This morning, Imaginary Keith asked me how he should refer to “her.” He thought there should be another word to describe a wife who someone had been separated from for nearly two years.  It was a good point.

“When you fill out a form,” Imaginary Keith said, “there’s always a space that says separated.  I’m just wondering how we can talk about being separated but then have no names to describe the people who are separated.  It makes no sense.”

“No, I guess not.  How’s your back.”

“It’s killing me.  Why do you think I’m talking about this.”

“I thought it was because of your dream about the big yellow cadillac.”

“Nope.”

“I don’t know what you’re supposed to call her.  Wife?”

“You might as well ask me what I had for dinner last night and I’ll tell you something I had two years ago.  None of it makes any sense.”

“You wouldn’t remember what you had for dinner last night.”

“Well, I know.  But if I did remember.  And if you asked and if I answered.”

“That’s a lot of ifs.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“What was it again?  I know your point but I can’t remember your question.”

“Well, maybe I didn’t have one.  But I do now.  What should I call her?”

“I don’t know.  Why do you have to call her anything?”

“Because everyone needs a label.  Husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend.  Male, female, heterosexual, homosexual, Democrat, Republican - don’t you get it?  Take away the labels and we’re lost.  We need to name everything.  It’s what makes us click.  As soon as we see something without a name we feel scared, like maybe we don’t have a name.”

“I think you’re reaching.”

“I am, huh?  So maybe you can stop calling me Imaginary Keith then?  How about that?”

“No one would know who I’m talking about.  I have to call you something.”

“Check.”

“You can’t use . . “

“And mate.  Which brings me back to my original question.  What to call her?”

“Okay, I’ve got it.  If you were filling out a form, and had to check something that designated relationship, what would the categories be?”

“Spouse, Partner, I don’t know.”

“What about Other?  Other is the junk drawer of life.  Everything with no logical place becomes an other.  What do you think?”

“Perfect.  She will be Other.”

The movies continue to reaffirm my belief in imagination.  Just look:

Point of No Return
Not only can an angry, murderous drug addict be cleaned up real pretty in six months, but you can also teach her martial arts and the fine art of assassination.  Replace her mouth full of rotting chompers and she’ll captivate a room, fall in love, and speak fabulous french.

Chain Reaction
It doesn’t matter how many highly trained professionals are chasing you - you CAN get away if you are determined.  Pop on a hardhat and a badge and you’ll sneak your way into any top secret installation.  But most importantly, air ducts always lead straight to the bad guys.  Sheet metal in the movies is always silent, and besides, movie extras are always clearly instructed NOT to look at the stars.  You will reach your destination undetected, and the only person who will look through the grate and see you will be the girl, of course.  Sure everything is going to blow, but remember . . . you CAN get away if you are determined.

Needing to lie flat and recuperate, the logical thing is, of course, movies.  Tonight it will be shameless action night.  No romance or hard laughing when it hurts just to smile.

All old movies, that I’m sure I’ve seen before but just can’t remember.  First on the list is The Thin Red Line, for some serious, wartime action.  Follow that up with Chain Reaction, for that taste of futuristic, why-in-the-hell-have-I-seen-every-Keanu Reeves-movie-ever action.  And lastly, as if I’m not in enough pain already, the Point of No Return, featuring Bridget Fonda, who the box describes as a scruffy, ferocious misfit.  Ahhhh, my kind of girl.  This last movie is just a friendly reminder to myself that a woman can kick the living crap out of a man, and it doesn’t have to be about his heart.

Now that I think of it, I may need to take this last movie back.  It’s starting to sound more borderline romance then action flick.

With his injured back, Imaginary Keith has nothing better to do then sit in the recliner and think up questions.  I can’t pass through the living room without some sort of assault.

“They should invent sincerity prositutes.  No sex or anything.  I should be able to buy myself an hour or two of sincerity whenever I’m in the mood.”

“I think it’s called Oprah.  It’ll be on in an hour or so.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Imaginary Keith has his mind set on talking, not listening.

“Of course, you couldn’t call them prostitutes.  You do that and . . WHAM . . everyone’s thinking sex, not sincerity.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.  Sincerity, mankind’s second oldest profession.” The recliner is too comfortable.  Less comfort would mean less thinking, more wincing.  The way life was meant to be.  Pain and suffering.  Few Christians know this, but Satan’s second trick, after Eve and the apple, was to lure Adam into a recliner.  Nothing would have made God madder then to see Adam sitting there, butt-naked in a recliner, doing nothing.  I give Imaginary Keith’s recliner a little nudge.

“Aaayyy!  Knock it off!  You trying to kill me?” See, I think.  Now life is getting back on track.

“I should be able to pick up that phone, dial a number, and watch sincerity come strolling through that door within the hour.  That would be civilized living.”

“I’d call it therapy.  It’s only a phone call away.  Except we can’t afford it right now, so you’ll just have to talk to me.” I give the chair another bump.

“Aay!  Are you doing that on purpose?”

“No, of course not.”

“You’re trying to make me lose my train of thought, aren’t you?  Go ahead, but I think I’m onto something.”

“Are you sure this isn’t just about sex?”

“Sex?  No, no, no.  Of course not.  I’m talking sincerity.  Sex is different.  You know that.”

“You mean it’d cost extra.”

“Fuck off.  Can’t you see I’m in pain here.”

Back pain is a dull subject.  Quite unlike the spasms and clenching that’s going on back there.  Once my arms had pulled me from the bed, I stretched as straight and tall as I could.  In the dark, the wall looked odd.  I looked closer, my vision cleared.  It wasn’t the wall I was staring at, but my ugly feet.  Ugh!  I am a human question mark, minus the dot.

What did I do to deserve this?  I’d shake my fist towards the heavens, but I can’t stretch it around quite that high.  Am I the victim of some cruel experiment?  A little test of accelerated reverse-Darwinism?  My back hunches.  My muscles lurch and jump.  By noon, will my frontal lobe suddenly disappear?  Will I rocket back down the evolutionary ladder - first shooting past Cro-magnon, then waving weakly to my Neanderthal brothers as I continue my slide?  How far back up the chain am I destined to go?  Homo habilis?  A forehead so short my eyes will be able to almost look straight up.

