems between travelers. Today we had only been waiting three hours when the tension became apparent. “Let’s try the truck stop” Ben suggests. I note the negativity in his voice that I have never heard before.

            “Yeah, I’m ready for a change”

            Under the hot sun we race to the blessed shade of the truck stop overhang. The gas station is like any other Mega truck stop. Everything comes in  “MEGA SIZE!!”  It makes me wonder about the well being of truckers and travelers alike, being enticed into the double Taquito deal with a Big Gulp. Memories of long car rides come to mind, sitting next to a greenish sibling with a mess on the floor that almost made it out the window, not fond memories.

            At the station we each take turns going to the bathroom while the other watches the bags. I carry 35 pounds of clothes, books, and a sleeping bag on my back. Ben like any good monk carries a Bible and a blanket in a backpack that was forced onto him as a gift when his previous bungee chord failed to hold his sleeping bag together.

            In the bathroom I wash my face, I look like the homeless people that sponge bathe themselves in the library bathrooms at home. I can see that I am not far off. I brush my teeth and go out to relieve Ben.

            Asking for a car ride at a gas stop is a lot like trying to pull a “Hey, Mister” in high school. Not having a proper I.D. with 21 written on it, we would have to stand in the parking lot of the liquor store and try to guess which “legal adult” would be the least shocked and or hopefully not call the police. This is  the situation that occurs when asking strangers at a gas station for a ride; we hope not to get hassled.

            I ask one nice looking woman (as well as you can judge from watching them for 10 seconds). Without responding she looks me in the eye only looking me over in my dirty cutoffs and excessive amount of bags. Her expression is as if I had no pants on or if I was violating that small dog of hers. She goes inside. I am hurt. Each time I am turned down, it stings a little unreasonably. For such a simple request it always hurts to be turned down even though it seems to make sense. We do smell fairly corpse-like.

            Ben returns. He looks happy and refreshed. How simple a joy it is to just clean yourself a little bit when before you were so dirty. He takes over thumbing and I take a turn reading a book I have brought, Between a Rock and A Hard Place. This is the story of Aaron Ralston, a Colorado resident who cuts his own arm off after a hiking accident in Utah. Being stuck in Utah ourselves I consider briefly if cutting my own arm off would get us a ride out of here. I am not in the best mood after standing in the sun and pollution for so long.

            I see Ben talking to a man in a station wagon. The conversation seems to be going well. They are both smiling an laughing. I approach them and the man turns to me and says, “I need gas; then we will go. You can load your bags into the back.” My spirits immediately rise. I look at Ben and his smile is obvious.

            “Praise the Lord!” says Ben.

            “Amen to that”

            Driving through nowhere specific, Utah, I see nothing looks familiar other than the cookie cutter houses similar to those back in Denver. We arrive at a house. The outside shutters are sagging and the paint has long since lost its vibrant appearance. That moment the house immediately starts barking. As we go inside with our driver, Arturo shows us around the main portion of his home. The source of the barking is a Blue Pit Bull named Sandy. Arturo explains that the dog was adopted after he found it wandering the neighborhood without tags. The original plan was to wait for the owners, but no one ever came to claim Sandy. Past the entryway we enter the living room where we meet Craig, a teenage boy and housemate maybe 16 or 17. Craig is friendly and greets us.

                        Arturo tell us his plans to get a job for himself as well as Craig at their local McDonalds. He says they have an “Insider.” I wonder if he is referring to the clown himself or if he is really a thief, and McDonalds is his next paycheck. Either way Arturo exclaims his readiness, and we all head for his station wagon and the long ride to Nevada.

            I end up riding shotgun. This is unfortunate only in the game of hitch-hiking where the person in front gets the job of entertaining the driver.  A lot of the time people that pick you up hitch-hiking are extreme talkers and need someone to listen while they drive. The person sitting in the front seat has the joy of not sleeping, but trying to stay interested in whatever the driver is talking about. Fortunately for me this is not the case with Arturo.

            He begins talking almost immediately. At first he talks about his life in Salt Lake, moving here from El Salvador and other light hearted things. On this note I begin to feel tired, the landscape is flat and endless making me drowsy.