I can see right now that hats will be a problem.  And I’ll need new sunglasses.  But at least all the literature says I’ll have a good knack with stone tools.  So, I got that going for me.

Imaginary Keith needs to do something about that memory of his.  At 8:40 this morning, he turns to me and says, “I just remembered that I’m supposed to be at work today.  9:00.  We better get hopping.”

He runs off to do whatever it is he does, leaving me to do whatever it is I do.  I pack him a lunch, a briefcase, a laptop, a regular backpack, a suitcase, and a cooler full of beer.  Imaginary Keith says he’s a landscaper, but I have my doubts.  There’s really no telling what it is he’s up to.  And with a little of everything in the truck, he’ll be ready for anything.

He’s ready for work in less then a minute.  Hats are the working man’s miracle.

“This cooler feels a bit light,” Imaginary Keith says.  He has everything tucked under one arm, leaving him one free hand, which somehow balances two full coffee cups. 

“We only had one beer.”

“It’s a short day.  What’s in the backpack?”

“Laptop.”

“No, the other one.”

“Clean socks.  You never know.”

“Well, you always know.  Unfortunately, it always seems to be at the last second.”

I’m not sure what this has to do with clean socks.  Or work.  Or life.  But with the house suddenly so quiet, I realize, at the last second, that it’s nap time.

Imaginary Keith rarely dreams about the same thing twice.  It happens, but not very often.  So just think how surprised I was, sitting there on the edge of the bed watching him, when I see that he is dreaming about that imaginary daughter of the real life customer again.

Who is this girl?

They’re walking along a sidewalk, which appears to be out on the coast.  Imaginary Keith is following the imaginary girl, who is singing a Tom Petty song very badly, which is okay, because, well, it’s a Tom Petty song, and everyone knows if you don’t sing a Tom Petty song badly it won’t sound right.  And Imaginary Keith must think that it sounds just right, because he’s smiling big like a fool, just listening and following and looking at the girl.

Anyway, they walk up to some sort of booth or counter.  They’re just poking around, having a good time.  No one seems to notice them.  Maybe in dreams everyone sings Tom Petty songs and all the secondary characters are used to it.  But the imaginary girl is just belting away at that song, and Imaginary Keith is just belting away at his smile, when all of a sudden a big rattlesnake slieds into the picture out of nowhere, takes one look at both of them, and then swallows the imaginary girl whole.

Apparently snakes do not care for Tom Petty songs.  Imaginary Keith can still hear the imaginary girl singing, although the words are a bit more muffled, if you can imagine that being even possible.

I almost woke Imaginary Keith up at this point, knowing of his aversion to snakes, but then saw him spring into action.  He grabbed the snake by the head and began yelling out for a pair of scissors.  He was going after the girl!

Imaginary Keith was a hero!  Well, I think.  He woke up then before actually doing any heroing, unless you can call grabbing a snake head heroing.  Which I think you can.

Hurray for Imaginary Keith!

But now I’m off to the dream dictionary for a little consultation.  I need to find out a bit more about snake wrestling.  I wouldn’t say I’m nervous.  Just apprehensive.

“Dad, don’t you know anything?  You say, ‘cool’ for boys, and ‘hot’ for chicks.”

“Chicks?  You mean like a chicken?”

“No dad.  Like, hey hot chick, how ‘bout a date?”

Imaginary Keith rolled his eyes, looking over at me as if to say - I don’t teach him these things.

“I think it might be better just to call a girl a girl, don’t you think.”

“No, you have to say chick.  You have to spice it up or you’ll never get married.”

Maybe that’s where Imaginary Keith’s love troubles come from.  On the outside, he looks normal.  But maybe he looks different when he’s using some of those spicy words.  You know, they say the apple never falls far from the tree.

I just hope I never shine the flashlight on him when he’s talking like that.

Another excellent way to avoid work is to dictionary hop.  Tonight I discovered the HyperDictionary, which is kind enough to not only define words, but interpret my dreams for me.

Perfect.  Self-discovery is just a click away.  I may head right to bed, just to get the dreaming underway.

Just out of curiousity.  Why in the world would they need to define quadrille?  Who in their everloving right mind falls asleep and dances in a quadrille?

I will keep a close eye on Imaginary Keith tonight.  Maybe all that eye fluttering has nothing to do with writing after all.  Maybe he dreams of feet as light as feathers and women all smiles and grace.  Maybe he saw this picture, filled with bows and curtseys, and thought about the ache in his own stiff, gardener’s back.  Maybe in his dreams, Imaginary Keith’s eyes flutter because he hears the whispers of the excited crowd. 

Will he never stop bowing?  Have you ever seen such a gentleman!

Yes, I will keep an extra close watch on my friend tonight.

The movie ended quite awhile ago, but I don’t see Imaginary Keith making any moves that resemble anything called work.  If there’s anything blithely powerful lurking under his surface, I certainly don’t see any sign of it.

“Ready to get to work?”
“No.”
“Are you thinking about working?”
“No.”
“Well, what are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking that maybe Bush has the right idea.  You know, about Mars and that whole space thing.”
“You’re kidding me?  I thought you hated that guy?”
“No, he’s just misunderstood.”
“Misunderstood?  Are you forgetting our trip to Portland?”
“What trip?”
“You know what trip.  The protest trip.  Booing and hissing.  Shaking signs at the motorcade.  That trip.”
“Oh, yea.”
“If I remember correctly, it was you who came up with the idea to shine the flashlight in his eyes.”
“I wanted to see if he’d freeze in the light.”
“For your information, I still limp from that Secret Service roughhousing.”
“It’s hardly noticeable.  And besides, I thought he kind of looked like a prairie dog, the way he popped up so quick like.  Didn’t you?”
“He didn’t look like a prairie dog.  Besides, everyone says he looks like a monkey.  No one looks like a prairie dog.”
“No, he’s definitely not a monkey.  A monkey would have been way more curious about your flashlight.  No, he just popped up and down.  Definitely prairie dog.”