            He goes on, “I am going to see my brother in Wendover across the Utah border…” I begin to wonder if he will be talking the whole way to Wendover. “Gotta make my runs to the local ladies house.” My ears immediately perk up.

            “You are going to a whore house? What is that like?”

            He goes on to tell me the stresses of having to drive all the way to Nevada for a good lay. I myself have never experienced a whore house, or even seen one now that I am thinking about it.

            “It’s the only place in the states I would swear by!”

            I begin to think that Arturo is something of a pimp, an expert John or maybe both. He goes on and the conversation wanes and moves into his career in the Marines. I think it must be an amazing sense of pride or duty that would influence someone born outside the U.S. to fight for the Marines. And, of course, Arturo is very willing to tell me his most gruesome stories. All the while Ben sleeps soundly across the back seat.

            While in the Marines Arturo traveled to Africa. He reminisces about a time a comrade and he were driving a truck to a school.

Along the way to the school they were stopped at a road-block. A man with an automatic weapon starts to ask the driver a lot of questions concerning the cargo. The man asks the driver to step out of he car. At this point the man at the checkpoint stabs the driver with a knife. Arturo gets out of the vehicle and gets the man in control and ties him to the truck. With a set of pliers Arturo pulls out the molars of the man while holding him down kicking and screaming.

            I begin to just nod stupidly saying “Oh gosh” and “I couldn’t imagine.”  Why would he do something like this to another human being? Automatically my mind assumes the worst. He is sadist and wants to take Ben and I to the desert and burn us alive after pulling out all our teeth and hair.

He says, “I still got those teeth right here in my medicine bag.” The bag is swinging from the mirror like dice.

“Open it up. Give them a look”

I open the bag. It is beaded and looks like he bought it at a cheesy tourist shop. Sure enough inside are two massive molars. They are huge and discolored. The teeth look like they ate nothing but hostess cakes and raw beef their entire working existence. Again I do not know what to say and let him do the talking.

“I carry this around so I never forget, I call it my Wisdom”

What to say to the guy that has mutilated people? I start to feel extremely aware of his movements. His arms wave when he talks. There is one visible knife that I know of sitting between us in the console. The knife is a small Swiss Army, but none the less I take note of it.  I do not hear any of what he is talking about. I don’t see any cars immediately around. If Ben and I were killed and had our teeth pulled from our skulls how long until anyone noticed?

I hear him mention something about burying children. I am ready to get out of the car.  But Arturo is still seemingly friendly as ever. But wouldn’t that be how a serial killer would act? Is he luring me or am I over-reacting? I try and think of a way of getting Ben awake and ready for a quick ditch out of the car.

The town is in sight! The first exit for Wendover is visible and without thinking, I ask him to take it.

“Oh yeah, this is perfect. Right here will be ok”

“Thanks for the ride” says Ben half asleep.

“Gonna head on down to the house if you boys wanna join me?”

“No, thanks, Bye”

            Ben slowly wakes up and begins to talk to me.

“That guy was definitely drunk” he says

“Just be glad you were asleep.”

We then walked across town, Ben not knowing the danger and me thankful for both of our lives as well as the people we meet. I cannot help on the way to look for Arturo’s station wagon outside of The Wendover Red Light Lounge.

“What did you all talk about when I was asleep?”

Anomalous

            I wake in the morning knowing; I am different today, with kind of a question mark at the end? I wonder what is so different about today? I take mental note of my body, I can feel me joints bending smoothly like they were oiled just a minute ago with some bacon grease. My blood feels though it is moving as efficiently through the body with the easy pulse of a jellyfish. I can feel all major meridians in order and flowing properly. I am well.

            I spring out of bed and run to the shower thinking how glad I am I woke up the extra five minutes earlier for a hot shower! What a great morning. For no reason at all should I feel so good. I am busy nine to nine, by all rights this should be a miserable morning…but no. I am in an extremely positive mood and feel energy abound.

            Stepping out of the shower I experience the forbearing to set my mental alarm five minutes earlier as to catch the early train and have a few minutes to relax before rushing to class. I take a mental not and give myself a pat on the back for thinking about it. We are off to a good start Jesse, what an excellent day! The phone rings, unrecognized number? “Hey this is Johnny, got your message, yah you can come in whenever you want.” “Excellent! Will this Wednesday be fine?” “Sounds good.” I hang up. I am rejoicing to myself, after two months of background checks and problems, finally I have it!” Finally out of my old job and into a new. 

            I pedal my bicycle to the light rail, snow wet and thick on this day. I like to think of myself as a connoisseur when it comes to the shitty biking conditions. I get to the train not only In time but with six minutes to spare. I score this as a small victory for myself on this day of positivity, I begin thinking of the great things that have happened only in the past hour that I have been awake.

            The phones familiar buzz still startles me after millions of call. It is my dad.

“Hey Jess, talked to Nana today and they have gramps in the hospital, they think he is going to be gone by the end of the day.” I am speechless, I had thought he had several more months a- least, at least that is what they said two days ago. “Can you meet me on campus?” “Most definitely, see you in ten minutes.”

            I am in shock, I start to zone out into my own thoughts, thinking about memories of him. The couple across from me look so happy, what an interesting day. Unable to control myself I am dazing only half aware of what is going on around me until I hear the startling call for “Colfax at Auraria.”

            Dad and I arrive at the hospital, I am wondering how he will react seeing his father die. The room is somewhat tense I am a little bit nervous. Gramps looks gaunt and pale. His usual rosy cheeks are ashen grey. The typical jolly laugh is replaced with a breath that sounds gargled through threw water. In the room are other family members, only seven at this point. The matriarch of our family has always prided herself on the grand size of her family, she is known to brag and during this day put several nurses through the introductions and relations of all 30 plus people that were there.

            We spend hours doing cycles. Holding his hand while sitting next to him, telling stories with lots of crying then into the dining area to take an emotional break and try to laugh about something. It is amazing for all these family members to be together at one place and time, this has become less and less frequent as our families grow older. On this day we are all appreciative of each other and the love is felt by everyone. This is the way Gramps would have like it, all his family with him and sharing with each other.

            People start to cycle to the hallway and our grandmother looks stressed. More than stressed she looks like she is in some other mental state than her own, something wild and scary. She looks extremely scared. She ask Me and another to “come, you haven’t sat next to gramps, come here and sit next to gramps, yah just hold his hand Jesse, there yah go.” I am worried for her mental health, she seams to be on the limit of imploding.

            Sitting Next to him he looks so small. It is striking how small and emaciated he looks. A man that Is know as “Jolly” and is commonly mistaken as Santa Clause has never looked so small. I hold his hand and feel his pulse. They said his breathing would become irregular just before his heart stops. In and out like it took more exertion than I have ever seen him do in his life, always gurgling. The nurse adjust the bed more upright “to drain his chest” she says. What an evil thing this cancer that can do something so horrible to a person. A man that has done so much good in the world come to such an end is outside of my understanding.

            Across the gurney from me is my cousin Jordan, whom I grew up with and was best friends for the majority of my childhood. With each of us in contact with each other, holding hand I want to reach out to his, I want to tell him I love him and what a great friend he is. I think against it for now, we are both sobbing quietly and don’t feel I could say anything understandable at the moment.

            Gramps jumps, his eyes open wide after being shut for so long. His gaze is far off and distant. I note at this time that it looks like he is peering into the white gates of Heaven and is completely awestruck by it. I holding his hand gently squeezing it, I feel the slightest of squeezes in return. Gasping he takes an aggressive inhale…ten seconds go by another gasp, then a while late another deep breath.

            I feel the pulse in his arm race as he takes these last breaths and then there were no more breaths. After that I felt his last heartbeat. People are beginning to rush in and begin saying kind words to him and whispering prayers quietly.

            I am weeping at his side still holding his hand with my face in his large gut. I try and feel some sort of spirit leaving his body, I know I was there for it.

            I had been sitting with Grandpa for15 minutes before he died. Before me his wife and my grandmother was at his side praying for a sweet release from his pain, she was there for hours. Before her there were many others but for some reason he died while I was with him and the room was relatively empty. I think he wanted to share that with me specifically. For some reason totally unknown to me he died in my hands. On that day I had a slim chance of being the person sitting next to him when he passed but it happened weather by random chance or distinct choice it will always make me feel completely unworthy and blessed by the experience.