Political discussion rarely goes anywhere in this house.

“The way I see it, if Bush can just get us into space, then he can pass a law requiring all trash to be flung straight up.  It’s simple.  No gravity, no trash.  It just floats away.”
“Like your focus.”
“Huh?”

I’m not sure if I’m running away or running towards.  Or even if there’s a difference.

Is my life like a planet, moving through space, all hope of perspective lost in vastness?

“Imaginary Keith, you have work to do today.”
“What work?”
“You know.  Design, imagine, create.  Do the words brick, lattice, and iron gates bring anything to mind?”
“No.”
“How about a shrill woman’s voice, saying “It’s important that we match the architecture.” Does that ring any bells?”
“No.”
“Do you pay any attention to your life?”
“I can be very astute.  When it’s important.”
“Well, this IS important.  Here’s a couple of words that might jog your memory . . cha ching as in, time to make some money.  How ‘bout now?”
“I’m getting nothing.”

Last night had not gone as originally planned.  What I thought would be a restful evening watching a movie, Morvern Callar, instead turned into a slumber party in the living room, complete with blow up mattress, complete with wiggly son, complete with a viewing of Kangaroo Jack.  Imaginary Keith’s imaginary heart has a weakness for his son’s whimpering.  Within the hour of the phone call, his son, Big G, is once again “rearranging” the apartment.

“You’ve had three months to design this thing.  Now you have one day.  What have you been doing?”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.  Are you sure you didn’t take this woman’s calls?”
“Well, maybe.  But you need to get busy.  You have until ten tomorrow morning.”
“Ten?!”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

“Ten!  Why didn’t you say so.  I have tons of time.”

Imaginary Keith’s genius often shines through only during times of great stress and looming deadlines.  I guess when you’re imaginary, minutes can seem like hours, hours like days.  It mostly just makes me nuts.

“Come on, let’s watch that movie you rented.  It’ll get me thinking.”
“It’s not a movie about fence architecture.”
“Yea, but look at what the box says.  ‘BLITHELY POWERFUL...’ and ‘ENTIRELY REMARKABLE!’ That’s the kind of fence I’m going to design . . . after the movie.”

Who am I to argue with creative genius.  Or is that procrastination expert?  Is there a difference?

Politics, like a scab, is something you can’t leave alone once you start picking at it.  I try my best, but some days Imaginary Keith is so restless.

“If we go back in time, can we vote?”
“Sure, vote away.  Vote, vote, vote.  Vote a hundred times.”
“But I thought you said we couldn’t change things.  Won’t that mess things up?”
“Mess things up?  You got to be kidding me?”

Pick, pick, pick.

Imaginary Keith slept late this morning, so I just sat on the edge of the bed and watched him dream.  Dreams about college and running long distances.  One dream about getting in an elevator with five women, where he found himself stealing glances so he could rank the women in different categories.  Biggest hair, most mysterious, innocence, tallest to shortest, most comfortably dressed, most insecure, biggest breasts, nicest eyes.  Imaginary Keith felt awkward, stealing glances and playing this game, but it was a long ride up, and no one was talking.  The door opened, his floor, and he stepped off and that dream was done.

In one dream he ended up dating the daughter of a customer.  The customer is real, but the daughter is not.  Funny, that Imaginary Keith should dream about an imaginary daughter.  And then, just before he woke up, I could see that he was dreaming about the imaginary daughter again, only this time he was supposed to be working when she walks out onto the back porch with a camera and her mother.  They want to take his picture, out under the trees.  He agrees, and heads towards the trees, but stops as he suddenly sees a giant, black gorilla jump the back fence and run a few steps towards him.  He freezes in fear, but the gorilla just stops and waves.  The ice is broken.  The gorilla continues walking around the yard like he’s done it many times before, and Imaginary Keith notices that each time the daughter and her mother turn towards the gorilla, he stops and poses for a picture.

Imaginary Keith never gets his picture taken, but he does wake up, rather suddenly.

“How come we never talk about politics?” Imaginary Keith asks.
“Good morning.”
“It seems like we would talk about politics once in awhile.  Everyone else does.”
“Exactly.  Don’t you think everyone else does enough talking for the both of us.”
“Well . . maybe I have something to say.”
“Fine.  Feel free to say whatever’s on your mind.”

Imaginary Keith has so many blankets on the bed I can barely make out his shape.  That many blankets must be heavy.

“I had a dream that a gorilla waved to me,” he said.
“I know.  I was watching.”
“Oh.  I remember that I wished you were there with your flashlight.”
“He seemed friendly enough.  He did wave.”
“Yea, I guess.  But you never know about gorillas.”
“I guess you’re right.  Did you still want to talk politics?  Maybe discuss the candidates?”
“Oh, I don’t know.  I had a dream about the candidates.”
“You did?”
“Yes.  I was on my way somewhere and they all got onto an elevator with me.  I remember I was sneaking looks at them, sizing them up.” Imaginary Keith never remembers his dreams as well as I do.  He gets them all jumbled and tangled together.
“You were?”
“Yea.  But then it got all mixed up.  One minute they were presidential hopefuls in nice suits, and the next minute I was thinking about their hair and their eyes, and who was most innocent, and stuff like that.  That was kind of creepy, so I got out of there fast, after that.”
“I see.”
“Dreams are weird.”
“I’ve heard that.  But let me ask you one political question, before we get sidetracked.”
“Okay.  I’m ready.”
“Of all the candidates, which one did you think had the biggest breasts?”

Imaginary Keith’s kicks are useless.  The blankets are just too thick.

“Now get out of bed.  I’m just about to set the date on the time machine.”

Sunday evening usually begins with a discussion over who will put away the forts.  Chair and blanket forts cover every square inch of the apartment.  A weekend’s work, now a ghost town.  Imaginary Keith’s son has been whisked away for the night.  It’s just the two of us.

“Imaginary Keith, are you going to help?”
“Huh?  What?”
“Are you going to help put all this away?!  You.  Your son.  Forts. Giant mess.  Any of this ring a bell?”
“Huh?  What?”
“You heard me.  Now get busy.  If we hurry, maybe we can even get out of here tonight.”
“Tonight?  Now you’re talking!  I’m not even tired.”
“I knew you could hear me.” Even imaginary friends have selective hearing.
“Yea, yea, yea.  Hey, I was thinking . . “
“Yes.”
“We should go somewhere where they have forts.  Now that’d be fun.”
“Huh?”
“I said, we should go somewhere where they have forts.  Kids’ forts.  That’d be fun.”
“Huh?”
“I said . . oh, very funny.  Pick on the imaginary guy.  You just wait . . .”

The alternating sounds of the coffee maker seem deafening this morning.

First, the loudest of the two sounds, the sucking chest wound gurgle that seems to fill the house.  Followed by the more subtle, but equally disturbing moan.  If I spoke whale, I’m positive it would translate as some sort of distress call.  I’m dying a horrible death or at least ughh, bad krill.

But I don’t speak whale, so to me it all just sounds like I’m about to wake my son up, which further translates into let the talking begin.

Quiet in the morning is, I think, my favorite thing.  Or more specifically, no talking in the morning is, I think, my favorite thing.  There are just some things in life you never hear unless the talking stops.

Like a coffee maker, which better shut up before it ruins everything.

One small delay after another.  Seems Imaginary Keith has a headache and a sore throat, or maybe that’s me.  It’s hard to tell sometimes.

We did take the time machine out for a test spin yesterday afternoon, just to make sure everything was in tiptop shape.  A quick, harmless trip into the past - one day only.  Imaginary Keith and I found ourselves in the grocery store, once again.

“I’d forgotten how much fun time travel is,” Imaginary Keith said to me, picking up the same box of Fruit Loops he’d picked up yesterday.  The first yesterday.

“I know, I’m not really sure why we haven’t done more of it.”
“I think it’s because I was depressed.  I didn’t really want to go anywhere.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m getting better, you know.”
“I know.”
“Maybe I’ll even go dancing.”
“Don’t push it.  Dancing is scary business.”
“Alright., but I don’t see how . . “
“Hey look!  Coffee.  Let’s not forget . . “
“You can’t buy coffee!  You’ll alter the future!”

So it was decided then that Imaginary Keith would travel with me, saving me from mistakes, saving the future from manipulation.

“But Imaginary Keith, you were such a crabass.”
“No one ever said the future is pretty.”

Persistance followed us out the door, down the street, and into the diner.  It plopped down right next to Imaginary Keith and stared at me with unblinking eyes.

Maybe breakfast wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“I need some coffee.” Imaginary Keith is cranky that we’ve run out of coffee.
“She’ll be here in a second.  Hold your horses.”
“Hold my horses?  That’s all the boy who forgot to buy coffee can think to say?  Hold my horses?  More like horseshit.”

Persistance is saying nothing.  His point has already been made.

“Here she comes now, see.” I point to the waitress approaching our table.  It’s the same woman who forgot our milk the last time.  I hope I’m the only one who remembers.

“Oh good.  A nice, small, cracked cup, filled to the brim with a weak, pale liquid that I will know is coffee only after reading the bill.  Sounds like more horseshit to me.  I can hardly wait.”

Travel Note:
In case of the unexpected traveling companion, always pack extra coffee.

Overwhelming!  I can think of no other way to describe it.  If you are thinking about traveling through time, I would highly recommend the recruitment of friends.  But if the journey is to be a secret one, at least hire someone who can handle the bulk of the go-fer work.  This employee need only be temporary, and should NOT, under any circumstances, be given access to working sketches of the time machine and/or its components.  If they happen to catch a glimpse of your itinerary, just make sure they are sufficiently confused about the dates.  This should be no problem.

I, of course, have gone against the grain of my own advice, and now find myself with neither friend or employee to help me with my preparations.  I can usually count on Imaginary Keith, but we’ve had a bit of a falling out this morning.  There is some debate here over just who should travel and who should stay behind.  I adamantly believe that I should travel and Imaginary Keith remain behind to answer the phone, talk to customers, and keep accurate and up to date postings on the travel blog.  Imaginary Keith, however, has his mind set on accompanying me.  He has stomped off into the back room.

Secretly, I can assure you that Imaginary Keith is no match for me.  I’ve seen him shaking in frustration way worse then this before.  Like when I imagined him joining the Army, or that time I imagined him getting married but he wanted to tell everyone to go home, the wedding was off. 

“I don’t want to do this.”
“Oh, come on Imaginary Keith, you’re just nervous.  Everyone’s nervous when they get married.”
“How would you know?  You’re just a boy.”
“I sure look good in a tux though.  Don’t I, Mr. Nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.  I just don’t want to do this!  Get me out of here!”
“Okay, but first, watch this.  This is really cool.  Watch what happens when I shine the flashlight on the back of the Reverend’s head.”
“You can’t shine that thing in here.”
“Look, look!”
“But . . .”
“Look!  Look! You see that shadow?  Looks just like God, doesn’t it?”
“It does not.  It just looks like a giant Reverend’s head.  Besides, I know what God looks like and he doesn’t look like that.”
“You’ve seen God, Imaginary Keith?”
“I have, thank you very much.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
“I do.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Say it out loud and I’ll believe you.”
“You’re so childish some times.”
“Say it!  Say it!”

”I do.”

And that was that.  Imaginary Keith was calmed down, said the words out loud, and was on his first trip into the land of holy matrimony.  I probably should have imagined him running away, but that’s all ancient history now.  What I need right now is to calm my imaginary friend down a bit.

“Imaginary Keith!  Do you want to walk over to the diner and have ourselves a couple of big omelettes?”
“I do.”