            Later on trying to process the day I realized George’s death was the last gift he had for us, the gift of community and family. The family is extremely large and he was th one who was always in favor of getting together. We all shared something very special on that day, bringing our family closer like he would have wanted.

            I think only to myself, what a positive day. After the family leaves the hospice center my own immediate family go Chipotle. Mixed black beans, brown rice, and chicken with all the vegetables, the flavors blend as I ask them to stir it up for me. The food does not quiet us. Dad begins talking about memories of Gramps and we all listen appreciatively. The conversation turns and we are all laughing. Rarely do we as a family, get to sit down and have a good meal together, even more rare is a good conversation but on this night both occur.

            On the drive back to the light rail dad begins to talk about my graduation. We talk about the stress surrounding graduation and the decision-making required. He puts my mind at ease. The train is in sight I grab my bicycle from the bed of his truck and run to catch it.

Sitting close on the train is a girl that could be nothing but a freshman at metro with her backpack and look of a long day under her eyes. “Gosh it’s gettin chilly out, eh?” “Ya it sure is.” We talk about our common psychology major and general school talk. She gets off, I curse, I have gotten on the wrong train and have passed my stop for a transfer. The next train does not arrive for thirty minutes. Standing in the frigid cold I wait.

            The next train comes going north, on the train it is very empty. A man sitting alone is wearing a very large and extremely red handmade overcoat. I complement him on it and that was all it took. We ride the following train together as well.

            My Univega mountain bike is cold, the gears shift only grudgingly. On this late night I notice my tracks are not the only ones in the fresh snow. I eventually come upon the source of the tracks. Two men, on saying goodbye to the other at Village Inn.

            A tip for conversation is complements specifically about another’s bicycle. This man had a very nice specialized mountain bike. He tells me he as well lives at the Britain Apartment complex. We bike home in relative silence only lit by the street-lights, illuminating the freshly fallen snow.

            What an amazing day I think to myself?  Just like Gramps would have wanted.

Dr.Kits Mansion

         The night is beautiful and the few stars are out in the city. Walking through a new neighborhood just a mile from my own I see stray cats patrolling the alleyways and elegant old mansions that have been there longer than anyone living in them.
         I see an old college professor of mine standing in a driveway I assume is his. He is waving goodbye to a man on a bicycle taxi that looks vaguely familiar.  I approach him and call his name. “Dr. Kits!” he looks mildly surprised but glad to see me none-the-less.
         He tells me he is doing well and enjoying his summer semester off from teaching at the College. During the rest of the year he teaches several Psychology courses. The doctor is a very excellent teacher, mainly because he is a very strange and vague sort of man. He is always telling odd stories in his classes that don’t end or he just does not finish, always alluding to a very peculiar past.
         Looking exceptionally healthy for being in his mid sixties. The man has always been an advocate of physical fitness and the more positive aspects of psychology. This shows in his outlook and personality as well as his general health.
         He invites me into his home for a tour. The “Home” turns out to be more of a mansion than a home. First walking through the entry way and through the coat-room elaborately decorated with oak trim polished to a shine with an antique wooden armchair against one wall.
         We walk into what seems to be a living room or television room. The television is turned on to a soccer game. It seems to be two Italian teams I could not recognize. The Professor is a very proud southern Italian and spent most of his childhood there.  This aspect of his life comes up in a lot of his suspicious stories.
         He begins to tell me about the man that was just leaving on the bicycle taxi “Jacob is a smart man, he chose not to drive and to spend his time learning Mandarin.” He goes on “You know someday soon the Chinese will rule the world, it is best to be picking up the language while you can, especially being in the tourism and services business, such as Jacob.”
         We venture outside into the courtyard surrounded on all sides buy what he explains to be a large guest house and separate dining hall meant to sit a hundred people around a single table.  He tells me “In Sicily the host with the most is also the most respected man in town.” I can see that the professor considers himself above all a great host and begin wondering where all his money is coming from.
         I ask  “So what other businesses are you into these days, other than teaching that is, the stock market, maybe commodities?” 
        He explains “No teaching is just a hobby of mine, a way of giving back some of what I have learned in this life. What you have to do is meet three acquaintances of mine and get to know them very well. The first is Mr. Bugler, He is very quiet and may not warm up to you in the entire time you are with him, but it is very important that you get to know his pattern. The second man you must meet is Samuelson, a little more friendly than the others but will not let you into his secret life whatsoever. This must be respected but learn all you can from him, he is a very intelligent man especially in the ways of the universe. The third man is my closest friend, Curtis. Curtis is all you may call him for he will not appreciate being called anything else. He is the most open of the three and you may learn the most from him. He knows much about the ways of the world and will teach you much.  Learn from these three men and you will be immortal and possibly even boundless.”
        I do not say anything for a very long time pondering on what the man has just told me. Finally I make an excuse to leave. He tells me he will call a taxi as it has begun to rain.
        I wait in the entryway alone for the taxi. Sitting in the antique armchair I find it very uncomfortable. On a stand next to the chair is a guest book. Opening the book to sign and comment, I find there are only hash marks. One two three four and five lines crossing over in groups of five covering the first two pages. I turn more pages and find only more Hash marks. There are maybe forty pages of hash marks filling only half of the book. The other half of the book is entirely blank.
       I am startled by a HONK! Outside waits the yellow taxi-cab in the pouring rain. I run outside through the downpour getting only slightly drenched along the way. I give the driver my home address and we proceed. I think on all the things the professor has told me over the years and consider how seriously I should take our conversation
       Taking a right of the driveway I ask the driver “Which way are we going? Is this a shortcut?” The driver replies “I am taking you to Mr. Bugler’s house sir.”
       I turn immediately to open the door and the door is locked. I take a last look at the house and see the professor in an upper window of his home staring out into the rain watching as the cab takes me away.