See, it still works.  After breakfast, we prepare for launch.

Tonight’s last phone call:

Dad, I just called to say good night.

I’m glad you did.  Did you do anything fun tonight?

We just watched a show.  I watched Ed, Edd, & Eddy and mom watched a dating show where two people lie to their mom and dad and brothers and sisters and anyone else who asks them anything and then they make out and then they win a half a million dollars.

I see.

Okay, good night dad.

Good night.

I know they do a lot of lying on Ed, Edd, & Eddy, but I don’t think they’ve ever won any money.  But I could be wrong.

Who knew that planning a trip outside of time would be so time consuming?  Stupid me.  I thought an oil change and a quick tune-up and I’d be on my way . . . but no, the phone keeps ringing and problems keep popping up and it’s one thing after another.

And then there was the matter of the About Me page, which I’d been putting off.  Not as badly as my mail, mind you, but putting off all the same.  I mean, what if something should go wrong while I’m gone?  What if I never return?  Who would take care of things then?  Who would write the list that is supposed to sum up my life? 

And doesn’t the About Me page really seem like nothing more then a mini-obituary that we all get to write for ourselves.  About the only thing we leave out is the he is survived by line.  But I’ve whipped one up for everyone’s viewing pleasure.  It may help to ease my reader’s shocked surprise when they find out I am nothing more then an imaginary friend of a small boy.  Oh well, it’s a life.

Besides, nothing really ever changes in life except the stuff in our heads.

As a young, impressionable boy, I was weaned on a variety of early 20th century, action/romance type novels.  It always seemed there were no end to the Zane Gray novels on the shelf, which I would scoot off with and read into the night, under the covers, flashlight dancing across the pages.  So I guess there’s always been a soft spot in my heart for that wild west story.  The ones where good meets evil head on and love blossoms in spite of open range hygiene.

So tonight, following my questionable success with the battles of the modern world, I plunked myself down in front of the television and watched Open Range, where Kevin Costner gets to win the fight and the girl, then race off into the dusty horizon with the closing line: Let’s go get our cows.

If you haven’t seen the movie, I hope I haven’t spoiled it for you.  But yes, in the end the cows are saved.

I’m about to have an aneurism, having just discovered that switching my Quickbooks Pro accounting software from Windows to Mac really means learning a whole new payroll program.  Am I to understand that none of my FIFTEEN years of data has transferred into the new payroll feature?  Do I have a pulse?  What was that Comfort Life number anyway?

If the IRS thought I was clueless before, they’re going to have a real fun time batting me around the room now.  Two or three years ago, a woman from the IRS had me cornered in a small, cinderblock room without ventilation.  She placed a folder on the table between us, looked me in the eye, and sized me up.  The steam of her breath was suffocating. 

I tried to appear casual.  But I’ve never performed well in such tight quarters.  Her first sentence caught me completely off guard:

“I could close you down this afternoon if I wanted to.”

I - like in: I want you to squirm and grovel now.
I - like in: I see through you and around you and in you.  But I don’t see you.
I - like in: I really like my job.

Right now, it feels like that woman is breathing down my neck again.  I know it’s just accounting.  Numbers.  Mathematical manipulation.  Pretending profits are up when profits are down, and profits are down when profits are up.  All that sort of stuff.

But mostly it just feels like steamy IRS breath.

According to the commercial I just watched while trying to have a calming, leisurely snack, I’ve somehow quietly slipped into the old age bracket without even knowing it was happening.  And it wasn’t last night.  Not this year, not last year, and not even two years ago.  Seems I’ve been old for three full years and didn’t even know it.  No wonder I’ve been so damn cranky lately.

But everything is going to be okay.  The good folks at Comfort Life or whatever the hell they were called have promised that my worries are over.  They’re going to take care of everything.  The peace and well-being of my family and loved ones will be in good hands.  Everyone can rest easy.

Fuckers.  If they want to sell me a hole, it better be to bury all these papers in, not me.  I’ve never been much of a fighter, but I think I might swing a mean cane forty years from now.  I can feel the fight in me brewing, if you know what I mean.

Why I didn’t wade out into the waters of blogging long ago is beyond me.  Was I too busy, too afraid, or just too unaware.  I dipped my toe into the waters more then once over the years, but each time, all I saw in the ripples were reflections of blogs that looked oddly similar to what I was already avoiding on television.  A cut and paste race of current events and the odd story of the day.  Even my toe didn’t care for that.  And each time I’d get up and walk away.

Maybe next season, I’d think.  Maybe the swimming will be better then.

But the swimming was good all along.  I just didn’t see it.  I should have kept looking.  Been persistent.  Like Anna who would forever set sail in the unseaworthy Sinky.

Not all blogs, I am learning, look the same in the rippling water.  Some stories are so small they can only grow in my heart.  How can the image of a fingernail find a place in my mind?  I don’t know, but it seems to once I read about it through Anna’s eyes:

My fingernails grow when I’m happy.

Apparently, they also grow after death. As does the beard.

I don’t have a beard; but my fingernails grow when I’m happy.

When I’m not, they’re the first things to go. Usually not even I know I’m anxious until I look down at my hands and realise that my fingernails are torn (never bitten - worms, you know) as far as lady nails can go.

The little fingernail on my left hand is - the white bit at the top, not the pink bit at the bottom - my little fingernail is almost 7mm long.

Be impressed. Admittedly it’s a bit rubbish, but be impressed, all the same.

If you look at the other side of my finger you can even see it, peering shyly over the top, like the sunrise over Mount Fuji, if the sun were made of nail and Mount Fuji were pink and finger-shaped with no snow and not pointy and a lot smaller.

That’s the kind of gem that I wish I’d found long ago.  Something that seems so small but makes me think of so many things.  Death and beards and women’s fingernails rising up like a sunrise.

A 7mm fingernail, small and insignificant (sorry Anna), but still able to somehow rise high enough to cast a warmth on my imagination.  Haven’t I only recently become Google’s king of the long dirty beard, although I myself shaved just this morning.  And didn’t I just read a book last year about the Civil War, about the West Point class of 1842, about a lot of men running around dying and all sporting big, fine beards?  And this makes think about what a poor memory I have, because the book also mentioned one General in particular, who was famous on both sides of the war for his fabulous, large and impressive beard.  A beard that stirred envy in men’s hearts and lust in the women’s.  A beard that, if what Anna says is true, must have become unbearably fine to gaze upon in the afterlife.

The book, incidentally, made no mention whatsoever of fingernails.  But I can imagine that a dead Confederate’s nails might continue to grow just about the same rate as a dead Union soldier’s nails.  I mean, in the end, don’t we all climb aboard Sinky and just hope for the best.

So this is what it feels like to pay to write.  Hmmm.  Doesn’t feel much different then before.  Fingers still twiddle across the keys just the same.  Mind still feels like a big blank hole.  I’m sure everything will be just fine.

I wonder if that means fine like in: I’ll write lots of words and find that edge I was whining about yesterday.  Or maybe it means fine like: I’ll have lots of quiet and solitude and my thoughts will fill it.  Or maybe the kind of fine where my dreams aren’t invaded by her and him.  That would be nice.  I wouldn’t mind that kind of fine at all.  A person shouldn’t have to be tormented both day and night.  You’d think the daylight hours would be enough.

Maybe that’s why I always get up so early, as I try to find a place to exist that isn’t quite day and isn’t quite night.  Maybe that’s it.  But most of the time I’m usually under the impression that getting up early is the only sure way to avoid nonstop questions.

Obvious questions, which are the most tiring kind.

“Dad, what are you doing?” I’m typing.
“Dad, what are you doing?” I’m cooking.
“Dad, what are you doing?” I’m getting dressed.
“Dad, what are you doing?” I’m brushing my teeth.
“Dad, what are you doing?” I’m sitting on the toilet.

Love has a funny way of shining in small boys.  Love for dad means following.  But what about love between two adults?  Yesterday, I heard that story of love as only a pair of eight year old eyes can see it.  We happened to be driving by my son’s school, which spurred me to joke that I might just drop him off so he could help Curtis, the head custodian, mop floors for the remainder of the day.  I have quite an arsenal of idle threats.

“Dad, Curtis isn’t working today.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s doing dates with the new principal.”
“What?”
“Dad! (with exasperation), everyone knows all about it.”
“I don’t.  They’re dating?  Are you sure?”
“Dad, Curtis and the principal rode to school together on Curtis’ motorcycle.  The drove up right at recess and EVERYONE saw it.”
“Maybe she just needed a ride.”
“No Dad.  You didn’t see her eyes.  They were all . . .” (eyes batting, hand resting on chin.  There’s nothing funnier then a boy giving his impression of a googly-eyed, flirting woman)
“Maybe they’re just friends.”
“Dad!  Don’t you know anything?”

It was a good point, and worth consideration.  But the conversation continues, with a slight twist.  Grown adults have a hard time staying focused when they discuss the idea of love.  It is only worse for boys.

“But the principals feet are really bad, Dad.  They’re even worse then yours.”
“What?!”
“Yea, I’m not kidding.  Her feet are really bad.”
“What do you mean they’re bad?”
“They stink, Dad!”
“How would you know the principal’s feet stink?”
“Because she walked right by me one day.  And she was wearing sandals.”
“Ohhhh, I see.”

He’s really excited by now.  His eyes are big and dancing.  Stinky feet is way more exciting then love.

“And what about Curtis?  You’re telling me that Curtis is dating the principal even though she has stinky feet?” I may be rotten at love, but I know how to keep an eight year old excited.
“Dad!  Now I know you don’t know anything!  She always wears boots when Curtis is around!  He doesn’t even know!”

And then we both have a good hard laugh.  I’m not sure if it’s about the principals feet, the preposterousness of the story, or the fate of Curtis.  It doesn’t matter.  The cab of the truck is filled with fun.

I think the conversation deteriorated at that point.  Just too much imaginative excitement to keep talking.  If I’m not mistaken, I think what followed was a loud series of armpit farts, performed by my son, not me.  I was driving.  Or maybe that was later in the day, over at Taco Bell.  I can’t really remember.

The Typepad free trial countdown clock seems to have paused dramatically on “1 day remaining”.  Time is standing still, it seems.  There is the outside possibility that I count time differently then the folks at typepad, who most likely began my ticking countdown the very day, hour, minute, second I clicked the “Sure I’ll Try Anything Once” button. 

Did I really call the Department of Motor Vehicles a whore?  Hmmm.  This will require a little fancy dancing.  I could pretend I didn’t find the letter, but that’s just not me. 

God dammit!  That’s just not right.  I have become a dull knife.  My writing has no edge.  Where’s my edge?  I used to handle words like a sword, slicing clear to the bone with meaning so clear and precise.  Look at that crap up there!  Looks more like pretentious, prepubescent journal fodder.  Looks like a butter-knife fight.  Looks like a good example of how to waste five minutes and a handful of perfectly good words.

It’s a telltale sign that a 42 year old man needs to find his edge.  Fast.  He needs to grab the blade that separates clarity from safety.  He needs to hang there until the words are all written.

I guess I’m in, typepad.  Even if it kills me.

I’ve accomplished more in the first fifteen minutes of this day then I did in the whole of yesterday.  If you take out the two hours I spent going to see Big Fish, then yesterday was a complete bust.  No work, no thinking, no writing, no cleaning . . . no nothing.

My shadow of the day:  lethargy.  And I think it even had a boring day.

But that was yesterday, and like I said, I’m already off to a good start.  Coffee is brewing, the kitchen is clean.  Even the small pile of cashews that had taken up residence in a back, unused corner of the kitchen counter - gone!  Clothes - hung!  Toys - away!  Living room - straightened!  Office - well, okay, ignored.  There are limits to my super hero cleaning powers. 