Silent Night

Riding home from a night of drinking had always been a pleasurable pastime. In fact for Scott it was more fun than the earlier part of such nights.

            He was getting loud and causing a ruckus, just really enjoying his simple machine to the fullest extent of its capability. This particular night was no exception, hollering nonsense like a homeless crack head he played the part.

            Riding down 10^th street towards the train and on towards home was a regular enough ride, the pretty houses stop at Broadway. Beyond Broadway began what would be considered the slums if their were any such in the city. It is not like they were real slums you may see in the third world, just as his therapist would say it is a place of “lower socio-economic status.”

            Scott grew up in a privileged family in the suburbs, a short train ride away. His father a Banker and mother a homemaker although she loathed the title. It was something that the modern era has deemed improper or in some crowds downright misogynistic.

            The night was lovely and crisp and Scott was enjoying his usual nonsensical drunken poetry at the top of his lungs. The time was just past two in the morning, damn how he hated the early bar closure in this city.

            Taking the sidewalk on the bigger streets a man of similar sobriety is seen on the sidewalk. Passing him nearly grazes the man, they each great each other in loud drunken fashion.

            Getting off the main road an taking a smaller side road the yelling nonsense continues. A woman from her porch yells but makes no more attempt to mute his creative gibberish. There is a traffic light ahead with multiple cars blazing down the street, the first cars seen since he left the bar.

            Stopping at the light and pressing the “walk” button he waited. A tabby cat was across the street watching the intersection in a calm protective manner. The light eventually turned red and only one truck waited perpendicular to his own course. Proceeding clumsily through the intersection he swerves. On his right he hears the waiting car rev its engine intimidating him.

            Hearing the car race off the line and feeling only pain he seems to fly. Landing ten feet further into the intersection the truck is now stopped. Not being able to see only hearing a man get out of the vehicle. The man rummages through his jacket and bag taking Scott’s wallet full of cash meant for the bar. The man says in a thick accent “Fuck you and you family!”

             Hearing the man and his truck leave he feels safe, legs both surely broken he is crippled lying in the intersection battered and bloodied.

The stray cat comes by to lick his wounds and purrs softly, no one else around the night is silent.

Habitual Technology

            The other day I was waiting for the bus to Boulder. Usually this bus is packed and there will be a long line waiting for the bus by the time I get to the station. This day was no exception.

            Having to wait for the bus to put my bike on before getting in line, I waited facing the enormous line.  90% of the 30 people or so where staring at their cell phones, tablets, etc. for the 10 min or more that we all waited for the bus. What impacts are these screens having on us?