But today I am a working boy.  Boot up, soldier, and hit the door running.  Circumstances beyond my control have me reporting for work today sharply at 9:00.  If ranting and raving would have any effect on the boss, I’d give it a try.  But I usually reserve talking to myself for when I write.

Dear Department of Motor Vehicles:

It was nice of you to write to me today.  Your letter arrived in a timely manner, and has filled a void in my life that often appears on the heels of the holiday season.  Knowing that my driver’s license was current, my vehicle’s tags all up-to-date, and that I had no outstanding speeding tickets or other infractions, I could only imagine that you had written simply to wish me a happy and prosperous new year.  For that I was most appreciative.  I believe I was even smiling as I carefully opened the letter.

So imagine my surprise when I see that your letter’s intent is not to wish me well, but rather to scare, frighten, and intimidate me into action.  The paragraphs, filled with threats and promises of punishment, seemed to go on and on forever.  I could hardly take it.  As a compliant citizen of the state of Oregon, a peaceful and rule-abiding man, I was devastated.  What had I done, I thought, to deserve such a verbal pounding?  Have I somehow given offense?  (As a struggling writer, however, I found myself more then a little impressed with the letter’s ominously effective syntax.  But I digress.)

I could assure you that I never received the “previous attempt” your letter assures me was mailed some months ago.  But what would be the point?  Your letter has opened my eyes to the fact that our relationship isn’t built upon assurances and trust at all.  We are nothing more then a balance between money and desire.  You are transportation’s whore, and I am weak. 

So I have enclosed the paperwork you required.  Yet another bean to add to your staggeringly high pile of unnecessary work, which leads me to my last and final question: if you complain when I don’t send in the paperwork, do you also complain when I do?

Sincerely,

Keith

I should have went back to work a long time ago.  I’d forgotten how much is going on out there.  For instance, stopping in to rent a movie after work, I found myself face to face with a pair of door to door Crayola salesmen.  Each carried what had to be the biggest box of crayons on the face of the Earth.  Unfortunately, they were both chased out of the store before I had a chance to intervene.

Now that is one job not on my resume.

And then there are the many things our customers say, during the course of a day, that completely give away what soft, vulnerable creatures we Americans really are.  Today’s jem (said with much drama and exasperation):

I can’t believe I live in a state so behind the times!  Whoever heard of above ground utilities?  This is really, really just crazy!

Just because they pay me, they think I’ll listen to anything.  Which is probably right.

: : Part 2 : :

When God walks into your dreams, everything changes.  You can ask anyone about that and they’ll say the same thing.  About the only thing that changes is what he says to you when you see him.  Some will run off and become ministers and change the world.  Others will team up, hop on bikes, and ride around neighborhoods, telling everyone about their own particular dream.  Sometimes God might tell someone to shape up, or watch their diet.  He might tell them to live in a trailer and take in stray cats.  There’s a whole lot of different things God might decide to tell people in their dreams.  Sometimes everyone in the whole church is dressed almost identical, so he must talk about fashion once in awhile.  He even goes so far as to tell some people to stop having sex, if you can imagine that.

But God never went that far with me.  He mostly just stood there and thumbed through that thick stack of bills, smiling really big.  A big, handsome, toothy smile, like anyone would have thumbing through such a thick wallet.  He never once told me how to dress, or where to live or what to eat or anything at all about cats.  And if he ever said anything about sex, I never heard him.  I might have been just waking up, and getting to that part of the dream where you still see the picture but lose the sound.  Or maybe I was just too busy staring at all that money.  He might have said more, but I don’t think so.  No, I think it was mostly just about the money.

All through grade school, into high school, and then into college, I would look for money.  I would look everywhere I could possibly think of.  Obvious places, like under couch cushions and the cracks of chairs.  I’d empty out my parent’s dresser drawers, looking for hidden stashes.  If I went swimming, I’d dive to the bottom of the lake and feel around in the mud.  There was no end to the number of places money might be hiding.  The branches of a tree, buried in the yard, under the dog’s collar, between the pages of every book in the library.  I looked through them all.

I would walk around with my head down, staring at the ground, thinking that maybe, just maybe, a person might pick up a few extra bucks the way my grandma had once picked up arrowheads.  She’d had a whole shoebox full.  I only dream of being so lucky, and continue to walk around with my head down for many years, until one day I look up and realize I have somehow ended up in college.  Broke and alone, I have no choice but to seek employment.

Getting a job has always been easy for me.  I like to think that it’s all been part of the plan.  Just more of the dream, only the awake part.  It’s been so easy that once, a long time ago, I walked into a Burger King and asked for the manager.

“I need a job,” I told her, after filling out an application.

“What makes you want to work for Burger King?” she asked.

“I’ve never worked fast food before,” I told her.  “I think it’d be funny.”

She thought for a second, then said, “See you in the morning.  Wear black shoes.”

But that wasn’t the employment I was seeking that day.  And I wasn’t quite so cocky back then either.  I wasn’t quite sure how to get a job in the highly competitive, fast-paced life of a college town.  I didn’t even know where to look, so I just looked in the one place I always looked - my wallet.

For years I’d carried around a newspaper clipping, that was by now wrinkled and yellow.  It was an obituary, of someone I’d never met.

Carl Fletcher, 90, Inventor of the Corn Dog, Dies

DALLAS - Carl Fletcher, aged 90, who was credited with inventing the corn dog, died Wednesday at his home.  Fletcher was asphyxiated after becoming entangled in a bed restraint, authorities said.  Fletcher had the idea of sticking a wiener on a stick, dipping it in batter and frying it.

It is the only direction I need, and soon find myself employed by the local mall’s corn dog stand.  Someone slides me into a fine green, orange, and purple polyester uniform, both pants and shirt, and I am ready for action.  Training is hardly necessary.  Everyone knows corn dogs.

Standing there, I find myself taking a certain pride in serving up the dream of a dead man.  It’s a useful job, serving up something that people can eat with one hand so they can continue to shop with the other.  I enjoy the coolness of the mall and the endless stream of beautiful, hungry people.  But after a week, I find myself wearing thin.  While the free, all you can eat (if you sneak) corn dogs are good, the money is not.  My shoebox is not filling up.  My wallet is not even filling up.  I begin to take out my frustration on unsuspecting shoppers.

“I’ll have a corn dog, please,” someone might say.  They are polite and undeserving of anything I might have to say.

“Alright.  Lemonade with that?” I know I am only drawing them in.  Gaining their confidence.

“That sounds good.  Yes.  Thank you.” So polite.  So nice.  It’s time.

“Are you familiar with Carl Fletcher?” I ask, looking them in the eye.  Their corn dog is ready, but I hold it behind the counter, just out of reach.  People, I’ve found, will endure just about any amount of harassment when their food is dangled just out of reach.

“No, I don’t,” they say, and then add something like “Does he work here?” or “You must be mistaking me for someone.”

“No, Carl doesn’t work anywhere anymore.  I’m afraid he’s dead,” I say, and then lean in real close, across the counter, and say, “Strangled to death.  In his own restraints.”

No shopper ever knew what to say.  They’d only come for a corn dog.  If they said anything at all, it was always, “Oh, I’m sorry,” hoping that politeness was the key to a safe retreat.  I hand them their corn dog without another word and watch them hurry away.  I always felt like yelling something more, something like, “We all strangle in our own restraints!” But that always felt too dramatic, so I never did.

But not every day serving corn dogs was a bad one.  The mall, we all know, has always been a hotbed for hormones, and it was no different for me that summer.  Forces other then money are at work on my mind and body.  At eighteen, my hormones are as hot as the fryer to my left.  I am naive, eighteen, and horny, and approach each young woman at the counter with a stupid, shiny look that men think is seductive.  For me, it is entirely believable that a woman will fall in love with an eighteen year old boy wearing green, orange, and purple polyester, with matching hat. 

Lost in thought, I don’t even see the woman until she is right there, standing at the counter.  I have no time to think, no time for what I imagine to be cleverness.  When I turn, I am face to face with the most perfectly beautiful woman I have ever seen.  Looking at her, I am suddenly painfully aware of everything.  Suddenly I know exactly what I look like in polyester.  I know exactly how blank my face looks.  I know that I can say almost nothing.

“May I help you?” It is the only thing I know how to say.  Face to face with beauty and the only words I manage to say are the same ones on the training poster in the back room of the corn dog store.  Polite words.  Safe words.  Words signaling retreat.

But I have no intention of retreating.  I’ve come to far to let this moment slip by.  Retreat is not an option.  I reach around and grip my wallet through the polyester, building up confidence.  It’s now or never.

“Do I know you?” I say.  It’s the best I’ve got, but at the moment, seems better then nothing.

She just smiles and shakes her head, real slow, back and forth, then says “What about Carl Fletcher?  Aren’t you going to ask me about him?”

Carl Fletcher?  Who is this beautiful woman, asking me about Carl Fletcher? I can’t think fast enough, standing there in front of her, so I turn and take her corn dog out of the fryer.  Here’s a woman who knows about Carl Fletcher.  Here’s a woman who sees through my shiny, irresistible horny look.  Here’s a woman who thinks of corn dogs as more then just a convenience food

Here’s a woman a man can fall in love with.  I just can’t let her walk away, walk off into the mall and disappear.  I’ve waited all summer for this chance.  I turn and hand her the corn dog.

“Of course you know me,” she says, still smiling.  “We met quite a few years ago.”

Met before?!  What?  Where?  I don’t remember! I try to remember.  I try to think of anyplace I could have seen such a woman.  I try to remember every dream I’d ever had, thinking maybe I’d seen her there.  I even try to think about everything God told me, but all I can see is his big grin and that stupid wallet.  I have to say something to her.

“I’ve been looking for someone like you all my life!” It blurts out, just like that.  There is no stopping it.  My lips seem bent on destroying me.  My head feels loose and wobbly.  I’m not sure if I’m about to faint or if my neck has become loose.  When she talks, I feel saved.

“You told me once long ago that you were looking for arrowheads.  And now you tell me that you’re looking for me?” I don’t know what to say.  I can say nothing.  Numbly, I reach out as she hands me the money for the corn dog, and is then that I remember.

No you’re not, you’re looking for me

she’d said to me all those years ago as she’d handed me my first arrowhead.  Suddenly her words back then made perfect sense.  I was looking for her.  Not money.  It was Economic Recovery that I’d been searching for all along.

But what really confused me was how this woman could have become so young and beautiful.  How could she be so desirable, so knowing, after all these years?  When I’d seen her as a child, hadn’t she already been old?  Was I confused, or had she changed?

The feeling of her skin touching mine as she handed me the money is still too fresh, too intoxicating.  My mind is reeling.  Is Economic Recovery really this close, our hands actually touching after all these years of searching in vain for the wrong thing?  Has her eye been on me all along, watching me circle round and round, lost and unsuccessful, like I had been in my search for arrowheads?  I have too many questions.  It is overwhelming.

I realize suddenly, standing there in my corn dog uniform, that my fascination for arrowheads has become a fascination for money which has become a love for Economic Recovery.  I have come of age.  I close my eyes, and over the sizzle of the grease, I can hear her song and feel myself drawn into the dream of her.  She is a siren humming a financial love song.  No man can resist her.

I look over the counter and into the mall, expecting to see her, but she has disappeared, taking with her one corn dog and the answers to all of my questions.  Once again, like so long ago at the dump, she has walked in and out of my life, hardly breaking stride.  It is, to say the least, heartbreaking.

“Do you know what it’s like to be in love with Economic Recovery?” I say.  “You feel her alluring, seductive dance.  The fragrance of her financial success plays upon your lips.  She is beautiful and unforgiving.  But most of all, she is illusive and haunts you like no other.  God, how she haunts you.”

But there is no one at the counter.  No one is listening.