            Being of the first generation to experience cell phone use and “tablets” as well as remembering the good times without them. I feel we have a unique perspective on the mastery of the public by the all powerful touch screen.

            Something that has never been experienced before our generation is now felt by almost everyone. People spend more and more time staring at screens and interacting with them. In the past we would interact with real live people. When I feel uncomfortable or bored in a situation I take out my six year old cell phone and I check the time without really perceiving the time. It is just a distraction for myself, a comfort for the awkward moments.  What does this do for our social skills?

            Like any drug we use our devices and social media outputs as a crutch. Like a drug we become to depend upon it and begin to lack in certain areas of our life because of it. When feeling uncomfortable or awkward we should really be talking to the stranger next to us. Grow some skin and make a move.

            Our devices are trapping us in addiction and causing a lack of social skills. Can you imagine the differences of a child born today and growing up in this society of comfort and instant gratification? How will this child be different from one born only a hundred years ago?

            The real question is how do you feel about this? Is our technology going to save us? Or are we falling into a continual trap of apps and talking with our thumbs?

Knock at the Door

Lying alone in an unfurnished apartment. The clock ticks on the wall, tick tick tick tick. The loneliness  is unbearable.

As I walk into the kitchen for a glass of water I hear foot steps at the door. Skipping to the people to see a new face but there is none. A door is heard slamming down the hall but nothing can be seen.

Back to the room, I say “room” because there is only one in my small studio apartment in the city. I lay on the freshly vacuumed carpet, next to my drawings and journal and I stare at the textured ceiling, faintly I can hear two people making love. Quietly and infrequent, I here the grand finale. Finally some quiet.

Waking up to the sound of knocking I hurry to the peep whole. I can see someone fleeing down the hallway just in the corner of my view. Opening the door to step out but the chain lock is on and slows me down. I step out and can no longer see the stranger.

I resume my position holding down the floor. I stare at the ceiling and imagine that my powerful gaze is the only thing supporting the roof and the ceiling above me. This power I have come to develop over the last three days. Waiting for furniture to arrive from the old place could take up to a week.

Being in a new town was bad enough but now being in an entirely different city was even worse. Not knowing(or not wanting to know) anyone can become very lonesome. But not lonesome enough to pursue a relationship, even a friendly neighbor kind of relationship. The kind of neighbor that gets the mail and waters the plants when the other is on vacation. This seems like a simple enough relationship that it would seem manageable, but not for me.

Another knock wakes me from my thoughts. Hurrying to the door this time I see and hear a door slam across the hall and down one. 

Walking  quietly, the short distance to the neighbors door I here inaudible voices coming from behind the door. Quietly listening as I press myself against the wall near their door. I try to control my breathing to remain undetected. I can make out slight laughter in conversation. I assume they are laughing about me. I hear a door open down the hall and sprint back to my room.

I wait watching as the intruder walks past my doorway and on down the hallway. I wait another minute and return to the neighbors door, quietly and undetected. I am close enough I can here the voices again. Thinking about what to do next I knock on the door. Trying to sound as angry as possible in my knocking a perfect Ostinato reminding me of the Omen of Spring by Stravinsky. My abrupt knocking resounding like the percussive strikes of the stringed instrument. The neighbors replying in a woodwind giggle and conversation lowered.

I knock and knock. No answer to the door. Infuriated I open the door with a slam!

No one in sight. I search through the house, this was the much larger two bedroom model. Looking through each room, each closet, and every  space in between there was no one and nothing in the apartment. It was even more empty than my own yet unfurnished apartment. Feeling a strange sense of urgency I run out of the apartment leaving the door ajar. I make it to my studio, slamming the door, my apartment, my safe haven, my refuge.

I resume my roll holding the ceiling in place while keeping the flooring properly secured. I think about how nice it will look with furniture in it, how comfortable it will be, where it will be arranged.

I awaken to the sound of the clock: tick, tick, tick… there is a knock at the door. Immediately I run to the peep hole and the sight of the neighbors door slamming… across the hall and one door down.

Brand New

Thought I needed a space to write and maybe someone will read it.